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And don't try to fight it
You're (I'm) here for tonight
And I'll be waiting for you
Until we meet again
-Dodie Clark, “Dear Happy”
Abbacchio is familiar with fleeting happiness. Little bits of joy in his otherwise bleak life, like sand he tries to keep cupped in his hands, only for it to slip through his fingers. He was happy when he was accepted to the police force, only to grow up as a jaded adult with distrust for authorities. He was happy when Bucciarati took him in, only to nurse a one-sided love for years. He was even happy when he found out he survived his attack on Sardinia, only to watch the man he loves walk away from him weeks later.
Despite Giovanna giving him as many luxuries as he desired, Bucciarati is a simple man. He prefers writing letters over texts and phone calls, deems them more personal than sending them a mass text message. Abbacchio always looks forward to hearing from him, satisfied in the knowledge that even if Bucciarati is no longer by their side at least he is safe and at peace.
The letter reads:
I've met someone, Abbacchio.
And he should have known, really. Should have stopped reading once he read those lines. Because those words only meant one thing.
We've been getting along quite well. It took us a while to get along, but I can’t imagine a day without him.
It's fine really. It was bound to happen someday. Bucciarati loves them, but he has a life outside the mafia now, and none of them have the heart to pull him away from it.
He kind of reminds me of you. He’s sweet, a bit gruff, but he means well.
Abbacchio is wrong for him. Bucciarati sees him and he's reminded of rainy days in alleys, of blood on the sand, of feeling empty save for the wisps of warmth that come from platonic touches.
I think I'm ready for this next step in my life. It’s not like I ever had time for it.
Bucciarati needs someone new, someone untainted, someone who can make him forget about this life, and start something new. Someone who's not Abbacchio.
But enough about me. I miss you. When will you visit?
I won’t ask you to reply. Just let me know you’re alright? That will be enough.
Abbacchio stops reading. He pulls out the little box he keeps under his bed and places the letter along with the rest. The stack is about four inches now, and he figures it's time to get a newer box. He doesn't like what Bucciarati says sometime, but that doesn't mean he'll stop listening.
Abbacchio throws himself at work. Giovanna placed him on the Intelligence Division, mainly desk work and meetings. His injury is healed, but he runs out of breath easily. Sometimes he thinks he can still feel Crimson King's hand through his chest, but he only has to look at Giorno fucking Giovanna on his throne to know that he's alive.
As far as they're concerned they're acquaintances. Giorno listens to him when Abbacchio has advice in the guise of insults, and Giorno leaves him alone most of the time. Except to remind him to take his medicine, or to eat meals with them.
The rest of the boys are still the same in the ways that matter. Mista still goes on tangents about random topics, still shoots himself nearly every mission. Narancia is still loud and brash and full of reckless determination even when he's not on the field anymore. Fugo came back, still close to snapping at them for the smallest of things, still smart and dependable.
Trish left, but she calls and texts. Small things like song ideas, homework, and other regular teenage problems. Sometimes she drags Abbacchio out to go shopping together, and she doesn't push or prod. Just buys Abbacchio make-up and drinks expensive frappes with him.
And it's good, great even. Abbacchio likes them well enough, they remind him not to drink too much, to sleep early, to eat properly, because they're counting on him to be strong.
But it still hurts sometimes. Abbacchio looks at them and sees a bit of Bucciarati in each of them. He sees it in Narancia tackling schoolwork with boundless enthusiasm, because he promised Bucciarati that he'd graduate for the both of them. He sees it in Trish living her best life, because Bucciarati promised to protect her and give her peace. He even sees it in Giorno, steadfast and firm with his ideals, because Bucciarati shared his dreams too.
There is no escaping this man. Even with hours and distance between them, Bucciarati is always with him. He doesn't know if that makes him happy, or sad.
Bucciarati sends him letters about his mystery man.
Abbacchio reads it because he's a masochist, and because Bucciarati still doesn't like texting. Maybe if he off-handedly suggests it to Giovanna, the kid could send him a phone?
