Archive of Our Own

“So when are you going to tell me where, exactly, you’re taking me?”

Bruno huffs a laugh at the petulant whine in Leone’s voice and curls his fingers tight around his boyfriend’s hand, partly because he can and partly in case Leone tries to make a run for it. It wouldn’t be the first time. “I told you already, it’s a surprise. It wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you our destination before we arrive, would it?”

“Hmph.” Despite his obvious displeasure, Leone squeezes back, a tiny sign of affection that Bruno revels in. “Fine, I get that...but is the blindfold really necessary?”

Bruno glances at the band of red he’d tied around Leone’s eyes and smiles, shrugging despite knowing perfectly well that Leone can’t see the action. The pink hearts and white clouds patterned on the cloth obscure his usual sharp glare, softening his harsh demeanour, and it’s a ridiculously adorable look on him - but Bruno knows better than to say so aloud. It took him ten minutes just to convince Leone not to immediately remove the blindfold and if he so much as mentions the word ‘cute’, Leone will most definitely rip it to pieces.

“Perhaps not, but I thought it would add some suspense. Make the surprise more...surprising, you know? But if it really bothers you, you can take it off.”

Leone grumbles something unintelligible under his breath.

“Sorry?”

“I said it’s fine,” Leone says, louder. “I trust you won’t let me walk into something and fall on my face.”

“Of course I won’t.”

Though, navigating the streets of Napoli without letting Leone crash into anything or anyone had been a more difficult task than Bruno expected. The streets were more crowded than usual, with vendors and pedestrians clogging up the sidewalks and restaurants setting up extra tables and chairs outside to accommodate the influx of couples dining out. He should have anticipated this, given the date, but somehow it slipped his mind amidst all the other things he’d been worrying about.

“Besides, we’re almost there,” Bruno adds, spotting the telltale neon sign of the hotel he booked several paces ahead. Its luminous yellow glow is backlit by the twilight sky visible above the evening horizon, and Bruno’s almost tempted to take off Leone’s blindfold so they can drink in the gorgeous scenery together. But the name of the hotel - one controlled by Passione for decades - would be a dead giveaway to his surprise, and he’s not going to risk slipping up when they’re already so close.

Leone snorts. “Finally,” he says. “We must be pretty far from where we started - haven’t we been walking for almost half an hour?”

“Mmm.” Actually, they’re only about a few minutes away from their starting point at the dock, but Bruno led them around the same two blocks thrice to stall for time. The preparations should have finished about an hour ago, but he figured it was better to give them all a bit of extra time in case they needed it.

He leads Leone through the crowds of people and pushes open the large wooden doors of the hotel. The front entrance is grand even for a five-star establishment, with marble pillars and black-and-white checkered flooring decorating the classy interior, but Bruno sees it on a monthly basis when he comes to collect protection money from the owner and continues walking without stopping to marvel at the interior of the place. The room he booked is located on the ground floor near the back of the hotel and he drags Leone towards it, muttering a quick apology when he walks a bit too quickly and has to catch Leone before he trips over his feet.

Leone regains his balance and scowls, though there’s no heat behind it. “Are we in a hotel or something?”

Bruno pauses. “We are. How did you know?”

“Floors are clean enough to be slippery,” he answers, grinding the heel of his boot against the ground to emphasize his point and producing a high-pitched squeaking sound that shrills in their ears. “And I overheard the receptionist talking to someone on the phone about booking a room.” He throws what Bruno assumes is a suspicious look in his direction. “Did you book us a hotel room?”

Bruno grins. Leone, for all his proclamations that he’s worthless, is so much smarter than he lets anyone believe, especially himself. “I did book us a room, but it’s not the kind of room you’re thinking of.”

Leone’s eyebrow twitches. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see soon enough. It’s right this way - wait a moment -”

The door to the room is locked. After he jiggles the brass knob for a few seconds, then braces his shoulder against the surface in an unsuccessful attempt to break it down through brute force, he gives up and unzips the door down the middle.

Bruno pokes his head through the gap he’s created and comes face-to-face with Mista.

“Ah! Buccellati!” Mista jumps back, covering his heart with one hand. His other hand is grasping a bouquet of sunny yellow roses. “You scared me!”

Bruno ignores him and scans the room, eyes narrowing as he looks around. “What’s this?”

“It’s - the banquet hall you requested?”

“I gave all five of you a list,” Bruno says slowly. “Half of the things I wrote on that list aren’t here.”

“Some of it’s in the back but yeah, we ran into a few minor problems with the decorations and stuff,” he says flippantly. “Trish and Narancia are bringing in some of the things that didn’t make it yet. And there’s also some, well, more-than-minor problems that I bet Fugo or Giorno would love to discuss with you later, because I don’t think they told me everything.” Mista shifts his balance onto one foot, then back to the other. “I’m just doing what they told me to do - to finish setting up the place. But I’m almost done! You can bring Abba in and give these to him. And, uh, I know you asked for red roses but the florist was out so I got these yellow ones instead!”

Before Bruno can say anything, Mista shoves the bouquet into his arms and runs off. He sighs, bending to give the flowers a wary sniff. At least they do smell fresh and not like Mista pulled them out of a dumpster - something Bruno has, in fact, seen him do in the past.

“What’s going on?” says Leone from behind him, sounding vaguely annoyed. “In case you’ve forgotten, I can’t see anything.”

“Ah, sorry Leone.” He reaches back to grab his hand and guide him through the opening in the door. Leone’s grip is tight around his palm, and Bruno carefully pries his fingers loose so he can reach for his face. Leone flinches back from the unexpected contact, but stills and allows Bruno to untie the blindfold.

The fabric falls from where it was wrapped around his head and Leone blinks, squinting as his eyes adjust to the brightness. Fortunately the lighting in the room is low, as per Bruno’s instructions, and it doesn’t take long for Leone’s eyes to visibly adjust and take in the scene.

Painted white walls border the large banquet hall, with intricately designed molding and long elegant curtains draping from the ceiling to the floor. A large window takes up the entirety of one wall, overlooking a brook and a small garden of lush green herbs and budding flowers. On the other side of the room, dazzling spotlights shine on an assortment of sound equipment and reflect off of the polished stage. In the centre of the room sits a square table covered by a pale pink tablecloth and transparent glass dishware, located directly underneath a shining gold chandelier. An empty glass vase, presumably meant for the roses in Bruno’s hands, rests on one corner of the table.

Leone walks further into the room, turning slowly to look at everything. “Did you organize all of this?”

Bruno pockets the blindfold. “For the most part. I made a list of everything I wanted done, and everyone else put it together.” He fidgets in place, folding his hands behind his back. From here, he can’t see Leone’s expression, and it’s unnerving him a little. He says, a little too quickly, “I know you said Valentine’s Day is an overcommercialized holiday and that we shouldn’t buy anything for each other, but we haven’t had the chance to go out on a date in weeks and I wanted today to be nice. It doesn’t have to be significant to Valentine’s Day if you don’t want it to be, but I thought you deserve a special night off and -”

“Bruno.” Leone’s turned back to look at him and oh, there’s that softness in his eyes that Bruno’s rarely seen directed at anyone but himself, and he always feels so, so lucky to be the recipient of Leone’s rare warmth. “I love it. Thank you.”

