Chapter Text
A relentless pounding jars you awake, an angry, echoing knock that rattles through the quiet calm of your dim room like a war drum. You startle upright, only now realizing you’d been wrapped snug in the arms of a very unconscious Swiss, his breath still slow and even against your shoulder. You roll out from under his arm with a low groan, narrowly avoiding a tangle of limbs and tangled sheets.
“Sleep through the apocalypse, why don’t you,” you mutter to him under your breath, dragging your legs toward the door as the knocking resumes-impatient this time, like whoever’s behind it is counting seconds.
Keys jangle as you fumble with the lock, and the door creaks open to reveal,
“Cardinal?” you ask, blinking against the bright hallway light.
There he stands, in casual regalia, no mitre, thumbs twiddling in front of him, the dark smudges beneath his eyes even heavier than usual. He offers you a sheepish, awkward smile that immediately sets you on edge.
“Panatan! Good morning,” he says brightly, in a tone that never bodes well, “I come bearing, unfortunate news.”
You lean on the doorframe, still bleary-eyed, suspicious.
“Unfortunately,” he continues, already pulling out a wrinkled scroll of parchment like it might soften the blow, “we are terribly short on hands due to the truly tragic passing of Sister Imperator-you remember her of course. Yes, well, the administrative pile-up has been... nightmarish.”
You stare, expression blank. “...Okay?”
He claps his hands once, far too enthusiastically. “Which means we need someone to fill in a short sermonette during tonight’s Black Mass!”
Silence. You blink. “You mean... me?”
“Yes! You’ve got presence, charm, a compelling aura of eldritch mystery—also, quite frankly, everyone else is either busy or hiding.” He leans in, stage-whispering, “Rain tried to crawl out the window when I asked.”
You squint. “But—I’m not a speaker, I’ve never written a sermon, I don't even-”
“Nonsense! Say something dramatic, vague, a bit unnerving-throw in something mysterious in Latin and boom, you’ve got half the room in tears. You’re perfect.”
You look over your shoulder where Swiss is still starfished in the bed, one arm flopped dramatically across the pillow you left behind. Still very much unconscious. You sigh, dragging a hand through your hair.
"And there's seriously no one else? At all?" you ask, palm coming to rub your sleep-crusted eye.
"Nope!"
"I don't have a choice in this, do I."
"Nope!"
He claps his hands together, a certain malice behind his theatrics. "See you then!"
And he's gone.
You shut the door slowly behind him, pressing your forehead to the wood and whispering, “This is a bad idea.”
“Mmhm,” comes Swiss’s sleepy voice from behind you. “Tell him you’re possessed. Works every time for me.”
You spin to find him barely awake, one eye open, head half-buried in the pillow. You scowl at him. “You were awake?”
“Might’ve been,” he says smugly. “Should I warm up the pews for your standing ovation later?”
You groan. “I’m gonna hurl.”
“Into the mic, at least,” he murmurs, already drifting back toward unconsciousness. “Give the crowd a show.”
You grab the nearest pillow and launch it at him, hitting nothing but air and laughter.
"What am I even meant to say! This is such a short timeframe-prepare my gravestone." You groan, plopping down into a chair.
He turns over in your bed to face you, sighing and scratching his head. "Do what Copia suggested: something cool in Latin half the audience probably won't understand. Quidquid Latine dictum sit, altum videtur, as they say."
You scoff, rubbing at your temple with the heel of your palm. “Right. Just throw a dead language at the wall and pray it sticks.”
Swiss shrugs from his sprawl, the covers pooling low around his hips as he stretches, slow and catlike. “Worked for me when I forgot my vows that one Mass. Quoted the Gregorian synth-wave backwards and got a standing ovation. Pretty sure someone cried.”
You stare at him, slack-jawed. “You’re joking.”
He grins, "Praise the cursed album."
“You’ve got this,” he says, sitting up a little more now, resting his chin in his palm. “Talk about life and death, sin and salvation-stuff that sounds ominous but means nothing. They eat that up.”
