Faith

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Primo sighed heavily from where he sat, eyes roaming over every single item you had ever given him as his mind continued to run itself in circles. Full glad was he of your awakening, yes, heart already feeling lighter after seeing your beautiful smile aimed at him so easily after waking… yet an uneasy feeling settled within his bones, gnawing at his senses.

Something in your eyes had seemed… off. Never had he seen such a look in your eyes, your normally mesmerizing gaze appearing… well, almost as if you had experienced something whilst deeply asleep, something that, even now, lingered over your conscious shoulder like a specter, ready to strike. He knew not if you had dreamt during the time you slumbered in his bed, or if total darkness of the mind had been the only thing you had experienced, but something more than your current state had caused that look in your eyes. How true the saying was, that the eyes were the windows to one’s soul.

The retired Papa Emeritus I leaned back in his armchair, ungloved hands flexing at the memory of your visage as you’d spoken of going to fetch Secondo; you mustn’t have known how anxious you had outwardly appeared, your expression reminding him of what a child who feared being seen looked like-

“Perhaps you were always destined to fail, son of Emeritus…” A voice whispered against the shell of his ear, the sound almost resembling that of wind passing through a graveyard, bringing with it the lingering feeling of dread and despair.

“Fail as a Papa…”

Primo dared not open his eyes, for he knew what an entity such as this sought.

“Fail as a friend…”

It sought to drive him mad, drive him to insanity.

“Fail as…”

It sought to dig its taloned nails into his clavicle-

“… her caretaker…”

It laughed lowly, a guttural sound that came from deep within the chasm of its body, or whatever was left of it, Primo surmised by the lack of sound as it moved to his other ear.

“Your father always thought the Emeritus Eye was a blessing…” It continued, louder this time, closer to his ear as its decayed fingers carded through his blond hair before tugging harshly, causing Primo to inhale sharply as his head hit the back of his armchair, attempting to trick the Papa into opening his eyes.

“He never once considered that it would become a curs-“

Primo awoke suddenly with a gasp, dissimilar eyes shooting open whilst his head shot forward, surveying the area surrounding him for too long of a moment before finally allowing himself to sigh. A dream, it had only been a dream.

What a crock of shit it was, to become old. Why had his body chosen now, of all times, to fall asleep? Furthermore, how long had he been asleep for?

A quick glance at the clock informed him it had only been 11 minutes since you had departed to fetch Secondo… surely you must have made your way to his side already, unless you had-

The eldest Emeritus son stood hurriedly at the thought, groaning moments after as his back protested such a quick movement while running on so little sleep.

He knew not what had shaken you so during your slumber but back pain and ghosts be damned, he would find out what it was.

_________________

Secondo soundlessly stood in the kitchens, shoulders sagged as he continued to warm up the supper he had quickly made for both he and Primo.

He was loath to admit it, but his elder brother had been right: no matter how much time he spent at your side, nothing would come of it were he to let himself waste away.

How was he to protect and help you if he were not healthy himself? He sighed once again, slight irritation prickling at his skin as he continued to stir the pasta he had made, mismatched eyes focused on the task at hand-

A sudden movement to his right caused the man to hiss in annoyance, sneering as he turned to see what, or who, had disturbed him.

There, standing frozen like a metal pole in the cold, stood the Sister of Sin he had fucked all those days ago, staring at him with wide eyes.

Briefly, for a mere second, Secondo mulled over the idea of speaking to the Sister, albeit having no real desire to. It was his role as a Papa however, to see to his flock’s concerns, no matter how unwilling he may feel about it. Sure he was known to be rough, serious, even, but there was one thing he was not: he, Papa Emeritus II, was not a bad Papa. No, he was not his Father.

However, displeasure still roiled inside the man at the thought of potentially having to listen to her beg him to fuck her again, something that would never happen ever agai-

The Sister turned and ran, the sound of her footsteps loud as she retreated to who-knows-where. Had it been tears he had seen in her eyes? Had the woman truly begun to cry at the mere sight of him? A scoff exited from between his lips at the Sister’s actions.

The retired Papa wondered if jealously coursed through her veins at the rumors of you being his Prime Mover.

Well… Of course she’d be jealous, it had been your name that he had accidentally gasped out while cumming all over her backside.

How could he not have said it, when it had only been you he had thought about during the whole thing, crying out his name as he made love to you, venerated you like a Deity fallen to Earth?

How could he have not have said your name, when it was the only name he wished to speak until his dying breath?

But most of all: how could he not have whispered it out, when your visage, illuminated by the sunsets light, was (and still is) the only thing that he saw when he closed his eyes?

It was only seconds later did a second hiss escape the man, unceremoniously pulled out of his mind, this time due to the acrid smell of burnt pasta flooding his nostrils.

If any living being within the Abbey had heard Papa Emeritus II cursing heavily in Italian about pasta or the sound of a pot being thrown across the kitchen, they knew to forget of the incident immediately.

_________________

Dreams were an ephemeral thing; in the blink of an eye, they would be gone. Mere images and scenarios conjured by the mind, yet at the same time, deep realms of misunderstood knowledge that only few knew how to navigate. Copia was not one of those people. Once sleep found him, nothing could save him from the dreams or nightmares that would haunt and taunt him with things he couldn’t have. Namely, those ‘things’ were you.

Now fully awake for no apparent reason, Copia sighed in frustration, staring at his ceiling, as if it would reveal to him secrets unimaginable to man on how to fall asleep again… or how to win the Sibling of Sin of your dreams, who seems to be followed constantly by two of your ‘bosses’.

Tonight he’d dreamt of something new, something he had never dreamt about- well, partly never dreamt about. You he had dreamt about a thousand if not a million of times, sure. The area in which his dream had taken place? Never had he dreamt of you in such a setting.

There you had sat, hand playing against his clothed thigh, the eerie atmosphere of the mausoleum in which the two of you sat felt.. stifling, as if you both sat in a crowded room. He could no longer remember if he had gazed upon your beautiful visage or if he had simply stared at your hand, inching dangerously close up his thigh. You hadn’t spoken and neither had he, yet the silence between the two of you felt loud, the sound of your thoughts practically deafening. It had only been once he thought of how hard his cock had become that the dream had begun to fade. Oh how he craved to know if you had ever felt even an inkling of what he felt for you for him.

How many times had he awoken during long nights to find his cock painfully hard, fingers already moving to relieve himself of said pressure? How many nights had he laid there in his bed, eyes shut as he imagined it to be you instead touching him, jerking him off into oblivion, hushed words of love spoken against his ear? The thought always made him flush, to imagine you between his legs. Oh how beautiful you would look, eyes watching him as you got him closer and closer towards the edge. He wondered how long it would take for the sound of your moans to fill his room, should it be him between your thighs.

He would always keen your name while half-mindedly wondering if the Ghouls could hear him through his chamber’s walls, whispering your name like a God whispered to its creations, love overflowing. Could they hear how desperate he became with each second that went by, hands working his cock faster and faster, imagining the way you would bounce in his lap, pushing him down into his sheets as you took your pleasure from his body? Would you allow him to flip the both of you over, pounding into your heated core as words of veneration and love spilt from his lips?

Copia forced his legs to swing over the side of his bed, heart pounding as he tried to think of anything other than the image of you under him, calling his name. No, such thoughts would remain in his bed; for now, he was on a mission.

A mission to see you.

—————————

The Ghoul known as Phil already knew of the man’s state before seeing him; he could practically smell the desperation and worry wafting off the Cardinal as he approached the corridor leading to Papa Emeritus I’s chambers, which he stood guard of.

It was almost ridiculous the number of times he had caught the man lingering near the corridor leading to Primo’s chambers, always visibly attempting to psych himself up before abandoning whatever endeavor he’d set himself on entirely, returning to his own chambers like a kicked little puppy. The pungent scents of shame and humiliation would cling to the man for hours after, irritating the Ghoul’s nose and senses.

He of course wasn’t a fool; he knew why the Cardinal roamed the halls leading to Primo’s doors. His nose had already told him as much, not to mention the lovesick expression he perpetually seemed to wear everyday; It was practically imprinted in the Ghoul’s mind.

Phil decided to cut the human some slack, for once, calling out to man down the hallway.

“Trouble sleeping again, Cardinal?”

The sound exiting from down the darkened hallway scared the Cardinal out of his skin; he had thought himself alone to be awake at this godforsaken hour. Of course the Special Ghoul would still be at his post, guarding Papa Emeritus I’s doors like a hawk, ready to lash out and kill if need be.

“Y-Yes, eh, trouble sleeping-“ Copia tried as he approached the demon from Hell itself, words immediately dying within his throat as the Ghoul spoke over him, his tone amused but serious.

“Am I correct in assuming that it is not by happenstance that you find yourself once more outside of Papa Emeritus I’s doors?” Ominous were the green eyes that gleamed within the dark, practically unblinking, waiting for an answer. The thought of lying to the Ghoul once more quickly came to the Cardinal’s mind, however… lying would not get him an audience with Primo, let alone.. an audience with you.

“No.. I…” Copia attempted to try and find the right words to express his burning need to see you, heart beating heavily against his chest. Would the Ghoul even tell him if your situation had gotten worse? Sure he had spoken to the Ghoul in the past and had friendly(-ish) rapports with him, but who was he himself to you, except for a strange stranger?

A silent moment went by, the Ghoul’s stare continuous and as deep as before, equally silent as he awaited for the man before him to speak. The Cardinal squared his shoulders, despite the dreadful feeling of raw desperation ravaging at his insides, and spoke.

“No, it is not. May I know if Sorel- if Papa Emeritus II’s Prime Mover has awoken?”

Phil paused at Copia’s words, tail slowly beginning to swish behind him in mild annoyance.

He found the man’s words strange; when had you no longer become deserving of your very name, instead simply called by your (rumored) newfound role? The Ghoul doubted it to be out of malice; he could smell the man’s fear, his hesitation, the raw nervousness that rolled off of his skin. It smelt sour, nearly strong enough for the Demon to lean away from the Cardinal, unwilling to be subjected to the scents of his emotional rollercoaster. But even if not spoken with malicious intent, the aloof Cardinal’s words still aggravated him.

“Sorella Y/N has left Papa Emeritus I’s chambers.”

Silence.

Copia blinked absentmindedly, wondering if he had heard the Ghoul correctly. You had left? You were no longer asleep? When had you-

“L-left- Where is- Sh-“ Try as he might to speak, Copia found his throat constricting closed, brain unable to process the information that not only had you awoken from whatever it was that had plagued you, but that you had awoken AND had already left the protected sanctuary that was Primo’s roo-

Eyes wide, Copia glanced at the imposing doors behind the Ghoul’s back, wanting to burst in and demand answers from the Papa who had been at your side this whole time… who was still supposed to be at your side, right?

