Rated M for nudity and hints of slash. Not a sex scene, though!
With a sigh, and moving very carefully in order not to wake his servant who slept at
the feet of his bed, His Holiness the Pope got up from his rich ornamented bed and started wandering around the halls of his Palace. Insomnia was the devil, especially for an old man like him, and especially for a man in his position.
Sometimes, if it wasn't for the love he beared to God and all His saints, as well as the power and influence inherent to it, he would gladly trade his position with anyone else. Not that his position was an impediment when it came to pleasure: Paul III wasn't exactly a monk.
He enjoyed music and reading, and most of all, he enjoyed women. From a very young age he had been taught that sex was a powerful tool to gain favour, especially for women. His sister, Giulia, La Bella as she was known, was the living proof of that.
She had been Alexander VI's, that old Borgia fox, mistress, and that granted him, Alessandro Farnese, the title of Cardinal of the Church and later the Head of the whole sacred institution. So, based on his personal experience, when God had said that sex was a sin he probably had forgotten about politics.
But lately, much to the Holy Father's chagrin, even women had started to look dull in his eyes. They were beautiful creatures, for sure, but they were also one of the most complex riddles God had put in this world.
They were temptresses, always keen on making a man loose himself and sin against God. He needed someone else, someone who could understand him, whose feelings were pure and not bewitched by the devil's spell.
Before he knew what he was doing, almost drove by an invisible force, his feet guided him to his guest's lodgings. His guards were asleep, and took advantage of it to sneak into them. Once again moved by their own will, his footsteps stopped at the bedchamber's door before he opened it softly, praying not to wake him.
And what he saw when he laid his eyes on the bed made him cross himself in both guilt and fascination.
His guest was sleeping peacefully, his brown curls spread all over the pillows, his lips slightly parted, his chest pacing up and down to the calm rhythm of his breathing.
He was sleeping completely bare, and while in other circumstances Pope Paul would have seen it as a sin and lack of decorum, the breathtaking beauty of the man laying in front of him made him see it as something irresistibly perfect and somehow pure. Not even Michaelangelo Buonarotti, the mad artist who was in charge of the Sistin Chapel, could have sculpted such a delicate masterpiece.
He marveled at Francis full lips, his long neck, his broad shoulders, the firmness of his chest. As much as he loved women, he had never been so fascinated at someone's beauty.
Paul III almost froze when he saw the man tossing and turning in the bed, undoubtedly tormented by a nightmare. Acting on instinct, he approached the bed and firmly put his hand on his shoulders. The man calmed down shortly after, opening his blurry eyes only to look at him in shock.
- Holiness... - he muttered, still blurred by sleep.
- My son - Pope Paul whispered softly. - I have heard you scream from my bedroom. What is tormenting you?
It was a lie, but it was somehow better than admitting he had been worshipping him like a Christian man worshipped the Madonna.
- It was... un cauchemar... a nightmare - Francis gasped for air. - I dreamt with King Henry... and with his putaine.. Anne Boleyn... she was... tempting me. Forgive me, Holy Father.
Paul III shook his head.
- You have no reason to ask for forgiveness. Dreams are signs from God, remember? England is a feast of sin and decadence, and you should be very careful while dealing with Henry.
- I will - Francis nodded. - However, sometimes... - and he blushed, interrupting himself.
- Sometimes? - Paul III prompted him to continue.
- Sometimes I fear... I will end up like him, allured by one of my mistresses - Francis diverted his eyes, confessing his adultery
- Don't say that, my son; you are a good Christian prince. And as much as I am aware it is custom for the Kings to take mistresses, I have also came to know that you are nevertheless a good husband and most of all a great father. However, I understand your fears, Majesty. Women are devious creatures, and one is never safe around them, trust me.
Only a man can love another man - he lowered his tone - no matter what St. Iraeneus said. - Only such a perfect creature like a male being can understand another of his kind.
Francis frowned.
- I am afraid I do not understand, Holiness - he said, still in the limbo between sleep and conscience.
Paul III sighed. God, forgive me because I have sinned - he though, while leaning forward to meet Francis, his blue eyes drowning in the liquid brown eyes of the French King.
- Me neither, my son. Me neither - and with that he jumped into the abyss of sin, gently brushing his lips against Francis's, who closed his eyes in response to the caress. And then, as soon as it had started, the Pope parted from his guest, lifting himself from the edge of the bed.
- Go back to sleep, my prince. In the morning, this will have been nothing but a dream - and with that he caressed Francis cheek, watching him dozing off to sleep. A few minutes later, he left the room, leaving Francis there, still bare and unaware of what had just happened, like Adam sleeping in the gardens of Eden.