Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Even at night, in moonlight, I have no rest...”

Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

I.

Bellini stood in front of the window in the Holy Father’s office in the Apostolic Palace, watching how dusk crawled over Rome whilst waiting for the Holy Father to finish sorting through his documents. The orange light of the setting sun accentuated the natural colors of the clay tiles of the surrounding buildings, making them glow like embers in the falling darkness. Just for the beat of a heart, Bellini allowed himself the idle dream that one day this office might be his.

“Please, Aldo,” the Holy Father was saying, making Bellini spin around with his fingers laced behind his back to veil his emotions like he had learned to do long ago. Letting others see your state of mind was disadvantageous. “And my genuine apologies for letting you wait, but the constant disarray was distressing.”

Without further explanation, the Holy Father led Bellini towards the private library at the end of the office. In the past few weeks, the Holy Father had more or less uprooted the entire Curia, ‘weeding out the hindrances to my dreams,’ as he never failed to mention, so Bellini had a fair idea what this meeting was about.

An array of candles clustered at the edge of the desk flickered in the breeze, its glow muted by the artificial light of the lamps.

“Please, take a seat,” the Holy Father offered, turning to close the window; the nights were already becoming cold in late October. “I’m going to join you in a moment.”

And so Bellini did, sitting down at the table closest to the window like the Holy Father had instructed him.

The Holy Father joined him shortly after, taking a seat opposite him. "I would like to offer you the position as Secretary of State. You are the best fit for it, all the issues I am having with the old guard aside," he said, lacing his fingers on the table. The undercurrent in his voice, not matching the casual atmosphere of the meeting with biscuits and coffee, wasn't lost on Bellini.

"Just so?" Bellini asked the question he had been dreading to ask ever since receiving the mysteriously phrased invitation.  

Nothing in life ever came without a sacrifice, in the Vatican, least of all places. Bellini was painfully aware of that.

So what was it for him?

The records, dating back to the Middle Ages, provided an abundance of examples: favoritism, nepotism, simony, usury, blackmail, coercion in all its nuances, sexual favors for another favor throughout all the ranks of the Roman Catholic Church. And whilst the favor could be anything, Bellini’s thoughts were stuck on the question of whether ecclesiastical law considered sexual favors in exchange for office positions simony or not.

The Holy Father leaned back in his chair, chuckling. "No. Not just so."

Then what were the terms?

Instead of asking the question that burned on Bellini’s mind, he asked, "Do you play?"

The diverting behavior was unnerving, making Bellini’s anxiety soar. "Sometimes. If time allows, that is."

It translated to rarely, since he was chronically overworked and the Holy Father knew it. As a result of the Holy Father’s financial awareness—a miser according to the old guard—many assistant positions had been simply made obsolete, all of Bellini’s assistants included.

"What a pity, Aldo, truly.” The Holy Father stated with a smile. “What if I tell you that the frequency could be adjusted in the future?"

No matter how innocuously it was phrased, he was not fooled by the trap. “Yes?”

"If you win against me today, you’ll get the position of your dreams without any favor associated with it..."

For long moments, the words hung between them. Bellini almost did not dare to ask, fidgeting with his fingers. "And if not?"

The Holy Father’s smile was mild, but his eyes told a different story, of a darkness living deep within.

"If you lose, the position shall still be yours; but for every loss you’ll owe me, and hence shall serve."

There was nothing left for interpretation, nothing at all.

Bellini knew he should run, but he was not running. The position offered was what he had been dreaming of for years. It was the goal he had sacrificed everything else for, his sleep, his health, sometimes even his morals. He wanted it with all his heart, and the Holy Father knew that.  

"Aren’t we all His servants?" The sheer idiocy of his question caused Bellini to feel a sudden urge to slap himself.

The Holy Father regarded him for a while, the elongated silence pushing Bellini’s anxiety to new heights. "We are, yes. Just that He is above such base desires. But we… we’re only men… filled with needs and dreams and ideas, aren’t we, Aldo? Maybe, I was mistaken in my assumption of you being the best fit...”

Sexual coercion, plain and simple. Emotional manipulation, too.

Bellini was very aware of it, and yet he replied, “I am not beneath serving. Not at all—"

Sacrificing morals and every ideal he has ever had to fulfill his dream felt wrong; it was wrong. And yet he still sat in the chair, unmoving.

The smile was back on the Holy Father’s face, reverent and indulgent. "No?"

Bellini’s breath caught in his throat, and his face and ears burned from shame.

Outside, St. Peter’s rang for the full hour.

In one of the holiest places on earth, he was about to seal a pact with the devil in disguise, all dressed in white—or it felt like that, at least. Just like Faust, Bellini was highly successful yet dissatisfied with everything that he had not yet achieved. And now, with the offer still on the table, it was within his reach. All he had to do was take the hand offered to him at the crossroads of his life.

Now, or never.

Many months later, Bellini would begin to wonder if—similar to Faust—his redemption was tied to anyone’s prayers; if he was included in them? [1]

"No, I am not," Bellini replied, voice lacking all firmness he had wished to summon. It sounded meek and feeble; utterly pathetic.

"So you accept?"

What rang in Bellini’s ears was another sentence that began with ‘accept’; he had been present that very day in the Sistine Chapel when the Holy Father had been elected.

How should he refuse when all his sleepless nights spent working paid off; when his ambitions were crowned at last, perhaps even paving the way for the dream he did not dare to dream yet, even if the words already rang in his head, ‘Acceptasne electionem de te canonice factam in Summum Pontificem?’

So yes.

Of course, he would.

Who would not?

Bellini regarded the Holy Father for a moment, just to be sure this was not a sick test; it wasn’t unheard of. But no, he was certain it was not.

With shame burning brightly on his face and despite his throat constricting from self-loathing, he managed. "I shall. I shall serve Him,” Bellini’s voice trailed into nothingness. It was hard to choke out the rest, throat dry and tight. “And so I shall serve you."

The impact of it left him gagging, with agony settling in his guts.

The Holy Father patted his shoulder at the obvious distress whilst his eyes glittered in the low light; with mirth, with something else altogether. Despite his state of mind, Bellini was observant enough to notice, just that he did nothing about it.

Well, no.

That was not correct.

In that moment, he wondered about Lawrence; wondered if he had been asked, too? If his resignation was just a farce, the rumors about ending the days of the old guard a mere lie? What if... what if Lawrence had broken the pact and thus lost his position?

Win or lose.

Refuse, and the deal was broken.

And, Faustian as it was, it lasted for life.

‘Till death do us part.’

Bellini choked on sour bile. He was no stranger to the scandals of sexual abuse within the Church, nor someone who turned a blind eye to them. Those cases he was familiar with had a recurring motif: sexual coercion, power imbalance scenarios, ambitions, and taking advantage of the differences in power and status. Since all those cases from dioceses around the world were ultimately handled by the Secretariat of State, in the future, he could ensure that they were treated with the utmost attention they deserved.

The bitter irony of that.

The Holy Father’s voice broke through the screaming silence in Bellini’s head. "Now come, let us begin," he said, pointing to the chessboard sitting on the small table of the reading corner in the far end of the room. "I am curious about your talents..."

Talents.

The sick ambiguity in it.  

The word reverberated in Bellini's skull, and yet he rose and sat down at the small table under the Holy Father’s watchful eyes. He felt them running over his back, down his ass, where his gaze found rest as long as he could.

‘Like a farmer regarding his stock,' Bellini thought, wiping his sweaty palms against his thighs. 'Appraising its worth and value.'

Just that livestock ensured a family to survive another winter…

Well, didn’t this also ensure survival? His own, in the bone mill the Curia was?

‘Favored. Protected. But at what cost?’

They settled opposite each other, the air heavy with tension and too many words left unsaid.

"Begin," the Holy Father said, graciously.

Bellini stared at the board, forcing his arms to stillness. He managed, but he was less successful with his fingers. When he lifted the black piece up, for he was sure the Holy Father preferred white in his position, his hand was shaking so hard that he feared to drop the pawn.

