It Is A Long Way Down...

He may have worn the same sweat suit nearly everyday outside of work, but that sweat suit was always perfect. Each set - eight in total - hung neatly in his closet. His T-shirts too, wrinkles steamed away if any appeared while in storage. His cassocks hung in garment bags, his shoes lined up in neat rows, socks carefully sorted by material, length, pattern and color. A little rainbow in his drawer, a bit of sunshine even on bad mornings.

He couldn't wear any of that now - the casts and various tubes and monitors attached to his body wouldn't allow it, though that wasn't the worst thing. He could understand that. No, what had gotten to him far more quickly was the stubble.

Sideburns, his moustache? They made him look sophisticated, like one of the actors in the movies he grew up loving, but Vincent Price wouldn't have heen caught dead with a bit of stubble. And they hadn't been able to shave his face in weeks.

He hated it with a passion, always had. It was the texture of it, the way it snagged on fabric when he dressed or undressed, the way it made him look unkempt, older. And where the silver had only just crept into his temples at the end of his papacy (and, frankly, he thought made him look dignified), his beard had started to grey far quicker. Little spots and streaks of white, erratic, disjointed, messy.

More had crept in, but now, on a face made gaunt by hospital food and inactivity, he didn't recognize himself in the hand mirror he'd requested. Not Cardinal, not Papa, not Frater, but a paintless, frail old man. A dying man.

This had been Nico's idea - not just the shaving, but the ritual of the straight razor. The hot towel had been extremely pleasant, softening his skin, and the slight scent of shaving cream was familiar, the brush soft. His found himself relaxing, reflected by the slowing beep of machinery. It was the most touch they'd had in a long time, too long. Still, as Nico finished up and set the brush aside, Copia could feel the tension growing in his spine. The razor, newly sharpened, glinted in the light, and his trust in this man - implicit though it was at this point - faltered.

"Hold still." Copia blinked, his attention returning to the moment - hands, warm and soft against his jaw, the caress of shaving cream over his skin lathered on a soft brush. He watched, the sunlight catching the curve of Nico's cheek, the smallest crease forming between his brows. The roots of his hair had started to grow in, dark against bleach blond, a few streaks of grey sneaking in here and there. He'd been neglecting himself too, it seemed, though Copia would never say as much. He could barely notice it, too focused on the way the light seemed to glow in the fly-aways around his head, the edge of his eyelashes, delicate, golden.

It was sharp. So sharp. His throat bobbed under the cream, eyes widening as they stayed trained on it's silvery edge.

His uncles had trusted him, too, hadn't they? They'd made him cardinal, after all. It hadn't been his idea, he hadn't held the syringe, hadn't even known who they were to him yet, but he'd gone along with it.

What if someone - V, Psalterian, someone he couldn't even see coming - decided to finish what they'd started. He wouldn't be able to stop it, he could barely drink by himself, let alone fight off an attack. And everyone had a price, Copia knew that all too well, even Nico must-

"Baby." The monitor beeped faster as his eyes focused on Nico again, the younger man's head tilted just slightly, eyes on the side of his neck. Copia blinked rapidly, his lips parting slightly to take a shaky breath, about to say something, but Nico spoke in the same quick tone, not scolding but firm: "Head back for me."

He made a noise in the back of his throat, blood rushing to his cheeks, but his head fell back, eyes fluttering shut as he let out a shaky sigh. He flinched at the first press of the blade against his skin, the sound of it scraping across it thunderous in the relative silence. He could barely hear it over the pounding of his heart, the beeping of the monitor.

"That's it," Nico continued as he let out another sigh, shaky, just barely able to keep himself to a level of grumbling that might pass as normal. A pause to wipe the blade, another scrap over the thin skin of his neck. And again, and again, Nico occasionally murmuring another soft encouragement or bit of praise. So close to the thrumming rhythm of his heart, the blood that ran hotter now, too hot for what this was, for where they were.

"Just breath for me, baby," that voice murmured again, soft, soothing, the way one might speak to a frightened dog, and oh, that thought shouldn't have done something to him in his current state. He wouldn't be ready for that for months. He whined again, soft, and Nico paused, but if it was from the noise or just the rhythm of cleaning the blade, he couldn't know.

"Look at me, Papa," he murmured, and the title, no longer his outside of these moments, made the corner of his mouth twitch. His chin came down heavily, Nico catching the underside of his jaw with one hand. He was smiling, his own cheeks flushed slightly. Copia always liked that smile, liked the laugh that followed it, a bubbling little chuckle as he thumb swiped against the newly smooth skin on the underside of his chin.

"I'll have to remember this, huh?" he murmured softly, and Copia nodded dumbly, managing a strained chuckle himself. "We still have the rest to go, though..."