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Risotto stares at the mirror, his eyes visibly sunken in, face unshaven and noticeably pale.
Despite already brushing his teeth and splashing his face with cold water, he still felt lethargic.
“Risotto, Amore, you should shave,” you giggled upon feeling his stubble with your palm.
He quirked an eyebrow up, still looking at the mirror, “Really? I thought you loved it.”
Risotto placed his hands on your own and began rubbing it against his jaw.
You squealed in response to his antics, “hey! That feels weird—!”
Both of your laughs filled the bathroom.
As if his hands were weighed down with cinder blocks, he reaches for the razor.
“Fine, I’ll shave, I’ll shave.” “Good! I’m not about to poke myself every time I give you a peck!”
How many months had it been since you last kissed him. Four? Six?
It didn’t matter. Whenever he thought back, it felt like it was yesterday, anyways.
Risotto hadn’t seen your dead body, but Formaggio’s report on it was enough for him
to crumble silently.
The slight whirring of the phone, the frantic breathing of Formaggio, everything somehow felt zoomed in on.
His vision blurs slightly as he stares at the mirror.
“Is... their body there?” “No, it’s— it’s just a pool of blood...there’s—“ Risotto listened intently as the younger male held back a gag, “—Capo, there’s so much.”
It was as if Risotto’s senses heightened. Everything felt intense at that moment.
With a heavy heart, he regained his posture and commanding attitude.
“Get Melone,” he ordered, trying to hide the shakiness in his voice.
He was glad no one else was in his office.
Had someone been there, they would have seen the way he was trembling.
“Test the blood. Make it absolutely certain that it’s theirs.” “Capo, the note—“
His booming voice thundered throughout his empty office, interrupting Formaggio’s sentence, “test the fucking blood!”
Risotto felt his heart pound harder in his rib cage. The anger and despair he felt swirled together unforgivingly as he thought back on that damn note.
You were dead, and Passione’s signature cemented that triumph.
Formaggio nodded his head out of pure fear and instinct, mumbling out yeses after he realized he was on a call.
The line clicked dead, and Risotto was left alone with his thoughts.
When Melone confirmed that the blood was in fact yours, Risotto felt himself go on autopilot.
Suddenly, nothing mattered anymore.
“All of you,” Risotto once murmured coolly to the group, only two years after Sorbet and Gelato’s passing, “Forget all about Sorbet and Gelato.”
Somehow those words were harder to say about your death.
The memorial was silent. The men were grouped around pictures of you, as your body wasn’t found.
Risotto had hope. He had hope in the fact that your body wasn’t present. Without your corpse, how could people say you were truly dead?
Formaggio clapped a hand on Risotto’s back, muttering a condolence before being the last one of his men to leave.
He stayed at the memorial the longest, gazing longingly at the pictures you two took together.
“The view here is nice, isn’t it? We should invite Pesci along next time.” Your camera clicked as you eyed the sea through the lens. Risotto was behind you, back against yours as he monitored the area.
He turned around and placed his chin on the crown of your head. “It is nice,” he murmured before placing his hands on your shoulders.
“Sardinia, isn’t it? I heard there’s a lot of history here.”
Risotto responds with a distant hum, rubbing circles into the round of your shoulders.
Without any warning, you flipped the camera around, “Risotto, say cheese!”
Risotto waited for all of his teammates to disappear before he allowed himself to breakdown.
His shoulders shook when he held your portrait, wet blobs splashing off of the glass as he wept.
There was an ache in his chest, sharper than anything he’s ever felt. Sharper than a hundred bullets penetrating his skin.
It was hard for him to breathe, air either entering his lungs in heaps, or not at all.
He wanted to ask you so many questions, but he knew no matter how much he yelled, he wouldn’t retrieve an answer.
He was a dead man that day, and so on.
When you left, a part of him came with you.
Before Risotto knows it, he’s in his office.
His teammates all looked at him worryingly when he entered the new hideout.
He didn’t bother addressing it.
He’s seated at his desk, not doing anything but stare at the photographs. The usual routine.
Risotto’s gaze shifts from the frames over to the trash bin.
He shakes the thought from his head.
Risotto almost doesn’t notice Prosciutto entering the room, and he was sure he wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the blonds shoes obnoxiously clacking on the floor.
He says nothing about the males sudden appearance, not sparing even a glance.
Prosciutto stands there for an almost laughable amount of time, and it’s clear he’s trying to make Risotto crack.
He doesn’t.
“Capo,” Prosciutto starts, finally catching the other man's attention, “they wouldn’t want this for you.”