The Holy Father said nothing as he reached for a white piece, despite being fully aware of Bellini’s obvious misery.

Each of the Holy Father’s moves was far more thoughtful than his own, with a clear strategy behind it; a strategy Bellini outright lacked tonight. But then, the Holy Father didn’t have the disadvantage of his thoughts being elsewhere; his own were reeling, alternating between 'I must not lose' and 'If I do... what does it mean, exactly?’

"Do not fret...," he heard the Holy Father say after a while, gentle, indulgent.

But the words were distant, as if his mind had already shut down, accepting his surrender. The game was a farce at this point, and nothing else. Being out of practice was one thing; he hadn't properly played in months, a clear disadvantage. Just that it wasn’t the reason for losing so quickly. Unfocused, nervous, and emotionally at the very edge was the true reason for it.

Bile, sour as vinegar, rose, and he said nothing.

Eventually, Bellini lost, long before St. Peter rang for the full hour again.

Bellini looked up from where his hands lay folded in his lap.

"So?" The Holy Father began with a smile and mirth in his eyes, gesturing to the door. "Leave, and we shall never speak of any of this again."

Bellini's gaze followed the hand to the door; all he saw was himself in the position he had craved for the past two decades. The position he had envied Lawrence, his dearest friend, for.

Since he remained seated, the Holy Father elaborated, "Stay...," His voice fell in the empty space of Bellini’s thoughts, and he slowly looked back at him. "And we shall see how you bloodless intellectuals react to the temptation of the flesh."

There was a chuckle, followed by a flashing smile.

Bellini's blood ran cold.

He wasn’t above temptation; wasn't free of sin and pure of heart, strictly abiding by the vow of celibacy. Did the Holy Father know? Suspect? Was the coercion based on gossip and blackmail, so prominent throughout all the ranks of the church?

But no. It wouldn't be like that—there was something more genuine and more sinister to this.

"I see, I see," the Holy Father said, not unkind.

Bellini wished it would be; less familiar, less kind. It would make things easier to bear, especially in the aftermath of it.

"Come here, Aldo. My Aldo, the rising star... my rising star. Keep me company for a little longer, would you?” the Holy Father said, moving his chair backwards to make just enough space for Bellini to kneel between him and the table.

The movement in itself did not leave much room for speculation; the way the Holy Father looked at him erased the small ones he still might have had.

It wasn’t as if Bellini had never done it before, far from it; he had brought men off like this as long as he could remember for the simple reason that he liked doing it. Usually, he corrected himself. Usually, he loved doing it, just that nothing about the situation was usual.

Yet he had agreed and would be held accountable for it, one way or another.

The position gone… the career gone…

And so Bellini rose on unsteady feet only to fall onto his knees in front of the Holy Father, who was already busy unbuttoning his blinding white cassock from its end.

The touch against Bellini’s cheek was reverent. “Don’t be shy, dearest Aldo. No need to fool me that this is your first time…”

‘He knew. Somehow, he knew about the past, at least something.’

Even if—what did it change, in the end? In this moment?

Nothing.

“What are you waiting for, Aldo? Do you need instructions…? Or… Is this, well, too normal for you?” he wondered, contouring Bellini’s mouth with his fingertip.

Bellini ground his teeth, mortified at the implication. And in that moment, he understood: the longer he dragged the inevitable out, the harder it would be to bear it in the end; more hurtful remarks would surely follow.

Splaying his sweaty palms against the Holy Father’s thighs, he looked up. “No, it is not.”

“Good.” The Holy Father allowed his fingers to brush over Bellini’s cheek, then pulled his half-hard cock out of his trousers, looking down at Bellini with unconcealed anticipation.

The look in his eyes was something he’d never forget. Bellini already knew that it would hunt him in sleep and wakefulness.

“See how it tastes… and feels,” the Holy Father mused, stroking himself to full hardness. Bellini saw him shift in his seat, moving closer to its edge and spreading his legs further.

Bellini drew in a deep breath, then parted his lips to bring them around the Holy Father’s cock, thick and swollen, feeding himself the truth that he had willingly agreed. The taste, and the smell, and the way the Holy Father caressed his head contradicted it: all of it felt wrong and alien. Still, Bellini opened his mouth wider and relaxed his jaw to take in more of it, hoping that if he performed well enough that it would be over soon.

The Holy Father moaned above him. Bellini wished he hadn’t heard. It sounded so wrong to his ears; so sick and degrading.

Instead of going slow and cherishing each moment like he loved to do, Bellini bobbed his head faster and went deeper from the beginning, relieved when he felt the Holy Father’s muscles in his legs tense against his hands. A little longer, and he’d lose his composure, Bellini thought, not looking forward to it, but at least it meant that it was over.

Given the man’s age, the threat he could do it a second time today at least wasn’t looming.

“Aldo, Aldo… how multitalented you are.” The words were accompanied by the flick of a touch, fingers dancing over the back of his head, sickly affectionate. “A pity I have not asked you long ago…”

Bellini ignored it, just like he ignored also everything else: the bitterness gathering on his tongue, and how the Holy Father’s cock throbbed in his mouth. For now, he was allowed the liberty to go at his own pace, wondering if it were to stay like that.

‘Breathe. Focus. Play along.’

And so Bellini did, fingers pressed against the Holy Father’s thighs all the while. He only withdrew to catch his breath, then took the Holy Father’s cock deeper, staying there whilst he sucked, his tongue flat against its underside.

Fingers stroked across his scalp, down to the back of his neck where they settled but never pushed.

Any other time, Bellini would hum appreciatively at the sensation; he loved it when he was touched whilst he was on his knees. Not so now. All he wanted was to get over it.

He increased his efforts, sliding down further to provoke the Holy Father, thrusting up into his mouth, which he did not, too far gone already, like his eyes, hazed and cloudy, hinted at.

And then, as Bellini went especially deep, swallowing him down fully, the Holy Father cursed under his breath, fighting against the sensations already consuming him. Bellini sucked, withdrew, then went down again and just as their gazes met, the Holy Father came in his mouth with a broken, wordless cry.

Much to Bellini’s surprise, he reached into his cassock and offered him a tissue with shaking hands.

Turning his face, Bellini spat into it.

*

Long after the candles had burnt themselves out and shadow encroached, Bellini was still staring at the ceiling, unable to find either sleep or rest despite his prayers.

II.

The Holy Father was waiting for him in his office, despite the obscenely late hour.

Bellini’s past few days had been a nightmare of hosting a delegation of high-ranked members of Argentina’s clergy whilst the possibility of yet another sexual abuse scandal was brewing in the shadows, ready to spill into the open.

Bellini choked on the bitter irony of that.

Weren’t those favors he performed not a sexual scandal in itself?

Yes. But also no. He had agreed to that, after all.

“You still owe me for your last loss, Aldo,” the Holy Father stated, looking Bellini up and down from where he sat at the small table in the library. Bellini’s confusion must have been obvious because he elaborated, “Or, we could play again, if you prefer playing for playing’s sake. The outcome will be identical, just that you’ll be robbed of another hour of sleep.”

Bellini looked at him with tired eyes, slowly shaking his head.

The Holy Father flicked his hand. “Then come here.”

‘The same as usual at least; my mouth on him,’ Bellini thought as he walked over on unsteady feet. In a strange and wretched way, it reassured him, taking away the fear of the unknown. He had never done well with that in any scenario.

When he was about to drop to his knees, the Holy Father reached for his hands to stop him. “Aldo… my dear child. Let me see you.”

A shocked hitch of breath escaped Bellini’s mouth, followed by a lump in his throat.

The Holy Father relished in his visible unease. “Take your time for it,” he said, leaning back in the plush chair as one would in the cinema.

Bellini did not take his time.