Bruno rests a hand on Leone’s arm. “I'm glad,” he says, and takes the opportunity to hand him the bouquet. “These are also for you.”

Leone takes them, doing a double take when he sees the yellow roses. “These -”

“Mista said they ran out of red roses,” Bruno explains hurriedly. “Yellow isn’t the traditional romantic colour, I know, but -”

“Bruno,” says Leone, a tinge of fond exasperation creeping into his tone. “They’re fine. Really. Look, I know I said Valentine’s Day is stupid but that doesn’t mean everything has to be perfect for you to prove to me that it’s not.” He sighs through his nose. “If they’re from you, then it’s already perfect, okay?”

Bruno’s cheeks immediately warm from the compliment. “Oh. Okay.” He coughs. “Thank you.”

“There is one thing I want to ask, though,” Leone adds.

“Yes?”

“If this date is just the two of us...why did you need to rent an entire banquet hall?”

“Oh!” Bruno brightens. “There’s a few other things I have planned that will need the space in this room. They’re not here yet, but some of them should be on the way -”

He’s cut off by a dull thud and the sound of breaking glass just outside the door, followed by a litany of swearing.

Leone cuts his gaze to the entrance. “Is that Narancia?”

His question is answered when the door is unlocked and kicked open to reveal Narancia, twirling the key in one hand and looking supremely pissed off. At his feet lies a heap of broken wine bottles, the jagged glass shards dyed crimson by the spreading puddle of red wine.

Footsteps sound behind them and Bruno turns to see Fugo emerge from the staff’s room set in the corner of the hall. “I heard a crash, is everything alright?”

His eyes widen at the sight of Narancia before narrowing into slitted fury, and he quickly marches over. Bruno cringes, knowing what’s going to happen but still holding out one hand in a useless attempt to forestall the incoming explosion. “Fugo, wait -”

Fugo brushes him off and snarls in Narancia's face, “All I asked you to do was buy the wine while the rest of us took care of everything else, and you couldn’t even do that simple task? How the fuck did you even drop all of them?! Are you sure you’re taking this seriously?!”

“Yes, I am!” Narancia says defensively, stomping his foot. “The floor’s too slippery and I ran into the wall while I was taking the key out of my pocket so I fell - I didn’t drop them on purpose!”

“Why were you running while carrying wine bottles?!”

“Because you,” yells Narancia, jabbing Fugo in the chest with the key, “told me to get back here by six o’clock, and I’m almost late, and I knew you’d be mad if I was late!”

Fugo sneers, contempt written in every line of his stiff posture. “It’s already past six o’clock, idiot, so congratulations, I’m mad at you for being late and for breaking every single bottle you bought! Damn it, why can’t you ever do anything right?!”

Narancia puffs up like an angry bird, but before he can fire back an even nastier slew of insults, Bruno elbows his way in between to forcibly separate them.

“That's enough,” he says, letting the familiar stress he can feel building up inside him bleed into his voice. “Narancia, you shouldn't be running indoors. Get a mop, garbage bag, and some gloves from the hotel staff and clean up the mess. Fugo, it was an accident, so stop putting all the blame on Narancia and tell me what's going on.”

Narancia sticks his tongue out at Fugo before heading off, this time at a considerably slower pace. Fugo watches him go, his shoulders slumping as all his fight visibly drains out.

“Sorry,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “I shouldn't have - I'll apologize to Narancia later.”

“Good,” says Bruno. “Now, what happened?”

He knows Fugo well enough to recognize that, despite his ever-present hair trigger temper, he doesn’t truly blow up very often anymore. On the rare occasions he does, there’s always an underlying cause that has nothing to do with the surface reason. And Narancia, more often that not, ends up being Fugo’s last straw.

“Everything's been going wrong,” says Fugo, sounding exhausted as he drags a hand through his hair. “Mista mentioned you noticed half of your list is missing? It's because most of the places we visited to make the arrangements were either too busy, out of stock, closed for the day, or not in the country.”

Bruno frowns. “What's not in the coun -?”

“So we've had to make do with a few replacements,” Fugo barrels on, not hearing him. “I won't talk about all of them since you'll be seeing them soon anyway, but...for example, the wine Narancia was supposed to bring isn't from the winery you requested, because we only learned this afternoon that it went bankrupt last month.”

Bruno glances at the sad puddle of wine on the floor. He keeps the disappointment off his face - Fugo looks guilty enough as it is - but he used to buy all the top-quality alcohol Leone likes from that winery. He’s going to miss it. “Then where did Narancia get this wine from?”

Fugo shrugs. “He either bought them from the nearest store. or robbed the nearest store. Depends on how much money he was carrying on him.”

Bruno has the weird inclination to scold Fugo for letting Narancia possibly steal wine even though it's not the first time any of them have robbed a place and certainly not the last. Leone snickers like he knows what Bruno's thinking and Bruno whips around and mimes zipping his mouth shut. Don't you dare tell him that.

Leone seems to understand his telepathic message, but the amused expression remains on his face.

“But you don’t need to worry about our problems,” says Fugo, as he ushers him and Leone to the small table and pulls out their chairs with a flourish. “We’ll get everything under control. Tonight, all you need to focus on is enjoying your date.”

They sit down, and now that Bruno’s up close he can clearly see the small details placed in the table setup: the ornamental designs etched into the glass bowls and plates, tall crystal wine glasses with gold rhinestones dotting the exterior, the stack of pink napkins matching the tablecloth, yellow rose petals scattered over the table. He initially had some reservations about letting the team handle all of the planning for tonight’s surprise date, but apart from the minor and non-minor problems that Mista and Fugo mentioned, they seem to be doing a decent job.

Fugo checks his watch. “Trish should be back soon with your appetizers, and I’ll send someone to find you other drinks. It won’t be wine, probably, but I’ll check what the hotel has in stock.”

“That’s fine,” Bruno reassures him. “Thank you, Fugo.”

Fugo flashes him a tiny appreciative smile and leaves. The moment he’s out of earshot, Leone turns to him and says, surprisingly gleeful, “You were going to tell him he shouldn’t let Narancia steal stuff, weren’t you?”

“I knew it,” Bruno sighs. “How did you know?”

“It was written all over your face,” says Leone. “I know you took them all in when they were kids, but they’re not kids anymore. Not to mention they’ve been in the mafia for years - they still routinely threaten and beat people up on your orders. I’m pretty sure I overheard you advising Mista to shoot a guy’s knees out last week. But you’re worried about Narancia destabilizing the economy by stealing a bit of wine?”

“That was more than a bit of wine, Leone.” Bruno picks at one of the rose petals. “It’s not that, though. I’m not their leader anymore, but I still feel responsible for them. I don’t mind seeing them take on missions that I know they’re capable of handling since it gives them something to do and they appreciate having jobs, but I want them to live as normal a life as possible. Maybe it’s a little bit hypocritical of me, but I would rather they avoid breaking the law whenever possible - regardless of the fact that they feel obligated to when I ask them.”

