Chapter Text
He’d found him again.
He couldn’t see what he was staring at, his body obscuring the window from sight.
The floor creaked beneath Risotto’s feet as he shifted his weight. He laid his hand on the door frame, staring at his back. He wasn’t moving. His thinned, silvery hair swayed in airy wisps around his ears.
“Why did you open the window? It’s cold.”
When he didn’t respond, he took a step closer.
“Prosciutto?”
He reached forward, resting a hand on his shoulder.
He looked at him then, face turning just enough, barely enough, where he could peer back at him, “Huh?”
“What are you doing?”
Prosciutto stared at him for a moment. The paled blue of his eye hazed in smoke as he turned his head further, looking at him now, or rather, past him. His eyes trailed away from his face, flicking beyond his cheek and gazing at something. Like the window, he didn’t know what it was. There was nothing of note behind him. He didn’t have to turn around to know that.
“I’m not sure.”
His hand, still resting firm on his shoulder, moved down the curve of his arm and to his elbow. He traced the bone there, the hardness jutting from beneath malleable skin.
“Come on,” he spoke, gently, guiding him.
“I-” Prosciutto’s lips quivered. The slight tremble had grown familiar. He’d seen it more and more recently. The hard line that kept his mouth firm hadn’t been present in a while. He’d still grimace, or hold his face sturdy, but those moments were more fleeting. Prosciutto had allowed the natural parting of his lips to come forth, his upper teeth presenting openly. Illuso teased him, saying he’d grown soft over the years. It was true, in some ways. He still grumbled and snapped and berated behaviors he deemed as poor, but the seemingly permanent furrow of his brow weakened. The tenseness of his shoulders melted. The sharpness of his eyes never faltered however. They’d always been intense, near piercing if you were on the receiving end of his glare, but even that was beginning to wane. It was more evident tonight, with the city lights reflecting in his irises. They were becoming glassy. The intent in his stare was lost.
“You should rest,” He said.
Prosciutto stiffened. He watched as Risotto stepped away for a moment to shut the window. He looked out, wondering what could’ve drawn Prosciutto’s attention, but there was nothing.
“Dammit,” Prosciutto clutched his head, “You’re right. What was I doing?”
“Don’t worry about it right now. It’s late. You should sleep.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Prosciutto said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette.
He’d been smoking for years, ever since he’d joined his team. However, Risotto had managed to convince him to quit. Prosciutto was stubborn, but even he recognized that, with their lengthened life span, it would be wise to consider long term health. That wasn’t a luxury they were afforded initially. In their line of work, living beyond forty wasn’t expected, but with a new, fair Don came greater protections and pay and eventual retirement.
It was only a few months ago, after Pesci passed away, that he’d resumed the habit he’d worked so hard to break. Risotto wasn’t disappointed, per se, that wasn’t an appropriate term. Not for this.
“I’m sure I don’t have much time left,” he said, when Risotto found him, a cigarette perched between his lips only hours after the funeral, “Why not live a little? That’s what Formaggio’s always been telling me. He’s right.”
He wanted to argue, to tell him that Formaggio certainly did not mean it in that way, that enjoying yourself did not equate to ending it. He had many potential years left, and increasing his risk of any number of conditions wasn’t wise. But Prosciutto was smart. He knew what Formaggio meant, Risotto was sure of that.
So, he didn’t say anything. Just watched. His eyes had closed. Long, delicate lashes fanned over the sharp curve of his cheek. He was sitting on some stairs, leaning against the metal railing with his head lolled back, inhaling and exhaling slowly. He was distanced somehow. Maybe it was the way he’d curled himself forward, body pressed tightly into one side of the stairwell when the steps themselves were wide. He looked uncomfortable. He shifted and tensed and rubbed his head as if his skin didn’t wrap around his own muscles correctly.
“You should enjoy life a little too,” he said, eventually, “Who knows when it’ll be over?”
He didn’t know who that was. That wasn’t Prosciutto talking, not at that moment.