He reminds me of you. He's smart, dependable, and wears a lot of black. He doesn't like cats or dogs, so I'm thinking of getting a hedgehog. Or maybe a snake. What do you think?
Abbacchio busies himself with meetings, coordinating with the field teams on target details, safehouse details, or budget details. He drowns himself in paperwork for weeks, only taking breaks when the kids force him to, crashing on his bed late at night. He tries to forget about the box beneath him, with all the letters and the words he doesn't want to hear.
He doesn't like going out, so most of our dates are in the house. I'm thinking of stocking up on records and films. Do you still like Monteverdi? I'll get some.
The week after that Abbacchio takes over Mista's bodyguard duties because he went to visit his family. He tails Giorno at his meetings, testing a new set of soldatos, going out to check in on their local territory, and basically micromanaging every single team that's based in Naples. He has to remind the kid not to overdo it sometimes, only for Giorno to shoot back that Abbacchio is doing the same.
I finally got around to painting the rooms in my house. Trish helped me out. You mentioned wanting a purple bedroom once, so I hope you don't mind that I was a bit inspired by it.
Something goes wrong during lunch with the team. A Stand attacks them in the middle of the day, and he takes a hit that's meant for Giorno. His surgery scars reopen on accident, and instead of chasing after the attacker the kids fall around him in various states of panic. Even Giorno who wouldn't dare show any strong emotion is shaking as he tries to close him up with Gold Experience.
It gets lonely here sometimes, you know? Narancia and Trish visit me every week. The boys come by when they can. When are you going to visit? I miss you, Abbacchio.
Abbacchio doesn't ever reply to any of his letters.
"You're taking a vacation."
Abbacchio looks up from his paperwork, glaring at Giorno as he plays with the stress ball on his desk.
"You can't tell me what to do."
"Yes, I can," he says, teasing and serious at the same time.
"I don't care." Abbacchio focuses back on the paperwork only to jump when his pen and papers turn into tiny baby hedgehogs. "Knock it off."
"We talked about it, well mostly Fugo and Trish." Giorno opens up his hands and the hedgehogs crawl up his arms. Little traitors. Abbacchio can't believe they're his favorite animals. "You're working too much. We're worried, so we made you vacation plans."
Abbacchio rubs his nose, feels an oncoming headache. "And if I say no?"
"You'll hurt our feelings."
"And?" Giorno frowns and Abbacchio counts it as a small victory.
He sighs, tucking the hedgehogs carefully in his pockets, effectively taking all of Abbacchio's work from him. "We're not telling you how to spend your time. That's up to you. But just so you know Fugo and Mista already split some of your work between them, Narancia is going over to your apartment to plant sit, and Trish is going to take over your office so you don't go sneaking in." Abbacchio looks unimpressed. "And I'll foot the bill for any of your expenses."
Abbacchio smirks. "I hope you realize just how much of a mistake that is."
Fugo pins up a map of Italy on the dartboard in his office. A matter of psychology, he says, the moment you see the dart sailing in the air, then you’ll know where it is exactly you want to go. Not before you throw it, not even after it lands, it’s the thought in your mind while the dart is in mid-air.
Abbacchio indulges him because even if it’s not obvious to most, he indulges his kids at every turn. It makes them worry less, he thinks, because they know that Abbacchio is still responding, that he’s still alive, that he’s not the shell of the man he was when he woke up in that hospital in Sardinia.
Five darts. He lets them fly one by one, pinning locations down on the map.
Amalfi coast.
Palermo.
Pompeii.
Milan.
He throws the last dart, and then it dawns on him. That mid-air thought. The place he really wants to go. It’s only by luck, or maybe by the pull of fate that the dart lands in sync with his thought.
Cinque Terre.
Bucciarati .
