Work Text:
You were hunched over your desk in the library, pen in hand, your eyes staring down at what felt like the 20th book today. You were studying for finals, determined to finish the semester strong despite how awful you felt. Burn out was very real, especially with the terrors of the world looming over your every thought.
The idea of failing only made you more anxious. The line of ‘what if what if what if?’ never seemed to end, constantly on repeat as you tried to focus on your books.
You felt exhausted, rubbing at your eyes, your phone and some snacks abandoned on one end of the table, a stack of books on the other. The lamp light felt too bright, your cords getting tangled with your other supplies. It all felt like too much. It was too much, each small little thing building up and towering over you, taunting you for what felt like inevitable failure.
You looked up at the clock, the time reading 2:34am. You had sat down long before sunset, watching the sun sink below the horizon, promising yourself to only work for a few more hours. The cycle of productivity you had embedded inside your brain never ended, even when you knew it was slowly killing you.
You groaned as your head began aching, the dull thump thump thump fighting against your work flow. Just one more thing, just one more chapter, just one more review—all lies. You knew you were working yourself into a hole, feeling like what you did was never good enough. What were you worth if you didn’t pull off a good grade on this final exam? You would look like a moron.
The self-hatred only fueled your frustration as you lost focus, the words getting lost before you process them. You threw your pen against the table top, the plastic barrel bouncing off the table and landing a few feet away.
“I’ll get that later,” you grumbled, pulling out a new pen to continue revising and note taking, another hour ticking by. An hour that felt wasted, your efforts doubling and yet you felt as if you hadn’t done enough. It was torture. There wasn’t an end in sight, even as fought the urge to sob or sleep or do anything else.
Another 15 minutes passed down, your head falling onto the desk with a thud.
“What’re you doing here at this hour, bambino?”
Papa’s voice made you jump, your eyes wide as you processed his presence. He was dressed in sweats, looking comfortable despite the frown marring his face.
“Working,” you muttered, rubbing at your face. If he did so much as prod you knew you’d mentally collapse. You didn’t want to deal with the humiliation of breaking down in front of a man like Papa, someone who dealt with more stressful situations day after day.
“Working? At this hour? It’s almost four in the morning,” he murmured, taking a seat next to you, looking over the books and papers scattered over the desk top.
“Final exams. I don’t want to fail. If I don’t study, I know I’ll bomb them,” you explained, the words slurring together from exhaustion and withheld emotion.
“Nah,” he shot back, “you’ll be fine. You’ll make yourself sick if you overwork yourself like this. You need rest, yes? You can return to your books again tomorrow.”
You shook your head, tears pricking at your eyes, your teeth sinking into your bottom lip, “no. I need to finish this. If I don’t finish this, I’ll never keep up. If I don’t keep up, I’ll fail. I’m too stupid to pass unless I do more.”
Your voice cracked, eyes burning with the urge to cry. You stared at your books, knowing you’d lose it completely if you looked at Papa’s face.
Copia clicked his tongue, making some sympathetic hum. “Child, you aren’t stupid. You are rather bright—incredibly bright, in fact. You are going to be fine, I promise,” Copia rebuked softly, his voice full of warmth.
You just shook your head, trembling as you tried to find something to say. “Can’t quit yet,” you mumbled, frustration eating you up.
A gloved hand gripped your chin, turning your head and forcing you to look at the man next to you. You tried so hard, you really did, but the soft look in his eyes broke you wide open. You felt a warm tear fall down your cheek, many more following it, short, stuttered breaths leaving you as you began to cry.
“Oh dear, it’s alright,” Copia whispered, pulling you into him and onto his lap, his hand guiding your face to rest in the crook of his neck as you cried, “shhhh. It’s alright. Just let it out, little one. You’re going to be okay, just cry it out.”
You did, a ragged sob ripping itself from your chest, your trembling fingers digging into the soft material of his sweatshirt. A wet patch was forming from the ferocity of your tears; they never seemed to end, even as you began hiccuping from crying so hard for so long.
Copia just kept you in his lap, a hand rubbing up and down your back, the gentle words never stopping as he tried to calm you down.
“I t-try so ha-hard,” you cried, hiccuping through the words.
“I know you do, little one. I know. You work so hard. You work hard and do so much,” he said softly, hugging you tightly to him, “you’re trying so hard and you’re doing so well. I’m proud of you, dear child.”
“Why?” you asked, the word coming out harshly, “I’m not d-doing enough. I can w-work so much h-harder. So s-stupid.”
“None of that now,” Papa admonished quietly, pulling you back so he could get a proper look at you, his hands cupping your face, “you are brilliant. You are a hard worker, a brilliant thinker. You are worthy of the praise you receive for all the work you do, even if you don’t think so. You are not stupid.”
You closed your eyes, feeling helpless. Papa wiped at your eyes with his thumbs, wiping the stray tears away as you began to calm down, unable to cry any more.
“You can come back to this again later. You will burn out if you don’t sleep or eat. Your health and wellbeing is more important than some test, piccolo.”
You shrugged, leaning back into him and hiding your face in his neck like a small child. By all accounts you were much too old to react in such a way, but you were too tired to feel embarrassed about it. Copia didn’t seem to care, either.
“Now, let’s go to bed. Some sleep will do you good. I can tell you’re tired, child. You should have been asleep hours ago,” he chided, lifting you as he stood.
You allowed him to carry you off to your bedroom, face hidden the entire time, your fingers clutching at him as though he might evaporate like morning dew does during hot summer days.
“Alrighty,” he whispered, laying you down in bed, “let’s get ready to sleep, eh? My clever little one needs their beauty sleep.”
Papa went about getting you comfortable, tucking you beneath your sheets after you took a few minutes to change clothes and brush your teeth. He now sat on the edge of your bed, brushing his fingers through your hair as you fought sleep.
“Thank you for helping me, papa,” you murmured sleepily, eyes fluttering shut.
There was a smile in his voice, “you’re very welcome, bambino. Now get some sleep.”
You were fast asleep before he even reached your bedroom door, a small smile on his face as you slept.