“Where is Papa Emeritus I? Where is Primo?”

It was now Phil’s turn to blink, lips pursing behind his mask, unwilling to answer the man. He knew what the Cardinal would do if he told him that Papa Emeritus I had just left in search of you, and if he were right about the scent he had picked up emanating from your body the day you had fallen unconscious, perhaps allowing the Cardinal to do whatever he liked could lead to your demise.

“Both Papa Emeritus I and Sorella Y/N have gone out into Papa’s gardens on the South side of the Ministry, for some fresh air.” Phil easily lied, watching as the man’s mismatched eyes widened, the sound of his heart beginning to beat erratically against his chest, almost as if practically threatening to burst out. For a moment, a brief, sliver of a moment, Phil the Special Ghoul wondered if he had been right in lying to the Cardinal.

As he watched the human man begin to hastily walk away after speaking a quick ‘grazie’, he wondered if perhaps he had just wrongfully redirected the only things that could save you from the bloody flowers that grew within your lungs.

“Cardinal! One moment, if you please.”

“Sì?” Copia stopped and turned, politely waiting as the Ghoul attempted to find the right words without letting on WHY he was asking.

“Are you familiar with flowers in the Narcissus family? Such as daffodils and jonquils?” Phil found himself asking, mind entirely blank as the very words left from between his unglamored gray lips.

Had he just asked that-

Once more did the Ghoul’s tail begin to move from where it had laid on the floor, however, this time, in agitation of his own actions. He shouldn’t have asked that.

Suddenly, the Special Ghoul found himself wondering who would torture him first between Papa Emeritus I or Papa Emeritus II, for having possibly just hinted at your condition to another being, even after they had both explicitly made him vow to keep it a secret-

“Daffodils and jonquils?” Copia repeated, confused at the Ghoul’s bizarre words.

“I am familiar with them, yes, though I am unsure if I would be able to distinguish them both.” A slight confused smile graced Copia’s lips as he tried to ponder on the meaning of the demon’s words.

Sweat began to bead along the Ghoul’s forehead; here Copia had simply been, worried and seeking to speak with you, while he- Phil breathed in, eyes slightly widening at the thought. Oh, perfect.

“I see. I.. simply thought it wise to warn you that if you were to pluck such flowers out of Papa Emeritus I’s gardens for a quick… bouquet, I believe Sorella Y/N would be most unhappy as they are.. not her favored flowers.” He easily lied with the emotion necessary, bowing his head in feigned embarrassment. The sweat rolling down his temple felt cold, just like his blood would surely feel should either Papas find out of his slip-up.

Copia’s visage lit up like a sky filled with fireworks, eyes sparkling as he shot forward to touch the Ghoul’s shoulder, shaking him out of his thoughts.

“Grazie mille, Special Ghoul! Truly, grazie!”

The Cardinal departed hurriedly, almost appearing like he wanted to run to your ‘whereabouts’ but was attempting to remain calm. As soon as his figure disappeared once more around the corner he had come from, the Special Ghoul known as Phil turned, silently cracking open the door to Papa Emeritus I’s chambers.

There it was again, the inexplicably heavy fragrance of Daffodils and Jonquils.

But also, the scent of…

Phil sniffed the air again, luminous green eyes unseeing as his mind attempted to place just where he had become familiar with such a sme-

Suddenly, the Special Ghoul understood as his mind placed where he had smelt such a scent, the hand that lay against the doorknob tightening momentarily before falling away. Oh, how cruel.

Phil knew that soon, nothing of you would remain but the memory of your name.

Yes, your name deserved to be remembered.

—————————

“Terzo.” You silently whispered into the space between the both of you, mind forgetting just how intimate of a position you would appear to be in, should anyone possibly pass by and see the two of you. The only response you received from the man was a brief hum, enough of a sound to let you know he had heard you and was listening, forehead still pressed to your own as the both of you swayed to a song none of you could hear.

“Why is it that you kissed me?”

Even with his eyes closed, the raven-haired Papa knew that your smile radiated warmth and kindness as you awaited his answer, with a patience he felt he did not deserve. It almost felt like an omen, that someone like you would be dealt such a curse, that the very love you felt for someome within the Abbey corroded your body from the inside out, a vicious poison that sought to destroy you, it’s kind and beautiful vessel. Oh, how he wished for his kiss to have worked.

As your words sunk into Terzo’s very marrow, he found himself unable to fully look at you yet. Unwilling, perhaps, was the better word for how he felt; if he were to gaze at you now, would this very moment be the last he ever remembered of you? Of your solemnly beautiful eyes staring back at him, so full of life and emotions and warmth, yet fading as snow faded under the sun’s heat? Or would his mind instead remember the way you clutched at him as you both danced, your body visibly beginning to tire itself out? He tightened his hold around your waist, bringing you closer as his other hand remained in your grasp, supporting more of your weight without causing you to shy away from his hold.

He briefly contemplated lying to you. Well, half-of-a-second briefly, but a half of a second nonetheless. You didn’t deserve that, however, no matter how long he contemplated it. You deserved better. You deserved truth.

“I hoped that… that my kiss would work, that it would heal... Eh, sense my…” He tried, forehead withdrawing from your own as the warm hand clasped against yours moved from your hold, gesturing wildly into the air in an attempt to find his words. A smile once more graced your lips, watching as the Papa abandoned his search, sighing.

“Sense your what, Terzo?” You asked, allowing his hand to return to its previous place against your own. Grateful were you of his perceptiveness, leaning into his hold as your body began to ache, tiredness overcoming you. Of course it did; you’d just slept 3 days and had not yet eaten, water being the only thing that had entered your body.

“Fear.” He suddenly whispered, eyebrows furrowing as if surprised by his own words. He cleared his throat, continuing to sway you left and right.

“My fears, and my hope… to heal you. This sickness, it is smart, no?”

You almost didn’t even register the Papa’s attempt at humor as your mind focused instead on WHAT he’d said.

Terzo, Papa Emeritus III, current leader of the Satanic church you had devoted yourself to, had wanted to save you. He had kissed you in hopes that the sickness that inhabited your very body would sense his desperation and fears, and disappear.

Tears began forming once more as you regarded the man practically pressed up against you, holding more and more of your weight as time went on; he wanted to help you continue to dance along with him, help you remain standing, help you to relax.

“Terzo-“ You choked out, watching silently as realization colored his handsome features before immediately being replaced by panic.

“Basta piangere, va bene Bella? No more crying, sì?” Terzo hurriedly spoke, squeezing both your hand and your waist, as if to accentuate the words he’d spoken. He found he could not stand to see you tear up, to see the pain within your eyes where joy should instead be. Moonlight that slithered in from the tall glass panes above bathed you in a beautiful light, your tears dazzling like fallen stars, almost as if you were about to be called to your- Terzo stopped his thought, unwilling to finish it.

“Come, la mia stella, allow me to heat you up, you’re freezing!”

“It’s almost as if Im lacking a heart beat.” You expressed with a chuckle, intending your comment to be taken with sarcasm, but so too did your comment fall flat, just as Terzo’s had before. Faintly, in the back of your mind, you registered the fact that you did not recognize the nickname he had just uttered.

“That is far from the truth.” Silence once more clung to the both of you as you now stood immobile together, hands still linked together in the air. Terzo regarded you with a sad smile before seeming to flip on himself, grinning like a man about to make the crudest joke ever known to mankind. You knew that smile; it had been the very one he had had whilst asking you so confidently if you were Papa Secondo’s Prime Mover. Now, however, even as he perfectly replicated the smile he had worn four days ago, it was his eyes that betrayed him, betrayed the visage he attempted the keep in place for either your sake, or his own.

“You say you are lacking of a heart beat, but all I see is a hot-“

Papa Emeritus III’s mouth shut instantly as he truly took in the sight of you; before, when seated beside you on the pew, he had not realized what exactly you had been wearing, too immersed in apologizing to you and the revelation of your sickness to notice. But now, as he looked you up and down, the joke about your hot body he had intended on regalling you with dying on his tongue, Terzo blurted out the only thing that flashed within his mind like a giant neon sign.

“Are those Primo’s favorite sleep pants?”

Heat irrupted across your entire body at the Papa’s words whilst you also looked down at yourself, remembering that you were infact wearing Primo’s sleep pants, given to you by the man himself to wear since it was chilly within the Abbey’s walls at night. That they were his favorite, however, was new information.

The normally flamboyant man before you recovered far more quickly then you did, grinning widely as the arm around your waist pulled you in once more, your pelvis practically molded onto his own. The Papa seemed not to notice as he continued on what he had intended on saying.

“Mio fratello’s pants look far more appealing on you, stellina! Perhaps is it because of the lack of cock-“

He’d barely finished his phrase before you groaned out, face scrunching up in embarrassment as you attempted to lean forward, wanting to hide your burning face onto his chest.

Satan, you’d been so distracted by the thought of wearing Primo’s bathrobe that you hadn’t fully realized these WERE a pair of his sleep pants.

“Were you the one that chose those pants, stellina, or did Primo give those to you?” Terzo asked, a smile ever present upon his lips as he continued to sway your body left and right. You failed to notice, however, the sadness that had begun to overtake his visage once more. Dissimilar eyes remained glued to your expression as he remembered a long forgotten promise, words Primo had told him ages ago, when both Secondo and he were but children, seeking out their father figure’s attention before bed.

“Primo, why do you not have a Prime Mover?”

The slap Secondo had hit him on the arm with burned, a hiss exiting his angered brother as a young Terzo regarded him with pain, tears beginning to form within his mismatched eyes.

“Idiot! Do not ask such things!”

Primo, sage and patient far beyond his age, frowned lightly, moving to kneel between his little brothers beds. He reached out, taking hold of Terzo’s little arm, thumb rubbing softly against the red skin that began to form there, attempting to sooth his pain.

“Ah, fratellino, do not be so mean to your brother. He does not understand yet what it means.”

The young Secondo looked down, the air of a scolded child emanating from his little form. Terzo, although only a few months younger than Secondo, turned to his brother, hand outstretched for his brother to hold.

“See, Secondo? Your brother loves you, and only wishes to understand. Now, what do we do when we’ve hurt someone we love?” No matter how much Secondo pretended to be a bitter little child, Primo knew him, knew them both. Too many times had he seen the middle Emeritus son defend their little brother when Nihil lost his temper, unable to watch as their father yelled at Terzo like he wasn’t his own son.

“Sorry…” Secondo whispered, a trait he had taken up when he did not trust his voice, hand moving to hold Terzo’s little hand back.

“There we go. As it should be. Now it is time for bed-“

“But Primo! I still don’t understand why!” Terzo piped up again, eyes wide with confusion as his raven colored eyebrows furrowed, unable to grasp why his eldest brother did not have a wife or a husband or a partner. Secondo grunted out in annoyance, instantly letting go of his brother’s hand. Primo chuckled at the boy’s pettiness, knowing he would grow to become a serious man with little to no patience for the whirlwind Terzo would become.

