Chapter Text
*
The call came in the middle of the night.
Not that Lawrence was sleeping yet. Plagued by a terrible mixture of sin and guilt and self-loathing, it was harder than ever to drift into slumber.
It was Bellini on the phone. “What keeps you up at night?” Lawrence asked, pretending to have just woken up by the call.
At the end of the line, Bellini—a man who was gifted with words, eloquent and composed—was fuming. “Listen, Thomas! You need to see that! You… I don’t even know!”
“See what?” Thomas sighed, staring at the ceiling. Something in Bellini’s voice told him that the night was over for him. “Do you know what time it is?”
“I don’t care about time and space and anything on that matter. Not when blasphemous sinful words about me circulate around.”
Lawrence rubbed his eyes, yawning. Surely, he had misheard. “What?”
“Pornography! Written, in text, Thomas!” Bellini yelled at him.
Lawrence shot upright, a little bit too fast. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him and almost forced him to lie down again. “What—” He didn’t get any further than that.
Bellini cut him off. “Porn! Blasphemous words! Thomas, you won’t believe me but I received an envelope earlier today, brown, DIN A4, innocent enough. I just opened it now, and out came that vulgar pamphlet!”
Despite not being able to see Bellini through the phone, he saw him speaking with wide gestures. It was true that his gestures were much less pronounced than those of Tedesco, but Bellini was also prone to them, especially when he was angry.
And he was angry. Lawrence could not recall having him witnessed to be so angry.
Lawrence rubbed the bridge of his nose. “In the name of god… what?”
The distant sound of pacing feet reached Lawrence’s ear through the phone; it made him think of Rilke’s poem about the panther, ‘The soft tread of his strong, supple stride turns him in ever tighter circles, like the dance of force about a center in which a great will stands, stunned.’
“12489 words of porn!” Bellini raged, pushing Lawrence’s thoughts about the black beast away.
“Jesus, Aldo,” Lawrence breathed, brows furrowed. He was at a loss of what to say to this, to any of that, really. “Did you count the words?”
Bellini screamed, and for a moment, Lawrence feared he would throw the phone against the wall of his residence in a fit of rage. “Of course not! It’s there! On that pamphlet. It says word count. 12489 words of sin!”
Lawrence drew in a deep breath, ignoring the fine warning signs of an arising migraine. “Fine, then, Aldo. Give me five minutes to wake up and get dressed. Then, let’s meet.”
“My residence?” Bellini asked, to which Lawrence simply agreed.
*
It was mid-December and cold winds raced through the Vatican, making the rain clash right into Lawrence’s face.
He pulled his scarf tighter around him, afraid he might catch a cold from the weather. It has been like this for days, gloomy and cold with too much rain—it was very British, actually.
The distance between where they lived was not far, but it was far enough to have the little hair that remained on Lawrence’s head soaking wet.
Before he even rang the bell, Bellini opened the door. The way he held himself told Lawrence that he was waiting anxiously from his arrival: his face was red and creased in sorrow and his hands shook. He was dressed in casual attire, black and dark blue colors, having not expected to receive visitors tonight. It was one thing Lawrence could not care less about, in contrast to Bellini.
“Aldo…,” Lawrence said, stripping out of his coat and scarf, both dripping wet.
Bellini’s residence was grand and full of splendor; neatly organized and plastered with Italian art: paintings, statues, antique books. It reminded Lawrence of the old Venetian Palazzi; marble stairs and luxurious interior, nothing like his own place was.
Despite the fact they were in Bellini’s own residence, he looked around as if to make certain nobody observed them from the shadows before he spoke. “Thomas, thank you… thank you so much for coming despite the late hour,” Bellini said, clutching Lawrence’s hands. They were ice-cold and wet, in contrast to Bellini’s own—they were scorchingly hot, as if burnt.
As they made their way towards Bellini’s dining room, Lawrence noticed the reddened skin on Bellini’s throat, giving away how truly upset he was. Bellini had the tendency to rub his neck and throat whenever he was very angry, a habit he had never managed to rid himself of.