Leone stares at him.

“What?”

“It’s nothing,” says Leone. “Just realized something, that's all. Anyway, you know they don’t feel obligated to do whatever you tell them to, right? They do it because they want to do it for you. You could tell them to jump off a cliff and they’d start queuing up at the nearest cliff without a second thought.”

“Isn’t that the problem?” says Bruno. “They can’t blindly follow my orders forever. I don’t want them to.” He flicks the petal off the table and watches it flutter to the ground. “Sometimes…” Leone shakes his head, making it clear he knows where his trail of thought is leading, but Bruno keeps going. “I wonder if I made a mistake when I decided to recruit them.”

“You didn’t,” says Leone, reaching across the table to grab his hands and force Bruno to confront the intensity of his gaze. “I don’t know all the details of everyone’s past, but I know you well enough to know that all of us would’ve been way worse off if we’d never met you. You saved our kids’ lives.” He hesitates for only a second before adding, “You saved my life.”

Bruno blinks. That’s something he’s known Leone to think deep down, even if he himself doesn’t quite believe it, but it’s still unexpectedly sentimental for him to say out loud when he’s normally allergic to anything involving his own past or his real feelings. Normally he'd like to explore that topic further, but… “Did you just say 'our kids?’”

“Nope.” Leone retracts his hands.

“You did. I heard you.”

“Then you must be hearing things.”

“No, I definitely heard you refer to them as our kids.”

“You're going deaf. It's your old age catching up to you.”

“Leone, you're older than me.”

Leone taps a finger against his ear and says, far too loudly, “If you want to keep telling lies you're going to have to speak up, I can't hear you.”

Bruno chokes on a laugh, and the knot of tension unravels in his chest at the surprised delight on Leone's face. Anyone who's never gotten to know the real Leone Abbachio is missing out, he decides. Who else could be so perfectly spiteful and wonderfully sarcastic, and cheer him up at the same time?

“Alright, you senile old man,” he teases back. “I’ll let it go for now. But I won’t forget it.”

“You better not tell them,” Leone warns. “Especially Mista and Narancia. Or else I’ll -”

“You’ll what? Read them a story and tuck them into bed?”

“Bruno Buccellati, I swear to god -”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Both Bruno and Leone look up to see Trish smirking at them from over the two paper grocery bags she’s carrying in her arms. Bruno isn’t sure how long she was standing there listening to their conversation, but he hopes it was after he talked about the team routinely breaking the law. She’s the sole member of the gang who has yet to be corrupted by everyone else’s bad habits.

“No, we were just talking about...things,” says Bruno.

“Things,” Trish repeats. “Okay. I’m not going to ask. I’m just here to deliver these items from your Valentine’s Day wishlist, anyway. I picked up whatever I could find at the store. Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

“There’s bad news?”

“There’s always bad news,” she says dryly.

“Touché. I’ll take the good news first.”

Trish drops the bags on the table, the movement jostling the glasses and silverware on the table, and reaches into the left one. “I got your candles,” she says, pulling out four of them and setting them up at each corner of the table. “Rose scented, as requested. And you didn’t ask for one, but I figured you would need a lighter too.”

She tosses it to Bruno, who catches it and flicks it on. The small flame springs to life and he carefully lights each wick. “Thanks, Trish,” he says. “And the bad news?”

“You said you wanted chocolate-covered strawberries, but they were out of those and out of regular strawberries. Actually, most of their fruit was out of stock. So you’ll have to make do with…” Trish takes one of the porcelain bowls and upends the right paper bag over it. A cascade of small green and purple fruits tumble out, clattering as they fall in. “Grapes.”

“Those are fine,” he reassures her. Truth be told, Bruno was expecting a much worse substitute than grapes. At least grapes are edible, if not as aesthetically fitting as the chocolate-covered strawberries he’d wanted. Were his standards always this low, even before the events of his life that spiralled into him joining Passione?

“Great! Since I wasn’t sure how badly you wanted chocolate, I also bought this bottle of chocolate syrup.” She produces it from the bag and waves it in Bruno’s face. “But it needs to be microwaved fist.”

“Er.” Bruno glances at Leone, who discreetly shakes his head. “I think we’ll pass.”

Trish shrugs and drops it back in the bag. “I think Mista wanted it, anyway, but he wouldn’t tell me why. Whatever. Have fun with your date, I’m going to see what’s going on with everyone else.”

As she disappears into the staff room, Leone picks up one of the grapes and raises an eyebrow at Bruno. “Why did you ask for strawberries? I thought you hate fruits.”

“I don’t hate all fruits,” Bruno protests. “Strawberries are okay. I picked them because they’re supposed to be romantic.They were on those Valentine’s Day advertisements on the street.”

“Strawberries are okay, huh?” Leone repeats, amused. “And what about grapes?”

Bruno considers it. “They’re better than apples, but I can’t say I’m overly fond of them.”

Leone rolls the grape between his fingers and pops it into his mouth. His expression doesn’t outwardly change, but he quickly reaches for another one. “That’s a shame. These are pretty good - you’re missing out.”

“Mmm.” Bruno leans on the table, resting his chin on his palm. “That’s fine. I’m glad to see you enjoying them. As long as you’re happy, I’m happy.”

A light pink flush covers Leone’s face, and he ducks his head in a futile attempt to hide it. Bruno discovered early on into their relationship that it was ridiculously easy for him to embarrass Leone with sweet words and genuine praise, and he’s been more than happy to provide him with them since that realization.

“You’re not playing fair,” Leone complains. “Isn’t this date supposed to be for both of us?”

“Yes, but I organized this date with you in mind,” says Bruno. “Tonight is for both of us, yes, but everything special about it is for you. You deserve it.”

He can’t help smiling fondly as Leone audibly groans and drops his face into his hands. Bruno’s tempted to push him a little further, see how many compliments he can ply Leone with before his boyfriend becomes a flustered mess, but he’s stopped by the arrival of Narancia bounding over to their table with water bottles and what looks to be a giant jug of orange juice.

“Hey, mom and dad!” he says brightly. “Fugo sent me here to offer you your drink options for the night!”

Leone lifts his head to stare at Narancia. “Did you just call us ‘mom and dad’?’”

“Yeah? You’re both a million times better than my real dad. He’s an asshole. And you’ve basically been my parents for like, four years.”

The look of mixed horror and reluctant affection on Leone’s face has Bruno hiding his smile behind his hand. “Fugo sent you?” he asks Narancia. “Have you two apologized to each other?”

Narancia nods vigorously. “He said it was my fault that I dropped all the wine, but that he shouldn’t have yelled at me. I told him I’d make up for it by going to the hotel staff to see what kind of drinks they had left over.”

Bruno eyes the drinks in his arms. “Which are…?”

Narancia’s face falls a little. “Not much. Apparently there’s a bunch of other couples who bought most of the drinks already. They had a lot of water bottles -” he motions to the bottles being cradled in the crook of his left arm - “and I nicked some orange juice from the hotel staff’s refrigerator. You can pick whichever one you want!”