“Sometimes, having a Prime Mover does not mean you are in love with them, Terzo.” Primo softly spoke, watching as both boys regarded him in confusion. “I have not accepted to have a Prime Mover because I have not fallen in love yet, frattelino. I have not found them, my intended that I hope will become my Prime Mover.”

“When you do find them, how will we know?” Terzo countered, one eyebrow raised as he attempted to understand something.

“An announcement will be made to alllll the people of the Mini-“

“Yes we know that, Primo! That’s not what I meant!” The youngest of the three let out, groaning and whining with a frown as his little feet kicked under his blanket. A petulant child, that’s what he had been at the time, but child nonetheless. A child that wished to understand why his brother spent his nights and days alone while Siblings and Ghouls alike spent their nights together having sleepovers.

“Then think on what you meant to say, Terzo, and try again.” The patience and love in Primo’s tone caused the youngest of the three to nod, taking the task at heart.

Silence surrounded the three brothers before Terzo piped up once more, finally decisive on how to phrase what he truly had meant to ask.

“How will Secondo and I know who you have chosen? Who you have fallen in love with?”

The middle Emeritus son remained quiet as Terzo spoke once more, but his eyes revealed to the Eldest just how in agreement he was with his brother’s words. A rare sight.

“Hm, a smart question indeed…” Primo pondered on the child’s words, mind racing to give them both a satisfactory enough answer for them to finally lay down and sleep for the night.

“How about this: When I will have fallen in love with someone, I will gift them these pants that you both have given to me, and I will ask my love to wear them for all to see. Only you two will know of its significance. How’s that?” Primo tried, hand gesturing to the silken sleep pants he currently wore. There, an easy answer. Now they would surely go to slee-

“That’s stupid. What if you give them to someone to sleep with by accident, or they get stolen?” Secondo grumbled from his little bed, arms crossed over his blanket, dark eyebrows furrowed in doubt. Terzo nodded furiously, lips about to part to surely protest which would further lead to their bedtime being pushed.

“Ah! Would I be so careless as to give my favorite sleep pants to someone I did not love, or allow them to be stolen from under my big nose?”

Unbeknownst to Primo, years into the future, Terzo would remember the words he had whispered to them, a secret shared only between the three of them.

“Oh! Papa Primo gave them to me to wear, seeing how chilly it is here during the night.” You answered, your very words further proven right by the shiver that racked your body.

Hanahaki Disease was a disease caused by unrequited love, was it not? Terzo racked his mind as he attempted to understand how you had come to be in possession of the very pants Primo had told him he would give the person he loved, yet you were still sick. If you loved his brother just as much as he imagined Primo loved you, Terzo doubted that Primo would allow you to suffer like this. That would mean that the person you were in love with was not his brother.

“My fratello is quite knowledgeable, is he not? Perhaps he knows-“ For what felt like the umpteenth, Papa Emeritus III stopped speaking, eyes unseeing as his mind blazed to life, synapses firing as he attempted to understand his own thoughts. Knows. Knows. Did Primo know who you loved, who your heart hammered so furiously for? Was it possible that you had developed Hanahaki Disease because of your perception of someone’s feelings, and not factually about how they felt? Did you perhaps love Primo just as much as he loved you, but were unaware of the man’s feelings, perhaps believing him not capable of falling in love with you?

“Stella mia, your disease, it is a disease of unrequited love, sì? It has to be unrequited for you to be sick?” The third Emeritus son asked hurriedly, voice ringing loudly against the chapel’s walls whilst he tried to get his words out as quickly as possible.

“Shhh! Yes-“ You had barely begun to whisper before the Papa pressed against you stepped back, dragging you along with him, seeming resolute in leaving the chapel to instead go-

“We are going to go confess to the person you love right now!” He exclaimed, a desperately shaky grin forming on his lips. Your eyebrows creased at his words before a frown overtook your visage, heart breaking at the tentative hopefulness coloring his features.

“Papa- Terzo, he doesn’t-“ You tried again, words falling short as he spoke over you.

“Oh, it is a he! He would be a fool to turn you down, bella!” Terzo proclaimed with even more enthusiasm, pulling you along with him as he began walking-

“Terzo-“

.

.

Evidently, he’s struggling.

“Good morning, Cardinal, do you need a hand?”

His eyebrows shoot up when he hears your voice and he stops dead in his tracks, slowly turning his head until he catches you standing right behind him. Despite your announcement, he visibly startles, nearly dropping the boxes in his arms.

“Oh, eh… yes, if you could open the door for me, Sibling?”

“Of course.”

With your hand on the knob, you watch as he hurries inside of his office, wheezing under the weight and dropping the boxes onto his desk with a dull thud that echoes loudly in his mostly bare working space. Apart from books upon books strewn across and around his desk as well as an old weathered couch, there hasn’t been any love put into decorating the space. You wait patiently for him to turn back around to you, a hint of red dusting his cheeks when he finally does.

“Thank you,” he squeezes out, trying very hard to swallow his heavy exhales. “I carried them here all the way from the archives. Long way, you know, even for my…” He holds up his arm, flexing it exaggeratedly. “My strong, powerful muscles.”

You giggle and he perks up in delight, eyes wide and shiny. “No problem, Cardinal, I can imagine they’re very heavy.” 

You smile at him and he smiles back, so sweetly, and you’re momentarily at an equal loss for words. A bead of sweat rolls down his forehead, down the prominent bridge of his nose. He brushes it away with a leather-gloved hand and you can’t help but stare as he wipes it clean on the heavy fabric of his vestments, shaking out his fingers once he’s done. You can’t look away as they flex and release, flex and release. They’re surprisingly long and so… nimble.

Copia’s violent cough startles you awake and you’re not sure if it’s his own nerves that make him clear his throat, if his overexerted lungs are protesting or if he caught you staring. Either way, you feel your own cheeks getting hot now, the moment of hesitant silence slowly transitioning into a gooey sort of awkwardness.

“So, ugh… I better get back to my own duties,” you say. “Lots to do, spring cleaning and all that.”

He nods. “Yes, yes, you are busy, of course. Such a busy little bee. Bzz bzz. Hehe.”

You awkwardly giggle back, trying hard to think of a clever joke. Maybe something that has to do with stinging? But before you can settle on one, the time for a witty come-back has stretched thin and so you just awkwardly wave at him, mutter a “see you later” and close the door.

With your back pressed to the wood, you let out a deep exhale, the butterflies – or bees – in your stomach making it very hard to breathe at a normal pace. Once you’ve recollected your wits, you notice that the hallway is still as busy as before, maybe even busier.

Like lions gathering around an animal carcass after days of starvation, what feels like half the abbey has been flocking to the big rectangular corkboard. You cannot possibly imagine what would warrant such intense interest. The most exciting messages on any given day are unusual sex requests, the invitation to a weirdly themed party or a call for applications to a particularly intricate sex ritual to honour the Dark One.

You push through the crowd to check what’s causing the repeated giggling and excited whispers amongst your peers when you spot a pristine piece of paper on the board. It’s thick, stark-white, shaped like a heart at the top and with pieces to rip off at the bottom that contain a phone number. You squint, move in even closer until you can make out the text – hand-written and in cursive.

I (m, 50) am looking for a partner to spend the rest of my life with. I don’t have any preferences but it would be coolio if we had similar interests, so we can have some fun together.

I like: watching movies, playing video games, going on walks, rigatoni, juice, small animals

I don’t like: coconut flavour, being barefoot, swimming, touching wet dishes, bullies, dentist appointments

If you think we are a good match I would like to take you on a romantic date. Please call or text me.  Bye bye!

You smile at the note but quickly find back down to earth when someone rams their elbow into your side. No one has taken one of the numbers yet, so you assume the excitement is more about the fact that there is a lonely hearts ad on the bulletin board at all than any actual interest in the person. You have to admit, it is a bit odd. Most younger clergy members just use dating apps these days or social media. But the lonely heart in question is fifty, so they may not be familiar with modern methods, and it’s oddly endearing that anyone would go through the trouble of creating such an ad. At the same time, it breaks your heart that someone in the abbey is so lonely that they risk the ridicule of half of the clergy members just to have a chance at finding love.

“Well, there are a bunch of people who it could be,” you overhear someone say. “Maybe one of the older Brothers, a bunch of them are single. Could also be that new bishop who just arrived, I heard he’s a cinephile and walks around the gardens quite often.”

You ignore the whispers of speculation, making your way back through the crowd to return to your duties. It’s almost dinner time by now and you need to get two more loads of laundry done before then. But even as you sort through piles of habits, cassocks and veils… you can’t stop thinking about the ad. You sincerely hope the person receives a few serious and not just prank calls. The note did sound endearing and you definitely see similarities. At the same time you’re far too busy nursing your hopeless crush on the Cardinal to actually entertain the thought of dating someone else. 

You decide to check on the ad again tomorrow, see if anyone took a number, and if not, you could at least save it to your phone… just in case.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Two birds land on his window sill, rubbing their beaks together in a kiss before happily chirping at each other. They’re in love, literal love birds, building a nest on the little protrusion in the wall right below his window. He’s been watching them occasionally, unreasonably envious, as they bring in twig after twig, ready to start their family. From the same window, Copia can make out the spring-filled gardens with their colourful patches of pink and red tulips, bumblebees hurrying from blossom to blossom, drunk on pollen and greedy for more. He can overlook the bright green meadow leading down to the pond, speckled with lush, budding trees. At this time of the day, after everyone finished their daily duties, the grass has almost completely disappeared under a plethora of picnic blankets.

Spring fever, he assumes, has to be the reason why everyone seems to be in love. Couples dozing in each other’s arms in the shade of the trees, feeding their lovers berries or grapes, taking a stroll down to the pond with their joined hands dangling between them, kissing without pause in the archways of the cool stone walkways leading outside. Just now he spots two Sisters rubbing sunscreen on each other’s bare shoulders, one of them kissing the other's head before they fall back onto their blanket, giggling happily at each other.

He feels so incredibly lonely.

This has been going on for weeks now and he’s tired of feeling so shamefully worthless of affection. Instead of the arms of his lover, he sinks into his tattered old desk chair and drowns his sorrows in boring paperwork. Not that that’s going well, but for lack of alternatives, he’d rather do budget calculations than sit in his quarters all alone. Every evening, the spring breeze carries the sound of happy laughter through his windows, usually while he’s playing video games all by himself, but he can’t keep them closed if he doesn’t want to sweat to death. Besides… that same gentle breeze is the only thing caressing his skin as he tries to fall asleep at night and if he closes his eyes, the wind almost feels like fingertips ghosting over his arms.

