Archive of Our Own

Mista had been standing in front of the office for almost ten minutes now. His knuckles were practically going to crumble if he had to keep rapping them on the door.

“Boss?” He knocked one more time. He wasn’t one to knock, either- he would just barge in and make himself known. But, the door was locked. It was usually wide open. He was used to being able to see inside it, see Bruno sitting at the end of the room, either surrounded by papers or talking to someone ‘important’.

“Capo?” he asked the air, knocking one last time. “Is everything alright in there?” He hadn’t heard from the man since last night, when they’d all dined together in the nice place down by the rentals. He seemed fine, if a little quiet, but that never worried Mista. After all, Bruno was the type to only speak when spoken to. Only say what he needed to. Sometimes, Mista wished it wasn’t so.

When the gunslinger got no reply, he took his gun and breathed. Well. He’d already gotten yelled at for shooting shit inside his room. It wouldn’t make a difference if he shot the door off, right?

Using his brain, though, he came up with a better solution. Reaching into his pocket, there, at the bottom of it, he found the spare key Bruno had given him. Checking once, and then twice, he made sure no one else could see him stepping inside the dark office. Nobody could know he had a copy of the office key- it was a secret between him and the capo. It was meant for him to use for- for emergencies and the like. Or, well, when he just wanted to come in. Like right now.

The lock clicked. He crept inside and quickly closed the door behind him, suddenly swallowed in darkness.

Soon, he felt something wrap against his neck, and the door was suddenly pressed against his back, and he couldn’t breathe-

“Sticky Fingers, y-yo! Yo, dude, s’ just me! S’ me, man,” he lifted his hands up in the air, trying to surrender to the stand holding him hostage. “S’ just me, dude. I wanna check up on your user, dude, let go, c’mon?”

Sticky Fingers slowly released Mista, pulling his arm back and wringing it with a low ‘ari’. With a huff, Mista rubbed the sides of his neck.

“Buccellati? Where are you, dude?” He surely could use some better lighting in here. Mista stepped closer to where the desk would be, hopefully without knocking everything inside. Gods, why was it so dark? “Dude, are you okay? Aren’t you deathly afraid of the dark, man? C’mon-”

“Mista?” 

Oh, he sounded so small. Mista’s chest ached, yet he moved on forward, creeping up to find the man under the table. Something crunched under his foot. He hoped it wasn’t a bug.

“Hey, dude,” he answered, waving slowly as he knelt down, “how’s it goin’?”

Buccellati’s hair was down from its braid, his clips nowhere to be found. When Mista lifted his boot, however, he found one to be the crunchy thing he’d stepped on. Well. It wasn’t broken, at least. He picked it up from the floor and placed it atop the desk. When he glanced back down at Buccellati, he was able to get a better look of the man.

He was wearing last night’s clothes, his head propped up onto his knees, which, in turn, were pressed up against his chest. Mista licked his lips. Not even the room’s shadows could conceal the way his eyes looked: red-rimmed and swollen.

“Not good, as you can probably tell,” he replied. And yet, there was not a hint of malice in his tone. The man only sounded… sad. Which, Mista supposed, he was.

“Mind if I join you under there? Or d’ya think you’d prefer coming out?”

Bruno shook his head. “Be my guest.”

Well.

Mista crawled into the tiny space left underneath the table, accidentally bumping his head against the ceiling of it more than enough. He yanked his hat off, rubbing at the attacked scalp beneath it with a grimace. Hopefully, it wouldn’t bump up. As he settled next to Bruno, he inched closer, too, resting his head against Mista’s shoulder. Of course, Mista allowed it, wrapping an arm around the man’s back affectionately.

“You gonna tell me what’s up, or d’you just… want some silence?”

“Silence would be nice, if that’s not a bother,” Bruno whispered.

“Happy to oblige, dude. You're never a bother.” 

And so, they sat, shrouded in both darkness and silence. Mista could still see Sticky Fingers, standing warily by the door, looking back at him every now and then. As a response, Mista slid his gun out of the front of his pants, lazily sliding it over to where Sticky stood. As soon as the Pistols jumped out, the larger stand fell back onto his knees, chirping happily at the colony.

Mista knew Bruno was watching, yet he wouldn’t say a word. He was following his orders, of course. Sure, the stands were loud and probably didn’t help his ‘silent brooding’ situation, but Mista himself was following the rules. He hadn’t said a word.

“Mista,” he muttered, “could we go back to my bedroom?”

Ah.

“Sure, boss,” he mumbled back, squeezing his shoulder. “Will you… tell me what’s wrong?”

Bruno nodded.

