by Tal Bauer
Almost three weeks of Alain’s daily companionship, his unasked-for company during the long hours of his punishment details, and the idle conversations they’d started and fumbled through about nothing at all. Hours and hours together, and not once had they ever veered toward anything remotely close to the darkness Muller and Zeigler seemed to fear.
“Hello, halberdiers.” Alain managed a weak smile. “Hello Cristoph,” he said, a warmer grin for him alone.
Cristoph tried to smile back. He failed.
The corners of Alain’s eyes pinched. The warmth in his gaze faded away.
Muller coughed loudly in the leaden silence. Cristoph shot him a hard glare as flames crawled up his spine, the burn of shame curling around his neck. His cheeks blazed. Fuck you, Muller.
“Have a good day, halberdiers.” He nodded to Muller and Zeigler. “Good luck at the game tonight. This is the year.” Alain spared one last glance to Cristoph. “You’ll do great.”
Zeigler and Muller exhaled long and loud as Alain moved off. Zeigler rubbed one hand over his face, muttering a Hail Mary beneath his breath. Cristoph glared at them both before shoving away from the table.
He took off after Alain. “Hey, Sergeant. Hold up!”
Freezing, Alain turned. Around them, guardsmen inched away, trying not to get caught watching the two in the middle of the suddenly silent canteen. Conversations stilled, and the hot heaviness of everyone staring at the two of them burned into Cristoph’s shoulders.
Alain didn’t move a muscle.
Cristoph jerked his chin toward Alain’s temple, to the exhaustion flowing from his body. “Long night filing?” He tried to grin as he shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Something like that.” Alain smiled, but there wasn’t any warmth there anymore. Nothing of the Alain who had spent hours with him, laughing over stories and nothing at all. Who’d thrown sodas at his head and raced with him in the gardens. Alain turned away.
“You are coming to the game tonight, right?” Cristoph groaned inside, kicking himself. He bit down on his tongue. If he could reverse time and never speak again, that would be great. Or just snatch the words out of the ears of everyone who had heard, erase the looks of shock and horror spreading around the canteen.
The entire canteen had gone still as a grave, no longer pretending to not be watching them. Watching Alain. Cristoph felt their eyes shift, move from him to Alain. The pressure in the room changed. Grew darker.
“Of course! I’ll be there.” With a flourish of his espresso cup to the silent canteen, and an obviously fake, fuck you smile, Alain slipped out.
Cristoph watched the doors bang shut behind him as the guards shifted their attention back to him. A moment, and then the chatter started up again as everyone went back to eating.
He stood in the center of the room, a lost man in the midst of a crowd, staring at the hinges creaking in Alain’s wake.
“Cristoph…” Muller appeared at his elbow, both their trays of abandoned food in his hands. “Come on.”
“Fuck you.” He grabbed his tray and dumped the remnants into the bin, stacked his dishes on the kitchen cart. He shoved his way out of the canteen through the same swinging wooden doors Alain had disappeared through.
He turned toward the garrison offices.
Fuck the rest of the guardsmen. Fuck their suspicions. He hadn’t seen anything like what they whispered about. Alain had been nothing but friendly to him.
And Alain hadn’t looked that exhausted since their swearing in day. He never wore the uniform, preferring that damn black suit that made him look like a priest, but even then, he never looked exhausted or filthy.
Except for today.
* * *
“My boy!” Bishop Battistini cried, leaning out the window of his tiny Fiat. The old bishop’s wrinkled face creased into a wide smile. He turned his car slowly, his frail hands clenching the top of his steering wheel, bald head barely poking over the top of the dashboard, and passed the Swiss Guards’ courtyard, making his way through the checkpoint at St. Anne’s Gate toward the parking lot behind the Apostolic Palace and the Vatican Bank.
Cristoph clenched his jaw but waved and smiled back. Bishop Battistini worked in the doctrinal section of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, one of the arms of the Vatican government in the Holy See. The tottering old man had always been friendly to him, smiling and chatting every time he passed his guard post.
Battistini parked by the cluster of cars beneath the Vatican Bank down the cobbled hill from the Swiss Guard garrison. He beamed at Cristoph as he slowly pulled himself out of his little car, his long black cassock and amaranth zucchetto billowing in the Roman wind.
