Category is: Religious discourse with Papa Emeritus the Third
Chapter 5 of my long fic
Character interaction is my fucking meat and potatoes my guy.
I hope you enjoy religious discourse as much as I do.
TW: Religious topics, vaccines, trumpet and heinous flirting
Before note: Our reader is a painter commissioned by the clergy to paint a portrait of Papa. They have recently been stabbed in the arm but have chosen not to involve the church because they want to get the work done and get out of there. They are also trying to keep Papa at arm’s length by playing a game of assumptions with eachother.
Chapter 5 - Blocking in
“You okay, caro Pittore?” He was watching you set up, leaned on the desk to the side, “You seem tired. You up all night partying without me, huh?”
It had been a couple days since your first session, and for some reason, sleep eludes those on a hit list. Contrary to what the detective might have said, finding the wounded asshole in the ghoul mask was not easy. You’d heard nothing about the case. You’d grown increasingly glad you had decided to keep the blade that was then sitting in your backpack feet away. The town was beginning to creep you out. It had the atmosphere of a Lovecraft novel, signs, symbols—Jesus chrimany! there were so many fucking churches for such a small town. Made you wonder if you should be drinking the tap water.
“Mm, yeah, late night working on commissions and an uncomfortable motel room bed.”
“Oh, so I'm not your only one?” He piqued a brow.
“Oh no, the others I do through the phone. Sit, Papa,” you smirked, stretched out your fingers, and gingerly patted your shoulder.
“You know there is a remedy to your uncomfortable motel bed. It's called ‘mine’.” He grinned and took his time to sit and arrange himself for you.
“Wow, we are starting out early today,” you mused, grabbing your brush.
“Hey, you uh, caught me off guard last time, you could say. And today, I am on top of my game.”
“Oh? Is that so?” You looked around the scene, feeling his eyes on you as you worked, “I’m blocking today; you don’t have to be super still again, just colours. It's kinda like a camera beginning to focus, going to be fuzzy for a while.”
“I have an answer for my question last time.”
“Oh, and which question would that be?” You begin mixing at your pallet, and the stretch of oil paint begins to rekindle.
“Why you began painting.”
You cocked your head with intrigue.
“You fell in love with someone so beautiful you wanted to capture them eternally.”
“Oh, Papa, I didn't take you for a romantic~” you chuckled.
“Do I not? Passion is an original fucking sin, old as time. To love something more than god, heh?” He shook a finger and clicked his tongue.
“Tell me about this love, woman, man, or other? Paint me a picture, Papa,” you smirked, testing his open-mindedness, but realised your hand was beginning to shake. They had been doing that since the attempt. Your left hand was being useless in all ways, too. You tried to loosen your shoulder, only to feel the pain of seven stitches.
“Hmmm, she was a… gymnast, flexible.”
“You know I made her use it,” you chirped along as you worked through your world coming loose.
He made a growl of agreement. “She was going to be an athlete, and though you originally fell in love with her, you then realised you fell more in love with painting her. So when you got into the most prestigious university in your home country, and she was to be in the Olympics, you tried long distance until you both inevitably let go. And that is the story of your long lost Lenoir.”
You realised your hands had stopped shaking to listen to him. You huffed a soft laugh, “I still dream of her, my Lenoir. I wonder if she even thinks of me these days.”
“It would be very fucking hard to forget you, caro Pittore,” He growled.
“Yikes, Papa, you’ll have me blushing,” you laughed off easily, brushing away his compliment, “And you? Any heartbreak in your midsts?”
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.
You bit your tongue in thought, “Are we going to stay friends after this one?” You wondered out loud, giving him a cheeky look.
“We are friends, Pittore?”
You shrugged, “friendly?” You supposed. “Let's see,” you began blocking in the shapes of his gown; it would be challenging because the fabric ripples would change the next time. You would have to take a photo of this moment to rearrange him the best you could. You aimed up your phone. “I think faith is beautiful,” You said simply.
“I know what you mean—I sense a but.”
After taking some snaps, you returned to painting. “But,” you began, and Papa smiled, egging you on. “Churches are often… bad translations of original stories, people put their own spins on things, and teachings that are often good in theory can get distorted in any which way. Not to mention the hypocrisy…”
“Hypocrisy?” He arched a brow.
You hadn't looked at his face in a moment; you'd been on a roll. You hadn’t realised it, but though the discourse wasn't about you—it was a core belief. It was you. “Ah, it doesn't matter what I think.” You waved off in an effort to shove yourself back in the box.
“No, no, this interests me; I can see the hypocrisy in other churches, that makes sense to me, they fucking lie for control, make eternal promises for money, praise the elite, it's… but I cannot see it in my own.”