Under the Holy Father’s appreciative gaze, Bellini stripped out of his clothes, following the same meticulous routine of undressing which he had established decades ago. Shoes and socks first, then the fascia, followed by the cassock, followed by the pectoral cross—

The Holy Father stilled his hand. “No.”

Bellini blinked in irritation.

“Leave it on.”

The next step would be to remove his zucchetto. The way the Holy Father regarded him was enough not to even reach for it. Instead, he stripped out of his shirt and trousers and, eventually, his boxer shorts, looking past the Holy Father’s face at the wall of books behind him. The chill air of the night embraced him; clung to him like a shadow.

Despite not looking at his face, Bellini felt the Holy Father’s gaze rest on him, wandering from his chest down to his stomach, then further down. His first instinct was to cover himself, but he knew it would not be appreciated.

“Such a beautiful creation. His beautiful creation, perfect and flawless, like one of Michelangelo’s works.” A trembling finger ran across his chest, and he tried very hard not to flinch away, arms shaking at his sides.

“So tense… oh, Aldo, what a shame. Come… relax.”

The Holy Father stood, rounding him. With his eyes squeezed shut, Bellini shifted his weight from one leg to the other as discreetly as he could, arms pressed against his side.

“You know… I do not like it when you use your hands to assist your mouth. But you keep doing it.”

Had he done it? Bellini failed to recall.

Hands caressed his neck, winding across his skin as snakes, soft and lascivious; tempting under different circumstances, just that nothing about this was tempting at all. Especially not the cold finger trailing down his spine, lingering just across his buttocks, before it was gone.

Bellini heaved a silent breath of relief.

At least he would be spared that experience tonight.

There was sickening excitement in the Holy Father’s eyes after he rounded him again, a finger hooking about his chin.

“Do not be foolish enough to assume I have not been thinking about that.”

In that moment, Bellini understood; in his hunger for power, he had indeed signed a pact with the devil in disguise. Bellini blinked against the sudden flashes of light in his head; dark, light, alternating way too fast. Sinking to his knees, he closed his eyes, reaching up to free the Holy Father’s cock from his trousers.

The Holy Father stilled his hands harder than he had to. “Aldo, Aldo,” he admonished, making Bellini open his eyes again. “Not so fast, even if your excitement to please me is more than endearing.”

The words, sick and twisted, coiled in his mind, where they rattled and screamed at him. There was no excitement anywhere, just the opposite of it.

‘But remember, you have agreed.’

Yes! And not a single day had passed since then that he had not regretted it in one way or another.

Bellini sat back on his haunches, looking up. He saw the Holy Father bend down, reaching for his fascia, which lay on top of his folded clothes.

Sudden dread and understanding seized him; to use the sacred piece made from watered silk, a reminder of his commitment to Christ and his vow of celibacy as a substitute for a scarf or a rope to immobilize him was sick and vile and very wrong.

And yet that was exactly what happened, by the man who acted as Christ’s representative on earth. Within seconds, his hands were securely bound together behind his back with his scarlet fascia, knotted so tightly that he had no chance to break free (not that he would attempt such foolishness).

When the Holy Father stepped back he admired him like a fine piece of art (like a sick piece of art); naked, only wearing the symbols of the church—the zucchetto, his pectoral cross, the fascia behind his back, and the ring on his right hand, all four visible reminders of who he was—and who he wouldn’t be if the Holy Father stripped him off them.

It wasn’t unheard of…

With the wretched implication dwelling in his head, the Holy Father stepped forward. Bellini opened his mouth like a trained dog, allowing himself to be fed what he didn’t want to eat at all, gazing up as it was expected of him. He wrapped his lips around it, swallowing, whilst the Holy Father placed a hand at the back of Bellini’s head, stroking his head in a mocking lover’s caress. For the moment, he allowed Bellini to go at his own pace, but in the back of his mind, he already knew it wouldn’t stay like that.  

The moment both of the Holy Father’s hands came to rest on the back of his head, Bellini knew what awaited him. He drew in a deep breath, steadying himself for the Holy Father taking his pleasure from his mouth, fucking him. As expected, he pulled his cock out and guided it back into Bellini’s mouth, opened as wide as he managed, allowing its entirety inside. The hair trickled his nose and he tried to block out the Holy Father’s distinct smell, but like this, with his cock buried deep in his mouth breathing through his mouth was the only option to breath at all.

The Holy Father waited, clearly relishing in the sensation of feeling Bellini’s wet mouth around him; of his throat constricting whenever he swallowed, and Bellini just wished he’d gag from it as a form of self-punishment for having agreed to the pact with the devil.

But he did not; could not.

Still holding him in place, the Holy Father began to thrust into his mouth—slow, steady, gentle almost.

It was wretched, yes; humiliating with his hands being bound. But it was nothing he couldn’t endure, nothing he had never done. The sounds were what truly brought Bellini to the verge of tears. Those soft sighs the Holy Father made whenever he rocked into his mouth, sighs that gradually transformed into grunts as he increased the pace of his thrusts.

If the Holy Father noticed Bellini’s misery, he ignored it, relishing in the sensation of Bellini’s throat closing around him whenever he pushed in too deep; in the sensation of how he struggled to keep his composure, trying hard not to cry.

For decades, Bellini had spent quite some time fantasizing about Thomas taking his pleasure from him like this; he on his knees and Thomas thrusting into his mouth, hands clawing against the back of his head so hard that he was worried it would show the next day.

It had never happened, but that had never stopped Bellini dreaming about it.

Nor did it stop him now. Thinking about Thomas, about what they had never shared, was the only comfort he had in this moment. And so he imagined it was Thomas thrusting into his mouth; imagined it was Thomas’s hands on the back of his head, holding him down, holding him in place. All these things Thomas would never do, strict as he was with his vow.

Nevertheless, just thinking about it made the ugliness of reality easier to bear.

Bellini fell into a world of illusions: of Thomas’s fingers running over his scalp and of Thomas kissing him breathless afterwards; of them falling asleep on the sofa in his residence, curled up into each other.

“This pains me now, Aldo,” the Holy Father rasped. The beauty Bellini had constructed in his mind scattered into a thousand pieces like glass, never to be mended. A pale, shaking hand brushed against his cheek, settling there. Bellini shuddered, then forced his body into stillness, allowing the mocking touch.

‘Did he know?’ Bellini wondered, fearing that the consequence might affect others. ‘Did he know what I thought about?’

Vagueness became a certainty in the wake of the Holy Father’s next words, sharp as a blade. “You will not pretend I am someone else. Is this understood?”

For lack of being able to speak, Bellini nodded around the Holy Father’s cock.

He might not keep the promise. But he would try very hard not to let the Holy Father see it again.

With the next thrust, Bellini swallowed reflexively around the cock, then choked as the movements gradually got faster and he had nowhere to go. The grip around his skull was like iron, hard and unrelenting and painful, holding him neatly in place, and a sudden surge of panic seized him; what if the Holy Father knew about his desires about Thomas specifically… what then?

For the first time, Bellini gagged. Not from how the Holy Father’s cock brushed against his throat but from the arising panic about Thomas being dragged into this mess.

The Holy Father took the undignified noise as encouragement. One hand wandered down to where the shoulder blade met the neck, nails digging into his skin hard enough to bruise. 

Thomas. Thomas. Thomas. His mind still screamed at him. Had he been forced to endure this all these years?

Bellini had not asked.

Thomas had never said anything.

He should have asked, perhaps. Yes, he should have. But he had not, despite noticing Thomas’s gradually worsening eating disorder. Deep inside, Bellini wondered if Thomas would ever ask…  would ever see behind the mask of indifference he would don in public whenever he was seen with the Holy Father.

The Holy Father withdrew his hand from Bellini’s shoulder and cupped his cheek with his free hand, tracing his spread lips with his thumb, wet and sticky with saliva. Bellini, brought back to reality at last, looked up at him from wet lashes, his nose buried in his grey curls.

Had he noticed again that his mind had gone astray?

Possibly.

