Archive of Our Own

The sun, to Abbacchio, had always been something just out of reach.

Physically, obviously- 152 million kilometers and all that- but he supposes when he says he can’t reach the sun he means he can’t reach any fucking light.

Sure, he held it once, at an odd distance, with all the wary curiosity of a prey animal. But as easily as he cradled it, it was snuffed out of his fingers in a tragedy of his own making. The pinch of fingers on a candle wick somehow remind him of a bullet, even now.

Not to say that he doesn’t want it- God, does he want that kind of pure brightness, the warmth and clarity that comes with it.

But for light, one needs a candle, and when you light a candle, it goes out eventually. You either put it out yourself or the powers that be do it for you.

Abbacchio isn’t letting that choice pop up to catch him off guard again, so he’d rather not light any metaphorical candles at all. He quickly learns how to see in the dark. 

Night vision doesn’t do well in the daytime, though, and the presence of unexpected sunshine leaves him dizzy and limbs thick with static (though, that might have been the copious amounts of Brunello). Abbacchio hadn’t even thought the sun could shine in rain like this, falling thick as a sheet and clouds dark as ink, but in hindsight, amends his thought process- the rain didn’t touch the sun, obviously. Bruno Bucciarati had brought an umbrella.

Though he didn’t know his name, then, only barely registered the presence of a man so bright . Maybe it was the crisp white of his suit, or that soft blue of his eyes, or Abbacchio’s own desperation reaching its peak.

“You don’t look like you belong here,” Abbacchio slurs, mockingly, but he says it because he really doesn’t. Places like these are for broken things, both bottles and people, and Abbacchio isn’t stupid- this is some pretty boy mafioso on a field trip through the alleys. He doesn’t want to deal with this.

“Neither do you,” the man responds unexpectedly, sounding genuine , as if maybe he really believes it, as if Abbacchio has a higher calling rather than finally managing to drink himself to death tonight. 

He finds it so surprising that he barks something that would be a laugh on someone else. He finds it even more surprising when the man tilts the umbrella to cover Abbacchio that he forgets to bark another one.

“What are you doing?” Abbacchio bites, possibly unwisely considering what kind of man he is talking to, but he is ever a wild animal when faced with something he does not understand.

The man doesn’t bite back, only crouches in front of him. His face kind of hurts to look at for too long, smile somewhere between saccharine and compassionate, though steering far from pity- which is the last thing Abbacchio can handle right now.

“Let me take you home for tonight, at least, okay? I want you to join my team.” He says, and for all its softness, it might as well be a gut punch for the way Abbacchio’s chest tightens. 

Again. Abbacchio isn’t an idiot. He knows exactly what “join my team” means, and his mind elbows away the fact that he’s being offered to join the fucking mafia and instead zeroes in on the fact that it’s a way out. 

One he absolutely shouldn’t take, he reminds himself immediately, despite the way he wants to jump at any chance to get the fuck out of his own head. Isn’t this his penance, anyway? Abbacchio needs to chase him away before the territory gets dangerous.

“Is that a weird new euphemism? Are you trying to have sex with me?” Abbacchio blurts, at a loss for how else to run him off. It probably isn’t the right thing to say, but that is the least of his drunken worries right now.

The man sputters, losing his composure. “Am I— What? Christ, no, who do you think I am?”

Abbacchio shrugs one shoulder. “No fucking clue. Are you going to kill me, or?”

The man sighs, fixes his face, and tries again. Great. Now Abbacchio’s gone and made an even bigger fool out of himself for nothing. “Look. Leone Abbacchio, isn’t it?”

Abbacchio doesn’t question how he knows his name. Feels like the whole world screams it back at him constantly, on a receipt list of his fuckups.

“I’m Bruno Bucciarati, and I’m just giving you an offer to join my team- I know you know what I’m asking you, here- but at least spend a night with a solid roof over your head and a warm plate of food. You’ll hurt yourself out here like this-” ( kind of the point, Abbacchio does not say, even drunk) “-so will you let me help you?”

Maybe if Abbacchio was a stronger (read: sober) man right now, he would have refused and spit on his offer for good measure. However, this Abbacchio is very not sober, and there is light in front of him and an umbrella over his head and he still wants . 

A fragile moth to the flame. He’s going to do the same song and dance all his life, isn’t he?

Bruno reads his silent resignation as an unsure consideration, apparently, because he does an odd soften-harden where his expression goes firm yet his voice goes gentle. “Don’t die bound by the past, Abbacchio.”

Abbacchio full body flinches, almost topples right over with his back flat to the pavement. Bruno reaches and catches him easily, holding him steady at the shoulder like he’s already used to it.

Obviously, he seems to know exactly how dirty Abbacchio’s hands have been. Apparently, he doesn’t care. Why would he, anyway? He wouldn’t have time to waste worrying about Abbacchio’s sob story. It doesn’t sound as comforting as it feels to say it like that, but to have someone simply… not care about the things he’s done, when he cares so much it hurts- it’s refreshing, in a way. Abbacchio has never quite experienced second chances.

He realizes, then, that that’s exactly where he’s going to crumble. A rock upon which to lean is right in front of him, and Abbacchio has been standing for a very long time. He could sit down with as clean as a slate he’ll manage to get for himself. A tantalizing opportunity, the magnitude of joining the mafia be damned.

He gives in. Of course he does. He tells himself that damn wine weakened his will as he knocks the empty bottle to the side in lieu of verbal agreement, but Bruno seems to understand by the way he smiles so wide Abbacchio’s vision goes spotty.

Or maybe that’s the wine for real this time.

Definitely the wine , Abbacchio decides when he abruptly lurches to the side, pukes onto the ground, and passes out.

——

It’s been a long time since Abbacchio has ever felt poetic enough to describe rays of light as something as lovely sounding as “sunbeams” rather than “fucking annoying,” especially when he wakes up with a pounding hangover the likes of which he hasn’t felt since he got into his dad’s liquor when he was 16.

But when he blinks bleary eyes open, face oddly clear of makeup that he has no memory of wiping off and cushioned on a bed far softer than cold alley brick, he can only call it sunbeams that greet him, creeping lazily over the room through the blinds. He turns his face towards the blinds instead of away from them for what must be the first time in millennia, and the sensation feels strange. Can he even be a self-respecting goth anymore if he isn’t shrinking away from the sun and hissing?

