Archive of Our Own

The church smelled like lilies, rain, and old polished wood.

Alfred lingered near the back, standing half in the shadow of a stone pillar with his hands folded in front of him. His black coat was still damp at the shoulders from the weather outside, though he had taken his time coming in. He had not wanted to arrive with the crowd. He had not wanted to stand in the aisle while everyone turned to look and tried to decide what, exactly, he was doing there.

Rome Vargas had deserved better than a scene at his funeral.

So had Romano.

Alfred kept his head slightly bowed and let the low murmur of voices pass around him. Most of the people filling the pews would not know him. Not really. A few might have heard his name in relation to Romano, if they were close enough to the family to remember that there had once been a wedding, and that the American man in the photographs had not been seen at Romano’s side in years. To them, if they placed him at all, he would be the other Mr. Vargas.

That thought pulled strangely at his chest.

He had not used the name in a long time. Not out loud. Not where anyone could hear.

A few of the older men might recognize more than that. Men who had stood beside Rome in the old days, men with silver at their temples and sharp eyes that missed very little. Alfred caught one glance from near the aisle. Then another. Recognition passed over a lined face and disappeared just as quickly, tucked away behind mourning and manners.

No one approached him.

Alfred was grateful for that.

He had come for Rome, not for explanations.

At the front of the church, the casket rested beneath white flowers and candlelight. It looked too still, too formal, too unlike the man Alfred remembered. Rome Vargas had always seemed impossible to quiet. Even sitting down, even silent, he had filled a room. He had made men nervous with a look and children comfortable with the same hand that wore heavy gold rings. He had been dangerous, of course he had, but he had also laughed loudly and eaten well and called Alfred boy long after Alfred was grown enough to know better.

Alfred’s throat tightened before he could stop it.

He remembered Rome’s office, warm with cigar smoke and espresso. He remembered being twenty-three, reckless and grinning, leaning against the old man’s desk like he had not just done something most men would spend the rest of their lives trying to forget.

“You’re either very brave or very stupid, boy,” Rome had told him.

Alfred had smiled around a split lip. “Can’t I be both?”

Rome had laughed until he had to set his glass down.

That laugh had been the beginning of everything.

Before Romano, before the wedding, before all the ways Alfred had found to ruin what he loved, Rome had looked at him and seen something worth keeping close. Alfred had never known what to do with that kind of approval. He had carried it anyway, tucked somewhere under the ribs.

He had meant to stand in the back for the service. Pay his respects. Leave before anyone felt obligated to acknowledge him.

Then his eyes drifted toward the first row.

Romano sat at the front with Feliciano beside him.

For a moment, Alfred could not look away.

Feliciano was bent forward slightly, his shoulders rounded, one hand pressed near his mouth as if he were holding himself together by force. He looked younger than he should have. Softer. He had never belonged to this part of the family, not truly. Rome had kept him away from it as much as he could, had guarded that softness with all the brutality required to preserve it.

Romano sat straight beside him.

Too straight.

His black suit fit perfectly, severe and expensive, the line of his shoulders rigid beneath it. He faced forward without moving. From the back, Alfred could not see his expression, but he did not need to. He knew that stillness. Romano had always gone still when something hurt too much. The world mistook it for coldness because the world had never bothered to learn him properly.

Alfred had.

Once.

There should have been more people with him.

That was the thought that made Alfred’s breath catch. Not that the church was empty, because it was not. The pews were full of mourners, associates, cousins, old friends, careful enemies pretending to be respectful. There were flowers enough to fill a garden and enough whispered prayers to cover every sin in the building twice over.

But the front row, the family row, held only Feliciano and Romano.

And one empty space at Romano’s right hand.

Alfred looked at it for too long.

His own hands tightened together.

He had stopped wearing his ring years ago. At first, he had told himself it was practical. Safer. Cleaner. Easier not to carry Romano’s name into places where men might spit on it or use it. Later, when practical had worn thin, he had told himself it was kinder. Romano did not need a reminder tied to him from a distance.

