Valentines Day 14/02/25

He'll be leaving a very proper

bouquet for Peter's

mail . A hand- written letter saying

it came from the Sistine as a

token " for taking care of the

camerlengo " .

could be an alibi but

at the same time the cursive

says enough about who it

came from and what for .

Happy valentines , Peter .

Answer as Peter back to Gio

[A neatly folded note, slipped into a return envelope, carrying the faintest trace of ink smudged by fingers that hesitated just a moment too long.]

Gio,

How very… thoughtful of you. A token from the Sistine, no less—do I detect a touch of irony, or just the usual flair for the dramatic? Either way, I’ll be sure to admire the craftsmanship before ensuring it finds a respectable home.

The letter, however—now, that’s something else. A signature would’ve been redundant, wouldn’t it? The cursive alone might as well whisper your name. You do realize subtlety is an art, not just an excuse to let someone else say it out loud.

Happy Valentine’s, Gio. I assume I should be flattered.

—Peter

The least he expects was a letter

in return . Somehow , as Francis

brough the nest envelope to him,

Gio was returned to the feeling

of having his former affairs .

Ilya Shostakovich .

the spy . and he was damn good

at it . The letters came sleek the

way they left his hands . he was reminded of his past and ,

opening the letter ? He cannot help

but feel the familiar nervousness

though only this time , it wasn't

fear for his life but uncertainty

about how he must present

himself .

what suit? what shoes ?

what should be brought ? the letter was kept in his

chest pocket , hidden beneath

fine fabrics of his clothes .

never had he finished so much

in a long while . As the evening

came , he made sure he gave

the wolf an undivided attention .

no worries from the cult and the

Sistine ; he's there, waiting for him like he was told .

The cardinal's Royce is resting

under dark shades of trees .

watching, waiting . cautious

they might be caught .

The Royce rested beneath the trees, shrouded in shadows, its polished surface catching only the faintest sliver of moonlight. The evening air carried a quiet hum, thick with something unspoken, anticipation, recognition, the weight of all that had led them here.

Peter stood just outside his caravan, his figure bathed in the soft glow spilling from within. He hadn’t moved toward Gio yet, hadn’t broken the careful space between them. But his gaze had already done so, tracing the familiar lines of the man before him, drinking in the way the night settled around him.

"You’re early."

His voice was steady, but there was warmth beneath it, something softer threading through his words. His hands remained tucked into his pockets, but not out of indifference. His thumb pressed absently against the smooth edge of his lighter, a familiar anchor, something to keep his hands from reaching too soon.

"Didn’t think you’d be the one waiting."

His lips curved, just slightly, as his gaze flickered toward the Royce beneath the trees before returning to Gio, lingering this time, his expression unreadable yet impossibly present.

"Dressed for the occasion, I see."

It was an observation, but there was admiration laced through it, quiet and undeniable. Peter took a step forward, then another, closing the distance between them until the cool night air carried the scent of Gio’s cologne, something deep and steadying. Close enough that his voice, now lower, now softer, belonged to Gio alone.

"Shall we?"

It wasn’t just a question. It was an invitation. An answer.

Gio was rather nervous.

he took some time staying inside

the car , and he certainly took

some time to consider his actions

for when he comes out .

He'll follow . a soft thud as he

shuts the door behind , he'll then

join him with an unsure stare .

“ Buonasera . ” The usual greeting he'll give .

He won't attend to cult meetings

for the night and instead join the

other . If he's honest, it was the

first time he's clueless for so

long . All he wished was to be a

man of his word and accept the

invitation he was sent .

and see Peter. The night is calming . Makes him

less infuriated. Makes him feel

hidden . 

“ I didn't want to disappoint . ”

While the thought of asking him

if he received the bouquet

lingered in his mind , he decided

not to bring it up ; he still doesn't

have the confidence yet . For now, he'll follow his lead .

crisps leaves beneath his steps,

then the cold breeze .

“ I took the car with me just

in case you have the time . . .

If . . . of course .

I wanted to show you something

later too if you don't mind . ”

The night air bit at Peter’s exposed skin through the slats of the door as he stood and watched Gio linger in the car. He saw the slight shift of movement through the windshield, the hesitation that extended longer than it should have. In Peter’s chest was not impatience but rather something else, something quieter. A knowing.

Then, at last, a soft thud. The door closed, and Gio got out.

Peter didn’t move right away. He just took him in, how he hesitated before he came over, how he looked, uncertain but steady in its own way. It was not a common sight, this version of Gio. And Peter had always been the kind of person to notice rare things.

"Buonasera."

The greeting was as familiar as his own name, but the way it came out, carefully measured, as if it carried more weight than it had any right to, made Peter’s lips twitch in something resembling amusement, something resembling understanding.

