fourth circle.

    anasui wasn’t one to negotiate with others, and prosciutto should be aware of that by now. the man can scowl all he wished, but it wouldn’t change a thing. business was business, and if he wanted to continue to feed into his vices, then he’d have to pay like everyone else.

   “—with a suit like that, this should be nothing.” the condescending tone of his voice is followed with a light chuckle as he counts the amount that was given to him—expecting nothing but what he asked despite the man’s protest for paying full price. it’s only then when he secures the money into his person, making use of diver down to retrieve the flask of opiates from within his body, holding it before the other with a smirk on his lips. “i heard rumours that the boss cut your income.”

“something like that,” thankfully, he’s lining his pockets with the deceased’s income-- after all, they’ll hardly need it where he’s sent them. between poor compensation for murder and opportunist actions just after the fact, he’ll call himself comfortable. and yes, the suit is versace. 

he’s not a pillow, and he’s certainly not pleased he’s being used as such. it’s not what he’d call a brief trip, certainly, seven hours by train from naples to genoa, but hardly an excuse to be slept on. 

countryside blurs itself by the reflection of his gaze out the window, pupils small and scrutinizing where they’ve nothing to critique-- the farms and hills and smaller towns lose his view in seconds, both to his relief, and, perhaps, theirs. 

“ €100, €200, €300,” shouldn’t he get some sort of discount for being family? oh, fuck no. all that displeasure crawls right up into his expression as he counts out bank note after bank note, bills leaving his hands crisp and freshly withdrawn-- he’d buy it somewhere else, but, as he’s discovered, passione sells it best. 

    never would he had given up so easily; too prideful to admit any type of defeat whatsoever, but in his condition & with no one around to make the pain easier to deal with, it appeared like his best bet. he was already sentenced to death, so what was the difference? at least like this, he wouldn’t have to wait on a cell for years, trapped within four walls. sangwoo would rather be the one to pick how he’d die than to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing the life escape his eyes.

    if half of his face wasn’t mutilated, a smirk would make itself obvious upon hearing the surgeon. it appeared he had done well in confine in him so far, anyone else would’ve simply ignored him or told someone about what he had planned. not this guy however, and for that, he was thankful.

    eyelids lower down completely as he thinks about it. a peaceful death to put an end to his misery, that was what he wanted. he refused to let what his mother told him happen. the most painful death… not physically, but emotionally. the thought that he was completely on his own was what made him so certain about his decision.

   “—i’m requesting.”

“i see.” the hum dips into a certain thoughtfulness, a brief sigh, a flickering interest-- this time it’s reflected with utter clarity in his azure gaze, intent bluer than sapphire or water-- and though it takes a moment for the words to catch up with his decision, he’s already made it.

“i don’t think you’ll come out of surgery tomorrow,” the transaction, or close to it, is printed, neatly, on the paper chart tino’s holding, a brief mark slating the patient for some other place than the recovery ward. 

@aeonics​

Corvino wasn’t the type to smoke, but with the distant thrum of music in the air and the heady smell of whiskey, he found himself reaching over to indulge. Plucking a cigarette from Tino’s pack, he raised it to his lips.

“–Do you have a light?” He asked rhetorically.

only the very edge of his lip turns around his own cigarette, but it’s more than enough between the sweet tobacco and glowing ember near enough his mouth he’s ready for another. 

that’s a fantastic way to earn yourself a backhanded smack across the face. it’s a bit difficult to help the cold smirk that’s playing at the edge of his lip at the sound of his palm impacting the kid’s cheek, but prosciutto manages to contain himself. barely.  

Keep reading

   between each question and answer, there was always a silence that lasted for at least an entire minute. sangwoo may have seen as unresponsive at times with how long he took to gather his thoughts, but it was simply because even breathing had become a chore. his will to talk was long gone, just as his will to live. knowing that there was nothing but death waiting for him outside this room, well… it made him want to stay there for at least, a bit longer. maybe it was his way to delude himself into thinking that someone would show up, someone other than detectives.

   it’s the last part that he focuses on, pursuing his lips together before side-eyeing the doctor besides his bed. his vision mostly blurry from how much he rested nowadays. “—what if no one had to find out? what if you make it seem like an accident?”

“quite the accident,” there’s a beat before he comments, peering over his surgical mask with a newly developed interest within an otherwise calculating eye. his voice begins to sink into something more akin to a conversational murmur; a tone for chats over lengthy dinners.