Bellini picked up a brown envelope from a shelf near-by, its paper already wrinkled from gripping it with sweaty hands. He looked at the envelope, then at Lawrence, slamming the envelope onto the wooden table which was far too big for a cardinal living alone. “This insanity, this … this…,” he raged, hands balling into fists the moment he let go of the envelope. Lawrence had not thought it possible, but Bellini’s throat and face turned redder with every word he yelled. By now, he was genuinely worried his colleague would suffer a heart attack and leave this world behind. “Thomas, I don’t know what.”
Lawrence nodded, taking the liberty to sit down first. “May I?” He looked at Bellini before even reaching for the envelope, a sense of dread filling him.
“Of course, of course,” Bellini said, gripping the edge of the table so hard that his knuckles shone white. “May I offer you something to drink?”
Lawrence considered. He wasn’t thirsty at all, but requesting something to drink would at least make Bellini let go of the table. “A glass of water and an espresso would be too kind.”
“Of course. I’ll be right back.”
Whilst the monotonous sound of the espresso machine heating up broke the silence, Lawrence reached for his glasses and pulled the content from its envelope. It was quite a few pages, he thought, as he began reading, unsure what to expect of it.
In contrast to many other fellow cardinals, Bellini was not famous for throwing a tantrum over nothing. He always emitted an almost frightening air of calm and a sense of authority. But tonight, he was not calm at all. Still, who would write erotica of him; of them?!
‘The Conclave Chronicles: a tale of grief, intrigue, and lust --by GodlyFujo--.
Summary: Curious what exactly truly happened during the Conclave? Don’t look any further than this. Everything you wanted to know and so much more.
Tags: old men yaoi, catholic yaoi, RPF, missing scenes, PWP, shameless smut, your OTP isn’t monogamous, hate sex, enemies to lovers, (well not quite, they still hate each other), hear me out: there’s nothing hotter than Tedesco whispering filthy nonsense in Latin, father forgive me for I have sinned, No beta we die like the Pope, Internalized Homophobia, the author regrets nothing ¯\_( ツ )_/¯, more tags to be added as the story evolves.
“What are tags?” Lawrence wondered, speaking rather to himself as he skimmed through the prelude of this—what was it even called?—thing, the author notes,
A/N: If old men yaoi is your cup of tea, this story will definitely be for you. If not, there are many other fics available catering to your tastes and needs. Just so that you know what you signed up for and for the sake of clarity, chapter 1 is the prologue, chapter 2 Bellini/Tedesco, chapter 3 is general, chapter 4 will be a tale of hidden glances, … Let’s see where this will take us, I don’t even know myself tbh.
“A quick summary of things, I suppose…,” Bellini replied as he returned to the table, setting down the drinks in front of Lawrence.
“Thank you,” Lawrence replied out of habit but did not reach for them. He was already stuck on another word: what on earth was yaoi?! Old men he did get, catholic he did get, too—but yaoi? Lawrence tucked it away, to investigate later. Well, he had to tuck a lot of things away to investigate. It would take him days….
His eyes moved back up the page. Somehow, he had managed to ignore the header of this… thing. He wouldn’t call it a book, and he wouldn’t call it a novel either. Erotica, maybe? But he was not quite sure about that. How should he be familiar with any of that, really?
Rating: Explicit
Archive Warnings: none
Category: M/M, Multi
Fandom: RPF, Political RPF, Political RPF – Italian 21st c., Conclave 2024
“RPF?” Lawrence sighed, pushing his glasses further up towards his eyes again. He knew he had to get them fixed as they always slid down his nose. “Aldo, these are hieroglyphs. I do not understand anything. Maybe half, but not even that quite…”
Relationship: Aldo Bellini/Goffredo Tedesco (Conclave), more to be added
Lawrence coughed, undignified. “You and Tedesco, my eyes…”
“I want to burn this,” Bellini raged, back at pacing the spacious dining room, which rather was a dining hall. “I want to delete this… I want to…”
The sound of his voice became background noise as Lawrence continued to read,
Characters: Aldo Bellini, Goffredo Tedesco, Thomas Lawrence, Vincent Benítez, Sister Agnes, Raymond O'Malley, Joseph Trambley, Giulio Sabbadin
Stats: Published: 2024-12-05, Updated: 2024-12-05, Words: 12489, Chapters: 2/?, Comments: 281, Kudos: 2980, Bookmarks: 459, Hits: 88909
The more Lawrence read, the wider his eyes grew underneath his glasses. He had absolutely no clue about any of that—what this was, and why it was there, and why Bellini had received an envelope with it—but the numbers spoke for themselves. Many clicks, many bookmarks, feedback even it seemed…
“12489 words, the dedication,” he murmured.
