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[Firo can't come up with a good response and so ignores the comment. He presses his hand to his forehead and debates if he should just go bring the booze here already. The scent of dough baking is already drifting through the room, but he knows they have several minutes to go before it's actually ready.

Best to wait. He's getting the sense that Hank isn't much for self control, and he'd rather not have puke in the kitchen either.]

If you're not gonna clean up after yourself, could you at least stop throwing things around like a kid?

[He turns to watch Hank in the pantry and leans back on the counter. His hands scrabble against the surface on either side of him like nervous spiders--briefly, until he reassures himself that he's not falling even though he can't actually sense the counter on his back or hands.]

Why, won’t the ghosts just pick it all up anyway?

[He looks from Firo’s face to his hands.]

Alright there?

That's no reason to be a slob.

[Despite the harsh language, he mostly just sounds distracted.]

Of course I am. [A brief pause, long enough that it's probably evident Firo's trying to pretend that he's changing the topic, but short enough that it's also probably evident that his question is actually related to the same topic.] ...What exactly's still wrong with you?

[From the sickness, he means, since Hank was just complaining about lingering effects.]

What, uh. [He leans back, taking a second to untangle all the bullshit he's feeling. It's kind of hard.] I don't know, I think it'll be easier to tell once I eat. But, um- I'm not doing this to be a dick - well, maybe a little, but- look, just watch this.

[He digs around for something that's probably a lime and tosses it. If nothing else, it proves that he'll never be in the big leagues; it goes in exactly the opposite direction his fingers were pointing and rolls pathetically under the table.]

I was aiming for the sink.

[Firo's mouth tightens as he watches Hank appear to gear up for an otherwise fine throw and then somehow fumble the fruit. The clumsiness looks familiar to how he's been feeling (or not) the past couple days. He's not inclined to believe it's a coincidence.

That fact could be encouraging--that means that the symptom at least isn't abnormal. He tries to keep his mind on that thought instead of the nagging worry that this symptom remaining could mean that others will stick around.

Realizing that he's staring a little, he shrugs one shoulder and looks off to the kitchen entrance.]

...That doesn't really tell me much unless I know how bad you throw normally.

[Look, he has to get some sort of barb in, even though Hank's just provided him with helpful information. Instead of returning the favor, he hesitates a moment, then nods and walks over to the oven to take a peek.]

All right, thanks.

Thanks? For what, throwing food? I'd say we can have a foodfight once everything's back to normal around here so you can see how I throw, but I don't think 'normal' is ever gonna happen.

How long does this normally take? The whole pizza from scratch thing? No one makes em like that where I'm from.

For the information.

[No food fight, please.]

Not much longer. It depends on how thick you make it.

[This'll be a pretty thin pizza, since he knows they both want this to be over soon. He looks over his shoulder at Hank.]

Did you cook much of anything back where you're from?

Uh... [He leans back, looking away at the food scattered across the kitchen and scratching at his beard.] Not for a while. Probably lost the knack. That was with a kitchen that actually made sense, too. And food you didn't have to catch and kill and plant in the fucking fields yourself just to get fuckin lunch going. So, I don't know. No, probably, by your standards.

[They're stupid standards. Is that clear? This place is stupid. The kitchen is stupid. He's tired of forgetting to come to the kitchen at the right time and having to survive off fruit.]

Don't worry, I'm not gonna start knocking on your door in the middle of the night with uncontrollable pizza cravings, or anything.

Not everything takes that much effort here.

[Are they really his standards if it's Astoria's world and he's just living in it?

The thought of Hank knocking on his door at night is nightmarish at best, and he makes no effort to spare Hank his grimace of distaste.]

Good, I'd kick your ass if you did.

[Hank huffs a laugh, catches his breath in habitual preparation for a cough- a cough that, hey, doesn't come. That's still cool. He takes a slow, deep breath.]

Gotta take care of my own cravings. Noted. Guess I'll just learn to really like weird produce. Think I'll have to learn how to make bread before I can even try to get used to mutated-cucumber sandwiches?

[His definition of 'everything' and Firo's probably differ. Everything is absolutely going to take that much effort, except the shittier options that aren't even worth it anyway like, say, living off apples. Fuck apples.]

[He sighs and once again wishes that he'd brought the booze with them. But he reminds himself that this is to make his life easier in the long run--besides, he's used to putting up with weird chatter from Isaac and Miria, Dragon, and even Ladd. He smiles to think that he should at least be grateful that Hank is just eccentric and obnoxious and not a psycho cannibal.]

Why don't you just swipe food from breakfast or dinner if you're that desperate?

[Speaking of food, the scent of freshly baked dough and melting cheese is about to get stronger as Firo finally determines that their pizza is ready. He wraps a towel around his hand and slides it out of the oven onto a plate. Ta-da!

Hank is now one (1) pizza away from the sweet, sweet oblivion of moonshine.]

Sounds like you expect me to keep track of time. How do you remember breakfast or dinner when we’re busy having all this fun?

[Hank eyes the pizza, frowning. Is it worth getting up for?

Yeah, probably. Fuck. He starts slowly hauling himself to his feet, and once he gets there closes his eyes and swallows, leaning against the doorway.]

