Archive of Our Own

Five minutes of peace. That’s all Bruno is looking for when he ducks into the boys’ bathroom before the bell.

He thought he was okay, after a week of settling into his new home – thought it would only get harder, the longer he waited to start at a new school. And maybe it would have been, but a few extra days off sound divine now that he’s been confronted with stuffy administration offices and packed hallways.

City life doesn’t suit him, and he’s afraid it never will.

For now, this most out of the way bathroom he could find will act as a sanctuary. Just five minutes, and he can compose himself enough to face the day. He has to.

As soon as he’s inside, though, he finds that this place isn’t as deserted as he’d hoped.

There’s another boy already here, tall and kind of lanky with short white hair, standing at one of the sinks. He’s leaning in toward the mirror, but when Bruno comes stumbling in he looks over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow.

A…darkened eyebrow that doesn’t match his hair, shaped by pencil – or something else, Bruno’s mother uses a pencil – above long, mascara-coated lashes. He’s wearing eyeliner, too, ringed black around pale golden eyes. A tube of black lipstick is open in one of his hands, waiting to be applied.

“You’re new,” the boy at the sink says, without preamble.

Bruno nods. “Yeah…” So it’s that obvious, is it? He must be holding together worse than he thought. Better breathe deep and try to steady his appearance at least. (Easier said than done.)

The boy wearing pretty makeup turns back to the mirror with a scoffing sound. “Good luck,” he grunts.

Stomach flipping over itself for one reason or another, Bruno unsticks his feet to wander a few steps closer. He isn’t nervous, exactly. It’s almost the opposite in that something about this boy makes him feel…secure? Enough that Bruno has no desire to go searching for an emptier hiding spot.

The makeup has to be the reason. A visible marker that this boy is maybe some kind of kindred spirit. And that’s nice, because that well-wish he gave was lackluster at best and sarcastic at worst.

He’s putting on his lipstick, now. Sleek black spreading out to cover pale lips, guided by a practiced hand.

“That looks nice on you,” Bruno says, before he can stop himself. Squeezes his messenger bag to his chest. Almost takes a step back, reflexively. The makeup means he’s probably safe, yeah, but it’s just that –

His mother is supportive and his step-father is tolerant but they’ve both warned him to be careful of others at school. To not be quite so open. Not that he flaunts, but he’s never been one for tiptoeing around who he is, or being mindful of every word out of his mouth. It’ll take some getting used to, learning to hide (especially when he doesn’t have much desire to).

But the boy pauses, turning slow to look over his shoulder again. Golden eyes search Bruno for several long heavy seconds before they meet and hold his gaze for what feels like half a lifetime. There are flecks of another, blue-ish color in those eyes, and Bruno very nearly gets lost between them and the influx of nerves kicking up a fuss in his gut.

“…Thank you,” the boy says, eventually. It sounds like the words are pried from the roof of his mouth with a crowbar.

So far, so good.

“I’m…” Bruno clutches at his bag and tries to ease his jittery fingers. “I’m Bruno,” he says. “I just moved here.” He bites his tongue before he can spill anything else, not a fan of crying in public. It’s weird to have so much trouble keeping calm. The grief counselor said it would be an adjustment.

“Leone,” falls from freshly-done lips. Leone turns back to the mirror, and adds a few finishing touches until every line is neat and perfect and not a patch of pale pink is left to show through the black. He spares Bruno a glance in the mirror. “Abbacchio, if you’d rather, I guess.”

For some reason, Bruno’s stomach won’t stop fluttering, and he sincerely hopes it’s not what he thinks it is. Timing for a crush couldn’t be poorer. “Leone is fine, if it’s alright with you.”

“…I don’t mind.” Leone is packing away his makeup, tucking it into a dull black makeup bag, which is then zipped up tight. He crouches down to stuff the bag deep within his waiting backpack, and then stands back up while slinging it over his shoulder.

The fluttering in Bruno’s stomach peaks, rising through his chest and escaping through his mouth when he faces the brunt of mascara-coated lashes and perfectly applied eyeliner. “I didn’t think I’d meet…” Is it safe to put it into words? “Someone like me. So soon.” Or at all. Least of all someone so open.

“I’m not gay, or anything,” Leone says, with all the haste of someone who’s had to defend themselves this way before.

“Oh.” Bruno’s heart squeezes in a painful sort of way. It’s his own fault for making assumptions. The fluttery beginnings of a crush don’t fizzle out properly, no matter how he tries to swallow them. “I am.” So much for being careful about his orientation around others. “So…”

So if that makes you uncomfortable then too fucking bad, we never have to speak or interact again, but your makeup is still beautiful, you’re still stunning – or any number of things that Bruno can’t find the strength to say today.

“That’s fine,” is all Leone has to say on the matter.

Bruno blinks. “Thank you for giving me permission to exist.” Somehow he can find the strength to say that.

The corners of Leone’s mouth downturn on an impressive frown, a deep crease in his brow accompanying them. It’s a wavering sort of expression, though, lips twitching like they might be trying for a different position altogether. “I just like the way it looks,” he explains, gesturing to his made-up face. “I just like to wear it.”

Leveling Leone with a look, Bruno can’t resist: “That’s fine.”

Leone’s frown flips into a wry grin at that, and he makes a noise that’s not quite a laugh. “Thanks for giving me permission to exist.”

“Anytime.” Ah, shit, Bruno’s mouth is also trying for a smile. It doesn’t land, because they seldom do anymore – but for a minute he feels more like his old self. Happier, more comfortable. The unsteady something that’s been inside of him since his father died is easier to box away, if only for a moment.

Aiming a considering gaze at Bruno again, Leone steps closer. Proving that it really is fine (and also making Bruno hyperaware of just how tall Leone is). “Which classroom are you in?” he asks, with a certain edge missing from his voice.

That takes Bruno a second of thinking, of kicking his brain back into the proper gear. “5C.”

“That’s my class – I’ll take you there.” Leone leads the way to the door, holding it open and everything. “You don’t want to be late on your first day.”

And so Bruno tags along with this attractive not-gay stranger who has long purposeful strides that are only a little bit hard to keep up with. He feels absurdly like a lost puppy, sticking so close to Leone’s heels.

At the same time these unfamiliar halls are less daunting – and somehow less crowded – with Leone here, as if the small detail of having a guide affords Bruno peace of mind.

It’s…nice.

-

Bruno ends up taking the desk next to Leone’s. An empty seat had been open beside him, where he sits at the back of the classroom. Which is a fact that doesn’t surprise Bruno, given what little he knows of Leone so far.

What is surprising is how active Leone is during classroom discussions. How often he raises his hand to answer any questions posed. Leone is intelligent and vibrant; he pays rapt attention to his textbooks and teachers alike. Whatever the subject, he pours his all into learning and engaging with it.

Once, he even gets into it with a teacher over some philosophical concept that Bruno doesn’t really grasp, but Leone apparently has strong feelings over. The argument earns him extra credit, somehow.

(The only teacher that Leone isn’t eager toward is their PE teacher. Probably because the man takes one look at him and tells him, at the beginning of every class, to, “Clean that mess off your face,” in a gruff and snide tone. And Leone does as told, every time, but notably not before he’s told. It makes some kind of statement that Bruno sympathizes with.)

None of the other students seem to appreciate Leone’s thirst for knowledge, except when it distracts the teacher for minutes on end. They snicker over him and pull faces that Bruno finds himself glaring at them for.

Partly because he appreciates Leone’s thirst for knowledge, and partly because he has no tolerance for bullies of any kind – and…partly because Leone did the same for him. Shot an impressive glower around the room when the others made fun of Bruno’s introduction, which was delivered with his soft seaside accent.

After that, well. They wrote him off as an uneducated hick. The fact that he needs to do some catching up on the curriculum doesn’t help his case any.

Never mind that the stoic way Bruno carries himself has never made him many friends. The kids back home were more forgiving of this. Maybe because there weren’t as many options there, or maybe because Bruno could act friendlier, back then. He can’t, now, and doesn’t want to share why.

Leone doesn’t mind any of it.

And Bruno doesn’t mind Leone. For a plethora of reasons.

This stubborn and bright boy who’s always alone is fast becoming the most reassuring presence in Bruno’s life.

Disregarding the crush that’s doomed to remain small and unrequited, there isn’t any pain or uncertainty around Leone. There are no reminders of home in the sharp lines of his face. Leone doesn’t know about his father and so doesn’t give him sad looks, and doesn’t expect him to act a certain way because he didn’t know him before. Bruno doesn’t have to be careful about anything.

The intense presence that is Leone accepts Bruno as-is without question, even while some of the other kids do rude things like whisper about the smell of fish when he’s around.

For the most part he’s avoided, which he understands. The year is half over and it’s their last in high school to boot, and he’s new and strange and behind. He can’t wrap his head around the pace of the city still. Falls into daydreams in class. But he tries to be polite to the others and pay attention and throw himself into classwork when he can because home is – unsteady.

…The point is. Bruno is left alone, aside from a few snide comments that die down over the week as he keeps to himself.

It’s okay. It doesn’t hurt him. He isn’t in school to make friends. Only to graduate so that he can find work back home. If…if he can.

Being left alone is just fine. It’s something that Bruno is numb to.

What starts the sharp little twinges in his stomach are those scratch marks on Leone’s desk. Cruel words carved into the wood that Leone runs absent fingers over while explaining math to Bruno one afternoon.

The insults are usually covered by Leone’s books, but they’re out in the open, now, thanks to Leone shifting his things halfway atop Bruno’s adjacent desk. They can both look over the math textbook, like this, and Bruno’s eyes wander to those scratched-on words as pale fingertips brush across them, and his stomach tightens just like the first time he saw them.

Leone pauses midsentence. Golden eyes flecked with something else lift from the book to look at Bruno, and then follow his gaze to the vandalism.

And Bruno, as soon as Leone’s gaze is clear of him, finds himself staring at sharp cheekbones. He watches a scowl form on Leone’s face, and his stomachache gets worse.

“I’ll be a policeman, one day,” Leone grumbles, “and I’ll arrest idiots who pull this shit.”

Bruno wants to reach over and put a hand atop his, but he settles for wringing both of his own together in his lap. He’s learned that a frown is Leone’s default – that’s not what bothers him. It’s that this one is too deep and too sour and hurts too much to look at. “Vandalism?”

“Destruction of school property, too,” Leone grouches, glancing back at Bruno. His expression lightens, just a little.

“Is that why you don’t scratch them out?” Rules are the kind of thing Leone holds in high regard, after all. He’s the type of kid that Bruno can easily see being praised for good behavior – his parents probably adore him.

The grin that replaces Leone’s frown is a bitter sort. “Whose record do you think it’d go on? The normal kids’, or mine?”

For a moment, Bruno considers assuring Leone that he’s perfectly normal – then he realizes that he wouldn’t feel so safe around him if he was what society considered ‘normal’. And, god, Leone has a point but Bruno hates it. “You’ve told the teachers?”

“Of course. I’m a snitch, see?” He lifts his half of the math book, and points to the word ‘snitch’ scratched in lightly there. “They got a talking-to. And I get to keep my decorations.”

Something in Bruno’s chest sinks. A talking-to. “That’s not fair.”

Leone makes a grouchy scoffing noise, another of his normal sounds that Bruno’s gotten used to. “When your parents pay extra to the school, there’s not much the teachers can do about this kind of thing.”

That’s extra not fair, but it’s obvious that Leone knows this, judging by that miserable frustration on his face. Someone so passionate and well-meaning (and handsome) shouldn’t have to shoulder this type of injustice. No one should.

