Work Text:
The inside of the motel was exactly how one would expect it to be; dark carpets to hide as many stains as possible, dim, flickering lights, and a receptionist who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else but here.
He doesn’t bother asking for their names, just takes their money and hands over a key. These motels weren’t technically passione run, but it was out of the way and in a non-tourist area so pretty much the only regular visitors were gang members, and you would be hard pressed trying to find a mafioso willing to sleep on passione territory who wasn’t part of the famiglia.
Their room is simple. Two double beds, a desk, the same dark carpet as the hallway, and not much else. It’s not immediately filthy looking however, so it’s more than good enough.
Formaggio takes his hand out of his pocket and gently places the contents onto the bed. Illuso curses as he returns to his normal size, blood immediately staining the sheets. Formaggio takes a seat on the bed beside him, smirking.
“How’re you holding up man?”
“Fuck off.” Illuso bites out, sitting up to better glare at Formaggio. He only makes it about half way before collapsing back down with a pained hiss.
Formaggio’s smile drops, worry starting to gnaw at his stomach. He’s about to open his mouth again when the door knob rattles, followed by a series of knocks.
Prosciutto and Pesci greet him on the other side, one looking significantly less pissed off than the other.
“I spoke with the contact,” Prosciutto huffs, pushing his way inside. “We’re to meet him here tomorrow morning.”
Formaggio groans. This job had been an unusual one, Giovanna himself hadn’t seemed particularly pleased about it. Even after a year there were somehow still Diavolo supporters hiding the shadows of Passione, biding their time, thinking that that could catch the young Don off guard.
Of course, it was all for nothing in the end, and one by one they too were sniffed out and hunted down. However, the jobs tended to be trickier with these types, often spanning multiple days and requiring support from other factions of Passione.
This mission in particular had sent them all the way to Florence to track down their prey, a five hour drive away, with orders to wait in a safe location for the arrival of one of Fugo’s men in order to exchange some crucial information before they could head back home.
It had been more of a waiting game than anything, however, their strategy had relied heavily on Illuso’s stand. Mainly, the fact that Illuso had to keep the mirror world open at all times to allow the rest of them immediate entry as soon as the first steps of their plan fell into place and the resulting chaos would ensue.
On paper, it seemed fine. Illuso had shown himself capable of actively leaving the mirror world open for prolonged periods of time before. Granted, it had never been for more than an hour at most but he had been confident that he could hold it open for as long as was necessary.
And he had, the plan had gone off without a hitch, leaving behind only the dying screams of rapidly aging men in their wake, still trying in vain to shoot them down.
There had been only one problem, however.
Illuso had been the last person to leave the mirror, and Formaggio had turned just in time as they were making their way out the door to watch him sway on his feet and collapse into the ground. One of the men who was somehow still alive had seen this as his chance and lined up to take his last shot. If Formaggio was being honest with himself, it was only thanks to Pesci’s quick thinking with Beach Boy that the bullet missed Illuso’s neck and only grazed his thigh.
Formaggio hasn’t missed the way Prosciutto had turned to make The Grateful Dead turn the man to dust before snapping at Illuso for not being careful enough.
Illuso grits his teeth as Pesci unwraps the bloodied makeshift bandages they had wrapped around his leg, prodding around the edges gently with his fingers.
“It doesn’t look too bad! But I still think it needs stitches…..right Fra?”
Prosciutto, who had been busy cursing at the rusty deadbolt for not locking properly, turned towards them.
“Use your judgment Pesci, does it look like it needs stitches? Then it needs stitches.”
Pesci nodded even though Prosciutto wasn’t looking at him anymore. He had grown much more confident in himself and was getting better at being able to tell the difference between Prosciutto’s guiding words and legitimate reprimands.
“Got it! Formaggio, can you give me the kit please?”
