Chapter Text
May 23rd, 1991
It was a warm and beautiful day that Thursday afternoon. Near the end of the month, the occasional cool breeze here and there would start to die down into a more sweltering heat as spring shifted into summer and May shifted into June.
He was the only one in his family, the only one out of his old and new groups of friends, that didn't despise the summer. Of course he didn't enjoy the days where the heat would become unbearable to stand. That was just downright masochistic in his opinion. Instead, he loved the brighter atmosphere of summer in contrast to the much more "bitter" winter.
Making plans with his buddies to splash around in the local pool, the satisfying feeling he would get by accompanying his outside escapades with an ice cream cone or a cool soft drink... Not to mention, he loved spending time with his friends, and nobody ever wanted to go out and do anything during the winter because it was always too damn cold! The summertime was much more preferable to make plans to hang out, or to host a house party, or to go out in the middle of the night and do something ridiculously juvenile. On that day, as the breeze settled down and gave way to the scorching beams of the sun, he knew it would have been the perfect day to do so.
By the time he would be released from prison, however, it would have been winter yet again, and he would have to wait another few months for summer to make its return.
The only reason he became aware of the upcoming season was because of the drastic change in the climate he had experienced while being out on the prison's courtyard. The plain white tee he wore had several pools of sweat piling into its nooks and crannies before he removed it from his torso. The perspiration made his tawny chest glisten underneath the sunlight, and he spent another ten minutes playing the heated basketball game against his prison mates before their daily recreational time was over and they were called back inside.
He managed to cool off long since then. He was thankful that the facility, though merely adequate in most aspects, could at least provide all of its inmates with proper ventilation. Now that he was inside and back in his cell, after reading a few pages from an old sports magazine he borrowed from the library, he decided to check himself out in the steel mirror on the wall. Right after he finished slicking back his orange eyebrows with a lick of his thumb, he grabbed his hairbrush from the counter of the sink and brushed through his uniquely styled buzzcut.
"Russo!"
In the midst of his grooming, a correctional officer stepped into his cell and called to his attention by shouting his surname. Russo regarded him with a side eye and a raise of his eyebrow.
"You've got yourself a new bunkmate," he said. "Make some space."
Russo was surprised to hear that news. The last time he had a roommate, it was nearly four months ago. His previous roommate had obviously resided within that cell much longer than he had, but within their first week of getting to know each other, he managed to chase the poor bastard out and into an entirely different cell. The older man would pester the warden everyday about Russo's unbearable snoring, claiming that he had lost hours upon hours of sleep since the day he was incarcerated, until the warden finally decided to give in to his never ending plea. Ever since then, Russo kept the whole cell to himself.
Though he felt guilty for chasing the guy out of his own room, he didn't mind having it all to himself. He could choose any bunk he wanted, he had more personal privacy when using the restroom, and he could indulge in his hobbies without bothering anybody else, which mostly involved loudly rapping along to the songs he played from his Walkman. The facility gained a few freshly incarcerated persons every month or so, but oddly enough, none of them were arranged to occupy the empty space until then.
"Eh? Really? Did somebody request a cell change, or is it a new inmate?"
"New inmate," the officer said. "After the news about your midnight death rattle had been spread around, every other prisoner in this block made sure to steer clear from your cell when requesting their cell changes. We'd have this newbie in another room if we weren't so running low on space, so try not to chase this guy out, ya hear?"
"Okay," Russo said with a grin. "No problemo."
"Though, I personally don't think you'd be able to this time." The officer added a laugh to his claim. "He's in for murder, but shit, if looks could kill, I'd be—"
"Wait. The new guy's a convicted murderer?"
"Yup. First degree."
"What? Then why the hell is he being bunked with me?!" Russo exclaimed, his eyes now wide with shock. "This cell block is for petty crimes, like thieves and pot smokers! Murderers and serial killers are supposed to be in D block, not B block!"
"Quit your bitching, Russo. I just told you this place is running low on space. You'll just have to hang tight 'til the end of your sentence."
"'Til the end of my...? Oh, come on! That ain't fair, Sorrentino!"
"Quit your bitching, inmate!" the officer repeated with much more aggression.
"Fuck you, man! You quit your bitching!"
