Chapter Text
They’d been together since they were seven. With age (not to mention the effect of the gravity of the situation on his seven-year-old mind), Cappuccino can’t quite remember the specifics of the day his grandfather and he became part of the Carpediem family.
He still remembered the gunshots before that, though, loud and clear. In fact, their sound had been clearer than those words Niccollo ushered to his old man while they hid in that damp basement waiting for the Carpediem family to take the bait.
Standing on the east balcony of the vast manor, he took another drag of the cigarette and puffed it into the frigid night air. The January nights were still quite cold, especially in this part of the country. To say he couldn’t feel his fingers would be an understatement, but he’d been drilled into enduring much worse, a Celsius or two below shouldn’t be enough to wreck him if he was a good enough bodyguard. Was.
As children they’d stayed together. Even more when they told Cappuccino he couldn’t see his grandfather anymore. Niccolò’d let him stay in his room (his own! Cappucino hadn’t believed Nicco to have his own room at such a young age, it was large, and it was his sanctuary for nights he couldn’t sleep), patting his head as Cappuccino bawled over missed comrades and his grandfather, Tiramisu they called him now. Boss Carpediem must’ve pitied him, or Niccolò begged his father enough that the large bodyguard at his doors didn’t even bat an eye at the blond anymore; no more asking for his business in that booming voice at one in the morning. One stealthy look his way and Cappuccino’d already be inside Niccolò’s room, lifting up the rich blankets all the careful not to wake the other boy up. The warmth he couldn’t experience alone in the tiny room calmed him down even on the worst nights when he woke to the sound of gunshots still ringing and digging into his skull, the head blown apart by a short pistol dancing at the edge of his vision.
His mouth curled into a bitter smile, maybe the cold got to his brain already. The heat of the leftover cigarette butt almost charred his calloused fingertips, and he flicked it off the balcony before peering back into the cigarette pack.
It’s a habit he’d picked up as a teen when they’d started training him. He was one of the right hand men to young Niccolò, all the way up to his rise as the new boss. As soon as they proved his knowledge of defense worthy, he ended at Niccolò’s bedroom door again.
Though, this time he played the part that burly man who stood in front of the door at the entire night and sneered at his seven-year-old self when he’d have a nightmare. Nicotine helped him stay awake; which at first was difficult, as even as a child he hadn’t gotten his recommended amount of rest per night between the night terrors and laying in bed and staring directly at the wall waiting for the old man to come back.
Niccolò was really too good for his own good, Cappuccino took in the smell of pine trees stretching over the horizon; a fourteen-year-old asking his personal bodyguard to sleep with him through the night just because he knew how terrors left him. But no sleep, no terrors; Niccolò frowned at Cappuccino’s dry excuse of a joke and went to sleep as the blond rifled through a pack of cigars until early morning.
Now, he wasn’t as sure as to when the strange feeling in his stomach became apparent. He’d see Niccolò Flash a smile his way and his face felt searing hot; he had to turn his head away for the fear the redness inflaming his cheekbones gave him away.
He remembered the feeling his mother described when he was six, God knows how he remembered that far back.
“Vita mia,” she’d call him (the old man had continued on the name for a few months until he saw how the boy winced when the name left his lips), “Your father and I met back in school, every day seeing him in the back of that class surprised me in a whole new way,” fingers ran though his hair, “When he looked at me, I felt as if I’d melt through the floor, the girls always teased me about how red my face was.” She pinched his cheek.
“I hope you’ll make a lady feel the same way when you’re all grown.”
Well, that was one way to go about it.
Their childhood roles reversed once boss Carpediem died. Sitting in Niccolò’s room that April evening, the man in bed didn’t let out a sound. Instead, only thing really convincing Cappuccino that he was still alive would be the trembling of the body under the comforter, sobs muffled deep in his throat. Cappuccino was too far to hear the commotion in the room, only semblance of news being Niccolò walking out of that room about as pale as the marble floor. Tiramisu’s wrinkled eyes cast to his grandson and downward, the silence of the room made his eardrums ring.
“I’ll get you to your room, Nicco,” he squeezed the man’s shoulder. At his side, Niccolò stared right ahead. It reminded him of that time they were kids, Cappuccino panicking over the sight of his friend shaking and sweating under a heavy fever. Nicco’d always been frail, so that flu knocked him off balance for a good two weeks; each day making Cappuccino grow all the more restless.