“your succumbing to these injuries is far more likely,” florentino offers, and though his expression remains unchanged and half-hidden, one might deduce a smirk from cadence alone. “and far less paperwork on my end. what do you think? cause of death; lung damage. suffocation. it’s not uncommon for burn victims like yourself.” 

Pannacotta’s knuckles grew all the whiter as the teenager continued to speak, even referring to the dessert with which he shared his name. Did the teenager know his name? Was that why he was referring to it? Was it a quiet, insidious sort of mockery that the teenager thought would have gone over Pannacotta’s head?

He grit his teeth, drawing in a slow and deep breath to try to control his ever-growing, ever-tumultuous anger.

“It is too sweet.” He said, his voice mostly under control. There was a slight tremor to his words; someone might interpret it as nervousness, but it was barely-controlled rage that had his throat clog up. “You… should go eat it, if you’re going to keep talking about it.” And leave Pannacotta alone so that he wouldn’t blow up and humiliate his family by showing off his temper.

the kid’s furious, and he can see it. 

one slender brow raises its skepticism, its mild amusement from the veritable ball of anger before him; between the clench in his jaw, white around his knuckles-- didn’t the kid know what he looks like, furious under the snowfall of pale hair? 

“i'll have to politely decline,” it’s not only true, but a vague diversion as he gestures, minimal, to the aforementioned dessert. slowly, he meets the other’s eyes, curious, suddenly, as to what he might find there. 

Risotto inclined his head in thought. It was more than possible for Formaggio to shrink Prosciutto down to smuggle him across without much hindrance, but–there was one glaring oversight that Risotto had never thought to test when it came to Formaggio’s Stand. It had never been much of a problem when it came to those not a part of their group, but would the act of shrinking and growing make one’s injuries worse?

They would have to risk it regardless and find the answer once they were in Switzerland.

Accepting the minor adjustments to their getaway plan, Risotto quietly stated, “–Then we wait for Melone.” And once they were away… they would think about what to do next then.

“And Prosciutto. How much do you remember?” He then asked, realising that he’d never asked after Prosciutto’s condition beyond his general ability to move. Were all of his mental faculties still in place? Coma patients were said to come out with changes to their psyche.

a slightest tension grips his jaw, a muscle twitches beneath the hay-blonde hair that hangs limp to frame his face. for the first time, prosciutto’s gaze flutters, nervous even his sharp tongue will never know the words to describe the weight of his legs.

“enough,” he begins, because it’s the truth in a murmur far too pensive for it to be reliable. “i was knocked off the moving train.” 

he’ll wet his bottom lip in a bid for more time to collect his thoughts. “i remember being in the chassis, if that’s what you’re asking. pieces of the fight. after that .. i woke up here.” 

   it’s fair to be selfish. those words stood out for him the most out of everything that was being said. was it, though? was it fair for him to do onto others what was done to him because he too, was a victim at one point? was it fair for him to put his pain above others, completely disregarding the impact that he’d have on other people? the people outside this hospital seemed to disagree. they all liked to act so high and mighty, pointing their fingers at someone just to be able to say they were in any shape or form, a better person.

   he cannot exactly say he had considered how that would go, having to leave this hospital once he was in a better condition. if his memory didn’t fail him, he could even recall the mention of switching hospitals at one point, keeping his stay anonymously. this wasn’t because of his safety, of course. it was over those people’s negligence. was he, occupying one of the rooms in this hospital, doing more harm than protestors chanting and taking space, disturbing other patients or whoever may visit them? they were all hypocrites in the end. the doctor’s unbiased answer would’ve caused him to at least chuckle, if it didn’t hurt.

  “—if you were anything like them, you could kill me by applying a higher dose.” more of a statement than a question. sangwoo closed his eyes, contemplating the idea. at this point, death didn’t seem so bad…   “—would you be called a hero, or would they condemn you for taking away from them the opportunity to see me die?”

“of course i could,” and florentino does chuckle-- or his excuse for one, a wry cough through lips pressed into the curve of a smirk. side-eyeing the patient, he’ll tuck an invisible strand of blonde back into place to near silent machinery crowding the bed. 

“someone’ll condemn me,” he agrees, shaking his head, “but that’s just jealousy. death’s hardly anyone’s to own, but if i kill you, someone’ll see it as having the chance snatched away from them. i’d hardly be called a hero, either, interfering with the judiciary system and depriving the newspapers and tabloids of their material.”