Formaggio had taken to carrying around with him a small bag of shrunken objects at all times, including food, water, and medical kits. Melone was usually the one who handled suturing, having almost finished medical school, and therefore more had knowledge than the rest of them combined, but he had been teaching the rest of them in case of emergencies. Pesci especially had taken to it quickly, something he was exceptionally proud of.
Illuso fails to bite back a groan when his leg is moved. The gash may not be too deep but it was long and pulsed painfully as he struggled to pull off his ruined pant leg. Pesci doesn’t waste any time cleaning the area and getting started. There’s a strange sort of energy in the room as Pesci works. It itches at the back of his mind, as if something was missing. It hits Formaggio as Pesci is tying off the last stitch. It’s too quiet. Usually after a job Illuso is loud and boisterous, commenting on his performance, insulting whoever their poor victim was, throwing jeers and taunts that Formaggio returns with gusto. Even when he’s getting patched up he’s bitching and moaning about it, if only just to mask any actual pain he might be feeling.
Now though, he’s just silent. Face pale and lips drawn into a thin line.
Even Prosciutto is looking at him with thinly veiled worry, cigarette hanging unlit from his lips.
Formaggio shifts in his seat, suddenly very uncomfortable.
“Seriously dude. Are you ok?”
Illuso looks at him and sighs. “I’m just….. tired.”
Formaggio doesn’t doubt it. If anything, he looks exhausted. Deep, dark circles that definitely weren’t there this morning stain his under eyes like bruises. Even as he speaks his eyes droop, as if he were struggling to keep them open.
Prosciutto’s phone rings, cutting through the silence like a knife. He excuses himself to answer. It's probably Risotto. Pesci starts to pack the kit up, occasionally glancing between Prosciutto’s turned back and Illuso’s leg. Formaggio manages to finally decide what to do with his fidgeting hand and finds the remote control to the tv in the room, changing the channel until he finds a football game he can pretend to watch. He gets off the bed, playfully poking Illuso’s shoulder.
“Get some rest man, we’ll wake you up when we shit starts getting serious.”
Illuso lets his eyes fully drop shut and that nervous feeling is back in his stomach. He had honestly half expected Illuso to scoff at him and stay awake if only to go against what Formaggio had suggested. He’s never seen Illuso this complacent before. He shakes his head and mentally sighs. It makes sense, he supposed. He’ll just have to remember to poke fun at him for it after the mission is over and done with and Illuso is more like himself again.
Illuso wasn’t asleep yet, more like drifting, halfway between consciousness and dreaming. He could hear the worry in Formaggio’s voice when he spoke to him. It was odd, being fretted over, but he couldn’t find it in himself to put on an act to ease their concerns somehow. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt so exhausted in his life. Like all of his bones were tied down by weights. He’s not in a particularly comfortable position to fall asleep in, but just the idea of moving into a more comfortable one feels daunting. He doesn’t think he could get up even if he wanted to, unable to put any strength into his limbs.
Formaggio had turned down the volume of the TV to a low murmur and for that he’s grateful. His head throbs and his eyes burn even though they’re closed. Distantly he can hear Prosciutto on the phone with Risotto, sounding far less pissed off than he did when he came into the room. He would have liked to listen in to what was being said, but as it was he could only catch the tail end of a sentence here and there.
”Yes, we’re waiting for the contact……….not bad……hurt his leg……sleeping”
He’s not but the notion sounds more and more appealing with each annoying pulse of pain behind his eyes.
So he lets himself drift, letting all the background noise blur together into something indistinguishable. He finally falls asleep to the sound of Formaggio’s hushed cheers at a goal being scored.
————-
He can’t breathe.
It’s too hot. He can’t breathe.
He gasps, struggling for breath against the imposing weight on his chest and the unbearable heat. It feels as if flames were licking at his skin, trying to burn him alive.
Voices circle around his head, but he can’t concentrate on any of them to try and figure out what’s being said over the sudden and startling pain slicing through what he thinks is his leg like a hot brand.