He body shook under the covers, and Cappuccino could do nothing but run fingers through his hair and pray he’d tire out and sleep soon (even if dinner was almost two hours away). His other hand fidgeted with the sleeve of his vest, uncertain. Niccolò always knew how to comfort him as children (even now, no matter how much Cappuccino’d steeled himself of the nightmares after so many years), he simply had been too good for his own good. If Cappuccino woke him up getting into bed as a child, Niccolò’d blink away the exhaustion and let him sit and recount times with his mother, crying along as soon as even a single memory returned.
The blonde felt guilty. He couldn’t summon even a tear to commemorate the man who took him and his grandfather in (even if on the brink of killing them moments prior, had it not been for Nicco), nor could he return the favour of all those years ago to his best friend.
Unless.
He drew in a shaky, jittery sigh before leaning down to kiss Niccolò’s forehead. Thank God the other had closed his eyes, as Cappuccino felt like his face had taken the color of a tomato just with that gesture alone. Is that how his mother felt like? What he hadn’t expected, would be the fingers tightening at the fabric of his shirt, locked into place as Niccolò opens his eyes to look at him.
Cappuccino opens his mouth to speak, but Niccolò is always a step ahead with a dazzling smile, ignoring the red streaks leftover from now dry tears. His face can’t flush any brighter, and the blond feels faint as Niccolò pulls him back in. The touch of their lips makes Cappuccino’s limbs feel like putty, and they stay slotted together long enough that he can now feel the burn of the abandoned cigarette resting on his fingers.
Fuck.
The butt drops from the balcony and Cappuccino silently hopes the grass is dewy enough not to set fire. Lost in memories, he takes a moment to look around the balcony again. With a relieved sigh upon not seeing anyone, he stoves the pack of smokes away and instead leans back onto the railing to reminisce some more.
Thinking of their teens probably wasn’t the best on his part, but he guessed to cherish at least some memories with him had been a blessing to his red-faced self.
After those kisses, he wouldnt say things changed drastically. Maybe more hours of sleep gained once Nicco started to insist (he was the boss now, after all) to come over to his room each night. They never called it official, much to a small part of Cappuccino’s brain that craved for any label, to feel real, almost.
He wouldn’t say his affections came in the way of work. Almost.
While they stood behind their boss in anticipation, Tiramisu had kept a grip on the back of Cappuccino’s vest and pulled the boy back each time his brow furrowed.
And Cappuccino wished he’d shot the men instead. Niccolò cried into his shoulder after the fire for the first time after his father’s death, and the blond couldn’t do anything but run fingers through his hair and kiss his temple until he got exhausted enough and fell asleep leaning into his chest. Cappuccino should’ve gone to sleep too, but his mind worked like a clockwork tearing through every thing the other cried into him.
Well.. For sure he wasn’t made for the job… But? Neither was Cappuccino. He’s selfless, he’s the one who will do anything in his right to protect the family. But he couldn’t kill. Cappuccino has killed for him, hasn’t he? He didn’t keep count at this point. And that’s alright, he snuggled the other in a more comfortable position and laid him down, I’ll be his right hand for that.
Except he wasn’t. Silent promises aren’t ones said by the boss himself, so Cappuccino had to stand back one hand on the pistol as the head of the Mori Family taunted Niccolò, pushing the firearm across the table table and letting the young man point it toward his temple.
Cappuccino should act now. He stood right in line to point the pistol at his side right into that man. Once he’s down, the rest of the grunts at his side can be defeated easily by just their numbers. As if hearing his loud train of thought, Tiramisu snapped at him under his breath: “Stand down.”
The blond grit his teeth and stared at Niccolò. His blood was already all over the wall beside them and what’s left of his body crumpled on the floor. That image flickered back and forth when a click sounded from the barrel, and just as the sharp intake of breath began, Niccolò pulled the trigger again. Yells permeated the room, and Cappuccino would cringe at his own desperate tone if the situation wasn’t like this.
“Oi, Nicco–!“
The clicks sounded one after another for what seemed like hours on end as the dreaded bullet came closer, Niccolò seemed to sense it too as his hand tensed and he turned the gun toward the ceiling of the stuffy room.