There was no challenge in Bellini’s eyes, only the silent hope that it would be over soon; the hope that he could crawl back into his residence and retch into the bowl. The Holy Father held him down until he coughed and struggled to breathe, and only when his eyes were wet with tears did he pull out a little, just enough for Bellini to draw in some air. With his hands bound behind his back, he could do nothing against it; he couldn’t even try to push himself off. All he could do was ignore the burning of his jaw and keep his mouth wide open when the Holy Father resumed thrusting into it.

The Holy Father groaned above him, and it was all the warning Bellini got. His cock thickened and twitched in his mouth just before he came deep down Bellini’s throat. Bellini coughed, gasping and spluttering on it, but the Holy Father did not allow him to flinch back This time, he wasn’t offered a tissue to spit out his cum. Instead, he was held down until the Holy Father was convinced he had swallowed everything.

Only then did the Holy Father pull out at last, correcting his clothes as if all of this meant nothing.

“The next time we play, come prepared,” he told Bellini, already walking away to sit down at his desk.

The words rattled in his skull for days, long after he finally could stop wearing a scarf to hide the bruises.

III.

By now, Bellini was convinced that the Holy Father ignored him on purpose.

He had come prepared to their match of chess late in the evenings more than ten times already, going through much effort to clean and stretch himself on top of his already busy days, and nothing of the dreadful implication ever happened.

Not that he wanted it to happen, far from it.

But still.

It was just another layer to the sick game the Holy Father loved to play with him, the chess just an excuse to play a game far more intense; far more wretched.

Still, the chessboard always sat between them.

36 times Bellini had lost. He had won twice.

Today, he was about to lose again.

The fact that they were in the Holy Father’s rooms in the Casa Santa Marta played a huge role in that. The setting was far more intimate (and intimidating) than meeting in the Holy Father’s office of the Apostolic Palace, and it was also something new, which in itself caused him a considerable amount of unease. When he had passed by the two Swiss Guards guarding the door, he had looked up briefly. Without the words being there above the door, he still had seen them so clearly hewn into the wall, ‘Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!’ [Abandon all hope, you who enter here] [2]

They’ve been stuck in his thoughts ever since. There was no hope to escape this specific creation of hell on earth.

“Checkmate.”

Bellini barely registered the word anymore.

“It’s about time to claim my prize for all my wins...”

‘Prize. Stock. A piece of meat. Just that.’

The words rattled in Bellini’s skull, being pushed back from its edges; dancing through it like molecules, never stopping until hell would freeze.

The Holy Father stood, and Bellini followed suit.

His hand found the side of Bellini’s face, cupping it as his other hand settled on Bellini’s hip. The touch was distinct, as was the way he regarded him with unconcealed hunger. There were a hundred expressions for the cheering crowd, but that specific look was reserved for the privacy of the nights.

As the Holy Father might be well aware, Bellini had had sex before, but it had been a while. The last time must have been more than a year ago, clearly not for lack of opportunities. There were more opportunities for gay sex in the Vatican than possibly anywhere else in Rome, so his abstinence was caused by a lack of interest, rather than anything else. Interest that wasn’t Thomas. But Thomas… Thomas was Thomas, and always would be.

So yes, it had been a while, and truth be told, he would have preferred it if it were to stay that way.

But pact was pact. A deal was a deal.

And Bellini was striving in his new position.

The role and all the responsibilities it covered were perfectly suited for his many talents, and he enjoyed all the work that came with it. The diplomatic missions and meetings, those calls late at night; the trips and the discussions and the inspiration he got from them. He could be the true change in the Church he had always wanted to be, could shape its future for decades to come, albeit not without paying the price.

Bellini was either jet-lagged or overworked, sometimes he was both. Not that he minded at all or would ever complain about it. Whenever he was in the Vatican, he was working long past midnight like he always used to do, just that it was now for the simple reason of avoiding meeting with the Holy Father.

For a few months, it worked perfectly well—until the Holy Father put a sudden end to it.

Without asking, Bellini received five more assistants specifically for his evening shifts despite the Holy See’s increased efforts to cut down employee expenses wherever possible; an entirely selfish move, for it ensured that Bellini was always available after 10 pm.

“How?” Bellini asked at last, forcing his spinning thoughts to temporary stillness.

The Holy Father leaned in, kissing the side of Bellini’s throat. “Just here, against the desk. It should be sturdy enough… Bend over.”

And so Bellini did, thankful that his position at least allowed him to stare at the wall and not the Holy Father’s face.

He’d done it before, even like this. At the same time, never like this.

The Holy Father did not bother to disrobe Bellini nor himself, wedging his legs apart before he lifted Bellini’s skirts and pulled down his pants and underwear just as much as necessary. A sudden chill ghosted over the parts of his skin that were laid bare as he heard the rustling of clothes.

Despite not seeing, he saw how the Holy Father pulled his cock out, already erect and swollen with its tip glistening wet. He had seen it too often to ever forget.

Sometimes, it came haunting him in his dreams; even the taste was there in his mouth after sitting up, panting hard, and drenched in cold sweat.

During those restless nights, Bellini thought he was caught in one of the nine circles of hell; alive, but never able to escape. Maybe, he should go down to the library one day and look at it…[3]

A finger trailed his inner thigh, making him freeze against the desk in an unforgiving position. If the Holy Father registered it, he decided to ignore it, invading his personal space even further, thighs pressing against his own. Bellini’s mind rebelled at the situation, and he shuddered as a warm hand cupped his buttocks. But there was nothing he could do about it; nothing he would do, sacrificing himself for his dream all over again. By now, it felt as if he had unlearned to say the words necessary to end this. Not even in his nightmares did he manage anymore.  

“Always so dedicated, my dear Aldo,” the Holy Father mused, positioning himself against Bellini’s hole. Whilst some time had passed between now and his preparation, he should still be wet and open enough for it, Bellini figured, closing his eyes at the wretched prospect of the Holy Father inside him. “I see you’ve been very diligent in your preparations.”

A deliberating moment passed until the Holy Father pushed in, grunting at the tightness, not exactly taking his time. Bellini cried out, the noise half-muffled by his arm.

The Holy Father moaned as he stilled his movements, and Bellini wanted to die from it; he heard it, and he heard the echo of it all around him, even when the sound in itself was long gone.

It burned, it hurt; Bellini sucked in gasp after gasp as he tried to handle the pain, faintly registering how the Holy Father’s body covered his own. He trapped him in the shadows and pinned him in place with his weight, lips pressed against his ear. Like this, he was forced to inhale his scent; to feel his hot breath wash over his bare skin and hear his excitement so close. Bile gathered in his mouth, and not for the first time, he wanted to spit it into the Holy Father’s face.

Instead of rutting against him until he was sated, he took his wretched time with Bellini. Each thrust, each kiss to his throat told a lie of love and gentleness.

Yet he endured.

Endured the whispered endearments, the wretched sound of skin slapping skin; those thrusts, hard but with an irregular rhythm, clearly indicating the lack of experience of how to fuck. That in itself was odd for Bellini knew, or at least suspected the relationship the Holy Father had with Woźniak. Could it be that—

No.

It was as if the Holy Father had read his thoughts, setting a relentless rhythm, each trust harder than the one before; what pretense of tenderness had remained was knocked aside. It aimed to hurt; to make him remember.

As if Bellini would ever forget.

He, who never forgot anything.

The numbers rattled through his skull; the times the Holy Father had taken his pleasure from his mouth, clothed or unclothed; how often he had brought him off with his hands—all that.

So no, he would not forget that, either.

He felt lips against his skin right after, sucking at his throat so high up that he had to wear a scarf yet again and pretend to have caught a cold; and everyone would sound concerned, worrying for his health. Unlike before, the lips remained glued to his skin whilst the Holy Father kept fucking him so hard that several stacks of documents had already ended up on the floor.

Still, Bellini endured; endured when the rhythm turned brutal and words of filthy praise were whispered into his ear, against his skin; endured when one hand curled around his throat, squeezing ever so slightly until his vision blurred.

