#darkestages

               “Hand over your wallet!” Leo closed his eyes a moment at the demand from behind him. “I’ve got a knife, so no quick moves!” Things like this were exactly why he hated coming down here—and exactly why it was necessary. The Church was ever seeking to put healing hands on the most infected underbellies of the city. Holding otherwise still, Leo withdrew his wallet from his pocket and held it just a few inches from his side—not offering it, but not willing to be injured for it either. There was barely any cash in it—maybe ten dollars. He’d have to cancel the cards, of course, but that could be done over the phone. To be honest, the risk vs. reward here didn’t seem particularly in the thief’s favor.

               “Hey!” The indignant shout came as a tug on Leo’s wallet indicated the thief grabbing it. “How dare you!”

               “Francis—” The man was armed, but before Leo could finish warning Francis not to get involved, he heard the sound of the thief being violently tackled, dagger notwithstanding, and the ensuing scuffle.

               “Son of a bitch!” Francis’ accusing voice came as he had pinned the man’s wrist down and was punching him in the face, but the thief jerked up, slamming his forehead into Francis’ face. Arm free, he lashed out with his knife, and in the dimly lit alley, Leo struggled to see whose side the tide was on. It was impossible to tell for sure—they thrashed around like bucking gazelles, and the knife flashed dangerously in the light that filtered between the buildings. At one point, he was sure Francis had been slammed into one of the concrete walls, but moments later, the thief had taken flight. “Run away!” Francis shouted after him. “And don’t you dare try that again, you plebian filth!”

               When Leo got a look at his face, a bruise was blossoming on his left cheek already, and he was bleeding continuously from a split lip and a small cut on his forehead.

               “That was a really stupid thing to do,” Leo told him. Francis held up the battered wallet.

               “I think he got your money,” he said in dismay as Leo opened it. At some point—possibly after serving Francis with a concussion—he’d been able to snatch up the loose cash that had fallen out, but opted not to stick around and find the wallet.

               “He had a knife, what’s wrong with you?” Leo asked, stowing the wallet.

               “He disrespected you! And he stole from you!” Francis cried in defense.

               “He had a knife,” Leo repeated. “Do you want to die for my credit card?”

               Francis did not look like he was going to give the right answer, with a mulish expression on his face, so Leo just pushed him back towards the door. “Let’s get our things and go.”

               In the light of the shelter’s overworked kitchen, Leo saw Francis’ injuries were worse than he’d thought. But the blood dripping down his chin had the oddest shimmery quality, and at some angles, it didn’t look red at all.

               “You should sit down,” he advised. It looked like the thief had caught him across the upper arm with his knife, but Leo was frankly impressed he hadn’t gotten stabbed. Francis had never seemed like the fighting type to him. While Francis sank into a chair at the small kitchen table, Leo grabbed a few paper towels and handed them over. Francis balled one up and pressed it against his mouth. Leo looked him over and then said, quite sternly, “No more fighting.”

               Francis’ jaw set in a way that made Leo think the authoritative effort had failed. Those piercing blue eyes pinned him, in one of those rare hints that Francis’ submissive, readily acquiescent personality was not the norm, but rather an exception, predicated on his intense fixation on Leo. But then he lowered his gaze and bowed his head.

               “I that is what you wish,” he said. Sometimes, he knew, he must heed his beloved, even if it was distasteful to him. His jewel had always been fiercely independent, he thought with a faint smile.

               Satisfied, Leo took one of the paper towels, and briefly ran it under the faucet.

               “Here, use this,” he said, holding it out. “That one will stick to the wound, it’s dry.” He turned his attention to Francis’ shoulder as the blond pressed the fresh paper towel to his swelling lip.

               “How does it look?” he asked, lisping slightly. He lowered the paper towel and Leo grasped his chin, tilting his face up for a better view. Francis was as tame as a lapdog under Leo’s hands, even more than in the past. Now more than ever, he was determined to show he had listened to his jewel’s lightly-phrased criticisms, even if he didn’t remember making them. There were times everything about him seemed to scream “Leo! Look how good I’m being!”

               “Not great,” Leo told him honestly. “You can put ice on it at home.” He plastered a wet paper towel to Francis’ shoulder through the rip in his sweater. “How’s your head?”

               “I can see your aura.” Leo abandoned Francis’ shoulder to frown deeply at him.

               “Do I need to take you to the hospital?”

               “I’m not dying!” Francis exclaimed. “I’ll be alright.” Leo did not look convinced, but frankly wasn’t sure Francis had health insurance—or insurance of any kind, or any other kind of stability in his life—and he didn’t feel like making a big issue out of this if it wasn’t necessary. “I’m so fragile now,” Francis sighed, stretching his arms out in front of him, splaying his fingers, and looking at his bloodied knuckles. “Everything hurts so much.”

               “Now?” Leo snapped. “As opposed to—” They exchanged a long look—Francis was well aware Leo did not believe him about what he was, and what they’d been. “When you were a god?”

               “I’m still a god!” Francis cried, making blood start to seep from his lip again. He quickly pressed the paper towel to it again and cast his crestfallen expression down at the table. “I’m just…not a very good one anymore.” Leo said nothing as Francis’ despondent gaze sought answers on the table. “I was never…I was never one of the big ones—sky, or war, or harvest,” he said quietly. “But I used to be better at this.”

               “At?”

               “Protecting you,” he clarified, lifting his head with such a doleful look that Leo had the gall to pity him. Leo’s long silence did not seem to bode well for Francis. He knew Leo did not care for references to their past life, but to Francis, it was the peak of his whole existence—it was the part of his life most worth talking about. And the hope never faded in his breast that something would electrify Leo’s memory, and suddenly everything would make sense. But Leo just wet a paper towel and put it to the cut on Francis’ forehead. When he withdrew his hand, Francis grabbed it, desperately holding Leo’s gaze. “I’ll do better,” he said softly.

               Leo shook his head and pulled his hand away, turning from those eyes that seemed to look into some part of Leo that even he didn’t know. Sometimes, being looked at by Francis felt like he’d been stripped naked. As if there were moments Francis knew Leo’s certainty about Francis’ insanity faltered. Those looks didn’t help.

