Look Who's Next ! 👀✨

*bangs my head against my desk, then lifts my hands into the air in a gesture of wild desperation* SECONDOOOO

if Secondo was a type of parrot, which would he be 🗿

I had to research some parrots for this. There’s nanday parakeets which aesthetically make me think of Secondo being mostly green with a black hood marking over their head but most parrot species, assuming they’ve been raised well, are pretty social and affectionate animals. Some say that Pionus parrots are much more independent than others and will typically be more reserved except with chosen close people, so maybe that?

But since we’re talking about Secondo and birds… I’d like to introduce y’all to the King Vulture, scientific name Sarcoramphus papa, inspired by the Latin Papa for bishop as their plumage resembles that of one’s dress. It is bald with a small patch of colorful feathers and the species is minimally sexually dimorphic which means there are minimal differences between the appearance of males and females ( <—genderqueer Secondo believer)

In Mayan mythology these birds were believed to be messengers of the gods or to be a god themselves and often were depicted as gods with a human body and bird head. Historically, it’s blood and feathers were often used in medicines and remedies.

My Secondo

+18 MDNI Includes: 2k+ words. Secondo/reader, loneliness, anger, fighting, physical threats (no physical violence. (Honestly, I don't even have any real warnings for this one. It's just angsty domestic fluff right now. But I'm not promising that will last.) Notes: Listen, I am WEAK for soft Secondo. And I will not apologise. Just let me have my grumpy man in peace. Please see my AO3 version with translations included. (Terrible Italian by Google.)

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Chapter 1: Fight or Flight

You’d fallen asleep before he’d come back. That had never been your custom, but you’d stayed up as long as you were able. Drifting off at some unholy hour with the bedside lamp still on and your book lying on your chest. Not that you’d really been reading. Your mind had been elsewhere and you were sure you’d read the same paragraph a dozen times, still not absorbing a single word.

And now it was morning. The only signs that he’d been there at all were your book, page marked, set on the bedside table, the lamp turned off, and the way his side of the bedding hand been thrown back when he’d gotten up. If he’d touched you at all, it wasn’t enough to wake you. The sun outside was shining, the birds were singing, and a warm breeze drifted through the window, but the none of it could change the cold from the empty place he should have been. Or the lump in your throat threatening to choke you.

For days you had tried. Been the Good Girl he wanted, met his hard stare with sweet smiles, tried everything you knew he liked best to coax him out of the foul mood that had descended and refused to loosen its grip. But nothing had worked. Last night was just one more thing that stung more than you could bear. There wasn’t even the sound of the shower that you’d become accustomed to waking up to. The bathroom was dark, the steam already faded, his paints carefully replaced in their drawer. His robes were gone too. For a long time you pace, trying to calm your breathing, to stop your heart from pounding until it feels like it will burst from your chest.

Crying won’t help. It won’t fix this.

No, this needs a new approach. You shower and dress, picking your clothes out carefully. Items he gifted you. Not the dresses that hug your curves or the tops cut to let him admire your chest. No, the ones he chose for your comfort, not his own lust. The ones that say more than any of the others that he loves you. The soft black sweater that feels like a warm embrace. The leggings you know he thinks are silly but that he is content knowing you are happy in. The simple flats that barely make a sound on the stone tiles and will let you get through the day without your feet aching from the usual heels.

You start down the hall to his office bravely enough, but the closer the door gets, the more the worry settles into your gut. Writhing like a pot of eels. It won’t do. He’ll smell the fear on you. You’ll never get anything if he thinks he can simply dismiss you. And if that happens… if he really does send you away so flatly… what more is there? Pack your things and slink back to your old dorm with your tail between your legs. Never meet his gaze again. Break your vows entirely and run. No. No, this is worth fighting for. Bury your worry and steel yourself. Show him you won’t be so easily set aside.

You knock three times firmly and wait. Finally his voice calls for you to enter, muffled by the thick wood of the heavy door. You enter without looking directly at him, turning to close the door behind you first. When you do look at him, he stares with that same cold expression he’s worn for days. An edge of impatience in his eyes.

Secondo.

His perfectly pressed robes and his carefully applied paints. Sitting straight and tall in his chair. The full weight and majesty of his office radiating from him like the very fires of Hell itself. And you’ve never seen him look more miserable.

“You were gone when I woke up.” It’s not a question or a plea for an answer. Just a flat statement of facts.

