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The only light source in Risotto’s room came from a dingy lamp emitting a dim yet warm orange light. More often than not, Risotto used whatever he could afford to illuminate the room. This annoyed Prosciutto greatly, as whatever he chose was always far too dull. A solution to this could be sleeping in his own room, but where was the fun in that?
The two had an unspoken ritual almost every night. Before bed, they shared a cigarette and talked. These talks varied every night, ranging from how the day’s missions went over, to Risotto’s childhood dog, to laughing at how Melone managed to piss off Ghiaccio on any given occasion. Sometimes they talked themselves to sleep, other times Prosciutto excused himself to his room.
Risotto shut the door behind him with a gentle click. Prosciutto made a beeline to “his” side of the bed, shucking off his linen shirt but keeping his slacks on. He closed his eyes for a moment as he flopped onto the bed. The static hum of electricity and the jingling of Risotto’s clothes tumbling onto the carpeted floor had become soothing sounds to Prosciutto. He felt the weight of the bed shift. A loud, relieved sigh from Risotto followed.
Risotto turned to face Prosciutto, whose eyes were still shut. “What, too tired to smoke tonight?” He teased.
Prosciutto groaned. “No, your shitty lights are giving me a headache.”
“These bulbs were cheaper than the ones I normally get. They remind me of my room as a kid.” Risotto ran a hand through his hair. “It was this or candlelight.”
“What, did you live in a fucking cave?” Prosciutto exclaimed.
“I didn’t and you know that.”
“No, I’m not sure I do.”
Prosciutto opened his eyes as he rolled over top of Risotto, reaching into his bedside drawer for the half finished box of cigarettes he kept stowed away from the rest of the gang. He plucked a cigarette from the crumpled box. Risotto opened his mouth to take the cigarette from between Prosciutto’s spindly fingers and housing it between his teeth like a bird taking a worm.
Prosciutto sighed, “You know, if you decided on candlelight, we could’ve lit this much easier.” Prosciutto fished in his back pocket for his lighter. The small flame of the lighter hovered just below the tip of Risotto’s nose. “I’d also be able to see where the cigarette is without using my lighter but have it your way.”
Risotto could only bring himself to shrug. His small smirk was hidden by the dark bedroom light, one of the perks of these new supposedly shitty lightbulbs.
It didn’t take long for the aroma of tobacco to permeate throughout the room. The first few puffs of smoke came in quick bursts as Risotto chuckled to himself. He didn’t know what he was even laughing at. Maybe it was the ever-peeved expression painted on Prosciutto’s face, brows still knitted together over Risotto’s penny-pinching ways. Or maybe it was the way that the cigarette’s light made Prosciutto’s eyes look more gorgeous than they already were, creating dark blue tidepools that were far too easy to get sucked into. Though who could blame him when those waters whispered Risotto’s name like a divine plea?
“Wipe that grin off your face and share,” Prosciutto said with a bite that would sound like a command to anyone else. A smile big enough to be seen under the light but not big enough to show teeth graced his features, complimenting Risotto’s ever growing dorky grin. Prosciutto snatched the cigarette from in between Risotto’s teeth and perched it between his lips, closing his eyes to take a long drag before blowing the smoke towards the ceiling.
These moments were the closest they’d allow each other to get to kissing, not because one of them was afraid of commitment or there were unreciprocated feelings – it was actually quite the opposite. Something as permanent as a relationship would never mesh with the ephemerality of their lives. Plans changed. People died. Neither of them knew which mission would be their last. To them, having a small taste of what could be; lying on top of one another, skin to skin, sharing kisses through a vessel of a vice was enough. It was also a practice in resolve; the persistent need to get closer, to finally stick their hands in the cookie jar of intimacy was omnipresent. Chasing that thrill, rather, keeping themselves contained inside the cage they kept each other in was more enticing than any sex they could have.
Risotto’s eyes drifted to Prosciutto’s collarbones. The rare occasion where they weren’t covered by a shirt made them an even sweeter sight to behold. Though as alluring as they were, the shadows these new bulbs created made them look gaunter than normal.
“Are you eating?” Risotto asked, beckoning for another turn with the cigarette.
Prosciutto planted the cigarette into Risotto’s mouth with precision. “I ate whatever the hell Formaggio cooked for dinner, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You’ve always been braver than me.” Puffs of smoke escaped Risotto’s mouth like a chimney as he spoke, the cigarette between his teeth giving him a lisp.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” Prosciutto laughed softly. The sound of his laughter was one of the few worldly things Risotto cherished. As an assassin, growing attached to people or things would only hinder the efficacy of the job – this was the first lesson Risotto learned from Passione over a decade ago and he never forgot it. Even when Prosciutto joined the assasination team around eight years ago, he held onto this lesson like a vice-grip. Looking back, he felt he didn’t need to restrain himself as much as he did because it seemed like the young blonde boy learned it as well, perhaps far earlier than he did.