Now, he did the same, calmly watching as Prosciutto fumbled around for the lighter in his pants pocket. He watched with greater intent when the man seemed to struggle, nails digging into the crevice of the lighter lid. He popped it open soon enough, though. His long fingers thumbed the spark wheel. The soft glow of orange reflected in the paleness of his skin. His face was clammy, dewy with oil and sweat that resurfaced even after he’d washed his face only hours ago.
Pesci had been proud of him for quitting smoking. Risotto had his theories as to why he’d continued his poor habit immediately after Pesci's death, but none of them were pleasant. He tried not to think about it.
Prosciutto coughed after his first puff, a burned, dry sound crumbling from his throat. Risotto was quick to move, rubbing his back, “Do you need some water?”
The man waved him off, patting his chest, “No, I’m fine.”
With his hand resting on his back, and with Prosciutto leaning forward, the individual knobs of his spine were all the more prominent beneath his shirt. With smoking came a resurgence of his poor eating habits. His appetite was all but absent most days. Risotto struggled to get him sufficiently fed, and any suggestions towards proper medical treatment for his eating problems were quickly snuffed out. It was a sore spot.
“Come to bed when you’re done,” he murmured. He didn’t like the smell.
Prosciutto pursed his lips, “Yeah… it’s not that late though,” he said, straightening his back.
Risotto’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny, “It’s almost three in the morning.”
Prosciutto’s face warped, skin crinkling in sour lines around his mouth and nose, “Huh?”
“It’s almost three,” he repeated, weary suspicion creeping in his tone.
Prosciutto looked outside, “The sun just went down.”
“No, you came to bed with me. A few hours ago. Then you got up and came here.”
Prosciutto shook his head, “No. I didn’t.”
He’d noticed recently the way in which Prosciutto struggled to remember exactly what he did, but it hadn’t ever been anything this egregious. It was menial things- misplaced keys, forgetting what he ate, trouble remembering appointments- things that were noticeable but not severely alarming. Not like this. He wasn’t a doctor, but his proficiency in medicine left him acutely aware and questioning toward both his own health and those around him. He’d studied the human body frequently. It was due to his stand that an interest in how blood functioned came to be, and from there, he analyzed everything else. Pathways and muscle structures and illnesses. He liked to think that he could’ve pursued medicine.
Prosciutto voice mellowed into a rushed whisper, “No. I couldn’t have.”
“Don’t worry about it right now. Sleep,” he pleaded. He wanted the night to be over.
“Risotto, what is happening to me?”
Dementia was his first thought. It seemed obvious suddenly. His confusion of time and place, forgetfulness, odd patterns of once normal behaviors and difficulty to do familiar tasks. They were aged, too, at a prime time for such mental deterioration. The years hadn’t been kind to them, but being old at all was a blessing.
His second thought was that he’d be the last one alive.
Besides the two of them, Illuso was still breathing, but he’d been struggling with on and off cancer for the better part of a decade. His life consisted of frequent hospital trips and pills, and his predicted years left weren’t more than five.
Besides the expected joint aches and back pains, he was in good health himself. The realization that it was quite feasible, or even inevitable, that he’d be alone for a long while left him breathless. He’d kept to himself ever since retirement with only Prosciutto and the rest of his team to keep him company. Formaggio had created some friendships separate from Passione. Pesci had married and moved away. He wasn’t sure what other relationships people like Illuso or Ghiaccio developed, but he was sure there was something, some kind of interaction. Risotto had never been the type to go seek them for himself, unlike most. Everyone in his life had come to him first in some way. He might’ve been the one to offer Prosciutto a position in La Squadra, but Prosciutto was the first to say he loved him.
