Work Text:
It was another day of a hit mission going as planned. The body was disposed, the evidence burned and the crime scene spotless, a little too spotless for an old, abandoned warehouse standard, but Prosciutto couldn’t help it. He was particularly in a good mood after receiving the paycheck. The blond hummed a quiet tune from one of the Beach Boys’ songs replaying restlessly in his head and stuffed their cleaning supplies in the trunk of their car before climbing into…the passenger seat?
“I thought I was driving.”
The now driver, Risotto Nero, with his usual stern expression, already had his hands on the wheel. “You did well today. Earn it.”
“What’s this, employee welfare?” The capo ignored the smirk targeted at him and wasted no time steering the car onto the highway as the blond lit his cigarette.
The post-mission drive was typically Prosciutto’s favorite time, a quiet moment to unwind and enjoy the view as the setting sun painted the sky in muted orange hues. Tapping ash from his cigarette, he let his gaze drift to the mountains in the distance, imagining himself in a Gucci fall collection piece he’d been eyeing for a while. The thought didn’t last long, as the cool breeze from the open window began to ruffle his hair.
“Don’t think I’ve seen you drive this fast before," Prosciutto remarked, smoothing flying blond strands with his hand before rolling up the window. His eyes flicked to Risotto, whose previously calm demeanor contradicted strongly with the tight grip on the wheel and his posture, somewhat unnaturally rigid. “You left unfinished reports or something?”
“No,” the capo replied curtly, crimson eyes glued to the road, too busy to spare a glance at the blond who was getting suspicious over the speedometer needle climbing dangerously high.
Prosciutto arched an eyebrow. “Then why are you rushing? The base isn’t going anywhere.”
Risotto’s jaw tightened. He didn’t respond. He couldn’t. The corner of his eyes briefly caught the sight of his wristwatch. A bead of sweat caught in his brow. He pressed down the speeding pedal seeing how the road ahead stretched endlessly, feeling his pulse quicken with every tick echoing loudly in his mind.
“What’s on your mind?” Prosciutto raised an eyebrow as he exhaled another cloud of smoke, his tone laced with curiosity. He’d been working with Risotto long enough for the man’s stoic nature to grow on him. But this was something else.
“Nothing.” Risotto said bluntly.
“If something’s wrong say it now.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Risotto raised his volume slightly. The way he inhaled as if to soften his tone didn’t escape Prosciutto’s notice. “Focus on your cigarettes,” that was as much of a response as Prosciutto was going to get from the man of many words. The blond leaned back into his seat, deciding to drop the conversation for the moment, for the sake of his capo, though the sharp edge in his glare said it wasn’t over.
.
The sun was setting. The drive went by in silence that was now thickened with this strange tension unable to resolve even with Beach Boys playing softly on the radio. Risotto’s jaw remained clenched, his knuckles pale against the leather. The erratic drumming of his index against the steering wheel was starting to get on Prosciutto’s nerve. And with each passing mile, the fidgeting of his leg was bringing Prosciutto’s patience closer to non-existent. Finally, he decided if this was going to get anywhere, it was not boring a hole into Risotto’s side profile.
“Pull over.”
For the first time in half an hour, Risotto shot a quick glance at him, catching the sight of Prosciutto blowing out a final smoke, this time with a frown. “You’ve been gripping that wheel like it owes you money,” the cigarette hissed as it was forcefully jabbed into the ashtray.
“I’m fine,” Risotto replied, another bead of sweat glided down the sharp architecture of his cheek, his neutral tone fell somewhat dismissive on the impatient passenger.
“Pull over or I’ll make you,”
Silver brows instantly furrowed at the hinted mention of Grateful Dead. “We talked about this.”
“So pull over,” Prosciutto repeated firmly. Frustration surfaced briefly from Risotto’s stoic exterior hearing the commanding tone of the man he called his subordinate. Risotto exhaled through his nose, sharply but controlled. He was in no mood for argument, especially right now. Reluctantly, he guided the car onto the shoulder of highway.
The cool evening air graced its presence as they stepped out of the car. Resisting the urge to shudder, Prosciutto hugged his suit tight, immediately adding to the faint scent of lingering smoke with another cigarette. The blond exhaled a stream of smoke into the view of the city in the distance as the capo made his way over to him.
“We should get back on the road soon.”
“Like I said, the base isn’t going anywhere.” Prosciutto frowned. “What’s with you today?”
