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Chapter Text

Fugo liked to think he was the narrator of Bucciarati and Abbacchio’s romance. He felt like he picked up on all of the cues, the nuances, the subtleties of their blossoming feelings. It made him feel closer to them, like he understood them more as people and not just as other gang members. If their story was a novel, up until a certain point, Fugo was the semi-reliable omniscient voice that guided the reader through the characters’ journeys.

He quite vividly remembers the night Bucciarati dragged Abbacchio in through the doorway, and the day leading up to it, but moreso he recalls the shift of Bucciarati. Within the several hours it took to sober Abbacchio up and make him feel comfortable enough to sit down in their living room, he felt like he witnessed Bruno’s metamorphosis. Bruno would argue he witnessed Fugo’s transformation, however, as he got to witness the boy struggle to accept Abbacchio after their first encounter.

He should have been asleep. It’s what Bucciarati told him before he went out with a solemn face and umbrella in a tight grip. “We’re in for a long day tomorrow. You need to rest up.” If Fugo knew what was coming through the doorway on a few hours later, he would have shut his eyes and waited until morning.

Unfortunately, insomnia ate at him. As usual. Normally, when Bucciarati told him to go to bed as he was heading out, Fugo would sit up in the living room and read or listen to one of Bucciarati’s records or stare at the fishing net slung on the wall and wonder what his leader was doing at his age. Eventually he would go to sleep before Bucciarati returned and be up again before Bucciarati woke up, having no idea how long the man was out for, though he never failed to be awake and in the kitchen by 8.

On that night, however, Fugo sat reading on the couch. The rain hit the window in bursts, distracting him if it got too loud. The clock ticked by, monotonous tapping just loud enough so that he would get distracted if he focused on it too much. Bucciarati left at 11. Now it was 2. Fugo chewed his thumb nail and contemplated turning in for the night. He glanced back between the door and the clock. A thump caught his attention. Voices whispering just outside the door. Bucciarati’s hushed with insistence, the other one slurred and irritated.

“Come on, help me out here.”

“Help you….not helping…anyone.”

“Just get inside, at least.”

“Don’t drag me.”

Another thump. Fugo dropped his book on the chair and shot up to his feet. He heard the metal of the key scratch the lock until Bucciarati pushed the door open. He didn’t see Fugo at first, but the man hanging on him did. His hair was stark white in contrast to his clothes, but it looked dirty and greasy. He thought it would be plastered to his face even without the rain. His left arm was slung around Bruno’s shoulders and in his right hand an empty bottle of something. His feet dragged on the floor as Bruno struggled to get him inside. His eyes pierced through Fugo’s, almost like he was confused, but if he was he didn’t say anything.

He was—they were—soaking wet. Bruno had an umbrella, but it didn’t seem to have done much. The man with light hair tapped on Bucciarati’s chest as he shut the door, sighing heavily.

“You got a kid?” He grumbled as slumped his head against Bucciarati’s chest, rubbing his face with the back of his right hand, still gripping the bottle tight.

Fugo watched Bucciarati turn his head to meet his eyes. He smiled. It was bizarre. Considering he had just dragged a grown man in the door form the pouring rain, Fugo couldn’t help but think Bucciarati looked…content. Hopeful. Determined. It was almost chilling, the look he had. Like a fire had been relit within him. It made Fugo determined too.

“Fugo, could you get the shower running? Please?” Bucciarati’s voice was barely above a whisper, like he didn’t want to disturb the intruder clinging to his side. Fugo simply nodded, and within a minute Bruno could hear the water running.

The teenager stood in the hallway, hiding himself behind the corner, listening to his leaders movements.

“Pretty deplorable place for a kid to be.” The stranger grumbled.

“If you knew the whole story you wouldn’t be saying that.” Some cabinets opened and shut, glasses clinking around, the faucet turned on and off. “Here. Give me that.” A bottle tossed in the trash.

“I know the half of it.”

“You don’t know anything. All you know is what you tell yourself, what you’ve shown yourself, what you choose to see.” Silence. No argument. No grumbling or grouching. It was intense, that pause. “Come on. The shower’s running.

Fugo ran to his room as he heard sullen footsteps approach him. Between a window wrought with rain and a door shut to the hall, Fugo couldn’t hear anymore.

Fugo thought about this night a lot. He thought about Bucciarati’s actions, and the disregard he had towards Abbacchio’s. On some level, he felt like he focused so heavily on them because he was unsure he would ever be able to feel a romance so palpable himself. Did he even deserve it, he would ask himself, after what happened to him. And if he did, was he capable? What he witnessed was so genuine and profound, love completely blind to its environment and its consequences, he never thought he would be able to disregard the things around him enough so that he could let love lead him. He watched from the shadows and lived vicariously instead.

He didn’t leave his room again until he heard the shower shut off. He could only hear whispers now, hushed conversation implying Bucciarati thought he was asleep. Fugo pulled his door open, peeking out to the hallway flooded with light from the bathroom. He crept down until he could peek through the open door, a part of him concerned for Bucciarati’s safety, but another curious of this stranger.

The stranger—now cleaner than before—sat on the lid of the toilet naked. His ribs showed, but his muscles showed more. Hunched over and attempting to stay awake it seemed, Bucciarati sat on the floor between his legs, unfazed by the nudity, and cleaned the many wounds littering the man’s arms, legs, and face. They looked fresh. Self inflicted even.

Fugo realized this was the only time he had even seen nudity as non-sexual. The rise and fall of his back as he breathed, his winces at the alcohol on fresh cuts, his slurred whispers on nonsense. It was almost sad. Pitiful. Fugo almost felt bad. It froze him at first, but the man’s form, despite his stature, was not menacing or malignant. It was just there. It was there because it had to be, because it’s what the moment called for. He was clean, and Bucciarati was helping clean him. He was caring for him.

Caring for a naked body was not something Fugo was familiar with. Bucciarati noticed a mop of blonde head out of the corner of his eye. Fugo watched him set his cloth down, assuring the man he would be right back. He shot back behind the doorway, waiting for Bucciarati to emerge.

There was that look again. That hope, that determination. This time, a twinge of tiredness tugged on his features. Bucciarati motioned to his room, flicking on a lamp before slumping against the wall next to the door. Fugo waiting for his head to rise up again, for his eyes to open. It was like he needed a little re-charge. Without fail, however, his bright blue eyes met Fugo’s with all of the vigor they ever had.

“His name is Leone Abbacchio. He’ll be with us, from now on.” Bucciarati didn’t push the conversation on. He waited for Fugo’s reply.

Fugo wasn’t sure what to feel at first. They had worked so well, Bucciarati and him. He thought that they had everything they needed together. They were surviving. Maybe a part of him was jealous, or nervous that he would be put in second place. His time with Bucciarati was the only time Fugo felt he had a mentor who truly saw him as a person and not just as an ability or a talent. Bucciarati truly appreciated him, truly respected him.

From what he had seen, this Leone Abbacchio wasn’t the least bit respectable.

“Um, okay.” It wasn’t anger that was bubbling up within him. It was anxiety. His chest got hot and he felt like he needed to rip his hair out or scratch his skin off or tap his foot so fast his leg would fall off. He just wanted a sliver of hope that this outsider wouldn’t make it. “Did you—“

“I’m bringing him to Polpo tomorrow. When he’s…sober.” Bucciarati almost sounded ashamed. Really, he was afraid Fugo would second-guess his judgement.

“Okay.” Fugo didn’t meet his eyes.

“What are you thinking?” Bucciarati never asked Fugo what was wrong, or what was up with him. He asked him what he was thinking. Especially when he noticed Fugo get worked up. Instead of focusing on the issue, it focused on how Fugo was feeling. It made it easier to cool him down.

“I’m thinking that…that that guy—Abbacchio—isn’t going to make sense. With us. From what I’ve seen of him, granted it hasn’t been anything good, I don’t see what he’ll bring to your team. I don’t get it. And I don’t…” Fugo sighed, slowed down his speech. “I don’t want my work—our work—to go to waste. I want to help you. I don’t know if he is the best way to do that.”

Bucciarati nodded. “I understand.” He pressed off the wall and sat on the bed. Fugo turned and stayed standing. “He was a cop.”

Fugo’s eyebrows knitted in confusion. The more he knew, the less Bruno’s decision made sense. He also thought back to this conversation frequently. Fugo and Bucciarati knew very well what being a cop meant to the family. What happened out there, Fugo wondered, that made Bucciarati decide to take this risk? His judgement would be questioned, no doubt. It showed how much of a humanitarian he was, considering the state in which the stranger entered the apartment, but it did nothing for Bucciarati’s reputation. What could this drunk possibly bring to the table that Fugo couldn’t provide or assist with?