“Okay. Let’s go, then,” Mista released the other, and crawled out from under the table. He didn’t bump his head this time. As he stood up, he held out a hand for the man to hold, and help himself up with. Which he did.

With the help of Sticky Fingers, they were able to zip a few walls, here and there, and get around the house quietly. Even if the others knew about their relationship, it never hurt to keep things private, right?

Mista had always disliked stepping into Sticky Fingers’ void, though. The place was cold, and wobbly, and just plain strange. This time around, however, he wished he’d stayed inside it, for when he saw the state Bruno’s bedroom was in…

“W-what-” he blinked down at the man, “what happened? Did- were you attacked last night?”

Both lamps had been thrown over the night tables, with stained glass covering pretty much every inch of the carpet. The vanity in front of his bed had been thrashed, its mirror cracked and scratches covering the entirety of it. The curtains were pulled. 

“No,” Buccellati replied, picking up a few glass shards, kneeling down by the edge of his bed.

“Did-” Mista blinked, “did you do this?”

“Sticky Fingers did. Not me,” Bruno continued picking the shards up.

“W-when? Last night? How come no one heard him?”

“I don’t know, Mista,” he answered miserably, looking at Mista with his brows furrowed. “He’s just- he’s been acting up. I don’t know.”

Mista ran a hand down his hair, frowning himself, and- “Buccellati, stop! Fuck, dude, look at your hands!” He hurried on over to where he sat, his boots protecting his feet from the tainted carpet. He took Bruno’s hands in his own, watching the man wince momentarily.

“You can’t do this to yourself, capo. Come on, get up again. We’re going somewhere else. We’ll pick it up later, okay?” He tried to reason with the capo, watching him look away, his head hanging. Blood dripped from his fingers, falling onto Mista’s own skin. “Come on, Booch.”

Bruno didn’t budge.

“Buccellati, please?” he asked, chewing on his lower lip. “I know it’s hard. But your hands probably hurt, don’t they? Let me dress them, yeah?”

Bruno still didn’t move. Mista’s frown deepened into a scowl. He sighed, and resorted to his final option.

Hauling the man up and away.

“W-wait! Mista, no! Put me down! Put me down now goddammit!” Bruno thrashed about in the man’s arms, yet Mista did not follow his orders this time. He simply stepped out of the room, urging Bruno to hush up with an unceremonious pinch to his side, and carefully sidestepped the hallways until they’d reached the bathroom. 

He shut the door behind them, groaning.

By this time, the capo had gone limp in Mista’s arms, possibly too tired to put up much of a fight. He wasn’t pleased, though. Mista put him down on the toilet seat, meeting his glare and smiling sheepishly.

“I know, I know. ‘You had no right to do that, I am so angry, I am fuming’. You can punish me later, caro, but for now-” Mista ruffled his unkempt hair, “you’re under my care. So chill out. I’m not here to be your enemy, and you know that. Maybe you could start this out by telling me what’s wrong.” He turned around, and leaned over the tub.

It was clean. Good. He turned the faucet, testing out the water. Letting it run.

“Why are you doing this?”

Mista blinked. He craned his neck back, and didn’t find Bruno’s seething glare. He was simply met with downturned lips, and furrowed brows, and reddened cheeks that told Mista of his shame. But why? What was he ashamed of?

“Because I want to see you happy,” he answered. It was a simple answer to a simple question. “I love you.”

Bruno bit his lip. “Can you say that again?”

Mista smiled, leaving the tub behind. He knelt in front of his capo, taking his mangled hands in his own again, kissing his finger tips. “I love you.”

“Mm,” Bruno’s eyes watered. “Again, please.”

“I love you,” he kissed them once more.

Bruno blinked the tears away, closing them tightly before leaning in and catching Mista in a tight embrace. Nestled against his neck, he murmured: “one last time, please. Please, Guido.” His fingers caught onto the man’s sweater.

“I love you, Bruno.” Mista wrapped his own arms around the shivering capo. He let him burrow into his shoulder, the fabric he wore pulled taut under his hands.

They stay that way for a moment. Mista felt something warm hit the crook of his neck, yet he refrained from commenting on it. Through the quiet whimpers, he simply held him, and waited. He's got all the patience in the world for Bruno. The tub continued filling up behind them. 

“Guido,” he began, “will you let me undress you?”

Mista pulled away, feeling Bruno slide his hands down his arms. The bleeding had stopped, yet he was sure it had stained his sweater. He wouldn’t worry about it now, though. With a brief nod, he shifted away from his crouching position, and watched Bruno stand as well. He pulled on the jumper’s hem, and Mista lifted his arms, letting him take the garment off with a chuckle.