“You’re awake!” 

Abbacchio promptly hisses. He’s still got that going for his reputation, at least.

“Oh! Sorry, I’ll be quieter,” the voice hushes as promised, and when Abbacchio’s vision clears enough, he remembers exactly where he is. He doesn’t quite remember the events of getting there, but remembers enough to be embarrassed, because of course he does.

Bruno B… What was his last name? Uh. Well. Doesn’t matter.

Bruno is standing in the doorway, as if he had just been checking in when Abbacchio woke up. He smiles at him, then makes a inquisitive motion with his eyes that Abbacchio understands as asking for permission to come in. Abbacchio finds it strange that he asks in (assumedly) his own house, but nods anyway. 

Bruno brightens and promptly sits himself down at Abbacchio’s bedside, a chair already placed there that he hadn’t noticed- had Bruno sat there before while he was sleeping?

“Here,” Bruno interrupts his thoughts by setting a plate on the nightstand and tapping it to get his attention, “I figured you’d need it.”

There’s a glass of water and an aspirin, which Abbacchio is immensely grateful for and downs as soon as he can, but finds himself confused at the simplicity of it all.

“Thanks, uh…” Abbacchio is at a loss here. A probable capo has given him hangover cures, which is somehow the oddest thing that could have ever happened to him. Also the fact that said boss apparently dragged him to his own house while he was blackout drunk. This is all shaping up to be Leone’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day. He should have listened to the anti-alcoholism speeches in school.

Bruno, however, misinterprets his silent lamenting as forgetting his name.

“Oh, Bruno Bucciarati. I should have reintroduced—”

“No, I remember,” Abbacchio says, though he only half-did. A mental note to self: Out loud, this man is Bucciarati and only ever Bucciarati. “I just- I’m- I’m… confused.”

Bruno smiles kindly. Abbacchio is still a little thrown back by the force of it. Kindness is a foreign animal to him, these days.

“Well, I chanced upon some… files of yours,” Bruno starts, and Abbacchio has the good sense not to ask what kind and where exactly he found them. The look on his face must have twisted without meaning to, though, and Bruno adds, “I got rid of them, after I read them. I figured you’d appreciate that.”

Abbacchio nods mutely, shoulders slumped in relief. He really doesn’t want a record of anything about him somewhere where someone could get their hands on it.

Well. Someone other than Bruno Bucciarati, who already has and apparently decided to go do good with it. Which brings him to a question that Bruno answers without needing to be asked.

“Forgive my insensitivity, but the whole thing is just… sad, is the only way I can put it.”

Abbacchio wonders if Bruno knows about the look he has on his face; calculating, studying, enrapturing. It hurts him more than his words.

“It unexpectedly kept my attention. I thought… maybe you could use some help. You’re in a deep hole, aren’t you?”

Abbacchio swallows thickly and nods. Bruno’s face goes all soft. It hurts him again. It’s punch after punch with this guy.

“It’s a heavy offer I’m giving here, I know. And you don’t have to take it, and you can still stay here as long as you want.” Bruno tips his head to the side. “If you don’t mind roommates.”

“Alright. Thank you. I’ll… be out of your hair for now. I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Despite what he says, Abbacchio knows he needs that warmth. So he leaves, only to nose around with Bruno’s directions and take that dumb lighter test. Gets fucking stabbed and comes back with something called a Stand and a sense of purpose, passed to Bruno’s division without even needing to beg. Bruno is already shaping a reputation for himself; taking the misfits that no one else will.

He promptly sets down right at the free space at Bruno Bucciarati’s side, that kid Pannacotta Fugo stuck like glue to the other.

Bruno sure makes a sight now, he figures, snarling guard dogs on two self-made leashes. At least Fugo’s given himself room to breathe- Abbacchio could choke with the weight of his. Finds odd comfort in it, even.

He’s not stupid, though, not anymore. Candle lit, flame flickering, too much of a pussy to blow it out himself. He knows he’s gonna get burned.

But Bruno is the sun and Abbacchio, well. Abbacchio has always considered himself something of an Icarus.

——

Abbacchio has tentatively allowed himself to begin to settle in the little apartment that now houses all three of them. Bruno and Fugo are obviously more at ease, having been here together for who knows how long before Abbacchio slipped his way in.

To his credit, Bruno tries very hard to bring him into conversations and introduce him to worlds he knows nothing of, Stands and mafia alike.

“So, what’s your Stand like?” Bruno asks him curiously at the dining room table, hands steepled under his chin.

Abbacchio purses his lips around a sip of coffee. Bruno had shown him his Sticky Fingers, and while Fugo didn’t bring his own out, he had described it well enough in clipped tones.

For Abbacchio it feels… too personal, leaves him too vulnerable to bring it out. A reflection of his soul laid bare in a way that is painfully obvious.

Bruno makes new doors where there are none. Fugo is temper and obsessiveness, rage and desperate repression.

Abbacchio is just a man who rewinds, rewinds, rewinds, watches every moment of his pathetic life like a slideshow burned into the forefront of his brain.

“Lame as shit,” Abbacchio says instead, and Fugo unexpectedly gives a surprised laugh, one with the undertone of I understand.

He shouldn’t. He is so young. Aren’t they all, though?

Bruno doesn’t laugh, only stares at him like he can unzip his brain at the seams. Abbacchio wouldn’t be surprised if he could.

——

Abbacchio, in his mind, has already cast Bucciarati in gold on the highest pedestal of his mind.

Not that he would tell Bucciarati that. He doesn’t like that kind of talk, and he makes sure Abbacchio knows it, too.

“I’m no god,” Bruno had rebuked him once, when Abbacchio was far too drunk (Bruno doesn’t like that anymore, either) and let everything that formed in his head slip past his lips, “I’m flesh and blood and bone. Just a man.”

But Bucciarati is more than flesh and blood and bone.