The blondes words are blunt, straight to the point.
They’re enough to make Risotto falter for a bit, and he almost chokes from the shock of his teammates' words.
He speaks up after a noticeable silence, “pardon?”
Prosciutto steps closer to the desk, looking down at the other male through his bottom lashes, “I said they wouldn’t want this for you.”
There is silence once more, but it’s obvious Prosciutto plans on filling that silence.
“Do you think they’d want to see you waste away like this? To watch you neglect your well-being because you feel guilty?
“Never in my life did I think you’d become this way. They did all they could to make sure you were healthy, and the team can back me up on that. It was almost disgusting how sweet you two were towards each other,” Prosciutto sneers as he says this, reminiscing about the times you used to spoon food into Risotto's mouth when you thought no one was looking.
“But look at you now. You’ve barely eaten for the past seven months,” He nods his head towards Risotto's form as he mentions the weight loss.
Prosciutto was right. After you left, Risotto found no joy in eating. The most he’d eat in a day was a meal, two if he was in a good mood, and even then, the rations were smaller than he got before your death.
The blonds glare is cold and icy as he finishes his speech, “Are you really going to undo all that because of guilt?”
The atmosphere in the room was thick enough to be cut with scissors. The silence was deafening.
Whereas a normal person would’ve shivered and apologized multiple times upon Risottos stone-like glare, Prosciutto kept his ground, unbothered by the red pupils stabbing straight through his skull.
Risotto sighs, closing his eyes for a brief moment.
“Prosciutto,” He starts, slowly, calmly, contrasting Prosciutto's brash way of getting to the point.
He sets his elbows down on the table, interlacing his fingers together as he rests his chin on top, “I understand your worries,” he says,
“But this doesn’t concern you.”
Prosciutto's eyebrows twitch downwards as he slams his hand down on his Boss’s table, “like hell it doesn’t concern me. It concerns me when my boss is slowly killing himself!”
“It shouldn’t.”
“I never thought you’d be this weak. I never thought you’d be this fucking stupid!” Risotto doesn’t flinch when Prosciutto curses insults at him.
The blonde hisses your name slowly.
“They knew what they were getting into, Risotto!” Prosciutto practically yells as he points at your picture frames.
Normally, this would’ve had major consequences (usually a razor blade emerging from the throat,) but this was not a normal situation to begin with.
“If they were here right now, they’d agree with me that you’re being a damn idiot. I bet you they’d scold the ever loving hell out of you,” there’s a tremble in Prosciutto's words as he scolds, slight tremor in his hands.
It hurt him to act as if your death didn’t affect him as much as he let on, but it hurt him more to see Risotto in pain.
“Think about how disappointed they’d be seeing you this way, think about how—“ —A large fist makes contact with the wooden desk, creating a loud bang before Risotto finally snaps,
“They’re dead, Prosciutto!”
A thick and heavy silence fills the room.
There is an angry glint in Risotto's eyes, his eyebrows creased downwards, the snarl on his lips carved out of pent up anger.
The emotions consuming Risotto are red hot, boiling. For once in the conversation, Prosciutto is quiet.
He talks again, as if to conclude the interaction,
“They’re fucking dead.”
Prosciutto bites the inside of his cheek as he anxiously awaits dismissal.
Risotto sighs, tiredness evident in his voice.
“Leave my office.”
The sun dances on the round of your shoulders gently, the table in front of you shaded by the Cafes awning.
From the skin showing on your back, nobody would’ve assumed that you were once stabbed multiple times around the area.
Even you were confused about how you survived.
All you remembered after the encounter with the Boss was a young boy cursing as his golden Stand healed your scars.
It took awhile for the pain to subside before you decided it would be time to look for your group. Most importantly, to look for Risotto Nero.
There wasn’t a time you could remember where you weren’t thinking of him, praying that he and the others were still alive.
Everyday you searched, and everyday you came back home with less hope than the day prior.
As if on routine, you checked the abandoned hideout every day you managed to go outside.
Gossips of the Boss revealing himself to the public made up 90% of the chatter you heard from walking through the streets. He hid his identity due to his young age, apparently.
The residents would whisper to each other about how the Boss took down the hit men team, how all of them had died a miserable death—
“The whole road caught on fire! Man, it must’ve been terrifying. I heard he was covered in holes—”
“Right through the throat! They saw it by the canal!”
“My little brother was walking around the beach when he saw the body on the sand. It was gunned down to smithereens!—“
You confirmed it for yourself. With every puzzle piece falling into place, you stopped looking. Because what was the point in looking for a dead man?
