#r.michael

[biiscione]

Toxic smoke rolls on the tongue he bites, expelling it through his nose in a frustrated sigh. While Michael may be correct, Raphael wasn’t particularly one to do as he’s told. If he was suggested, perhaps, but he is a proud man, stubborn. He’s paved his own path, independent and indulgent, and not even marriage (or a child) could so easily sway him. A shame, really.

Thumbing out the lit cigarette, he coldly returns the half - burned, tobacco - stuffed paper into its silver case. He is feeling particularly charitable today, obedient, perhaps even kind, but not enough so to not call his spouse by his given name. To the capofamiglia, it rolls off the tongue better, sounds sweeter, and reminds him of home. Disappointment often blooms in his chest when he is reminded, often by his husband, that not everyone could be so blithe about their non-anglican names

Raphael stares past Michael, at the crowning that adorns the perimeter of the playroom's walls. "This is MY home, Michele." He asserts, a bitter stubbornness nipping at the heels of his husband's name. Dark hues only offer the other a quick glance, not giving him the dignity of his full attention. Not until, that is, Michael's proposition resonates in the forefront of his mind. Bending slightly at the waist, he searches for his deceit and decides, most erroneously, that his husband is being nothing less than earnest.

"I've hardly ever denied you," Raphael begins with a smug pride, "but before I indulge you, I must ask Why now?" Prying is something that comes natural to the magnate, overtly in this moment and discreetly most other times. He was not shy about his extramarital exploits, as he never intended this relationship to be entirely anything but socially transactional, but he did not recoil at Michael's seemingly shy advances. Maybe they could make this work, he thinks for a moment, if Michael was able to rise to the challenge, any challenge that came with being a lover of his.

His face contorted into a disapproving frown as he caught Raphael's sidelong glance and silently interpreted his clandestine offer of treats to the young boy. The weight of caring for the kingpin's son in his father's absence had fallen heavily on Michael over the years. As a result, he had become deeply invested in the boy's welfare as he took on the role of the disciplinary parent. With his hands firmly planted on his hips, he shot Raphael a stern look and shook his head with determination. Their son, always full of boundless energy, certainly didn't need any more sugar to fuel him, but as the boy giggled and darted off, he found himself almost willing to allow the indulgence in sweets as a parting gift before he disappeared into protective services.

"Don't smoke in here," Michael scolded, his voice laced with annoyance and concern. He disliked how the smell of smoke clung to everything and was adamant about keeping their son away from it, as he suspected it wasn't conducive to his development. But, as always, Raphael disregarded his plea.

Michael couldn't help but tense whenever Raphael addressed him using the Italian variation of his name. In truth, his given name was Michele, but he chose to adopt the English/American version, and the Bureau had been lazy when selecting a new name for him. "I asked you not to call me that," He didn't want to think that Raphael knew his true identity, "There's been more anti-sentiment at work; I don't want you slipping and giving someone a reason to sack me."

He appeared sheepish for a moment as his eyes darted around before he pretended to finally muster the courage to speak. "I want more than this," he announced. For the past year, he had carefully woven a web of deceit with longing glances and unnecessary physical contact with the other man. All this was done to get Raphael to send his son away so he would be alone when the raid happened. "The last time I was with anyone was before our arrangement started, and I want to know if this can become more. If not, maybe I can have something with someone else. Discretely, of course. If not, I want a divorce."

[biiscione]

"Is that so?" Raphael hums in response to Michael's revelation, lengthy arms scooping up the child and placing him on his hip. Fingers comb back chestnut curls, revealing wide eyes, youthful, innocent mirrors of his own. 'Sweet boy,' he often thinks prays, 'you will never know cruelty mine or the world's'.

"You' ll have a fine time at nonna's." He prophesizes in his mother tongue, fixing the boy's hair as it curls around his ear. "Perhaps she'll take you to the festival. You'll get some lemon ice," a pause, passing a sidelong glance at his husband before leaning in to whisper, "and lots of sweets." His son's joy is infectious and, if he had reservations about sending him away, it dissipates into the ether with the boy's ringing laughter. How could he deny his only child now?

The boy dances out of the playroom and into the dimly lit hall, determined to pack for himself (which would then have to be unpacked and repacked by the help), leaving his fathers to their own devices.

"I am terribly surprised to see that my mother voluntarily rang you." Raphael offers, playful suspicion spelling itself out in black orbs. Thin fingers pull his cigarette case from his breast pocket, springs clinking as he reveals its contents and plucks a thin cigarette from them. He lets silence linger, its heaviness conveying the weight upon bony shoulders, the impending doom he has only ever felt.

"Michele," tendrils of smoke curl around his faux husband’s name, consuming it as he hesitates in a rare moment of outward curiosity. “Why now? Reaching out to my mother,” a presumptive conclusion, “wanting more time together—? What’s changed?”

Michael had found himself in a compromised situation, and it wasn't because the Arrigo family had finally discovered the meticulously crafted cover the Federal Bureau had created for him. Instead, it was because an innocent little boy had placed him in a moral dilemma and had been unknowingly chipping away at his resolve for years. Now, after siphoning enough information about the crime syndicate, his assignment was nearing its end as the Bureau was planning a decisive action against his pretend husband, and Michael was undergoing a crisis on how to protect the boy they had raised together and how to dissociate from him when it was all over.

"Your mother called. She wants to take him for a few weeks," he lied. In reality, Michael had called Raphael's mother, asking if she would be willing to babysit so they could have some "quality bonding" time together. This way, their-no! Raphael's son wouldn't be present if the authorities chose to raid their residence instead of when the capofamiglia was away on business. He stood up from the child-sized table where they had been practicing Italian for hopefully a trip and brushed off his trousers, before looking at the boy attached to the kingpin's leg, /"Because your nonna misses you, doesn't she, piccolino? And your papas can use some time together."/