#ennis (baccano!) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

esperanzacboronial · 2 years

Note

32 or 48 for the writing prompts hhhhh,,,if u are feeling them <3

I'm so sorry that this took me like a year to respond to.

32. I think you are beautiful and I would like to kiss you. I can think up some clever lines, if you’d prefer. But I wanted to say that, first.

Ao3 link

February 14th, 1938

This was supposed to be the year.

Firo had told himself he would buy flowers this year. Truth be told, he had played with the idea of buying a ring.

1937 had felt fresh and new, at least for a little while. Things were on the way up. It wasn’t like they were handing out a blank check to every American, but he saw fewer people on the street, more lights on in the shops and offices around Little Italy. People started paying their debts, no threats required. On a personal level, too - it felt like it was all behind them, all that trouble and strife, the mess at the casino, Alcatraz, Nebula, all of it had faded into the backdrop. Lately, it was just he and Ennis and Czeslaw, a little family in their little apartment, no threat of attack or kidnapping – or no more than the usual amount that came with being tied to the camorra – and although they were still immortals, still freaks, still not-quite-humans, although he still had centuries of borrowed memories to contend with, he had been able to put all of that to the back of his mind.

Every statistician and politician and mathematician on the planet, or at least this side of the Atlantic, had promised that this would be the year. The year it all went back to normal. Now, Firo had only been a kid back when normal went out the door, so he didn’t have a fantastic recollection of it, but even he could sense it around the corner. It was in the little things, the smiles of the people who came into the Alveare, the fresh smell in the air, the clean, litterless streets.

The economy was recovering; he heard on the news that things were looking up. He wasn’t one for keeping up with all the indexes and the rates of this-and-that, but they were saying it was looking like 1929 again, and he imagined himself back there – 1929, before all that ruckus, before he drank the elixir, before he was even sworn into the family. The peace and quiet of 1929 again, this time with Ennis at his side.

But just like that, spring passed, and with it any optimism for the future. Summer and fall rolled by, and then came a long, bleak winter where no one could deny reality any longer; after a fleeting taste of improvement, they had been plunged back into the worst of it. A new recession.

Firo found himself standing in a flower shop, staring dumbly at the price tag on a bunch of roses and counting the coins in his pocket, thinking he ought to have bought them this time last year - just cut the waiting and seized the moment and accepted better as the best it was going to get.

This was supposed to be the year that he -

No, it was a stupid idea, anyway.

He decided not to buy the roses. He grabbed a few wilting daisies for the windowsill and made his way home.

There was always next year.

February 14th, 1942

Two months earlier, the U.S had entered World War II.

The draft had a way of missing mafiosi. There were all kinds of whispers about it: maybe they ran an ‘essential business’, some old farm or auto-manufacturer that they used as a cover, maybe they had a special agreement with the government, maybe there was cash exchanged, maybe they had a few too many ties back to the homeland and couldn’t be trusted – maybe someone needed those ties, and had to keep them alive, or maybe they got called and just never went – it’s not as if it would be the worst crime a mafioso had ever committed. Whatever the reason, like the Angel of Death, the draft passed them over.

And whatever the reason, the camorra just didn’t have the same sway – maybe a honey shop wasn’t considered essential . Maybe Don Martillo was just too honourable to let his underlings dodge the draft. Firo had heard down the grapevine that a few members of the family would be sent off in the weeks to come.

He would be lying if he said it didn’t make his stomach plunge when he first heard it. An episode of existential panic washed over him, where he imagined himself as a scrawny, twenty-something in a too-big suit being shipped off to fight against seasoned soldiers, and before the reality of his own immortality caught back up to him, he found himself sputtering out a nervous confession over drinks with Ennis.

“Look Ennis, uh, I don’t know if I’ll get called out – drafted, I mean –”

“I’m sure that Mr. Martillo would never let that happen,” Ennis assured him coolly, a soft smile at her lips.

“Yeah, maybe not – you’re probably right,” Stop staring at her lips . Get to the point . “But I should tell you, anyhow, if I do…”

“If you do?” She tilted her head.

“If I do get drafted, I… uh, I know I’d be fine - I mean, I wouldn’t die. But it would be hard to be away for so long, you know?”

“Ah, of course,” she nodded, and looked at him sympathetically. It wasn’t at all the look he had been hoping for. “I am sure Czes would miss you terribly.”

“Uh, yeah, sure, but what I meant was…” he scratched the back of his neck and fell silent.

With the ease of someone who did not have to think about her every move – too easily, as if it meant nothing at all – she reached over and squeezed his hand. “I would miss you, too.”

He could have kissed her right then and there, but he did not.