“What?” Buccellati asked, his brow quirked. He carefully sets the sweater down atop the toilet seat.

“Nothing,” he answered, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his temple. “Nothing at all.”

The capo sighed, letting himself smile and roll his eyes. He doesn’t flinch when Mista leans in, begins unbuttoning the front of his shirt. It slides off his shoulders easily, and Mista’s happy to learn the man hadn’t been wounded elsewhere. Unlike Bruno, he’s not as careful with the shirt, simply letting it fall to the tiled floor. The man doesn’t mind, already moving onto other things.

His pants, for example. Following Abbacchio’s advice, he only wore tight, low rise pants, or high waisted bell bottoms. No in betweens. He knew the man had taken that out of some magazine- he kept a stack underneath his bed. Mista would never dare bring it up, though. He enjoyed having all of his limbs.

His latest pair of animal-print jeans fall to the floor, too. Neither of them kneel down to pick them up. He kicks them off along with his boots. His attention turned back to Bruno, who struggles to take the rest of his clothes off with his wounded fingers. Mista helps him unzip and then pull, until they’re both naked, standing on the tiled floor.

Mista reminds himself to breathe. It’s not the first time he’s seen the man naked, but it always feels like it. He’s got the body of a sculpture, shaped like someone he would later on find in a museum, petrified by Medusa. He ran his thumb down the man’s side, his ears filled with both the sound of his heartbeat, and Buccellati’s breathing.

“Guido,” he begins, breaking the brief moment of adoration, “you’ll join me in the bath, right?”

Mista pulled his hand away, and allowed it to rest upon Bruno’s cheek. The swelling to his face has quelled, for the most part, though there are still signs that tell he’d been upset. Traces and trails of very light makeup, left hanging on his skin.

“Course I will, boss.” He winked. Bruno smiled.

He sidestepped Mista, and carefully turned the faucet off, deeming the amount of water in the tub enough. It’d spill, otherwise. From a zipper he’d made in the wall behind the tub, he pulled a bottle out, handing it to Mista.

“Could you pour some in? Just a little.” He whispered.

Mista glanced down at the… bath bubbles. He snickered. “Wasn’t this what Narancia was looking for the other day?”

Bruno shushed him.

Mista laughed, turning the lid and slowly drizzling it in, watching Bruno lean down and stick his hand in the water. He swirled the soap in, smiling. Mista stopped pouring, and placed the lid back on. Like this, he looked like a child- playing with the water and the bubbles that rose to the top. Buccellati zipped open the wall again, and carefully placed the bottle inside his void. Again, he rest a finger against his mouth, and murmured: “not a word.”

“Don’t worry, boss. I like secrets,” and he especially liked sharing them with Bruno. He decided the water was soapy enough, though, and made way into the tub.

He settled into the edge of it, sinking into the water and sighing. “It’s nice and warm. Y’ gonna come in or wh-”

Mista hadn’t noticed when, or how, but Buccellati had already joined him in the tub. He was on the opposite end, completely covered by the wall of bubbles that had somehow formed in front of him. The gunslinger blinked.

“Wh- how- what the fuck. I did not pour that much of it in. Holy shit,” he laughed incredulously, trying to part the absolute bubble unit that separated them. He heard Bruno laugh, too, and felt the water swish under his chest, bubbles blowing everywhere as the man began to slide back and forth. Well. So much for keeping it a secret from Narancia.

“B- wait! It’s going to- Bruno! It’s gonna spill!” Mista gripped onto the sides of the tub, as if it’d budge or go anywhere with Buccellati’s moment. “Oh my god! Oh, my god- Fugo’s on bathroom duty! He’s going to kill us, Bruno!”

“Us? Mm, I don’t think so,” Bruno’s face peeked out from above the bubble party, a grin spread across his face. “Sounds like a you problem, not a me problem.”

“Fuck off, you’d really leave me to die like that? Me? Your wonderful, beautiful, handsome and patient lover?”

At that, Bruno slowed down. Mista looked up at him, tilting his head. He wasn’t smiling anymore, though he didn’t look upset. He settled down into the tub, biting his lower lip.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Mista asked, his own smile wiped off. “Do you wanna get out-?”

“I don’t get it.”

Mista quirked a brow.

“I’m still confused, dude. What do you not get-?” Interrupted, he found himself face to face with the capo. He was looking directly into Mista’s eyes, who was feeling his cheeks warm up by the second.

“Why you insist on trying to love me,” he answered, never dropping his gaze. “You know my baggage, Mista. You know what I’ve done. What- what my hands have-”

“Your beautiful, beautiful hands, capo,” Mista said, taking one of them and lacing their fingers. Bruno did not wince this time. The soap had numbed his skin by now. “Please, don’t treat me like a child. I know what you’ve done- I was there, too, shootin’ right next to you. Don’t you dare forget that.”

