Chapter Text
He didn’t fall in love with him at first. He was entranced, yes, but not in love. He hadn’t seen Bruno Buccellati as some godly figure worthy of worship, but the status was close enough.
He had come to him in the darkness, no noise as his feet silently stepped into puddles whereas his stumbled and splashed noisily. Dressed in white, dry under an umbrella, offering him a chance at redemption, a chance he didn’t deserve. A chance that he didn’t want at the time. He had no desire to join the mafia and become a soldato.
But those eyes. This blue eyes that held the same compassion as his dead partner did, the same care. This man was in the mafia. You can be killed in the mafia. You probably will be killed in the mafia.
But he couldn’t let another pair of those type of eyes go dark. So he became a soldato. Buccellati’s soldato.
Over the course of two years, he found his feelings for Bruno Buccellati grow and change. His respect for the man grew when he took in a boy with an infected eye. It grew when Fugo would wake up screaming from nightmares in the middle of the night and Abbacchio could hear the thumps of Buccellati’s quick steps
His awe grew when they had been cornered on a street by a group of thugs, just below a streetlight. Just the two of them. Buccellati hadn’t hesitated to jump and swing himself expertly around the pole, kicking and jabbing with his legs, never one touching the ground and never leaving the pole until all of the thugs were either groaning on the ground or running away.
The care he had for Buccellati grew from dinner after dinner that they’d have together while the kids were hanging out with each other. They would cook together. Buccellati would hum or quietly mumble out words to a song that was on. Sometime in all of that, in his mind, he thought of Buccellati as Bruno.
A few weeks after Bruno took in Guido Mista, ramping up his respect and awe for the man, the feeling of love budded from the stem that had been carefully nurtured over the course of two years. Because in passing Bruno had asked Abbacchio: “Do you know where our kids are?”
Our children.
Not the children.
Our.
Our
Our our our our our ourour our our our ourour our ourour ourourour our our our ourourourour ourour urourourourourourourourourourourourourourourourour our .
A single word triggered that string of emotion.
For the past two years, Abbacchio has kept up drinking. There have been numerous points where he’s almost gotten alcohol poisoning because of how high his tolerance has gotten that it’s so much harder to get drunk, but his body can’t withstand drinking the usual amount after he’s drunk at his new tolerance level. He admits that he’s an alcoholic. A functioning alcoholic. But an alcoholic none the less.
Bruno always wanted him to quit, his nose just twitching a bit every time he sees Abbacchio pouring himself any more alcohol than the barely necessary glass of wine during dinner.
Abbacchio decides this is the last time he’ll get drunk.
It’s one of those days where Bruno is having a meeting with the other team leaders who are under Polpo’s command. Abbacchio lies on the bed, having thrown out all of the alcohol in his room except for a single bottle of wine that he kept from his cop days. It was a gift from his instructor at the Academy for coming out top of class.
He takes his time with the bottle. About half an hour. By the end of the half hour, the bottle is empty and on the ground. Abbacchio lays on the bed, arms and legs spread, staring up at the ceiling.
“Bruno” he tests, having never said the beautiful man’s first name before. He wonders if he’ll ever call him Leone. If he’ll ever earn the amount of familiarity from Bruno to be called Leone. Leone, the name his mother gave him, the name of his uncle- her brother, a man who was more of a father to Leone than his own dad. He loves his mom- he’s so happy he looks a lot more like her than his father, having her natural snow white hair, the purple in her eyes, high cheekbones, lean athletic build, dimple on his left cheek (not that he’s smiled more than once in the past few years). All he got from his father was his height and the gold in his eyes.
After his mamma divorced his father when he was thirteen, she moved in with her brother, the first Leone. He would tell him stories about the force, the latest adventures with his partner. Mamma was finally able to pursue a job that put her botany postdoctoral into use, starting up her own flower chop that Leone had loved to spend time in, doing homework surrounded by the sweet smells and helping her take care of them, learning each of their names and their meanings for the bouquets. They loved him so much, they cared for him so much, and Leone had been a kind and sweet boy. His momma and zio would be so disappointed in him.
Now he feels so guilty.
He never called his mamma in the past few years. She had called him lots of times, at least once everyday, until he joined Passione. Then he abandoned everything in his small apartment, phone included.
He turns onto his side when there’s a sudden pain in his chest. He should call her. He really should call her, when it’s safe enough for him to do so, when he’s become a decent enough human being. He’ll call her and Zio Leo for lunch or something and they can meet Bruno and their kids.
The pain in his chest increases and something scratches at his throat. Quickly, he rushes to the bathroom, wondering why the bile feels different. He hacks into the sink, hands gripping the edges of the countertop, and then something besides bile falls.
It falls with his spit and his airways are left feeling freer than before.
A single, familiar petal lays in the sink, covered with spittle. His breath catches because one of the things he’s encountered in the flowershop were people with this particular disease coming in with a petal in hand, asking what type of flower it is and it’s meaning.
Innocence. Pure love. The petal of a white carnation (his momma’s favorite flower, the back of his mind supports).
And he knows immediately who the petal is for. . .
and that he should never know about it.