“Granted I know he won’t be able to move up very far because of his past, he has strong morals and investigative talents. And after what he went through I don’t think he really has any other options. If he passes the test, I think he’ll do well with us.” Bucciarati scrubbed his forehead with his right hand, sighing before standing back up again. He lifted his hand as if to put it on Fugo’s shoulder, but remembered the boy didn’t like being touched. “He’ll have purpose with us. I can give him a purpose.” Bucciarati tried to smile, but he was too tired.

When Bucciarati took Fugo under his wing, he accepted him with an almost smug nature, like he knew it would be the best thing for him. Since then, that’s how Bucciarati seemed to go about everything. He never faltered, he was confident, he was compassionate and just, but Fugo couldn’t sense half of those things when he dragged that man through the door.

Suddenly, Bucciarati was a stranger. Suddenly he had to reevaluate the man’s actions and reactions, his tendencies and behaviors in order to grasp just why and how he could let this slip through the cracks. How could he risk what they had?

Fugo returned to his room. He slipped into bed like he was in a trance. ‘Purpose’ ran across his mind. Maybe Abbacchio wouldn’t be so bad in the morning. Maybe Fugo would be able to see his potential purpose. Or maybe that was an ability only Bucciarati had. Maybe Fugo really was the ignorant one. The rain assaulted his window as he drifted off.

Fugo woke up the net morning to a light pattering of rain and low voices conversing at the small table by the kitchen window. His feet hit the floor softly, and he once again crept down the hall hoping to listen to the adults talking.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you aren’t my first choice for associate.”

Bucciarati laughed. “Oh, I know.”

Abbacchio paused and Fugo imagined him looking at Bucciarati with the same confusion he did at times. Bucciarati continued.

“I know what happened. I saw your files.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Abbacchio seemed to snap back. To Fugo, it seemed like it was the determinant of his mood, whether or not this ‘incident’ was the subject or not could flip a switch.

“Fair enough.” Fugo heard Bruno take a sip of what he assumed to be coffee. “Though, I also saw who you were before you became an officer. You have my respect.”

“Thanks, I guess.” Abbacchio grumbled. “I have to say though,” he sighed “I don’t know how I feel about you getting that kid involved.”

“You don’t know him. You wouldn’t say that if you did.” It was Bucciarati’s turn to snap back. “He’s far more intelligent that you or I, and he’s got wits and a temper to match.” He paused for a sip again. “He’s living up to his potential. I couldn’t say the same for you.” It came out like poison those words. They were meant to shield Fugo, but the boy imagined them as a knife in Abbacchio’s chest. He didn’t see the look Bucciarati had when he said it. It was meant as an encouragement. A type of ‘tough-love.’

Abbacchio nodded in agreement.

When the silence had lasted long enough, Fugo back tracked a few steps and then emerged from the hallway, meaning to look as if he had just woken up.

“Good morning,” Bucciarati smiled at him and hovered a hand over Fugo’s back as he walked past, reaching for a mug and fresh coffee.

“Morning, Bucciarati.” Fugo muttered. The older man stood from his chair and began to wash his dishes in the sink as Fugo took his place at the table.

Abbacchio watched them like they were animals in a zoo.

“What are you doing here?” Fugo was straightforward. Bucciarati liked that.

“I should be asking you that.”

Bucciarati set his dishes down hard in the sink, as if to tell Abbacchio to shut it.

—

Two weeks after Abbacchio acquired a stand, Fugo found himself alone in the apartment with him. Bucciarati was meeting with Polpo.

The week before, as a present for cutting down his drinking to a healthy minimum, Bucciarati bought Abbacchio the LP of an opera he had been humming during his stay. Abbacchio now had a habit of playing it when the apartment had been silent for too long.

He was sitting on the couch in the living room, flipping through a magazine from the stack in the corner of the room. It was early, and the opera woke Fugo up. Abbacchio hummed contently to himself until he noticed Fugo emerge from the hallway and enter the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Abbacchio hesitated.

“Mhm,” Fugo sat down at the kitchen table, taking the furthest seat from Abbacchio as possible. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Abbacchio, in fact there were times he almost admired the man, but he found it hard to trust people. With Abbacchio’s past, it made it even harder.

“Bucciarati is meeting with—“

“Polpo. He told me last night.” Fugo cut him off, taking a sip of coffee.

“Right.” Abbacchio put the magazine down and stood to turn the music down. “Did I do something? Like did I upset you or something?” Fugo didn’t respond, nor did he look at Abbacchio. “Because if I did, you really should just let me know. That way we can get over it now.”

Fugo slammed his cup down. “Look, it’s not that I don’t like you, it’s that I don’t get why you’re here.” He stood up and faced the man. “All you’ve done is stick around Bucciarati, you don’t pay me any mind. What am I supposed to think of you? I heard what Bucciarati said, about you living up to your purpose. How’s that going, by the way? What the hell is your purpose? All you do is sit around and listen to that shit all day, sulking around until Bucciarati gets home. How am I supposed to get a handle on you when I don’t even know what you’re doing here?!” He was screaming, screeching even. Abbacchio didn’t know what to make of it, but he stood his ground.

Finally he shook his head and walked back to the couch. “Apologies for not asking for a sleepover. Bucciarati told me to keep my distance.” Fugo looked like he wasn’t buying it. Abbacchio sighed. “Listen. I fell off the deep end. Bucciarati found me at rock bottom. I don’t know what you did, but I guarantee I did ten times worse.” He met Fugo dead in the eyes. “It was either this or death. And I intend to give this my all.” He reached over to turn up the stereo. “I realized I’m not ready to die yet.”

Fugo would come to figure out that Abbacchio meant he wasn’t ready to leave Bucciarati yet.

Abbacchio continued. “Also, it’s not shit.”

“What?” Fugo wavered as he went to the kitchen.

Abbacchio shut the stereo off. “It’s either this or I drink, you choose.” Fugo believed this to be a bluff. “Monteverdi is not shit—“

“Yes he is.” Fugo did not hesitate cutting him off. He almost laughed at Abbacchio’s opinion.

The older man stuttered. “No, you don’t even know who that—“

“I don’t like baroque. Its too twangy, and there’s too much empty space. I like Puccini and Verdi better. It’s fuller.” Fugo turned his path back to the living room, striding past Abbacchio who watched him remove his record from the turn table and replace it with the second act of La Boheme.

“You sure have opinions.” Abbacchio mumbled, and Fugo turned up the volume to drown him out.

They now neglected breakfast, as Fugo was hellbent on proving his taste in operas was better than Abbacchio’s. Within several minutes they were laying on the couch with their eyes closed, commenting on what they liked and disliked about the music.

“It’s more relatable. It’s about real people. Prayer isn’t relatable. Dedication doesn’t mean anything to anyone except the person saying it. I never understood what the point was.”

Abbacchio sighed before speaking. “I was raised Catholic. I used to think that way, that there wasn’t a point. We’re guilty for everything anyways, why try to repent?” Fugo waited for the turning point. “I guess it’s lazy to think that the music prays for you, but it’s makes you feel closer to something higher. It’s all I could think about before I came here. I needed divinity to worship so that I didn’t have to focus on myself. I needed to find a purpose for myself that was so intangible and unbelievable that it was more than I could ever see in my lifetime. I needed—still need—something that could never let me down to guide me. Something I can put my faith in and not have to think about my future. To have things chosen for me instead of worrying about making the wrong choice.”

Fugo was mildly appalled that Abbacchio was so willing to give up his autonomy to something intangible. He supposed that if it would allow him to cope, then he could deal with it, though.

Fugo didn’t respond, but they lay listening to the opera in comfortable silence until the act ended and the turntable stopped on its own.

Abbacchio stood to turn off the stereo and suddenly it was back to Fugo’s inquiries.

“So is Bucciarati supposed to be your saint or something?”

“Idolatry is a sin,” Abbacchio scoffed.

“You know what I mean. He’s your ticket to live a passive life? You can’t be passive if you’re going to do what we do.”

“I can be.” Fugo thought his response oddly calm, like he had thought about this a million times, justifying the answer to himself over and over. “If I’m not the one making the decisions, just carrying out orders, I don’t have to think about my actions. He writes the commandments, so to speak, I just carry out the task.”

“Maybe you’re weaker than you look.” Fugo meant it as a jab, hoped that Abbacchio didn’t take it seriously. Luckily he just laughed it off.

“Yeah, maybe that’s it.” He put the record away.

They heard the scratch of metal, the jingle of keys as Bucciarati walked in through the door.

He saw Fugo first. His face was tired, like he hadn’t slept in days (and maybe he hadn’t). He gave the boy the weakest smile, the weakest nod he could muster, but Fugo saw his face as his eyes fell on Abbacchio putting the record away in the cabinet. The change was illuminating, the way his shoulders gave way to whatever tightness was holding them as he stood at the threshold gripping the knob. Fugo watched how his eyes glazed over Abbacchio’s form, studying the curve of his back and the drapes of his hair. He saw the real, genuine smile that spread over his face and the way he had to snap himself out of the trance. Perhaps that was the inverse of the pull Abbacchio felt towards Bruno: the flame Fugo saw behind his superior’s eyes burned with the same intensity that Abbacchio spoke with when he explained his devotion.

