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He doesn’t want to leave.
Not now. It’s a silly thought (very few people get to choose when they leave), yet there’s no room left for anything else in his mind. Although, even that’s not entirely true. There’s panic, as well. Panic, and a weird sense of calm. And anger, too, a bit, but that one might have already been there to start with.
Last September, Bruno celebrated his 20th birthday. It had been in the midst of a mission in Salerne, and the day had gone by in a flash, without fanfare or, really, anything worth noting. They’d spent it following the tracks of a renegade capo across Campania, only to find him, right around dusk, holed up in the basement of a shabby little pizzeria. They’d dealt with him, rather quickly — his stand, Dream a little dream of me, only managing to knock Mista out before falling to Sticky Fingers’ merciless blows.
He hadn’t told anyone. Hadn’t even thought about it much, in fact, as no one had been there to remind him until it was already night.
The hotel they had stayed in had been nice. He’d treated himself to some champagne, on the house, for the occasion. He’d sipped it by the pool, watching the purplish sky looming above the bustling city, the softly splashing water and the marble-like streaks under its surface.
His thoughts had been a little somber, that night, but not overwhelmingly so. Just a bit gray, just a bit mopey. A half-sadness that made him want to sigh at the absence of stars.
Twenty, he’d thought, an odd, buzzing sensation bubbling at his fingertips. I’m twenty.
What a strange age to be, in this world, in this time. An age that did not mean anything, specifically, but felt like the end of an era all the same.
Bruno hadn’t been a kid in a long time. Perhaps it shouldn’t have phased him that much. Weirdly, though, it felt a bit like a crack in his field of vision.
Farewell to youth, he’d thought, and raised his glass at the horizon.
-
It feels like there’s black mold around his lungs.
It feels like there’s something coating the inside of his chest, glazing his ribcage, like a cloud of mildew, a layer of thin dust. Where his heart used to pound, he can only feel the quiet pressure of his hand. There’s nothing moving in there, no rush of blood, no warm pulse, no wheeze of his lungs — it’s like a shut down factory. Silent and cold and morbidly inanimate.
He presses his hand harder against his chest. Tries to look for anything, a buzz, a throb, a flutter. Anything that would indicate the presence of life. He thinks of a swarm of black flies, of maggots and earthworms. Shudders, heaves. Removes his hand.
He wonders when it’ll happen. Because it will happen, of that he’s sure, without the shadow of a doubt — he’s been allowed some spare time, to use as he sees fit, but that’ll obviously come to an end. Already, he’s stopped bleeding. Already, his skin feels weird : cold, too firm, but weirdly loose in some places, like he’s losing elasticity. He can’t get up too quickly, because his joints keep getting stuck. There’s a rigidity to his neck, which makes it hard to turn, or to nod, or —
He’s losing time.
He isn’t sure how he should feel.
-
He can’t tell anyone. But it’s becoming harder to hide.
Leone hasn’t figured it out, but, slowly, he’s been starting to guess that something is wrong. Bruno can tell, in the way he looks at him. In the way his eyebrow tilts when their eyes meet. In the way his gaze no longer shies away, like it used to, back in the day.
He’s too polite to ask, or maybe his trust in Bruno is just that strong. Either way, it’s quite touching.
If Bruno were to tell anyone about it, though, Leone would certainly be the last. Not because he doesn’t trust him ; it’s quite the opposite. But Leone has a tendency to become reckless and self destructive when he’s sad. And that’s just not something they can afford, not right now.
-
« Bruno ? »
He isn’t sleeping. He should be, it’s so late.
Like this, he’s submerged into darkness, lying into a mess of sheets and covers, despite the warm air of the room. Bruno can hear the muffled music coming from his discarded headphones.
He can’t really tell his features apart, but he’s fairly sure that Leone is looking at him with absolute bewilderment, from the glint in the white of his eyes. He closes the door behind him, and blindly goes for the bed. He feels Leone’s leg move, and sits on the newly freed space atop the mattress.
He should probably say something. But he comes up empty handed.
For a few beats, there’s only the sound of Leone’s breath.