His words swam around Cappuccino’s head, awash with relief but still aware enough to spring into action (any less would make him a bad mafioso, after all). His full attention snapped back once a gunshot rang out, and he forced his eyes to focus on the wellbeing of his boss. Still in one piece, good.
That night Tiramisu had pulled Niccolò away after dinner, causing Cappuccino to raise an eyebrow, huh?
Curiosity had gotten the best of him, making him trail behind the two until a sharp slap stopped him dead in his tracks.
“Don’t you ever try something like that again,” the old man was angry, alright. His yell made even Cappuccino himself flinch.
“I’m… I’m sorry,” one could barely hear Niccolò, it made every fibre in Cappuccino’s body want to move ahead, but just spying in on this conversation was bad enough.
“I just– After Panni’s house burnt down… I don’t want something like that to ever happen again,” one could hear his lip tremble, “I thought, if I can make myself seem like a man who is ready to sacrifice himself for the good of the family, I can at least be somewhat like my father.”
“Nicco,” the old man sighed, “You already are.”
“I will never forget the day you saved Cappuccino and I.”
The man mentioned, standing inches from the doorframe, bit his lip. He can sit through the story again– Cappuccino thinks.
Except, by the time Tiramisu is done recounting, Cappuccino is tuning out of the conversation.
“You need to put yourself first, Nicco. You’re the head of the Carpediem family, your safety always comes first.”
It’s that night that Cappuccino wakes up in cold sweat again. Except the memory isn’t his mother’s blood all over the room floor this time, a different lithe frame taking her place, of a man with short black hair and– at least he hadn’t seen his mangled face. He spends the rest of the night smoking on the balcony of their room, maybe it’s better that way, he’s (partly) his bodyguard after all.
But he didn’t prove himself to be a good one, if anything.
“Nicco!” Cappuccino pulled the trigger on the man standing above the boss, his body flinging to the side as the mafioso gathered around the man tied on the chair.
“Sorry for being late,” the blonde heaved, “At least you’re safe now.”
Fresh blood still caked Niccolò’s mouth and nose; wrists raw, the lines of the ropes clearly visible. “Look at what they did to you,” he muttered under his breath.
The blond wished he hadn’t immediately killed the man, but it couldn’t be helped, he glared at the corpse until Niccolò cleared his throat.
“How are big sister and the children?” his voice grated like sandpaper, strained from overuse
“Safe and unharmed, can’t say the same for you.”
The snarky tone didn’t seem to phase Niccolò, who chuckled. Maybe he’s not as soft as he had been, Cappuccino mused, he’s just spent every waking hour by his side not to tell.
Fishing a pure white handkerchief out of his pocket, he nudged it toward the man who then started to dab away at the spots of dry blood on his features.
“That’s a relief,” Niccolò drew in a breath, although Cappuccino noticed the way his face grimaced in pain (he noted to take Niccolò to the infirmary as soon as they step foot back into the mansion), “Uhm... He– That man actually saved me.”
Cappuccino raised an eyebrow, a sour feeling in his gut. Just about ready to retort when a deep somber voice groaned from across the room, where that dead body lay.
“Shit, that hurt!”
“Huh?!” Cappuccino turned to face the body rising from the ground, blood dripping onto the concrete. With Niccolò’s screech, Cappuccino put himself between the two, gun tight in his grip.
“He…?! He got shot in the head!”
“What are you?”
The yelling around them intensified as the man who’d been fatally shot rose back to his own two legs.
“Huh? I’m a vampire!”
That made everyone shut their mouth. Well, except Cappuccino who’d opened his with a retort ready on his tongue, though it fizzed into thin air when tense silence overtook. He couldn’t tell how many minutes the silence lasted, from time to time filled with the unintelligible murmurs of the man while he nudged the other corpses laying on the ground.
“I had heard the rumors that the family had an immortal man on their side, but I took it as exaggerated gossip,” Tiramisu took the lead.
Cappuccino’s jaw was on the floor. What? The other men whispered between eachother, and Niccolò just stared at the tattooed man who then turned toward them. Back at full attention; Cappuccino glared, but the man took no offense and instead stripped his jacket before throwing it toward Niccolò.
“You could’ve died that way, you know? Why didn’t ya talk?”
Well that’s a concerned tone for somebody working for the enemy, Cappuccino drew his pistol back as Niccolò draped the jacket around himself. The notion made Cappuccino aware of the acid settling at the bottom of his stomach, taking care not to fork his expression, he opted to keep staring the immortal man down.