The rest of the day passed like a blur to Fugo. The weather, despite the storm the nights before, was warm enough to entice the adults to sit on the balcony. Fugo stayed in his room. He only let his window open a crack so he could hear their conversations flow in. He couldn’t stop thinking about Abbacchio’s words towards Bucciarati. Was that how Fugo thought of him as well? Was Bucciarati just a tool Fugo used to absolve himself of the responsibility of his own actions? He figured he would go against Bucciarati if what he asked was ever out of Fugo’s logic or reason, though he supposed he wouldn’t be able to tell until the time came to test his theory.

His focus switched to the words that drifted in through his window.

“Am I allowed to ask what you did before all this?”

“There wasn’t much before this to begin with, I suppose.”

“Is that a no, then?”

A pause, and the clink of a glass. Fugo thought it funny he always caught the two while they were sitting, talking over some type of drink. He thought Bucciarati must be sipping that wine he brought home the other week.

“I grew up the son of a fisherman. Lived with both parents, then just my father. Killed a few men. Ended up here.”

Abbacchio was quick to reply, “Woah, seems like you cut to chase pretty quick. Care to elaborate?”

“Not particularly. If I asked you to elaborate about your encounters with death, would you?” Fugo could hear the raised eyebrow.

“No, I guess I wouldn’t.” Fugo didn’t know Abbacchio well, but he could imagine the furrowed brows.

“Why police?”

“I always thought they were the image of tangible justice.” He was met with an immediate laugh.

“My apologies, but I know you know why I’m laughing.” In silence, Bruno stifled his laugh.

“Maybe someday I’ll laugh about it. For now, wanting to kick that teenage idiot in the teeth is enough. I should have known better. I should have tried to scratch the surface.”

“It’s no use beating yourself up over it now. I know I don’t know the whole story, but I have a hard time believing you were truly responsible.”

“Oh yeah?”

“You seem like someone who, once all the facts are laid out, knows which way is right and which is wrong. No matter the grey areas. You’ve got that kind of sense. That sense of justice.”

It was silent after that, save for the sound of Fugo shutting his window.

Chapter Text

Fugo will, weeks later, pretend he didn’t see what he saw. He will take his position lurking behind the corner in the hallway and pretend he didn’t see Abbacchio use his stand so he could sit with ‘Bucciarati’ at the kitchen table when the real thing was gone and he was lonely.

There are many things Fugo will pretend not to see when it comes to Bucciarati and Abbacchio’s interactions. He has a list, in his mind. It is numbered and organized from most confidential to instances he could probably give up if he had too much to drink ( he has found himself indulging in a glass of wine with Bucciarati once in a while). At the top of this list is what happened on that warm day after he overheard the two men’s conversation.

After he shut the window, he sat with himself for a few moments. He wanted to distract himself with reading up on spending accounts or organizing some files Bucciarati gave him, but a starting whirring and metallic tapping distracted him. He crept into the hallway, expecting to see an intruder heading for the balcony doors, ready to strike the men chatting with each other only steps further.

Instead he saw a sight he had never beheld before. Moody Blues and Sticky Fingers in the living room, standing in front of one another. A gentle whirring and little clicks emitted from the purple thing on the left, as the metallic creature on the right shifted its weight from one foot to the other. It reached up and placed its fingers on the timer of Moody’s forehead.

At the same time, outside, Abbacchio frantically rubbed his face all of a sudden as Bucciarati wondered what the tingling in his fingers was.

Fugo retreated. He slid down the wall covering his mouth. A blush spread across his face. He didn’t know why he laughed, still he couldn’t fully explain it. The reason that sight made him burst out with laughter so hard he was close to tears, the hot rush of emotion and excitement he felt was inexplainable.

Was witnessing love the closest he would ever get to feeling it himself? Was that even love? That brush of fingers and pleasant hum? He wasn’t sure, but he was sure the smile that spread across his face was a smile unlike any he had worn before.

It was so unfamiliar, Bucciarati came running to make sure he was okay, crouching down while being careful not to touch him. Unfamiliar like the environment he found Abbacchio’s nude form in the weeks before. Unfamiliar like the glances he saw Bucciarati steal, the ones Abbacchio was too nervous to react to.

“Fugo? What’s wrong?” Abbacchio ran in after him.

He struggled to contain himself. “Nothing, nothing, I’m okay, I swear Bucciarati.” As if he wasn’t out of character enough, Fugo grabbed Bruno’s shoulder to steady him as he stood.

Bruno thought back to that instance quite often. He had never seen Fugo laugh like that; sure, he had seen the kid crack a smile at one of his jokes or huff a laugh through his nose when they watched a movie, but never had he heard or witnessed a laugh like that erupt from Pannacotta.

It’s what he was thinking about when he opened the door on his way back from the market, sure he saw another figure at the table with Abbacchio out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re awake,” Bruno set down a bag of groceries on the kitchen counter. Fugo stood listening in the hallway, still. “Early.”

“I’ve been getting up earlier lately. I heard you leave this morning.”

Bruno started unloading the items. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, no you didn’t.”

Abbacchio had stood, watching Bruno’s movements out of his view. Fugo watched his eyes trace Bucciarati’s form. He saw his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, waiting for Bucciarati’s reply.

“I’m glad, I wouldn’t want you to think me inconsiderate.” Fugo noticed a falter in Bucciarati’s reach as he attempted to place a can on the shelf.

Abbacchio did not reply to his comment. He changed the subject.

“I’m going to go out later, I left some things at my apartment.”

“Well it’s too late to get them now, they cleared out the place. You should have told me when I went over to pick your things up.”

“I know, I meant I’m going to go buy new things.”

“What type of things?”

“Just, things for me.”

Bucciarati set a jar down heavily and turned to face Leone. He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrow, resisting a smirk. Abbacchio avoided his gaze.

Fugo noted the muscles on Bucciarati’s face changed as he skimmed in his mind the things Abbacchio might need. He watched the pupils flit around his eyes, covering every inch of Abbacchio’s form. They seemed to note the tone of his skin, the shape of his brow, the arch of his nose, the weight of his chest, the hunch to his shoulders and the cross of his arms as the subtle movement of his head caused his hair to cascade over his shoulder.

Bruno snapped out of it, turning back around to continue his unpacking.

“Well, I’m going to the pharmacy later if you don’t mind some company. There’s a store across the street that probably has what you need.”

Leone hesitated, Fugo saw it. More than hesitate, he silently thrust his hands forward, gripping them as if he were choking someone, only for a moment before bringing them to his sides and beginning his exit. “No, I don’t mind.” Fugo decided to walk into the kitchen as Abbacchio passed. “I’ll be ready in twenty.”

“Morning, Bucciarati.” Fugo took out the necessities for his breakfast as quietly as he could, taking Abbacchio’s abandoned seat and shoving his coffee mug to the side.

“Good morning,” The older man touched his hand on the table in front of Fugo in place of a pat on the shoulder or a ruffle of his hair, attentive to the boy’s sensitivities. “Leone and I are going out soon, you’ll be alright here on your own for a bit?”

Fugo’s spoon his his bowl. “Leone?”

A cupboard shut. “Abbacchio.”

“Right.” He chewed and swallowed before finishing. “I’ll be fine. I should catch up on things anyways.”

“Don’t over exert yourself.” Bruno noted the shutting of Abbacchio’s bedroom door and took a seat across from Fugo. “What do you think?”

“Of what?” His brows furrowed.

“Of Abbacchio?”

“Oh.” Fugo let a sigh escape him. “He develops codependency too easily.” Bucciarati let out a laugh and shook his head, but didn’t deny the statement. “But he’s good, I think.” Fugo had a sensitivity behind his words whose origin Bucciarati couldn’t place. Nevertheless, he took it as an affirming answer.

“Good, that’s good.” His head dipped down and he breathed for a moment before looking up at Fugo from beneath thick lashes. “You’ll always stick with me, right?”

His chewing slowed, and he met Bucciarati’s eyes. Was it vulnerability he saw? A fear of abandonment? No, Fugo thought, that wasn’t possible. He nodded slowly before giving a few quick nods to affirm his thoughts as he swallowed. “Yeah. Yeah I will.”

Bucciarati had to stop himself from placing a hand on Fugo’s shoulder again. The boy appreciated how—despite the short time they had known each other— Bucciarati always made a full effort to not make Fugo uncomfortable or do anything to set him off. This time though, he almost wished he cold feel a touch meant to mean something, meant to affirm and empower. He supposed he would have to wait.

The door down the hall opened, and Abbacchio stepped out in the most put together outfit he had donned since his arrival in the apartment. Fugo’s first thought was that all of his other clothes must have been dirty, as he stepped out in straight-fitting dark pants and a tight black turtleneck. His hair was— for once pulled back from his face in a double half bun because of the length. He rummaged through the front closet before finding and lacing up heavy boots.

