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Today has left Abbacchio on the wrong side of tired, with an incurable brand of exhaustion hanging off of his shoulders. It’s the type that had him stumbling home, staring off into the middle distance for too long.
Eventually he had dragged his sorry ass to the shower, where – under to too-hot water – he’d enacted a halfhearted excuse for cleaning himself up. Lazily washed his face instead of removing his makeup properly, and as such it’s still clinging beneath his eyes, indistinguishable from the darkened bags that live there.
Can’t put his finger on what it was, exactly, that left him so tired. Other than the ordeal called life. Of course.
So now he’s just standing in his bedroom, cold toes digging into the carpet, pajamas crooked on his body. He’s looking down at his bed, mind wandering somewhere he doesn’t follow and sucking his vacant eyes into the bland, rumpled bedspread.
…There’s no way he’ll be able to sleep tonight, despite how wonderful collapsing face first into this unmade mess of blankets sounds.
He blinks, forces himself to stop staring off into space.
A nightcap is definitely in order.
This in mind, he flees the bedroom to seek refuge in the kitchen instead. His feet go thoroughly frozen padding across the tile floor, but he’s got a clear goal in mind. One that involves staying up late and drowning whatever sorrows he can before passing out on the couch. A typical Tuesday night.
Lack of sleep accompanied by a hangover is a problem for tomorrow; cracking open his wine cabinet is a problem for tonight. He plucks out the first open white he sees, snags a glass from the dish drying rack, and heads toward the living room as he pours –
And almost drops the entire fucking bottle at the sight of Buccellati, half-zipped into the front door. His torso hangs in, and he’s dead silent, blue eyes blinking at Abbacchio.
“What the fuck, Buccellati?” Abbacchio snaps reflexively, trying to calm his hammering heart. And not spill his wine.
…It might be too late for that second one, given that Abbacchio is standing in some spilled wine right now. Paused in place as he is with his glass in one hand – fingers dripping where wine sloshed over the rim – and the bottle in the other. Staring at Buccellati. Making no move to step out of the tiny puddle on the floor.
For a painfully awkward moment, Buccellati stays put halfway through the door. His eyes flit downward, and then back up. “I can’t sleep,” is what he says in the end.
“…Oh.”
That was graceless.
But what is Abbacchio supposed to say? Something more helpful or friendly or reassuring, probably. He’s too busy making sure that his tightening fingers don’t shatter the wine glass to bother summoning his paltry communication skills.
Buccellati doesn’t say anything either, at least. Just hangs there. Half inside. Eyes downcast and shadowed by his hair.
“Do you…want to come in?”
Jolting like he forgot where he was or what he was doing or who he was with or all of the above, Buccellati stares at Abbacchio for half a moment. Long enough to make it properly awkward. Then he nods, and the door unzips the rest of the way to allow him in, Sticky Fingers sealing it behind him.
So! Now Bruno Buccellati is standing stiff (and awkward) in Abbacchio’s little entryway. His eyes are latched onto Abbacchio with a sort of empty expression.
It’s making Abbacchio’s chest feel funny – which is at least pushing out the murky nothingness of earlier – but he can’t break eye contact.
The whole situation is made all the more unnerving by Buccellati’s lack of words. Abbacchio scrambles to fill the silence with something.
“Can I, um,” he brandishes the wine he’s holding, “get you a drink?”
Buccellati nods again. “Please,” he says, voice oddly strained.
Grateful for an excuse to move, back into the kitchen Abbacchio goes. He sets his own wine glass down so he has a free hand to pluck one out for Buccellati. “What do you want?” he calls over his shoulder.
“Whatever you’re having is fine,” Buccellati says. He’s still lingering in the entryway, with posture too rigid and eyes too dull and it’s too late at night for this but here Abbacchio goes, pouring him a drink and ferrying it out to him.