Abbacchio reads Bucciarati’s letters on the train to his hometown. The edges of the paper are frayed, and the ink has faded, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s memorized every word of it, the chronicles of Bucciarati’s life outside of the mafia. He can imagine Bucciarati, bent over a wooden table, painstakingly writing a letter for each of them, hands shaking over every letter, and slowly mouthing the words. Bucciarati could have stopped, could have let go of them and lived the rest of his life in peace, but he didn't. He’s always reaching out to them, staying in loop with their lives. Even when Abbacchio is a terrible friend that doesn’t reply to Bucciarati like the kids do.
How are you doing these days? I heard from Giorno that you’re the Capo for Intelligence now. Congratulations! I worry about that boy sometimes, you know? It’s nice to know that you’ll be there to look out for him.
He steps off the train and he’s immediately hit with the cloying scent of the sea. Blue stretches out against the sky, littered with small islands as far as he could see. The small village is bustling with activity, it looks like everyone is outside with someplace to go. Abbacchio has one of the letters in his hands, one of the older ones that Bucciarati sent, the one with his address.
I found my Dad’s old house. Well, our old house. It’s technically mine now. I don’t know what Fugo did to the real estate agency, but they were happy to give it back to me at no cost. It's a bit of a fixer upper but it will be a good home someday. I know it will. Maybe then I can finally host all of you for dinner. Like old times.
It's got a lovely view of the sea and the mountains. I wish I could show it to you.
The house looks small but cozy. Abbacchio can see hints of the kids’ visits even as he walks up the porch. The hanging planters Giorno made, the tacky orange welcome home rug from Narancia, the mailbox Trish painted pink and gold. It only makes him feel terrible if he's being honest. They all had a hand in helping Bucciarati rebuild somehow, where was he in all that? Where was that piece of Abbacchio within Bucciarati’s home?
He raises a hand to knock, and he hesitates.
What is he doing here? He let Bucciarati go because he wanted to give him peace. The last thing he needed is for Abbacchio to come stumbling back into his life, invading his home, and meeting the mystery man the letters were all about.
Then he thinks of the letters of Bucciarati struggling to write, but still pushing forward because he still wanted to share his life with them. For all Abbacchio believed he was letting Bucciarati go, it seems that Bucciarati isn't willing to do the same.
Abbacchio knocks. Tap, tap, tap. He waits.
And waits.
And waits.
And waits.
Maybe Bucciarati isn't even home. Maybe Abbacchio wasted his time walking here. Maybe he's off on a date with the man in his letters, and Abbacchio is just waiting for him to come back, only to be slapped in the face by Bucciarati's happiness and love that's not directed at him -
The door opens.
Bucciarati stares at him.
There's so many things Abbacchio wants to say.
‘I’m sorry I didn't reply to your letters because I wanted to give you space’ , ‘Thank you for not giving up on me even when I’m a horrible friend’ , ‘Who is he? Does he treat you right? Do you love him? Does he love you?’
All that comes out is a weak,” Hi.”
For one moment Abbacchio thinks that Bucciarati will slam the door in his face. That's what Abbacchio would do, but to his shock Bucciarati doesn't even look upset or surprised. A smile builds up on his face, slow and hesitant as if he couldn't believe his own eyes. It's the smile that always catches Abbacchio off guard just because of the sheer adoration in it, because for all of Bucciarati's faults, his capacity to love others is always the best part about him.
“You finally came,” Bucciarati breathes out, opening the door to his house wider, and with no prompting, he throws his arms around Abbacchio's neck in a hug.
Abbacchio stiffens, but once it finally dawns on him that Bucciarati is in his arms, that he's real and alive, and not on paper, he melts . His body sags forward, enveloping Bucciarati in his arms in an intimate display of vulnerability and want. Bucciarati laughs and burrows deeper against him, practically nuzzling the crook of his neck.
Back then, Bucciarati used to smell like metal and detergent, something sharp and clean and artificial. Now he smells like the sea and cinnamon, homey and natural.
When Bucciarati pulls away he looks different too. Relaxed in a way that's accentuated by the soft cotton shirt and sweatpants, hair loose and draped over his neck. His skin is tanner, and there are lines around his arms that're paler than the rest of his skin. Different as it is, he's still Bucciarati in the small ways that matter, in the lilt of his smile, and the softness in his eyes, in the careful way he's touching Abbacchio's arm as if to keep them there forever. He would never have looked like this if he stayed in Passione.
