Whatever

"Copia," Sunshine says suddenly, stepping into his office and out of the shadows, "Cooping yourself up in here on a nice spring day isn't good for you."

The panicked look that had been building behind his eyes sort of fades and Sunshine can feel a hesitant tapping into their bond. She trills softly and pushes back against it like a big, happy cat.

"Sunshine," Copia greets her, and though he doesn't say it out loud, she can hear the thanks in his voice, the relief that someone had come to save him, even if he knew most of it wasn't even real. "I believe Aether invited me for lunch," he continues, slower now, careful, like his time on the other side had taken his knowledge of spoken language. "But you'll have to uh...I seem to have gotten caught up in." He stops short and waves his hand towards the paperwork spread across his desk.

"No worries, Aether sent me to get you. You know how he is, if he would have come, he'd be in here helping you do paperwork instead of bringing you to eat lunch with us."

Something in Copia's face twitches but she's not as attuned with human emotion to really decipher it.

Aether had taken Copia's death the hardest and had worked the hardest and channeled the most of his magic into the ritual, wanting to make sure that when the time came, Copia would come back to him. To them.

And he feels guilty, Sunshine knows, like he'd done something wrong maybe, like he'd pushed too much and that's why Copia came back with a large chunk of his memories missing.

So in ways now, he'll over compensate on things, he'll work himself just as hard as Copia does until Cumulus snaps him out of the rut and reminds him that it's still Copia, just because he doesn't remember us, doesn't mean we've forgotten him.

It helps, and the cycle happens all over again, but these days it's getting less and less, with Copia not quite gaining some memories back, but building new ones.

Falling in love with everyone again.

Even now, the strange emotion on Copia's face had melted away into something more familiar to Sunshine, and she watches as he stands up, hand resting heavily on his desk as he slowly navigates himself around it, steps slow and careful.

"You are entirely too sweet to me," Copia says, coming to stand in front of her, his hands resting heavily on her shoulders as her own come to a natural rest on his waist, "My lovely ghoul," he says, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he leans his head in to rest against her helmet.

She hates the extra barrier now, but only in very few places does she remove her helmet, and his office is not one of those, always hyper focused on making sure no one else would come after Copia now. Too public. If someone were to try and attack him here...

She purrs then, clearing the heavy thoughts from her mind when she feels a gentle tug at their connection, Copia's concern flowing in through it.

"Let's get you to the others. Swiss and Rain say we're having the best lunch yet even though neither of them will say what it is," she says, easily moving her hold to wrap one arm around his waist.

Copia makes a small noise of agreement, letting her take some of his weight, walking had come sort of easy to him after all was said and done, but the best that everyone can guess is that him being dead for two weeks had caused him to lose muscle memory for the most basic things, and though things were mostly good now, relearning to walk also had it's bad days as well.

"I think I heard Rain say something about fish," Copia says, though he's looking down at the floor, watching each step he takes, "Well. Heard." He tries to clarify, frowns a little just a few seconds later. "I don't think he wanted me to hear but. Rain is very loud."

Sunshine hums at that, tightening her grip around Copia's waist, "The first ghoul you summon and bond with is always going to be the one you hear loudest," she says gently. She's told him this before, but in the process of his body relearning how to be alive, things like memory and language aren't as high priority as basic body functions like movement and breathing.

Not that she minds, though. She'll gladly repeat things hundreds of times if it means that she's able to have him close like this again.

Not in some glass coffin in a cold mausoleum.

"That does sound right," Copia murmurs in agreement, though his focus is more on getting them down the hallway and towards the courtyard and not quite on the conversation at hand.

Luckily, the walk from Copia's office to the courtyard isn't that far, though it takes more time now than before, not that she minds, and soon she's pulling away from Copia to hold the door open for him, her hand resting on his lower back for support as he passes her and steps out into the open air.

He stops just shy of the steps leading down into the yard, right in the center of a sun patch and closes his eyes, tilting his head back to just bask in it for a moment.

Sunshine closes the door behind her and stands back, waiting, letting him take his time. The lines of his face look relaxed like this, when he's outside in the sun, when it's easier to see that he's alive again. That he can enjoy the mundane things like standing in the sun and listening to the chirping birds in the distance.

The toll of his death and then his reanimation had taken a lot out of everyone involved, but by far, it'd taken the most out of Copia, who had to live now, day by day, with missing memories and skills and though he's gaining the skills back and building new memories, none of it had been easy.

"Sunshine?"

She pulls herself from her thoughts again to Copia, who's standing by the steps, head tilted to the side with a confused look on his face, "Yes Copia?"

He blinks at her for a moment, no doubt trying to find the right words, "Are you alright? You're..." he trails off, waving in her direction, and then quickly cuts his eyes over to the space beside him. There's frustration on his face that she can read, but not aimed at her, aimed at himself no doubt, for not being able to actually ask what he wants.

She smiles and strides forward, looping arm around him when she gets close, "I was just admiring the view," she says a little coy, purring when he wraps an arm around her shoulders.

A huff comes from Copia then and he shakes his head, "That was terrible," he says, but there's a flush on his cheeks and Sunshine feels warm happiness through the bond, adoration, love.

If she didn't have her mask on, she'd lean in and kiss him, on the cheek for now, right over the red of his blush; but she can't, so she just pushes back an answering echo of love and happiness, all of her fondness for him bubbling up beneath her skin like lava.

"We should get to the others," Copia says, quiet and content, "I...think I may be hungry..." he says the words carefully, as if they're foreign on his tongue.

