Work Text:
Winter always crept into the Abbey like a polite intruder — first a thin layer of frost edging the windowpanes, then the air going still and sharp, then the ghouls collectively refusing to leave their warm nests unless bribed with food.
By mid-November, Mountain was already making little grumbling noises whenever he had to get up from a sunbeam. Dewdrop hissed at the cold like it personally offended him. Phantom swore he could smell snow coming, which no one believed but was consistently correct about.
And then, one fateful morning, Mist looked out the window, saw a few delicate flakes drifting down, and groaned.
“Here we go.”
Everyone in the dining hall froze.
They all turned, as one, toward the ghoulette.
“Already?” Swiss muttered, rubbing his face. “Really? That’s it? It’s time?”
Mist nodded gravely.
The first snow meant one thing.
Secondo, at another table, lowered his newspaper with a tragic sigh.
Primo closed his eyes like he was preparing to meditate through a storm.
Terzo dropped his head onto the table and groaned.
Because the first snow meant Copia’s switch had been flipped.
Frater loved many things — rats, cheese, papal robes that could also be considered crime scenes of fashion — but Yule? Yule was his season. His Super Bowl. His personal holy week.
Halloween was fun. Walpurgis was lovely.
But Yule?
Yule turned Copia into a glittering nightmare of unbridled festive enthusiasm.
Secondo muttered into his tea, “If he starts with the bloody bell-trimmed boots again, I swear I shall defect.”
Primo patted his hand sympathetically. “You can simply take them away from him.”
“I tried last year. He cried.”
Across the room, Phantom perked up. “He cried because you threw them off the balcony!”
“It was symbolic!”
Terzo folded his arms, sulking. “The symbolism would have worked better if he hadn’t climbed down after them.”
“He risked frostbite,” Primo said with a laugh
“He said they were his ‘special jingle boots,’” Swiss chimed in, grinning.
Everyone groaned.
Because once the boots came out, the knitting started.
The Yule cookies followed — goat-shaped, pentagram-shaped, sometimes rat-shaped when Copia got bored of the cutters and made his own — and then the ghouls would spend the rest of December stuffed to the gills on sugar and quietly high on holiday affection.
The siblings of sin loved it.
The Emeritus brothers tolerated it.
And Perpetua… Perpetua had no idea what was coming.
But to be fair, Perpetua had only been at the Abbey for six months, and he was still getting used to it — the ghouls, the rituals, the weird number of cats, the fact that Terzo apparently slept like a Victorian ghost.
He expected winter to be gloomy, sharp-edged, maybe a little grim.
Instead, Mountain handed him a mug of hot chocolate with a cinnamon stick in it the moment he walked into the rec room.
“I don’t…drink sweet things,” Perpetua said carefully.
“You do now,” Mountain replied, patting his shoulder like this was a decree. “Trust me.”
Swiss nudged him as he passed. “You might want to pace yourself with the sugar, Papa. Copia’s brain goes all… spiced.”
“…spiced?” Perpetua repeated.
“Like. Mulled wine. With feelings.”
That didn’t clarify anything.
He tried asking around — Mist, Dewdrop, even Cirrus — but every time he managed to get the question out, someone else jumped in with a dramatic sigh, a warning, or a story he was fairly certain was exaggerated.
“Last year he knitted twenty-seven scarves,” Rain told him, expression haunted. “Twenty-seven, Perpetua. I counted.”
“That’s not so—”
“In one week.”
“…oh.”
Cirrus leaned in, whisper-conspiring. “He was trying to knit jumper sleeves for the rats but the rats kept moving.”
“Don’t worry,” Aurora said cheerfully, “he only does sweaters for people he likes.”
“Or people he pities,” Swiss added.
“Or people he feels vaguely guilty toward,” Mountain said under his breath.
Perpetua’s stomach twisted. Just a little. Just enough to be annoying.
Copia didn’t like him. That much was clear. He was civil — painfully so — but their twin bond was stretched tight and thin, the threads frayed by resentment neither of them knew how to voice.
So the idea of Copia making him something?
Laughable.
“He hates me,” Perpetua said flatly. “He’s not going to… knit anything for me. It’s fine.”
Swiss gave him a look that said, Oh, you sweet summer child.
“It’s fine,” Perpetua repeated, more defensively.
Meanwhile, elsewhere in the Abbey…
Copia huddled in his office like a man possessed, surrounded by yarn. Balls of it stacked taller than the desk. Patterns pinned everywhere. A battalion of knitting needles stood in a mug like weapons.
He muttered to himself as he worked.
“Silver…because it is cool-toned, yes yes, very flattering. And perhaps… the purple, the nice purple, the one he liked…”
He didn’t think too hard about why he was making this one so carefully. Why he’d memorised every little preference his twin had mentioned. Why he’d stayed up until 3am redoing the neckline because it “didn’t look respectful enough.”
He just knitted. Stitched. Listened to old holiday records.