“Come on,” he said. Again. And again, Prosciutto shook his head, “I don’t think I can sleep. I don’t know why-”
“Just try for a little while,” Risotto hushed. It was rich, coming from him. He’d never slept well- forever an insomniac. Prosciutto had been on a strict routine for decades; in bed at ten and up at six in the morning. It was always the same. He was usually the one ushering Risotto to get some rest. It had changed in the past year. Prosciutto never seemed to sleep well anymore, and Risotto had to coax him to lie down, even for just a few minutes. The bags under his eyes permanently stained his skin now, a tattoo he couldn’t scrub away. They never faded.
Risotto put his hands over Prosciutto’s own, precariously plucking the cigarette from his lax fingers, reaching past him to stub it out in the ashtray on the window sill. He didn’t resist. His head pointedly tilted down, bangs falling forward.
Risotto briefly considered touching his hair, but there wasn’t much left to touch. Prosciutto’d always had thin hair, but his eyebrows were hardly present now- only a ghostly imprint remained. The rest of his skull was shrouded in a waning layer of gray, darker than Risotto’s hair but shinier. He could vividly remember how distressed Prosciutto had been when he’d found his first gray hair. He’d plucked it out, showing it to Risotto with a snarl.
“You’re so lucky- look at yourself! You won’t even know when your hair starts aging!”
It was true. His own white locks hadn’t changed at all. They looked the same as when he was a boy. They’d lessened on the crown of his head but remained mostly thick otherwise. Prosciutto would occasionally mumble his jealousies. The man had always taken pride in his looks, and his balding was a point of frustration.
He was brought back to the present when Prosciutto’s hands, cold, lightly shook in his own. He brought them to his mouth, brushing his dry lips against his knuckles. The sharp, downturned ridge of Prosciutto’s brow bathed his eyes in black, and Risotto struggled to assess where he was looking.
“Please try, for me.”
Prosciutto gave a soft, shuddering sigh. He let Risotto rub the back of his hand, his thumb circling in meaningless patterns over his skin. He repeatedly touched the small, silver band on his ring finger.
They’d both gotten wedding rings. Risotto had made them using Metallica with iron from their blood. Prosciutto was disgusted by the thought, initially, but he’d relented with how insistent Risotto had been on the appeal of such a thing- to have a part of the other person with you. They never had an official wedding, though. They’d held a small ceremony with La Squadra, unofficated by anyone who could legally tie them together. It didn’t bother Risotto. He didn’t hold marriage as anything of great value, but Prosciutto was distressed by it. Risotto figured they could’ve paid off or found someone to legalize their marriage, but they’d lived underground for too long. He didn’t even have his birth certificate.
Risotto lifted his hand again, pressing a kiss to his ring instead.
That wedding was one of his favorite memories. He’d never seen Prosciutto smile like that, not before and not since.
He remembered what Formaggio told Prosciutto after their wedding.
“I’ve never seen you so happy.”
Prosciutto’s wide, toothy grin had faltered, the joyous creases lining every inch of his face faltering.
“I’m just saying,” Formaggio had hurriedly added at Prosciutto’s sudden deflation, “You just- it’s just rare to see you like this. It’s nice is all.”
Prosciutto had huffed, not elaborating on his mood shift or the suddenness of his returned jubilation, “How can I not be happy on such a day?”
“Oh! How sweet! I think you’re going soft, Nonno,” Formaggio teased, but his sincere happiness at their love was evident.
Risotto would give anything to relive that day.
“Do you remember? When we got married?” Risotto asked, trying to resurface a pleasant memory to draw Prosciutto out of his despair.
“Yes, I do,” Prosciutto mumbled. It seemed to have some effect. The corners of his mouth twitched, “You’d dropped a slice of cake in my lap.”
He remembered that, now that he mentioned it. Prosciutto had fussed over the stain on his nice pants.
“I did, didn’t I?”
The twitch of his lips subsided as quickly as it appeared. He’d hoped Prosciutto would elaborate on their wedding, but the man remained silent. Risotto waited a few moments before reaching forward again, wrapping his fingers around his thin wrists. He could fully encircle them and then some.