“What’s going on over here? A date?”

The sneering voice comes from their right, and there’s a knows-he’s-attractive sort standing there. Alessandro, or something, if Bruno remembers right. Rich and well-dressed with too much cologne, stupid in a mean way – always laughs at Leone’s enthusiasm.

Bruno is automatically not fond. The way that Leone goes tense doesn’t help, and Bruno frowns up at the intruder while Leone’s face falls back into its natural scowl.

“Leone is helping me with homework,” Bruno explains as he meets the harsh hazel of Alessandro’s eyes, keeping his tone as even as he can.

“Better be careful around him, new guy. It’s common knowledge that he’s a f –”

Bruno stands up out of his chair, cutting Alessandro off with the loud scraping noise it makes. Lifting his chin he mentally dares Alessandro to finish that sentence. Stares him down because that’s too far and Bruno has been too quiet for too long. “He’s not,” he snaps, chest hot, “but I am.”

Eyebrows rising, Alessandro puffs out a laugh. He glances around the classroom, still empty of a teacher for now, and Bruno forces himself not to look along with him – but he can feel the eyes on him all the same.

The other students are dead silent.

He spoke too loudly.

There’s no taking it back now. His mother will worry if she finds out, but he doesn’t care. The only thing he cares about right now is Leone, who’s staring at him with wide eyes. Fingers tight at the edge of his textbook.

“Is that a problem?” Bruno asks, once the silence stretches to minutes.

An awful, unkind smile stretches Alessandro’s mouth. “It’s none of my business if you two wanna fuck.” He drops that last word like it’s extra dirty, and Bruno has never wanted to punch anyone more.

Where this rage comes from, he doesn’t know, but it’s almost comforting coiled tight in his chest. The box he shoves all of his grief into creaks ominously and he’s grinding his teeth, hands clenched into fists, and it would be so easy –

“We’re not dating,” Leone grumbles. Turns those fierce eyes of his on their bully.

“You might want to tell that to your boyfriend,” Alessandro says, with a nod in Bruno’s direction.

The teacher for their next period enters, then, and Alessandro disappears back to his seat just like that. Twenty sets of eyes slowly go back to minding their own business, yet still Bruno stands. Too pissed to move. Glaring at the wall.

Careful fingertips touch his wrist, and Bruno falls rough back to himself. Looks down to see Leone with his mouth in a tight line and a different furrow between his brows.

Leone’s voice is a deep-soft whisper when he asks, “Are you alright?”

That hurts for some reason. Bruno nods anyway, and mutters, “I’m fine.” He takes hold of his desk and drags it back where it belongs, away from Leone’s and positioned beside the window. Then he sits down. Tries to focus.

His classmates steal glances at him all day.

Except for Leone, who doesn’t look at him once.

-

For the entirety of Sunday, Bruno doesn’t leave his bed. Even Leone hurts, now, and he doesn’t know what to do. He’s afraid that he’s ruined things in some way, but he doesn’t regret what he said, though he thinks that he should, and a thousand times he goes over the incident in his head.

It wouldn’t be so bad, he knows, if it weren’t for that aching empty spot Bruno’s been harboring. His entire life was upended barely a month ago, and he can’t handle anything more. The grief counselor –

Is back home, just like the last memory Bruno has of feeling okay.

He takes a deep breath, and burrows into his blankets. He can’t look at these unfamiliar walls anymore. The ones at home were weathered, strewn with whatever personality he spilled on them.

No handwritten half-poetry is scrawled across the paint here. These walls are clean and neat, and the windows aren’t drafty at the edges with collected sea glass along the sills and god Bruno has to pull himself together before school tomorrow. He needs to gather up all of his feelings and stash them away in that box, because he’s supposed to be healing and it hurts too badly to sink into them.

Plus, his mother worries. He’s trying not to be obtrusive, because he knows that she isn’t used to having her son around. Overwhelming her is the last thing he wants to do. So holing up in his bedroom it is.

Still, she knocks on his door around noon. “I’m making lunch,” she says, her voice thin through the wood. “Do you want any?”

Curling around his yawning stomach, Bruno responds, “No thank you. I’m not feeling well.”

And he isn’t. He really, really isn’t – and the excuse was enough to send his step-father away this morning, but apparently it’s not enough to keep his mother at bay. She’s quiet for a moment, sure, but the sound of her footsteps never comes. Instead, she asks to come in.

Bruno, because he’s too tired to argue, says yes.

When his mother enters the room, her shoulders droop at the sight of him. Sympathy settles onto her face, which is probably called for, because he doesn’t imagine he looks well, curled up where he woke and all.

He’s not in the mood to talk, but she crosses the room anyway, taking a careful seat on the bed. Not too close, but not far away. She’s unused to this parenting thing, he knows – he’s barely seen her these past few years (even on Christmas) and there’s a distance there. This though, her sitting on the edge of the bed and reaching to pet his hair…it’s painfully reminiscent of childhood bedtime stories.

One more ache in his heart. His eyes are too-warm, so he scrubs at them and looks away from his mother, staring at the backpack hanging off of his desk chair instead. He hasn’t touched his homework…

The hand in his hair leaves it.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” his mother asks, gentle like she’s handled him ever since he moved in.

He can’t decide if it’s soothing or irritating. The nearest he can figure is that it depends on the day, and today it pokes at his softened heart in an uncomfortable way. “It’s nothing,” he says, when he means that it’s everything.

His mother adjusts her seat on his bed, crossing her legs and clasping her hands on the edge of his mattress. “Is it a boy?”

Bruno’s heart skips a beat or two, and he turns widened eyes on his mother. “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t – she’s never mentioned anything like this. After her initial quip that her designing career might be able to net him a male model fell flat, she hasn’t brought up his sexuality. And he knows for a fact that he hasn’t mentioned Leone, or anyone from school for that matter. He brushes off every academic question with ‘it’s going well’ and leaves it at that, because it is, for the most part, going well –

“Ah, so my mother’s intuition is right.” Now she’s grinning, secretive but still wider than any of his father’s. “I’ve had my share of boy troubles,” she adds, conspiratorially.

That’s only a small piece of what’s bothering Bruno – the straw that broke the camel’s back, as it were – and she must know that. She knows what he’s been through. Has expressed plenty of concern. Told him time and again that she’ll be here, if he ever wants to talk.

So this. Must just be to lighten the mood. As far as Bruno can tell. Unless she can read something in him.

“He’s just a friend…” Bruno finds himself mumbling into his pillow. A friend that he might have lost thanks to forces outside of his control.

“There’s no chance that he might be more?”

Her tone is light and cajoling, and Bruno does his best to muster up something that resembles a smile in response. “No,” he says, shocked at how awful the word tastes. “I…he’s not like me.”

His mother’s wide smile goes sad, that sympathy she seems to always wear around him back tenfold. “Well, you have all the time in the world to find someone.” She sits up straighter, puts on an air of pomp. “I won’t have just anyone falling for my son, after all.”

Bruno almost manages a smile at that. It’s uncomfortable, but it’s there.  He appreciates his mother – just…can’t open his mouth to say it, afraid that something sadder will spill out instead, as he is right now.

“I’ll bring you something light to eat,” she says. Manicured fingers stroke through his hair again, smoothing out a tangle, and then she’s gone.

-

“Bruno!”

Stopped in his tracks, Bruno’s heart somersaults. It’s too early in the day for this. He wasn’t expecting to hear that voice until he was at school, not a few blocks away from it – he’s not prepared –

“Bruno –!” Frantic footsteps accompany Leone’s voice, now, pounding the pavement and getting closer by the second until he’s right there. Face flushed with exertion, loose of its signature frown as he stares at Bruno and takes a moment to catch his breath. “I’m sorry.”

Already caught off-guard by Leone’s sudden appearance and his complete lack of makeup, Bruno freezes the rest of the way at that apology. “…What?”

“I’m sorry about Saturday. In class.” Both of Leone’s hands clutch the straps of his backpack. His shoulders are square and he’s making eye contact, though, purple-flecked gold catching the morning sunlight.

“It’s…alright,” Bruno says. Because it is, now. The incident was never Leone’s to apologize for in the first place, and Bruno’s put a lid back on things and here’s Leone not avoiding him so it really is fine, all of a sudden.

But Leone shakes his head, doesn’t accept that. “He came after you because you were with me. I should’ve stood up for you better. But I –”

“Don’t worry about it, Leone.” This smile is easy despite how foreign it feels on Bruno’s face and that’s scary. “It wasn’t your fault.” And whatever fallout comes won’t be his fault, either.

“It was,” Leone continues to grouch.

“It wasn’t.”

Mouth pressing into a tight line for a second, Leone nonetheless drops the subject with a stilted nod. They take off walking side-by-side, and Bruno feels lighter than he expected to. The streets, like the school hallways, are less daunting with Leone here.

It isn’t home, but Bruno is comfortable. Dwelling on that feeling will lead him to heartbreak down the line, because Leone isn’t like him, but. His heart is too wrung out to break right now.

“If you feel bad,” Bruno says as they cross onto school property, “you can make it up to me by helping me finish my math homework.”

Leone gives a crooked smirk at that. “I will at lunch. I have to put my makeup on before class.”

“Running late this morning?”

“Something like that…”

-

They’re doing group projects for English class. Everyone is to pair off and write a poem to recite in front of the class – in Italian first, along with an English translation. Both must make poetic sense but retain the same feel and evoke the same emotion, and Bruno is relieved when Leone finds him at lunchtime, because who else is an option to work with?

That scowl is even more impressive with dark eyebrows and black lips. He hovers at Bruno’s elbow for a second before grouching, “I’m shit at poetry.”

“You’re passing English,” Bruno points out. “And Italian.”

Leone collapses into the vacant chair in front of Bruno’s desk, its owner having left to eat lunch in a different classroom with friends. His height occupies it fully, and he sits sideways and straight, turned a little to meet Bruno’s gaze. “I’m good at vocabulary, and grammar, and things with rules. That’s why I’m at a science school.” He makes a face. “My creative mind is shit.”

It would be very rude to laugh, and very unlike Bruno besides. He can’t remember the last time he did. “Well, my English accent is horrible, as you’ve heard.” Reading aloud in class sucks.

“So I’ll recite it,” Leone grumbles.

“And I’ll write it, I take it?”

“Please.” Leone’s eyebrows dip as if he’s in physical pain, and he drops an elbow onto Bruno’s desk, followed by the rest of his forearm as he turns pleading golden eyes on Bruno. There’s something awfully puppyish about the expression. “You’re the only one who can save me.”

If Bruno isn’t careful, he’s going to blush. He’ll end up no better off than he was on Saturday, as far as being too-open in front of the class goes. “That’s dramatic.” And charming.

“It’s true,” Leone insists. “My passing mark is hanging on by a thread after that awful short story…”

Oh, that’s interesting. Bruno wonders what someone like Leone would write a short story about and comes up with zero ideas. “Can I read it?”

“No. I burnt the only copy.”

Now Bruno really does laugh. It bubbles out before he can stop it, soft and barely-there but undeniable, and he presses a hand to his mouth as if he could put it back. “I guess I have no choice but to save you, if you’re as bad as that,” he says, once he’s only smiling. He can’t tamp that down no matter how hard he tries.

It only gets worse when Leone smiles back. Bright with a fleeting edge. “I can help translate it.”

“Oh, I hope so.”

Leone rolls his eyes, slumping a little in his seat. It’s weird to see him sit in such a casual way – there’s always care in the way he carries himself. Like he’s afraid to take up too much space, almost, or take up space in the wrong way, or be caught off guard. Something like that. “Do you want to meet at my house to work on it? Or yours?”

