Chapter Text
The light came in crooked through a slit in the blackout curtains—too bright, too sharp. It cut through the dim hotel room like a blade, glinting off half-drained glasses and discarded sequin trim strewn across the carpet like the aftermath of a parade that had gotten a little too personal. The place reeked faintly of room service fries, melting makeup, and the sour-sweet tang of spilled champagne.
Alfred woke up with cotton mouth and something heavy pressing down on his chest—guilt, maybe. Or his hangover. Or the unfamiliar weight of an arm slung across his bare stomach.
He blinked.
Slowly, carefully, he turned his head.
There was someone in bed with him.
Someone with tousled dark brown hair, tangled and messy like he’d either slept deeply or fought the pillow all night. His face was half-buried in the crook of Alfred’s shoulder, lips parted slightly in sleep. The sheet had slipped low across his back, revealing the curve of a tanned spine and lean muscle that tightened with each breath.
Alfred didn’t recognize him.
He also didn’t remember much of anything after his shift ended around midnight.
For a long, suspended moment, he lay perfectly still, his heart thudding in his ears like the pulse of a roulette wheel winding down. The hotel room was a wreck. One shoe on the minibar, someone’s jacket on the lampshade, a white tuxedo t-shirt tossed over the flat-screen.
This… wasn’t good.
The stranger stirred. A groggy groan escaped him—gravelly, displeased.
Then he moved.
His arm slipped off Alfred with a muttered curse, and he flopped onto his back with all the energy of someone emerging from six rounds in a prizefight. His eyes opened slowly, unfocused and deeply annoyed.
“Ugh… what the hell…”
His accent was thick. Southern European, maybe? Italian, Alfred guessed hazily. He had heavy lashes and a sharp, scowling mouth. Even half-conscious, he looked like he wanted to punch someone in the face.
Alfred cleared his throat. “Uh… morning?”
The stranger squinted at him like he’d just been personally offended by the word.
“Who the fuck are you?”
Alfred winced. “Okay. Not the vibe I was hoping for.”
“I said—who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Alfred. Alfred F. Jones,” he replied quickly, raising both hands in the universal ‘please don’t murder me’ gesture. “I work at the Bellagio. Cards. Blackjack dealer. And I—I don’t usually do this. I swear.”
“You don’t usually wake up in a hotel bed with a stranger and no pants?” the man snapped, already pushing the covers off with one hand and gripping his pounding forehead with the other. “You’ve got a real funny way of being trustworthy, Alfred F. Fucking Jones.”
“I mean, technically I’m still wearing boxers.”
The look Romano gave him could’ve shattered glass.
Alfred tried again, sitting up slowly. “I seriously don’t remember anything. Not after I clocked out. Do you?”
Romano didn’t answer right away. He made a pained noise and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His shirt—black button-down, open all the way—hung off one shoulder, and his jeans were somehow still halfway on, twisted and undone. There was glitter on his neck. A smudge of red across his cheek that might’ve been lipstick—or marinara.
“I was at a friend’s place,” Romano muttered eventually, more to himself than to Alfred. “Some bachelor party bullshit. He dared me to come out. And then—drinks. A cab. A bar with... flaming shots. And then…”
His eyes narrowed. He turned back to Alfred with suspicion. “Did you drug me?”
Alfred’s jaw dropped. “What? No! God—no. Jesus, do I look like the kind of guy who’d drug someone?”
“You look like a guy who hands out tequila and bad decisions.”
“I deal cards, not drugs.”
Romano rolled his eyes and ran a hand through his tangled hair. He didn’t seem particularly comforted.
“Okay, well, we’re clearly both alive,” Alfred said, trying to lighten the mood. “No organs missing. That’s a plus.”
Romano muttered something in Italian under his breath that sounded a lot like ‘I’d rather have lost a kidney.’
Alfred ignored it.
Instead, he scanned the room again. Empty champagne bottle. Two phones charging on the floor near the outlet. A plastic tiara on the nightstand. No obvious signs of a crime scene. And still—no clue what had actually happened.
“You think we…?” Alfred started, trailing off awkwardly.
Romano gave him a withering look. “You think I’d fuck you?”
Alfred raised a brow. “Wow. Rude.”
“I have standards,” Romano snapped, standing unsteadily and stumbling toward the mirror. “And brains.”
Alfred just grumbled under his breath and dragged the sheet more securely around his waist. The room swam slightly. His stomach growled. God, he needed a coffee the size of his head and maybe three hash browns stacked like a shame sandwich.
Romano leaned over the bathroom sink, squinting at his reflection. “What the hell happened to my hair? And is this glitter? What the fuck—”
Alfred reached for his phone, wondering if maybe the camera roll would fill in some blanks.
It didn’t take long.
A grainy video greeted him—shot vertically, of course. The two of them, swaying together under a neon pink heart sign that flickered with the word Forever . Romano was flushed, lips twitching in an amused smirk, while Alfred slurred out something about true love and fettuccine.
In the background, a woman with a feathered boa could be heard saying, “Aww, they’re such a cute couple!”
Alfred dropped the phone like it bit him.
“Okay. Okay, um. Don’t panic,” he muttered.
Romano emerged from the bathroom, towel in hand. “What’s wrong now?”
Alfred didn’t answer. He just looked down.
His hand.
His left hand.
There was a ring on it.
A thin, simple gold band, unmistakably placed.
Romano blinked. “Why are you—?”
He followed Alfred’s gaze. His own expression shifted—brows drawing together, mouth tightening.
Slowly, he raised his own hand.
His breath caught.
There it was. A matching ring.
Silence fell between them like a thunderclap.
Romano’s voice, when it came, was a whisper soaked in disbelief.
“… Madonna. What the hell did we do?”