#ask red

When he doesn’t answer, you tilt your head against one freckled shoulder. He’s so handsome, your Frater, even when frowning and fixing you with that questioning brow-raise. His specs balance on the end of his nose, and his white eye is so piercing in the light of the flickering fire that it looks like fresh snow. 

Copia hums, that telling sound that you know means he knows you are absolutely lying through your teeth. 

“What was the last thing I read?” 

And welp, he’s caught you hook, line and sinker. 

“I… don’t know.”

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Lucy found the wardrobe.”

You pout and look away from his gaze to where your fingers are buried in that lovely, silken carpet of salt and peppered chest hair of his. You flex the digits, sighing. Your head is simultaneously so full and so empty all at once, too many ghosts crammed into a space not meant for them, and yet you don’t know how to be rid of these phantom worries that mean nothing. 

“I can hear you thinking,” he whispers with a bit more of a playful edge. “It’s rather distracting.”

“Sorry.”

Copia tuts affectionately as he closes the book,  sets it by his hip, pulls off his glasses, and then readjusts his hold on you. His thick fingers slide along your scalp, lips grazing your hairline in a light kiss.

“Non esserlo. Do you want to talk about it?”

Before the words even leave his mouth, the tears are already threatening in your eyes. Not quite falling, but you know it won’t take much more. 

You shake your head, sniffling even as you say, “It’s nothing. I’m just being stupid as always.”

“Nothing is stupid, amore. Never stupid, especially not you.”

You know he’s dealt with and still deals with his own set of anxieties; you just don’t want to add to them. 

“Do you need advice or for me to listen?” He then asks, and some of the weight lifts enough for you to think. 

“Both. Words.”

“Then speak to me,” he says in a voice an octave lower than his usual. 

It’s his Papa tone. You almost laugh at the small amount of joy it unearths. You adore his voice, no other word for it. It’s like a warm blanket around your shoulders, an embrace after being out in the chilly winter air that frosts the glasspanes of his room in their icy spiderwebs. 

It makes you feel safe, wanted, and most importantly, heard. 

You know you can be honest with him, that he has never and will never judge you or disregard the things you say, no matter how ridiculous they may sound to you. You readjust your head on his shoulder, and he tugs the blanket higher, arms around you, swaddled by his heat and pliable body that dips and bows beneath you with each breath. 

“I just… I worry that you hate me or that you’ll realise you hate me one day,” you force yourself to speak through the lump in your throat, the pressure building behind your eyes. “I worry I’m not good enough for you or that I’m going to wake up one day and you will be gone. I know it’s all in my head, but I…”

“It doesn’t make things easier,” Copia finishes for you. 

You nod, sniffling again and biting down the sorry that sits on your tongue. 

His cheek presses to your forehead, cradles your skull, and he nods, rocking you both ever so slightly. 

“Have I done anything to make you feel this way?”

You shake your head. 

“Bene,” he caresses your temple, breath puffing hot across your brow. “Has anyone said or done anything to make you feel this way?”

Again, you shake your head. 

Copia sighs. It’s not a sound of frustration or irritation, but one of relief. 

“One of those days, eh?”

You nod, eyes burning harder. He clicks his tongue again, the sound filling you with an overwhelming sense of care. 

“Il mio povero amore,” he speaks gently, “if I could burn these foul thoughts from your head, I would do so in a heartbeat.”

You know he would, that he would burn the world for you. He wipes away your tears when they eventually do fall, shushing you and eventually getting you to giggle when he reminisces about your first date. How wonderfully, awfully comedic it was due to a few unforeseen mishaps. How he had fallen for you the moment you spoke his name and shook his hand, and how he has not stopped pining for your attention every second since. 

It’s been hard, but it’s been worth every second of agonising bliss. 

“I like to think I am a good Boss and that I take care of everyone. Especially you, amore. You are at the top of my to-do list.”

“Oh stop it,” you shove back gently, voice raw even as you laugh and sit back to look at him. 

He continues to wipe your cheeks with the same tenderness, capturing you with that crooked smile until you’re mostly free of tears. 

“But I am not the Boss here, yeah? I mean, I know you like the boss stuff in bed—“ You roll your eyes, and sigh. “—but I am your amore.”

“You are,” you say, warmth blooming in your chest like a rose unfurling in the sun's rays. 

He holds your gaze, smiling sympathetically, and you let yourself collapse into his embrace once again. 

“And I love you, amore.”

“I love you too.”

And you do. So much. So intensely that you’re afraid the bedding will catch fire with how raw and volcanic your feelings are for him. You’d let him carve you up, slice down layer by layer until you’re bleeding, bare and vulnerable beneath him. It’s scary just how overwhelming it all is sometimes, but perhaps that’s why it feels like the world is ending every time you fear the dying of its flame. 

Once you’re sure you’ve stopped crying and breathed a sigh of relief, Copia untangles himself from you to fetch some water, a cool wet cloth and then tucks you back under the blankets together. 

The specs are back on his nose, and you spend the rest of the evening listening to him read about the four children who step beyond the wardrobe into another realm.