Commissioned [completed]

Chapter 10 - Holy Bloody Mary

"Papa..." You peered out behind your canvas to greet, "You look—uh."

"Yeah," he mussed his hair and just made it worse. "I know, Caro." His ritual paints were smudged, and he smelt like bong water in a liquor bottle. He was in his pretty antipope best but his face was drained of life, a glove in one hand and a gloveless hand clutching his pope hat.

"I have a regulation against painting people with hangovers; it shows up in my work." You said softly, stepping out of your workspace, "Can we order you some food or something?" You came to lean on the desk beside him.

"I apologise, I've never read your contract... food doesn't sound very fucking good right now."

"Water? A Bloody Mary? I just like painting people when they're comfortable; no offence, you look like shit."

"Yeah, virgin Bloody Mary sounds..." he nods along. "I'll message the kitchen staff," his voice was hollow.

"Where do you keep your makeup, Papa? Sit. I'll go find it for you."

He groaned as if he had just remembered he owned a face. "I really am a bit out of sorts, huh? I couldn't ask you to—"

"And I am telling you to sit, Papa."

He swallowed. "Understood," he nodded, "my bedroom dressing table."

"Good, I'll get you a jug of water while there... I won't walk in on someone sleeping, will I?"

"Sleeping in my room? Oh, no.. no, you're good."

You petted his arm, and he slowly turned away to sit on his throne. You rifled through your bag and tossed him gum before leaving the room.

***

"What did you get up to last night, Papa?" You asked softly, sitting on a stool beside him and removing the old makeup with a pad. His eyes were closed, head leaned back as you attended to him.

"Midnight mass," he rasped, his breath smelling like strawberries, a chilled Bloody Mary and a jug of water to his right. "Then the after mass..." he smirked tiredly.

"I understand," you wiped at his bottom lip, removing some stubborn white. You caught a light shiver pass through him.

"Thank you for all of this, sei molto gentile, mio ​​caro Pittore," his lids opened slightly, eyes tiredly sliding to you. You didn't think you'd seen him so up close before; you gently swiped at the makeup that had made its way into his hairline. He quietly watched you for a while, breathing slowly and relaxing.

"I think you give much of yourself to the church, Papa. Perhaps you could also stand to be a little meaner."

"I am supposed to be the fucking antipope; am I not the meanest?" The corner of his mouth picked up as he asked, "Is this a teaching from an atheist?"

"You could learn a lot from us," you laughed, "we are our own Papas, after all."

"And that doesn't scare you?" You caught the last of his makeup and looked at him. He was handsome, with dark lashed and arched brows, a pale square cut jaw, soft lines running his brow and cheeks, and a dimple punctuating his chin.

"Maybe? Does it scare you?"

"I have a church at my back and a higher power to fall back on. What do I have to fear?"

"Failure, like any of us."

"Si." He bit his bottom lip and nodded.

"Perhaps worse than me, I can only fail myself and my close network. How can a person live up to the expectations of gods?" You pulled up a photo of him you'd taken and prepared makeup to map out the black of his skull paint.