“Do I look like I read from the Book of Revelations for fun?” you mutter, already mentally spiralling.
“Yes,” he deadpans. “You absolutely do.”
You pick up a cushion and hurl it at him, which he catches with insultingly little effort.
“Okay,” you groan, collapsing deeper into the chair. “Fine. Death, something in Latin. Maybe a vague threat about the consequences of temptation. Sprinkle in some doom. Yeah. Sure. Let me just channel my inner cryptkeeper and become the next antichrist overnight. That'll get em'.”
Swiss chuckles, leaning back against the headboard. “You know, a little flair wouldn’t hurt. Dramatic pauses, a brooding expression. Really work the room.”
You mimic his tone, rolling your eyes. “What am I, a Shakespearean actor? They’ll just think I’m having a stroke.”
“Exactly! That’s the mystery! They’ll be on the edge of their seats, wondering if you’ll pull through or if they should call for a priest.” He winks, clearly enjoying this way too much.
You let out a resigned sigh, running your hands through your hair. “Great. So now I’m not just giving a eulogy; I’m putting on a one-man show about my impending death via stroke.”
“Hey, at least you’ll be memorable,” he says with a smirk. “You can even throw in a few Latin phrases for authenticity. ‘Tempus fugit,’ or something dramatic like that.”
“Thanks, Shakespeare,” you retort, crossing your arms. “I’ll just throw in a ‘carpe diem’ while I’m at it. ‘Seize the day’-except it’s too late for that.”
“See? You’re already getting there.” He winks again, his confidence infectious.
You pause, contemplating his words. “Maybe I could take a page out of Copia’s book. Just embrace the chaos, right?”
“Exactly! Own it. You’re the star of this show. Just think of it as your grand, theatrical exit.” He leans forward, excitement in his eyes. “And if it goes horribly wrong? You can always say it was part of the act!”
You can’t help but laugh, the tension easing slightly as you consider the absurdity of it all. “Alright, fine. I’ll give the audience a show they won’t forget. Just promise me you’ll help me practice my ominous voice later.”
“Deal,” Swiss says, grinning widely. “Just remember: the more over-the-top, the better!”
Your fingers tap frantically over your table, littered with crumpled scripts that didn't quite hit the mark. The sun had long set by now, and soon would mark the hour of Mass. Safe to say your anxieties were tugging at your throat, a pounding in your skull begging for you to run away from this responsibility.
You crumple another sheet of paper and toss it into the pile, putting you head in your hands with annoyance.
Oh-fuck it.
You walk over to a cabinet, grabbing a hidden bottle of straight vodka from amidst the random assortment of items you've accumulated over the years. Ignoring the nagging angel on your shoulder you unscrew the cap with a quiet click, the scent of ethanol curling sharp into your nostrils before you tip the bottle back, downing the burning liquid with no respect for the burning sensation at the back of your throat.
It burns-fuck, it burns-but it’s clean. Real. You hiss through your teeth as it settles like fire in your belly, then slam the bottle down onto the desk with a hollow thud.
“Holy water,” you mutter bitterly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.
The room buzzes faintly with tension. Your scripts stare up at you like discarded ghosts-shadows of what could’ve been. None of them feel right. Too stiff. Too shallow. Too... safe.
You'll just wing it.
But now the hour is nearly upon you. You can hear the distant chime of the chapel bell as it calls the flock to gather, echoing off stone and bone.
Your pulse skips. Time's up.
You stand slowly, cracking your neck as you reach for your robe-black velvet with subtle mauve embroidery curling up the sleeves. A little dramatic, sure. But you’re performing, aren’t you? Performing truth-whatever that means tonight. You grab another flask of vodka as you begin to walk out, taking another quick swig before stashing it in your pocket.
Shivering as the tingle in your throat spreads warmth slowly through your chest, you turn the doorknob and set out into the busy corridors, siblings walking hastily to the main chapel.