« I… » Bruno finally mutters. His lips feel a little dry. « Can I ask you a favor ? »
Leone straightens up against his pillows. Bruno’s eyes are getting used to the dark, and he can guess the contours of Leone’s head, the pale length of his hair, the light reflected in his eyes, the curve of his jaw — even the part of his lips, when he says, clear and honest :
« Anything. »
He doesn’t hesitate, which makes Bruno smile, half-heartedly. It makes it easier to ask, somehow.
« Can you come here ? »
There’s a little bit of a surprised delay, as if Leone expects him to say more ; when he doesn’t, though, Leone slowly inches forward. He falters, a little, halfway through, but Bruno doesn’t let him, doesn’t break away. He hears the sound of Leone swallowing, the shy breath leaving him.
Bruno gets closer, too. He meets him in the middle.
There’s a slip and slide of sheets around Leone’s form, and it’s all so very warm. He wraps his arms around Bruno, and Bruno finally closes his eyes.
If he had any say in the matter, maybe it would all stop now.
-
It’s September in Salerne.
He’s sitting by the pool when Leone comes to join him, bottle of champagne in hand, and two flutes in the other.
« To celebrate a job well-done, » he says, only the faintest shadow of sarcasm in his voice. « Hotel’s giving it to us for free, apparently. They must’ve heard of Passione. »
« You think ? » Bruno replies, uncrossing his legs to sit up straight and receive the glass of champagne. « Maybe they’ve just seen a gaggle of well-dressed young men and became so overcome with appreciation they just couldn’t help themselves. »
« You know what, I didn’t even consider that option, but I think you might be right. »
Bruno chuckles, swirling the champagne in the flute.
Truth be told, he’s never had champagne before. Liquor has never been his thing ; he’s, once or twice, faked an appreciative hum over a glass of expensive red wine during a meeting ; he’s also, when he was a lot younger, pretended that his grandfather’s homemade plum liquor had not burnt his tongue clean off from its alcoholic intensity — he’d even held the tears back for an impressive amount of time.
He sees the bubbles fizzle to the surface and pop, the pretty golden tint, the condensation beginning to frost the glass ever so slightly.
He understands why people enjoy those fancy drinks so much. Having that dainty little flute in his hand is making him feel quite important.
« Should we have a toast or something ? To that cranky old man’s last day on earth, » Leone asks, jokingly, before taking a sip — before they actually clink glasses. Bruno knows it to be blasphemy, but he doesn’t mention it.
He laughs instead, idly thinking of what, indeed, they might have used as a toast between them — until, suddenly, he realizes.
Today’s a Friday. It’s also the 27th of September, and, coincidentally, the day Bruno Bucellatti was born.
« Ah, » he whispers, eyes drifting to the fizzing bubbles in his glass.
Leone swallows his sip, clicks his tongue, appreciative.
« What is it ? »
The bubbles die on the surface, the sweet scent of champagne reaching Bruno’s nostrils as he dips his lips, licks them, tries to think about whether or not he likes the taste.
« I’m twenty today, » he says, offhandedly — and that’s when the realization truly hits.
Twenty.
What’s in an age , he sometimes asked himself, back when he was a lot younger.
Age isn’t inherently linked to mental or physical capacities, he’d think. Not even to maturity. You are just as strong now as you’ll ever be.
When you spend a third of your life in the mafia, it’s easy to lose yourself in a sea of violence. It makes you grow old, too fast, makes you wither, makes you rot. It makes your heart grow hard like chitin.
This hasn’t happened to him, has it ? He can still be soft. It's not too late to --
He thinks of the boy he was at twelve.
Bruno decides he doesn’t like champagne.
-
It feels strange, like this.
It doesn’t feel wrong. If anything it feels like home, like a rush of comfort washing over him in waves, like a puzzle piece sliding perfectly into a slot where it was most needed.
But it feels strange.
Like his heart is breaking from very, very far away.
He isn’t crying, (he probably can't, even if he wanted to) but there are tremors in his voice, somehow, when he talks — and it’s in a very hushed whisper, because if anyone else heard, anyone else at all, he wouldn’t survive it.
« Hold me, » Bruno says. His neck is getting that painful crick again.
« I’ve got you, » Leone replies, and Bruno feels the drags of his fingernails against his back, a clawing caress, trying so hard to be tender and strong at the same time.