But the legal papers had never changed. Neither of them had signed anything. Neither of them had ended what they had made, only stepped away from it and let silence grow thick between them.

On paper, Alfred was still Alfred F. Vargas.

Romano’s husband.

Rome’s grandson by marriage.

The empty place in the front row seemed to know it.

The priest moved near the altar, and the room began to settle into that heavy, expectant quiet that came just before ceremony. Alfred swallowed. This was the moment to stay where he was. To be respectful. To keep his distance like he had intended.

Instead, he thought of Rome’s voice.

“He does not hate you,” the old man had said once, after Romano had stormed out of a room cursing in two languages because Alfred had made him laugh at the wrong moment.

Alfred had not believed him then.

He wanted to now.

He stepped out from behind the pillar.

Only a few heads turned as he started down the aisle. A woman near the back glanced up, frowned as if trying to place his face, then looked toward the front pew with sudden understanding. One of Rome’s old men watched him pass without expression. Alfred kept walking.

His shoes made almost no sound against the stone floor.

He did not look at the casket. Not yet. If he did, he might stop. If he stopped, he might lose his nerve, and there were already too many things in his life he had walked away from because leaving had felt easier than staying.

The empty space waited.

Alfred reached the front row and paused for only a second.

Then he slipped into the pew and sat down at Romano’s right side.

He faced forward. His hands clasped tightly in his lap. His shoulder rested close enough to Romano’s that there could be no mistaking the choice, but not so close that it asked for forgiveness.

For one heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then Romano turned his head.

Alfred felt it more than saw it, that sharp pull of attention beside him. Romano’s stare touched the side of his face like a hand, familiar enough that Alfred’s chest tightened before he could brace for it.

He did not look back.

Not yet.

If he looked at Romano now, while the priest was opening his worn leather book, while Rome’s casket sat only feet away, Alfred was afraid every fragile thing he had used to hold himself together would break apart in public.

Romano said nothing.

That was mercy, maybe. Or shock. Or anger held in the teeth.

Feliciano noticed next. Alfred heard his soft intake of breath, felt him shift slightly on Romano’s other side. For a moment, Alfred thought Feliciano might say his name. Instead, a hand reached across Romano’s lap, careful and trembling, and rested over Alfred’s.

Alfred looked down.

Feliciano’s fingers were cold.

He had always been kind. Even when kindness cost more than he understood.

Alfred turned his hand palm-up and squeezed once.

Feliciano made a small sound, almost a sob, and then drew back before anyone could see too much.

The priest began to speak.

Alfred listened as best he could. He listened to the careful phrases about legacy and devotion and family, words polished smooth enough to cover the harder truths without denying them outright. Rome had been called many things in life. Respected. Feared. Honored. Loved, by the few people allowed close enough to survive loving him.

The priest settled on beloved.

Alfred bowed his head.

Beside him, Romano did not move.

There were prayers. There was a hymn sung by voices too restrained to fill the church properly. There were old women dabbing at their eyes with black lace handkerchiefs and old men staring straight ahead as if grief were something that could be negotiated with by refusing to blink.

When Feliciano stood to speak, Romano’s hand moved for the first time.

He reached for his brother’s wrist.

Feliciano looked down at him. Whatever passed between them was silent, brief, and full of a lifetime. Then Feliciano nodded and stepped toward the lectern.

His speech was not long. Alfred doubted he could have managed long. He spoke of Sunday dinners and Rome teaching him to make sauce badly because Rome had never learned to follow anyone’s recipe but his own. He spoke of being a child and thinking his grandfather knew everything. His voice broke only once, when he said that Rome had always made him feel protected.

Romano looked down at his hands.

Alfred’s jaw tightened.

He knew better than most what protection looked like in the Vargas family. It was not clean. It was not gentle. Sometimes it looked like locked doors, like secrets, like blood washed out of shirt cuffs before dinner. Sometimes it looked like sending one grandson into the dark so the other could stay in the light.

Feliciano stepped down.

Romano rose next.

A small stir went through the church, not loud enough to be disrespectful. Just enough to show that people had been waiting. Alfred felt it ripple through the room. The shift in posture. The lifted chins. The quiet, measuring attention of men who had not come only to mourn.