You are the sun! Abbacchio wants to scream and scream at him until he understands . This isn’t misguided loyalty, or blind idolization, or him paying a debt- though he certainly owes one that he can never repay. For Abbacchio, this is a stone-set fact of life, that Bruno is the sun and everyone else are the little planets circling around him, basking in his orbit. If Abbacchio is lucky, he might get to be Mercury, as close to that warmth as anyone can get while still trailing far enough behind him. (Abbacchio knows not to get ahead of himself, even in dumb daydreams about the solar system. Bruno’s shadow is the sweetest shade anyone could dwell in, anyway.)

Abbacchio has never been lucky, though. He thinks he’d be Neptune, big and lonely and cold, trying to find anything to revolve around and barely making it on the outskirts. It had been so long since he had revolved around someone, anyway. He shouldn’t be getting so close, not unless he’s ready to lick his fingers and put out the candle wick before someone does it for him.

But with that unsettling thought, he doesn’t want to think about it anymore. And Bruno wouldn’t like it if he knew, so he tucks it all away and keeps it locked close to his ribcage, in the chasm where he used to have a heart. 

——

They get another field mission a couple months after Abbacchio’s recruitment, when they’ve all settled together enough to work as a unit far better than they had on previous missions.

Sounds easy enough- bust some heads of two punks who’ve been fucking around on the edge of their territory, trying to swindle their protection money into their own pockets. They’re not even Stand users, so it should be a quick in-and-out.

Key word ‘should.’

They’d started strong enough when it was just the two, but they weren’t exactly prepared for three more to pop outta the fucking woodwork.

They still had a bit of advantage with their Stands, but not enough to make it quick work. Fugo isn’t willing to pull out Purple Haze unless he really needs to, Moody Blues isn’t the most destructive of Stands, and Sticky Fingers can’t be everywhere. Luckily, Abbacchio doesn’t go anywhere without a gun, even if Fugo and Bruno had thought it wasn’t necessary to come armed. So he pulls his trigger with practiced ease and pinpoint aim, and lets Moody Blues cover Fugo- who’s fighting with his fists and a crowbar from god-knows-where, the maniac- when necessary.

They start to whittle them down soon enough. When Abbacchio gets close enough, he grabs one of the bastards by the back of the head and slams him down, face first to concrete. He slams his heel down heavy on the back of his head, and he goes out like a light. It gives him a slightly sick sense of satisfaction. Abbacchio almost feels alive .

He’s about to kick him again for good measure when a wordless yell of rage from Bruno pierces the air, and the sound of fighting suddenly goes suspiciously quiet all at once.

When Abbacchio turns around, finger on his pistol trigger, and almost fires on accident with how hard he wants to clench his hand into a fist.

They’ve managed to pick off three out of the five, but somehow, the last two managed to get the drop on them. One’s at a distance, but the other’s got a gun right to Fugo’s nape. Bruno is frozen to the spot, nails digging so hard into his hands that Abbacchio can see his palms starting to bleed.

Fugo is breathing so calmly that it looks like he isn't, which translates to absolutely erratic on a normal person. He and Bruno are subtly watching Sticky Fingers and Moody Blues both inch slowly closer to the fucker with the gun.

Sudden sounds aren’t ideal, or sudden attacks. At that kind of close range, no one wants to risk anyone getting trigger-happy.

“How the hell did you do that shit?” The one with the gun barks, eyes looking wildly around. He may be big shit with the gun in his hand, but to him, their Stands’ attacks were their asses getting whooped by an invisible force. They’re scared as shit.

“Let him go and then I’ll tell you,” Bruno grits out. They’re not going to do that, obviously. Abbacchio recognizes when he’s stalling. Moody Blues and Sticky Fingers are almost there, just a little bit closer, a little bit longer…

“Or I can just shoot him,” the man scoffs, and Fugo’s eyes flick rapidly between Bruno and Abbacchio.

Christ. He’s what, fourteen? He’s fourteen and scared. It makes his blood boil. He has to do something.

“And then what? You think shooting some kid is gonna get you anywhere?” Abbacchio drawls, voice lazy but expression stone. “All that’s gonna happen is you’ll get your ass beat as soon as you lose your only bargaining chip.”

The man tips his head, expression calculating. He shifts his gun to the side and shoves Fugo towards Abbacchio. He’s a scrawny kid, goes stumbling forward with a gasp that he was certainly holding, and Abbacchio hurriedly catches Fugo under an arm.

Fuck. Thank God and Mary too. 

With the threat to Fugo gone, Sticky Fingers immediately smashes the guy into the ground like a whack-a-mole. Abbacchio is going to relish watching Moody Blues join in, and-

A click of a gun.

Right.

The second guy. Abbacchio wants to throttle himself for letting himself forget.

He’s got his own fucking gun aimed at Bruno’s head, though he cocked it and tipped them off a little early. He’s not as close range as the other guy, a little space between them, and he was only able to get that close in the first place because his partner had their undivided attention.

“You think I wanted the stupid kid?” The guy on the ground laughs, even though he twitches as he tries and fails to stand. “Hook, line, and fucking sinker.”

Even if it wasn’t as dangerous as the situation he was in, Fugo grinds his teeth in equal fear as much as anger. Bruno sighs, like this is just an inconvenience.

It probably is only an inconvenience, of course. These guys, for all the trouble they’ve given them, aren’t Stand users. Bruno could zip himself into one of his weird voids before the guy even pulls the trigger and slam him from behind.

But Abbacchio.

Abbacchio sees red.

“Fugo,” Abbacchio seethes under his breath, “Listen to me.”

Fugo is his senior, hierarchy-wise, but he knows when not to be contrary. He nods tightly.

“Keep that other guy down, and stay out of the way of any more fucking guns,” Abbacchio says, then springs forward in a smooth motion, shouldering Bruno to the side with Moody Blues in front of him.

He’s going to strangle that bastard to fucking death .

Said bastard doesn’t look too worried, just fires off a shot at Abbacchio. Moody Blues catches it in the shoulder. Blood erupts from Abbacchio’s own.

Abbacchio keeps walking. The next shot goes into the other shoulder.

Abbacchio stumbles for half a second. Still keeps walking.

The guy is starting to get a clue, and steps back.

“You’re fucking insane,” the guy sputters, voice spiking with fear as Abbacchio gets closer, “What is wrong with you?!”

