Chapter Text
(0) 𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖑𝖚𝖉𝖊
They were always dancing with death.
Risotto needed only a moment to make his kill. Harnessing the iron in his environment with his elusive and terrifying stand Metallica, he took down his targets with one masterful strike. Risotto was a stoic, reserved man who delivered with ruthless efficiency. The ideal assassin.
Prosciutto was a cold killer. With his own stand, the Grateful Dead, he released a noxious mist that enveloped its victims in a unique poison, incapacitating whoever came into contact. With just a touch, his opponents fell in a wrinkly heap of skin and bones. It could hardly be called a murder, perhaps a mysterious and untimely death. Without leaving a drop of blood, the deed was untraceable. A clean kill.
Both were vividly grotesque ways to go — one in sporadic bursts of blood when sharp objects pierced through your skin, and the other hurtling you through the throes of age, with the mental strain and physical fatigue that rattled you down to your core.
A deadly duo.
Hardened criminals. No one had ever seen them bleed or cry.
Their team of assassins was capable of inflicting inexplicable horrors upon their targets, if not a cruel and brutal end. It was impossible to imagine that such cold blooded killers could be gentle with another person. And yet, despite their lethal profession and bloodstained hands, there was a tenderness that they showed only to each other.
It was a private affair. A mutual agreement, a secret that they withheld from their fellow hitman team members, because it was extraneous information. No one needed to know about their meetings in private. No one needed to know the depths of their relationship.
Behind their professionalism and cold exteriors, love blossomed in subtle and unexpected ways.
(1) 𝖋𝖎𝖗𝖘𝖙 𝖍𝖎𝖙
Something chronic
Bit demonic
Something like a death wish
All alone, stare into my soul
It was 1998.
Their squad had just barely been scrapped together. The higher ranks of Passione were eager to shuffle members around and discard the ones they didn’t trust with this new team, a team that would not be granted their own turf.
When they had first met, assigned to their first job together, Risotto wasn’t expecting such an attractive man to be his partner.
Prosciutto had a slender build, lean muscles under his clean-cut suit, a cigarette perched between his lips. He stood with poise, the kind of casual elegance expected of models in fashion magazines, with a cool expression on his face. He was pretty like a picture, composed with sharp and quiet sophistication. And he wore cologne, whether to mask the stench of his cigarettes or just his personal taste, though it was stifled by the smoke he breathed.
“You’re Risotto,” He said, shooting him a side-glance. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and tapped on it between his fingers, its dusty embers falling off the end.
Risotto nodded. He could feel the scrutinizing gaze of his new partner, steady and unwavering, through those heavy lidded eyes. Risotto said nothing.
The mission itself was almost forgettable, to dispatch someone the capos were growing suspicious of, an easy enough task for this new ragtag team. Risotto remembered the reserved nature of his new partner, cold and indifferent, beside him for the whole duration of the mission.
Risotto had a suspicion his new partner might harbor some resentment towards him, perhaps because Risotto was assigned to be his superior, even though Prosciutto was older than him by a few years. Or perhaps to carry the blame for the formation of their new squad, for dooming him to a team that would spend years under Passione’s thumb, never receiving the recognition that they deserved. Of course, at this point in time neither of them knew their squad was going to endure years of distrust and contempt from Passione, but either way, Risotto didn’t care if he was blamed for this new arrangement. Maybe Prosciutto was comfortable where he was, and being cast aside to this new team was an unwelcome change of pace. Or maybe he didn’t care.
Still, their new squad would inevitably have to spend a lot of time together. It was probably a good idea to at least try to get along. Risotto just wasn’t the type to speak up if there was no need to. They’d already received the detailed reports about each other.
Instead, he focused on the task at hand. They drove to their destination in silence.
Prosciutto fiddled with the air vents and pilfered through the contents of the glove compartment. There was an old, dusty manual and a few untitled cassette tapes. The car was a cheap hand-out from the gang, a sarcastic congratulatory “gift” on the formation of their new squad, with rusty bumpers and felt seats that had a retro kitschy pattern. It was possible the car had been tampered with, or perhaps it belonged to someone who died. It was their first mission together, after all. Anything could have been a test.
“These yours?” Prosciutto suddenly asked, inspecting the cassette tapes again.
“No.”
He shrugged and pushed a tape into the receiver. The music rumbled to a start, playing soft rock. The sound of low guitars accompanied by a lulling singer. They sat in comfortable silence, listening to the music.
The tempo and energy of the music changed with the song, and the lyrics would sometimes cry out to them while the guitars sang.
Risotto noticed Prosciutto tapping his finger to the rhythm.
The streets of Naples were busy as usual, with people strolling down the sidewalks as they drove past. Sometimes the narrow streets would get so crowded, they caused traffic.