“Nothing,” Risotto once again repeated the few vocabularies stored in his brain, his firm tone brooking no further argument and Prosciutto knew better than to press further. Instead, he leaned back on the guardrail, studying the capo who kept one hand buried in his back pocket and the one with the wristwatch held up to his face every ten seconds. He took another drag of the cigarette, a deliberately long one to see if he would get some sort of reaction. Whether Risotto knew his scheme or was genuinely unimpressed, his share of money was getting dangerously close to below minimum wage, as written evidently on the hardened expression of his capo, dramatized by the dim highway light.
“Look,” smoke leaking from his lips as he sighed. “I don’t wanna make this unpleasant, if you prefer to keep it to yourself, be it,” Something in Risotto’s sharp features softening at his words, almost looking relieved. “But at least stretch a little.”
Risotto quirked a brow as the blond wasted no time whipping his arms behind his head, pulling an elbow inward.
“I’m not going anywhere until you loosen up,” he won’t let things slide. If he can’t win this, he will have it his way somehow.
Risotto, again, didn’t miss his chance to check the time, but decided it’d be wiser not having to bear the weight of Prosciutto’s unrelenting stare for the rest of the ride.
“Fine.” The capo stepped forward, reluctantly copying the blond’s movement, shifting his focus from his watch to the mediocre cityscape.
The silence was accompanied by the sound of passing cars and Risotto’s spines occasionally popping.
“Not too bad huh?”
Risotto didn’t answer, his gaze distant. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t check it. Time was slipping away, and every second spent here grated on his nerves.
“Let’s keep moving.” He finally said, turning his heels without waiting for a second opinion, but as he turned, Prosciutto’s hand shot out, gripping his arm.
“You’re not brushing me off like that.”
“I did what you asked.”
Unsatisfied with the response, the crease between blond eyebrows deepened. “You’re clearly still on edge.” His grip firm and secure, squeezing. “Would it kill you to just stay for five minutes?”
Risotto froze, his mind racing. He couldn’t reveal his intentions now, not when the moment wasn’t right. He needed Prosciutto to drop it, but the man wasn’t giving up.
Yes, that guy absolutely won’t be giving up.
Prosciutto noticed the tensing of Risotto’s bicep under his palm, his icy glare straight to crimson eyes. It shifted into something that looked like frustration mixed with what he couldn’t yet tell, but not anger.
Whatever it was, it was killing Prosciutto.
The capo was busy in his head, carefully crafting words to convince his demanding subordinate and get them back on track. It was never easy dealing with skeptical Prosciutto, especially when he wasn’t one to back down easily and was known for taking dramatic measures when pushed. So Risotto stared back into the deep blue, hoping fire would overpower water. But that was when his determination backfired. Risotto, focused and blinded, completely missing the swift movement of Prosciutto’s arm reaching behind his back. And a cold metallic ‘click’.
“Look,” Prosciutto started, his serious tone contrasted with the silver revolver sitting in his hand. Hot ash broke from the cancer stick tugging between his fingers onto the back of his hand. He didn’t flinch. Prosciutto then let go of his arm. “Why don’t you just enjoy the view? Cool your head down a little.”
An impossible request considering there was a fucking gun pointing at his liver.
“Drop it Prosciutto.”
“You drop it!” the blond snapped, his exasperated glare intensified, but only for a brief moment before resolving back to his calculated stare. Prosciutto took another long drag of his cigarette. “You’re acting unreasonable.”
“And you’re pointing a gun at me for not looking at the view.” Risotto’s crimson eyes narrowed, his usually impassive expression hardening, an attempt at asserting dominance.
But Prosciutto didn’t budge, his hand steady, unwavering even at the sight of the darkening crimson. He chuckled dryly. “I’m not using Grateful Dead, aren’t I?”
Risotto hated himself for choosing to resist the urge look at his watch over acknowledging the possibility of Prosciutto actually pulling the fucking trigger as flashbacks of rushing Formaggio to Sorbet and Gelato’s apartment at 3 in the morning replaying at the back of his mind.
“So?” the blond tapped the cigarette lightly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that caught the dim light. His tense expression somewhat loosened, just enough to betray the satisfaction creeping in. The situation was under control. His control. Not that Prosciutto didn’t respect his capo, but there was something in watching the faltering of Risotto's unshakable demeanor. It thrilled him. Then with a casual nod to the guardrail, he signaled his capo to follow.
