Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I have grown to love secrecy. It seems to be the one thing that can make modern life mysterious or marvellous to us. The commonest thing is delightful if one only hides it.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

✦ ✧ ✦

The studio is a small, well-lit room in a forgotten part of the abbey. It can only be reached by walking down a dark, unfrequented hallway on the third floor of one of the wings that are in desperate need of renovation and is therefore one of the few quiet locations on the premises where hardly any sibling ever strays.

It’s your favorite place in the entire world.

Admittedly, you’re here less often than you wish to be. Regular sibling duties and classes eat most of your time, the few painting jobs rare and with too much time in between. So it’s been a few months since you last worked in the slightly dingy atelier. Dusting, removing some delicate, long-unoccupied spiderwebs and heating the room to a comfortable temperature by reviving the old hearth took you most of yesterday. But thanks to your efforts it feels so much more alive today. The sun is streaming in through huge, south-facing windows, creating the illusion that the remaining particles of dust are dancing in the air. The branches of two tall, ancient trees right outside gently knock at the glass panes as they sway in the light winds of spring, their budding fingers tapping in a steady rhythm that does little to calm your nerves.

Today is a big day.

Numerous old canvases of yours are propped up on one side of the room, covered by faded dust sheets to protect them from dirt. To protect them from prying eyes – even your own. The ornately carved chair that is featured in every Papal portrait awaits its next occupant at the other side of the room, looming like a throne, expecting its dark ruler. Heavy blood-red curtains cover most of the wall behind it, setting the background and swallowing some of the excess light. You will have to use blinds to experiment with the lighting later, but right now you’re basking in the warmth of a vivid morning sun.

It seems too good to be true.

And maybe it is.

All your  scrupulously prepared utensils are laid out on a table right next to your easel, a visibly ancient model with paint stains way older than yourself. It’s the only one large enough for a project this size, so you’ve always been wondering if it’s the one all the abbey portrait artists used before you. What occupies your mind now, most of all, though, is whether he remembers, if he’s going to say anything.

The door creaks open.

You turn to see Papa Emeritus IV enter the studio, newly ascended, dressed in a standard black cassock, dark robes, black gloves and an embellished shawl over top, a look of uncertainty on his skull-painted face. He says your name. “This… this is the right room, sì? It’s–  ugh, hard to find.”

You barely manage to nod, unable to process that this is the start of perhaps the greatest project of your life. It’s terrifying, it’s more than you can realistically bear, but it is simply too meaningful, too big to miss out on.

“It is good to see you, sister. Hi. Hello.” Papa slowly walks over, nervous, hesitant. He moves to extend a hand but seems to change his mind, hiding it behind his back instead. “I… ugh… want to thank you for agreeing to paint my portrait. So, eh… yes, thank you.”

You snap out of your trance, force a smile onto your face. “It is the greatest honour, Papa. Truly. I did not dare hope to do another one.”

“I actually insisted that you do it.” He averts his gaze, glancing around the room. “I always admired the one you did of, eh… il mio predecessore.”

The unexpected compliment brings warmth to your face and when you don’t immediately reply he looks at you, brows knit together in question. His features are delicate and strong at the same time, wide jaw, heavy brow, all connected by the soft signs of age. You follow the intricate lines on his forehead down to his lips, over the gentle curve of his cupid’s bow.

Then you remember your manners. “Thank you, Papa. Actually, that reminds me… I have not had the chance yet to congratulate you in person.”

He waves off, smiling kindly. “Ah, thank you, thank you.”

Even now you feel intimidated by your task, despite his kind eyes, despite the awkward quality to his smile. He is the most important person in this satanic church, he is your Papa – and you will have to work in scarily close proximity with him on a regular basis now.

The portrait will take you two months at least, more likely three. Unfortunately, your Papa will be occupied with his new duties and unable to sit for you as frequently as you’d wish. A portrait of this scale with the desired technique is not something you work on regularly, so the task is daunting.

You did it for Papa Emeritus III. You can do it again.

“So, I set up a refreshment station with some drinks and snacks over there,” you say, gesturing to the other side of the room. “I know three hours is very long, but the first few sittings are the most important. I am not sure yet how many sittings I will need, they will get more sparse as I start to work with the paints.”

“Don’t worry, sister, you can take all the time you need.” He wanders over to the small wooden table you set up earlier today, inspecting the various small ceramic bowls. “Oh, you got my favourites!”

His gloved hand reaches out to take one of the Italian chocolates you ordered. He pops it into his mouth before he hums in delight, a sound that feels oddly intimate. „Hmm, delicioso.“

Admittedly, the choice of treats was inspired by the Siblings working the kitchens, but his reaction makes you smile with pride nonetheless. When he turns to look at you, he smiles as well.

“Did you know?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Perhaps.”

He saunters back over to you, hands hidden behind his back. “You are well prepared, sister. I am impressed.”

“I want you to be comfortable, Papa,” you add. “It’ll show in the portrait.”

“Of course, of course, yes,” he says, and you catch a flicker of disappointment. “So, eh… what is the process? I admit I am not… familiar. I have never done anything like this and Terzo said to just ‘sit down and not move for a few hours’ like it’s an easy thing. Well, maybe for him it is, but I doubt it.”

His words barely register, you’re still staring into his heterochromatic eyes, perhaps his most striking feature. The white one on the left that all Papas carry is so mesmerising in the faint orange light of early morning that you wish you could dip your brush right into its colour, the green one warm and open and alive. He looks so very handsome up close with his pristine Papal paint over the distinctive lines and wrinkles of his face, the neatly combed-back hair with all its different hues of charming greys and browns. You remember the third Papa, Terzo, looking more than striking, flirting with the canvas as you painted him – or maybe even with you – beautiful and menacing at the same time. But Papa Emeritus IV is stunning in a very different way, awaking a dizzying intrigue in the pits of your stomach. You already know it will be so much harder to capture his beauty.

“My notes said not to come in full regalia,” Papa says when he notices your stare, clearly interpreting it the wrong way.

“Yes, yes that’s not necessary for today,” you assure him, trying to remember what the question was. “So, for this first session I would like to start off with some different sketches. To figure out the composition, the perfect angle, perfect pose. Like a skeleton, we’re starting with the bones.”

“No painting yet?”

“No, just sketches. If you’re ready, you can… get in position.”

Papa nods, strides over to sit on the elaborately carved chair, the springs of the velvet cushioning giving a little squeak. Just the sight of him sitting on it takes your breath away and not in an artist’s way either. So you focus on your paper, on the charcoal and pencils, trying to choose what to start with before you get distracted again.

He coughs, then, and you look up. “How should I, uhm… How do you… how do you want me…”

You raise your brows at his quivering tone, nearly dropping the charcoal as you watch his expectant gaze.

“Sitting, I mean,” he adds, gesturing around himself. “How should I sit? For– for you?”

“Right! Yes.” You nod, trying very hard to think helpful, proper thoughts. “Um, so there are some poses we can do. I suggest we don’t choose one that’s too similar to the other Papas. We don’t want to copy them.”

He nods a few times. “Sì, sì.”

“And I had the idea… Actually I would like you to stand. It’s just… the vision I had, it might not work, but I’d love to try.”

Dutifully, he stands, smoothing out his cassock and the pellegrina, then his robes, more of a nervous gesture than out of proper necessity. He keeps his eyes fixed on you. “Così?”

“Yes and… there is this pose I have seen you in. Uhm… it’s…” You mimic him, raising both your hands slightly. “This one.”

Papa follows your movements. “Like so?”

You put the charcoal away, clean your fingers on a cloth and walk over to him. Your heart beats rapidly. “May I…”

His eyes widen, then he gives you an overly hectic nod. “Uh, yes. Yes.”

You barely dare to touch him. It feels… sinful. In a way that might encourage you, were it anyone else. But this is Papa. You have to keep reminding yourself. He’s not the friendly Cardinal anymore, not the man you had a hauntingly embarrassing encounter with a long time ago. No, he is Papa now, ascended.

Carefully you place your fingers under his forearms, barely touching as you urge him to lift them up higher. You avoid grazing the sliver of bare skin at his wrists as you tentatively open his gloved palms, turn them skyward. His eyes stay on you throughout the whole process, a curious, fascinated expression on his face. Up close, it is so terribly easy to get lost in them. You have to force your gaze back to his arms, force your legs to move away from him.

“Yes, that’s very good,” you say taking in the scene. “Now, lift your chin up just slightly and look straight ahead.”

His eyes leave yours with reluctance, but he follows your order.

You head back to your easel and take him in from the right distance. “Fuck, yes.”

He smirks, otherwise completely still. “Fuck yes?”

“Oh, yes. Absolutely yes.” You can’t believe how perfect it is. “This is… exactly what I want.”

“May I ask why?”

You sit down, start running your charcoal over the paper, possessed by the sight before you. You copy his pose with newly-won vigour, hardly aware of your movements. “There is just something about clerical portraits that always rubbed me the wrong way, long before I ever got here,” you explain. “I understand why the old masters composed their paintings the way they did. But I have never much liked the Catholic Papal portraits. I find their false humility, the poses… it seems so wrong to me. They have immense power, but they act like they don’t. They hide it. That’s why I love what you chose for the cover of Prequelle.” You pause, looking from the paper up to him, referencing the art of his first album, released when he was still a Cardinal, newly crowned singer of the Ghost project. “The reversed version of the portrait of Innocent X by Velázquez, the Papal figure enthroned over the mouth of hell, watching the Apocalypse unfold.”

His eyes flicker to you even as he tries to hold as still as possible. “That is high praise.”

“Is it?”

“Well, it is coming from you.”

You avert your gaze when you feel your mouth forming a smile. It wasn’t meant in a flirty way, but for some reason him complimenting you increases your heart rate. Suddenly it’s harder to focus, so you pause, take in your work.

Slowly but surely the sketch is taking shape. Even without details it conveys exactly what you had in mind. “I want you to look like you just rose from the chair, greeting the guest, the beholder of the painting,” you explain. “You raise yourself to their eye-level, open arms to welcome them. You’re aware of your power, your solemn gaze promises to use it wisely. A worthy ruler.”

When you look back up, Papa’s eyes are on yours. He tilts his head to the side as he frowns mildly. “Is that how you see me, sister? Or is it just a fabricated story?”

Your mouth is dry, his intense stare shaking you to your very core. “It is how I see you, Papa.”

For a moment, you look at each other in silent recognition. Something is said between you that can’t be described in words, an understanding, a promise. Of what you don’t quite know yet. He’s the first to look away, takes up position again, and for a second you wish you could wipe off the paint on his face, see if he’s blushing just as hard as you.

“I admit, I… ugh, I don’t know much about composition and all of that.” He coughs multiple times. “But it sounds… uh… very good. Yes. I like it.”

You smile to yourself and continue with the sketch, spending an excessive amount of time with it since you already expect it to be your favourite. After an hour of sketching and changing details, Papa is visibly tired. At this point he’s only lifting his arms up when you ask him to, so you decide it’s time for a break before you dedicate the rest of your time to different poses.

As he drinks some water and helps himself to more of the chocolates, you clean up your lines. It should be good enough to convince Sister Imperator, the Mother Superior of your church. At least you hope so.

“Sister.”

You look up only to find Papa standing right next to your easel, a timid smile on his face, clearly uneasy to disturb you. He holds out a glass for you, gloved hand tightly wrapped around it, his slight tremor only visible by the rippling of the water inside.

“I think you should take a break too, eh? Hydrate. And all that.”

The gesture alone makes you sigh in gratitude. You lean back, accept the glass from him and take a generous sip. Only now do you realise how your blind focus on the sketch drained you.

“Thank you, Papa,” you say. “I honestly forgot.”

“Take care, yes? Don’t overwork yourself.”

“I will. I’m sorry, I think I was in a tunnel.”

“I can tell.” He shifts, tapping his fingertips against each other. “When you started, you got this kind of… crazy look. Like you’re possessed by the demon of art.” He laughs. “You must really enjoy it.”

You stare at him open-mouthed, momentarily stunned. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, obviously. He has no idea, is just joking around like he’s prone to do. He doesn’t know your past, he doesn’t know that he may well be right, in a strange, bizarre way.

“I do, yes. I enjoy it,” you squeeze out. “So much.”

“Are you okay?”

You nod hurriedly, set the glass down and return to your sketch. “Actually, I think I don’t need a break, but feel free to take as long as you want. I need some more time here anyway.”

One last glance at him tells you he’s taken aback by your reaction, but you don’t look long enough to see more, too focused on suppressing an influx of painful memories. He only hums as he sits down on the chair.

After recovering just enough to regain your focus, you try a few different poses, sitting and standing ones, to some you dedicate more time than to others. You know Sister Imperator will want to have choices tomorrow morning, when you discuss your work. What strikes you most is how easily your hand is flying over the paper, leaving effortless lines of charcoal and pencil that make it seem like you’ve been familiar with Papa’s curves and edges since all of eternity.

Maybe you are. Maybe you payed closer attention to him these past few years than you realised.

“I think we’re done for today,” you tell him as you add the last few lines to a sketch of him sitting with his legs crossed. It’s a classic pose that you simply cannot withhold from Sister, no matter how unfitting it seems to you.

Papa immediately shoots up at your words, claps his gloved hands which releases a muffled sound and starts to stretch out his tired limbs. You feel bad for forcing him through so many uncomfortable poses today. But he looks at you with a bright smile, the excitement of a school boy who awaits his assessment. “So, how did it go?”

You smile to yourself, his happiness catching. “Good! Good. You’re a very patient model, Papa, more proficient at keeping still than I expected.”

“Awww, thank you, thank you.” He walks over to you, hands clasped together now. “And how are the results?”

“I think we have a great selection. I’ll go over some of them later but…” You sigh, look at the stack of sketches by your side. “Actually, do you want to… pre-select which ones to show Sister?”

His eyes light up. “Yes. Yes, sure.”

He joins you at your table, standing right next to you, but the distance is short enough for you to catch a whiff of his cologne. Suddenly nervous, your insides all tingly, you clean away your materials so you can spread out the individual sketches. Some are more refined than others, some you can rule out easily on your own. Then you let Papa choose his favourites. His hand moves over the smooth surface of the table, barely grazing one of the sketches.

“I like this one most, the one you did in the beginning,” he says, holding it up and into the light. “You are right, it is different. Good different. But I like all of them, truly. You are very gifted, sister.”

You catch his gaze, the kind smile on his face so genuine it makes you believe his praise without hesitation. “Thank you, Papa. I am so glad you like my idea.” You truly value his words, his opinion in general, but sadly you know he is not the one to worry about. After you brought the sketches into an order reflecting your combined ranking, you look up at him. “Do you think Sister will like them, too?”

He takes in your worried face. “I know she will. She may not be as… uh, open about it, I think. She is not always the best at giving enough praise to all of you. But you would not be here if she did not like your work.”

You nod, well aware that he’s right. “She wants to see the sketches tomorrow morning. Will you be there, too?”

“Not that I know of. I don’t think it was in my schedule.”

You feel your shoulders slump as you let out a disappointed sigh.

“Would you feel better if I was there?” Papa asks, ever so attentive.

You look at him, your voice more of a whisper. “Yes, I would.”

“When is the meeting?”

“I don’t want to waste your time, Papa, I could not–“

“When is it?” he asks again, his voice so gentle yet insistent.

“At nine in her office.”

“Mhm, I will see you tomorrow, then.”

You smile, fight the urge to reach out for his hand that’s still lingering near the sketches. How you would love to give it a grateful squeeze, to feel the smooth, comforting leather against your shaking hand. But he doesn’t have to know the extent of your insecurities. Papa gives you another smile as well, a remarkably beautiful one with the way his lashes are meeting in the corners of his eyes, his crow’s feet more prominent. You wish you could capture him like this, so expressive, but then he’s already moving to the door and you realise you kept him far longer than was planned.

“Thank you,” he says, lingering in the open doorway. “I don’t think I ever enjoyed standing around for three hours as much as I did today.”

You can’t help but laugh. “I will try to make it more entertaining next time.”

Papa looks at you a little absently, the corners of his mouth still raised. Then he suddenly nods as if he remembered an important thing, whirls around and practically floats down the corridor. When he’s out of sight and the door finally closes, you rest your hand on its hard surface, feeling the smooth wood at your coal-black fingertips. You inhale deeply, then exhale through an open mouth.

He did not say anything. He does not remember.

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia still tastes the chocolates on his tongue when he makes his way to his office. He wasn’t aware that his sweet tooth is such an open secret. But maybe you are just especially thorough in your research.

Research on… him.

The thought that you spent time learning about him makes him smile, even though you said it’s just to make him comfortable because it’ll show in the portrait. Of course it would have a professional reason, you are so proficient, so mindful in whatever you do.

Maybe you don’t even remember.

He’s still not sure what he expected when he climbed up the three flights of stairs this morning, waiting in front of the door for another five minutes until he wasn’t embarrassingly out of breath anymore. The nerves he didn’t get rid of, no. His heart beat so fast upon reaching out for the door that he kept his hand lingering on the brass knob for another few minutes. But he would have been late had he not finally opened, so now instead of hating his tardiness he hates how he stammered when he talked to you. Asking if he’s in the right room, when he sees you standing there with all kinds of art supplies. Idiotic, really. Unbecoming to a Papa who is about to have his stately likeness captured by a talented young sister.

But you’re not just any sister, are you?

He would have to allow himself a few minutes of respite before continuing with his work. As much as he enjoys your proposal for the pose… he would have preferred sitting for the duration of those three hours like Terzo did. Now his lower back hurts and he has to do paperwork and no idea how he is supposed to concentrate. His fingers nervously tap the desk pad, the sound of leather on leather almost inaudible. His gloves feel sweaty against his palms. The same gloves you grazed today with your coal-dusted hands. Such a featherlight touch.

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and remembers that he is Papa now. There is no time for insecurity, no time for distractions, no time for any of these old ghosts to haunt him. His schedule is packed. No it is, in fact, overflowing. And yet he readily booked more overtime by looking over the sketches with you, by agreeing to join you for the meeting tomorrow. How could he not have, when you seemed so painfully nervous, when you so willingly admitted that his presence would be of help?

As he opens his eyes, takes in the dismal emptiness of the room around him, he wonders if he will ever be able act normal around you.

✦ ✧ ✦

That night, after spending hour upon hour working on the sketches, you finally enter your  quarters, strip out of the dusty overalls you’ve been wearing all day and hang them up on their designated hook by the door. All you want is to take a hot shower and have a snack but of course you find your roommate Sybil on the couch, watching tv like she does most nights, some comedy show she’s trying to get you into without much success.

“Oh, hi!” Her blue eyes meet yours as she notices you, her thick, blood-red pony tail whipping around her face when she moves. “You’re late, Rubens.”

“Hey,” you greet her, ignoring the nickname. It’s a different artist every day – she’s very fond of baroque at the moment. Being relatively new here, about four months in, she is still desperately trying to befriend you.

Naturally, you keep her at a distance.

“Wanna join me?” she asks. “I made popcorn and the microwave only half-exploded.”

“Nah. I really need a shower.”

“How was your day?” she asks, ignoring the last bit in favour of chaining you to the conversation. “Did you work so long? Didn’t see you at dinner.”

You sigh. “Yeah, the sketches need to be done by tomorrow morning, so I didn’t really have a choice. You know how I obsess over these things.”

She nods with so much understanding that you do sit down next to her for a moment and grab a handful of popcorn. It’s salty.

“How’d it go with Papa?”

“It went well.”

Sybil rolls her eyes, throws some popcorn into her mouth and doesn’t even bother swallowing before she speaks again. “One of these days you’re going to speak more than five words to me and I’ll die of shock.”

You can’t fight a smile as you get up to finally slip under the shower.

A good fifteen minutes later you’re back in your bedroom, eating some heated-up canned soup, window open despite the cold in favour of listening to the nocturnal sounds of the gardens. The birds have returned from their winter travels and you hear the occasional rustling of leaves as they move through the trees and bushes, starting to build their nests. You’re lucky to be on the second floor, overlooking Primo’s rose garden, still bare now but in a month or two one of the most beautiful spots around the abbey. The moon stands high today, a Waxing Gibbous, bathing every surface in its pale light, deep shadows roaming the grounds wherever it doesn’t reach. It’s bright enough for you to look around your room without the ceiling lights on.

Tiny. Your bed takes up half of the space, the rest is a mess of stacked novels, an untidy clothing rack, your small desk and a shelf with all of your old sketchbooks. Two large posters cover your bare walls, one of the Prequelle album cover, another one of your favourite of de Goya’s Black Paintings. Your sparse, dark decor is the opposite to Sybil’s gaudy style, but for some reason they compliment each other everywhere else in your small quarters.

Suddenly, your eyes are caught by a shiny reflection of the moonlight on your shelf, a glaring silver sheen in the midst of shadows. You figure it’s a pocket mirror or a lost piece of jewellery, but you set down your bowl of soup to inspect it nonetheless. You shift until you’re hanging halfway off the bed, finger hooking into a very familiar chain. You pull it with you as you climb back onto your mattress. Cradling the previously hidden object in your hands, fingers softly tracing the individual stones that sparkle so beautifully in the moonlight, you huff out a humourless laugh.

It’s the crucifix he wore that night.

Chapter Text

“No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream.”

― Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

✦ ✧ ✦

When you were a child, no more than six years old, you found a lost bat in your basement.

It must have been there for a while, sitting on a dusty old shelf with no way out, right next to the skipping rope you had been looking for. The body looked small, starved, weak. Not knowing what to do, you called for your parents, voice laced with fear and urgency. You tried again and again, louder and louder, but after the fourth fruitless attempt you realised no one would come. Too scared to leave the poor, frightened animal alone, you decided to help.

Somehow.

Remembering that your mother told you not to touch wild animals, you grabbed your father’s gardening gloves from the shelf. They were far too big, but you managed to push your fingertips under the body and slowly took the bat from its spot. It did not rouse, wings pressed tightly to the tiny body. As you sluggishly climbed up the stairs, scared to hurt the fragile animal, you searched your mind for a name that fit.

Mona.

Mona, after the vampire cartoon character, even though you were not sure if it was a male or female bat. Mona wouldn’t mind either way, you decided, she was a bat after all and it meant nothing to her, so you took her into your room, setting her down on your desk. Inspecting the bat in better lighting did not produce any valuable knowledge, apart from the fact that she hardly moved, only trembled slightly. Her back also moved in a way that, you hoped, meant she was breathing okay.

For a moment, you dreamed about keeping Mona as your pet. You would have loved to have a pet and no one in your class had one this awesome. But even at six years old you knew that bats did not make great pets and that your parents would take her away from you.

And since Mona was probably sick you couldn’t hide her.

It must have been half an hour later that your mother came into your room. You showed her the bat and told her what happened, stumbling over your words in excitement and haste. She didn’t seem bothered that you had picked Mona up, instead she inspected her with a similar curiosity.

“You need to be careful with it,” she told you. “It could be sick.”

“Maybe she’s just tired. And I only touched her with gloves.”

“Her?”

“Mona.”

Your mom smiled. “Well, you could try giving Mona some water.”

And so you did. She brought you a spoon with a tiny drop of water and when the bat drank, you let out a delighted shriek. Mona didn’t seem particularly bothered by that. You half expected her to fly away right after, but she just stayed in her curled-up position.

“You’ll have to wait – maybe she’s going to fly off tonight. We should place her on your windowsill so she can leave whenever she wants.”

You grabbed a blanket for her to sit on and placed her on the sill with tiny, shaking hands, scared to accidentally drop her. Window closed again, you simply sat there, legs crossed, watching her all day with a curious interest you had never felt before. Again you fantasised about keeping her for yourself. You imagined her hanging at the ceiling, upside down, right above your bed, sleeping all day with her wings wrapped around her tiny body, then fluttering around your small bedroom at night and landing on your shoulder like a parrot. Bats slept during the day right?

Instinctively, you pulled your animal encyclopaedia from your bookshelf, a weighty tome with many pictures and text you could not quite read yet. Flipping through the pages, stopping at the mammals section, you quickly found a whole double page about bats, complete with close-up photos, a sketch of the anatomical structure of their wings and pictures of different bat species. You were fascinated by their scrunched up noses, hairy faces, their big ears and sharp teeth. You expertly compared the sketches to Mona, pretending to be a proper zoologist who actually knew what they were doing.

After inspecting the visuals, you tried to decipher the words on the page with your very new, very unpracticed reading skills. This book was not like the children’s books that you could read by now. But you spotted the word bat at the top of the page, then read parts of the text, something about fruit bats and bats who eat insects. But your progress was slow, the efforts frustrating, many hard words strung together in even harder sentences. At some point your mom found you brooding over the book.

“How is Mona?” she asked.

“She’s still on the window sill. Can you read with me?”

And so you sat down with your mom, letting her tell you all about bats, how they’re the only mammals who can properly fly and not just glide, how after rodents they’re the most common mammal species, accounting for a quarter of all of them. You had never known there were so many bats, so many of them all around you, all around the world, and it was only because most of them were hidden during the day. Because they preferred the night.

“Bats use ultrasound for orientation. That means they’re making sounds humans can’t hear, but because their ears are very sensitive, they can hear when an object is close by,” your mom explained. “They’re very comfortable in the dark, they don’t rely on light to be able to see.”

They’re very comfortable in the dark.

Mona was just like you. She did not mind being awake at night, just like you when you did your clandestine nightly drawing sessions, hours upon hours spent crouched over your sketchbook, peace and quiet all around you. Only Mona did not have to use a flashlight. She also most likely did not get caught by her parents every so often.

When your father got home that night he was tired and you ate dinner in absolute silence. You were desperate to tell him about Mona. You absolutely considered her your new best friend. But you knew you weren’t supposed to be chatty while eating or your food would get cold, so you waited patiently until everyone was done.

Then it burst out of you. “I found a bat today! A real bat, in our basement! I saved her!”

“A bat?”

“Yes, a real bat.”

“Should we call someone?” your mother asked.

“What for? It’s a bat. It’ll fly off or it’ll die.”

His words stung. The prospect of Mona dying scared you so much that you ran off to your room with tears in your eyes, driven by a compulsive need to check on your helpless friend. You returned to the window, finding her sitting on the window sill just how you had left her. Trembling, still crying, you struggled to make out if Mona was still breathing.

“You won’t die,” you mumbled. “You will fly off. And I will watch you all night until you do.”

The bat did not react, of course. But she did still breathe.

With the blind affection of a child you felt intensely connected to the bat, so there was no semblance of boredom when you sat there, watching for hours upon hours. But of course the day had exhausted you, so staying awake for too long was a struggle. It was also New Moon, the whole sky pitch black, hardly any light by the window. But you could not use the flashlight, could not risk being sent to bed and miss even a second of this. Only you dozed off without noticing, your eyes too heavy to stay open, waking up hours later without being able to tell how much time had passed.

When you finally managed to peel your eyes open, Mona was gone.

At first, you were confused, sleep still clinging to you like a blurry fog. But then all the feelings hit you at once, a tidal wave of relief, sadness, loss. If she managed to fly away that meant she was well, she didn’t die, she would find back to her old life. But she was gone now, undoubtedly very far away, somewhere out there in the night.

It left you stuck in your room, all alone, no way of ever seeing her again. You wept, choking on your sobs, until your mother came in to wake you for school.

✦ ✧ ✦

A frown, followed by an unimpressed hum.

“It’s a different take on humility,” you explain, wringing your hands.

“Mhm.” Sister Imperator inspects the sketch with so much scrutiny that you’re almost sure she’s going to fire you. Her face doesn’t betray any of her thoughts. “Humility.”

She says it like the word tastes bitter on her tongue, lips sticking together. You’re in her office, every single sketch spread out over her neat wooden desk, subject for further inspection. No matter why, being in her office always makes you feel like a student who was summoned to the principal, ready to be scolded for misbehaving.

“I like it very much,” Papa declares into the painful silence, not very helpful but with such an adorable sincerity that it makes you smile.

Sister glances up, gives him a curious look, eyes narrowed for just a second. Then she scans the sketches again, lips pursed. “Should we not go for something classic, C?”

“Uhh…” Papa’s eyes widen for a second but you’re too tense to fully take note of the exchange, you’re just looking at him to avoid seeing Sister’s relentless analysis of your work. If she refuses your ideas and hires someone else you will never recover from the humiliation. The dizzying fear in the pit of your stomach kept you on edge all night, sleep nowhere to be found, but now it’s slowly turning into panic. For a second, you almost wish to take Papa’s hand, just to have something soft and squeezable between your fingers. Instead you ball them into fists behind your back.

At last, she holds up two sketches – the one with Papa standing, your favourite, and another one with him in a classic sitting position, hands on the armrests of the chair.

“Perhaps you’re right and this is too antiquated.” She holds the paper up into the light and you can see the charcoal lines shining through, mirrored and faded. “He deserves to stand out. Does he not?”

“I agree,” you say, eager to finally get her permission.

She glances at you with her piercing eyes and you feel like one of your sketches, held into the light to reveal even the tiniest of flaws. Eventually she sets it down, lips pressed into a thin line. “Very well, you can proceed with this pose. Keep me updated on the progress like we discussed.”

Your sigh of relief feels like the start of an earthquake.

✦ ✧ ✦

You and Papa leave the office together – you with your sketches under your arm, safely stored inside a folder, Papa with his hands behind his back, fumbling with a ring on his pointer finger. He glances at you every few seconds as you walk down the corridor towards his own office. You’re not even sure why you’re walking together, it just so happens to be where your feet carry you.

“Do you… ugh, want to come in?” he asks when you reach the door. “I can make coffee, you can calm down a little, eh?”

There are a few siblings bustling around the halls, carrying papers, trays, books. You feel awkward, standing here with him for everyone to see. This is more contact, more interaction, than you had in the past few months, all squeezed into the narrow frame of two days. You’re not sure how you feel about it. You only know that your urge to avoid him is gone.

“Sure,” you eventually say. “Yes, that would be nice. Thank you.”

Following him inside, you realise that you haven’t been in this office before. He hasn’t been Papa for very long. Was it a month now? Or two? Upon his ascension he got assigned new rooms – more spacious, closer to the other Papas’ offices, a secretary working for him three days a week – that much you’ve heard. You still remember the Cardinal’s office, an endearing kind of mess, papers and books strewn everywhere – not in a disorderly but in a busy, I-know-exactly-where-to-find-what-I-need sort of way. You’d only been in there a few times, one occasion that stood out like a blackened page in your book, and avoided him ever since. However, you did often notice the lights streaming through the gap under his door until late into the night. His office, the place that saved you, in a way, a place you often found your feet carrying you during your first few months here. But only because it was on the way to your quarters. Since then you got better at forgetting.

This office is much more worthy of a Papa – expensive wooden furniture, a coffee station, an ornate couch for visitors with crimson brocade upholstery, floor to ceiling bookshelves, neatly organised by author and alphabet, and an arched window overlooking the gardens. You catch sight of two siblings out on a stroll before your eyes are drawn back to Papa.

“So, how do you like your coffee in the morning?”

You tell him, watch him eagerly get to work at the coffee machine that you don’t even want to begin to understand. It looks complicated, adorned with an Italian brand’s name in chrome-plated lettering, and you’re only now coming down from your adrenaline high, thoughts jumbled and the relief not yet tangible. The chairs in front of his desk look inviting to your tired bones. You decide to sit down, watch how Papa expertly operates the machine.

“Thank you for coming to the meeting,” you say into the awkward silence.

“See, it went well!” Papa smiles at you, looking up from what you assume is a milk frother. “Were you worried? You looked worried.”

“Yes, very.”

“You know you are very talented, yes?” He clicks a button and the next words are almost drowned out as the coffee starts pouring. Its intense earthy aroma hits you immediately, a welcome sensory distraction. “We chose you because of that, sister.”

Realistically, you know he is right, but on a less rational level you are always scared of messing up. How could you not be, when you messed up so many other things in your life? Everything that ever really mattered? The doubts, the fear, they are deeply ingrained in you, hardened by years and years of the same ever-repeating patterns. Not even the flattery of a Papa can take them away. You doubt anything ever will.

Papa is oblivious to your insecurities, busy adding the frothed milk to your cup like a professional barista. “You should feel better now, sì? She accepted your proposal.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I’m happy she liked my idea.”

“Mhm, I knew she would.” He looks up, takes you in with watchful eyes. “But you’re… I’m sorry, sister, but I get the feeling that you are not quite, uh… truthful. With me.”

“I… ehm.” He is so perceptive, more than you thought. You forage for an excuse but you can’t find one that’s convincing, so you decide to be vague. “I mean, it’s a lot of pressure, of course. Maybe the relief will come later.”

You realise that you could use a nap. Staying up all night overthinking has taken its toll on you and now you’re emotional, weak-willed, unable to hide anything from him. You get the feeling that he reads you like an open book and that is something you’re not used to, nor do you particularly appreciate it. Your guard is carefully kept in place, not something to poke around in.

“Sì, sì. I get that.” Papa leans against the edge of his desk, sets down the mug right in front of where you’re sitting. “You are scared she won’t like the result?”

You’re momentarily rendered speechless by his presence, his words barely reaching your ears. He is so close beside you that his knee is almost touching yours. There is not even a full centimetre separating your joints, only two layers of fabric and a paper-thin crack of air. If you shifted slightly, if you even so much as sat up straighter, they would touch. The thought of that should not make you feel so dizzy.

You swallow, unclench your jaw as you look back up. Papa’s kind eyes are still taking you in, filled with the promise of patience, of understanding – the vague echo of an expression you’ve seen before. The first time you took in his face from such close proximity it was shaped differently. But his eyes. Oh, his eyes have not changed at all.

“I’m scared no one will like it,” you confess. “That I mess up.”

Papa’s brow furrows. “Why are you so afraid of it?”

“I messed up before and I’m kind of… doomed to mess up all kinds of things. It’s a constant fear. The last time… when I painted Terzo–” You stop yourself. If you go on he might remember, he might start to piece things together that should stay separated. “I just want to do my best.”

“I don’t think I understand…”

“It really doesn’t matter.” You pull your knee away, start rebuilding your defences that you should have never let slip. He caught you in a vulnerable moment, that’s all. “I mean, I know I’m capable. I feel really good about my idea. I shouldn’t worry.”

Papa is visibly confused by your sudden change in demeanour, a deep crease on his forehead and his eyes so narrow you almost expect him to ask what the fuck is wrong with you. But then his face softens, his kind eyes resting upon your stern features once more, loosening them like he’s carefully untying a knot. You can feel your muscles slowly relaxing.

“It is perfectly fine to have doubts about your work. We all do, sister, but at the end of the day you can trust that you’re on the right path, yes?” The corners of his black-painted mouth move into a comforting smile. “You are here with us, working hard in the name of our Dark Lord, creating art that must stun even him. Trust that His hand shall guide you to where you are supposed to be.”

His words further ease your tension. You return his smile, focus on his kind eyes. “Yes, you’re right, Papa. I should not doubt Him.”

He lifts his gloved hand to your upper arm, only it never touches, just hovers in anticipation. You instinctively turn to look at it, see the slight tremor of insecurity. When you look back up at him he awkwardly pulls back, his ears turning red immediately.

“So… yes. Don’t worry too much and eh… you know, I am always here if you need my counsel. I cannot speak on your painting, but I can speak on… ugh, many other things.” He coughs dramatically, hand shooting up to cover his mouth. “So, ugh, I think you should drink your coffee, sì? Before it gets cold. Cold coffee is not good. No, no.”

With that he turns back to the small coffee station to prepare his own cup, creating a safe distance that feels very necessary but also slightly disappointing. You realise that you enjoy being in his presence, even more so now than when you painted him yesterday.

“Thank you, Papa,” you say, cradling the warm cup in your hands. “I didn’t know you were a barista. It looks really good.”

“Oh, well, Terzo taught me,” he says, then chuckles. “He is very particular about his… eh, preferences.”

You watch him pour his own coffee, far less ceremoniously, adding a big swig of evaporated milk  before he sits down across from you. Now that the desk is separating you, you find it a lot easier to focus on him. He’s eyeing you expectantly, clearly waiting to see your reaction to the coffee you still haven’t tried. You do him the favour, lifting the cup to your lips and taking a cautious sip. It feels like the first deep inhale after holding your breath for too long, like slipping a warm sweater on after freezing for an hour. And that’s not just because the coffee is good – which it is – but because he took such care preparing it. It’s warm and aromatic and Papa made it. Papa made it for you, to comfort you, to cheer you up after a stressful meeting, and this may well be the first time in years that you do not have to comfort yourself.

“It’s so good, Papa,” you choke out, pushing your thoughts into a silent corner. “Thank you.”

“Ah, no, non c'è di che!” Papa smiles to himself as he takes sip from his mug. “I can’t remember when we see each other again. Is it Friday?”

It takes you a second to realise he means your next session together. Caught up in your worry about the sketches, you forgot that this was only the beginning of a long process. You have the permission to proceed now, but the road ahead won’t be any easier. There is so much you want to prepare before your next session, so much to consider. Your time with him is limited, after all.

“Uh, yes. Friday. Same time.” You continue to sip your coffee, try desperately not to be stressed out and fail spectacularly. “Actually, I should not keep you. You’re so busy, I’m… I’m just stealing your time, Papa.”

His eyes widen. “No, no. Please, don’t worry, sister.”

“I do, though. You have much more important things to tend to.”

“It is my responsibility as Papa to make sure that everyone is well. What is more important than that, eh?” He sets down his mug, leans forwards and nearly knocks it over immediately. “You, sister, are one of few siblings who never ask for help, who never come to any consultation hours. Accept this small act of kindness, sì? Let your Papa take care of you.”

His words have your stomach in knots, for more reasons than one. The lonely, affection-starved part of you is desperate to lean into his comfort, the other part, scared and distrusting, tries to push away. How does he know you’re not attending the consultation hours? For all he knows you could go to someone else. But you don’t dare ask for fear of appearing ungrateful. So you just nod meekly, set your now empty mug down. Some of the foam still clings to your finger and you bring it to your lips to lick it off, a subconscious effort. You only realise it has caught Papa’s attention when your eyes meet his – and they’re fixed on your mouth.

He immediately clears his throat and averts his gaze, then seems to decide it’s not enough of a cover-up, so he takes a long sip from his mug, staring into the depths of his coffee. You’re not sure if he is nervous around you in particular or if it is a general anxiety that manifests in the form of these nervous mannerisms.

“I think I should go and get to work,” you finally say, biting the inside of your cheek.

Papa nods. “Mhm, sì, sì. I’m sure you’re excited to get started?”

“I am,” you say, only a half-lie. “Thank you, Papa. For… this.”

Lifting a gloved hand, he stops you with a wave, almost like he’s swatting a fly. “I will see you, sister.”

You stand, neatly pushing the chair back into its designated position. You drum your fingers on the back of it for a second as you take Papa in for just a little longer. His smile is just as kind as earlier, an expression that makes his face appear softer than usual. He looks like he’s about to jump up to show you out, but eventually he only reclines in his office chair. Once you’re at the door, you gently push it open.

“Goodbye, Papa,” you say, glancing at him one more time.

He waves. “Bye, sister. Take care, yes? I will see you.”

With one last smile you push the door closed, the latch clicking into place. You only allow the deep sigh of relief to escape once you’re sure he can’t hear it. It takes you a moment to reorient yourself, to let your feet find their way to the studio, and even then your steps are shaky.

✦ ✧ ✦

Mona had gone but she never left your mind.

For the next six month all you drew were bats. You never forgot about your friendly creature of the night. A creature that was very comfortable in the dark, just like you.

She was what motivated you to spend all your free time creating art. By the end of your first school year you had five whole sketchbooks worth of drawings – all showed bats in varying poses and various levels of detail. By now you were somewhat of an expert – you knew how to draw fruit bats, flying foxes, mouse-eared bats, Daubenton’s bats, horseshoe bats – and you had accumulated a vast collection of books about them as well.

But despite improving your reading skills, honing your art skills, expanding your knowledge of zoology… your teachers weren’t very happy with you. So far, it hadn’t been a problem, you only drew during recess, never during class, but when you got your end of year report, it still said that you were easily distracted, in your head all day, and not social enough. Apparently it was your fault now that your friend Liza didn’t care about bats or art and what else were you supposed to talk about?

You weren’t particularly bothered by the report, too excited to spend the next few weeks drawing without interruptions, until you overheard your parents talking in the kitchen later that day. You were about to head to the bathroom, your socked feet cold on the tiled floor, but stopped dead in your tracks. When you heard what your parents were talking about, your bladder was quickly forgotten.

“I don’t want to take her art materials away,” your mother said. “She is clearly talented, passionate… but the teacher said it could affect her school work next term, once the material gets more demanding.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I thought we should channel her creativity in more productive ways.”

You can hear the annoyance in your father’s sigh. “How?”

“I’ve seen this art studio in the city. Some of the artist’s works are showcased in the windows and they were actually good. Maybe he could teach her to paint?”

“Does he even give lessons?”

“I think he does.”

“I don’t know how that would help. She’ll only get more obsessed.”

“Or she’ll be able to learn how to channel her creativity when she is supposed to.”

Again, your father sighed and you knew he was too tired to argue. “Fine. If you think it’s going to help.”

You stood there, in the middle of the hallway with your hand clasped to your mouth to suppress a delighted squeal. Art lessons? Painting? With a real artist? By now you were freezing and before your parents caught you without your slippers on you finally made your way to the bathroom.

Art lessons. Art lessons. You couldn’t believe your luck.

Chapter Text

“We don't begin to covet with imagined things. Coveting is a very literal sin – we begin to covet with tangibles, we begin with what we see every day.”

― Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia is still not used to his new space.

The many years spent in his tiny, admittedly messy Cardinal’s office shaped his daily routine to the point where the route has been burnt into his muscle memory, and even now, so many weeks after his ascension, he still sometimes finds himself in front of the wrong door.

This morning, distracted and still tired from a sleepless night, he even lets his feet carry him inside, shocked when he finds the room utterly dark and cold, his old furniture covered in dust sheets. A moth repeatedly flies against the window, hitting the glass pane again and again in a quiet, rhythmic knock. Copia goes to open the latch, watches the moth as it flies out into the pale orange light of dawn and inhales the crisp cold air of a cloudless spring morning. When he turns back around, he can almost see the ghost of his former self sitting behind a once cramped desk, counting receipts, signing papers, working until late into the night to avoid his lonely quarters.

The dingy room is still unoccupied, though he’s sure that after the summer some newly appointed cardinal is going to inhabit it, a new arrival from the chapter in Rome or California or Satan knows where. It’s hard to imagine that he was one of these young cardinals once, bursting with ideas and plans for the future, working hard in the name of his faith. It’s even harder to imagine that he’s Papa now, an appointed leader, a representative, the face of the whole church. He achieved what his ambition carried him towards for so many decades, and while Copia always thought that upon ascending he would be a changed man, he knows that deep inside he’s still the same person – lonely, awkward, desperate to prove himself.

But there is no time to be nostalgic, he’s supposed to meet Terzo. Heading for the door, he stops dead in his tracks as he spots the inverted crucifix hanging just above the frame. It is one of the bejewelled ones he used to wear as Cardinal, converted into a wall decoration after the chain broke. Suddenly he wonders if you still have the one he wore the night he found you, not even ten steps away from this door, so utterly lost. He still doesn’t know what really happened, but he remembers how he placed the pendant in your shivering hands and how you clutched it to your chest like a lifeline.

As he scurries to his new office, the abbey is a lot busier, breakfast in full swing now. A Sibling greets him, squeezing past his slender frame in a narrow stone archway. He returns the salutation, hurrying now to avoid receiving any more attention while he’s so caught up in his memories. It’ll be hard enough not to show his puzzled state in front of Terzo.

His relationship with the youngest Emeritus brother has been strained ever since replacing him as Papa, one of the many things occupying Copia’s mind these days. Terzo never outwardly blames him for any of it but Copia can tell it’s weighing on him – the humiliation of being forcefully dragged off the stage, the involuntary redistribution of power, all of his plans destroyed because the Higher Clergy disapproved. The first hints of controversy around Copia’s ascension were countered effectively with means not even he’s fully aware of and no one dares defy Sister Imperator at this point. The atmosphere is still tense, but it’s improving, and he’s trying to settle into his new role without feeling guilty for practically stealing it from his friend.

If it would have been up to Copia, things would have gone very differently and Terzo knows that. And yet there is an invisible wall between the two men now that obstructs the closeness they once shared. Copia made sure to keep their coffee dates in his now even busier schedule – Tuesdays and Fridays at eight, the espresso machine in his office always cleaned beforehand, freshly-ground coffee beans waiting to be brewed and the milk frother already filled. Terzo always brings pastries from the kitchens and they have a little chat over breakfast.

It’s a ritual Copia does not want to miss.

And neither does Terzo. Despite arriving five minutes late every single time.

“Buongiorno, amico mio. Forgive my tardiness.” The former Papa plops down in the chair in front of Copia’s desk, legs crossed, arms propped up on either side, one of his hands holding a greasy paper bag. “I got our favourites today.”

Copia hands him his cappuccino. He’s not good with the latte art, but Terzo never comments. For a brief moment he thinks about you sitting in this chair earlier this week, not with Terzo’s air of easy confidence but oozing so much tension, so much anxiety. It’s a bitter contrast. Copia wonders if you feel any better now, especially since he hasn’t had a chance to confirm. Sometimes he thinks you’re moving around like a ghost – unseen, unheard, untouched.

“You’re alright, Papa, yes?” Terzo asks, spreading out the sinful treats on Copia’s desk. Their shared love for all things sweet makes these dates a lot easier. With a mouth full of coffee and sugary dough it’s easy to avoid all of the painful topics.

“Sì, sì, sto molto bene.”

Copia smiles awkwardly as he makes another cappuccino for himself. He doesn’t add the evaporated milk to his coffee when Terzo is around – there are sins not even a Satanic Anti-Pope can forgive, at least not when he’s Italian.

The former Papa carefully sips his hot beverage, careful not to smudge his pristine black lipstick.“So, you are back to sitting for the portrait today, Papino? How is it going?”

“Going well, yes. Very well.”

Terzo smiles. “She’s pretty, sì?”

“Who?”

He says your name and Copia is grateful the papal paint hides his warm cheeks. This is the last thing he wants to discuss with Terzo. He’s always grateful for his counsel, of course. He appreciated the changes Terzo proposed for his face paint – get rid of the nose holes, shave properly – and he has used his skincare tips to take care of the break-outs he inevitably got once he had to wear a full face of make-up all day. Talking about his love life with him on the other hand? It makes Copia feel the debilitating inadequacy he’s trying so hard to overcome, created not only by living in the shadows of the Emeritus brothers, of their success and their sexual appeal, but his own upbringing, the way he had to work twice as hard to achieve the same results. Most of all Terzo, who is closest to his age, who has always been ahead of him. Terzo, who is the object of desire of almost every single Sibling of Sin. Terzo, whose charms can sway even the most apprehensive of people in his favour. Terzo, who so confidently celebrates the sins of the flesh, who would never hesitate to take what or who he wants. And Copia loves him, he truly does, but it’s hard not to feel the last few traces of envy, even now after he took his spot, his titles.

Copia stares into his cup. “Mhm.”

“Mhm? È tutto?”

“Sì, sì, è bellissima.”

The way Terzo grins means that he’s seeing right through him. But Copia can’t pretend it’s not true. He could never offend you like that, not even when there is no way of you ever finding out. But of course Terzo has noticed you as well, how could he not have? A heavy feeling forms in the pit of his stomach at the thought of you and Terzo being just as close, maybe even closer.

“Did you… eh… when she painted you…” Copia asks, unable to speak the words. “You know…”

“No, no.” Terzo waves the thought away. “I flirted a little, yes, but nothing came of it. I think she was not very well.”

Copia’s forehead scrunches up in question. “Not very well?”

“Ah, who knows? Maybe heartbreak, maybe she was just stressed. Non so perché.”

“She was sad?”

“Most of the time she seemed sad, one time she was very upset so we cut it short.” Terzo licks a drop of custard filling off his fingers, unbothered. “I asked her, but she was not very talkative as to why. I did not wish to intrude.”

Copia thinks back, trying to recall the details of that night. But Terzo won’t let him focus as he moans around another bite of the soft, richly filled pastry, brushing crumbs off his pristine purple robe.

“So good,” he mumbles, humming to himself. “You know, the sister who makes these is very talented in the other areas of indulgence as well, just in case you ever feel like… having your bread buttered, if you know what I mean…”

“I don’t have time for these things,” Copia just says, ignoring Terzo’s grin. “And I can butter my own bread.”

Terzo chuckles. “Oh, I know you do, Papino, but where is the fun in that, huh?”

Copia pouts against his coffee mug. “Stop calling me Papino, I am only a few years younger than you.”

Terzo stops chewing and leans forward in his chair, a skeptical eyebrow raised. “What is it that has you so up-tight this morning, Papa? Is it what I said about your little painter?”

“No.”

His lips curl into a knowing smirk. “Is there something I should know? Did you–”

“No! No, we did not. There is nothing.” His whole face is burning by now. “Niente, no. And she is not my painter.”

“Oh but you want her to be,” Terzo states. “You want her.”

“No, I just… I worry about her.” His cheeks turn even hotter at that lie. “She is very isolated, she doesn’t go to consultation, I don’t often see her around, she seems very anxious…”

“Do you want me to talk to her?” Terzo seems genuine in his offer. “My consultation hours are booked for the next few weeks but I’m sure I can find some time.”

Copia shakes his head. The last thing he wants is for you to run into the arms of Terzo instead of his. “Thank you, but I think I want to try it myself.”

“Of course you do.” Terzo starts eating again, grinning even as he chews. “You know, people get a lot more open when you f–“

Copia’s groan drowns out his last word and he wishes he wouldn’t be so obvious. He’s not even sure he wants you in that way or if it’s truly just his genuine concern for you. It’s nothing new, he’s been worried ever since he saw you for the first time, but now, spending more time with you–

A deep sigh. Copia finally grabs a pastry. “We should talk about budgeting next time.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The pastries feel heavy in his stomach as Copia leaves his office and he wonders if he should have just skipped the second one. His body can’t handle his little treats like it used to but he’s not ready to adjust to it just yet. What else is there to look forward to, if not a good dessert?

The door closes behind him with a click. He’s locking it with a big iron key when he hears someone calling out, rapid steps following.

“Papa! Papa!”

He swirls around right as a Sister approaches, her habit bunched around her knees as she hurries towards him, no headpiece to cover her wild blood-red locks. In her hand, he recognises the folder from your meeting with Sister Imperator, the one with all of your sketches of him. She waves it around carelessly and it pains him how her thumb bends the paper. He’s sure you would not appreciate that. He has half a mind to rip it from her hands.

Nevertheless, Copia gives a smile. “Sister Sybil? Can I help?”

“Picasso forgot this when she left this morning. Could you take it with you?” She must see the immediate look of confusion on his face for she adds your real name. “Sorry, uh, I’m her roommate. She told me you’re sitting for her today and I haven’t seen her yet, I think she skipped breakfast.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, uh. Yes, I will do that.”

“Thanks, Papa! Hope the session goes well.”

“Uhm. Yes, thank you, sister.”

She smiles brightly, the blue in her eyes coming out beautifully, and then she turns to leave. Copia remains puzzled for a second. So Sister Sybil is your roommate? He would not have guessed, he never sees you with her. Thinking about it, he never sees you with anyone, really. In fact, he does not see you very often at all.

With the folder tucked safely under his arm, he climbs the steps to the studio. The long hallway is abandoned as always, eerily so. Right when he’s about to reach out for the door, he suddenly remembers that the sister said you skipped breakfast. It’s a last minute decision, really, and he’s not entirely sure why he feels the need to take care of you like that but he turns around anyway.

He gets you what’s left in the kitchens, which isn’t a lot – a slightly too ripe banana, a dry pastry and a paper cup filled with stale coffee, kept warm for far too long. The last bit hurts him the most – had he more time he would make you a proper cup of coffee again. But he’s running late already and the last thing he wants is to keep you waiting.

Once his feet have carried him back to the studio he’s embarrassingly winded. Since coming back from the last tour, he has admittedly been slacking, his cardio routine is non-existent at this point, and he will definitely regret that once the next tour leg comes around which is only a few weeks from now. But it’s no use, he’s got other duties, quite a lot of them.

As he tries to calm down, to control his breathing, he realises his one big mistake. His hands are full and the door – closed.

He tries to open it with his elbow, but he slips, stumbling against the heavy wood with a loud thud. Groaning, he eventually manages to hit the brass handle just right but the old door is too heavy, the hinges too rusty. The only solution is to push with his hip, nearly dropping the coffee, but even so he has no leverage and any more impact would make the hot liquid spill all over his robes.

Silence settles around him. He waits a few seconds, resting his weight against the door as he catches his breath. Just when he’s about to try again, the door suddenly opens and he stumbles into the room, missing you by a hairsbreadth. Only Satan knows how he manages not to fall.

“Oh, good morning, Papa,” you greet, watching him intently as he straightens up. “So it was you I heard.”

Your eyes on him make him nervous, or… even more nervous than he already was before. This feeling doesn’t bode well for him, considering that he is going to have you look at him for the next few hours. But what eyes they are, so beautiful, rich and deep. A well of secrets, hiding all the things he wants to know about you, but not betraying any of them.

He coughs, smiles. “Yes, hi! Hello.”

Then he attempts to wave but he forgets the folder still tucked under his arm. It drops with a thud, hits the ground in the exact angle that makes it fall open and all the drawings spill out. They soar for a second, carried by the chill draft that always permeates the old stone walls of the abbey and following its current as if in slow-motion before they slither all over the dirty old wooden floor. A collage of his face and body in all kinds of angles and expressions is spread out before him, staring up at him. And you.

“Oh, cazzo!” Copia scrambles to pick up the paper. He nearly drops the cup of coffee in the process but then he feels your hand on his wrist. You hold it steady, thumb pressing into his pulse while not a single drop of the liquid spills out. Once he’s safe on his feet, you take everything he’s carrying and set it down on the table you use for your materials. Copia is still frozen, staring at you when you come back to him.

He’s embarrassed.

Oh, he’s so embarrassed.

His ears are burning and for a moment he’s scared you can see how his face is practically on fire.

“I am so sorry, sister, I– I was trying to get you some breakfast…”

“Oh, uh… yea, I may have skipped it this morning…” you say, brow furrowed in confusion and what he interprets as surprise. “That’s very kind, Papa. How do you know?”

“I met your roommate on the way here.”

“Oh, Sybil?”

Copia can barely focus on your words. He feels the urgent need to flex his hand, like he can shake off the ghost of your touch. Your fingertips left an imprint on his wrist even through the fabric of his shirt and it just won’t leave. Unnervingly, his skin tingles as if you were still squeezing and he could feel his own rapid pulse against your gentle fingers. “Ugh, yes, Sybil.”

You don’t comment, just stare right back at him with mild concern across your features. It’s only then that he notices that he is in fact squeezing his own wrist where you touched it just seconds before, tracing the exact spot where your thumb rested, feeling his heartbeat. He quickly lets go, snapping you both out of whatever velvety trance you’ve been in.

“Do I ugh…” It hits him right as he sees your easel, all the materials so neatly laid out on your little table. “Oh no, I forgot the mitre.”

He put on his robes before he headed out earlier but he didn’t bring the stupid hat. For a second he regrets even getting up this morning because it gets worse by the second. This is a never-ending string of embarrassments, of stepping into every puddle on the way here and tripping over his shoelaces before your very eyes.

“It’s fine, you can just get it when we’re taking a break,” you reassure him and he can’t believe you’re so calm despite his pitiful performance. “You’ve probably been running around enough already trying to get me food. I do really appreciate it, Papa.”

Copia stares at your timid smile but before he can save it to his memory you kneel down to collect your sketches. By Satan, he feels so useless it’s almost painful. He tries to help, he really does, but he’s shaking, very confused, and as he leans forward a little too eagerly, he bumps your heads together. The surprise as well as the pained hiss you let out send him reeling backwards. His foot catches on a floorboard and he reaches out for nothing, hands grasping the air as he falls right onto his butt. A searing pain shoots through his tailbone and straight into his back.

“Oh Satan–“

He stops. You hold your head with a giggle that turns into a full laugh, sitting back as well and massaging the abused spot on your forehead, and suddenly the pain in his butt vanishes and all he hears is that sound. Clear as a bell, bright and sunny as the spring day outside, the corners of your mouth morph your face into the most beautiful expression he’s ever seen. He realises that he’s never seen you laugh before and suddenly it becomes his new mission to get you to make these blissful sounds all the time.

“It’s fine,” you finally say, still laughing. “How’s your head?”

“My head?”

“And… your butt?”

Copia’s eyes widen, but they remain glued to your mouth, to the way your cheeks are all squished into two soft round pillows, bringing out the lines of laughter around your eyes. And all he can think about is how desperately he wants to kiss them, how badly he wants to move his thumb over the curve of your jaw, down the slope of your neck and shoulder.

“Papa?”

He snaps out of his dream at the worry-filled tone of your voice. “Sto molto bene, sorella, grazie. Don’t worry, okay?”

You slowly gather the rest of the drawings, still smiling. “You’re very well?”

“Yes! I’m sorry.” Copia scrambles to get up and he doesn’t even try to do any more helping, just watches you gather your sketches and safely store them back inside your folder. He wonders why he can’t act normal around you, why he's so nervous in your proximity. To his retrospective shame, he has always been awkward around people he found attractive. He has been awkward around many people if he’s being honest, not always interpreting social cues the right way or dealing with intrusive thoughts that made it hard to focus, but even though he got better and more confident over the years, you are an entirely different story. Because even though he doesn’t know you very well yet, he already knows that he wants to know you. He so badly does.

“So, ugh… are you ready to get started?” you ask, sipping on the coffee he brought and even though you cover it up well, the tiny quiver of your lip tells him that you’re struggling not to make a face at the horrible taste.

Copia, not convinced that he’s ready at all, merely nods and gets in position.

✦ ✧ ✦

Today, the whole ensemble is pretty much perfect – a vivid spring sun is shaping Papa’s face perfectly, the light slightly diffused by a few of the dusty curtains in the room and reflected by the intricate and sparkly embellishments on his robes. You already know the moody spring weather is going to give you a hard time soon, but right now? You could not be happier about what you’re working with.

It’s still surreal to be alone with him for these long stretches of time. The way he avoids your gaze tells you he’s still embarrassed by his entrance, even though you really don’t want him to feel like he has to be. Your Papa is a busy man, no doubt bustling about all morning, trying to make it in time with all of his clergy meetings and even fetching you a small breakfast. It’s unsurprising that his thoughts are scattered and his nerves are on edge these days.

As you begin to sketch, silence settles around you like dust on the old furnishings of the studio, not a heavy feeling but definitely lacking any sort of cognitive stimulation for your model.

“I nearly forgot!” You jump to your feet. “I brought my bluetooth speaker. For music.”

Papa perks up. “Music?”

“Yes, so it won’t be as boring for you.” You walk over to the windowsill where you placed your battery-powered bluetooth speaker and turn it on, connecting your phone.

When you return to your easel, Papa’s eyes are wide. “Oh, it wasn’t boring last time, sister. I didn’t ugh… if I gave you that impression…”

“No! No, I prefer music while working anyway. I thought you could be our DJ and choose the playlist.”

You hand him your phone, Spotify open already. Papa stares at you for a moment before his fingers close around the device. He taps a few times until he realises that he has to remove one of his gloves before he can actually use the touch screen.

“You can just choose one of my playlists or… ugh… Search for whatever you want to listen to,” you explain. “Do you know how to use Spotify?”

He scoffs indignantly. “I am old but not that old, eh?” He swipes a few times, mumbling. “One of the ghouls showed me on tour, not that I could not do it myself…”

You smile as you watch him scrolling through your playlists. After a moment, the first few notes of Solitude by Candlemass start playing. You’re a little surprised he chose your doom metal playlist for this sitting but you’re definitely not complaining.

I'm sitting here alone in darkness, waiting to be free, lonely and forlorn I am crying.

Papa looks at you expectantly. “This is not too distracting?”

“No, I love listening to doom metal while painting. It grounds me.” You feel your cheeks getting hot just like always when you feel like you’re sharing anything even remotely personal. “And ugh… it also helps me to find the right mindset for the type of art I’m doing.”

“What is it that you usually paint?” Papa asks, still scrolling. “If you don’t do Papa portraits I mean. I have seen a few of your artworks around the abbey but uh… if you don’t mind me asking, I would like to know more, yes?”

He would like to know more about you? Your art, you tell yourself, about your art.

Giving him access to your Spotify playlists may not have been such a good idea after all. Suddenly you feel very exposed, stripped bare, the lyrics of the song hitting too close to home while you lack any sort of privacy. Please let me die in solitude. You wonder if your musical choices influence the way he perceives you, if he’s judging you or getting the wrong impression. His face betrays nothing, he’s just reading the titles, most likely, searching for songs he enjoys.

Your eyes drift to the stack of canvases at the back of the room, trying to find an answer to his question. One thing is certain, you won’t offer to show him any of those.

“I do all sorts of paintings or drawings, really,” you finally say, trying to stay on safe grounds and not accidentally trigger any bad memories. Papa’s eyes meet yours in genuine interest but you quickly focus back on your not yet existent sketch. “Once I was done with school and my art classes I started doing portraits to pay my bills. My main passion has always been art that was rather dark, I’ve been inspired by Goya’s Black Paintings, by Romanticism in general or even some lesser known modern artists. I’ve always been fascinated by the night, by the macabre, by death and lust and all things forbidden, so I started dipping my toes into those themes ever since I was old enough to understand and learn about them. Well, and since joining the Ministry I am mostly doing sacrilegious art, art that honours the Dark One, some as commissions by other church members, some just for myself.”

The corners of his mouth rise and his gaze is soft when you meet it again. “That is indeed a beautiful way to honour our Dark Lord. We are lucky to have you here.”

His smile is catching and you can hardly ignore the way your heart beats the tiniest bit faster. You go on, running the coal over the paper – lines, curves, edges, all coming together to create the shape of Papa Emeritus IV. For the first time you can incorporate the details on his robes and even without the mitre it makes him look even more majestic. The way he appears in this pose is a stark contrast to the man who fell on his butt after bumping his head against yours just an hour ago. And yet you can’t help but wonder where the truth lies.

“So, you are only sketching today?” Papa asks after a while but he immediately flinches, scrunching his nose up. “Sorry, sister, I don’t mean this in an impatient way. I am just interested in your process, you know? I hope you don’t mind me asking or… disturbing your concentration.”

“It doesn’t bother me, Papa,” you assure him with a warm smile. He’s definitely more talkative today and you don’t mind at all. You’re actually very happy to converse with him. “And no, I won’t start painting today. I want a better, complete sketch first, a good reference for when you’re not around, some photos too. And besides, I will only get the canvas delivered by Monday. The guy in town who makes them for me took longer than he thought. In this size it’s a custom built and I couldn’t have done it myself without any help. Plus, I need to prepare it before any real painting happens.”

Papa nods understandingly. “It is a very big project, you are right. How long will it all take?”

“A few months I should think.”

His eyes widen at that statement. “So long?”

“Well, oil paints take very long to dry. It also depends on the technique… I am layering…” You stop yourself. “You probably don’t want to know the details.”

“I do. Please, tell me.”

He looks truly eager to know more, so you put your materials aside for a moment.

“If you are familiar with portraits of Rembrandt or da Vinci… you will notice they built up the paint in multiple layers, using transparent glazes that allow for very subtle transitions of colour. Now, we have better paint than they had back then, but it still takes a while for it to dry in between sessions. I will work with similar layers, not exactly the same way, but the process is similar enough. So at times I just have to wait a few days until it’s completely dry to prevent creases and make sure the painting lasts very long.”

Papa nods, smiles. “You are a very patient person, then.”

You shrug, looking away. “I have to be. And we want your likeness to be remembered for centuries to come, right?”

“Hm, right.”

You continue like this, chatting loosely, falling into a comfortable silence whenever you have to stay more concentrated. At some point you take a break so Papa can get his mitre before you proceed to take some photographs on your old camera. It doesn’t take long but you can tell the change in program serves you both as a little breather.

An hour later your sketch is coming together, even though you’ll have to spend some more time on the details later until you’re satisfied. Like last time, Papa struggles to stay in position at some point, so you let him sit on the chair for a while unless you need specific details. Near the end of your session, you notice that he looks incredibly tired. Resting his head on his hands for a second, he inhales deeply, letting out a dramatic yawn that he struggles to cover up fast enough. You smile to yourself, noticing your own exhaustion slowly creeping in. Soon it’s time for lunch and you’re glad – as kind as the gesture was, the banana and the pastry did not help all that much.

With crampy, tired hands you finish up the last few important parts of your sketch, not paying much attention to your model. The next time you look at your Papa, though, your eyes immediately widen. There is a big stripe covering his right cheek, the black and white of his face paint merging into a grey smear. You press your lips together, wondering how you should tell him.

Papa immediately looks up at you. “What is it?”

“You… smudged your make-up, Papa.”

His eyes widen, then he averts his gaze, scratches his neck. “Hm, yes, I… I am still not used to it. I touch my cheeks too often, a tricky habit to get rid of.”

“I don’t think I have a mirror here. Let me help you?”

“Oh, only if you don’t mind…”

“I don’t mind,” you say with a timid smile. “I can’t have my Papa walking around looking like a mess all day, can I?”

He smiles back, the corners of his mouth a little shaky. “Well, your Papa appreciates that.”

You take a clean piece of rag from your stack of materials and walk over to him. “Maybe you should lean back.”

He does, turning his face so you can comfortably reach his right cheek. You reach out and slowly start to clean him up, fingers unusually shaky. Suddenly you’re nervous; being so close to him feels different than you expected, more… exciting. You can smell his cologne, a heady scent that you’d probably recognise anywhere by now and that turns your insides all gooey. The green in his iris is so rich in the warm light that you struggle to look away and you can make out his lashes from up close, each individual hair framing his beautiful eyes, curving upwards towards the sun.

“You do know how to handle paints,” he jokes, but it doesn’t come out in a funny way. Instead his voice is strained. He is clearly trying to avoid looking directly at you, eyes roaming the ceiling of the small space.

You just hum in reply as you wipe the black smears from his cheek. It doesn’t come off easily, probably waterproof, and you need to go over it a few times until the skin below is slightly red. Even so, you can’t get rid of a tiny black streak right next to his mouth. “Uhm, is it okay if I use my hand?”

His voice is barely audible when he replies. “Sì, chiaro.”

It’s sweet how he switches to Italian when he’s flustered. You would appreciate it even more if you weren’t so flustered yourself, hoping he misses how you quiver at the prospect of touching him there. But it’s too late now, so you slowly bring your pinky finger to his cheek, wipe the black paint away. It’s not pristine, it’s still visible from up close, but it’s much better than before. Some of the white is stretched thin, but it probably won’t show once the redness fades.

You realise that this is the first time you have actual skin contact. So far, you’ve only touched his gloves, the fabric of his shirt, not his actual skin. And his cheek is soft, so soft, no significant stubble yet at this hour. For a second you think about turning your trembling hand around, reaching out with all of your fingertips just to feel more of him. His cheek would fit so perfectly into your palm, you wonder if he would lean into your touch.

You quickly pull your hand away, giggling nervously. “There, all done.”

He finally looks at you, his right eye so mesmerisingly beautiful and kind while his white eye, illuminated by the sun now, looks almost menacing. “Mille grazie.“

“I think the make-up suits you very well, by the way.” You clean your fingers on the rag, staring hard at it to avoid seeing his reaction. “It’s just a shame that it hides your freckles.”

He won’t reply. You look up again and when your eyes lock this time, it’s like all air is sucked out of the room. You forget how to breathe, all you can do is stare at him and for a split second you feel more vulnerable than ever before.

“Well, see, it also hides my exhaustion,” he mumbles, like he’s scared to speak words into your shared silence.

“I–“ You swallow hard, trying to find something to say, but there is nothing left in you. So you merely smile, huff out a laugh at what you assume must have been a joke before you return to your easel. There is nothing left to do now that you would need him for, so you dismiss him, thanking him once more for the snacks he brought you and the time he dedicated to your endeavour.

Once he left, you sit down on the chair he previously occupied. The cushion is soft, his smell still lingers in the air and for a while you just stare straight ahead at the blank wall opposite. No matter how much you enjoyed talking to Papa, you can’t help but think that you let down your guard a little too much for him today.

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia decides to have lunch in his office today – just to avoid anyone asking him why he cannot stop grinning like an idiot. Since leaving your little studio, his mind is filled to the brim with all of the things you told him. If he is being completely honest with himself he’s going to forget some of the technicalities of the oil paints and canvases and brushes and all of that. Copia did not ask merely out of curiosity, but to hear your voice just a little bit longer, especially on topics that bring out your smile. Music, art. He’s taking mental notes, an inventory of the things that make your eyes shine so brightly.

In truth, Copia could listen to you talk all day. Not that he gets bored when you’re quiet. No, simply watching you paint is a pastime he can get used to. Now that today’s session is over he feels a deep-seated melancholy, his heart filled with a heavy desire for it to last longer – despite the pain in his knees and lower back from standing for so long. He would endure any pain, he realises, if it meant seeing more of you, getting to know you.

If only time could be stretched by mere force of will.

“C? Are you busy?” Sister is leaning in the open door frame, watching him stare off into space with a hint of disdain that quickly vanishes. He didn’t even hear the door open and he’s not sure how long he’s been absent, how long she’s been standing there.

Copia shakes his head, more to help with snapping himself out of his daydreams than as an actual reply. “No, no, Sis. I am just… ugh, thinking about all this paperwork I have to… have to do. Ugh, yes, yes, molto difficile. Can I help you?”

He knows she doesn’t believe him but she has the grace not to mention it. During their meeting, as she rambles on about the new tour dates, there is a different thing pushing to the forefront of his mind. A single sentence you said.

It’s just a shame that it hides your freckles.

You remembered that he has freckles. When have you ever looked at him from this close? The only time your faces were as close as today was the night he found you and it was so gloomy then, he’s not sure if and how intensely you looked at him. But you must have. At some point you must have paid enough attention to him to notice.

Sister is still talking to him, her voice drowned out by yours asking for permission to touch him, the image of you standing close to him so clear in his head and it’s like he can still feel your finger moving over his cheek in such a delicate touch. All he can do is nod along and hope he’s going to be alone soon.

You want her, Terzo said earlier. Your little painter.

And Copia knows, deep down in the depths of his heart, that he was right.

Chapter Text

“Schwer ist die Kunst, vergänglich ist ihr Preis, / Dem Mimen flicht die Nachwelt keine Kränze.”

“Art is difficult, transient is her reward. On the actor posterity no wreaths bestows.”

– Friedrich Schiller, Wallenstein

✦ ✧ ✦

The air smelled of fresh paint, alcohol and incense.

After a few hours in the dingy studio, you started to cough, then suddenly you had to pinch your nose. You always struggled with the intensity of the smells in here but inhaling the paint solvent brought a biting feeling to your mucosa that was just too much to bear. It was only when one of the big windows opened and a stream of fresh air hit you that you allowed yourself to breathe properly again.

“Better, yes?”

You stared at the old man before you with his low, smooth voice and his strong accent – Dutch or German or maybe even both since he told you he’d studied in both countries. He always looked exactly like you imagined an experienced painter to look with his greying hair, the dark brown corduroy pants loose on his slender body and a baggy shirt that must have been white once, a long time ago. For a brief moment you wondered if he was so used to these stenches that he didn’t even notice them anymore. A floorboard creaked as he stretched to reach for another window. Tall and lanky as he was, he made quick work of opening it, allowing even more clean air to flood the stuffy room on the top floor of his house.

“Yes,” you said meekly. “Yes, Mr Kraan.“

His aura always seemed to transcend any physical barriers and settled around you like a soft shadow. It wasn’t scary, though, no. For the first time in your life you felt immediately comfortable around someone. And even though by age this man could have probably been your grandfather he started to feel more like an uncle to you. Someone you could truly look up to.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me when you need fresh air. Your tiny nose is more delicate than my old one.” You watched him walk back to his easel, a slow, fluid walk, every single step intentional just like every stroke with his brush seemed intentional. He wiped his hands on a cloth before he picked up the palette knife he was cleaning before, glancing up. “How far are you?”

You looked back at your drawing. It wasn’t a bat. He wouldn’t let you draw bats anymore, not since you had shown him all of your previous sketchbooks during your first class and he insisted you try other subjects as well. So instead of Mona today your model was an assortment of corncobs, orange flowers and herbs. A still life, he’d said.

“There are too many leaves,” you complained.

“Are you getting impatient, little bat?”

You pouted, well aware he didn’t see your mouth behind his easel. Or maybe he did but chose to ignore it since nothing seemed to faze him to begin with. You’d been pouting a lot since starting art lessons and being unable to do exactly what you wanted and how you wanted.

“Let me have a look. Come on, bring it over.”

During the first few lessons your nerves had prevented you from fully paying attention to his feedback, the classes had passed in a whirlwind, but by now you were more at ease. He inspected the drawing with knowing eyes, so certain of what exactly he was looking for.

“The angle you chose helps with the composition. But I agree, there are many leaves, it’s a complex assortment of shapes and you are not quite there yet,” he observed. “But you did well, it is very balanced. For your first still life, I am very satisfied with your progress.”

You couldn’t help but smile to yourself. Mr Kraan was an honest critic, a patient but stern teacher from what you’ve witnessed so far, but most of all he was the first person to understand your love for art without any questions.

“We still have ten minutes, you may work on this until your mother picks you up.”

You tried to improve your drawing as best as possible in the remaining time, a sudden sense of urgency overcoming you. This would be the last opportunity to do so for another week because Mr Kraan never allowed you to take your projects home unless they were done, sometimes not at all. It irked you, it truly did, even though you did not love the subject. But just leaving it here, being forced to think about it for seven days straight, was the closest you ever got to losing your mind with your six years of age.

When your mom eventually came to pick you up, you reluctantly stopped.

“Go wash your hands, little bat,” Mr Kraan said once you had tidied up your work space.

You scuttled into the tiny bathroom near the studio, making a face as soon as you turned the faucet. Nothing but ice cold water came out of the rusty old tap and you hated it. Your hands were freezing whenever you had finally washed off all the graphite and only warmed up slowly in the cold autumn weather.

When you came back into the studio you saw your mother and Mr Kraan talking in hushed voices. From the start you had a feeling that your mother seemed to know this man, that he wasn’t the stranger you had taken him to be. But there was no visible connection, not to your naive, childish eyes at least.

“You should think about it,” she said to him.

Think about what? They didn’t elaborate, just looked at each other for a long moment. Standing by the door, you waited for her to notice you, feeling oddly like an intruder. You kicked against the doorframe and finally, your mom turned to see you, trying to hide a look of immediate guilt that would have been obvious to an adult but not to you.

She made her way over, her hand finding your shoulder and urging you along. “Come on, let’s get you home. Your father is waiting for me to make dinner.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Your wrist is aching.

It’s a distant pain, peripheral, non-existent in your immediate perception. The tv in front of you shows an old VHS tape of The Omen from Sybil’s ever-expanding collection, but you barely notice the flickering of the picture or any of the dialogue. He is all you can focus on, all you can see and hear and smell. Your mind is hidden in the shadows dancing over his features, emphasising the lines on his face, your fingers running along the curve of his cheek, over his round nose, his strong jaw, contrasting the soft skin on his neck. Oh, his neck. You always have to stop at the neck or you’d have to improvise his body. Or draw his clothes – but where is the fun in that?

Shaking out your hand, you realise that you need to watch out for your carpal tunnel but for now you’re not ready to stop. Another sketch and another, every single expression you’ve ever seen on him and then some more that you wish you would see some day. He’s beautiful, really, maybe not in the archetypical sense but in all the ways that matter to you.

Time ceases to exist. The movie finishes, the tape waiting to be rewound, tiny ants flickering over the screen with a static white noise that you don’t acknowledge for the next few hours. You’re in a tunnel of blinding inspiration and only get violently disrupted when the door to your quarters opens and closes so loudly that you startle and draw a thick grey line over the page.

“Sybil, what the fuck?”

“Sorry, it’s that cold draft I’ve been complaining about all day.” She’s rummaging through a drawer in your kitchenette but you don’t look up to acknowledge her. “It’s cold outside today, da Vinci. You’d know if you hadn’t been holed up in here for hours.”

“Da Vinci? Really?” You don’t have an eraser so you flip the page and start on even more sketches.

Sybil walks through your peripheral vision in a state of undress, grabbing clothes from a pile in the corner you can’t get her to finally clean up. “What do you have against Leonardo?”

“Nothing, but you get less creative these days.”

Sybil, now clad in a big green jumper, stops right in front of you, practically forcing you to look up. “So, what are you up to?”

“Just sketching.”

You take your pencil off the page because you know what’s going to happen next. She plops down next to you, the sudden dip nearly sending you off the cushion. “Sketching what?”

You shrug, sitting back up. “Things.”

“Things?”

“Mhm.”

“Papa?”

You fight the urge to hide your sketchbook when she scoots over unceremoniously and glances at the page.

There is a telltale smirk on her face. “Wow, that’s a lot of Papas.”

“Well, I have to get a feeling for his features.”

“How many pages have you filled like that?”

You fight the urge to stab her with your pencil. “Some.”

“Hm. Interesting.” She’s testing you and you have no way of winning. For someone who is usually easily distracted, she’s far too perceptive today.

“I’m painting him. It’s my job.”

“Hmmm. It’s your job to sit on our couch all day drawing him? On a weekend?”

You shrug. “He’s an interesting subject and I can use the practice.”

She wriggles her eyebrows so hard you’re scared they might pop off. “So it’s not because you’ve been spending time with him, huh? Because you’re thinking about him?”

With a dull thump you close the sketchbook and stand up. “No, I’m thinking about my work. There’s a difference. That portrait needs to be perfect, Sybil, you know what this means to me.”

Her hands shoot up in a defensive gesture. “Sorry. I was just teasing. You know there are a bunch of people who wouldn’t stay professional being this close to him.”

“I’m not one of those people, okay?”

A soft smile and she leans back. “No, you’re an amazing and very professional artist. I really love your sketches by the way.”

Her compliment has you softening just a little bit and you linger, weighing your options. A part of you wants to retreat to your bedroom and continue sketching, another part really feels the strain in your wrist now. And she’s right – you did sit here all by yourself for most of the day. The decision would be much easier if there wasn’t that old voice inside your head. Keep your distance, stay safe.

Sybil eyes you shifting from side to side. “Soooo… Wanna watch The Omen again? I’m sure you need a break and I’ve been meaning to see it again.”

Considering you didn’t pay attention to the movie at all earlier and have no excuse to bail, you eventually nod. One movie can’t hurt. “Alright, yeah.”

Sybil jumps up only to crouch back down by the old tube tv that’s still flickering wildly. You settle back on the couch, pulling her fuzzy pink blanket over your legs. When she tries to start the tape, she groans and scowls at you. “How many times do I have to tell you that you need to rewind the tape after watching my movies, Leonardo?”

You give an apologetic shrug and with an intense eye roll she presses the rewind button. Sometimes you wonder what it would be like to just let her in, but you quickly push that thought aside.

✦ ✧ ✦

Another Saturday evening alone in his quarters. Copia is used to it by now but since becoming Papa the silence and the loneliness only allow even more unwelcome thoughts to creep into his mind. For three hours now he’s been trying to write his sermon for tomorrow’s Black Mass. His floor is littered in crumpled up pieces of paper from his notepad, his tv flickering in the background, the video game he’d been playing for distraction long since abandoned.

He has to finish this sermon or he is going to make a fool of himself tomorrow. He is Papa now, he is Papa Emeritus IV, and he needs to be confident in Mass. But he knows he can only be confident if he speaks about topics he truly believes in and most of the time others feed them to him. Talk about this or that, C. You should do a sermon on this other important thing. Bla bla bla.

With an annoyed groan, he crumples up another page and throws it in the vague direction of the ever-growing pile. His mind wanders again and, without any prompt, conjures up an image of you. Ever since he bumped his head against yours during your last session he hears the phantom of your laughter in his ears, sees the lines of genuine amusement on your face, and the mere fact that he got you to light up like that makes him want to hide his grinning face in his pillow.

He feels so lost in this feeling and it’s utterly distracting. If only he could channel it into something useful, something productive, something… like a sermon.

Copia jumps up-right and grabs his pencil and then the notes are just flowing out of him. He has half a mind to go look for you to ask for your opinion, maybe find you in your studio and have a late-night chat, but then he remembers that this would be foolish. He’s Papa, he can’t just ask a Sibling for their opinion on something like a sermon, something that should come as easily to him as breathing. There is already enough talk about his awkwardness, doubt whether he is the right choice as Papa, and he won’t prove himself by showing a lack of independence.

No, he’ll see your reaction tomorrow, hopefully, and maybe he can even get you to laugh for him again. Or at least smile. Yes, just a little smile. That would be enough for him.

✦ ✧ ✦

Black Mass is an unwelcome distraction from your art. Upon entering the chapel, you notice that Papa is giving the sermon today, clad in the same robes you’re painting him in, chatting with Terzo in the front who seems to give him a little pep talk. You tear your gaze away before he notices you and sit down somewhere in the middle, choosing an aisle seat to get away quickly afterwards.

The chapel, a large hall with huge stained glass windows and marble pillars slowly fills to the brim, no pew empty as the congregation gathers for what is the only somewhat obligatory event every week. No reprimands are to be expected but repeated missing results in an appointment for consultation with either Papa Emeritus I or II and no one really wants to have to justify why they’d rather sleep in or recover from a hangover than worship. No matter how much sin and indulgence are encouraged in your church, there is no forgetting who fought for your rights to do so and allows you the humanity to live your desires so freely.

You wish you could sit in your room and draw all day. But you’re quickly distracted from that thought when Papa gets ready to start, rising to his full height, glancing around the slowly quieting room. The sight of him is a spectacle. Red, green and orange specks of light dance over his features, the stones and gems on his robes sparkling vividly in the tinted sunlight breaking in through the ornate windows. You try not to stare but the sight is mesmerising. You wonder why you never really looked at him like this before or rather why you looked… but never saw.

By now he’s getting practiced, confident in leading Mass, even though he hasn’t been Papa for very long. You remember a few instances during his cardinal days when no other Papa was available and he had to step in – nervous, stuttering, glancing around the room. Back then, you were still avoiding him, so the memories are faint and unclear. Now, listening to his steady, reassuring voice, you regret that you ever felt the need to stay away from him.

“One of the many joys humans have always shared is the act of creation,” he says. “There are different ways we create, different needs we fulfil. Creating homes, places of worship, places to trade, for example, lead to the emergence of architecture. The human need to express thoughts and feelings, to share visions and spread information lead to the existence of literature and art.”

His eyes land on you. Or you think they do.

You check to see who’s sitting near you, but surrounding you are only Siblings you’re not very close with. None of them show any sort of reaction to his gaze, but they do look at you in irritation for moving around nervously. When you focus back on Papa he’s still looking at you, never faltering in his words. It sends shivers down your spine, his eyes burning, confident, not at all insecure. He’s seldom looking at you like that, or anyone really. Maybe it’s because he’s in his element, the power of the Dark One guiding him through Mass.

“Art, as many sociocritical forms of expression, has always been heavily censored or controlled by those in charge, trying to undermine the freedom of thought and avoid any threats to their power.”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry, palms getting sweaty. Did he choose that topic for you? Is that why he’s looking at you?

“The freedom of art is a most valuable gift we have received from our Dark Lord as it also carries with it the freedom to express ourselves, all of our heart’s desires, even our most secret thoughts and deepest feelings.”

For a second, your thoughts drift to your sketchbook, to the hundreds of sketches of him you’ve created over the past few days, trying desperately to understand him and your slowly growing feelings. But despite the many faces you drew your picture of him hasn’t become any clearer.

Our heart’s desires, most secret thoughts and deepest feelings.

Papa’s eyes leave yours as he scans the congregation, letting his words sit with all of you for a moment longer. He goes on and as he does so, his eyes shift back to you, undoubtedly. You feel oddly exposed to him, if by the nature of the topic or his gaze you’re not certain.

“This is also a reminder,” he continues, “to appreciate the artists around us, in whichever way they choose to create, for supplying us with beauty and information, for documenting the world around us and baring vulnerable parts of themselves by sharing their creations.”

You give him a hesitant smile, his words almost like a gentle caress, a latent reminder that he truly values what you’re doing by sharing the sentiment with his whole flock. The meaning of him dedicating a whole sermon to your craft is not lost on you, though you are still not sure how to interpret his continued attention.

When Mass finally concludes a while later, the congregation dissembles, everyone ready to make the most of their free Sunday. Which is what you would ordinarily do as well, but suddenly and maybe not very surprisingly, drawing is at the back of your mind. As people roughly squeeze past you, you watch your Papa as he talks to a few young Siblings straying behind with a plethora of questions. When they finally disperse, his eyes are immediately on you, like he’s only been waiting to look at you again.

“Hello,” you say, cautiously approaching him.

“Hello,” he echos, smiling and rubbing his hands together in front of him. “Did you enjoy Mass, Sister?”

“Yes, I really liked your sermon,” you confess. “I… I really like all of your sermons. I find myself enjoying Mass a lot since you’ve been doing it.”

“Oh, really?” he asks, lighting up immediately at your compliment. “Well, I will admit… you inspired me to today’s topic.”

“I had that suspicion.”

He still smiles, looking at you for a moment as the silence slowly stretches. His fingertips tap against each other and he shifts from foot to foot before he takes a deep breath. “So… I was wondering…” Another moment of silence and he purses his lips, eyebrows moving up in expectation. “Do you… do you want to maybe… have lunch with me? If you’re not busy, I mean.”

You hesitate, looking at him with wide eyes. Even on normal days lunch is a stressful endeavour but going to lunch with Papa? You can only imagine that all eyes would be on you and the anxiety at that thought immediately overwhelms you. “Oh, I… I don’t really go to lunch,” you say and it’s not a lie. On most days you just have a quick bite in your quarters.

He doesn’t seem surprised, even though his next question is misleading. “You don’t go to lunch?”

You shrug. “Well, sometimes I do… But after Black Mass it’s always very crowded. And… I guess that stresses me out.”

Papa nods in understanding, maybe it’s a shared sentiment. “Mhm, I see, I see. Well… we could go into town? I know a quiet place.”

His hopeful eyes leave no room for contemplation. You want to go with him, you want to spend time with him, and you push that warning voice, the same voice that tries to keep a safe distance to Sybil, far into the back of your mind. You even ignore the part of yourself that avoids town at all costs unless you’re so desperate for art supplies that you simply have to go. Today, once more, it seems like he so easily gets you to throw any caution out of the window.

“That sounds great, Papa,” you finally say. “Let’s go have lunch.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Even now with you walking beside him, Copia is not sure what propelled him to ask you to lunch. Ordinarily, this would have taken him three pep talks to himself in the mirror, maybe an additional one from Terzo, and two days of mulling over possible lines on how to actually ask. Undoubtedly, Mass and your reaction to his sermon gave him great confidence. Seeing you so glued to his every word did something to him and when you lingered, looking at him with big eyes, he knew he hadn’t imagined it.

The restaurant he is automatically heading for is only five minutes away, easily accessible by foot, and a hidden treasure. Hidden because… admittedly, it’s a bit dingy, more of a diner where people get take-away than a place that invites them to dwell. From the outside, walls plastered with signs showing stock images of different kinds of pizza, pasta and salads, it looks almost abandoned, maybe even a little dirty.

“So, I know it looks… a bit… old,” he states once you stop in front of it. “But they have the best pasta, I swear it on every Italian bone in my body. You like pasta, sì?”

You nod, and he’s surprised that you’re not eyeing the establishment with hesitation. “Yes, I love pasta.”

“Good, very good. You’re going to like it, then.”

The owner, Gabriele, a man Copia’s age with black hair and an impressive black beard, nods when you both enter, already waiting behind the counter where they hand out boxes with take-away pizza. Even without his robes, wearing black slacks and his usual frilly shirt now, the face paint would usually make people turn around to look at him twice. Gabriele, however, is so used to him that he doesn’t bat an eye. Copia should be embarrassed by the amount of take-away food he orders from him but it’s the only somewhat authentic Italian food he can get in this town.

“Ahhh, buongiorno, Papa, buongiorno, signorina!” Gabriele says. “Oggi mangiamo d'asporto o a casa?”

“Sì, sì, mangiamo d’asporto,” Copia replies. “In the back, please?”

Gabriele nods and waves a hand. Copia leads you into the back of the small restaurant that doesn’t house more than four or five small tables, all empty despite the lunch hour. Gabriele takes your order and then suddenly he’s gone and you’re there, with him, looking at him.

Copia nods, hums for a second, and then just says the first thing that comes to his mind. “So, you like pasta?”

He’s going to scold himself for that stupid question later. Right now, he can’t help but stare as your eyes light up and you fold your arms on the table, propping your head up on one hand. “I love pasta. I’m glad you took me here, Papa.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You know this place?”

You nod. “Yeah, I got food here very often when I was… well, a broke artist. It’s affordable and you’re right, it’s the best Italian food in town.”

Copia checks his mental list of all the things that make your eyes shine so happily and adds to it. Music, art, pasta, his sermons. The last bit is going to carry him on clouds through the rest of the day, maybe even for the next few weeks. And still, your conversation, as every conversation he shares with you lately, leaves him with more questions than answers. This underlying sense of curiosity is hard to shake and he barely thinks about his next question.

“So, you said you enjoy Mass since I’ve been doing it. I have been wondering…” His expression gets more serious. “Have you been struggling with our faith?”

You blink a few times, visibly trying to think of an excuse. He tries to keep his gaze non-judgmental, open, and it seems to work – for the moment. “I have, at times, yes.”

“May I ask why?”

You furrow your brow, shrugging despite your shoulders tensing up. “Well, you know… there have been things… Ugh, it doesn’t really matter.”

“Things?”

“Well, things in my past. It’s like that for everyone, right? We ask ourselves if we’re on the right path sometimes.”

Your answer dissatisfies him, probably because after the easy conversation in your last sitting he assumed that you’re slowly opening up to him. He can sense that there is something weighing on you, something heavier even than his own burdens, and for a second he can see you on the floor again all those years ago, can hear your violent sobs that he swore he felt so deep inside of him that they penetrated his bone marrow.

“Sister, you know you can talk to me about anything, right? As your Papa…” Your eyes widen and he instantly knows he shouldn’t have used his title, shouldn’t have crossed this line at all, at least not yet, and the regret is instantaneous.

Your pained scoff sends a shiver down his spine. “So what? Is this… is this consultation now? Is that why you asked me here in the first place?” You try to stand up but he quickly catches your hand and you instantly pause. Still, he can hear the venom in your voice. “What?”

“No, no, it is not consultation, nothing like that,” he quickly says. “I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to make it sound like that. I am genuinely concerned about you, nothing more.”

You hesitate for a second, confusion written all over your face, but you sit back eventually. He watches your expression shift from anger to pain and it hurts him that he hurt you.

He tries to squeeze your hand in comfort, but you pull it away, hiding both of them underneath the table. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to get so personal. I crossed a line, I apologize.”

You look at him then and he can see that your eyes are all wet. “It’s fine, you can ask me personal questions. Just… There are things I don’t want to talk about.”

Copia nods, too heavily, too fast. “Yes, of course.”

Gabriele suddenly appears with your food and the reprieve is much necessary. You start eating without looking up and Copia mentally slaps himself. Just like that you shut him out again and he’s back to square one. Maybe he should indeed let Terzo do this, maybe he is just too clumsy for conversations like that. And while he mentally scolds himself, his gloved hand an iron fist on the table, he suddenly feels your fingers slowly moving on top of his.

“I’m sorry for reacting like that, Papa,” you whisper. “I just… This is not a conversation for a lunch… a lunch… uh… meeting.”

“It’s okay, sister, don’t apologize,” he says, trying to hide his relief.

You squeeze and he opens his fist, turns it around until your fingers slide between his. Even through the worn-out leather he can feel your warmth and he wishes he had forsaken the gloves for once, just to feel those fingers on his skin again.

“So, maybe we can talk about something else, then?” Copia asks, staring at your joined hands.

When he looks back at you, you give a gentle nod, a softness in your eyes that encourages him to keep going, no matter how slowly, how carefully he has to step.

For the rest of your lunch meeting that he’s just going to pretend is a lunch date, Copia circumnavigates any sensitive subject matters. And he doesn’t mind, because by now he has four topics on his list that he can use to draw that gentle smile back onto your face, and before you know it, half the afternoon passes just like that. He doesn’t even mind Gabriele shooing you out of the restaurant before the bustle of dinner starts, because as you slowly make your way back to the abbey, he still has your hand in his.

And there is nothing else he needs. At least not right now.

✦ ✧ ✦

Months had passed and you moved from still lives back to moving subjects, from drawing to painting and even mixing your own colours. With your progress and stable performance at school, your parents had allowed you lessons twice a week now, and here in your sanctuary there was nothing else you’d rather do than get your hands dirty on pigments for hours on end.

Your latest painting, a  neighbour’s striped cat called Matteo licking up cream from a navy blue plate on Mr Kraan’s terrace downstairs, was your favourite yet, and he even allowed you to take it home with you last week where it now proudly resided in the living room. Today, however, Mr Kraan had even better plans, and you couldn’t believe your ears when you entered the studio that sunny day in spring where he worked on his own much bigger painting.

“I want you to show me how you paint a bat,” Mr. Kraan said, setting down his brush.

“A bat?” you yelled.

“Yes, I want you to paint your favourite subject again.” A rare smile on his weathered face. “Do you see that shelf in the back?” He motioned to a huge bookshelf at the far end of the room where it narrowed into a hallway that led into his tiny office. You nodded. “There are some books for reference. You can use any of them. Feel free to explore. I have a vast collection. Think of an interesting composition, show me what you truly want to paint if I give you free reign.”

His words meant paradise to you. For the next hour you sat on the floor, skimming books, finding reference, until you were brimming over with ideas, ready to get going.

Mr Kraan had shown you how to stretch your own canvases over his self-made wooden frames, how to prepare the linen for painting and properly use oil paints. By now, you were mostly self-sufficient, just working side by side in his studio, and you loved it.

By the time you finally got to actual painting, your lesson for the day was almost over, but as you dipped the brush into your very own paint, a dark maroon shade, you started to giggle hysterically. It hit you right then as you covered the white canvas with a mixture of dark, gloomy tones, that you knew, despite your young years and your lack of experience, that this, this, is what you wanted to do for the rest of your life.

Chapter Text

“If I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other happiness.”

― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein

✦ ✧ ✦

Monday brings sunshine, a soft breeze – and your new canvas.

With Beltane approaching, the days are ever getting longer, the soft sun more consistent, and you only really leave your studio for meals and to catch some sleep, all in an attempt to get as far as possible before your next session with Papa. Despite him calling you patient you feel anything but. As you wait for layers and layers of paint to dry, you wish there was a way to speed things up – which is a sign that you desperately need to slow down if you want to keep your sanity.

During those slower periods, you open one of the big windows in the studio, a sharpened pencil in hand, and sit on the window sill for hours upon hours drawing him. You smell the freshly blooming flowers even up here, spreading their pollen with the world. The lush green foliage of the trees by the windows rustles as the branches steadily bob in the gentle breeze.

With those natural ambient sounds accompanying you through your day inspiration comes easily. The first sketchbook is almost completely filled by now. Today, as you wait for the darker background layers to dry, you flip through your hundreds of drawings of Papa. No matter how many times you conjure up his shape, outline his face in thousands of slightly different expressions, he remains an enigma to you. You feel like one important line is missing to complete the picture, a piece of vulnerability that you haven’t got from him yet to solve the puzzle. While he slowly weakens your resolve even more, he hasn’t given away many of his own thoughts.

You haven’t seen him since Sunday, a few days ago, but that doesn’t mean you’re not busy thinking about your meeting. One question in particular continues to ring in your head, bouncing off the walls of your skull like a never-fading echo and tormenting your every waking thought. Is his concern, is his interest in you, completely genuine? And if so, is it mere Papal concern for one of his lost sheep or is it an honest attempt to get to know you? Opening your heart for him is dangerous, especially if he only sees you as one of many Siblings. And yet…. every little sketch, every smile at the mere thought of him slowly opens this door wider and wider and he’s dangerously close to slipping through the gap.

Of course he knows that you haven’t been the most active of worshippers – not because you’re not honouring Lucifer in your own ways – Papa seems to recognise the value in your art if his sermon is anything to go by – but because you haven’t exactly been one of the most involved Siblings. Largely inactive in any sort of group activities, you haven’t been socialising or making use of any of the consultation offerings. He’s so perceptive, he must know you keep isolated.

Your pencil begins to scratch on the paper, in desperate need of sharpening. You swap it for a mechanical one so you won’t have to get up so soon again. New page, new angle, new face. If anything, spending so many hours with him helps you to explore even more of his expressions. Despite you overreacting to his admittedly not very smooth question about your faith, you can’t help but hope that he feels the same way about you and that his interest goes beyond clergy matters. He’s such a gentle soul, so understanding. If there is anyone in this world who might possibly be able understand your past without casting judgement you feel like it has to be him. There is an ever-expanding part of you that wants to reach out and grasp the hand he’s offering.

The sun catches in the glass of the window then, blinding you momentarily. Averting your gaze, you overlook the gardens instead. The improved weather lured many Siblings outside today and they’re gathering on picnic blankets, benches, the grassy patches around the pond. You spot Primo, the first Emeritus, entering the greenhouse, a ghoul on his tail carrying two large plants. In the distance, all the way up on the hill, you can see a few more ghouls collecting dry wood for the Beltane bonfires. Many Siblings have already shed their warmer winter habits in favour of the lighter spring and summer ones and you have to admit that your old overalls, stained with oil paints and charcoal, feel a little sweaty today.

The bustle outside is catching, it always has been ever since you joined, but as lonely as you feel, as much as you yearn for connection, you have come to accept that you can’t risk anything – or anyone. Three floors separate you from them physically right now. Three floors. But emotionally, you feel like it’s a whole world.

✦ ✧ ✦

The ghoul gives a disgruntled screech on his guitar. Copia snaps out of his trance, coughing a few times to pretend his non-existent sore throat is the reason he’s been so distracted. Not that he could ever fool a ghoul. “Sorry, sorry. We go again.”

Band practice is going smoothly today – if you ignore the ten failed attempts at the closing number. Terzo would cringe if he saw him mess up Square Hammer like this. But his focus is gone. The stage production has only gotten more intricate now that he’s Papa and while he loves performing, it’s also exhausting, and right now, with this blossoming trust between you and him, he hates that he has to leave for two whole weeks soon.

The ghouls are not helpful. One of them spotted Copia coming back from lunch with you on Sunday and the teasing stares from underneath their masks have been relentless ever since. The constant snickering does nothing to help keep his mind off of you either, nor does the fact that he hasn’t seen you in days and is itching to be around you again. His schedule, however, now that he’s only a week away from this short introductory tour leg, allows no reprieve whatsoever. There is one more painting session planned this afternoon as well as the Beltane celebrations in four days, the night before he leaves, but the rest of his time is packed with rehearsals and clergy meetings.

“I am just… a bit sick today,” Copia says into the silence. They all start to make a sound that he has learned to interpret as laughter, an eery sort of noise that hurts in his ears. They will be glamoured once tour starts, passing as almost human, but right now he can see the shadows wafting off of them even underneath their uniforms. No fooling the servants of his Dark Lord; they see right through his feeble attempts at deception and have no compassion for his mortal struggles.

Copia throws his hands in the air. “Fine, fine. I will get it right now. Just start, will you?”

The drummer ghoul sets the beat once again and everyone gets ready. This time, he starts by imagining you in front of him, watching his every move. Spurred on by this, Copia manages to hit all the notes, gets the lyrics right and sticks to the choreography. He can almost see you applauding him, giving him your most beautiful rare smile. He would love to add this to his list. Music, art, pasta, his sermons… and maybe his performances.

Once rehearsal concludes, he’s even more exhausted than usual but it’s only two and Sister is already waiting outside the door. With her arms crossed in front of her chest while one of her dangerously high stilettos taps to the rhythm of his steps, she looks as strict as always. Yet he can tell that she’s not properly upset with him. She never is.

“We’re five minutes late for the meeting, what took so long today?” she asks, tutting playfully.

Copia vaguely shrugs. “Technical… technical difficulties.”

She frowns as she sets a rapid pace down the hall and up the stairs towards the clergy’s conference room on the first floor. “You better tell these ghouls to fix them. We can’t have any of that once you’re out on the road.”

“Okie dokie, Sis. I will tell them.”

“Your first official visit is important, C,” she stresses, glancing at him over her shoulder. “The other branches are excited to meet their new Papa and see him perform. First impressions matter.”

He nods. More pressure. Not that he’s not used to it by now. He’s going to turn into a diamond in no time if his life continues like that.

The conference room is already full when they enter – the old man, Papa Nihil, half-asleep in his chair with his shoulders slumped while Secondo, the second, and Primo are brooding over a bunch of papers. Terzo taps the spot next to him and Copia sits down, ready to fall asleep himself as soon as his butt hits the cushioned chair.

Secondo goes on about some ritual they’re going to perform after Beltane. Copia doesn’t even know why he’s here, he’ll be gone by the time they actually do it. Staring at the clock, his mind drifts off again. While his presence here is obligatory, it is not at all needed, which at least allows his mind to leave the room until he’s directly spoken to. He conjures up his favourite image lately. You, brush in hand, glancing up at him from your canvas, smiling so hard that your cheeks turn red. He sees a speck of paint by your jaw, an excuse to finally walk up to you. With your eyes on him, your mouth slowly opens as if to ask what he’s doing but he just throws his glove away and gently wipes you clean. His hand remains right there, stroking the soft skin on your jaw. You shiver and lean in and he gently tilts your chin up–

“C? Are you listening?” Sister yell-whispers next to him.

Copia nods. “Yes, yes. Sure. Rituals, right?”

“Hm, I wonder where your mind was, Papino,” Terzo murmurs, leaning in. “But I have a very… creative suspicion.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” Copia whispers back but his voice comes out much louder than planned. The whole room goes quiet and when he turns back around, all eyes are on him.

“Am I interrupting your little shitchat, fratelli?” Secondo asks loudly then, his stern features infinitely scarier as they tighten into a scowl. “You think nothing is your business, eh?”

They both shift back into their respective seats like beaten dogs. As soon as the attention of the room leaves him, though, Copia is drifting off again, only zoning back in every once in a while to check the time. The hands of the clock move in slow-motion, practically crawling over its face. The clergy meeting drags on and on. Today is such a busy day and tomorrow will be a busy day and the day after is going to be busy. And the day after...

He fights off a yawn. There is only one thing that keeps him going right now and it’s that he gets to see you in approximately twenty minutes. Twenty fucking minutes. And then he can finally see your smile.

✦ ✧ ✦

It’s one of those near sweltering spring days that already feel like summer. As you get ready for your next sitting with Papa, you’re worried about sweating. You’re praying to Satan that the antiperspirant is going to work but add another spritz of perfume to the mix for good measure. By now the bathroom is a gas trap and you almost feel a little high off the fumes.

When you come back into your shared living room, all hazy and nervous, you find Sybil jumping right into your face, sniffing you like a dog sniffs his chosen tree right before he pees on it. You’re too slow to fight her off.

“Hmmm, you smell good,” she says. “Are you wearing more perfume than usual, Caravaggio?”

You squeeze past her towards the door where your freshly laundered denim dungarees are waiting for you, ready to replace the dirty overall now that it’s getting warmer. “No, I’m not.”

“You are. It smells like a perfumery in here. I was going to check if you suffocated.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about.”

She says your name, your real name, and in such a gentle tone that you look at her in defeat. “Hey, for real this time… if you have a crush on Papa…”

“I don’t!”

“I know you do. Let me just…”

“Stop! He’s an interesting subject to pain, I already told you.”

The deadpan look on her face nearly makes you laugh. “Aha.”

You slip into your dungarees. “What?”

Sybil rolls her eyes dramatically. “You obsessively draw him, you spend time with him outside of the sittings going to lunch, you get all dolled up whenever you’re going out to see him–”

“I’m not getting dolled up–“

“–and you’re blushing so furiously right now.”

You’re not sure how she knows about the lunch… meeting, but you’re not going to ask. Instead you close the second buckle on the dungarees and push your fists into your pockets. “I need to go. Please, don’t spread any rumours.”

Her eyes widen as she scoffs. “You think I’d do that?”

You want to believe in her innocence or that she’s truly loyal to you but you’ve also seen enough people making fun behind your back ever since you were a kid – for your obsession with art, for your interest in occult and dark themes instead of normal things, for spending your time on paintings when others went clubbing or to the movie theatre. The downside of being a loner is that people will just create their own stories about you to fill in the lack of real information. You have no way of knowing whether she’s one of those people.

“I don’t know, Sybil,” you say, giving her the benefit of the doubt. “I don’t think you’d hurt me on purpose but I do know that not even I am sure what… what this is. So I don’t want others speculating.”

She sighs, crossing her arms in defensiveness. “Look, I’ve noticed your trust issues. But all I want is to be your friend. And you’re not making it very easy for me if you always assume the worst about my intentions.”

“Well, neither are you. I never know if you’re making fun of me or not,” you admit. “All the nicknames and the teasing…”

Sybil walks up to you, both hands grasping your shoulders tightly for a gentle shake. “I don’t. I love your art, I love that you’re so creative and every day I google a new artist to learn about in hopes of talking to you about them. The issue is that you run away from me all the time before I ever get the chance.” She stops, pursing her lips. “I will admit that my teasing can be a bit much for some people. I can tone it down a notch.”

A smile slowly creeps onto your face and she mirrors it, finally letting go of your shoulders. “Fine. We can talk about Caravaggio when I get back,” you say. “Or da Vinci.”

She grins. “Italians are always the best, don’t you think?”

You smack her shoulder and she yelps, still giggling as you finally slip out of the door. The sound accompanies you all the way down the hall, as clear as a bell, and once again you actually entertain the thought of letting her in. You haven’t tried in a long time and having a friend sounds absurdly comforting – if only the risk wasn’t so high, the cost of misjudgement so expensive.

As you ponder your blossoming friendship, you notice how empty the halls of the abbey appear today. It’s almost like the sunny spring weather sucked everyone outside who isn’t needed and your steps echo in the eerily abandoned hallways like you’re walking inside a large cave. Well, a pretty cave with stained glass windows, sacrilegious sculptures on every corner and mosaic tile floors.

Today is your first afternoon session with Papa, thanks to his busy rehearsal schedule, and you stop by the kitchens to grab a handful of snacks – rich green apples, a couple of packed sandwiches, some juice boxes from the fridge. When you finally walk into the studio, ready to prepare your utensils before his arrival, you nearly drop your provisions. Instead of your usually empty refuge, you find the room already occupied. Papa is right there, in front of your table, looking down at what you assume are the final sketches and references of your painting. His robes sparkle in the sunlight, the gems on his mitre nearly blinding you.

“Oh, hi,” you say, closing the door behind you. “You’re early, Papa.”

He turns around, smiles when he sees you, and it’s only then that you notice the sketchbook in his hands. “Oh, sister! Yes, my meeting ended early. I hope it’s okay I just went inside? One of my keys fits.”

Your eyes widen, still focused on your wide open sketchbook, and you try not to show how nervous you get. Did he see all of them?

“Oh, those are… I mean…” He stops, faltering at your expression, and sets the book down. “Mi dispiace. I was not sure if those were meant for me. I just flipped through.”

“Oh, they’re… practice sketches.”

“Ah!” He nods heavily. “Yes, yes. That makes sense. It is just… so many…”

“Yea, I– I wanted to get a feeling for your… you know, face.”

“My face?” He reaches up and slaps his palms against his cheeks a few times. “This old thing? Really?”

You giggle involuntarily and shake your head. “It’s not old, Papa.”

“Ahhh, you flatter me, cara,” he says, beaming at your reaction.

The pet name has a sudden warmth pooling into your belly and you have to avert your gaze. You know what it means, you’ve heard a bunch of Sibling bragging about being called cara or caro by one of the Papas, even him occasionally. Despite that it feels special, he’s never used it on you before, and you hide your spreading blush by sorting through your provisions.

“I brought some things,” you announce. “Sandwiches, apples, juice…”

“Juice!” You look up into his excited face, eyebrows up in the air and his mouth forming a perfect black-rimmed O, like a little school boy who just got informed that last period got cancelled. But then he recollects himself, coughs uncomfortably and forces a stern look onto his face, straightening his posture. “That’s, eh… nice.”

You hold up one of the orange juice boxes. “Do you like those?”

He lifts his shoulders casually before dropping them with a shake of his head. “They’re… okay, sorella. I can enjoy them from time to time.”

A smirk you don’t even try to hide. “I’ll get some more for next time, then. I like them too.”

His relief is immediate and you throw one of the boxes at him. He barely catches it, fumbling with the attached straw with nervous fingers. In the meantime you place the rest of the snacks in your designated snack corner. There are still a few of the Italian chocolates left but they look worse for wear, having melted under the intense sun streaming in through the window right above.

“So, painting today, yes?” Papa asks. “No more sketching?”

You join him in front of your massive canvas that dwarves the both of you. So far, it doesn’t look like much, just a somewhat dark backdrop as your base layer. “Yes, we’re going to paint today. Or… I am at least.”

“Exciting, yes,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Oh, I should get in position. That’s my job, no? Not distracting you.”

Painting comes easy to you, especially today. Not that you’re working on any of the more exciting details yet but this is your medium, this is your element, and the first few strokes are flowing out of you like fresh water from a mountain spring. While you’re ready to work through the afternoon, it doesn’t take long until you see Papa faltering in his pose. The quiet starts to feel more unbearable now, a long stretch of silence only filled with his sighs of discomfort.

“How are rehearsals going?” you ask to distract him. “Am I even allowed to ask such things?”

Papa chuckles. “Of course you are. It’s… it’s going well. Very well.”

“I’m glad,” you say and the silence returns.

He visibly fights the urge to wipe his forehead, lifting his arm before he realises what he’s doing. A heavy bead of sweat rolls down the side of his face only a second later. He looks exhausted, if you’re being honest, and it’s only been half an hour.

“Do you need a break, Papa?” you ask. “Take off the robes for a bit?”

He nods in relief. “Please. It’s really hot in all of this.”

While he sheds his mitre, you open up one of the big windows, grab a juice box and an apple and sit down in your usual spot on the wide windowsill. Papa is in his black frilly shirt and plain black pants now. You catch some wet patches where the fabric clings to his skin and try not to stare. He loosens the top buttons, widening the collar for more room at his throat. A patch of dark chest hair peeks out from his open shirt and you can’t bring yourself to look away. When he spots you by the window, he lets out a deep long breath, like he only now realised how stuffy the room is.

“You can join me for some fresh air?” you offer. “It’s nice here.”

Papa sits down opposite you on the window sill, legs dangling into the room as he carefully leans against the frame. His eyes close for a moment and you realise that he is exhausted. Utterly. They demand so much from him that he can barely keep his eyes open at three o’clock in the afternoon.

You cut up your apple with your pocket knife, cleaning out the core on a tissue. Then you slowly cut off some slices to chew on while you watch him sip on his juice in silent contemplation. You wish you could help him but you’re only now starting to grasp the heaviness of what he carries every day.

You cut off another slice of apple and hold it out to him. “Do you want some?”

“Me?”

“No, I was talking to the birds outside,” you tease.

Papa smiles, a hint of amusement but he can’t hide his tiredness completely. “Please, sister.”

He takes the piece of apple and bites off half of it, and as he chews his smile grows wider. You’re transfixed. This is a whole new expression you’ve never seen before, and you wish you could grab your sketchbook to capture it. The corners of his mouth make the apples of his cheeks stand out, the paint unable to hide the creases under his bi-coloured eyes, and he’s so beautiful. So mesmerising.

“What is it?” he asks, catching your stare.

You shrug, focussing back on the acidic green fruit in your hand. “It’s just… you’re smiling.”

“Well… you shared your apple with me.”

He tries to fight the smile now, the corners of his mouth twitching, but it doesn’t work. If anything, it gets even brighter and you simply know he’s blushing underneath his paint. Eventually he averts his gaze, staring out of the window where a flock of birds flies past, the loud flapping of their wings a stark contrast to the quiet in the studio. They settle on the branches of a nearby tree, singing their little hearts out, and you realise you forgot to turn on any music. But maybe you don’t even need it today, not with how things are going right now.

“Another one, Papa?” you ask.

He accepts the slice you hold out, staring at you deep in thought and for a while he doesn’t say anything. Then you see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, his expression more serious, and his next words knock the wind right out of you. “Call me Copia. Please. No need to be so formal when we’re alone.”

“But Papa…” You straighten up. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

You sit with it for a moment, just looking at him. Copia.

“I thought you’d never want to be called anything else now, that you’re proud of it,” you say. It’s meant in a joking way, you know he’s not so self-obsessed. And yet it seems like he’s wearing the title with ease most of the time – at least in public. But here, alone with you, he seems almost weary of it.

“I am proud. But…” He sighs in infinite exhaustion. “There are times for the title and there are times… when I just want to be me.”

His admission is tinged with so much trust, so much vulnerability. He feels like he can be himself when he’s with you, like he can shed the protective layers he’s wearing all day, show you the man underneath, and it’s the final answer to your question. The last piece of the puzzle, the last line in your artwork to complete the picture. He’s not here because he’s your Papa, he’s here because of you, and that means more than you could ever express with words.

You test it out, then, your voice soft and careful as his name rolls off your tongue. “Copia.”

And he smiles. He smiles like this is the first time he’s ever heard the name and recognised it as his own. Your heart clenches in pain, in unspoken emotions. It only eases up when he reaches out for your hand and suddenly it starts to beat faster than ever before. You close your knife and put it back into the pocket of your dungarees, then accept his hand in your paint-stained one. Once you feel the soft leather of his gloves against your skin, you relax against the window frame.

“What do you think this room was before?” he asks, glancing around.

“I am pretty sure it was some sort of sitting room. It has south-facing windows, a fireplace, it’s small enough to easily keep warm.”

“Hmm.”

He squeezes your hand and you don’t speak for quite a while. Copia seems more at ease now, less stressed. You wonder if this is his first break of the day and decide to stretch it out for as long as he needs. It doesn’t matter, really. As much as you want to get back to painting, to get as much done as you can before he leaves for tour, sitting here with him is a luxury you’re not ready to give up.

And so you scoot just a little bit closer, clasp his hand a little bit tighter, and hope he feels the same way about you.

Chapter Text

“Listen to them, the children of the night. What music they make!”

— Bram Stoker, Dracula

✦ ✧ ✦

A flash. You startled out of your tense concentration, confusion propelling your gaze in the direction of the offending light. Mr Kraan stood in a corner of his atelier, a still life consisting of deer antlers, a ripe pomegranate, two tall black candles and a cracked human skull posed on an antique wooden table. In his hand, an old camera. He photographed his composition, with and without flash, and only stopped to rearrange the ensemble every other shot. With a furrowed brow you observed these ongoings until you grew bored of watching.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked.

“Hm?” He looked up, his intense concentration interrupted by your question. “The photos?”

You nodded.

“I know there are digital cameras now, but I like to take analogue pictures of my still lives. It gives the right mood, inspires me,” he said. “I don’t want bright colours, crisp lines or sharp edges, I want softness, deep shadows and grain. It’s the imperfections that draw me in.”

You tried to grasp what he was saying but you couldn’t say that you managed to fully wrap your head around his meaning. That didn’t deter him, he didn’t even try to explain in simpler terms, just took more pictures of the items on the table. Your continued stares made him halt again a minute or two later, an irritated look on his aging face.

“Why are you not working, hm?” he asked. “You’re not finished yet.”

“Because it’s boring,” you said. “I want to paint things that I like. No matter how hard I think, I don’t know how to paint this.”

Indeed, the subject of your current painting was less than interesting to you and you hadn’t even properly started on it since the beginning of your lesson. That hadn’t stopped you from overthinking the painting process, though. The vase with its crusty dried flowers couldn’t hold your attention if it sang and danced to a heavy metal song, upside down, with a party hat on. And yet the challenge was appealing. You just didn’t know where to start.

Your mentor gave you a stern look. “You can add your own touch to mundane things, little bat. I never said you have to paint exactly what you see.”

You frowned, staring at your practically blank canvas. “I don’t understand, Mr Kraan.”

His expression softened and he went over to his old desk, pulling out a drawer before rummaging through whatever clutter he kept inside. You sat on your stool, waiting for him to approach you instead of asking what he calls ‘questions of impatience’ that you got answered if you just stopped being on edge all the time. His slender frame moved slowly through the room. As always there was deliberation in his movements, an air of sophistication accompanying his every step. Then he stopped right in front of you, crouched down so his eyes were on your level, and gently grabbed your arm. Warm plastic touched your palm as he pressed a camera into your small hand, not unlike his own, only much cheaper-looking.

“It’s a disposable camera,” he explained. “I want you to take pictures of things you find interesting in your life, when you’re not here. And then we develop them and you can use them as art references.”

“So, I copy what I see in the photos?”

“You don’t just copy,” he said, tutting. “When you do art, you pour yourself into your artwork. There are pieces of you inside your paintings, little bat. It does not matter what anyone before you did or what people after you are going to do, what matters is your own uniqueness.”

“My uniqueness?” The word felt heavy and foreign on your tongue. “What’s that?”

“The camera sees not what you see. The picture it takes is different from the picture your eyes capture and what your eyes see is different again from what mine see, yes?”

You nodded. That made sense to you.

“Let the pictures inspire you to look at the world from more than one angle, let your everyday life inspire you as well,” he suggested. “There is beauty all around you and I already know, little bat, that you find beauty in the unusual, in the dark, at night, in creatures not everyone would appreciate. That is your uniqueness. You see the world with different eyes.”

“Does that mean I get to paint more bats?” you asked.

“Eventually. But you already know how you want to paint bats, you demonstrated that very well. I want you to try different subjects, give them your own spin, okay? If you want to be an artist and live from your craft, then you will often have to paint things you do not like. Because people pay you for it. But that doesn’t mean you cannot find enjoyment in it.”

You nodded solemnly. By now you were eight years old and earning money did not seem like something that should concern you yet. That’s what your parents were there for after all. The sense in his words, however, still struck a chord, because yes, you did want to be a painter. You wanted nothing more than to paint all day every day.

You wrapped your short fingers around the camera. It was definitely not made for child hands but you found the buttons anyway and when it felt safe, you lifted it up and snapped a picture of Mr Kraan. He shook his head in disapproval, tutting again as he was prone to do when you got silly. But when he walked back over to his own still life, a gentle smile graced his lips, and he didn’t tell you off when you ran around the studio wielding your camera instead of working on your painting.

✦ ✧ ✦

The colours aren’t right.

They’re not right and you can’t figure out what to do. If you mess up the background now it’ll be impossible to fix later and you have neither the time nor the resources to start over again.

Every little step is important, which is why you spend a whole day trying to find a way to improve your work. You change hues, change contrasts, change pigments – but satisfaction could not be further from your mind as you stare at your palette. Your last sitting with Papa did not bring much progress in terms of painting. But you know the pose now, you know where Copia is going to be, where the shadows lie and lights reflect. It’s all there. The picture, the composition – so clear in your head – only the colours are muddled.

Your frustrations unload in a loud groan and a poorly aimed throw of the cloth you just cleaned your hands with. It lands close to the wall where your old paintings slowly wither away under their protective dust sheets. Your eyes are stuck on them for a moment and you take a deep breath.

No, you won’t let your fears and frustrations win again. You’re better than you were all those years ago. You paid for your wrongdoings, you paid for much more in fact, and this time, things are different – better, easier.

Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you decide to stop painting for the day. Instead, you rummage through your materials until you can find the disposable camera you got along with your other supplies – a staple for every new painting you start in case you get stuck. Your shiny silver digital camera sits right next to it but now is not the time to look at the crisp pictures you already took and that didn’t help you at all. Instead, you wait for the clouds to pass until the sun hits the studio again with its warm, weakened rays of evening light. It’s perfectly soft, no harsh contrasts, and your eyes are drawn to every speck of dust that dances in the golden sunset.

You take a few pictures, hoping to catch the room in a way that inspires you. You have a feeling that you need the colours to be more muted, desaturated in a way only analogue photography manages to capture. After taking four pictures from different angles you stop. The film can only hold 27 photos and you need to use it sparingly, maybe take some more once Copia is back after his two weeks on the road.

Yeah, that’s something you don’t even want to think about right now.

Once your photo session is done, you realise that it’s almost dinner time anyway. For a moment, you think about joining Sybil in the dining hall but you know she’ll be sitting with more of her friends and after a long day of frustrated painting you really don’t feel like small-talk and intrusive questions.

Instead, you use the time of her absence to fix yourself some instant noodles in your kitchenette and then hide in your bedroom. Sunset quickly passes and as dusk sets in, you open your window for some much needed cool air. Over the past few weeks, the gardens have come alive and you wonder if the bats are active again as well, now that their food options are plenty.

For a while, you sit on your bed and try to draw the view from your window, but as you enter a state of mindless trance you lose grasp on your conscious movements. Your hand places the lines on its own accord and you feel like you’re trapped inside a blurry and fogged-up bubble with every sound drowned out except the scratching of graphite on paper. When you finally come to, you notice that you haven’t been drawing the landscape at all. Your vision refocuses and you take in the face of Papa Emeritus IV. He’s surrounded by the budding rose bushes you’d initially wanted to draw but he takes up most of the page now. A gentle, reassuring smile graces his lips and his duo-chrome eyes sparkle with mirth and affection. Wishful thinking or the memory of your last shared moment… you’re not quite certain. Does he really look at you like that or are you so far gone by now that you simply crave to see him so taken with you?

You close your sketchbook and notice that the night has progressed, the grounds now quiet and empty apart from the early signs of nocturnal activity. With your mind running wild, escaping any control of reason and wit, you have a feeling that you won’t be sleeping a lot tonight.

✦ ✧ ✦

At this point, Copia is almost happy to leave after Beltane. These long days are taking a toll on him and while touring for two weeks won’t be relaxing per se, at least it’ll be the good kind of busy, the post-ritual exhaustion after an endorphin high that he actually enjoys. After two sets of rehearsals today, Sister decided to dump a whole stack of papers onto his desk that need to be signed in advance of his absence. He’s been slowly chipping away at those for an hour now, trying to stay engaged, to read whatever nonsense he’s approving, but after the day he had, his motivation slowly runs dry. He wonders how Terzo did these things, his distaste for paperwork even more distinct than Copia’s.

To catch a break, he opens his big office window. Cool night air slams into his face and he wonders if the stuffy air in his office is partly to blame for his struggles to concentrate. A few deep breaths. His lungs welcome the fresh oxygen and he stays by the window for longer than he should. A few more papers before bed, the rest he can do tomorrow.

Letting his eyes roam the grounds for a moment, he notices the eery quiet outside. It seems like today everyone has decided to sleep for once and not stray in search of a nightly adventure. It wouldn’t be the first time he notices a suspicious rustling followed by even more suspicious sounds coming from the bushes. One night last year, a few siblings nearly burned down Primo’s orchard which led to a gate being installed to keep them out. But tonight, all Copia can hear are a few nocturnal birds, the sounds of the leaves rustling in the nightly breeze.