Romano walked to the lectern alone.

He did not take out a paper. He did not adjust the microphone. He stood there for a moment with both hands resting on either side of the wood, his shoulders squared and his face pale.

Then he looked at Rome’s photograph.

“My grandfather hated long speeches,” Romano said.

A faint, startled breath moved through the room. Not quite laughter, but close.

Romano’s mouth twitched without softening.

“He said men who needed too many words were usually trying to hide the truth. So I will not make this long.”

Alfred could almost hear Rome grumbling in approval.

Romano looked out over the church. His gaze did not settle on Alfred. Not once. Somehow, that made it worse.

“Rome Vargas was not an easy man,” he said. “He was not a simple man. Anyone here who says otherwise is either a liar or did not know him well enough to be speaking.”

This time, there was a little more sound. A low murmur. A few wet laughs.

Romano continued, his voice steady.

“But he was ours. He protected what was his. He taught us that family is not only blood. It is loyalty. It is choice. It is who stands beside you when standing there is difficult.”

Alfred’s hands went still in his lap.

Romano paused.

Only for a breath.

Then he said, “I will miss him.”

That was all.

No grand promise. No declaration. No public claim of the chair everyone knew he had already inherited.

Just that.

I will miss him.

Romano stepped down from the lectern, and the church rose around him as if pulled up by a string.

The rest of the service blurred.

Alfred stood when Romano stood. Sat when Romano sat. He did not reach for him. He did not trust himself to. But he stayed there, shoulder near shoulder, while prayers were spoken and blessings given, while the casket was lifted and carried down the aisle.

When it passed, Alfred finally looked.

The dark wood gleamed beneath the candlelight. One of the pallbearers was an old associate of Rome’s, a man Alfred remembered from years ago. Their eyes met for the briefest second.

The man lowered his chin.

Not to Jones.

Not to the old weapon Rome had once pointed where he pleased.

To Mr. Vargas.

Alfred felt the acknowledgement settle over him with a weight he had not expected.

Outside, the rain had softened to a mist.

The burial was private, though private meant half the city seemed to know better than to approach and the other half watched from a respectful distance. Alfred kept back then. He had taken the front pew, and that had already been more than he had planned, more than he had earned.

He watched Romano stand beside the grave without an umbrella, rain silvering the dark strands of his hair. Feliciano stood under one held by a cousin, crying openly now. Romano did not cry. He took the folded flag of family honor, whatever that meant in a world like theirs, and he accepted the final condolences with a hand that never shook.

Alfred remained beneath a cypress tree at the edge of the cemetery.

He told himself he would leave after.

He had a car parked three blocks away. A small apartment under a name no one here knew. A bag packed lightly enough that he could disappear before dusk if he needed to.

The service ended.

People began to drift toward waiting cars. Black coats, black umbrellas, soft voices. Feliciano was taken aside by an aunt. Romano remained at the grave.

Alfred waited until he was sure no one needed him.

Then he turned to go.

“Leaving already?”

The voice stopped him cold.

Romano stood a few yards behind him, rain clinging to his lashes, his expression carved into something too controlled to read.

Alfred turned slowly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Years had changed Romano, but not beyond recognition. He was sharper now. Leaner in the face. There were faint lines at the corners of his eyes that had not been there before, earned by grief or anger or the kind of responsibility that aged a man while leaving him beautiful enough to hurt. His mouth was the same. His eyes were the same.

God help Alfred, his eyes were the same.

“I didn’t want to intrude,” Alfred said.

Romano’s eyebrows lifted. “You sat in the family row.”

Alfred looked away first. “Yeah.”

“That was your idea of not intruding?”

“No.” Alfred swallowed. “That was me remembering where I was supposed to be.”

Something flickered across Romano’s face.

It vanished quickly, but Alfred saw it. He had always been too good at noticing Romano. That had been part of the problem. He noticed everything except when to stay.

Romano stepped closer. “You came for him.”

“I did.”

“Not for me.”

Alfred almost lied.

