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“I'm hungry,” Melone whined, letting his head tip back and roll listlessly against the couch's backrest. “Do we have dinner plans?”
“None. Formaggio went out to the bar to watch the game tonight, and I think some of the others went with him for a meal.” Ghiaccio spoke up from the other end of the couch. He was engrossed in a book, his attention occasionally breaking to scold Melone when his typing grew too loud for his liking.
Melone, on the other hand, was only half-focused on his computer; he found much more entertainment in watching his coworker. The intricacies that went into selecting Baby Face's ideal hosts meant that Melone had a keener eye for body language than most. He was acutely aware of all his teammates' subtle tells of physical health and emotion, but he paid special attention to Ghiaccio. He found his short-tempered coworker’s behavior particularly endearing.
When in the company of others, Ghiaccio typically sat upright, tense, always with a foot tapping against the floor or a hand drumming against the sofa. He chewed his lip and his nails, and he fidgeted with his glasses. At the moment, however, he was half-curled in on himself with his feet up on the couch, slouching and resting his book on his knees. The rise and fall of his chest was slow and even. He looked a bit like a cat — an observation that Melone often made but seldom verbalized, lest he embarrass the other man and make him stiffen up. Melone took great pride in Ghiaccio's willingness to relax in his presence.
The two of them sat there in silence, the only sounds in the room coming from typing and page-turning. After a minute or so, Melone spoke up again.
“Oh, I'd love some pasta… Do you like pasta, Ghiaccio?”
Ghiaccio rolled his eyes at the obvious bait Melone put out for him, not looking away from his book as he responded. “What the fuck kind of question is that? Everyone likes pasta. It's pasta.”
“Mmn… I read a recipe for pasta alla vodka a while back that Gigi Hadid shared online, and it seemed divine…” Melone hummed, typing something into his laptop and flipping the screen to Ghiaccio, who ignored it as he turned a page.
“Go make it yourself, then.”
“Ah, but I don't have the talent for it! It wouldn't come out right,” Melone complained, “and you wouldn't even eat it, since you always badmouth my cooking. But she made it look so gooood, all spicy and cheesy and—”
“I don't give a fuck how good it looked!” Ghiaccio glared at his coworker, frustrated with his interruptions. He paused for a moment, eyebrows furrowed in thought — and then he slammed his book shut, seemingly having come to a realization.
“Gigi Hadid isn't even Italian, you dumb piece of shit! What would she know about pasta alla vodka? What gives her the right to screw with Italian recipes? Does she think she knows better than us? And I don't care if dumbass Americans think some guy in New York invented it—they're full of shit! They always say that!” Melone remained silent as he watched Ghiaccio seethe, the corner of his lips twitching as he tried to hold a neutral expression. He knewi exactly which buttons to press; if he just let him rile himself up a little further…
“You shouldn't be getting your recipes from whatever websites are reporting on the shit those whore celebrities spew out of their mouths. It's no wonder you can't cook, if that's where you're looking for inspiration.”
A few seconds of silence followed. Melone looked eager.
“You know what? Fine! I'll make you your stupid, slutty pasta, only because I need to show you how it should really be done!” Ghiaccio threw his book down onto the coffee table with a certain finality, making it rattle. He rose to his feet and pointed expectantly to the kitchen. “Get the fuck up and go wash your hands.”
“Really? You'd do that for me? Oh, di molto, Ghiaccio, thank you…!” Ignoring the other man's volatility, Melone set his laptop down and jumped up, moving to hug him. He was shoved aside before he got the chance.
“Get off of me! I'm not doing this because you want me to, I'm doing it because you pissed me off.” Ghiaccio stalked over to the kitchen, Melone in tow. He began to pull ingredients from the refrigerator and cabinets: rigatoni, onions, garlic, canned tomatoes, Prosciutto’s hefty bottle of vodka…
Not that Melone took note of any of them, of course; he was too busy admiring the way Ghiaccio's muscles shifted in the warm light of the kitchen. It was uncommon to see him without his lab coat on, leaving him in just his form-fitting, sleeveless black turtleneck. Unsurprisingly, Melone was partial to this state of undress. Once all the ingredients were laid out on the countertop, Ghiaccio turned to face him.
