#secondo shorts

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

No, he is witty, though his humour is precious. He is good at parties but not when it’s quiet. The world prefers it on the tip of the tongue, easy to read, a smile, a laugh, a joke that is obvious. Nothing about Secondo is obvious. He does not take himself as serious as it appears, but his features scare off any laughter. It happens in quiet moments, then, a tickle, his nose nuzzling until you giggle, an eccentric hat in his closet, a silly old song he remembers from childhood, when he’s had too much to drink and stumbles over his socks, an off-hand comment to his brothers, a crude remark in the bedroom you can’t take seriously, kisses peppered to your cheeks until you laugh so hard it hurts and his smile takes over the room. He’ll let you capture it, when he’s feeling generous. More often than not he hides.

Yes, Secondo is a man with a hard shell but a delicate core. There is no awkwardness with him, no shame, no imposter syndrome, no need to act a part, all filters removed, masks uncovered, layer after layer stripped until you feel the very core of your being in his presence. Alone with him he is safety incarnate, a way for you to experience every facet of your needs. A man who makes it easy to let go and helps you back into yourself after, a hand held out at all times.

For him? This state is harder to achieve.

It is by design, a necessity, a distance he keeps from the soft parts that hurt when you press in too hard. He knows how much pressure to exert, to give the relief of feeling seen, but he has yet to find someone who knows how to touch him. Or perhaps, someone he’d allow to try. Secondo guards these parts but they are evidently there, if one knows how to read the very language of him. Stripped of the title, he may flinch back at a particularly soft touch, a reaction easy to see as refusal but really, what he says is: Try again. Try as often as I need to accept that I deserve it.

To be loved is a state that escapes him but to recognise anything at all you have to know what you are looking at. Secondo is not sure he does. He is a soft man, a loving man, more romantic than cynic, in the right company, and yet he is alone. But perhaps the world has some kindness left for him, someone who laughs at the hidden jokes, who doesn’t prod but skims until the shell gently falls and he? He doesn’t even notice.

It takes him a while to approach. From the corner of your eye you see him closing his eyes in the presence of the Morningstar, reciting a silent prayer with a hand on his breastbone. He lingers, slowly opens his eyes, and then enters the very same pew, sliding in close beside, his thigh almost touching yours.

"It is late," he says, clasped hands dangling between his legs as he leans back.

"I prefer to be alone in here," you whisper.

"And I prefer to have you at home, in my bed."

You release a sigh, tearing your gaze away from the windows as you glance over at his perpetually stoic face. Secondo is calm, still dressed in his day clothes, neat trousers, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, a few buttons undone at his collar. He must have been waiting for you before settling in, then went looking when you never came.

"I'm not sure I'm pleasant company right now," you say.

"Do you think I value your company any less when your mind is being cruel?" he asks.

The corner of your mouth curls into a dismissive smile. "I think you should be getting sick of comforting me every night, yes."

"So you stole away?"

"I didn't–" You stop, unable to deny his words with such finality. "I thought perhaps I would find solace in here."

"And have you?"

You shrug, fixing your gaze to the altar. "You know, He's been rather quiet."

Secondo huffs a laugh before reaching over, intertwining his hand with one of yours, squeezing tightly. "You're cold, amore."

You nod. He doesn't say anything else but reaches over, pulling your legs across his and enveloping you in his strong arms. The familiarity of his scent takes your breath away and you cry against his neck, hating yourself for being so weak, for burdening him every single time.

For a while you sit in the serene silence of the chapel, feeling his warmth, listening to your heartbeat as it reverberates in your ears, drumming to the rhythm of your anxieties.

You're alive, for all it's worth, and you're not alone.

"Will you come back home with me now?" he asks, voice muffled by your hair as he presses a tender kiss to your head.

Manon looks up as though she only now noticed him, her pupils dilating at the sight of his hands working his shirt open. “No, not yet. Someone finally died, though.”

“Who?”

“The billionaire’s daughter.”

“Oh, it is about the rubies he gifted her.”