Remembering his mother’s intuitive nature yesterday, the answer comes easy to Bruno. “Yours.” He also might be just the tiniest bit curious as to what Leone’s room looks like. What sort of people his parents are.

…But the main reason is that he doesn’t want his mother to poke fun and give him away. If she would even do such a thing. He doesn’t really want to find out. Not with Leone around.

“Does tonight work for you?”

Bruno raises an eyebrow. “It’s not due for two weeks.”

“That doesn’t mean we can’t get it done early. There’s no reason to procrastinate.” God but Leone sounds like a teacher. No wonder he’s top of the class. “Besides, I can help you with your other homework, too.”

Help with other homework is undeniably something that Bruno needs, the fact that he’s fond of Leone’s company aside. There really isn’t any reason to procrastinate. “Tonight is fine.”

“Here.” Leone grabs his notebook from his own desk, and tears a blank sheet out. He folds it over itself a handful of times, borrowing Bruno’s pencil and readying it to write. “Give me your mobile number, and I’ll text you my address.”

“…I don’t have a mobile.”

A light version of Leone’s signature frown creases his brows. “You’re serious?”

“I didn’t need one, back ho–” Bruno swallows, and clears his throat while pushing down a wave of sadness. It’s not home anymore, and he needs to stop referring to it as such. “Where I lived before. The neighborhood was small.” And someone who knew him was always around, if his father wanted to contact him he’d pass along a message through the town. Their landline and the payphones were enough aside from that.

Leone doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll give you my number, then,” he says as he scrawls down a series of digits.

“We could just walk to your place after school?” Because the idea of being given Leone’s number is rousing the butterflies that sleep in Bruno’s stomach. Exciting them is a dangerous game. He’s afraid of what they’ll do once awake, considering all they’ve managed while unconscious.

“True…” Leone fidgets with his custom-made square of paper for a second, a frown creasing the rest of his face along with those penciled eyebrows, and then he slides the paper toward Bruno. “Take my number anyway. In case you need it later, or something.”

With a nod, Bruno tucks Leone’s number into his shoulder bag.

He knows very well that he’ll never so much as glance at it.

-

After class, instead of heading for the front entrance, Leone leads Bruno to that same bathroom at the backmost corner of the school where they first met. It’s thoroughly abandoned at this hour.

Bruno’s curious, but he doesn’t ask. Figures maybe Leone just has to go, or something – but once they’re inside the bathroom, Leone doesn’t head for a stall or a urinal. He goes to the sinks, where he sets his heavy backpack down on the floor. Some digging through books later, and he pulls out a familiar worn makeup bag.

This time, he unzips it to retrieve a packet of makeup wipes. Then he reaches back into his backpack for a plastic bag, inside of which is a bottle of facewash.

Methodically, his mouth a grim line, Leone starts to remove the makeup he so painstakingly applied that morning. He’s gentle but thorough. Rubs his mouth especially raw until any trace of black is gone, and it’s left pinker than before as a result.

Something deep in Bruno’s gut fears the answer, but he asks anyway, “Why are you taking it off?”

Leone huffs out a sharp breath. Shoves the wipe he’d used deep into the trashcan, and puts the packet away. His face is scrunched on a scowl, where Bruno can see it in the mirror. “My parents,” Leone grunts. “They don’t like me wearing it.”

That makes Bruno’s stomach squirm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever.” Turning the faucet on, Leone sets about splashing water on his face, careful not to get his shirt wet. Next is the facewash, lathered up and scrubbed in. “They caught me with mom’s lipstick when I was a kid. It’s been touch and go since.”

“That’s awful.”

Leone shrugs as he’s bending to rinse his face. Then it’s a handful of paper towels, patting him dry with care. Special attention is paid to his hairline, and he runs his fingers through short white hair, adjusting it despite its meager length. “It’s not so bad,” he says, tugging at his hair and frowning at his reflection.

“You still wear it at school,” Bruno observes, unnecessarily. He wants to frame that as a question, but knows this type of thing is delicate and complex and personal. He’d rather leave space for Leone to not answer.

“If they find out, they’ll kill me.” When Leone turns around, he offers Bruno a bitter smile that only looks soft thanks to his lack of severe black lipstick. “I like it enough to risk it…it’s…like putting on armor. Like no one can bother me when I look the way I want. As stupid as that sounds.” Leone’s cheeks go a bit pink, then, and he dodges eye contact. Centers his focus on stashing away the rest of his makeup supplies.

A flood of warmth is set loose in Bruno’s stomach at that sentiment, though. He thinks of his collection of barrettes. His stash of his father’s old shirts that he likes to put on and curl up in when he’s feeling alone. And he gets it, on some level.

It’s not exactly the same, but he understands where Leone is coming from.

“It’s not stupid.”

Bruno says it with so much conviction that Leone freezes in place, looking over with an odd sort of expression on his face. With a deep breath, Bruno tries to relax the uncomfortable mix of feelings in his stomach. It doesn’t really work.

Cheeks flaring up even pinker, Leone ducks his head to fish through his backpack some more. “Do…you still want to come over?”

“Yeah – though I take it I should keep my sexuality on the down low?” Not that Bruno was planning to parade it around or anything. He just figures he ought to ask. Fearful for Leone’s sake.

Leone grimaces. “Sorry…”

“Don’t worry about it.” It’s not like it’s Leone’s fault. “I’m usually much more subtle about it than announcing it to the entire classroom.”

Another odd look from Leone – like he can’t tell if Bruno is being serious or not, making light of that little incident. Bruno tries to smile to reassure him, but it doesn’t come as easily as it did earlier.

Leone’s mouth twitches in response, which is better than nothing. Then he goes back to his backpack, pulling a silver mobile phone out of its depths this time. He flips it open and turns it on – because of course he leaves it buried and turned off during school – offering it to Bruno after a moment. “Do you need to call your parents?”

That still sets off a twinge in Bruno’s chest, remembering how his parents no longer include his father. Just mom and stepfather, now. “I’ll let them know I’ll be a little late…”

His mother seems excited that he’s going to a friend’s house, no matter that he mentions it’s for a school project and no other reason. She gets Leone’s name out of him, too, and asks if Bruno will be home for dinner, which he assures her that he will be, and then she bids him to have fun and hangs up.

Then he and Leone are off, leaving the school together and walking a familiar path. Stuffing themselves onto the crowded metro, they get off at a familiar stop. It’s weird, how in line this is with the way Bruno comes each morning and afternoon, and right, yeah, Leone did meet up with him on the way once –

“Do you live around here?” Bruno asks, when they’re a couple streets away from his own house.

Turning left where Bruno would usually take a right, Leone flings an arm out down the road ahead. “Way down this way, yeah.”

As they go, the houses get less grand and more humble. Bruno gestures behind them. “If you turn right back there, I’m just around the corner. A blue house, like my mother always wanted.” Somehow he remembers her saying so, at some point in his childhood.

“Nice neighborhood,” Leone grunts.

“I guess.”

Not that this half of it isn’t, especially the house they eventually come to a stop in front of. The lawn is trimmed and free of weeds. There isn’t a stone out of place on the path to the front porch. All-in-all the picture this house paints is immaculate, no peeling paint on the siding or dirt creeping up the foundation. A sparkling clean car sits in the driveway.

“This is me,” Leone says, leading the way onto the porch. He unlocks the pristine front door with a key from his pocket, letting Bruno inside first and locking up behind them.

As Bruno looks around, drinking in his fill of order and organization and a stain-free white carpet that would never fly in his mother’s house let alone his father’s, Leone announces that he’s home. Bruno follows suit in toeing his shoes off and leaving them by the door, tagging along behind Leone as they wander further inside.

There are pictures on the walls. Couches that look barely sat on. Wooden surfaces not tarnished by water rings. Not a speck of dust on any shelf. Bruno is almost afraid to breathe too sloppily.

Not that he’s used to living in filth, exactly, but…this house doesn’t look lived in at all.

Leone pokes his head into the kitchen. “Hi, mom.”

“Welcome home, Leone. How was school?”

“It was good.”

Tiptoeing – afraid to walk too sloppily, hyperaware of the hole in his left sock – up behind Leone, Bruno peeks around his shoulder and into the kitchen. There’s a woman there, with long hair and an unmistakably familiar stern furrow in her brow. She’s pouring over a cookbook.

Leone nudges Bruno with his shoulder, coaxing him to stand in the doorway alongside him. “This is Bruno. We’re working on a project together, and I’m helping him with homework.”

When Leone’s mom looks over, her face softens on a small, friendly smile. Right about now is when Bruno realizes that the last time he was at a friend’s house was probably for a playdate when he was five or so, and the only etiquette he can muster is a, “Hi.”

At least she’s not frowning. “It’s nice to meet you, Bruno,” she says. “Will you be staying for dinner?”

“No thank you.” Ah, there are the polite manners that all the elderly folks around his hometown used to fawn over. Better late than never.

Leone’s mother never drops her welcoming smile. If anything it goes amused at the edges. “That’s good,” she says, “because I’m trying a new recipe and I’m not sure how it’ll turn out – don’t make that face, Leone, my cooking is always passable at least!”

Sure enough, Leone is making a face, but he schools it smooth and responds, “That squid pasta wasn’t.”

“You and your father promised not to bring that up! In front of a guest, no less…” Leone’s mother is laughing, though, a good-natured type of sound that makes Bruno feel a little better about his holey sock and his sloppy breathing.

And Leone is smiling back at her, easy and natural. “You’re not feeding him,” he grumbles, and then pushes Bruno toward the stairs. Voice at a stage whisper, he warns, “Hurry before she offers us a snack.”

“You’ll be taking the leftovers as your lunch tomorrow whether you like it or not!”

Snickering, Leone is close at Bruno’s back as they flee the scene. His amusement is contagious – makes Bruno feel light.

Upstairs there are more pictures on the walls, and Bruno is immediately drawn to one of who appears to be a tinier less grouchy Leone, perched on his father’s (another stern brow there, sharp cheekbones) shoulders and grinning wide. He’s missing teeth.

It’s…cute. Gets Bruno’s mouth to pull at a genuine smile.

Having noticed that he’s stopped following, Leone backtracks. “What is it?”

Bruno points to the picture in answer, and aims his smile at Leone.

“Shut up,” Leone grouches, his cheeks going pink again. When he grabs hold of Bruno’s wrist, it sets off those freshly-awoken butterflies, and Bruno tries his damndest to ignore them as he’s yanked in the direction of Leone’s bedroom.

Safely inside, Bruno spends some more time eagerly taking in his surroundings. This looks more lived-in at least, though it boasts a similar lack of clutter as the rest of the house.

There’s a loose watch on the bedside table, and the rumpled dark blue comforter is crooked. Tennis shoes sit just outside the closet, one of them toppled over. The lampshade is askew. The walls are grey and bare.

Leone shrugs his backpack off, while Bruno wanders further inside. Homework is pulled out and set atop Leone’s desk…

And then come his makeup supplies.

Bruno’s heart sinks a little at the sight of them. This reminder that, ah, right, Leone’s parents may be kind and caring and keep a neat house and put pictures of him up on their walls with pride, but when it comes to this part of him…they…

“C’mere,” Leone whispers, jerking his head toward the closet.

So Bruno follows into the shallow depths of the closet. Leone tugs on a string and the small space lights up, and then they’re both crouching down.