The pacing stopped, making Lawrence look up.
Bellini spun around, eyes fixed on him. His bald head was glistening with sweat, tiny beads of it already running down his forehead. “Dedication my ass,” he swore, something indeed very uncharacteristic of him. Lawrence could not begrudge him the verbal outburst, given how explicit and shameless the content of this thing seemed to be. “This person… is insane.”
Lawrence reached for the espresso. It was lukewarm by now and quite bitter.
Bellini went on raging, “No… Insane is far too nice a word… such filth! The audacity! I… I…”
“The numbers make me think it is … popular wherever it was published…,” Lawrence ventured carefully as not to spark Bellini’s temper any further, sorting through the individual pages. They were in great disarray, and some paragraphs were already marked with bright yellow text marker. The worst parts, Lawrence supposed.
He ignored that, deciding he would start at the beginning of this ‘thing’.
And so he did.
Conclaves have always been a matter of legends and myth; cardinals sequestered so that no information left the Vatican, and so that no information came inside—save the Holy Spirit of God itself, penetrating the thickest walls and settling deep into their hearts. Rumors would only be natural, one should suppose—it has always been like this in a world lusting for sensation.
Well, he didn’t get far as the mobile phone in his pocket began to vibrate. He sighed, and one look proved his assumption to be correct. “It is Tedesco,” he stated.
Bellini gestured wildly, his intention clear enough. “No, no, no, Thomas, no.”
Lawrence found absolution in that to ignore the call. “Fine, then,” he said, diverting his attention back to the text.
The phone vibrated again.
And again.
15 missed calls from Tedesco in less than five minutes. It was more than obvious that the same envelope had been sent to Venice and that Tedesco had already opened it.
Lawrence continued reading, biting the inside of his lower lip.
2024, however, was special in many ways. The aftermath of it was. The faith of many who hadn’t felt themselves represented by the Church anymore was rekindled afterward; those who had doubted began to believe, to trust again.
Some say, the Conclave was blessed by love; some say it was filled with hate and intrigue and base motivations—what if it was all of the above, a Conclave blessed with sin?
Of some men in the Curia it was said that they kept Vaseline in the drawer of their nightstand; what was also said was this: those were the only minutes of the day their hands weren’t idle.
Lawrence snorted, undignified. Images of certain faces already began to appear before his inner eye. He wouldn’t have worded it so crassly and obscenely—but it sounded terribly accurate.
“Except the last sentence, the first chapter reads innocent enough,” Lawrence said after collecting himself from what he had just read, looking up at Bellini whose pacing had finally come to a halt. He stood opposite of Lawrence with the table between them now.
“The rest is not! Here…” he snatched the pages out of Lawrence’s hands, searching for something, and then tossed a page marked all in yellow back at Lawrence. “This is plain. Disgusting. Degenerate.”
“In a moment,” Lawrence said, ignoring the page Bellini had tossed at him. Similar to the crime stories he enjoyed reading whenever he couldn’t sleep, it was important to start from the beginning. Which investigation began mid-way, after all?
Chapter Summary: when Bellini leaves dinner early on the first day, Tedesco follows him through the Casa Santa Marta. What started as an argument over their morals (and the lack thereof) and varying views of the world, suddenly turns into something else entirely.
Tags for this chapter: dub con, jealousy, emotional blackmail, hate sex, hand jobs, against the wall.
Lawrence bit his tongue, suddenly scared to read further. “Where is this… thing even from? Hosted, is that the correct word for it?”