“You have no fucking idea, buddy,” Abbacchio says, and lunges.

Another bullet lands itself somewhere near his side that elicits a hitch of breath, but after that, Moody Blues easily wrestles the gun away from the man. 

Then Abbacchio does what he does best. Beats the fucking shit out of him. 

The man gets a couple of hits in, sure, but after he splits Abbacchio’s upper lip, he stops fucking around and just punches him, gives him a real fucking haymaker, over,

“Abbacchio?!”

and over,

“Abbacchio!”

and over, 

“Abbacchio! Mother of fucking God-”

and over, and over, and-

“ Leone Abbacchio! ”

Abbacchio freezes, hand in the air as if suspended by a string, and blinks. 

Just as suddenly as he stopped, Bruno hauls him up by his collar and holds him upright.

“Why on fucking earth ,” Bruno hisses, “would you do something as stupid as take three bullets, point-fucking-blank?”

Abbacchio… doesn’t know, but adrenaline prevents him from keeping his mouth shut. “I have a high pain tolerance.”

Bruno gapes. “ You have a - Do you have any sense?! ”

Abbacchio finds this funny when he shouldn’t. He grins, a curl of his lips that’s more baring his teeth than anything, whether he means to or not. Certainly notes the blood on his teeth isn’t doing him any favors. “No, sir.”

Bruno is probably scolding him for that, but Abbacchio is kind of losing blood rapidly and the words get lost in the ringing of his ears. He stumbles back once, twice, sways on his feet, and hits concrete like a sack of bricks. Down for the count.

——

Abbacchio opens his eyes to a pearl-white ceiling and the weird pressure of gauze around his body. 

Of course he’s managed to land himself in the fucking hospital. This is just embarrassing.

He tries to move his head, but doesn’t even manage to budge it before a wave of nausea hits him. He doesn’t try again, and turns his eyes to the side instead of his head.

Oh. Bruno is there, in a little uncomfortable hospital chair. There’s an empty one at his side that Abbacchio notes with some surprise that must have been Fugo’s. 

When he looks back up at Bruno instead of his surroundings, he isn’t looking at him. He’s got his cheek in his palm and elbow on his leg, ever so slightly biting his bottom lip and staring at an uneaten buccellati in his hand like it deserves immense concentration.

Abbacchio feels like everything in the world is going to burst right out of his chest at the sight.

“You and your cookies,” Abbacchio says instead of letting that happen. Bruno shoots his head up and gives him a wide-eyed stare. “Are you allowed to bring that in here, patient’s room and all? Scratch that, actually. Are you allowed to bring me in here?”

“Of course not,” Bruno responds, because he’s Bruno, and then swiftly stands up to slap Abbacchio on the cheek- not enough to actually hurt, just a light smack not unlike one would use to discipline a dog. Abbacchio doesn’t know how he feels at the comparison.

“Don’t you ever do as anything as stupid as that again,” Bruno says sharply, “And I mean it.”

Abbacchio swallows around a lump in this throat and nods. “Yes, sir.”

Bruno’s face twists at that, for some reason. His hands drop to his sides. “Don’t call me- look. I’m not telling you that as your boss, Abbacchio. I’m saying this as- as your friend that doesn’t want to lose you.”

As if that wasn’t already enough of a blow, Bruno pulls the chair closer to the bedside so that he can sit on it again, taking Abbacchio’s hands in his own. “Why are you so damn reckless ?”

Abbacchio is staring so hard at their touching ( touching! ) hands that he almost doesn’t realize he asked a question. When he registers what Bruno said, he coughs uncomfortably.

“That was entirely unnecessary,” Bruno continues, taking his hands back to gesture with them, “You know that. And it wasn’t just this mission, even if was more extreme than the others, you always just- you just throw yourself in like you’re invulnerable, and end up hurt because of it. I just- why? ”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking,” Abbacchio says slowly, because he honestly doesn’t. Why wouldn’t he? He voices his confusion. “Isn’t the point to complete the mission?”

“Well, yes, but… Are you not concerned for yourself? Ever?”

“Why would I be?”

“Dear God, Abbacchio,” Bruno rubs his temple. “I don’t know how else to tell you that you should try not to injure yourself on missions.”

Abbacchio frowns. “Well, that’s always ideal. But it doesn’t matter as long as I don’t fail.”

Bruno raises an eyebrow. “Ideal? You willingly walked into three bullets that you could have avoided.”

Fair. “That… something like that won’t happen again.”

And it won’t. Abbacchio, for how much he chased the rush it gave him, isn’t going to risk pulling anymore stunts like that in front of Bruno or even Fugo, for all that he thinks Fugo would relate, he’s still fourteen and shouldn’t see that shit.

“I would hope not. I just… I want to understand you, Abbacchio. It’s difficult, but I want to. And maybe I could order you to cut it out. The lack of self preservation, plus the alcohol, the attitude, whatever. You’d try, at least, wouldn’t you?”

Bruno doesn’t wait for an answer. They both know his orders to Abbacchio are like waving a slab of meat in front of a lion. Jump and how high, wish into command.

“But I don’t want to just force you into doing things I want. I want to work with you here, Abbacchio. Will you let me?”

Abbacchio counts his breathing to a rhythm so his lungs don’t give out, squeezes his eyes tight before he opens them again. He knows that it’s going to take a while to really take the mentality out of him, but. 

He’ll give Bruno as much agreement as he can, which is the least of what he deserves.  “...Yeah. Yeah, I’ll try.”

And then Bruno turns on the light switch, gives him that beautiful, beautiful smile, and holds the buccellati up like a peace offering. Abbacchio takes it with as much faux-hesitance as he can, and resignedly chalks another win for Bruno on his mental tally board.

Abbacchio can’t deny it anymore, at least not to himself. He has a heart again, and it’ll spell out BrunoBrunoBruno in Morse code underneath his wrists forever.

——

Bruno and Fugo pop in often to the hospital- more often than Abbacchio suspects is allowed, but Bruno has a way of strongarming people into doing what he wants. It’s somehow endearing as much as it is irritating.

