Chapter Text
“It’s a death sentence ,” Illuso said.
He and Formaggio were both standing in Risotto’s office. Risotto was seated, fists clenched, jaw clenched. Tense. Silently seething.
Illuso, on the other hand, was more vocal about his anger, repeating, “It’s a death sentence! And you’re just… just letting it happen.”
Risotto took a breath, then told him, “I am not. These were orders that came straight from—”
“I don’t give a shit who they were from!” Illuso slammed a hand on Risotto’s desk. Formaggio flinched. Risotto hardly reacted. “You and I both know damn well what ‘waste disposal’ means. We’re not getting rid of trash, we are the trash. You are signing Formaggio and I’s death warrant, and you can’t even admit it. How long have I been in this organization? Been on the hitman team?”
Risotto exhaled sharply. “Three years.”
“Three years I have dedicated my life to fucking Passione, dedicated my life to you , Risotto Nero. I have killed countless people. I’ve taken every job and completed it effortlessly. My stand is worth more than fucking garbage .”
Risotto seemed to soften a little, if just barely. “I know.”
“No. You don’t. You’re not going to fight this, you’re just going to let two more of your men be killed when, this time, you know you could’ve done something to stop it.”
Venom hid behind Risotto’s words. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“If that’s the case,” Illuso fished a key out of his breast pocket, chucking it onto Risotto’s desk. It hit the wood, clattering. The key to their base. Formaggio had an identical one in his pocket. Illuso stood up straight, collecting himself. “I never want to see you again.”
Risotto didn’t respond as Illuso turned to leave, giving the door a good slam on his way out. That sound lingered in the room, echoed. That lack of presence was felt. Risotto seemed to deflate a little. He picked up the discarded key, feeling the metal between his fingers. Brass.
Formaggio had been quiet for almost the entirety of that meeting, and he decided to stay quiet as he went to leave.
“Formaggio,” Risotto addressed him before he put his hand on the doorknob. His back was still turned to him as he heard Risotto say, “You can be angry too. Yell at me if you’d like, I don’t mind.”
He looked back at him, shaking his head, “Nah. Don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed. Just not at you.”
“Nor is he.” It was clear he was referring to Illuso. Risotto was still examining that key in his hands. Thinking.
“Shit, do you want mine too?” Formaggio asked.
Risotto shook his head. Looked up. “Here. Take it,” he tossed it at Formaggio, who caught it with ease. “I know he’ll want it back. Not today, but… Someday, he’ll want it back.”
Formaggio stared at it for a moment. “Capo—”
“You can’t call me that anymore.”
He paused, then said, “None of this is your fault.”
“I appreciate it,” was Risotto’s response, “but I don’t think that’s what I need to hear right now.”
Formaggio was quiet, lingering at the door. He tucked the key into his pocket. “I’ll… see you around, then?”
“You won’t.”
——
Their new capo was a meek little man that neither of them respected, and he either didn’t notice or didn’t care enough to point it out. He was also visibly nervous around the former assassins.
He paled in comparison to Risotto, but, really, anyone did.
They were supposed to cut off all communication with the hitman team. They weren’t in the groupchat anymore. Didn’t receive any of the emails. No, because now they were on the ‘Waste Disposal Team.’
Illuso didn’t even want to admit that it was an actual team. Two brass keys burned a hole in Formaggio’s jacket pocket.
Illuso had become quieter, and he gave out glares like candy. Formaggio started to notice that he wasn’t the recipient of them as often as he used to be. They were frequently paired together, their new capo determining that, since they came from the same team, they simply must work well together.
He was right, of course.
——
Their second or third job, before they fully settled into a routine, was at a quarry. Typical. Not all of the trash was bagged, but what was would be shrunk down by Littlefeet, then Formaggio would toss the baseball sized bag to Man in the Mirror, who would catch it and lazily throw it through a mirror that Illuso had brought. Fancy thing with a golden frame leaned against a lovely pile of garbage.
The mirror world operated a little differently when it came to objects, like, say, trash. People and living things could only exist in one or the other at one time because they have souls. Objects, on the other hand, had an exact mirrored replica in the mirror world. They existed simultaneously in the reflection and in reality. So, when something was let into the mirror world, it would collide with its reflection and destroy itself. It wouldn’t exist anymore.
If an object were attached to or held by a living thing (say, clothes, or a weapon) it would be recreated with spiritual energy, therefore allowing it to enter with no worries.
All this to say, it was pretty useful if you needed to get rid of a mountain of garbage, though Illuso didn’t want to admit that, obviously.
Speaking of, he was lying on the ground, halfway in the mirror, resting his chin on his hand, bored out of his mind. Formaggio tossed another tiny trash bag as Illuso said, “It stinks.”
“Yeah,” he said, “This sucks.”
“No, it smells awful. Here and in the mirror world. I can’t escape it. I hate this.”
“Uh huh. Same boat.”
“I’m worth more than this. You—” Man in the Mirror caught a trash bag. “Your stand may be stupid, but you’re worth more than this.”
Formaggio gave a light smile, “Let it be known that you said that, not me.”