               Francis’ darling had always been painfully stubborn and nearly impossible to budge in his views, but Francis wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up. If their love had been true, he should be able to win Leo’s heart even if Leo did not believe he was a god. But devotion must be earned, and Francis did not want to oblige Leo to love him simply owing to their past engagement. Thus, he had to prove himself worthy, and was determined to do so.

               “Just don’t try to fight anyone else,” Leo said at last, collecting his bag from the counter. “Especially not when they’re armed, and you’re not.” He didn’t add ‘you idiot’ on the end, but it was implied. He left the room to go inform the shelter director that he was departing for the night.

               Francis’ unwavering devotion inspired deeply conflicting feelings in Leo. On one hand, it was rather creepy coming from a man who had been a total stranger a month ago, and often caused problems—like that night. On the other…well, he was getting accustomed to Francis’ company and odd habits, and it seemed Leo was not so immune to enjoying anyone being so wholly dedicated to pleasing him. But mostly it remained baffling, how he had become the center of this man’s bizarre fantasy. The only thing he could think of was that that Francis had been placed in his life for a reason—that there was something Leo could do to help him. He just hadn’t figured out what it was yet.

               While Leo went off to take care of whatever remaining business he had, Francis sat in the kitchen, staring up at the florescent lights, and the yellow tint they spread through the air. His forehead had stopped bleeding, but his face felt like he’d run full-tilt into a concrete wall. Several times.

               “Everything is so different this time, Antonius,” he sighed, shifting the towel on his face. Antonius did not reply, or materialize—he had not for many centuries, and Francis was not entirely sure he wasn’t dead. “But Julius…” He grinned, but it made his face ache and his lip sting. “He’s just the same. Oh, Toni.” Francis tipped his head back with that stupid grin, intoxicated on his own feelings, and the lights wavered—perhaps Antonius’ energy was not gone after all? “I love seeing this new life he’s built for himself. I always knew he could do anything he wanted.” He moved his free hand to rub the left side of his chest. “Everything is so tender, Toni. All the hurts hurt so much.” He closed his eyes. “But it’s okay. I don’t mind a bit of hurt to see Julius again. Leo—that’s what they call him now. It’s fitting, isn’t it? My ferocious lion.” A tiny, peaceful smile passed over his face. “If I will die, Toni, like the rest, I hope so much I will die first this time. Then I will never have to know another day where my love is not breathing on this Earth with me. That would be a good way to die, I think.” He gave a slow, small nod. “Yes, that would make me happy.”

               He lapsed into silence, and just a couple heartbeats later, Leo came sweeping back into the room.

               “Are you ready?” he asked promptly, looking at the door, and not at Francis.

               “What?” Oh, this was the absolutely last thing he needed: Leo forcing his hand into Francis’ business when he was doing his best not to be steamrollered by the war machine pounding at him from three sides. “Fuck everything,” he muttered, flexing one hand and curling it into a fist. “Go, then, private, I will deal with the priests.” His gaze fixed on the sergeant again. “And I want a report about the food stores and usage by tomorrow morning.” He dismissed them both and sought out the dugout that was the only office they had out here on the front.

               “Your Eminences,” he began loudly as soon as he had ducked his head under the first beam, “your presence is generous, but civilians are not—” He stopped when his eyes had adjusted to the gloom and he could see that not only was Leo meddling, he had come himself to do it. “Leo.” The sight of his heavenly crown of white hair was so deeply incongruous with the scene around him that Francis struggled to make sense of it for a moment. “What are you doing here.”

               “To provide spiritual comfort,” he said.

               “Are you going to visit the Germans too?” His tone was less vitriolic than the words; Francis barely had the energy to keep breathing anymore, let alone be angry.

               “The Germans aren’t Catholic.”

               “Isn’t it principle? Taking sides?” Francis rubbed at a smear of mud on his face, and succeeded only in spreading it across his cheek. He knew there was nothing he could do to fix his appearance now, but he persisted in small, futile efforts, trying to straighten himself up as he stood there.

               “I’m not taking sides,” he said. “I would—I will—do the same for the Italians.”

               Perhaps France wasn’t as immune to anger as he had thought—his face twisted into a brief, vicious snarl at the mention of them, and their backstabbing choices in allies. But it passed like a bird’s shadow on the ground and he was calm again.

               “Go home, Leo,” he said dismissively, and turned on his heel to go. “I think they may be—” Before he was even able to finish, there was a thunderous crash that jolted the very earth, and he grabbed onto the doorframe, eyes widening. “Fuck.”

               He popped out of the dugout and hailed a passing major to demand the situation. It was as he dreaded with the heavy, oily resignation that characterized most of his feelings anymore—the Alliance meant to take their trench today. Of all days—!

               The next man he seized was a lieutenant. “You,” he said, as the aged priest accompanying Leo ducked out of the dugout, followed by the Vatican himself. The lieutenant fumbled for some sort of appropriate greeting for the both, but Francis grabbed his shoulder to regain his attention. “Take them out of here,” he said. “Now. Do what you have to.” His fingers dug into the young man’s shoulder. “Make sure they are safe.”

               “Francis,” Leo called as Francis turned to leave, to attempt to salvage some part of the day’s situation. Once, he would never have dreamed of ignoring a call from this man, would have come slavishly at any utterance of his name. But now he kept going as if he had heard nothing at all.

               “Go home, Leo,” he shouted back after a few more steps, not turning. The less consideration he gave the man, the more he felt Leo would be inclined to listen and go—neither of them cared for being ignored, but whereas Francis tended to press the issue and force the attention, Leo was like to get offended and take off, which was the best Francis could ask for right now.

               As he made a round of the area, the warfare was rapidly ramping up. He met up with England where their forces merged.

               “I hear you’ve got guests.” Arthur began in a confrontational tone, as usual, with little to no lead-in. “What’s your old chum the Vatican doing in a war zone?”