“A man who sells out his family doesn’t deserve to live.”
Niccolò’s somber tone replaces the burning inside his stomach with a heavy rock that’s bound to follow him all the way home. Cappuccino looks down at him trying to pull the jacket over his bloodied shoulder, while his tattoo glows at full display on front of a stranger. He couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose, stilling when he realized what he’d done.
Shaking his head, he helped Niccolò pull it on and hoped the man hadn’t caught him invardly throwing a possessive temper tantrum over something only he’d been honored to see every day.
“But,” Niccolò pulled on Cappuccino’s arm. The blond stooped at his level and slung his arm over his shoulder so that the boss can cling on before slowly standing up with an exhale, “I do not know who you are, but you saved me today and I wish to repay you.”
The men quieted down as Niccolò addressed the silver-haired man, another one of them helping Cappuccino out by supporting the boss’ other side.
“My name is Niccolò, Niccolò Carpediem. Yours?”
“You can call me anything.”
Cappuccino wished he’d apprehended Niccolò more at that moment, perhaps he wouldn’t have to live with an acid pool pricking his insides for months to come.
Niccolò had taken the silver-haired man, and in a week had stepped into a supernatural ‘contract’. The man now had a name, Ildio–
“Your name will be Ildio,” he nitpicked Niccolò’s voice out of the murmur behind their bedroom door, if he focused his eyes hard enough he could make out a weak glow from the other side of the door. The pit in his stomach grew.
It wasn’t just jealousy anymore, Cappuccino replayed that day in his mind on loop, trying to think of a scenario without Ildio– but nonetheless a scenario where he would be quick enough not to sentence Niccolò to death, or to be saved by the enemy’s own man.
He became more observant on their missions, so much so he’d got a nasty bullet ripping through the skin of his bicep when he couldn’t move his attention from Ildio’s every move, looking for a loophole in his defense that could possibly have Niccolò endangered.
The long-haired man still sat in the infirmary with him after though, safe and sound. He piled questions upon Cappuccino’s head but the blond shrugged most off and tried to focus on the undivided attention given to him (maybe he should get grazed by bullets more? He shut that thought down as soon as it came). When he’d (reluctantly) gotten Niccolò to leave, as it was overdue time for dinner, Tiramisu peeked his head in and his tight-strung face made the blonde’s organs sink.
“You haven’t been very happy,” the old man started off light enough, “This is going to get you seriously injured one day.”
It took all his power not to recoil at the contrast, “It was just a slip-up.”
“You have been looking at Nicco and Ildio this way ever since that man became the bodyguard. Do you really think he’d create a contract if he wanted him dead?”
“I’m not saying that, I just think–”
“Bambino, you two are not children anymore. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other, but at this point, I’m sorry to say it’s getting in way of your work– You’re going to be killed!” the old man rose his voice, and reminded Cappuccino of that night he’d slapped Niccolò hard enough to ring down the halls.
“I–” Cappuccino heaved a sigh as the old man across the room took a few strides closer, “I just worry, aren’t we all supposed to be wary for the boss’ wellbeing?”
Tiramisu squeezed his shoulder, “But you’re obsessing over it. You need to take care of yourself too.”
“I’m not–”
“Cappuccino!” the blonde flinched this time, and the old man hurried to lessen his volume, “We’ll take you in, stay at the dormitory for a while. I trust Ildio can protect Nicco by himself.”
Nausea burned at the back of his head, but the blond nodded. His fingers sunk into the fabric of his pants, the burn of his wound grounding him when his muscles tightened. A pair of hands settled on his own, but Cappuccino didn’t dare look at the old man’s somber face.
“I promised your father I’d take care of you if something happened,” he stopped for a breath, “I don’t want to see you waste your life like this, you’re all I have left.”
Cappuccino couldn’t prevent the wobble in his next intake of breath, “Alright.”
Would Niccolò still be fine? Ildio was a ticking timebomb– what’s more, he was too strong for his own good. What if he lost aim? Niccolò had taken the man in without even asking around about him, he worked for an enemy, for God’s sake!