And all Abbacchio could think of is that this is what happiness is supposed to look like.
Bucciarati looks happy, and that's enough for Abbacchio.
“I’m sorry for the mess. I was trying to bake when you got here, and I wasn't able to clean up the kitchen.” Bucciarati ushers him past a small living room, only a sofa, a table, and a television set, and has Abbacchio lay his bag down on the kitchen table. The sun streams from the large windows by the sink, where he can see the view Bucciarati talked about in his letters.
“You were right,” Abbacchio says, interrupting Bucciarati's apologies. He looks at the window, then back at Bucciarati. “It's a lovely view.”
“About time you got to see it,” Bucciarati says, a note of teasing in his voice. With quick motions, he shoves the dirty dishes on the counter into the sink, and Abbacchio watches with faint amusement as he proceeds to cover the mess up with a large cloth. “Don't mind that. You're my focus right now. What brings you here?”
“Vacation. The brats tag teamed me into it.”
“Ah, so you’re just stopping by then? I’ll be glad to house you overnight before you head off.”
“Actually I was thinking of spending it with you,” Abbacchio says. He thinks of darts and mid-air thoughts. Maybe Fugo had a point with his psychology rant. Impulsive decisions tend to show your wants. “If that's alright. I wouldn't want to impose.”
“You're never imposing. You're always welcome here.” Bucciarati clears his throat. “All of you are always welcome in my home.”
“I’m all yours for the week.”
For forever, if only he'd ask.
Spending time with Bucciarati is both wonderful and heartbreaking all at once.
It's like closure to finally see him up close after months of being apart, like Abbacchio is slowly filling up that void inside of him. At the same time, it's like he doesn't know Bucciarati anymore. Things changed in their lives, big changes, the kind that gives you no other choice but to let go of the past, and move forward.
They stroll the small fishing town, shoulders bumping, and voices light. Bucciarati shows him the landmarks, an old but functioning lighthouse near the port, an odd statue of what looked like a tangerine, a market filled with dizzying scents and spices. All he can think about is how there's someone else Bucciarati has seen these sights with.
They sit down at a nice little bakery to eat lunch where Bucciarati rattles off a long list of recommendations and Abbacchio wonders if this is where they go on dates.
An elderly lady stops them on the streets and gives Bucciarati a bunch of fresh vegetables as a thank you for helping her with groceries the other day. She looks at Abbacchio funny, and he thinks it's because she was expecting a different man to accompany Bucciarati.
It's always there, the feeling of being an unwelcome intruder. Bucciarati doesn't address it, just pulls Abbacchio along like they were back in Naples. He beckons, Abbacchio follows. It's a comfortable dynamic, but he doesn't want to get used to it. Doesn't want to fall into familiar patterns. Because when this week ends, like all his fleeting happiness have ended before, Abbacchio will have to leave him again.
Maybe if he hears it from Bucciarati outright, it will be for the best. Abbacchio needs to be told to stop, and he will, because even when he's not his boss anymore, Abbacchio will always listen to him.
He finds the opportunity after dinner that night. Bucciarati didn't have any alcohol, so they settled for a couple cans of soda. They're sitting on the patio, looking over at the sea, dark waters crashing on the sand. The moon shining on the content smile on Bucciarati's face.
Abbacchio takes a deep breath, stills his heart and prepares to break it by his own hands. “So when do I get to meet him?’
Bucciarati turns to face him, confused. “Who?”
“The man you met. The one in the letters. You live together now, right?” Abbacchio bites back the bitterness in his throat, chases it down with the cold orange soda. For Bucciarati’s happiness, he reminds himself. It's all for him. “You're settling down well?”