               “Don’t ask me, I don’t know,” he said, frowning with a tight jaw. “I’m sending him out though.”

               “Good, we don’t need civilians in the way.”

               “Don’t make it sound like this isn’t a personal complaint,” Francis warned him, waving a finger in his direction.

               “It’s both,” Arthur replied. “Deal with it.”

               “I am, so it’s none of your concern,” Francis replied. “Is your end secure?”

               “As much as it can be. Yours?”

               “Working on it.” They both nodded curtly and separated. Francis was shocked at what a well-oiled team their little alliance had become—as it turned out, when they were not actively trying to gut each other with whatever tools—daggers, spoons, fingernails—happened to be immediately at hand—they actually worked quite well together. Part of that, he imagined, was a result of all their fighting—they knew each other’s strengths and weaknesses, and thought processes very intimately. Not that that meant they trusted each other worth a damn, but for now they had a common enemy.

               The light shelling suggested to the Entente that this particular stretch was low on ammunition—which meant the charge could happen at any moment. In the meantime, what did happen is that a shell struck right at the edge of the French trench, and a bit of shrapnel took Lieutenant Martin in the chest as he was trying to explain their evacuation plan to Leo and Father Sforza. Both men stared at the extinguished life before them, brains slow to comprehend the sudden, violent death that had just taken place inches from their own vulnerable organs. Another shell made the ground quake, and Leo looked to the smoky field, wondering where Francis had vanished to.

               The Germans did charge, and the French and English emerged to meet them. For a time, France thought they might manage a victory after all. As they pressed to the center of the field, the opposing line loosed another shell, in what was an oddly clumsy move for the Germans, and struck the French trench almost dead-on, not far from their local “headquarters”. A rookie mistake? A misfire? Whichever—whatever—Francis’ gaze was so fixated on the smoking ruin that he nearly took a bayonet to the gut before trying to force his scrambled senses to operate again. His body, he thought, did a remarkable job trying to kill him with disorientation.

               They did not win, and they were forced to retreat and abandon the trench, and Francis had no idea where Leo was, and he was telling God that if he put one more test of character on him, Francis was going to supernova and destroy everything around him in the magnitude of his self-destruction.

               So when they were regrouping at the trench they moved forward from two weeks ago, and he caught sight of his towering quarry, he felt some sense that Leo’s safety was owed him, at least for today. Nevertheless, his knees went weak and his head spun (which may equally be the many injuries he was currently sustaining), and he grabbed onto the dirt wall for support. Catching his equilibrium once more, he felt no guilt about thrusting aside everyone in his way to get to His Holiness the Vatican City, and seizing the front of his robes.

               “Are you trying to get me killed?” he demanded hoarsely. “Are you secretly in league with Veneziano, and you want me to go crazy before the end of this war?”

               Leo didn’t respond, and Francis’ first unobservant assumption is that he did not want to dignify Francis’ wild, emotionally-fueled accusations with a response, but when he lifted his gaze, and looks closer, he thought that Leo was shaken in a way he had not anticipated. It occurred to him that what had become the everyday for him—the shelling, the noise, the screams, the gas, the mud and muck and disease of this wretched war—may be new for Leo. This war is unlike anything they had seen before, after all.

               He let go of Leo’s clothes and marched off to find his old dugout from before, fingers merely brushing Leo’s arm to tell him to follow. In the questionable privacy of his cramped quarters—if it could be referred to as such—Francis flung his arms around Leo and nearly crushed him with the force of his embrace. His breathing was heavier than normal, and he said nothing.

               “What happened to lieutenant…whoever I assigned to getting you out of this place?” he demanded when he pulled back, ready to have the man dragged off to Calais and keelhauled.

               “Killed,” Leo reported. “Before the charge.”

               “Hell,” Francis muttered, dragging a hand down his face. No sooner had he put one fire out than two more sprang up, and he felt like Hercules and the Hydra, slowly surrounding himself with more and more enemies and obstacles. Maybe if Heracles had been stupider and not a demigod.

               “Francis, I am not in need of you to hold my hand and rescue me,” Leo informed him. “I came here knowing where I was going.”

               “No one can know this war if they haven’t seen it,” Francis said sharply, pointing a finger. “No one. Not the newspapers back home, or the politicians in our polished capitols, or the untouched workers back home who think they know who the real enemy is. You may have known some things, but already you know this war is different than what you imagined.”

               “Nevertheless. I may not have your armies, but I am not a child, or a damsel you can save,” he said. Francis pursed his lips, and nibbled the lower one, and paced around the tiny space.

               “Leo,” he said, looking up at those limpid eyes. “I need you to go.” He turned away and began to empty and re-load his officer’s pistol. “You don’t understand. I simply cannot bear it. Every minute of every hour of every day in here I am desperately trying to hold myself together like a crumbling cake and I cannot bear your presence here.” Before Leo had the chance to exhale the offended breath he had taken, Francis continued. His hands trembled as he popped one bullet after another back into its proper chamber, but although there was a strained, hoarse note to his voice, it remained steady. “If I have to see you suffocated on mustard gas, or impaled with shrapnel, or hear you lose your feet to trench foot, it will just be the end for me, Leo.” He turned to look at Leo with pleading eyes in his dirty face. “Please.” He dropped the pistol and crossed to Leo, dropping to his knees in front of him and taking his hands. “Please go home,” he begged in a whisper, clutching Leo’s hands in his own. “Go back to Rome and give me at least the peace of mind to know you are safe. If I can have nothing else, let me have that. Please, Leo.” He bowed his head over Leo’s hands, pressing his lips to reverently to Leo’s knuckles. “I could not bear to see you hurt by this place.”

               The silence in the dugout stretched on, and on, and on. The men on the front spoke often of their mamas and their sweethearts and their kid brothers back home—all the people who were safe from the chaos they were submerged in day after day. It was an escape as much as anything—mothers they never wrote, sweethearts who’d left them weeks ago in reality, kid brothers who played at war until they were old enough to sign up themselves. Francis had no such escape, but he could try to beg it off Leo, gain some tiny, fractional peace of mind in the hellscape that was consuming whatever was left of him, swallowing him whole, with a kind fear he hadn’t felt since the revolution.