“You, you didn’t want to let the team down?” he repeated, slightly tilting his head, his tone neither questioning nor teasing, just… there, as if turning over the words like they were important. Because they were.

He let a pause linger, let the quiet night speak for itself before moving just a little closer, not close enough to overwhelm, but close enough for Gio to feel like he was really being seen.

"You didn’t."

They made a soft, crisp sound as they moved over the leaves below, and the breeze slipped between them, chilling whatever warmth their proximity created. Peter looked back and forth between the car and Gio, his face inscrutable but his gaze steadfast.

"You brought the car." A statement, not a question. A consideration.

“And you want to show me something." Another pause. A moment in which Peter let the words linger, let himself contemplate all the things that could mean. And then, after a breath, his lips curled a little.

"Then let’s go."

No hesitation. No conditions. Just that simple, steady acceptance. Because of the fact that Gio had come, that he had chosen to be here, and Peter knew, knew enough not to allow that choice to go without the gravity it deserved.

In silence, he found peace . Gio

was more expressive in it .

He's glad he was allowed to take

him as company and he's glad to

lead him to his ride .

“ I received your letter and thought

of dropping by . ”

but the truth is , he didn't need

to write, no . Gio will come to him no matter what .

Opening the door, he'll wait

for him to enter the other seat

before he follows in .

“ I'm glad you have the time.

I have Elias care for Carlo until

we return . ” he glanced at him

as the key was turned, giving a

faint smile before leaving .

He isn't sure if he's supposed to let

Peter know , but perhaps it is about

time he does .

Without another thought ,

The cardinal drove . The night

is young ; surely he'll be there

just in time .

“ . . . how are you ? ”

a . . . Bizarre question to come

out of his lips . The way he held the driving wheel shown

a slight hint of nervousness .

In Gio's defense , hes merely

trying to be more humane

towards the other priest .

Something he obscured from

him for so long .

“ Not a very tiring day ? Carlo

had been prancing earlier in

the altars . . . ” a small chuckle .

“ He's been returning to his

good senses, Cardinal . . . Mortati

said . ”

Mortati , ah . . . a name he

hasn't spoken about for ages .

Had he made amendments?

weren't they always . . . in debate

about the welfare of the

Camerlengo?

What had shifted this time ?

The cardinal continues to drive,

only having one destination in

mind . He would tell , and it'll

take an hour or a little more . . .

at least he knew it'll be special .

Ah, hopefully Francis had the

halls cleaned . He hasn't visited

in awhile .

The night sprawled all around them, wide and quiet, the sort of stillness Peter had learned to crave. As if he had always belonged there, he stepped into the passenger seat slowly, purposefully, and slid right into place as if it was never going to be any other way.

“I got your letter and thought I’d stop by.”

Peter tilted his head a little, peering at him in the ruddy light of the dashboard. The way Gio put it, so measured, so level, it almost made him smile. They both knew the letter hadn’t been needed.

"You would have come anyway."

There was no accusation in his tone, just quiet acknowledgment. A truth, spoken, with no expectation.

The engine grumbled below them as the car glided forward into motion, away from the trees, the gentle hum of the tires occupying the gaps where words might otherwise go. Peter let the silence linger. Gio required it, flourished in it, in the way it enabled him to exist beyond the sum of his obligations. Peter, too, took solace in it.

But then, a question. One Peter hadn’t expected.

"How are you?"

He rotated a little in his seat, a glint of surprise darting across his face before he let his eyes follow Gio’s hands to the wheel. Tension, just a trace of it. A hint of something unspoken. Peter could have brushed it off, given an easy answer, simple and expected. But that wasn’t the reason he was here.

“Not an exhausting day, no,” he said, speaking more softly then, words intended for the gap between them, no longer the night past the windshield. “Though I can only imagine Carlo gave the altars hell.”

He let out a puff of air, what might have been a laugh passing his lips, and leaned his head back against the seat, thinking.

“Now he’s going back to his good sense, is he? Mortati must be relieved. Or,” his lips quirked a bit “ worried, depending on what good sense means these days.”

There was history behind that name, behind the debates they had jockeyed for so long. Peter thought, briefly, about what had shifted, what had changed the terms of the conversation. But he didn’t press. Not yet.

Instead, he observed Gio, the soft reflections of lampposts dancing across his cheeks as he cruised, his mouth a line as he focused on the road but his eyes intent on driving forward. There was something at the end of this drive. He could feel it, rumbling under the surface, a thing he couldn’t touch.

He let the quiet return, not out of hesitation, but out of something more patient.

"Tell me where we’re going."

Not a demand. Not suspicion. Just a request infused with something precious: trust.