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Risotto has known Prosciutto for a long time, and been involved with him romantically for a considerable period of that time. Still, Prosciutto manages to come up with ways to surprise him now and again.
Rarely does anything truly unsettle Prosciutto, so he’s never learned to hide his nerves. Risotto watches him fiddle with his pockets while his eyes dart between Risotto and his own food which he really should be eating more of, it’s a particularly nice dinner and it’s just the two of them.
“Is something wrong?” Risotto asks, setting down his fork. “You’re nervous.”
“Am I?” asks Prosciutto. When Risotto just nods, he sighs. “There’s no hiding from you. I had something I wanted to ask you tonight.”
“Fire away,” Risotto says, leaning back a little in his chair.
Whatever he’s expecting, it’s not the small box Prosciutto withdraws from his pocket. Prosciutto takes a breath. “Risotto, you and I-”
“Yes,” says Risotto, interrupting. “I’ll marry you.”
Prosciutto falters, joy briefly visible on his features before annoyance catches up. “I had an entire speech prepared for this!”
“You didn’t need one. You could have just asked.”
“You ruined my proposal.” Prosciutto huffs even as he pulls the ring out of the box and slips it onto Risotto’s finger.
“I’m sorry, I was too excited. You can still say the speech if you want to.” Risotto’s smile could not possibly go wider.
“No, it’s too late now.”
“Big brother and Risotto are getting married! Big brother and Risotto are getting married~!”
If there was any chance of the engagement being secret for long, it’s ruined when Pesci shouts in joy after Prosciutto tells him. Assassins pour into the living room to give their congratulations.
Formaggio takes both of them by the shoulders in a brief but solid hug. Melone kisses them both on the cheek and goes into well-wishes for ages until Sorbet pulls him out of the way so that Gelato can properly congratulate them. Ghiaccio has a rare smile and nothing remotely cutting to say to them.
Illuso starts with congratulations, then adds, “Not that we do anything remotely legal, but considering that you can’t legally get married, what were your plans?”
“We can threaten a priest for you if you want,” Melone says. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Risotto looks to Prosciutto, who shakes his head and replies, “That won’t be necessary. A private ceremony with just us would be enough.”
“I was at a few weddings when I was in the military, I could probably officiate-”
“I have a nice suit I’ve been saving up for when big brother gets married-”
“Will we throw rice? Food rice, I mean. You’re too heavy for me to lift.”
Risotto snickers at Formaggio for that last one; he’s in too good a mood to complain about puns. “We’ll have to discuss the details more.”
They find an abandoned church that’s still in good enough condition not to be depressing. None of them are particularly religious, or they probably wouldn’t be in their chosen career, but for things like this they fall back on tradition.
Gelato takes the role of officiant. Melone attempted to play the organ earlier, but declared that it was out of tune when he tested it, and the rest aren’t sure if it really is or Melone is just out of practice. Pesci tries not to cry too loudly as the grooms walk down the aisle.
“Dearly beloved…”
The words Gelato uses are unimportant in the face of the sheer bliss. Any of them could die at any time, they know. ‘Until death do you part’ could be years from now or only days. In the face of such an uncertain future, they take this time to secure their own happiness together.
In the end, the rest throw rice. The food.