“You were asleep when I got in.” His deep voice is as cold as his stare.

“I waited up. I thought you weren’t coming home at all.”

“There is work to attend to. Then and now. If you’ve come to pout over things beyond my control, I can save us both the time and tell you it will change nothing. You knew my work from the start. It should be no surprise now.” His tone sounds more like being scolded by a teacher than words from the man you love.

“I haven’t come to pout.” You say sharply.

His brow creeps up. Just a hair. “Is that so? Then what?”

No more need to force that confidence. Something in his dismissive tone fans an anger that has been building. Every day this mood continues. Every day he won’t tell you what’s wrong. Every day he stays distant. It’s been building and with five words, it explodes into an inferno.

You walk over to his desk, the huge, dark wooden thing that it is. Every bit as imposing as Papa himself. With one hand, you swipe his carefully placed things to one side, ignoring his growl of frustration, and climb up on to the desktop. Sitting directly on his papers. Crossing your legs and staring at him defiantly.

“You are testing my patience.” He says dangerously through gritted teeth. But you don’t move. Just staring back at him. “Scendere dalla scrivania.”

“No.” You snap.

The shock of the disobedience breaks through his scowl for half a second and even that feels like victory.

“You would disobey?” He says, incredulously. Scowl settling right back in place, mouth twisting with anger. “Is this how a good girl behaves?”

“Is this how a Papa behaves?” You fire right back, anger burning hot. “You want your good girl? Well I want my Papa. So, you tell me, what is it to be? Shall we both be left wanting or will you let go of your damned pride and talk to me?”

Secondo pushes back his chair and stands. He’s never more imposing than when he draws himself up to his full height, with his robes and his paints. It’s almost enough to make you back down. Almost. He growls in frustration and looks like he might drag you off the desk whether you agree to move or not. Never, not once, has he ever laid a hand on you in anger. But you’ve never fought him like this either.

Instead you slide off the desk and stand in front of him. Hardly a threat. Standing barely taller than his shoulder. “Fine. Have it your own way.” It’s difficult to be so angry while looking up at someone, but you manage it. “I won’t bother you any further. When my Papa returns, please tell him I’ve missed him terribly. But you, whoever you are, you are no Papa of mine.”

Turning to make your exit, already preparing for the weight of the door to slam it properly, his hand grabs your arm. His grip is like iron and pulling away is useless. You still turn back sharply, ready to fight him even harder. But instead his expression has lost its edge. Replaced by something tired and lost.

“Fermare.” It’s not an order but a request. A plea. “Ti prego... non andartene.”

Your own anger fades, worry rising up to fill the void. “Allora parlami. Per favore.”

He lets go of your arm and sinks back into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You are a stubborn and wilful thing, Amore.”

“You knew that before you ever took me into your bed. Did you really think that would change now just because it’s inconvenient?” You offer him your hand and it’s a relief when he takes it. Softly kissing each of your fingers.

“Sono sicuro che non cambierà mai. E sono felice. Amavo questo di te allora e lo adoro adesso.” It’s the softest his voice has been since the darkness consumed him.

Satanas, you could cry. Finally seeing a glimpse of him through the fog. The man you fell in love with. The man beyond his serious expression and strict adherence to his schedule, who’s sermons boomed off of the stone walls and made even the bravest Sisters take a step back. The man who could speak so sweetly, who’s caresses were always so gentle, who’s warmth would envelope you to keep you safe from anything that might threaten to harm you.

Instead, you settle yourself in his lap. Wrapping your arms around him and burying your face in his chest. Feeling his steady breathing and the beat of his heart. Waiting until you can trust your voice to speak. “Secondo, amore mio, ti prego... dimmi cosa c'è che non va. Dimmi come posso aiutarti. È una tortura vederti così. Per stare senza di te. Mi spezza il cuore.”

For a long moment he doesn’t say a word, he doesn’t move. Part of you worries that if you look up at him, it will be that hard, cruel face again. Until he sighs and wraps his arms around you, hugging you close. He kisses the top of your head and sits in silence a moment longer. “… Forgive me, Amore. Forgive me. I have been a fool and unforgivably cruel. You don’t deserve that.” He says finally. His voice is so soft, it almost doesn’t sound like him at all. “… and I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t say that.” You hug him a little tighter, trying to protect him from his own words. “Don’t ever say that. It’s not true and you know it.”

“Do I?” He says, but the exhaustion takes the bite out of it.

