Heroic Idiot

As Roman adjusted the crisp collar of his shirt, he caught his own reflection in the mirror. The man staring back at him was a complete stranger dressed to the nines and put together for an elite event, yet carrying the weight of a secret that could potentially get him killed.

Saint appeared behind him clad in a midnight blue tux of his own and their eyes met in the mirror. "You clean up well, Father Roman," tone laced with approval.

"You don't look half-bad yourself." Roman turned to face him. It was true, there was something extremely attractive about Saint in a tux. "Let's get this over with."

Saint simply nodded before making their way to a car already waiting for them. The drive to the gala was quiet but not uncomfortable. As driver pulled up to the red carpet, flashes from cameras illuminated the night.

"Ready?" Saint whispered.

"Yeah," he was so ready to make his escape.

Roman stepped out first, the tailored tuxedo hugged his lean muscles flawlessly, he exuded an air of sophistication that contradicted his inner turmoil. Saint followed, slightly taller, his presence commanding, instantly drawing the attention of photographers and guests.

"Santino who are you wearing tonight?"

"Who is your new beau?"

"Are you two officially a couple?"

"Do you like pickles?"

Questions flew from all directions. The cacophony of voices and flashing cameras overwhelmed Roman's senses. They paused for photos, Saint's arm slipping around his waist with seamless effort.

Roman adjusted a tendril of hair that'd slipped out of his man bun, feeling a bead of sweat trickle down the back of his neck. He felt awkward in his fancy tux, misplaced at a Soirée meant to raise money for saving species at the verge of extinction.

Saint leaned in, his minty breath warm against the shell of Roman's ear. "Smile. You're doing great."

Roman forced a smile. Each step feeling like a performance to convince the world he belonged in this high societal event.

Inside, the glamour continued, the venue was adorned with cascading crystal chandeliers, fancy floral arrangements and tables set with some sorts of skill. Roman felt a wave of unease wash over him as he took in the scene. Powerful business moguls, celebrities, and was that governor Thornton and his partner congressman Frost? Fuck. He didn't belong here.

Sensing his date's discomfort, Saint placed a reassuring hand at the small of Roman's back. The simple touch sent a shiver throughout his body. He glanced at Saint, who gave him a brief, encouraging nod. The gesture though small, made a world of difference.

They moved together through the crowd, occasionally stopping to exchange pleasantries with other guests, Saint's hand never strayed from Roman's back. Roman did his best to engage in polite conversation when he was spoken to. He probably should've been thinking about letting someone know he was being held captive, but of course his mind kept drifting to the warmth of Saint's touch, the unexpected comfort it provided.

"Santino."

The voice halted Saint in his tracks forcing Roman to stop too.

Everything about the man who had stopped Saint screamed old money and perfection. His black tux was tailored precisely, his hair neatly trimmed to complement his dark beard and Mediterranean features.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You used to despise these kinds of events."

"Enersto," Saint's smile was smooth and controlled. "It's been a while. Times change I suppose."

The so called Enersto's eyes moved to Roman, staying for a moment longer than necessary. "I see you've got yourself new company. I assume he's an upgrade from your recent tastes?"

Roman stiffened but kept his expression neutral. He could feel a hint of tension building between the two men, a history etched into their interactions. He wasn't going to insert himself into a pot of boiling water.

Saint's eyes narrowed, though his smile remained unchanged. "What brings you here?" He ignored the question altogether.

Enersto shrugged. "Oh you know me, business. And personal curiosity. Some things never really change."

Roman noticed how tightly wound Saint's body was. "It's good to see you again, Enersto."

Enersto lifted a flute of sparkling champagne from a passing waiter. "Enjoy the rest of your evening gentlemen."

Enjoy? Roman wanted to scoff at that. He wasn't delusional to think for a second he was a respectable guest here. This was part of Saint's mindgames, making him feel a sense of freedom yet his neck was still chained to him like some dog.

With a final meaningful glance at Saint, Enersto turned and walked away, his departure marked by a cold silence that seemed to persist in his wake.

Roman watched him go before turning to Saint. "What was all that about with Mr. Fancy pants?"

"Enersto was my partner and I betrayed him," Saint sighed. "Clearly he's still carrying some unresolved feelings about it."

"By partner you mean business part..."

"Lover."

Oh.

That'd taken Roman a second to process. "So you're saying you're the one who hurt him?" he asked.

"If he really wanted to, he would kill me for what I did, but what's done is done I suppose."

"That bad?"

Saint huffed a harsh, unamused laugh. "Yeah, that bad."

"I can see why he feels bitter," Roman said. "You cheated on him?"

"No."

"Right." Why else would an ex lover be so... bitter?

Saint's mouth twisted into a grin of cold amusement. "You have cheated on Maxwell before?"

Roman frowned. "Not my style," he shook his head. "I believe if feelings happen to change it's best to break it off before you hurt someone. It's not fair."

"There," Saint grunted. "You got your answer."

"So what did you do?"

"Your curiosity will get you killed one day."

"It really can't be that bad." Roman pressed.

"Roman." Saint sounded like a man who was in desperate need for a drink.

"Come on," Roman nudged him. "Humor me, just this once."

Sighing, "I tipped off the Feds about one of his father's operations," Saint grunted. "Got him some good time for it."

"Is that not being a... rat?" Roman wasn't too sure how any of this underground business worked but he knew reporting stuff to the authorities was not exactly smiled upon.

