Curate, connect, and discover
+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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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.”