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“What is that?”
Bruno’s voice is equal parts of accusatory and concerned, making him sound like a worried parent. Leone has half a mind to try and change the subject by teasing him about acting like a mother hen, but the way Bruno is staring him down tells him that Bruno is out for blood – and by blood he means answers.
“What is what?” Leone asks. He already knows playing dumb isn’t going to work in the long run, but perhaps it will delay the inevitable. “You’re gonna have to be a little more specific than that.”
“What happened to your face?”
Here we go again.
His split lip stings when he touches it. Leone has quickly become an expert when it comes to covering bruises and other small injuries with makeup, so his face doesn’t look quite as bad as it could. However, there are things even he can’t hide.
“Let’s see,” Leone says, tapping his chin with his index finger as if he’s thinking hard about something, “which explanation would you like to hear? Do you want me to tell you a convenient lie that you’re not going to actually believe, or should I just tell you what you already know? Pick your poison.”
Bruno sighs and shakes his head. They’re both tired of having this conversation over and over again, but for two very different reasons. “Again?”
“What do you mean, ‘again’?”
“You looked exactly like this last week, too.”
“It was my upper lip that time.”
“You know what I mean, Leone.”
Leone shrugs his shoulders and pours himself more wine. Truth be told, he cannot recall what happened last week, so he’ll take Bruno’s word for it – not that it really makes a difference either way.
“What you’re doing isn’t healthy.”
“Can we just put an end to this conversation before it even begins?”
A heavy, awkward silence hangs over them as Leone takes a swig of his wine, staring idly out of the window.
“I’m just worried about you.”
Leone sighs and rubs his temple. “Just shut up already, Bruno. I’ve told you, this is none of your business. Just because you’re vanilla as fuck and I’m not, it doesn’t mean that there’s anything wrong with what I’m doing. Some of us just, you know, like it rough.”
“Don’t even try to pull the “It’s just a lifestyle” card on me, we both know that’s not what’s happening here,” Bruno says through gritted teeth, sounding uncharacteristically angry with him. They’ve had some major fights over the years, sure – that’s what happens when you’ve known someone for as long as they have – but he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Bruno get this… intense about during one of these conversations. “We both know you’re just trying to make it sound like everything’s alright because you don’t want to face the truth.”
“The truth?” Leone can’t help but laugh at that. “You think you know me so well that you know some deep truth about me that I can’t face? How adorable. I hate to burst your bubble, but you know nothing.”
“You think I don’t understand what’s going on? Talk to me, then. Help me understand.”
“Why should I? I’m not obligated to tell you anything about my relationship with my boyfriend.”
“Is he really your boyfriend? Because he doesn’t seem to treat you like one. As far as I know, taking advantage of someone does not equal being in a relationship with them – and that is exactly what he’s doing.”
The hand Leone is holding his wine glass with is shaking with anger, but his voice is surprisingly steady and even when he speaks. “Well, look at you, Mr. Know-It-All. When did you become a relationship expert?”
“You don’t need to be an expert to see you come home night after night, looking like someone’s beaten you within an inch of your life, and realize something’s not right.”
“Love isn’t always gentle and sweet, Bruno. Sometimes love looks like this.”
“This is not what love looks like,” Bruno interrupts him, “this is not what caring about someone looks like. I know it can sometimes look like bruises and rope burns but this? This is nothing like that and you know it. He’s abusing you and you’re letting him get away with it.”
“Have you ever considered that maybe it’s exactly what I want?”
Leone’s voice is sharper than before and so cold that it makes Bruno fall silent.
“Did you ever stop to think that maybe I’m not a victim? Huh? Did the thought ever cross your mind? That maybe, just maybe, I’m not the poor, helpless idiot you take me for?”
Bruno’s eyes flash with an emotion that Leone can’t identify; it reminds him of pain or grief, or maybe both. He looks like he wants to say something – like there are several things he’d like to say – but he worries his bottom lip with his teeth and stays quiet instead.
“He gives me what I want,” Leone continues. “He gives me what I need. I don’t want to be myself, I don’t want to be anyone, and when I’m with him, guess what? I don’t fucking have to. When I’m with him, I have no name, no past, nothing. I don’t have to think for myself, I don’t have to think at all. All I have to do is take orders and do as I’m told. You know what happens when I think for myself and make decisions on my own? People get killed.”
“What happened to him wasn’t your fault.”
“It was my fault.”
He needs more alcohol in his system to get through this conversation. Leone finishes his drink and fills his glass again.
“You can’t spend the rest of your life feeling guilty.”
“Stop acting like you know how I fucking feel!”
Leone’s voice is much louder than thought it would be, and the anger dripping from his words takes even him by surprise. He can feel his anger and frustration and all his other bottled-up feelings slowly bubble to the surface, despite his best efforts to keep them at bay.