Sunshine perks up a bit, "Yeah?" she asks, "Does your stomach feel weird?" She's not sure what exactly goes into humans being hungry, but she's heard other siblings complain about weird feelings in their stomachs so she starts there.

"I'm...not sure. I think?" Copia's got this almost distressed look on his face, his other hand coming up to rest on his stomach, "Feels. Empty?"

"Alright, alright," Sunshine says excitedly, and she squeezes Copia's waist in a show of comfort, "Let's go then, let's get you some food."

-

2. Rain

He still remembers the sharp, stinging pain, the way he'd fallen to his knees in the middle of a random ministry hallway, gripping uselessly at his chest as if that would ease the pain up any.

It didn't.

There was emptiness shortly after, loud and cold, a buzzing in his ears getting louder and louder until it was the only thing he could hear.

A sob, clawing its way out of his throat.

He's dead. A voice whispered, Gone. Alone.

It had taken him a few days to come out of the comatose state that the others had found him in. He was cold, all over, shivering and shaking as if sick with something.

He couldn't talk, couldn't make himself form words, his one tie to humanity gone, and with it, his ability to parse emotions in a less demonic way.

He wanted to kill. To murder. To hurt the person who'd taken Copia away from him.

And he would have too, he would have gladly given up his place on this earth, banished back to the pits if it meant the person who had caused this faced punishment for their crimes.

After all, without Copia around, what were they to do now? Who else would they give their lives to? Aether, Dew and Mountain had already experienced this once, now again.

Rain never wanted to follow another human. Would never do that again.

And, in the dark of night, the eight of them curled together on the bed in Copia's chambers, taking solace in the last place they'd all been together, happy, did he have an idea.

"What if we bring him back?" his voice was rough with disuse, he didn't talk much in the days after, his words thick and heavy and unfamiliar on his tongue.

"Bring him back?" Cumulus.

"What do you mean?" Dew.

Rain moves, dislodges Mountain and Swiss from him and sits up, "We could bring him back. We need to bring him back. He didn't deserve this. He needs to live."

Silence stretches thickly around them then, "Rain...bringing someone back is..."

"You don't understand!" Rain lashes out, his words an angry growl, pained, "He died alone and in pain. He died without us." He blinks back angry tears, "This wasn't supposed to happen."

A sharp inhale, but no one says anything.

"If you're not going to help me, I'll do it myself." Rain says, and then he's pushing his way out of the bed, out of the pile even as the bond he has with the others sings out in sorrow, "I refuse to live a life up here if it means I'm without him," he says hotly, "I refuse to not at least try to bring him back." He inhales, and steadies the monsoon of emotion within him, "I can't live with myself knowing that I just let this happen and didn't do anything."

He'd left the room then, needing to get away, to distance himself, he knew he was being irrational and that fighting with his pack wouldn't solve anything but he couldn't just sit around and do nothing.

Dew finds him a little bit later, he'd retreated to the library, used his access as the standing Papa's ghoul to go into the archives, where all the good books were kept, the ones used for rituals during black mass.

"The others sent me to check on you," Dew says, coming to stand beside Rain, scanning the shelves in front of him.

Rain doesn't say anything to him or acknowledge him.

Dew exhales loudly and fits himself in between the shelf and Rain, grabbing his shoulders when Rain makes a move to step away from him, "Listen to me," he says, firm. "We are all mourning him right now, we're all nervous about what could happen to us now that he's gone." He squeezes Rain's shoulders tightly, "But throwing yourself into a half cocked plan to bring back the dead isn't the answer to this."

Rain narrows his eyes at Dew, "I'm not going to change my mind about wanting to bring him back, Dew."

Dew just rolls his eyes, "And I'm not here to change your mind, numbskull." he says, "I'm here to say that you need to be smart about this. That you need to mourn first, because bringing someone back from the dead is hard. He could be different. He could be too far gone. You need to prepare yourself for all the possibilities."

Rain stares at him for several long moments, blinking rapidly before he crumples forward into Dew, pushing him back into the shelf behind him. "I feel so lost." he whispers, pressing his face into Dew's neck, wetting the skin there with his tears. "Empty."

"I know, I know," Dew whispers, wrapping both arms around him tightly, "We all do, but it's worse for you. It always is, when you've bonded so strongly with him." He tips his head to the side to rest against Rain's, "But Rain, I promise, none of us are giving up on him, okay?"

A nod, slow and careful and Rain's fingers dig into Dew's back, "He was so alone when he died," he whispers. "He didn't want to go. It wasn't right."

Dew just holds him close, lets him cry until the tears are dried and his eyes ache.

Two weeks later, Rain kneels beside Copia's lifeless body in the circle drawn on the floor, he's dressed in his Papal robes, freshly pulled from the mausoleum, face paint pristine and perfect.

The others surround them and Rain feels their pack bond sing as they pour magic into the ritual, his hand gripping Copia's own gloved one oh so tightly.

And at first, when the wind dies down, when the crackling of Aether's magic finally fizzles out, there's nothing but stillness. Quiet and stillness.

And then, a sharp inhale.

Copia's hand squeezes Rain's.

-

3. Cumulus

Quiet had always been her friend, even before, when she'd find herself in Copia's office while he worked, she'd sit quietly while he muttered and bitched to himself about numbers, about measurements and whatever the Clergy had done that day to piss him off.

It was, in a way, relaxing for her. She didn't need to contribute to the conversation, the low cadence of Copia's voice as he talked mostly to himself, and to the room about any and everything set her sometimes frazzled nerves to ease.

These days, in the after, they call it, when she lets herself into Copia's office to sit with him while he works, he's quiet and focused.

Sometimes she catches him mouthing things, but no words ever come out.