There’s a mild tremor going through Abbacchio’s hands. He’s pretty sure it’s leftover from his startle a moment ago and has nothing at all to do with the sheer amount of concern piling unsteady in his stomach, threatening to tip over, shatter, and spill any second.
…Whatever the cause, he does his best to quell the trembling as he passes the wine to Buccellati. While sipping deeply from his own glass. The alcohol settles oddly against the concern.
“I knocked,” Buccellati blurts out, all ten fingers clutching at the stem of his glass. “But you didn’t answer, so I…sorry for barging in.”
“S’fine.” Even though it damn near gave Abbacchio a heart attack and probably had a hand in pushing him toward an early grave. “I was just about to go to bed.” By which he means, of course, that he was staring gloomily at nothing and lamenting his existence. The usual.
“Oh.” Far away eyes blink, and Buccellati glances down at the wine in his hands, then back to Abbacchio. “I don’t want to intrude, do you want me to…” he lifts one hand away from his glass to gesture at the door.
And Abbacchio might not have any idea what’s going on here, but he doesn’t want Buccellati to leave. “It’s fine,” he snaps, faster and harsher than he meant to. He makes sure to soften his voice when he adds, “I can’t sleep either.” (Not that he tried. But after years of experience, you get to know pretty well which nights will be devoid of rest.)
“…Okay.” Buccellati nods. Again. Takes a too-long drink of his wine.
The ensuing silence is stifling.
Abbacchio can’t fathom what Buccellati could be doing here at this hour. Middle of the night visits aren’t a habit of his, especially with no clear context. If it were work related, they’d be out the door already. If it were a social call, it would have started much earlier (and may or may not have been a fabrication of Abbacchio’s sad, overactive, affection-starved imagination).
And, ordinarily, if anyone is going to stumble into anyone’s apartment after midnight, looking like a sorry mess of a human being, the roles would be reversed.
Abbacchio takes a deep swig of his wine. It doesn’t go down near hard enough. “C’mon,” he mutters, “let’s sit down.”
As if he’d been waiting for permission, Buccellati heads into the living room and takes a seat on the couch. He sits ramrod straight, with his legs crossed primly.
With much less poise, Abbacchio collapses onto the opposite half of his couch, slouched into the cushions a healthy distance away from Buccellati.
This. Doesn’t really help. It’s worse, somehow, to be sitting around casually without conversation than to be standing around casually without conversation. Abbacchio’s already drained his wine glass and is contemplating going for a refill – they haven’t even been in the living room for five minutes. He should’ve just brought the bottle with him.
Buccellati shifts. Uncrosses his legs so that he can lean forward and set his barely touched wine on the coffee table, and then –
And then! He scoots over, so close to Abbacchio that their sides align and meld. His head falls to rest on Abbacchio’s shoulder and everything, a deep sigh breezing out his nose and taking a certain amount of tension from his body with it.
Warm as this makes Abbacchio feel (seriously, it’s doing a better job than the wine; even his toes aren’t as chilled anymore) it does little to settle his overworked heart.
Buccellati doesn’t…he isn’t the type to…
“Buccellati,” Abbacchio starts, before he’s really ready to form the words that have been threatening to spill out of his mouth since Buccellati showed up. He swallows, and forces them out anyway. “What are you – what’s wrong?”
The cheek resting on Abbacchio’s shoulder nuzzles him.
“…I didn’t want to be alone.”
Oh.
Oh, Abbacchio is underqualified for this. A fact which is evidenced by the way he leans away from Buccellati to set his empty wine glass on the table, because he’s sure he’s about to drop it or break it or both.
When he sits back, Buccellati is waiting for him. Sinks right back against him and settles there.
…This is the part where Abbacchio should offer something. Some gentle sort of comfort, preferably. Kind words. An arm around Buccellati’s sagging shoulders. Anything.
He has to do something. His brain is screaming at him, his stomach scrambling.
So of course the grand action he decides on in the end is to sit completely fucking still. He keeps quiet and to himself. He doesn’t dare move for fear of doing it wrong, and his heart is busy trying to climb up his throat, which makes talking kind of difficult.
