Chapter Text
“Good morning, Abbacchio.”
Good morning my ass.
It’s been only three days since Bucciarati had found Leone in the alleyway on that fateful night. The other man had come to his apartment the next day, ready to give him his first task—to pass Polpo’s test.
What kind of test is keeping a lighter lit, anyways?
He had been impaled by some sort of arrow and is now the sickest he’d been in years. It feels like some type of killer hangover, but he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since Bucciarati first spoke to him. The other man made him promise to cut back on his drinking, and right about now, Leone is really regretting making that promise.
Leone grunts, scowling when Bucciarati suppresses an amused smile.
“We have to begin your stand training today. I’ll give you ten minutes to get ready.” Bucciarati stands there, collected and regal, and Leone almost slams the door right in his face.
Stuck-up bastard.
Instead, he steps back and gestures nonchalantly into the living room.
“Come in. If you want something to drink, you can look around in the fridge, but I doubt you’ll find anything worth drinking.” Leone’s throat scratches painfully. He hasn’t done much talking in the past few months, besides to order drinks.
After a slight pause, Bucciarati steps in. His expression is a bit curious, as if he were expecting Leone to say something else, but Leone simply huffs slightly and sulks down the hallway. Bucciarati can do whatever he wants; it’s not like Leone has anything to hide or anything valuable worth taking, anyway.
Leone shuts the door to the bathroom and slouches onto the counter. God, he feels like hell. The bathroom is in disarray—most of last night was spent hunched over the toilet. What the fuck did that arrow do? He looks at his bandaged neck in the mirror distastefully, running his fingers lightly over the bandages.
What even is the point of looking presentable, anyways? Leone honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck about what others thought about him. Right now, he was just focused on trying not to pass out from pain and exhaustion.
There’s a light rapping on the door.
“Abbacchio. It’s time to go.” Leone heaves a sigh and runs his fingers through his hair as a makeshift comb. He splashes some cold water on his face, dries it with the bottom of his shirt, then opens the door.
Bucciarati’s eyes scan over him, mouth twitching incomprehensibly. “You’re going out...like that?”
This bitch!
“ Yes,” Leone growls. “Do you have a problem with it?”
For a moment, they stare each other down before Bucciarati caves with a sigh.
“You need to dress better than this. I have a reputation to uphold; I won’t allow you to work under me with such disregard for your appearance.” Bucciarati steps inside the bathroom and starts searching for a comb. He finds one and reaches out to brush it through Leone’s hair.
Leone slaps his hand away. Who does this guy think he is, coming in here and trying to touch me?! I barely know him!
“And I’m not going to allow you to treat me like a fucking child, bastard,” he hisses. Bucciarati freezes, face locked in a completely blank expression.
It’s terrifying.
“Please sit down and allow me to do something with that mess of hair.” Calmly, Bucciarati points to the ledge of the bathtub.
Leone complies.
When Bucciarati walks over, wielding the comb like a weapon, Leone bristles. It’s been such a long time since he’s had contact with another human while sober (that sounds so pitiful when he thinks about it.) Plus, there’s something off about this man.
However, once Bucciarati begins to work through the tangles in his hair, Leone melts. It’s embarrassing, really, how he begins to lean into the touch of the comb and fingers working through his hair.
Bucciarati gathers the top section of his hair and pins it back with something, completing the half-up half-down hairstyle. When Leone raises his fingers to investigate, he finds a metal brooch, identical to the ones in Bucciarati’s own hair.
“Take a look,” Bruno says.
Leone stands and gapes at the mirror. Now that his hair is pulled back, all his features that are usually covered by his bangs are now exposed. Had his eyes always looked that vibrant?
For once, Leone actually isn’t completely upset with his reflection. However, it still feels like something was missing…
Leone opens a drawer and digs around aggressively. Found it! Triumphantly, he pulls out his old, small makeup collection. It’s been a long time since he last looked at it. From years of habit, his body learned how to apply makeup like clockwork, and within seconds, Leone has sharp winged eyeliner and dark purple lips.
“That was impressive,” muses Bucciarati. Leone looks at him and can’t help but quirk his lips into a playful smirk.
“Am I acceptable for the mafia now?”
Bucciarati begins to teach Leone how to style hair, and in turn, he shows Bucciarati how to apply makeup.
Leone sits on the edge of the toilet seat with uneven eyeliner painted onto his eyes. Bucciarati sits gracefully on the floor in front of him, back resting against Leone’s shins. In his lap was some type of nonfiction book that Fugo had recommended earlier that day.
“I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“Hmm? Let me see.” Bucciarati sets the book aside and stands up from the floor, to inspect his reflection. Fingers running over the slightly uneven braid on the top of his head, he lets out a satisfactory hum.
“I kind of like it.” He clips in the golden hair clips before turning to Leone. “What do you think?”
“It’s a lot less boring than your typical part,” Leone teases. Bucciarati feigns an offended expression before cracking a smile.
“Watch your mouth. At least you made semi-even sections for the braid. You’re improving.”
“I wish I could say the same about you,” Leone retorts.
Abruptly, Sticky Fingers appears and zips Leone’s mouth closed.
It became a routine for them to practice new makeup looks or hairstyles on each other. Lately, it’s common to find Leone walking around the house with intricately braided hair or to find Bucciarati in blue or red lipstick. Nobody really mentions how Leone would let Bucciarati run his fingers through his hair for countless minutes.
At least, not until Narancia tried to play with Leone’s hair.
“Back off, rat,” Leone warns in a dangerously low voice. Narancia’s eyes narrow and he lets out a noise of annoyance.
“But your hair looks soft and Fugo and Bucciarati are both on a mission! You don’t expect me to ask Mista, do you? His hair is too short, not to mention how he always wears that stupid hat!” Narancia whines, pouting.
“Hey!” Mista protests from the couch.
“You can’t touch my hair. Now back off.” Leone’s tone leaves no room for argument. Narancia sticks his tongue out.
“You’re no fun!” He clambers off the seat and storms upstairs.
Leone sighs.
Later that night, Bucciarati and Leone sit at the kitchen counter, reviewing some paperwork. Bucciarati leans one elbow on the counter and twirls a strand of Leone’s hair around his fingers with the other hand. Occasionally, he lifts his hand to gently brush away the baby hairs from Leone’s temple to tuck them behind his ear.
Leone finds himself chasing the gentle touch.
Heavy footsteps clod down the stairs and Mista rounds the corner. The Pistols are swarming around him, squealing nonsense about food. It must be time for their midnight snack.
Mista blinks at the two of them, eyes darting between Bucciarati’s hand and Leone’s hair. He shoots the ex-cop an odd expression.
“I thought you didn’t like people touching your hair, Abbacchio.” Instantly, Bucciarati’s hand stills and withdraws. Leone has half a mind to punch their newest recruit for disrupting his peace.
“Oh, Abbacchio. I didn’t know that. You should have told me.” Bucciarati doesn’t notice the deadly stink eye that Leone is staring at the gunslinger with, but thankfully Mista doesn’t miss the intimidating glare. His eyes widen and he grabs a hunk of cheese from the fridge before quickly disappearing back into the dark stairwell.
“Does touching your hair bother you?” Bucciarati prompts.
No, it feels lovely and soothing, Leone wants to say.
Yes, close contact makes me uncomfortable and nervous, Leone should say.
Instead, he merely shrugs and returns to his document.
A couple of moments later, he feels fingers lightly brush across his forehead, and a sigh of contentment slips from his lips. There’s a slight snort next to him as Bucciarati tries to contain his laughter.
Leone buries his face into his cup of tea and blushes.