Bucciarati plays with the tips of his hair, a nervous tic that Abbacchio has grown familiar with. “I can't tell. I mean, I put out a lot of hints, but he doesn't seem to get it.” Bucciarati smiles, and it makes his stomach flip, makes him want to walk out into the sea just to escape his penetrating gaze. “But no, I didn't ask him to live with me yet.”
"Oh? Why not? He doesn't know about the kids yet?” he jokes.
Bucciarati socks him softly on the arm. “Very funny, but as a matter of fact the kids know him already. They all like him. And he likes them even though he doesn't show it easily.”
“I hope you know they'll demand to interrogate him before letting him near you.”
“I wouldn't worry about that. He already has the kids’ approval.”
“Is that so?” Funny, Abbacchio doesn't recall any of them talking about Bucciarati's mystery man. Giorno and Fugo keep personal information to themselves, but the other three would at least gossip to him. “Well, he has me to go through too.”
“Really now?” Bucciarati inches closer, close enough for Abbacchio to see his eyelashes and feel the warmth where their skin presses together. “And what pray tell, would you do if he doesn't meet your standards, eh Abbacchio?”
It sounds like a trick question, and Bucciarati's tone is the same one he uses when he’s about to psyche out an enemy just for shits and giggles.
“Leave you be,” Abbacchio says, and even he's surprised by how honest he sounds. The words spill from him easily, “Obviously he's done something right for you to consider living with him, and for the kids to like him. As long as you're safe and happy with him, Bucciarati, I won't ask for nothing more.”
Is this what it felt like to let go of someone? The painful tugging in his heart, the hopelessness swallowing him whole, until there's not much part of him left. And the sad thing is, Abbacchio didn't mind those feelings. Letting go of Bucciarati meant he was allowing him to seek his own happiness, and that's always worth his own hurt. He can get over it. (Maybe.)
That settles it then. Abbacchio will stay the night and leave the following morning. Buy a map, play some darts, and leave Bucciarati to build a home.
For a long moment, they're silent. The waves have calmed, and the only soft, lapping water.
Bucciarati starts laughing.
Not his good laugh, a shallow wheezing chuckle that steals the breath out of him, not even the sinister laugh he uses when taunting other people. No, this laugh sounded sad. Like Bucciarati just received terrible news and he's trying to play it off as a joke. He's wheezing, clutching at Abbacchio's arm for support as he bends over.
“Fuck, I knew the subtle approach won't work. It never does in the movies.” Bucciarati says, in between wheezes. Abbacchio starts to hold him, calm him down, but Bucciarati pushes his arms off. The hurt from the dismissal is sharp, cold. “No, no, no, okay I got this. You are going to listen to me, and I am going to talk." He runs a hand through his hair, mussing it up and the sad laughter very quickly turns into frustratation,"The letters were a fucking stupid idea.”
“They're not stupid,” Abbacchio defends, “I-we all love receiving them. That's the only way you ever contacted us.”
“No, you don't get it. Fuck.” Bucciarati presses his fists to his eyes, and Abbacchio is surprised to find tears brimming in his eyelids. “Fuck. I’m such a fucking dumbass, Abbacchio.”
How did they even get here? Abbacchio just wanted to ask about Bucciarati's boyfriend, and now he made him cry. God, when will he stop fucking up with the people he cares about?
“I think we should head back inside,” he starts collecting their bottles, intent of throwing them out, but Bucciarati suddenly latches onto his wrist, the same one he zipped up last year. “Bucciarati?”
“There is no mystery man in the letters.”
It feels as if all the air was sucked out of Abbacchio at once. He can't hear anything besides his own heart pounding in his ears as he processed what Bucciarati just said. Hope begins to bloom inside of him, squirming past the ugly, rotten feelings he’s been storing since he first got wind of the mystery guy months ago.
“I was talking about you, Abbacchio.” Bucciarati's smile is rueful, sad. “All those letters were about you.”
