Chapter Text
Prosciutto awoke to a heavy weight pressed against his back, an arm draped across the curve of his waist, effectively pinning him to the bed. He attempted to turn towards the man behind him, twisting in his grasp and prying himself from the tight embrace. He successfully flipped around, face pressed against the other man’s bare chest, looking up to see two dark eyes staring down at him, expression unreadable as Risotto pulled him closer.
“Good morning,” Prosciutto mumbled, not yet ready to get up as he buried his face into Risotto’s neck, sighing deeply. Risotto gave a small grunt in reply, squeezing his waist one last time before sitting up, much to Prosciutto’s dismay. He watched Risotto’s sculpted form as he padded over to his dresser, the muscles in his body shifting as he slipped on his usual attire. Prosciutto remained under the sheets, reaching over to the night stand and lighting a cigarette, the smoke curling around his face in delicate tendrils of silver.
“Want one?” He asked Risotto, the other staring at Prosciutto in silence. He didn’t answer, walking back over to the bed and grabbing a cigarette for himself before leaning over Prosciutto, allowing the smaller man to light it.
Neither had disclosed their relationship to their team mates, and they weren’t planning to either. They had both made an unspoken agreement that this was something to be kept between the two of them. As much as he wished to believe it wasn’t true, Prosciutto wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of his group were aware of the intimacy he shared with their capo. It was hard to hide something from a group of trained assassins, not to mention he could’ve sworn he saw Illuso in the bathroom mirror several weeks prior, and if that gossiping bastard knew what was going on, you could sure as hell bet the rest of La Squadra knew, too.
At times, he wondered how their relationship developed into what it was, and he supposed the answer wasn’t all that complicated. He was a murderer, yet he wouldn’t consider himself someone without empathy. This relationship they shared, it was some desperate attempt to retain what little humanity he had left, to love someone, something that shouldn’t ever be done in their line of work. Being allowed that luxury, having someone to hold at night, provided the illusion of clinging to some semblance of normality.
He couldn’t speak for Risotto, but he assumed such a sentiment was the same reason Risotto wanted to be with him, because he knew one thing for sure, as cruel and merciless as Risotto was, he wasn’t a heartless man, at least, he had seen certain actions that led him to believe as such. During the fleeting moments when Risotto was relaxed, he looked at Prosciutto with a certain indescribable softness that, while subtle, appeared foreign on the seemingly permanent tenseness that contorted his features.
“Is there going to be a meeting today?” He questioned, finally sliding out from underneath the covers before buttoning up his own shirt, cigarette dangling loosely between his teeth.
“No, we haven’t gotten any new missions from the boss, I just have some reports to complete,” Risotto replied, grabbing Prosciutto’s hair ties from the dresser and handing them to the blonde. Prosciutto huffed out a quick thanks before meticulously dividing his hair into even portions, knotting neat buns atop his head in a practiced motion.
If La Squadra wasn’t needed at their base, he could take Pesci out for a training session. Training on the job was the best way for the kid to improve his skills quickly and effectively, but extra practice outside of work was necessary if he was to truly get accustomed to his stand ability. Pesci hadn’t killed anyone yet, a fact that both irritated Prosciutto and made him a target for teasing from the rest of the members. They considered Pesci weak, useless, a dead weight to drag around, but he knew better. If only they could see the great potential he carried, his stand was proof of that in of itself; someone who was pathetic wouldn’t harbor such an incredible ability.
He was brought out of his thoughts by a large hand running through his undone hair, fingers smoothing across his scalp. He snapped his head to the side, gazing up at Risotto with barely concealed confusion. He was taken aback by such a gentle gesture. Even when they were both lying in bed together, limbs wound around each other’s bodies after a long day, it was uncommon for Risotto to do more than simply hold him.