The two assassins were headed to a certain bar, one their target frequented, and where he was allegedly making deals. Whether or not those deals concerned Passione was undisclosed, but that didn’t exactly matter to them. The job was to take him out, so that was what they were going to do.
When they arrived at their destination, parking down the street in the back alley, Prosciutto ejected the cassette tape and moved to put it away, but Risotto stopped him.
“Wait,” He paused, catching Prosciutto’s wrist. “We didn’t finish the tape.”
There was a hesitation, and the baffled look on Prosciutto’s face.
Risotto released him, suddenly feeling ridiculous.
“We…can listen to it later.”
Prosciutto didn’t answer right away. Instead, he scoffed incredulously and popped the tape back in. The corners of his mouth were lifted in the slightest suggestion of a smile.
“It’s too bad they didn’t write the name of the band on the tape. We might never find out who it is.” Prosciutto stepped out of the car and stretched, craning his neck left and right. There was a loud crack at his every twist and turn, as if every joint in his body had stiffened from a thirty minute drive.
Risotto exited the car and locked the doors, pocketing the keys. He walked up to the back door.
When he tried the door knob, he was only mildly surprised when he realized it was unlocked.
“Are you planning on just walking in there?” Prosciutto raised an eyebrow, hand perched on his hip. There was a critical look in his eyes.
When Risotto didn’t answer, Prosciutto clicked his tongue.
“If our guy is back there, they’ll bolt the second they see you, or they’ll kill you on the spot. If you just walk in there and murder everyone in sight, you’ll cause a scene.” Prosciutto continued, sternly. “I’ll come in through the front and make my way to the back from there. We’ll corner him and cut off his escape routes.”
Before Risotto could even answer, Prosciutto had already turned away, taking big, powerful strides around the building.
Of course Risotto had a plan. He was a methodical person, a tactician, driven by logic. Risotto was always prepared with contingency plans and alternatives that would ultimately lead to the same outcome — the mission’s completion.
The reason Risotto was given the superior position between them was due to his efficiency and success rate. His numbers didn’t lie, reflecting his brutal expertise in this profession. And although he’d just met Prosciutto, he’d known to formulate plans around Prosciutto’s actions and behavior.
Risotto was hoping his new partner would go around and enter through the front. It was the most foolproof option. Risotto was glad he didn’t have to explain it himself. In the past, he often had to spell out everything for his fellow gang members, which was always a tiresome endeavor. It felt like no one ever understood his plans, his grand schemes. Risotto began to doubt the competency of Passione’s lackeys, and he pondered the futility of ever having an effective partnership. He didn’t care that people didn’t understand him — he was used to that — but it was such an ineffective use of his time, his talents.
At the very least, it taught him patience, and to lower his expectations. Risotto was someone who worked alone, after all. How could anyone work alongside him, when he had such detailed plans, and such a unique ability? Risotto was resigned to a future alone, accomplishing everything himself, because it was difficult to rely on others.
And here was Prosciutto, a sensible man who was proving his competency with his initiative alone. He might be arrogant at first glance, his confidence a potential weakness, but there was intentionality in his words.
It was refreshing to know they were on the same page, for once.
Quietly, Risotto opened the door, not sensing any human iron levels nearby, so no one must be in the immediate area.
Risotto walked inside, observing and examining his surroundings. It was a dark-lit hallway, with doors that led to a storage room, a walk-in freezer, and the kitchen. The floor was a little sticky.
He could hear faint voices from the front of the bar, where Prosciutto should be coming in by now. And then there were voices, subtle but deliberate, in a room adjacent to him. It was hard to determine how many people from this distance, especially because Metallica could sense all iron, not just iron within people. However, if he listened closely enough, for long enough, he could distinguish voices. Three men.
One of those men was their target. It was safe to assume they were all armed, if they were being nefarious.
Risotto stood by the door, considering his options. About two or three meters away from the target, Risotto could easily take him out. However, if he killed the target now, it would cause a disturbance and alert the other men in the room. From this distance, Risotto could dispatch all three of them and simply walk away without raising suspicion. That was another option. The best case scenario was if the target was alone, or if all the men were incapacitated in some way, so they could complete the mission cleanly. Their pay was much better when there were less casualties that Passione would have to answer to after the deed was done.
The narrow hallway smelled like liquor, and then it was accompanied by cigarette smoke, swirling up in wispy curls. The smoke lured Risotto’s attention to the source and to the sight of his new partner.
He really was an attractive man.
“What, were you waiting for me?” Prosciutto pursed his lips, walking up to him with all the handsome grace in the world, his cigarette resting between his fingers. The smoke was awful, and Risotto had to stifle a cough. “He’s not alone, huh?”
