Chapter Text
Ghiaccio wakes up and assaults his punching bag because his dads died.
Strictly speaking, it’s not just because Sorbet and Gelato died. Ever since he moved out of Risotto’s place into his own apartment (god, Gelato cried so much you’d think Ghiaccio was moving out of his place; Sorbet helped him pick out a new mattress because according to him, the most important decisions in a man’s life are how he treats those he loves and the mattress he sleeps on, and you know what, he was on to something because he’s never waken up with an ache in his back since), he’s worked out each morning: stretches to loosen everything up; a little while on the treadmill; some crunches; some push ups; squats and lunges if he’s feeling up to it; a few rounds attacking the punching bag. It’s less intensive than what he does in the afternoon, something meant to wake him up more than anything else, but he’s proud of himself for making his own schedule and sticking to it.
There’s nothing wrong with pride. He’d been a kid once, what seems like a long time ago but really isn't, and he wore shame like an old coat, abandoned and unwanted and angry at the whole world but mostly himself. He’s a man now or something like that, and he takes pride in the strength of his arm and the quickness of his feet, the fact that he hasn’t killed the little fern growing in a pot by the window, the fact that he’s eighteen, almost nineteen, and he’s still here, he’s still alive. His thighs may be scarred but they hold his body up just the same.
So even if they were still alive -Gelato chattering on about this and that and nothing in particular while walking his dogs; Sorbet snoring on the couch with a half-finished crossword puzzle resting on his chest- Ghiaccio would hit the punching bag first thing in the morning because he has a routine that must be kept. They buried them yesterday and he wakes up today, puts on his gloves, and practices his jabs because Gelato praised him once for sticking to his morning routine. They buried them yesterday and he wakes up today, puts on his gloves, and practices his jabs because the Boss doesn’t give a shit that there’s still a slice of Sorbet’s 40th birthday cake in the back of his fridge or that Gelato forgot a jacket at his apartment and will never come back for it, only that he’ll mind him and obey and kill whoever he wants without any questions asked.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? The Boss killed his dads… but no, let’s call it what it really is: murder. He murdered his dads. It doesn’t matter if he did it himself or not. He’s the one that gives the orders, so their blood is on his hands, no matter who did the actual job. He murdered his dads. He tortured his dads. He cut into every piece of Sorbet (quiet Sorbet, boring Sorbet, the man who made him do math worksheets because he wanted him to grow up better than he had, the man who taught him how to paint his nails and how to manage his bank account) and forced Gelato (rambly Gelato, silly Gelato, the man who watched Power Rangers with him, the man who taught him his family recipe for beef stew and where to find the best asparagus in all of Napoli) to watch, desecrated Sorbet’s body like he ever wanted anyone to see him so exposed, left Gelato cold and all alone in the dark and didn’t give a fuck that the man couldn’t even sleep without a nightlight because darkness frightened him.
The Boss murdered the two of them and he still expects him to go back to work because there’s no saying no in Passione, not if you want to keep your head. So Ghiaccio wakes up today, puts on his gloves, and practices his jabs because he needs to stay in top form as an assassin, but you better believe that he imagines the bag is the Boss all the while.
It’s a cold shower after that, droplets of water clinging to his skin and freezing in place before the next rivulet melts them. His breath comes out in clouds. Outside of his apartment, he practices strict control of White Album, constantly reigns in the blizzard raging just under his skin, but he lets the ice seep through here, lets frost bloom along the walls, lets the temperature drop so low that the inhabitants of the unit next door must be shivering. Contrary to what his teammates might assume, Ghiaccio hates the cold, cranks the heat up even in summer because he can never warm up enough, but it’s winter now, a new and worse year just begun, and he feels the chill inside and out.
He goes through the motions of getting ready for the day after that but his body acts on its own, his mind far away: skin routine because despite everything, he’s still a teenager with angry skin; balm because the cold air outside saps all moisture away from him and cracks his lips; a few minutes spent messing with his hair before giving it up in frustration because he still doesn’t know what the hell to do with these curls. He stands in front of his wardrobe and picks through his clothes and then his brain returns to him just in time for him to wonder what the hell you’re supposed to wear when you’re going out to tell someone that your dads died.