“Wait,” says Bruno. “You stole their orange juice?”

“Yeah, they said they were saving it for a special occasion or something but I wanted to give you two more than just water as an option.” Narancia smiles toothily, and for a moment he looks like the twenty-year-old ruthless gangster he thinks he is. “So I grabbed it behind their backs and ran away before they could stop me!”

Bruno exchanges a look with Leone, who’s obviously struggling not to laugh at him, and sighs. “I’ll take the orange juice.”

Narancia’s ear-splitting grin is worth the blow to his moral pride. “Great choice, Buccellati!”

“But remember to buy them more orange juice tomorrow after the stores are restocked,” he adds.

Narancia stops midway through pouring the orange juice in his wine glass. “Why?”

“Because you stole it and it’s the right thing to do,” Bruno tells him, at the same time that Leone says, “Because Bruno is your mother and you’re obligated to listen to everything he says.”

“...I suppose,” Narancia says doubtfully. “Do I really have to?”

“Yes,” says Bruno. “It’s not as if we can’t afford it - watch what you’re pouring, Narancia, it’s going to overflow - and the hotel staff was gracious enough to let us rent this room at the last minute.”

“Fiiine.” Narancia looks at Leone, who motions for him to fill his glass with the same drink. He carefully empties the rest of the juice into his glass. “I’ll do it after my class tomorrow.”

Bruno nods. “Good.” As he finishes pouring the orange juice, he eyes Leone quickly before lowering his voice and asking Narancia quietly, “Is the food I asked for almost ready?”

“Yeah!” Narancia says in what Bruno assumes is supposed to be a whisper, but is way too loud to be categorized as such. “Mista’s cooking it, and when I last saw him he said he’s almost done!”

A sigh of relief escapes him. He’s glad they followed that specific instruction: only Mista is allowed to cook the food. Bruno can still recall Fugo burning water, Trish using way too much olive oil and nearly setting their stove on fire, Narancia miscalculating all the measured ingredients and ending up with a dish that wasn’t anywhere near edible, and Giorno picking up a spatula and asking him, in a completely serious voice, what its purpose is.

“Okay. Thanks, Narancia.”

Narancia beams at him and god, Bruno really does feel like the kid’s mother at that moment, simply because he thinks that anyone who’s ever looked at Narancia and didn’t think he deserved the world are idiots.

“I’ll check on Mista and see if he’s done yet,” says Narancia. “Be right back!”

He sprints off. Bruno turns to tell Leone about their arriving dinner, but the words die in his mouth when he sees that Leone is still smirking at him.

“Oh, for - is it really that funny?”

“Even you must see the irony in this,” says Leone. “You’re telling someone who’s been in the mafia for years to buy replacement orange juice for staff we don't even know. You have to admit it’s funny that you’re still trying to impart life lessons on him when he’s been in Passione for so long.”

“Is that a bad thing?” asks Bruno, feeling weirdly defensive. “Like I said earlier, I feel responsible for them. I want them to do the right thing when they can.”

“I don’t think you need to worry about that,” says Leone, taking a sip of orange juice. “Compared to most of the frankly amoral gangsters in Passione that Giorno’s still trying to weed out, they’re pretty good kids. Minor issues like their stupidity, tendency to shoot first and ask questions later, and the fact that they’re as likely to kill each other as they are to be best friends on any given day aside, they turned out okay.” The corner of his mouth lifts in a private half-smile. “We must’ve raised them right.”

Bruno squints at him. “For someone who was denying being their dad just a few minutes ago, you seem to be having fun getting into the act now.”

“What can I say?” Leone sets down his glass, shrugging. “I’ve decided to embrace parenthood.”

Bruno can’t help the snort he lets out. “It’s more like parenthood embraced you, technically speaking. But if you really want to make it official, I can ask Giorno to arrange a group hug for you.”

A poorly-concealed shudder visibly runs down Leone's spine. “I’ll pass. I took a shower this morning.”

Bruno fakes a gasp. “Leone, are you suggesting our children smell bad?”

“It's not just a suggestion, have you ever smelled Mista after he comes back from a fight -”

He's interrupted by a muffled but audible explosion from the staff room. It's immediately followed by a series of loud complaints in Fugo and Trish's voices.

“Um,” says Leone. “What was that?”

A foreboding chill settles in Bruno's bones. “I'm not sure,” he says slowly. “But it might have to do with -”

Mista comes skidding out of the staff room. His dark eyes are wild, darting everywhere but Bruno and Leone’s direction, and that’s more than enough to set off warning bells in Bruno’s mind.

“Hey, Buccellati,” he says with forced levity. “So, don't panic -”

“That explosion sounded like a good reason to panic, Mista,” Bruno says flatly. “It was an explosion, right? What happened?”

Mista nods sheepishly. “Yeah, so, uh, the Sex Pistols were watching me cook like they always do, but then they got into a fight over whether parsley or basil would work better. Then I'm not sure exactly how it happened, but Tre pushed Cinque into the pot of stew.”

The intensity of Bruno’s bad feeling triples in depth.

“He didn’t fall in completely, luckily, but he did get a little burned.” Mista lifts the hem of his pants to mid-thigh, revealing a pattern of nasty burns spattered along his calf, and Bruno winces in sympathy. “But it startled me and I...may have knocked the stew all over the stove and. Screamed. But quietly!”

“You screamed quietly,” Leone deadpans.

“Yes! Exactly! And Narancia thought I was under attack, so he came running into the kitchen with Aerosmith -”

“Oh, no.”

“- and pelted the stove with bullets. That's why the stove blew up.”

By this point, Bruno feels he really shouldn't be surprised by anything anymore. “Was anyone hurt in the explosion?”

“No, I saw Aerosmith coming and realized what was going to happen, so I jumped out of the way in time. Everyone else was too far away to be hurt.”

“Okay.” Bruno glances at Mista’s burns. “Is Giorno around?”

“Uh, nope.” Mista’s eyes flick to Leone for a brief second. “He’s running an errand. Don’t think he’ll be back until later.”

“Hmm. Okay. Get some ice from the freezer and put it on those burns until he comes back and can fully heal you.” Mista flinches at the prospect of being on the receiving end of Giorno’s healing again, but doesn’t complain. “And what about the food?”

Mista grins nervously. “Well, everything I cooked was on the counter and got obliterated in the explosion, and that was all the food we’d bought. So Fugo’s heating up our leftovers from lunch in the microwave.”

“...I suppose that’s better than nothing.” Bruno sighs. “Go take care of your burns, and tell Narancia to be more careful about shooting things in the future, will you?”

“Sure thing!” says Mista, looking relieved that he’s not receiving the brunt of Bruno’s anger. “Thanks, Buccellati. And, uh, sorry for blowing up your dinner.”

“So,” says Leone as Mista walks back to the staff room with a slight but noticeable limp, “what now?”

“Now,” Bruno says grimly, “I’m revoking Mista’s cooking privileges for the foreseeable future.”

