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Chapter Text

Leone steels himself. Takes a deep breath, because this shouldn’t be so fucking hard, to just walk across a room and talk to Bruno – and yet here he is. Lingering out in the hallway.

…Which is bound to get awkward real fast, considering what he’s wearing. There shouldn’t be anyone around to gawk, though; it’s just him and Bruno here, after all. As Leone not-so-subtly orchestrated by telling everyone to stay the hell away today.

He’s pretty sure they all saw right through his flimsy excuse that Bruno has work to do – especially Giorno, who is in charge of everything, now, and therefore assigns said work, but Leone’s grateful to him for saying nothing. And even keeping a nosy, teasing Mista at bay. It’s unnerving, how much Leone owes Giorno for these days, when you factor in all of the life-saving shit –

Brain officially off on an irrelevant tangent (Giorno-related, no less!) means it’s time for Leone to pull himself the fuck together.

What he’s about to do is a necessary preemptive strike.

So, he pulls at the mess of straps and mesh he’s squeezed himself into, adjusting it one last time. As if that’s going to help it cover any more skin. A lost cause, but he can at least make sure it’s sitting right…

And since there’s nothing else he can think of to delay the inevitable (seriously, he has no reason to be nervous, no reason to think this won’t go well, but he doesn’t really do this shit, and therefore isn’t sure what, exactly, to expect – but as previously mentioned this is necessary), in he goes. Opening the door to Bruno’s office. And waltzing on in. Just like that.

Bruno is there, because where the hell else would he be? Laptop open on his desk, he’s frowning at the screen. He doesn’t look up from what he’s doing as Leone enters the room, shuts the door behind him.

“Leone,” Bruno says, because he knows it wouldn’t be anyone else, knows Leone’s footfalls by now, “what –”

He pauses. Half-turned and eyes going wide, watching Leone. Who’s well on his way to standing right next to Bruno, by now, relishing in that gaze that tracks him all the way here. It follows him as he hops onto Bruno’s desk, too, taking a seat there, nudging notes and laptop out of the way and leaning back on his hands. Showing off, if you will.

The desk doesn’t move with his weight, which is good. Ancient as the thing is, at least it’s sturdy – Leone knows this for a fact thanks to past…encounters.

Bruno is still staring. His eyes wandering Leone’s body through tight, sheer fabric.

Leone stares right back. There are overworked lines around Bruno’s eyes, and his mouth is still open a little, on that question he never finished. His bangs are sort of mussed, probably from rubbing at his forehead. And his suit is open at the neck.

Looks like Leone timed this intervention perfectly, he should’ve known Bruno would need a break by now. (It’s a bit easier not to be nervous, like this. Especially with Bruno looking at him so intently.)

“What…are you doing?” Bruno’s voice is soft. He’s staring at Leone’s face, now.

Gathering brazen courage, Leone says, “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Bruno blinks at him.

Then blinks again. Blue eyes drop to scan over dated documents and the timestamp on his computer screen, and Leone’s mouth is twitching on…he’s not sure what. A smile, probably. Weird jitters in his stomach are doing a number on him for pulling this stupid stunt – but it had to be done. It’s the only way. Something like payback, even, to fluster Bruno for once.

When Bruno’s gaze lands back on Leone, there’s a crease between those dark eyebrows. “Valentine’s isn’t for two weeks…” he says at length. His cheeks are pink and his fingers are twitching where they rest atop the desk.

And, yes, Leone is aware that he’s early. But this is a necessary preemptive strike, and therefore earliness is required.

He spreads his legs on a more comfortable sprawl. They wind up on either side of Bruno. Completely by coincidence. “I know.”

“Then why…?” Bruno picks up his twitching fingers at last, and rests one set on Leone’s knee. His touch is warm on bare skin. Eyes still locked with Leone’s.

Hah. Here comes the really hard part:

“I wanted to be sure I gave you my present first, this year,” Leone explains, and it sounds oh-so-simple when phrased like that, sure. But his mission is dire, and judging by that amused grin pulling at Bruno’s mouth, he knows exactly what Leone is trying to do here. Hopefully this ploy still works, and Leone didn’t wrestle himself into this tight, strappy getup for nothing.

(…Well. No matter what happens on Valentine’s Day itself, getting into this strappy getup still won’t be for nothing, considering how deeply Bruno’s interest runs here. But. Leone digresses.)

Bruno leans forward in his chair, palm cupped just above Leone’s knee, now. His eyes are sparkling to match the smile he’s got, and he’s so beautiful that any residual nerves evaporate. (At least. Nerves specific to this fucking outfit.)

“And why is that so important to you, Leone?” Bruno asks, even though he knows damn well why.

Leone explains regardless. “So I don’t die of a heart attack for once.”

That charming grin of Bruno’s widens at this, and he lets out a little puff of laughter that just about does Leone in – but he holds his ground, frowning hard in the face of that humor because it’s not funny.

It is not funny, that Leone’s spent that past three Valentine’s Days a complete nervous mess over the simple act of gifting Bruno shit like flowers and chocolates and even a goddamn sappy note, candlelit dinners set up in his own kitchen, cooked from fucking scratch, best wine he could afford –

Only to, each and every year, get the life scared out of him by what Bruno considers to be thoughtful gifts.

“You don’t like my presents?”

Oh, now Bruno is feigning innocence and offense. Hand over his heart and a fake little pout. Not at all fair.

He knows what he did. What he hopefully will not do, this year.

How the hell is Leone supposed to focus on things like icing tiny, personalized cakes just right, after being handed prettily wrapped giftboxes that contain body parts?

And, sure, it’s – they’re such sappy gestures. Coming from Bruno, this is romance, and Leone isn’t about to pretend that it didn’t flood some bit of his heart with too much warmth to handle. Once he figured out that the severed hand from their first Valentine’s did, in fact, belong to Bruno. Zipped off at the wrist and offered genuinely.

Doesn’t mean Leone didn’t freak the fuck out, upon getting an actual beating heart the year after that.

Bruno needs that thing to live, for the love of…

Last year doesn’t even bear thinking about. It turned out to be a wonderful night spent with Bruno, but Leone isn’t sure he’ll ever be over opening the otherwise innocuous present waiting for him outside their bedroom door only to find Bruno’s –

Well.

Suffice to say, Leone has had just about all he can survive.

But he can’t outright tell Bruno that his sweet, heartfelt gifts are straight out of a horror movie. Especially not when they awake so many complicated feelings in Leone, once he’s past the shock.

Bruno knows, anyway. Always wears such a genuine smile, gets too much enjoyment out of Leone’s fluster. Kissing Leone’s cheek and saying shit like, “It’s always been yours,” as Leone sputters and tries to explain that he’s touched, really, but please, please put your heart back in your chest, Bruno, before you die. Half sappy mess and half panic.

That sort of debacle is what Leone is hoping to avoid, this year. Hence the outfit, perching himself on Bruno’s desk two entire weeks early so he knows he’ll be first.

“…Your presents are just fine,” Leone mutters. Because he can’t say anything negative to those shining blue eyes that look so happy. “But,” Leone sits up straighter, lifting his hands away from the desk to loom forward, watching Bruno’s pupils dilate, “I’m giving you my entire body, this year, so you’ll have to think of something for me that’s not part of yours.”

See? Foolproof.

(Hopefully.)

Bruno stands, sinking in toward Leone and cupping his jaw. He presses that stunning smile to Leone’s mouth, a bit of soft contact that has Leone sighing.

“I think maybe I’ll just give you all of me in return,” Bruno murmurs against Leone’s lips –

And that’s – that’s a fair compromise, if Leone’s ever heard one. It turns him into a sappy mess without the panic, pliant beneath Bruno’s (firmly attached) hands.

Chapter Text

The man at the end of this old, wooden dock is back. And he’s alone again. Leone knows, because there’s only one pair of legs dangling down there, straight ahead from where he himself is lurking. They swing back and forth in sinking golden sunlight, every once in a while. The sky is a pink-orange-blue backdrop to them, bare toes brushing the golden water.

He never used to be alone, this man. There was a companion, before – older and more weathered. A father. That’s what this man called him, Leone overheard that first day spent hitching a leisurely ride on their fishing boat.

…On that same day, he learned that this man’s name is Bruno, and Leone has been fighting with himself over it since.

Really, he ought to have forgotten that name and carried on with his life. Swimming his private corners of the ocean on his own and keeping well away from other humans and merfolk alike because that’s become his lot in life and he’s more than content to never interact with anyone ever again.

But. Something in him latched on to Bruno.

To those kind hands that let loose any creature accidentally swept up in his nets – even the ugly or dangerous ones. Gentleness the likes of which Leone has never witnessed before from humans who hunt.

A subtle smile that you really have to look for. Seldom, quiet laughter.

Horribly drawn in, Leone kept coming back. He watched this man and his father and lingered far closer than was safe for a glimpse of something that he didn’t understand yet warmed him from the top of his head to the tips of his tentacles.

Those two often come and fish, here, together. They’ve spent many evenings sitting and talking, after days whiled away out on their boat. Sometimes Leone would tag along on those fishing trips and pilfer from their nets when feeling especially lazy. Sometimes he’d show up when they fished onshore, tugging on their lines just to make them think they’d caught something. Just to see a bemused smile. (The father tells stories about merfolk, when Leone does that. Tales that Leone lingers camouflaged beneath the surface to listen to, scoffing at the incorrect lore. He’s never once dragged a sailor to their death, thank you very much.)

It’s been months, since Leone first sighted Bruno. This is the longest he’s stayed anywhere.

Lately…there’s a sadness that clings to Bruno that wasn’t there before. He’s by himself, now, when he comes to the dock, or goes out on that old fishing boat. He doesn’t smile, or laugh. Never casts a line out into the water for simple leisure, anymore. He spends long spells sitting quiet, instead, as he’s doing right now. Staring out at the water wearing a melancholy mood that Leone feels in the depths of his own hearts.

Sunsets seem to be Bruno’s favorite. These, he watches at the end of this dock. Every night. With eyes bluer than the wide-open sky and shinier than the brightest star. But he never cries.

Watching him always starts soreness blossoming in Leone’s chest.

Unbidden, he can’t stop thinking about trying to put some light back in those mournful eyes. Or maybe even trying to coax something closer to a smile onto that neutral mouth.

Leone hides. Doesn’t act on any of those urges. There’s nothing he can do.

He should never have lingered this long, and most definitely should not have gotten attached.

Humans aren’t friends, Leone’s been told time and again. They will catch you and study you or if you’re unlucky they will kill you and preserve your remains as a trophy.

But with a record like Leone’s…he doesn’t count many merfolk as friends, either. And Bruno is an odd human. Always tossing back surplus. Freeing creatures-that-aren’t-fish from his nets. Savoring every sunset. Sitting near tide pools and watching, only ever watching. Soft smiles for every creature he sees there or in the ocean at large.

And he’s said – during one of his father’s stories about mers, Bruno said, “I’d like to meet one, someday,” and Leone’s face had gone warm and discolored so he’d had to duck deeper into the water, hide better –

It’s not a good idea to befriend humans. There’s nothing that Leone can do to soothe this lonelier version of Bruno…

Yet here Leone still is, at the far back of the dock, lurking in the underneath where wood meets with a rocky outcropping of shore. A dark, damp spot that’s actually brightest when the sun is sinking, as it is now. He can’t leave. Is stuck here, staring at those swinging feet barely dipped into the water.

A little school of unsuspecting fish swims by, too-close to where his tentacles are grasping at rock, and he squeezes himself further into a wide crevice because they tickle, brushing against him. He’s full, at the moment and they caught him off-guard (because he was staring at the human) – so he’s a little sloppy about it – upsets the water – makes more noise than he meant to – too much splashing –

When he refocuses back outward, those legs have stopped swinging. They’re dangling suspiciously still.

Ah.

Leone holds still, too. Shifts his coloring a smidge darker, for all the good that’ll do.

Because he’s out of the water from his shoulders up, and thanks to that sunset there are too many reflected shades at work here to match well enough.

At least the chances that Bruno will look are slim. It’ll be fine. Leone didn’t make that much noise.

See? Those legs are disappearing, retracted atop the dock. There’s the sound of walking – completely useless way to get around, not near enough appendages – so Bruno must be leaving. He’s seen enough of this sunset and happened to decide to go home at the exact moment Leone was thrashing around. Yep.

…Leone will just…sink slowly underwater, to be safe. Inch his way down the rock face while submerging…

He’ll move right along. Come back tomorrow to spend some more time ogling Bruno’s ankles, and then his face once it’s dark. Continue his hopeless longing for a scrap of courage to make himself known, for all the good that would –

A head of dark hair drops down over the edge of the dock.

Face still above water level, Leone freezes. Stares with wide eyes. Breath caught in his lungs, gills fluttering useless.

Bruno…wasn’t leaving. Only lying down, so that he could peek into these shadows.

Fuck that stupid school of fish – Leone should’ve eaten them after all – now there are brilliant blue eyes watching him with open curiosity. A head tilting, fading sunlight spilling between dark locks. Fluffy, not bogged down and tangled by saltwater like Leone’s messy tresses. (He has the out of place urge to touch that fluffy hair, which is about as ill-advised an idea as he’s ever had.)

“Hello,” Bruno says – and oh no –

Why is this all it takes to bring the wrong color to Leone’s cheeks?

More words spill from Bruno’s soft-looking mouth. “Are you the one who’s been watching me?” A question posed far too casually for its subject matter. The allusion that Leone has been stalking…

Is…well, it’s correct, but it isn’t exactly how Leone would like to be known, and – wait –

Bruno’s…noticed him…?

…

Leone should stop staring. His coloring is shifting toward white all over (except for his cheeks, which remain stubbornly darker, pink-orange to match the damned sunset, fuck) the longer he lingers here. Bobbing in the water. Sunk in so his nose is skimming just above the surface. He should not reply or engage. Swimming away would be ideal.

Too bad drifting closer is what he wants to do, and his tentacles have minds of their own as always. Swaying in the water and propelling him forward, one of them clutching at a support beam from that dock to help.

Leone does his best to stay still regardless. For the most part, he manages it. If he can’t convince his body to flee the scene, he could at least. Not get any closer. Maintain appropriate distance.

“It’s alright,” Bruno says. He’s so calm, despite the way he’s leaning ever-further over the edge of the dock. Liable to fall in, at this rate, and then Leone will have to save him, because humans are quite pathetic when they try to swim. “I don’t mind. I won’t hurt you.”

Oh, Leone knows this much from watching Bruno. That kind sort of demeanor that hangs around him and extends to all creatures, even beyond his own species.

Fact is, Leone would be more likely to hurt him in the event of an altercation. Venom and tentacles and all. Humans are easy to drown and susceptible to many toxins, though Leone’s never personally tested his mettle against one. It wouldn’t be a problem. He doesn’t want to bite Bruno. It’s fine. Completely.

What is wrong with him…

Leone is shifting forward again before he realizes, damn tentacles taking advantage of the fact that his main brain is distracted by whirling thoughts to keep creeping – and oh fuck it.

He uses his siphon to actively propel him toward that precarious, dangling shape of Bruno. Slowly, haltingly, giving either of them time to bail, but all Bruno does is continue to stare in that way he has. Eyes widening the closer Leone gets, until there’s not much space between them at all.

Bruno’s face is red, up close. From hanging upside down so long, Leone surmises. Ridiculous man.

Still. Leone tilts his head. He might as well stare right back; he’s never seen a human up close before.

Bruno is…even more compelling, at this distance. Starts all three of Leone’s hearts fluttering, which is stupid, and his gills expand on a deep breath under the water. His eyes are locked with those bluer-than-the-ocean ones. They’re pretty, with odd, circular pupils. Thick-dark eyebrows above them. His nose is rounded, and his teeth are blunt, visible through his slightly-parted mouth.

“Wow…”

That does not help Leone’s blush, or the weird behavior of his hearts.

Now that he’s in close, Bruno backs up. He hauls himself up onto the docks, and Leone, against his better judgement, swims out from beneath the wood. Turns around to face this strange, staring human.

His eyes don’t look quite as sad and lonely when they’re reflecting the sunset, like this. Watching Leone.

…Meaning that Leone’s work here is done. He has gotten that terrible misery to leave Bruno’s expression for a moment, and he can go now. Just swim on back into his solitude and pretend this never –

“You’re beautiful,” Bruno breathes out, voice laced with something that Leone has never, ever heard a human express before, and it starts the heart living in his chest pumping extra hard.

He tries lifting out of the water, some, to give the hearts that manage his gills a break, but that only seems to make the heart-wide fluttering problem worse. Because now he’s closer to Bruno, and there’s no way that Bruno can miss the spill of that darkening tint over Leone’s cheeks.

By human standards, Leone had always assumed he would be quite frightening. There are those kraken stories, never mind that most merfolk are considered scary by principle, thanks to people on land having such boring, limited tastes…

Bruno, apparently, is an oddity in this as well.

That only makes him more appealing.

Shit.

“Can you speak?”

Ah. Well, Leone hasn’t spoken in months, now. Let alone the language of humans. For this man, though, he’ll try. Open his mouth and offer some approximation of, “Yes.”

Sounds a little watery to his own ears – it’s no wonder Bruno shivers, sitting there on the dock. He’s offering a tiny smile to Leone, the one that’s been so rare of late. “I’m Bruno,” he says, because of course he doesn’t suspect Leone of lingering in close and eavesdropping on top of watching from afar like a creep. “What’s your name?”

“…Leone.”

“Leone,” Bruno repeats, and now Leone is the one shivering.

Strange. The water is warm, after a day of sunshine. Even if it weren’t, Leone doesn’t catch a chill easily. This is absolutely the fault of his overzealous hearts and that odd magnetic pull that is Bruno.

“Are you one of the merfolk?”

Heh.

Time to truly test this human and his beautiful claim. Surely, he can see the tentacles swirling in the water – Leone’s bottom half isn’t that far below the surface, out of the water to his chest as he is. He swims right up close to the edge of the docks, and raises four of his tentacles. They’re long enough to grasp opposite support posts and heft him up high, so that he’s closer to eyelevel with Bruno. Dripping wet all over.

Those blue eyes go wide, watching. Swapping from Leone’s pale tentacle grip to his face to his body and hands. Hands that Leone has no real idea what to do with, so he leaves his arms crossed, for now.

Two more of his tentacles latch onto the dock on either side of Bruno. The remaining two swirl in the water behind him. Waiting to help if he starts to dry off too much, but he isn’t expecting to stay out for long. Someone else could come by at any moment, after all, but.

He only wanted to get closer. See what Bruno would do, when faced with the brunt of Leone.

…Nothing, it turns out.

Bruno does nothing. Simply sits and stares, dragging his eyes the length of Leone…

Which is an odd sensation. Being scrutinized in awe and wonder, rather than revulsion and horror. Revealing yourself to humans isn’t supposed to go this smoothly.

Leone sees no reason to verbally respond to Bruno’s question. The fully-exposed tentacles should be self-explanatory, for a fisherman at Bruno’s level of experience. He’s even turned octopi free of his nets before, when they can’t quite manage to squeeze out themselves, for whatever reason.

Blue eyes lock with Leone’s. They may be creepy, to him. Oblong pupils and solid shimmering purple. Not what Bruno is accustomed to looking at, sure, but he holds his ground. Mumbles, “Amazing,” even.

This does not make Leone’s face flush darker. Not even close.

“My father told me stories about creatures like you,” Bruno says, and ah, there’s that sad note on his face. A different glint in his eyes and set to his mouth. But then it’s gone, and Bruno is lifting a hand, letting it hover over the thick, pale tentacle beside him. “Can I…?”

…Touch?

Hmph. Well.

Ordinarily, that’s considered quite rude, between strangers. But. Leone is in an agreeable mood.

So he nods curtly, and tries not to get too flustered when Bruno smiles at him in return. His scowl wobbles, because something about Bruno makes it hard to keep frowning – and then that hand lowers gentle to Leone’s tentacle, and his posture melts that much more.

It’s almost ticklish, this hand. Very warm, running the smoothed length of soft slippery muscle. Bruno seems enthralled, and so Leone makes a stupid, selfish move.

He lifts this tentacle free of the wood – just to see what Bruno will do.

Unsurprisingly, he runs fascinated fingertips over the suckers on the underside, then braces the thick tentacle between both hands, curling them around. And. He tastes…nice. Salty, but that might be from the sea air. His skin is rough with callouses that feel good against Leone’s slightly bumpy texture. He’s wrapping his tentacle around Bruno’s hand-and-lower-arm before he realizes what he’s doing, latching on –

Which is kind of mortifying, in a way, but Bruno doesn’t seem fazed. Looks content, even. That pleasant smile is back, aimed directly at Leone. Giddy over something so simple as anatomy (that tentacle isn’t even Leone’s favorite).

Bruno frees one hand from this part of Leone, and reaches for the could-pass-for-human-from-very-far-away half of him.

Specifically, Bruno reaches for Leone’s hand.

Leone grabs on in return against his better judgement, and in doing so learns that Bruno’s fingers are shorter than his own, with trimmed nails. No webbing between them, as with most humans (like Leone said: they’re useless in the water). Chapped from wind.

All of him is so dry. It has to be uncomfortable, especially these sore-looking reddened areas over his knuckles, so Leone runs a thumb over them, sparing thick slime.

Again, Bruno shivers. His smile tweaks wider.

He’s quite solid, too, Bruno. No part of him is without bones, which is a human fact that Leone was aware of beforehand, but still seems so strange up close. If Leone were to wrap all of him up in tentacles, there would be no give – which is – hm. Irrelevant.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Bruno is saying. Every word out of his mouth is so overwhelming, and Leone cannot be blamed for the weird flare-ups of color that flash over his face, down his neck.

He dips his head on a nod. Focuses on Bruno’s hands. One in his own, the other held by a tentacle.

Bruno must genuinely be quite alright with the knowledge that Leone could – if he was of a mind – haul him into the water and drown him at any given moment. According to the rumors, that’ll happen any second here. In reality Leone thinks he would much rather drown in Bruno than drown Bruno.

(But maybe that’s just him and his stupid, uncooperative brain supplying him with thoughts that he did not ask for.)

“You knew I was watching?” Leone asks, meeting those vibrant eyes, and, yeah, he’s the only one at risk of drowning, here.

“It felt like someone was, lately. But there was never anyone visible…”

Ah. So much for all of Leone’s stealth. Camouflage be damned, he shouldn’t have stared so much – though today’s splashing definitely did not help. Not that he regrets this mistake. A nice change of pace.

Bruno’s mouth goes flatter, then, a sadder tint showing itself in his eyes. Makes the sunset seem colder. “My father joked that it might be one of the merfolk.” Oh. Leone must have. Missed that conversation. It would have thrown him for a loop, if he’d heard. “I wasn’t sure you were real.”

Leone is as real as anyone gets, thank you very much, but he doesn’t have the space to be offended with Bruno looking like that. Wobbly expression and drooping shoulders. A bittersweet smile. Leone can’t stand to see it there, on his face. Not after he’s stolen a glance at so many happier smiles, before.

“You’re alone, now,” Leone says, quietly. Doesn’t want to intrude. Doesn’t know what else to say.

“…Yes.” Bruno’s eyes are wet. Not in a good way.

Hearts beating rapid-fire, Leone lifts himself a little bit higher. Flicks some water over himself to stay slippery, and hauls further onto the dock. He settles in closer to Bruno’s knees. Sort-of beside him.

They watch the sun set the rest of the way together.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio knows he’s made a mistake a split-second after the knife is in the air – but his brain isn’t fast enough and his hands rebel and before he knows it he’s let all the knives fall except for the one he really shouldn’t catch –

That one he grabs for on reflex. Because of course he does. Stupid piece of shit clumsy fingers.

Grunting, he yanks his hand away at the exact moment the knife hits it. Nowhere near quick enough to avoid winding up with a sliced-open palm that drips bright red over the ground, down his arm.

“Shit.”

He squeezes this bleeding mess in his opposite hand, feels the wound throb inside and out, and great, fantastic, fucking perfect. Glaring hard at the bloodstained grass to hide his wince will have to do, because this is the dumbest mistake he’s ever made in his entire life and it was for the dumbest reason – he’ll never here the end of it from –

“Abbacchio – where the fuck is your head?!”

Fugo damn well knows the answer to that, so Abbacchio greets him with a scowl.

“You idiot,” Fugo continues to seethe, crossing the space between them. He grabs none too gentle at Abbacchio’s busted hand, and uncurls all the wet fingers involved, getting his own stained with blood in the process. He hikes this hand up above Abbacchio’s heart, and scrutinizes it in sunlight filtered through striped canvas. “How’d you even do this shit…”

(He completely ignores Abbacchio’s hiss of pain. Jackass. His concern is heart-melting.)

“It was an accident,” Abbacchio grouches, though that much is blatantly obvious.

A judgmental eyebrow is raised his way, and, yeah, Fugo knows. He knows exactly what the hell is wrong with Abbacchio, exactly where his head is. Magenta eyes are as hard and unflinching as the hand Fugo’s got wrapped tight around Abbacchio’s wrist.

“Pay more attention to what you’re doing,” Fugo says. “You’ve been distracted ever since –”

“Sh!”

God, is that really all it takes to make Abbacchio blush?

He really, really shouldn’t, but. Here he goes on automatic. Casting his gaze around the big top – and sure enough, the object of his distraction is there. Standing in the center ring, at the base of the trapeze ladder. Decked out in form-fitting leggings. A low-cut tank top. Tiny frown on his face as he looks this way –

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Neither Abbacchio nor Fugo are keeping pressure on this hand wound, at the moment. Fugo is too busy judging Abbacchio, and Abbacchio is caught staring toward the trapeze. Blood is dripping down his wrist, over Fugo’s fingers.

Eyes following Abbacchio’s, Fugo rolls them as he refocuses. Needs to mind his own goddamn business…

He brandishes Abbacchio’s wrist higher, and kindly does not sneer at the horrible flush spreading over Abbacchio’s cheeks. Little victories.

“Keep this elevated and put pressure on it. I’ll go get the first-aid kit.” He stomps off, then, toward his trailer, and tosses over his shoulder, “You better not need stitches! Diavolo will lose his shit if we’re down an act this weekend.”

Thank you, Fugo, Abbacchio knows that. God. He’d flip that asshole off if he wasn’t currently preoccupied with trying not to bleed all over the knives littering the ground. He’ll pick them up in a second. He’s still pissed at them, even though nothing about his current situation is their fault.

First priority is finding something to stop the bleeding. He would rather not use any of his clothes (these joggers are new), but it’s looking like he might have to yank his jacket off and use that, at this rate.

Its sleeve is already stained, anyway, and scouring nearby bleachers is an unfun game of where the hell did Fugo put his stuff, why can’t Abbacchio bleed on it out of spite. He’d like nothing more than to grab that ridiculous crewneck full of holes that Fugo loves so much and sully that – ugh, fuck, Abbacchio nearly slips on a discarded juggling knife. He really needs to pick all of these up, before someone trips on the sharp one, or a fussy horse comes through and –

Careful fingers land atop his own, and Abbacchio freezes.

They’re fingertip to fingertip, coaxing the automatic curl of his hand open so that something fluffy can be pressed to his sliced-open palm. His red-stained fingers are then re-curled around this fluffy something. Entwined with those calloused ones that hold what has to be a towel in place, and oh, hell, it can’t be…

But it is.

Fuck.

Abbacchio can see the owner of those soothing fingers out of the corner of his eye, and now Bruno Buccellati is saying, “I saw what happened. Are you alright?”

Haha. What a question.

Better turn to face him properly. Slowly, as if that’s going to do anything to keep this mortifying blush on Abbacchio’s cheeks hidden.

Of fucking course Buccellati is here, now.

Why shouldn’t he be here, right up close, to witness the aftermath of the dumbest mistake in the history of circus performing – seriously, juggling knives look nothing like throwing knives. They don’t even feel the same when you’re handling them. Not even a novice would get them mixed up.

“I’m fine,” Abbacchio mutters. This cut is nothing, compared to his bruised pride. Buccellati performs flawless flying trapeze shit and Abbacchio – does this. A mishap that will not at all instill confidence for…future acts.

…Future acts are the last thing he should be thinking about right now. It’s hard enough to look at Buccellati with his hair tied back in a tiny ponytail, like that. (But it’s not like Abbacchio would rather be looking anywhere else…)

The white towel held clenched in Abbacchio’s fist is going to be permanently stained, and he’s pretty damn sure it came from around Buccellati’s neck.

Which is not at all a problem. It’s not even flustering Abbacchio a little bit. Nope. He’s fine, thanks.

Humming out a sound of acknowledgement, Buccellati brings Abbacchio’s hand down to eye level. He takes a peek under the towel (his towel), only to press it down firm again when it turns out that cut is still bleeding. Still stinging like a motherfucker, too.

And. In that same vein. Here’s Abbacchio. Still staring at the easy lines of Buccellati’s face that are only upset by the smallest of furrows in his brow.

He really is standing awfully close. That blue tank top really does leave a lot of his torso bare.

Practice clothes. Glorified lounge wear. Buccellati’s not even gussied up like he’ll be during the show later this week – but they were supposed to practice today – and Abbacchio is a complete mess –

“I thought your juggling knives were only tapered to look sharp,” Buccellati says, while putting more pressure on the towel in Abbacchio’s hand. And he’s not wrong, about the knives. Hence why Abbacchio’s cheeks are heating on shame as well as fluster, right now.

“They are,” he mumbles.

That furrow in Buccellati’s brows deepens. “Then what –”

“I picked up a throwing knife instead.”

There. Now Buccellati knows the full brunt of Abbacchio’s amateurish accident. Brats on day one of practicing either skill wouldn’t have fucked that up. Throwing knives are meant to be kept sheathed between performances and practice, never mind that their shape is completely different from the juggling knives, and their balance is noticeably uneven, their blades weighing less than the handles… Unless you were a negligent idiot picking them up and tossing them around while paying zero attention to anything, you’d never make this mistake.

Buccellati is staring at Abbacchio with vibrant blue eyes. “Oh,” he says.

Yeah. Oh.

None of this is helping Abbacchio’s blush recede, and with so many other performers milling around, everyone rehearsing for Friday night, someone is bound to notice his stupid blush. Whoever it is will put two and two together and get massive crush on the new trapeze artist.

Just like Fugo did on day one, when Abbacchio was so busy watching this impossibly handsome man swing and twist and flip through the air that he flubbed a catch from Fugo. Got an impressive goose egg for his trouble.

As you can see. His situation has not improved over the past couple of weeks.

It’s gotten worse, in fact.

See, just yesterday, he was informed of a little change in the performance lineup. Because Trish apparently has plans with a friend this Friday in this specific town and she cannot possibly skip them, and her dad made the executive decision that this is perfectly fine, Buccellati has a gap in his performances and can be strapped to the target instead for Abbacchio to chuck knives at –

“Is this your throwing hand?” Buccellati asks. His stare is redirected to Abbacchio’s poor unfortunate palm, and the bloodied towel squeezed within. He has every right to look so concerned.

Abbacchio should…reassure him. “It won’t affect my performance.” No, a hand injury will be nothing compared to everything else Abbacchio will have to contend with come showtime, it is the absolute least of his worries. This encounter proves that it doesn’t even hurt, when Buccellati is here to ogle.

Which is…something, at least. One thing less to fret about.

“That’s good.” Buccellati checks on the bleeding situation again, and seems satisfied this time. That towel is tucked into the crook of his elbow, and he prods at the edges of Abbacchio’s cut with gentle fingers. It makes Abbacchio’s heart skip a beat despite the renewed stinging. Blue eyes are sparkling in an odd way, when they land on Abbacchio’s. “The audience might not like it if you miss and lodge a knife in my throat.”

Abbacchio flinches, chokes on his own spit and has to cough into his arm for a minute, his heart fluttering hard for an entirely unpleasant reason, now. “What the fuck – I’m not – that won’t happen!”

He sincerely hopes it won’t, anyway. Fucking…who knows, though, after this little fuckup today – god, that’s a mental image he did not need –

Another pleasant hum from Buccellati, completely content in nature, and he’s sidling ever-closer. For some reason. His eyes are still sparkling, too. He’s – is he amused? Is this his idea of a joke? A bit of, ‘haha what if you committed manslaughter and I was the victim’?

Those fingers are still gentle around Abbacchio’s cut, but Buccellati’s other hand is creeping up Abbacchio’s forearm, dipping beneath his sleeve. Holy fuck. He is very much invading Abbacchio’s personal space.

And Abbacchio very much does not want to back off. Doesn’t want to lose that body heat that’s spanning the minimum distance between them, courtesy of tan skin bearing a light sheen of sweat from exertion. Climbing and swinging and all. That graceful artform Buccellati practices. He winds himself up in ribbons, too. Dangles from the ceiling. Hell…

Abbacchio pays closer attention to those rehearsals than he does his own.

“I know,” Buccellati says, and Abbacchio almost forgot what the hell they were talking about, he’s so flustered. Buccellati’s torso is brushing Abbacchio’s arm. There’s a smile in those blue eyes. “I trust you to handle me well, laid out spreadeagled for you.”

Oh fuck oh shit – that’s –

An accidental innuendo? An intentional joke?

Abbacchio’s face is on fire and it’s no wonder his hand stopped bleeding so fast, there’s no more blood to send that way. All of it is in his cheeks. Preferable to elsewhere, he supposes – but –

He has to get a hold of himself. On the – on the target. Buccellati is only talking about that big wheel of a target, where he will be strapped. For Abbacchio to throw knives at. On Friday night.

That’s. That’s all.

Before Abbacchio’s horrible overheating brain can offer a response, salvation (or interruption?) arrives in the form of Fugo. He’s grumbling his way over, has that little first aid kit clutched in his hands, and is at their side in moments.

“Thanks for not dying while I was gone,” he says by way of a greeting.

Abbacchio is reminded how lucky he is, to have such a caring partner for his juggling act.

…He doesn’t know if he’s grateful to see Fugo or not.

“It’s not that deep, and we’ve stopped the bleeding,” Buccellati supplies. Casual as anything, he uses his proximity and those delicately trailing fingers of his to angle Abbacchio’s cut toward Fugo. Acting natural, that little…

Fugo only continues to grumble. “Lucky asshole.” Too focused on attacking Abbacchio’s hand with alcohol wipes to pick on anything else. For now.

In the meanwhile, Buccellati’s fingers leave Abbacchio’s hand-and-arm as the mess is passed to Fugo – and under normal circumstances, Abbacchio would take control of his own cleanup. He will, in a moment. Wrench his hand back from Fugo and those goddamned alcohol wipes to wrap this shit himself – maybe –

But. His traitorous eyes are stuck on Buccellati, at the moment. On those bottomless blue eyes. A warm palm lands on Abbacchio’s bicep, lingering there for about a dozen heartbeats too long.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Buccellati says, and, god, he doesn’t have to say it while leaning in so close.

Fugo scoffs.

Abbacchio ignores him. Mutters out some approximation of a thank you to Buccellati. Brain still stuck on images of him spreadeagled – knives lodged into throats – forget this little cut on his hand, Abbacchio’s got whiplash, here, pinned by those smiling eyes and warm touches.

And then Buccellati is gone. With an, “I’ll see you later, Leone,” and an amicable wave via a bloodied hand. He takes that red-stained towel with him, probably to go wash up and continue rehearsing.

Leone, he said.

…What the hell…

Heart in his throat, Abbacchio barely manages to wave back, a pathetic offering of his unharmed hand. He’s helpless against his renewed blush, ducking his head like a fucking grade schooler with a first crush. Kicking at a knife with his foot. (One of his juggling ones, thank you very much.)

“So, did you ask him out or what?” Fugo asks, nonchalant, the second Buccellati is out of earshot –

Abbacchio lifts his head and glares. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He asked you out, then?”

“Shut up.”

“I knew it. Narancia owes me a week’s worth of coffee.”

Chapter Text

Exiting the prison, Buccellati is finally able to fish his phone out of its hidden zipper pocket. He’d felt it vibrate just beneath his ribcage a few times during his meeting with Polpo, but steadfastly ignored each one. There’s no such thing as divided attention when it comes to these conversations.

Now that he’s out in the open, though, he can check. Make sure it was nothing important, before he gets into the fray of divvying Polpo’s latest list of tasks…

He glances up to cross the street, attention shifting back down to his phone once he’s safely on the sidewalk. The screen shows one missed call, one voicemail, and one text that turns out to be from Narancia. It’s asking whether Buccellati knows where Abbacchio is, if he’s seen him – and that question puts a furrow between Buccellati’s brows. Because Abbacchio is supposed to be with Narancia, today. Checking on suspicious activity around one of Passione’s controlled warehouses.

Abbacchio hasn’t missed an assignment for several months now, his rocky start finally smoothing out the more he sobers up. But today, he’s nowhere. That missed call and the voicemail both are from his phone. Both sent well after the time he and Narancia were supposed to meet up and get started.

Something else for Buccellati to try not to worry over. It’s more than possible Abbacchio is only sick. Or having a rough day…

A quick text to Narancia telling him to stay put and that Buccellati will track Abbacchio down, and then Buccellati investigates that voicemail. Opens it up and presses his cell to his ear to listen –

It’s only silence, on the other line. Buccellati stops walking, standing still and straining his hearing, but all he can make out are a couple of soft, shaky intakes of breath before the message cuts out. Could be Abbacchio. Could be anyone.

Buccellati strides down the street with more purpose than before, and pulls up his contacts.

There’s no answer from Abbacchio.

With a short sigh, Buccellati hangs up. He keeps walking, a little faster, now. Taking the winding streets that will lead him to Abbacchio’s aparartment, in a roundabout sort of way. It’s the most logical place to check, for those days that Abbacchio has trouble getting up and at it. Buccellati promises himself he won’t worry unless the apartment is empty.

He calls a few more times, and doesn’t even get sent to voicemail. Abbacchio’s phone rings and rings and Buccellati swallows down mouthfuls of concern each time.

Abbacchio is fine, because he has to be fine.

If, by some awful happenstance, he’s not fine, Buccellati will make sure he is before long. That’s how this works. He’ll call one last time, and if there’s no answer, then –

“Bruno.”

That gets Buccellati jolting to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk. His breath catches in his throat for a moment, because that’s Abbacchio’s voice, worn down soft as it may be. It’s unmistakable. Buccellati would recognize it anywhere. “Leone,” he says, clipped to keep anything like fear or relief from seeping in. Not out here on the street. (Dangerous enough that he’s used Leone, but he couldn’t help it.) “Where are you?”

More eerie silence from Abbacchio, only occupied by a shuddering breath or two, so unsteady that Buccellati has to bite his tongue on pressing for more answers. Abbacchio will elaborate. He answered his phone. He tried to call Buccellati.

“I’m…where you found me. Where he –” Abbacchio falls quiet.

And Buccellati knows exactly where he is. That out-of-the-way street with an abandoned storefront, narrow dark alleyway right alongside it. A door that’s been busted open too many times. Carpet torn out because it was too stained to save, blood pooled over it. Horrible screaming on replay and Abbacchio’s shaking hands.

Now it’s Buccellati who’s fallen quiet. Not at all what Abbacchio needs from him, on a day like today. “I’ll come to you,” he promises – it comes out too forceful, but he’s already changed directions, and is walking with even more determined purpose than before.

There’s a grunt, like Abbacchio is clearing his throat. “I can’t…”

“I’ll get you,” Buccellati promises the ensuing silence. His heart is sinking in his chest even as icy determination rises. The very second he met that downtrodden shape of Abbacchio wallowing on the street, he swore.

Never again.

Abbacchio’s burdens will never drown him again. His past won’t drag him under. Not to stay.