“Of course you do.” Looking up at him, the dark clouds finally parting. Leaving behind a man who looks like he needs to sleep a month and to be treated with all the gentleness and care in the world. “Sono tuo, amore mio. Solo il vostro. Adesso e per sempre.”

“Me?” He asks, an unfamiliar uncertainty creeping into his voice. “Or Papa?”

You look at him curiously, worried, and suddenly very aware that there are piece of information you are missing. He is Papa. His duty, his paints, his robes, all of it. It’s simply a part of him. But without those things? Of course you love him. The private version you get all to yourself, when he can relax and let go. Even a little. When he can shed the mask he wears for the world and be vulnerable and honest.

“You, Secondo. You are the man I love. Papa is your title, your job, your duty. Secondo is the man who holds me at night to keep the bad dreams away, who comforts me when I am hurting, who makes me smile when I am sad. Secondo has my heart and soul.” You reach up to cup his cheek and he doesn’t pull away. Instead pressing into your touch.

“… You wanted your Papa back.” He doesn’t meet your eyes. Hell’s teeth, he’s never been like this before. So withdrawn and hurt he can’t bear to look at you.

Your own angry words ring in your ears and the guilt claws at the back of your throat. You know what you said, why you said it. But, if this is what lies at the heart of his worries, you can hear how it must have sounded. “Secondo…” any apology you can think of sounds so hollow and inadequate. “I meant you… really, I did. I should never have said those things. Never. I… was so angry… and hurt… and I was trying to hurt you. Please, my love, please forgive me. I’m so sorry. I thought I was losing you, that you were finished with me, that… that I’d failed you. And what do I do? I come in here to attack you. Try to push you away. Make you end it if it’s over.” Fool, fool, stupid, useless, stubborn fool. You curse yourself. “It’s not my Papa I need. Not the paints or the robes or the office or any of it. It’s my Secondo I can’t live without.”

His gloved finger hooks under your chin, tilting your face up toward his, and he kisses you. Deeply. Not rushed or demanding. The sort of kiss that melts you every time. Crushing yourself against his chest and losing yourself in the unshakable certainty that there is nowhere in the universe you are more safe or more loved. Living in that moment of the most familiar comforts, the things that feel like home. The smell of his cologne, the weight of his arms holding you close, even the bitter taste of his espresso still lingering on his lips.

“È l'uomo che voglio essere per te. Sempre.” He says, barely a whisper, lips brushing against yours.

“Sei sempre stato tu, amore mio. Dal primo momento che ti ho visto.” You bump your nose softly against his and kiss him again.

Secondo sighs and rests his forehead against your. His eyes slide shut and, for a long time, you both sit in silence. Breathing as one. Finding the first real comfort you’ve both had in too long. Letting go of the anger and frustration and hurt. Finally feeling safe, if even for a moment.

He breaks the silence first. “Amore…”

The hesitation weighs so heavily, it threatens to crush you both.

“They are talking of… replacing me. Stripping me of my office… my title.” His shoulders slump.

“Nomina di un nuovo Papa.”

I'm so obsessed with Secondo using my dove as a pet name for his love because to him it represent a sort of innocent optimism, a sign of positive change in his life, reprieve from the banality and the aversion he holds for his duties in the senior clergy, freedom and relief from his own trauma and deep-rooted pain as well as a calmer state of mind and making peace with his past to move into a happier future. The first time he uses it it just feels right. And he is a romantic, he wants you to feel the implications of his use of the name, enunciating it in a way that makes the word heavy with how much emotion it carries. This man has more devotion in his little finger than others carry in their whole body. There is no way you won't feel utterly loved by him at all times.

Am I over-analyzing my own HCs? Maybe.

how much filth is too much filth for a 10k word chapter? asking for a friend 👀

nervous kiss x “can I kiss you?” with secundo 🫣

ha ha ha ha. about 1.2k words! we love a mysterious, nervous secondo.

The man had been coming in during your shift for the last few months. He would always order the same thing - a doppio espresso and sit at the end of the bar either reading or writing something in a tiny, black pocket notebook. At first, you weren’t sure about him — the face paint could be off-putting at times and it took you a few visits to realize that there were times he came in without it, his mismatched eyes hidden with dark sunglasses. You ended up recognizing his voice and put two and two together.