He'll speak when spoken to, of course, but he doesn't mutter things under his breath, he doesn't complain about the Clergy.

(Not that there's a reason to complain about them. They'd made sure that the Clergy understood what would happen if they messed with one of their own again. Even Sister was more cordial towards Copia. Somewhat doting now. If they weren't around to fill the silence, Sister was. It seemed, Copia's death had shaken her up as well.)

"Cumulus, dear?" Copia's voice breaks her out of her thoughts, drawing her forward to the present and not into the dark places of the past. "Can you come here for a moment?"

Cumulus makes a soft noise and stands from the couch, crossing the short distance between there and the desk, she can feel the cautious push of him over their bond, questioning.

When she's close enough, he reaches out and takes her hand, his skin is cooler now, post resurrection, and it had taken her many days to fight back the urge to flinch at his touch, once warm but now marred by the cold kiss of death.

He smiles up at her, its a slow, hesitant thing, like the muscles in his face haven't quite figured out how to move properly. "I know that...things are different now..." he murmurs, taking his time to get all the words out properly. "I'm not the same anymore." He rubs his thumb over the back of her hand, slow and gentle circles into her skin.

"Oh, Copia," Cumulus whispers, lifting her other hand and resting it on his cheek, "You're still my Copia, still ours," she says fiercely, "Nothing changes that. It's because we love you so much that we were able to bring you back to us."

There's a brittle sort of look on his face, his eyes glassy, "Sunshine doesn't take her helmet off when she comes to see me," he whispers, "Aether's guilt is so overwhelming I can feel it through the bond," he swallows heavily, "You come in here and I know you want me to...to..." he trails off, overwhelmed now. "I'm so sorry."

"We love you," Cumulus says, and gently dislodges her hand from Copia's so she can instead cup his face between her palms, drawing his darting gaze towards her instead, "You dying was not your fault. We don't blame you for that," she says firmly, "Sunshine and Aether, they will be okay, we've been working on it, working with them. We lost you and it hurt us all, but none of this has ever been, or will ever be your fault, darling." she leans down, rests her forehead against his.

A soft sniffle, and Cumulus feels a gentle dampness against her palms, tears sneaking their way between where their skin makes contact. "I just want to be like I used to be..."

Cumulus pulls back a bit and presses a gentle kiss to his forehead, "You are still our Copia," she repeats the words against his skin. "We love you, even now. It hasn't been easy, because we've all been through something traumatic. Even you." she adds when it looks like he's about to cut her off and protest. "But having you fall in love with us again? Making new memories with you?" she tilts her head, smiling down at him, "It's all worth it."

Copia nods, a small and careful movement of his head, and he doesn't protest when Cumulus hauls him up out of the chair, letting her pull him over to the couch with her and rearranging them until she's tucked up between him and the back of the couch, resting her head on his chest to listen to the sound of his heart.

"Thank you, Cu," he whispers a few minutes later, his hand resting on her side, just on the side of too cold, but still comforting.

-

4. Aether + Dew

Sometimes, Copia gets a strange look on his face when he's tucked up between Aether and Dew, just as they've always done. Like he's trying to remember something, like there's something he wants to say.

He never does though, just shifts until he's comfortable, pushing away the strange feeling of deja vu so he can instead, focus on the quiet vibrations of Dew's voice as he talks to Aether.

A retelling of what had happened earlier, when Copia and he had left the ministry to go to one of Copia's physical therapy appointments.

In a way, it was surprising how easy it was to forge the paperwork and come up with a reasoning behind him losing his motor functions that wasn't related to him dying.

"They're saying that he's been making good progress," Dew's saying as he combs his fingers through Copia's hair, "They're hopeful that within a few more months he'll be able to walk without any sort of aid. But of course, we'll keep it around anyway."

Aether hums from behind him, where he's got his head resting on Copia's side, eyes closed as one of Copia's fingertips carefully trace the bumps and ridges on one of his horns. "I'm glad," he murmurs, "You're making such good progress, C," he presses a kiss to Copia's side, feeling Copia's finger twitch at that.

"Cirrus and I have a running theory that right now his body is trying to repair both his motor function and his memory, so if we help it out a bit, then there's a higher chance that things will go smoother than if we were to just...leave it be." Dew says, looking down at Copia, who's hyper focused on the main ridge of Aether's horn. "Isn't that right, Copia?" he asks loud enough for Copia to hear, not really expecting a response.

Copia huffs quietly, "And here I thought you were just taking me to that damned man to enjoy his torture on me," he mumbles into Dew's shirt.

Both Aether and Dew freeze for a moment, looking at each other with wide eyes.

"What?" Copia asks, his finger stopping its movement as he lifts his head enough to look at Dew, "Did I say something wrong?"

"Oh no, no, no no," Dew says quickly, snapping out of it and going back to running his fingers through Copia's hair, "I just didn't realize you'd heard me, that's all."

A hum, low and lazy, "My hearing seems to be getting better," he says, "At least in one side," he adds after a moment, I don't know if that's related to...everything or if my body is just." he stops speaking, but the rest of the sentence is pretty simple to fill in.

Aether shifts his head a little bit, nudging his horn into Copia's hand, "I think it's because you've put a lot of work into everything since coming back," he says softly.

"I know everything is...different now, and things are uh. Hard." Copia starts, groaning quietly as he shifts his tired body around, dislodging Aether from his spot, "And there are bad days. Really bad ones but." He reaches out to cup Aether's face in his hands, "I'm glad I'm back. I'm glad I get a second chance." He drags his thumbs along the apples of Aether's cheeks, "Thank you for all that you've done for me, in this time and while I was...dead."

