❀ *◦ luke pasqualino. cis man. he/him. homoromantic gray-asexual. ⇝ hey, isn’t that leonardo amoretto? i think that the thirty-six-year-old from queens, new york, works as a pediatrician at anchorage regional hospital, but outside of that people describe them as freshly ground espresso; dusty tchotchkes at the back of an antique mall; the blanket you always use when you sleep over at grandma’s house; and the steady click of knitting needles. i hear they are rigid & timid, but they are also known to be benevolent & gentle. consider giving them a visit at their home in delilah’s den gated community and get to know why they’re called the recluse.
➙ this muse has a stutter, which may sometimes vary in severity, and is written by someone with experience with speech impediments!
➙ leo’s gayness is inclusive of trans men and masc-presenting nonbinary people (as long as they are comfy with a gay man being attracted to them)!
full name: dr. leonardo cirrincione amoretto, md
dob: 15 september 1988
place of birth: queens, new york
languages: italian (fluent); sicilian (near-fluent); american english (native); latin (fluent); latin american spanish (very strong)
likes: snow; Christmas; his privacy; quiet time; trashy romance novels; good coffee; torta settevelli; freshly baked bread; The Princess Bride film; soul music; antiques; cooking competition shows; home improvement shows
dislikes: instant coffee; alcohol; excessively loud people; anti-vaxxers; drivers who don’t use their turn signal, whether they’re turning or changing lanes; the sound of styrofoam rubbing against styrofoam; sudden stops in pedestrian traffic; people who follow a gluten-free diet even though they don’t have celiac disease and are therefore unaffected by gluten
dr. leo amoretto shares very little about himself with his peers. though friendly with just about everyone he meets, he doesn’t consider himself to have many friends: he feels himself too dull to be of much interest to anyone. through quick conversation with him, though, you can quickly deduce from his accent that he’s from queens; and from his mannerisms that he’s painfully shy and high-strung, and old-fashioned.
the man known as many kids’ favorite doctor was adopted and raised by his sicilian grandparents in queens. his existence was an accident: his mother, only 19, had immigrated by herself only months prior to getting pregnant; his father was twice his mother’s age and was little more than a hook-up with a fellow italian immigrant. fabiana amoretto was an immature, irresponsible addict; and her parents, gianfranco and benedetta, made the decision to sell their deli business in palermo and immigrate themselves so they could be in their grandson’s life.
being in their grandson’s life turned into raising him completely, gaining custody of him when he was in kindergarten, as his mother would still often disappear for days at a time, totally neglecting her young child. she missed out on a brilliantly intelligent, and helpful and sweet, little boy. leo’s grandparents’ english wasn’t very strong, so he learned italian and sicilian as his first languages at home; while they enjoyed playing old movies and tv shows to learn english faster.
even from a very young age, leo hasn’t liked many eyes on him at once, shrinking in anxiety when too much attention is placed on him. the confusion of languages—italian and sicilian at home, english at school and everywhere else—combined with his crippling shyness formed a lifelong stutter that has diminished only slightly with time. as an adult in his 30s, he can control it usually; but if he has to speak for too long or if he’s in distress, it becomes far more obvious.
leo was always a dutiful child, learning to cook and do many household chores from a young age. this became even more important when his nonno—grandfather—was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer when leo was a teenager. leo had to take over much of the house work and cooked most of the meals, and would accompany nonno to appointments while nonna was busy working to support them. leo was doing all of this in between staying at the top of his class and completing community service for activities such as beta club.
nonno died when leo was weeks away from graduating high school. he’d always been a bit melancholy, but the death sent leo into a spiral of depression. it was late enough into the school year that he was already guaranteed to graduate as valedictorian, and he had been awarded many scholarships to several top schools; but he began floating through life. he didn’t go far for his undergrad years so he could be close to his nonna, who was soon diagnosed with a rare nerve disease called myesthenia gravis.
nonna died during the summer between undergrad and the beginning of medical school. leo totally buried himself in med school. his mother has only ever made occasional appearances in his life, begging for money; and he wasn’t very close with his extended family in italy.
being so intelligent and dedicated, leo had very little trouble getting a residency on match day when he was finished with med school; and after that, he quickly found interest in the pediatrics field: when you watch him interact with children, it’s plain to see that it’s much easier for him to interact with them than adults, and that he has a huge heart.
he ended up in anchorage as a way to put distance between himself and the memories of the past, not wanting to be surrounded by painful reminders. it’s difficult out here, as he’s just so damn shy, but he’s already gained a reputation as a diligent and caring doctor.
and if you manage to get close enough to him, it’s like having an italian grandma who’s a gay man in his thirties.
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The pins clattered and toppled over at the end of the lane, the scoreboard lighting up to commemorate the strike that the bowling expert of a mortician had landed. The hobby was one of many decompressors that Tuvia had taken to to cope around the stress of a job where one saw a revolving door of cadavers. It didn't bother them as before, comfortable with the subject matter, but they were an earnest believer that the job alone shouldn't make the person. "Think you can beat that one? It's all in the wrist," they teased their companion, taking a seat in one of the cushy chairs provided for the bowlers. "What are we thinking tonight for the losing team? Loser pays for dinner? A round of drinks?" Though they didn't go overboard with the stuff, they had no problem adjusting to a social atmosphere — placating others had been all part of the job, at one point, regardless of their aim to speak to as little people as possible. "It's looking mighty close to a tie right now..." The bowling alley was otherwise derelict, and recovering from the holiday bustle that shuttered businesses for a good few weeks that weren't grocery stores and shopping plazas. The quietude was a nice buffer, the echo of the balls on the lanes a grounding touch. "Should we call it after this game?"