~*~

The food is, admittedly, not horrible. The kids ordered too much takeout pasta from Libeccio for lunch and even after being microwaved, it’s warm and almost as delicious as if it were only recently cooked. It might not be the romantic five-course meal Bruno planned for Leone, but it reminds both of them of the countless simple dinners they’ve shared over the years and the familiarity of the situation isn’t bad at all.

Halfway through eating dinner, there’s an audible commotion coming from the staff room. Bruno is certain he can hear Fugo yelling - again. At one point, Narancia comes out to fiddle with the sound equipment on the stage for a few minutes before running back inside. Then Mista rushes out of the hotel and comes back twenty minutes later hefting a bulging shopping bag. No one stops to tell Bruno anything, so he assumes - or rather, fervently hopes - that they’ve got everything under control.

Giorno arrives about fifteen minutes after they’ve finished eating, sweeping into the room with all the flair and grandeur he’s adopted since assuming the role of Don of Passione. He’s wearing a tawny fur vest over his usual pink suit and thin sunglasses perched on his head. A collection of decorative rose gold bracelets adorn his wrists, like he’s just come from robbing a jewelry store.

Knowing Giorno, muses Bruno, the likeliness of that being the case is distressingly high.

Leone looks Giorno over like he waltzed into the room covered in cockroaches. “Why are you dressed like that.”

“Because I can do what I want.” Giorno approaches their table, bracing his hands on the table and leaning his weight against it, peering at them with a curious glint in his eye. “How’s your date been so far?”

“Disastrous, for the most part,” Bruno says truthfully.

Giorno offers him a sympathetic smile. “I ran into Mista a short while ago and he told me a few things have gone wrong. He didn’t go into detail, however.”

“Well, the biggest one is that the kitchen exploded,” says Bruno. “That’s why we’re eating leftover food on microwave-safe ceramic instead of the glass plates you provided.”

Giorno hums. “That’s a shame. Those were custom-made specially for today. I suppose you’ll have to use them for dessert.”

Leone frowns. “Dessert?”

“We’re getting a cake delivered,” Bruno decides to tell him. It isn’t really a surprise, since anyone can probably figure out the typical followup to a romantic Valentine’s Day date would be some sort of fancy dessert, but he’s still excited about it. “It’s one of those specialty Valentine cakes!”

There’s a beat of silence. “Did you pick out the cake?”

“No, I had Fugo take care of it.” Bruno cocks his head. “Why?”

“Because the last time you bought a cake was for Trish’s birthday, and the icing was hot pink, fluorescent yellow, and neon green,” Leone says bluntly. “And that atrocious mixture covered not only the whole surface of the cake, but filled the inside as well.”

Bruno flushes. “They’re her favourite colours! I asked her beforehand!”

“Maybe, but that doesn’t change the fact that it looked and tasted like the baker accidentally stirred a pack of highlighters into the cake batter. Even Narancia was horrified.”

Before Bruno can attempt to defend himself and his apparently poor eye for design, Giorno cuts in. “Fugo picked a dark chocolate cassata alla siciliana. I saw the photograph and it looks fine. However, the delivery has been delayed due to a flu infecting most of the bakery’s employees. The cake is on its way, but it may take another half an hour.”

Bruno checks the clock hanging on the wall. It’s already almost seven-thirty.

“That's fine,” he says. “As long as it arrives eventually. But, uh, Giorno -” he glances at Leone, then decides it doesn't really matter if it's a secret anymore and keeps talking “- do you know if the band is on their way?”

Giorno's eyebrows rise, disappearing into his hairline. “Did the others not tell you?”

“...Tell me what.”

“We couldn’t get in contact with the band or their manager this morning.” Giorno picks up one of the unused glass plates, turns it over in his hands. “I discovered later that they had to leave for England suddenly due to a confidential emergency. They will not be returning until later this week.”

Bruno’s heart sinks.

“Wait,” says Leone. “Did you say ‘band?’”

“It was supposed to be a band,” Bruno says forlornly. “I contacted them personally so they'd be able to play music for us tonight.” He turns back to Giorno. “Are there any other bands in Napoli available?”

Giorno shakes his head. “None at the last minute. Everyone else we called is already booked.”

He expects that answer, but it still feels like a hard blow to the chest. It’s stupid, probably, to be this upset after everything that’s already gone wrong, but he can’t help his crushing disappointment. He picked a band for their date because he knows Leone loves music but that he hasn’t had the opportunity to hear any of his favourite performers live ever since he joined the mafia. It was supposed to be his real gift to him - the best way he could think of to cap off their Valentine’s Day date,.

“Hey.” A hand takes his, callused fingers enveloping his own, and Bruno looks up to meet Leone’s soft yet resolute gaze. “It’s not your fault. I appreciate it, but it wasn’t necessary for me to -”

“I know, but it was supposed to be the culmination of the night.” He sighs. “I can’t pretend I’m not upset.”

“Well, don’t be too disappointed,” says Giorno. “There won’t be a band, but there will be a replacement of sorts.”

Bruno whips around to face Giorno so quickly that he’s momentarily dizzy. “What? What replacement?”

Giorno gives a delicate shrug. “The team didn’t tell me. All they said was, and I quote, ‘tell Bruno and Abba they’re still gonna get their entertainment.’”

Bruno is sure their message was meant to reassure him, but all he’s feeling is increasing agitation. Entertainment’ is too broad a category for him to even guess at what their idea of a suitable replacement might be. And considering his kids’ track record of ‘fixing’ things at the last minute, he’s almost tempted to pass on whatever it is they’re planning.

He can’t, though. He knows they always mean well, and they’re doing this for him and Leone. It would be rude of him to brush off their attempts to help when that’s precisely what he asked for a few days earlier, after he approached them with his idea to surprise Leone with a romantic Valentine’s Day dinner date accompanied by quality wine, good food, and live music. Perhaps his ideal vision collapsed in on itself with every setback of the night, but it’s not completely ruined. Leone seems to be enjoying himself, somehow. And no matter how often Fugo, Narancia, Mista, Trish and Giorno screw up and fight amongst each other and make his life a little harder, he still trusts them all without question.

“Okay,” he says finally. “Tell them we’ll be waiting.”

There’s a glimmer of understanding in Giorno’s eyes when he nods. It makes sense, Bruno supposes - he’s been the Don of Passione for almost three years, and he, more than anyone, would know the bonds of trust formed with his members are irreplaceable. Giorno straightens the fur of his vest collar, offers both of them a goodbye wave, and departs to the staff room.

Leone’s still holding his hand between his, rubbing his thumb over Bruno’s knuckles. He notices Bruno watching him and flushes a faint pink, but doesn’t pull his hand away.

“Thank you,” he says. “Even though the band didn’t actually show up, it still means a lot that you tried.”

Bruno laughs quietly. “It would’ve been much nicer if they came. I know you haven’t heard live music in a while.”

