#skiptracing

Your boyfriend had a bit of a stress problem. And admittedly a smoking problem, but that was a problem for another day. For now you and Formaggio had schemed together to help your precious Prosci ‘relax’ (or ‘chill the fuck out’ as your partner in crime had put it). 

Formaggio had ‘legally obtained’ some weed and expertly rolled it to mimic the shape and feel of Prosci’s usual cigarettes. You looked at him with a little concern, “How often do you do this?” “Roll? Only like twice a week.I’m more of a bong man myself” “Huh.” You weren’t convinced that he wasn’t high at the moment, but whatever, Formaggio could handle himself. At least he was helping you with this devious little plot. 

It was up to you to sneak the joints into Prosciutto’s silver cigarette case. Which was easier said than done. The only time it wasn’t on his person was when he was in the shower. And even then he was either smoking or railing you when in the shower. You’d have to just pretend not to be home and exchange the special cigarettes for his usual ones. It was easy enough. Now you just had to wait. 

That evening Prosci had taken you out to secluded dinner at a local osteria. The two of you had easily enjoyed a bottle of wine each, and were falling all over each other at the table. On the stroll (or rather stumble) home he held your hand with one, while the other reached into his suit pocket for his cigarette case. He had you help light it with your free hand. 

“Disgusting, these children around here smoke that grass or pot or whatever the fuck is called now. They make the city smell like an exploded skunk.” You tried to suppress a giggle, it had worked out wonderfully that Prosciutto was drunk enough not to notice that the source of the smell was himself. 

After a few drags he crushed it beneath his shoe, claiming it tasted odd. You couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol, weed, or being with you, but you could feel the tension ease out of his shoulders. He let go of your hand and draped his arm around you, pulling you closer until you were practically walking with three legs. 

Your drunk face flushed as he held you so close. He was usually so careful about public affection, lest anyone was watching. And he was convinced that someone was always watching, even if it was just Illuso. But you were drunk still so you stumbled over the cobblestone path near the local elementary school. You would later blame the stones, and lack of street lamps for your clumsiness, but for now you relished the feeling of Prosciutto’s strong arms scooping you up and holding you tightly against his chest. 

You inhaled the scent of his cologne, letting the woodsy musk that had become your home overwhelm you. You hardly noticed where he was taking you until you felt one of his arms drop from you, and heard the rusty creak of a gate swinging open. You opened your eyes and pulled yourself away from the crook of his neck, to see that he had brought you to the elementary school’s playground. 

You didn’t have a chance to say anything as he carried you to a large circular swing. It might have been in the shape of a turtle but it was really too dark to tell, and well you weren’t exactly sober either. The only thing you were absolutely sure of was that you were with the man you loved. Everything else was insignificant.

Prosciutto swung himself up on the swing next to you, laying down on his back and pulling you to lay half on top of him. “The stars are so beautiful tonight.” He whispered wistfully. He went on to point out some constellations, telling abridged versions of the myths behind them. He told you a few more stories, some more heartwarming, some terrifying, but all entertaining. 

While he spoke to you, you had managed to curl up against him, bodies interlocked, noses nearly touching. When his eyes finally turned down from the heavens, a grin spread across his face. He left his fingers  hair and pulled you into a soft and lazy kiss.