A small but approving nod, and quiet golf applause. Bowling was one of those skills where Leo felt confident enough to brag about his skills, even if sparingly and mildly; but, of course, Tuvia had some years of experience on him. "Respectfully, I do know what I'm doing, I've t-taught people myself." The corner of his lips twitched upwards, a show of good humor, much-needed relaxation after returning to work from his yearly winter vacation. He stood once more and grabbed his ball from the return—a personal ball, midnight blue and glittery like the stars in the Alaskan sky, twelve pounds, engraved with a lion like his namesake—and approached his line. "I d-don't drink, so you can b-b-buy me dinner instead," the physician called to Tuvia over the music before turning back to the pins. Holding up his ball to his starting pose, he inhaled, then quietly exhaled the rest of the tension in his shoulders; then he swung and released, watching with anticipation as his ball hurtled smoothly towards the pins, not moving from his spot until seeing all ten topple over. Another X to add to the previous frames. Turning around with a wan but pleased smile, he strode back to Tuvia—bowling shoes also personally owned, black, size twelve. "It is...g-getting a little late...for—for me, anyway," he commented as he sat near them once more and checked his watch. The pediatrician was very diligent about keeping his bedtime, after all.
when: 23 december 1:00 am eastern standard time / 22 december 9:00 pm alaskan standard time
with: @s3cretkept, nate
where: the former residence of the late gianpiero & benedetta amoretto, jackson heights, queens, new york
The slipcover squeaked under Leonardo's rump and thighs as he squirmed on the old sofa for the hundred thousandth time in the last few hours. His sweaty grip around the phone handset against his palm was beginning to tire out, after ringing several friends and acquaintances and not getting any answers—not that he expected them, especially as holidays were being prepped for. There was a name at the beginning of his address book, one he'd been avoiding even though it was one that sent a thrill into his chest and stomach. One belonging to someone he didn't want to see or talk to while in this ragged state, days of facial hair growth covering the lower half of his face and voice still slightly hoarse from the row hours earlier.
But it was really all he had left. In the months he'd known Nate, the other had never spoken of any family, seemingly moving to Alaska by his lonesome just like Leo himself. The doctor realized they hadn't shared much in regards to personal background, so he had no idea if the dough-slinger had traveled at all for the holidays. There was only one way to find out; and if this didn't work out, well, Leo could always hail a cab back to his house once he touched down in Anchorage.
Inhaling deeply and then expelling a sigh, Leonardo flipped back to the front of the little address book, to the very top, the first entry (alphabetic by surname, naturally): Abadiño, Nathaniel, tracing under the physician's own half-cursive penmanship as he read the phone number to himself under his breath. He cleared his throat a couple of times, attempting to rid himself of the frog that had developed after shouting and then shedding far too many tears for a man of his age; then dialed, and held his breath as the phone rang.
Shock petrified him as his call was answered, his initial movement being to sit up straight as he heard Nate's voice over the line over four thousand miles away. “Ciau, Nate, it's um, it's Leo, um, Leo Amoretto, you know… How are you?” he began breathlessly, further identifying himself as he had no idea how many Leos the other knew.
“Listen, um, I'm, I'm, I'm very s-sorry if I'm disturbing you, I—I know it's nearly Christmas and-and Hanukkah, so I understand if I'm b-bothering you, but I, um—” The doctor's words came out rushed and jumbled, the only way he could work through his stutter, especially in such a vulnerable state. “Would you be able to—to pick me up at the airport, um, around 4 PM on Ch—Christmas Eve? I'm, uh, I'm in New York, b-but something came up and I need to—I need to come back early. I'll c-compensate you for your time, ah, m-make dinner or something, for going through the trouble—or just, um, p-pay you back the gas money—”
Holding his breath as Nate spoke, the physician began to feel a bit light-headed, God only knew why. There was something so comforting about the tone of the other’s voice, even separated by a telephone call and the entire continent. Unfortunately, it did little to quell Leonardo’s nerves, making his pulse pound faster. “I’m really sorry f-for calling so late, it’s—it’s past 1 AM here, I was on the phone for a while t-trying to get a flight…” His voice was breathy and pitchy, threatening to break, a consequence of one of the other reasons why he was calling so late: crying himself sick. Being in the house he grew up in was supposed to be some kind of comfort; but at this point, he couldn’t wait to be back in his bed in Alaska, curled up comfortably with his beloved cats.
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when: 31 october, a bit past 7:30
with: @s3cretkept, nate
where: all hallow's evil
Being a pediatrician was incredibly rewarding, and Leonardo loved his job, couldn't imagine himself doing anything else; but even the most typical of work days drained him. In tandem with the days growing shorter—and the threat of his seasonal illness looming around the corner (appropriately abbreviated as SAD)—it almost had him forgoing the Halloween event altogether, preferring to just go home and go to bed at the normal time. But the hope of seeing a few particular faces had him changing into his costume in his tiny office before leaving the hospital for the day.
With his wide-brimmed hat perched atop his head upon exiting his car, the physician made a round across the festival, speaking politely and spending some time with acquaintances; though the astute would have noticed his head basically on a swivel, chocolate eyes roaming the crowds, looking for someone in particular, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself.
—It was a bit difficult to not own up to it and admit it to himself when he had to dampen his reaction and not act so eager upon finally spotting them. Leo did his best to approach with a normal-feeling pace, though he wondered just how odd he might have looked. At the back of his brain, the same shrieking voice as always was nagging him about assuming Nate even wanted to talk to him or see him; it was too late to play it off, though, as he marched up to the object of his...interest.
"Hi. Nate. Hi." Cocoa shone under dark bangs and a green brim, which was promptly pushed up slightly. "F-fancy seeing you here." Feeling far more energized than when he'd left work for the day, Leo's gaze roamed over the other's costume, umber sparkling more obviously as he recognized the getup. "P-probably not S-S-Sorcerer Mickey..." His brow furrowed in disbelief, "You're not Sch-Schmendrick, are you?" He blinked, lips pulling back into a rare toothy smile. "I love The Last Unicorn."
