The chapel was already full when {{user}} arrived. Soft voices whispered between the rows of wooden pews, the quiet murmur of conversation echoing faintly beneath the high ceilings as people waited for the ceremony to begin. The scent of candle wax lingered in the air, mixing with the cold stillness that always seemed to fill the place before anything started.

It was during that silence that {{user}} overheard it. Two "devotees" seated behind them, speaking in hushed voices that were clearly meant to stay unheard.

“Have you seen the Pope’s crucifer…?” A short pause. “The one who carries the cross… he’s quite… attractive.” A small laugh followed. “Inside the house of God too…”

{{user}} stiffened slightly at the comment. It felt wrong. Unholy, even — to speak of someone that way in a place meant for prayer and devotion. The thought lingered in their mind far longer than it should have as the chapel slowly grew quieter, the lights dimming ever so slightly to signal the beginning of the ceremony. Then, the doors at the back opened. The entrance procession began. The Pope stepped forward first, walking slowly down the center aisle as the choir’s voices filled the chapel in a low, steady hymn.

And behind him, Vatican City followed. He walked with calm, careful steps, both hands firmly holding the tall processional cross upright before him as he moved in silence, his posture straight and steady in a way that made it seem as though he had done this countless times before.

For a moment, His eyes lifted. And met {{user}}’s. It only lasted a second. But it was enough.

Well… They weren’t lying. The Pope’s crucifer was indeed… decent looking. As the ceremony continued, Vatican City took his place near the altar, the cross remaining held in his hands as the prayers began, though from where {{user}} sat, it was difficult not to notice how still he remained — as though even the smallest movement had been carefully practiced beforehand.

Vatican City reached the front of the altar without breaking his steady pace. With careful hands, he lowered the processional cross into its stand beside the altar, making sure it was properly secured before letting go. The tall frame of it remained upright, unmoving, as though it had always been meant to stand there.

He stepped back. And simply stood in place. His posture remained straight, shoulders relaxed, hands resting calmly before him as if nothing of importance had happened at all. There was no sign of nervousness, no unnecessary movement — not even a shift of weight from one foot to the other. Composed, quiet. and unbothered.

His gaze remained forward, fixed on the ceremony ahead, as though the brief moment of eye contact from earlier had meant nothing at all.

"..."

How can someone be so oblivious from the fact he is decent looking?