You ran your tongue over your teeth; you suggested discourse because you liked going in. But there was a struggle with wanting to keep Papa at arm's reach; then again, this might help with that. It might just frighten him away. “You told me about free will; that's a core Satanic belief, right?”
“Si.” He nodded fervently.
“and I haven't seen inside your church, so this is partly the assumptions game on my behalf, alright?”
“Si,” and he remembered he was supposed to keep still.
“You can relax your skull hand again, by the way,” You added absently. “I don't believe free will can exist within an established hierarchy because there can only be one Papa, correct?”
“You are correct.” He frowned lightly as he placed the skull down to stretch out his leathery fingers. His brow was almost always slightly downturned; beneath that makeup, you would guess they were nice eyebrows. You painted in a little gesture of them.
“What if it's another’s will to become Papa?”
“I supposed they cannot, but we treat everyone equally,” he debated, “it is our vow to protect the free will of others…” he explained, and it took a lot of him not to move his hands. You watched the fingers of his right-hand flicker on his thigh.
“I'm painting your other hand now,” you advised, “does ‘Papa’ come with power over others? Does it encroach on their free will?”
“I, of course, am trying not to, you know, it's very fucking important to me.”
“Then does that encroach on yours?”
You watched him beginning to unfold a little.
“There is a silent expectation in the church. This portrait wasn’t your will; it was the will of the church.”
“It is my will that the church is sated in all ways possible,” he said so with a purr of confidence as he relaxed into his conviction.
“And what about my will, hmm? As someone not a part of the church?”
“Oh, your will? What is your will, dear child?”
“What if…” you had a think, “What if I want to be Papa?”
“I can call you Papa if you would like; not sure it would be recognised.”
“You'd call me Papa?” Your smile twisted.
“Of course, Papa,” he raised his chin with a half-lidded smirk.
“Feels like you did that on purpose.”
“I don't know what you mean~”
“And if I want to wear your pope-hat?”
“That would deny my free will because it is my fucking mitre.”
“You don't want to give me your pope-hat?”
“No, you disrespect it. You call it fucking ‘pope-hat’.” His chin jutted out slightly.
“Fine, you acknowledge some power play here, so can anyone hold a sermon?”
“It's true; the cardinals, sisters, and I are the only ones who generally hold mass.”
“What, everyone else's voices don’t matter?” You were teasing.
“All voices matter.. unless they're fucking stupid, like trumpet.” He growled ‘trumpet’, “I don’t think we’ve ever been asked.”
“So, if it was my free will to hold a sermon?” You arched a brow.
“Then, as someone who upholds free will, I make it happen.”
“What if I want to make it about Jesus Christ riding a donkey, in the literal sense? Or inflated Christian fan fiction teachings?” You were just having fun with him at that point.
“Then that wouldn't be very fucking respectful to the free will of the church, would it?”
“And if it was my free will to be disrespectful?” You grinned.
“Then you would be a fucking brat,” you don't know when he started breathing deeper. His usual growl hindered on a groan.
“No, Papa, it wouldn't,” you shook your head, and he tilted his. “Brats like the idea of someone who’d tame them or try to. That hinders my freedom; why would I want that? I want someone whose free will aligns with mine to run wild and free like a twin flame that burns the sky. I want no hierarchy.” Your cheeks flushed, and you reminded yourself you only painting a portrait.
He was biting his lip, “is it still your will to hold a sermon?”
“Only because I don’t think Sister Imperator would allow it,” you chuckled behind your canvas.
“Sister? But I am fucking Papa,” he frowned.
“Go on then, Papa, show me what free will is worth,” you stuck your head out and challenged with a smirk.
He shook a finger at you, “I will make this happen. I will show you my church isn't hypocritical.. or it's trying not to be,” he amended.
“On that note, how many women or people of colour have been Papa?”
He made a fizzling noise, “Fuck. alright, alright, we are a forward church but there are things that still need addressing, yes. We already celebrate the female orgasm, but I happen to also like the idea of a woman of colour being my fucking Papa,” he informed unabashedly. “Things are fucking sticky sometimes. If you want to go there, where do vaccinations sit with your absolute ‘free will’. Huh?”
“Hey, you're a church; that’s more of a you thing.”
“So you have no answer?” He looked pleased with himself.
“Well, like your free will is your ‘mitre’, free will is also a person’s health. To endanger another person’s health is to take away their free will, yeah? Vaccinations are for the populis as well as the individual. Get jabbed.”
“I hate how fucking quick that was for you. But spoken like a true Papa of the church.”
“I studied philosophy and art at university,” you explain, absently filling in the chair’s golden form.