And tried not to think about the way Perpetua had looked when he arrived — alone, exhausted, trying to blend in. Tried not to think about the ache he still hadn’t forgiven himself for having.
“You’re ridiculous,” Copia told himself. “Stupid. He probably won’t even wear it.”
But he kept knitting anyway.
The first jumper of the season went to Dewdrop, who strutted proudly into breakfast wearing a bright red number that boldly proclaimed:
“HOTTER THAN HELL.”
Everyone applauded. Dewdrop preened.
The second was for Aether — a deep blue sweater with embroidered little stars. When Aether tried it on, the sleeves jangled. Copia had sewn bells into the cuffs.
“Why,” Aether asked, deadpan.
“So I know when you are sneaking around, sì?”
The third was for Mountain. The poor thing tried to hide it, but it was impossible to hide a jumper that was basically a wearable blanket.
More appeared every day. Socks for the siblings of sin. Hats for the clergy. A scarf for Nihil’s statue that no one removed because honestly? It looked fantastic.
Perpetua observed all of this with increasing dread and increasing certainty.
“There’s no way he’s making me anything,” he insisted. “Copia barely speaks to me.”
Terzo snorted. “He doesn’t speak to us either but we still get sweaters.”
“…but he hates me.”
“Darling,” Terzo said, patting his cheek. “That is exactly why you should be worried.”
Perpetua glared.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Secondo muttered, joining them. “Copia doesn’t hate you.”
Terzo hummed. “He resents him.”
“Yes, well, that is different.”
Perpetua stares down at his hands. He wasn’t expecting a sweater. Would it be nice? Yes. Of course it would. But he wasn’t holding his breath.
And then it happens.
After Mass, the air crisp with incense and cold, Perpetua returned to his room.
And there, sitting neatly on his bed — on a folded black blanket — was a box.
Black. Tied with a silver ribbon. No note.
He knew. Instantly.
His breath caught. His hands actually trembled.
“No,” he whispered. “He didn’t— he wouldn’t—”
But he opened it.
And there it was.
The light purple jumper. Silver accents. Royal purple cuffs. Rows of tiny bats flying in a perfect loop around the hem, a few hanging from the neckline.
Everything he’d ever mentioned, intentionally or not. Everything Copia shouldn’t have remembered.
Everything Perpetua secretly hoped someone might notice.
His vision blurred, just slightly.
“Oh, Copia…”
For the first time since arriving, Perpetua sat down on his bed and let himself feel something other than tension.
Warmth. Quiet. Soft, aching affection.
Copia didn’t like him?
No. Maybe Copia just didn’t know how to forgive himself yet.
And this… this was a first step.
Perpetua did try to walk to breakfast like a normal person.
He definitely tried.
But it was hard to look casual when he’d spent the entire night wearing the jumper like a lifeline — stretched out on his bed, then pacing, then sitting by the window with it pulled up to his nose just to breathe in the warm, faintly spiced scent of Copia’s office.
He practically glowed walking into the dining hall.
And, of course, every ghoul noticed instantly.
Swiss was the first to spot him, and he damn near choked on his toast before shouting loud enough to shake the rafters:
“SEE! He doesn’t hate you!!”
The entire table of ghouls whooped, howled, banged on the table, claws tapping like a chorus of feral cheerleaders.
Phantom actually clapped his hands. “You’re wearing it!! I told you he’d do it! I told you!”
Dewdrop leaned back in his chair, smirking like he’d won a bet. “Perpetua in a festive jumper. Didn’t have that on my apocalypse bingo card.”
Mountain gave a solemn nod, the kind a large woodland creature might give when acknowledging a major life event. “Looks good on you.”
Perpetua felt heat creep embarrassingly up his neck. He wasn’t used to… this. Warmth. Acceptance. People cheering because Copia made him something.
“I— it’s comfortable,” he said, trying to play it cool as he sat down. “Warm. Perfect for winter.”
“You haven’t taken it off, have you?” Swiss teased, grinning dangerously wide.
Perpetua froze mid-reach for the tea.
“…I have,” he lied, terribly.
Swiss slammed his hands on the table. “LIAR. You completely slept in it. Look at him. Guilty as a child”
Phantom added, “He kept pulling the collar like he was sniffing it.”
Dewdrop pointed with his fork. “Bet it smells like Copia. You enjoying that?”
Perpetua went scarlet.
“Stop— don’t be ridiculous— I’m simply— it’s a jumper.”
“Mhmm,” Swiss said. “A jumper that says: ‘I love you, twin brother, please don’t hate me.’ ”
Before Perpetua could combust on the spot, Aether leaned in, voice low and knowing.
“That jumper means he cares,” Aether murmured. “Truly.”
That hit harder than all the teasing.
Perpetua swallowed, looking down at the bats knitted into his sleeves. His chest tightened, warm and aching. He didn’t know how to explain it — how wearing this jumper felt like being wrapped in something he didn’t realise he’d been missing.
“It’s… nice,” he finally said, quiet.
Swiss opened his mouth to tease him again—
—but froze.