“They did get stolen,” she confirms, then focuses back on the words.

He notices with some satisfaction that she glances back up after he removes his shirt but he is quick to slip on the black tee he sleeps in while they share a room. “Is it not getting old? It is always the same formula, no?”

“I find it comforting,” she says. “It’s an old habit, I suppose. I would read a whole bunch of them on our family trips when I was young. It still feels nostalgic.”

Secondo leaves her field of view to change his pants, thinking of her in a bed just like this but twenty years ago. It is an easily conjured image, the long-haired girl with her tired eyes, staying up past her bedtime with a torchlight in her hand, flipping page after page to find out who killed the lady in the library. “An odd genre for a little girl,” he remarks.

She laughs. “Did you think I only read books about horses?”

The sound of her amusement settles warmly in his chest, bringing on a smile he does not bother to hide. She is comfortable, wrapped up in her blanket, and when he sits down at the edge of her mattress she scoots to make room for him. “Horses are more appropriate than corpses, are they not?”

“I don’t think anyone cared,” she says. “My mom has a vast collection of books but she only ever read crime novels and mass market erotica. So you know which ones she gave me.”

“Is this one of hers?” Secondo asks, turning the yellowed paperback in her hand to see the cover. It is old, weathered, read many times over. Der blaue Express.

Manon nods, sliding her bookmark between the pages. He realises that this is not just about the book, it is about feeling like that little girl again – safe, comforted, loved even, perhaps.

“I am glad they bring you joy,” he finds himself saying, feeling oddly tender. He is tempted to reach out and brush back the long curl that his eyes have been drawn to since he sat down, perhaps rest his palm on her cheek to see if it is warm to the touch. He knows she would blush if he stroked it, shiver against his fingertips.

When their eyes meet he finds it even harder to fight the urge but she is not moving and he gets lost in the simplicity of the moment. She looks lovely. Tired, yes, but he finds pleasure in seeing her resting. His legs have gone heavy and he knows he should get up before the exhaustion fully settles.

“I suppose I’ll have an early night,” she says. “It was a long day.”

“Yes, of course.” He stirs, finally willing himself to leave her be. ”Good night, Manon.”

She mumbles a reply but he is about to lock himself in the adjacent bathroom, lightbulb flickering against the white-tiled walls. When he returns her light is already dark and he can hear her even breathing. He tries not to think of her as he closes his eyes.

Steps in her periphery. Secondo leans in the doorway, dressed in casual all-black, smiling at her half-naked form, eyes unsubtly roaming her shape.

"I'm not late, am I?" she asks

"No, my dove, but I prefer to watch."

She finishes up her mascara, blinking against the brush to spread the ink. Manon doesn't feel nervous anymore when he watches her—it's almost a comfort, an easy boost of her confidence, the way his eyes are so filled with affection and longing.

When she touches up her blush, his arms wrap around her bare middle and he nestles close. "You look beautiful. Cosí bella," he whispers against her neck, soft lips trailing her skin underneath the rasp of his mustache. He litters her shoulders with kisses while his hands travel over the lush curve of her hips before embracing her once more.

"I have something for you," he says.

She quirks an eyebrow, hands fiddling with his. "What is it?"

"I'll show you when you're done."

Another wet kiss on her neck and he leaves her, casting a final glance over his shoulder before he passes the time with an espresso, no doubt. She hurries to finish, setting spray, deodorant, perfume—a cloud of scents surrounding her like a fragrant fog. Her black dress is neatly hung out by the closet door, a not so subtle suggestion by Secondo, and she slips into it effortlessly, half-long puffy sleeves and the skirt a silhouette of the 50s.

She reaches for her jewellery when Secondo rejoins her, fiddling with his cufflinks.

"Leave your neck bare for me, will you?" he asks and she smiles, knowing.

It's not the first time he's surprised her with accessories, dresses, other items of clothing. He loves to doll her up on occasion, not pretentiously but in the way of an artist. Like she's his canvas, his muse, and he's the designer of something precious.