“Put a large pot of water on the stove and salt it.” He ordered, moving to grab a knife and cutting board. Melone did as he was told while Ghiaccio peeled the onions. With the water on the stove, Ghiaccio motioned him over, handing him the knife.
“Now dice the onions evenly… Evenly, goddamn it!” Ghiaccio emphasized as he watched Melone begin to hack at them haphazardly. Not even halfway through the first onion, Ghiaccio let out a growl and grabbed Melone's wrist.
“I changed my mind! Give me that. I can't watch this shit.” He snatched the knife from his coworker, continuing where he'd left off. “You handle a knife like a child! You're a grown-ass man, and an assassin, at that. I know you get Baby Face to do all of your dirty work, but fuck, it's embarrassing.” He grumbled while he cut the onions, his knuckles starting to blanch as his grip on the knife tightened. In his anger, he missed the way Melone put a hand to his mouth to stifle a laugh, and how his eyelids crinkled with amusement at the edges.
“You hold what you're cutting like this,” Ghiaccio's fingers curled into a claw shape around a halved onion, “to avoid chopping your fingers off. It's— Cristo, Melone, you're not even paying attention!”
He was right; Melone's gaze had already left his fingers, trailing up his forearm to his biceps, admiring their definition.
“Sorry, sorry…!” Melone smiled, holding his hands up apologetically. “I can't help it! You, ah, your form…” He trailed off, watching as Ghiaccio worked. “The way your arm curls, the way your muscles move, it's just so distra—”
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” Ghiaccio cut him off shrilly, heat rising to his face as his hand stuttered halfway through a slice. Melone couldn’t help but giggle at the sight of the frost spreading over the knife's handle. Ghiaccio's pace quickened, chopping violently while the other man made himself comfortable leaning against the counter. There was something almost domestic about the scene, really; Melone considered pointing it out to him, but he knew he'd end up getting threatened at knifepoint if he dared. As it was, the man was already on edge.
After watching fondly for a while, Melone reached right over Ghiaccio (with little consideration for his savage knife-wielding) and grabbed the bottle of vodka. He poured himself a generous couple of shots in a mug, gulping them down before deciding to make himself useful.
“If you don’t want me to do anything else, I’ll get us set up over there.” When he received no response, he moved into the living room. Staring critically at the squad’s long dining table, he clicked his tongue. That won’t do. He climbed the stairs to his room, emerging a few minutes later with a large bundle of pillows and blankets in his arms. He dumped the whole pile onto the couch and began arranging them into a nest of some sort.
“What is this?” Ghiaccio, now cooking the vegetables, gestured with a wooden spoon to the mess of blankets. “Why aren’t you setting the table?”
“Well, who says we need to do this all formal-like? It’s not like there’s anybody else to sit at that massive table with us. I thought we could do, like, a movie night sort of thing, you know?” Melone piped up from the couch, gazing at him with hopeful eyes.
“Ugh, that’s so sloppy…” Ghiaccio bemoaned. “You better not spill anything. And don’t just leave your blankets and shit out here after dinner!”
Melone beamed, walking back over to the kitchen. He took out two wine glasses, then grabbed an open bottle from the fridge. After he set the three items down on the coffee table, he perked up again, distracted by the smell wafting over from the stove. He sidled up to Ghiaccio’s side, leaning over to smell the sauce.
“Oh, bravissimo, Ghiaccio, it smells delicious.”
"Well, at least you have good taste." Ghiaccio grumbled.
"My, my, I think that's the highest compliment I've received from you all week.” Melone raised a lithe hand to trail along his free arm.
