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The first drink they got to celebrate their success was a bittersweet one.
For one, everything they’d been through over the past week had been particularly traumatising, even for the most seasoned of them. And second, there was a person missing that gave their camaraderie an unnatural stillness. Even though Fugo had chosen to leave them, it felt like he’d died, like they’d lost him on the journey, along with everything else they thought they had. Giorno didn’t really sense it, having only just been with them for barely over a week- but for the rest of them, it hung heavy like a dark cloud, like the mist that Purple Haze had so frequently spilled out.
Bruno wondered if Fugo still used his stand, whether for his own means or the benefit of Passione. Had he been swept up in the ongoing power struggle that had seized the gang in the past few days after Diavolo’s death? Was he one of the insurgents moving forward to take down the fourth person yet who’d declared themselves the new boss? It would seem much more likely that he was taking their own course of action by sticking to the shadows, and waiting for everything to blow over.
But this was a time for joy. After their success, Bucciarati’s team had snuck back to the one place that they had found a safe haven: their restaurant. The last thing anyone would suspect was for them to casually return to their old territory, and so that was just what they’d did. They’d cleared out the entire restaurant just for the celebration, their company too small to hang party streamers or balloons or anything of the sort- but they just enjoyed each other’s presence, laughing and cracking jokes and being the most relaxed they had been in a long time.
Bruno kept a close eye on Giorno and Trish; they were far too young to drink indulgently like the rest of them and supplied with soft drinks, though Narancia he tolerated taking a few sips of wine (mixed with plenty of water).
Mista, relishing in this newfound chance to taste once-forbidden fruit, was taking in the alcohol with much delight- slurping down millilitre by millilitre like soda- much to Abbacchio’s horror.
“Mista!” The older man scolded. “That is not how you do shots!”
He demonstrated, taking a small glass in hand and throwing it back- then refilling it, and doing it again. Soon after, he felt at his face worriedly- taking a tube of lipstick out of his pocket while Mista watched on in mixed awe and horror. Bruno worried for Abbacchio more than the rest of their younger members combined, at times like these- but it wasn’t like he had to worry about him for much longer, though. Would he? He’d made his decision only yesterday, after seeing how happy and safe his fellow teammates seemed, how confident they were to make their way in the future- surely they would be able to take care of themselves, without his guidance. And they would be in good hands; Giorno had proven himself more than capable of leading them, of making decisions that would keep them safe, and so Bruno had stepped down from claiming the top for himself. Entrusted the position of don to him.
Of course, it would be much easier than what they’d just gone through.
His gaze flicked back to the younger of them- Giorno, as he thought, was behaving himself, but Narancia on the other hand...
Narancia had managed to sneak his way back to the bottle of Moscato that lay on the table, and was looking around with eyes wide before taking a hesitant sip, and then a gulp.
“Narancia,” Bruno warned, eyes narrowing. “I told you not to drink that much. It’s only a year before you’ll be able to do it with Mista.”
“Fine,” the brunet sighed, taking a seat and putting his hands behind his head- albeit still eyeing the bottle. Bruno grabbed it and deposited it in a nearby cabinet with Sticky Fingers before he could swallow any more.
Abbacchio had evidently heard the exchange, as he put down his lipstick and swiftly made his way over to them to thrust himself in front of the boy- a measure too far taken, in Bruno’s opinion.
“Narancia!” He snapped. “You do not address our capo that way. Talk to him with some respect.”
Abbacchio seemed so much more protective of him ever since they’d gotten back from Rome, clinging to his side like a guard dog. It was a miracle that Bruno had managed to get cured from his corpse-like state by Golden Experience Requiem, and ever since his senses had been sharper even than when he’d been fully alive before. Not that Abbacchio knew, with his constant hovering over him.
“Sorry, capo,” Narancia said, a little cowed by the outburst- it wasn’t unlike Abbacchio to snap, but it seemed too much even for him.
“Abbacchio,” Bruno put a hand on the man’s arm, gently pulling him away from engaging in conflict with the younger mafioso. “It’s okay. You don’t need to scold him.”
Abbacchio scowled. “Alright. But I’m not going to stand by and let anyone disrespect my capo.”
Strange , Bruno thought. He’d never acted like this with Polpo. Bruno had known Abbacchio the longest out of all of them, that was true- but did their bond really go this far?
For the rest of the night, things went smoothly for the most part. Mista got lectured by Trish on the atrocious state of his nails, Giorno listened attentively to Narancia go on an animated tangent about one of his favourite rappers, and Bruno simply watched with a smile in the background, sipping wine with Abbacchio. One of them was sipping, anyways.
