Chapter Text
It wasn't often that the entire gang got together to have dinner, let alone a normal dinner. Someone was always missing, usually Trish or Fugo. But tonight, everyone was present; and it was, dare Leone say, comforting. He's sat at the head of the table and Bruno on the other side. Trish is to his left, and Giorno to his right; Mista beside him, and Narancia beside Trish. Fugo had to grudgingly shove in his own chair next to his new boy toy, which hardly even fit under the table.
Giorno insisted on preparing the feast, with some help from Mista and Trish, who're apparently experts on cooking. Previous dinners by them are evidence that they are not. But Leone is starving for once, and he bothers Bruno with annoying, obnoxiously-loud kisses until the food is ready.
Dinner is meat, or something. Leone honestly doesn't even taste it, he's just shoveling forkfuls of soggy pieces of flesh into his mouth like a complete pig. But what's even better than the meat is that Bruno allowed him some alcohol with his meal. It's rum, a bit weak, but rum nonetheless. It's so sweet on his tongue, and for something he's been denied for so long, it's very hard to moderate. But every time he takes a sip, Bruno stares him down like a hawk. It's unnerving, but he understands.
"Jeeze, Abba. Slow down," Mista laughs, seasoning his meat pile with pepper. Leone pointedly glares at him mid-drink. Right next to him, Giorno is watching as well, his brows furrowed and lips stretched over his fork. Leone stares at him for a moment, and soon thinks he knows what the guy wants.
"You want some rum, huh?" he mumbles, voice hushed in an attempt to muffle his words from Bruno. Giorno looks surprised for just a second, but he quickly covers it up with a short nod. He glances back to his boyfriend, then starts to hurriedly fill up the man's empty glass. "Okay, just pretend I-"
"Leone," Bruno's voice pierces through each conversation at the table, stunning them all to silence. He winces. "What are you doing?"
"Giorno wants to try some rum," he says a bit sheepishly, slowly setting the bottle back on the table. "He's almost twenty-four, Bruno. I think he can handle it." The named man purses his lips, glancing down at his own wine.
"Just a little," he compromises, "no more than a glass." Giorno ducks his head down in a nod at his capo's acceptance and takes a sip of the rum. His face instantly screws up in disgust, and he forces it down with a grimace. Leone laughs obnoxiously-loud at his misfortune until Mista flicks an olive right into his eye with precision only the cap-donning dumbass of Passione can possibly muster. He stands, about to retaliate until Bruno clears his throat, and he slowly sits back down with a pout. Mista narrows his eyes and smirks.
Leone thoroughly does not enjoy dinner, more forcing it down his throat before he tastes it than anything. He's the first to finish, but thankfully, everyone else is close behind. Narancia insists on dessert and leaves with Mista to search for anything in the refrigerator that might loosely define it. He shuts his eyes until then, just listening to Bruno's small talk and losing himself in the comfort of his voice.
Eventually, Narancia and Mista come out of the kitchen with a plate full of cake. It's frosted pink, looking just as gay as the entire gang is.
"What the hell is that diabetes train wreck," Leone mutters, rubbing at his eyes.
"Cake," Mista helpfully explains. He rests his forehead on his palm and sighs deeply.
"I know it's cake, dumbass. I'm asking what's in it–”
"Oh! Strawberry, I think." Leone hums thoughtfully, ultimately deciding on reaching out and stealing a slice for himself. Mista quickly takes the second so he wouldn't be stuck with the dreadful number four, and the rest of the gang follows suit.
"You're gonna haf'ta share with me," Narancia says after a comfortable silence, pushing the cake over towards Fugo. Leone expects an explosion, but the blond just calmly picks up his fork and breaks off a piece for himself. Seems the kid really is helping him out; he smiles warmly for just a moment.
He takes sips of his rum in-between bites, to which Mista loudly inquires, "Who the fuck drinks rum with their cake?"
"Me," Leone mumbles, finishing his second glass of the night. He can hear Bruno sigh deeply, and the silver-haired man winces. "I'm- I'm done now, though. I'm done for tonight," he tacks on, not entirely a promise. Bruno ducks his head down in a nod, but his eyes look distant and sad. It breaks his heart.
The rest of the gang ignores, or perhaps doesn't even notice, the growing tension. They talk loudly about things that aren't important to Leone, and he stares down at his empty glass until they're done eating.
His love for Bruno is eternal, but the dangers of falling back into the deep pit of alcoholism are so easy for Leone to overlook. He ducks away from the gang as they clean up, sneaking another bottle of rum and slipping out onto the darkened balcony where no one should look to find him.