“Shut up.” And then the next trash bag hit Illuso in the face. “Oooh, you bitch— “
“I find it funny that you’re the one complaining, even though you’re not—” he caught the trash bag right before it hit him. “Thank you,” he tossed it back. “Even though you’re not the one doing any of the actual work.”
Man in the Mirror caught it and threw it over its shoulder into the mirror. “I’m letting all of this bullshit into my mirror world. I’m doing all the work I need to do.”
“Oh, come on, it doesn’t matter that you’re letting it in if it’s all destroyed on impact. It's not like it's lingering there.”
“Yeah. I'm doing my job. You’re welcome.”
Littlefeet shrunk another bag. “You could at least help me sift through—” Formaggio stopped. “Oooh, shit.”
Illuso couldn’t see what he was looking at. “What?”
“Corpse.”
Illuso relaxed. “Oh. I thought it would’ve been something worse.”
“Well, yeah, but I wasn’t expecting to see—”
“Makes sense really, we’re on waste disposal . Of course Passione would give us their leftovers.” Illuso flicked a pebble with his fingers. Back to being bored.
Formaggio looked at it for a moment longer before a body about the size of a Barbie doll was being thrown at Illuso. Man in the Mirror caught it with ease, but before letting it enter the mirror world, Formaggio asked, “Why do you think he was murdered?”
“Why should I care?” Illuso delivered with dripping sarcasm.
“Dunno,” he grinned. “Let’s make a game of it. Why do you think he was murdered?”
Illuso held his hand up and Man in the Mirror passed the body down to him. He turned it over in his hands, examining it. “Not a rival gang member, too old. And these clothes are too nice.”
“What do you mean?”
Illuso lifted one of the arms, even though Formaggio probably couldn’t see it, but he pointed out, “Gold cufflinks. Cufflink, really, the other one’s missing. There’s a letter carved into it, likely his initial. At least, it looks gold, but I can’t tell if it’s real when it’s this small…”
“Oh, well, if you want him returned to full size—”
“No, fuck off,” said Illuso. He hummed, continuing, “Of course, he could be of a higher rank if he’s a gangster. Or maybe he wants to think he’s important… I’d guess politician. Which means there’s countless reasons why someone would want him taken out.”
“That your final answer?”
“You say that like you know.”
“God, ‘luso, let me live my gameshow host dreams for at least two seconds.”
Illuso started to laugh, “No, fuck you, your dreams are stupid.”
“Ha! I got you to smile,” Formaggio grinned, teasing. “I knew it, you like working with me.”
Illuso’s scowl returned. “No, I just put up with it because you’re the only person I know on this fake team.”
“You’re at least having fun now.”
“Shut up.”
Formaggio chucked another trash bag right at Illuso’s face. He dodged, narrowly avoiding it, and it passed through the mirror right behind him. Illuso grinned, “Ha! You missed!”
——
The pay was significantly worse. Illuso had to rent a smaller, shittier apartment because of it. His previous one was already bad, but this one had deeper cracks in the walls and there was never any hot water. He could assume Formaggio was in a similar situation, but he never cared to ask.
He never contacted anyone on the hitman team. Wasn’t supposed to. Then again, two way street: no one ever tried to contact him, so why should he give a damn? Clearly, they’d rather just forget about him.
Good. He didn’t care anymore. Didn’t have time to. Didn’t want to.
Their new capo started to exclusively send them assignments through email. They rarely met with him in person other than when they were paid their meager salary. It seemed he finally took the hint offered through the perpetual glares Illuso gifted him.
Keep things impersonal and keep them distant. Illuso knew damn well he didn’t want to get attached to anything, anyone.
After all, this job was a death sentence.
——
“One of these days, we’re going to be sent to one of these places, and someone’s going to meet us here and shoot us both in the back of the head.”
Formaggio was knee deep in trash, jacket off and discarded nearby, but he stopped sifting through it, squinting at Illuso. “And how cold was the shower you had this morning?”
“Too damn cold, but that’s not the point,” Illuso was leaning against a wall, arms folded. His mirror was positioned right next to him, probably the only object of any value in that stupid room. Essentially a warehouse full of garbage. Formaggio had adjusted to the smell at this point, but Illuso still wasn’t over it. “We’re just barely living on borrowed time doing a bullshit job that they know is beneath us. Maybe I should just shoot myself now. Save them the trouble.”
“Don’t shoot yourself, I would miss out on these riveting conversations. Mirror open?”
“Yes, obviously,” Illuso answered.
He tossed in about a baseball’s worth of shrunken trash. Then he looked back down and went, “Ooh, okay, here’s one. Why do you think this one was murdered?”
And, just like all the previous times, Illuso caught that doll-sized corpse. Before even engaging in that game of theirs, he said, “You know, I’m always scared we’re going to find someone we know in one of these dumps.”
Formaggio took a breath, not wanting to consider that. “If it were someone we knew, I’d treat them more delicately.”
“When they finally decide to shoot us, the poor idiots that get this dumb job after will probably find our bodies and ask, ‘Why do you think these two were murdered?’ What do you think they would tell themselves?”
