Work Text:
Prosciutto has had his suspicions. In fact, those suspicions began, almost comically, when the group found out about Doppio's unexpected pregnancy. Yes, Prosciutto has always known that, despite the testosterone and the protection he uses, there's always a chance that he could end up pregnant, by any one of his lovers in the group. It's kind of like how there's always the possibility that a tree will fall on you and crush you when you walk outside, or the possibility that he would go to assassinate someone and end up getting killed himself. It's always in the back of one's mind, but in Prosciutto's, it's not something he wastes time thinking about extensively because the chances are so low.
Even so, he can't deny what's been going on. His periods have always been incredibly regular, happening during the first week of every month like clockwork.
And then the first week of May comes and goes, with no blood, and he starts to worry. Combined with the intense nausea that even Pesci has noticed by now, the constant soreness of his body, the headaches, and exhaustion, that tiny chance grows.
But the reality of it isn't one that hits him until he's standing outside of the doors to the clinic, having just finished his appointment, staring at his reflection in the glass doors for a few moments before turning briskly on his heel and walking away.
Prosciutto is eight weeks pregnant. For two whole months, he's had a tiny human being growing inside of him, and he didn't even realize it until now. Or, perhaps, he didn't want to realize it.
Generally, for a man with four partners who could have potentially gotten him pregnant, Prosciutto would be in a similar situation to Doppio, not knowing exactly who the other father of this child is. But Prosciutto lives his life on a schedule, and that, strangely enough, includes his sex life. It's fairly easy to rule out most of the group (Melone, Doppio, Ghiacchio, Sorbet, and Gelato are out, as none of them save for Sorbet possess the necessary equipment to even get him pregnant, and Sorbet and Gelato don't sleep with anyone but each other anyway), and he's able to narrow it down further thanks to the appointment confirming how far along he is.
Two months. Who was he with two months ago? He doesn't have to check, because he already knows. He knows exactly who he was with and how this probably happened.
Prosciutto rubs his hands over his face. Of course it had to be him. The first man of the group he even got with, all those years ago, the first one he met besides Pesci, the first one he shared his home and bed with. Of course it would be that man, the one who made the lights dance in his eyes, who would be the father of his first child.
Risotto Nero.
His hands fall into his lap as he looks up from where he sits on his couch in his little apartment. He plays with the folds of his clothes for a moment, thinking about how it won't be long before he'll need to buy new ones. Something tells him that suits won't be terribly comfortable for him to wear for much longer.
But, more importantly than all of that, Prosciutto needs to speak to Risotto.
He checks his watch. Risotto's schedule is unpredictable, as are most of their's even now that they've split from Passione, but he usually makes it home on these days around the same time. The group has been talking about pooling their money to buy a house, a real one they can all live in, by the time Doppio's due date comes around, so at least they'll have the upper hand on the ex he refuses to name in case he comes around (and they all want to live in the same house anyway, all things considered), so Risotto has been working harder than ever to make it happen.
Despite everything, Risotto Nero is a good man, who will make an even better father. Prosciutto needs to speak to him, but not through a text or a phone. He needs to say this face to face.
So he folds his hands on top of his lap and waits.
Risotto walks through the door of the apartment at precisely 8:00 PM. It's been nearly six hours now since Prosciutto discovered the truth about his condition, and since then, he's effectively cleaned the entire apartment and re-organized his bookshelf, and by the time Risotto walks in, he's in the middle of fixing up the cabinets where the dishes are. As soon as the door opens, though, he nearly drops the glass plate he's holding, and has to fumble to ensure it doesn't fall to the floor and shatter.
Risotto doesn't miss the unusual jumpiness of his boyfriend. It isn't like him to be like that. Even so, he keeps his composure as he walks over to Prosciutto, who keeps his back turned to him for the moment while he closes up the cabinets.
"Tesoro," Risotto greets, leaning in to wrap his arms around Prosciutto's waist and rest his head in the crook of his neck. He trails a few kisses from below his ear down to his shoulder. "What has you so nervous?"