Risotto watched him and his half-lidded eyes, how he inspected the situation.
Prosciutto smiled. He puffed at his cigarette, breathing out a cloud of smoke. A moment later, he turned around and opened the freezer door in the hallway. He fetched a tray of ice and shoved it into Risotto’s hands.
“Hold this.” He told him.
And then his stand emerged — a pale, disembodied torso covered in bloodshot eyes that moved and blinked. It stood on its mechanical-looking, three-fingered hands. Purple entrails dangled from where the torso ended, nearly dragging on the floor.
The Grateful Dead.
A mist materialized around them, unassuming yet deadly, slipping into the room undetected. It only took a minute for the men in the room to suddenly grow wrinkles and their hair to turn white, gasping and whimpering at the realization that something was horribly wrong. Mortified, they screamed as their legs failed them, and they would make their descents, one after the other.
With a thud, the bodies fell to the floor, all wrinkly skin and bones.
At Prosciutto’s command, the men were wrung of their youthful skin and vigor. In just a few minutes, he’d incapacitated the whole room, without even lifting a finger.
Even Risotto could acknowledge when he was impressed.
“Now, would you like to do the honors, or should I?” Prosciutto tilted his head, gesturing to their target croaking on the ground.
Without hesitation, Risotto used Metallica, pulling blades from the target’s throat.
Blood gushed from his neck and pooled under his body. He twitched and trembled before finally going limp.
Prosciutto watched with mild fascination, and when he turned to look at Risotto, there was amusement dancing in his eyes.
“We don’t even have to touch them. A perfect crime.”
Risotto didn’t respond, but he was excited at that prospect as well.
It was incredible how their stand abilities complemented each other in this field of work. Most of the time, stand abilities were circumstantial and specific, making it nearly impossible to fight alongside a partner. Their stands, however, were arguably more adaptable than others, and they adapted well to each other. They were pretty similar, actually. Both of their stands could attack from a distance, and they could do it discreetly. Risotto’s stand was brutal and immediate, while Prosciutto’s was cruel and slow. Individually, they were lethal people with formidable stands. Together, they were unstoppable.
His excitement must have shown on his face, because Prosciutto snorted at the sight of him.
“So you do have emotions.” He was grinning.
Risotto didn’t know how to respond to that, but there was something about his snarky remark that had the ends of his mouth turning upward, ever so slightly.
It was true that Risotto rarely felt excited, and he almost never delighted in working together with other people, because he had always been the type to work alone. And yet here he was, the stoic Risotto, feeling almost giddy about their new partnership, their effectiveness. Their ruthless efficiency.
They coolly walked into the room, nonchalant about the bodies on the floor. Prosciutto was keeping the other two alive, but just barely. Risotto was still holding the ice tray in his hand, the ice cube in his mouth retaining his age.
With his other hand, Risotto searched their target’s person, picking through his pockets and finding a wallet, an RFID case, and a floppy disk. Risotto pocketed the items and dissolved whatever remained of his stand at the scene of the crime. The blades that had spontaneously ripped out of the target’s throat returned to liquid once again.
Risotto stood back up, seeing his partner toe the other men on the ground with the tip of his shoe. From the corner of his eye, he saw a movement at the door.
A shadow suddenly stepped behind Prosciutto and grabbed him, holding a knife up to his throat.
“D-don’t move!”
Neither of them reacted, almost emotionless.
Prosciutto was even unimpressed, but it didn’t take long for his expression to sour. This new threat must have come from an air-conditioned room or drank something cold, because the Grateful Dead’s effect wasn’t as visibly apparent on him as the men collapsed on the floor.
“I can’t believe I let you sneak up on me.” Prosciutto grimaced, reaching up to his perpetrator and grabbing the man’s hands.
The direct physical contact seemed to sap the life right out of him. The skin on his hands shriveled up into wrinkles, drained of color. A ripple effect followed, spreading this bizarre affliction through the rest of his body.
The man yelped, feeling the changes before seeing them with his own eyes, trembling with fear.
“W-what’s happening to me?!”
Risotto, meanwhile, urged the iron in the knife to point away from Prosciutto’s neck, his magnetism forcing it out of the man’s hand. Metallica pulled and the knife flung free, sent hurtling towards Risotto, until he released the magnetism and the knife’s projectile movement was interrupted. It lost direction and clattered loudly on the floor.
“You’re joining your friends,” Prosciutto answered him, accelerating the aging process even further.
The man whimpered one last time before his grip finally loosened and he crumpled to the floor, a wrinkly old heap of a man.
Prosciutto stepped out of his grasp, dusting himself off as his stand wobbled to his side, its many eyes looking curiously around the room.
Risotto watched in admiration.
Maybe this new team — this new partnership — wouldn’t be so bad after all.