And then suddenly, an oppressive force weighed down on Bellini’s entire being, a deafening silence blocking out all other sounds. He wondered if he was imagining it; if his body was shutting down and he was just not feeling the pain and misery anymore. Protecting him and allowing his mind to slip away to other places, better places. Bellini drifted through his memories like a ghost. Over it, he lost track of where the Holy Father’s hands went, reliving all the scenarios in his head that the Holy Father could not ruin; of Thomas, and of Father Michele, whom he had kissed in the shadows as a seminarian most of the nights.

The Holy Father’s lips brushing against his ear brought him back to reality. “So good for me, so pliant, Aldo. Just so good.”

Bellini tensed, clenching around the Holy Father’s cock.

The words dripped like honey from the Holy Father’s lips, making Bellini cough from the sick praise. “Yes, Aldo. Like this, just like this,” he moaned, depraved and shameless. “Do it again.”

Bellini squeezed his eyes shut, holding back the tears, and obeyed. Clenching around him, once, twice. “Aldo…”

He bit the inside of his mouth, doing it again, praying that it was enough. Not to stop the madness, but at least to temporarily end it.

“Aldo, gods, yes. Aldo, Aldo, Aldo…”

He heard the deep and breathy groans right next to his ear as the Holy Father picked up the pace even more, getting himself off on how Bellini squirmed underneath him as best as he could.

With a last unceremonious grunt and completely buried inside him, he spilled in Bellini’s hole, raw and sore and aching.  

*

The long walk back to his apartment in the pouring rain was filled with tears and shame; each step meticulously recorded by the many surveillance cameras in the Vatican.

IV.

Losing to the Holy Father has long become a constant in Bellini’s life.

Contrary to the initial agreement, not every loss incurred a favor.

It was random when the Holy Father would request his specific service, which made those games even harder to endure.

The unknown; the vagueness. Bellini had never been good at dealing with those.

Sometimes, the Holy Father simply wanted to share personal anecdotes after playing, or discuss upcoming trips and changes to the Curia; sometimes, he would ask for Bellini’s opinion on making someone a cardinal or if he should travel to Africa again anytime soon. Sometimes, he stopped mid-conversation and sent him away.

The things he desired were far less random.

Whilst quite obviously, he had a preference for oral sex (79 times, and in his thoughts, Bellini referred to it as an oral fixation), sometimes that wasn’t enough and he would fuck him, always from behind as if to hide his shame (36 times); since he didn’t like hands being used on him, the times it had happened were rare enough (twice). As of now, he had never kissed Bellini on the mouth; had never made him climax—Bellini prayed every day for it to stay like that.

Tonight, in a hotel room in a small village near Quepos in Costa Rica, Bellini was already on his knees, naked.

A thin layer of sweat glistened on his skin, not from exertion but from the wretched heat. Bellini had never fared well in tropical climates, and his ability to deal with it had become much worse as a result of age. Whilst the room had air conditioning, the Holy Father refused to use it. He was afraid to catch a cold from it, and also justified not using it with the following statement, “if many of the believers didn’t have one, why should he be allowed such amenities?”

Bellini had to suffer from that rather idiotic sentiment.

The Holy Father leaned close to Bellini’s ear and asked in a low voice. “Isn’t it already late… I think we should go to bed, Aldo.”

There was something off with that request. The way he had said it, perhaps, the reverence in his voice, sick and twisting.

And yet Bellini obeyed, scrambling back to his feet.

In the blaring light of the room, he saw the Holy Father completely naked for the first time; the saggy skin of his stomach and on his thighs, the darkness of his nipples; the way his cock stood up against his belly, its tip glistening with pre-come as he slipped into the bed next to Bellini.

That night was worse than any before.

Sex, in whatever form, was one thing. This—the forced intimacy and the pretense of genuine, mutual affection was something else entirely. Bellini could hear the quiet shudder in the Holy Father’s exhale; the sound of his teeth clicking together when he wrapped his arms around Bellini. He was all too aware of how he curled up tighter against Bellini’s back. The warmth of his breath danced across his head, accompanied by ghosting lips and murmured words of affection.

To block out everything, Bellini squeezed his eyes shut, pretending it was someone else as best as he could.

The Holy Father’s voice was quiet in Bellini’s ear, bringing him back at once. “We should do this more often, Aldo. You and I… like this.”

Despite not wanting to, Bellini trembled when a hand wrapped around his cock, stroking him to hardness. He hated how his body betrayed him; how it reacted to the touch he didn’t want, and how he failed his mind’s command to remain indifferent and unaffected.

Bellini panicked, breath coming fast and uneven.

“Aldo…,” the Holy Father murmured, obviously mistaking the hyperventilation for arousal. “Don’t hold back.”

Terror and pure helplessness wrapped themselves around Bellini, all the more when the embrace shifted; when the Holy Father rolled him over onto his back, burying his face in the crook of Bellini’s neck.

Bellini forced his body to stillness to ignore the wretched sensations the hand curled around him caused; and how he could feel his hot breath against his throat, which almost set off another wave of panic.

But Bellini managed to compose himself and allow the wretched intimacy.   

“Look at me, Aldo.”

When he opened his eyes, the Holy Father’s face hovered over his own, just inches away.

And then he bent down to kiss him. Not like one would kiss a whore, but a lover, sweet and tender, and with his eyes closed, exactly like Bellini had kissed all those men he had spent the night with in the early morning, with the soft light of the rising sun drifting through the windows. The memory of these sweet moments made it all the harder to bear. Still, he opened his mouth and allowed the Holy Father’s tongue into it, playing along—like ultimately he always did.

The Holy Father moved again so that Bellini could feel parts of his weight on top of him now. He was still kissing him, languid, his tongue searching for Bellini’s own; sucking on his lips whilst the rhythm of his hand had long faltered. Instead, he was focused on grinding against Bellini’s thigh, each roll of his hips a moan against Bellini’s mouth.

“Aldo…,” he rasped, kissing his nose, then his cheek with a tenderness that was sickening. “Isn’t this a wonderful thing to end a fruitful day? Every day I can spend with you is blessed and very day I pray to Him for putting you on my path…”

Not expecting an answer to his rhetorical questions, the Holy Father resumed grinding his sweat-slick body against Bellini, kissing him again. It was far worse than before because the hand was back on his cock, trying to coax a climax from him, and if he just kept going long enough, he’d be successful. Bellini wished he were above such worldly desires, or impotent, or just less easily aroused, because this… it was the greatest humiliation of all.

Despite not wanting any of it, he had grown hard and was still hard, no matter what. He hated the way the Holy Father’s tongue felt in his mouth but still kissed him back, pretending; and he hated the way his smell was everywhere, and yet he did nothing to evade the proximity; allowed him to rut against his body and allowed him to kiss him until he’d find his climax, covered in sweat and precoma and saliva.

And, ultimately worse: he allowed those murmured words of affection to wash over him, allowed the Holy Father to pretend love blossomed between them…

And then the hand was gone, subsided by the Holy Father’s erection grinding against his own. He was fully on top of Bellini now, twining their hands on each side of Bellini’s head as he was pretending to fuck him almost face to face. At first, he buried his face in the crook of Bellini’s neck, and Bellini was thankful that he was spared looking at him as he chased his climax, even if it meant listening to his ragged breathing, so very wretched in itself. But at least he could stare at the ceiling, and pretend to be somewhere else; him being someone else.

He wasn’t allowed to dwell in the beauty of that

Leaving a wet trail of kisses on his throat and cheeks, the Holy Father let go of Bellini’s hands and cupped his face. “Aldo. My dear, Aldo,” he murmured between kisses onto his mouth.

Soon enough, the roll of his hips turned erratic, and the bed creaked from the assault, so loud Bellini was certain it could be heard by the Swiss Guards placed outside the room, only adding to his misery.