Bucciarati watched with his chin resting in his hand. Fugo snapped him out with a question. “Where are you two going?”

“I have to go collect from the pharmacy and the shop next door, Abbacchio has some things of his own to get.” This earned a huff from the taller man, while Bucciarati stood to slip his shoes back on. “We won’t be long.”

Fugo watched Abbacchio’s fall on Bucciarati’s form the way Bucciarati’s had a moment earlier. “See you soon, then.”

The door shut. Whatever went on from then, Fugo wouldn’t know.

——

“It’s the next block, on the right. I’ll be across the street.”

“This place has like, bathroom stuff?”

Bruno stopped. “Bathroom stuff? Like what type of bathroom stuff?”

Leone very obviously was not expecting further questions. “Like, I don’t know, hygiene products?”

“Like soap? Yeah, they have soap.” The softness Bruno had in his eyes, despite the mocking tone he had, contrasted with the sharpness of Leone’s jawline that his gaze now fell on.

“Not soap, but—“

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. If they don’t have it we can go somewhere else.” Bruno’s hand landed on Leone’s shoulder as he began walking ahead once again.

A flush unknown to Bruno dusted Leone’s cheeks. “Yeah, okay.” He caught up once more before eyes the shop sign and heading in. Bruno watched him leave as he went to collect from the owners of the establishments across the way.

Inside the store, Leone found aisles of household items as well as random treats and toys. A chain pharmacy and corner store to rival the local business across the street. This one would not be granted the protection the other one had, he thought. It was only fair to support the local people over those who didn’t belong. He almost felt bad patronizing it, but he knew that if he had to walk around with his plain, washed out face on display for any longer it would make him feel even worse. He had been on a good sober streak, and he intended to keep it that way.

Assuming Bruno would take his time, Leone felt no rush to find the cosmetics. He turned over the occasion item, curious as to what its ingredients were or how much they were selling it for. He stopped to look at the day old flowers that a worker probably forgot to remove and the selection of tea and coffee, one of which he considered purchasing as well.

He failed to notice the bell on the door ring , and the quiet steps that followed his movements as he wandered the store. Finally, he stumbled upon the cosmetics, taking a sharp turn to ponder two different shades of lipstick— a deep shimmery purple or a matte black. After noticing a sale sign, he took one of each.

“I like the purple.”

The jolt the voice elicited form Leone was more than enough to cause laughter to erupt from Bruno. “Fuck! What the hell are you doing?” Suddenly the taller man tried to hide the tubes in his fist, despite the fact that the damage had already been done.

“I didn’t mean to startle you so bad, collection was quick and I saw you through the window. I thought I would stop in.”

“Right, well, I’ll be quick.”

“No, please, take your time.” Bruno began browsing the shelves on his own. “I’ll be happy to give you input if you like,” He picked up a tube a small pot of creme eyeshadow, examining the color through the bottom of the component. “This one would look nice.” It was a thick, gunmetal shimmer.

Leone was hesitant to look, for fear Bruno had picked up a bright pink lipstick and was mocking him. He was pleasantly surprised to see him find exactly the type of product he was looking for. “Um, thanks.”

“I was actually wondering,” Bruno set the component in Abbacchio’s hesitantly outstretched palm. “I hadn’t seen you with makeup on since the night I brought you back.”

“Yeah I remember waking up confused as to how it got off of my face.” Leone mumbled to himself as he continued walking down the aisle.

“I took it off for you. I remember seeing an ad somewhere that said it isn’t good to sleep with it on.”

The tips of Leone’s ears reddened. “You did?”

The hum in response was so nonchalant, Leone ceased feeling embarrassed for a second. Bruno picked up a thick black pencil. “Here, this looks like the one you had.”

It was the exact one he had. He’d had that pencil since he stole it in middle school (it had long since expired, but he didn’t care). “Yeah, it is. Thank you.” Over Bruno’s shoulder, Leone spotted the mascara he had been meaning to get, and without thinking, reached behind him to grab it.

Leone did not notice Bruno stiffen at the action, but he did feel the brush of eyelashes on his jaw and the halted breath on his neck, and he rushed his hand back to his side. “Sorry…” He said more to himself than to Bruno.

“Don’t be.” The smile that spread across Bruno’s face would stick in Leone’s mind for weeks to come.

Chapter Text

When they returned, Fugo had fallen asleep in the living room. Bucciarati had read in some book about psychology (after taking in and learning about Fugo, he thought it would be smart to educate himself on how to care for a child, even though he often felt like a child himself) that when people fall asleep somewhere or with someone, it’s a sign of how safe they feel with that person or in that place. It warmed Bucciarati’s heart to know that he had gained the boy’s trust and created a good environment. The two men heard his quiet snores every so often as they took off their shoes and ventured further into the apartment.

“He’s a good kid.” Abbacchio’s voice was just barely above a whisper. “Smart as hell. I wish I was grown up like that at his age.”

“I don’t know if you’d be saying that if you knew why he acts so grown up.” Bucciarati quietly locked the door. “But that’s not my story to tell.”

“Maybe so,” Abbacchio’s eyes lingered on Fugo’s sleeping form as he turned down the hallway into the bathroom. Bucciarati followed him. Leone, one by one, unpacked his purchases and placed them on the counter. He had found the lightest concealer possible, two lip shades (which Bucciarati approved of), and three eye products: eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara. Bucciarati leaned on the doorway with his arms crossed. Abbacchio’s movements slowed as he took a breath, preparing to address his spectator. “Can I ask what you’re doing?”

“What if I said no?” Abbacchio shrugged with wide eyes, turning to face the younger man. “Do you mind that I’m here?”

Abbacchio bit the inside of his cheek before turning back to face the mirror, beginning to open the products. “No, as long as you aren’t weird about it.”

“About what?”

“What do you think?” He dotted concealer under his eyes and below his eyebrows, beginning to smudge it out with his finger. “If you’re going to say anything about it then I’d rather you not stand there.”

“What if I want to say nice things?” This did not elicit a verbal response but rather a slump of the shoulders and an irritated picking at the plastic that encased the pot of cream eyeshadow. Bucciarati continued. “What if I told you it looked good?”

“Would that be a lie?” The way Abbacchio said it made it seem like he didn’t mean to say it out loud. He elaborated. “The only time you’ve seen me wear it was when it was running down my face.”

“It wouldn’t be a lie. I like your face without it just as well, but I think the darkness of it suits you.” At this, Abbacchio did his best not to freeze with shock, so instead his motions stiffened. Bucciarati was trying his hardest not to excuse himself as he registered what he just said. He tried to bury the statement under more words. “I’ve never thought to try it on myself, but I don’t have anything against it.

“Well, it’s not like you need it.” Abbacchio had to focus to make sure he didn’t poke his eye out as he applied the thick pencil to his waterlines, so much so that he did not at all realize what he said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucciarati felt himself gain back his sense of humor momentarily, just enough to flirt.

“What’s what supposed to mean?” Abbacchio carefully placed the cream eyeshadow around his eyes.

“You don’t think I need makeup. What does that mean?” Bucciarati lifted himself from his place and paced over beside Abbacchio, resting his hand on the countertop next to him.

Suddenly irritated and out of his own control, Leone snapped back. “It means you look good without it, so why add anything? I thought it was pretty self-explanatory.”

“Did I strike a nerve?” No response, only one of those long sighs again, this time louder. “I appreciate the compliment.” The flirtatious nature that Bucciarati was used to having seemed to return to him all of a sudden, as he watched Abbacchio brush mascara onto his lashes, this time it was accompanied by a dozen or so butterflies fluttering around in his abdomen. He rested his chin on Abbacchio’s shoulder. “I really do like it on you.”

The rigidity of Abbacchio’s movements gave no reason to assume he reciprocated any of the feelings implied by Bucciarati’s actions. The closest thing he gave to a response or a reaction was swallowing nervously and uncapping the dark purple lipstick. Bruno removed himself from the man’s side with immense embarrassment, and the butterflies grew anxious.

“I’m sorry, that was very—“ he wrought his hands at his front, stepping away far enough so that he was almost out of the bathroom. “—unprofessional. My apologies. I don’t want to overstep any boundaries.” He ran a nervous hand through his hair and Abbacchio turned his head slowly to look at him. The wheeze that escaped his body startled Bucciarati even more than Fugo’s laughing spell did.

Between laughs and glances at Bucciarati’s wide-eyed expression, he attempted to respond. “I’m sorry it’s just,” Abbacchio couldn’t hold in his laughter. “You never let loose around here, I didn’t know you could get like that.”

Get like what? Bucciarati was always like that. He had always spoken his mind and done what he pleased. He had always been spontaneous but smart about his actions. He used to go to bars every night when he was a teenager, he could get whoever he wanted. He knew how to use his charm— there was rarely a night he couldn’t play his cards right. Did Abbacchio really not see him like that? Was he really no longer the man who could score a free drink from anyone or talk his way into a discount? When did he lose the crude sense of humor that made him grow so close to Polpo so quickly?