He never bothers anyone, only staying on his stool, deep in his reading and writing. It was difficult for you to not be drawn to him, the man wears skull paint and is so very relaxed about it. Yet, you realized you’ve never seen him smile. You started to have his espresso ready for him as soon as you saw him come in and you swear the first time you did it, you saw the corner of his mouth twitch into a minuscule grin. The more you had his espresso ready for him, the more he began to speak to you, starting off with small pleasantries and moving into some easy conversations.

He told you he went by Secondo but wouldn’t share much else about himself so you ended up telling him how this is a second job for you to help make ends meet but that you also really enjoy making drinks anyway. He seems fascinated with how you move behind the bar and will routinely take breaks from his work to watch you make people’s drinks, trying to guess what ingredients are needed. Secondo slowly became your favorite regular, especially after learning he only came into the store during your shifts.

During this particular shift, he hasn’t come in yet at his usual time and the thought that maybe he won’t be in today crosses your mind. The pre-closer has already left so you’re working on your closing tasks. It’s been a slow evening with steady rain outside, deterring the evening coffee drinkers. You’re working on wiping down the bar when he finally arrives, black umbrella in hand and his usual immaculate skull paint. You give him a small wave.

“On me today, Secondo.” You smile wide and he gives a small sigh before walking over to the bar. He knows better than to argue with you, at least when it comes to free drinks. You pull his shots of espresso as he gets settled, laying out his book and his notebook on the counter.

“Just you tonight, dolce?” His thick Italian accent rolls off his tongue.

“Mhmm. You’re in late today.”

“Ah, la pioggia, the rain kept me away but… well, I needed my doppio.” He offers a smile - he’s been doing that more often these days and it makes your chest tighten.

“Well, thank you for visiting. It’s been slow today.” You wave a hand around the empty coffee shop. “I’ve been a little lonely.” You slide his cup and saucer toward him on the bar and he reaches for it, the smooth leather of his gloved finger brushes against yours. A breath catches in your throat.

“I am happy to keep you company, dolce.” He lifts the espresso cup that looks comical in his large hand to his lips and takes a sip. A content sigh escapes his lips.

You work quietly on your closing duties but still make sure to check in on him from time to time. As your break time gets closer, you eye up the display case for a snack. You settle on a brownie and you carefully take it out with a piece of parchment paper before putting it on a tray and sticking it into the oven for about ten seconds.

You carefully set the brownie on a plate and grab two spoons before making your way over to the bar. Secondo’s eyes drift along your figure as you come closer and he watches as you sit right beside him at the bar. You slide the brownie in between the two of you and settle a fork on his side of the place.

“Share this with me?” You scoot in closer to him and use your fork to take a small bite of brownie. This is the first time you’ve ever seen Secondo look so blank. He nods and picks up the fork, beginning to slowly pick at the brownie.

“It’s very good, dolce.” He says quietly between bites. His eyes shift to your face. “A-ah, you have a little something —“ Secondo points to your face. You swallow the piece of brownie and try to wipe at the spot he is pointing. “Let me.”

He leans in and reaches his hand out, carefully using his finger to wipe away the brownie crumbs at the corner of your mouth. You feel your cheeks flush at his touch and he lingers there for what feels like eternity. Secondo’s finger moves from the edge of your lip to your cheek, the tips of the rest of his fingers brushing against it. You suck in a short breath, your eyes fixed on his. His brows knit together, hand quivering before he gave a soft breath.

“Can… can I kiss you, dolce?” Secondo whispers, his voice barely audible. He looks unsure of himself and almost a little bit afraid, even though you almost immediately nod yes. His hand cups your cheek and he very slowly leans in, his lips ghosting yours before he presses them to yours. The taste of espresso still lingers as you kiss him back, your lips moving carefully against his. He pulls away just an inch, feeling his hot breath on your lips as he gazes into your eyes

You lean in again just as his hand drifts to firmly grip the back of your neck. Secondo groans quietly as your hands fall to his chest, your tongue moving against his. You forget about the brownie and the work you’re supposed to be doing, your hands running over his strong chest and moving in as close to him as you can, practically getting into his lap. He wraps his spare arm around you, holding you to him while he deepens the kiss, using his grip on your neck to tilt your head back.

You moan into the kiss, your eyes fluttering open slowly as he pulls away. The two of you are left panting, the brownie nearly out of your reach after you’ve made your way into his lap. His gloved fingers toy with your apron, his dark eyes meeting yours. Your breathing quiets and you lean a bit away from him to take him in.

