Chapter Text
April 3rd, 1981 ∙ Sweden
The day Primo met Copia was as ordinary as any other. Another stressful week had come and gone at the Emeritus Church of Satan, and after spending it patching the holes—both metaphorical and otherwise—created by his father’s absence, the eldest of his broken family slipped off for some time apart from his clerical duties. Alpha had offered to drop him near Borensberg Station, and after leaving his right-hand ghoul with a small wad of cash and a rendez-vous point, Primo hopped aboard the bus to Linköping and commenced his journey south.
The day was young, and the atmosphere was fresh with the onset of spring. Birds had begun to return to the landscape, filling the surrounding forest with the soft sounds of their songs. The sun seemed to be sticking around a bit longer as well, but despite the abundance of blue shining from behind the low, wooly clouds, his outing still required a few extra layers. Not fussed enough to close the overhead window, Primo tugged his favorite Burberry scarf to his ears and popped his dress coat’s collar against the breeze. The seat beside him remained empty, so he allowed himself to sprawl, folding his legs beneath him as he leaned against the glass. He noticed pale nubs of life forming on the branches and bramble that lined the road, and his reflection smiled in sync with his observations. This was his favorite time of year.
Being alone, however, was a bit of a double-edged sword. With his vicinity unusually calm, it was easy to sink into the abyss of his mental frustrations, and truth be told, he’d been finding it more difficult than usual to not be bitter about his life. The strain of keeping both his faith and place of worship afloat had been weighing on him since he was a teenager, and it had only increased in recent months. A standard day consisted of writing sermons with one hand, while putting out fires with the other. He’d pacify his brothers with lies about how okay everything was, then awkwardly bug Sister Imperator for help when he felt himself being stretched too thin. On the rare occasion he was able to sneak down to the library to work on personal projects, something would always interrupt him. The ghouls would bicker amongst themselves, or the siblings would start drama that required authoritative intervention. Nothing was easy, to say the least. Primo, however, didn’t exactly mind this tension—far from it, actually. His dedication to both Lucifer and His teachings was his primary reason for getting out of bed in the morning, and he couldn’t help but believe that one day, even through the everything of it all, he would somehow be rewarded for his struggles.
As his journey progressed, the farm roads melded into cobblestone driveways, which then gave way to pavement, leaving Primo to eventually find himself in the bustling center of Linköping Central Station. He waited until the bus had fully emptied to gather himself, nod to the driver, then make his way outside. As he ambled across the bay, it occurred to him that he wasn’t entirely certain what had brought him to his destination. He was due to check the Mortuary that evening—as was customary every first and third Friday of the month—but until then, he had no pressing obligations. In a shocking turn of events, the unofficial head of The Emeritus Church of Satan had a bit of time to kill.
He began to walk through the nearby square, letting the sights and sounds of lives other than his own engulf him, and felt the therapy of his outing truly set it. He was suddenly amongst dozens of people—all mingling, talking, and shouting—none of which required his guidance to exist. The crowd parted effortlessly around him as he strolled from storefront to storefront, moving past shops full of artists and their work, to myriads of produce stands stocked with colorful offerings. A flower stall sat on the street’s eastern corner, and Primo felt himself almost involuntarily turn to stop and sample the foliage on display. He cupped a large, crimson bloom loosely in his palm, admiring the flecks of white that dotted its many petals, then softly inhaled its aroma.
“These are quite remarkable,” he smiled, purposefully catching the eye of the presumed shopkeeper watering something nearby.
The man straightened at the sound of Primo’s voice, rising up from behind a row of pansies. He was short, and adorably chubby, but with the solid upper body of someone deeply invested in agriculture. His arms were coated in wet soil, and the knee-length apron he sported was likewise stained with dirt. The compliment seemed to have curled his lips into a shy smile, so Primo returned his expression and continued.
“Carnations certainly are lovely, but it takes a lot of skill to cultivate something so foreign in this climate. Do you have some sort of greenhouse for these?”
The florist, now standing adjacent on the other side of the bed, shook his head in reply.
“Oh, I wish,” he huffed out a laugh. “I grew those on my kitchen table, actually. It’s pretty cool in that part of my flat, but the windows let in the perfect amount of sunlight. They turn out great every year.”
“Very clever,” Primo nodded in acknowledgement. He set the carnation back in its place, subtly running his fingers along its feathery leaves before retracting his hand. “It reminds me of the year I tried to grow bluebonnets on the sill of my office window. Tricky little bastards—they never so much as sprouted.”
This piece of information caused the florist to don an enthusiastic grin. “Oh! You garden too!”