“And I have not,” Bruno shook his head. “I would never. But you have to understand, a relationship would put everybody in danger. We- we’re not just sneaking around like high schoolers anymore. We’re building a bond and that makes us liabilities.”

“Oh, don’t give me that shit. You know damn well everyone in the team is willing to fight tooth and nail for you. Whether caring about the others makes us a liability or not, there’s always going to be risks. We all knew that, and we took them. So if that’s your excuse, then I’m sorry, Buccellati- it’s a shitty one.”

Bruno frowned. Mista frowned back- yet it quickly melted. Turned into a pseudo-pitiful expression, though he clearly wasn’t hurting for the other anymore.

“If you don’t love me, Bruno,” he choked out, “then you can just tell me that. And it’ll be fine, and I won’t be an asshole about it, I swear. But if you wanna keep up this game then we can go back to being ‘professionals’, as if we’ve ever been that on this team, and I’ll still suck your dick if you ask, because I suppose that’s what you want, right?”

“No-”

“Then tell me the truth, Bruno. Tell me what’s hurting you, tell me why you don’t find yourself worthy of care. Of acceptance. Of letting us see you, too, the same way you’ve seen us and loved us just the same.” 

Bruno gave in first, his eyes downcast.

“If I did,” he whispered, “would you still be here?”

“You know I would,” Mista whispered back. “No matter what. I’ve sworn my loyalty to you, have I not?”

“Outside of- fuck, outside of the mafia, Guido. Outside of what even brought us together in the first place. If I were to tell you- if I were to confide in you the same way- would you really stay?”

In that moment, Mista knew he wasn’t referring to the situation at hand alone. He knew this was a test. This was a way for him to prove to his capo- no- the man who had saved him that he was strong enough. That his affection for the other could and would withstand any blaze life threw their way.

“I’ll say it again, Buccellati,” his expression hardened, even if the man wasn’t looking. “No matter what.” And he meant it. He really did.

Mista waited. It’s all about waiting, love is. And he’s learning how to do it. He’s learning how to be patient. He’s met with the warmth of the other man, leaning on his chest, pressing their bodies together. He feels the edge of the tub against his back, and closes his eyes. Bruno’s cheek is on his pec. It’s comfortable.

“You know what I used to do when I first joined Passione, correct?”

Mista swallowed down the acrid taste in his tongue. He nodded. He’s perfectly aware.

“Well, sometimes,” he continued, “the memories come back. And I- hmph. I panic. I have- I have a hard time sleeping. It just- they take me back. Sticky Fingers, specifically. He becomes violent.”

“So you did know why.”

“Yes.” Bruno licked his lips. “I’m sorry I lied to you. It’s- it isn’t something I enjoy sharing.”

“That’s nothin' to apologize for, man. You can continue, if you want to?”

“Right,” he began to trace circles on Mista’s chest. Mista pet his hair. “It’s not the first time he’s done it before. When my emotions, I suppose, get pent up- he’ll go on a rampage. I can’t control him. He won’t pay attention to me. It’s- it’s like he has a mind of his own.”

Mista snickered. “Oh yeah? Wouldn’t know about that.”

Bruno laughed. A sincere laugh.

“Sorry. I forget that you… have it a lot harder than me, in that department.”

Mista shrugs one of his shoulders, slouching his neck forward and leaning his chin on the man’s hair. “S’ not a big deal. I like them.”

Bruno hummed. “I like them, too.” He sighs. “Well. All this to say- sometimes I just need to disappear a few days. Wait for him to calm down, you see. Less we lose our home to one of his fits. I wonder why he isn’t wreaking havoc on the bathroom right now.”

“That’s not even remotely bad, Booch. It won’t make me love you any less.” Though, Mista blinked. “Wait. Dude, you haven’t noticed?”

“Noticed what?”

Mista pulled away in order to look him in the eye. “Sticky Fingers hasn’t been here since I dragged you over.”

Bruno’s eyes widened immediately. He glanced around the bathroom, pulling himself away from Mista. His lips slowly parted, leaving him with a (very adorable, in Mista’s opinion) surprised expression.

“H-he hasn’t.”

“Yeah, man. Try callin’ him out, maybe? Like, maybe you just didn’t notice-”

Sticky Finger manifests himself, immediately crouching next to Mista’s pants by the floor tiles. He tilts his helmeted head at them, poking the front of Mista’s pant pocket.

“Oh, the Pistols? You wanna see em’, dude?”