               “If this is all you ask…” Leo’s stiff tone might have stemmed as much from how Francis’ emotional displays baffled him as much as any annoyance at the Frenchman’s inability to divorce his personal feelings from his job as a Nation (thereby allowing Leo to do his).

               “It is,” Francis interjected at once, raising those big, bloodshot eyes up to Leo’s face. “It’s all I ask of you, Leo. Be safe. It is the simplest thing I ever asked of you.” Leo let out a quiet breath and tugged his hands free of Francis’ grasp.

               “Then I will go,” he said. He knew then Francis had not lied, because there was nothing triumphant in his reaction: he doubled forward, almost falling onto his hands, head bowed, with a shuddering gasp that made Leo worry for a moment that the Germans had attacked again and hit something of importance. Then he dragged himself to his feet, as if pushing the very Earth up above him, and picked his pistol up from where he’d left it.

               “God go with you,” he said, his voice as distant as any passing parishioner and priest. “Write me when you reach Rome, if you like.”

               “I will most likely be busy,” Leo said. But he might write anyway. Francis nodded. There was another pause, and then: “Will you take confession before I leave?” Francis hesitated a long moment, his thumb brushing rhythmically over the handle of his gun.

               “Yes.”

***

               When the war was done, Leo went to Paris, to make the same offer to the peace-making Nations. Hovering around the edges until the negotiating and signing was all done—the Vatican was no longer welcome in politics, and no king would make himself subservient to the Church anymore. Like a starved wolf, Leo stalked around the perimeter, knowing where his prey lay, and knowing he would be chased off with torches and pitchforks should he attempt to venture in to seize it. His self-control was far better than any hungry beasts, though, and he kept his distance and did his job, and in the late hours of a midweek in November, he had a moment alone with Francis.

               They said nothing, and so Leo had the time to study his old neighbor, and see the lines of his face—he had not eaten regularly in too long. The bruises under his eyes—Leo knew the signs of Francis’ sleeplessness, and knew he had not even the fumes of old energy to function on left. The bandages around his head, his hand, and the rest hidden under his clothes—France would take decades to recover from this war. And in his eyes, an age that Leo had never seen before. It was perhaps the first time he looked at Francis and saw a creature nearly two thousand years old, who had a heart too soft for his existence, and who had seen ten times more than he had ever wanted. It was not, though, the first time Leo thought God might have been kinder to let Francis die a long time ago.

               Slowly, like a wilting flower, Francis’ stiff, aching form drooped until his head rested on Leo’s shoulder, and they went on sitting in silence.

               “Do you want to go to bed?” Leo asked at last.

               “…yes, thank you.” After a pause, Francis answered quietly, in a childish sort of voice that sought someone to direct him to things he needed to do.

               Leo accompanied Francis up to his room, and watched him stare blankly at the bed, flexing his hands, until Leo prompted him: “Francis, your shoes.”

               “Ah.” It took him too long to get them off, and then, the pieces of his uniform followed, until it was just the blood red pants and the shirts he wore under the fine coat, both newly issued since the armistice—it wouldn’t do to have France appear at the peace treaty signing in a uniform as war-tattered as the one that was actually his. As he slowly dropped the pieces onto the floor, he looked up. “Stay, please,” he said.

               The hour was late; no one was about paying attention to them. They were all huddled in their rooms, smoking and drinking and fucking away the pain of the last four years, and if Leo shut the door too hard on his way out, he might shatter his china doll. So he took his shoes off and ordered Francis to bed as he dressed down. But he curled up on his side and watched Leo with half-lidded eyes, so that it almost drove him to the bathroom, even though he was hardly stripping to anything indecent. Francis’ willingness to invade his moments of privacy continually vexed him, but in this case, he suspected it had more to do with reassuring himself that Leo was not going to sneak out the door when his eyes were closed—or perhaps he was seeing something else entirely: the starburst of gunfire against the backs of his eyelids, or the roar of canon in his ears, or any of the other things that Leo suspected haunted his quiet moments.

               So he turned the handle, and took a breath, and stepped into the room. Leo was at his desk on the opposite side, bent over his clunky laptop with feigned focus. Francis wouldn’t put it past him to have heard his footsteps stop outside the door and have been waiting for his entrance. Another reason he couldn’t have turned tail.

               “It’s good to have you back,” he said with forced nonchalance, throwing his messenger bag down on his bed. It was the first he’d seen of Leo since he departed to spend the three-day weekend with his family. Leo didn’t even dignify this attempt at a casual conversation with a response. His clear eyes flicked up to Francis, and then back to his computer. A thick book was spread open on the desk beside it, and crammed between the two were sheets of his notes from class. With a quiet sigh, Francis decided it was best to just get it over with and confront the bomb in the room. He moved to lean over Leo from behind and wind his arms lightly around his boyfriend’s shoulders. “How did it go?” he asked softly.

               Leo’s pen tapped a deliberate legato pattern on his stack of notes. “…I didn’t tell them.” Francis bit his lips. He could feel Leo’s broad shoulders tense the longer his silence went on. “You know what they would say,” he went on in a more aggressive tone, unable to stomach the silence any longer. “It’s easy for you, your family isn’t—you don’t have to—”

               “Leo, it’s okay,” Francis murmured, tightening his hold slightly on him. He nuzzled the corner of Leo’s jaw. “I’m…I’m not upset. It’s hard, but it’s much harder for you, I know.” Leo’s pen tapped faster, then stopped. “You have to tell them when you feel it’s the right time.” With a sigh, the excess tension seeped out of Leo’s shoulders.

               “I don’t understand how you can be so at ease with these things,” he said.

               “Everything will work out the way it’s supposed to,” Francis assured him, smiling and leaning in to peck his cheek.

               “That’s foolish advice to live by,” Leo told him.

               “Well there’s no point in worrying anyway, it’s bad for your skin,” Francis said. “And remember, if you want me to come with, I’m glad to.”