“I, well—” Primo began. Unintentionally, his mind drifted toward home, where he’d duck into the church’s greenhouse concourse to offload after a long day of holding the congregation together with tape. He’d been interested in plants of the poisonous and carnivorous variety for as long as he could remember, but as he’d aged, he’d developed a soft spot not only for more traditional fauna, but the handsome men who happened to grow such things as well. He absently brushed a lock of wind-swept, professorial hair from his face and cleared his throat, pulling his mind back to the present. “Sort of, I suppose. When I have time.”
“It’s a thankless profession,” the florist replied. “And it’s quite a time sink as well. But that’s why we love it, right? We’re good at taking care of things that can’t take care of themselves.”
He snipped the stem of the flower Primo had been admiring from its patch and offered it forward with a flirtatious grin. “I’m sure your blooms will be magnificent this year, but until they come in, here’s a little something to keep you company.”
Their fingers brushed during the exchange, and Primo felt a torrent of butterflies rip through his abdomen as traces of soft, wet dirt smeared across his knuckles. He couldn’t stop himself from giggling as he made a show of fastening the carnation securely behind his ear before turning to make his exit.
“Ah, thank you! Thank you very much! I think I’ll wear it home, if you don’t mind.”
“Oh, I would be honored,” the florist replied with a wink.
Primo gave a flustered nod in the man’s direction, then bowed his head politely and began his venture back down the road. As he reintegrated himself into the crowd, he reached up to twirl the base of the stem back and forth between his fingers, feeling another poorly-concealed smile pull his lower lip into a pout. His face was thoroughly stained from years of marking it with harsh grease paint, but it wasn’t enough to stop the random passersby from noticing how red his cheeks had turned.
Feeling a bit overstimulated from both his previous encounter and the collective energy around him, he began to look for a quiet spot to rest. He knew of a little cafe just up the way that opened toward a nearby park, and once he picked its storefront from the maze of buildings ahead of him, he made a beeline in its direction. After pausing to order an espresso and a snack, he walked over to one of the area’s many benches and eased into its embrace. He sighed, feeling the strain of his travels catching up with him. The heat of the beverage seeped through the cup and warmed his chilly fingers. He sipped slowly, surveying his surroundings as he sat.
Ducks skirted the edges of the crowd in pursuit of discarded crumbs, a pair of women walked hand-in-hand down the dirt path toward the lake, and a mousy-haired child wedged awkwardly between a lamppost and their bike struggled with the basket affixed to its rear wheel. Primo did a double take. Upon further inspection, both parties appeared to be worse for wear. The cargo dwarfed the contraption beneath it in a manner so comical it caused him to reevaluate his understanding of physics, and the person laboring over it looked anxious and sweaty.He could hear them swearing from across the grass as they tied and re-tied a small mound of cords, tripping over their feet and catching themself on the handlebars as they went.
“Need any help?” Primo asked, offering a casual wave in their direction. The sound of his voice caught them off guard. They nearly leapt in surprise before ducking behind the front wheel for safety.
“Oh! My apologies! I thought you could see me—I didn’t mean to scare you,” he clarified with a reassuring smile. “I’m not trying to intrude, you just seemed a bit.. lost, perhaps? Do you need any directions?”
At the word ‘lost’, a pair of russet eyes, worried and deep, peeked out from behind the spokes and locked with his mismatched gaze. He could feel the intensity of their stare as they took him in, nervously tugging at their ear while slowly pulling themself upright. The messy auburn waves that framed their freckled face bounced against their cheeks in a manner that suggested they’d cut their hair themself, and their uniform—that of a Catholic schoolboy—had definitely seen better days.
Primo didn’t exactly think highly of himself, it must be said. Even as the Antipope-In-Training that he was, he contained more doubt than confidence that he’d live up to the expectations predestined for him. He wasn’t fantastic with people—finding their experiences to be somewhat alien from his own—and his head was often too lost in the clouds to be as emotionally available as he should. However, the stab of empathy that trailed in the wake of looking into those big, brown eyes was so undeniable he could feel it shoot from the base of his spine to the top of his neck. Someone needed him.
“There’s nobody sitting here, you know,” he patted the empty space beside him. “Why don’t you take a break? That always helps me when I feel overwhelmed.”
A beat of silence followed. The child gave their ear another pull, then offered a small nod in his direction. They carefully detached themself from their bike and approached the bench with caution, surveying the scene thoroughly before finally taking a seat.