Risotto didn’t move. Crimson eyes averted to the side as he weighed between his options. His fingers twitched, itching toward his back pocket, but he resisted. He couldn’t give in, not when everything had already been planned. Finally, with a low sigh, he spoke, “you’re lucky I like you.”
Prosciutto shifted, at the corner of his mouth, a hint of satisfaction.
“But I’m sorry.”
The blond tilted his head, grin faltering slightly as he studied the unreadable expression on taller man. “For what?”
“Your suit.” Risotto stared. “You left me no choice.”
Prosciutto was caught off guard by a sharp gush of wind whipping past them and before he could fully process the statement, Risotto raised his hand. A metallic glint, hundreds of tiny scalpels materialized, swirling, surging violently toward their target like a swamp of angry bees, brutally slashing Risotto’s forearm with a sickening precision. Blood spattered onto the asphalt, small droplets quickly gathered into a larger pool at his feet.
"What the fuck Nero?!!" Prosciutto exclaimed, his cool composure breaking as he took a step forward.
“DON’T.” Risotto barked, his sharp tone froze the blond in place. Despite the terrible bleeding on his arm and beads of sweat forming furiously on his forehead, his face remained calm, with a little loss of saturation. “Don’t you dare.”
At Prosciutto’s side stood a half humanoid figure, glowing eyes scattering over its body all pointing to his direction. Its sharp claw only a reach away from him, tensed, hovering in the air, but without malice. Risotto backed away, his boots leaving a dark, wet trail as blood dripped from his wounds, until he was out of the aging fog. He clutched his arm, distracting himself from the need for support by studying the mixture of horror and disbelief on the other man’s pale face.
“Are you out of your goddamn mind??!” Prosciutto shouted, fighting panic to keep the gun straight. “You’re gonna bleed out! Let me—”
Risotto cut in, sharp and loud. “You’re the one insisting on sticking to the rules so RESPECT it.”
“You—!” Prosciutto paused, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the gun tightly. He shut his eyes for a moment, taking slow, deliberate breaths through his nose, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to suppress the storm building inside him. He didn’t want to escalate this, not when he hadn’t figured out the loose screw in Risotto’s head.
Finally, with a sharp exhale, he lowered the gun completely, letting it drop with a metallic clatter against the road. “You know what?” His tone was tight, laced with frustration. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” The blond reached into his pocket, pulling out his cellphone. “If I’m not allowed to help, then Sorbet will.”
“No, we’re leaving. I’ll drive,” Risotto casually said, as he turned toward the car. His preoccupied mind was consumed by the newfound relief and his next step, so much so that he missed the subtle shift in Prosciutto’s expression, the calm he’d painstakingly forged fracturing once more.
Prosciutto’s hand gripped the phone like it was the only thing anchoring him. His patience hanging by a thin thread. Prosciutto’s blood, which he’d just forced to simmer down moments ago, was already boiling again.
“With all due respect, Nero.” Prosciutto’s calm voice cut through the man’s train of thought. “You fuck.”
Risotto, caught off guard, let out a surprised, amused laugh.
“You’ll drive? You are going to drive? You?” He scoffed. His words bitter and barely above a whisper, but his low chuckle wasn’t. “You must’ve hit your head hard if you think I’ll let that happen.”
The capo stopped to look at him.
The blond dropped his cigarette to the ground, grinding it into the asphalt with his heel. For a split second, he caught a flicker of a dangerous determination in Prosciutto’s eyes, but before he could react, the man closed the distance between them in a flash. Prosciutto’s elbow drove violently into Risotto’s ribs, the force sending the taller man stumbling backward, his large frame stagger, but not enough to lose his ground.
Prosciutto’s teeth clenched with frustration, channeling his strength as he swiftly made his way around and twisted Risotto’s injured arm with brutal precision. The pain shot through his shoulder like lightning, crumbling his balance. He hit the ground hard, the impact sending a dull ache up his spine. Though his counter ability and speed had dramatically dropped due to his injuries, Risotto wasn’t one to waste even the most disadvantaged position.
Just as Prosciutto was about to knock him out with the revolver, Risotto’s uninjured hand shot up. Flesh split open in a revolting display as razor blades burst from his arms, tearing through the air with hot blood gushing toward Prosciutto’s pristine suit. As expected, the blond immediately recoiled in disgust, giving Risotto time to reposition himself, but his pumping adrenaline wasn’t enough to escape a furious knee driving full speed into his back, pinning him chest down to the ground.