@anchoragestarters at all hallow's evil, at the bonfire
They were trying not to frown too hard at the odd, gelatinous dessert that had a mind of its own on their plate — as a die-hard lover of jam, they didn't mind anything with a jello texture, but its sad frown and ghoulish little arms carved into the sides of the black blob were truly heart-wrenching. "It's almost too cute to eat," they told the person who sat down next to them at the bonfire, shaking their plate around as they giggled, "And he knows how to dance, too! Aren't you adorable, little guy?" Turning their head, their blonde hair whipped over their shoulder ( an emboldened return in the namesake of their outfit, as they gleefully giggled to Stella that they almost matched now, ) and a full-fledged smile dawned upon their countenance as they tried to strike up a conversation with the other person, whether they were acquainted or not. "I was wondering if ya have any PG scary stories to talk about. 'Cause I'm real fine with ghosts and ghouls, but I think I'll pee my pants and stay up all night if I start hearing about soul-suckers or like, intestines." As if to prove their point of making a new campfire buddy, they pointedly scooted closer to them, their wings shifting and flapping upon their own accord with the momentum of their body. "Do ya wanna be my partner when they start playing the Monster Mash?" they pressed, glancing a few feet away from the bonfire where people had started to accrue and dance their hearts out.
"Sorry, the only horror s-stories I've got are true and h-h-hospital related, and p-probably not very entertaining." A humble smile upturned his lips, already tired from a long day at one of those aforementioned hospitals. "Oh, no, no, I'm n-not much of a dancer." The physician shook his head quickly, then pushed his wide-brimmed hat up off his forehead again. It was a half-truth: there existed a part of Leonardo who had learned to dance with his grandmother, and wished to do the same with a partner (whether he had a specific one in mind was still close to his chest); but anything more active than a subdued partner dance was out of the question. "did you know that B-Bobby P-P-Pickett tried to f-follow up Monster M-Mash with more parodies? The f-first one was Monster's H-Holiday. They c-came out on his only s-studio album. It had other s-songs on it like the T-T-Transylvania Twist, which he r-referenced in the original s-song in his Bela Lu—Lugosi voice. I've got the v—vinyl, but I d-don't really play...play it much."
Annisa hadn't the slightest clue as to why Leo called her over and if she were being honest, she didn't actually want to know, not really. Whatever it was, it was clearly fucking terrifying and personally, she'd experienced enough horrors of every kind in her young life to last a lifetime. But she and Leo were in this together and right now, given how frantic he was, she needed to try her damn best to keep her composure.
She followed him through the house, her pulse racing, terrified of where he was leading her. Maybe someone left him a message or...maybe called him? Maybe he'd been threatened? She knew deep down, this had to be about that god damn clone thing--that was what connected the two in the first place, after all. She listened as she spoke, her heart pounding at her rib cage, almost like it was begging to be free. If shit wasn't so frantic, she may even take a moment to ponder how cute the name 'Meep' was--but once she saw what was outside, she forgot about anything that had just been in her brain.
I p-p-pulled the curtain, and there...it was there, the— Her blood ran cold and she reached out to the counter to steady herself, sure she would faint if she didn't do so. It was such a funny expression, your blood 'running cold' but that's exactly what it felt like--icy shivers ran down from her head to her toes. She'd actually looked it up once. Not surprisingly, it was an ancient flight or fight response. When your blood 'ran cold,' it was your blood vessels constricting and getting narrower--vasoconstriction, it was called. It was supposed to minimize the chance of losing body heat while also redirecting blood to your exercising muscles so you could run. And that's what she wanted to do when she saw the head's lifeless eyes, once again staring at her own face but in the most twisted of mirrors--she wanted to run away. She wanted to run to her car, get it in it, and drive until she hit Canada. But that wasn't an option right now.
She wasn't sure how long they'd been standing there in silence. For what felt like forever, she couldn't even will herself to speak. When she finally did, she said "B-But we..." She swallowed, trying to will herself to speak. "We got rid of it. I don't..." She wanted to sit down but how could she? She couldn't not be on guard, not when danger was lurking right outside Leo's door. This was a message. It said 'I know what you both did. It won't be that easy.'
Of course, it's not like the two had done anything wrong. After Leo basically saved Nisa's life and help fight that thing off of her, they'd realized they couldn't just leave that fucked up cyborg...thing in the morgue. People would ask questions and point fingers, and for all the wrong reasons. So they disposed of it and vowed never to speak of it again. It was supposed to stay hidden. At the time, it had felt so wrong, like getting rid of a dead body--which, maybe they had?... But it's not like they'd disposed of Nisa's long lost twin or something. That...thing wasn't human. And it had been designed to look just like Annisa. She remembers standing there over the open grave, the taste of bile in her throat, feeling as if she was watching her own fucked up funeral.
"Leo... When... When do you think this got here?" She imagined that he'd called her as soon as he was able to get his bearings--but how long had it actually been sitting out there? At least after sundown, right? "Was there... I don't know, is there some sort of message that came with it?..." Cautiously, she stepped closer to the glass door, peering out. Fuck. They needed to go out there. Turning to look at him, fear in her eyes, she said "I-I think we need to take a closer look... Can you come with me?..."
"I know." The syllables were breathed out with hardly an inkling of confidence, fear written all over his face and squeezing him down to his bones. It was impossible to forget the aftermath of that attack, learning on the spot how to bury a body—even if it hadn't been a real human body, the sight of the figure laying in the dirt was permanently etched into his memory, playing on the backs of his eyelids—digging a hole with a shovel he used for gardening and shining a flashlight on what they were doing, heads on swivels to detect anyone on their trail.