“My young boy,” Battistini said, clapping his gnarled hands on either side of Cristoph’s face before pulling him down for a press of his dry lips to Cristoph’s forehead. “Where are you running to with such a fierce look on your face?”
“Just checking on someone, Bishop.” Cristoph held out his arm for Battistini. “Can I escort you to your office?”
Battistini patted Cristoph on his cheek. “Such a good boy.” They walked slowly together. Cristoph held Battistini’s briefcase in his free hand. The bishop’s gnarled fingers curled around his other elbow.
Battistini launched into a story about the Masses he’d held at one of Rome’s homeless shelters and the food they had served to the hungry. Battistini had told him before it was his mission to bring each and every one of Rome’s homeless, heartbroken, and hurting into the shelters and to care for them with food and with a warm heart, especially as summer broke over Rome. Cristoph had agreed to join Battistini on his outreach a few weeks before. He should work on his soul. He should help more people.
“Would you come this evening?” Battistini asked. “I can show you the shelter outside Trastevere and then take you down to see the cafés by the waterfront. A cup of espresso on a cool night after warming the heart.” Battistini smiled.
“I can’t.” Cristoph cringed. Was he an ass for denying the old bishop? Probably. No, definitely. Football did not trump the bishop’s cause. He hesitated, biting his lip. “I’m playing on the Guard football team and… it’s the first game of the season. We’re playing the Vatican fire brigade.”
“Oh, that’s right!” Battistini patted his arm. “You are playing tonight, yes?” They climbed the marble steps to the Apostolic Palace, skirting around the rotund tower of the Vatican Bank. A hundred different kinds of mysteries were hidden within the black bricks of the tower, the former prison and torture chamber of popes long past.
Cristoph nodded as he pulled open one of the side doors for Battistini and passed him his worn briefcase. He’d been evasive with the bishop, not revealing exactly why he was only possibly going to play on a team woefully short of players, or why he was riding the bench during practices and possibly wouldn’t ever play for the Guards.
Battistini had winked at him once, said he understood young men and the heat in their blood, and never asked again.
“I think, then, that I will come and see the game.” Battistini smiled as he leaned against the doorway, supporting his frail body. “I can say Mass and serve the Lord’s Supper in time to return to watch you.”
Speechless, Cristoph’s jaw dropped. “Bishop,” he stuttered. “It’s just a football game—”
“It is meaningful to you. You have been wanting to share your talents. I could tell.” A deep inhale, and Battistini squinted into the dark, gilded hallway of the Apostolic Palace. “I have meetings here. I won’t see you until later this evening. But, my boy, I promise you, I will be there to watch you tonight.” He reached out again, cupping Cristoph’s cheek.
Cristoph watched him shuffle down the hallway. He fought back a clench in his throat as an aching warmth spread out from his chest. You can make a home here. A life.
Alain.
The bells in St. Peter’s Square tolled, tremulous booms quaking the air. He cursed, jogging back down the hill toward the garrison a
nd the barracks. Only a half hour until he had to get to the Arch of the Bells for his post. Just enough time to duck into Alain’s office. He slipped in the back entrance to the garrison, bypassed the server room, a complete fire hazard—it was the privy, centuries ago—and turned down the dark hallway that led to Alain’s office.
Voices bled out into the corridor. Cristoph frowned. Alain wasn’t alone.
Rounding the doorway, Cristoph stopped short. Alain sat at his desk, laughing and shaking his head as he looked up at the same nameless priest from before, the skinny, hawk-like older man Cristoph had seen over a month before. The priest perched on the edge of Alain’s desk, one leg hitched on the side of Alain’s chair. He had an open file folder in his hand and reading glasses had slid down his nose. The priest was gazing down at Alain, smirking, eyes glowing, but a teasing expression softening the harsh lines of his face. He nudged Alain with his knee, a gentle tap against his ribs.
Hot jealousy slid into Cristoph, a spike through the back. He grunted, almost physically knocked by the sudden stab. He cleared his throat.