When did he turn into Fugo’s guardian? To Abbacchio’s rehab nurse? When did he turn into the mother who failed to see through her duties?

Maybe this is who he really is, he thought. Maybe taking care of people is what he is supposed to do. Maybe he’s meant to be the savior.

In the living room, Fugo’s eyes fluttered open. The laughing from down the hall had woken him. He slowly lifted himself up as he wondered what was so funny. He was too tired to stand, but he turned his head and closed his eyes to try to focus on the noise.

“I-I’m not…” Bucciarati stuttered. It was Abbacchio’s first time hearing him do so. Fugo, from the living room, barely registered it was Bucciarati judging solely by the speech pattern. “I’m not always this serious. At least I haven’t always been. I haven’t always been a stand-in parent.”

The way it was said, the regret or the confusion or the sharpness behind it at the moment, pricked something in Fugo’s chest. The smirk Abbacchio donned had faded, and he turned back to the mirror to apply the purple hue to his lips.

He side-eyed Bucciarati as he did, eyeing the man up and down. “Maybe this won’t mean much, because we still don’t know each other very well, but I believe you. And for what it’s worth, you’re doing a great job with what you’re doing now. And— and I know I don’t know Fugo much either— but we won’t respect you any less if you act more ‘you’ around us.”

There was a sort of poetic nuance behind Abbacchio’s words as they came from the man donning a fresh face of makeup. There was hesitation in Abbacchio’s glance as he considered whether to face Bucciarati for his next sentence. “I wouldn’t…” he placed the lipstick on the counter softly, turning his head to Bucciarati. He was distracted by the beauty that stood before him. It was one he had passively acknowledged but had never knowingly paid tribute to. So many things about Bucciarati seemed to be the opposite of himself: his hair, his skin, his posture, his demeanor, etc. His passion and his kindness and his softness. Abbacchio wondered if there was anything below what he saw that was at all similar to himself. Would it be irrefutable to want to be like his savior? Wasn’t it sinful to want the power of a god? His voice was hushed “…I would never think less of you for it.”

His eyes landed on lips that were caught on teeth as Bucciarati’s eyebrows twinged with sorrow, with guilt that he hadn’t been honest with the people he took in. He swallowed and composed himself, looking down at his feet before meeting Abbacchio’s eyes once again. “That’s good to hear.” He, slowly though pointedly, moved towards the older man. His gaze met the mirror reflecting their forms, the natural light from the window glowing off of Leone’s hair. If Bruno tilted his head up, he supposed he would be too close to the man to deny any blossoming feelings. The butterflies he felt wouldn’t, at least. He watched his hand creep closer to the paler one adjacent on the countertop, a breath hitched beside him as his fingers brushed chipped nail polish.

Bucciarati noted the difference in their hands: his looked rougher, the palms were drier and worn, his nails shorter and his veins prominent but less colorful. Abbacchio’s hands were all tendon, muscle, and bone. They were long and slender but had strength behind them, knuckles and fingertips reddened. Bucciarati listened intently for any sign of protest as he placed his hand on top of the other man’s, for he couldn’t bring himself to look at Abbacchio’s face despite the work he just put into it. He was surprised at the softness of his skin, though it felt delicate like paper. His finger traced a vein before nudging Abbacchio’s hand off of the counter. He took it in his own and stared at it, lacing his fingers with the paler ones before turning it over to see the palm.

Abbacchio’s eyes were locked on the braid atop Bucciarati’s head. He was so focused on it, in fact, that he barely registered how intensely Bucciarati was examining his hand. He wondered how he got it so shiny, how it was always placed so perfectly. He had to hone his focus back in on what was happening before him, as he realized he was chest to chest with the man he so admired, and skin to skin if you were looking at their hands. The feeling wasn’t enough for him. He needed it to be real. Abbacchio’s gaze pulled away from the braid slowly before it landed on the two men in the mirror. He then noted his hand, palm up in Bucciarati’s. The thumb that rubbed the heel of his palm was rough but gentle. Though he didn’t realize it, it was the first time in a long time (possibly since the incident) that Abbacchio’s face had completely relaxed. He felt no scowl, so crease in his brow, no tightness instituting a frown. The slack of his jaw and the softness of his eyes was a change even he had to notice. His head dropped again to focus on the braid. It moved, he thought. It was creeping away. He was met with bangs, and then eyebrows with their crease, and then bright blue eyes that could only belong to someone in particular. The psychic hold those eyes had on him broke with a word and a glance. It was ripped from him as the hand holding his moved up to hold his wrist.

“Leone—“ the fingers barely touched the edge of the first scar before the crease returned to Abbacchio’s brow and he ripped his hand from Bucciarati’s grasp. Not knowing where to put it, he ran it through his hair and stepped away. “I noticed that night you got here, but I didn’t want to say anything.”

“Yeah, well…” whatever enchantment the moment was awarded had been abolished, replaced with Abbacchio’s embarrassment and self-loathing. It wasn’t like he had harmed himself since a few nights before he arrived, but he had forgotten about the option to do so until Bucciarati touched the scar.

He let go of a shaky breath, stepping swiftly past Bucciarati and back into the hallway, pulling his sleeve down to his wrist. Bruno followed him into the kitchen, watching him fill a large glass with water and gulp it down as quickly as he could. They had forgotten about the child on the couch just across the room.

“You aren’t still…are you?” Bucciarati regained his composure— his serious nature— and crossed his arms to inquire.

Abbacchio gripped the edge of the sink before meeting Bruno’s eyes with a scowl. “No, for your information. Though it really isn’t any of your business.”

“No, it is my business, in fact. You are my business now.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me, I’m not your kid.” Abbacchio ripped his gaze away and locked eyes with something else.

“Right, because you did such a good job taking care of yourself.” Bruno, though beginning to acknowledge his feelings, would not let his emotions get in the way of talking sense into anyone. “In my experience, people who are happy and capable independently don’t c—“

“Hey.” Leone said through gritted teeth. His head tilted to the living room, and through his fit of passion, Bruno turned his head.

Fugo sat sitting up on the couch. His eyes were locked on Abbacchio as if he was waiting for the man’s next move. Bucciarati took a slow inhale. The window behind Fugo lit his hair up like a halo as if it were mocking the innocence he could have had. Bucciarati’s shoulders slumped. He turned from the kitchen, practically shoving his feet into his shoes barely uttering a word before leaving the apartment.

To Fugo, one argument held to potential to end it all. Whatever intimacy and genuine emotion he had witnessed between the two— whatever care had been put into their relationship— to Fugo this may as well have been the sign that it was all going to shit. He watched Abbacchio, unmoving in the kitchen. He hadn’t seen him wear makeup since the night he arrived, but it suited him well. Remembering his face before felt like looking at a naked body you knew was meant to be clothed.

“How much did you hear?”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t mind. It’s—“

“From the bathroom.”

“Right.”

“Why was he upset?” Fugo knew. He heard. He wanted to confirm his suspicions.

“I got upset.” Abbacchio quickly corrected. “He saw— he touched my wrist.”

“Mine are on my legs.”

Abbacchio opened his mouth like he had something to say. Some pitiful remark or plea to quit. But he shut it just as quick. He noticed Fugo’s eyes locked on his wrist. He never noticed how big Fugo’s eyes were, as full of wonder and naïveté as they were of knowledge. He noticed how small his frame was, he would dare to say he looked delicate. Abbacchio slowly approached him as if he were scared of Fugo. He was really scared he might ruin whatever moment of relation they could potentially have. He sat down a safe distance from the boy and let him continue to speak.

“He did the same thing when he saw mine. It was an accident. I had forgotten about them, actually. We went out on a boat. He likes taking me out with him sometimes. He had gotten me some shorts since it was summer and all I had were pants. I wore them on the boat, and when we sat down to eat, he saw them.”

Abbacchio didn’t think this was a time to converse, but a time to listen.

“I just don’t think he gets it. I think he tries, and maybe he could start to see the justification after I told him everything that happened, but he just…it’s not like he’s gone through any less than I have. If anything he’s dealt with more, but he just takes it out in other ways.”

“I know it’s not my place to ask, but, what happened to you?”

“I’ll tell if you will.” Abbacchio had never heard the boy so quiet. He began his confession.

“I got my partner killed, when I was a cop. The guy— the guy who shot him— I had taken a bribe from some time before. I knew it wasn’t right, but it’s what everyone did. And considering the possible outcomes, taking the bribe was easier than arresting him. I balked. I could have shot him, but he shot at me first.” Fugo noted how Abbacchio’s eyes shut tightly and how he wrought his hands together. “He killed the wrong officer.” If Abbacchio still smoked, this would be where he took a long drag. He didn’t expect any pity, God knows he didn’t give himself any.