The "worst," most illegal things Leonardo had ever done were always tied to being present at political protests, raising hell against officials who had denied the existence of illnesses razing his community. Being picked up for unlawful assembly was a far cry from burying a damn body.
He swallowed thickly, now unable to stop looking at the head staring back at him. "It—it had to have been...this evening, the c-cats would have...reacted earlier." Eyes cast downwards, he shook his head, "I w-was in here m-m-most of the evening s-since I got h-home from w—w—work, but I didn't...didn't hear anything outs—side. I don't k-keep the TV on that loud."
The last of his breath escaped him, shoulders deflating further in a quiet sigh; but he nodded, able to gather what bravery he had to push himself back outside, keep an eagle eye out for his young companion. The physician took the lead, sliding the door open once more and stepping outside first, then gesturing for Annisa to follow behind him. "There was a m-message that came with it," he replied quietly, retrieving the paper in question from the pocket of his robe and unfolding it. "This was in the mouth." With plump lips pursed into a tight frown, he displayed the message:
SKELETONS ALWAYS CLAW THEIR WAY OUT OF THE CLOSET.
"I don't know what this is supposed to mean," Leonardo whispered, voice breaking. All that he had to hide were a few personal things, and they only affected him. Was someone threatening to expose his origins or his legal history to harm his professional reputation? Most of the charges against him had been dropped, and the worst punishments he'd gotten were fines; and, if anything, being born with chemical dependency and having a mother who only wants him for drug money would gain him more sympathy—not that he wanted it. Or was this message only meant for Annisa? If it was just for her, why would it have been left here with him?
In Nate's mind, he clutched his hands against his chest, curled up within himself and was protected. One might even say the harmed younger boy within him was being shielded, eyes covered, whispered against the ear: there's nothing to be afraid of, there are no monsters lurking within the water for you. But in truth, Nate was frozen. At most, the nail of his thumb pressed against the side of his pointer finger's print, embedding a new line to trace later on. He wouldn't remember where it came from, nor how it came about. Would he even remember this morning? That was what he struggled with, these gaps, these voids. Clicking of the helmet buckle was a softened background noise instead of a drawing of attention; the world itself in a narrow stream of air. Didn't even realise that his breathing turned shallow. When was the last time he tread water? When was the last time he was left to it?
Comment from voice, however, retrieved him. Nate's eyes, sluggish to turn, and it was as though his very skull weighed treacherous down with unseen sins. But once he got his body to respond, brain to connect and bones to respond, he stared right at Leo's side profile, just in time to see those fingers carding through his hair. Stuck up from the helmet, now soothed by the pomade, which Nate recognised by focus on smaller body-speak. Language, unsaid, with how the strands crinkled against Leo's hands. This was not the first time he had noticed them. "The council? Do you really think so?" These were the two elements, in Leo's comments, that Nate took notice of most obviously. That this was a long time coming, and something to do with the Anchorage council. Neither of these things surprised him; in fact, acted as a gentle, cool hand against the feverish nape of his neck. He breathed, here. A sigh of relief. The slight cloudiness in his pupils clearing, an embarrassed half-smile. "If that's the case, well, I guess it's just a matter of that bad timing kinda thing. How it all loves to pour down when it rains instead of being a kinda nice little drizzle."
Brought back to himself, noticing now the sound when Leo swallowed. Nate looked at the slight bob in his throat, and there was a heat reflected, really, in the ache of his own jugular. Whenever he was around Leo, he couldn't help but look at him. In all the ways Nate himself was rather shy about being perceived. Drawn to look, in a sense. Not able to resist, and not wanting to. "Does this mean they're just gonna leave it like this too? Like, we're all gonna have to keep smelling it? What is this, the Seine?" Despite those proclamations, Nate would be hard-pressed to admit that once upon a time, France had been on his list of countries to visit. As was Italy. The travel bug never quite bit him in the shoulder, but that didn't mean he didn't have the hopes. Turning away from the sewers, and now his own hands find his own hair; one to the curled strand falling from where he had tied his hair back at the crown of his scalp, twisting it and then tucking it behind his ear. In this ear, a single gold stud. A simple bauble, with oxidising green on the ear stopper from age.
"Never seen you at this time of morning, Leo." Nate would've remembered if Leo and his bike had passed through these streets on the regular. He couldn't recollect a single time he saw them speeding by, in that helmet now placed on the seat. "Did you come this way to assess the damage? When I first heard, I thought it was a whole lotta bullshit again." The news tended to be one of two things these days, in his opinion: catastrophes, or absolute bullshit. No in-between. Sometimes both.
Eyes. Sourced from the anxiety that wrapped around his very bones, the doc had always despised the feeling of eyes on him, of being watched and judged. He quickly averted his own to mitigate some of the sensation; but it was very different from the way he felt when anybody else looked at him—every time Nathaniel set his eyes on Leonardo, the doctor felt so much more...seen, and seen through, in a way that didn't make him want to lose his breakfast, but rather in a way that heated his cheekbones, his nose, his ears, his neck— God, he always felt so warm when he had those particular dark eyes set upon him.
Soon set into motion was a series of nervous reactions to rid himself of the energy now coursing through him. First, he removed his lip balm—cocoa butter, always cocoa butter—from his pocket and applied several layers. Second, he removed his windbreaker—he was so damned hot all of a sudden, even in the chilly Alaska morning air—and tied it around his waist; his shorts had felt too short all of a sudden, and he felt so...exposed, so the jacket helped him feel more covered again. Then, he rubbed his arms, now feeling self-conscious: even those who spent much time around him rarely saw his arms bared in a short-sleeve shirt, preferring long sleeves and sweaters and cardigans and jackets; but now his tanned, tattooed limbs were free—and so were the mostly-healed but paled scars across the name inked into the back of his arm. Something he didn't like talking about—or thinking about.