With a grunt, the hand was back, now trapped between their bodies and tightly wrapped around their cocks. It was so obvious how close to climax the Holy Father was, grunting, swearing, rutting into his fist. He came—they came—with his tongue deep in Bellini’s throat.

In all his mortification, Bellini heaved a silent breath of relief when the Holy Father rolled off him, certain he could take his leave right away. A foolish assumption, as it turned out: instead of rising, the Holy Father pressed close against Bellini’s side, fingertips bestowing idle touches all across Bellini’s chest. Their bodies were covered with sweat and cum; a condition which begged for a shower to remove all evidences, but the Holy Father would not have it.

Silence descended like a mourning veil.

It left Bellini to his misery, the loving caresses making it especially uncomfortable to endure. Bellini did not know how long it lasted: a few minutes, an hour, even more?

He has long lost track of time and space when the Holy Father spoke again. “Yes, absolutely. We should do that more often, Aldo… Like this…,” he suggested, voice still soft with post-orgasmic haze. “Allowing ourselves some time to relax. What do you think, my dearest? Maybe tomorrow night? How does that sound?”

Bellini thought about resigning in that moment, as he would for many months to come.

*

Back in his room, Bellini crouched over the toilet with his index finger buried deep in his mouth.

For once, he wished his gag reflex was stronger. Like it was, it took more than a scratch to the soft tissue of the back of his throat to make him throw up a first wave of half-digested food. He did it again and again, until only sour bile rose from his stomach. But not even that stopped him from repeating it. There was something very comforting in the ugliness of vomiting; to rid himself of the Holy Father’s taste in his mouth like that.

V.

The Holy Father has been sick for weeks now.

Although not quite bedridden and still fulfilling many of his official duties, Bellini had hardly seen him in the past days.

Thus, he was all the more surprised to find Woźniak standing in front of his apartment one day late at night. “Did something happen?” Bellini inquired, not inviting the other man into his residence.

“No,” Woźniak said with a shake of his head. He fidgeted with his fingers in front of him, looking everywhere except at Bellini’s face. “The Holy Father requested your presence.”

It was never more obvious than now that Woźniak knew exactly what kind of relationship they had with each other. “I’m… I’m sorry, Eminence Bellini.”

“Allow me a moment to get dressed again,” Bellini said, even though clothes might be entirely dispensable tonight. His tone towards Woźniak had become considerably milder than before. None of this was Woźniak’s fault, and often enough, he had envied their relationship; the way how fair and affectionate the Holy Father had been with Woźniak.

They walked to the Casa Santa Marta in silence, and Bellini was thankful for that.

A wave of nausea hit Bellini when Woźniak opened the door to the Holy Father’s bedroom. The room reeked of eucalyptus and other medications, which overpowered the stale air. Bellini was tempted to open the window but refrained when his gaze landed on the Holy Father. He lay on his back, face red and damp from the fever, body covered with several blankets.

“Janusz, there you are again. Please be so good and bring me a fresh, damp cloth to wipe down my face.”

“Of course, your Holiness.” Woźniak disappeared at once.

The moment the door closed behind him, the Holy Father’s glazed eyes were fixed on Bellini. “Aldo… and there I was hoping you would visit me on your own. I am disappointed… and a little hurt.”

Yes. He perhaps should have come. But he hadn’t wanted to, still recalling their last encounter with dread.

“But it matters not… Now that you are here.”

Given his fever and general condition, Bellini struggled to imagine what he even wanted. He was in no state to engage in anything.

Woźniak returned at once. He sat down at the edge of the Holy Father’s bed and wiped his feverish face with the damp cloth. Bellini could hear the Holy Father exhale in relief. “My dear Janusz… what would I do without you?”

Woźniak tensed at the gently murmured words, and Bellini failed to understand why. It was very odd, but then Woźniak had behaved rather oddly the entire evening, so maybe he shouldn’t think too much about it.

“Janusz, you remember what I asked for before you left?”

Woźniak nodded, tense as a bowstring. “Yes, your Holiness.”

The Holy Father smiled at him, patting his hands. “Be so good and initiate it.”

Bellini saw Woźniak struggle to rise from the bed, an effort that could not be attributed to his age. He was considerably younger than everyone else in the room. Turning around, Woźniak cautiously walked towards where Bellini still stood, eyes fixed on the floor and shaking. With his gaze lowered, he came to stand in front of Bellini.

Bellini did not understand.

And then, when the Holy Father gave a coughing chuckle at his confused expression, it suddenly dawned on him with a force he would fail to describe later.

“No. Just no,” he breathed, eyes wide with shock. Woźniak mumbled something under his breath. Bellini did not hear. “You cannot mean it.”

Bellini’s eyes, wide and filled with horror, were fixed on the Holy Father.

This time, he understood Woźniak’s mumble. “Don’t make this harder than it already is…,” he whispered, silent enough to be missed by the Holy Father. “I want this as little as you.”

Bellini wondered with what consequences the Holy Father had threatened poor Woźniak, forcing him to comply.  Unlike Bellini, now well-established and known as Secretary of State and with a reputation across the world, Woźniak could be easily dismissed and sent back to Poland without it causing a greater scandal.

Things like that happened all the time…

Unseen to the Holy Father, Bellini reached for Woźniak’s hand and squeezed it. The poor soul, not used to emotional manipulation and such sick games, was completely at a loss, consumed by betrayal and guilt, and sadness; emotionally on the very edge.

“Your Holiness,” Bellini began, voice even just for the sake of this not escalating further. He looked across Woźniak’s shoulder, locking his eyes with the Holy Father on the bed. “What do you want to see?”

“Kiss him, Aldo. For the moment just that.”

Everything in Bellini’s body went numb. He was sure he had misheard, seconds feeling like minutes.

‘Just that.’ To Bellini, it was almost the worst possible option.

This was new; a new coded bullet point to be added to the list securely hidden in a drawer. Each time Bellini returned to his apartment after providing these specific favors to the Holy Father, he added a stroke to one of the bullet points to ensure it was not only existing in his head. The codes, hieroglyphs for everyone except himself, translated to: oral sex unclothed, oral sex clothed, fucking, both combined, forced intimacy, hands.

Before being prompted for something else, Bellini leaned in. Woźniak flinched, overcome by emotions and nervousness. Bellini squeezed his hand again, then allowed his lips to brush against Woźniak’s. This time, Woźniak did not move, frozen and staring into nothingness. It broke Bellini’s heart. Suffering from the Holy Father’s sick desires was one thing. Dealing with someone else’s suffering was far worse.

“Properly,” the Holy Father remarked, annoyed.

A tear ran down Woźniak’s cheek, which Bellini wiped away with his thumb. “Just pretend, Janusz. Just for a little while,” Bellini whispered, thankful that the Holy Father’s hearing wasn’t the best anymore.

Woźniak nodded slowly.

Bellini squeezed his hand again, then kissed him. Not properly, but fake properly, running his fingers over Woźniak’s jaw, across the stubble and into his hair, a mockery of tenderness because he felt absolutely nothing. Then, he cupped his face to hide most of what he wasn’t doing. Much to Bellini’s surprise, Woźniak relaxed into the palm of his hand and against his mouth, thankful that somehow they managed to fool the man who had requested this.

All the while, Bellini’s gaze rested on the Holy Father, determined to see the exact moment when he fell asleep so that he could stop this farce at once. The performance was convincing enough because no additional request followed, and one arm disappeared under the blankets. Bellini had no doubt what he was doing and was glad Woźniak did not see.

And then, much to his surprise, Woźniak placed his sweaty and shaking hand against Bellini’s face and opened his mouth to him, certainly afraid of what else the Holy Father would request if he was bored by their performance.

Closing his eyes, Bellini decided to play along with what Woźniak was begging for by squeezing his hand repeatedly. The hatred he harbored wasn’t directed at Woźniak; the man was just another victim of the Holy Father’s game, a piece to move across the board as he pleased.