When everybody had seemed to ease into the relaxed atmosphere, Bruno cleared his throat. Seeing that everyone was too engrossed in their conversations to notice, perhaps with the influence of the wine on Mista’s and a little on Narancia’s part, Abbacchio took a spoon to his glass and rapped it three times- hard. The sound was enough to catch everyone’s attention, but Bruno winced, thinking of how much it would cost to replace anything that happened to break.
“Bucciarati has something to say, so listen up!” Abbacchio growled, glaring all of them into silence, then turned back to Bruno, gaze softening slightly. “Sorry, capo. Go on.”
“Thank you, Abbacchio,” Bruno said gracefully, rising from his chair with hands clasped together. “I want to make an announcement. I’m leaving Passione after I help Giorno to clear up everything, in a month or two.”
He could see Mista’s jaw drop. Behind him, the spoon that Abbacchio had been holding fell to the floor with a dull thud. Giorno and Trish - better at keeping their emotions suppressed- had expressions that held only mild bemusement on the surface, but despite that and the fact that they were the newest member of their gang, Bruno knew they were equally as stunned as the rest.
“You’re all in Giorno’s hands, now.” Bruno’s gaze swept over each and every one of them, holding his teammates firm. “Remember what I’ve taught you, and do well by me.”
Mista was the first to speak, looking more unsettled than the capo had ever seen him. “But Bucciarati, how are we going to manage? We haven’t even decided what to do- with you gone, whoever’s trying to be boss will surely take us out before making their move.”
His reflection surprised him. Fugo had left, that was true- but that didn’t mean the rest of them were scrabbling at loose ends. His team just kept growing, and they surprised him more and more every day. He would regret not seeing their later achievements.
“Brilliant observation, but I’m not leaving just yet, Mista,” Bruno reassured him. “We’re going to lay low and wait until the water cools, and then put Giorno on the throne when all the key players are dead.”
A choking cough sounded behind him. Bruno almost dreaded turning around.
There was anger in Abbacchio’s eyes, and betrayal. His lips twitched, but Bruno beat him to it before he could have another outburst.
“And of course,” Bruno said quietly, though he was sure all of them could hear him. “I want Abbacchio to succeed me as capo-”
“No.” Abbacchio said in a tone just as low- shaking his head, not yet daring to bare his teeth in one of his trademark sneers. “Don’t do this to me.”
“You’ll have territory, of course,” Bruno tried to placate him, taking a step forward. “And as soon as Giorno’s capo, you’ll have enough money to buy all the-”
“ You think I fucking want that ?” Abbacchio roared, fire in his eyes. Bruno was all too unfamiliar with dealing with that temper when it was directed specifically at him, and he froze in his tracks. The pale-haired man laughed loudly and bitterly. “If you think that’s what I want, then you don’t know me at all, Bucciarati.”
“Abbacchio,” Giorno stood up this time, a hint of warning in his voice- though he was smart enough to go no further. Everyone knew that usually, the only person who could touch the man during one of his states like this and not risk losing an arm was Bruno. “Calm down.”
“No!” Abbacchio snarled. He stood up, pacing around like a caged tiger before settling next to the wine cabinet and glaring at the floor. “I won’t. You think I’ll listen to some punk who’s barely been in our gang for a week? And now Bucciarati wants to make you don? The two of you were plotting shit from the start, and I didn’t even know. I’m supposed to be Bucciarati’s right-hand man!”
He looked around the room, taking in everyone’s expressions before meeting Bruno’s eyes.
“I betrayed Passione, Bucciarati,” Abbacchio said softly, looking immeasurably more broken even than the first time they met. It hurt much more somehow than when he had lost his temper. “And the only reason why I decided to do that was you. I live for you . Remember that.”
The sound of a zipper caught Bruno’s ear. The wine bottle he’d stashed away in the top shelf of the cabinet- its head poked out from the hole. He cursed himself for having been too careless with it.
“Careful, Abbacchio-” Giorno started, catching on as well. Narancia let out a startled cry as he looked in the direction that he’d glanced at, clenching his fists. Sex Pistols whispered frenziedly to Mista. But none of this was enough to deter Abbacchio.
“I don’t need you to tell me what to do, brat-” He spat, cut off by the wine bottle falling on his head. His expression turned to one of incredulity, and then he fell. Though his face was calm, a jolt of concerned fear had shot through Bruno. But he had to stay composed for the younger members’ sakes. And this was Abbacchio they were talking about- he had the hardest head of anyone the capo ever knew.
“Abbacchio!” Narancia reacted immediately, running over to where he’d fallen. Giorno followed, concern written all over his face.