“Get a grip! I might have been complimenting you, but that doesn't mean you can go and get all handsy with me!” Ghiaccio jerked his arm away, then pressed a firm palm to Melone's chest to put some distance between them. This did absolutely nothing to deter Melone, who took to draping himself over Ghiaccio's back like a vine of ivy, sinuously rolling over to stand at his other side.
“Oh, but I can't help it. How's a man supposed to feel when you take time out of your evening to cook him a private dinner like this?”
Ghiaccio scoffed. “It's not some romantic private dinner, don’t flatter yourself. It’s just…” He floundered for words. “…You’re such a hypocrite! For all of your lecturing the squad about nutrition and health, you eat all sorts of disgusting shit! I know you stash all sorts of pre-cooked, processed junk in that cabinet.” He jabbed a finger to the far corner of the kitchen. “I wanted to show you that if you're just a little bit less of a lazy deadbeat about it, you can have proper meals…" His voice grew quiet at the end, and he almost looked embarrassed.
“You notice that?” Melone looked genuinely touched, his expression softening. “Ghiaccio…” He clutched the other man’s spoon-wielding arm with both hands, resting his head against it.
“Hey, let go! Let go! I'm trying to cook!” Ghiaccio tried to pull his arm away, without much luck; Melone hung on like a sloth. “…Damn it, Melone, release me!”
Melone relented, but not before pressing a playful kiss to his bicep. He delighted in the way Ghiaccio’s glasses fogged up with cold air as he blushed.
“Oh my God, you’re so annoying… The pasta should be ready now. Fetch it for me.”
Melone just laughed, moving to grab a strainer. He strained the pot over the sink and then poured the pasta back into the pot, which he placed next to Ghiaccio. He set two bowls and forks down on the coffee table too, before rushing back towards the stairs and into his room. Ghiaccio watched him putter around the base with mild amusement, a sharp huff of air leaving his nose.
By the time Melone returned, DVD in hand, Ghiaccio had set two bowls of pasta on the coffee table and was settling down in his corner of the sofa. With zero respect for his personal space, Melone plopped down right beside him. If he noticed the unimpressed look Ghiaccio flashed at him, he didn’t comment on it.
“What are we watching?” Ghiaccio asked as he made himself comfortable, propping himself up with a pillow at his back and spreading a thin blanket over himself.
“Oh, you’ll love it.” Melone didn’t elaborate; he knew that if he told him before he was fully relaxed on the couch, he’d stalk over to the TV and demand that they watch a real movie. Ghiaccio watched the screen like a hawk, his eyes narrowing as the movie began. Melone picked up his bowl of pasta.
“Melone, what is this? This hardly seems like a—” Ghiaccio was cut off by a literal moan next to him. He jerked his head to the side to see Melone staring at him, pulling the fork from his mouth.
“What the fuck?”
“The pasta, Ghiaccio, it’s perfect.”
Ghiaccio flushed red. “You don’t have to moan like a fucking porn star over it.”
Melone had no response to that, too preoccupied with stabbing ravenously at his food. Ghiaccio couldn’t help the spark of satisfaction that bloomed in his chest at the sight, and he busied himself with his own bowl for a minute or two before speaking up.
“Seriously though, what did you put on?”
“ Hackers,” Melone said matter-of-factly, as if it were a timeless classic. “It’s from a few years back. It’s like… indulgent web-aesthetic porn about this little nerd who spends his time sabotaging networks and can’t talk to women.”
“Perfect for you, then.” Ghiaccio snarked. Melone stuck his tongue out at him. A few minutes passed, during which the blue-haired assassin became more and more visibly dissatisfied.
“What the fuck is with all the random stock footage?” He demanded. Melone erupted into giggles.
“No, really, what the fuck? This is garbage! You of all people should know how obvious it is that none of the writers could tell you a damn thing about actual hacking!”