He owns a couple suits for work purposes but only one black one. He wore it to the funeral yesterday and it felt wrong sitting there wearing it because Sorbet’s the one who always wore black. The older man always tried to spin it as a stylistic statement but they all knew it’s because he hated having to think about matching his clothes. Ghiaccio bought the suit two years ago and he didn’t think he changed that much between then and now, but he sat there in the pew and kept tugging at his sleeves because they fit too tight and fell too short. He thought Prosciutto would scold him for fidgeting but the man sat in his spot, still as a statue, and barely seemed to register the world around him. He and Formaggio broke up after the wreckage of Sorbet’s body was delivered to their base of operations. There’s no lack of love between the two but love’s what killed Gelato, Prosciutto said, and would say no more.
Which, you know, is bullshit because love didn’t fucking kill Gelato, you fucking dumbass. Gelato killed Gelato. And he’s not stupid, okay? Ghiaccio’s impulsive and jumps to the wrong conclusions and overthinks dumb shit, but he’s not stupid and neither was Gelato and neither was Sorbet. Love kept Sorbet and Gelato going long enough to make it to forty, make it to forty-two, even if they didn’t make it much past that. Love’s the only good thing in this bullshit of a life. You can call off the romance, Prosciutto, because Ghiaccio doubts romance can prosper when everything’s so bleak and heavy, but you can’t just sit there and convince yourself that you never fell in love at all, that you never felt anything at all, that you don’t love him, because you do , and the same goes for you, Formaggio, it goes just the same for you. And it’s not like he doesn’t understand where they’re coming from, you know? Because he does, even if he thinks they’re stupid. Gelato and Formaggio adored each other to bits, two peas in the same pod, and Ghiaccio knows that Prosciutto looks at him and sees the rag lodged in Gelato’s throat, the tear tracks running through the blood dried on Gelato’s cheeks. He knows that Formaggio looks at Prosciutto and sees a puddle of blood on the ground, slices of a corpse preserved in formalin. It’s just...Sorbet and Gelato were both so happy when they finally got together after years of dancing around it. Gelato embraced Prosciutto in the tightest bear hug you’ve ever seen, completely ruining his hair, and told him to get some. Sorbet took Formaggio aside after a team meeting and asked him to please treat Lazzaro gently because few others had.
So he sat there in his too-small suit picking at his sleeves while Prosciutto and Formaggio pretended that they were never anything but strictly platonic, and he tried to cry but no tears would come, not in front of other people. He saw Gelato in his casket, small and still and drowned in roses, and he couldn’t cry at all. He didn’t see Sorbet in his casket at all because he was mutilated too severely for an open-casket service, and he wanted to cry for him, for the both of them, but it’s as if all tears froze inside his body. They didn’t let him see his body contorted in fear in his apartment, didn’t let him see him bound in rope with a rag deep in his throat, but he saw him at the funeral, cleaned up and more presentable but still dead, dead, dead. They all left the two gifts before they lowered them down into the grave. Before they filled the coffins with flowers -Melone’s gift; he never really got along with Sorbet but even still, he paid for roses because he knew the man loved them- Ghiaccio had the funeral director tuck his ragged old stuffed lion he slept with every night at Gelato’s feet because Gelato loved cartoons (“Buddy,” he said one day, “the last thing I wanna do when I get home at the end of the day is turn on the television and watch something dull and serious.”) and Gelato loved toys and Gelato never made fun of him for being a grown man who still slept with a stuffed animal. He left Sorbet with his old blanket -a little stained, a little threadbare- to keep him warm. When he went up to say goodbye to the two of them one last time before they closed the lid on Gelato, he slipped a little battery-powered light into the casket. It won’t last forever, he knows that, but if Gelato’s still out there somewhere, he hopes it lights his way.
