#OsirisBC-Ramblings

[osiiiris]

Copia,

Who comes into the bedroom with his pajama pants pulled up over his belly.

Copia,

Who lies down on the bed, exhaling the longest "eeehhhhhh" and once he's settled, sighs a tired "Here we go."

Copia,

Who lies supporting his shoulders on two pillows, pulls the blanket up to his chest, grabs a book or his phone, wears his reading glasses, and starts reading, lowering his head until he forms the cutest double chin.

[osiiiris]

Perfect.

I know, I know, the Cardinal!Terzo x Bishop!Necropolitus Cracoviensis pairing still seems strange to you, but shhh… don’t say anything. Just let me hold your hand and guide you to a room where Bishop Necropolitus Cracoviensis’ hands are moving swiftly as he sketches Cardinal Terzo's form on his paper.

Think about Bishop Necropolitus, who cannot help but admire the cardinal’s body, the way the candlelight, the only source of illumination, plays across his skin, how it highlights the veins in his arms, the sharp lines of his collarbones, then down through his contracted torso to the subtle V just above the red cloth that barely manages to cover his most precious parts. Just enough muscle to suggest strength, but not so much that he appears overly muscular, it expresses vitality even while sitting on a chair, evoking in the Bishop the image of a resting wrestler, a subject he has seen many times in ancient sculptures.

Terzo’s face is turned toward the wall on his right, giving Necropolitus his Roman profile, but he peers at him from the corner of his eye through the black locks of his hair from time to time.

“Maybe we should have had a bit of music…” the Cardinal suggests.

An amused smile almost escapes Necropolitus’ lips as he realizes how unquiet Terzo seems, and how all that immobility and silence must feel like a sweet torture to him.

“Maybe next time, yes,” the Bishop agrees. “Now, please, don’t move your head.”

Satisfied with being the one giving orders today, the Bishop focuses back on the sketch. 

You can understand how he’s entranced by the way Terzo’s muscles tense and relax as he shifts his pose, how his chest rises and falls with each breath. He can feel life coursing through his veins, that unrestrained energy, impatience for action. Terzo is clearly not made to stand still. Also, he’s probably used to being naked in front of people, proud and comfortable as someone who has forgotten the meaning of shame.

A pair of clinking goblets and a joke, a “You could pose for me,” had been all it took to convince Terzo to sit on that chair in his studio. “Yeah, why not. I could pose for you.” 

Not that he needed much persuasion to undress and be admired.

“Is the pose okay?” the Cardinal asks. “Do you want me to-”

“No.” Necropolitus looks up from his work, a split second enough for their eyes to meet. That sounds like an excuse to finally move. “You’re perfect,” he reassures between one stroke of charcoal and the next. His gaze has now fallen on the trail of hair starting from Terzo's navel and disappearing under the cloth on his lap. “Perfect,” he then repeats, this time almost whispering to himself.

Imagine they have been working together for weeks now, preparing for Terzo’s rise as the leader of the satanic church, even though the road is still a long one. But Terzo does not want to sit on that throne unprepared: he is planning a revolution. Under the dim light of candles or golden sun rays in the afternoon, Necropolitus could only focus on Terzo’s moving lips while he explained his plans, those plump lips - often painted black - dancing around his words of renovation dreams, the music he will play, the art he will bring, and how everything will be different when he takes the lead. And Necropolitus believes him -oh, Sathanas, if he does… picturing him sitting on his throne, majestic and powerful, is the image that often accompanies him in his dreams at night where he can only dream of kneeling at his feet... Maybe he should start to draw those visions.

“Is this everything you need, Necropolitus?” Terzo’s voice is smooth, but you can feel a hint of provocation in his tone.

“What do you mean?”

And now you can see Terzo, returning the artist’s lingering gaze, allows a small, knowing smile to play at the corners of his lips: Necropolitus is no exception. There is power in this, being the object of such intense desire, and he thrives in it, feeling the energy around him shift and thicken with every passing moment.

Very naive of Necropolitus to think he was the one in charge the whole time.