He's had six hours to think about how this is going to go, Prosciutto thinks, but now that he's facing the situation, all of his planning feels like it was for nothing. His clear blue eyes meet Risotto's black-and-red ones (the black sclera tend to throw off most people and make them nervous, but to Prosciutto they are enchantingly beautiful) as he turns around to face him, and everything falls away in that moment. It's just the two of them...
Well. The three of them, really.
Prosciutto takes a deep breath, while Risotto cups his cheek in one hand. He rests his hand on top of that one, laces their fingers together.
"I... well. It was silly. I had worked myself up for something that doesn't even frighten me anymore," Prosciutto replies, his voice soft. Risotto reaches up with his other hand to thread it through Prosciutto's blonde hair. He's worn it down for the past few hours, and without the gel keeping it in place, it's soft and silky. Touch has always been so important to Risotto, ever since he was a child. Autism and a natural want to be alone means that Risotto is rarely one for being touched by or touching others, but the team brings out a side of him that never wants to stop touching, being touched.
So many people fear Risotto's hands, but Prosciutto feels anything but fear when his fingertips meet his skin. His hands are cold, but that doesn't bother him anymore.
"Is that so?" Risotto murmurs in response. "Then, would you rather not talk about it?"
"Ah... well, it's still important," Prosciutto replies quickly. "I would have told you sooner, but I wanted it to be planned and perfect. I realize now that was foolish of me -- the planning, not waiting for you -- but what's done is done." With the hand that's still holding Risotto's, he carefully pulls his hand from his cheek down his body to rest on his belly. There's nothing there to feel, not yet, but that isn't the point of his actions.
It's the first time Prosciutto has ever seen Risotto truly speechless, his jaw dropped completely, normally stoic face painted clearly with shock.
It takes him a few moments to work out what to say.
"I -- amore mio, is it true?" Risotto finally says. His voice is breathy, quieter than Prosciutto's ever heard him, but so full of emotion. He can see the shimmering of his eyes, and Prosciutto feels a lump in his throat; however, it comes from a place of happiness. "Are you -- we -- un bambino?"
Prosciutto nods. He can feel the tremble in his own hands, in Risotto's hands. "Yes. I wanted to make absolutely sure -- I had an appointment, earlier in the afternoon. I'm eight weeks pregnant."
Suddenly, Risotto's arms are around him, pulling Prosciutto in close as he buries his face in his neck, pressing kisses to his neck and jaw while he speaks and cries at the same time: "Oh, oh cuore mio, a child -- our child -- you are la mia anima, la mia vita. You and our child will both want for nothing, I will promise that."
Prosciutto sniffs again, feeling the warm tears sliding down his face, making no effort to stop them. It's like everything is hitting him all at once, but in the best way possible. He holds Risotto as close to him as the other man does to himself, then he leans in to respond, close to his ear: "Mio caro, luce dei miei occhi, sei la mia vita. I trust you. Our child will love you, you - will be an incredible father."
Risotto squeezes him tighter, though not too tight, then pulls back a bit to look at his boyfriend once more. Tears shine on his face, but before Prosciutto can reach up to wipe them away, he kneels down in front of him, rests his cheek on his belly and his hands on his hips.
"Do not sell yourself short, either," Risotto says. "Our child will love you, as well. You will be an amazing father. There is nothing the two of us can't do for this child."
The truth of his lover's words are nearly palpable. Prosciutto knows as well as anyone else that once Risotto comes to a decision, he sticks to it. If he says that their family will be taken care of, then so it shall be. And Prosciutto doesn't mind the prospect of being pampered for the next few months (after all, growing a whole human inside of oneself is no small feat, he knows that much). Especially not if it means he'll get more moments like this with Risotto.
Prosciutto smiles through his tears when he feels the warm press of Risotto's lips against his lower belly. Yes, there truly is no reason to be worried, he supposes. Risotto loves this child, and the rest of the group will love them, too, of that he has no doubt.
He can only hope that, somehow, their child can feel the love their parents have for them already, and will return it with a love of their own when the time comes.