Doctors Orders | La squadra x Reader

9| Okay Together

(One more chapter of Doctors Orders and we're finished!)

----------

There is something so tangible about human life. Melone somehow thinks of the word 'significance' when he hears about Formaggio's passing. He's not sure why.

That grief he should feel, he can feel it soon coming. The heavy weight of loss, it'll pin him to his bed and leave him empty, a mass that pulls down his body, he'll be sinking.

But is he allowed to feel grief like that? All that swells in his chest is guilt, when will grief join its wicked partner?

He can hear the nurse down the hall sobbing beneath their covers, muffled and ugly. Risotto had long abandoned the burden of comforting them, for now he resigned himself to his office. The cold, stoic mass of man he is had yet to show regret for giving Formaggio the orders he did. 

"A simple miscalculation." He tells his grieving team, like he was just a number he forgot to carry over.

(Y/n) doesn't seem to think it was anyone's fault other than their own. They didn't get to the scene fast enough, so it's their fault, they say. If only they had been faster, if only they had somehow known of his struggle, if they just went with him, it could've been prevented.

There was too many things to consider, so many things they believe they could've done, but those thoughts would do them no good. Still, the sounds of their choked cries refused to dim and cease, and at this point it was starting to cause headaches.

Prosciutto was the first to leave, with Pesci in tow. To some bar, most guessed.

Risotto left next, apparently going to investigate something--  no one bothered to ask about it.

One by one, the rest of the team left, each excuse just as bad as the next. Not like anyone needed an excuse to recover from the loss of a team member. 

Melone left, too, once the painful quiet began to mix too well with the echoing cries of the nurse down the hall. It was a struggle peeling his body away from his bed, but to live another moment in the dark pit of his room was to give him another reason to cut and spill himself.

He wasn't even sure where he was going. It was only when he'd made it halfway down the street that it hit him, of course, that he was just wandering. But what was so wrong with that? Maybe he felt it wasn't productive enough, not knowing where he's headed. 

But maybe for one day he can allow himself to just be. Not perform or put on a show for others so they're convinced that he's alright, but just let himself be that slice of misery he's so sure he is. 

Such self-destructive thoughts were something he would've loved to indulge in, like a bit of candy you can't help yourself to, but he knew (Y/n) would dismantle that desire immediately. 

They'd guide him through his emotions and help him along. They'd row the boat through his river of despair and grief, and show him the rainbow in the rain, how the clouds will eventually part and wash everything in a golden light.

(Y/n) would surely do all that, he knows they would, which is why he's such a bastard. He believes so, really, truthfully, because he's out wandering to god knows where, while they're back at the base by themself.

By themself. He hadn't even thought to ask if anyone had stayed behind with them. 

On top of the pain they're going through, they were once again left alone to work through it all by themself, to hide away in their office and unravel themself in ragged cries. He wonders, do they feel them sinking like he did? Are they drowning like him?