“I should… I should probably finish up closing.” You can feel your entire face heat up, realizing that you had just made out with a customer.

“Mm, si, si.” He sucks in a breath. “May I wait for you? Maybe… take you out for a drink that isn’t coffee?”

You nearly fall out of his lap, though you’re able to get your legs working again. If he didn’t see your blush before, you’re sure he can see it now, feeling it all the way up to the tips of your ears.

“I would love that, Secondo.” You can hardly hide the excitement in your voice. His lips curl into a small smile and he clears his throat, reaching for his umbrella.

“I’ll leave you to it then, dolce. I’ll be outside waiting.”

Mia Arancia || Fluff || Primo x gn!Reader

Tl;dr: Sharing fruit as a love language and Primo deserves a break from gardening in the summer.

This is my first time posting writing on tumblr, I apologize if my formatting is a little clumsy <3

In the enchanting nature of the Ministry’s garden, the rows of greenery were bathed in the golden hues of the rapidly approaching end of the day and appeared as otherworldly as ever. Primo could be seen standing in the middle of his growing vegetables, looking reminiscent of a scarecrow as he marveled over what must’ve been long hours of work, remaining motionless as he stood exactly where you had hoped to find him.

Primo simply observed your leisure stroll as you made your way closer and arched an eyebrow curiously. His gaze flickered between your approaching figure and the horizon, questioning the unexpected visit. Nonetheless, the sight of you beckoning him from the other side of the garden with an eager wave only piqued his interest further. Knowing your penchant for mischief and mystery, a smile tugged at his face when you approached.

Drawing closer to Primo, you tilted your head, studying his countenance intently. His voice, though calm and composed, carried a note of playful suspicion.

"And to what do I owe the pleasure?" He inquired with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "You're up to something, aren't you, mio dolcezzo?"

You shook your head, your faux serious expression suddenly shifting into a wide grin. "No, no," you responded, your voice laden with a faux sense of urgency. "This is a matter of very serious business, my dear. C’mere." With a playful flourish, you waggled your fingers and extended a hand in a hopeful invitation.

Once your fingers had interlaced together, the two of you ventured further into the back corners of the garden. Eventually, your steps came to a halt, leading you to a secluded alcove adorned by a magnificent orange tree. Its branches gracefully bowed under the weight of growing fruit imbued with the warm hues of a setting sun. Primo’s eyes sparkled with delight as his gaze swept over the nearly picturesque scene before him, his eyes moving from the lush emerald leaves to your face. A smile played upon his lips as he clasped your hands in his own, your fingers entwined like an unbreakable bond.

“Ah, you’ve led me to the orange tree,” he whispered, a blend of curiosity and surprise clearly evident in his words. A confused chuckle escaped him.

“I had planned on harvesting these in a few days time.” he admitted with a hint of amusement.

Before he could continue, you drew his attention to a particularly low-hanging branch which bent under the weight of a perfectly ripe orange. Excitement brimmed in your voice as you pointed it out, the already wrinkled sleeve of his shirt crumpled further in your fist in attempt to pull his body closer to the branch in question.

“But look! This one is ripe today.”

Leaning over your shoulder, Papa reached up to gracefully pluck the orange from its branch. A glimmer of admiration danced in your eyes as you watched his movements, amazed by the confidence held in the simple swing of his arm as he brought it back down to open his palm in a proposal.

“Are you suggesting we share our first orange of the harvest?” He gently turned the fruit in his hand, inspecting the dip where the gentle curve of a leather peel met the wooden stem. The time spent considering what he had asked was closer to a day dream rather than a debate on your actual answer, artificial hesitation induced by an overactive imagination. After a few moments your distraction was cut short by the feel of firm, pitted rind being pressed into your palm. “We must eat it together, of course," His expression beamed with a sense of pride as he spoke, eagerly presenting you with the literal fruit of his labor as a treasure to be cherished, shared.

“I’ve always thought oranges are best when split with someone else.” It was hard to resist a smile while agreeing and holding the orange up to the light to study it for yourself. Sitting down in the grass under the tree, there’s a comforting wave of tranquility as you lean back against the textured bark before pushing a fingernail against the rough skin of the fruit and slowly beginning to pull it apart. Primo slowly sits down next to you with a soft sigh as his muscles stretch, your shoulders bumping together sending a rush of electricity through your veins even after all the time you’d spent together.