But again, Cappuccino’s brain supplied, he’d saved Nicco from being killed by the same people he worked for. What if he wasn’t there, would you still be busting in and finding Nicco alive? He didn’t want to think of it anymore, forcing himself to awareness when he clenched his fists a bit too hard to the point the wound stung like it’d just been shot again. Thank God Tiramisu left the room when he did, Cappuccino couldn’t take any more pity than necessary when his eyes started to burn.
Thankfully, Cappuccino didn’t have much to move out of the room they shared, and what he did, Tiramisu had moved by the time he got out of the infirmary after getting the small wound stitched back up.
The tiny room felt claustrophobic the first night. After clicking the lock in the door, Cappuccino scooted all the way to the wall. Sure, locking the door only made him more on edge, what if there was an ambush? But he had to force himself to trust fellow mafiosos. There were more than sixty of them, can they really not fend for themselves? How come you never worried about this when you slept around with the boss, ‘ccino?
His mind developed its own voice to taunt him, as he plugged his hears with his fingers and tried to settle down on the firm mattress. He wasn’t a child anymore, he was twenty-seven.
If anything, adults should grow out of this fast enough? As it turns out, a week to recover from his first ever bullet wound also served as a week to get his act together. Tiramisu had taken the food to his room, claiming the first-time wound ended Cappuccino up with a little fever (Was it a lie though? He remembered waking up trembling like a leaf a few times into isolation, and he didn’t remember anything that could warrant the reaction). The first few nights, a series of knocks would sound against the door and he’d sit still in bed, bile halfway up his throat waiting for it to give up.
“Cappuccino? Are you well?” Nicco sounded exasperated. Cappuccino closed his eyes and tried to steady out his breathing as he heard the handle creak.
Niccolo’s head peeked out from behind the thick wood, eyes peering into the pitch dark of the room, trying to adjust. Cappuccino stayed still, praying the man doesn’t have the bright idea of turning the lights on (he’d had them off for days now, trying to sleep the week off even when his limbs ached for action and lungs sought a smoke). Instead, the parquet creaked under the man’s foot as his footsteps inched closer and closer to Cappuccino, making his breath hitch.
Thin fingers press against his forehead once the steps stop, and he fights the urge to bring his eyebrows in together at their frigid feel. A heaved sigh, and the fingers part away from his skin. Cappuccino’s heart clenches when the footsteps turn, but he waits until the door closes to let out a shaky breath.
He wouldn’t say his first outing after that week was be a relief. Cappuccino felt a stare dig into his back like a pair of nails while he shuffled in with the small group preparing to go out and accompany Niccolò on some sort of meeting (the briefing Cappuccino got didn’t quite sit in his brain, he guesses he’s getting into the grunt mindset).
Cappuccino waited for the nails to drag him back into the dark, devour him, even; but it didn’t stray from its boundaries and he found himself brushing it away, not the best idea, soon replacing it with a cold onset of professionalism. Maybe he should’ve grabbed a smoke before going out though, because his fingers still trembled in place even when he felt the stare dwindle down.
Distancing himself from Niccolò had its good sides and setbacks, he muses. After a few months he’d fought off the urge to pinch a hole through that silver hair’s head a second time, and the shoulder wound sealed back with a nasty white scar and a numbed grip (thank God it was his left). Perhaps the scar also buried his self-proclaimed title, setting him at the same level as any other mafioso. His job had always been protect the man who saved your life, not warm his bed.
The aforementioned setbacks? Sleepless nights and a pack of cigarettes chewed through throughout the night. That’s what landed him here, the second night in a row.
“Ya mind?” the speed at which he turned around made Cappuccino dizzy, almost landing him on his ass on the frigid marble. Ildio knocked at the glass of the sliding door without much mind for people trying to sleep at this time of the morning. If it was the opposite, someone being so loud while Ildio slept, they would be getting their ass handed to them by the man himself.
But yes, perhaps Cappuccino did mind. Not that he’d just walked down memory lane that makes the sight of the man before him even worse the longer he looks.
“No,” he exhales instead, it’s not like Ildio does any of it on purpose. He’s even immortal, he’s stronger than you and is better at protecting Nicco from harm than you ever were.
The white-haired man let’s out a hum before approaching the railing Cappuccino’s leaning on. His steps are heavy and Cappuccino tries not to tense, or show any amount of sleep-deprived weakness for that matter.
“Don’tcha think you’ve been sulking long enough?”
The question made Cappuccino flinch, “What do you mean? I don’t see that being any of your business,” fingers itching, he moved to pick out a cigarette from the pack. Ouch, maybe too bitter.