“You don’t know what it’s like to be stuck in my head all the fucking time. You have no goddamn idea what it’s like to relive that night over and over again. I can’t make it stop, but he can. He makes it stop. He turns off the noise in my head, he makes me stop thinking, he helps me stop being like this.”
He hates being forced to deal with his emotions. Hates having to feel things. It makes him feel overwhelmed, like his own mind is slowly drowning itself. He wants to just be numb.
“He takes me apart and reassembles me, turns me into something he wants, something he needs. You think I’m being used – so what? At least I’m being useful to someone. He can do whatever he wants – fuck me, beat the shit out of me, watch someone else fuck me, I don’t give a fuck.”
In the past few weeks it has mostly been the latter, for whatever reason. Leone doesn’t know why and he isn’t planning to ask. Knowing the reason would change nothing.
He never remembers the names or faces afterwards. It’s difficult to imagine them as real people – they come and go like ghosts, they’re real only when their hands are on him and then fizzle out of existence as soon as they leave. All his memories of them are very vague – someone saying his lipstick matches their hair, seeing someone in a suit that looks way too expensive for the situation they’re in, someone’s ring cutting him as the palm of their hand collides with his face.
In another life, he would be ashamed of himself and what he has become. In another life, he would see the situation he’s currently in as a problem that needs to be solved. In this life, though, he can’t be bothered to care.
“You think I don’t have a choice, don’t you? Newsflash: I don’t want a choice. Hell, I don’t deserve to have a choice. I don’t deserve to be treated like a human being and he knows it. He knows I’m nothing but trash and gives me exactly what I deserve, and I want it that way. You think I give a damn about the pain, about…” Leone gestures at his face, “about all this? I don’t. Most of the time I’m too fucked up to feel anything.”
Most of his memories are extremely fuzzy: brief flashes of consciousness consisting of pictures and lights and sounds that seem to have nothing to do with each other. A collection of disjointed recollections. Everything’s jumbled up in his head, hours and days bleeding into each other.
“It’s what I want. It’s what we both want. So, tell me – what makes this any of your business? We’re two consenting adults who know exactly what they’re doing, and if I want to let him destroy me because I’m too fucking weak to do it myself, I’m gonna do just that. It’s time for you to get the fuck off my back, Bucciarati.”
Leone spits out Bruno’s last name like the syllables taste bitter on his tongue. He only uses Bruno’s last name when he’s mad. Not using his first name puts a distance between them, keeps Bruno at an arm’s length. He knows Bruno hates it.
Leone hates it, too.
He hates himself for hurting Bruno, his best friend and probably the only person who genuinely cares about him. He hates himself for being unable to let Bruno close, for not letting himself to confide in him, for closing himself off from him. He hates himself for not letting Bruno help him because he knows Bruno can tell he’s struggling but doesn’t know how to help him.
He hates himself for not letting Bruno help him, but he just can’t do it. He can’t, and he won’t.
First of all, he’s fucking terrified of facing the fucked-up mess that he truly is. There’s so much pain, so much trauma, so much shit going on under the uncaring façade he puts up. He’s not ready to deal with all that. He doesn’t believe he’ll ever be ready, which is why he’s actively trying to distance himself from his emotions.
Second of all, Bruno has already done way too much for him, helped him too much. Leone knows Bruno’s worried about him, but he’d be even more worried if he knew even half of the things he’s dealing with. Not letting him know the truth is easier for everyone involved. Ignorance may not be bliss, but it’s better than the alternative.
Third of all… Leone doesn’t want to admit it, but he may be in love with Bruno. If he lets himself rely on Bruno, lets himself cry against his shoulder, he’s definitely going to fall in love with him. Irrevocably. The issue is that Bruno is too good for him and makes him feel good in a way he doesn’t deserve. If something were to happen between them, he’d just ruin Bruno’s life – which, in turn, would ruin Leone’s life.
When Leone looks up from his drink and sees how hurt Bruno looks, his body moves before his brain has a chance to catch up. He can’t deal with this right now; he needs to go. He needs to leave this apartment, get drunk off his ass to make sure he forgets this conversation ever took place and then call his boyfriend to get out of his own head for a few hours.
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
He avoids making eye contact with Bruno as he walks past him and into his bedroom, cursing loudly as he tries to locate his phone. Trying to find a black cellphone from the assortment of black clothes scattered all around the room is a frustrating task at best, and Leone isn’t known for his patience.
“You’re going to see him, aren’t you?”
Bruno’s voice startles him; it’s soft, yet much closer to him than he expected. He turns around and sees Bruno standing only a few feet away from him, leaning against the doorframe and worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. The frown on his face makes Leone dig his nails into his palms, leaving behind little crescent-shaped indents.