Quiet and careful, Leone lifts a couple of folded sweaters off of a stack of shoeboxes, then sets the first two of those boxes aside with the sweaters. Inside the second-to-last shoebox is a hoard of makeup. Purple and red lipsticks, extra mascara, foundation and eyeshadow. Two bottles of black nail polish, too. Leone puts the day’s supply back with the rest of it, and then re-hides it all.

“You’re the first person I’ve shown that to,” he says, once they’re both out of the closet (…so to speak). His voice is still soft, and he’s leaning on his now-closed closet door, staring down at his toes. “Just felt like I could trust you.”

“I won’t say anything,” Bruno promises on automatic. His heart is having a fit over the ‘trust you’ portion of this, and he can’t stop thinking about purple lipstick on Leone’s handsome face.

A quick nod from Leone. And then he goes on, though he doesn’t have to. “My aunt bought me some of it – she’s…my mom’s family disowned her because she’s a lesbian, but. She understands. When I say that I’m not gay or a girl like my parents are afraid of.” He takes a breath so deep that Bruno can see his chest expand with it, and the way his shoulders slump when he lets it out heavy. “I’m just me. And I…”

Leone is scowling down at his feet, and Bruno’s heart is stuck in his throat.

More than anything he wants to put his hands on Leone’s cheeks, to cup his face and give him a hug and tell him that he’s okay the way he is. He’d love to erase that misplaced anguish between pale eyebrows, to rub it out with a thumb and gift Leone with even half the acceptance that his own parents – stepfather included – have given him.

But he can’t. Or, rather, he shouldn’t.

He should say something, at least, but he’s having an impossible time drudging up words that would be reassuring enough. He doesn’t know what to say to make any of this even the tiniest bit better – and he can’t be sure something like that would be appreciated.

The moment is broken, though, when the sound of the front door opening reaches them from below. Leone’s father is home, and his mother goes to greet him, and Leone snaps out of his morose mood.

One blink, and he’s back to business. Eyes fixed on Bruno, now. “We should get started.”

All Bruno can do is nod, joining Leone at his desk.

-

“It’s disgusting, what those people are lobbying for these days…”

On the stairs in front of Bruno, Leone pauses in place. He’s showing Bruno to the door after homework (and an early attempt at poetry that quickly lead to a frustrated Leone banging his head off of the desk while Bruno fought a fond smile and promised to work on it more once he was home).

It’s nearing dinnertime, now, but Leone is standing still on the stairs. His hand is white-knuckled on the bannister, and Bruno clutches tight at his messenger bag in nervous sympathy.

“Honestly,” the man’s voice continues, along with the rustling of a newspaper, “it isn’t illegal anymore, what more could they want?”

Oh. Bruno’s stomach turns to lead in time with the tightening of Leone’s posture.

Leone’s mother speaks up next, in a matter-of-fact way while setting dishes down on the table, from the sound of it. “It’s a sin,” she says. “No matter what laws they pass or allowances they make it won’t change that.”

“All this talk about ‘prohibiting discrimination’,” his father scoffs. “What next? Marriage?”

That snaps Leone into motion, and he hurries down the stairs. Bruno stumbles after him, quiet as he can, afraid he’ll be drawn into a discussion and relieved that the dining room is out of sight from here.

Leone’s waiting at the door. Bruno follows, feeling a bit sick. Unsafe in his skin.

Conversations like these don’t happen at Bruno’s house. Is this what Leone lives with all the time? Is this how he feels all the time?

Bruno shoves his feet into his shoes, hiking his bag up higher on his shoulder and praying that Leone’s parents don’t hear him leave. That he won’t have to face them before he goes.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Leone says lowly, as he’s holding the door open for Bruno. And then, softer, he adds, “I’m sorry.” His face is set in a wince, an upset furrow to his brows. Something about his posture is frantic.

Unsafe in his skin.

And Bruno nods, but he can’t speak and he can’t stay. He hurries away after giving Leone a little wave, heads down the porch steps, up the street, and sprints the whole way home.

It’s cathartic, on some level, pounding his frustration out onto the sidewalk as he runs. He’s breathless by the time he’s in front of his own house, but he keeps up the frantic pace as he goes inside anyway, through the airy porch and entryway, spilling into the well-loved living room with its spacious clutter.

He can breathe easy, now.

Thinking about it is strange. How Bruno’s father never once made him feel like hiding, even in their little village of minds that should be narrow he was always proud of his son. That pride went a long way. It was contagious and comforting.

And Leone…doesn’t have that. Doesn’t even have anything that resembles it. Not really.

Bruno is drawn on automatic to a delicious scent from the kitchen, his feet moving on their own. Inside, his stepfather is stirring a pot on the stove, and his mother leans over her husband’s shoulder, mooching a taste of what’s cooking in a lilting tone – and again Bruno feels lucky and sad all at once.

These two accept him.

He can’t help but remember his father. Cooking dinner while Bruno helped. All gruff affection and rough, work-worn hands.

Bruno rubs a thumb over his own fading callouses. There’s no heavy lifting or net toting to help with here. These marks will be gone someday.

Some kind of vulnerability sweeps over him as he watches his mother and stepfather. It upsets the box of feelings in his chest, loosening the lid and leaving him feeling empty and flooded full at the same time somehow.

He – god, he wants – his eyes feel hot – he doesn’t want to intrude – shouldn’t become a bother.

“Bruno, sweetheart!” His mother turns to him with a bright smile, one that drops half a watt when she sees him. “We didn’t hear you come home.”

He does his best to lift his expression, even if he can’t manage to make it outwardly happy, he can at least make it passable, so she doesn’t have to worry. His stepfather is watching, too, with a nod and a smile and a polite greeting.

“Did you have a good time?” his mother asks, drifting closer to him.

“Yes,” Bruno manages. He swallows everything down as best he can. Because he did have a good time – a great time – up until the end, which set him off even though it shouldn’t have. He can’t get that frantic Leone off of his mind.

“Are you hungry?”

Bruno nods. Even though food doesn’t sound appealing. Logically, he should be hungry.

His mother looks sympathetic. Her smile goes sad, and he doesn’t know what she’s thinking, but it’s obvious she can see something in him that he’s not strong enough to hide. “Are you alright?”

On the surface, he is. With a few minutes to compose himself better, he will be.

Right now he…wants a hug. But his mother isn’t used to parenting. She didn’t even hug him at the funeral, keeping a respectable distance like she’s done ever since, stroking his hair at the most.

There’s a boundary there that he doesn’t want to cross.

She has enough to worry about, he knows.

…If this were his father, he wouldn’t hesitate. Not as much, anyway.

So Bruno gives up. He slumps forward, wrapping his arms tight around his mother. Her scent is soft and familiar, and her arms are quick to accept him – and they stay there, holding him, as long as he needs.

-

He doesn’t meet Leone on the way to school the next day, and he’s worried that it means Leone will be absent – even though Bruno knows he left a bit too early today – until he gets to their classroom, and finds Leone already there.

A handful of other students are milling around, too, but Leone is the only one Bruno cares about. And he’s currently standing at Bruno’s desk. Cleaning it, with a bucket of sudsy water keeping him company.

“What are you doing?” Bruno asks, at his side immediately.

Leone looks up, scrubbing away all the while. His mouth is a thin line of black lipstick that wavers when his eyes linger on the golden barrettes in Bruno’s hair. “You got some graffiti,” he grumbles.

The sponge shifts aside at the same time as Bruno looks down. Ah. There’s an unfriendly word scrawled there in bold black permanent marker. Too big to miss or mistake for accidental. A crude drawing of a penis accompanies it.

“They’re not very good at anatomy,” Bruno points out.

A harsh bit of laughter spills out of Leone’s mouth as he resumes his work. The slur and anatomically incorrect penis are fading from the left, Leone’s cleaning paying off already. “You’re taking this well.”

Bruno shrugs. If he doesn’t take it well, he’ll break down again. Last night was bad enough, but he feels bolstered by it, somehow, or maybe just numb to new disturbances. These bullies and Leone’s parents just don’t matter.

On a whim, he glances over at Leone’s desk, just to check. He has the same word as Bruno, but beneath it is an additional cruel slur in place of the penis. Bruno winces at the sight of it. He can’t help but feel guilty. Knows he’s responsible for this extra torment being hurled Leone’s way.

“We looked too happy yesterday, I think,” Leone grouches, when he sees where Bruno is looking.

The guilt in Bruno’s chest gets stronger, ready to go to war with those awakening butterflies in his stomach. He should shove all of it into his handy box, but space is getting scarce these days. “Did you tell a teacher?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then why are you cleaning it, instead of Alessandro?”

“Because.” Leone frowns down at the mess, dunks his sponge in the soapy water to rinse and re-wet it, and then starts in on the fading excuse for artwork. “He’d just use this time to carve a more permanent version in.”

Looking Leone’s desk over, it’s obvious he knows that from personal experience.

“They’ll be punished some other way,” Leone assures.

Something tells Bruno that this unfortunately isn’t a given, and that Alessandro and his friends might very well never face any punishment for this. But he ignores that. Turns on his heel and says, “I’ll get another sponge.”

-

Leone walks with Bruno to and from school every day, now. It becomes a routine to meet up where their paths converge and go the rest of the way together, and to part ways at the end of the day in the same spot.

They agree to work on their project at the library, and Bruno’s glad to be away from Leone’s parents while keeping Leone away from his own mother. (He’s still wary of her potential teasing, of all things.)

It’s coming along well, the project, considering Bruno hasn’t written poetry since…before. And even then they were nothing but hasty scraps. Jumbled feelings scrawled down in the moment when he had no other real way to express them, some so embarrassing that he scribbled them into oblivion the next morning.

This one, though, Bruno feels unusually motivated for, inspiration flowing. He takes his time crafting it, and it’s worth it when Leone reads it twice back to back, and then stares at Bruno in awe afterwards.

“This is amazing.”

And Bruno’s stomach comes alive with butterflies, because he’s done something incredibly unfair and indulgent. He’s written poetry about Leone. About the stubborn sort of heartache that comes in many flavors and won’t leave Bruno alone. It came out more melancholy than he meant it to, but maybe that couldn’t be helped.

“No it’s not.”

“Yes it is,” Leone insists. He sets the notebook that the poem is written in down on the table in front of himself, staring at it with lively purple-gold eyes. “You don’t want to know what I would’ve written. Why didn’t you tell me you were this good?”

Because Bruno is not this good, but that’s neither here nor there. “We should probably get to work translating it.” Before Bruno’s face gets any warmer, or his stomach ties itself in any more knots.

It seems like Leone isn’t about to let the matter drop, though, his eyes fixed on Bruno now. “Why aren’t you at a creative school? You told me you used to write all the time, so I thought…” He shrugs one shoulder.

“Science was cheaper, and closer to home,” Bruno tells him. Which school he went to never mattered much to him, anyway, because the future was certain, back then. He’d grow up with his father. Help on the boat and then take over the boat, and live out his days peaceful and predictable. There was no need for high school at all, aside from his father’s insistence.

A confused furrow appears between Leone’s eyebrows. “But your mom’s rich, right?”

Oh. Right. Bruno hasn’t shared. He still can’t, unless he wants his emotions to bubble over for the third time in as many weeks. “…I didn’t grow up with my mother.”

Leone still looks curious, but Bruno isn’t in the mood to answer questions, so he yanks the poem back toward himself, tapping a line with his pencil and saying, “I’m not sure what we could use in place of this.”

That gets the point across, and gets them back on track, too. Emotional bullet dodged.

Smoothness of their project aside, school life in general is also uneventful and pleasant. Which is a nice break.