It would have been easier. Kinder, maybe, in the short term. He could say he had only come for Rome, only to pay respects, only because history demanded it.

But Romano had been lied to enough.

“I came because of him,” Alfred said. “I sat down because of you.”

Romano’s mouth tightened.

Rain gathered at the edge of his jaw and slid down his throat, disappearing beneath the collar of his perfect black shirt.

“You do not get to say things like that and then vanish again.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

The words cut sharper because Romano did not raise his voice. He sounded tired. That was worse than anger. Alfred could survive anger. He had lived on anger before.

Tired meant something had been worn thin.

Alfred pushed his wet hair back from his forehead. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to say to you.”

Romano laughed once, without humor. “That has never stopped you before.”

“No,” Alfred admitted. “Guess not.”

They stood there in the mist, close enough to speak quietly, far enough apart that the space between them felt deliberate.

Romano looked toward the line of cars. “Feliciano was glad to see you.”

“I was glad to see him too.”

“He missed you.”

Alfred nodded. “I missed him.”

Romano’s eyes cut back to him. “Only him?”

There it was.

Alfred took a breath that hurt.

“No.”

Romano stared at him.

Alfred forced himself to hold still beneath it.

“No, Mano,” he said softly. “Not only him.”

The nickname landed between them like something fragile dropped onto stone.

Romano’s face changed.

Only slightly. A tightening at the mouth. A brief, painful narrowing of the eyes. Alfred wondered if anyone else would have noticed. He wondered if Rome would have laughed at them both for thinking time had made them strangers when they still knew exactly where to wound each other and where to soothe.

“Do not call me that,” Romano said.

Alfred nodded once. “Okay.”

Romano looked furious that he had agreed so easily.

It almost made Alfred smile. Almost.

“You look tired,” Alfred said before he could stop himself.

Romano’s eyes flashed. “And you look like hell.”

“Yeah, well.” Alfred glanced toward the grave. “Been keeping busy.”

“Doing what?”

The question was too quick.

Too pointed.

Alfred looked at him.

Romano’s jaw was tight now, his expression still controlled but not empty. He wanted to know. Not in the way old associates wanted to know, not because there were accounts to settle or debts to calculate.

He wanted to know if Alfred was still what he had been.

Alfred pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat. “Lying low.”

Romano’s stare sharpened.

“I mean it,” Alfred said. “I’ve been trying to get out.”

“No one gets out easily.”

“I know.”

“You knew that before you ever met my grandfather.”

Alfred’s jaw tightened.

There was no accusation in Romano’s voice. Not exactly. Just truth. Alfred had been dangerous before Rome ever put him to work. Before Romano ever kissed him in the back hall of that old house with flour on his sleeve from helping Feliciano make dinner. Before he had promised, foolishly and sincerely, that he could be something softer if Romano wanted him to be.

“I did,” Alfred said.

Romano looked away first.

For a while, the rain filled the silence.

“I thought I could keep you away from it,” Romano said.

Alfred stilled.

Romano’s mouth twisted, almost like the words tasted bad. “Which was stupid. You were already in it. You had been in it longer than I wanted to admit. But once you were with me, once you were working only for us, I thought...” He stopped, jaw tightening. “I thought if I kept you out of the meetings, away from the decisions, away from the men who would look at you and see a weapon instead of my husband, then maybe I could have one part of my life that did not belong to this.”

Alfred’s chest tightened.

“Romano.”

“I pushed you away,” Romano said, voice low. “I know that.”

Alfred had no answer.

Romano looked at him then, grief and anger both stripped raw. “You left. That was yours. You decided for both of us, and I hated you for it.”

“I know.”

“But I made it easy for you to believe there was no place for you.” Romano’s eyes shone, furious with himself now. “I kept telling myself I was protecting you. I was keeping you clean, as if you had not come to me with blood already on your hands. As if I had not loved you anyway.”

Alfred swallowed hard.

“I never wanted clean from you,” he said. “I wanted honest.”

Romano flinched.

Alfred hated himself for it, but he did not take it back.

