Chapter Text
Buccellati can hardly breathe.
His eyes are blurring with tears, and his ears filter in the rattling huffs coming through his open mouth, flooding with the taste of blood and petals. The shallow intakes of air through his nose overwhelm him with more of that cloying scent. Iron and flowers.
It was getting worse.
Chrysanthemums fill his bathroom sink, delicate white petals and slender green stems splattered with violent crimson. He stares at the mirror across from him, zipping a line down his throat into his lungs when there’s enough breath to spare. His mangled throat drips more blood onto the cluster of flowers gathered at the top of his trachea. A mesh of stems and leaves leads down to the tangle of roots clogging his lungs. He should remove them now, before he suffocates to death.
Of course it was getting worse.
There is no hope beating this disease unless Buccellati chooses to cut it out entirely.
He had called Abbacchio last night. Instinctively, impulsively, selfishly. And he had come. Worried about his boss over a problem that had been of his own making. Offered a sad, small smile along with the painful truth when Buccellati had asked that question.
“It’s always you,” he had whispered.
It was the most emotion that Abbacchio had shown him in months. And all Buccellati could do was stare before he melted away.
His chest aches at the memory.
The chrysanthemums spill over the side of the sink now, and he dutifully plucks each one up and sets the bundle in a vase.
---
Things shift after that night. Slightly, so subtly that Buccellati doesn’t notice at first. Thinks that maybe he’s projecting his wishes onto Abbacchio even more than ever now.
They’re sitting at Libeccio with the rest of the team, Narancia and Fugo engaging in another one of those horrific conversations that Mista is fond of. Abbacchio tries to ignore them while Buccellati runs through the day’s agenda in his mind.
Abbacchio makes a wry comment then, smirk plastered on his face.
The smirk remains in place when he turns toward Buccellati. Not accompanied by the slight blush or eyebrow raise from before, but the fact that it doesn’t dim makes his heart beat a little faster. Buccellati stays for a few minutes more of conversation before excusing himself to use the restroom.
Locking himself in one of the stalls, he zips a void into the door. Closes it up once he’s fully inside. He holds his breath as he removes one sleeve of his suit. And then he tries to exhale. Chokes again instead.
This handful of flowers he zips carefully into his chest, next to his heart. He needs to buy another vase.
He pulls out a hand towel from one of his pockets and wipes the blood away from the inside of his elbow. Tucks away the towel again and puts his sleeve back on. Buccellati checks his reflection in the mirror before leaving. Not a trace of the blood and petals from earlier, but he still washes his hands thoroughly and wipes his face carefully, just to make sure.
The small grin he gives Abbacchio upon his return is reciprocated, and his heart flutters again.
He can still taste the petals.
---
Abbacchio lowers his guard more as the weeks pass.
Every now and then he makes a face at Buccellati first before turning to the others. It’s rarely anything that Buccellati says that shakes an expression from him in the moment, but he’ll take whatever progress he can get. He’s done this before, chipped away at that cold exterior enough to get glimpses of Leone underneath.
He can do it again.
Abbacchio shortens his strides on missions with just the two of them sometimes, enough that Buccellati can almost keep up with him. Their shoulders are just inches apart on good days. Not quite touching, but almost.
Buccellati starts teasing him again at some point, light ribbing as he carefully gauges Abbacchio’s reactions. He tilts the corner of his mouth sometimes. Doesn’t offer any snappy remarks back, but he doesn’t shut off either.
Vases are slowly filling up every surface in Buccellati’s apartment. They’ve long since expanded past the confines of his office and bedroom, creeping onto the kitchen counters. The dining table is covered in flowers, not like he uses it most days anyway.
The mess gets zipped away any time there’s a knock on the door, just in case someone wants to come inside. And he knows that he should throw the flowers away. Waiting for them to die before doing so is taking too long.
Logically, he should unzip his lungs and yank out every root slowly choking him to death.
Like he had done to Leone.
Sticky Fingers opens a familiar path down his trachea again. Tilts his head questioningly and stares at Buccellati as much as something with no eyes can. But he can't get rid of these feelings.
He can't get rid of Leone.
The zipper slides up and disappears with his Stand.
---
Abbacchio accompanies Buccellati today to gather protection fees. The streets of Naples are crowded enough to push them closer together, and their shoulders brush sometimes as they walk side by side. Lightly, imperceptible to those who aren’t looking for it.
But Buccellati is watching. Carefully. Hopefully. Abbacchio doesn’t immediately jerk away, opting to linger for a few beats before slowly separating.
Progress.
Buccellati orders a few more suits that day, identical to the one he typically wears and the backup already in his closet. It’s getting harder to hold his breath when he feels his throat tighten, and he can’t keep sending his suits to get dry-cleaned every time they’re stained with blood.