Aether flushes a little, his eyes fluttering closed at Copia's touch, "It was a group effort," he whispers. "We all wanted you back. We all needed you to come back. Rain pushed for it first and he was the one who got us all on board to do it."

"Cirrus told me that you used the most magic," Copia says, but doesn't say much else after, as if he was unsure where to take the rest of the sentence.

Finally opening his eyes, he looks at Copia, "It's in my nature. Life and death are kind of my thing, yeah?" he keeps it light, and before, he'd lean forward and kiss Copia before he could continue, distract him from paying more compliments than deserved; but since everything, Copia saying anything was something to be celebrated, even if it was a misguided compliment of some kind.

Copia stares at him for a minute, silent, his eyes since returning have had this strange look to them, going from duller in color to something brighter, as if they were coming back to life. In a way, Aether hopes that means something and that one day in the near future this whole thing wouldn't come back to bite them in the ass.

"Still, thank you," Copia says, and then he leans in, slow and careful, telegraphing every single movement as he comes in closer and closer before finally pressing his lips against Aether's in a closed mouth kiss.

The sound of Dew inhaling sharply behind them is on the edges of Aether's radar, but right now all he can focus on is Copiaiskissinghimaftereverything.

He pulls back, just on the side of too quick, a flush on his cheeks, "I hope that wasn't...bad." he says, "Or too much. I didn't uh. I should have asked? Maybe?"

Clearing his throat, Aether turns his head a bit and nuzzles into Copia's palm, "It was fine, it was perfect," he whispers, a small smile on his lips.

"You just seemed so...sad," Copia says slowly, "And something in my head was screaming at me to kiss you." He licks his lips, nervous, "Are you still sad?"

Yes. Always. I'll always be sad, I'll always feel guilty about losing you even if I brought you back.

Aether shakes his head and presses a kiss to his palm, "The kiss helped," he says instead of the tumultuous thoughts swirling around his mind. "I love you," he says, gently moving Copia's hands away from his face so he can lean in and bump his forehead against Copia's gently.

"I love you too." Copia whispers back, and then his eyes go wide, "Oh, oh," he shifts around, dislodging Aether, "Dewdrop, Dew," he says, half laying on top of him now, chest to chest, "I love you as well," he punctuates that by a quick kiss to the corner of Dew's mouth, for once initiating the affection.

Dew makes a surprised little chirp, his hands coming up to steady Copia, "Hey, hey, C," he says, "I love you too, I do," he smiles at him, petting his sides gently, "No hurt feelings because you kissed Aether," he says with a little laugh. "We're just glad you feel safe enough to."

Copia makes a noise in his throat, "It just felt right," he says, "Being with you two...it feels right? I uh. I used to be affectionate, didn't I?"

Dew and Aether look at each other, and Aether chooses to answer for them, "At first, you were hesitant to really touch us, and it took months for you to initiate any ah...intimate contact. The affection came much later in the relationship, having to wait until you reach that point again? Such a small thing on the grand scale."

"And what's the big thing on this scale?"

Another shared look and Dew grins, "You," he answers. "Having you back."

-

5. Mountain & Cirrus & Swiss

These days, at least three of them sleep in the same room as Copia, curled up together in Copia's still too small bed; before his death, he'd been in the process of trying to get a new one, moving expenses around so he could budget a properly built bed, one to comfortably hold nine bodies.

Of course, in the rush of the assassination and the subsequent two weeks of planning to bring him back, it'd sort of fall to the side.

Even now, Copia finds himself squished between Cirrus and Swiss, warm, finally warm, with Mountain lying under the three of them, his legs hanging off the end of the bed.

He's drifting to sleep, with Swiss already snoring in his ear and the gentle rise and fall of Cirrus's chest under his head; Mountain must already be sleeping because there's a deep bass of a snore echoing through the room, calming, oh so calming.

His eyes close and he sighs, nearly asleep when he feels the cold, cold clutch of something grab at his throat, as if something is trying to pull him under, the whisper of voices, getting louder and louder and louder.

"Copia," he hears among that echo of voices, "Copia, breathe for us, it's a dream, it's just a dream," the voice continues, a warm hand settling on his cheek. "Open your eyes for us, open them."

His eyes flutter a few times in an attempt to open, he feels more than he hears a deep, deep bass of a hum and he grabs onto that, focuses on that sound, on that feeling of safeness.

"--do we need to get the others? I've never seen a nightmare like this."

It's Swiss's voice, and there's an undercurrent of panic to it that makes Copia ache.

The cold grasp around his throat tightens, tightens, tightens...

Copia's eyes fly open and he sits up suddenly, dislodging the ghouls, grasping his chest as he gasps for air.

"Copia, hey, C," Cirrus says softly, her hand reaching out to cup his cheek, "Are you back with us?"

His eyes are wide as he looks at her, his own hand coming up to grip her wrist tightly, "I, it felt so real, the cold grip, it felt like death was trying to get me."

Swiss crowds into his other side, purring lowly as he bumps his head against Copia's, "We won't let anyone come get you," he whispers. "Death or even Satan himself would have to get through all of us first."

Copia leans into Swiss, leans into Cirrus, feels the warm embrace of Mountain wrapping his arms around the three of them.

"I'm sorry for waking you," Copia finally whispers when he's able to find his voice, weak and waning, thick with sleep and something else.

Cirrus shushes him, brushing his hair from his face, rubbing her thumb gently against his temple, "None of that," she says, "None of that, C. It's fine," she whispers as Copia's eyes flutter closed. She leans forward and presses a kiss against each eyelid. "Do you want to lay back down or do you need to stay up for a little longer?"