You had nowhere to go, no place in the world. Nowhere to be, nothing to be a part of.
You would be lying if you said you didn’t want to take revenge for your fallen teammates. You’d be lying even more if you said you cared that your vengeance would have resulted in death.
But the blond boy, who had so graciously healed your wounds talked you out of it.
He spoke words of wisdom as he told you to carry on, but not without keeping the group you once considered closer than family dear to your heart.
His statements brought you to tears, and with that, you kissed his pinkie finger.
Once again, you were a part of something.
You sigh as you inhale the steam of coffee coming from your mug. ‘Risotto would’ve liked this flavour,’ you thought.
It used to be a dark bitter coffee (the type to make kids spew in disgust) before you splashed milk and sugar into it, unintentionally making it the way Risotto liked.
You sip your drink slowly, trying to push the thought of your lover to the back of your mind.
After the drink is long gone, you notice your phone buzz, causing you to stand up.
“Sir? Yes, I have the papers—“ Giorno’s voice shines on the other end of the burner phone as he thanks you. You explain in detail what intel on the narcotics team you managed to wrack up, and once more, your boss responds, pleased.
You hastily breezed through the streets, carefully analyzing your surroundings as your boss spoke.
“Alright. Ah, also, I’ll have somebody pick you up from there,” the blond says, and you hum in agreement. Though it was strange for you to be picked up, you weren’t denying what essentially was a free ride.
“May I ask what colour the car will be?”
“The car will be a red Mazda Miata.”
His response makes you freeze. You feel your eyebrows slanting downwards in remembrance.
“I see. Thank you, boss. That’s all I need.” With that, you hung up.
“What do you mean you don’t know what a Mazda Miata looks like?! It’s so damn obvious!”
“I’m not a car geek like you, dumb ass!”
You throw a water bottle at the enraged male in annoyance. Ghiaccio prepares to retaliate, bringing the same bottle up to aim at your face before a hand locks his wrist in place.
Ghiaccio looks up to see Risotto's unamused face. “Don’t make a mess. The base is already in disarray as of right now,” he stated.
You and Ghiaccio droop your heads, both for different reasons.
You hid yours to keep in your snickers and Ghiaccio hid his out of irritation.
You’re broken out of your daze when you see a strikingly red car in your peripheral.
Shutting your eyes, you try to comfort yourself.
Death was—no, is— expected in your line of work, and it’s stupid of you to mourn over the death of mere coworkers.
Even if they felt like family at some points, they knew what they were getting into. You knew what you were getting into.
You hear a scream, a very, very familiar screech that shoots a pang of pain through your heart.
‘That poor boy,’ you think to yourself, before hearing a car door slam open. There are rabid footsteps coming towards you.
You open your eyes, instantly being greeted with brilliant Arctic blue curls.
Ghiaccio’s jaw is practically on the floor, and his hands seize your shoulders. You take a shaky hand to your mouth.
He’s repeating your name, but you can’t respond, visibly more shocked than he was.
It takes all you have not to burst out into tears.
“Is that really you? Hey, hey, answer me!”
You nod your head, and the boy before you sighs in relief as he releases your shoulders.
His eyes are wide, and you can tell by the way he’s blinking that he still doesn’t quite believe that it’s you.
“You... you piece of shit! Where were you?!” You flinch at his words and shake your head while shrugging, still speechless.
Ghiaccio holds out both of his arms awkwardly, lips in a tight line (almost a snarl), and it takes you a few seconds to realize that he was trying to initiate a hug.
His arms are stiff while they pat your back, as if he was hugging just for the sake of it. You’re just glad one of your teammates is alive, and that shows through the way your warmth practically rivals his iciness.
Ghiaccio interrupts you when he sees you open your mouth after pulling away, “I’ll answer your questions, just get in the car.”
You’re still staring at your teammate, shocked (though Ghiaccio feels it should be the other way around).
It was weird to be in the same car as one of your assumedly deceased allies, especially since he was uncharacteristically silent. You break the tension,
“I thought you were dead.”
Ghiaccio grunts in response to your outburst. “If it weren’t for that blond piece of shit, I would be.”
The silence is there once again before Ghiaccio speaks up, “we thought you were dead too.”
Your ears perk up at his words
“‘We’?” You echo, eyes bright with hope. Ghiaccio nods, confirming your thoughts.
“Pesci?” You start your list, Ghiaccio nods once more.
He can feel the whiplash creeping up on him from nodding as you rapid fire through nearly all the names of your gang.
Ghiaccio notices you stop yourself before finishing your list.
He looks over, analyzing your expression.