“I know,” Romano whispered.

The honesty between them hurt worse than the lies had.

Alfred stepped closer.

Romano did not move back.

“I left because I thought I was becoming the thing everyone wanted me to be,” Alfred said. “Rome’s man. Your guard dog. The American who could make problems disappear. And then you started shutting doors in my face, and I thought maybe you saw it too. Maybe you were ashamed of what I was.”

Romano’s face broke for half a second.

“Idiot,” he said, but it came out too soft to sting.

Alfred gave a miserable little laugh. “Yeah.”

“I was afraid.”

“I know that now.”

“I was afraid every time you left the house.” Romano’s voice shook. “I was afraid someone would put you in the ground for me. I was afraid I would ask too much of you because I knew you would do it. I was afraid my grandfather liked you because you were useful to him, and I hated myself for being proud of you anyway.”

Alfred closed his eyes.

Romano stepped closer, close enough now that Alfred could feel the warmth of him through the cold rain.

“And then you left,” Romano said. “And I learned that keeping you at a distance did not make losing you hurt less.”

Alfred opened his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Romano’s mouth trembled. “So am I.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Alfred reached out slowly, giving Romano every chance to refuse, and touched the back of his hand.

Romano looked down at their fingers.

He did not pull away.

A car door shut somewhere behind them. Voices murmured near the cemetery gate.

Romano inhaled, unsteady, then withdrew his hand.

“There is a gathering at the house,” he said.

“I figured.”

“You should come.”

Alfred blinked.

Romano looked irritated by his surprise. “You sat in the family row. You cannot skulk off now without making it stranger.”

“Is that why you’re asking?”

“No.”

The answer came too fast.

Alfred’s chest hurt.

Romano glanced toward the waiting cars. “Feliciano will want you there.”

“Romano.”

His name made Romano stop.

Alfred searched his face. “Do you want me there?”

Romano looked at him as if the question was cruel.

Then he said, “I wanted you there for years.”

Alfred had no defense against that.

He nodded. “Then I’ll come.”

The Vargas house looked almost the same.

That was the first cruel thing.

Alfred had expected time to have marked it somehow, but the gates still opened onto the long drive, the cypress trees still lined the path, and the house still rose at the end of it with warm stone and lit windows blurred by rain.

Inside, grief had been dressed with food and flowers. Silver trays, coffee, wine, soft voices. Men in dark suits stood in corners pretending not to watch Romano. Women kissed Feliciano’s cheeks and told him Rome had loved him best, which made him cry harder every time.

Feliciano found Alfred almost immediately.

“You came,” he said, and hugged him before Alfred could answer.

Alfred held him carefully. “Yeah. I came.”

Feliciano pulled back, eyes wet. “You look too thin.”

Alfred huffed. “Good to see you too.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Feliciano looked between him and Romano, hope and worry moving openly across his face.

Romano scowled. “Do not start.”

“I did not say anything.”

“You were thinking loudly.”

Feliciano wiped at his eyes. “I am grieving. I can think as loudly as I want.”

Despite everything, Alfred smiled.

Romano saw it.

For half a second, the old shape of them returned. Feliciano between them, Romano pretending to be annoyed, Alfred watching Romano with too much warmth.

Then Antonio approached, his usual easy expression dimmed by the day. He touched Feliciano’s shoulder first, gentle and familiar, then looked at Romano.

“Sorry,” Antonio said quietly. “There are men waiting to speak with you in the study.”

Romano’s face went still.

Alfred noticed.

Antonio noticed Alfred noticing.

“They say it’s urgent,” Antonio added, though his tone made it clear what he thought of that.

Romano’s mouth flattened. “Of course they do.”

Feliciano looked between them. “Not today.”

Romano softened for him at once, but only for him. “It’s all right.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“I know.” Romano touched his brother’s cheek briefly. “Stay here with Antonio.”

Feliciano looked like he might argue, but Antonio wrapped an arm around him and murmured something in his ear.

Romano started toward the hall.

Alfred followed.

Romano stopped after three steps and turned. “What are you doing?”

“Coming with you.”