Bruno strode over to his side, leaning down to carefully examine Abbacchio. He’d knocked himself out, and there was a sizable lump already raised on his head. “He’ll be fine. I’ll take care of him”
With all the strength he could muster - and his stand’s aid - Bruno lifted a sleeping Abbacchio onto his shoulders, struggling to support the weight of the larger man. He was watched like a hawk by the rest of the team, their worry evident.
“Bucciarati?” Giorno asked hesitantly. “Do you need any help?”
“No. You four go back and rest,“ Bruno said firmly. “I’ll take Abbacchio home.”
They dawdled for a few moments, looking at the two of them, but trusting Bruno they took his word- and eventually they all slipped out of the restaurant to go back to the hideout they were keeping temporarily- one of Polpo’s old assets. Bruno would have gone with them - it was the safest option, after all - but he sensed he and Abbacchio needed to be alone for some time. Sighing, he shouldered the unconscious man, and stepped outside. Above him, the stars shone faintly through tonight’s haze, much brighter at the house he kept in the countryside.
Funny , he noted. They looked somewhat like Abbacchio’s eyes.
After calling a taxi and making sure there were no enemy stand users inside, he decided to take Abbacchio to the small apartment he kept in Naples. The ride was quiet, the driver knowing from his demeanour and the way he wordlessly handed the lira to him that there would be no nonsense to be had. In the privacy of the backseat, Abbacchio’s head lolled onto his shoulder. Bruno let it be, and after carefully watching his face for a few seconds, carded his fingers through his pale, silky locks.
Abbacchio did not stir, but his face almost seemed to relax underneath the touch.
Bruno took this as a cue to gently carry on, wounding the long strands around his fingers and marvelling at them. Even after he’d taken him in with Passione, Abbacchio had kept it that way- never cut it and let it go back to the way it had been when he was a police officer. It smelled vaguely of patchouli shampoo, and Bruno found his mind straying to wonder whatever else he did to keep it so lush and fine. He smiled. Though Abbacchio was a strong man, he had his own life outside of Passione, outside his former career- and Bruno could sense the wounds that lay beneath the lion’s fur, ones that he was too proud to reveal. He wanted so badly to unravel the cause of whatever knitted his brows together so suddenly during meetings, to flatten them out so that every day he’d look a little less pained. Abbacchio with his sharp tongue, with a stare that could break even the strongest of men, was breathtaking- but what about a soft Abbacchio?
Bruno couldn’t help wanting to fix people, to glimpse the better part of their nature. It was like when he’d been a child, digging up molluscs to crack them open and see the beautiful mother of pearl- it was interwoven into his nature from a child, from the time Mama had left him all alone to protect his father.
The ride ended soon enough, and Bruno thanked the driver a little more politely this time before shouldering Abbacchio and stepping out into the night. The chill was beginning to seep into his bones, and he dragged the sleeping man along as swiftly as he could manage into the building. The fifteen floors of waiting dragged on agonisingly in the lift, and he withdrew his keys almost effortlessly as soon as they stepped out towards his apartment.
Abbacchio stirred as he opened the door.
As they went in, Bruno gently laid him out on the couch, then made his way to the kitchen to brew a cup of tea for Abbacchio- one of the few luxuries they had been afforded before the boss’s death, along with a glass of cold water for himself. After drinking all night, he needed it- both to clear his head in anticipation for the talk that would inevitably come, and to get rid of the pounding headache resulting from it.
He came back to the living room to see Abbacchio sat up with a glare aimed directly at him that would make lesser men back down. His lipstick was slightly smeared, a dark mark on the couch signalling that he’d flopped over onto the floor in his attempt to get up.
“You’re awake,” Bruno noted pleasantly.
“Bucciarati,” was the other man’s response, straight to the point hissed out from between gritted teeth like his very name pained him. He knew where he was, had been here several times before- some on non-Passione related reasons. Bruno considered him a friend, and even with his attitude, even with how deeply he cared about their other team members, in the selfish depths of his heart Abbacchio was the person he worried about most. “Why would you leave your team? Leave me?”
“You don’t need me any more, Leone,” Bruno said softly, sitting down beside him and putting the cup of tea on the table. “Here, drink up. After seeing you all tonight, I could tell that you were all perfectly capable of caring for each other.
“You think I don’t need you?” the pale-haired man said incredulously, eyes wide. It was incredibly uncharacteristic of him- rough, macho Abbacchio, vulnerable and open in front of somebody. For a moment, Bruno was stunned into silence.
“Do you need me?” he finally said, feeling stupid as soon as the words left his mouth.