“Must’ve been really cold.”
Illuso, exasperated, frustrated, went, “Can you at least try to take me seriously for one fucking second?”
Formaggio was in the midst of shrinking more garbage to toss, but he stopped to look at him. “I am taking you seriously.”
“You’re not. And, really, it seems almost like you’re fine with all of this.”
“I’m not.”
“Then why aren’t you pissed?”
“I think you’re pissed enough for the both of us.”
“You could at least pretend to be angry. We’re going to die, Formaggio.”
Formaggio, for once in his life, was starting to get sick of all this. He was serious as he stated plainly, clear as day, “We’re not. If they wanted us dead, they would’ve killed us already. If Passione wants to keep doing this kinda work, then, at the moment, with your stand, with my stand, we’re invaluable to them. That’s just a fact. It would be hard to find a replacement for the mirror world. Genuinely. Stop doing what you’re doing here and be realistic.”
Illuso glared at him because he didn’t have a response. Formaggio was right, and he hated that with every fiber of his being.
He looked down at that corpse in his hands. Clipped, he said, “American gangster. Young. Stupid. Vain. Came here to make something of himself. Didn’t.”
And he tossed it into the mirror.
——
Illuso and Formaggio didn’t hang out much outside of work these days. Maybe because Illuso was convinced that they were basically already dead. Their time was being wasted with tedious awful work and their spirits were being broken because they weren’t given a shred of dignity.
Except, Formaggio seemed to be doing perfectly fine. How the hell he could stay positive, Illuso didn’t know.
After another bullshit job, Illuso asked him, “Where are you living right now?”
Formaggio blinked. “Shitty apartment with my cat. Why?”
“ Your cat? I thought it wasn’t your pet.”
“Yeah, well, he keeps coming back, and I keep feeding him,” he shrugged. “Technically not allowed, but whatever.”
Illuso hummed in acknowledgement. He then circled back to the initial subject and proposed, “Maybe we can pool what little money we have and get a slightly less shitty apartment.”
“I’d like that,” Formaggio grinned.
——
Formaggio and Illuso were in the midst of moving into that new place (a lovely one bed one bath on the first floor. No issues with that, of course, Formaggio quite liked the couch, AND Illuso could finally have a hot shower again, thank GOD). As Illuso watered his succulents (arranged nicely on a side table: two cacti and one aloe vera) with a glass cup, Formaggio was setting up his computer on his desk in the corner. He was trying to remember which wire went where, when Illuso told him, “Don’t touch these, by the way. Especially the aloe.”
“Your plants? Why?”
“You’ll kill them,” he stated, very matter of fact.
Formaggio snorted, “It’s pretty damn hard to kill a cactus.”
With a clink , Illuso put his glass onto the table and turned to look at Formaggio. His left eye twitched. “Let me tell you a story. So, so very long ago, I used to have three cacti. One had a little flower in bloom. You were at my apartment. You said, ‘That’s so pretty, Illuso. Can I touch it, Illuso?’ I said, ‘Absolutely not.’ You did not listen. It died the next day.”
“Coincidence, I’m sure.”
“I blame you ,” he hissed.
“Okay, what if I burn my hand on the stove or something? And I need some of that aloe?”
“Then, you can get your own fucking plant.” Illuso went back to tending to his beloved succulents.
Formaggio shook his head as he plugged in his keyboard. “You are so petty.”
A window was cracked (to get rid of some burnt smell, courtesy of the previous tenant, which didn’t matter because it would likely soon be replaced by a weed smell, courtesy of Formaggio), and there was no sound as a little gray cat hopped in.
It pranced about like it owned the place, nose high in the air. Quiet thing, neither of them noticed it until a soft tail brushed up against Illuso’s leg. He stiffened at the touch, then looked down to see that little demon rubbing up against him. “Looks like it found you.”
Formaggio was turning on his computer, then looked over, “What found–” and then he gasped, “Kitty!”
The cat reacted with a very pissed off mrow! as it was lifted into the air and spun around by Formaggio. “Oh, my sweetie baby–”
“Sweetie baby?” Illuso repeated.
“–my precious honeybun–”
“ Honeybun ?”
“My little bluebell,” Formaggio held the cat in his arms like it was a baby while it hissed and squirmed and fought for its life. It escaped his grasp, landing on its feet and running back to Illuso. It sat down, licking its paw as if nothing happened.
Illuso smiled, smug, “You’ve gotten attached to it.”
“Huh? No I haven’t.”
“And you said you wouldn’t be keeping it as a pet.”
“Hey, I didn’t drag him here. He came in of his own fruition,” Formaggio went back to his desk, turning on his computer. “I haven’t even named him.”
“You’ve given it at least three names,” Illuso said. “Doesn’t it hate you?”
“Love-hate. I do feed him,” Formaggio shrugged. He typed something, clicked his mouse a few times, then changed the subject. “Email. New assignment.”
Illuso groaned, “For a minute I forgot how much I hated this crap.”
Capo usually just put an address, a deadline, and the laughably low pay, but this came with something extra:
This one should be nostalgic for you two.