“This is not your problem.”

Alfred held his gaze. “Legally, it still is.”

The room seemed to quiet around them, though maybe that was only in Alfred’s head.

Romano’s eyes dropped to Alfred’s left hand.

No ring.

Alfred felt the absence like a burn.

Romano looked back at him. “Convenient time to remember that.”

Alfred took the hit because he deserved at least part of it.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I remembered before I walked down that aisle.”

Romano stared at him.

Alfred lowered his voice. “You don’t have to let me into everything today. But don’t walk in there alone because you think you’re supposed to.”

Something shifted in Romano’s face.

Old fear. Old habit. The same instinct that had once made him close doors to keep Alfred safe.

This time, he did not close it.

“Fine,” Romano said. “But do not speak unless I ask you to.”

Alfred almost smiled. “Yes, boss.”

Romano’s glare could have cut glass.

But he let Alfred follow.

The study still smelled faintly of tobacco and leather. Rome’s chair sat empty behind the desk. No one had dared sit in it.

Good.

Three men stood when Romano entered. Alfred did not know their names, and he did not care to learn them. They were old enough to have served Rome, polished enough to pretend respect, and bold enough to test a grieving man in his own house.

Their eyes shifted to Alfred.

Recognition did not come from all of them.

But it came from one.

A brief narrowing of the eyes. A memory tucked quickly behind courtesy.

Romano noticed that too.

“Gentlemen,” Romano said.

The oldest inclined his head. “Our condolences.”

“Accepted.”

“Your grandfather was a great man.”

“Yes.”

“He leaves behind many arrangements. Some of us thought it best to discuss continuity.”

“Continuity,” Romano repeated.

The word sounded poisonous in his mouth.

Alfred stood at his right side, hands relaxed, expression mild.

The men spoke carefully. They did not say weakness. They said uncertainty. They did not say opportunity. They said transition. They did not say Rome is gone and we want to know how much of you we can carve away before the body is cold.

Romano let them talk.

Alfred watched him listen.

That, more than anything, told him Romano was ready. The younger Romano would have snapped. This one stood still, let them mistake silence for permission, and waited until they had shown too much of themselves.

“My grandfather’s agreements stand,” Romano said at last. “His protections stand. His debts stand. His expectations stand. If anyone mistook mourning for negotiation, consider that mistake corrected.”

The room went quiet.

One of the men looked toward Alfred. “And Mr. Vargas?”

It took Alfred half a second to realize he meant him.

Romano answered before Alfred could.

“My husband stands with me.”

Alfred’s breath caught.

The man’s gaze moved between them. “Of course.”

Alfred saw the calculation change.

Good.

The meeting ended soon after that.

When the study door closed behind the men, silence filled the room so suddenly it felt physical.

Romano stood with his back to Alfred.

Alfred waited.

A clock ticked somewhere. Rain tapped against the windows.

Then Romano said, “I hated bringing you in there.”

Alfred’s chest tightened. “I know.”

Romano turned sharply. “Do not say that like you understand everything.”

“I don’t.”

“No,” Romano said. “You don’t.”

Alfred nodded.

Romano’s expression wavered. “I hated it because you were good at it.”

Alfred looked down.

“I hated how natural it felt. You there. Beside me.” Romano’s voice dropped. “I hated that part of me was relieved.”

“That doesn’t make you wrong.”

“It makes me exactly what I was afraid of becoming.”

“No,” Alfred said, firmer now. “It makes you someone who needed support.”

Romano’s mouth twisted.

“And I know I’m not the easiest kind of support,” Alfred added. “But I meant what I said. You don’t have to do this alone.”

Romano stared at him for a long moment.

Then his eyes dropped again to Alfred’s empty hand.

Alfred reached into the inner pocket of his coat.

Romano went still.

Slowly, Alfred drew out a small chain. On it hung a plain gold band, worn smooth from years of being touched in private.

Romano’s lips parted.

“I didn’t wear it,” Alfred said. “But I kept it.”

Romano looked at the ring like it had hurt him personally.

“That is cruel,” he whispered.