As he leaves his office that night, he receives another heavy but sadly much expected blow. Almost a week now and still no one has taken one of the numbers from his lonely hearts ad. Of course it doesn’t mean no one saved it to his phone, he tells himself, people are shy or they just don’t want to date an anonymous person. It has nothing to do with him, they don’t even know it’s him. And yet… if his dating streak continues so poorly, he’s not sure if he can stay sane for much longer. There are only so many tears you can cry in bed at night before it starts to take a toll on you.

His heart is especially heavy as he makes his way to his lonely quarters. One more day and then he’s taking it down, he decides. No use in waiting any longer now that surely everyone in the abbey has seen his request and the last thing he wants are pity calls.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

“So, are you going to call the Cardinal?”

You look up from your breakfast plate. Your friend Lily is sitting opposite of you, chewing on a blueberry muffin, and you narrow your eyes at her. “The Cardinal?”

“The number in the lonely hearts ad,” she says. “It’s still there, I checked earlier.”

“It’s the Cardinal?”

She nods, popping another piece of muffin into her mouth. “Duh.”

You feel your cheeks heating up and set your fork down to hide the sudden tremor in your fingers. “Which Cardinal?”

She gives a soft groan of annoyance. “Babe, there is only one of the Cardinals who would ever hang up such a goofy thing. Now, will you call him?”

Copia. She knows about your… slight infatuation with him. And despite being kind and not teasing you too much, it was just a matter of time until the occasion popped up. If he is looking for a serious partner… maybe it’s too late for you soon. The ad has been up for days and while you’ve been toying with the idea of calling, you just haven’t found the courage yet.

You continue eating, trying to act casual, but it takes you three attempts to pick up a stray piece of cucumber from your plate. “How do you even know it’s his number?”

Lily takes a deep breath, setting the muffin down to ready herself. “Sooo, Michael wanted to call the number to check who it is, right? Well, turns out his girlfriend already knew it’s the Cardinal’s number and his girlfriend is Sister Jill who knows it from Sister Mary who is roommates with Sibling Jessie who works with the treasury and their colleague Brother Paul works as the Cardinal’s assistant two times a week and that’s how he has the Cardinal’s number for emergencies.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh. Now, will you?”

Eyes on your empty plate, you bite your lip until you can taste blood. It’s Copia’s number, the number of your crush of about six months now, and he’s looking for a partner, unspecified. That’s… big news, intimidating news, news that calls to an action you’re not sure you’re prepared for.

Glancing at Lily, you catch her smirking at you and promptly give her a scowl. “I don’t know. What if he already got better options?”

She cocks her head to the side. “Better than you? I doubt it.”

“You’re biased because you’re my friend.”

A shrug. “You should try. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“He could be disappointed.”

“He’s more disappointed if no one calls,” she counters.

“Yeah but–”

You stop yourself when you see Nora, Lily’s girlfriend, approaching the table. Her arms wrap around Lily from behind as she presses a loud, lingering kiss to her cheek, both of them giggling.

“You scared me,” Lily says, turning around for a proper kiss.

“Sorry, love, but I can’t leave breakfast without my sweet treat.”

You avert your gaze, involuntarily feeling like an intruder. They’ve been together for a few weeks now, sickeningly adorable. Lily had been pining after Nora for months, a little bit like you with the Cardinal, only that she eventually found the courage to ask her out. To see her bravery being rewarded like that makes you incredibly happy for both of them. But at the same time… you have rarely ever felt your loneliness so sharply, the heaviness of your unreciprocated crush such a weight on your shoulders.

You know that if you want this to be you and the Cardinal, then there’s only one real answer to her question: You have to reach out to him.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

He’s ready to toss this day into the trash bin already and he only just got up. 

Last night, after tossing and turning for hours, Copia fell asleep only to promptly land in a hysterically embarrassing dream that made him jolt up whimpering like a kicked dog and hiding his face in the pillow. Bringing himself close to suffocation, he finally realised that he had not actually stumbled right in front of you, spilling juice all over his robes, scrambling to get up only to slip in the puddle by his feet, falling onto his butt with a high-pitched cry. You had been standing there motionless, watching the spectacle unfold until you turned around to leave.

This is the reaction he would expect, should he ever actually find the courage to ask you out. However, this is highly doubtful, because upon walking to his office half an hour later, he catches you with a group of friends. He often sees you with them – attractive young Siblings, evident chemistry between all of you, and every week he suspects a different one to be in love with you. He recognizes the two Sisters he saw from his window earlier this week. One of them presses a loving kiss to the other’s cheek and he wishes he could just walk up to you and do the same.

His heart hurts. No matter how much kindness you extend to him, you’re a beautiful young soul who could never be romantically interested in an aging loner. Copia is not disliked per se, he gets along with pretty much everyone, but he struggles to build meaningful connections. Between working his butt off to satisfy the clergy and spending time on his mostly solitary hobbies, it’s hard to meet people. He had to actively put himself out there but neither online dating nor any of the singles’ events Terzo sent him on brought any results – only what the young Siblings call getting “ghosted” or “benched”.

His ad is his last chance. And even that failed miserably.

As he ponders his options, your eyes suddenly meet his and he swears you’re smiling. Then you lift your hand in a cautious wave. For a second, he’s too scared to wave back because there are people around him, all of which could be your target. Your hand sinks after a moment as your smile slowly straightens and he suddenly knows that you do mean him. He lifts his hand far too excitedly in a reciprocative wave. Your smile returns, a shy one, but before he can even think about possibly approaching you, his knees suddenly give out.

No, they don’t give out, someone rams a trolly filled with supplies for Black Mass into him. Some of the tall candles roll off the top and clatter to the floor, breaking in half just like his dignity. 

“Oops, sorry, Cardinal,” the Sibling says, scrambling to help him up. “It’s so hard to steer this thing.”

“It’s fine,” he chokes out, the pain in his knees anything but fine. “It happens.”

“I’m truly so sorry.”

He smiles, a hand on their shoulder now that he’s on his feet again. “It is okay, eh? No worries.”

When his eyes try to find you again, you’re not there anymore and he can’t decide if he’s relieved or sad. He prays to Satan that you didn’t see him fall but there is no way you missed it. His dream, if slightly watered-down, did come true after all and perhaps now you won’t want to–

“Cardinal, are you alright?” 

Copia, still dizzy and skittish, spins around so hard he nearly stumbles again. He smooths out his now crumpled cassock, the dust he collected on the floor even more visible on today’s black vestments. In an attempt to retain his dignity, he straightens his spine and looks right into your beautiful eyes. You have a tendency to startle him like that and he wishes he could be more smooth about these encounters.

“Yes, yes, Sibling, thank you. It was… it was nothing, just a little stumble, eh?”

“Are you sure?” You inspect him from head to toe, your brow creased in concern. “It looked painful. Your knees…”

“Oh, my knees are fine!” he lies. “I kneel all the time, Sibling. You know this.” Your eyes widen and he continues to stammer. “I mean in prayer. I pray a lot. On my knees. I am a Cardinal, yes? It’s my job.”

 You nod heavily. “Yes, of course.”

“So, ugh… I better just fuck off.” He presses his lips together to keep more silly words from coming out. “I mean I’ll go back to work. ”

As he tries to leave, your hand shoots up, squeezing the muscles in his forearm. He’s not as much startled as enthralled by your touch, so unexpected that he has no time to feel insecure but so welcome that it almost feels natural to have your fingers on his arm. He swears there is a hint of nervousness in your eyes now and despite knowing it’s silly, his heart wants to interpret it as bashfulness.

“Cardinal, please. I… ugh…” 

You look beautiful from up close. Even if you weren’t stuttering he’d have a hard time listening to your words. It seems like you stopped breathing, your cheeks now a sweet shade of rosy, and you open your mouth to speak but no words come out. Eventually, you shake your head and run your fingers over the fabric of his sleeve. He thinks he’s about to pass out, his nerves rising until he can feel his heartbeat all the way up to his neck. Your hand is so gentle, so… affectionate.

“I’m sorry, Cardinal. I don’t mean to keep you. I was just thinking that I really like the black cassock. It suits you.”

A compliment. His mind is racing. This is not what you really wanted to say, he can tell, but he grins anyway. You like his cassock? Well, you should wait until you see him in a suit. Maybe on a date. He should ask, he realises. This is the moment he’s been waiting for for months now. But as he continues to stare at you his tongue becomes too heavy to form the words, and then your hand is suddenly gone and takes his courage right with it.

“Thank you, Sibling,” he says instead. “I also really like your ugh… your outfit.”

Only when the words leave his mouth does he realise it’s the same everyday habit you’re wearing all the time. Somehow, the silly compliment still manages to conjure a smile onto your face and so he stops berating himself because he made you smile. The sight stuns him, butterflies erupting in his already nervous stomach.

“I’ll see you later, Cardinal,” you say then, your eyes leaving his to glance down the hallway where your friends are waiting, beckoning for you to hurry.

Copia nods and he looks down at your hand in silent fascination, staring at your fingers that are dangling by your thigh without any use as if he could magically make them touch his arm again. “Yes, yes. See you,” he mumbles. “Bye bye.”

When he looks back up, you’re already hurrying off. Copia stays frozen, his gaze trailing after you as though his eyes are glued to your form. Even when you’re out of sight it takes him a while to start moving, to start breathing again.

Around him, the hallway slowly empties as everyone starts to tend to their respective duties. Copia can’t help but feel the nagging disappointment about not asking you out. A chance like this won’t suddenly appear again and even if you refused him it would still be less humiliating than the untouched ad at the bulletin board. He should take it off right now, he figures.

Only when he enters the hallway leading to his office, something looks off about the postings. He notices the change from the corner of his eye at first as he walks past the large corkboard. More party flyers have appeared, someone took down the “diamond butt plug set missing” request that had been hanging there since an orgy in the Siblings’ wing went wrong last month. Instead, Copia notices a large poster promoting condom usage that partly covers the request underneath. Which is how he recognises it.

His ad. 

And one of the numbers is missing.

Copia nearly lets out a loud squeal as realisation dawns on him like the gentle spring sun rising over the hills every morning, bringing warmth and happiness after a cold, dark night. It seems like Cupid finally answered his prayers, like Aphrodite found sweet mercy for him.

Someone took his number. Someone wants to reach out to him.

For the rest of the day, he feels like he swallowed a swarm of bees, staring at his phone like it’s going to light up any second. Which it could. He could receive the message or call that changes his life any second now. Any second. Any… any second.

Nothing happens. Not in the next hour, not in the next two hours. All day, in fact, his phone stays quiet. His initial happiness deflates like a balloon. As he heads towards his quarters that evening, he observes how everyone piles into the dining hall, their happy laughter and cheerful spirits spoiling his usually solid appetite. He hates the sour feeling of envy in his stomach but he can’t help but suspect that everyone conspired against him.