Today is a bad day; it could be nothing at all that set Abbacchio off, or it might be an anniversary. Some old familiar date that holds happy or tragic (or both) memories, the worst of which Abbacchio’s gone to relive and Buccellati will not let him stay stuck there.

Neither of them breathes another word, and that’s fine. Buccellati refuses to hang up, stays on the phone with Abbacchio the whole way there. That shaky breath hitches some on the line, in a controlled way, and Moody Blues whirs away in the background. Like the stand is gearing up to rewind, or is currently paused. The fact that there’s no replay in active motion is a good sign…

Before long, Buccellati is standing right outside that old familiar door. It’s open halfway, daylight fading to the thick dark of indoors is the main source of light, with the windows papered over from inside.

“I’m coming in,” is the last thing Buccellati says before hanging up, tucking his phone away.

Pushing the door aside reveals Abbacchio wedged behind it, crumpled on the floor. His phone is clutched tight in one hand while the other is at his side, clenching and relaxing in turn. It works in time with his grinding teeth.

His eyes are fixed straight ahead, staring directly through Buccellati, they don’t even seem to register that he’s here. Abbacchio’s mouth is set morose and crooked, and his breath is hitching in and out through his nose. Soft and halting. Like it was in his voicemail.

Buccellati’s seen him worse than this before, curled up tight with his knees to his chest and tears on his face, breathing hard, ragged. Knuckles white around an empty wine bottle, shaking all over – this isn’t that. But it’s too similar. The same thing dressed up different and it still hurts, those trapped memories that trap Abbacchio in turn.

Moody Blues is lying on the ground, behind Buccellati. Formed into someone that Abbacchio used to cherish who now has empty eyes and blood blossoming on his chest. This is what Abbacchio stares at.

There’s no alcohol in sight this time, a hint of nonlinear progress, maybe, if that sort of thing can be measured –

And Abbacchio called Buccellati.

That counts for something. There was a time he hated for Buccellati see him like this.

Not that Buccellati wouldn’t track him down anyway to haul him out of this place as best he could, to the tune of so much shame and misery – but that Abbacchio went from actively pushing Buccellati’s hands away and rejecting kind words with self-deprecating vitriol to calling him for help…

It gives more space for Buccellati to exist here. Crouching slowly in front of Abbacchio’s slumped form, he plucks that phone from a too-tight grip (these knuckles are torn, probably from punching a wall) and hangs it up, slipping it into Abbacchio’s pocket. Those wet eyes shift to Buccellati, now, and Abbacchio’s breath hitches faster. He sniffles.

“Leone,” Buccellati says, low and soothing as he can. Clear, though. His heart is in his stomach but as long as it’s beating, he’s fine. “You’re here with me, now.”

Abbacchio blinks, then takes a deep, shuddering breath. His eyes are focused only on Buccellati, watching him with intent that grows by the second. Fog dissipating toward recognition.

There’s weight in that – in being the anchor, and Buccellati shoulders it. “Call Moody Blues back.”

With a stilted nod, Abbacchio does as asked. Moody Blues flickers with fuzzy static, and then that haunting image of the past is gone. Out of sight, but never, ever out of mind, not fully. It’s at least easier to handle, like this. Easier for Abbacchio to leave lying elsewhere. Buccellati likes to pretend that putting his hands on Abbacchio’s face helps, too. Which might be selfish of him, but also –

It’s a touch that Abbacchio melts into, breath leaving him on a heavy sigh, bitter tears dripping down.

Buccellati wipes them away with his thumbs, ignoring the pang in his own chest. “Come on…”

Some gentle coaxing gets Abbacchio to his feet, and Buccellati keeps hands on him all the while. Guiding those broad shoulders, settling careful on Abbacchio’s waist to steady him when he almost pitches forward (which is – Buccellati won’t think about what it is, or how it makes his heart flutter sore).

One of Abbacchio’s hands raises to Buccellati’s on his waist. Fingertips brushing at knuckles. His expression is mostly unreadable, but Buccellati can at least tell that those eyes are back to the present.

“Let’s get you out of here.”

A moment of hesitation during which Abbacchio’s eyes slip aside, and then he gives a slow, steady nod. He doesn’t say anything, but that’s more than fine. It’ll come later, or it won’t, and it doesn’t much matter, because Buccellati doesn’t need him to say anything. Those fingers are still pressed to Buccellati’s knuckles. And he. Still has his hands on Abbacchio’s waist. (Now isn’t the time.)

Carefully, he lets go. There’s a faint blush on Abbacchio’s cheeks that Buccellati can’t look at for long.

He pours all of his focus into following Abbacchio out of this abandoned building, and closing the door back up behind them both. It doesn’t lock anymore, thanks to being forced open so many times – the doorknob is hanging useless – but it’s the principle of the thing. Makes it easier for Abbacchio to walk away down the street and not peek back over his shoulder.

The further they get, the more Abbacchio comes back to himself, distance making looped memories easier to sideline, like that place itself has some hold over him. (And Buccellati can relate, in a way. Still doesn’t like to set foot in hospitals if he can help it.)

“…Sorry,” Abbacchio mutters at length, staring hard at the ground. Hands stuffed in his pockets and brow furrowed and there’s still that pink tint to his cheeks.

It feels so good, to have him here, and that’s… “It’s alright,” Buccellati says, because it is. He’s dangerously fond and his heart is too heavy and Abbacchio has nothing to apologize for. Buccellati will be whatever Abbacchio needs.

By some miracle, Abbacchio doesn’t argue that.

Chapter Text

The euphoria of Bruno’s fingers in Leone’s hair – the gentle way they sift through wet locks, sectioning a chunk off and fastening it out of the way – is all too easy to get lost in. Leone closes his eyes to avoid staring at the exhausted lines of his makeup-free face. Like this, he can relax into Bruno and not think of anything else. A careful comb running the length of his hair, the soft scent of their shampoo, steam clinging in the air from their recent shower…

And then comes the sound of zippers.

Leone’s eyes fly open, and he rounds on Bruno, coming face to face with glinting blue eyes, calloused fingers holding scissors-and-comb in one hand, a handful of long white hair in the other –

“Bruno,” Leone growls. His charming husband is only saved by the fact that Sticky Fingers is hovering nearby, along with those tiny zippers disappearing from the ends of Leone’s severed hair. Not a permanent removal, so Leone’s irritation is kept to a glare.

Those gleeful eyes blink. Trying to seem innocent, maybe. “Yes, Leone?”

“I said a normal haircut.”

“This is a normal haircut.”

Oh, Leone should be too tired to handle these antics today, all things considered, mired by a gloomy mood that he just can’t shake. But being held wrapped in unflinching warmth during a shower that he ordinarily would’ve spent soaking in misery alone until the water ran cold has left him bolstered. All those old aches worn dull. Sharp edges buffered by Bruno’s presence.

He’s energized, despite the fatigue that clings to his bones. So much so that he can scowl at that handful of hair in Bruno’s hand. “You were only supposed to trim it.”

A pleasant hum from Bruno. “I will.” He doesn’t seem to be, though, what with how he’s setting the scissors down at the edge of the sink, and reaching out with this now-empty hand to bury his fingers into the short hairs left at the base of Leone’s neck.

God, it feels…distracting. Leone hasn’t had his hair this short in years…since before he knew Bruno…

“I just wanted to see what you’d look like with an undercut,” Bruno is saying, his fingertips rubbing at Leone’s scalp. Fuzzy hairs are way less of a barrier to his touch than those long strands he’s holding in his hand (he better not drop them). “Or maybe all of it this short…?”

Oh, not this again.

“No, Bruno.” Really, this is Leone’s own fault. He never should’ve let his guard down with Bruno and Sticky Fingers so close to his hair. Curse his weakness for this sappy domestic shit – when Bruno offered to trim his split ends he didn’t even think.

But Bruno is smiling. He has his fingers in Leone’s hair, still. Everything about him unleashes butterflies in Leone’s stomach. It’s terrible. The best thing. “But, Leone –”

“Put it back,” Leone says, though it’s tempered by the fact that he can’t even muster a proper grumble.

Bruno does not, in fact, put it back. He simply picks up a handheld mirror, positioning it behind Leone’s head to show off Sticky Fingers’ handiwork. “It looks nice.”

Scoffing, Leone takes that mirror off of Bruno and turns his back to the bigger one above the sink, scrutinizing while Bruno watches. It…doesn’t look bad. A weird sort of trendy, maybe, and Sticky Fingers gets this shit awfully even.

Leone’s eyes shift to Bruno, then back to the mirror, rinse and repeat. This ridiculous whim of Bruno’s is weirdly uplifting. That comfortable shape of him there, freshly-showered with a playful glint in his eye.

…Looking at him is softening Leone’s heart further, to dangerous levels; before he loses any nerve to complain, he passes the mirror back and spins to face the sink again. “If you don’t give me a normal haircut, I’ll do this myself.”

(Not likely – Leone doesn’t have the strength to refuse this level of intimacy.

Hopefully Bruno buys his bluff regardless.)

Bruno doesn’t respond right away, busy zipping the detached chunk of hair back on via quick movements from Sticky Fingers. He leaves just one zipper intact at the very edge of Leone’s hair, and there’s that tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth visible over Leone’s shoulder in the mirror, and Leone knows exactly what he’s going to ask before the words are even out of his mouth –

“Are you sure I can’t see you with short hair?”

Absolutely not. “I showed you that picture from high school – what more do you want?”

“It’s not the same,” Bruno laments. Still grinning. Too charming for his own damn good.

“It’s close enough!”

There’s a soft, intentionally wistful sigh from Bruno, who is being a dramatic bastard. He presses a kiss to the back of Leone’s neck, wholly comfortable and sweet but not at all convincing of his innocence. He behaves himself back there for now, combing through this section of white hair until it’s lying straight and flat again.

Leone watches him warily in the mirror.

Bruno is watching back, as he reaches up to trace a line backward from Leone’s jaw, along the spill of his hair. “You don’t have any pictures from when you were growing it out,” he mentions, casually.

“No.”

That little smile on Bruno’s face tweaks upward. It looks so beautiful on him, and again Leone wonders what the hell he ever did to deserve moments like these – he shakes those thoughts loose. He’ll focus on those hands in his hair alone. Those peeks of Bruno he gets in the mirror.

Speaking of those hands, they finally seem to be doing what was asked of them. Scissors and comb and at work in Leone’s hair, situating it, trimming dead ends off to flutter toward a towel on the floor. Quiet snipping noises and gentle tugging at his scalp, Bruno’s hands never more than a few centimeters from Leone’s back, careful-warm in their work…

Enough sensation to drown in. Or be lulled to sleep by, if only Leone weren’t standing up.

Bruno pauses in his trimming to undo the clip that holds the rest of Leone’s hair, letting more wet white spill down. This is sectioned off anew, combed out, and then he gets back to cutting.

Halfway through this layer, he leans forward. Chin propped on Leone’s shoulder, fingers still tangled in hair, Bruno says, “Have you ever thought about bangs?”

“No, never.” Leone would look like an ungodly horror with bangs. (As a rule no one looks good with bangs except for Bruno, especially not Leone, and he will stand by this until death.) “You’re not allowed to think about it either.”

Fuck, that smile, Leone is not going to survive. These acrobatics his heart is pulling can’t be healthy.

“Hm,” comes that unconvincing noncommittal hum from Bruno. Meaning he is, in fact, thinking about it. He better not act on it, if he knows what’s good for him – unfortunately, self-preservation never was this devastating man’s strong suit, so now Leone has to contend with that last layer of hair dropped down and combed over his face –

“Bruno,” he snaps.

And he’s rewarded with good-natured giggling that he can’t help but smile at.

At the same time, though, he is also very much waving those intrusive hands and their comb away. Tossing his hair to where it belongs, letting the center part fall back into this front section, wiping residual wet from his nose.

Bruno migrates back around, following the hair, combing it. He’s still the picture of peace, with that easy expression, all soft at the edges…

It’s hard for Leone to school his own face to neutral, but if he doesn’t, he’s liable to wake up tomorrow with bangs zipped into his hair and Bruno hovering over him in contemplation. So Leone tries. Winds up muttering out, “You’re impossible,” through something that’s not quite downturned enough to be a frown but is hopefully at least flat enough to come across as serious.

A kiss is pressed to the very back of his head, right to the wet of his hair, Bruno swinging up onto tiptoe momentarily for the proper reach. “They’d look cute on you.”

Ugh. Bruno also thought Leone looked cute in high school – his opinions are biased. “They wouldn’t.”

“Don’t be afraid to try some variety, Leone.” Even as Bruno says this, though, he is carrying on with the requested normal trim. Hands brushing the middle of Leone’s back as they work. “Sticky Fingers can always put it right back.”

That is not at all the point. It’s the principle of the thing, by now; Leone can’t give in. “You can give me long layers if that’ll make you happy,” he says, by way of a compromise.

“Sticky Fingers isn’t good at layers.”

“I said you, not your stand.”

Bruno makes one last snip with the scissors, then brushes residual hair from the back of Leone’s t-shirt. Tiny white pieces spattered over black fabric. “…I’m no good at layers.”

That, somehow, is the most endearing thing in the entire world right now – that it came from Bruno – and it’s no wonder he’s not good at layers, what with how blunt he keeps his own hair – it’s just so typical – Leone laughs before he even feels it coming. His bad mood never stood a chance, today, and god, he’s…happy, here. With Bruno. Even on the worst days.

Easy smile back in place, Bruno again holds up the mirror for Leone’s consideration. “Is this good?”

The straight-blunt fall of Leone’s hair is perfect, because of course it is, so he nods. Is having a hard time curbing his own smile. Nothing wrong with this nice, normal haircut at all, exactly what he asked for –

“Oh,” Bruno says, “I missed a spot.”

There is no way that’s true – he’s not even looking at the hair, right now, eyes locked with Leone’s in the mirror –

But Leone isn’t fast enough to escape Sticky Fingers’ reach.

As he chases Bruno around the apartment, desperate to reclaim that handful of white and fending off comments about how handsome he looks with chin-length hair, Leone can’t even pretend to be angry.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio won’t stop tugging – he doesn’t seem to register the fact that his longer legs give him a much quicker stride, but if he keeps going like that, this won’t end well. So Buccellati digs his heels in. Yanks Abbacchio to a stop.

Now it’s him that almost falls over, skidding through his next step and rounding on Buccellati. “What the – he’s getting away,” Abbacchio protests. His left arm is thrown out to indicate the direction the enemy stand user went, and his chest heaving from the exertion of running frantic for so long, eyes intense. “We have to –”

“He got away,” Buccellati feels the need to correct. They haven’t seen the actual stand user since a few streets back. (Or at least, he hasn’t seen the stand user. To be fair, he’s a bit distracted at the moment.)

Still looking like he might rebel and bolt at any second, Abbacchio pulls on their conjoined arms, glued together at much more than their sleeves. Some deeper attachment that seems to go right to the skin, if not deeper, judging by how warm it feels. Secure along Buccellati’s forearm…

It feels nice, when Abbacchio isn’t yanking on it in a desperate attempt to get Buccellati to move. “We can catch up if –”

“Abbacchio.” Finally, he stills. “Running around haphazard isn’t doing any good. We need a plan.”

That gets the complaints to stop. Abbacchio’s mouth quivers closed, and he lowers both his free arm, and the one that fused with Buccellati’s. Their muscles shift in time with each other’s in a way that’s strangely comfortable. So much so that it steals an excessive amount of Buccellati’s attention.

It’s an odd predicament, this. The work of a now-enemy stand user, gone rogue shortly after awakening his abilities, pissing of Polpo from the get-go. Buccellati happens to be stationed closest to this Passione washout’s apartment, and so, middle of the night or no, he was sent to apprehend. Under the recommendation that he bring a partner along.

Abbacchio was the first team member to answer his phone, and while Mista or Narancia would have been ideal – way better at taking this guy down from a distance – they also…wouldn’t be as pleasant to be suctioned to. A thought that starts a certain out-of-place fluttering in Buccellati’s stomach.

He’s not about to complain about present company. (Tugging notwithstanding.)

Their flesh is thoroughly melted together, not quite to the bone, they’re more like a single forearm instead of two separate. Which puts Abbacchio’s hand well within holding range. If Buccellati cared to strain his wrist that far. For the sake of those long fingers tipped with black nail polish he does care to, but –

He needs to focus. Holding hands can wait.

This whole thing seems to have Abbacchio rattled, never mind that it’d be highly unprofessional to hold hands right now. On par with staring at the shape of Abbacchio’s mouth…

…It’s not Buccellati’s fault they’re stuck so close. It was Abbacchio who stumbled into him, after dealing a blow to that newly-awakened stand, somehow sealing his right arm to Buccellati’s left in the process. Recoiling at the sight or the shock or both.

Could’ve been a lot worse. They got lucky as far as points of continual merged contact go. The thought of more than this is…well. Buccellati will just have to reel his overtired heart in, and keep it well away from the warmth of Abbacchio’s body and the soft fall of his hair and the muted pink on his cheeks and the grouchy curve of his mouth and the loosened front of his shirt that’s probably a result of getting dressed too fast.

Setting aside so much distracting proximity is no trouble at all.

On the subject of work, Buccellati asks, “Can you track him with Moody Blues?”

Abbacchio grumbles something that sounds like, “I can try.” And he does, try, to his credit, cheeks flushing pinker under the streetlights, he summons Moody Blues –

Only for Sticky Fingers to appear along with it.

Buccellati blinks. Abbacchio is also staring.

Seems this attached-at-the-arm phenomenon extends to their stands as well. Sticky Fingers is fused to Moody Blues, and the both of them seem equally perplexed by this. Sticky Fingers tilting his head at Moody Blues first, then Buccellati. Who has no explanation to offer, here.

Hauling his attention back on track – and away from the fact that their stands only redouble this close warmth between them, muscles that move in tandem – Buccellati looks to Abbacchio. “Can you rewind him, like that?”

That blush on Abbacchio’s face is a shade or two brighter, by now. It makes him look even more handsome and is not at all good for Buccellati’s uncharacteristically fragile focus. (He really wishes he could’ve gotten more sleep before being subjected to any of this.)

“I’m trying,” Abbacchio mutters.

And Moody Blues is moving, some, but what he manages are nowhere near his typical rewinding movements. Stilted and jerking fizzles zip through Moody’s limbs (feels like a static shock along Buccellati’s arm) and his forehead counter ticks back a couple of seconds before resetting. It reminds Buccellati of trying to watch an old VHS tape, almost, or a scratched CD skipping in place.

“What’s wrong?”

“He’s stuck.” Abbacchio tries to take a step away, but all he really accomplishes is stretching their arms closer to maximum width. “On Sticky Fingers, I think.”

As if in confirmation, Moody Blues gives a sad sort of dial tone. Sticky Fingers shuffles closer of his own accord and mumbles a soft, “Ari,” in some kind of solidarity or comfort that Buccellati can’t dwell on. The phrase entwined souls drifts through his head and he bats it away.

“That’s troublesome,” he says. Wonders whether Moody Blues would disperse, too, if he dismissed Sticky Fingers. Entwined souls…

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ll try zipping us apart.” Out of curiosity more than any genuine desire to be separated from Abbacchio, because Buccellati is more than fine with this situation. (Despite his inability to concentrate. He’s managing.)

This, though, doesn’t work, either. Sticky Fingers can’t conjure more than two centimeters’ worth of zipper, no matter how he tries, it only fades away each time. It has no separating effect on the space between their arms, or on Buccellati’s arm above that connection.

“Dammit,” Abbacchio grumbles. “Can’t believe that piece of shit has such a long range…”

“Seems like a defensive stand,” Buccellati mumbles absently. He’s still staring at their conjoined arms, their cozying up stands, Abbacchio himself. Everything is overwhelming on such little sleep. Buccellati needs to get it together but his mask won’t snap back into place no matter what he does. Abbacchio is too close. Too beautiful out here, caught between moonlight and streetlamps. Hair shining silver-gold.

God – Sticky Fingers keeps sidling in toward Moody Blues, and is now running fingers over their connected arms. To the backdrop of quiet whirring from Moody Blues, who also looks far too pleased at their predicament –

It’s pure self-preservation, when Buccellati disperses Sticky Fingers.

Bizarrely enough, Moody Blues does, in fact, disappear along with him.

There. Now Buccellati can focus on the mission at hand instead of the Abbacchio at hand and oh dear, a shiver runs down Abbacchio’s spine. Buccellati can feel it, where they’re merged, and he sees it, too, because of course he’s back to staring. Must be an aftereffect of having his stand dismissed for him, that shiver. Buccellati felt similarly, upon Sticky Fingers appearing on his own.

Meeting Abbacchio’s eyes is a huge mistake, but Buccellati latches onto them without thinking. Seems like the two of them have gotten closer together, somehow. As their arms relax they can’t help it, maybe. An automatic movement.

Warmth is that much more tangible the closer they get, and Buccellati is having way too hard of a time thinking about work, what’s wrong with him, is this some weird stand power, too –?

Abbacchio clears his throat. Cheeks on fire, he turns his head away, glancing around the street.

And, like this, Buccellati can breathe again. Which is ridiculous. No more answering late-night phone calls after days of late-night paperwork for him from this point forward, if he can help it. Especially no late-night missions embarked on at Abbacchio’s side. (Maybe just that last one. Buccellati can’t very well ignore his superior and expect to survive. That in mind he should concentrate.)

Buccellati fights to get ahold of himself while his eyes are caught in the fall of Abbacchio’s hair all over again. There’s work to be doing, and fresh, secret relationships should not be paraded around in public.

No matter how excitable they make his exhausted heart.

“We can’t even follow that bastard,” Abbacchio is grumbling, as he glares in the direction that the new stand user left in. Scours the area for clues – something Buccellati should be helping with – “Wait. Look…”

Tearing his eyes away from the competent vision that is Abbacchio, Buccellati follows along with the nodded direction. It takes him a minute to spot what Abbacchio’s looking at, but there, on the ground, is a puddle. Leftover from earlier rain, there’s a leaf floating on top of it, right at the edge where water meets pavement – although, floating might not be the most accurate term.

“Does that seem –”

“Stuck,” Buccellati finishes. “Yes.” Thank goodness Abbacchio is so alert and can keep his mind on work, otherwise they’d never have noticed this leaf here, half-fused with the water and street, bobbing odd. Buccellati tries to keep his own focus online, and heads toward that puddle. Eyes peeled for more suspiciously-attached happenstances.

A bird is stuck fast to the ground beyond that, and can’t take off no matter how it flaps its wings. A pedestrian’s shoe is trapped in the curb around the corner, leaving them to teeter drunkenly on the edge. This out-of-control newfound merging ability has vast and dangerous applications, and its user needs to be stopped. It’s possible that even he doesn’t know the full brunt of his abilities. Is still doing this for the amusement of it.

Buccellati will stay focused. He will. He’ll stay on task, and they’ll follow this fortunate, unfortunate path. Stop this before it gets worse.

Thank goodness for out of control, easily spotted abilities. The two of them move more sedately to keep an eye out for oddities, and during this Buccellati does everything in his power to keep his attention from slipping to only-Abbacchio as it so badly wants to do.

This choppy sort of trail that leads them down several dark alleyways. Shady side streets and open avenues. Traversing the night under a big full moon and a few well-placed clouds.  

Just the two of them out here. Fused together at the forearms. Abbacchio no longer pulling as they stroll along side by side…

Oh, Buccellati’s heart is going downright sick over this.

What’s wrong with him?

Abbacchio, red as he is, doesn’t seem to be having this sort of trouble. He’s looking everywhere but at Buccellati, in fact, and is watching their surroundings with utmost care and perception. Meanwhile, the only thing Buccellati can reliably focus on is him.

Good, dependable Abbacchio – except when he isn’t of a mind to follow orders – but even then his boldness is appealing in its way. Buccellati wishes it wasn’t, almost. But Abbacchio without that boldness would mean the wall Buccellati constructed between them had stayed standing, and he is too happy to watch it crumbling little by little, every day, the more genuine that Abbacchio –

Ah, and he’s pulling again. Excited over some lead or other that Buccellati didn’t catch, too busy being caught up in Abbacchio.

Pay attention, Buccellati tells himself for the thousandth time tonight.

Shame himself is not listening, and would rather cling to those mascara-coated lashes and that grouchy frown. God, he wonders what Abbacchio would do if Buccellati pressed the rest of their arms flush together, or maybe even held his hand.

Abbacchio is guiding them into a bar, though, so there’s no time for those things – the trail of stuck-together objects must’ve led them here. Somehow. Buccellati should’ve paid attention.

He tries to make up for the lapse by examining this place as best he can. It’s an average bar, from what he can see, recognizable as one of those establishments that pays their dues to Passione and remains unbothered in the community. It’s not even a common hot spot for mafia members, but. There’s a pool ball stuck on the tip of a cue stick, and a confused bartender upending a glass of tequila that just won’t spill – so. They’re in the right place.

Jolting to a sudden stop at Abbacchio’s urging, Buccellati almost worries that they’ve been attacked again, but –

Then he’s being tugged sideways into the first available booth, one of those closest to the entrance. Abbacchio uses their conjoined arms to keep pulling until they’re both seated right up close next to each other, arms resting on the table, and Buccellati can’t even begin to complain about stumbling over his own feet the whole way there.

Because this is…undeniably nice.

To sit here. With all of his side pressed flush to all of Abbacchio’s.

He can hardly be blamed for nudging in that much closer, given the circumstances. He’s tired and his heart is reaching greedy and he needs to get ahold of himself in a bad way but Abbacchio is within reach.

God…Buccellati’s guard is despicably far down.

It only gets worse when Abbacchio ducks his head in close to talk. “He’s at the back of the bar,” he mutters, mouth barely moving and cheeks still flared up red, sweat glistening at his temple, and everything looks so fetching on him in the dim light of this bar that it takes Buccellati a solid minute to work out what he’s saying. “What’s the plan?”

…A plan. Right.

How on earth is Buccellati meant to come up with a plan under these circumstances?

Easily, if he could just…ignore said circumstances.

But that’s impossible, with Abbacchio right here. They’re touching. Thighs and hips and shoulders arms sides – it’s more contact than Buccellati has had with another person in he can’t remember how long, and it happens to be contact with Abbacchio. The one man who tugs at the soft of Buccellati’s heart in a way no one else does, and reciprocates those fond feelings against all odds.

This close, Buccellati can smell Abbacchio’s expensive conditioner. The faint tinge of alcohol on his breath (ah, so that’s why he was still awake…). He can feel it every time Abbacchio shifts in his seat. Glances behind them to make sure that rogue stand user is still there.

“Leone.”

“Hm?”

“Does this count as our first date?”

Oh, that is not at all what Buccellati meant to say and now he’s blushing. Face bright red. Feelings spilling out in this civilian bar because he’s too tired to be at work, let alone at work with Abbacchio. Shit.

The only consolation is that Abbacchio’s face is far redder. He opens and closes his mouth. Eyes wide and understandably perplexed. “I…” He’s having trouble forming words, which counts as a blessing in its own right, because it allows Buccellati the space to say:

“Never mind.” For all the good that’ll do to bury this mistake. He takes a deep, bracing breath. Really has to get hold of himself. “Has he seen us?”

It takes Abbacchio a long while to respond. A tense three minutes spent staring hard at Buccellati. This, too, is understandable.

Buccellati can feel those eyes burning at the side of his face all the while.

At length, Abbacchio forms words. Stuttering and awkward, after glancing over his shoulder one last time. “He – no, I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Buccellati fights to keep his regained composure. Forces his brain to formulate an actual plan. If he can just get through this job, he and Abbacchio can go their separate ways and Buccellati can store all of this deep within his heart, sealed away for a more appropriate time. “We’ll go outside and circle around to the back door. We’ll have to take him out quickly, no stand powers.”

By this, of course, Buccellati means punching. Or kicking, because Abbacchio seems to favor that. Anything fast that’ll keep them from sticking together in more places, because just this is doing enough damage.

…The thought of punching in tandem with Abbacchio via their conjoined fists shouldn’t be so flustering.

Buccellati just had to let that date thought fall out of his mouth, when they’ve barely…talked about that. The idea of them, together.

“Got it,” Abbacchio mutters.

They slip out of the booth and toward the door, Buccellati leading the way this time. Loath to put more space between them as he is, he’s at least finally making excellent progress at shoving his feelings down and focusing only on work –

Or, at least, he is, right up until they’re squeezed back against each other in a filthy alleyway alongside the bar and Abbacchio says, “We can get takeout after this. If you want.”

And that’s all it takes for Buccellati’s heart to do a somersault, his stomach to erupt in that airy fluttering that has distractable.

Abbacchio is still talking. Spouting off beautiful words, and neither of them are walking, anymore, the back door of that bar couldn’t be farther away, right now, and that’s a problem, but Buccellati isn’t about to interrupt to address it.

“I…haven’t had dinner yet,” Abbacchio is saying. At three in the morning. When they’re supposed to be working. “And there’s a…the roof of my apartment building is kind of nice. Quiet, at least.”

God. Buccellati twists his wrist, can feel that pulse thundering through his own arm – and like this, he can clasp Abbacchio’s hand in his. Clammy palms pressed together.

They remain intertwined long after this enemy stand user is neutralized.

Chapter Text

There is exactly one chore standing between Abbacchio and indefinite peace. One last essential misery before he can put this horrible night behind him and sleep for forty-eight hours straight. Rest that’s out of reach until he deals with laundry, of all fucking things…

Make no mistake: he’d put it off until tomorrow, if he weren’t an idiot who already put it off until tomorrow about a half dozen times and is now paying the unfortunate price of no clean pajamas.

As if walking home from his fifth overnight double shift in the goddamned rain wasn’t enough punishment. Burning his tongue on coffee twice through the night. Grabbing the coat with the missing button on his way out the door and having no time to get anything for dinner because he slept through his alarm. Losing one of his favorite earrings somewhere in his rush to get dressed.

Worst of all, he damn near bodychecked that poor, devastatingly handsome neighbor of his. The one who’s been nothing but polite since moving in. Only other person Abbacchio’s seen redistribute mail when it’s misplaced in his box, never has loud company over, has that weird as fuck fish doormat –

A pleasant presence that was trampled as Abbacchio was speeding haphazard down the hall…he barely stopped to fucking apologize…

And he forgot to put on mascara, too. On top of everything.

Less makeup left to run in the rain, at least. Because waterproof eyeliner (the good stuff, mind you) is another thing he’s out of and hasn’t had time to buy. Seeing as he’s always either working or sleeping.

That kind of shit makes it real easy to avoid chores, and so here Abbacchio is.

Facing down the basement laundry room at nine in the morning on a Thursday. Uniform undershirt soaked-through and glued to his skin, paired with yesterday’s salvageable jeans, and slippers. Not even any underwear or socks, for fuck’s sake.

His hamper was so full he had to lug the entire thing down here, rather than just remove the convenient lining, nearly dropped half his shit on the way – and now…

He stares hard at the row of washing machines. Glaring.

This place should be empty. At nine in the morning on a Thursday.

There is no reason at all for every single one of the four washing machines to be unavailable.

One of them bears an out of order sign and has been broken for two weeks straight. Two more are actively running, and the third Abbacchio pops open full of hope, only to find that it’s still stuffed with someone else’s wet clothes. Cycle long over, they’ve been left here to rot, he assumes.

To rot and get in his way – ugh, that’s it. He’s going to lie down on the floor and sleep right here, fuck everything. It’ll be a protest. In this chilly basement wearing these uncomfortable clothes. At least his slippers have fucking memory foam…some tiny bit of comfort…

He’s too tired for this shit.

At this point, there are only two real options: the first is that he hauls himself and his dirty laundry back upstairs and sleeps naked – but that would mean he’d just have to put these old clothes back on eventually and face this laundry room again. So he’s more fond of option two, which is throwing common courtesy to the wind and emptying this damn washing machine himself.

It won’t endear him to his neighbors, but, hell, he’s never tried to endear himself before. Ninety-nine percent of them piss him off, anyway, and it’s not like they’ll know it was him that did this. He’s beyond caring.

Reaching in, he pulls a handful of sopping wet fabric out while his brain grumbles away in the background.

These stupid clothes probably belong to that obnoxious blond who’s always got his boyfriend (Abbacchio’s coworker, no less) over, having so much fun that Abbacchio can hear it across the hall – he feels bad for the poor saps who live right next door…it just figures that someone inconsiderate as that would leave their clothes in the machine longer than necessary…

…Except. The thing is. That theory doesn’t really track.

Because the more clothes Abbacchio removes and piles on the in-use washing machine next to this one. The more he. Notices. Wonders.

See, there’s no sign of the vibrant pinks and pastels that Giorno prefers to wear, in here. And, sure, this could still be his stuff – could just be that he did his colored load already – but most of this is awfully monochromatic, for Giorno.

Lots of black and white, going on here. Even with all of it glued together in that way wet laundry always is, that much is noticeable.

Really, it’s none of Abbacchio’s business whose laundry this is, and he should just empty the damn thing as fast as possible so that he can move on with his day and get some much-needed sleep, but. His mind is wandering all on its own, and it trips over itself when he pulls free an unmistakable spotted jacket.

This is…

It…belongs to the devastatingly handsome man next door.

Buccellati. That’s his name.

Abbacchio has seen him wear this jacket at least twice before. It’s memorable because he was charmed the first time, thoroughly caught off-guard by a friendly wave – and the second time was last night.

As Abbacchio was sprinting down the hall, grouching and determined not to be late, thermos in hand and a freshly burned tongue behind his teeth. He ran smack into Buccellati, their shoulders colliding, and Buccellati was wearing this. Spilled his own ill-advised late-night coffee on it, if Abbacchio is remembering right.

God. Fuck – he barely paused to apologize, mortification tamped down by irritation at himself.

Buccellati must think he’s a total asshole, after an encounter like that.

…Not that Abbacchio really cares. He doesn’t try to project a friendly persona, after all, but Buccellati is – different. Abbacchio…doesn’t hate him. (He doesn’t hate him in a way that means he might actually like him. Weird fish-shaped welcome mat and all.)

Ugh – whatever. It’s not like Abbacchio stood much of a chance anyway. Doesn’t need a…love interest. What the fuck? Is that what he wants Buccellati to become? Fucking – it doesn’t matter, because now it’s a definite impossibility. Abbacchio’s snooping through his laundry and everything. Great.

One more thing to be miserable about.

Abbacchio drops this clothing item on top of the rest of the pile, too far gone to go back, and reaches in for another blind handful of wet. He really needs to get the fuck to sleep, vegetate for a couple of days until he has to go and walk that same tired beat for another five long nights in a row – six, maybe, if that bastard Mista calls off one more time…

His fingers close around mesh, the texture is different enough to recapture his attention. As this is lifted free, he looks at it properly – which is a mistake –

Because this is a delicates bag. And as such it. Contains delicates.

Clothing items belonging to Buccellati that are absolutely none of Abbacchio’s business. Things that he should not stare at, and yet here he is anyway. Eyes glued to what looks like an awful lot of black lace, encased in this white mesh bag to protect it from getting all tangled with Buccellati’s regular clothes.

…

…

The idea that Buccellati favors lacy underthings is one that Abbacchio will need a minute to wrap his head around. Even though he shouldn’t.

He should not be thinking about this at all. Should never have been privy to this.

That mental image of Buccellati nude except for a pair of black lace panties should not be making a home in his head. He should put this delicates bag down. Walk away and go sleep until his head is empty.

…

Abbacchio stands still as a statue. He shouldn’t – really, really fucking shouldn’t – his brain screams at him the entire time, but his hands bring all that black lace closer, and grasp it between them. He scrutinizes it, prodding at it through the mesh. Shamefully trying to get a better look at what, exactly, is in there, because he’s already come so despicably far in invading Buccellati’s privacy.

And god, fuck, he’s curious, alright? Intrigued as hell. Didn’t think it was possible for Buccellati to get even more attractive.

Here’s what feels like straps that imply a lacy bodysuit. Maybe just a top piece? Some sort of camisole, all loosely-woven to show off more skin. Abbacchio thinks. Panties, like he initially imagined.

That mental image of Buccellati in lace is expanding and oh, fuck, is this a garter belt –

“I was going to come back for that.”

Abbacchio whirls around, heart leaping into overdrive –

And yep, god, there’s Buccellati! Standing at the entrance to the laundry room! Frowning first at the sopping pile of his laundry atop that washing machine, and then at Abbacchio, and now he’s raising an eyebrow at the delicates bag that Abbacchio’s still got clutched in his dumb fucking hands.

Abbacchio is going to die. Either from his own mortification or from Buccellati’s wrath.

He’ll deserve it either way, for pulling this stunt.

He wants to put this bag of lingerie down, but his hands aren’t cooperating with him. Much like his eyes won’t stop staring wide at Buccellati over there, golden clips in dark hair and casual attire that implies he’s off, today.

…Abbacchio wonders if he’s got lace on, underneath that outfit, and then mentally kicks himself for having that thought.

He can’t even unglue his tongue and apologize. He’s standing here so fucking frozen, while his face flares up bright red and he clutches Buccellati’s lingerie in a white-knuckled grip, held against his waterlogged tank top.

Buccellati is wandering closer with an unreadable expression in place. Doesn’t seem angry, exactly, but he doesn’t seem pleased, either, as he sets his empty laundry basket down.

He…gets in close. Stands within centimeters of Abbacchio, directly in front of him, and looks up into his eyes. Blue pools that Abbacchio will drown in, at this range. Slowly, gentle fingers reach out, slipping beneath Abbacchio’s and taking hold of that delicates bag. He relinquishes it without a fuss. Never should’ve picked it up.

“You look tired.”

…Okay.

That’s just about the last thing Abbacchio was expecting Buccellati to say. He dares to start breathing again, only to catch the soft scent of a familiar cologne. Laundry detergent, too. His heart is still stuttering rapid-fire when he says, “I’m fine.”

Buccellati’s warm fingers reach for Abbacchio, brushing along the hideous dark circle beneath one of his eyes – and he almost collapses at that touch, he’s wound so tight. Even more exhausted than he looks, and he looks like a goddamned drowned rat in dirty jeans and beat-up slippers and haphazardly removed makeup.

Thank goodness it’s such a pathetic visage that Buccellati isn’t outright angry – but this is somehow worse…?

Such a gentle touch is way more overwhelming than being yelled at.

But then the spell breaks, and Buccellati’s hand drops back to his own side. He clears his throat, straightens his posture. And unless it’s a trick of the shitty lighting in this basement, his cheeks are going pink, too. Just a little.

Nowhere near the fire that’s consuming Abbacchio’s face, creeping down his neck, but it’s there…

Buccellati’s gaze lowers to the delicates bag he’s holding, and he hefts it almost awkwardly, tossing it into his waiting basket. He steps away from Abbacchio, sort-of around him.

“I’ll get my stuff out of your way, so you can get yours started.”

On reluctant legs, Abbacchio shuffles away from this washing machine. He’s definitely staring too hard at Buccellati, watching while he plucks out his remaining clothes and scoops up that waiting mound from the lid of the other in-use machine.

Those ears are definitely red, visible when dark hair shifts with his motions. Like he’s flustered, too – which, of fucking course he’s flustered. Abbacchio was manhandling his lacy underthings.

Goddammit.

Why does Abbacchio wish he had the courage to ask Buccellati to stay?

It’s not his place at all, but. It’s just that…if anyone’s presence could make Thursday morning laundry bearable, Abbacchio thinks that it would be Buccellati’s.

But he sort of threw any chance at domesticity out the window by intruding on Buccellati’s privacy via his laundry, so. That’s a pipedream not worth having. (Way to go, Abbacchio, ruining your chances right out the fucking gate. Classic.)