Someone shakes his shoulder, and he wants to open his eyes to tell whoever it is to knock it off and let him sleep but his body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with his mind. He thinks he manages to say something, but he can’t be sure. The pain is making it hard to think.
Fingertips brush against his face, cool against his burning skin so he chases them when they leave. Suddenly, something blissfully cold and damp is being pressed over his forehead. He leans into it, afraid that it’ll be taken away but instead it brushes over other parts of his face, his cheeks, his lips, his neck, leaving him shivering at the brief moment of relief. The voices are closer now, easier to understand, and he thinks they might be shushing him, telling him to go back to sleep. There’s another hand now, playing with his hair and he doesn’t know if it belongs to the same person cooling him down or if it’s someone else entirely but it feels so nice that he just lets it happen, relaxing into it and letting it lull him back to sleep.
-————
Formaggio tries to swallow through the lump in his throat as he watches Illuso’s head roll limply into his palm and against the small wet hand towel he has pressed against his skin. He has him half pulled onto his lap, cradling him close and he couldn’t say whether it was more for Illuso’s comfort or for his own.
Prosciutto is on the phone with Risotto for the second time that night, for once thankful for his Capo’s unnatural sleeping schedule since it was almost three in the morning when he first called.
“Risotto we can’t wake him up.”
He’s pacing, and he’s sure that Risotto can hear the agitation in his voice.
”When did the fever start?”
“Fuck, I don’t know. Pesci noticed it about an hour ago and woke us all up. He was fine before, just tired. I think it’s only gotten worse.”
He hears Risotto take a deep breath over the line, the kind he takes when he’s trying not to show that he’s worried.
”Bring him home. It’s unnatural for sickness to have set in so quickly, especially if it’s as bad as you say it is. I don’t want to take any chances.”
Prosciutto worries at his bottom lip, glancing between Illuso’s prone form and Formaggio’s panicked face.
“What about the mission?”
Risotto pauses for a moment before answering.
”At least one of you will have to stay behind to meet the contact. I’ll let Don Giovanna know immediately.”
Prosciutto has to bite back a curse. If Giovanna had been like Diavolo, something like this would have meant a cut paycheck at least.
But Giovanna is not Diavolo, so he breathes through the swell of nerves and lets Risotto know that they’ll let him know who stays behind
”Ok. I trust you all to make the right decision. Take care of each other.”
And with that he hangs up, just in time for Pesci to come bursting through the door holding a small bucket of ice.
“I’m sorry I took so long. I-I had to find an ice machine that worked.”
Prosciutto doesn’t even bother cursing the cheapness of the motel out loud and instead busies himself with helping Formaggio fold some of the ice chips into the towel that he was using to try and bring Illuso’s fever under control. His skin is clammy and ashen under the cloth, sweat making his hair stick to his face and neck.
“W-what did Risotto say Fra?”
Pesci was stuttering again, a nervous tic. Normally Prosciutto would admonish him for that but right now he’s too distracted to care.
“He said to bring him home, but that one of us has to stay behind to meet the contact.”
Formaggio sighs. “Who’s going to do it?”
They all know that Formaggio staying behind was off the table, if the way he pulled Illuso closer was any indication. But he would need another person, someone to drive while he tended to him.
Prosciutto had already been prepared to volunteer. He had seniority first of all but-
“I’ll do it.”
Both Formaggio Prosciutto turns to look at Pesci, eyebrows raised. Pesci fidgeted under their gazes but held firm in his statement.
“Y-you get, uh, angry, when you’re w-worried. So I, don't think it's smart for you to stay behind. It’s better if you go with him.”
Prosciutto was already getting ready to snap back and deny Pesci’s claims, but he holds himself back, steadying himself.
Because he knows that Pesci is right.