“Of course I-” Abbacchio snapped his mouth shut as if he’d been about to say something he would have regretted, struggling for a reply. “Of course I need you.”
“Why?”
For once, it was Abbacchio that couldn’t answer, eyes flitting down to the floor. Bruno shifted closer to him, his own gaze locked firmly onto the other man’s.
“Leone,” Bruno said softly. “Please. Answer me.”
He was almost afraid he’d never reply. That the painful silence would go on forever. But then he spoke again.
“You’re so strong, Bucciarati,” Abbacchio met Bruno’s eyes firmly this time, though his voice trembled- both from emotion and the alcohol which, Bruno sensed, was starting to take hold of his mind greatly by now. He was deflecting. “I feel ashamed, being like this in front of you.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of, Abbachio,” Bruno said adamantly. “You know I’d do this for you anytime, and you’d do the same for me.”
“But you wouldn’t get like this, capo. You’re always so sure.” Abbacchio’s face hardened. “And that’s why you’re leaving, isn’t it? Because I’m not someone you can be proud of any more? Because you can just go and find someone else to look after and fix?”
“You know that’s not true, Leone-” Bruno started, but the words were already gushing out of Leone’s mouth.
“Do you have any idea what I’m going through right now? I can’t have someone like you just leave me again! Not when I already saw your body full of bullet holes back at the Coliseum. Not like my partner-” he clapped his hand to his mouth with a sharp inhale and turned away, but Bruno caught his shoulder and righted him again.
“No,” he said. This was good for him. “Go on.”
“I keep caring about people,” Abbacchio’s voice was almost a whisper, but it seethed with every ounce of agony he had been suppressing up until that moment. “I do. And I try to hide it, I try to stop, but every time I get closer they leave me. Like you right now.”
“Leone,” Bruno’s eyes softened. “If this is the way you feel, I’m staying right here-”
“No,” he cut him off curtly, looking down. “Go live your life, Bucciarati. Find someone who makes you happy, who you can depend on just as much as they’ll depend on you. Forget about me.”
“But you make me happy.”
Abbacchio looked up sharply, eldritch eyes like steel. “You don’t mean that.”
Bruno went bolder than he had before, putting a hand on Abbacchio’s shoulder.
“Leone,” he sighed. “After my father died, I didn’t think anybody could make me happy ever again- but then you came into my life.”
“So why would you leave if I make you happy?” Abbacchio didn’t retreat into himself again, but his eyes were intensely focused on Bruno’s own, trying to suss out any trace of insincerity. Bruno knew he had to proceed carefully with his next words.
“It’s hard for me to rely on people, after what happened- and I worry that I hold you back from your own happiness.” He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “That if I stay here, the only thing you’ll be focused on would be me. I don’t want to do that to you.”
“But I make you happy. And you make me happy. You’ve relied on me well enough until now, and the rest of our team, and on each other for this long, so who’s saying either of us has to leave?” He snapped back.
For a drunk man, Abbacchio was surprisingly astute in his observations.
“Will you stay, then?” he pressed again, almost keening. Bruno would give a million lira if only to hear that again.
“Of course.” Bruno sighed compliantly. “But I meant what I said about you becoming capo. I think it’s time you got the recognition you deserve.”
“But you’re the best at being capo.” Abbacchio said almost a little sulkily, laying down in Bruno’s lap.
“I thought you wanted to be capo.” Bruno laughed quietly. The alcohol was really getting to him- it had been a while since he’d last drank, after all. “Weren’t you angry with Giorno becoming Don?
Abbacchio’s eyes slid back to Bruno’s face almost disbelievingly, then rolled back in his head.
“Yeah, but that’s just Giorno. Thinking of him being better than me in any way pisses me off. You know that, Bucciarati.”
The once-capo laughed.
“You know, we’re alone here, Leone,” He said, warmth shining from his gaze. “You don’t have to call me Bucciarati - or capo - anymore. We’ve known each other for the longest two years I’ve ever felt in my life- in fact, you know me better than anyone else.”
“...Well, what else can I call you?” Abbacchio said hesitantly. Despite the fact that he’d initiated their current position, calling him by his name was a struggle for him. There were so many quirks to Abbacchio that Bruno wanted to find, and realise in the future.
“For starters,” Bruno smiled, threading his fingers through his hair again. “You can call me by my name. Bruno.”
Abbacchio sat up a little and laid his head on Bruno’s chest, the two of them shifting so that their heads and feet were aligned with either end of the couch.
“Thank you, Bruno,” he mumbled with his eyes closed. Then his breathing slowed, and Bruno joined him in sleep soon after.