Light as a breeze, a touch of fingers ran across his hand, awakening a trail of goose bumps on his skin and snatching a faint exhalation from his lips.
"Hey.. do you know what an Eskimo kiss is?" he heard that familiar, delicate voice, which made the thin hair on his neck stand on end, and each time, in what was now a reflex reaction, caused his heart to ache.
Of course, Thomas didn't know, or rather, perhaps he had heard about it somewhere, but he wasn't confident enough in his own memories to voice them, especially in front of him. So he just shook his head slightly, his eyebrows dropped a fraction and his gaze fell, somewhere downwards and at the same time into the unknown distance, as if trying to hide the shades of shame for not knowing some trifle.
Warm palms on both sides envelop his cheeks, warming his face in a way that the sun could never do, and then there is a pressure, as gentle as it is insistent in its nature, his head rises humbly, and the older man meets the gaze of the other, somewhat younger one.
In Thomas's eyes, he always saw the sky -- he saw hope -- for they remained so clear even in the most starless of nights and in the midst of the most agonising of doubts, serving as his guide; in Vincent's eyes, so unfathomably deep and dark, he saw glimpses of his own reflection, his old, pathetic, pitiful face, and his heart tightened in the grip of guilt. He lived -- no, not that way for a long time, no one even remembers when -- he existed behind the bars of his own torment for too long, so long that every ray of kindness and care that somehow found its way into the vast emptiness of his soul felt like an excruciating burn.
It was not rational, he was well aware of that. He was aware, but he did not believe it. He believed only that he was not deserving of it. How could he, a long-fallen and fading soul, be worthy of every glance, every smile, every "my dear Thomas" from someone so.. so..
The touch of his fingertips firmed up a little, gently squeezing his skin and smoothly, in an almost mindless pattern, tracing each wrinkle on his cheek -- a silent sign, a call for attention, loud enough even in its muteness, to disengage Thomas from his thoughts and bring him back to the present.
Before he could even think of apologising, Vincent tilted his head to one side and murmured with his lips,
"Do you want me to show you?" He did not add, but on the tip of his tongue remained the affectionate "my dear Thomas," which instead was reflected in his eyes; and the elder saw it, in the warm glints of auburn colours, and in response, he nodded agreeably.
In the corners of his eyes, thin lines became clearer, carrying back and forth, like spring streams, the dazzling fondness from each petal of the blossoming smile on his face. Vincent leaned closer, close enough for his companion to feel the tickle of coal-black, fluffy strands on his cheeks and the caress of his breath on his skin. He lingered like that for a moment or two, as if listening to the older man's frantic heartbeat, searching for notes of resistance or protest in its anxious chords. And finally, finding none, with the slightest of sighs, he closed the distance between them even more.
His crooked nose slid across the paler, straighter bridge of the other's nose, skin touching skin with slow, smooth movements. Thomas shuddered, but not noticeably -- somewhere deep inside himself, and it came out as a sharp intake of breath. Once or more than once, their bumps met, at first playfully, but later more affectionately, rubbing against each other in a kind of embrace, as if they really were -- even if it sounds like something out of an old novel -- parts of something beautiful, a single whole. From the dip between his eyes to the very tip, along with a pleasy tingling sensation, there were also shivers -- those small, insignificant ants that with each tremor gnawed deeper and deeper, through layers of epithelium and flesh, eventually settling with bitterness in the stomach.
Somewhere from there, contrasting feelings began to germinate in him, like the shoots of a poisonous bush: slowly but steadily, they spread their branches wide and high, entwining themselves around his limbs, sprouting in his chest, and reaching with their leaves all the way up to his poor, tormented head. No matter how much he wanted to stay in that moment, to grab it with both hands with a death grip and prolong the bliss, much to his regret, he also had enough time to ponder and analyse every thought that floated to the surface of his mind -- every single one.