               “I’d rather they not guess the other thing I’m keeping from them while I’m trying to confess to the first,” Leo replied dryly. Francis stole a kiss from him and Leo tried to make himself relax.

               “Now finish your essay,” Francis said, tapping Leo’s textbook and strolling over to free his laptop from his bag. “I have newly released films from the Cannes Film Festival to watch.”

               “Don’t you have homework to do?” Leo asked, eyebrow twitching.

               “Not when there are movies to watch I don’t,” he said, kicking his shoes off, throwing his coat and scarf onto his desk chair and flopping down on his bed. Leo’s disapproving stare could have melted a glacier. “This is my new homework assignment, given to me by me.”

               “How have you not been kicked out of school yet?”

               “I have good luck,” he said, turning to grin at Leo over his shoulder. “If you finish your essay, I’ll give myself another assignment to reward you for it.”

               “You know, saying things like that really does the opposite of helping me focus,” Leo informed him, the glacier-destroying gaze still penetrating the back of Francis’ head, though the target seemed wholly unconcerned and not in the least penitent. Eventually, Leo gave up on trying to silently guilt Francis into doing his homework, and went back to brooding over the wording of his essay. That was the problem with doing well in a class—then the professor expected things, and you had a reputation to maintain. Not that any of that, or any other logical laws of the world applied to Francis Jean-Pierre Bonnefoy.

***

               Francis was nearing the end of his second film of the day when he heard Leo’s chair legs scrape sharply against the carpet. A moment later, Leo’s fingers ran lightly through his hair, the soothing feel of his nails over Francis’ scalp making his eyelids droop. He finished the scene he was watching and then removed his headphones and set the computer aside to look up. When he saw Leo’s face, he scooted over to give him room to sit on the bed. Wordlessly, Leo joined him, and his resistance broke down bit by bit as he leaned further and further over until his head rested against Francis’ chest.

               Frowning, Francis brushed Leo’s hair away from his neck and tucked it behind his ear. “It’s not fair,” he said in a low voice. “That you should have to feel this way over making a decision about your own life.” Leo’s arm crept over Francis’ midsection. Francis knew Leo’s struggle had more to do with the reason for his leaving than the fact that he had left, and he knew the harder confession was still to come. “If I could fight this fight for you, you know I would,” he said quietly, putting an arm around Leo and holding still. “But all I can do is cheer you on from the sidelines.”

               Francis had always been glad for his accepting family, but he felt he had watched far too many partners fight with the decision to come out to their family, feared their rejection, their loathing, and spent nights awake in agony over the consequences of simply telling the truth. It never got any easier.

               And he had to face another truth—the chance that Leo might still be struggling himself with the decision. At once needing a bit of truth himself—and feeling it was about time he and Leo started being clearer—he took a quick breath and asked:

               “Do you regret it?”

               “No.” Leo’s answer came at once, swift and firm, and he lifted his head to look into Francis’ eyes. “Not at all.”  The only light in the room came from Leo’s desk light, and Leo let the silence after his words firm them up. “I regret that my family has made it so hard to be honest with them,” he said when he felt he had let his answer hang long enough. “I should not have to fear their judgement for a choice I’ve made about the future that will make me happy.”

               Leo had never put much value in Francis’ romantic notions, like the idea that eyes were the window to the soul, or any other such nonsense, but something passed between them as they looked at each other through the dark, he could feel it. Francis leaned up and kissed Leo’s forehead.

               “I’m so proud of you,” he murmured. “And you’re right. You shouldn’t.” After another few heartbeats, Leo lay back down, and they clung to each other on the bed that was too narrow to fit them both comfortably, and silently contemplated the murkiness of the future.

***

               Leo didn’t come back to the room on Wednesday night, and answered Francis’ texts only with a curt I’ll be back tomorrow. And in the early afternoon, he was, throwing the door open with such force that Francis—at his desk, shading a pencil sketch—jumped in his seat. Leo strode across the room and leaned in to press a kiss against Francis’ warm, supple lips, a sensation he knew he would never tire of. When he drew back, Francis was looking at him with the kind of glassy-eyed awe he usually did when Leo came at him with such vigor, unprompted.

               “I told them,” he said without preamble. “And I came out to them as well.” Francis’ eyes were round as the full moon. He opened his mouth, but could find no appropriate words to respond to that.

               “Well.” He blinked. Leo took his hands and pulled him up to his feet. “Did…something happen?” Surely something must have driven Leo’s sudden explosion of honesty with his parents.

               “I was tired of their love being conditional,” Leo said simply. “I shouldn’t have to hide the truth about who I am to remain in their good graces. If that’s all it takes for them to disown me, than I would rather be done with it.” He wrapped his arms around Francis’ waist, pulling him in close. “Besides, once I told them about leaving seminary, I wondered how long it would take them to guess the truth.”

               “I would have given them a good while,” Francis speculated. “They aren’t really the sort to immediately consider that option. Well, aside from Benny.”

               “I still have no idea how he figured it out so quickly,” Leo grumbled, momentarily distracted. “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled not being the disgrace of the family for a few months.”

               “Leo. You introduced me as your ‘good friend from college’,” Francis said, using air quotes. “That’s as textbook as it could be. And he probably noticed you look at me far too often during that dinner for us to be ‘just friends’.”

               “He only noticed because he was ogling you the whole time,” Leo snapped. He shook his head. “In any case, it’s done with now. If they’re going to cut me off, I’ll find out in the next few days.” He leaned in and kissed Francis again, his grip tightening once more around his boyfriend’s narrow waist.

               “What are you going to do now?” Francis asked, when they separated.

               “I’m going to take advantage of my freedom of choice,” he said, grabbing Francis’ hand to pull him over to the bed, and then down onto the mattress with him. Francis nestled between Leo’s legs, where they kissed and rolled together until their faces were flushed and their clothes too warm.

               “Three cheers for Leo’s freedom of choice,” he said breathlessly, leaning in to kiss Leo again as Leo’s fingers slid up beneath Francis’ shirt.