It takes him a few moments to respond, and when he does, his voice cracks a little bit, "I think I need to get up, I need to take a walk."

There's shifting and moving until Copia's able to get up and out of bed, a nervous energy filling him as he comes to a stand beside the bed, shaking the sleep out of his limbs.

"Want some company?" Mountain asks, getting out of bed as well, offering his arm to Copia, something to lean on.

A sense of relief washes over Copia and he allows himself to be vulnerable, sliding his arm through Mountain's, "Just to the end of the hall and back, I think," he murmurs. "Just to shake off the rest of the dream."

Mountain looks over at Swiss and Cirrus who are curled up together on the bed watching them, and then back at Copia, nodding, "To the end of the hall. If you still can't sleep when we get back I can make some tea for you. Something to help you relax."

Copia hums and nods, allows Mountain to lead him out of the bedroom; their walk from one end of the hallway and back to the bedroom, though brief, has Copia's eyes drooping by the time Mountain is closing the bedroom door behind them.

Back in bed, Cirrus wakes up from a light nap, Swiss snoring away beside her, she shares a smile with Mountain and together they get Copia back into the bed with Mountain curling up behind Copia and Cirrus coaxing him to rest his head on her chest.

They played a fantastic show and it all went to shit because Sister Imperator just had to fucking die right as they were coming off stage. He needs a break, damn it. So he’s not going to go back inside, even though there’s already someone leaning against the wall of the hotel in the only halfway reasonable place to smoke, and he’s humming Kiss the Go-Goat, of all fucking things.

The rest of the pack is upstairs, piled into Cirrus and Cumulus’s room. When he’d slipped out Phantom had been curled in a ball on the couch, teetering on the edge of a breakdown, insisting that there must have been some sign he missed, because how could he not have known how sick she really was?

Mountain had knelt in front of him. “Listen to me, bug. This is not your fault. We’ve all learned that you underestimate Sister Imperator at your own peril. You get to be the last one to learn it.”

Phantom’s lip had wobbled, Cirrus had said “Oh sweetie,” and Dew had to get out. There wasn’t enough oxygen in the room.

Copia is beside himself, he knows, even though he’s only known for sure that Imperator is his mother for…fuck, has it even been a year? Dew knows he has no business going near him right now. If he can’t even deal with Phantom, he certainly can’t deal with him.

So he’d come out here, paced around the building until he could find a decent place to smoke and listen to the rumble of late night flights landing at LAX. He hadn’t seen another living soul until he’d found this man, standing right where he wanted to be. He nods a hello, leans against the wall a polite distance away, and lights a cigarette.

It’s always a gamble, talking to fans. Maybe this is one of the unhinged ones and the night can go bad in a new and interesting way. But Dew wants to leech off the good energy, get back some of what was lost to the chaos and the crying, and so he says “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

The man startles, and smiles sheepishly. He’s handsome, for a human. “Heh, suppose I have. Were you there too?”

Dew nods. “Hell of a show.”

“It was.” He’s not smoking anything, just staring out at the skyline. It’s not all that much of a view, just solar panels and a parking garage, billboards for personal injury lawyers, the lights of downtown LA twinkling in the distance. Somewhere on a hillside beyond those lights is the Hollywood sign. Aurora had sworn she could see it this morning.

We should have seen it.

Was that Phantom’s voice, or Aether’s, in his head? Dew doesn’t know, and to all the grudges he’s held against Imperator over the years he adds one more, that both of his quints are going to be doubting themselves because she just had to be secretive about everything, even fucking dying.

The man next to him isn’t hiding anything. Excitement rolls off him in waves, even standing still. It’s not anywhere near as good as a whole crowd but it’s enough to take the edge off.

Dew should be cautious, but he can’t help himself. “First ritual?” he asks. He’s not sure whether he’ll say he’s a fellow fan or crew, he’ll see how it goes.

“Yeah. I’ve listened for years, but I’ve never seen them live before. You?” Something about his voice is too familiar. Dew’s too frayed to place it, but it gnaws at him.

“Seen a few, yeah. What was your favorite?”

He sighs happily. “All of it? Fuck, even the ones I didn’t like on the record, they’re something else live. But if I had to pick… Ritual. Well, no, maybe Faith." Dew wonders if he’s got a partner or a friend up in the hotel, someone who wanted to sleep instead of gush about the show, and that’s why he’s out here. "And I love that they did Miasma, gives the ghouls time to shine, you know?”

“Yeah, they were fantastic.” Dew knows Rain would be throwing him a look right now, leave it, but Rain’s not here is he?

They chat for a while, about songs and spectacle. It’s just what Dew needed. What happened after the ritual doesn’t erase what happened during. They gave thousands of people a night they’ll never forget, comfort and catharsis and the pure unholy energy of the music. It mattered. Still matters.

And then the stranger says “Can I tell you something?”

“Go for it.”

“Well, very long story short, I never knew my birth parents. And a few months ago, I got a letter from, apparently, my mother. She’s…I guess you could say she’s part of the band’s management.”

The bottom drops out of Dew’s stomach. He should have stayed upstairs. He’d take holding a crying Phantom any day over continuing this conversation. Somehow, he only says “Oh?”

The man nods. “She invited me to out here to see the show, and to meet her.”

“Did you get to? Meet her?” Dew can hear how his own voice has shifted, but hopes the human can’t.

“Not today, there was too much going on—I mean, obviously, it’s a lot to organize, right?” His voice. How had Dew not realized? His voice is Copia’s, but different, lighter, another accent. “But tomorrow’s relatively free, since they’re in the same venue again. We’re going to meet up for brunch and…just talk about it all.”