By now, Buccellati has all of his things together, and Abbacchio is lingering by his own hamper like a depressed lump of a person (because that’s exactly what the fuck he is). Looking forward to collapsing into bed now more than ever.

There goes Buccellati toward the door, leaving without looking at Abbacchio, as he should –

He turns, though, before he leaves. And stands there, for a moment.

Tucks a bit of hair behind one reddened ear, and Abbacchio is enthralled, his heart won’t calm down no matter what he does, fluttering out of control. This is the part where he’ll get chewed out for sure – but Buccellati isn’t yelling. He’s talking, saying –

“Once you’ve gotten some rest, Leone, you’re more than welcome to come and see how all of it looks on me.”

Chapter Text

Moments of peace are few and far between, and Abbacchio is fortunate enough to wind up with one, today, courtesy of Buccellati. The two of them have been granted an absolute miraculous level of free time – an entire afternoon to themselves. Near a beach, no less.

It was a combination of luck (thank fuck for jobs falling through because the party you’re supposed to rendezvous with dies under mysterious circumstances that Passione has no reason to touch) and Buccellati’s tireless work ethic (Abbacchio has never been happier to wake up at four in the morning just so he can scope out a meeting place extra-thoroughly) that earned this for them.

Buccellati deserved something nice in return, Abbacchio thought. And he had that memory of Buccellati staring at the ocean with longing when they got here, so he went out on a brave limb and made a suggestion.

And even though Buccellati’s pause for thought spent staring at Abbacchio threatened to send his heart into some lovesick form of cardiac arrest, he’s glad to have gathered the courage. Because Buccellati agreed, and they found a private little alcove tucked away from the rest of the world to relax in.

Which is the most amazing part, to Abbacchio. That Buccellati is willingly relaxed right now.

On the beach. With towels and an umbrella and all that shit. With Abbacchio…

God, the mere concept is enough to make sunbathing worth it. By far one of Abbacchio’s least favorite pastimes considering he’s so damn pasty, but Buccellati looks divine lying there. Bathed in golden sunlight that darkens his skin. Freckles erupting across his shoulders and chest, his black hair glinting toward brown.

…Staring too long isn’t a good idea. Abbacchio’s cheeks are heating up and it’s got nothing to do with the sun. It’ll only get worse if Buccellati catches him at it, but, there’s minimum danger of that because see, the thing is –

Buccellati is so impossibly, miraculously relaxed that he’s asleep, out here in the sunshine.

It’s a phenomenon that Abbacchio almost didn’t notice. Being as he was rolled onto his stomach to let the sun scorch his back, the lesser of two evils.

When that got too hot, though, he lifted up onto his elbows to ask if Buccellati thought they should move the umbrella, or maybe head back to the hotel early, because Abbacchio wasn’t (and still isn’t) sure how much longer the sunscreen can protect him.

But all he was met with was this lax shape of Buccellati – focused lines of his face smoothed out in sleep, his breathing deep and even – and any words dried up on his tongue.

He’s never known Buccellati to let his guard this far down in public. Never really known him to get enough rest, either, though, so maybe this kind of thing tracks after all. That nonstop work schedule of Buccellati’s had to catch up to him eventually. So really, it’s no wonder he’s passed out on the beach. First time he’s been properly horizontal in days, probably.

Sandwiched between warm sand and hot sun, surrounded by tranquil quiet with that fluffy towel beneath him, umbrella shading overhead. Abbacchio can’t blame him for taking advantage of the atmosphere.

Quite the opposite, actually. He is deliriously happy, to see Buccellati like this.

And he is not about to disturb this bit of hard-won peace that’s so rarely achieved. Abbacchio would rather die than wake Buccellati up from this nap.

The only problem is…well. Abbacchio is sunburnt. It was bound to happen, and he’s not too fazed by it, is way too used to this shit by now; he readily accepted this as a small price to pay for time alone on the beach with Buccellati.

So. He himself isn’t his main concern here.

It’s just that Buccellati is starting to look kind of pink. Around his cheeks and upper chest in particular. Beneath those freckles.

And Abbacchio knows that once you can see the sunburn, it’s too late for the preventative measure that is sunscreen – so the best course of action would be to wake Buccellati up, and go back to the hotel.

Abbacchio, however, happens to be a coward with a pile of hopeless feelings rotting in his heart. A condition that makes this sort of scenario difficult to handle. Buccellati is comfortable and relaxed but he’s also moved past tanning and has entered the painful burning stage.

Stranger to conflicted feelings Abbacchio is not, but this is…

Well. He’s not about to disturb Buccellati’s necessary rest, but he can’t very well sit here and watch that pinkish tint get worse in good conscience.

Especially not after he was negligent enough to let this happen in the first place. Heart too giddy in the afterglow of Buccellati’s warm palms slathering sunscreen all over his own damn back – and getting to do the same for him in return – Abbacchio may have ridden that high and just. Forgotten to check how long it’s been since.

The least he can do is help out, now, so up he gets. Tiptoeing through sand to grasp their giant umbrella. It takes some finagling to get it positioned in the perfect spot to coat Buccellati in decent shade without moving him, but Abbacchio manages it. Plants the base and tilts the canopy.

There.

Now there’s just…Buccellati’s skin to contend with.

…First, Abbacchio will move his own towel. Pull it carefully over sand until it’s right up next to Buccellati’s, because his self-preservation is dangerously low and he wants it here to kneel on while he…

Applies additional sunscreen to Bucccellati.

It should be a simple enough thing. Abbacchio is already picking up the bottle and everything, ready and waiting to –

Run his slippery hands all over Buccellati’s front.

Haha, yeah. That.

…

This is something that might not even fall into the category of easier said than done, because Abbacchio doesn’t think he could say it out loud. He can barely think it without his stomach throwing a fit.  

And his eyes are glued to Buccellati, lying there. His face is sort-of turned toward where Abbacchio’s sitting, those thick dark eyelashes fluttering against his reddened cheeks in his sleep.

He’ll need sunscreen there, too. An area that manages to be just as daunting as his torso. The soft muscles of his chest and stomach, brown nipples and the swirling lines of his tattoo winding around it all. It rises and falls as he breathes. Way too captivating to be fair.

Those black-and-white swim shorts also happen to be entirely flustering. Buccellati’s tattoo disappears into them only to reappear down his thighs. An ever-expanding design that Abbacchio tracks with greedy eyes –

He hauls his attention back toward Buccellati’s face. It’s suddenly far less daunting than it was before.

So much tan-freckled-pinking skin is bare and waiting for Abbacchio to touch it – no, shit, to put sunscreen on it for protection – and, fuck, he better just do it. Before he gets so worked up that he has to plunge himself in the ocean to calm down.

Popping the sunscreen’s cap, he’s careful not to squeeze too much onto his palm. Last thing he needs is prolonged time spent with his hands on Buccellati’s chest, trying to rub in a ridiculous amount of lotion…

Abbacchio sets the sunscreen aside, and dips the fingers of his empty hand into the pool of sunscreen in this palm. Then it’s the oh-so-simple matter of reaching for warm skin. Resting his fingertips on that collarbone and. Running his hand back and forth. Small circular motions to thoroughly coat the skin.

God – this shouldn’t be making him blush.

He did the same on Buccellati’s back, a couple of hours ago, and he survived that. Flexing muscle beneath smooth skin, shoulders rolling up to meet his hands and Buccellati’s pleased hum.

In retrospect, he has no real idea how the hell he survived that.

At present, he’s faced with the impossible task of running his palm over the curves of Buccellati’s pectorals, feeling the heat they radiate.

A touch that has Buccellati sighing in his sleep; deep breath let out slow and accompanied by a very soft noise that nonetheless sets off a traitorous spark or two in Abbacchio’s gut. Fucking hell.

Pausing to get more sunscreen doesn’t offer much respite, because now he’s right back at it, gliding his palm down the center of Buccellati’s ribcage, around the sides. He rubs extra moisture and protection into that tattoo, because it’d be a shame to see it fade too fast and oh, god, should he do Buccellati’s thighs, too, then?

Those might burn. It’d make walking uncomfortable. But. Abbacchio’s got enough to contend with, between that soft-firm abdomen and the fronts of those strong shoulders. Buccellati’s arms, too, shouldn’t be forgotten –

And then of course there’s his face. Relaxed brow and soft cheeks. That gentle slope of his nose.

Abbacchio is careful with all of these pieces of Buccellati. Doesn’t want to disturb him. Hopes like hell this isn’t some fucked up sort of line he’s crossing.

Palm still full of sunscreen, Abbacchio casts around for what to do with it – debates between Buccellati’s thighs or as much of his own back as he can reach – but just as soon as he’s settled on braving the smooth tattooed skin of those uncharted thighs –

“Thank you, Leone.”

Fuck.

Abbacchio’s face flares up far redder than the sunburn can account for, and he’s captured by the brilliant blue of Buccellati’s eyes. They’re extra captivating against the bright sky, even in the shade.

God, his heart is pounding and he can still feel that pliant heated skin beneath his fingertips as they slid slick over it and oh, fuck, Buccellati is sitting up, fully awake. Abbacchio couldn’t let him have his peace after all. The shade from the umbrella would’ve been enough – fuck, what the hell was he thinking? Didn’t have to reach out and touch so much.

Internal panic hits a new level of flurried fluster when Buccellati’s fingers dip into Abbacchio’s palm. Swiping up some of that leftover sunscreen and bringing it to Abbacchio’s face.

Those fingertips run light-warm over his cheekbones, and the length of his nose. His brow. Just like he did for Buccellati.

All the while Abbacchio is caught by those eyes…Buccellati watching his work…

“There,” Buccellati murmurs, once he’s finished. He leans forward and presses a barely-there kiss to Abbacchio’s chin, and under these circumstances it’s enough that Abbacchio starts to melt. He’s so far gone it’s despicable.

“Thanks…”

Buccellati gives a pleasant hum, settling into a seat partially off of his towel, sitting just so, with his knees brushing Abbacchio’s. “We’ll pick up some aloe before we leave.” The thought of applying aloe to each other is almost more than Abbacchio can handle, right now, let alone Buccellati offering, “I’ll get your back for you, too.”

What can Abbacchio do except nod, and turn around to offer his reddening back to those talented hands.

Sun be damned – he’ll be burnt alive from an altogether different source.

Chapter Text

“Leone,” Bruno says, both hands wrapped warm around Leone’s forearm as he urges him along, “isn’t it perfect?”

It is so hard to deny that soft upturn of Bruno’s mouth anything. Whatever desire Leone has to complain evaporates that much more the longer he spends in Bruno’s presence on this particular errand of theirs.

He has to say, “Yes,” even if he doesn’t mean it. Because this enthusiastic shape of Bruno on this beachside road is contagious. Makes Leone’s heart feel too big for his chest, and puts a smile on his own face that doesn’t waver, so long as he keeps his eyes on Bruno and off of that…surprise, over there.

Bruno said he had something to show Leone. Waltzed into their apartment’s bedroom fully dressed for the day, while Leone was still trying to shut the alarm clock up. Leone’s grump at being forced out of bed too early never really stands a chance in the face of an openly excited Bruno, and so here they are. Bruno holding eager to Leone’s arm and leading him through grassy sand. A cracked excuse for a walkway practically crumbling beneath their feet.

The situation has Leone’s pulse fluttering – Bruno can probably feel it thudding away – and is rousing butterflies in his stomach. Everything redoubles when one of Bruno’s hands glides down to tangle with his own.

“I couldn’t believe it when I found this place.” Bruno’s eyes are fixed forward, as enthralled with the building ahead as Leone is with Bruno’s blatant joy.

He’s always beautiful, but he’s extra beautiful like this. Out here in the sunshine.

Bruno was vibrating with barely-contained energy the whole way here, holding himself tight, eyes sparkling as he drove. Seeing him of all people so unable to contain himself is turning Leone to mush.

It’s a reaction that he doesn’t fight, content to become putty and sink into all that is Bruno. Even as he’s pulled to the rotting doorstep of this drooping wooden structure, fondness beats back the apprehension in his gut. Entirely because Bruno is staring at this place like it hung the stars, completely overlooking that the only thing glittering here is broken glass from a shattered window.

God, he can find hope and beauty in anything.

That’s the only reason Leone wound up at his side in the first place.

“Just look at it,” comes more gushing from Bruno, and oh, Leone sure is looking at it. Reluctant as he is to pull his attention from that sweet tilting smile on Bruno’s face, Leone forces himself to take in the rundown sight in front of him.

Bowed and splintering front door, peeling paint that might have been a cheerful yellow in its past life, dark streaking stains on a sagging roof, a huge crack in the stone chimney, the aforementioned broken window with one panel completely empty of glass…

Its decent size is the only thing this building has going for it. Two stories, not too big like some of the other options they’ve come across, but not a closet like the last beach house Bruno fell for.

Leone wonders if he should’ve agreed to those cramped living quarters when he had the chance, instead of convincing Bruno to keep looking. So what if Leone hit his head on the top of every doorframe? At least that house had an intact porch, complete with an outdoor light that wasn’t hanging half-off, waiting to electrocute you the second you tried to change its bulb.

Bruno squeezes Leone’s hand, his smile tweaking that much wider, and any doubt flies right out of Leone’s mind. Most of his wariness follows when Bruno says, “It’s ours,” with elation plain in his voice.

These butterflies in Leone’s stomach are going to eat his puttied self alive. “You bought this?”

A cheerful nod.

“This was for sale?”

Scoffing out a laugh that’s poignant enough to stop Leone’s heart, Bruno tugs him toward that ominous front door. “Wait until you see the inside,” he says, and Leone can’t tell if that’s meant genuinely or as a joke – doesn’t much matter, in this case.

He bites his tongue on asking whether this building is structurally sound (his money is on no) and follows. At least if he dies, Bruno will be right here with him until the end…

Really, this adventure might’ve been avoided if he hadn’t gotten pissy with Bruno during last week’s house hunt discussion. According to Bruno, Leone is too nitpicky about small fixable details – to which Leone argued that Bruno should just take back that beach house he gifted to Trish because she only lives there part-time anyway, and he hadn’t even really offered it to her, in the first place.

The notion appalled Bruno, because of course it did. Leone didn’t entirely mean it, even, but he also wasn’t crazy about the idea of knocking out walls just to fit a proper-sized bed and heightening their own doorways just to fit himself.

Bruno was adamant that they keep looking right away, in that case, but Leone wanted to wait a while and see if anything new came up on the market –

He’d stood his ground and Bruno had, too, and in the end, Leone threw his hands up and said, “Fine! You keep looking and buy us the first livable place you find. That way I can’t nitpick shit. Happy?”

In true Bruno fashion, the condition was accepted with a determined nod.

…Leone felt bad. In true Leone fashion.

They smoothed things over, of course, and Leone admitted to swinging violently between the sheer bliss that is house hunting with Bruno and the utter frustration of coming up empty handed after every single tour. Bruno was a sweet and understanding balm, kissed Leone’s nose and told him not to fret –

And now here they are.

Unfinished hardwood floors creaking beneath their feet and a threadbare rug before them that Leone sincerely hopes isn’t disguising a huge hole in the ground.

There’s sand in every crevice of this place. Gritty under Leone’s shoes and piled in the corners, windswept through that gaping open window and a few notable gaps in the walls. There’s no furniture or fixtures, unless that wilted ceiling fan counts, and the only appliance in the barebones kitchen is a rusting refrigerator that looks to be about fifty years old. Some of the cabinets are missing their doors.

(Miraculously, the water runs when Leone tests it. It doesn’t get hot, but it runs, which is more than he expected.)

Off the living room, to the right of where they entered, there’s a set of glass-faced doors that lead out onto a balcony – and Leone throws out an arm to stop Bruno from stepping on it.

“I don’t think that thing’s going to hold us.” Judging by the fact that one corner of it is bent worryingly downward as if that support beam is snapped or missing, and the railing is half collapsed, and the platform is definitely absent at least one plank.

Bruno’s gentle smile never falters, and he aims the full force of it at Leone, now. “It will,” he insists. Then proceeds to guide Leone to certain death – but it’s not as if Leone hasn’t followed him toward worse before.

Once they’re both out on that suspiciously creaky balcony (Leone holds a bit tighter to Bruno’s hand), Leone can spot the clinging remains of what used to be a staircase leading down to the beach. Wood collapsed away leaving only two sad, lonesome steps dangling over a significant drop. Leone keeps well clear of that mess.

“Look at the view,” Bruno says, probably because he’s noticed the way Leone is staring at the unstable ground beneath them. He doesn’t heed the obvious danger. Is only looking out toward the ocean with sparkling blue eyes and dammit –

Leone digs his heels in to keep Bruno from wandering toward that death trap of a railing, but does at least cast his gaze over the sand. Toward the water and the sky, and it is pretty, from here. Staring at so much uninterrupted coastline. It’s no wonder Bruno got so attached to this place. (Not to mention his unnaturally high empathy for the forlorn and forgotten, inanimate objects included.)

“This isn’t even the best part.”

Oh, Leone is not at all sure he can handle more – but Bruno is looking at him, now. Dazzling eyes aimed with lethal precision and Leone can’t keep this fond grin off of his face.

Helplessly, he follows Bruno back through the house and up a surprisingly sturdy set of stairs. Bruno navigates the second floor of this house with confidence, Leone shuffling along behind him, wary of sinkholes that could appear at any moment. He only moves with any speed because Bruno’s still holding his hand, urging him along.

This top floor is composed of a wide-open bedroom and a master bathroom – Leone spots cracked tile and a toilet with no seat – and Bruno takes them to a huge picture window inlaid in one wall. There’s a window nook that could be cozy, with a cushion and liberal dusting, and, beyond that –

A view of the ocean. Vast and blue against an equally vast and blue sky, shimmering in the sunlight, and Leone’s breath catches in his throat despite himself. None of the other beach front houses they toured had anything this unimpeded, especially not from the bedroom.

Between this view, and Bruno’s warmth settling in close, arm winding around Leone’s waist…

It sure does feel like home.

Which is an altogether sappy thought. One that’s got liquid fondness pooling cozy through Leone’s chest, as he lifts a hand to rest it overtop the one Bruno has pressed to his side.

Bruno rests his chin on Leone’s shoulder, angling in toward him a bit. “Do you like it?”

Right about now is when Leone realizes that he loves it, actually. This decaying shell of a house that Bruno found and bought for them. “It has good bones,” is what he says, because the damn thing hasn’t slid right into the ocean yet, despite the life it’s lived. He’ll give it credit for that.

For this acquiescence, Bruno nods, chin digging into Leone’s shoulder before he kisses that spot. “It’s perfect.”

It is.

No matter how badly Leone wants to at least raise an eyebrow at that, he’s having trouble even pretending to be anything but deliriously happy. Bruno’s got him wrapped in a full-on sideways hug, by now, and Leone is settling an arm around his back in turn, freefalling into blue eyes.

“It needs a lot of work.”

Bruno’s arms wind tighter, and he nuzzles into Leone. “It’s a fixer-upper,” he says. An understatement that he sounds way too delighted to make.

There’s only so much fixing-upping that Leone feels qualified to do, and he’s of the opinion that the two of them have already worked hard enough for their happy ending, thank you very fucking much.

But…remodeling this house with Bruno would be…

Well. If it’s with Bruno at his side, maybe Leone doesn’t mind working a bit more after all.

Chapter Text

Buccellati slides into the passenger seat, closing the door behind himself as he sits down. He gives the go-ahead to drive, and so off Abbacchio goes…

And that’s about as eventful as things are, for the next several minutes. This last mission of the day was a small task, a short jaunt to the edge of town, and now they’re heading back home, just like that. About twenty minutes away from the lot where this car lives.

Once parked, Abbacchio will walk Buccellati home, maybe. Or vice versa. Then he’ll figure out something to while away the rest of his evening with until he can’t stay awake any longer.

Simple shit. Nothing that requires a ton of forethought, so Abbacchio is able to focus solely on driving – something that he never gets to do, because he hates it and loves to delegate. But Buccellati requested it of him, for this particular trip, and –

The unmistakable sound of a zipper interrupts the silence of the car. No doubt one of Sticky Fingers’, and out of the corner of his eye, Abbacchio watches Buccellati pluck something from his suit, and pop it into his mouth.

Not long afterward, he grabs another something from that hidden pocket of his. Eats it just as casually.

Buccellati is snacking on chocolates, from what Abbacchio can tell, keeping most of his attention on the road as he is. Even though there really isn’t much traffic at this time of night, what with most people eating dinner; hence why Buccellati chose this time for their mission.

Really, Buccellati could be eating just about anything, over there, but chocolate makes the most sense, given that this job involved a local sweets shop – what’s really out of place here, though, is the fact that these chocolates are hidden. Buccellati wasn’t carrying a box when he left the shop, which, coupled with the hidden thing, might imply that Buccellati stole them. As in, he did not pay for them. An action that is very much unlike him indeed.

Even if they were offered as a gift, he would’ve paid something. That’s just how he is. Not to mention, if they were a gift, they would have no reason to be hidden. Would’ve still probably come in a box.

So, when Buccellati grabs another of those pocket candies to deposit in his mouth, Abbacchio asks, “Are you eating stolen chocolate?”

“Mm,” Buccellati confirms. He does not elaborate.

“Why?”

That focused look on Buccellati’s face twitches toward a frown. “Because Mrs. Milani’s grandson is an asshole.” Ah. That explains it. “And he’s behind on his payments, anyway.” That’s what Buccellati went to investigate, Abbacchio thinks…

…In all honesty, he didn’t pay much attention to the briefing on the way here. But he does at least know that this retired owner – Mrs. Milani – was a friend of Buccellati’s, and so he wanted to attend to this late payment issue himself. To sort of check up on whatever grandkid was put in charge in her stead.

After eating another stolen chocolate, Buccellati announces the verdict: “His chocolates aren’t as good.” And he’s frowning over that, sitting in the passenger seat with a furrow in his brow. Expression schooled serious, he bites into yet another chocolate – how many did he take? – and chews thoughtfully.

Abbacchio should really be watching the road, instead of giving Buccellati the brunt of his attention. So he tries to only glance out of the corner of his eye, but when he pulls to a stop at the next red light, taking a proper look is fair game. Turns out Buccellati is still analyzing his chocolate. Scrutinizing the raspberry filling sandwiched between dark chocolate just about as intently as he looks at work-related shit like paperwork. Or a corpse.

“Are you sure you’re not just biased?”

Buccellati gives an insistent shake of his head, and a firm, “No,” in case that wasn’t enough. And then, he says, “Here, you taste.”

Which, sure, Abbacchio is game –

His outstretched hand is bypassed in favor of his mouth.

Instead of doing the reasonable thing, Buccellati puts the remaining half of that chocolate in his own mouth. Then leans across, tangles a hand in Abbacchio’s hair, and pulls him in for a kiss.

Thank fuck for these extra-tinted windows, or else Buccellati wouldn’t dare. Not at such a public intersection where anyone could wander past and see – his lips are soft-firm, coaxing gentle at Abbacchio’s until they open for that tongue –

A tongue that slides slick and hot along Abbacchio’s. It’d have him melting here in the driver’s seat, if it weren’t for the horrible flavor it deposits.

Bitter raspberry mixed with too much out of place mint and something else Abbacchio can’t even begin to describe – it’s so bad that it has him wrenching his mouth away from Buccellati’s. Swallowing hard and scowling even as his heart beats an excited rhythm in his chest. He’s warm all over, from Buccellati’s proximity.

“See what I mean?” Buccellati asks, his fingertips trail light along Abbacchio’s jaw as he settles back into his own seat. He’s still watching Abbacchio, still has that serious furrow in his brow. His plush mouth stained with a hint of black lipstick and curled down into a frown. “They’re just not the same…”

Just not the same, he says…

“They’d taste fine if you didn’t eat such weird flavors right after each other.”

Another dubious head shake. Buccellati twists in his seat again, and swoops in for a shorter kiss, this time. Just as flavorful as the first, lips overlapping and tongue slipping in to roll around – but Abbacchio can’t resist it, no matter how godawful it tastes, because it’s Buccellati.

“Dark chocolate raspberry crèmes go just fine with the mint ones, and the orange, ordinarily,” Buccellati explains, his lips still brushing Abbacchio’s. Words that only make sense to his bizarre taste buds and only accelerate Abbacchio’s heart thanks to their feel. Slowly, Buccellati eases back into his own seat. “This is something wrong with the chocolate itself.”

He eats what looks like a truffle next.

The car behind them lays on the horn. Apparently, the light has been green for some time.

Abbacchio shifts his foot to the gas, tears his eyes off of Buccellati and vows to keep them solely on the road from here on out, no matter what kind of taste testing is going on next to him –

This plan is foiled almost immediately when Buccellati says, “Here, see?” and swings into Abbacchio’s line of sight to deposit another chocolate-laden kiss – that has Abbacchio lifting his foot away from the pedals and clinging tight to the wheel so he doesn’t spin it on accident, turn off the fucking road or swerve into the other lane – his attention is zeroed in on that mouth –

But then Buccellati is gone, and Abbacchio regains proper control of the car. Didn’t hit anything, by some incredible miracle. Now his heart is pounding in terror as well as excitement.

“What do you think?”

“If you kiss me while I’m driving again, we’ll crash and die.”

For some reason, despite the serious dying issue, this gets a quiet snuffling laugh out of Buccellati. Abbacchio doesn’t dare glance away from the road to see what kind of expression he’s wearing when he says, “The chocolate needs more cocoa butter, don’t you think?”

Ah. Right.

Buccellati did gift Abbacchio a piece of that truffle. It tastes leagues better than whatever mess was on his tongue before. Nice, plain hazelnut against a light milk chocolate.

“Tastes fine to me,” Abbacchio says. Savoring the normal flavor until it’s dissolved.

A disbelieving negative noise from Buccellati, and he’s biting into what looks like a chocolate-covered fig (near as Abbacchio can tell from where he is keeping his eyes on the road). “She’d be heartbroken if she knew her grandson was substituting it with something cheaper.”

And he’s not even paying his proper dues to Passione with any additional profit, Abbacchio doesn’t say. He knows better than that.

…Plus. He’s still sort of reeling from those kisses. Questionable flavor or no. Buccellati must be in some kind of mood, if he’s showing open affection on the way home from work. Eating so many stolen chocolates out of his pocket while frowning at the unsatisfactory taste of each one, like he’s trying to puzzle out one of the great mysteries of the world, and god, Abbacchio the road. Focus on driving…

His reflection in the rearview mirror boasts smeared lipstick. Buccellati’s mouth is tinted darker, too, and now he’s got a handful of smaller candies. Tilting his head with each one that he eats.

“The cocoa content in these is definitely off,” Buccellati says.

How he can tell, Abbacchio has no idea. Eats too much damn chocolate, probably. Or maybe it has something to do with his penchant for tasting lies in people’s sweat. Too talented of a tongue.

…

Best to stop that train of thought right there.

By the next red light, Buccellati has finished his little handful of candies and is leaning over to accost Abbacchio again, just like that – not that Abbacchio much minds in theory. He absolutely adores kissing Buccellati, thank you very much, and his face is heating up as that tongue glides over his with purpose. Warm palm braced on the side of Abbacchio’s neck. Plush lips slipping free of his own with a tacky sort of pull. Dipping back in for another firm press.

Then Buccellati is away again, settling back into his seat as he asks, “See what I mean?”

Abbacchio, who has been left with another unfortunate flavor combination – limoncello-anise-espresso at war with each other and chocolate alike – wrinkles his nose. Can’t get past the damage to his poor taste buds. “Stop combining such shitty flavors and they’ll taste fine.”

Unless the fading sunlight is hitting the windshield at an odd angle, Buccellati’s mouth tweaks on a smile. “Focus on the chocolate,” he says, even as he’s biting into a piece of it that has a suspiciously white center –

This, too, he shares via his mouth, and Abbacchio is powerless. Has no choice but to accept the unwanted gift. Recoiling from the magnetic pull of those talented lips is impossible.

The light turns green, and he’s beeped at yet again. Still doesn’t move until Buccellati parts from his mouth with a wet noise.

Abbacchio starts driving. Rolls down the window and spits a lump of half-molten sweet out onto the pavement as he goes. “Fucking coconut, Bruno?” God, does Abbacchio hate it. Even courtesy of as intoxicating a mouth as Buccellati’s. Needs to scrape his tongue to banish the lingering texture and off-center sweetness. “Why do you eat that shit?”

“The chocolate –” Buccellati starts, his voice halfway a laugh and utterly charming –

“No.” Abbacchio interrupts it anyway. Despite the way it’s making him blush. “I’ve had it, that’s disgusting.”

Oh, Buccellati really is smiling. Openly. Eating the rest of that dark-chocolate-coconut abomination as he does. “I love you, too,” he says, and damn it all…

There’s a thick fluttering in Abbacchio’s chest as he pulls over to the curb, parks the car in the next empty space he sees. Doesn’t waste time with shutting off the engine, just reaches over and plunges his hand into that candy-laden pocket full of goodies Buccellati pilfered. Fishing around produces something that should be safe – even though at this distance Abbacchio has to put up with Buccellati pressing coconut-flavored kisses to his temple, his cheek.

Reclaiming his hand, Abbacchio nibbles the end of this chocolate to be sure. He’s met with gooey resistance and yep, this’ll do perfect.

Into his mouth it goes, and now he’s the one aiming for Buccellati’s lips. Twining his fingers into dark hair and pressing them together, savoring the quiet pleased noise that Buccellati lets out at the contact.

Soft lips part easy for Abbacchio as he angles his head, bites down on the chocolate mid-kiss and it really isn’t melting like it should, Buccellati was right about the ingredients, maybe – but it’ll work, anyway. Gets molten enough to spread that thick-sweet taste of caramel between them.

Buccellati helps. Swirls his tongue all through Abbacchio’s mouth. Grabs onto him in turn and devours his mouth with enthusiasm, Abbacchio’s breath rushing heavy out through his nose, hauled back in. He loses himself in the too-wet contact – Buccellati and chocolate and caramel and lips that part from his only to latch back on. Repeatedly and with intent.

For his part, he holds Buccellati in close. Nips at a plush mouth and sucks on that eager tongue. Cups Buccellati’s cheek. Nuzzles in with his nose, when Buccellati eases away slow…

Steals one last short kiss.

…Abbacchio’s lips feel all sticky, now, but at least he covered up those awful flavors. He can safely breathe in all that Buccellati is, now. Relish in those wet little kisses that are pressed to the corner of his mouth, and trailed across his cheek a little ways.

“You taste better than the chocolate,” Buccellati says.

Fucking…sweet talker. Abbacchio’s cheeks are permanently pink. He returns the gentle kiss that’s dropped on his lips.

Reluctant as he is to part ways from all of this, they do have to be getting home. Sinking back into his own seat is a slow process, his fingers leaving that spill of dark hair and the warmth of that cheek. Buccellati keeps a hand on him, fingers pressed to his side, rubbing up and down through the fabric of his shirt.

“That’s because your taste buds are messed up,” Abbacchio grumbles as he pulls out of this parking spot and drives on. (It’s easier than telling Buccellati that he himself tastes best of all.)

Buccellati doesn’t confirm nor deny that. Just sits there, a little sideways in his seat and definitely not buckled in, watching Abbacchio drive. It is just as distracting as the random kisses. Because of course it is. With that playful spark in those blue eyes and that tiny uptick to his lipstick-stained mouth.

God.

“I have to go back tomorrow to pick up the overdue payment,” Buccellati says, and goddammit, Abbacchio should’ve known. “Will you drive me again?”

Chapter Text

“Can I borrow your back?”

Perched atop the arm of the couch and bent to put his socks on, Abbacchio nearly topples to the floor.

The sight of Buccellati zippered partially through the front door should be familiar by now, but it still catches Abbacchio so off-guard that he spends a few long minutes sitting paused with his sock halfway on, waiting for his heart to calm back down before Buccellati’s question even registers. (He didn’t even knock first, this time.)

“…My what?”

“Your back,” Buccellati repeats. And lo and behold it doesn’t make any more sense than it did the first time he said it. “I need to borrow it.”

Abbacchio’s hit by the horrifying mental image of his back zipped clean off, leaving a swirling void in its place – or worse yet, flesh scraped raw and bloody with exposed bone and muscle, and ugh, god, no more late-night slasher films for him for a while…

He yanks his sock the rest of the way on and asks, “What do you mean?”

Because no way is he going to agree to slump around without a spine just because Buccellati needs it to freak someone out with. He’s lent out too many toes for that purpose already – even his entire foot on one memorable occasion. No more intimidation tactics via his borrowed body parts, was his demand after that, but Buccellati is notoriously determined in all things.

Case in point, he is now making his way inside, unzipping the rest of the door and re-zipping it behind himself. He pulls a folded sheaf of paper from a zipper pocket on his side, and makes a beeline for the table.

Now that both of his socks are on, Abbacchio follows, peering over Buccellati’s shoulder as he spreads that paper out. Unfolding it covers a significant chunk of the miniscule tabletop.

“I need to make a map,” Buccellati explains. In a way that manages to explain nothing at all. (At least he hasn’t asked for Abbacchio’s spine.)

Zero pieces of this conversation seem to connect, and Abbacchio frowns down at that giant sheet of paper covering his table – it makes all of this even more perplexing. “Is there something wrong with that map?” It’s already got a route traced in thick black marker on it, after all – and what the hell does this have to do with Abbacchio’s back?

Buccellati shakes his head. “This one is too obvious.” Whatever the hell that means. He’s motioning with his hand, now, beckoning Abbacchio closer. “Come here and take your shirt off.”

…

Haha.

Fuck.

That little command is all it takes to get Abbacchio’s cheeks flaring up red, but to Buccellati’s credit, he, too, is looking sort of pink in the face. Not-quite watching Abbacchio, those blue eyes shift from the map to him and back again.

“What?” Abbacchio asks, at length. Isn’t sure he heard quite right, just now.

Buccellati clears his throat. “Take your shirt off,” he repeats. “I need to use your back.”

It’s a damn good thing Buccellati also seems flustered by those words, or else Abbacchio would think he’s losing his entire mind, and that this is actually a normal, casual request. Nothing to lose it over. His head is spinning out of control, and it takes him a long moment to haul it back into anything resembling concentration.

Putting two and two together is a lot harder than it sounds. Under these circumstances. Somehow, Abbacchio manages.

“You’re putting the map on my back?”

“Yes,” Buccellati confirms with a nod. “It’s in our best interest to hide it somewhere accessible, so if you could…”

Ah. Seems like he can’t repeat the take your shirt off request more than twice. Abbacchio doesn’t blame him. He himself is already having trouble putting those words spoken in such a commanding tone out of his mind during downtime, and okay that’s enough thinking, time to just do as asked and.

Take his shirt off.

In front of Buccellati.

Nothing…abnormal or daunting here. Not at all. Just a simple matter of loosening these laces at the front and pulling his arms through the sleeves and tugging the whole mess over his head. Easy.

It does not feel at all like yanking off a bandage to make the nerve-wracking task go quicker, or anything like that. It’s fine. He balls up fabric between his hands, unsure what to do with it, but the table is sort of taken up by that map, so he drops it down into the seat of a chair.

He almost wishes he’d held onto it, though. Because Buccellati’s eyes are kind of stuck to his chest, right now, and the weight of that gaze has Abbacchio crossing his arms over his stomach. Not exactly insecure – but give him a fucking break, here, he’s not used to being ogled by Buccellati from up close – hasn’t exactly been topless in front of his boss yet – he can feel a blush creeping down his neck and over that exposed skin that’s got Buccellati so enthralled –

And, god, if Buccellati stares for one more second, Abbacchio is going to burst into flames right here and now. Die from spontaneous combustion if the heart attack doesn’t do him in first.

“…Buccellati,” he mutters, eventually, when those eyes get to be too much to handle.

Buccellati blinks as if snapped out of a trance. Clears his throat again. Drags his eyes pointedly up to Abbacchio’s face. He’s even pinker, now, when he says, “Face the table?”

Those words come out softer. Less of an order and more of a request, slipped through the cracks in Buccellati’s unfettered persona.

It doesn’t do anything to help Abbacchio’s poor overworked heart.

At least the hold he has over the rest of himself is sturdier. He can, in fact, turn toward the table, and does so without incident. He’s fine. Completely calm.

Gentle fingertips on his shoulder send his pounding heart plummeting toward his stomach where it lands in a mess of fluttering; somehow he understands that this hand is coaxing him to lean forward, and he goes with the light pressure. Presses one palm to the wooden tabletop, curls the other hand around the table’s edge.

“Perfect,” Buccellati says. He sounds the tiniest bit breathless. If that’s a tone that Buccellati can even achieve. Abbacchio wouldn’t believe it if he hadn’t heard it firsthand – and oh, great, Buccellati is moving in closer –

That tangibly warm presence hovers at Abbacchio’s side. Buccellati is only vying for a better view of that spread-out map, but thanks to the tiny, circular nature of this table…

Crisp suit fabric is practically brushing Abbacchio’s bare skin. Lighting more shameful fires.

God.

This is for work. Buccellati could have picked any of their backs, for this, though Abbacchio won’t argue that his is the broadest. Best-suited for grafting a section of map onto. Nobody else’s would fit it quite right. That’s why Buccellati is here, now. It – it isn’t personal, by any means, and he’s only blushing because this is awkward as hell.

All of that considered, Abbacchio should really tell his frantic innards to calm down. It’s too bad that’s really hard to do when Buccellati’s fingers land at the nape of his neck –

Abbacchio can’t help but shiver, a horrible reaction that trembles up his spine, and there’s no way Buccellati doesn’t feel it. Or maybe he really does miss it – maybe he’s too busy summoning Sticky Fingers to install a sealed zipper there, a short way down between Abbacchio’s shoulder blades. Then another, branching off of that. From the feel of it. Each one accompanied by his touch.

“You’re…” Now it’s Abbacchio who has to clear his throat. “You’re not going to just stick the whole thing to me?”

Buccellati glances between the map and Abbacchio’s back as he works, and shakes his head on one of these passes. “If I did that, I wouldn’t be able to see it. I still have to follow it, and this way I can do that by touch.”

Touch, he says.

There sure is a lot of that going on, right now. With those fingers that glide along Abbacchio’s back in random intervals and directions. Tracing a path that he can’t even begin to comprehend, he’s so focused on its feel – how the hell he’ll survive the mission, he has no idea. This one might very well be it, for him. Buccellati’s fingers traversing his back in public – god –

Abbacchio can’t stop his raging blush, or the way his heart is pounding insistent. Begging to be set free, but that’d be kinda messy, and he already told Buccellati he wasn’t going to be sharing any more body parts.

So. He will keep his feelings close at hand. And under control. Thank you very much.

Oh, fuck, Buccellati’s fingertips are almost ticklish, skirting around Abbacchio’s side for this next path, and he’s shivering again. Squirms, a little, and blurts out, “Are you sure this is the best way to do this?”

Like an idiot. What is he trying to do, get Buccellati to touch him less?

That…that’d only be proper. Wouldn’t it?

He doesn’t really deserve the impossible gift that would be Buccellati touching him more, after all, and god, he’s a mess –

“I can’t chance someone else finding it and figuring out where we’re going,” Buccellati says. Back to being surprisingly steady, but a glance shows his cheeks are still flushed. “This way, only I have access to it.”

Access to Abbacchio’s back, that is. And the two of them will have to walk close, for this to work – how the hell Buccellati will be able to read directions in a bunch of random to-scale lines makes zero sense to Abbacchio, but he’s not about to complain. Even though he should, he won’t.

He might not deserve those careful fingers that rub zippers into his skin, but he’s going to relish in them all the same. Appreciate that he gets to have them, because this just might be the closest he ever gets to prolonged fond contact with Buccellati.

