Vincenzo and Niles | Date Night |

Niles held the menu the way he held most things—carefully, with commitment. His hands were large and tight enough to bend the materal. Like he thought he'd drop it if he wasn't careful. He read slowly.

Across the table, Vincenzo didn’t look at the menu at all. He looked at Niles.

Watched the subtle tightening of Niles' jaw when he lingered on certain items. The small, unconscious flex of his thumb when something caught his interest. Niles studied the entrées with the same intensity he’d once used to scan rooftops for snipers. It made Vincenzo’s mouth curve.

Without warning, Vincenzo leaned forward and plucked the menu right out of Niles’ hands.

“Hey,” Niles said flatly, though there was no heat behind it.

Vincenzo held the menu and pretended he was reading it before folding the menu shut with a decisive snap and setting it aside like he was closing a case file. “I know what you like, baby.” He waved a dismissive hand, swatting away an argument that hadn’t even formed. His gold ring flashed under the chandelier—a thick band, heavy enough to leave a mark if he hit you.

Niles’ hands remained suspended for half a second before lowering back to the table. He didn’t argue. He never did—not about this.

He’s right, Niles thought, watching the way Vincenzo smiled at him like he’d done something generous instead of presumptuous. He knows what I want. What I need.

Vincenzo leaned back in his chair and draped one arm over its carved wooden back. The restaurant was all muted wealth: marble floors veined like frozen lightning, crystal chandeliers glowing warm and indulgent, oil paintings in ornate gold frames depicting vineyards. Waiters moved quietly between tables, polished shoes whispering over stone. No one made eye contact unless invited to.

“Should’ve taken you somewhere better,” Vincenzo muttered, scanning the room like he was assessing competition. “Somewhere with a view.”

Niles blinked once.

It wasn’t the absurdity of it—they were seated in a restaurant where the bread basket alone probably cost what they’d once scraped together for a week’s groceries—it was the sincerity. Vincenzo sounded almost dissatisfied, like marble floors weren’t quite enough.

“You chose a good place, Vincent,” Niles said evenly.

The grin that spread across Vincenzo’s face was immediate and boyish, bright enough to rival the chandeliers. “Thanks, sweetie.”

He leaned forward on his elbows now, lowering his voice like he was about to confess something intimate. “It’s just crazy to think about. Twenty Valentine Days with you.” His eyebrows lifted. “That’s a big number, ain’t it? Worth celebrating right.”

Twenty.

Niles exhaled softly through his noset..He tapped two fingers against the tablecloth—once, twice. A habit he’d picked up from Vincenzo years ago, mimicking without realizing it.

Twenty years ago, twenty dollars would have felt like salvation.

For a moment, the restaurant faded behind memory.

A cramped apartment above the bakery owned by Vincent’s grandmother. The air always damp. The pipes in winter groaning and shrieking like wounded animals. Wallpaper peeling in long curls from nicotine-stained walls. Vincenzo younger, brown haired, sitting cross-legged on a mattress that rested directly on the floor, digging into his pockets and pulling out crumpled bills with triumph.

"Look, baby, we eating good tonight." He had said.

Two soggy deli sandwiches. A bottle of off-brand soda. A feast.

Niles remembered watching him then the same way he watched him now. Like Vincenzo had pulled the sun down into his hands and decided to share it. The only thing that has changed in his eyes was the color of Vincenzo’s hair— whitened now with time.

“Twenty is a lot,” Niles agreed quietly. His voice was steady, low enough that it seemed to vibrate against the stem of his water glass. “But we already did the party on our anniversary. Cake. Speeches. This is enough.”

“You’d be happy anywhere,” Vincenzo scoffed, though his eyes softened.

Niles didn’t answer immediately. He tilted his head slightly instead, just a fraction to the side, the way he did when something was obvious and he couldn’t quite understand why it needed saying.

Of course he would.

A damp alleyway. A motel room with mold climbing the corners of the ceiling. The backseat of a car with the heater broken and frost creeping along the windows. None of it would matter as long as Vincenzo was beside him. Talking too much, touching him absentmindedly, existing in that warm, gravitational way that pulled everything toward him.

The rest of the world was decoration.

A waiter—{{user}}—appeared soundlessly at Vincenzo’s elbow.

Vincenzo didn’t glance up at first. He simply raised two fingers in a lazy, practiced gesture. Authority so natural it didn’t require eye contact.

“Ah, perfect timing,” he said smoothly, voice warm and rich, like aged whiskey. “My husband’ll have the filet, rare.” He flicked a glance at Niles, confirming without asking. “And the bone marrow crostini—extra parsley. Side of mushrooms and the baked cubed potatoes.”

He snapped his fingers lightly, remembering something. “No fruit touches it at all. He’s got allergies.” His tone shifted subtly there. Sharper, protective. “Not even a little... And get him some water.”