Little Feet has already started shrinking Illuso down, as well as the ice bucket. As soon as they’re both small enough to hold in the palms of Formaggio’s hands they’re out the door. Prosciutto turns back to look into the room one more time before closing the door. Pesci is sitting on the now vacant bed, anxious but determined, and Prosciutto Feels a swell of pride at how far he's come.
“Thank you Pesci. Good luck.”
The cold air whips against Formaggio’s face as soon as they leave the motel. They make a beeline for the car, Prosciutto climbing into the driver's seat while Formaggio tries to lean Illuso’s head against his shoulder at a comfortable angle. He’s so focused that he doesn't register Prosciutto trying to hand him something until he throws it directly at him, hitting him square in the face. Cursing under his breath, he pulls it off of him only to find that it's Prosciutto’s suit jacket. He stares at it dumbly for a minute while Prosciutto starts the car.
“He's shivering.”
It takes Formaggio longer than he would like to admit to understand what Prosciutto was referring to. It’s only when he feels Illuso shudder against his side that it clicks and he tucks the jacket over his shoulders.
It was three hours from here to home.
It was going to be a long ride.
—-----------
The car was silent save for the occasional clicking of the turn signal or the low humming of the heating. Empty roads allowed them to push slightly above the recommended speed limits. Illuso hadn’t so much as whispered during the entirety of the journey. He wasn't getting any better, however he also didn’t seem to be getting any worse, and Formaggio will take small victories wherever he can.
They come to a stop at a red light. If Formaggio had been at the wheel he would have blown right through it but while Prosciutto could be convinced to break speed limits getting him to run a red light was a lost cause.
Formaggio dips the towel into the ice bucket. Its been slowly melting over the hours in the car but thankfully it’s a cold enough night that most of the ice is still solid. Dragging the cloth over Illuso’s face, he notices his eyelids twitch and lips part when Formaggio wipes over his mouth, tongue darting out the chase the moisture. Fuck, he’s probably thirsty. They don’t have any water in the car but Formaggio’s eyes land on the ice bucket and he figures that it’ll have to do for now.
It’s awkward at first, holding a half melted ice cube to Illuso’s mouth, but as soon as the liquid touches his tongue he seems to come to life, taking it greedily from his fingers and eyes fluttering open. It hits Formaggio that he should have probably been giving him water this entire time.
“Illu?”
No response. Although his eyes are open, his gaze is distant, wandering lazily over the inside of the car. Formaggio realises that he’s mumbling something under his breath.
“Are you saying something? I can’t hear you.”
Finally, Illuso looks at him, but there’s no recognition in his eyes. Wherever he is it was still very far away.
“Lorenzo, where are we going?”
Formaggio’s blood turns to ice.
How does he know my name?
He’s start to panic, heart thumping in his ears. He has to think rationally about this. There’s no way Illuso was talking to him specifically, there’s a million people with that name in the country. Chances are, he’s stuck in some fever dream. He forces himself to take a breath.
“We’re going home.”
Illuso’s face scrunches slightly in distracted confusion.
“......Is someone sick?”
Formaggio holds him tighter. “Yeah, you’re real sick. It’s why we’re going home.”
“Oh.” Illuso’s head rolls onto his shoulder, eyes closing again. “I don’t feel so good.”
Last part is said so quietly that Formaggio almost doesn’t catch it over the rumbling of the car starting up again.
“We’re almost there.”
It’s the only words Prosciutto has spoken since they left the motel. Formaggio pretends not to notice the white knuckle grip he has on the wheel and says nothing.
Risotto was waiting was them apparently, because they barely get their keys in the door before it’s flung open. It’s obvious that Risotto hasn’t slept.
“The room is ready upstairs. I’ve already called the doctor.”
Not long after Giovanna had taken over the organisation, Risotto had been presented with the keys to their new headquarters. It couldn’t be described as decadent by any means, but it was head and shoulders above their old meeting site, which had been quite literally falling apart.
It spoke wonders of Giovanna’s ability to read people, because they had been told that they could do with the space as they saw fit, and there just so happened to be enough rooms for them all to move in.
