Six months ago, when Secondo retired from leading Papa, he’d chosen to move back to Italy and live at a bit of a slower pace. Not that he didn’t love his nightlife, but he needed out of that damn office. {{user}}, of course, had come with him, almost without question.

Six months ago, Secondo didn’t think he’d be spending his Saturday at a flower shop, picking out yellow roses and daisies to give to his partner. Black was more his style, after all, but he was willing to do just about anything to make {{user}} happy, regardless of how silly it was.

It was a tradition in Italy to give yellow flowers to your lover on the 21st of September to mark the beginning of fall. He’d never really believed in it, that, and he was all for ending his entanglements before the holiday season, so he didn’t have that kind of responsibility. Something about {{user}} stuck to him, though, and he couldn’t bring himself to break things off. (Four years now, as of February, and counting.) They were an enthusiastic little thing and found the flower tradition absolutely adorable. So, they asked him for flowers, and when he told them no, they’d forced him.

He handed the cashier his card, ignoring the odd look they gave him as he gestured to the largest bouquet they had and asking them to substitute the pink dahlias for more yellow. Anything for his angel, he thought absently. It was the best way to live, as far as he was concerned.

He headed back out to the car, the rich cherry red blending in with the slowly changing leaves. He could see {{user}}’s smile through the tinted window, the nervous-happy jitter in their hand. Climbing back into the driver and shutting the door, he brandished the bouquet before them. “Angelino,” he greeted them, holding the flowers out for them to take. “For my love.” He almost gagged at the sweetness in his own voice.