Because across the hall, the Emeritus brothers had entered.
And Copia?
Copia spotted the jumper immediately.
The pause was visible — like a punch straight to the heart. His eyes went wide, his breath hitched, and he stood there frozen like someone had unplugged him.
Perpetua felt that look like a weight in his ribs.
But Copia didn’t move toward him.
He just stared, eyes suspiciously bright, expression unreadable.
Perpetua lifted a hand giving a small, nervous wave.
Copia blinked, jolted, cleared his throat aggressively, and spun on his heel.
Terzo grabbed his arm before he could escape.
“Copia— Copia, fratellino, you cannot flee your own dining hall.”
“I am not fleeing, I am— I am— I must check the…the…cheese stores, sì?”
“It is eight in the morning,” Secondo said flatly. “No one checks cheese at eight in the morning.”
Copia splutters. “Y-yes well I-I do.”
But Primo, bless him, stepped forward and patted Copia on the shoulder.
“He wore it,” he said gently.
Copia deflated like a punctured balloon. “Sì…”
“And that is good.”
“…sì.”
Across the room, Perpetua watched all of this with a tight, stupidly fond ache in his chest.
For the first time since arriving, he didn’t feel like an intruder.
He felt like part of something.
And the jumper — warm, heavy, smelling faintly of Copia’s cologne and peppermint wool — hugged him like a promise. That he belonged to this family, that Copia saw him as part of this family.
Perpetua spent the whole morning pretending he wasn’t going to Copia’s office.
He wandered the hall. He organised his bookshelf. He drank tea. He refolded his jumper cuffs three times. He absolutely did not hover outside Copia’s door for a full minute like some sort of socially stunted vampire.
Eventually, though, he worked up enough courage to knock.
It was a pathetic little knock.
The door opened just a crack.
Copia’s face peeked through — eyes sharp, expression guarded, like he was bracing for someone to ask for a miracle he wasn’t prepared to give.
“Oh. You.” He blinked. “Eh…buongiorno?”
Perpetua swallowed. “Can…can I come in?”
Copia hesitated — only a second — then stepped aside. “Sì, sì, of course. Come in.”
The office was warm. Too warm. A fire crackled. Yarn was everywhere. Holiday knick-knacks littered the shelves. It smelled like peppermint and wool and something inherently Copia: comforting in a way that made Perpetua’s chest tighten.
Copia took one look at the jumper Perpetua was still wearing and immediately got fidgety.
“Sì, ehm, I see you— you wore it again,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You don’t, ah, have to wear it every day, you know. It is not a uniform.”
Perpetua rolled his sleeves nervously. “I… like it.”
“Well, good,” Copia said quickly, too quickly. “That is good. Wonderful. Very nice.”
He looked everywhere but Perpetua.
Silence crept in.
Awkward. Heavy. Charged.
Perpetua took a breath, then another. “Copia.”
“Hm?”
“…thank you. For the sweater.”
Copia stiffened.
Shoulders going stiff, hands pausing mid-fidget, eyes wide like someone had cast a spell.
“Oh,” he said softly. Then again, quieter, “Oh.”
“It means a lot,” Perpetua continued, voice dipping. “More than you think.”
Copia blinked hard. “I didn’t— I wasn’t trying to— I mean, I know things between us are… ehm… strange, sì? And I know I have been… distanced. But I wanted you to—”
He cut himself off, gesturing helplessly.
Perpetua stepped closer.
“Copia,” he murmured, “I know you don’t hate me.”
Copia made a tiny noise. “I never— I never hated you,” he blurted. “I was just… afraid you would take everything again. That I would… lose my place. Lose—”
He stopped.
Perpetua’s heart cracked right down the middle.
He stepped forward.
Copia didn’t step back.
And before either of them could overthink it, Perpetua reached out — slow, careful — and wrapped his arms around Copia.
Not tight at first. Just a gentle pull, offering space to refuse.
Copia stiffened… then melted.
Absolutely melted. Sagged forward, arms lifting almost reluctantly before curling around Perpetua’s back. He pressed his forehead to Perpetua’s shoulder and released a breath that sounded like it had been held for months.
“You smell like my office,” Copia muttered, muffled.
“You smell like peppermint,” Perpetua murmured back.
“I spilled tea on myself earlier.”
“Still counts.”
Copia snorted a shaky laugh.
Perpetua held him a little tighter. Copia clung back like he hadn’t been touched kindly in a long time.
When they finally pulled apart, Copia wiped his eyes aggressively.
“It’s the yarn dust,” he said.
“It’s not,” Perpetua replied, smiling faintly.
Copia looked away, cheeks scarlet. “Shut up.”
Perpetua’s smile widened. “No.”
Copia huffed — but his eyes shone warm, soft, unguarded.
“…you’re welcome, fratellino,” he said quietly. “For the sweater.”
Perpetua’s chest filled with something bright and fragile.
“Thank you,” he whispered again.
And for the first time since arriving, being Copia’s twin didn’t feel like a weight.
It felt like a beginning.