It’s peaceful, calming, and maybe he should just stop and go to bed as well.

But then he spots you. Walking along the path with nothing but what looks like a loose shirt, some simple dark grey pyjama pants and a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. It’s after dusk and with the nights of spring still cooling down significantly, he can’t understand your incentive to be outside in your nightclothes right now.

He knows he should leave you alone, he knows you’re out there because you seek solitude and peace, to get away from everything and everyone. He should grant you that wish.

And yet it seems like he can never stop his feet from carrying him towards you.

✦ ✧ ✦

A choir of crickets chirps in the meadows, owls howling faintly in the distance as you make your way to the pond. The nocturnal sounds accompany you all the way down to the water and you pull your blanket tighter around your shoulders as the gentle breeze picks up. You haven’t been on any late-night walks in a while. The frequency of those had slowly dwindled over the years since you got here, but tonight it feels apt, the air clear and warm and the grounds as empty as you will ever see them.

With Beltane in two days, you spot a few places where they set up the bonfires, the biggest situated on the other side of the pond. It’s not like you plan to attend but you’re sure the fires are going to look beautiful from the windows of your studio.

For a while, you look around, eyes roaming the darkness creeping over the gardens. Attention on every little movement, you quickly spot the first bat as it nears the water surface with break-neck speed. As fast as it came it’s gone and you miss out on the actual hunt. But you have no doubt that there will be more – many more. They’re hungry and the night has only just begun.

A sudden snap of a twig, footsteps approaching. You whip around, ready to jump and run, but the soft Italian curse you hear in the aftermath immediately calms you. Copia meanders down the path, using the bushes as shortcuts until he’s right behind you.

“Don’t be scared please,” he says, noticing you watching him. “It’s just me.”

Copia sits down on the bench with you, sighing as deeply as the stereotypical dad in any tv show who plops down on the couch after a long day at work with a can of beer in his hand. And Copia does look tired, perhaps even more tired than the last time you saw him, but it’s hard to tell in the faint moonlight. His features look more severe with the deep shadows settling in the lines of his face and his face paint has already rubbed off in some places.

He angles his body towards yours. “What are you doing out here, if I may ask?”

You do the same, pulling your legs up on the bench. “I like watching the bats.”

“The bats?”

“We have Daubenton’s bats here. They’re back from hibernating now.”

He blinks.

“You didn’t know?”

“No.” His eyes roam the pond before they settle back on you. “And you can see them from here?”

“Yes, they hunt close to the water surface,” you explain, focusing back on the water so you don’t accidentally miss any more of their activities. “There are many insects here at night and they need to eat a lot to sustain themselves. For some reason they love our pond, I think their summer residence is somewhere in or near the abbey, so it’s close.”

“Hm, so we have bats in our attic?”

You spin around to face him, your hand immediately shooting to his forearm, squeezing tightly. “You won’t harm them, right? They don’t do any damage, they just need shelter, a safe place to sleep.”

“No, no!” His gloved hand moves to cover yours and he squeezes in silent reassurance. “You know, I am very fond of sharp-toothed little friends as well, eh? Very much.”

Of course he is, you’ve heard before that he’s owned rats for a long time. You let out a sigh of relief. The last thing you want is for someone to remove the bats, to rob them of the very home they chose for themselves. Why should they not have what all of you are seeking here?

Facing the pond, you suddenly catch one of the bats flying over the water. “Look, Copia!”

The bat is clearly searching for its prey, circling over the pond, almost birdlike only that the echolocation allows it to fly much closer to the surface. Suddenly it does a small but incredibly fast dip, claw out, and then it’s flying off.

“It caught something,” you say with a happy squeal. “So fun to watch, isn’t it?”

When you look back at your Papa he’s smiling, eyes shimmering warmly as they take you in. You feel a hint of embarrassment because of your reaction but he doesn’t seem to mind. Instead he fiddles with your hand again, clasping it tighter. By now, holding hands with him feels almost instinctual, like it would be wrong not to touch.

“Yes, very. I am glad you are here to appreciate them.”

A nervous smile. You struggle to hide how you’re suddenly trembling. You forgot just how close you’re sitting. “Thanks.”

“Is there a reason you are so fond of them?” Copia asks, placing your locked hands safely in his lap, ready to chit chat. His shoulders slump, he sits back, completely at ease now. You try to relax as well. This is the third time you’re holding hands now and yet you still feel nervous about it. You tell yourself that he probably holds hands with a lot of siblings.

“I had a very shaping encounter with a bat as a child,” you explain. “Actually the bat made me become so passionate about art that my parents let me take lessons.”

“So it sent you on your path.”

“It did, I suppose.”

“What happened?”

“Mona.” You think back to your little friend, her fragile body on the shelf, drinking water from your spoon. She was so tiny. Pipistrellus, a dwarf bat, one of the smallest ones you could find around here. Her image brings a smile to your face. “Mona was a bat. I found her in our basement, very weak from being trapped, and then I nursed her. Or… well, I gave her water and she flew off the same night. But it sparked an interest that never left. I was obsessed with bats after that, and filled dozens of sketchbooks with them.”

He chuckles. “That’s a lot of bat drawings.”

You sigh in a nervous huff of laughter. “I… I get very obsessive once I find something that inspires me. I almost exclusively drew them until my art teacher forced me to draw and paint other things as well. After the bats I got an intense interest in all things that are dark. My father was shocked when he found one of my paintings showing a pretty bloody scene with animal carcasses. A wolf eating a deer, the remains of his previous meals all around them, rotting, their guts spilling out.” You shrug. “But… yeah, my love for bats stuck with me all this time.”

Copia chuckles. “So your art teacher allowed you to paint this, yes?”

“Oh, yes he was a lover of the dark, of the occult as well and he–” You swallow, an influx of vivid memories you’ve been suppressing for years now flooding your brain. You shake your head, wincing, a jerky movement that doesn’t quite manage to rid you of this vicious attack of your subconscious. With your muscles twitching, you tense up completely but you can’t fight the heavy breathing your lungs settle into.

“Are you okay?” Copia asks, the worry so clearly etched into his voice that you whimper. “Cara, talk to me, please.”

“I don’t… I’m sorry,” you say between heaving breaths. “I don’t… I don’t think I can talk about this right now.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “We don’t have to. Hey, look at me, cara. Per favore, please.”

Copia lets go of your hand then and you pull it from his lap, unreasonably disappointed and hurt by his reaction. Grabbing the bench next to your leg, you dig your fingers into the unforgiving wood until it hurts, trying to ground yourself with the immediate pain. You feel instant regret about opening up to him like this. You should have known that poking a bees’ nest only results in vicious stinging and you tried to fish for the honey anyway. And you did it for him. You tried it for him. Only to scare him off with the intensity of your anguish.

You’re about to apologise, glancing over, when you notice why he actually let go. He removes his gloves, both of them, and slips them into his pocket. You look up at his face only to find his eyes already on you, his features tensed up in concern, creasing his brow. He takes your hand away from the splintery wood of the bench and laces his fingers with yours, keeping it still. You know he’s trying to calm you but it has the opposite effect. Your heart is hammering in your chest, a violent rhythm that is almost painful.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me now,” he says. “I’ll distract you from the thought, yes?”

You nod, slowly calming down.

Copia brings your hand to his face, eyes on you, looking for any sign of rejection, but you can only stare. His lips touch the back of your hand like butterfly’s wings before they press in harder. They leave blotchy black marks, blending in with the paint stains on your skin that you never fully get rid of. If you squint, they look like a mouth. His mouth.

“Hm.” He smiles. “Matching.”

“Copia,” you whisper, holding back tears.

His eyes find yours again, asking, wondering.

Your voice is barely audible when you find the strength to speak. “Do it again?”

He does, kissing so gently that your breath catches. When he lets go, his other hand starts moving. His thumb follows the path of your veins all the way to the crook of your arm, a ghost of a touch that leaves a titillating trail on your skin. He drags it back up to your wrist where his other fingers join in, stroking along your forearm in a steady, almost tickling rhythm.

“Better?” he asks.

You’re still breathless. All you can offer is a vague nod.

The gentle stimulation of your arm is so easy to focus on that you forget the burning pain in your lungs until it slowly fades. Copia never stops his caress, leaning in every so often to paint more black lip marks onto your hand.

You sink back, carefully leaning against him as the tension leaves your tired body until your head rests on his shoulder. Copia reaches behind you and pulls at your blanket, wrapping you up before his strong arm snakes around you to press you to his side. His other hand never leaves yours and he keeps it close to his lips, his nose poking at your knuckles. In the safety of his half-embrace, you let go of every fleeting emotion, entering a state of peace that you haven’t felt in years. As your muscles relax, you melt into his warmth, drifting away with his touch as your only anchor. Silence settles in the air around you, even as the world continues to move.

“Look, there is another bat,” he says, rousing you gently.

You just manage to spot it soaring across the pond before it’s gone, hidden behind a tree. “Did it catch something?”

“I think so.” His hand squeezes yours, his arm tightening around your shoulder. “Are you feeling better?”

“Mhm. Thank you.”

He tuts but it’s a gentle sound. “No need to thank me. I am here for you, cara. I’m always here, you need to know this.”

You press your face into his neck without thinking, sighing deeply as your chest tightens under the weight of this statement. It’s an easy promise that many have given before without any truthful intent behind it but you know that this is different. He means it. He does. And that makes it so much harder to accept.

For a long time you stay like this. Occasionally, Copia points out more bats to you with genuine  excitement in every syllable, but at some point his voice is but a distant murmur. You could die like this, you realise. You could die and for once, you feel like you would leave the earth with a feeling of deep inner peace. Still, reality remains tainted. You know this is but a shadow of contentment that conceals your pain and regret, a cloud that could not withstand the first blow of an emerging storm.

Copia stirs next to you, then, and you rouse from near-slumber. Another kiss, to your palm this time, and then he hums.

“I could sit here with you forever,” he says, his hand moving from your shoulder to your head where he gently pinches your earlobe. “But I think you need some rest, pipistrella, no? You’re falling asleep on me.”

“Pipistrella? Like the bat?”

He chuckles. “Yes.”

“Pipistrellus is very common in Europe,” you mumble. “Very small type of bat. Mona was one, I think.”

“Oh, even better.” He runs his fingers through your hair now, draws a gentle, comforting pattern on your scalp. “You’re my tired little bat, eh? Let me take you inside so you can sleep off this tiredness.”

You really don’t want to leave him but you know the night is progressing fast. The shadows stretch longer as the moon travels across the night sky and when you’re on your feet again, you know that sleep is now welcome. Copia folds your blanket around you before his arm settles on your shoulder once more, and then you let him lead you back inside.

✦ ✧ ✦

The walk back to the abbey feels longer than usual with how slow you’re moving. But Copia doesn’t mind, content to have his arm wrapped around you as he tries to comprehend what just happened. Something about your old teacher must have triggered bad memories because it surely couldn’t have been the bats. Your eyes lit up when you saw the hunter catch its prey, flying so gracefully through the cold night air. He’s never seen you let your guard down like this before.

And of course he has to add them to his list of things that make you happy. Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats. Slowly but surely it’s growing and he’s ready to work hard for every new addition. There is a nagging feeling of guilt in the back of his mind as well, though, especially when he glances at your slumped form next to him. The last thing he wants is to cause you painful flashbacks, to make you cry and possibly pull away from him again.

Slow and steady. He knows you’ll open up to him if he allows you to tread at your own pace. If only he knew how to help you with whatever it is that rests so heavily on your heart. Feeling especially tender now, he lifts his hand to caress your hair and you look up at him, stopping your slow steps. It’s not the first time you’re within kissing distance tonight and he tries so hard not to stare at your lips. You don’t make it any easier as you part them and he sees them glistening in the pale moonlight.

Copia swallows, then forces his gaze to meet yours. “Sorry, I ugh… Is this bad?”

You shake your head. “No, it feels nice.”

“Oh, good,” he says. “Very good.”

The corners of your mouth curl up into a gentle smile. Copia immediately knows that it’s genuine, that you’re feeling better, and it calms his own nerves. With cautious steps, he starts moving again and you follow automatically. He repeats the gentle caresses of your head all the way to the abbey, revelling in the softness against his fingertips. It’s not much warmer inside the open stone walkways, so Copia quickly guides you towards a closed-off corridor. The air steadily grows more comfortable as you make your way inside.

“Where are we going?” you ask at some point.

“I’ll bring you to your door,” he states. “I know you are number 25?”

“Copia, no, you don’t have to. It’s at the other end of the abbey from where your own quarters are.”

He scoffs. “You think I cannot walk five minutes, cara? Please, I am not that old.”

At that you actually giggle. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

There is an unspoken question between you, Copia knows that’s what you actually implied. What if someone sees us? And he’s not sure what that would cause. Rumours, most likely, but just you painting him is going to lead to those. According to abbey gossip he’s involved with ten siblings that he hasn’t even been in a room alone with, Secondo eats baby ghouls he summons for breakfast purposes and Terzo spread chlamydia last summer which caused a shortage in antibiotics around town. None of it is true, many people just don’t know them well enough to see their true colours. But quite honestly, he doesn’t mind people talking. So what if they think there is something between you? Because there is something.

And yes, he wants it to be real, no matter how it would impact his work. This once, he wants to do what his heart truly desires, be utterly and recklessly selfish for the first time in his life. He knows you’re worth it, he can feel it in every fibre of his being when he’s with you. And he won’t let anyone take that away from him, not even the Dark Lord himself.

“This is it,” you whisper as you pass a door on the second floor of the Sibling’s wing. Copia is glad that you paid attention because every entrance looks the same to him in the dark. He feels you fishing for your key in the pocket between your bodies. Your hand moves against his leg and despite the fabric separating you, he feels a familiar heat trickling into his belly.

His reluctance to let go of you doesn’t stay unnoticed and you quickly give up your search in favour of looking at him. Copia feels his cheeks growing warmer in tandem with the rest of his body. It’s bad. He wants to kiss you so bad it physically hurts to hold back. And you look at him with such big eyes, the shadows on your face barely hiding your blush.

“‘strella,” he whispers. Don’t look at me like that.

All this does is make your eyes widen even more. He catches you staring at his mouth and he could so easily close the few centimetres separating you. You want it, too, he can see it so clearly. But there is a voice inside his head warning him. It’s too much, she’s going to pull away, she’s going to regret it. This is too precious for hasty mistakes.

The tension between you becomes unbearable and it’s all he can do to stop himself from kissing you as he breaks eye contact. Instead he pulls you closer and then he angles his chin up until his lips touch the cool skin of your forehead. He knows he didn’t mess up when your arms wrap around him, the blanket dropping to the floor as you grasp at his black shirt. For a moment, he lets his lips linger, kissing so softly that no sound can be heard. Before he pulls away, he presses in harder and the sigh that leaves you is a warm huff against his throat before the heat settles right in his chest. He’s helplessly lost. As soon as his lips leave your skin he pulls you in so close that his lungs deflate. You hug him back, burying your face in the crook of his neck and he does the same, nuzzling your hair, pressing his face as close to yours as he physically can.

The hug is so tight that he feels like you are melting into each other, becoming one in the early hours of such a seemingly random night. Copia steers you towards the wall until he has you pressed against it, leaning into you as you slowly relax your muscles with the support of the bricks behind you. He can’t help but notice how perfect you feel, how seamlessly your bodies fit together. Your warmth mingles with his, the smell of your shower gel and the crisp night air still clinging to you as he inhales deeply from where his nose is buried in your hair.

He never wants to let you go.

For a long time, he doesn’t have to. Your arms never stop holding him and so he doesn’t loosen his grasp on you. He thinks he could fall asleep against you like this, holding you all night long with your heart beating against his, only separated by the solid cages of your ribs. Minutes pass, half an hour, perhaps. He has no way of knowing.

You can’t be asleep or your arms would have dropped. Still, he breaks away to check in with you after a while. When he catches your gaze, he can tell that you’re fighting for your life as you try not to fall asleep. It’s adorable, your hair mussed up from the hug, a blotchy black lip mark on your forehead, the fabric of your shirt crinkly from being trapped between your bodies.

“Go to bed, mia ‘strella, hm?” he suggests, struggling against his honest wishes. “We can’t sleep out here, no? We would get sick.”

You nod, fighting against your droopy eyelids. Eventually, you unwrap yourself from him and fiddle for your keys once more. The sudden cold, the immediate emptiness, is an expected but painful blow, a hollow feeling of deprivation setting in. He wants nothing more than to pull you back into him but then you push the door open and he lets go of the thought.

“Good night, ‘strella,” he says. “I will see you soon, yes?”

A gentle smile. “Good night, Copia. And… thank you.”

He wants to tell you that there is no reason for gratitude, that he savoured every minute you spent together tonight, but his tongue is too heavy. You look at him for a few heartbeats longer, your fingers sliding up and down the flimsy wood of the door. Eventually, you break away and his line of sight breaks as the door falls shut.

The click of the lock echoes in the empty hallway and so does his next step as he walks backwards, stumbling over the blanket you dropped. For a brief moment, he wonders if he should knock but as he picks it up, inhaling your scent from the fuzzy knits, he decides against it. Holding it to his nose, he takes a few more deep breaths. A drawn-out exhale leaves him, but as soon as it’s gone, an uncontrollable squeal vibrates in his chest that he can only muffle at the last second. A giddy, ecstatic feeling bubbles inside of him now, swallowing any sign of sleepiness.

Copia runs his hands over his face as the feeling settles deep inside of his chest and he allows himself this brief moment of genuine happiness. Maybe there is hope for him after all, maybe it sat on a bench with him all night and he didn’t even realise it.

✦ ✧ ✦

No one really seemed to care that your paintings got increasingly darker. For the first few months you let the saturation of your photographs guide you into the exploration of new colour schemes. Mr Kraan allowed you, even encouraged this freedom, and he seemed to be fond of your progress, how daring you became with your choices. With increasing safety, settling into your style while slowly expanding into different areas, you started to explore different themes and subjects as well.

They’re very comfortable in the dark. That’s what your mom had said to you about bats. What she didn’t tell you is that there are way more animals and creatures who love the dark. At first, you moved from bats to other flying creatures – crows, ravens, owls, hawks. Then you moved on to other animals, other predators – wolves, foxes, lynx. You portrayed them hunting but also when they were peaceful, resting, exploring – different angles, as Mr Kraan had said. And you loved every second of it, even though you were not allowed to take your paintings home with you most of the time. Why, you were not sure. It seemed to be something your mother and Mr Kraan had discussed. Not that you cared, the studio felt more like your home than the house you lived in anyway.

Animals were way better than still lives, you decided. You preferred to show movement and their vivid expressions. Mr Kraan said he would introduce you to portraits at some point but that was not a priority as you made your way through every animal encyclopaedia and reference book he kept in his study. Humans might be interesting but they did not have canines and claws and rough fur.

“You be good today, my love,” your mother said as she dropped you off on a random Thursday in September. She was accompanying you upstairs into the studio most of the time instead of just letting you go in by yourself. “Mr Kraan, do you have a moment?”

This was also a regular thing. For some reason, your mom and Mr Kraan often had these clandestine conversations in a room down the hall. You mostly spent that time exploring his bookshelves. He did not like you taking too long because the time got subtracted from your real painting time. So you only had those precious twenty minutes when he was busy and you did not intend to waste them.

Today, you spotted a new book in the top row of his shelf. Occult symbols. As you took it out, you heard a clicking sound somewhere in the wall behind the shelf. You weren’t sure where it came from but your tiny hand managed to reach behind the books, squeezing through the tiny gap on top, and in the second row, your fingers didn’t hit the back of the shelf like they usually would. Instead, a small compartment was revealed.

Eager to explore, curiosity fully taking over, you cleared out the shelf. Behind the books on painting and colour theory, you spotted a second layer of books now that had previously been hidden. Black Magic for Beginners. Summonings and Incantations. Hellish Creatures. The Black Arts and How to Use Them. Dark Ceremonial Magic.

Before you could read any more of the titles, you heard the door down the hall creaking as it opened. You could make out heavy breathing, hushed whispers, and you knew it’s now or never. You took the book called Black Magic for Beginners and quickly hid it in your backpack. Then you fixed the shelves to make them appear like nothing untoward had happened. Right when you put in the last book, Mr Kraan entered the studio, finding you in his study area a second later.

“Busy reading again?” he asked.

You took in his disheveled form, his hair messier than usual, his shirt collar wide open. He closed two of the buttons as he walked over to you. Lifting a heavy hand to rest it on top of your head.

“Are you ready for your lesson, little bat?” he asked, mussing up your hair. “What would you like to do today?”

You give him a bright smile. “I am ready, Mr Kraan, and I want to paint a black cat today.”

Chapter Text

“Alas! the void, the fearful void, which I feel in my bosom! Sometimes I think, if I could only once but once, press her to my heart, this dreadful void would be filled.”

― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther

✦ ✧ ✦

The cheerful music is so loud that you can hear it all the way up in your studio. It finally breaks your intense focus after you’ve been painting all morning, painting for the past two days actually with hardly any restful breaks or time for sleep. The moment you shared with Copia, watching the bats chasing over the pond, finally unraveled the artistic knot and you rediscovered your rhythm. Right now, however, you can feel your wrist aching, the hole in your stomach complaining loudly about the skipped lunch.

You decide to take a break. With a glass of water you settle on the window sill, overlooking most of the grounds. A couple of Siblings are dancing around the Maypole, twirling, singing, giggling, and you watch them with silent fascination as they weave an intricate pattern with their colourful ribbons. You can make out Primo and a few other Siblings near the greenhouses, weaving lush flower crowns for the whole congregation. Briefly, you wonder how many flowers the former Papa had to plant just for today and if it hurts him to rip them out so prematurely. But then more movements near the Maypole attract your gaze and you spot Copia approaching.

He’s dressed leisurely in one of his tight black jeans and a simple black shirt that hangs loosely on his slender body, no frills this time. In his arm, he carries his blue ceremonial chasuble and you watch as he pulls it over his head, Sister helping him when his head gets stuck for a moment. You assume that he’s out there to watch, to show his face and applaud the Siblings for their beautiful performance. All of the celebrations are voluntary but of course the reigning Papa’s presence is expected to appreciate everyone’s efforts and bring them Lucifer’s blessing. Most Siblings would not miss any of the ministry-favoured holidays for the world but you’re not sure if you could go down there without feeling frustratingly out of place, even if you really wanted to. Perhaps you could convince Sybil to introduce you to some of her friends but it seems too daunting to even attempt.

Your eyes are caught by two Sisters approaching Copia, holding out one of the lush flower crowns they’ve been working on. He places it on his greying hair but it’s immediately crooked, slightly tipped to the left. The Sisters both giggle and one of them helps him right it with careful fingers. He gives a dramatic bow of thanks, nearly dropping the crown again, and they all share a hearty laugh. Your chest tightens at the sight. How you long to be with him, to say goodbye before he leaves for tour. Perhaps you would receive one more tight hug from him to help you memorise his shape, to burn into your mind how he fits so perfectly against you. But you know he’ll be busy all day and who are you to interrupt him with such a silly, touch-starved request? You’re not even sure if what you have really is special or if you’re just falling for hopeless dreams and wishful thinking.

You slip from the windowsill to get back to work, disappointment settling in your chest. There is no use in chasing these what-ifs, not when you have such a huge project to complete. You’ve barely scratched the surface and you remind yourself that your worship comes in the shape of paint strokes and not flower crowns. There is no reason to feel bad.

With that in mind, you spend the rest of the day painting, the hours passing without notice like they always do when you’re in a tunnel, time and space a mere concept and nothing to constrain you. It’s way after sundown when the door to the studio suddenly flies open and breaks your spell. You half expect Sybil to come and drag you downstairs but no. It’s not Sybil, it’s not even a human.

It’s a ghoul.

✦ ✧ ✦

If he focuses enough, he can hear the bonfires crackling even over the music and background noise of the congregation. Smoke-filled air bites Copia’s eyes, the white one more sensitive to the toxins, and he blinks in a hopeless fight for relief. But focusing is very hard tonight. As he sits around a small campfire with Terzo, Secondo and the old man, all in differently coloured flower crowns, he feels antsy and nervous.

Tomorrow, he’ll leave for two whole weeks and he hasn’t said goodbye to you yet. In fact he hasn’t seen you since the bat watching and it’s causing him stomach aches. That or he didn’t wait long enough for his bread on a stick to cook. He holds said stick out again, letting the dough he wrapped around one end receive a little bit more heat to roast. While he waits, his eyes travel back to the abbey. You’re not here yet even though the celebrations have been going on for a few hours. Copia gets more worried by the second that he won’t catch you before tomorrow. Would you consider him to be overstepping if he came looking for you? The flock expects their Papa to be here, though, he can’t just leave.

“È bruciato, fratellino.”

Copia whirls back around, facing Terzo with raised brows. “Mi scusa?”

“Il pane.” Terzo rolls his eyes, grabs his arm and pulls it away from the fire. “You burnt it, idiota.”

Copia stares at the now black dough but he can’t bring himself to care, his thoughts still far away. “Oh… yes.”

Terzo furrows his brow at him now, cocking his head to the side to forcefully catch his gaze. “Are you alright, fratellino?”

“Sì, sì, sto molto bene.” Copia nods, wills a short-lived smile onto his face before his eyes are back on the courtyard. A few Siblings have gathered on stone benches and around bar tables, munching on sandwiches, beers and other drinks in hand, chatting happily or nodding along to the metal beats blasting from the speakers. Everyone is here. Everyone. Even the ghouls linger in the shadows. But there is no sign of you.

“So, how is it going with your little painter amore? It is her you look for, no? Waiting for a little rendezvous?”

Copia pretends he doesn’t understand. “Huh?”

“Oh, do not play coy, Papino. I won’t judge what you are doing in that little studio of hers.”

Copia scoffs. “We are not doing anything.”

“But you want to? Can we finally agree on this now?”

“Uh, fratello, please don’t.”

Terzo hums like he understands exactly what’s going on. “Oh, so ‘it is complicated’ yes?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It is what people write on the Facebook,” the old man says, yawning in slow-motion before he pulls at a piece of his own half-burnt stick bread.

“How do you even know that?” Copia asks, frowning at him. Dickhead.

Nihil shrugs and plops the piece of cooked dough into his mouth. “‘m trying to keep up wi’ the kids mphnow.”

“People used that ten years ago, I thought you would have caught up by now, Papa,” Terzo says, ignoring his father. “Anyway, you did not answer my question.”

Copia stares at his hands, the stick rough against his fingertips, then realises he hasn’t checked the entrance in a while so he glances back up. “I don’t know what you mean,” he mumbles, still not spotting any signs of you.

He can hear Secondo scoff from the other end of the bench and Terzo smacks his older brother’s knee, hiding his laughter. Great, so everyone knows about this. Copia should have known. They’re all gossips, especially when it’s about him. He wishes Primo were here, he’s the only one who doesn’t thrive on Copia’s misfortune.

A deep sigh escapes him. “Va bene. I know what you mean, but nothing has happened. It is… well, yes, it is complicated.”

“Aw and now you are leaving for two weeks,” Terzo states. “Have you said your goodbyes yet?”

“No.”

“It upsets you.” It’s a statement so Copia doesn’t bother with a reply. He hates the fact that he’s so perceptive, reads him so well. Terzo rests his hand on his shoulder in an encouraging squeeze. “Do you want me to look after her when you’re gone, fratellino? You were worried, no?”

Copia gives a hesitant nod. “Sì, ma per favore… non essere così ovvio, eh?”

“Me? Obvious?”

“Well, you know… you are a little direct sometimes. But this… it is very delicate, you see.”

Terzo nudges his shoulder. “You think I cannot handle a delicate thing, Papino? I am very delicate myself, if you care.”

“Mi dispiace, I know you can, of course,” Copia says, missing Terzo’s irony by still nervously glancing at the open archway he’d expect you to come out of. “It is just… This is very important to me, Terzo. You understand this?”

Terzo nods, squeezing Copia’s forearm for a moment. “I will do my best, non ti preoccupare! Now excuse me, I have to get another drink and mingle.”

Standing up, Terzo rests his whole weight on Copia’s shoulder and he struggles to keep his spine straight, watching him walking over to the courtyard where sadly he still can’t spot you. When Copia finally directs his gaze back to the fire, Secondo regards him from the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“Please don’t,” Copia says. “I have been teased enough, no?”

Secondo lifts a brow and his stern expression looks ridiculous with the flower crown on top of his bald head. “You know he is going to get her here, fratello?”

Copia whips back around. However, he lost sight of Terzo already and he doesn’t want to get his hopes up even more. Secondo has gone back to ignoring him, standing up now to refill his glass and most likely dip now that Terzo is gone. The old man still fingers with his bread on a stick, uncaring of the busy world around him, and Copia decides that it’s time to go as well before Sister comes back and tries to get him more involved in the festivities. He loves his flock, he truly does, but there is only one Siblings he longs to spend time with tonight.

✦ ✧ ✦

For a moment, you and the ghoul just stare at each other. He is wearing a horned silver mask over his black robes which tells you it has to be one of Terzo’s. You’re confused for a moment but the ghoul simply points towards the door, beckoning.

“You want me to follow you?”

A nod. You’ve never heard any of them speak but it often feels like they’re communicating to the Siblings without words, almost like they have the ability to infiltrate your mind and senses. The eery, otherworldly aura surrounding them always frightened you and even though you’re not sure if they are truly able to read your mind or look into your past you’ve been trying to avoid them as much as possible. This one, however, is tall and strong and you’re too scared to refuse.

He doesn’t lead you into a dark corridor to kill and devour you but sets off down the stairs. Even here, the music blasting outside penetrates the old stone walls and you can hear the unmistakeable sounds of the happy, partying congregation. The ghoul with his long strides is faster than you and you have to hurry after his broad frame. But as soon as you reach the courtyard, stepping into the cool, smoke-filled air, he’s lost to the shadows.

“Oh, Monet! Hey!” Before you can even take in the decorated exteriors of the abbey, Sybil runs up to you with a spring in her step and grabs your hands. “You’re here to drink with me?”

“Ugh…”

“Come on!”

You can’t get another word in as she drags you over to a group of Siblings by a bar table right next to the drinks station, a long foldable table richly piled with liquor bottles and non-alcoholic drinks in ice buckets underneath. None of them are wearing their habits but airy summer dresses and shorts instead, making use of the mild spring night and the warmth of the bonfires. You feel out of place in your paint-stained dungarees and the plain black shirt underneath.

“What do you want? Alcohol?” Sybil asks.

“Uh, no I’d rather not,” you say, thinking that you should get back to painting or at least head back up to clean your materials in a little bit.

“Sven get her a coke,” Sybil says. “You need to drink something or at least hold it, hm?”

Sven, a tall blond brother you’ve often seen hanging out with Sybil, hands you an ice cold, condensation-dripping bottle of coke. “There you go, little painter.”

You’re about to scowl but Sybil already smacks his arm for you. “She has a name, dumbass.”

“You just call her random names, Syb,” Sven complains.

“Not random names, artists’ names because one day her name is going to be just as big and then people are going to call their artist friends like her.”

“Why not use her real name now to make it big?”

Sybil pauses, blowing up her cheeks. You stop following their bickering when Sybil’s other friend Erin suddenly grabs your arm, her fingers digging into your skin. “Oh damn, you’re not wearing a crown! We have to change that immediately or Lucifer is going to be pissed.”

Her dark green dress billows behind her as she hurries off along the courtyard and towards the gardens. You want to turn back around but then your eyes are caught by another moving figure. You half expect the ghoul to drag you off again but it’s actually Copia. Just seeing him makes your heart beat faster. It picks up even more when you realise that he is approaching you, wearing nothing but the black jeans and shirt you saw earlier. For a moment you feel like you’re in a dream, watching him with the purple flower crown in his hair, an anxious expression on his painted face. In the flickering light of the fires his features look stern, almost scarily pronounced, but when he stops about two steps away from you, they curl into a sheepish smile. For a moment the world seems to stop as your eyes meet, the edges of your vision creating a blurry frame around his face.

“Hello,” he says. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I was eh… actually I was looking for you to talk–”

“Oh, Papa!” Sybil whirls around with her beer, eyes widening in excitement. “Are you going to have a drink with us?”

Copia startles, staring at her like he hasn’t seen her standing there at all. He looks at you, then back at her, then back at you. “Uh… I suppose… well, why not? It cannot hurt, eh?”

“Great! Here, you can have the beer, I’ll just open another one.”

With a tight-lipped smile, Copia accepts the bottle but immediately sets it down on the bar table. You sip on your coke, all the while feeling Sven’s intense gaze on you as he looks between you and Copia. You wonder how many rumours are already circulating but even if the answer is none, there will no doubt be countless ones tomorrow. The whole situation is stiff and awkward, at least until Sybil returns with another beer and grins at you. “So, how’s the painting going, Monet?”

You shrug casually. “Oh, I actually made a lot of progress.”

“That’s why you’re late?” Sven asks. “Sybil says you’re painting non-stop these days.”

You grip the bottle a little tighter. “Yeah, I had to finish that one big layer.”

“Layer?”

“You don’t want to know the details,” you just say.

“But I kinda do, I’ve always been very fascinated–”

“Sven, don’t bore them with your questions,” Sybil interrupts. “Monet and Papa are here to relax and enjoy the celebrations and not think about work.”

Sven rolls his eyes at her but then Erin reappears with another Sister in tow who you’ve never seen before. She’s wearing a huge red and white flower crown in her hair with some of the biggest roses you’ve ever seen. Her eyes immediately dart between you and Copia and you can smell even more rumours brewing.

“Got your flower crown!” Erin exclaims, stepping uncomfortably close in front of you. “Oh and look, it matches Papa’s!”

She places a beautiful weave of flowers on your hair consisting of soft purples and whites – lilacs, lavender, daisies. The blossoms are bigger than you’ve ever seen occur naturally before and again you wonder just how Primo manages to command nature like that, what type of magic he uses to make such miracles happen. It’s a crown truly worthy of the name.

“Look, we’re matching again,” Copia says, smiling at you and you have to look away immediately as a whole wave of butterflies comes to life in your belly.

“You look adorable! Like a real May Queen,” Sybil says, subconsciously righting her own rich pink flower crown. “Daisies really suit you.”

“Thank you.”

“I think the pink and purple ones are my favourites as well,” Erin states, finally stepping away once she’s satisfied with the fit.

You can’t focus on any of their next words because then something unexpectedly tickles your wrist. Copia’s hand grazes yours again as he takes a step closer to make room for the others, a mere hair’s breadth separating you. At first you assume it’s an accident but then you can feel his leather-clad fingertips searching for you again. He doesn’t fully take your hand but rubs circles into your palm with his middle and ring finger. Your cheeks warm up, the need to touch him simmering in your chest, and you turn your hand so he can reach it more comfortably. With his thumb keeping your hand tucked now, his fingers press to your palm, and he must feel your blood pulsing rapidly against the ball of his hand.

You see him smiling from the corner of your eyes and pray that no one sees you mirroring his expression. It’s so unlike you, to feel this struck by such a simple gesture.

“So, are you going to skinny dip with us?” Erin asks.

“Monet!”

You startle to life, realising that they’re addressing you. “Oh, no, I don’t think so.”

“Naw, why not?” Erin asks. “It’s cold, yeah, but you feel so alive afterwards!”

“We’re all doing it,” Erin’s friend, whose name you still don’t know, says.

Papa’s fingers tighten on your hand under the table, out of sight but no less distracting. “It is not required to join any of these activities. Some people are more comfortable watching than participating, no?”

“Oh, of course,” the sister immediately stammers, her pale cheeks turning a soft shade of red. “I just mean it’s a lot of fun if you do it with others.”

“Honestly, it’s probably good if one of us stays healthy because I bet I’ll catch a nasty cold,” Sybil says. “And I need someone to nurse me back to health asap.”

“You know, I could do that as well,” Erin says, smirking at her with a sparkle in her gaze.

For a moment you think your eyes betray you but Sybil actually blushes at those words, her cheeks turning the same deep red colour as her hair. You wonder what you missed by not joining their little friend group earlier and can’t help but feel guilty about not showing her the same level of interest that she’s showing you.

“We should get ready, though, before everyone is too drunk,” Erin says. “Don’t want anyone to fucking drown in the pond.”

Perhaps that is their cue because Sven simply steps into the centre of the courtyard, mimicking a megaphone with his hands before his voice booms over the music. “HEY! EVERYONE WHO WANTS TO GO SKINNY DIPPING GET TO THE POND RIGHT NOW. LEAVE YOUR BOTTLES HERE, WE DON’T WANT ANY CASUALTIES!”

He walks down the path to the gardens, repeating the same message over and over again like a parrot fluttering along the path. As his voice slowly starts to fade out, Sybil, Erin and their other friend have finished their drinks and gather their belongings.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Sybil asks. “We could run side by side.”

You shake your head once more. “Maybe next year, okay?”

“Fine. That’s a deal.”

She grins at you, not so subtly eyeing Copia as she does so, and you scowl in reply. Her hands shoot up in a display of mock innocence and she purposely follows the others much slower, glancing over her shoulder a few times with a barely hidden grin before she eventually decides to catch up.

As the courtyard empties, Copia finally slides his fingers between yours. You glance away from the back of Sybil’s head to look into his face, only to find the most worried, tender expression there. His eyebrows are pulled together, eyes sparkling like the stars high above you, and you’re immediately back in your safe little vacuum.

“Did you have dinner?” he asks.

The question hits you unprepared. “Oh… no.”

He sighs like he knew exactly that’s what you would say. Copia squeezes your fingers and drags you with him towards the already very depleted buffet. He piles a bunch of leftover sandwiches onto a paper plate together with some cut up fruit. Then he stops to grab a blanket from a little stack and tucks it under his arm.

“You forgot your beer–” you try but he just pulls you further along in direction of the gardens.

“You know, I do not like beer very much, ‘strella.”

Copia leads you away from where the masses have gathered around the pond, ready to watch a surprisingly big group of Siblings stripping to the bone. You pass two smaller bonfires, a few remaining Siblings lazing around on blankets, too busy making out to watch the group spectacle. You can tell that you missed most of the actual partying by how quiet it now is. The skinny dip must be one of the last items on the agenda before people either go to bed or spend the rest of the night outside wandering through the woods to connect with the spirits and nature.

“This is good, I think,” Copia says, stopping within a safe distance to a now mostly abandoned bonfire on the hill leading up to the orchard. You can still feel the warmth radiating from the burnt-down pile of wood but you’re far enough away to breathe in some fresh air, even if you can still taste the ashy smoke on your tongue.

Copia spreads out the blanket on a patch of grass overlooking the grounds. “One of the Siblings on fire watch may find us,” he says. “But it is nice, no?”

“Yes, it’s very nice,” you confirm. “Very… private.”

He smiles at that. “Yes, what I was going to say earlier is that I was looking for you because I wanted to say goodbye…”

Your heart aches at those words. “I’m sorry that I didn’t show up. I didn’t realise you were waiting.”

“Oh, well, I told Terzo and he must have decided to make that possible for me.”

“One of his ghouls picked me up, yes.”

Copia pushes the plate with the sandwiches into your direction, nudging your knee in encouragement. “They are very good, I promise. I had ugh… five. Or six.”

You giggle when he pretends to count on his fingers and sink your teeth into the soft bread, tasting cream cheese and cucumber. They are good, a little soggy now, but your stomach is happy about any type of nourishment at this point. The second sandwich has cheese on it, so it’s less soggy, and you immediately feel better with something substantial in your belly. Copia just sits and watches you eat, propped up on his hands behind him with his knees slightly bent. He looks relaxed, at peace really, and you decide that you like that look on him. Even as the distant crowd suddenly cheers when the Siblings finally run into the cold water, splashes and screams echoing in the night air, his eyes don’t leave you.

“So, do you not enjoy Beltane?” he asks when you finally finish your third sandwich. It’s calmer now, the crowd slowly disbanding, towels being handed out to the people who want out fast.

“Well, to be honest I’ve always avoided the festivities,” you admit, watching them stepping out of the water one by one. “I don’t even know what you usually do, some years I’ve just been hiding in my bedroom.”

“Oh, anything can happen, ‘strella. It is a magical night.” You look at him and you’re not sure if he’s serious or just joking. The excited glimmer in his eyes could mean both. “I don’t know, perhaps if we sit here long enough we will see the witches flying naked on their brooms over our fires or riding on pigs. Perhaps even Lilith herself will join them. Do you think we can summon one of the little lights, what is it called?”

“A will-o’-the-wisp?”

“Yes! We should try and it will guide us through the woods to their their little witches’ party where they eat and drink and dance and sing… and fuck.”

You press your lips together as heat spreads over your face. Copia grins at your reaction, you half want to smack him, but he just looks too handsome like this. “Do you think they’d let us join, then?”

Copia perks up. “Oh, they would be delighted, I think, to have you there.”

“You’re Lucifer’s chosen, I think they would just steal you away.”

“But ‘strella, so are you.” His hand reaches out for yours and he squeezes it tightly, pulling it to his chest so fast that you almost fall on top of him. “He gifted you a great talent and you are honouring it every day.”

You want to believe it, that this is what happened. And yet you know it’s not true. It wasn’t a gift He voluntarily bestowed you with and the implications of what you did are still haunting you every day. Even now you’re not sure where you really stand in your faith, if you’re doing the right thing by being here or what you could possibly tell Copia if you ever found the courage to open up about these concerns. But even so, the feelings that your memories carry, interwoven like a tight-knit quilt of images from your past, are making it hard to see a light in the darkness clouding your mind. How are you supposed to be grateful like that?

The atmosphere shifts as the sadness seeps out of you and settles in the quiet between words. Copia must notice but he doesn’t pry. He lets you pull your joint hands into your lap and you fiddle with the hem of his glove, your bare fingertips ghosting over the pale skin of his wrist. You can feel him shudder the first time your skin touches and you press your thumb to his pulse, rubbing along his veins. His steady heartbeat and the gentle warmth of his skin soothe the pain you feel inside.

“Do you think it is true?” you finally ask. “That the veil between the living and dead is so thin tonight that the spirits walk among us?”

“Hm… I would say it is entirely possible,” he says. “You are thinking about someone special, no?”

You nod hesitantly, staring at your hands.  “I mean… don’t we all have someone we would give anything to talk to again?”

“I think so.”

A pause. Your forehead is scrunched up in concentration, with the attempt not to poke at your feelings in ways that bring you too much pain. “Do you remember when we had lunch and you asked me about my concerns with our faith?”

“And you almost let me sit there alone, yes. I do remember this.”

You look up at him, his brows furrowed in a display of insecurity. “I know, I was… a little touchy.  I was worried you were just inquiring because I had been absent, not doing enough worship or not sinning enough, I don’t know. I was scared that this was all that it was between us, that you’d try to push me to do more or punish me or something. As Papa, I mean.”

“This is not how our faith works, ‘strella, you know this,” Copia says gently. “There is no punishment, we don’t follow the cruel God who bends people into fearful obedience. I was never interested in shaping you into a better practitioner of our faith, I was interested in your concerns because I was… I am worried about what it is that makes you pull away from me.”

You nod, offering a small smile. “I know that now, Copia.”

“And ‘strella…” He lifts his free hand, running his thumb along your jaw. “There is no penalty for questioning things, not even the things you really love, okie-dokie? I will never judge you, nor will our Dark Lord, for simply being human.”

Again, you nod, focusing on the soft leather on your cheek. “You say it like you experience that as well.”

Copia smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Without the crinkles around them, the smile is sad, pained even. “I love what I do, sì? It is what I wanted to be, always, what I worked for so hard. I like singing and music, I like taking care of everyone, leading you all in worship and offering my guidance. I don’t like the paperwork and boring meetings, but that is okay too, it is part of the deal.” His hand leaves your cheek and he leans back a little, using his arm for support. “When you told me you were feeling nervous if you are good enough and I told you we all have doubts about our work, I was being very honest.”

“You doubt whether you’re a good Papa?” you ask, barely hiding the surprise in your voice.

“Oh, naturalmente. I have a lot to live up to, no? And many people rely on me, not just you all here but the whole clergy, every chapter, every Sibling, every senior clergy member. But I cannot show this to anyone. What you need is a strong leader who does not falter.”

“But you’re telling me,” you state.

“I trust you, ‘strella. I know you understand.”

“So you don’t do this with everyone?”

“Do what?”

Your face must have taken on the same colour as the hot air crackling over the bonfires, heat burning your cheeks. “I just wonder, I guess… Well, if you’re intimate with Siblings, do you also tell them these things?”

“No, it’s… well, I have not… at least not in a while…” Suddenly he pulls his brows together. “Wait… You think I am like this with everyone?”

“No! No. I mean, I have no real way of knowing. I’m not exactly someone people approach with gossip.”

Copia lets go of your hand and reaches for your knees instead. You let him turn your body sideways, pulling your legs over his so they’re draped across his lap. You’re impossibly close now, so close you have to hold onto his neck for support and your flower crowns are almost bumping together. You think you’re going to throw up any second.

“Can I ask you something, eh… silly?”

You watch his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a nervous swallow. “Sure, anything.”

He pauses, worrying his lip between his teeth until the colour of his lipstick rubs off. “When I’m not here… I mean when we don’t see each other… Do you ever think about me?”

The question knocks you breathless for a second. Your throat is tight, squeezed together by the sheer force your sudden feelings. Speaking feels close to impossible.

“I… I mean you saw my sketchbook,” you try.

Copia frowns. “You said that was for practice. For the portrait.”

“Well, I told you I get obsessive once I find something that inspires me.”

“Like the bats?”

“Mhm.”

His eyes widen in understanding. “I inspire you?”

“Have you not realised that by now?” You still struggle to speak, the crack in your voice betraying your state. “Copia, I think about you all the time.”

Your admission hangs in the small strip of air between you. He’s so close that you could count his gold-shimmering eyelashes. The pink of his lips shines through the smudged gaps in his paint and you can’t stop staring at them, even as your eyelids start to flutter with nerves. You think you’re leaning in but you’re not sure who’s moving. All you know is that they come closer, that they part and the white of his teeth peeks out. Your grip on his neck tightens and so do his fingers on your hips.

“’strella I’m going to kiss you,” he warns and your nod gets lost as his face falls against yours and your lips finally touch.

The kiss is surprisingly gentle, a soft press of his mouth against yours. Copia gasps, a shaky exhale on your skin, and you’re so overcome with emotions that it’s hard to move your lips. Your head is swimming, your body pulsating under the stark vibrations of your heart. He seems just as jittery when he lifts a hand to cradle your cheek, warm leather on even warmer skin. But even so you never fully part, breathing in the same tight hot air, your lips brushing against the other’s as you let the heavy ripples run through your bodies.

A beat passes. Then his fingers spread over your cheek and push into your hair. His thumb tilts your chin upwards, his nose brushing yours, and then he’s really kissing you. Soft, searching lips moving against yours, pressing in harder until you think they could bruise. He tastes vaguely of smoke and you shudder, a soft moan oscillating in your throat. Nothing and everything matters in that moment, the force of what you already feel for him, all the kisses you imagined before, but it’s more than this. You want him, you want him so much that it hurts, and everything else fades in contrast.

There is no tongue, no escalation. It seems deliberate because Copia breaks away with a groan. He doesn’t pull back enough for you to catch his gaze for more than a second but even so he looks strained, like he’s revolting against his body. But then suddenly he smiles so big that you can feel it against your fingers when you bring them to his soft cheek.

“I am going to miss you so bad,” he whispers. “How can I go now, ‘strella?”

You can’t, you want to say. You need to stay here with me.

Instead you huff out a laugh, closing your eyes for a moment as he rests his forehead against yours. Already you want to kiss him again but the silence is lovely as well, the comfort of his arms around you and his nose pressing against yours. He feels so much warmer and softer than you expected.

“I don’t think I want to go inside yet,” you say.

“We don’t have to. We can stay here for a bit until it gets too cold, sì?”

You nod and he just lets himself fall back onto the blanket, pulling you with him. Your flower crowns tumble from both of your heads, landing in the grass, and the impact is harder than either of you expected. Copia hisses in pain.

“Are you okay?” you ask, scrambling to get off of him.

“Yes, stupid… rock.” One of his hands shoots to his lower back before he fully lies down again. “Come back.”

You do with a sympathetic smile, nestling against him with your head resting on his chest. His arms wrap around you in a tight hug and you can feel his lips on your forehead. You wonder if he’ll leave a mark again, if he left marks around your mouth as well. A tiny part of you hopes that he did, that you’ll find him on your body even after you said your goodbyes.

After a while, Copia shifts underneath you and rolls you onto your sides, pulling you even closer, like having you on his chest isn’t enough. And it isn’t, it’s not nearly enough. You feel like you want to crawl into him and never leave again. In an attempt to fill this need, you push your leg between his, having it squeezed by his strong thighs as he hooks one leg around yours. You’re not sure you could be any closer if you wanted to, with all the clothes between you.

“This is better than joining the witches, no?” he asks.

You chuckle. “It is.”

“So, when I’m gone…” His hand starts to draw a nervous pattern onto your shoulder. “I thought we could exchange numbers. I could call you or… ugh, write a text message.”

“I like that,” you whisper. “Do you have your phone?”

“Oh… it is in my pocket.” He tries to reach for it but with your tangled limbs, he’s struggling to move. “Somewhere…”

“Wait, I’ll find it.” You push your smaller hand between your chest and his, feeling along his abdomen to find the pocket with his phone. As your fingers dance over his shirt, you feel Copia shift and you’re pretty sure it’s not the phone poking against your thigh. Blushing now, you drag your hand further sideways and finally find it pressed between both of your hips and the ground. You fish it out of his pants to try and type in your number, but with only one hand it’s a struggle not to drop it. Once you’re sure it’s saved you push it into his back pocket, trying very hard not to think about how firm his ass feels against your fingers. “There you go.”

“Thank you, cara,” he says, shifting even more with a strained cough. “Now we stop moving around okay?”

“Hm’kay.”

You try to relax but it’s hard with how much you still want more. You’re pretty sure he’s trying to go slow with you, to let you adjust to any little change in your relationship and you’re eternally grateful for his caution. At the same time, you know that you should not even think about going further, that you should not even be here with him in the first place. You have no way of reconciling your growing feelings for him with the risk of allowing him to get so close and with wanting him even closer.

For a while you just rest against each other, exchanging gentle caresses and content hums. In the background, the grounds are almost silent now, nothing but distant, muffled voices and the occasional howl of an animal. Your thoughts, however, are anything but calm. They slowly spiral into territory you usually avoid, prompted by your earlier conversation and an intense anxiety spreading nervously in your belly. Memories of your childhood and youth enter unbidden, nonacceptance, grief, the pain of losing someone, and you feel close to suffocating under their weight. You don’t want to cry but suppressing the tears only sends a tremor down your body.

“Are you cold, ‘strella?” Copia asks. “You’re shivering.”

“Oh yeah, it’s getting chilly,” you half-lie. It has cooled down significantly, even if his body heat provides ample comfort.

“We should go before you get sick, no?” he says. “As much as I want to stay with you, we can’t stay forever.”

He slowly untangles your limbs, separating your bodies, and you realise that he was the only safety net that allowed you to cling to your composure. As soon as his warmth is gone, you feel like you want to crumble. In the dark, he doesn’t immediately notice your state, and you’re grateful that he doesn’t ask any questions as you make your way back inside, clasping his hand far too forcefully.

But then you pass the courtyard and he stops, the lights in the hallway betraying you, and of course there is no way of hiding it anymore. You hate yourself for this, for being in this situation again, just like the last time you got closer. For the thousandth time in your life you wish you wouldn’t have to carry all this weight, that you could just be with him without any such concerns.

“Hey,” Copia says, so gently that you almost want to tell him to stop being so nice, not when you feel like you don’t deserve it. “Are you okay?”

“Hm.” You nod. “Yeah.”

“’strella, what is it? You can tell me, okay?”

He forces himself into your field of view, even as you stare at the ground, his black leather shoes smeared with mud from the dirt path you walked on. You fight for your life not to break down in front of him, clinging to the last bits of your energy. This is definitely not the time for it, not tonight, not after your kiss, not when he is leaving tomorrow.

His gloved hand finds your chin and forces you to look up. The way his brow is pulled together so tightly nearly breaks you, his eyes filled with such genuine concern that you almost want to allow yourself the fall. With him here there is no way you can make sense of your thoughts and feelings. He commands your every thought.

“Dolcezza, please, you tell me what upsets you,” Copia says. “You know you can trust me, no?”

“I do,” you assure him. “It’s just too much, I don’t know what to tell you.”

“Too much? What is, ‘strella?”

“Everything. This. Me. I just…” You inhale deeply, willing the tears away without any success. “I don’t want you to go, I’m really scared of you leaving.”

“But?”

“But I also think it might be good to have space and just think.”

“Space?” he repeats. “But, ’strella, we barely see each other.”

“I know, that’s not what I mean. It’s just… I can’t think straight with you around.”

“It is the kiss?” He furrows his brows, the lines on his forehead deepening. “You didn’t want it?”

“I wanted it. I did, I do.” You bite your lip, swallowing painfully around the lump in your throat. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t think I understand,” he says, shaking his head.

You exhale shakily. “Neither do I, Copia.”

He stops, his whole chest rising and falling as he takes a deep breath and grabs your face with both hands. “Tell me what is wrong, please. If you think you cannot tell me… I am not Papa right now. I am Copia, your Copia. You can trust me, you can confide in me. Nothing leaves my lips.”

“I know,” you whisper, a few tears falling down your face now. “But I can’t tell you, not right now, not when you’re gone.”

“You cannot think I let you go now like this?”

“It’s okay, I’m fine, I promise.”

“I can’t leave you crying, mia ‘strella,” he says, wiping at your cheeks. “I can’t go now.”

You shake your head. “Please, Copia.”

You’re not even sure what you’re asking for. He continues to swipe his thumbs over your cheeks as more tears fall, the leather soft against your heated skin. His face carefully sinks against yours, forehead against forehead, and you close your eyes, his hot breath fanning against your wet lips.

“I don’t want to leave you,” he whispers in the tiny space. “I can’t.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say. “I promise.”

He shakes his head, his nose flicking against yours. “I don’t believe it.”

You reach out and cling to his black shirt, the fabric rustling as you bunch it between your fingers until the buttons pop open to accommodate the stretch. You pull him closer until you can feel his chest bumping against yours. Sliding one hand up to his open collar, your fingertips brush the coarse hair on his sternum and you take a few seconds to just feel him. He’s breathing hard, his chest rising and falling heavily under your palm, and you inhale deeply, smoke and his cologne mixing with the cool air. He’s so warm and you crave his comfort, you crave him just like he seems to crave you. No matter what chaos is going on in your mind, your body still needs his, reaching for his touch.

“What about us?” Copia asks like he’s reading your thoughts, sliding one hand down to your hips to pull you even closer against him. “Do you not want it?”

“I want it,” you choke out. “I want it but I need to think.”

“Think? No thinking, ‘strella, I want to know what you feel.”

“I feel…”

You stop, opening your eyes again. His gaze meets yours, too close to communicate anything but the desperate need you see reflected in his wide pupils. You can’t help but lift your chin, angling your face against his until your lips almost touch. A half-sob leaves you as you try to hold back. Copia sucks in a breath at the sound, but then you lose your battle and already press your mouth to his. He reciprocates immediately, kissing you hard and almost forceful until he’s fully taken over. His grip on you tightens, and you feel the impact of your kiss running down your body, creating heavy shockwaves that settle in your core. This time, he doesn’t, he can’t hold back. His tongue pushes past your lips, opening your mouth for him with a moan. You allow him to taste you and in return you taste the remains of your own salty tears on his tongue. Copia whimpers at the feeling, giving you one last final sweep of his tongue, one last desperate press of his lips, before he pulls away with a heavy, whiny exhale.

You look into his eyes, your tears blurring your gaze, hoping desperately that he understands. With his confused, pained expression, you’re not quite certain that he does. But it’s all the same now, you cannot tell him anything profound, and in a few hours he’ll be gone. Even now, you can tell by the defiant glint in his eyes that he’s ready to fight for it but you know you cannot let him.

“This is not the end,” he says. “Promise me.”

“It’s not,” you say. “I do promise.”

He nods reluctantly and as you part, his hand slides into yours one more time. He squeezes it so tightly that your knuckles hurt, his eyebrows pulled into a frown. You take a few steps back, slowly leaving the magnetic pull that his body holds you in. His hand slides out of yours after exactly three steps, leaving a cold empty feeling that you carry all the way down the hall as you finally turn to leave. The only thing you hear is the rapid beating of your heart that drowns out any other sounds.

✦ ✧ ✦

The kiss left a burning mark on your face. It doesn’t hurt but lingers in the form of a hot imprint of his lips against your mouth – even as you finally reach the dorms. The hallways are still alive, music, the noises of sex and parties streaming out of open doors as you hurry past to avoid anyone perceiving you.

When you’re there, room 25, you open the door breathlessly and slam it shut again. With your back leaning against it, you heave like you’re suffocating, looking around the room – only to find your roommate staring at you from her place on the couch, mid-chew, eyes wide, hair still wet from her skinny dip earlier. The tv gives a sudden dramatic rumble.

Sybil finally swallows. “What the fuck?”

You’re stunned for a moment. How is she not asleep? How does she know?

“Your whole face is smeared in black and white paint and I’m awake because I couldn’t sleep after all the adrenaline. Decided to watch Predator,” she answers for you. Then she sets down her bowl of most likely salty microwave popcorn, pauses her movie and pats the spot next to her. “I need details.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “No no no no no.”

“Yes.” She repeats her movements. “Immediately.”

“Oh Sybil,” you whisper and then you finally crumble. Your body collapses in on itself and you sink to the floor, sobbing violently. She’s immediately by your side, one arm wrapped tightly around you. You can’t stop crying, no matter how hard you try to collect yourself.

“Why are you so upset, love?” She asks softly, running her hand over your upper arm. “Did Papa hurt you?”

“No!” you immediately bubble out. “No, he would never.”

“Then what happened?”

“We kissed.”

“Well, yes, that much I understood.”

You gasp for air, taking deep breaths that are supposed to help you calm down but all the air you swallow only serves to make your breathing more ragged. Your lungs feel close to full collapse.

“I can’t explain, Sybil,” you choke out. “I just can’t.”

“It’s okay,” she reassures you. “You don’t have to. I’m here though, okay? I’m here.”

For a while you sit there like that, crying softly against her sweater until you’re so exhausted that your body shuts down his vicious attack on itself. Sybil cradles you against her, her small fingers running through your hair as she coos and tells you it’s going to be okay.

You’re not sure you can believe her.

Chapter Text

“I find him in the curves of certain lines, in the loveliness and subtleties of certain colours.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

✦ ✧ ✦

The candle was laughing at you, mocking you, burning even brighter as the tongue-twisting Latin incantation left your mouth.

“You’re supposed to go out!” you yell-whispered, still conscious of your sleeping parents down the hall. In your frustration, you blew it out with a violence that sent the hot wax flying over its edges until it landed in black droplets on your floor.

Again, nothing.

This was a routine thing by now. All of your first attempts at magic in the safety of your bedroom were ridiculous failures. To be fair, the instructions in the book Black Magic for Beginners that you’d stolen from Mr Kraan were not very child-friendly, containing a lot of big foreign-sounding words you did not understand, and most of the materials were just impossible to obtain for a teenager. That’s why you stuck with the candles, only the candles really seemed to hate you.

With your thirteen years of age, you had more freedom than ever now – walking home alone from school being one of them which allowed you to at least grab the most basic ingredients for spells with the few bucks you had. No matter what you did, though, nothing ever happened.

Mr Kraan never noticed the missing book and after a year of failed attempts at getting that candle to fizzle out with just a spell, you gave up trying. Your life at this point was shaped by loneliness and alienation. You did not have any close friends and the few loose friendships you had were born from necessity – sitting together in school, doing the same extracurricular activities, joining the same volleyball team in PE. Mr Kraan allowed you to use the studio outside of official lessons now, so most of your spare time was spent painting there, trying to forget about home and school and everything else. But even if you did meet up with classmates, you never felt like you were really one of them, no topic of conversation holding your interest and no one asking you questions.

Naturally, your parents noticed how you never brought any friends home or went to sleepovers or birthday parties. Despite their constant arguments and your dad’s pretty palpable disinterest in you he was very adamant in reminding you of how a young woman should behave. All you really got to hear from him now was that you had to avoid boys or how you had to learn how to cook and do laundry, which was the main reason why you stayed in the studio most afternoons. There was no real danger of any illicit activities though. A few weeks ago some of the boys in your class started laughing about a dark brown paint stain on your face that you hadn’t noticed. One of them called you shitface and since then everyone was parroting the name any chance they got. Some of the girls in your class however insisted on calling you a devil worshiper after they spied on your art while you were in the bathroom.

It was only a matter of time until they combined the two names. Shitfaced devil worshiper.

But it wasn’t just your classmates who had an issue with your interests. You were looking for your almost full sketchbook when your mom called you to dinner one night. Dinners were your personal hell on any given day but tonight promised to be even worse. Upon entering the kitchen you found your father brooding over the exact sketchbook you’d been looking for. The same one your classmates had found in your bag weeks ago.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“A sketchbook.”

“Your sketchbook?”

You nodded.

“Sit down,” he ordered.

Usually, he never addressed you at all, so his tone immediately had you panicking.

“This is what you spend your time on? Drawing those… those demonic things? Dead animals? Monsters? Creatures?” The vein on his temple had swollen to a concerning thickness as he spewed out those words. “Is this also what you paint in your lessons?”

You didn’t know what to say but the moment was an epiphany nonetheless. Of course your mom and Mr Kraan did not let you take any of your artworks home. Your father would never approve of your interests, much less allow you lessons if he knew what you were painting.

“You hide away in that studio or in your room, obsessing over this art nonsense. That’s why you have no friends,” he continued. “This is… it’s sick.”

“I want to be a painter, so I have to paint,” you said defensively. “Practice is what matters.”

“So is it your teacher who makes you draw these things?”

“No, he just… he lets me choose my own motives. So that I can develop my own style which will help me later when I want to find clients.”

“What nonsense! You won’t be able to make a living as a painter,” your dad replied just as your mom put down a plate in front of him. He did not even glance at the food. “It’s time you start thinking about other careers because if this continues you won’t be able to rely on a man. Men don’t want women who draw dead animals and demons and spend all day inhaling paint that dries out their brains.”

Your mom quietly said his name. “Let her have her dreams, okay?”

“I don’t care what her dreams are. If she wants to do this then she should at least be painting appropriate things. Flowers, bunnies or whatever young girls like.” He took a deep, rattling breath. The vein on his temple throbbed. “Maybe we have to sign her up for the church choir.”

“Church choir?” your mom asked with a deep frown.

“I think church would be good for her, considering the… the horrible, disgusting things she is drawing.”

“You haven’t been inside a church for the past decade,” your mother reminded him.

“I’m not the one who needs God in this house,” he snapped back. “Maybe you should go as well. I can see how you’re encouraging her rotten nature.”

Rotten nature?

“You know what, maybe you’re right and I should go,” she said calmly.

Your father stopped in his tracks, visibly confused by her admission. When he saw no sign of mockery, he relaxed in his chair. “Good. Take her with you.”

You exchanged a look with your mom, tears threatening to spill from your eyes, but at least she seemed sympathetic. To be truthful, you didn’t give a shit about church and you doubted your mom would actually take you. Your panic circled much more around him trying to stop you from painting, forcing you into some sort of obedient lifestyle now that he found out what you were really up to. But as you poked at your food, unable to eat with the lump in your throat, he went back to his usual stoic, ignorant self. You could not imagine him ever being fully invested in your upbringing and you weren’t sure if that made it better or worse.

After dinner, you were sulking in your room, sprawled out on your bed and staring at the ceiling. Your father had confiscated the sketchbook. Of course you had spare ones, but it felt like he was keeping a part of you hostage somehow. When you do art, you pour yourself into your artwork.

Perhaps your mother sensed your discomfort. Later that night she knocked on your door with an apologetic expression and a bar of chocolate.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He should not speak to you like that.”

You shrugged it off, burying your face deeper in your pillow. In reply, she closed the door and walked to your bed, almost hesitant as she sat down on the edge.

“You know… you’re quite like me, my sweetheart,” she said. “You’re drawn to things most people would be scared of or disgusted by. But being different in such a way is not easy, it comes with a lot of problems and sometimes it is best to hide it. Maybe it’s safer for you to paint pretty flowers.”

“I like painting flowers sometimes,” you said. “But I also want to paint bloody corpses and demons.”

She fought off a smile. “I know, I’m just worried for you. Puberty is… hard on kids. And your interests won’t make it any easier for you. And your dad… you know he is more traditional in many regards.”

“But I don’t know if I can,” you argued. “I want to be me.”

“I’m not saying you have to pretend all the time. Maybe just try to hold back when you are around anyone who is not me or Mr Kraan. As for your dad… I hope he’s going to come around and accept your choices. I will support you no matter what and who knows? Maybe we won’t be relying on him forever.”

“What do you mean?” you asked.

She gave you a weak smile. “Life can change at any moment, my love. You never know. And sometimes we take matters into our own hands once the opportunity arises.”

Her words remained cryptic but you were too tired to ask for any clarification that night. It was odd, the way your mother was so different from your dad and still somehow she played the part of the perfect wife when he was around. You could not fully understand why they were still together, even though you knew they’d been a couple for ages now, ever since their late teenage years.

The meaning you took from her words, however, lingered for quite a while. Take matters into our own hands. You’d tried to get there before and perhaps she did not think of magic when she said it, but what else did you really have that would help you on your way?

So, a week later, when your mom and Mr Kraan were busy downstairs, you risked another deeper look at his bookshelves. In your backpack, you’d been carrying Black Magic for Beginners for a while now, trying to carefully put it back before your parents found it at home*.* You were sure Mr Kraan never realised the book had gone missing for so long. Now, as the hidden compartment clicked open again, you did not just put this book back. No, you scanned the titles thoroughly and then exchanged it for another one. Satanic Rituals for Beginner and Intermediate Levels.

It sounded more promising, looked more promising with its pitch-black spine and gold-foiled lettering. Not everyone might have liked, might have accepted who you were. But that did not mean you had to change or that you were doomed to fail as an artist. No, if you wanted to be successful, if you wanted to prove them all wrong, you had to take matters into your own hands, just like your mom had said. And if Satan or whoever was out there could help you with it, you were more than willing to try.

✦ ✧ ✦

He should have known better than to look for you in the crowd.

As the bus drives off, all Copia can think about is how he was scanning the group of Siblings in search for your face earlier – once, twice, three times – but you weren’t there. He knew you would not be there and yet the disappointment sits so heavy in his stomach, weighing him down into the seat he’s slumped in. Already he’s missing you and he doesn’t understand why. Even on normal days in the Ministry he rarely sees you with how busy he is and with you cooped up in your studio. But now that there is not even the chance of stumbling into you, that gap is more painful.

That and the fact that he knows your taste now.

The ghouls are already up to shenanigans. In their human glamour they can use their vocal chords and already they are arguing about which music to play on the ride, their eery personas swapped for their mischievous selves. But Copia can’t bring himself to intervene. He’s not sure if he should add his kisses to the list. You seemed very happy after the first one. But with how the night ended, he doesn’t want to trust his own perception.

Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, his kisses (?).

He can just scratch the mental question mark after the next one, he decides. If there’s going to be a next one, that is.

“Have you texted her yet?”

Copia looks up to find one of his ghouls hovering above him. He promptly sits down in the opposite seat,  reading his body language like it’s nothing with his otherworldly intuition. The others have now found a playlist and are huddled over a game of cards that is undoubtedly going to end in chaos. Copia decides that this is not his problem now.

“Try WhatsApp,” the ghoul says. “Maybe she has a profile picture.”

“A profile picture?”

“Yeah so you can stare at that instead of the void.”

Copia scoffs but pulls his phone out of his pocket anyway. It would be a lie to say that he hasn’t thought about it yet – texting you. All night in fact because sleep was nowhere to be found in the early morning hours before their departure.

The ghoul right. When Copia looks up your contact on the app, he immediately sees the tiny picture in the corner. However, he’s momentarily distracted by the app telling him that you were last online yesterday morning. Not today yet. Is that worrying? Should he be worried?

He types in a hi… :) to see how it feels but deletes it again. Too early. Instead he taps on the picture now with a ridiculously fast-hammering heart. It almost feels forbidden, like he’s invading your privacy, even though you obviously added this photo yourself. It shows your face, a very simple self-portrait, a subtle smile gracing your lips, and he feels that familiar tingle in his belly. He can’t stop thinking about kissing those lips, about how soft they felt against his.

“You’re smiling,” the ghoul says.

“Hm?”

“You have that smile.”

“What smile?”

“You know, that lovesick smile humans get.”

Copia frowns. “I don’t think that is something that exists outside of romance novels, eh?”

“It does. On you. Right now.”

Copia ignores him. Damn their new vocal cords, he likes them better when they can’t speak. Of course now that the ghoul said it he can feel how the corners of his mouth refuse to sink, like his muscles are stuck in a permanent state of foolish grinning. Perhaps he should text you after all. Just to check in. See if you feel better, perhaps. Hi :) How are you doing?

“You still type like an old man, too. You should use your thumbs not your–”

“Will you stop before I send you back to the pit?”

The ghoul lifts his hands in innocence at his admittedly not very scary glare. Copia deletes the message and shoves his phone back into his pocket. He’ll try again later when he’s alone. Actually, he should probably take a nap now that they’re moving, even though the bunk beds don’t agree with his frequent back pains or his habit of standing up too fast, bumping his head every single time. That’s still better than daydreaming in front of the ghouls.

He decides on a bed at the bottom, less risk of falling out, and then changes into a shirt and sweatpants. As he rummages in his backpack his fingers graze a soft, fuzzy material that he can’t believe he forgot about. His mind immediately jumps back in time. In hindsight, it feels like the night at the pond is where you truly started to open up to him, even if you struggled with the memories, and the hug in front of your quarters created a whole new closeness between you. If only he knew how to make it easier for you to talk about your past.

Perhaps he has to lead the way, he muses. It’s not like he revealed too much about himself yet and trust only builds from mutual vulnerability. But as much as it pains him, he has to wait two whole weeks to risk an attempt. And for now, all he really has to remind him of you is the blanket you dropped in the hallway.

As he wraps the soft knits around himself, he starts to feel guilty for stealing it. He feels even more guilty as he buries his face between the folds to inhale your scent as deeply as he can. His groin reacts immediately. He’s a pervert, he tells himself, but that only serves to get him even harder. Truly, this should not turn him on but the truth is… ever since kissing you, maybe even before, he can’t shake that physical need he feels for you. He has not felt like that in a long time and it’s frankly blasphemous to suppress his lust in such a way. But he can’t allow himself to abuse the delicate bond between you until he knows you’re okay with this side of him.

To distract himself, he pulls out his phone again. Nothing, of course. The chat tells him you still haven’t been online. Spurred on by a flicker of courage, he types out his message again. Hi, hello :) How are you doing? As soon as he hits sent, his stomach plummets. He should have taken the nap first and then messaged you because now his brain is on fire. Still, after the initial nervousness slowly subsides, his eyelids get droopy and he struggles to keep looking at his phone. Before he falls asleep, he takes another deep breath with his nose pressed to the soft blanket. Your smell, so new and yet so familiar, accompanies him all the way into his dreams and even then he cannot get rid of the ghost of you.

But sadly even after the sweetest dream, bitter reality awaits.

Really, he should have known that you won’t reply. He did know, deep down, and yet when he wakes up a few hours later with no message from you, he feels that heavy pang of disappointment all over again. Instead, he has a text from Sister, asking him if he packed the spare pairs of socks she gave him which of course he forgot. He types in a reply, then checks your chat again.

You still haven’t been online.

He’ll have to think of something else to get your attention.

✦ ✧ ✦

The first postcard arrives after two days. From then on, they arrive every other day. He posts them in envelopes with no sender but you assume the Siblings sorting the mail with their knack for gossip recognise his penmanship anyway.

The first one is from Copenhagen, from the Statens Museum for Kunst, the Danish National Gallery. The postcard shows the painting Christ in the Realm of the Dead by Joakim Skovgaard, a Danish painter, and you appreciate that he chose a countryman. It seems odd that he would stop by a museum just to acquire a postcard. You can’t imagine that he has a lot of time for sight-seeing, so you wonder if he just ran into the museum, got the card and then made the bus stop by a postbox to send it out as fast as he can.

Before you read, you admire his handwriting. In a solid block of text it looks especially beautiful. The minuscules are small and narrow, the majuscules sticking out more but the lines are smooth and well-curved. You can tell that he does a lot of writing on the daily because there are no errors, no crossed out words. The ink he used is black, probably from a fountain pen, and your eyes get caught by the C with which he signed it, the line drawn with just a little more force than the others.

Mia ‘strella,

I hope you are well. I know we did not part on the best terms, cara, but I am thinking about you constantly to the point where I find it hard to concentrate. The ghouls make fun of me when I drift off on the bus.

Copenhagen is beautiful, the abbey here is in good shape and the Siblings very eager to meet their new Papa. I think they will like our show tonight. Please, can you let me know how you are doing?

C.

The second postcard, arriving two days later, comes from the Alte Nationalgalerie in Berlin. It’s the painting Woman at a Window by Caspar David Friedrich, a woman gazing outside with her back turned towards the observer. You immediately know why he picked it.

Mia ‘strella,

Today, choosing a card was very easy. I spotted this in the gift shop and it reminded me of you. I think about sitting by the window with you often, how you shared your apple with me and held my hand. I think it was then that I realised, if anyone could care for someone like me, it would be you.

Please, I need to know that you are well.

C.

You know he wants you to reply to his text message from three days ago that still sits unopened in your notification box. You’ve read it, considering it’s short enough for the preview, and yet you find yourself unable to fully view it or even save his number to your contacts. There is a wall in front of you, one you’re staring at so intensely ever since he left, and it blocks any view of the happy future you could have with him. The wall is solid, black stones and no holes, too high for you to ever attempt to get over. You’re afraid that if you open his message, if you entertain the thought of pursuing a relationship with him, the wall will change shape and close in around you.

Instead, you direct all your focus on the painting. Not that staring at Copia’s likeness all day helps to get him off your mind but at least you are driven by purpose in here. You’re slowly making progress, inching closer to what you’d consider the halfway point, based on your experience with the painting of Papa Emeritus III. Only painting Copia feels almost easy, the familiarity you feel towards his shapes overshadowing your performance pressure. You find traces of him as you mix your colours, as you blend brush stroke into brush stroke, and it is a welcome comfort to feel close to him despite the distance.

To Sybil’s chagrin, you’ve mostly set up camp in the studio now. Behind all of your old painting, still safely covered by dust sheets and foil coverings, you’ve stored a spare mattress that you kept after changing the one in your quarters. Over the years you’ve occasionally used it when a painting prompted you to pull night shift after night shift. It’s in good enough condition and after some cleaning efforts, a bunch of soft cushions and fresh sheets it’s an almost comfortable sleeping place. Sybil however constantly berates you when you slip into your quarters in the mornings to shower, warning you about getting burnt-out from painting too long into the night.

You can’t help it, though, it’s the only time you really feel close to him with no danger of a fall. Today, you got his third postcard – a print of The Times of the Day by Alphonse Mucha, a series of four ornate posters of beautiful women: Morning Awakening, the Brightness of Day, Evening Contemplation and Night’s Rest.

Mia ‘strella,

Do you know that I am thinking about you all day? You are my first thought in the morning as I wake up. You are on my mind as we stop for lunch and I wonder if you are eating enough. In the evenings, sometimes late after I was on stage, I lay in bed wondering if you had a good day, wondering if you also think of me, and it keeps me awake. But at night, dolcezza, when I finally sleep, I dream of your sweet face. I dream until one of the ghouls wakes me and the cycle repeats.

They’re laughing about me but I can’t stop. Mi manchi tantissimo.

C

The words barely fit on the back of the card, the C scribbled so close to the edge that the dot is missing. You’ve read it over and over again, your heart aching more than you care to admit. You miss him too, so much, and yet you’re filled with dread at the thought of confronting these feelings. It makes you wonder if you even deserve him and his affections. You know he’s speaking from his heart but you’re not sure whether you can share in this vulnerability with him.

Still, you keep the postcards like little treasures. At night, they lay on the floor next to your head, and when you paint, they patiently sit on your little table so you can see them whenever you clean your brush. Right now, you keep the Mucha one pressed to your heart as you stare at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep. The moonlight casts swaying shadows all over the studio walls, leaves moving in the breeze, branches swinging up and down. Now that you read his words you can’t help but wonder the same things.

Did he have a good day? Does he think of you too?

✦ ✧ ✦

As the bells ring in the next morning, you’re painfully reminded that it’s Sunday. A small part of you just wants to stay in your makeshift bed all day and read the postcards over and over again but the other part reminds you that you have to attend Mass.

Everything reminds you of Copia these days. It’s impossible at this point to be anywhere around the abbey and not think of him – every stained-glass window, every hallway, every stone arch or statue reminds you of a time where you saw him passing by. Even as you take a trip to your quarters to change you pause in front of the door where you hugged him just over a week ago. The memory is very clear in your head, so clear that you almost smell him. Once the fantasy enters your mind, you have to physically force yourself to stop daydreaming.

Tearing yourself away, you head inside to slip on a classic habit and then join Sybil for Black Mass. It always starts exactly an hour after the bells chime, an almost welcome routine that rings in the new week. As you sit down in one of the back pews, Sybil beside you, nothing feels out of the ordinary. You know he won’t be there, you know you won’t see him, and yet the disappointment is immediate when instead of Copia Papa Emeritus II steps into the pulpit. Not that you don’t enjoy him, Secondo’s sermons are the best and most profound ones, if rare nowadays, but it’s just not the same.

“You miss Papa, huh, Raffael?” Sybil whispers.

You shoot her a glare, mad not at her remark or the nickname but at the fact that she’s observing you again, just waiting for these tiny moments to read you. By now, you don’t really mind her teasing anymore, but it’s a sore spot she’s grazing this time.

“You think you’re so sneaky,” she says, voice still kept low. “But I saw that lovesick smile on your face when you woke up with a black lipstick mark on your forehead a week ago. Do you think I don’t notice that you’re slowly leaving your shell more and more whenever you’re not cooped up in that studio?” She reaches for your hand, squeezing it in her small one. “He’s good for you, he really is. I don’t know what happened before he left or why that kiss upset you so much but I know that you miss him.”

You squeeze back. “I know, Sybil, that’s not really the issue.”

“What is?”

“It’s hard to explain. I don’t think this is the right setting–”

“Do you want to know what I think?” she interrupts and you mentally brace yourself. “I think you’re falling in love with him and it scares the living daylight out of you.”

There is no reason to argue. She’s right but she’s also wrong. Lucky for you, Papa starts speaking right in that moment and you’re spared any more flimsy excuses. Everyone around you listens closely as he delivers his sermon. It’s a good sermon, a devoted sermon, and yet you wish you could hear Copia’s voice instead.

Mass passes quickly as it usually does, a well-oiled machinery even without the presence of the current Papa. As you wait for communion, getting in line of the Third which is usually the longest, you’re mind is already back in the studio. Papa smiles as you drop to your knees and he offers you the black wafer. The smirk on his face is one you can’t quite place, at least not yet.

However, once the congregation disassembles, you find out why exactly he eyed you like that. You were one of the last to receive communion, so it’s easy for him to stop you as you try to follow the stream of Siblings heading out of the chapel. Placing a gentle hand on your upper arm, he turns you back around to him.

“Buongiorno, sorella,” he says. “I’m sorry to keep you, you are always hard at work, yes? You probably want to go back to painting.”

“It’s okay, Papa,” you reply, unsure what he could want from you. “I have some time.”

“Ahhh you have some time for me?”

You immediately take a step away from him. “Oh, Papa, I don’t… I mean… Not to offend you but…”

He chuckles and you stop yourself. “Oh non ti preoccupare, sorella, it is just friendly flirting. I would not touch the amore of our Papa.” You’re immediately flustered but he just talks over it with a smirk. “I want to have a little chat with you. You will walk with me, yes?”

You give a hesitant nod. As you wait for the pews to empty, you observe him taking off his robes and handing them to a waiting acolyte, revealing a simple black cassock underneath with a purple fascia fastened around his small waist. The hem of the cassock is embroidered with a III in silver threads, a nod to his former Papacy. He looks very handsome and you catch more than one Siblings eyeing him as they leave.

Once you’re almost alone in the chapel, Terzo leads the way out into the hallway. As soon as he starts walking you know exactly where he’s taking you and your confusion only grows. The ancestral hall is always open, a place to reminisce, to honour the Papas of times past and retrace the Emeritus lineage. A huge stained glass window allows the light of high noon to cascade into the room and upholstered benches in the centre invite you to stay. There is only enough space for the twenty most recent portraits and you’ve heard that the oldest ones are being restored and prepared for a longer period of storage. At the very end of the wall, close to the window, an empty spot marks where Copia’s portrait will be hanging.

“Papa…”

“Call me Terzo,” he says. “When we’re alone, please.”

“Terzo,” you repeat. “Why are we here?”

“I want to, eh… reminisce for while. With you.”

He stops in front of his own portrait and it almost feels like a stranger to you now. He’s sitting on the large chair with an imposing, compelling aura, his mismatched eyes staring into your very soul. It feels like he’s beckoning you over, a siren song moulded into tiny brush strokes, with an intensity you cannot remember feeling as you created it. Usually, you avoid the ancestral hall because the memories of those months are too painful. As you try to reach for them now, to conjure up any image of this time, you come up short. With Papa by your side, it’s a little bit less intimidating to be here.

“Sorella, do you know that many people consider this portrait to be the best of them all?” he asks.

You can’t help the small scoff that escapes you. “I think they say it because you’re the most handsome Papa.”

Terzo chuckles. “Well, perhaps that is one aspect. But what I mean and why I brought you here is because I feel that you need to be reminded of your talent. Or maybe talent is not the word, your… skills. You have been working hard for this, no?”

For a moment you let your eyes roam his likeness again, following the barely visible brush strokes. It is your best painting to date, you know it is, but it feels wrong to accept praise for this work. You’re not sure if the pain it caused could ever be worth it, not even if Satan himself set the price.

“I don’t know,” you whisper.

“What do you not know?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle.

“If it’s a good or a bad thing, really. If I worked hard or if I just… tricked everyone.”

“Satan blessed you with a gift and you took it and honoured it,” Terzo says. Similar words to those Copia offered you weeks ago. “You are closer to him than many of our flock could ever dream to be.”

You force on a smile and decide to let it go. “You’re right.”

“You sound doubtful.” Terzo rests his hand on your forearm until you shift your gaze from his painted to his real, even more intense eyes. “Sorella, our Papa has hinted at being a little worried about you, if I may be so honest with you?”

“Of course.”

“He said you are very isolated and don’t make use of any offers of consultation, confession or spiritual guidance.” His thumb moves slowly over your arm, a steady comforting pattern. “If there is anything you feel like you cannot confess to us, let me reassure you that you are wrong. Nothing could ever be so grave that you would lose our support.”

You can feel your emotions bubbling up inside of you, the grief and pain you’ve kept stowed away over years now stirring in their tight little boxes. This is not the place you want to be in, neither in your mind nor physically. In your peripheral vision, it seems like the Papas on the walls are closing in on you, staring, knowing.

“Sorella?” Terzo’s gaze has shifted to genuine worry and you must have slipped in your expression if he can read you so well. “Should we go somewhere more private?”

“I don’t think I have anything to tell you,” you say. “I’m just… not very social. I like solitude.”

He scoffs. “If you want to fool me, sorella, you have to try a lot harder.”

His good-natured tone is gone and you immediately know that he’s not kidding. You’re not sure how to wriggle out of this situation, so you follow him back into the hallway, his hand never leaving your arm. Without the portrait in front of, you can breathe easier, and your mood improves significantly as you’re nearing the studio.

“We should really renovate this hallway,” Terzo says, eyeing the old doors with their paint slowly peeling off. Every step you both take creates tiny clouds of dust, something you usually find charming, but that seems almost insulting with the former Papa by your side. Terzo always looks perfect and dignified. You can’t imagine him walking around dirty places very often, even though you know that’s a prejudiced view of him. And yet when you reach the door, he seems hesitant to leave, eyeing the old wood for a moment.

“Do you want to come in and have a look?” you ask.

One corner of his mouth lifts. “You would give me a little… preview?”

“Sister will come up here next week to inspect my progress, so I might as well have you give me your opinion before that happens.”

“Are you saying I have good taste, sorella? Because that is what I’m hearing.”

You can’t help but smile as you push the heavy door open. It’s a warm day in May and the sun has been heating up the studio all morning. As you head over to open one of the windows, you leave Terzo standing by the entrance. The cool air streaming in makes you inhale deeply for a moment, the sweet sticky smell of pollen and hitting your nose.

“Ah che adorabile, he is sending you these?“ You turn around to find Terzo in front of your table with Copia’s postcards in hand, flipping through them. He must see your confused, slightly irritated face because he sets them back down. “Scusa, sorella, I am not here to be nosy but because I promised my fratello that I would make sure you are doing alright. And of course because I am curious about your painting.”

“Feel free,” you just comment, stepping closer to him again.

“You are making good progress!” He lets his eyes roam over the canvas that by now contains all the basic shapes and colours, waiting for you to add depth and details. “I like the composition. But I am surprised Sister allowed it. It is the first one where the Papa is not sitting, no?”

“Indeed. It was a bit of a battle but we agreed on this pose eventually.”

Terzo smiles. “I like it. You truly have an eye for this.”

His compliments calm your anxious mind. For the past week or longer no one else has seen your progress, not even Copia, and it’s easy to get lost to the point where you overlook mistakes. Something else occupies your mind, though, now that he is here. It has been a few years now since he was removed from the Papacy so forcefully and you know most of what happened afterwards was kept secret among upper clergy. The rumour mill amongst Siblings at the time had been spinning like crazy but at some point it died down. Then, a few months later, Terzo reappeared like nothing happened and the act continued.

“Can I ask you a question?” you say before you can think better of it.

“Of course. What is it?”

“Why do you care about him so much? Isn’t he the reason you lost your title?”

“He? Oh he was only complicit in the way that they wanted me gone and him next.”

“They?”

“Senior clergy, Sister Imperator. If you think being Papa gives you absolute power, you are sadly mistaken, sorella. We are all puppets in their game. Secondo tried to warn me but I thought I was smarter. Now I don’t know if I was an idealist or a fool.” A pause in which he has to realise that he’s oversharing because he immediately crawls back into his shell. “In any case, he has the potential to be a good Papa and I think a happy Papa, a Papa who is not eaten by loneliness… it would be good for everyone, no?”

You nod, vaguely agreeing. You think that perhaps he is talking about himself, too, that he wishes someone would have shown him the same care and concern. So far you have not really considered what it means to be involved in this game, what it means for Copia or how what happened to Terzo might have broken him behind that perfect mask he’s wearing. But now, sitting here with him, you get a vague idea of the chasm that it ripped open. Perhaps he understands you better than you thought, even without knowing the full extend of your own pain.

“He is wound up so tight,” Terzo muses, staring at the painting with a furrowed brow. “The pressure only got worse now that he is Papa. You have seen him lately, yes? How tired he looks?”

“I have noticed that.” You think back to all the moments in which you thought the exact same thing. “I thought it was because of the tour.”

“Yes, but that is only a fraction.” Terzo gives a dry chuckle. “That is not mine to tell you, sorella. But I am worried about him, just like he is worried about you. And to be honest, it is a little exhausting to watch two fools who are in love dancing around each other like monkeys in a circus.”

You can’t help but smile at that and of course he catches it. The smile he gives you in return is one you have not seen on him before, not smug, not over-the-top or fake, but a genuine, sweet smile. He truly cares, you realise. Maybe even a little bit about you now.

“Sorella, you do not have to tell me your deepest, darkest secrets,” he says, turning to properly face you. “I know we have not established this level of trust. All I am offering is my ear, sì? We both care about our Papino, I think we can be open with each other?”

“I can’t tell you what it is between me and Copia,” you say. “But I promise I’m okay.”

“Sorella, he truly cares about you.” You furrow your brow at that and he shakes his head. “Ah dolcezza, do you think I don’t see? Please, a little more trust, eh? I am very empathetic.”

“I care about him, too,” you say defensively. “It’s just not always that easy.”

“What do you mean?”

You leave him standing there and walk over to your window, hopping onto your usual spot. It’s the only one in this room where you feel like you get enough oxygen to think. Terzo joins you, leaning against the windowsill with his hands behind his back. You worry your lip between your teeth, trying to put your thoughts and fears into words.

Eventually you look into his eyes, solemn but good-natured. “Do you think that some people are just doomed to be alone?” you ask. “That our Lord decided we’re not made for love?”

He gives a humourless laugh. “Oh, sorella, I don’t know if you want my answer to this.”

“Why?”

His expression shifts, a sadness in his features now that wasn’t there before. “I was very open with you today, cara, but I don’t think this is something I want to discuss.”

You nod, feeling a little ashamed that you even pushed him there.

“Oh, no, don’t have this sorry look on your face,” he immediately says. “I am not to be pitied, okay? And I don’t mind you asking.” He reaches for your hand, then, squeezing it between his gloved fingers. “For what it is worth, sorella, I do not think you are doomed and neither is he. You have each other, no? You are standing right in front of him. All you have to do is reach out. Every other concern, every painful thing in your past or in his, you can work through it together. Do you want this?”

Again, you nod, your eyes clouded by a sheen of tears. “I do.”

“Then I think you should use that little device in your pocket, no?”

✦ ✧ ✦

The Galleria degli Uffizi in Florence is a stunning museum, housing a significant collection of important artworks of the Italian and European Renaissance. Copia frequently visited Florence when he still resided in Italy as young bishop, a time he is still incredibly fond of. That is probably why he’s sad that their stay was only so short and they did not even visit the headquarters in Rome. But the trip is tightly scheduled – meet official clergy members, show his face to the congregation, perform the ritual, get back on the bus.

The postcard he chose for you in Florence is Judith Slaying Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi, the first woman who get accepted into the Accademia delle Arti del Disegno.

Mia ‘strella,

I think my arm will fall off soon from shaking hands with so many Priests and Bishops and Cardinals. It is always good to be in Italy again, to freely speak my language and meet many people I have not seen since my Bishop days. I wish I could take you and we could eat good Italian pasta together. Perhaps we can go one day. Would you like that?

It has been almost a week now. I still wish to know if you are well, cara. Please.

C.

Copia has noticed that he finds it very easy to write down his honest thoughts on these postcards, much easier than it would be to say them to your face. They’re on their way to Spain now after the ritual in Florence yesterday evening, driving along the coast of Southern France where they’re going to stop in a smaller abbey near Marseille. Mondays on the road are always a little more busy, so the traffic has been slow enough for him to play cards with the ghouls without feeling sick.

He loses every single time.

One reason might be that he’s so distracted missing you, thinking about doing all kinds of things with you. To you. Some things that actively make him blush in front of everyone. He thinks the ghouls know but they stopped teasing him when they noticed that his suffering is genuine. Whenever he’s alone he opens your chat, staring at your little picture, the message still unread. Sometimes he types out more messages but deletes them again. Pressuring you is the last thing he wants, no matter how much he wants to hear from you. You’ll reply in your own time, he tells himself. You said you needed time to think and he tries to respect that.

When they arrive at their destination, a small town near Marseilles, the lavender-scented air of Southern France greets him as a soft evening breeze. His welcoming committee consists of a couple Siblings and a bishop who won’t stop swooning in heavily-accented English, emphasising how honoured he is to meet their Papa, how they have not had a Papal visit in nearly a decade and hope that everything will be to his satisfaction. Copia is sure it will be; his expectations at this point are rather low. Their church is doing better financially now, after the Ghost project brought in new supporters, new ways of income, but they are far from wealthy. Most local branches have found respectable ways to self-sustain but even so their means are limited. Copia is not a stranger to living under even worse circumstances, of making do with the little that was offered to him in life, and he has never once complained about it.

So when he is offered a single bedroom just for himself despite the small scale of the cloister, he is pleasantly surprised. The room is decently sized, the bed bigger than his little mattress at home, and he hopes that he might finally get a good night’s rest here. Sleeping on the bus is less than comfortable, the few nights they stayed at bigger abbeys rare and too short for his liking. Now, he has a whole evening to himself because they won’t perform a ritual for once.

As he sinks into his pillow, the sheets smelling of lavender laundry detergent, he thinks about sleeping early. But of course as soon as he shuts his eyes, the image of you settles behind his closed lids. Admittedly, he’s been feeling a little… pent-up. There is close to no privacy on these trips, even worse this time because of their tight schedule, so he hasn’t had too many moments to find some relief. It can’t hurt, can it? He promises to keep his thoughts proper as he shoves his hand under the hem of his sweatpants.

But that promise is quickly forgotten when he feels his cock harden against his palm. In his fantasy, your eyes widen when you see it, when you finally find the evidence of his need for you. Your hand would be softer than his own, he thinks, smaller, stained with paint, nimble artist’s fingers stroking him with so much patience. He wonders if he could feel the callouses on your middle and index finger from holding your brush all day, if you would run them over his tip on purpose.

The guilt sits somewhere in the far corner of his mind. He could get himself there, he thinks, just thinking about your hands. Just your hands, stroking him, teasing him. Nothing else. Proper thoughts, innocent thoughts. He vaguely registers that his phone vibrates violently on the nightstand and his tightly squeezed eyes open involuntarily. Whatever it is, he decides that it can wait for a few more seconds until he’s done. Just a few more.

Only the device continues to vibrate, not a message but a voice call. He glances over with impatient eyes, hoping it’s just a spam call, only to find your name on his display.

✦ ✧ ✦

You fiddle nervously with the hem of your baggy old sleeping shirt as you hear the line connecting. Three ringing sounds before he picks up. Even so that’s not enough time to practice what you want to say, you mind blanking as you notice that he picked up.

“Hello,” he says. “Hi?”

His familiar voice sends tingles through your whole body, so intense you swear you can feel them vibrating all the way to your bones. For a moment you feel like you want to scratch your skin open with how nervous you are. “Hey, it’s me.”

“I know. I…” He’s breathing heavily, swallowing audibly before he gets the words out. “ I saw your number.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” you ramble. “And that I didn’t reply to your message. I’m so sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be sorry, dolcezza, per favore.” You hear him shifting, the rustling of a blanket, more heavy breaths. “You have to take the time that you need, I understand. I was just worried.”

“I know, for that I’m sorry too.”

“No apologising,” he says firmly. “It is all okie dokie now, yes? You are well?”

“I’m okay, yes. Better.”

“Good, good. That is good.”

You sit up slightly, leaning against the pillows that you’ve propped up on the wall behind you. Moonlight illuminates the canvas a few feet away from you. “Are you busy?”

“No, no.”

“You sound like you just ran somewhere.”

“No, no, eh… I was just… uhm.” He coughs, his voice strained. “Anyway, you got my postcards, dolcezza?”

“I did.” You don’t even try to fight your smile, grinning stupidly into the darkness of the studio with no one else to see. “I did and I love them, Copia.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I love postcards. I love the images you chose.” You reach for them instinctively, placing them in your lap so you can see them all. “And I love your words. All of it.”

A sigh of relief. “Good, good. I was not sure… you know, if this is something you even want to hear.”

You feel a pang of guilt at those words, the nagging feeling reminding you of how you let him go without any real explanation, crying when he made you promise it wasn’t the end because he was so scared you’d leave him. You bite the apology from your tongue, though, taking a moment before you reply. “I want to hear it. I always want to hear what you have to say.”

“Oh, good. Can I tell you how much I miss you, then?”

You chuckle, tilting your head back and closing your eyes. “I miss you too.”

“And can I also tell you how bad I want to kiss you again?”

“You do?”

“So much.”

Heat rises to your cheeks and you swear you can hear him smirking against the speaker, even if it’s impossible. “I want to kiss you too,” you admit. “I miss how it feels to touch you.”

He’s quiet for a moment after that but it’s not uncomfortable. You can hear his breathing even through the phone, much more quiet now.

“’strella?”

“Mhm.”

“I have been thinking a lot this week. About you, mostly, if I can be so honest.” Again, he’s shifting around as if he’s unable to sit still. “I know I was very busy before this trip. But when I come back, if you also want it of course, I think we can spend more time together? I know, I know, you said something about space and thinking and all that stuff. So it is okay if that is too much.”

“It’s not too much. And I don’t want space, not like that.”

“But you said…”

“I know,” you interrupt. “It’s just… I find it very hard to open up and be myself and I always fear that once I do, people will want to get rid of me again. So I try not to take up too much space.”

“But I want you to,” he says. “I want you to take up much more space in my life, ‘strella. As much as you want. As much as I can get.”

“There is not much more space in your life right now, Copia. You’re still busy even when you come back.”

“I can always make space for you.”

The words hang between you and you struggle to find a reply. Really, you want to cry because it’s just impossible that he cares about you like that. You’re not sure if you can handle it, if you even deserve it.

After a few seconds of silence, Copia says your name.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Tell me what you are thinking. Per favore.”

You swallow, a thick lump forming in your throat now. “I don’t understand how you’re so patient with me.”

“Because I…” He stops himself and there is a pause that lasts several beats. “Is it truly so hard to believe that I care about you?”

“Frankly, yes.”

He sucks in a breath. “‘strella, do you think I cannot handle this? Do you think I am perfect and I don’t have insecurities and worries too? I know that… I know that it will be worth it. Because it’s you. I am ready to do whatever it takes.”

The sob finally breaks out of you at those words. Hot tears are running down your cheeks and even though you muffle the sounds, he must hear them through the speakers.

“‘strella...” He listens to you crying for another minute. “It’s okay, I know it is not easy. I don’t want to pressure you.”

“You’re not,” you say, sniffling quietly. “I just… you don’t even know me that well yet and still you’re so sure?”

“I am. And it is okay, you don’t have to… you don’t have to do anything or say anything. I don’t expect it and I know maybe I am fast. But we can talk about it when I can see you, yes? I don’t want you crying far away from me.”

You nod even though he can’t see it. This is a much too serious conversation for a phone call with hundreds of kilometres separating you. Giving yourself another moment, you wipe at the tears and calm your breathing. You’re being silly, you know you are, but even the tiniest bit of his kindness feels monumental to you.

“Can you tell me about your trip?” you ask. “And I can just listen for a bit?”

“Oh, yes, of course. What do you want to know?”

“Just… anything.”

He starts to ramble about their drive, about how hard it is to sleep well on the bus, about Copenhagen and how he had the idea to get you the postcard when they drove by an ad for the museum. You have to smile when he tells you that everyone is cursing him for these extra stops but he insists and who can deny their Papa such a request? He goes on to talk about every little stop they made, about how the Siblings were so happy to meet him and everyone wants to shake his hand which resulted in aching muscles and a strain in his shoulder. It’s nice to listen to him for a longer period of time, his accent shining through especially when he talks about Italy, and you can’t stay sad for much longer when you hear the excitement in his voice.

“You know in Florence, I had the best spaghetti,” he says. “I know, I know, Gabriele is good, he makes good pasta, but it is just different, you see? The ingredients, the tomatoes, they taste like real tomatoes here. If you ask Secondo, he tells you the same. Gabriele is good but it always tastes better in Italy.”

You smile, no doubt in your mind that that’s true. “Did you mean what you wrote on the card? That you want to take me?”

“Oh, yes. If you want to.”

“Of course I do.”

“So that is what made you call, eh? The promise of pasta?”

You can’t help but giggle at that. “Maybe.”

He hums in content. “That is a pretty sound, cara. I missed it.”

“I missed you, Copia.”

He takes a deep breath, slowly letting the air flow out through his mouth. It almost feels like he exhales against your ear. “I missed you, too, ‘strella. So much.”

With a gentle, lingering smile you ask him some more questions about his trip and he asks you about your progress on the painting in return, if he missed anything at home. It feels easier now and you lose sight of the wall that kept you trapped. With his voice in your ear, nothing seems as heavy as it did before, and you realise that you’ve been stuck in your head for way too long.

“Are you getting tired?” he asks when you’re silent for a moment.

“Yes. But I don’t want to hang up.”

“Me neither.”

You don’t. More times passes, more short conversations, more quiet moments, more whispers of affection. You can’t tell how long into the night you stay with each other because you don’t want to lift the phone from your ear for even a second. Quiet slowly settles in. You’re not sure who falls asleep first.

✦ ✧ ✦

Seances, blood pacts, infernal agreements, bartering with creatures of the dark… The section in the book was the most promising you’d come across. You wanted something and there seemed to be powers, entities, in this world and beyond who were willing to trade.

Now, with your materials laid out before you, it seemed almost easy. You’d slipped out of the house without anyone noticing, snuck into the studio with the key you now had and got to work.  Apparently, Mr Kraan was a heavy sleeper because he didn’t even hear you as you stumbled up the stairs with your backpack hitting the walls left and right.

You drew the runes and shapes onto the floor with red chalk, just like the page in the book was displaying. A pentagram, upside down, the book in the middle. It looked amateurish, not any more real than your other attempts at black magic. But you had enough trust, so you continued by lighting the thick, blood red candle in the middle of the circle. You placed the book in front of it, the images and text illuminated by its warm light. For a moment, you just breathed in and out to calm your fluttering nerves.

The wax already dripped down the candle when you finally started to read the incantation, latin words that you did not know and had not thought to look up beforehand. You’d practiced reading them, though, so the phrases came out without knotting your tongue. Now, it was time to confess your wishes, the things you were seeking from the creature on the other side.

“I want to be the best artist that ever lived,” you whispered. “Please, I need to show everyone that I can do it. That I am better than they think and not just a weird little girl.”

Nothing happened. Perhaps you had not spoken with enough conviction, perhaps the demon or whoever listened heard the hesitation and fear in your voice. You waited for another moment as the candle flickered in front of you.

Suddenly, a phrase Mr Kraan had said to you forever ago, the same phrase you had thought of just weeks earlier, came back to you once again.

When you do art, you pour yourself into your artwork.

Instinctually, you pulled out a few strands of your hair and threw them into the flame, the sulphur smell immediately crawling into your nose. Suddenly, the candle puffed out smoke, the image of a coughing human face with burning red eyes flickering behind your lids. A loud bang broke the silence and left a lingering ringing sound in your ears. You pressed your hands to them, squeezing your eyes shut in pain until the tinnitus faded out. When you finally looked back down you could see the book burning, rapid flames licking at the pages until they were fully consumed, leaving nothing but ash.

“What are you doing, stupid girl?”

You jumped up, almost stumbling backwards into the still burning candle. Mr Kraan was by your side in an instant, throwing what must be a fire blanket onto your whole set-up, clouding you in near-darkness. He roughly pulled you as far away from the scene as he could until you were cowering in the corner of the studio. You were hysterically sobbing as he inspected you, lifting your arms, checking for any potential injuries. The air smelled of smoke.

“You shouldn’t tamper with the dark forces,” he snapped. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t… I d-didn’t know…”

“What did you do?” he asked, his eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Explain to me, bit by bit.”

“I don’t know, I did what the book said and I repeated the words.”

“What words?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.” You sobbed harder, snot and tears mixing at the corners of your mouth until you could taste it. “I had this book. It burned. I don’t know what happened. Am I going to die?”

His agitation dwindled at those words, his expression softening. “It’s okay. Do not cry, little bat. It probably was nothing. No one is dying tonight, no no.”

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into a tight hug. Even if he wasn’t holding you so close, there would be no separating you. You clung to him like you could be pulled away any second, like the flames could come back to consume you if you let go. Your fingers were grasping at his sleeping shirt so hard you must have scratched his skin but he never once faltered. He cooed, whispered calming words into your ear, until you were too exhausted to fight any longer. You couldn’t remember falling asleep but the dream of a coughing face with glowing red eyes followed you for weeks.

Chapter Text

“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.”

― Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

✦ ✧ ✦

He wakes up wrapped in the last remaining plumes of a saccharine dream and the soft knits of your blanket – your smell lingering in his nose and your voice still in his ear. Copia’s phone died sometime in the early morning hours when his sleep was disrupted by a swell of barking laughter outside of his window. As he tried to check the time, the display went black on him immediately. In his sleepy haze he can’t remember your call ending but it doesn’t really matter because all he can think about is that this is the first time you fell asleep together.

Only now he’s alone and you’re not here.

Plugging his phone in, he sits back down on the bed and pulls the blanket close to his chest. While the batteries charge enough for it to turn back on, he hums to himself, rubbing his fingers over the fuzzy material. To say he’s relieved would be an understatement. It’s like hearing your voice set everything right and he’s on cloud nine all over again. Not even the bleak room he’s stuck in can tarnish his mood now, the grin permanently plastered to his face.

Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, postcards… his kisses.

The conversation is echoing in his mind, a recitation of the same lovely words over and over again. I miss how it feels to touch you. His ribcage is tight and hot, kind of how he imagines the insides of a microwave must feel before it spontaneously combusts. If he combusts now, he’ll blow up into happy particles. Rainbow confetti, he thinks with a smile, just like on stage.

The phone finally blinks to life again. He hammers in his PIN and opens your chat. Last seen today at 7:24. That was ten minutes ago.

Good morning, ‘strella. Did you have a sweet night? I am already up thinking about you :)

And then suddenly you come online before he’s even closed the chat and the little ticks at his message turn blue. Typing… the screen says. He sits up straighter immediately, heart hammering wildly as he waits for a chat bubble to pop up.

Good morning ♥︎ I slept well! Did you have a good night?

A heart. He has to set the phone down for a moment to avoid tapping anything by accident with his shaky hands. Instead the runs them over his face, smudging the makeup he never took off last night. His body is ready to get up now. He desperately needs to pee but he also wants to chat with you, so he ignores the feeling.

Sì, I slept very well. He stops typing, thinking about what he should say. If he wants a reply he should ask a question. What are you doing today?

Typing… again.

I’ll be painting you all day 👩‍🎨 Are you back on the road?

He types: Yes, we leave for Spain later. Maybe we can talk again tonight? :)

There’s a sudden knock at his door before he can catch your reply.

“Papa, we have prepared a breakfast buffet in your honour,” a voice calls. He recognises the bishop who outed himself as his greatest fan yesterday. “We would love to greet you in the dining hall in forty minutes.”

Oh well, for a second he forgot that his job is still Papa and not ’strella admirer #1. Or perhaps he can be both if he hurries to take a shower and re-apply his make-up within half an hour, text you more before he has to get dressed. You haven’t replied yet as he decides to strip and squeeze himself into the tiny bathroom, the phone still plugged in so he can’t take it with him. However, as soon as the lukewarm water rains down on him and his hands start to roam his body, he loses his haste.

This time, his thoughts don’t stay quite so innocent. I miss how it feels to touch you. And to think that the only skin of yours he felt so far is that of your hand, the only skin of his you felt his painted cheek and some of his chest. It seems surreal, like you’re so much closer than just holding hands. He can’t stop thinking about your bodies pressed together so tightly on the blanket during Beltane, your hand brushing past his groin, searching for his phone. Even now he remembers how it felt to have your thigh squeezed between his, the softness of your body so palpable even through layers of clothing. What he can’t quite conjure up is your taste. No fleeting image of his mind could ever compare to the way kissing you feels, to the way you smell and taste and sound when your mouth is pressed to his.

As he fucks into his fist, he thinks of that mouth. Your lips, your soft cheeks. He would love to ruin that face. In the good way, in the way that you’d enjoy so much that he would find you dripping wet after. Or perhaps your mouth would want to ruin him and he would just watch, lost in all the pleasure you give him. His hand moves faster at those thoughts and he has to press his lips together to keep from moaning. Steadying himself against the wall, he thinks about you choking on his cock as you try to take him as deep as you can down your throat and he comes embarrassingly fast.

He spills into his fist and heat rises to his cheeks. A hint of guilt grows somewhere in the back of his mind but most of all he feels relief. The orgasm wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped it would be but at least he’s finally eased the pressure from last night. For another minute he cleans himself off under the lukewarm spray of water, using the lavender-scented bar of soap they left him in the bathroom as a gift. Then he roughly rubs a towel over his head. He ignores Terzo’s voice in his mind that tells him it’s damaging to his hair and starts to reapply his face paint.

When he finally reaches his phone again, his towel wrapped around his bare hips, he has ten minutes left. Seeing your name on the screen brings his guilt back, the thought that maybe you would be disgusted by his actions because you don’t feel about him like that. It lasts only for a moment because then he reads your message.

I would love to talk to you again. Just call me whenever you want, I’m in the studio ♥︎

Another heart. He only has enough time to type out an I will :) before he has to hurry to make it to breakfast in time. If only these visits weren’t so busy, everyone so intent on showing him around, greeting him, telling him about their work. He understands that everyone wants to spend time with their Papa, that they want him to be proud of them – and he is – but by now all the faces he’s seen are a blurry mess in his memory. The impressions are too short, the meetings too hectic, and while he would love to take his time with every single one of them, he simply does not have the capacity.

With a sigh, he straightens out his robes, one minute to spare. He can’t wait to be back on the bus.

✦ ✧ ✦

The next postcard Copia sends you is a picture of the Goya statue in Madrid. He’s probably closer to Paris by now, on the way back home. Only a couple more stops now. He already told you all about Spain on the phone two nights ago but still you read it like it’s a long-awaited bestselling novel you can’t put down.

Mia ‘strella,

I saw your favourite artist today – well, not him but his statue. They sold this card in the Prado right next to where he stands. I only had limited time but they have so many of his paintings, some of the ones I think are your favourites. I wish I could take you there, dolcezza, and you could tell me more about why you love them so.

I miss you so much.

C.

You’re surprised he still remembers that you told him about de Goya during one of your first sittings. He’s always been so attentive with you, even before you knew his feelings for you were genuine. Talking to him these past few days has brought a change to your routine but it’s a change you can’t help but welcome. You cease to get stuck in your head for too long, always texting him, hearing his voice every night before you fall asleep, sometimes even throughout the day when he’s travelling.

It makes you wonder if your time of punishment is over. What if Lucifer saw your painful dedication, the way you suffered for Him, and decided that you deserve a new attempt at life? Since the night your whole life fell apart things have come to a stop. The calm not before but after the storm when you look upon the devastation in defeat, when your life is nothing but debris for you to sort through, one day at a time in a vacuum of grief and loneliness.

Since then, there has been no incident to warrant that you still hold Lucifer’s wrath and in that time you’ve created countless artworks in His image, trying to make up for what you took, to rebuild a life from the ashes of your old one. Perhaps it is safe to assume that you have repented enough. And even so, Copia is the current Papa, he is the leader of this faith – you refuse to believe that Lucifer put him in your path for nothing. No, actually you’re inclined to listen to Terzo and believe that a happy future is possible for you. He would know, wouldn’t he?

Like He is sending you a sign, your phone lights up before it starts to vibrate wildly on the wooden floor next to your makeshift bed. It’s a call from Copia and you hurry to pick it up, already grinning like a fool.

“Hi,” you say in a high-pitched voice you hardly recognise as your own.

“Buon pomeriggio, ‘strella,” he says and you can immediately tell he’s in a good mood. “Are you busy?”

“No, I’m not doing much. Waiting for paint to dry… literally.”

He chuckles, a deep rumbling sound. “You are doing this a lot, dolcezza.”

“I do because it takes ages.” You let yourself fall back onto your mattress, the myriad of soft pillows you’ve collected buffering the impact. “Oh, I also just got your card earlier.”

“Oh, hehe. Yes, I really liked that one.”

“Me too. You remembered my love for Goya.”

“Mhm, I remember a lot of things.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, well.” He coughs awkwardly. “Words and smells and… tastes.”

You bite your lip, your whole facing gaining heat. “Copia.”

He groans at the sound of his name. “‘strella, I swear to Satan, if I cannot taste you again very soon I am going to lose my mind. I am this close.”

You chuckle at his exasperation. “I thought you remember my taste.”

“Not as much as I would like to.” He sighs deeply and it turns more into a hum the longer the sound lasts. “And I don’t just mean your lips.”

Your mouth falls open, the heat from your face now crawling down into your belly and then straight between your legs where it lingers in a persistent throb. It’s not like this thought is an entirely new one, you’ve had it many nights since his departure – you just weren’t aware that he shares it.

“I’m sorry, I should not have said this, dolcezza,” he stammers. “I don’t know what is wrong with me today. I am an old pervert and I did not sleep a lot.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him. “I… I would not mind either.”

“Oh?”

“I don’t know why you think I am prudish,” you tease.

“Oh, no no no. I do not think this, ‘strella, not at all. I guess I just did not know if you also felt it. That need.”

“I felt it,” you assure him. “And I want to feel it again. More, even.”

He draws a dramatic breath, groaning right into the speaker. The sound does nothing to relieve the growing tension in your core and you squeeze your thighs together.

“I wish I could see you flustered for me right now,” he whispers. “You are so beautiful when you are. Satana, I wonder what I could do to hear your sweet little sounds.”

“You’ll have to find out when you get back,” you say. “I won’t stop you.”

“Oh I will, I will.” He sighs, shifting audibly on his side of the phone. “Ugh, no, we can’t talk about this now or they are going to arrest me in the Louvre.”

“Are you there right now?”

“We are driving through Paris,” he says. “I forced them to stop near the museum because… I have business there.”

You smile to yourself. “Oh, I wonder what that could be.”

“Mhm. I am on a secret mission for my ‘strella today. The problem is, the ghouls asked to see the museum and now I have to figure out how to get them in there. I can’t deny them their educational field days.”

“Is that an actual thing?” you ask.

“Well, they are very interested in human culture, especially in depictions of themselves because they think it’s ugh… hilarious how ugly they are. Oh, I think we stopped.”

You listen to him stand up and rummage through his things. Voices in the background appear and grow louder as Copia moves around, a hint of their excitement transported even through the speaker. Then the sounds get muffled, the microphone buried in his shirt. There is a voice you can’t quite understand.

“No, no, just make sure he doesn’t burn the Mona Lisa, yes?” Copia says.

“Who?” you ask which results in a bunch of rustling noises.

“Oh, one of the ghouls.” He stops for a moment, sound muffled again before he comes back. “Ah, hey can be quite insolent.”

“Can you even tell them apart?”

Copia chuckles. “Oh, yes, they have nicknames but technically they are still unnamed. It is sort of… eh, a loophole in the contract.”

“The contract with… hell?”

“Yes.”

“I have never heard any of them speak before,” you admit.

“Oh, sì, sì, they only talk when they are granted a human body to use. They are infernal creatures after all, it could lead to all sorts of chaos because of their… mischievous nature. It has, many times actually,” he explains. “Of course sometimes they do mingle, that is unavoidable. But ugh… they are very professional most of the time. Unless… well, you leave them alone with each other.”

“Professional?” you hear a female voice in the background.

“When you are on stage,” Copia says. “Don’t let it get to your head, I saw how you tricked that Bishop back in Spain.”

You listen to Copia bickering for another few minutes and it’s odd to hear so many different voices. You wonder if all ghouls are like that or if the band ghouls are a different, particularly human-friendly kind to appear more unobtrusive. As soon as they have made all of their arrangements, Copia goes back to wherever he was before, a welcome quiet settling around him.

“Mi dispiace, they are quite a handful,” he says with a fond laugh.

“It’s okay, it was interesting to learn about them.”

“Maybe you will get to know them some day. They are very curious about you, just from listening in on our private conversations.”

“They do that?”

Copia continues to laugh. “They have good ears, dolcezza, and don’t care much about privacy. But don’t worry, they leave me alone when it matters, eh?”

You groan at his implications, the almost burnt-down fire in your body coming back to life. He is getting very frisky with these remarks and it only adds to how desperately you wish he was here.

“Scusa, scusa, I will stop teasing you now.” He gives a sad little sigh. “We leave, so I am afraid we have to say goodbye. As much as I would like to keep hearing your voice.”

“Will you call me tonight?”

“It will be late, ‘strella. After the ritual.”

“That’s okay,” you assure him. “I hope you have a great time and they don’t burn down any million dollar paintings.”

“Grazie, bellissima, I will try my best to keep them in check. Prometto.”

You hang up with the same sadness every press of the red symbol on your phone carries these days and close your eyes for a short nap. About an hour later your phone wakes you with the fast vibrations of a new message. You open your WhatsApp chat with Copia only to find a photo on your screen that immediately makes you smile. He sent you a selfie of himself with the Mona Lisa. His face big and distorted in the front, the painting behind its glass prison much smaller in the back. The caption says: Not on fire… yet!

You giggle into the quiet of your studio, staring at the picture for what must be the next half hour. Satan, you miss him so much. He can’t get back home fast enough.

✦ ✧ ✦

The corresponding postcard from the Louvre arrives two days later, the Sibling handing out the post giving you a knowing smile over breakfast that you promptly ignore. You only open the envelope when you’re safe in the studio without any prying eyes. The Mona Lisa, La Gioconda, shows you her reserved smile in front of the famous distant landscape.

Mia ‘strella,

Paris is always one of my favoirite places to see, even though I do not understand French food. The abbey just outside of the city is huge, a beautiful old building, but I had no time to see any of it. Everyone was kissing my cheeks and shaking my hand. But really, the only kiss I want to receive is from you, just like the only hand I want to hold is yours.

Tu me manque tellement, ma petite chauve-souris.

C.

I miss you so much, my little bat. He has called you that before – once, when you were sitting at the pond, half-asleep already. You smile, even though the name always come with a latent pain, no matter the language. Maybe you have to tell him about it some day, explain what it means to you. For now, you let the bittersweet feeling of hearing it again wash over you like a warm ocean tide, remembering the affection that used to come with it.

You continue to ponder perched on the window sill like usual, sketching Copia in his Beltane flower crown. You only get to finish one sketch before the door to the studio is shaken by a strong, insistent knock. Today is not a painting but a drying day, so at least the sudden noise does not startle you into any mistakes. Your hands are shaking for an entirely different reason. You straighten up, the appointment a long-dreaded one. Sister regards you with a gentle smile as she enters on clicking heels, closing the door neatly behind her.

“Good afternoon,” she says with her hands folded in front of her. “I am very excited to see the painting.”

“I am very excited to show you,” you lie, trying to appear confident in front of the Mother Superior.

You set down your sketchbook on your little table and her eyes follow your movements. When they find the stack of postcards, they stay there briefly, knowingly, before she smiles at you. “So, it appears you are making good progress?”

“I am,” you assure her. “I’m on track to finishing it in about the same time the previous portrait took, if not a little bit faster.”

“Very good.” She regards the portrait with genuine interest then, her eyebrows raised and her chin tilted forward. Her watchful eyes take in every detail and as she gazes at Copia’s image, her features soften. The corners of her mouth twitch, a ghost of a smile scurrying across her usually so controlled expression. Fondness. Pride. A mother looking at her son’s achievements, if the rumours are true. When she finds you watching her, however, she closes herself off again. “I am happy to see that you were right about the pose. It is striking and more dynamic. He will stand out among the other portraits.”

“I hope so.” You wipe your sweaty hands on your dungarees. “So, I can continue as planned?”

“You may, yes.”

The relief is imminent. Before she can say anything else, the door suddenly springs open. You both startle, though all Sister is showing of her scare is a frown. Her head whips around towards the intruder and your own jump is less graceful. You nearly topple over backwards when you hit the table. As you prop yourself up on the surface, your hand lands flat on the postcards and sends them flying across the room. Briefly, the image of Copia dropping your sketches during your second sitting flickers into your memory, your heads bumping together when you tried to pick them up.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t ugh… I didn’t know there was a thing going on here.” Sybil, eyes wide and posture cramped, hovers in the doorframe. “I can leave.”

“It’s alright, Sister Sybil, we are done here,” Sister says, completely calm and collected, but then she cocks her head to the side in a playful smirk. “I hope you did not come to distract our painter.”

“Ohhh, no. I came to feed her, actually,” Sybil says, more courageous now as she lifts a bag with Chinese take-out. “She skipped lunch as she is prone to do when she’s busy up here.”

Sister gives you a disapproving, almost motherly look and it catches you off-guard. “Do not forget to look after yourself,” she says. “You still have a lot ahead of you.”

All you can do is nod, wondering if she means the painting or if she knows about you and Copia. Your reassurance is all it takes for her to head out, the clicking of her heels echoing in the hallway until Sybil closes the door and shuts her out. As she steps closer, she covers her eyes with her hands, her fingers spread just so far that she can glimpse at you.

“Hey,” she says. “I thought I’d visit you with some food. Am I allowed to see?”

“Yes, take your hands away,” you say, chuckling.

Before you help her you bend down to gather the cards. They haven’t scattered too far but you can see a bend in the one from Prague and it upsets you way more than it should. You carefully pick them all up, blowing away any specks of dust you can find.

“So, he’s really sending you postcards,” Sybil states, plopping down on your mattress where she opens the bag. “That’s awfully sweet.”

You frown. “How do you know?”

“Did you think no one would notice?” She raises a comedic eyebrow. “Not even the Siblings sorting the post?”

“I figured they would recognise his handwriting on the address, yeah. They keep giving me these looks.”

With grabby hands, she reaches out to you. “Now, can I see them?”

Your first instinct is to hide them away, to keep them to yourself in fear of her tainting them somehow. But after a moment, as the force of your grip on the paper nearly bends them, you realise how silly it is. This is Sybil. She won’t laugh about you, she won’t judge you, and she’s the only one you can even talk to about Copia, the only one who knows. With shaky fingers, you hand her the cards and sit down next to her.

While she looks at them, you unpack the food and try to calm down. She brought all the good stuff, all your shared favourites – spring rolls, noodles, lots of veggies in your favourite savoury sauce. Even when you weren’t friends yet she’d already paid attention to your preferences.

“Wow, they’re so thoughtfully chosen. And he writes to you like… ” Her eyes find yours in a sweet smile. “Like he absolutely adores you, Renoir. He’s got it so bad.”

Immediately your face warms. “You think so?”

“I think so?” she repeats with a laugh. “I don’t think so, I know it. It’s written all over these cards, I saw it on Beltane and I can also see it in your face right now. This man is so in love with you.”

In love? You falter at those words. The truth suddenly feels hard to swallow, no matter how sweet the taste. You’ve avoided to actually think about what it is you’re feeling, the definition oddly limiting and adding a sort of pressure that terrifies you. And yet, to think that Copia is in love with you sends a wave of tingles through your body. You don’t know if he’s really there yet but you can’t help but hope that he is.

“Hey,” Sybil rips you from your thoughts right as she breaks her chopsticks apart. “I can imagine that’s a little scary. It’s Papa after all and he’s not just anyone. But it looks like you’ve got a good thing going here and I’m sure you can figure it out.”

“I think so, too,” you admit. “I don’t even know what it would mean to be with him. Well, other than a ton of Siblings hating my guts in jealousy.”

Sybil laughs and you feel an odd warmth in your chest at the sound. “Oh yeah, I know some people who would be jealous. But honestly, he clearly doesn’t vibe with just anyone and he chooses to spend time with you, so you really shouldn’t worry about anyone else.”

“I don’t,” you say. “I’m just… trying to find out if I can… you know…”

“What?”