A shirt slips off a hanger and snaps Ghiaccio back into the present. Right, clothes. He needs to wear something. He can’t bring himself to wear the black suit again, wants to burn the stupid thing, and anyway, it doesn’t fit right, so he can’t wear it to meet Bruno fucking Buccellati with his couture suits and his lace and his hair never out of place. His other suits won’t do: too ill-fitting or too shabby or too light. He settles on a pair of dark dress pants he bought for a recent job where he infiltrated a party as a waiter and a black button-up he doesn’t remember buying. Maybe Prosciutto slipped it into his wardrobe in his ongoing efforts to get him to wear something other than t-shirts and his ratty Converse. It’s only when he’s putting his belt on that he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror -a bit blurry because his vision’s terrible and he left his glasses in the bathroom, so he’s forced to squint to see himself properly- that he realizes that he’s dressed like Sorbet. He sits down at the edge of his bed and he doesn’t cry, not really, but his throat burns and he wants to scream and he wants to go to bed and he wants today to be over, but he can’t because there’s work to do and this parcel won’t deliver itself.
He gets up and goes to the bathroom to fetch his glasses.
He looks tired. He is tired. He knows he slept last night because he woke up, but to look at him, you’d never believe it. He read in a magazine once that if you want to get rid of dark circles, you should put a spoon in the refrigerator and massage with the rounded end, but he doesn’t think cutlery’s going to solve this problem. He reaches for his glasses, knocks a stick of eyeliner off the counter, and pauses.
Sorbet taught him how to put on makeup, walked up through how to draw on eyeliner without stabbing himself in the eye and how to brush on his foundation so it didn’t look like he was wearing makeup at all. The man wore a full face of makeup every day, and though he kept it subtle, preferring to blend into the background, Gelato says -said- that back in the 80s, Sorbet wore his hair long and teased, blush like fever and eyeshadow neon bright. Ghiaccio asked him once why he changed, why the hell he dressed so boring now, and Sorbet shrugged, took a sip of his drink, and said the price of lipstick today appalled him.
He hasn’t done this in awhile. He admired Risotto’s dark lipstick and the white nail polish he sometimes wore to match his hair, admired the way Sorbet drew on his eyeliner sharp and black to accentuate his masculinity, but it took him a while to realize that was something within his grasp, something he could have for himself. He doesn't worry anymore if there's anything inherently feminine or masculine about an act. If he doesn’t immediately excel at something, he hears his father at the back of his mind asking him why the hell he’s even trying. He didn’t instinctively know what color concealer to use, how to line his lips, and if it weren’t for both Sorbet and Risotto gently urging him onward, he probably would’ve given up in frustration at his first failed attempt at putting on lipstick. He tries his best to ignore the self-doubt instilled in him when he was young. If you like working out first thing in the morning, do it. If you like painting your lips blue, do it.
He still doesn’t wear it much. Pesci doubts himself in almost everything but he paints his makeup on bright and bold like some sort of new wave rocker and he makes it look good. Not him. Ghiaccio’s never dared to do anything so bold, keeps it subtle, keeps it simple. Pesci’s more like Prosciutto than he realizes but Ghiaccio understands why Sorbet and Gelato liked to fade into the background.
Primer first and then foundation. He prefers brushing it on but he hasn’t worn foundation since he broke it off with Gianni and hasn’t cleaned his brushes since then, and anyway, Sorbet put on his foundation with the cheapest wedge sponges he could find. After that, it’s concealer and...oh, fuck, was he supposed to put the concealer on before or after the foundation? Ghiaccio never remembers. He dabs some over the stubborn acne spots that refuse to vanish no matter how many products he throws at them and hopes that bastard Buccellati doesn’t notice. It’s powder after that to set it: a much paler color than what Sorbet wore but the same brand. He considers putting on blush but he always misjudges how much to wear and this is not an occasion that calls for clown-pink cheeks. He doesn’t bother with eyeshadow because he only owns cheap shit that never clings to his lids right, but he grabs the eyeliner. They say you’re supposed to choose a contrasting color to bring out the color of your eyes, but Ghiaccio doesn’t give a shit about that, so it goes on black and it goes on imperfect because he hasn’t mastered this yet, but it’s good enough and that’s what matters.
