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The world's finest suit

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Prosciutto stares at his own reflection as he finishes fixing up his tie. It's unusual for him wear one, and even more to wear a shirt all buttoned up to the last button. It's uncomfortable, it's inconvenient, and he can't wait to be done with the mission to go back to his usual attire as soon as possible. It's a good suit, regardless — tailor made, the fabric felt good under his fingers—, but it's still a typical business suit, and no matter how hard he looks for one, there doesn't seem to be a single angle in which the jacket accentuates the curve of his waist in the slightest. His face and hair do look flawless as usual, but he can't help feeling like the actual purpose of the outfit is to undermine his overall attractiveness.

The whole thing has him cranky and restless.

Once he's done fixing his cuffs, he turns to his partner.

"You ready, Pesci?"

'Ready' is definitely an overstatement.

Despite wearing a suit no less expensive than his own, the man looks far less than stunning. His posture is terrible, his back hunched and his shoulders tense. He keeps tugging the jacket down, as if there's something wrong with the length of it. Anyone with a sharp eye (like Prosciutto), could tell that the problem was hardly the suit itself.

"Stop that," he smacks Pesci's arm. "You're gonna ruin it," he says, as if he didn't had full intention of burning the whole suit as soon as they came back.

"Does it really suit me? Do you… really think I look the part?"

It's kind of pathetic, how he keeps looking at himself, trying different poses as if to find one that feels a little more flattering, clearly insecure about his own appearance.

"You would, if you'd stop whining."

Unsurprisingly, the words don't have much of a positive effect. He does square his shoulders and ready himself to follow him out, but Prosciutto would swear he still can see his knees trembling and hear his teeth chattering.

"Listen, Pesci," his voice is softer this time. He takes a step forward, walking into his personal space. The other shudders, but doesn't withdraw. "The problem is not with the suit, it's with you," he explains calmly. Pesci nods hastily, eyes fixed on the other's. "The suit doesn't make the man. It's the man who makes the suit. You could be wearing the world's finest suit, and it wouldn't make any difference as long as you're not wearing it with confidence." His right hand lifts toward Pesci's cheek, caressing it lovingly. "You need to believe in yourself. You do that, and everything else will come along. Do you understand?"

Pesci's lips are pressed tight together in a pout, but he still nods.

"I— I understand."

Considering it's an undercover job, it would have been best to bring along a more experienced member of the team. However, although Ghiaccio (Prosciutto wouldn't be caught dead going on such a mission with him) and Formaggio were available, and infiltration in general was the later's specialty, he specifically asked Risotto for Pesci to go with him. It was a great chance to prove his skills in a field he still was unfamiliar with, and nothing could go wrong as long as he was there looking out for him.

"You'll do just fine. No," he corrects himself. The blond leans forward, resting his forehead on the other's. His thumb traces over his features, "you'll do great. I'm trusting you on this one, Pesci"

While his worry doesn't seem to be fully gone, his words of encouragement do seem to have an impact on the younger man. Between all the mixed feelings, both anxiety and enthusiasm, it almost seems like he's about to burst into tears. Prosciutto lets out a heavy sigh and leans in a little further until his lips are pressed to Pesci's. He kisses the other, firm but sweetly, fingers brushing against the back of his head until he feels him exhaling a hot breath, and his shoulders relaxing.

Prosciutto stays there for a couple seconds, lips against lips, his nose barely brushing against the other's. Then he puts some distance between them and his hands first reach for Pesci's shoulders, pushing his back into a straight position, and lift his chin with his index finger so he's looking forward.

"Now wipe that expression from your face. You want everyone to know at first glance why they shouldn't fuck around with you. There, that's better. Now, look at you."

Prosciutto places his hand on Pesci's waist and gently prompts him to turn around. Surprise shows on his face as he looks at himself again in the mirror. He had even considered the possibility that they may have taken his measurements wrong, but now he takes a closer look at it, the suit does fit him perfectly. It's certainly not something he would wear daily, but he doesn't quite dislike it. Not only it looks good, but he's matching with Prosciutto — and that fills him with great pride.

They really are going together in public, Pesci tells himself. They really are showing up at some gala dinner, that would surely be packed with people, looking like a couple, and all of them… they would see them.

Even though they'll be dead by the end of the night, the idea of it does make him a little anxious. But it's the good, butterflies in his stomach kind of anxious.

"It's time, Pesci," Prosciutto presses a kiss to his temple and leads the way towards the door. Pesci follows his steps closely. "We have work to do."