« Harder. Until I can’t breathe. »
Make me feel something, anything.
« Okay, » Leone whispers, and he sounds weirdly serene, like he understands. « Okay. »
Don’t let me succumb to numbness.
Leone does hold him harder. His grip is strong, his arms are warm, his chest is pounding with hot blood and the violence of his affection. Bruno can smell his neck, the conditioner in his hair, the perfume lingering in the collar of his shirt.
It’s overwhelming, how much he longs. His skin itches a little.
« You’re so cold, » comes Leone’s voice, and his hands reach to rub Bruno’s arms, trying to create a rush of blood. « Why’re you so cold ? »
Bruno holds him tighter too. Drowns his face into the warmth of his skin.
You have to be happy, he almost begs, almost relents to his most selfish instincts. So that I haven’t been here for nothing.
« Hey, » Leone says, and his hands reach Bruno’s jaw, cupping it — he brings their faces close together, until they can feel each other’s breath.
Their eyes meet. Leone’s thumbs brush against Bruno’s cheekbones, and the unabashed tenderness feels so odd. Bruno closes his eyes, leans into the touch. Kisses the inside of Leone’s wrist.
He’s so warm all over. It’s funny. With his blue eyes and silver hair, one would expect Leone to be cold, too.
He's not.
He's the warmest thing Bruno has ever felt.
« Is there something you want to tell me ? » Leone asks, hesitantly, and so very low. Like he’s desperately holding back.
Then, because he doesn’t want Bruno to ever think that he’s doubting him, he quickly adds :
« You — you know you can tell me anything. »
How he wishes that were true.
« Do you remember, » Bruno murmurs, after much too long a pause, « On my birthday ? The guy we fought in Salerne. With the narcolepsy stand. »
Slowly, warily, Leone nods.
« He hit Mista with it, » Bruno continues, running his hand through the locks of Leone’s hair — still a little warm from his pillow. « And Mista fell asleep immediately, like the dead. And when we woke him up, he was so lost. He almost didn’t remember where he was, because, while he was asleep, he had this really, really long dream. »
His hand settles against Leone’s scalp, gently rubs there.
« So long it felt like he’d spent a month in a completely different universe. Even though he was only asleep for a minute or two. That was a powerful stand. Imagine what he would have been able to do to other people. »
« Why are you mentioning this now ? »
Bruno hesitates, then lets go of Leone’s hair to lean against him once more.
« I don’t know, » he sighs. « I’m just… reminiscing. »
He grins against Leone’s shoulder.
« But it sounds really nice, doesn’t it ? A long, long dream. Somewhere like this, but just a little different. For a while. »
Leone doesn’t answer right away.
His grip becomes tighter. His fingernails catch Bruno’s shirt, and he can feel it growing taut from the stretch Leone is inflicting.
« You, » he begins, then his voice breaks. « You know I’ll never leave you, right ? No matter what ? »
As if Bruno could ever doubt him.
Soon, however the stars outside are going to fade, and dawn will come. Tick, tick, goes the clock, incessantly, and the world certainly isn’t going to stop for them both. It's fine, though. For now it’s dark. For now it’s all good. For now Bruno is exactly where he wants to be.
« Sing me a song, » he whispers in Leone’s ear, and feels him stiffen.
« What ? »
« I know you sing. You have a beautiful voice. »
« I… I really don’t. »
« Don’t play modest. Sing me to sleep. »
Leone hesitates, but not for very long -- he did make a promise.
They lie back into the bed, Bruno’s body still tucked warmly against Leone’s, held tightly by the embrace of his bare arms. He pulls the cover over them both, and tries to calm his helpless shivers.
Slowly, he drifts off into a dreamless sleep ; lulled by Leone’s soft baritone, words pressed into his temples with the utmost gentleness. Bruno holds onto him for dear life, for reassurance, for all the things he’s sure to miss out on. He tries to take in everything he can : Leone’s scent, the imprint of his cheek against his, the feel of his skin, the pooling heat where their legs meet.
That’s everything he’ll carry with him.
And with some luck, there’ll also be tomorrow.
Say night-ie night and kiss me
Just hold me tight and tell me you'll miss me
While I'm alone and blue as can be
Dream a little dream of me