"Is that back talk, inmate? Do you want me to give you a shot?"
"Fuck your shot!"
Sorrentino sneered at him, but left the room without announcing whether Russo's sass earned him a shot or not. Instead, he took his leave after concluding, "Be nice to your new bunkie."
Russo stuck his bottom lip out in a pout as he threw his hairbrush onto the counter of the sink. It was already bad enough that he happened to be stuck in prison during the first few signs of summer, and now he would have to spend the rest of his sentence with a goddamn murderer. What a fantastic day he was having!
He reckoned the new inmate would be there any second now, and as he turned around to check the cleanliness of the bunks, he spotted the several sports magazines he had strewn all across the lower bed. He realized that cleaning up his mess was probably what Sorrentino meant by "make some space." Russo gathered said magazines in his arm and plopped them onto the room's small desk area, along with his other miscellaneous crap, when he heard the probable footsteps of the new inmate approaching the room. After getting all the magazines onto the desk, he turned to face the newcomer.
"Yo! Nice to meet..." He rose his hand in the air and got ready to wave, but after a brief flinch he found himself frozen in place. "...you."
To Russo, Sorrentino's remark about looks being able to kill was merely an understatement. He didn't mean to be rude, but the newbie's appearance was pretty damn frightening, and in his opinion it was fitting for someone who would have committed first degree murder.
The man standing in the doorway of the cell was much, much bigger than he was. Russo was only a smidge taller than the average male, but the other was more of a colossus and had more muscular gains on him as well. And yet, his most distinguishing and intimidating feature were neither his height nor his build— instead, it was his eyes, which had abnormally pitch black sclera bordering piercing red irises.
He wore the same uniform all the newbies would wear: the striped and collared shirt with the facility's name, "Penitenziario di Catania," printed on the back in bold, black lettering along with the matching striped bottoms. The older inmates would switch out their uniform shirts for plain tees and tanks, and Russo had long since exchanged his sweaty white t-shirt for a fresh white tank top. Ironically enough, the newbie wearing the proper dress code of the facility made him appear even more out of place and further distinguished him from the veterans of the building.
In his hands he held several spare changes of clothing of his own size, along with a towel, shower slippers, and a free toothbrush. He held a blank facial expression as his eyes briefly scanned the room, though he remained still in the doorway as if he were a vampire requiring consent to enter. Eventually, he did take a few steps inside, but he unintentionally disregarding Russo's greeting with a question.
"Where should I place my things?" he asked. His tone was soft, but his baritone voice still boomed throughout the quarters.
Russo snapped himself out of his paralysis and gestured over to where he had just shoved all his mess. "The desk over here is fine." Then, he supposed it would be a good idea to get his junk out of the way, and he made haste into rearranging his mess into its own pile. The new inmate silently placed his stack of belongings on the opposite side.
Afterwards, he continued to stand still and look around his new living quarters. He examined the steel bunk beds, the steel commode in one corner of the room, the steel mirror, and the steel sink below it. There was a great deal of steel in those prison cells, he observed. Nothing there would be made of any breakable glass or porcelain.
He hardly glanced Russo's way, and Russo arched a brow at his queer behavior, noticing that his mannerisms weren't as fitting for his interpretation of a murderer and were more similar to those of a lost puppy. The inmate was also fairly quiet and had not uttered a word since he inquired of where he could put his things. Russo shuffled to the bunks and sat down on the edge of the bottom one with a grunt, informing the newbie that he could sit down in the desk chair if he desired. The large man sat down in the chair the very moment he was given permission.
"I think we should start off by introducing ourselves," Russo said, wanting to break the awkward ice between them. "My name's Formaggio. First name's Formaggio, at least. My last name is Russo. What's your name?"
"Nero."
Formaggio slowly nodded his head and waited a few more seconds for any further clarification, but oddly enough, he had said nothing more. The new fish mumbled "Nero," left it at that, and let his eyes wander off into space again. The ginger wondered if his new roommate happened to smoke a joint before his incarceration.
"Is that your first name, or your last name?" he spoke, after an entire minute had passed without either of them saying a word.
He managed to bring Nero out of his trance with the inquiry, but the answer he received was hardly a direct answer at all.
"Risotto Nero."