Since the dress debacle in Rome shortly after they got together he's been meticulously analysing what makes her feel safe and comfortable but carries her out of that zone of comfort by just the right degree. So far he has never missed.

"It is vintage," he says as he withdraws the velvet box from a drawer in his nightstand. "I know you prefer gold, so."

The necklace is a delicate thing but not less impressive for its subtlety. Branches of golden leaves are woven together, framing the recognisable shape of a dove.

"It's perfect," she says, her lips parted not just in awe of the piece but the gesture. He must have spent quite a while trying to find a piece like this.

"I couldn't help but get it for you," he says, aware of her aversion to the easy way he spends his money for her. But by now she's used to it, more than she'd like to admit, spoiled by a man who loves nothing more than to make her smile.

"Thank you," she whispers and he places it around her neck, fastens it with sure fingers.

Manon runs her fingertips over the necklace, cold but slowly warming to her skin. It matches the outfit as well as her other pieces perfectly, as though he knew. And in that moment in dawns on her that he didn't suggest the dress for any other reason than its perfectly low neckline.

Before he can withdraw she's wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning in to brush her nose against his. Secondo hums, grabs her a little tighter in the way that threatens any punctuality at the restaurant. He considers her lipstick for a moment, glancing down, but she knows it's kissproof and closes the gap before he can pull away. The kiss is entirely too chaste for what she truly feels, that perpetual gratefulness, the steady love he shows her in every little gesture, but it's the only way to express her gratitude without awkwardness.

"I love you," she whispers. "Even though you insist on wasting your money on me."

"It's not a waste," he stresses. "Not for you."

They both smile, then, her thumb drawing a gentle curve across the back of his neck. Secondo sighs whistfully and leans against her, stealing another kiss before he risks a glance at his watch. It'll be a quiet, subdued evening, the way he prefers them now that he's older—privacy and the company of those who matter. Manon is glad of it, reaches for his hand to show him she's ready. He glances down at the necklace once more, a subtle smile on his lips, before he finally pulling her along.

─── ⋆⁺‧₊ ✦ ⛧ ✦ ₊‧⁺⋆ ───

if you want to see manon, i have a drawing of her here :)

Manon dries her hands, pruney from washing the dishes, and tiptoes through the living room. The smell of incense lingers in the air, though the cat-safe cone she lit before lunch has long since crumbled into light grey ashes. It's her earliest memory of Christmas, watching the plumes of smoke slowly climbing up towards the ceiling, trying to catch them with her tiny hands.

Secondo fired up the old wood stove in the corner and it's a wonder Pinot hasn't curled up in front of its gentle warmth. Instead, she's fit herself neatly between the crook of his neck and the sofa, her paw curled around his throat in a skewed display of protection. With her green eyes closed she's barely visible on his black wool sweater. His hand rests supportively under her legs and they must have fallen asleep a while ago, judging the depth of their snores.

It's been an exhausting few days for him.

Manon volunteered to take over today, under stark protests, only accepted through the promise of a rich German potato salad. He loves to host and he barely left the kitchen at all the day before, feeding his brothers, feeding her, and she knows that he would have fed the whole congregation if given the chance. Christmas barely feels like Christmas here, but he managed to extract its essence in their shared meals, thoughtful gifts and his nonna's old recipes that he's been holding onto since his childhood.

When she sits down, the sofa dips but it doesn't rouse him. Pinot blinks her eyes open for a second to assess her but after a slow brrp resumes her slumber. She's feasted as well, spoiled by the man she's resting on who can't help but feed her scraps whenever she's begging. They're an odd sight, even months later, this tiny animal and the man who insisted cats don't like him, only to be swarmed by them in the shelter.

A wave of gratitude overcomes her, for having them in her life, for the love she finds in even the most ear-splitting of snores that leave his mouth.

The fire crackles between each of their breaths, fighting against the frigid air pressing through the gaps in the old windows. Secondo never looks more peaceful than when he's sleeping, the tension leaving his sharp features, his long lashes fluttering. It's a delicate sight, rare that he drifts off so easily. A good meal will do it, but Manon likes to think it's because he finally feels safe.