Which is a shameful thing to want. Abbacchio’s face burns hotter.

Buccellati’s ears are also vibrantly red when he finishes his work, hand lifting away from Abbacchio. He zips the paper map into tiny pieces, seals them away in the table, and says, “Let’s go.”

The two of them come face-to-face when turning away from the table – and Buccellati outright gasps. A very soft noise, but it’s there. All of him stopped short. He can probably feel Abbacchio’s heartbeat skyrocket, he’s standing so fucking close. His breath is warm at Abbacchio’s collarbone. Eyes darting from the expanse of pale skin in front of him to the far corners of the apartment to Abbacchio’s face.

Which is fine. Abbacchio’s having a hard time looking at him, too, right now. Can’t quite seem to manage it. Should definitely back away, but –

Fucking hell – why did he put his shirt on that chair in front of Buccellati, instead of this one to his own left? Now he’s got to. Lean around Buccellati. Bend to the side a bit, sort-of curling around him, just to fish balled-up black fabric free of its seat.

Buccellati, thoughtful as ever, takes a stilted step backward so that Abbacchio has more space to redress.

The ensuing pause is the most awkward that Abbacchio’s ever experienced.

Tension snaps like a dry-rotted rubber band when Buccellati speaks next. Abrupt words that try to shift the mood but don’t quite manage it. “Let’s, um.” Wow, god, that’s the first time Abbacchio’s ever heard Buccellati stutter since meeting him – what the hell – “We should get going.” And then he nods to himself and hurries toward the door –

Meanwhile Abbacchio scrambles to shove his feet into his shoes and follow, nearly catching the ends of his hair in the zipped-open door as it seals itself behind him.

There is no way he’ll survive this mission.

Chapter Text

Leone stares dumbfounded at the man in front of him – or, at least. He’s reasonably sure it’s a man, as in, a human man. Moved in, recently, and introduced himself as Bruno, but Leone blinked just now and could’ve sworn there were three pupils in each of those ocean blue eyes.

Now that he looks again, though. They’ve each only got one pupil, those eyes.

…It was a trick of the light, maybe, and Leone shouldn’t be dwelling on it anyway. That’d be rude to do, when he’s been asked a question. Shame all he can offer in response is, “You want…what?”

“A cup of sugar,” Bruno dutifully repeats. “Please.”

You’ll have to excuse Leone, here. His social skills are rusty from disuse, thanks to years of self-imposed isolation (save for a single friend, whose company he genuinely enjoys yet keeps at arm’s length). And besides that, he’s not used to being asked for something so stereotypical of a fucking sitcom depicting entirely fictional neighborly behavior.

Yet. Here this strange man is. Bruno, in all his glory, with that awkward haircut and a small, polite smile as he patiently waits for Leone to respond. That’s kind of him, considering it takes Leone almost an entire minute of processing before he answers.

“Yeah, sure.” What the hell else can he say? “Wait here.”

Bruno’s subtle grin stretches wider, and he bobs his head on a nod. Damn near bouncing on his toes for some sugar, of all things. (It is not at all…cute. Not even a little.)

Backing away, it takes all of Leone’s strength not to close the door as he goes. Something about Bruno is a bit unsettling – like Leone’s looking at a human person but slightly to the left. Uncanny valley, or some shit like that.

He hasn’t been able to put his finger on what it is, exactly, but there’s definitely a strangeness about Bruno. Which isn’t a very nice thing to think of your new neighbor who’s been nothing but friendly – especially when the last person who lived next door was a despicable asshole who put out antifreeze for the stray cats, for fuck’s sake! – but since Bruno moved in…

Well. At least Leone hasn’t had to bury anymore cats. Or rush them to the vet, ferry them to shelters, six of which wound up at Mista’s place –

Leone wrenches his train of thought back on track. Grabs the sugar, and an appropriate measuring cup to dole some out.

Since Bruno moved in a week ago, he’s kept mostly to himself. Which isn’t odd, and is a trait that Leone prefers his neighbors to have. But the thing is, Bruno, in that time, has also managed to grow an entire garden. One of those natural ones with the tall grass and the flowers meant to attract bees. So much lush green crafted from a barren landscape of dead grass. Including a full-grown tree.

He waves to Leone every day, like clockwork, whenever Leone happens to go out to get the mail. He never seems to leave for work, or go anywhere in general – doesn’t even have a car, which might explain why he bothered to come over and ask for a cup of sugar, of all fucking things…

His house was also painted blue, somewhere in there. Used to be a faded off-white. He’s hung his laundry out to dry sideways. Always sits on that balcony of his and stares at the sky with binoculars, too, and –

No, Leone has not been spying on Bruno.

…Not exactly.

Bruno just happens to be the only interesting thing this neighborhood has to offer. And Leone has too much free time. That’s all.

Cup of sugar in hand, Leone turns on his heel and heads back to the front of his house. Bruno is waiting there, in the doorway, right where Leone left him. Not that Leone really expected him to wander anywhere, but thanks to a single early meeting with Bruno on the sidewalk that first fateful day, Leone happens to know that he has a certain lack of regard for personal space.

True to form, Bruno lights up when he sees the sugar, steps in so close that he toes the threshold of Leone’s house. He cups both palms together, hands held out ready and nearly bumping Leone in the chest.

Leone deposits the cup of sugar into those eager hands, and Bruno’s face brightens that much more.

“Thank you, Leone,” he says, eyes alight with genuine enthusiasm. (It’s. Weirdly endearing.)

When Leone nods, Bruno turns and bounces down the porch steps. His gait is awfully springy as he heads toward his own house, too, and Leone is stuck watching him as he goes –

Especially when Bruno raises that cup of sugar to his mouth and sticks his tongue into it. Keeps licking at it, even tips the damn thing into his mouth like it’s a glass of water. Grinning cheerful to himself all the way through his overgrown garden. Onto his porch and into his house.

Leone lingers, staring at where Bruno disappeared, for ten solid minutes.

Eventually, he gives up trying to make sense of anything and goes back inside.

-

The curtains to Leone’s bathroom window are wide-open, after his shower. That’s the only reason he notices anything weird going on next door – and it isn’t weird, at first, is the thing.

Leone is minding his own business, as he always does. Blow-drying his hair so it doesn’t dry in a scraggly mess or soak the back of his t-shirt, when he spots Bruno through the window. He’s outside, watering that vast green yard of his (that’s sort of started to encroach on Leone’s property, not that he minds, it’s less lawn for him to mow), with his back to Leone’s house.

Nothing at all odd about that. People water plants all the time, and that hose attachment is one of the nicer ones. Gentle rain type shit, multiple settings, that kind of thing. Bruno is humming off-key, Leone can hear it between hairdryer sessions, thanks to this open window. A tune that he can almost place.

That isn’t weird, either. It’s as normal a scene as you can get, right down to the casual overalls Bruno is wearing that have no right to look as charming as they do on him.

Shit doesn’t get bizarre until the phone rings.

Not Leone’s phone, mind you – whatever landline Bruno’s got in his house is damn loud, audible over the hose and this hairdryer alike. Though of course Bruno turns the hose off and sets it down before going inside to answer that call –

And by, ‘going inside’, Leone means, of course, that Bruno phases right the fuck through the wall.

Leone stares.

Watches the peeled-apart edges of that house merge back into a single entity, and keeps staring.

That…shouldn’t be possible, right? He didn’t miss anything, when he flunked his college physics class because he was too busy going on a bender every weekend and spending the weekdays too drunk to attend, right? There’s no hidden door, or whatever? No tear in the fabric of reality?

Hissing, Leone yanks his hairdryer away from where it’s starting to burn his arm, aimed at it while he was busy staring. He meets his own befuddled glare in the mirror. Redirects it back outside, but nothing’s changed out there.

It’s just a house. With a nice solid wall. Painted blue overnight with a garden that sprung up in days.

He’s got to be hallucinating…

-

“I’m going fucking insane,” Leone says, poking his fingers into the split of his curtains and separating them just enough to see out of. Vying for a glimpse of Bruno, as he ever is, lately.

“No, man, I’m telling you,” Mista’s voice is tangibly excited, even over the phone, “he’s not human.”

It takes all of Leone’s strength not to roll his eyes at that. Then he realizes he has no reason to be polite, and lets them roll. (They go right back to staring toward Bruno’s place, afterward.) “Fuck’s sake, Mista, what the hell would he be if he’s not human?”

And Leone knows exactly what Mista will reply to that with, so it’s no surprise when he says, with complete confidence: “An alien.”

Leone wants to bang his head off of the nearest wall. “Christ, not this again…”

“I’m serious! It’s the only explanation for all the weird shit you’ve told me about him. Either he’s a superpowered human in the witness protection program, or he’s not from around here.”

“Oh, he’s not from around here, alright,” Leone mutters. Still peering out his curtains.

“So you do think he’s an alien!”

For the love of – “Aliens aren’t real.”

“You mean to tell me,” Mista says, gearing up for his usual spiel and diving right on in, “there’s all those planets and undiscovered galaxies and shit out there, and you think us humans are the only sentient beings in the universe?”

“Shut the fuck up,” is all Leone can say. He’s fresh out of rebuttals, here, infuriatingly enough.

There’s an audible grin in Mista’s voice when he says, “Hey, you called me to complain, remember?”

“And I’m regretting –” Leone changes rubbernecking angles and stops short. “Holy fuck.”

“What?” Mista sounds far, far too invested now, and as much as Leone would love to, there’s no way he can keep this to himself.

“He’s got a fucking – a goddamned telescope, on his balcony.” When the fresh hell did he install that thing? It wasn’t there yesterday. Leone’s been watching, when he’s not sleeping or eating or working. (Scratch those last two, he’s usually watching while eating and is always watching instead of working. Customer service blows, even when you do it from the comfort of your own home.)

The way that Mista sits further upright on his couch is audible, he’s scooching forward on the cushions. Literally on the edge of his seat for this shit. Bruno’s officially become a spectacle, by now.

“For real?” Mista asks. “Like one of those little dinky ones people use to look at the moon?”

Oh, Leone wishes it were that. That would make sense for him to have missed. “No like…a huge-ass astronomer-approved thing. Looks like it should fall through his roof, the hell…”

Gleeful laughter from Mista. “See! He’s phoning home.”

“You can’t call people with a telescope, dipshit.”

“Okay, then he’s checking on his home planet, whatever the hell you prefer.”

None of that is what Leone prefers, thank you. He would appreciate if Bruno could stop exhibiting so much impossible behavior and thereby lending so much credit to Mista’s tall tales. That huge telescope moves in tiny increments. Bruno stands studious at its helm. Looking at god knows what…

“Keep denying the truth all you want, he’s an alien,” Mista insists –

And when Bruno lifts his face from that telescope only to wave directly at Leone (who is huddled mostly behind his curtains), well. Leone finds it remarkably hard to keep denying.

-

It’s two-thirty in the morning, and Leone is doing what he always does when he can’t sleep: applying generous amounts of Monteverdi directly into his brain via headphones cranked the whole way up, and waiting until his body gives up and passes out.

Not the healthiest strategy, but hey. That ‘regular bedtime’ trick failed him, tonight.

So here Leone lies. Exhausted and staring at the ceiling, wondering whether Bruno uses weird alien magic to make his ceiling look like the night sky, or if that’s against the alien witness protection rules – yeah, he called Mista again, sue him – and waiting for sleep to finally claim him. The whole rest thing isn’t going well, but he’s at least reached the conclusion that yeah, Bruno can probably make his ceiling look like stars.

Probably sits in bed and eats sugar by the spoonful and zooms in on his favorite constellations. Clusters of stars that Leone’s never even heard of, before, because they exist in a galaxy far, far away.

It’s silly.

Still better than the thoughts that usually plague him, late at night, and –

“I like your music.”

Holy shitting hell –

Leone sits bolt upright in bed, yanking his headphones off and staring wide-eyed at the door. His heart is in his throat and his breath is caught tight in his chest, and there’s Bruno.

What the fuck – he’s just standing there. Like he belongs here. Lingering in Leone’s bedroom doorway like a ghost, eerie as shit in the dark with his oddly bright eyes and hair that shines even in the pitch black of this room.

Scrambling for his bedside lamp, Leone flicks it on. “What the fuck are you doing in here?”

Bruno blinks. Again, Leone could swear he had more pupils than is normal, but within the next blink, they’re gone. “I heard your music,” he says, like this is a normal sound to pick up from next door, and a normal reason to do some casual breaking and entering at nearly three in the fucking morning.

Which brings Leone to his next question:

“How did you get in?”

“The front door.”

Oh, great, amazing. That clears absolutely nothing up. Leone can only assume that Bruno pulled his weird phasing trick, here, prying apart the edges of Leone’s locked front door to grant himself entry…

Not at all strange or invasive.

At least Leone’s heart has started beating again, and at a more sedate, healthy pace, too. No sense dying of a heart attack now that he’s accidentally established first contact.

“What are you doing?” Bruno says. Which is a strange as shit thing to ask.

He’s altogether too casual, considering the circumstances. Leone finds it hard to muster up much more fear, though. Which is strange in and of itself, but it’s not like Bruno’s ever done him any sort of harm. There’s…nothing to be afraid of. Except maybe abduction, and at this point, Leone would consider that a blessing.

He might as well humor this weird probably-alien who’s broken into his house. “I can’t sleep, so I’m listening to music until I pass out.”

Bruno nods, sagely. “It’s…opera?”

“Yes…?”

“It sounds lovely.”

“…Thank you.”

Another nod from Bruno. He keeps right on lingering by the door. Gazing around Leone’s room with undisguised interest. Not that there’s a whole lot to see, in here. Leone isn’t much of an interior decorator, and he prefers to keep his space tidy. Makeup products spread over his dresser are the worst of any mess.

While Bruno looks his fill, Leone examines him in turn. Searches for signs of alienness, like Mista told him to. What something like that would even look like, Leone has no clue.

Bruno is wearing pajamas. Shorts that stop just a little too high on his thighs and an oversized long-sleeved t-shirt that shows off his collarbone. Polka-dotted tube socks complete the look. Compliment his weird bobbed hairstyle, somehow.

…He’s definitely not planning on leaving anytime soon. Or starting a conversation. It’s up to Leone to go out on a bizarre limb and ask, “You can’t sleep either?”

Bruno hums, and tilts his head. He seems entranced by Leone’s lipsticks, staring at them with enthrallment despite never moving from his post by the door. “I guess I’m sort of homesick,” he says, and haha, wonderful, wait until Mista hears that shit… Bright blue eyes land on Leone, locked vibrant. “It feels lightyears away, sometimes.”

He’s smiling in an oddly human way, but just a little to the left, as usual. A sort of smirk that implies he’s made a joke. God it can’t be, there’s no way that this is real. Leone fell asleep after all and this is a fucked-up dream.

Sitting sprawled atop the covers as he is, Leone tries to discreetly pinch himself on the thigh. It hurts.

Fantastic.

Being as Bruno is still watching him, and Leone understands what it is to be homesick – not for an alien planet, but he hasn’t really felt a general sense of belonging since he was maybe ten years old – a ridiculous thought is forming in his head. A list of mundane things he does when he’s feeling any flavor of down.

A deep breath, and he makes eye contact with Bruno. “Have you ever seen Sling Blade?”

-

Tipping his face back into the shower spray, Leone relishes in the steamy warmth.

Summer is starting to meet its slow end, and the first chill of fall hit today. Depression crept in extra-strong with it, of course, and the only thing to combat the early sunset is a long hot shower. Followed by skipping the hairdryer and maybe calling Bruno for another movie night.

That’s…something that Leone’s been doing a lot, lately. Hanging out with Bruno who-is-probably-an-alien. He’s good company, and Leone is having fun despite himself, getting to know his new neighbor. (The surface of said neighbor, at least. He gets the feeling there’s more, beneath that.)

So far, he’s learned that Bruno hates popcorn but loves kettle corn. He has a bizarre and unparalleled sweet tooth, and has devoured his weight in chocolate ice cream since Leone introduced him to it – even topped it with sugar, last time.

And Bruno cries over rom-coms and dramas. His eyes go all misty and unnatural, wavering in a way that human eyes really don’t. (Which Leone finds cute. To his horror. It’s fine.) He also knows an awful lot about the ecosystem, here. Rambled about how good his all-natural garden is for it for hours, once, mentioning that he plans to ‘install’ more trees (not plant – install). He physically recoils at apples and beans (the first a personal preference, the other he says is toxic), prefers jazz music, always wears socks, takes lengthy bathroom breaks (seems fascinated by the solidity of mirrors, of all things), sleeps with his eyes open and in any position. Which, yes, is as freaky as it sounds…

All of Bruno sometimes shimmers, too. Particularly when Leone touches him, something that happens on accident more than on purpose. Because Bruno keeps his distance. But once in a while, Leone finds himself drawn in, and the texture of Bruno’s skin is somehow…off. Smooth and fizzling against Leone.

He hasn’t confirmed that Bruno is an alien. It’s a theory that’s a little stronger than casual suspicion by now. To Mista’s utter delight and Leone’s utter indifference.

The most important fact about Bruno, though, remains the earliest Leone learned about him:

Despite the way he dodges direct contact, Bruno has no concept of personal –

“Leone!”

Jumping in place, Leone jolts out from under the shower, lurching forward to yank the curtain open and poke his head out – being sure to leave most of his body covered – because there’s Bruno. Bathroom door phased apart so he can hang inside, which is the most blatant use of his alien abilities that Leone’s ever seen up close –

“Bruno, what the fuck are you –”

“I would like permission to access your home’s basement,” Bruno says. His eyes are vast and blue and they definitely have at least three pupils each, now, but that is the least bizarre facet of this whole thing.

First off, there’s the fact that Bruno is more worried about encroaching on Leone’s basement than he is about barging in while Leone is naked in the shower.

And, second off, well:

“I don’t have a basement.”

At this, Bruno looks almost sheepish. “Yes. You do.”

Okay. Whatever the hell that means – probably some kind of alien bullshit. Leone is too busy wiping wet hair out of his face and trying to lean closer to Bruno while hiding more of himself. Flexible translucent-blurry plastic is all that’s maintaining his modesty, at the moment. Not ideal.

Disregarding the fact that Leone doesn’t have a basement, he asks, “Why do you need down there?”

“It’s where my spaceship is parked.”

…Ah.

So it’s true, is it?

God – what the fuck – Leone’s been getting used to the whole alien notion, sure, but it was never so definite. In the back of his mind, he always assumed there’d be a reasonable explanation, so this is…a lot to wrap his head around. A fucking spaceship, Bruno says.

Unless Leone is mistaken, there’s something like a blush creeping up Bruno’s cheeks. An educated guess, on Leone’s part; it’s nowhere near a human blush…

In fact, Bruno’s skin looks a little less human by the second. Oddly blurry, going pale before fading darker – flickering might be the best term to describe what’s going on, and that blush sort of looks like veins flaring to life beneath the surface. Dark blue lines spreading out in lightning patterns over Bruno’s cheeks.

Leone’s got a million questions simmering below the surface, but somehow the only one that makes it out of his mouth is, “Are you leaving?”

Which is a surprisingly sad notion – even though that is not at all the point, right now, Bruno just admitted to being an honest to god alien and the only thing Leone can spit out is that, what the hell.

That weird sort of blush on Bruno’s cheeks flares to life for a moment, then recedes. His eyes blink wide at Leone before they skirt to the side. “I have to,” he mutters, and oh. There’s a note of disappointment there. Leone thinks. Or maybe he’s just projecting.

“Why do you –”

Muted banging interrupts, coming from next door – sounds like someone pounding a fist against Bruno’s front door – followed by a series of muffled shouts. They’re in some language that Leone doesn’t recognize, composed of sounds he’s not sure a human mouth could make.

“Law enforcement, from my home planet,” Bruno explains. Home planet. Holy fuck. “I…didn’t exactly leave on the best of terms, and now they’re here to –” More banging from next door. Something that sounds like a goddamned laser blast, right out of a sci-fi movie. “They are apparently here to kill me.”

Stomach turning to lead, Leone reaches out and turns his shower off with a rough yank. He’s standing a close to Bruno as bathtub and shower curtain will allow. “Do you need help?”

Bruno looks stunned, for a moment. Eyes wide and fixed on Leone. Slowly, he shakes his head. “I’ll just have to –” He falls silent. Unreadable expression going even less-readable the longer Leone watches it. He can tell that it’s sad, though, Bruno’s face. It’s got the same lowered eyebrows and downturned mouth. “…I just need to get to my ship. In your basement.”

Not that basement shit again. “I told you I don’t have a –”

“Goodbye, Leone.”

And then Bruno is gone, that asshole. Ducks back through the bathroom door, and just like that Leone is scrambling out of the tub. Dries himself off quick and pulls on his clothes over damp skin, flying down the stairs only to find Bruno peeling apart the entryway floor.

He’s already disappearing into the hole, and before Leone can think better of it, he runs for that spot as it starts to seal up –

He falls. Down, into space that shouldn’t exist below his house, heart leaping and arms flailing for something to stop his descent – but it’s not a long drop and before he knows it everything erupts into pain when he lands with a loud clang!

“Leone!”

That’s Bruno, at Leone’s side. Hands on him, easing him upright to sitting, and, yeah, this one is Leone’s bad. Rushing toward a fucking hole in the floor with zero forethought…he deserves these bruises…

“Are you alright?”

Absently, Leone nods. He’s a little distracted taking stock of his surroundings. Sleek metal and so many flashing buttons. Illuminating lights in a myriad of colors that combat the dark of the underground. Comfortable seating. Doors that lead who-knows-where, and a giant window at the front, and huh, what do you know, all of this is super sci-fi-esque, too. This is absolutely a spaceship, where Leone has landed, how do you like that shit.

“…Was this under my floorboards this whole time?” Leone asks, instead of saying anything reasonable. He’s not sure he’s actually alright, though, all things considered, and so doesn’t feel qualified to answer that question further.

Besides, he’s stuck on the thought of Bruno landing in his house – or at least fucking parking here – pretending to meet Leone out on the street, crafty bastard –

Bruno is shaking his head, yanking on Leone’s arm until he acquiesces to stand. “Why did you follow me,” he says, and it sounds more like a lament than a legitimate question. “You’ll be implicated in my escape for sure, now.”

“I couldn’t just –”

“They will kill you, Leone.” Those blue eyes, with their many pupils, are imploring. And Bruno is standing in too-close, as usual. If he tips upward just a little more, their noses will brush. It would probably have the same smooth-tingling feel that the rest of his skin does.

…

Leone should maybe be more worried about the kill comment than this proximity.

The distraction cuts off when Bruno takes a step back. Something dreadful passes over his face. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Leone. “I’m going to have to erase your memory,” he says.

And – and hold the fuck up, here – Bruno can do that? Is going to do that, for some asinine reason, he’s lifting his hands, reaching for Leone’s face –

So Leone jerks his head out of reach, lurches backward. Spits out the first words that come to mind. “I don’t want to forget you.” God. The notion is almost unbearable. Makes Leone’s stomach sink and his heart deflate and just that thought is far worse than the idea of Bruno leaving, in general.

Bruno’s expression twists sour. His shoulders rise on a deep breath, his outstretched hands curling into fists that drop to his sides. He opens his mouth and snaps, “It’s the only way to keep you safe, Leone!”

Oh, that, Leone can’t stand for. It isn’t fair at all, doesn’t count as protection, as far as he’s concerned. He doesn’t want to be kept safe at the cost of losing Bruno – which is bizarre as fuck and selfish as all hell, but he can’t help it. “I don’t care.”

Shoulders slumping, Bruno says, “You should care – if I leave you with your memories, it’s…you’ll be a…” A few seconds of hesitation. “Liability for me.” Well. That stings, some, but it’s softened by that quivering edge to Bruno’s mouth as he speaks. “And that’s if they let you live, when they’re done interrogating you.” That is a whole lot to unpack, but Leone doesn’t have time right now, because Bruno is raising his hands again –

“I’ll go with you,” Leone blurts out.

Bruno pauses. Fingers halfway to Leone’s face, they lower slowly. His eyes go even sadder, twisting Leone’s heart up tight as Bruno says, “…I can’t ask you to leave your life, here.”

…In that case, Leone will make this easy. “You’re not asking me. I’m telling you: I’m going with you.”

Because there’s something about Bruno that makes Leone want to cling on tight to his presence. A growing bright spot in Leone’s life that’s starting to become more than that, and he can’t deny that he’s as intrigued as he is attached.

A kind alien on the run from the law. This whole thing fills Leone with more enthusiasm for life and will to see what’s around the corner than anything else has in years.

Bruno is quiet, for a long moment. All he does is stare hard at Leone with those unfathomable eyes of his. Another unreadable expression on a face that gets more luminescent as that glamor fades; it’s intense, though, so Leone stares right back. Aims for all those pupils and notices that they’re a bit asymmetrical, actually, Bruno’s left eye has two of them merging in toward each other. Kind of cute.

All of him is. Kind of cute. Kind of hot, actually, and thank you, brain, for supplying Leone with yet more inappropriate thoughts as hostile aliens beat down the door to his house and this friendly neighbor alien searches Leone with intent.

Eventually, Bruno shuffles in a half-step closer. Leans up into Leone’s personal space. So close that his breath is a cool breeze against Leone’s chin.

“If we weren’t biologically incompatible,” Bruno says, “I would very much like to kiss you.”

And then he’s away and booting up the controls and Leone’s face is on fire.

Chapter Text

Buccellati raises a fist, and knocks as unobtrusively as he can on the solid metal door in front of him. It’s still loud – still aggravates that throbbing behind his eyes, but he ignores the flare-up of pain. Waits patiently here.

No matter how long it takes Abbacchio to answer, Buccellati knows that he’s in there. For one thing, he wouldn’t be anywhere else after everything that happened today, and for another, Buccellati can feel him nearby. A mind just out of reach. Probably intentionally so. Trying to focus on that fleeting ghost of a connection is making Buccellati’s headache worse, though, so he pulls back. Stares hard at the door.

It opens after a moment. Only because Abbacchio knows without a doubt that it’s Buccellati, out here, and not some nosy medic or a starry-eyed rookie (Abbacchio’s words, not Buccellati’s).

And Abbacchio looks…about as well as can be expected. Hair down, if a bit tangled; he probably hasn’t brushed it since taking it out of its earlier ponytail. Smudged makeup under his eyes that was sloppily removed, jumpsuit open and hanging around his waist to reveal a tight undershirt. His shoulder is bruised, already purpling. Buccellati should’ve brought ice, too…

“Come in,” Abbacchio mutters, before Buccellati can even get a word out, and he’s already slinking back toward his bed. Taking a heavy seat.

Buccellati follows as if he’s pulled along by some magnetic force, closing the door behind himself as he goes. It shuts with a heavy clang of finality, but he’s more than used to schooling his expression against painful spikes in his headaches by now. Worth more concern is Abbacchio, who’s in much worse shape.

Aspirin won’t really help, but. It’ll ease the physical ache.

Sitting down next to Abbacchio, Buccellati offers the pills along with a bottle of water, and Abbacchio accepts both of them wordlessly. This extended stretch of silence between them isn’t awkward, anymore. Is almost comforting in its familiarity.

Would be entirely comforting, if not for the darkened mood that clings to Abbacchio’s being, bogging him down.

All Buccellati really wants to do is lean his sore head on Abbacchio’s shoulder. Close his eyes and sleep the day away – but Abbacchio’s got that swollen bruise, there, and too many thoughts-memories-feelings prod at the edges of Buccellati’s mind. His own collection alongside Abbacchio’s. More than either of them are used to sharing outside of the drift. It doesn’t matter.

Abbacchio swallows his aspirin with a mouthful of water, caps the bottle and sets it down on the floor. “How’s your head?”

Buccellati’s never even told Abbacchio that he gets headaches after every neural handshake, and he wonders if Abbacchio recognizes that he’s come to that realization all on his own. Not that it really makes much difference either way.

“It’s fine,” Buccellati says. At the moment, he is far more invested in seeking out eye contact with Abbacchio to pay any mind to the way his head throbs on even the slightest movement. “How’s your shoulder?”

A derisive snort from Abbacchio. “I’ll live.” The words fall bitter from his mouth. Like he resents that fact.

…He does, a little. Buccellati frowns. Didn’t want to notice that detail, but he couldn’t help it. Even aching as it is, his brain is always reflexively reaching for Abbacchio’s anymore, no Pons required. Most of the time, that’s a comforting thing – or even fun – but right now, it only –

Ah. He shouldn’t be thinking this.

Abbacchio’s nose scrunches up on a scowl, and he shoves further onto the bed. Wedges himself into the bottom corner, back against the wall. He glares hard at a spot on the floor. “Sorry,” he spits.

Oh, Buccellati misses that warmth at his side already. His heart sinks heavy in his chest. “You don’t –”

“I did it again.” A deep breath, sucked in shaky and let out rough through Abbacchio’s nose. “In the middle of a kaiju attack.” His hands curl into fists, gripping handfuls of his pants. “I can’t keep pulling this shit, it’s going to get us –”

“It turned out fine, Leone.” And it will continue to turn out fine. Buccellati won’t even entertain the idea of losing this, losing Abbacchio. Can’t let it happen, so he won’t. It’s as simple as that. No matter how many times Abbacchio gets lost chasing the rabbit, Buccellati will sit with him through it. Pull him out of there however he can and pick up the pieces afterward and they’ll be okay.

At the very least, they’ll be alive. That furious snarl on Abbacchio’s face is beautiful because it means he lived, today. “By some stupid fucking coincidence, and only because Requiem was on our asses the entire goddamned time.”

“You snapped out of it.” It’s progress. If only Abbacchio could see that.

“That doesn’t matter!”

On this last word, Abbacchio kicks hard at an already-dented metal bedpost, heavy boot that he still hasn’t taken off clanging too-loud, and Buccellati winces before he can help it. A combination of the noise and those spears of self-hate that Abbacchio’s mind wields too handily.

Buccellati doesn’t know what to say. Wishes he were better at these things, but all he can offer is his presence and a soft sympathetic, “It matters, Leone…”

Abbacchio shakes his head, dismissive. “Please shut up.”

He takes a few more deep breaths, during which Buccellati stays as quiet and calm as possible. Bites his tongue on whatever sharp, frustrated thing he might say. Offers what he can, from over here, just like when they’re in their jaeger, in the hopes that he can be some kind of balm to Abbacchio. Because that’s what Abbacchio is for him, spreading out and filling all those lonesome corners that Buccellati can’t stand on his worst days.

It takes a while, but eventually, those hateful tears in Abbacchio’s eyes recede. His sharp glare settles, and the aggravated rise and fall of his chest evens out. His knuckles are no longer cracking from being held so tight.

Slowly, Abbacchio’s gaze shifts to Buccellati. Honeyed gold sinking into his skin, caught in his own eyes at last. Achingly familiar and with a sad edge to them that makes him want to cry. But only almost.

“Come…” Abbacchio swallows. Picks up a hand to beckon, fingers twitching. “C’mere.”

There’s pink flaring to life on those sharp cheekbones. Like it always used to, after they met formally for the first time, and Buccellati would catch Abbacchio staring at him. Two down-on-their-luck pilots thrown into a drift compatibility test together thanks to a rapid decline in viable pairs.

They’d been some of the best, in their day. Had similar trauma…the idea was that they could fit together. With all their jagged edges.

Abbacchio had to be dragged back into the field. Buccellati went where he was needed. Didn’t matter if he liked it or not.

Definitely didn’t matter if he liked Abbacchio or not (though he very much did). Buccellati did his part and coerced Abbacchio and got them both to the bridge to pilot those scrapped-together pieces of their old lives. Whatever was salvageable. (Less of Moody Blues. To this day Buccellati has never seen a jaeger so destroyed as that one, when its wreckage was hauled in all those years ago. Abbacchio shouldn’t have survived for so many reasons, that day. But he did. He’s here.)

Not exactly a smooth start, between them. Getting to know each other too-well and too-fast and they never stood a chance at shutting each other out, so it was only a matter of time until Buccellati felt dangerously comfortable.

So…here he is now. Months later. Inching his way further onto the bed to sit in close to Abbacchio, because everything hurts less with him close.

Buccellati is so weak around Abbacchio that, when Abbacchio pats one of his own thighs and mumbles, “Lie down,” Buccellati does as requested. Feels a certain giddy fondness in his chest as he does, too, blossoming bright against whatever gloom has crept in.

His head is in Abbacchio’s lap, and they’ll be okay, the two of them. Together.

“Can’t blame you for getting a headache after spending so much time in my shitty brain,” Abbacchio grumbles, and Buccellati wants to protest that, but –

Gentle fingers land in his hair. His eyes slip closed on automatic, and words fall away. He sighs out a soft, pleased noise, and Abbacchio responds by rubbing his fingertips in a bit firmer. Steady, soothing circles that ease away the headache. Both of Abbacchio’s hands are at it, now. One massaging at Buccellati’s temple, the other along his scalp…

So much warm and gentle contact that Buccellati could fall asleep, here. Relishing in those hands in his hair. The soft-firm thighs beneath his head. All of Abbacchio so wonderfully within reach.

And then…one of those hands starts to tremble. The other disappears, lifted away somewhere higher – probably to catch that wet, quiet gasp from Abbacchio –

Buccellati knows what’s coming even before the memories brush his own. He can see it almost plain as day, for a moment.

These are his memories, too, now. This friendly, open-faced brunet that used to grin at Abbacchio and has kissed Abbacchio, held Abbacchio, loved Abbacchio – Ennio, his name was, and he screams when the kaiju gets to him, tears him out blasts him apart and leaves nothing, ripping open a significant amount of Abbacchio, physical and figurative, whose heart is rent in two as agony lances down his spine, through his limbs, into his skull.

Abbacchio died that day along with Ennio. Some significant piece of him is long gone. He sees himself as nothing but scarred remains that just barely get by, but he’s improving and Buccellati aches.

Wet drips onto his forehead, seeping through his bangs to get to skin. It’s not blood, he tells himself. Not a blood droplet from his father, who is curled over him and begging him to wake up. (Some of the last words he’d ever say but Buccellati was lucky enough to give him a proper goodbye in the med-bay after the dust cleared which was more than Abbacchio got.)

No. It’s not blood, now. Just tears squeezed from sore eyes, and Buccellati wrenches his own eyelids apart. The hand stroking along his scalp is still shaking, but it keeps at its work, easing his headache.

Abbacchio hovers overhead, hunched and quivering, with a hand pressed over his eyes. Tears leak out between his fingers or roll down his cheeks. His mouth is twisted downward, and each breath he takes hitches on a sob. They make Buccellati’s chest hurt; he reaches out without thought.

One hand meets a bruised, curled-in shoulder while the other brushes the damp, scarred skin of Abbacchio’s face –

And it snaps something, in Abbacchio, who reclaims both hands only to wrap his arms tight around Buccellati. So, so tight, and he’s squeezing ever-tighter, but Buccellati doesn’t mind. Winds his own arms around Abbacchio’s torso, helping to hold himself half-upright, making this awkward position a bit easier.

He buries his face in Abbacchio’s shoulder, because Abbacchio is thoroughly burrowed into him, right now.

This…is the hardest it’s ever been, for Buccellati to hold in tears.

He does it, though. For Abbacchio’s sake.

“What if I –” Abbacchio’s breath hitches. His voice is muffled, with his mouth shoved against Buccellati’s shoulder, but it’s fine. Buccellati can understand him fine. “What if – the same thing happens, to you, because I’m – I can’t –”

“Shh, Leone,” Buccellati soothes. Tries to ignore the way his own voice is a shaky mess that he can’t raise above a whisper.

Abbacchio only shakes his head. Eyes clenched shut and nose digging into Buccellati’s collarbone. “I can’t survive – again –” More painful, hitched breaths. “If I lost you, it’d be my fault, and I’d – I’ll die – I can’t, Bruno, it’s too –”

“I know.” The words are barely-there. Buccellati runs his hands over every bit of Abbacchio he can reach. His hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders, that too-hot forehead. “I know…”

Those arms wound around Buccellati cling all the tighter, and he can’t get any more words out. Can’t tell Abbacchio that this fear is mutual and that he himself would sooner die than lose Abbacchio because somehow he doesn’t think that would help even though it’s the truth.

Curling impossibly closer, Abbacchio starts trembling in earnest. His voice is barely there. “Don’t – don’t leave me, please.”

Buccellati presses a firm kiss to the nearest roughened scar. He promises the impossible because he can’t stand not to. “I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Sticky Fingers unzips a section of wall beside the front door, and Bruno reaches into the mailbox from inside, plucking out a stack of letters. He turns, headed back toward the kitchen table and his laptop alike. Shuffles through the mail as he goes. There’s a lot, today…

A few pieces of junk that he tucks under his arm to tear up and toss, a bill flicked to the back of the pile for later consideration, an ad-with-coupons from that plant store in town that Leone will claim is dangerous, something work-related they’ve been expecting from Giorno who’s traveling, and a lightweight manila envelope.

This last one is probably for Leone – feels like that lipstick he ordered, by the shape of it.

So Bruno backtracks into the hall, and pokes his head up the stairwell. The shower isn’t running anymore, so he calls, “Leone, you have a package!”

Ordinarily, he’d wait for Leone to come down and just give it to him, but this one’s had Leone impatient. Grumping back and forth about how he shouldn’t have waited until he was out of black to order a new one – and then grumping some more, when the shipping was delayed twice.

“Fucking finally,” Leone grouches, true to form. It’s a bit muffled by the bathroom door. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

Message delivered, it’s back toward the kitchen with Bruno. Bill dropped into the pile of important items at the center of this table, Giorno’s letter set on a nearby shelf to await his visit (whereupon he’ll likely transform it into a houseplant; Leone will be thrilled), junk mail zipped apart into the trash. Coupons tucked under Bruno’s laptop, and this package –

Bruno gives it another casual once-over, and his eyes catch on the label. Stick there.

The return address is nothing to write home about, but the recipient’s address…

Shouldn’t really be making Bruno’s heart skip a beat like this. It is, though. Gets his eyes to go a little wet right along with that unsteady beating, because the last thing he expected to see printed here was the name Leone Buccellati.

Just reading it – just thinking it stirs up something terribly fond inside of him. It’s overwhelming. He didn’t connect the fact that Leone would. Do this.

Over the course of so many discussions before their wedding, the two of them came to the decision not to hyphenate their last names.

…And then they went back and forth on that choice several more times, discussed other options, eventually resettling on keeping their own surnames to avoid any potential legal snafus. It wouldn’t have been anything that Giorno couldn’t smooth over via his new position, but. It wasn’t worth the hassle it would bring. Never mind that letting their names be so openly known to government employees is less than ideal.

The (technically unofficial) marriage already took enough strings pulled, and there was no reason to complicate things further. Bruno is more than happy that he gets to have Leone in this way.

Just two months ago, he uttered the word husband in reference to Leone for the first time and that alone was…

God, that too had Bruno’s heart fluttering like it is now. A certain thrill rising in his stomach, as he reads Leone Buccellati over and over again through repeatedly blurring eyes. No matter how he blinks the tears away they keep coming back.

Footsteps sound on the stairs, and Bruno considers putting down the envelope, but it’s glued to his hand, apparently, and his eyes are glued to it in turn –

Arms wind their way around Bruno’s waist. They settle warm and folded at his stomach as a broad chest is pressed to his back, and Leone sidles right in close. Just like that. Easy. Black-painted fingernails and a ring that Bruno can’t help but glance at, given the circumstances. A firm kiss is planted on Bruno’s cheek.

“Is that my lipstick?” Leone asks, peering over Bruno’s shoulder at the package in his hands.