The corridor hums with quiet urgency, candlelight flickering against the walls, casting tall, wavering shadows of robed figures moving like ghosts through the abbey’s stone veins. The air smells of incense and polished wood, the lingering traces of burnt offerings curling sweetly into your nose. You clutch the edges of your robe tighter, not entirely from the chill.
You're not late, but you’re not early either.
As you walk, a few siblings nod your way-some with encouragement, others with weary expectation. One even pats your shoulder in passing, murmuring a soft “Goodluck.” You can’t tell if it’s meant for you or for the congregation you’re about to address.
You reach the threshold of the grand chapel.
Beyond the towering double doors, you can hear the soft, eerie chanting of the choir rehearsing a final refrain. Your name is somewhere on the schedule, scribbled into the parchment program with more hope than foresight. You weren’t meant to be a voice of the night—but here you are, vodka-laced breath and all.
“Panatan!”
Copia’s voice greets you as he steps from the shadows near the archway, robes pristine, expression full of anticipated joy.
“You are alright?” he asks, gentler than you expect. “The room is nearly full. They await.”
You nod, eyes drooping slightly as your chest flutters. “I'm not sure what’s going to come out of my mouth.”
He smiles faintly. “Good. That’s usually when the real things come out.”
You fiddle with your hands unconsciously, though the anxiousness is beginning to be masked over the growing effects of the liquid courage you had drank.
"Well, I shall start, you will follow up after and then the music will commence, alright?" he glosses over, eyes flickering to the filling pews and growing chatter behind you.
You nod, giving a smirk and a thumbs up to his order. Very unlike you, but oh well. In the moment, you don't entirely register why, but a quiet hush swells over the room. Even the candles seem to pause their flickering as The Cardinal walks up to the altar, hands resting on its side like a general preaching to his army.
He stands like a phantom conjured from the incense and candlelight-his red cassock catching every flicker of flame, glinting like embers beneath the chapel’s vaulted ceiling. His gloved hands rest gently on the altar, commanding stillness with nothing but posture. The congregation leans forward in silence, every eye masked but unblinking.
You’re barely aware of the way your fingertips fidget with your sleeve, or how your legs feel lighter than usual from the vodka, like you might float off the pulpit if you don’t hold onto something. But you breathe.
He speaks steady greetings and wishes of spring and recent events, all boiling down to simple noise in your head as you lose yourself between the sounds.
But soon the noise stills, and you see him beckon you to the front.
You step forward.
The silence before your voice feels like standing at the edge of a cliff.
Then you speak-stronger than you thought you could:
"Noli Timere Messorem, or, 'don't fear the reaper.'"
Uhmm-where were you going with this? Right-death. Something spooky.
"Death: perhaps the most significant change of all, a shift from all that we understand to all that we do not." You take a breath, feeling the multitude of gazes from the pews upon you. You're truly relieved to have something in your system at this moment.
"With winter now behind us, we find ourselves facing the most substantial transformations of the year. If you glance outside, you'll witness this change unfolding right in front of you-the emergence of life from the lingering chill, gradually evolving into summer's warmth. Change doesn't need to evoke fear; it can simply be about accepting the natural fear of stepping back, embracing the ability to witness the beauty of whatever it is that is beyond your control."
You take another moment of reflection, uncertain of the ultimate direction of the words randomly forming with every second. "It’s natural to feel fear, to want to dream, but that doesn’t mean that reality is mean; we will all eventually meet the reaper, and transformation is inevitable. So, fuck it-swing on the spiral of whatever is bound to bewilder you. You may just go where no ones been."
A single drum beat punctuates your final line.
Copia steps back, allowing the atmosphere to bloom around your words, and then, almost imperceptibly, he nods to the ghouls.
The music starts-not loud at first, but dark, dripping with smoke and echo. A bassline curls like incense around your spine, and you still feel the eyes upon you as you walk away.