His - admittedly terrible, practically non-existent - sleep schedule is rapidly diminishing thanks to the now near-constant coughing fits. He avoids strenuous missions as often as he can. Doubts that he’d be able to breathe well enough to carry them out in this state.
Constantly summoning zipper voids and formulating excuses to hide his condition from the team saps Buccellati’s energy. He’s starting to pass out more frequently while doing paperwork at home.
When the suits come in a few days later, he stores them in various zipper pockets on his body for quick access.
A new vase of chrysanthemums appears in his apartment every night before he falls asleep on his desk.
---
Abbacchio still doesn’t actively seek out his company, but he acquiesces to Buccellati’s requests for it more frequently.
After-mission meals between the two of them start up again. They’re awkward at first - the energy isn’t quite right anymore. No lingering glances or blushing cheeks from Abbacchio. They are still Abbacchio and Buccellati instead of Leone and Bruno. But Buccellati basks in these moments all the same.
The roots in his chest nearly strangle him during one of these meals weeks later, and he can feel it.
He calls Polpo that night, using his charm and position as one of the capo’s favorite subordinates to scrape up a week of personal time, somehow. He knows he won’t need the whole week. But best to be overly-cautious.
He calls Fugo right after to let him know that he’ll be in charge until his return - leaving out the part where Buccellati doesn't think he will return. He's unsure why he chooses Fugo over Abbacchio for this responsibility.
He finally throws away all the chrysanthemums in the rooms, zips every vase first into his arm for transport and then into the kitchen cabinets for storage, and cleans away any stray petals or blood (he scrubs at the trail he leaves behind as he paces back and forth). The apartment is pristine again, no indication that its resident has been choking out bloody flowers for months now.
Buccellati writes a note to his team that night, short but honest. They deserve to know something.
Another coughing fit sends him wheezing into the bathroom, hunched over the sink like he’s done so many moments before. He wipes the blood off his mouth with a sleeve and picks up the topmost flower.
He’s a hypocrite, he knows. He should’ve ripped out these flowers as soon as he discovered their existence. Like he did all those months ago to Leone - because it had been Leone, not Abbacchio, who had been choking on chrysanthemums.
But Bruno is a selfish, selfish man. He can’t let go of these feelings. Not yet.
He can’t let go of Leone.
He rinses the blood off this flower as much as he can and shakes away the extra droplets of water. He sets it gently by the note before throwing out the pile in the sink. Scrubs the porcelain until it's gleaming once more.
Sitting at his desk again, he starts another note. To Leone.
He rips the paper up just as quickly, tossing the pieces in the trash.
There’s a better way to leave this message.
When he’s done, Bruno zips down to his car and speeds off.
---
He turns off his phone during the drive and zips it into the glovebox of his car. Bruno wants to spend these last few moments in peace. He picks up a burner phone along the way, in case he changes his mind.
It takes longer than normal to reach his destination. At first, the journey is frequently halted just so that he can choke out bloody petals onto the side of the road. But then Bruno decides to slow down, sightsee a little on the last vacation of his life.
He spends a whole day gazing at new sights, dwelling on old regrets.
Sticky Fingers unzips a line down a strong chest covered in black. His fingers bury themselves into a tangle of foliage until they find the roots deeply embedded into those lungs.
Bruno methodically plucks out each chrysanthemum until the space is empty.
---
The coast is just as he remembers it.
Bruno spends the first day back in his hometown drifting on a boat in the ocean for hours. The tang of salt and warm sunshine help alleviate the suffocating pressure in his throat momentarily.
He lays on the deck as he closes his eyes and thinks back to before. Before he destroyed everything with Leone.
The more he thinks about it, the angrier Bruno gets at himself.
Because how could he not have known?
The signs were there all along.
Attempts at casual glances that are much too obvious. Soft blushes at every kind word out of Bruno’s mouth. Lingering just a bit closer than normal, if only for a chance at bumping shoulders or elbows or hands. Gentle affections that say so much more.
Salty tears grip Bruno’s throat as waves lap against the side of the boat.
He contemplates letting himself drift on the ocean, alone in his last days. And then he thinks of his team, the suspicions that will be cast on them if his body is never found, and the closure they’ll never get if they can’t see him one last time.
He brings the boat in to dock and walks back to the house barefoot through the beach.
The footprints and bloody chrysanthemums he leaves behind are washed away by the tide.
---
Bruno spends the second day at his father’s grave.
He traces the engraving on the headstone over and over again until his arm grows tired from the movement. Every flower that he chokes out is placed onto the concrete rectangle above his father’s body. He leaves them bloody, the most honest extension of himself that he can give.
He zips a hole into the ground next to his father as his vision blurs more. The comforting nothingness of the void serves as his temporary coffin. He falls asleep with tear-stained cheeks and crimson lips, shallow breaths wisping through his nose.