Leone’s eyebrows furrow as he thinks. “It has been a while, huh? I think the last time was that opera I attended with my parents on my seventeenth birthday.” A smirk emerges on his face. “Unless I count our mission in Milan. The one where we had to infiltrate the karaoke bar?”

“Nope, that doesn’t count,” Bruno says immediately.

“It was technically live music -”

“No.”

“- and your off-key singing turned out to be a good thing - it distracted the enemies long enough for me to to steal the bag. We didn’t even have to fight them.”

Bruno glares at him, but it’s impossible to keep up for long in the face of Leone’s obvious amusement and he settles for informing him, “I hate you.”

Leone’s smirk remains in place, even as he takes a sip of orange juice. “Yeah, I love you too.”

It’s far from the first time he’s said it, but that doesn’t matter - it sends a flutter of childish delight through Bruno’s heart each time. The sensation is one he doesn’t think will ever change, not for him, and privately he hopes it never does.

The sudden shrill of microphone feedback cuts through the air. Bruno flinches, startled, and Leone almost drops his glass.

“Sorry!” Mista yells from the stage, where he’s twisted apart the microphone and is inspecting its components. “Trish, I think Narancia was right - it’s busted.”

“Damn.” Trish joins him and peers down at the microphone. “Whatever. I don’t know all the lyrics anyway, so I’ll leave it to you guys.”

Mista brightens. “I know all the lyrics!”

“That’s great,” says Fugo, kneeling on the floor and - Bruno leans forward to make sure he’s not seeing things, but no - he really is tuning the strings on a violin, “but you can’t sing. Even Buccellati is better than you.”

Leone lets out a poorly disguised snort, and Bruno shoots him a halfhearted dirty look.

“Even if you could sing,” says Trish, “you can’t.”

Mista frowns. “Huh?”

“Your instrument, remember?”

Mista looks down at the cheap, triangular piece of plastic in his hands. It takes Bruno a few seconds to recognize it. “Ah, you’re right! I forgot.”

“Is that a kazoo?” Leone mutters under his breath.

“Unfortunately,” says Bruno, “I think it is.”

Narancia leaps onto the stage from out of nowhere. He’s wielding a translucent orange recorder in his left hand, spinning it in a theatrical circle by his hip as he beams at the rest of them. “I’m ready!”

Fugo spares him a quick glance. “Did you -”

“Yes, I made sure it’s clean and working properly,” says Narancia, grinning. “It’s in perfect condition.”

“Perfect.” Fugo stands up and raises the violin. He draws the bow across the strings with practiced ease, the notes echoing in the spacious room, and grins back. “Then we can get started.”

Bruno watches with confusion as Trish flashes them a thumbs-up before descending from the stage. Fugo carefully positions Mista and Narancia on opposite sides of the stage before stepping to the front and prodding at the microphone. Giorno emerges from the staff room, his gaze sweeping over the three of them and lingering on each of their instruments, and leans back against the wall.

Trish passes by their table and Bruno quickly snags her wrist, stopping her. “Trish,” he hisses. “What are they doing?”

She winks at him. “You’ll see. I would hate to ruin the surprise.”

Bruno gives her his best stern look, but Trish merely stares back at him with an inscrutable poker face and refuses to relent.

He rolls his eyes and lets her go. “You’ve been spending too much time with them,” he calls out. “Especially Giorno.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she returns.

“Sometimes it is!”

“I heard that,” Giorno says, sounding more amused than insulted. Trish laughs aloud and walks over to Giorno’s side, whispering something in Giorno’s ear, and he cracks a smile and whispers something back.

“Attention, everyone!” Narancia hollers from the stage, pulling Bruno and Leone’s attention to him. “But mainly Buccellati and Abba!”

Leone blinks. “Hey, what happened to ‘mom and dad?’”

“I didn’t know you missed the title so much,” Bruno can't resist saying. “I’ll be sure to let Narancia know later.”

“Shut up.”

Fugo takes over, giving up on the broken microphone and pushing it aside. He says loudly, “As Giorno told you, we were unable to find a band to play here tonight -”

“We’re sorry about that!” Mista yells.

“- however, we still wanted to provide the live music that you wished for. So…” Fugo gestures at himself, Mista, and Narancia. “The best substitute we could find was ourselves.”

“Oh my god,” says Leone, in a perfect reflection of Bruno’s sentiments.

Fugo, luckily, doesn’t hear him. “While your dessert is on its way, please sit back and enjoy the music.”

He waves the violin bow behind him. Mista and Narancia take the cue to ready their instruments, lifting them to their mouths.

“Have you ever heard any of them play music before?” Leone asks him.

“I’ve heard Fugo play piano, once,” says Bruno. “Never the violin. And the other two...no, I don’t think so.”

They both look up in time to watch Fugo tuck the violin underneath his chin, posture ramrod straight, and begin playing. The first few notes ring through the air, quick and harsh, and it takes Bruno very little time to recognize the song he’s playing.

“Oh, no,” he breathes.

Narancia joins in with his recorder, puffing hard into the instrument and bobbing his head in time with the beat, and Mista follows suit by dancing in his designated spot onstage while humming into his kazoo. Bruno can only watch in mute horror as all three of them launch into the worst rendition of Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’ that he’s ever heard.

The song only lasts about three minutes, but it seems to go on forever. Fugo isn’t too bad at the violin, and Mista and Narancia aren’t completely terrible, but all three of them are still mediocre at best and it’s obvious they’ve never played a single song together before. The musical notes produced by their impromptu performance grates on his ears worse than nails on chalkboard.

Across the room, Giorno seems to be of the same opinion, his usual composed expression missing as he stares at his friends with faint alarm. Trish, meanwhile, has a hand pressed over her mouth and is clearly trying not to burst into giggles.

Bruno is so, so tempted to drop his head onto the table and never face anyone - especially Leone - ever again. The kids are clearly trying their best and he knows they’ve got his best interests at heart, but this date has veered so far off from his original vision that he’s pretty sure it’s unsalvageable at this point. All he wanted was to show Leone how much he loves and appreciates everything about him, that Valentine’s Day could be more than just a cheap excuse for companies to profit, and now he’s sure that Leone thinks the whole thing was a waste of time.

He’s broken out of his self-deprecating reverie by a loud, choked-off sound.

Bruno looks up. Leone has his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking as odd muffled noises float out from him. At first Bruno is half convinced he’s disappointed Leone to the point of tears, but after a second he realizes that no, Leone is laughing. Harder than he’s ever seen him laugh before.

Calling it a ‘laugh’ is a bit of a misnomer, Bruno thinks. It’s closer to a cackle, the kind one would typically associate with evil witches or particularly feral geese, not Italian gangsters who sometimes show signs of humour once in a blue moon. The rarity of it is made plain when the sound catches in Leone’s throat, rough like a rusty knife on a worn chopping board, and he pauses momentarily to clear his throat, but it’s not enough to stop him completely.

From anyone else, it would probably sound downright terrifying - and honestly, it still does - but it’s also the kind of sound Bruno wishes he could bottle and get drunk on every night, for the rest of his life.

“Leone?” he asks tentatively. “Are you okay?”