“I love this bakery,” Primo began. He allowed his gaze to drift upward, appraising the cottony clouds passing overhead instead of drowning his guest with further eye contact. “They do the best dammsugare I have ever tasted, these folks. Sweet, crunchy, and with just enough liqueur to make my home life a bit easier to digest.” He paused, chuckling softly to himself. “Of course, that means I probably shouldn’t be sharing them with someone less than half my age.”
With that, he stood and turned back to the storefront. “Don’t move,” he instructed. “I will be right back.”
After an exchange of words and a jingle of coins, he returned with a small, neatly-packaged treat. He gently retook his seat, then offered the parcel forward.
“Go on,” he reassured them. “It’s alright, I promise.”
With a timid nod, they carefully peeled back the paper to expose a small foil pot of freshly-baked mazarin. Frightened as they were, they couldn't hide the joy that sparked in their eyes as they pulled their gift from its wrapping. They broke off a chunk pastry and brought it to their face with both hands, giving it a tentative sniff before sampling. Primo watched, amused. Their mannerisms were more rat-like than those of a human child, and the look that washed over their face as they took their first bite was a visible mix of ecstasy and pure relief. With the atmosphere slightly calmer, Primo took the opportunity to further inquire about his company.
“Would you mind telling me your name?” He asked.
The child turned from the delicacy before them and held Primo’s stare. The initial fear had somewhat dissipated from their face, which was now dusted with tart crumbs and bits of glaze. They swallowed, then wiped their hands on their pants.
“I’m Copia.”
Primo extended a gloved hand forward for his guest to shake, moving his cup of espresso beside him so he could better reach.
“You too, Professor,” they replied. “And..” they paused, looking down at the pastry resting in their lap. “And thank you.”
It occurred to Primo then, that someone of Copia’s particular background had probably never heard the term ‘emeritus’ outside of a classroom setting before, and he found the implications oddly freeing. He’d certainly taught a lot of Sunday School classes—albeit, those of the satanic variety—and spoke in several academic settings about the finer points of his religion, but he had never been a professor before. From the corner of his eye, he watched his guest carefully break apart the rest of the mazarin and slowly ingest its pieces. The brown wrapping paper seemed so big in their small, shaky hands. He smiled to himself and relaxed into the stiff embrace of the bench’s soggy wood. Perhaps he could be Professor Emeritus. At least for a little while.
“Oh, any time,” he smiled. “Any time.”
He then paused, swiftly weighing his options. Contrary to popular belief, there was a method to this shepherding business of his. Finding those in need wasn’t all that difficult, but the process of making them feel safe enough to consider a life beyond their current circumstances could be a bit of a rodeo. Here’s what he knew: Copia, while not yet old enough to qualify as a teenager, had for some reason been sent out entirely on their own, and presumably from an establishment obsessed with the concept of control. That was definitely interesting enough as it were, but even more intriguing was how someone so visibly scared of the world around them had taken on such a task despite their palpable fear. This kid was special. Primo could feel it. Out of their depth, and possibly their mind, but somehow still afloat.
“I try to pop into town every two weeks,” he began. “For my sanity, more than anything else, but also for my job. If you ever need anything—a place to take a break, or someone to speak to—I can be here. Same bench. Same cafe. We can even do the same time, as well. Every first and third Friday of the month. If not, I understand, but I would hate for you to leave without an offer.”
Copia merely nodded, sucking the last traces of icing from their fingers before wadding the paper into a tight ball. They stood, then made their way back to the lamppost to retrieve their bike. He was used to this scenario by now, but Primo still felt himself deflate a little as he watched them leave. Sometimes they’d inquire further, and sometimes they wouldn’t. It was the risk he ran, and he knew it well. Accepting rejection, however, never got any easier, no matter how many times it had previously happened.
“I’m going to be here every week, actually,” Copia replied.
Primo immediately perked back up, cocking his head in their direction. They hadn't turned around—fiddling again with the lump of cargo that had previously overpowered them—but the absence of direct conversational spotlight seemed to have made it possible for them to open up about their situation.
“This is stuff for my church,” they explained, pointing to the basket. “For some reason, they have to order it special, and it also has to be kept secret. I’m not allowed to ask what it is, and I can only be gone for a few hours at a time, but.. it would be nice to see you again.”
They straddled the seat, awkwardly kicking the stand off the ground as their legs fumbled for the pedals. From over their shoulder, and still without breaking eye contact with the path in front of them, Primo could hear them mumble, “If you’re here, I will be too.”
With that, they shoved off and headed down the road. Primo followed them with his eyes until they were nothing more than a blurry spec on the horizon. He smiled to himself, inhaling the scents of freshly kicked-up dirt and damp cobblestone. Despite the initial aimlessness of his journey, somehow he’d managed to end up exactly where he was supposed to be.