Jeez, he probably looked neurotic doing all of this moving all of a sudden. The realization caused his nerves to spike, unfortunately.
"Wherever there's h...human s-society, there's g-going to be...c-c-c-corruption," Leonardo managed, getting caught far too long on the last word. "It's something that's h-happened as long as...as long as we've...lived in g-groups, s—someone is...going to be s—selfish." He wrapped his arms around himself, "M—m—maybe I'm j-j-jaded from living s—somewhere like N....New York for so long, b—ut it feels...inevitable. I also t—tend to p-p-p-pay attention to the c-council's actions, or at least what's on p-public record, since I know there are th-things said behind closed d-doors too. Much of the s-sewage system was b-b-built in the 1950s, and—and so it can't really handle everything we g-give it today. In the f-funds provided by Alaska P-Public Works, there's room to...to purchase equipment to s-suction out the extra debris, b-but those funds end up being m-misappropriated, or d-d-d-disappearing entirely."
A lifetime of staying hyper-vigilant of injustice had led the physician down the path of keeping tabs on public works and public servants, since they were meant to be serving their communities. Accessing records and legal codes wasn't much of a hobby; but it was something that took up enough of Leo's time and energy and headspace that he wished it could be considered one.
He cast another look over to the disrepair in question, then managed to fix his eyes back on Nate, if only for a moment. "From f-firsthand knowledge, we m-might be subjected to a r-recreation of the East River. Everybody knows you don't s—swim in that one." The ghost of a smile upturned his lips, punctuating the attempt at humor.
Hearing his name come from Nate's voice, from his lips, set Leo aflame once more, causing him to duck his head as he blushed, hoping the olive of his skin hid the embarrassing reaction. It felt so...intimate, and knowing. "This is one of my...my cycling routes," he explained, his voice softening once more to its shy tremor. "I haven't b-been out on my bike m-much in the past few months. I s-saw some of the...sewer mess c-closer to my neighborhood, but I...I thought it c-could have been a fluke, or...or just it overflowing and c-coming out over there. But now that I see that it's coming out everywhere..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "I kn-know I said it was in—inevitable, but it seems to be worse...worse than I'd thought."
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closed starter @tenderloviingcare — on september 28th, after the ghosts have washed ashore, and there is more lurking than just the faces between the grates.
This was not a place he wished to return to. Still, his mind wandered. Ruptured itself across the streets, as the waters did, as the screaming did. All, contained within his head, pulse-pounding behind the eyelids. Didn't realise when his breaths turned to shallow paddling, as though this deep water rolled through his mouth and sucked the marrow from his bones. ( The lightning. The thunder. Rolling rain. Dirt on his brow. Dirt beneath his nails, despite the leather gloves, which stuck to his palms. He sweated. Blistered, panting, lips parted, dark-eyed gaze darting through to stare at the shadows. He shivered at the silhouettes between the trees. You still out here, Nate? Why you digging so deep? Who you burying down there? A thrilling tease. A harrowing detail. Laughter, though not mocking. Who? Owl. No one was — )
Nate blinked. Head spun, because he held his breath, as though submerged. City had over-flooded with the sewer water, and Nate's memories sloshed alongside it. He came to a place with open arms, with softened whispers: We understand you. How did he always end up within this cold embrace? No matter where he wandered nor the decisions he made, always, the ouroboros bit off its own tail. He swallowed. A hand, with tattooed knuckles, pressed to his abdomen. Hair damp, but not from the rain. From humidity, summer lingering in the droplets on the grass in the morning. He let his eyes close, brow knitting in the response to the stressor, but thus letting it disappear from view. That didn't erase the fucking smell, did it. Overturning fossils in the woods, forest and pine, something rotting somewhere. Always rotting. No. He was in the streets. Didn't realise forefinger and thumb twisted lower lip.
Almost talked aloud to himself. Almost. Get a fucking grip. Chastising to follow: you would never speak so unkindly to someone else. Like tearing gaze away from a wreck though a — familiar? — noise made his turn stop halfway. Now his brows knitted out of bewilderment. ( Could feel the twinge of the smallest smile, ever. ) "Leo?" Voice hitched. Refrained from clearing it out. You sound fucking weak as hell. But he was surprised, despite the weakness in tone. In all the times he's walked this way, in its various states of being, he had never run into him here.
Escape! Flee! Evade! Abscond! It was some sense of irony that Leonardo's preferred method of exercise was so tightly interwoven with the concept of flight. Hitting the bricks, as it were. He could count on one hand the amount of times in his life he'd chosen fight, and one of those moments was now several months in the rear-view mirror, under the unforgiving lights of his workplace's morgue. Fawn and flight were more his speed, in that order, all thanks to another four-letter word he'd been laden with since birth: fear.
Foregoing the running shoes this morning, the physician opted instead to hit the pavement with his bicycle, which he'd been neglecting for a few months now; as soon as he set out, he wondered why he'd been passing it over for so long—turning the pedals and going faster than he could on foot made him feel so much freer. Being a responsible, experienced cyclist, he'd worn his helmet of course; but a part of him wished he hadn't so he could feel the wind blowing through his hair: as chilly as it was, it was invigorating. It really began to feel like he was escaping that morgue, that damned clone, all the sadness and anxiety he'd been saddled with since his conception, his loneliness, the impending autumn and winter that would make his illness rear its head once more, all of the godforsaken weight...
His typical cycling routes differed from the ways he'd usually take by foot, further out of his neighborhood, further into town, just because it was so much easier to make distances on two wheels than just two feet. His face went mostly unrecognized as he pedaled past pedestrians, with his helmet on and his head down; but upon spotting a familiar figure coming up, Leo pumped the brake on his handlebar, all thanks to his silly heart doing a silly flip in his silly chest at the sight of his...object of detached interest. Yes, him, that's what we're going with today.