The other kids are starting to warm up to Bruno slowly but surely, and the bullies spend a good stretch of time keeping to their own, jeering from a distance. They’re still there, on the fringe, but it’s easier to ignore them – mostly thanks to Leone.

Leone, who helps Bruno get caught up on the curriculum until paying proper attention in class feels less like drowning. His enthusiasm for knowledge and justice holds fast, and he returns to his place as Bruno’s most comforting constant.

Even as things get a more comfortable at home bit by bit, with mother and stepfather walking on fewer eggshells each day, Leone remains at the top of Bruno’s list of bright spots.

…The only problem with that is Bruno’s growing pile of feelings.

No matter what he does, they multiply and stack up and he’s running out of room in that stuffed-full box in his chest to contain them. It’ll only lead to heartbreak, is what his brain tells his weary heart over and over – but his weary heart doesn’t listen. It clings to Leone, no matter how much Bruno can’t afford to do this.

His mother can tell that something is up, because of course she can. Leone calls their house a couple of times to compare homework results, and from the minute she hears his deep voice on the phone it’s like she knows.

Fortunately, she doesn’t tease. Just smiles that mothers-always-know smile and hands Bruno the phone.

It alternates between painful and euphoric, having Leone as a best friend (and nothing more).

Because Bruno can’t do this, but he can’t let go either – if having his heart wrenched raw down the line is the price to pay for companionship when he’s the loneliest he’s ever been, then he’ll pay it. It sounds reasonable – if selfish – from this side of things. Especially considering his heart was recently wrenched raw to the point a hole tore into it, and he survived that. So this, though it hurts and might come to get worse, won’t kill him.

That box in Bruno’s chest gets fuller every minute that he spends with Leone.

Bruno wears his barrettes to school with increasing frequency. He admits to missing the ocean and Leone promises they’ll take a trip there after graduation –

Being close without romantic attachment is more than enough to handle right now.

No matter how he has to struggle not to show any of what wells up in his chest as he listens to Leone reciting the English version of their poem in that smooth sure voice.

While they were practicing, Bruno poked fun at him until he lowered his guard and let some emotion bleed into his voice. Reciting poetry is an art that Leone’s stiff mouth wasn’t very suited for at first – but he’s better, now, after Bruno’s coaching examples.

It’s stilted thanks to being in front of their classmates, sure, but the words themselves are more than enough to make up for that.

Which is maybe a vain thought, because Bruno wrote them.

But still. Leone helped to translate them and Leone is reading them aloud, and Bruno lets himself feel, just a little. Lets those butterflies creep out of the box. A natural smile spreads over his face – for Leone.

And Leone returns it.

-

It happens after school that same day, after they present their poems. Once Leone’s makeup is off and he and Bruno step outside to start their walk home. Things are quiet and amicable between them for about ten steps, and then –

Alessandro shows up out of nowhere. Shoves Leone rough into the side of the school building – so sudden that he can’t catch himself, scrapes his cheek against brick and falls halfway to the ground –

And Bruno stands frozen, stunned as Leone takes another punch and sinks the rest of the way down.

Collapsed in the grass and glaring upward with fire in his eyes, Leone growls, “What the hell is your problem?”

At Bruno’s sides, his hands clench into fists. Alessandro has a friend with him, and this guy is hovering too close to Bruno for comfort. He’s almost afraid of what will happen if he moves, but he’s also almost too angry to care.

“Your gay poetry was beautiful,” Alessandro sneers – and he kicks Leone in the stomach –

Leone who is already bleeding –

Bruno tries to rush forward, only to be stopped by Alessandro’s friend grabbing hold of his messenger bag and yanking backwards. Holding tight to his bag, Bruno stumbles along with it and tries to wrench it out of the other boy’s hold. It doesn’t tear free right away, so he abandons it. Hears it tossed aside, papers and books scattering.

That doesn’t matter right now. What matters right now are the defiant lines of Leone’s face as he glares hard at the world – at Alessandro patting an already bruised and bloodied cheek.

“The teacher sure seemed to like it,” Alessandro continues in a snide tone. “Maybe she’s a –”

Years spent working aboard his father’s fishing boat have made Bruno strong. A strength that’ll fade with disuse over time, but hasn’t yet, and he uses the whole of it now to shove Alessandro aside. To get him away from Leone, who’s looking at Bruno with wide eyes.

Bruno’s close enough to hear the way Leone’s breath hitches as he says, “Bruno –”

“Bitch,” Alessandro spits, scrambling to his feet.

Bruno only lifts his chin. Furious. “If this is because we got full marks and you only got half credit because translation was shit –”

You can fuck right off, is what Bruno means to say – but – he’s interrupted by bully number two coming at him  from behind and yanking the hair clips off the side of his head.

They’re thrown to the ground and stomped on – and while Bruno’s off-balance from that, Alessandro pushes him back to stumble into the ankle his friend sticks out – and Bruno hits the ground. Scrapes his elbows and lands hard on his tailbone and bites his tongue. Hopes they won’t stomp on him while he’s down.

They seem to be content with their sneering for now. Pleased with themselves for physically looking down on him and Leone.

“Leave him alone,” sweet gentle kind Leone who doesn’t deserve any of this is growling. “This is assault, you could be ar–”

He’s cut off by Alessandro rounding on him, feigning a kick just to watch the way Leone curls in on himself to protect his core. He laughs again. “What are you gonna do? Call the police?” The next kick lands. Again, all Leone does is flinch.

“He’s not even fighting back,” the friend says, hanging around by Bruno and tucking his hands into his pockets. As if beating someone up is as casual as a stroll in the park.

“Christ you’re a coward – should’ve known that pretty makeup would make you soft.”

More laughter. In the interim, Bruno forces himself to his feet. The second bully grabs hold of his arm, but he shrugs that bruising grip off, takes two steps forward.

“Uh-oh,” Alessandro jeers, “looks like you’re boyfriend’s coming to your rescue.” That awful, cold look in his hazel eyes is mocking, sliding away from Bruno like he knows Bruno won’t do anything, landing back down on Leone. “Too bad neither of you can hit worth a damn.”

That’s funny to Bruno, considering how Leone towers over both Alessandro and his companion when standing. Not to mention that they don’t know a thing about Bruno himself aside from his preference for men and his humble hometown.

But he digresses.

Takes a deep breath to try and quell the heat building in his chest. “If you’ve had your fun,” he says, hates the way his voice trembles at the edges, “then get out of here.”

Things like ‘don’t cause trouble’, ‘don’t draw attention’, ‘don’t be a problem child’ flit through his mind –

But Leone is hurt. These boys have been hurting Leone. They’re hurting Bruno now, too.

For selfish reasons. They use what life’s given them to tower above others and push their peers down and Bruno hates people like this most of all but he shouldn’t cause trouble. Remembers what Leone said about ‘whose record do you think it will go on?’

He’s curled his hands into fists again without realizing.

Alessandro seems to think his attempt to end this with words is funny, a wicked sort of grin creeping across his face.

“Bruno,” Leone says again, from his spot on the ground. If Bruno looks at him for longer than a glance, he’ll snap, because there’s blood on Leone’s cheek and he looks so small, down there. Fragile without his makeup. Tired beneath his anger.

“What’s the matter?” Alessandro taunts and Bruno’s hackles rise on their own. “Your dad didn’t teach you how to fight before he died?”

Something in Bruno’s chest snaps.

He moves without thinking and then Alessandro is on the ground, clutching his face, and Bruno’s fist smarts but it feels good. Some kind of horrible release. He grinds his teeth and holds himself still before he can do worse.

“Holy shit!” Alessandro’s friend scrambles past Bruno, crouching down by Alessandro and giving undeserved sympathy.

“He didn’t teach me to fight,” Bruno says, of his father. “But he taught me to punch because people are assholes.” He takes a step forward, a stabilizing breath through his nose. He doesn’t want to take this further, but he won’t take it back. He curls his right hand tighter. Glares down at Alessandro’s frantic gaze and his friend’s open shock. “Get out of here,” he repeats.

They both clamber to their feet. But they don’t leave. At a run, they scurry past Bruno and back toward the school. One of them calls, “Just you wait, bitch!” and the other cries something about assault.

Then they’re gone.

Bruno’s unsteady legs carry him to Leone’s side, where he leans against the brick and slides to sitting.

Leone is staring at him, golden purple-flecked eyes wide and mouth open. He closes it, after a second. His hands are cradled in his lap, knees bent toward his chest, and he still has his backpack on. That mark on his cheek doesn’t look so bad up close, but it’s no doubt sore and bruised beneath the scrape.

“You’re shaking,” Bruno notes, glancing at Leone’s hands.

“I’m fine,” Leone mutters. It sounds like a reflex as he faces forward again, both hands fisting in his t-shirt.

And Bruno must still be coming down from whatever adrenaline and rage was fueling him, because he blurts out, “Why don’t you ever fight back?”

Leone drags in a shuddering breath. “If I get in fights,” he says, slow and shaky and furious, “it goes on my record. If I pick on them back, it goes on my record. If my parents hear about any trouble at school –” His breath hitches, but his eyes are dry. “The teachers will blame my makeup. They’ve told me before not to wear it.”

That ache in Bruno’s chest goes bone-deep. “Do those guys ever get in trouble for the way they treat you?”

“Sometimes.” Leone’s eyes are still locked firmly ahead. “And this is assault. The teachers won’t overlook this. Not to mention that the law will catch up with them one day, if they continue on this path.”

Oh, Bruno hurts more with each word out of Leone’s mouth. Hurts for himself, for his absent father who would know just what to say right now, and especially for poor good-hearted Leone who has never done anything but be righteous in a world that doesn’t stick up for him.

“Have they beat you up before?” Bruno asks, because he has to know.

A snort. “They’ve pushed me into this same fucking wall before.”

To that, Bruno has nothing to say. Guilt curls low in his gut, and he presses his mouth shut. By being openly gay and hanging out with Leone, he’s inadvertently…

“But it’s okay,” Leone insists. “They won’t be able to touch me, one day. School’s almost over.” Finally, that steadfast gaze flicks to Bruno, locking on him with a morose kind of surety. “You shouldn’t hang out with me anymore,” he decides all on his own. “You’re nice, people will leave you alone if you’re not with me.” He’s so, so wrong. “It’s my fault.” No it’s not. “I’m sorry.”

Then Leone looks forward again. His entire body is tensed tight and trembling.

The deadened flames in Bruno’s chest lick to life at that speech. Leone has nothing to apologize for. “I’m the gay one, Leone. They only beat you up because of my poetry and my –” Self.

“I was the weird one long before you got here,” Leone argues.

“I smell like fish,” Bruno reminds him with a shrug. It earns a bitter bark of laughter. “We’re both plenty weird.”

Things are quiet and calm for a while afterward. Leone is catching his breath, which he was out of for reasons that Bruno assumes relate to fight or flight or panic, or something. Blood drips lazy down his face, and Bruno watches the droplet traverse the sharp dip as it rolls past his cheekbone.

Alessandro and his friend are probably getting a teacher. Maybe even the principal. Bruno figures he ought to be more anxious about that, but there isn’t any leftover space in him or his box for another emotion.

When Leone speaks up again, his voice is a soft grumble. “You didn’t tell me about your dad.”

A sharp pang shoots through Bruno’s chest. “I didn’t tell anyone,” he mumbles. “I didn’t want to think about it. They must have overheard it from one of the teachers. I…” Fuck, he really is going to cry. “I miss him, still.” That’s the first time Bruno’s admitted that out loud. Aside from when he told the grief counselor, which was a while ago now.