Ghiaccio’s trying to teach himself that ‘good enough’ is good enough.
This is fine. Actually, no, everything’s fucked to hell and back, his dads died and he still has to head up all the way to Torino later this week with Melone to kill some fucker, but his shirt fits and his makeup isn’t terrible, so this is as fine as it’s going to get. He grabs his cellphone as he heads out of his room, dials Risotto’s number, doesn’t wait for him to say hi.
“Risotto, it’s me,” he says. “I’m delivering the box to Buccellati. I’ll check in when I’m done. All’s fine over here; I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary.”
Maybe it’s rude not to ask how he’s doing but fuck that, he already knows the answer: he’s doing terrible. Ever since the murder, Ghiaccio’s wondered if Risotto knew more about Sorbet and Gelato’s plan than he let on, but there’s no point in bringing it up, no point rubbing metaphorical salt in wounds. Risotto said to forget about Sorbet and Gelato but even through his rage, Ghiaccio recognizes more than anyone that Risotto himself won’t, will carry the guilt he let his men down for the rest of his life. Ghiaccio remembers, Ghiaccio will always remember them, and Ghiaccio doesn't forgive or forget easily. He doesn’t give a shit if Risotto sanctions it or not; he’s raising hell at the first opportunity and to hell with consequences.
“Good,” Risotto says. He’s never been a person of very many words, stoic and still by nature, but he’s barely said more than three words at a time that aren’t strictly business related since the murder.
“I’ll be quick as I can,” he says. “Any team updates I need to know about?”
“Susina is taking the children back to America. Illuso won’t be available this week. He’s packing the house up. Formaggio’s taking his jobs.”
Okay. Okay, that makes sense. Illuso’s the only one with a family to worry about: his wife, two sets of twins, a little girl that demands that her Uncle Gattino make it snow every time she sees him, and a little boy who hasn’t quite figured out his colors and shapes yet.
“This permanent or just until shit blows over?”
But there’s no blowing over. They’ve all seen the writing on the wall: one wrong move and everyone you love can be taken from you, can be sliced into bits while still alive.
“I don’t know,” Risotto replies. “We’re having a team meeting tomorrow at the usual time.”
Some time over the years, they started hosting team meetings at Formaggio’s mother’s house, mostly as an excuse to sit around and chat over homemade pasta, but after everything that’s happened, Formaggio’s called an end to that. His mother’s old and he doesn’t want to make her a target of retaliation from the Boss if any more bloodshed happens. They’ll meet tomorrow at their actual hideout. Ghiaccio already knows Risotto plans to name him as the new second-in-command and...well, someone has to take the spot that Gelato left. It might as well be him.
“I’ll be there. I’m heading out now. If I don’t check in by noon, call Melone. He’s got my blood on hand.”
A pause.
“We’re going to make it through this, Risotto,” Ghiaccio says in a small voice, and he almost calls him Dad like he did sometimes as a little kid (he said it was a joke because Risotto's really not that much older than he is, even if he seemed so grown up when Ghiaccio was only twelve, but it was less of a joke than he's ever wanted to admit) but he stops himself. “It fucking sucks but we’re going to make it through this.”
He wants to believe that. He really, really wants to believe that.
Winter still rages outside, so Ghiaccio goes to grab his heaviest coat off the rack but Gelato’s jacket’s still hanging on the hook where he left it the last time he dropped by the apartment. It’s in his hands before he knows it and he presses his face to the fabric, breathes in. It smells like Gelato: wood smoke because he loved burning sticks in the grill just to watch the flames flicker; dogs because Gelato doted on his two massive girls but no one’s sure where Bingsu and Sherbet Lemon ran off to; pine and cranberry from the candles in his apartment; his cologne; Sorbet’s lotion.