“I know! But it’s funny,” Melone protested. “Besides, just wait. Angelina Jolie is in this, and she looks—”
“Nevermind, I don’t want to hear it. I’d rather pay attention to this shit than whatever filth was about to come out of your mouth.” He paused, listening for about another three seconds. “And who the fuck is responsible for this music? You fucking owe me big time for making me sit through this, Melone. Next time—”
“There’s gonna be a next time?”
“—we’re watching La Strada. That’s a real movie, and Nino Rota did the score.”
“Will you cook me dinner again?” Melone looked at him coyly.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“So good to me, Ghiaccio…” He lilted, returning to his pasta. Ghiaccio’s response was a dramatic swig of his wine, leaving his glass nearly empty. Melone was quick to grab the bottle from the table, taking a sip straight from it before pouring Ghiaccio some more.
“Unnecessary.”
“Is the thought of indirect contact with my lips that repugnant to you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
That made Melone quirk an eyebrow, a self-satisfied smirk on his face. They both turned back to the screen. For the time being, Ghiaccio seemed content to ridicule the movie, so Melone was content to indulge him with amused reactions. After finishing his food (which didn’t take much time at all, really), Melone splayed his body out across the length of the couch, throwing his legs over Ghiaccio’s lap. To his delight, he didn’t get pushed away. He held his wine glass with one hand, the other idly twirling a strand of his own hair. All was peaceful for a while.
…And then one of Melone’s fucking feet began to move. The two of them had finished the bottle of wine by now, and coupled with the vodka he’d drank earlier, Melone had lost the meager amount of self-restraint his sober self possessed. He feigned interest in the movie while slowly dragging his foot up the length of Ghiaccio’s thigh, gentle and languid. The split second his toes curled against his inner thigh, however, Ghiaccio snapped to attention and grabbed his ankle.
“What the hell are you playing at? Quit.” He hissed under his breath, as though there were someone else in the room to overhear them. Melone shrugged, a smug grin on his face.
“Relax, bello.” He shook his foot free, then shifted to sit upright beside his coworker again. He grasped a corner of the blanket Ghiaccio was using and tugged at it lightly, pulling it over himself. It didn’t have enough give to cover his whole body, which he used as an excuse to slide closer to the other man, nestling into his side. Ghiaccio huffed derisively, but made no move to push him away.
“…You can’t even use the excuse that you want extra body heat.” Ghiaccio muttered after a while, his eyes glued to the TV without really absorbing anything.
“Mmm… I know you run cold. S’not about that.” Melone responded, his voice muffled by the fabric of Ghiaccio’s sweater. Ghiaccio could feel him smiling against his chest.
“Then what is it about?”
“Watch the movie, love.”
“The movie is shit.”
“Then don’t watch the movie. Watch me instead.” Melone snaked an arm around Ghiaccio and up against his head, tangling his fingers in his thick curls. His hand moved lazily, combing through his hair and scratching gently at his scalp. Ghiaccio froze in place. It was impossible to focus on anything but the sensation of Melone’s manicured nails against his head. He felt tingles down his spine.
“You’re going to mess up my hair,” He complained.
Melone’s hand stilled, and he was silent for a few beats. When he spoke, he sounded quiet and cautious.
“…I’ll stop if you want me to, you know.”
A long pause followed. Irritating techno music from the TV filled the silence.
“…What? Are you telling me you’d just back off like that?” His expression twisted into some kind of enraged disbelief. “That’s such a load of bullshit! You can’t just… You wouldn’t just—you wouldn't just stop, I mean, I don’t…”
Melone was silent, watching him searchingly.