Buccellati takes another deep breath, but this is the kind that hitches when he pulls it in and trembles as he lets it out. His head shifts against Abbacchio’s shoulder, scrubbing something suspiciously wet from the corner of his eye.
God. Abbacchio could do him the favor of looking at him at least.
Glancing down at Buccellati sends Abbacchio’s heart falling fast from his throat, where it lands low in his stomach.
Because Buccellati looks empty, worse than Abbacchio had seen of himself in the mirror after his cursory shower. His eyes are lost, drained of life and exhausted around the edges, and his mouth is downturned, not-quite-quivering. Worst of all are the tears. They leave a shiny trail down his cheek on the side not pressed half-hidden to Abbacchio’s shoulder – that one is dried on Abbacchio’s sleeve, which in turn is dampening fast.
And Abbacchio doesn’t have the best view from this angle, but what he can see is enough for him to wish he had the courage required to press a kiss to dark, ruffled hair.
As he is, all he can do is fucking sit here.
…He’s never seen Buccellati cry before.
When he finally convinces his mouth to open, all that comes out is a mournful, “Buccellati…”
“Sorry, Abbacchio.” In spite of the whole crying thing, Buccellati’s voice is like stone. One of his hands scrubs at his wet cheek, and then he sits up a bit, using both sleeves to rub his face clean of tears. “I didn’t mean to…” he pauses to wipe fresh tears away, swearing softly. “I should,” he starts. Then gives up on talking and moves to get to his feet –
Abbacchio’s hand reaches out on automatic. He snatches Buccellati’s fingers midair. They’re warm and kind of wet from his tears, but Abbacchio couldn’t care less, wrapping them up secure in his own and trying not to let those watery blue eyes drown him.
Halfway standing, his cheeks damp, Buccellati stares back.
Words refuse to escape Abbacchio’s throat. He can’t even try to talk. Just sits on the couch and hangs onto Buccellati’s hand and hopes some of his please, please don’t leave imploration shows on his face.
He wants to help. He can be here, if nothing else. A warm body to chase away physical cold when the mental and emotional won’t quit.
Eventually, Buccellati’s hand shifts to clutch at Abbacchio’s, and he sits back down. Tipping sideways, his head resettles against Abbacchio’s shoulder.
When Abbacchio pulls in a relieved sort of sigh, he catches the familiar scent of Buccellati’s shampoo. It’s making him blush, for some stupid reason. Now isn’t the time for that shit at all.
“…I was only going to clean my face off,” Buccellati mumbles.
Abbacchio swallows. Whoops. “Oh.”
There’s a dismissive noise from Buccellati, though, and he apparently decides that Abbacchio’s shirtsleeve does the job well enough, because he’s wiping his cheek along it again. “Sorry.”
What he’s apologizing for, Abbacchio has no idea. He’s the clumsy, out of practice one here. The only thing Buccellati is guilty of is being upset.
After an agonizing moment spent stuck in silence, Abbacchio unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth enough to reassure that, “It’s fine,” whatever it is. Just stay, he wants to say, even though he’s doing a whole lot of nothing to offer any real comfort, he can’t fathom the thought of letting Buccellati be alone like this.
Despite the lack of actual action from Abbacchio, Buccellati does indeed stay. He rests here for a while, and his breathing settles – only to start hitching again, and it’s the worst sound Abbacchio’s ever heard no matter how quiet it is.
All of Buccellati sinks into Abbacchio’s side anew; he even curls his legs up onto the couch so that he can press more solidly against Abbacchio. The expression on his face is less strained, when Abbacchio dares to peek at it. It’s almost relaxed, even, if you ignore the occasional trickle of escaping tears.
…It feels good, being so close to him. Physically, it’s nice. Though it makes butterflies erupt angry in Abbacchio’s stomach, and causes his heart to thud heavy and hard in his chest.