“STOP HURTING YOURSELF!!!” Prosciutto roared, his voice cracking with raw, unrestrained emotion, an anguished mixture of rage and fear, hitting Risotto like a shockwave. Before he could fully process it, Prosciutto had already seized his wrists, slamming them against the unforgiving asphalt.
The blond’s trembling frame hunched over him breathing sharp, uneven gasps, fury radiating off him like heat. Risotto’s cheek scraped against the rough ground, and for the first time, he noticed how Prosciutto’s usually composed hands were shaking, his grip firm but unsteady, like he was struggling to force a lump down his throat, words he was afraid of saying. The cold pavement beneath them felt like a cruel contrast to the burning intensity of the moment.
The moment reality hit Risotto all at once.
After what felt like eternity, he decided to break the silence. “Reach into my back pocket.”
Prosciutto paused mid-pant, glaring down at the man beneath him. "What the hell are you on about now?"
“Just…do it.”
The absurdity of the request almost made Prosciutto laugh if his head weren’t fuming. “You’ve been acting strange, pushing me to my limits all night, and now you want me to reach into your FUCKING BACK POCKET??”
Risotto turned his head slightly, holding his gaze with Prosciutto’s intense one as best as he could from his pinned position, a pathetic attempt at calming the hurricane. “…please.”
The glint in his eyes shifted as his tensed shoulder loosened at the sight. The blond sat idly, his breaths quiet down, searching the capo’s face for an ulterior motive, or any sort of hidden intentions.
But there was none.
Prosciutto exhaled sharply through his nose. “If this is another stunt—”
“It’s not.”
With a skeptical look, he released one of Risotto’s wrists, slow and cautious, his knee still firmly planted between the man’s shoulder blades.
He was done with this game. But somehow, he found himself bracing for the consequence of this foolish decision.
The blond reached in and pulled out two slightly crumpled tickets. The papers were on the edge of becoming soggy, blood, seeping through its texture, mixing with inks like watercolor. The letters were unreadable, but it only took Prosciutto a second to recognize its content.
The blond got up, freeing the man from the restrained position, allowing him to get a better look at Prosciutto’s face. His tense expression remained but his features had somewhat softened, possibly by the highway light. His cool composure was a contrast with the disheveled hair and the expensive suit tainted with blood. Judging from his demeanor alone, Risotto wouldn’t had thought this was the same man stabbing him with his knee just minutes ago.
After letting his gaze linger on the tickets for too long, Prosciutto flicked it back to Risotto who almost flinched at his sharp glare. With his best attempt at steadiest voice, stated, “I’m so fucking pissed I could kill you right now.”
Risotto closed his eyes.
It was definitely the highway light.
.
It didn’t take long before they got back on the road.
Prosciutto, soaked in red, was in the driver seat now, his foot permanently planted on the gas pedal, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if it were Risotto’s neck and his cigarette count had doubled in the past hour. In the passenger seat sat Risotto Nero who chose to not fuel the flames and occupied himself with sticking the blades into the gap of his badly stitched wound, held together by metallica’s homemade staple.
The silence between them was accompanied once again by the Beach Boys’ harmonized chorus, chiming cheerful melodies, a surreal backdrop to the charged silence that had settled over the car.
“You could’ve said something.”
The breaking of the silence didn’t startle Risotto, it was the edge in Prosciutto’s tone, somewhat less cutting.
The capo reminisced about the days he spent waiting for this night. “…I wanted it to be a surprise.”
“You sure did surprise me.” The blond let out a dry bitter chuckle. He then took the cigarette to his lips, taking in another cloud of smoke. “I don’t get you.”
Risotto watched as metalica dematerialized a scalpel, resolving it back to iron, then flicked his gaze to his watch, now broken and decorated with scratches, arm stuck in the second. “Me neither,” he had no other words. It was lame, but at least he could be honest. “I’m sorry.”
The silence between them stretched on, punctuated only by the persistent melody of the Beach Boys and the faint whistle of wind rushing past the car. Prosciutto’s jaw tightened every time his eyes flicked toward the tickets and his head was starting to hurt from resolving this turmoil of emotions at the sight of Risotto sitting with his head slightly bowed, like a big dog being scolded.
“How did you get them.”
Risotto’s eyes shifted to the bloodied tickets to Beach Boys’ first concert in Italy resting on the console between them, hard-earned and now battered, they deserved better. He flexed his fingers absently, ignoring the lingering sting in his arm. It still hurt like hell, but he was regaining some mobility. “I have my ways.”