Abbacchio has given in to considering things Bruno does as “endearing,” come to terms with the emotions flowering at his chest and already crushing his ribs. It doesn’t bother him like it had at first, the prospect of feelings gone unrequited. He always has felt stronger than most, any spark of emotion immediately going too far and weighing too heavy. Of course this would happen

Bleeding hearts don’t go far in this world, though. He’s made peace with it, already knows he’ll never clip his infatuation in the bud no matter how much it hurts. He’ll take his little flower to his inevitably early grave, and maybe more will sprout above him, saying I love you I love you I love you in a language that he can handle speaking.

A couple days of brooding over his feelings and comparing them to flowers pass before he’s discharged. Abbacchio is happy to be home, though there’s an odd feeling at calling it that, at how easily it’s become his rather than just Bruno and Fugo’s.

He’s loath to admit it, but he’s come to settle comfortably in his routine and around these particular people. New is Bruno’s insistence of Abbacchio’s slow wean off of the alcohol and more regard for himself during missions, but it isn’t unwelcome (though a bit annoying and makes him even more irritable).

Until, like all things in his life, a wrench gets thrown through it.

Some time after he’s back home- a week, maybe?-  Bruno busts the door open pissed as all hell with some scrawny ass boy at his heels. Fugo unexpectedly brightens like he knows the kid.

“ Naranica? ” Fugo says, half-incredulous, half-excited. Guess he does know him. Abbacchio must have missed something while he was hospitalized.

Apparently-Narancia has been looking pretty shamed, but he jerks his head up and gives a stupid toothy grin. “Fugo!”

Christ. He’s so young. Probably Fugo’s age, certainly older than Fugo when he joined, but still baby-faced and bright-eyed. Fugo had already lost that kind of visible childishness- this kid has managed to hold on to it. If anything will be able to rip it out of him, the mafia will.

Abbacchio conveys this to Bruno in simpler terms with a look. Bruno answers I know with a tight lipped frown before he speaks.

“This is Narancia Ghirga,” Bruno says evenly, “He’s passed the test and… has been assigned to us.” 

And then he makes a swift retreat- maybe to brood about another kid losing his innocence, or maybe just to do paperwork. Who knows.

Abbacchio is usually all claws and teeth, especially around someone who he hasn’t learned to let his bristles down around. He barks rather than bites, nowadays, when it comes to Bruno and Fugo, but he’ll happily remind anyone that his fangs are still sharp enough to break skin.

Unfortunately for him, despite this kid already proving to be fucking annoying as he starts screaming about something-or-other with Fugo, he makes an effort to pretend to be calm— he’s a bitch, not a monster. He’ll at least wait for him to settle down before he starts giving the worst of his attitude, but he doesn’t think he’ll need to worry about that much. Narancia seems to fit right in with the other fuckups in Bruno’s house, and surprisingly doesn’t grow out of his childlike mentality, which Abbacchio is secretly grateful for. Even if his complaints about sharing a room get annoying.

He also turns out to have a killer sweet tooth. Once Bruno has sufficiently compartmentalized his guilt, the amount of requests for sugary snacks go through the roof, and Bruno takes to baking so that he doesn’t run out of lire on every grocery run. Every time he gives Abbacchio a megawatt smile and offers up the first cookie from a fresh batch, Abbacchio grudgingly appreciates Narancia for it.

——

Abbacchio’s routine settles out smoothly from there. Missions, paperwork, holding up the CVS Pharmacy with a gun when it’s his turn to drive Narancia to get his testosterone. Same old, same old, like a well-oiled machine.

At least until Abbachio fucks up the gears and climbs into Bruno’s window in the middle of the night.

It isn’t an ideal entrance point, of course, but his own window is perpetually locked and he doesn’t want to risk the boys being up late tonight and seeing him.

He expected Bruno’s window to be locked too, honestly, but it slides open easily. He should tell him to fix that. Who knows what kind of creeps could wander in there at night?

Well.

Besides Abbacchio, of course.

As silently as he can, he closes (and locks) the window, trying to inch across the room and to the door. Typically, it’d be an easy feat- but unfortunately for him, he’s too exhausted and wrung-out to really mind his noise level.

Bruno shifts awake with a yawn, propping himself up on his elbow and rubbing his eyes before staring at Abbacchio in disbelief. “...What the fuck?”

Abbacchio stares back. He doesn’t know what else to do in this situation.

“Okay,” Bruno says at length when an answer doesn’t come, “Why are you covered in blood?”

Abbacchio looks down. He forgot about that. “Oh. It’s not mine.”

“That- That doesn’t answer my question—”

“It’s not mine,” Abbacchio repeats, and goes to stumble towards the door.

“Okay,” Bruno repeats, rubs his eyes again, and stands up to put his hand on Abbacchio’s back to guide him out of the room and down the hall. Abbacchio doesn’t have the mental presence to jump out of his skin at the warm touch. He’ll be mad about it in the morning, but right now he’s focusing on seeing his own two feet move like pistons, mechanical and not of his own free will.

“Sorry,” Abbacchio says after a moment of consideration, “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Bruno shakes his head. “That is the least of my worries right now. Hand me your jacket.”

Abbacchio complies immediately, then frowns in confusion when he realizes they’re in the laundry room. 

“Wait,” Abbacchio protests, trying to take his jacket back, “You don’t- you don’t have to—”

“What were you doing out there, Leone?”

Abbacchio flinches, both at the question and at his first name, and goes quiet. Bruno sighs and moves on like he wasn’t waiting for an answer, which he probably wasn’t. Abbacchio backs up onto the washer and sits on the edge to get out of Bruno’s way.

Abbacchio watches him, angelic even in something as terribly domestic as gathering laundry in the middle of the night. Bruno has a halo when he frowns at putting the bloody coat in with the normal dirty clothes but does it anyway. 

“I know how I’m going to die,” Abbacchio blurts without meaning to, “and it’ll be for you.”

“Don’t say things like that,” Bruno scolds without looking up, “You are not going to die for me. You are going to help me load the washer and then you’re going to bed.”

Bruno looks up and levels him with a pointed look when there is no response.

“I will help you load the washer and then I’m going to bed,” Abbacchio reluctantly concedes.

He’s nothing if not obedient. He helps with the laundry, and is about to wander off to his room to stare at the ceiling until morning when Bruno catches his wrist. 