The starting notes of Witch Image play behind you as you slink into the shadowed side-lines, heaving a deep breath of relief as your eyes drift up on the rafters as you consider the likelihood of falling to your death if you apparate up to them for a better view.
You could get up there. You have before. It’s just a matter of angle, of confidence, of not second-guessing the blink between here and there.
The bass growls deeper. The melody dips into something tender, mournful.
"I have always kept you closer than you've known ..."
Your hands twitch at your sides.
Do you go?
Yeah fuck it.
You step back into a coiling mist, body seemingly disappearing before emerging higher up, back onto one of the thicker rafter, back resting on a vertical beam in the middle of the hall. Bringing the flask up to your lips, you take another swig before your eyes drift lazily down to The Cardinal, and the ghouls-all playing their selective instruments without missing a single note.
Your eyes drift to Swiss, hands clinging to the microphone in front of him as he harmonises with Copia, the rasp of his voice vibrating through you, the warmth from the alcohol burning hotter by the second. He’s radiant under the chapel lights-cut from shadow and fire, sweat gleaming like holy oil down the bridge of his nose. His eyes shine bright in the dark, burning like fire in the night sky. The way his mouth moves with each note, how his fingers curl around the mic like he might crush it from the force of his conviction-it’s all a little too much.
Or maybe it’s not enough.
The harmony he weaves with Copia is seamless, like they were born sharing a voice. You can’t help the little smirk that tugs at your lips, resting your chin in your palm as your legs dangle lazily off the beam. Below you, no one dares look up-they wouldn’t expect you there anyway. You’re a ghost in the ribs of this church now. A raven perched in the spine of something divine.
The longer the music goes, the more important you feel. You take another slow sip, the burn now familiar. Comforting, even.
Swiss’s eyes flicker upward. His mouth quirks for half a second. Just a twitch of amusement. Of knowing.
The song swells, and you swear the rafters vibrate with it-his voice riding the wave like he owns it. You know he sees you now. Your eyes lock in a stare. He doesn’t break focus, doesn’t falter, but you feel the tether between you tense, tightening like a string pulled taut.
You're not part of the audience, not part of the performance. You're something in between. Watching. Desiring. Lusting.
The final chords rise and wash over you like an ocean's current, and soon a loud applause fills the air, though you let it wash over you, choosing to focus your attention on the ghoul gazing at you. You can't even blame him for looking so smug, you have to admit he's good. Really fucking good. You lift up your flask, raising it subtly in a mock toast and he raises an eyebrow in return, tilting his head with that same cocky confidence he always wears like a second skin.
You roll your eyes. From your perch in the rafters, you watch as the other ghouls begin filing out, Copia trailing behind with a satisfied little bounce to his step, and yet Swiss lingers. Just a moment longer. Waiting.
You sigh, slipping the flask back into your coat pocket and preparing to phase back down. The applause is already fading, replaced by the soft murmur of chatter and footsteps-congregants dispersing, siblings trailing into the hallways beyond.
Before you vanish, you shoot him a look. One last glance that says: Don’t get too full of yourself.
He winks. Just once.
Cocky bastard.
But you’re already smiling when you drop from the beam-light as a whisper-and slip through the shadows to meet him.
"Boo-" you whisper in his ear, perching on the tip of your foot as a mist coils at your feet.
He twirls around, eyes widened at your attempt at a spooky revenge. You smile wickedly, arms behind your back like a child hiding something. He flinches, a hand shooting to his chest as if to steady his suddenly betrayed heart. "You- What the hell was that?"
You tilt your head, still grinning far too innocently. "What? I thought we were playing the 'scare the shit out of each other in the dark' game, I was just catching up."
Swiss narrows his eyes, but you can see the smile twitching at the edge of his mouth. “You think you're slick, huh?”
You shrug, the mist at your feet still curling with a quiet elegance as you rock back on your heels. “Slicker than you, apparently.”
He lets out an exaggerated breath, eyes rolling skyward. "Nice sermon."
