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Since his early days, Ghiaccio had always craved affection. He'd follow his parents throughout the house even before he could walk, monopolize his friends' chatting, and even give everything he had to make a man stay. It's no wonder he ends up in such a shitty relationship with a man 8 years older than he.
He can't recall how exactly he met Prosciutto. Maybe in one of Melone's luxurious balls or a dirty bar bathroom... All Ghiaccio remembers is being pulled by his wrist into the rainy streets and kissed under a streetlight, held into the blonde's strong arms like a porcelain doll. Sparks were flying that night.
But, like a lighter running out of fluid, the spark started dying as their casual relationship progressed. Later, Ghiaccio would learn that Prosciutto would only call or show up at his door when he needed to distract himself from his personal affairs — including other men.
Prying pieces of information off the man was an almost impossible task. In 7 months, all Ghiaccio knew about Prosciutto was his last name, his previous partner, and that he was rich. He heard something about his lover's ex-boyfriend (a hitman called Risotto) but got retaliated for being nosy.
Prosciutto was too misterious. A 32-year-old hitman with an enigmatic past and no connections. Ghiaccio never met his friends or family and wasn't sure he had one. Their meetings were secluded and discreet, always choosing the most isolated hotels to see each other. On rare occasions, the blonde would ring his doorbell wearing thick layers of black clothes and sunglasses, no matter the time or weather.
The elephant in the room needed to be addressed, but neither would do. Ghiaccio was too scared of losing his lover by asking too many questions and driving him away. Prosciutto always showed anger and annoyance whenever his lover asked about his life, storming off and leaving the poor boy alone in a shitty motel bed whenever lines got crossed. In a silent deal, they agreed to never speak about the issue.
It was a grim Sunday, and the clouds covered the rainy sky. Prosciutto was leaning on the window while smoking a cigarette, keeping his tired blue eyes on the empty streets. His golden locks were down, unlike the usual neat row of knots he'd thoroughly comb before leaving his house every day.
Ghiaccio was still in bed, naked and sweaty. Since they were at his house this time, he didn't care about dressing up and taking a cab while being urged by his lover. Instead, he let himself melt into the silky sheets, searching for his glasses before sitting up straight. His bottom stings and aches, proof of his partner's rough love.
Both men were silent. They did what they did every time they met, yet something felt different. Prosciutto would smoke while dressing up and handing Ghiaccio enough money to pay for the taxi or hotel. That night, however, the blonde was taking his sweet time while observing the rainy atmosphere outside. If the boy didn't know his lover moderately well, he'd think he was going to stay the night.
Ghiaccio's anxiety grows by the second. It's inevitable to think that something different will happen. Something bad. For the first time in months, he wishes Prosciutto would bid him farewell and leave the building like a wanted criminal (something he, in fact, is). However, the man stays still, smoking by the window like a night vigilant.
— Are you afraid of dying?
Prosciutto's voice cuts the silence, and he finally turns to face Ghiaccio. His face and hair are slightly wet from the rain gusts, and his cigarette is long gone, but his face looks neutral. Hauntingly calm, like a broken merry-go-round.
— I guess I do. I mean, dying seems terrible. — Ghiaccio mutters, rubbing his eyes while staring at Prosciutto. — Why?
— If I told you to die... — Prosciutto approaches the bed, sitting by the edge. — Would you die for me?
Silence fills the room again. Ghiaccio can't help but feel unnerved, averting his gaze to his fidgeting fingers. However, he can feel Prosciutto's eyes boring into his skull. It causes him to feel uncomfortably vulnerable.
— Look at me. — Prosciutto demands. Ghiaccio lifts his eyes, unsure of what his lover means with that creepy dialogue. — I want to know if you'd die for me.
— I-I don't get what you're saying. — Ghiaccio awkwardly laughs, hoping it's just a joke, but Prosciutto looks painfully intense. — Die for you?
— You keep trying to find out who I am. I know you've been asking Melone about me. Risotto told me he saw you around his workplace last week. — Prosciutto grumbles, slowly taking hold of Ghiaccio's wrist and squeezing it. It's not meant to hurt, but the grip is firm enough to startle him. — Why?
— I just wanted to know more about you, okay? I wasn't trying to be intrusive. — Ghiaccio sharply inhales, squirming his hand out of Prosciutto's grasp. For the first time in months, his lover's touch burns. — But I feel like I don't know who you are...
— And you'll never know. Not if you're not willing to die for me. — Prosciutto retorts, crossing his arms. — You're poking around stuff you won't like the smell. At this rate, I thought you already knew I was not a simple man from the start. I'm more than you can take. More than your silly little mind can fathom.
— What if I'm willing to die for you? — Ghiaccio gulps. — What if I wanna die for you? Will you let your guard down?
— You wouldn't last a day in my world. I can see it in your eyes. — Prosciutto sighs, rubbing his temples in frustration. — You're young, Ghiaccio. You deserve better. You can find yourself someone else.
— But I want to be with you. — Ghiaccio reaches for Prosciutto's hand, causing the blonde to retreat. The boy bites his bottom lip, visibly shaken. — Please, Prosciutto. I don't care about what you do for a living because I'll follow you to the end...
— Don't say such nonsense when you know nothing about me! — Prosciutto barks, causing Ghiaccio to flinch. The man grunts, getting up from the bed. — It's better if we stop seeing each other. You're dependent on me. Too dependent for your own good.
— Prosciutto, wait!
Ghiaccio has seen Prosciutto leave his apartment without looking back countless times. However, it's the first time his heart fills with despair as his lover walks away. It's a wrecking sensation; it's like he's a drug addict experiencing his first withdrawal. The blonde's smell is everywhere, from his clothes to his furniture. There's even a dark spot in his window from all the cigarettes he has put off.
As he cries in his bed until the sleep gets to him, Ghiaccio wonders if he's the problem. He can never make a man stay — sooner or later, they all leave. Prosciutto has put up with his problems longer than anyone else but never spoke about breaking up until that day. Maybe it could be the end.
However, deep in his heart, Ghiaccio knows best. One way or another, Prosciutto will find his way back to his bed in a few weeks. Less affectionate, of course. There won't be kisses, after-sex cuddles, or nicknames. It's how the world works.
Ghiaccio belongs to Prosciutto. Prosciutto belongs to the streets.