Copia decides to skip dinner in order to cry into a big bowl of gelato. His nightmare might not have come true but his brain tortures him with pictures of your smiling face instead, with the phantom feeling of your warm hand lingering on his arm, and he can’t help but feel crushed anyway. He’d sell his soul to come home to you, to eat with you, sit with you, watch silly movies with you, fall asleep with you in his arms and wake up with your smile as the first thing he gets to see every day. It becomes increasingly clear to him that every day he misses out on being with you is a day tragically lost.

If only he was brave enough to change that.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

You’ve been pacing your bedroom for the better part of the evening now, back and forth and back and forth to the point where you’re seriously concerned about wearing down your carpet. The day passed uneventfully apart from your encounter with Copia in the hallway where you made a complete fool of yourself. You would have loved to skip all of the unnecessary fuss of texting back and forth but you barely spoke more than two words to him before you chickened out. Surely, if his interest in you was romantic, he could just ask you out instead of advertising himself on a public corkboard?

In any case, you’ve been typing out messages for over an hour now, deleting every single one of them only to throw your phone onto the bed multiple times before picking it back up to risk another attempt.

The reason you haven’t given up yet is that Lily knows you have his number now. Last night, when you thought everyone was asleep, you snuck out of your dorm feeling like James Bond with your torch and black clothing, tiptoeing down the empty corridors of the abbey. You didn’t want anyone spreading any premature rumors but a part of you was hesitant to take one of the numbers at all. Even if you called him, it wasn’t certain that he’d want to go on a date with you.

Still, you ripped off one of the thumb-sized pieces of paper and headed back – only to promptly run into Lily as she snuck out to meet Nora. You’re never going to forget her self-satisfied grin as she spotted you with the crumpled number between your fingers.

Begging your creative juices to start flowing, you stare at the empty message box. Perhaps you should be funny. You wonder if he knows the Piña Colada song. It is about a lonely hearts ad after all and he’s a musician. You type and type, delete and retype until you end on a rough draft to show Lily when she gets home. But no, upon rethinking, the joke is too silly even for you and there’s probably a better way to phrase this–

“Hey, have you called him yet?”

You jump, your heart rate doubling in shock. Lily appears in the open doorway and her voice startles you so fiercely that you clutch your phone to your chest. To your utter horror, the swishing sound of a sent message reaches your ear as your palm connects with the touchscreen, and when you glance down, the bubble with your typed out message sits at the top of your chat history.

“Oh no,” you whisper.

“What?”

“I sent my stupid silly joke message to him.”

Lily picks your phone from your hands, reading the solitary message from the display. “Well, at least now you’ll know if he shares your weird sense of humour?”

You grasp her shoulder and release a deep, throaty groan. Her words don’t calm you in the slightest, if anything, they only make it worse.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Driving Miss Daisy can’t distract him anymore.

Every two minutes Copia reaches for his phone to check for any missed texts or calls only to have the gapingly empty home screen staring back at him. He never figured out how to change the pre-set wallpaper. Perhaps he could try again when he has a cute couple picture of him and his future partner. The thought makes him smile. It’s one of many little things he would change – if they only called.

Despite putting it on vibrate, he doesn’t trust the device to inform him of any news. He even carried it to the toilet twice already, just in case something happens while he’s gone. His ice cream doesn’t satisfy him tonight, everything feels bland and devoid of flavour, but he refills his bowl anyway. One big spoon and a bit of spray cream… and as he walks back over to his bed, he realises that he should definitely check his phone again because this took way longer than two minutes.

Right as he pulls the device out his pocket, it vibrates violently in his hand. For a moment he is so shocked to see a message pop up that he throws it away. It lands on his bed, bouncing a few times, display still lit up with one new notification glaring at him from the centre of his screen.

He takes a deep breath. This is real. He got a message.

No, he can’t look at it, he’s going to lose his nerves. A few more deep inhales and slow exhales, then he can’t fight the suspension any longer. 

Hey, stranger :) You don’t like coconut, so you probably don’t like Piña Coladas, but maybe I’m still the love that you look for?  I would love to go on a date with you, if you are still looking for one. 

It takes him a second, then another one. The ice cream melts in his bowl as it sits forgotten on the floor next to his bed. Suddenly it clicks and he chuckles, in relief as well as amusement, thinking that he knows that song, that he gets the reference. That means this person is funny. They made a joke. He smiles to himself. A funny person wants to go on a date with him.

He types back, deleting, typing again. After five minutes, he comes up with a reply.

Hello, stranger! 👋🏼 I do not like Piña Coladas 🍹 but I have many better things to offer if you want to go on a picnic 🧺 with me tomorrow? I will bring food 🥪 and drinks 🧃 of course. Hopefully we do not get caught in the rain 💦😀

He thinks about how he could sign the message but then his nerves start to kick in. If he tells the person who he is, they may reconsider their choice to go out with him and that’s the last thing he wants. Even if the date doesn’t go well, he wants to try his best, so he shoots another message after the first: 

Oh. It will be a blind date, if that is okay with you?

The next minute is the longest of his life. An eternity passes. He thinks he might have stopped breathing with how tight his chest feels. That is, until his phone lights up and shows the same number again, wringing a deep sigh of relief from him.

That’s fine with me. Where do we meet?

The squeal he lets out vibrates in his chest and bounces off the walls.

He’s got a date. Finally.

✦ ✧ ✦ 

Copia hears his bad conscience somewhere in the back of his mind whispering that blocking the best spot in the gardens all day is selfish. Perhaps it is true, perhaps he feels a little selfish today. And yes, besides feeling selfish he also feels a little guilty. Is it fair to go on a date when he has such a horrible crush on someone else? No. No, it’s not fair. But he can’t let another chance at love run through his fingers like sand on the beach. He simply has to grasp this opportunity.

His red-checked blanket lays untouched underneath the tall chestnut tree, its big, hand-shaped leaves rustling in the soft breeze as he approaches. The head of a rat is stitched into all four corners  of the fabric – a gift from Sister for his latest birthday – and it’s been sitting here since nine o’clock when he took the liberty of… reserving… the spot. He picked the north-side of the tree so that the shade falls exactly where he’s going to be sitting with his date in approximately fifteen minutes. If they prefer the sun, he can just pull the blanket over a little, but he’d never forgive himself if they got sunburn because of him.

Copia took the day off, his first day off all year in fact, risking his next employee of the month award to spend all morning in town, running errands. With the end of May and strawberry season starting, he visited every grocery store within walking distance to find the ripest, juiciest ones they offered. He was lucky enough to obtain a small basket filled with the most delicious-looking red fruits and some additional fresh ingredients for his sandwiches. While he was quick-witted enough to ask about his date’s allergies yesterday, he completely forgot to ask them about their favorite snacks and so he’s decided to just bring anything he could think of that wouldn’t melt in the sun.

The basket he packed feels heavy in his hand for that exact reason and when he sets it down on the blanket, he can feel the strain in his arm. The past hour was spent obsessing over his outfit until he decided to just go for the white suit combo. Yes, white fabric near grass and juicy red fruits is not the most brilliant idea, but he wants to look his best and that means going the extra mile, even if he has to wear the tiny, itchy underwear underneath.

His heartbeat is going a mile a minute now. He can’t unpack yet, he doesn’t want the food to be out for too long, and so he sits and waits, his hands sweaty under his black and white leather gloves. The fact that the gardens around him slowly become crowded as the afternoon rolls around does nothing for his nerves. He can feel the curious glances, can hear the hushed whispers, and as the hour nears, he starts sweating even more despite the shade. If the unanswered ad had been embarrassing, being stood up so publicly would be even worse. 

And then the most horrifying thing ever happens.

Copia sees you walking along the path, wearing a weather-appropriate, slightly dressed-up outfit that makes his eyes involuntarily roam your whole form. But he can’t fully focus on your loveliness. At first, he’s panicking that you’re meeting your friends somewhere close by where you could see him with his date. He would be so embarrassed, so distracted, so uncomfortable. But you walk straight towards him and that’s even worse. If he has to tell you that he’s busy meeting someone else he might spontaneously combust, explode into tiny particles of humiliation. It would ruin everything, his date and his crush on you. What if his date shows up and sees you with him? What if–

Oh no, you don’t stop approaching, you don’t take a turn, you walk up straight to where he’s waiting – with a hint of hesitation, yes, but very directed steps. Copia jumps up immediately, his black hat nearly falling from his head.

“Oh, Sibling,” he stammers, lifting a trembling hand to adjust his fedora. “Hello, hi. Are you spending some time outside today as well?”

Your mouth opens and you wring your hands before hiding them behind your back. “Hello, Cardinal. I ugh… I’m supposed to meet someone here under the chestnut tree.”

Copia furrows his brow, slowly registering your words. “Meet someone. Under the chestnut tree.” 

“Yes.”

“Oh, Satan. It’s you?” He stops, stares, comprehends. He sounds incredulous, his voice a higher pitch than usual. “You’re my stranger?”

You nod, big eyes staring into his mismatched ones in silent expectation, hope and fear muddled together in the crease of your brow. He doesn’t know how to react, just rubs his thumb and index finger together as his mind races faster than speed limit.

“Is this… is this bad?” you finally ask, breaking the awkward silence.

“No!” Copia exclaims. “No, no, no. Please, please sit.”

You do, kneeling down on the blanket a little hesitantly. Copia joins you, still not fully trusting his senses. This feels like a hallucination. His disbelief has to be the only reason he hasn’t passed out yet. Is he really on a date with you right now?

After another moment of silence, Copia notices you eyeing the basket and snaps back into reality. His plans, his very detailed plans for how this date is supposed to go, flood his mind and he remembers the first step now. Swallowing his shock, he sits up a little straighter.

“Ah, eh… yes, I got you something.” He reaches behind the basket and procures three deep red roses he stole from Primo’s rose garden on the way here. Their intense smell hits his nose as he whips them past his face and hands them over. “These are for you. I hope you like roses. I know it is a bit cliché but also a classic, no?”

“I love them,” you assure him, holding them up to your nose with a smile. “Thank you, they’re beautiful.”

He smiles. “Good, good. Yes. So… I thought about what we could do and–”

“Cardinal,” you interrupt then. 

“Oh, no. No, call me Copia. Please.” He gives you a shaky smile. “We’re on a date, no?”

“Copia,” you try but feeling his name on your tongue doesn’t make you feel any better. Ever since getting here your bad conscience made it hard to fully settle into this date and with his visible distress upon discovering it’s you, you feel like now is the time to address it. “Before… before we do this, I have a confession to make…” 

He hums and wriggles his eyebrows. “Oh, really? Well, I would love to see you in confession soon…”

You blush furiously. “Oh, no. No, that’s not what I meant.”