“You should leave your hair down for today,” was all Risotto said, hand still petting his pale locks before tucking a loose strand behind his ear, moving down to trace his jaw with his nails. Prosciutto’s eyes fluttered closed at the sensation, leaning into Risotto’s palm, disappointed when the taller man pulled his hand away. He’d much rather prefer to keep his hair up. The way the tightly coiled buns pulled at his skin gave him a sharp, professional look that he was rather fond of.
“I want to keep my hair up, I’m going out.”
“Then don’t go out, stay here for today.”
Well, that was not what he had been expecting. He figured it wouldn’t do much harm to allow Pesci a day without his persistent hovering, “Alright, I’ll stay.”
Risotto was seated at the living room adjacent to the kitchen, looking over papers whilst Prosciutto prepared breakfast. Being an assassin wasn’t all killing and gore like he had once thought. Instead, there was intel to be collected, taxes and bills that had to be paid, cleanup work after taking out a target, reports and records to be filled on who they were sent to pursue, etc. It was tiresome, and a great deal of that mundane burden fell upon Risotto to complete.
Prosciutto started up a pot of coffee, heating up some tortellini in a pan with sauces and herbs. He used to frequently ask what Risotto would like to eat, but the response was always the same, “I don’t care, anything is good.” True to his word, Risotto would eat whatever Prosciutto put in front of him. There was a short period of time when he’d cook strange and odd items just to see if he could get a reaction from Risotto, but the man always ate everything. As such, Prosciutto just made whatever he was in the mood for. Today, that was some classic pasta, in true Italian fashion.
The oppressive scent of garlic wafted through the house, clogging his sinuses and staining his hands as he chopped the cloves of garlic into fine pieces. He was so engrossed in his task that he jumped slightly, startled when a pair of thick arm wrapped around his torso, pulling him against a firm and solid figure behind him. Risotto bent down, resting his chin atop Prosciutto’s shoulder as he watched him cook.
It wasn’t the first time Risotto had interrupted him like this while he was preparing a meal, but it was certainly unusual, and coupled with his behavior earlier, Prosciutto realized that Risotto was in some kind of odd emotional state, he was never this affectionate.
He certainly wasn’t complaining however, and he couldn’t stop the corners of his lips from quirking up when Risotto began to pepper kisses along his shoulder and neck, “I’m busy right now, we can do this later,” Prosciutto grumbled, attempting and failing to make his tone sound irritated. Risotto didn’t acknowledge his comment, instead, he grasped Prosciutto by the hips, spinning him around in one swift motion before sealing their mouths together in a tender kiss. His lips were dry but warm, and Prosciutto chuckled, spoon still in hand as he ensnared Risotto’s neck with his own arms.
Indeed, he certainly didn’t consider himself a good person, not by a long shot. In no way could you warp the definition of what ‘good’ meant and have it even remotely apply to him, but he considered himself human, at least, in moments like these, when he could pretend to be someone else entirely, someone who lived a peaceful life.
Of course, such times were temporary, as all things were, and those precious moments which he valued so dearly were stripped bare, and the small world that he built with Risotto had crumbled, leaving behind something rotten and foul.
It was several days later when Formaggio found Gelato’s corpse, gagged and wretched, and soon after, a certain collection of art pieces had arrived at their door step. The segmented formalin with which Sorbet had been preserved was macabre in a way that even he, a hit man, had never seen before.
He sat next to Pesci at the funeral, the young man failing to hold back choked sobs that ripped themselves from somewhere deep in his throat, and Prosciutto allowed him to cry.
The ceremony had been brief and all the members left quickly. Pesci was drained, and Prosciutto felt an ache in his chest that he hadn’t experienced in a long time. As they both stood to leave, Prosciutto glanced towards the front pew where a figure, clad in black, sat alone and unmoving. As much as he wished to join his capo in silence, he knew his presence would only be bothersome. Since the deaths of their two team members, Risotto had shut Prosciutto out. He had tried to talk to him in private, only to end up engaged in a conversation that was purely business, Risotto’s words clipped and direct, not the personal discussion he had been hoping for. Truthfully, he was worried, a terrible quality in their line of work. Caring about others would lead to grief. Sorbet and Gelato were only further proof of that.