“I don't understand…..,” Abbacchio says, even as the pieces start clicking together in his head. Asking about pets, the music he likes, the color paint he’d use in a bedroom. There's no possible way that Bucciarati means-
“I was trying to build you a home.” Bucciarati looks down at his feet, but Abbacchio catches the red flush on his cheeks. “I filled up this house with this that reminded me of you because it was the only way I could feel your presence again. Is that the stupidest thing you've ever heard?”
On the contrary, it sounds very sweet, but Abbacchio is still confused.
He must have been silent for too long because Bucciarati’s shoulders slump in defeat and he lets go of Abbacchio's hand.
“Nevermind that, I suppose. It's stupid anyways. You're right we should head back inside.”
Abbacchio watches Bucciarati walk away, back straight and unaffected, but Abbacchio knows him too well. He can sense it in the air around him, the kind where Bucciarati hides away his feelings for the sake of his team, unwilling to show his own hurt, his own pain. That moves Abbacchio more than anything, because Bucciarati possesses many qualities, but honesty has never been one of them.
He follows Bucciarati into the house, just in time to see him stride towards his bedroom, probably with the intent of locking himself in. Abbacchio panics briefly at the thought of this conversation ending, and things returning to normal tomorrow. Fuck normalcy, Abbacchio is ready for something to change, it doesn't matter how it ends anymore. He knows himself well enough to know that he’ll never be at peace if he doesn't take this risk.
Moody Blues emerges, blocking the path to Bucciarati's bedroom. He catches a glimpse of dark purple walls in the bedroom before Bucciarati whirls around to face him.
It's almost funny how Bucciarati looks so surprised then, like he didn't expect Abbacchio to make a move. His facial expression is all over the place, a mixture of surprise, fear, and sadness.
They're at a standstill, nothing standing in the way between them except their own feelings. They're at the precipice of something big, teetering on a wavering tightrope, one push away from falling from a great height, with no safety net to catch them.
“I love you.”
Abbacchio has always wanted to hear those words from Bucciarati, but it comes as a surprise to him when the words leave his mouth instead. It surprises him even more when he keeps talking, the words spilling forth, falling from the tightrope and surrendering against gravity. An inevitable fall. Abbacchio briefly wonders if the dart psychology applies here too. There's no fear of the before or after, just the now.
“I’ve loved you for years. I can't tell when it started, but I know it's true, because the past few months have been miserable for me.” Bucciarati winces, looks away. “Okay, that was too far. It's not all that bad, I could almost say I got used to a life without you.”
“Leo - ”
“But the thing is, I don't want a life without you,” Bucciarati finally looks up, something vulnerable and hopeful swimming in his eyes. “I miss you. I’m sorry I haven't replied to any of your letters. I thought if I ignored you long enough I could forget about the void in my heart.”
“I’m sorry too,” Bucciarati says, taking a tentative step forward. Moody Blues disappears, no longer needed to block the bathroom. “I thought you’d be smart enough to figure out I was talking about you eventually.” He smiles weakly. “Guess I was wrong.”
“I have a tendency to become stupid when it comes to you,” Abbacchio says, earning him a short laugh. It's not sad, or manic. He takes it as a good sign. But there’s something else he needs to know, a gravity that makes him want to pull and pull until Bucciarati is within reach again. Whatever walls he built up to stop himself from confessing have been broken down, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. He made it this far. He deserved to keep going.
But before he can speak again, Bucciarati takes a breath. He approaches Abbacchio, each step slow and heavy, to the beat of Abbacchio's rapid heartbeat. His breath hitches when Bucciarati stops inches away from him, near enough to feel his own stuttered breathing.
“I love you too,” Bucciarati says, voice soft, but loud enough to echo in every fiber of Abbacchio's being. “So much. You have no idea.” His hands are shaking, or maybe that's his legs, or shoulders, or maybe every part of him is ringing from the sudden energy that falls over him.
Bucciarati keeps speaking, running his mouth, words spilling with a mix of desperation and honesty. “That should never be questioned. I wanted you to come with me, I really did, but I didn’t want you to join me because I asked you to. I wanted it to be your choice.”