A flash of concern and you can practically see all of his insecurities mirrored in his eyes. You’re both tiptoeing around the same question, you assume, but it’s on you to take the plunge.

“What… what do you mean then?” he asks.

“About this date…” His lightheartedness completely disappears. You feel bad for ruining the mood but it’s too late now and you need to get it out, you owe him that much. “Copia… It wasn’t a blind date on my part. I… I knew it was you.”

“You knew it was me?” he asks and again his features change, eyes wide now. He really had no idea that people knew the ad was his and suddenly he feels like a fool.

“I’m so sorry, I should have been honest from the start.” You stare at his gloved hand but you’re too scared to take it. “I hope you can forgive me for keeping this from you.”

“You knew it was me and you still… you still wrote to me? You still came?”

You furrow your brow. “I didn’t tell you because then I would have had to admit that it’s me and I was scared that maybe you wouldn’t want to go anymore.”

“Me? Not… not…” He shakes his head so fast that his fedora once again threatens to fly off. “Oh, tesoro, I would have… I would have been on the moon with joy, as they say. Yes, yes, I would have.”

You don’t correct him. Instead, an insecure smile settles on your face. “You know you don’t have to say that, Copia, it’s okay if you were hoping for someone else… That’s the risk of going on a blind date, right?”

He yanks your hand out of your lap, wrapping it up in both of his gloved ones. “Tesoro, can I be very honest with you?”

You nod. “Of course you can. Always.”

“I was hoping it was you.”

Your breath catches and steals your next words. The same incredulity that hit him earlier now settles in your chest and you can’t find it in you to question him.

Copia immediately fills the silence. “I never… I never thought…” You watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down, a nervous swallow, before he wets his lips. “Dolce, you were always very good to me. I always saw your kindness, you understand this, yes? Don’t get me wrong, I just… I never thought you were interested in me like this. In such a silly old man.”

You have to giggle through your nerves. “I love that you’re a silly old man.”

He smiles shyly. “You are very sweet, tesoro.”

“I’ve actually had this crush for a few months now,” you admit, encouraged by his positive reaction. “And I want you to know that when I saw your ad I thought about calling even before I knew it was you.”

His smile grows impossibly bigger at that. “Did you?”

A nod. Copia squeezes your hand, then brings it to his face for a kiss. You feel his wet lips on your skin and they’re so soft, so gentle. When he sets your hand back down you see a trace of black lipstick on its back and instantly feel warm and fuzzy inside.

“Should we start then?” he asks. “I brought a lot of things, let me show you.”

The basket opens to reveal a plethora of food and drink options. Copia sets down a foil-wrapped plate with sandwiches that look a little wonky so you assume he made them himself, then some juice boxes, apple and orange, a box of fresh, delicious-looking strawberries, two bottles of water, reusable plastic cups and plates. At last, he hands you one of many different muffins he must have stolen from the kitchens.

“For my dolcezza,” he says with a smile.

More heat spreads in your cheeks as you take the little treat from him with a thanks. You’re both visibly losing your nervousness now, your postures less cramped, stretching out your limbs on the blanket with your bodies angled towards each other.

“Maybe we should… talk a bit about us?” Copia proposes. “To get to know each other, sì? I would like to learn about you.”

“Oh, yes, that sounds good. Do you want to start?”

He thinks on a good starter question, the pressure clouding his thoughts for a moment but then his silence grows thick and he has to say something. “So, ugh… do you like Star Wars?”

This is not one of the questions on his list of conversation starters. For some reason, every single meaningful thought suddenly leaves him. Luckily, this simple, safe question seems to put you at ease and you relax even more.

“I do,” you say. “I watched all the movies.”

“Oh, good! And what is your favorite?”

You pluck a piece from your muffin, popping it into your mouth. “Hmm… The Empire Strikes Back, I think.”

“Hehehe, sì, sì, I am your daddy.” His eyes widen. “Not that I’m… I don’t mean… you know, the scene with Luke… ugh. So, anyway, yes, that is my favorite as well.”

You giggle and he lights up, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt. You reach for one of the sandwiches then. Copia helps, holding the plate up for you.

“So, these are all inspired by Italian foods. I have ugh… caprese. Mozzarella and tomato?”

You reach for the one he showed you. “That sounds great, thank you.”

Copia can’t help but stare as he awaits your reaction. You hum in delight and immediately take another bite of the soft bread. Satisfied, Copia allows himself to grab one as well now. Conversation slows down as you eat but you continue to talk about your interests between bites, finding more and more similarities as the minutes pass. 

Your little spot is beautiful, cool enough to sit comfortably but warm enough to feel the reviving effects of spring. The leaves above you rustle every now and then, birds and bees flying past, the odd ant crawling over your blanket in search of some crumbs. Neither one of you is bothered as you sip on your juice boxes in tandem and intuitively increase your proximity.

With your bodies gravitating towards each other like that, you end up sitting very close after a while. Copia reclines against the tree trunk, pulling his hat down to grant him more shade, a little bit like a cowboy leaning against the walls of a saloon. His white suit is an odd contrast to his relaxed pose, not the most comfortable outfit to lounge in. Without thinking too much about it, he pulls you close to him and angles you so you can rest your head in his lap. 

You’re only tense for a short moment. Copia gets rid of his gloves and you can feel his bare fingers running over your scalp. The steady pattern he draws calms you and you sigh, closing your eyes for a few minutes as a warm feeling of safety spreads out in you.

Copia can’t help but stare. Despite the initial hiccup, you’re so comfortable around each other that he feels like he’s known you forever. This is a dream come true for him, all his fantasies, his wishes, his longings, they all seem to come together in the lovely face dozing in his lap. You’re the most stunning sight he ever had the pleasure to behold. Every line, every hair, every mole, blemish or scar combines into the most beautifully painted canvas – and to him, it’s perfect. You’re perfect.

“Do you want a strawberry, tesorino?” he asks then.

You open your sparkly eyes and they reflect a speck of sunlight breaking through the canopy. Blinking a few times, you shift in his lap to avoid being blinded. He tenses as your cheek narrowly misses his groin, but then you nod and he distracts himself by reaching for the box of strawberries. 

With careful fingers, he grabs one of the shiny heart-shaped fruits, making sure to touch the stem to avoid any stains, and then guides it to your mouth. He can’t help but stare as he sees your lips part for him, the tip of your tongue peeking out to welcome the sweetness. You sink your teeth into the red flesh, so eager, and spatters of juice stain your lips. They appear even more saturated as you lick them clean, wetting them with your tongue, and he so desperately wants to kiss you.

“They’re so sweet already,” you say, taking the rest of the fruit from his hand.

“Yes, I agree.”

You giggle. “Copia, you haven’t even tried one yet.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean the strawberries.”

You huff out a flustered breath, fighting the still evident smile on your face, and hold the half-eaten strawberry up to his mouth. “Try.”

He lets you feed him with burning cheeks, keeping his eyes locked on yours. As his teeth meet the flesh, a few droplets of juice fall astray but he doesn’t even care if they ruin his suit anymore. He can’t stop looking at you, thinking about your soft hand so close to his mouth. He wants to kiss it again, desperately, and so he traps it with his when you try to pull away. With his lips pressed to your palm, he closes his eyes, kissing all the way down to your wrist where he lingers.

You gasp softly, lips parting as Copia continues to drag his lips over the delicate skin. Your reaction brings a smirk to his face, another moment that he’s going to think about for days to come.

“I tried, dolcezza,” he says. “And I think you’re still sweeter.”

You blush so prettily at that. Flustering you is easier than he expected and he takes notes of every little thing that draws a reaction from you. You spend another hour like this, eating fruit, drinking juice, chatting about all sorts of things while you exchange soft touches and words of your blossoming affection. At some point, the gentle breeze that carries on throughout the afternoon becomes stronger, and more and more people head back inside to escape a possible weather change.

Neither one of you wants to leave but as you start to shiver more violently, Copia’s worry about you catching a cold wins over his desire to prolong your date. He proposes to head inside as well, running his hands over the goosebumps on your bare arms to warm you up.

When you reluctantly agree, he starts to pile your dishes and the leftover food into the basket. You move to help but he stops you with a tut. “I will pack this up, eh? Don’t worry about it.”

“I could help you, you know.”

“Ah, no no. I invited you, yes? It is my pleasure.”

It only takes him a few minutes to pack everything up. You grab your flowers in the meantime and he watches from the corner of his eye as you sniff them with a growing smile on your face, swaying slightly from left to right. As Copia shakes out the blanket, folding it messily in the middle, you hesitate by the edge of your little picnic spot.

“So, do you want to walk back together?” you ask.

Copia smiles, glad that you don’t want to leave him quite yet. “I would like that a lot, tesoro. Should I carry the roses for you?”

You hand them over and he places them on the lid of the basket before he carefully picks it up. When he’s by your side again, you stop him with a hand on his forearm, the same gentle squeeze you gave him the last time. Only this time you don’t leave. Instead you lean in and press a soft kiss to his reddened cheek, your lips lingering for a few seconds longer than necessary. Copia opens his mouth but he can’t think of anything to say. Instead he uses his unoccupied hand to fish for yours.

Hand in hand, palm against palm, you walk past the leftover groups of Siblings that make use of the last few moments of sun. Neither of you spares anyone else even a glance. Whenever your eyes aren’t focused on the path ahead, they meet each other, giddy, love-sick smiles gracing your lips.

As you finally pass the first archway and enter the cool stone corridors of the abbey, Copia suddenly stops. Your arms slowly extend as you take a few more steps but before your hand can slip from his, he pulls you back. Maybe he used a little bit too much force or maybe he just caught you by surprise, but you practically stumble into his arms. A gasp falls from your lips. You make no attempt at breaking away and so Copia gently guides you against the frame of the archway, setting down the basket in the process so he can place his other hand on your hip.

Big eyes look up into his. He leans in slowly. The rim of his hat catches the stone and it finally slips from his head, dropping somewhere. Copia doesn’t care because he can already feel your sweet strawberry breath on his lips and nothing could stop him from getting a taste. Your hands impatiently grab at his lapels, then, pulling him even closer, and he gasps at the force of your need. With your eyes falling closed, lips slightly parted and your chin tilted up, Copia feels like he’s in a dream.

“Please,” you whisper.

He has to fight a moan, the word resonating somewhere deep inside his belly. Still, he draws out  the moment for as long as he can, stalling as the tension crackles in the tiny space that separates you. He starts by nuzzling your nose while he pushes his hand upwards until he can grasp your jaw. As he angles your head just right, he feels your lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He fights off a giggle as they continue to tickle his skin and you shift slightly against him, growing impatient.