“When I was in university,” Fugo paused because normally he expected some disbelief that he had already been in university. The silence he was met with was both surprising and comforting. For once he could tell his story without questions. Even Bucciarati interjected to show his amazement. Abbacchio sat patiently, silently. “…um, one of my professors—“

“Oh God…” Abbacchio winced as if it would physically hurt him to hear more. Fugo told himself he knew he didn’t say it out of disgust, but because of the horror of it all.

“— a lot. He only really, um, twice. I beat him with a dictionary when he tried a third. They told me I would have killed him if I had landed another blow.”

It wasn’t the first time Fugo had told someone about what happened, but it still made him feel lighter. With every confession, it seemed to remind himself that it wasn’t his fault. He was a hero, even if no one else believed him. Abbacchio believed him, though. The disgust and sadness on his face said it all. The crease in his brow was set in with makeup, disrupting the upwards sway they shaped. Fugo shifted, rubbing his face and half waiting for Abbacchio to say something.

“It’s the hand I held the gun with. That’s the wrist that I—“

“It’s the part of my thigh he would touch.”

“Fuck.”

“I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Don’t be. You had reason to.” It was real, genuine, those words. He really wasn’t bothered. Maybe the two of them were more alike than Fugo had thought initially. “I’m…I’m not sure what to say now.” Fugo let out a dry laugh, but the inhale of his breath was shaky, and Abbacchio had to stop himself from reaching out. He knew what it sounded like when you were holding in a sob. “I’d try to comfort you but Bucciarati said—“

Hot tears poured from his eyes, reddened from being wide for so long. He looked up at Abbacchio expectantly. What secret did Bucciarati tell him now? What else did he keep from him? Why didn’t he know everything anymore? He was supposed to, right? Wasn’t he supposed to know everything? He let a single sob slip past, tried to contain the second, but to no avail. He dove forward into Abbacchio’s chest. It almost knocked the older man down, it was so intense. Abbacchio could have sworn Fugo’s nails were about to rip through his shirt. Slowly, carefully, he returned the embrace. He neglected to notice his own tears as they fell onto the head of light hair below him.

Fugo hadn’t come anywhere near this close to anyone in years. He kept thinking back to that night when he saw Abbacchio in the bathroom naked while Bucciarati cleaned him up. He gripped the man tighter. The gentle brush he saw between stands sent tremors through his body. If Bucciarati couldn’t uphold a romance, an attraction genuine and pure, then who the fuck could? If this all means that not even Bucciarati deserved a good connection with someone, then how could Fugo even begin to think he could?

Another heavy sob racked his body, and Abbacchio braced himself, finally giving in and gripping Fugo tightly.

“Hey kid,” Abbacchio muttered, to which Fugo stifled his tears. “We’re in this together now, okay?” Leone didn’t need to hear an answer. He felt the feverish nodding into his chest.

Chapter Text

Bucciarati waited until he was several blocks from the apartment with no one near him before letting out an Earth-shatteringly frustrated scream. If he had a hat he would throw it to the ground and stomp on it.

He often worried he was getting innocent people— people who deserved better— involved in a life he himself did not believe was respectable some of the time.

He had gone too far when it came to his relationship with Leone, even though when he really thought about it, nothing much had happened. They shared maybe two intimate conversations, a handful of glances, sure there was lots of flirting, but it’s possible he was misinterpreting. He tried to make a move— a bold one— but he got distracted.

To put it simply (too simply), he didn’t like to see the people he cared about get hurt. Especially if they hurt themselves. When he learned about Fugo, it consumed him for weeks. He was unsure how long it would take for him to get over Leone’s scars. Not to mention the fact that he was developing feelings for someone on his team was heart-wrenching. He hoped the sleep he had lost over contemplating the consequences wasn’t too evident. In truth, he barely knew Leone. But something about the man drew him in. It was unlike how he felt when he decided to take Fugo in, so he knew it wasn’t the instinct to help, though he still did want to help on some level. It was something different. He wanted to grow close to Leone. He wanted to be the one to know him best. He didn’t want to intrude, but he wanted to be the keeper of his secrets. He wanted to be his observer. Bruno wanted Leone to be his.

The clear attachment he craved was beginning to scare him.

He listened to his shoes hit the stone streets. It had grown late and the sun was beginning to set. He began thinking about how his parents met. Often when he needs relationship guidance, he turns to his parents in the early years of their marriage. He couldn’t fathom how or why it fell apart, so he didn’t. He wondered how they found a love so genuine. He wondered what it felt like.

He wondered if he wasn’t feeling the beginning of it right now. He had been in casual relationships before, mostly going on dates and sleeping together afterwards, no strings attached. He had wondered if something like that could ever turn serious if at some point a switch was supposed to flip and he was supposed to fall in love. He understood now, though, that that would not be the case. This was a difference so stark, there was only one thing it could be.

Bruno Bucciarati was falling in love. And it was against his will.

In the back of his mind, he considered Fugo. How would the boy feel? Would he be cast out? Bruno wouldn’t let that happen, but he also didn’t get the impression the two had much in common. Whenever he came back to the two of them alone together, the air was never malevolent, but it wasn’t exactly friendly or comfortable. He rubbed his face with his hands, contemplating the best and worst-case scenarios. He supposed, if Leone reciprocated, that they could work it into their dynamic. He was sure Leone would have the capacity to maintain a professional relationship in front of others. He trusted himself to, at least. Though he supposed if they ended their relationship it could cause some divides, but he tried not to think about that possibility. He didn’t want to think about something ending before it even started. The negatives seemed to outweigh the positives if he was being honest with himself, but when he sat there really trying to look into himself, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could function successfully without seeing what could happen between the two of them.

Suffice to say, the scene in the bathroom earlier did not make him optimistic. He groaned, squeezing his hands into fists before letting them go free. He shook his head in disbelief at himself. Then he thought of Leone.

He looked up and looked around and asked himself where he wanted to be. He wanted to be home with Fugo. With Leone. Bucciarati stood up and started the walk home.

He focused on his breathing while he walked, considering the approach he would take to confess. Though he wasn’t exactly going to confess, more like inquire. He began to worry if this was beginning to turn into a business proposition. He stopped himself, and like earlier, reminded himself of how he used to be when flirting or out drinking. After all, Abbacchio said he wouldn’t like him any less if he acted more comfortable, more himself around him.

Maybe drinks would be a good place to start? If only Leone wasn’t recovering. Dinner could be fine, though the nicest place he knew was also where he did most of his business, and he didn’t want it to feel like a meeting. Then again, Leone wasn’t the only relationship he had to worry about in his life. He practically had a kid (though he wasn’t sure how he felt about saying it like that) to worry about as well.

No matter how much it may hurt, Bruno would never jeopardize his and Fugo’s position for a romantic relationship. At least, he hoped he wouldn’t.

His hand froze as he reached for the doorknob, now nervous about what he was going to come home to. Fugo had seen them yell at each other, Leone probably felt vulnerable and exposed. He sighed. He would just have to pick up the pieces and keep going forward. He quietly unlocked the door. The moment he began to push it open he was met with a painful cry. It shocked him, it made his chest feel like it would cave in on itself. He realized it was Fugo.

Bruno was scared to push the door open further, for fear he had gotten hurt, for fear someone else had hurt him when he had abandoned them selfishly for his own mind.

He would never forget what he saw.

From the foyer, he could see straight into the living room. His jaw slacked and his eyebrows furrowed with worry. He saw Fugo— the boy he was responsible for— sobbing into Leone’s chest. Ripping at his shirt. His body was shaking like he had never seen it shake before. Most shocking of all, he was hugging someone. He was hugging Leone.

He shut the door and at the sound, Fugo promptly let go of the older man and wiped his eyes, sniffling as he did. Leone turned away from the two of them and wiped his own eyes as well.

“I’ll be in my room.” Fugo didn’t bother to look up at Bucciarati as he hurried down the hall. Abbacchio watched his back until he heard the door shut be hind him. Then he looked to Bucciarati.

Bruno’s mouth was moving like he was trying to say words, but nothing was coming out. He dropped his keys onto the kitchen table and hurried into the living room.

The makeup Leone had so thoughtfully applied was now running.

“What happened?” Bruno gripped Leone’s shoulders with such force, he elicited a wince from the man. If the wrong answer came out, he was ready to hit someone.

“We just…” A shrug and a sigh. “We have more in common than we thought.”

Bruno searched for any sign of a lie. He didn’t see any.

For the second time that day, Leone was being hugged. That was two more times than he had anticipated.

“He hugged you.” Bruno’s arms tightened around Leone’s middle. His chin on his shoulder, he stared at the fishing net on the opposite wall. “He’s never hugged anyone.”

Softly, almost timidly, Abbacchio embraced Bucciarati. “Apparently I’m very huggable today.” He grumbled into the other man’s ear.