“…It feels nice.” He rushed the words out, pointedly avoiding his gaze. “And there’s no way you’d be capable of keeping your hands to yourself, anyway!” Content with that answer, Melone’s hand resumed its movement, and the conversation ended there. Slowly, Ghiaccio relaxed into his touch — Melone quickly found that he liked it best at the back of his neck and behind the ears. Like a cat, he thought to himself for the second time that evening.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ghiaccio’s hand beginning to drum against his own thigh. He frowned, keeping an eye on it as he continued to massage the other man — was he doing something wrong? He watched the fidgeting continue for a minute before Ghiaccio grumbled to himself and raised his left arm in a jerky movement, elbowing Melone in the process. Before he could react, Ghiaccio had wrapped his arm around his shoulders, blunt nails pressing into his skin. The fidgeting ceased.
“…Ghiaccio.” Melone started. Ghiaccio’s arm tightened around him in response, his lips pressed into a thin line. He stared straight ahead, adamant on not acknowledging a thing. But Melone was stubborn too. His hand slid out of Ghiaccio’s hair to cup his jaw, trying to tilt his head to meet his gaze.
“Look at me.” He murmured. Ghiaccio’s dark eyes darted around until he finally ran out of places to look and stared at Melone, who had an uncharacteristically soft smile on his face.
“You told me to watch the movie.” Ghiaccio huffed, but the words had no bite.
“Too little too late, gattino. You had plenty of chances to get invested, but you spent them all on insulting commentary.” Melone chided.
“Don’t fucking call me that. And that expression is redundant! Whether you’ve done too little or you’re too late makes no difference, you’ve missed your chance either way! Why bother saying both? Just to be a dick about it?”
“Shh…” Melone leaned in, pressing a kiss to his jaw. It was chaste and altogether unlike him, as far as Ghiaccio was concerned. “You’re rambling. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
Ghiaccio found that to be a stupid thing to say — and he opened his mouth to tell him as much, but came up short as the other man began to pepper his face and neck with soft kisses. Melone could feel the other man’s face heating up beneath his lips.
“Ghiaccio…” He whispered into his ear. That proved to be too much for him to take; Ghiaccio grabbed Melone’s head with both hands and tugged, pulling him away from his face and down to his chest. Melone looked up at him, smiling.
“What’re you thinking about?” He murmured.
“God, do you ever shut up?!” Ghiaccio snapped. “Give me a minute.”
Melone understood, looking away and pretending to focus on the movie. He could feel Ghiaccio’s eyes on him the entire time, and it made his heart race. A minute or so passed before he felt two cold fingers on his chin. Ghiaccio tilted Melone’s head up, a certain intensity in his gaze as he leaned in and touched his lips to the other man’s. Melone held still, allowing Ghiaccio to set his own pace, waiting for him to gain confidence.
He kissed him once. Twice. Ghiaccio’s hands cupped his face, and Melone came to life. He kissed Ghiaccio back, moving a hand to the nape of his neck and rubbing gently, while Ghiaccio tangled a hand in Melone’s hair. He kissed hard and angry, and Melone wouldn’t have expected anything else.
Ghiaccio pulled away after a little bit, looking at him wide-eyed. Melone looked back. A few beats of silence passed before Ghiaccio broke their little staring contest with a huff, leaning into Melone to hide his reddened face in the crook of his neck.
It was the first time Ghiaccio had sought out such a vulnerable kind of physical contact, hiding against another instead of his own body. Melone was acutely aware of this, and his heart swelled with affection for the other man. He didn’t speak or push for more; he just raised his arm to let Ghiaccio curl up against him more comfortably, then settled it back around his shoulders. He pressed a kiss into his curly hair.
After a comfortable couple of minutes, he broke their silence.
“…Thank you for dinner, Ghiaccio.”
“Mmf,” came the response. Melone looked down to see Ghiaccio’s eyes shut, a peaceful look on his face. He spent a long time just admiring his coworker’s features, illuminated by the long-forgotten TV.
Eventually, Melone reached for the remote, taking care to not jostle him, and turned the volume down. He settled his head on top of Ghiaccio’s, sighing contentedly as he took in the scent of his mint shampoo.
By the time the credits rolled, the pair was sound asleep.