Work Text:
A ceaseless clockwork
Thomas Lawrence’s routine is a ceaseless monotony of service, tirelessly grinding his weary body down to serve. Caring for himself was an afterthought - the Church, his brothers and sisters’ in Christ comes first. This did not change even as he took the keys of St Peter, instead, it has become gruelling. The Pontiff’s days became longer as he endlessly toils under the weight of the souls entrusted upon him.
Working himself into an early grave.
Goffredo sighs in exasperation as he finds the Holy Father pathetically slumped over his desk. Gaunt, pale cheeks flushed scarlet, blue eyes screwed shut, and beads of sweat smattering the feverish forehead. The Patriarch entered the office unannounced, to voice his dissent on the reforms that Thomas wished to discuss in the upcoming extraordinary consistory. His anger considerably deflates as he took in the Holy Father’s state.
“Santita,” Goffredo said gently, not wanting to spook the sick man. “Let me take you to your rooms.”
“N-no,” Thomas weakly protested, blearily opening his eyes to look at the red blob in front of him. “T-there’s still work to be done.”
“Not at this rate,” Goffredo hauled the frail body into his arms, ignoring the Pontiff's demand to be put down. Silver brows frowned as he felt more bones than meat. “The Lord took a rest when he created this world, his vicar should too.”
Goffredo deposits Thomas down on his bed, propping him against his pillows. The Patriarch pins the stubborn Pontiff with a glare as he tries to slip out of the comfy sheets. A frown deepens the furrowed brows, as cherry scented fingers gently divest him out of his cassock. Thomas glowered, weakly smacking Goffredo’s warm hands away.
“You'll be more comfortable if you change out of your cassock,” Goffredo said calmly, the hazel eyes flashing in frustration at the bony frame. “Is your staff neglecting you, Tommaso?”
“Of course not,” Thomas snaps, shivering as the cool air caresses his fevered skin. “T-they've taken wonderful care of me.”
“But not enough,” Goffredo replied. He removed Thomas' zucchetto, placing it on the night stand. “You're skin and bones.”
“It’s not their fault.”
“I know,” Goffredo replied, folding the white cassock and hanging it in a chair. He walked to the closet, took Thomas’ pyjamas and placed them beside him. “Go get changed.”
Goffredo raises a brow as Thomas remained in place, the blue eyes peering heavily at him. “Do you need help?”
Thomas shook his head adamantly, swaying as he stood up. He would have fallen into the floor if it were not for the strong arms that settled him back down.
“May I?”
Not wanting to argue, Thomas nods defeatedly, letting the Patriarch take the rest of his clothing off. His face turns into a darker shade of red as he feels the heavy hazel gaze raking through his body - assessing the damage of his self-neglect. Thomas pointedly cleared his throat spurning Goffredo to hurry up. His body felt even more heated as fingers brushed his neck, skin prickling at the unexpected contact.
“How about I leave you for a moment?” Goffredo cards his hand through Thomas' thinning hair. He suppresses his chuckle as the Pontiff leans into the touch, eagerly seeking comfort. “But I better see you on that bed once I return.”
“There’s no need…” Thomas reclines into the pillows, stifling a whimper at the loss of the soothing fingers on his hair. “I’ll manage.”
The Patriarch did not heed the clear dismissal, instead, he brushed his lips against the sweaty brows. Despite the sputters, Goffredo could feel the tension slowly loosening on the taut body. A grin curves Goffredo’s lips, as he spies the pinker cheeks and the shy gaze.
“I’ll be right back.”
Much to Thomas’ chagrin, Goffredo did come back bearing a tray that the Patriarch joyfully placed on his lap. His muddled sense of smell caught on the rich chicken broth and the sharp scent of parmesan cheese. Judging from the soup’s almost risotto-like consistency, Goffredo must have used a deliberate amount of cheese in his pastina.
“I am not an invalid, Goffredo.” Thomas grumbled as a spoon hovered in front of him, filled with broth and the little star shaped pasta. His stomach growls lowly, enticed by the warm meal.
“Eat.” Goffredo said imperiously.
Thomas meekly took in the offered bite, watching as a wide grin curves the Patriarch’s lips. He tries to wrest the spoon from Goffredo’s hand but a warning smack forced him to concede.
“From now on, I’ll be taking care of you.”
“That isn’t part of your job,” Thomas mumbles, sighing as he swallows another mouthful. "My staff is capable enough."
“Someone has to,” Goffredo said softly, gently blowing into the soup to cool it down. “And I intend to be the one to do it.”
Thomas scoffs. “Wouldn’t my death be beneficial for you, Goffredo?”
“On the contrary,” Goffredo smiles wryly, delight pooling in his stomach as the weary, blue eyes lightened up with a good meal.
“I would not mind serving you, Tommaso.”