Prosciutto, again, was back to silent. But a subtle shift of his finger on the steering wheel didn’t escape the capo’s notice, twitching in perfect sync with the beat of Darlin’. Under the passing glow of a streetlight, Risotto caught a glimpse of a less tense expression, almost neutral, if not slightly distant.
The sight made him speak before he could stop himself. “Do you like it?”
Prosciutto flicked hot ash over the edge of the window. For a moment it looked like he chose to ignore the question entirely. “I’m still pissed.”
Risotto let out a soft quiet sigh, “…I figured.”
A soft scoff escaped Prosciutto, his voice calm contrasting with the biting sarcasm. “Imagine what a funny surprise it’d be if you died, and the morgue mailed them to me with a note saying, ‘We found these in his pocket.’”
Risotto’s thick skull leaned against the window. Interesting how he failed to think about that possible outcome, a likely one even, considering how much he had underestimated the blond. “I wouldn’t let that happen.”
“Would you?”
“Yeah.” Risotto’s voice dropped, but still steady. He hesitated, just then his throat began to parch, tightening as the words he’d been wanting to say hovered on the edge of escape. “I…,” he started, but it ended as soon as Prosciutto’s gaze fell on him. Deep blue eyes, unwavering. They paralyzed him.
In the end, Risotto Nero was just a coward, the man of many words, as his subordinates liked to call. “I paid for this. No way I’d miss it.”
There was a slight shift in Prosciutto’s expression, for a split second it looked like anticipation, then it became a frown, but not quite. The blond turned back to the road, letting out a quiet sigh before muttering, “we’re gonna have to fix that.”
For the first time in this long night, Risotto felt a quirk in the corner of his lips.
.
By the time they arrived the concert had already started. The muffled singing of the crowd carried over the breeze, mingling with the Beach Boys’ familiar melodies. They parked on the edge of the venue’s lot, far enough to avoid attention, close enough to see the big glowing screen.
The two hitmen sat on the hood of their car, Risotto, slightly hunched, sipping his soda. Next to him, Prosciutto with his suit jacket folded messily in his lap and a burning cigarette dangling between his fingers. His gaze locked onto the screen, following every movement of the band, its lights framed his blond hair. For a moment, he seemed untouchable.
For a while, neither of them spoke, the shared comfortable silence, an understanding that neither wanted to shatter the fragile atmosphere. The sharp pain on his arm had turned into a dull throbbing and Risotto found himself stealing glances at Prosciutto between sips of his drink.
“It’s different,” He finally said, his voice low breaking the comfortable silence.
Prosciutto didn’t turn to look at him, but his head tilted slightly, signaling he was listening.
“Hearing them live, it’s not like…” he trailed off, searching for the right words, “…like when it’s just you humming along.”
Prosciutto’s fingers absently tapped the edge of the soda can in his hand. He hummed, not in tune this time, just an acknowledgment. Once again, they fell back into the comfortable silence, the distant music washing over them.
As the first notes of Don’t Worry Baby floated through the air, Prosciutto’s voice broke in. “Fun fact,” he began, eyes still fixed on the screen, “the chorus in this song shifts to a key a whole step higher. It’s supposed to represent his girlfriend’s voice, like she’s talking to him.”
Risotto glanced at him, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. “Huh.”
Prosciutto leaned back against the car’s windshield, resting his head, exhaling a steady plume of smoke into the night air, watching it curl upward before dissipating. After a moment, Risotto followed, mirroring his posture. The night air was cool against their skin, and the starless sky painted with the distant stage lights.
The chorus chimed, and Risotto’s hand brushed lightly against Prosciutto’s as he brought it to his knee. The blond’s gaze flicked downward, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he muttered, “First the leather, and now you’re going to have to clean the hood of this car too.”
“Yeah,” Risotto replied.
“And the dry cleaning,” Prosciutto added, his tone sharp but less biting than usual, “that’ll be expensive.”
Risotto glanced at him, then back at the screen. “That’s what the paycheck’s for.”
“Your paycheck,” Prosciutto corrected.
“Don’t worry,” Risotto said, the words carrying more weight than they should have.
Prosciutto scoffed softly, a faint trace of amusement slipping through his otherwise impassive exterior.
Risotto turned his gaze to his broken watch, its arms stuck, ticked in place beneath the cracked glass. In the stillness of that moment, with the distant music, the lights painting the night sky, the lazy curl of smoke drifting between them and the faint brush of Prosciutto’s hand against his, he found himself wishing, not for the first time, that time could stop.