Bucciarati let go of him with a laugh. “I’m sorry about earlier. I know it’s not my business, it just gets me worked up and—“

“It's okay. I get it. I’d probably do the same if saw you had any.” The way Abbacchio’s gaze didn’t quite meet Bucciarati’s was so incredibly endearing, it made his knees weak. It also made his heart hurt at the implication. It was almost hard for Bucciarati to believe that Abbacchio could care so much about him, but he welcomed the thought warmly and with almost no suspicion or hesitation.

“I should…I’m gonna go talk to him.” Bruno, afraid he’ll make a fool of himself if he stands in front of the man any longer, turns down the hall without another word.

Fugo is trying his hardest not to destroy the furniture Bucciarati bought just for him. He has no idea why he having an episode right now, but he knows it’s not a normal one. It’s not the blind anger he usually deals with. It’s something stranger, but the closest he can get to identifying it is frustration. Bucciarati gave him a system— probably something he read in one of those child psychology or parenting books he tried to hide— that normally works to cool him down rather quickly once he recognizes he’s gone too far.

The first step is to take hold of your mentality and address yourself. The second is to put a name to the feeling you are feeling (normally, that word is just ‘anger’). The third is to identify what happened to make you feel that way. The fourth is to imagine a situation where the catalyst produces an ideal outcome. This is where Fugo normally realizes that the catalyst was a trivial comment or unfortunate circumstance that really shouldn’t have elicited such a major response.

The problem was, Fugo was having a hard time identifying the catalyst.

He wouldn’t realize it until later though, because that was the first time he had cried just to let go of something.

The soft knock on the door made him wipe his eyes and nose before curling up in the corner of his bed, waiting for the door to open.

“Panna…” Oh God, Bucciarati only called him that when he was really worried.

“I’m fine Bucciarati, it’s okay.” Fugo recognized how silly that sounded, being spat out between sniffs and sobs. He felt the bed depress next to him. Silent breaths waited patiently for composure. Nothing about his demeanor said ‘hurry’ or ‘you’re being a nuisance.’ It was a fact Fugo had recognized but never let settle within him. He took in in again, now, but this time he let it move him. He did his best not to let it cause another wave of tears. “I don’t want to be a hinderance.”

“You never have been.” That answer was so immediate, it had to be genuine. Bruno tried not to sway when he felt the pressure of a head on his shoulder, but the contact melted his heart.

“I think I just…I wonder if I’ll ever be able to have what you two have.”

“What Abbacchio and I have? What do we have?”

Fugo sniffed, his tears beginning to dry. Bruno leaned back against the headboard, keeping Fugo’s head resting in the space between his shoulder and chest. “I saw Sticky Fingers and Moody in the living room. They were touching each other.” Fugo heard Bucciarati swallow. “Stands are souls, right?”

“That’s, yeah, I suppose.” One of those rare stutters.

“It’s just, with Purple Haze, it’s hard to imagine anyone’s getting that close to mine. And it made me feel really far away from you all of a sudden. But Abbacchio… he’s good. And its okay. I’m okay now.”

“Can I…can I give you a hug?” It was the first time Bucciarati had ever asked or attempted anything like this.

Fugo’s voice cracked as he said “yeah,” and all of a sudden he felt tight arms wrap around his shoulders. More tears fell, but he didn’t sob as he had into Abbacchio’s chest. This was a cry of relief, of validation and acceptance. He could have sworn he felt Bucciarati press a kiss to the top of his head as he repeated, over and over, “I want to make sure you’re okay, I need you to be okay.”

Fugo fell asleep like that, against Bucciarati. Once he realized the boy was asleep, he carefully removed him from his chest and laid him down, covering him with a blanket and exiting his room. He took a moment to breathe before striding to his room to change into loungewear. The sun had set by now, and Bruno was itching to get out of his slacks. He dug some sweatpants out of his drawer and pulled a t-shirt out of his closet, grabbing the softest sweatshirt he had before stripping and re-dressing.

Across the hall, Abbacchio was doing the same. He eyed the full basket of clothes, noting that tomorrow would have to be laundry day. He pulled out some old black sweatpants that had long since lost the elastic around the ankles. He dug out a black t-shirt that would pass as clean for one more night and with it a large gray cardigan he had gotten somewhere at some point. He considered taking his makeup off, but he didn’t want the effort to go to waste.

He examined his scars while he changed. The dusty full length mirror in his bedroom forced his own image upon him. Suddenly, the scars on his thighs looked juvenile and stupid. The reasoning behind them striking him as invalid. The few on his ribs looked painful, and the ones on his wrist made him want to stop. What was his suffering compared to Fugo’s? Bucciarati would probably say that both histories were equally sad in their own ways, and people cope on different levels in different ways. He knew that to be true as well, but he couldn’t help but feel pity for the kid in the room next to his.

He haphazardly pulled on his clothes and let his hair down, ruffling it before heading for the door.

When Bucciarati shut the door behind him, he was face to face with Abbacchio, who had also just stepped out.

They stared at each other for longer than was probably normal, though this didn’t seem to phase either man. Abbacchio’s focus was caught on Bruno’s nose, the tall and tan sculpted feature situated perfectly on his face. Below it his lips, which looked softer than pillows when observing them from up close. Similarly, Bruno was caught up in Abbacchio’s cheekbones, the sharpness of his jaw and the depth of his eyes. His skin, he noticed, looked as if it were carved from marble in the dim light. Hauntingly beautiful, is what Bucciarati thought. A face he could look at forever in the right conditions.

“He’s asleep?”

Bruno snapped out of it. “Yeah, I think he’s pretty out of it.” Abbacchio nodded and looked to the living room causing Bucciarati to lead them there. “Do you want anything to drink? I was going to make coffee.”

“I’ll take some, then.”

Abbacchio took his position at the dining room table, watching Bruno’s movements as he made two cups of coffee. Graceful as ever, though tiredness threatened to break his ease.

He sat down with a huff, handing Abbacchio a mug and taking a sip of his own.

“About earlier—”

“We don’t have to talk about it anymore, I’m fine now, really—”

“Not that. Earlier, before that.” The tilt of confusion was adorable, Bruno thought, but those types of thoughts really shouldn't be plaguing him right now. “In the bathroom. I—” he averted his gaze, continuing thoughtfully and hushed. “Maybe it’s because you’re the only other adult I’ve been able to share this with, but these last few weeks I think I’ve really started to grow…attached. Attached to you. And I—”

“I’ve been thinking the same.”

“Y-you have?”

Leone’s gaze was locked onto the swirls within his mug. This day had drained him, or else he probably wouldn’t be admitting this. “Maybe it is, like you said, because you’re the first adult I’ve gotten to live like this with, but I can’t help but feel like I would follow you to the ends of the Earth if you asked.” He took a long sip. “I told Fugo when I got here that I wanted someone to follow so I could give myself purpose. But the more I think about it…the more I think that I want to follow you because I want to, not because I need to give myself an excuse.”

It wasn’t the romantic confession Bucciarati was hoping for, scratch that, expecting. It was almost bizarre to think that someone could devote themselves to you so entirely simply because they had come to know you. And had they even known each other that well yet?

Abbacchio pondered the same question. They both would decide independently that they would have to learn about the other in entirety or else it might kill them.

Leone finished his thought, though the last part sounded more like a self-realization than a confession. “I think I’ve really come to like you.” His gaze lifted from beneath dark lashes searching for disgust or disappointment in the blue eyes he sat next to. All he found was love.

“I’ve come to like you, too.” The voice was barely above a whisper.

As if a kiss would be too much, Bruno entangled his fingers with Leone’s as they both continued to drink.

Chapter Text

When they finally stood to go back to their rooms, the first thing each noticed was the sudden lack of weight and warmth in their hands.

They had been up for hours. They talked about their lives. They learned about each other. They got to know each other.

With each word, they each grew more certain than ever that what they felt was real. And genuine. And they would each dare to say they were falling in love.

They stopped at the end of the hall, knowing they had to split. Of course, they would wake up in the same house, safe and together, but the several hours they had to spend without each other suddenly felt like an uncrossable rift.

In the dark, Bruno’s eyes seemed to glow. Abbacchio wished he could absorb their light.

“I have to go see Luca tomorrow morning. It shouldn’t take long, I just have to hand over what I owe him of the collection money.” There was a twinge of regret in his voice.

“Well, I’ll be here waiting.” Abbacchio admired his dedication. “Maybe we could go out later, after you’re back.” A smile tugged at his lips. He was entranced.

“I’d like that.” Bruno couldn’t hide his smile no matter how he tried. “Let’s talk more about it tomorrow.” Hesitantly, he reached for the doorknob behind him.

“Goodnight, then.” Abbacchio bit his lip to keep his composure.

“Goodnight.” Bruno watched Leone shut the door before returning to his own room.

Across the hall, Abbacchio flicked on his light and scrubbed the makeup from his face with a wipe that he had on his dresser. He discarded the sweater he was wearing into the basket with the rest of his clothes. If Bruno was still gone and Fugo was up to it, maybe he would ask if the kid wanted to go along to do laundry. Surely he had things of his own that needed to be washed.