Bruno hums out an affirmative noise. Tries not to overreact, but he’s probably long past that stage, ready to melt in Leone’s arms. As usual. This time with a little extra heat, maybe.

Leaning back into Leone and all of that warmth he offers (not even long wet hair is a bother), Bruno kisses that strong jaw – except he can’t take his eyes off of that name on this package while he does, and just goes right back to staring directly at it, afterward. Thinks he’s read it enough times, by now. His brain disagrees.

Those arms at his waist squeeze in a bit, reaffirming the hug. Leone is kissing Bruno’s face again. Much to the delight of that fluttering that’s invaded Bruno’s heart and will not leave.

That work on his laptop can wait. Dinner can wait even longer.

He’s got lipstick labelled Leone Buccellati in his hands and the actual man behind him, so –

“Are you blushing?” Leone mumbles in close to Bruno, only backed away the tiniest bit to better look at Bruno’s face, probably – and of course he finds a flush, there.

Bruno is thoroughly warmed right now. Feels like the first time he realized his crush (except without the regretful aftertaste) and every other moment that Leone has overwhelmed him since. All he can do is nod, because there’s no denying the obvious.

Leone grunts out a little noise in response. Presses his lips to Bruno’s temple one last time, is back to peeking at the mail. Reaching toward his package with one hand, Leone asks, “What for?”

“This,” Bruno offers the padded manila envelope, and Leone takes it from him, “is addressed to Leone Buccellati.”

Leone freezes. Keeps the envelope held out in front of Bruno, going sort-of rigid along his back, and stays stuck for a few heartbeats – and, oh, Bruno wants to kiss him again more than anything, but then he’s gone. Shifting away, clearing his throat. Trying to open the package with fumbling fingers.

“It is,” he mutters. He’s much redder than Bruno. It is altogether charming. “I told you I was going to use it. Your name…”

He did. Just once, he’d said that – late at night, when they were lounged in bed together, and Leone was being especially cozy-fond, that state he sinks deepest into after sex. He’d curled into Bruno and pressed his mouth to the portion of tattoo right over Bruno’s heart and said that he didn’t care about legalities. I want to use your name after we’re married.

Bruno remembers shivering, back then. Tangling his hands in Leone’s hair and kissing him all over while fearing that his heart would burst because it was stuffed full of so much love.

But he…didn’t think of all the implications involved. Most people who knew Leone before still call him Abbacchio, after all. The two of them don’t meet many new people, and he’s only Leone to Bruno – there aren’t many instances that come up otherwise. Not many chances for him to be Leone Buccellati.

Pausing with his fingers poised to tear into the packaging, Leone stares at the label. Seems like he’s transfixed by it, too. “This is the first time I’ve seen it like this.”

“I like it.” Bruno only realizes how true that is as he says it. A surge of heat through his stomach. Heavy heartbeat in his chest and eyes that fix intent on Leone – on that odd tilt to his mouth and his fingers on that letter –

“Me, too,” Leone says. He’s smiling. Glances at Bruno so gently.

And this time it’s Bruno who closes the distance between them. He crowds Leone against the kitchen table, dips his hands beneath the hem of Leone’s shirt and lets them creep upward over that soft-firm abdomen, muscles jumping under his fingers. Leone’s throat bobs as he swallows, that smile still in place, and Bruno slots his hips between spreading thighs. Stares directly into purple-gold eyes and says, “It suits you.”

That package is dropped to the table with care so that Leone can grab hold of Bruno in turn and surge down to meet him halfway for a kiss.

(If, later on, Bruno cuts that label out for safekeeping, it’s no one’s business but Leone Buccellati’s.)

Chapter Text

Leone is pouting. He’s never been very good at hiding it, but he’s trying – despite the fact that it’s an extra futile exercise, seeing as Bruno can read him so well.

That scowl aimed at the ceiling is too soft to be born from anger, Leone’s lipstick-free mouth not curled down as rigid as it would be, if that were the case. His eyes are only simmering on a glower, the crease between his brows not nearly deep enough to imply anything too dark is on his mind. The lines of his body are too lax here, lying atop the sheets, no tension in him at all.

Although, that last point might have something to do with the heat. Bruno himself feels pretty molten right about now; August is just about the worst time to have a broken air conditioning unit…

The sun will be setting soon, and should bring some kind of respite with it – but in the meantime. They’re pretty stuck. (Or sticky, to be more precise.)

Stripping down to their underwear didn’t do much to help. No matter how breathable this lace is, it’s no match for sweltering heat and a heaping helping of humidity. Bruno would get entirely naked, if he thought it’d do any good, but there’s no hope against air this thick and stifling.

Even Leone has opted for something more strappy in a useless attempt to keep from overheating. Bruno, admittedly, keeps staring at him. The way those rarely-worn underwear cradle Leone’s form is all too tempting.

It sets off sluggish sparks low in Bruno’s stomach, but he can’t muster much gumption to cross this minimal space between them and do something about it, much as he’d love to. His back is plastered to their silk sheets with sweat, and the body heat that Leone radiates is almost too much even at this distance. They aren’t even touching, scant centimeters between their legs.

The heat could very well be responsible for Leone’s pout. Extreme weather doesn’t agree with him, and he was complaining about the temperature being unbearable earlier (all afternoon, more like). But that’s the thing, with Leone – he’d be openly ranting now, too, if it was just the heat that’s got him down.

So it has to be something else. Something that he’s not as comfortable openly griping about.

Unless he’s just tired of complaining…

No use staring at him trying to puzzle it out. Since that whole early bedtime to spare some agony idea isn’t working so well, Bruno might as well just ask, “Why are you pouting?”

Those eyes that are aimed slightly to the side and glowering at the ceiling shift over toward Bruno. “Hm?”

“Why are you pouting?” Bruno dutifully repeats.

Leone grunts. “I’m not,” he says, even as that furrow in his brow ticks deeper and his cheeks gain a telltale dusting of pink.

This only makes him more handsome, and Bruno has the sudden urge to straddle him. To peel himself off of these dampening sheets and work up a proper sweat, instead of this vaguely sticky misery that keeps his hands thrown up above his head, thoroughly to himself. All because this muggy weather makes bumping elbows almost unbearable.

Continuing to prod is his only option, here. (At least until the sun is fully set. Maybe then he can make his move.) “You’re upset about something.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

And it must be something truly mortifying, to have Leone blushing brighter the more Bruno pushes the subject. He shifts in place some, too, dear Leone. His gentle glare is aimed at Bruno, now, the full brunt of that pout sent this way.

Bruno stares right back at him. If necessary, he can do this all night.

Leone’s forehead is shiny, white hairs frazzled by humidity too short to be collected in that bun of his are framing his face. Must be ticklish, because he lifts a hand to push them away, slicking them back with sweat. “It’s not important,” he mutters – which is a dead giveaway that it is important.

Changing position and rolling up onto his side in this weather is a mixed bag. On the one hand, thick air feels cooler against Bruno’s newly exposed back, but on the other, his side is now paying the stifling price. All the way up to that elbow he’s leaning on, his arm burying itself in the plush of his pillow to support his head. Like this, he can peer easier at Leone, though; that makes it a bearable discomfort.

Just as helpful as this new vantage point is Leone’s stubborn refusal to look away, at first. His purple-gold eyes are fixed on Bruno’s in a staring contest that he has to know he can’t win…

“If it’s bothering you, it’s important,” Bruno says.

And Leone’s looks away, just like that. His blush is flaring up, and he grumbles something inaudible over toward his shoulder.

Shifting some, Bruno picks up a foot to nudge his toes against Leone’s leg. He watches goosebumps erupt over Leone’s forearms despite the heat, and, ah, that gives him some idea as to what this could be about. “Talk to me, Leone.”

“…It’s nothing.”

Funny how his answer keeps subtly changing.

Bruno raises an eyebrow toward that intentionally diverted look. That blush on Leone’s cheeks is only spreading farther, and his stomach rises on a deep inhale when Bruno lets his lower leg rest across both of Leone’s. A point of contact that’s bound to get slicked by sweat within minutes, but is an important test.

Hm…

Beneath Bruno’s touch, both of Leone’s shins are shifting. Just a little, as he acclimatizes to the weight of that leg atop his own. Bruno reaches out with the hand not propping his head, and trails his fingertips up the inside of Leone’s arm, stopping in the pit of his elbow. His fingers rub easy here, where a light sheen of sweat has collected.

Leone’s chest hitches tellingly on a caught breath. He swallows hard, and his eyes glide over toward Bruno on a glance.

With slow intent, Bruno leans in. Holds that golden gaze until he’s dropping a lazy kiss to Leone’s shoulder – at which point those eyes flutter closed, and Leone lets out another easing sigh.

His mouth leaving Leone’s tacky skin, Bruno murmurs, “Once the sun sets, I’ll ride you.”

Vibrant eyes fly open and latch onto Bruno with record speed, and Leone’s cheeks flare up even redder than before. The air between them heats another degree, as does Leone’s skin – and Bruno relishes in those renewed sparks that dance down his spine, but –

“I’m not – that’s not what I was going to…” Leone’s voice fizzles out, his mouth pressed closed.

Oh. Bruno withdraws his leg, but leaves his hand, flattening it so that his palm rests in the crook of Leone’s elbow. “You don’t want to have sex?”

“No,” Leone’s face goes a shade more mortified, eyes widening, “I mean yes, I do want to have sex, sounds fucking amazing.” Ah, good, Bruno also thinks so. “But I just –” His chest heaves on a huff, so Bruno shifts his hand downward. Lets his fingers rub gently along Leone’s forearm. “I was away for a week and a half.”

Yes. He was.

For work, with Giorno – Leone only got back earlier this afternoon. (Hence the level of patience Bruno had for all of those weather complaints, he hasn’t been able to hear them in person for a long time.)

“And I missed you,” Leone continues. So endearing that Bruno’s heart floods fond. His fingers migrate down past Leone’s wrist to squeeze his hand, which seems to break open the dam that much more, because Leone blurts out, “I missed holding you,” all in one go – and –

It turns Bruno to absolute putty.

“But it’s so fucking hot today that all that contact would be miserable, and it’s pissing me off because I just really want to –”

Bruno tips forward, landing half on top of Leone, nudging himself that much higher so that his mouth is level with that grumpy frown. Presses in for one quick, gentle kiss, and then another, and there’s already an uncomfortable amount of sweat building between them (even for his taste), but Bruno is having a hard time caring. “Cuddle?” he murmurs, right into Leone’s mouth, winding his arms around broad shoulders going slippery.

An affirmative noise from Leone (almost a whimper), his hands hot at Bruno’s waist. “Though I definitely don’t mind if you want to –” Another kiss. Deeper, this time. “To fuck, later.”

“Mhm.” More sounds spilled against Leone’s lips, because Bruno’s missed him, too. His touch. His everything. Bruno drops a trail of kisses over that sharp cheekbone, up toward Leone’s temple. Coaxes breathy pleasured noises from him. Slots a thigh between those strong legs that automatically shift to entwine tighter. “You can hold me however you want, as long as you want.” And Bruno will enthusiastically take part.

“It’s too hot,” Leone complains, his head dropping back on the pillow. His chest is glistening where it heaves. Forehead slick where Bruno licks at it briefly.

“Hm…” Those fingers twitch tighter at Bruno’s waist, arms drawing up and around to hold him in close, despite the heat. He feels lighter than air, slip-sliding against so much of Leone’s skin, nuzzling into his hairline.

This level of contact is bound to get unbearable, soon. No matter how nice it is, right now, to have Leone’s hands rubbing firm along Bruno’s back, digging in. He’ll be fully molten here in no time.

Leone is starting to look too-red. Droplets of sweat beading at his neck…

“I have an idea,” Bruno says. He deposits one last kiss to Leone’s waiting mouth – a deliciously wet-warm overlap of lips – and then peels free of him. Crawls out of bed and scurries into the bathroom.

He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of this compromise sooner. The bathtub is an ideal location for this sort of thing, and Bruno leans over it, turning the water on and adjusting the temperature just so. Something to the cooler side of lukewarm.

It doesn’t take long before Leone wanders in, drawn by the noise – a true testament to how strong his desire for cuddling is. Ordinarily he’d lounge for as long as possible.

Today, though, he’s here. Drooping on his feet and saying, “You’re a genius.”

The sight of him has Bruno’s heart warming enough to overtake the rest of him. Tub left to fill, he turns to meet Leone properly, dropping his hands onto sturdy hips, drawing Leone back in close until their breath is mingling. The strappy sides of these sheer underwear that Leone doesn’t wear nearly often enough rest beneath Bruno’s palms, and he dips his pinkies under form-fitting fabric. “Should I take these off?”

Leone reaches out. Gets his own hands on Bruno. One around the back of his tattoo, the other just barely sneaking beneath the lace of his panties. For all his complaining, he doesn’t seem to mind how hot the air between them is growing, even as that space diminishes to nothing and their fronts align. His lips are against Bruno’s as he mutters out, “Yeah…”

From here it’s not long before they wind up lying face-to-face in the bathtub. Bruno’s thigh thrown over Leone’s waist, holding them flush together along with so many arms wound around. Hands trailing up backs, fingers digging into muscle. A strong nose pressed to Bruno’s cheek and so much bare skin to explore. Minimum sweat intruding on their sanctuary.

Savoring kisses are traded back and forth until the sun goes down, taking the lion’s share of the heat with it.

The two of them generate their own, after that.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio’s ears are ringing, his head pounding as he forces his eyes open only to immediately squeeze them shut against the dust. Coughs and tastes something metallic that’s probably blood. Fuck – file this under experiences he doesn’t recommend (right up there with the rest of his life).

He tries to rub the grit off of his face, but only one arm listens, drags his equally dirtied sleeve over his face. His other arm is pinned by something. When he tugs on it, it hurts, but it comes free of the thick cables it was tangled in.

Breathing is kind of a chore. Probably will be until the dust settles. If it settles…

He gasps, coughs some more. Wipes at his face with both hands, now, and this is how he finds a cut on his forehead. Touching it sends a sharp sting of pain to join the horrible throbbing that’s coming from the back of his head and he hisses. Groans. Opening his eyes goes better, this time, at least, and all too soon he’s squinting up at a twisted mess of metal. Emergency lights doing little to illuminate the space.

Everything is grim and dark, weight on Abbacchio’s stomach and even worse pressure pinning his legs – trying to move those fucking hurts – shit –

Too much to keep moving them, so Abbacchio stops. Holds still and sucks down the deepest breaths he can manage, with whatever’s across his stomach. Something a little more pliant than metal, thank fuck. More cables, it feels like when he touches them.

Thank fuck Leone had the presence of mind to lie down while falling to his death. The only useful tidbit he picked up during his time as a policeman. Well, that, and knowledge of who the true criminals are in this world, what real evil is. It sure as fuck isn’t shoplifters or weed dealers or even vigilantes –

Oh god. Abbacchio’s heart stops for a beat.

Where’s Buccellati?

His heartbeat returns only to tick higher, verging on too-fast, and his struggle to get himself free redoubles. Wiggling and grunting and squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his teeth against the pain as he yanks at his legs. Tries to brace his arms and pull, but floorspace is scarce on his side of the elevator – shit, what if things are even worse where Buccellati is?

There was – the two of them scrambled, some, when this thing started plunging. Abbacchio ran through scenarios in his head. Knows that elevator mechanisms are supposed to be safeguarded and it should’ve stopped.

Hah. Fuck.

They were rocketing toward death and he was trying to figure out someone to blame instead of making sure Buccellati survived. This is all he’s fucking good for. He couldn’t even preempt this danger.

It’s some small mercy that his over-the-elbow gloves remain intact. Fugo and Narancia outdid themselves with whatever the hell this material is. Reliving this particular horror over and over would be a nightmare. Abbacchio has enough of those, thanks, and –

He yelps, pain flaring up in his leg. The right ankle is free and throbbing but now this left one hurts worse all the way up and there’s so much silence. Only his haggard breathing. No movement.

Buccellati is – where the hell is he? He…has to be okay.

As okay as anyone can be. After plunging thirty stories. While already injured.

Shit. Breathing hurts. Abbacchio tries to slow it, deepen it. His pantleg feels wet. That can’t be a good thing, but he ignores it, for now. Just lifts his free leg, and aims his foot at the chunk of elevator that collapsed atop him. Kicking until it shifts enough to pull free of.

He swallows down another pained noise, head falling back. Which is a mistake, because (big surprise) hitting the floor with it aggravates the throbbing there.

It’s alright. He’s okay, he lived, and now he’s free. So it doesn’t matter, that his left knee is in agony and his pants are definitely bloody. He shoves hard at the snapped cables on his stomach, pushes away the wall panel that’s on top of those, and finagles his way to sitting. Grinding his teeth all the while in an attempt to keep quiet.

Paying no mind to the way that everything tilts as his vision swims, he struggles to his feet. Once he’s up, he stumbles, bracing himself against the remains of the back elevator wall –

Falling into it, more like. Pain erupts down his back, sore muscles and countless bruises. Everywhere hurts. It’s easier to take stock of what doesn’t hurt (a single hip). But that doesn’t fucking matter, right now – the blood dripping down the side of Abbacchio’s face doesn’t matter and neither do the legs that barely support him, shaking as he shuffles a step forward.

Buccellati is all that matters, and Abbacchio’s heart leaps into his throat at the sight of dark hair. A single arm outstretched, blood spattered over the back of its hand.

Implying that Buccellati is facedown. Might’ve landed that way or fallen that way.

Either is bad.

Abbacchio wades through more twisted metal cables, grabbing handfuls of debris and tossing everything over to the other side of the elevator. It’s a cramped space, but he has to get all the mess off of Buccellati and out of the way. That hand is alarmingly still and so is the back of Buccellati’s head – these are the only visible pieces of him, except for one foot that also looks intact, and, oh, Jesus, there’s a counterweight in here, half on Buccellati –

Hurling this aside dents the elevator’s wall. Abbacchio doesn’t care. Dives for more chunks of caved in roof, pulleys, cables, wall panels. Forces his sore body to keep at it until everything is clear and he can see all of Buccellati, at last.

The blood is all Abbacchio notices, at first.

It’s…all he can see. Glistening red in the dim emergency lighting. One of these lights is flickering. They don’t do much against the darkness that comes from being in a literal pit at the bottom of an elevator shaft.

At least they’re working at all. So Abbacchio can assess the damage. Rationally.

…Fuck, he’s shaking. Just standing here, up to his ankles in elevator parts. He kicks that shit away behind him, staring at Buccellati’s back, all smeared with dirt and dust and blood. Abbacchio’s vision is blurring, but he blinks tears away with a vengeance. Swallows his heart because it’s made its way to his throat.

A growing pool of blood is beneath Buccellati. Around his face, and his torso. Spattered over his clothes.

He isn’t moving. Cheek to the floor and dark hair covering his face.

God, fuck, Abbacchio will never forgive himself. He should’ve known something was wrong the minute he boarded the elevator. Should’ve read it, checked it out, given the subject matter of this mission.

Even failing that as he did, he should’ve been more worried when Buccellati didn’t use his powers to get them out right away – not that there was much time, but Buccellati’s reflexes are fast and his zippers are ideal. He was hurt, though. In a previous fight. Some mission that Abbacchio wasn’t needed on that left Buccellati favoring his right side while pretending to be fine.

Today, Abbacchio was needed. A possible lead on the Diavolo situation came up for him to investigate, and Buccellati insisted on accompanying him personally –

And it sure does seem like this was more of a definite lead considering the rigged elevator.

Why the hell else would none of the safety mechanisms activate? No brakes. Barely a cushion at the bottom. All of the fucking cables snapped – probably cut, if Abbacchio cared to look at them, if he’d cared to just touch the goddamned elevator and check beforehand.

His blurred vision is stuck fast to Buccellati.

Abbacchio can’t keep putting off the inevitable. They need to get out of here in case someone comes along to make sure the job is finished, and to do that, he has to assess Buccellati’s condition.

Trembling, he sinks into a crouch. His legs protest greatly, the left one erupting into pure agony, spilling fresh blood from a generous gash that tore a hole in his pants. But that’s nothing, compared to Buccellati. Who Abbacchio is reaching for with gloved fingers that visibly shake. Unsteady, two of them land on the side of Buccellati’s neck.

Abbacchio holds his breath until he feels a pulse, at which point it rushes out on something that feels like a sob.

Buccellati is alive.

Sore knees almost give out on him, and Abbacchio wobbles in place. He – he probably shouldn’t move, Buccellati. You’re not supposed to do that, until help comes, but. The way he’s lying there is – it’s bad. And the blood…

If he’s bleeding, then it should be stopped. For that, Abbacchio has to move him.

He’ll be careful. Of fucking course he’ll be careful with Buccellati, shit, Abbacchio doesn’t have the strength or the capacity for anything else on a good day, let alone a situation as shitty as this. He shifts onto his knees – bites his already-bitten tongue on a sharp gasp because that gash on the bend of his leg is now pressed to the floor –

Deep, slow breaths. This pain is nothing he can’t sideline. Buccellati is worse.

God, he’s so much worse. Unconscious and facedown. Abbacchio’s hands are devastatingly unsteady as he reaches out.

The back of Buccellati’s neck feels alright, for as much as Abbacchio knows about these things. Which is an entire miracle, all things considered. Gently, and with more care than he’s ever done anything, Abbacchio takes hold of Buccellati’s shoulders. Then he shuffles in closer. Uses every ounce of strength and control in himself to roll Buccellati onto his side.

And, fuck, Abbacchio almost wishes he hadn’t, because now he can see, and his heart plummets to the pit of his stomach. Pounds heavy where it lands. He’s going to be sick.

Blood pours from Buccellati’s nose. He hit the floor with his face, and the area around his eyes is already darkening, the slope of his nose swollen and maybe even broken. Skin scraped off the tip. Off of his chin, too, and there’s blood in his mouth, dripping everywhere – no missing teeth as far as Abbacchio can see but there is a busted-open lip.

There’s – there’s Buccellati’s arm, too – god, his arm. The one he landed on is broken. Snapped beneath him. At a guess he was in the middle of lying down when this piece of shit elevator hit bottom and now there’s the tip of white bone poking out of a bloodied gash in his bent forearm –

Abbacchio really will be sick. Fuck. Shit – he can’t look away. Can’t move. Can’t really breathe.

He…has to stop the bleeding. Shouldn’t touch that arm. Doesn’t really want to chance moving Buccellati more, but Abbacchio knows for a fact that the side he’s lying on now has a cracked rib at the least.

His other side, though, has that unnaturally concave arm. Rolling him onto his back is no good, either, because that leaves the blood in his mouth with nowhere to drip but back inside, which, is not at all ideal – and so Abbacchio has to sit Buccellati up. Maybe then he can even elevate some of these wounds. Look Buccellati over better.

Try to figure out what in the hell to do…

Heart crawling nauseous all the way up into his throat, Abbacchio leans over Buccellati. He winds one arm around beneath him at the waist, and wraps the other diagonal up Buccellati’s chest, clinging tight to one shoulder. He stays frozen, like this, for a minute. Careful not to let any of his skin touch any of Buccellati. Accidentally reading him is the last thing Abbacchio needs.

He’s been getting the hang of his powers, lately, but he still needs these specially-designed gloves for a reason. Still can’t quite turn it all the way off, and at times his abilities extend beyond his hands. He doesn’t think he’d do a good job of shutting out Buccellati’s memories at a time like this.

With as much care as he can muster, Abbacchio lifts Buccellati up. Raspy breaths go sharp on a gasp, Buccellati’s eyelids fluttering –

And Abbacchio shuffles on his (torn, throbbing) knees as steady as he can toward the nearest wall. Winds up sort-of falling, twisting so his back hits it – hurts like hell but he’s more focused on trying to cushion Buccellati’s fall. They wind up side-by-side, tangled together.

One of Abbacchio’s arms is around behind Buccellati’s shoulders, and one of his knees is bent beneath Buccellati’s thighs.

Not comfortable, given the current conditions, but. It’s about as good as this shit gets. Abbacchio’s (more) injured leg is stretched out straight, his own breathing haggard. He’s staring at the twitching lines of Buccellati’s face.

It’s so damn hard to think straight when Buccellati is trying to fucking move. With his arm just lying there and his face bruised bloody and so much potential unseen damage.

Abbacchio clings as tight to Buccellati as he dares. Tugs a sleeve over his fist and wipes whatever mess he can from that busted nose. He cleans Buccellati’s cheeks and chin, too, and that mouth that’s opening, now, lips moving right along with those swollen eyelids that are trying to lift, and oh, god, Buccellati doesn’t deserve to be awake for this shit.

That irrational heart of Abbacchio’s is excited over the movement anyway. “Bruno,” he mumbles, before he can think twice. His voice is as unsteady as he feels.

Buccellati makes a grunting sort of sound, in response. He shifts until he’s leaning more fully on Abbacchio, and he’s squeezing his eyes shut, clamping his mouth closed, shouldn’t be moving so much.

“Bruno.” Something like a sob escapes Abbacchio’s chest. “Holy fuck, I’m so–”

Another grunt cuts him off, this one higher pitched and softer. Blue eyes squint open, and they’re bloodshot, when they land on Abbacchio. Stare at him in an unfocused haze. Which is to be expected. Buccellati’s bloodstained lips part, the bottom one still oozing red. “You…” a deep, unsteady breath, “called me Bruno…”

Fuck. Now is the absolute worst time for Abbacchio to be getting flustered. Butterflies join the horrible roiling in his gut and thinking gets that much harder. Damn it all.

In his defense, now is also not the time for Buccellati to be noticing what name Abbacchio used for him.

Yet here they are both are. Wrong priorities on display. Dying in a smashed-to-pieces elevator.

“Leone,” Buccellati breathes out, and it hurts to hear, in this context. All of Buccellati is fading-weak-sore. He’s slumped so heavy against Abbacchio’s side and yet he’s still fighting to open his eyes wider. To sit up straighter. Essentially doing his damndest to shake off a thirty-story plunge and an open compound fracture and who knows what other traumas to his person. “You’re bleeding.”

Goddammit. Abbacchio’s stupid piece of shit heart is on a roller coaster today, and it plummets downward, now. “I’m fine. Your arm is –” Abbacchio can’t fucking say it. Destroyed is the only appropriate word.

“…Hurts.” Yeah, fuck, Buccellati – Abbacchio just bets that it hurts. At least a little bit. God. Bruising eyelids flutter closed, and then back open. Buccellati breathes deep through his mouth. Probably can’t get any air through his nose. “S’alright.” No, no it is not alright. “Your leg’s – you’ll…bleed out.”

Oh, for the love of – “I’m fine, Bruno.” Shit, why can’t Abbacchio stop saying that name? Why did he start? He’s supposed to be keeping his distance, here. Buccellati left him alone for months and Abbacchio resents the fact that –

Fuck it. What the hell does Abbacchio’s resentment matter now?

What does it matter that this pool of blood beneath his leg is ever-growing. Or that he’s starting to get lightheaded. He doesn’t have any fear to spare for himself.

If he dies down here, it’s no big deal. If Buccellati dies…

It’s unthinkable.

“Stop the bleeding,” Buccellati mumbles, even as he slides down the wall, toward the floor. His breath is hitching almost nonstop, and Abbacchio worries over that cracked rib of his, hopes it didn’t get any worse. Those sore-looking blue eyes are fixed on Abbacchio’s leg, though, and, fuck, fine if it’ll get Buccellati to stop fixating on this –

Abbacchio reclaims his arm from around Buccellati’s back. Yanks on the fingertips of one of his long gloves, pulling it off and out from under his sleeve. He sets this in his lap, can feel Buccellati watching all the while Abbacchio grabs hold of either side of that tear in his pants. Rips the hole open wider.

With unsteady fingers, Abbacchio threads his glove through that hole. Around the bare skin of his thigh, above that horrible oozing wound along his knee.

This is going to fucking suck, but he doesn’t have hands to spare for putting pressure on this wound. He needs both of them to keep Buccellati upright. And so he loops the length of glove around itself, holds both ends in his stupid shaking hands and then tightens the knot. Pulls as hard as he can on both sides, bites his tongue, makes a noise anyway because fuck – shit – dammit – his leg is on fire –

Catching his breath, he finishes off the knot so it’ll stay. He forgoes looking for something to wind it tighter with. This’ll do. He doesn’t have time to dig through debris.

Needs to get his hands back on Buccellati, who is slumping toward the floor. Abbacchio shifts him back upward, careful to only touch fabric with his bare hand (even this is a struggle, to keep his powers at bay, but skin contact is worse) and swallows the urge to apologize for the pained noise that squeaks out of Buccellati’s throat.

Those eyes have fluttered closed again. They only pry their way open when Buccellati settles. “I can.” He swallows. Licks blood from his swollen bottom lip. He’s shaking. Lifting his unbroken arm. “Open a –”

“No.” Abbacchio knows where this is going and he isn’t about to allow it.

Somehow, even injured as he is, Buccellati can still look thoroughly disappointed in Abbacchio. His next words seem to take a whole lot of concentrated effort. “I’ll open a zipper. You get out.”

Disregarding the fact that Abbacchio is pretty sure his leg would give out on him if he tried to stand: “Not without you.” Because bone left exposed for too long runs the risk of infection and Abbacchio has to get Bruno out of here, even though there’s no way out without his powers and Abbacchio is going to be too weak to carry him, soon, doesn’t want to jostle that arm – god – the way the bone shifts when Buccellati breathes is –

“You have to.”

“No.”

Buccellati bares his teeth on a snarl of pain, and lets his head drop backward. It topples sideways to lean on Abbacchio’s shoulder. That hand that Buccellati was trying to lift flops back to his side, too. “Stubborn,” he accuses.

“So are you,” Abbacchio has to say. That fucking hypocrite. “I’m not leaving you here.”

“Go get help.”

“Help’s already on the way.” At least, Abbacchio sincerely hopes so. Narancia is smart enough to know shit went south the second their comms stopped responding, before the elevator cables snapped. And surely someone in this building would report this shit. The elevator might have some kind of built-in sensor that calls for help, even – all he and Buccellati have to do is wait.

Another deep, shuddering breath from Buccellati. “You need t–”

“I’m not leaving unless we get out together,” Abbacchio stresses.

He just hopes they both survive that long.

Chapter Text

Before Abbacchio loses his nerve, he corners Buccellati in the motel lobby.

…Okay, maybe cornering isn’t the right word. Lingering next to him while trying to work up the courage to talk would be a more accurate description of what Abbacchio’s doing, right now.

Buccellati is standing there, between a fake potted plant and an armchair that’s seen better days, lost in thought. His eyes are fixed on nothing and his brow is furrowed; he’s so busy in his own head that he hasn’t even yelled at the others to calm down yet, despite the fact that they’re making an absolute scene.

Fighting over room keys, of all things, because it turns out that the remaining accommodations in this pocket-sized motel are a bit tight. Only three single rooms and one double room available. It just figures.

Of course, everyone takes issue with this. Mista, in particular, begged Buccellati not to book all of the rooms. Didn’t settle until Giorno offered to pay for one separately (out of his own pocket, the showy little…) and Fugo helpfully pointed out that four of them would have to sleep together in the only double room, if they didn’t take advantage of all that was available. Mista reframed to think of it in terms of five beds rather than four rooms, and, well…

That being smoothed over has cleared the way for a new predictable issue:

Everyone wants their own bed.

Trish, as the only one guaranteed to get that, sits perched in another of those sad armchairs, examining her nails. Giorno is lingering nearby, the only brat that’s on-task, despite the fact that he’s still swaying with the after-effects of his shoddy antidote. (Damn him. That idiot could be resting more comfortably right now if only he’d listened to Abbacchio in the first place.)

Buccellati hasn’t said anything since retrieving the four room keys from the front desk. He passed one to Trish and deposited the others into Fugo’s palm – Fugo, who has been struggling to divvy them since.

Mostly, he’s kept them clenched in a tight fist, holding them above Narancia’s head while he jumps to reach them. Whining about why he can’t share a bed as Fugo fails to shove him away, and debunks any claims in increasingly frustrated ways that somehow detail his own list of reasons why he can’t share, with Mista chiming in, Sex Pistols flocking to Fugo – it’s liable to become some kind of stand battle free for all, if no one intervenes soon.

Not that Abbacchio is about to claim responsibility for that mess. He’s done the math here, thank you, and overheard at least two arguments in favor of Buccellati getting his own room. And, being as Abbacchio isn’t about to share with any of those shitty brats –

Well.

There’s only one option open, to him.

Hence why he’s loitering here, beside Buccellati. Hovering awkward in front of that ugly plastic plant with unnaturally teal leaves.

He…just needs to work on his pitch. Needs to find the right collection of words that will make this sound like a viable solution without giving him away. Something that won’t betray any underlying personal feelings, but will convince Buccellati that this is what’s best for the whole family. So to speak.

In truth, Abbacchio doesn’t give a fuck what the others work out about roommates or bedmates. All he knows is that he’s going to –

“Fine!” Narancia snaps. One of his hands is fisted in Mista’s shirt, trying to keep that opponent at bay while his other arm is stretched up the length of Fugo’s. Someone will topple the fuck over, at this rate. Narancia on his tiptoes, Fugo leaned back, Sex Pistols pulling on hair. “I’ll share with Abbacchio, but no one else!” Despite that acquiescence, he’s still trying to get one of the keys – and hold the fuck up –

“Works for me,” Mista is saying, reaching past Narancia to try and grab Fugo’s fist.

Fugo squawks, nearly falls over and has to back up a few steps in an attempt to regain balance. “Fine,” he snaps, “but take Mista, too. I can’t sleep with him in my room, he snores.”

Nope, absolutely not. Abbacchio will not share with Narancia again. That brat kicked him in the shins all night, the last time they had to share a hotel room, and damn near shoved him out of the bed, the time before that one. It’s someone else’s turn to put up with that restless sleeper.

More importantly, Abbacchio can’t let this shit get settled without even fucking trying for what he wants.

It’s some horrible combination of these thoughts that has him opening his mouth and saying:

“I’m sharing with Buccellati, you little shits work the rest out for yourselves.”

That. Gets everyone to shut up. At least.

…

Haha. Abbacchio shouldn’t have spouted that shit out loud without thought. He won’t blush over it. Refuses to, with so many eyes on him – fucking Giorno isn’t even minding his own business, anymore, and there’s a grin stretching slow over Mista’s face. Fugo’s nose wrinkles on disgust. Narancia is starting to look suspiciously downtrodden (Abbacchio cannot face that pout). Trish raises an indifferent eyebrow.

Buccellati, though, is the worst. Of course. He wasn’t even paying attention, before, but he sure as shit is, now. Blue eyes are glued to the side of Abbacchio’s face, a little wide with shock.

God. Looking at Buccellati is impossible.

All Abbacchio can do is glare resolutely at Mista, who won’t stop grinning that wretched, knowing grin of his.

“It’s for the best,” Buccellati says, at length. His voice is blessedly steady. “I did just reattach Abbacchio’s hand; I don’t want to have to do it again, if he wanders too far out of Sticky Fingers’ range.”

Ha – there, see? Logic. Abbacchio feels safe enough to start breathing, even if his heart won’t calm down, because that is exactly where his mind was, too. There was zero selfish intent here whatsoever. He also doesn’t want to have his hand reattached again, after all. It wasn’t very fun the first time.

…Except for the proximity to Buccellati that was involved. That, Abbacchio enjoyed…

“If you say so, boss.” Oh, Abbacchio wants to kick Mista for that, no matter how genuine those words sound. They affirm his teasing. Abbacchio just knows it, can read it in that easygoing grin.

“Okay.” Narancia is wearing that awful pout of his, as he releases Fugo and Mista.

“I still can’t share a room with Mista,” Fugo grouches, unrumpling his suit. This is a valid stipulation, and it sets Narancia snickering, too, so Abbacchio will allow it.

Buccellati sighs. The very picture of longsuffering, the poor man. “Abbacchio and I will take the single room located across the hall from Trish’s.” (Oh, god. One bed. A room with fucking – one bed. It’s everything Abbacchio wants and everything that he dreads. What has he done?) “Whoever takes the double next door will help us keep an ear out.”

“I’ll do it,” Giorno jumps at the chance, the overachieving brat.

A nod from Buccellati.

“You’re still sick, Gio.” And would you look at that, Mista has snagged the keys from Fugo’s tight fist and is passing them out all on his own volition as he talks. Blindly tossing the other single room key toward Fugo and keeping the double for himself, eyes on Giorno. “I’ll bunk with you – we can take shifts.”

(Mighty sweet of him to care about Giorno. Abbacchio is over here swaying on his feet from blood loss as they gaze at each other. Assholes, both of them.)

“Then Fugo and Narancia can share the last single room,” Buccellati finalizes. There are shockingly few objections, everyone sounding off in favor, Narancia poking Fugo in the ribs…

Mista hefts the last room key, and oh, he better fucking not –

“Don’t –” Abbacchio’s piece of shit reflexes grab for the key with his right, zipped-on hand, and he hisses. Yanks his hand away from the weight of that room key and it clinks to the floor. He grits his teeth, grips his arm below the wrist, and glares all the harder at Mista. “It still fucking hurts, dipshit!”

That dimpled grin seems largely unremorseful.

-

A twin bed.

This room that Abbacchio is going to share with Buccellati has a single twin bed in it. Not a king, not a queen, and not even a full bed. A twin.

And the only other furniture is a rigid armchair. Impossible to sleep in.

Abbacchio…will die.

But. He has this ominous feeling that lives in his gut, lately, and has crawled into his heart, and it seems convinced that this is his last chance to have even one tiny, personal piece of Buccellati.

Abbacchio doesn’t know where that feeling comes from. He has a sinking inclination that its origin is somewhere within the vicinity of Giorno, who’s brought all kinds of uncertainty and foreboding with him. Winds of change that Abbacchio does not like at all yet he’s swept up in against his will. No idea where any of it will spit him out.

It sounds ridiculous, when he walks through it in his head. There’s nothing that Buccellati can’t get them out of, but…Abbacchio’s seen him, lately. Watched an immense weight burden those capable shoulders, taking a worse toll than usual.

The future is more uncertain than ever. Abbacchio never expected to live this long or make it this far in the first place, so that thought shouldn’t unnerve him as much as it does. He pushes it aside with all the strength he can muster but it lingers in his head – and –

He can’t tell Buccellati how he feels. Shouldn’t even be feeling this way, for someone so genuine and so good. The man has a heart for all of them, for fuck’s sake. Abbacchio isn’t special.

But he can’t shake his heart, just like he can’t shake this awful sense of danger looming at his back, so in light of his most recent near-death today he figures he might as well take what he can get. While he can. This scrap of intimacy will be all he dares for. The last selfish thing he ever does, and god but it was completely different when he thought they would be able to sleep with some modicum of space between them…

It was still overwhelming of course. But it was easier to fathom. Doable, as long as Abbacchio didn’t care about sleeping much. Now it’s more likely that he won’t sleep at all.

Death from exhaustion paired with proximity to Buccellati. What a way to go.

Abbacchio glares at this tiny motel bed and pins all of his woes on it. Rabid butterflies are chewing on his stomach lining, wings beating against him with enough force to bruise. A crush shouldn’t feel like this, should it? His heart lifts light and sick in his chest and he hates it. Wants to claw the damn thing out to get it to shut up.

Buccellati, meanwhile, hadn’t batted an eye at the bed. He’d seen it, sure, but looking was all he did, while locking up behind them – and Abbacchio instantly fled to the bathroom, muttering something about washing up for bed.

Now here he stands, fifteen minutes later. After failing to compose himself in the bathroom. (Might’ve been easier if he could douse himself in cold water, but he needs his makeup intact for tomorrow.)