               In the aftermath, when they were in a tangle on the bed too narrow to fit them both comfortably, Leo’s phone buzzed, and with a groan he reached out, groping over the headboard until his fingers connected with the cell on his desk. Francis was pressing kisses against him wherever he could reach, but found time to ask what the message said.

               “I wasn’t going to say it.”

               “You didn’t have to.”

               “And here you are.” A little smile passed over Francis face and Leo rose so Francis could kiss his rings. “Dutiful as ever.” He raised his head from the hand extended to him.

               “I wish I could say the same of you,” Leo chided him gently, taking his seat again. Francis sat beside him with a somewhat sheepish, if not at all apologetic, smile.

“I haven’t disturbed you, have I?”

               “Your very existence disturbs me, Francis.” Leo gave a quiet, long-suffering sigh, and brushed a lock of hair back from his face. “I don’t suppose you plan to remedy that today?”

               “Hardly. I like to keep you on your toes, Your Holiness,” he teased, bright blue eyes plainly seeking a reaction from the stone guardian beside him. “Have you lit a candle for me today?”

               “At the altar of St. Jude,” Leo replied tartly. “As always.”

               “It’s so nice to hear you say you care, Leo.” France’s relationship with Leo was unique in many ways, among them the physical distance between them. Leo rarely extended contact, and Francis never asked for it. So although the impish smile remained, he did not seek to close the quarter foot of distance. The Vatican breathed in sharply through his nose, lifted his chin, and did not dignify Francis’ remark with a reply. “You’re busy though, I can see,” Francis went on. “I’ll leave you in peace, for now.” He rose. “Come dine with me tonight,” he said. “When I leave on Thursday, it may be a long time before I can come back.” Leo looked up to his eyes, and nodded.

               “I will. Find time to say your Hail Marys.”

               “Léon, there isn’t time in the world for all my Hail Marys,” Francis said, giving Leo a slight bow and taking his leave. He had stopped to light a candle on his way in, and so the soft click of his heels was uninterrupted as he exited the church, leaving Leo in the dim, warmly flickering light.

***

They dined that night in Francis’ room, on all the fine things Francis reveled in and Leo justified his love for. Francis had a knack for that—reading and providing all of Leo’s vices. It wasn’t enough for him to sin on his own, he had to pull Leo down with him, the Vatican thought as he sipped the vintage wine his wayward little lamb had served.

“I had something for you, as well,” France said when they had nibbled fruit and cheese, and drunk their warm wine for a time. He went to one of his trunks and pulled out a thick tome. Taking a seat on the edge of the bed, he waved Leo over as he leafed through it, searching for something. “Ah—here it is,” he said, as the bed beside him dipped with Leo’s weight. “I found this illuminated manuscript at one of our recent excavation sites—it’s from one of the Celtic monks in one of their monasteries in France shortly after the collapse of Rome.”

Interest piqued, Leo leaned over, cradling his wine glass in the hand furthest from Francis and the book. With his free hand, he traced some of the faded images, and in his silence Francis triumphed in success.

“Are you taking it back with you?” he asked, lifting his head with avaricious intensity smoldering beneath the surface calm in his eyes.

“Peace, Leo,” Francis said, moving the book to the center of his lap, away from the Vatican. “You can come see it in Paris.” Although it unquestionably belonged to him, he was not free of a quiet impulse to give it to Leo, because he had expressed desire for it.

“Merely a question,” Leo said with feigned nonchalance, going back to examining the drawings and reading the script. Naturally, he would never dream of taking something from Francis without his explicit consent and desire.

Their discussion of the art bled into a conversation and light debate about the text, and in a wine bottle’s time the hour had grown late, and Francis lay back on the bed, weary from a night of no rest the day before, but unwilling to send Leo away when he had only a few days left in Italy. Having done the greater part of finishing the wine bottle, Leo wasn’t opposed to laying back as well, and their discussion grew increasingly vague and based on conjecture, as the book was now out of sight and neither of them felt inclined to sit up and resume reading.

               “If you look at this through the lens of the time—” Leo had been prepared to launch into a new perspective on the discussion, but when he looked to Francis to emphasize his point, the other Nation’s eyes were closed. “Francis.” There was no response. He had traveled up from Naples earlier that day—not a long trip, but Leo suspected he had not slept recently, as was often the case. So he abandoned without effort any attempt to rouse France, and simply watched him doze until his own eyelids grew heavy.

               The candles on the table had burned out long past, and the one by Francis’ bed wavered more and more as it shrank, making shadows play across the slumbering Nation’s face. To Leo, it seemed an adequate representation of his soul—one moment pure and light, the next nearly consumed with darkness, but most often, spotted with both. How to banish the sin from this penitent’s heart, he wondered? How to save Francis from his own weaknesses and failures?

               Leo fell asleep contemplating these things, and the light of the candle illuminated their sleeping forms until at last it guttered out, leaving nothing but the moonlight peeking through the foggy windows. When the sun replaced it, Francis was alone, and the book sat closed on the bedside table.

               The first did not surprise him; it wouldn’t do for Leo to be seen leaving France’s room at such an early hour, regardless of the truth of their night. The world was too well-acquainted with Francis’ shadows to let him tamper with Leo’s light. But even as that thought pressed down on his chest, he found himself buoyed by another fact—Leo had still come. And no amount of societal whisperings had stopped him yet.

“That is not my Christian name,” he said.

“You have changed it?”

“I have.”

“Then pray tell, what should I call you?” Leo looked intrigued; he had known France to be securely under Rome’s thumb for some time—this rejection of that fell in with his choice in religion to indicate a quiet undercurrent of rebellion.

“Francis,” breathed the child. “Francis Bonnefoy.”

Leo’s suspicion about rebellion grew twice over. France had chosen a name that irrefutably claimed his identity—not Roman, but French.

“Frenchman Goodfaith,” he said thoughtfully, gazing down at France. “An appropriate name.” His lips twitched in an approximation of a smile. “Then, Francis. We have business to speak of.” He gestured towards the grand doorway, his long sleeve sweeping through the air. France followed as directed.

