#fravat

[imakemywings]

Leo Vargas/The Vatican belongs to @darkestages

Gods/reincarnation AU; Francis is a minor, pseudo-Greco-Roman god and Leo is his reincarnated lover--or so Francis says.

26. How dare you?

“How dare you?” The tremulous fury in Franciscus’ voice went beyond anything Julius had heard before, and it took effort not to step back. A terrible energy was beginning to hum around Franciscus, something he felt rather than saw or heard. He had never been the subject of divine anger, and his desire to avoid it was only redoubled, seeing this display. The air seemed cooler, breezier than it had been a moment ago, and the tail of Franciscus’ long, golden braid danced in the wind. “If you have learned nothing from those before you, my priest will not be touched.”

               The blade he drew had not been a moment earlier, and the woman standing across from them whipped a set of dueling knives out of thin air, spinning them about in a deadly whirlwind. Franciscus moved in front of Julius, crowding him back from the threat, and a moment later, their weapons crashed. A flock of morning doves took flight from the copse of trees nearby.

               The dueling figures moved with terrific speed, and the human scale of their bodies and weapons belied the awful strength behind each blade’s sweep. The doves circled overhead, and dived back down to assail the woman, clawing at her flesh and eyes with unnatural screams. Her knives flashed frantically, and dead birds sprayed across the ground.

               When she threw Franciscus against a boulder and the rock gave way, splitting apart under the force, Julius began to understand the magnitude of their conflict. But Franciscus was on his feet again in a moment, his eyes flame, his blade fury, looking less human with every passing minute.

               His opponent, despite her own strength, was no match for the possessive rage that fueled Franciscus’ blade. He had her then on her knees, bleeding her golden blood from a cut to the scalp, one of her knives lying in the grass many yards away.

               “Were you really so foolish as to think that because he is outside my temple, that I am not watching over him?” Franciscus’ lip curled. “Here is a message for you, and anyone else who thinks to let their envy get the better of them—Julius will not be touched. He will not be harmed, or harassed, or stolen.” He swung his sword and the flat made sickening contact with the side of her head, knocking her sideways. “Enough! This mortal belongs to me, and none who dare to touch him will know mercy!”

               “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.

               “Yes.” Francis got to his feet and collected the paper towels to throw out. He tried to give Leo a little smile, but Leo wouldn’t look at him. “I’m ready to go home.”

[deboramesquitaphotos]

Carol Fravat | 2019 ............................................................... #deboramesquitafotografia #haedshot #reatrato #belasimperfeitas #portrait #yn608 #canon #canobr https://www.instagram.com/p/BvojAN4JaWA/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1v706epcsu6j0

[imakemywings]

Leo Vargas/The Vatican belongs to @darkestages​

Circa 17th century

12. Candles

               Francis found Leo in the chapel. He sat in the front, alabaster head bowed, and Francis waited patiently by the end of the pew for him to finish. The light in the church was dim, and mostly sourced in the candles that lined the walls; a thousand tiny prayers from the penitents who had been by that day. They cast an ever-changing chiaroscuro across Leo’s pale face and white hair, which Francis silently watched with vague interest. Typically, Leo seemed to sense his presence, and wrapped up his prayer quickly enough.

               “Let me guess,” he said without turning. “You thought you’d find me here.”

               “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.

               When Francis left Italy on Thursday, the illuminated manuscript stayed behind. Leo tucked it carefully away, and mentally placed it with the cache of other things of France’s he had in the vaults and hidden places of the Vatican. Keeping them safe, he thought. As he strove to keep Francis’ thoroughly striped soul saved.

[imakemywings]

Leo Vargas/The Vatican belongs to @darkestages

Circa modern era, in which Francis and Leo are roommates in college and spent two torturous years dancing around a relationship before getting together

27. Defy

Francis hesitated outside the door to their room, considering the value in walking away and just never coming back. But if that thought was on his mind, it must have been even more on Leo’s, and he had to support him.

               Telling your extremely religious parents you had quit seminary was hardly an easy task.

               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.

               “It seems,” Leo said, appraising the short message again, “that Benedict has opted to come out as well.”