Leo's Cannondale slowed to a stop on the pavement nearby, touching his sneakers to the ground to facilitate the halt in motion. "Ciau ciau," he replied softy, really hoping his tongue wouldn't betray him today and make him an incomprehensible mess (well, more than usual). He grabbed his bottle from where it was saddled and gulped down some water, having forgotten to do so until now; but a segue to typical pleasantries was blocked as he took in Nate a little more—specifically his body language. Now, the doctor didn't consider himself an expert in body language, mental health, trauma, or any of that—by definition he literally wasn't an expert—but he did know plenty about trauma responses in children, how they often tended to act when they were uncomfortable in some way or another; not to mention his experience with his own damned brain and body for thirty-six goddamned years. He knew what it looked like when something was triggering.
Placid pout twitching downward in concern (and that indomitable nature to always be helping, feeling worthless when he wasn't helping), Leonardo kicked out the kickstand on his bike and dismounted fully, then removed his helmet, placing it on the seat. He wasn't about to be smothering, no, that was rarely helpful; his timid, gentle nature had always been particularly useful in situations like these, whether it was calming an adult patient during his med school days, or coaxing anxieties out of his usual patients. Steer gently into it. Umber eyes cast towards the street, noticing the state of the sewers, then took in Nate's proximity. Was that it? Leo wasn't about to press too aggressively; but at the very least, the sight and the smells were enough to be troubling. He carded a hand through his hair—loose from the way he usually styled it with a dab of pomade—and took a closer look, scrunching his nose ever so slightly as he did. "That doesn't look good," he commented, looking back at Nate. "But I think it—I think it was...s-sort of a long time c-c-coming if I'm b-being honest." He swallowed thickly, mentally cursing himself for being incapable of not embarrassing himself with his speech. "The city c-council hasn't really been—been focusing enough on...on upkeep the last f—few years, yanno?"
Annisa felt like she'd been looking over her shoulder ever since late February, that image of that creepy ass clone forever burned into her brain. However, given the fact that it had been six months, she was starting to feel better about it--well, maybe not better but she was doing a pretty decent job at pretending that it hadn't happened. Yes, she'd told Cy about it because it wouldn't leave her mind but aside from that, she tried her best to go on about her life without a second thought. She'd also upped her hours at the studio and had started helping out at the theater. Oddly enough, her sister's arrest had been quite the distraction, even if it had come with a whole load of stressors of its own.
This evening, Nisa was home, about to take a melatonin and climb into bed when she received a call. She got a little nervous when she saw who it was--it was Leo. Don't get her wrong, Leo was great, but...why was he calling so late on a Monday night? "Leo?" The second she picked up, he was greeting her breathlessly, clearly in some sort of panic. Nisa started to get that prickly feeling on the back of her neck, like something was very, very wrong. Um, h-how are you doing? Good lord, he was so polite but there was obviously something wrong, this wasn't a time for niceties. Not even bothering to answer the question, she said "Leo, what's wrong? What happened?" Instead of staying in bed, she was walking towards her front door now, putting her shoes on and grabbing her keys. He hadn't even had time to explain but she knew she had to go to him. "I'm leaving right now, send me your address."
As she drove, her stomach just turned over and over--part of her felt like she was about to be sick. Just fucking drive, she told herself, hands gripping the steering wheel to keep them from shaking. Every few seconds, she'd check her rearview mirror, trying to to ensure she didn't see any headlights behind her. She hated how fucking paranoid this was making her. The doctor had been vague on the phone but she already knew what this was about. She could just feel it. Finally, she pulled into Leo's driveway, trying to steel herself for whatever he had to tell her. Fuck.
Knocking on his door, she tried to steady her breathing, trying her best to not totally fucking lose it. When he opened the door, he could tell he was trying to do the same. He looked shaken and scared. Honestly, that alone sent a shiver through Nisa's spine. Leo was older and wiser and bigger than her. If he was scared, that meant it was bad. "Tell me what happened"
Where was the Leonardo that had been so brave in the face of that terrifying being in the morgue months before? A fluke, driven by sheer adrenaline, as he was now pressing his well-groomed fingernails into the meat of his palm, all his muscles seizing up. Damn it all, he was regressing again. "S—sorry," he replied breathlessly, "I'll...I'll send you the address, a-and the entry c-code too."
What was the entry code even worth anymore, though? This was supposed to be a gated community, it was meant to be safe...so who could have possibly been sneaking around the quiet neighborhood leaving behind things and messages like this?
With the call ended, he gripped the phone tight, and stood frozen in place, staring blankly outside the glass sliding door. That...thing filled him with utmost fear, but his eyes still kept landing on it, serving up new shocks of goosebumps over his entire body every time. He barely registered one of the cats—he couldn't tell which one in his peripheral view—crept carefully towards the big glass door, nose pointed outwards, obviously wanting to investigate too.
"Anche io non lo so, bambino," he breathed, hardly even audible to himself.
Knocking on the door caused Leo to jump, and he remembered he'd called Annisa over; not wanting to leave them waiting, and feeling desperate for some kind of living, breathing human interaction, he scrambled urgently for the door and let her in. The instinct was there to ask how the drive was, ask how she was, ask if she wanted anything to drink or eat; but the panic overrode that this time. Dressed in his pajama pants, t-shirt, and a robe cinched around his waist, he was far underdressed than he liked to appear in front of anyone, but it definitely added to the panic and the worry on his face. He didn't even instruct her to remove her shoes upon entering, a rule he had even if he didn't ever have many visitors over.
"I was...I was...I was getting ready f-for bed," he began breathlessly, feeling his usual stutter spin even more out of control, "and one of—one of the cats—Meep—she could...she could sense s-s-something, I think, sh-she was kind of...f-freaked out, looking at...looking at the patio door there." He panted, making himself further light-headed. "I p-p-pulled the curtain, and there...it was there, the—" He gestured frantically towards the glass sliding door, through which one could see the back patio—and that sinister gift.