The bed is no less daunting for his break. To make matters worse, he’s stripped down to his underwear. Doesn’t exactly have anything else to sleep in, after all. What with his shirt all bloodstained. His pants might be okay, but they’re dirty and stiff and he’s tired and, oh, fuck everything, maybe he should go and put them back on after all –

Buccellati exits the bathroom. He’s rubbing at what must be a sore muscle on the back of his neck, as he walks. Abbacchio’s fingers twitch with the absurd urge to reach out and massage any pain away.

That would…only aggravate his stupid zipped wrist. And would probably be wholly unwelcome, besides. Buccellati hates when others notice he’s unwell in any capacity. Especially in the middle of work, and this is just about the most important job they’ve had in years. The most responsibility placed on Buccellati to date, going right along with his promotion.

(And Abbacchio is laid low by a goddamned bed.)

“Why aren’t you in bed, yet?” Buccellati asks, casual. As he’s running a hand through his loose hair, and haha, that sure is, the question of the hour isn’t it –

Watching Buccellati doesn’t make this any easier. He’s stripped to his underwear and socks, wearing a t-shirt that he found who-knows-where. Probably had it stashed in a zipper pocket, he keeps all kinds of useful, preparedness shit in those.

Everything except first-aid supplies, because he believes zippers are enough. Abbacchio’s wrist throbs as if on cue.

“I, um.” It is a struggle to gather what wits Abbacchio can muster. “Thought I’d let you get in first.”

For all the sense that makes…

Fortunately, Buccellati is kind enough (or maybe tired enough, by the drooping look of him) not to question it. Head dipping on a nod, he approaches the bedside. Lifts up the pristine blankets – and, god, it must be a trick of the light, because his cheeks look pink, as he settles in on his side. Close to the edge like he’s going to roll right the fuck out if he so much as twitches in his sleep. He settles almost gingerly.

…Now it’s on Abbacchio to join him. Oh, fuck, this is so much worse. Why didn’t he go first, after all? This feels far, far too much like joining his significant other after a long day at work.

Especially with Buccellati facing him like that. What’s the point of laying so close to the bed’s edge if you’re going to face the middle, anyway?

Abbacchio buys a precious few seconds turning the lights off, and then it’s over to the bedside with him. He does everything in his power not to stare at Buccellati, and swallows hard. Climbs in, and shifts carefully until he’s lying down beneath the covers.

Being on his side like this is daunting enough. Even with his back to Buccellati, tangible body heat reaches him where he’s perched at the very edge of the bed. He can feel eyes on his back, and…

He doesn’t want to fall out of bed; this wrist would make it impossible to catch himself safely. Never mind that he should also preserve as much of his makeup for tomorrow as possible, seeing as all he’s got in his pocket is spare lipstick. Lying on his back, a little closer to the middle of the bed, would be ideal.

It’ll put him dauntingly closer to Buccellati, sure, but seeing as he’s already overwhelmed with just this –

Abbacchio rolls over, and just like that Buccellati is in his line of sight. His blush doesn’t stand a chance, flaring up bright. His heart is in all kinds of disarray.

Those blue eyes are watching him – and – Abbacchio is – too close. Overshot his position change, or maybe Buccellati just sunk closer to him. Because Buccellati’s stomach is pressed to the side of Abbacchio’s arm. It rises and falls with every breath Buccellati takes. Gentle contact against Abbacchio’s skin.

It’s more than he can take, pinned by that stare. Buccellati’s soft exhales ghosting over his bare shoulder, his neck. They're sharing a pillow.

There’s silence between them for a long time.

Abbacchio can’t even pretend to be falling asleep.

Fingertips land gentle on the very side of his zipped-on hand, thumb brushing the zipper itself, and Abbacchio’s heart stops when Buccellati murmurs, “I’m glad you’re here with me.”

Eyes wide, Abbacchio turns his head to face the man beside him, and finds the softest expression that he’s ever seen Buccellati wear. Open and honest. God, Abbacchio can’t form words – his heart is choking him. “You’re…” Just tired. You don’t mean it. You can’t mean it. Not about Abbacchio.

“I mean it.” Those fingers slither around Abbacchio’s palm and squeeze. “I’m grateful to have you.”

Maybe – maybe Buccellati feels this horrible foreboding in the air, too. He knows more about what’s to come than Abbacchio does. Might understand why it feels like all of that is about to come to a head.

Abbacchio is terrified of the outcome. Fear and affection play tug of war with his stomach and he doesn’t know what to do.

It’s too late, something tells him. No use acting on ridiculous feelings, now. He’s gone and fucked up again. Won’t be able to see this through, either, but that’s probably for the best, with all the nothing he has to offer Buccellati.

…Sharing this bed is enough of a mistake. So much warmth at his side that he has no right to bask in.

“Me, too,” Abbacchio tells those blue eyes.

Not enough. Not nearly enough to offer this man that saved Abbacchio’s life and pulled him from despair and kept him moving when he thought he couldn’t. His purpose. The one he…

A shadow of a smile is on Buccellati’s face. Bittersweet. It hurts to look at. He tips forward, and leans his forehead on Abbacchio’s shoulder. A spot of warmth that Abbacchio feels all the way to his toes – but he can’t bring himself to hold onto that hand no matter how badly he wants to. Can barely manage to rest his head atop dark hair.

He doesn’t sleep all night.

Chapter Text

The duvet spread over the bed is clean and inviting, but Abbacchio scowls at it all the same. In no mood to be charmed by its polka-dotted pattern.

Who the hell does Buccellati think he is, storming out like that and leaving Abbacchio here to wallow? It’s bad enough that he’s not being fair about this whole situation to begin with…

Fed up, Abbacchio turns around. He only wobbles a little bit on his sore ankle as he does, and the clumsy way he sinks into a seat on the edge of the bed has nothing to do with needing to be off of his feet. Especially not for pain-related reasons.

Just because Abbacchio’s got the most minor of injuries, Buccellati thinks they can’t go home, tonight. Says that they have to spend the night here, in this rarely-used personal safe house of his. Abbacchio’s only been here once before, a long time ago, and it hasn’t really cheered up much, since (not counting this bedspread). Buccellati keeps it clean, at least, by some miracle. Only a bit of dust clinging to sparse furnishings.

This bed is free of dust entirely, and feels comfortable enough. A good size for sharing. Little victories – though, Abbacchio could sleep anywhere, if it was with Buccellati. That isn’t really the point, anyway.

It’s more the principle of the thing. Buccellati pushing for early rest because of a fucking rolled ankle, of all things.

As if he himself hasn’t paraded around with much worse.

Seriously, it’s ridiculous. Abbacchio nearly dies one (give or take) measly time, and now any scratch on him becomes a big to-do. Buccellati actually dies and stays dead for weeks until they find a solution, and Abbacchio still isn’t allowed to worry over him. Ever. Under any circumstances. Especially can’t protect him, heaven fucking forbid…

Maybe it’s still too early for them to be going on missions together. Abbacchio should not have snapped at Giorno for suggesting they take more time off. Personal offense be damned; Buccellati isn’t ready.

You can’t recover from a stint as a literal walking corpse after a single week of barely resting. No matter what types of fancy healing stands exist in the world, and no matter how restless you’ve become tottering around your apartment and refusing to allow anyone to look after you anymore. Refusing to allow Abbacchio to look after him on a legitimate mission.

Asshole. He’s lucky Abbacchio cares about him.

Buccellati fretted over this stupid ankle, but fact is Abbacchio would endure much worse to see him safe and he’ll just have to learn to deal with that. Doubly so now that they’re a. Couple.

…

Cheeks burning, Abbacchio slides to the floor, his feet skidding out in front of him as he goes. He lands too heavy on his tailbone. Drops his head back onto the mattress with a grunt.

He’s…still trying to get used to the idea of being together with Buccellati.

Repressed feelings can only stay repressed for so long in the face of all those near-death experiences, and now that Giorno is in charge and some of that weight has left Buccellati’s shoulders and Abbacchio refused to leave him to recover alone – well. Certain shit has. Come to light.

Abbacchio doesn’t really feel like any less of a mess, now that it’s all out. But he does get to have Buccellati in so many ways that he never thought possible, and that is definitely worth navigating. Difficult mess be damned.

It helps that Abbacchio is already accustomed to looking out for Buccellati. Especially when he refuses to look out for himself, which is pretty damn often, bordering on all the time.

Bracing his palms on the floor, Abbacchio moves to hike himself back to sitting up straighter from where he’s been sinking downward over dirtied hardwood – and his fingers brush something solid under the bed.

He recoils, at first. Then realizes he’s being ridiculous, and reaches out with intent…

A box. Abbacchio slides a surprisingly well-kept container that might’ve been a shoebox at one point out from beneath the bed, pulling at it until it’s right beside his lap. Unmarked and unremarkable, it’s about as out of place as anything gets, especially in a house belonging to Buccellati.

If Buccellati has anything to hide – or even store – he does so with zippers. Particularly the kind that leave no trace, so nobody can stumble upon whatever it is he stashed away. By that standard, this is a mighty flimsy thing to be containing secrets.

…Then again, it might not contain any secrets at all. It could contain anything. Might even contain a zipper, who the hell knows? Not Abbacchio. Not unless he opens it to nose around.

That could be an intrusion, but Buccellati stomped off to get them some dinner and so Abbacchio will find entertainment (read: distraction) where he can get it. The box might very well be empty and god why the hell is he hesitating so much? Couldn’t have anything to do with Buccellati’s penchant for removing body parts, or the rundown nature of this house that Abbacchio’s been left alone in…

Removing the lid reveals –

Pictures.

Polaroids, to be more precise. A decent mound of them, organized stacks that were upset by the motion of Abbacchio fishing the box from under the bed. He picks it up, and they jostle more, as he settles it in his lap.

…Huh.

These are…wow.

Opening the box was definitely an intrusion. (He’s not about to close it.)

Abbacchio wonders if he’s overstepped, courtesy of the very first picture he sees. It depicts an alarmingly familiar tiny child. Dark hair cut in the same style. Polka-dotted outfit. Even that small, genuine smile is recognizable, and, god, Buccellati is so young here, in this picture where he’s sitting at a table, grinning up at someone. Presumably a parent.

Shit, it’s threatening to melt Abbacchio’s heart. So of course he reaches for another photo –

This next one is also of child-Buccellati. Tangled in a fishing net, being carted off by his father. Laughing. Open and free in that way he rarely does, anymore. Cutest brat Abbacchio’s ever seen.

There’s an echoing smile curling to life on his own face, and he really shouldn’t keep stepping on so many memories, but his hands are moving of their own accord, now. Keeping hold of a growing stack of pictures as he plucks them one at a time from the box to look through.

Off-center photos of Buccellati’s parents’ knees. A woman in a sunhat, grinning wide. A man with gentle eyes, diligently at work. A handful of faded sunsets, most of them on the water, a few on the beach.

Pictures of trinkets, family, seascapes, Bruno. Those expressions of his the same but different.

There are a few photos that aren’t polaroids mixed in, including one professional family portrait from when Buccellati was much younger. Practically a toddler, god, he was fucking adorable. Some other pictures in here look like they were from a disposable camera, funny angles that imply Buccellati took them himself. Others with timestamps that seem to have been his mother’s doing…Buccellati on his fifth birthday, face all lit up by candles…

It isn’t a huge collection of pictures, and they all seem to be centered around Buccellati’s youngest years. But…these are more than Abbacchio has from his childhood, being as he’s retained exactly zero mementos – and it’s a glimpse into Buccellati’s life that he never expected to get.

Part of him feels guilty. Another part is solely giddy, over this. He doesn’t know which half to listen to.

One last picture of child Buccellati swinging a tiny fishing pole, and then –

Then the subjects change.

Buccellati barely in frame, Narancia grinning wide next to a murderous looking Fugo. The next shot is similar, only with Mista photobombing, and ah, yeah, that’s right. Narancia had a polaroid camera. Once upon a time. He’s since lost it to the mess that is his room, but…when he had it…

He was pretty prolific with it, apparently. And Buccellati kept all of these shitty photos.

Countless shots of Abbacchio’s hand covering the lens, because that little shit wouldn’t stop trying to take his picture no matter how much he snarled and threatened to break the damn camera.

A few pictures of Mista and Narancia posing like idiots that Fugo was somehow coerced into taking – and then he joins them, and Abbacchio can only imagine that Buccellati took these, because he damn well knows he didn’t.

…He did, however, take the one where Fugo has Narancia in a headlock and Mista is flashing a peace sign in the foreground.

Aaand the one with Mista scrambling out of the way, because Fugo’s temper has turned on them, and he’s yanked Narancia’s switchblade from his hand and is currently in pursuit. This one is pretty blurry, but Abbacchio’s memory is clear. He dropped the camera while ducking under the table, after that, and then Buccellati came in to yell at all of them…

Good times. Abbacchio is still grinning at present – but it slips off of his face, because –

The last of this era’s photos has him and Buccellati as its centerpiece.

They’re standing on some nondescript sidewalk somewhere. Hovering close together and talking, heads leaned in. Probably about business, subject matter that Abbacchio doesn’t recall.

It’s clear, though, that the others had zero respect for whatever it was. Considering how the image is blurry thanks to Narancia laughing while he took it, because fucking Fugo and Mista are posed dramatically in the foreground. Fugo’s arms thrown out to showcase them, and Mista is clutching his chest like this is some star-crossed lovelorn shit going on.

And. God, it probably was.

Abbacchio might be blushing there, in the background.

It takes him an embarrassingly long time to put this one down. He’s had to stack them on the other side of the box, now, there’s so many. And there’s still another little pile to go, this one the most recent of the batch.

These, Abbacchio remembers, are from Trish’s camera. Barely a few weeks old, by now.

Some of a tired-yet-amicable Giorno. More weird poses from Mista and Narancia, including some staged headless shit (they’d enlisted Buccellati’s help). Candid shot of Fugo when he was welcomed back into the fold. A longsuffering expression on his face as he realizes he’s only going to be exposed to more of the same shit…

So many selfies of all the kids. Mista picking Giorno up from behind, arms around his waist, hoisting him in the air. Narancia with his hair full of colorful scrunchies. Trish painting Mista’s nails while he eats.

There’s even an embarrassing one of Abbacchio scowling, reaching for the camera with pink lipstick on. Glittery eyeshadow. Too much blush, bright purple mascara – all of it courtesy of Trish, who’d laughed while taking his picture. Despite the fact that no photos was the one condition he gave when letting her do his makeup. He’d even scoffed out a chuckle while saying that, foolishly under the assumption that Narancia had borrowed her camera.

But.

This one isn’t all bad. Abbacchio is glad he doesn’t discard it without looking closer; he spots Buccellati lingering in the background. Looking dead-tired, but so indescribably fond.

Abbacchio didn’t even know he was watching, at the time…

“You look nice in pink.”

Eyes tearing away from Buccellati’s tiny smile in the photo, Abbacchio comes face to face with the real thing in the doorway. It’s even more devastating in person. Blindsides Abbacchio for nearly a full minute, before he can gather himself enough to respond, and doesn’t waver at all, in that time.

“I really don’t,” Abbacchio grumbles, heart too-excited in his chest. Slowly, his eyes drop back to the picture.

“You do.” Buccellati is incorrect. Abbacchio is staring at evidence showcasing the contrary, thank you very much, but Buccellati continues talking before he can interject. “Dinner is on the table.”

Abbacchio, though, is too buried under nostalgia-for-last-month to think about eating, right now. He stares hard at Buccellati in that picture. Thinks of all the others and tries real hard not to let fondness leak onto his face. “I can’t believe you kept all of these…”

Quietly, Buccellati crosses the room, settling into a kneel at Abbacchio’s side. “Of course I did,” he says, his voice impossibly gentle. Not at all like the irritated tone he had before he left. “They’re precious to me.” Ah, that smile is even more lethal up close. Abbacchio is blushing way brighter than he is in any photo.

Holding up the awful pink makeover, Abbacchio has to ask, “Even this one?”

Warm fingers close around Abbacchio’s. Way too much contact given to this simple act of plucking the polaroid from Abbacchio’s hand.

“Especially that one,” Buccellati says, fully serious. He stares down at the picture, another soft smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He runs his thumb over picture-Abbacchio’s snarling expression. “This was the first day you laughed, after everything, and I knew you’d be okay. Even if I…”

Ah, no, nope. Abbacchio will not entertain this. Not here, not now, not ever again.

He grabs that picture back, and puts it on the bottom of the stack. “We can make much better memories than that,” he grouches without really pondering the implications.

Buccellati’s smile widens. Leaning forward, he presses it to Abbacchio’s forehead. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Chapter Text

These tiny white buds and slender bloodstained petals that litter the sink are familiar to Buccellati. He stares at them. Doesn’t quite register what he’s seeing, for a moment.

Floral taste on his tongue and reddened greenery in his palm, he’d stumbled to the bathroom. Hunched over the sink, he’d gasped through a violent coughing fit. Spat out recognizable pieces of flowers, and he’s still standing here, transfixed by the mess as he catches his breath.

He swallows a tickle in his throat, but can’t banish the fluttering in his lungs. Now that he knows about the plants, there’ll be no ignoring them. At least they’re young yet. The danger isn’t imminent.

Removing them now would be best, he knows. Before they get to the point of affecting him seriously.

These chrysanthemums won’t lead anywhere good – he knew that when he zipped open Abbacchio’s lungs and plucked them out, all those months ago. There were so many, grown in thick and strong with their roots dug in tight, foliage fanning out until there was no room for air. Blossoms reaching up Abbacchio’s trachea, slowly choking him to death. And still he’d been reluctant.

But Buccellati couldn’t let him die. Didn’t let him die.

And now –

Well. Now Buccellati will just have to deal with what he considers to be a long-term consequence to his meddling.

He’ll keep the flowers, for now. They’re not too uncomfortable, and the accompanying feelings in his heart are – they’re selfish and indulgent but as he stares himself down in the mirror, wipes blood from his mouth, he knows that he doesn’t want to get rid of them. Not yet.

There’s work to be getting on with today, anyway. No time for Sticky Fingers to play the part of surgeon when Buccellati’s got to wash up, get changed, and go to meet Abbacchio for work.

Assigning himself to guard Moody Blues during reconnaissance missions is just about the only way that Buccellati can get Abbacchio to spend time with him anymore. It’s underhanded and unfair, he knows.

Still. He didn’t think his feelings were severe enough to warrant these flowers. Everything’s grown without him realizing, because he misses the ease that Abbacchio used to have around him. Those softer, pleasant expressions he only shows around the others, anymore. Something that Buccellati is never privy to these days. When Abbacchio is around, he’s…

Rigid and businesslike. That’s the shape of those squared shoulders that march along in front of Buccellati, later that day. Nothing amicable or approachable about them, at all.

Pulling himself together would be ideal. They’re at work. On a job.

On their way to trace the path of one of Passione’s money runners that Polpo suspects is skimming funds off the top, so focus is imperative, but Buccellati feels like he’s being sucked into the pavement. Can’t gather the energy to overtake Abbacchio, for some reason, and Abbacchio surges ahead every time Buccellati tries to draw level with him, but notably never gets too far away.

Buccellati didn’t realize it was possible to crave bumping shoulders with someone this much.

Abbacchio has never been so out of reach – and, god, Buccellati gives himself a mental shakedown. Breathes deep and ignores the rustling of plant life in his lungs and strides ahead with purpose. It doesn’t take much effort to get in front of Abbacchio.

At least like this, he won’t be stuck staring at the expanse of that broad back.

He can almost pretend they’re moving side-by-side like they used to, before he cut the flowers out.

-

When business is complete, Buccellati invites Abbacchio back to Libeccio for an early, private lunch. Instead of flushed cheeks and agreement that tries too hard to seem casual, Abbacchio offers up a measured frown and a tight shake of his head.

Buccellati swallows everything back, but he can’t muster a smile.

This disease must work fast, because that very night, he coughs up his first fully blooming flower.

He plucks it free of his throat, stem and all, and puts it in a slender vase of water. The blood dries into rusty brown stains at the edges of the petals and gives the whole flower a dying look, but that’s only an illusion.

It thrives on Buccellati’s windowsill for days.

-

Sitting stiff at his desk, Buccellati glances toward the clock for the thirteenth time in the past hour. It’s getting late, past midnight, and still his fingers hover over the keyboard. He draws in a deep breath. Less-deep than usual, thanks to chrysanthemums that are well on their way to taking over. But he can manage, still.

They don’t keep him up any later than he’d stay up on his own, and he’s secure in the knowledge that he can remove them any time. So they aren’t much of a bother. Nothing he can’t live with. There’s always the option of pruning them, too…

Fingers touching down on the keyboard, Buccellati stares at the stark white backdrop of this unwritten report.

Words that he doesn’t have. Focus that he can’t grasp.

He’s kind of hungry. That might be part of the problem. No one’s lingering irritated at his shoulder waiting to press a full plate of food into his hand. His rapidly cooling coffee doesn’t get replaced with water when he’s not looking. Nobody stands hovering and glaring until he caves under the distraction and promises to go to bed.

Mista texts him nightly telling him not to stay up too late. Fugo made tea when he was here last, pulling Buccellati away from his desk to drink it. Buccellati woke up this morning with a blanket around his shoulders and a little sticky note from Narancia, complete with a scribbly drawing of a smiley face.

And Buccellati’s heart is warm alongside that horrible tightness in his lungs that’s only getting worse.

There’s already more care than he feels comfortable accepting being offered to him – yet none of it comes from Abbacchio, so these greedy chrysanthemums remain unsatisfied.

This disease is dreadful and he wants rid of it but not as badly as he wants Abbacchio here.

With him. Complaints and pretense of not enjoying the others’ antics and so much grumpy care –

Buccellati thought they were getting better. He hoped that he could fix this. Mend whatever it was he tore out along with those flowers (because that had to be what did it – he’s starting to realize just how bad that must have felt but he couldn’t leave them there) with his presence alone.

But that was so selfish to assume, and now here Buccellati sits.

All by himself. Working in his office with no one around waiting to show him the disrespect of bodily dragging him toward bed while blushing furiously, and, god but he misses Abbacchio. More than he can stand.

He’s reaching for his phone before the action even registers.

Punching in that tried-and-true speed dial – waiting while it rings –

Then he catches himself. Bites down hard on his lip and hangs up on the third ring because what is he doing? Zipping open an extra pocket in this desk, he drops his phone into it. Erases the zipper and slides his laptop on top of it, so he can’t make any more ill-advised decisions.

He’ll contend with his own miserable pile of feelings. None of them are Abbacchio’s responsibility. It isn’t fair to haul him in close if that’s not what he wants, anymore. Never mind the why of any of this. Because the existence of these flowers means that being in close is very much not what Abbacchio wants.

It’ll be enough, what they have. There’s no use putting something in jeopardy when it’s already this fragile.

For now, Buccellati should focus on finishing his report.

-

Half an hour later, there’s a knock at his front door.

It’s an unusual happenstance, for this late at night, but it’s definitely not unheard of. Teammates and other associates have been known to show up at all hours, and he did hide his phone from himself. So checking this out would be imperative, in the hopes that he hasn’t missed anything big.

Besides, it’s not like he’s getting anything done here – and even if this isn’t urgent business, it’ll at least be a welcome distraction from thoughts that keep circling back to Abbacchio, making his chest go sore.

He zips open a tiny fraction of the door just to peek. Is met with a disgruntled frown and long white hair. Swaying posture that looks like Abbacchio might bolt –

Buccellati zips the door the rest of the way open. “Abbacchio.”

That disgruntled frown tightens all the more, furrow between his brows deepening as his eyes lock on Buccellati. There’s none of that pink tint to his cheeks that always used to accompany any level of proximity between them.

He comes in, at least, when Buccellati steps aside and holds the edge of the door open for him.

There’s silence for a long time. Until Buccellati (and those damn greedy flowers) can’t take it anymore. “What are you doing here?” he asks. Businesslike as he can. Not desperate.

“You called me.” Ah. So Abbacchio saw that. “I was…” He clears his throat. Looks uncomfortable and Buccellati hates that, how tight it makes his lungs feel. “Worried.”

I miss you is a lot to blurt out in response to that genuine sentiment. These flowers are threatening to tickle Buccellati’s throat into another coughing fit even as they start up a horrible ache in his chest. It’s as if Abbacchio’s presence is exciting them, which is…awful. Makes Buccellati feel sick, unless those are butterflies. The difference is hard to parse, anymore. “I was just wondering if you were doing alright,” he says, measured.

Lying. He called for selfish reasons.

The crease in Abbacchio’s brow knows it was a lie. Abbacchio can read Buccellati too well, he always could. Seems the distance and extracted flowers haven’t changed that. “I’m fine,” he grumbles.

Buccellati nods. Pretends to be satisfied with that, and winds up coughing into a closed fist before he can talk. Secrets away a few bloodied petals, tucking them against his palm. His eyes shift to the wilting chrysanthemum on his windowsill and he doesn’t know what to say, when faced with Abbacchio so close.

If only there was an easy way to fix that pained pinch in Abbacchio’s expression.

Abbacchio’s fingers seem to twitch with a desire to reach out – but then again, Buccellati is probably only imagining things. Letting his wishful thinking get the better of him in a way that does zero favors to the chrysanthemums.

“I…should get back to work,” he says, instead of begging Abbacchio to say. “Thank you. For checking on me.” For caring about me. (Please, please stay.)

Abbacchio nods. Opens his mouth, then closes it on an unsteady frown. “I’ll always check on you.” A blush should be spreading over Abbacchio’s cheeks if he’s spouting words as fond as those, but now there’s nothing. Just a morose frown and eyes that glare hard at the ground, and then he’s muttering something about how he better get going –

And Buccellati’s unbloodied hand grabs for a pale wrist on automatic. “Your chrysanthemums,” he says without meaning to. “Were they…” As deep a breath as Buccellati can manage. “Me?” Even though the words hurt on their way out thanks to his raw throat, and even though he knows that whatever answer he receives will only leave him just as sore (if not worse). Buccellati has to know.

Abbacchio’s expression shifts sad. His posture deflates. He offers his first genuine smile aimed at Buccellati in months, all wet eyes and a quivering mouth. “It’s always you,” he says.

That…hurts more than Buccellati thought it would.

He stands frozen. Can’t do anything except stare. Searching Abbacchio’s face for more than what’s already there. It should be enough. Buccellati wants it to be enough.

“Goodnight, Bruno.” Abbacchio extracts his wrist from Buccellati’s hold, and then he’s gone.

Chapter Text

“Leone.”

Oh, no. Leone isn’t about to take that bait. No way is he going to respond. Bruno knows he’s awake, anyway, so there’s no need to rise to this impending doom.

The appropriate response in these circumstances is to wrap his arms more secure around Bruno’s waist. Pull him in closer with the motion, more thoroughly atop Leone, held flush to his chest, their legs tangling staggered. That’s the only thing for it.

A soft huff of laughter ghosts over Leone’s collarbone, and he squeezes all the tighter, keeps his eyes resolutely closed. Bruno is a warm, comfortable blanket. A pleasant, extra layer against whatever chill exists outside of their bed, this ideal cocoon of sheets-comforter-pillows-Bruno. Leone will not leave it. Will not lose a single essential piece of it.

Bruno’s cheek is soft, where it falls to rest on Leone’s shoulder. “You really are relentless, aren’t you?”

“Mhm,” Leone hums. Content to lie here and breathe in all that Bruno is. He’d love to run his hands up and down the length of this sturdy back (capable of carrying the world), but he can’t chance letting up on his grip just yet. So it’ll have to wait.

Arms pinned to his sides as they are, Bruno still manages to put his hands to good use. His palms find Leone’s hips and rest warm there, fingers digging in to massage in steady circles.

It feels nice – and Bruno never learns that this type of shit is not the way to convince Leone to get out of bed. Not anywhere near a strategy that’ll coerce him into letting Bruno leave this bed, either. Prolonged cozy contact is what Leone wants. Extra rest is what Bruno needs.

Everyone wins, if they sleep in.

Leone’s argument is solid and foolproof. There are no cracks in his plan, today.

“Where did you put my phone?” Bruno murmurs, his thumbs sneaking beneath the hem of Leone’s shirt. He shifts his head, too. Just enough to drop a kiss to the side of Leone’s collar. Then another…

Interrogation techniques that Leone will not fall for. “I didn’t put it anywhere.” Taking a bold chance, he eases his hands open from where they were clinging to his own opposite wrists, and lets them migrate to Bruno. They grab handfuls long-sleeved t-shirt, and he kneads at the muscles under his knuckles. Gets a soft, satisfied noise out of Bruno. “You left it in the other room, remember?”

Bruno takes advantage of the loosened hold to shimmy higher. His hands glide up Leone’s skin and his thigh presses in too-pleasant at the apex of Leone’s and now he’s kissing at Leone’s jaw. Little nips in between each one. “I still should’ve heard it go off by now. Narancia never misses a good morning text.”

Not even on a day off, that damned brat – but it’s adorable of him, so Leone will forgive it. Not like it’s Narancia’s fault that Bruno seems to think sleeping in for a single day will bring on the apocalypse.

…Bruno has gone worryingly still on top of Abbacchio. Done with his kisses, apparently, and Leone cracks his eyes open –

Comes face to face with vibrant blue. Shining with amusement in whatever sunlight manages to sneak through the tightly closed curtains. “Unless it was somehow silenced…?” he says, of his stupid fucking phone. One of his eyebrows tweaking higher.

“I might’ve accidentally pressed a button in passing,” Leone mutters, while gradually re-tightening his hold, keeping Bruno held snug against his chest.

Sinking in, Bruno presses his lips to Leone’s jaw, again. He lets them linger there for a long moment, pillow-soft but firm with intent. Brilliant blue stays fixed on Leone all the while, and he’s falling into it, happily lost at sea. “I could miss something important.”

Oh, he had better be joking. “You won’t.”

“Maybe I should go and –”

Before Bruno can start to squirm around in earnest, Leone does what needs to be done and rolls them both over. Knocks the breath out of Bruno, landing on top of him like this – he makes a little, “Oof,” noise, but he’ll survive. Can breathe perfectly fine, pinned beneath Leone’s weight. (As previously proven during past incidents of. Varying types of interaction.)

Leone clings all the tighter to Bruno, wrapping two of his legs around one of Bruno’s. Shifting his arms and twisting his fingers deep into fabric.

“Leone,” Bruno says, with a laugh at the edge of his voice, and it is so goddamn charming.

What can Leone do except nuzzle into Bruno’s cheek. Drop an aggressive cluster of kisses over his face while muttering, “Not going anywhere,” before he catches those lips that open to meet his. “You promised.”

“What if I’m needed?”

Another kiss. Firmer, this time, in a way that Leone hopes works to express the sentiment of I need you here that he can’t quite say out loud. It’s more of a want, anyway, and he’s probably being dramatic. But. “It’s your day off.” He kisses Bruno’s cheek. Nips at the corner of his jaw. “They can need someone else,” he mutters into warm skin.

A deep sigh from Bruno that tries to be longsuffering but it doesn’t really make it. Or maybe Leone just knows him well enough to see through it, and recognize that it sounds far too content to be any brand of negative.

Those fingers are on Leone’s skin, still. Creeping further beneath his shirt, up his sides and along his back, and he’s reminded that Sticky Fingers is a very real threat to this peace that he’s trying so hard to maintain. (There might not be much Leone can do against that, but he can at least be prepared.)

“What about breakfast?” Bruno asks, switching tactics, his fingertips digging into Leone’s lower back. “Aren’t you hungry?”

Oh, Leone is hungry alright. Not for food, though. So that’s another thing he can’t say out loud.

He shakes his head instead, curling all of his limbs more secure around Bruno. “I can wait until lunch.” Who needs to eat when he can have uninterrupted time with nothing but Bruno? Curled up warm and safe. Getting the break he deserves.

Bruno hums in blatantly fake contemplation. “Maybe I’m hungry now.”

Lifting his head, Leone’s lips only part from Bruno’s skin so that he can look into those eyes. They’ve got a playful sparkle in them – which is…it might mean that Leone stands a chance, this morning. “We’ll have a big lunch,” he bargains.

And then they will crawl right back into bed and sleep it off, thank you very much. Or maybe cuddle on the couch, for a change of scenery. Bruno cradled secure against Leone’s chest. Movie muted in the background.

“You’ll cook?”

“If you let us sleep in.”

Bruno’s head tilts like he’s considering that offer, for a short moment. His eyes are still shining when he leans up to drop a kiss to Leone’s mouth. Contact that’s short and impossibly sweet, and his fingers have started moving again, too. Massaging with intent, nails catching on Leone’s skin. “You’re too good to me,” Bruno says – probably because he knows that it always throws Leone for a loop –

And aha! That crafty bastard is summoning Sticky Fingers – so Leone calls out Moody Blues to snatch the other stand’s wrists in midair. Keep those dangerous zipper-crafting hands suspended out of the way.

“Don’t even think about it,” Leone grumbles. Despite the fact that Bruno was, very obviously, thinking about it. Still might be. Leone will keep narrowed eyes on him, watching for trouble.

All that Bruno has to say for himself is a charming little grin. Almost sheepish, maybe.

Why is this man so dead set against resting?

…If Leone hadn’t been privy to enough evidence of the contrary, he’d worry it had something to do with him. But Bruno lies comfortably beneath him, at the moment, and even when Leone’s not around, he doesn’t go to bed on time. Gets out of bed too early, no matter how little sleep he got the night before, and then repeats the cycle every single day until he’s damn near dead on his feet. Only then can Leone force him to rest.

And this, today…all Leone wants to do is spend a lazy morning with Bruno. What he’s wound up with, however, is a standoff. Moody Blues pushing at Sticky Fingers’ wrists while those hands try to shift frantic. Looking for something to unzip, most likely. A way to get free.

Leone frowns.

Bruno kisses his chin.

Which, yeah, is so sweet that he could melt lying here atop Bruno. But it’s all just tactics. A distraction. Bruno trying to throw Leone off his game so as to escape and check that damn phone or open that fucking laptop or –

Zealous fingernails dig into his back, right along his spine, and drag up-then-down. Buccellati’s body arches beneath his, and when that mouth next latches onto his, it’s with purpose.

Lips that coax Leone’s apart and a tongue that slips inside, hips rising to –

God fucking dammit he should’ve known not to get distracted – he’s being zipped in half. Moody Blues is dispersing in a puff of fluster, and Bruno is escaping. Leaving Leone to flop boneless on the bed after Bruno’s dirtiest trick yet. The absolute bastard.

The second Leone regains functionality he rolls out of bed and darts into the living room.

Bruno is there. Texting someone.

Glaring, Leone asks, “Is it important?”

“No, it’s just –”

Oh, good, Leone doesn’t need to hear more. Time to make a beeline for Bruno, grab him around the waist, and lift him off the ground. Hoisting him higher and carting him back toward the bedroom.

“Leone–!” That voice has a laugh in it, again, and Bruno barely wiggles as he’s carried. Just grabs onto Leone’s forearms and flops vaguely backward, resigned to his fate when he’s tossed into bed. “I have responsibilities,” he claims, lying there, phone still in hand.

“You’re fucking impossible,” Leone grumbles. He crawls into bed so that he can loom over Bruno. Fence him in and try to work out the best way to confiscate that phone. “You have to take care of yourself at least once in a while, stubborn bastard…”

Ah. Those blue eyes go soft-fond. That mouth tilting gentle. Whatever Bruno decides, now, Leone won’t stand a chance.

Very slowly, Bruno sets his cell phone aside, on the bedside table. Freeing his hands so that they can both reach up and bury themselves thoroughly in Leone’s long white hair, tangling at the roots – and he’s melting already. That grip coaxes him down to lie flush atop Bruno, again, and they continue to urge him in further, until their noses are brushing and Bruno looks cross-eyed.

“That’s what you’re for.”

Fuck. Leone hates how much his stomach is fluttering. How easily he melts into Bruno’s kiss when plush lips are pressed to his. “Then,” he swallows. Dips in to latch his mouth onto Bruno’s again. “Listen to me, and –” He’s cut off by another kiss.

Bruno’s limbs wind their way around Leone, and when Bruno pushes-twists-rolls, Leone goes willingly. The two of them flipped again. Back to their original position. Bruno doesn’t let up on Leone’s mouth all the while – murmurs a barely-decipherable, “Alright,” against his tongue –

He falls back asleep there, eventually. Comfortable and content on top of Leone.

Leone considers this his crowning achievement.

Chapter Text

Plate held precariously in one hand, Abbacchio ducks into another darkened room in a long line of darkened rooms. He finds success this time, at last – an uninhabited kitchen. A place as over-the-top fancy as this was bound to have more than just one.

He slips inside and lets the door fall shut behind himself. Doesn’t bother looking for a light switch; there’s no sense taking the chance that someone passing by will notice and come investigate, and he doesn’t need much light for what he’s doing, anyway. Can see well enough to navigate the room. Set the plate down careful on the island…

Now all he has to do is snoop around, find what he needs, and slip back out. Easy.

This second kitchen isn’t as vast as the main one, but it should still have at least some of the essentials, right? Lazy rich types wouldn’t wander all the way to the other kitchen just for a midnight snack or a glass of water or whatever…unless this is the guest kitchen and they don’t care to keep it stocked. Abbacchio doesn’t know how rich peoples’ brains work, and he doesn’t want to.

All he wants is some plastic wrap. Maybe a toothpick, to help protect that shiny ganache that Buccellati got subtly starry-eyed over.

There’s an awful lot of cookware in these bottom cupboards. People don’t need this many damn pots, or more than one fucking blender, surely – drawers might be a more sensible place to look for plastic wrap. Better try those, so he opens the nearest one –

Damn. He thought his junk drawer was bad. More money equals more junk, he supposes, but.

At lease he has the sense not to keep condoms in his. Looks like their host has a thing for kitchen sex, which is much more than Abbacchio cared to know about the bastard. He scowls at the drawer’s contents and slams it shut with more force than he meant to.

Then he waits, frozen. Making sure no answering noise comes from the hall.

It doesn’t.

Abbacchio carries on undiscovered, nosing around through a few other drawers down the vast row of counters and trying not to wonder if there’s extra whipped cream or chocolate sauce in the fridge, or whatever the hell else people eat off of each other in a sexy way. What does he care. This seems to be an overflow kitchen, and other peoples’ sexual preferences are none of his goddamned business.

…

The mental image of Buccellati’s tattooed chest slathered in that dark chocolate ganache pops up unbidden and Abbacchio slams this next drawer, too. Cheeks burning hot.

He has no right to be thinking about shit like that. To be picturing shit like that.

Feeling wretched, he wonders if maybe there’s some wine around here. A big fancy cellar full of the stuff, so he can drown out his traitorous mind – but Buccellati had stressed no overdrinking on the job. And Abbacchio is trying to change, anyway. Was taken in off the street and given new purpose.

So he can’t stand to fuck this up, too. Bad enough that he’s wandered away from the main objective of what should’ve been a simple night, one of his first ventures out as an official member of Buccellati’s team…

He has to pull himself together. Focus only on the task at hand, and then figure out a way to slip back into the party unnoticed. If he times it right, maybe he can reestablish contact with Buccellati just before it’s time to leave, and neither of them will have to carry themselves awkward or uncomfortable for much longer.

Buccellati because he can drop his posture that seems extra-stiff, here, and Abbacchio because he can stop trying to hide the fact that he’s smuggling out the last piece of chocolate cake. Buccellati can put it in one of his zipper pockets, or something. (If he’s not too outraged by this act in the first place.)

God, how many ice cream scoopers does one household need? Abbacchio just uses a big fucking spoon, these drawers are fucking ridiculous.