One of the extra spaces had been converted into a makeshift hospital room, complete with machinery and medical supplies. The reasoning behind it was simply. They preferred to stay together, especially when they were at their most vulnerable. Even if some of them would try and deny it out loud, there was an undeniable safety in being close to each other.
Melone and Ghiaccio come running in as Formaggio is laying Illuso down. He had started getting restless the last half hour of the drive, muttering and whimpering in his sleep. Now, he’s thrashing, fighting against the hands trying to peel off his dirty and bloodied clothes. Risotto holds him down as gently as he can while Prosciutto unbuttons his shirt. Cupping his palm over his forehead, his eyes widen at the unhealthy heat radiating off of him in waves.
Lost in thought as he is, he almost doesn’t notice someone turning Illuso’s head to place a thermometer under his tongue until they’ve pulled it out and swear at the number on the display. Ghiaccio tosses the thermometer onto the bed and gingerly brushes his fingers over Illuso’s face. Whether on purpose or on instinct he has activated White Album, and the chill must soothe Illuso because he groans and leans into his touch.
Melone steps in to help Prosciutto in getting him undressed, retrieving a pair of scissors to cut the fabric surrounding the wound when Illuso’s body jerks violently, struggling in vain against Risotto and Melone’s hold. It doesn’t take them long to understand why.
Melone had finished slicing through his ruined clothing, revealing the bandaged wound and the red, inflamed skin peeking out from underneath.
Melone purses his lips in thought, feeling around the redness.
“I’m going to cut this off, I want to check how bad it is. Prosciutto, can you hold up his leg?”
It’s a slow going process. Illuso struggles against their touch, crying out in pain as Prosciutto lifts his leg. Fevered tears staining his cheeks.
“Please stop, please.”
His voice is mumbled and dazed, and it breaks Formaggio’s heart to hear him like this. Illuso was a prideful, stubborn man. Always preferring to tend to his own wounds in the privacy of the mirror. He would have sooner eaten glass than be seen like this, and all Formaggio can do is whisper reassurance and wipe the tears off his face.
He watches Melone’s face morph into one of shock and disgust as the bandages come undone to reveal the infection underneath.
“Shit, were the hell is the doctor? This needs to be treated before it gets worse. How the hell did it get so bad so quickly? This isn’t normal.”
Risotto glances between Illuso’s leg and the clock. “They should be here soon...”
A knock on the door. Speak of the devil.
It was no secret that being in the Mafia wasn’t exactly considered to be a safe profession. There were various hospitals and doctors in the area funded and run by Passione, specifically so that the famiglia could get medical care without running the risk of alerting the authorities. Not all of the staff were aware of the existence of stands, but some were. Mainly the doctors who were available for house calls. Stands changed the body in many different ways. Ghiaccio runs cooler than most people. Metallica greatly alters the Iron content in Risotto’s body, and so on and so forth. These changes aren’t noticeable to the average person, but the Don thought it crucial for the medical professionals to know.
The doctor sent to them was a small but sharp woman, and it was not her first time dealing with them. She was one of the few people who was knowledgeable on stands while not possessing one herself.
She wastes no time clearing the room and getting to work, enlisting the help of Risotto and Melone only while ushering everyone else out.
Formaggio had hoped that his hesitance to leave wasn’t too obvious, but Melone catches his arm as he’s about to leave.
“Hey, he’ll be ok.”
The last thing he sees is the doctor preparing an IV bag before the door is shut and there’s nothing left for them to do but wait.
_________________
The first thing that he notices is the softness of a bed far more comfortable than the one he remembers falling asleep in.
He tries to move, but his body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate with his mind. Finally, he managed to pry his eyes open, thankful that the light in the room is dim. He blinks a few times, trying to clear his blurry vision and taking stock of his condition. His limbs still feel like lead and his thoughts still feel thick and tired but his head no longer throbs so he counts that as an improvement.
