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“I should not have worn heels this high.”
Bucciarati stumbles, laughing, struck with the sort of giddiness brought about by a light buzz–or in this case, thick intoxication. By music, tinny on the speakers, by lights and colors and the taste of a mixed drink and the burn going down. He smiles up at Abbacchio in that drunken, giddy sort of way, and Abbacchio rolls his eyes.
This is not the sort of drunkenness he had ever experienced; he’d never felt warmth pool in his stomach or burdens, heavy on his shoulders, turn light. He’s grateful, though. If the alcohol had truly done such things to him, he’s sure he wouldn’t have given it up this easily. Now, he’s content to taste liquor secondhand, light on Bucciarati’s lips, heavy on his breath.
“No, you shouldn’t have,” Abbacchio agrees, watching as Bucciarati attempts to rebalance himself. It’s seldom that he gets the luxury of seeing him this intoxicated, but today is his twenty-first birthday. He’s allowed to be drunk off his ass tonight, and tonight is a beautiful night for it; even more beautiful than the breeze, the singing winds of early autumn, is the way that it rustles Bucciarati’s hair. The way his windswept locks compliment his smile, unabashed and free.
That–in ways that things like alcohol never could–fills Abbacchio with warmth.
“Do you need me to carry you the rest of the way?”
Bucciarati shakes his head. “No. I can do this. I am an adult.”
“Alright, then.” Abbacchio walks just a few paces behind Bucciarati regardless, prepared to catch him if he falls backwards. They still have a ways to go before they reach home; an easy walk any other day, but a journey for a dizzy, inebriated man in stilettos. His ankle twists in a way that must hurt; Abbacchio winces. Still, Bucciarati manages to stay upright. “If you’re…sure.”
“I am positive,” Bucciarati insists, voice serious, though he turns to glance back over his shoulder at Abbacchio and falls into another fit of giggling.
“What?” Abbacchio feigns offense, “why are you laughing at me? You’re the one that looks like an idiot right now.”
“I’m not laughing at you!”
“Then what was that? ”
Bucciarati stops dead in his tracks, albeit with a bit of wobbling and swaying, and when Abbacchio catches up to him the man all but collapses back into him. He turns to face him, gazing up at him with those eyes, big and blue with pupils blown wide. And as though it’s the easiest thing in the world, he says, “I love you.”
And as though he’s never heard it before, Abbacchio finds himself at a loss for words.
“You’re drunk.”
“That’s awfully rude.”
“It’s true,” Abbacchio pushes Bucciarati away from him, gentle, in a teasing sort of manner. Bucciarati nearly falls over regardless.
“Only a little,” he admits, but then his expression falters. “You don’t love me too, Leone?”
“Of course I do. Are you that drunk, really?”
“Maybe I am,” Bucciarati hums, “maybe a little. A lot.”
Abbacchio leans down to kiss him, to get a taste of the spritz on his lips, to get a taste of him. And Bucciarati gladly obliges, kisses him deep like he’ll never kiss him again, beneath a street light. Kisses him deep and loving and warm and sweet, and when he pulls away there’s something else shining behind those blown-out pupils.
“Are you alright?” Abbacchio asks, quirking a brow. “You look like you’re about to start crying.”
“Never better,” Bucciarati whispers. “Never better in my life, caro .”
Abbacchio looks him over, but he nods nonetheless. Spins Bucciarati around by the shoulders and urges him to walk forward, sticking close behind him. Closer than before, with a hand resting between his shoulder blades. He looks down at the pavement beneath their feet. Bucciarati looks up at the stars.
“You know,” and as compared to how light and free he’d sounded earlier, his voice holds something melancholic, now, something wistful, “I never thought I’d live to twenty-one.”
Abbacchio, taken aback, stays silent. It does not come as a surprise, but it’s not often Bucciarati is so blunt about things like this. He’s more wont to dance around it in poetics and hypotheticals, get the answers he wants without stating what he needs.
“I thought this life would have killed me a long time ago.” Even this admittance is given with a smile, albeit one of a different sort than what he’d brandished just before. “I thought this line of work would be the death of me. But I realize, now, how lucky I am.”
Bucciarati turns, and though he can hardly walk forwards, he’s now challenging himself to walk backwards. Abbacchio instinctively reaches out a hand to catch him lest he tips over, watching him carefully.
“I am glad that I made it here with you by my side, Leone Abbacchio.”
His eyes wander back up to meet Bucciarati’s. Abbacchio fumbles around for something to say in response to that, anything to say in response to that, but he has never been a master of words. Certainly not in the way that Bucciarati is. So what comes out instead is, “you can’t be serious.”
“Of course I’m serious,” Bucciarati retorts, “I’m drunk. People are far more honest when they’re drunk, you know.”
“Alright, alright, walk forward before your twenty-first is your twenty-last. Wait until tomorrow to hurt yourself.” Abbacchio takes him by the shoulders again to guide him forward, but this time, he doesn’t let go. Keeps his hands there, in part for support, but even more so because he wants to be touching him. Wants to feel him, warm and alive in his palms.
Passing cars dwindle down fewer as the walk home goes on and quiet to nothingness as they hit back roads. The sound of Bucciarati’s heels clicking against asphalt, of Abbacchio’s footsteps, quieter, steadier, of the whistling breeze and hushing traffic, fills in the silence of Abbacchio’s stall for time. He can’t leave that unresponded to, something of that magnitude. Bucciarati’s the sort of drunk where tomorrow will be hazy, but that doesn’t matter; Bucciarati’s words have surpassed the shitty memory of a blackout night many times.
Just once, Abbacchio wants to give that back to him. At least in part.
“I’m glad to have been by your side all this time, Bruno Bucciarati.”
And it’s then that Bucciarati’s heel catches on a rock and his balance finally gives out. Abbacchio is quick to reach out for him, to catch him, and the man falls into his arms in a princess carry. Bucciarati blinks up at him, processing the situation. And then he starts to laugh again, giggling and giddy all over again, and Abbacchio laughs with him this time.
“I thought I said no injuries until tomorrow!”
Bucciarati slides his sleeve up to glance down at his watch, squinting down at the numbers on it. And then, victoriously, he grins up at Leone. “It’s actually midnight!”
“Jesus Christ,” Leone sighs, though he smiles fondly down at the man in his arms. His man. He takes the opportunity to steal a kiss from him once more. To taste his glass of Limoncello from early in the evening. And when he goes to pull away, Bucciarati tangles his fingers in his hair at the base of his skull, pulling him back closer to him. He pulls away breathless.
“Can you carry me…the rest of the way?”
Abbacchio stares down into those baby blues, wide pupils, shimmering even in the darkness of a back road. This close, he hears his breath, feels it on his cheek, hot and reeking of sugar and liquor, sweet and inviting. This close, he swears he hears his heart thrumming in his chest. Feels him in his arms, warm and alive, and it occurs to Abbacchio that he, too, had never anticipated making it this far with Bucciarati. Making it this far at all.
But here they are, in the late night air, in between spotty streetlights, blissfully alive.
“Of course I can.”