Bellini still did not know if this was a good idea, but he tilted his head to change the angle and allowed his tongue to run over Woźniak’s lips; the soft mouth against him, so far unresponsive, trembled against his lips, and then Woźniak whimpered.

It was all encouragement for Bellini to kiss Woźniak properly, even allowing himself to close his eyes for a few seconds. Under different circumstances, he truly might have enjoyed it because Woźniak was incredibly gentle in the way he kissed him back and how he ran his fingers over Bellini’s head, sparking a tingling sensation in his stomach.

No.

He wouldn’t grow hard.

He would not.

To his horror, Bellini reacted physically to kissing Woźniak, eyes snapping open to kill the sensation before it grew.

But not even looking at the Holy Father’s feverish face quenched his arousal, and he hated this; hated everything about that. And if they stood just a little closer to each other, Woźniak would notice; and if he were more experienced in such matters, he’d probably also notice how Bellini’s mind had long gone astray. But as it was, he didn't, and Bellini tried his best to pull himself together, the Damocles sword of the Holy Father requesting something else still looming over their heads.

Thankfully, it did not happen and the Holy Father dozed off within a few minutes, his face sickly at ease.

“You sick bastard,” Bellini hissed under his breath, guiding Woźniak out of the room.

Once outside, he forced him to sit down at the kitchen table. The poor soul was completely out of himself, as if realization had hit him as soon as the door had closed behind them. He cried and shook, failing to understand what had just happened.  

“Eminenza Bellini,” Woźniak sobbed whilst he watched Bellini rummage through the small kitchen area, addressing him with such amount of respect he hardly deserved anymore. “I… I adore him; I love him. And I thought he loved me back. Genuinely. And I trusted him…”

Bellini finally found what he was looking for: a bottle of grappa and two mismatched glasses. He filled them to the brim, placing one of them in front of Woźniak.

Woźniak downed its content, then reached for the bottle and drank directly from it.

“I know you love him, Janusz. And it’s the very reason why he asked this of you. He knew you would never refuse him because of the love you harbor towards him. He’s manipulating you, Janusz. Like he manipulated me, and like he’s manipulating everyone else around him. Differently, yes. But still…”

Bellini, having sat down next to Woźniak, drank, for once relishing in the burning taste of the grappa; it felt like swallowing disinfectant.

Woźniak buried his face in his hands, then looked at Bellini from the corner of his eye. “He told me about you, long ago. Not that I didn’t know already back then. But I never knew… that… he would ask for this. I’m so sorry, I should have told you from the beginning. I knew what he wanted when I came to your residence. I should have—”

Bellini shook his head, placing his arm around Woźniak’s shoulder. Slowly, the tension seeped out of his body, and the sobbing ceased, at least a little. “And what would have changed that?”

Woźniak looked at him with his wide eyes, filled with tears. “Nothing.”

Two weeks later, the Holy Father was dead.

VI.

Despite Thomas’s warnings not to rush any decisions, that was exactly what Pope Innocent XIV did.

Within five days, he had stripped Tremblay of his position as Camerlengo, had extended Thomas’s position of Dean of the College of Cardinals to an unlimited period, had given Woźniak a two months leave to visit his family in Poland to grief and come to terms with the fact that he had lost everything, reassuring him that he’ll find him a new position once he returned.

In short: within a week, he had more or less uprooted the entire Curia, not to everyone’s delight.

So, no, Bellini was not surprised when the Holy Father approached him exactly six days after his election.

“Cardinal Bellini,” he began, still standing in the doorframe of Bellini’s office. That in itself was unusual. In the past, there had always been official appointments, long scheduled in advance. “May I have a word with you, in private? Only if you have time, that is, of course.”

That was even more unusual. Innocent never expected anyone to drop what they were doing just because he showed up (which did not mean they did not drop everything at once).

Bellini stood up from his desk, inviting him inside. “Of course. If my office is convenient for the conversation, please feel free to come in and close the door.”

Innocent smiled at him. “More than suitable,” he said, settling down in one of the comfortable chairs around the conference table. “It won’t take long.”

Bellini watched him from the corner of his eyes with rising dread. “It’s not as if these files are going anywhere anytime soon.”

Innocent chuckled. “Possibly not. On that matter, I was thinking about a digital transformation to reduce the amount of paper within the Holy See; you know the forests and climate change are very dear to me, but it might be a little bit too early for that,” he was saying, and Bellini nodded. Innocent had to be careful not to tackle everything at once. “Is it true what Thomas told me? That you played a match of chess with the late Holy Father regularly?”

Bellini felt like crying. Why would Thomas even mention that to the Holy Father? It was irrelevant at best, painful at worst. “Almost every other night,” he admitted, throat already becoming tight.

“Would you mind playing with me…? Unless…” Bellini tensed, and Vincent paused for a moment, looking at him with wide and apologetic eyes. “Oh, that was inconsiderate of me. To remind you… to ask for it when the grief is still so fresh. Please, forgive me.”

“It is nothing,” Bellini lied nonchalantly.

Innocent was here to reaffirm his position as Secretary of State—just like Thomas had hinted at several times. So it wasn’t grief that had made him tense but the fact that history seemed to repeat itself, a position, a match of chess, a favor for a favor for many years to come.

Innocent looked doubtful. “Are you certain?”

“Yes,” Bellini said, pointing towards the chessboard, which sat on a small table surrounded by two chairs. “If you would like to and your schedule allows for it, we could play. Why else would I keep it around if I had no intention of playing?”

Outside, St. Peter’s rang. Bellini’s mask of lies and indifference almost scattered at the inconsiderate timing.

“Which color do you prefer?” Innocent asked, less cautious now.

It had never been a question in the past. “Black.”

Innocent rose, and as he walked towards the sitting area, he gave Bellini a look over his shoulder. “Please be aware that my skills might be well beyond your standards, so please do not be surprised if I lose.”

‘As if,’ Bellini thought, not saying it. “When did you start to learn?”

Whilst Bellini sat down, Innocent elaborated, reaching for a white piece to start the game, “Late, when I was in Africa, but the times I could play were rare enough. Kabul was better in that regard; Hamid and I often played well into the night, drinking tea.”

Objectively, and also true to his previous statement, Innocent did not play well at all.

The moves lacked the late Holy Father’s tactical skills, who regarded the board as a battlefield and the figures as an army. If Bellini were focused, he could have easily won, just that he could not. A thousand thoughts and scenarios, each one worse than the last, flittered through his mind, corrupting his ability to focus and concentrate.

“Eminence Bellini,” Innocent asked mid-game, a skeptical frown on his face. “You do not let me win on purpose, do you?”

Before he could stop any of it, Bellini’s mouth dropped open, and he gaped like a fish. “No, your Holiness, I never would dare.” He had never considered that his messed-up moves could be interpreted in that way.

“Then why does it appear like you do?” Innocent asked, setting down the knight on the board.

Bellini felt his face heat up, cursing the Holy Father’s attention to detail. “Forgive me, your Holiness. I fear I am distracted and also out of practice.”

Innocent nodded. “Are you certain you do not mind playing?”

“Yes.”

Innocent left it at that.

Bellini was grateful, afraid he might see past his disguise.

That only added to his misery of not being able to concentrate. The harder he tried to focus and play well, the more ridiculous his moves became, each one bringing him closer to the inevitable: losing again.

Not even half an hour later, Innocent stated the obvious with an apologetic smile. “Shah mat.”

Bellini had never heard him speak Arabic before, and it was just these two words. But it was enough to bring him emotionally to the very edge. The cadence of his voice was so different from everything he knew, so soft; like his eyes, and the way he had said it with a smile.

St. Peter’s bells brought Bellini back to the wretched reality.

Innocent still looked at him, and it was as if his gaze bore right into his soul.

Bellini pinched the skin between his fingers so hard that it began bleeding. “Just ask…”

“Ask what?” Innocent wondered, and if Bellini didn’t know better, he would say the Holy Father was genuinely confused—and also hurt by how brusque he had sounded.

Bellini ignored the sentiment, assuming it was fake. “What you want...”