“I’m thinkin’ it’s all my business when my Eve is unhappy.”
“Well why don’tcha ask your Eve then, it’s your thing,” Cappuccino lights the stick, trying to distance from the conversation, “I’m doing my job fine as far as I can tell.”
“By taking a bullet because you couldn’t stop looking at Nicco while the team was gettin’ showered with ‘em”
Now he’s starting to really grind Cappuccino’s gears. Perhaps it’s because the man hasn’t slept in two days, making his mood all the more screwed, “That was months ago. And I don’t see–”
“Yeah, you’re blind enough,” Ildio coughs into his laugh.
Cappuccino grabs the front of his black hoodie. The surprise made the bigger man stagger for a second, much to Cappuccino’s content, “Listen– I really don’t see how me doing my job looking out for the boss is anything ‘sulking’, it’s been my job since I was sixteen as far as I can tell I’m doing just fine, capito? Don’t bring up the past, you’re his new bodyguard, it’s all passed.”
The lit cigarette butt in his hand burns through the fabric of Ildio’s clothes.
“Yeah, if making Nicco cry is your job. You can’t tell me to not bring up the past when Nicco’s the one suffering from it the most.”
“What–“, he sputters,
“Take a guess,” Ildio drawls, hands pushing Cappuccino away and continuing while the other is too busy trying to regain some sense of balance, “I’m saying he cares ‘bout you and you’re acting like I killed your whole family just standing here.”
“I’m–I’m not,” Cappuccino coughs into the back of his other hand, trying to collect his thoughts while at it, but Ildio cuts to the chase.
“I get you still won’t trust me and you two clearly had something going on before we met,” he rolls his eyes, “But you gotta realize Nicco did it all for you.”
“Whats that supposed to mean?” the night grew colder.
“I really don’t know, Cappuccino,” the aforementioned man doesn’t like how the name rolls off the vampire’s tongue in the heat of the moment, “It’s almost like he didn’t want you killed before your prime. It takes one bullet through your brain to land you in a casket.”
“Y’know what he told me the evening the called my name?” Ildio softened his voice, unsure if he tried to sound sincere or act out the scene, “I don’t want to lose another person.”
Cappuccino clenched his jaw, that fucking idiot. But was it any wise to listen to the vampire on it? They do have a contract. His mind hung up on it, he shouldn’t be doubting a comrade on it. But of course his brain still hadn’t completely come to terms with how things played out.
“The dumb idiot,” he grunted, smoke-smelling fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.
“I think it’s about time you stopped with whatever this is,” Ildio yawned into his hand, “I’ll tell him to meet you up here later. You don’t seem like you’ll be goin’ anywhere soon.”
Cappuccino flashed a bitter smile, skin wrinkling the corners of his lips, “No.”
As Ildio turned to leave, stretching his arms up and very much about to smack into the frame of the sliding door, Cappuccino coughed.
“Could you just let me come over, now that I think of it?”
“Alright, I’ll be out of your hair.”
The door closed with about the same force as when Ildio’d initially walked out onto the balcony. Cappuccino let the half-burnt cigarette swivel and fall from his fingers, dropping down several stories like all others. He took time to process, his brain lagging about the speed of bicycle with a busted wheel. Fingers found their way to hook around the curls on his head and he pulled, head hanging over the edge of the railing.
His face burned, but he doubted it was in any positive connotation. It proved true once he saw droplets fall into the dark below him, eyes swimming and blurred as something akin to a fever wrecked through him.
It’d been the first time he cried after the first day of ignoring Nicco, and damn did it feel good.
Anxiety jittered his brain awake when he found himself in front of a familiar wooden door. After managing to pick up those pieces of himself off the balcony, he tried to think of a way to go about this tried to think of a way to go about this. Of course, like all plans go, this one crumbles into fine powder now that he’s standing in front of Niccolò’s bedroom door at eight in the morning. Maybe he should turn around before that door opens by itself? But the tone Ildio used felt like he’d kill Cappuccino with his own bare (but still violently powerful) hands.
With a shaky intake of breath and the hope that his face doesn’t look tomato red after squeezing five months of repressed tears out of its tear ducts, he knocks on the door.
The bed creaks inside, and he can hear a faint murmur before a painfully familiar voice rings out,
“Come in.”
