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The halls of the Ministry have never felt so heavy. The incensed air feels thick and cloying as Copia makes his way through the halls, the air smells like death and Copia thinks he might choke on it. He has walked this path many times before, but never has it felt so final. Copia can only guess at how many times he will be able to freely roam, or roam at all from this point on. Somewhere in this god forsaken Ministry lies a coffin. One perfectly sized to him, one that sits empty calling out to him, but presumably not for much longer.
A new Papa has been anointed. The sixth member to wear the paint. A fifth son to offer up to the masses. Copia wonders how long he will last until his coffin starts calling for him too. Copia remembers well the surging pride of first stepping into one’s robes. That unshakable feeling of power. He knows what is surging in Perpetua’s veins, that surety of success. Copia wishes he finds it because he dreads what will befall him if he doesn’t.
In the center of the neverending, cathedral-like hallway hangs an oppressive and omnipresent portrait of his brothers. Gothic and grand his brother’s stand, looking down on him with pity. Or maybe it’s something else.
On the left, tall and proud is Primo, Copia can’t help but smile at the memory of his oldest brother. The first face he saw all those years ago when his mother dragged him proudly into the Ministry. Primo had looked down at him with a soft smile, looking old and wizened with his trailing blonde hair, shot through with gray. Like some sort of ancient sentinel. He carried this air of serenity but Copia could see the bone dead way he held himself. Like he had lived a thousand lives. Sung a million songs. Perhaps because of that he was the kindest. He met his littlest brother with open arms and a ruffle of Copia’s hair. No trace of contempt in his tired gaze, no reluctance to welcome another brother.
Copia wonders now if Primo knew what was coming for them all. His mixed matched eyes resembled that of a prophet, unlike his brother’s with their far away look, and the way in which he held nothing but unbridled love for Copia suggests he knew the hell that was about to unfold, but decided to cling to the goodness instead. He is filled with a flooding respect now, staring into Primo’s shattered face, wishing he could wrap his arms around the older man once more. Feel his silky hair between his fingers, press his face into his robes and feel the bone crushing reassurance of safety for the last time. He knows he never will.
On the right, stood Secondo. Even now, as nothing but oil on a canvas he still exudes sensuality. His sneer is exactly the way Copia remembers it. The gleam in his eyes is just as judgmental as the first time they settled on Copia. Unlike Primo, Secondo wasn’t exactly welcoming. His arms slumped at his sides, his eyes rolling back in his skull as if there were a million better things he could’ve been doing rather than meeting his newest brother. To be fair, there probably were. Secondo offered him nothing more than a painful handshake and a terse nod of his bald head before he was off. Where, Copia would rather not know, he thinks.
He smiles fondly now up at his brother, the one who lived enough for the both of them. The one who was the first to treat Copia as if he had always been there. The one who sat him down and talked through the setlists, walked through the pacing, prepared him for the physical demand of touring. Copia thinks bravely, that he might be proud if could see how far he's come.
Thirdly, there in the middle of their elders sits Terzo and Copia feels all of his solemn pride drain from him. The contempt radiating from him in waves that wash over Copia like knives. His face is soft and romantic despite his sour expression. Copia always thought they would’ve gotten along quite nicely, if they were given the chance. Terzo clearly thought otherwise. Copia remembers all too well their first meeting, he had been tying himself in knots worrying, knowing his arrival was effectively pushing Terzo off the stage kicking and screaming. And well, how was he to know that was exactly what would happen?
He can still see Terzo now, his hair shot through with a blue hue as the sun shone down on him from behind, streaming through an arched window that framed him just so. It made him seem both small and fragile but commanding all at once, like some sort of gothic anti-hero, a perfect Heathcliff or perhaps a dashing Mr. Darcy. He certainly had the manners for it. Copia had approached him tentatively, shuffling ever closer to his brother with a wide enough berth to still emanate respect. Terzo’s arms were folded sternly across his chest, his body coiled and tense as if registering Copia as a threat on some biological level. His face embittered with disgust, his gaze dripping poison.
It made it all the more disorienting when suddenly Copia was swept up into his stiff arms, a warm gloved hand resting heavily on the back of his neck, the other banded across his back, caging him in. Copia was unsure of how to react for an embarrassingly long moment but then Terzo hissed low and pained in his ear, “Watch yourself, fratello.” Right. Message received loud and clear.