“Well, I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Bucciarati raises a hand, to touch him maybe, but it just ends up awkwardly hovering over Abbacchio's face. “Can I….?”
“Please…..,” he says breathily. Bucciarati's fingers are soft, hesitant, as he caresses Abbacchio's cheek. It's just a small touch, with familiar hands, but there's something shifting between them, like a key turning in a lock and opening up a world of possibilities. When Bucciarati's warm hands cup his cheek Abbacchio tilts his head and leans in, grabbing his wrist lightly.
Life always turns out for the worse, he knows it from experience, but maybe this time Abbacchio will hold on to this happiness instead of expecting the other shoe to fall.
After all, Bucciarati has never failed him before, even when they were miles apart and stuck in a mess of lost chances and misunderstandings. He never held Abbacchio's unresponsiveness against him, or turned him away when he dropped by unexpectedly. Guilt slams into him heavily, as he realizes that Bucciarati was probably waiting for him to visit, they could have had this conversation earlier, if only Abbacchio wasn’t such a coward to his own feelings.
But they’re here now, and Abbacchio is prepared to make up for lost time.
No words are spoken, they let the gravity between them speak for itself. Bucciarati’s eyes flutter close as he closes the distance between them, and Leone, without fail, meets him halfway.
It’s groundbreaking, yet natural at the same time, as if they were always meant to share this moment. Bucciarati’s lips are soft and warm, chapped from the cold air, but no less pleasant. Just a short press of the lips. Bucciarati begins to pull away, but Abbachio surges forward and kisses him again, over and over, just to prove to himself that he’s finally allowed this touch. Bucciaratti accepts every single one of them. It’s like they’re closing the gap that formed between them, every letter unsent, every feeling not spoken, now out in the open air, and filling them with this young and reckless love.
They separate with a soft smack, pressing their foreheads together as they catch their breaths.
Then, Bucciarati grabs his hand and pulls him to the bedroom. With the dark purple walls. The one that reminded Bucciarati of him. He can see the other things too, the records on the cabinets, the beginnings of a pet enclosure on the desk, even the dark blackout curtains that Abbachio had in the old house.
His thoughts are interrupted when Bucciarati tosses him on the bed and crawls on top of him. Their lips meet again and again, and quite frankly, Abbachio could never get tired of it. He curls a hand in Bruno’s hair and tugs him closer, hears him moan as he presses Abbacchio harder against the bed, the lines of their bodies perfectly matching as if there was ever any doubt that they belonged together.
They don’t make it past light making out that night. Abbacchio appreciates the slow pace. Call him old fashioned, but he’s looking forward to courting Bucciarati day by day. See the sights again, eat at the cafe, and try out all of Bucciarati’s recommendations, meet that old woman again and tell her that Bucciarati is his and he is Bucciarati’s.
“What about your job? Passione?” Bucciarati asks minutes later, as he twirls a lock of Abbacchio’s hair in his fingers, head pillowed on Abbacchio’s chest. “I suppose I can have you one the weekends, and maybe days off?”
“I have never put Passione above you. Not back then, not now.” Abbacchio presses a kiss on Bucciarati’s forehead, breathes in the salty scent of the ocean and the fresh paint in the violet bedroom. “I’m quitting.”
“I can’t ask that from you.”
“You’re not asking me, this is my choice. I lost you once, twice, if there’s ever an opportunity to have you forever, I’ll take it.” Abbacchio hesitates, pulling away to look Bucciarati in the eyes. “If you’ll have me of course.”
“Only if you’ll have me too.” Bucciarati smiles, leans forward and kisses him again, warmth seeping where his lips meet Abbacchio’s. “I love you.”
“I love you.” Somehow the saying it for the second time is more gratifying than the first. First ‘I love you’s’ can be accidental, a slip of the tongue, a sudden rush of feelings, but second times are no accident. They’re finally meant to be said. This time around they’re certain of their feelings.
Right here, in this little cottage by the sea,arms wrapped around the man he loves, all Abbacchio can think of is this is what happiness is. And he won’t ever let go of it.