Dew takes a long drag on his cigarette. Images are flashing across his vision, two hours ago and now, all at once. What can he say? Sorry, you just missed her.

The other man shakes his head. “You probably think I’m crazy, huh?”

“Nah, I’ve heard crazier. That’s a lot to get your head around though, isn’t it?”

“It is. But…I don’t know, something feels right about it all. Like things are finally lining up the way they were supposed to.”

If the rumors are true, if Copia’s being forced out, then this is—

This is too much for one day, is what this is. Dew finishes his cigarette, looks out at the skyline one more time. Huge things hidden in plain sight. “Fuck it’s late,” he says. “I’ve gotta head to bed. I hope it goes well for you, man. I really do.”

The man turns to face him fully. He knows it’s coming, and still only just manages not to flinch at the sight of the white eye. “Thank you,” he says, soft and sincere.

Dew doesn’t tell the pack when he gets back upstairs. They’ve all been through enough tonight.

***

It feels like a lifetime since they were last in Inglewood. Dew had been hoping Copia would come out to this last ritual, but in the end he couldn’t do it. Couldn’t stand being back in that neighborhood, he’d said, but Dew suspects it’s the meeting with Perpetua that he’s putting off.

This time, he’s alone when he leans against the building to smoke. The crew’s end-of-tour party is happening inside, so he expects to be joined by some of them eventually, but not—

“Well,” says Perpetua, “fancy meeting you here.”

Dew stares at him. “Are you kidding me? You’re gonna get clocked.” There are too many fans at this hotel. Not five minutes ago Dew walked past a woman in the lobby wearing a Ghost shirt—the Lachryma shirt, even. Perpetua shouldn’t have left his room until call time tomorrow, even unmasked and unpainted like this.

He just shrugs. “Maybe. But I had to. For old times’ sake.”

“So you remember our last meeting here, then?”

“I do.” Perpetua leans against the wall, closer than last time. He sighs. The pure joyful energy from that night is long gone. “I’ve wanted to ask about that for a while, but truth be told I didn’t know how.”

“That makes two of us.”

They stare out at the city. It’s a warm evening for February, a welcome change from the cold of most cities on this tour. Finally, Perpetua speaks. “How much did you know, back then?”

“Nothing,” says Dew. “I had no idea you existed until you said who your mother was.”

“But you knew, then? Who I was talking about?”

“I did.”

“And you knew she was dead?”

“I did.”

Silence. Dew doesn’t turn to look. The traffic’s starting to slow down for the evening, cars passing in twos and threes instead of a steady stream.

“Those words stuck in my head, you know,” says Perpetua. “ ‘I hope it goes well for you.’ Very carefully put.”

“I couldn’t have told you.”

“No. You couldn’t. Not sure I’d have believed you if you had.” He sighs again, a deep breath in and out to reset his nerves. Sometimes he reminds Dew so much of Copia it hurts. “I was really hoping to talk to Copia, about that night.”

“I wouldn’t.” Out of the corner of his eye he sees Perpetua tilt his head. “It was bad.”

Perpetua scoffs. “No, really?”

“I mean like he wasn’t all there. He was…dissociating? Whatever the fuck you call it, I don’t know, but it was… I don’t know how much he’d be able to tell you.”

Dew could tell him. He’s never told him he stood over Imperator as she was dying. As the medics had worked on her, her eyes had opened for just a second, barely able to focus. Dew’s old mask may well have been the last thing she ever saw.

He could tell Perpetua about the change from person to corpse, the thinnest slice of an instant between the two. He doesn't think that humans can sense it as clearly as ghouls, when a soul disconnects from a body. He'd known before the medics had.

But he doesn’t tell him. He’s not sure he really wants to know. He smokes his cigarette and stares at the skyline and the question that he both does and doesn’t want answered is heavy in his chest.

Fuck it, there’s only one more night. How bad can it be to know? “How much did you know back then? About all this?”

“Almost nothing.”

“Really?”

“I had my suspicions. I mean.” He gestures at his eye. “You have to wonder, right? But all I knew for sure was that Imperator was my mother, and she wanted to offer me a job in the Ministry so we could have time to get to know each other. Or so she said. I never imagined she meant this.”

His energy is an open book, just as it had been that night, and there’s no shadow of deception in him. He didn’t know he was being set up to supplant his brother. It’s a comfort, and it’s not. “Got a bit more than you bargained for, huh?”

“Ha, no shit.”

They’re quiet for a while, watching the sunset. It’s the prettiest the sky’s going to be all night, all pink and yellow and orange. Finally, Perpetua speaks.

“It’s… Hm. It’s odd.” He gestures broadly. “All of this. I wish it had gone different, start to finish, you know? But at the same time, I’m glad I get to be part of it. If that makes sense.”

“It does.” Dew doesn’t like to think too much about it. He misses how things were then, and he knows he’s going to miss how things are now. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad we get to do it with you.”

Perpetua looks at him for a long moment, and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Dew. For everything.”

“Don’t get sappy on me now,” he says, though he doesn't shrug off the touch.

His friend grins, a little ghost of that first smile he saw in this exact spot. “Either I’m sappy now or I say nice things about you all on stage tomorrow, take your pick.”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

"just the two of us"

staying the night

cooking lessons

long phone/video calls

road trips

rest & relaxation

lingering hugs

scary movies

clingy

day(s) off

wound tending

friendly competition

coffee shop au

mutual pining

acts of service

"can't wait to see you"

pets & animals

unexpected confessions

"i've got you"

springtime picnic

late night conversations

celebrations

silly shared habits

domesticity

drunken affection

song writing

gaming together

potluck

first time(s)

quiet togetherness

unspoken 'i love you's

He works steadily.