In his head, alarms have been sounding nonstop since Buccellati started crying, and their clamor has only gotten louder as the tears continue.
They’re gentle and sporadic, but Abbacchio has never, ever been privy to them before. Because Buccellati doesn’t cry, or break, or even bend – except he does, it seems, and Abbacchio is an idiot for taking him to be solely steadfast and strong all this time.
Because here he is, worn and sad and lax along Abbacchio’s side.
It’s the most terrifying privilege that Abbacchio has ever been offered, to be trusted with seeing Buccellati so vulnerable. Whether Abbacchio is worthy or capable enough aside, Buccellati came to him.
“Are you okay?” Of course all Abbacchio can give is a dumb, reflexive, and too-late question.
Buccellati shakes his head in response, only to amend it to a sort of shrug. “I will be,” he mumbles.
From here, Abbacchio has no idea where to go. Just nods as if he understands and believes those words.
…Buccellati is still holding his hand. It’s a bit uncomfortable, what with both of their arms squished between their bodies like this, but Abbacchio has no intention of letting go. Even he wouldn’t make that stupid of a mistake.
A few minutes of quiet pass before Buccellati speaks up. His voice is still soft, but it’s lost the trembling, stony edge that it had before when he asks, “Can I stay here, tonight?”
That question sets Abbacchio’s heart shaking apart. “Of course.” Why would he refuse?
Coaxing their tangled hands out from between them, Buccellati pulls Abbacchio’s into his lap, holding it in both of his own. He uses the newly freed space to snuggle closer – and as if that weren’t enough, he turns his head so that his mouth is pressed to Abbacchio’s shoulder when he says, “Thank you, Leone.”
Which is – it’s more baffling than Buccellati’s apology from earlier. Abbacchio’s mouth is glued shut again, because he did nothing at all that warrants a thank you. All he’s done is sit here, and he’s even managed to turn that into a useless affair.
Letting Buccellati stay the night is a given. He knows he doesn’t have to ask. That can’t be what his thanks are for.
Let alone the use of Abbacchio’s first name.
So. Abbacchio might be sort of panicking right now, caught up in the comfortable heat of Buccellati leaning into him. Of the safe feeling of his hand clutched between both of Buccellati’s and held close like it’s somehow precious.
Two or three times Abbacchio almost says something, but he dismisses every pathetic option that comes to mind.
Maybe it’s alright. Buccellati doesn’t say anything else, either, after all.
Just stays suctioned to Abbacchio’s side, so tightly packed that Abbacchio can feel his chest expanding with each breath, and the steady beating of his heart. Both of these turn slow and deep, eventually. The hands cradling Abbacchio’s go loose, and that warm body slumps more and more until it’s fully relaxed against him, all tension gone.
Buccellati is asleep.
Buccellati is asleep on Abbacchio, curled up on his couch, head pillowed on his shoulder. Hugging Abbacchio’s arm in a gentle hold, thanks to their entwined hands.
Ah. More heat is rising to Abbacchio’s cheeks. Carefully, like one or both of them will break if he’s too rough, he tips his head to rest it atop Buccellati’s, and it feels like cheating, somehow. Like a cheap cop-out. A wholly selfish act.
“Stop keeping all your burdens to yourself,” one pathetic option spills out, too quiet for Buccellati to hear even if he were awake. Abbacchio is a coward. “I’ll…” he means to say that he’ll help out, share the load, be here – but his nerve evaporates. (And anyway, there’s that old taboo around making promises you can’t keep.)
With a heavy sigh, he lifts his head away from Buccellati’s, and dares to look down at him.
His expression is calm, in sleep, and that sends soft relief seeping into Abbacchio’s chest. The tanned cheek not pressed to Abbacchio’s shoulder is tearstained, and closed eyelids are puffy red behind dark, wet lashes. Some of his hair is stuck to his face.