Alfred flinched.

Romano’s eyes flashed up to his. “Do you know that? Keeping it close enough to your heart while letting me think you had thrown it away?”

“I thought wearing it would put you in danger.”

“And did hiding it make either of us safe?”

“No.”

Romano’s face crumpled for half a second before he forced it back into place.

Alfred unclasped the chain with unsteady fingers. The ring fell into his palm, warm from his body.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “For leaving. For deciding for both of us. For thinking disappearing was the same thing as protecting you.”

Romano swallowed.

“And I’m sorry,” Romano said, “for making you feel like there was no room for you here unless you were useful.”

Alfred’s throat tightened.

Romano held out his hand.

Alfred stared at it.

“Put it on,” Romano said.

“Are you sure?”

“No.” Romano’s eyes were wet. “Do it anyway.”

Alfred took his hand.

The ring slid on easier than he deserved.

For a moment, both of them stared at it.

Then Romano touched the band with one finger, so lightly it barely counted.

“You are not forgiven,” he said.

“I understand.”

“You are not back because of one funeral.”

“No.”

“You do not get to stand beside me once and call that enough.”

“I won’t.”

Romano searched his face.

Alfred let him.

“I’m here,” Alfred said. “For as long as you’ll let me be.”

Romano’s mouth trembled before he pressed it flat.

Then he stepped closer, took Alfred’s face in both hands, and kissed him.

It was not gentle at first. It was grief and anger and years of silence, Romano’s fingers tight at Alfred’s jaw, Alfred’s hands hovering before settling at his waist. The kiss hurt a little. Alfred thought maybe it was supposed to.

Then Romano made a small broken sound against his mouth, and everything changed.

Alfred softened.

Romano did too, unwillingly, beautifully, like something unclenching after being held too tightly for too long. The next kiss was slower. Sadder. It tasted like rain and salt and coming home to a place that had never quite stopped being his.

When they parted, Romano stayed close.

His forehead touched Alfred’s.

“You left,” he whispered.

“I did.”

“I pushed.”

“Yeah,” Alfred said softly. “You did.”

Romano closed his eyes.

Alfred pulled him in carefully, giving him every chance to resist.

Romano came.

He tucked his face against Alfred’s neck and breathed there, uneven and quiet. Alfred held him in Rome’s study, in the heart of the house that had made both of them and nearly unmade them too.

Outside the door, the wake continued. The city shifted around Rome’s absence. Feliciano grieved in the next room. Antonio kept watch with a gentleness Alfred had always trusted more than he said.

Inside, for a little while, there was only this.

Romano’s hand at Alfred’s back.

Alfred’s ring returned to his finger.

Rain against the glass.

After a long time, Romano spoke.

“You will stay tonight.”

It was not a question.

Alfred pressed his mouth to Romano’s hair. “Okay.”

“In your room.”

Alfred’s heart stumbled.

Romano pulled back enough to glare at him, though the effect was ruined by his red eyes. “Do not look like that. Some of your things are still there.”

“You kept them?”

“I forgot to throw them away.”

Alfred’s mouth curved before he could stop it.

Romano’s glare sharpened. “Do not smile.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I missed you.”

Romano went quiet.

The words had come too easily. Too honestly.

Alfred did not take them back.

Romano looked at him for a long moment, then reached up and straightened Alfred’s damp collar with unnecessary precision.

“You can miss me upstairs,” he said. “After we get through the rest of this miserable day.”

Alfred covered Romano’s hand briefly with his own.

Together, they left the study.

When they returned to the wake, conversations softened and shifted around them. People noticed the ring. Of course they did. People in houses like this noticed everything.

Feliciano noticed first.

His eyes went wide. Then wet.

Then he smiled so brightly through his grief that Alfred had to look away for a second.

Romano muttered something under his breath in Italian.

Alfred caught only enough to know it was probably rude.

He stayed at Romano’s right side anyway.

Not forgiven. Not healed. Not fixed by one day, one funeral, one ring returned to its rightful place.

But when Romano’s hand found his beneath the cover of the crowd, Alfred held on.