He dreams of strawberries and forks, knives and oranges, guns and salami, and wine and lipstick-covered smiles.
Bruno wakes up to spit out more flowers. More blood. Less energy. The stems of these ones are clustered together at the bottom. They must be taking out parts of his lungs too now.
Leaving the chrysanthemums lying in the space next to him, he closes his eyes again.
Strong hands drag him out of his chair after he spent too long hunched over the desk, and sturdy arms carry him to bed. Bruno runs his hands through pale hair and leans against that broad chest.
He feels safe. Loved.
---
The third day he spends tidying up this house too, sweeping away all the sand in the crevices of the floorboards and rearranging items on the shelves, or at least, he tries to in between throwing up endless waves of chrysanthemums. His vision is too blurry to discern how much of his lungs and trachea are now mangled at the matted ends of each stem.
His fingers - wiped free of blood after every coughing fit - linger on each item he touches as more memories flash across his eyelids.
Buccellati and Abbacchio sit across from each other in Libeccio, just the two of them. They’re exhausted after that mission, but both know that the other won’t take care of themselves if they leave now.
So they sit together, making sure that the other is actually eating the meal in front of them. The conversation is easy here, calm and honest with the adrenaline of the day burnt out in some back alley.
Abbacchio glances at his lips every now and then. Buccellati tells himself that it’s so he can understand the words better. He’s comfortable like this, spending time with a friend that cares for him deeply. Glad that they managed to salvage this much.
He doesn’t let himself consider that there might be anything more.
Cleaning has sapped all of his energy, but Bruno's not wheezing as much as he normally does. He must desperately need sleep if he thinks that it's somehow easier to breathe now.
He curls up in the bed of his childhood and closes his eyes.
When Bruno was younger, he used to imagine that he’d one day die in this house. Seems that he was right after all.
---
Waking up on the fourth day is a surprise.
He hadn’t planned for this to happen. The clock on his phone reads 3:17 AM, and Bruno knows without a doubt that he won’t be able to fall back asleep despite the fatigue enveloping his body.
He turns onto his stomach and coughs a floral carpet over the side of the bed, laughing deliriously when he realizes how patriotic the colors are.
He’s not sure what to do now. He briefly tries to summon Sticky Fingers, but all that manifests is one shimmering arm overlaying his own. He unzips a line from his throat to his lungs again. He presses his hands into the space that opens for him, too weak to lift his head high enough to look.
It almost seems...less crowded with flowers there now. His throat feels more clogged than normal though, and his senses aren’t exactly at their best at the moment. He doesn’t have enough energy to remove the chrysanthemums anymore although he knows he should.
He doesn’t want to remove them anyway.
He grabs for his phone again, thinking that maybe he should call Leone one last time. Bruno wants to hear his voice. But he can’t. He can’t leave Leone with the guilt of hearing Buccellati - his boss - die miles away from home.
But there is someone else who he should call. Someone else that he loves and that loves him too.
The person who loved him first.
Bruno's hands tremble as he types in a number that he’d memorized long ago. This is probably the last time he’ll be able to do this...it’s been so long.
He jams his thumb against the call button before he can stop himself. He forces his hands to stay steady against his instincts, listening for the first ring.
What if it’s not the same number? What if she doesn’t pick up? What if she hangs up?
Two more rings. Bruno’s about to take this as punishment for all the times he couldn't follow through before and hang up himself when a groggy voice answers.
“Hello?”
The petals in his throat choke him. His body is frozen in panic.
“Hello?” the voice repeats again, a little less groggy, a little more irritated. A short pause. “Hello? If no one’s there I’m going to -”
“Mama?” his own voice breathes into the receiver. Strangled by relief or the bouquets clogging his throat - he’s not sure. It’s probably both.
“Bruno?” that voice is alert now, disbelief coloring the two syllables. But undoubtedly gentle. Warm. Just like he remembers. There’s a rustling on the other side of the line. She must be climbing out of bed. “Bruno, sweetheart, is that you?”
“Yes, Mama. It’s me," he huffs out.
She hums softly. “It’s good to hear your voice, Bruno. I’ve missed you.”
“I missed you too Mama,” Bruno’s voice is strangled, but he manages.
This used to be normal, talking to his Mama.
But after...after everything that happened following that moment on the boat and the one in the hospital, every choice that Bruno made to protect his father, everything he did to survive after, he couldn't answer her calls anymore.
“Are you alright, Bruno?” his mother asks. He’s lying half-propped up on pillows in his old room while she answers his calls in Milan at three in the morning, and he knows that she can tell that he’s not okay.
But she’s trying to guide the conversation while he can’t. He could still lie, like he’s been doing in the months and months that he’s hidden this from his family. He shouldn’t do this to her -
But he called her for a reason. This is the last time.
