Commissioned [completed]

Chapter 2 - Basic Shapes

"You can speak, you know?" You said after a while as the stench of oil paint streamed out the church's window into the warm of early autumn. The set was then together with satin drapery in the background, golds and purples to compliment Papa's robes and a gathering of ornate trinkets you found might be enjoyable to paint. Basket of apples on a pedestal for temptation, fig leaves, Adam, Eve, interesting goat statue. But Papa had started fidgeting, as they always did. Especially someone who is as strangely pent up as Papa. "I'm only sketching in shapes; expression comes in much later. I've got the basics for the skull and hand. You can rest them for now if you'd like."

"I see," he said quietly, setting down the skull and stretching his hand to rest on the armrest. "So uh, hmm, what got you into painting, caro Pittore?"

Caro Pittore, he'd said it enough you googled it while setting up, 'dear Painter' in masculine. The man had game, and still, you couldn't bring yourself to ask him to stop on that front.

You gave a soft sigh; pretty much everyone asked, "I don't really have an exciting plot for you, Papa Emeritus, same as anyone got their job, except for maybe you. Is that a lineage...?" you raised a finger to stop yourself. "What would be more fun, and something I've done with clients in the past—we play a game of assumptions. You only get to meet a person for the first time once in your life. Why ruin the surprise with real answers? Life is so boring. Tell me, who do you think I am, or shall I start with you?"

A glint blossomed in his eye just long enough for you to catch it in your piece, just a sketch, it could get lost in the layers, but for now, it was there. "Please, Pittore, it's your game; show me how it is played."

"Let's see," you turned your head this way, then that, sizing him up. "When you were four, your best friend was a goat. You were born within the church, so goats are amicable faces to you." A smile cracked over his face, "his name was Stanley."

"Stanley the fucking goat? From Italy, huh?"

"Why are you laughing at his name? He was your best friend! Goats don't live as long as you are old, so may he ever rest in peace."

"Old, huh? Shit, we can't be more than ten years apart."

"If I'm honest, I cannot tell; your makeup makes it completely ambiguous. Your turn."

"Okay, uh, you said you've painted for churches before; you grew up religious, si?"

"The detective work!" You leaned into it with a look of surprise.

"Boarding school, horrible catholic nuns, you saw through the dogma, but to this day, some sexual acts are too taboo for you to even consider... or did it entirely push you in the other direction, huh?"

"Yes, I am still scared of nuns, her name was sister Josie, and she liked hitting kids with rulers entirely too much," you said very seriously.

"How close was I, caro Pittore?"

"Somewhere between very close and not even in the ballpark." You laughed, "Is that a backstory or a personal kink, Papa?"

"Eh, you know, religious trauma, anti-pope," he pointed at the hat with his free no-longer-skulled hand, "it's a thing."

"What is the pope-hat called?"

"Pope-hat?!" He almost broke posture in laughter, but he restrained himself. "It's a mitre."

"Ah, such a sexy name for a pope-hat. Either way, I'm glad I fit your bill Papa, and you—you became Papa Emeritus the third because there was a bloody tournament where all the Papas fought each other. And though you won, you had to consume all the others to gain their secret knowledge."