Alain’s eyes shot up, blown wide. “Cristoph!” He shoved the priest’s foot off his chair and stood. “What are you doing here?”
Cristoph’s eyes darted between the priest and Alain again. The whole atmosphere changed suddenly, as if he had interrupted something. Something that was supposed to be hidden. He caught the dirt and grime lingering on their faces and the rumples in their black suits. “I… just wanted to…” He trailed off, all of his excuses bouncing around his skull sounding completely lame.
He turned to the priest and shoved out his hand. “Hi. I’m Cristoph.” He puffed out his chest. He could solve one mystery, at least.
The priest stared back, his beady eyes sweeping over him from head to toe. He didn’t reach for Cristoph’s hand. He didn’t introduce himself.
“Halberdier.” Alain stared. “Don’t you have a shift to attend?”
“In half an hour,” Cristoph snapped. He dropped his hand. “I came to check on you. You didn’t seem right in the canteen. You’re filthy. You’re exhausted. I haven’t seen you in days.” He glared. “What’s going on?”
The priest’s eyebrows skyrocketed, nearly rising off his head as Alain exhaled and looked away, looked down, looked over to his messy shelves. Anywhere but at Cristoph, it seemed. “I’m fine. It’s nothing that concerns you,” Alain said.
Cristoph snorted. So it was okay for Alain to fret over Cristoph, to butt into his life and to badger him, but that concern wasn’t welcomed both ways? His eyes narrowed. “Forget it. I don’t care.” He spread his hands, shrugged, and headed for the door.
He shot a glare to that damn smug priest before he left, though. The priest just smirked.
Footsteps chased him down the hall. “Cristoph, wait.”
Pausing, Cristoph didn’t turn around. Alain slipped ahead of him in the cramped hallway.
“I appreciate your concern,” Alain said slowly. He crossed his arms and spread his legs. His fingers tapped against his sleeve over and over, as if he’d had too much caffeine. “It has been a long, long time since anyone cared what I’ve done. Or how I’ve looked in the morning.”
“I don’t care. It’s not my concern.” He threw Alain’s words back in his face. “You just said so.”
“Cristoph, there are parts of my duties I cannot share with you. I am sorry, but that is how it is.”
“Whatever you’re doing was part of your duties?” His mind swam with images, with the priest and Alain locked in a sweaty embrace or partying all night long or making out on top of Alain’s desk. Or the priest sitting in Alain’s lap, as he almost nearly was. No. Cristoph pushed those thoughts away. He didn’t care. He didn’t care at all.
“We were up all night,” Alain said quietly, “working on an investigation. And that is all I can say.” He frowned. “Did you think—”
“Doesn’t matter what I thought.” Cristoph started walking again.
“I will be there tonight,” Alain called. “I promise.”
* * *
Lotario waited for Alain in his office, sitting cross-legged on top of Alain’s desk, on top of his files and his scattered papers, surrounded his haphazard clutter.
His look called Alain a thousand kinds of idiot.
“I know,” Alain snapped. “Laugh at me. Go ahead. I’ll even help.” He chuckled, obnoxiously fake and boisterous, grabbing his stomach. “Look at Sergeant Autenburg! He’s such a fool!” He sobered instantly, his mask of laughter falling flat.
“That little spitfire actually managed to make something of himself?”
Alain slouched against the doorframe and crossed his arms. He wouldn’t meet Lotario’s gaze. “He just needed someone to get through to him. Show him everyone here wasn’t out to get him.”
“And that person was you.”
“I didn’t want it to be me.” Alain’s heart clenched against his lie. “I pushed him toward the footballers. He’s made friends there. He’s found other guards.”
“You didn’t want it to be you? Alain, you’ve spent every day with the guy for the past month,” Lotario scoffed. “You sought him out! You spent time with him! You don’t choose to spend time with anyone. Not even me.”
“Especially not you. I see enough of you.”
“Is it any surprise he came to check in, especially with how you look? The night we just had?” Lotario leaned forward, dropping his legs over the side of the rickety desk. He stared at Alain, eyes narrowed. “When was the last time anyone ever checked up on you?”
“Don’t remind me.”
