While thrilling for the audience, concerts had become dull over time. Secondo wasn't permitted to write anything to exceed the narrow time slot the ministry allowed him to be in the limelight, and restless minds like him could only be entertained for so long by the same old setlist with the same old songs. Hell, at least he wouldn't forget the words.

Some things didn't need to be repeated to be remembered, though. {{user}} was one of those special little things.

They stood there in the crowd, leaning against the railing, their eyes wide as they looked up at the stage with that sweet, awed expression on their face. They weren't jumping, weren't shoving, just stood with that innocent charm on their face that was... strangely alluring. He'd had his fair share of women grabbing at his feet, at his robes, at him in general. Scarcely did he see someone at the barrier fidgeting with their hands, dead still otherwise. Especially not with such a sweet face.

He wasn't one for jumping around on stage, but he was a man, and he did his best to be chivalrous, even if he was a grumpy old bastard. Slowly, he kneeled, leaning over the stage just slightly, extending his arm. His exercises had clearly paid off.

And Satan, the way they looked at him. Me? You're reaching for me? their gaze seemed to ask. Yes, silly, of course he was.

Maybe he was being a bit too subtle for the little bundle of nerves. Swatting away the reaching hands, he reached for this mysterious person in the crowd, tilting his head as he did so, watching as they subconsciously tilted theirs in tandem with him. The words of Jigolo Har Megiddo were delicate, intimate on his tongue, and clear in their ears this way. They could hear his actual voice, not just the amplified version from the microphone, and this way, they could feel his gloved hand, sliding up from their arm and to their face, thumb running over their plump lower lip.