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The sound of the sea really is calming, just like everyone said. Waves calmly lapping on the shore of soft, light-colored sand, just barely mustering enough strength every now and then for a bigger one, the crest curling in on itself, providing just enough excitement for anyone who didn’t just want it all to fade into the background. A reason to be at the beach, at the coast, to see the real thing, something that a video or white noise machine just can’t replicate.
But still calming. A repetitive sound, a blue sky with puffy white clouds, just begging for someone to look up and accidentally waste hours turning water vapor into a thousand different facsimiles and stories. The sun is bright but not blinding, baking just enough for a pleasant pressure on the skin, making the water farther out than the rolling waves sparkle like something out there is having a party just for you.
It isn’t like Doppio had never seen the ocean before. Italy was big, and while some cities were definitely landlocked enough for him to put the big blue out of his mind, the coast was always there in a relocation or two. He had never really spent much time looking at it, though. One of the perks of his position had been that he never had to get creative with body disposal--though, he supposes swimming with the fishes isn’t all that creative--and when it came to leisure time…well, he tried not to have all that much leisure time in the first place. And every time he had looked at the unfathomably vast expanse of water, a tug of longing anger sorrow fear some indescribable, but powerful feeling had turned his eyes if he didn’t get a phone call first.
But there won’t be any more phone calls. And all Doppio feels looking at the ocean is a detached emptiness.
It’s nice, he supposes.
Doppio rubs at his chest over his heart, not sure what to feel about the emptiness. He can feel his heartbeat under his fingertips, reminding him that there’s something there…but that’s a similarly empty sentiment considering that it doesn’t have to be beating. Whether or not it beats, whether he eats or sleeps or breathes…it’s all just habit, really. Something to fill time, to connect over, whether to the others or to a reminder that, once, he had been human.
…maybe that would be better phrased as to say, he had once been alive.
He doesn’t hear the crunching of sandy footsteps behind him, which can only be another example of old habits simply proving the existence of the life the other person on the beach had lived, but gold and red still meet, causing both owners to tense for a moment.
They, and others, had figured out very quickly that fighting was useless and oddly defeating here. They were all dead already, so avenging some cause or fighting to survive just…doesn’t matter. And for the sadists among them, it takes the fun out, apparently, when a victim can simply leave or stop feeling pain.
In the back of his mind, Doppio has a hunch Cioccolata could probably find a way to torment others even in a place like this, but last he heard, the doctor apparently has other matters that are taking up his time.
But, anyway. Just because grudge matches have come to a standstill, it doesn’t mean that it isn’t just uncomfortable between certain combinations of people.
“...Risotto Nero.”
The goliath of a man paused on the sand narrows his eyes, a hint of uncertainty in them, though there are few even in this world who would be able to see it there, and Doppio certainly isn’t one of them.
“Diavolo.”
Even by this point, it takes Doppio a moment to recognize the name, though when he does, he simply lets out a soft laugh and turns back to watching that unprovoking sea. “Nope, not here. Just me this time, for real.” Doppio glances back to Risotto for a moment, his eyes glittering with mirth like it really is an inside joke between them. As if their relationship could include that in any capacity. “Promise.”
There’s silence, even as Doppio can clearly watch Risotto take off his shoes and wade into the water. While he still feels nothing, he gets the sense the waves pushing against Risotto’s legs are soft sheets tucking him in. Welcoming him home.
“Uh, Doppio. By the way,” he answers the unasked question.
An imperceptible nod. Risotto’s embrace with the ocean is intimate enough Doppio feels like he’s intruding.
“We were in Sardegna,” Risotto speaks, his back now to Doppio. “Is she yours too?”
Was speaking in riddles just a leader thing? Why were the ocean and associated objects and concepts always women? Those would be interesting things to think about when Doppio got fed up trying to think of the next thing to do.
There’s a feeling in Doppio’s chest when he looks at the sea, actually. A dull, stinging bitterness, like nettles he’d brushed his hand against. Because all he feels is that emptiness.
“No,” Doppio answers, his voice as light and empty as his body. “It was his. And Diavolo feared it.”
Momentarily, there’s a little thrill that goes through him from exposing one of that man’s secrets. At the start, that thrill was pure dread and terror, overwhelming the whim of rebellion that had opened his lips in the first place. Diavolo isn’t in this place, can’t call, can’t touch any part of Doppio anymore, but there was a part of the teen that felt like he’d appear out of thin air, knowing what he’d done just like he had always seemed to know everything. And Doppio had felt that drop of disgust in his gut, his skin crawling with betrayal.