“Co–”

His mouth swallows your next syllable. You hum against him as his lips capture yours with gentle adoration. The grip on your waist tightens at the same time as his thumb presses into your cheek. Want, need, trickles into your belly and Copia feels the same way, moving his mouth against yours with slightly more pressure. The kiss is still slow, still tame, but it’s unmistakable how much stowed up desire for the other you both hold inside.

For a while you continue like this, your body trapped between Copia and the cool stone and the world around you a mere shadow. You open your mouth for air and that’s when you can feel his tongue cautiously pushing against yours. The sensation makes you feel even more fuzzy, the need for oxygen forgotten as you tangle your tongue with his. The taste is sweet, residues of fruit and juice, and underneath it all you feel Copia. Copia.

You only break away when you’re both struggling to keep up the pace. He’s a mess, his lipstick gone, black smears covering his chin and cheeks where his eye make-up rubbed off. You lift your hand to wipe some of your mingled spit off of his chin and the blissful expression on his face makes you smile. You love to see his face ruined like this, you decide. And Copia, seeing the lipstick-smears all over your kiss-swollen mouth, unknowingly thinks the same.

“We should do this again sometime,” you say. “The date but also… this. Actually, I think we should do it again right now.”

Copia chuckles, resting his forehead against yours. “How about we never stop doing it?”

You nod your approval, wrapping your arms around him to play with the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s soft, if a little bit sweaty, messy from the loss of his hat. “I would like that a lot, Copia.”

“I mean it, tesoro,” he whispers with a hint of insecurity. “I don’t want to stop spending time with you. Ever. We already wasted enough of it.”

A big smile breaks out on your face. Copia can’t help but return it, squeezing you a little tighter to his body, and you giggle happily as he kisses your nose.

“You’re right,” you finally say. “Let’s not waste another moment.”

✦ ✧ ✦

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed this silly little story – kudos, comments, rbs etc are as always much appreciated ♡

Pixel art is not something common for me and I would not call myself a keen pixel artist. But pixel art was an important and comforting part of my life when I was younger, and It was really cool to dig in once again.

Hope you find it fun to play with.

You can tag me to show your result, if you share it online. I'd be glad to see it 👀

Please don't use this maker in harms way, to offend people, or in any other inapropriate way.

It’s a candy store. You’re pursuing the neon treats in their acrylic cages when he comes in with those boys he always hangs out with. His friends, maybe? Brothers? They don’t look alike, and you’re not sure. The pretty boy stands on the other side of the shop, a display of cotton candy forming a barrier between you. You try to pay attention to the candy in front of you—you really do—but you can feel his gaze. His face is slightly obscured by whisper of pink and blue, but you can see his soulful brown eyes peering back at you.

It feels like a scene from a romcom. A meetcute between the two leads. The two of you slowly sliding along the displays, mindful of the wall between you. You don’t speak, but you don’t need to. A small smile plays on his lips—as if he’s saying hello, you. As if he’s acknowledging this weird, unspoken crush you have. As if he thinks it’s amusing. But there’s no malice in his demeanor. Teasing, yes, but good natured. Curious.

And then he’s gone, and you’re left flustered from the encounter. Somehow, it makes things feel more real. Like there’s no more pretending. The scene has been set, and tensions are building—the audience’s heart swells with anticipation. It’s only a matter of time before it breaks. The stage is set, the prelude over, and now comes the action.

The first time he speaks, you were unaware of his presence. When you arrived on the boardwalk, his bike was nowhere to be seen. Neither was he. You tried to stifle your disappointment by visiting some shops you hadn’t been to before. You found yourself at a small bookshop with carts of books stationed outside, leafing through a random copy, when you feel someone approach the cart. You don’t look up. You don’t even notice. Not until—

“Hi.”

—Not until he speaks.

The first time you speak to him, he’s smiling. It’s cute, and impish, and you realize something.

“Hi.”

Death fucking sucks, man.

Well—that can be taken two different ways. You don’t actually mean the act of dying, or the oblivion than awaits thereafter. All that, actually sounds pretty peaceful.

No, you mean the man. Er—creature? God? Whatever the fuck he is, he’s an asshole. And the thing is, he’s not an ass to everyone: just you. Yep. Out of seven billion people on this planet, somehow Death decided that you were the perfect victim. You wish you knew what you did to offend Death in the past, because you'd reverse it in a fucking heartbeat. You're well overdue for your appointment with that fucker—approximately one-hundred-and-ninety-seven years overdue. Yeah. You're starting to feel like a forgotten library book.

You’d think someone would be happy to be living forever, right? Wrong. It might be worse than hell.

It's not like you haven't tried to come in contact with him. You have, in every way humanly possible. Unfortunately, the end never comes. Every attempt is just a lot of pain before you slowly heal up, good as new. Eternally frozen at the age you were supposed to die the first time. You've gotten to the point that you fucking wish a new wrinkle would show up, even some grey hair. But no.

Suffice it to say, you've become quite the recluse in your absurdly long life. At first, you tried to blend in with society, but things get complicated after a few decades. You've evaded a handful of witch hunts and scientists with grabby hands. Besides, anytime you tried to get close to someone, it always ended the same way.

One day you said 'fuck it' and moved far away in the woods, where no living person would dare go. Every so often, you'd find a lost hiker and help them leave unscathed. One time a serial killer came by with one of his victims. You tried to use that asshole as a trap for Death, but it didn't work. The little shit stabbed you—which hurt like hell—but you didn’t die. Sadly the victim did and when Death came to collect, he didn’t so much as glance your way.

You holed up in your little hunt for months recovering from the stab wounds. It was painful. You’re pretty sure you screamed a few times—definitely cried. Anyway, some hikers must’ve heart your agony and thought you were a ghost. You're pretty sure you've become a local cryptid by this point, all thanks to Death.

Dwayne remembered the first time he saw you.

How—out of the thousands of souls he dealt with daily—yours was the one that stuck out to him. And for a very good reason.

The days started like any other. (Not that Dwayne’s days ever ended. Death is a full-time job, as you know.) He was there for your mother, who would sadly not survive childbirth. Over the years, he'd become desensitized by the act of stealing mothers from their newborns. It was a curious thing how bringing life could also bring death. This trip was the first in a millennium that Dwayne thought about the cruelty of the act. He didn't mean to be cruel—death was his job. He had no ill will towards those he took.

Dwayne entered the room as a mere shadow, unnoticeable. Silent. He recalled how busy the hovel you called home was. Women raced around your mother with bloodied sheets and bowls of water, trying in vain to save her life. Yet, amid all the chaos, the color of your soul was a beacon. It was white. Pure and blinding. All newborns were the same, utterly untainted by sin. A blank canvas, ready to be colored by the horrors of the world.

Dwayne reached out to touch your mother, the finicky, flickering flame of her life ready to be snuffed out. But the curious thing about you was that you touched him.

Violently, Dwayne recoiled.

No one touched Death. They couldn't, especially those not marked to die. You shouldn't have been able to even see him!

He remembered how fearful he'd been—there was no telling what would happen if he killed an Innocent. In all his years of service, he had never experienced anything like this. So, Dwayne waited with bated breath, trembling in his spot, but nothing happened. Your life didn’t flicker. Your soul didn’t dim. All you did was stare at him with wide eyes, glimmering with tears.

That’s when he noticed the tiny black speck on your soul, right where you had grabbed him. Souls don’t turn that color. At least, they shouldn’t have been able to. Black was the void—or a lack of soul. Dwayne looked down at his own hand—and found a small shimmering speck on his palm. He had taken a piece of you.

It shook him up so bad that he nearly forgot to do his job. Dwayne quickly took your mother, having no time to ease her into the situation, and left you behind.

Though, this would not be the last time Dwayne came. As it turned out, your life was surrounded by Death. When you were three, he returned to your home to take a younger half-sibling of yours. Dwayne knew you—as he knew all souls—the moment he laid eyes on you. Your soul was dazzling as ever, save for a single black spot where you had touched him.

The next time he saw you, you were six, and it was your older brother's turn. You had been the one to find him and wept. Dwayne's nonexistent heart ached for you. He knelt by your side for a while, curious. Your soul had splashes of color now, which dictated your personality, but the one thing that hadn't changed was the tiny black speck from your touch. Dwayne never witnessed someone's soul be black—the same inky blackness that represented the void of life. Death.

Dwayne returned, again and again, taking with him friends, family members, and pets. Each time, you grew a little more. Your soul, an ever-changing kaleidoscope of color, stirred something in him that he hadn't felt ... Well, ever. Yet, his mark remained on you, a spot on your otherwise pristine soul, linking him to you in ways he didn't understand.

Soon, Dwayne came by just to see you. Whenever he could steal a moment for himself, he would come to you. He watched you do mundane things that humans did. Death had fallen for a human before he realized it. What started out as morbid curiosity became affection. Dwayne didn't know he was capable of such a feeling. An ache settled in the space where he should've had a heart. He longed to do mundane things with you, to hold your hand and kiss your cheek. He wished he could leave you flowers without them wilting the second his fingers touched them.

That's why the day Dwayne was destined to reap you, he couldn't do it. You were still young, though the human world considered you an adult. It was the plague. Dwayne wept that day. Seeing your broken, flickering flame broke something inside of him.

You had been asleep when he arrived, but you must've sensed him because it didn't take long for you to open your eyes. And for the first time in so many years, you looked at him. For a moment, you were afraid, but it quickly dissolved. You were too tired to be frightened.

"You're here to take me," you muttered, your voice a raspy husk.

"I should." Dwayne hadn't spoken to a human in years. But you were different. You were his sweet human. His eyes fell to the black spot on your soul and ghosted his fingers across it. "I should..."

You sigh and sink into your pillow. Then, shakily, you raised your hand and put it into his. "I'm ready."

The touch electrified him. Dwayne ripped away, the moment reminiscent of all those years ago. Again, he panicked that he'd somehow killed you unintentionally. He didn't want it to happen like this.

But you were fine.

In fact, you looked confused.

The black spot had grown with the contact since you used the same hand as you had when you were an infant. Curious enough, something he wouldn't notice until later was that the spot you touched him had left a mark on him as well.

"This is a mistake," Dwayne muttered, his voice nearly inaudible. Order be damned, Dwayne couldn't take you. “I … I’m sorry.”

And, in the blink of an eye, Dwayne vanished.

° The Caffrey brothers aren't biologically related. They met in foster care and lived together for about five years. The house they lived in was run by a Mr. and Mrs. Caffrey. The three boys were thick as thieves and made a blood oath that they would always be each other's family. However, they were broken up and sent to different homes, but they found a way to keep in contact.

° Wilbur went through an extreme rebellious stage as a teenager. He slept around a lot, got a tattoo on his right bicep (which would later be covered by the latte art tattoo), and a genital piercing. Wilbur had extreme self-destructive tendencies and anger issues. The only time he was somewhat sweet was when he helped younger kids.