Bellini slumped down into the chair. Lawrence struggled to remember having him seen so… defeated and emotionally at the very edge. “An Archive, apparently. An archive for pornography,” he said, taking a generous sip of water. It did little to calm the raging sea within. “What has become of this world?! What sickness…”
Lawrence nodded in acknowledgement. “Supposedly, there is nothing we can do against this now.”
“Do nothing? Are you, pardon my language, stupid?” Bellini barked. It wasn’t directed at Lawrence specifically, he knew, but more of a general outburst. Still, it stung. “This must disappear from the internet. Over eight hundred thousand clicks. A few clicks more and it’ll be in the newspapers. You know the press, Thomas. You know how they are, the Paparazzi and the yellow press. They’ll jump on this, latch to it like a leech.”
Lawrence nodded. “I do know them, yes.”
They all did, to varying degrees.
He skimmed the first few paragraphs describing the seating arrangement of the dinner; of how Tedesco had urged Lawrence to sit at his table, how he was described to be very uncomfortable by the entire situation…
‘Bloody damn, this sounds fairly accurate,’ he thought, jumping to the part where Tedesco suddenly left the dining hall to go after Bellini.
The distinct sound of footsteps on polished marble reached Bellini. He pressed his back against the wall and listened. They drew nearer, and by now he was certain he was being followed. Strange panic settled in his guts—it was idiotic in a way as just the Cardinals and the faithful Sisters were in the Casa Santa Marta, no one else.
Those footsteps were coming his way. It was a sixth sense he had.
He tried to fly up the stairs to reach his room before whoever followed him could reach him.
Having lingered in the shadows too long he did not manage.
“Not so fast,” Tedesco rasped, quite breathless as he gripped Bellini by the shoulder. His health wasn’t the best anymore, and the constant smoking did not help it in anyway. Bellini was surprised how he had managed to catch up with him so fast.
“Goffredo, what do you want? Surely it can wait till tomorrow,” Bellini said, trying to shake Tedesco’s hand off.
Tedesco smiled, all teeth. The sweet smell of his vaping flavor, strawberries or something like this, tickled Bellini’s nose and he felt like vomiting; the heavy perfume Tedesco always wore, an opulent, lingering vanilla scent with frankincense, did the rest. “No, it cannot wait, dear friend,” Tedesco laughed, a mocking edge to it. He gripped Bellini by his chin, lowering his voice, “It cannot.”
Lawrence nodded to himself. Tedesco’s perfume was too sweet and too heavy for this occasion, for any occasion, really. It provoked nausea and a headache.
“I’m not your friend,” Bellini hissed, trying to bat Tedesco’s hand off. He did not manage. The grip was like iron shackles.
“Even so,” Tedesco bared his teeth. “Luring Lawrence away from my table in the middle of a conversation was not nice. You know, we were having such a nice chat...”
Bellini sighed in annoyance, genuinely fed up with the conversation and Tedesco’s presence in itself. “I am tired. Just let me be.”
The actual Bellini broke the silence of Lawrence reading word by word. “Just get to what I marked already.”
To be fair, it was late, and they both were tired, and he could always read the complete thing tomorrow. “Fine,” he acknowledged as he shifted in his seat as secretive as he could.
[…]
Tedesco spun him around and wedged him against the wall, holding him in place.
“Do not scream,” Tedesco murmured, his voice low and deep; his breath heavy with the smell of red wine. “I just want to talk.”
The cadence of his voice did not match the words at all.
“If this is your definition of conversation, you have a serious problem!” Bellini hissed, which only provoked Tedesco further. He pressed him against the wall with the full strength of his body. Whilst they were of the same height, Tedesco was considerably broader, trapping him in the shadows.
Bellini froze when Tedesco’s teeth grazed the side of his throat. “Do you wish it is him… Do you fantasize about him?” he asked, in Latin.
Bellini spat back in Italian, “Shut up!”
Tedesco didn’t even think about obeying. Whilst he held Bellini firmly in place with his arm wrapped around his waist, he allowed his other hand to ghost over his arms, over his stomach, and further down...