Christ, he’s a loser huffing a jacket. Is smelling an article of clothing because it smells like your dad father figure weird? He bets this is weird as fuck. He hangs it back up and then he wonders what the hell he should do with this long term. It doesn’t fit him. Gelato isn’t -wasn’t- much taller than him but Ghiaccio’s built broader and stronger than the bony little man. He could donate it but it’s old and worn-out, probably older than Ghiaccio himself, and they’re certain to throw it out. He could keep it but every time he looks at the coat rack, he’ll remember that its owner is never coming back for it. He could stuff it in a box in his closet where he won’t have to look at it but can keep it close, but he can’t hoard old things forever.
You know what? This is a decision for Future Ghiaccio.
He puts on his coat -black wool, meant to be worn while blending into the background on icy days waiting for the kill, purely functional and nothing more- and throws on a scarf, the blue yarn his only pop of color, but before he slips on his gloves, he wonders. Gelato always kept treats in his pockets for Sorbet and anyone else who might be hungry: hard lemon candies; a packet or two of chips; a box of cookie sticks because the two of them flew into Seoul in 2000 and smuggled an entire case back they never finished; at least three kinds of mints because Gelato loved anything minty. If it’s weird to smell a dead man’s jacket, it’s probably weird to eat a dead man’s snacks but if he doesn’t, they’ll go to waste. Gelato bought snacks for people to share. If he were here right now, he’d probably be pressing a few tupperware boxes full of gnocchi into his hands to throw into the freezer for when he’s too tired to cook for himself. If he were here right now, Sorbet would be straightening up the crooked pictures hanging on his walls while his stand stuck his beak in his fiance’s pockets to gobble up all the lemon candies.
Ghiaccio reaches into Gelato’s old jacket and his fingers close around something small and metallic. It’s one of his earrings. Except on jobs, Gelato never went out without at least one earring. This one’s a little gold hoop, the kind he wore the most. Ghiaccio rummages through the rest of his pockets but although he finds treats, he doesn’t uncover the earring’s mate. Maybe it’s back at Gelato’s place -they’ll have to go through their things eventually and Ghiaccio dreads it more than he dreaded the funeral itself- or maybe it’s at Sorbet’s apartment or -and this is the likeliest of all- he lost the other one someplace and never found it again.
And it’s weird to smell a dead man’s jacket and it’s weird to eat a dead man’s snacks (he pops a lemon candy into his mouth, the kind he likes best) and it’s weird to wear a dead man’s jewelry, but Ghiaccio does it all the same. When he was sixteen, he went out on a job in America and came back with his ears freshly pierced on a whim. Risotto scolded him -but gently, gently- for getting it done with a piercing gun at a mall because didn’t he realize how unhygienic that was, didn’t he realize he could just ask him to pierce his ears? Much like his makeup, he doesn’t wear earrings often; he had a messy breakup last year he’s still not over and hasn’t much felt the urge to adorn himself ever since.
He puts on his gloves and wonders if he looks stupid, looks like a too-pale teenager with shaky eyeliner and jewelry that doesn’t belong to him. Eighteen, almost nineteen’s a shitty age to be, even when your dads are in the next room over and not cold in the ground. He’s old enough to take charge of the rest of his life and young enough that he’s frightened when people look at him and see a man, whatever manhood means for him.
But if other people think he looks stupid, that’s on them. He’s strong and he’s quick and he hasn’t killed his fern yet. He keeps his own schedule, only burns his dinner sometimes, and he’s far from perfect but he’s good enough for him and that’s what matters. His dads died. You don’t owe anyone beauty or grace or perfect eyeliner when your dads died. If your grief takes the form of a dead man’s earrings and a dead man’s candy, well goddamn, that’s probably healthier than sniffing your grief up your nose like Prosciutto or dissolving your grief on your tongue like Melone or retreating into yourself like Risotto, so it could be a lot weirder and it could be a hell of a lot more self-destructive. He’s going to be second-in-command tomorrow and someone’s got to keep a level head, so it might as well be him.
Ghiaccio’s doing as fine as he can be. They’ll make it through this. He’ll make it through this. He grabs the box of the things Sorbet and Gelato left behind for a child they once knew, and heads out into the winter’s cold.