Sticky Fingers nods with a quiet ‘ari’. Mista brings them forth, the bathroom now echoing with their high pitched voices. They all climb up onto the larger stand, and nuzzle him happily. Sticky Fingers smiles, plopping down onto the floor and playing with the Pistols.

Bruno sits in stunned silence. He’s no longer touching Mista, but the gunslinger doesn’t really care. He’s trying to suppress his laughter- a hard feat to achieve when each of the little kisses Sticky leaves on his Pistols is reflected back on him. It’d be bad timing if he did-

But then Bruno does it first. He downright wheezes, a hand on his chest as he bends in on himself, his hair touching the water. He’s laughing hard enough for the whole house to hear, and he jumps onto Mista, hugging him again.

“Woah, woah! The water, Bruno, the water!”

“Everything’s already wet, Mista, it’s fine. Just let me hug you.” His voice came out muffled, possibly from being pressed into the other’s skin.

“All it took was you opening up,” Mista speaks, rolling his eyes. “See?”

Bruno pulls away, his brows raising. “I don’t know if opening up automatically means all my past… trauma is cleared.”

“No, I didn’t say that. You asked me to get in here with you. You told me whatchu wanted, and then told me what bothered you. And by doin’ that, you opened up.” Mista tucked one lock of hair behind Bruno’s ear. “Stands are extensions of us, aren’t they? Well, you had Sticky Fingers holdin’ onto all that pent up negativity that you didn’t wanna deal with. It’s no wonder why he lashed out.”

“He was just… helping me cope.” Bruno blinked, his brows still raised. “It does make sense.”

“Yeah, course it does, man.” Mista gave himself a mental pat on the back.

Bruno hummed. “I see. But- how could I- how do I… ah. This is such a stupid thing to ask, my apologies-”

“Dude. Remember what Fugo tells Narancia? No question is stupid.”

“How would I handle it, then, without it leading to Sticky Fingers destroying my room decor?”

Mista clicked his tongue.

“Well, I was able to help you today. But I didn’t catch you during a fit. Can- can you tell, usually? When they’re about to happen?”

“Sometimes. There are certain days where they just… occur.”

“Hmm. Well, maybe- uh, have you thought about seeing a therapist?”

Bruno blinked. “I… can’t say I have. It’d- probably be beneficial, wouldn’t it? Though it’s- peculiar. A mafioso going to a therapist. ”

Mista laughed. “Yeah, man. You’re dealing with a lot of shit, gang or not. And while I don’t mind you ventin’ about it, or helpin’ you out like this, I don’t know if you want Doctor Mista outside of the bedroom-”

“Shh!” Bruno splashed him as he laughed again. “You are incorrigible .”

“Oh, you love it.” Mista replied, rolling his eyes, thinking nothing of it- before realizing what he’d said. As he opened his mouth, he debated on what he’d reply with, exactly. “God, I- I keep- hah, sorry-”

Bruno’s silence lasted a beat. He smiled up at the gunslinger, however, and nodded. “You’re right. I do.”

Mista froze. He stared down at Bruno.

“I-I’m sorry, could you- could you repeat that for me?”

“I love you.”

Mista shuddered. “...o-one more time?”

“Guido.” Bruno placed his hand on the gunslinger’s face. “I love you.”

Oh. Oh dear. Oh boy. Mista was going to physically melt into the tub. Okay.

“Mista? Everything okay?” The raven-haired man asked, his smile turning smug. “You look like you’re going through… something, there, love. What’s wrong, dear heart? Do you need a hug, perhaps? Something the matter, darl-”

“Oh shh! Shh, stop! Stop stop stop! I can’t take it!” Mista screeched, his hands covering his face as Bruno laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Peeking through his fingers at the man, he fell even deeper. God- seeing him like this was so refreshing.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” as he came down from his momentary high, he pushed his hair away, still looking up at Mista. Warm. Happy. 

Guido dropped his hands, letting them fall on Bruno’s shoulders. The capo leaned in again, and tucked himself under his chin. Mista wasn’t that much taller, but neither of them cared. He carded his fingers through Buccellati’s hair, and closed his eyes. It’d be okay.

-

Later that day, Mista would look at Bruno, asleep on his bed, his wet hair on the pillow. He’d carried the man back, after they’d wrapped his hands properly, and they’d had some more time to chat before he’d decided to take a nap. Now, he could watch the man’s softened features at rest. He looked calm. At ease, even. Mista smiled.

“Mistaaaaa! Why’s the bathroom all wet!?”

“Mistaaaaa! Did you use up all my bubbles!?”

“Mistaaaaa! Where did you hide Buccellati now!?”

He looked at the door, gulping. So much for watching Bruno sleep.