“This project is important. I need you to capture all of it. Every detail, every shadow, every… part.” Terzo’s smile becomes sly as he breaks his position. The light dances on his moving body.

The more Necropolitus looks at Terzo, the harder it becomes to keep his thoughts pure. His breath hitches as Terzo’s hand reaches the sheer cloth covering his nudity and, to the Bishop’s surprise, he not only changes position but stands and steps closer until he stands just inches away from him.

“I want you to take everything.”

And in a swift yet graceful movement of his hand, the cloth finally falls to the floor...

[osiiiris]

I’ve been thinking a lot of what’s said about Terzo in The Devil’s Hands documentary… a different Terzo from what we think to know. The tale of an impenetrable man.

Terzo, 

five letters which makes you question everything you have always hated. 

His overflowing brazenness, the first time you talked to him.

His discouraging bitterness, so hard for you to bear, having always loved to laugh. 

His face, scowled as if it has never softened through the joy of a smile.

Once a concept, a fantasy in your mind, now a man who retreats into the shadows, seeking solace in seclusion, finding a quiet refuge in his self-imposed exile.

Maybe I’m not what you expected, I’m sorry for that, he told you once, and you couldn’t find any other way to reply than meeting his lips.

Sometimes you see him sitting still at his desk, enveloped in his own cloak like a bat protecting from the sun, appearing like someone who in life simply awaits. It’s always a risk you are willing to take, to try to part those rigid arms, penetrate that wall and crawl your way through his soul, buried under layer after layer that he fears one day will imprison you too.

You see a man whose days are filled with too much work, for someone who claims to never deny himself the joy of transgression, and his nights are too silent, for someone who claims to thrive in the chaos of a crowded celebration.

You know it is the papal dress code, yet seeing how his face gets buried by brushstrokes of black and white tugs at your heartstrings, as you watch how his pale skin disappears behind the dark fabric he stubbornly covers himself with, on or off the stage, down to the last button of his shirt, down to the tips of his fingers. 

“How are people supposed to love you if they don’t even know you?”

“They don’t have to.”

“Well, I do-“

“You don’t have to.”

You are so used to the feel of leather that when he touches you with bare hands it feels unnatural.

When you’re lucky, he lets you spy through the cracks of that impassable wall only in the half-light of a closed room, when one after another you see his weary features re-emerge from the darkness. The shape of his eyes, his nose that never lets you touch, his lips… the center of your thoughts when he is not with you.

Just as a mirror, you reflect back the beauty and worth that the Papa himself so often fails to see, embracing the light that beckons him forward through you; his skin the same color as yours, he’s nothing more than a man in your arms. In exchange his hands, unnaturally bare, glide softly on your skin, always gentle, never forceful, unless you ask for it, until, with a last breath left in your lungs, you can feel it under your palm, or pressed against your chest, that his heart is unburdened now, his spirit alleviated, finally safe.

And so, as he takes his place once more in the spotlight with newfound courage, he does so not as a recluse, but as a man reborn, his chest full of the force of the Morning Star, ready to share his light with the world.

[osiiiris]

The Grammy night.

Copia shuts the door behind him, searching for the light switch in the darkness of his hotel room. He never really liked Los Angeles—the chaos of the city, the American ceremonies, full of people to greet whose names he doesn't even remember.

He's relieved to be back in the comfort of his own silence, and he can take off the blazer from the big occasions, leaving it on one of the chairs around the table.

Something - someone - is waiting for him.

"Oh, for fuck's sake…" he sighs, rolling his eyes.

"Big night’s already over, little bro?"

A ghost he knows well is sitting on a chair, his feet crossed on the table, arms spread behind the chair back.

Copia knows what the defiant smirk on his face means.

He ignores him, heading to the bedroom.

"Sleeping alone, old rat?"

The ghost is already on his bed, getting comfortable with his back leaning against the headboard.

"Get off my bed." Copia is struggling to keep his patience, searching for something in his suitcase, still open on the floor.

"Looking for something?"

"Please."

"Maybe this?"

And the ghost’s face breaks into a shiny grin as he moves the folds of his chasuble to reveal a little golden gramophone statue.

"Fuck you, Terzo."