Leone swallows down a laugh with visible effort. “I'm fine,” he gasps. “Better than fine.”

“... You sure about that? Because, and I mean no offense with this, but you sound like you're dying.”

His remark sends Leone into another fit of hysterics and he doubles over, banging his fist on the table as he heaves for breath. By then, the kids have thankfully finished playing 'Toxic’ and, upon hearing the sound of knuckles against wood, noticed Leone on the verge of suffocating at their table.

“What's wrong with him?” Narancia shouts. “Is he dying?”

“He claims he's not dying,” says Bruno. “I'm choosing to believe him, despite the signs.”

Fugo frowns in their direction, biting his lip. “He’s not - laughing, is he?”

Mista lets out a loud snort. “He never laughs. Except at -” His eyes widen. “Wait, is he laughing at us? Abbachio!”

They all watch as Leone finally raises his head, wiping stray tears from his eyes as his laughter finally peters out. His cheeks are red and he’s struggling to regain his composure, even as he forces himself back into an upright position. He drags a hand down the side of his face, the corner of his mouth still quirked upwards in a wide grin.

“Of course I’m laughing at you, you brats,” he rasps. “Did you even hear yourselves?”

It takes a second for Fugo, Mista, and Narancia to process his statement, at which point the three of them immediately explode into a cacophony of complaints and heckling. Bruno winces under the onslaught.

“Why did you do that?” he asks, straining his voice to be heard over their yelling. “You knew how they’d react.”

Leone tsks. “I’m not gonna lie to their faces and tell them they’re talented musicians with the potential for fame and fortune. You heard how bad they were.”

“Well, yes, but -” Bruno glances back at the stage as the three carefully place their instruments on the floor and charge towards their table. “I think you upset them.”

“They’ve all been in the mafia for more than five years. They can take it,” says Leone, waving a dismissive hand. “Maybe Narancia’s right when he said I’m their dad or whatever, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to go easy on them. It won’t help them or us.”

He’s right, as he often is. Ever since Bruno retired from being a capo, he’s taken on a less authoritative role with the kids and treated them more like - well, like kids. For the most part Giorno has filled in that role for him, but it’s no secret to anyone that he’s more lax with the rules when it comes to their team. Bruno doubts he would have went through the trouble of fulfilling an underling’s last-minute request for a fancy Valentine’s date for anyone else.

But was Bruno’s own leniency the reason why his meticulously prepared plans for the evening fell apart? He doesn’t blame any of them, can’t blame any of them. Everything that happened was simply bad luck. And yet...he still feels at fault. If he was able to fix any of his past mistakes, would things have turned out okay? Would Leone have been able to have that perfect night he deserved, if Bruno made better choices?

Bruno forces a smile as Leone downs the rest of his orange juice. “Look, Leone,” he says in a rush when Leone sets down his glass. He tries to meet his eyes, but finds he can’t. “I’m really sorry about -”

“I’m grateful,” Leone interrupts. “I’m glad their music was terrible.”

Bruno jerks his head up. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Fugo, Narancia and Mista come to an abrupt stop at Leone’s words.

“What?” says Fugo, sounding half offended and half very confused.

“What?” Bruno decides to echo in exactly the same tone.

Leone leans back in his char, pushing a hand through his hair. Bruno notices his black lipstick is slightly smudged in one corner, likely from the wine glass. “Bruno, it’s obvious that you put a lot of thought and effort into planning for today,” he says. “The fact that you roped everyone else into it when you usually hate asking for help when it’s not necessary tells me that. And I’m happy you did all that for me, and that you think I deserve all this. But what I was trying to say earlier is that not everything has to be perfect for me.”

“But that’s exactly why I wanted it to be,” says Bruno. In the background, he hears the room door open and close as Giorno speaks to someone standing outside, but ignores it for now. “Because you’re worth it.”

“I know.” Leone’s voice softens. “And I appreciate it. Really. But it’s a lot, you know? I’ve always thought the world of you, and you deserve everything too, and sometimes it’s hard to keep up when I don’t feel like I can give you even a fraction of that.”

Bruno hesitates. He thinks he’s starting to understand, at least a little. “Leone…”

“But this?” Leone spreads out an arm, gesturing around them, and snorts out loud. “It may not be what you planned, but trust me when I say it couldn’t have turned out better than what happened. I was entertained the whole night. Hell, I haven’t seen a performance that hilarious in years.”

“Hey!” Narancia snaps, bristling, “we weren’t that bad!”

Bruno can feel his rigid posture loosening as he calms down, mouth curling with the mirth bubbling up inside him, but he can’t let himself relax completely. Not yet. He flexes his fingers absently on the table. “I didn’t mean to make you feel inadequate.”

“You didn’t, I swear,” says Leone. “It simply reinforced that image that you’re perfect all the time, in everything you do.” Bruno opens his mouth to argue, but Leone shuts him up with a pointed scowl. “I know you’re not. I know it in my head, but logic doesn’t always work that way, you know? So I’m...happy, I guess. Not that your plan fell apart, but that it wasn’t some perfect fantastical dream I could never replicate if I tried.” His lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile, and somehow it's both awkward and perfect on his face. “It turned out to be a little messy instead, but that’s why I love it.”

The unspoken And that's why I love you rings as loud and clear as if Leone said it aloud. If it weren't for their very public location and audience, Bruno isn't sure he could have stopped himself from standing up and dragging Leone into a kiss. Judging by the burning look in Leone's eyes, he's feeling the same way.

“I’ve never heard Abba speak so honestly before,” says Narancia. “It’s weird.”

Leone blinks, breaking the spell, and shoots Narancia an annoyed look. “It’s the alcohol.”

“The only drink you’ve hard all night is orange juice,” Narancia points out.

“Maybe someone spiked it.”

“Um, that definitely did not happen,” Mista interjects, “since the reason why you had to drink orange juice is because we didn’t have any alcohol.”

“And wouldn’t you have tasted it if someone spiked your orange juice?” adds Fugo. “You’re our resident alcohol expert.”

Leone hums thoughtfully. “I suppose you’re right. If I was drunk, I wouldn’t have been able to keep a straight face for as long as I did. I’d have left the room as soon as I realized you were playing ‘Toxic.’”

“...Was that really necessary,” Bruno says with a sigh as the three, predictably, start yelling at Leone again.

Giorno clears his throat, startling all of them. Bruno completely missed him approaching their small gathering around the table. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he says politely, as if he isn’t their boss and is perfectly free to interrupt them whenever he wants. “But the dessert is here.”

Bruno looks down at the two plain white boxes in Giorno’s arms, recalls the instructions he gave him, and frowns.

“Giorno?”

Giorno sets the boxes down on their table. “Yes?”

“Why are there two boxes? I only asked for one cake.”

“Hmm? How strange,” Giorno replies, pushing one box before Leone and the other towards him. “I wonder what could be in the second box.”

Bruno’s about to ask him if it’s a mistake or if he’s playing a joke on him, when the box in front of him moves. It shifts to the side, hovering in midair for a millisecond before falling back down onto the table with a small plop.