He tries to move his arm again, frustrated at being unable to. There’s something poking at his arm, pulling uncomfortably every time he shifts. Finally he manages to tilt his head enough to look down to try and figure out what the thing is, only to be met with the sight of an IV line in his arm.
He stares dumbly at it for a moment before following the live up to a bag dripping clear liquid into the tube. It takes his thoughts longer than he would like to catch up to what he’s seeing, and it’s only when they do that he realizes that he’s no longer in the motel room. He’s back at the base, in the medical room, and hooked up to an IV.
He’s just starting to try and remember how he got here when the door suddenly opens, startling Illuso out of his daze and revealing Melone on the other side. Clearly he hadn’t expected Illuso to be awake, because he blinks emptily at him for a moment before his face splits open into a grin and he turns behind him to shout.
“Guys! He’s awake!”
The result is an absolute cacophony of noise. Scrapping chairs, opening doors, feet thundering up wooden stairs. Formaggio is the first person who bursts into the room, his worried eyes softening when they land on Illuso awake in bed.
“Illu! It’s good to see you up man!”
The rest poor in after him and suddenly Illuso finds himself surrounded by people all bombarding him with different questions and not letting him process a single one. When he opens his mouth to try and tell them to back off the only thing that comes out of his dry throat is an embarrassing croak.
And his headache is coming back. Wonderful.
Thankfully, Risotto manages to call attention to himself over all the commotion, ushering his men out of the room for a moment to let Illuso get his barings and for that he is grateful.
Finally, the room is silent again. Risotto sits next to his bed, his figure still imposing even when seated, and hands him a cup of water.
He hadn’t realised how thirsty he was until the first drop wet his tongue. The glass is drained in seconds, his shaking hands causing some to spill onto the sheets.
Risotto doesn’t speak until he’s done, watching him silently as he drinks. Illuso meets his gaze when he’s done, placing the empty cup on the nightstand.
“How do you feel ?”
His voice is steady but there’s an undercurrent of worry in his words.
Illuso sighs through his nose and fights the urge to close his eyes against his headache.
“I’ve been worse. What happened?”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
Illuso takes a moment to think back to the night before, frustrated at the fuzziness that doesn’t seem to want to shake its hold off his mind.
“I remember the motel room, and falling asleep. How did I get here?”
Risotto is quiet for a moment, eyes searching over Illuso’s face for what he wasn’t sure.
“Your wound got infected. You had a fever of forty degrees and was unresponsive. Prosciutto and Formaggio brought you home.”
Illuso balked.
”What? How? It was just a flesh wound!”
“That’s what we were wondering as well.....”
A knock at the door stood him from finishing his sentence. He gets up to answer while Illuso is left to this new revaluation.
The idea that something so small had affected him so badly makes his mind reel. How everyone saw him in such a pitiful state. Having to be brought home while actively on a mission.... how humiliating.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts by Risotto returning into the room, this time with Formaggio and Prosciutto in tow. Formaggio looks at him with such a mix of worry and relief that Illuso wants to snap at him to knock it off.
“Hey man, I’m so glad you’re ok.”
He takes the seat that Risotto had been previously occupying, and for a moment it looks like he wants to take Illuso’s hand but thinks against it at the last minute. “Scared the shit out of us though. Prosciutto too.”
Prosciutto mumbles something under his breath that has the cadence. of an insult before turning to Illuso.
“Why the fuck didn’t you tell us that you exhausted your stand?”
Taken aback, Illuso can only stare at him. “What?”
Prosciutto bites on his unlit cigarette. “You heard me. During the mission, why didn’t you warn us that you were reaching your limit? You collapsed when you came out of the mirror. If you had warned us, all of this,” He gestures to Illuso’s form. “Could have been avoided.”
He’s lecturing Illuso in the same tone that he uses on Pesci, and normally being lectured like that would insult him tremendously but there’s something about that specific tone that makes him hold back his immediate reaction.
