Chapter Text
Half of the time we're gone
But we don't know where,
And we don't know where
Turbulence makes his stomach flip-flop (but isn't that a stupid phrase? It also means sandals. Why can't words just stick to one meaning?) like nothing else, so of course they hit every bumpy spot in the air between Napoli and New York. He spilled orange soda on his new pants about two hours into the flight. He dabbed at them with some tissues, but he’s still uncomfortably sticky and he's never going to get out this stain. The kids sitting behind him keep kicking his seat and there isn't anything he can do about it because according to certain dumbasses he works with, he’s “not supposed to cause a scene” or “whip out his stand in enclosed spaces” or “make children cry again in public.” Whatever. Whatever, he may be young, sure, but he’s a soldato of Passione through and through, a trained killer, and he’s endured far worse in his life than a few annoying brats.
Which is why it’s annoying as fuck his stupid teammates treat him like a little kid.
“Old man,” he whispers, though even Ghiaccio’s whispers are harsh, “get up. We’ve landed.”
The old man in question grunts, shifts in his seat, makes absolutely no move whatsoever to get up because of course no one can ever just do what Ghiaccio wants without a fight, can they?
“Get up.”
“Let us wait a few minutes,” Sorbet mutters, pulling his blanket tighter around his shoulders, “and then I’ll get up. Let more people clear out. It’s crowded. I’m tired.”
Ugh, of course he’s tired. When isn’t he tired? When Sorbet and Gelato report back to headquarters after missions, Gelato delivers the briefing to Risotto while Sorbet naps on the couch. While Gelato drives back from hits, Sorbet naps in the passenger seat. Sorbet gives Ghiaccio lessons on how to handle himself in a fistfight, how to cut through someone’s throat before they even have a chance to realize he’s there at all, how to stitch himself back together when he can’t visit a hospital, and you bet that just as soon as the lesson’s over, he’s shuffling back inside to nap in his designated armchair until Gelato drives him home.
Sorbet’s never awake. Gelato never sleeps. Ghiaccio’s got absolutely no clue how their relationship works out.
“Fuck you, wake up.”
Ghiaccio grabs his blanket, tries to pull it away from the stubborn man because it’s so loud on this plane -too many people crowded into too small a space, too many smells and too many noises- and all he wants to do is grab their luggage, head to the hotel, and plot out the logistics of the hit with Gelato while Sorbet takes his sixth nap of the day, but the man’s gripping his blanket like it's a bag of precious jewels. Ghiaccio gives up, shoves him, but the older man just curls up on himself even further.
“Get the fuck up, old man.”
“Hey, buddy,” comes an ever-amiable voice from the other side of the aisle, the sort of voice you'd think would be so cracked and croaky from too much whiskey and too many cigarettes, except Ghiaccio doesn’t think he’s ever seen the man smoke or drink anything except half a glass of wine with dinner.
“C’mon, that’s no way to talk to your father.”
Ghiaccio grits his teeth. Sorbet rests his head against the window and continues to nap. Gelato grins at him from across the aisle. Once again, the kid sitting behind him starts kicking his seat.