The blankets first, because a nest is only as good as its foundation and Mountain's never been one to do anything halfway.

The thing about Dew is that his heat makes him run cold, and Mountain has learned over the years that the nest needs weight as much as warmth — something that presses back, that says you are here, you are contained, and nothing else is getting in.

He layers methodically. The heaviest quilt on the bottom. Two of the softer ones on top, folded so the texture sits right, because Dew has opinions about texture that he has never once articulated out loud, but Mountain has picked up on anyway.

He adjusts the fold twice before he's satisfied.

The water goes on the low shelf where it can be reached without sitting up. Three bottles, because two is never enough and Dew will not ask for more once he's down. A fourth, tucked behind the others, because Mountain knows how this goes.

Food next — nothing that requires thought or effort or any kind of decision-making. He's raided the kitchen for things that are easy, things that are dense, things that Dew actually likes rather than things that are merely available. He arranges them without ceremony and does not let himself feel fond about it.

He mostly succeeds.

He's working on the temperature, opening the window about two thirds of the way —the room runs too warm otherwise, a water-turned-fire ghoul heat is a whole climate conundrum — when he hears it.

Footsteps in the corridor with a very specific cadence, slightly too controlled. The walk of someone managing themselves very carefully.

Mountain closes the window to halfway. Reconsiders before he leaves it.

The door opens.

Dew looks — not bad, exactly, but tight. His hands are tucked close to his body, fingers curled in, and Mountain can see even from here the pallor that creeps in at the start of it — warmth retreating inward, the body hoarding what it has. There's a tension across his shoulders that hasn't released, and his eyes are too-sharp and too-aware, like everything in his peripheral vision is slightly offensive.

He's been like this for two days.

Yesterday, Mountain hadn't said anything.

Today, he's is in his room having reorganized everything, so the conversation is happening whether he wants it to or not.

Dew sees the blankets. The food shelf. Mountain standing in the middle of all of it like a very calm geographical feature.

"I almost bit the new guy," Dew says, instead of hello.

"I know," Mountain says.

"I didn't, though."

"I know."

Dew's jaw works. He drops his gaze to the bed, the layering, the arrangement, and something moves across his face that he shuts down immediately.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know," Mountain says, for the third time, with exactly the same weight as the first two times. Not dismissive. Not pointed. Simply: yes, and here we are anyway.

"I was going to—"

"When?"

Dew closes his mouth.

Mountain waits. He's good at that. He's made of something that has been waiting since before either of them existed, and Dew knows this, which is probably why he doesn't bother finishing the sentence.

They've had this argument before. They've had it in a dozen different forms in about as many years and it always ends the same way, which is Dew accepting help while maintaining total plausible deniability about having done so.

"Stop looking at me like that," Dew says.

"Like what?"

"Like—" Dew gestures, imprecisely, somewhere in the vicinity of Mountain's entire face. "That."

"I'm not looking at you like anything," Mountain says, which is technically true and also a complete lie, and they both know it.

Dew makes a sound that isn't quite a growl and crosses to the bed. He picks up the edge of the top blanket, inspects it and finds that there is nothing wrong with it, that Mountain knows him well enough to arrange everything just so.

He puts it back down.

His hands are restless. They want something to do — and Mountain has learned this too. The way Dew's agitation needs a task, needs somewhere specific to go or it just keeps circling.

Mountain picks up the spare pillow from the chair and holds it out.

Dew looks at it. "I'm not—"

"I'm not saying anything."

A long pause.

Dew takes the pillow with a growl.

He turns it over once, finds the position he wants with the efficiency of someone who would rather die than admit they've been thinking about this, and adds it to the nest with more precision than strictly necessary.

Mountain says nothing. He picks up the next thing — a folded blanket, one more layer — and holds that out too.

Dew takes it without looking at him.

They work like that for a while: Mountain supplying, Dew arranging, neither of them acknowledging what they're doing or why. The room gets quieter. Dew's shoulders come down a half-inch, then another.

He's still frowning — he will probably still be frowning when he's fully settled and warm again and completely taken care of — but the quality of the frown has changed. It's less everything is wrong and more I reserve the right to have opinions about this, and my opinion is that I hate it.

Mountain considers that a significant improvement.

"The window," Dew says finally.

"Halfway."

Dew glances at it. Hums as he considers.

"Fine."

Mountain doesn't smile. But he does, very quietly, decide to feel fond about it

He's earned it.

When the nest is finished — and it is genuinely, thoroughly finished, nothing missing, nothing out of place — Dew stands at the edge of it with his arms crossed and surveys his work and Mountain's all mixed together into something that is very clearly his.

There's a long moment where Mountain can see him deciding whether he's going to say something real or whether he's going to pick a fight about the water placement instead.

Dew uncrosses his arms.

"The new guy's fine," he says, gruffly, to the middle distance. "Rain. I didn't actually— he's fine. I told him I was sorry."

"I know," Mountain says. "Aether told me. He said you were very gracious about it."

Dew's expression does something complicated. "New guy's annoyingly sweet."

"Yes."

"It's a problem."

"Mm."

There's another pause as Dew reaches out and adjusts one corner of the top blanket, a minute adjustment that changes nothing, and then he doesn't move away from the bed.

Mountain waits.

The window lets in a thin thread of cool air and the room is exactly the right temperature and everything Dew needs for the next several hours is within arm's reach.

He can feel it now, in the pit of his stomach. That gnawing cold feeling, growing and growing and growing.