Innocent blinked at him several times, the confusion even more obvious now. He appeared to be lost with the sudden change in Bellini’s mood. “But haven’t I already? I want you to be my Secretary of State, and to ask you for it is why I have sought you out today. Just that, nothing else.”

“Just so…” Bellini mused with cynicism that would put Sabbadin to shame.

Tilting his head to the side, Innocent looked considerably younger than he was. “Yes…,” he said, then hesitated. Suddenly, there were a thousand emotions on his face as if everything fell into place all at once. Bellini saw surprise and shock; and then disbelief and ultimately rage.

“Aldo… what is this? The entire time, ever since I asked you if you were willing to play with me, you behaved very oddly. Your initial response to my question was never one of grief, am I right?”

For a brief moment, Bellini considered lying. But there was something so very open in Innocent’s eyes; something caring and very warm.

Slowly, he shook his head.

“It triggered something…,” Innocent was saying. Even though Bellini was not certain an answer was expected, he gave it. He nodded once, then let his face fall into his hands in shame and defeat.

Innocent said nothing, giving Bellini the time he needed to recover at least somewhat. Only when he withdrew his hands, Innocent spoke again, and Bellini immediately regretted having said a single word about that. “Dear God… no. Aldo… I didn’t know, wasn’t aware of any of it. I would never have asked if I knew or at least suspected. Did he—”

Bellini did not want to talk about this. About any of it, and thus interrupted the Holy Father, “Yes. And yes. And no. End of the story.”

Contrary to how many others would react, Innocent didn’t roll his eyes or chide him for his nonsensical answer. The reaction he received was not quite the one Bellini had expected, nor one he was prepared to deal with.

“Aldo, I don’t have words for how sincerely sorry I am,” Innocent began, looking at Bellini with neither disgust nor doubt but with so much compassion it hurt physically. “And I understand that you don’t want to talk about any of this. And for the moment, I respect your wish to keep it to yourself. But at one point, we need to talk about this. Have you considered therapy…?”

Bellini couldn’t stop the derogatory sneer in time. “And disclose that I have agreed to it the very first day when the position was offered…? I am as much at fault as him; all I had to do was say no. But in my raging ambitions, I did not. Never. Not once.”

Vincent began to pace the room, each step vibrating with rage. “No! Just no, Aldo!”

It was the first time Bellini heard the Holy Father speak like that; in a voice that left no room for talking back and filled with unconcealed anger.

“What you experienced is a specifically vile and shameful form of coercion. He knew about your ambitions and used it to his advantage. Everything that followed is considered sexual abuse. No matter what he might have told you, you are the victim, by no means responsible for any of his crimes. Do you know how many confessions of women I heard who blamed themselves for the crimes committed against them? They blamed themselves for getting beaten; for getting raped, and almost killed. The shame and guilt were so deeply indoctrinated in them that they couldn’t let go of them. What were they guilty of? Existing… being a woman? None of these women were guilty of anything… Nor are you.”

Innocent’s mind was as sharp as ever.

All Bellini wanted to do was run and cry his eyes out with his shameful secret laid bare.

“He knew your weaknesses, knew how to corrupt and groom you—and took advantage of that. I—” Innocent stopped himself from raging.

Bellini watched him bridge the distance and fall onto his knees in front of where he sat.

Covering both of Bellini’s hands with his own, he asked, “Is this okay?”

Bellini looked down.

Innocent looked up, bathed in shadows.

The sadness in his eyes almost made Bellini break.

Caused by the initial similarity of the situation, Bellini’s thoughts about Innocent’s motivation had become his journey’s echo.

He held Innocent’s gaze, albeit with effort, feeling awful for his assumption. “Yes. I think it is.”

Apart from being touched by Thomas, he had become averse to any form of physical touch and evaded it as best as he could, which was hard in a place where casual touches were omnipresent.

“Aldo,” Innocent said softly, still kneeling. He either waited for the words to come or for Bellini to look away, or for the moment to fade, which did not happen. “I ask you again, in all sincerity, because my previous question feels very inconsiderate with the knowledge I have now. As if you couldn’t have refused it. So I ask you again: do you want to keep your previous position? No favors, no demands associated with it, ever. Nothing like this will ever happen to you again, I promise.”

A solemn tear ran down Bellini’s cheek. “If you allow, I would like to keep it and support you and your cause, your Holiness.”

“Vincent,” the Holy Father corrected with a squeeze of Bellini’s hands.

Bellini held his gaze, stunned as he failed to wrap his mind around what had happened. “I—"

Innocent—Vincent—squeezed Bellini’s hands again. “Yes?”

Suddenly, the closeness became too much to bear. Perhaps this was to be expected, but any warning signs had been drowned out by Vincent’s reaction to his admission.

Bellini stood, reclaiming his personal space as he turned away.

“Please… don’t tell anyone about this. Not even Thomas. No one.”

“I will not,” Vincent promised. Although Bellini didn’t see him, the rustling of clothes indicated that he rose from the floor. “Will you tell me?”

Gazing out of the window, Bellini’s throat constricted at the question he had been expecting for some time. “One day I might. But please give me time for it.”

“As long as you need, Aldo. As long as you need.”

*

Five weeks later, Bellini sat at his desk in his apartment and decoded the list where he had notoriously kept track of every meeting with the late Holy Father that had ended with a favor.

His hands shook so hard that he had to start over three times.

• Oral sex unclothed (224)
• Kissing on the mouth (187)
• Oral sex clothed (161)
• Fucking (148)
• Both combined (87)
• Forced intimacy (44)
• Hands (11)

Although he had not forgotten about the forced encounter with Woźniak, he obsoleted that, unwilling to drag the poor soul further into this mess.

*

Exactly seven weeks later, Bellini stood in front of the door of Pope Innocent’s office in the Apostolic Palace, unannounced. He hadn’t been inside since the late Holy Father’s death.

“Aldo,” the Holy Father—Vincent—said, friendly but genuinely surprised at Bellini’s sudden appearance. Although they had interacted with each other on an almost daily basis for the past few weeks, it had always been scheduled meetings or audiences with more than one participant. It is no wonder that Vincent was so surprised. “How can I be of assistance?”

Bellini looked at the Swiss Guard and Monsignor O’Malley, who was busy at the desk sorting through several stacks of documents. “May I have a word with you, your Holiness? In private….”

Vincent smiled that charming smile of his. Bellini quickly looked away, still very much unable to deal with it when he was the direct recipient of it. He didn’t mind seeing it on Vincent when he smiled at Thomas, didn’t mind seeing it for O’Malley. But for him? No, it felt highly inappropriate and also undeserved. “Of course, of course. Ray, Marius, please be so kind and leave us for a while.”

Both hurried out of the room and closed the door behind them.

“What is it, Aldo?” Vincent asked, coming to stand in front of Bellini, keeping a more than polite distance.

“I…” Bellini’s voice forsook him as suddenly images of the past assaulted his mind. Of him kneeling between the Holy Father’s thighs, of him bent over the table; of him being pinned against the wall.

Vincent tilted his head to the side. “I’m here, Aldo. I’m here to listen to you, whatever it is that troubles you.”

There was… nothing, except those sick images chasing themselves. The skill of being gifted with words forsook him, and he was sure he would not recover soon. Instead of attempting to speak, he pulled a folded paper from a pocket of his coat and handed it to Vincent. “Here.”

Bellini stared at the paper, now caught between Vincent’s fingers, unable to look up at him.

“What is this?”

“Read it, and you’ll know what it is. I’m sorry, Vincent, I thought I could…,” Bellini stammered as yet another wave of helplessness broke over him. That he wasn’t crying was all. “I can’t… I cannot talk about it. Not yet. I’m sorry.”

Long before Vincent could reply, Bellini turned around and ran. He dashed past Vincent, past O'Malley, and the Swiss Guards; past everyone he met in the corridors until he was somewhere in the open, even though he did not know where. 

*