° Wilbur learned his love of baking via his foster mom. (Not Mrs. Caffrey, a different woman.) She owned a coffee shop as well and taught Wilbur everything he knew. Once he got into therapy, Wilbur turned to baking and cooking as a stress reliever/coping mechanism. He started being more responsible and did so well in school that he graduated a year early and used that time in college business courses.

° After the Caffrey's, Harkin was taken to a strict household. (No computer, no TV, no soda, no rock music, no dancing.) They used religion to excuse a lot of their abuse. Harkin became well-versed in the bible and might have attended seminary school had it not been for Wilbur and Bruno.

° Once he left this house, Harkin went through his own rebellious stage. (Think of Wilbur, but reversed.) He went on a binge of doing everything he was forbidden from doing before - have sex, masturbate, eat sugar, smoke cigarettes, drink alcohol, listen to loud music. Though Harkin isn't as wild as he was in his early twenties, he's still very much in this phase of life. Harkin loves going to clubs to dance. He takes pride in his appearance and has sex (out of wedlock) on the reg.

° Bruno grew up in a well-to-do home. Nothing major happened to him. Bruno was the quiet, artsy kid in high school. He preferred to keep to himself and draw instead of study. He was sent to a psychologist for two sessions because many were worried about his anti-social behavior. Bruno has intense abandonment issues, which manifest themself in being overprotective.

° These people actually adopted Bruno even though he was an older kid. Bruno still keeps in contact with them, and they invite the brothers over for Thanksgiving every year. His parents started a bank account for him when he was fifteen and filled it with quite a bit of money, so this is how he, Wilbur, and Harkin were able to buy a small building for the coffee shop.

° The brothers began to see each other when they turned eighteen, and it was like no time had passed. However, the brothers didn't officially live together until they were twenty-two. They legally changed their last name to Caffrey in honor of the house that they met in and moved to a college town up north called Amity.

° They're all Scorpios, but they're born a few weeks apart. Each brother falls into a near-perfect stereotype of a family. Wilbur is the responsible older brother, Harkin the wild middle child, and Bruno the (somewhat) spoiled younger brother.

° Harkin and Bruno fight a lot. When asked, they'll both say Wilbur is their favorite brother.

° Wilbur doesn't have a favorite brother. He favors Harkin and Bruno equally, but for different reasons.

° When they're stressed, they all have different coping mechanisms. Wilbur's is sex, Harkin smokes, and Bruno drinks. (Wilbur bakes when he's anxious, not when he's stressed.)

° Wilbur and Harkin are the coffee drinkers. Bruno hates coffee, he prefers tea (with lots of milk and sugar) or hot chocolate. They tease Bruno for this.

Being Ace's girl was kinda like being the Cobras' girl.

Not in a communal sense—Ace would jump a guy if he breathed in your direction, his gang included—but that the Cobras looked out for you. They weren’t your friends, not exactly, but since Ace was their leader, they took it upon themselves to protect you. They were like your greaser-knights of the round table. Chivalry isn’t dead … it’s a reanimated corpse like that book you read in Ms. Write’s ninth-grade English.

Whenever Ace wasn't around—which was rare—it was up to them to watch out and make sure no wise guy tried anything funny.

You didn't mind. As a lady, it's your prerogative to let them do the heavy lifting. You’ve been known to feign damsel in distress a few times just to watch them scramble.

The Cobras saw you as the ideal. And why shouldn’t you be? Ace likes to point out that he wouldn’t settle for anything less than perfect. You'd heard them say more than once that they wished there were more chicks like you hanging around Castle Rock. Not that you mind. You’re not above admitting that you flourish under the attention.

Ace flaunts you in their faces whenever he could, and secretly you enjoyed it. It inflated your own ego, knowing that the littlest smile could make a tough guy blush. What girl wouldn't let power like that go to her head?

And then, there were other days.

Days were Ace was the biggest jack-ass in the world, days where he would ignore you. Tension mount, and sly insults are thrown until it explodes like a powder keg. The poor Cobras never knew whose side they were on. Of course, they claimed it was Ace—dicks before chicks and all that—but if you batted your eyelashes and pouted just right, you could make the most loyal knight turn on a dime.

It just so happened to be one of those days where Ace was in a mood. He got into them every once in a while, usually resulting from trouble at home, and of course, you got the blowback. A fight was already brewing, but how it would come to pass was up to the choices made in the opening act.

Ace could ignore you all he wants. You’re not about to stay home, waiting for a phone call that will never come. No. If Ace wants to pitch a hissy-fit, then you’ll give him something that makes him scream. The scene is laid. The actors wait in the wings. Now it’s time for action.

How does that saying go? Hell hath no fury like a woman and all that jazz?

You strolled into the bar at half past noon wearing plaid shorts and a breezy top. If anyone asks, it’s summertime, and all your good clothes are in the wash. The day drinkers took up residence by the bar. The sleezebags made no point in hiding how they eyed a sweet, young thing like you. The fabric hugs your tush like a second skin—leaving little to the imagination. You ignore the drunks and set your sights on a familiar fivesome.

Ace, Billy, Charlie, Vince, and Eyeball hang near the back of the bar, crowding the pool table. Four out of five shoots straight up when you walk in the door. You keep your steps slow and purposeful as you approach, swaying your hips a tad more than usual.

Ace pretends not to notice, but you see the way his jaw clenched. Fine by you. You’re not here for him.

As you close in on the table, you greet them, "Hey, boys."

They chorused a 'hello.' Ace kept quiet.

When Eyeball, the unofficial second-in-command, saw that his buddy wasn't budging, he took it upon himself to approach. Softly, you smile at him.

Whatever tough guy act Eyeball had in store for you crumbles immediately.

"(Y/N),” he starts, “what are you doing here?"

"I was supposed to be going up to Portland with some girlfriends but my plans fell through." You lean against the table, dejected. "I saw your car parked out front and thought I might stop in and see if one of you fine gentlemen could walk me home?"

Ace scoffed, though you ignored him. In your periphery, you saw him stand and lean against the cue as if he were going to say something. Though, before he could, you pushed off the pool table and laid your hand gently on Eyeball's forearm. The boy blushed, eyes darting between you and his leader. You didn't like that.

"Richie," you tease. Eyeball goes beat red at the use of his first name. "Do you think you can walk me? If you're not too busy, that is. I know how important your games are. I just don't wanna be alone ..."

You put on airs, pouting and lowering your gaze like the poor damsel in distress you are. Eyeball ate that shit up.

"Yeah.” Then, he backtracks, "I mean no. No, I'm not too busy. I can walk you home if that's what you want."

"Thank you!" You grin and kiss his cheek. "You're a doll. It won't take long, you'll be back in a jiff."

You and Eyeball leave the joint together. Not once do you look back, but you can feel Ace's gaze burn through your skull as you leave.

The game continues well into the week. Ace's refusal to break is annoying, but you're resilient. Or, in his words, a 'fucking brat.'

You wear that title like a badge of honor and show Mr. Ace Merill exactly how bratty you can be. Eyeball bears the brunt of your teasing. He's at the receiving end of all your smiles and touches. The boy glows with pride before being squashed as the butt end of Ace's jokes.

It's a vicious cycle for poor Eyeball Chambers.

See, Ace seems to think he can correct the situation by making his buddy's life a living hell, but you're always there to soothe things over like the angel you are. It's almost like your gentle affection has a way of making Ace's abuse bearable.

Of course, you don't really like Eyeball. Not like that. But he's too good a victim to pass up. Perhaps in another life, you'd prefer Eyeball to Ace. He can be sweet when he wants to. Attentive. You have a feeling he loves the thrill of the game as much as you do because no matter how hard you flirt with him, at the end of the day, you're still Ace's girl. Unattainable and ideal. That spark of intrigue would vanish if Ace weren't in the picture. And so, you play pretend, lavishing him with your sweetness, and Eyeball laps it up like an eager housecat.

But that's too much reflection on your part. You're not in this to get whistful; you're in this to win.

And, what do you know?

Ace breaks first.

You're walking out of the pharmacy with your ice cream when Ace appears. He must've been waiting for you.

"Hey," he calls out. You ignore him. You hear Ace grumble under his breath before jogging after you. "Slow your fuckin' roll, doll."

Ace grabs you by the bicep and halts you. You purse your lips with displeasure. "John."

Had you been anyone else, Ace would've lost it. But you were his girl and therefore had the right to his real name. He leads you down an alley, out of sight, in case anyone walks by.

"Listen," he starts, his voice low, "I'm gettin' real sick and tired of this game you're playing."

"Game?"

"Don't act cute. I know what you're doing, doll, and I don't appreciate it. Not one bit. How do you think it makes me look, huh? Look at me." Ace leans against the brick wall with one arm, crowding your space. Your heart flutters in your chest, anticipation blooming in your core. "You can't go running off with Chambers every fuckin' night of the week. People are starting to talk. Did you forget that you’re my girl."

"Am I?" you feign innocence. "Gee. I guess I got confused."

"I'd say you did."

"Mhm. See, I thought the definition of a boyfriend was someone who paid attention to you. Someone who is sweet to you." You raise an eyebrow. "Talks to you. Richard ticks all those boxes for me, but I guess I got it wrong."

Boy, oh boy. Ace is positively seething after your little speech. If this were a cartoon, he might have steam coming out of his ears. Fortunately for you, that's exactly how you want him.

"You're a little brat, you know that?"

Smiling, you say, "I've been told."

"You think Chambers' limp dick could be half as good as mine?"

"As your limp dick?"

"Listen here, sweetheart." Ace lifts his other arm and cages you in completely. His crystal blue eyes bore into yours. There's a thin veil that holds Ace in check, though it's dangerously close to tearing. "I don't like this game no more. So I suggest you shut your mouth before you say something you regret. You're my girl. Not Chambers'. Not no one else's. Mine. None of these schmucks in this whole town know how to handle you—none of 'em but me."

You can't help but feel a thrill shoot straight through you the more he talks. Ace Merrill is right. No one in Castle Rock can make you burn the way Ace does with a mere glance. Especially not Eyeball Chambers. They don't know what makes you tick. They don't get your love of the chase, of the drama, and the attention. But Ace? He knows. He gets you.

You let your head fall against the brick as a kind of open invitation. "Maybe you should prove it."

"You want me to prove it?" he parrots, mockingly.

"I think you should."

Your words—no louder than a whisper—sink into the veil like a knife and tear Ace's wafer-thin restraint into shreds. His hand slides behind your head, guiding you towards him. Ace holds you possessively, and you think to yourself here that no man will ever love you the way he does.

"I'll prove it to you until your legs don't fucking work anymore, how does that sound, doll? Do you think that'll ring some bells?"