But as the weeks passed and Copia found more of himself hidden in the alcoves of the Ministry, his brothers slowly but surely got used to him. The sight of Copia running through the halls, something they were never permitted to do, his red robes billowing out behind him, grew endearing over time. Watching him stumble over his words in front of Nihil, made each of them in turn want to hide him in their own robes, shield him away from the disappointment clear in their father’s eyes. The Ghouls had taken to him, too. Something Terzo was dismayed to realise. But watching them rehearse, watching Copia find his feet and the Ghouls souls return them, even Terzo had to admit, was enthralling.
It was just as Copia began to feel at home in this crypt, that they were revealed to him in full regalia. Primo, pale and sallow, his skin the same bleached colour as his hair. His paint looked awfully wrong on his embalmed face. His robes were stiff and untouched, pristine on his unmoving body. Secondo, looking a lot less intimidating, led there in his own coffin. His charm turned off, his eyes clouded and unseeing. Copia couldn’t stand to see the life drained out of a man who simply and freely exuded it. His very way of living, of being, had been vitality incarnate. Snuffed out, now all that’s left is the cold touch of his skin. And finally, led Terzo, looking all the more like some gothic tragedy in this sad state. His arms were crossed over his chest, like a vampire in a crypt and Copia couldn’t help but notice the resemblance to their first meeting. Death didn't suit Terzo. His effortless allure now oddly stagnant, no magnetism to pull in willing victims. No nothing. Just his three older brothers whomst he was learning to love, lying cold in glass cases.
And the worst was yet to come, not only did he have to tour with the corpses of his brothers and parade their freezing bodies to paying fans, but it seems a photoshoot was in order. Nothing new, except this time it would be with Nihil and … Terzo. He can still feel the blood clogged between his nail beds, he sometimes feels the tickling of hair trapped between his fingers. He can feel it now, with Terzo’s eyes boring into him from the portrait. The scent of rotting flesh and the thick sludgy sensation of congealed blood seeping down his wrists was enough to bring him to his knees. His hands come up to claw at his hair, if only to distract from the phantom strands of his brother’s trapped eternally between his fingers.
He knows he shouldn’t, not here, not when Nihil could find him at any moment, but he cries anyway because there is nothing else to do. Rocking back and forth on his knees, crying into his palms as his fingers clutch at his hair, a single litany falls from his lips over and over.
“ I’m so sorry.”
He will not ask for forgiveness because he does not deserve it and would not give it if the roles were reversed. Instead, he gives himself over the roaring waves of his emotion and hopes somewhere his brother’s know him to be true.
Lost to himself as he is, he doesn’t hear the tentative click of unconfident feet echoing through the halls. Does not hear the dragging of heavy, unworn robes against the stone floor. Does not feel the soft press of a hand to his shoulder until the touch is biting, fingers pressing harshly into his flesh. Gasping, he puts as much space as he possibly can between himself and Perpetua. He slots his spine against the wall, the back of his head bumping into the gilded frame of his brother’s portrait.
His breath is punching out of him and he is about to say something cutting, but when he looks up to meet his newest brother’s eyes, he finds he is not looking at him, but the portrait. His expression is unreadable, and Copia drags his knees up to his chest, wishing he could just disappear.
“I did not mean to startle you, fratello.” Perpetua says.
“You don’t get to call me that!” Copia bites back.
Perpetua looks down at him, calculatingly and Copia wants to sneer at him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind he knows he is behaving an awful lot like Terzo did upon their first meeting. He wishes he could be more like Primo, welcoming and warm for his new brother who he knows must be terribly scared, even though he projects a calmness that borders on boredom.
Perpetua extends a hand, “Well, then I hope I can earn the right.”
Copia decides he will fall somewhere in the middle. He will be like Secondo. He accepts Perpetua’s hand and finds his feet. The twins stand side by side for the first time, looking carefully and lovingly at the portrait of their late brothers.
“I wonder when they will paint me in.” Copia says bitterly.
Perpetua offers him a long, sideways look and says sternly, “I will not let that happen.”
Copia can only hope he means that.