“When did he…?”

“Just before I moved here. I wasn’t allowed to live on my own when my mother was a viable option, so. Here I am.” Sitting in the dirt leaned against his new school after being beat up alongside his only friend.

He’s doing wonderfully, adjusting perfectly. The grief counselor will be happy to hear.

“I’m sorry.”

Ordinarily, Bruno would swallow that platitude with stiff politeness. Because everyone says it, how sorry they are for his loss, and it never, ever helps to lessen the ache – but when Leone says it, gentle and hesitant – Bruno accepts it. He holds it close against the ache.

“You should go home.” Leone’s voice is steadier, now, more like it usually is. “A teacher’ll be here any second, and you’ll be in deep shit with those assholes telling the story.”

“I’m not going to leave.” Bruno has no will to go anywhere, and anyway, he’s not at all sure his legs would be willing to support him if he tried.

Insistent and stubborn as ever, Leone shakes his head. “It’s my fault you’re caught up in this anyway – you should let me take the brunt of it.”

There’s no way that Bruno’s going to let him do that. “If I’m here it solidifies your story. You didn’t hit back. I did that.” He tries to manage a smile even though he knows it’s useless. “I’m not letting it go on your record.”

In response, Leone makes that face of his. The sad one that looks like he’s in pain, his eyes going full puppy and his mouth dipping into a morose line. Brows tilted downward in something like anguish. He’s dramatic, but that’s part of what Bruno lo –

Likes. About him.

The main entrance to their school bursts open, whiny voices of Alessandro and friend accompanied by an exasperated teacher, and there’s no chance of fleeing the scene now.

-

Bruno is suspended for a single day. The school also contacts his mother, to let her know he’s been in a fight.

Alessandro and his friend receive the same punishment, but Leone escapes with just his parents being notified. For a moment, Bruno worries – until Leone reassures that the school only mentioned he was beaten up without provocation, and nothing more. His parents will be angry for him, rather than at him, he’d assured.

It’s good. Bruno is okay with it. Leone deserves to get off scot-free, and those bullies deserve more than a single days’ suspension, but. This is enough.

His own punishment suits him fine, too. He’s fully aware that he shouldn’t have hit back. From a factual standpoint.

From a realistic standpoint, if he had to go back and do it over he’d hit both of those assholes twice, make no mistake. He doesn’t regret what he did. The only person he’ll admit that to is Leone, as soon as they have a second alone again.

In the meanwhile, Bruno is to spend tomorrow at home reflecting.

At least the principal told him it was noble of him to fight to protect a friend. Though he accompanied it with the advice that next time Bruno shouldn’t take matters into his own hands.

…His assistant principal also saw fit to add that Bruno should perhaps have tried harder to avoid negative attention in the first place. Which of course translates to stay in the closet next time for the love of god.

That anti-discrimination policy never did go through, the government stoppered it, so all Bruno could do was sit there and nod and pretend that the advice was sage.

When he gets home, his mother is waiting for him at the mouth of their living room, with his stepfather seated awkward in an armchair behind her. Probably for solidarity.

Bruno is tired.

“Are you alright?” His mother asks first, rushing to his side and looking him over.

“I’m fine.” Just a little scratched up, but it’s nothing compared to Alessandro’s shiner or the black and blue bruises coating Leone’s stomach or even that bleeding cut on Leone’s cheek.

Satisfied that Bruno is indeed alive his mother turns imploring, like any parent would when their child had been fighting. “What were you thinking, sweetheart, getting into a fight – this violence is going to be on your record forever, now!”

Bruno chews on his tongue, and offers up a pathetic shrug. He’s finding it hard to care about his record. Nothing he has to say will come out kind, right now, no matter how he tries to keep calm.

This silence doesn’t assuage his mother’s frustration, any. “You’re such a kind boy, and you’ve got a big heart,” she’s saying. “Don’t let this be how you use it. You can talk to me, if there’s trouble at school. I’ll work something out with the board.”

The exhausted spill of emotions that dribbled out from Bruno’s box regains life. He tries to stuff them all back in only to find that they don’t fit anymore.

“The school told me Leone was involved,” his mother continues, in his quiet. Her voice is gentle, careful, but Bruno’s chest goes tight anyway. “I know you care about him a great deal, but if –”

Box filled past capacity, Bruno snaps.

It’s worse than when he punched Alessandro. Hurts more than anything he’s ever felt before. But he’s so sick and tired of everything that he can’t help it anymore – he’s been complacent and quiet for so long and god it hurts.

“If what? Would you rather I just let them beat the shit out of him? Should I have just left him there –” His breath is hitching, but he won’t cry. That’s the one thing he won’t do. Not over this. Not when he’s right. “He doesn’t fight back, and they’re so cruel to him, and he doesn’t deserve it. His parents don’t love him for who he is and he doesn’t deserve that either. And I can’t change that, but I could change this, so I don’t care that I shouldn’t have hit back – I had to do something.”

His mother looks stunned. That’s probably because this is more words than Bruno’s spoken in a row in his entire life, at a higher volume than he’s ever achieved, and he’s not done yet.

“And they’re mean to me, too, and I tried to take it. I did my best, but they know that I’m gay and they know about dad and I don’t belong here and it’s all ammunition to them.” He swallows the lump in his throat that’s threatening to upend this whole rant. “Most kids are nice and most days I know I’ll be fine, but –”

He doesn’t know. Words won’t stop spilling out. There isn’t anything he can do to stop them, for once, and it feels way less cathartic than the punch.

“I care about Leone. He’s the nicest thing that’s happened to me in a while. I can’t stop caring about him, and I can’t stop missing dad, and – and I wish I was back home and that things were okay again and I wasn’t burdening you with this bullshit because you deserve better from me. And I’m sorry.”

Fuck, he feels so awful. Zips his mouth shut and stands there breathing heavy through his nose. Glaring at the floor because he can’t look at his mother or her husband, right now.

He’s half a step away from darting upstairs and burying himself in bed to sleep this horrible lapse of control off.

His mom hugs him, then, and he sinks into her instead.

He doesn’t cry. Just soaks up as much comfort as he dares, while she stands strong and murmurs gentle words. “It’s alright,” and “I love you,” and “I’m so sorry you’ve been carrying all of this alone,” and his chest is aching, still, but it’s dull.

When his stepfather makes the hesitant move to stand at their side and place a hand on Bruno’s shoulder, he’s surprised to find that it helps.

Even if just a little.

-

Life is easier at home from there on out.

He and his mother start to relearn each other, and he gets to know his stepfather a bit. He’s nice. Treats Bruno and his mother well. Bruno likes him. Never really disliked him, to be fair, but now it’s a more amicable thing.

With the ease of home, though, comes a veritable hurricane at school. Word spread about the fight during Bruno’s extra day off, and he is now as awed and revered as he is whispered about. That doesn’t really faze him.

There’s new graffiti on his desk, but he doesn’t care about that, either.

The vicious way Alessandro mutters to him these days is at contrast with a friendlier cadence from most other students, probably because they’re as sick of Alessandro and his bullshit as Bruno was. So that’s also not a problem. Nor is the way Alessandro and friends stay away, wary of trouble. That is actually a plus.

What hurts, as it always has in one way or another, is Leone.

He keeps his distance all week, and no matter how hard Bruno tries to see this from his point of view, it pisses him off.

The only explanation Leone will give is when cornered, and all he says is that he doesn’t want to hurt Bruno. Which Bruno of course tells him doesn’t make sense – to which Leone insists that Bruno still doesn’t get it and storms off.

This, Bruno confides in his mother. She tells him to give it time, and Bruno tries. He understands that Leone feels responsible, because Bruno also feels responsible. But that mess is behind them, now. At least far enough behind them that they should be able to walk to and from school together.

It’s no reason for them not to talk during free period while sitting right next to each other. No reason for Leone to calmly assist with a math problem and leave it at that, with no teasing or banter or amicable atmosphere.

Bruno’s had one too many outpourings lately, and they’ve left him tired and aching for the comfort of Leone’s companionship.

More than anything, he wants everything to be okay between them.

That’s what drives him to try an ambush on the way home. He hurries after Leone, and then in front of him, cutting off his path and facing him properly at last. Stunned-raw expression and drooping shoulders and fading bruises all.

“Leone,” Bruno says, staring Leone down, imploring. “Please talk to me.”

For some reason, Leone’s cheeks go pink. “I can’t,” is all he says.

Bruno’s heart sinks, for the thousandth time this year. “Why not?” And that heavy, exhausting weight in his chest makes him add, “I miss you,” much to the delight of the freed butterflies in his stomach.

Hands tightening on his backpack straps, Leone’s face goes even redder. “I miss you, too,” spills out, and he looks very much scandalized that it did. Those words lighten the load in Bruno’s chest, only for it to go all hardened again as Leone continues. “But I really don’t think we should hang out anymore.”

What the – what the fuck?

“Why do you get to decide that on your own?”

Leone flinches, and then frowns. “It’s – you’re better off without me. No one’ll bother you if we aren’t friends. I told you, see?” A funny expression that’s neither a smile nor a frown flickers over his face, some kind of halfhearted attempt.  

Bruno is not amused, stepping into Leone’s path again when he tries to get past.

This is rough, because up until a few weeks ago, Bruno also thought he was fine on his own. Leone is the one who changed that, by weaseling his way into Bruno’s heart and opening something up that he hadn’t realized he’d locked. Now there’s a space occupied in that something and he won’t let Leone empty it.

“Leone,” Bruno says, serious and seeking eye contact, “people aren’t bothering me because I punched someone in the face. It has nothing to do with you.”

Again, Leone makes that expression like he’s in physical pain. This time, it’s accompanied by actual tears, and that sets off alarms in Bruno’s head. “Why can’t you just drop it and leave me alone?”

Well. That hurts. “Because I like you,” Bruno says, unable to keep the frustration out of his voice. “Because we’re friends and I care about you.”

The only response form Leone is to stand there frozen. His wide eyes are fixed on Bruno’s face, and his cheeks are aflame, but he still looks so pained.

So Bruno squares his shoulders and stares Leone down. “And I don’t care if people do pick on me for being friends with you. This is worth it to me, okay? You’re worth it.” He doesn’t know how much plainer he can make that short of confessing his crush. Which wouldn’t do him any favors.

A pained noise joins that pained expression, and Leone’s hands drop to his sides. His eyes are almost pleading with Bruno, now – for what, Bruno has no idea. Even as Leone closes his expression back off, his eyes stay wet-soft and so impossibly sad. “I need to get home,” he says, voice clipped. “I’ll see you at school.”

There goes Bruno’s heart. Wrenched raw again. Out of his chest completely this time.

He steps away from Leone to let him pass.

“I’ll…see you at school,” Bruno manages. This was the last of his emotional energy, expended. It drips down his body and onto the pavement and into the gutter as he watches Leone march toward home.

After staring for too long, Bruno turns around and goes his own way.

As soon as he’s home, he fishes Leone’s phone number out of the stack of personal papers on his desk. Tears it up into as many pieces as he can and throws it away and collapses into bed and feels significantly less better than he has in a while.

While he’s lying there, he does his best to seal every feeling back up.

To resign himself to a life without Leone.

-

It rains that night, which Bruno thinks is fitting. The downpour is bleaker than his mood and the kind that will saturate you the second you set foot in it – on the other side of the coin, it’s a comforting ambiance to fall asleep to.

Tonight, he’ll need all the help sleeping he can get. He went to bed early, almost immediately after dinner, dodging questions all the while because he’s too tired to talk. That was hours ago, now.