“You’re not going to sleep, are you.”

It’s a statement, not a question, so Abbacchio doesn’t bother saying anything. He just grimaces in response at being called out, which is enough of an answer.

“Have you eaten today?”

Abbacchio doesn’t respond. Again, an answer.

“Go sit down at the table.”

Abbacchio complies, his body dropping onto the cheap chair and creaking it with his dead weight.

Bruno, because he is a painfully good man, follows suit with the bowl of orange slices they’ve started keeping in the kitchen ever since Narancia declared his undying obsession for the fruit.

Abbacchio pulls a face at the very thought of eating. Bruno levels him with a flat look. Abbacchio promptly picks at an orange slice.

Bruno accepts this, and leans back in satisfaction with his own piece. “What were you doing out there, Abbacchio?”

Abbacchio doesn’t like lying, not to Bruno. Conversely, Abbacchio doesn’t know how he’s supposed to say this.

“Missions,” Abbacchio eventually says, as if every mission the gang receives doesn’t go through Bruno first.

Bruno, predictably, frowns. “We haven’t received any missions.”

“Self-imposed.”

“Ones that you come back bloody from?”

Abbacchio ducks his head. He’s known he was going to get cornered ever since Bruno woke up and saw him in the first place. Bruno has a way of winning before Abbacchio even knows they’re playing the game.

“There are a lot of people who want you dead, now,” Abbacchio mutters, picking at the orange peel. “A lot of people desperate for the sort of position they think you’re set to get. Ready to nip competition at the bud.”

Bruno’s voice is somehow agonizingly gentle, even when his face is stern. “And shouldn’t that be my competition, Abbacchio?”

“Shouldn’t have to be.” Abbacchio sounds petulant, even to himself.

“So you think it should be yours to handle in the middle of the night?”

“Better my hands dirtier than yours.”

“My hands are plenty dirty already.” Bruno flicks Abbacchio’s wrist. “Haven’t we talked about this? You and your self-worth.”

“I’m trying,” Abbacchio’s voice sounds as small as he feels. Bruno relents a little; he knows that much, at least, is true.

“It has to stop, okay? You’ll hurt yourself like this.”

Abbacchio can’t help himself. “Is that an order?”

“You’ll take it like one even if I say it isn’t, won’t you?”

Abbacchio looks down at his hands. Bruno sighs.

“I don’t like to just order you into things that I know you’ll follow. I want you to understand why I don’t want you to do these things, not just that I told you not to.”

Abbacchio nods mutely.

“And I understand what you were trying to do for me, and I appreciate it,” Bruno adds, tone softening a little, “But you don’t need to worry yourself doing it, okay? I’m not the capo for nothing.”

When Abbacchio looks back up, Bruno is smiling, small crooked grin with one corner quirked higher than the other.

Madonna mia . Abbacchio is fucked .

He caves, of course. Like he did before, and the time before that, and the time before that… “I understand. I will… refrain from it in the future.”

“Good,” Bruno nods decisively, like the whole matter is blown over, “Now help me eat the rest of these. Don’t tell Narancia it was us.”

Bruno presses another slice of orange to his mischievous lips, and Abbacchio aches as quietly as he always has. Always will.

——

A year or so to the date of Abbacchio getting stabbed with a weird arrow and joining the mafia at the whims of some guy in a titty window two-piece suit, Bruno is suspiciously enraptured with a folder from who-knows-where at the table. This time, at least, the titty window is on a plain white sweater, which is better than the usual ghastly shit Bruno calls clothes.

Fugo and Narancia are far too busy bickering like they do every morning to note his odd engrossment. Even if they weren’t, Abbacchio doubts they’d find anything odd about it, maybe they’d poke him about bringing paperwork to the table at most.

But Abbacchio, with a small amount of smugness and a larger amount of embarrassment, has grown more in tune with Bruno than is likely natural. He can see Bruno’s got a gleam in his eye and a set to his jaw.

When Abbacchio catches his eye, he raises an eyebrow and gestures down at the folder with his chin. Bruno only grins in what Abbacchio assumes he thinks is innocence, but just looks sly.

That afternoon, Bruno disappears for a while and apparently goes to Libeccio by himself before returning, because he brings back bruschetta for all of them. Three days after that, he disappears after getting a call and comes back with yet another weirdly dressed boy.

Abbacchio’s got his back to the door when they come in, busy with the enormous task of making coffee that is more espresso than anything else at 5 pm.

“Guido Mista,” he hears Bruno introduce the newest addition.

“Yo. Just Mista is fine,” Just Mista adds on after him.

Abbacchio sighs to himself. Another month or so of half-pleading, half-stern looks from Bruno to make him curb his demeanor until this probably traumatized boy can get comfortable in the group and—

“Whoa. Who’s the goth milf?”

Bruno inhales sharply. Narancia chokes. Fugo is assumedly the one furiously pounding his back.

Abbacchio slowly turns around, eye twitching, cracking each individual knuckle. “Wanna find out?”

Mista immediately holds his hands up in defense. Abbacchio still takes a step forward.

Bruno holds up his hand. Abbacchio stops walking forward.

He still doesn’t want to let it slide, though, so he puts his darkest scowl on his face. “You’re on my shit list, Guido .”

To Mista’s despair, no one ever lets the milf comment go after that. Despite this, and against his better judgement, the kid actually grows on Abbacchio. He feels distinctly disgusted at the thought, but resigns himself to his fate, and wonders when Bruno’s strays started being his strays, too.

——

And then, after another year of relative peace, Bruno brings the most mangy ass little brat Abbacchio has ever had the displeasure of seeing. He is not claiming this one.

They’ve had a day to settle down from the Leaky-Eye Luca debacle- which Abbacchio happily had no hand in- when Bruno shows up to Libeccio with some kid that Abbacchio immediately dislikes.

The kid introduces himself as Giorno Giovanna, and is seemingly unfazed by the shitshow he’s walked in on.

Everyone at the table is equally unfazed, though. Mista’s the last one they’ve brought into the pack, and it’s been about a year- they’re tight knit without any interest in expanding.