Leo was a gracious, if grave, host, and Francis could see a fierce spark in his gaze that he tried to place throughout the duration of his visit.

After the first dinner, Leo met him on the balcony while Francis gazed out over the city.

“It has changed since you were here last,” Leo observed, a thread of pride in his voice as he came to stand by the stone railing.

“It has,” Francis agreed. “It has changed much. As have you.”

“And you.” Leo turned that hawkish gaze on Francis, who to his credit, did not cower or shrink.

“I have,” he said simply.

“You are stronger than Rome knew,” Leo said. Now France’s gaze moved away, back out to the rooftops of the Vatican City.

“Not much,” he murmured, tapping his fingers on the balcony’s railing.

“You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t,” replied the Holy See. “I have seen what has transpired in the wake of Rome’s disappearance. All of Europe is a battlefield. And yet here you are, and I have seen the size of your territory.”

And I know what you did to get it. Francis waited to hear the rest, but Leo said nothing else.

“A soldier must be properly motivated to fight well,” Francis said quietly at last, still not looking over. “If you know what motivates him, you can make him fight for you forever.”

“Rome lacked your nuance,” Leo said. “This contributed to his demise.”

“Many things did,” France said vaguely.

“He is gone, and his world will go with him.” Leo waved a hand dismissively, wiping one of the world’s greatest empires away with a flick of his wrist. “Now, we have the clay to mold a new world. One in our image, and the image of God.” Francis’ eyes were on him now. “You can help me,” he said. “With you, the sword, and I, the word—we will transform the world, Francis.”

Doubt swirled in Francis’ stormy eyes. Leo extended a hand to him.

“You and I know best the faults of the past. Who is better equipped to avoid the same failures, and form a more perfect society? ‘On Earth, as it is in Heaven…’ You have the heart and wisdom to fight with me, I see it in you. Together, we will achieve great things.” Slowly, Francis went down on his knee again, to kiss Leo’s rings once more.

“Not so plainly,” she said. “He hints. He does not wish to be crass. But he…” She trailed off, sighed, and forged on. “He seeks access to my bed, and I would deny him still, but to what end? I cannot stave him off forever. It’s been over a year.” Perhaps it was improper to speak of such things with a male friend, but as Leo was a priest, she felt it was somehow less inappropriate, as there could be no probable misunderstandings there. And he had heard quite a bit about her marriage already—she may as well come clean on all fronts.

“Perhaps he…” Leo began, but Marianne’s gaze stopped him cold. He had suggested once, with his usual recited advice, that another child might ease the pain of the loss, and her fury had been unrepentant—he had feared she might never return. She had though, and said nothing of the incident, and neither did Leo—nor did he ever attempt to suggest Matthew’s loss could be healed by a replacement again.

“Perhaps one will distract me from the other,” she said, an unfeminine, caustic note in her voice. The anger drained out of her as she gazed at the white blooms of the bush. Slowly, like water from a basin, and with effort. But she let it go. “He can do nothing right.” Marianne changed the subject without so much as a lead-in, and began walking again, circling here and there around the rose bushes. “Even when he pays attention to me now, he irritates me. I know it is irrational, but even the sound of his voice grates my nerves. Perhaps it is because he did not come to see me afterwards.”

“You cannot continue to punish him for an unknown mistake in the past,” Leo said gently.

“I know,” she replied at once. “I never claimed it was rational. Only that it’s how I feel.”

“What is it you want from him?”

“I want him to leave me alone.” Her back was to him, and the collar of her dress circled her swan’s neck, above which balanced one of her elaborate buns. A few soft curls of hair escaped at the base, around the nape of her neck—she never wore them as severely as some of the more matronly women of the parish.

“Perhaps a sabbatical,” Leo suggested, folding his hands together.

“I could, and it might help,” she said. Time away might indeed help heal the wounds, and soothe her, but the effort involved seemed too great. “But eventually I would come back, and even without Matthew…” She trailed off with a sigh; what was the use of rehashing all her old complaints and marital sorrows? Leo knew her marriage was devoid of love, and the weight it was on Marianne’s romantic heart.

“Distance may make the heart grow fonder,” Leo urged. “Time apart may help you and your husband remember the foundations of your marriage.” Marianne said nothing. The ground her marriage was built upon was solid—her family had arranged most of it. But it was not fertile. Nothing would grow there. There would be no rosebushes for her, no sweet fruit from Etienne. Their house would not wash away, but nor would it bear rewards. As the silence stretched on, Leo felt compelled to continue. “He is your husband, and surely has your family’s best interests at heart. And as his wife, it is your duty to care for him, as you promised when you were wed. Marriage is no easy task, but you have always been admirably resilient, Marianne…”

               Still, she was silent, reaching out to caress a rose bloom with one white-gloved hand. The intensity with which Leo studied her, trying to hazard a guess at what she was thinking could have sparked flame.

               “The bond between a husband and wife…”

               “Oh spare me your priestly platitudes!” she exclaimed suddenly, jerking around to face him. “If that was what I wanted to hear, I could go to any man in this church and hear the same things.” Leo stopped, and he thought after her outburst she would simply lapse back into silence, but she was staring at him, waiting.

               “I only want to help you,” he began, but in a rare moment of uncivility, Marianne interrupted.

               “If you want to help, tell me what you think,” she said. “I don’t want to hear something you memorized during seminary. If that’s what I wanted, I could just as easily find someone else. I’m talking to you because I want your thoughts, Leo.”

               Silence ticked on between them like the reel of a film that had run out of images. At last Marianne exhaled loudly and turned away.

               “This was a mistake, I shouldn’t have come here. I’ve bothered you enough with my marital problems.” She started back towards the cathedral, but Leo suddenly grabbed ahold of her hand.

