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There’s a knock on Abbacchio’s door at eleven p.m., just as there always is. And he answers it, just as he always does—in his house slippers with a glass of cabernet (or sometimes a syrah, or sometimes a malbec, but who’s really keeping track).
“It’s raining.” Bruno hovers in the threshold of the doorway. Water drips on the ratty welcome mat as he waits patiently for an invitation. “Hard.”
Abbacchio raises an eyebrow. “I can see that.”
“I didn’t have my umbrella on me.”
They politely ignore the fact that Bruno’s umbrella is propped next to the door, left from the last time he visited during a storm.
“Come in anyway.”
Abbacchio removes Bruno’s jacket and hangs it on the coat rack. It’s a gesture stuck somewhere between a formality and an endearment. Many of their interactions are stuck between formality and endearment. That’s the trouble with falling in love with your boss.
Bruno steadies himself on Abbacchio’s arm while he attempts to remove his soaked loafers as gingerly as possible. Abbacchio has to stifle a wry laugh when Bruno curses under his breath for choosing style over function.
“Why didn’t you just zipper inside? You could have saved us both some trouble.”
“Because this is your home, Leone. I’m not entitled to it.” Bruno’s tone is serious, righteous. He’s taking a Bruno Buccellati Principled Stance. It softens. “Plus, I didn’t know what I might walk in on.”
“A man in pajamas drinking wine, probably.”
Bruno cocks his head, surveying him in a way that makes Abbacchio feel far too hot.
“That’s exactly what I was hoping to find.”
____
“How was your day?”
Abbacchio knows how Bruno’s day was. They’ve spoken on the phone twice already and messaged a few times to fill in the rest of the gaps.
He asks regardless, if for no other reason than the sound of Bruno’s voice. It’s soothing to hear him discuss the mundane.
“It was unremarkable. I did some paperwork, reviewed some files.” The stress lines on his face suggest it wasn’t as unremarkable as he claims, but Abbacchio knows better than to press the issue.
“We’ll need to go ‘visit’ some debtors tomorrow. It might get a little—” Bruno trails off, twirls his finger as if conjuring the word he’s seeking out of thin air. “—ugly.”
Abbacchio smirks. “I like ugly.”
(Once, he accompanied Bruno on an interrogation. The subject wouldn’t crack, and a loyal man’s reward is lead to the brain. Their hands touched as Bruno passed him the blood-flecked gun—it was electrifying.)
“I know.” Something icy ghosts across Bruno’s face. It’s a reminder that underneath his discipline and ideals and the benevolence he shows to his charges there’s a capacity, a propensity even, to be cruel. “Me too.”
(But everyone has the capacity for cruelty, Abbacchio reasons. And you can’t truly love a rose without loving its thorns.)
Bruno leans against the vanity, taking stock of Abbacchio’s ever-present cosmetics. He idly runs a hand along the polished wood until he reaches something new. It’s an antique hairbrush. Its silver handle is engraved with an ornate, art nouveau design.
“This is gorgeous, Leone. I haven’t seen it before.”
“It’s an heirloom. I don’t take it out a lot.” The piece was a bizarre, but well-intentioned, gift from his grandmother before Abbacchio became estranged from his family. He typically keeps it, as well as his views on the matter, hidden away in drawers.
“Do you ever use it?”
Abbacchio scoffs. “I can’t tell if that’s a question or an insult.”
“A question.” Bruno says, as if his intent was obvious. He turns over the brush in his hands, enraptured with it as he is any beautiful object. “I’ve heard brushing your hair one hundred times a night makes it healthier.”
“Isn’t that an old wives' tale?”
“Do you want to find out?”
“With all due respect, who the fuck has time for that?” Abbacchio’s blasé response betrays the fact that he spends an inordinate time preening. It also betrays the fact that his pulse just skyrocketed.
“I do.” Bruno’s voice drops low, and something in Abbacchio unfurls and comes alive.
He steps forward; Abbacchio’s breath hitches. “May I?”
Abbacchio is muzzled by his heart in his throat. Even if he could speak, he’s not confident he could form a cogent sentence.
Yes.
Touch me.
I’m scared.
Don’t touch me.
I love you.
Are you sure?
Please.
He condenses those contradictions into a curt nod and pats the space behind him on the bed. There’s a dip of weight, a knee resting against his lower back, the scent of rain and Hermès cologne.
A hand, Bruno’s hand, is toying with the elastic securing his hair in a bun. Abbacchio sees stars.
“Is this alright?”
“I’m not sure how else you’d go about it.”
Bruno huffs, a hot tickle against his neck. Internally, Abbacchio shivers. Externally, he digs his nails into his palms. An errant part of him wonders if Bruno is as affected as he is.
The elastic slides off and Abbacchio’s hair falls down across his shoulders.
(Something else falls too. Perhaps it’s inhibitions. Perhaps it’s a wall. Perhaps it’s too early to tell.)
Then the brushing begins. Gently, tentatively at first.
He closes his eyes and swallows a moan with a gulp of wine.
____
One, two, three
Abbacchio’s world has been reduced to a hairbrush. There are ninety-seven strokes until it ends.
Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen
Abbacchio brushes his hair every day (thank you very much). It’s a simple act, a preamble to the heat and styling he needs to achieve his signature look. It’s nice, sure, but there’s no great pleasure and certainly no eroticism to it.
Until now.
Abbacchio’s body hums with sensation. He imagines himself as something bioluminescent, glowing and pulsing with each stroke of the brush or Bruno’s hand smoothing the area he just worked over. He handles this task with the deliberateness and care that he handles all his affairs—it’s so authentically Bruno that Abbacchio wants to cry.
And then Bruno hits a tangle and Abbacchio burns.
The motion rakes at his scalp, tugging lightly, and Abbacchio tries not to indulge thoughts of Bruno pulling his hair while he’s pressed against a mattress or a wall or a—
He hopes this little encounter doesn’t create a Pavlovian response.
Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six
It doesn’t take long for Abbacchio’s euphoria to wear off and his natural defenses to intimacy kick in. It’s a painful state of existence to both crave and fear affection.
“You can stop if your arm is tired.” Are you tired of me?
“It’s not,” Bruno assures.
“Well I’m just saying, if it is...” I’m saying you are.
“I could do this all night, Leone.”
“Bruno, seriously.” I don’t deserve this.
“I’ll stop if you want. But I don’t think you do.”
Abbacchio fights a war with himself over the span of a second. When he can’t reach a truce, he bites his lip and sighs.
Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine
His hand rests six inches from Bruno’s thigh. Suspended in the liminal space of what is and what could be. Their relationship, Abbacchio muses, is somewhere in there, too.
If only he had six inches worth of courage.
Forty-two, forty-three, forty-four
“What is this,” Bruno asks, yanking Abbacchio out of his blissed out trance.
“What is what,” he fumbles.
“The music, Leone.”
Oh, that. In the haze of it all, Abbacchio must have put a CD on. He forgot there was a time before Bruno’s hands were in his hair.
“It’s Vivaldi, The Four Seasons.”
“Ah. It sounded familiar,” Bruno says. “What season are we in?”
“Winter.” Abbacchio is hit with a wave of inexplicable self-consciousness. “I can change it if you want.”
Bruno hums; light, swirling nudges against Abbacchio’s lower back tell him that Bruno is following the tempo with his foot. “No, leave it on. I like it.”
“I’m glad,” Abbacchio murmurs.
It reminds me of you, he yearns to add, but the words die on his tongue like so many do.
Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine
Because he cannot speak his truth, Abbacchio shifts his hand those six inches. Muscle jumps under his palm.
He prays it’s a quiver not a flinch.
Sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-three
Like most people in love, Abbacchio dreams of Bruno.
Sometimes they’re sipping tea in a labyrinth of flowers. Other times, they’re kissing in an empty art museum. And of course there are those sultry visions that leave him sweat-damp and breathless when he awakens.
He wishes they could have a life that rivals his dreams. Then he remembers Passione and his demons and the small, inconsequential fact that Bruno would need to love him, too.
Seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven
But maybe he does.
Maybe Abbacchio will be bold enough to let his hand linger when Bruno is done.
Eighty-three, eighty-four, eighty-five
“Thank you, Leone.”
Only Bruno would do someone a favor and thank them for it. “For what? I should be thanking you.”
“For letting me be close to you. At the end of the day it’s nice to feel close to someone.”
Abbacchio rolls his eyes. “Oh Bruno, don’t be a sap.”
“I’m serious. I have an entire team, and sometimes I feel like the only person in the world. Isn’t that strange?” Bruno’s voice has a distant, almost dream-like quality. “But nights with you remind me that there are kinder things than bullets and protection money.”
“Hm.” Nights with you. Abbacchio feels as though he’s slipped into a warm bath. He closes his eyes, leans back, squeezes Bruno’s thigh ever so slightly.
Then the brushing stops. The metaphorical bath runs cold.
“I need to be reminded that I’m kind, I think,” Bruno confesses. “I’m scared of who I’d become if I wasn’t.”
There’s a raw honesty to Bruno’s words that splits Abbacchio’s heart in two.
Bruno pauses. He takes a deep breath, exhales sharply. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be burdening you. I wanted you to relax and enjoy yourself.”
An apology? Now Abbacchio has heard enough.
Seizing the opportunity in the silence, he turns abruptly. Bruno opens his mouth to protest, but Abbacchio is quicker to the draw.
“Bruno—" Comfort isn’t Abbacchio’s forte (or a skill he even remotely possesses), but he’ll try. For Bruno he’ll always try.
“You are everything bright and kind. I will tell you that until the sun comes up if I have to.”
What comes next will take a whole hell of a lot more than six inches of courage.
“Just...ah fuck I’m bad at this.” Abbacchio pinches the bridge of his nose, unable to meet Bruno’s gaze. He’s blushing something between pale-pink and carmine. “Let me be close to you, too,” he mumbles.
“Alright,” Bruno says fondly. His eyes sparkle; the right side of his mouth ticks up. “But first, three more.”
Ninety-eight, Ninety-nine, One hundred
In one hundred strokes, Abbacchio’s world ends.
Heart thrumming in his chest, his fingers caress Bruno’s cheek, tilt his chin. Time slows to a standstill; they kiss in the interlude between Winter and Spring.
And, like blossoms after frost, it begins anew.