"You got the one from the top shelf," Dew says quietly. The heavy quilt. The one that takes him a great effort to reach. "You didn't have to—"

His tail shivers. It's his favorite blanket but it always gets put up and he's not about to ask, because asking means admitting defeat and that means admitting how he feels and —

"Dew."

"What."

"Get in."

Dew huffs about it and gets in.

His tail shivers again, and when Mountain reaches across to pull the pillow straight his fingers brush Dew's wrist — cold, properly cold now, the heat already pulling inward to wherever it goes before it comes roaring back.

Dew pulls the blankets up with something that might look like annoyance to someone else, but Mountain knows.

He can see the cold flush starting to raise in Dew's cheeks and he can see the way he shifts his narrow hips to find the spot and the way he settles like he's being convinced.

He knows that the quiet little sigh Dew lets out is nothing short of gratitude, and he can't help but smile.

Mountain sits on the edge. Present, until Dew's ready.

Which, if Mountain had to guess, will be any moment now.

Dew's hand finds his arm and rests there, tapping idle little patterns into his skin — and then stops.

A small sound, barely anything. Not a word. Not quite a whine.

He wouldn't admit to that anyway.

Mountain doesn't make a thing of it. He just lifts the blankets and gets in.

Dew doesn't protest. That, more than anything, is how Mountain knows.

He tucks himself against Mountain's side with his face turned into his chest and his tail curled in close, and Mountain settles an arm around him, heavy and sure, and pulls the quilt up over them both.

Dew's breathing evens out. Not sleep yet but something close to calm before the storm rolls in.

"You're warm," Dew mutters, accusatory.

"Yes," Mountain says.

A pause.

"...Good."

Mountain doesn't smile where Dew can see it.

⛧

Down the corridor, in the small kitchen, a kettle is filled at the sink.

Someone has set out Dew's favorite mug, the heavy ceramic one that holds heat, and beside it a tin of sea nettle tea. The lid is cracked open, the smell of it something coastal and mineral and faintly sweet.

The kind of thing that takes some knowing to source.

The kind of thing you'd only think to reach for if you already understood.

He'll want that when he surfaces, someone says, quiet.

Mhm, says someone else.

The kettle clinks when it meets the stove.

⛧

Down the hall, Mountain rolls slow and deliberate until he's half over Dew, one arm tucked beneath him, the other dragging a pillow from the pile and slipping it under his hips.

Dew makes a sound that is probably supposed to be a complaint, but it melts when Mountain's hand finds the curve of Dew's ribs and rests there.

Mountain runs his fingers along them, feeling for the slow rise and fall of his breathing, the warmth of it fading beneath Mountain's palm, the smallness of him that Dew would absolutely object to being noted.

Mountain won't say it out loud, but he loves that about him. The hidden strength, despite it all.

Dew doesn't know about the kettle. He doesn't know about the mug, or the tea, or the quiet murmur of someone who knew exactly which shelf to check.

He doesn't know any of it yet.

He just knows the weight of Mountain's hand, the warmth he'll eventually bleed back into his skin, and the room at exactly the right temperature, for now at least.

The water begins to warm.

Aether, in his light jacket and sweats, has the audacity to chuckle. Dew shoots him a look as he peels off the first of many layers of outerwear.

“What?”

“You haven’t even given it a chance. There's actual seasons here at least. The pit was just hot and dry all the time.”

“Not in the water.” Dew snips. “And you weren’t even fully corporeal.”

Aether sighs and shrugs. Dew’s got him there; quintessence ghouls existing more as energy than physical beings, without a vessel anyway.

“I dunno. It makes me really appreciate the summer I guess.” Aether hums.

Dew throws his scarf at Aether and starts to stalk off ahead.

Removing the projectile yarn heap from his face, Aether calls after him. “Will my poor little Dewcicle feel better if I get a warm bath going?”

Dew freezes mid stride, considering. Back still turned, Aether can’t see his face but his finned tail flicks in interest where it's been freed from Dew’s snow pants. Finally he turns, eyes big and round.

“Maybe…”

Aether chuckles again but his bribe is enough to keep Dew’s frustration to an annoyed flick of his ear fins.

“Right behind you.”

Aether smiles as Dew scurries ahead, this time with an excited spring to his step. Aether follows the trail of shed clothing layers all the way back to the den.

- - - - - - - - - -

Dew still hates winter. He may have embraced a new element but even the season of goodwill isn’t enough to sway his vendetta against Jack Frost. There's maybe one nice thing about it though.

Dew, returning to bed from the ensuite, takes a moment to admire how the light of the rising sun peaks through the blinds and dyes the room pink and gold. And at the center of those sunbeams is his favorite thing of all. Aether lays nestled in their blanket nest, in their shared bed. He’d been asleep when Dew got up but he cracks an eye open now.

“Come back. I need my little space heater.” He mumbles, still drowsy. He pats the empty space where Dew should be.

Dew chuckles. The chill in the air doesn’t freeze him to the bone like it used to; a core of pure hellfire will do that. It's still noticeable though. Quintessence ghouls are only slightly better at regulating body temperature than cold blooded water ghouls. If Dew can feel it, Aether is certainly affected by it.

“I’m coming. Scoot over.”

Dew slips back into his space in the bed, his space in Aether’s arms, like a puzzle piece finding its match on all sides. His nose finds the crook of Aether’s neck as the quint’s tail laces with his. He cranks up his internal furnace until Aether’s purring and pulling him closer.

“Better?”

“Mm hm.”

Dew soothes the goosebumps on his mate’s arms with caresses of his warm hands until Aether stops shivering. In turn, Aether scratches at Dew’s scalp just how he likes.