He could practically feel the anxiety rising in your chest, so he spares you the pain.
“Risotto,” he begins, looking at you through short glances, “Risotto is alive.”
He sees your eyebrows curve up for a second, before your expression falters once again. You play with your fingers,
“How did he take it?”
Ghiaccio assumes you’re talking about your disappearance, your “death.”
“He took it well in front of us, but we saw how much it was affecting him. It was bringing back what happened with Sorbet and Gelato,” he says nonchalantly, speeding past the cars that dare try and get ahead of him.
He whispers an expletive about the car beside him before he continues, “When we fought the boss, it wasn’t just for Sorbet and Gelato anymore. It was for you as well.”
“Did you guys try to help Riz out?”
“Prosciutto tried. He even tried to hook him up with a few people.”
You don’t react to the statement, and Ghiaccio worries he may have upset you, so he adds on to his words quickly, “Risotto was stubborn, though. He told us it would be disrespecting you if he were to find someone else.”
You look down at your lap, mumbling “I would’ve wanted him to move on,” in a low tone.
Ghiaccio sighs at your words, and he makes a sudden turn.
Pulling into the new base, Ghiaccio notices you stare at him anxiously. He only tilts his head towards the building as he parks the red vehicle.
He steps out of the car, you following suite as he rams the door open.
Through all this, he is looking back at you, as if he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t keep his eye on you.
Ghiaccio exclaims his arrival, which the team promptly doesn’t react to until they see there’s another figure besides him.
You step up to see your group fully. It’s silent for a few seconds, and you're worried you’re not welcome until the men begin to yell.
Formaggio is the first to rush towards you, wrapping you in his embrace, causing Ghiaccio to step away. He spins you around a couple of times before cupping your face in his palms, grinning from ear to ear.
He exclaims excitedly, “Capo! Capo, they’re back! They’re back, capo!”
Prosciutto is the second one to approach you, staring at your face in disbelief as he mutters questions of your disappearance.
Melone’s practically reaching over for you from the couch as Illuso watches from the sidelines.
Pesci is the second to embrace you, stumbling over his words about how glad he was you were alive.
You’re about to ask for Risotto until the aforementioned male exits his office in a fuss, not in the mood for the loud ruckus.
“Everyone, I don’t recall there being a game to-“
He’s only in the beginning of scolding his men when his eyes meet yours.
It was as if time had stopped between you two.
Among the chaos of the men surrounding you, you remained serene as you reciprocated the gaze of your lover.
“Risotto, do you believe we can actually defeat the boss?”
Risotto responded by curling up closer to your form, warmth enveloping half of your body.
You sighed, stroking his white locks, “I have to be up early tomorrow.” You can feel a frown press against your collarbone.
“I’d rather have someone cover for you. I can call Illus—“ “No, no, amore. I can handle it, don’t worry.”
Risotto could feel the pit in his stomach tighten, his gut telling him otherwise.
Images of Sorbet and Gelato’s fates flashed through his mind, but he shook them off.
This time could be different.
A yawn escapes your lips, causing Risotto to chuckle.
“I’m getting sleepy. Goodnight, Risotto.” You gave him a shy peck which he reciprocates, and you two spend the night in each other's arms.
Had Risotto known what would occur the next day, he never would’ve let you go.
Risotto can feel the loneliness consume him from the inside. His breathing gets shallow, and a cold chill runs up his body.
He takes a shaky step towards you, halting while bringing a trembling hand up to his mouth.
You smile gently, taking half a step towards him.
“Risotto,” you beam at the man as he finally rushes up to you, cradling your face with his palms.
His thumb strokes your cheek, as if to make sure that you were real and not a figment of his imagination.
You bring a hand up to his forehead, tucking a stray hair behind his ear.
Risotto shudders at your actions as he leans into your hand.
There are tears in his eyes as he begs, “Please don’t tell me I’m dreaming.”
You shake your head while tearfully giggling.
As if a weight had been taken off of his shoulders, he presses a kiss on your forehead.
“Don’t leave me again,” he breathes before capturing your lips with his own, carrying the back of your head intensely.
His movements are desperate, actions of a man who had been yearning for longer than he could handle.
You feel hot tears splash on your face, and you’re not sure if they’re yours or Risotto’s.
The group around you is cheering loudly, but you can’t focus on anything else except for the man in front of you.
There were nights where you’d dream of embracing your lover. It was the mornings after those dreams that felt the most agonizing, spent wiping your tears away from the despair you drowned in.
Risotto's arms wrap around your torso, and you smile realizing you don’t have to dream to be in his arms again.