It would be wrong to assume that he was uncomfortable; on the contrary, the moment was sincerely heartfelt, intimate.. more than that, too intimate, especially when it came to someone like Thomas. The feelings he dared to describe as pleasant enveloped him like a light, silky blanket, caressing his soul so soothingly.. in contrast to them, or perhaps in step with them, darker feelings made themselves known -- as if a stone bell tower was about to fall on him, burying the torn remnants of happiness in its ruins. The warmth was pleasant, but also excessive, unnatural in such quantity, and obviously, as if provoking an allergic reaction, the body began to reject these abnormal factors with all its might, unleashing even more anxiety.
Everything blurred before his eyes, and he could barely focus on what was happening around him -- he was drowning in his own panic, gasping for air in vain. Oh, merciful God, I ask for your forgiveness..
..I am not worthy of all this..
I fall prostrate before you, before you, Almighty..
..unworthy, unworthy, unforgiven..
You cripple me, cripple me, mercilessly, by choosing the purest of your own as your messenger..
..unforgiven, unforgiven, no right to mercy..
Take your angel away, for I am not worthy of him, oh no, no, no.. neither of his consolation, nor of his presence, nor of his laughter, nor of his smile, nor of his glance..
Your Holiness, Vincent, oh, my Vincent..
The sensory contact intensified, the touch of someone's fingertips pressed on the areas near the earlobes -- a gesture behind which stood a clear "keep your attention on me" -- which seemed to grab Thomas by the scruff of his neck, pull him out of the icy turmoil, and shake him properly to bring him to his senses. Fingers, hands, his..
He refused to open his eyes yet, feeling too weak to meet Vincent's gaze, but thanks to his other senses, he was able to remind himself where they were and what was happening between them. The rhythm of his chest rising and falling was still unstable, but each subsequent breath came easier, less intermittently.
The rustle of the wind, the fluttering of wings and distant trills above them, gentle hands on his cheeks, supporting his face, cherishing him, grounding him.. Little by little, the elder's mind began to clear, the acapella of anxiety receding into the background, merging and intertwining with the general hum of sounds.
Vincent's bridge of his nose brushed along the pale ridge one last time before he slightly changed the angle of his head and pressed it against the surface of his cheek, parting his lips and inhaling, filling his lungs with a scent so familiar to him that he could often mistake it for his own. He also changed the position of his hands, not to let go and break contact, no, but only to more comfortably wrap them around a troubled head, to more tenderly cradle the greying strands of hair.
"Please, touch.." Thomas wasn't sure if he had imagined it, a mocking joke of some distorted thought in the recesses of his brain, or if Vincent had really whispered it.
And yet, despite the still echoing ringing in his ears and the gnawing doubts that clawed their way up from the depths, whispering "I am not worthy of his touch", he reached out his hand, and it came to rest, trembling, on the younger man’s cheek.
At first hesitant, in a somewhat awkward manner, he attempted to imitate the gesture, this peculiar kind of kiss, and, encouraged by the lack of a negative reaction, Thomas moved as close as possible to the face next to him, careful not to let himself be overwhelmed by intense emotions again.
The man's consciousness was still balancing between the world of being and the abyss of unrest, teetering from one extreme to the other, so he heard neither the hubbub somewhere out there, the bored mutterings of the other cardinals, nor the rustling of cassocks here nearby, nor did he feel the delicate weight of someone's body resting on his lap. The only thing he heard, the only thing he clung to like a lifeline, was Vincent's voice. Soft, caring and assertive.. and directed at him -- the lowest of all the obedient servants.
Vincent, his beloved Vincent..
They sat there, hidden from any prying eyes by the all-encompassing shade of the tree canopy, and neither of them heard or paid any attention to the fact that someone was calling them, probably from somewhere else in the garden. That would be their concern later. For now, the only thing that mattered to them was their own company.
Today, Thomas learned the meaning of the term "Eskimo kiss". One wonders, what else would his dear, dear Vincent wish to teach him..
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