You shrug, fiddling with your chopsticks absently. “Open up. Let him in and bare myself to him – figuratively. Well, and maybe physically as well.” Your lips curve at that though. “You know I’m kind of… emotionally constipated.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve seen that first hand.”

“I want to change that. For him and for you,” you say, ignoring her sass. “But it’s just… hard.”

“I know, but you’re doing your best.” She reaches out to squeeze your hand. “So it is like… a serious thing?”At your flustered expression she immediately laughs. “Satan, you two are just horrifically adorable. You’re so into each other but you make it so complicated.”

You groan. “I feel like it would be easier if we weren’t. Like, if we’d just started an affair and got bored of each other after a week. But this… it’s hard.”

“Duh, no feelings is always easier but the result is just more loneliness and you’ve had enough of that,” Sybil retorts. “And you know, it would also be way less hard if you weren’t trying to fight it so much.”

You watch her fishing around in the veggies until she finally picks up a piece of broccoli, spilling sauce all over her habit, completely uncaring that she just dropped a piece of wisdom. You reluctantly start to eat, wondering if you really are fighting it. The noodles are a little cool by now but your stomach still grumbles happily at the first sign of solid food of the day.

“How did it even happen?” Sybil asks as she wipes herself clean. “Like, I just feel like I missed so much of it. First you got upset I even asked and then you felt bad about the kiss and now suddenly you’re exchanging ‘I miss you’s? That’s quite the epic story arc.”

“I’m not really sure. We just… I don’t know. We talked and got along well and then we had lunch and somehow we were talking about personal things. I was trying not to open up too much but he was just so sweet and insistent and actually cared about me and before I even knew what was going on we landed here. And now I’m fucked.”

Sybil nods solemnly. “He snuck into your heart, Renoir.”

“Because he’s…” Again, the sudden influx of emotions flusters you, by now you must be radiating heat. “He’s just so patient with me. I don’t think anyone else could have got in there like this.”

“That’s so sweet. Who knew he could be such a romantic?” A dreamy sigh leaves her lips. “Now how do I get someone like that?”

“I don’t know, maybe you have to find your own Papa,” you suggest. “There’s some left I hear.”

“I don’t want a Papa,” she says, rolling her eyes as she bites into a spring roll. “Or any man, for that matter.”

“What about Erin?”

Her face immediately turns a sweet shade of red. “Erin?”

“Come on, I may not be super perceptive but I would have had to be blind to miss those intense stares between you on Beltane. What did you say to me? ‘You think you’re so sneaky.’ Well, you’re not sneaky either.”

Sybil has the audacity to look shocked at that. “Hey, I am not even… ugh. Okay, fine, I have a crush on Erin and she seems to have a crush on me too. We’re still sort of tiptoeing around each other. It could make things weird, you know, dating your friends is always a risk.”

“It is,” you agree. “But she seems to be the type of person you just said you’re looking for. Patient and sweet.”

Sybil’s cheeks are practically burning by now and with a groan, she lets herself flop down on your mattress. “She is. She’s so beautiful and sweet and kind and also just the right amount of cheeky. She can fluster me so fast it’s ridiculous.”

“Mhm, I saw that on Beltane. The first time I’ve ever seen you without a witty comeback.”

“Ugh, the moment you get ammunition against me you tease right back! I can’t believe you were complaining about me just a few weeks ago.”

You huff out a laugh at that. “I really don’t think you can blame me, Syb.”

Her expression shifts, the outrage making way for a fond, soft expression. “You never used a nickname on me before, you know?”

You smile at her but can’t bring yourself to comment, the feelings stuck in your throat with no way out. Too much emotional stripping for one day. But you don’t have to explain, her smile tells you that she knows exactly what you’re trying to convey.

“Anyway, I gotta get going,” she says after finishing off her food. “I have this stupid Latin class I signed up for because Erin talked me into it and Secondo hates people dropping in late.” She rights herself, standing up with a groan. “Oh, fuck, my ass hurts. How the hell do you sleep on that thing?”

“I’m an artist, my body is used to awkward positions.”

She grins suggestively. “Ah is it? Maybe you should tell Papa that.”

With a jump, she dodges the empty paper box you’re throwing after her and giggles on her way out of the door. You can’t believe out of everyone in the abbey you could have befriended, she’s the one who managed to squeeze herself into your heart. But really, you wouldn’t have it any other way.

✦ ✧ ✦

The last postcard before Copia’s return arrives another two days later. You now have Copenhagen, Berlin, Prague, Florence, Madrid, Paris – and Amsterdam. This one is from the Van Gogh Museum and shows the Sunflowers, the repetition of the fourth version with the yellow background. You wonder if he also thought of gratitude when he saw them – for his flock, for his work and maybe even for you, desperately awaiting the moment he can see you again.

You can’t help but stare at the image for a while longer, the bright yellows, an imperfect but beautiful flower that in nature grows high and reaches for the sun in its zenith. It’s a symbol of a rare hopeful outlook in life, the potential of a happier future when you’ve been surrounded by dark clouds for so long that you forgot the colour of the sky. A dream you need to come true, really, that you cling to so you don’t slip through the cracks. Thinking about what it meant for Van Gogh almost makes you cry, the sheer tragedy and cruelty of it all. You’re not sure Copia is aware of all of their background, if he managed to see the full museum, so you decide see it for what it really is – a sign that he thought of you when he saw those bright and happy flowers.

Mia ‘strella,

When you receive this card, we will be very close to home. How I am looking forward to being back – with you, with my bed, with my things and my routines. Amsterdam was beautiful but rainy. The Siblings here were very interested in your art when I told them that I am getting painted. I keep thinking about being with you by the Beltane fire, how good it felt to just exist by your side with your body against mine.

Will you hold me in your arms when I get back? I cannot promise I let go.

C.

PS: I allowed the ghouls to buy weed in a shop. It was a stupid mistake, now the whole bus smells and I feel sick. Never again.

You chuckle as you read the postscript. Copia already told you yesterday evening that he’ll be back tomorrow sometime before noon. Really, it’s not even a full day anymore, but for some reason the anticipation makes the wait even harder now. And you’re not even sure what’s going to happen when you see him. So much is yet unspoken, so much up in the air. All you know is that you need to see him, to hold him and kiss him again, to tell him how much you missed him and hope that all will be well somehow.

For the rest of the day, you decide to continue with the painting. It’s the best distraction that’s offered to you right now and you’ve been dying for days to finally continue painting Copia himself. Waking up to the real Copia coming back home is going to be the best reward after a long day of working on his flat likeness.

Just one more lonely night.

✦ ✧ ✦

It takes a lot of effort to convince everyone to skip their last nightly stay.

Copia knows they won’t sleep well on the bus, he knows they look forward to a relaxed dinner, a night in a proper bed with proper bathrooms and showers, but he also knows that if they drive through this night, they’re going to arrive a whole night earlier. He doesn’t feel bad for skipping the abbey in Denmark since they already stayed there. So the equation is easy: Skip one stay, arrive ten hours earlier – be with you as fast as possible.

It’s this very circumstance that brings Copia into a random rest stop in the middle of nowhere. They have McDonald’s for dinner and afterwards he scouts the snack isles in the adjacent gas station. He grabs all kinds of things, heading to the register where he’s stopped by a shelf filled with fluffy big-eyed plushies. Certainly, there is no lack of those in Copia’s life with how many he gets thrown on stage, but what catches his eye is a little bat that’s almost falling off the shelf. It has red eyes and a derpy mouth with pointy teeth and a pink tongue peeking out. The widely-spread wings are black, the body made from a fuzzy sort of dark grey material that he imagines feels soft to the touch. He has to get it for you, he decides. He’s been looking for a gift for you for days now but he did not want to settle for the basic fridge magnets and snow globes.

When he enters the bus with the plushie in his hands all of the ghouls stare at him with knowing smirks. He successfully distracts them by throwing the snacks onto the little table in the bus and they flock to them like vultures circling a corpse. Copia stuffs the plushie in his bag for safe-keeping and joins them.

They’re scheduled to arrive at ten in the evening but traffic and a missed ferry mean that they only arrive on home soil shortly after eleven. Since it’s a week night, the abbey has already settled in, unusually dark when it finally comes into view, though Copia can make out a few colourful flashing lights from one of the Siblings’ dorms. He packed his travel bag hours ago and is sitting right beside the driver, a perfect spot to watch the lights in the abbey’s windows flickering into view. He missed his home, even though he loves being on the road, sharing their music and faith and watching as the flock grows every year. This time, though, he has a good reason to be excited to be back.

As the bus rolls down the driveway, no one is waiting for them since no one knew they would arrive, not even Sister. Copia prefers it that way, prone to overstimulation he’s not sure he could take even more attention right now after a long day on the road and a two week marathon of shaking hands and kissing cheeks. He slips from the bus, wishing the ghouls a good night and trusting that they’re just as knackered as he is. The bus will be unloaded tomorrow morning, his suitcases still buried somewhere in its belly.

All he needs he has in his bag. He could go find you right now if he wanted to. But it occurs to him that he should take a quick detour to his quarters to shower and change into clean clothes. He smells like hasn’t seen any running water in two days which is not an exaggeration and that’s not how he wants to meet you.

His rooms great him with the quiet dustiness he missed so much and he immediately turns on his blue lava lamp to refamiliarise himself with his surroundings. Copia can’t help but sigh at the feeling of home, of blissful solitude, and for a moment he sits down on his tiny bed just to breathe. Usually, he would put on a movie he’s seen at least twenty times or play an easy video game, something to distract his racing mind until he feels ready to sleep. Today, this is the last thing he wants to do.

When he finally leaves the shower, hair damp and all of the sticky face paint taken off, he slips into a clean pair of burgundy sweatpants. His wardrobe looks very bleak, so he has to pick one of the few t-shirts he left behind, a worn-out black one with a huge movie print from The Shining. Because it’s a somewhat cool night he adds the matching red zip up hoodie. He doesn’t really want to go without the protective layer of his leather gloves but they’re dirty and worn and the only new pair he has left is still in his suitcase. He decides to forgo them for once – if he gets to touch you tonight then he doesn’t want them anyway. He can handle a few odd surfaces, surely, with that prospect in mind.

The last thing he needs is your gift now so he grabs the bat and rips open the door to his quarters. He almost startles out of his skin when he meets Sister’s intense eyes staring at him from the abandoned, barely-lit hallway.

“Ah, there you are, C,” she says. “I heard you got back early!”

“Oh, oh, yes. We did. I decided we skip the last stay, we’ve been there before, you know.”

“Well, then welcome back!” she says, rubbing his upper arms for a moment.

“Eh, thank you, thank you.”

Her expression shifts when she takes him in, a scornful sort of concern. “You look tired, C. You really should have made the stop last night. Did you even have dinner?”

“Oh, sì, sì, we stopped by a McDonald’s,” he says, eager to finally end this conversation.

He must be fidgeting more than he’s aware of because Sister eyes him suspiciously, her brow furrowed even more so than usual. It’s only then that he notices how he was rubbing his fingers together, avoiding her gaze.

“You seem skittish, C,” she says. “You don’t have any plans, do you?”

“Oh, no, no. It’s just… I really want to see someone. Quick hello before bed, you know?”

Her eyes narrow just slightly, then they find the plushie in his hand. “Someone?”

“Hm, yes… a friend.” He nods sagely. “Ugh… I’ll you see tomorrow, Sis, okay?”

“Sure, yes.” Her brows rise, her lips pursed. “Have a good night, C. Don’t stay up too late.”

“I won’t,” he calls as he already heads past her.

As soon as she’s out of sight he takes a deep breath. There is no doubt in his mind that Sister has to be aware by now that he’s been spending a lot of time with you. However, he doesn’t think he’s ready to tell her yet, not before he knows if it’s going to lead anywhere.

As he rounds the next corner, he suddenly realises that he’s not sure where to find you now. He doubts you’re still painting, even though he knows you spend long days in the studio. You could be in bed in the dorms already. But does he want to risk Sister Sybil seeing him there? On a whim he decides to check the studio first, just to make sure you’re home. He doesn’t expect the door handle to open when he touches the cold brass but to his surprise it gives. Suddenly his heart starts to hammer in his chest, the prospect of seeing you enough to have his pulse skyrocketing. He carefully pushes the heavy door open, expecting to see the lights on but instead he’s surrounded by darkness. Did you forget to lock up?

His eyes adjust to the lack of light and he can make out a silhouette on the stool in front of your small table. Suddenly worried he turns on the ceiling lamp that struggles to give off much light, flickering a few times. The body is yours, your hair falling over your face as your head rests on the flat surface but if he looks closely he can make out your breathing. It’s then that he realises – you’ve fallen asleep. With sluggish, cautious movements he closes the door again to avoid waking you. His heart swells in his chest, the sight of your sleeping form waking entirely new feelings in him. A sudden need to take care of you overcomes him, to make sure you get in a real bed and to gently tug you in with a kiss to your forehead. Only he’s not sure how he’s supposed to get you from here all the way to your or his quarters – yours, really, because he’s not sure if he wants to cross paths with Sister again.

For a long contemplative moment he looks around the studio and there, tugged in a corner, is a small mattress with a bunch of pillows and a crumpled blanket. He’s confused at first, then he’s worried – are you really sleeping in here? Do you at least lock the door?

Copia sets the plushie down right next to the mattress, then he tiptoes over to where you’re almost slipping off the table. If he wakes you, then so be it. He has to move you somehow. Carefully, he takes the arm that rests in your lap and wraps it around his shoulder. With the extra leverage, your limp body moves easier than expected and you’re so fast asleep, so lifeless, that it’s an almost morbid feeling to carry you like this. It takes some effort but he manages to gently move you over to the mattress and crouch down while placing you on top of it. You only stir lightly when he eventually removes your arm from around his neck and covers you with the tattered blanket you’ve been using. Vaguely he notes that he should give you back the one he’s been holding hostage but right now he doesn’t feel like leaving.

It doesn’t seem safe to let you sleep in here, so for the time being he sits down on the floor beside you, leaning against the wall. After a few minutes, he decides to turn off the lights again. No, he can’t leave you in here. It seems even more reckless now in the dark, so many shadows creeping along the walls that even he wouldn’t want to be in here alone.

Copia sits back down on the floor to wait. He’s not sure what he’s waiting for, he can’t even really make out your body now that the room is completely wrapped in darkness again. And he’s exhausted, his body screaming at him after the physical effort of moving you. Perhaps he can quickly take a nap, just a short nap, and then decide what to do.

✦ ✧ ✦

A prickling sensation in the back of your mind is what slowly eases you out of sleep. You’re vaguely aware that it’s still dark and you feel Morpheus’s hands reaching for you, trying to pull you back to sleep. But you shake them off, suddenly aware of the eery sensation that you’re not alone in the room.

And sure enough, once you have a solid grasp on reality, you hear the loud breathing sounds right in front of you – even exhales, not quite a snore but dangerously close. There is a dark shape by the wall, human or animal, you can’t quite tell. A sudden terror takes hold of you, a panicked flashback having you on alert and you sit up so fast your head starts to spin.

“Who’s there?” you whisper-yell.

The shadow jumps, then winces in pain. “Ah, oh merda.”

“Copia? Is that you?”

“Mhm, fuck… ouch. Cazzo, mia mano– Ahh.”

“Are you okay?

“Ohhh, I am too old for this.” He winces again and as your eyes adjust to the near darkness you see a motion that must be him as he slowly wakes up his limbs. “Cannot feel my left hand.”

“Wait.” You shuffle over and aimlessly feel for where exactly he’s sitting. You find his knee and he jumps again.

“Oh, what was that?”

“Me, just me.”

You reach out and find his fingers. To your surprise he’s not wearing his gloves and his skin is ice cold to the touch. It slowly warms up as you start massaging it with both your hands, gently kneading each individual finger.

“Fuck, did you sit there all night?” you ask. “You’re freezing.”

“I… uhm… yes. I… I didn’t want to leave you alone in here.”

“I do that all the time.”

“Does not mean it’s safe.”

“You could have just laid down next to me.”

“Oh, no no no no. Not without asking and you were out like a light.”

“Copia.”

“Yes.”

“You’re back.”

“Yes.”

“You’re back.”

It hits you like a high-speed train and you scramble to get closer to him, to feel him. You’re not sure which parts of his body you crawl over but after a few groans you somehow find yourself in his lap. Flinging your arms around him, you hug him so tightly that you can hear the air being pressed from of his lungs. But he reciprocates, pulling you so close that you can hear, no, that you can feel your hearts beat in tandem. You’re not sure why you’re crying but a desperate sob rips from your throat and then you can feel the hot tears dripping from your cheeks into whatever soft fabric he’s wearing. He’s so firm and solid, his familiar smell and warmth surrounding you like the blurry clouds of a dream.

“You’re back,” you whimper again.

“I’m back,” he whispers. “I’m back ‘strella and I missed you like I’ve never missed anyone before.”

“I missed you too. I missed you so much, Copia.”

He hums, pushing one of his hands into your hair. “It’s okay now, you don’t have to cry, tesoro. I am right here.”

His words only make you cry harder. Tesoro. You bury your nose in his neck, his soft skin a sublime comfort as you pull in a few ragged breaths. Copia holds you through it, massaging your scalp, stroking your back, cooing into your ear. After a while you can feel him tense in the awkward position and you let go of him just slightly, trying to swallow the remainders of your tears together with the big lump in your throat.

“What time is it?” you ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Come to bed with me. I’m sure it’s still early enough for some more sleep.”

“Are you sure we fit? It is a bit of a squeeze, no?” he mumbles, then huffs out a laugh. “Ah well, I guess it is not much smaller than my own bed.”

“Really?” you ask as you climb off of him. “I thought you’d have a really nice, big bed.”

He hums. “Have you thought about my bed a lot, ’strella?”

You blush so furiously that your first instinct to hide is to smack his shoulder. He laughs, the sort of deep, rumbly laughter that only makes your cheeks get even hotter. You hope he can’t make out how flustered you are in the darkness that’s surrounding you.

“To answer, I have not changed my room,” he says after a while. “Not in a long time, actually.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you could say I am a bit nostalgic.”

You reluctantly scoot back over to your makeshift bed and he almost falls on top of you trying to find it. A chuckle breaks from your lips when you pull him next to you, shifting as close to the wall as possible to make more room for him. Once he’s settled, you pull at your old blanket that hardly covers you both. But Copia’s hands have already found your hips again to draw you into him and before you can adjust, your bodies are pressed together so firmly that you swear you feel the outline of his cock through his sweatpants.

“Please, can I kiss you?” he whispers, his breath hot against your lips as he nuzzles your nose to get even closer.

You gasp at the feeling, holding onto his arm as you breathe out a low, shaky yes. His lips capture yours immediately, hungry and desperate in a way that sends shivers down your body. He moans and whimpers into it, one hand finding your cheek to angle your head for an even deeper second kiss. You lose grasp on his upper arm when his tongue delves into your mouth and licks against yours. A needy mewl slips from your throat and it’s like it urges him on, makes him kiss you even harder until you can feel the bruising impact of each press of his lips.

Throwing one leg over his, you attempt to get even closer. You would crawl into him if you could, have him absorb you into his shape. Maybe he feels the same way. His thigh pushes between yours, dragging against your clit and your hips jump against his. You can feel his cock stirring against your leg now and you have to break away for a moan.

“Copia,” you whisper into the warm, breath-filled space between your mouths.

“It’s okay,” he says, easing up slightly and coughing from a dry throat. “Just let me hold you, ‘strella. I just want to hold you. We don’t go any further tonight.”

You hum, equal parts disappointed and relieved. As much as you want him, as desperate as you feel in this very moment, you’re not quite ready for more. You settle into a slower rhythm, then, gentle kisses with less tongue, less pressure, and he rolls onto his back to allow you both a more comfortable position. You rest your upper body on his, one leg hooked around him, and then you break away to gaze down at the very face you missed so much. In the darkness you can only make out his vague features, dipped in strong shadows, but even so he’s the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.

Copia lifts a hand to cradle your cheek, tracing your features with his thumb while you both catch your breath. “You are so beautiful, ’strella,” he whispers. “Così bella, così perfetta.”

You lean down and press a few soft kisses to his lips, holding his face in your hand in a similarly ardent way. He feels soft, his jaw slightly stubbly, and you let your fingertips dance over it for a moment. Copia hums and you decide to move your hand into his hair, scratching his scalp, working through the tangled mess at his neck.

“Mi sei mancata tantissimo,” he whispers, more to himself than to you as he pulls you in for another kiss. “I will never go again. I will never leave you again.”

You smile against his lips, stealing one more kiss before you bring your head to rest in the crook of his neck. Copia strokes your back until he lulled you back into sleepy oblivion, your body slowly coming down from its tingly high. His mouth never stops whispering soft Italian words into your ear and as you fall asleep together, for real this time, you feel a deep, peaceful comfort you’ve never known before.

Chapter Text

“How was it possible to be afraid and in love... The two things did not go together. How was it possible to be afraid, when the two of them grew stronger together every day? And every night. Every night was different, and every morning. Together they possessed a miracle.”

― Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

✦ ✧ ✦

In the following year, your routines changed. Your mom chose to go to church in earnest, she even joined the choir which greatly pleased your dad even if he never attended any of the services or concerts she told him about. When you asked her why after her first Sunday in church, she told you it was time away from home which was what she truly craved.

“Not away from you,” she reassured you. “Just from dad.”

She took you with her on Sundays but instead of church she dropped you off by the studio to give you more time to paint. You usually left a little early under the pretence of grabbing breakfast at a local bakery – which you did – only you brought it back to Mr Kraan. Sitting around his old wooden table in his run-down kitchen, nibbling a pain au chocolat and sipping from your glass of orange juice, you could not have asked for more to be happy. This was your safe haven, your real home, surrounded by the smell of drying paint and the low classical music that was always playing on the radio.

Usually, when you finished eating early, they allowed you to leave to start painting, and usually, before you did exactly that, you stood outside of the kitchen door for a few minutes, eavesdropping like the curious teenage girl you were.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” your mom asked. “These quiet mornings together?”

“It is,” Mr Kraan said. “It’s my favourite time of the week.”

She must have moved because the chair creaked painfully on the wooden floor boards. “I just… I just want to know why you still refuse.”

There was a deep drawn-out pause. “I have not fixed the money issue,” he finally said with a heavy voice. “I cannot provide, I have hardly enough to keep the house. I have not sold a painting in months, not even a small one and the deal I mentioned also did not go through.”

“But we could find ways. I could find a better job, work a second job.”

“You’re already dead tired after one job, my darling, I cannot ask you to overexert yourself to provide for us while I produce worthless art.”

“I wish you would just forget your stupid pride for a while,” she grumbled.

He heaved a deep sigh, the floor under his chair creaking now. “I will find a way, but it will take some time, okay? What I tried so far has not brought any results, so I just have to keep trying until it does. You can hang in there for longer, you said it yourself. What we have right now is good and we will save money for the future we want.”

Now it was her time to sigh. You weren’t sure what you were hearing but it sounded a lot like they were kissing. Not that this was news, you’ve listened in on that many times which usually prompted you to make a disgusted, crumpled up face and finally get to painting. Today, however, you lingered, trying to piece together what they were talking about. What would they need money for? What do they mean about the future?

“Okay, I will not bother you for a while. But I cannot promise that I can be patient forever,” your mother said. “I can’t, not for her and not for me. This is the freedom that I’ve been longing for my whole life, Jakob, and I want to share it with you no matter the cost.”

“I know. I know that.”

“I have to leave,” she said then. “Mass starts soon.”

“You could just stay here with me for another hour instead.”

She sighed, a sign of vague annoyance that showed that they’d had this conversation many times before. “Well you could come with me.”

He scoffed. “You know my thoughts on organised religion, no matter what kind.”

“It’s really not as bad as it sounds.”

“I’m happy if it works for you, all the praying and worship. I will stick to my own practices.”

“Alright.”

You took this as your sign to get back to your easel, staring at the half-finished painting on your canvas that you were not sure you were in the mood for. Since you dabbled into magic, since you burnt the book of spells you’d stolen, you felt like something was different deep within you. You had bursts of incredible inspiration, painting like it was all you were meant to do, but whenever a subject did not hold your interest, you quickly wanted to move on. This made teaching you more frustrating since you struggled to pay attention to what you were supposed to paint instead of what you wanted to paint. No, not what you wanted to paint but what you needed to paint.

At this point, Mr Kraan mostly let you just run wild and then gave you feedback on how to improve. After he’d found you in the studio after the incident he spent an hour calming you down and explaining to you why magic was not for kids. He said it was dangerous, that you could not control it, that dark forces were not to be tempered with because they would never treat you fairly but only feed on your desperation.

As you moved your brush over a fresh canvas, the old image forgotten, you were not sure if he was right about that. You felt different, you felt like you were a painter who could achieve great things. Mr Kraan had always encouraged you to try and find new perspectives, to find ways to see the world with new eyes. Now you felt like the dark forces helped you spread your wings wider than ever before and perhaps it was all superstition but you felt like your vision had changed because of them.

At the end of your frantic painting session, the scene on your canvas was dominated by a lamb that was brought to slaughter, a common scene in Mr Kraan’s art books, only this was not a happy easter painting. You thought back to that night, the coughing red-eyed face so clear in your mind even months later. Many times now you had added it into your backgrounds, barely noticeable. But it always lurked, always watched, a hidden observer shielded by deep shadows.

By the time your mother arrived to pick you back up, you were almost glad to leave its haunting blood-red gaze. Perhaps your father was right, you thought, perhaps you had a rotten nature and that’s why you were drawn to these subject. But you did not see why that had to be such a bad thing.

✦ ✧ ✦

The ray of sunlight on your shoulder moves slowly but surely towards your face. Copia knows it’ll wake you once it hits your eye and he’s debating whether he should block it with his hand or not. He’s never seen you as relaxed as you look right now but at the same time he can’t wait to talk to you. Not that his exhaustion just vanished after three hours of sleep but the giddy excitement after waking up by your side has kept him awake ever since his eyes blinked open.

You frown in your slumber and he knows it has become lighter. You look adorable with the sleepy pout on your lips, the cheek you’re resting on scrunching up the left side of your face. It’s so tempting, too tempting. He leans in and his lips brush over your cheek, down to your jaw until they come to rest just below you ear. You stir, a soft hum falling from your mouth and he can’t help but kiss you properly. You smile into it and reciprocate, the gentlest press of your lips against his.

“Buon giorno, bellezza,” he says as he breaks away.

You still smile with your eyes closed, stretching out your limbs for a moment before you fully blink yourself awake. As soon as you open your eyes, they’re fixated on his face. Suddenly you shoot up, staring at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He almost feels like you expected someone else to be there and for a moment he gets self-conscious.

“What is it?” he asks, patting his cheeks. “Am I dirty?”

“Your… your face is bare.”

Copia freezes. He hadn’t thought about that last night when he showered after getting back. And you’re still looking at him, eyes wide and taking in every detail. He feels oddly exposed. You’ve never seen this face without any sort of make-up, not without the eye paint, and suddenly he worries that it’s a turn-off. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Is it… Is it not what you hoped it would look like?” he asks, falling back into the pillows.

“Copia,” you say, so slowly, gently, reaching out to cup his cheeks. “I think you’re so beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” He feels himself getting flustered, his face undoubtedly heating up against your palms. “Cara–”

Your fingers softly trace the curve of his jaw now, then the line up to his temples. He feels a warm shiver running down his spine. “And I can see all of your pretty freckles now. So many of them.”

“Are you going to draw me with them now too?” he asks, chuckling nervously.

“Oh, for sure.” You slide your thumbs over his cheekbones before you shake your head and huff out a laugh. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be weird.”

He stops you from pulling away without even thinking, grasping your hands and placing one of them back on his cheek while holding the other one safe in his. “Don’t be sorry, please. It feels good to have someone see me. Really see me. And not pull away.”

You run your knuckles over his slightly stubbly jaw. “Pull away? What do you mean?”

“Well, you know…” He’s not sure if he should tell you this, if it’s going to make him sound ungrateful or ridiculous. But then he remembers that it’s you. That out of anyone he knows you’re the one person who is going to understand him. “Sometimes people only see Papa in me. And before they only used to see the Cardinal, even… even intimate partners. A-and that is fine, yes? I don’t mind, it is good for a short time with some fun if you ever want this sort of thing, but it is not all that I am. And it is easy to forget that I am more.”

“You’re so much more,” you whisper.

“‘strella…”

“I think–” You stop when you realise you interrupted him. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” Go on, please.

He stares at you with eyes as big as saucers. A glimmer of hope spreads inside of him that you do feel the same way about him, that this is more than he ever thought he would find in another person. You see him, not just with your artist’s eyes, but with a vision that reaches far deeper. This is all he ever wanted – to be seen, to be loved, to be valued. He always thought he had to change to find unconditional acceptance but perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps he finally found someone who won’t shy away from who he really is.

“I think you’re the most wonderful person I’ve ever met,” you finally say. “I think you’re…” You stop again, blinking away what looks like tears. “I know, we’re still getting to know each other. But all I see is that you’re kind and funny and that you care about people. You work hard and you always do your best, even when you’re bone-tired out on the road. You’re so patient and genuine and empathetic. Copia, I think you’re the only one who could ever even begin to understand me and I’ve never felt like that with anyone before.”

You look down at him, propped up on your elbow with your hand still on his cheek. Your fingers stopped moving during your speech and he realises that this is not just you complimenting him but it is you baring vulnerable pieces of your soul. Even if he knows you still need time to fully open up to him, there is a trust in your eyes now that wasn’t there before he left. It’s a big step for you, he knows it is, and he’s struck by the weight of that realisation.

You smile softly at his lack of words, at the way he must be staring so blatantly at you. Your fingers start to stroke his cheek again in a soft, almost ticklish way that he already can’t get enough of. “And yes, you’re also very, very beautiful.”

He can feel heat glowing in the apples of his cheeks. This is the first time he’s ever been called beautiful, that someone gave him a full list of things they liked about him. The gears in his head are already turning, wondering how he came to deserve this, but it’s your face that stops him from overanalysing. This sweet face, smiling down at him with an affection that is so obviously genuine, and this time he knows that he is the reason for your smile.

Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, postcards, his kisses, him.

“You know, sometimes… I don’t even really know who I am,” he says. “But with you I feel like I am starting to see who I want to be. Not what others want, but what I want for my life.”

“And what do you want?” you ask.

“You.”

There’s a pause in which your eyes meet with a crackling intensity, not more than a few seconds until he can’t help but reach out and pull your face down for a kiss. You all but melt on top of him, your upper body slowly coming to rest on his chest as you kiss him back hungrily. In that moment it doesn’t matter that you both have morning breath, that he hasn’t shaved in nearly two days or that your eyes are still crusty from sleep. All that matters is the all-consuming need he feels for you, the intense desire to show you just how much he really wants you.

As your mouths move frantically against each other, his hands explore the curves of your back. With all the layers of clothing he can’t get nearly as close as he wants to, the fabric of the dungarees you never took off way too thick and limiting. Nevertheless his touch seems to affect you because when he presses down on your ass you moan into his mouth. With your own eager hands you explore his body in ways he’s only ever dreamed of before. Your fingers slide under his shirt, their soft but slightly calloused tips squeezing his lower belly. There’s no time to feel self-conscious about his body, not when your tongue licks into his mouth to tangle with his.

You break away eventually, all breathless and with your lips so beautifully swollen that he can’t help but stare at them. He’s stuck in a fever dream, heated, sweating, reality nothing but a reflection of his deepest dreams. For a moment he wonders whether he is actually inside of his body or if he is floating somewhere outside of himself.

He would have been stuck in this hazy state forever if you hadn’t sat back on your heels, drawing deep breaths that still vibrate with desire. Without your weight on top of him, Copia feels almost naked now and he has to close his eyes, squeeze them together tightly just to feel the almost painful pressure in his face that brings him back to reality.

“I really want to take a photo of you,” you say which finally makes him open his eyes again.

“Of… of me? Right now?”

You nod. “With my analogue camera. I use those for painting references. For ugh… more moody lighting. I know that sounds weird but you just… you look so… I just need to capture this.”

He smirks, still struggling to even out his breathing. “You want moody pictures of me, dolcezza?”

You lightly smack his arm and he catches your hand, sliding his fingers over your palm. A shiver washes over your body and he remembers that he swore himself not to overwhelm you. You have time now, there is no need to rush any of this.

“Okay,” he says. “Yes, it is probably good we don’t ugh… we don’t continue this now. We get carried away.”

You watch him for a moment, your fingertips ghosting over his pulse where his heart is still fighting against the rush of adrenaline from your kiss. “Yeah… we… we go slow, right?”

“Slow, mhm.”

A soft, grateful smile. You rise to your feet, trodding over to your little table where you retrieve a small camera. When you get back, fiddling with the buttons, he waits for your commands. But there are none, no instructions for any poses or expressions. You just straddle him which causes him to fight off a groan, his already semi-hard cock twitching just to mock his desperation. Then you aim to take a picture. He gives you a timid smile, trying to maintain eye contact with the camera even though he’s so flustered he really wants to glance away. You only take one photo before you set the camera down again, brow furrowed in question. Suddenly you’re leaning over Copia and he thinks he’s going to explode as your whole body rests on top of his again.

But you return, sitting back up something in your hand. “Who is this?”

“Hm?” It takes him a moment to even remember the bat he bought at the gas station, that he’d set it down next to your mattress last night. “Oh, that’s Mona. Or… Well, you can give her a different name but…”

“You remember Mona?”

“Mhm. Did I not tell you that I remember a lot of things, eh?” He grabs your hips, adjusting you so your weight doesn’t press down into his crotch anymore. “She is my ugh… souvenir for you.”

You smile, staring at the bat’s silly face before you press the soft plushie to your chest. Your cheeks have to hurt from how wide your mouth is stretched. He’s never seen this type of smile on you before, a sense of almost childlike wonder hidden in the happy lines on your face. “Thank you, Copia. I love her so much.”

“You have to let me take a photo now,” Copia says, utterly obsessed with the sight of you holding the little bat to your heart. You don’t complain when he aims the camera at you and snaps a picture. He’s not sure if he did it right, he hasn’t used a camera like this in quite some time, but the button clicks and then you’re already ripping it from his hand.

“We should take a family picture too,” you say, sliding off his lap and squeezing yourself into his side. “You have to hold her and I take it.”

Copia is too stunned to even fully grip the plushie. Family picture. Your soft cheek is pressed to his and he does his best to smile into the lens. Then your lips are on his jaw and your hand is under his shirt again which does nothing to alleviate his dizziness.

“Thank you,” you whisper, pressing more kisses all over his face. “She’s so cute.”

“Mhm, she is.”

You smile down at him, the bat squished between your bodies now. He has to bite back a cheesy comment. It’s not the bat that warms his heart, makes the butterflies in his stomach rotate like a hurricane. If only you knew the way even the tiniest smile on your face impacts him then maybe you wouldn’t doubt yourself so much.

“I could get us some breakfast,” he suggests. “We could… we could spend the day together?”

“Don’t you have a busy schedule?”

“Ah, see, I got back early so I have nothing in that big scary schedule yet.” He reaches out to boop your nose. “Lots of space for my little ‘strella.”

You smile and plop back down on the mattress next to him. “You’re going to get us breakfast? Coffee?”

“I am going to sneak into the kitchens and get us a little treat. I do this very often and I’ve never been caught.” He moves his fingers over your arm in a running motion. “I am like a little topo stealing the cheese from the fridge.”

“I would like some breakfast,” you say, leaning into his touch when he cups your cheek. “And I would like to spend the day with you.”

“Good!” He lets go, sitting up. “Good, very good. I will hurry, yes? Do you want something sweet or savoury?”

“Sweet.”

This time he can’t stop the cheesy reply. “Just like you, eh?”

You snort and he leans in to peck your lips before he forces his body to stand, still grinning to himself. His back protests a little and his knees hurt when he fully stretches out his legs but he feels surprisingly good for how long he slept against the wall last night.

“I’ll be back fast, dolcezza, don’t you worry.”

“I’ve got Mona to keep me company now,” you say, snuggling back into your pillows.

For a moment, Copia just looks at you with your little bat, thinking about how surreal this whole situation is. Before he left he never thought it would be possible to spend such a carefree morning with you, to just kiss you and hold you and touch you and see your pretty smile. But his dreams have come true and if he doesn’t blow it now even more of those dreams might become reality soon. That thought elevates him and as he skips down the hall there’s a lightness in his step that he hasn’t felt in quite a while.

✦ ✧ ✦

It’s earlier than Copia anticipated. In his absence spring progressed into longer days and earlier sunrises. The abbey is still quiet, only the Siblings with morning duties bustling about the hallways. The big, ancient clock in the foyer tells him it’s about half an hour until the breakfast rush starts and he hurries to make it there and back before too many people see him. Sneaking back in late last night was fun but he can already hear the disappointed voices telling him he should have celebrated his first successful tour leg. He doesn’t like running around with no face paint on anymore now that he is Papa but if he can just dodge the busy areas…

“Papa?”

He almost managed to slip into one of the big storage rooms attached to the kitchens when the voice calls out to him. Behind him, Sister Sybil is holding a tray filled with rolls of dough that are ready to be pushed in the oven, her white apron contrasting nicely with her flaming red hair.

“Good morning, Papa, I didn’t know you were back already,” she says.

“Oh, sì, sì, we got back late last night. Did not want to make a big fuss, you know?”

“I see,” she says with a kind smile. “Did you want anything from down here?”

“Actually, I was hoping to… get a little breakfast treat, eh? Get a head-start to my day.”

“Sure. Gimme a second until these are in the oven and I can help you to some pastries.”

This is okay, he tells himself. Sister Sybil is nice and trustworthy – she is your friend after all. He follows her into the refectory where most of the baked goods are already laid out behind the counters. Breakfast is usually one of his favourite meals, most of all because they have a few very talented bakers among the Siblings. There is never a lack of sweet treats to choose from, even though the coffee leaves much to be desired.

“What can I get you, then?” Sybil asks. “You’re the first, so you have freedom of choice.”

He scans the display that’s filled with an array of pastries the Siblings have been baking all morning. It’s hard to choose, his stomach is already growling at the sight of the puffy baked goods with their colourful glazes that shimmer so deliciously in the soft morning sun. “The chocolate croissant, I think. Yes.”

Sybil drops it on a small plate. “Anything else?”

“Ugh, actually, I need two of those.”

“Two?”

“Not ugh… not for me, you see, it is ugh…”

A telltale smirk appears on Sybil’s face. “Oh, yeah, she likes those.”

“She…” He coughs uncomfortably. “Thank you.”

“You should also take a few of the macarons… just saying.”

“Okiedokie, I will ugh… take the…”

“The pink and the yellow ones, berry and vanilla.”

“Yes, of course. Exactly.”

Sybil hands him the plate and he hopes that his bare face isn’t too flushed when she tells him to have a nice day, winking at him when he assures her that he will. After this awkward encounter he can’t get away fast enough, dodging Siblings left and right as he makes his way up the stairs to the office wing. Really, at this time of day it should not be busy here – all of the Papas and higher ranking clergy members value their quiet morning routines. He just has to slip into his office to make some coffee and then sneak back up the stairs. As soon as he’s turning on the coffee machine, however, he nearly jumps out of his skin as the familiar sound of heals clicking on the hard marble floor echoes into his office.

“Good morning, C.” He spins around to find Sister standing in the open doorway. “I was hoping you were already up. I expect you in the meeting room in half an hour.”

“What? Ugh no… really? But it’s breakfast time…”

She cocks a suspicious eyebrow. “I see you already started early. So surely you don’t mind?”

“I eh… no of course not,” he finds himself saying. “I can make it. Half an hour?”

“That’s what I told the other Papas, yes.”

Copia can’t help but feel annoyed, even though he knows this is part of his job and he shouldn’t have assumed to be free all day. He feels especially awful since he specifically promised you he would find ways to make space for you in his busy life. Now, on the first day that you’re finally together again, he already has to disappoint you.

Sister leaves him with a half-motherly smile that he can’t return. Their relationship is confusing to him on the best of days but lately, ever since his ascension, it’s been more difficult than ever to make sense of her behaviour. He can never shake the childlike need to make her proud, to prove to her that he is worth the trust she puts in him.

With a heavy heart he fixes you a cup of coffee, just the way he remembers you like. He spares himself the trouble of brewing another one for himself since he won’t have enough time to drink it with you anyway, at least not in peace. Satan knows he needs a relaxing coffee break after the little sleep he got lately but the small comforts have to wait for later. As he climbs back up the stairs he wonders if that was the reality check he needed. He does not live in the happy carefree world he’s been cushioned in all morning. He’s still Papa, he’s still trying to fill out a role he’s not sure he is good enough for, even if he so desperately wants to match those expectations.

This time he sets down the coffee and the plate before he opens the heavy door of the studio. He finds you half-asleep on the mattress, blinking up at him through heavy lids when he joins you. Mona is wrapped up tightly in your arms and his next words hurt him even more at the sight.

“I’m sorry, dolcezza, I have to leave for a meeting,” he says. “But I brought you this.”

You sit up, furrowing your brow in confusion. “I thought you were free today.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I only have a few more minutes.”

“It’s alright,” you assure him. “Maybe you should have the coffee instead. You look really tired.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, I made it for you, ‘strella.”

“Sip?”

Reluctantly he accepts, the warm liquid calming him immediately as it slides down his throat. He takes a bite of the croissant to go with it and it’s everything he would have hoped for – sweet and fluffy and still slightly warm. He would have loved to make this a slow quiet meal with you, instead he almost has to wolf it down. Your hand comes to rest on his thigh, giving it a comforting squeeze.

“You need a break,” you say. “They know you’ve had an exhausting tour.”

“Clergy business does not wait, sadly.” He snatches your hand to intertwine your fingers with his, once again glad he opted to omit the gloves. “But it is fine, tesoro, it is only one meeting and I hope I can be back after.”

A reluctant sigh falls from your lips before you finally start to eat as well. By then he’s already done with his croissant and just spends a moment watching you. He can tell you’re still tired, the skin around your eyes a little puffy and your movements slower than usual.

You bite into a macaron and smile. “How did you know I like all of these things?”

“Sister Sybil told me,” he explains. “I ugh… I think she knew I was picking this up for you.”

“She’s nosy.” You pop the rest of the sweet treat into your mouth. “I couldn’t really keep it from her.”

“Ah, that is okay,” he assures you. “I don’t mind. I am happy you found a friend, dolcezza.”

Your eyes stay glued to his even as you eat another macaron, so intensely that he almost fidgets under your gaze. You reach out then and wipe some powdered sugar from his jaw, tracing the line of it all the way up to his ear. “I really can’t get enough of your face, Copia.”

“‘strella…”

You pull away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be.” He reaches out for your hands again, pulling both of them into his lap. “It’s just… when you say these things it really makes me want to kiss you.”

“You should follow your impulses,” you say with a smirk. “I hear that’s encouraged in this church.”

He smiles at that and leans in, closing the short distance between your faces. The kiss starts innocently at first, a gentle press of his lips against yours and you move them against his almost carefully. But then he can taste the sweet berry taste from your macaron and he can’t help but deepen it, pushing his tongue past your lips. You groan and open your mouth for him and he loses all of his self-control. He leans in until you have to sink back into the mattress and he’s on top of you, stealing as many hungry kisses from you as he can before he has to break away for air. Instead he trails more of them down your jaw, wet, open-mouthed kisses, licking and sucking until he can feel your pulse on his tongue. It’s fast and he can’t help but suck on the spot, drawing a surprised gasp from your lips.

“I thought you had to leave,” you mumble, weaving your fingers through his hair.

“Five more minutes,” he whispers before his lips are back on yours.

Five minutes turn into ten until he lets his body go slack on top of yours, sighing in defeat. You stroke his back for a moment and he rolls to his side to avoid crushing you, holding you just a moment longer before he reluctantly sits up. You squint at him through tired eyes, still kiss-drunk and not ready to let him go.

“You should sleep a bit more, ‘strellina,” he says, pressing another gentle kiss to your forehead. “I will come back as soon as I can, yes?”

You nod, sinking back into the pillows, your eyes already fluttering close. He watches you for a moment longer before he suddenly remembers he only has a few minutes left. He’s sure you don’t even hear him leaving before you drift off.

✦ ✧ ✦

Something feels odd.

You wake up feeling far too comfortable on the small mattress and it takes a few seconds for you to notice why: Copia gave you his hoodie. It sits warm and soft over your shoulders, hugging you in his scent. You take a few deep breaths with your eyes closed, your stomach fluttering at each inhale. Even so it feels unreal, like last night was nothing but a dream you’re eventually going to wake up from.

The bat plushie in your arm says otherwise though, and you smile as you feel the soft fur against your cheek. Copia isn’t back within the next half hour, so you decide to get up and head to your quarters. Since you’re still excused from your regular duties, there really isn’t much for you to do when you’re not painting, so the moment you get back you decide to at least tidy up your quarters and help Sybil with the laundry before you shower and change. You assume she’s attending her usual kitchen duties today and your suspicion is confirmed when you look at your phone to find a message from her. How was the croissant?

You roll your eyes because of course she knows. But before you can send her a sassy reply you get another text: Also, look at this???? A Sister from Paris sent it to me.

Attached you find a short video. Copia, in an outfit you haven’t seen before, is singing into a microphone, blue light surrounding him, his leg propped up on a speaker. He taps his foot to the rhythm of the song – Spillways – but you’re really only staring at his thigh that’s jiggling with every stomp. The tight black pants only emphasise his movements, laced at the crotch and with rat-eaten scuffs. His torso is veiled in one of the loose black blouses you love on him with the frilled sleeves and high ruffled collar. On top he’s wearing an embellished vest, almost like an old-fashioned jerkin, tight black leather that hugs his body in all the right ways. His signature copper emblems are stitched into the material and sparkle under the spotlights.

You watch the video over and over, not just because the outfit shapes his body in a way that sends a sparking need into your lower belly but because he looks so incredibly confident, like he was always meant to be on that stage. And while he carries himself with more poise these days the sight is still making you feel immensely proud of him, especially because you know of his concerns about being a good Papa.

Eventually, you force yourself to stop and change into a different outfit. You decide on a comfortable fit, a pair of leggings, a loose black t-shirt and Copia’s hoodie on top. Without regular duties, you haven’t been wearing your habits as much, and while you do miss them, you have to admit that you prefer your painting outfits. Overalls and dungarees don’t go too well with steamy make out sessions though which you can’t help but long for after watching Copia on stage.

When you get back to the studio, he’s still not back from the meeting and you don’t have any messages in his absence. The pictures in your camera still need to be developed at some point, so when you sit down with your sketchbook you have to rely on the memory of his bare freckled face. It’s hard to draw non-shaky lines, your body still tingling from his kisses and his touch.

You can’t help but wonder if they’re keeping him for more work, if this is what it’s going to be like forever – stolen moments between meetings, late night visits, constant interruptions. You know he is not yours, he won’t ever be fully yours. For as long as he’s Papa he belongs to the congregation, to your shared faith, and you have to make your peace with it if you truly want to be with him.

You sigh, finishing another sketch in which he is smiling at you, a few strands of his greying hair falling in his face. The image alone is enough to stir up the butterflies in your belly and send them into a twirl. You so badly want to make it all work, you want to tell him everything and be with him and allow you both to finally be happy. If only confessing to him came as easy as drawing his portrait.

✦ ✧ ✦

“So, the budget should be clear now. We need a lot more attention,” Sister says after a ten minute presentation on the current reports that Copia practically slept through. “More members, more success, more money.”

“But the tour went well no?” he asks. “I did good?”

“Yes, the tour went well,” she says. “But you know this is only a small part of our plans. The band project helps us reach more people but it is also expensive and we have to keep a close eye on this.”

He sinks back into his chair, deflating like a balloon. It’s not that he necessarily expected resounding hymns of praise from her mouth – or anyone’s really – but the situation still stings. His father, a word he still struggles to use even in his own mind, is practically asleep on the chair in the corner, oxygen mask still draped over his mouth. The old man has not acknowledged Copia getting back or the success of his latest musical endeavours, just sat down with immediate disinterest. His three brothers gave him a few words of praise, a few encouraging pats on his back before Sister interrupted to start her lengthy monologue. The proud look on Secondo’s face is the only thing carrying him through this meeting right now.

“Sister, would you not at least give him this one day off?” Terzo asks, as always keeping a close eye on him. “He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. I don’t see why we had to sit through this meeting now.”

“He will have the afternoon off, don’t you worry,” she says. “A lot of work accumulates during a tour, as you know, Papa. His desk is already overflowing, just like yours.”

Terzo’s and her eyes meet and Copia is tempted to intervene as hot sparks of anger and hatred crackle between them. He knows his brother holds no love for her, on the contrary, after she worked tirelessly to get him out of the way and install her own progeny, destroying all of his plans to improve the ministry she did not favour. Copia tried to salvage what he could but a lot of choices were taken from him when they told him to focus on the band project, on worship and daily clergy matters. Strategy and business are largely resting in the hands of upper clergy, Sister told him, which she takes care of for him because his plate is already full enough.

Not that anyone ever acknowledged these things, not that anyone ever actually cared about Copia and what he wanted, how he wanted to ascend and what kind of Papa he wanted to be. And now everyone has to sit through these painful, charged meetings, fully aware that the outcome will be whatever Sister wants anyway, that the discussions are just a façade to keep them in line, to fill their schedules with tasks to keep them busy.

“It is okay,” he finds himself saying. “I would not want to keep anyone waiting for me.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Terzo grumbles. “If she told you to jump off the bell tower you’d do that too, huh?”

“Fratello,” Secondo’s deep voice warns.

“So, when is it time for lunch?” the old man chimes in from the corner, completely unaware.

“It is just past ten,” Terzo snaps.

“Well, I think we talked about everything that was on our agenda,” Sister says before she gathers the documents in front of her. “You are dismissed.”

Terzo is the first one out of the door, Secondo following suit with his robes billowing behind him. Copia’s head is slowly but surely killing him with a growing headache and so he just watches everyone else leave. The room goes quiet, their retreating steps slowly fading out.

“I’m sorry, C,” Sister says before she heads out as well. “There are a lot of papers to sign for you that I need as soon as possible. I put the stack on your desk, it would be perfect if I could get them within the next hour. After that, you can have the day off. I also left a little present in your office.”

He nods, wishing he could be more euphoric, and makes his way down the hall. As he reaches his desk, he’s immediately met with the three stacks of paperwork that he chose to ignore earlier this morning. Before he arrived in the meeting room he stopped by his quarters to change into a pair of black pants and one of his usual black button up blouses. No time to apply his face paint or even brush his hair, so he’s not surprised Terzo immediately recognised his exhaustion.

As he signs the papers, not even fully reading them, he can’t help but drift off. His luggage is still waiting for him to be unpacked, his quarters a dusty mess that needs to be cleaned, and he knows he should be doing all these things today once he’s done with signing papers. But really, all he wants to do is head back upstairs, fall into your arms and bury his face in your hair to help him forget the whole world around him.

He’s halfway through the stack of urgent papers Sister mentioned when he notices the wrapped gift box on his desk. His pen practically drops from his tired fingers, now back in a fresh pair of gloves that luckily prevent him from feeling the glittery wrapping paper as he rips it open. Inside, he finds an old but well-maintained VHS tape of The Silence of the Lambs, one he’s been trying to find for a while now after his old one broke from watching the movie over and over. He must have mentioned it to Sister and despite the looming stacks of work in front oh him he is filled with a warm feeling of gratitude for her care and attention. He knows he’ll never bring himself to ask her if she’s truly his mother or if she just slipped into the role when she saw him in the Ministry’s orphanage all those decades ago. But it doesn’t matter because he knows it would not change a single thing. He’s learning to accept himself, with your help, with his brothers’ help, and that has to be enough.

✦ ✧ ✦

You’re still doodling two hours later when the door of the studio finally flies open. Copia, who changed into one of the shirts you’ve been admiring earlier and a simple pair of black pants, practically falls into the room. He barely manages to drag himself over to where you’re sitting on your little mattress in the corner, burying his still bare face in your belly as soon as you set your sketchbook aside.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Headache,” he says with a sigh. “Stupid meeting.”

“I’m sorry. They kept you very long.”

He hums, closing his eyes and shifting so at least the upper half of his body fits with you on the mattress. You reach out and tangle your fingers in his hair, stroking his head to soothe him. Another hum leaves him and you can watch the tension melting from his body as each muscle relaxes. He’s quite beautiful like this, his pink lips slightly parted, long lashes kissing his cheeks.

“Your hair is getting long,” you observe, weaving your hand through the soft strands, combing the ones back that have fallen into his face.

“Too long?” he mumbles.

“No. I like it. It’s so soft when you don’t have anything in it.”

Another hum, his eyes still closed as his breathing evens. He looks like he’s ready to fall asleep, exhaustion evident in the deep lines in his features, in the discoloured and slightly swollen bags under his eyes. The past few weeks must have taken a toll on him, no matter how much he loves performing. You can only imagine how draining such a tightly scheduled trip must be with all those heavy expectations resting on his tense shoulders.

“You’re so tired,” you whisper. “Do you want to take a nap, baby?”

He opens his eyes and they widen as he looks at you, his bare cheeks turning a sweet shade of pink. With a low whimper he buries his face back in the softness of your belly, hiding his blush from you. When he nuzzles your stomach, squirming for a moment, you can feel his nose pressing into your belly button and you have to chuckle.

“What is it?” you tease.

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure, baby?”

“‘strella,” he whines. “Stop.”

“Why?” He opens his eyes again but the glare is half-hearted, playful. “You call me pet names. Am I not allowed?”

“You are but you have to live with the consequences.”

“And what are those?”

You lightly pull at his hair as you continue to scratch his scalp and his next words get caught in his throat. He closes his eyes, a soft sigh leaving his lips. You do it again, gripping more of his hair to play with and this time he properly moans when you massage his head.

“Do you like that, baby?” you ask with a smirk and he nods, waiting for you to do it again. “I’m still waiting for a reply, you know.”

His eyes open again and this time the glare isn’t as playful. Before you can even register him moving he’s already slotted himself between your legs to tower over you, his body pressing you into the mattress. His warm breath ghosts over your features, so close now, just shy of finally kissing you again. “Oh, so you like teasing your Papa?”

You vaguely nod, staring at his mouth try to get him to lean in. He brushes his nose against yours a few times, humming in delight when you start to giggle at the feeling. But instead of finally kissing you he sits up, laughing at the pout that’s immediately scrunching up your face. “Oh what a shame, I don’t think you have earned a kiss yet.”

“Who is teasing now?” you ask, hoisting yourself up by gripping his arm. “You’re very mean.”

Copia tuts, reaching out to squeeze and massage your thigh. “I’m seeing new sides of you, ‘strella. You are more bratty than I ever thought possible. Very naughty.”

You have to smirk at that. “Well, you make me feel very comfortable.”

“Do I? And here I thought it was because you were wearing my jacket.” He lifts his hand to cup your face, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone. “Now, what else do I make you, hm?”

“Giddy.”

“And?”

“Happy.”

“And?”

“Horny?”

He smirks. “Is that a question?”

“No.” You turn your face to press a kiss to his gloved palm. After today, you can’t help but think about him on stage in his tight black outfit, the same gloved hand squeezing the microphone, and you desperately wish he would be squeezing something else with it. Your cheeks heat up at that thought. “I do have a question, though.”

“And what is that?”

“The outfit you wear on stage…”

He furrows his brow. “I wear many outfits on stage.”

“The… the one with the vest?”

“Oh, sì, sì.”

“Would you ever… would you ever wear it for me?”

His smirk widens, the corners of his mouth pushing up until his eyes crinkle, the fine lines underneath much more prominent without the face paint. “If you want me to, I will do anything, ‘strella. I just wonder what gave you this idea, eh?”

“I might have seen a video.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, have you? Have you been missing me so much today, eh?”

Still blushing, you nod and place your hand on his to link them together. “Does that earn me a kiss now?”

“Hmm, we should get comfortable first, tesoro. Then I will give you all the kisses.”

With that he scoots over and reclines against the wall, your random assortment of soft pillows protecting his back. You move to straddle one of his legs, resting your upper body against his before your lips finally collide. Copia groans into the kiss and you have to moan as well at the feeling of your bodies pressed so close together, your thigh against his crotch. His lips move against yours feverishly, one hand shooting up to grab your head and pull you in even closer. With the way your leg slots between his you can feel him getting hard against your thigh and you can’t help but push your tongue into his mouth to taste him.

Copia seems surprised by your initiative, both of his hands sliding down to your hips where they squeeze the soft flesh before his fingers move to press into your ass and pull you forward even more. The sudden friction between your legs sends hot sparks into your core and you unload the tension in another deep kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and deep, needy moans. No matter how good it feels you need more of him, so much more.

Impatiently, you fiddle with the buttons of his shirt, pushing your hands inside until you can feel his warmth against your fingertips. You eagerly map out every piece of skin you can find, opening the remaining buttons in the process. When the blouse finally falls open and you glance down, you’re met with the sight of a beautiful soft tummy, rich dark but greying chest hair that wanders all the way down to his belly before it narrows into a happy trail and disappears under his waistband. Freckles adorn his skin, big ones and tiny ones, arranged like the stars in the night sky, constellations you can’t quite read yet. You have to fight the urge to kiss every single one of them, to feel all of his chest hair against your lips and explore more of his body. For a moment your eyes get caught by a tattoo on his left pec, a black 666, arranged in a circle.

You wonder if he has more tattoos but you have no time to ask because Copia loses his patience and starts to mouth at your neck. You lean forward again, granting him more access and he immediately starts to press wet open-mouthed kisses just below your ear. You run your hands up and down his chest, thumbing his nipples and he moans brokenly, his hips bucking into yours. He’s so sensitive, you realise, so responsive.

“Copia,” you whisper, unable to stop your own hips from moving against his thigh.

“I know,” he mumbles. “I know, ‘strella.”

His lips continue to attack your neck, sucking and biting gently, never lingering for too long before his mouth wanders with the need to taste every single inch of your skin he can reach. Meanwhile, his hands push the hoodie from your shoulders before he throws it aside. They slide underneath the hem of your shirt then, gliding over your skin, and you flinch for a moment when his fingertips graze your ribcage. He stops, looking at you in question. His face is ruined, eyes heavy-lidded with a delirious need, spit coating his kiss-swollen lips.

“Not… not yet?” he asks and all you can do is nod. “Okay, it’s okay. We can stop.”

“I don’t want to stop. Just, not the shirt. Not… not that spot.”

“Can I still touch you?”

You nod. “Please. Please touch me.”

His hands leave the tender skin of your sides to wrap around your back, still underneath your shirt, but this time he doesn’t move to undress you anymore. Instead he pushes them underneath the hem of your leggings and underwear, gripping your bare ass to help you slide over his thigh more easily. You keen, gripping his shoulders for support when your whole cunt throbs and sends sharp pangs of pleasure through your body.

“Copia,” you whimper, followed by a moan when he drags you over his thigh once more. You move with him, mewling and moaning with every bit of friction that burns its way into your core and clouds your brain. It’s been so long since you’ve been intimate with anyone, the feelings so intense now that you feel like you’re drowning in a river of lust. But even so all you crave is more.

“It’s okay, my baby, take what you need from me,” he whispers, his voice raspy and shaking with what you can only assume is a similar overwhelm. “I’m here. I’m here for you.”

You don’t hesitate, any shame or reluctance dissipating when you feel his firm muscles flexing against your clit. Hips moving on their own accord, you find into the perfect rhythm, sliding over his thigh again and again.

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers into your ear. “So good for me. Do you think you can come like this, tesoro?”

“Hmm…”

You have no words left as your body reaches for the sweet release that’s inching closer and closer. Your chin falls to his shoulder as you continue to ride his leg, your knees and thighs protesting wildly. Copia brings one hand up to your droopy head, holding your face so your half-closed eyes stay locked on his. He pushes his gloved thumb into your mouth and you reflexively suck, using it as an outlet for the building tension in your stomach. When he notices you’re getting close, Copia pulls his knees up and you push back in the same moment, the hard bone pressing into your clit. The intense pressure and his gentle praise in your ear send you over the edge. A high-pitched scream falls from your lips as the pleasure rushes through your body like a boiling current and you shudder, rocking against his leg to ride out the feeling.

You’re still shaking when you come down from your high, resting on Copia’s bare chest who gently strokes your back and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. It’s impossible to say how much time passes, a minute, maybe two. Your fingers draw tiny patterns into his chest hair, a deep , simmering sensation of bliss settling in your chest that’s unfamiliar to you. Basking in the feeling, you sigh into the crook of his neck, pressing a few soft kisses there.

“Are you feeling good, my baby?” he asks. “You are okay, yes?”

“Yes,” you whisper, followed by a deep sigh. “I feel really good.”

He chuckles, stroking your hair before he shifts underneath you. His still hard cock digs into your thigh when he does and you finally shift back into reality, propping yourself up on your elbow to ease the pressure on him.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you mumble, sitting up even though your muscles hardly feel like they can still carry you, let alone keep you upright.

You sit down on his thigh, holding onto his belly for a moment before you pry open the tight button of his pants. It flies open, the zipper immediately sliding down under the pressure and revealing a pair black boxer briefs with a prominent wet patch at the front. You run your thumb over it, feeling the tip of his cock against your finger.

“Oh, tesoro, you don’t have to… oh.”

His complains fade into thin air when you free his erection and wrap your hand around his length, feeling the warmth and the smoothness of his skin. He’s beautifully curved, his pubes darker than the rest of his body hair. More precome leaks from his reddened tip when you gently run your fingers along the veins on the underside and back up. You notice that even here the skin shows hints of freckles, so faint and small from the lack of sun exposure that they could easily be missed. When you smear most his arousal onto your palm to slick it and let it glide down his shaft Copia keens and his hips jump up from the mattress, nearly sending you flying from his lap.

“Oh Satana,” he mumbles, his head lolling back as his eyes flutter closed. “Oh cazzo.”

So sensitive. You wonder if making you come on his thigh was what turned him on this much, if just watching and feeling you fall apart on him nearly got him to orgasm as well. Shifting on his leg you can feel how drenched both your and his pants are where you rode him. Copia whimpers no matter how you move on him, finally looking back at where your small hand is wrapped around his dick. His brows are pulled together and he bites his lip, moaning at every lazy pump you give him. He looks like he’s in great pain, a great pleasurable pain, and you can’t wait to make it worse.

“Are you going to come for me, baby?” you ask, watching his eyelids flutter at your words.

“‘strella,” he whines. “Oh, ti prego.”

You watch him in awe, taking in every little flinch, every shudder, every needy moan and whimper. You barely manage to pump another handful of times before his hips buck into your hand to chase his release. His cock kicks in your palm as he empties himself onto his belly, rope after rope of his seed spilling from his tip. You can’t help but lean in and run your tongue along the trail of pleasure he leaves, tasting his come mixed with his salty skin as you clean up the mess. Copia is silently cursing, hips jerking with every lick, and his hand tangles with your hair for support. Before you pull away you press a gentle kiss to the tip of his softening cock, licking along his sensitive slit, and he rewards you with a deep, guttural groan.

When you sit back up to look at him he stares at you with wide eyes, an expression you can’t quite place yet. “Are you okay?” you ask, wiping some excess from your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, I was so fast.”

“Don’t apologize.” You lean in to press a kiss to his cheek, then another to the corner of his mouth. When you let go, you start to stroke his face, combing his messy, sweat-slick hair back and giving him an encouraging smile. “You did so well, Copia. You made me feel so good and I want you to feel just as good.”

“Oh, tesoro…” He pulls you into a tight hug, wrapping his arms around your middle. “You are… I don’t think I have the words right now. Not in English at least.”

You chuckle and settle against him once again. This time he is much more relaxed, humming lightly into your ear and cradling you against his side. For a while his warmth and his softness distract you, the gentle kisses he breathes to your hair, the sweet Italian words he murmurs, even when you don’t quite understand them. Only after a few long minutes do you realise how monumental it is what just happened. For years now you haven’t let anyone get this close to you, not just physically. Being intimate with Copia feels easy, natural, like this is what you’ve been waiting for your whole life. And yet it’s scary how every touch elicits such a strong emotional reaction, how you suddenly realise that there’s something to lose in your life now.

And you’re terrified of losing what you have with him.

The thought sends you into a spiral. You try to calm down and push it away but Copia must notice how your shoulders are shaking. He tries to get you to look at him, finger on your chin, brushing your hair away, but you can’t bring yourself to look up. “What is it, eh?”

“Nothing.”

“’strella,” he says, his voice so incredibly gentle. “I think if we want this to work we have to say what we are thinking, no? Even if it is hard.”

You finally lift your head a little, forcing yourself to look at him. His thumb immediately moves to your cheek, wiping at the tears that still wet your skin.

“I don’t like this,” he says, drawing his brows together. “I don’t want you to cry.”

“I’m sorry.”

A soft shake of his head. “No apologies, tesoro. I am here for you, it’s okay.”

You nod and press your cheek against his, feeling the stubbly, unshaved skin and the softness underneath. His arms wrap around you, holding you while you try to find words. In his comfort, your fluttering nerves slowly calm down and you find it easier to breathe again.

“Are you still worried about us?” he asks after a moment. “We have not talked about it again.”

You sit up slightly, looking into his concerned face, and you immediately feel bad. “No, no. I like what we have, Copia. I’m happy with how things are going.”

“What is it then?” he asks. “Please tell me, ‘strella, I don’t want to be left out again.”

“I’ve just been overthinking,” you whisper. “I always overthink.”

“Then tell me about it, per favore. We can figure it out together, no? We have done this all the time now.”

You nod and sniffle, trying to find the rights words. “It’s just… it’s hard for me to let someone into my life.”

“You are worried I will hurt you?”

You shake your head. “That’s… that’s not it, no. There’s just… some things in my past…”

When you stop, Copia nods and strokes along your jaw. “I know. I know, ‘strella. You don’t have to tell me now. You can tell me when you’re ready, sì? But no matter what it is, nothing could be so bad that we cannot manage it, okie dokie? We are together now, we are a team. A family, you said it this morning, eh?”

“Copia… You don’t… if you knew…”

“Then I would still want to be with you, tesoro.”

“Even if it’s dangerous?”

At that he furrows his brow. “Dangerous?”

“I’ve lost people,” you explain. “I’ve lost everyone, I’ve driven them away and I’ve… I’ve doomed them. It’s all my fault, I’m a walking bad omen, Copia, and I can’t lose any more people. I can’t lose you, too.”

“You won’t,” he says and his voice is firm, solid. “You won’t, ‘strella. I will make sure of it, no matter what it is. I promise this to you.”

“I don’t deserve this, Copia,” you choke out. “I don’t.”

“But you do. You do, ‘strella, you deserve all the happiness. And I will make sure that you have it, no matter what it costs. If I have to move hell and earth I will do it for you without question.”

He doesn’t know how close he might be to the core of the issue but you’re not ready yet to bring up the real truth of what lies in your past. Instead you let him comfort you for a little longer, letting your eyes run dry against his neck.

You press a firm kiss to his cheek before you let go of him and allow him to tuck his soft dick back into his briefs. Brushing your fingers along his temple, you settle beside him on the mattress. “How is your head?”

“Surprisingly, I feel a lot better now, ‘strella,” he says, feigning innocence. “I wonder how this came to be. You must have magic hands, eh?”

You giggle and he seems pleased with your reaction, smiling fondly at you as he kicks off his tight pants and removes his shirt. You can’t help but ogle him, the strong curves of his shoulders and torso, tight muscles wrapped up in a soft shell, pale, freckled and hairy skin with all kinds of lines, marks and tiny scars like landmarks on a map. You wish you could feel his skin on yours but you’re not quite ready to reveal this part of yourself yet. Even so, running your hand along his bare sides is beautiful. You’re not sure that you’ll ever get enough of him.

“Now we nap?” he asks when he plops back down into the pillows and you nod. You don’t know how you got this lucky but when you glance past him, spotting Mona the plushie next to the mattress together with the stack of postcards and the crumpled heap that is Copia’s red hoodie, you realise that he means all that he said. There is no doubt.

Copia’s eyes follow yours and he grabs Mona, pressing her to his chest. “Can I hold her this time?”

You nod and snuggle up to him, pulling the comforter over your tangled bodies. When you finally close your eyes you can’t help but let out a happy sigh. “Will you do all of this every time you go on tour now?” you ask.

“No,” he says. “The next time I take you with me.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Over the next few months, you noticed a stark change in Mr Kraan. He seemed more determined, painted more than you’d ever seen him before, so fixated on his art that he hardly kept up with yours unless you asked for help. Not that he did not take care of you, there was always food and drinks for you at the studio, even if he never consumed any of it in front of you. Your mother hung around more as well and from what you saw, he treated her with more love and care than ever before. When he wasn’t painting though, you often found him reading or working in his office but he wouldn’t show you what he was doing and often closed himself off until your mother arrived.

Of course with your sixteen years of age you were now old enough to understand that they had an affair but you could not bring yourself to feel bad for your father, selfishly hoping she would leave him so you could move into the studio with her. Your dad still showed a gaping disinterest in you and only really cared that you kept up with school work. You mostly did because you were scared he’d cancel your art lessons and since you still had no real friends to speak of, you mostly sat alone and uninterrupted in your classes. At home, you only drew flowers and cute animals when he was around – all your real art was kept in the studio.

And your real art – well, your father would not have liked it. At the moment you were working on a piece with all sorts of wild animals. In the centre of the canvas an unrecognisable carcass got devoured by two wolves, bats and different kinds of predatory birds circling around them in the top half of the canvas. The background was mostly dark, the splashes of bright red blood from the dead animal the only contrasting colour. For some reason, you had been gravitating towards images that showed a scene of animalistic devouring and the consumption of life. The scene seemed almost like a dream, not a scene you would ever find in real life but it felt horrifyingly real all the same.

When you glanced over at your teacher’s easel, you noticed that his painting too was dark. Lately, he had been gravitating towards very grim scenes, more so than ever before. You were not sure if this was because of his monetary issues, if maybe he painted these things for someone else or if they just reflected his dissatisfaction with life.

Now, you found a scene you had seen him paint before a few times recently, a black hooded creature that took up most of the canvas with red eyes and sharp fangs, but this time most of it was clouded by deep shadows. There was barely any light in the image and once the sun set on that cold winter’s day, it got impossible to see anything but darkness. The eery blackness on the canvas was almost scarier than the image itself, especially because you could vaguely see the red eyes of the creature shimmering in the moonlight. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that it was the same creature you’d been adding to your painting, but Mr Kraan had never remarked upon it before and his style was quite different from yours.

Not only his paintings changed, however. The studio got progressively more messy, tons of old paintings he never sold were stacking up, the space downstairs in his shop long since filled. They were all gathering dust and cobwebs, your own paintings only adding to the cramped space. The mess in the studio and the lack of free floor space might have been why you never questioned that the spot you had charred with your failed spell seemed like it was progressively getting bigger, almost like the burnt wood was spreading out. You told yourself you were seeing ghosts, that Mr Kraan had been right and nothing bad had happened. But the thought never completely left your mind.

Chapter Text

“If your dear heart is wounded, my wild heart bleeds with yours.”

― Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Carmilla

✦ ✧ ✦

He’s still asleep when you wake up. The sight almost feels like you’re caught in a dream. The soft orange light of dawn is creeping in through the windows, scattered by the swaying trees outside, moving over the walls and caressing his relaxed features. A soft smile graces his lips and he must be dreaming, because he sighs pleasantly and his muscles twitch just the tiniest bit.

He looks peaceful for once, calm – happy, really. You wonder if he’s dreaming of you, if he’s dreaming of last night. You can still feel the soft kisses on your lips that you exchanged before falling asleep and they make your heart flutter so violently that you struggle to draw lines that aren’t shaky. Of course you have to capture him like this, confident lines shaping him so easily on a brand new page in your sketchbook.

It feels apt because you feel like a brand new person in many ways. Last night, after recovering from your shared bliss, you went downstairs to get some leftover food from the kitchens. When you came back, you found Copia admiring your progress on the painting and he seemed impressed even though there was still so much to do. The praise felt good, his words always so genuine that you know he means every single word. You continued to eat side by side on your mattress – soggy, lukewarm pasta – but you’ve never had a lovelier dinner. Copia told you that he is used to eating leftovers, that it was his first evening in months where he wasn’t working until way after dinner.

As you finish up your sketch now, Copia finally rouses. His hair has fallen into his face, covering parts of his eyes and getting caught in his dark lashes. His lips are still curved into a smile but then he stirs and they spread into a yawn. Instead of waking, he buries his face back in the pillow, scruffy cheeks rubbing over soft white cotton.

You wish he would get more sleep, even last night you stayed up way too long. When the time for bed had finally crawled close, you’d shown Copia the bathroom two doors down that hardly anyone ever uses. You both got ready for bed in there, brushing your teeth, washing over the sink, but instead of sleeping right away you’d just talked and kissed the night away. Subjects stayed safe at first, art and movies mostly since it turns out he is quite the cinephile, but then he told you a little bit about how he grew up in Italy, one of many orphans raised there by your church. He told you how Sister Imperator was always close by, treating him like her own son but never acknowledging if he really was, how he struggled with keeping focused in school sometimes but always loved numbers, how he snuck spooky books from the Roman abbey’s library that he wasn’t old enough for yet and read them with a torch under his blanket, hidden away from his roommates in his own little lair. You had to think about your own secret drawing sessions in your room, how the secrecy was part of the fun but how the loneliness was so much heavier during these nights all the same.

“Are you drawing me like one of your French girls?”

Your gaze snaps back to him, pulling you from the memory, and you realise that his sleepy eyes are open. He’s watching you, still hugging the pillow to his head as he rests on his belly.

“I’m sorry if that’s weird but you looked so peaceful,“ you say.

“I don’t care that you drew me, I care that you’re not in my arms right now, tesoro.”

His voice is still sleepy, the rasp almost swallowing the syllables but even so the affectionate name never ceases to make your belly flutter in excitement. You close the sketchbook and scoot over to where he’s now rolled onto his back, his arms open and waiting for you. He’s still only wearing his black briefs and socks but the blanket is hiding most of his body. When you slide underneath the covers as well you can feel parts of his skin on yours where your shirt rode up your side. Eager to feel more of his warmth, you snuggle up to him, pressing your face against his cheek and nuzzling the scratchy skin a few times with a content hum.

“I have not shaved in three days, ‘strella,” he mumbles. “Is it not uncomfortable?”

“I like the stubble,” you say, pressing a lingering kiss to his cheek.

Copia hums, wrapping his arms around you to pull you even closer. “Sadly it is not very convenient with the paint or I would keep it for you.”

You sigh, kissing down his throat and clavicle, a little sad that the scruff will be gone before you’re able to feel it on other parts of your body. You’re careful not to leave marks on him even though his pale freckly skin is very tempting. You expect it to bruise easily but you’re not sure if he’d be okay with it, if it’s not too early to mark your territory for everyone to see. There’s always time later, you tell yourself, if Satan allows it you can have all the time in the world.

“So I take it I still inspire you?” Copia mumbles then.

“You do. I think you’re so beautiful,” you admit. “In so many ways, not just physically. I always thought you were but now that I’ve spent so much time with you it’s even more evident.”

His arms loosen a little and you sit up slightly to look at him, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. “Don’t you… don’t you get tired of drawing me all the time?”

“No, not at all. If I could, I would look at you all day, draw you and paint you for the rest of my life.” You trace the line of his cheek, feel the rough hair on your sensitive fingertips. “I’ve been inspired by many things but I’ve never been as inspired as I am by you, so filled with the need to create and I know it’s odd but… I think it only gets worse, like a thirst I just cannot quench.”

“This is… this is very similar to how I feel about you,” he says, the blush deepening by the second. “Only I can’t draw, you just live inside my head all day.”

Your own cheeks heat up and you can’t find the right words to express your feelings as you let your fingers continue their journey of exploring his body. It’s new and it also isn’t, the shapes familiar to your eyes but not to your hands who are so eager to memorise every single curve. His chest is surprisingly firm underneath the dense greying hair that spreads over most of his body, perhaps you can feel the effects of touring, muscles that have been used on stage every night. For a brief moment you think about his thighs again, how they tensed against your core last night before you fell apart in his arms. Desire spreads in your lower belly but you don’t want to stop, so you follow the path of his chest hair down his torso, fingers dancing over his happy trail in small circles. His belly is so soft, so tender, you can’t help but stroke the pale skin there, trail the faint stretch marks around his love handles, squeezing just the tiniest bit until Copia’s hand shoots out to grab your wrist. He groans and when you look up at his face it’s all scrunched up.

“What is it?” you ask.

“Not… there. It’s… uh…”

“What?”

“Well, my belly…”

“I love your belly.” You softly pull your arm out of his grasp to press your palm to the soft pouch just below his navel. “It’s beautiful.”

He furrows his brow. “I know I’m not in shape, tesoro. You know, when you get older, it’s hard to lose belly fat and the pasta… easy to put on weight…”

“Copia, I love your belly fat.”

“You don’t have to say that, dolcezza.”

You bring your hand up to his face, smoothing out the crease on his forehead until he relaxes. He leans into your touch, lets you cup his cheek with a sigh. Pressing a gentle kiss to his chin, you slowly roll on top of him.

”What–“

“Let me show you how much I love your body,” you interrupt. “Let me show you that I think you’re perfect. Please.”

”Are you sure–”

You place your lips right on top of his to shut him up. Copia immediately returns the kiss, placing his hands on your hips until they find that sliver of bare skin above your waistband. He doesn’t move to undress you this time, instead he keeps you steady, fingers denting your flesh when you start to kiss down his neck. Soft whimpers falls from his mouth at every press of your lips. You travel down the column of his throat, then along his collarbone and over his chest, gently nipping at the soft skin, adding more pressure once you’re past his neck. As you slide down his body, his hands wander into your hair, careful at first but tensing up whenever you suck his skin into your mouth.

“‘strella...“ he whispers.

“Shall I stop?” you ask, looking up into his frowning face.

A quick shake of his head and he pulls his lip between his teeth. You keep your eyes on him when you finally reach his belly, kissing more deliberately now, painting a faint line from the left to the right side. When you feel him fidgeting, his hand gripping your hair, you decide not to hold back in this area of his body. As you suck the first hickey just below his navel, he moans, hips bucking into you, and his reaction boosts your confidence.

“Do you like that?” you ask, even though his physical reaction is a very telling reply, his cock already pressing against your chest as it hardens underneath the soft cotton layer of his briefs.

Copia nods, humming out his confirmation, and this time he urges your head back down to continue. His skin tastes salty, the hair soft against your lips and you follow an invisible path, guided by the biggest of his freckles that stand out like the brightest stars in a clear night sky. With no further resistance you take your time to cover his whole belly in deep red love bites that are certain to bruise later. When you break away to admire your work, you can’t help but smile.

“You’re my canvas today, baby,” you say. “I’m going to paint the prettiest picture on you.”

He whimpers at that, his lips staying open in a silent gasp, and you let your mouth travel further down until you reach the waistband of his underwear that is already slightly lifting under the strain of his erection.

“Maybe you could help me?” you ask, blinking up at him.

“Help you?”

You pull the elastic down, freeing his cock as you shimmy it down to his knees. He is half-hard already and beautifully curved over his abdomen, landing on one of the brightest hickeys. Leaning back in, you press a kiss to the underside, then another closer to his hooded tip which draws a groan from him. His cock twitches from your attention and you smirk up at him. “How long do we still have?”

“My first m-meeting is at… at nine,” he chokes out.

That’s all you need to know before you bring your mouth back to his shaft, mouthing and licking him to full hardness as you carefully cradle his balls and massage them between your fingers. He’s breathing heavily, his belly rising and falling in quick succession.

“Are you… are you sure you want to do this?” Copia asks, burying his hand back in your hair.

“I already know you taste amazing,” you tease. “Of course I do.”

Another groan and his hips stutter against your hands. “You are going to kill me, tesoro. I am never going to this meeting.”

You can’t help but chuckle as you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, lining it up with your lips. With a soft kiss to his tip you welcome him, tasting the pearl of pre that has gathered at his slit before you fully take him into your mouth. He moans and you allow him to feel your warmth for a moment, keeping still before you start to press your tongue against him, hollowing out your cheeks as you gently suck.

“Oh, Satana,” Copia whispers as his hips buck and he’s staring up at the ceiling like he’s actually praying. Only it’s you and not the Morningstar who answers his prayers, taking him in deeper when he brings his gaze back to meet yours. You watch as his eyes roll back in his head, slowly moving your head up and down to the rhythm of his breathing.

“This is… this is better than I ever imagined,” he whispers and strokes your hair. “So good, tesoro. S-so warm.”

Better than I imagined. The thought that he pictured you like this in his fantasies has you moaning around his cock. His grip tightens and you allow him to go even deeper, letting go with your fist in order to take him in all the way. Your nose presses to his pubes and he hits the back of your throat, filling your mouth until you choke. Copia groans, keeping you pressed down, and you have to breathe through your nose to keep from gagging again. When you swallow the spit that has gathered in your mouth and your throat tightens around him, he lets out a loud moan.

“Oh cazzo, I’m going to– ah–” He chokes on his words and you feel his cock kicking inside your mouth. Drool dribbles from your lips and onto his base, mixing with the first ropes of come that you catch before you pull away and let him spill all over his belly. You swallow, stroking him through his orgasm as he empties himself. To see him lost to the pleasure you gave him like this is a sight that you won’t ever forget, one that fills your whole body with such a tender warmth that you almost forget about your own need throbbing painfully between your legs. He’s unspeakably beautiful, a perfect dream conjured up by your mind and manifested into a real person.

Copia closes his eyes, going limp for a moment before he takes a deep, shuddering breath. You watch him find back to you, stroking his thigh and kissing along his lower belly.

“‘strella,” he whispers, stroking the hair from your forehead that has fallen into your face.

“Was that okay?” you ask.

He scoffs. “Was it okay? You are messing with me, eh?”

“Maybe,” you say, smiling as you let your fingers dance over his belly that’s littered in hickeys and sticky with his cum. “You painted such a pretty picture. You’re very talented.”

He huffs out a laugh that quickly turns into a whimper when you lick a trail over the mess to clean him up. When you finally reach his chest, he pulls you up and crashes his lips to yours, dragging you back on top of him with strong, eager hands. You moan into his mouth when his tongue pushes between your lips, no doubt still tasting himself on you.

Breathless, you break away after a few minutes, your jaw and throat still sore and achy. You settle against Copia’s chest, nuzzling his nose before you hug him close.

“You are so good to me, my baby,” he whispers into your ear. “Let me help you too, hm?”

“It’s okay,” you mumble. “You have to go and get ready. I bet it takes a while with the paint.”

“I don’t care if I am late, tesoro. I want to make you feel good as well.”

You sigh, hiding your face in his stubbly neck. “It’s fine, really. I like taking care of you, you don’t owe me.”

“You can keep your shirt on,” he suggests. “Or you can use my thigh again. We do it how you want to, eh? Whatever you want.”

It’s tempting. You can feel your own wetness, the simmering need in your belly only slowly fading, flickering back to a proper flame when his hands start to caress your back over your shirt. He’s so gentle, so encouraging, but you’re not sure you feel up for it now. You don’t want him to accidentally notice with how loose your shirt is, you don’t want to have to explain things you’re not ready to explain yet. The hesitation hangs between you, silence settling in for a few minutes, but Copia gives you the time you need until you feel ready to speak again.

“I’d rather not right now,” you whisper, holding onto his shoulder just a little too tightly. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” He squeezes you for a moment, turning his head to kiss your hair. “It’s okay, tesoro. I just want you to know that all you have to do is ask, yes? I am here when you need me.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, sighing into his skin. “Maybe tonight.”

“Whenever you’re ready, ‘strellina.”

He eases his grip on you and you do him the favour of looking at him, aware that he’s trying to check in with you. You feel okay, vulnerable and a little overwhelmed but you manage to give him a genuine smile anyway. He returns it, brushing his knuckles over your cheek before he pulls you in for a sweet, gentle kiss. There’s no more time for cuddles or other reassurances, so you reluctantly roll off of him and watch him as he gets dressed. You already know it’s going to be a long day without him here.

✦ ✧ ✦

Secondo’s office is a space Copia usually loves to avoid. The former Papa is the only one who sets even higher standards than Sister, the only one who works even more diligently than Copia himself, which is why even now after years of working together he still gets nervous when he scrutinises his work. The room is very neat, thoroughly organised if a little too stuffy because of the many bookshelves lining the walls. He’s not reading the names on the spines of Secondo’s extensive collection of occult literature, though, no. For the past fifteen minutes he’s been staring at the painting behind the desk – a painting that you made. It’s a beautiful rendition of Baphomet, clearly inspired by Lévi’s Sabbatic Goat and yet unique in its own right. He remembers Secondo talking about this years ago, how he commissioned you to paint it for him – always an ardent lover of the fine arts – and showed it off once it was done. Copia, still Cardinal at the time, had admired it, going so far as to invite himself into his brother’s office beyond official working hours just to gaze at your work. Back then he only ever dared to watch you from afar and never found the courage to commission a painting for himself.

Perhaps now he should – his new, more spacious office could certainly use some art to feel more homey. He can already think of a few ways in which he would like to pay you for it, inspired by your morning together. If he blurs out everything else he can still feel your lips on him, so eager to give him pleasure and so much better than in all of his dirty fantasies. He struggles to grasp the fact that someone like you would be so enamoured with him, worshipping his softening, aging body with such a fervent appreciation in your eyes that he did not for a moment doubt the truth behind your intent. It’s what gives him the certainty that your hesitation has nothing to do with him but that there is something blocking your path, hindering you from fully opening up for him. In all senses of the word, Copia thinks, unable to keep the smirk off his face. He wants you again already, in whatever way you allow him, even if it is just a simple kiss.

Terzo’s voice right by his ear breaks him from his reverie. “What do you say, Papino, eh?”

“Huh?”

“Stai ascoltando?” Secondo asks.

“Oh, fratello, don’t you know he’s so in love with his little painter,” Terzo says. “His ears can only hear her pretty voice now.”

Copia glares at him but he only barks out a laugh in reply. Secondo narrows his eyes, even though there is still a hint of affection in them at his brothers’ antics. He is never truly annoyed with them, no matter how hard he tries.

“A midnight mass?” Copia says, the only words he really caught. “Why?”

„È il tuo compleanno, fratello,“ Terzo says. “Your fiftieth no less.”

„Oh.“ He’d almost forgot about that – purposely ignored it, more like. „Can we not… skip it this year?“

“No. We are going to use this opportunity to celebrate not only your birthday but also the first official tour of the new Papa,” Secondo explains. “It is a milestone in your Papacy that we should not waste.”

“The Siblings expect a party,” Terzo says. “At least according to popular gossip I happened to overhear.”

“Oh, did you? What little bird chirped that in your ear, eh?” Copia asks. Terzo has always been the most privy to gossip and whims of the flock.

His brother just smirks. “So?”

“It will be a mass to thank our Father in Hell, our guiding light in the darkness, for our strong leader, for the success of the project and the prosperity of our congregation,” Secondo interjects. “We praise his generosity, humble ourselves in his name and spend a night worshipping and sinning in his and your honour.”

“Can I use this for my sermon?” Copia asks, already scribbling the words down on the notepad he brought.

Secondo rolls his eyes. “If you have to.”

“You thought you’d get out of this without a big fuss, hm?” Terzo asks, reclining dangerously far back on the chair he’s perched in.

“I was hoping, yes. I have enough work piling up here without extra masses and big celebrations that require my attendance, birthday or not.”

“Sure you don’t just want to have a little extra time with your amore? I know you’ve been spending a lot of time up there.”

“Also gossip you overheard?” Secondo asks. “Is this how you spend your time these days, fratellino?”

“If I were you I’d be less judgemental, fratellone,” Terzo says. “I have seen you and Primo whispering to each other in the hallways, not very subtle as to who you were talking about.”

“Who were they talking about?” Copia asks.

“That’s none of your business–”

“Imperator, of course,” Terzo says.

“Oh, ovviamente.”

“And of course, Papa, we know you are molto occupato,” Secondo continues. “This is why Terzo volunteered to take over the last minute planning and preparations for your celebration. On his own, since he is such an expert in these matters.”

“I have wha–”

“He will be open for suggestions, naturalmente, if there is anything you want in particular.”

“Do I look like a party planner to y–”

“Oh, that’s kind of you fratello, yes, that helps me a lot,” Copia interrupts. “I will be very busy catching up with my work. No time for this eh… party nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Terzo asks.

“Make sure please there is some dessert, eh? Macarons maybe? She really likes those.“

Secondo leans over to give Terzo, whose mouth is still catching flies, a heavy pat on the back that almost sends him flying off his chair. “Bene, bene. He will of course make sure there are treats for your amore, won’t you, fratellino?“

Terzo sighs, sinking further back into the seat. „Of course, anything for my Papino and his pittore.“

“If ugh… if you would be so kind though…” Copia tries to choose his words carefully, weighing how much he wants to tell them. “It is not public yet and very new, delicate you could say…”

“We will treat it confidentially.” Secondo raises an eyebrow at Terzo. “Or at least I will. Non posso parlare per questa pettegola.” (I can’t speak for this gossip.)

“Bah,” Terzo says. “I am a closed book if I want to.”

Copia bites back a comment, well aware that he himself is the first person whose ears perk up at the sounds of rumours and gossip. But right now is not the time, they know you are seeing each other which is hard to avoid with Terzo snooping around but that has to be enough to still their curiosity. Copia is trying so hard to protect you, to make you feel comfortable and get you to open up. The last thing he wants is for someone to cut through this bond now that it is finally strengthening.

“Well, I better get going then,” Terzo says, smirking at his brothers. “I have to visit the talented sister who makes my pastries, I bet she can help me to a sweet dessert. To… sample, for your party, of course.”

Secondo sighs, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. Copia lingers, maybe subconsciously hoping for a moment alone with Secondo to get a piece of his mind on matters he’s been mulling over. After Primo, who did more for raising him than anyone else, Secondo has always been the one he sought out for advice, a deep wisdom in him that always went well beyond his years.

“They are working you very hard,” Secondo says without pause, pulling his brows together. Copia knows this is the most worried expression he could receive from him. It’s almost like his brother can see the stacks of paperwork looming behind him and maybe he does. Secondo knows how the Papacy can take a toll on someone and he always sees so easily through any charade one might be tempted to put on.

“I don’t know what gave it away,” Copia tries to joke. He knows he was distracted when he hurried back to his room earlier to shower, cutting his neck with the razor and applying the face paint more clumsily than usual. He’s been on a cloud leaving you but upon seeing his own reflection, turning himself from Copia to Papa, the happiness quickly made way for the usual anxiety that is haunting him these days. Instead of making him feel more comfortable the paint only inspires dread and performance pressure these days.

Secondo has none of his flimsy attempt at diversion, not even the tiniest smile penetrating the deep frown on his face. “You are in love, you probably came here straight from seeing your amore, and yet you look tired and exhausted. It is very concerning and I have been watching this for a few weeks now. You don’t have to follow each of their whims, fratello.”

“I want to be a good Papa,” Copia just says. “I want to be worthy of the title.”

“And you will be,” Secondo says. “I have no doubts about this.”

A scoff he can’t hold back. “You don’t know.”

Secondo leans forward, elbows propped up on his desk. “I do know. I can see everyone tearing at your limbs – the old stronzo, Sister, the whole clergy – trying to pull you in their direction, and yet you keep steady. You are stronger than you think, you just have to stand your ground.”

Hesitantly, Copia nods, breathing out a deep sigh to fight off the tears gathering in his eyes. “Grazie, fratello.”

Secondo nods and Copia takes it as his hint to leave. He’s glad he stuck around, glad to have these experienced men in his life who he can fall back on, even if their relationships have gone through ups and downs throughout their lives. His legs feel admittedly shaky as he stands but he can feel his strength coming back to him after this pep talk. Recovering from tour, preparing for the work here at the abbey, already thinking about the next tour and other duties lining up – it is a lot. He has to stay focused if he wants to fill out his role.

“Fratello?” Copia asks, turning back with his hand on the knob. “How do you know I am in love when you say I don’t look like it?”

“You stared at this painting all morning,” Secondo says, then the corner of his mouth slowly rises. “And I know a fool when I see one, even without the jester’s hat.”

Copia smiles, shaking his head when he finally opens the door to leave and get to work. Maybe he is a fool – but he has read enough Jane Austen novels to know that we are all fools in love. And because being with you is the thing that keeps him going, the little pool of happiness that nurtures his hopes, he does not mind being one at all.

✦ ✧ ✦

“You’re coming to pottery class with me.”

You look at Sybil like she’s telling you that she just devoured your grandmother. Arriving back in your quarters for the first time in two days, you catch her hustling to get ready, her habit creased and fiery hair mussed as she stumbles into her shoes.

“Erin can’t come because Sister gave her this ridiculous task in the library and we don’t want her spot to get wasted, do we? Papa Primo would be so sad if there was an empty chair. And now that you’re here…”

You actually could not care less about the spot getting wasted but you do care whether Primo is sad or not. The former Papa has only ever treated you with kindness, mostly leaving you alone or  bringing you a steaming cup of tea with no further commentary when you’re hiding out in the gardens to draw or paint, staying away from everyone else. Pensive and understanding, he never forced you to explain your propensity for solitude but accepted that you sometimes need the spiritual healing his well-kept gardens provide. Even so, joining a group activity is the last thing that you want to do right now, especially because you did not sign up for it in the first place.

“You like Primo, don’t you?” Sybil asks.

“I do.”

“So?”

“I just…” You sigh, fully aware that any method of wriggling out of this would make you look like an ass. “Can I at least shower?”

“We only have ten more minutes.”

“I can do that,” you insist.

And you do, showering and changing into a clean habit for once, skipping the veil but tying your hair back for safety. You join Sybil who is watching the minutes pass on the clock in her phone as she types out messages, hurrying downstairs and through a stone archway that leads into the gardens. You’re only two minutes late when you finally reach the small workshop building behind the greenhouses but you did not miss anything substantial, everyone still busy fixing their aprons and readying their work stations. As you enter the somewhat dusty, crumbling brick building, Primo – dressed in a dark red flannel, sleeves rolled up his slender arms and a heavy apron on top – eyes you curiously. His face paint is already smudged more so than usual from half a day’s work and yet his dignified, steady aura immediately surrounds you. When he catches your gaze, he procures a gentle smile and directs you to your designated work stations.

The class is surprisingly casual, a fun, crafty afternoon with a handful of Siblings who freely chatter more so than an actual lesson with strict instructions. It turns out real pottery does not quite reach the eroticism the scene in Ghost promises, even though some of the Siblings’ creations do resemble the long, phallic shapes of the movie and they do smear wet clay all over their arms in the process. You’ve settled on creating a mug, mostly because it allows you to simply copy what Sybil does who is a lot more experienced. She sits right beside you, guiding you through the process until you are somewhat used to it. Primo helps wherever his aid is needed, stalking through the room with a steady calmness that creates a warm atmosphere you quickly appreciate.

“So…” Sybil starts, her voice hushed. “Now that Papa is back…”

You look around, making sure no one is within earshot. “What about him?”

“Oh well, I figured you had a nice little reunion. I have not seen you back in our quarters, so… I was curious.”

You cough, trying to focus on shaping the clay on the pottery wheel. “We did, yeah.”

“So what is it like to…” She shrugs, the grey slick moving between her hands. “You know…”

“I know what?”

“With the paint and all? I guess you know he did a good job when his face is a mess, huh?”

You groan. “Sybil!”

“What?”

“Ugh. None of your business.” You glare at the piece of clay in front of you, willing it to become at least somewhat even. “Also, so far I haven’t… experienced it. With or without the paint.”

“Will you let me know once you do?”

“No!”

“Why not? I would let you know when I finally did it with Erin.”

“Because…” You exhale heavily, wetting your hands. “I don’t even know how to explain this.”

“Touchy subject?” she quips. “I mean, I’m not surprised, you’re kind of…”

“What?”

She gives you a gentle smile. “Well, intimacy is… hard. You have to trust that person and I know you’re not someone who does that easily.”

“I trust him,” you stress. “I do.”

“So, what’s the issue?”

“Jumping, I suppose. Taking the plunge. There’s no coming back once you’re there.”

“Why would you want to go back?” Sybil asks, a genuine question, and you have to stare at her for a moment at this simple request.

“I suppose…” you start, but you trail off mid-thought. Thinking about Copia, you’re quite certain you never want to go back to not being with him, no matter how much the idea of being vulnerable with anyone scares you. Now that you know what it’s like you never want to stop being intimate with him, kissing him, touching him, giving him pleasure in all sorts of ways. You want to receive the same from him, you really do, but accepting it is somehow harder than providing. You don’t just feel it on a physical level – every touch evokes a plethora of emotions, wakes up painful memories, carries doubts and fears as well as hopes and dreams for a change in your lonely life and a happier future. These feelings are new, hard to grasp, your usual instincts trying to kick in and keep you in safe isolation. It doesn’t help that the thick lump in your throat never seems to leave when you try to open up to him, to tell him more about your past in hopes to receive his understanding. What changed, however, is that you’re willing to try with him. You’re willing to do whatever it takes to be with him… and maybe that means to finally have some courage. “No, Sybil, I really don’t want to go back.”

“See? You just gotta get over the fear,” she says. “I know that’s hard and not that there’s anything wrong with going slow of course but I feel like you’ve been crawling for quite some time, then you finally started walking and it might not hurt to finally try and run.”

A deep sigh erupts from your chest, one that draws several pairs of eyes to you. The other Siblings seem just as surprised that you’re here but surprisingly no one is giving you a hard time. Maybe not surprisingly, considering what kind of church you’re in.

“Any progress with you and Erin?” you eventually ask to steer away from the subject.

Sybil rolls her eyes. “Oh well, she’s… I don’t know. We’ve… we’ve finally kissed the other night but we haven’t talked about it yet and I think she’s sort of avoiding me. Hence… well, you jumping in for her today.”

“You said she’s busy with work.”

“She is but she’s also taking on extra work all the time lately.” You catch a flicker of pain crossing her face. “I think she’s scared to admit her feelings. Kind of like you.”

“I’m not–”

“Oh, come on, Klimt, you can’t fool me. I just wonder why I always choose the emotionally unavailable people.”

“You’re persistent,” you say. “Without you we’d all be lonely forever.”

At that she chuckles. “I think you’re right. I guess I’ll try and talk to her.”

“Well, she better not hurt you, Syb,” you say. “Or I’ll have to abuse my new connections to upper clergy.”

You don’t miss the fond smile on her face when she focuses back on her mug. You do the same, widening it a little bit on Sybil’s advice since it’s going to shrink during the process. Slowly but surely you’re getting the hang of it, sculpting the clay not dissimilar from how you would steadily expand and distort objects in a painting. It helps that you have steady hands, a knack for shapes and figures.

“Sorelle, can I help you?” Primo asks, sneaking up behind you like a ghost. “Are you getting by?”

“Ah, Papa, I actually think Klimt here is a natural,” Sybil immediately chimes in. “Her mug is so much better than mine already. I can’t wait to see what she’s going to paint on it next week.”

“Next week?” you ask.

“Oh, yeah, the clay has to dry before we can burn it for the first time,” she explains. “And then you can paint and glaze it.”

“You are learning well, sorella, bravo,” Primo says with a fatherly smile. “Soon you can teach your friend better than I can.”

Sybil beams at his praise and you can’t help but be a little miffed about the fact that you fell into a subscription trap with your agreement earlier. At the same time… you’re having fun and, weirdly, you’re already looking forward to coming back here. Painting the pottery seems far more up your alley than the actual sculpting.

“Bambina, if I may suggest,” Primo whispers so quietly that only you can hear. “It is his birthday this Saturday. He very much enjoys a self-made gift. I have an already burnt mug somewhere, I think. You can stay a bit longer and paint it. I will make sure it is ready in time.”

“That’s a great idea,” Sybil chimes in and you both give her a pointed look that she counters with a guilty grin. “Sorry.”

You catch Primo’s eye, not surprised at all that he knows, and when you give a him a nod he smiles. His weathered hand lands on your shoulder, giving it a barely noticeable squeeze, before he meanders through the room to answer someone else’s question. You already know what you want to create on the mug and for once you can’t help but look forward to painting something other than Copia.

✦ ✧ ✦

A persistent throb settles behind his temples. His eyes close every few seconds to let the wave of  pain pass through, accompanied by a deep breath to fill out his lungs. The distinct tension forming in his shoulders from sitting hunched over papers for too long is alerting him to stand up and he does, stretching his back for a few precious seconds to counter the cramping. It won’t do, he has to take some painkillers if he wants to make it through the day. Though the stacks are dwindling, he knows that new ones will arrive before he ever finishes. The budget meeting with the Sibling in charge of the kitchens about an hour ago really killed his flow and ever since then he’s been zoning off, not making much progress.

All he wants it to rewind the day, to be back in the studio with you and feel your lips on his body. Life is cruel for forcing him to leave you after such a precious moment, such a tender expression of your feelings for him, sending him into a day filled with nothing to distract him from how much he needs you. Even through the anxiety about his workload that is usually clouding his brain a very clear image of you on his lap finds its way into his head. You, falling apart from nothing more than humping his thigh, shaking in his arms, soft moans and whimpers. Copia knows he could make you feel so good, he could make you feel so loved and wanted if only you allowed him. No matter how much he racks his brain, he can’t clear up the memories of what might have happened. The one image he always conjured up is your crying, panicked form on the floor so close to his office. A dark, gloomy night, way too late for anyone to be awake and what followed after is a blur. If only he hadn’t been so nervous, so scared to approach you again afterwards. Maybe he would have been able to help you deal more healthily with whatever happened that night, maybe you both wouldn’t have had to be so incredibly lonely.

Before he knows what he’s doing Copia pulls out his phone, opening your chat. All the latest messages are from when he was still gone and he has to smile at the memories. How quickly things can change, how unexpected life can unfold sometimes.

Can you come into my office for a moment, per favore?

It’s silly and he really should not keep you from painting or whatever else you’re doing today but he has to see you. If he can’t kiss you within the next hour he is sure to lose his mind and he won’t be able to leave his office anytime before dinner tonight. Waiting, he sits back down and at this point he is beyond caring, just signs papers without as much as a glance as to what they’re about.

The tentative knock on his door has him jumping up, his fountain pen clattering onto the desk and spilling ink everywhere. Not that he cares. He gives a loud yes and is already halfway by the door when you enter. You seem momentarily confused as he pulls you into his solid chest, gloved fingers finding your softness and squeezing you to him more urgently than he planned to. He can’t help but let them roam your body, feeling every curve, every dip, as he looks into your worried eyes.

“Copia, I thought this was an emer– hngh.”

His lips seal your mouth and he swallows your next syllable by pulling your soft bottom lip between his teeth. You kiss him back with no hesitation, arms wrapping around his neck, pushing into his hair in the way that makes him lose his mind. You’re intoxicating, smelling vaguely of the gardens, pollen and a hint of something earthy. Copia has no time to wonder, all his attention is on how good you taste, how much he wants to stumble into your depths, falling and falling and falling –

“Copia,” you whisper, pulling away with an effort he has to admire.

“It was an emergency,” he says, using the opportunity to get some air back into his lungs. “Your Papa missed you and has not been kissed in…” He looks up at the clock over the door. “Six hours.”

You smile then but when he only returns it with half of his heart, your brow furrows tightly. “Are you alright? You look tired.”

“Bit of a headache again,” he mumbles, trying to make light of it.

“Again?”

“Hm.”

“You’re sleeping okay, though, right? No… no nightmares?”

“How could I have bad dreams with you in my arms, eh?”

You smile once again, brushing some invisible dust off his shoulders. “No, but seriously.”

“I don’t sleep too good no,” he admits. “No nightmares just… overthinking, feeling stressed. But it helps to be with you, tesoro. I will sleep better now that you are with me.”

You lean in, pressing another soft kiss to his lips as you reach down to grab at his hands, pushing them up your waist as you press your body closer. He can feel something dry, then, something that is not the soft skin he expected. When he glances down he can make out the remainders of something grey crumbling off your forearm.

“What is this, eh? Did you help out in the gardens?”

“Oh, ugh…” You sigh, shrugging. “Well, Sybil dragged me to a class with her. Pottery. I must have missed some of the clay.”

Copia furrows his brow. “Pottery? With Primo?”

“Mhm.”

“Was it nice?”

“Very.”

There is only a short moment in which he feels a welcome surprise at hearing that you spent the day socialising, joining a class and actually enjoying it. Quickly he finds himself distracted by you leaning in for more kisses, maybe to avoid having to explain any of it. This time you push your tongue against his lips and he willingly opens, allowing you to lick into his mouth. You’re sensual, exploratory, moving against his lips with a gentle patience he can’t quite reciprocate. Soon he pushes his tongue against yours, feeling how it flexes in his mouth, and you retreat to let him take over. Copia brings one hand to your head, cradling your jaw to allow him to kiss you even deeper. He can’t help but slide his other hand over your ass, squeezing, pushing your hips flush together until you undoubtedly feel him growing hard against you.

He releases a low growl, trying to control himself with what little restraint he has left. His need for you is consuming him more and more and maybe for the first time he understands where the sin in lust truly lies. He would sacrifice anything to have you and he would do it over and over again.

“‘strella,” he whispers against your lips.

“I want to try, Copia,” you say. “I want it so bad. I want you so bad.”

“I know, I can feel it, tesoro.”

„Come to the studio once you’re done here?“ you ask. „Please?“

He nods, whispers a yes before stealing another kiss. He has to use every ounce of resistance in his body to let go of you. And when he does the magnetic pull is so strong that he has to take a few steps back to avoid a relapse. By then half of his make-up has transferred onto your face and you wipe at it, pulling down the sleeve of your habit only to smear it all over your arm. Copia watches the scene with a smile and you sigh, giggling a little when you see the mess.

“I better change,” you mumble. “If we’re doing this.”

“I like you in your habit,” Copia says, adjusting his pants to make more room. “It is not often that I see you so tame and orderly, not covered in paint.”

You eye him for a second, eyes trained on the bulge in his pants. He knows you did not listen to him, then, and when your eyes snap back to his face your cheeks have gained a lot more colour. Once you slip back through the door, Copia feels a lot lighter than earlier this afternoon. At least now he has a good reason to get through his paperwork fast.

✦ ✧ ✦

Sunset arrives earlier and earlier each day. The walls are tinted in bright hues of orange, fading lights flickering steadily beyond the windows as you wait for Copia to come up here with you. You prepare the studio as best as you can, opening a window to allow in a gentle spring breeze, making the bed if you can even call it that. Mona, the plushie, is put to the side, the pillows fluffed up, blankets smoothed out – making room. You are dressed in a soft white t-shirt and straight black jeans, hair brushed out and the remainders of clay on your arms fully washed off. Even though you feel good about yourself like this there is a shimmer of doubt, a flicker of panic whenever you imagine what could happen. He is your Copia, you tell yourself, he will not run, he will not give you up. Despite knowing all of this you are more anxious than you’ve felt in years, so used to being alone, to hiding anything that could be used against you.

The door suddenly opens, much earlier than you would have expected. Copia carefully steps into the room, wearing the same black poet shirt and pants combination he usually has underneath his robes. In his hand, a rustling plastic bag, a few boxes of juice and some napkins.

“Hi,” you say, glued to your spot by the mattress, feeling as though you’re seeing him for the first time. Your handsome Papa, his lipstick still ruined, long hair a little more messy than usual.

“Hello,” he replies, smiling at you almost shyly. No, not shyly, cautiously. He must be just as nervous. “I brought us dinner. I uh… I called and a ghoul was so kind as to bring it to my office. I thought you would not want to eat with the others tonight.”

“Is it pasta?”

Copia nods and sets the bag down on the floor by the entrance, walking up to you slowly. This time the promise of pasta doesn’t quite get you as excited as it usually would and he must notice because his brow immediately furrows in concern. As he reaches you by the bed, his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you closer.

“Are you scared?” he asks, leaning in for a soft kiss to your forehead.

You swallow, wetting your dry lips as you nod. “A little.”

“You don’t have to be, tesoro.” He presses more kisses to your face, your temple, your cheeks. “Mia ragazza coraggiosa, whatever it is, I am here, no?”

“You are.”

He makes a point to catch your gaze, holding it as he smiles reassuringly. You feel your nerves fluttering, excitement as well as fear spreading fast, the prospect of more sending them into a permanent state of nervous tingles. Copia reaches for your face, leaning in for a soft, lingering kiss.

“Is your head better?” you ask.

He nods. “And you are feeling okay, yes?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Please, no fear, tesoro, we only go as far as you want tonight,” he says. “Nothing is going to happen if you don’t want it to, hm? We can just eat and go to sleep, I have no expectations beyond this.”

You shake your head and bring your mouth back to his, kissing him, grasping at his shirt to get him closer. The need for him quickly grows, pushing the first few of your doubts from your mind. He always tastes like home, like the future you’re longing for, something you can’t ever get enough of. Copia runs his hands over your body and you feel him easing up as well. His tongue parts your lips, rubbing against yours and you open up wider. He deepens the kiss, massaging your hips, your waist, soothing, calming but igniting the fire within you all the same. You break away for air after a few moments and he nuzzles your nose, a loose strand of his hair tickling your cheek as he does. His fingers have found the gap between your shit and jeans, holding onto it tightly.

“I want you, Copia, I really do,” you whisper. “I want you so much.”

“You can leave the shirt on, ‘strella,” he says. “If that’s… if that’s stopping you. But we can also wait. I will wait for you as long as I have to.”

“I don’t want to wait.” You take a deep breath. “And I don’t want to keep the shirt on. It’s just…”

“It’s hard, I know. But I am here, sì? I am here and I won’t leave.” He gives you gentle, encouraging smile, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the skin above your hip bones. “Please, ‘strella, can I see you?”

With your heart beating rapidly against your chest, you give him a nod. At first, he undoes the button of your pants and together you shimmy them over your thighs until they fall down the rest of the way and land in a puddle on the floor. Then his hands travel up your torso, lifting the hem of your shirt in the process and exposing your skin to the cool air. You skipped the bra, so there is nothing else to protect you, nothing but a flimsy pair of panties.

Copia’s eyes stay on yours, making sure you’re okay before he fully pulls the bunched up shirt over your head. You help him by lifting your arms, fighting the urge to cross them immediately after. Instead you let them dangle at your side, staring at Copia who finally allows his own gaze to travel down your body. They only stay on your breasts for a second before he sees it.

„Oh, ’strella,“ he whispers, looking back up into your eyes.

You fight the urge to cry, to pull away and throw your shirt back on. The only reason you don’t is his expression. It’s the first time anyone sees the marred skin on your left ribcage, pale yet discoloured burnt skin trailing along your side. The scars are not very big, smaller lines under your arms, the biggest one about the size of your palm, and yet it feels like they tainted all of you.

Copia doesn’t comment any further but you can see in his expression how his mind is running away from you, sympathy, maybe even pity, but also concern crossing his features. He pulls his glove off with his teeth, then uses his bare hand to get rid of the other one. You know he’s getting serious whenever he takes them off and you’re not sure if you’re ready.

“Can I touch?” he finally asks and you give a weak nod, stealing yourself for the impact even though you know you won’t be feeling any of it. His fingers reach out cautiously and as expected you only realise that he’s touching you when he reaches the softer skin on the outside.

“I know it’s not… it’s not as bad as I made it seem by hiding it, it’s just…” You swallow. “It’s a reminder that I don’t deserve this, why I don’t deserve this.”

“But you do, ‘strella. I promise that you do. No matter… no matter what caused this, you got through it. This is the proof that you made it here. To me.” His fingers trail the line of scars, so soft and gentle. The skin is too numb for you to feel it but you shudder anyway. “And I am glad that you did.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “Me too.”

“You are so beautiful,” he says then, more to himself than to you as he lets his eyes wander. “Oh, tesoro, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Please never hide from me again.”

A shaky smile pulls your lips up and you can’t stop them from quivering, a stray tear falling from your eyes that he immediately catches. He leans in to pepper your cheeks with the softest of kisses, allowing his now bare hands to glide along your sides. You try not to flinch whenever he reaches the scars but when he pulls away the next time, you stop his hands with yours.

“Maybe… maybe you can avoid them,” you whisper. “Just… for now.”

Copia nods, his own eyes glossed over as he takes your mouth in a heated kiss. His hesitation fades away, morphing into the same burning intensity you felt earlier in his office and his fire is what melts all of your worries. He saw, he knows, and yet he still wants you.

When you kiss him back with reignited hunger, Copia moans, not breaking the kiss until you’re both gasping for oxygen. For a moment, he stares at your swollen lips, his white eye glowing orange, the other one so dark that you can almost see yourself mirrored in his pupil. He stares, breathes, digs his fingers into your skin–

And then he drops to his knees.

You immediately worry because of the impact but he only lets out a tiny groan before his lips press just below your belly button. With a hum he runs his hands down your sides and over the swell of your hips, hooking his fingers under the elastic of your panties.

“Such a cute thing,” he murmurs, pushing his nose under the hem so that it rests against your abdomen. He inhales slowly, then breathes out in a sigh. “You don’t even know, ‘strella. You have no– you have no idea how much I want you.”

His voice shudders as he says this. For a moment, he stays like that, taking multiple deep breaths, each exhale tickling the sensitive skin of your pubic mound. You can feel a tremor running through his body as he tries to reign in his emotions and it tingles down your spine as well. When he tilts his head back to look at you, you see nothing but pure reverence in his gaze.

“Please,” he begs. “Please.”

You run your thumb over his smeared chin, uselessly wiping at the spit and paint and sweat. He immediately grabs your hand and brings it to his lips, stamping a wet kiss to your palm, then another and another until he’s out of breath. His mouth lingers on your thumb, his eyes looking straight into yours, still asking that silent question.

“Copia,” you whisper and then you sink to your knees as well, kissing him hard.

He stumbles backwards a little, pulling you with him as his ass lands on the mattress. You’re in his lap, his half-hard cock pressing against your heat through the fabric. Copia groans like a wild animal at the contact, his hands moving urgently all over your body, squeezing, kneading, pulling you as close as possible.

You break away from the kiss, lips painfully swollen. “I want you too, Copia. I want you so much.”

He whimpers in reply, leaning in for another kiss, short and hard and sloppy, before he kisses urgently down your cheek and jaw. He doesn’t stop moving until his lips are ruthlessly attacking your neck, sucking, licking, biting into your flesh with no remorse. He’s devouring you, pulling at your skin like he can’t get enough, letting out all kinds of needy sounds. You’re squirming in his lap, rolling your hips against his for some friction. The sensation draws a deep, rumbling moan from him and his hands stop at your hips, holding you in place before his lips detach from your abused neck.

“Please,” you whine. “Please, Copia. Now.”

“No, no, we’re too fast,” he says.

You wish he wouldn’t hesitate. You wish he would just take you right in this moment, but instead he slows down, running his lips over the skin on your collarbone so softly that you shiver. His eyes meet yours and you suddenly know what he’s planning on doing.

“Please let me show you,” he whispers when he catches your fearful expression. “Let me show you how I desire you, ‘strella. How I want to worship you and only you.”

“Copia–”

“I know, you don’t–” He sucks in a breath. “I know you don’t feel like you deserve it but it’s wrong, mia cara.” A soft kiss to your lips. “It’s not true. I want to prove it, per favore, my beautiful girl. Please, if you let me.”

You run your hand down his strong neck, resting it right where his collar hides his chest. “Only if you undress too, please.”

He nods quickly, busying himself by working his buttons open and shuffling out of the shirt without removing you from his lap. Once he’s thrown it away, you run your hands over his skin, scratching softly through his dark, coarse chest hair. He’s pale and soft and beautiful and you’ll always be in awe of all the freckles graining his skin. You wish you could trace the constellations, find the spots that make him release his precious little sighs. But Copia gives you no more than a second to get familiar with the curves of his torso before he gently pushes you off his lap and onto your back. His hand shoots to his crotch, stroking himself over his painfully tight pants.

“You made a mess, dolcezza,” he says. “Look at this. I’m wet all over.”

You couldn’t turn any more pink than you already are and yet his words send a wave of heat to your face. He pulls at the button of his pants and the zipper slides down with the weight of his cock straining against it. You bite your lip when he frees himself, releasing a prolonged sigh of relief. For a few seconds, he strokes his hard length, avoiding the reddened head that’s already leaking.

“I think it is only fair, eh?” He removes his hand from himself and slides his fingers up your leg, rubbing his thumb over the wet patch in your panties. “That I get this all to myself now?”

You think you might pass out as you recoil in pleasure, your hips jumping against his touch. He immediately pulls away but you can’t focus anymore. You only hear him shuffling as he removes his pants, eyes squeezed shut under the weight of your desires. In all your life you have never wanted anyone like you want Copia and it’s a revelation, perhaps the only near-religious experience you ever really had. If this is your worship, if this is your penance, then you want to give it all.

“Are you still with me, ‘strella?” A kiss to your cheek and you feel Copia’s warm comforting weight on you. “You look beautiful, do you know? You are a divine sight.”

He starts to kiss down your neck again, the other unharmed side this time. His lips are gentle, his tongue running over the hills and valleys your bones and tendons create on your body. The wet trail he leaves as he travels down to your sternum cools your burning skin. Meanwhile, his hands explore your curves, push underneath the side of your panties as though even the tiniest strip of fabric is an unwelcome barrier. But they hold you in place, even as your hips buck once his lips close around one of your nipples. He sucks, gently, taking a bit more of the supple flesh of your breast into his mouth.

Your own hands feel useless. You don’t know where to touch, how to feel more of him without stopping him either. Tangling your fingers in his hair, you gently tug at the roots and he moans against you. His mouth vibrates, sending more pleasurable tingles through your body. Copia comes away gasping but he won’t allow himself a break as he latches onto the other side now. His hand moves up, straining the elastic of your panties as he wraps it around your free breast, squeezing and rolling the already hard nipple between his fingers. You can’t help but raise your ribcage, your trapped heart beating against it so rapidly in your desperate need for him.

Copia lets go only when he’s breathless again, continuing his journey down your body. He stops at your belly button, the same spot he already kissed earlier, and when he sees the black lipstick mark there he smirks up at you. His face is utterly ruined and he allows himself a second to take in the state of your upper body. You can only see a fraction of the marks he left but it’s enough to make you smile back at him almost involuntarily. The scars don’t stand out anymore.

“Can you see how desperately I want you to be mine, ‘strella?” he asks. You nod and he presses a reverent kiss to the mark on your abdomen in reply, glancing up at you under his raised eyebrows. “I will give you all that I have, do you know? I meant it, tesoro, I will move heaven and earth and hell for you. There is nothing, nothing, I would not do.”

The statement echoes in your mind multiple times but you don’t have to reply, he’s lost his patience the moment the words leave his mouth. With one swift motion, he drags your panties down and untangles them from your ankles. Once his hands are free, he grabs both of your legs to spread them around his head. He covers your left inner thigh in eager, open-mouthed kisses, sucking your skin between his teeth, until he reaches your wet heat that’s now bared to him. His eyes meet yours one more time to check in. You reach out with one hand and he grabs it, linking your fingers together and pressing your joint hands down on your lower belly. With the other hand, he spreads you open wider before his mouth finally takes you.

The sensation is warm, his wet tongue pushing between your lips and opening them for him. You squeeze his hand tightly as the pleasure shoots through you and Copia hums, squeezing back just as tight. He’s whimpering against you at every lap of his tongue, burying himself deeply until you can feel his nose pressing into your clit. It’s too much, it’s not enough. You roll your hips under a plethora of moans and whimpers, already so close from all the previous stimulation. Copia pulls away slightly to breathe, taking in the mess that you are.

“Are you going to come for me so soon, ‘strella?” he asks before swallowing his next breath.

You nod, desperate, using your free hand to urge his head back down. Copia follows, wrapping his lips around your clit now and you immediately keen, grasping at his hair. His hips rut against the mattress harshly, searching for friction, and he practically growls against your clit. The vibrations shoot you over the edge. Your whole body shudders in heated pleasure, your senses leaving you until all you see is burning white light.

Copia doesn’t stop, not even as you try to pull back in overstimulation. You whimper, crying softly as he pushes a finger inside of your dripping entrance and quickly adds a second.

“Shhh shh,” he coos. “It is alright, no? I have you, my baby. No tears.”

You still sob as his fingers work you open, pressing against your walls just so. And yet when he pulls them out after a while you mourn the loss, the fullness. But it’s only a prelude. Copia sits back on his heels and spreads your slick on his weeping cock now, shivering at his own touch. You are left trying to come down and watch him in silent wonder, his tousled hair, barely any paint left around his full mouth. His body is beautiful, sweaty, messy, streaks of paint and dark hair covering his chest and soft belly, framing his painfully stiff and reddened cock. He’s stroking himself with tiny gasps and whimpers until his whole length is glistening. You can’t decide what’s more arousing, the way he looks or the way that giving you pleasure nearly made him come rutting against the mattress.

When he crawls back on top of you, his brow is furrowed tightly. His eyes meet yours and despite the deep crease between his eyebrows they reflect nothing but lust and adoration.

“I won’t need much,” he says, pressing soft kisses to your cheeks now. “Just a little, just… just let me feel you, yes? I want to feel you so bad.”

“Please,” you whisper. “I want to feel you too.”

He hums, kissing you with a surprising gentleness. You can tell that it’s costing him to hold back, a tension in his body that he can’t hide from you. Once your lips part, he props himself up beside your head and you hold him, one hand on his shoulder and one in his hair. Copia lines himself up, glancing down to where your bodies are about to meet. You gasp when you feel his tip at your entrance, anticipating the stretch. It’s better than you could ever describe with words, the way he slowly fills you up as he pushes his cock into your waiting cunt – pulling back, pushing back in, pulling back until you can finally fit all of him with ease.

You gasp when he bottoms out and he huffs out a deep exhale through his nostrils. His mouth opens right above yours, not in a kiss but in a silent cry. His breath feels hot against your tongue as you pull him in, joining your lips just like the rest of your bodies are now joined as one. It’s then that Copia finally starts moving, very slowly at first, revelling in the intense feeling of his head dragging along your walls. You’re still sensitive, clenching around him with every slow push.

“You… you feel so good,” he mumbles against your lips. “So good.”

You hum, scratching softly over his scalp and his pace carefully picks up. He grinds into you harder, more confidently, chasing his own pleasure now that he knows you’re okay. His breathing becomes ragged as he buries his face in your neck, grunting every time he pushes in. You let go of every inhibition, just give into this intense pleasure that’s coupling with your deep feelings for him. It’s this overwhelming combination, having him so close to your heart, so close to your soul, while your bodies turn into a sweaty inseparable mess, that carries you towards another orgasm. Copia doesn’t seem to expect it because when you come, clenching tightly around him, his body stutters in surprise.

“Copia–” you cry out but it’s a scratchy, unintelligible sound.

His thrusts turn frantic, his breathy moans loud against your ear, and then he spills inside of you in hot, shaky bursts. You still feel him twitching when you come down from your high, his body going limp as his full weight rests on top of you. For a second, you think he’s shaking from the intensity of his release but then you feel his eyelids flutter against your neck, wetness spreading below your ear.