Zero success found along the walls, Abbacchio turns back toward his smuggled cake. Might as well try his luck with the island – and aha, first drawer he tries: plastic wrap. Looks like it’s been there for a decade, but it’ll do.

He picks at the edge of the roll, tears an uneven piece free, fights with the length of it when it sticks to his painted fingernails more than it sticks to itself like he wants it to –

The door to the kitchen opens with a quiet creak.

Abbacchio turns in place, plastic wrap clutched between his fingers –

Ah. It’s only Buccellati, at the door. Wearing a small, quizzical frown. (Or, at least, Abbacchio assumes it’s quizzical. Doesn’t look mad, at least. So this could be going a lot worse.)

“What are you doing?”

…Abbacchio has no explanation. At least not one that doesn’t sound absolutely batshit even to himself. This was a terrible idea and he’s stupid for even considering it. His eyes slide from that furrow between Buccellati’s brows to the slice of cake sitting on the counter.

Buccellati is walking closer, now, continuing to talk when Abbacchio doesn’t answer. “I was looking all over for –” He stops short, gaze falling to the counter. “What’s that?”

“…Cake.” Cake that Abbacchio is suddenly trying very hard not to picture feeding to Buccellati – what the hell – licking a bit of that ganache from the corner of a plush mouth – what the fuck –

“Yes, I know, but what are you doing with it?”

Haha. What is he doing with it. Minding his own damn business and keeping all inappropriate thoughts at bay, that’s for fucking sure.

This question is especially hard to answer with Buccellati right in front of him. Abbacchio’s cheeks are heating all over again, just like they did when he got that mental image of – no, nope, shitty brain, stay the hell out of chocolate-covered-Buccellati territory. There’s enough to be mortified over in reality, no need for fantasies. (Oh, god, is that what that is?)

Abbacchio clears his throat. Rubs at the plastic wrap held pinched between his fingers and thumbs, and considers Buccellati in the dark. He already seems more like himself. More like that man Abbacchio met while falling to pieces in the rain, now that they’re tucked away in this kitchen. Far from the main thrum of the party.

“I was saving it for you,” Abbacchio blurts out.

Because he couldn’t help but notice Buccellati eyeing it the second they were within sight of the dessert table. Rich chocolate with fresh raspberries on top that Buccellati was whisked away from to talk shop with stuffy Passione higher-ups on Polpo’s behalf. And Abbacchio, who tagged along on a trial basis, watched from a distance as that cake dwindled throughout the night.

When only one slice remained, he’d slipped away. (Easy enough to do, when you’re not actually supposed to be taking part in conversation.) Melted into the crowd casually as he could to plate up that final piece of cake and spirit it away.

Thinking that Buccellati deserves something nice, after having to hold himself so careful all night. Looking extra-serious and kind-of-tired – though, Abbacchio doesn’t claim to be an expert on Buccellati. Hasn’t exactly known him for every long. In the grand scheme of things. This isn’t his place.

So this is stupid, maybe. But it’s been lingering on his mind all night.

And now Buccellati is stepping in close. His eyes are fixed only on Abbacchio, shining with something impossible to place.

Gentle, careful hands reach out and take hold of the plastic wrap. Abbacchio relinquishes it without a fight, watching as Buccellati crumples it into a ball. Eyes still on Abbacchio, body still close enough to fall into (as if Abbacchio would ever dare).

“Are there forks in here?” Buccellati asks, crisp and businesslike.

Abbacchio’s stupid eager heart skips a beat, anyway. “A shit ton.”

“Then I think it’d be best if we ate it now,” Buccellati says. His mouth twitches toward something more genuine than the tight, serious line it’s been stuck in since they got here. “No sense in ruining the ganache.”

And – god, Abbacchio didn’t exactly expect to end this stupid party stowed away in a dark kitchen with Buccellati. Taking the tiniest bites of cake he can manage because he can’t quite believe this is real, and just to be sure that Buccellati gets the majority of it. Their heads bowed together, attentive blue eyes glued to Abbacchio while Buccellati pops that raspberry into his mouth, licks ganache from his fingers –

No, it’s not how Abbacchio expected to end his night.

But he certainly isn’t about to complain.

Chapter Text

Leone’s daily routine takes him deep into the thick tangle of trees behind his apartment building.

Deeper than should be possible; not that he minds. Calling this tight-knit grove a forest would be too generous, if you looked at it from the outside – but the further he drags himself between the trees, the denser it becomes. Stepping off the path gets him lost entirely, leaving only the barest twinkle of lights from the hospital parking garage on the other side. (Tonight, he wishes even those would be stifled. Especially those.)

He always finds his way back, though. Retraces his steps until he gets to sparse grass then cracked concrete, and the dirtied brick of his building. That windowed stairwell down the middle lit up dingy yellow against the dark.

This little not-forest is preferable, to Leone. Even more so than usual, tonight. He picks a direction at random. Hugs his blanket tighter around him and steps careful through the brush. Venturing deeper.

Daily routine makes it sound like a planned, scheduled thing. But really, he only does this shit when he can’t sleep. Which…just so happens to be every single fucking night. For one reason or another. It started with drunken stumbling, brought on by his neighbor’s crackpot tales of people disappearing in these woods.

That kind of thing sounded laughable to sober Leone, yet it offered a fantastic opportunity for drunk Leone. Wobbling his way between trees with a wine bottle clenched in his fist. Tripping over tree roots.

And this grove of trees did its job alright. Swallowed him whole until he couldn’t see the stars, and…

Introduced him to the creature.

Bruno, to be more accurate. And polite. (And Bruno is just about the only person Leone cares to be polite towards.)

A being that Leone thought was a drunken hallucination, that first night. Woke up on the floor of his kitchen with a killer hangover and scraped dirty feet and thought what in the actual fuck –

Until he came back sober. Curiosity and insomnia driving him back into the not-woods. Night after night – no matter where he wanders in this copse of trees, Bruno waits nearby.

Should be unsettling, maybe. Yet here Leone is again, longing for that company. Heart so heavy it’s a rock in his stomach. Branches catching on his blanket and thick foliage tugging on his slippers, almost zero visibility ahead, but it’s enough. The moonlight leaking through the trees and the distant lights of that parking garage he’s come to hate.

He feels a nudging to go right, tonight, and angles that way. Aiming for a broad tree trunk with a span of open ground in front of it. Not big enough to be a clearing, but boasting a wide enough gap in the roots for him to sit down, legs crossed. Blanket hugged around his shoulders, breath not-quite frosting in air that feels foggier, now.

Leone doesn’t mind. Just tucks his hair behind his ears and waits. Peering into the dark.

It never takes Bruno a long time to show up, once Leone is settled. This time is no different, a figure slinking between the trees. Dark shape among dark shapes. Moving almost-humanlike but with a backwards bend to his joints that throws the illusion off. Bruno’s faster today. Excited, maybe?

That leaden heart in Leone’s gut tries to echo the sentiment, but he’s feeling wholly wretched. Wonders what would happen if he fell asleep out here in the cold and the mist and the dark. If he’d…

Ah, Bruno is in close, now. There’s a crooked grin at one corner of that gentle mouth – and, he’s happy, at the very least. Sits down across from Leone and scoots forward, until their legs would entwine if they both stretched out.

Blue eyes reflect the moonlight when Bruno tilts his head. Stitches pulling all along his neck, his cheeks.

(Leone asked him, once, if he’d come from the hospital just beyond these trees. Bruno had laughed, an uneven melody of a sound, and said he’s lived here since long before that place was built.)

It’s an altogether charming expression, Leone thinks. Comforting. The interrupted slope of Bruno’s nose, sewn together patchwork like the rest of him. Dark glossy hair spilling into his glowing eyes, too-straight teeth that may or may not be pointed, Leone’s never been able to tell for sure. He swears it changes nightly.

“You weren’t here, last night,” Bruno says. Voice surprisingly smooth through the garbled shape of his throat. That soft smile of his is fading, the longer he looks at Leone.

So Leone tries. For Bruno. Smiling comes easier here, at least, with the rest of the world shut out and Bruno as his only company. If it comes out a bit stilted today, accompanied by eyes that sting against Leone’s will, he can’t be blamed.

“I…got stuck late at work.” Leone swallows the lump in his throat. It’s not a total lie. He did have a long, godawful shift at work, after his appointment. Shelves won’t restock themselves, and customers need someone to bitch at no matter what time of day it is. They also don’t like it when you bitch back at them, and will report you to your boss. Resulting in lectures and another goddamned write-up.

Leone is expecting to be fired any day, now. Not – not that it matters, anymore.

Bruno’s expression falls into something more serious. Eyes fixed on Leone. “It makes you miserable,” he says. Not a question.

“A bit.” A lot, actually. But Leone couldn’t survive on nothing, and he has much bigger worries, now – god, this urge to cry over a life he ruined with his own damn hands is pathetic. He moped enough earlier. None of that matters, here with Bruno. Inhuman creatures don’t give a fuck that you’re behind on your rent because you blew your entire paycheck on alcohol. Again. When you really, really shouldn’t have. They don’t give a fuck that you’re –

“There’s something else.”

Shit. Leone knew he shouldn’t have come. Looking Bruno in the eyes makes it so hard to keep lying. To resist. (Maybe that’s why he came, tonight.) Leone’s heavy gaze drops to his own lap. His hardened heart throbs sore in his chest, his mouth twisted down. “Only the usual,” he tries. The words coming out thick.

A slow nod from Bruno. Who knows all about Leone’s losses in life. The partner he couldn’t save (on the anniversary, Leone broke down here, sobbing with those mournful, sympathetic eyes on him) and the dog that old age caught up to (buried at the edge of these woods while someone watched from between the trees) and the sobriety he’s – all but given up on –

That last one shouldn’t be what starts the tears forming in earnest. But Leone is…fucking stupid. Always so fucking stupid.

To have wasted his life. Thrown it all away. To be here, now. Hiding from the way that everything is falling down around him, every facet of his existence destroyed, one after the other, culminating in a mess that leaves him buried so deep he can’t sleep for the crushing weight of it all.

And, fuck – none of it – he can’t fix anything. It’s too late, for him.

No use trying, so here he sits. Slowly curling in on himself, here in the dark, breathing in the thick scent of foliage and rotting leaves carried on the fog.

Bruno shuffles forward, and the smell grows stronger, with him. Mist gaining a certain familiar chill. One patchwork palm rests on Leone’s knee, cool through the cotton of his pajama pants. Almost soothing. If Leone zeroes in on it. Stares at the stitched up back of that hand. (He wonders if they hurt, those stitches, so much bloodstained thread keeping Bruno pieced together.)

“Please tell me,” Bruno says, his face ducked, head bent at an unnatural angle to try and make eye contact with Leone. “You look unwell.”

Leone can’t tell him. Changes the subject. “How…” A deep, trembling breath. “How was your day?”

“Good,” Bruno answers, as he always does. He shrugs, too, the shape of his shoulders obscured in that dark outfit of his that melts him into the surrounding greenery. His fingers curl tighter around Leone’s leg, nails biting at skin, and he leans in closer, head tilting further. “Yours?”

Absolutely fucking awful. The worst Leone’s had in a long time, but he can’t complain, it’s all his own damn fault as usual.

Out loud, he says, “I’m here, now,” in answer, because he likes the way it makes Bruno smile.

Lights his whole face up and starts his eyes flaring brighter. Every stitched-up scar shifting, carrying their own appeal as he curls his free arm around his own stomach. Relaxes in toward Leone and settles. It’s a bittersweet sort of expression, tonight. Here in the dark. Leone can’t look at it. It’s comforting, anyway.

Whatever Bruno is, Leone doesn’t have it in him to be afraid.

Not from the start and especially not anymore.

God, his throat hurts from fighting with these tears, and he’s so fucking tired –

In the back of his mind, there’s the niggling voices of his landlord and neighbors. Telling him about the creature in the woods. This so-called horrible monster that will devour you soul and all, or something like that. Responsible for countless disappearances, he’s only ever sighted at night, and only ever in this particular copse of trees. Can’t leave them, so the story goes.

“If you ever meet someone in those woods,” his upstairs neighbor had whispered, fervent, after seeing Leone nose around in the yard, “don’t talk to them. Turn right around, and go back the way you came.”

A rule that Leone broke with a slurred, “The fuck happened to you?” that first night and has been breaking ever since. Quite happily. He prefers Bruno’s strange company to that of anyone else, he’s discovered. He hasn’t felt an inkling of fear even once, in Bruno’s company.

Unsettled, at most. Intrigued more often.

Both in equal parts, when Leone complains over customers and coworkers and Bruno offers to take care of them with a pleasant, friendly smile in place. More genuine an expression than Leone’s ever seen.

The one Bruno is wearing now looks…hurt. Unless Leone is projecting. And. Before he knows it, he’s meeting those glinting eyes against his will.

“…Cirrhosis,” he mutters. Has to tear his eyes away and stare off into the blurry dark of the woods, but he can still feel Bruno watching him. That hand on his knee with a thumb that strokes and fingernails that scrape through cotton and Leone doesn’t know why he’s losing the battle against crying now, of all times. Has held out just fine since he got the diagnosis. “I, um. They don’t do liver transplants for alcoholics, so, I…” Will die.

Not that he has anything left to live for – the doctor said it might not be too late, they can stop the scarring from getting any worse, may be able to put him on the waiting list if he quits drinking. Proves that he can stay sober for more than a few months.

But Leone is so fucking tired.

He hasn’t bothered to tell anyone, yet. It’s not like it matters to them, if he goes. After he got the test results he stumbled straight to bed. Couldn’t make himself get up until just now. The urge to wander into the woods overpowering his exhaustion in a way that nothing else can.

He…hadn’t meant to ever tell Bruno. Didn’t want to taint this one place he has, this one person…

Chilled fingers brush over his cheek, wiping away wet. Bruno catching tears that Leone hadn’t even realized were spilling. His eyes are too-hot and his nose is running. He sniffles, wipes his face on the corner of his blanket. His fingers catch on Bruno’s.

His life isn’t anything to cry for and so this is ridiculous.

“Leone…” That smooth voice is low, mournful almost. It still manages to be comforting, against the encroaching dark that seems more stifling than it ever has before.

“Sorry,” Leone spits. Scrubs at his face again.

A negative noise from Bruno, dismissing the apology outright. Shuffling in ever-closer, overlapping their legs, Bruno reaches for him. A roughened, sewn-together palm curls around Leone’s cheek, coaxing until they’re face to face. There’s determination there, in those bottomless flashing eyes. “You can come with me.” Bruno’s tongue licks over the stitches on his bottom lip. They bleed, sometimes. “Stay, with me.”

The creature will try to entice you. Do not, under any circumstances, follow it deeper into the woods.

This is how people disappear. According to Leone’s neighbors and landlord. The creature – Bruno takes them. Where to, nobody knows. Hence the unflattering eating rumors.

But…Bruno’s teeth aren’t sharp. (Unless they are.)

He’s invited Leone to come along with him before. Leone always has an excuse at the ready. Something to take him back home, up to his empty apartment, and Bruno always agrees with a personable nod. Lets Leone go while saying that they’ll see each other later. That it was nice talking to him – but. Tonight. Now…

Now, Leone has no reason left to stick around. Can’t even fabricate one. None of what’s waiting for him outside of these trees held any appeal to begin with but it all seems extra dismal now. He should’ve tagged along weeks ago. It’s better late than never.

Bruno glides to his feet, and offers a hand.

Leone takes it.

Chapter Text

This is a mistake.

Buccellati has made a terrible mistake, in his choice of muse and model for this particular line. This piece. He’s only now realizing how selfish of a decision it really was, to pour Leone Abbacchio into such tight, shimmering fabric. This isn’t even the most revealing of the outfits Buccellati has for him…

And it isn’t even properly fitted, Buccellati can tell even before it’s zipped up. Hasn’t been tailored precise to the strong lines of Abbacchio’s body, yet. That’s what they’re here to do, today. At Buccellati’s studio.

It’s something that calls for high levels of professionalism. Buccellati can keep himself in check.

It won’t be a problem.

…Except for the fact that it will be, because he’s now faced with Abbacchio in front of the full-length mirror. Bent at the waist to gather the all of his long white hair – Buccellati is only looking to inspect the stretch of fabric – is not at all distracted by the – shape of Abbacchio’s ass –

Buccellati should check the thermostat, maybe. Peel his eyes away from the flex of Abbacchio’s back as he straightens up. Most definitely should not lock onto the patch of bare skin visible through the open zipper on his side, exposed thanks to his arms raised to tie his hair up out of the way, into a messy bun. Muscles shifting within the dress.

Everything is just fine. Buccellati’s face is warm, but that’s. Fine. His hands are clasped together to avoid pondering what it would feel like to run his palms over lurex-mesh-skin.

Physically turning himself away, he wanders to a nearby table to retrieve his pins. His hands will only be put to professional use.

A deep breath, and he pulls himself together –

Only to turn around and find Abbacchio half-turned and glancing over his shoulder, purple-gold eyes fixed squarely on Buccellati. One arm held aloft as Abbacchio says, “Zip me up?”

Expression carefully schooled, Buccellati tucks the pincushion into his pocket and strides forward. With professional purpose. He’s very proud of how steady his hands are, as they reach for the bottom of that slender, hidden zipper. The other hand holds fabric in place, and he pulls the zipper all the way up.

This dangerous sliver of bare skin is sealed away. Hidden and hugged by sparkling fabric that Buccellati will now proceed to make even tighter. Enough that it holds Abbacchio snugly.

Buccellati hand-crafted this garment using measurements he took himself but there’s always some discrepancy, when the actual person tries it on. And he…may have been a touch distracted that first time around, too.

Which is odd, because he isn’t exactly inexperienced in working with attractive people.

The problem is, that when it comes to attractive people, Abbacchio ought to be in a class of his own. With his sharp cheekbones and cut jawline. Broad shoulders. Beautiful nose and stunning eyes and thick-soft muscle everywhere. Blurring the lines between handsome and beautiful in the most striking way that Buccellati’s ever had the privilege to witness.

He also happens to be notoriously difficult to work with. This is Buccellati’s first time dealing with Abbacchio directly, but he’s heard the stories. Ill-tempered. Drinks too much. Has even shown up drunk to shows before. His strut was alarmingly steady, although the press did notice his glazed eyes…

Regardless, he holds a charm that Buccellati can’t pinpoint. Some undeniable allure that he finds endlessly inspiring and thoroughly intriguing, despite that reputation.

Rumors notwithstanding, Abbacchio is sober today, near as Buccellati can tell. Standing straight and tall (so, so tall) in those strappy heels. Relaxed and waiting for Buccellati’s hands on him – professionally – so it’s time to get to it.

The dress fits fine around the top. Lace collar standing the way it should. Shimmering lurex sitting snug at the shoulders, wrapping well beneath his arms. (Arms that flex with thick muscle and move easy where Buccellati prompts them to go, angled up out of the way with just the barest touch of Buccellati’s fingertips –)

It’s around Abbacchio’s torso where the trouble arises. The dress doesn’t sit at his waist right, rumpling the embroidered mesh at his back. It should be taken in so that sheer fabric stretches tighter across.

Buccellati pins it off with care. On either side. Making sure his work is even, double-checking.

In the process he doesn’t dare to admire the back muscles that are visible through sheer mesh. The way that they ripple. The slope of them dipping downward, giving way to the curve of Abbacchio’s ass – the top of which is barely visible – the crack of it peeking through the subtly-angled vee at the base of this translucent panel.

Oh, hell. Buccellati’s stalled out. Staring. He’s got the sudden urge to drag his tongue over that skin there with no fabric in the way, which is. Not at all professional.

Shit. He’s blushing. Hopefully he can banish it before he moves around to check the front of the dress.

That doesn’t leave him much time, because here he goes. Assuring that the alterations he’s mapped out from behind and on the sides haven’t upset anything across Abbacchio’s chest. (They shouldn’t have but he doesn’t exactly trust himself today, so focused on keeping control and not stabbing Abbacchio with pins in his distraction.)

It all. Looks good here. Buccellati will professionally run his hands down glittering fabric and check the fit and feel while ignoring how fit Abbacchio feels –

Everything sits well, and moves well as Abbacchio breathes. Over his hips, too.

Buccellati will have to check the flow of it as he walks, once they’re finished here. But for now he moves lower, on to the skirt. Crouching around behind and adjusting the fall of it before coming back around to. Kneel in front of Abbacchio.

He can feel those purple-gold eyes on him all the while. They don’t really help, especially as he’s running his fingers up the length of the slit at the front. His brain unhelpfully supplies that it would be easy to duck inside of the dress, from here. Hike it up over strong hips and get his mouth on Abbacchio.

So much for keeping this ridiculous embarrassing blush at bay. Buccellati’s ears are burning.

This slit…should be higher. Abbacchio has nice long legs – is even blessed with attractive knees, a body part that Buccellati never paid much mind to before – and the opening could stand to be further up the thigh. Just a couple of centimeters. He marks it off.

“You’re good with your hands.”

Buccellati freezes, said hands paused on Abbacchio’s well-muscled thigh. He dares to glance up toward Abbacchio’s face.

Pink is splashed generously over pale cheekbones and sunset eyes go wide staring down at Buccellati before looking steadfastly away, and Abbacchio grumbles, “With – with the pins, I mean. Everyone else fucking stabs me…”

“That’s…” Buccellati clears his throat. “That’s not very professional, of them.”

A scoffing sort of snort from Abbacchio. “Yeah, well. I may or may not be tipsy. At the time.” His face is burning brighter, and his eyes skitter back toward Buccellati, who really should stand up or move his hands or at least shuffle backward a bit but can’t bring himself to do any of that.

“That’s not very professional of you,” Buccellati says, directly to those eyes, and he’s sure he’ll get snapped at in response.

Abbacchio barks out a laugh, though, the sound going straight to Buccellati’s weirdly overactive heart. A smile this genuine on Abbacchio’s face is incredibly rare. (A sight that Buccellati himself has never, ever seen until right this moment. To call it enthralling would be an understatement.) “You know, my agency was going to fire me before you came along and insisted that you needed me for this line.”

Ah. Buccellati’s heartbeat spikes, again. He remembers hearing something about how Abbacchio was one scandal away from losing it all – but the tabloids are always saying that, about him.

“I thought that was a rumor,” Buccellati says. Though he did worry, this time, because of the credible source this particular inside information came from. And said credible rumor might have been the final push that got him to insist on using Abbacchio for this project.

“Not this time.” An escaped strand of long white hair is tucked away behind Abbacchio’s ear courtesy of black-painted fingernails. Something about him seems oddly at ease, here, and it endears Buccellati all the more. “They canceled all my contracts. Had to scramble to draw something up when you came along.”

“I’m glad I came along, in that case.”

A short moment of hesitation. “Me, too.”

…Buccellati still has his hands on Abbacchio’s thigh. Is still staring into those eyes, which don’t really let him go, either.

Eventually, Abbacchio shifts in place. Uncomfortable heels, or something, and Buccellati pulls his hands away at last. Stands up and straightens his clothes and tries resolutely not to stare any more than he already has – though he gets the feeling it might be welcome –

“The fall of this looks good,” he says. “And the bottom doesn’t seem like it’ll need to be hemmed. Could you walk in it, for me?”

Abbacchio complies. Moves to the other side of the room and then back, walking with grace and purpose – and oh, god, seeing him in motion is so much worse. Muscle rippling beneath fabric that holds him just right and catches the light with every move he makes.

But Buccellati is supposed to focus on the garment. Make sure the dress moves right.

He tries, to his credit. Settles for noticing equal parts fabric-and-Abbacchio. Doesn’t notice anything out of place (with either).

“You can go and change into the next one,” he says, when he’s finished and is unzipping the dress with the same amount of carefully held professionalism that he zippered it with in the first place.

“Want me in the lingerie next?” Abbacchio asks –

Both of them freeze, now. Abbacchio’s blush that only just receded rushes back to the surface, and Buccellati can feel his own ears heating up. Thought he did a good job of surviving this dress. Forgot all about the damned lacy underthings and that sheer robe. The corset.

“That’s perfect,” he manages.

Abbacchio bobs his head on a nod, shuffling off to get changed. Stumbling against the wall to yank his heels off haphazardly as he enters the changing room, and Buccellati still can’t stop staring.

This confirms it.

He has made a grave mistake – but if he’s being honest with himself…he just can’t seem to regret that.

Chapter Text

Standing at the top of the stairs, Abbacchio throws another armload of pillows toward the bottom. They land in a plush pile, joining blankets, sheets, the king-sized duvet – every soft, comfortable item Abbacchio can find. He raids the guest bedroom and all the closets. Hefts the elongated cushions off of the wood-framed upstairs couch and chucks those down, too.

Once this floor is cleaned out, he heads downstairs. Nudges along anything that got stuck on the steps, then wades through the resulting pile at the base. Carefully, because his ankle is sore and that cut on the inside of his thigh is throbbing and every time he breathes his side flares up in pain –

But he’s fine. He can manage. All the rest of his minor cuts and bruises making themselves known the more he moves around are also nothing.

None of it will stop him in his quest. He could only lie in bed staring up at the ceiling for so long, after Buccellati wrenched himself out of caring hands and left, waltzed right out into the cold. Abbacchio didn’t even stand a chance at keeping him here. Not that he didn’t try, but his arguments were useless, given the fact that this late-night Passione meeting is the type with mandatory attendance.

Only death excuses you. At least according to Buccellati, who Abbacchio bets would still find a way to attend even if he was dead – and ugh, god, what a horrible mental image. Buccellati the walking corpse…

Abbacchio yanks the throw pillows and cushions from their living room couch, tosses them to the floor, and decides he will never entertain that thought ever again. Instead, he will focus on the task at hand: dragging the pile of soft from the base of the stairs to the living room by the armful.

All of it is dumped into an uneven mound in front of the couch, one that Abbacchio sifts through while grinding his teeth. The pain is bearable. He’ll rest like Buccellati told him to eventually.

First, he needs to fish all of the couch cushions out of the pile. The elongated ones from upstairs, and the shorter square ones from down here. In lieu of an air mattress, these will have to do, and he arranges them accordingly. Mindful of his throbbing knee, the long knife-wound that pulls at his arm. Nothing to worry about unless it starts bleeding again.

Up next are a couple of thick, plush blankets. Sheets, too. Pillows for their heads, and surrounding the makeshift mattress like some type of nest. A body pillow along one side to help prop Buccellati’s shoulder…

More blankets. As many as Abbacchio could find. He ignores the pounding of his head as he works, the way the room kind of tilts isn't a bother. He crafts a cozy hideaway right here on the living room floor out of protest, and then turns his sights on the fireplace. It’s snowing outside, after all. Buccellati will be cold. And this will enhance the coziness factor.

Fire started, Abbacchio takes a quick trip upstairs – as quick as he can, anyway, with his protesting ankle and this stupid stitched-up cut on his thigh, that twisted knee – for their space heater. This is set up opposite the fireplace, just to help encase this makeshift bed in as much warmth as possible.

There. Now that their haven (read: ploy to get Buccellati to rest ASAP) is ready and heating, all Abbacchio has to do is wait for Buccellati himself to get home.

Until then, he will take a seat here on the cushion-less couch. Mind the fire.

They’ll get their night in if it’s the last thing he does.

…

Surely that meeting Buccellati dragged himself to while injured can’t last all night.

It better fucking not, anyway. He’s been gone for two hours already, and he needs rest just as badly as Abbacchio – if not more so, for the sheer fact that he wasn’t exactly well-rested when the two of them embarked on that job that got them all roughed up in the first place. Unfavorable odds that they survived. Nothing new. Frustratingly familiar, almost.

Abbacchio would love nothing more than to sleep for a week straight, but he’s got this damn concussion and has been denied continual sleep until tonight. Something he was supposed to be taking advantage of, but…

He’s also got this damn Buccellati. Who has been refusing rest and relaxation.

How is Abbacchio supposed to focus on healing if Buccellati won’t take care of himself?

That impossible man is so busy pretending he’s unscathed despite the fact that his shoulder could pop back out of its socket at any time. Has taken off his sling no less than a dozen times within the past day, just so he can type up emails with that broken finger of his. He carries on like there’s no horrific bruising around his neck. No grievous stab wound in his gut sealed with zippers.

Just because he can walk without limping he considers himself perfectly fit – Abbacchio doesn’t care if his own injuries are more or worse. He is going to keep his sore ass on his hard barebones couch until –

The front door unzips.

Abbacchio gets to his feet too fast and damn near crumples, fuck his ankle-knee-thigh, stupid spinning head –

It takes a bit of effort (he probably shouldn’t have sat down in the first place) but he manages to stay upright and totter toward the entryway with some semblance of balance.

“Leone!” Buccellati drops everything and rushes in close the minute he sees Abbacchio. Meets him halfway as Sticky Fingers gets the door, cutting off the chill from outside. “You’re supposed to be in bed.” A cold palm presses to Abbacchio’s forehead, even though he’s reasonably sure he does not, and never did have, a fever.

“I’m fine, Bruno.” Fine enough, anyway. Not perfect, but he made a bed in the living room. Could a severely injured person do that?

Both of Buccellati’s hands are on Abbacchio’s cheeks, now, one finger stiff and extra-cold in its metal cast. “How’s your head?” Buccellati asks, stepping in ever-closer, searching Abbacchio over for damage. “You’re supposed to stay off your feet, how are your legs going to heal if you keep overworking them?”

Goddamn hypocrite hasn’t even gotten his own coat off, yet – and wait one fucking minute here –

“Where’s your sling?”

At this, Buccellati doesn’t even have the grace to look sheepish. Just keeps that concerned crease in his brow and offers a nonplussed shrug of only one shoulder. “We need to get you back upstairs, my love.”

Abbacchio huffs. Takes his long overdue turn at not listening, because he himself is only a little bit sore and has nothing against resting in general. Buccellati is the problem, here. So Abbacchio steadfastly ignores the pet name that makes his heart go all fluttery in his chest and reaches to start unbuttoning Buccellati’s coat. “No,” he grumbles while he works, “we need to get you back in your sling.”

“My shoulder is fine.” Yeah, which is why Buccellati is only using one hand to tug aside Abbacchio’s t-shirt so he can peek at various bandages.

“Dislocated shoulders don’t heal overnight; you’re lucky we even got it back in place.” Buttons undone, Abbacchio – carefully – starts to coax the jacket free of Buccellati’s shoulders. Extra-mindful around the left one. God, the irritated heat it radiates is tangible even through the thick fabric of Buccellati’s blazer… “I still say you should get it looked at in an actual hospital.”

Buccellati, true to form, shakes his head. “You did just fine. I didn’t see anything off.”

Didn’t see anything off, he says…as if zipping through your own skin to take a peek at the wrought anatomy of your own damn shoulder is a normal thing to do. Substitute for proper medical care. (Abbacchio would’ve been sick over the sight if the concussion hadn’t taken care of that for him.)

Moving to hang up the coat gets Buccellati trying to lurch after him, only to wince when he forgets himself and jars that shoulder.

“Put your sling back on!” Abbacchio insists for the millionth time, heart in his throat.

“I didn’t have the proper range of motion while wearing it,” Buccellati mutters. He’s frowning in a way that could best be described as petulant, damn him. Even as he fishes his sling out from where Sticky Fingers stashed it. And then comes the inevitable counter of: “Go back to bed.”

To which Abbacchio will gladly respond: “Not without you.”

An irritated, huffing sigh from Buccellati that hitches as Abbacchio helps tighten his sling. Those blue eyes are exhausted, bags underneath them pairing well with the uneven frown tugging at Buccellati’s mouth, the bruise at one corner. “My love, I have to –”

Oh no. None of that. “Bruno, my love, the only thing you have to do is –” Ah. Fuck.

Blue eyes shine wider at Abbacchio, now. Buccellati stands frozen. No longer trying to escape.

…Abbacchio…didn’t mean to let those words slip. Didn’t really. Mean it that way – except that he did, because if anyone is his love it’s Bruno and so – what the hell is the problem here. It’s. It’s not a big deal, even if he doesn’t use terms of endearment as often as Buccellati does. Or…at all.

Ugh – god. Dark flush on Abbacchio’s cheeks be damned, at least this slip of the tongue got Buccellati to stay put.

“You need to rest,” Abbacchio finishes.

Dazed, Buccellati’s eyes flutter on a blink as he nods. He shuffles in closer to Abbacchio, and toes off his shoes, kicking them backward. All without taking his eyes off of Abbacchio. “I…have work,” he tries, voice too-soft.

“Tomorrow.” Abbacchio swallows. Goes out on a mortifying limb. “You did enough tonight, my heart.”

It’s worth it for the wondrous pink tint flaring to life on Buccellati’s cheeks. A reaction that has nothing to do with the cold. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he mumbles.

“You started it.” Just like always, and Abbacchio is absurdly proud to be finishing it for once, through his fluster.

There’s a tiny grin on Buccellati’s face as he rubs at one warm cheek with his healthy hand. It’s all kinds of endearing. Way too charming, and Abbacchio would do absolutely anything for it. Stand here in the entryway, swaying on his sore legs all night ignoring the urge to pass the fuck out, if that’s what it took to get Buccellati to rest.

As it is. That won’t do anything to help either of them.

A much better course of action is to rest a palm on Buccellati’s back, coax him in the direction of the living room with a careful touch and a gentle, “C’mere.”

It goes miraculously well. Buccellati actually listening, his steps matching Abbacchio’s own uneven gait.

Shame that walking is such a bitch when you’ve strained every last one of your injuries and neither leg wants to support your full weight anymore. Never mind these ribs and his stupid fucking headache…arm unusually sore, bruises fucking everywhere…

Not like it’s more than ten steps to the living room, though. Nothing Abbacchio can’t endure. It’s more than worth it when Buccellati’s eyes alight at the setup. Blanket mound between the warmth of the space heater and the fireplace, orange glow cast over so many pillows. A toasty contrast to the snow outside. Comfort offered against all that pain he won’t admit to, the chill that has to have settled into his bones –

“Leone…” Now those wide, sparkling eyes turn to Abbacchio with lethal effect. Buccellati is trying for a stern expression but misses the mark by a landslide. “You shouldn’t have exerted yourself like this, my heart.”

Face heating up, Abbacchio scoffs. “Thought it’d be easier to get you into bed if it was closer to the door.” He bites his tongue, then lets it go. “My treasure.” And, dammit, even grumbling he can’t escape the resulting flutter in his stomach – doesn’t stand a chance, with Buccellati leaning in-and-up to kiss his cheek.

“Come sleep with me.” The words are murmured against Abbacchio’s skin, and, wow, Buccellati sure is awfully eager to rest, all of a sudden. Which is. Good.

It warms Abbacchio to his core in more than one way. He’ll be blushing all night, at this rate, but it’s worth it.

He doesn’t mind, presses his lips to Buccellati’s forehead, careful of that bruise he knows is hidden beneath black bangs. “You get comfortable. I’m going to get ice for your shoulder.” And some ibuprofen because if Abbacchio is sore, there’s no way Buccellati isn’t. “Can Sticky Fingers get your clothes, or do you need…?”

Help. Does Buccellati need help. Undressing.

No, Abbacchio never thinks before he opens his mouth. Thank you for asking.

Buccellati is watching him with open interest, eyes all lit up and that smile tweaking the bruised corner of his mouth. “I could use some help,” he says, the only time Abbacchio’s ever heard those actual words out of his mouth.

It figures. This sly, charming bastard knows exactly what he’s doing.

That aside, it’s not like Abbacchio hates the thought of this particular chore. Wouldn’t even call it a chore. Taking care of Buccellati in any capacity is never a chore. Least of all finagling the zipped-apart pieces of his suit out from beneath that sling.

Abbacchio is as careful as possible and then some, gentle around scrapes and zippered up cuts.

Buccellati makes a soft hissing noise as his shoulder is jostled, and Abbacchio bites his tongue at the sight of it. The whole thing is swollen-red and sore – an absolute mess with dark visible bruising. Too warm to the touch. Puts Abbacchio’s heart back in his throat, makes his own shoulder ache just to look at it.

“You’re the one who overexerted yourself,” he grumbles. Partially because it’s true, and partially to distract from the way he’s now holding onto Buccellati’s waistband, tugging spotted pants away when they’re zipped open for removal. Convenient and quick and revealing flesh toned lace –

“I had to,” is Buccellati’s excuse, as ever. One that Abbacchio highly doubts. “You’re the one who…”

Ah. Buccellati is blushing, looking out over the makeshift bed that Abbacchio prepared. His healthy arm is wrapped around his bare stomach, just beneath his sling. Pressed light over the zipped-up stab wound there.

Fondness swells warm in Abbacchio’s chest, and he presses a soft kiss just below a scrape on Buccellati’s cheekbone. Then to the side of that bruise at the corner of his mouth.

“Get comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Buccellati hums in what might be acquiescence – an illusion that’s usurped when he ducks in close to Abbacchio, summoning Sticky Fingers to unzipping his black t-shirt. It slips off of Abbacchio and to the floor, joining that spotted suit there.

“Hey –” Big doe eyes blink up at Abbacchio’s frown. Cutting off his protest with blatant fabricated innocence that he still fucking falls for. Hook, line, and sinker.

“We’ll be warmer this way,” Buccellati explains. Gives a decisive nod. Deposits a firm kiss to the center of Abbacchio’s collarbone…

God – why do his arguments have to be so convincing? “If…” Abbacchio’s breath hitches, soft lips almost ticklish along the length of his shoulder. He’s so fucking weak. Ready to pass out wrapped around as much of Buccellati as he can manage, he rests a hand the nearest forearm. “If you say so.”

“I do.”

It would be all too easy to collapse into that nest of blankets with Buccellati and not emerge until well past noon tomorrow. A deep breath brings a fresh flare of pain from cracked ribs, though, and Abbacchio’s eyes keep wandering to the swollen mess that is Buccellati’s shoulder. There’s a pressing need for pain relief – so he does the difficult work of extracting himself from that magnetic presence and dragging his sore body to the kitchen.

Fills a plastic bag with ice. Wraps that in a kitchen towel. Grabs a handful of ibuprofen. A glass of water. Ferries all of this back toward the living room, where Buccellati is blessedly lying down – only –

“You’re on the wrong side,” Abbacchio grumbles. “Move over. That body pillow is for your shoulder.”

Something that Buccellati is well aware of, if the way he immediately argues, “What about your ribs?” is any indication.

“There’s a fuckton of pillows, Bruno.”

With an indignant huff, Buccellati does as asked. Notably only after a minute-long stare-down during which Abbacchio makes it apparent as he can that he will not be lying down until Buccellati complies.

Squirming to the other side of their little fort, Buccellati makes his way toward the body pillow without sitting up. “I’ll be close to you all night, so you can’t roll around,” he says, while settling himself in half atop that body pillow. Right where he belongs.

“Have it your way.” Abbacchio doesn’t even have it in him to grumble, he’s so thrilled by that prospect. (He’s sure that Buccellati can tell as much. Considering Abbacchio’s blush that just won’t quit. It keeps flaring back to life with every word out of that soft mouth and he doesn’t have any energy left to fight it.)

Now that Buccellati is finally where he belongs, the next step to a perfect night’s sleep is distributing ibuprofen. Propping Buccellati up so he can swallow his portion with water, situating the ice on his shoulder as he lies back down.

The water is set aside on the out-of-the-way coffee table, and now, finally, Abbacchio can get some fucking rest.

He picks through the stack of blankets until he reaches the same layer that Buccellati is buried to, and lowers himself with care. His whole body is twinging like one giant bruise, and he grunts as he settles, but it’s fine. Because Buccellati surges in immediately. Meets him halfway with so much gusto that Abbacchio has to reach over and right that icepack, adjust the body pillow.