He figured Risotto simply needed some time. They all needed some time, and with the passage of time, Prosciutto found himself watching Risotto longingly in the day and sitting by his phone every night, waiting for a call from him. As weeks churned by, Prosciutto’s yearning to spend the night with Risotto only grew. He was aware that what they had shared was a coping mechanism, a way for the two of them to play house, and that’s all it was. At least, that’s what it should’ve been, but somewhere along the way, Prosciutto fell in love, and that love only became more pressing and demanding every time he woke up alone with only the cool sheets of his bedding to call his own.
His frustration continued to increase exponentially, and like the pot boiling over, he’d found himself in front of Risotto’s home late one night, rapping against the door insistently. He waited a few moments and knocked again, knuckles blossoming with an angry shade of red as he continued his assault on the wooden door.
He waited again, tapping his foot impatiently while gnawing at his bottom lip, the flesh split and cracked from his consistent biting.
Finally, the door opened, and despite having known him for so long, Prosciutto shrunk away from Risotto, the taller man standing over him without warmth in his gaze, eyes cold in a way that made Prosciutto’s skin crawl.
“What is it.” Despite asking a question, Risotto’s tone made his words come across as a statement, falling flat among the tranquility of the autumn weather.
“I just want to talk to you,” Prosciutto said, holding his breath.
Without a sound, Risotto moved to the side, a silent invitation for Prosciutto to enter his home. Once the door had shut, Risotto stayed where he was, visibly tense as he folded his arms over his chest. Prosciutto followed that motion, captivated by the tendons that strained and bulged underneath Risotto’s skin. An unpleasant quiet followed, neither saying anything as they both looked at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.
Prosciutto disrupted the tension with a heavy sigh, “Why don’t you want to see me anymore?” Generally, he wouldn’t be so forward, but he was tired, and his nerves had been wound taut to the point where he couldn’t bring himself to care about nuance or subtlety in his speech.
Risotto had always been a man of few words, preferring to communicate with actions, which is why Prosciutto was hardly fazed when Risotto didn’t respond. He sighed again, rage curdling in his stomach, “If you don’t want to see me anymore, fine, just fucking tell me why.”
He remained still as Risotto moved towards him, anticipating some kind of intimidation act from the taller man with, perhaps, a few harsh words if his demeanor was anything to go by. Maybe something along the lines of, ‘Get out’ or, ‘Don’t ever come back here’ would be spoken, and that would be the end of them all together. He had prepared for such an outcome before he’d even approached Risotto’s place, and so, he stood motionless, ready for such words to come, but they never did. Instead, Prosciutto was enveloped in a suffocating hug, face crushed awkwardly against the other man’s torso as Risotto held him. He froze, muscles stiff before the hands rubbing against his back prompted him to relax, allowing himself to melt in Risotto’s arms.
“Prosciutto…” Risotto whispered, voice barely audible as the blonde craned his head up to look into crimson and onyx eyes, “We can’t be together.”
Prosciutto hummed, Risotto’s comment had been what he’d expected, but the answer was unsatisfactory. Risotto’s actions and words were contradictory. He just said that their relationship was over yet he clutched Prosciutto against his body, unwavering, as if he was afraid of letting go.
“Why not?”
Risotto responded by planting his lips atop Prosciutto’s hair in a chaste gesture, breath fanning delicately against the crown of his head before unwinding his arms from around the shorter man. There was a palpable hesitation in how he carried himself, movements tremulous in a way that Prosciutto had never seen before as he turned towards the bedroom, “See yourself out.”