His mother already came up to bed, his stepfather is climbing the stairs now –

Someone knocks on their front door. It’s a casual knock, at first, and Bruno hears his stepfather pause on the stairs, waiting for it to sound again. Which it does, a little louder this time, followed by a grumbled sigh from his stepfather as he heads back down to answer it.

It’s strange for someone to come for a visit this late. Sometimes his mother has unexpected visitors, but they usually at least call first, and the latest they’ve come is around dinner…

The passing curiosity is enough to get Bruno out of bed. He can’t sleep anyway; he might as well be nosy, see who’s at the door.

His stepfather doesn’t seem to think it’s important. From the sound of it he’s plodding along at a slower pace – probably hoping whoever it is will give up and leave, or maybe hesitating because of the late hour.

Bruno tiptoes across his room and pulls his bedroom door open. It, fortunately, doesn’t creak like the one back home. He’s free to sneak downstairs undetected, watching from afar as his stepfather answers the door and –

And pauses.

Most likely in puzzlement.

Bruno’s heart skips about twenty beats where he’s spying from the base of the stairs because it’s Leone, standing outside.

Before his stepfather can get a word in, Leone – dripping with rainwater, his clothes clinging to him – speaks up, in a voice edged with a tremor. “Is – is Bruno available? I’m a – we’re classmates.”

Bruno can’t move. His heart has started beating again, and it’s frantic.

There’s something not right about this sopping wet Leone on his doorstep. He’s too fragile. It makes Bruno’s stomach hurt just to look at him from this distance; the box of repressed emotions in his chest is instantly full.

“I’m sorry,” his stepfather is saying, sounding confused, “he’s in bed.”

Leone’s already-slumped shoulders slump further. “Oh.”

In the doorway, Bruno’s stepfather shifts in place, still out of practice with emotional teenage boys even with Bruno’s recent penchant for outbursts. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Bruno moves, finally. He follows his eyes that are stuck on Leone, so fast that his stepfather has to hurry out of his way to let him through – and Bruno all but latches onto Leone, steps out onto the porch with him. “Leone,” he says. Can’t manage anything else.

“Bruno.” What little that resembles Leone’s usual self dissolves further, and his eyebrows tip downward, red-rimmed eyes going as wet as the rest of him. He seems so, so small. “I’m sorry – to bother you so late, I –” He swallows, composing himself a tiny bit. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

It’s cold out here, in the dark and the rain, and Leone’s only wearing soaked-through jeans and a t-shirt.

When Bruno takes his wrist, it’s chilled to the touch. “C’mon, come in.” He coaxes Leone into the house proper, stepfather again sidestepping to let them through.

Leone’s sneakers squelch wet on the tiles of the entryway. Rather than taking them off or even looking around with nosy interest as Bruno had done in his house, Leone just stands and stares at Bruno. Trembles as he’s enveloped in the warmth of the house.

That ache in Bruno’s stomach only gets worse the longer he looks at Leone. Can’t get ‘I didn’t know where else to go’ out of his head.

He’s grateful that his stepfather only lingers nearby, not moving to interfere.

“Take your shoes off.” Bruno is careful to keep his voice quiet and gentle – not that he could muster up any other tone right now, with Leone in such a miserable state. He keeps hold of Leone’s cold wrist, rubbing it with his thumb, trying to warm it back up again.

Slowly, Leone nods. Blinks back to earth and stares down at his feet to watch himself toe off his wet shoes. His socks go with them, and now he’s standing barefoot in Bruno’s entryway.

His cheeks are red, too. From the cold or something else, Bruno has no way of knowing.

And Bruno has no idea what to do, either. Leone isn’t giving many hints, and Bruno’s stepfather looks concerned but lost – which is comfortingly similar to how Bruno is feeling right now. If his mother were down here, she’d be of some help, but. He doesn’t want to leave Leone to go and get her.

“Do you want me to go get your mother?” his stepfather asks, in a timely sort of way.

At the question, Leone moves, wrist twisting in Bruno’s hold until he can grab onto Bruno’s hand. He hangs on so tight. His fingers are freezing. He still doesn’t look up.

“…No,” Bruno settles on, noting the way Leone’s shoulders relax. “That’s okay.” He squeezes Leone’s hand in his, gives a gentle tug, tries tipping his head to make eye contact, but Leone’s eyes slip aside. “Want to come up to my room, Leone?”

Leone nods.

“Alright.” Slow, with care, Bruno guides Leone by the hand and toward the stairs. Leone’s feet drag until they reach the staircase, and then he hurries up on Bruno’s heels, follows close until they’re inside Bruno’s room.

At which point Leone shrinks back into himself. Stands morose just past the doorway, glancing around with maybe a little more interest than he had downstairs, but not much.

For a second, Bruno leans on his freshly shut door, unsure what to do, his insides restless. Flicks the lights on, for something to do with his hands.

First thing’s first, Leone is shivering in his soaked-through clothes.

This is something that Bruno knows for a fact he can fix, whereas Leone’s mood is up in the air, so he pushes off of the door and heads to his dresser. “I’ll get you something dry to wear,” he explains to the tense silence of the room, fishing out a pair of pajama bottoms that are too long on him but will still probably be too short for Leone. The shirt will be a bigger problem…

Crouching down, Bruno opens the bottom drawer. He knows none of his shirts will fit the length of Leone’s torso, or those widening shoulders of his – except for one, maybe. This overlong sweater of Bruno’s father’s that was always worn with the sleeves rolled up for work.

It smells like him, still. Like home.

Bruno only hesitates a second before lifting it out of the drawer, and pairing it with the pants. Mismatched but comfy. Dry, too.

He offers the stack to Leone, who takes it with slow hands.

“You can change in the bathroom,” Bruno offers. “It’s the first door on your right.”

Leone nods again, but doesn’t move. His long pale fingers curl into the soft dark green knit of the sweater.

God, he looks so fragile – Bruno’s chest is aching something awful. “Your wet clothes can just go in the bathtub for now. There are towels on the shelf in there, too.” The urge to brush his fingers beneath Leone’s eyes is strong, because this close and in this lighting, it’s even more obvious that he’s been crying. “Dry off and then come back here, okay?”

“…Okay.” His deep voice still has that shaky edge to it, as he follows along with Bruno’s coaxing to the door.

Showing him to the bathroom, Bruno flicks this light on for him, too, and then leaves him to it. Leans against this shut door and ponders what to do next.

His stepfather, in the meanwhile, comes back upstairs. Upon spotting Bruno by the bathroom door he dallies for a second, then starts his way over. Bruno winds up meeting him halfway, ready to defend Leone’s presence in this house if it comes to that.

But all his stepfather says is, “Did something happen?” in a quiet voice, mindful of Leone in the bathroom.

The only thing Bruno can offer is a shrug. Something must have happened, but whether or not Leone will tell him what it was remains to be seen. All that Bruno knows for sure is that he doesn’t want to leave Leone alone like this. “Can he stay the night?”

“Of course.” His stepfather sends a sympathetic glance toward the bathroom door. “Do you need anything?”

Unsure what he’s even going to do with Leone once he’s changed, Bruno shakes his head. Whatever it is, he’ll figure something out…

Fortunately, his stepfather accepts this without argument, and only double checks with a, “You’ll come get me or your mother if you need us?”

“…Yeah.”

That warm hand lands back on Bruno’s shoulder. He’s starting to get used to the weight of it there. “Goodnight.”

Bruno almost manages a smile. “Goodnight.”

And then he’s alone again in the hall as his stepfather heads to bed, and he himself wanders back to his own bedroom. It’s started to look a little homier these days. Loose papers around his desk, barrettes scattered atop his dresser, sea glass unpacked and set along this windowsill…

It’s a minimum comfort to his heavy heart and jittery stomach, which lift right back to where they were when Leone steps back into the room.

He’s hesitant, standing just in front of the door. Looks a little better, if only because he’s not drenched. Turns out the pants are indeed too short on him, but the sweater fits well enough. He isn’t quite broad enough to fill it yet, though Bruno suspects he will be someday – that isn’t what’s important right now –

Bruno takes a heavy seat in the center of his bed, gesturing for Leone to follow. “Come sit.”

Padding his way across the room, Leone crawls onto the bed, matching Bruno’s position and settling face-to-face with him. With his legs crossed, the pants ride further up his ankles, showing off pale white leg hair. He curls his hands together in his lap, shoulders lax.

Seems like they might be talking, after all, judging by the expression on Leone’s face like he’s about to spit out something unpleasant. His eyes cycle through too-wet and kind-of-wet.

And Bruno wants so badly to reach out and comfort him, but he doesn’t dare to overstep and make whatever this is worse. So he sits tight for now. Keeps to himself and watches Leone, pondering whether or not he ought to speak or touch or let things be.

Outside, it’s still raining something fierce. The downpour is pummeling Bruno’s windows and roof.

Leone’s first attempt to speak comes out hoarse, so he clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sorry. For the past few days, and how I…how I blew you off earlier. Told you we shouldn’t hang out.” He swallows, staring at his hands. “I didn’t…”

“I don’t care about that anymore.” And Bruno really, really doesn’t. Whatever lingering upset evaporated the second Leone showed up dripping wet and sad on his doorstep so late at night.

“It was shitty of me.”

Yes, it was. As long as he knows that, there’s no problem. “I still care about you, alright? That didn’t go away.” I don’t think it ever will, Bruno doesn’t say.

Purple-flecked gold shimmers at him. Leone’s eyes are too mournful to even be puppyish.

“Just don’t ever tell me I’m better off without you again.” The simple act of speaking those words hurts – although not as much as this sorrowful shape of Leone in front of Bruno. “Got it?”

A watery, fleeting smile and a quick nod, then Leone sniffles and looks away again. The healing scrape on his cheekbone stands out against his pale skin, bright red and missing its scab.

Emotions overflow Bruno’s box and scramble around – and he flounders. He softens his voice to fit the delicate atmosphere, tries his best. “You didn’t come all this way in the rain just to apologize, did you?”

“I would have,” Leone says, on something that’s halfway a sob. He swears, and shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes, scrubbing away what he can. “I was going to – to call, or talk to you at school, but –”

Fuck. Bruno’s eyes are going hot. “Something happened?” he guesses, heart sinking all over again.

Leone answers with a nod, hands rubbing at his eyes and then the rest of his face, and when he’s done his eyelashes are stuck together with tears and his eyelids are reddened and puffed. His bruised cut wells up with a fresh layer of blood, but doesn’t drip.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Bruno says, keeping his voice impossibly gentle.

At that, though, Leone shakes his head. “I have to tell you,” he says. He takes a deep breath, composing himself, runs a hand through his hair and wipes his eyes one final time.

All the while, Bruno waits patiently, trying not to come to too many frightening conclusions.

“Someone,” Leone starts then stops. Sucks his cheeks in then lets them out. His voice is steadier when he picks back up. “Someone at school took pictures of me wearing makeup, and put them in our mailbox. When my dad came home…he found them.”

Bruno’s insides curl up tight, his breath catching in his lungs.

“He and mom confronted me – and – and I could’ve lied, I guess, but I…” The tears are back, not-quite spilling over but Leone’s voice is quivering, just like that. “I’m so tired of hiding. They emptied my stash in the garbage. Told me if I stopped now and got help they’d forgive it.”

A stubborn tear escapes at last, dripping down Leone’s cheek only to be scrubbed away – and Bruno can’t take it anymore. He scoots closer, rests a hand atop one of Leone’s as his own vision blurs and his heart cracks, emotional box upended.