               “Marianne, wait!” Obediently, she stopped and looked back at him with some melancholy hope that he had a magical solution tucked into his sleeve—or better yet, a plan to spirit her away from this city altogether. He dropped her hand as if he had just realized he was holding it, and took a sharp breath. “I think…I think you must seek out some happiness for yourself,” he said. “Whatever it might be. It…marriage was never intended to be a prison, Marianne. It is supposed to be a union of love and partnership. You are not a better Christian because you chain yourself to a miserable relationship and never let it show that you are unhappy. You should talk with your husband. Tell him that you need more from him. Explain. Don’t suffer in silence your whole life because society has made you think this is the right thing to do.”

               “That sounds so terribly like what I want to hear,” she said, looking away with a slight furrow in her fine brow. “But Leo, I don’t think Etienne could do anything…”

               “And why not?” Leo pressed. “He is not incapable of reason, Marianne, and you have never led me to believe he is cruel.”

               “Léo! You have come!” His voice cracked, and for a moment the Holy See thought he would start sobbing. His eyes were dry though—too dry to weep. His hand reached out slow and trembling, but withdrew almost as soon. “You must…stay over there,” he whispered hoarsely. “You will get sick.”

               “I don’t get sick,” Leo said, setting his Plague mask down on the floor, and taking up the doctor’s seat after he had shooed the man away. This was his business, and no one else would serve.

               “This is different,” Francis insisted in the same weak voice. Leo shook his head.

               “We’ve seen it before, don’t you remember? The Justinian plague?”

               “It was so long ago…” France’s eyes fluttered, and Leo could see the energy his focus sapped from him. While Francis’ rattling breath filled the chamber, Leo studied him, peeling the blankets back to examine him. He could see the telltale black boils on the French boy’s neck, and gentle probing under his arms revealed them there as well. He didn’t need to check further—he knew how far gone his old friend was. Still, his hands continued, until Francis grasped one and stopped him.

               “I am dying, Leo,” he whispered gently.

               “You are a Nation,” Leo said, almost indignant at the very notion of France’s death.

               “So was Rome.”

               “Rome was old, and foolish.” Leo’s harsh tone brooked no mercy or sympathy. The adults in the room watched the scene with the vague sense of unease that mortals always got when confronted with the fact that the Nations were in fact, centuries older than them, no matter how they looked.

               “So I am young, and foolish,” Francis returned, shivering and closing his eyes. Leo freed his hand and pulled the blankets back up.

               “Will you confess?” When Francis had written, begging Leo to come and grant him absolution, Leo had not questioned why another priest would not do. For his final confession, Francis would have only his personal confessor, his Léon. He nodded weakly, and closed his eyes in thought for a moment, before he began croaking out his list of sins and faults.

               When he spoke, it was slow, and he was much shorter of verse than usual—each word took so much from him, he could say only what he deemed absolutely necessary (and even that was more than he really needed). Leo heard and absolved him of all of them, though he suspected that even here, at death’s door, Francis was not telling him all there was to be told.

               “It’s so terrible, Leo,” he murmured, without opening his eyes. “I wish it were over.” There was a wheeze in his throat he was too far gone to cough away. Even since Leo had entered the room, he appeared further drained, exhausted from their conversation. If Leo had thought it would do any good, he would have told France to conserve his strength.

               “It will be soon.” Leo’s voice sounded distant to his own ears, as if he were hearing someone else speaking in the next room over. “This is your last chance to confess, Francis.” Bloodshot blue eyes fluttered open, dull and weary. The shine was gone from them, Leo noted.

               “I have confessed.”

               “All?”

               “All that needs to be said,” he replied, but he did not meet Leo’s gaze, and he knew that France was lying, and not with very much effort, which meant he did not care if Leo knew he was lying. The room was quiet except for Francis’ breathing, and the occasional distressed, sickly sounds that left his throat. He reached again for Leo, who laid his hand in Francis’, and allowed him to grasp it with the little strength left to him. He had seen these hands swing lethal blades, ride full-gallop into battle, and bring fifedoms to heel. But now, his grip was no more dangerous or firm than a stray wisp of hair caught around Leo’s fingers.

               “He won’t be there,” Leo said.

               “Who?”

               “Rome.” Concern over where, exactly, Rome had gone in his afterlife had hounded Leo like a rotten apple rolled under the bed: he wished dearly to be free of it, but the smell pervaded because he was unable to dig out the source. He disliked the notion that Rome was a part of him, and he scratched himself bloody trying to remove that hated piece of his past.

               The room was quiet, but for Francis’ breathing.

               “Do you think he loved us?” Leo’s hand tightened on Francis’ until he felt the other Nation’s muscles twitch trying to pull back.

               “I don’t think he loved anyone but himself.” His lip curled in loathing. “Perhaps he loved the idea of what we could be, serving him.” Francis was shaking his head, and Leo’s gaze bored into him. “You are a fool if you think he loved you, Francis.” The pain in France’s eyes, on his brow, cowed even Leo into softening his words—in his fashion. “Or you see only what you wish to see. You think if you want a thing badly enough, you can make it so. That is what frustrates you continually when you think of him.” It would be bad form, he thought, to make Francis cry on his deathbed, and it would serve him no purpose. “There are other sources of affection in your life,” he soothed. “You do not need the riddled serpent’s love of a dead man.” He brushed his fingers over Francis’ hand, his face a placid monument to inner peace and charity.

               “Leo, I’m afraid of death,” Francis whispered.

               “Do not be; there is nothing to fear,” Leo said. “You are simply going on to another form of existence, another world.”

               “But I go alone.” There was a kind of plea in his eyes, as if Leo could choose to follow him into the void.

               “Only for a time,” Leo said. “There will be others, and when you arrive, you will have no fear. All your earthly failures and inadequacies will be no more.” Francis closed his eyes.

               “They never thought I would live.” Francis’ eyes were still closed, but his brow furrowed.

               “They were wrong.” Francis did not respond, and the room was quiet, but for his breathing.

               “Leo,” he whispered, his eyelids twitching as he struggled to open them. “Th…thank you…” It seemed to his bleary, dizzy gaze that there was a halo behind Leo’s head, and he turned his face towards him, pressing his cheek against Leo’s knuckles.

               “I am here for my lamb,” he replied quietly, putting a hand on France’s head.