“Copia, my baby,” you whisper. “Are you okay?”

“Mhm.” He pushes one arm under you, pulling your body close to his as he shifts onto his side. You feel the heavy movements of his chest against yours, your breasts squeezed almost painfully tight between your bodies. “’s a lot.”

“It’s okay.”

He breathes a few more times as he recollects himself and you blink away your own tears. You’re not sure if you can feel your body anymore, there is just warmth and that uncanny feeling like you might get sick that’s now stuck in your belly.

Reality slowly settles back around you. You hear the gentle breeze outside again, feel your own heartbeat that’s still way too fast. When Copia finally lifts his head from your neck, the sclera of his mismatched eyes is still red. You can see the tears collecting in their corners, slowly drying, grey streaks of leftover paint running down his cheeks.

He blinks and then he kisses you hard, holding your jaw in his hand as his tongue sweeps into your mouth. You still taste yourself on him, you still feel him inside of you as well, even as he softens and his come starts to drip out of you.

“I lo–” He stops right as he fully slips out and you both hiss at the overstimulation. “Hnngh, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you assure him. “I’m fine.”

“‘strella.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t repeat what he was going to say and you think you’re glad that he doesn’t. Even if the feelings sit hot and intensely in your chest, threatening to burst free, you’re not sure you could voice them. Copia pulls you close, skin against skin, holding you trapped in his sweaty warmth.  You vaguely think that the pasta must be cold by now but you can’t bring yourself to move a single muscle. Instead you drift away, holding onto him, kissing every single piece of skin you can reach until your head gets too heavy. In that moment every single one of your problems seems small and you pray to Lucifer that you never have to leave his embrace ever again.

Chapter Text

“Is that what art is? To be touched thinking what we feel is ours when, in the end, it was someone else, in longing, who finds us?”

“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”

― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous

✦ ✧ ✦

“I want to study art at the university.”

The words hung in the room, so heavy the air felt like it was sinking, compressing and weighing you down in your chair. You had been scared of broaching this topic for months now. While Mr Kraan and your mother approved, you knew your father would never agree to it unless a miracle happened. He did not react to your words, continued to read the paper like it wasn’t even worth acknowledging.

“I think we should consider it,” your mother spoke carefully, penetrating the vacuum.

You were not sure what there even was to consider. By the time you were going to study you’d be eighteen. And yet you knew that this decision would not be your own, that it was never your own to begin with and that maybe your life won’t ever be your own either for as long as you can’t provide for yourself.

“Well, if she made money with her art, then it would be a different thing,” your father said, finally looking up from the morning paper. “Does she even produce any real paintings? I never see any of them.”

“We keep them in the studio for potential buyers,” you explained.

He turned to your mother. “So? She’s not sold a single one in all those years?”

“She is seventeen.”

“At seventeen I was already working forty hours a week and attended evening classes. What do we afford you this education for? So you can waste the next few years studying this nonsense, getting indebted, only to come crawling back to us for money when it doesn’t work out?”

“Please,” you tried. “It’s my dream. I know I can make it. I will work hard, I will get weekend jobs, I will work during the breaks and at night.”

He scoffed, the sound so painful in your ears that you flinched back. “You are not built like that. You’re too sensitive, too fragile, too anti-social. You have no friends, no boys are interested in you. All day you just want to paint.”

“Father,” you pleaded. “Please. I will… I will show you some paintings. I will sell a painting before my next birthday. I will make money from them. I know I can do it.”

He eyed you curiously, not used to you ever speaking up like that. His brow furrowed as he took a long sip of his morning coffee before noisily setting the cup back down. “I will see some of these paintings. If you start to sell them I will think about it again but until then I will not hear any more of this nonsense. My daughter won’t become a starving artist who lives in our basement because she can’t afford to live and can’t find a husband. You have to grow up and leave your silly little dream world.”

You swallowed any further remarks even though you would have loved to snap at him, all of your stowed up teenage anger simmering just beneath the surface. In that moment you had no idea how to convince him. Even Mr Kraan had issues selling his work right now, how were you supposed to? And furthermore there were no paintings you could show him, none that he would not deem proof of your rotten nature as he’d once called it.

“You have to excuse me,” your mother suddenly said.

She held her hand in front of her mouth, looking sickly pale, and quickly left the kitchen. With your tears threatening to spill, only proving his point, you used it as an excuse to leave as well. The conversation had ruined your day already, your whole weekend really, and a sudden sense of pressure pervaded every thought about creating new art. No one had expressed any sort of interest in your paintings yet, none of Mr Kraan’s clients, none of the admittedly scarce customers of his atelier and art store. You remembered his words from years ago, how you had to learn to create art you could sell, and how you hadn’t taken it seriously. Now your naive belief that some day all things would just magically fall into place seemed laughable. The idea that you could be an artist just because you loved art more than anything in this life.

Your dad was right – reality wasn’t like that.

After crying for most of the day, you sat down to light some of your black candles that night. You thought about the red eyed creature, you thought about their cough, the way they presented themselves to you when you painted like some sort of supernatural vision. Perhaps they were a friend who had answered your request, you thought, perhaps your ritual had brought them into your life for moments like this. If that was the case then perhaps you could talk to them again and ask them for help. By now you were desperate enough to stop heeding Mr Kraan’s advice and call to the dark forces, if only to see if they would answer once more.

You stared into the flames of the candles until your eyes hurt. Trying to get it to fizzle out brought no results, so you tried to talk to it like you had that night in the studio. The latin words were long forgotten but you tried to find your own. On impulse you ripped out more of your hairs again and threw them into the flame.

“Help me, please,” you whispered. “I need to be better, I need to make art people want.”

Two large red eyes blinked open in the flames and you fell from your knees backwards onto your ass. The eyes did not leave, they continued to stare without blinking and then you heard that vague coughing sound again. Suddenly animated, you sat back up and closed your hands, pressing them together so tightly that your knuckles hurt.

“Please, please,” you prayed to whoever was listening, the creature or Satan himself. “Please help me convince him. Please let me be a real artist. Please, please, please. I need your help, please. Please.”

A river of hot, anxious tears streamed down your face as you repeated the word over and over. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please. Your voice felt horse after a while, your throat aching from the exertion and hours of crying. The face had disappeared again but even so you could not stop. Please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please, please.

When the next morning came and with it a gentle orange light that filtered through the blinds into your room, you woke up on the floor. The creature was gone, the candle long burned down.

✦ ✧ ✦

The pasta is still lukewarm. Eating semi cold spaghetti two days in a row is not exactly glamorous but you’re pretty sure you’ve never eaten with quite as much enthusiasm and hunger. Copia himself bolts down the pasta like he hasn’t seen food in a few days. He looks relaxed now, a sort of post-coital glow in his mismatched eyes that never really stray from your body, a hunger not directed at his food, adoration that is unhidden, visible in every glance. You think that this is the closest to real heart eyes a human can offer and it gives you butterflies that make it hard to swallow your food.

His red zip-up hoodie is draped over your shoulders, the only item of clothing on your body. You sit on the mattress right next to where Copia is leaning against the wall in just his briefs, eating straight from the take away containers with wooden forks and paper napkins. His make-up is smudged, traces of it on the pillows, on the sheets, on you. He looks beautiful in the fading light, darkness slowly creeping in through the windows and deepening the lines on his face. With the long hours of the night stretched out before you like a calm expanse of sea, the only visible shores far off in the distance, you feel utterly at peace. So much time to spend with him, uninterrupted, time to worship in the only way you now know.

“You look beautiful,” he says, setting his empty paper box aside, “wearing my clothes.” A smirk, his eyes shimmering with lust and mischief. “Or nothing at all.”

You smile into your next fork of pasta. “You have to give me a few minutes after eating.”

“Who said I want to do anything, cara? Can I not compliment you with no ulterior motives?” When he sees your hidden grin, the raised brows, he chuckles. “You are right, there is no moment in which I don’t want you. Don’t need you.” A deep breath, his head falling back into the pillow that’s propped up behind his back. “But I can be patient.”

As if to disprove his statement, his bare hand reaches out to touch your thigh, squeezing the flesh and tracing the soft stretch marks all the way up to where it meets your hip. You shiver against his touch, goosebumps forming underneath his fingertips. He chuckles, repeating the ever same movement, stroking your skin until it stops tickling as much and becomes a steady, reassuring gesture. So focused on his touch, he barely takes notice of you still eating, wrapping the last few spaghetti around the wooden tines.

“Copia,” you say.

“Hm?” He looks up, squeezing your thigh once more. “Are you done yet?”

“What about being patient?”

“I want my dessert.”

You sigh dreamily, swallowing the last bite of pasta. “I love dessert. I wish we had some.”

“Oh yes, you do, eh? Macarons and croissants.”

“Mhm.” You close the empty box, scooting closer to him. “I was never allowed to have it as a child. My dad always said sugar is poison.”

“What else do you like?” he asks. “I mean real desserts?”

It seems like the talk of food has distracted him momentarily from touching you. You decide to crawl over him to get rid of your empty container, but he still grabs your hips the moment you’ve set it down, pulling you against his chest and rolling you over until he’s towering above you. A short gasp leaves your lips, his weight and warm body so solidly caging you in.

“So?” he asks, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Most things,” you reply, shivering when his lips brush the tender spot below your ear. “Tiramisu.”

“Oh, really? You like Italian, eh?”

“I like Italians, yes. I like one Italian especially.”

He chuckles, looking at you with his love-struck eyes, the green shimmering delicately in the soft moonlight that is now making its way into the studio. The first kiss is soft, a moan fluttering from your throat as his tongue licks along your lips. The next kiss is more demanding. He presses in hard until you open for him, his tongue teasing yours with no haste.

“Mhm so sweet,” he whispers. “My baby tastes so good. Better than all the pasta and desserts.” You can’t help but giggle and he hums in delight, pressing more kisses to your neck, your shoulder, down the column of your throat where he lingers, licking along the line of your clavicle until you shudder. “Do you know that I am addicted? I could taste you forever.” A throaty chuckle. “Perhaps I will.”

“Forever?” you ask with another giggle. “That’s… that’s a long time.”

“Mhm.” He kisses back up the side of your throat, along your jaw. “Before we met, I was praying to feel closer to our faith and then I found you.” Another kiss below your ear, his voice resonating deep inside of your skull. “No, I found you and I was denied having you for so long, but now I finally do. I will worship you until the day I die, ‘strella, and I will do it with all of my heart and soul.”

You tug at his hair and he finally looks at you. “What do you mean, before we met?”

He breaks away, reluctantly settling beside you with his upper body propped up on his elbow.  His other arm snakes around you, pulling you closer. “When I was still Cardinal,” he starts and your heart hammers in your chest. “Sometimes… Well, I worked very hard. I was very lonely, you see? But if you want to become Papa, it is a lot of pressure, you have to work for it. I had to work for it even harder because of my… origin.”

“Because you weren’t born into the Emeritus line originally?”

He nods, subconsciously drawing circles onto your back. “Yes. Even if the others accepted me… Papa was not ugh… well, he was not very fond of me. Is not, I should say. He does not like me.” There is barely veiled pain laced into those words, etched into his very features in a way that not even the shadows can hide. “I tried to… you know, work hard to impress him. And Sister, too. She was always warm to me, like a mother, but she was also very demanding. She expected a lot from me which motivated me but it was also hard sometimes. I had to prove that I could be Papa, that I could make her proud.”

You bring your hand up to his face, smoothing out the lines on his cheek. “And over all the work you lost connection to our faith?”

“Oh, yes, many times.” He seems lost in thought, the spectres of his past holding him captive. “I was very often in confession after I became a cardinal and Papa’s assistant here, not on duty but to… to confess, to seek guidance. I only went when Secondo was there. He is very good at spiritual advice, you see? He never judged me when I cried, he caught me when I broke down, and he assured me that I was on a good path, that… that it did not matter what Papa said, that I should not be sad about his ignorance and that our Dark Lord, our real father in Hell, would see my hard work. That he himself saw it, that he was proud of his fratellino. You know, Papa did not treat his own children much better, not like I had thought when I was young and envied them. Secondo told me this. That I should not take it to heart.”

“But you did anyway,” you end his sentence.

He gives a pained smile. “I was very lonely. Even when they accepted me as their brother, I always knew that… that Papa did not. But Sister never liked me being with them when I was a child. Every time we got closer, I had to go somewhere else. We only had more time when I was older. Primo was very protective of me, the others too, but we were never together in one place for long with our education and rising in the ranks. I never made friends easily, so I was alone most of the time until I came back here as cardinal.”

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” you try to soothe.

“That was all very long before you came here, tesoro.” He winces at that. “Satana, I am really getting old.”

“You’re not old,” you scold him.

“I am turning fifty, ‘strella.”

“So? That’s not very old. And I don’t mind at all.”

He sighs, clearly ready to ignore your attempt at reassuring him. Maybe it is too much all at once, too many thoughts that shoot into his head, something you’re so familiar with and certainly can’t fault him for. Instead you close the gap and press a kiss to his cheek, stroking his chest and running your fingers through the fuzzy hair. He seems to snap out of it, distracted for the moment, sighing when you softly capture his lips for a kiss. He reciprocates with the same tenderness and as he holds you against him, his warmth radiates into your cool skin. A sudden quiet takes over the space around you. It is nice to just be with him, to exist in his presence.

“I try to ignore thoughts like this, of the past,” he finally says. “But I don’t think that is very healthy.”

“I don’t think so either,” you agree, running your hand up and down his chest in a soothing motion. “But I do the same thing. When you’re alone for so long… it’s hard to change that and to accept that someone cares. We have a lot of bottled up pain, you and me.”

He hums his agreement, pulls you closer to press a gentle kiss to your forehead. You stay like that for a while with his lips brushing over your skin. Since he started talking about his time as Cardinal you can’t help but wonder, worry, that he might not be aware– You pull back a little, trying to find the strength to let him know. The fear sits deep in your belly but this time you push it back enough to speak.

“Copia, I think maybe I should tell you something.”

He looks at you in surprise but gives an encouraging nod.

When you continue your voice is shakier than usual, echoing the nervous tremors of your heart. “We had an encounter before all this. I mean, we had many, of course, fleeting ones, but there was also one… one that was… uhm…” You sigh, swallowing as a lump begins to form in your throat. “I wasn’t very well that night. It was… it was when I painted Terzo.”

“Yes, I know, that is what I meant when I said I found you.” He falters when your eyes widen. “You look surprised?”

“I did not think you would remember.”

“How could I ever forget? It still haunts me.”

His voice is tinged with a heavy sadness that catches you by surprise. It is not directed at his past anymore, the sympathy on his face, it almost feels sentimental. Pity for your past self, the broken girl he had to pick up from the floor that night or she would have frozen to death.

“You… you never said anything,” you stutter out. “Not… not all this time.”

“You never contacted me at all, ‘strella, you never sought me out. I thought…” He shakes his head. “I thought you did not want me to help and I assumed that you must have gotten better on your own… but now I don’t think you did. You just became really good at hiding.”

Tears are pricking your eyes at the memory, the intensity of your pain still imprinted on your soul even after all these years. “I was embarrassed. I was… Fuck, I was so ashamed, Copia. I did not want anyone to see me like this. I don’t want it now. Or ever.”

You expect him to scold you or tell you how ridiculous it is, but instead he nods. “No, I understand, tesoro, I understand you. But you do not need to be ashamed, you know this? Not then, not now. Not in front of me. Never in front of me.”

You give a pained smile. “You say it like it’s easy.”

His expression stays serious, concerned, and you think that he is in Papa mode now. “You know you can tell me anything, yes? Not now, you don’t have to, but if you want to tell me what happened that night, I am here for you.”

A nagging fear lingers in the back of your mind, a concern that you can’t shake, no matter how close to him you get, no matter how much of your wound you show him. “What if… what if I’ll never be able to?”

“Then that is okay for me, too, tesoro. I just want you to be happy. It is all I ever wanted for you.”

You nod gratefully and he pulls you into a tight hug, his leg wrapping around yours, the other one slotting between them, arms snaking around waists, shoulders, your bodies entangled like two tendrils of the same plant. He holds you, you hold him just as tight, the flickers of the past that you shared with each other slowly fading back into memory. The more you learn about him the less surprised you are at how he understands you so deeply. So much pain that you both share, so much that you never knew you had in common. All this loneliness when he was right here in front of you, it seems almost cruel now.

“I’m glad you found me that night,” you whisper, breaking away to see his face. He looks calmer now, steady. “Copia?”

“Mhm?”

“Did you really look after me all this time?”

“Oh, certo, I kept an eye on you as best as I could ever since I found you. Not… well, not as much as I should have, but I try, tesoro, when I see someone who needs it.”

“That’s how you knew I’m not going to consultation? You keep track of these things?”

“Sì. But with you… Maybe it was not the same as with others. I do not think it was quite as selfless as it sounds.”

“What do you mean?”

He plays with a loose strand of hair that has fallen into your face, a soft shade of red tinting his ears and neck. “Is it so bad to have a little crush?”

“A crush?” you ask, a smile tugging at your lips.

He shrugs as his fingers brush your hot cheeks. “Not at first, no. But I cannot deny that over the years it turned into it. I don’t think I noticed until now. That I kept looking for you, hoping I would see you. And when I did you always stunned me. I remember watching you doing your art… I remember you sitting in Primo’s garden for hours, painting the roses. Every time I passed my window, you were there, so concentrated. And I remember thinking that I wish I could know you but the truth is I was not brave enough to try. Not until the portrait came up.”

“Is that why you hired me?” you ask, trying to reign in the heat settling on your face.

“No, no! When I said I wanted you to paint me I did not plan that this would happen. I just wanted you to do it because you are the best and to spend time with you, of course, yes, but I never planned that I would… fall for you,” he says. “Now I don’t think I ever really had a choice.”

You have to swallow, a heavy lump forming in your throat. His words mean more to you than you could ever express. All those years you thought no one really paid attention to you apart from your art, that it was and is your only merit. You did a few paintings for upper clergy, especially for Secondo, floral illustrations for Primo, some paintings to decorate the offices of some bishop or cardinal and even some smaller commissions for other Siblings. But outside of that you always stayed under the radar, unseen, uncared for. You preferred it that way, it’s what you wanted when you joined – to live in peaceful solitude and paint as much as your duties allowed. You never expected that it would feel so incredibly good to know that someone did care.

“Does that make me sound like a stalker now?” he asks, misinterpreting your silence.

“No,” you reassure him with a gentle smile. “It makes you sound like a really good Papa. The way that you care about everyone, even the ones that would be lost otherwise. Even me who didn’t show any interest in clergy life, who didn’t worship in any meaningful ways outside of my art.”

“You did, tesoro. Maybe not in the same ways others did but there is no… there is no one right way to live in Satan’s name. That is the beauty of our church, no? You can be as involved as you want to.” He smiles when you nod, aware that this is as close to a proper consultation as you’ll ever get. “Now it is all good. We found each other.”

“We did.” You sigh, running your thumb over his collarbone before you look back up at him with a smirk. “So it was my mysterious nature that drew you in?”

A joke, an attempt to lighten the mood.

Copia chuckles. “Well, I always enjoyed a good mystery. More in books than in real life but who knows? You certainly give me many riddles.”

“Are you still going to want me then… once you fully know me?”

He scoffs, splaying out his fingers over your cheek until he is holding your head, forcing you to meet his intense gaze. “‘strella, the more I know of you the more I want you.”

His words suck all air from your lungs. You wonder if he can feel the heat spreading to your cheeks. It’s still hard to believe that he actually wants you and that he doesn’t seem to stop wanting you. Your life has been shaped by encounters that went the exact opposite way – the more people got to know you the more they were repulsed, the more likely they left and not always in the gentle way. Creating meaningful connection never came easy, vulnerability more often punished than rewarded until you avoided it altogether. Here, with Copia, your fear of the same things repeating grows smaller and smaller. You’ve never felt so safe before.

“You interrupted me with all this serious talk,” he says, dispelling your thoughts. “I was on a mission to secure my dessert. I think I deserve a treat, no?”

You smile, basking in the wave of love you feel for him. Closing the gap, you press your lips to his and drink him in. Copia’s hand tightens in your hair, angling your head in a way that allows him to deepen and control the kiss. He was not kidding when he asked for dessert, tongue and teeth working on your mouth, your lips, like he can’t get enough. Helplessly you hold onto his shoulder, then his neck when he rolls back on top of you, his tongue deep inside of your mouth. His weight and the feeling of his bare skin on yours feel like home by now, all the underlying doubts you had in the beginning are gone.

Now that he knows all of your body, you don’t feel the same inhibitions anymore. Instead you roll your hips against his, searching for friction. He moans into your mouth, grinding in sync with you for a moment. His briefs are in the way but you still feel him growing hard against your cunt and you whimper, trying to get him to do more.

“Ah ah, slow down,” he whispers, breaking away. “We are not doing this again yet.”

“We aren’t?” you ask breathlessly.

“No, I have not had my dessert.”

You’re about to whine when he suddenly bites down on the tendon below your ear and the sound turns into a yelp. He repeats it a few centimetres further down, licking over the spot to soothe it before moving on. At some point you lost the jacket from over your shoulders but now you feel the zipper violently digging into your spine. It’s nothing compared to the torture of his lips and teeth on your skin that never linger long enough. No matter how hard your fingers dig into his hair, he only moves further down, nibbling, kissing, licking like he has all the patience in the world.

“‘strella,” he breathes against your shoulder. “Hmm, I want to mark your whole body, show everyone that you’re mine now.” His lips trail down to your breast and finally he lingers, sucking on the skin just above your nipple. “Mine. My perfect girl.”

“Copia–” His teeth graze your nipple and you moan, but still he doesn’t keep it up. “Please–”

“Do you want them here, where your roommate can see?” He runs his lips back up and along your neck without any real pressure, tickling your skin with every centimetre. Then he follows a winding trail down your torso, through the valley between your breasts, over your navel, your abdomen, until his mouth finally finds your inner thigh. “Or here, where only I can?”

You breath hitches as he starts kissing and nibbling a torturous path down to your core, stopping right before he touches you where you truly need him. He looks up at you, eyes clouded with lust like a stormy night sky, waiting for your answer.

“Why not… both?”

He rewards you with a smirk, but then he gently shakes his head. “No, I think I want to keep you for myself for a little bit longer.”

Without further warning he bites into your thigh, making you gasp. His subsequent giggles go straight into your heart, a ray of sunshine breaking through the clouds, spreading a subtle warmth. He kisses the bite, runs his tongue over the burning skin before sucking it back into his mouth with more force. You tug at his hair when it starts to hurt and he lets go, leaving a deep red spot behind that will no doubt turn into a bruise.

“I could eat you,” he says, nibbling on the spot just below now. “So soft. So sweet.”

“Please, Copia–”

He bites another bruise into your skin, closer to your core but still not quite there. Then he repeats the same on your other thigh. You can’t hold still but he ignores your shifting, ignores your complaints and ignores your hand that is buried in his hair and tugs with every violent kiss he takes from your skin. If anything, your reactions only spur him on and when he’s finally happy with the artwork he left on you, he grins and admires it.

“Even prettier than before,” he says, smiling up at you.

“You’re the worst tease,” you complain. “Please–”

The smile turns into a smirk. “Do you think I don’t see how wet you are, ‘strella? That I can’t smell how much you want me? You can tell me you don’t like being teased but I don’t believe it.”

You’re short of a reply, instead your hips buck involuntarily as if to confirm his statement. Your whole body is on fire now, anticipation eating at your patience and the throbbing between your legs has you shivering in his touch. Copia chuckles and places more kisses on your thigh, slowly steering towards your core now.

He pauses, glancing at your wet folds and then back into your eyes. “I could make you beg for it, see how much you really want it.” You whimper and it has to be your most pathetic one yet. His lips ghost over your mound with a smile, leaving a featherlight kiss before he removes them again. “Come on, say it.”

“Please.”

He tsks. “Louder, my baby. I can’t hear you down here.”

“Please. Copia, please, I swear–”

“Mhmm, you swear?”

“I need you, baby,” you choke out, rolling your pelvis against air. “Please.”

Copia growls and you shriek when his hands grab your hips and he pulls you into his face. His mouth is right at your clit, hot and wet and open. At the contact you moan, closing your thighs around his head and it is clear that he’s enjoying himself with how he adds more pressure and hums against you. You roll your hips again, moaning when his nose rubs over your clit.

“Mhm just like that,” he says. “Show me how good I make you feel, tesoro.”

His tongue draws a long stripe along your folds and you wonder if he can still taste himself from earlier. If so he doesn’t seem to mind, licking into you, curling his tongue and moaning like he’s the one taking pleasure from it. Knowing him now, he probably is, and when you tug at his hair again his hips buck against the mattress. Copia wraps his lips around your clit then, alternating between licking and kissing and sucking. He seems drunk on you, it’s like he doesn’t even fully register your reactions, just relishes in every little tremor, every moan, as he continues to taste you like he’s starving.

You’re not sure if he is just insanely talented, if your body has been deprived of pleasure for too long or if it’s because you actually found a man who enjoys eating you out so much that he initiates it for the second time in one night, but your orgasm builds so fast that you hardly have time to catch on. You tremble, keen and then the pleasure washes over you in hot waves that have you arching your back. You think he’ll stop to fuck you again now but his mouth never leaves you, neither do his heavy-lidded eyes that seem to drink in your every reaction.

No, he doesn’t break away and he doesn’t slow down either until he has you gasping and moaning again. In fact he doesn’t stop until he makes you come two more times, each orgasm messier than the last until your whole body is so tender that you shudder at the lightest touch. Your pained, overstimulated whimpers are what finally stop him. He breaks from his drunken haze, licking his lips, and eventually returns to you with a heavy sigh. Your pleasure is staining half of his face, swirled into the remainders of his make-up like the paint you mix on your palette. At least he has the decency to look just as out of breath as you do, utterly ruined, but you don’t have enough strength left in your arm to clean his face.

“You look like you had a good time, eh?” he whispers against your ear.

You huff out a laugh. “So do you.”

“Did I wear you out?”

“I still haven’t recovered from earlier.”

“Hmmmm, I see.” He fully sinks into the mattress beside you, smearing the mess on his face all over your neck when he kisses you there. “I want you, ‘strella. I want to fuck you to sleep, hm? Will you let me do this?”

“Yes.”

“Brava ragazza.”

Before he can see your flushed cheeks, he grabs your hips again, turning you over onto your side. When he pulls your back against his chest you can feel his cock digging into your ass, hard and wet. Copia spreads his hand over your abdomen, then he adjusts the angle of his hips until he slips inside of you with ease. You both moan in sync at the stretch. You’re not sure you will ever get enough of this feeling, the fullness, the warm fluttering sensation that it spreads in your whole body.

Copia grunts into your ear the moment he starts moving. He’s slow and sensual, leaving open-mouthed kisses all over your neck and shoulder but even so every thrust gets a little sloppier, a little more impatient. His fingers toy at your clit but you’re too overstimulated and tired. It doesn’t matter. Your body is filled with the afterglow of pleasure and love tonight and when he comes with a strangled sob there is nothing you miss.

After, he holds you close, face buried in your hair, and for the first time in a while you think that you may actually deserve it. Maybe you allow it because if it’s true, if he, Lucifer’s chosen, has decided that you are worthy, that you are not beyond saving, then it must be true. You cling to that thought like you cling to him, anchoring yourself in his warm embrace. Sleep finds you within seconds.

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia wakes only a few hours later, darkness still dominating the room even though the early light of dawn is slowly rising. His grip on you is loose and he can turn without you waking up. He should find some more sleep, really, but after last night he is just too giddy and anxious. With how slow it all began he struggles to believe that this is where he is at now – your bed (technically) and your naked, sleeping body beside him. As he watches you, littered in hickies and smears of his paint, he can’t help but be a little proud of what he did to you last night.

It is odd to see you so defenceless, your guard all the way down as you silently exhale against the pillow. Yesterday was such a big step and now it feels like nothing could ever get between you and him. He hopes, prays that it’s true. There is a part of him that needs you more than he could ever admit, that relies so heavily on these feelings, the safe space that you created here, and if that bubble burst he wouldn’t know how to cope.

Instead of napping on a nervous stomach, he raises his mental inventory.

Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, postcards, his kisses, him, desserts.

No, no, he should add this before. Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, postcards, desserts, his kisses, him. The best is saved for last.

The list will have to include redacted elements soon, the more he finds out what you like, where to touch you, what to say to see the sweet blush spread on your face, the more he wants to memorise these things as well. Or maybe not, he thinks, he has to keep it safe or he is going to get flustered in every meeting. Perhaps a separate list. One that’s just for the quiet hours he has to himself. Which hopefully won’t be too many, now that he has you.

The list is still too short to fill the time until you wake up. Instead he turns and finds Mona on the floor next to the mattress, one of her fluffy wings spread over a sketchbook. Copia takes it for distraction or to quench his curiosity, he’s not sure. He has to sit up and catch the faint light from the windows to see anything at all but then the white paper reflects the early sunbeams and he sees his own pencil-drawn image reflected back at him. He flips through the book – pages and pages and pages filled with his face, his body, different angles, with and without make-up, clothed or not clothed, but always freckled and so… so beautiful.

It is not a word he would use for himself, not if you had not called him that, but seeing himself through your eyes now he feels it. It is not as much of an objective value, he knows he is a man who is approaching his fifties and not in the sexy Hollywood actor sort of way, but your drawings of him carry an air of beauty that he cannot deny. He meets a face that even now sometimes strikes him as foreign. So much so that he avoids the mirror unless he absolutely has to. But seeing it like this, the smiles you captured, the blushes, even the more pensive expressions, he does see how it could be considered handsome. When he flipped through your other sketchbook a few weeks ago he was mostly surprised to find himself in there at all but now he is quite taken aback by the fact that this is how you see him. That anyone could see him like that.

“Copia,” you suddenly whisper. He immediately closes the book but then he notices that you’re still asleep, lips moving in incoherent syllables until a few words slip out every now and then. “’s the painting.”

“The painting, tesoro?”

“Mhm.” Your eyes narrow and you sigh. “I can’t… do it.”

He frowns. Perhaps you’re dreaming about your work. “Oh, I know you can,” he whispers, sliding down so he is on eye level with you. “You can do anything you want, my baby.”

You pout, then your face gets really upset and bunched up. He is afraid your dream is turning into a nightmare and he can’t stop himself from leaning in to press a gentle to your forehead. You stir awake, eyes flicking open before you squint and blink a few times.

“Copia?”

“I’m here,” he says, fingertips dancing over your naked shoulder. “You talked in your sleep.”

You shudder, from his touch or from his statement he doesn’t know. “I did?”

Copia chuckles. “Yes.”

“What… what did I say?”

His eyes find yours, brow furrowing. “Oh, just… uhm, incoherent things. There was something about a painting, I think.“ His ears turn hotter by the second. “You said my name, too.”

“Your name.”

“Mhm.”

You visibly relax. “Must have dreamed about you.”

“Oh.” He smiles, more confident now. “How often does that happen?”

You smile back. “Often, actually.”

“I dream about you too,” he says without thinking.

“Really?”

“Hm, sei sempre nei miei sogni, tesoro.” He presses another kiss to your forehead, followed by a few quick pecks all over your face. “Or at least some of them, those that I remember.”

You giggle, a sound that has his heart doubling in size. “And they’re good dreams?”

“Oh, yes, many good dreams. Sweet dreams and filthy dreams and very filthy dreams.”

He leans in for a proper kiss, morning breath, stubble and dirty chuckle included. You don’t seem to mind, you kiss him back with a happy hum, a soft hand stroking his cheek, and then sink back into the pillows. Perhaps now he could have another nap, he thinks as he snuggles into your side.

“Copia?” He raises his brows and when he opens his eyes your expression is more somber. “You would let me know if you ever got nightmares, right?”

“I think you would notice, no?”

“Well, they don’t have to be so intense that they wake us.”

He furrows his brow. “You asked me this before. Do you have nightmares, tesoro?”

You shake your head. “No, just… I’m just wondering.”

“Why?”

A shrug and he knows he won’t get a real answer this time. “Can you just tell me in case you ever do have a nightmare?”

You look so worried that he immediately nods and wraps you up tightly in his arms. Before he can inquire any further though you’ve already rolled on top of him, pressing your mouth to his in a way that swallows any doubtful thought he might have had. You have had enough deep conversations for twenty-four hours, he figures. Perhaps he would rather spend his energy to make sure you both have a memorable start to your days.

✦ ✧ ✦

On your eighteenth birthday you sold your first painting.

Of course it was just a small sum, a client of Mr Kraan’s who took a liking to your style and approach and bought the painting on top of the one he had commissioned. Still, the success tasted as sweet as the first strawberries in June.

At first, you found it hard to part with the painting but the prospect of being a real artist, one who made money and whose works hung in other people’s homes was too satisfying. You were sure that your dad would allow and maybe even support your studies knowing that you could sell your works. Maybe that was a naive belief, maybe your hopes were the result of your conviction that the dark powers had helped you, that praying to them, worshipping them in the privacy of your room as well as in the art studio for months now had resulted in them backing your claim. Satan, Lucifer, the Dark Lord or whatever they called him had helped you. You were certain that you were in his favour.

Reality came crashing down on you only a few days later.

Instead of your mom your dad insisted on taking you to the studio on the day that the client would pick up the painting. No attempt to convince him brought any success and you sat in the passenger seat in utter terror. Not that he was perceptive enough to notice, the radio was blasting some obnoxious Bruno Mars song that was nothing like the rock and metal music you usually listened to secretly on your mp3-player. Your dad however nodded along to the tune, unbothered by your fighting knees in the seat beside him.

You practically jumped out of the car as soon as he parked. Perhaps your mother already alerted Mr Kraan that your father would show up because when you entered the studio, he was already waiting, dressed way more properly than usual. He wore a clean white shirt, dark trousers, his hair combed back, no paint stains to be seen. When your father entered, they shook hands in the way that men do, one of them pressing way too hard while the other tried to hide his wince. It was almost surreal to see them interacting, to see your worlds colliding like this.

“I hear my daughter sold her first painting,” your father said.

“Indeed,” Mr Kraan said. “She is a talented young woman with a lot of potential to become one of the great artists of our time.”

Your father shot you a disbelieving look and you realised immediately that he never actually believed in your talent and skills. He only ever assumed he was entertaining a silly hobby and even though you knew, even though it shouldn’t have been a surprise, you couldn’t help but feel a distinct pain at this epiphany.

“So where is this painting? And the buyer?”

Mr Kraan looked at you in concern. “He is… he is late, you might miss him. But we can show you the artwork.”

“Please, I don’t have all day.”

With one last glance at you, Mr Kraan went into the back room. You already knew this was going to cost you everything and yet the fear had paralysed you to the point where you could only stare after him without words. When he came back Mr Kraan placed a painting on the easel in the corner and you finally exhaled – it was one of your older works, the neighbour’s cat licking cream from a plate. The scene was one of your most innocent ones and the gratitude you felt at this gesture nearly overwhelmed you. Your father took in the painting for a moment but his eyes did not linger, displaying his disinterest but no disdain.

“So this is what people buy to put in their homes?” he asked.

“It is a lovely painting,” Mr Kraan challenged.

“Yes, yes. Sure.” He eyed his watch, then the door. “So when is this buyer coming?”

“Oh, I don’t know. He called and said that he would be late but gave me no exact time.”

“Well, good, we can’t wait forever. We should head back if you have settled the money transaction?”

“Yes, I will take care of it.”

Your father was halfway by the door when you let out a deep sigh of relief, the realisation settling in that you had somehow survived, gotten away unscathed. It was at the very last moment that a figure approached the door from outside and pushed it open. The man who entered was old, wearing what appeared to be clerical clothing, an embellished robe, but not the regular kind you had seen in church the few times you were there. The cross stitched into his robes was turned upside down, a symbol you knew well from the books you were hiding underneath your bed and that told you that he belonged with the Satanic church at the edge of town, the one you never spoke about at home because your father’s opinion on them was even worse than his opinion of you. What struck you the most about him was his face – painted like a skull, one of his eyes a clear white.

“Mr Kraan?” the man asked in a slow, steady voice. “I am here to pick up the paintings.”

“Oh, of course. I have them ready.”

The man walked past your father, eyeing your old painting on the easel.

“But this is not the painting we bought,” the man said.

“It is not?” your father asked.

“No, it is the painting of the wolf. The scene in the woods.”

If Mr Kraan was nervous about this exchange, he did not let on. “I must have confused them.”

“I will see the other painting,” your father said and his voice betrayed his agitation. He must have figured out that this man was a Satanist and something was wrong.

“Oh, I must go through the storage, it will take some time,” Mr Kraan said. “You meant to leave, no?”

“No, I will see the painting.”

Your heart stopped beating or maybe it beat so fast that you couldn’t feel its rhythm anymore. Mr Kraan gave him a withering look that could have killed. Never before had you seen him this angry, not even that night he found you messing with black magic in his studio. You were scared he would snap.

“Is there a problem, signori?” the buyer asked.

“No, Mr Emeritus, you can have the paintings. I already packed them up safely, I’m afraid I cannot open them again.”

Your father’s boiling rage unloaded within seconds. He stormed past Mr Kraan and directly into the back room where most of the paintings were stored. Not even you were allowed to enter this room usually, temperatures and humidity levels carefully regulated.

“Excuse me, this is private–”

You ran after Mr Kraan who had ducked into the room right behind your father. A larger and your smaller painting, wrapped in tyvek and cardboard, were sitting close to the back door, ready for transport. Without bothering, your father ripped the tyvek off the canvas and revealed the actual painting you had sold. It showed a wolf eating a deer, the remains of his previous meals spread out around the scene, decay and gore, their intestines spilling out of their bodies. In the back, two red eyes stared back at you, hidden among the shadows of trees and foliage.

“This is yours?” your father said. “This… this…” His words caught in his throat, his face reddening in anger. “This is disgusting. An abomination. Why would a girl paint these hideous gruesome things if she’s right in the head?”

“N-no, it’s…”

“You will not study art,” he interrupted. “I will not support this any longer. These lessons in debauchery will end and you will find a field of study where you can support yourself as soon as possible. I will not finance this any longer.”

“But–”

“No but. I have no patience anymore. This is the end of it.”

“No, I can do what I want!” you snapped. “I won’t stop. This is my life.”

“I didn’t ask for your opinion. Get in the car while I have a word with your teacher.”

“No.”

He only had to give you one more look until you caved. You had never before seen eyes with such hatred, such vitriol. Hot tears of anger ran down your face and you shook violently in your attempt to hold back your emotions. Mr Kraan gave you a gentle nod, even though you could still see the anger reflected in his feature. When you ran out, slipping past the man who had bought your painting, he called after you, catching you by the elbow before you could get outside.

“My girl,” he said. “If you ever need a place. Our church is a home to those who are unwanted anywhere else. You won’t have to hide your art with us.”

You stared at him, his eerie eyes did not mirror the kind smile on his lips and yet you knew that he meant what he said. Before your father could see him talking to you however, you quickly went back to the car. Maybe it was childish but you slipped into the back seat to be as far away from him as possible, cowering as much as you could with the seatbelt caging you in. When you father arrived back ten minutes later he was fuming but he did not utter a single word to you on the ride home.

That night you lay on the floor in your room, listening to your parents yelling downstairs in the kitchen while you sobbed into the silence of your room. You understood a few words, enough to inform you that the argument started off with you and then went into a direction you could not follow. At some point, a door was slammed so hard that the whole house shook under the impact and you shivered in fear. You had no idea what this would mean for your future. You were close to finishing school which was scary in itself. You weren’t sure how to go on now. If he took your art away from you somehow you had no idea how to survive.

You must have fallen asleep or into some sort of stupor because the hours passed without you noticing. The house went silent at some point and it was close to one a.m. when your mom came into your room, her face tear-stained and pale. She took a deep breath, not questioning why you were laying on the floor as she spoke with a shaky voice. “We’re leaving.”

“We’re leaving?”

“Pack your things.”

You didn’t have to be asked twice.

Chapter Text

“The past could always be annihilated. Regret, denial, or forgetfulness could do that. But the future was inevitable.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

✦ ✧ ✦

Your quarters smell of chocolate and lemon. When you walk through the door, a wave of hot, aromatic vapour hits your face like you stepped into a sauna. You’re surprised the fire alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Without pause you move to open the only window in your small living area and the fresh air finally lifts the fog. Your roommate is revealed to you, wearing a pink apron and two large oven mitts, her flaming red hair tied into a neat bun. The sweat on her forehead tells you she’s been at this for a while now.

“Are you trying to set the dorms on fire?” you ask.

“Oh, hi, Rembrandt. I made cookies,” Sybil says happily. “I got this small oven from Erin…”

Your kitchenette doesn’t consist of more than a sink and two electric stove tops, the collection now extended by a tiny oven that hardly fits onto the counter. Every single surface in the room is covered in baking sheets and plates that carry a plethora of different sorts of cookies.They all look amazing.

“I’ve been baking all morning,” she explains. “I want to try out some new recipes before suggesting them in the kitchens. I said I would bake for Papa’s birthday party, you see?”

“I do see, yes. How many did you make? You could feed the whole abbey just with these.”

“I have to find the perfect ones. Now that you two are ugh… you know, he might be paying attention.”

“You’re trying to impress Papa?” you ask with a smirk. “You don’t have to go so hard. He has a sweet tooth, I’m sure he’ll enjoy whatever you make.”

“Everyone tells me that but then, you see, if he likes them the other Papas may try them as well and perhaps even Sister. If I want to be promoted in the kitchens…”

You grab a chocolate cookie from one of the trays and break it in half. It’s warm and the insides are soft and gooey, picture-perfect like they’re straight out of a baking book. “I didn’t know you were so into that job.”

“I’ve always loved baking,” she admits. “And I’m still considered a newbie which really annoys me. They hardly let me do my own thing.”

“Maybe we should host an abbey wide bake off and if you win you’re head of the kitchens.” You plop a piece of the cookie into your mouth, moaning when the rich chocolaty flavour floods your senses. “Oh, these are really good.”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re too intense, most people wouldn’t like them.”

You shake your head to disagree, chewing on another piece of cookie, but she decidedly ignores you. “Anyway, I’m out of sugar, so that’s it. Last batch is in.”

You grab one of the plates from the couch and sit down, inspecting what looks like small rings, shaped into flowers and covered in powdered sugar. They taste similar to shortbread with a soft vanilla aroma and a gentle sweetness to them. “What are those?”

“Canestrelli,” she says. “It’s a Northern Italian recipe, I kept it very classic. One of my favourites.”

“They’re amazing.”

“Are you going to say that about all of them? Because that won’t help me choose.”

You watch her as she bustles around the one square meter of space she has, cleaning her utensils and stacking cookies in Tupperware containers. The oven is small, she must have been using it non-stop to produce this many cookies.

“I take it not seeing you here for the past few nights is a sign that things with Papa are going extremely well?” she asks when she finally unties her apron, leaning against the countertop now.

Before you can control it your lips have spread into a stupid grin. “Mhm.”

“Girl, that smile on your face speaks volumes, don’t mhm me.”

“It’s going really well.” You eat another cookie, one that almost tastes like fresh lemons. “Oh, these are amazing, you have to make these.”

“I know.” Sybil walks over to you, grabbing the plates from the sofa and placing all the cookies in a large bowl. “I assume you won’t be telling me any details?”

“I won’t be telling you about my sex life, no.”

“Oh, so there is a sex life?”

You can’t help but groan. “You’re horrible and way too nosy.”

“I’m just happy for you.” She steals a lemon cookie from your plate, then settles on the couch beside you. “So?”

“We’ve spent the past few nights together. I’m really only here to shower and change, then I have to go pick up the mug from the workshop. Will you walk down there with me?”

“Oh hell yeah, I can’t wait to see it,” Sybil says, chewing on the cookie. “Hm, you’re right, I should pick the lemon ones. Perhaps it should be lemon and chocolate after all.”

“You should pack some for Primo, he’s going to love them.”

While you take a hot shower, Sybil cleans your quarters, filling small gift bags with the cookies to give out to other people and keeping a large bowl for yourselves. She brings a few of the bags in a basket when you eventually make your way out into the gardens, now refreshed and dressed in clean habits.

Spring has progressed remarkably. When you leave through the back door of your residency building and straight into Primo’s rose garden you can make out the first colourful buds adorning the bushes. Through a small metal arch that is beautifully overgrown you stroll down the trodden path to the workshop. While the clouds slowly cover more and more of the blue sky, the sun still lured a few Siblings outside who are perched on benches or taking strolls towards the ponds.

Sybil skips down the path next to you, handing out cookies to whoever crosses her path. Once you’re beyond the residency area, she walks closer beside you, leaning in ominously.

“So, it’s getting serious?” she asks. “You and Papa?”

You shrug, trying to be as honest as you can. “I think so. I mean… yes. I just… don’t really know what that all means yet.”

“Do you think they’ll have any weird expectations? Like some Satanic marriage ritual sort of thing?”

“I honestly have no idea. As long as I’ve been here and from what I’ve heard, no Papa had a serious partner where this topic would have come up. Not that any of them are very open about their private lives anyway.”

Sybil hums. “I suppose you’ll find out. Does it scare you?”

You look at her genuinely concerned expression. “A little. But so far Copia has been nothing but considerate. I guess I could ask him, I just don’t want to assume he’s even considering me as a long term partner before he’s actually said it.”

“Rembrandt, I think you can be pretty certain about that. From what I’ve heard Papa is not in the habit of sleeping around or even dating at all.”

You sigh in uncertainty. What you and Copia have feels very serious and what has transpired between you these past few nights was impressively reassuring that he wants you in every single kind of way. Still, it’s early days. And while the formalities are an important factor for your future that you should discuss at some point, you push those worries aside for now.

“I’m happy for you though,” Sybil says. “Seems like you have a lot in common.”

“Yeah, turns out we both have daddy issues,” you quip.

Sybil scoffs. “Who here doesn’t?”

“Hm, touché.”

You arrive at the workshop, calm and secluded at this time of day, and Sybil pushes the old wooden door open with her hip. Primo told you he’d be here most of the afternoon but you’re surprised to find him in conversation with his brother. Papa Emeritus II is the one who always supported and appreciated your art the most, the first buyer of any of your paintings, even though you’re not sure if he bought it for himself or the Ministry. Since retiring he spends most of his time in the archives, busy with restoration work or giving classes to the newer siblings, from what you’ve heard. The last commission you did for him wasn’t too long ago but since then you haven’t seen much of him. You realise that they’re sharing their afternoon tea, dried rose petals and herbs swimming in their ornate tea cups.

“Ah, sorelle, there you are,” Primo says from his chair by his desk. “I was expecting you.”

“Is this a bad time?” you ask, inching back towards the door.

“Oh, not at all. Mio fratello and I have just been talking about you.”

Your cheeks heat up immediately. “Me?”

“The Papal portrait, to be precise,” Secondo says, lifting the cup to his painted lips. He is wearing a similar black cassock to the one you saw Terzo in the day he accompanied you to the studio, just in his own Papal colours with green and silver embellishments.

“It’s going to be amazing,” Sybil says. “She’s working so hard on it.”

“That is what I hear as well,” Secondo says. “I am eager to see it.”

You try not to get self-conscious, after all you already know that he is fond of your work. Thankfully, Sybil bridges the awkward silence.

“Can I interest you in some cookies to go with your tea, Your Unholinesses? They’re fresh out of the oven.”

She reaches into her basket and hands each of them a bag filled with a generous assortment of her baked goods which they immediately open. Primo dips one into his tea before taking a generous bite of the lemon cookie you knew he would go for.

“Oh, these are excellent,” he says, plopping the rest of the cookie into his mouth. “Fratello, do you see that we are surrounded by the most talented Sisters today?”

Secondo bestows you both with a rare smile, having opted for one of the Canestrelli. “I have to agree, these are delightful.”

Sybil next to you beams like she’s ready to launch herself into the sun. Such open praise from the more reserved Papa is one of the highest honours and you’re happy for her, hoping that they will remember her prowess during the next staff discussions. Knowing the second Papa, you’re certain of it.

“Can I offer you some tea, sorelle?” Primo asks but he doesn’t wait for a reply before he nudges his brother. “Secondo, sii così gentile e versargli una tazza, hm? I will go and get your mug, sorella.”

While Primo disappears in the backroom, Secondo hands each of you a cup of tea. The blend smells of roses, sweet but herbal at the same time, and it tastes just as good as its aroma.

“Ah, bellissima!” Primo announces loudly. “It turned out very well, sorella.”

He returns with the pottery, the round coffee mug that you painted earlier this week as a present for Copia. Fully finished and glazed, the mug looks beautiful and the colours are vivid. The base is a subtle blue colour with a rat painted on one side and a bat on the other. A few simple patterns that incorporate an upside down cross tie the two sides together.

“I told you, she’s a natural,” Sybil says. “This is amazing! I already know what I want you to make me for my birthday.”

You chuckle and help Primo wrap the mug in some paper and a box to keep it safe before you hold it close to your chest. Sybil continues to chat with them until you both finish your tea and bid them farewell. On the way back, most of the sun has been covered by clouds and the air is more chilly.

“I suppose I won’t see you tonight, then,” Sybil says, her basket now almost empty. “But you’ll be there tomorrow for Midnight Mass, right? And when we party into Papa’s birthday?”

“Yes, I’ll be there. I can’t miss you and Erin violently making out. I need ammunition to tease you back.”

She immediately jumps and grabs your arm before calling into the empty gardens. “Ladies and gentlemen, mark your calendars, Rembrandt is attending a party!”

✦ ✧ ✦

The library resides in the oldest and largest building of the abbey aside from the main chapel: Three floors have been filled with endless shelves of books, modern works as well as ancient tomes, housed by an L-shaped structure that sits atop the archives underground. While over the years some of the old, medieval buildings of the former christian monastery have been thoroughly renovated, expanded or replaced, the library has maintained most of its original foundation.

To Copia, it has always been a place of wonder.

He used to sit here for hours, surrounded by books and the soft crackle of the fireplace, immersed in whatever topic had struck his current interest, more often than not some obscure historical subject he stumbled upon by scanning the shelves. It is odd, he thinks, how in retrospect we remember the good things even about hard times. Sometimes he misses his Cardinal days no matter how overworked he was, the pre-band days especially when his clergy duties were all he had to think about. As much as he loves performing and being Papa, what he most longs for are those quiet nights he used to spend bent over a book, one of his rats smuggled into the library underneath his cassock to keep him company. He misses them, too, misses having someone to take care of other than himself. Now he is too tired to read much and too busy to keep pets.

Perhaps a little naively he hopes that things will quiet down the more he gets used to his new role. If he wants to build a life with you he can’t sneak around with you in the studio forever but he’s not sure what a public relationship would mean now. Everything only got more complicated since he became Papa and even though he knows he is well-equipped for his role, these moments of doubt whether it all happened in the right way remain firmly planted in his head. He can’t shake the feelings of guilt that haunt him whenever he thinks about Terzo and he still feels the phantom pain of a wound that opened and never truly closed after Nihil tried to deny Copia’s claim to the role, denied him as his son.

He has had these bouts of anxiety for most of his life but lately they have resurfaced in an intensity that makes it hard to push them back down. But push them down he must. He is Papa now after all which he is desperately reminded of at the sight of the empty page in his notepad. Copia is here with a purpose, not to dreamily peruse the shelves. Perched on an old wooden chair at a desk that is littered with books and crumpled up pieces of paper, his reading glasses slide down his nose as he struggles to write that damn sermon.

“Ah, there you are, C.”

He looks up from his non-existent notes to find Sister approaching him. It can’t have been too hard to find him here – this spot on the bottom floor near the fireplace has always been his favourite and she had to drag him away from it many times in their lives. Even at this hour Sister looks put together. Her hair is pulled up neatly into a blond knot, secured with a clip at the back of her head. Her heels are silent on the rugs that cover the old stone floor but they raise her figure in such a straight line that she looks as imposing as ever.

“Did you need me?” he asks, pushing the glasses up his nose once more.

“No, but I have not seen much of you since you came back. It appears that you’re… busy.”

“If this is about the VHS tape, I meant to thank you, Sis, I just got a little carried away with work…”

“That’s not what I mean, C.”

He furrows his brow, meeting her gaze by which he notices her pursed lips. “What do you mean?”

Sister doesn’t sit down which tells him this will be a quick but uncomfortable conversation. “Well, let’s say I did not expect to find you here but rather in a certain art studio.”

His stomach drops but he doesn’t comment. It’s not that he necessarily tried to be secretive when meeting you and it’s certainly not like his brothers don’t know, but Sister is an entirely different story. Suddenly he feels weirdly defensive – of you, of your budding relationship, of the feelings he has for you.

“Tell me, C, is she a distraction?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure. If anything, being with her… helps me focus. It makes me feel safe.”

Copia knows this is not a conversation about his love life, Sister has never meddled in that area unless whatever he had going on became more serious. This, however, hasn’t happened in well over a decade. The closer he got to the Papacy, the rarer and looser his acquaintances became. He’s not surprised that she picked up on it so easily now, she’s always been exceptionally perceptive.

Sister has cocked her head to the side as if to ponder his words. Eventually she nods, a tight-lipped but well-meaning smile gracing her face. “Alright, I understand. I just want to make sure that you remember your work. If she makes you happy I will support you, but I hope you know that we have a mission, C, the success of the project always comes first. Don’t forget that.”

“How could I forget?” Copia asks, then softly shakes his head. “It is eh… still fresh, anyway. Nothing that will interfere with my work.”

“Good. I want you to be happy, C, and as long as she supports our goals...”

Her eyebrows rise at this and while Copia doesn’t always pick up on her hidden clues he knows that she is implying something right now. “As long as she supports our goals… what?”

Sister shrugs nonchalantly, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “Nothing speaks against you settling with someone if that is your wish… but it should be someone worthy of a Papa.”

“You think she isn’t?”

“You tell me, C.”

He has to fight back an unfitting, childish remark at her implication. Of course she doesn’t know you like he does but he’s well aware that your lack of involvement in the clergy will have impeded her judgment. Instead of an impulsive outburst he makes sure to meet her eyes when he speaks next, steeling his voice into full Papa mode. “She is worthy, Sister. She is worthy of everything.”

If she is surprised by his vehemence she doesn’t let on. Instead Sister holds his gaze with unwavering confidence. When he doesn’t back down, her expression softens and she raises a hand in a gesture of peace. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, C. Believe me, vulnerability is hardly ever rewarded.”

Something in her expression tells him this is more than just motherly advice. He decides to bury the hatchet, if only out of affection and compassion for her in this very moment. To this day Copia doesn’t know what truly happened between her and Nihil but it isn’t too hard to take a guess. Still, the clergy involving themselves in his love life is the last thing he needs and the longer Sister holds him in her gaze, the more defensive he becomes. He won’t let anyone get in between you and he certainly won’t let anyone take you away from him.

“Well, it is good to see you working so hard, C,” Sister eventually says. “I don’t want to distract you for much longer.”

“Okay, yeah.” He nods, moving his hand to cover the embarrassingly empty pages even though she must have long seen them by now. “Good, I will eh… see you, Sis.”

“See you later, C.”

She regards him for another long moment, that same unreadable, forcibly friendly expression on her face, before she turns on her heels, briskly retreating towards the exit. Copia watches her leave, then slumps back in his chair for a moment to fight off a proper anxiety attack.

He just feels so utterly lost.

This used to be a familiar feeling, one he thought he’d outgrown since returning to the main abbey over a decade ago. The ghouls are recovering from tour in their own domain in the catacombs, not to be disturbed by anyone until they reemerge. He knows keeping their earthly form for so long takes a toll on them and while they deserve their rest he misses how their views on human matters usually give him new perspectives. Not that he could properly talk to or even understand them without their human glamor anyway. And it’s too late for human company now, Terzo will be busy at this time of night and he doesn’t want to bother Primo or Secondo either. Really, what he craves is your comfort but he also knows he won’t be able to hide his inner turmoil from you. He can’t break now and being in your arms will bring him too close.

With an exasperated sigh he shuts his notepad. No sermon will be written tonight, that much he knows. If it comes down to it and he has to improvise during Mass tomorrow then so be it. What he needs right now is to distract himself, to calm his racing heart and mind. So instead of leaving he gets up and peruses the shelves after all. It takes a while of strolling down the different aisles but he eventually calms down enough to start reading the spines again.

The quiet presence of the books lulls him in, the childlike wonder and curiosity to escape this world in favour of endless fictional universes. For a moment he feels like a little boy again, trying to find the hidden treasures in the entertainment section of the abbey library in Rome – adventure stories, science fiction, classic tales of ghosts and horror that kept him up all night as he devoured them under a blanket with a torch in his little hand.

Soon he finds himself on the second floor, browsing the art section that inevitably reminds him of you. As he runs a gloved finger along the spines, he wonders how many of these books you’ve checked out, which ones you’ve touched just like this in search of one that inspired you. He finds multiple books on Goya and he picks one at random together with another book that is an overview on oil painting in general. He might as well, he figures, and carries them under his arm as he continues on. A lot of books catch his attention but he only picks out one more. It’s a hefty encyclopaedia on bats, specifically European species, one that will allow him to read up on Daubenton’s bats since you’re so fond of the ones on the property.

His haul satisfies him as he descends the stairs again and he checks the books out before he carries all of his belongings back to his quarters. He leaves through the inner courtyard and is met with the mild breeze of a clear May night, soft air that helps calm him even more. Unhurried now as he takes a few deep breaths, he follows the stone walkway until he reaches the main building, briefly wondering if he should head up to the studio but ultimately deciding against it. It’s late, perhaps you’re not even there anymore.

And perhaps that’s a miserable decision because when he’s met with the depressing emptiness of his quarters, he is filled with regret. With a sigh, he sets the books down on the floor beside his small bed. He hasn’t slept here since coming back from tour and the prospect of doing it now is enough to bring back the anxiety.

Copia sits down on the edge of the mattress, taking in the bleak room around him. A worn-down couch sits opposite of the bed with an old coffee table and his small tube tv in front of it. He put up some posters and a tapestry on the wall above his altar but otherwise he hasn’t added much of his personality. The tricycle Sister got him for his ascension waits in the corner beside the bed, ready for another spin, but at the moment he can’t find the time or motivation. He reaches over and rings the bell twice in a row, the nostalgic sound procuring a gentle smile.

Once the last notes have faded out he decides to get ready for bed. It’s chilly and since you still have his hoodie he pulls a different sweater over his head, then his usual joggers before he heads to the bathroom. The silence in his quarters is overwhelming. As soon as the buzzing of his toothbrush is gone, his thoughts circle back to his conversation with Sister, to the guilt about not finishing his sermon, to you and what you might be doing right now.

In bed, he picks up the book about Goya to distract himself. After a few minutes of trying and failing to focus he turns on the old tv for some static white noise. He forgot to get his reading glasses, so he keeps the book further from his face, resting it on his belly while flipping through the pages. His eyes soon get droopy, the words swimming in front of his eyes–

And then he jumps when his phone buzzes against his leg. It’s almost midnight, he realises with a start as he watches the screen. He must have been asleep for a while. Tomorrow, he’ll be dead tired, the one day he has to focus, and yet when he sees your name in the centre he unlocks his phone anyway.

Do I not see you tonight? ♥︎

Copia closes his eyes and inhales softly. His heart picks up its pace and there’s an immediate warmth in his belly at the thought that you’re missing him. It’s almost like you know, like you can feel that he needs you. Or maybe you even need him.

Why are you still awake, tesoro? he texts back.

Been painting until now. Why are you still awake and not here with me?

He smiles. Give me five minutes.

✦ ✧ ✦

You clean your last brush, your gaze still stuck on the canvas. Copia stares back at you, not yet fully rendered in his expression but his eyes seem to bore into yours anyway. He looks so regal, so majestic, even without the gemstones and details on his robes. You’re satisfied with your progress this week, especially considering your next properly scheduled sitting with him won’t be until next Tuesday. The paint will have to dry over the weekend, which luckily coincides with Copia’s birthday. You can take the next few days off, perhaps you can even spend them together once the celebrations are over.

When you check your phone you notice that midnight is creeping up on you. Copia told you he’d be working late today but he hasn’t reached out at all yet. You furrow your brow, wondering if you won’t be seeing him tonight after all. The thought stings more than it should. You’ve barely had him for a few days and you already can’t imagine going a single night without him. It should alarm you, really, how fast you’re falling into him, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

You decide to text him and he replies almost immediately. Once he tells you he’ll be there soon, you get ready for bed in the bathroom down the hall, then remove your paint-stained dungarees and hang them up by the window, only in your black leggings and a shirt now. The grounds are dipped into an eerie darkness, the moon hidden behind the clouds as they threaten to bring rain for the weekend. With some effort you open a window to allow for some fresh air. You hardly notice the smells anymore, so when the cool night air streams into your lungs you’re surprised by how welcome it is. Taking a few deep breaths, you relax your posture and close your eyes for a moment, listening to the sounds of the nocturnal birds and crickets outside.

The door clicking open rips you from your silent meditation. You turn to find Copia in his sweatpants and a cozy, slightly oversized sweater. When you approach him, you notice the deep shadows under his eyes, the swollen tear ducts and messed up hair. He looks infinitely tired.

“Hey,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck for a hug, immediately worried. “Were you already trying to sleep? You didn’t have to come just for me.”

“I wanted to see you. But I worked very late,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if you were still up and–”

“I don’t care how late it is,” you interrupt, breaking away just enough to meet his eyes. “Seeing you means more to me than sleep.”

He leans his forehead against yours, holding you tightly against his body. “Oh ‘strella.”

You immediately notice the tremor in his voice. He’s not his usual carefree self tonight – you can feel the tension radiating from every muscle in his body. “What is it? You seem–”

“Nothing, I am fine,” he insists, squeezing your hips for emphasis. “To bed now.”

“Copia–”

“I just… I didn’t finish my sermon. It was a long day and tomorrow will be even longer. And I haven’t finished it. I couldn’t. I–” He swallows just before his voice breaks, shaking his head with a deep sigh. “I’m tired. That is all.”

You don’t quite believe him but you also don’t want to press, not when he’s already so exhausted. “Let’s go to bed then, hm?”

He nods and you let him go, turning off the big ceiling light in favour of the smaller lamp you’ve brought up here in hopes that Sybil won’t notice it gone from your quarters. Then you go to close the window so it won’t cool down too much. When you turn back around you notice Copia still standing by the mattress, shirtless now with his sweater in one hand, Mona in the other. He has removed his gloves as well and is gently stroking the bat’s soft fur, visibly lost in thoughts.

You walk over and wrap your arms around him from the side, resting your cheek on his shoulder and covering his hand with yours. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He snaps out of his trance, wrapping his arm around you now. “Sì, sì, just tired. Let’s sleep, hm? Are you not tired?”

“I am tired,” you concede and follow him onto the mattress. “And my wrist hurts.”

Once you’ve settled on his bare chest, folding yourself neatly against his side, he immediately reaches for your hand, slowly massaging the skin around your pulse. “You don’t take enough breaks, tesoro.”

“Neither do you.”

He moves on to the ball of your hand, his thumb pressing into the tight tissue. You sigh in relief, burying your face in his neck. “I can’t take breaks how I want to.”

“I know, because you’re Papa.”

His thumb presses a little tighter into your palm. “Are you mocking me, hm?”

“A little.” You sit up to look at him, taking in the tense expression on his face. “Being Papa can’t be an excuse to neglect your own needs. You still have to eat and sleep and rest.”

“I do, tesoro. Don’t worry about it, per favore.”

“But I do worry.” You lean in for a soft kiss, continuing to stroke his cheek even when you break away. “Can I help you with the sermon?”

He smiles, lifting his hand to cup your cheek as well. “I appreciate it, tesoro, but I could not accept it. It is my job, no? You have enough to do already.”

You sigh, sitting up fully now. The lines on his face appear deeper in the dimmed light and he looks so incredibly worn out. You remember what Terzo told you while Copia was gone. The pressure only got worse now that he is Papa. You have seen him lately, yes? How tired he looks? You’ve noticed it before but since he got back it got only worse. He looks tired, tense, overworked, anxious.

“Copia, I think you need to take it easier,” you say. “I really do. If not for yourself then for me, to ease my mind.”

The lines on his forehead pull together tightly. “‘strella, I know this is a lot right now. But it won’t always be like this.”

“I’m just worried. About you. About us.”

“About us?” he asks.

“I don’t want this to end.”

“End? Why would it end?”

You can already feel the tears pricking your eyes again. “You’re bound to all these duties, to the congregation, and it’s taking a toll on you. And now this **has been added on top. And we both know what’s more important. It’s just too much for one person.”

“I am bound to the clergy, sì.” He sighs, rubbing his forehead for a moment. “Tesoro, I will not lie to you. I will be very busy sometimes and I have a lot to take care of, it will not always be easy, okay? But you are very important to me and I will do my best to have as much time for you as possible.”

“That’s not what I mean, I can live with you being busy,” you stress. “I just don’t want to burden you with all of my baggage on top of it, not when you have enough of your own.”

He shakes his head. “You are not a burden, I will not hear this, ‘strella.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.” He reaches out to place his hand on your thigh. “Today, all I thought about was being here with you. It helps me, you help me. It is not a burden, it is my refuge.”

His reassurance calms you, knowing that you’re not a source of stress but a relief from it. The last thing you want is for him to think you’re needy and demanding, that he has to somehow appease you on top of the whole clergy as well. For all you know he’s being dragged in too many directions already.

“That is also the reason why I think tomorrow at Mass we should… we should not show it yet,” he goes on. “I don’t want anyone to eh… meddle.”

You nod and softly stroke his cheek. “That’s okay with me, but you know they already talk, right?”

“I know and they can talk all they want. This is more about… upper clergy. I don’t want them to think they have to stick their fingers into my private life.”

“Do you think if they know there will be any expectations?” you ask, remembering your conversation with Sybil earlier.

“They might try, I don’t know.” He sighs. “But you do not have to worry about this, we are going to live how we want to.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I will make sure of it.”

Maybe a little naively,  you believe him. If you’ve learned anything about him by now it’s that Copia is fighting hard to exert a certain influence that the Papacy might now allow him. If it’s true what Terzo said and his powers are so limited, then you can imagine why his work puts such a strain on him. You lean back down and press a few soft kisses to his cheek and chin, eliciting an exhausted sigh from his lungs.

“What if I held you tonight, hm? Would that help?” you ask, still feeling the tension in his body.

“I don’t know…” His voice is hesitant, a little shy. “If you want to, I suppose–”

“Come on, roll to your side,” you encourage him. “Let me give back, hm? You do so much for me.”

With a hint of reluctance, he turns and faces away from you. You pull off your shirt and bra, then you wrap your arms around him, closely hugging him with his back firm against your front. Copia gasps at the sensation, your skin against his allowing for more intimacy. Your lips press to his neck and you squeeze him to your body, your breasts squished to the soft tissue underneath his shoulder blades. You’re not sure you could pull him any closer if you tried.

“Tesoro,” he whispers.

“Let me take care of you,” you say, running your fingertips over his chest, softly caressing his nipples. Copia sighs in pleasure and you linger for a moment, brushing your thumb over the hard peak, circling his areola. You softly pinch, rolling them between your fingers and he moans, tilting his head back until his hair is tickling your nose.

“You’re so sensitive,” you mumble.

“And you’re teasing,” he complains.

“Hm, so it’s only okay if you do it?”

“Sì, I am Papa.”

You scoff playfully. “Already abusing your power, hm?”

“If it… if it gets you to beg for me,” he says, breathing harder now.

“Hm, I don’t think I’m the one begging tonight.”

He scoffs but the sound lacks any real conviction. Instead he draws a sharp breath when you gently bite into his neck, still stimulating his sensitive nipples. You would love to have your mouth on them but holding him in your arms is more important, making him feel safe and comforted, taken care of. So instead you bring your hand to his mouth, tracing his bottom lip with your middle finger.

“Get it wet for me?”

You swear you can feel him trembling against you, a full-body shudder ripping through him. “‘strella–”

“For once,” you whisper. “Let me make you feel good, let me make you feel safe, hm?”

He inhales sharply before he parts his lips and you can slip your fingers inside of his warm mouth. When he sucks you bite down harder, soothing the spot with kisses shortly after. Copia is restless in your arms, his hips push back the tiniest bit and when you bring your wet finger to his nipple he releases a loud groan. To compensate you push your knee between his legs. The angle is awkward but he manages to grind on it enough to find some sort of relief, head tilting back once again to fall against yours as he moans.

“Does that feel good, my baby?”

“Mhm, so good.”

Your lips curl into a smile against his skin and you continue to circle his nipple for a moment, then the other one, before running your finger further down and making sure to caress every inch of him as you go. You close your eyes to take in the softness of his skin against your fingertips, the rougher hair on his chest that transitions into his happy trail, the unevenness where a pattern of stretch marks extends over his abdomen like the tiny roots of a delicate plant. Copia. You want to memorise him, memorise the feeling of him shivering at even the lightest of touches, bending so willingly to your attention. More often than not he leads you, comforts you, makes you forget everything around you, and if you can provide him with even a fraction of what he gives you, you’ll be satisfied tonight.

With a wanton sigh you push your hand further underneath the hem of his pants. You massage the skin just above his cock, fingers carding through dark pubic hair, already feeling the heat radiating from where he sits hard against his thigh. You push your knee further against him, gently pressing against his taint through his sweatpants. The movement has our nipples rubbing against his back and it sends a jolt of pleasure through your whole body. Copia pushes back with an impatient whimper and you finally reach for him.

“Oh, Satana,” he whispers, a desperate, directionless prayer.

You moan at the feeling of him, so hot and already slick from his own arousal. You retract your hand for a moment and hold it out to him. It takes him a moment to notice it dangling in front of his face as he whimpers to express his dissatisfaction.

“Shh,” you coo. “Get my hand wet, hm? You did that so well earlier.”

He takes a shaky breath but eventually he licks along your palm, kissing it eagerly for a moment before his tongue works inside of his mouth and he spits in it. You moan at the warm feeling before you bring your hand back down to pump him gently. Copia is a mess within seconds, writhing and moaning at every flick of your wrist. You love how vocal he is, every sigh and whimper turning you on even more. Your lips remain on his shoulder, sucking and biting marks into his skin where you know they’ll be hidden. His hips buck into your hand and you start to move your knee back and forth, just the tiniest bit of friction added to his most sensitive areas.

“Oh cazzo,” he whispers, fucking himself into your fist until you almost don’t have to move your hand anymore.

“So eager,” you say. “Satan, you’re so hot like that. Doing so good.”

His reply is a needy whimper and you can tell he’s getting close now. The heat in your own belly is distracting you, making you falter in your movements, and the throbbing in your cunt is enough to have you just as desperate. You snake your other hand down your body and between your legs, shoving it into your leggings until you find your clit. A little clumsily you start to rub in the same rhythm you’re still stroking him in. You both lose yourself in the pleasure you provide, in the slick sounds of his cock sliding through your hand, the whimpers and moans of the other that echo in the quiet of the room.

Copia shoves his hips back against your thigh and your hands slips, pressing into you harder until you cry out at the stimulation of your own fingers. You can’t help but push two of them inside of your now drenched cunt, the need to be filled overwhelmingly strong.

“Are you–” He pauses, then inhales sharply and releases the breath in a shuddering moan at the realisation. “’strella... oh Satana, I am going to–”

He comes, moaning out your name and thrusting forward into your hand one more time. Knowing you made him feel like this sends you over the edge as well. The pleasure rips through you, stronger than any orgasm you have gifted yourself before. Your grip on him tightens for a moment, your teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder again and you wish you could crawl inside of him, live in the warmth of his pleasure. Instead you press yourself into his back as far as you can, wrapping your leg around him now to get even closer. In the following silence, your mingled breathing sounds like a raging storm.

“How do you feel now?” you ask after a while, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.

“Better,” he says, a lot less tense now but with a still shaking voice. “Better, relieved, but also messy.”

You chuckle and he carefully kicks off his pants until they land somewhere beside the mattress. You decide not to move, not to let go of him, sensing that he needs you, that he is more vulnerable than ever. Copia is trembling in your arms, a barely noticeable tremor, and you squeeze him a little tighter. You don’t think he’s crying but he seems close. When you caress his soft cheek your hand comes away wet – tears or sweat, you can’t tell. Whatever it is, he’s holding it back. He must have been holding it back for a long time now. And you think that you have to offer him the same patience he’s offering you, the same gentleness, the same understanding. Whenever he’s ready, he’s going to let you know and you will give him the space he needs.

“It’s okay,” you promise, a soft whisper against his ear. “It’ll be okay, baby. Things will get better. I’m here for you no matter what.”

He nods, covering your hands that have moved to his soft belly with his own bigger ones, and you hold him close until you both fall asleep. It doesn’t take long.

Chapter Text

“If I am the chief of sinners, I am the chief of sufferers also.”

― Robert Louis Stevenson, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

✦ ✧ ✦

Black Sabbath was blasting from your new record player, a present occasioned by your eighteenth birthday a few months ago. Your new room was smaller than your old one but it felt infinitely more like home, not just because you could turn up the music you truly liked. You’d decorated the walls with posters and postcards of all of your favourite paintings, covering every inch of wall space you had available – The Fall of the Damned, The Witches‘ Sabbath, Millais’ Joan of Arc, Gentileschi’s Judith Slaying Holofernes, Faust's Dream, Boats on the Beach near Naples, Girl Reading a Letter at an Open Window and countless more.

With all of your painting outside of school now done in the studio just down the hall, you had room for bookshelves, a desk and a bigger bed. It gave you a spacious working area since you began your studies not long after the move. Contrary to popular belief, you did have to work on assignments that did not involve any actual painting. But you started to love the library runs, learning about the history of art as well as different techniques you’d never tried out, and what you loved most were the field trips to museums you went on every so often.

The painting before your eyes that you were working on now, during your Thursday evening oil painting class, showed an abandoned landscape. Two hyenas were the only occupants, their mouths soiled with blood after their meal of an unidentifiable mammal’s carcass. Around you, the other students were still busy with their own works. Lately, you had been heavily inspired by paintings of the Romantic era, depictions of disasters or storms, all with a touch of melancholy and loneliness, but you’d also grown to appreciate its atmospheric landscapes, the paintings of gothic architecture and ruins – Friedrich, Carus, Turner and so many more. You’ve grown to incorporate these inspirations into your own art while still maintaining the themes you’ve always been drawn to. This was your first time drawing such an elaborate landscape and you started to enjoy the variety in your work these days.

“Wow, that’s… different.”

You looked up to see one of the other students sauntering over, a young man your age that you had seen in a few of your classes, handsome with dark shaggy hair and kind brown eyes, usually dressed in the kind of fine clothes that indicated a wealthy background. So far, you had not managed to make any proper friends. While some of the other students had already formed pretty tight-knit social groups you mostly sat by yourself and avoided parties or get-togethers. Even though you had seen him around you couldn’t quite interpret his intentions.

“I love it,” he said as though he sensed your discomfort. “Not something I or anyone else here would paint but… well, that only makes you stand out.”

“Stand out? I don’t think that’s a good thing.”

“It can be,” he said with a grin. “In my eyes it is.”

“In my experience it’s certainly not.”

He furrowed his brow which created a deep line on his face that drew your eyes back to his handsome features. “I think you’re the most interesting person in the whole room.”

You paused, suddenly feeling a nervous flutter in your belly. No one had ever given you such a plain, direct compliment. “I… thank you.”

“I’m Henry,” he said, smiling at you with more confidence now.

You offered your name, still lost in his honey-brown eyes. With a grin, he nudged your shoulder before trodding back over to his own canvas. As you observed him retreating, you noticed the eyes of the other students lingering on you – only they lacked the same kindness that Henry had offered. You tried not to fidget, telling yourself that people here were different, not like your former classmates who used to make fun of you. No, everyone here loved art, you had one thing in common already, and they were probably just curious.

Still, when you went back to your painting, you couldn’t help but feel like their eyes were still boring holes into your back. You suppressed the influx of anxiety, adding more details to the fur of your hyenas, more blood staining their fangs.

Even though socialising didn’t suddenly come any easier, you loved the freedom in your new life. What surprised you most was that your mother continued with her routines like nothing had happened – working two part time jobs now, going to church and occasionally driving you to your classes when the weather was too bad to walk. She did not seem bothered by the changes in your life. If anything she seemed to slowly come out of her shell and show you more of her true character, a women with interests, opinions and most of all a cheerfulness you had never seen before. Mr Kraan – Jakob as you were allowed to call him now even though you never did – played a big part in that. They kept their relationship mostly away from your eyes but you could tell that they were truly happy, even if money was tight.

Your dad, however, was a different story. He’d cut all ties at this point but not after letting everyone know what a whore he considered your mother to be and that he was not surprised her child turned out to be a corrupted demon worshipper. He stressed how he had always tried to send you on the right path but that your mother’s interventions and betrayal had made it impossible to fight against the evil influences. Not that you’d had much contact to the rest of your family before this transpired but now the only person you truly had left was your mother.

Most days, you suppressed the pain that this caused you, the insecurities, the need to somehow change in order to find friends and build connection. Still, the pain showed in your art, the themes of change, of loss, and not for the first time did you imagine the blood on the fangs of the animals was that of the people who had hurt you.

And yet, despite the pain and loneliness, you had no regrets. You knew your true calling, you felt it vibrating within you whenever you picked up a brush and started to paint. This was right, it was what you were made for, and not even the pain of having a father who refused you could change that. You’d seen how unhappy your mother had been, changing herself in order to fit into a family that would never accept her, and she never failed to remind you that you had to find the people who loved you for who you were. If that took you another decade then so be it.

“Hey again.”

Henry’s voice ripped you from your musings and you realised that class was over, that everyone was cleaning their supplies and packing up. As you tuned back in, you heard the rustling of bags, the running of water, Henry’s steps on the linoleum floor.

“Hey,” you replied. “Sorry, I was distracted.”

“I’ve noticed you can get really… in the zone.” He chuckled. “If you can tear yourself away from your painting maybe you’d like to join me for a walk and a drink?”

For a second you didn’t trust your ears. “A drink?”

“Yeah, there’s a bar down the road, we could have a light dinner and a drink, if you want.” His brows rose, his lips curling into a flirty grin. “My treat of course.”

Your hesitation made way for nervousness at the prospect of this being a date or at the very least a meeting with someone who clearly wants to get to know you. “I mean, yes, sure, why not?”

“Great! I’ll wait outside for you.”

With another charming smile, Henry left you to clean up your own materials. As you did, you couldn’t help but grin stupidly to yourself. You had no idea where his sudden interest came from but it was the first time ever a boy had approached you, a man, really. And an attractive one at that, one that had no reason to do so but his genuine interest.

Before you followed Henry outside you washed your hands, cooling your heated cheeks with the cold water that streamed from the old faucets in the classroom. Perhaps your life was finally turning into what you’d always hoped it would, slowly but surely changing into one that would involve other people. Perhaps you could finally find someone who truly cared for you.

✦ ✧ ✦

His eyes scan the pews for your face. Copia won’t start Black Mass before he has found you, before he has anchored himself in the safety of your gaze. The past twenty-four hours have been riddled with anxiety and the only way to calm his racing mind was to think of you, to spend every free minute he had on his phone, swiping through pictures of your face he could get lost in.

Clad in his ornate robes now, he starts to feel the familiar surge of confidence, driven by the eyes of the whole congregation staring up at him in crackling anticipation. It’s the promise of a night no one in the chapel will ever forget, upholding a deep connection to the Dark Lord that will last all night, embodied by energetic dancing and the celebration of all that is considered unholy, sinning in the name of Lucifer as well as Copia, their Papa. In an hour, the clock will strike midnight, ending Mass and ringing in his fiftieth birthday, a party that may stretch out well into the early hours of the morning.

Copia takes a deep breath as the last few Siblings take their places. He finds you among them, sitting down closer to the front than usual, your eyes already trained on him. And by Satan, you look beautiful tonight, dressed up just for him – an elegant shorter habit with a laced bodice that reveals more of your shape than the standard ones. Your body seems even more enticing now that it is veiled, waiting for him to unwrap you later as a reward for getting through the night. He reminds himself to focus back on your eyes, to use the kindness and pride he sees in them as a catalyst for his own confidence.

The bells chime eleven times not long after and Copia commences. Mass blurs into a familiar play, the same choreography, the same theatre, the lines etched into his mind after he spend all day writing his sermon, repeating it over and over in fear of forgetting in the heat of the moment.

He does not forget.

As he reminds the congregation of the importance of unconditional support in times where a significant part of humanity has grown selfish and unkind, he sees you smiling up at him as your head bobs your agreement. The corners of his mouth move into a mirroring smile and his voice earns the extra pinch of fervour that has the congregation nodding along vehemently at his every word.

When the bells chime again from the tower above the chapel, he feels the weight of the past few days falling off his shoulders and as the congregations turns into a choir before him, singing him a happy birthday, he wears the first genuine smile of the day.

Happy Birthday, dear Papa, happy birthday to you.

✦ ✧ ✦

Within fifteen minutes the pews have been rearranged, instruments, amplifiers and speakers brought in, tables filled with an open buffet and a small bar area. Exaggerated spotlights make the chapel burst into a colourful explosion of lights that reflect beautifully in the stained glass windows and bounce off the painted stone walls. Even before the music starts playing everyone who isn’t helping out is dancing in the now open space. A few hooded ghouls – Secondo’s you assume – have set up on stage and soon familiar rock tunes are echoing across the high walls of the nave. Where they stand before the altar the lights are swallowed by the shadows wafting from underneath their hoods, their aura one of mystery and infernal magic.

A few steps away from them Copia shakes hands, receives the joyful congratulations of Siblings and higher ranking clergy members alike. As he sheds his robes, you can’t help but gasp as you spot the very outfit you asked him about a while ago – the military inspired jacket he wore in the video Sybil sent you, a black shirt with frills and the embellished vest that clings so tightly to his torso, the ripped jeans and slightly raised boots that make his legs appear long and firm. You feel a burning heat rising to your face at the sight, wondering if he’s wearing it for you, if he knows that you’re already waiting for this night to end so that you can have him for yourself again. He is so very handsome, so majestic, so powerful. This image of him is hard to combine with the one you saw last night, with the struggles and doubts and insecurities he’s been hinting at. He looks otherworldly compared to every single person who approaches him, the perfect image of an infernal representative. But it makes sense now – how he managed to hide his anxieties from everyone else for so long that they threaten to burst from him now. He can act the part, he has done so for way too long, but there is only so much he can take.

“You’re staring, Botticelli.”

You reluctantly tear your gaze away from him to spot Sybil by your side who was neatly arranging her trays of cookies by the buffet just a few minutes earlier. “He is so handsome,” you can’t help but tell her. “I wish I could go up to him.”

“You can,” she says. “But it might be a bit awkward if you ravish each other in front of everyone.”

You playfully hit her shoulder. “I’ll have enough time with him later. Should we get a drink to start off the night? I want more of your cookies as well.”

“Sounds good to me.”

On your way to the buffet you find Erin and Sven who are discussing the details of the light design in the chapel. You follow them to get your drinks and linger by the side of the buffet, waiting for another group of Siblings to fill their plates.

“I suggested the colourful spotlights,” Sven informs you the moment he has your attention. “Glad that you’re here to witness them, I thought an artist might appreciate the thought I put into it. Unlike certain other people in the room.”

You smile at him, noting how Erin rolls her eyes in a spectacular grimace. “It does look great, I was admiring earlier how they reflect in the windows.”

Sven gloats at her, his eyes as big as saucers. “See? Someone gets it, you’re just ignorant.”

She exhales loudly in reply and pours herself another drink, purposely turning away from him. You notice Sybil hovering by your side, visibly insecure about how she should approach her while her eyes bore into Erin’s back. You remember her worries from the last time you spoke, how she told you Erin was pulling away from her. There is no pulling away tonight.

“Do you want a moment alone with her?” you whisper, reaching out for her hand.

Sybil gives you a grateful smile, her tense features melting into a hopeful expression as she nods. “Please.”

You squeeze her hand one last time, then you turn back to Sven. “So, tell me more about the lights? Maybe you can show me where they are?”

“Oh, I would absolutely love that” he says. “So actually the ones that reflect against the windows have been placed against the pillars in the front, so they’re not in the way when people dance, tripping hazard and all…”

You follow him closer to the dance floor, leaving Sybil behind with a sense of nervous anticipation, hoping that she can settle matters with Erin tonight and confront her about her feelings. If anyone deserves to be happily in love then it’s her, even more so than you do. Within seconds you’re distracted by the people around you, the music picks up as the ghouls transition from their warm up songs into even heavier metal and rock sounds. You haven’t heard any live music in quite some time and when you feel the bass vibrating through your bones you wonder why you deprived yourself of this joy for so long.

“This was also my idea,” Sven continues. “The lights that we put behind the altar? I said that we should have them pointing upwards to elongate the high ceilings even more, you know? Makes the party feel a little less crowded which helps for people who get anxious in tight spaces.”

You nod, not disinterested per se but also not as entertained as you’d wish to be tonight. Your eyes flicker through the crowd until you spot Copia again, still kept busy close to the buffet where people cornered him the moment Black Mass stopped. You wonder how he’s doing, if he’s enjoying the attention after all or if his nerves are still in a frenzy. Not for the first time tonight do you wish that you could just be with him, stand by his side, hold his hand and even dance with him to the bass-heavy music, feel the leather of his vest under your fingertips as he moves his hips in sync with yours.

“I know not many people are passionate about stage design, especially the lighting arrangements, but it’s really been my dream to go on tour with the band at some point.”

“I hope that works out for you,” you tell Sven, raising your voice to drown out the music.

He thanks you, momentarily distracted by another Sibling who grabs his arm and twirls him around, urging him to dance or get off the dance floor. You look back to where you left Sybil, finding her and Erin closer to one of the pillars now, mouths pressed together and hands wandering in a way that makes you feel like an intruder. You smile to yourself, turning back to Sven so he doesn’t feel neglected. Perhaps you can enjoy yourself, you think, even if your friend is busy elsewhere.

✦ ✧ ✦

“What are we celebrating again?”

Papa Nihil carefully piles all sorts of treats onto his plate from the buffet that the Siblings of Sin have been preparing for most of the day. Copia, usually fond of food, especially the dessert department, has not touched a single thing all night.

“His birthday. And his first tour as Papa,” Sister reminds the old man, helping him balance his plate while Copia stands close by with a glass of wine that Terzo just poured for him.

Nihil scoffs. “What is so special about this anyway? Two weeks of touring? He didn’t win any awards, he didn’t even tour in America.”

“Well, he just started a few months ago.”

“He has been singing for years now. And so far he hasn’t done much as Papa.”

Sister playfully rolls her eyes but Copia can’t help but feel his stomach dropping. It may have been naive but there has always been this tiny part of him that hoped that being Papa would finally earn him Nihil’s respect – or at least his approval. It is crushing enough that his father doesn’t think him to be a good singer and performer but it is even worse that he’s criticising him as Papa. Nihil, who has given up all care for the congregation, Nihil who has never set foot into Copia’s new office, who is only sitting in on meetings, dismissing any suggestion Copia has ever made before considering its meaning. Nihil who has never acknowledged him as his son.

“I see your painter is here as well, eh?” Terzo says, filling his own glass with the deep red Italian wine – chosen by Secondo for the special occasion. Copia hasn’t tried it yet, his throat feels so tight that he’s not sure anything could pass the knot in there. At the mention of you his cheeks warm up anyway, even without the alcohol.

“A pretty young thing,” Nihil comments. “No wonder he is so distracted.”

“I’m not distracted. And I don’t have–”

“Oh, she has an admirer,” he interrupts. “Much younger than him, too. No surprise, his hair is getting very grey.”

Copia whips around. The admirer is one of Sister Sybil’s friends he remembers from Beltane, a young Brother of Blasphemy. Not much of an admirer, Copia knows this, but his family seeing you with him is just another dig he doesn’t need today. Every one loves to remind him that he is fifty now, half a century old, and that all eyes are on him now that he is Papa. He’s not sure how much more about his appearance he can change before he won’t recognise himself at all anymore.

Within seconds the high he was on during mass dissipates and he falls and falls and falls, landing without cushioning at the bottom of the very pit he only just managed to drag himself out of. There is a distinct fear growing inside of him that may be irrational in size but not irrational in realism. He could fail as Papa, fail the clergy, fail musically, fail the expectations that rest on his shoulders from all sides. But then he could also fail you which might be even worse than any of his other fears. He is so much older, he is so busy and most of all he is not sure what a serious relationship would even mean now that he is Papa. Could he protect you from the clergy if it really came down to it? He told you you would be living according to your own wishes but suddenly the naive sense of security he felt when you two were alone is leaving him. Sister hardly even lets him in on the grander schemes, he wouldn’t be surprised if they found a reason to break you apart. If he lost you he’s sure he would–

“Are you alright, Papino?” Terzo asks.

“Hmm.”

“Sure?”

“Yes,” he snaps, downing the wine rapidly in a way that would make Secondo frown in disapproval. It burns in his tightened throat like acid. “I will mingle now, eh? As you like to call it, fratello.”

Before Terzo can reach for his arm, Copia has already stepped away. In truth he is incredibly overstimulated, has been for most of the party ever since he got cornered by the buffet. This is not at all where he wants to be right now, all the noise, all the people, all of his anxiety seething underneath his barely sealed surface. People constantly approach him, just waiting to spot him by himself or they simply ambush him behind a pillar – wishing him a happy birthday, flirting obnoxiously, inviting him to dance or to drinking games he is not in the mood for – and he can’t see a single spot in the room where he could breathe. He feels like his hand is sizzling on the top of a stove and he can’t find a way to pull it off.

The only area that seems to be quiet now that the dancing is in full swing is the back of the chapel, close to the public exit, farthest away from the dance floor but also farthest away from him. The stone pillars that carry the upper balconies offer some reclusion, protective shadows that are far away from the colourful party lights that surround the dance floor. Copia tries to spot you in the crowd, only to find you once again right next to Brother Sven who is leaning in to whisper in your ear like he has a lot that he needs to tell you. Copia’s had enough of it, if he can’t get his mouth on you in a secluded area within the next few minutes he’ll lose it.

✦ ✧ ✦

You startle when a firm hand wraps around your upper arm and you’re dragged away from Sven, meandering through the crowd while desperately trying not to stumble over anyone’s feet. Copia pulls you with him until you’re both hidden behind the pillars near the entrance. There’s no one around, every one busy dancing and helping themselves to snacks and drinks in the front of the nave. In the dim light, most of this area is wrapped in long shadows cast by the stone pillars and you can’t quite make out his expression.

“Are you alright?” you ask but he’s already pressing you into the cool stone, his fingers digging into your hips as he drags his nose along your cheek to smell you.

“Oh, I am okay,” he whispers. “Sto molto bene, tesoro, non preocuparti.”

He starts to kiss your neck, already losing his patience. His lips are firm and he bites and sucks on your skin, kneading your hips in the same rhythm. Insistent fingers searching for skin contact, teeth that pull at your flesh until it almost hurts. Almost. You feel the need for him trickling into your belly like molten chocolate and you can’t help but gasp when his lips press harder.

“What did he want from you?” he mumbles then.

“Who?”

“The boy.”

“Sven?”

“Hm.”

You moan when his lips press just below your ear. “Just… just chatting. Sybil is busy making out with Erin. Fuck, Copia.”

He growls a little at that, sucking harder. You can’t help but whimper at the mild pain, slightly worried about the marks he’s going to leave with his mouth and painted face. This is not the time nor the opportunity to make out, no matter how much you want to. Anyone could come back here on their way through the door.

“Copia–” You push at his forehead a little but when you feel his makeup smudging under your fingers you quickly pull away. “You don’t have to be jealous.”

“‘m not,” he grumbles, like a child who smashed a window.

“It’s silly. Why would you think I care about him?”

“Not jealous. ‘s not it.”

“Smearing your paint all over me in public doesn’t prove your point.”

At that he finally pulls away, the black around his mouth already gone, giving you an idea of what your neck looks like. “I’m not jealous, I’m pissed,” he repeats and something seems to snap in him. “I should stand by your side and get you drinks and… hold you, be with you, dance with you. This sucks, everything fucking sucks. They won’t leave me alone.”

He’s unusually pent up but you’re not sure who his anger is directed at. “Copia, we agreed on this, you suggested it. It’s not because I don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“Don’t be upset, please.” You lean in to kiss him, short and sweet. When you pull away, you carefully cradle the side of his head. “This is nonsense, okay? You know I only care for you, baby. You know it.”

He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment when you stroke his cheek with your thumb. “I’m sorry, of course I know, tesoro,” he says, much calmer now. “I’m not myself tonight.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

A quick shake of his head. Thick strands of hair fall in his face, messier than usual, and you wonder how many times he ran his hand through it tonight. He truly looks like he’s not himself, avoiding your gaze, glancing around, wringing and playing with his hands more so than usual. When he does look at you, his eyes carry a sort of anxious sadness that you’ve only ever seen scurrying across his face before yesterday – but never settle this deeply into every feature. Has he been feeling like this since last night?

“You should go back,” he says.

“What about you?”

“I’m going back in a bit.”

His voice lacks any sort of conviction. In fact he sounds just as anxious as he looks. “Should we leave together?”

“No, no, I can’t leave,” he says. “You can’t leave.”

“We can if we want to. Who’s gonna stop us?”

“No, tesoro, this is a fun night and you should go and enjoy yourself with your friends.” He makes a shooing motion with his hands. “Now off you go, eh? Have another drink for me.”

Instead of leaving you grab his hands, stopping the gesture. “Copia, I can tell you’re not well. You weren’t well last night and it only got worse. What did you tell me? If we want this to work we have to say what we are thinking. It works both ways, you know.”

“I… I can’t say it right now, ‘strella. I can’t.” The tremor in his voice is what tells you he’s not quiet because he wants to hide anything from you but because he’s desperately trying to hold it together. You fear that if he started to talk about it right now he’d just crumble.

“Copia, it’s okay to ask for help, to need comfort,” you whisper. “It’s also okay if you can’t make it through the night. Please, come with me? Let me be there?”

His eyes find yours, staring like the solution is hidden somewhere in the depths of your pupils. He clearly struggles, trying to find the strength to admit that he does need help. You stroke his gloved hands, squeeze them encouragingly, and finally, reluctantly, he nods.

You pull him out of the chapel, passing by a few Siblings who eye you curiously. No doubt everyone will talk about you leaving the party together tomorrow but that doesn’t matter to you in the moment. All you want is for him to get away from a situation that seems to overwhelm him so much. Ideally, you’d love to take him to the studio and the safe cocoon it has become over the past week but your quarters are more comfortable and you’re not sure you want to risk him having a meltdown in public.

Your residency building is eerily abandoned, though you do pass a door that stands ajar and reveals the sounds from the first of what will be many lustful encounters tonight. It barely registers, even less to Copia who just follows you without uttering a single word. You’re fishing for your key, eager to get him into the silence of your own quarters.

“Let’s go to my bedroom, just in case Sybil comes back,” you say.

He doesn’t reply. You simply usher him through the doors, not even bothering to turn on the lights. Copia sits down on your bed, eyes closed, and lets himself sink back into the soft pillows. His chest rises and falls heavily as he controls his breathing. You let him lie there in peace. Sensing that he needs a moment to himself you take a quick break in the bathroom and then fill a glass with water for him. Once you return to your bedroom you find that he kicked off his shoes and jacket, lying on your bed in just the vest, his frilly shirt and the laced, rat-eaten pants, both of his gloved palms pressing into his eyes like he’s trying to exorcise the anxiety by directly pushing it out of his skull.

“Copia,” you try.

He exhales shakily. Eventually he removes his hands, his lids flickering back open. The make up around his eyes is smudged now but that hardly matters considering the state of the rest of his face. You debate whether you should offer to wash it off for him, get him into some comfy clothes and let him rest but then he suddenly sits up, scoots so his back is resting against the wall.

His eyes connect with yours.

“I did everything,” he says, voice firm even as it trembles. “I changed my looks, I changed… I changed myself, you know? I changed and I worked harder and harder. I try so hard, ’strella, and it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” He takes a deep breath, his lips quivering. “I am not enough.”

“I know you’re trying.” You sit down right next to him on the small edge of the bed, leaning in to kiss his temple. “And you are enough. You’re enough, Copia. You don’t have to change.”

He turns away from you but the stark tremor in his chest betrays him. He’s tensing up in his attempt to hide from you but you can’t let him. Shaky fingers find his cheek and he’s fighting you, he’s stronger, resisting you with all the strength he has. You take his face in both of your hands, plead with him to let you see him. After another long moment he relents and you force him to look at you.

The sight has your heart shattering in your chest. You can feel your own eyes watering and your vision becomes blurry. The hurt in his expression sends a shiver down your spine. He’s crying, his eyes blood-shot and the black make-up glistening wetly. But there is more than just sadness, there are so many fragments of pain that you can’t even begin to piece them together.

“Copia,” you whisper.

At the sound of his name he closes his eyes. A single fat tear rolls down his face, leaving a streak of black paint on his white cheek, and you catch it with your thumb to wipe it away. As you gently stroke his cheekbone, he opens his eyes again.

He’s trying. He’s trying so hard not to break.

But then he does. An earth-shaking sob wrecks his body and then he’s sinking into you, deflating like a balloon, his whole body shaking against yours. You scoot into his lap and wrap your arms around him, move one hand into his hair to draw soothing circles. You’re not sure he can feel it, he’s clinging to you like you’re his lifeline and he’s about to drown.

“Tell me you won’t leave me,” he says urgently. “Ti prego. Please. Please don’t leave me.”

You take his face into your hands again, holding him steady. “Copia, why would I leave you?”

“I am…” He stops, lips quivering. “Patetico. I cry, I… I get overwhelmed. I don’t want people to see me like this. Not you. I want to be strong for you.”

“Copia, you can trust me. You don’t have to hide anything from me. I won’t leave you.”

It rings hollow to tell him all this while you’re still keeping things from him, while you still haven’t found a way to tell him what happened or a way to make sure he’s safe with you. But you need him to know that he can rely on you and maybe he finally starts to understand. He’s staring at you like a deer in the headlights, taking in your words before he starts crying again, silently this time. His lips tremble, eyes only half open, like he doesn’t want to lose sight of you but can’t hold your gaze either. The intense feelings he emits reflect yours in so many ways that you wonder if you are two sides of the same coin, if the reason you are so drawn to each other is that your wounds align in ways that only the other person could ever understand.

“It’s okay,” you say. “You’re safe with me, Copia, you can let it all out. You can tell me anything, okay? I will never judge you, I will not abandon you.”

He shakes his head almost violently. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

“I can’t…” He stops, takes a shaky breath. “I don’t deserve that.”

You feel your own tears running down your cheeks now, hot and wet and only for him. His pain is trying to settle in your chest, heavy and staggering, rattling against your ribcage. You can’t help but let it inside your heart, if only to share it, so it stops feeding on him.

“You deserve it, my darling,” you mumble. “If I deserve your comfort then you deserve mine. We’re the same, Copia. You and I. We have each other now.”

His eyes fully open at that and his hands leave your hips to cradle your face, mirroring you. Thumbs press to your cheeks, wiping at tears, while shaky fingers tilt your head upwards, bringing you closer. Your lips open to release a gasp and his gaze flickers down, a sudden hunger in his eyes that you feel reflected deep inside your belly.

And then suddenly he’s kissing you. Feverishly. Salty wet lips move against yours with silent reverence, pressing in harder until your mouth opens for him. It’s a form of worship, the way he tastes you, like you’re the sole object of his desires. His tongue moves against yours before he explores the rest of you, licking, soothing, sucking. You’re ready to let go, to give into him, but there is still the rational side of you, worried about taking advantage of him.

“Copia,” you whisper against his lips. “Copia.”

He stops, eyes meeting yours in confusion.

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

“Yes, please don’t make me stop. I need you, ‘strella, I need you.”

All you can do is nod. His lips are on yours again, hard, unforgiving, and he pulls you so close that you feel the outline of his erection through his pants. His thighs feel thick underneath you, squeezed tightly between your own and firm against the softness of your ass. With his hands digging into your hips you struggle to move on top of him but even so the friction ignites a fire in your core. Copia brings one hand between your bodies, bunching the hem of your habit around your hips before he slides it underneath the waistband of your panties. He cups your sex with the warm leather, pressing deeper into the softness between your legs.

“Cazzo, so f-fucking wet,” he mumbles into your mouth, groaning when his fingers part your lips and slide down to your entrance. “Can you take me yet, hm? Can you take all of me, tesoro?”

“I–”

You moan when he pushes two fingers inside of you, working you open for him. You can’t help but grind down into his hand, whimpering against his lips as his hot breath fans against your own. Clumsily you kiss him again, teeth and lips connecting in your impatience. But it’s not painful, instead he nibbles softly, sucking at your bottom lip as he curls his fingers, spreading them inside of you until you keen at the pleasure it sends through your body. You have no time to be surprised at how easily he brought you to this point, but you’re acutely aware that his fingers aren’t enough. You need him closer, deeper, until nothing else matters anymore.

“Copia, please–” you try.

“Papa,” he corrects. “It’s Papa tonight.”

You pause for a moment, breaking away enough to see the fire burning in his eyes like never before, like he is seizing back control in the only way he can in that moment. You’re ready to do whatever he asks of you. When he looks at you with such a hunger you’re ready to be fully consumed. And if he needs to break you apart tonight then you’re more than willing to receive him. “My Papa.”

His eyes flicker to your mouth. “Brava ragazza. You want more, hm?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Very good.” He hums, dragging his lips along your neck, biting into the sensitive skin that covers your jugular. “Now try begging again, eh? Maybe I will give you what you want.”

“Please, Papa,” you whine, resuming to roll your hips against his hand. His hot breath tickles your earlobe, the pressure between your legs overwhelming. “I need you so bad. I needed you since I saw you in that outfit.”

“Ah, is that so? I wore it for you, tesoro. Just for you.”

“I love it,” you say. “I was waiting to touch you all night, so desperately.”

He groans, pushing his fingers deeper inside of you until you can feel the ball of his hand pressing against your clit. You jolt, clinging to his shoulders to keep steady as the shockwave tears through you. Copia pumps a few more times, growling when you clench around his digits whenever he hits your most sensitive spots.

“Now what do you need, hm?” he asks finally, his voice breathless and deep. “Tell me, tesoro, tell me what you need.”

“I need you inside of me. I need all of you, Papa, please.”

He hums, pressing a wet kiss to your jaw. “You are so good to me, doing whatever I ask of you. How does your Papa deserve you, eh?”

All you can do is whimper, trying to get him to finally move. He takes pity on you eventually, removing his fingers and pushing them between your lips. You suck your juices off of them while he impatiently pulls at the laces at the back of your habit. When he struggles with the knots you reach back to help him, tearing at the dress until you manage to wrestle it off your body. Thanks to the bodice you had no need of a bra and Copia growls impatiently when he finds you fully exposed to him. His mouth comes down to lick a stripe across your chest, feeling the softness of your breast against his tongue. You arch your back until he can reach your nipples, sucking one of them into his mouth and roughly squeezing the other while his free hand is buried in your hair. He pulls your head back to expose you even further, letting his mouth wander back up until he can playfully bite along your throat. You push your own hand into his hair, scratching his scalp for support as you roll your hips against his.

Copia groans at the friction, letting go of you to grab your hips again. He shifts his weight forward and flips you over, your back hitting the mattress so hard that it makes you bounce up into him. With one swift motion he’s hovering above you, resting his weight on one forearm as he fiddles with the lacings of his pants. His breathing has gone a lot faster, his composure crumbling as he frees his cock from its painful prison and gives it a firm stroke. You watch impatiently, the first few beads of precum dropping onto your lower belly. His vest has fallen open just like most of his shirt, only two weak buttons holding the two sides together. You admire his chest hair, noting that the suspenders that hold up his pants have dug into his skin, leaving red marks in their wake.

“I need to fuck you,” Copia says, exhaling heavily against your face. “I don’t know if I can be gentle, tesoro. I don’t know if I can hold back when I start. I want to claim you, I want to make you mine until you cry my name.”

“Don’t,” you say. “Don’t hold back.”

“Are you s-sure?”

In reply you pull your panties to the side, reaching up to cradle his cheek and give him an encouraging nod. Copia lines himself up with a shaky breath, easing his tip into your entrance. You lift your legs to wrap them around his back, pulling him closer, and he uses the momentum to push further into you. You both groan in tandem, the feeling of your bodies joining again almost overwhelming after the night you had. Cursing, Copia brings his other arm down for more leverage, rocking his hips gently against yours to stretch you a little more. He takes a deep breath through his nose and you let your hands rest on his shoulders, fingers buried in his hair.

Then he starts to thrust. His hips snap against yours, deep and slow at first before he picks up the pace and fucks you into the mattress with an energy you didn’t know he had. The fabric of his jeans chafes your skin at every movement, the distant pain only adding to the intense cocktail of sensations inside of your body. The heat in your belly is rising, the cord tightening as you feel him so deep inside of you that it almost hurts. Copia pants against your ear, resting more of his weight on you now as he reaches back to grab one of your thighs, making room for him to hit you from a better angle. His strained sounds mingle with your own moans and whimpers that every pump of his hips draws from your mouth, a symphony of your devotion to each other.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “S-so good, Papa.”

He growls at the sound of his title, his hard thrusts faltering into a looser rhythm as he angles his hips, rolling them against yours in a way that makes him hit that sensitive spot inside of you with precision. Your sounds gain a higher pitch as you feel yourself getting closer, his own release approaching if his ragged breathing is any indication.

“Touch yourself for me,” he orders, the words coming out sporadically. “Please, I want you to… to come with me. I want to see it, how good… how good I make you feel. That you’re mine, tesoro. You’re mine, all mine.”

You snake one of your hands between your bodies, toying with your clit. His abdomen presses your hand harder against it with every thrust and you cry out, your limbs trembling under the strain as you viciously clench around him, the orgasm running through you like a roaring fire. “Papa, Papa.”

“Yes, just like that.” He groans, hips stuttering as the cord snaps. “Cazzo, I’m going to–”

He stills, hips jerking against yours without purpose as he moans deeply into your ear and spills  heavily inside of you. You slowly come down from your high, every limb burning as Copia falls slack against you, his face buried in your neck. You can feel him trembling on top of you and you can only imagine what kind of intense emotions are shaking him in that moment. As he sheds a few more cathartic tears, you gently trace the lines his muscles paint on his back, whispering soothing words as you hold him. His sobs turn into kisses after a while, reverent lips covering every inch of your neck that is available to him.

“Are you okay?” you ask after a moment.

Copia hums in affirmation, slowly rolling off of you. His face is a mess, eyes glistening wetly, his make-up ruined beyond recognition and spread out over your chest and neck. You lean in for a soft kiss that he returns, pulling you closer with gentle hands. “Was I too rough?”

You shake your head, brushing your nose against his. “It was incredible.”

“Yes? You liked it?”

“Mhm.”

“Good.” He gives a shy smile. “I’m sorry for… for all of this. I lost control.”

You give him a stern look. “Don’t apologise, please. This has been brewing, Copia. I’m glad you let it out for once, I’m glad you let me be there for you.”

He nods weakly, pulling you into a loose embrace. “It was a lot, the past few days.”

“I know, baby.” You reach up to stroke his cheek, cleaning away at least some of the smeared paint. “The party was too much?”

“Yes, but also other things. The clergy, Sister, Papa,” he says, then he swallows thickly. “He said it’s nothing special what we are celebrating. Maybe he is right, it was a short tour and for the tours before I was not Papa yet. Maybe I have to outdo myself, maybe I have to do more. Bigger, better.”

You frown, angry at a man you have hardly ever spoken to. “But you already do so much. You’re not just the leader of the project but also our Papa, you have so many responsibilities here as well. You’re going to tear yourself apart if you continue like that.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, his breathing slowing down. “But even so it’s not enough. Not for Papa at least. I don’t know if he will ever accept me, you know?”

“I understand that.” You press another kiss to his cheek, then one to his jaw. “My father was like that, in some ways. Absent, neglectful, never satisfied. And when he did pay attention to me it was to control me, to try and shape me according to his ideas of how I should live. My mom supported me but she suffered in their marriage, she was very adapted to him until she had enough. I don’t think he ever had a kind word for either of us.”

“What happened?”

You know you can’t tell him the full story yet but perhaps you can start where it matters, slowly opening the door, one inch at a time. “She left him. Well, we both left just before I turned eighteen. I lost contact to my father shortly after.”

“I’m sorry, tesoro. I didn’t know.”

“It’s okay, it’s better that way. At least I don’t have to deal with his dismissive remarks on a daily basis like you. This was supposed to be your night and he ruined it.”

“It is not just today. It has been a lot, over the past few years,” he agrees. “It goes on and on, these small remarks, and they build up, you know? I should stop caring, I know I am doing a good job as Papa, but it is not easy. I just… I just wish he would tell me that he is proud. Just once.”

He sounds like a boy in that moment, like a child. In fact he sounds like you the moment you realised that you would never receive the approval of your father. Even now you struggle with it, just like Copia, and you know that you may never get rid of that nagging wish to heal these wounds.

“Let me clean you, tesoro,” he whispers then and when you attempt to get up, he stops you. “Ah, you stay put, I can do this.”

“The bathroom is to the right.”

He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then he climbs off the bed and fixes his pants. He removes the vest, the shirt underneath crumpled, and he opens the last two buttons as well.

“I didn’t even get to undress you,” you complain, watching him.

Copia smiles down at you. “Next time, tesoro, eh? I will wear it as often as you want.”

You smile and watch him leave the room. For now, you ignore the mess between your legs, the red marks his jeans have left, and crawl over to your dresser where his present is still waiting for him. When Copia returns with a damp cloth, you’ve already sat up.

“Tesoro, what is–”

“Happy Birthday,” you say, handing him the present that you wrapped in cobalt blue paper earlier that day.

Copia sets it down for a moment, running the warm cloth over the skin between your legs with utmost care, then setting it aside. After he sits down at the edge of the mattress he carefully unwraps the mug that you made him after the workshop, a rat on one side and a bat on the other. His eyes widen, a bright smile pulling his lips apart. “Oh, it is beautiful. You made it?”

“I did, with Primo’s help.”

He stares at it with a sparkle in his eyes, his smile contagious as he turns it over and over again, admiring the small paintings on either side. “I will use it every day, tesoro. Thank you.”

You wrap your arms around him from behind, pull him against your bare chest. “It’s not enough to express what you mean to me, Copia. Nothing could ever be enough.”

He sinks back into your embrace, exhaling shakily as a tremor runs through him. “I do not know what I did to deserve you, ‘strella, but I will do whatever it takes to make sure you stay in my life. I promise.”

Lips against his cheek, you squeeze him tighter. After tonight you have no doubt that your bond is stronger than you ever thought possible. Copia opening up to you like this has opened the gates, giving you so much more confidence that this could actually work, that you may be meant for each other after all.

For a long moment, you both stay like this as you run your hand up and down his chest, softly caressing the marks on his soft skin. After a while you pull first his shirt and then the offending suspenders off his shoulders. Copia sighs when the pressure is taken off his skin and you kiss the deepest marks right by his neck, trail the rest of them over his torso.

“You know, this is the first time I am in your room,” he says.

You chuckle against his shoulder. “Well, there is not much to see.”

“Oh there is so much to see, ‘strella. You have my album on your wall.” He lets his eyes roam over your small bedroom, taking in the posters, the shelves. You allow him to stand, inspecting whatever he wants to see. After a moment of taking in his surroundings he kneels down beside one of the shelves, his eyes catching something you’d already forgotten about.

“That’s mine, I think,” he says, weighing the sparkling silver grucifix in his bare hand.

“It is,” you confirm. “I kept it after that night. I don’t know why.”

He smiles, then sets it back down on the shelf. “It is a… what do you call it? A lucky charm.”

You can’t help but smile, noting how very true his words are. Since then your life has improved in many ways, your fears sinking into the background, and now that he is here to reclaim his impact on you, you can’t shake the feeling that fortune is on your side.

“Are these all yours?” he asks, his hand caressing the spines of your old sketchbooks.

“They are.”

“Can I see them?” He gives you the biggest puppy eyes know to mankind. “Please?”

You cringe and he stops, hand hovering in the air right above them. “Not… not those. Some of these sketchbooks lead to not so great memories, a time I don’t want to revisit. I’d rather not open them at all, maybe that’s superstitious.”

“That is okay, tesoro. I will only look at what you show me.”

“You can look at the ones that aren’t in that section,” you tell him. “The ones on the shelf above.”

He picks one of them and then settles back in bed with you. While his back rests against your pillow, you settle with your head on his chest, wrapping yourself tightly around his side. Copia flips through the book, one of many that house your animal studies. He perks up in delight when he sees a section with rats and mice and other rodents, his eyes lingering especially long on those pages that depict his favourites. You allow your own eyes to drift close as the events of the night as well as the sex have worn you out quite a bit. Copia presses a kiss to your hair, his breathing a soft lullaby against your ear. You fall asleep to the sound of rustling pages.

✦ ✧ ✦

When you open your eyes they meet the wall right next to your bed, the lower half of the Prequelle album cover illuminated by the soft moonlight streaming in from outside. A lingering ache between your legs reminds you of what happened earlier but the man responsible for it is nowhere to be found. Through the window you can hear the faint sounds of the party still in full swing and a quick glance reveals a group of Siblings standing outside of their residency building for a smoke. You half expect Primo to chase them away from his roses but it remains quiet, the vibrations of the loud party music all that you’re met with.

With a tired exhale you glance at your phone. 4.13am. Surely he did not go back to his own quarters? Without thinking too much about it you pull an old sleeping shirt over your head and find some leggings to throw on. Sybil must have come back because you can make out the sounds of the television through the walls. When you open the door to the living area you finding her on the couch, Copia right beside her, both wrapped up in her favourite fuzzy blankets. He’s still dressed in the tight pants, his black shirt loosely covering his chest, and his hair is mussed so adorably that you can’t help but smile. If you didn’t know any better you’d think they’re childhood best friends at a sleepover, staying up way past their bedtime.

“She said what?” Copia asks and reaches into the bowl of popcorn on Sybil’s lap.

In return, she nearly jumps from the couch. “She did! Unbelievable right? I told Erin she can’t let her speak to her like that. But Erin wouldn’t hear it of course.”

They’re sitting in your quarters… gossiping?

“Oh, good morning!” Sybil says when she spots your sleepy form by the door.

“It’s four am,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

She shrugs. “Close enough. Do you want to join us?”

“Alright. Where’s Erin by the way.”

“Still sleeping in my bed.”

“Shhhh, he’s about to tell him that his son is the antichrist,” Copia says.

“Why are you watching The Omen again?” You plop down on the couch next to Copia. “We just watched it a few weeks ago.”

“Because it’s a classic, duh.”

“She has a rare taping of it and I asked to watch it.” Copia says, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. He smells like a fresh shower and looks much more relaxed now, a lot more like himself again. “Also, it is my favourite movie.”

“Oh, that explains the tattoo.”

“Tattoo?” Sybil asks.

“Shhhhh,” he hisses again. “Now.”

“Your son, Mr. Thorn. The Son of the Devil. He will kill the unborn child. Then he will kill your wife. And then, when he is certain to inherit all that is yours, then, Mr. Thorn... he will kill you.”

Copia claps his hands happily after he successfully mumbled the dialogue along with the scene. You curl up at his side, resting your head on his chest. He smiles down at you, wrapping his arm tightly around your side to pull you closer. You meet Sybil’s eyes for a moment, the gentle smile playing at her lips giving you a warm tingle that lingers in your belly long after. She reaches out to squeeze your hand for a moment, then settles back in her spot with the popcorn in her lap. You watch the rest of the movie in comfortable silence, munching on popcorn while Copia mouths his favourite parts of the script. You fall asleep against him long before the movie is over.

✦ ✧ ✦

You had been going out with Henry for a few weeks now, having drinks in the evenings, coffee in the afternoons, hanging out in his apartment listening to music and painting side by side. To your request to take things slow he had agreed with understanding and so whenever you got ready to meet him you weren’t as nervous anymore. For that reason you didn’t dress up too much, just some clean clothes, a little bit of make up, even though you did make sure you were wearing nice underwear – just in case.

The past few times you’d mostly just talked, made out a little bit here and there, but overall just got to know each other. He’d told you about his family that was pretty wealthy, how his parents didn’t want him to pursue art but eventually agreed and got him a studio apartment, told him he has to make sure he can make a career out of it or he has to go to med school after all. He seemed to be a relaxed person, someone who hadn’t suffered too much in their life outside of the occasional teenage heartbreak, and that was a big part of what you were drawn to. Someone who was confident, someone who mostly talked about things that were almost mundane and never reminded you of anything unpleasant. He never doubted himself and it was catching.

When you entered the hallway to put on your shoes, you heard your mother and Mr. Kraan talking in the kitchen, their voices low but still echoing beyond the thin walls. By now you were so used to eavesdropping that you did it almost naturally.

“I finally got what you wanted,” your mother said. “But…”

“I know, I will be careful. Thank you, darling.”

“I don’t know if it’s the right thing but–”

“It’ll do,” he said. “I’m running out of money, the last commission was months ago, and it’s getting tight, my love. Anything that helps is welcome.”

“But are you sure this is the right way?”

“It’s as good as any.”

The door swung open, Mr Kraan, a thick book in hand, entering the dim hallway. He glanced at you on the floor as you slipped on your shoes and tied their laces. He didn’t seem bothered but then he seemed to be a lot more relaxed anyway ever since you both moved in. His quiet and stern demeanour had warmed, his affection for you both softening the lines on his face even as the money issues continued on. You’d find a job after this semester, you’d sworn to yourself.

“I’m going out tonight,” you informed him. “I don’t know when I’ll be back yet.”

“Have fun, darling,” your mom called from the kitchen.

“I’ll try to.”

“Who is this boy, hm?” Mr Kraan asked. “Is he any good?”

You chuckled. “Well, his art is very different from ours. He’s mostly into abstract paintings and collages. I do like them though, he has a way with colours.”

“Bring him home some day, hm?”

“I think it’s a bit early for that,” you said with a smile. “But maybe one day.”

As soon as you stood he rested a big hand on your shoulder. Squeezing firmly, he smiled down at you, a fatherly sort of expression that made your heart swell. “Make sure he treats you right, okay?”

You smiled, desperately wanting to hug him, but you didn’t know if he would welcome it. As much as he was a father figure to you, he was still a man you respected deeply, whose art you admired and treasured in a way that was hard to transport with words but that didn’t allow for a closeness of an actual father. What this man had given you was not to be measured, it was beyond anything a blood relative had ever shown you.

“I’ll make sure, don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry. As does your mother.”

He squeezed one more time before his boney hand retreated and he continued down the hall into the studio. You finished your outfit off with a long coat and a scarf to protect you from the wintery air and then you headed out to meet Henry by the movie theatre. He was fond of indie movies and you agreed to watch the latest one that had caught his interest.

When you came back home that night, the air smelt vaguely of smoke.

You shuffled out of your shoes, hung up your coat and made your way into the studio where the smell came from. As you entered the room you were hit with a flashback – the night you came here, sneaking out to perform your ritual and appeal to the spirits to grant you more talent. Suddenly the red-eyed face with the rattling cough appeared before your eyes, a sceptre, a scheme that burst into your face, the sound that came from its throat getting louder and louder until your ears were ringing painfully and you thought it was suffocating. You stumbled backwards, your back hitting the doorframe as your vision faded and the creature was gone. Your chest was heaving in a way you had not noticed before, every breath burning painfully in your lungs like you had inhaled all of the smoke in the room.

The smoke.

You came back to, your eyes beginning to see again. Before you, Mr Kraan was kneeling on the floor, the wood fuming as if it had been burning, all while he rocked gently back and forth. Panic seized you, concern that something had happened to him – a stroke maybe.

“What are you doing?” you asked, trying to keep your voice low as you eyed the dark burnt spot on the floor that you’re sure wasn’t this big before.

He looked up, clearly startled by your question, but his eyes were clear, no numbness, only confusion. “It’s you.”

“I just got home. It’s one a.m. What– what is going on?”

You knelt down beside him, coughing as your lungs struggled for air. He did not reply, just stared at the floor in front of him like he saw something that you could not. There was nothing to be seen anyway, nothing that could have burnt, no ashes, just that deeply black spot that seemed to have grown since you burnt that book all those years ago.

“I… I am having these nightmares,” he said suddenly. “I must have been sleepwalking.”

Sleepwalking? He was not in his pyjamas, he did not look like he had slept at all. “Are you sure? Should we call an ambulance? What if you had a stroke? Do you know what day it is today?”

“I am fine,” he said, rage laced into his voice now as he shoos you away. “I should go back to bed.”

You nodded reluctantly, helping him stand as his knees shook underneath him at the movement. He ducked out of your grasp after a moment of reprieve, stronger now, his legs firm on the ground. You looked after him as he left the room in a state of hurry and you remained in your spot, kneeling down now to where he had been sitting. When you touched the stained wood of the floor it felt warm against your fingertips.

Chapter Text

“The tongue may hide the truth but the eyes—never!”

― Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita

✦ ✧ ✦

Carefree domesticity is not something that you are used to. Even in your childhood, when your parents were still together, domesticity was born out of control, built around your father’s routines that you all bowed to. Later on, living with your mother and Mr Kraan, home became a safe space for a while but it did not last long enough for you to heal, not with money being tight, not with your pathetic social life, not with all that happened soon after you finally thought your life was going somewhere.

Waking up with Copia in an actual bed gives you a taste of what it could feel like.

He snores mildly, eventually waking himself up when he chokes on his own spit. He blinks himself awake, coughing a couple of times, before he spots you right in front of him. You’re on your side, observing him with a smile, and he scrunches up his whole face as if to hide from your eyes.

“Are you watching me?”

You have to giggle at his pouty expression. “You’re cute.”

“Cute, eh?” He rolls onto his back, meeting the wall with his behind. “Ow. Oh, this is too tight here.”

Butt first, he scoots in your direction until he can safely rest on his back. Bare hands run over his face, rubbing the remaining sleep away and waking his muscles. Before you went back to bed at six am, he’d finally undressed, and thankfully you have access to all of him now. You start by running your hand over his soft belly, caressing the hairy, freckled skin there with gentle fingertips. Copia yawns, then opens his arms so you can snuggle back into him and continue exploring with your hands.

“How do you feel, my birthday boy?” you ask, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

“I feel good, ‘strellina,” he says. “Very good. Well, a little achy, eh? After last night. But my heart feels lighter now.”

You smile and place your hand in the centre of his chest where it beats a steady rhythm against your palm. “Hm, it feels lighter too.”

He chuckles and pulls you in for a lingering forehead kiss, his arms wrapping around your middle to secure you against him. Despite the lack of clothing he radiates warmth and you roll halfway on top of him for more. His hand finds your hair, fingertips drawing lazy patterns on your scalp that almost lull you back to sleep.

“How do you feel, my baby?” he asks, his voice still a little rough.

Your heart beats faster at the name, at the way the words soften on his tongue and his whole body relaxes against yours. Perhaps you should be used to it by now but even so your affection for him overwhelms you sometimes, that jittery feeling of butterflies spreading their wings in your belly. With hot cheeks you bury your face in his neck, breathing in the remainders of cologne and shower gel that cling to him. “I’m fine.”