Bruno is obviously irritated, but Abbacchio has grown past desperately groveling at his feet at every opportunity. He may still be a guard dog, but he’s grown enough of a brain to realize Bruno is just Bruno instead of his personal god (though certainly still a savior, and he’s not disobeying orders anytime soon).

That’s probably why he has the balls to piss in the tea as soon as Bruno looks the other way.

Abbacchio is no stranger to hazing newbies, but he’s aware the piss tea was a little much, even the boys got a kick out of it (and all promptly swore to never tell Bruno). It took him a good while to fully warm up to each of the boys, sure, but that was just because they were new and unpredictable.

Giorno is new, unpredictable, and when Abbacchio looks at him he sees his own face, fresh out of highschool and into the force thinking he could change things. And he drank a cup full of piss in one go to boot.

Abbacchio can’t tell which makes him want to throw up in his mouth more, but it keeps his hackles up even when everyone else has lowered theirs.

Everyone can tell he’s especially volatile with Giorno. They don’t know why, of course, but Bruno might have a clue given the calculating expressions that come over his face. 

Abbacchio isn’t going to offer any reasons. He would prefer to keep this one, at least, to himself.

——

Abbacchio is real sick and tired of hearing about dreams after a while.

He’s probably not quite in Bruno’s good graces after the repeated shit he gives Giovanna, but he’s stubborn and Bruno is too occupied to give him a lecture for it yet.

They manage, anyway, and keep on managing, finally bring the Boss his daughter and promptly… decide to run away with her. 

This is the most insane week of his fucking life.  He knows this is Giorno’s damn fault. He doesn’t know how, but it is.

What is he gonna do, though? Idle around in Venice while Bruno gets killed by himself? Not a chance.

“The only time I feel at peace is when I’m with you,” Abbacchio says plainly, because what else is there to say? He doesn’t look at Bruno’s relieved smile for too long in case it burns him, and he gets on that traitor boat. 

He’s not an idiot, but Fugo is looking like he might be one. Someone needs to tug him along before he makes a decision Abbacchio knows he’ll regret.

“Get on the damn boat, you’re being dense,” Abbacchio mutters when he shoulders past him. 

Fugo opens his mouth as if to yell at him. Closes it. Abbacchio doesn’t look back to see him wrestle with his feelings or some stupid shit any longer. Mista and Giorno board, the engine whirs to life, and they’ve officially defected.

Then Narancia, that stupid boy, dives right in after them- couldn’t he just get on the boat in the first place like normal people?- screaming and paddling like his life depends on it.

Abbacchio, already turned around to watch Narancia like a circus animal, can see the gears in Fugo’s head turn, even at this distance. Watches the set of his jaw, and knows the feeling. The feeling that some things- some people- are more important than what you could be doing without them.

“You swim like shit, Ghirga!” Fugo bellows instead of any touching words of solidarity, but it means the same thing, maybe more. 

Then he jumps in the water and gets on the damn boat.

——

Bruno catches Abbacchio’s shoulder before he leaves for Sardinia with Fugo, who insisted upon going along like a rather irritating rat.

“Be careful,” Bruno says quietly, his free hand clenching his own stomach.

He’s been doing that a lot. Something happened, but Abbacchio doesn’t have time to find out.

“Is that an order?” Abbacchio says instead of promising anything.

Bruno, despite their situation, smiles wryly. “Yes.”

Abbacchio salutes. “Yes, sir.”

——

Abbacchio promptly disobeys orders by getting a hole in his stomach.

See if he fucking helps kids anymore. He might vomit if he ever has to see a football again.

Well. If he lives to see one, anyway.

“Abbacchio,” Fugo weakly interrupts his thoughts. He’s been trying to keep a stream of conversation up with Abbacchio since he stumbled upon him, back from exploring the other side of the island, but had deteriorated into desperately repeating his name.

Abbacchio is trying to stay awake, he really is. Fugo doesn’t deserve to watch him die in his arms.

Ah, fuck. He finds, when faced with it, he doesn’t wanna die. What a change two years makes.

“You’re a good kid, Pannacotta,” Abbacchio scrapes together the mental focus to form words in a vague attempt at comfort, just so he doesn’t die being as much of an asshole as he was in life. Fugo makes a choked noise that sounds too much like a sob.

His vision is worsening, his surroundings blurry, and his eyes stay closed longer and longer with each blink until Fugo has to smack his cheek to get his eyes open. Eventually, his eyes fall closed and stay there, no matter how much Fugo hits him.

“ Bucciarati! ”

Abbacchio eyes fly open as fast as possible.

His sight is still hazy, but he’d recognize Bucciarati in the dark. Idly notes that the kids are behind him and they’re all screaming something, but that doesn’t matter, what matters is that Bucciarati is dropping to the ground and pulling Abbacchio from Fugo’s lap into his.

“Bruno,” Abbacchio slurs happily, doesn’t know what the hell he’s saying anymore, and suddenly remembers bloody laundry and oranges. “Didn’t I say I would die for you?”

“You’re not going to,” Bruno snaps, but Abbacchio doesn’t care about the harshness of his words. His eyes are so pretty. He should tell him that.

“Your-” Abbacchio tries, then involuntary cuts himself off with a wracking cough that has him spitting blood.

“Don’t talk!” Bruno’s grip on his shoulders tighten.

“Yessir,” Abbacchio mutters, then promptly talks some more. He is slowly losing the strength to speak, though, and his voice falls low enough only for Bruno to hear. “You know, Bruno? It’s- you’re so bright. It’s always sunshine with you. Metaphorically. And physically, maybe. God, I want to kiss you so bad. I think I love you. I think about it every day. Did you know?”

“Right,” Bruno responds idly, absently, a tone of stress and not-really-listening. Abbacchio doesn’t mind, because he's always listening to Bruno, and he can probably do it enough for the both of them. “Giorno! Did you find something that’ll work? Hurry, please…”

Ew, Giorno. He tunes out, and lets his head loll into the sweet curve of Bruno’s thigh as he slips into unconsciousness, missing the way Bruno blinks when he registers what Abbacchio was actually saying.

——

Abbacchio wakes up. He didn’t expect that to happen, so that’s a pleasant surprise. 