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Morning breaks as gray as ever, like countless Alaska mornings before, and Leonardo lays on his stomach in bed, sheet and quilt around his waist, as he sighs about another day—another year—being alive. Cloe, the tortoiseshell of his trio of long-haired siblings, notices he's awake and begins making biscuits on his rear end. Her claws piercing through two covers, his pajama bottoms, and his boxers is more than enough reminder to give her a mani-pedi soon.
He lays there a while longer, as always finding it difficult to muster up the energy to move. It isn't as though he's regular tired, no; it's the exhaustion that sits as deep as the marrow in his very bones, the type that makes his entire existence feel heavy, the type that makes him wish he could wither and dissolve and be swept away by the wind.
He's never outright contemplated suicide. It's simply been smoldering inside of him from an age entirely too young: he shouldn't exist, and he sure as hell doesn't want to. The will to live has been running on fumes, so to speak, for longer than he can remember.
The physician closes his eyes again briefly, exhaling every bit of air that's inside of his lungs. If he died in his sleep, and his cats had begun to eat him, the people to notice would just be his workplace, he's convinced of it.
And that right there is what keeps him going. His chest aches at the idea of leaving his cats behind, and making them distressed. And even though there are other pediatricians who can care for his patients, they're the other light of his life. He doesn't want them wondering where Dr. Leo went.
With waning resolve, he maneuvers to sit up, the covers falling back and exposing his arms to the cool air of his bedroom. He rubs the inked skin to warm it back up, but he can't help but to allow his fingertips to linger over the scars on his right arm, right through the name tattooed there. Cirrincione, it had said in thick cursive script, his grandmother's maiden name and the middle name he had chosen for himself upon her passing, replacing the ridiculous multi-parted middle name he'd been so graciously gifted upon his birth. Now, scars from the attack in the morgue score through the name; they've healed mostly, leaving behind pinkish scarring in his tanned skin.
Sparrow, the name means, from Sicilian cirrinciò, to go with the black and gray birds etched into his other arm. The poetic irony isn't lost on him: he is untethered and alone, free like a bird in theory, but caged by his very own sorrow.
The first order of business when he drags himself out of his warm, cozy bed is to change into his running clothes, shorts, a t-shirt, and a jacket—hardly anyone knows about the tattoos on his arms and chest, due to his typical manner of dress, and he likes to keep them his personal secret. In the kitchen, he takes his normal pills that help him produce an inkling of serotonin, with a full glass of water. Like any good, seasoned runner, he stretches fully, then fills a bottle with water and puts his shoes on. He grabs his keys but leaves his cell phone behind, locking the door before he takes off outside.
It's chilly, only in the mid-40s, but he's run in worse conditions. The goosebumps that cover his skin don't bother him, he'll soon be plenty warm. He takes off on his usual run through Delilah's Den, taking in the typical peace of an early Sunday morning. He's liked living here the past few years; it's picturesque, and safe—up until a few weeks ago, when that blasted Doppelganger head showed up on his back patio.
His pace quickens when he reminds himself of it, of being accidentally entangled in Annisa’s affairs, whatever those affairs are. He certainly wasn't supposed to get involved: he’s a footnote in everyone's lives, a nameless extra, an ineffectual side character, not important enough to be worth any trouble, someone worth forgetting in every sense. He had only fought so hard and defended himself so he could ensure Annisa’s safety. So why does he continue to be involved? By no means is he worth the trouble of tracking down, nothing remotely interesting about him, the only secrets he holds to his chest involving his parentage.
When pain surges in his jaw, he realizes he needs to unclench it. Being neglected by his birth giver from the moment of conception is surely the source of many of his problems now. Unimportant, unwanted, unloved, burdensome, unwanted, unloved!!! Years after their passing, he still feels guilt over his grandparents having to sell the deli that had been in Nonna’s family for a few generations because they had felt responsible to clean up their only living child’s actions. Because of Leonardo’s very existence, his grandparents had had to get rid of the beloved family business and move continents to somewhere they didn't even speak the language, and build life from the ground up. And later they would each die thousands of miles away from their homeland, sooner than they should have with no thanks to the excessively expensive American healthcare system.
All because Leonardo had to go and exist.
Tears sting his eyes and roll down his cheeks, but he keeps moving. For some godforsaken reason, he keeps moving.
He returns home around an hour later, cheeks red with exertion, sweat shining on his forehead. When he strips down in the bathroom, he faces away from the mirror, not wanting to hazard a look at his own body or face. When he's in the shower and the water hits his skin, the tears return, shaking his shoulders. He likes to run to force himself to feel something other than numbness or anxiety, but now he's gone and induced anger in himself—anger at himself for just being alive. His head leans back and the water from the shower head mixes with the tears on his face, and he just stands like that for entirely too long.
When the emotional numbness returns, he autopilots through washing himself, still feeling robotic when he shuts the water off and grabs his towel. The mirror is now fogged up, so he can't look at himself again, though unfortunately he falls prey to the mirror on the dresser in his bedroom.
Skin and bones, no matter how much he feeds himself—he’s always had a big appetite and eats mostly an Italian diet he cooks for himself—and dark curls of body hair splashed over him, he's never imagined anyone ever wanting to see him in this state, undressed and defenseless. He's incapable of seeing anything attractive in his own face or personality, so why would they ever want him so bare? And even then, they would probably be sorely disappointed by the sight. He's simply just some thin, tall man with too many bones jutting out. The words inked into his chest under the dark fur there are slashed similarly to the name on his right arm—per sempre e sempre nel mio cuore, written in thick cursive, but destroyed by healing scars.