“Do you dream about him late at night… fantasize about him? About Tommaso, eh?” Tedesco asked, allowing to let hurt seep into his voice. “A pity, truly. The potential we would have if we only supported each other… two Italian cardinals supporting each other, backing each other… we would be invincible.”
Bellini shuddered at how low Tedesco’s voice had become; how his hot breath ghosted across his skin, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. How… how something distinctly hard was pressing against his back.
“What do you want, Goffredo?” he asked again, trying to wrestle out of his hold, shameful images flooding his thoughts.
Bellini could not see it but was certain Tedesco was still smirking. “Isn’t that obvious…? Your supporters… and you if you don’t mind. A chance to reconcile…”
“Never.”
“Sad. So sad,” Tedesco whispered, kissing Bellini underneath his ear.
Lawrence cursed his body’s reaction. What friend was he to grow hard from reading this filth? He coughed, shifting again, and just prayed Bellini would not notice his sinful and desolated state.
Tedesco traced his thumb back and forth over Bellini’s neck, his skull. “You are sending mixed signals…”
“Mixed signals?” The noises tumbling from Bellini’s lips were an incoherent mess. “What are you dreaming about at night?”
Tedesco dipped his hand lower, palm cupping a distinct hardness underneath Bellini’s cassock. “Isn’t this a signal?” he mused, ignoring Bellini’s question. “Saying something, and yet your body says something else entirely. God would understand, surely,…”
Bellini bit his lip. There was nothing he could say in denial, nothing at all. The facts were there, right in Tedesco’s hand. “Blasphemous!”
“Does this excite you?” Tedesco wondered, palming Bellini through the fabric of his cassock. It was answer enough in itself, and damn it, it felt good; too good. “That he might see us… that he might run into us like this...”
Bellini gasped, squeezing his eyes shut. This must not happen. This couldn’t be happening.
“Do you think Tommaso likes to watch, Aldo…?”
Be damned, he thought, be damned! It was as if he’d dug out Bellini’s darkest secrets, unraveling them one by one.
If the walls of Casa Santa Marta could talk, they would have to say a lot after tonight.
Lawrence's face burned, his entire skin did with the sacrilegious words settling deep within. There they would live on, and from there they would spread, poisoning his mind. It wasn't as if he didn't already struggle with guilt and self-loathing.
He decided he had read enough for tonight; he simply didn’t need any more details. All he did was skim through the pages, not paying the words too much attention.
“This is wild, Aldo. The content itself, yes. But the depth of knowledge scattered throughout this thing is even more astounding. It must have been written by someone who knows a great deal about you and Tedesco, and about the Conclave itself. In some cases, it is quite and frighteningly accurate.”
“You don’t say,” Bellini mocked, then turned serious again. “Who wrote this? Who—excuse my language—who the hell wrote this pamphlet?”
“I don’t know,” Lawrence said, and it was the truth. Until an hour ago, he did not even know such things existed; but well, everything existed online, so he shouldn’t be as surprised as he was. “I couldn’t even guess.”
Bellini’s stare bore into him, making him feel terribly uncomfortable. “Thomas, did you write this?”
Lawrence froze, mouth forming into an O. “Have you gone mad, Aldo? I struggle to log into my mail account daily,” he confessed, struggling with modern technology every single day.
“I know you did not write that, Thomas. I’m sorry for the accusation and sincerely apologize. I just… this is too much,” Bellini said with a shake of his head. There was tiredness in his voice; defeat and fear, Lawrence noticed as he read, “Don’t do this, Goffredo. It’s too much. You are too much.”
Lawrence’s hand flew to his mouth to stop the sound from escaping. He managed just in time, but, well, it did not escape Bellini. “This is not funny, Thomas.”
It wasn't. And yet he could not help laughing. Who wrote, published, and gave these things to that person, he wondered. Or maybe someone wrote it, and someone else printed it. Either way, this was madness.
Lawrence sighed, knowing a lot of research had to be done: about this archive, about these strange things called tags, about what yaoi was, …
Before taking off his glasses, he read the last line of the thing: 'End note: One week break. Updates every Tuesday and Friday thereafter.’
He froze.
An update was due tomorrow...
*