Formaggio was left more puzzled than before, and he scratched the back of his head as his eyes circumferenced the room. "Soooo, exactly what do you want me to call you, big guy?"
"Risotto is just fine."
Formaggio began to snicker through the airy breaths of his nose. As loud as it was, Risotto didn't seem to notice.
"Do you mind if I lie down?" the newcomer suddenly asked. "Sorry, I've just had a pretty long day."
"Don't apologize man, you're fine," Formaggio reassured as he got up from the mattress. "Do you want top bunk or bottom bunk? I usually sleep on the top, but I don't mind if you wanna take it."
"Bottom bunk."
"Wait, really?"
"Really."
The two of them proceeded to switch places, Formaggio sitting in the desk chair and Risotto lying down against his acclaimed bunk bed. Formaggio sat in the chair backwards from how he was supposed to sit so he could face the bunks.
"I've never seen anybody willingly take the bottom bunk around here," Formaggio told him. "Some inmates have actually fought over this shit, y'know. Are you sure you're okay with sleeping down there?"
Risotto shrugged his shoulders as he placed his hands behind his head. "Too tall for top bunk."
"Oh. Then yeah, that makes sense." Formaggio looked up at the ceiling for a moment. "The ceilings are really low in these rooms."
The new prisoner nodded wordlessly, as he stared at the chipped blue paint on the bed railings above him. He began to tap his foot against the ladder poles on the other end of his mattress. Formaggio watched him with his hand resting on his palm and with a quick scratch to the temple.
"You must be really quiet, huh?"
"How could you tell?" Risotto asked sarcastically, though he accompanied the question with a smile to show he meant no harm.
"I heard you're in for first degree murder?"
"Correct."
"So, I'm not trying to be rude, but you do look like the type of guy to be a murderer." Formaggio held his hands up in defense, but Risotto only reacted by a purse of his lips and a small nod in agreement. "And I'm not sure if you're aware, but they put you in the wrong cell block. I've never really interacted with the murderers and serial killers in this prison."
"You think I'm a serial killer?"
"Shit, no! No, no, no!" Risotto sounded quite offended by his words, and Formaggio was quick to clarify, furiously shaking his head and hands. "Listen, that ain't what I meant. I'm saying that when you hear 'first degree murderer,' or 'murderer' in general, you usually think negative thoughts about that person. Like, maybe they've got some anger issues, or maybe they have some type of mental illness, something along the lines of that. I've seen those traits in all of the other murder felons in this place, and I've always kept my distance from them because of it. So, I'll admit, hearing that I was being bunked with a murderer kinda scared me at first."
Risotto nodded again. "I understand. You're trying to say that I don't have the stereotypical behavior of a murderer."
"Right, and I'm pretty relieved, 'cause you seem to be a laid back type of dude. I wouldn't think you could be a murderer at all if you didn't look so intimidating. But when you came in, you were acting a little awkward, and you are really quiet. Are you shy? Or are you just a repeat offender?"
"This is my first time being in prison," Risotto said, in response to the repeat offender presumption. "I can say that I'm also fairly nervous about this... new situation, but yes, I've always been shy."
"Why are you shy?"
"I'm not so used to speaking or being spoken to. I've always been an outcast in social situations."
"Why's that?"
"You said it yourself," Risotto stated. "I'm intimidating. Take one look at me, and you can find your answer. Nobody wants to be associated with a freak upon nature."
"Well..." Formaggio laughed sheepishly as he rubbed the nape of his neck. "I didn't say it like that, but..."
"You don't have to sugarcoat anything around me," Risotto disclosed. "I'm sure I've heard much worse about my appearance. Don't be afraid to be honest."
"I mean..." Formaggio sucked his teeth. "Saying stuff like that makes me feel guilty. Even if you don't mind, I don't wanna be rude."
"Let's say I came in and behaved like the stereotypical murderer you've described. Would you still neglect the urge to be rude towards me?"
Formaggio had a moment to himself to think, and Risotto patiently waited for his answer.
"Hell yeah!" he shouted.
"Why?"
"Because if not, then you'd kill me!"
Formaggio didn't notice it before, but the wider Risotto smiled, the more prominent his dimples became, and watching him laugh was the prime of this unique quality in his features.