Prosciutto let his elbows rest, dropping his body weight onto Risotto’s torso, earning a sharp groan and dislodging the stubby cigarette from his mouth. While yes, Risotto was a broad guy and he’d been in far worse pain, no one –no matter if they were brawny or frail– was ever prepared to get hit in the chest by a bony body. While it wasn’t Prosciutto’s fault he had difficulty putting on weight, the least he could’ve done was give a warning. Though for as long as they’ve done this, Risotto should start expecting to get blindsided.
Risotto caught his breath, taking the last small drag the cigarette could handle. He held the smoke in his mouth for a moment, debating if he wanted to blow it into Prosciutto’s face. The well-fed devil on his shoulder urged him not to fear a lighthearted backhand from Prosciutto. This life was fickle, fate had its whims and a mere love tap wouldn’t change the course of the march towards the early death he was set out for. Maybe it would come at the hands of the cigarettes that’d give him cancer at around forty-five – if he somehow made his way out from under Passione, created a life with the man lying on his chest, who would lay in wait to smack him if he decided to go through with his plan. Perhaps it’d come at the hands of some chrony that had it out for him and his team. No matter which way it was cut, death came for all. He may as well keep the small joys close to him until his time comes. Risotto locked eyes with Prosciutto and before Prosciutto could think, he was ambushed by a strong cloud of tobacco. Prosciutto coughed as he got back onto his elbows to bat away the smoke.
“The hell is wrong with you?!” Prosciutto asked between coughs. That same boyish grin appeared on Risotto’s face. Even when Prosciutto was “mad” at him, he saw right through his act. Risotto was the only one granted the privilege of seeing him this candidly and unpackaged; his blonde hair was freed from the elaborate style it was confined to during the day. His lean, muscular arms that were now draped across Risotto’s shoulders, taking the butt of the cigarette and extinguishing it into the crystal ashtray that lived on Risotto’s nightstand. His warm, bony body pressed into his. The devotion to protection Risotto experienced as the leader of the assasination team –especially towards the member who slept in his bed more often than his own– outweighed any pain that a rib to the flank could inflict. It was his sunken eyes ebbing between open and shut. His hooked nose. The small crucifix that dangled from a chain on his neck, that imprinted itself onto Risotto’s pecs, marking him well into the next day like a brand on a bull. That was the closest to God he’d ever get. All these minute details culminated into making his smile grow greater and greater.
—
Risotto’s body was sprawled across a rocky cliff. The warm sunshine of an Italian spring hit his skin, only aiding in the coagulation of the blood –his blood– on his open torso and face. His senses grew fainter with each passing second. As his dying lungs drew shallow breaths, waves of regret crashed over him. For so long, there was a fear he and Prosciutto shared: what if they pursued what they knew they had with each other, just for it to be ripped away? Risotto had realized the nonsense in this line of thinking far too late, only putting together the pieces after he got the call regarding Prosciutto’s defeat at the hands of Bucciarati. In the last few days of his life he walked with a heavy answer to his questions: Loving someone only for loss to intercept it is a blessing compared to never letting love blossom at all.
In the midst of drowning both in his own blood and inner turmoil, he felt himself floating away from his own body. His soul had let go of its grasp to its mortal cage, uncertain of its destination. Risotto didn’t believe in a God for no other reason than he never felt connected to organized religion. Over the many cigarettes shared with his now-deceased comrade, he’d get Prosciutto to explain why he was so steadfast in his Catholic beliefs, always answering earnestly.
“My mom and dad were Catholic. We always went to midnight mass on Christmas. When I first joined Passione, praying after hits calmed me down; though I knew deep down nothing would change.”
Risotto tried to understand it all, he really did. Even now, as his soul drifted higher and higher, he still didn’t have any answers. When his eyes had shut for the final time, flashes of playing in the streets with his cousin as a kid didn’t play, nor did birthdays, holidays, or the constant losses that overarched his twenty-eight years on Earth. It was those nights chest to chest with a man he ached to call his. Kisses shared through the paper ends of a cigarette, both of them far too afraid to create more contact than that.
Maybe his soul was wandering to the only divinity it had ever known. Life had a funny way of twisting things around at the end, the leader had become the follower. His soul drifted towards the warmth of the sun and perhaps to the warmth of his love. Maybe they could indulge in some worldly vices in the great beyond. Considering the blood on both of their hands, crutches like those should be the least of the Lord’s worries.