“Fine?”

“Mhm. I’m great, I’m… happy.”

He stills and it has the desired effect. You look up with a furrowed brow and with his face bare it’s so easy to spot how his emotions settle in his features. He looks vulnerable but not in the desperate, panicked way he did last night. No, it’s the way he looks at you whenever you reveal a part of yourself he hasn’t seen before. “Say it again, please.”

“You make me happy, Copia,” you whisper. “So happy.”

His hand tightens in your hair and he pulls you down so he can smash your mouth to his. You moan, feeling him opening up underneath you until his tongue begs you for entrance. You meet it with yours before allowing him to take what he needs, kissing you as deeply as he wants to. Eager hands squeeze your body, running down your back only to settle on your hips where he massages the supple flesh. You can’t help but moan once more, squeezing the softness of his love handles, before moving to touch whatever you can reach – his hips, belly, his chest. Copia sighs into the kiss and loses some of his urgency. His lips move slower, with less bruising force, and his massage softens into more deliberate caresses. The rhythm is sensual now, your bodies falling into a gentle dance you could get lost in.

“I want you,” he whispers against your lips. “How is it that I want you, always, no matter what you do? You have bewitched me.”

You smile and press more kisses to the corner of his mouth, to his cheek and jaw. “If I have then I have bewitched myself as well. I can never get enough of you, Copia.”

“Fuck.” His breathing grows heavier and his hips jump at your words, his cock swelling against your thigh. “Perhaps breakfast can wait, eh?”

You grin and fully roll on top of him. Today is all about him and you won’t let anyone rush you.

✦ ✧ ✦

You watch from the softness of your bed as Copia gets dressed, meticulous as always, lacing his pants and buttoning his shirt with so much focus that you have enough time for a quick sketch. You observe him fixing his hair in a small standing mirror, then watch as he smoothes out his eyebrows and turns to you with big eyes and a shy smile.

“Are you drawing me again, tesoro?”

You give him a guilty grin. “Maybe.”

“Are you not getting sick of me, hm?”

“Never.”

You close the sketchbook and place it on your nightstand before getting up on your knees, sinking into the mattress as you wrap your arms around his neck. Your lips find his automatically and his now gloved hands slide down your naked shoulders. They linger in the dip of your lower back and he presses your front to his until you feel the softness of his belly against your own.

“I think Sybil is baking,” you say when you break away, noticing the delicious smell from your shared living room that’s slowly passing underneath your door. “I should get dressed so we can see about breakfast.”

Copia squeezes your butt between his fingers, pressing you to his front for a moment longer with his lips glued to your neck. “If you have to,” he finally relents and lets go.

You chuckle and scoot over to where you can reach your underwear drawer. Your room is far too small for two people but you’ll make do if it means you get to have him here today. Perhaps you can have him here more often, now that Sybil knows. You’re not sure how obvious it would be to the other Siblings.

When you finally make it out of your bedroom, your quarters smell almost as intensely as the kitchens – only way more pleasing. Sybil and Erin are working on a cake that may be small in diameter but has three whole levels that they’re currently drenching in blue frosting.

“Oh, good morning Papa,” Sybil says. “Actually, this is for you. It’s a bit smaller than I would like but the new oven really isn’t big enough. Happy birthday again!”

“Happy birthday, Papa,” Erin says before grinning at you with a hint of insecurity.

Copia stops for a second, just staring at it as though it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever seen. And it is gorgeous, inspired by his Papal robes in all blue and black with fruit ornaments in different colours that imitate the jewels. You reach for his hand and squeeze it, hoping that he understands how adored he is, not just by you but by everyone.

“Oh, it is perfect, thank you, thank you.” He takes a step closer. “It is very pretty. You made this?”

“I did.” Sybil smiles brightly and they stop twiddling with the decorations to clean up the mess they left. You force Copia onto the couch since there’s not really any other space to eat at anyway and the kitchen area is too small. You join Sybil to start on some coffee, which luckily you still have enough of for all of you.

“I hope cake for breakfast is okay,” she says. “Because ugh… we really don’t have much else, I used all the eggs and milk for baking, so…”

“It’s fine,” you tell her. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Of course. He’s my Papa as well.” She winks at you. “Not like that, but…”

“Don’t,” Erin interrupts with a grimace. “Also, how the hell did I not know you two were… well, whatever you are.”

You press your lips together, filling the machine with water. “You’ll keep it to yourself for now, right?”

She nods automatically. “I will. Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply… I mean, I get it.”

While you’re still debating whether you can trust her or not, Sybil cuts off a few slices of the cake, spreading them out on her pink ceramic plates that she told you she reserves for special occasions only – which is why you’ve never used them before. You carry two slices over to Copia while Sybil and Erin wait for the coffee to brew. He looks at you with big wet eyes, staring at the cake once he takes hold of his own plate.

“This… it means a lot to me,” he whispers to you and you lean in to press a tender kiss to his cheek.

“You deserve a nice birthday,” you assure him. “You deserve all the nice things, Copia. Just because you’re you, because you mean so much to us. We all adore you.”

He gives a soft chuckle but he can’t hide the way his eyes glisten with unshed tears. You wonder how he usually spends his birthdays, if he’s never had a self-made cake before or people who want to spend the day with him. Perhaps he was just too busy or too far away in distant Ministry branches for most of his life, and with his father not accepting him, not even Sister fully admitting to their relations, you can imagine that he lacked any heartfelt or at least comfortable celebrations with no familial tensions.

“Coffee for Papa,” Erin says, handing a cup to him that he accepts gratefully.

You both wait until she and Sybil join you before you finally dig in. Your tongue is met with a dreamy combination of sweet cream, sliced pears and fluffy cake that practically melts in your mouth, another testament to your roommate’s skills that go way beyond cookies. Copia lets out tiny moans at every bite and you can’t help but smile at how Sybil is beaming under his praise. You have no doubt that the cake will be demolished over the rest of the day with nothing but crumbs left over.

“So, I thought we could play some games today?” Sybil asks. “That is… if you stay, Papa?”

Copia smiles and you lean into him as if to urge him to say yes. He pats your thigh, nodding. “I would like that a lot.”

✦ ✧ ✦

“Where were you, C? I was looking for you all day yesterday.”

Copia is sitting behind his desk with his new mug in hand that’s filled to the brim with hot chocolate, listening to Sister but also not really listening. She stormed into his office first thing on Monday morning and he is not surprised, he spent two nights in a row in your bed and she had no way of knowing where he was. Usually, he spends most of his weekends in his quarters, watching movies, gaming, catching up on some sleep and eating instant food before cramming in some last minute preparations for Sunday’s Black Mass. But now… well, he’s got many more ways to spend his time.

“I was busy,” he says. “Birthday weekend, you see?”

“I see that, yes.” She furrows her brow, pursing her lips. “You left the party without saying anything. People were looking for their Papa.”

“I know. I am sorry, okie dokie, Sis? I needed a break.”

“That’s all you have to say?”

“I was…” He falters, unwilling to tell her anything, not since their talk in the library. He sets down the mug, carefully spreading his gloved hands on his desk to ground himself. “I am here now, no?”

“Were you with the artist again? She gave you this mug, did she not?”

That’s how she gets him. His words catch in his throat and his ears must be glowing red as the butterflies in his belly explode and the heat rises to his head. The only sound in the room is Sister tapping her foot impatiently. He wants to tell her that you have a name, that you are far more than just the artist but he can’t bring himself to talk. It feels too… private.

At his flustered reaction she stops, uncrosses her arms and gives him a knowing look. “Well, in that case…” A deep motherly sigh and her expression softens in a way that makes him relax at last. “I just wanted to give you your present.”

She hands him a carefully wrapped box with a bright red ribbon and an attached card that reads: Happy Birthday, C! He unwraps the box to find two new pairs of black Nike socks and another pair with a fun pattern of rats and tiny cheese slices. “Oh, thank you, thank you,” he says, smiling coyly. “These are… nice.”

“You’re welcome, C,” Sister says, observing him as closely as always. She must be spotting the tension on his face, the way his expression is but a shadow of an honest smile. “Is there anything else we should speak of?”

“Oh, eh… there is one thing.” He braces himself, scared to approach this topic, scared to admit to the way he’s struggled for the past few months. But the comfort and reassurance from the past two days with you give him confidence. Enough confidence to broach this subject with Sister, now that she’s here. “I thought we could… we could change up my eh… my responsibilities. Maybe, maybe spread them out a bit more… It is a lot of work, right now, with the band and all the other tasks. Too much for one Papa.”

“Well, we could certainly have your assistant come in every day to help with the administrative tasks, so you have some more time for… other things,” Sister offers skeptically. “If you are in a committed relationship, C, then we should consider dedicating some time to…”

“No, no,” he interrupts. “It is eh… I do not wish for it to be public. Yet. Not yet.”

“Well, that is unavoidable. You are Papa now, C, and whatever you do is in the interest of the clergy and the congregation… A committed partner can strengthen your Papacy, so would a few heirs, of course, if she agrees. I would encourage it if you are certain about her. Unless… she is not willing to fill this role?”

“We have not… discussed this. It is eh… it is very new, you see? I think this would be a bit too fast.”

“Hm.” She taps her foot again now, always a sign of her impatience, of dissatisfaction. “Well, in that case I suggest you bring this topic up soon, so you are not wasting your time. I will make sure to change your schedules.”

Copia merely nods, glad that this conversation went over comparatively smoothly. Sister leaves without any other complaints and he tries to get back to work, signing reports and budget plans for the coming months. However, with this conversation out of the way, he feels increasingly restless. Of course he has thought about it, making it official. Not in the sense Sister means, no, he has no interest and being all too public about it or allowing the clergy to meddle, but he would like to tell you how he feels and see if this is what he hopes it is – a proper relationship. The three words have been on the tip of his tongue many, many times, especially this weekend, and he knows perhaps it is too early, perhaps he should not feel this strongly so soon. Yet, he cannot help it and he knows sooner or later they will tumble from his mouth if he wants to or not. Better to plan it, he thinks, to make it romantic and safe for you.

Really, what he needs to do is pay his brother a visit. Secondo will know how to plan a romantic date, surely. He has the culinary expertise that Copia lacks – and the expensive wine.

He stands abruptly to fulfil his newly formed plan. Immediately, a persistent ache digs its claws into his lower back. He hasn’t been this sexually active in quite some time and not even the thrusting on stage prepared him for the physical strain. Not that he plans on stopping either way, not until he can’t walk anymore and needs to be taken to the infirmary. Perhaps he should find some painkillers, though, if he doesn’t want to crawl into Secondo’s office like a pathetic worm.

However, he does not find Secondo in his respective office but in Primo’s. Copia interrupts a vivid discussion about the plans for the summer solstice next month but his brothers don’t seem to mind him showing up. Primo pours him a cup of oddly smelling herbal tea and Copia spends a moment taking in the space around him.

His eldest brother’s office is a peaceful space. While functional, Primo also added his own personal touch and a lot of that, at least since he has grown older, is dedicated to comfort. A plush couch with knitted blankets and cushions lines one of the walls, a small side table with his kettle and tea collection right next to it as well as a large box that is always filled with cookies. The other walls are hidden by large bookshelves and a beautiful old painting of the Ministry Grounds, framed by trees with the orchard and the pond in the centre. Small trinkets as well as a wide range of books fill those spacious shelves, souvenirs from his travels and other paraphernalia that he collected over his long lifetime in the clergy. Many of them are as old as Copia – or older.

“I can see in your eyes that this is not about work, hm, fratello?” Primo asks.

“Eh… no.” He gulps down a sip of still far too hot tea. “It is… about my amore. Or ehhh… not yet my amore. But I hope, well… that she will be soon. Very soon.”

Primo nods with a mild smile, clearly amused by his brother’s obvious infatuation. “What is it that you have planned, then?”

“I want to take her on a date,” Copia explains. “Well, not take her, invite her… to my quarters… for dinner. I want to ask her to be mine, you see? I think it should be private but I still want it to be nice.”

“You want my wine, that is correct?” Secondo asks.

“Ehm… yes. Do you still have some bottles of the Papastrello?”

“Sei fortunato, fratello. I have a few more. Come by my quarters later, hm? They are in the wine fridge.”

“So, I was… I was also hoping that you could teach me a new dish? Something... special? That will impress her?”

“I do not think you should make something very complex, fratello. A dish you both like and that will not distract you from your amore is better, hm? Something that does not stress you and that does not keep you in the kitchen for too long. You can come by this evening and I will help you, yes? We find something.”

Copia nods. He knows how nervous he is going to be even without any complex plans for dinner. And his kitchen is not very useful anyway considering how small it is and that he usually only uses it for reheating take out leftovers or prepared meals whenever he doesn’t manage to get to the refectory in time. A simple pasta dish, then, like Secondo said. Which brings him to a few other contemplations.

Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, postcards, desserts, his kisses, him.

What else can he do to make it perfect? Desserts, yes. He can make some tiramisu, perhaps. It is not too hard if he prepares it in time. Kisses? Those will be plenty, that is the one thing he is sure about. But he still wants to add to the list, try out a few things. What else would make you smile?

For a moment he lets his mind wander, thinking back to all the times he’s seen you before. Flowers, perhaps. He has seen you painting Primo’s roses and Copia noticed that some of them are already blooming outside. He could beg him to sacrifice some of them to a noble cause.

“So, eh… fratellone, maybe you could help me with some flowers? I know, it is early for the roses… but perhaps…”

“My roses?” Primo asks in a tone that borders offence. “The first few only just opened their delicate flowers fratello.”

“I know, I know… but you know she really likes them. She painted them, if you remember?”

“I do remember, sì, but she painted them intact, in the gardens.”

“One or two? For me?”

Primo heaves a sigh, settling deeper in his plush old leather chair that swivels as he leans back. “Va bene. A few and only because you so rarely ask me for anything. Make sure to keep the water fresh so they do not die in a day, yes? Cut the stems before putting them inside, cut them in an angle, not straight like some idiota, hm? Roses have hard stems, not soft, they do not soak up as much.”

“Of course. Yes. I will do my best to paint my thumb green for a day, fratello. It can’t be too hard, no?”

Primo ignores the last bit of his statement with a mild frown. Flower care is not necessarily a forte of many people in the Ministry and more often than not he finds the bouquets he sent Siblings off with to decorate the halls of the old buildings half dead only a day or two later. Admittedly, since taking a few of the Siblings under his wing it got better and yet it pains him whenever he sees anyone trampling his flower bushes or carelessly stumbling over the beds he so carefully arranges every year. Copia is well aware of this as Primo has told him about it many times. When he was still Head of the Treasury, his brother often used to come to him to ask for new funds in order to purchase new flower bulbs and plants after such unfortunate incidents.

“When is this rendezvous, fratello?” Primo asks.

“Ah, I am thinking… Friday?”

“Hm. That is enough time to teach you not to overcook your pasta,” Secondo comments.

Copia smiles, feeling wholly safe within the care and help of his brothers, despite their teasing. They shoot each other a glance and he doesn’t miss the fond smiles that are tugging at their lips. Perhaps he can make this the perfect evening for you, put more effort into it than he has so far. As much as he loves and needs the quiet nights with you, eating take out and being lazy on your little mattress, he wants to show you that there is more. That this is something he plans to treasure forever, that he wants to create a life with you that exists outside of the studio or hidden away in your quarters. He’s not sure yet how he can do this, how he can make it work while also being the Papa everyone else needs him to be, but for the first time in a while he feels hopeful.

✦ ✧ ✦

During the week, you make good progress on the painting. You don’t have to wait for the paint to dry as often anymore, working on individual smaller sections now, and with Copia working away as well you’re not as distracted as you used to be. The brushes feel safe in your hand, the happiness you feel in your private life somehow translating to the painting process and making you feel more confident. The further you come the more certain you are that your choices in composition and lighting were perfect, that this portrait has the potential to be your best work yet.

With June approaching, the weather has found its own upswing and you keep a window open to allow for a gentle breeze to carry the smells of the gardens inside the studio. Fresh air and the ambient noises of the Siblings working outside do wonders for your concentration. So much so that you almost miss the knock at the door towards the end of the week.

When you ask the person to enter you are met by no other face than that of Papa Emeritus III. Terzo smiles coyly at you, a confident little grin that softens your own features into a welcoming smile.

“Good morning, sorella,” he says. “Do you have a moment for Papa, hm?”

“Of course! I am overdue a break anyway.”

You clean your brush as well as your hands before joining the Papa who lures you outside for a walk. The old brick-built walls of the abbey are remains of the original cloister that have since been restored to keep people outside. Sadly, this does not stop them from vandalising the walls from time to time, despite the acceptance among the population steadily growing. The path along its borders is well-trodden, gravel filling in some of the dirt holes caused by frost and rain. Many Siblings use it for their daily jogs or casual walks as it leads through the woods that offer shade and quiet and then back towards the pond and more open areas of the grounds.

Terzo is quiet for the beginning of the walk. He’s dressed in a more standard cassock again, the purple accents glittering in every stray ray of sunlight that spears through the canopy. His hair is greying at the temples, you note, and while his paint is still pristine you can tell he seems to be a bit more casual, a little less combed to perfection. It suits him.

“Papa–”

“Ah, Terzo. Remember?”

You do remember, yet you are still a little uncomfortable with addressing him in such a personal way. “Terzo–”

“I take it you are wondering why I have brought you here?” he asks before allowing you to speak, linking his hands behind his back while he gives you a glance. “Well, first of all, you need to take breaks, sorella. You are a, eh… workaholic, no? Painting until your hands fall off. But I also wanted to see, since it has been some time since we last spoke, how you are faring?”

“Have you taken it upon yourself to become my personal spiritual guide?” you ask with a smile.

“Perhaps a bit, yes,” he says. “You could say I care about the amore of my fratello, hm? You cannot blame me for this.”

“I don’t. I’m just… not used to people reaching out to check in on me.”

“Ah, see? And that is what I thought.” He nods to himself, as though you just confirmed all of his suspicions. “Yes, but you have to get used to it. As far as I am concerned you are family now, sorella, and not just that. It will be… it will be tough, I think. For our Papino.”

“What do you mean?”

“With our father being so…” He takes a deep breath. “Ah, well you must have noticed the family is a bit… odd, no? Things are… difficult, you see? Sister… well, with my… removal… it has created some tensions. It has been long enough that I do not hold it against your Papino, the inner workings of the clergy, they are ominous and they do not work in our favour if we have a mind of our own.  I had to learn it the hard way, that idealism is all well and good but it is useless without power.”

He pauses for a moment, the song of the birds around you replacing his voice. You wonder what really happened back then, what led to him being forced off stage and from the band, but you assume this is a topic you cannot ever broach with him. And with your own secrets you cannot fault anyone for holding theirs close as well.

“Ah, but enough about me,” he finally says. “What I want to tell you is that he needs your support, he does. The old man, he makes it hard for him, and Sister does too with all of her pressuring, no matter if she means well for him or not. It is hard when your father treats you like you are disposable trash, eh?”

You furrow your brow. “Copia said he doesn’t acknowledge that he’s his child, neither does Sister.”

“Ah, I beg you, have you looked at him? Have you looked at my father? We all know it, only the old man is too stupid to understand what is going on. Or more likely he knows but he just does not care which is even worse. We don’t talk about it.” He scoffs. “I know, he comes across as a quirky silly old man but he knows what he is doing, he is not stupid. Have you ever heard of strategic incompetence? He invented it, that old fuck.”

You pause, waiting for Terzo to continue while you stray further and further from the abbey. It’s secluded enough that you don’t meet anyone, especially not during the early afternoon when everyone is still busy with their duties inside or in the gardens.

“What I want to say is that they will not make it easy for you,” Terzo says. “And I wish to prepare you for this. The clergy serves only its own interests. In the end it cares not about our Papino just like it did not care about me or any of my brothers, it cares about the status quo, it cares about its own continuation and they will discard him like they discarded me if he does not live up to their expectations. Now that you two are close, you need to be careful, sorella. And if anything happens, you need to come to Copia or me, okay? No hiding like you did before for so long.”

His warning sits in your ears, drowning out the other noises around you until no birdsong reaches them anymore. You wonder what happens if Sister disapproves of you as Copia’s partner. You’re not as much worried about the approval of Papa Nihil, not since you learnt how he hurt Copia and started to despise the neglect and denial of his own son. Sister however… You have grown to know her as a cunning woman who knows what she wants and while she seems to have a softer, caring side, you’re sure that she won’t be easy to win over. What concerns you even more, however, is that someone could dig into your past now that you’re with Copia, that they could expose things you’re not ready to ever visit again.

“A great family you are getting yourself into.” Terzo chuckles dryly as he leads you along a different path now, one that seems to be a short-cut through the gardens past the orchard and Primo’s workshop. “Maybe now I understand your hesitation.”

“I’ll be on the lookout,” you assure him. “Do you think I have to worry?”

“Not more than you usually seem to do, I think. I am sure you were aware of most of this before which is why I wanted to talk.” He chuckles again, this time it seems more genuine though. “All I am saying that I am prepared to support you if you need it. I have a, how do you say it? A score to settle with them, no?”

Despite his reassurance the conversation has your stomach in knots. You’re aware that being with Copia is not a small thing, that it propels you into a world where you can’t hide away from other people’s attention anymore. The portrait alone would have given you a bigger slice of it than you would usually go for but being with the current Papa is more than you would have believed yourself capable of chewing. And yet, your feelings for Copia have grown so much that you cannot imagine pulling away anymore.

“Thank you,” you finally say when you reach the door that leads back inside. “For the walk and… for looking out for me.”

“Always, sorella. I look out for you and for our Papino. I am sure so do my fratelloni. Support is all around you, yes?”

You nod, trying to believe in his words, trying to believe that you truly aren’t alone anymore in so many ways. Sybil, Terzo, Copia… They have all wormed their ways so deep into your heart that you truly feel like you’re not alone anymore. All you have to do is trust that they’re genuine.

As you watch the former Papa leave, you try to make sense of the exchange. The brushes feel a bit heavier in your hand now, even though you’re grateful for his reassurances. It’s so easy to forget who Copia is when you’re alone. It’s so easy to push away any thoughts of what a future might hold when you’re with the leader of such an important organisation. But you’re determined now, determined to be by his side, to anchor him like he anchors you, and perhaps you don’t have to be scared of the challenges knowing that you won’t be facing them alone.

✦ ✧ ✦

Dear ‘strella,

Allow me to invite you to a date tonight. 7 pm, my quarters.

Many kisses, C.

You read the message again, making sure it really says seven, despite having stared at it for most of the day. Copia inviting you over feels exciting, somehow, making you nervous in the way that only first dates do. It makes no sense, you’re so close already, you’ve spent so many nights together, and yet he makes you feel like a teenager ready to meet their crush at the local movie theatre for the first time. It’s intoxicating.

These past few nights, you’ve slept together in the studio where he appeared sometime after dinner, telling you he had to work a bit longer this week. He had not hinted at having plans for the weekend so you were surprised when you found his text this morning. It felt exciting, it felt new, and you were ready to have it replace any negative dating experiences you made in the past.

Of course you did not want to show up empty-handed, so you got a fresh box of the Italian chocolates that you know he loves from your very first sitting and then went to Primo to ask for some flowers. The old Papa only smirked at you and offered you a bouquet that he said would go well with roses. However, he did not actually offer you any of those, so you weren’t quite sure what he was trying to tell you.

You find out the meaning of Primo’s words as soon as Copia opens the door for you, holding five big, vibrant red roses in a shaky hand. He smiles brightly, if a little nervously, and stares at you for a long moment, taking in your dressed up form. You did your best to look good for him without being too over the top for a private date, a comfortable but still fitted look that shows off your body with your hair done nicely and some jewellery added for good measure. He himself looks incredibly handsome, wearing the outfit from the party, only this time without the military style jacket. He omitted the full face paint but he’d carefully combed his hair back, his greying sideburns standing out a little more prominently today as though he hasn’t shaved them back as far.

“Tesoro you look… you look beautiful,” he says. “I am sorry it was on such short notice, I ah… I wanted it to be a bit of a surprise, you see?”

“That’s alright,” you assure him. “I was indeed very pleasantly surprised.”

“Oh,” he exclaims suddenly, as if he only now took notice of your cargo. “And you brought flowers!”

“I did, uh–” You’re not sure why you’re suddenly without words. The whole exchange feels like you’re on edge for no apparent reason. “I suppose we can just combine them into a larger bouquet? Sorry, I didn’t know you had–”

“Oh, no no. Thank you. It is very sweet of you, tesoro, to bring them. I only ever get flowers on stage. It feels… nice.” He gives a chuckle as he takes the flowers from you and mixes in the roses, combining them to a stunning bouquet that would have been incredibly expensive had you actually purchased it from a florist. “Come inside, now, tesoro, I have dinner and music ready for us.”

You follow him a little coyly, trying not to be too nosy as you take in his quarters. You find yourself in a small entrance area where he keeps his shoes and a small couch to sit on while getting ready. It leads into a living area that also seems to be his bedroom, not very spacious but he made do with a narrow bed, a small couch and coffee table. The whole room seems like it hasn’t changed much over the years, just like he told you a while back.

Copia carries the bouquet over to the coffee table and you take in the details of the room. You see an old tube television, a lava lamp on a small side table by the entrance and an altar with some candles that are burning right now, a record player, posters on the walls as well as a proper painting over the sofa. It’s cozy but it doesn’t feel too personal either, like he has not bothered to furnish or decorate it in a specific way to match his tastes. It feels comfortable all the same.

“I love roses,” you say, trying to strike up casual conversation. “They’re beautiful, thank you.”

Copia stares at you as he places them in a vase he must have already prepared beforehand. You smile at him, more at ease now, and he loosens up as well. “You do, eh? Primo was very generous to let me have them.”

You’re distracted by your surroundings again before you can ask any other questions. Next to his bed, a lamp he must be using for late night reading sits next to a small stack of books. He can’t have touched them in a while since you spend most nights together now, but the titles tell you that he must have acquired them recently. One spine reads GOYA in bold letters, the other book seems to be about European bat species. You recognise the titles from the library and briefly wonder if he picked the subjects specifically for you. Did he read up on your interests?

Before you can ask, soft music fills the quiet space around you, a slowed down version of an ABBA song. Copia’s hand touches your arm, carefully almost as though not to startle you. When you turn to him, you notice his furrowed brow, the way his eyes can’t hide the insecurities deep within.

“What is it?” you ask, placing your hand on his. “Are you okay?”

“I am a little nervous, tesoro, if I can be so honest. I thought you being here would be when you finally see that I am not… not who you think I am. It is eh… I know it is not very special.”

You take his hand in yours, squeezing it reassuringly before linking your fingers with his. “You already told me you haven’t changed your room in a while, remember?”

“Yes, yes, but… I think many people expect me to be different. Not just me but my life. Being with a Papa, it is not as glamorous as it may seem.”

“You mean because you don’t live in an amazing penthouse with luxurious furniture and a private cook who prepares all your meals?” You chuckle. “That’s not at all what I imagined.”

“You say it like it is funny, tesoro!” he complains.

“I didn’t expect any of that, Copia. I know people romanticise power and status and conflate it with living the perfect life but it just… it just wouldn’t be you to live in an ivory tower. This is much more cozy and perfect.”

“Perfect?” he asks, a deep crease of doubt on his forehead.

“It’s you. And that’s perfect to me, yes.”

His brows are drawn together, his eyes glossy, and he leans in to kiss you before you can utter another word of reassurance. Pulling his hands from yours he instead places them on your waist to pull you flush against him and you can’t help but wrap your arms around him to steady yourself. The vest sits tight on his torso and you feel the shape it creates as you let your hands wander along his spine, down to the dip of his waist, then the curve of his butt right underneath, only emphasised by the fitted jeans. You can’t wait to for the chance to undress him later.

“I am glad that I know the real you,” you whisper against his lips. “Because he’s my favourite person ever.”

Copia smiles into the next short kiss before he breaks away to press his lips to your forehead instead. “I am glad that you know him, too. Or that he knows you, amore. That you are here with me.”

You smile, then you are suddenly struck by something he said. Biting your lip nervously, you hold onto his neck, playing with the hair at the nape. He watches you with interest, green and white eye sparkling equally.

“You called me amore,” you say, trying to hold his gaze. “Just now.”

“Oh, I did, didn’t I?”

“It sounds nice.”

The smile spreading on his face is catching and he pulls you into a hug that is so tight that your bra digs into your skin and you wince in discomfort. Not that you care too much. His nose presses below your ear, tickling you with every breath, and you smell his rich cologne, bask in the butterflies it conjures as he holds you like the most precious thing in the world. It feels good, to hold him in his own space, to finally have another puzzle piece to add to the picture you’ve painted of him in your mind. Undeniably, it is the prettiest picture you’ve ever created, one you can’t possible translate into brush strokes on a canvas. It’s not for the world to see like the Papal portrait. This one is yours and yours alone.

He’s everything you could ever want.

“I should serve dinner, amore, before you fall over with hunger, eh?” He breaks away, placing his gloved hands on your cheeks for a moment. “I hope you are okay with some pasta and pesto? I even made it myself! Secondo borrowed me his mortar. He says it is better if you do it like this, even though my wrist hurts now from all the stomping this week.”

You smile and lean into his touch. “Sounds perfect. Do you need any help?”

“Ah, no, no. I just have to boil the pasta,” he explains, letting go of you to disappear into the room right next door. “Do you want some wine?”

You follow him into the doorway, looking into a tiny kitchen area that seems more like a hallway than an actual kitchen. “Sure, should I open it?”

“No! No, I will do it.”

“Copia, you can delegate–”

“No, amore, you are my guest,” he interrupts just as the water starts to boil. “You can sit down on the bed, yes? Let me take care of this. Shoo shoo!”

He playfully waves you back into the other room and with a fond smile you do sit down on the narrow bed. The mattress is bouncy, even though one of the springs digs into your butt and you have to scoot over. The more you look at the room, the more you start to appreciate it for what it is. This is where he’s lived for so long now and it’s so simple, no luxuries, nothing out of the ordinary, and yet it feels more like a home than your own childhood house ever did. Perhaps it’s his smell that lingers in the air, the way his records and VHS tapes are neatly stacked into precious collections, the one section of the room he keeps overly tidy, the retro gaming console under the table or the Hang in there, baby cat poster, but you feel more comfortable here than you ever could in a room with furniture five times as expensive.

At the edge of the bed, right underneath the bedcover, you suddenly spot a fluffy pink corner. When you lean over to inspect it you notice that it’s the blanket you used when you walked down to the pond to watch the bats. You must have left it out in the hallway, you realise. Perhaps he picked it up back then.

Careful steps alert you to his presence. Copia walks over to you, two wine glasses in his hands.

“Is that my blanket?” you ask with a playful smile.

“Oh….” His cheeks are practically glowing. “Uhm, yes, you lost it the night we saw the bats. I uh… I took it with me. To give you back, of course. I must have… must have forgotten.”

“Oh, well it’s Sybil’s, to be fair. She hasn’t missed it yet.”

“She has so many of them,” he says in agreement and hands you a glass. “I hope it is okay if I keep it.”

“I’m sure it is.”

He sits down beside you for a moment, swirling the wine in his glass and smelling it. “This is Secondo’s, a rare Papastrello. I hope you like it, amore. If not I also have water and soda and...”

You clink your glasses, drowning out the next item he lists with the full sound they produce. The wine is velvet smooth on your tongue and you don’t mind it at all. Copia sets down his glass on the coffee table once he took a sip of his own and you place your glass next to his.

“I will finish the food,” he says. “Big hunger or small hunger?”

“Medium hunger?” you suggest. “At least for food.”

Copia smirks and gives you a thumbs up before he disappears again. The next time he shows up he’s holding out two plates filled with spaghetti. The smell that fills the room is fantastic and it looks even better when he hands it to you, the pesto such a vivid green that it stands out even in the dimmed light of the room. After the long day of painting you had, eating such a comforting dish in his presence is exactly what you need.

“This looks great,” you tell him when he sits down beside you, the springy mattress having you bumping into his side.

“It is nothing special,” he says. “But I want to use the time we have, amore, so simple is better, no? Simple but good.”

“It is,” you agree. “And it looks perfect anyway, no matter if it’s fancy or not.”

“Well, I practiced, to be honest.” He gives a small chuckle. “This week, I was not quite honest. I did not work long, I practiced the pesto recipe in secret to get it right. I hope you are not angry.”

“Angry? Of course not.” You can’t help but laugh, not about him but because the thought of him stealing all of Primo’s basil to make pesto every night is just too endearing. Now it makes sense that his wrist hurts. “Copia, you know… you don’t have to try so hard for me. I’m quite happy with take out and sitting on the floor with you.”

“I know.” A small smile appears on his lips. “But I want to give you nice things. I want to make you feel taken care of, okay? I want to take care of you, amore, it fills me with joy.”

You lean in to press a kiss to his cheek, hoping that it conveys your gratitude, before you finally try the food. The pesto is aromatic and intense in flavour and you compliment him while you eat, watching how he beams and his ears turn red at every word of praise. He offers you some tiramisu for dessert and despite being pretty full you share a big bowl with him, feeding each other and kissing the cocoa powder from each other’s lips.

After he put the bowl away and spends a few minutes in the kitchen, cleaning up what needs to be put in the fridge or discarded, Copia reappears and flips the record that has long since stopped, carefully placing the needle back on the surface. The next song that plays is Honey, Honey and he stretches out his hand to you in a silent invitation. You allow him to pull you up and into his arms, immediately twirling you around as you giggle at his enthusiasm. You didn’t think you would be dancing tonight but who could sit still to ABBA?

“You’re a good dancer,” you comment and he does make it easy, leading you in a way that makes you look half as awkward as you usually feel and adding so many playful poses that it feels almost like you’re not even really dancing. You feel less than graceful with your full belly and lack of practice but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Sister made sure I took lessons,” he says. “She always said I had what it takes to be Papa one day.”

“And she was right.”

“Mhm.”

He spins you around one more time and then pulls you flush against him, slowing down his movements and holding you close as the song comes to an end and transitions into a slower tune. He expertly sways his hips, urging yours to follow along to the rhythm he dictates. After a few moment of this he brings his face close to yours until your nose brushes his and you feel his breath against your lips. His hands find your hips, intimately guiding them.

“I don’t dance a lot,” you whisper. “But with you it’s really nice.”

Copia smiles and leans in to kiss you, slowly, carefully, until you’re so focused on it that the dancing stops. His lips open up, his tongue licking along your bottom lip until you give entrance. With the kiss deepening, you sink against him even more. He sighs and cups your cheek, angling your face to his liking. For a long time you just stand there like that, so long that the record stops spinning and all you hear is the quiet white noise of the record player humming in the background.

With your lips swollen, you finally break away and push Copia onto the bed, straddling him as he leans back against the wall.

“This is really nice,” you tell him. “This… date. Everything. You. It’s perfect.”

“It is?” he asks.

You nod and let him pull you into another embrace. Pressing your face against his neck, you take in the feeling of his body against yours. It’s all you really want, all you really need to feel at peace. And to think that he planned this all week, that he made sure you’d feel safe, taken care of, it means more than you could ever express. The feeling is so unfamiliar and yet so comforting, so overwhelming after wanting nothing more than for someone to love you unconditionally for so long. Now that you have him your emotions are hard to understand, hard to contain in their intensity. It feels like you’re not worthy but even that doesn’t matter anymore because he simply accepts you despite of it.

“Are you okay?” Copia asks after a moment.

“I am,” you say. “Just… this is… no one has ever done this for me.”

You sit up a little to look at him, placing your hands on his chest to play with the black fabric of his collar. He seems to feel the shift, the way you avoid his gaze as you try to reign in the feelings.

“You deserve only the best things, amore.” He lifts your chin with his thumb, making sure you look at him. “I will make sure you have it, that you never lack anything.”

“Do you think… do you think this can all work?” you ask a little hesitantly, thinking back to your conversation with Terzo earlier this week. “That everyone will be okay with us being together?”

“I don’t care, ‘strella,” he says unusually serious in his tone, the Papa shining through underneath the softer, sillier Copia you saw all night. “They will have to be okay with it because I am not letting you go again. For nothing, not even this title.”

You shake your head. “Copia, you’re Papa. Nothing is more important than that.”

He scoffs. “Do you truly think that? Because I do not.”

You stare into his eyes, the white one glowing through the shadows that are thrown on his face. “But people are already talking… and you said that the clergy might try and meddle in our relationship.”

“Yes, people know and that is fine,” he explains. “It was unavoidable that they notice, there are many eyes on me. But I will not allow them to tell us how to be together. If anyone tries to make you think that something about it is wrong you will tell me, yes?”

You nod and he relaxes a little, the tension that suddenly built up leaving his body. “With people knowing, I kind of wonder… Are there any exes around here I should be aware of? I’m not… I’m not too familiar with the gossip, I don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

Copia chuckles, his hands squeezing your hips for a moment. “Oh, no… ugh, I haven’t… I haven’t ever really been in a long relationship. I have been intimate with some people of course,” he  throws in. “People of all genders, some of them Siblings here, I don’t care much about these things, though it was not as many as you might think.”

“What do you think I think?”

“That I am as desired as my brothers.” He laughs, a rumble moving through his chest underneath your hands and the same warm fondness in his voice you hear whenever he talks about them. “I wish I was but I am not the one lascivious, cara. Or… maybe I am but just with the right person. I need to feel safe with someone first before I feel it, the desire, you know?”

He’s trying to play it down but you know he is opening up to you, telling you things about himself that he doesn’t just tell anyone. You nod in understanding and give him a sad smile. „I am like this too but for others reasons, I think.“

“What do you mean?“

“Oh, well, you know… I had a few not so great experiences once I was in art school and I just stopped trusting anyone really until I got here. But even then I found it impossible to let anyone touch me like this again. You’re… you’re the first person in a lot of years now.”

„Maybe I was just waiting for you, eh? Maybe we were waiting for each other.“

You can’t help but smile like a love-drunk fool and he lifts his chin towards you like he’s begging for your mouth. You do him the favour and lean in, nuzzling his nose before placing the softest kiss against his lips. Warmth spreads within you. Copia hums and his hands roam your sides, drawing you in closer and closer. Another kiss, longer this time. You run your palms over his chest before working his vest open, desperate to feel him.

“You look so good in this. I’ll never get enough.” Copia shifts to shake it off his shoulders but you grasp them, holding him still with a playful scowl. “My turn. You promised I would get to undress you the next time you wear it.”

“Ah, you are demanding tonight, eh?”

“You spoiled me too much,” you joke and lean in for another kiss, unbuttoning his blouse in the process. You can feel the heat radiating off his skin and when you touch his chest, he’s warm and soft and perfect. Pushing both pieces of clothing as well as the suspenders off his shoulders and placing the garments at the edge of the bed, you free his whole torso and take him in. In this position, his belly is squished into a pudge by the waistband of his tight pants and you can’t help but scoot down to place your lips on it, sucking marks into his skin as you settle between his legs.

“Amore,” Copia says in a breathy voice, his hand buried in your hair.

His complaint is too weak and you don’t stop until you left a couple of red marks on his skin, placed on either side of his dark happy trail in a pattern that resembles a flower with round mouth-shaped petals. His cock is already straining against the laced up cage of his pants and you palm him, watching as Copia squirms on the bed, pushing his hips into your hand.

“No more teasing,” he says and sits up to work on undressing you as well. “I want to feel you, amore.”

You’ll never get tired of this new pet name, you think, and help him remove all of your clothing except for your panties. He immediately pulls you into his lap again, bare chest against chest now, his mouth attached to your neck. It’s heavenly, the feeling of his hair against your soft breasts, the way his nipples brush against yours. Goosebumps run over your whole body, desire and need pulsing underneath your skin.

Impatient to feel more of him, you grasp his hands that are massaging your hips, sliding your fingers into his gloves in an attempt to push them off. Copia moans when they press against his sweaty palms, the leather tight and ungiving from this angle. Within seconds he has pulled them off for you, taking your hands in his now and placing them on his chest where you brush your thumbs over his nipples, drawing a deep sigh from him. You roll your hips for good measure, moaning as your wet core slides over his bulge and the rough laces rub against your clit.

“Cazzo.” He breaks aways, the skin on your neck stinging and burning. “Please, amore.”

You understand, fiddling with the laces to help him get some relief. They come undone easily under the pressure of his half hard cock and you note that he’s again not wearing any underwear. You take him into your hand, gently stroking him until he’s fully hard and leaking from the tip. Copia wriggles underneath you, pushing his pants off his legs until they fall to the floor.

“These need to go,” he orders, pulling at the waistband of your panties until it snaps back against your skin.

You shuffle, quickly taking them off while he strokes himself, spreading precum over his length until it glistens in the dim light of the candles. He’s quite the sight, sitting with his back against the wall, his muscles taut as he works himself up lazily. When you sit back down to hover over his lap, you’re dripping even though he hasn’t even properly touched you yet.

Without wasting a second, Copia grabs your waist and pulls you down further. His cock slides between your wet folds and you both groan at the sensation. For a while it’s all you do, back and forth, his tip rubbing against your clit every time as you breathe whimpers and moans against each other’s lips. His thighs flex underneath you as he angles his legs, trapping you in the cradle of his hips. When you become a bit more frantic with a growing need of him, his cock catches at your entrance and you let the tip slide in, taking more of him with every roll of your pelvis until you’re stretched enough to fully sink down. He feels hot against your sensitive insides, your walls constricting against the intrusion but not unpleasantly. You lift your hips and take him again, still pressed close to him in a way that has your breasts chafing against his chest which sends sparks straight to your core.

You tighten your muscles around him the next time you sink down and he groans somewhere deep in his throat. Spurred on, you try to move faster but he grabs your hips, holding them so tight that you can’t move any further.

“S-slow tonight,” he says. “I want to feel all of it. All of you.”

You nod and pace yourself, kissing him tenderly as you start to ride him. The sensation of him filling you is more intense like this, every inch of him slowly but surely stretching you open. You continue to kiss him, placing your hand on his neck to feel his rapid pulse against your thumb. The next roll of your hips has him sliding in deeper and Copia swallows hard against a moan, his Adam’s apple bobbing against your palm. You whimper, repeating the movement again and again, slowly but deliberately taking him as deep as you can while your mouths are pressed together.

“You feel so good, amore,” he mumbles against you. “So good, so tight.”

You hum and silence him with yet another deep kiss. It feels more intimate than ever, your bodies so closely intertwined on his tiny bed, the world forgotten around you. Copia sucks on your tongue, his hand at the back of your head trapping you against him. His taste is all you need to carry you, even though your movements become sloppier when he kisses you like that. The tension in your core is rising, though your thighs soon start to burn from the position.

Sensing it, his hands move to your ass, and he holds you in a position that allows him to piston up into you. You cry out at the change of angle, the way he hits you so precisely all of a sudden with nothing to prepare you. Copia slows himself down, pushing into you with a groan, hard and deep, every thrust hitting you where you need him so much that your whole body pulsates for him.

You mumble a curse, holding onto his shoulders tightly as you close your eyes, feeling only him, his cock, his lips, his skin and hands and tongue. When you eventually get close from the slow but intense stimulation, you feel your legs trembling on either side of him. Copia pulls you down deep, rocking against you now without the support of his arms. His hand comes to rest on your cheek and you open your eyes, blinking as you take in his hazy eyes. He continues to fuck you, his pubic bone rubbing against your clit in a way that finally throws you over the edge. Copia must be close too. The moment you clench so tightly around him, sucking him in with every movement, he lets out a choked sob, and calls out your name.

“Ti amo,” he whispers. “Ti amo, ti amo, ti amo.”

The words hardly register as your climax rips through you, overwhelming you not just physically but emotionally. Your whole body is shaking, your heart beating faster than ever before, and you feel like you need to cry. Or perhaps you are crying already, you have no way of telling. Your eyes burn either way and you fall against him, limp, trembling and with no energy left.

Copia holds you, letting a few minutes pass as you recover. His hand, moving to your jaw now, angles your face in a way that forces your eyes to meet his. You’re not sure you could hold his gaze if he didn’t constrain you. You feel impossibly vulnerable.

“I love you, ‘strella.” He huffs a soft chuckle, hot air brushing against your lips. “Oh how I love you.”

His words pierce your heart, the way his eyes show you exactly how genuine they are. You want to say it back, you want to, desperately. But the words are stuck in your throat and you cannot wrench them free. You think about what Terzo told you, about the clergy and their influence on him, then you think about how Copia doesn’t even know about your past yet, how he doesn’t truly know who you are and the danger you might pose. And don’t you owe it to him? To be honest? To know who exactly he is saying these words to? How they could harm him and all that he stands for?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I can‘t–”

“No, it is okay, amore, hm? You do not have to say it,” he assures you. “It is early, I know.”

“Copia–”

“Shhhh.” A kiss to your forehead, to each of your leaking eyes, the tip of your nose. “I know, ‘strella, I see it in your eyes, hm? You do not have to say it.”

You nod gratefully and hide your face against his neck, allowing him to pull you as close as physically possible. If he is hurt, he doesn’t show it, and you try to push your own pain as far down as you can. He deserves to know it, deserves to hear it every damn day of his life. You feel guilty in so many ways about your secrets, about not telling him the most essential part of your past, but the fact that he loves you? It has your blood pumping rapidly all the same until your whole body is warm and glowing despite the exhaustion. You drift off with his hand stroking your hair, his lips whispering quiet words of reassurance and affection.

You’re in too deep – there is no way out anymore. And perhaps that’s the final push you need.

Chapter Text

“Every atom of your flesh is as dear to me as my own: in pain and sickness it would still be dear.”

― Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

✦ ✧ ✦

Henry panted, grinding a few more times with notable exhaustion before he rolled off of you and landed with his back on the mattress. Your eyes settled on the high ceiling of his studio apartment and you focussed on your slowly shallowing breath, basking in the afterglow of what you thought to be love-making. You had both yet to say the words, or to really label what was going on in the first place. During the past few weeks you had started to be more intimate, repeatedly, seeing each other every weekend to do nothing but paint and fuck and order in food that he told you his parents were paying for.

Outside of the privacy of his apartment Henry was rather reserved and preferred to take it slow, which wasn’t a problem for you, especially since you were on summer break and working throughout the week to support your mom and Mr Kraan in paying the bills. Your job at the local supermarket wasn’t glamorous, stocking shelves early in the mornings for a ridiculous salary, but it was pretty much the only thing you could find within walking distance.

Henry rolled off the bed without losing any words, heading to take a shower, and you decided to get ready to leave. It was a rainy Sunday and you’d have to be up early tomorrow. Besides, your mom preferred to have you home for the more elaborate Sunday dinners when she actually took the time to cook. Not that you minded, there was nothing quite like a homemade meal.

About half an hour later you unlocked the door with your key, removing the hood of your light jacket that was drenched from the rain. You headed upstairs through the shop where a few of your paintings were displayed to be sold. Life at home had become quite depressing as of late. Since the incident in the studio Mr Kraan was struggling more and more with sleep and he had not produced any paintings that could be sold in quite some time. You weren’t sure what he painted these days as he refused to even show you, but none of his newer works ended up downstairs.

“There you are, sweetheart,” your mom greeted you as you peeked into the kitchen. She was stirring in one of the pots and a hearty aroma filled your nose when you fully entered. At least now she actually enjoyed cooking, you told yourself, and didn’t just do it because your father was expecting it.

“Hey,” you greeted, setting down your bag with dirty clothes you’d brought from spending the past few days at Henry’s. You would wash them later, you decided.

“How is it going?” she asked. “Did you have a nice weekend?”

“We did, yeah.” You sat down on one of the chairs for a moment before you decided you might as well set the table to busy yourself. “I started a new painting, Henry urged me to try my hand on an abstract one.”

“And do you enjoy the process?”

You shrugged, placing three plates on the table. “It’s… different for sure. But probably good to expand my portfolio a little.”

“Don’t bend yourself too far, though,” she said, turning to look at you for a moment. “Your paintings are unique and that’s exactly why you’re so good.”

“Mhm.”

You were not sure. None of your more unconventional paintings had sold. So far you had only sold a couple more basic works and not for much, a few drawings to a customer who seemed to be mostly interested in collecting landscapes of the local area. Overall, you weren’t at a point yet where you could even pay for your own supplies, let alone support yourself without an extra job.

“Hello, little bat. You’re back early.”

You glanced up to find Mr Kraan slouching into the kitchen, looking worse for wear. He seemed endlessly tired these days, plagued by insomnia and horrible nightmares. Your mom got him an appointment in a sleep laboratory in a few weeks and you were hoping they could figure out what was troubling him every night. How haggard and boney he looked, like a skeleton in clothes.

Dinner was spent in comfortable conversation as they asked about Henry, whom, even though they never met him, both of them seemed to be hesitant about. You assured them you’d bring him over eventually, that he was just a bit slower with these things than most people. You told yourself the same thing, over and over and over.

Summer came to a close without many changes to your circumstances. You were excited to return to classes, especially because you did not have much left of your degree and were finally working on bigger projects. The new semester was a blur. You did not have any classes with Henry, who had opted to lean into graphic design and digital art instead of oil painting. Only seeing each other in the evenings or on the weekend made your relationship feel much like it had over break – stable, comfortable, not too constraining.

It was sometime after Christmas that this stability would be shaken. You were usually good about staying on top of your work but with more projects and final assignments looming over your head it was harder to stay organised while meeting your deadlines. Over Christmas break, Henry had gone home to visit family and so you hadn’t seen him for two weeks. When classes resumed you decided to surprise him before one of his classes.

You recognised him immediately when he arrived but he walked right past you with some of his classmates in tow. You called out to him, thinking he might have overlooked you in the hallway, and he eventually did stop at the sound of your voice. The confusion was written all over his friends’ faces, friends you hadn’t even been aware he had, and when he approached you it was with some reluctance.

“Hey,” he said. “I’m about to–”

“I know, sorry.” You were sure your face was glowing by now. “I just wanted to give you your Christmas present.”

“Uhm, thank you. Sorry, I didn’t think I’d see you today so I didn’t bring yours.”

“That’s alright,” you assured him. “I just missed you, is all. We can talk more later.”

“Thanks, yeah. I’ll open it at home, alright?”

“Okay.”

He turned and his friends started to snicker when he rejoined them. As they continued walking you couldn’t help but trail after them, stopping just in front of the door to the classroom they had disappeared into. Their voices still carried outside and you stared at your phone in an attempt to look like you were waiting for someone.

“What was that about?” someone asked. “I didn’t know you were friends with her.”

“I knew you wanted to try and fuck her,” someone else said, “but I didn’t think you’d two hang out. Are you together now?”

“Oh God, no!” Henry laughed and you stood there shaking. “I always wanted to have sex with the freak, you know, but I could never introduce her to my parents. My father would disinherit me if he saw her fucked up paintings.”

The pain stabbed you like a knife, lodged deeply in your chest, and spread into your limbs like you had been physically harmed. You were not sure how you managed to walk back home with your legs shaking and your head pounding. Ignoring your mother who asked why you were already back you locked yourself inside of your bedroom.

When you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, you berated yourself for being dumb enough to think that he actually liked you. It had been so obvious that he never wanted to go further, that you were nothing but a pastime, a diversion. A freak.

Your tears ran so hot it felt like they were burning your face. You choked on your own sobs, curling up to somehow comfort yourself as the betrayal and pain wrecked your body.

You never saw Henry again after that.

✦ ✧ ✦

Monday carries a soft breeze into Copia’s office and he opens the windows wide to beckon it into the stuffy room. For a brief moment he inhales the mild air, expanding his lungs with the sweet smell of blooming flower bushes and the early signs of summer.

Today is a good day. The stack of work on his desk is, for the first time since he can remember, manageable. Sister held true to her word – he now has a full time assistant, Brother Emir, who sorts through his paperwork, plans his schedule and only presents him with the tasks where his own involvement is necessary and encouraged.

Copia feels invigorated, ready to take on the week after spending all weekend with you in his arms and a very successful Sunday Mass that had the highest attendance in the history of the Ministry. Member counts are higher than ever, the Siblings seem happy and life is good, he tells himself, don’t dwell on the small details. His coffee was a little too bitter this morning, sure, he ran out of milk and sugar, all of his socks are in the wash, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow, you didn’t say you love him back. Nothing he can’t handle.

A bird flies past the window, landing on one of the high trees further back towards the woods. He can hear its companions singing, hidden somewhere in the foliage. So what, you didn’t say it. It’s not a big deal. He knows you harbour very deep feelings for him or you would not allow him to be so close, would not look at him like he means the world to you. It’s obvious. No need to actually hear it before you’re ready.

Only he’s not so sure about that. Since he came back from tour things have gone suspiciously smoothly. It seems that his anxiety has shifted from work to this tiny hiccup now, even though the intensity is manageable and he feels like he lost ten pounds of overthinking about work matters alone. He planned to use this date to finally make you his, officially, at least between you both, but now he feels like he’s in a weird limbo. Perhaps he should not have led with a love confession, perhaps he should have just asked you to be his instead and seen from there.

Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, postcards, desserts, his kisses, roses, dancing, ABBA, him.

Him, he reminds himself. You look at him like he’s right on top of that list and you even told him he makes you happy. Surely this is all just because he is too eager, too quick, falling with such speed that he reached the bottom a little faster than you. Eventually, you’re going to land by his side. He can practically see you gliding down, slow like a feather, and he’s ready to catch you once you do.

A knock and the door opens, a rule he and Brother Emir had agreed upon to make their interactions a little easier while they’re both in their respective offices. However, this time he does not bring any more papers and he looks a little uncertain as he hovers in the doorway.

“What is it?” Copia asks. “Sister sent you to bring me more work, eh?”

“No, Papa, nothing of the sort. It’s just that ugh… we found something that we need to take care of…” Emir says. “The question is how. I didn’t know what to tell them and I don’t know who’s authorised–”

“And what is it?” Copia asks, already sensing that he was a little too optimistic in his earlier assessment.

“Well, it’s a matter of ehm… facility management? I think you should see it for yourself, Papa, it’s rather extraordinary. We’ll have to go to the old bell tower.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Your first sitting with Papa since he came back from tour reminds you of your very first. Anxious and a little nervous you wait for him to arrive, only this time you are stressed for different reasons. Since Copia confessed his feelings for you this weekend you’ve been worried. Worried that you’re hurting him, worried that you might never be able to say it, that this is the point in your relationship that decides whether you have a future or not.

That you cannot take that last step.

The weekend itself was beautiful and almost domestic, only interrupted for an hour by Sunday’s Black Mass. You spent it in Copia’s quarters, a place that feels a bit like home to you now after exploring all the little details about his life. You met an even more intimate side of him by spending time in his space, by seeing him interact with his surroundings more familiarly than he ever could in your bedroom or the studio. Getting ready for bed in his bathroom you got to see his toothpaste, his razor and shaving foam, the half-empty bottle of cologne that you could not help but smell every time you were in there, his face paints and skin care products, an assortment of mismatched towels in various sizes and a basket filled with his laundry. You slept in his tiny bed, made love to the sound of his vinyls and watched old VHS tapes of his favourite movies. He showed you his collections, he let you nap on his Star Wars pillow. He told you he loves you.

What more could you possibly want?

The answer is nothing. Copia is perfect for you, what you have is perfect for you, and yet there is something that could ruin it all in a heartbeat. Something you have to tell him soon or it’ll be too late.

“Amore, I brought us juice boxes and sandwiches and–” Copia stops in the doorway, this time carrying a bag and not stumbling into the room. He smiles, then takes in the table behind you. “I see you had the same thought, eh?”

Indeed you stocked up on a few provisions earlier as well and then turned on your soft rock playlist while you prepared the studio, antsy and anxious to see him again. Copia walks up to you and places his own cargo right next to yours before he pulls you against him for a kiss.

“More won’t hurt,” you reply, thinking that it’s hard to believe that you woke up next to him only a few hours ago, his face bare and unshaved and his hair all mussed up. Now he is looking pristine again, all soft-cheeked and perfect, hair slicked back and with clean black lines on his face.

“When we are done today I want to show you something,” he says, nuzzling your nose. “It is a surprise.”

“A surprise?”

Another kiss, slower this time, melting away your anxiety bit by bit. “A surprise, sì. No more details, amore.”

You are not a huge fan of surprises, in part because you are not used to being the centre of attention, but the way he smiles reassures you that it must be a good surprise, one that you are going to like. A bit calmer now you grasp at his shirt, demanding another kiss in hopes that the comfort will finally allow you to paint without jitters. Copia provides, naturally, holding you close while his tongue teases yours. He feels like home, he feels like peace.

When he breaks away it’s with a heavy sigh of regret. “Ah, now we work, eh? I am not here for fun as much as I want to keep going.”

“Right,” you agree, reluctantly letting go of him. “This should be one of our last sittings. I don’t think I will need many more.”

Copia’s gaze shifts to the canvas. Even though he has been keeping up with your progress his eyes always light up when he sees the painting. “It is marvellous already. A masterpiece.”

“A lot of the details are still missing but we’re slowly getting there.”

“Even so, it is impressive. You are the greatest artist I have ever met and I am not saying it because you are my amore. No, you are incredible, ’strella. It will be the best painting these walls have ever seen, I know it.”

You smile, the way he calls you amore still new and exciting. “I’m glad you approve, that gives me hope Sister will as well.”

“She will, it is even better than anyone could have expected. Oh, Terzo will be jealous when everyone declares it to be the best Papa portrait of all time!”

A dirty chuckle and another soft kiss, to your forehead this time, before he grabs a juice box and gets in position.

You’re lucky that the sun is out today and you get another good look at all the details on his robes that currently give you the most trouble. The intricate ornamentations are a test on your patience, even though you have done many detailed paintings in the past. However, the way they sparkle and reflect the light is mesmerising – a captivating feeling that you simply have to replicate to perfection in your painting. Again you’re struck by how regal Copia looks with the chasuble and mitre, how dignified and powerful. He is not simply handsome or a little intimidating with his paints. No, he is a striking embodiment of the Church he stands for. When you paint him like this it’s easy to believe that he is Lucifer’s chosen, an image of the bringer of light here on Earth. You could bask in his radiance until the end of all days.

However, after a mere two hours the sun hides away behind a few thick cumulus clouds that creep ever so slightly across the sky. You finish up the last light details that you still caught with your eyes and then decide to cut the session short before he grows too tired.

Copia and you share a few more of the sandwiches after you cleaned up, sitting comfortably on your little mattress where Mona the plushie has been waiting for you all day. You haven’t slept here in a while now, though there is still a very conspicuously mouth-shaped black stain on one of the pillows.

“So, that surprise…” you start, taking a sip of your apple juice.

“Are you impatient, amore?” he asks, wiping some of the excess cream cheese from his chin.

You lean in to kiss the very spot, running your tongue up to the corner of his mouth, and he sighs wistfully. His hand finds your knee and he squeezes, allowing his hand to travel down to your thigh.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “Unless the surprise was just a way for you to tell me that you have another hour for more of this.”

Copia chuckles. “Sadly, no. It does not involve any kisses.”

“Sounds like it’s not worth it, then.”

“Oh, you will disagree once you see what it is.”

You break away and look at him. His eyes sparkle in anticipation, or perhaps it’s the impatience he accused you of. Complying, you finish up your mozzarella sandwich so that you can finally follow him to the destination of this ominous surprise.

Copia has discarded his robes and mitre and looks almost casual with his black sleeves rolled up when you leave the studio, revealing his taut forearms with the thick dark hair. He’s antsy, skipping down the stairs as he leads you out of the main administrative building and into the back entrance of the chapel it’s connected to. You only feel a handful of eyes on you throughout, the corridors mostly empty now that evening slowly approaches and everyone is free to be outside.

Your nerves flutter the closer you get. The chapel itself is abandoned save for two Sisters who light a candle in the designated alcove. They sit in silent prayer and do not notice you when Copia leads you away from them and into the entrance hall. It’s gloomy here without the huge stained glass windows, the floor and walls made of old stone. On the left and right side to the door, a staircase each leads up into the twin bell towers, one of which has been abandoned a long time ago. To your surprise this is the very staircase Copia now urges you to climb.

“What would we do up there?” you ask. “Is it even safe?”

“It is safe, amore. Just because we do not use it does not mean it is falling apart, eh?”

You decide to trust him and make your way up the old winding steps. Before you can reach the top Copia stops you and gestures for you to be quiet, a gloved finger pressed to his lips. The wooden door to the room underneath the roof creaks when he opens it but you’re only met with darkness at first.

Without the bell in use the windows must have been barred with wooden planks. A few of the gaps still allow some of the evening light to filter through as well as a chill draft that gives you goosebumps. After a moment of adjustment the light is enough for you to finally make out the tiny shapes hanging from the ceiling. You gasp, pressing your hand to your mouth to keep quiet.

Bats. Hundreds of them.

Some of them rouse at the intrusion, even though most of them are still asleep, waiting for the right time to hunt over the pond. You can hear some of them waking up, all the tiny squeaks, like Mona only a hundredfold, a choir of nocturnal complaints. They are all hanging off the wooden beams in the ceiling, nestled together into tight clusters. You are awe-struck, even though you can only make out their vague shapes as they sit in the deep shadows of the roof structure.

You turn to Copia who is watching you intently, his eyes soft and filled with adoration. You press yourself to his side, hugging him tightly, grateful beyond measure that he brought you here. You are both silent so you don’t disturb the bats’ rest even more, watching them in awe for a while longer as they slowly wake up when dusk settles in. They grow more restless and you hear more of their sounds, almost as though they are talking to you. You are so transfixed by the display that you don’t even notice the dust or the old, musty smell of the room. It is only when you finally leave and Copia slowly closes the door again that you realise how much you needed some fresh air.

Still at a lack for words you both sit down on one of the steps halfway down the stairs. Copia pulls your legs across his lap and you hug him again immediately. He must notice how you tremble against him for he starts to gently stroke your hair, cooing and pressing kisses to your temple.

“They’re beautiful,” you whisper. “I can’t believe they live here. So many of them. Thank you for showing me.”

“A maintenance guy noticed them earlier today. They’ve been looking into renovating the old tower, you see.”

You pull away slightly to meet his eyes. “Does that mean they have to go?”

“We will have to see how to preserve the structure but… they can live here. I made sure of it.”

The relief is imminent and you press a kiss to his cheek, then another, so many kisses that you’re out of breath when you pull away and can’t help but giggle. Copia chuckles as well and cradles you against his chest where you remain for another quiet moment, taking in his steady heartbeat. His breathing is calm, not like your own heart that’s still fluttering in your chest from all the excitement. You have to think about Mona, about your childhood, about the little girl you were when you fell in love with these creatures. With Copia you feel a similar sense of ease. It’s like he lifted a heaviness that you never realised weighed you down.

“You know, I have been reading about them,” he says after a while. “Did you know that their little hearts are so strong that they can hang upside down without their heads filling with blood?”

“I did,” you whisper back. “I wish humans had hearts this strong.”

“I think they do, ‘strella. We can make them stronger, anyway.”

You break away, looking into his calm mismatched eyes. “What do you mean?”

He pauses, a gentle expression taking over his features as his eyes stare into yours. “My heart is stronger because it carries you in it. It is beating because you make it so.“

For a moment you cannot help but stare back, his words only registering slowly. He looks at you like you’re his world, like you really are the reason that his heart is beating on and his lungs fill with air. “Then so is mine, Copia. Because of you it is finally beating again.”

He lifts his hand, brushing his thumb over your cheek where a tear has silently fallen from your eye without you noticing. “I love you, ’strella.”

A lump has formed in your throat. You allow him to wipe at your skin, more tears falling silently, somehow leaking even though you are happier than ever before in your life.

“It is okay, you do not have to say it,” he assures you. “You do not have to say anything.”

“I love you, Copia.”

His thumb stops moving. He meets your eyes again, pupils blown wide, and you’re surprised as well at how the words so easily tumbled from your lips. After a moment he smiles and then he’s already pulling you in, kissing you feverishly. You struggle to keep up with the pace and how his hands eagerly pull you into his lap. Closer, you need to be closer. He is frantic.

Before long your knees catch on the step you sit on as you move to straddle him. He winces, the edge of the narrow stairs digging into his lower back, but you’re both too caught up to move. His hand urges your head closer, the kiss bruising in its intensity and each sound echoing loudly in the stairwell around you. Not that either of you cares.

“I love you,” you whisper again and his hips buck, lips opening into desperate moan.

“I love you,” he says. “I love you, I love you.”

You kiss him again, deeply, trying to forget about the gravity of those words. Copia’s hands dig into your hips and you allow him to move you how he wants, rubbing you over his hardened, still clothed cock. You briefly wonder if the Sisters down in the chapel can hear your desperate whines but then his mouth closes around a spot on your neck and when he sucks you can’t hold back the fatal moan.

It’s quick and messy. You fiddle with the laces on his pants, push away your leggings and panties just enough so that you can sink down on him in one swift movement. He groans and you gasp, the stretch a little too much without any preparation. But after a few deep breaths you’re wet enough to ride him faster. Your knees hurt, the position uncomfortable, but you need him so much that it clouds all of your senses. Every roll of your hips has him hitting your cervix, hot sparks spreading in your belly as pain mixes with pleasure.

It’s not enough. After a moment Copia grabs your hips and then suddenly you’re spread across the steps above you while he kneels on the one below and fucks into you with reckless abandon. With some effort he tries to keep your hips still so you don’t chafe your back, his hands leaving imprints in your flesh from how tightly he grips them. You arch your body to avoid the edge of the steps, resting on your elbows until the strain is too much and you use your hands instead.

“I need you,” he whispers. “I need you so bad, ah.”

You whimper in reply, all words escaping you at the pace he sets. Neither of you last long. The thrill of being here, of being fucked into with such urgency, the needy pants and moans he releases as he chases his high all sent you over the edge. You clench around him after only a few minutes, muffling your cry by biting down on your lip as your eyes roll back and the pleasure spreads like lightning through your body.

Copia follows, his thrusts becoming shallow as you feel him spurting his seed inside of you. He can’t hold back the groan of relief and you muffle it, pressing a shaky hand to his mouth. You feel like you fell down the stairs, your whole body aching and muscles spasming uncontrollably. After a moment of quiet during which you both recover Copia starts to chuckle against your palm. Then he full on laughs. “Amore, I did not plan this, I promise.”

You have to laugh as well, sitting up straight to take the strain off your arms that feel numb and jittery. Copia pulls out of you, retrieving a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe you clean. You’re not sure if he caught all of it as you pull up your underwear and leggings but you’re too out of breath to check. With a pained groan Copia sits with his back against the wall on the step below you, still breathing heavily and eyes closed.

“I will feel this in my joints tomorrow,” he whispers. “I am too old for this.”

“We should take a hot bath tonight, I think.”

He nods in approval and you reach out for his hand, intertwining your fingers just to keep touching him. Copia blinks his eyes open again and looks at you, a smile tugging at his lips. “Hm?”

You smile back, pressing your thumb to his wrist where his pulse still rapidly flows through him. “Thank you for the surprise.”

Another chuckle and his eyes fall close again. “I think you were the one who surprised me, ‘strella. You never fail to do so.”

✦ ✧ ✦

You finished the rest of your degree without significant contact to any of your peers. Since you learned about Henry’s true opinion of you you could not help but wonder if they all secretly thought the very same thing – you were a freak. A freak who painted gory scenes, a freak who enjoyed dark and gross imagery, a freak who had no friends and never went out to drink with them, a freak because that’s what Henry told them you were.

The final project of your degree was a painting of your own choosing, only the format was specified, and you were happy to work alone. You avoided the busier times at the studios that were available to you on campus and mostly worked during the evenings and nights. You were in the process of sketching out your idea which was rather simple – a portrait of a young woman with a haunting gaze. You wanted everyone to look at her and never forget.

Most of your preparation work was done at home, finding inspiration for a colour palette, sketching, looking for references. Lately, you were struggling to take care of yourself beyond working on your art. Without Henry to flee to you found sleeping at home harder and harder. The issue was not being without Henry per se, even though you did miss his warmth and the late night talks, the presence of another human. The naive believe that someone could love you when not even your own family managed to do so.

Still, you woke up multiple times a night, sleep disrupted by what you could only assume was the noise. Nights were accompanied by sounds – the creaking of the floorboards in the hallway as Mr Kraan paced sleeplessly, scratching sounds as his hands scraped along the walls when he sleepwalked, crying when he returned from the studio that he did God knows what in. Since finding him in that state you were too scared to check on him anymore.

When he did rest in bed you could sometimes make out his screams, haunted by horrible dreams that made him wake up with blood-shot eyes and a sore throat the next morning. It had become worse and worse over the past few months. The only time he seemed to find rest was when you observed him swallow an obscene amount of sleeping pills after dinner. Your mom never commented on it.

Painting was coming easier to you, driven by the fact that it was a distraction, a way to stop your thoughts from spiralling around your loneliness and the worries about life at home. You found yourself in the classroom now, as you did many nights a week, the brush tight in your grasp as it feverishly moved over the canvas.

Last night you’d had a particularly rough nightmare. You had been haunted by a shadowed creatures, its claws closing around your neck until you felt them draw blood as it tried to strangle you. You woke up with a sore throat and the feeling of bruised fingerprints on your skin.

Since then you had hardly gotten any sleep, every nap a failed attempt to find rest, but despite or maybe because of it you drifted into a sudden state of mania. Your hand was moving on its own accord, the lines hardly registering. The colours got darker and darker, a phantom hand moving your own, guiding you from a hidden place inside of your head. Shadows were dancing in front of your eyes, dull and grey shapes, lines that anchored you to the canvas, pulled you in but didn’t let go. Hours passed, half the night, the moon moving across the sky outside and pulling the light away from you.

Your arms and hands were cramping when you found back to yourself. A dull ache had wormed itself into your head and the brush fell from your limp fingers when you righted your posture. For a moment you forgot where you were. A stool, you were wearing your overalls to protect your clothing. Then you looked up. The large canvas in front of you had only been a dark backdrop to your eyes but now you saw what you had done.

The painting was altered completely. The woman from your initial sketch was still there but turned sideways now, staring into a second bigger face. Red eyes, almost glowing, the body underneath shaped like a large shadow looming over her, the mouth nothing but a black void that reached for the girl. Her face was contorted into a scream.

She looked like you.

Chapter Text

“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.”

― Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis

✦ ✧ ✦

It is warm enough to have breakfast outside.

A small picnic table behind the main administrative building is usually free, only used by some  clergy members for the occasional smoke break during work hours. The Siblings prefer to eat in the designated area outside the refectory building, further away from any offices or upper clergy. And because the sun only reaches here in the mornings it is just cool enough to be comfortable in his black everyday clothes.

Copia sets down two coffee mugs just as Terzo strolls along the path that leads to the little yard behind the buildings, a telltale paper bag filled with fresh pastries swinging from his arm. They get comfortable, Copia opting for the spot in the shade while Terzo whips out his sunglasses and perches them on his nose. Not quite La Dolce Vita but the way Terzo lounges on the bench with his face raised towards the sun makes it almost seem like they’re sitting in a café in Rome. He reminds him of a cat, Copia thinks as he takes a large sip of coffee, sugary and warm.

“Thank Satan for summer,” Terzo says. “We can drink caffè freddo soon, eh?”

Copia disagrees only in his mind, looking at the mug you made him that has been the only one he’s drunk from ever since he got it. A bat and a rat. You and him. He supposes he could drink the iced coffee from it as well but the feeling of warmth that spreads even through his gloves when he closes his hands around it is unmatched in its comfort.

You love him.

“Papino?” Terzo rips him from his thoughts. “That is a rather telling smile, hm?”

Copia looks up, unable to even attempt to hide it. “What is it telling you, eh?”

“That it is going well with your little pittrice, of course.”

“I will not give you any details, if that is what you want.”

“But this is my entertainment, no? Why do you think I meet you?”

“Usually to tell me about your latest conquest.”

Terzo hums. “Sì, sì, which is why I am so interested when for once it is you with a paramour.”

Copia glares and Terzo laughs at his frown, taking a sip of his own coffee now. In truth Copia feels like bursting with happiness but he’s not sure how to proceed. There are clearly things that still pose an obstacle between you, things you haven’t told him that weigh on you, the fact that he has to approach the topic of your future and what it means in his position as Papa. However, he does not doubt for a second that you are going to find a way together.

“We ugh…” Copia starts, feeling the heat creeping up his neck, equally flustered by telling his fratello about it and the memories of your very intimate moment returning to him. “We said the words.”

“The words?”

“Ah, you know.”

“What do I know?”

“I love you.”

Terzo cocks his head to the side with a teasing smile. “Oh, thank you Papino. I feel flattered.”

Copia groans, only half-annoyed. “You know what I mean, fratello. She said it back.”

“Hmmm, so it is getting serious. I suppose I should congratulate you, no? Finally you are settling with someone.”

“Yes, finally you do not have to try and get me on the dating apps anymore.” Copia chuckles, fiddling with the handle of his mug. “I just hope it will work out. I am not Cardinal anymore, I cannot just do as I please.”

Terzo leans forward, taking off his sunglasses and pushing them into his hair to reveal a surprisingly serious expression. “Fratello, you cannot allow them to put their greedy fingers on her.”

“I won’t,” Copia assures him, mildly startled by the Papal tone. “I will protect her, no matter the costs.”

His brother nods, those intent mismatched eyes still taking him in with a hint of worry. Terzo out of anyone knows what the clergy is capable of, fears it perhaps still, Copia reminds himself. He is not innocent in what they did to him – their dissatisfaction with Terzo and his own existence was enough for them to overthrow the Papacy and Ghost project. No matter what either of them wanted they installed him as frontman without offering Terzo a respectful departure. Copia knows that he doesn’t wield any actual power over the inner mechanisms and Sister doesn’t lose any more words about them than truly necessary. As of now he is not sure if they pose an actual threat or just want to remain in control but even so he knows Sister will try to use this relationship in whatever way furthers their agenda. Her agenda.

“Now, what is new with you, fratello?” Copia asks to chase away these anxious thoughts, leaning back as the sun travels further across the sky and casts its rays in his direction.

Terzo shrugs nonchalantly, turning his face back skyward. “Ah, you know, I am quite satisfied at the moment.”

“Someone special?” Copia asks, opening the bag to finally grab one of the pastries. Custard, again. “How did I not notice, hm?”

The grin on his brother’s face is enough of an answer. “Retirement has its benefits, eh? I can lay low while everyone is busy whispering about you and your little painter.”

Ah, the whispering. “So ugh… What are they saying?”

“People saw you leaving your party together, Papino,” Terzo says. “But you cannot be surprised by this. It is not hard to work out that you are having an affair when you spend all your time in that old studio, hm?”

The pastry is sweet, rich vanilla aroma coating his tongue. Copia brushes off some crumbs that have landed on his thigh. “Are they saying bad things about us?”

Terzo huffs out a laugh. “Papino, you have destroyed the dreams of many a Sibling but some jealousy is to be expected, no? Your amore is a bit of a mystery to many. They do not know what to make of her.”

Copia has to smile at that. But it is just as well, the less they know the better. “She is a mystery to me, too. Still.”

“I bet she is,” Terzo says, finally reaching for his own pastry. “But you are cracking the code, hm?”

“I think so. I enjoy learning about her.” And he does, immensely. The way you slowly unravel each other is intoxicating just as much as your physical chemistry, a familiarity he doesn’t want to rush into but that he enjoys building up all the same. “You will not tell me about your amore, I assume?”

A nonchalant shrug and Terzo licks some custard off his bottom lip. “I do not, no, at least for now. It is not something to brag about, much like you and your painter. How did you say? It is delicate, eh? Something to nurture.”

“I understand that,” Copia says. “I wish you well, fratello. I do.”

“Grazie, so do I for you, veramente. But as much as I enjoy our little talks, I am not sure how long we will be doing this. I am thinking of relocating.” His expression loses some of his easy confidence, Copia notes. “I will spend my retirement somewhere nice now that I have someone to share it with, Italy perhaps. It calls for me and I know Secondo has talked about it as well.”

“You always said leaving is to admit defeat.”

Terzo sighs deeply, drumming his fingers on the table. “I know. But it has been some time. Enough time to know that I am wasting the rest of my life here, bickering with Sister, doing nothing but useless work while people whisper and gossip about the Papa who was. I do it for the congregation, the ones who still believe in me and follow my lead, but there is a limit and I will not be like father. I will age with dignity, fratello, free and not in the hands of the clergy. I know you are… in their hands, still, and I worry for you, but I cannot play their games forever. It has been going on for too long.”

They usually do not approach this topic. Copia tries to tread lightly. “I will miss you but I understand. I will support you, if you tell me what you need, where you want to go. Make sure you have the means.”

Terzo smiles, a brotherly, affectionate smile. “I will let you know.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The rest of the day is a bit of a blur. Copia sits through a meeting with the treasury which is mostly his domain still, even now, talking about funding of the Summer celebrations, about the expense planning for the new quarter, renovations of one of the residential buildings to house more Siblings and some other plans he needs to confirm. The congregation is growing, good news but difficult to manage with a limited budget. In his mind it is a testament to his success so he sits through it proudly, confidently. Slowly but surely the Papal cloak fits him better and better – he feels himself growing into it with every passing day.

Summer has fully settled in now, it seems, as the sun still stands high in the sky when he is done with his day. The windows of the administrative building allow for the rays to heat up the hallways and as he locks up his office he begins to sweat. Copia makes his way to his quarters in the upper clergy residential building. Here, it is much cooler as it is located at the edge of the property closer to the surrounding woods. He has half a mind to shower but he thinks he should wait until you get here, save some water and all that, eh?

But then you never talked about where you would be meeting tonight and you have a habit of working late now that the portrait is in its final stages. To pass the time Copia sits down on his bed, weary from the day. He grabs the book about bats from his nightstand and flips through the illustrations. Music, art, pasta, his sermons, bats, postcards, desserts, his kisses, roses, dancing, ABBA, him. He thinks about your excited expression the day before when you realised what he was showing you. This is what it is all about, he tells himself, making you so happy that your smile lights up even the darkest of rooms.

You love him.

And he wants you, he wants you so badly. When he is distracted throughout the day it is easier to deal with but now he is aching for you again, to be close to you and taste you and feel your body against his while you whisper that you love him. Or whimper it, preferably, out of breath and eyes glowing with the pleasure he gives you. It’s all he wants for the rest of his life and he thinks he might be dizzy from it.

The words blur on the page as Copia’s mind and body shift their focus towards you. You must be painting still, cooped up in the studio. The sight of you fixated on the canvas is enough to make him groan as he feels himself getting hard. It is one of his favourite fantasies, to see you working with complete concentration, lost in your work, creating something so beautiful it is hard to believe that human hands can make it. Skill and talent, patience and a steady hand. Color smears on your clothes and face, your fingers when they wrap around–

The book shuts with a dull thud. He’s not as patient as you are and today is not the day to practice.

✦ ✧ ✦

You leave Copia’s quarters that next morning with a perpetual smile and a sore lower back. It aches a little as you settle on your stool to begin your work on the painting and shift around for most of the day to try and find an angle that you can hold for longer than a few minutes. Even now it feels surreal that you said the words to him, that they fell from your lips so easily even though you have not spoken them to anyone since childhood.

You love him.

And it’s true. You do love him and the realisation that you are capable of such feelings is a relief as well as a daunting realisation. Life used to be lonely, yes, but it was easier to keep your heart locked up tight with no risk of getting hurt again. If only you could skip ahead to a point where your past is no longer a secret.

The brush begins to shake in your hand, too much to keep working. You take a break and stretch your legs, taking a turn about the room. Usually you would walk right past the canvases leaning against one corner of the room – hidden away under old dust sheets. But today you walk up to them and run your fingers over the fabric. All of these paintings stem from a time in your life that you would rather forget, never think about ever again. And yet it is the time in your life that will likely haunt you forever.

You have to tell Copia, you know you have to. Promises of your love, of a future with him, they would all be meaningless if they were built on a foundation of lies and secrets.

At the thought of telling him your heart begins to hammer and you pull your hand away as if you had been scorched. A vivid memory of a night in your childhood flashes before your eyes – a candle burning, a book with a spell, your mouth forming Latin words you never heard before, and then suddenly the fire. Red eyes the colour of blood stare at you from the depths of the flames, the same red eyes you have seen on the canvas of your teacher, the same eyes you have painted countless times into your own paintings without your own doing, the same eyes you saw the night your life fell apart.

The tips of your fingers feel hot when you touch them with your other hand. The stain black and growing ever so slowly, slowly spreading across the floor like a wound that festered, an infection of the very house you used to live in. Should you have heeded these warnings? But you were a child–

You remove yourself from the corner and walk briskly back to the canvas, sitting down on your stool and grabbing the brush. Copia’s likeness in all of its glory stares back at you. Copia, the man you love, the man who loves you.

The present is where you live, you tell yourself, the past is gone, never to return. For a moment your hand continues to shake and you have to wait until your breathing has normalised before you can continue to paint. Perhaps you could be done within a week or two now. A few more layers, a few more details to flesh out before you can work on the glaze – that is, if Sister approves.

Focused on painting the tiny gemstones on Copia’s robes, you slip into a peaceful state of mind soon after. The work has a calming monotony to it, shadows over shadows over shadows, then the shimmering highlights as they are hit by the sun. With how large the canvas is this process is going to take you a few more days, most likely. But you don’t mind, you don’t mind at all.

Hours pass just like that and the sun wanders along the horizon. Summer is kind to you, allowing you to work much longer into the evenings, and you sit still with an open window that carries the sounds of the abbey all the way up here. Murmurs, music, the sounds of footsteps treading along the gravelly paths of the gardens, the occasional laughter as the Siblings make use of the long warm evenings. You feel grounded by the soundtrack of your life here, the familiarity of it all.

You are so focused that you barely hear the hurried steps in the hallway, then the door opening. Copia, you realise, perhaps impatiently looking for you after he is done with his work. However, you focus for a moment longer, making sure you don’t leave any paint where it should not go.

Your love must have stopped by the door – perhaps so he doesn’t disturb you despite the urgency he just entered with. He is as silent as you are, the only sounds coming from the birds in the trees outside your window, distant voices slowly fading out. You finish the detail you had been working on, too far now to allow yourself any silly mistakes, then you pull away from the canvas.

“Are you watching me?” you ask with a chuckle, cleaning off your brush.

You look up when he still doesn’t say anything. Copia’s eyes firmly capture you, though they momentarily flit from your face to the canvas and back. Suddenly you feel insecure, about the paint that stains your cheeks and arms, your dirty dungarees and the shirt underneath, perhaps even your hair that you kept tied back all day. You’ve been painting for hours and hours, lost in the details on his robes, and you haven’t checked your appearance since this morning.

After a moment, however, his eyes stop wandering to the canvas and rest on you. They trail down your body, making you conscious of the way you’re hunched on the stool, lower back still sore and achy. But he’s just taking in the sight, admiring you openly. Then, suddenly, he gives you a look.

A hungry look.

You slip from the stool just as he reaches you, pressing you back against the small table that holds your materials. Some of your brushes clamber to the floor as he lifts you up onto the surface. He kisses you hard, grabbing your neck to keep your head close as he swallows your moans. His lips force yours open until all you feel is his tongue entering you. You do your best to reciprocate but he’s devouring you, guiding you how he wants you with no room to move.

“Mine,” he whispers, hot lips wandering down your jaw and neck, sucking and biting until he turns back around and presses his lips to your ear. “Can I have you, ‘strella? Will you let me fuck you right here?”

“Yes.”

He hums appreciatively. “I have never seen a more unholy sight than you focused on your work. Do you know what you do to me, amore?” He presses himself against you, the outline of his cock hard against your belly as he slips between your legs. His lips are still close to your ear and his voice raspy, need dripping from every word. “I have never wanted anyone like I want you, ‘strella. You make me lose my mind.”

Your reply is nothing but a breathy moan as he grabs your hips and ruts against you. The table shudders but nothing else falls. The next kiss is just as fierce, though this time he spreads his gloved fingers underneath your jaw to angle your head to his liking. His thumb presses into the soft tissue on the underside when he once again licks into your mouth, slower this time but not with any less hunger. His other hand works on the buckles of your dungarees until they fall open and reveal your torso. The shirt underneath is airy and the buttons open almost on their own accord when he tugs at them.

When his palm closes around your breast, Copia moans, almost careful as he feels the weight and softness – a gentle contrast to the insistence of his lips. His thumb brushes over your nipple, sending sparks to your core that have you grasping helplessly at his black shirt. But he continues, torturously playing with your nipple while he kisses you until your lungs hurt. You’re the one rutting against him now, trying to relieve the hot throbbing between your legs that every pinch of his fingers stokes.

Copia only breaks away when his paints cover your lower face, neck and shoulder. His mouth wanders down your chest now, replacing his hands as he sucks on your nipples, taking turns of massaging and licking over the soft curves and hardened peaks. Your wanton sighs and his urgent moans fill the room, soon replaced by noisy shuffling as he pulls at his clothes to remove them. Impatient, you help him by pushing off your dungarees and shirt until you’re naked on the table in just your bat-patterned socks. His lips are on you immediately, open-mouthed kisses that lead him further down between your legs.

His hunger has slowed down and he takes his time to suck marks into the skin of your inner thighs, leaving black and white stains wherever he goes, topped by a tiny white dot where his nose presses against you. By now you look like a canvas in your own right. It’s hard to tell which streaks on your body he left and which ones you did with your paints.

“Copia–”

“I need to taste you, ‘strella. All day I was starved for you.”

He wastes not another second, pushing his face against your cunt and licking a long stripe along your folds. A throaty moan escapes him that vibrates against your core and you shift your hips until you can feel his nose pressed up against your clit. Copia hikes your legs up over his shoulders and then he looks up at you right as his tongue dives into your wet entrance. Your breath stutters as he pushes it deeper and deeper with every moan that leaves him, with every flutter of his long lashes. His expression is filled with devotion, with lust and endless desire, and he hardly ever blinks. You think you could come just from this, his gaze holding your own captive even as you struggle to keep your own eyes open. Every so often he hums against you and you can’t help but bury your hand in his hair, no doubt messing it up but needing something to hold onto. Your other hand is still propped up behind you, fighting to keep you upright with every wave of pleasure that he sends through your body.

“Copia, I’m–”

He removes his tongue and closes his lips around your clit instead, gently sucking at the swollen bud. Whatever you were going to say turns into a moan, your fingers gripping his hair tighter as the hot sparks fly into your abdomen. You’re dangling on the edge, your elbow practically giving out, and Copia doubles down, sucking and humming and flicking his tongue over your clit until you keen and spasm around nothing. Your whole pussy is throbbing when he licks along your slit again, tasting you like he truly had been starving. You feel like you’re on a cloud, flying somewhere high above.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, leaving wet kisses along your inner thighs. “The very image of the Night Demon. And all mine mine mine.”

His kisses travel down your leg and he gently bites into the soft skin, moving until he reaches your knee and uses it as leverage to stand. He groans as he rights his spine and you too have to fall back onto your elbows.

“Still a bit sore from yesterday,” he mumbles, grabbing your hips for support. “But worth it, eh?”

You’re still out of breath but you have to smile at the state of his mouth, glistening wetly and most of the paint gone, smeared between your legs now. He looks like he feasted, the satisfied grin on his face even more evidence.

The break lasts all of two minutes before he suddenly pulls you forward and spins you around, bending you over the table so fast that your arm catches on another set of brushes and swipes them  clean off the table. You squeal and Copia laughs, pushing himself firmly against your ass where you can feel his cock already hot and leaking against you.

“I am not done with you, ‘strella,” he says, taking his length in hand and rubbing it between your drenched folds, back and forth and back and forth in a way that has you whimpering helplessly underneath him. “I may not be so young anymore but I am fit enough to make you scream so loud that everyone outside of this window can hear you. Even with back pains. Do you want that, hm?”

“Fuck, Papa,” you whine. “Please.”

The use of his title is enough to have him groan and push into you. The stretch is too satisfying after the build-up, your cunt taking him greedily in your desire to be filled. Copia ruts against you, his impatience breaking free again, fingers gripping your hips tightly to pull you into him.

“Say it again,” he orders, thrusting deeper now. “Say it, amore.”

“Papa,” you say, desperately holding on to the edge of the table. “Papa Papa Papa.”

“No, no,” he corrects you. “Not– not that–”

You’re momentarily confused, losing your train of thought when he lifts one of your legs up onto the table to allow him to go even deeper. The angle has you crying out, white-knuckled fingers painfully wrapped around the flimsy wood. Copia leans forward, wrapping one arm around your chest, hand resting in a squeeze on your breast, the other one propped up on the table to support him.

”Amore–“ He groans, desperate as he continues to fuck you deeper from this new position. “Please.”

“I love you,” you whisper as realisation hits you. “I love you, Copia, I love you.”

He whimpers like a kicked dog, lips attached to your shoulder. His teeth sink into your skin just as hard as he fucks you, deep and fast at the perfect angle. You cry out his name, only held upright by his tight grip on your chest. A second orgasm rips through you, brutal in its force, and you don’t care if anyone outside can hear you. Pleasure shoots into every cell of your body, the soreness fading into a gooey, tingling sensation. Copia loses his rhythm as you clench around him and you can tell he’s close as well.

“I love you,” you say again, voice hoarse and quiet now. “I love you so much.”

It’s all he needs. His thrusts turn sloppy, uncontrolled, and he empties himself inside of you with a deep growl. Copia’s hips jerk as you feel his spend dripping out of you, only adding to the mess between your legs. Rapid breaths tickle the skin right by your ear, his fingers finally loosening their tight grip on your breast. The skin is tender and you can already feel it bruising just like your hips.

“I am sorry, amore. I was thinking about you all day,” he admits between breaths. “Was it too much?”

“No, no. Was it too much for you, baby?”

“No,” he says, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before finally withdrawing. “I can never get enough of you, ‘strella. I would eat you like a sweet little macaron if I could.”

With that he pulls you upright and nibbles your earlobe, arms wrapped around your midsection from behind. You lean against his sweaty chest, giggling as his teeth graze your skin as though he never wants to let you go again. Eventually he does, though and you’re grateful that he waited until you felt a bit more steady.

Copia is slowly getting dressed again while you try to get your legs to work. The table is a mess now, brushes on the floor, some of your old sketches crumpled and you thank Satan that you did not keep your paints or palette on top of it.

“My poor brushes,” you say as you bend over to pick them up.

Copia lightly smacks your butt, then grabs your hips to pull them against his now clothed crotch.  He humps you for a moment, and the brushes slip from your fingers, toppling back down to the floor. “Ahhh, I will buy you new ones, amore.”

“You realise they aren’t very cheap?”

“Oh, I will tell Sister we need a higher budget for the arts... hm?”

You right yourself and his still gloveless hands run all over your body, apparently still not satisfied. He traces the marks he left earlier, the now forming bruises near your hipbones and on your breast, streaks and spots of black and white face paint spread all over your body, shaped after his mouth and nose. A wistful sigh hits your ear, his lips back to the spot on your neck they nibbled on earlier.

“Hm, you were right, I am quite the painter now too,” he whispers. “You look beautiful, ‘strella. But I think we have to clean you up a little bit now.”

“Maybe not all the marks…”

He chuckles, the dirty chuckle you’ve grown to love. “I like the way you think, amore.”

Once he buttoned up his shirt he disappears to the small bathroom down the hall and you finally pick up all the brushes and clean up the table. Despite being sore in completely new places now your body is radiating with a warm glow, with a deep-rooted contentment. Right as Copia comes back with a washcloth you sink into the mattress on the floor, finally adopting a restful position. He dutifully cleans the mess between your legs and some of the paint stains that he spread in places that are too visible on your neck. Once he’s done he throws the cloth to the side and lets his body go slack next to you on the mattress. He groans, adjusting his legs so his weight is more evenly spread out.

“I will need a new hip joint soon,” he says. “Ughhh.”

“I can’t offer that but I do have some ibuprofen and water.”

“Mhm, per favore.”

A few minutes later you’ve draped your shirt back around your shoulders, shared a bottle of water and ibuprofen with Copia, and cuddled up with Mona the bat pressed between your bodies. You both must be dozing off after a moment because when you wake back up the sun has set and you’re wrapped up in darkness. The nap helped refresh you and the ibuprofen did its job in keeping your soreness in check. However, you’re still not ready to move or leave Copia’s warmth.

The man in question is still asleep and you watch him for a brief moment, the outline of his face vague in the dark. He seems so peaceful, so happy. Your feelings for him bubble up to the surface, threatening to consume you. It feels surreal, how your heart feels like it has grown to twice its size, how you’re riding a wave of gratitude and happiness just by hearing his low snores. This could be your life, all of this, it could be yours if only you took it.

You can’t help but lean down and press a soft kiss to his lips, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes. Copia stirs, smiling, puckering up his lips to demand another. You comply, lingering longer this time to really get a taste of him.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, amore, you are everything to me.”

His arm curls around your back and you can’t fight off the tears any longer. When a stray drop falls from your cheek and lands on his face Copia pulls away. As always he immediately senses the change in you, as though he could somehow see your emotions.

“‘strella?” he asks.

“I’m okay, I promise.”

He rolls you back onto your side and sits up, reaching for the small lamp beside the mattress. You squint, the light of the old bulb, though dim, still too bright for your eyes. His expression immediately changes; you can see the anxiety rising to cloud his eyes and you feel an immense guilt. Now is not the moment to throw this at him but suddenly everything threatens to spill out of you, as though the well is finally overflowing and you cannot scoop the access water out anymore. You try to hold it in but the more you do the more it hurts as it strains against the walls.

“What is it?” he asks, voice dripping with worry as he pulls you against him, wiping desperately at the tears that freely fall from your eyes now. “Talk to me, ti prego. Please.”

“Copia, I–”

His brows pull together, a hurt, defeated sort of look settling on his face as he comes to the wrong conclusion. “Do you not feel it?”

You vehemently shake your head. “I do, that’s not… that’s not it, I promise.”

“What is it then? Are we going too fast? Are you scared of people knowing?”

Again, you shake your head. “No. No, none of that. It is just… really, I am so lucky. To have you love me, to be able to love you, for you to think that I deserve your love in the first place when really you should be repulsed by who I am.”

He furrows his brow almost angrily. “Amore, if anything I am lucky here, no? A beautiful young woman like you with such talent, in love with this silly old man who is bound to all these duties. I… I cannot expect you to accept all of this.” He gestures down on himself and you’re not sure what he means, himself or the Papacy. “It is okay if I am not what you want for the future, ‘strella. I understand that I am older, that I am tied to things that will impact your life as well and you never agreed to any of it. But I also understand if you simply do not feel the same.”

You shake your head. “Copia, I told you that I do feel the same and I meant it, I never lied to you. I want all of it, I do not wish to change anything about you and I will face whatever comes with it.”

“Amore, I am–”

“What? The most wonderful man I have ever met? So beautiful that I filled whole sketchbooks with you? The only one who gets even close to understanding me?” You swallow a sob. “I don’t care about your title or about your age or about anything else. I just want you. I just want you so much. When I tell you that you might be repulsed by me it’s not out of some silly insecurity but because I truly worry you could not accept all of me. And I am– I am terrified of losing you.”

He shakes his head, pain written across his features. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you could not truly love me back,” you choke out. “Not if you… if you knew what I truly am, how… how messed up I am. How… dark.”

“You think I am scared of darkness?”

He looks at you with such conviction, his past mirrored in his eyes as the question hangs in the air between you. He has been through so many hardships you can’t begin to grasp, that you have yet to find out, but still something tells you that he does not understand the gravity of what you mean. And how could he? How could anyone?

Eventually you shake your head, face scrunched up in pain. “This is different, Copia.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m dangerous for you.”

He scoffs. “How could you ever be dangerous to me?”

“I did things… things that hurt people. Not just hurt but even worse. And I don’t know if the same could happen again.”

He grabs your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his. “Amore, I think… I think it is time that you tell me, no? Whatever it is, it will not change anything about my feelings, I promise you this. I swear it on all that I am, on our Lord Below, on my love for you, on my very name and all that ever mattered to me.”

“I want to tell you,” you admit, looking at him through tear-blurred eyes. “I want you to know so desperately. But… I don’t know how. I don’t know if I can get it to pass my lips.”

He nods, contemplative for a moment, but then his expression changes into one of resolution. “Would it help if we… if we treated it like confession? If it was not me but Papa?”

You hesitate for a moment but the idea feels safe, safer than if you were to try and tell him right here and now. Copia is Papa but with you… he is himself. Papa however, he speaks in the name of your Dark Lord, perhaps he could finally absolve you if you spoke to him.

Perhaps it was time to confess.

After a moment of gathering your courage you nod and Copia stands, groaning as he straightens his knees. When you follow him he seems cautious, as though he could break you apart with as much as taking a wrong breath. You put on a pair of leggings and then you’re already leaving the room. You only notice halfway down the hallway that you’re still holding Mona the bat, clutching her to your chest like a lifeline. She won’t be able to save you and perhaps it is pathetic but as you follow Copia down the stairs you feel like you never stopped being the little girl who wished for a friend, even if the only friend in sight was a helpless bat on your windowsill.

You have never been in the Confessional in all your time here. Confession in your church is very different from its Christian counterpart – here, sin is celebrated, guilt and shame are unlearned and so the purpose of it changed. Confession is a way to seek counsel and guidance in a semi-anonymous fashion, it is a way to discuss your faith with an experienced clergy member without the contents ever leaving the walls of the box, to express doubts and insecurities, to ask questions and find answers. It is a way to cope with whatever happened to you before you came here, whatever weighs on you that you do not want to discuss face to face in an official consultation meeting.

It is a safe space.

And while you have never been inside the box you have lingered in front of it many times in the past, especially in the months after your arrival. The thought of stepping inside and confessing to what you did seemed appealing at the time but the fear outweighed any prospect of absolution. The more years passed the more you thought it was the wrong way for you, that despite the promise of no judgment and free guidance the consequences would be too severe, that they would betray you like you have been betrayed before whenever you decided to trust someone.

Now, you sit on the wooden bench with your heart hammering so loudly in your ears that you cannot even hear Copia’s heavy breathing. That way it is easier to pretend that it is not him, that someone else sits on the other side. You fiddle with Mona, running your thumb through the soft fur.

“I am ready whenever you are, sorella,” the voice from the other side says, softly, tenderly, but you notice it shaking at the last syllable.

You close your eyes, pressing them together tightly so that the last tears that still linger in them fall down your cheeks. They feel hot on your flushed face. When you reopen them Mona is watching you with her button eyes and you keep looking at her when you finally speak.

“I didn’t have the best childhood,” you start, trying to keep your voice steady. “My father was absent, ignorant, never treated my mom right and whenever he did feel like parenting he tried to… shape me after whatever weird idea of a young girl he had, whatever perfect image of a future housewife he wanted me to grow up into. He never approved of the art I created, nor did any of the kids in school who called me… called me names and made fun of my art, made fun of me. I had to lie, hide who I was, but even so I never had any close friends, no one who got me. The only time I ever felt like myself was during my lessons, when I painted. I had a teacher, an amazing teacher, who loved the same themes I did, who allowed me to fully explore who I was in my art. Mr Kraan was his name. But whenever I left the studio I was alone. And even though my mom tried her best to handle my dad, to be there for me while juggling work and our household… I was just so fucking lonely.”

You fight off the tears, the image of yourself at the time a painful memory, a mere girl trying to find her place. How cruel she was treated by the people who should have loved her, you know that now, but you also know how hard she fought to survive in this world despite this rejection.

“All I ever wanted was to be an artist, to make a life as an artist, to… to be good enough, worthy, accepted. I was so angry and obsessed with myself, so fucking obsessed, and I found these books on my teacher’s shelves, books about dark magic that I never should have touched. I read in them and I thought I could sway the dark powers in my favour, that if I prayed to them or talked to them they would help me. I tried everything to get them to reply, to get them to give me more talent, to make me better.”

For a moment the words dry out as you allow silent tears to roll down your cheeks. Guilt forms a lump in your throat, the memory of a dark stain, ash, fire, someone crying out for you. Red eyes in flames, a coughing face – a vision.

“If I… If I may…” Copia fills your pause. “It does not sound like you were obsessed with yourself, it sounds like you were going through a lot. It is… it is not unusual for children to find solace in their own forms of faith when their lives are hard.”

You nod, more to yourself than to him. When you risk a glance his face is shrouded in shadows beyond the lattice and you have no idea what he is thinking. “It was the only way I knew to help myself. I asked them to make me a better artist, I asked for help so that I become so good at art that no one would ever doubt me, so successful that no one would tell me to change anymore or tell me who I should be. I prayed that I would be successful in the one thing that truly mattered to me and even if no one ever accepted me for who I am, I would have this.”

Silence stretches out, Copia waiting for you to go on as you try to gather your thoughts, to find the right memories. You have to dig deep, all of them hidden away never to be returned to, and even going near any of them feels dangerous, painful, like taking a wrong step could be your end.

“Eventually my parents divorced,” you go on, “and my mom and my teacher became a couple, we moved into his home. It was… it was happy for a while, I would say. I went on to study art and I… I never connected with the other students, really, I had my heart broken, I was called a freak but I also grew a lot, as an artist, as a person. My art… it was good, really good. I never sold a lot of paintings but I loved what I did, people saw me as an artist, finally. Only life at home… it was… Satan, it was hard, and it got worse after finishing school, when I tried to freelance and find jobs. Something was wrong with Mr Kraan, had been for a while by then. It was as though he was sick, he… he had nightmares, he sleepwalked, he didn’t sleep at all some nights with horrible insomnia, had hallucinations, visions, but he never remembered. He was hardly himself anymore during those nights and a shell of his old self by day. Neither my mother nor I knew how to help him. And we suffered too, I don’t think I slept a lot, I was awake so many nights just listening to these sounds… and I was so scared, so fucking scared, Copia.”

The last words are more of a whisper. Your memories of these nights, perhaps fortunately so, were almost impossible to reach. Most of them are a blur now, shadows melting into even deeper shadows, hiding away any clear images. You lose sight of Mona as your eyes are once again obscured by heavy tears that gather in them. Your body is lost to you, limbs numb and heartbeat drowning out every other sensation.

“Around the time… the time I learned that I would be painting Papa Terzo…” You shake your head, the words stuck in your throat and you know you cannot say it. You can’t feel your hands with how hard they are shaking. The tightness in your throat is painful, nausea and fever-like shivers spreading through your body that burn underneath your skin. “I can’t, I… I don’t…. But I came here, I thought that if I devoted myself to this faith I would be forgiven, eventually. That I could make up for it. It was… it wasn’t on purpose, Papa, I swear. I never wanted any of this. I never wanted it to happen.”

Copia’s voice is urgent now despite his attempts to keep it calm. It feels like he leaned in, his words closer to your ear. “What happened, amore? What happened in that time?”

“You’re going to hate me, Copia,” you choke out between sobs, pulling your legs up so you can hide your face in your knees. “You’re going to despise me, throw me out.”

“It cannot be so bad, amore,” he insists. “There is nothing that could make me hate you. Nothing. I promise it, I promise it on all that I have.”

“Copia…” You swallow, fear and grief battling in your chest. “What if I told you someone died because of me?”

Chapter Text

“It was easy, after all, simply to open the door and escape. It was easy, she thought, because she was not really escaping at all.”

― Patricia Highsmith, The Price of Salt

✦ ✧ ✦

Making enough money to move out seemed impossible.

During the day you were working on commissions, during the nights you tried to finish your personal projects. Most days sleep was eluding you but at least that spared you the nightmares.

Adding the finishing touches to the portrait of a woman’s cocker spaniel, one of five she commissioned, you found yourself thinking of leaving the city. Where would you go? Anywhere, really, perhaps head south, travel across Europe all the way down to Madrid. You could see Goya’s work with your own eyes and not just his but that of all the artist you had only ever read about in books.

It was a dream, nothing more. One of many dreams, born from the need to find inspiration for your work and get away from the increasingly depressing situation at home. You wanted to start your own life but a stable income seemed so out of reach that every single day you considered going back to school to study something that would keep you and your family afloat. Now and again you picked up side jobs but all excess money went into the upkeep of the house, medical bills and food.

Your mom worked two minimum wage jobs and Mr Kraan was painting but by now he was too far gone to paint any works that could be sold. His canvases upstairs showed nothing but black schemes, unrecognisable apart from a pair of odd red eyes shrouded in shadows. Often he painted at night and you were not sure whether he was awake when he did so. His condition had worsened and no doctor’s visits had shed any light on it. They were clueless, unable to help him, and the bills were stacking up as they tried more and more unconventional treatments.

The dog was done, you decided, and cleaned your brushes. It was time for dinner anyway and your mom had called five minutes ago. You joined her in the kitchen where you were met with the smell of pasta sauce and garlic. Mr Kraan gave you a weak smile as you sat down beside him. He squeezed your hand and your heart ached. His spindly fingers were almost sharp as they met yours, his body nothing but skin and bones. No matter how much he ate, he seemed to lose weight faster than he could ever gain it back.

“I finished one of the dogs,” you told him but the moment of clarity seemed to be gone and his eyes glossed over with the sleepy haze you were so familiar with. They sat so deep in their sockets that they seemed to be permanently wrapped in shadows, as though they were about to disappear. It was like the nightmares clung to him during the day, pulling him under again and again.

“You’re working too much,” your mother said. “How is your wrist?”

“It’s fine.”

You were lying. It had been giving you trouble for weeks now and the brace you wore on occasion had not helped besides stalling the inevitable tendinitis. But you could not stop. If you sold no paintings you would not be able to pay for any of the medication nor for your own materials.

She set down the plates and you lazily stabbed at your penne, trying to find your appetite. “I just need to find a better job, sell more art.”

“You need to make sure you can paint at all,” she argued. “If you damage your hand you won’t be able to do anything.”

A deep sigh, perhaps a bit childish. She spoke sense, of course, but the only thing worse than painting in pain was to not paint at all. You had never been one for breaks, stuck in those cycles of manic creation, even though you were forced to now when the pain got too much.

“The dog,” Mr Kraan whispered, slowly following along. “Good job.”

You smiled at him. “Only four more.”

“I wonder what she does with all of them,” your mom mused.

“Hang them up all over her house, I bet,” you said, daggering another noodle without actually eating it. “But she pays well, so she can build shrines for them for all I care.”

Mr Kraan coughed and you both looked up, ready to bring him whatever he needed, water, medication, his inhaler. But this time he recovered quickly, turning his attention from whatever went on inside of his mind to you.

“I will paint,” he said. “It is too much for you alone.”

Your mother reached for his arm that was trembling under the weight of the fork. You both knew he would not be able to create work for paying clients. Every time he tried he gave up after a while and never showed anyone the paintings he produced. You understood that he was ashamed of the way his body betrayed him, that he could not work like he used to, provide like he had always promised he would try to. Your heart broke whenever you saw him like this, the memory of the stern masterful teacher lingering somewhere in the back of your mind. Not much of him was left.

“It’s okay, my love,” your mother soothed, rubbing her hand over his shoulder. “We will manage somehow, don’t you worry about it. You focus on getting well again.”

You nodded, convincing him as much as yourself about the truth to your words. “I will do what I can. We’ll be fine, I promise.”

He shook his head, eyes sunken and discoloured to a deep purple. Sometimes you thought you saw the life in them slowly fading, other times, like the night you first found him in the studio, he looked as though he was possessed by some sinister power, brought back to life. Tonight he did not have the energy to argue so you reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze in turn, trying to ignore how cold and dead it felt between your fingers.

✦ ✧ ✦

Your fingers were sticky when you came home the night that would mark the beginning of the change of everything.

For the past few months you had taken on a few hours of extra work at the local movie theatre, trying to relieve the strain on your wrist and gain a stable source of extra income. It was minimum wage and your job mostly consisted of checking tickets, handing out popcorn and beverages and cleaning after people who thought it would be funny to throw around their snacks. Your shifts began during the afternoon and evening showings which meant you sacrificed your personal painting time for the sake of balancing your commission work with the new job.

It was not ideal but you were not ready to give up on your art to work a better paying full time job either.

You had just finished a shift, cleaning a rancid mix of spilled coke and popcorn from underneath one of the seats. Pretty much ready to deflate and fall asleep straight away you dragged yourself upstairs. However, when you reached the hallway you noticed that the light in the studio was flickering and decided to check whether Mr Kraan was still working.

You found him perched in front of his easel, a rare sight these days. His eyes seemed focused as he painted and you decided to approach him. Talking helped sometimes, to keep him in your world instead of the prison of his mind.

“Hey,” you said, moving to sit on your own stool. Your legs were tired from standing for hours and you really just wanted to shower and go to bed. But the sight of him had your heart aching once again and you found yourself unable to move.

“A man of the Satanic Church was here today,” Mr Kraan told you.

You narrowed your eyes. “What did he want?”

“The artist who used to paint their official portraits passed away a while ago and they are looking for a replacement now that a new Papa has been appointed. The former leader is an avid lover of the fine arts and he was here earlier to discuss the job.”

“Wait, you’re going to paint their leader?” you asked. “The Satanic Pope?”

“No, he wasn’t here for me,” he said, then lifted his eyebrows. “They want you.”

Your heart stopped. “Me? Surely there is a misunderstanding.”

“They saw your art, in fact they own some of your paintings already, and now they want you to paint him. I told them you would be interested.”

“But– I don’t know anything about them. I have never painted a… religious portrait.”

“You’ll learn. This is a commission that will pay you well and they might hire you again. Perhaps you can find connections there, clients. Your art is just what they like.”

The job felt entirely too big for you. You’d expected them to want an older, experienced artist like Kraan or someone with a bigger, more famous name and reputation. The former leader had chosen you, just based on the few paintings he had purchased over the past few years? How strange that it should have made such an impression on him.

“Okay,” you finally said. “If you… if you think I am good enough for it I will do it.”

“I do, little bat,” he said, looking at you with such tenderness. “There is no one else I would trust with this job.”

You felt tears pricking your eyes at his words, at the use of the nickname. His confidence in you meant the world and you suddenly remembered the first time you were in here. Those first lessons with him had opened up an entire new world to you and perhaps this job now would do the same. You were not sure how you could ever thank him for helping you on this path, for taking you in, making your mother happy for the first time in her life.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

As he smiled his eyes, for the first time months, seemed to be his very own. You closed the distance to hug him, and despite how weak and marcid his body felt, it was the most meaningful embrace of your life. He held your head, that man who had treated you more like his child than your own father, and you promised to yourself that you would make him proud.

✦ ✧ ✦

The old cloister sat at the edge of town, hidden behind a dense tail of the larger woods that surrounded the area. A winding path led through the hills that rose the closer you got to the walls that encased the grounds. You had never strayed here before. The Satanists kept to themselves and many people around town were glad of it. While their presence was generally tolerated people like your father had always been vocally against their religion and verbal as well as physical disagreements were not unheard of.

You wondered if Mr Kraan had ever attended any of their masses. You knew he agreed with their worldviews, that he shared their love for the darker arts, but he was a firm opponent of any sort of organised religion and preferred to be untethered. And yet, you knew he had painted for them before, dealt your art with them, so there must have been some sort of understanding. You vaguely remembered the man who had come to buy your very first sold painting, the pale white eye you knew their leaders had been gifted with. Since then, they had acquired a few more of your paintings, even though you had not been present for those sales.

Curious you had always been but you had never felt the need to expand your worship of the darker powers beyond the quiet of your bedroom and art studio. It felt too personal, too secretive, and approaching the abbey now, two upside down crosses carved into the stone walls by the entrance gate, you understood why.

This belonged to a community and you had never fit in anywhere.

The first thing you saw as you stepped inside, however, was the church. It was rather large for a medieval building in the area with two proud towers and although the stone facade was well-preserved it had not lost the charm that only comes with hundreds of years in age. Attached were more buildings with a distinctly medieval core and extensions of various architectural styles on their sides that told you the congregation must have grown a lot over the decades. You wondered how many people lived here. So little of their doings reached the outside world.

You stepped through a stone passage between buildings that led into the back of the property and you were met with a sight that you struggled to comprehend. The grounds were large and open, housing many more buildings, some of them connected and some of them solitary. You saw an area of fenced off gardens in the distance, open meadows with some shrubbery leading to a lake that shimmered in the morning sunlight. At the edge, the land transitioned back into the woods you were more familiar with, the cloister neatly tucked into the vast clearing. It looked idyllic and not scary or dark at all, the confession of the people only given away by the upside down crosses, their rather alternative clothing styles or the deeply black habits that you had only ever seen on nuns or monks before.

“Are you the painter?”

You turned and spotted a woman in stilettos hurrying towards you across a cobbled courtyard.  Hair tied back into a rigorous bun and with an aura of authority exuding from her it was easy to tell that she must be the Mother Superior. Despite her shoes she seemed surprisingly secure on her feet as she approached you and her stern expression never wavered.

“I am, yes, nice to meet you.”

She did not offer you a hand but immediately led you through an arch that opened into an old stone walkway. The cooling shade of the old walls calmed your nerves somewhat as she carried on, expecting you to follow. You entered what appeared to be an office building and soon you found yourself in one of said offices, the sacrilegious imagery in every corner momentarily overwhelming you. It was an epiphany: People here truly worshipped the devil.

“You will meet Papa now,” she said.

“Papa?”

The door opened again and a man stepped inside with a wide smile, open arms, and the easy confidence you had always admired in people. He was wearing black pants and a dark purple dress shirt that stood half-open, revealing a generous slice of his hairy chest with a silver crucifix pendant dangling over his collarbone. His face was painted, just like that of the man you had met years ago, but his make-up had neat edges and the design differed. However, he bore the same eerie white eye and you wondered if it was genetic.

“Ah, la pittrice! Benvenuto,” he said. “Excuse my eh… casual attire, I was just coming back from breakfast.”

“It is an honour to make your acquaintance,” you said. Then, wondering if you had to address him by his title, you added: “Papa.”

“Ah, the honour is mine. Mio fratello tells me you are very talented. Do you think you are ready to paint this new face here, eh?”

“I would like to try my best,” you offered.

“Papa will show you the Hall of Ancestors and then we will sign your contract,” the Mother Superior interrupted. “The discussed terms have not changed on our side.”

“Ah, Sister, straight to business as always,” Papa said and offered you his arm. “Let us get away fast before we fall asleep, eh?”

They exchanged looks that told you their relationship must not be one of mutual affections but you decided to follow him without questioning. With your hand in the crook of his arm he led you through the hallways that, unfamiliar as they were, seemed like a maze to you.

“She can be a bit eh… strict,“ he whispered on the way. “But you will not have to deal with her too much.”

His Italian lilt was more than charming and you found yourself staring at his handsome face, raven hair neatly combed back, soft features hidden underneath the harsher lines of his skull paints. You already knew that painting him would bring you joy, a beautifully aging man with the features of Bela Lugosi and a flair of old Hollywood. His charms were an act, you were quite certain, but you could not pretend that you were immune to their effects.

“This is the ancestral hall,” he said then, and led you into a room filled with large-scale portraits.

The walls were covered with them, all of them wearing similar face paints, the white eye glowing from its socket, and robes that resembled those of the Catholic Church. Only the colours were darker, the aura of the paintings more sinister, and all of them bore the symbols of Satanism – the upside down cross embellished into robes, mitres, gloves and scarves.

The latest one, next to the empty spot where you assumed the current Papa’s would go, showed the man you had met in the atelier a few years ago. He looked serious and stately as he sat on the same chair all of them were perched on, the unique colour of his portrait an emerald green.

“Mio fratello,” Papa said. “The one who vouched for you.”

“He bought my first ever painting,” you said. “On my eighteenth birthday.”

And subsequently caused your whole life to change. The argument that ensued about the nature of your paintings caused you to move out and soon after you started art school. Perhaps if you met him, you would be able to give him your thanks for supporting your endeavours. You remembered that he had invited you here, perhaps a premonition.

“Ah, yes, he is a lover of the arts,” Papa interrupted your reverie of the past. “He has good tastes, loath as I am to admit it.”

The style of the paintings did not vary much and so you knew you could find orientation here, inspiration for how to approach your work. They would expect you to imitate it, yet you were keen on finding your own unique style for a portrait of this caliber. You had worked with oil paintings  for so long now but these ones clearly seemed to be done in the style of the old masters. Mr Kraan had taught you how to work in such a way but you had never tried it on a large scale.

“What are you thinking?” Papa asked and his tone was quieter, more serious now.

“I–” You glanced at him, only to find his eyes resting on you with a calm sense of sympathy. Suddenly you understood why he was the leader. There was understanding in his expression, trust, the promise of no judgement no matter what would follow. “I am just… humbled.”

“Humbled?”

“I never expected to be trusted with such an important job. It is… an honour, really. But–”

“But you have never done something like this before? On this scale?”

“No.”

He smiled, then, reassuring and kind. “You will do great, I have a feeling.”

With a deep breath you nodded and took in the paintings for a little longer. The level of detail was impressive, something to get lost in, and you wondered what his robes would look like. You had a feelings that working with Papa would be a lot more comfortable than you had assumed and as daunting as it was, you knew you could do it justice if you just tried.

Before you left the abbey half an hour later you stepped inside the old chapel. The air was cool in there, not as sombre as you had expected but rather welcoming and open. It looked like any church, really, except for the images on the triptych, the symbols etched into the altar. You were familiar with the imagery and felt more at home than you ever had in any other church. This was their place of worship, you realised, not something out of a horror movie but something very real and not at all evil. If this was where you would be closest to the powers you had prayed to for most of your life in the silence of your room, then perhaps you could find comfort and refuge here like so many others.

You took one of the spare black candles and lit it alongside the many others that were burning in an alcove. You closed your eyes and called once more to the powers that you had always hoped would stand by your side. As you finished your prayer a gust of wind tore through the building, whistling eerily in the open space. The candles flickered for a moment, their flames distorting into thin, wavering shapes, and you swore you saw the outline of two big red eyes amongst them. The draft faded away along with your vision and you focused on the warmth of the candles against your skin, watched as they slowly calmed down.

The way home took you twice as long as you found yourself lost in the memories of the past.

✦ ✧ ✦

Work at the abbey was pleasant. The studio was situated in one of the old wings of their main  administrative building and designed specifically with the work you did in mind. The light was incredible, big windows overlooking parts of the grounds, the Papal chair placed in the perfect spot. You had not met the previous artists that had been in residency here but you felt close to them either way. Using their massive easel, the same props and backdrops. It made you feel like you had more experience than you really had.

And they had paid for your materials. Anything you wanted, Papa had promised. For the first time you felt like a real, professional artist who was taken seriously by others. The good progress you made was driven by that, no other jobs but full focus on one painting. You were practically living in your small atelier at the abbey when you did not go home to catch up on sleep.

Which is what you had done last night, even though once again the nightmares had made your sleep restless and you felt like you had not slept at all. You were due at the abbey for a sitting with Papa early on that day. Usually during these morning meetings he brought coffee and pastries from the abbey’s kitchens, sensing that you both weren’t exactly early risers. His schedule was quite busy and you had adjusted to filling the few spots he could sacrifice.

However, as you got ready to leave you heard a commotion from the backroom downstairs. Your mom had just gone to sleep after a nightshift, so you knew it had to be Mr Kraan. You hardly ever ventured into this part of the house. He kept all of his work here, every painting he never managed to sell. A lot of your own work was also stashed away in here and you weren’t sure what he was doing at this time of day. Usually there was no need to go back there unless you sold an old work online which had not happened in quite some time now.

You heard him curse somewhere in the back, hidden behind one of the many shelves. It was completely dark, the sun only beginning to rise and all the lights turned off. You caught him with a sheet in his hand, throwing it over a pile of canvases.

“Are you alright?” you asked carefully.

He startled. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard the noise–”

“It’s nothing. Just cleaning up.”

“What are those?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes gleamed red and his voice was harsher than ever before. You stared at each other but his expression did not waver or soften. Scared, you eventually decided that you must leave and headed out the front door without another word. However, the strange encounter did not leave you alone and after a few minutes you snuck back inside. Mr Kraan, as expected, had gone back upstairs, and you tiptoed to the corner you had just found him in.

The stack of canvases was larger than you had expected and when you carefully pulled the sheet away, you found what must be close to fifty paintings. The first few were all black schemes and fog but the shapes became clearer the further you flipped through. By the middle of the stack you saw the clear frame of a shadowy figure with red eyes and an open mouth, bent into a perpetual yawn. You continued on, the figure changed and morphed into different shapes, gained arms and claws that reached out from the canvas to the beholder. By that time your heart was hammering in your chest, a sense of dread spreading from your fingertips to the crown of your head. The paintings at the back showed the figure clearly, a demon-like being with red eyes and large hands and sharp teeth that tried to claw its way out of the canvas. For a moment you felt the claws ghosting over your skin and cold sweat started to ooze from your pores.

Were those scenes from his nightmares?

You pushed the paintings back and covered them but the sense of sheer terror never left. You had seen dark paintings, you had painted scenes more gruesome than these, but somehow they seemed to reach into your chest and cling to you with the monstrous claws you had seen on the creature. If he dreamed of this demon then you were not surprised that he was plagued by it, terrorised by the images. If only you knew where it came from, why you were seeing it as well in the flames of candles, when you lost yourself in your art, when you closed your eyes a moment too long.

A voice in the back of your head told you that it was your fault. You had meddled with the dark powers as a child, you had been praying to them for just as long. The stain on the floor of the studio had grown ever since you had caused it but burnt wood cannot spread, not like it was infected by a sickness. Your experiments had always failed – it was impossible, wasn’t it?

You grabbed your backpack and finally headed out into the cool morning air. Your pulse beat entirely too fast as you walked towards the woods and took the winding trail up to the abbey. When you arrived you were far too winded for such a relatively short trip and your breathing came so ragged still that you had to hold on to the walls of the nearest building. Your head spun, your vision blurred at the edges. It took you several minutes to regain your composure, to find control over your own body.

Even as Papa joined you in the studio you could not shake your puzzled state. He took note, of course, perceptive and empathetic as he was, and forced you to take a break straight away. You found yourself sitting on the floor with him over your coffees, breaking off pieces of a chocolate croissant. The past hour felt surreal, like it did not happen at all.

“You are alright, piccina?” he asked for the fifth time.

All you could do was nod. There was no way you could ever explain to him what was troubling you and you were not even sure if you understood it yourself. “I did not sleep well, that’s all.”

“Would you rather postpone this session?”

You glanced at him in his black and purple robes, the pristine face paint, mitre cast aside so that his raven hair was falling into his face now, slightly disturbed. His thick brows so tightly pulled together showed you how genuine his concern was and you wondered how much of an obvious mess you were.

“No, I think painting will distract me,” you finally said, taking a healing sip of the warm cappuccino he’d brought.

“If you want to talk about it, I am here,” Papa offered. “And if it is an issue you wish to keep private, we do offer times in the confessional as well as consultation hours.”

“But I am not even a member of your church.”

“That does not matter,” he said with a shrug. “Everyone is welcome here.”

You thought on it for a moment. Spiritual guidance came close to what you needed and perhaps if you just opened up to someone outside of your house you would find actual solutions. But was it not too absurd? Would they even believe you? For as much as you knew they were trusting in their faith what was happening to you might well be a figment of your own imagination. Perhaps it was your own guilt gnawing at you, for not making enough money, for not being able to help the one man who came close to being an actual father figure to you, for failing to become a successful artist.