February 14th, 1969

The newspapers that morning are plastered with Vito Genovese’s old mug. Mafia Kingpin dies while serving time . A heart-attack - not stabbed, or beaten, or shot - just kicked the bucket, just like that. What was he, ten, twelve years older than Firo? Practically a contemporary. And he died an old man, sitting around in his cell until his heart gave out. Not that he had much sympathy for him - Luciano’s lot were as bad as they came. Still, it felt like the start to the end of an era - maybe for more reasons than one.

“He was one of Lucky Luciano’s fellas. He took over for him for a while, actually–” he explained to Ennis when she asked. “Just like I’m taking over for Maiza.”

The start to the end of an era. No more child’s play.

In a few month’s time, Maiza was due to start his trip around the globe. It was stupid, really, considering that he was almost 60 years old, but Firo still felt a little like a kid stepping into his dad’s shoes. Maiza had gifted him a nice silk necktie and told him he could wear it for his date with Ennis (he said it like that, with that smug smirk of his) and maybe it wouldn’t kill him to wear it after that, too . He was too proud to admit that he could count the times he’d worn a necktie on one hand, and had no clue how to tie the damn thing properly. He would look like a complete buffoon fumbling around trying not to strangle himself, and it wasn’t like Ennis wouldn’t be there for the whole show – she lived with him, after all. (Living in sin, the other guys liked to joke - except there was nothing sinful about it.)

Maiza had a point, though. The way he dressed might be alright for the Martillo family’s youngest executive – a title which was starting to feel a little outdated – but if he was going to be their contaiuolo, he would have to be a bit sharper, wouldn’t he? Not just in wits, but in looks, too. A bit more adult. Every button buttoned, tie on straight, reading glasses. Even Vitone was wearing glasses in the paper, although Firo swears he did not remember him needing them back when he was arrested. Either there was something to it, or it was just old age, but they always suited Maiza, anyway, made him look wise. They probably helped him read the accounts, too. Staring at those tiny lines of numbers for hours on end was already giving Firo a headache.

Maybe he would shop around with Maiza before he left, for old time’s sake - make sure he’s all spruced up for the new role.

He had been looking for flowers earlier that day - it felt like he did it every year - but how do you pick out flowers with a dead guy’s mugshot staring at you from the newsrack? It got him thinking about everything to come, and suddenly roses and pansies didn’t feel like his top priority. He was about to promise himself to such a great undertaking - how could he promise himself to Ennis on top of that? What if he couldn’t manage both - being what he needed to be for the family and being what he needed to be for his family?

Maybe when Maiza was done globetrotting, maybe he could think about it then.

February 14th, 1971

If Firo had learned anything over the course of forty years of immortality, it was that there was never going to be a perfect moment. He had endured too many missed opportunities, too many good deals waiting for the best.

Now, all the talk of mutually assured destruction on the radio did not exactly scream let’s spend the rest of our lives together , but when he thought about it, it was pretty meaningless to them. They were cockroaches, weren’t they? The kinds of underground pests who ought to be able to survive an apocalypse. Who knows if they could really withstand nuclear war – but mutually assured destruction, that’s a pact he’s used to, anyway, isn’t it? Don’t raise your right hand and I won’t raise mine - he could die tonight if one of the guys at the Alveare suddenly decided to go on a rampage, but that doesn’t mean it’s ever going to happen.

Besides, it feels like there’s a war every other minute, like America can’t take one single global conflict out on the benches. There could be a truce in the morning, or it could last the next 50 years, but he knew that if the Iron Curtain lifted tomorrow, he would still be too much of a coward to ask Ennis to marry him, so why wait until tomorrow? Why not stop being a coward today?

Of course, it was easier said than done. He had been racking his brain for the past week to come up with a good way to lead up to it, but everything he came up with felt too contrived; he could cook a fancy meal, or invite her out dancing, but she would smell it from a mile away, then the pressure would mount and he would chicken out again.

In the end, they went out for a walk, took in the frost of central park and the crisp, chill air. They sat at a bench in the ramble and watched the chickadees huddle together for warmth on the bare branches, and Firo thought about reaching out to hold Ennis’ hand, but ended up thinking about it too much to actually do it. When the tips of Ennis’ ears went red from the cold, they walked a short distance to a nearby cafe and ordered hot chocolates.

It was there that, with the light chatter around them to break the silence, Firo managed to get a few words out.

“I think you’re beautiful,” he said quickly, almost tripping over his own words. “And I’d like to kiss you.” He kept his eyes fixed on his drink, worried that if he looked up he would see Ennis’ expression change - to confusion, or disgust, or, worst of all, pity. “I can think up some clever lines, if you give me a bit of time, but… I guess I just wanted to say that, first.”

Ennis said nothing, but scooched around the booth to sit beside him. A moment later, he felt a soft kiss on his cheek.

“Is that a good place to start?” Ennis asked him. He looked up to meet her eyes, resting his forehead against hers.

“That’s perfect,” he said, and answered her kiss with one of his own.

#baccano!#baccano #firo prochainezo #ennis (baccano!)#berylliant writing

6 notes · View notes