"Although," he went on, after Risotto's laughing died down, "considering you're my bunkmate, I would be nice to you regardless of whether you're crazy or not. You can't act that way around everybody around here, 'cause some of those punks will try and use that to their advantage— and I'm way too friendly, so I learned that shit the hard way— but, I might as well befriend the guy I'm bunking with. We'll be living together, after all."
"I heard you happened to chase your old roommate out with your snoring," Risotto mentioned. "The guards warned me about it. They said the warden won't be able to accommodate me if I had any complaints."
"Oh, yeah. My bad about that in advance."
"It's fine. I've had to sleep through all types of noises before. I think I can handle a bit of snoring."
"Good to know you won't start shouting at me about it in the middle of the night," Formaggio said. "The last guy did that a lot."
After Risotto shook his head, the room fell silent again. Formaggio stood up from the seat, mumbling something about it making his ass hurt while he scratched the aforementioned body part, and walked over to the bed to begin climbing the ladder to his own bunk.
"By the way, I think you have a nice personality," the newcomer said. "I would have appreciated someone like you while I was growing up."
After hearing that, Formaggio halted midway on the ladder. "What? You're saying you didn't even have any friends while you grew up?"
"Unless you count my cousin, then no, not until upper secondary, but I'm not completely sure if I should consider those people my friends, anyway."
"That's a load of bullshit," Formaggio scoffed. He climbed onto his bed with a thump, and Risotto watched the mattress move against the rails above him. "I don't see why you didn't have any friends. You're really chill."
"Freak upon nature. Remember?"
"Yeah, but that's still bullshit to me. It only took me a couple of minutes to get to know you, and you're more than some 'freak.' Plus, Mama always says to never judge a book by its cover."
Risotto sighed at his statement. Hearing about other people's mothers always made him feel doleful, but he knew better not to push his unwanted baggage on another person.
"A mother always knows best," he said, as his eyes fluttered shut.
"Yup. Always."
As Risotto began to drift off into a nap, Formaggio pulled a sports magazine out from underneath his pillow and began to read it to pass the time. The magazine was at least three years old, but it was all the prison's library had to offer due to the minute funding it received, and he somehow never got sick of reading the same old thing about the same old athletes several times over. A few minutes had passed before he remembered to check the wristwatch he had hidden under his sheets.
"I reckon nobody here's offered to show you around the prison yet," he said to Risotto, while putting the watch back in its hiding place. Not having fallen asleep just yet, Risotto was brought back to full consciousness with his words.
"Shit, right. I forgot the guards told me to ask around for directions," he said, "but I chose not to bother with the looks that everybody's been giving me."
"Well, it's almost time for us to eat, and I've got no problem with showing you around until dinner." Formaggio made sure he remembered the current page number before setting the magazine down and hopping off the side of the bunk. "Don't mind the other guys in this block. They're all just a bunch of knuckleheads. I'll introduce you to some of my pals, they'll open right up once they get to know you."
Formaggio waved Risotto over as he scuffled towards their open cell door, and Risotto got up from the bed to follow him outside.
"Also, I'll show you where to get a plain tee or tank top. I don't think striped tops fit you well." As they walked out into the open cell block, they were given a couple of stares by the lingering inmates, but Formaggio told Risotto to ignore them for now.
"How is everyone able to get away with not wearing the uniform shirt?" Risotto wondered, noticing that nearly every other inmate in his block had a different top than him. "I would've thought that a correctional facility would be more strict about these things."
"Trust me, we get away with a lot more than just changing our shirts."
"I'm well aware. But not wearing the uniform shirt is more obvious than the things I presume prisoners do in their discretion."
"Honestly, I dunno how we get away with this," Formaggio answered. "I guess the warden just doesn't care, but newbies are easily singled out if they wear the striped tees. That's why I'm showing you where to get a plain one. You're an all black type of guy, right? The black tees and undershirts become unpopular during the summer, so there should be lots of spares for ya."
Risotto gave him a funny look. "How did you know I like to wear all black?"
"Just an assumption," Formaggio said with a shrug. "What type of music do you like to listen to?"
"Hmm... Heavy metal. Why?"
"...Yeah, that just about proves my point."