Prosciutto was furious. He briskly walked over to Risotto, grabbing the back of his coat, “How dare you, how FUCKING dare you! You can’t do that, you can't just lead me on like that and then throw me out. How fucking dare you!” His head was dizzy with rage, vision blurred as he slammed his fist against Risotto’s back. He was caught off guard when Risotto whipped around abruptly, seizing both of Prosciutto’s wrists in an unyielding grip. Prosciutto’s breath caught in his throat, body alight with fury as his bones creaked in protest underneath Risotto’s grasp, “I told you to get out.”
Ah, there it was, what he had been anticipating all along. Prosciutto couldn’t help but mentally curse himself for being so foolish. Even though he had been expecting such treatment, even though he was fully aware of the consequences that would arise from showing up to Risotto’s home uninvited, he still couldn’t accept the response which he knew he’d receive. Somehow, hearing those words come from Risotto’s mouth directly made the whole situation real, not just a scenario he worked out in his head. The realization that he had truly lost Risotto finally set in, and it was only due to his practice at maintaining an unexpressive appearance on the job which helped him stop the tears that threatened to spill over.
Risotto stared at him for several moments longer and somehow, even though Risotto was standing right in front of him, it felt as if the distance between them was greater than it ever had been.
Risotto slowly released his wrists, turning back around and shutting his bedroom door behind him, leaving Prosciutto standing alone and confused, hurt, and left to wonder what could have gone wrong.
Prosciutto would never know why Risotto rejected him that day, and such things would forever remain unknown by anyone other than Risotto.
He wanted to tell Prosciutto why he thought it best to break ties, but Risotto knew the blonde well, the younger man would’ve only protested, and argued that they could’ve made it work. It was soon after the announcement of Sorbet and Gelato’s passing that Risotto had come to a logical conclusion.
He couldn’t bear the thought of losing Prosciutto, and so, they had to separate.
He had allowed himself to grow too attached to the other man, and witnessing the horror that befell his two subordinates, Risotto was snapped out of his childish fantasy. A fantasy where he and Prosciutto could remain together at peace wasn’t possible. The likelihood of one of them dying was a constant, looming threat, but he’d ignored such worries. The deaths of Sorbet and Gelato were a wake up call, a reminder that such an end was a strong possibility for what lay in store for all his men.
It would be easier for both him and Prosciutto if they forgot they ever cared for one another.
Unfortunately for Risotto, his affection towards the other man hadn’t died, it only slept, dormant and beaten into something twisted and mangled, but still breathing. Like a disease, it would fester and swell, and Risotto found himself craving to hold the other close. He caught his eyes wandering during meetings, transfixed by Prosciutto, carefully studying the way his long lashes fanned out against his high cheek bones, that beautiful profile, upper teeth protruding slightly, a look which he’d always been extremely fond of, despite Prosciutto mentioning his distaste towards that specific trait, and those eyes, such a rich shade of blue. He would immediately attempt to snuff out such thoughts, pummeling them back into the recesses of his mind where they continued to writhe and scream.
The seasons changed, and the decaying leaves of fall gave way to the bitter chill of snow as weeks turned into months and months turned into years. Slowly but surely time moved onward, and Risotto was left behind, haunted by memories of one crisp autumn night and the unshed tears of a man he loved.
Despite the now countless nights he spent awake thinking of him, it was only when he received the news from Ghiaccio, the news that Pesci was discovered dismembered by the river bank, and Prosciutto, maimed and shredded beneath the wheels of a train, that he realized what a grave mistake he had made. Pushing away the other man had been an attempt to save himself and Prosciutto from experiencing despair should one of them die, but instead, he felt an overwhelming and oppressive sense of regret that caused his chest to constrict unbearably.
How he wished that he had just allowed himself to love Prosciutto.
That night, Risotto visited Prosciutto’s apartment, crawling underneath the blonde’s covers. The sheets smelled of him. The intense scent of cigarettes, detergent, and something that was wholly Prosciutto consumed him, and he closed his eyes, slipping into a dreamless sleep while holding a pillow close to his heart, pretending that he was hugging something warmer.