“I mean, not even your beloved commandant checks on you after a hunt, not even the bad ones, and you know he knows what kind of shit you’re—”
“What do you want from me?” Alain snapped. He scrubbed one hand down his face. “Do you want me to admit I’m wrong? That I’ve fucked up? Want me to play the fool all over again? Repeat everything?” His voice rose, bouncing off the stone walls, until his shouts echoed down the hallway.
Bitter rage flooded Alain, a howling misery that lapped at his bones. He had no one to blame but himself.
For a month, Cristoph had been isolated with his endless monotony of uniform shredding. His mentee, already sent to the punishment closet, just months after swearing in. He was a failure of a mentor, assuredly.
He’d just tried to help him, somehow. Just tried to be friendly.
But history had pushed and pushed, memories clamoring for attention, an ocean that couldn’t be held back. Waves of the past tried to chase after him as he ran, tried to keep his toes out of those black and bloody waters.
When Alain had tentatively reached out to Cristoph, trying something, anything to help save him from a stinging dismissal, he’d scraped up against that yearn he’d thought he’d exorcised, had thought he’d buried away for all eternity. Just the slightest bit of connection, the tiniest bit of warm camaraderie. Just a hint, a touch of humanity. Of warmth. And a dam inside his soul had crumbled and fallen. Had broken to pieces, and the remains lay in the tatters of his self-control.
Keeping Cristoph company during the long hours he chopped old uniforms. Sharing stories and laughing together, shared glances and eyes meeting under the droning light. He’d seen Cristoph chuckle and laugh, and his chest had swelled with pride. He had done that. Him, just him. Alain Autenburg… the scourge of the Vatican.
He shouldn’t have done it. Shouldn’t have done any of it. Shouldn’t have befriended Cristoph, shouldn’t have made him laugh. Shouldn’t have gotten addicted to the sound of his happiness, or the curve of his lips when he grinned.
He definitely shouldn’t have offered that carefully worded invite, the pathetic suggestion that they work out together in the Guard’s gym. And Cristoph shouldn’t have taken him up on it, but he had, and then they were there, spotting each other on the free weights and facing off during a push-up contest.
And, then sparring? Combatives? Hands on each other’s bodies, wre
stling sweat-slick skin against skin, bodies pressing, aligning—
Until Alain had thrown him clear across the mats, too wound up and frantic to do anything but fling Cristoph away or hold him down and bury his face in the sweet sweat of his thighs.
What on earth was he doing? He didn’t even know the answer himself.
He was working his way nicely through the seven deadlies. Envy? Check. Hot jealousy when his eyes had lingered on Cristoph’s fading hickey. Envy of the options Cristoph had, the life he could lead, unchecked and unbowed. Greed? Oh, yes. Greed at the root, the very heart, of everything.
He wanted. He wanted, and the power, the hunger behind that want surprised him, made his breath catch. Twelve years of isolation. Twelve years of holding to his vow. Twelve years of never wanting, ever, something he could never have.
And then, Cristoph.
Lust. Lust that burned him alive nightly. The dreams had changed, shifting from sweaty, slick slides of his body against Dream Cristoph to a softer, gentler thing. Replays of their time together, surrounded by shredded uniforms. Cristoph’s smile tossed his way. The sound of his laughter. How he looked in the sunlight. Lust, still, but a different kind of yearning.
Pride. Thinking, somehow, someway, he could have this. Could have some kind of fucked-up friendship, something where he could smile at Cristoph and receive smiles back, but shield Cristoph forever from the darkness and the truth.
Of course everything would come crashing down.
And finally, wrath. Wrath directed right back at himself. He knew better. He’d vowed never, after all.
“I fucked up, Lotario. He got too close because I wanted him close. And now I have to push him away.” Rage spiked, bloodred and hot. Alain kicked one of his metal folding chairs. It skittered across the cracked linoleum flooring. “Cristoph doesn’t deserve to be messed up with my shit. God, he doesn’t.” Alain sighed, rubbing his eyes.
Lotario stared.
Tired, ancient air pressed in on Alain from every side. He felt the weight of the mummies’ eyeballs staring at him from his bookshelves, the crackle of the ward runes humming over the doorway. Alain paced, his hands on his hips.