#zenitheternal

The desert sun was relentless, aggressively poking through the gaps in the heavy velvet curtains and painting golden stripes across the rumpled white linens of the hotel bed.

You blinked against the brightness, a soft smile tugging at your lips as the fog of sleep cleared.

Beside you, Secondo lay in a state of peace.

Without his towering mitre or the sharp lines of his face paint, his features looked soft in the quiet rhythm of sleep.

He was a far cry from the stern figure who had commanded the stage only hours before.

It was then that you felt a small, warm weight shifting against your chest.

Looking down, you found yourself nose-to-nose with a tiny white toy poodle, her fur expertly fluffed and adorned with two perfectly tied pink bows.

The little dog let out a rhythmic, dainty snore, tucked securely in the crook of your arm.

As you stroked a soft ear, the absurdity of the sight acted like a key, unlocking a flood of memories from the neon-soaked blur of the previous night.

...

The final, haunting chords of "Monstrance Clock" still vibrated in the floorboards of the arena as Secondo stepped through the heavy stage curtains.

The smell of incense and sweat clung to his robes, and the roar of the crowd was a muffled thunder in the distance.

He looked every bit the imposing figure of the Ministry—until his eyes landed on you.

You were smiling, leaning against his dressing room vanity.

With a mischievous glint in your eye, you didn't say a word; you simply reached behind your back and produced a set of keys, dangled them by the keychain, and let them jingle.

The silver reflected the vanity lights, catching the familiar logo of the Lincoln.

Secondo's cold, stage-ready expression broke into a wide, devious grin.

He reached out, his gloved hand closing firmly around the lapel of his sharp, tailored suit jacket hanging on the rack.

With a sudden, violent tug, he whipped the jacket toward the camera's eye—and the backstage world vanished.

The motion of the fabric became the rushing wind of the Las Vegas Strip.

The heavy robes were gone, replaced instantly by the sleek fit of the suit as Secondo settled into the driver's seat of the 1966 Lincoln Continental.

The classic car roared through the night, roofless, the rushing wind a wild, tactile force against your skin—a sharp, electric contrast to the stagnant, incense-heavy air of the arena.

Secondo wasn't steering you toward a cathedral tonight; he was chasing the neon horizon, aimed straight for the glowing, towering silhouette of a midnight carnival.

The night became a blur of motion as the two of you conquered the carnival: the stomach-dropping plunge of the coaster, the dizzying spin of the Tilt-A-Whirl, and the frantic noise of the midway games.

Secondo was transformed; his suit gleamed under the carnival lights as his usual composure gave way to a wicked, boyish energy.

The chaos finally slowed at a concession stand.

Secondo bought you both two clouds of pink cotton candy that looked far too delicate for his hands.

But as he turned back to you, he froze.

There, tucked securely in your arms, was a tiny white toy poodle with two perfectly tied pink bows nestled in her fur.

"And who," Secondo asked, a playful brow arching as he gestured with a stick of spun sugar, "is this little initiate?"

You laughed, pointing toward a nearby stall where a sign proudly advertised: "Guess the Weight, Win a Friend!"

Secondo leaned in, leveling his gaze with the tiny creature.

He opened his mouth to make a suave remark about the odds of the game, but he didn't get the chance.

The puppy let out a sharp, high-pitched bark and lunged forward, her tiny pink tongue swiping right across the tip of his nose.

The second papa recoiled for a split second in pure shock before a genuine, booming laugh broke from his chest—a sound far warmer than any stage laugh.

You joined him, the sound of your shared joy echoing against the carnival music as he reached out a gloved hand to gently, affectionately scold her with a pat on her head.

... You were back in the '66 Lincoln, the poodle settled securely in your lap as the engine purred, Secondo steering the car toward the neon glow of the Strip.

The fun hit a sudden gear when you pulled up to a red light. A dark, much more intimidating car growled as it slowed to a stop in the lane beside you.

The driver—a man with a sneer that matched the aggressive rumble of his engine—leveled a grin at you both. It was a silent, arrogant challenge: he wanted to race.

You and Secondo didn't need to speak. You looked at each other, matching identical, challenging grins.

You saw Secondo's knuckles whiten slightly against the steering wheel, his eyes locking onto the light above.

The second the light flashed green, the Lincoln roared.

Before the other driver could even touch his gas pedal, Secondo had the Continental screaming down the asphalt, leaving the other man in a cloud of desert dust.

You glanced back just in time to see the driver's face turn sour with frustration as he realized he'd been beaten by a vintage car and a tiny poodle.

The cabin of the car filled with your shared laughter, the sound bright and triumphant over the rushing wind.

Even the poodle seemed to join in, her tail wagging frantically against your arm as you sped through the neon night, undisputed champions of the Vegas Strip.

... The adrenaline from the race was still humming in your veins as the Lincoln pulled up to the valet of a glittering casino.

With the puppy tucked under one arm and Secondo's hand on the small of your back, you swept inside.

The scene was a blur of green felt and clinking glass until you reached the high-stakes table.

Secondo played with a terrifying, calm confidence.

By the time he stood up, he was raking a mountain of chips toward himself—a true jackpot that had the table staring in awe.

He looked at you, then down at the tiny poodle.

'Since we have conquered the road and the House,' he murmured, 'I believe our new companion deserves a proper coronation.'

You used the winnings to find the most ridiculous, high-end pet boutique open at three in the morning.

While you and Secondo shared a celebratory drink, the puppy was treated to the royal treatment.

When staff brought her back to you, her fur was soft as a cloud and those iconic pink bows were tied perfectly into her hair.

She looked like a little Vegas queen, and Secondo couldn't stop smiling as he paid the bill with a stack of fresh winnings.

...

The memory of the neon-soaked night finally faded, leaving you in the quiet warmth of the hotel room.

Beside you, the sheets rustled as Secondo finally began to stir.

He looked remarkably soft in the morning light, the sharp edges of his stage persona replaced by the gentle, romantic glow of a man who had won everything he wanted.

"Sei la mia fortuna più grande, tesoro mio." The romantic weight of his words made you giggle, the sound bright in the airy room.

You shifted slightly, the poodle letting out a tiny, sleepy yawn between you.

"I'm feeling a bit hungry," you admitted, your voice still thick with sleep.

Secondo chuckled, his hand lingering affectionately on your cheek. "After the night we had, I am not surprised. Stay here with our piccolo cucciolo. I shall go downstairs and fetch us a filling breakfast."

"Okay," you whispered.

He leaned in, sealing the promise with a soft kiss.

As Secondo pulled away, you settled back into the pillows, the puppy snoring softly in your arms.