You scoff, pulling your hands out from behind your back to reveal the flask, "Thank this."
He gasps, putting a hand on his chest as if you had murdered someone in front of him, "How naughty. Don't mind if I do-" he says, taking it out of your hands before guzzling it like a man in a desert.
You giggle, watching the disgust spread in his face as the last drops drip out onto his tongue. Kinda hot. He hands you back the flask, your fingers brushing as you take it off his hands.
"Nice singing."
His expression softens just slightly, the corners of his mouth tugging into a self-satisfied smirk as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Yeah? You like that?" he asks, voice dipped in a cocky lilt, head tilting just enough to tease without trying too hard.
Yeah-fuck yeah you do.
You roll your eyes, but the smile pulling at your lips betrays you. “It's tolerable.”
He shifts his weight, suddenly less smirking ghoul and more... real. “Thanks. Means a lot coming from you.”
You snort. “Why? I’m half-drunk and hiding in the rafters like a gremlin.”
He chuckles, stepping closer, the soft scent of cologne and sweat and faint ozone still clinging to his stage-warmed skin. “Exactly. That’s peak compliment mode.”
You feel your breath hitch-maybe from the sudden proximity, maybe from the way his voice dips just a little lower, smoothing over your nerves like velvet.
He leans in, one hand braced on the rafter beside you, tilting his head. “So... are you gonna say something equally nice about my looks, or is this a one-compliment night?”
You raise an eyebrow. “You want compliments now?”
“I think I earned at least one.” He smirks. “Braved your spooky-ass mist, carried you up stairs, didn’t drop you once. Sang my damned soul out.”
You pretend to think. “Hmm. Alright. You don’t look terrible under stage lights.”
He puts a hand to his heart, faux-offended. “Wow. Stop. I’m blushing.”
You roll your eyes, but your grin’s too wide to hide. And his? It’s still smug. But there’s something gentler behind it. Something sincere.
You turn on your heels, waving to Swiss with a grin plastered on your face that you can't imagine coming off any time soon. The ground whirls beneath your feet as you pretend as if you're walking in a straight line, hoping the night doesn't die as you walk away.
You can feel his gaze trailing after you, warm and weighty like the last sliver of sun before it slips below the horizon. You don’t dare look back—not because you don’t want to, but because you know if you do, you’ll stop walking entirely.
Instead, you throw a hand up over your shoulder in a lazy, exaggerated wave. “Don’t get all lovesick while I’m gone!”
“Too late,” he calls back, voice echoing faintly off the stone.
Your smile stretches so wide it nearly aches. Your boots tap gently against the chapel’s marble floor, each step feeling softer than the last. The alcohol hums low in your bloodstream, but it’s not what has your head spinning-it’s the heat under your skin, the skip in your pulse that hasn’t settled since the lights dimmed.
A few siblings you pass offer nods and sleepy smiles, but you barely notice. You reach your door with the faintest sway in your balance and lean against it for a moment, grounding yourself in the quiet.
It’s not just the vodka. It’s him.
You turn the handle and slip inside, the cool dark of your room wrapping around you like a sigh. You exhale slowly and flop onto the chair, arm flung dramatically over your eyes.
But even with your eyes shut, the imprint of Swiss-his voice, his smirk, his voice. His stupid voice. It clings to your mind like smoke, without the desire to rid it.
A foreign warmth creeps in between your thighs, the concentrated warmth of the alcohol sending a throbbing pulse that begged for friction.
You probably aren’t drunk enough.
Taking another swig of the vile liquid, you lift your head up and grimace as it burns the lining of your throat, before another spread of warmth bloomed into your body like a restoked fire; similar to the warmth Swiss emits whenever he’s near.
Which he isn’t.
Which he could be.
You groan, putting all of your weight on the table in front of you as you rise out of your chair, not a particularly comfortable one compared to the ones in the ghouls basement. You don’t think there’s anywhere you’d rather be than down there in the shared warmth and laughter, next to your ghoul.