Wind knocked out of him, Cappuccino has no choice but to grasp the handle and open, stilling Niccolò in his step in the middle of the empty room. His hair is still knotted from the night and on his frame hangs a white button-up.
“Um,” Niccolo starts, but closes his mouth as no words come to front after seeing the disheveled man at his doorstep.
Cappuccino closes the door behind him without a sound, noticing no other presence in that room, good. Ildio had trusted him enough to fix it that he’d left them to talk it out between themselves.
Embarassment creeped up his ears when Niccolò cleared his throat, oh right.
“I– actually came here so we can talk this out.”
The other’s smile wavered as it formed, but he turned toward the bright private terrace that stretched behind a reinforced glass door. In the corner stood a set of two rustic garden chairs and a marble-like table surface. They still looked just as Cappuccino had left them.
“Want to discuss it outside?”
“Yes,” Cappuccino exhaled, following after Niccolò and not daring to take another breath until they sat down. The fridgidness of the metal seeped into his thighs when he sat, making him suppress a cringe while facing the other.
The man himself didn’t seem in the best condition, if his stare from the door hadn’t cemented it in already. His eyes seemed still wide with surprise, but due to their closeness Cappuccino could see the red rings around them (he didn’t show it, but it felt like a thick needle through his heart).
The blonde didn’t catch himself staring until the man across the table spoke, tone hushed almost as if someone would be listening in from the courtyard;
“Cappuccino, I’m sorry.”
“–Wait, wait,” Cappuccino stops in his tracks when he pinches the the bridge of his own nose, right where the tearducts begin. He hopes it doesn’t look bitter, because that’s not even close to what’s brewing up at the bottom of his stomach, “You shouldn’t be the one apologizing here.. If there’s anyone who made this situation all the more worse it’s me.”
“I should’ve told you, it’s really–“
“Nicco,” Cappuccino stops him, palm stretched out as if it’ll physically make him shut up, the few centimeters away from him that it is; “Nicco, we’ve been together for years, I should know when you’re doing something for the good of a loved one.” What’s he even saying?
“I let it go over my head, I’m sorry,” he looks down, “If anything I shouldn’t even have the chance to sit with you here.”
Niccolo peered over, reaching his hand out to comfort the other but pulling it back before any such notion can be done.
“Don’t talk like that,” the gravity of his voice snaps Cappuccino’s attention, the boss has his lips drawn into a taut line.
“You know you’ll always have a seat, not just in the family. You’re special to me.”
Cappuccino exhaled as if it’ll help him digest the thought. Niccolò was right, after all. Would Niccolò let him behave as he wants if he’d had no use for him anymore? He never really paid attention to anyone outside his circle, as entitled as it made him seem. Maybe he should pay more attention. He’s the capo after all. Tiramisu’s the advisor for Nicco and the troops all at the same time, yet being at the lower rank than Cappuccino does more work than Cappuccino’s ever had to.
“I’m sorry,” he decides it to be his last word, or not. Cappuccino thinks, it’s best Niccolò know the entire truth, tell him why he should be disgusted with you.
“I– The reason why it’s become like this,” the other’s eyebrows arch, and that attentive stare makes his skin grow cold, “I’ve gotta admit, Nicco. It was because I was– I felt he’s taking my place. Call it jealousy, if anything. I felt like you’d taken him with the intention to get me away, maybe?”
Niccolò’s eyebrows knit together, and Cappuccino winces before going back, “I mean– It’s on me. It’s on me, I shouldn’t have been as selfish and maybe asked for your reasoning. If anything, I got myself injured with it and–“
And he’s not sure how to explain himself, and perhaps that injury wasn’t the best mention either. He can’t see Niccolò’s face, huh? The world in front of his eyes blurred, eyes burning as if hed had them stapled open the entire time (maybe he did, he’s sure his face looked as stupid as it seems).
Maybe it took a tad too long to realize he’d shed tears, and the heights of his cheeks tingle with embarrassment when he tries to blot his eyes with a crinkled vest sleeve like a child. He takes his arm off, trying to hold the flood in; “God– Shit, sorry–“ the knot in his throat is suffocating.
Instead of a frigid silent treatment, something he hoped would soothe the sobs collecting behind the knot; faint warm fingertips framed his sunken cheeks. Call him a touch-starved bastard because even as the skin twitched under Niccolò’s careful hold, the warmth itself spread under it like a parasite.