Because Prosciutto is never angry when he berates Pesci. It might look that way, but his words are always tinged with fear no matter how vitriolic they sound. Fear and worry.
How bad had it been for Prosciutto to be talking to him like that?
When it’s obvious that Illuso doesn’t know how to answer, Prosciutto sighs.
“During the mission yesterday you completely exhausted your stand, don’t try to argue with me about this, and the doctor last night concluded that that probably caused your body to react the way it did.”
He’s standing right next to Illuso now, arms crossed. “ I- we need to be able to trust you to tell us about your limits. It’s the only way we can work together as a team.”
Illuso’s head falls back against the pillow. He feels drained even though he’s hardly been awake for a half hour. They’re all looking at him expectedly, waiting for his answer. Finally he huffs and lowers his eyes.
“I….I don’t feel the effects of using Man in the mirror until I close the mirror world.” He hates this, laying his weakness bare for the world to see. “I’ve never held the mirror open for that long. I didn’t know.”
Clearly Prosciutto isn’t satisfied, but he must notice his wince as he goes to open his mouth again and thankfully leaves it at that. His headache is back with a vengeance now, throbbing against the back of his eyes and he doesn’t know how much more of this questioning he can take before he snaps.
Risotto comes up behind Prosciutto, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, Illuso. We must be mindful of this in the future. The mission was still a success, so please do not worry about that. Get some rest. I will give you the debrief once you are recovered.”
Illuso nods, closing his eyes as the pair leave the room, leaving behind a comfortable silence. Formaggio settles into the chair, questions on the tip of his tongue. He hasn’t stopped thinking about what happened in the car last night, or the person that Illuso thought he was while caught in the throes of his fever.
“Where’s Pesci?”
He was so lost in thought that the question almost made him jump. Illuso has one eye cracked open, looking at him. Formaggio thought that he had already fallen back asleep.
“Oh, he stayed at the motel yesterday to meet the contact this morning. It went well and Ghiaccio went to pick him up.” He glances at the clock, “they should be back soon actually.”
Illuso’s brow furrows. “What time is it?”
“Twelve thirty”
He didn’t expect Illuso’s eyes to go wide and for him to literally shoot upright, cursing as he pulled on his IV.
”Twelve? Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me it was this late!”
Formaggio catches him before he can fall clean off the bed.
“Woah woah, dude! Seriously, relax! It’s ok! Of course we let you sleep, are you kidding me? I don’t know if you recognize this but you’re not exactly doing so hot. Risotto told you to rest up literally ten minutes ago. I can call him back in here and make that an order if you prefer.”
Illuso relents at the mention of Risotto, reluctantly laying back down. “This is ridiculous. I don’t need to be coddled.”
And there’s that attitude again. Formaggio rolls his eyes. At least he’s feeling well enough to snark.
“This isn’t coddling, this is making you rest after being seriously hurt. Look, I know you don’t like this. Because of pride or whatever else. Just know this. Literally no one thinks or is going to think less of you because of all this, because you need rest. You literally kept your stand activated for hours yesterday and didn’t complain once. If anything it’s more stupid of us that we didn’t think that it would have any negative effects on you. So just relax. Just this once, please”
Maybe it’s because Formaggio’s words hit their mark, maybe he’s just too tired but Illuso concedes, letting his eyes flutter shut and this time falling asleep for good.
Formaggio sits there for a moment longer before getting up and stretching. He hovers over Illuso just long enough to appreciate how much younger he looks when he’s not pissed off and heads out to go bother Ghiaccio about lunch. He’ll wake Illuso io for it, see if he feels up to eat with them.
He won’t ask about ‘Lorenzo’, not for a good while at least. If the truth has to come out, it will be in due time, preferably from Illuso deciding to breach the subject himself.
He wonders if Illuso will be more open with them all after this. He can’t help but to hope so.