The slow shift of his activity was grueling. Risotto believes it would be worth it, for whatever insolent reason he'd conjured. He couldn't much remember.

No longer was he awake during the day, his presence only known as the sleeping lump in the bed, as the curiosity of night would come to plague him like a senseless disease. His obsession over the face, the person, of (Y/n) was enough to drive him mad. 

It was not that there was any particular interest, for any particular reason; all it was and would ever be, he told himself, is simple wonder. If this vampire was so sure to treat him kindly, he ought to know why, and the face of the person keeping him safe and (partially) sane, even if he was the reason he wasn't safe in the first place.

Sneaking around was second-nature to him. It'd been a skill Risotto had since forever, not necessarily since he'd been born, though something like that. Some joked he should get a bell put on him. They weren't really joking.

If he was right, then everyone should be busy doing something. Prosciutto was most likely making another monstrosity. Pesci was probably helping him. Formaggio should be outside playing fetch with the hound using his own arm. Sorbet and Gelato are scrambling the library again. And Melone, he guessed, was the one that just left through the front door.

That left (Y/n), his goal, his source of wonder, and him. He wished with what little hope he could scrounge together that everything would go smoothly. It was important to note that he was still aware it would not.

But he would be damned if he didn't try, if he didn't test his luck and work the courage to satiate his hunger for answers. He had no other particular interest in the vampire, at least not one he could name, when he considered his desperation.

Through the countless nightly visits (Y/n) would grace him with, his curiosity only swelled, building atop itself and massing into something he could no longer stand. He wanted to see his face. Just once, maybe, if at all.

Just like he said before, his face would change nothing. (Y/n) made sure to remind him of that every time his attempt to see it was put to a stop. But Risotto argued, if it changed nothing, then why couldn't he see it? The vampire didn't answer.

So he ought to know, he figured, what would change. If it was nothing, then he would leave it at that; if there was something, well, then, what might it be?

The search for the lord's room was harrowing. Not that it took any particular effort to locate  doors tall enough to nearly double his size, it was merely a matter of bravery. What if this invasion of privacy would be the tipping point to his death? Perhaps his little chase was planned, and (Y/n) was luring him to a silver platter?

He'd feel awfully stupid if that were the case, though he was sure it wasn't. It was just the anticipation talking, gnawing at his thoughts in hopes he'd run back with his tail between his legs. His mind only filled with more manic rambling when his hand closed around the intricate doorknob.

And when he finally twisted it, silence. 

Risotto felt an alarming chill rush over his body in a flood, like the door had been sealed for unkindly centuries. Beyond its swinging hinges, was nothing. He mused himself to think that the air that escaped was the only thing in there at all.

He had enough mind to at least bring a candle with him, a few matches as spares, and lit himself a torch. Its sunken orange color illuminated very little, and left him about as clueless as he would've been in the dark hadn't he brought one at all. At least he could see where he stepped, however barely.

There wasn't even an inkling of a hint that could've given away the layout of the room, except for the slightest rumble. Now, he'd say a hum, or a jar of wasps could have been more accurate if it was sound alone, but no. He heard a rumbling, and couldn't quite place its origin.

As lost as he'd been in the woods those days again, only now barren of sight, he stumbled around the room, playing a horrid game of hot-and-cold with the sound, fearful it may be more than just some object left to buzz.

And that was when he found the edge of the bed, hidden in the very back of the room. At first he was sure it was another desk, the third he'd have found, but the heavy blanket was enough to change that assumption.

Nearing the candle to the fluff, he noticed it was an odd blue, not one any typical dye could accomplish-- as though its color was plucked right from the sky on a snowy day, and left to bleed into the coat.

He let his hand only dawdle along the blue blanket a moment longer, admiring its soft, thick body, when he realized. The rumbling hadn't been as soft as it was before, nearly twice as loud now, and if he let his hand move down the blanket, it would land on a soft pit that would rise and fall with each grim hum.

There have been many times now where Risotto was sure of his death, or at least, frightened enough to consider it, and this would amount to be one of them.

That was not a blanket, no rolled cover set to the end of the bed like any regal master would have it, like he assumed (Y/n) would have it. This was the hound Prosciutto mentioned many days back. There wasn't the slightest doubt.

Melone had a name for it, not that he could remember what, or that it was of much importance. He just new this was the last of the manor's residents that he needed to greet, and this had to be the worst way he could've gone about it.

"Careful now," A voice, low and saccharine, whispered from just a few away. "You wouldn't want to wake him. He just finished playing, so he's quite tired."

After discovering the reality of the blanket he'd found, which wasn't actually a blanket as many might've known, he'd wondered if he'd actually gone into the wrong room after all. The voice that called to him reassured him he didn't.

"What is it you're doing here?" (Y/n) asked, he assumed it was (Y/n) at least, with a curious tone. "I didn't think you'd be so brave to barge into my room, no less where Ghiaccio sleeps."

Ghiaccio. That was the dogs name.

"Forgive me," He whispered back. "I was looking for you. You didn't visit like usual."

"You've come to like my visits?"

"I've learned to enjoy them despite the circumstances. While I have yet to know why I'm here, I do know that you are a friend."

"A friend." (Y/n) laughed in quiet breaths. "I see. Then what may I help you with, friend?"

"I'm sure you might already know."

"My face, then?"

"Correct."

"You know, I've only let you hold that candle alight for so long because I was feeling hopeful. I see now that I was wrong."

"Wrong about what?"

An empty sigh left his lips, and with what little light could reach to where he sat, Risotto though he slumped where he sat, dejected. "I thought, foolishly, of course, that maybe you'd come for something else. I don't see why my face is so important."

"It isn't. But I feel I can't fully trust you without knowing that one part of you."

"You humans are the same. Never trust what you can't see, don't understand. It's understandable, but Risotto, I have yet to wrong you. I don't know why I'm being treated like this."

"Please," He stammers, "I don't mean to insult you. I know you're not some attraction beneath a veil, itching to be revealed, but, I find something about you compelling. I need to more about you, seek more of you."

"Then ask about me. My face will be the last thing you'll need to see to understand me."

He was right, perhaps by a length too much. He didn't much wonder about the vampire outside of their conversation, other than thinking about his face. Perhaps that negligence to his character was more of an insult than the blatant disrespect of entering his room alone.

"Alright, but I have too many questions, I fear, for you to answer."

"Go ahead. I'd love to answer all of them. I'd love to talk."