"You know, you're quite good at peeling these things," he mentions quietly as he studies your movements. "How do you do it so effortlessly?" He asks curiously, raising a brow. You laugh in response, the sound twinkling like wind chimes in the light breeze as you held out a slice of the orange to Primo.

“Lots of practice. Oranges are my favorite.”

"Orange peeling is a rather unique skill to practice," The grin that shines on his face could easily beat out the brilliance of the sun when he reaches out to take the section of fruit.

“You can peel it so easily and swiftly," He continues with a hint of admiration in his voice.

“You always make the simplest of things most interesting. Thank you for offering your skills to me, mia arancia." His attempts to butter you up make you laugh, scooting closer to him in order to duck under his arm despite the summer heat that still lingered in the air.

"We'll have to share one each day, sì?" He suggests while biting into the orange slice, the sweet juice dribbling on his chin and smearing along the black lines of his face paint that was already distorted by the sweat of the day.

“I would like that very much. It’ll remind you to take a break, too.” You tease Primo playfully. Despite being retired, he still insists upon spending long days tending to his plants, rare to take a rest without being prompted. The thought of meeting every day for something so small simmered in your mind, the tender domesticity of being near one another for no real reason other than to exist. Together.

“Did you know there’s a lot of poetry about sharing oranges with your loved ones?” You ask suddenly as you pop a slice of the juicy fruit into your mouth and continue to peel the opposite side.

"I didn't know that," he admits. "About the poetry." He pauses for a moment. "What does it say?" He asks quietly while he lays his head atop yours, content to watch your fingers move swiftly to continue separating the sections.

“It’s all symbolic of sharing your life and love in a gentle way. A simple act of service can carry great meaning, you see?”

Pure contentment bubbles in your chest as you feel Papa shift closer to you and the feather light flutter of his lips pressing a kiss against your shoulder is enough to make you wonder if you have ever truly felt this peaceful before. You hold up another piece of the fruit close to his face in offering as you explain further.

“To love someone enough to cherish the mundane. I’ll read you some.”

And so you sat together until long after the horizon imitated the color of the fruit passed between between your hands, repeating lines of prose while sharing an orange or three with the sweet nectar sticky between your fingers and lips.

“[..] They got quarters and I had a half.

And that orange, it made me so happy,

As ordinary things often do

Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.

This is peace and contentment. It's new.

The rest of the day was quite easy.

I did all the jobs on my list

And enjoyed them and had some time over.

I love you. I'm glad I exist.”

-The Orange, Wendy Cope, 1992

The Fluffy Papa Series: Part 1

Alyssum

A Primo Story

No plot, no drama, no sad. Just fluff. Can be slightly suggestive. Fem reader.

Tiny rocks scrape and crunch beneath your boots as you walk the pebbled path toward the Ministry greenhouse. Wisteria hangs from the lattice framed above the door, interlaced with ivy which blankets the facade and reaches with eager fingers across the roof. Potted plants litter the ground of various shapes and sizes, the stone patio wet from a recent watering. 

“Did you have a nice drink?” You question the plants, smiling softly as you continue through the greenhouse door which hangs slightly ajar as if expecting your arrival. The smell of soil and freshly cut flowers greets you upon your entrance, and you take a moment to breathe in the space. Primo’s space. 

Primo prefers to do his gardening outside, the greenhouse used mostly as a workshop and a place for his little experiments. You step around a few stray gardening tools, following your nose to the beautiful bouquet expertly potted on a little table fit with a lace cloth. You lean forward to take in the honey-like fragrance, your smile growing. Each day, a new flower. A new meaning. Primo always says each flower tells a story. And these stories are for you. 

“Alyssum,” Primo’s warmly accented voice sends a butterfly fluttering about your stomach, and you turn to watch as he takes off his soil-stained gloves, laying them casually to the side. “Worth beyond beauty. And you, my petal, are worth far more than any flower I have ever grown.” His lips twitch with a smile. “Sì, you are beautiful as well. Perhaps tomorrow will be purple heather.”

You turn and delicately pick one of the blooms from the bouquet, approaching Primo with a blushing smile. He chuckles softly, his well-used hands reaching out to settle upon your hips the moment you are close enough. You hold out the flower, “And for my Papa? Whose green thumb, clever mind, and sweet nature are invaluable. And very much loved.”