After a minute Pinot casts another suspicious glance at her and Manon scratches her belly, watches her twist into her touch, chirping happily. Secondo blinks a conspicuous eye open and she tries to remember when the snoring stopped. Moving her hand from Pinot to his cheek, she leans in, presses a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. She feels his lips curl into a smile, his free arm reaching out to wrap around her, easily finding its way below her skirt.

"Will you join us, my dove?" he whispers.

"I would love to."

"Come."

He scoots to make room and Pinot protests with a mewl that melts into a deep yawn, her paws spreading as she stretches. It's a bit of a squeeze but they make do, Manon half-draped over Secondo, one stockinged leg between his, her fingers buried in Pinot's soft black fur as the cat curls up once more. Their shared warmth envelops them, the familiar scent of his cologne, and Manon tries to remember a time in her life when she felt this safe and wanted.

When she's in his arms it is hard for her to imagine a time before Secondo. Perhaps it was the little girl she remembers, content with illusions, full of hopes and dreams, trying to catch affection like smoke between her fingers.

"I used to dislike this time of year," she whispers, drawing a Pinot-shaped pattern on his chest.

"Your family?"

"Yes."

Secondo squeezes her, his lips in her hair, and she knows what he thinks but doesn't say. They have each other now, it doesn't matter. He understands that relief better than anyone and she's grateful that she doesn't have to speak, that she never has to, not in his presence.

For a while they simply doze, Manon's fingers spread over his chest, weaving through invisible plumes of smoke. She opens her eyes when she feels Pinot's paw fiddling for her thumb, a playful glint in her feline gaze. A moment of stillness, reconfiguration. When it passes, the world remains soft and solid, filled with Secondo's easy snores, Pinot's slowing breath. By the time they're both fast asleep Manon decides that Secondo is decidedly louder, and, with a smile, she lets herself drift off as well.

go wish our lovely Anna a happy birthday if you haven't already ♡

It is perhaps not surprising. They know each other well, they were intimate before being intimate. She may be the best friend he’s ever had and for all he knows he is the only person who has seen her crying, unwashed, with her anxiety running so high that she let him see the vomit stains on her shirt. They stripped their emotional layers before they ever stripped their clothes.

And did he not almost startle, when she came downstairs the morning after, their very first night, his body relaxed after all the sex as he whistled over the pan of eggs he was preparing, that sweet relief of giving in, finally, half-expecting her to be done with him now that it happened, only for her to hug herself to his side and burrow her face against his chest? A gesture that felt more intimate than the first time he entered her. When has he ever been hugged like that?

But then it never stopped. She keeps hugging him, whenever she sees him, as though her arms are drawn to his shape, and they fit so well around him that they might well be. He loves how they feel around his body, her small hands gripping his shirt, like she wants to rip him open, crawl into him, how her wrists fit between his fingers when he gently draws her hands to his lips, every kiss to her palm followed by a content sigh.

She hugs him and it is not a transaction, not a prelude, it is simply because she wants to.

If it get’s the better of him it only shows in the margins, sharp words, some humiliation, the fantasy of revenge more appealing than the act. Yet it eats at him, leashed hounds baring their teeth, the thoughts circling back to his father, the similarities he sees in the mirror. He always thought it might kill him, this hatred, a fist forming inside of him until it wrings the very life out of him. Now he finds that it loosens, her fingers curling around his own, prying them apart, interlacing them with hers.

He wants to live a few more years, he thinks. If He sent her his way, his Lord must think the same. Not even the devil wants a devil like him in his house, not in the state he was in before he met her. The thought makes him smile. Is He trying to soften him up? Is this the reward for decades of suffering in such utter devotion? Not that it matters. He will light a candle in thanks every night, compose prayers unlike any he has spoken before, whisper them in the crevices of her body with her skin slick against his lips. He could die like that, he thinks. With her name lodged in his throat, perhaps the truest form of worship.

The only one that matters to him, anyway.