A mini-comic on Copia's (ongoing) dilemma of whether or not to shave the 'stache. Terzo is being a...somewhat helpful sibling.
Bonus ficlet with more context on this under the cut. In short: Primo and Secondo are absolute grumps, Terzo is a menace, and Copia is doing his best 🐀
1.2k words | T | Dialogue heavy, crude language, sibling-typical assholery (feat. Secondo's waning patience and Big Brother Terzo)
[You may be wondering how we've ended up in this situation...]
Or, at least, Secondo Emeritus had been wondering the same, glowering at his reflection in his suite's bathroom door.
"Lucifer's taint—the rat has been in there for twenty minutes."
"The what?" grubbles his hawkish elder brother from the window, half-marked with his skull paints.
Secondo ignores him; swings out his fist, instead, battering three knocks on the varnish. "We are due for the induction ceremony in fifteen, goddammit—Copia!"
A dismal sound echoes through the door.
"By the Saints' tits—"
"Ah, leave him be, Brother," Primo sighs, smearing a dash of black down his cheek. "He is putting on his finishing touches, eh?"
"Finishing touches. Finishing—" Secondo smacks out his palm, snarling like a disgruntled bear. "He has hogged the unblessed thing from the moment he entered the room. You would think the squirrel is making a winter's nest in there—"
"Then use another bathroom, yes?"
"It is mine! Fuck's sake—why are any of you in here—?"
And around the corner is dancing a torrent of black hair, face bared of makeup, rings clattering off the wall. "Out of the way, if you please—"
Secondo narrowly misses clocking his younger brother on the jaw, wrenching his arm out of his path. He snuffs when the current head of their church's suave ends up in a flattened grunt against the door, finding the handle similarly immobile.
"Feh—and now you wait your turn, Papa," Secondo snipes, notching his arms across his chest. "The little mouse has chosen an opportune moment to 'scape his every wrinkle, apparently."
Copia's voice barks miserably from the door: "I am not—"
"What is he doing?" Terzo hisses, palming back his hair.
Secondo huffs. "I've told you! Wasting my goddamned time—" His eyes stutter, cut down his brother's simply dressed form. For a pause, he chews on his words. Anger smokes off him like a pyre. "You are not ready."
Terzo swats his hand, trying fruitlessly again at the handle.
"You are not painted," Secondo growls on.
"Brother—hush yourself, eh? This is a matter of urgency—"
"You are due to be present, before any of us. Sister will have your ass—"
"Tut-tut—my chasuble—"
"Is where?"
"—Satan in hell—in the room, with the darling fool." He dances his painted nails sharply across the wood, graveling blandly to Copia: "You will have me in front of the clergy in my skin, little rat. You mean to do your Papa so horrendously, eh?"
From the window, Primo rolls his eyes, giving little reaction to the short-fused glare Secondo shoots at him.
"Just—just a minute," peeps Copia.
"A minute," Secondo gripes. "Twenty more, you mean?"
By the time Terzo has taken to kicking up one foot by the handle, bracing for a break-in, Copia has nervously creaked open the door. Their Papa nearly smashes his teeth on the counter.
"Ah!" Copia bumbles, red to his ears. "Sorry! Sorry—heh—it has been, eh—" He slams the door shut, avoiding Secondo's bouldering stare. "Agh, dammit—"
With some forced attempt at grace, Terzo slumps onto his elbows, fixing him with a dry leer. "Not only you leave me undressed, but you nearly ruin my smile?" He drags a thumb over his chin, with a scowl. "Forget Sister, little Coppie—if you so much as give me a need for veneers, I will have your hide, eh?"
Copia, slouched in his T-shirt and sweats, pouts miserably. "I—I—"
Terzo sighs, flicking his wrist dismissively. "What is it? You have the little pincher yapping a storm, out there—"
"Is it that bad?"
"...What?"