“I see why you have problems with the church. Did you really not grow up in a heavy catholic boarding school?” He asked without realising.
“Catholic college, because it was the only school in town. It wasn't particularly traumatising, but it did cordon off some ways of thinking until later in life. Also, incense reminds me of taking naps in forced mass,” you answered without thinking before touching your lips as if to take it back.
“Fuck, I apologise,” he began.
“It's okay…I started it,” you ended and looked away to the sun as it began to dip.
“No, it isn’t. I… I uh, understand there are times it is scary to let new people in. We didn’t meet at the right time.”
“That’s…” you shook your head and sighed, disengaging with the conversation. “I really didn't get very far again.” You looked over your work, “I can put more hours in the background before I see you again….”
“I want to be here for it,” he said stubbornly, “and before you say another fucking thing about underpaying you… I think you're being too nice.”
You began washing and whacking your brushes to the drop sheets below. “Too nice?” Where was this coming from? “You can relax; we’ve run out of light for today, the downside to using natural light.”
He pulled himself out of the chair with a moan you pretended to not hear, “You could stand to be meaner. You just tore my church a new unholy hole; you did not fucking care whether I liked what you had to say or non. It was.. beautiful discourse. I see you care for big-world concepts but leave some care for yourself, too, Pittore. I see you working hard. You should take what you fucking deserve.”
He’d stunned you into fumbling for words before you could adequately hide again, “Is this a religious teaching from Papa Emeritus the Third himself?” You looked in mock surprise, covering up hurriedly in humour.
“Hey, I'm being fucking serious. Know your worth… I can see it. I, uh, found your Wikipedia page,” he looked sheepish before he stretched and looked away from you.
He sounded like Marie, and you also liked how his accent tackled 'Wikipedia page’. “Oh, did you now? What does it say about me~?”
“Ah, I didn't read much; I wanted to see your work. You are very impressive, caro Pittore.”
“Thank you,” you didn't let the compliment sink particularly deep. That would mean caring about Papa’s opinion, and you wouldn't allow yourself. You deliberated—fine, “I googled you too,” you peeked up from spraying your pallet to store in an airtight place.
“I like your voice, Papa.”
Then he was grinning. “Grazie, Caro.”
You both stood there momentarily before remembering you were storing things.
He leaned against the desk and stretched out some more, which came with interesting hip movements. “We have a mass tonight; Cardinal Copia is taking it, so I didn’t have to prepare. I think you’d like him. He thinks entirely too fucking much, all the books and all the ‘discourse’... If you wanted to come…” he shrugged as if it made no difference.
“I…” and then you remembered your last nights of terror, of the endless dark. The nightmares of waking up to a man in a ghoul mask standing over you. Your left arm arched. You didn't particularly want to go back to your motel room. “Will there be nuns?”
He chuckled, “Yes, but I will keep them at bay. I am very talented at that sort of thing~”
“You know I wasn't kidding about the incense putting me to sleep?”
“I'm sure I could keep you awake all fucking night if you wanted me to,” he promised, voice low.
“How did you ever get so quick on your feet?” You laughed, pretending whatever he had to say had no effect on you whatsoever.
“I uh, practice rigorously.”
“Well, maybe I am curious to see what a black mass looks like; just how hypocritical could it be?”
“Then I am honoured to be a part of your first.”
You scrubbed your hands in the turps bucket. People think artists' hands are soft, but they’d be incorrect. Marie’s, maybe. You moved on to a rag, then would wash them in a bathroom when most convenient.
Papa had the look of someone wanting to look at your painting but knew he could not.
“Not too soon, I hope,” he said honestly.
“You really are….” you sighed.
“Not what I was going to say.”
“I need to change; I don’t want to upstage the cardinal.” He opened the door for you and stepped to the side.
“Oh, is the pope-dress too much for the event, am I overdressed then?” You lead out to the hallway and wait for him to show you the way.
“Pope-dress?!” He raises a finger to his lips, “This is a test; firstly, I'm happy to wear dresses. Secondly, this is not a fucking pope-dress. It's a chasuble, and before you say anything, this is not a ‘pope-scarf’; it is a pallium.”
You were just laughing at this point. “Oh, that so is a pope-scarf.”
“So fucking uncultured,” he chuckled and scanned over your smile. “Ah, looks like you need to get cleaned up too.” He reached for a moment but let his hand fall, “uh, your cheek has paint on it.”
“Oh? So does yours; I just wanted to fit in around here.” You made no move to get it; you'd deal with your appearance in a mirror.
“Ah, I see what you have done. Is it because you are the new Papa?”
“Exactly.” You gingerly touched your left shoulder in curiosity. It was hurting more than it had that morning, feeling hot. You might need to check you haven't split anything.