“It’s fine, I promise,” you said. “I feel better already.”

Papa kept you trapped in his gaze and you felt like he was staring straight into your soul. As though your body wanted to prove him right your head began to spin again and you swayed, forcing you to prop yourself up on your hand.

“No no, piccina,” Papa said, reaching out to steady your shoulder. “Listen to me, you will go home now and catch up on your sleep. It is no use to force it. You have been working too much anyway, no? It is time for a break.”

His eyes were kind, understanding, despite the white one keeping its eerie gleam. His hand on your shoulder was gentle, squeezing as if to comfort you, and for a moment you wanted to fall into his arms and weep like a child. You were not sure anyone had offered you comfort before, unconditional, just because they sensed that you needed it.

As soon as you felt steady again you nodded at him, seeing the sense in his words. Papa let you finish the croissant and coffee and accompanied you all the way to the gate, making sure you were steady enough on your feet for the walk home. He offered to have someone drive you but the pine-scented air of the woods paired with the quiet song of the birds from the canopy called out to you.

When you finally fell back into bed the house was quiet but even so you did not find any rest.

✦ ✧ ✦

Your wrist ached, a throbbing sort of pain that without medication and ice packs brought tears to your eyes. It felt hot, like a lingering fire trapped between your bones, pulsing in sync with your heartbeat and preventing any movement. You wore a brace as you painted, keeping the hand as still as possible, and swallowed through the pain when it became too much.

You did not have much left. Perhaps a week of steady work on the details until the portrait would be done. It was good, it was your best work. You told yourself that over and over whenever you sat on your stool until late into the night. Just stay focus, stay working, don’t mess it up now, you can take a break when you’re done.

The way home was filled with agony as you had to wait until you would reach the comforts of your bed and the ice pack you had put into the freezer before leaving. It must be close to midnight and the moon stood high up in the sky when you crossed the courtyard. Your wrist was mad at you, so mad that you counted the steps through the woods to distract your mind from the way your blood was shooting painfully through the inflamed tissue.

Even in the safety of the woods you noticed the faint scent of smoke.

The whole town smelled like it did on New Year’s Eve and during the thirty minutes it took you to get from the edge of town to the studio the smell only grew stronger. You were still a few streets away when you finally saw it, black gusts of smoke climbing over the rooftops and fading out into the sky, a wall of black blocking out the light of the stars.

Perhaps you were already panicking then because the next few minutes felt like they were compressed into a single moment. You rounded the corner in a half-sprint and while you were vaguely aware of people standing outside of their houses and glancing out of the surrounding windows it felt like you were all by yourself.

The fire came somewhere from the back of the house, growing flames licking past the roof and reaching higher into the sky with every step you took. Not a second of hesitation held you back, not even as you heard people screaming in the background. When you entered you could hear the sirens approaching in the distance. But you could not wait for them, not when Mr Kraan was somewhere in there.

It was not a conscious decision anyway. Your feet carried you, your raging heartbeat drumming so loudly inside of you that any warning voices were drowned out. The fire seemed to have just started to spread as the downstairs area looked untouched, even though you heard and smelled it already. It was dark, so dark that you stumbled over the steps and held onto the wall to stay steady. Halfway up the stairs your ears felt like they were under water and then suddenly you were walking into a storm. The sound of wind whistled in your ears but the more steps you took the clearer it became that it was not wind at all but an echo of voices.

“Exilium,” they whispered. “Exilium.”

Over and over they repeated the word, some higher, some deeper, some faster or more drawn-out, a cacophonous choir of whispered latin. You were met with a wall of heat and smoke, trying to squeeze into any available space upstairs and gathering at the ceiling. You kept your mouth closed and ran into the studio, smoke biting in your eyes that were watering immediately. The fire lit up the room so you could see it clearly despite the smoke rising up through the gaps of the already damaged roof. Through the orange fire that was beginning to eat at the walls you saw different coloured flames burning a symbol into the floor, shifting from a deep red to a vibrant green. At first it looked like a star but then you made out the circle. No, it was a pentagram, and in the middle lay a weak half-burnt body.

Panic seized you but as you tried to run to him a beam came crashing down from the ceiling as half of the roof collapsed. You stepped aside but the burning edge hit you right in the ribcage and you fell under the force of the impact. The torrid wood landed underneath your breast and scorched your skin before you could push it off, pain shooting into your side and the smell of burnt fabric flooding your nose. You scrambled for purchase, crawling across the floor to the unmoving body. The green flames of the pentagram flared up, then disappeared, and through the smoke you saw a shadowy figure rising from the symbol. Red eyes were gleaming so bright that you could see them  even through the smoky haze, and then a scream pierced the air, so shrill that it rang in your ears long after it had faded out.

You tried to move but your legs weren’t obeying. The creature opened its mouth and wrapped itself around the body on the floor like a blanket of fog. For a moment it hovered there as you crawled closer but then its claws appeared like two huge spiders jumping from the ceiling and ripped the body apart within seconds. You were sure you were screaming but all you could hear was the violent cough that sprang from the monster’s mouth. It sounded as though it was sucking in air, too greedy and fast, the cough slowly morphing into a pathetic wheezing.

You clung to consciousness. One moment you thought you had passed out but the next all life streamed back into your body and the pain faded away. You managed to stand, the air around you so dense with smoke now that you could not see. On autopilot you ran past the fallen beam and back into the hallway where the fire had not spread as far yet. The stairs were still intact and you managed to get back down with no issue, breathing in cleaner air now.

It was a miracle that you had not breathed in enough smoke. When you found yourself at the bottom of the stairs you were practically unharmed, even though the pain in your ribs where the beam had burnt your skin was now shifting back into focus. You were not sure how but there were no other burns, no other injuries, and your lungs felt fine. Had you imagined what just happened?

You stood there and breathed, trying to sort through the chaos in your mind. Suddenly the door sprang open and the firefighters came in and with their heavy gear they looked like intruders. Reality streamed back into your mind as though a bubble had popped, sounds, sensations, voices. One of the men with their bulky safety helmets immediately grabbed you and carried you outside. The moment you left the buildings it felt as though the fire truly started. From the man’s arms you saw how large orange flames were reaching up into the sky now, the wooden beams of the house groaning under the exhaustion as though the ghosts that haunted it were in agony.

The man delivered you to an ambulance further down the road and the paramedics inspected your hands and arms. They seemed surprised at your state, the lack of a cough or any other symptoms of smoke poisoning, and you lied and told them you had only been downstairs where the fire had not spread yet. With some reluctance they offered you water and said they would keep you for a bit longer to make sure you did not go into shock.

You sat there, numb to the world around you, and watched as the firemen bellowed orders and tried to keep the fire under control. For a few long minutes you sipped the cool water, then a fireman came to inform you that they had found a burnt body upstairs that they were unable to recover. You must have been too shocked to process the information because you just nodded at him and confirmed the identity of Mr Kraan when he asked. After you informed him that no one else was in the house, that your mother was at work, they told you that all they could do now was to let the house burn in a controlled fire that would keep it from spreading to any other buildings.

“I need to go back in,” you heard yourself saying.

“You cannot do anything,” the man said. “Do you have somewhere you can stay?”

You hesitated, struggling to comprehend what was happening. Your mother had to be on her way home by now but you could not bring yourself to face her. You had taken her partner, her new home, her everything. You had messed with powers Mr Kraan warned you not to mess with and it had cost you everything. He was dead because of you, it was all because of you. The knowledge settled in and suddenly your body was wrecked with heavy sobs. The fireman left you and the paramedics took over, but any attempt to soothe you was in vain.

All that now remained were the smoke-soaked clothes on your body, the sketchbooks in your backpack and the biting pain in your ribcage.

✦ ✧ ✦

You weren’t sure how exactly you dragged your body back to the abbey once the first shock ebbed down. The moment the paramedics had left you unobserved you stole yourself away, driven by the need to leave, and slipped past the roadblocks unseen. It was a short detour but somehow you ended up walking for a whole hour until you reached the entrance gate. Your body functioned on autopilot and it was only when you aimlessly wandered into the administrative building that the exhaustion made you pause and your legs grew leaden.

The adrenaline faded fast and pain shot through your body like liquid fire. Your skin burnt, the dragging pain in your wrist multiplied, and you sank to the floor in agony as you felt the weight of the whole world crashing down on you.

For a long time you sat there in the middle of the night, eyes flooded with tears, trying to reign in the sobs that shook your already weak body. Images of what you had seen flickered in your mind like a slideshow of horrors, fire everywhere, a body ripped apart at the seams, a wheezing creature that ate what it could until the remains of the man who was like your father were left to the flames. Everything was burning, they could not save the house, none of the art, no materialistic memory left of what you had lost but ash and dust. You were alone now, you could not see your mother, you could never face her ever again after what you did.

Cold seeped into your bones. Even though it was a late summer night the temperatures had dropped and you felt your limbs growing numb. It was impossible to move, your joints ached, your lungs were heaving under the weight of your sobs and your wrist as well as the skin on your side were burning as though you were still aflame.

You curled up in a ball on your unhurt side and wrapped your arms around your knees. The tears would not cease and you begged someone, anyone, to stop the pain. It was too much, you could not stand it a moment longer and you were sure that at some point you might just pass out and die.

Suddenly a door opened. You heard the sound vaguely in the distance at first and had a mind to ignore it but then the footsteps, heals clicking on stone floor, echoed in the hallway, coming closer and closer. You did not look up as they stopped right next to you.

“Eh, signorina? Are you– Can I help?”

You pressed your face to your knees, hoping that you would just disappear. The man who had spoken crouched down beside you but all you could see from your peripheral vision was a gloved hand hovering somewhere by your knee.

“Can I… Can I touch you?”

You gave a weak nod. He picked you up, with some effort bringing you into a standing position. You could not feel your limbs, your whole body was undercooled, and when your knees gave out he wrapped an arm around you. His hand graced the burn on your side and you winced, but you could not use your hand to steady yourself as the pain in your wrist made you flinch back. The man shifted until you were able to hold onto him and by then both of his arms were grasping you firmly, pressing you against his red cassock. That is how you finally realised who he was – a man Papa had introduced to you as the Cardinal.

“I will bring you to the doctor,” he said, pencil moustache twitching over a black top lip. His eyes were rimmed black, one of them the same milky white colour as that of Papa. For a moment you panicked that he would report you and that they would find out what you did.

“No.” You tried to get away but his grasp tightened. “I do not need a doctor.”

He looked down at you disapprovingly. “You are in shock or panic or both. You need medical attention.”

“Please– I–”

The Cardinal disregarded you and led you to one of the doors. With some fumbling he managed to unlock it and placed you on a small sofa in the corner right away. When he straightened his back he groaned and you felt shame and embarrassment at the sight. Like a child he had to drag you around.

Once he had recovered he looked at you, assessing the situation, leaning so close that you could see the freckles on his face. “I do not think you can walk, so I will bring her to us.”

“But it’s late–”

“I know.”

He disappeared without another word.

You remained seated, unable to move even if you wanted to. His office was a mess, papers and books strewn everywhere and he must have been working until now, the black candles on his desk burnt almost all the way down. An adult-sized tricycle sat in one corner and you did not understand at all who this man was besides the fact the he was a high-ranking member of the clergy here. Even so, your surroundings were something to focus on besides your pain and you managed to keep your composure until the door opened and the Cardinal reappeared.

He was accompanied by a woman, elderly but with a kind face and greying blond hair. She had a doctor’s case in her hand and quickly sat down beside you. If he had to wake her, she did not show any signs of it.

“Cardinal,” she said then, with a sense of authority, and he excused himself to give you both privacy. His eyes lingered on you for a moment before he closed the door and despite yourself you wished that he would have stayed. Something about him seemed more trustworthy to you than anyone you had met before.

“I am Elisa,” the doctor said. “And the only thing I ask of you tonight is that you are honest with me.”

Elisa only had to inspect you for a moment to be able to see that you were in actual physical pain and that it was not just panic alone. You reluctantly told her about your tendinitis and the burn wound, that you had no place to live anymore because a fire had destroyed it, and she assured you that here within the walls of this cloister discretion and your safety came first before anything else.

“I will have to treat you in the infirmary,” she said after glancing at your ribs. “The burn might scar, however. We have wasted precious time.”

You nodded and she helped you up. By now your legs were more steady again and you tried to breathe through the upcoming panic as it tried to seize you yet again. Elisa called out for the Cardinal and when he opened the door he was fiddling with a ring on his black glove. His brows shot up when he saw you standing on your own.

“Yes?” he asked.

“She will need a place to stay,” Elisa said. “For a while.”

“You can stay here, of course, signorina,” he said and he did not seem surprised. You wondered how many people they offered spontaneous refuge. “You are working here, no?”

“Make sure to arrange free quarters for her by tomorrow, Cardinal,” the doctor said, ignoring his question. “She will stay in the infirmary tonight as a precaution, to make sure she is alright.”

The Cardinal nodded and when he saw your watery eyes he must have pitied you. You tried to glance away but instead of granting you peace he approached you. “Signorina, I know it might not seem like it, but I promise you things will be alright. If you need help, you can come to my consultation. Or to any of the Papas in residency. You are not alone here, okie dokie? Not ever.”

You vaguely nodded, even though you already knew you would not be able to face the man ever again after what had transpired tonight.

His black-gloved hand reached for his chest then and he removed the upside-down crucifix that was dangling over his heart from its chain. It was embellished, gemstones sparkling as the light caught in them. The Cardinal grasped your hand and placed it inside of your palm, then closed both of his around yours. The leather was soft and warm, the first hint of comfort you felt all night.

“Take this,” he says. “Our Dark Lord, He will guide you, He will help you. And in time you will be at home here, I promise.”

Tears spilled from your eyes unbidden. His words rang hollow, even though he must have spoken them with all the genuineness in his heart. You clutched the crucifix to your chest, anchoring yourself, trying to believe in what he said. Perhaps you could devote yourself, you thought, perhaps you could repent and pay for what you did by serving Him.

Elisa gently roused you, then, and led you outside of the office with a hand on your elbow. As you followed her, you felt the will to fight leaving your body. For a moment you wished you had let the flames take you as well. But when the door closed you still carried on. And in time, the pain would fade into a dull ache, and the grief would be locked up so tightly that you did not have to think of it at all. Until one day, of course, when you finally opened it once more.

Chapter Text

“There is a luxury in self-reproach. When we blame ourselves, we feel that no one else has a right to blame us. It is the confession, not the priest, that gives us absolution.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

✦ ✧ ✦

The scar on your ribs feels as though it has opened up again, the burning sensation so strong you have to press your hand to the spot to make sure the skin has not melted off your bones. As you recount the events of that night to Copia your voice is broken and you can tell that he is struggling not to open the door that separates you and end the confessional act he’s been putting on. But you are trying hard to keep your composure, talking so fast that the panic can’t catch up with you.

“The day after you found me,” you say, “I was moved into a single room and after a few more days I decided that I would stay. I thought… I thought that I could repent, that I could make up for what I’d done if I just devoted myself to this faith.”

“What you had done?” Copia asks, his voice strained, as though he is trying to keep it steady and under control by speaking slower. “What do you mean?”

You furrow your brow. Did he not listen? The forced pause has your mind reeling, the flood of memories and emotions catching up with you. Recounting all of what happened made the wound feel fresh all over again, even though you had so carefully tried to push it all away. The pain in your ribs flares up once more and as the panic seizes you you curl up on the bench, trying not to let it swallow you. Mona has fallen down to the floor but you cannot reach for her. Tears stream from your eyes, as though you are wound so tightly that the pressure has the pain leaking from your seams. They feel hot like the fire that engulfed you that night, trailing down your cheeks and collecting at your chin.

“The demon, it was there because of me,” you squeeze out. “It means that I killed him, that it was all my fault.”

The door opens and Copia is only one step away. You can’t bring yourself to look at him. He closes the distance and you immediately fall to your knees, clutching his legs and pressing your face against his thigh.

“What if I devote myself entirely, what if… what if I give myself up? Can I be redeemed, Papa?”

The use of his title has him tensing against you. His hand gently comes to rest on your shoulder, thumb swiping along the curve even as you shake against him.

“Amore, my love, you don’t need redemption. Please, get up.”

You can’t bring yourself to do so, the shame and guilt weigh you down. Copia strokes your hair, allowing you to cry into the fabric of his pants until your sobs aren’t quite so violent anymore. You feel like you have not taken a single breath in the past half hour, lungs burning as though you had been inhaling smoke all over again.

“I am so sorry,” you sob. “I did not mean to, I promise, I promise. I never thought this would happen.”

“It was a tragic accident,” Copia says, fingers tangled in your hair to urge you to look at him. You resist heavily. “It was a fire, amore, not you.”

His words have you vehemently shaking your head, bumping into his knees on either side of your face. The urge to do it again rises, to do it until it hurts, to find some kind of release for the pain inside of you, and you have to cling to him tighter, trying to shake the feeling.

“Please, get up, amore,” he repeats. “Let me see you, hm? Let me see my love.”

The gentleness of his words, the softness with which he touches you, is in such stark contrast to the way you feel that you almost can’t stand it. He does not understand. It is the only explanation as to why he can be so compassionate, why he has not pushed you away yet.

When you don’t move Copia sinks down to your level. It’s a tight squeeze on the wooden floor of the booth and you can’t escape him anymore as he pulls you into his lap. He finds Mona, places her in your hands, and then his fingers grasp your chin and tilt it up, pushing against your resistance. You finally comply and force yourself to look into his eyes. They are red, as though he has been suppressing his own tears, and even though his paints are still smeared from earlier he looks authoritative, all Papa Emeritus IV.

“It was a fire, an accident,” he says again.

“It was not just any fire. It was demonic, evil,” you whisper. “It was my fault.”

“No, amore. It was not your fault,” he gently corrects.

“I prayed to Lucifer,” you explain. “I prayed for the gift of painting, I messed around with things I should not have touched, and this is the price I paid. Whatever… whatever creature or demon was there that night it was there because of me.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a demon. Or the Dark Lord. Or anyone,” Copia says. “Maybe it was an accident. Black magic, it is tricky, amore, it can go wrong in many ways. A spark causing a fire, the smoke…”

“But I saw the monster, I saw the claws, the red eyes. I heard the coughs, the wheezing. I saw it kill him.”

“That does not mean a demon was conjured or that our Dark Lord Himself showed up. It could have been a trick of your mind, to find a solution–”

You frown, pulling away. “You think I’m delusional? Or that I’m lying?”

“No, no,” he says, holding onto your hand tightly. “No, amore, I don’t think so. It is just… you were in shock, you inhaled all this smoke. It was an extreme situation. When I found you here that night you were barely able to speak or move.”

“There was a creature, Copia,” you say adamantly. “I saw it, I have seen it before, ever since my childhood it was there in my head. Something happened, something that was not a normal fire. I know what I saw and if you don’t believe me–”

“I do,” he interrupts, pulling you closer again, one hand on your thigh, the other curling around your cheek. He holds your stern gaze and you realise that he is just as determined as you are that what he’s saying is true. “I do believe you. But I will not believe that it was your fault.”

“But what if it was?” you whisper, thumbing the soft fur on Mona’s belly. You have no way to prove that the creature was there because of you, you cannot be certain about it.

“Then I would still love you,” he says firmly, thumb swiping along your wet cheekbone. “I will always love you.”

“Copia–”

“You were a child,” he says, briefly glancing down at your hands where you have them pressing Mona against your chest. “You thought you had to prove your talent. But you were never meant to carry this burden. You should have been grieving and healing, instead you blamed and isolated yourself. That is over now, ‘strella. I will not allow you to do it anymore.”

His words, spoken with such conviction, shake your fragile composure. You can’t help but bury your face in his neck and let him hold you as the emotions finally unravel and you cry in his arms where you were always meant to be. You feel entirely undeserving of his love, of the unconditional nature of it, and you will never understand where it comes from. But even so, you have no proof of your guilt and perhaps him believing you that the monster was there at all has to be enough.

“I love you,” he mumbles against your hair. “I am here, I will not leave. I promise, ‘strella. You will never be alone again.”

His whisper has another wave of sobs rising within you. He continues to reassure you, holding you tight. You are not sure if you’ve ever allowed yourself to cry so openly about what happened, but you know that you have certainly never had anyone comfort you like that.

The grief used to sit somewhere deep inside of you, trapped in a solid chest. Whenever you came near it, you could feel it rattling against the closed lock, threatening to spill out. The phantom of your previous pain, the sheer prospect of its unbearable intensity, made you flinch back every single time you found it. So you kept the chest neatly tucked away, pushed it so far down that you were not in any danger of coming too close. And so it sat there. Waiting. Expanding. Straining the materials.

And now the lock has finally burst open, the pain flowing out freely, engulfing you like a tidal wave with a force that threatens to have you drown. Copia is your lifeline, the only thing that’s still breathing air into your lungs. His voice keeps you afloat and you cling to him until your muscles ache, your chest tightens.

Eventually the pain recedes, lingering, yes, but manageable for now. You realise how you’ve been crushing Copia, unsure how long you’ve been pressing him to the wooden board behind him. He never complained, still looks like he’d rather suffer in silence than interrupt you. His face is so close to yours that you breathe the same air and you find comfort in his familiar features. The paint still messy, hair mussed, eyes so soft and loving as they behold you. It is compassion but not pity that you see, and you can’t find the words to thank him for it.

“Should we go?” he asks and you nod, only now realising that you were practically out in the open of the chapel for what must be hours.

You note that Copia winces when you both get up and your own body feels achy and depleted as well, like all your energy is spent. All you want is a soft bed and silence. Copia’s arms never leave you, as though he has to touch you in some shape or form, and even though you’re not sure how you feel about the contact right now you do need him to stay steady.

To your relief, Copia leads you to his quarters instead of the studio. The time getting ready for bed is spent in the silence you so crave as he gives you room to breathe. He takes a bit longer in the bathroom as you slip into some of his clothes that still smell like laundry detergent. Then you sit on his tiny bed, glance around the room, and eventually slip underneath the covers when you hear him opening the bathroom door. Your thoughts spin around the same conclusions you had weeks ago: You do not deserve him. He could be in danger by being so close to you.

His footsteps stop next to the bed. He watches you cautiously, face bare now, dressed in sweatpants and a retro Star Wars shirt. You try to act like you’re not impossibly close to losing it yet again. He looks so worried and you love him more than you could ever express with words.

Lights off except for his lava lamp Copia crawls into bed beside you. You’re pressed to the wall and then he’s reaching out for you and you think you can’t possibly take any more of these soft and gentle touches. He notices you flinching away in the blue light and halts.

“I don’t know if I want to be touched right now,” you whisper.

His brows rise. It’s practically impossible not to touch on his narrow mattress but somehow you manage. Quiet settles, even though his breathing is loud, and you know he is fighting for his life not to reach out. You know you should not be alone right now, you know you should push through the feelings, and yet your instincts scream at you to remove yourself, to curl up alone and not burden anyone else. He would not let you and in truth you would not want him to leave because he is everything that holds you together.

“Do you think you can get some rest?” he asks. “We talk more tomorrow?”

“I will try,” you offer.

“Good, good.”

He remains restless. You close your eyes, trying not to allow the tears to come back, to pull you under. Your body feels different, as though reliving those memories brought back the pain you suffered through. When you close your eyes you find yourself drifting off into the shadows, the smoke and flames. You blink yourself awake every so often to stay present. Copia has moved to lie on his back but you notice that he’s staring up at the ceiling, not sleeping.

Your ribs burn through your skin. You absentmindedly touch the scar again and he glances at you. For a moment you roll over to face the wall instead but you can’t breathe in the narrow space, the panic bubbling back to life. In the end you turn back around and you see Copia eyeing you with wet eyes, face half illuminated in the blue light of the lava lamp and half draped in shadows.

His hands twitch on top of the blanket. You cannot hold back for more than a few seconds before you scoot over. He immediately breathes a sigh of relief and wraps himself around you. You think you may suffocate from the tightness of his embrace. Warmth envelops you, one of his legs draping around yours, his hands stroking your back

“I’m sorry,” you whisper as the tears spill again.

“Shhhh.” His lips press to your forehead. “I am here, amore. Do not hide from me, ti prego.”

You let go, the walls crumbling again, but this time it is a cathartic cry. One that will exhaust you until you can finally fall asleep in his arms. And even though the reality of tonight weighs heavily on you, the fact that your secret is out, the fact that you stepped into such unknown territory, you can’t bring yourself to regret your choice to share it with Copia.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers into your hair. “That you told me, that you trust me, ‘strella. I know it is not easy, I know, but now we are together. You are not alone. You will never be alone again, I promise you.”

You fist his shirt at his back, desperately trying to believe him.

✦ ✧ ✦

Your sleep is, fortunately, dreamless. Your face aches when you wake, as does the rest of your body, the muscles overused and cramped, your eyes still crusty and reddened even hours later. Overall, you feel surprisingly okay. Copia never allowed you to separate your bodies during the night and so you’re a little sweaty when he finally does in order to get up, clothes clinging to your skin. He lets you shower while he makes coffee and you soak up the warm water. Your thoughts still circle and while you are scared of what’s going to happen now you also feel like a weight has been lifted off your shoulders. Finally there are no secrets anymore between you an him.

The kitchen smells earthy, coffee gurgling in the machine as it’s being brewed. Copia leans against the counter, rubbing his eyes tiredly, the Star Wars shirt wrinkled and glued to his torso. You observe him, wondering how you ever managed to deserve a man like him.

“I’m sorry I’m such a mess,” you whisper.

He looks up, gives you a stern expression. “If you are a mess, then so am I, ’strella, and did you not choose me anyway?”

You cannot find a rebuttal, not when he puts on his Papa expression, so you let his words hover in the air. The truth is that of course you did and how can you argue against that? When you had him crying in your arms, filled with anxiety, you only loved him more.

Eventually he fills two cups and hands you one that has the iconic logo of The Godfather on one side and the silhouette of Don Corleone on the other. The first sip burns in your swollen throat.

“How are you feeling?” Copia asks, watching you with some hesitance now.

You drum your fingers against the lettering. “Relieved, I think. Scared.”

“Scared of what?”

“That it changes things,” you admit. “Or even worse that… perhaps my fears were right and you’re in danger with me.”

“You still think it was your fault,” Copia concludes.

“Even if not… if somehow this creature still has power over me, then it’s possible that you aren’t safe. That Sybil isn’t safe. Or anyone close to me.”

“Nothing has happened since, no?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not that I noticed at least.”

“Then we will worry about it later,” he says. “It is more important that you feel better again first.”

“But what if it strikes again? What if I accidentally summon it again somehow? If it happened once it could happen again and now that I talked about it– perhaps you’re a new target.”

He considers this, then takes a heavy breath. “I am still not convinced you did it.”

“But–”

“Amore, even ghoul summonings are so intricate that we have to prepare them for months and only few know how to do it,” he says. “It is not something anyone can just… copy. You were a child at the time you messed with the magic, I cannot believe that a simple ritual from some book could cause such damage. It goes against all that I was taught.”

“But then what do you think happened?”

He shakes his head as if to dismiss any ideas that pop up. “I think we should talk to Secondo.”

You freeze, gripping the mug tighter. “Copia–”

“I know, you do not want anyone to know, but you are right, as long as we don’t know what happened we don’t know if it could come back and I cannot live in peace knowing that you might come to harm. But Secondo knows more about these things than anyone else. He will be able to help us.”

You stare into the depths of your mug, trying to reign in the fear that grows in your stomach. The dark liquid inside ripples as your hand begins to tremble and a moment later Copia takes it from you, sets it down on the counter.

“Amore–”

“What if he finds out that it was my fault?”

Your words hang in the silence that follows. Copia takes a deep breath, both of his hands coming to rest on your upper arms, rubbing them soothingly. He pulls you into a tight hug and you fall limp against him. Your body can hardly carry itself and your lungs feel suffocated. No matter how many times you blamed yourself for what happened, having it confirmed would make the weight of it unbearable.

“‘strella, you are not to blame,” Copia whispers as though he can hear your thoughts. “Even if you somehow summoned it, you did not make it kill him.”

“But–”

“You did not,” he stresses. “You were not even there when the fire started.”

You sigh, focusing on his warmth, the feeling of his body. Perhaps he is right, perhaps you need to let go if you want to heal and if Papa Secondo can help you with that it might be worth a try. “Alright, we can talk to Papa.”

Copia squeezes you, kissing the top of your head. “Good. That is good, amore.”

When he lets go you reach for your coffee again. “Do you think he will believe me?”

“Ah, of course,” Copia says. “He is familiar with all sorts of… activities. Demonic ones, I mean. Perhaps he has heard of other cases like this one.”

You nod, comforted by his words. If you had to trust anyone of the clergy with this then it would be Secondo. He had always been such a firm believer and supporter of your artistry, offered you a safe place even before you knew you would need it, and despite his reputation of being rather stern and serious the other Siblings only ever recommended his consultation hours. He was a good spiritual advisor, that’s what you heard. Perhaps he would know what to do.

“What about your mother?” Copia asks, then. “Did you ever tell her?”

“I only spoke to her once on the phone, to tell her that I would be moving here,” you reply, “and that I need time for myself. But I never reached out to her again, I changed my number and when she tried to visit me later… I just felt too ashamed, too guilty for what I’d done. I don’t even know where she lives now. She didn’t try again after that.”

“Would you… ever want to?”

You fiddle with the mug, drumming your fingers against it. “I don’t know if I can. It’s been so long, maybe she wouldn’t want to see me now.”

“I think that is not true, hm?”

“Perhaps one day,” you admit, allowing yourself to entertain the thought. “I think she would really like you.”

You find him smiling when you look up, stretching out his hand. You reciprocate, reaching out until your fingers catch and he can lock them. “All will be well, I promise you this.”

“With you… “ You stop to squeeze his hand, holding his gaze so that he knows you mean it. “With you I think I can find the strength to move on, Copia. You make me feel like it’s possible. That I have a future.”

This time it is he who squeezes. “I will be here. Whatever you need, you just tell me, okay? I will punch away all the evil thoughts.”

A giggle escapes you and his whole face lights up at the sound. “To be honest, I don’t really know what I need. I have all these paintings from the time after it happened where I was eaten by guilt and grief, all these sketches I can’t even remember making on my own because I was so lost to the feelings. Sometimes I see them and I wonder if I can ever let go of them.”

“What if we eh… do a symbolic version of letting go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe we can sacrifice some of them, lift that burden. I am sure Lucifer will accept this offering.”

For a moment you consider the proposition. You have thought about it before, many times in fact – ripping apart that looming pile of paintings in the back of the studio, the sketchbooks sitting on your shelves untouched, throwing it all away to be rid of it. At first a part of you was scared that it would provoke the creature but another part of you kept them to remember what happened, to keep the guilt and shame alive, to make you believe that you deserve to suffer under the weight of your grief. You know you cannot make up for what happened but you can free yourself and find a better way to commemorate what you lost.

“I think it’s a good idea,” you finally say. “I could choose some of the paintings to burn. Perhaps He will be watching and finally set me free.”

Copia pulls you into his arms again, coffee sloshing over the rim of your mug. “I have to go to the office, do what’s necessary for today, and then when I come back we will burn the ones that you choose.”

You nod against his neck, gripping him a little tighter. You have to admit that it feels good to have an action plan, a way out even if it would not be an easy one to pursue. There are no words to express how grateful you are to have Copia by your side in that moment. You hold him a little tighter, hoping that he knows.

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia leaves you in his quarters. He thinks it’s for the best if you spend some time away from the studio, napping on his bed wrapped up in his hoodie. He put out some movies for you to watch on his old tube television and despite the situation it makes him smile to imagine you among his things, as though you belong there now. Which to him you do, no matter if you keep insisting that you don’t deserve it. He only hopes that you find some distraction, that you won’t cry alone when he’s not there or regret telling him in the first place.

His heart still aches.

He said he would work, do all the things necessary today and get back to you as fast as possible. But he can’t even focus on those, his mind drifting back to last night. He cannot shake the image of you clinging to his knees, calling him Papa, begging for forgiveness. The pain in your eyes, in your voice, in your whole body and the way you looked like the night he found you, like you would crumble any moment.

How have you carried all of this for so long? If only he could take it away in one piece. Instead he has to slowly make you see that you are loved, that you are not to be blamed, that you deserve to heal and be comforted. What he knows is that he must stop this self-flagellation you have fallen into. He won’t see you punishing yourself any longer. But he has to coax you gently, make you see that there is a life beyond what happened.

Copia shakes himself awake, signs a few papers – treasury things that Emir sorted for him. The numbers swim in front of his eyes. Money to be invested into the upkeep of the grounds, renovations on the older buildings, new kitchen utensils and latin textbooks. It feels so trivial. He should be with you but Sister will know when he does not show up all day. And how would he justify it? The last thing he wants is to tell her about you and he knows he could never betray your trust like that. No, you agreed to see Secondo and that is already more than Copia expected. He does not think for a moment that you conjured a demon on your own but Secondo will be better at reassuring you, taking these heavy feelings of guilt and shame away from you so that you can finally heal. It is what he has done for Copia, it is what he has done for many people here.

“Papa?”

Emir appears in the doorway. “Have you signed off those papers yet? Sister asked for them.”

“I have, yes,” Copia says. “Eh… these ones?”

“Yes, perfect.”

The young brother stops in front of his desk and musters him. Copia is acutely aware that he must look frightening with his blood-shot eyes, messy hair, no face paint because he could not keep his hand steady earlier and decided to fuck it. He tried to hold it all back when he was with you but seeing you so distraught has taken a toll on him.

“Are you alright, Papa?” Emir asks.

“I ugh… did not sleep well,” Copia says. “I actually think I will leave early today. You… you won’t tell Sister, okie dokie?”

“I will not tell her, I promise,” Emir says. “Do you want me to make an appointment with the infirmary? Perhaps they can–”

“No, no.” Copia waves off. “It will be okay.”

“If you say so, Papa.” He closes the last remaining steps, glancing up. “I ugh… stashed away some painkillers in the bottom drawer of your desk the other day, just in case.”

It takes him a while to understand that Emir must have noticed his more frequent… back pains. But then it is hardly a secret anymore that their Papa has taken a lover. He would rather they think his lack of sleep comes from a night of passion than what actually occurred, especially if it gives them something else to speculate about.

As Emir gathers the papers he needs Copia once again can’t help but feel grateful that he finally managed to speak up about his workload. Since he has help everything seems much more manageable and he can actually take the time to be there for you. It is almost too good to be true, the amount of obstacles you have both tackled. It has been a while since he has felt so hopeful about the future, especially in regards to his private life.

“I will see that your schedule is clear for the afternoon, Papa,” Emir says. “Anything else I can do?”

“No, no, that would be all. Grazie, Emir, you are doing a great job.”

He smiles and turns to head to the door again. Suddenly Copia remembers and makes to stand.

“Ah, Emir? One more thing?” he asks. “Can you schedule a meeting with Papa Secondo? Tomorrow, if he has some time?”

“Of course, Papa, what do you want me to set on the agenda?”

“Eh… tell him it is about a matter of… research.”

With a nod, Emir leaves, and Copia sinks back in his chair with some relief. His mind feels clear enough to focus on the rest of his to-do list now.

✦ ✧ ✦

You count over twenty paintings, some of them small, some large. The depicted scenes are dark, unrecognisable and schematic, but not like your earlier works. They’re abstractions of your real fears, you suppose. After that night you tried to channel these dark feelings into your work, to release the demons still clinging to you and trap them between layers of paint. In a way it had worked, if only to push your feelings as far away as you could. Some of these paintings were created in an almost manic state and afterwards you could not tell how they came to exist. Others were painted more purposely as you tried to peel the creature’s lingering claws from your skin.

You choose the ones that fit the latter category. Five paintings that you clearly remember creating in the weeks after the fire, most of them black schemes with red eyes, loose shapes of claws and mouths. They are small enough in size to fit into the old fireplace of the studio, even though it feels odd to use it in the middle of summer. The last time you had to heat it up was right before you had your first painting session with Copia back in spring.

“I am nervous,” you whisper. You kept these painting hidden away in the corner for so long that they almost became a part of you. And perhaps they did, perhaps you clung to them thinking that you could never be yourself again, that you would forever be that pain and guilt.

Copia rubs his hand over your back. He’s been silent, mostly, allowing you to process everything at your own pace. “It will be okay, amore. And if you don’t want to, we can still stop.”

“No, I do want to. I want to be rid of them. And in time I will get rid of the others as well.”

After arriving at the abbey you spent so much time cooped up in your room to paint and draw your pain away that there are quite a lot of works with the same imagery. Once you were recovered enough to think you stopped and instead spent hours in the library, without success trying to figure out what to do. Can curses go away? Do deals with the devil ever expire? How do I know if my punishment was final? Even years later you’re still not sure what exactly happened and how you managed to stay alive, how the fire seemed to have ended whatever curse lay upon you and how you got out of the house unharmed. The uncertainty never left you in all the years to come but now that you see your old paintings again you think that it is time to end its influence on you.

Copia watches you stack them in the fireplace, then pulls you against his side. “What are you thinking, amore?” he asks.

You’re trembling, the memories of that time like stones in your belly. It comes back to you unasked, the pain and grief, the fear of death and retribution. Copia rubs your arms as you tremble, unshed tears biting in your eyes. For a moment you feel like the young woman you were, helpless, undeserving, alone.

Copia seems to sense it and pulls you into a hug. You reciprocate, clinging to him, remembering the first time he found you and realising how once more he is the one to be there for you when it matters the most. Perhaps it was fate then, that he stumbled into you, that he saved you all those years ago and is ready to do so again and again, no matter how many times you might need it. For a moment you wonder if He sent him your way, if you got it all wrong and Lucifer did not punish you for your foolishness as a child but instead saved you by leading you here.

You break away from the hug and press your lips to his, desperately. Copia is only stunned for a moment before he kisses you back with the same intensity. You taste the salt of your own dried tears that have made your lips chapped by now. But it feels good to taste him underneath, to feel the bruising force of his mouth as though you can anchor yourself to him. His lips move against yours, tongue caressing yours gently, then more firmly, and you’re vaguely aware that you’re grasping his shirt so tightly that your fingers hurt. The kiss seems to take forever but in reality only a few seconds pass.

“I love you,” you whisper against his mouth.

Copia rubs his nose against yours, staying close. “I love you, too, so much.”

He kisses you once more, tender and slow. You take a shared breath, trying to find the strength to go on. When you break away to focus back on the paintings your hands are shaking.

“I wanted to destroy them so many times,” you say, voice strangled, pained. “I wanted to burn them, rip them apart. But I was so scared. What if it would kill me too? I would die alone. Fuck, I am so alone, Copia. No one would care. That’s not how I want to die.”

His hands find either side of your face and he squeezes, holds you so tight that you can’t look away. His pupils are blown wide, brows pulled together into a tense frown. “You won’t die. I won’t let it happen, ‘strella.”

You try to turn away, to avoid his gaze, but his hands are too strong. Your eyes swim with tears and you try to hold them back until he’s so blurry you don’t recognise him. But then they fall and he’s back and your lip is quivering, teeth clattering.

“I won’t let it happen,” he repeats. “You’re never alone, you’re safe with me.”

You manage to vaguely shake your head but his thumbs still dig into your cheeks, completely wet now. You’re trying to tell him that he can’t help you, that all he does is but a feeble attempt. He can’t carry a collapsing building on his shoulders, it’s just going to crumble around him.

And yet, somehow, he keeps you both upright.

It takes a moment until the wave of pain ebbs away. You hold onto him and he looks at you with such concern, such love, that your doubts slowly melt. He is a gift, you think.

“We will burn them now, amore,” he says. “If it makes you feel better, we can do this, okay? We take away their power.”

You nod, grasping his hand that is shaking against yours.

“What if I really sold my soul?” you whisper. “Am I going to die?”

“No.” Copia softly shakes his head and lets go just long enough to light a match. As you both watch it come to life he takes your hand in his, squeezing tightly. “You are not going to die, you are going to live.”

And with that he throws the match.

Chapter Text

“Remember my friend, that knowledge is stronger than memory, and we should not trust the weaker.”

— Bram Stoker, Dracula

✦ ✧ ✦

Nothing happens.

The paintings catch on fire, their edges turning dark as they curl in on themselves, and then suddenly they’re collapsing. A few more minutes and most of them are gone, nothing but embers and ash and smoke. You wait for an influx of pain, for the world to turn upside down, a hole opening up in the ground to swallow you whole.

But nothing happens.

Since the incident at the old house you’ve been avoiding the larger Beltane fires, sitting by the prominent fireplace in the abbey library for too long. Not exactly a phobia, you weren’t scared of the flames, but whenever you got lost in them the memories would come and those are what you’re scared of. Or at least you were. Staring into the fire all by yourself had always been too painful, dug too deep. Now, the feeling is different. You aren’t scared of the memories anymore, they had come last night, they had hurt you, yes, but the worst pain is now over. And you are still here, Copia is still here, and somehow the world is still spinning.

The fire burns in a continuous low flame, devouring what remains of the wooden part of the canvases until the last bits are consumed. You feel just like you felt before but at the same time things have somehow changed. There is a feeling akin to relief and, perhaps for the first time ever, a sense of empowerment.

You are in charge now, not your trauma. You have taken control of it, you have shared it and still made it through. These feelings, the pain – they were conquerable despite your fear that you could never overcome them. But somewhere deeper down there are more feelings that now surface. Disappointment, that lingering need to be punished that still has not been satisfied, the injustice of it all. You wonder why you are still standing here, unharmed, after everything that happened, and why the people who mattered to you are not.

Copia turns to you as the crackling of the fire stops, a hopeful smile on his face. “See? It is gone. You are unhurt, amore.”

You nod, staring ahead. Unhurt, yes, but there are too many conflicting emotions inside of you to feel it. Unhurt on a surface level, re-opened wounds still trying to close, a phantom pain in your ribs that simmers continuously. Unhurt but not undamaged.

“You do not look relieved,” Copia states.

“It’s just…” You swallow, the coin flipping inside of you. “Where is the… the pain, the punishment?”

Copia looks struck. “Amore, I told you, there is nothing to punish.”

“But… All that I thought of myself is wrong, do you understand? I am not who I thought I am.”

“You are still who you were before, ‘strella.”

You shake your head. He doesn’t understand. And maybe you don’t even understand it yourself. You know that you cling to the idea of guilt even now because otherwise all the years of isolation and silent torment would have been for nothing. His death would remain unpaid for. What was it all for if not for this moment of final reckoning? What was it for if not to earn forgiveness? All our lives we’re being told that whatever happens to us is but a reflection of our actions, that we reap what we sow. What are you going to reap now?

“Amore, you need to let it go,” Copia says as though he can sense your struggle. “Most of the time pain and grief are just that. They’re not a curse, there is no higher purpose, no one who wishes them upon you. They just come and we have to deal with them. They are not a punishment but a sign of the love we still feel, a way to remind us of who we lost.”

You nod. It is Papal advice, the advice he might give anyone who sits in the Confessional and tells a similar story. It makes it easier, to know that he is not just saying it to you, that he believes it. You allow him to wrap his arms around you and press a kiss to the top of your head. The tears that flow now are a concoction of relief and lingering self-hatred, of all the negative emotions you still carry and the few cathartic ones that slowly creep in.

“I thought that if I just repent, if I worship…” you whisper, “then maybe Lucifer will lose his anger for me. That he can forgive me for what I did, for my audacity to call on him. I thought I would feel it, that I would feel absolution.”

Copia strokes your back. “You are right, ‘strella, Lucifer took you under His wing. But He brought you here not for penitence but because you are finally safe. It is not He who punishes you, amore, you punish yourself.”

You cannot find the words to reply. Perhaps these things are one and the same, perhaps you punishing yourself is your way to absolution and the only way He can take influence, if he does at all. But perhaps Copia is right and there is nothing you would need it for, nothing to forgive because you hold on to nothing but plumes of smoke. It is a slow process, you realise. There is no overnight solution to any of these feelings and you have to accept that healing a wound that has been open for so long takes a lot of time and medicine.

“Emir made an appointment with Secondo,” Copia speaks into your silence. “I think this will help you, hm? He will shed a light on things we don’t know much about.”

You pull back slightly, staring straight ahead at his chest. “I don’t know if I want to come.”

“He will have questions for you, amore.”

“I know, that’s kind of the issue.”

Copia rubs circles over your hips, as always not ready to let go of you, to stop the soothing rhythm he always finds himself in. “Okie dokie, then how about I go to him alone this time and I will tell him what you told me to the best of my abilities and find out what he thinks. And if he needs more information then we will go again together.”

“Alright.” You finally look up at his face, see the mild if slightly concerned smile. “Just… make sure no one else hears it, okay? I don’t want anyone to know anything about this.”

“Of course, amore.”

A kiss to your forehead and you glance back at the now burnt paintings, then over to the large canvas that holds Copia’s likeness, almost completed now except for a few more details. If there is a way forward you must have found it, no matter how impossible it once seemed, and it’s all you can do to cling to this tiny comfort to find the strength to go on.

✦ ✧ ✦

It has been raining all day, thick droplets that drum against the windows of Secondo’s office. A depressing air hangs over them, grey skies and artificial light weighing them down in their chairs. His brother is taking notes in a weathered old Moleskine, hardly taking his stern gaze off of Copia as he recounts the events you described to him earlier this week. He does not like speaking on your behalf, talking about you instead of with you. It feels wrong but he understands your fear. Anything he can do to lessen your burden he will do, no matter if he enjoys it or not.

“It is curious,” Secondo murmurs, reading over his scribbles. “There is no… no conjuration, no summoning, not that I can tell. If a demonic entity was involved… it does not just appear out of thin air. These rituals are complex and often fail, not something an amateur would succeed in. So where did it come from? Was it there already?”

Copia rubs his thumb and index finger together, trying to exercise his memory. “If she played around with dark magic as a child, do you think it could have happened? I know she said she asked the dark powers for help to become a painter.”

Secondo leans back, imposing as ever with deep shadows spread over his face and his eyebrows tightly drawn together. “Papa, do you honestly think a child could so easily summon the Dark One and convince him to bargain to make her paint pretty pictures?”

“I– ugh…”

“No.”

“Don’t say it to her like that,” Copia says. “It ridicules her fears. I take her very seriously.”

“And you should, because something else must have happened, all signs point to there being demonic activity. We just need to find out what. But I can guarantee you that playing around with some candles does not conjure a demon, nor does it make for a binding contract with our Dark Lord.”

Copia is relieved to hear this assessment even though he has been convinced of this before. Secondo is more experienced and well-read in all matters of the darker arts, one of his many special interests. He hopes that hearing it from an expert will make it easier for you to believe as well.

Before he can ask another question a knock sounds at the door and Secondo narrows his eyes. “That must be Terzo. He is late.”

“Terzo?”

“I asked him to come.”

“Oh but–”

“Come in, fratello.”

The door opens and Copia does not have time to protest. Terzo greets them with a steaming cup of coffee in his hand and moves to occupy the chair next to Copia. He crosses his legs, his eyes dark and unusually serious. Terzo takes a lazy sip and Copia wonders about the changes in him. A few years ago it would have been unthinkable for them all to sit here together, after the events that nearly split them apart. Now his brothers seem resigned to their demoted positions and Copia cannot tell if he likes this better than the hard stares and tensions of the past. Perhaps once they settle back in Italy they will find their voices again, perhaps Copia and you will join them once he retires himself. Until then he has a lot to do though, a lot he wants to achieve, and he knows he will not be able to focus on these things until you are by his side. Safe – and happy.

“You could have brought some coffee for us as well, if that is what kept you from being on time,” Secondo remarks.

“What? You don’t drink any that’s not brewed in your fancy little machine anyway.” Terzo takes a sip. “And… I did not make this one, someone else made it for me.”

“Ah.”

“Now, what did I miss?”

Copia looks to Secondo, uneasily shifting in his chair. “Fratello, this is confidential.”

“It is, yes.”

”But–“

“I will need to consult more people,” Secondo says. “Terzo was there at the time, no? He knows your amore. He might know details we are missing. I will consult Primo as well, even though he says he wants nothing to do with our business. He is the most experienced in summonings and has banished many a ghoul or demon.”

“Oh, I have to ask her first,” Copia protests. “I am not sure she would want this, fratello.”

Secondo leans forward, sharp elbows propped up on the desk and his white eye practically glowing. “Papa, this is not some silly little secret. We are talking about dangerous demonic beings that might still be active in this town we live in, perhaps even find their way here. Take her seriously, you said. That is what I am doing.”

Copia fidgets but he can’t deny the truth of his words. “So, you do think it is more.”

“I am not certain but there is evidence we can’t deny. She painted the same creature she saw that night, the sickness of her mentor, his death in the fire and her stumbling out unharmed. If there are things she does not know, we need to uncover them to piece it all together.”

Terzo sighs, audibly annoyed. “Would you finally fill me in now?”

They spend some time going over everything once again. Terzo seems less surprised than Copia would have anticipated and not for the first time does he wish he would have been more attentive, would have talked to Terzo at the time it happened, figured out what was wrong before you isolated yourself from everyone.

“The fire must have been on the local news,” Copia muses, following this train of thought. “Why did we not notice? I found her that night, I could have… I could have realised.”

“Do not blame yourself,” Terzo says. “How could you have known any of this, Papino? I saw her as well shortly after and she would not say a word. You can only help someone who wants to be helped. And if the ghouls did not pick up on anything unusual there is no way of us mortals knowing.”

Secondo seems deeply lost in thought when Copia looks up. He is not sure he will get any answers today, not without more research, more conversations. Even Secondo cannot just snap his fingers and find the solution to this riddle. It is disheartening, though he should have expected this outcome. There is no way to protect you from talking about it again and again if they want to find out what really happened.

“What do I tell her?” Copia asks eventually.

“That I will look further into it,” Secondo replies, eyes still focused on the notes in his book. He taps his gloved finger, tracing one line in particular. “The paintings, the face she saw…”

“What about it?” Terzo asks. “Do you think she saw the demon before? There is no way she actually summoned it, is there?”

“She might have had some kind of connection to it, yes, as children always do. They are more open to what lies beyond. If she saw the demon’s face long before the fire and even painted it then these might have been visions,” he explains. “It might have been in the house all this time and their amateurish dabbling in black magic made it angry. Perhaps it appeared to her, reached out into her mind, hoping she would help it cross the veil. We have no way of knowing. But I am very certain that no child can summon a demonic entity, nor can it call on our Dark Lord with a spell from a library book. Tell her that as well.”

“I told her already but she struggles to accept it,” Copia confesses. “She blames herself for the death of her teacher.”

“Grief is messy, it comes with guilt and regret,” Terzo says, a heavy sense of sadness in his words. “I understand this but perhaps if we find the truth she will believe you.”

“The teacher yes…” Secondo mutters. “What did he do…”

Copia furrows his brow. “Do you think there is a chance that he did it? Summoned a demon?”

“It seems impossible…” Secondo muses. “Either he truly managed to summon a demonic entity or he was the Wizard of Oz. It would not take a lot to convince a susceptible child that her master can do ritualistic magic, no? Perhaps none of it was real.“

“She swears she saw it,” Copia argues. “And the fire did not harm her which speaks to it’s infernal nature.”

“And why would he fake it, anyway? Only to die?” Terzo asked. “What if he tried the same thing she did? You said they did not have a lot of money, so he might have been after success or the means to support the family. It was not about wanting to become a spooky dark wizard. Many people have tried to bribe our Dark Lord to grant them success.”

“Well, it is more than likely that he did something, since he was the one with the affliction.”

“So you can confirm it was not her fault at all?” Copia asks.

Secondo shrugs, leaning back in his chair. “I cannot confirm anything until I know what happened and how she was involved but I can guarantee you that she did not kill this man, nor did her little experiments cause the fire. That is laughable, we are talking about powers here that humans cannot even fathom, let alone a child could control.”

Terzo sets down his mug, uncrossing his legs. “All these years she blamed herself?” he asks and Copia notes the genuine concern and sympathy in his voice.

“She did not want to tell me at all at first,” he elaborates. “She thought she needed punishment, that I would not want her anymore if I knew about what happened.”

“Punishment?” Secondo asks.

“She came here to repent, to… devote herself and hope for forgiveness. She fell to her knees when she told me, begging me to stop her pain, I–” He stops himself, not quite willing to share the most private moments with them. “I have to stop this self-flagellation and I need your help, fratelli.”

They all sit in silence for a moment and Copia is grateful that they understand. He did not think he would be met with such seriousness, with such willingness to support you in uncovering whatever it is that caused you such agony. He felt relief when you told him but now it is tenfold. If they can solve this then you can finally move on.

“Perhaps we have failed our flock,” Terzo speaks into the quiet. “How is it that one of our most vulnerable members feels like this and we did not notice?”

He and Secondo share a look that holds their shared regrets of the past decade. It is a harsh reality, for him as well, to know that they cannot help everyone, that they will never live up to their ideals no matter how hard they try. Ambition obstructs the view of those in your path, he thinks, but it renders those who are further away completely invisible. And did he not make that same mistake? Did he not allow Sister to push him past those that meant the most to him? Standing idly by as she got rid of Terzo, humiliated Secondo and Primo by attacking their dignity? Trying to establish their reputation as the failed Papas? Copia is her hope, she told him this many times, but he wonders what this hope is even for.

“You did your best,” Copia says. “Even if we have a long way to go.”

“Do you mind if I go and talk to her?” Secondo asks. “I have more questions only she can answer. I know it is not easy but it is necessary.”

Copia meets the sombre gaze of his brother. “It is your decision, whatever needs to be done, but I ask you not to overwhelm her. I know you have a steady hand with… vulnerable people.”

Secondo nods, a silent promise. “I will let you know when I find out more.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The persistent rain that started earlier this morning fills your ears with a steady trickling sound, not quite enough to drown out your thoughts but just enough to keep you grounded. Copia’s room is too static, so you turned on his old tv to watch a self-labeled VHS of Pretty Woman that he assured you he taped for Sister and not for himself. You have the volume turned down to focus on the rain, the images flickering in the background to give the impression that you’re not quite alone.

Every breath you take is filled with his scent. You need a break from the portrait, decidedly not ready to go work on it yet. While it is almost done you cannot look at it right now, not with a mind this distracted, and at the very least Copia’s quarters are free from any unwelcome memories. Time away will help you finalise it, you tell yourself, a break before the final push.

Even though it still feels wrong not to paint.

You end up taking a mid-day nap, wrapped up in Copia’s clothes, his blanket, your head on his pillow. Your sleep is restless, obscure dreams flitting behind your eyelids but nothing you can quite process. Still, you sleep deeply, not waking until you notice louder sounds around you. It’s how he finds you, or how you find him. Opening your eyes you see Copia turning off the tv, the movie long over. He clicks to rewind the tape and sits down on the floor in front of the bed while he waits, startling when you wrap your arms around his shoulders to pull him back into you. He has already changed into comfies, face paint removed, and you wonder how long you’ve been asleep.

“Did you have a good nap?” he asks once he recovers, leaning back into your embrace.

“Mhm.”

“Hungry?”

You shake your head, nose pressed to his cheek, his hair soft against your skin. He is warm and smells like soap.

“Have you eaten anything?” he asks, then.

“No.”

“‘strella, it is almost dinner time.”

“I was sleeping for a quite a while, I think.”

“You were. You were out like a light, did not even hear me come in. I had to check you were still breathing.”

“How did it go?” you ask, nervous now. You know he met Secondo today and it’s been in the back of your mind all morning, though you tried to push it down.

Copia turns his head and you loosen your grasp on him, sitting back on the mattress. “I think we eat first, hm? I will tell you over food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He gives you a warning look, a don’t-make-this-hard-for-me-look, and you grab his pillow and press it to your front. By now he knows exactly when he has to slip into Papa mode to get you to do what he wants and even though you know he does it it’s a trick that works every time. It is less actual fear and more of a sense of comfort, being told what he wants you to do, the reward of pleasing him, turning off your insecurities.

Copia shifts so he can fully look at you, half-leaning over the bed and resting his warm hand on your thigh. The black leather glove is still on, squeaking a little when he stretches his fingers. “You will feel better after eating. It went well, if that helps your appetite.”

“What does ‘well’ mean?”

“Papa cannot say what exactly happened but he promised to do more research. And he confirmed that you are not at fault, that nothing you did could have summoned a demon or anything of that sort.”

You swallow, trying to gauge whether he is just saying what he wants to believe or whether it is a legitimate assessment. He does look sincere and you relax, deciding that you need to hear the full story before you make any judgements. “Okay, I’ll try to eat.”

He squeezes your leg, his whole face softening. “I love you, you know.”

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

His hand moves to find yours, thumb stroking across your palm. You lean forward to kiss him and he reciprocates eagerly, as though he’s been waiting for it all day. Perhaps he has, your intimacy the one thing that tethers you to reality, unshakable, the one constant you can rely on.

He is right and you do feel better with something in your belly. Copia’s kitchen is not equipped for elaborate meals but he manages to boil some pasta and heat up a sauce to go with it. The rain still taps against the windows when you sit down on his bed to eat, the room darker than usual at this time of day. Once he has emptied his plate Copia summarises everything that happened today and the more he tells you the sicker you feel, half of your meal left untouched. You know you have to talk to the second Papa eventually, that he would have more questions than Copia could answer, but to learn that he is involving the other Papas, that he is investigating what happened so thoroughly, creates a knot in your throat.

“I don’t see why this is necessary,” you say. “I appreciate that you are taking it seriously but I did not think any of this was needed.”

Copia takes your plate and begins to finish what you did not touch, eyes on you, always on you, as though you could vanish if he did not make sure you were there. “Ah…” He swallows. “Well, you see, I think he is curious. It is like a riddle, eh? And then there is the safety aspect, you said it yourself that you were worried about others. This… creature could still be around and if it is true then it might need to be banished.”

“Banished?”

“Mhm, that is what we do whenever an incident like this occurs. It is rare that entities cross into our world but when they do they often do not leave on their own. Sometimes they want to but can’t, sometimes they do not want to and avoid us and sometimes they just leave on their own. Likely, it is gone because it has not been active in so long, but it does not hurt to find out more.”

“I just don’t know if I feel comfortable with so many people knowing,” you whisper, pulling your knees to your chin. “I told you I didn’t want anyone to know and now two other people do.”

“I know but you can trust them, amore. They would never tell anyone else unless it is necessary.” He reaches out for you hand. “All of them know what they are doing. They are experts, well-educated, and their only interest is our safety. It is not some gossip but a serious investigation.”

“Okay.” You fold, linking your fingers with his and trying to open up to the idea. “So, we have to wait now until he finds out more?”

“I will do some research as well, I think.”

You squeeze his hand, toying with the seems of his glove. “After it happened and I found out about the extensive library here I did try looking into it, to find out what happened. But the amount of literature and knowledge here and online is overwhelming, so much of it mere speculation or even fiction. It seemed impossible to make a dent and the more I read the more I panicked, so I had to stop eventually.”

Copia nods, setting down the plate. “Yes, that is true. A lot of it is anecdotal with no way to proof what occurred and many people have tried to find out more under the risk of their own lives. Fables, myths, legends – some of them with a true core. But we have… books that are not available to the public, you see? Only few people have access. I know Secondo does, he restored a lot of these works in fact. If anyone knows where to look it is him and Primo. We let them do their work and we do ours, okay?”

It is a new experience for you, trusting others with your life, with such personal information and anything that might follow. Copia has opened that door for you and now it feels like they ripped it open so fast that you have no way to fight back. If they think it necessary you will allow it but that does not mean it feels safe, nor that you can find any comfort in it. Giving this knowledge out of your hand is a battle you have to fight with yourself, with your sense of self-preservation, your need to protect your vulnerable core, and perhaps that fight is even harder than carrying this weight around for so long with no help at all.

“I am sorry,” Copia says, then. “I know this is hard, amore.”

“I don’t regret telling you,” you reply. “But I don’t know how I’m supposed to find the strength to face this every day now. It feels like I’m drowning and it only gets bigger.”

“I am here.” He scoots over, pulling you to him so fast that the plate and fork tumble from the bed and land somewhere on the carpet. “I am here for every step of the way. These fucking demons have no power, okay? Not when your Papa is here.”

You have to smile at that, involuntarily, the effect he always seems to have on you. “And you think you could fight a demon?”

He chuckles, then flexes his biceps. “Look at this, huh? They might not look like much but I have watched a lot of Jackie Chan movies.”

“And a lot of Pretty Woman?”

“I told you I taped this for Sis–”

You stop him by pressing your mouth to his, kissing him almost desperately. You taste the pasta sauce on his tongue but it soon melts away and so does your anxiety. Copia might have held back over the past few days but now he does not, pushing you back into the mattress with all of his weight and despair. His hand tugs at your hair until you arch back, exposing your neck to him. He sucks on every piece of skin he can reach, moaning the moment his tongue meets your flesh. It is contagious, to focus on this carnal need for him instead of the chaos in your brain. You feel yourself getting wet instantly, heat pooling into your belly. For the first time in days you lose yourself to him and not to your own brain.

“Can I have you?” he murmurs, a deceivingly tender kiss pressed to the bruise he no doubt left underneath your ear. “If you are ready, amore, I am– fuck, I need you so bad.”

You nod but he does not take it for an answer, removing himself to meet your eyes.

“Words,” he demands.

“Yes, please.”

He does not hesitate to push his hand underneath your – his – shirt that hangs over your bare upper body, fingers closing around one of your breasts. The smooth leather is warm and comforting and you can’t help but whimper when he twists your nipple, rolling it between two fingers. His mouth is occupied at your neck again, the other side this time, and your nerves are tingling with the sudden rush of adrenaline that runs through your body.

Copia is lost in the sensation. He ruts against the mattress, just shy of where you need him, but you can’t angle yourself in any way that would bring you relief, not with his weight pushing you down. He slows down then, the first rush of excitement settling and making way for the deeper craving of finally uniting your bodies again. It is ridiculous how worked up you already are, squirming and whimpering with every twist of his fingers on your breast, every press of his lips, the pleasure giving you a much needed rush of endorphins. It is a stark reminder that you are attuned to each other in ways you never thought possible, that he is the only one who makes you feel like you are worthy of being desired.

“Please,” you whisper.

“I don’t know if I can last,” he says. “I am– Amore–”

“It’s okay, me too.”

He pushes your shirt up until your breasts are fully exposed and for a moment he is so distracted that he only runs his hands across your upper body, sitting back on his knees to admire you. Then his eyes find the scar at your ribs and when he looks into your eyes you see a question.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “You can.”

He breathes heavily, reigning in his arousal. When he removes one glove you tense, anticipating what follows, but of course his fingers barely register when they trace the mark, the skin so numb and damaged you can only guess where he touches. The scar still feels hot and tender but it is not an outside sensation. Instead it feels like a fire from within, distant and out of reach. You finally notice when he reaches the edges of the mark and this time you don’t flinch. He leans in and then his lips are pressed to your skin, following the same trail until even the last part of your body that he has not loved before is fully covered.

You feel tears in your eyes, a revelation. He does love all of you, he loves you despite everything, and it is the most terrifying thing in the world.

“Beautiful,” he whispers. “Shit, I can’t believe you are mine.”

His lips move from the scar to your nipple and he sucks wantonly, his still gloved hand massaging the other breast while the now bare hand slips between your legs. You cry out in surprise when his finger grazes your clit, hips bucking desperately. You could come like this, easily, and pull at his hand to stop it from happening. You need him inside of you when you do, you need to feel more of him than just this.

“Copia,” you say and he withdraws, looking at you with wet lips and tousled hair.

He sits back again when he sees your state, pulling at your pants and throwing them aside. One of your feet is still tangled in the fabric and they stay hanging halfway off the bed but you don’t care, your whole body is crying out for him. You reach for the waistband of his sweatpants and he helps you by sliding it down just enough to free his cock. When you wrap your fingers around him he groans, hips shooting forward to meet your touch.

“Oh Satan,” he says. “Oh, holy fucking shit.”

He is already so hard and leaking that you quickly guide him to your entrance. Instead of pushing inside however he teases you with his tip, trying not to overwhelm you with the stretch. Your hand wraps around his forearm where he is propped up on the bed, squeezing until he relents and fully sheathes himself inside of you. It is enough to make you cry out, so close to the edge that you have to actively try not to come quite yet. Copia has stilled as well, breathing deeply and you regret not taking his shirt off before so you could feel his skin.

Your eyes meet an endless second later, both so tense that the air seems to be crackling. He presses his lips to yours so hard that your teeth meet, the mild pain enough to ground you for a moment. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling until he rests his full weight on you, still buried to the hilt, making you feel all of him in the way that makes your heart clench. Copia shifts slightly to the side to relieve the pressure on you and begins to roll his hips forward, the slightest hint of friction that draws a gasp from both of you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, grabbing your ass to pull you forward, creating more momentum.

You do your best to help, one leg hooked around him to pull him in deeper. After a few seconds of the slow dance of your bodies you’re so close again that you lose focus, the kiss becoming sloppy. Your fronts are pressed together and even through his shirt you can feel his soft belly, the way your breasts are flush against his chest. Copia bites at your bottom lip, pulling your mouth back to his, and when he next thrusts forward your fall apart. You shake in his arms as the pleasure rips through you, clenching so tight around him that he immediately spills inside of you with a drawn-out moan. Instead of stopping he keeps pushing himself forward, extending the sensation.

You finally pull at his shirt, slowly dragging it upwards until you can touch his bare back, feel the warmth of his skin and a thin sheen of sweat. You revel in the shared intimacy, holding him and being held without breaking the deep contact of your bodies. It calms you, to know that these feelings are still there. You’ve been perpetually scared that anything you do might destroy the bond you have formed, that you could damage your relationship irrevocably. But somehow, miraculously, Copia seems to hold onto you despite everything.

“I love you,” you whisper, blinking away the tears of overwhelm.

“I love you,” he replies, kissing you slowly, somehow still half-hard inside of you. “And I will have you again in a few minutes, once I can feel my leg again.”

You chuckle and his hands are all over your body, stroking, caressing, reassuring. You still feel entirely unworthy but he has made it clear that it doesn’t matter whether you can understand it or not. He will love you all the same.

Chapter Text

“Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”

― Mary Oliver

✦ ✧ ✦

You wake up in cold sweat. It must be Saturday morning, dawn has broken and a soft light filters in through the blinds. You’re not sure what you dreamed, the memories dark and already fading, but your heart is still racing, the faint image of red eyes somewhere in your peripheral vision. It takes a while until your breathing evens and you glance over at Copia who is still fast asleep. He seems calm, no nightmares, his chest rising and falling evenly.

Your heart aches. Most of yesterday was spent here in this bed, the moment he was done with work he curled around you like a weighted blanket, finally resting from a week that felt like a century. You know he is doing his best. You know he is doing what he thinks is right and he has been nothing but accommodating. And yet you keep thinking that you lost control over your situation. That you should not have shared anything, should not have told him all these horrible things because then perhaps no one else would know, no one would be able to dig into the deepest parts of you.

It’s selfish. You don’t really think you are still in danger but of course it has always felt like you were cursed to be alone, like you were not allowed to be close to anyone, doomed to lose whoever was most dear to you. But it’s less of a curse and more of a self-fulfilling prophecy, pushing people away when they threaten to mean too much to you, allowing those in who can only harm you. What if the demon is you? What if you’re the one who is hurting people? What if you cannot ever give Copia what he needs?

You stand up, even though it’s still early, and get ready in his small bathroom. You are running out of underwear and it is evident that you have to go back to your quarters and somehow face Sybil. It is unfair to avoid her, the only person who has ever been a good friend to you, and yet you’re not sure how to proceed. You cannot tell her about what happened, perhaps you don’t have to, but hiding it from her feels wrong all the same.

Copia is pulling on his socks when you leave the bathroom. He looks rough, hair disheveled, slumped over the edge of the bed like he could use another few hours of sleep. It’s endearing but you feel bad that you woke him. Still, you take a moment to admire his bare torso, the soft pouch of his belly where it folds over his briefs, bare legs with strong thighs that are tense when he works his socks up. He is beautiful when he does not try, when he is not Papa but your Copia, and your heart thumps so exquisitely fast when you get to see him like that.

“You don’t have to get up, baby,” you say. “It’s only six.”

“Hm? Oh.” He rubs his eyes, glancing at the clock. “Oh shit, I thought it was time.”

“I think I’ll head to my quarters, I need to change and then get back to painting.”

Copia looks up, then, eyes wide and confused. “No breakfast?”

“I don’t know if I can eat,” you say. “You should get some more sleep.”

“Ah, so should you, amore, it is the weekend. Come to bed with me, hm? Then you can go later.”

For a second you hesitate, wondering if you should give in, ignore what’s stirring inside of you, but it does not work. The last thing you want is to close your eyes and linger on these thoughts. “I really have to launder some of my clothes or I soon won’t be able to wear anything.”

He smiles sleepily, yet his eye holds a sly edge. “I don’t know if that is so bad, amore, hm?”

“I’m sorry, I really don’t think I can sleep any longer.” He deflates and you try to ignore the ache in your heart. “Besides, I should really spend some time with Sybil. I think I’ll go back to my quarters tonight, actually.”

He sits up again, furrows his brow. “To sleep?”

“I don’t know yet, it depends how long I’ll be painting.”

“Amore, is everything alright?”

“It is, I just– I can’t stay holed up all the time. I feel like I’m… like I’m some charity case.”

He looks at you for a long moment, debating internally, no doubt, what to make of this. “I understand, you want to spend time with your friend.”

“I’m sorry–”

“No, no. It is right, we spend so much time together, you cannot neglect her. I will survive, ‘strella. You should see your friend.”

You nod, even though his expression tears you apart. Before you can change your mind you get ready to leave, desperately trying not to look at him again.

✦ ✧ ✦

You can’t bring yourself to face Sybil yet. Not during lunch, not in the afternoon. Once you finally do find the courage, your wrist aching from the strain of painting, dusk has set in. The fading sunlight follows you from the studio to your quarters and when you open the door the room is tinged with orange and red.

It doesn’t feel right to be here without Copia.

Sybil follows the sound of the opening door and when she sees you standing in the kitchenette utterly emotionless she wraps her arms around your form. Her hands press you against her, scrunching up your shirt and melting away some of the ice in your veins. You’ve missed her, you realise, and it’s an odd feeling.

“I was worried, I haven’t seen you in like a week,” she says but the accusation is not harsh. Instead her face is soft, caring, like she was genuinely worried for you.

“I’m sorry, I just– I spent a lot of time with Copia and there was–” You stop yourself, suddenly feeling that lump in your throat again, the fear of saying too much, revealing too much. “I had a bit of a rough time, to be honest.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Surprisingly, you do want to talk to her about it, if only to stop being so stuck in your head.

When you nod, she gives you an encouraging smile. “I made more cookies,” she says. “The chocolate ones you so loved.”

Another nod, your body carrying you over to the couch. You can hear the cattle whistling as you try to find out where to start, what to tell her, what to leave out. She sits down beside you and the mug she hands over warms your hands pleasantly. You think it might be one she made herself, a little wonky, a red flower painted on the side.

“I’ve never really told you about how I got here, have I?” you ask.

She sits up straighter, her whole body turned towards you. “No, you haven’t told me a whole lot about you, Michelangelo.”

Your lip quirks up, just a little. Sybil. Your body has long since learned to go into defence mode whenever your past is brought up and yet somehow this woman you only met a few months ago, who you tried so hard to keep at a distance, often rudely so, somehow managed to disable your shields.

In the end, you tell her everything. Or – everything that seems relevant, omitting some of the details you feel are only meant for Copia’s ears. She listens attentively, asks all sorts of questions, but she never once tells you that you’ve gone mad. Perhaps that’s how she manages to squeeze the information out of you, one reassuring nod at a time.

“I can’t believe–” She stops herself, two mugs sitting empty on the coffee table next to a bunch of cookie crumbles, your hand in hers, wrapped up tightly. “I just can’t believe you’ve been dealing with all of this by yourself. I don’t know that I would have survived such pain without the help of friends.”

“I didn’t have any friends, Syb,” you whisper. “You’re the first real friend I have.”

She squeezes your fingers, unusually serious. “You really thought this… whatever it is, that it would hurt me?”

“I don’t know, I always thought I could not risk it.” You fiddle with a ring on her finger, trying to remain calm. You’d shed some tears during your recounting of the events, but it didn’t feel quite as hard anymore as the first time you did it with Copia. “It feels like I’m cursed, I know it’s… it’s absurd. All of it is, but whatever happened that night it ruined my life, it took everything from me, and the worst–” You shiver, your voice breaking. “The worst fear I have is that it’ll happen again.”

Her hand unwraps from yours and she’s in your arms, squeezing you to her so tightly that you can feel the sobs that are running through her body. You can’t help but cry with her, something untangling inside of you. One more person who knows, one more person who sees the deepest parts of you, and yet with her it feels different, easier, somehow.

“We won’t let it happen,” she says. “If anything this… this creature. It fed off your loneliness, it made you vulnerable. But you’re not alone anymore.”

You press her tighter to your chest, feeling her soft red hair tickling your face. The tiredness that overwhelms you is more than you can take. The fact that you can’t find peace from it, the way your past unravels again and again, tugging at you from all sides. It exhausts you in ways that can’t be explained physically, it’s like the energy is sucked from your very pores.

Sybil makes dinner, two frozen pizzas that you eat in front of one of her movie tapes, some 70s horror flick you don’t pay attention to. The background noise grounds you, though, and for the first time you allow yourself to think about Copia. You glance at your phone, at your chat with him, see that he is online every few minutes, typing and deleting the message.

You can’t bring yourself to text him.

It’s the first night back in your room, the first night alone in quite some time. You don’t sleep well, more nightmares, the creature, the memories you brought up earlier revisiting you like haunting spectres as you drift in and out of sleep. Your brain is trying to process things you’d pushed away for so long they almost feel unfamiliar now, like they’re a whole world away.

Dawn comes creeping slowly and you’re infinitely tired as it does. Getting ready and sitting through Sunday Mass feels like an impossible feat. You hear Sybil dressing in front of your door, having a late start as well, and you decide to stay in bed. She does knock, peeking into the room.

“Won’t you join me?”

For once she’s wearing a head piece, violent red curls trying to break free from underneath the fabric.

“I don’t feel up for it,” you confess. “I can’t– I just hardly slept. And to be honest you don’t look well-rested either.”

“I had this weird nightmare last night,” she says. “Kept me up for a few hours.”

“A nightmare?”

“Probably from all that talk about monsters.” Her hand strokes the doorframe as she regards you. “Hey, I think some more sleep would be good for you. If anyone asks I’ll say you felt sick.”

You burrow deeper underneath your blanket. “Thank you.”

“Don’t–” She stops herself, shaking her head. “Just don’t pull away from me again, okay?”

You can’t get yourself to reply. Once she’s gone you close your eyes and don’t open them again until the midday sun forces them open with its blinding rays. You wish none of this was real and yet you somehow have to find a way to push through.

✦ ✧ ✦

You’re not in the crowd. Somehow, this distracts him more.

Copia delivers his sermon with his eyes flittering about the room, still trying, somehow, to spot you amongst the congregation. He hardly slept last night, his body reaching for you whenever he started to drift off only to be met by the emptiness of a bed he has so quickly got used to sharing with you.

Sister Sybil is present. She avoids his gaze throughout, the bags under her eyes only giving him a vague clue that perhaps you did spend a long evening together. He can’t bring himself to ask her and once Mass concludes she is one of the first Siblings to storm out of the chapel.

Sister has been eying him curiously ever since he handed out the wafers and now she approaches him with an arm outstretched, brushing a hand over his sleeve. “Are you alright, C?”

He finds himself nodding automatically. “I am fine! Just a rough night, Sis.”

“Hm, I understand.”

Did she notice your absence? Copia refuses to bring this subject up at all, not again, not giving her any ammunition to assume your incapability of sufficing as his partner. Sister knows something is up as her intuition always leads her to conclusions she can’t possibly make. It’s not the first time he wonders whether her infernal connection runs deeper, somehow.

Copia pinches the bridge of his nose, remains of incense biting at his eyes, and with some sympathy she lets him go. Her eyes follow him all the way out of the chapel and even though his stomach rumbles violently after a skipped breakfast he decides not to join the congregation for lunch. Instead, he walks around aimlessly, discarding his robes in his office, watching from the window as Siblings spread out their food on picnic tables, enjoying their day off. He tries to call you but you don’t answer, so he leaves his office and takes another walk, this time down to the empty courtyard. Fresh air, the sound of distant chatter, the cool shadow of the buildings around him.

“No lunch for you, fratello?”

When Copia looks up he is surprised to find Primo approaching him. The old man carries a crate with saplings and he feels bad that he did not spot his brother populating the flower boxes. They look indeed quite lovely, even though the buds aren’t quite open yet.

“Ah, no,” he says, not quite following along with his own train of thought. He’s busy wondering if he should just stop by and see how you are. He doesn’t want to overstep, he knows you need time, even though he can’t stand being apart for so long.

“What has your stomach in knots, then, hm?”

“Ah.” He tries to wave off. “Bad sleep.”

“Hm, it must rather trouble you, then.”

Copia sighs a little dramatically before he fully turns and tries to focus. “Has Secondo already told you? I know you are retired, you do not wish to be–”

Primo gives an interrupting nod, a weathered hand finding his shoulder. “I will try to be of help. And if you wish to speak, I will be down by the greenhouses all day mixing poisons.”

With a flourish the first Emeritus disappears towards the gardens and Copia remains puzzled. He could try the studio, he could check if you’re in your quarters, but then if you wanted to see him you would have answered his call.

It’s only five minutes later that he notices he’s rubbed the tips of his gloves even thinner than they were before. He sighs, pressing the balls of his hands against his eyes. You’re pulling away, he can tell this is all too much for you, too much poking, too many noses in one book, and he doesn’t know how to make it any easier.

✦ ✧ ✦

A few more hours of sleep leave your head clouded in a dense fog, the day slipping through your fingers. You think about Copia and find a missed call on your phone from an hour ago. Mass has long since ended, lunch passed, you’re surprised he hasn’t shown up yet. Even though you miss him you can’t bring yourself to call back, still stuck wondering if you can do what is asked of you.

He is Papa. You’re some shell of a person, weighed down by your own past, and you’re not sure if he’s aware that he can’t simply fix what has long since melted into your bones.

The need to move propels you outside, a habit quickly pulled over your head, pencil and sketchbook in your hand. The fragrant air of the rose gardens fill your senses, waking you up more thoroughly. It’s nice enough to linger, not just the flowery smell but the way the light catches in each petal, enhancing the colours, a soft breeze allowing them to nod their heavy heads towards you.

You sit down in a somewhat secluded area, a bench between two greenhouses, covered in the shade amidst some trees and outliers of the blooming rose bushes. They are a lovely shade of pink, unlike any you have seen in the rest of the garden with a darker rim towards the outer edges of each petal. Their blossoms are big, so many of them you can’t even begin to count.

When you finally begin to sketch them some of the heaviness falls off of you. The only thing that ever came easily to you is this – the need to capture what you see, the pictures it brings to your head, the images you find in your heart.

“Drawing the roses again, mia bambina?” Primo asks, stepping out of a nearby greenhouse with a suspicious green phial in hand. “I was hoping you would.”

“They’re especially beautiful this year, I find.” You show him your sketch when he joins you. “I will have to bring out the paints to capture the colours.”

“Indeed, I should commission you to paint them for me. I hybridised those, not expecting much.” He gestures to the ones you’re drawing. “But sometimes the unlikeliness of a pairing makes it even more beautiful. I think they’re my best ones yet.”

You get the feeling he’s not talking about roses, necessarily – a lesson you’re not sure you want to hear. But he means well, he always does, no matter how odd and reclusive the former Papa is known to be, his genuine care for his flock outweighs all of it once it truly matters.

“How did you manage it?” you find yourself asking. “To make it work, when it is so unlikely?”

“Does it feel unlikely or is it truly?” He swirls the dark liquid inside of his phial. “You can only find out by trying, cara mia, put two things together and see if they connect. Our feelings are no faithful reflection of reality, many of the workings of nature are lost to us.”

“I suppose it’s not too dissimilar from painting, then,” you muse.

Primo smiles, admiring your sketch. “Quite so, hm. If you do not mind, I would like to keep you company. My tired bones need a break.”

You don’t mind. Sitting in companionable silence with Papa Primo is easing your mind, his presence somehow grounding you. Filling a few pages with sketches is a welcome reprieve, a way to find back to your roots, to your true self, outside of worries and fears and overwhelming expectations. Primo is dozing by the time you look back over, his face raised towards sky where the trees gently sway back and forth, sunlight dancing between their branches. You decide to stay a little longer, drawing different angles, deciding on a possible composition you would like to paint.

Copia finds you just like that.

At first you’re a little startled to see him, then the guilt sets in. He does not look angry, his expression is, as you’ve grown to get used to, mostly one of concern. Perhaps that is what kept you away from him, the feeling that you’re only ever in need of his comfort, that he might not consider you the same person as before. It’s exhausting, to feel like you’re sick, like you have to be handled with care so you don’t break.

“Can we talk alone?” he whispers.

Primo doesn’t rouse and you decide to let him rest. Copia leads you into one of the adjacent greenhouses where the humid air is a stark contrast to the breeze outside. He leads you deeper inside until you’ve reached a desk where Primo seems to keep his notes. The nervous fiddling of his fingers distracts you but when you get a good look of his face you notice how tired he seems.

“You weren’t at mass today,” he states.

There is no accusation in his tone. You apologise anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“I can see you pulling away from me, ‘strella.” His voice is rougher than usual, laced with desperation, helplessness almost. “And I cannot– I cannot allow you to.”

You feel exposed, weirdly defensive, and yet you know he is right. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing. “For that I’m sorry as well,” you whisper. “It’s just– I have this need to protect myself, even from you. Especially from you. The only way I know how is to retreat.”

Copia’s brow creases, his arm lifting as if to reach for you, but he withdraws at the last second. “From me?”

“Do you even–” Your mind is whirring, all thoughts, fears, feelings battling to get out. “Do you even understand how scary this is for me? I am trying to trust you, I have decided to trust Sybil, but that’s not easy. I thought it would be fine once I got it all out but it turns out I have to do it over and over again. It’s exhausting. It’s so exhausting, Copia. You have so much control over me, these feelings I have for you, they have the power to break me more than anything I’ve survived so far.”

He startles at the intensity of your words, but there is something akin to relief in his expression. His eyes close for a moment, then he takes a deep breath. “I know,” he says. “It’s scary as shit for me, too, ‘strella.”

“I just feel like things have changed,” you say, perhaps for the first time truly expressing this sentiment. “I am this project to fix now. To you, your brothers. Perhaps I always was, ever since you found me in front of your office. But what happens when I can’t be fixed? What happens when I can never fit into whatever you need me to be? I am who I am, Copia.”

The next breath he takes is even heavier. He loses his momentum, whatever he was prepared to say leaving his mind. You observe him, his mouth opening and closing, and then he narrows the gap between you. Not quite reaching out but coming close enough that you can smell his cologne, that you can see the way his lashes move as he blinks. “You don’t need fixing,” he whispers. “I gave you that feeling? Or are you telling yourself that?”

You glance away, focusing on the big green leaves of a plant hanging from the ceiling. “Tell me that’s not what you’re thinking. Tell me you see more in me than someone who needs you to guide them out of whatever bad thing happened to them. I don’t know what else I can do, Copia.”

“You don’t need to do anything, amore.” This time he closes the gap, pulling you against him, hands on your hips, pressing his forehead to yours. “Accept my love. That is all I am asking.”

“I want to,” you whisper. “I am trying.”

Copia nods to himself, some unspoken agreement. Then his face dips, lips pressing to your cheek, then to your jaw, then to your neck. “You think,” he whispers against your pulse. “You think I want to fix you? That you’re not more to me then this?” A deep, dark chuckle that tickles your skin. “Have I not given you enough fucking proof, amore, hm? Do you want me to repeat it?”

You whimper in reply. His hands have dug into your hips by now, fingers pressing against the softness of your ass, and you forget every single thought that occupied your mind all day. “Copia–”

“If I have to I will remind you every night, ‘strella. And if your mouth is going to say such things again I might have to occupy it otherwise until you learn.”

You moan, helplessly, holding on to his shoulders. His words are exactly what you need. Since telling him about your past these feelings have been lying dormant, intimacy solely for the purpose of comfort. Now you remember that there is more to it than that. Copia and you fit together, you’re not sure how you ever forgot how perfect you are, how real the feelings you share.

It’s perhaps that thought that has you wriggling out of his grasp and dropping to your knees. Copia’s pupils dilate, taking in the sight. This time you are not begging for absolution, to give yourself up, no. This time you’re begging for the opposite, for him to make you feel like yourself again, for things to be like they were before.

“My baby,” he whispers, his gloved hand pushing your chin up. “You want this?”

“Yes, Papa.”

He growls deep in his chest, his half-hard cock straining against your palm when you move your hand to cover him. His hips roll forward against you, his need evident in every little spasm. Copia holds your chin for a moment longer and in the diffused light of the greenhouse his eyes shimmer almost warmly, fondly, when he looks down at you.

“I missed you,” he whispers. “Don’t ever do this again.”

With that his thumb pushes into your mouth. Caught on your bottom lip he stretches it open until your jaw can’t move any further, spreading spit on your skin until you feel how wet it is.

“Like this,” he says, working his pants open, never taking his eyes off of you.

You stay put, staring up at him as though he is Lucifer himself, someone to reverence, someone to follow into the deepest, darkest pits of Hell. When he finally frees his cock you can’t help but glance down, wrapping your own hand around his as he grips it. But Copia doesn’t let go, he smacks it against your open mouth a few times, the head of his cock meeting your bottom lip until it feels plump and swollen. You don’t move, let him use your mouth however he wants, his cock hard and heavy and filling up even more as he strokes it against your chin.

You moan in anticipation, or perhaps in impatience. Copia smirks, spreading the drops of precum that spill out on your bottom lip. Throat tight, you have to swallow and when you reopen your mouth Copia finally pushes inside. He’s slow, allowing you to adjust, and eventually he lets you fully replace his hand with your own and wrap your fingers around the length of him. Warm skin, you can’t help but take him deeper, wanting to feel him until your throat burns and you can’t ever forget that nothing can separate you.

For a while you slowly take him, deep, removing him again, then deeper, your hand pumping his base. You almost forgot how perfect he tastes, how smooth his skin feels against your tongue, his smell, the sound of his barely hidden moans whenever you take him as deep as you can. Once your jaw feels looser you begin to hollow out your cheeks, moving a little faster, just enough for him to reach out and grip your head, fingers tangled in your hair.

“Cazzo,” he mumbles. “So good, hmm. Who knew I only had to f-fill your mouth to get you to accept me? You won’t forget again, will you, baby?”

You shake your head in reply, holding his gaze even as the position gets uncomfortable. Clenching your thighs against the throbbing between your legs you shift forward, letting him sink in as far as possible and swallowing around him. Copia fists your hair, holding you there, uttering a string of profanities. You pull away when you can’t breathe and he lets you do it one more time, his thighs trembling, before he grabs your jaw again.

“No, no,” he hisses. “Ah, stop. Come up here.”

You barely have time to register. He helps you up, pushes you back and your ass hits Primo’s desk painfully, the edge biting into your skin. With one hand he hoists you up just as you jump onto the surface and then he’s pressing himself against you, arms dragging you to his chest, lips smashing against yours. You kiss him back, limited mobility, his mouth so hungry you can feel his teeth bruising your lips.

“Oh God,” you whine when he breaks away, his whole body engulfing you.

“That motherfucker won’t help you now,” Copia remarks. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t even say his name anymore, until all you know is that you want me.”

A whimper gets stuck in your throat. One of his gloved hands drags your habit up until he can grab your thigh. And he’s rough, squeezing the flesh all the way up to your ass, forcing you to tilt your hips forward. He steps away just enough to push his hand against your cunt, fingering with the elastic of your panties. You can feel his fingertips probing at the wet patch at your core, a moan breaking from his lips that attach themselves to your neck, teeth nibbling. Sliding his fingers back and forth he rubs at you, rolling his hips in tandem with your whimpers.

After a moment you reach for his cock that is trapped between your bodies, trying to get him to finally fill you. But Copia has some semblance of patience left, stroking you over the fabric until you are so close that the throbbing in your whole lower body becomes painful. He must have sucked a hickey or two into your neck by now but you have your eyes closed, too busy fighting against the pleasure that is building deep inside of you.

“Please,” you whisper, desperately trying not to come before you can feel him. “Please, Papa.”

Copia caves without any more mockery, tearing until you can hear your panties ripping apart in his fist. He throws them Satan knows where, both hands finding your ass and angling you forward even more. You align his cock, the first press of his tip to your clit nearly driving you mad, a shudder running up your spine. When he finally pushes inside you cling to his shoulders, holding on for dear life as he pulls you flush against his pelvis, burrowed deep. You both keen at the sensation and Copia’s mouth finds your again, kissing you aggressively, his tongue licking against yours with a wicked hunger.

He fucks you, then. Pulling your hips forward while pushing in again and again. You can feel the edge of the table chafing your skin but it doesn’t matter, nothing does, all you can focus on is how full you are, every sense occupied with Copia Copia Copia. He’s revelation and release, he is the ever-present reminder that things aren’t as hopeless as they seem. Perhaps you should stifle your sound, make sure no one outside can hear, but you’re too far gone, too lost in pleasure and your feelings for him, the way he brings you back to yourself with nothing but lips and teeth.

When you come it never seems to end. Perhaps he gets you there multiple times, perhaps the seconds just stretch out longer. Slick sounds, your clit rubbing over his pubic bone, the angle of your hips so fucking perfect that you can feel him inside of your whole body. A sloppy kiss to stifle your moans, Copia is just as lost, never stopping, pushing himself deeper into you, ever deeper even as his thighs shake, as he comes and comes, even after he is finished, not ready to part, rolling his hips again and again. You are wound up tight, tears stinging in your eyes and your whole body is burning as your muscles protest against the strain.

Eventually Copia falls against you, still jittering, his cock somehow still kicking inside of you. He holds you more securely on the table, your legs fixated around his hips, his hands on your lower back. You’re both breathing against suffocation, urgently holding onto the other.

“Promise me,” he whispers.

It takes you a second to comprehend, his fingers impatiently fisting the back of your habit. You move your head until you can kiss him again, spit-coated skin, sweat smearing against his face paint. It’s a bitter taste, salty, and you can’t get enough.

“Promise not to pull away again,” he says, more urgency “Promise.”

“I promise,” you say. “I promise I won’t.”

“Good.” Another deep breath and he swallows hard, glancing down at the mess between your bodies. “The fucking things you do to me, ‘strella.”

A giggle escapes you, the sheer absurdity of where you find yourself, green plants and a humidity that would have you sweating even without sex in the mix. The stale warm air already makes you sticky, the habit clinging to you just like Copia. When he pulls out you can feel the true extent of the past few minutes and it’s exhilarating. You do feel more like yourself now, like he’s finally shed the metaphorical gloves he touched you with.

“Do you have any tissues?” you ask.

He looks around, finding a half-empty pack behind you on the desk. You clean yourself as best as you can but it doesn’t much improve the state you’re in. But it’s just on the outside, anyway. Everything else is finally aligned again. You, Copia. Your mind and your hearts.

Once he’s thrown the tissues into the trash, pants closed, Copia pulls you against him again. It’s a long hug, one you don’t think you ever want to end. Tired as you are, you think you could fall asleep against him. Tonight you won’t hide again.

“I love you,” you whisper, perhaps too sheepishly for what you just did.

“I love you, amore,” he says, pressing a kiss to your damp hair. “Do you think I can watch you draw?”

“Well, I’ll have to head inside for a moment before I can go do that,” you whisper.

“Mhm, I will wait here then.”

He lets go, cradling your face in his hands and stroking over your cheekbones – so softly that tears spring to your eyes. The kiss he presses to your lips is sweet, gentle, but it finally feels right again.

You hop off the table, righting your habit. Copia looks after you, then, and just before you head out of the greenhouse you see Primo standing in the other doorway at the back, walking up to him with long strides. He whacks him over the head with a garden advertisement brochure. Hard.

“In my greenhouse, eh?”

You hide your giggle as you make your way up the path.

Chapter Text

“What fire does not destroy, it hardens.”

— Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

✦ ✧ ✦

You watch the plane as it travels across the sky, deceptively slow, a white line cutting through cerulean blue. Not a cloud is in sight, the green leaves of the trees in front of the window stuck to unmoving branches, only disturbed by the occasional bird flying in and out of the canopy. It’s a beautiful day, though they announced a long-needed rain by the middle of the week. For now, you get to paint in perfect sunlight and with the amount of minuscule detail you have left it is helping you to finally progress with Copia’s intricate robes.

Overall, you are happy with the painting. The composition was the right choice, the slightly diffused lighting turned out beautifully, and yet you wonder what it is that feels like it’s missing. You sit back down on your stool, somewhat restored by your short break by the windowsill. On the table that is stacked with all of your materials the analogue camera sits unused, reflecting an errant beam of light. You never did end up developing the photos and the film is still half-empty. In a spontaneous bout of inspiration you take a picture of the canvas in front of you, then of the colours on your palette.

For the rest of the day, you keep taking the odd picture of the room, waiting until Copia opens the door in the late afternoon to snap a picture of him entering. You’re not sure if the camera is fast enough to capture his irritated expression.

“Hey!” he complains, fake-scowling. “I did not sign up for a shooting today. Where is my money, hm?”

“You’ll have to work for free, baby. I need to fill the film so I can go develop them.”

“You are almost done, amore.” He closes the door. “Is it not too late?”

You shrug, taking another picture of him as he approaches. “Some last minute details, maybe.”

He quickly steals the camera from you and you can’t duck in time before he sneaks a picture of you in return, cackling as he clicks the shutter. He hands it back to you, feigning innocence with his big mismatched eyes, immediately wrapping his arms around you and nuzzling your neck. You smile, hug him back, just a little more tightly.

“How was your day?” you ask.

“Ah, just a shit Monday,” he grumbles.

“Lots of work?”

“Mhm.”

He inhales deeply against your skin, not elaborating. You move your hand into his hair and he sighs when you begin to stroke his scalp. After yesterday, you’ve decided to adapt your work routine to his, paint until he’s done with his duties so you can spend your evenings together resting and reconnecting with each other. The final but intense stretch of the painting has taken a toll on your wrist and you can feel the ache now, dull but enough of a complaint to let you know you should start wearing your brace.

“We could eat up here tonight,” you suggest.

“What are we eating, amore?” he asks, biting into the soft skin below your jaw.

“Food.”

He chuckles. “Ah, boring.”

You end up with two big portions of pasta from Gabriele’s, watching a movie on Copia’s phone that serves more as background noise than actual entertainment. He seems mildly irritated by you snapping pictures of him every time he laughs, frowns or looks at you, but at some point he decides to retaliate by pulling you into his arms and kissing you so hard that the camera falls from your fingers.

That night you stay in the studio. He makes slow love to you, hands grasping hands, those deep rolls of his hips into yours. You both pick up the camera after, capturing your blissed out expressions in the low light, your hand on his chest, a stupid smile. The picture that finally fills the film is a kiss you’re not sure is actually in frame but it doesn’t matter, the camera is soon forgotten again anyway. It is hard to reunite this slowly settling peace with the turmoil of the week you just left behind. When you drift off a while later, your head resting on Copia’s soft chest, you think that it might be the itch of the scab that indicates that you’ve finally begun healing after all.

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia spends the day in the library, a stack of books on demonic possessions and summonings on his designated desk. He told Emir to schedule a research day into his week and he’s been holed up in a corner ever since he got here. He’s always been like that, easily immersed into his interests, forgetting time and space until his body forcefully reminded him of its existence, often to escape the bleak reality around him. This time it comes with some necessity, if only to feel less helpless, to offer better comfort.

“You will not find anything in these books.”

The voice snaps him out of his work and he finds Secondo behind him, clad in his deep black retirement cassock, green adornments sparkling in the light of the desk lamp. “Fratello?”

“Whatever happened that night, the only books worth your while will be in the restricted section.”

“How did you find me?”

“Your assistente told me.”

Copia shuts the book he’d been reading, the dull sound loud in the quiet of the library. He could use a break, it’s almost noon and his eyes are beginning to hurt.

“Come smoke with me,” Secondo says, retrieving two cigars from his pocket.

“No, no, I will stink.”

He furrows his brow, holds one out to him. “Toscano.”

A minute later they’ve found a table behind the building and Copia watches as Secondo reclines on his bench, one arm propped on its back as he inhales deeply. The tip of the cigar glows red for a second before he blows out the smoke in an elegant ring. Copia doesn’t even try to copy him. He should not be smoking, it is bad for the voice, it is bad for everything, really, but the Italian cigar makes him feel like an old version of himself. A young cardinal, somewhere in Italy during a warm summer night, sitting outside with some colleagues he has not seen in over a decade, who did not care enough to ever reach out again. Or, even younger, the little boy who had no idea where he was from, looking up at a cardinal in Rome, one of many men he tried to use as a father figure but that never stayed long enough to actually become one. The man took a drag in his cramped office, back when smoking indoors was still common, listening closely as Copia recited his Latin with the shaky voice of a child used to being scolded.

“So, where even is this restricted section?” he asks.

Secondo shrugs off-handedly. “I cannot tell you.”

“Ah, fuck this.”

“The only people who can access it now are Primo, Sister and I. It is not for you.”

“Why not me? I am Papa now.”

“Do I have to spell it out, Papa?” Secondo asks. “What is in there is lethal when it comes into the wrong hands. We talked about summoning demons. Well, this is where we go when we have to do exactly that, fratello. When you summoned your ghouls, the book we used came from there.”

“I thought it belonged to Primo.”

“It does but he can hardly keep it in his private bookshelf, no?”

Copia ponders as he takes a drag of his own cigar. He’s not sure he wants to take his research quite so far. “So, how do I proceed without access to this?”

“What have you learned?”

“Ah, nothing new. A demon can be summoned with a ritual, yes, I know this, but not the likes that they would have found in a book in a painter’s shelf. As you said, this knowledge is not accessible. The books are mostly philosophical, discussing whether evil is real, what constitutes a soul, the tormented dead, the metaphysical. I found a journal in which a man describes his own rituals where he tried to see beyond the veil by walking naked in the woods, all of which failed to produce any results. It was entertaining but not useful. It is just–” He sighs, nervously tapping the cigar. “I wish I knew more to help. She is doing better now but what if something else happens? Would I see it?”

“Our flock is safe, here,” Secondo says. “One reason why we keep the ghouls around. You must focus on her mental wellbeing, instead.”

“Well, then tell me how I do that? There is no book on that fucking thing.”

Secondo chuckles. “You are doing just fine, fratello. You tickled all of this out of her, hm? She is doing okay, so I am tempted to believe that I taught you well in matters of guidance.”

“Ahh, you are as full of yourself as the old guy.”

They huff a laugh at each other, united in the distaste of their father. Secondo finishes his cigar, leans forward with his elbows on the table. “I will go and visit your amore now. The research you can leave to me, unless you want to keep reading these charlatans’ diaries for amusement.”

“I will read a bit more after lunch,” Copia says. “But– Ah, I mean, thank you. Be nice to her and do not scowl with this scary face, okay?”

“I only want to ask a few questions that remain unclear to me,” Secondo says easily, brushing dust off his cassock as he stands. “But if I am honest, it is an excuse to see that painting of your big head. If you look better than Terzo then he owes me some good money.”

Copia frowns but it’s too late to inquire any further. When he looks up Secondo has already disappeared through the backdoor of the library without another word.

✦ ✧ ✦

As the sun rises towards its zenith you reach the crossroads that leads from the woods into town. The sun beats down brutally so you take the time in the shade to gather your courage. You haven’t told Copia, you did not want him to come with you, so he’s only aware that you’re going to get the film developed. The other thing that weighs on you – you have to face it alone.

The streets feel familiar even though you have not walked them in quite some time, never straying further than the art supply shop or Gabriele’s. You feel the strain in your wrist, not quite as painful as that night. It is easy to focus on that sting, to absent-mindedly touch the brace you’ve put on this morning. The walk to the photo studio is short, you’ve been there many times during your student years, and once you’re back out on the street you debate whether you really want to do this today.

But your feet move either way, no matter how long it takes your mind to catch up on the movement. You know you won’t see what your memory tells you to. Nothing is left, no ash and smoke, no debris, no memories, no sign or picture, not even his name on a doorbell or in an address book. And yet it hits you like a gust of hot air when you turn the corner and find – nothing.

The house is gone, never rebuilt, instead they tarred the ground and a handful of cars are now parking there. You stare at it for a long time, waiting in the shade of the building across the street. Memories flash before your eyes, plumes of smoke, unbearable heat, the creaking of dying wood, people shouting for you. None of it is real, he is not real, no ripped-up body, no sounds, no face. Gone. Alive only in your head, in memories you can’t access, in distorted images, dyed in the colours of long-lost emotions, fading a little more each day.

You loved him. You love him.

The asphalt is scorching, burning into your ass when you sit down with your back against the ticket machine. You let your palm scald as you place it on the hot surface, the pain anchoring you as your eyes fill with tears and you cry with wretched sobs.

It is not your fault. You keep telling yourself these words, Copia’s words, Sybil’s words. It is not your fault. He did not die because of you. He did not die because of you. He did not die because of you.

But he died. He did die. You are not sure why it hits you now, the realisation that it is all gone, that you’ve lost access to the best part of your life, to the only man who ever cared about you, who made you into who you are, who loved you more than your own father. And how have you honoured him? By locking away every single memory, by cutting your mother out of your life, by hiding everything you owned, every sketchbook, every painting from the time after it happened, as if the pain never existed to begin with. As if that version of you never existed.

You pull your hand away to find it red and blistering, not your painting hand but you feel stupid either way. It is unnecessary, this self-flagellation, Copia is right, and yet you can’t seem to ever stop with it, not even now. You cry even harder as the real pains sets in, hoping that no one can hear you, that no one penetrates this space. It feels insulting, to see these cars here, that nothing remains of the studio at all.

Eventually, you hoist yourself up, staggering a little in the heat that engulfs you. The walk back suddenly feels endless and you clutch your wrist as if stopping the blood flow would stop the pain as well. You should head to the infirmary but you can’t bring yourself to make the turn, drag yourself up the stairs to the studio instead. You feel light-headed, your face puffed, eyes crusty from crying, and all you want is a nap on the mattress. But the last few steps feel endless and when you reach the hallway you spot a cassock-clad figure in front of the studio door.

“Sorella, I have been looking for you,” the second Papa says but then he spots your hand. “What happened? Did you hurt yourself?”

He catches you just before your knees finally give out.

✦ ✧ ✦

“C? Is that you in that corner?”

Copia startles with a groan. He feels the immediate sense of déjà vu, though technically it is a recurring experience. The last time Sister found him in the library he was trying to write the sermon for his birthday mass, only today he purposely chose a different spot to avoid her. So much has changed since then, but not her commanding tone – nor her ability to sus him out anywhere.

“I have been looking for you,” she snaps. “And you are hiding in here. That is not your usual spot.”

“Then how did you find me?”

“Emir told me but I had to drag it out of him. Did you tell him not give me any information?”

Copia presses his lips together, shrugging a little too exaggeratedly. “No, no. He is ah… not very talkative, you see.”

“Either way,” she says, arms now crossed in front of her body as she stops right by his desk. “What’s all this, C? Demonic possessions? Summonings? What are you doing?”

“Ahhh, Sis, it is just some research,” he says, leaning back to cover the rest of the stack. “Personal… eh, yes, personal… interest.”

Sister, lips pursed, seems unimpressed. “You have been avoiding me, C. I demand to know what is going on.”

He assesses just how angry she is, the tightness in her face, the rapid tapping of her foot in sync with that of the finger on her arm. It is her eyes, though, that tell him she is not willing to let a simple excuse slide this time. “I am… worried… about the safety of our flock,” he tries, vaguely.

“Why would you be worried about that? What happened?”

“Nothing.” He can’t help the shrug that his shoulders automatically fall into. “It cannot hurt to make sure, though, right?”

Sister shakes her head, short, hectic little movements. “You are a terrible liar, C. But you will tell me what is going on and you will tell me now. I see you being distracted and avoiding me, spending all your time with that painter. Then I hear you have been secretly meeting with Papa II multiple times recently. Why?”

The metaphorical pistol is resting against his sternum and Copia feels his hands sweating inside of his gloves. There is little mercy in Sister’s eyes, none of the hidden motherly softness. This is the Sister that got the Ministry to where it is now, the Sister who decided that Copia should be Papa no matter the cost, the Sister who he knows has a couple of skeletons in the closet.

The Sister he does not dare disappoint.

“You are right,” he says. “I did meet with Secondo and yes, I spend a lot of time with my amore. Is that so bad?”

“Your amore?”

Copia steels his gaze. “Yes, my amore.”

She does not argue. “Why all this, then?”

“She is–” He weighs his words. “She is a little superstitious.”

The lie hurts and Sister doesn’t even buy it, frowns immediately. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“She is… scared of the ghouls.”

“Our ghouls do not take possession of people.”

“I know, I know, but–”

“You said this affair would not interfere with your work,” Sister interrupts, her voice clipped, patience running out. “And here you are, wasting a whole day. Have you looked at the documents I put on your desk this morning?”

“I was not in the office. I will look at them later, okie dokie, Sis?” He is getting impatient as well, tired of the discussion. “Can I go on now?”

Sister’s eyes narrow, her hands gripping her arms tightly. “You are not telling me the truth, C, and I am disappointed. What did she do?”

“Nothing. She did not do anything.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

“I do not want to break her trust.”

“If the safety of the clergy is at risk, you have to tell me.”

He’s rubbing his fingers together nervously, shaking his head. He did not think of an excuse, did not think he’d need one, not today, at any rate. And it is not his place to tell this story anyway, even if you were ever alright with her knowing. But this is different from telling his brothers.

“No one is at risk,” he says at last. “Just something that sparked my interest. It is all good, Sis, it’s all peachy.”

“Demonic possessions, C? Really?”

“It… it is about her childhood,” he admits, at last. “That is all I can say. Please, I just want you to accept her. When you know her better, then you will understand.”

Sister’s eyes finally soften and she releases a drawn-out sigh. “I do accept her, she is a talented artist and I can see that you care about her. But I am worried about you, C. As… someone who loves you, I have to ask if she is good for you. You are Papa now, you know.”

“I know.” The words are sharper than intended. “How could I forget?”

Sister shakes her head but there is a smile lurking in her pout now. “A family dinner, then,” she suggests. “If you want me to get to know her, then I will. And Papa, of course.”

Copia groans. “The old guy? He’ll be asleep before dessert.”

“Pick a date.” She shrugs, turning around but not without calling back. “Oh, and tell Emir that he will be working in the laundry if he lies to me one more time. I will not tolerate this secrecy any longer.”

✦ ✧ ✦

You’re not sure how he’s dragged you into the bathroom but you can feel the cool water trickling over your palm as you slowly find back to yourself. Secondo coos into your ear and you realise you’ve been crying out in pain, hissing like a cat at every movement.

“It will be fine,” he says, still holding your wrist to keep your hand steady under the water. “Now tell me what happened, sorella.”

“I touched… I touched the hot asphalt in a parking lot.”

“That is not what I meant.”

With some delay you realise how you must look, having just spent an unclear amount of time with a mental breakdown in the middle of town. You swallow, throat still thick and swollen. “I don’t– I mean, I was–”

“Sorella,” he interrupts and you look up, surprised to find his usually so stern gaze soft and kind, no hidden judgement at all. “Papa has told me. You know this, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So – you may speak freely.”

His whole demeanour is oddly reassuring, the way his voice is so soft and inviting. It is not hard to imagine him as Papa, even though you were not here during that time. He exudes an energy that is at once impressive and calming, a solid, reassuring presence. But you also know why he was he waiting for you, that the subject is inevitable no matter what you tell him.

“I was trying to see my old home, the studio,” you explain. “It… well, it burnt down, it’s a parking lot now.”

Secondo nods. “I remember it, yes.”

“I have not been there since it happened,” you go on, a little more confidently now. “I thought I should face it, now that I’m processing what happened, to make my peace with it. But–” You take a breath and the emotions come back unbidden. “Satan, it hurt so bad to see it.”

He watches as the tears silently run down your face, the same slow trickle as the water still cooling your hand. You don’t let it consume you this time, and he is patient enough to wait until the worst is over. His gloved thumb strokes over your wrist, then. “You have been very brave, sorella. Do you know this?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know about that.”

“You have been carrying this for a long time. It would have been easy to keep doing it, no? But you chose differently. You choose differently every day, to accept your past and move forward.”

“I’m doing it for Copia,” you confess, avoiding his gaze. “I don’t think I would have ever faced it without him.”

Secondo turns off the water and you try to hold your hand steady when he finally lets go. He takes the first aid kit from the bathroom wall, checks the expiration date before he loosely wraps a bandage around your palm. After you promise him to see the infirmary later on he finally follows you into the studio and you can’t help but drop down onto the stool by the canvas, your whole body aching. You realise you haven’t had any food or water all morning.

“It is–” The Papa does not continue, his eyes are fixated on the portrait and you have seen this expression back when you painted Terzo. Awe, admiration, appreciation for your work. It makes you blush involuntarily. “Remarkable,” he finishes. “A masterpiece.”

“It’s not quite done yet,” you say. “Some detail is missing.”

He is silent, taking his time as his eyes roam the canvas. You allow yourself the respite, comforted by his presence, by the fact that you don’t have to make it through this hour alone until you can try to find Copia. You feel better, though your hand is still on fire and you can feel the exhaustion in your bones. The praise is soothing, the focus back on your work welcome, even if short-lived.

“Sorella,” Secondo starts eventually, “I am here because I have a few questions, if you are willing to answer them for me. But if you are not in a condition for it now, we can postpone it.”

“It’s okay,” you say, the bandaid already so loose that you might as well rip it off. “I’m fine.”

He eyes you doubtfully but proceeds by trusting your assessment. His hands link behind his back as he comes to stand at a safe distance to you. “I would like to know any details you can remember, specifically about the times that you were trying to access magic. It might seem unimportant to you but it might be meaningful nonetheless.”

“It’s just, it was so long ago–”

“I know. You can take your time to think about it. How did it start?”

You allow your mind to drift back to your childhood, to your old house, to living with your father, the days you spent at the studio before you were living there, to your time in school. Secondo surveys you, but not unpleasantly, and you allow it in, the pain you know comes with remembering.

“My old classmates used to call me a devil worshipper,” you start. “Before I ever touched anything that had to do with Him. My art– well, it evoked a certain reaction, images they used to associate with evil and darkness, as you can imagine. My father as well, he… spoke of my rotten nature. So much so that he had my mom attend church on Sundays. He wanted me to go as well but she dropped me off at the studio instead, to paint and spend the time there.”

He nods with some understanding. “I remember how he treated you when he saw the painting we bought.”

“Yeah.” You sigh. “I suppose it made me lose my fear, if I was already perceived like that, you know?” Again, he nods, and you try to focus on the information that matters. “One day, I found these books in my art teacher’s bookshelf. He had a lot of books on these subjects, as you can imagine, knowing his art. But then I stumbled upon a secret compartment that had actual books about dark magic, books that weren’t just art references. They didn’t all seem particularly authentic, in retrospect, and I wasn’t aware of the danger. As a child I thought I could use them and why not? For a long time nothing ever happened, I just fiddled around with spells to blow out candles and the likes, it was a weak hope but it was something to do.” You shrug, thinking about that little girl again that feels so distant now. “I didn’t have any good materials, it all led to nothing. But there was this one night… in the studio. It was a different book, I can’t remember the details, but I was so– I was just so desperate to make it as an artist one day. I wanted to be good enough, to show everyone that it was worth pursuing.”

“I understand,” he says with a gentle smile, then his expression turns more serious. “Now, sorella, what happened in that night you mentioned?”

The memory is fuzzy. It takes you a while to reach into it, to wipe away the fog. “I snuck into the studio,” you begin, “thinking that it had to be the right location. The spell I used, it was to bargain with whoever might answer. I spoke some Latin words from the book, but nothing happened at first. I don’t know what changed it, my pleas, the hair I burnt, but then suddenly I saw it. A face, human but also not quite natural, with red eyes and a mouth that was coughing.” You furrow your brow, your heart rate picking up. “It was… in my head. I don’t know how to describe it, but it was almost inside of me, behind my eyes. There were sounds as well, so loud that I lost the feeling for my surroundings. The candle I had been using must have fallen over because the whole setup was burning and that’s how Mr Kraan found me, scolding me for messing with the dark powers. I remember the stain on the floor from the fire and that it never went away. I was crying, so scared, but he reassured me nothing bad had happened. That I wouldn’t die.”

“A vision,” Secondo says. “What you are describing is a vision, not a summoning. It did not appear before you, not corporeal. It only appeared in flames and in your head.”

“It felt so real, though, Papa. I remember how scared I was.”

“I know, sorella, I know how it feels. Tell me, have you had more visions like this?”

You feel a heavy stone dropping in your stomach at his words, but you can’t try to lift it. Instead you focus to remember, try not to let the fear flare up inside of you. “I saw the creature reoccurring, yes. I painted it, sometimes without realising, I remember that I saw it in Mr Kraan’s painting later on as well but now I am not sure if it was there from the beginning or if I dreamed it all. Something did change, though not before some more years had passed. I was praying when my father tried to stop me from studying art once I was done with school. I felt a connection, then, that the only solution for me was to keep speaking to this power.”

“And did you?”

“I saw it again when I lit some candles that night. I saw it here after I got the job to paint your brother, when I stared into the candles in the chapel. I found horrifying paintings of it that Mr Kraan had stashed away. And I saw it– I saw it. Not in my head, not in the flames. I saw the real thing when it burned down the studio. That was the first time it felt real. When it– when it killed him.”

Secondo nods. He’s moved closer, covering your hand with his, and you notice that you’d been picking at the bandage with more tears in your eyes. “Sorella, it is not your fault.”

“How can you know?”

“You did not summon it,” he says. “That much I can assess.”

”But– It was me who–“

“Shh.” He squeezes your good hand, holding it in his. “I need you to trust me, sorella. Can you do this?”

A look into his eyes, mismatched like Copia’s, not as kind as his but filled with a similar understanding. He does not want to harm you, he does not want to judge. You nod, swallow over the persistent lump in your throat. “Yes, I trust you.”

“Good. Then I only need to know one more thing. Can you tell me about this illness of your mentor? When did it begin?”

Another set of memories appears, more painful than your own suffering. The image you try to keep of Mr Kraan is that of the man who received you as a child, who cared for your mother, who protected you from your dad, not the weak, dying skeleton that he was by the end. Even now you can hear the sounds of his sleepwalking, feel the bones of his fingers as his hand rested in yours.

“I remember noticing it a while after we finally moved in with him,” you begin, eventually. “I was eighteen and I’d just started art school. We were… well, we didn’t have a lot of money. He had not sold a lot of paintings during that period and my mom was working a lot of shifts.” Suddenly, a memory flashes before your eyes that you had not been able to access before, a night you had pushed far, far away. “Actually–”

“What is it?” Secondo asks, perking up at the change in your tone.

“I just remembered– it might not mean anything.” He motions for you to go on. “I came home in the middle of the night, once, after going out with my boyfriend at the time. It feels… it feels hazy. But I think I had a sort of flashback to the night I saw the creature for the first time, a similar vision, as you called it. The sounds, the eyes, the cough. When I came back to myself I saw him on the floor of the studio. Mr Kraan, I mean. It was– it was so odd. I thought he’d had a stroke because was talking all incoherently but he told me he was having nightmares, that he must have been sleepwalking. That was the first time I noticed it. He did not want to talk about it, he was really dismissive. And after that it slowly got worse. He got all these symptoms, more sleepwalking, more nightmares.”

“I see, yes. Papa told me about them so you do not have to repeat it,” Secondo says. “And you cannot say what he had been doing that night?”

“No, I can’t, I wasn’t at home and my mom was on night shift. I only know that I found him and he was all out of sorts. The whole development was slow but it took over our whole lives. Whatever illness he had became worse and worse. It felt like he was slowly being drained of his life.”

Secondo squeezes your hand one more time before he lets go. “I thank you, sorella. I know this is not easy for you but your account of these events will help me find out what happened.”

“Do you have any theories?” you ask, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.

“I have a few,” he says with a sad smile. “But it is too early to share.”

You nod, releasing a deep breath. He waits for you, then, and you breathe steadily, controlling your heart rate until you feel more like yourself. Once you’ve calmed down he lets go of you.

“Sorella,” Secondo says before he leaves and you look up in question. “You have never needed any infernal help. You have a gift, you have worked hard to embrace it, you have suffered for it, fought for it, and this? It is the result of your dedication alone.” He pauses, admiring the painting one more time. “Do not ever think that you bought it with blood.”

✦ ✧ ✦

You leave the infirmary with a fresh bandage.

Elisa does not work here anymore and yet the memory of that night is ever-haunting, the infirmary a place you’ve only visited when absolutely necessary. Even though you are endlessly tired you feel like every step is getting easier now. Perhaps the worst is behind you, you think, absentmindedly tracing the edge of the new bandage where it’s fastened around your wrist.

It is hard to accept the amount of understanding you have received, the patience you’ve been met with not just from Sybil and Copia but also his brothers. It’s the pill you have to swallow, the fact that not everyone has ill-intentions, that you can trust people, that you are not unlovable. A part of you might always stay suspicious, thinking about Henry, about your classmates, about your father. But now you have people to remind you that you can’t always trust those instincts.

You know Copia is spending the day in the library. It is early afternoon and you stop by the kitchens for some juice and a sandwich. A headache is coming on, unsurprising after all the crying, and you take some time to stare at the big clouds gathering above you now when you make your way across the courtyard.

At first you can’t find him. There aren’t many people here at this time of day, most Siblings busy with work. You ask the girl behind the reception desk if she knows where Papa is and she directs you upstairs, though you take your time. You haven’t been reading much lately and you spend some time perusing the art section. Most of the books have been in your hands at some point and you can’t find anything new. Perhaps you should ask Copia about his favourite books, expand your horizon. You remember him once telling you about the library in Rome and how he snuck books under his blanket to read with a torch at night.

“I am disappointed. What did she do?”

“Nothing. She did not do anything.”

“Then tell me the truth.”

You hear the voices before you see them. Copia and Sister.

“I do not want to break her trust,” he says and you sneak a little closer.

“If the safety of the clergy is at risk, you have to tell me.”

Within seconds you know that they are talking about you and your pulse spikes, your hand shaking where you’re grasping the nearest shelf.

“No one is at risk. Just something that sparked my interest,” Copia says. “It is all good, Sis, it’s all peachy.”

“Demonic possessions, C? Really?”

You hear him hesitate but then he does go on. “It… it is about her childhood. That’s all I can say.”

It’s enough for you to make up your mind and back away so you don’t accidentally alarm them of your presence. Even if he doesn’t give her any details you feel sick at the thought of her suspecting anything. That he’s talking to her about you.

With the feeling that the conversation might be ending soon you hurry out of the library. The last thing you need is to stumble into Sister, not today, not after everything you’ve already had to deal with. Instead you go back to Copia’s quarters, shooting him a quick text that you’ll be there when he’s done with work. Then you deflate on the bed.

For a long time you replay the conversations of today in your head. What you told Secondo, the exchange between Copia and Sister. Your hand is still aching, especially when you don’t keep it still, and with how shaky you are you won’t risk getting back to the painting today. The silence is only making you antsy, though. Since Copia won’t be here for another while you pull down the blinds, turn on his television and pick a random VHS tape. Some alien movie begins to play and you watch it with tears in your eyes, grateful for the darkness around you.

One day you won’t have to think about it every day, you tell yourself. One day this pain will be easier.

“Amore?”

You wake up to the sound of keys, a door closing, not sure when you fell asleep. The movie is over, the television on static, and you sit up to a head that feels twice its size, a persistent throbbing behind your temples. Copia is standing in the doorway but when he hears you croaking he hurries over to the bed. He opens the blinds just a little and you realise that it got late, only a dim light streaming in.

“What happened, amore?” he asks, gently grasping your bound wrist as he sits down on the mattress.

“Nothing,” you say. “Just a burn.”

“Just a burn?” he repeats with some agitation. “How?”

You sit up, looking at him with some apprehension. He pulls your legs across his lap and it’s the closeness that eases your worries. He did not tell Sister anything, you remind yourself. He had to appease her somehow.

“When I was in town to get the film developed, I stopped by the studio,” you explain. “Or rather, where it used to be.”

“Oh, amore,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to your cheek.

“It’s a parking lot now, did you know that?” He shakes his head and you glance away, back down to your hand. “It hurt, seeing it. Not seeing it. That it’s gone. When I sat down I forgot about the heat and touched the asphalt.”

You don’t tell him that you placed your hand down on purpose, that for a brief second you welcomed the physical pain, to drown out the one in your heart.

“Is it very bad?”

“No, just some blisters, a bit of a burn. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore”

“The hand? Or the other thing?”

With your face turned away his lips hit your temple instead and you have to will yourself to look back up, even though you know your eyes are lying. “I’m okay, baby.”

“Hm, I don’t think so. But that is okay. I am here now.”

“Yes,” you whisper, hiding your face against him. “I’m glad.”

Copia wraps his arms around you and you forget about everything. He lets you both sink into the pillows, dragging you across him with some care not to hurt your hand. You suspect you both need it and it’s easy to close your eyes again and focus on the familiarity of his touch. He smells like books, remainders of his cologne, a bit of sweat. You kiss his neck where you can reach it, bury your face against the softness.

“I love you, my baby,” he whispers with his nose in your hair.

“I love you, too.”

It’s quiet for a while and he lets you cry softly against him, even though you’re not sure where the tears are coming from, how you still have any left to spare. Eventually you murmur about your conversation with Secondo, about the questions he asked, about the way he praised your painting. Copia keeps asking you questions, some to distract you, some to ease your worries that you might have said the wrong thing. You want to ask him about Sister but he doesn’t bring it up on his own and you don’t want to admit to eavesdropping, not when his weight against you feels this good, not when his comfort is the first thing all day that actually makes you feel better.

When the embrace loosens Copia kisses your hurt palm, then your lips, then your heart, every part of your body he can reach.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself when you kiss him back. It doesn’t matter what she thinks, what anyone thinks. All that matters is right here.

✦ ✧ ✦

The walk into town the next morning feels half as heavy, the familiar route to the photo studio, and you hurry as the clouds in the sky draw closer under a cool breeze, trying to outpace the expected rain. And though the memory, the distant pain of yesterday still lingers not just in your hand you find it easier to face the reality of where you are. You don’t pass the parking lot again, you don’t go out of your way to see it, but it feels like you’re aware of where it is at all times now, the route it would take to get there, the distance counting down like a navigation app on your phone that tries to direct you there.

It is tempting but you resist. No more self-punishment, just an urge to overcome, and the throbbing in your hand is enough to tie you to the present. Facing the reality of the old house has brought a kind of relief, the filling out of a blind spot that you’ve always been aware of. But even so, being aware of it doesn’t mean it won’t hurt every time you go.

