see she here, entwined with love

It could be his age that makes him spend more and more nights alone. He’s trying not to think about his body too much but it is true that he craves it less. The offers are rarer, too. He is not Papa anymore, the myth busted, and he’s become more and more reclusive, never invites anyone back.

More likely, it is the dread that every shared night leaves him with that makes him abstain. He’s acutely aware that no touch has meaning, that every compliment is a transaction, that he fucks just to fuck. The ache of loneliness is not as easy to ignore with less alcohol, a less busy schedule, less opportunity to keep the adrenaline high and the mind far away from the ultimate crash of reality.

He has too much time to think about it now.

But it is not like that with you.

What kind of relationship you have, really, is something he can’t think on too much or he has to admit that he does not understand. When he’s home you stop by to bring him his weekly groceries, no doubt an order of his brother, and he finds himself dragging out conversations he never knew he started. He’s invited you multiple times to dine with him, to show you how to use the fresh produce you're so curious about. He goes to smoke in the gardens and you’ll sit down with him, making a face when he exhales the cigar smoke but never sitting so far away as to avoid it.

Sometimes he thinks he’s hallucinating you.

Perhaps that is why he reaches out. It’s certainly not because your touch is the only thing that makes him feel anything.

He has not let anyone into his bed in weeks.

“You are strange company tonight,” you say.

“How so?”

He’s drying the dishes. You just inhaled two servings of his spaghetti al pomodoro and he’s watching you, half-draped over his couch, cheek smushed against the cushion. Just earlier he felt your hand under his as he showed you how to cut the basil. He’s still reeling from it.

“Don’t think you’ve said a word to me,” you explain, tugging at a loose thread on your shirt.

“I have.” He sets down the clean plate. “Per favore, do not pull at it.”

Your hand retreats and he watches every finger uncurl. “Would you have me leave?”

“No.”

He’s done with the plates and joins you in the living area. As usual, he chooses a vinyl that fits his mood. Today, it's Blues.

“Oh,” you whisper when he sits with you. “So it’s that kind of night?”

Secondo ignores you and closes his eyes. The music makes him feel, it has always been like that, a catalyst for his emotions. He forgets himself until he feels your hand reaching for his, kneading the tension from it.

He opens his eyes and meets your gaze, heavy with… something.

“I can stop,” you whisper.

He does not make you. Instead, you take his palm between both of yours and he thinks he might cry. It feels too good, forbidden, almost, to be touched so tenderly. You massage him and he wonders briefly what exactly the order entails, if this is just a ploy, his brother sending him someone so sweet that he has to stop brooding. That you're only doing this because you get paid.

"You want to be here, yes?" Even uttering the question hurts. "My brother sent you."

Your brow furrows in a way that tells him all he has to know. No ploy. In fact, you look almost insulted. "He did, the first time, but not since. Are you implying–"

"No," he says too soon. "I apologize."

Your hands have moved to his wrist. He can feel your fingertips against his pulse and shivers. "You are a strange man, Secondo."

"I know."

That draws a smile from you. When you move on to his other hand you scoot a little closer. "I noticed how tense you are," you say, thumbs pressing into the ball of his hand. "Whenever you touch me you flinch back, as if you didn't mean to."

"I don't wish to make you uncomfortable."

"You don't. I like it when you touch me." A beat of silence, then you look into his eyes. "I like you, believe it or not."

"I don't," he says, then, "Come here."

You follow his invitation but not like he expected. He realizes, then, what instinct made him do. Invite you into his lap, kiss you, undress you, a quick fuck, a night like so many others before, and then you're gone. But no, you nestle into his side and rest your head on his shoulder, nothing more. He feels your warmth through his shirt and thinks he might die.

"Why are you sad?" you ask, then. Your breath tickles his neck.

"I'm not."

"Then why Blues?"

He finds himself stroking along your back, his fingers dancing over the fabric of the shirt you almost ruined. "Melancholy and sadness aren't quite the same thing."

"You are often melancholy," you whisper, your nose brushing along his throat. "I wish I could take it away."

"You do," he admits, sighs, traps your hand under his where it rests on his chest. It feels small underneath his large palm, like he could crush it if he didn't pay attention.

You squirm too much, he thinks, or he is not used to this clumsy kind of closeness. Your hand wanders from his, crawling along his belly like the careful exploration of an ant, and he realizes that you want him. For the first time in weeks he feels himself stir and doesn't quite know why. He does not want to fuck you.

No, that is not true. He does. But he's scared of what follows.

“Let me take care of you,” you whisper. "I promise I won't run like the others."

How do you know? he wants to ask. But he can't. Your hand wraps around him and he does not have it in him to take over, to seize control. He does not have to fill this role, he realises, not with you, not tonight. And instead of the weight of expectation he feels a surprising peace. You would not ask anything of him. You want this.

"Let me–" he tries, out of relfex.

"No," you interrupt and your lips find the corner of his mouth. "Let me. Yes?"

"Yes."

He closes his eyes against the tears that well up, allows himself the illusion of it all, that he can be fragile for just a moment. He never realized how he had been starving himself, how he had been aching for someone like you.

When he comes it feels like he is inhaling the air of a bright summer morning, crisp and full of promise. You clean your hand and the kiss that follows is chaste, tethers him back to you before the dread can set in. You're not going anywhere, it says, and you don't. Your body fits against his, not squirming this time, and the record keeps spinning a song he does not quite feel anymore.

The dread never comes.

He finds himself reaching for you.

This time, he does not pull away.

this was written for an ask from @razzle-dazzle97 – i hope this was okay <3