𝕭𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖓 𝕷𝖆 𝕷𝖚𝖓𝖆 | Prosciutto X Fem!Reader

𝕭𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝕮𝖔𝖓 𝕷𝖆 𝕷𝖚𝖓𝖆

Patient is the night, following a man of blonde hair and fair skin with its star-ridden eyes. It watched him, and under its loving gaze, the man sauntered into his rather large house and crashed against the wall upon entering.

"Another bad job, Prosciutto?" A voice mocked from the living room, followed by approaching footsteps. 

The man of silk, golden hair, lifted his head to meet his housemate, scowling all the while. "Formaggio, you should really learn to keep unwanted comments to yourself."

"Why? It's obvious you had a bit of trouble this time around, I was just trying to confirm such."

Prosciutto straightened himself up, brushing off his rather revealing top and flipping his untucked bangs away from his face. "Just leave me the hell alone."

Formaggio uttered not a single word as the blonde pushed by him, watching the stumbling hitman trudge down the hall and up the stairs, already aware of where he'd be going to.

Every night, usually around eleven o'clock sharp, prosciutto would make his way to the roof of the manor and sit there for however long he wanted to. Sometimes it'd be fifteen minutes, other times, hours.

Unbeknownst to his team, he would go up there to talk, let out his pent up feelings. strangely enough, he'd never talk to another person when doing so, and he certainly refused to talk to himself-- He'd call himself mad if that were the case.

So, to fill this vacant spot of a listener, prosciutto would go to the roof and talk to the moon.

It was just a rock in space. It wont ever judge him, or mock him for how he feels, or tell him what to do to fix his problems. It just sits there, and listens.

This night, he mindlessly talked about how frustrated he was with everything going on in his life, and how being a hitman just isn't fun anymore. His job has grown dull, repetitive, and he's done risking his life for a small wad of cash that ends up being barely enough to keep him going.

Of course, being a killer was never supposed to be fun, but it at least used to be enjoyable with his friends around-- Which he's now sick and tired of.

As he's talking to this bright, shining moon, strung in the sky like a fine piece of art, prosciutto pauses to ask himself, "Must I be so pathetic, so lonely, that I haven't someone to speak to besides an aging rock in space? I've drawn myself crazy..."

This epiphany caused broken prosciutto to stop his usual check ins with the welcoming night, the time he would normally use to embrace each star and converse with the moon, now being used for sleep as an escape mechanism to avoid his life.

One fateful day, around a month after he stopped his nightly check-ins, Prosciutto was assigned a mission deep in the night, only returning somewhere around one in the morning with bloody clothes and sloppy hair.

No, the job may not have gone as planned, but at least it was done.

Looking up to the endless yonder of space, he wondered what the moon was doing, only once more calling himself a lunatic when he remembered that it couldn't have been doing much. It was the goddamn moon, after all.

Cold air pinched his skin as he stumbled down the street, slowly but surely making his way back to his 'home', if that's what he was supposed to call it. The only thing illuminating his way was dim streetlights, which would flicker every now and again with their lack of electricity and proper care.

It was strange that these lights happened to be the only thing keeping the street lit, as the light of the moon should've illuminated his surroundings a bit. The new moon had already happened this month, as well, so it was a wonder why it wasn't shining as it normally would.

And right as prosciutto looked up to investigate, it finally clicked. 

The moon wasn't in the sky at all-- almost all the stars were missing, as well.

No, wasn't the moon missing for a while now? According to melone, who he eavesdropped on last week, the moon has been nowhere to be seen around the world. People are panicking, throwing fits, losing their mind, and even claiming that this was the sign of the end.

prosciutto would've thought that, too, if he gave a shit.