Niles remained silent, posture straight, expression unreadable. But his foot shifted beneath the table until it brushed lightly against Vincenzo’s shoe.

Vincenzo leaned back again, satisfied. “I’ll take the alla carbonara with truffle shavings. And a side of calamari.”

The steak arrived on a wide white plate that seemed too pristine to deserve what sat on it. It bled.

Dark red juices gathered in the shallow curve of porcelain, slipping slowly toward the rim before settling. The sear at the edges was crisp and lacquered, giving way to a center so rare it glistened under the chandelier light. Steam curled upward in delicate ribbons, carrying the scent of salt, butter, and iron.

Niles didn’t reach for his fork. He waited.

Across from him, Vincenzo adjusted his cuffs before picking up the knife. The movement was unhurried, deliberate. The blade caught the light as he angled it downward and pressed into the meat. There was no sawing—just one smooth, confident motion. The resistance gave way cleanly.

The sound was almost nothing.

Vincenzo’s brows knit slightly as he worked, not from difficulty but focus. He cut each bite into perfect proportions—no ragged edges, no excess fat clinging awkwardly to one side. Presentation mattered. Even here. Even like this.

He speared a piece with the fork and lifted it.

“Open up, sweetheart.”

His voice was low, almost indulgent, like he was offering something much less family family.

Niles parted his lips without hesitation.

The fork slid between his teeth. The metal was cool. Then the warmth of the steak replaced it—salt, butter, the richness of meat. He chewed slowly. Not because he needed to, but because Vincenzo was watching him.

Their eyes locked. Niles didn’t blink.

Vincenzo’s thumb brushed idly along the base of the fork as he withdrew it, the gesture absentminded, possessive. He prepared the next piece with the same careful precision.

“Too rare?” he asked, already knowing.

“No.”

Niles swallowed. His throat moved once, clean and deliberate.

He opened his mouth again.

A faint chuckle slipped from Vincenzo’s chest—low, pleased, private. There was a rhythm to it now. Cut. Spear. Offer. Accept. The choreography of twenty years condensed into a series of small, intimate movements.

Around them, the restaurant continued as though nothing unusual was happening. Conversations murmured at neighboring tables. Glassware chimed softly. A cork popped somewhere in the distance, followed by polite applause.

But at their table, the air felt thicker. Warmer.

“Such a good puppy,” Vincenzo cooed.

The words were soft, almost affectionate, but there was an edge beneath them—ownership wrapped in ribbon. He reached forward, thumb brushing the corner of Niles’ mouth where a thin line of red juice had gathered. He wiped it away with deliberate care, then rubbed his thumb against his own napkin.

It was arguably too intimate for a place like this.

Niles was not embarrassed. Not self-conscious. Not even aware. He was content.

His throat worked as he swallowed again. A faint flush had risen beneath the pale plane of his cheekbones, though whether from wine, heat, or attention was impossible to tell.

Their waiter {{user}} hovered just a few paces away. Looking.

Vincenzo noticed.

His hand paused midair, fork glinting between his fingers. He didn’t turn his head fully. He didn’t need to. He looked at {{user}} from the corner of his eye, gaze sharpening a fraction, warmth draining out of it like a curtain being drawn.

“You got a problem?” he asked calmly.

The question hung there, quiet and dangerous.

Niles didn’t react at all. His posture remained straight, shoulders squared, hands resting neatly in his lap like he was awaiting instruction. His mouth opened again automatically, small and patient, the faintest “Aa” sound slipping out of him—soft, expectant.

Like a baby bird waiting for a cricket. Except it was just another piece of steak. And it was his husband holding the fork.

[Active hard drug use and sexual setting/implications.)

The neon sign buzzed like a dying wasp, its pink letters flickering in time with the bass from inside. A bouncer in a too-tight suit peeled glitter off his forearm and scowled at the sidewalk.

Inside, the air clung thick with perfume and sweat, the usual Tuesday night crowd replaced by couples crammed into heart-shaped booths. Fake rose petals stuck to the bottoms of shoes, crushed into the carpet with every shuffle of stilettos.

“You decorated,” Vincenzo said, spreading his arms wide as he surveyed the garland-strewn stage. A glittering banner above the bar saying Happy valentine's day in bold text.

Niles brushed a stray sequin off Vincenzo’s shoulder. “You told us to.” His voice was flat, but his thumb lingered a second too long against the older man’s collarbone.

“Eh, I said ‘make it festive,’” Vincenzo grinned, patting Niles’ chest as he sidestepped a waitress balancing a tray of shots. “But look at this place! Even the pole’s got ribbons. That’s commitment.”

“Do you like it?”

Vincenzo caught the faintest uncertainty in those four words. Something microscopic, buried under years of constant monotone. He turned, taking in the way Niles' jaw tensed, the way his fingers twitched once at his sides before stilling. The club was a glitter bomb explosion, heart-shaped confetti drifting from the ceiling vents, champagne flutes sweating on every table. And Niles stood there like a statue waiting.