In the photo studio, you’re handed an envelope with all of the printed pictures as well as a CD with digital copies. You don’t linger to look at more than the first few photos, just to make sure they gave you the right ones. Instead you hurry back home, the sky darkening under thick grey clouds as the breeze from earlier strengthens into a biting wind and you feel the first few drops on your skin.

You hurry upstairs to the studio, the hallways a little too empty, and then you see Sybil waiting in front of the door to the studio.

“Hey,” she says. “You need to come with me, right now.”

“What? Did something happen?”

Her face is scrunched into a sad, worried expression and you only take enough time to place the envelope on your work table before you let her drag you back down the hall.

“What is it?” you ask.

“I heard people whispering. I’m not sure if it’s true but–”

“Sybil!” you half-scream, panicked without knowing why.

“We’re almost there,” she replies, tight-lipped, and then you notice that she’s leading you to the Hall of Ancestors. A large group of Siblings has gathered in front of it already, the hallways all but clogged, but none of them dares to enter, the crowd stuck glancing into the room, held at bay by a black-clad ghoul lingering near the entrance. Sybil manages to waltz through them, somehow, dragging you along by your hand in a way that increases the strain on your wrist. When you look inside the room you see Copia, Secondo, Terzo and Sister, all blocking the view of what you assume is the reason everyone is here.

“Sorella,” Terzo says, spotting you first. His expression is unreadable, just like Sybil’s who is clutching your arm like she’s scared.

They all step out of the way then and your eyes are drawn to it immediately, your whole body freezing at the sight.

On the wall, the portrait of Papa Emeritus III flutters in the draft that perpetually haunts the walls of the old abbey. Fluttering – because the whole canvas is torn into pieces.

Chapter Text

“God's creatures who cried themselves to sleep stirred to cry again.”

― Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs

✦ ✧ ✦

You’re too shocked to comprehend, at first. And it does not make sense, not when you hear voices trying to break up the crowd, the threatening black shadows of ghouls finally clearing the hallway, not when you’re led into an office you’re not sure you’ve been in before until you see your own art on the walls and realise it is that of the second Papa.

Terzo pushes you into a chair and hovers, though you see Copia impatiently waiting behind him with a brow so deeply furrowed that his make-up is beginning to crack. There aren’t enough seats and somewhere along the way they must have sent Sybil away since she’s not in the room with you.

The rain has finally begun to fall, heavy drops, followed by the howling of a rapidly building wind that beats them against the window. The thunderous drumming reverberates in your head, over and over – until you notice that it must be your racing heartbeat. You feel lightheaded, your vision blurs as the room becomes crowded and you notice that Sister is helping Papa Nihil into a chair. For a moment you let your mind race, trying to catch up with the world around you. Then Terzo’s hands come to rest on your shoulders and it’s when you see his concerned face that the realisation sinks in.

Someone has destroyed your painting of him.

“Sorella–”

“Fucking– Let me–” Copia pushes past him and kneels down in front of your chair. One hand reaches for your face, the other grasps both of your hands, and you notice how you’ve been trembling. “Amore, are you alright?”

You nod despite the rush of blood in your head, clutching his hand tightly. Before you can say anything you hear the impatient stomp of a healed foot.

“Can anyone explain to me what is going on?” Sister snarls.

Copia presses his lips together, glancing away from you, and for a moment you think back to their conversation in the library. The conversation he hasn’t told you about.

“Someone destroyed the painting,” Secondo says.

“Yes, I saw that,” Sister snaps. “Why? Why would anyone do that?”

“It could have been vandalism,” Terzo says from the corner he has retreated to. “Papino, the relationship with your painter has been making the rounds. It is not too much of a reach that a jealous Sibling might have used a knife on it.”

“It appears to have been sliced, yes,” Secondo agrees. “Not with a knife. It is not a clean cut but I will have to look at the tears more closely to confirm what it was.”

“What happens with it now?” Terzo asks. “We can’t leave it there.”

“I will take it to my workshop. I am sure sorella will assist me in attempting to save what is left of it,” Secondo offers.

Terzo looks doubtful. “It is bad, fratello.”

“I have fixed many damaged paintings,” Secondo just says with a shrug. “If it does not work, you are always here to model for another one.”

“Pah. You cannot replicate perfection.”

“Enough about that,” Sister says. “Tell me more about these rumours.”

Terzo folds his arms in front of him. “Well, did you except no one would notice? Since this birthday party even more people have been talking about it.”

“I didn’t know it was so serious,” the old man slurs behind his inhaler. Everyone ignores him.

“Nothing stays unnoticed here for long,” Terzo continues. “I have heard that some Siblings have been quite unhappy about the idea that our Papino is taken. I cannot confirm who it was but it might be the only lead that we have. I can ask around.”

Sister heaves a sigh, her lips pursed into the mildly annoyed scrunch that never seems to leave her face for too long. “What are we going to do about this relationship?”

“It seems more trouble than it’s worth,” the old man grumbles in the back.

Sister lifts her brows and Copia has enough of his cowering. He scoffs, stands up to shield you and crosses his arms in front of him. You can see his lips trembling, the leather of his gloves creaking as he balls his hands into fists. “What do you even know, you dickhead? What do you know about love, hm? You have just fucked around all your life.”

“You have to admit, C, you have been distracted,” Sister agrees. ”If anyone harboured any animosity towards you then you wouldn’t have noticed.”

“Can you not be happy for me once?” he snaps. “Why is this my fault now?”

“We are happy for you, C,” Sister says, her tone more diplomatic now, “but it is the likeliest scenario, that a jealous Sibling decided to send a message. A rumour only has to reach the wrong ears, who knows what or… who… they will be stabbing next if we don’t find them.”

Copia opens his mouth but he can’t seem think of a reply that would be appropriate, no matter how many insults you can see simmering behind his eyes. Everyone is staring at him, so you reach for his hand, slide two fingers inside of his glove. His palm is sweaty where you stroke it but his shoulders relax a little when he feels your touch.

“I’m– I’m sorry,” you speak into the silence. “If he’s been distracted it’s my fault.”

“‘strella,” he interrupts.

“No, it’s true. I’ve been going through something and I will admit that I took up a lot more of his time than is reasonable. I promise it won’t stay like that. We’ll keep things private.”

“You do not have to justify yourself, sorella,” Terzo says. “Not in front of them.”

“But I want to. This might not have happened otherwise.”

“Don’t,” Copia whispers, gently. “If someone destroyed this painting it is their fucking fault. We did not ask them to vandalise and if this is a threat against you then there will be consequences.”

Sister waves it all off with a dismissive hand. “Arguing won’t help. We will investigate who damaged the painting and they will have to answer for it. I think it’s best if we keep this all quiet for now, and you are right, this relationship should stay private until we know more.”

No one dares to question her verdict and you let yourself fall back into the chair as the room empties, only now noticing how tense you were. Copia kneels back down, his hands rubbing at your legs as he searches for your attention.

“’strella,” he whispers, eyes watery, and he deflates right in front of you. He rests his head on your thigh, leaning his weight against you as he sniffles, almost inaudibly.

“It’s alright,” you say, though you’re not sure if it is.

You run your hand through his hair, trying to calm him, and he takes a few deep breaths when he feels your caress. When you look up, only Secondo and Terzo are left in the room. They’re both sitting, rubbing their temples, Terzo glancing at you with some remaining concern. Without his full face paint he looks weary, from the conversation or the destruction of his painting you can’t tell.

“It’s not fixable,” you say, trying not to give in to the pain that this thought sends through you.

“We must try,” Secondo replies. “It will be a lot of work, sorella. I will start on it until you have finished your current project.”

You nod, the image of the destroyed painting stuck in your head. It had a few long tears across the centre, the canvas will be impossible to mend without severe damage to the paint, and even if you manage to fix it, it will never be pristine. The conservation will be harder, the image will be altered. It will have lost its soul.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, glancing at Terzo.

“Sorella, it is not your fault,” he says. “Don’t listen to this bi–” He stops himself, glancing at Copia’s slumped form. “To Sister... or my idiot father.”

“He is right,” Secondo says, a heavy hand coming to rest on top of his desk. “They have no right to judge.”

You focus back on Copia, his rhythmic breathing, eyes closed, an arm wrapped around your calf. His hair is ruffled where you ran your fingers through it and he looks like he’s done with this day already, only a few hours in. “Should we go, baby?”

“Yes,” he whispers, removing himself from your thigh that is now decorated with a big white print of his cheek. He doesn’t even notice when he stands, wincing when he stretches out his knees. Terzo gives him good-natured pat on the back and then he’s already grasping your hand, pulling you out of the office with rapid steps. You don’t notice how your head is spinning until the door closes.

✦ ✧ ✦

He’s not even gone two steps when he feels you slumping behind him. Copia spins and catches you just so, skin ashen and limbs shaking as you drop into his arms. You struggle back to your feet, clutching his shirt with white-knuckled fingers to hold yourself upright. One of your hands is still wrapped in the bandage and he feels a violent shiver tearing through him at the thought of you in even more pain.

“Amore,” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” you reply. “Stood up too fast.”

He waits it out, until the wave of dizziness seems to have dissipated and you stand a little more firmly. The hallway with upper clergy offices is empty but a few Siblings pass by, carrying papers, eyeing them curiously. Copia can’t hold back the angry stare he sends through every single one of them until they cower under it and pass with frantic steps.

“We shouldn’t be walking around hand in hand,” you whisper, reading his thoughts.

All he can do is scoff and grab your hand a little tighter as he helps you along. At the now slow pace it’s a bit of a walk until he reaches his quarters and you still look like you might pass out any moment. As soon as he’s sat you down on his bed he shoots Emir a text that he won’t be in office today. The reply is a thumbs up and he throws his phone onto the sofa.

“Have you had any water today?” he asks, watching you curl up in the sheets, knees pulled to your chest. When you shake your head he swallows a tut and moves to fill a glass. His mind is still wrapped around the words from earlier, his father’s complacency, Sister’s accusation. If it is true that a jealous Sibling destroyed the painting then it will have serious consequences. He’ll move heaven and hell to make sure that they get punished but he certainly won’t let anyone insult his relationship with you.

Copia only notices he’s let the water spill over the rim of the glass when a few drops land on his wrist. He removes his gloves, loosens his shirt around his neck. What if Sister is right and someone might come after you next? He can’t breathe at the thought.

“Here, amore,” he says, sitting down by your side.

You do your best to sit up but he has to help you, careful not to bruise your arm as he hoists you up. His hand comes to rest on your back as you drink, though not more than half of the glass, and he sets it aside when he’s satisfied. The moment he turns back to you your arms wrap around his neck and he sinks against you, grateful, hugging you tight.

“I love you,” you blurt into his ear and he wants to cry, overwhelmed and angry and relieved at the same time.

“I love you,” he says, crushing you against him.

“Even though I’m more trouble than I’m worth?” you whisper, and though he can tell it’s meant as a joke the words still send a jolt through him.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “They don’t understand.”

“They don’t,” you agree. “It doesn’t matter, we have each other.”

All he can do is hum and swallow back tears. He wants to be selfish, never let you go again, lock out anyone who tries to meddle, who tries to tell him what to do. But it’s not how his world works and despite his best efforts the words of his father still hurt him, the way Sister did not stand behind him, the way they acted like you’re an obstacle in their plans. What use is it, being Papa, when he can’t seize control over his life even now?

“Scoot over,” he whispers.

“Won’t you go back to your office?”

“Not today.”

“But–”

He shushes you by grabbing your hips and scooting you himself. When you drop into the pillows your eyes look for his, reproachful, and he sighs. “I know, they say I am distracted. Do I not have reason to be fucking distracted after what happened, hm?”

“You do.”

“So? I deserve my cuddle time.”

His words grant him his first smile of the day and you open your arms for him. But he’s greedy, pushing his pants off and tugging shirt all the way open before he crawls into your embrace, eager to feel you on his skin.

“Does your hand still hurt?” he mumbles against your chest.

He can feel your bandage against his spine when you begin stroking him underneath his shirt. The other hand wanders into his hair and he can’t help but moan when you begin to massage his scalp. It doesn’t matter he’s only been awake for a few hours, he could stay in bed with you all day and never tire of it.

“It feels alright,” you say. “I should go change the bandage later.”

“Hm.”

“Can I ask you something?”

He gives an affirmative noise, not ready to lift his head. Your breasts are too soft against his cheek, your hand too warm where it presses into his temples.

“I was just wondering,” you begin, your voice beginning to rasp, dry with exhaustion. “Sister– and your father. How did they ever get together? I know you weren’t raised by them but how did they keep this from you so long?”

“Ah, I don’t know all the details,” he says, trying to focus on the question instead of your hands. “I think he was an old cheating fart. They met in the Sixties, she never told him about me.”

“And she gave you away as a baby?”

“I don’t know why,” he says. “I don’t know if she will ever tell me.”

“You don’t want to ask?”

“No.” He sucks in air, releases it heavily through his nose. “No, I’d rather not know.”

You're quiet for a moment and he’s almost asleep when your voice returns. “I don’t think they have the right to get involved in your life now, after all of this, no matter the reason.”

His eyes snap open at those words and he lifts his head to see your face. There is a big, glistening tear, gathered in the corner of your eye, but your lips are pressed together with some vehemence, as if you’re angry on his behalf. It’s not a sight he’s ever seen.

“Of course I want them to approve of me… of us,” you add when he doesn’t reply. “But if they don’t then I don’t want it to change anything. Would it change?”

“No,” he says. “That is what I am telling you, ‘strella. I would not allow them to change what we have. This is mine, you are mine.”

The hand in his hair tightens and then you’re pulling him down, kissing him hard. He’s slow to reciprocate but then he unravels and your taste alone is enough to get his blood pumping faster again. He’d have you, right now, but then he remembers how you almost passed out in the hallway and stops himself. You look up at him with your eyes blown wide, lips swollen. How could he ever let them take you away from him?

“Promise me,” you whisper. “Promise you won’t let them get between us.”

“I promise,” he says. “I’ll burn the world if anyone tries.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia is hesitant to leave you alone during the days that follow. His own ghouls aren’t ready to return from their hibernation period after tour so he asks Terzo and Secondo to make sure their presence in the abbey is obvious enough to intimidate anyone who plans to do more harm. He’s working on a pile of papers, signing budget requests, plans for the summer period, the schedule for another tour in fall.

On Friday morning, Terzo appears for their regularly scheduled breakfast. The rain that started earlier in the week has not ceased and so they stay inside of his office, nibbling on croissants as the wind keeps howling outside.

“Any news on the painting?” Copia asks.

“No, we have questioned a lot of Siblings but– no one knows anything, allegedly,” Terzo explains, legs crossed as he reclines. “The ghouls have been acting a little strange, however. I wonder if they are confused why their presence inside is needed now. They prefer the quiet near the woods.”

“Could you ask them?”

“It would take a while,” he explains. “The glamour rituals we use for tours are time- and resource-consuming and they cost the ghouls a lot of energy. To use it only for a suspicion– We’d need more conclusive evidence. I am not sure Secondo or Primo would agree otherwise.”

“I see.”

“I am sorry I cannot help more, Papino.”

“It is not your fault.” Copia takes a sip of sweet coffee, leaning back in his chair. “I thought we were finally getting somewhere but– it is not easy.”

“How is she doing, now?”

“She is sad and tired,” he says. “I don’t think she is sleeping well. She has been waking up a lot, but she thinks I don’t notice. It is all too much. The painting, it had a special meaning for her. It is tied to a lot of memories.”

Terzo nods in understanding, fingers drumming against his mug. “It will get better. Secondo has made some progress on the canvas. But I am aware it will not be the same.”

They sit in silence for a while after that, dissatisfied with the news they exchanged, but it is not unpleasant despite of that. Copia offers another coffee but Terzo leaves for a counselling session and when he’s alone again with only the rain for company he allows his mind to drift.

If the tears weren’t caused by a knife, nor by a Sibling– a ghoul perhaps? Should he ask Sister about it? No, he decides. None of their ghouls are hostile. It would have been evident had it been one of them. That’s what he tells himself, anyway.

Sister does not like Terzo, does not like Copia’s new relationship, but she would never allow them to hurt anyone.

Around lunchtime a knock sounds at his door. To his surprise, it’s you hovering by the threshold when he bids entrance, a brown paper bag in your hand. You still look weak but the smile on your face hides it well enough for him not to prod.

“Sandwich?” you ask. “Or is it a bad time?”

“No, it is the perfect time,” he replies, jumping up to pull you into a hug.

Copia is trying not to be clingy and overprotective in the face of what happened, not to overwhelm, not to waddle after you instead of doing his job, but when you’re in close proximity he can’t help it, and so he pulls you into his lap, ignoring that it makes eating a lot clumsier. The sandwiches came from the kitchens, he can tell because he’s had them many times, and he won’t admit out loud that he quite likes how soggy they are.

“How is your day, amore?” he asks after a moment, trying to bridge the quiet as the patter of the rain becomes the only sound that fills the room.

“Painting’s not going too well,” you say. “I’m– tired. Shaky. I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Take the time you need, baby,” he offers. “A week or two more won’t hurt.”

“I just think Sister might be more open to accepting me if I actually finish my job.”

“She will like you,” he decides, if only to dispel your doubts. “She just has to get used to it, hm?”

“Hopefully.”

You play with the buttons on his black shirt, fingers brushing his chest underneath until he’s shivering. He doesn’t like these setbacks, when you retreat back into yourself, though he understands that the shock of the destroyed painting has brought back the pain. No path is linear but he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to missing your shy smiles, the long nights spent in silly, giggly conversation, the more daring touches you’ve come to enjoy recently.

“You still have the mug,” you exclaim after a moment, reaching for the half-empty coffee on his desk.

“Of course I do, amore. It is my favourite possession.”

You turn it in your hands, tracing the lines of the painted animals. “We should visit the bats again.”

He smiles, squeezing your thigh. “A good idea.”

“And I should make a second one, sometime,” you muse. “So we can use them at home.”

Home. Copia presses his lips to your cheek at that and you warm up to his touch, returning the gesture with a soft kiss of your own. He can feel himself blushing under his paint, even now, as though nothing has changed since the night he kissed you for the first time.

“Would you like to have rats again at some point?” you ask, setting the mug back down with the rat facing him this time.

“I think so. Perhaps when I retire, hm? I do not like leaving them to strangers for tour.”

“I could watch them.”

“Ah, did you forget that I will be taking you with me?”

You smile, a hand on his cheek. “Did you mean that?”

“Sure did.”

“Then maybe Sybil can watch them.”

He kisses you in reply. It is all he can do not to cry, hearing you planning your future with him, knowing he’s not alone anymore, that he has someone to belong to. Adopting rat children, living with you, going on tour with you, no more aching late night calls, falling asleep on the phone, to have you with him, always, and take you to all the museums you pass.

You break the kiss after a moment, breathing tiredly as you let your forehead fall against his. He hugs you closer, noting how cold you feel now that the rainy weather has set in. He rubs at your arms, letting the moment hang between you without words. He’ll help you through this, no matter how long it takes, and perhaps he’ll even let you name the rats when the time comes.

✦ ✧ ✦

Things quiet down, after that.

Copia enjoys the domesticity of it, waking up with you, eating breakfast, sharing a coffee in bed before you both leave for work, the lunch dates when he finds the time, evenings in bed, when you somehow, miraculously, beat him in his old racing games, when you allow him to recite the script of every movie you’re watching, kissing him for every scene he gets correct, and he doesn’t have to worry about hiding his quirks anymore.

There was a time where he wondered if a relationship like this would overstimulate him, if he’d get overwhelmed by too much intimacy, but it hasn’t happened and he finds that sharing his space is more peaceful than he’d imagined. Now he gets to watch you read or scribble in a sketchbook when he plays his records, when he sorts through his VHS collection, looking up to see you, wrapped in his sweater. He’s always been alone, and lonely for most of it, feeling disconnected from his peers, no family in the actual sense of it, no people to come home to, and he’d accepted it, begrudgingly. He’s always been good at keeping busy with his interests but it’s only now that this persistent ache in his chest has ceased. Instead, he feels only warmth and acceptance, no absence but presence, the intimacy of knowing another, of being known.

Despite that you’re still hesitant, he can sense it, the slow pace of healing from old wounds that have festered with no attention for too long. It’s the nights he wakes up with you shaking in his arms, flinching away for a moment before you accept his comfort. It’s the stressed mumbling that falls from your lips, fragments of whatever dreams plague you, insecurities that worm their way out only when you’re unconscious. He can hear the words, feels the tears in his shirt, sees how tired you look in the mornings after the heavier nights.

It’s rare that you bring it up on your own. The VHS you’d been watching on his tube television has ended, the credits rolling over slow music. Copia knows you don’t always pay attention to his movies, overcome with your exhaustion he usually finds you asleep an hour in. Tonight, you’re more playful and nibbling on his neck to keep him in bed with you instead of rising to rewind the tape. It’s not much of a gamble, he’s never been good at winding himself out of your arms. And tonight he got a little tipsy from the bottle of wine he opened for dinner, and he’s giggly, squirming underneath your touch, too wound up to care. A finger fumbles with his waistband and the nibbling turns into open-mouthed kissing.

“Amore,” he breathes, not bothering to hide the whimper that escapes him when you palm his cock through his pants.

No reply. You bite, this time, and then you’re rolling on top of him with some effort. He holds you steady by the hips, bare except for your underwear and an old shirt, the soft skin dimpling when he grabs you tighter. Teeth scrape his skin again, tongue soothing after. When you roll your hips he whimpers again, a gloved hand wrapping around your hair to tug helplessly. It spurs you on, the way he’s reacting, he knows it does, sensitive as he is to every brush of lips, every subtle stroke of a finger.

“I want you,” you whisper and it’s the first time this week that he can sense the energy behind this statement.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asks, just to be sure. You nod into the crook of his neck, rolling your hips again to confirm, soft moans falling from your lips. He thinks he might black out, the wine and unexpected pleasure, your soft body, lewd sounds replacing the static crackle of the television.

His hands roam your form and he fiddles to take off his gloves, pushing your shirt up until he can finally feel your bare skin. You’re cold, goosebumps at his fingertips, but before he can ask you’ve pressed your mouth to his. The kiss is hungry, damned, teeth and tongue, your need trickling from between your lips. But you slow down after a moment, breathing heavier into a sensual pace. Copia lifts you just enough to free his cock from the now drenched fabric that’s covering him. It comes to rest against your thigh but you sit up, hands propped on his chest. A shaky hand aligns him and then you’re grinding for real, the wet patch at your crotch offering no resistance until he leaks precum and throbs painfully against you.

“’strella,” he groans, strained, aching, ready to beg if he must. But you push your panties aside already and then you sink down on him, slowly stretching yourself open. He watches, though the room is much darker now, how you fuck yourself on him with little assistance. His hands find back to your hips but he lets you set the pace, content to be used tonight, your fingers fisting his shirt for support. He can tell you need to sate yourself, whatever pain that has been eating at you has faded enough to leave a gaping hole that he’s only too willing to replenish.

“Fuck,” you gasp after a moment, your movement slowing, a pained whimper following. You clench around him, but you’re not quite there, and he notices the quake in your thighs, your shivering stronger, the air you suck into your lungs almost violently.

“Let me,” he offers and you nod.

The bed creaks dangerously when he grabs your hips, heels pressed into the mattress and holding you steady enough to fuck up into you. His lower back is protesting immediately but he keeps going, feeling his balls tighten the more you squeeze him and you come with a choked sob, clawing at his chest, a visible full-body shiver leaving you boneless on top of him. He comes hard, feels his seed trickling out of you despite the continued pulses that go through him.

It takes him a while to recover. He busies himself by stroking through your hair, whispering sweet words, though not always intelligibly. But when he finally tries to rouse you and check in, he notices that you’re fast asleep. At first he’s careful when he rolls you off of him, wincing when his softening dick slips out of you. Even then you don’t wake and when he leaves to fetch a damp cloth to clean you you don’t even flinch.

Copia takes his time, then, changes into pyjamas, rewinds the tape, opens the window to breathe in some of the mild night air, petrichor and wood, some last drops of rain hitting his face. When he closes it again you’re still asleep and he crawls into bed with you, cautiously lifting your head to his chest. You exhale heavily and he’s sure he’s dozed off as well for when he wakes it’s to a pitch dark room. You sit beside him, every shiver audible in the way you breathe, and he’s immediately seized by worry.

“Amore?” he asks.

“I’m here. It’s okay.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“You fell asleep right away.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

He reaches for your hand, pulling you back into his arms. You deflate. He can sense the tension leaving your body, your breathing more even now, a hand tracing circles on his left pec. For a while that’s how you stay. He can’t see his alarm clock without turning but he assumes it must be closer to two am. Perhaps you can go back to sleep, he’s certainly ready for it, aching all through his lower back. But then, after a few minutes, your voice sounds again, softly, a hesitant whisper.

“Do you think that wherever he is now, it’s peaceful?” you ask.

Copia tenses at the question, barely noticeable. You stay pressed to his side, hiding your face against his neck, and your hand on his chest has stopped moving. “Amore–”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”

“It’s just… I can’t really say. We don’t know what it is like.”

“I thought… maybe with the ghouls, you’d know.”

He takes your hand in his, playing with your fingers absent-mindedly. “They cannot really communicate this with us. There are no words for it or– concepts. We don’t know where it is exactly they come from, whether it is the same place we all go to.”

“I understand.”

He can sense your disappointment in the way you exhale against his throat. “But– well, if you ask for my personal opinion…” Copia pauses, pulls away a little until you look up at him. In the dark, he can only vaguely make out your expression. “Why would He not welcome us? Why would He not make sure that we find peace? It is His domain.”

“It’s just– in my dream…” You pause, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Dreams are dreams.”

“What happened in your dream?”

You let yourself fall onto your back beside him, a tight squeeze on his tiny bed. “I saw it again, the fire. But it was different. I think I saw his soul floating above the house and I felt the creature reaching for it with its clawed hands. I was crying, thinking that it would get him, that he’d be denied the journey to whatever place he was trying to reach. But that’s–” Your voice trembles. “It’s not how it really happened.”

“No,” Copia agrees, apprehensive. “Amore, I am sure he found his peace.”

“I hope so,” you whisper.

When he reaches for your cheek his finger comes away wet. Copia turns you, pulling your back into his chest. With his lips against your neck he wraps you up tightly, squeezing the pain out. You hold onto his arms, eventually relaxing in his embrace.

“Do you think you can fall asleep again?” he whispers, though he can already feel you drifting off again.

You give a slow nod, lacing your fingers through his where they rest against your chest. It only takes a few minutes before your breathing evens out and he allows himself to go there with you.

✦ ✧ ✦

Sybil’s laughter wakes you. You’ve fallen asleep on the couch and you can hear her and Erin giggling in her bedroom now. It’s the first time you’ve been back here since the incident with the painting a week ago but your plan to grab some clean clothes has been disrupted by your exhaustion and the gloomy weather.

The past few weeks have drained you. The safety of Copia’s love has allowed your pain to resurface with a force that is still hard to handle, your body demanding it to be felt at last, years of it, and his compassion is not easy to accept when guilt and regret suddenly push to the front of our consciousness. Every day feels like it demands an effort you’re not equipped for. Your body is achingly tired, nights not as restful, dreams and nightmares conjured by the strain of reprocessing your past.

You have to remind yourself that you have spent the past two months working on a large scale painting, on top of it all, that you’ve been working relentlessly in your creation of this portrait. The pain in your wrist is a persistent reminder of it and yet it’s easy to ignore how far you’ve come, artistically.

So no, you’re not surprised of the fatigue and yet– you wish you could finally rest and find the peace you’ve been longing for. That the relief of unburdening yourself would finally set in.

With a bag of clean clothes you make your way to the studio at last. It’s not raining, for once, but the lingering grey clouds swallow all sunlight and you have to turn on the big yellow-ish overhead lights. None of this is ideal but you’ve learned to work with what you have and if you could finally finish the portrait–

Would Sister accept you? You’re not certain of it. But it would be one less burden to carry.

You’re at the point where it’s hard to tell when to stop. A few more details remain, a few more rounds of glazing specific areas to get the colours just right. Copia’s face is perfect. If you step away far enough the effect is just as you’d imagine – or, elevated, even. He welcomes you with open arms, his gaze captivating, and he is more imposing than you’d ever imagined you could realise with your paints.

For a moment the image of Terzo’s destroyed portrait flickers up in your mind. It’s still painful, the knowledge that your best work to date is gone, its shreds taped in a sterile basement. That the colours and shapes have been ripped apart by whoever let their own pain out on it. Does someone truly harbour such violent hatred for your relationship that they’d destroy something so valuable? Or was it an accident?

You paint through all these thoughts, adding to the obscured angles of the image, your hands working with a passion that you’ve struggled to feel lately, moving on their own accord, so sure of every single stroke. You’re so sure that when you blink yourself back to the present you startle. The brush clatters to the floor, splattering red paint all over it.

In the corner of the painting two blood-red eyes stare back at you.

They’re familiar, glowing just so, the rest of the creature shrouded in the shadows of the dark backdrop. With hectic breaths you grab a spatula to take the colours off as fast as you an, then cover the spot with the previous grey and brown tones you’d been using, blending it all together with the precision of a surgeon. Still, its stare lingers behind your eyes, the forgotten fear of it, and you have to forcefully remind yourself that it’s just your mind playing tricks on you.

Perhaps it was wrong to bring it all up, perhaps you should have let the creature die in your memories, never to be spoken of, its eyes vanishing forever.

But no. Then you wouldn’t be as close to Copia as you are now. You wouldn’t feel safe and loved for the first time in your life. Deep inside you know that this relationship would never have worked out had you not confronted your past, stripped bare, scars unveiled. But it’s time to leave the past behind now, to focus on the future you can see waiting behind the horizon.

Still shaking, you set your brush down, clean your supplies as well as the stains on the floor, then reach for you phone to ask Copia when he’ll be finished with work. You can forget what happened here today, move on, if you try hard enough.

You don’t have to tell anyone just how hard it is.

Chapter Text

“Your mind will believe comforting lies while also knowing the painful truths that make those lies necessary. And your mind will punish you for believing both.”

― Patrick Ness, A Monster Calls

✦ ✧ ✦

The washing machine gives a steady rumble, spinning in a speed you can’t follow with your eyes without feeling sick. It’s a calming ambience and you can hear the wind outside, drumming against the narrow basement windows as if to join in on the music. Without many clean clothes left, you’ve been forced to finally conquer the mountain of paint-stained shirts and dirty panties in your room.

If only so Copia can ruin them again.

It’s early, just before breakfast, and the washhouse is mostly abandoned. You’ve been trying to paint for days now but you feel too unsteady, too tired. Instead you’ve been doing piles of laundry, cleaned your room, helped Sybil try out new recipes and spent the nights in Copia’s bed, watching movies until you fell asleep early, exhausted even from that.

At least that way you feel useful.

You stare at your trembling hands, feel the weakness in your body as you sink deeper into your chair. The gloomy weather has not been helping, the sky drawn shut by thick clouds that only part for minutes at a time to give a vague semblance of summer. It’s not unusual this far north and yet it dampens your mood, even though you’d always enjoyed the cooler seasons. This year, you’ve gathered enough darkness inside of yourself to make do. A bit of sun would mean the chance to sit by your open window, to let your mind drift to brighter places, but now all you can see are the shadows of your past.

The machine gives a happy jingle to indicate the end of the cycle. You stand, swaying for a moment as the dizziness returns, letting it wash over you. Once you’ve gathered your laundry in the basket you take it upstairs, back to your quarters where Sybil has kindly left you the empty laundry rack, joking about how she can’t leave Michelangelo walking around naked. When you asked her if she’d been running out of painters already she just laughed and hugged you and told you that she’d be perusing more art books to compensate.

Now, the flat is empty as she’s working in the kitchens and you hang up damp clothes, filling the air with the scent of laundry detergent. Once you move to the socks, it gets trickier. Your hand is still shaking and you’re dropping them half the time, not quite able to control your movements. The lack of sleep has taken its toll, the nights spent obsessing over every regret, every memory. But is it the only reason? You’ve worked sleep-deprived before, you’ve done all-nighters, worn yourself out over paintings, but it has never been this bad. It’s impossible to keep going right now, not without help, and you’re not sure if you want to ask for it.

Could it be?

No. The creature has no power over you, it never had beyond the stress it brought to your home in the past. Mr Kraan’s symptoms had always come from within, not from the outside, and he’d been painting even during that time. Whatever demon had haunted him is gone and, ever since that night, a figment of your memory. Your mind is playing tricks on you, you know it is, but you have no idea how to get it to stop.

Eventually, you hang up the last sock, shaking your hands out until your joints feel less stiff.

You’re sure it is nothing.

✦ ✧ ✦

Secondo’s workshop feels like a different universe. You take the steps silently, entering a part of the abbey you have never been to before. The basements have different purposes, residential laundry areas, the library archives, storage, pantries, and who knows what other kinds of rooms that you are not even allowed to enter. What they have in common is that they look like actual basements. This one? It almost looks like a laboratory.

You enter through a double door system into rooms that are perfectly controlled in both temperature and humidity. Secondo looks up from a large, orderly desk when he notices you, taking off a pair of reading glasses. His face is bare today, no robes but a casual black ensemble consisting of a polo shirt and slacks.

“Ah, ciao, sorella,” he says. “It is good to see you. I want to show you the progress.”

You barely get to mumble a hello before he’s swishing past you into a room that must be the main workshop. You can spot a plethora of utensils and supplies, shelves and carts filled with tools, not just for restoring paintings but all kinds of other valuables – books, old jewellery, reliquaries, even sculptures. In the centre of the room, on a large table, barely big enough to fit, rests your portrait of Terzo.

“I have done my very best,” the Papa says, stepping back to let you inspect it.

For a moment, you give into your surprise. The portrait looks almost whole again. He has expertly glued the canvas together, and though you can’t see the back of it, it seems like he has done a precise job within the scope of his possibilities.

“I had to add more support to the back,” he says. “We might have to reframe it, when the time comes, to make sure it keeps the tension.”

You nod, tracing one of the visible lines where its destroyer sliced through. The paint is ruined, that much is obvious. He had to cut out multiple small parts that were unsalvageable and the cracks don’t perfectly align, crookedly torn as the pieces were. It will be a lot of work and you can’t say you’ve ever done anything like this before.

“I’ll have to repaint a lot of it,” you state, unable to hide your nerves.

“I want to apologise, sorella. I did the best I could but– of course it will not look like it did before.”

You nod, give a sad smile. “I’m just glad it’s not completely gone. It won’t be quite the same, no, but– well, it holds a lot of memories that we now won’t have to throw away at least.”

Secondo is silent, lets you inspect each little part that needs fixing. You’ll have a new project, once you’re done with Copia’s likeness, that much is certain, and at the very least you want to try your best for Terzo, to give back for all that he’s done for you. Even now you wonder at how marvellous his likeness is, how you ever manage to create such a well-painted portrait, a skill in technique that rivalled even that of Mr Kraan with his decades of experience. The thought nags at you that you owe it to the demon or Lucifer Himself. You know it is not likely, Copia and Secondo have reassured you time and time again that your feeble attempts at magic could not have produced actual infernal interference in your art, and yet each brushstroke feels almost foreign to you as you behold it now. It is as if the claw marks belong, to show how very tainted you were at the time, or still are, perhaps.

“Could a ghoul have done it?” you ask, tracing the odd shapes of the rips.

Secondo sighs. “It is not impossible. It certainly seems… non-human. But perhaps that is what the attacker wants us to believe. It would be easy to blame it on the ghouls.”

It makes sense, you suppose. The presence of the ghouls while generally accepted is uneasy to some Siblings, it has certainly been to you, the memories their inhuman looks conjure better avoided. Not to mention that their mere existence lent credibility to whatever curse befell you as a child, the proof of existence for whatever lies beyond the veil. They have been so subtle, almost like guardians of the abbey, unable to communicate in words unless glamoured, that it is easy to forget just how dangerous they are when commanded by the wrong person.

A heavy knock rips you from your inspection. Secondo glances at the door but it’s already opening and your stomach drops when you see Sister’s neat appearance step in through the second door. She is in her usual strict attire, blond greying hair tied up and lips perpetually pursed. It seems her dissatisfaction with the state of they abbey can’t ever be quenched.

“Sister,” Secondo says without bothering to hide his distaste at her showing up unannounced.

“I am trying to see your progress, Papa,” she says. “C told me our painter is here today and I figured I would make sure everything is going well. We don’t want the wall to be empty for too long.”

“Certainly,” Secondo rasps. “As you can see, it is going well. Would that be enough now?”

She ignores his attempt to shoo her off as if she didn’t even hear him. “Will it be completely fixed, then?”

“Yes, it will,” Secondo snaps. “Come ho detto.”

“Any more precise ideas about what caused the damage?”

“No. But it wasn’t a regular knife.”

You stand unmoving, unable to shake the weird feeling about her being here, interrogating him on the painting at the exact moment you’re present. Unbidden your thoughts flicker back to her inquiring about you in the library, Copia hesitant to tell her more, the way she suspected that something is wrong with you. Could it be that she is spying on you? Trying to get more information that Copia hasn’t provided? If he told her that you’re here who is to say that he didn’t tell her something else?

“So, how is the Papal portrait coming along?” Sister asks then, directed at you. Her attention feels like an ice cold touch, prickling at the back of your neck. “I have been too busy to pay you another visit but C tells me it is in its final stages, at last.”

C tells me. You swallow. “It’s almost done, just some last details. With some more drying time I’ll be able to glaze it soon.”

“Perfect,” she says, raising her chin with an air of dominance. “Let me know when we can unveil it to the public. Finally some good news. The Siblings have been nervous about the presumed attack and interrogations, we must calm them down.”

You nod, purposely concealing your shaking hands behind your back. She doesn’t have to know you’ve been struggling for days, weeks now, to finally finish the last details, that you can barely hold a brush between your fingers. It doesn’t help that your burnt hand is still not properly healed.

“Well,” she eyes you one more time, assessing, then her lips curve into a smile that seems almost genuine. “Good, I am satisfied. For now.”

Secondo ignores when she gives a curt nod and walks back out. You’re left with a chest so heavy that you fear you might pass out, forcing yourself to draw oxygen back into your lungs.

“Sorella,” Secondo says outside of your daze. “You are alright?”

You meet his concerned gaze, nod, balling your trembling hand into a steely fist to stop the disgusting sensation in your fingers. He sees it, brow furrowed, but fortunately does not comment.

“I will take it upstairs once my easel is freed up, Papa.”

“Of course,” he says, still focused on your hand. “A glass of water, perhaps?”

“No, no. I need to get back to work,” you mutter. “But– Thank you… for doing this. I didn’t think it was possible.”

He opens his mouth to speak, the concerned fold in his brow deepening, but then seems to decide against it. Eventually he nods, unclenching his face. “No need to thank me, sorella. You will promise to look after yourself, yes?”

“I will,” you promise, then quickly turn around before he can notice you swaying with dizziness.

The damp air of the basement outside the workshop hits you like a solid wall. It takes you a few minutes before you can finally brave the stairs, still wondering why Sister was truly down here. Is she trying to make peace or trying to control you? You have no way to find out.

✦ ✧ ✦

You paint in tiny bursts over the next few days. Minor details on Copia’s robes are what stall you, the light catching in the jewels not quite right yet but they are so minuscule that you can only place the highlights when your hands allow you to. Your progress is shallow and the week passes, slow and rubbery, time stretched out too far, an odd surreality to every passing day.

Sleep takes you fast every night, then evades you as you wake up in the middle of it, feeling hollowed out by bad dreams and your racing heart. You have a mind to see the infirmary, have your blood pressure checked, but with your hand mostly healed you don’t want to draw any more attention to your state. Sister’s spying is in the back of your head constantly and you’re not sure you can trust the Sibling nurses not to tell her about your health.

You need time, that’s what you tell yourself, a long rest once the project is done. Your body has been carrying the weight of your grief for weeks now, the pressure of finishing the portrait, the added stress of the destroyed painting. Rest, time with Copia, with Sybil–

A vibration in your pocket.

I will stop by your quarters tonight, amore. Do you have any wishes for dinner?

The text pops up as you’re watching mindless television with Sybil. You want to tell him that he should not come here, that it’s not helping the rumours when he’s seen in the dormitories, but the truth is that you’re glad about not having to make the trip. You text him back that you’re not very hungry and he should choose whatever he’s in the mood for, then close your eyes against the intrusion of light.

“You’re falling asleep on me at five pm,” Sybil says. “It’s time you finish that painting so you can rest.”

“All I do is rest,” you comment.

“No, not really. Doesn’t matter if you’re lying down while you’re stressing yourself out about it or standing behind that easel. You need a real break.”

“You’ve been working a lot as well.”

“Well, vying for a promotion takes effort and besides, I’m not the one who looks like she’s sick with consumption.”

You scowl at her. “Excuse me?”

“Have you seen yourself, Cézanne? I wonder if there’s any blood left in you and those rings under your eyes aren’t very subtle. Now, I don’t want to pry but if it’s Papa keeping you up all night I might have to have a word with him.”

“He’ll be here soon so you can discuss that with him directly but Lord Below, please let me leave the room before you bring it up.”

Sybil snickers. “At least he’ll appreciate my movie collection. What are you feeling tonight? Horror? Maybe a mafia movie?”

“I’d rather have something mellow, my mind is filled with enough horrors.”

She hums. “Perhaps some old sci-fi, then–”

“Not Star Wars again. That does not count as mellow.”

“Some people argue it’s a romcom,” she mumbles, then jumps up from the couch and inspects her collection of tapes while whatever reality show she put on is drowning out the sounds of her rearranging. You’re not sure when you’re falling asleep but when your eyes open next you find Copia’s hands in your hair and he’s sitting on the floor next to the couch, gently rousing you.

“Amore,” he whispers. “I would not wake you but I brought pasta and it is getting late.”

You groan, closing your eyes again to focus on the gentle press of his fingertips on your scalp. Wet lips find your forehead as he leans in, then your eyes, then your nose. A giggle escapes you when his hair tickles your brow and he laughs contently, finally pressing a kiss to your lips.

Together, you eat over some 80s alien movie called Communion that you’re not really paying attention to but that Copia has absurd amounts of factoids to share about. He and Sybil have found into their usual discussions of old movies and you’re content to simply listen to the gentle music of their voices.

At some point, you’re being fed the odd piece of microwave popcorn but then you pass out against Copia’s shoulder, his arm half-slung around you. Your limbs feel like lead. It’s gotten late by the time you’re awake enough to notice how he’s trying to steer you into your bedroom and you find yourself curled up without bothering to change or shower.

Copia must have, though, because when he’s pressing his mouth to your sleepy face you notice that it’s bare and his lips taste of your peppermint toothpaste. Your hands meet his warm arms and his skin feels so heavenly against yours that you melt into his touch.

“My baby,” he whispers, kissing you again, pulling you tightly against him. His hands roam your back and ass, heavenly relief for your drained muscles. “Are you too tired for me?”

“No,” you say and he’s dragging you against him, his cock hard where it meets your thigh. The tiny bed squeaks when he swings your leg over his hips. With two fingers he pulls your panties aside, just enough to push his cock through the gap where the fabric traps it against your heat.

“Fuck,” he mouths and you whimper desperately, stars flickering behind your eyes.

You roll your hips, grasping at his shoulder for support. His cock easily slides back and forth between the panties and your wet cunt, his throat releasing a plethora of meek whiny sounds that he smothers against your lips to keep quiet. You never part, chests pressed together, his lips on yours, kissing, rubbing, gasping, hardly even moving. He takes over when you falter, mirroring your slow pace at first before he ruts more desperately and the bed creaks in earnest.

It’s comfortable, not having to move, not having to think, to feel him desperate and lust-drunk, using you to find whatever pleasure he wants, his hands on your ass to move you with him. It makes you feel good, wanted, like you’re not quite a failure, like you have a purpose. Even tired as you are the way he slides so perfectly against your clit has you coming before he’s ever pushed inside. It’s a sensation that breaks through you like sunlight through storm clouds, the overwhelming love and pleasure he inspires even when you’re at your worst.

You mumble that you love him, not sure if he can hear.

Copia follows within moments, coming quietly in the mess between your legs, freshly washed panties ruined, holding you as you both tremble in the aftershocks. It’s dark in the room, you can feel his hot breaths against your face and the rise and fall of his chest, hear the affections he mumbles, the I love yous, the Italian pet names, the overstimulated whimpers. Any remaining energy you had is now spent, your body liquid and melting apart.

You fall asleep long before he pulls away.

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia wakes to a noise. One singular sound, a bang, a sort of collision, like a chair too hastily pushed to the table. His brain is not catching up fast enough. It takes him a few seconds before he notices that you’re gone and the door to your room is wide open.

As he gets up, his head spinning with the sudden rush of adrenaline, he steps into the now shrivelled washcloth he used to clean you up with last night, cursing under his breath that he was too lazy to wash it out when he found you fast asleep. But he kicks it aside, facing the dark of your apartment in just his underwear, stumbling until the tiny light in the kitchenette reveals you to him.

“Amore?” he asks but you don’t reply, moving ahead to the door of the apartment. “Where are you going?”

Copia catches up and when he gently turns you around he notices that your eyes are wide open.

“‘strella?” he whispers. “Are you alright?”

You don’t react and it’s only when he sees the emptiness in your gaze that he realises you are sleepwalking. He has never seen anyone do it before, not outside of movies, but he remembers that he shouldn’t startle or wake you if it’s not necessary. For a moment his heart jumps precariously and he thinks he might pass out.

“It is okay,” he whispers more to himself. “I will guide you back to bed, yes?”

He reaches for your elbow, gently moving you in the direction of your bedroom. His eyes have adjusted to the low light by now and yet he’s glad your quarters are so small that it only takes him a few steps to lead you back to safety. He pulls back the sheets until he can tuck you in, then presses a kiss to your temple. The change in position is what finally seems to rouse you. Your gaze focuses on him and then you groan. “Copia?”

“Yes, I am here, amore. Everything is well.”

“What happened?”

“You were eh– You were walking.”

“Sleepwalking?”

“Yes.”

You blink up at him, confused, but your eyes close again right after as if your lids are too heavy.

“Do you need anything? Some water?” he asks.

You nod, your eyes stay closed, and he can tell you’re only half-there with him. He is hesitant to leave the room again but when you stay still he decides it is safe.

In the kitchen, he takes a deep breath. Startling out of sleep has left his heart racing with the implication of danger and it won’t calm down even now. He moves to fill a glass but it’s only half full when he hears steps and Sybil appears in the doorway of her own bedroom.

“Everything okay?” she asks, her voice drunk with sleep. “I heard noises.”

“Oh, yes,” he says and barely catches himself before the glass spills over. “Or, ugh. I am not so sure.”

“She’s been having issues, huh? With sleeping?”

He nods, glancing into the room where you’ve already fallen back asleep. He puts the glass onto the nightstand, then leaves you be. After softly closing the door he sits down on the sofa instead. “I am worried, to be honest.”

“Me too,” Sybil says, sinking into the cushions beside him. “She seems– shaky and exhausted and she’s falling asleep whenever we hang out. Like she’s just bone-tired. I’ve never seen her so physically weak.”

“She has been dealing with a lot,” he finds himself saying. “And she has been working long.”

“Still,” Sybil says. “I feel like we need to urge her to take a break. I know she’s almost done with the painting but– it seems to go fast, whatever exhaustion has caught up with her.”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, you are right.”

Copia has been having these thoughts, that Sister pushed you too far, that you pushed yourself too far. How long can a person go on like this? The portrait, all the resurfaced grief, and now the ruptured painting. Your health has dwindled, he’s feeling it, how you’re getting thinner, the lack of appetite, how your gaze slips away with exhaustion, your touch not quite as firm, the way you’re falling asleep even during the most intimate moments and how he finds you awake halfway through the night, how you’re shaking when you’re holding a mug, the cracks in your nails.

“I will talk to her,” he says, eventually, but the truth is that he is terrified of it, of admitting to himself that something is wrong, that his love and support did not magically fix every problem. He’s been so distracted with his work, blinded by your reassurances, that he’s been waiting far too long.

Sybil gives him a reassuring smile and he feels less alone in his concern now. If your friend is seeing it as well it means that he is not being overprotective or overbearing, no. He has to act, to urge you to seek out more help, to have your health checked. It has nothing to do with wanting to fix you and yet, after all you went through, after all you’ve told him, it still feels like a small act of betrayal.

✦ ✧ ✦

It’s pitch dark when you wake up and your body feels alert, like you’re being watched. You gaze at the ceiling, for a moment transfixed, and when you blink the ceiling blinks back over dark red eyes.

“Fuck,” you mumble.

“‘strella?”

You turn sideways rapidly, finding Copia’s white eye reflecting the bare hints of moonlight from where he’s staring at you. “You’re awake?”

“Yes.” He swallows audibly, exhales a huff through his nose. “Amore, you scared me earlier.”

Quiet. You’re not sure what to say, if you’ve even processed the incident yet. You’ve never sleepwalked before and you have no idea why you’d suddenly start. Are you really this stressed?

“I think perhaps,” he goes on to whisper, sensing the same. “Perhaps it would be good if you would see someone? Even just a doctor, for some help with sleeping, hm?”

His words hit you in the chest and tears well up immediately. You hate that he’s right, you hate that everyone is noticing, you hate that you can’t ignore the issue away.

“I suppose,” you say and turn away from him, hoping he’ll drop the subject. “Good night.”

“‘strella,” he says. “Amore–”

“I know you’re right,” you reply, spinning back around with some fury. “It’s just… even if I saw a doctor or a therapist or whatever, I can’t tell them anything.”

“You don’t have to tell them everything, amore. Just how you are feeling.”

“But they’ll ask.”

He sighs, considering you for a moment. As your eyes get accustomed to the low light you see more of him, the way his whole face is contorted with worry. “Would it be so bad? If people knew? You do not have to talk about the demon but you can talk about the rest, hm? You told me and your friend.”

You furrow your brow. “I told you I don’t want that. I don’t want anyone else to know.”

“I am not saying this to pressure you. I just don’t think you have to be ashamed of it. Most people know what it is like to grieve and be hurt. Especially doctors will understand.”

“No.” You shake your head, your voice more clipped than you would like. “I don’t want to talk about it more than I already did. Why is it not enough? Why can’t it ever be enough?”

“Because you are hurting,” he whispers. “And I worry about you.”

The quiet sets in again, the words lingering in your ears. Has it come this far? That he can’t sleep because you’re so fragile in his eyes? He doesn’t mean it like that, you know he doesn’t, but the thought fills you with dread. Even so, your pain is still stuck in your throat and you can’t give in now.

“I’ll always be hurting,” you say eventually. “I’m sorry if you haven’t noticed that yet but I told you I don’t need fixing, this is just who I am. Perhaps that’s not what you were hoping for.”

He flinches back at those words, a deep crease between his eyes. “You know that is not what I mean.” Then, more quietly, he adds, “I love you, ‘strella. You know I have loved you since the first time I stumbled into your room. Nothing has changed.”

Your fragile composure shatters at that and you feel a swell of tears as the pain rises in your throat. It is easy, to assume that no one cares, that you are a burden no one wants to carry, but he does and he always has, in a way, not just since he stumbled into your room but ever since he found you freezing in front of his door. He’s made his feelings abundantly clear, and you’re not sure why even now it is so such a hard truth to accept.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay,” he replies but his words come out muffled because you’ve already draped yourself over him, squeezing him to you tightly.

“I love you,” you say. “I love you, Copia.”

“Then think about it? For me?”

You nod hard against his neck. “I will. I will.”

“I love you too.”

He kisses you anywhere he can reach, his hands soothing over and under your shirt. You cling to him, your lifeline once again. He would be a comfort – if you weren’t still feeling the eyes on the ceiling staring down at you.

✦ ✧ ✦

You consider his words over the next few days, teetering on the edge of a decision. You walk halfway to the infirmary twice, then turn back around at the last second. The building reminds you of that night, memories you’d rather not revisit and besides, what will they do? Give you sleeping pills? Ask you to talk to a therapist in town? Tell you to avoid stress?

The studio is too daunting and you have not been there much over the past weeks. Instead, you’re hiding away in Copia’s quarters most of the time. It’s quiet and comfortable when you’re alone, his scent, his belongings, they make you feel a little more at ease, a little more protected. Sometimes you sleep through the day, sometimes you watch his movies, play some of his games, read the books on bats and art he still keeps on his nightstand even though you’re sure they’re overdue at the library. It feeds you with guilt, the portrait of him waiting for completion, Terzo’s painting half-broken in the basement. Everyone is expecting you to be done soon and you’re almost scared to wander the halls in fear of running into Sister.

Is she spying on you even now? Does she know you’re not working as you should?

The rain has eased but the temperatures haven’t climbed yet. Instead, the sun and clouds play hide and seek. It’s a particularly moody day when Copia comes back from work with two boxes of pizza and you share slices over a Lord of the Rings rewatch, sitting on the floor in front of the bed half draped over the other. He’s not urged you to work, hasn’t prodded again about your health, and you’re glad for the room he’s giving you.

And you are taking it easier, resting your burning wrist which already feels better, no tendinitis this time, not like back then. The burn on your other hand is improved as well, even though the skin is still delicate. You’re resting, as best as you can, doing what you can to feel better, and it will help with more time. No need to disclose any more information to anyone else. Just patience.

“If you were there, amore, what would you be?” Copia asks just as the Fellowship arrives in Rivendell. “A beautiful elf who paints the forest?”

“Perhaps,” you say, trying to focus back on the present. “Or a hobbit, living in a cozy hole with you with lots of food and cuddles, just like right now.”

He chuckles. “I would like that. No one would be bothering us.”

You smile at him, thinking that you’d block out the rest of the world if you could to just be with him. No Sister, no Nihil who upsets him, no one to make demands, no tours, no paintings, only you and him and that brilliant spark between you.

He leans in to kiss you just as your phone begins to vibrate on the nightstand. You ignore it, for now, kissing him deeper, trying to get lost in the moment if only for the next hour, but right as the call ends another begins. Pulling away, dazed, you move to grab your phone. Sybil’s name fills the display and you swipe to answer.

“Hey, Syb.” You slide back down to the floor. The only sound at the other end of the line is her hectic breathing. “Sybil?”

“Can you come to the dorms? Like, right fucking now?”

“What happened?”

“I don’t– I don’t know I think someone broke into our room.”

She sounds crazy, out of breath, her voice higher-pitched than normal, and her panic transfers to your already tense body. “I’ll be right there.”

“What is happening?” Copia asks and you notice that the call ended.

“Sybil says someone broke into our dorm. We have to go there right now.”

Copia gathers your arm and pulls you out of his quarters right away, asking no more questions. Your heart is racing. Why did you not ask her if she’s alright? Should you call again? But you’re already running along the hallway, then the courtyard and then up the stairs to your room. It takes less than five minutes, maybe three.

The door to your quarters stands ajar but it seems intact from what you can tell as you pass through. You find Sybil in the middle of the living room, shaking violently, her face teary and she’s reaching to hug you, desperately clinging to your arms.

“I– Someone–”

“Is anyone in here still? Are you hurt?”

“No, I saw no one. But when I came in your– your room–”

You see it, then, over her shoulder, the door to your bedroom falling from its hinges, the chaos on the floor. Copia takes her from you as you move to inspect it. The furniture is mostly alright, nothing has been destroyed but the one shelf that kept your sketchbooks. They are in pieces on the floor, shredded, almost beyond recognisability, paper strewn all around the room like confetti. It looks like someone tore through them in a fit of rage, animalistic, not human.

You’re too numb to comprehend what you’re seeing, at first. The marks on the few not completely torn pages look like claws once again, similar patterns as the tears in the painting. It registers, then. Someone has destroyed all of your sketchbooks, not just ripped out single pages but broken through every single one of them until not even the bindings remain intact. Someone–

No, not someone. A ghoul.

And you have an idea who ordered them.

You think back to your exchange in the workshop, to her dismissal, to her conversation with Copia in the library. Anger flares up inside of you, hot and magnetic.

You whirl around to Copia. “Did you tell her?”

His arm is wrapped around Sybil who looks like a startled animal at your raised voice. “What?”

“Sister. Did you tell her what happened to me?”

“Amore?”

“I heard you in the library,” you admit, tears gathering in your eyes. “When she tried to question you about me. Did you tell her?”

He looks caught at that, guilty, but then panic flares up in his eyes. “Amore, I did not tell her anything.”

“Maybe not that time.”

“I never told her anything about you, I promise,” he stresses.

“No? How did she know when I was seeing Secondo? How did she know the progress of the painting? You are talking to her about me. She told me.”

Sybil moves to reach for your arm, her tears starting anew. “You think Sister did this?”

“No, but one of the ghouls did and she must have ordered them. Who else has control over them? None of the Papas has a reason to do this.”

Copia shakes his head. “No, no, amore, she would not do this. Why would she damage the painting and have someone break into your room?”

“Because she hates me! She hates Terzo!” you say. “It’s evident in what she did to him when she had him dragged off stage and the vile looks she shoots his way even now. What if she had a ghoul destroy the painting to blame it on our relationship? To hurt Terzo as well? What if she destroyed my room because she knows there is evidence of what happened to me? Or to blame it on someone else? To make me too afraid to be with you?”

“But– she wouldn’t hurt the clergy, ‘strella.”

“She doesn’t like us being together,” you say. “Her ghouls destroyed the painting, they destroyed my room. She wants to get rid of me and Terzo as well, isolate you so you’re not distracted anymore.  She doesn’t like his influence and she hates that I’m taking you away from her control.”

He tries to grasp your words but it’s like you’re speaking in another language. He has not noticed any of it, you realise. How she is trying to isolate him away from you.

“Did you tell her about it?” you ask again. “Be honest.”

“Amore, this is not– No, I did not tell her.”

“Then how did she know about the sketchbooks? You’re the only one who knew about them.”

“I don’t know, amore,” he says, trying to reach for you but you pull away, take a step back from both of them. “I promise you. I swear it. I did not tell her.”

“Copia–” You’re crying in earnest now, the air pulled from your lungs every time you try to breathe. “You promised before and I trusted you, I thought you’d respect that I do not want her to know. You could have– you could have told me but you didn’t. You didn’t want me to know that she approached you and that she’s been spying on our relationship.”

He shakes his head and you can see the tears in his eyes now, the desperation, the need to reach for you, the pain at you pulling away. You want to believe that he is honest but there is no other way this could have happened. Only he knew about the sketchbooks, only he knew that they were in your room, that they contained drawings from that time, that you keep them here, your most precious belongings, your very soul – your art.

“‘strella,” he whispers, his voice strained, and his hand reaches out for you again. “Believe me, please. I cannot– you have to understand, I cannot ignore her when she asks me things. She is– you know she is my– But I never told her about this. I never did.”

“But she found out,” you whisper, your heart shattering in your chest. “She knows, Copia.”

“It does not mean it was her, amore. She doesn’t– she would not risk to harm you or anyone else. She may be hesitant about us but she does not hate you.”

“You’re defending her even now,” you say, taking another step back. “Don’t you see? She’s already wrapped you around her finger. This is exactly what she wants!”

“But what do you want me to do?” His voice is almost a scream, dripping with despair.

“I am not asking you to choose between us,” you say, stepping away from him. “But I– I just have to know if I can trust you.”

He bridges the gap, then, wrapping his arms around almost manically. You let him, for a moment, grasping at his shirt through tears and the tremors of your body, unable to admit that this is real, that he really might have betrayed you. He’s done it before, he’s told Terzo, he’s urged you to talk to people about it, Secondo, doctors, his whole family. Everything is escaping you, the control over your own past, your own self, and now nothing is safe anymore, not your room, not your studio, not even Copia.

You should never have told anyone. You should never have let anyone in.

“‘strella,” he whispers. “Don’t. Don’t do this.”

He brings his face to yours as if to kiss you and you are tempted, to give in, to believe him, to consider that Sister didn’t do it, that all will be well, that he’s right and his comfort is safe. But you can’t. You can’t trust that this is real, that he didn’t lie, that he didn’t hide from you how much he told her. He might not have wanted this to happen, for anyone or anything to get hurt, but he should have known what she is capable of.

You pull away with force, his fingers cracking as you wind yourself out of his tight grasp and he tries to hold on longer. You hear the fabric of your shirt ripping but it gets lost when you finally see the way he’s crying, his whole face is streaked and he looks so– broken.

It rips through you, the mirrored hurt you’re inflicting, but you can’t consider it, the pain in your body demands to be felt, demands to be let out where no one else can reach you. Your mind screams for you to get away, to bring yourself to a safety you’re not even sure exists anymore.

“I don’t think– I don’t think I want to be around you right now,” you say and then you step away, evading his hand one more time so you can run.

Chapter Text

“I have so much in me, and the feeling for her absorbs it all; I have so much, and without her it all comes to nothing.”

― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther

✦ ✧ ✦

Sybil once more presses the cup into his hand that he’s refused over and over. He can’t see her, not really, not the cup, not Sybil, nor the world around him. He’s not himself, the sensation of having been removed from his own body and being trapped somewhere outside of himself.

Copia hasn’t been able to leave the room for what he can only assume must be hours. He knows an army of Siblings is out there, just waiting to get a glimpse of him in his deranged state. He tried to follow you initially but Sybil had caught his sleeve and pulled him back and he’d collapsed on the floor the moment the door closed.

He’s still dying to run after you.

If only he could move his legs.

“I don’t want to drink,” he tells Sybil again and how could he when every breath he takes clogs his throat and chokes him half to death? His reply comes delayed, she’s already put the cup away again when he looks up.

She’s been anxiously hovering around him, offering him all kinds of things, helping him onto the sofa, forcing different types of cookies into his hand that he did not eat, trying to soothe him with calming words and reassurances. While he would not cry in front of anyone else he’s been too upset to care that she’s seen him at his worst for these past hours. He feels like he is going mad and she is the only tether to reality he has.

“You need some water, Papa,” she says softly. “I’m getting a little worried about you.”

“I need to go after her,” he says through panic-induced choking. ”Once– once I have calmed down.”

Sybil sits down next to him. “Maybe just… give her a little more time. You can talk in the morning.”

“No, no, she is not well. She did not eat much for dinner. What if she does not sleep? What if she walks again tonight and gets hurt out there? What if whoever fucking did this finds her? If there is a feral ghoul on the loose–”

The more he talks the more his panic spikes. What if you sleep in the studio and fall out of the window? Someone broke into this apartment and they could have just waited to chase after you. He tries to stand but Sybil catches him.

“Papa,” she says with a warning tone. “She will be okay. Breathe, alright? You need to breathe.”

He didn’t even notice how the blood has risen to his face, how he’s been hyperventilating, shaking in every limb. Sybil’s soothing voice calms him for a small moment, enough to allow the panic to subside.

Copia stands anyway,  restless, and stalks to the destroyed room with a vague sense of purpose. Sybil does not join him and he’s grateful for the reprieve. He kneels, inspects the notebooks. They are the ones you told him not to look at, that first night he spent here, and he sees now why. A few of the pages are intact enough that he can discern the vague shape of the demon. A repugnant black figure in different poses, claws and eyes that he’d assume would be red had you not drawn them in graphite. Its shape is uncanny, not quite like a ghoul, not quite human, too large, too– crooked.

Only some your sketchbooks are harmed, not the ones he did flip through that night nor the recent ones you kept on your nightstand. No, it is only the ones with the demon.

He understands, then, what you said. Evidence of that night, yes, but why would anyone destroy them when no one knows?

He gathers the torn pages, snippets, shredded paper that looks like a violent force tore through it. A ghoul could have done it, he realises, but how would Sister have found out about the sketchbooks? Even if she somehow knows of that night, if she spied or listened in, even if she knew everything that occurred with your teacher she would not have had a way to know about these sketchbooks. Not even Copia knew what they contained. Did the ghouls find out on their own? Did they sense the demonic presence in these drawings? Are they perhaps trying to eradicate any signs of it to protect the abbey? Is that Sister’s goal? Does she see you as a threat?

If she is behind it, after all, then he took the wrong side, upset you entirely for nothing. What if you’re right and he destroyed any chance at a future with you? Can he not trust his own mother?

All he knows is that if a ghoul did this it was not one of his. They have not reappeared yet and he’s beyond worried something could have happened to you without them to keep an eye out. If there is indeed a feral ghoul or a violent human somewhere on the property then he doesn’t know how to protect you. You could be anywhere by now and you could be hurt.

Copia forgets himself, then, even with the way his entire body is shaking. He stands, walks past Sybil who is too slow to catch him this time and it has got late enough that no one lingers in the hallway when he leaves. He hears doors opening behind him as the sound of his steps echo into the quiet, knows he is being watched by all those curious eyes, but no one follows him when he steps out into the darkness of the night.

At first, he visits the studio. Some madness is driving him. He can’t remember how he got here until the floorboards creak underneath his shoes. The sheer emptiness of it hits him unprepared and he realises that he fully expected you to be here, sleeping on your mattress with a tear-stained face he would have kissed well again. There is no trace of you, no sign you’ve been here all day or even before then, only the lingering scent of your oil paints. Upon this realisation he leaves as fast as he came.

He can’t stand being in this room without you.

His quarters are deserted as well, only lingering fragments of the evening you spent here remain. The pizza sits half-eaten on the floor, the television still flickers as the VHS has long since ended. He turns it all off, tries to make sense of where you could be. He should not, he knows he should not be cornering you if you truly need to be away from him, and yet somehow he had hoped that you’d want to. That you’d go somewhere he would find you, that you’re ready to fly into his arms and forgive him.

That he could make it all right.

You could be anywhere by now, gone from the abbey, gone from him, never to return.

He doesn’t know where to start looking. Instead, when he leaves the building that houses the upper clergy quarters, a shadow jumps him. For a moment he senses his own death but he quickly recognises the shape of the ghoul as it retreats. Not feral, it hovers in the shadows of the building.

Copia approaches. It is not one of his.

“Have you been looking for me?” he asks.

The shadow gives an indication of a nod.

“Ghoul, did any of you destroy that room?”

A sound that is almost a hum as the ghoul’s shadowy head moves. It flickers, light bending, being swallowed between the eery fog of his body underneath its monk-like uniform.

“Do you– do you know who did it?”

The ghoul does not reply, though he seems restless. His appearance flickers, uncanny shapes that are almost human replaced with shadows and black fog as it disintegrates and then comes back, over and over. Copia is not sure what it means. Is he anxious? Is he angry at the accusation?

He decides that he has to urge Secondo for a ritual to glamour them, to be able to speak to them in human bodies. But there might not be enough time.

“What are you trying to tell me?” Copia asks, impatient now. “You know who did it but you cannot tell me?”

The ghoul nods once again but he’s stuck. He can’t get a name out of him. Whatever he’s trying to convey is lost between their unshared languages. Copia looks at the ghoul, intently, not quite sure what the anxious flicker in his face means. “Whatever you know, I need you to start looking out for any feral ghouls or humans with weapons. Promise me, promise me, ghoul, that if you find my amore you will protect her with your life.”

He swears the ghouls nods, hopes that he will follow his order even though he is not sworn to him. It is enough for him for now, it has to be. Copia steps further out into the progressing night, allowing it to take him.

Where could you be?

✦ ✧ ✦

The attic is coming to life. You’re sitting crouched in a corner, knees up to your chest, staring at the ceiling that is heavy with how many bats are hanging off of it. They slowly rouse as the evening light begins to fade and you hear their beautiful song. Even so, their animated chirps can’t drown out the violent noise inside your head, nor the sobs that wreck your whole body.

They fly off, then, to hunt, out into the deep orange light of dusk that streaks the darkening sky. You wish you could spread your wings and follow, become one with them, forget the all-consuming ache that’s taken up residence inside your body.

You didn’t know where to go after leaving your quarters. Siblings had gathered in the hallway and you have no doubt they heard your whole argument clear as day. It doesn’t matter, you suppose. They can’t hurt you any more than you’ve already hurt yourself, not even if they tore you apart like the painting, like your sketchbooks, ripped you into tiny pieces.

Perhaps Copia was wrong, perhaps all this pain is your punishment, at last.

You wonder then, distantly, if somehow Mona is still out there. It is entirely unrealistic, if she was young at the time you found her and lived a long, happy life after that. You hope she did, either way, that she feasted on insects and took to her nightly flights as long as she could. Whatever pain her departure left in you as a child is nothing compared to what you’re feeling now, having left Copia behind in that room. Not abandonment this time, no. You had the choice.

And the truth is that you are ashamed of running.

You feel betrayed and you do not know the scope of it. No matter what happened, he hid the truth from you, that Sister has been poking him about it, that she’s been trying to figure out your past, that she’s been unhappy about him being with you, the secrets he kept.

Another thought sneaks up, however, that perhaps you have not given him the chance to be honest in recent weeks. How would you have reacted if he had told you about speaking to Sister or bringing up the idea of telling her? He must have known that any such admission would have broken your trust and not just that. That it would have broken you and that the bond you’ve created would have ruptured even faster. Was he scared to tell you?

How did you not notice?

She is his mother. He has a right to speak to her about you, you know he does, even if he has no right at all to tell her your story.

I promise you. I swear it. I did not tell her.

You wish you could believe him and a part of you does, a part of you refuses to accept that the man who has become your whole world would lie to you. It’s possible Sister has been spying for longer, that she found out without Copia’s involvement. But then without Copia you would have never even shared your story in the first place. It’s a complex cocktail of emotions this thought sets off, regret, relief, anger, fear, denial. What lengths would she go to to get rid of you? Is it easier to accept that this relationship has no future while Copia remains Papa? Is she involved at all or are you seeing ghosts? Who else would destroy your art, rip apart the very essence of your pain?

A bat flutters past you on its way out and you blink more tears from your eyes. You can’t be without Copia. Whatever regrets sit in your heart can’t eradicate the sensation of finally being known. He sees you like no one else does, loves all of you, even the darkest parts, has clung to you even when you tried to leave him behind, so violently that you now feel the cool air through the rips he left in your shirt.

You’re broken but how do you pick yourself back up? How can you fix any of this? Would Sister ever admit her acts? Who could have done it if it wasn’t Sister after all? Would Copia stand by your side or choose her over you? Can you be who he needs as the leader of this church? Can you defy the will of his mother?

The tears blur your vision until you hide your face in your knees and sob once more, ignoring the pain in your lungs, the ache in your throat. You don’t move all night, not until the bats finally return, sated, sleepy, and, for all you can judge, freer than you’ll ever be.

✦ ✧ ✦

“C?” Sister asks.

He ripped her from sleep with his unannounced visit. She has a nightgown wrapped around her and he’s immediately flustered. He has never seen her in anything but her usual strict uniform and she looks almost– human. Soft, old, exhausted. Like a regular woman.

Like a mother.

“Did you do it?” he asks before he can chicken out. He’s been practicing this question for a few minutes outside of her door where he is still standing now. The upper clergy building is eerily quiet and he can hear his own racing heart echoing within.

“Do what?” she spits, impatient with him already and much more like her regular self. “What’s going on?”

“Are you trying to hurt her? Did you send the ghouls to her room?”

He can tell the confusion on her face is genuine. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

“C, look. It’s the middle of the night. Can we discuss this in the morning?”

“No,” he snaps. “Some asshole destroyed her room, broke into her quarters. Tell me if it was you, Sis.”

That seems to finally do it. Sister’s gaze changes from vaguely annoyed to alert. “Broke into her room?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I do that? Have you lost your mind?”

“You don’t like her!” he snaps. “The old man doesn’t either.”

“That’s not true, C,” she says. “I like her perfectly well, generally. I just don’t like the way this relationship is progressing. That doesn’t mean–”

“Yes, yes, she distracts me blah blah,” he mocks. “That’s all you ever have to say.”

She rolls her eyes, purses her lips. “It would have been fine had you been open about it with me. But you tried to hide it and let the rumours spread while being dishonest about how serious it was. I told you, I am happy if you want to settle with someone, as long as they are worthy and understand that our mission comes first. If we want to be successful, with the project as well as our message, to rid the world of those who wrong the weak, then we must work hard, C. I don’t doubt that she can be that person one day but she certainly isn’t right now.”

“But– why have you been so horrible to her?” he finds himself asking. “Why do you let Papa talk like this about us?”

She ushers him inside at last, though he’s sure the old man is already sleeping like the dead and couldn’t hear them if he tried. Behind the closed door Sister softens a little, a hand lands on his arm but she doesn’t lead him further than the little entrance area. He sits on a chair beside her shoe rack that houses nothing but different pairs of bright red pumps.

“You have to let him talk, C,” she says at last, crossing her arms. “And you can’t blame me for being protective of you as your– as someone who loves you, can you?”

“She thinks you’ve been trying to rip us apart,” he says, counting ten pairs of pumps. It’s all he can do not to break down crying.

“I have not. I promise you, C, I would not have used the ghouls for something like that and risk other people’s lives, nor harm a perfectly… adequate painting. Why ever would I have them break into her bedroom?”

He finally looks up. “But then what happened? Did a ghoul go feral?”

“It’s not impossible but it has never happened before. Not in a long time since we began to summon them. If it is a true a Sibling sliced the painting then who says they did not break in?”

“Secondo says it was not a human who ripped the painting.”

Sister narrows her eyes. “But then what would it be? Why would a ghoul destroy the painting?” She taps her bare foot on the carpet, her mind working until she scoffs under a scowl that makes him feel like a scolded little boy. “There is still something you have not told me,” she says, barely hiding her distaste. “It has to do with this… thing she has been dealing with, right?”

He goes quiet fast, at that. He cannot continue these musings in her presence. “It’s eh– It’s nothing.”

“Even now you lie to me? I thought you were worried about her? Where is she now, C?”

“I don’t– I don’t know.”

Sister shakes her head, the next words spoken so slowly they drip with an unspoken threat. “C, what in the name of Lucifer is going on in my abbey?”

Copia presses his lips together, knee bouncing, fiddling with his gloves. He could tell her now and confirm all your worst suspicions, all for the odd chance that Sister knows what to do. But there is no guarantee she does, there is no guarantee he can trust her, not even now that she offers her innocence. “I can’t tell you, Sis,” he mumbles.

“You can’t or you don’t want to?”

Copia sighs and stands, his eyes burning with unshed tears. “I won’t betray her.”

Sister bangs her hand against the door, so hard it rattles in its hinges. The sound shakes him to his core and he looks up startled, a fresh tear falling down his already smudged cheek.

“C, I will tell you what I expect to happen, so listen to me,” she says, every word drenched in anger. “If you want to be with her then we have to make it public. We have to show that we are supporting this union without a doubt in the world and that anyone who continues to question or attack your relationship will suffer the consequences. If we have a traitor in our midst then we will snuff them out with all the forces we have at our command. And if it’s a ghoul? He’ll be sent back to the pit in utter disgrace.”

“But, no, no,” he says. “No, we cannot tell everyone– Sis, she only just– It is too much. Too early.”

“As you have been saying without enlightening me as to why,” she snaps. “But fine, you don’t have to tell me what she is dealing with. However, if you think she is too weak to stand by your side in front of the congregation and support you in your role as Papa, then you have to ask yourself if this relationship has a future. It is your choice, C. But who knows, perhaps she already came to that conclusion on her own.”

She leaves him with this, her words hanging in the air. Copia does not dare step further into her rooms to demand she take it back so he steps out into the empty hallway. He knows Sister is not entirely wrong. You would stand by his side if he asked you to, if he needed you to, but the risk of someone hurting you is too much. He could not blame you for wanting to protect yourself. What would have happened had you been home? Would the intruder have harmed you? Killed you? Who is to say they won’t expose your secrets?

Copia shudders, wrapping his arms around himself.

But who knows, perhaps she already came to that conclusion on her own.

The implication sends a violent sob through his whole body. If you left him his whole world would crumble, the Papacy, all he worked for, it would be meaningless. There is nothing left of him that hasn’t been touched by you, nothing that would remain to him alone.

No, Sister is right in only one regard. Everyone has to know that you are his and that whoever dares to hurt you will suffer for it.

When Copia steps back out into the night to find his ghouls the tears running down his cheeks burn with a violent, all-consuming rage. He sees no reason to hide his feelings any longer, no, but before he can unleash them he has to find you and set things right.

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia leaves the hallway from the studio, successful in one mission at least. He has been trying to find his ghouls for the past few hours but they seem deep in their slumber still. Wherever the other ghoul had come from earlier, he is lost to him as well, not reacting to any of his calls. They all seem to linger deep by the woods, their domain by the old ruins near the forest-covered wall of the old cloister. He has no way to find them in the shadows.

Eventually, his feet carry him outside once more, the cool air of the night fragrant with the earthy smell of the trees nearby. He decides to try one more time, inching closer to darkness, trying to find the path that leads back to the woods proper. But he is too tired, exhausted from the inside out. He doesn’t know if he has any tears left and the world has stopped feeling real to him hours ago.

Perhaps all of this a nightmare. He will wake up like you did, these past few nights, and for once it is you who comforts him as the horrors cling to his very lashes, desperate to drag him back in. You’ll chase them away and he’ll be whole again, feel like himself again.

He would believe it if it weren’t for the ache in his back, the pain in his knees from walking back and forth for hours, the burning sensation in his whole face and throat, the way he’s slouching from lack of proper rest. Sleep is foreign to him, how could he sleep now? When you could be anywhere in the world?

Copia falls to his knees on the path to the woods, unable to hold onto the old stone wall close by. He can hear the hoots of owls from where he fell, somewhere close above him. Leaves rustle, the moon is half-hidden behind clouds and he can barely make out where the canopy starts, how far he still has to go. A bat flies past then, and he’s so startled that he doesn’t see it coming.

A sudden shadow. It drapes itself over him and he can sense its infernal energy.

“Ghoul,” he whispers, at last.

His body mends itself, that is how he would describe the sensation. A warm feeling spreading in his limbs, the soreness fading, his worries sharper now, the fog of his mind clearing as reality comes back to him. As the pain subsides, the shadow feels familiar.

That can only mean one thing.

It is one of his ghouls.

✦ ✧ ✦

You feel the ache in your body reaching into your very bones. The stairs feel endless and you’re incessantly reminded of the time Copia had you bent over them, the way you told him you loved him here for the first time. The words linger in the stone as you trace the walls with your hand, their gravitas, cool and heavy, absorbed into its substance.

Love.

Your love for him is everywhere, perhaps the holiest thing in this chapel. The very essence of the world around you is coloured by it, like a thin layer of glaze. It transcends anything, everything, even the pain and betrayal, that much you know after these long violent hours. He can’t hurt you in a way that would change what you feel for him.

In some sudden urge to find peace you approach the display of candles in the chapel. Gently you light a particularly long one and place it in front of your hands that you fold into prayer. You have never been as devout as some of your Siblings, though the depth of faith in your church is of varying degrees for many. Not everyone lives it out as openly and yet you always felt like you weren’t quite doing enough.

Even when you were trying to repent for what you did, blaming yourself for Mr Kraan’s death, and devoting your life to creating art in His image you were never brave enough to approach Lucifer himself. The fear of punishment had been too heavy, even praying to him had felt like a violation of His peace and to see the deep connections other Siblings felt to Him had hurt.

It is perhaps the criticism you would understand the most, if Sister had only directed it at you in more open terms. It is easy to see she would prefer a devout Sibling at Copia’s side, someone more involved, someone more fitting for the position. He has never talked much about his own faith to you and you know he tried to shield you, but you know he takes his job seriously and that leading the congregation means the world to him. After your reaction at Gabriele’s, when he asked you about your doubts, when you almost ran from him, you can’t blame him for holding back.

“If I ask for forgiveness,” you whisper, “one more time– would you-” You falter, swallowing hard against the swollen flesh in your throat. “Would you grant me the strength to be with him and all that it entails? I have– I have never loved anyone like I love him and it scares me.”

No answer. The candles flicker, a soft breath of air moving their flames as if in dance.

You have to forgive yourself first, a voice in your head whispers. It is your own, gentle and warm, younger, reaching out from somewhere deep within.

You sigh, fingers white-knuckled from how hard you have been pressing them together. You are acutely aware that you are clinging to a pain you should have let go a long time ago.

Dawn is distant on the horizon when you finally step outside, the light barely reaching over the trees surrounding the property. You can still see some bats flying back through the cracks between the barred-up windows in the old bell tower, settling in, feeding their young, as the world around them slowly wakes.

You’re not sure if you’re ready to go back yet. The shadows draw you in, tugging at an invisible thread. Your body feels like it was sucked dry, though the lack of sleep is almost familiar now. A hollow feeling in your stomach, a void that yearns for the darkness. You step through the narrow gap between buildings and see the empty courtyard, the stone walkways abandoned so early in the day.

Through the shadows, movement. You can sense them, multiple. An energy that softly pushes you back but you move on anyway, back inside the main building, up and up the stairs. The studio lies there, abandoned, and the old guilt pushes at you the closer you get, telling you not to look at what fills you with such shame.

You don’t know where else to go, half-hoping Copia is waiting for you so you’d be forced to talk to him. Part of you wants him to yell at you for being so stupid, so distrusting, for how you’ve abandoned all progress you’ve made him with the moment it got hard. Another part is still not sure if he told you the truth.

The shadows follow you into the hallway. By now every step takes the effort of a climb. You hold onto the wall and the darkness feels warm against your fingertips. A soft breeze carries through the old halls, a caress that has a menacing edge as it passes you by. You swallow, take a deep breath to regain your strength.

Something catches your eye then and you will yourself to close the distance to the door of the studio. You recognise the postcard, stuck into the slit of the weathered door. A picture of the abbey, a few years old, taken in spring, rhododendrons, purple and white, framing the chapel.

Your heart aches the moment you touch it. Another draft, mild and humid like the first breath after a heavy rain. You pull the card out, trace the image for a moment, and then you breathe it in. You’re crying before you’ve flipped it.

Mia ‘strella,

I am worried about you but you know this. I have been worried about you for so long that you still think I do not see you for what you are. But I do. I see you and I love you. Do you know this as well?

I am back in Copenhagen, or Berlin, or Prague, when you would not speak to me. But this time, where my heart should be there is nothing, amore, and I think that you took it with you.

Return it to me. Return to me.

When I left for tour you promised me that it would not be the end. Promise me again.

Ti prego.

C

You cradle the postcard against your heart and sink to the floor, crying heavier than you’ve cried all night. You’re not sure you can get up, the weight of the whole world seems to rest on you in that moment. Instead, you read the card over and over again, blinking through tears, eventually finding enough strength to get on your knees. From there you manage to sit up enough to reach for the door handle.

You immediately flinch back. The metal scalds your palm and you withdraw in confusion.

Something is not right and the shadows are still trying to pull you back and away.

Eventually, you force it open with your elbow, stemming yourself against the door in one final effort that has you falling into the studio. It takes you a moment to regain your full consciousness. The sun has risen by now, bathing the room in that faint, ethereal light of early morning. You blink against the rays and breathe in the stale air, the scent of the drying paints, paint dissolvent and–

Smoke. Sulfur?

You shoot up to inspect the painting but it sits untouched on the easel. Behind it however you finally spot the mess on the floor. Dragging yourself closer you realise what you’re seeing. Pieces, the damaged remains of the paintings you had hidden in the corner, the ones you didn’t choose to burn with Copia that night. They’re torn apart, the wood of the frames splintered, the canvases torn into pieces. You gasp at the sight, images of your destroyed sketchbooks, the rips in Terzo’s painting.

The edges of each tear are scorched, this time, but they bear the same shapes.

With some remaining wit you fiddle for your phone. It’s clinging to its last percent of battery, filled with calls of both Copia and Sybil that you never answered some hours ago. You type a message to him, to ask him to come to the studio, but you never manage to send it.

A shadow swallows the room, takes the light of the display with it. You’re blind, blinking helplessly into the void as you try to figure out what is happening.

Then, your head explodes.

You can’t tell whether you’re still alive. The hot pain that sears through you starts in your temple, then slowly moves through the rest of your body in violent, cruel torture. You can’t see, can’t breathe, your lungs are trying to fill up but can’t find anything to inhale. It feels like the world around you imploded and you’ve been somehow caught in between, all the laws of physics disabled.

Then, two large red eyes blink open. You realise that what’s suffocating you is nothing but plain terror, panic seizing your throat and squeezing. The eyes stare down at you, familiar and deadly. Then, a sound as it sucks. You must be on the floor but you can’t feel your body anymore, only an all-consuming heat that is eating at you with every second. It breathes, the sound rattling, wheezing, coughing, and then–

Then the darkness flickers. Shapes reconfiguring themselves, a sudden play of light and shadows. The room blinks back into view at the edges of your vision, the canvas, windows, a mattress. An agonising screech pierces your ears. It feels like a fight, a violent battle, the large shadow becomes smaller, loses its grasp on you, and then other shadows join, moving fast, overlapping, consuming then spitting back out. One shadow, almost as large as the one that still clings to you, groans, shatters your hearing as they collide in unnatural frequencies.

You still can’t breathe. You think you must be dying. The air around you flickers like light over hot asphalt, smoke and clouds pass over you, black and grey, cold air, warmer air, rays of light bending into odd shapes and sparkling through a prism of colour.

You can’t cling to consciousness much longer.

Images flicker behind your eyes as you lose your grasp, an overlay like double exposure. The shadow, red-eyed, tearing through Terzo’s painting. The creature, coughing, ripping apart your sketchbooks. The demon, with burning claws shredding the paintings in the corner and finally, after years of agony, breathing in its ultimate freedom.

The sucking sound from its throat ceases, the pain retreats just barely, and it cries, wails, like it is mirroring your pain. Are you crying? You’re not sure where your body is, if it still is at all. But whatever it does, whatever it is fighting, it’s not the end. The shadow compresses for a moment, lying dark and heavy on top of you, then it gathers whatever strength it has left. A waft drifts from its black body of fog and curls into an arm, shaping itself into large, uncanny claws.

You have seen them before, feared them before. The memory of that night comes unbidden, a shrivelled body on the floor, fire all around you, and then – and now – it lunges for its final attack.

At first, you don’t feel it. You think you might be dead already but then the sensation spreads. You find your hand again, fingers that are touching something wet, a warm liquid that spills from your guts and stains what remains of you. A red eye blinks up at you from below, then sideways, a cold sensation amidst the warmth of it all, lapping like a tongue but not quite a tongue.

You feel your vision blurring, the shadows are still moving all around you, light fading along with your vision. Your fingers touch the liquid where it meets your flesh. They come away shaking.

Whatever vision still flickers around disappears, and then you’re gone.

Chapter Text

“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.”

― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

✦ ✧ ✦

The brush feels familiar in your hand.

Light is streaming through the open windows but the room is unnaturally bright, blurred at the edges, everything dipped in pale orange and white-yellow mist. The whole space feels familiar, a long forgotten dream, a memory of times that have long been lost to you.

The canvas shows Copia, a smaller rendition but not less intricate. He is regal but somewhat relaxed, wearing his black robes but no mitre, a hand placed on his chest as he looks at you through the canvas, as if to tell you that this is where you reside. You instinctively lift your brush and place a detail of light in his eye. It feels complete and yet you’re not sure you can stop.

“Are you almost done, little bat?”

You look up as if waking from a dream. Your thoughts trickle through your fingers like sand. “I am–”

“I told you you could do it, did I not?”

Mr Kraan looks at your canvas, a hand heavy on your shoulder, thin but not skeletal. You try to understand what feels wrong about him but you can’t follow any single train of thought long enough. “I did. Yes, I did it.”

He looks well, full cheeks, straight posture, older than you remember. And he’s smiling. When was the last time that he smiled? “You have improved, little bat. I do not know what remains to teach you.”

“I have a lot to learn, still,” you say, defensive, not ready to walk on your own feet. Never ready. “How do I end? How do I stop trying to perfect every detail?”

“You have to let go, my darling,” he says. “There comes the point where holding on is holding you back.”

“But I’m afraid,” you whisper and your voice is thin like paper. “I’m afraid of forgetting.”

He smiles again and takes the brush from your hand, gentle, wise, a hint of paternal affection. “But that is the beauty of art, is it not, little bat? It captures what we love. Forever.”

You look at him, this spectre of a man. His blurred face tells you that you’ve been crying all this time, seeing the world through a sheen of water. He is almost real, as real as he can be, at any rate. When you reach out he is right there, just shy of solid as all things are in a dream. “Will you stay? Will I be home again?”

His hand leaves your shoulder to find yours, your fingers wrapped up in his palm, and he cradles it to his chest. “You are home, little bat. And I am here, always.”

“You are a dream,” you whisper.

“And is that so bad?”

Still he is smiling and still you are crying. The bright light is broken by a shadow, then, a flicker, and you see the hollowed cheeks, skeletal hands, the blood-shot eyes you remember, just a fraction of a second, a dream pierced by ugly claws. But the vision leaves as soon as it came and what remains is Mr Kraan, whole and unbroken. He is just as real as the memory, but he is somewhere else, somewhere distant.

“Do not worry so much, little bat,” he says. “You are where you are meant to be.”

“How do you know?” you whisper.

His gaze flickers to the painting of Copia, then back to you. “I have loved you like my own child, though I was never meant to be a father to you, not for long. I know my actions have hurt you, that you were lost for a long time because of me. Will you still allow that I–” He unfolds your hand to press it over his heart. “Will you still allow me to tell you that I am proud of you, little bat?”

You nod, not hesitating, and he seems relieved, glancing away from you and into the light. You hold onto his hand as he turns brighter and brighter, fading from view. You hold on, grasping him tightly, until you can’t see anything at all.

✦ ✧ ✦

The seconds tick by. One after another. Tiktoktiktoktiktoktiktok.

The sound drives him mad.

Copia is sitting in a chair in the infirmary. Waiting. Dying.

His heart is not beating, he thinks, or it must have broken and shattered into useless pieces. The weight of his body is a burden, the heaviness in his limbs that has set in the moment he sat down. How does he wait, with you dying inside of this room? Sit here and bridge the gap between fear and his own destruction? He has nothing left to give and so he sits, regrets, hates, rages against his own blindness.

He knew something had been wrong and it does not matter if Sister caused it or a ghoul or a demon or a Sibling of Sin or anyone. He should have been there to protect you, he should have run after you the moment you left instead of allowing his pain to hold him back. For all he knows, he might well have killed you with his hesitance.

Instead he left you to your suspicions, with the thought that he betrayed you. This is how you will die, thinking that he sold your secrets to Sister because he is too weak to stand up for you. And the worst is, it is not what happened, but it is what you were thinking of him and perhaps a part of it has been true all along. Because he never managed to convince you that he can make it all work, despite the Papacy. Because he did not shout his love for you when he should have, because he did not make sure that everyone knows you are the most important thing in his life.

Because he was a coward.

No, he did not yell that he he would ruin hell and earth to make sure you are by his side. That he would damn Sister, damn the old man, damn anyone who tried to get in his way. He gave you peace but he also gave you doubts. He gave you love but he also gave you pain. In the process, he gave away parts of himself that he can never get back.

Steps fall into sync with the ticking of the clock. Copia doesn’t look up until Terzo is sitting down across from him. His brother startles at the sight he meets him with and Copia can only imagine the way his insistent tears have ruined his face by the way everything hurts. He wipes at his eyes again, the skin already raw, and he rubs some more because the pain fills the vacuum for just a few precious seconds.

“Papino,” Terzo whispers. “Here.”

Copia refuses the coffee in his hand, his eyes burning with tears he’s barely holding back.

“If something had happened–” his brother offers, “they would not still be in there.”

“How do you know?” Copia snaps, his gaze one of steel. “How do you fucking know?”

Terzo flinches back, not hurt but startled. “You are right. I don’t know.”

More seconds tick by and the door stays closed.

You are bleeding out in there, he thinks, and they locked him out. When he closes his eyes he sees the puddle of blood he found you in and the past hour blurs into a moving picture playing over and over again.

The abbey, shaking with the violent screeching of two dozen ghouls. That was the first thing he heard as the shadow of his ghoul slowly removed itself from him out near the woods. People panicking, running out of their dorms, waking up, not knowing what was happening. Copia did not know it either but he knew he had to get back to the studio either way, still hoping to find you even then. Let you be mad at him, he thought, he’d rather have you be mad at invading the space you asked for than to see you dead. And now this thought seems so ridiculous, knowing that one thing came with the other. But at the time he ran across the path and almost got crushed by the Siblings streaming outside, pushing to exit their buildings. Shadows were creeping along the walls of the main building, the ghouls moving to the threat, he assumed.

Copia had never felt such dread before, the kind that makes you forget about danger, the fact that you’re inside a fragile human body as instinct takes over. He knew it was justified when they slid up the stairs to the third floor alongside him, down the corridor to the studio, and he ran without even thinking about the risks. When he entered he saw more ghouls, a big, infinite shadow rearing up like a horse, growing and attacking with inhuman claws, another one glowing red with heat, two more, unleashing a storm, aimed at something. He almost did not see, with the way their infernal bodies swallowed the light, how another shadow was draped over the floor. Then two burning red eyes focused on him, for just a moment, flickering with a hint of recognition just behind his eyelids, and he knew, he knew all the ways in which he had failed you.

His ears are still ringing from the screeches of the ghouls as they chased away the demon. It fled, or he thinks it did, creeping through the wooden floorboards and leaving nothing but wafts of black smoke. Some of the ghouls tried to follow but to no avail, that is what Secondo told him, anyway, that the demon is undetectable right now, that he can’t track it down. Copia did not see any of it in the moment. All he saw was that damned puddle of blood with your body lying in it and the rest is too painful to bear. The way he crouched by your side, screaming for help at the top of his lungs, the tears in your body where the demon had sliced you open, your guts spilling out, his hands trying to press the blood back in, then being ripped away from you by his shoulders as the doctor arrived. Two ghouls were bent over you as well as they tried to save you and he stood there like a fool, shaking and crying and numb with shock.

He’s been sitting here, in his blood-stained clothes, ever since. An hour, perhaps longer. They tried to stop the bleeding – they did stop it, up there, with the help of the quintessence that flicked you together – but it came back as they carried you here.

He’d never forget the sight of your open body if he tried to laser it from his memory.

They locked him out, then, saying they need to stabilise you first before anyone can come in. He thought it was a lie then, that they didn’t want him to see them fail, but he’s still clinging to a different hope even now. Would they have come out, had they failed? He thinks of Terzo’s words but his brain cannot hold onto any rational thoughts.

The salty tears burn trails into his raw cheeks, dripping hot and heavy into his gloved palms that are coated in your blood. He glances up into Terzo’s pained face. He looks older today, greyed out.

“I love her,” Copia says, whimpers.

Terzo nods, gravely. “I know. She knows.”

“I can’t–” His voice breaks and he succumbs to it, collapses into himself. “I can’t lose her.”

Vaguely, he feels the hand on his shoulder but it doesn’t stay there with the rapid sobs that shake him. His body constricts and the pain runs its course, eating away at him until he is burning from the inside. He’s not sure he’s real, that any of this is real. His soul is floating above his body, ready to join yours wherever it is now, trying to find you through the fog.

“Breathe, Papa,” Terzo says through the haze. “Breathe.”

Copia gasps, sucking in a breath.

He sits up just as the door opens.

✦ ✧ ✦

The studio is illuminated by a pale yellow light that sings the song of a bright summer morning. Birds, the low rustle of leaves. You’re painting Papa Emeritus III, the canvas larger than any you have worked with before. You can hardly see, everything is glowing that sweet glow of dreams, of memories you can only access through faded images with no hard edges.

Papa walks over to you, done sitting still, though he always tries so hard. He smiles at you, that sweet, flirty smile you know is not quite real. It drops, when he sees your skeptical face, and instead an almost timid expression replaces it.

“You are almost done,” he says. “What a marvel.”

You smile and it is quite earnest, his praise special when it feels real. And it does, now, at least. He has been dropping as many layers with you as he can allow for anyone to see who is not quite part of his close inner circle. “Thank you, Papa.”

He flickers in the bright lights, the painting in front of you darkens for a second and then you see it in another memory, torn, the frame barely holding the pieces. After a moment, it returns back to normal, whole and almost perfect, the lights returning you to their embrace.

“Do you know that you are quite special, little painter?” Papa asks. “What a gift you have to dedicate to our Lord.”

“I am not sure,” you whisper. “He might not welcome it.”

“Oh, He does,” Papa says. “He will welcome you, when the time is right.”

You take in his softened features, the lines on his face painting him so handsomely, especially when he smiles. His hand comes to rest on your arm, a gentle reassuring squeeze. You look into his mismatched eyes, one glowing white, the other pale green in the haze around you. You look at him, you keep looking, until he too is swallowed by the lights.

✦ ✧ ✦

The doctor steps out with a deep breath. Copia is on his feet before he can address him with any sort of respectful courtesy and when he sees his state he swallows them.

“She is finally stable,” the man says instead, removing a mask from his mouth. “I– I don’t know how. By all the laws of medicine she should not be alive right now with what I saw but– she is. And I think she will recover.”

Copia’s knees buckle. Terzo has an arm wrapped around his shoulder before he can fall.

“I don’t know what would have happened without the ghouls,” the doctor goes on, taking a deep breath. He looks exhausted. “It seems they saved her life, Papa, they mended her body. Not that I understand how. We had to give her multiple blood transfusions, despite of it.”

“Can I see her?”

“Yes, but I cannot promise when or… or if she’ll wake up. This is quite unprecedented, it may take a while.” He eyes Terzo. A nurse walks out of the room behind him. “I would ask you to step in alone, Papa. For now at least.”

Terzo turns Copia’s head, forces him to meet his gaze. “Can I leave you Papino?”

He nods, he thinks he does, anyway. All he wants is to rush into the room. Terzo goes with him until he’s at the door, closing it softly behind him.

Then Copia is alone in a room that makes him want to crawl out of his skin.

You’re in a hospital bed, a tube from your arm is attached to an IV pole that steadily drips the fluid into your veins and the monitors by your side are beeping continuously as they measure your vitals.

He thinks he will faint.

He doesn’t. His feet carry him to the bed and he sits as carefully as if he weighed nothing, so scared of doing the wrong thing, of hurting you somehow. Your skin is ashen and when he removes his gloves to grab your hand it is cold. Despite the lack of warmth you look peaceful, like you’re sleeping after a long day. He cries before he can properly take you in, tears blurring his vision and he can’t wipe fast enough to catch them all.

“I’m sorry,” he whines, folding both hands over yours. “‘m s-sorry.”

The words are swallowed by his sobs, not that you could hear them. The relief isn’t palpable to him, in that moment. All he sees is how weak you are, his brain submitting pictures of your torn open body he can’t see underneath the blanket. The blame he carries for leaving you alone is eating him alive. He wonders if somehow you can feel the pain, even now, if you’re still suffering within the depths of your dreams.

Copia loses track of time, sitting there, the beeping of the machines almost distant. It is odd to hold your hand without you squeezing him back. The last time he kissed you was just twelve or so hours ago. It feels like a lifetime.

Your lips have lost their shine, like the blood has been sucked from them. What an angelic face, he thinks, and how often he has watched it, kissed it, caressed it. Copia never took any of it for granted and yet he feels like he did not savour any of these moments enough.

He must sit there for hours. It calms him, after a while, that nothing changes, that the numbers stay steady, that your heart keeps beating in the ever-same rhythm. At some point a sister changes the IV, more fluids. She smiles at him and he remembers her name is Jasmine. She’s been here for a while. One time she measured his blood pressure during a check up and told him to eat better.

By the time he hears a knock at the door it must be around lunch time. The blinds in the room are closed but he can tell by the bright halo around them that the sun is out, that the persistent clouds must have finally passed. If you wake up, he thinks, he can open the window for you.

“May I?” Terzo asks, the door slightly ajar and his face peaking through.

“Sì, come in.”

His brother is careful, approaching with silent steps. “How is she?”

Copia shrugs, not taking his eyes off of you. “I don’t know. Nothing has changed.”

Which he supposes is a good thing, considering how long it took to stabilise you. The doctor said it may take a while until you wake up. He ignores the if that followed.

“Secondo and I took a look around the room. The painting seems to be fully intact, so the ghouls must have been precise,” Terzo then says. “I thought you would like to have some things. This seemed– personal. I eh– I did not look at all the pictures but I thought you might want them. And then– this little one.”

When Copia turns he sees that Terzo has procured Mona, the plushie. In his other hand is an envelope from the local photo studio. He remembers, then, the pictures you took together, and at the memory his heart aches.

He almost rips the plushie from Terzo’s hand, presses it to his heart for a long time. Terzo places the envelope on the bed beside him and sits in a chair by the window in silent companionship. He is not good at sitting still, Copia knows this, and he appreciates him for trying.

“I brought her this from tour,” he says after a moment, by way of explanation, stroking Mona’s soft fur with his bare fingers. He remembers how you clutched her to your chest. “Do you know she is very fond of bats?”

Terzo crosses his legs and leans back with a smile. “I do know, yes. Someone told me we have them in the old bell tower and a very sentimental Papino asked not to have them removed.”

Copia smiles, absently. “You should– you should have seen her eyes when I showed her. I–” His voice breaks, then, and he is shaken by sobs that he cannot even try to hold back. “I did it for her.”

Terzo has the curtesy not to comment on his state. “She will be comforted, then, by her little friend.”

Silence settles, only the beeping sounds of your vitals disturbing it. Copia holds Mona for his own comfort until he feels selfish and places her by your other arm. Perhaps you can feel her, somehow, despite of it. He tries not to be freaked out by how limp your arm falls after he lifts it.

At last, he reaches for the envelope. The first few pictures must be old. He skips through them, pictures of the lighting in the room, the canvas, then pictures of his face from way too up close. He stops when he sees the picture he took of you in retaliation, then the one of you two with Mona, the morning he gifted her to you. He cradles it against him, his heart aching at the memory, immortalised by that stupid little camera. He feigned to be annoyed by it which he truly wasn’t. A family picture, he remembers, and in that moment he wants to die.

He forces himself to go on, eventually, finds pictures of the painting in various advanced stages that make him wonder once again how you’re doing any of this, more lighting references, your palette, the studio. It is your kind of magic, to capture what his own eyes refuse to see in himself. Then he finds the pictures of the night you held the camera to his face to fill up the film. He smiles, involuntarily, the ones you took of him not as unflattering as he expected. Next are the pictures of the two of you together, you on his chest, his stupid smile, your sweet blissful expression after sex. The last picture is the one of you kissing that somehow made it into the frame, though it is a little blurry.

He picks out the ones of you alone and the ones of you and him together, the rest he slides back into the envelope. The next minutes he spends looking through the pictures, vaguely noting how Terzo has fallen asleep with his head propped up on his arm. Copia stops at a picture he took of you up in the studio, the night you filled the film. As he properly inspects it, his heart stops.

What is this?

He shifts so he receives more of the dimmed light, and startles.

Behind you, barely visible in the dark background of the photo, two red eyes are staring back at him.

✦ ✧ ✦

The abbey outside is quiet. Birds are happily chirping from the canopy in front of the open window that dips your whole world into a bright ethereal glow. You sit on the windowsill with Copia, an apple shared between the two of you as you smile at each other like giddy teenagers. He has reached for your hand and, joined, they dangle between your bodies. Every time you feel the brush of his thumb an excited shiver runs through you and you suppress a nervous giggle.

“It’s a beautiful day,” he says, somewhat absently eyeing the window. His gaze never fully strays from you which makes you doubt that he’s noticed much of the weather.

“It is,” you agree anyway. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.” He sighs, then smiles with a hint of sadness. “You know, there was a time when I never thought this would happen. That we’d get this far.”

“What do you mean?”

“I almost lost you, amore.”

You frown, trying to search for the memories. You can’t find them, you can’t find anything from before this very moment. It feels like you were always with him, holding his hand and sinking into his smiles. He’s your whole world but, inconceivably, it wasn’t always so.

“I had many questions about you before I got to know you,” he continues. “I think you were scared to answer them even when I did.”

“It’s not easy to open up to someone,” you whisper.

He nods, lifts your hand to press a kiss to it. “And you did so anyway. How brave you are, my ‘strella.”

“But you made it easy, you’re special.” You squeeze his hand tighter and he returns the gesture. “It’s like you were made for me, Copia. I don’t think anyone else could love me like you do.”

“No, amore, it is my privilege,” he says, surprisingly serious now. “That I get to be the one to love you. If the Morningstar had his hands in it then I will thank him until my final breath and… and beyond.”

You don’t know what to reply, whether Lucifer would welcome your thanks as well. But then you suppose it doesn’t matter as long as Copia believes it for you. And this is a dream anyway, dipped into the golden haze of your mind. He can’t truly hear you as long as you cling to its confines.

As you contemplate this, a cloud covers the sun for just a moment. When it comes back everything seems brighter than before. In the sudden light, Copia begins to flicker and you see his face, contorted in agony, streaked remains of his paints, his eyes rubbed raw. They seem to look down to you from above, crying, leaking heavy tears that land on your face. He looks older, scarred, like he went through hell and back. You think you can feel his hands pressing against your belly but then it stops and he’s back in front of you, his thumb rubbing against your palm as everything turns brighter and brighter.

“If I get to love you every day for the rest of my life,” he whispers just before the light swallows him, “then I will be the happiest man He will ever receive in Hell.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia’s heart stops. He takes the other pictures from the envelope again. None of the earlier photos share the eyes but he finds them again on one of the later images of the studio. It is hard to tell where the creature’s body melts into the shadows around it but he can see it exactly how you described, the red eyes dull in the analogue colours but somehow glowing.

“Fratello,” he hears himself saying.

A startled sound, like an elbow catching on the table. “Che cosa?”

“Can you look at this for me?”

Terzo is by his side in an instant, reaching for the photograph. Copia points to the corner and Terzo gives a confused sound. “Is this–”

“I am not imagining it, no?”

“No, I see it. Porca puttana. That fucker was right here all this time?”

Copia’s hands are shaking again or perhaps they are shaking still. He hands Terzo the other picture and he inspects it as well. His heart is racing. If this is true then the creature was here even before the attacks and your exhaustion did not come from stress alone even then. But– how? Why now?

“I will bring these to Secondo,” Terzo says. “Perhaps they will help him find out what exactly this thing is.”

Copia nods and as the door closes he releases a deep, shaking sigh. His eyes find your sleeping form and he feels shame burning up inside of him. To think that he invalidated your fears of this creatures coming back, that he thought you had imagined it, even. You’d known exactly what it could do and he was so blind to it all. But then it had been dormant for so long and he was so certain he could be the one to protect you from any harm.

What a fool he is, what an absolutely useless fool.

He’s not sure when he started crying, he’s not even sure when he lost track of time. The day runs through his fingers, the bright ring of sunlight around the window slowly dimming as evening comes around. The nurses must have been back. He notices at some point that the bag dripping fluids into your body is full again; he has no recollection of it happening.

“When will you come back to me, amore?” he whispers and his voice sounds foreign to him. “I have so many things to tell you, if only you wake up. You have to know how sorry I am.”

He sits for hours, anxiously getting up once to relieve himself in the adjacent bathroom but otherwise not moving. You remain asleep for the rest of the day, unflinching, then night rolls around. At some point Terzo returns to tell him that Secondo is deep in his research, that they have ghouls surrounding the building to make sure the creature can’t come back to hurt you.

“You should get some rest, Papino,” he says. “Some sleep. You have been up for two days now.”

“No,” Copia just says, his tone mildly irritated, and what would they do? Force him away from you? No one would dare defy their Papa in this moment and he’d rain hell on them if they tried.

Terzo is not done. “Some food, at least?”

“No, I just want my peace.”

“Fine. But I will tell you this, Papino… We kept Sister away from here.” Terzo gives him a displeased look that wrinkles forehead. “She was busy preventing a mass panic, helped the Siblings settle down, telling them they were safe which we don’t even know is true. But I cannot promise that she will stay away for much longer when she is done.”

“Whatever,” Copia says, stubborn now, his anger flaring up once more. “If she is mad at me then I don’t care for shit. I don’t care for shit, fratello. I don’t care about anything but my amore.”

“Va bene,” his brother says and once again the door closes, leaving him alone to his thoughts.

✦ ✧ ✦

Soft grass underneath your fingertips. Every leaf is framed by a pale yellow glow, like sunlight shaving its lengths. A soft breeze moves through the trees, swaying branches above you.

Sybil lies next to you on a blanket that is just a bit two small for two people. She’s on her belly, reading a book about famous artists. You see that she’s on the page about Goya.

“I see why you like his work,” she says. “Some of your sketches remind me of him.”

You smile and look straight ahead. The pond is glistening in the bright light of the sun. It’s surprisingly not too hot out here. You’re not sure you can feel any temperature at all. But then, this is a dream and dreams don’t touch your skin.

“I think you should bake us more of these lemon cookies,” you say and Sybil smiles.

“I will bake them for you until they come out of your ears, if that’s what it takes.”

On the other side of the pond, a group of Siblings is playing volleyball, some others are in the water, waist-deep, splashing each other under echoing laughter. They feel distant, their shapes are blurry. The light swallows them up when you stop focussing on them.

“I regret it,” you whisper. “That I never managed to become part of this community.”

“You still can,” Sybil says and then she’s up and drags you along towards the water.

You feel it against your toes, or the memories of how it should feel, then at your ankles, rising up to your knees. It’s a comforting sensation, to feel it surrounding your body. Sybil is still holding your hand and she smiles as she leads you in even deeper. Her red hair looks like it’s on fire, reflecting on the surface of the water like flames.

Suddenly, the reflection flickers. Sybil, crying in her room. Erin is by her side, holding her as her body is shaking with sobs. You don’t think you’ve ever seen her this upset before and you want to ask why. You reach out to comfort her, to hold her, but your hand meets the water and when the ripples clear you only see Sybil as she is. Smiling. Happy.

When you find her gaze surrounded by sunshine she looks almost sorry, the smile suddenly tinged with sadness. You reach for her other hand now and she gives it to you. All you can feel is a surprising comfort, her presence, her mere existence somehow easing your pain.

She moves to embrace you, her hands leaving yours, and as her arms surround your body so does the light, and everything fades away.

✦ ✧ ✦

He wakes up with a start. Copia thinks he dreamed of the beeping of the machines but he can’t remember anything else. For a moment, he is disoriented, until he feels your cold hand underneath his cheek where he must have slumped against the bed. He looks up, half-hoping, half-scared.

You remain asleep just the same as before.

He breathes, consciously so. His lungs ache to make sure to remind him.

No light streams in, so it must be the middle of the night. His whole body hurts in ways he never knew to be possible. For a long time he tries to focus on this pain. His neck, his knees, especially, his lower back and his ass but then there is also the dizziness, the stomachache, the way his limbs have gone numb. He realises that he has neither eaten nor taken a sip of water in over twenty-four hours.

But he can’t leave you now.

He doesn’t have to. A few hours pass before he hears the clicking of her steps even through the closed door. When it opens, Sister is holding a bottle of water and a pre-wrapped sandwich. In her other hand she carries a black t-shirt and his sweatpants.

“C,” she just says, shaking her head like a displeased mother but she doesn’t look as angry as he expected. For a moment he thinks he would like her to hug him but then it passes and he feels pathetic for it. “You look horrible. Here.”

This time, he doesn’t fight the offering, even though his stomach feels ready to turn at the mere sight of food. He’s still weeping, silently now, and she doesn’t comment. For a while she seems to just watch him slowly chewing on the sandwich. It tastes like nothing to him and it’s not as soggy as he would like.

When he’s done, he cleans himself as best as he can in the small bathroom and changes into the casual clothes she brought. Without your blood sticking to him he feels a little more human, a little less like a failure. And yet, it almost feels wrong to shed it, like he should be wearing it in shame.

“Don’t ask me,” he says when he steps out, feeling her gaze on him.

“Ask what?”

“I know you want me to tell you but I will not tell you shit.”

Her lips, ever-pursed, press tightly together. “I already talked to Papa.”

His head whips around. “What?”

“He told me about a demonic attack in her childhood and that it happened again,” she says. “But also that he doesn’t know what exactly happened quite yet. Do you?”

“No,” he admits and it’s not a complete lie.

Sister drags a chair to his side and sits. He’d be lying if he didn’t admit that it brought him comfort, in a bittersweet sort of way. It might well be the first time she’s ever even tried.

For a while, she lets him cry in silence and he’s surprised when he feels her hand closing around his. “You know,” she says. “I have loved your father, believe it or not.”

Father. He swallows at this, the confession, for the first time anchoring him to who he is. He can’t bring himself to speak for fear of startling her out of her confession.

“It wasn’t easy,” she continues. “It wasn’t… a love like yours. It was wild and painful, flying plates and screams and making up just to argue again. We weren’t perfect, not even close. Still, I understand what you are feeling.”

“You do?” he asks.

“I see it now,” she says. “But I wish you hadn’t lied to me.”

“I did everything wrong,” Copia says, and it spills out of him then. “I tried to protect her, to keep her to myself so she wouldn’t have to face any of this shit, but it did the opposite. And now–”

His sob swallows the next words and Sister sighs, a hand on his shoulder now. “I know, C.”

“Are you not angry with me?”

“Oh, I am. I am angry with both of you for being so stupid and  tight-lipped about all of this and I won’t tolerate any more dishonesty or secrecy moving forward.” Her gaze is hard but not uncaring. “But she can’t have summoned a demon. Not even I can do that, just so. We have to find out how any of this happened and stop it from happening again. Do you understand? I need you to cooperate.”

Her words are so unexpected that he nods without thinking. “What can I do?”

The door quietly opens just as the words leave his mouth. Terzo peeks in, making a face when he sees Sister but not otherwise commenting. His lips are tightly pressed together.

“What is it?” Sister asks.

“Secondo asked to see our Papa.”

“No, I won’t leave her,” Copia snaps, clawing his hand into the hospital sheets.

“Papa–”

“No, fratello.”

“We have five ghouls surrounding this room. Trust me, you want to hear this. You need to, because someone has to tell her later.”

Copia looks at you, then, and everything inside of him is struggling against the idea of leaving you here. He thinks you must feel it, when he pulls his hand from yours, but you don’t react. His heart sinks, heavy and beaten as it is. With a sigh that rattles him to his core he finally gets up.

Sister joins them, even though Terzo told her she’s not needed. They make their way to the offices, curious glances following them with every step. The sun is out again, mocking him by smiling into his face. Copia feels like he is being pulled back by an invisible string, like every bit of distance between you is too much and if he goes too far it is going to rip.

Secondo’s office is a mess. Copia has never seen it like this, nor has he seen Secondo, this unorganised and frantic. His desk is cluttered with books and notebooks and papers, even the seats are filled up. Primo is perched on the only chair that’s not covered, Secondo himself leaning over a book with a face that tells him he hasn’t slept all night either. Copia finds that he’s glad his father isn’t present.

“Did she show symptoms?” Secondo asks. It is the first thing, no preamble, his gaze snapping up as if it could drag the words out of him.

“I–”

“Did she?”

Copia halts, he feels like he is in confession, only the hammer is hanging above his head this time. “She had trouble sleeping, nightmares. I found her sleepwalking the night before.”

“Cazzo,” Secondo snaps. “And when were you going to tell me this, hm?”

“She has been dealing with a lot, I–” Copia is already crying again, hot tears of guilt and shame that burn like fire. “And then we argued and it all went so fast–”

Secondo calms notably at those words, at the sight of him, as if he only now realised that he’s in a conversation and not a crossfire. “I am not saying this to blame you, fratello, I want to know what we are dealing with. But now it seems that I am right. I was right this whole time but now I have proof.”

“Right with what?” Sister snaps, her arms crossed and her eyes narrowed to a thin line.

“It is an alb,” Secondo says. “It felt like he was slowly being drained of his life, she told me*.* That is the clue that helped me find it. There were other options, other night demons, other theories I had, but now I am sure. These creatures, they are dangerous. They are practically undetectable. But the pictures match the descriptions.”

“So it’s true?” Terzo asks. “He was possessed and now she is? By an alb?”

“Not possessed,” Secondo says with some contempt at the easy remark, the lack of knowledge. “They do not possess, this is not a movie, there is no exorcism, they are not in your brain and they don’t have to be. They eat, they consume.”

“What does that mean?” Copia asks, unable to ignore the fear that is tearing at him at those words.

“Albs, they are notoriously good at hiding,” Secondo explains, now with more patience. “It is how they operate, they rely on not being detected as they slowly drain their victims of their life energy, mostly during the night. The German word for nightmare is Albtraum and for good reason. People think they are sick, they have insomnia, sleepwalk, but nothing helps, no remedy, no doctor, the horrors never-ending. Everything else is a symptom of it, they become irritable, weak, the lack of sleep, the exhaustion, it slowly drives them mad. There is no need for possession, the creature can watch from the cracks and strike when they are vulnerable. Ultimately, it becomes strong enough to kill them and with time it moves on to the next victim, someone close by to assure a new source of sustenance.” He drums his hand on the desk. “It all fits. They lived in the same house, its powers affected her in her youth.”

“She talked about nightmares too, that she was not feeling well at the time,” Copia provides.

Terzo perks up. “So it had established a connection?”

“Perhaps,” Secondo says. “This might not be all, though. I need to talk to her when she wakes up.”

“Okay, but if these albs drain them slowly, then why did it attack her this fast?” Terzo asks, clearly following along easier than Copia who is still trying to weave this new information into something he can make sense of. He can feel the lack of sleep now, how every word passes him by and he struggles to comprehend.

“Yes, it went rapidly, more rapidly than anyone could have suspected, more rapidly than with her mentor. The only explanation is–” Secondo sighs, then his whole face lights up. “That is why it destroyed everything. But how–”

“What?” Terzo asks.

“I have to think about this. It destroyed her art but only the art of the time around her teacher’s death. Did she somehow trap the creatures power in her paintings?”

“I have not seen such a thing happen,” Primo says, his first words cutting through the tension of the room. “How would she have the power to do so?”

Secondo shakes his head. “That is what we must find out. What happened the night her teacher died that she does not know? What was he doing? And how did it affect her?”

They’re all quiet for a stretch of time. Copia is shaking, he can feel his hands jittering where they touch his thighs. His mind is racing to connect the dots of what happened, all that you told him, all the memories, and then he feels the stab right through his heart as the realisation finally comes.

“We burned them,” he says into the quiet. “It was my idea.”

“Burned what?”

“Some of her paintings. We burned them. It was symbolic, I thought–” His voice chokes up. “To help her through her grief– I thought– It must have started the chain, gave it enough power to come back and now–”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, then, squeezing in comfort. Terzo shakes his head at him. “Do not blame yourself. You could not have known.”

“But I knew something was wrong. I should not have– We should have waited until we knew what it was. I was fucking stupid.”

Secondo sighs, recapturing his attention. “We had no way of finding out before it showed itself. You did what you thought would help.”

“It is unprecedented, to capture a creature like this. By all laws she should have died years ago as its next victim,” Primo says and Copia flinches at his deep, harshly accented voice. “I have fought one, many years ago. A new tome I had found on a market deep in the German Alps that has since been lost to me. As I tested the legitimacy, I summoned it. They are fickle, they pass through gaps. I had my ghouls with me and we managed to banish it again, but with no expertise, no one can do this.”

“You fought–” Terzo starts, then shakes his head. “Of fucking course you did.”

“What I don’t understand,” Sister cuts in, “is how this mentor of hers summoned a creature and we did not detect it. How did he even have the knowledge to do so?”

“The entity could have been stuck in the in between,” Secondo explains. “If it had already clawed its way into our realm then perhaps no intricate ritual would have been needed, perhaps them opening the veil just by a crack would have been enough for it to slip through. It is entirely possible but the question is how did they penetrate the veil at all. Even tempering with these things requires profound resources, not some book you can just buy in the book store.”

“She said he had many spell books,” Copia says, not feeling useful. In truth he is itching to get back to the infirmary, to sit by your side.

“Do you really think any book you can easily obtain in a book store would allow some random hobby magician to perform a working Satanic ritual?” Secondo says, firmly shaking his head. “There is a reason why we are working hard at recovering all the old tomes of dark magic we can find and why they stay locked up in a special vault with no access to anyone who does not know how to handle them.” He sighs deeply, clearly frustrated by his own lack of answers. “No one knows such a vault exists apart from a select few people. The only reason this man could have been in possession of a working book on dark magic is if someone abstracted it from us.”

“But what if he was an official member? After all he was something of a Satanist,” Copia says. “He could have found a way to access the vault.”

“No, he was not an official member,” Secondo says, taking one of the books from his stack. “I have checked the records from the past two decades and there is no Jakob Kraan. Unless–”

“Unless?”

Secondo flips back through the pages, his finger following lines and lines of names that are matched to dates and other information. The first few pages are already faded but the ink becomes darker the further he goes. He leafs through even more pages, chapter after chapter, and then he barks an incredulous laugh.

“I found it,” he says and demands the attention of the whole room, Copia thinks everyone stopped blinking. “He was not a member of our church but do you know who was?”

“Who?” Terzo demands impatiently.

“Her mother.”

“Her mother? Who was married to a conservative dickhead?” Copia frowns. “She went to church for him.”

“Well, she never specified what kind of church,” Terzo says and huffs a surprised laugh.

“Yes,” Secondo says, unamused, closing the book with a dull sound that echos in Copia’s sensitive ears. “And I see now the year she joined is correct and that she was not residential. As Primo already indicated, the book he found in the Alps is gone, it vanished from our possession. I remember it, we summoned new ghouls shortly before Terzo’s anointment. We accessed the vault more frequently at the time and one day noticed that one of our rare books was missing,” he continues. “A book on conjuration and banishments and as chance would have it, the tome Primo acquired in Germany. I have the records right here, it was not to be found anywhere and the search was abandoned after no notable incidents occurred.”

“But an incident did occur,” Terzo interrupts. “He conjured a fucking demon.”

“He conjured it but also immediately bound it to himself. The Alb hid, they are particularly good at this, as I mentioned, considering they are dream-eaters and hide away in the recesses of our minds. The house is almost at the other side of town, none of the ghouls picked up any sort of activity. Or… new activity. It is possible they were blind to it because its energy had been there all this time. Remember, she had visions of it as a child. It must have been bound to this place.”

“But what about the night the demon killed him?” Sister asks. “They didn’t pick up any activity either? There must have been an influx of infernal energy.”

“It burned his house down,” Secondo says. “That’s not necessarily an uncommon occurrence, even if there is some infernal fire, the activity is low and even if the ghouls did sense it it would have been gone just as fast. The alb immediately bound itself to the little painter which must have been easy with her guard down, after seeing her mentor being ripped apart and burnt to a crisp. It was a good way to hide from us.”

“So it’s bound to her now?” Copia asks, which is all he really heard in these past few minutes.

“Likely, yes.”

“How do we unbind it?” Terzo asks.

Secondo sucks in a sharp breath. “I don’t know yet but we must banish it.”

“I am confused. How can the demon have been there for so long that the ghouls did not feel it appear?” Sister asks. “Is this common?”

“Albs are demons that like to linger in the in between, that either never fully crossed or found a way through the cracks into the realm of dreams,” Secondo says. “The veil to the mortal plane is… particularly thin in some areas and would have been easy to rupture. Perhaps it was her little ritual that did it but we know even so the demon did not cross then or it would have been bound to her. It is more likely that this man performed a ritual that tore a hole into the veil with the help of the stolen book. But I think even before that… she felt it lingering underneath the surface. You said she painted the demon before the man showed symptoms. Visions of demons in the in-between have been reported before. In fact often these are the only reports as the demon cannot harm the seer without crossing. The only survivors are those who can see through the veil, just like her.”