“What the fuck?” says Narancia, taking a step back. “That box just moved. You all saw that, right?”

Mista eyes the box warily, like he’s afraid it’s going to leap up and bite him. Which is, Bruno admits, a valid concern. “Giorno, what’s in there?”

Giorno tilts his head. “Perhaps Bruno should open it and find out.”

“So you do know what’s in there?” Mista accuses.

“Yes. However, I am not telling you what is inside. It would spoil the surprise.”

Bruno stares at the box. “Is it a good surprise or a bad surprise?”

“I should hope it’s a good one.”

That’s the least reassuring statement Bruno’s heard all night, but seeing no other option, he steels himself and reaches out. He untucks the flaps of the box and slowly lifts the lid - and rears back in alarm when a small bird bursts out, white feathers fluttering into the air and drifting onto Bruno’s dinner plate. It flaps its wings and squawks loudly in Bruno’s face.

“It’s a bird,” he says dumbly.

Giorno pats his head like a proud parent congratulating their kindergartner for correctly identifying the sky as blue. “It is a bird. A dove, to be precise.”

“Okay,” says Bruno. “Good to know. But why was there -”

“Giovanna,” Leone snarls, unexpectedly vehement, “what are you playing at?”

Giorno turns his angelic smile on him. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” Leone bites out. “I didn’t ask you to go that far.”

“You didn’t,” Giorno agrees, face serene. “But I thought it would make the reveal more dramatic and romantic. I assumed you would appreciate it. Am I wrong?”

Leone clenches his hands into fists, but he doesn’t argue. Bruno looks between them, bewildered, but Leone’s carefully avoiding his gaze. He glances at Fugo, Narancia, and Mista, but the three look just as lost as him.

Trish joins them at their table, sliding in between Mista and Fugo to take a closer look at the dove as it flies and perches on Bruno’s shoulder. “It’s a very pretty dove,” she says, “but I think you should turn it back now. You’re confusing them.”

“Very well,” says Giorno, and without warning Gold Experience shimmers into view and strikes the dove with a rapid punch. There’s a brief flash of yellow light, and Bruno watches with incredulity as the dove morphs into a thin metal length that settles around his neck. A necklace, he realizes when the large oval-shaped charm hanging from the end drops against his chest.

He touches the silver chain, the feel of the metal cool against his fingers, and looks at Leone. “Did you buy this?”

There’s a tint of red high on Leone’s cheeks. “No,” he says quietly. “It was my grandmother’s. She passed it on to my mother, who gave it to me before I moved out of the house. But I never wore it, so I thought - I knew it would look nice on you.”

“It's beautiful.” Bruno lifts up the oval charm, examines the polished metal and the scratch marks adorning the surface. A pair of initials and a date is etched into the underside, but it's too tarnished with age for him to make out.

“It's a locket.” Leone extends a hand, as if to help him, then seems to think better of it and draws back. “Open it.”

Bruno finds the tiny clasp and snaps it open. His mouth parts on a soft gasp.

Inside is the photograph of the seven of them standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, taken almost a year ago when Giorno dragged them all to Paris under the pretense of working together to catch rogue drug dealers who fled from Italy, but which they all knew was a thinly veiled excuse for their team to go on a well-deserved vacation. Mista, Trish, and Narancia are crouched in the front, sticking their tongues out at the tourist they badgered into taking the photo for them. Fugo stands directly behind Narancia, looking like he wants to be annoyed with them but the helpless smile on his face betrays his amusement. Giorno, too, seems genuinely happy as he beams at the camera while leaning his arms on Mista's head.

He and Leone are standing pressed against each other, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. Bruno, rather than looking at the camera, has his face turned towards Leone, his lips pressed against his boyfriend’s ear. He doesn’t remember what he whispered that day, but whatever it was made Leone burst into rare laughter. The camera caught him mid-laugh, eyes closed and teeth flashing in the sunlight.

Bruno recalls mentioning to Leone, once several months ago, that it was his favourite photo of their whole team together. He hadn’t expected him to use that knowledge to his advantage in this way.

“I…” He wants to say something, anything that’ll convey the sudden slew of feelings wrapping themselves around his heart in coils of gold, but with one glance he can tell Leone already understands.

He tries, anyway. “I love it. Thank you.”

Leone coughs behind one hand. “It’s no problem. It’s - I’m glad you like it.”

Everyone except him and Giorno crowd closer to take a look at the picture, and Bruno obligingly tilts the locket at an angle so they can all see it. As they exclaim over it, he glances over to where Giorno’s opened the other box and started cutting the cake under Leone’s watchful eye.

“So we were both hiding a surprise,” he says.

Leone chuckles. “I suppose. I’m still surprised you trusted all of them to keep your secret.”

“Well, that’s why I only told them about it a few days ago. Besides -” Bruno motions towards Giorno “- you trusted him. Now that’s a surprise.”

Instead of the disdain Bruno expects, Leone merely shrugs. “Like I said, there aren’t many I can trust in this gang. I didn’t really have a choice.”

“I appreciate that winning endorsement of confidence,” says Giorno.

“It wasn’t supposed to be one, brat.”

“Should you really be calling your boss ‘brat?’”

“I’m sorry, Don Giovanna, would you prefer ‘mouthy brat?’”

A thought occurs to Bruno as he listens to the two banter.

“Hey, Giorno,” he says, and Giorno pauses to regard him. “How did you involve yourself with both of our plans without spoiling the surprise for either of us?”

Giorno lays the cake knife on the table. “It wasn’t that difficult. Abbachio had informed me of his plan more than a week ago because he wanted me to look over everything and make sure it was, and I quote, “perfect for the perfect person -”

“Giovanna, I’m going to murder you in your sleep -”

“- and he’d already asked me to pick out a Valentine’s cake for you,” he continues, undeterred by Leone’s embarrassed outrage. “So when you, Bruno, came to us a few days ago to tell the team about your own plan, I simply called the bakery and instructed them to deliver the cake and necklace to this hotel instead of Abbachio’s residence.. Fortunately for you, Abbachio didn’t question my changes.”

“Fortunate, indeed,” says Bruno. He locks eyes with Leone. “‘Perfect for the perfect person?’ Isn’t that a little bit hypocritical of you?”

Leone graces him with a smug smile that shouldn’t be as unfairly endearing as it is. “Maybe. Do you mind it, though?”

He thinks over the question, glancing around them. Giorno’s placed each neatly cut slice of cake on the individual glass plates and is handing them out to everyone. Trish passes around the matching small glass forks before stealing the first slice for herself, while Fugo pours everyone orange juice into the remaining wine glasses. Narancia and Mista are fighting over the plate with the biggest slice, the cake tipping dangerously close to the edge, until Mista triumphantly seizes it from him over Narancia’s loud objections and Fugo yelling at them to stop messing with the food. Giorno picks up the next plate and gives it to Leone, who immediately turns to offer it to him.

Bruno carefully closes the locket around his neck and reaches out with both hands.

“I can’t say I mind at all,” he says, and accepts the slice.