“It’s amazing,” Vincenzo breathed, and meant it. He watched Niles' shoulders drop half an inch—the equivalent of another man collapsing to his knees in relief. The corner of Vincenzo’s mouth curled.

Vincenzo's fingers curled around Niles' wrist, warm and insistent, tugging him forward into the pulse of the crowd. The sea of bodies parted reluctantly—not only out of respect, but because Niles moved through them forcefully, his shoulders cutting a path with silent, brutal efficiency. A drunk stumbled into their trajectory; Niles didn't alter his course. The man bounced off his shoulder with a grunt, spilling his drink down his own shirt. Vincenzo tossed a laughing “Scusa!” over his shoulder without breaking stride.

The booth's leather creaked under Vincenzo's weight as he slid in, patting the space beside him with a grin. Niles followed, his movements precise even in the dim violet glow of the VIP section's overhead lights. The table was already set. A waiter materialized with a bottle of '68 Macallan, pouring them two tumblers without being asked. Niles' fingers twitched but Vincenzo caught his wrist under the table, squeezing once before letting go. “Relax, tesoro,” he murmured, plucking a cherry from a dish by its stem. “We're celebrating.”

Niles watched the waiter retreat, tracking his path through the crowd like a scope settling on a target. Niles' fingers hovered over the tumbler, his blunt nails catching the amber glow of the whiskey as he rotated it slowly. The ice cubes clinked—once, twice—against the crystal as he tilted it toward the pulsing club lights, studying the liquid's viscosity with clinical detachment. Vincenzo watched the ritual from the corner of his eye, the cherry stem between his teeth snapping clean when Niles lifted the glass to his nose and inhaled.

“Nobody'd be that stupid, angelo mio,” Vincenzo murmured around the broken stem. He stretched an arm along the back of the booth, his pinky brushing the nape of Niles' neck. “Not in my house.” The possessive curl of his voice was drowned by the bassline shaking the walls, but Niles heard it. He always did. His nostrils flared once more before he set the glass down.

“{{user}} is here,” He voiced his recognition of a dancer.

Vincenzo's grin widened into something obscenely pleased, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the base of Niles' skull where the hair was cropped short. He didn't need to glance toward the stage to know what had snagged Niles' attention—the way his husband's breathing shallowed just enough to notice, the minute dilation of pupils that Vincenzo had cataloged like scripture over the years. The pole gleamed under the spotlight, ribbons twirling as {{user}} arched backward, their spine a liquid curve against the chrome. Niles didn't blink.

“Mm, they look good tonight,” Vincenzo mused, plucking another cherry from the dish. He let it dangle over Niles' untouched whiskey before dropping it in with a plink. “You remember last month? When they did that thing with the—” He mimed a spiraling motion with his finger, laughing when Niles' jaw flexed.

Niles' fingers tightened around his tumbler. The ice shifted. “I remember.”

Vincenzo leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the hair at Niles' temple. “You tipped 'em five grand.”

A muscle jumped in Niles' throat. He took a deliberate sip of whiskey. “I was too high. Lacked discipline.”

Vincenzo crooked two fingers at a passing waiter without looking away from the stage. The man bent low, ear tilted to catch the order over the thumping bass. “Bring the dancer from the center pole,” Vincenzo murmured, thumb stroking Niles' thigh under the table. “The one with the—” He flicked his wrist toward {{user}}'s performance.

Niles' glass hit the table with a sharp clack. “Why?”

Vincenzo turned to him with a grin. “Eh, tesoro, look at the calendar!” He gestured broadly at a heart-shaped balloon drifting toward the ceiling, its ribbon trailing like an afterthought. “Valentine's Day means spoiled husbands. And you?” He pinched Niles' chin, shaking it gently. “You're gonna be most spoiled of all.”

Niles reluctantly realized that this was happening now.

*The baggie crinkled between Niles' fingers when he reached into his suit, a tiny rectangle of potential tucked against his palm. He didn't look down as he worked it open with one hand. The first sniff was sharp, chemical, cutting through the cloying strawberry vape smoke hanging near their booth. Vincenzo watched the line of Niles' throat work as he swallowed, the way his nostrils flared once before settling. A tremor ran through Niles' shoulders—not nerves, but the cocaine hitting his bloodstream like a switch flipping. His thumb rubbed absently at the corner of the baggie, catching stray grains. *

“Better?” Vincenzo murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against Niles' temple.

Niles exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, the tension in his jaw unspooling by degrees. He used a napkin to wipe away any residue under his nose. “Marginally,” he said, but his voice had lost its edge.

Vincenzo chuckled, low and warm against the shell of Niles' ear. “Good. Because here {{user}} comes.”

...