Again, Copia doesn't have a choice but to watch as the masks come off. Perpetua is talking shit about Sister Imperator, even if Copia can't disagree about how interested she was in being a parent, but Perpetua gets an agreeing grunt about Nihil. Nihil was a dogshit parent and Copia isn't afraid to say it.
But the paint comes off before Copia says so, and Perpetua is standing there looking very tired and a little smudged, weirdly exposed even with the clinging under-eye makeup, and somehow his eyes don't lose all of the intensity they had done up in black. They're twins, but Copia doesn't feel at all like he's looking into his own face, and something strikes him wrong-way-up as he takes in, for the first time in the months and months he's been aware of this asshole, Perpetua's actual face.
He doesn't hate it as much out of the paint. His eye twitches. He doesn't like that.
Next time, Perpetua says. Motherfucker, doesn't he know no Papa stays on for more than one tour? Copia had been the exception, but he had started as a cardinal, and he'd held on longer than anybody had before. (It doesn't occur to him that the reason for that was Sister's machinations, that it's only because she pulled the strings to remove every Emeritus from the stage once she decided his time was up. Himself included.)
"I mean, that is what you look like to me," Copia says instead, matter of fact. "Especially with the paint off. Woof! Look right there. Normal guy, standing in a hospital, talking shit." Learning that Perpetua happens to have lived for fifty-odd years as a woman doesn't change a goddamn thing, he's still an interloping Papa and a lost brother and a real son of a bitch and looking at Copia with bright eyes the same colors as his own but without the same exhausted stiffness, like he's fucking glad Copia is here, and--
And these drugs they're giving him must be something else, because Copia feels weird about the bare face, about how in contrast to Copia's, which has been through the fucking wringer, V looks at home with himself, and it's a good look. Fresh. Bright. He almost wants to tell V to put the mask right back on, so he can go back to looking more easily hateable, and Copia can go back to imagining him looking nasty and mean.
"But you're right about the old man," Copia says, throat dry. "He's a real dick."
He's too distracted to realize he used the present tense by accident.
Edited (polishes a few things, sends the tag back ) Date: 2026-04-08 12:47 am (UTC)
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timeasmymeasure
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Date: 2026-04-07 08:32 pm (UTC)But the paint comes off before Copia says so, and Perpetua is standing there looking very tired and a little smudged, weirdly exposed even with the clinging under-eye makeup, and somehow his eyes don't lose all of the intensity they had done up in black. They're twins, but Copia doesn't feel at all like he's looking into his own face, and something strikes him wrong-way-up as he takes in, for the first time in the months and months he's been aware of this asshole, Perpetua's actual face.
He doesn't hate it as much out of the paint. His eye twitches. He doesn't like that.
Next time, Perpetua says. Motherfucker, doesn't he know no Papa stays on for more than one tour? Copia had been the exception, but he had started as a cardinal, and he'd held on longer than anybody had before. (It doesn't occur to him that the reason for that was Sister's machinations, that it's only because she pulled the strings to remove every Emeritus from the stage once she decided his time was up. Himself included.)
"I mean, that is what you look like to me," Copia says instead, matter of fact. "Especially with the paint off. Woof! Look right there. Normal guy, standing in a hospital, talking shit." Learning that Perpetua happens to have lived for fifty-odd years as a woman doesn't change a goddamn thing, he's still an interloping Papa and a lost brother and a real son of a bitch and looking at Copia with bright eyes the same colors as his own but without the same exhausted stiffness, like he's fucking glad Copia is here, and--
And these drugs they're giving him must be something else, because Copia feels weird about the bare face, about how in contrast to Copia's, which has been through the fucking wringer, V looks at home with himself, and it's a good look. Fresh. Bright. He almost wants to tell V to put the mask right back on, so he can go back to looking more easily hateable, and Copia can go back to imagining him looking nasty and mean.
"But you're right about the old man," Copia says, throat dry. "He's a real dick."
He's too distracted to realize he used the present tense by accident.