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“Oh, my love.” It’s whispered breathlessly, not loud enough for the man before you to hear.
He sits on the couch before the fire, back turned to you. Firelight reflects like sunshine from the sequined coat he’s yet to take off. Wispy greys curtain his face with his head bowed just so, shoulders slumped and defeated and Satanas your heart is breaking even more.
He deserved it. They all deserved it. So many hours of rehearsals, of sound checks, of traveling on a stuffy tourbus to perform their glorious rituals. So much heart and soul poured into words scribbled at 3am or in the confessional booth after Mass. So many late nights and haggard mornings and whispers of “just a little bit longer, mia cara.”
That little golden trophy doesn’t matter. Not in the grand scheme of things. Not in how selflessly he leads the church, or much his congregation loves him. Not in how much you love him.
But it matters right now, and you don’t know how to make it better.
You move wordlessly and place a soft hand on Copia’s shoulder. There’s no jolt of surprise, no moment of recognition, no deep steadying sigh to pull him out of his own head.
He stares ahead, unmoving and silent, and it shatters your heart entirely.
You won’t impede. You know that Copia prefers to sort out the heavier emotions within himself before he lays his head in your lap and talks through the night. The bone-deep ache you feel can only pale in comparison to what Copia must be feeling. That has you fighting off the sting of tears as you thread your fingers through the fine hair at the base of his skull.
That’s when you feel it.
The subtle shake of his shoulders. Barely perceptible, but unmistakable.
He’s trying to be strong, to be the unwavering Papa everyone knows and expects him to be. But he can’t swallow the soft sobs that bubble up from that deep well of disappointment within him.
His stifled cries have you kneeling before him in an instant - isolation be damned - to cradle his face in your palms. Copia doesn’t meet your eyes, fixated unseeing on some intangible space between the two of you, but the streaks of muddled grey paint running down his cheeks tell you everything his eyes can’t.
You brush some lingering tears from his jawline, but allow new ones to flow freely. He has every right to be heartbroken and you will let him feel it until he’ll let you help piece his heart back together.
There are no words. No expectations. No gentle nudges to get up or get over it. The two of you sit before the fire, together in mourning, and you’ll stay here with him as long as he’ll let you; on the floor, in mourning, by his side, wherever he needs you. He holds your heart so completely that you’ll let him have yours if his never heals.
Copia mumbles something, voice coarse and thick with anguish.
“What’s that?” You gently prompt him to repeat.
“I have let the church down,” he’s trying so valiantly to maintain a speck of composure, “I have failed you all.”
Thumbs stroke sweet metronomes across his Papal paint as you console him.
“Oh, sweetheart, you haven’t—“
“I’ve failed The Olde One,” he whispers, and you let him continue, “I’ve failed as Papa. I will never be what I was supposed to be. I’ll never be a real Emeritus.”
He still does not meet your gaze, but brings a gloved hand up to yours, fingers curling around your wrist to lean into your touch as his sorrow wins out.
Sobs wrack his form and tears cascade down his face enough to carve rivers of exposed skin where the paint has washed away.
You’re crying too. The pain of seeing your beloved in such distress is too much to muzzle. And before you can lean up to pull him closer, he’s sliding from the couch to land in your lap, body collapsing into yours from the weight of it all.
You hold him tightly to your chest, cheek rested atop his head while his fingers twist into your shirt.
Sweet nothings fill the air as he weeps, reminding him that he’s wonderful, that he’s unparalleled in his work, that he’s so much more than his role as Papa.
That he is so deeply and enviably loved.
You coo into Copia’s hair until he’s stopped shaking and the tears have stopped dampening your shirt. Neither of you let go.
“My sweet Copia,” your voice is shaky with grief but you’re determined to coax him out of his spiraling mind, “you are so much more than some silly award.”
His grip on your shirt lessens in favor of running his hands along your waist to feel your form beneath his palms. He sighs deeply against you.
“A silly American award,” he grumbles, partly muffled by your clothing but there’s a hint of mirth seeping back into his words.
A watery smile spreads across your lips and you hold him so tenderly that every ounce of love and affection you feel for him may be transmitted directly into his soul.
“And it’s so gaudy. It would clash with all of the extremely tasteful shrines on the shelf.”
Copia adjusts, lifting his head from your chest to look at you for the first time since the ceremony. His eyes are even more striking in their wretched grief, but that little twinkle of passion still dances beneath the pain, refusing to extinguish despite it all.
His paint is ruined and his jacket’s creased and wrinkled, but that will all be dealt with later. Right now, the only thing that matters is Copia’s relieved sigh when you hold his face in your hands and kiss him with every molecule of love you’ve ever felt.
It’s slow and gentle. There is no destination. There is no world that exists outside of this room and there is no award show. The two of you are the only people in existence as your lips move against each other. No other thoughts could permeate the moment; the only thing either of you know is the immutable loved shared between you.
Copia pulls away just enough to see you, but rests his forehead against yours.
“I am not thinking they counted the votes properly,” Copia breathes against you.
“Those damn Americans,” you play along, “what do they know?”
“Not very much, ovviamente. All the years of Ozzy has melted their brains right out of their ears.”
You giggle now, elated to feel your Papa coming back to you in his own way. Your hands clasp around the back of his neck and you pull him down as you fall to the rug.
“Yeah, what’s up with that? I thought that old man retired years ago.”
“Aí, mi amore, you say this to an old man,” Copia’s head comes to rest on your shoulders and his arm snakes around your waist instinctively. Even like this, with him curled up next you you, he makes you feel held. “Maybe it is time for me to retire, too.”
Your lips brush his forehead. He says it jokingly but you hear the thread of uncertainty running along its edges.
“You know what I think?” You tip his chin up to meet his mismatched eyes.
“Tell me,” his lips pull up at the edges and your heart finally pitter-pats with the reassurance that yeah, everything will be okay.
“I think we should take some time off. Clear our minds, visit someplace outside the Abbey. You think you could swing that?”
Every fiber of Copia’s being sings with the idea, not only of leaving this behind him for a bit, but of getting to do so with you.
“I can make a good case for it, sí? And if Sister Imperator does not like it then we will paint Aether’s face and go anyway.”
Your laugh is light and genuine for the first time all day. Copia rises onto his elbows to kiss you much more passionately than before, and for the rest of the night, the only sounds coming from the room are sounds of unabashed joy.