And then, his face. He's never been fond of his features: the strong, bumpy nose; the wide lips permanently set into a scowl he doesn't want; dark, thick brows that give him an intimidating glare; and permanent bags under his serious, russet-colored eyes. He always looks like he's angry, and he hates it. And now his cheek is decorated with scars that match the ones on his arm and chest. He's taken care of the scars there, paranoid about lasting marks that will further mar his appearance and make him seem even scarier to patients.
He tears himself away from his reflection before he can waste entirely too much time staring it down, and instead busies himself with getting dressed. Comfortable jeans and a double-layered henley work well enough for the day; pushing his thick, dark hair off his forehead in a more relaxed form of his daily hairstyle, he goes to have breakfast: a cup of espresso, made from his expensive machine, and a Nutella-filled cornetto he'd made the day before.
Having Gino, the classic tabby and only boy of his sibling trio of cats, curled up in his lap, against his stomach, while Leo has his breakfast makes a tiny part of him begin again to feel like life is worth living.
In the grand scheme of things, it's just another Sunday; so the physician goes to do his grocery shopping. The store is blessedly empty this time of the week so he's able to move around with minimal intrusions. He's spotted by a young patient—who's with his mother, of course—who's shocked to see his doctor somewhere besides the hospital; and Leo exchanges smiles and quick greetings; but he's happy to not get tied up in a conversation, especially with as fragile as he's feeling today.
Once he returns to his safe, cozy home and puts away his shopping, he curls up in bed with a book, as he is wont to do on weekends. It's a smutty romance novel that he's been looking forward to; and his cheeks are hot as he devours the pages eagerly, getting himself wrapped up in the story. Someone as anxious and unattractive and simply boring as him having never even kissed anyone at the ripe age of thirty-six, much less had a torrid romantic affair or been to bed with anyone—at this point, he doesn't expect it to happen. Oh, he certainly wishes it would! How he craves to be chosen, to be loved, to be desired in every which way, how he aches to be kissed until he's out of breath, to be made love to with his hot, sweaty skin stuck to another's!
But whatever God had forsaken him, who he'd forsaken right back, did not make Leonardo to be loved. He was the object of no one’s affections or desires, and hardly the target of even platonic care.
The book isn't very long, and he finishes it in the afternoon, a blush still heating the back of his neck from the lush, sensual details of the romantic and bedroom affairs of the two men on the pages. He scrubs his face with his dry hands, bringing himself back to earth, and to his quiet bedroom. It's about time he started working on dinner; so he wanders into the kitchen, still in a smutty literature haze, and stands quietly in the center as he tries to remember what he wanted to make.
Right. He gathers several things, first: a package of smoked salmon, a package of salami slices, a container of marinated mozzarella balls, some pickled peppers, a jar of marinated mushrooms, a hunk of goat cheese, sun-dried tomatoes, and a jar of olives. The assembly on a plate would probably seem expert to anyone unfamiliar, but his portioning is haphazard and driven by the heart; but with his antipasti gathered, he snacks on that while he works on the actual dinner. The entire time he cooks, Gino rests upon his shoulders, watching intently and digging his claws in to stay upright.
He doesn't eat meals with several courses all the time—it isn't very time-efficient—but it feels like a good day to indulge. So the course after antipasto is pasta; and the fruit of his labor is pasta ca nunnata: spaghetti, olive oil, garlic, parsley, white wine (the only type of alcohol that enters his door is cooking wine), black pepper, and sardines. Cooking is one of the things he's passionate about, especially when it comes to recreating the cuisine of his forefathers. He's pretty damn good at it, if he says so himself, for someone who's only spent a couple of weeks in Italy his entire life despite being a citizen by birthright.
After the pasta is the main dish: pollo alla cacciatora, braised chicken thighs in a rich tomato sauce, with onion and carrots and celery and olives and fresh cherry tomatoes and fennel and capers and white wine and plenty of garlic. It's hearty and filling and it feels so satisfying on an evening with a growing chill. And God, how he wishes he could share it with somebody besides the three cats watching him.
Satisfied with dinner, he washes most of the dishes by hand and puts away the leftovers in the refrigerator, intending on having leftovers for lunch tomorrow at work. With little else to do for the evening, he curls up on the couch with a blanket and turns the TV on, content to binge whatever old movies are playing. To his utter delight, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner is on, starring Sidney Poitier, one of his favorite actors—and an absolute heartthrob in Leonardo's eyes. Maria Pia, the dilute calico and seemingly the leader of her siblings, happily takes a nap in his lap; and he strokes her long fur as he watches the film he's seen countless times, and then the movie after that. When she decides to get up, he unwraps himself from his blanket and returns to the kitchen to feed the cats their nightly wet food; and then finally cuts himself a slice of the cake he'd spent half the previous day making: torta setteveli, seven layers of chocolate and hazelnut goodness. He returns to his movie marathon with his cake and a glass of milk while the cats have their own dinner. He's deemed not to check his email or social media, hoping his birth giver isn't begging him for money yet again, the only reason why she ever attempts to contact him.
Around 9:00, he turns off the TV and leaves only a singular lamp in the living room on. He cleans up the plate he'd used for his slice of cake, then takes a pill that will help him sleep. He's rigid with his structure and routine, never allowing himself to fall out of it, and always retires to bed somewhat early.
After washing his face and brushing his teeth, he changes into his pajamas, the usual combination of flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, then crawls into bed and turns his bedroom TV on, halfway watching a nature documentary as he settles in for the night. It's a boring life, a boring existence—he's boring. Inconsequential. Harmless. Pointless.
When he turns off the TV and the lights and rolls over in bed, tears sting his eyes again, clouding the dark room. Even with a cat at the foot of the bed, he's cold and lonely, and wishing he had someone to calm the shaking of his bony shoulders, someone to rub his back as he's wracked with quiet tears. Thirty-six years, and he feels like more of a waste than ever.
