Matt's hand stilled and he had a deer-in-headlights look saved only by the thin veneer of his shades as the Pope got much closer than he'd expected him to. He could hear his heart pounding in his ear and his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed the lump in his throat as his mouth started to dry out. Matthew was sure he was going to hell anyway but having fleeting inappropriate thoughts curbed only by the perplexing question of why the young Pope's lips smelled like some strange artificial cherry flavouring chemical composite guaranteed his front row seat in the log flume ride down.
"I'd rather you didn't, Holy Father," Matt said quietly, clearing his throat once there was adequate space between them again and he could breathe easy. The heat that had crawled up his neck and swirled around in his head settled on top of his cheeks. "Pretend, I mean." He knew from experience how draining it was, and they were probably both sick of pretending. In a sacred space, non-denominational though it may be, they shouldn't have to pretend anything.