“I have Hanahaki, Mama,” he chokes out. He throws up another handful of chrysanthemums on cue. Their wetness soaks the bedding, and Bruno can’t bring himself to care anymore.
The ocean rolls in the background as the silence stretches on.
Bruno knows that his mother is still on the line because he can hear her shaky breathing. "How much longer?” she finally croaks out.
Her voice is heavier than he’s ever heard it.
“I think...I think that today is the last day,” Bruno admits. Laughs hollowly. “I really messed this up, Mama.”
A sniffle and a rustle. This is the first conversion they’ve had in years, and Bruno’s already hurt her in the first ten minutes. Has selfishly burdened her with his problems.
He can hear the slide of a hand as his mother wipes tears away.
“I...I didn’t want to die alone,” he blurts out before he can change his mind.
He wants to die with Leone, if he has a choice. But he doesn’t. Can’t.
His mother breathes deeply. "I'm here," she reassures him. And then she asks, “do you want to tell me about it?”
---
It’s the first time that Bruno admits these emotions aloud to anything aside from the emptiness of his apartment or the manifestation of his own soul.
There is more to say than he can describe with words, but he tries anyway. Tells his mama about Leone and about everything he's become to Bruno since that night in the rain.
She listens quietly to his story and the wheezing coughs that he can’t suppress for hours.
He cries about all the signs that he ignored, the emotions that he ripped away from Leone despite his protests.
Another bunch of flowers lands wetly onto the bed.
He lists every single gesture of love that he didn’t understand until after it was too late. Tells her about how much emptier his life felt without Leone there to spend it with. Recounts the moment when it all made sense.
Bruno's breath rattles in his chest. He keeps talking.
He smiles while describing what it's like between them now. Still not enough for these chrysanthemums gripping his heart, but better than nothing at all.
He admits his own greedy selfishness and the awful realization that he's leaving behind the mess for his family to deal with. Bruno still wishes that he could get another chance, even if he doesn’t deserve it.
His mother hums softly, processing everything that he’s told her. “Bruno," her voice is soothing, even from miles away, "if the love is true, then you’ll get another chance.”
If she were here, she would stroke his hair tenderly, like she used to before. Would wrap him up in her arms to help remind him that she was there.
At least, Bruno thinks, at least I'm not alone.
He opens his mouth to say something along those lines, to thank his mother for still caring after everything.
But when he opens his mouth to continue their conversation, there is thudding at the front door followed by a muffled shout not too far from his room.
“I think I hear someone,” he says instead. “I have to go. I don’t...I don’t know when...if...I’ll call you again Mama.”
This is the last chance.
“I understand," she whispers mournfully. Her voice is strained again. "But remember this, my son. No matter what happens now, no matter how many mistakes you make, and no matter how long it is from this moment right now, I will always love you, Bruno.”
His sob catches in his throat at the honesty. He knows. He’s always known. Even if he never allowed himself the comfort. He's always had this love.
Bruno stifles another sob and whispers, “I love you too, Mama.”
---
The phone slides from his hand onto the pillow beside his head. His vision is even blurrier now, but he swears that he sees Leone bursting through the door to his room.
Maybe I’m hallucinating.
Leone’s sitting on the bed and holding him now, one arm across his chest and the other supporting his back as Bruno’s hauled into his lap. Sturdy and warm and here. If only it were real.
“Leone,” he mumbles happily. Because he is happy, even if this is all just in his imagination. He traces those lips above him, cards his hand through that silky hair, and leans up a bit more. It’s hard to breathe at this angle. But he needs to say these words before everything ends.
Bruno stares at those sunset eyes and shifts his hand to cup that warm face in his palm. Savors this sensation. His mind might be failing now, but at least it’s got the most important details right.
He whispers, “I love you, Leone,” and the pressure in his chest calms, just a little. A temporary moment of peace. Tears drip on his face from the one above him.
Huh, this hallucination is so realistic. And it’s kind too, because Leone is smiling back at him.
The hand on Bruno’s chest moves to caress the one he has pressed to Leone’s face.
“I love you too, Bruno,” he says in a quivering voice. His smile is brilliant, and his eyes shine. Bruno zips these details into his heart, vows to keep them safe.
Leone opens his mouth to say more, but then Bruno’s grasp is slipping from his face.
His entire body trembles as he coughs violently onto the bed. Blood gushes out along with endless clumps of chrysanthemums - petals, stems, and roots all piling up next to them.
Today is the last day.
His vision spots from lack of oxygen. He’s sure that a good portion of his lungs now rests on the bed instead of in his chest, and he can’t muster the energy to breathe at all. Despite the agony, Bruno turns back around and smiles at Leone. He is at ease now.
And then his vision blacks out.