The parasite injected itself into his muscles, tension forced out as his cheeks warmed again. Tears wouldn’t stop flowing.
Neither said nothing, and Cappuccino couldn’t follow his gaze for the life of him, the figure in front of him a mere blur devoid of expression. As such, he didn’t notice until it was too late.
It was a breath tickling his wet face, Cappuccino’s fogged mind caught up like a painful slap of a rubber band when he felt their lips connect. His first instinct had been to kiss back with just as much fervor, he couldn’t deny missing the sensation after the only thing touching his lips for months had been cigarettes.
But his brain caught up too, and he stopped as still as a statue. Next thing he knows, his hands instead fly for Niccolò’s shoulders as he pries their lips apart (pretending it didn’t feel like a stab in the gut).
“Oh God–“ Niccolò’s voice only makes the pit in his stomach deeper, and Cappuccino wishes he had room to run back, “Oh God Cappuccino, I’m sorry–“
“–I should’ve asked, uhm– Oh, God, I’m so sorry I should’ve asked if you still… Felt like that, I suppose…”
Wait what now? His sleep deprived brain worked overtime to get the sentences to make sense in his brain.
“… Huh?” Woah, real articulate, Cappuccino, “I mean–“
Niccolò’s eyebrows drew together, eyes scrunched as Cappuccino wracked his brain.
“Arent’cha with uh, Ildio? You two, uh…”
Niccolò’s reaction, the flash in his eyes and dark red covering his high cheekbones and tips of head ears, would’ve been funnier if it weren’t for the context.
“Uhm–“ he scrubbed at his own cheeks, Cappuccino briefly mourned the loss of contact as the warmth flooding his features disappeared, “He’s– It’s complicated… I don’t know…”
Torn between the You don’t know? and waiting for Niccolò to gather his thoughts, Cappuccino stayed silent.
“He’s… He’s my Servamp and I’m his master but… I’m not exactly sure further than that…”
Cappuccino can’t help but quirk an eyebrow, and Niccolò looks away, “I… I cherish the both of you equally. You both mean the world to me and I know I can count on you… I just need time to think over it… I guess.”
Exhaling through his nose a breath he doesn’t remember holding, Cappuccino reaches for Niccolò’s slender hands.
“I’m sorry– I presumed you two already had something and didn’t want to seem… Y’know...”
The hands under his twitch, and now that he sees clearly he notices the way Niccolò’s shoulders jolt up a few times, but the bottom of his face is hidden.
He can’t decipher the feel in the air until he hears the breathy chuckle coming from the man in front of him. Cappuccino’s eyes widen and if it were any other person he feels like he wouldve given them a good smack.
As if hearing the thought, Niccolò jolts; “–Oh God– Oh God, Cappuccino, sorry!”
And he can’t help it, the last of his energy goes into a half-lidded snarky smile. His hands squeeze Niccolò’s.
“Just… Nicco, if you want–“ Niccolò’s light smile fades, much to Cappuccino’s grief, “If you want this, Nicco. I will stay by your side, I think it’s about time I did again.”
The long-haired man rubs circles in the back of Cappuccino’s hands, the former almost melting in it as his brain is on the verge of shutting off.
“And… To be frank,” his voice drops, a little louder than an utter, “I really don’t have anything against the guy, all of this other shit aside… He’s…”
Next is an incomprehensible murmur, God he’s never felt this tired.
Niccolò’s giggle is all worth it, though.
“Why don’t we get you to bed?” he says, tugging on Cappuccino’s hand. The latter groans, and if he’d focused his eyes he could see the comeback of the pinch between Niccolò’s eyebrows as he helped him up.
But, Niccolò supposes, they have time to go over that again later. They have a lifetime.
Falling asleep with the familiar warmth beside him would make Cappuccino weep again if he wasn’t about to make up for two days of no shut-eye. He couldn’t even get his eyes to open after he’d hit the mattress, instead hoping the damn vampire was somewhere close by, after all.
The sleep he’s lulled into is dreamless, but nothing like the eerie, nausea-inducing sleep he’d wake up more tired than refreshed from— instead, the warmth enveloping him offers his mind rest and, although it won’t save him from the nightmares later on, still feels better than a forever-cold mattress.
They’re back together again, maybe with an addition this time around.