Honestly, I don't really expect anything of you now. Remember when it is or starve.

[But, hey, it looks like Hank got up, so Firo can at least be reassured that this probably wasn't all for nothing. He holds the plate towards Hank.]

Here, take it. You know how to feed yourself, right?

[The act of giving food to the guy has to be balanced out by something acrimonious, so he gets that verbal jab with his meal. It's the Firo special.]

I'm tempted to say no and just fall face first into it. You think that would work?

[The plate starts to slide out of his hand when he tries to take it. He isn't surprised, at this point; he frowns, sighs, and holds the plate from underneath instead, then manages to collapse onto a chair. He doesn't dig into it right away, just takes a second to fight down the feeling that if he tries it's just going to come right back up.]

Or maybe I should save that for the- what are you calling that shit, anyway? Moonshine?

[Ah. Should've anticipated that handing over the pizza wouldn't be so simple either. Firo's hand twitches out but stops when Hank seems to have it under control.]

That'd be a waste of your one bottle, unless you wanna be into me for another favor.

[Carefully, so that he doesn't miss and go falling onto the floor, Firo takes a seat across from Hank.]

I don't want to be 'into you' at all, kid.

[He sets an elbow on the table and goes to lean his face against his fist, misses the first time, and kind of dips in his seat a second before righting himself. This does not, by the way, make the expression he looks down at the pizza with any happier.]

You can't act like it doesn't sound like a good idea right now, though. I mean, you had the same... [Hell?] ...the same kind of time I did, right? You can't tell me you don't need to lose your shit too, just a little.

[Firo opens his mouth--and maybe reddens just a tad--at the use of his words for a double entendre but holds back at the last second. Maybe it's better to let that relatively small remark slide so that they can move on.

He sits up straighter to avoid the embarrassment of unintentionally mimicking Hank's struggles with leaning.]

Even if I did, why would I wanna lose my shit in front of you? We're not friends or anything.

[He wouldn't lose his shit in front of his friends either, but he thinks his implied meaning is clear enough. What kind of a man just trots out that weakness in front of someone who barely knows him? And, hell, doesn't even really like him.]

[He breathes out a little laugh.]

Right on. No need to be gentle with me; I can take it.

[He toys with one corner of the pizza, takes a breath, frowning, and tears the corner off to kind of try a careful nibble.]

I guess if you want hugs and moral support during your breakdowns you would have to be careful where you have em, huh?

[Lacking sauce, the pizza's taste most closely resembles white pizza, though the weird Temple cheese is a bit sharper than mozzarella.

Firo watches Hank try it but is more focused on their conversation for now. Since he's being unusually nice today, he figures he'll spell out more of the danger for Hank. Cynicism as a public service!]

Or if you don't want your weakness used against you.

[Not that he's necessarily going to do that to Hank, but a lot of people would. He wrinkles his nose at the thought of hugs.]

Is that what you want?

[He leans back in an subconscious "no homo" evasive action.]

I was talkin about you, dumbass.

[The first mini-bite seems like it's settling okay so he tries another, a little bigger as his body starts to think maybe it might just be kind of hungry.]

But I didn't think about whether you were just trying to be tough. Forgot that was a thing, I guess. You should try losing all your dignity some time; it's not all bad, once it's gone. Kind of freeing, you know?

[Oh. Firo glances away, thinking that this is what he gets for trying to be nice--now he's just tipped his own hand. Like an idiot.]

After seeing your example, I'm gonna say no thanks to that.

[Hank's a puzzle. For a bum, he's surprisingly self-aware and frank about his bumness. Firo's never heard dignity talked about like it's optional; a normal person would never, and the people who don't have it never seem to realize it.]

When did you decide to go do that, huh?

[Hank snorts, watching his hands toy with the pizza.]

What, you think I just woke up one day with my mind made up? Nah, about the second or third time you wake up in your own puke you kind of realize dignity packed up and snuck out while you weren't lookin. So. this is too 'weak' for you, how are you planning on dealing with all this shit? Go back to your room and yell into a pillow, or is that 'weakness' too? Are mobsters even allowed to emote?

[Firo sighs and shrugs. He doesn't really think about how to cope with things, so Hank's question is one he doesn't know how to begin to answer.

Except denial.]

There's nothing to deal with. We already got through the worst of the sickness. ...This stuff is probably gonna wear off soon.

["This stuff" being their shared inability to pick things up without looking like they're two thirds of the Three Stooges.

He's not basing his assumption in any medical knowledge, just blind hope.]

[Hank gives a slow nod, looking at him.]

Guess that's a no. A hundred years didn't change a lot for you guys, did it.

[Then he leans forward and - finally - takes an actual bite of the pizza. He pauses to make sure it's fine, taking a deep breath. It is fine, he's pretty sure, but he hasn't stopped feeling funky yet.]

What's that supposed to mean?

[It's a genuine question, since he wouldn't think that what he sees as his very grown-up perspective is that worth commenting on--or exclusive to gangsters (not that he socializes much outside of his circle). He can't help but be curious about the state of gangsterdom in the future. The current picciotto are... honestly a bit disappointing, not that Firo wants to admit that.

Come on, Hank. Give him hope that the future generation will embrace toxic masculinity and bury their feelings too.]

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