Commissioned [completed]

Chapter 5 - Blocking in

"You tell me, Pittore."

And you understood. He was saying it was a two-way street. If he couldn't know about you, he wouldn't let you in either. You respected it. "One word, Jeremy." You were then more curious, figuring out how fruity Papa was.

He broke his pose for a moment to clutch his heart, "Ooft, tell me of my sweet Jeremy." He returned to his position. You were always acutely aware of his hand placement on his thigh.

"You met him on a field trip with your satanic college(?).. yeah, if you can say catholic college, satanic college is correct," you decided to yourself. He seemed quietly amused, "Multiple colleges, skill building. Your college hated his and visa versa, but you met him during...tug of war. You tripped over a stray ball from the field, and you both landed in a tangle."

"Uh, huh, I like where this is going. Ah~ take me now Jeremy~" he made a lewd face.

"Cupid slapped you both; this is before when you believed in fate."

"Nice callback," he nodded along.

"It was meant to be, you know? But he kept getting caught up in the dogma of his college hating your college. Kept pulling away while simultaneously telling you that he loved you; really confusing shit, you deserve better, Papa."

"Why does this one fucking hurt?" He laughed.

"Like a fool, you stayed until he finally had his fill of you, and then you returned to being your mother's footrest."

"Ah, look at us, so tragic. A miracle two people so fucking broken could find each other, si Pittore?"

"Let us cling onto each other forevermore, create a safe corner to lick each other's wounds. Us against the world, I will fix you, and you fix me." You chuckled at the toxic nature of it all. You reflected on the story you made for him and frowned at yourself, taking a sip of water. Part of that was your experience with Rhea. Inspiration didn't always come from nowhere; could he have done the same with some of his stories for you? No, you weren't dissecting it. You would leave as strangers.

His eyes had also darkened. "Enough of heartbreak," he waved off, almost forgetting he was still supposed to be posing for you. You saw... hurt, just a brief moment of it. You left a mark on his cheek in paint.

"Look at me, Papa," you said, only realising your wording after—suddenly breaking off any of his notions.

"I am," he said simply, and he became still.

You blocked in the square of his jaw. You watched the slight rise and fall of his chest, the slight shift of his painted lips and the bob of his throat swallowing. His eye, the white one, for the first time, you wondered if it was natural. The way he looked at you, you wondered how much of you he was seeing. "Beautiful," you said to signal that he could relax again.

"Yes," he said quietly but couldn't find any more words. He became tranquil, thoughtful. "Yes."

You sipped your water, hands becoming clammy again, your attention shifting to the ghoul's mask beneath his foot. You cursed yourself for squinting to see any signs of red powder.

"I... find myself wanting to talk to you, but I am... unsure how to talk without asking questions," he admitted after a while.

"I can understand that," you said softly, "I'm happy to discuss discourse, news... just nothing in personal history," you shrugged, "I imagine we have wildly different world views, it could be interesting."

"Discourse, huh? Hard questions, then how do you feel about the church, what with all your religious trauma and all?" He grinned, showing his teeth. It seemed he wanted to see you squirm because he was Papa. Because he is the head of the church.