Chapter Text
Music thrums through the wall, the bass low and heavy as it buries itself deep inside your chest.
You’d typically slam a fist against the thin drywall and shout at Formaggio to ‘turn that shit down.’ But now, for once, the music offers a distraction from the task you’re faced with.
A little glass vial sits on the desk in front of you along with an assortment of bandaids, wipes, and needles. It was a dance you were all too familiar with, but that didn’t make it easier. Especially with the way that the needles glint in the yellowish lights of your bedroom almost like they were mocking your hesitance.
There’s a tremble in your fingers as you roll the vial between your palms to warm up the concoction within, yet your eyes remain fixated on the medical supplies.
You weren’t squeamish by any means. You were in Passione, the most notorious and feared mafia within Italy. You weren’t a stranger to getting your hands dirty, particularly being a member of La Squadra Esecuzioni. But your gutsy nature seemed to falter when it came to giving yourself shots.
How ironic.
A deep sigh falls from your mouth before you place the vial on the desk once again. You busy yourself with peeling open the alcoholic wipes with the pungent, antiseptic scent flooding your nostrils. The damp material is cool against your thigh as it drags along the skin with your boxers bunched at the tops of your legs.
It’s not until a sharp knock at the door helps you regain your senses, and the call of your name is muffled through the wood.
“Go away!” you shout in response and try to ignore the shaking of your hands when you screw the needle onto the syringe.
The knock comes louder this time, more forceful before you’re yelling again.
“Cut it out, I’m busy!”
But that doesn’t deter the person on the other side, not when the knob jingles and turns before the bedroom door fully swings open. While you could have sworn that you locked it, you’re more irritated than anything at the sight of your lavender-haired teammate standing triumphantly in the doorway.
“Melone,” you hiss through clenched teeth and tightly grasp the syringe between your fingers, stopping mid-motion at the sudden intrusion.
Yet all Melone does is take in the sight of you with the tilt of his head. You can’t tell if it’s curiosity or judgment as heat crawls across your cheeks in embarrassment before you’re looking nearby for something to throw. He’s grinning now with a smile that’s too wide for his face as he slips into your bedroom, and the door closes firmly behind him.
“Having fun all by yourself?”
All you can do is sneer at him when he strolls closer. His lips tug downward into a pout when you snap at him, yet he inches his way every bit closer.
“I said I was busy, so get the hell out of my room.”
Melone snatches the vial from your hands, and he’s smiling again as he raises it to his face for it to be eye level with his turquoise orbs.
“Come on,” he whines while his eyes scan the label.
“You can at least share-”
The words are suddenly lost on his tongue, eyes flickering between you and the vial between his fingers. He blinks once, then twice. Then his attention is fully on you with something akin to interest swirling in his eyes as the vial remains clasped between his thumb and forefinger.
“This is not what I was expecting.”
Your face continues to burn, and you think briefly of stabbing him with the needle that protruded from the syringe in your hand. But you suppress the urge, instead reaching out to try and snatch the vial back. But Melone holds it just out of reach.
“Shut up and give it back,” you grumble and reach for it again only for your teammate to finally relent as he allows you to snatch it from his grasp.
Melone only chuckles, watching when you slump back down into your chair as he slowly circles you.
“You know, the others and I thought you were doing heroin or something.”
That causes you to roll your eyes as you push your boxers up to expose the tops of your thighs again.
“I don’t do heroin.”
You grunt and cast a glance over at Melone until he finally stills in front of you. Those bright eyes linger on the instruments on your desk before landing on you. He chuckles, simply watching as your hands twitch at your sides. You stare back at him, and the both of you remain there: unwavering and unmoving with the only sound being the music that seeps through the wall connecting your room to Formaggio’s.
Melone takes a step forward to close the distance between you two before he’s speaking again.
“Are you going to continue?”
You lean back in the chair, legs parted and bent at the knees as he makes himself welcome in the space in between. Melone was always one to invade others’ personal space, even when you were new to the group. He was always there, pressed tightly to your side or lingering a little too closely at your back. But it didn’t bother you as much as it did the others, especially not now even despite your snappy response.
“Are you going to leave?”
He simply grins every bit wider, and it told you everything that you needed to know. You drag a hand down your face, lips parting to blow out a huff at his persistence. But you still don’t move with the syringe sitting tightly in your grasp.
Melone senses your hesitance and gives a low chuckle before crouching down in front of you.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of needles!” he croons as his gloved palms rest on your knees with the smooth material caressing the skin.
You suck your teeth and swipe the wipes from the desk again. He’s watching you even more closely now, leaning towards you even as you fumble with the syringe.
“I’m not afraid of needles.”
He laughs, light and breathy before raising a hand towards your own and plucking the syringe and wipes out of your fingers.
“Here.”
Melone moves effortlessly as he wipes an area of skin at your thigh with the damp material. It’s then that he takes the vial and slips the needle into the top while humming some offbeat tune. You just watch him with the sound of his song settling on your ears along with the pounding of your heart in your ears when he switches out the needle.
His other hand rests on your thigh, pulling the flesh there taut. He glances up at you, corners of his lips upturned with a smile as he tilts his head.
“You’re going to feel a slight pinch.”
You nod and force yourself to look away with your gaze turning upward towards the ceiling, fingers curling in on your palms as the fingernails leave crescent-shaped indents in the skin. Melone’s hand smooths over your thigh before lining up the needle with the limb.
“Relax,” he breathes out, and you find yourself releasing the breath you didn’t realize that you were holding.
Then you feel it: the familiar sharp twinge that comes with every injection. But then comes the gentle press of gauze against the wound as Melone continues to softly hum. The bandaid is placed last, and it’s only then that you look down at where he’s still kneeling between your legs.
He’s still smiling up at you, eyes no doubt scrunching in the corners behind his mask.
“See? It wasn’t all that bad!”
You chuckle as he disposes of the needles before resting your hand over the bandaid with the textured material rubbing against your palm.
“Yeah, yeah… Thanks, Melone.”