Less pleasantly, his body is aching like a bitch and there’s a needle stuck in his arm, which doesn’t help. When he gets the presence of mind to register his surroundings, the air is sterile and everything is silent. The room around him is painfully empty, not even a chair at his bedside.

Abbacchio sighs, disappointed, then rolls his eyes at himself. Of course no one’s got time to visit him right now, they’re off kicking Boss ass.

He hopes, at least, they noticed the stone imprint he left for them that he was too far gone to point out. They’ll be fine without it, though, and Abbacchio’s mind is starting to swim. He lets himself fall seamlessly back into sleep.

——

Abbacchio wakes up again, this time unsurprisingly. 

He turns his head. This time, surrounded by empty chairs, Bruno is there. 

He’s got a buccellati in his hand. There’s a strong sense of deja vu.

“Did you beat his ass, or does heaven have hospitals?” Abbacchio says with no preamble, and Bruno looks like he’s about to jump out of his skin with the way he straightens up fast as hell. He all but throws the buccellati on the bedside table and lunges at Abbacchio to… hug him.

Oh.

Abbacchio wasn’t expecting that. He lets out a strangled wheeze- half flustered, half pained.

Bruno springs back with a “sorry!” but doesn’t go far. He pulls the chair up as close to Abbacchio as he can and grabs his hands.

“Oh, Abbacchio,” Bruno says, a little choked, “Fuck, I was so worried. God. How are you feeling?”

“As well as I can be,” Abbacchio answers without really answering, and asks with only a small touch of dread, “The boys, Trish…?”

“Fine, all fine,” Bruno assures, and Abbacchio lets himself breathe normally again. “Well, physically. You should have seen Fugo, when Narancia…”

Bruno goes tight-lipped. “...Long story.” 

“I wish I was there,” Abbacchio sighs, because he knows when to change a subject, “But what would I do, anyway? Make dial-up noises at him? I’d be useless.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Bruno scolds with no heat, “You’re not useless, and I would have liked to have you at my side… but I’m glad you didn’t have to be there. It got… weird, after Sardinia.”

Abbacchio snorts. “‘Weird’ sounds like an understated description for murdering the boss.”

“Maybe so. Long story, again. I’ll tell you when you feel better,” Bruno taps an idle rhythm on the back of Abbacchio’s hand, “Speaking of Sardinia, how much do you remember before passing out? Fugo said he didn’t witness it.”

“Ah, yeah.” Abbacchio frowns as he recalls, “The boss disguised himself as some kid and fucked my shit up, basically. He fucked off when he heard Fugo yelling when he came ‘round from the other side of the island, guess he thought I’d be dead enough and didn’t want to try shit with Purple Haze? But Fugo did good, back there. Poor kid.”

Bruno nods. “Do you remember past that?”

“Yeah?” Abbacchio cocks an eyebrow. “Up to when I passed out.” 

“Right. Good thing you clocked out when you did, before you had to be awake for Giorno healing you. It took a lot out of him back there.” Bruno looks at him meaningfully.

Abbacchio sniffs disdainfully. “So Giovanna can do a couple things right.”

Bruno shakes his head, but he’s smiling. His expression is strange, though, like he’s not saying exactly what he wants to.

“...Are you—” Abbacchio tries, but Bruno interrupts in a rush. 

“Do you know what you said to me, before you passed out?”

Abbacchio startles, then exhales frustratedly. That’s what this is about. Of course he remembers every traitorous word. “I don’t recall.”

Bruno peers at him in that odd owl-eye stare of his, head tilted and calculating. Then, he breaks out into a smile again.

“Liar!” He decrees, saying the accusation far too happily, and Abbacchio groans.

“Won’t you even let a wounded man rest?”

“Nope,” Bruno chirps, popping the ‘p’, then tilts his head again. His eyes take on a softer look. “How long have you felt like that, Abbacchio?”

“How long- Oh.” Abbacchio looks down at his hands. This is just embarrassing. “...The whole time.”

“The whole…” Bruno blinks. It seems he wasn’t expecting that- a rare blush manages to creep onto his face. “Oh. I didn’t… I didn’t know. Oh, I’m so stupid, aren’t I?”

Abbacchio shakes his head. “No, you’re not. I wasn’t exactly aiming for you to know. I didn’t think that I could… whatever. Sorry, don’t worry about it. I know nothing’s going to come of it.”

Bruno pinches his hand. “You and jumping to conclusions. I didn’t say I wanted that, did I?”

“You—” Abbacchio short circuits. He doesn’t know if Bruno’s insinuating what his mind jumps to. 

Bruno grins. Abbacchio feels like he’s fucking drowning. In a good way. 

God. Fuck. How does he even respond.

“...Bucciarati?”

Luckily, he has never been known for his eloquence.

“That’s all you have to say? And for the record ,” Bruno purposefully drawls, “my father did give me a name, Abbacchio. Leone.”

Abbacchio shudders at the way his name rolls off of Bruno’s tongue. It doesn’t go unnoticed underneath the light graze of Bruno’s fingers.

“Would it kill you to use it?” He punctuates his request with a flutter of thick lashes and a coy smile, the manipulative bastard.

Abbacchio holds faux-annoyed eye contact for a record of 10 seconds before Bruno bats his eyelashes again and he caves, because Bruno plays dirty to win.

“Bruno…” Abbacchio’s eyes flick to the side, and his frown deepens along with the crease between his eyebrows. He can’t do this. “…Bucciarati, sir.”

Bruno laughs, then, clear and bright. He brings his hands up from Abbacchio’s hand to rest at his cheeks. His thumb tenderly brushes the corner of an eye, both of which are still looking resolutely away.

“We’ll get there,” Bruno tells him, smiling. “Baby steps, right?”

The cookie left on the bedside table has been forgotten, but its residue is not; when Bruno leans in to finally ( finally ) kiss him, his lips are sweet sugar, sticky-soft. 

He’s been putting it off for a long time, but when Bruno pulls back and his grin is blinding, Abbacchio kicks the can and gives in. He leaves the stupid metaphorical candle alone, knows it’ll burn and burn.

This time around, his wings are made of more than wax and feathers, and Bruno’s warmth beckons instead of burns. Leone Abbacchio flies directly into the sun.