“But you said it bound itself to her. How is she alive? How did she trap it in her paintings?”

“I can only speculate.”

“Speculate a little louder, please,” Terzo says.

Secondo gives him a stern look. “If she had visions of the demon it seems like she has a connection to the infernal, perhaps it is from playing around as a kid, perhaps she opened the window to the veil at the time, perhaps it is a gift of our Lord, or perhaps it is because the demon chose her to channel his powers while it hovered in the in-between. Something must have disturbed this channel after the fire. Perhaps the demon was sucked back through the crack and your burning of the paintings opened its path, perhaps it had no need of sustenance until now after it fed on this man. We do not know a lot about them as we cannot summon and control them like the ghouls. They are far more dangerous and hostile, lost, cannibalistic souls that cannot control their urges.”

“Let me… let me make this clear,” Terzo says, waving his hands in front of his body. “It’s possible her meddling with the dark arts as a kid caught the thing’s attention in a way that allowed her to have visions of it long before it tore through the veil? Then, this man somehow did tear through the veil after her mother stole our book, the creature therefore attaches to him and drains him over months, years even, and then it ultimately killed him and bound itself to her instead? And she somehow trapped it in her art until now?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

They all sit in silence after that. Copia is fiddling with the seam of his shirt. He feels like he will faint any second. No matter how it happened, all he knows is that this creature is attached to you and they don’t know how to save you. What did truly happen that night? How can they banish it without the book that tells them how?

“What do we do?” Sister eventually asks. “I don’t care how, Papa, but you will find a way to banish this thing forever. It poses a threat to all of us and I will not stand by while it roams free and wait for another attack.”

Secondo gives her a look Copia can’t decipher, contempt, outright hatred, but also a resistant kind of understanding. “It moves in the cracks of our world, hiding in the deeper parts of the veil until it has to feed. I do not think it will reappear soon, not after it drew so much from her, and while it is possible we will feel some of its effect it will not attack anyone it is not attached to. What I am saying is, we have some time.”

“Good, then don’t waste it,” Sister snaps and she turns, full of antagonising energy, to head out the door. Only she never makes it. A knock sounds, and the door opens tentatively.

Emir peeks into the room, cowering nervously. “I eh, is this a bad time, Your Unholinesses?”

“What is it?” Copia asks.

Their eyes meet and Copia can feel it, that tug deep in his belly that pulls him back to you.

“Papa, it seems–” He’s at the door before the words leave Emir’s mouth. “It seems she might be waking up soon.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Your childhood bedroom, a feeling like you have been taken out of time and placed into a vacuum. Sunlight streams in through the very window Mona once left you from, its glow leaving a pale yellow haze in its wake.

Steps. Your mother enters through the door of your old home, a bar of chocolate in her hand. “Hello, my darling,” she says and sits on the bed beside you.

“Mom?”

“I know, it’s been a while.”

She looks like you remember her, only a few years older, the lines on her face deeper. She has lost weight, lost her spark, lost the light that Mr Kraan had brought to her eyes. You feel the guilt settling in your stomach, heavy as a rock, and everything comes flooding back.

“Mom–“

“No,” she says with a sad, dismissive smile. “Don’t apologise to me, my angel. I will not hear it.”

“But–”

“It will all make sense soon,” she says and breaks off a piece of the chocolate. You can’t taste it, you can’t even feel it touching your tongue. But her hand, her hand finds yours and it’s almost real.

“I don’t want you to punish yourself any longer,” she says. “I have been sitting by long enough.”

“I didn’t call you,” you whisper. “And I took away any chance for you to reach me.”

“I know.”

She still smiles and you wonder why she is not angry, why she’s not accusing you of killing him, why she’s so calm and loving. You can’t find any other words, so you hold her hand for as long as you can. Her familiar features are bathed in the bright lights and the lines on her face vanish until she looks like the young woman who raised you. For a moment you expect the flicker, the shadows that should find her now to remind you of what you did, but they never come. Instead, she changes more and more into the mother you remember. You can see yourself in her now, all that you shared, even your pain. It’s not a shadow, no nightmare, instead, the feeling that flickers between you is a comforting familiarity, two hands connected by a shared phantom pain that never quite left.

“We will meet again soon,” she says, then.

“Really?”

“Yes, my darling.”

She smiles and stands up, stepping towards the window that has now disappeared from view as the rays of the sun have become brighter and brighter. Your mother holds out her hand to you and, grasping it tightly, you step through the light.

Chapter Text

“It seemed both proper and at the same time deeply unfair that so much of life was left to chance.”

― Claire Keegan, Small Things Like These

✦ ✧ ✦

The way back to the infirmary is a blur.

Copia is somewhat aware of pushing past clusters of people who have gathered in the halls. He’s stopped by the security that they stationed outside of the building last night to keep anyone out who doesn’t belong. In his panic, he barks orders at them, and they step aside.

It’s that delay that allows Sister to catch up to him. He’s halfway down the hallway to your room when he feels an arm on his elbow and instinctively pulls away.

“C,” she says. “Before you go–”

“Can this not wait?” He tries not to snap at her in his impatience but his voice comes dangerously close.

“I wanted to give you this,” she says, easily ignoring his moods, and reaches into her pocket. “I…  well, I found it, a long time ago, when it belonged to someone who didn’t deserve it. I think it has a better purpose now.”

He stops in his tracks when he sees the small box in her hand, perhaps the last thing he expected to see. Inside of the velvet cube he finds an antique-looking ring that sparkles under the bright strip lights above. An old-fashioned rose cut diamond sits in the centre, held by four golden claws, while the band fans out in two narrow wings meeting right where the stone sits sparkling. Intended or not, he could swear they are shaped like the wings of a bat.

“This is–”

“You use it if and when it feels right,” she says, exhaling deeply in a way that tells him this moment is not easy for her either. “I want you to have the option but it is a strong suggestion at the same time. Think about my words, C, you saw where it led us. No more secrecy. You can’t afford it. We all can’t afford it. You are Papa now and you have to commit.”

He nods, vaguely aware of her words, still staring at the ring. A proposal would have seemed impossible weeks ago, too soon, too much pressure, the commitment too heavy. But now? If you forgive him, if he gets the chance to make it up to you, then he’s willing to spend his whole life trying.

“Thank you, mo– thank you, Sis,” he presses out, choking up. The gesture is surprisingly touching, not something he ever expected of her, and yet it feels like a moment that was always waiting for him. If this is as close as he can get to receiving her blessing then he will gladly accept it.

“Now go,” she says with a playful eye roll. “You don’t want to miss her waking up after we went through all this trouble.”

She doesn’t have to remind him twice. His feet carry him to the room, eager hands opening the door without thinking, and the sudden intrusion startles the nurse inside. She’s changing the dressing on your hand where the tubes meet your skin but you’re still asleep, eyes still closed. He deflates for a moment, his hope dwindling.

“Hello, Papa,” the nurse says, taking off a pair of single-use gloves.

“What are the news?” he asks. “Emir said–”

“Oh, she’s been murmuring, getting restless,” she explains. “We think it could happen soon. No guarantees but it seems that she’s recovering faster than expected.”

Copia sits down by your side just as she exits the room. Careful not to hurt you he reaches for your hand, still cold but, at least in his imagination, not quite so weak anymore. He presses a kiss to your palm, staring at the freshly bound access where the infusion drips into your veins, lets your fingers rest against his lips for a moment before safely holding them in his.

He sighs, the sudden rush of adrenaline fading into exhaustion. He’s almost given up, thinks he might as well rest his eyes for a while as he waits, but the moment he closes them, dozing off, he finally feels you squeezing back.

✦ ✧ ✦

The light swallows you, bright and all-encompassing. You are stuck in the in-between, dream and reality blurring for a precious moment where nothing feels quite real. Then you feel it, the touch of dried out lips against your hand, the light stubble of a jaw, a hand wrapped around yours.

It’s everywhere and nowhere and you try to focus on the sensation, to locate it, to find out where you have to go. In your trance, you somehow squeeze back.

“Amore.”

The whisper is close and you try so hard to see him. At first, everything is even brighter than in your dreams. But then the room takes shape and everything darkens. You can’t see at first, your eyes feel like they’re too heavy to stay open. For a few seconds you blink against the feeling but give up again. You don’t have the energy to keep going.

“Slow,” he whispers, “I am here, amore. I am here. You can hear me?”

You nod and a radiant pain shoots through your whole body. You groan and then you feel his hand again, a thumb stroking across your knuckles, and it calms you down enough to anchor you. Another few minutes pass until you can keep your eyes open and even then you struggle to make sense of where you are. Copia sits by your side in a room you don’t recognise, staring at you with eyes full of worry. The only sounds are his agitated breathing and the violent beeping of some sort of machine.

“‘strella,” he whispers. “I am here. Take your time, amore. I love you so much.”

You take him in, then, with some sense, focusing on his familiar face easing you back into reality. He is almost unrecognisable, his skin is blotched, remains of his only hastily removed make-up smeared everywhere, his chin stubbly like he hasn’t shaved in days, his lips bitten raw, eyes red and blood-shot, strands of hair flying into all sorts of directions.

“Copia?” you croak, or you try to as the word gets stuck in your dried-out chords.

“Amore,” he whispers and then, to your utter horror, he starts crying.

You want to ask what happened but you can’t find your voice. Instead, you squeeze his hand again, even though it sends more sparks of pain through your body. The memories come back then, slowly, how he cried in your rooms after the argument, the ripped notebooks, the destroyed art in the studio and then–

Your hand shoots to your belly. It’s covered, a soft blanket tucked around you, and somehow you realise that you must be whole. But you felt– you saw–

“You are alright, amore,” Copia says but he cringes. “No, nothing is alright but you are back here with me.”

“It– it was there,” you say and the words come out, almost understandable. “What–”

“I will explain it all to you. But you have to go slow now, yes? You went through a lot.”

You reluctantly accept this as the truth. You can feel the pain, you just can’t locate it because it is everywhere.

It takes another hour or so before you feel remotely alive again. Copia holds a straw to your mouth from which you occasionally sip some water, even though swallowing sends a horrible pain through your throat. He’s crying, on and off, silent tears that trickle down his cheeks and it frustrates you that you can’t wipe them away. But he’s safe, at least. That is what your mind clings to. You saw the creature and no matter what happened it does not seem to have hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” Copia whispers. He’s been doing that. Apologising for the past hour, again and again, like a mantra, like he’s reaching for absolution.

You furrow your brow, try to use your voice again. “Copia–”

“I’m so sorry, amore,” he says again and his voice breaks as the tears come once more. “I should have– I did everything wrong. I’m so sorry.”

“You saved me,” you say.

“The ghouls saved you,” he explains. “They felt the creature when it manifested. They chased it off.”

Relief. You breathe as best as you can, though it feels like you’re carrying a weight around your neck and chest that presses the very air from your lungs. “You?”

His fingers play with yours but it’s a nervous gesture. “I found you, up there. My ghouls led me to you. They– they healed you. Quintessence.”

You can tell he’s struggling to speak. He must be panicking, or he is close to it, anyway. With some regathered strength you take his hand, yours around his this time, and he helps you lift it to your chest. “I love you,” you squeeze out.

His face lights up, as much as it can, in his state. ”Amore–“

“Nothing to forgive. I was wrong.”

You can see the relief settling on his face but you have to close your eyes for a moment as the energy escapes you once more. Only later do you notice that you’ve fallen asleep. The next time you open your eyes Copia is lying with his head on your thigh, crouched awkwardly across the side of the bed. You’re not in as much pain anymore, another, smaller bottle of fluid is hanging from the IV pole, and you think a doctor or nurse must have been here to give you new medication in the meantime.

You lift a hand to run your fingers through his hair, dirty greying strands, and it’s then that you notice the ring on your finger as it sparkles against the light of the monitor. It’s beautiful, a diamond held between two wings that look almost like those of a bat.

Copia stirs at the touch and when he blinks up at you surprise crosses his features. “Did I–”

“What’s this?” you ask, your voice finally stronger.

“What?”

You hold up your hand for him to see and his whole face flushes, his eyes flickering to yours nervously.

“A ring,” he says. “Sister gave it to me. I– I was gonna–”

“Copia?”

He swallows, takes your hand in his and you can feel how he’s shaking. “‘strella, will you marry me?”

You struggle to comprehend but his expression is sincere and you realise that he means it. A proposal? You have no opportunity to overthink a reply before you’re already nodding and the tears run down your cheeks, hot rivers against your cool skin.

“Yes?” he asks, his red eyes big and full of unspoken hope.

“Yes,” you say and in that moment everything feels right and not heavy at all.

He lifts your hand and presses a loud kiss to the finger that holds the ring, keeping it there for a long moment before he releases a shuddering exhale.

“Oh, eh, I don’t actually know if you are allowed to wear this in here,” he says, eyeing the ring. “I will ask them.”

“Don’t leave,” you exclaim, before he can get up.

Copia stays rooted to his spot, his hand still in yours. It’s not enough, you can both feel it. Your whole body yearns to feel him, his warmth, the security of his arms. It’s not been long but it feels like a lifetime since you last held him.

“I wish I could hold you,” he says just as you think it.

“You can,” you urge. “Please.”

“Won’t it hurt?”

You shake your head which is a lie but you don’t care. You lift the blanket on the other side of the bed that’s free from any cables and tubes, spotting the pale hospital gown they put you in. Copia crawls to your side, so careful that it takes him minutes to adjust. You can’t move from your back, you try but the tension in your stomach is too painful. Instead you angle yourself sideways enough to be able to look at him. He’s a mess, still, hasn’t taken a single moment away from your side since you woke up. You think the nurses will be upset with you both for being so careless but you need him more than anything. No pain could keep you.

His hands are gloveless when he touches your cheek, wipes at the drying tears. You reach up, fight against the pull of the cables and tubes on your arm, and cover his hand with yours. He looks at you with so much love and relief that you feel tears pricking your eyes again.

“You’ve only had a horrible time with me so far,” you mumble. “Are you sure you still want me?”

“Have you still not understood?” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you.” Your voice comes out as a whisper, holding onto that quiet, sacred space between you. “And I’m sorry too.”

“We won’t speak of it. None of it matters anymore.” Copia moves his thumb over your lips. “I told you, I would move heaven and earth and hell for you, ‘strella. I did not lie. If I have to kill this thing with my own two hands then I will do it. I will do anything.”

An unbridled rage flickers up in his eyes, an emotion you’ve not seen in him before, not this intensely, anyway. It simmers back down after a moment but the shadow of it remains. You know he means it, there is no doubt about it. This man would walk through the deepest fires of hell for you and you have a suspicion, looking at his worn-out face, that the past twenty-four hours came dangerously close.

You do your best to comfort him, tracing the shape of his jaw, stroking through his hair. Copia is on his side, holding you in a sort of half-embrace, a vague resemblance of a hug that is all you can manage on the tiny bed. Bt it has to be enough for now. It is enough. He’s here and you’re alive.

Nothing else matters.

✦ ✧ ✦

You both fall asleep fast. The passage of time is surreal in this room with its dimmed lights and clinical surroundings and you have no idea how late it is when you wake up.

The sterile bubble is shattered when the door flies open.

Flaming red hair contrasts against the artificial light that streams in through the hallway. Sybil gasps, out of breath, and then a man in a security vest comes up behind her, trapping her arms behind her back.

“You’re not allowed in here, Sister,” he snaps and she struggles in his hold.

”Please– I just– I need to see her,” she says as he tries to drag her away.

Copia beside you has roused as well now, sitting up in a daze. “What the fuck is going on?”

“This woman tried to break in, Papa,” the guard says. “I will carry her out.”

“Sister Sybil? Is that you?””

“They wouldn’t let me enter, they said only upper clergy is allowed,” she says. “I had to break in.”

“Let her go,” Copia says, waving his hand in sleep-deprived annoyance. “And please, get the fuck out.”

Ten minutes later, Sybil is perched in a chair by your side, cleared by Copia who, thanks to her taking over visitor’s duties, went to organise some food and water. You’ve not been a good conversation partner to her since he left, tired and in lingering pain, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Her hand is warm in yours, the soft stroking of her fingers enough to ground you.

“No one knows what happened,” she says when you blink at her. “I didn’t even know if you were still alive. Fuck, I was so worried– I’m sorry I caused a scene.”

“It’s fine, I’m glad you’re here.”

She smiles, warm and familiar. “I’m sorry to bring this up. But I heard that– that you got attacked. Is it true?”

You close your eyes as you nod. “I should have known it was here.”

“How could you have known?” she argues. “None of this is normal.”

“I felt it,” you explain. “But I didn’t want it to be real. I should have seen the signs, I knew them, I just– God, I put you all in danger–”

“Okay, stop that,” she says, sounding a lot more like her energetic self now. “Listen, Monet. You were going through all sorts of changes, you’ve spent months on this portrait, got into a new pretty damn big relationship that has a lot of bullshit expectations attached, opened up about your trauma, for the first time allowing yourself to grieve. I think it’s pretty fucking fair not to spot the minute details of a fucking demon attack.”

You can’t help but huff a laugh ”Satan.”

“Yeah, it’s bonkers,” she agrees.

“Still–”

“It happened,” Sybil interrupts. “You can’t change it. What matters is that you’re alive and recovering. I won’t hear anything else, alright? We can argue about this when you’re standing again. I’m sure Papa would agree.”

You nod, though you’re not sure acceptance will come this easily. The regrets and guilt that have always accompanied you still remain and will likely do so for a long time. You’re not sure yet how dangerous the creature is and so far Copia hasn’t filled you in as to what they found out. But then neither he nor you have been conscious enough to talk for very long.

“This ring,” Sybil says, toying with it for a moment. “I’ve not seen it before.”

“Oh,” you whisper, remembering, and then a manic giggle breaks out of you. “Sybil. Sybil.”

“What? Are you telling me– No way.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“How? When did he do that?”

“After I woke up.”

Her eyes widen and she stares at the diamond. “Oh my God. This is– How are you this calm?”

“It feels surreal,” you whisper. “I don’t even think I’ve registered it yet. Nor what it means. Nor anything that happened. But also, I am on heavy pain medication.”

“Well, don’t start thinking about it now because I’m note sure a panic attack would be beneficial in your state.”

Your whole head hurts when you smile at that and she’s smiling back at you with such relief that you can’t begin to worry. None of this is real anyway, it doesn’t feel like it, and the drugs you’re on make it a little bit easier to ignore. If you pretend you’re in your own bed, dreaming, then perhaps it doesn’t have to be.

A few minutes later the door opening anchors you back to the present. Copia returns with two bottles of water and some sandwiches. He must have showered as well, his hair is still damp and his features seem softer in the dimmed light of the room. You sip slowly from your refilled cup while he hands out the food and to your surprise he gives you a sandwich with a thick layer of cream cheese.

“They said you can eat if you have an appetite,” he says. “Jut don’t eh– overdo it.”

The moment you smell food your stomach comes back to life. So far you’ve only felt the dull pain that lingers in your middle, the tension of the healing wounds, a bit of an itch you try to ignore, but now you can feel the way your body is very much still alive. It’s almost as much of a relief as seeing Sybil and Copia, to know that you’re not beyond repair.

You eat slowly and mindfully, savouring the taste of bread on your tongue. It’s not been long and yet it feels like sharing that pizza with Copia happened months ago. You can’t fight the memories of the argument that followed, the night in the old bell tower and then– The image of the demon flashes up inside of your head and you have to force it back out. It remains, a shadow of an imprint behind your eyes.

No one notices your hand balling into a fist.

“I’ll head back out,” Sybil says, a half hour later. “I promised Erin an update once I knew how you were. But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Thank you for coming,” you whisper, your voice strained, and she gives your unoccupied hand a firm squeeze before she leaves.

Copia crawls back in bed with you once she’s gone. You lean your head against his shoulder and he presses a kiss to your temple. The smell of his aftershave hits your nose and you lift your hand to feel the fresh smoothness of his cheeks. The familiarity of it grounds you, the memories pushed back for now. He is your home, he is healing and forgiveness.

“How do you feel?” he asks, reaching for your hand to press a kiss just below the ring.

“Better than I should. I don’t know what the ghouls did but I’m pretty sure I’m already healed quite a bit.”

“Hm, it’s their magic.”

You gather some courage in the quiet that follows. You’re half tempted to close your eyes and let sleep take you when you finally ask. “Are you going to tell me what you know?”

Copia heaves a sigh, like he’s been dreading the question. With some more reassurances that you’re well enough he starts to recount the conversations he’s had with Secondo, Sister and his brothers. It takes you a while to wrap your head around all of it, the alb, the symptoms, the paintings and the powers of trapping it that you never knew you had.

“Your mother– she stole the book he used to summon it,” he finally confesses.

“My mother?” you breathe.

“She was a member of our church,” he confirms. “Secondo found her in the records.”

“But– She went to church every Sunday. She dropped me off and went to church.”

“Yes, but not the church you thought. I’m so sorry, amore.”

You’re silent for a while, staring at the even squares that tile the ceiling. “She lied to my father. And to me. She never– I can’t believe it.”

“The book– have you ever seen it?” Copia asks then. “Or did it burn?”

“I think it must have,” you say and suddenly you feel infinitely tired. When you close your eyes, a distant memory is conjured up from deep within the recesses of your mind.

“I finally got what you wanted,” your mother says. “But…”

“I know, I will be careful. Thank you, darling.”

“I don’t know if it’s the right thing but–”

“It’ll do,” Kraan says. “I’m running out of money, the last commission was months ago, and it’s getting tight, my love. Anything that helps is welcome.”

“But are you sure this is the right way?”

“It’s as good as any.”

You remember him coming into the hallway with a thick book in his hand after you’d just got back from seeing Henry. It has to have been the book your mother stole, you can’t imagine they found another old tome.

“I remember now,” you say, suddenly more awake. “I saw it after she gave it to him. I didn’t know it was stolen or that it was so dangerous. But it looked completely different from any other spell books he had.”

“Did you see it again after that?”

“No but– later, when I came home I found him in the studio and it smelled of smoke. I– I had a vision of the creature, right there. Kraan was out of it, confused and disoriented. He told me he had been sleepwalking but I think that was a lie. He wasn’t in his pyjamas and he looked like he had been sitting there, doing Satan knows what. He talked about nightmares, too.”

“He might have used it that night,” Copia says, sitting up.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “But why did he have nightmares before?”

“Secondo said the creature might have had some power over your home already, from the in-between. That’s why you saw these visions.”

You frown, moving your body to the side, and a sudden pain seizes you, so strong that you moan out. It shoots from your belly into your limbs, then like a bolt into your head, two red eyes flaming up behind your eyelids. For a moment you’re a knot, every muscle clenched as you fight it off.

“Amore?”

“Sorry–”

“I will call the doctor.”

”No, no, it’s fine. I just moved too much.”

Copia waits for a moment to see if you’re being honest and you breathe against the ache until it finally recedes. You relax when he draws a soothing pattern into your hair, his arm carefully wrapped around you.

“Enough for tonight,” he orders, using his Papal voice, and presses a firm kiss to your cheek. “We will sleep now, amore. It’s enough.”

His voice leaves no room for all the questions you still have but tonight you’re too tired to fight. When you close your eyes you inhale the scent of his cologne, replace the smell of antiseptic in your nose with the familiarity of him. He’s warm and safe and soft and, most importantly, he’s yours.

Copia is still tracing the curve of your head, his fingers dancing as your breath evens. Just before you drift off you hear him whispering a prayer, quiet words forming just below his breath, “Grazie, Satana all’inferno, per avermi permesso di tenerla.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Time passes slowly in the infirmary. But it does pass.

A week from the night you got attacked you’re finally allowed to leave. The abbey’s physiotherapist, a young Brother of Blasphemy, spent the past few days slowly walking with you to see if you could handle the pain and teaching you some mobility exercises that should help you along. By now the quintessence in your body, as Copia had called it, must have done its job. While it seems to have healed you fairly well it also seems to have run its course, the progress slowing down.

You are far from back to normal, the fatigue seems to have settled into your very bones, but you can go about your routines, slow movements, washing yourself, eating, using the bathroom, walking from A to B. The doctor’s condition for discharging you, however, was that you’d take at least another week off painting.

In a way, it’s a relief. You’re not sure you’re ready to face the studio again after what happened, though you’re not as scared of the creature as you should be. You’ve come face to face with it multiple times, felt the terror it evokes, but it’s not the alb that truly scares you, nor death itself.

It’s what it might do to those you’ve let into your heart.

Copia hasn’t left your side and you’re not sure how the abbey is handling his prolonged absences. Now, just a few hours after you got home, he’s settled into his quarters to watch over you, papers stacked on his tiny coffee table where he set up camp to work. You’re in bed, still sleeping more than you’re used to. You know the alb sucked the majority of your energy from your body and yet you find yourself impressed by the insatiable need for sleep you still have.

“What’s that?” you ask conversationally, voice drowsy as you watch him reading over a particularly long document.

Copia is wearing his glasses, perched low on his nose so that he can look at you over the rim. “Ah, a budget report for next quarter.”

“And you’re just signing it?”

“I read over it and if I approve I will sign it. It is mostly just a formality but sometimes you will find a mistake or two. Some people never check for rounding errors.”

“Why is that your job and not that of Sister?”

He leans back, his shoulders resting against the sofa. “Well, usually it would be. But as a Cardinal I was head of the treasury, long before I became Papa, and when we talked about what would fall into my hands I requested to take care of it.”

You smile into the pillow. “You like numbers.”

“I do, sometimes,” he says, sharing in your smile. “Other times? Not so much. How is your belly?”

“It’s fine,” you say and it’s the truth. You’ll be able to go without the bandage in a day or two and most of the pain has faded unless you move too fast. Really, it is the fatigue that is holding you back, the way you can’t seem to keep your eyes open. Every cell in your body is trying to regather the energy you lost and you can feel that it will take a long time to get it back.

“Are you done soon?” you whisper, feeling the need for sleep more acutely now, no matter how much you love to watch him.

“Ah, it will take a few more hours, amore.”

“Oh, okay.”

You sigh and close your eyes. It’s become difficult to sleep without the sensation of Copia holding you, anchoring you, his words lulling you into safer dreams. You’re not sure if the alb is feeding off of you even now, how far its influence reaches even though the ghouls chased it off. No matter what the answer to that question is, the memories of it still haunt you. Whenever you close your eyes you feel it staring back at you. Sometimes you imagine its claws scraping over your belly and you have to peel your eyes back open to make sure it isn’t real.

After few minutes of careful tossing and turning you feel the mattress sinking under his weight. Copia’s hand comes to rest on your arm and you blink to lift your gaze. “Do you need me, my baby?” he asks, his voice as soft as his smile.

Heat rises to your cheeks. “Yes.”

He removes his glasses and when he crawls underneath the sheets you feel the relief like a gentle caress. His body is solid and you’re finally healed up enough to lay on his chest where his heart is beating a steady rhythm against your cheek. Though he can’t possible be tired after sleeping all night you’re grateful that he joined you, that he’s chasing away the claws of any monster that might be trying to reach out.

Copia fiddles with your fingers where they rest over his pectoral, breathing a sigh into your hair. “You still want to marry me, yes?”

You huff a laugh. “Yes.”

“And you are very certain?”

“Yes.”

“Like, absolutely sure?”

At that you look up and find him staring at you with almost fearful eyes. “Yes, baby.”

“Good, good,” he says, forcing a smile.

You lean up to press a kiss to his jaw. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. It’s just–” He shrugs, running his finger up your cheek. “Not long ago–”

“I know.”

“It’s very soon. And just days ago you said you don’t trust me.”

His words wake you enough to sit up. “That was not– Satan, I don’t know what I was thinking, Copia. Of course I trust you. And I was wrong, Sister didn’t do it. You know her better than I do, I should have trusted that as well.”

“Maybe not. You were right to question her. She did not harm you but it is true that she was suspicious.” He avoids your gaze for a moment, his hand stopping its caress. “I have to tell you, amore. She knows everything now.”

“I’m aware,” you say and suddenly all the thoughts rush back in unbidden. “I didn’t expect it to be secret now that– that I’ve put everyone in danger. Of course they have to know.”

“You?” he asks. “You did nothing wrong, amore.”

“I did. Without me it wouldn’t be here. Everyone is in danger because of me.”

Copia frowns in the way you’ve last see him frown after your confession. He doesn’t speak for a moment, then an exasperated sigh eats through his throat.

“I will not entertain this,” he says and it’s then that you notice just how weary he is. The lines on his face appear deeper, shadowed circles drawn underneath his eyes. “We have discussed this many times and I will not do it again. We can shift the blame around until we go mad, but I will not allow you to carry it alone.”

You swallow, a sudden knot in your throat, and lie back down.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” is all you say.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees with another sigh. “But I know no one came to harm but you, ’strella, the only one you hurt is yourself. Over and over.”

“We don’t– we don’t know. Sybil had nightmares, you suffered because of me.”

His fingers gently grasp your chin, turning your head upwards until your eyes meet. “My suffering is only because I love you. And I will bear it again if I have to.”

“Are you sure?” you whisper. “What if I never get over it?”

“You do not have to,” he says. “We will learn to live with it.”

He bends down to gently kiss your lips and you breathe against him, leaning into his touch when his hand finds your cheek. His strength is what holds you together, even though you don’t know the source of it. You grasp at his shirt, holding on, and he presses in harder until you gasp for air.

“I love you,” he says and the phrase is firm, unwavering. “I made the mistake to think I could shield you from this world but that is over now, amore. We will be brave together. Yes?”

“Yes,” you whisper and then the tears begin to flow as the full weight of this new reality falls down on you.

You lose grasp on your composure. Copia catches every sob that shakes you, holding you through every emotion. They run through you with equal parts pain and relief, but the meltdown that follows is almost cathartic. Flashes of memories pass through you, plain and without judgement, blinking past you with a speed that makes it impossible to linger on any of them. The past and the present and the chance at a future. No matter how hard it will be, there is enough strength in what you have in each other.

Copia’s lips consume the tears the fall from your eyes until you have none left and when you fall asleep you finally feel empty again.

✦ ✧ ✦

A new kind of determination takes hold of you over the days that follow. You trace the scars that run along your belly, three marks, the shape of the claw marks not dissimilar to those that tore through Terzo’s painting, yet somehow more desperate in their depth. You wear them like a warrior that made it through battle and in a way you did. Only you know that the war has just begun.

The lines are fresh, deeper than the one that graces your ribs, a richer colour that will fade over time but seems brutal in its current state.

You pull one of Copia’s overly loose old shirts over your head. The brothers have decided that you rested enough to tackle the issue of finding a way forward and the meeting makes you nervous.

Copia opens the door and you spot a flicker of shadows passing by in the hallway. He hasn’t told you that the ghouls are still protecting you but it doesn’t come as a surprise. Their presence is hard to miss, now that you know what to look for.

Secondo steps into the small quarters, unusually casual in his attire with a pair of black slacks and a polo shirt, but even so he looks out of place in the eclectic mess that is Copia’s living and bedroom. He glances at you briefly, appraisingly, but in a way that feels more caring than judgmental.

“Sorella,” he says in greeting, sitting on the sofa Copia had been anxiously cleaning earlier. He must have been here before, his eyes barely stray. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” you reply from your spot on the bed. “A little bit more like a human again.”

He smiles. “Good. You are ready to talk about what happened?”

“I think so.”

Copia hovers by your side, a hand nervously fiddling with your shoulder. “A glass of water, fratello?”

“No, grazie. I won’t stay long.”

When he still won’t budge you tug at Copia’s hand. “Sit down, my love, you’re making me nervous.”

“Ah, perdonami.”

He sits, dutifully, at the other end of the sofa, hands folded in his lap. You relax a little, watching Secondo as he opens the notebook you’ve seen in his office before. You note that Terzo and Primo remain absent and somehow this puts you more at ease. You’re not sure you have the energy to handle all Emeritus brothers at the same time.

“Sorella, can you tell me what you remember?”

You vaguely recount what happened the night the demon attacked you, though much of it remains obscure to you even now. Memories have fused together, some have disappeared. Even so, he scribbles down word for word of what you tell him, adding annotations in the margins.

“I am wondering,” he says. “I assume our Papa has told you about my theories?”

“Yes, he’s told me.”

“Your mother.” He drums the pen against his knee. “Do you think it is possible she stole the book?”

“I think she did, yes. I remembered a moment in our home, when she handed him a book that fits the description. He must have used it the night he–” Your throat dries up but Secondo only nods, not pressing on. “We didn’t have much money at the time,” you explain instead. “My mom was working herself to the bones and he hadn’t sold any paintings in a while. I assume he used it, hoping it would grant him fortune, a last ditch effort to reach financial stability. That’s what he kept talking about, anyway. That he wanted to try and provide for us.”

“You have never looked inside the book?”

“No, I never saw it again after that one time.”

“We know he must have allowed the alb to pass the veil soon after he received it. It is around the time when the symptoms started, yes?”

You think back, though it is a very loose time frame. Henry and school kept you occupied, you weren’t home as much, and yet it all fits together perfectly, the only question you can’t answer– “Papa, how– how is it possible that I had the power to trap the creature in my art?”

Secondo sighs, leaning back. You can tell he is dissatisfied. “I do not know, sorella. Whatever he did the night– whatever he did to cause his own destruction, it must have angered the creature. I do not know how you got out alive.”

You’re quiet, closing your eyes. You fight against the pain that threatens to spill when you access that locked up chest of emotions deep inside of you. The memories have spilled out once, they have spilled out again and again, and yet it feels different now. You’ve been healing over the wounds that they released and to access them again is threatening to rip them open once more.

And yet you know you have to. If you ever want to escape the claws of the thing that traps you you have to be brave. You glance at Copia, remembering his words. We will be brave together.

Then the memories come.

Sirens approaching as you enter the house, the fear of Mr Kraan being hurt propelling you forward.

Your heart racing, a loud droning inside of your head that resembles your pulse. Smoke covering the entrance to the upper floor and despite the fire everything so dark, the light of the flames swallowed by the unnatural presence inside. Your ears, closing up under the pressure, then suddenly a storm. No, not a storm, but an echo of voices.

Exilium. Exilium. Exilium.

The word, repeated again and again, higher, lower, deeper, faster. And then, the wall of smoke as you finally enter the upper floor. Through the orange fire, different coloured flames, a symbol on the floor, shifting from red to green, but not any symbol, a pentagram, and in the middle the half-burnt body of your mentor.

Exilium. Exilium. Exilium.

When you open your eyes to look at the two men on the sofa you have to fight back a scream.

“I think I know,” you finally whisper, the realisation of your vision followed by a sense of unspoken dread. “I think I know what he tried to do. Do you know what the word exilium means, Papa?”

“Banishment.” His brows shoot up and a fist forms around his pen. “He tried to banish it?”

“When I came into the house, the word echoed between the walls.” You swallow against the lump in your throat. “He tried to get rid of it. It– it must have been his last effort to try and save himself. I walked in just as it was too late.”

Copia is by your side before the first tear has fallen, gathering you in his arms. He coos and you cling to him as the pain of the memory ebbs through you.

“Thank you, sorella,” Secondo says as he notes down what you told him. “This changes everything.”

You look at him through the blurry tears. “What do you mean?”

“You walked into an active banishing spell,” Secondo says. “And its powers transferred to you.”

”But it failed–“

“The spell didn’t fail, though your mentor was too weak and inexperienced to execute it properly,” he explains, then his gaze softens. “I feel your pain, sorella. But you must know, the spell is what protected you or you would be dead now.”

You furrow your brow and Copia presses desperate kisses to your hair. You close your eyes again, willing the vision to return. You think about yourself stumbling out of the studio, somehow unharmed. The flames had licked at you and yet you had not even suffered from smoke poisoning or a single burn to your hands. The only thing that properly hurt you had been the hot beam that hit your ribs, but that had been before– before he died. Before the spell transferred.

Everything after that had left you untouched.

“So that’s how I got out,” you whisper and more fragments appear. You, found by Copia, shaken by what had happened, a night in the infirmary, rooms assigned to you, and then the frantic sketching and painting of the creature that followed in the weeks and months after. The very art it destroyed just days ago.

Secondo nods. “His spell is what saved you and protected you until now. However small of a comfort it may be.”

“So we know that this banishing spell is working?” Copia asks. “If we perform it the right way? Primo used it to banish an alb before, yes?”

“But the book got burned in the fire,” you whisper. “We can’t replicate it.”

“It must have burned, yes. But your mother– “ Secondo trails off, thinking. “Is it possible that she knows? That she can remember it?”

”I– I think it’s the best chance we have,” you say. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to face her.”

“I’m afraid you must,” Secondo says, his voice soft and empathetic as he stands and gets ready to leave. “If we do not find out how to reproduce the spell then your life is in danger and soon that of the whole congregation.”

Chapter Text

“No guilt is forgotten so long as the conscience still knows of it.”

― Stefan Zweig, Beware of Pity

✦ ✧ ✦

Every day that follows is spent catching up on sleep. At the best of times you feel like a cat, curled up in the comforts of Copia’s warm bed. At the worst of times you feel like someone hit you with a car, your body leaden, fatigued and not much use for anything.

Recovery is slow but you do feel a little more like yourself with every day that passes. The ghouls keep the creature away, or perhaps it has fed enough to leave you alone until it grows hungry. No more sleepwalking, you only have occasional nightmares about what happened, but your rest is mostly undisturbed.

Copia has been going back to the office for a few hours every day, catching up on urgent work and meetings. Sybil is keeping you company during some of the time, reading to you from art books, playing VHS tapes of old movies, anything to make sure you’re not alone for too long.

Even so you have more time alone with your own mind than you would like.

The reveals of the past weeks and months have been a weight lifted as much as a weight added, the changes, the rapid way in which your life has gone from being a recluse to having a whole family of people fussing, worrying, helping, a congregation that suddenly depends on you to trap the demon that’s lurking in their walls.

The shadow of your loss has accompanied you your whole life, years of it dragging you under with no chance to claw your way back out. Every attempt to free yourself had failed – until you finally met Copia. This time you’re not alone. There are so many arms to help pull you out of the void that you’re not even sure how to reach for all of them.

You startle awake to a knock on the door, about a week after you got home. Copia has left you an hour ago for a meeting with Sister and you’ve been dozing after a heavy breakfast, trying to restore your energy with any means possible.

Dragging yourself to the door, you’re surprised to find Terzo. He raises his eyebrows, appraising the state you’re in and coming to some sort of decision.

“I saw that our Papino is busy and thought I would see if you wanted some company,” he says.

You haven’t had a chance to talk to Terzo alone in quite some time, not since the ripped painting, and the thought gives you some relief. “Please, come in,” you say but he shakes his head.

“No, you have been holed up in here for a while. Let us go on a walk. It can be a short one, yes?”

The charming smile on his face makes you agree and a few minutes later you’re walking along the path to the woods with your hand in the crook of his arm for support. Your legs carry you a little safer now, though you struggle to keep pace. Even so, the fresh air feels like a sigh of relief every time it leaves your lungs. With the wind brushing through the canopy and the birds eagerly chirping you immediately feel more alive. You do note the dark flickering of ghouls following you in the shadows of the trees but at least for now they make you feel safe.

“How are you feeling?” Terzo asks after a while of companionable silence.

You huff a laugh. It’s a question you’ve been asked too many times now and one you’ve still not found a solid answer for. “I’m not sure,” you say. “It’s all– it’s all so crazy. I think I shouldn’t be alive right now.”

“But you are and thank our Lord Below for that,” he says. “I am not sure what would have happened to our Papino had we lost you. He was–” Terzo stops at the memory. “He might have left with you, sorella. Even now, I am not sure he will ever be the same.”

You pass the residency buildings and walk into the shaded area where the woods meet the abbey. It’s comfortably warm, though you’re nicely protected from the sun. You think about Copia and how he looked when you woke up, the way he seemed to have aged ten years in the span of a day. For all your worries, insecurities, hesitations, you know with a startling certainty that he loves you, that he means all of what he says and probably more. It gives you courage, to know that you’re not lost anymore. To know that he found you.

“We have found your mother,” Terzo then says, out of the blue and you tear at his arm as you suddenly stop. “I thought I would tell you before Secondo did,” he goes on. “She lives a few towns down south. We– we have a contact and they will call about a meeting. I think Sister is telling Copia right now to decide on the procedure.”

“So she’s– she’s still around.” Your heart hammers at the thought and your breathing becomes shaky. “I’ll see her.”

“Are you alright, sorella?”

“Yes,” you say. “It’s just– It’s a lot to process.”

“I know.” He stops, places his hands on your elbows to steady you. “But it will help you heal, you realise this? You have been hiding for so long.”

You nod and he wraps his arms fully around you in a hug that roots you into comfort. For a moment you let it wash over you, the fears, the memories, the pain you might have caused her and the pain she caused you with her lies.

“I’m not sure what to tell her,” you whisper. “I thought for so long that I had been the cause of it all. That I killed the man she loved. I’m not even sure if I’ve fully grasped the evidence that I’ve been wrong.”

Terzo breaks away, gifting you a smile. “She will have more answers. It will take time to mend your relationship but she will be glad to have her daughter back. Mothers are made of sturdier material than the rest of us humans.”

You nod, wiping at a stray tear that escaped your eye. “I hope she can forgive me for disappearing.”

“She will.”

Just few meters ahead you find an old wooden bench. Terzo manoeuvres you to its weathered boards and under the shade of the trees you catch a few desperate breaths. You already feel the strain in your muscles but the exercise has improved your circulation as well and you feel less fatigued than before. The soft breeze is welcome against the heat in your cheeks.

“I dreamed,” you confess into the silence. “When I was unconscious, I had dreams. About– about everyone. Copia, you, Sybil, my mom, Kraan–”

“What kind of dreams?” Terzo asks.

“They were happy dreams, mostly.” You wring your hands in your lap, staring at the way your skin moves. “I’m sure it was just my mind searching for comfort amidst the chaos but the conversations were conciliatory. They felt so real, especially the one with my mom and with Kraan. And it is odd because shouldn’t the creature have given me nightmares?”

“Perhaps the ghouls’ influence protected your mind,” Terzo says. “The quintessence does not just affect your body.”

“I just– I just want closure,” you say, “and even if it wasn’t real, it felt like an offer, like he was trying to find peace and help me find mine. But how do you reconcile that someone you loved did a thing that not only killed him but could have killed you, could have killed your mom– could have killed even more people? That it might still do so?”

“From what I understand, he tried to build a future for your new family. The creature abused his desperation to slip into our world.”

“He did. But– I was working so hard to help. My mom, too. She worked so much.”

Terzo smiles. “Sometimes, men are stubborn and stuck in old patterns, hm? He wanted to be the pillar you and your mother could rely on. And even so, it is not easy, when success is not coming. You can believe me, accepting defeat is–” A shadow crosses over his face. “Sometimes it is impossible. We would rather burn than give up, if we had the choice.”

The serious direction of the conversation leaves you both stuck in your own heads for a while. Perhaps Terzo is your lesson, perhaps your unlikely friendship is a way to bring you both to an acceptance you’ve never been able to find. You know Terzo will never heal from the loss of the Papacy and the cruelty he was shown, just like you won’t ever heal from the injustices in your own life. You know you’ll never understand what truly happened and you doubt even now that Sister would admit to what she did to him. She may have accepted you as the woman by Copia’s side but she remains a cunning and secretive woman who only serves herself.

Even in his defeat Terzo remains a presence that easily stands out against the backdrop of the Ministry and perhaps, with a clearer mind, you would have been able to confide in him at the time. You wonder what would have happened had he got the chance to lead the clergy in his own way, to hand over when he was ready instead of being silenced. Would Copia have had an easier time getting used to the responsibilities if Sister hadn’t pushed him in face first, expecting him to betray his brother? Was his own ambition holding him back from interfering?

When you look up to meet Terzo’s eyes you both release a sigh that hints at your respective thoughts. There’s no point mulling over the past forever, not with a demon lurking in the dark.

“Let me bring you back,” he says and offers you his arm once more.

The way back feels a little easier, no matter how scared you are to see your mother. You meet a few Siblings outside the dorms that shoot you curious glances but overall you feel unburdened, relieved to see a clear path forward. When you stop in front of Copia’s quarters you’re glad that Terzo thought to offer you such a reprieve.

The shadow of a ghoul flickers past when he says his goodbyes and leaves down the hallway. You unlock the door, expecting to be alone for another few hours.

Instead, you find Copia curled up on the floor.

✦ ✧ ✦

He leaves the meeting with Sister in a daze.

Vaguely, Copia thinks he should tell you as soon as possible that they have found your mother but Sister tries to keep him for more work and the never-ending swell of her voice drives him mad. She gives up when he’s helplessly distracted and annoyed but not before giving another speech on how he must stay focused.

On the way back to his quarters he runs into Emir, tells him to cancel anything else on his agenda for the day. It’s been enough. He feels like an overprotective mother hen but he can’t stand being away from you for longer than this.

But when he opens door, expecting you to rest in his bed, you’re not there.

For a moment, all he feels is dread. There are logical reasons where you might have gone, your quarters, the kitchens, the studio, and the ghouls didn’t sound any warnings, but he can’t focus on any of them. You haven’t left his quarters without him ever since the attack happened. In his mind, the picture of your torn open body appears, blood oozing from the wound and into his hands. For a moment all he sees is a deep violent red.

His knees buckle as he gasps for air. He lets go, sinks to the floor with a crack, pain shooting through his limbs.

He thinks he might have to throw up.

Wincing, he curls into a ball and lets the dread wash over him until he stops shaking so violently. It takes a few minutes but then he’s got himself back under control, breathes in the way he’s learned slows his anxiety.

Then the door opens and you’re looking down at him.

“Copia?”

You drop to the floor beside him and he’s already sat up to crush you to his body. You don’t flinch when he drags you into his lap and squeezes so tight that he stops trembling from the pressure. His relief bubbles into a groan.

“Where were you?” he asks. “Shit. Where were you?”

“Terzo took me on a walk. I was just outside for a while.”

Copia releases a manic giggle and you break away to look at him.

“What’s wrong?” you ask, brow creased. “Did something happen?”

“You were gone,” he snaps. “You were gone when I came back. I thought–”

“Copia, you don’t have to surveil every step I take–” Your brows draw together. “Especially not when you’re busy. I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay,” he disagrees. “You’re weak and tired and– and I should be here. I should always be here.”

“But why? There are–”

“Because I almost lost you!” He closes his lips, regrets the tone with which the words sprang out.“I almost lost you,” he repeats, quiet now, barely audible. “I can’t do it again. I can’t.”

You both deflate, the anger leaving your body and instead you look at him with such sadness that he feels bad for releasing it all on you.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, amore.”

“I’m sorry too,” you reply and then you reach for his face and press your lips to his.

He reciprocates fast, kissing you so deeply that he can fill the vacuum his fear left inside of him. You’re here, you’re safe, and he needs you so much that his chest hurts, like every breath of you is sacred. Your fingers trail down his jaw, toying with the collar of his black shirt until you’ve opened it and he feels your clumsy fingertips against his neck. Hand splaying on his chest you begin to move your hips and for a moment his vision fades and he has to let go to breathe.

“No,” he whispers against your lips. “You’re not–”

“Please,” you breathe. “I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I need you so bad.”

Copia reins in his emotions, the need to take you hard and fast until he forgets about everything else. No, he needs this to be slow and safe for you. He needs to make sure you don’t hurt.

Half-turning his upper body he drags the blanket from the bed and spreads it behind you, then he lowers you onto your back. He’s missed the sight of you underneath him, the pretty way you look up, eyes full of anticipation, biting your lip, chest rising and falling heavily in arousal. His cock throbs, straining painfully against his pants.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispers. “You know this, my baby? You mean the world to me.”

You nod, eager hands reaching for him, tugging at his shirt. He sits and pulls it over his head, opens the laces on his pants until he can free himself, not bothering to shimmy out of them. You’ve slipped out of your own pants and he’s too impatient now to fully undress you. Instead he leans down and kisses you so deeply that his jaw aches.

“Fuck,” you whisper, clawing at his back, trying to feel more of him, and he allows his weight to rest on you, his cock slipping between your thighs.

Copia thinks he’s seeing stars.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he says. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you say. “Please. I’m ready.”

“Good, good,” he stammers, pushing your panties aside. “I’m– argh.”

The tip of his cock meets your drenched cunt and he crumbles, every limb trembling as he rubs back and forth, making sure you’re wet enough to take him. Underneath him you’re a mess already, mewling into his ear, hips shifting to meet him. It’s been so long, or at least it feels like it, that neither of you can wait.

“Fuck me,” you whisper. “Copia, I need you to f–”

He sinks in and your voice breaks, the tiniest bit of tension holding him back as your body gets used to him again. It’s agonising, forcing himself to go slow when all he wants is to burry deep and feel you clench around him. Instead, he drags it out inch for inch, until he has to let go with his hand and press his hips forward. You moan when his pubic bone meets your clit and he can’t help but shift back and forth to increase the pressure.

“Fuck,” you whisper. “Fuck– Copia–”

“I’m here, baby,” he says, every ounce of restraint going towards his voice. “I’m here. You have me. You are alright?”

You nod, eyes glazed over, your hand finding his cheek. “You feel so good. So perfect.”

Copia smiles, strained, and then he can’t hold back any longer. The pace he sets is slow but you dig your heels into his back to move him along. He follows, waiting for any signs of pain, but all he can see is the pleasure building in your face. When he’s sure you’re fine he begins to fuck you in earnest, ignoring the way his knees chafe on the carpet below. You cling to him, one hand squeezing his shoulder, the other buried in his hair, pulling him down for another kiss.

“I love you,” he breathes into your mouth. “I love you so fucking much, ‘strella, do you know this? Do you know how much I need you? Shit.”

He stutters, he’s close already and you’re beyond replying, only moans and whimpers leaving your mouth in hot gusts of air. Copia feels all of it, your warm breath, the rise and fall of your chest, your heels in his ass and your nails in his skin, every little tremor that goes through you, the pressure of your walls around his cock.

“I’m gonna–”

He groans, spilling inside of you in stuttering shocks, and to his relief you join him the moment you can feel it, shuddering at every little thrust he follows with. Copia exhales in a high-pitched whimper, pressing his lips to your cheek, to your neck.

“Amore?”

You hum and the smile on your lips is enough of a reassurance. For a long time you stay like this, though he tries to shift his weight sideways. The blanket underneath you does little to feather you and he’s too exhausted to move but he knows you’re about to fall asleep if he doesn’t.

“Let me get you into bed,” he says eventually, pulling out of you with a hiss.

Before he moves away, his eyes catch on the scar that peeks out from where your shirt has ridden up. You meet his eyes when you notice and drag it back down, covering the dark lines that run across your belly. He’s about to comment, to reassure you, but you pull yourself up into a sitting position and he has to stop you from falling over.

“It was too much,” he states.

“I’m fine.”

“‘strella,” he complains. “Don’t try to shit me.”

You exhale in a short little laugh and he wraps you up in his arms, uncaring about the mess you’re both making. Breathing a kiss to your head, he strokes along the side of your face, making sure it’s safely resting on his shoulder.

“I will clean you. Can you get on the bed?” he asks softly.

“I think so,” you reply. “I’m– I’m so tired now.”

“That’s okay, amore.” Another kiss. “Now hop hop.”

Within minutes he gets you cleaned up, redressed in a comfortable pair of pants and joins you in bed where you crawl into his arms and deflate. He’s suddenly glad that he cancelled the rest of his appointments, even though it will fall on his feet sooner or later. Before he fully settles down, however, he takes the stack of photos from the nightstand. He’d sorted them a while ago, only leaving a stack of safe pictures of you and him.

“We can watch them until you fall asleep,” he says. “Eh, not the ones with– you know. Just the other ones.”

“Okay,” you whisper, snuggling closer to him and reaching for the bat plushie that’s been resting by the pillow. “I wanna see the one with Mona.”

He obliges, flipping past pictures of you two in the studio until he finds the right one. Copia feels you smiling against his neck, your lashes fluttering closed, and he hasn’t even flipped to another picture before you’re safely asleep in his arms.

✦ ✧ ✦

You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, your shaky fingers sliding from the fabric again and again. The car hums as you make your way through the small town and Copia is squeezing your thigh in comfort whenever he doesn’t have to use the stick shift. You can’t fully meet his encouraging smiles. A tempest of memories and fears is drifting through your mind and every second fuels the nausea you struggle to hold back. Half of you wants to tell him to turn around, the other half is dying to finally see your mother again and mend what’s been broken for so long.

“I think this is it,” he says, turning a corner that leads into a quiet street with closely strung together houses.

You can’t bring yourself to count the numbers but Copia does, stopping his old car in front of a brick house with three or four stories. Multiple other cars park in front of it and you glance over the license plates, looking for her initials, but by then Copia has rounded the car and opened your door. You look at him in terror, trying to breathe calmly as to not fall into a panic.

He kneels, hissing as one of his joints cracks before taking your hands in his. “Are you sure you are ready?” he asks. “I can turn around, amore. If you are not strong enough yet–”

“No, no,” you assure him. “We have to do it, everything relies on it.”

“Still–”

“I’m okay.” You squeeze his gloved fingers, weaving them through yours. “I just need a moment.”

“Yes, okay. We eh– we are too early, anyway.”

He patiently waits as you take a few more deep breaths. You can’t help but note how out of place Copia looks in the small-town neighbourhood – his all black outfit, the ripped pants, the frills on his shirt, the corpse paint he insisted he wear out of respect to your mother as a former member of the church and no doubt for his own confidence. It makes you feel safe as well, to know that he is here with some authority.

Eventually, you let him pull you to your feet. Copia carries the flowers you bought in town after he insisted that he has to make a good first impression with your mother, no matter her reaction. The house itself is quaint, a row of balconies lines its back and you immediately know that the one with the darker shades of flowers must be your mother’s.

Copia holds your hand as you step up to the front door.

Her name on the doorbell.

You press down.

When your mother’s voice answers you feel a shock through your chest. “Hello?”

“It’s me,” you say. “Mom?”

A shaky breath comes from the speaker, then the door buzzes. You push it open, your hands cold and trembling as your body works through your emotions. Copia’s arm is warm as it wraps around you but it falls off when you climb the stairs up to the second floor.

When the door to the apartment opens, you’re already crying. Your mother looks like herself but so different at the same time. Years have passed and they must show in both of your faces but still you feel like the little girl she used to give chocolate to when she found her sad in her room, the girl she helped nurse a bat back to health so it could fly safely out into the night.

The girl she tried to create a safe life for, even if it cost her everything.

“Mom,” you say but the word is muffled by her shirt when she pulls you against her.

It takes forever. You’re not sure if anything else is said, all you feel is her warmth, the smell of the same perfume she used to wear all these years ago.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers after a while. “I’m so sorry, darling.”

“I’m sorry, too,” you say, through heavy tears and she squeezes you a little tighter.

It takes you both a while to detangle and the tears on her face sent you back in time. She reaches for your face, wiping at yours, and her expression is filled with such affection and regret that your heart breaks. It is only then that she notices Copia by your side and her eyes widen.

“And Papa himself would come with you?” she asks. “They told me there was an emergency but is it truly that serious?”

“It is but that’s not why–”

Copia fiddles for your hand, links it with his. “I am not just here as Papa, I am here–”

“As my fiancé,” you say. “We’re engaged.”

Her eyes widen. “Engaged?”

“It’s ah– still new,” Copia says. “She painted my portrait, you see?”

“You still paint?” she asks. “But of course you do.”

“These are for you,” Copia interrupts, awkwardly handing her the flowers.

“They are lovely, thank you. But you didn’t have to get me anything.” She smiles happily when she takes in their scent, dark red gerbera with deep greens surrounding the blossoms, then she waves a hand through the air. “I forget myself. Come in, please, I prepared coffee. You still like it the way you used to?”

She walks back into the apartment to busy herself and you do your best to take off your shoes before she’s out of sight. “I do.”

“And Papa?” she calls from the kitchen.

“Oh eh– with some sugar and milk?”

“Of course.”

Copia shrugs off his shoes and you both wait behind the now closed entrance. The apartment is small, a narrow hallway with three doors, and yet it carries some of the air of the studio. You’re not sure if she managed to salvage any of the furniture but the smell of old wood transports you back in time. Dust, paper, the food she prepared in the kitchen – only lacking the distinct stench of paint dissolvent and chemicals that used to permeate the halls.

“Can we help?” Copia asks, rocking on his heels.

“You may help me carry the tray, Papa, if you want,” your mother says, the title not as foreign on her lips as you’d expect, and in his first display as her son-in-law Copia obediently reaches for the tray that she holds out to him.

For a moment, you wonder how any of this is real.

A few minutes later you sit on her couch, coffee, freshly baked chocolate cake and biscuits all ready on the low table, now adorned by a vase that holds the flowers. Your heart aches. It almost feels like a regular introduction, bringing home your boyfriend, talking about how you met each other, your mother asking if he’s treating you right.

But none of that actually happens. It takes you a moment to warm up, to calm your nerves with the warm mug in your hands. You can tell your mother is waiting for you to feel comfortable and Copia is idly playing with the hem of your shirt while looking at you like he’s taking note of every change in your body. You have no doubt that he’d sweep you off your feet and carry you to a doctor if you so much as breathed wrong.

“The cake is very good,” he says into the awkward silence, poking his fork into the brown mass.

Your mother smiles. “You both know that I was a member of your church, I take it?”

“We do, yes,” Copia says. “Though, you have not been with us recently.”

“No, the last time I attended mass was under Papa Emeritus II, just before his retirement.”

“Why did you never tell me?” you ask, playing with the handle of your mug. “You acted like you were going to church, and dad–”

“Your father never would have accepted my beliefs,” she says, pressing her lips together. “You know this.”

“But I would have–”

“I had to protect you,” she says and her eyes glitter with new tears. “I did not want to influence you. Jakob was never a member and always skeptical of organised religion of all kinds. And he was right, you do not need to part of a group to find your own relationship to faith. I always wanted you to come to your own conclusions and it seems that you did.”

You look down. “I’m still not quite sure about that. I’ve been… learning a lot about myself, recently. But it’s still a process.”

“And that’s okay, darling. As long as you’re happy.”

You nod and Copia reaches for your hand. It’s time to tackle the actual issue and he knows it won’t be easy for you to approach it.

“I have to tell you something,” you continue. “I’m not sure how much you know but–”

She sets her mug down, folding her hands in her lap. “It’s about the fire, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t an accident,” you say. “He– He wasn’t ill, mom.”

“I know. Or… I suspected.”

You look at each other for a long moment, your shared pain conveyed with nothing but a look. It feels impossible to speak of him, to make any suggestion of what happened, not when it could be so easy to ignore all of it, to push it back down.

But you’re not that type of person anymore. And you want answers.

“What happened after the fire?” you ask.

“When I arrived the paramedics told me you were alright, like a miracle,” she says. “But that they could not find you as you had disappeared in the chaos. I had no strength to look for you, right away, but knowing you had survived without injury was all that had mattered.” She takes a deep breath. “The grief for Jakob consumed me and I spent the longest time crawling back out of it, first in a colleague’s guest room, then in a cheap rental apartment, hoping and waiting for you to join me. Well, until you called me to let me know you would be moving to the abbey, that you needed time and space away. I did not know what to do with a burnt down house and I did not have the funds to rebuild it, the insurance money was just enough to get by for a while, so I took the city’s offer and sold the property. I put some of the money aside for you and the rest I used to buy this apartment. And after knowing where you were I was more at peace. I knew you were in the right place, that you would find your future with the people I had grown so fond of, seeing every Sunday.” Her gaze leaves you, her eyes lowered. “I thought you’d be safe and after– after what we did, what happened, I could not come back. I tried to visit but I could not bring myself to enter and I thought it was for the best, that I should listen to my own inner voice and not come back.”

“So it’s true?” you finally ask. “You stole the book?”

She looks at you, then glances away in shame, her lips quivering as she fights for her answer. “It was– we– we didn’t know what would come of it. It was wrong, I know it was wrong and I had my doubts, I tried to tell him money didn’t matter, that we could find other ways. But he was so insistent–”

“He had you steal it?” Copia asks. “It was his idea?”

She nods. “He had been struggling with his art for a long time. It didn’t sell, not like we would have needed to make ends meet. It’s been an issue from the start, the reason we didn’t leave home much earlier. Jakob eventually agreed when my period stayed out,” she explains. “The way your father treated you was only one of multiple factors. I knew I had to take the leap, for your safety and that of your Sibling. The pregnancy was a false scare, my body not handling the stress of working multiple jobs, but I never had a single regret about leaving your father. Only– the money– Jakob struggled with the fact that he couldn’t provide for us and keeping a house and feeding three people is not easy when you’re in debt.”

“Debt?” you ask.

“He had already accumulated a lot of it, by that time,” she says. “He hadn’t been able to pay his bills. That’s the reason he agreed to your lessons in the first place.”

“My lessons? But I thought he had been teaching before–”

“That was a lie I told your father, so he wouldn’t find out, or have you never wondered why there weren’t any other students? I met Jakob when I was lingering at the abbey one day. At the time I could only attend weekday masses during my work breaks and– well. We met when he delivered a painting for some cardinal’s office. Nothing happened, only a short conversation. I told him my daughter was interested in learning to paint and he told me about his studio in town. That’s how I came up with the idea that he might be able to offer you classes. It was purely innocent at first, to find a way to help you feel more at ease, and over time I fell in love with him.”

You huff out a breath, trying to sort through your thoughts. So much of your life had been a lie, so many things you never had the chance to consider. It makes sense, all of it, and yet it feels so profoundly unfair.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “For lying to you, for keeping things from you. I know it’s no excuse but we truly tried to keep you safe. I just– I could not bear to think about what we’d done.”

“So you felt ashamed?” you ask.

“We risked your life,” she states and finally meets your eyes again. “Of course I felt ashamed. I was never a good mother to you, I had you with a man who could never be a good father, I brought you into a house that could have been your death. I thought perhaps it would be best if I left you alone.”

“I thought I killed him,” you whisper. “I thought I did it.”

”Darling–“ She leans forward, though not enough to touch you. “You did nothing wrong. It never had anything to do with you.”

You bite your lip, trying to keep it from trembling. “It attacked me,” you say.

“What?”

“The demon that killed him, it attacked me,” you explain. “It has everything to do with me.”

Her eyes widen. “When?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“I thought it was gone. He had banished it.”

You glance away. “I thought it was gone too. But something went wrong with his spell. I walked– I walked in as it– as it killed him–” You swallow against the ache in your throat. “Papa says it attached itself to me. For a while it was dormant within my art but– but it freed itself again.”

Your mother’s face has lost all colour. You can see her hands trembling, the gentle shake of her head. “That can’t be true.”

“It is,” Copia says. “We are here because we need to find out how to replicate the spell and truly banish it.”

“Do you have any memories of how it worked? His preparations?” you ask, trying to fight back the pain that’s rising to your chest. It’s easier to focus on your mission than the emotions that work through your subconscious.

Your mother shakes her head. “I didn’t know he was going to do it that night.”

“And the book?”

The look in her eyes makes you perk up, the quiver in her lips, the way she’s avoiding your gaze. “Let me–” She takes a deep breath and hoists herself up. “Let me show you something.”

It only takes a few minutes. The quiet in the room after she leaves is oppressive and Copia is giving you a smile, squeezes your hand. He looks hopeful, beautiful with a subtle shine in his eyes, and it calms you immediately. His thumb strokes your palm, grounding you to the sensation, and for a moment it feels like you’re alone in the world.

“You are doing good,” he says. “So good.”

You try to smile but your mind is too occupied with the information you have received so far. Instead, you press a kiss to his hand, keep it close to your lips until you hear your mother’s steps approaching. A large box rests between her hands when she rejoins you and she places it on the table with a thud.

“These are all the things I thought you might want to have,” she says. “Most of the studio burned  down but a few items were downstairs or in the other rooms. A picture of him, a few of his old utensils that probably won’t be useful anymore, one of his sketchbooks and–”

You brush everything aside to reveal what’s underneath. “The book!”

“This is the book?” Copia asks, scooting forward.

“It’s the one I saw,” you confirm. “But why didn’t it burn?”

“We thought it best if I brought it back before we tried the ritual, just so we wouldn’t be found out in case something went wrong,” she says. “I still had it in my bag, that night, when I was at work. He– We had agreed to perform it together, initially.” Her lip quivers at her next words. “But he didn’t wait for the night we had agreed on. I think he was too scared either of us would get hurt so he did it when he was home alone. Whatever he did, the thing must have been too strong by then. We were too late, we should have tried earlier but–”

“You couldn’t have known,” Copia assures her. “As far as we know he never actively summoned the alb. Secondo thinks the creature made use of his tampering with dark magic to slip through a crack in the veil. There is no reason he would conjure a sleeping demon to help with money.”

“You mean it was always there?” your mother asks. “In the house?”

“In the beyond, but– yes. It must have been close by. It could have got through either way.”

The book weighs heavy in your hand, its pages faded, weathered, the leather binding crumbling at the edges. But it is undoubtedly the book you saw him carrying out, the book he must have used to call for help as you had done when you were a child. A dark energy emanates from the tome, tickling your fingertips when you brush them over the cover.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper and look from the book to her, “that I left you. That you were alone with all this pain.”

“I lost him and I lost you,” she says. “I only carried on hoping that one day you would need me again.”

“I always needed you,” you say, tears falling down your cheeks. “I was just too scared to ask.”

She smiles through her own tears and takes your hand over the table, her fingers cool and familiar. “Well, it’s not too late now.”

You nod, squeezing her back, and eye the book once more. Perhaps there is still time. Perhaps you can make sure that everyone will be safe. And perhaps you can move on once you know that you’re finally free.

✦ ✧ ✦

The book weighs on you like a curse.

Though it should be a blessing, its presence fills you with dread. Every time you touch its smooth leather surface a sense of darkness takes hold of you, as if it’s swallowing all the light, your vision fading to black at the edges.

Copia had banished it to the backseat on your drive home but even now, as it lays heavy and ominous on Secondo’s desk, you feel a frightening bond with it, like a malicious spell drawing your attention. You wonder if the magic inside of you, the magic that banished the monster all those years ago, is still intact, if your connection to the creature calls to you.

“So it is true, she walked in on him performing a banishment spell…” Secondo muses, pacing his office where Copia and you are perched on two chairs after having relayed the news. His hands are folded behind his back as he tuts with every step, deep in thought, eyeing the book every time he turns towards his desk. “The fragments of the creature regathered until it was able to materialise and feed again which means that we now have to deal with the strongest version of it yet. The spells in this book can work but–”

“But?” Copia asks. His nerves are evident in the way he can’t sit still, fiddles with his gloves, eyes you every few seconds. Even though the visit with your mother went well he’s been as nervous as you, no doubt just as afraid of the next steps in your plan now that the book reappeared.

“But they are difficult and to amplify their effects we will need to create a strong banishing ritual. I will talk about it with Primo.”

“I–” You swallow, eyeing the book once more. “I definitely feel a connection to it.”

“To the book?” Secondo sits down opposite of you and you reply with a nod. “Quite remarkable. The question is whether parts of the spell are still active inside of you. If so, we can use them to gain the upper hand.”

“I was never special,” you whisper. “I doubt I could be of much use. Back then, I was just a girl.”

“Even so– the visions, the sheer will it took to trap it– the strength to absorb the true dark magic of a banishing spell from a sinister tome like this–”

You meet his gaze and his eyes soften, an almost playful smile settling on his lips.

“You are a powerful woman,” Secondo says. “And I think it is what will help us win in the end.”

“So what do we do now?” Copia asks, anxiously shifting in his chair.

“We will banish it,” he replies. “Once and for all.”

Chapter Text

“Who holds the devil, let him hold him well,

He hardly will be caught a second time.”

― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, Faust: Part 1

✦ ✧ ✦

Copia’s skin is scratchy against yours when you rub your cheek to his. His fingers on your hip tighten and the hand on his desk gives a dangerous tremor that messes up his lines. You nestle further against him, trying to be close, to focus on the present, to hide from the inevitable. His arms are the only safe place in the world right now and you’re not leaving them unless he makes you.

“I can’t work like this, amore,” he whispers but doesn’t show any signs to remove you from his lap.

“Then don’t,” you say.

“Secondo will be here soon.”

You reluctantly tear yourself away at this, the reminder chilling your blood. Copia stops you before you can fully pull away, wordlessly begging for another kiss. You oblige, though not with the passion you'd like to, not with you're suddenly trembling. It's been hard to find moments of peace, to fully let go. Your body tenses at the mere flash of a thought about what's going to happen and you can't shake it off, no matter what you do.

The preparations for the ritual have taken so long that the wait has been agonising.

Secondo consulted you a few times about the exact details of Kraan’s ritual but he never seemed quite happy with his notes, scribbling over them time and time again, leaving you nervous and overthinking. In his office, you glimpsed a list of materials that needed to be sourced and tried not to flinch at words like “human blood” or “bone dust”. When he saw your scared face he immediately covered it up and you try not to think too hard about the risk everyone will be subjected to because of you.

Still, even now as you settle in the chair opposite Copia’s you have to fight the urge to run away and pretend like none of this is real. Copia helps as best as he can but he is haunted by his own ghosts. You notice how you lose him to his thoughts whenever the quiet settles in and you can't fight the image of him on the floor in his room, panicked that you could have gotten hurt. Until this ritual is done neither of you can properly begin to heal. It's why you try so hard to act like nothing is happening whenever you visit him, chatting about trivialities that would feel hollow if you weren’t clinging to them like a lifeline.

But even that doesn’t stop time.

Primo and Secondo haven’t shared any of the actual proceedings with you and when the latter arrives in Copia’s office for that very metting he is all business, tense and professional, a folder trapped under his arm and his sunglasses perched low on his nose. You sit up straighter immediately at the sight. His body is slumped and he looks bone-tired, sleep-deprived, the circles under his eyes barely hidden by the dark frames.

“We are done with the schedule,” he says and hands Copia a stack of papers.

You stretch your neck and see a sheer endless spreadsheet with details, so many that the whole top page is filled in a ridiculously small font, everything planned down to minutes and seconds, the needed materials, the involved people.

“Wait–” Copia says irritably. “This says– No, no, she will not be in there, fratello.”

“We have to lure it to us,” Secondo says. “And the only way to do this is–”

“No.”

“Papa–”

“No, fratello.”

“It is the only–"

“NO!” Copia jumps up, his lip trembling as he slams his hands down on the desk. "No."

Secondo doesn't seem impressed but you flinch, worriedly glancing between the two men.

“We have to use her," Secondo says again, then he turns to you. "You will do it, sorella, yes?”

You shiver, even though you’re not truly surprised. “How do I do it?”

“Amore–" Copia says, desperation creeping into his voice. “Don’t–”

“You have to execute the ritual,” Secondo says, ignoring him. “We will be there to support but you have to be at the center of it, sorella. The creature will only appear for you, to claim what it could not claim the last time. We are nothing to it, not worth its time.”

“But how do I lure it?” you ask, trying to ignore the cold, tingling sensation at the back of your neck.

“Like your mentor did,” Secondo explains. “You will call for it. The ritual contains a strong attraction spell that will make you visible to wherever it is now. We have included more spells, to glamour the presence of the ghouls and ourselves. This way we will have the element of surprise. After last time, it will not think that the ritual can hurt it. It needs to kill you, you are the only one who can trap it. But it will not expect us to be there, it will not expect– Well.”

“Well?” Copia snaps.

“I cannot tell you all of it.”

“What do you mean you cannot tell me, eh?” Copia’s elbows hit the desk as he nervously runs his hands through his hair and you have to force yourself not to go and comfort him. “What?”

“If all else fails, Primo and I have an ace up our sleeves. But we do not want it to come to this, so you have to prepare well. And do not tell Sister or she will interfere,” Secondo says and Copia shakes his head repeatedly in a way that indicates his displeasure. Not that the former Papa is impressed by this, he addresses you instead. “Most importantly, we have to make sure that you stay with us, on this side of the veil, sorella. With the added spells, we need more time for you to speak the incantation. The creature will try to take you with it, so we have to tether you to this reality. For this, it is important that familiar people are around you.”

“But– that will put them at risk,” you say. “I can’t–”

“We will not force anyone, of course. But Papa will have to be there, and perhaps you can find a friend who will also join?”

You stare at your hands, the tiny crescent moons your nails have bitten into the skin subconsciously. Of course Sybil would help you, you have no doubt about it, but after everything, can you ask even more of her?

“Think about it,” Secondo says. “Now, for the details – ghoul summonings happen underground, in a dedicated room but we need a stronger location for this one.”

“Stronger?” Copia asks. “How?”

“Everything needs to be stronger. We suspect the banishing spell her mentor used was too weak. Primo and I have been working on ways to adapt it for a stronger power. For that we will have to use the chapel for this ritual.”

“Is that not too risky?” Copia asks. “What if you–”

“What if we what?” Secondo asks with a raised brow.

“I–”

“I understand you are worried about your amore,” Secondo says. “But believe me, fratello, if this rituals fails, if the spell is too weak, the consequences will be far worse.”

“I’ve seen what happened,” you quietly add. “I could never forgive myself if the same thing happened to the abbey. To any of you.”

“Can we not do it somewhere else?” Copia asks in a last ditch effort. “Outside?”

“No,” Secondo says. “We need to keep it controlled and the chapel is the most powerful place we have, charged by centuries of prayer. The veil will be best opened there.”

Copia shudders and you reach for his hand across the table. He doesn’t squeeze back immediately, his mind somewhere else, and his eyes close as he processes what he’s agreeing to. You hold him anyway, waiting, until he finally releases a sigh and squeezes back. “Fine.”

“Good.” Secondo stands, then the professional expression on his face shifts and you can see the exhaustion and worries underneath as plain as day. He flickers from confident to concerned for just a second but it’s long enough for you to notice. “And you, sorella?”

“I will do whatever it takes.”

“She is brave,” Secondo says with a smile, his eyes flicking over to Copia. “You must trust her, fratello. If anyone can do it it is her.”

Copia merely scowls, lips pressed into a tight, smudged black line. Secondo reaches out to squeeze your shoulder, and with a determined nod he finally leaves.

✦ ✧ ✦

You’re brooding over the spreadsheet for hours. Copia is meticulous with it, calculating the times again and again to assure Secondo didn’t make any mistakes, memorising all that he can to be able to help you should your memory fail. You shiver whenever you see the capitalized letters underneath the long table. Do not deviate from the plan unless instructed otherwise.

You try not to think about what could happen if you did.

By the time you get to bed, your head is swimming, even though you can narrate the whole process from front to back. It’s already late, long past midnight, and the final countdown has begun.

Surprisingly, you are calmer now. It might just be the fact that all of it feels surreal, like you’re trapped inside a movie, a scientific experiment, or dreaming, perhaps. Even your body feels wrapped up in mist, the aches hidden behind your exhaustion, a cloud-like feeling in your limbs, like you’re wafting through fog.

The only solid thing tonight is Copia.

He’s antsy, more nervous than you, a residual anger at the situation, and he fails to hide it. Every emotion is written on his face and he’s busying himself, making you tea, filling a glass of water, picking up items off the floor to tidy the room that he'd normally ignore. You’ve wrapped yourself up in his sweatshirt underneath the blanket, waiting for him to join, but every time he approaches some new fancy strikes him and he leaves again. By the tenth time you reach for his hand and he stops with a pleading look.

“Come to bed,” you say.

“I can’t sleep, amore,” he whines. “I will keep you up.”

“You’ll keep me up running around as well.”

”But–“

“Copia, I want you close.”

His eyebrows draw together, his tense body going slack, and eventually he crawls underneath the blanket with you. You feel an immediate relief at the warmth of him, though he’s tensing up the moment he settles. You stroke over his shoulders, kneading any hard muscle you find, trying to get him to relax. He looks tortured, frowning, every line on his face deeper somehow, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

“This could be our last night,” he whispers in a broken voice and a chill runs down your spine.

You furrow your brow, not meeting his gaze. He’s right but the thought makes you nauseous.

“If it is– I have no regrets,” he continues. “I would not change a thing. I love you, ‘strella, I would do it all again. All of it.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this,” you whisper, close to tears now.

“I’m glad you did,” he argues and you can’t fight back. Had he not stumbled into your life you might have never overcome your past, you might have succumbed to the demon sooner of later – the one in your head or the one lurking in the shadows, waiting for a single chance to break free. The differnce doesn’t matter anymore. You weren’t living before you met Copia, not really, you’d been cowering endlessly before the past.

His hands find your back and pull you closer, his nose brushing against yours before he captures your mouth. You taste salt on his lips and press in deeper. In the dim light you can barely make out his tear-stained cheeks, so you brush a finger over the wet skin, then you lean into his embrace and steal all air from his lungs. For a moment you think about your own bed, the night of his birthday, when he broke down and opened up to you, the way you felt so connected to him, body and soul. Above you, the art on your walls. Goya’s Black Paintings, the Prequelle album cover, devastation and ruin. Darkness has been a part of humanity since the dawn of time, not just the absence of hope but the freedom that comes with the acceptance of death, the proof of how fleeting life truly is. And you’ve felt it before, you’re feeling it again now, the finite nature of everything. Perhaps it is time to make your peace with it.

Because if this is your last night, you’re content with what you have. You could let go without any more regrets.

And for the first time in your life you could do so and be happy.

The thought flees as Copia’s lips leave yours. “‘strella–”

“If this is our last night,” you whisper, “then we have to cherish it, not spend it locked in fear.”

“And what would you do?” he asks with a tender smile. “Go out and drink? Run through the graveyard and dance in the moonlight with our naked butts out?”

“No.” A laugh bubbles from your throat. “No, it doesn’t matter where we are or what we’re doing. As long as you’re there, I have everything I need.”

His expression softens, the redness in his eyes not so harsh anymore, and then he leans in again. The kiss is soft this time, slow and unhurried. For the first time today you’re able to blend out the alarming vastness of reality, focus on nothing but the softness of his lips, the warmth of his body, his toothpasty taste and the smell of soap and laundry detergent.

You run your hands over his body, desperate and searching to be closer, to reach more, to burrow your way inside of the cavity of his chest. Copia meets you with the same intensity, not hurried or forceful but deep, heavy, like every touch carries more of him, brings you ever closer. You take your time, memorising each other to the last detail, muttered assurances, words you’ve spoken before but never with as much urgency, to make the other understand. It is a macabre dance of two bodies, finding news way to be close, new sensations, a sudden need to have everything before it all falls away.

Hours pass in that limbo, the space where reality and intimacy blur, where you think you’re resting not only in his embrace but in the very essence of him. Copia is calmer, though you both shed more tears, for each other and for what you could lose, elicited by the sheer force of your emotions. When you tell him you love him it feels as profound as an oath.

You wake up sometime in the early morning, tangled in the sheets and his sweater. The dim light on the nightstand has been replaced by two candles, flickering on Copia’s small altar. He is kneeling in front of them, lost in a prayer, his lips moving fervently, incomprehensibly, as he whispers his unholy words. You watch for a moment, this raw display of devotion, not clumsy like your own previous attempts but pracitced, intimate, knowing. It is easy to forget that he is Lucifer’s chosen, that he carries his eye, that he’s Papa Emeritus and not just the adorable man you’ve fallen in love with.

His eyes remain closed and after a minute his lips stop moving. He stays in this position, no doubt still lost to his own introspection. You feel a tightness in your chest at the sight, wonder if He ever listened to you, if He knew the pain you went through and led you here to this moment. All these years you thought He had been punishing you but now–

Perhapy you were blinded in more ways than one.

You slip from the bed and Copia looks up, not startled but surprised. You kneel beside him and reach for his hands, wrapping them in yours. They’re warm and soft, for once without his gloves.

”Amore–“

“Will you show me?”

His lips part and he seems hesitant. “You don’t have to, I know you have your reservations–”

“But I want to. I want to see if He’s willing to accept me. I want Him to know how grateful I am that He brought me to you.”

Copia nods, smiles that shy, sweet smile you remember from the days when you first started talking. He reverses your positions, wraps your hands up in his now. “You can close your eyes, amore, and just tell him what weighs on your heart. There are no wrong words to address Him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mhm.”

“Our father who art in Hell, unhallowed by thy name,” he starts, then his voice sinks to a whisper until only his lips move.

You close your eyes and with Copia’s guidance the words come to you easier than ever. In the past, whenever you tried to pray to Him, you were filled with fear and pain, the words shaky and desperate. Tonight, all you ask for is hope, that he lend you strength, guide you through this challenge so your time with Copia isn’t over yet. It feels freeing, even though you’re still not completely sure about your place within this church or your relationship to its faith. Directing your thoughts, aligning them into a stream of words, a solid manifestation, already eases the burden.

“Nema,” Copia whispers beside you.

“Nema,” you add almost simultaneously.

When you open your eyes he smiles at you, so softly that you begin to feel shy, heat creeping up to your face. His hands leave yours to cradle your head and he leans in for a kiss, filled with gratitude and the hint of a vow. You fiddle with the ring on your finger, remembering that there is still a promise waiting to be fulfilled, a future for you and him both.

In that moment you feel a certainty you haven’t felt all week, channeled by Copia’s steady presence and a strength inside of you that’s only been waiting to show itself. The fear doesn’t fully abate but it’s not ruling you anymore, and with that knowledge, with that conviction, you enter the day that’s going to seal your fate once and for all.

✦ ✧ ✦

Bright moonlight streams through the stained glass windows of the chapel. The walls are swimming in its mosaic reflections, rays of colourful light dancing over the floor in shimmering mosaics.

Except for the spots that are covered in blood.

It looks almost black, the pentagram in the center of the chapel, large and precisely drawn in a way that makes the smears look more like paint. Candles are already burning, flickering in the drafts that haunt the old walls, the only visible indication of red where their soft light gives it away.

You try not to wonder about whose blood it is.

The whole setup looks more or less like what you saw remaining of Mr Kraan’s, only larger. Secondo and Primo have been here for hours, working on protection and glamour spells that are supposed to shield everyone but you from the alb. If they left any traces you can’t see them, but even absence can be striking. You note that the shadowy presence of the ghouls is missing for the first time in weeks, that you can’t feel their protective phantoms anymore.

It feels odd. Like you are standing in front of the enemy, unarmoured, no weapon in sight.

Yet, you feel stronger than you did the last time you met your enemy. You’re not alone and you’re not unprepared. The schedule rattles through your brain, every single step, every plan, every reaction, every single line you have to speak. It’s a safety net you cling to, one you could have never found on your own.

The next hour passes without you noticing. It might be the adrenaline rushing through you that keeps you focused, propels you forward. All you do is listen to explanations, instructions, saving them in the part of your mind that’s still active.

When Sybil arrives, a heavy guilt settles over you. You hardly feel her hug, only when she clings to you with more force do you realize that this is real. That tonight could be your salvation.

Or it could be your death.

“I’m glad you asked me to come,” she says and it’s like she knows it’s what you need to hear, to have her tell you that she doesn’t blame you, doesn’t reject you for what you’re asking of her.

“They promised you’ll be safe,” you whisper. “I know it’s a lot to ask but–”

And then she says your name. Not that of an artist, no other nickname, but yours. It might be the first time in months you’ve heard it and for a moment it sends you back in time, to the little girl cowering in her room, crying because her father confiscated her sketchbook, hoping and wishing to be more than he offers, to be free. All the blame you put on her over the years, it’s gone now. She was as much a victim as she was an agent for her own self. She was a girl with potential, and she just wanted to be safe.

“It’s okay,” Sybil continues, “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now.”

“Not even with Erin?”

“No, not even with Erin.”

You smile and she hugs you once more. You think about your dream, how she led you into the water and you were submerged in your love for her. Sybil, your roommate with the flaming red hair who fought for your friendship, who tried so hard to help, who somehow stole her way into your heart. She means safety and acceptance, belonging you never thought was possible. You understand now why Secondo wanted her here. Anything that ties you to your new life feels heavy as an anchor in these last fleeting moments.

Before you step into the summoning circle, Copia holds you back. It’s only a few minutes before the witching hour, when the spiritual world is most potent, and you can feel the atmosphere in the room shifting. Primo, Secondo, Terzo and Sybil have all gathered at different ends of the pentagram, just out of reach, and they’re cast in the dark shadows of the pillars, almost rendered invisible. They blur in front of your eyes and you suspect the glamour is working.

Copia is going to fill the remaining spot.

The thought fills you with dread.

“We’re all here, amore,” he whispers and cautiously reaches out to pull you close. “I am right here. You are not alone.”

You nod, pressing your lips together to stop them from trembling. “Promise me to get to safety if anything goes wrong.”

“Amore–”

“Promise,” you say.

His brow twitches. “No.”

“Copia–”

“I will not make a promise that I can’t keep,” he says. “Not now.”

You press your lips together, wanting to be angry, but you can’t find it in you to disagree. Would you not do the same thing for him? Try to save him at all costs? Instead, you wrap your arms around him so tightly that your muscles ache. “I love you,” you whisper.

“I love you,” he says.

When you break away, you can’t fight off the tears. He wipes at them, leather on cool skin, and you shiver for reasons other than the cold. You don’t think about the others in the room when he kisses you breathless, so hard that you can feel the imprint of his teeth and jaw. It hurts, reminds you that he’s real, that he’s here, that you have something to fight for.

The next few minutes are the longest in your entire life.

Then the bell far above in the tower begins to chime.

You close your eyes and whisper the latin words you have learned by heart now. You’re vaguely aware of their meaning, of the impact they have, and with every word your connection to the room around you disappears more and more. The chill air haunting the space makes way for a steady but foreign warmth that spreads in your whole body, a tingling wave of sparks that whisper over your skin, words you don’t understand. It’s a choir of voices that get louder and louder. You don’t open your eyes but you can feel the shadows encroaching. Behind your eyelids, two red eyes appear, devastating and beautiful and achingly familiar.

You hear a roar, remember the next steps, the next words, not faltering. You think about Copia, you think about your prayer the night before, you think about his ring on your finger, his promise. You see his portrait, up in the studio, the last details yet to be added. So much left to do, so many nights, so many precious moments. You think about your time here at the abbey, the years of self-imposed reclusion, and then the night you met him for the first time. How beautiful he is, how he was the one to save you when you couldn’t save yourself. Slowly you recount every step in your life, every major event, until you find back to the one moment where you saw those vicious red eyes for the very first time.

The creature appears, lured by your connection, and you can feel its presence like a shadow looming over you. Yet you keep your eyes shut. Violent shivers run down your body, gooseflesh spreading over every inch of your skin. A cold sweat gathers at the back of your neck, rolls down your shoulders, ice cold fingers stroking along your spine.

Your whole body recoils before its presence.

Exilium. Exilium. Exilium. Exilium. Exilium.

The voices whisper but the creature doesn’t flinch back. Before your eyelids, the candles flicker, their lights turning to a greenish hue, spreading with infernal power, eating at the oxygen in the room, and brightening until it feels like your eyes are open. You don’t fall for it, not this time. You can’t look at the alb, something tells you to keep away, but even so you feel its weight on your chest, the sleep demon, waiting for you to let him enter, to admit him to your dreams. To admit him to your mind.

You have done so before, you’ve seen what happens to those who let it in all the way.

And you won’t let go because you promised.

At first, it feels like you’re in control. You hold yourself upright, feel the tether to those around you. Sybil’s warmth, Copia’s devotion, the other Papa’s concern and strength and wisdom.

But then you lose your grasp.

It slips from your fingers, the invisible thread. You think about the words. Don’t deviate from the plan. Time loses its velocity, everything slows, stretches and thins, and you’re not sure how long you’ve been going. The required words for the banishment still leave your mouth but you lose sight of everything else, blindfolded and pushed around.

Then you falter. The shadows creep in, immediately. The smell of sulfur and ash hits your nose. It’s too early, you think, or is it? The ghouls aren’t ready yet, you have to wait. You have to hold on, finish the spell.

Your eyes open on their own accord. The sight around you is enough to bring you close to madness. The creature is bent around you at odd angles, its red eyes as large as two moons, a wheezing cough now reaching your ears. It rattles, sizzles, then a flat, slurping sound, like its trying to draw the life from you by sheer force and pressure. The sensation is familiar, only this time you’re protected and the horror of its aggressive suction doesn’t seem to end. Your heart rate is so high that you can feel a droning in your ears, your blood rushing without aim, the life energy sucked from your very pores.

You wish you could faint, wish you could escape it, but instead you see cracking limbs, vestiges of the creatures alarmingly huge body folding until your face finally meets that of the alb. You are unable to look away, shocked into submission. And still you mutter the words, mutter and mutter but it’s eyes begin to glow and you lose your momentum.

Don’t deviate from the plan.

You can feel the warmth rising until the heat envelopes you in a seering, blistering pain. You have to hold on. You have to stay in the chapel. You have to remind yourself of the people who are trying to shield you from death.

Exilium. Exilium. Exilium. Exilium. Exilium.

The choir of voices continues, whispering, yelling, slow, fast, a cacophony of overlapping sounds. You’re almost done, only a few more lines, and you stare the creature in the eyes as you speak them. Its shadowy form wavers, like dark clouds blowing in the wind, its inhalation slowing, the pressure on your body fading, and it bends even more, cowering as if pain. You continue with more force until the very last word leaves your lips and then– then–

It flinches back, releasing a shriek that penetrates you to the bone, explodes in every cell of your body like the strike of lightening. You think it must be done. The alb shrinks, its sounds higher-pitched, filled with dying terror, and you exhale in utter exhaustion.

It’s done. It must be done.

But then suddenly the shadows widen again, enveloping you as the creature gathers its strength and breaks from the hole your words had been slowly dragging it into. You feel your body expanding, darkness tearing at your seams, pulling you in every direction and trying to rip you apart. Two large claws grow from the mass of its sinister body and before you can react they have already grasped you, digging into your skin. The creature slips back into the crack, the spell working its final beats, and you realize that it’s trying to pull you with it.

You’re swallowed up in its shadows.

The chapel is gone within seconds. You can’t see the green fires of the candles, nor the blood or the reflections of the stained glass. Your tethers are unravelling until they’re threatening to snap free from their anchors. Copia, Sybil, the Papas – all gone. You have no idea if any of them are still holding on, if they are still alive, at all. The world beyond is slowly slipping from your senses and no matter how hard you try, you can’t find anything to stop your descent.

Exilium. Exilium. Exilium. Exilium. Exilium.

The fire burns hotter and hotter until your whole body is simmering, the blood in your veins bubbling as if in a boil, the smell of scorched flesh. The darkness is all-encompassing, massive, heavy and suffocating.

Then you hear the shrill sound of chains scraping over stone.

“Copia, no!”

“No, you fool!”

Don’t deviate from the plan.

Someone screams in the distance. Voices, talking over the song of the echoing choir around you.

A set of hands grabs your shoulders, yanks, and suddenly the world comes back into view. You see them, then, and your breath stops.

They’re frighteningly beautiful. Large chains crafted from deep shadows, some glowing red, some wrapped in thorny vines, some vibrating in the air arround them, but all of them forged from the fires of hell.

They wrap around the creature, shackling it to the floor, pulling it into the crack between your world and the next, so close the edge where you’re still hovering, threating to be swallowed. The infernal fire that’s spread hungrily around you doesn’t harm them, instead it seems to make them more potent and the claws of the creature try in vein to break through the gaps.

Two arms tighten around you, trying to free you from the alb’s desperate grasp. The darkness remains, it shifts, moves, slithering like snakes over the stone floor, but it doesn’t budge. Still you are burning, still you feel the wet inhales of the alb as it tries to draw from you, sucking the very life out of your body.

The tethering spell failed, you think. It failed, it wasn’t strong enough, it can’t hold you back.

You’re ready to let go, to follow the creature into the dark abyss below and drag it down to hell with you. It would be a sweet revenge, you think, it would be the doom of you both. Poetic, if it weren’t for the last sensible parts of you that still cling to life, that still cling to the promises you made. That still cling to Copia.

“Amore,” you hear his whisper, then. “‘strella, don’t. Don’t let go. Stay here with me.”

Copia’s voice penetrates the wafting shadows around you.

Don’t deviate from the plan.

He’s not supposed to be here. You panic, trying to wriggle from his grasp. If he’s here then the creature might drag him down with you. It might take him and you have no way to separate yourself from him.

“Don’t,” he says and there is a raging anger in his voice, a protectiveness you’ve heard before, yes, only tenfold. “Don’t fucking let go.”

You lean back into him, trusting the bond, and fight with all the remaining strength you can find against the hypnotic call of the void, the lingering grasp of the creature. The ghoulish chains rattle in a booming echo as the alb fights against them, struggles in the throes of its death, desperate to claw its way out and consume you once more.

You feel yourself disappearing as its pull strengthens, Jona swallowed into the belly of the whale. But then another set of arms wrapps around you and together they pull. You stem yourself against the shadows that still cling to you and suddenly you hear voices again, calling for you, more arms dragging you out of the pentagram.

Then, suddenly, the screeching of a hundred creatures. You look up and see a swarm of bats chasing through the chapel, flapping their wings rapidly as they circle the void. Their tiny bodies attack every shadowy limb, every trail of the creature that still clings to you.

Under their assault, the shadows lose their hold on you and you stumble backwards, your back hitting one of the high pillars. You open your eyes just in time to see the darkness in the corners of the chapel, not the creature but the ghouls, their chains tightening and tightening around the creature, suffocating it, dragging it further and further down into the cracks of hell until, at least, it disappears from view. A strangled cry pierces the room, thundering from the closing channel in the veil, deafening and so intense that your ears begin to ring, that the windows shiver in their brackets and the bats struggle to stay in the air.

You clasp your hands over your ears, cowering, curling into a ball and squeezing your eyes shut.

A sudden pain burns through your body. The influence of the creature retreats, its loosening grasp leaving behind open wounds that sting with the remains of its poison. You wait for it to ebb away, to finally leave you be, and as your body cools, as your blood slows, you realize that you’re still alive.

Around you, movement. Voices. You hear hurried steps, hands inspecting your body, more voices, incomprehensible. They argue, they bark orders, they cry, they scream.

Then, the rapid sound of heels on old stone tiles.

“You said it was not too risky,” Sister snaps. “He almost died!”

“It’s over,” another voice says. “And we won.”

You let the words echo in your brain. We won. We won. We won.

The pain slowly eases and in its wake, an illimitable exhaustion takes hold of you. You try to focus, you try to find Copia, to see if he’s hurt. Sybil. The other Papas. Even Sister. But you can’t open your eyes. You can’t bring yourself to move at all and every thought leaves as fast as it comes, the rational part of your brain letting go as it grapples with the horrors you just witnessed.

A soft hand cradles your jaw, then, urges you to look up, to react, but you can’t find the strength to follow through. Your head lands on something solid, something warm.

Don’t deviate from the plan.

You almost died. Copia almost died. But you did it.

You think of the bats, wonder if they’re okay. For a moment, you hear the flapping of their wings, their animated squeaks a last goodnight. A soft sensation envelopes you, easing your pain.

And then, everything goes quiet.

✦ ✧ ✦

You wake up to a bright beam of sunlight catching your eye. Around you, hushed voices, the sound of a broom sweeping over stone. Your head rests on a soft, warm surface and you sigh, exhausted, slowly noticing the dull aches in your whole body. After another moment of dozing you realize that the surface is slowly, evenly moving below you. With some effort you peel your eyes open and the world reshapes itself into a bright, vivid image.

The chapel around you is alight with the late morning sun, its stained glass windows casting colourful shapes all over the floor.

No traces of blood or shadows.

One of the ghouls, corporeal in its form now, clad in black hooded vestments and a silver mask, is sweeping the floor where dust and crumbled plaster from the walls and pillars have gathered. Some of them show black marks, scorched paint, but otherwise the chapel looks normal.

Right by your ear, a deep groan vibrates. Your vision clears, the rest of your senses grasping the new reality around you.

“Ouch. Ah– shit.”

You lift your head from Copia’s chest, a stabbing pain shooting into your spine from the uncomfortable position. He’s rubbing his head, slowly waking up now from your movement. You’re both on the floor, a handful of pillows behind your backs for support, and you reach out to make sure he’s real and not draming.

Leaning against a pillar close by, you see Sybil sleeping on Erin’s shoulder while the latter whispers soft words. Other voices stream over as well, you can make out Terzo and Secondo, but their words remain obscure.

“Your face,” you say. “Copia–”

He blinks at you in confusion, as if he’s not even feeling the scarring tissue by his chin and over his left brow. “You’re awake,” he says, the relief evident in his voice.

You nod, gently reaching out to run your finger over the rapidly healing cuts. “What happened?”

“Ah, you slammed against me when I pulled you out,” he explains, swalling against a scratchy throat. His voice is still strained, no doubt from screaming over the demonic sounds last night. Your own feels sore as well, but then so does your whole body.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper but it’s more of a reflex. Relief is flooding your system, that both Copia and Sybil are alright, that the abbey is still standing, that the shadows have finally retreated. All of it feels surreal, your mind unable to grasp what happened. Even now it feels more like a nightmare you’re slowly shaking off.

You both take your time wake up, cradling each other, stroking wherever you can reach, almost like any other morning in bed. Only now Copia’s grip on you is tighter, as if he’s still scared that the void could swallow you up. You feel the same way, like this is a dream you could wake up from only to realize that the world has ended.

But it hasn’t. You won.

“Why are we here?” you ask after a moment, glancing around. It must have been close to ten hours since the ritual ended and you wonder if anyone else noticed what occured.

“We didn’t want to move you,” Copia says. “Not while the quintessence was working in here. It was the safest option.”

“The quintessence?”

“We weren’t sure if you were hurt. Or anyone else.” He presses his lips together, his concerns from last night still palpable. “We asked the ghouls to keep up their magic for a while longer, just to be safe, eh?”

“So that’s why I only feel half-dead and not fully,” you whisper, nestling further against him in the slowly rising sun that’s now filling the room. You close your eyes once more, giving into the temptation of sleep. “Satan, I’m so so tired.”

His arms wrap around you, caging you into his safety. “You can rest as long as you need, amore. My butt hurts a bit but it’s okay, mhm. I can manage. Ah.”

You chuckle, sitting up so that he can adjusts himself against the wall until you’re both somewhat comfortable. Then you finally find a calm moment to begin to process what happened.

“Is it–” You pause, trying to find the right words. “Is it truly gone?”

“Yes,” he says. “It’s gone.”

You take a shaky breath, the first deep inhale since you felt the shadows slipping from you, the heavy weight of the creature finally off your chest. Everything feels– lighter, somehow. You can’t feel the shadows of the ghouls anymore, nor the hidden grasp of the alb. It’s like your whole body is floating, your mind not as hazy, not shrouded in darkness anymore.

You really did it.

After a few more minutes of quiet you hear Sybil’s drowsy groan. Erin wraps her up tighter in her arms, similar to how Copia is holding you, protective and safe. You smile over at them and when Sybil finally opens her eyes they meet yours, sparkling in recognition. The relief on her face mirrors your own, even though Erin immediately commands her attention and the moment is gone.

You give them their time, thinking that the chapel feels more like a field hospital than an unholy church. Across the room, you meet Terzo’s eyes as he comes into view. He nods at you and Copia, a soft, exhausted smile on his lips before he turns back to Secondo, who offers a similar expression.

Without all of them you’d be dead now.

But before you can think too much about any of it you’ve already fallen asleep again.

For once, without any dreams or nightmares.

Chapter Text

“This experience led me to form a hypothesis: perhaps the wisdom of birds resides, not in the individual, but in the flock, the congregation.”

― Susanna Clarke, Piranesi

✦ ✧ ✦

The ancestral hall is illuminated by the bright sunlight that streams through its stained glass window. The faces of the past leaders of the church stare down at you, all of them adorned in their regalia, realized in the art styles of all those who came before you. The atmosphere in the room makes you straighten your back, stand a little taller.

On the far end of the wall, the previously empty spot has finally been filled, the portrait hidden from view by a flowy white sheet, draped over the frame and falling down in elegant, shimmering waves. Right by its side, the image of Papa Emeritus III watches over the congragation, restored and mended to his previous glory, his scars only visible from the inside.

You’re sweating, biting your lip as you stare at the slowly filling room and not even Terzo’s gentle squeeze of your shoulder can calm you. These walls can’t house the whole congregation but your Siblings are certainly trying, bursting its seams, squeezing into the back, climbing over the benches, all to get a good view at the portrait you spent the past few months painting.

It feels surreal, to say the least.

At last, Copia and Sister arrive. He’s dressed in his ritual garbs to mirror the painting, mitre tucked under his arm, Sister following his steps as he wrangles through the crowd, smiling awkwardly at the people that are trying to catch his attention. It’s been weeks since you made your engagement official, since they learned that their Papa is going to take a wife that no one really paid attention to before, and their curiosity hasn’t ceased yet. They’re unaware of what exactly prompted you to commit to each other so fast, most of the details remain firmly hidden away.

It’s better that way, everyone agreed. The fact that a ritual had taken place couldn’t be hidden completely but they don’t need to know the full extent of the danger the abbey was in. You wouldn’t want them to show neither pity nor an undeserved admiration for you, not for correcting the mistake of someone they never got to meet.

No, this truth stays burried in the little chest of memories in your heart and the only one with a key is you.

Copia hurries to your side, fidling for your hand and pressing an eager kiss to it. Heat spills into your cheeks as the crowd whistles and cheers, though he gives you an apologetic smile that drowns them out and anchors you to his side.

After a moment, Sister steps up and at an authoritative wave of her arm everyone quiets down until even the last murmur fades out.

“Congregation,” she begins. “We thank you for joining us as we finally reveal the official portrait of Papa Emeritus IV, our beloved reigning Papa. Many hours have gone into the elaborate unholy likeness that we are going to present you today with pride and appreciation for the thriving artistic talents at our abbey. Now, there will be enough time for you all to admire the artwork. It will remain here for you all to see. For now, we ask you not to crowd the space and keep a safe distance to avoid any damages.”

She gives a nod and Copia and you part to either side of the sheet. Your fingers tremble as you reach for your end, cradling the fabric carfully to make sure that you don’t prematurely expose anything. You glance over the crowd, their eager, curious eyes, drawn to you as well as the painting. There is nothing malicious in them, no contempt, no judgement. It’s not the first time you realize that you might have been wrong in assuming that you could never fit in, that they’d never accept you.

“Please,” Sister says. “We are ready for the reveal now, Papa.”

Copia and you tug at the sheet in sync, its silky material effortlessly gliding off the frame and pooling to your feet. Before you’ve even gazed at the now framed painting the crowd breaks out in applause, awed gasps, swoons and whistles. You shrink under their attention, all blood gathering in your cheeks and one helping glance to Copia tells you just how proud he is. His eyes sweep over the congregation before they land on you with a teary-eyed smile, his hand clutching the grucifix around his chest, and he beams in a way you’ve never seen before. You can’t help but soak up the reactions, eyeing the people as they stare in interest, almost climbing over each other again to admire the minute details you’ve added to the piece.

It is no doubt your proudest work. After the ritual, you’ve felt a freeing creative surge, propelling you to finally return to the studio with an avid attention and focus you’ve missed since your childhood days. It had been easy, easier than the bulk of the work, to make the robes and Copia’s expression stand out, to add the last touches with a newfound security and confidence.

Now, hanging beside the portrait of Terzo, their matching styles yet unique poses create a balanced composition. Terzo, royal in his robes, with an attentive seated pose in the grand chair, leaning forward with the promise to lead with care and the potential for a bright future. Copia, standing and welcoming the viewer with his opened arms, offering belonging and acceptance. Their differences stand out but it is evident that one built on the other, no matter what Sister might think, no matter how awful their transitions were in the real world.

It’s easy to see the reluctance on Terzo’s face when you glance at his real self, the remaining burden and shame, standing beside his brothers as one of many discarded men, all while the new Papa is celebrated and gasped at. When he meets your gaze, however, he seems just as proud as Copia and even though they’ve not fully overcome their tensions, their relationship seems to have mended a little more since the ritual.

For a long time, it wouldn’t have been possible for you to stand your ground, to be by Copia’s side as his partner, to support him in leading a whole church, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever fully be at ease in this position, whether the doubts are ever going to disappear completely. And yet, you’ve come too close to losing him, to losing the people that have become so important to you, to losing yourself, that it almost feels trivial now to step up when it matters.

As the applause slowly ebbs away you glance around to find Sybil. She’s standing close to the window, cheering and whistling, her voice suddenly distinct amidst the noise. Her hand points in the other direction as she notices your attention and when you follow the movement you pause. The world disappears the moment you spot your mother, right there at the back of the crowd, clapping alongside everyone, tears rolling down her cheeks. You wave at her and she waves back and suddenly you can’t hold back your own tears.

Copia sweeps you up in his arms then, his lips pressed close to your ear in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. “I am so proud of you, amore.”

You hold onto him, focused on the gentle tickle of his hair against your skin, uncaring who sees, just because you need him in that moment. Words fail you but it doesn’t matter, the tension finally ceases and the crowd falls into lively chatter, people stepping closer to admire the painting. Copia wraps a secure arm around you and you stay like this for a long time, answering questions, accepting congratulations. It feels like your first proper official appearance together and suddenly everyone knows who you are, knows what you’re doing, compliments your work. It’s not as daunting with Copia by your side, with Sister hovering close by, the other Papas having your back.

You’re not alone anymore.

When Sybil finally makes it to the front she steals your breath with a hug so tight that your lungs ache. She has your mother in tow who sheepishly takes your hand, squeezing with a soft, grounding pressure. You pull her into a hug as well, the lost familiarity of it bringing on more tears that she wipes away with a motherly affection you’ve missed for so many years now.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says and you know she’s not just referring to the paintings behind you. When you called her to let her know that the demon had been banished she broke out in tears and it took a lot of reassurance to let her know that you’re not holding anything against her. Years of  an invisible weight have fallen off the both of you that night, and it finally feels like you’re healing, not apart but together.

“I have news,” she says after a moment, your hands tightly clasped in hers. “The city asked if you wanted to paint a mural on one of the walls by the parking lot, where the old studio used to stand. I talked to them about it a while ago, how it feels so lifeless since the house burnt down,  and that we’d love to honor the local artist who used to live there. They were in favor, they have a few ideas for the design already, and the owner of the building has agreed as well.”

Your eyes widen but you can’t bring yourself to speak. You’ve never done anything like this, not on that scale, not with these types of paints. But even though returning to town seems daunting, especially after the last time you went to visit, you can’t miss the opportunity to pay homage to the man who made all of this possible. Your feelings for Mr Kraan are complex, even now, a mixture of pain, grief, lingering affection and delayed anger, but there is no doubt that he sent you on the path to finding your true self all these years ago. He’s the one who ultimately brought you here.

“Think about it,” your mother says with a smile. “For now, I just want to congratulate you. And I wanted to let you know that I of course accept the invitation to your wedding.”

“Thank you,” you mumble and it takes her a long moment before she can move on to Copia, shaking his hand and listening to his excited stammering as he tells her how proud he is of you and how happy he is that she made it. They fall into conversation and you focus back on Sybil who’s gazing at the painting with stars in her eyes, the biggest smile puffing up her cheeks.

“Well, Monet,” she says when she notices your gaze. “I suppose you truly are one of the masters now.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The wedding ceremony is a small, intimate affair.

You’re not as nervous as you should be. The studio, not so quiet and forgotten anymore, is decorated with so many lush flowers that the smell overpowers even that of the old paint. You feel safe here, despite the bleached spot where your blood once seeped through the floorboards. It feels absurd, how much has happened in this very room. Meeting Copia face to face after avoiding him for so long, that first fateful sitting when you started work on his portrait, listening to music, sipping your juice boxes, sharing an apple with him by the window, how you found him sleeping against the wall the night he returned from tour, the postcards he sent you, Mona sitting beside the mattress, then the first time you slept together, the first time you showed him your scar.

The first time he made love to you.

All the little moments that made you fall in love with him.

It feels natural when you approach him over a short carpet leading up to the windows, and your mother places your hand in his. Copia’s eyes are reddened and glassy, but so are yours, and when your fingers touch his over the leather of his black and the fabric of your white gloves it releases a mirroring set of tears on both of your faces.

Terzo officiates. Only close friends and family are present – Sybil and Erin, hand in hand, Copia’s brothers, his parents, your mom. Instead of dreading the day all eyes would be on you, you now feel safe in everyone’s presence. The celebration with the whole congregation later on still feels incredibly distant and for once reality is as clear as the late summer sky outside. All you feel is the safety of Copia’s love for you, the knowledge that this is not just forever but that it goes beyond time and space. You’re so lost in his gaze that you hardly hear the words Terzo so carefully speaks, his final unblessing, to unite you under Lucifer’s eye.

The softly swaying trees outside cast a dancing play of lights on Copia’s face when he finally leans in to kiss you. Your lips are shaking as you kiss him back with all that you have. It’s a moment so perfect that it escapes all description.

The whole day feels like something precious, a memento you want to wrap up in the softest silks, keep it safe inside a cushioned box and hide it somewhere deep within your heart. It’s meant for you, everything that happens, chosen, special, intimate and only yours.

It’s late by the time you and Copia return to his quarters, sore feet, lips kissed raw, bellies filled with food and drinks, slices of the large cake that Sybil made for you. He traps you against the door, discarding his black suit jacket with one hand, tugging at the ascot around his neck.

“Finally I have you to myself, baby,” he whispers, unable to break away for more than those few words. He smears his paints all over your chin and cheeks, kissing wherever he can reach, his warm breath fanning against your heated skin until you feel a shiver spreading through you.

“You looked so good today,” you whisper, grasping at his black shirt, tugging it loose from his sinfully tight black trousers. You can’t help but reach for his ass, pressing him closer to you.

“Amore–” His voice is hoarse. “You are playing a dangerous game.”

“I think I’m allowed to touch my husband,” you whisper with a giggle.

“Hm.” He gently bites your earlobe. “I don’t think it’s time for this quite yet, wife.”

With those words he spins you away from the door and pulls you deeper into the room, discarding his watch, the ascot, and reaching for a vinyl he must have set out this morning. You tug at some of your own accessories to free yourself, watching him and how handsome he looks slightly disheveled, the frilled cuffs of his shirt catching at the needle of the record player before he finally turns it on.

“You still me owe me a dance,” he says, a hand outstretched in your direction.

“We’ve had our dance earlier,” you remark.

“Ah, not like this,” he says. “No, this is special.”

The first beat of the music has Copia’s own voice echoing through the room.

Can you hear me say your name, forever?

Can you see me longing for you, forever?

He wiggles his fingers to urge your hand into his but you can only do so with a teasing little smile.

“You’ll truly have us dance to your own song? Maybe Terzo is right and you are full of yourself.”

Copia tugs at your hand with a playful growl, effectively pulling you to his chest while you still giggle. “Did he say this, yes? That stronzo?”

“Just earlier when you showed us your new dance moves and–”

“Ah, whatever.” He tsks to interrupt you. “This is a special song, amore. And I want to share it with you tonight.”

Your gaze softens and you allow him to trap you against him, gently swaying to the music, closely pressed together and more intimate than anything you did in front of the congregation. It’s less of a dance and more of a reprieve after the long day you’ve had. The hours melt away from you, the noise of the crowd still droning in your head is suddenly gone. Quiet and an easy solitude take up the room.

Would you let me touch your soul forever?

Can you feel me longing for you, forever?

“It’s a bit cheesy, isn’t it?” you say.

“I am a cheesy guy, amore, in case you haven’t notice that yet, and not because I like mozzarella,” he replies and chuckles. “But it’s too late to flutter away now, little bat. I have you trapped in my arms.”

You press a kiss to his now exposed neck, shivering at the name. “I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, anyway.”

For a while you simply hold each other, swaying to the song as it grows in intensity and then ebbs away. Once the last beat passes Copia tilts your chin up, the soft leather of his gloves warm against your skin. He looks at you for a long moment, your gazes trapped. You remember how you shrank from it, months ago, wondering how he could ever love you. Now, his attention is a soft caress, a promise, a place to retreat to when the world gets too much.

“I love you,” he whispers, unusually serious. “Ti amo, my ‘strella. I love you more than life itself.”

You give him a teary smile as his thumb swipes past the corner of your mouth. “I love you, Copia. You gave me so much to live for. You saved me.”

He softly shakes his head. “No, you saved yourself, amore. I merely held your hand.”

“Yes.” More tears fall down your cheeks and he catches all of them easily. “But it was your hand that stopped me from letting go.”

Copia closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, his own feelings working through him. When he opens them again, a lone tear rolls past his nose, following the curve of his cheek. You reach for him, gently wiping it away with your glove. The moment your hand falls to his cheek Copia closes the gap and kisses you. Salt on your lips, you kiss him back more fiercly, taking him by surprise. A moan vibrates through his throat and his arm snakes along your waist, pulling you ever closer.

“Is it time for this now?” you whisper when you feel him poking against your abdomen, the skin-tight pants barely hiding anything.

“Yes,” he pants, kissing you harder, urgent and hungry. It’s been a whole day of yearning for this exact moment, when you’d finally have him to yourself, when you could feel his body, feel his soul in the way he touches and kisses you with such unwavering affection.

Despite the wait, you’re not in a true hurry. You peel each layer of clothing off each other between passionate kisses, hands roaming the soft planes of the other’s body, so familiar and yet still somehow new. You’re not sure you’ll ever get enough of him, in no possible way, his taste, his smell, the warmth of him, the way his body gives under your touch, his sweet whispered words.

“You’re perfect,” you breathe against his skin. “Every single part of you.”

His breath catches, his fingers slowing where they’re rubbing at your back. He reaches for your face again, lifting your chin until you meet his gaze once more.

“You’re mine,” he whispers. “You realize this now, amore? You’re mine alone.”

“I am,” you say. “And you’re mine.”

“I am,” he confirms, in a lower tone, his gaze unflinching. “I have been yours, ‘strella, ever since I found you sitting outside my shitty old office. This I know.”

His hands travel from your neck down your body. You’re exposed to him, fully now, and he pauses, meeting your eyes for permission. The nod you give is barely perceptible but he seems to feel it anyway. Copia peels off his gloves and then he carefully traces your scars, his fingertips tickling at their edges. The faded burn by your ribs makes the fresher tears stand out like mountain ridges on a map. His fingers are warm and yet you shiver as he cautiously traces every single one, meeting your gaze every so often to see your reaction.

You bite your lip as it trembles more and more. Every emotion running through you is too much tonight, heightened to an overwhelming intensity, but it doesn’t matter, not really, because you don’t feel the need to hide anymore. The oppressive weight on your chest has been banished, gone are the days of gloom, of hiding away in the shadows.

Copia is your light, he is the sun in your sky.

“Beautiful,” he whispers, following the trail of his hands down with his lips, kissing along every line where you’ve ever been hurt. There is no acute pain and yet you know that you have a lot of healing left to do, to fully mend and overcome what happened. You need time, time with Copia. It will help the marks fade and the idea of living with your past seems less daunting with his lips pressed to their evidence.

At least for tonight you know that you won’t be caught in old memories. No, it’s time to finally create new ones.

Copia helps you over to the bed, gently placing you among soft pillows, fluffy blankets and Mona the plushie somewhere in the corner. You smile when he nuzzles your neck, kissing and biting along your clavicle. You can hardly keep still, your bodies moving in sync long before joining, and the intensity of every little touch makes you dizzy, drunk on his essence, drunk on your love for him.

Your skin melts into his, his kisses prickling like champagne. Copia mouths at every piece of you he can reach, following the trail he leaves with his fingers, and then back up. You do the same with him, marking every part of him, until there’s nothing left you haven’t worshipped, haven’t absorbed into your own self. Eventually, you settle as close as you can get, looking at each other as you finally become one. You move in tandem, slowly, to make sure you get to witness every little reaction, every tremor, each gasp and moan, trapped in the pleasure that every movement provides.

It’s perfect, it’s everything – it’s the final seal on the life you’ve built with each other.

The night is long with little sleep. You spent it occupied with each other’s bodies and each other’s minds. You’re fully, irrevocably wrapped up in Copia, your head on his chest as he traces the shape of your shoulder, drawing tiny patterns as he hums little songs, stamps sweet kisses to your head. You comb through the hair on his chest, gazing at your new rings that shimmer in the dim light of his lava lamp. You can’t help but hink about how much your life has changed since you met him. It’s never been more evident than today, the way you’ve begun to fit into the community, the friends you found and the people you reconnected with, even the way you view your art, the way you view your own self.

“I’m grateful,” you whisper, “for how much you’ve helped me grow. I don’t think– I don’t think I realized just how dark everything was. How much I hurt myself with the way I lived before you.”

This time, he doesn’t have to tilt your chin up, you lift it voluntarily. His smudged face paint, the colorful evidence of your kisses, the love you shared, it’s written all over Copia’s face.

He’s never looked more beautiful.

“What do you mean?” he asks tiredly, thumb tracing the soft curve of your lip.

You smile and press a kiss to his fingertip. “It’s like I was constantly wearing shades, not realising that I only saw the world in dull, muted colours, draped in shadows,” you explain. “And then you came and helped me take them off and now…”

“Now?”

“Now the shadows are gone.”

Chapter Text

“But in the end it's only a passing thing, this shadow; even darkness must pass.”

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings

✦ ✧ ✦

Beltane, the year after

A group of Siblings has gathered in the old studio.

They’re all standing behind easels, brushes in hand, finishing up the last touches of the day before the session ends. The subject is a simple flower arrangement of hyacinths, roses, daisies and lavender, but the paintings all cast a different light on it – one shows the flowers whilting, one shows them with blood dripping from each petal. Each one is unique, just like the person painting it.

You smile at your students’ progress and dismiss them for the day. They eagerly pack up, swarming out of the room to prepare for the activities ahead. You pack up as well. Though the room has been remodeled and is now a permanent home for your art lessons, it remains the place where you spend most of your working hours, chipping away at the many commissions you’ve received from clergy members around the globe after they heard of you and your story.

A glimpse through the window shows you Siblings dancing around the Maypole, handing out lush flower crowns, drinking sweet wine and basking in the warm spring sun. You smile at the sight, finally not feeling like what you’re seeing is out of reach anymore.

You step into the hallway, the unfamiliar sight of it still startling you. The old wing is more alive now, completely renovated, the remaining rooms serving as storage rooms and workshops for sculpting, drawing, printing and other creative pursuits. Copia has given you free reign over the artistic education of the Siblings and so far the interest has been overwhelming. Some of the existing clubs have been rehomed, but new Siblings have offered their other skills as well and it’s not rare that you find a group of knitters or whittlers in one of the rooms, working on their own projects.

The hallways are bustling, people carrying around materials to prepare for the celebration, setting up outside in the courtyard, blankets and candles and more flowers. You spot Copia leaving his office with his own flower crown on his head. He smiles, greets you with a kiss to your cheek that warms you from the inside.

“How was class?” he asks. “Any unfortunate injuries with the brushes again?”

“Not this time,” you say with a laugh, reaching up to right the crooked flower crown and fixing the disheveled hair underneath. “I’ll have to go change but we can meet outside once it gets dark?”

“Okie dokie,” he says, stealing another quick kiss, “Are you sure you’ll join today? With… you know what?”

“I did promise Sybil that I would.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to, amore.”

You shrug, fiddling with his collar, perhaps fussing to hide your nerves. “I have done harder things. I banished a demon, remember?”

Copia rolls his eyes, pinching your butt for emphasis. “You keep saying this to outsmart me and I don’t think it’s very funny, amore.”

✦ ✧ ✦

The bonfires crackle from all areas of the grounds, beacons of warmth in the middle of a cool spring night. You’ve already shared sandwiches on a lone blanket with Copia, cooked stickbread with his brothers, tasted the fruit punch and other sweet treats. You’ve handmade your own flower crown together with a somewhat grumpy Secondo who kept messing up his weaving, muttering about the flowers being too short.

This year, you’ve joined in on the the celebrations unlike ever before but you’re not quite social enough yet to leave the safety of the people you know and call family now. It’s catching, the way young and old dance freely in the grass around the fires, how they’re passing around food and drinks, laughing with each other, carrying lanterns and singing songs in languages you don’t always understand.

You’ve got to know the congregation a lot more intimiately over the past months and you’ve learned just how unique each and every Sibling of Sin truly is. And not just them, but even the higher ranking members of the clergy who have joined your classes, spending their free time like everyone else. Life has become easier without the urge to hide from everyone and you spot a lot of your students outside, waving or greeting you as you make your way to the one group of people you’ve been looking for all night.

Sybil, Erin, Sven and a few of their other friends are waiting by the open bar area, eagerly chatting and snickering. You drag Copia over with you who’s being stopped at every turn by eager Siblings trying to get a word with him. Once Sybil spots you, she grabs your hands and pulls you over to their little spot, as though she’s afraid you might dip again.

“We’ve been looking for you two everywhere,” she says. “Papa, you can’t keep Monet all to yourself, you know?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Copia says a little hesitantly.

“You should be, considering you practically stole my roommate,” Sybil says. “I hardly see her as is, with all the painting she does.”

He glances at her anxiously until she finally breaks out in a laugh and he relaxes with a nervous chuckle, fiddling for your hand. He’s not quite comfortable yet, spending time with the congregation outside of his Papal duties, but he’s warming up to it more and more.

“You act like you’re not happy to live with Erin now,” you retort to save him, squeezing his fingers out of sight. “I know you hardly leave the bed when you don’t have to.”

“That’s completely beside the point,” Sybil says, gathering up her hair into a flaming red bun. “So, are you ready? Sven is already gearing up to pester everyone with his megaphone impression.”

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you say. “But you promise we’ll go together?”

“I promise,” she replies with a soft smile. “And Papa, you truly don’t want to join us?”

“Oh?” Copia’s ears turn red as he shakes his head. “No, no. Not tonight. I am just here to hold the towels.”

Before you can let your doubts creep in, Sven’s voice is already booming across the courtyard and you follow him all the way down to the pond like a trail of little ducklings, joined by a few dozen other people. Then everything happens faster than you can blink. Clothes drop to the grass, people shriek and laugh, pushing each other, and Sven starts to count down from five.

Just before he’s giving the signal, Sybil reaches for your hand, weaving her fingers through yours, and then, with one last smile and a final deep breath, you both run. You run, warm grass underneath your feet, faster until the cold water finally splashes to your shins. You run, a cool wind tickling your skin, icy shocks spreading through your nerves, step after step, until the frigid water reaches to your knees, then to your hips, your belly, your breasts. You stop once it covers your chest, shivering violently in the middle of the pond, your hand still safely resting in Sybil’s. She laughs and splashes you, shrieks when you splash her back, and you can’t help but join in until the sound of your voices chases the frost from your limbs.

By the bank of the pond, Copia is already waiting with towels and warm clothes, but you’re not quite ready to join him yet. Some people, neck-deep, swim slowly in the water, while the less sturdy ones run out, terrified, shivering and sopping wet.

You glance at Sybil, see the flickering reflections of the fires on the surface of the lake, mirroring the color of her hair. Your gazes meet as you take a few deep breaths, reading yourselves, and then, with Sybil’s hand safely in yours, you take the final plunge.