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“Is that – hey, you good?” You startle – you thought you were alone in the chapel. A masked face peers out from the vestry. You force yourself to stop pacing, and choke down your tears. You wipe your eyes and nod quickly.
“OK, that was a rhetorical question,” the Ghoul says. “You’re literally crying. And shaking.”
You try to keep yourself still, but the pressure builds in your hands until you give in and let them flap. Your chest aches and heaves with sobs but you stifle them as much as you can.
“Shall I… call anyone? A friend? Papa?”
“Papa…” you manage to repeat, your voice coming out in an embarrassing whimper.
“Gotcha. I’ll be quick.” The Ghoul rushes off, and you sigh with relief, letting your hands flap and shake wildly. You can’t contain your crying; the sound echoes off the stone walls of the chapel. The reasons for the meltdown have long since become irrelevant – all you know is that everything is far too much. The chapel is too hot and your clothes are uncomfortable and you can’t stop crying and your eyes are stinging and your mind is just repeating the same fragments of thought on an incessant loop and –
You hear your name from across the chapel. When you turn, you see Papa Terzo in the doorway, walking towards you, brows furrowed in concern. His eyes flick between your face and your hands – still flapping. He quickly turns to thank the Ghoul, who nods and then takes their leave.
“Caro…” Terzo hurries over to you, stopping half a metre away. He fidgets as if he wants to move closer, but he gives you your space. You run to him, almost flinging yourself into his chest, but he was ready; he catches you in his arms and hugs you tight, hands firmly rubbing your back. “Breathe with me?” he whispers, and you nod. He takes slow deep breaths, and you do your best to copy, but you can’t quite manage – you cough and hiccup through your tears.
“Papa… can’t –”
“OK, it’s OK… shall we sit?” Terzo guides you over to a chair, sits down, and pulls you onto his lap, facing him. You bury your face in his shoulder, unable to do anything except cry. Terzo rubs your back and shoulders, murmuring to you in Italian. You can’t make out the words, but his voice is soothing, and eventually – though whether it’s been five minutes or an hour, you can’t tell – your sobs get quieter.
“Breathe… please?” You manage to whisper. Terzo inhales deeply and you copy him more easily this time. He holds for a couple of seconds, then exhales, and you shakily do the same. Slowly your body relaxes, and you’re able to breathe on your own, with just a few lingering sobs and stinging, bleary eyes.
“Are you up for moving, tesoro?” Terzo asks. “I think you’ll be more comfortable in my room.” You nod against him. Slowly you extricate yourself from him, and stand up.
“Oh god… your shirt…” you mumble. “’m sorry, didn’t mean to get it wet.”
“I can wash it,” he replies, standing up and taking your hand. “I’d rather you cry on me than on your own, si?”
You leave the chapel, still sniffling, thankful that it’s late enough that very few Siblings or Ghouls are around – the few you do pass are too wrapped up in their conversations to notice you. When you reach Terzo’s bedroom, he ushers you inside and locks the door. He knows what you need after a meltdown, and you thank Lucifer that you don’t have to answer any difficult questions. He opens the bathroom door, and stands close by while you wash your face with his cleanser, focusing as much attention as you can on the scent of sandalwood. He hands you a towel to dry your face, then digs in his drawers for the spare set of pyjamas you keep in his room.
“Do you want to shower first? Or straight into these?”
“Um… shower.” Now that you’re not crying, you can feel that you’ve been sweating. Terzo turns on the shower, waits for the water to heat up, then dramatically covers his eyes while you strip and step in. You start to wash, but the exhaustion is starting to hit – your legs feel like jelly, so you sit down. You cover your face with your hands, letting the water batter your head, breathing deeply. You hear the shower door open, and feel Terzo’s hands in your hair, gently massaging his shampoo into your scalp. The scent is familiar and comforting. He keeps going for longer than strictly necessary, until you uncover your face and start to rinse it out. You brush your teeth still sat on the floor of the shower, Terzo standing nearby and humming a slightly jaunty tune.
Once you’re out of the shower and changed into pyjamas, you sit on his bed at the headboard, looking around his room at the paintings and framed film posters. You let yourself stim freely – rocking back and forth, fingers twisting, feet kicking against the bed. Terzo quickly showers as well, not wanting to leave you alone for too long, and then returns in his own black silk pyjamas. He sits beside you and pulls his duvet over both your legs. You lean against him, and he wraps an arm around you, rubbing gentle circles into your skin. You breathe in the woody scent of his shampoo.
“That was a bad one, si?” he murmurs. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about what, ah, caused it… but we can, whenever you’re ready. Or we never have to. OK?” You nod gratefully.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For – being here. I mean – for looking after me.”
“Caro, you do not need to thank me.” He hugs you tighter. “I’m always here for you, no matter what. I’m so, so glad you let me help you.”