Primo hums, his hands sliding higher, fingers squeezing and massaging your sides. He lets go of one to take the bloom and bring it to his hooked nose, inhaling deeply with a gentle sigh. A slow smirk crosses his thin lips, and he bops you on the head with the flower. “Sweet, my petal? You know more than anyone how passionate my true nature can be.” Primo’s words end on a soft growl and he pulls you closer, his head dipping into the crook of your neck. You squirm and giggle against him as he bites playfully at your soft skin, soothing it with his tongue. Your hands come to settle on his shoulders and you relax in his grip, sighing gently. Your eyes flutter shut as Primo drags a wet line to the shell of your ear. “Ti amo.” 

A tiny squeak of happiness erupts from your throat, and your cheeks flush with embarrassment. Primo grins, dropping another kiss to your neck. “Hmm, my petal?” He murmurs softly. “Does that make you happy?” 

“Very happy, Primo,” you say, your voice dreamy. You place a hand on his wrinkled cheek, feeling how soft the sagging skin is under your fingertips. “Oh! And…anc…anche…io?”

“Anche io, sì,” Primo encourages, smoothing a few flyaway hairs back from your forehead. “Very good! Learning more every day, amore. I am very proud.”

“It’s just a few words,” you say a little sheepishly, glancing to the side. 

Primo catches your chin with a thumb and forefinger, drawing your gaze back to his. “A few words that make my heart sing. It’s how you are willing to learn that makes me proud, not how quickly or how well.” He tickles your side and you can’t help but laugh, the sound of your happiness warming even an old man’s cheeks. “Do not worry, tesoro. You will be able to eavesdrop on my brothers’ conversations soon enough.” Primo’s eyes twinkle as you gasp, and he swallows your rebuttal with a kiss. He tastes of rosehips.

“Did I interrupt tea time?” You ask softly when you part, your lips brushing against his as you speak, neither of you willing to part fully. 

“Interrupt? Non essere sciocca! Do not be silly. You improve it,” Primo takes your hands, his thumbs brushing over your knuckles. “Rosehips for the arthritis, il mio amore for the soul.” He brings your hands to his lips and you beam, turning your hands in his to rub gently at his aching joints. Primo smiles sweetly at you for the gesture, his grip tightening as he pulls you toward his little parlor set up in a corner of the greenhouse. 

You delicately step over pots, and watch out for his propagating babies, ducking under drying herbs, and avoiding bubbling beakers on bunsen burners. Primo walks amongst it all, well-practiced and unworried, depositing you with a kiss into your favorite high backed chair: pink, and patched, and plush. You sit contentedly as he sets about preparing fresh tea things, humming some old Italian love song as he takes out a tin of loose tea. “Il mio amore’s favorite,” he mumbles to himself with a small nod, shaking the tin as if to accentuate his point. 

“Four sugars, please!” You say, leaning back in your chair with a broad smile. Primo glances at you with a raised brow, placing the kettle on the hot plate. “Or maybe five, I’ll have to taste it first,” you continue.

“How about we make it two,” Primo chuckles, approaching your chair. He makes a gesture with both of his hands to rise, and you stand. Primo takes your seat and then slowly pulls you down onto his lap, adjusting you here and there so you’re both comfortable. “Don’t give me that pout.” His finger taps your bottom lip. “I won’t have you diluting the flavor.” 

You sigh, and in favor of replying, you nuzzle your nose into his cheek. You drape an arm loosely over his shoulders while your other hand becomes occupied greebling his ear. You press little kisses on his face, and Primo practically coos. His hands can’t decide where they want to touch, his fingers traveling up your spine, over your thighs, across your stomach. They eventually settle on cradling your face. Primo looks at you with unfettered adoration, his eyelids hooded and mouth drawn into a lovesick smile. 

“I do not know what I did,” he whispers. “To deserve you. But I will pray to Lucifer every day to keep you.”

You close your eyes and focus on the feeling of his gnarled hands on your cheeks. Your fingertips explore the wrinkled and rough skin of his face, the wiry white hairs which are barely hanging on atop his head, the divots across his forehead, and the sagging skin of his neck. Alyssum. Worth beyond beauty. Primo earned every line of his face from hard work, dedication, and a life as well-lived as any of us could wish for. And a love like his? Completely worth it.

Yeehaw 🤠

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There is still hope. Say it out loud. Palestine will be free. The Palestinian people will celebrate their culture and heritage with each other. We will love and be loved. Do not fall into the trap of despair.