“Prosciutto…”
His head, cottony and stuffed full of lead, weighed heavy on his shoulders. His mind raced with thoughts of his future, of what little future he had left. He was approaching his end. He wouldn’t say he’d lived a fulfilling life, but he’d found solace within his team. And now, the last pages were being written, and he was the final sentence. He knew what dementia entailed. The person dies before their body does. Prosciutto would become somebody he’d never met, a stranger in his own home. But he couldn’t mourn over his death, not when his physical form still functioned. It wouldn’t be appropriate. He’d, perhaps, wait years before that time came, left to care for a shell that no longer held the person he’d fallen in love with.
He shook his head, disturbed by his own ideas. As if the action of shaking himself could rid those deeply seeded fears.
He’d promised, sworn from his heart, to forever be by his side. That hadn’t changed. That would never change. He couldn’t imagine a future where Prosciutto wasn’t next to him. Though, had you asked him that question years ago, he’d have said that he couldn’t imagine a life without his whole team, yet here he was with most of them gone. Every time he lost another, he’d adapted. But it hadn’t been easy, and even with those losses, he’d always had comfort from those that remained. He’d found consolation with Formaggio, sitting by his side after Ghiaccio died. The young, feisty man was the first to pass following their retirement.
As much as he trusted Prosciutto and the rest of his men, his history with Formaggio was something that ran deeper. He felt as though Formaggio was the only person who really understood him, who could fully grasp his being.
“Course I miss him, too. It’s not the same without hearing him scream all the time. I said some stupid shit yesterday and half expected him to pop out and tell me to shut it. It didn’t feel right when he didn’t. Never thought I’d miss the sound of his voice,” Formaggio said, as if responding to a question. Risotto hadn’t asked him anything.
Formaggio sat on his haunches, a beer can lightly fisted in his hand whilst Risotto spread himself out on his couch. It was late. In the deepest slumber of night, Risotto found himself wandering, feet aimlessly moving till they stopped before an old, squeaky door. He always ended up here, in one way or another- Formaggio’s apartment. Formaggio was by his legs, gazing at the television. He wasn’t really watching, just letting himself slowly absorb the low noise without grasping it.
“I know it’s… rough. I don’t think Mel is takin’ this all too well but he’ll be okay. I’m sure. You doing okay, big guy?”
He didn’t have to answer for Formaggio to know.
Formaggio simply glanced over his shoulder, shooting him a bitter, quivering smile. His nose was red. It wasn’t from the alcohol.
A few years after Ghiaccio’s passing, Melone followed with an untimely death from a motorcycle accident. Formaggio died nearly two decades later. He’d rested his head on Prosciutto’s chest that night.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous of you two,” Prosciutto mumbled, his hand rubbing his arm, “You and Formaggio, I mean. You were both so close. I’ve always been… envious of your relationship. I’ve grown to know you two intimately, yet there’s always been this barrier I could never breach. Whatever you two had, I could never compare,” he’d let out a sound of disbelief, a snort of some kind, though his voice came out heavy, “I’m not proud of myself for feeling that way. Now, I just wish I’d be able to give you what Formaggio did. But I know you can’t replace something like that.”
Risotto didn’t see it that way. Formaggio and Prosciutto existed as separate entities in his life. One was something of stability- a person he’d known for many years before Passione. A man he’d considered a friend. The other was a person he’d labeled as a lover, though that word didn’t encapsulate the true scope of just how important Prosciutto was to him.
Prosciutto, with all his stubbornness and sharp tongue, with his difficult nature and prickly mannerisms, had loved him back to life. He’d drawn Risotto from his own miserable grievances and given him something he never thought he’d have again- a love he thought died with his cousin.
Risotto’s spiraling mind abruptly came to a halt. The flood gates shut and with that came a tranquility he’d attribute to a simple, single realization.
Even if Prosciutto became someone he no longer recognized, even if the man lost his bite and wit, that didn’t mean he couldn’t learn to love him all over again. Like he did, all those years ago.
“Come on, let’s sleep.”
Risotto sighed, relieved, when Prosciutto nodded his head.
Finally.