“Maybe,” Leone says. He notices his phone laying on the floor next to the nightstand and picks it up, shoving it into his pocket. “What of it?”
“Don’t go.” Bruno’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper, and so sad that Leone can practically feel a crack starting to form in his heart. “Please.”
“You do not tell me what to do.”
It’s not what he wants to say, but he has to say it.
Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.
“I’m not telling you what to do, I’m asking you not to go. Please, Leone. You don’t have to do it for yourself. Do it for me.”
Fuck.
Leone stands up straight and closes his eyes, inhaling and exhaling slowly. He tries to mentally prepare himself for what’s about to go down.
“First you insult my boyfriend and my relationship, and now you think you’re in any position to tell me what I should or shouldn’t do? Don’t be fucking ridiculous.”
“I’m only trying to help because I care about you.”
“I don’t want your help, okay!?” Leone barks, walking up to the door where Bruno is still standing, not budging an inch. “Get out of my way.”
“No.”
“Bruno, I swear to fucking god, if you don’t get out of my way right now…”
“What are you going to do? Hit me? Fine. Do it, but I’m not moving. I’m not going to let you keep doing this when I can see how much damage it’s causing.”
“Whatever the fuck happens to me, I deserve all of it, alright? I deserve to be in pain, I deserve to suffer, I deserve to hate myself because I’m a terrible fucking person and you should stop wasting your time trying to save me already! You’re always looking at me like I need to be saved but you can’t save everyone, Bruno, okay? You can’t save me. You can’t fix me.”
Leone’s words die on his tongue when Bruno suddenly reaches out to gently touch his face. The tips of his fingers brush against the bruise that covers Leone’s cheekbone, only partially covered by makeup, and Leone winces. The bruise is still fresh and sore to touch, but seeing the sorrow in Bruno’s eyes feels worse. It feels like someone’s stabbing him in the heart.
“You’re not the only one you’re hurting,” Bruno whispers. “You’re hurting me, too. I’m worried sick about you all the time. You keep telling me to stop caring about you, to give up on you, but I can’t, Leone. I can’t, and I won’t.”
There has always been this thing between him and Bruno; it’s something fragile, something unsaid. They have never been an item, but they have always been something. Something that’s constantly shifting, always changing shape, something that bends but never breaks. They’re more than friends but less than lovers.
And Bruno knows him too fucking well. He knows when Leone is lying. He can see through the walls Leone puts up to protect himself from the world, he knows what’s hiding behind the angry arch of his eyebrows and his painted smile, knows more about him than anyone else. He knows that Leone is a mess and wants to be there for him, but Leone keeps pushing him away.
Bruno is his favorite ‘maybe.’
His favorite ‘almost.’
Someone so gentle, so warm and so kind is too good for someone like Leone. Too precious for his filthy hands to touch. Leone doesn’t want to drag Bruno down with him by letting Bruno get even more involved in his train wreck of a life than he already is.
That is why he has to do this.
People around him – people who care about him – always get hurt. He breaks everything he touches and he can’t do that to Bruno, he won’t. He knows what he’s about to do will hurt Bruno, but he’d rather break Bruno’s heart by doing this than cause more damage by giving this (whatever ‘this’ is) a chance.
(That is what he tells himself. That is what he wants to believe. If he keeps telling himself that, maybe one day he will accept is as the truth.)
“Please stop doing this to yourself, Leone. I can’t stand seeing you make the same mistakes over and over again. You deserve better. You deserve to be happy.”
Oh, this is going to hurt like a bitch.
“Get out of my way,” Leone says quietly, his voice strained. “Right. Now.”
“Leone…”
“Don’t make me hurt you.” He has to force each word out syllable by syllable, as if his mouth is trying to hold on to them and stop him from doing this.
The worst thing about making decisions, as Leone knows all too well, is that the most important decisions are always the hardest to make but also the easiest to fuck up. You have no way of knowing whether making the decision is so difficult because you’re doing the right thing, which is often really hard, or because you’re making a huge mistake and the universe is trying to give you a chance to change your mind.
“Just get out of my fucking way already.”
Leone can’t look Bruno in the eye as he shoves him aside to get past him. He goes to grab his coat and then storms out of the apartment, never breaking stride – he doesn’t want to give himself time to hesitate, to doubt the decision he just made, to change his mind.
He wants to forget any of what just happened, ever happened. He wants to get drunk or high or both, anything goes as long as it makes him numb. He just wants to feel like he doesn’t exist, even if it’s only for a little while.
His boyfriends picks up in four seconds when Leone calls him.
“Hi, Riz,” he says, his voice shaking slightly less than his hands as he attempts to light a cigarette. “You free tonight? I… I think I need you.”