Copia runs his thumb and forefinger over his mustache, turning back to the mirror. "Someone, eh...well." His voice drops to a weary mutter. "They—they compared it to a combover, this morning."
Terzo's teeth flash: half-disbelieving sneer, half-barely contained smirk. "To what?" he chuckles lowly.
His brother sniffs. "This is not a laughing matter—"
"Oh, it is more than a laughing matter." Terzo narrows his eyes, biting his lip. "Combover," he repeats, and clicks his tongue. "Heh—should have compared it to a string of dog-hairs, no—?"
"Brother."
"No, no—a clump of herb-roots, perhaps."
Copia's eyes flash in dismay. "Brother—"
Terzo flicks his fingers. "I jest, little thing, I jest. If you are so concerned about it—"
"I'm not—"
"Twenty minutes, you've been ruminating over this?"
Copia folds his arms, glaring back at his reflection. "What should I do with it?" he mumbles then, looking like a slump of a twig ready to snap. He thumbs over his facial hair, again. "A little, eh...styling gel?"
Secondo's fist batters idly across the door, again. "Ten minutes," he warns. "If you two aren't dressed in five, you'll be dragged out by the hair." He pauses, then directs to Terzo: "And get my paints—"
"Yes, yes," Terzo snarks over his slumped shoulder. "We are having an intervention, your demoted Unholiness—shh. Now," he sighs, turning back to Copia, "who said this to you? Only we get to insult your integrity, you know. I will have the ghouls take care of the bastard, Coppie—you need only give the name—"
"No no no—it is all good, eh, all...all—"
Terzo pauses, furrows his brows. "...A sister?"
Copia welds his fingers over his mouth, giving a wretched frown.
"Oh, shit," Terzo hoots, and grins fully. "Nevermind, Brother. You are doomed. Shave it, this instant—"
"It—it doesn't bother me—"
"So you say, yet all I hear for ages is what to do, what to do, bleh—come off it." He fans his hand against the sink, in plain emphasis. "It is your face, no? Do with it as you please."
"But should I?" Copia whimpers.
Terzo pinches his fingers into his eyes.
"I, er—I just—"
"Just shave it."
In awkward silence, Copia brushes another touch over his mustache, tilting his head. "But—but it looks rather, eh, dashing, right?" he says quietly, in some quick attempt to reassure himself.
"Feh. To who?" Terzo snarks. "The mousettes in your little shoebox?"
Copia sends a fierce glare down his shoulder. Insulting his rats (as Terzo knew well) was often his final straw. "Brother."
Their Papa sighs: mock-offended. "So you ask my advice just to throw it back in my face, eh?"
"Tha—that isn't—"
"Typical."
"Listen here—!"
"No no no," Terzo grubbles, and sends a choice finger skyward. "I see how it is..."
"Lucifer."
Secondo's heavy footsteps sweep back by the door, joined by the hissing silk of his robes. He swings another clap of his fist to the door. "Seven—"
Terzo pops up from his elbows. "Mind my reach, Brother," he says, batting the cabinet doors against Copia's knees, and drags out the gilded layers of his own robes. "The regalia calls."
Copia baffles at the disorganized toiletries beneath the sink. "Why is it under there—?"
Terzo flashes a wink, grinning crookedly, and smacks a hand on his thigh. "Story for another night, little fool. Now hurry your ass up—Secondo will chop us in pieces."
Case in point, he bangs open the door, his brother's sets of paints brandished in hand, to Secondo's towering leer.
"I'm going, I'm going!" Terzo preens, ducking out of his reach.
Secondo gives up the banter: slops a black cassock over Copia's shoulder, instead, and growls, "Get out."
From the corner, Primo heaves out a dreary breath, finishing his paints with a neat click of lipstick. "The best time of the year," he comments, dryly.
Minutes later find the four straggling into the great hall, lead by Terzo's fawning swagger and mitre-capped bowings. Barely on time, to Secondo's stiff-lipped chagrin—but, thankfully, not late.
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