"You have no idea what that bastard, Donatello was up to," Saint seethed. "Human trafficking? We agreed not to engage in such kind of business. There were children too, Roman. Some of them as young as thirteen."

"I'm assuming Enersto was the one who told you about this operation?"

Saint nodded once. "He came to me all broken when he learnt about his father's secret business. I simply did what was necessary."

"You did what was right." Roman told him. "I hope you know that."

"I know," Saint simply said. Clearly done with the conversation.

Finally, they reached their table in a prime spot with a perfect view of the stage where an auction would take place. Roman sank in his seat, grateful for the momentary respite.

As the evening wore on, Roman spotted a potential exit—a side door leading into the gardens. He calculated his move, waiting for a moment when Saint was distracted. For the mean time they talked, and even laughed together, the gala's atmosphere created a temporary bubble of normalcy around them. At one point, Roman found himself genuinely smiling, caught up in the moment.

Focus dumbass.

Roman sipped his champagne, his gaze on Saint, who was watching the crowd with a thoughtful expression. Unable to suppress his curiosity any longer, Roman leaned in slightly, catching the whiff of Saint's cologne.

"Are you still in love with him?"

Saint turned to him, one brow raised in mild surprise. "What?"

"Enersto... Are you still in love with him?"

"I heard you the first time." The mob boss's eyes were glazed with emotions Roman couldn't quite place. The moment was beginning to stretch more than necessary.

After thinking about it, Saint opened his mouth to give him an answer, but before he could speak a loud gunshot echoed throughout The Grand Chateau and instantly shattered the cheerful atmosphere.

Without a second thought, Saint grabbed Roman's hand. "Run!"

Chaos unfolded as panic surged through the crowd. Saint's grip tightened around Roman's hand as they sprinted through a back door and later on spilling into a dimly lit alleyway. The cool air hit Roman's face, contrasting with the heat of the panic inside.

"Keep moving!"

But before Roman could react, a sharp sound cut through the night—a distinct, terrifying crack of a bullet cap. Saint stumbled, a pained grunt escaping his lips. Roman's heart lurched when he saw blood seeping through Saint's shirt.

A fucking sniper.

Saint collapsed against the wall, his face contorted in pain. Roman froze, torn between making a run for it and the gnawing guilt of leaving Saint behind to fend for himself. After making a decision, Roman ran. 

Then he heard it—a soft, broken gasp of his name. "Roman..."

The priest swore under his breath and rushed to Saint's side. "Dammit," he pressed his hands against the wound. Blood seeped through his fingers, warm and sticky. "Did you really have to get yourself shot, asshole?"

Saint's breath was ragged. "Wasn't very... heroic of me, was it?" he attempted a smirk, but it quickly turned into a wince.

"Shut up," Roman snapped, fighting back the rising panic. "I need your phone. We need an ambulance."

"No..." Saint gasped, grabbing Roman's wrist with surprising strength. "Call... Doc."

"Doc?" Roman frowned, confusion and frustration warring within him. "Who the hell is Doc?"

Saint's eyes fluttered closed, his grip weakening. "Phone... pocket... speed dial... Doc."

Roman fumbled for Saint's phone, his hands shaking. He found it, quickly navigating to the contacts and pressing the number for 'Doc.' The phone rang twice before a female voice answered.

"It's an emergency," Roman blurted out. "Saint's been shot. We need help. Now."

"Where are you?"

"Behind The Grand Chateau, in an alleyway," Roman glanced down at Saint. "Hurry."

The call ended abruptly, leaving Roman to focus on keeping Saint conscious. "Stay with me, asshole," he urged, pressing harder on the wound. By some miracle he'd found a plastic lying around which he used to wrap up Saint's chest to avoid a collapsed lung. "Help is coming."

Minutes felt like hours as Roman waited, every second stretching painfully. He berated himself for being so stupid, for running away leaving Saint to bleed to his death and for coming back for him like some Stockholm Syndrome victim. But he couldn't just leave Saint here to die. Not like this.

An unregistered vehicle screeched to a halt at the alley's entrance. One of Saint's men jumped out, rushing towards them. "Help me get him in the car," Roman ordered, his voice calmer than he felt.

Together, they lifted Saint into the backseat. Roman climbed in beside him, keeping pressure on the wound as the driver sped through the streets. Saint's breaths were becoming shallow, his skin pale and clammy. Roman's heart pounded and somehow a mix of fear and adrenaline kept him from going insane.

They arrived at a gated apartment complex somewhere in the city. It was where Saint mostly lived away from Sandfort Estate. The driver and Roman helped Saint inside, where a woman in scrubs—Doc—was already waiting. She took over, guiding Saint to an examination table and barking orders to her assistants.

Roman stood back, his hands stained with Saint's blood. The room was buzzing and all Roman could do was wait, anxiety gnawing at him.

After what felt like an eternity, Doc stepped back. "He'll live," she smiled. "You did well keeping his lung from collapsing."

Roman nodded, relief flooding through him. "Thank you."

Doc gave a curt nod and left the apartment together with her team, leaving Roman alone with Saint and his bodyguard. Roman approached the table, looking down at the mobster's bandaged form. Saint's eyes fluttering open, a weak smile tugging at his lips.

"You came back for me." he uttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Why?"

Roman swallowed hard. "Clearly I'm an idiot," he said, his voice cracking.

A soft chuckle escaped Saint's lips. "A heroic idiot, maybe."

Roman managed a small, shaky smile. "Don't make me regret it."

He was definitely going to regret it.