The hand sandwiched between Buccellati’s twitches. Abbacchio can’t bring himself to pry it free yet, so he brings the other up to brush those strands of hair aside. This turns into his thumb rubbing those tear tracks away, and…
Then he’s just sitting here. Stroking Buccellati’s cheek and staring at him while too many feelings clamor to escape his ribcage all at once, pushing his heart back into his throat. He doesn’t let any of it out. Because he really is a fucking coward like that.
And Buccellati is Buccellati.
…But Buccellati came to him for comfort. For reasons that Abbacchio cannot grasp, he is trusted with this rare, fragile state.
It’s too much.
What the hell can he do for Buccellati’s pain anyway?
He drops his hand from Buccellati’s face, and sets about finagling his other arm free, too. Slow and careful as he’s ever done anything, Abbacchio wraps both arms around Buccellati, pulling him in close. Pliant in sleep, Buccellati sinks in easy, his head settles on Abbacchio’s chest.
Abbacchio prays that his stupid, thundering heart doesn’t wake him.
Like this, though, he can better stroke his fingers through dark hair. He undoes golden clips, plucking them out and attaching them to the hem of his own shirt for safekeeping. Next is that braid, and Abbacchio eases it loose until his hand finds a smooth path from root to tip.
Buccellati’s hair is soft. He’s a warm, comfortable weight against Abbacchio that only seems to get warmer and more comfortable with each passing second – which has to be a product of Abbacchio’s imagination, because that’s not physically possible, right?
Dammit. Why couldn’t Abbacchio have held Buccellati when he needed it?
Maybe because as it is – with Buccellati asleep – Abbacchio gets so overwhelmed by this simple act of comfort that he can’t keep it up for more than a few minutes before he has to let go. What the hell is he doing…?
Easing himself out from under Buccellati without jostling him too much is tricky, but Abbacchio manages it. Slips onto the floor without grace, focused more on lowering Buccellati to lie down on the couch as gently as possible than on the weird way he has to contort himself to achieve that.
There. That’s better than a human body pillow. Right?
More hair has fallen into Buccellati’s eyes with the movement, so Abbacchio brushes it away, and then starts to head for his own room because he can’t do this –
But he stops himself a few steps in. Turns around and snags Buccellati’s half-full wine glass, downing it in two long pulls. He takes both of their empty glasses to the kitchen, and then winds up back in front of the couch.
Buccellati is sleeping peacefully, for now. He might wake up sore, though.
…A pillow would help.
Padding across the carpet, Abbacchio goes to fetch the extra one from his bed. He grabs a blanket while he’s at it.
In the living room, in front of that damn couch, he deliberates for a moment. Sets the blanket down on the coffee table. Realizes he’s still got hair ornaments pinned to his shirt, and sets those next to the blanket. Squishes the pillow between his hands. Fluffs it back up again afterward.
He takes a tiny step closer, and it turns out the first step really is the hardest, because from here it’s a little bit easier (if you ignore the way his heart still won’t quit). He bends over Buccellati, careful hands coaxing his head up just enough to slip the pillow under it.
Buccellati settles into the softness, one hand curling into the pillowcase as he sighs in his sleep.
And – and Abbacchio’s heart really can’t take this, thundering away with nerves or affection or uncertainty or all of the above.
There’s still the blanket to take care of. Abbacchio drapes it over Buccellati’s relaxed form. It’s then tucked in around his feet to keep him warm. Untucked to remove his shoes and deposit them on the floor at the end of the couch, and then re-tucked around socked feet.
There. That’s also better.
Right?
…Abbacchio is stuck. Staring at Buccellati’s face, the comfortable shape of him on the couch.
Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Abbacchio crouches down again. He gathers himself, and presses a feather-light kiss to Buccellati’s head, hiding it in the soft of his hair. “I’ll always be here for you,” he mutters, and he’s blushing again, this is ridiculous, he’s fucking stupid.
Lights are turned out. Abbacchio escapes to his bedroom at last.
True to form, he lies awake for hours.