That crack only gets deeper as Leone grabs onto him in turn, holding his hand again.

More words spill out of Leone’s mouth in quick succession, frantic as his breath hitches through them. “I said I wouldn’t, though. I panicked and snapped and – some part of me hoped they wouldn’t care – that it wouldn’t be so bad – that they’d still –” He sobs and sniffles, and Bruno reaches for him again. Brushes his fingers over a warm-wet cheek, thumbs tears away from that scrape while Leone drags a sleeve under his nose. “But they just yelled more. Blamed each other for me ending up this way – blamed my aunt, blamed me.”

That tone is bitter and painful and Bruno tugs on handfuls of his father’s sweater at Leone’s shoulders, urging him closer. All Leone does is tip forward a bit, sitting stubbornly still.

“And it is me that’s the problem –”

Bruno shakes his head. He’s afraid to open his mouth because he knows he’s liable to cry right along with Leone, but he tries anyway. “No –”

“But I don’t care – not really, I just want to be myself and I told them that but it didn’t matter, Bruno – they didn’t care.” He’s crying in earnest, now, bows his head and rubs at his face.

When Bruno, heart sore beyond relief, gently tugs on his shoulders again, Leone shuffles in close. Shoves his lanky frame into Bruno’s offered arms, halfway in his lap, clinging to him so tight that Bruno can’t breathe but it feels so good to hold him. Because Bruno sure as shit doesn’t have any words to make this better.

Besides. The lump in his throat keeps him from speaking. Long held-back tears dribble down his face, and his breath hitches in time with Leone’s sobs, each one echoing hollow and painful in his own chest. His throat hurts. Everything hurts. The scent of his father mixed with that of Leone is all-encompassing.

“I knew – they wouldn’t care – but to have them – say those things –”

“Shh,” Bruno murmurs. Can’t manage anything else, his hands rubbing up and down Leone’s back. In all the times he dared to think of hugging Leone, it was never like this. Never under these circumstances.

Leone doesn’t quieten. He gulps down air and keeps talking. Not done, apparently. “And I…god, I really did it. I told them about the bullying and about my feelings for you and that I couldn’t stop being myself – and they said – they said that if –”

“Easy,” Bruno hums, “easy.”

The ‘feelings for you’ comment doesn’t miss him, but now couldn’t be a worse time to dwell on it. So he focuses on Leone in his arms. Rubs fingertips over the back of his neck and urges his face tight to his shoulder. Leone’s probably making a mess of his shirt but he really can’t care about anything aside from stopping those tears.

“They said,” Leone mumbles, “that if I was going to be a –” He swallows hard, hiccups out a sob. “That I wasn’t welcome in their house. I wasn’t their son anymore, and I should. Get out.”

The crack in Bruno’s heart splits fully apart, and he clutches Leone close. Breathes him in and squeezes him. “You didn’t deserve that,” he whispers, his voice a shaking mess, eyes uselessly blurred and cheeks hopelessly wet.

“So I ran. I didn’t know where else to go. I didn’t even grab my phone, I just left – and – your house is close – I remembered the way – that it was blue – I’m sorry for –”

“Don’t say that,” Bruno manages. Presses his mouth to Leone’s forehead in a not-kiss. “Don’t apologize anymore, please.”

Leone makes a mournful noise between sobs. From the sound of it, he’s trying to stifle them, his face mushed against Bruno’s shoulder, fists clutching tight to Bruno’s t-shirt as he shifts further into Bruno’s lap. Curls in close like he’s trying to meld them together.

That goal is more than agreeable to Bruno. If he could, he’d stuff Leone into his chest and protect him from heartache, his parents, the world. “You’re safe,” he whispers, wants to believe that’s completely true. He can’t remember the last time he cried like this. At his dad’s bedside in the hospital probably. “I’ve got you.”

A tearstained cheek rubs over Bruno’s shoulder, nodding or drying off, Bruno isn’t sure. Leone doesn’t move away, though, his breaths hitching softly and eyelashes fluttering at the base of Bruno’s neck.

All Bruno wants of life right now is to sit here holding Leone until he’s calm, and then to keep holding him until everything is miraculously okay. The second half is, he knows, impossible, but the first – he’ll gladly do. The only problem is that Leone is heavy, no matter how reassuring and solid his weight is. Bruno’s foot is falling asleep. Clinging to Leone to counterbalance is going to hurt his arms soon.

Not to mention, Leone himself can’t be comfortable, contorted as he is to fit his lanky limbs amidst and atop the shorter span of Bruno’s.

“Let’s lie down,” Bruno murmurs, as another of his tears spills over. He doesn’t have the energy to wipe them away.

That’s definitely a nod from Leone this time, and he pulls back to a reasonable distance. Shimmies out of Bruno’s lap, and in tandem they finagle their way beneath Bruno’s comforter. They tangle together on automatic, Leone surging back toward Bruno’s chest and re-burying his face there as he grabs hold of Bruno with arms snug around his waist.

Bruno, his heart thudding away and tears finally slowing, holds Leone close in turn. He runs his fingers through short white hair and rubs circles into a strong back, reveling in the gentler rise and fall of deepening breaths. The way Leone sinks into him.

“You’re staying here tonight,” Bruno says. Just in case that wasn’t obvious. “With me.”

Against Bruno’s chest, Leone nods.

“You can stay for as long as you need.” And Bruno won’t even ask – or, okay, he will, just to be polite, but this is a case that he plans on arguing to the fullest. There’s no way his mother can refuse.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do.” Leone’s voice is small and muffled, still trembling, much like the rest of him. Shaking amidst renewed gasping, and so Bruno tightens his arms, hugs Leone for all he’s worth. “I might…try my aunt.”

That’s a good idea. Leone deserves someone who will care about him. Allow him to be himself, whoever that might happen to be.

Bruno’s come to realize he’s lucky, to have wound up with so many loving parents. He runs his hand up and down the length of Leone’s back again, trying to transfer even a small piece of the affection he’s accrued over the years.

“But the school year.” Leone’s breath hitches. “I left all of my books at – home.”

Not just his books. Leone left his clothes, and his phone, and that watch at his bedside – all of his possessions, everything familiar. Every little thing he’s ever known and loved evaporated in a single evening, and Bruno’s eyes are blurring anew just thinking about it, the lump in his throat going sore. He knows what that’s like, a little.

Only he lost his security. Leone’s threw him aside.

It’s terrifying to think about, and there’s no doubt that it’s even worse to be going through it. Bruno wishes he had better words for this kind of thing.

“Shh,” he soothes. Strokes a hand through Leone’s hair as he calms back down. “We’ll figure something out. My parents will help.” With Leone so close, it’s a struggle not to drop a comforting kiss to his forehead. “For now, you should rest.”

Resting might be easier if they could turn the lights off, but Bruno isn’t about to get out of bed for even that much.

Movement like Leone’s nodding, and he takes another deep breath. Slowly, the tense, trembling lines of his body start to slacken. He sinks back into Bruno’s arms, always somehow nudging closer. The sweater and exertion of crying make him a toasty shape along Bruno’s front, one that he finds himself lulled by. He hopes his presence is as much of a balm to Leone.

For a long stretch of time, they just lie there. Leone gasps out the occasional sob, and shifts positions minutely twice – but for the most part he calms, arms loose around Bruno.

Bruno, for his part, thinks. His mind wanders everywhere, bouncing around from memories of his father to worries about Leone to anger at everything…to all the fondness in his heart that rears its head when Leone nuzzles in.

His tears dry on his face. He doesn’t want to lift a hand off of Leone’s back to wipe them.

“Can I ask you something?”

The voice is impossibly tiny, and Bruno is in no position to refuse Leone anything as simple as a question. He’d be hard pressed to refuse Leone anything, right now. “Yeah,” he breathes, running a hand up Leone’s back, over his shoulder, and then down again.

Leone takes a deep breath before speaking. “How did you know?”

“…Know what?” Attempts to look at Leone’s face only half succeed in this position, and reveal his cheeks to be dusted pink. His eyes are focused on Bruno’s collarbone. Bruno won’t find any answers here.

“That you were…”

Oh. Bruno blinks. Scratches at the base of Leone’s hairline. “That I was gay?”

Nodding, Leone’s nose pokes Bruno in the chest as he sinks back closer again. He’s really blushing now. “You don’t have to answer. I’ve just been…thinking.” He stops himself there, arms tightening around Bruno for a second and then releasing.

That…does that mean something? Bruno doesn’t know. Remembers what Leone said earlier about feelings.

In response to Leone’s question, Bruno shrugs. “I just know. Looked at what I wanted, one day, and realized that boys are attractive, girls aren’t.” That’s about the size of it. (And then he told his father, who had nodded, clapped him on the back and gotten them on with the day. His mother bought embarrassing pamphlets that he probably, mortifyingly, still has buried somewhere.)

“I…like girls.” Leone’s frown-prone brows are furrowing, when Bruno peeks down at him.

“Yes…?”

Again, Leone’s arms tighten around Bruno. This time, they stay that way as Leone breathes deep with his nose still pressed to Bruno’s chest. “But with you,” he says, a little muffled, “I feel so safe. Like I’ve never felt before.”

This much skipping can’t be good for Bruno’s heart. Here it goes again, missing every other beat as it flips no matter how he tries to tell it this doesn’t mean anything.

“I caught myself thinking that I wished I liked boys…so I could date you.”

Oh, Bruno’s poor heart is obliterated, now, and his hands tremble where they freeze on Leone’s back.

“Then I realized that. Maybe I do like boys, too, and I just – never realized because – liking girls was familiar and accepted, and I started looking back and noticing – and now I can’t believe I didn’t know – bisexual is the word, right?”

Overwhelmed as all hell by this rambling confession after everything, Bruno can’t stop himself from dipping down to press a kiss to Leone’s forehead, then another, firm so there’s no mistaking his intention. Leone whimpers at the contact, tilting his face back to allow for a final lingering kiss right on that easing furrow between his brows.

Fuck. Bruno’s heart is bleeding all over the place. He could cry, again.

“I like you so much.” Words that have been fighting to escape for weeks now spill out the second he detaches his mouth from Leone’s forehead. Only to press another kiss there immediately after.

“Me – me, too.” Shimmying his way up higher on the bed, Leone hugs Bruno closer, nudges his flushed pink face between the pillow and Bruno’s jaw –

And Bruno nuzzles him, kisses a sharp cheekbone, holds him.

His heart is swelling in his chest, now. It kind of obliterates that box he keeps his feelings in, and he knows he’ll have to carefully reconstruct it later, but for now. He leaves it be. Soaked in Leone’s presence. Every fear set aside for just a few minutes.

It’s still raining, outside.

-

“After we graduate,” Leone says, sprawled on his back next to Bruno in bed, staring up at the ceiling, “I want to move to the coast, with you.”

The sun is rising, sending bright light through the curtains, filtered by thinning clouds. Neither of them slept a wink in the end, and Bruno’s already preparing the speech to his parents explaining why he has to stay here, with Leone, and not go to school today. He squeezes Leone’s hand, tangled in his beneath the comforter. “You’re not going to become a policeman?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do, anymore.” That bitter set to Leone’s mouth hurts to look at. “I just know that I want to be with you, because…”

Here, Leone turns to Bruno and offers a smile. Weak, accompanied by eyes tired from crying so much, but genuine, and Bruno feels himself go starry-eyed just looking at it. As always seems to be the case with Leone, Bruno finds it easy to smile back.

“You give me permission to exist,” Leone finishes with a raised eyebrow.

And – despite everything – Bruno laughs.