But Doppio had learned an awful lot about betrayal, and these days, while still feeling like rebellion, it just feels exciting. Like fitting retribution, to give away small, intimate pieces of a man who had tried to firmly keep them all to himself, if not erase all those scraps from existence. It might be petty, but Doppio finds he likes that.
It feels even better actually saying it to another person rather than the empty space around him.
Risotto turns slightly, fixing Doppio with another stoic look he can’t decipher. “And yet you are here.”
The excitement fades and the bitterness returns, coming up through the corners of Doppio’s pitiful smile. “I never really got the chance to form my own opinion--they were too loud. Turns out I don’t care that much, though.” But the ocean is Risotto’s, and, former enemy or not, that seems to dawn on Doppio once the words are out of his mouth. He quickly fumbles to say something else, shame crawling up his face. “O-oh, but it is nice! It’s really beautiful out here! Kinda makes me wish I’d brought some paints out today, haha!”
Risotto raises a slow eyebrow. “You paint?”
“I started. It’s a new hobby.”
Silence falls between them again, Risotto embracing his home and Doppio still searching, though by this point he’s positive there’s nothing more for him to find.
He’s grown accustomed to his own company, but…there is something nice about talking to someone else for once. Someone who knew him from before, however much that means, even if it’s Risotto fucking Nero.
Time passes. Doppio sits, digging his hands into the sand. There’s nothing sharp or surprisingly hard when someone walks across it, but he finds there’s plenty of variety when he’s looking for it. There’s already a sizable arrangement of green sea glass, blue-streaked pebbles, and pearly white shell shards next to him by the time Risotto floats back to the shoreline, his long, imposing shadow only covering Doppio’s feet. Doppio decides that it’s a pretty substantial olive branch.
“Have you seen Una?”
Doppio looks up, so utterly bewildered for a moment that it doesn’t even feel like the ex-assassin has cracked the olive branch over his head. If there’s one thing he can really hand to this place, it’s the gossip culture, and Doppio is absolutely sure that Trish Una isn’t dead.
It takes the entire time of Risotto sitting down for Doppio to realize Risotto isn’t talking about Trish and that the grapevine is really damn effective.
Doppio swallows, and a flutter of insecure nervousness goes through his stomach, something he thinks he’s made many strides towards leaving behind since he came to this place. Alone.
“N-No, she isn’t… Like the ocean, she isn’t mine.”
He can see Risotto’s head tilt in the corner of his vision--what’s more, he can hear the jingles of that stupid fucking hat that come with the movement, but Doppio isn’t looking at Risotto, and his hands are tucking into the sleeves of his sweater.
An assassin making noise and a consigliere expressing a nervous tell. Neither of them are those things anymore.
Doppio takes a breath. “Um… Donatella,” he can’t decide if he’s hurt how her name feels like a stranger’s in his mouth, “Is, or, was, his . And the B… Diavolo hated her. Or was jealous or scared or… something . To me… I’m nothing to her. I…I never knew her. I think he has probably found her by now.”
Doppio can’t even fathom how that meeting, or reunion, or… whatever had gone. There’s still a part of him that hopes that he’s gotten a happy ending, though. Doppio kind of hates that part of himself.
Risotto’s gaze is piercing, trying to gaze into the very depths of Doppio’s soul, still hunting, but less like he’s trying to rip something out of the teen like the last time they met.
He doesn’t overthink everything like Ghiaccio, or think primarily outside the box like Melone. Risotto doesn’t have a knack for seeing someone’s hidden potential like Prosciutto, and he can’t uncannily hear all the words that someone doesn’t say like Formaggio. He’s not as much of a snoop as Illuso, and he can’t pick up impossibly small cues like Pesci. And he’s sure as hell not on the same wavelength as Doppio, like how Gelato and Sorbet are with each other.
But Risotto is still a master of reconnaissance and interrogation, and it’s not like Doppio is exactly being subtle, for how vague his words are. So he squints at the teen as he asks, “...there were three of you?”
Risotto thinks that he’s sliced his way into far more than a day out swimming when he sees Doppio’s lower lip tremble.
“In a certain manner of definition.” Doppio’s voice is unsteady, though he immediately pitches it into a laugh. “Though considering that there’s three of us in three different places now, I think it’s just a resounding yes.”
He should stop talking--what the hell is he saying to Risotto fucking Nero?! --but another set of words tumble from Doppio’s lips without his consent. “There’s the one who loved the ocean and Donatella Una, the one who feared both and isn’t here, and me who doesn’t really…have anything.”
“Except painting.”
Doppio blinks at Risotto in shock before he clenches his jaw, forcing up the smile that he’d won. “Yeah. I have painting.”