God – Buccellati is a genius. Skin contact was a great idea. Abbacchio’s already more relaxed than he’s been in days, with so much of Buccellati flush against his side.

A leg presses along his, wary of this twisted knee and the stitches on the inside of his thigh. An arm shimmies beneath him, shoulder behind shoulder, their fingers threaded together. Both of them gentle with the busted knuckles of the other.

Buccellati dropping kisses to whatever skin he can reach and murmuring, “I really wish I could hold you…”

Which – fuck – goes straight to Abbacchio’s heart, clean through. Makes his stomach flutter eager, and even though he swore he’d never move again once he was settled, here he goes. Finagling himself until his arm is under Buccellati (good thing that cut didn’t start bleeding again), curled around behind and pulling him in ever-closer. Kissing his face.

“Better?”

“Better…” Buccellati’s eyes fall closed. He tips his face into Abbacchio’s space. Offers his lips for more soft contact, even though his voice is already slurring toward sleep. “You’re too good to me, my love.”

Abbacchio presses his mouth to Buccellati’s temple. Leaves it there until he can feel the rise-and-fall of Buccellati’s torso even out, deepening in sleep.

“You deserve it, my heart.”

Chapter Text

Bruno starts at the top. Gentle fingers tipping Leone’s head to the side, a thumb rubbing along his jaw while Bruno’s other hand brushes long hair behind his right ear to reveal the piercings there.

The industrial bar is first, one pointed cap of the straight barbell unscrewed so that Bruno can pull the jewelry free, slow and steady. Leone watches out of the corner of his eye as those deft fingers put the barbell back together, setting it aside. It’s traded for a rich golden one that Bruno wields just as carefully as he inserts it, threaded through both holes.

And Leone is breathing deep, anticipation roiling eager through his gut and eyes locked on the tender focus on Bruno’s face.

He’s reaching for Leone’s orbital, next, swapping the black hoop there for a gold circular barbell, gentle as ever. The black ring in Leone’s daith is exchanged with a gold one, too. Bruno extra-careful and so close that Leone can feel warm breath ghosting over. Calloused fingers brushing the sensitized shell of his ear as his conch piercing is tended to, black changed out for something with more sparkle, because Bruno wants to see Leone drenched in gold, tonight…

Well. Drenched in gold apart from the complimenting black lace of his underwear. That is.

Garter belt and thigh highs, too – Bruno indulging in an exceptionally decadent way. He’s wearing his own favorite bodysuit, too. The one that hugs him in all the right places, so many areas that Leone would love to run his hands over, but he can wait.

Soft lips press to his ear, along his industrial piercing, as Bruno’s deft fingers extract his transverse lobe piercing. They slip gold in instead, Bruno tugging at Leone’s orbital with his teeth.

God. Fuck. Leone’s breath hitches, his fingers twitching and curling into the sheets.

Bruno kisses a path down Leone’s ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and nibbling on it gently. Doesn’t stay there long enough, Leone’s eyes fluttering closed-then-open as those kisses trail along his jaw with tender intent.

His heart is beating an excited rhythm in his chest. Bruno bypasses his mouth, palms cradling his face to tip his head the other way. Tuck this hair out of the way so he can suck on this earlobe, piercings clicking against his teeth. Three black studs on the lobe that are soon exchanged for fitted gold rings. Two pointed forward helix studs swapped for glittering gems set in gold. Cluster of piercings along his cartilage tended to…

A tongue darts out to lick the shell of this ear, when Bruno is done, and Leone’s breath hitches all over again. Stomach leaping. Heat pooling down his spine already, and it only gets worse when Bruno’s suckling kisses trail along his cheekbone, then lower.

Wet and warm and landing on his mouth at last – fuck –

Bruno, hovering overhead, cups Leone’s jaw. Tilts his head for a better angle, nose pressing into his cheek. Slick lips overlap with Leone’s, stealing lipstick and smearing it over the piercings here.

Leone groans into Bruno’s mouth when a zealous tongue dips inside, rolls over his – sucks on it – and then Bruno lifts away.

Licks his own lips, staring at Leone with lust-blown eyes. Dips in for another lingering kiss.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bruno mumbles, and that’s all it takes to start Leone blushing, his face going as hot as the pit of his stomach. He wants to return that sentiment, but he can’t, now, with those hands at his mouth. So he kisses Bruno’s fingertips instead. Keeps it up until he huffs out a laugh. “I’m trying to change these.”

Leone hums by way of an answer. Nips at those intrusive (wonderful) fingers and relishes in the responding hitch to Bruno’s breath.

The joke’s on Leone, though, when Bruno shifts position. Squirms in place for a second – because Leone sucks two of those fingers into his mouth, runs his tongue over and between them – but then Bruno’s up on his knees, throwing one of them over Leone’s other side. Straddling him, taking a comfortable seat across his middle –

And Leone can’t help but moan, mouth opening so that Bruno can reclaim his fingers, smug bastard…

God – the scrape of lace over Leone’s stomach is – coupled with Bruno’s warm weight astride him – it’s. Fucking overwhelming. Leone does his best not to arch up. Settles his hands on Bruno’s thighs. Squeezes.

Lipstick-stained fingers reach for Leone’s mouth again. This time, he behaves, letting his lips settle slightly apart, so Bruno can get at them.

The horizontal labret is swapped out first, Bruno taking extra care to wipe any black lipstick from the gleaming golden ends of the new barbell once it’s inserted. He does the same with Leone’s medusa. Even stops to stare, for a moment, when he’s done. Eyes focused.

Right up until Leone reaches for him, burying a hand in dark hair so that he can haul Bruno in for a kiss.

This time, Bruno moans. Quiet, but just as eager.

Lips working fervent, he tangles his hands into Leone’s hair in turn. Holds him still and devours his mouth, tongue gliding in, setting a thorough pace that leaves Leone gasping, air rushing out of his nose on a heavy sigh before it’s hauled back in. Let out on a low whine because Bruno is grinding against him – Leone drags his fingernails down the back of Bruno’s neck – through the center swatch of skin between the three rows of dual dermal piercings there. Feels Bruno shiver.

“This one, too,” Bruno slurs. Hard to understand with his tongue rolling over Leone’s, so it takes him a minute to dissect that. Couple it with the urging way that Bruno’s tongue curls and sort-of tugs on Leone’s and ah, yeah…

Obligingly, Leone pushes his tongue against Bruno’s until he lifts away, leaving Leone’s tongue stuck out. Piercing within reach.

Bruno handles this one with reverence, too. Careful to extract all the pieces without dropping any down Leone’s throat, which is much appreciated. Gold is inserted. Fastened in place. Blue eyes staring all the while in a way that has Leone flushing ever-darker, because he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to this. So much focus in Bruno’s serious expression. Concentrated only on Leone.

When Bruno finishes here, his tongue darts out to swipe over Leone’s – follows it back into his mouth and tangles him up in another kiss – fuck. Leone’s fingernails dig into Bruno’s thighs, his shoulder. Scratch lines into tattooed skin and Leone is swallowing soft pleasured noises, meeting them with his own.

“So beautiful,” Bruno repeats, mouth pressed to Leone’s. He dips in for another kiss, lips spit-slick and smeared with black lipstick.

Leone kisses back with everything he has. Murmurs, “You, too,” against those addicting lips.

They’re gone all too soon, Bruno’s hips shifting further down Leone’s body, kisses trailing lipstick over the underside of Leone’s chin, along the length of his neck. There’s the pinch of teeth here, Bruno paused to bite and suck, marking the skin in his mouth as Leone drops his head back on offer.

Only once he deems this area sufficiently bruised does Bruno move on. Lower, nibbling and kissing at Leone’s collarbone, his tongue tracing a path between Leone’s pectorals. Ticklish along his cleavage.

Shit – the sparks dancing down Leone’s spine only get all the hotter, where they’re gathered low in his belly. Scrambling excited and frantic when Bruno’s mouth meets a nipple – all soft lips and gentle tongue and urging teeth –

“Fuck,” Leone gasps, as those zealous teeth bite down on a nipple ring and give it a stern tug.

Bruno hums out his agreement, mouth lifting away to be replaced with his hands. Deftly opening the ring and removing it as Leone fights to keep still. To not buck up into the pressure of those hips aligned with his.

This nipple ring is replaced with a gold one of a more complex design – and, god, Bruno takes an awful long time tweaking it to get it just right –

Leone arches his chest into those eager, capable fingers – gets the firm pressure of a thumb rubbing over this nipple as a result, and he groans. Eyes falling closed as Bruno kisses across the expanse of his chest, aiming for the opposite nipple. This one is laved over with an insistent swipe of Bruno’s tongue. Hoop sucked into his mouth and fussed with until it’s even more sensitive and Leone is reaching for Bruno, clawing at his back, body held in a tight arc.

“Bruno –!”

Again, Bruno hums. Pulls off of Leone’s chest with an obscene wet noise. “Just a few more,” he murmurs, voice soothing as his fingers meet the piercing, changing it out at last. Deliberately slow.

Sure. Just a few more. He makes it sound so simple. And – it is, technically.

If you ignore the fact that the lower Bruno gets the more anticipation and arousal roll hot through Leone’s stomach, settling low and searing. Ready to snap at any moment even though they’ve barely started anything…

All that attention that Bruno has for Leone is intoxicating. The care in his hands and the thorough way he lavishes it is – it never fails to get Leone going. Wind him up taut.

Both of his nipples are tweaked one last time, twisted between thumb-and-forefinger, and his breath hitches, before Bruno’s hands are gliding away. Firm pressure down Leone’s sides, squeezing in at his waist, extra hard at the garter belt. Bruno slithering backward over his hips and down his legs. He’s lying between them, now; Leone’s thighs spread on automatic, willing as ever to accommodate him.

Bruno’s torso rests at the apex of Leone’s legs, warm pressure tangible through the lace of his underwear, and it’s even more of a battle to stay still, now. Especially with Bruno peppering kisses over his abdomen as he undoes the barbell in Leone’s navel.

Simple black is replaced by dangling gold, Bruno’s hands spread over Leone’s stomach as he slides this one into place. Screws the other end ball on.

Kisses it and dips his tongue in – and god, Leone is squirming, now. Trembling in place as Bruno’s teeth scrape at the edge of his navel, blue eyes with their blown-wide pupils fixed directly on Leone’s face. He can’t stop the whimper that escapes his throat. Or the next one, when Bruno drops a kiss below the gold of that jewelry. Then another. Lower.

Leone can’t stop watching, either, as Bruno’s hands sneak sideways and downward, thumbs pressing over and around the twin duos of dermals on Leone’s hips. Earning more hitched breaths. Barely-restrained bucking.

These are changed, too. One at a time. Black spikes unscrewed and replaced with smooth, golden balls. Leone is transfixed by gentle fingertips. Soft lips pressed to sensitive skin, over each piercing as it’s changed out.

His heartrate is continually spiked, now. Remnants of black lipstick smeared over his chest and stomach, clustered beneath his garter belt, around all of his piercings. Bruno’s fingers are sneaking below the straps of that belt, his breath warm across Leone’s abdomen as it hitches with excitement. Anticipation.

Slowly, Bruno props himself up. Just enough so the temptation of grinding against him disappears, and Leone bites his tongue on a groan, face growing ever-hotter. Liquid pleasure pooling fast in his gut.

Reaching into that case of swapped out jewelry, Bruno plucks free a smaller pouch, tucking it into his palm.

His other hand reaches for Leone –

Settles too-light over where Leone is straining against the fabric of his underwear, half-hard –

Leone groans in earnest, now, head falling back and hips bucking up but all Bruno does his cup him through so much lace, hand agonizingly steady. Just resting there, firm and sure and not enough. No matter how Leone pants out, “Fuck, Bruno–!”

Pleasure blown blue eyes lock with Leone’s, and Bruno squeezes. “Just these left, and then we can start…”

Chapter Text

Stepping out onto the pavement, Bruno opens his umbrella, holding it overhead as he walks down the street. Eyes forward. He’s aiming for home, eventually. Thinks maybe the longer scenic route would be nice tonight, even with the sun long set and the chill of a fast-encroaching winter on the air.

And even with the rain…he’s never minded the rain. It ensures that his walk will be the peaceful brand of lonely, and…

It gives him an excuse to get extra cozy when he gets home. Wrap himself in blankets and pretend that he is not at all wallowing, as he works up the courage to figure out what his next move will be. Because there will be a next move.

Something has to give eventually, and until it does, he won’t count anything as a complete loss. He still has a job and an apartment. Unless they cut his hours, again – but in that case he’ll get another job.

No matter what. He’ll figure something out.

His songs are just fine, and it’s not his fault if every scout and agent and studio exec in the business can’t see that. He hasn’t found the right label to sign him yet, is all. Can’t scrape together a recording deal, or even five minutes in a proper studio, but he won’t give up, because. His father wouldn’t want him to. Give up.

All alone out on the street, Bruno stops. Takes a deep breath. Kicks at a puddle and winds up with wet shoes.

Despite himself, his eyes are burning with tears as he walks on.

He misses his dad. Misses home, even though it’s empty, now. Thinks that maybe he should never have come here, but. This is the best way he can think of, to touch the most people with his music. He lost count of the number of times his father saved him with music – owes it to those countless memories, to his father and that old handed-down guitar, to repay even a small piece of that to the world, if he can.

And he knows he can, if he could just get a foot in the door somewhere. But it seems like everyone has a different reason to either ignore him from the get-go or turn him down after they hear his demo.

The most recent two had agreed in their reasons, though, so maybe that offers some kind of direction, if nothing else. Star quality, they said. Meaning that Bruno doesn’t have the right look, to him. Isn’t striking enough in appearance or personality, and with a voice as soft (weak, they put it) as his, he needs to be…aesthetically outstanding. They said. Or strengthen his voice. They said…

Bruno scrubs at his cheek with a sleeve, then under his nose. He’s catching a chill from the rain, his nose running. Holds his umbrella tighter to himself to try and retain some more warmth.

His looks are fine. He isn’t exactly ugly but maybe – god, what the hell does it matter?

He’d been this close to asking them that out loud. The music speaks for itself, he thought, but then again, video really did kill the radio star, it seems, and to sell heartfelt ballads about love and loss and everything in between you need to be striking, now. Sound stronger.

Oh, damn it all, maybe Bruno should give in and go scouting. Get himself a partner who has that nebulous star quality everyone seems to want. But he can’t entrust his music to just anyone –

Bruno stops short. Tilts his head.

…Over the rain, he could’ve sworn he heard…

A car speeds past, swerving around Bruno where he’s wandered further into the road. The driver honks at him, and his pants are spattered with more wet, but he’s only bothered by these things because they cover that noise he’s trying to place.

Across the road he goes, into a strip of trees. Umbrella catching on branches, but he pushes through. It’s only a thin copse, and that voice is coming from the other side. Flitting in and out through the rain.

There’s a park, back here. Nestled away from the bustle of town, there’s even a playground tucked into it. Bruno’s passed it before, seen it sort-of in the distance. Jungle gym and swing set, and all, usually teeming with kids. But tonight in the dark and the rain, it’s almost completely abandoned.

Except for one person. The man whose privacy Bruno is intruding on, right now, not that he can bring himself to turn around.

Neither can he bring himself to leave this tree line, though. Hidden away like some kind of creep.

He just…gets the feeling that this moment shouldn’t be stepped on. Whatever it is. He is fully enthralled. Utterly enchanted. There’s barely any light to see by, at all, sparse street lamps dot the park, just enough to ward off any would-be vandals, but not enough to leave it completely dark – and, god, what a sight it is.

The man is dancing, maybe. Some approximation of that, anyway. It mostly consists of grand, sweeping gestures as he winds his way through playground equipment. Gripping bars to swing himself around with a flourish, never faltering over the slippery-wet ground. A natural, easy grace that propels him forward and back in an endless swirl.

Shoes scuffing over playground gravel and stomping up-then-down metal stairs are not the sounds that drew Bruno here, though. Neither is the squeak of palms over wet bars as the man runs his hands across them, grips them.

It was the singing that hauled Bruno across the street and through the trees.

And it’s the singing that keeps him trapped here permanently, watching. Listening.

He was right about it being sporadic, but not due to the noise of the rain. The man’s voice goes in and out on its own, as he sings along to something unheard, dancing to his own rhythm. His hood is up, but Bruno can spot black wires trailing down from his ears. Leading to an mp3 player, probably. Kept safe in that sleek black raincoat.

This man’s music of choice is some kind of opera, or something else like it, from what Bruno can parse.

It’s sung along to with gusto; the man belts it out without fear, voice sinking softer (presumably when he doesn’t know the words) and cutting off abrupt (possibly when he can’t quite hold the note for as long). But it’s undeniably beautiful, to listen to. Deep and rich. Powerful in a way that Bruno can’t manage…packed with potential.

The lilting tones melt off into a heart-stopping laugh, when the man’s feet slip out from under him at the top of a slide. He even falls with grace. Landing on his ass but continuing on down the slide and twirling to his feet. Song renewed.

He tips his face up toward the rain. Pale and content. Heads toward the swings, weaving his way through the poles. Spinning into a seat where he quiets, some. Pushing back and forth with his feet.

One hand fishes in a pocket while the other is held up to block the rain. He’s flicking through his mp3 player, now, by the look of it…

Before Bruno knows what he’s doing, he’s walking through wet grass. It sticks to his shoes, freshly-mowed, but he pays it no mind. Marches through the park, the playground, making a beeline for that man who holds so much passion in his voice.

Bruno’s father always stressed that passion is the key. It doesn’t matter whether you’re technically the best. So long as you have that, you’ll be genuine; your songs will speak to an audience, and Bruno clings to those words to this day. This man that Bruno’s never met embodies passion, out here in the rain. Raw and genuine.

“What’s your name?” Bruno blurts, coming to a stop in front of that swaying swing.

The man’s head whips up, all of him jolting in place as he yanks his headphones and hood off in one rough move. “Holy shit – were you watching me?”

Oh, his eyes. They’re the color of the most stunning sunset that Bruno’s ever seen, purple melting into gold. Bright even against the gloom of the rain. His jaw and cheekbones are sharp. Black lipstick on his mouth. Short, white hair. And even sitting down as he is, Bruno can tell that he’s tall.

Star quality, Bruno would call it. Though he’s not an expert.

Passion…

Those lipstick-laden lips are curling downward on an intense frown, and the stranger’s cheeks are flared up bright red – and god, that’s right. He said something. Bruno ran over here like a creep. All that jazz.

In an attempt to slow his pounding heart, Bruno takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he says. Slower and less-frenzied. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

If possible, the man flares up redder. He ducks his head and kicks at the gravel underfoot, opening his raincoat to tuck his mp3 player and headphones away in an inner pocket. Safely protected from the rain, he zips back up. Glowers at Bruno in a way that’s not entirely unfriendly.

“You have a funny way of showing it,” the man grumbles.

For some strange reason, that makes Bruno smile. A tugging at the corner of his mouth. Unfamiliar, by now. But not unwelcome. In present company.

Stepping in closer, he hefts the umbrella so that it covers both himself and the stranger on the swing set as best he can. “My name is Bruno Buccellati,” he says. Doesn’t offer a hand, because that feels too official. Too much like the polite act all those studio execs pull with him before tossing him to the curb, saying they like his music but not him, and would he consider writing for this artist over here, signing the rights to his works away over there, right on the dotted line, if you please…?

Instead he grins more genuine than he has all year. Continuing to offer the sanctuary of this umbrella while the man stares flabbergasted.

“…Leone Abbacchio,” the name comes slowly, but at least it comes.

Bruno’s chest floods with warmth in time with Leone’s scarlet cheeks. He stares into those sunset eyes. “Have you ever considered singing professionally, Leone?”

Chapter Text

The stranger appears out of nowhere, crowding into Abbacchio’s personal space and shoving a drink into his hand. “Tell me your name,” the other man says, voice low. He glances over his shoulder and then adds, “Please,” with a certain amount of haste.

“Um,” Abbacchio says, intelligently. Because this stranger is handsome and close and up until now Abbacchio was enjoying the isolated peace that this corner provided. “Abbacchio,” he amends, on reflex.

“Is that your first name?” handsome stranger prods, sipping at his drink while taking a more covert look around their surroundings. He presses warm to Abbacchio’s side, the hand empty of a drink resting on Abbacchio’s forearm in a gesture that would imply familiarity if they knew each other.

Still. Something in the man’s urgent posture makes Abbacchio open his mouth again. “Leone.”

“Good, I’m Bruno.” Blue eyes bore into Abbacchio’s for a moment, and then: “Kiss me.”

Thoroughly thrown for a loop, Abbacchio has no choice but to play along when this handsome stranger – Bruno, arches up into him. Impossibly soft lips pressed firm to Abbacchio’s, lipstick smearing between them. Insistent fingers curl into his shirt, hauling him in close – a tongue runs along the seam of his lips – he almost drops this gifted glass of wine –

“Buccellati!”

Bruno’s mouth parts from Abbacchio’s with a wet noise, and he mutters, “Play along.” Words that Abbacchio barely catches, tastes them more than he hears them, his face heating too-hot.

He deciphers them just in time for Bruno to turn around, lean into Abbacchio, and face someone approaching with an expression it’d be a crime to call a smile. It tries to be one, sure, but it kind of makes Abbacchio fear for his life, on top of the way his heart is still fluttering out of control – and he’s suddenly hyperaware of how easy it would be to flip over the railing at his back and drop into the writhing ocean below. To drown or be crushed by this big cruise-liner (or whatever happens to you if they don’t throw you the life preserver in time).

“So this is where you were hiding,” the new stranger says, and just like that Abbacchio understands Bruno’s tense smile. Such a level of oozing, cocky charm would put anyone off. Abbacchio is already thinking he’ll throw this guy overboard instead of falling that way himself.

Bruno lets out a violent sort of giggle, black lipstick smeared over his mouth that he makes no move to wipe away, in the face of this approaching smug bastard. “I’m not hiding.” His tone is devoid of humor, and that sickening smile of his dims down. He brushes his fingers across Abbacchio’s arm. “This is the fiancé I was telling you about: Leone.”

…What?

Fiancé?

Fiancé as in Leone?

That…sure does explain the kiss. Must be where the whispered ‘play along’ aspect comes in, too, because now that overbearing stranger’s eyes are fixed on Abbacchio with open suspicion. In response, Abbacchio should – something. To indicate that they are indeed a real couple and that yes he has known Bruno longer than ten seconds. No that kiss was not enough to send him to an early grave. As fiancés, they have swapped spit hundreds of times. Thousands, maybe.

…

After too many heartbeats of hesitation, Abbacchio wraps an arm around Bruno’s waist. Tries not to be overwhelmed at all the proximity. At least his reflexive glower is an appropriate reaction to meeting the jerk that’s apparently harassing his fiancé.

“Leone,” Bruno carries on, probably overusing the name but it’s fine; it rolls pretty off his tongue (wait, what), “this is Giancarlo, the man who’s been keeping me company while you were resting below deck.”

By now, Bruno isn’t even trying to keep his tone amicable.

And…how did he know that Abbacchio’s done pretty much nothing but hole up in his room since he was dragged onto this godforsaken boat? His head is spinning. So far out of his depth. (Can’t stop thinking about that kiss. That soft mouth.)

Oh well. Giancarlo is peacocking, pouring on what he thinks is charm but instead only makes him come across as a dick, and this is a more important issue to deal with. Especially because this issue is holding out a hand for Abbacchio to shake while smiling like the sun in a way that doesn’t properly reach his eyes.

So Abbacchio frowns down at the offered hand, and then back up at Giancarlo’s plastic smile. “Nice to meet you,” he says, with all the enthusiasm such a situation requires (none).

“Fiancé huh?” Giancarlo asks, doubt plain in his tone because he has no sense of self-preservation. At least he reclaims his hand. “You guys don’t have rings?”

“We lost them in the ocean,” Bruno says, so straight-faced and deadpan that Abbacchio almost fucking laughs. “I proposed at the beginning of our trip, and he was so excited that he…” Turning, Bruno demonstrates by hugging Abbacchio sudden and hard – pressing him against the railing, and Abbacchio’s flailing arm does indeed almost drop his drink, his heartrate picking up, memory of those lips on his – but then Bruno eases back. Faces Giancarlo with an unimpressed expression. “Like that, and I dropped them.”

This sure is well thought out. Abbacchio sips at his wine and shrugs at Giancarlo’s incredulity because what the hell else can he do? He is, internally, equally as incredulous over this whole thing. Trying very hard to curb his blush. These out-of-control butterflies in his stomach. “It was very tragic,” he mutters.

Bruno’s lipstick-stained mouth twitches, and then he concludes the tale with, “I’m making him buy the next set.” He settles back into Abbacchio’s side as easy as if he’s been doing it for…however long he’s probably already concocted they’ve been dating. God.

“I see,” Giancarlo says. One layer of his charm falls away, and he’s a bit closer to being handsome now – which he ruins by looking directly at Bruno, the bastard, and saying, “I’ll see you around, then.”

Oh Abbacchio would very much hate to see this guy around, even though the words weren’t aimed at him. “Maybe,” he grunts.

“It’s a big boat,” Bruno adds on. His mouth is still twitching, and Abbacchio thinks maybe this is a real smile trying to form. Even in this early stage it suits him much better than that fake one. (…Especially with. That borrowed lipstick.)

The persistent asshole named Giancarlo winks, departing with a wave and a, “Not that big.” Then he’s back inside, off the deck and onto the open floor of the bar, already off to chase someone else. Prowling around with his full charm-armor back in place.

Like Abbacchio initially surmised, the guy is a dick.

Instead of leaving Abbacchio – or at least stepping away from him – now that the immediate danger has passed, Bruno relaxes against him further. Melts into his side with a sigh of, “Thank god,” before downing the rest of his drink in one pull. “And thank you, Leone. I was afraid he’d hound me the whole trip.”

“It’s…no problem.” Standing with an arm around Bruno’s waist feels far too natural. Abbacchio will leave it there. For now. Giancarlo is still in sight, after all. “But…how long are we going to have to…be engaged?”

(Because just thinking about another kiss is. More than Abbacchio can handle. God. Bruno still hasn’t wiped that lipstick away. Whatever the hell’s going on here, Abbacchio is fucked.)

Bruno shrugs, awfully blasé about this except for the furrowed edge to his expression. Barely visible out here in the moonlight, with those bangs of his and all. “Probably the whole time,” he says, as casually as if they’re discussing the weather. “Unless you want to stage a breakup – but then Giancarlo might try to comfort me, and I don’t want that.”

“You could say you’re too depressed to leave your room.” That’s the excuse Abbacchio would use.

…Wait – is he trying to argue his way out of pretend kisses with a handsome stranger for the remainder of this week? Does he – want to put distance back between them – or – would it really be so bad, to just, try his hand at – fake fiancés? Fuck…

“And miss out on nights like these?” Bruno sweeps the arm still holding his glass out over the ocean to illustrate his point. “Stay inside all day? No fresh air or sunlight?”

Obviously, Bruno views these things as problems. Abbacchio can’t relate. No sunlight is what he’s been banking on in particular, lurking below deck as much as he can manage no matter how Mista’s tried to drag him out. (Sooner or later Mista will figure out that accusing Abbacchio of vampirism is a useless strategy that he takes no offense to.)

“All right,” Abbacchio finds himself grumbling. His heart pounding to life, threatening to overtake him in a way that he hopes Bruno can’t feel, where they’re pressed together. “Fine. We’re fiancés.” For a week, anyway. Or until Bruno tries to haul Abbacchio out to socialize, or bask in the sun, or swim, or get drinks –

Because. Abbacchio isn’t looking to bond with a stranger. Doesn’t need to form a relationship with one. Friend or otherwise. No matter how good of a kisser he is.

Bruno seems pleased. It is devastatingly adorable on him. “Thank you for accepting my proposal,” he says, of all fucking things, that tiny smile finally spreading out over his face. It’s…a good look for him. Maybe. (Definitely.)

Abbacchio frowns at the dumb joke anyway.

For some reason that only makes Bruno’s smile widen, as his head falls to rest on Abbacchio’s shoulder. Which must only be because Giancarlo’s looking this way again, and Bruno wants to keep up pretenses. God, what if he kisses Abbacchio again? “You’re not here with anyone, are you?” he asks. A belated question, all things considered.

“I came with my roommate.” A roommate that Abbacchio loses sight of most days, despite the fact that he’s supposed to be babysitting. Can’t do that if you’ve lost the baby, but he makes sure Mista stays out of trouble as well as he can. From the confines of their shared room. It works out…

“I’m here with my friend,” Bruno says, standing so close that his scent is overwhelming along with his warmth. It’s soft and sweet. Pleasant against the night air. (What if he kisses Abbacchio again?)

Abbacchio’s arm twitches around Bruno’s waist, fighting off the weird and sudden urge to squeeze him in close. Kiss him, before he can kiss Abbacchio. He sips at his drink again to keep his stupid, traitorous mouth under control, because he can’t stop thinking about his lipstick on those lips. It’s a miracle that he can maintain anything resembling a conversation. “Your friend couldn’t help you with this?”

There’s a thoughtful hum from Bruno, and his fingers again find Abbacchio. This time they trail over the hand at his waist, fingertips rubbing Abbacchio’s polished nails. A move that starts up those butterflies in Abbacchio’s gut. “He’s just started seeing someone. And besides, he’s not my type.”

Implying that Abbacchio is his type? Blue eyes scan Abbacchio’s face, maybe performing a second compatibility check. Or something. If that kiss was, in fact, a compatibility test.

“I thought I should try my luck with a kind stranger.”

That has to be a joke, no matter how stoic its delivery. No one in their right mind would believe Abbacchio epitomizes kind stranger on sight. “So you saw me standing around out here alone,” doing what Mista would call sulking but absolutely is not, “and thought I was fiancé material?”

One of Bruno’s shoulders lifts on a shrug. “Yes,” he says, flat-serious. “The kiss confirmed it.”

All right then.

The kiss confirmed it – what the fucking shit. Abbacchio downs the rest of his drink. Bruno might have horrible taste in men, but at least he has good taste in wine. This white is Abbacchio’s favorite. He will focus on this flavor and not the ghost of those lips against his own, pressed firm. That teasing tongue –

“Plus,” Bruno continues, twining their fingers together on his hip, and pulling Abbacchio’s arm closer around himself, “you have an intimidating look. I’ve been trying to shake Giancarlo off for days.”

“…Thank you.” In reality Abbacchio is unsure if he should take that as a compliment or an insult, but Bruno accepts the thanks with a nod, so maybe option one is correct. The arm he has wrapped around Bruno feels altogether too nice, as does that hand tangled in his own. And the warm body pressed into his side. The night air isn’t even chilly enough to explain that away.

He can’t stop thinking of that damn kiss – and, fuck it, strangers or not, he wants to taste Bruno again.

Before he can get any more lost in it – before he loses all control and just does it, damn the consequences – Abbacchio hauls himself back to reality, because right yeah they are fake fiancés with a cover to maintain, which means, “We, um. Should probably tell my roommate about this, unless you want him to ruin it.”

(Disregarding the fact that Mista will lose his shit, when he hears. Abbacchio will keep that kiss a secret, at least. One of them wouldn’t survive the teasing that’d result if Mista got hold of that detail…)

“Good point. I’ll have to tell Giorno, too.”

Giorno, Abbacchio assumes, is Bruno’s aforementioned friend-who’s-not-his-type.

Bruno plucks the empty wine glass from Abbacchio’s hand, and then sets both of their glasses down on the nearest table. He’s back at Abbacchio’s side in seconds – still too close for a handsome stranger but they aren’t supposed to be strangers so it’s fine.

Everything about tonight is surreal, tilts the world too far on its axis or something, but worst of all is how casual Bruno is about rethreading their fingers together. Holding Abbacchio’s hand to tug him along down the deck. Leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of Leone’s jaw – probably staining it with stolen lipstick – god his mouth is so fucking soft –

It’s tripping Leone’s brain up, and this is what he blames for grouching out, “Yours or mine, first?” referring to their traveling companions, of course, but:

“That’s forward of you, Leone,” Bruno intentionally misinterprets.

Fuck Abbacchio’s stupid pasty skin because here he is again, blushing scarlet in the moonlight. His palm is sweating against Bruno’s. Pulse pounding. Fantastic. He’s such perfect fiancé material. “Shut up,” he grumbles, “we’re engaged, aren’t we?”

“In that case, it’d be ours.” Bruno leans in closer as he talks, bumping their shoulders together. “No yours or mine about it.”

Chapter Text

Leone stretches out next to Bruno, long legs flexing down the hood of the car, all of him shifting with the movement. The length of his body is a tangible warmth all along Bruno’s side – and it’s wonderful, to be able to feel him there.

To hear him sighing soft to himself as he settles back to lax. And see him clearly. Moonlight making purple-gold eyes shine, illuminating the sharp cut of his face. The shiny fall of white hair. Each and every scar.

He’s beautiful. He was in the sunset, too. Muffled by lingering rainclouds as it was…

Bruno should probably stop staring and reminiscing. But he wants to bask in these senses that were only fully restored a couple of days ago. Can’t seem to get enough of Leone now that it’s a sure thing, that they’ll have each other for the foreseeable future.

The thought alone is enough to set his heartbeat picking up the pace. Thudding excited in his chest.

He reaches for Leone’s hand and watches those cheeks tint pink. Long, calloused fingers curl around his own in return. Purple-gold eyes falling closed as Leone takes a deep breath.

“My love,” Bruno murmurs, soft as he can because Leone is right here, alive and well to hear it. The blush darkens, but Leone’s head turns toward him. They’re facing each other properly, now, and when those stunning eyes flutter open, Bruno falls eager into them.

“Bruno,” Leone answers, one eyebrow tweaking higher.

It sends a shiver down Bruno’s spine. Pleasant and heady. He’s missed that voice. This unburdened version of it. He lifts his free hand, reaching for the open front of Leone’s shirt, and lets his fingers drop gentle onto gnarled scar tissue. That hole torn into him that should’ve been the end – Leone bleeding out on that Sardinian beach – rock visible straight through his torso –

The memory makes Bruno feel sick, but the rough texture of that hastily sealed wound is quick to overpower that.

Leone is here. Leone didn’t die. Bruno can touch him. Watch goosebumps erupt over pale skin and lean in ever-closer to rest his head on a strong shoulder. Threading their arms together.

Bruno rubs a thumb against the scar around Leone’s wrist, while he’s at it. The one that was a zipper, not too long ago.

“I’m so glad to have you,” Bruno says. Feels like he let too much slip. Not enough. His eyes are hot.

He hasn’t been able to cry in weeks, which might account for the overactive tear ducts. They got the better of him on his first day officially back in the land of the living. Team crowded around him. Leone at his side…

A slow, trembling breath from Leone, and Bruno watches his hand rise and fall atop that scarred chest. Flattens his palm against it, rubbing upward until it’s resting up closer to Leone’s heart. Can just barely feel the beat of it, there. Steady and strong.

Leone clears his throat, squeezes Bruno’s hand. “I’m the one that’s glad to have you,” he grumbles.

His lips land on Bruno’s forehead in a gentle kiss and – god. Bruno really will cry. Won’t get over being able to feel Leone any time soon, because he’s been so gentle, ever since Bruno died. Bruno’s skin was dead. Sensation is finally fully returned and he can feel it, when Leone exhales against him, those lips pressing in one last time and staying there. Leone’s chest hitching beneath Bruno’s hand.

In the distance, there’s the faint crashing of ocean waves. Seagulls and crickets.

The hood-and-windshield of the car are starting to get uncomfortable after lying on them for so long – but all Bruno cares about is the warm texture of Leone’s skin, the soft trembling of his breath, the way he sinks in so close.

Bruno wants nothing more than to cuddle up to him proper. Has wanted nothing more than that for hours, now, but there was a picnic to eat. Car hood to dry off because the grass was too wet from the rain, and Bruno said they could eat in the car but Leone was insistent upon fresh air because that’s what Bruno said he wanted before they left –

So the picnic blanket was used in lieu of a towel. They sat down side-by-side here, on the car. Leone laid back to watch the sunset, after, and Bruno watched him. Joined him. The stars didn’t hold Bruno’s attention nearly as long.

Now would be the perfect time to curl into Leone. Soothe those horrible hitching breaths that are bordering on sniffles, making Bruno’s chest sore like that gaping wound is still there.

Only.

Leone beats him to the punch.

Shimmies his way lower on the car, and only releases Bruno’s hand so that he can wrap both arms around him at the waist, and just like that Bruno’s heart is in his throat, his own arms grabbing at Leone. One around his back, the other clinging to the arm thrown over his front.

Still so gentle, Leone squeezes Bruno in a hug. Sidles closer. Sandwiches Bruno’s legs between his own. Pulling Bruno into him and now it’s Bruno who can’t keep his eyes open. God, he wants to stay here forever. Bask in Leone, all that warmth that’s on offer.

Life that Bruno never dared to think that they’d – live.

Leone curls up impossibly tighter, his head pillowed on Bruno’s chest. A comfortable weight there. Probably so he can feel Bruno’s heartbeat. Hear his breath. Heart and lungs working as they should.

It’s been a while. Bruno doesn’t blame him.

It took some time, before Bruno himself could get accustomed to those functions again.

And now…everything is threatening to overwhelm him. He and Leone have tangled together in bed before, but something about being here – out in the open, under a wide sky glittering with stars, spattered with dispersing rainclouds…

Bruno feels raw. Laid especially bare, clinging to Leone while Leone clings to him.

He’s alive – and somehow it’s only just sinking in how close he came to never getting to have any of this again. Crisp sea air and the scent of grass after rainfall. Leone’s shampoo and the flex of his arms.

A hand sneaks inside Bruno’s shirt, and he breathes deep at the touch of those fingers. Warm palm aiming for that scar on his shoulder where he was sliced apart. Zipped back together until Giorno patched him properly. This thick line is traced as far as Leone can and then back down.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” Leone mutters.

Bruno’s eyes open to see so many stars. “I never wanted to leave you,” he says. “Lose you…” It falls out of his mouth before he can stop it. Wasn’t even a conscious, tangible thought in his head until this moment but it’s true. Makes his heart ache just to think about. Being apart from Leone. Leaving him on that beach. Fading away with him so reachable.

There’s the gentle touch of lips to his chest. Leaving a smudge of black lipstick on top of that scar he has that matches Leone’s. King Crimson’s fist doing a number on them both. Having that as a memory shouldn’t feel like a privilege – but here, with Leone –

Bruno’s arms tighten on reflex, one hand burying itself in long white strands while the other wraps more secure around Leone’s back. Holding him tight. Close. Eyes locked on him and the view of the sky beyond.

More grumbling from Leone, his voice thick but not-quite choked by tears. “Take care of yourself, then, if you don’t want to leave.” He nuzzles in, strong nose against Bruno’s skin, and then, he says, even lower and wetter than before, “Could never lose me.”

Yes, Bruno could. He almost did.

So many mistakes he won’t make again – he doesn’t know what’s around the corner, but he knows that much. This time, he’ll hold on tighter.

He presses his mouth to Leone’s head, a trail of kisses toward that easing furrow between Leone’s eyebrows as he tilts his face upward to look at Bruno. Eyes dazzling in the moonlight, reflecting the stars. Their light is warmer in those wet eyes than it ever could be in the sky, so Bruno will keep it. Keep going himself, just to get another glimpse of it.

“I love you.” More words that just fall out, automatic and so true they almost hurt.

Leone is blushing, surging upward to meet Bruno’s mouth on a kiss.

It’s the softest thing Bruno’s felt in years.