Bruno collapsed into bed with intense contentment. He did not remember the last time he had felt this at ease. He supposed the closest he got was when he went sailing. Even then, though, the water reminded him of his father and therefore the murders. In his bed now, he had to make an effort to recall those memories. They didn’t float to the surface like they used to. Surely, this is what love was. A force so pleasant and distracting that it blinds you from the real world and the dangers of life. How terrifying a thing it was.

Neither of them knew it, but that night, Bruno and Leone fell asleep facing each other.

In the morning, Fugo awoke first. He felt suspiciously good. He didn’t realize it was the crying the night before that exhausted all of his energy and left him room to feel relaxed. He rolled out of bed combing his fingers through his fine hair, subject to tangles in the night. He apartment was quiet, save for the ticking of the clock in the living room. He must have woken up extraordinarily early considering Bucciarati wasn’t up as well.

He noticed two mugs still sitting on the kitchen table. One stained with lipstick. A smile threatened to show itself as he picked up the mugs and set them in the sink. He would let the adults wash them. Fugo pulled a small pan from the cabinet and turned the burner on before placing two pieces of toast in the toaster. He didn’t drink coffee every morning, but made enough for the three of them in case he changed his mind or someone wanted a refill.

He opened the fridge to grab two eggs, and upon closing it was greeted by Abbacchio’s looming figure. He was dragging his feet as he sat down at the kitchen table.

“Good morning,” Fugo greeted him as he cracked the eggs into the pan. Abbacchio listened to the sizzling.

“Morning,” Abbacchio stood up again, noticing the fresh coffee. He reached next to Fugo to grab a mug, being careful not ot get too close, though he noted how the boy’s actions didn’t stop or falter at his closeness. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Um, yeah.” The toaster dinged and Fugo grabbed a plate. “Curious, this morning?”

“Just making sure you’re okay,” Abbacchio sat down at the table again, waiting for Fugo before drinking.

The boy hesitated a moment before replying. “Thank you, then.” He sat down across from Abbacchio leaving the spot between them for Bucciarati. Fugo couldn’t help but notice how the crease that usually plagued the space between his brows was absent and his scowl was gone as well. He took a bite of his toast, chewing slowly.

“I need to do laundry in a little bit, if you want to come.” Abbacchio attempted to take a sip but retracted the mug quickly because of the temperature. “We could go to the record store near the laundromat while we wait.”

“Sure. I think I have a few things.” Fugo was happy for the invite, suddenly racking his brain for records he would look for. “Is Bucciarati awake?”

“I thought he left to meet Luca,” Abbacchio tilted his head to look down the hall, not like he could see Bucciarati’s door. “He said he’d be back later.”

“Oh, right.” Fugo shook his head at himself and Abbacchio gave him a quizzical look. “Once a month after collections he goes to deliver Luca his share.” He took another bite, chewed, and then swallowed. “We keep our part, then Luca gives Polpo his share.”

“I see,” Abbacchio looked like he was thinking. “Well, hurry up. Let’s get going.”

“Don’t rush me.” Fugo spat out playfully as Abbacchio stood with his coffee and headed to his room. He emerged a moment later with a laundry bag and his hair tied up. “No makeup this time?” Fugo hurriedly finished his food, dropping his plate in the sink, wiping his hands, and heading to get his own things.

“I only wear it when I want to.” The older man yelled from the foyer, adding in a voice he didn’t expect Fugo to hear, “Laundry isn’t an occasion special enough.” Fugo huffed a laugh at this, pulling on some red ripped pants and an old white sweater. He grabbed the earrings—strawberries—Bucciarati bought him once on his way out, juggling putting them in while carrying a small sack of dirty clothes.

“Ready?” Abbacchio looked lively for once. He seemed energized and not…depressed. Well, he still had that brooding air to him, but it wasn’t as brutal today. Like he had something to look forward to later. He seemed optimistic for once.

They walked side by side. Fugo couldn’t tell if Abbacchio was taking smaller steps so he could keep up or if he always walked like this.

“Did you talk to Bucciarati last night?”

“Yeah. Oh, about what?”

“I don’t know, just anything.”

“Well, we were talking for a while.”

“What about?”

“Nothing you don’t already know, it seems.” Fugo thought about the stands in the living room. “He told me about how he got involved with the famiglia. He told me about his family and his hobbies and some stories from—”

“He just talked about himself?” Fugo scrunched his face in confusion. Bucciarati wasn’t the show-off type around the house. Sure, he got ballsy around the higher-ups when he tried to make himself seen or give himself a name, but he was always humble.

“Well, yeah. We were…” Abbacchio stopped as he arrived at the door to the laundromat. “Getting to know each other.”

Fugo smirked. If Abbacchio had seen him, knowing him now, Fugo would guess that he would have given him a good shove. Fugo only hummed in response, pushing the door open and tossing his bag onto a machine.

“And did you do any talking?”

“I spilled. I told him everything. He would have known if I was lying.”

“Hell yeah he would have,” Fugo spaced out for a moment, remembering the few odd instances he saw Bucciarati lick someone to get them to spit the truth out. “You told him about what happened?”

“He already knew that, I told him everything before. You know, family, childhood, blah blah blah. Nothing too riveting.” Fugo watched Abbacchio toss his clothes in the machine and start it, opting to throw his own clothes in the machine next to Abbacchio. He hesitated before continuing.

“Would you tell me?”

“Only if you tell me about yourself, only a little. I’m just curious.” Fugo sucked his teeth, considering the trade. He jumped up to sit on top of an off machine, nearly meeting Abbacchio’s eyeline now. “Mostly I just want to know what you studied, but if you don’t wanna spill, don’t worry.” Fugo noticed the way Abbacchio chipped at his nails. They had been painted black at some point, but now only flakes remained.

“I was studying law. It seemed like the biggest challenge, so my family wanted me to go for it.”

“They were supportive, then?”

“More like exploitive. Make the gifted child do all the work so we don’t have to. That mentality. Not supportive in the least, no. With every issue they found out I had, they chose to let it be. They let the wound fester as if it wouldn’t cause death and decay.” Abbacchio let out a dry laugh, though Fugo recognized it as one of camaraderie and not mocking. “They saw what they were doing as setting me up for success— prep-schools, tutors, a billion extra curricular skills they spent thousands on lessons for, and whatever else they thought would help. They were setting me up to fail. I don’t even think they realize it now, after everything that happened.”

“They’re still around?”

“They’re still alive, if that’s what you mean. But they disowned me. I’m not their kid anymore. I’m no one’s.”

“I’d argue you’re Bucciarati’s.”

Fugo kicked his feet, considering the title. “I don’t wanna be his kid, no matter how much of a parent he is to me. I want to be my own person.” He looked up to study Abbacchio’s face, who by all accounts was listening intently and with understanding. “That being said, he makes a kick ass leader. He should be higher up, if you ask me.”

“Tch, I’d say the same and I haven't been here half as long as you have.”

“Well…” Fugo began to get distracted by thinking of Bucciarati. “You said you would spill what he told you.”

“Right…” Abbacchio ran a hand through his hair. “Mostly he told me about how he killed those men who went after his father. He told me about the day on the boat where he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He told me about the drugs.” Fugo noticed the expression on Abbacchio’s face change for a moment, like he was deep in thought. “Are you sure no one sells in our territory?”

“I mean, I guess. I feel like we would know if they did.”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Abbacchio twitched his head, like he was considering holding something back. Fugo didn’t appreciate the way he kept glancing between him and the machine.

“Spit it out if you’ve got something to say.” He snapped at him quietly, trying not to get too heated over a look.

“I know I’ve come across drugs in this area before…before and after I was a cop. Bucciarati isn’t stupid, but I’m not sure how he goes about believing the mafia doesn’t handle that stuff.” He paused to gauge Fugo’s reaction. He had considered it before, of course, but he always figured drugs were kept out of their territory and handled elsewhere.

“Are you proposing a solution or simply bringing up an issue?”

“I’m, fuck, I don’t know.” Abbacchio shrugged like he was helpless. Fugo watched the way his eyes narrowed and widened as he thought about what he wanted to do with this information. Finally he looked back up at Fugo. “I’m not going to bring it up to him if it’s on a whim, I need hard evidence.”

“Obviously. It could jeopardize his position if he found out and tried to stop it on impulse.”

“So, if we want to be sure of this we need to figure it out ourselves.”

“Go behind his back?”

Fugo noted the way Abbacchio winced at the phrase. Obviously lying to Bucciarati was not something that came easily to him. Not only that, but if they were to try to lie to his face, there was virtually no possibility that they could get away with it.

“Let’s…just…” He glanced at the timer on the machine. “Let’s go to the record store, we can talk about it later.” Abbacchio quickly turned and headed for the door. Fugo followed, but not before glancing at the clock to note the time.

The store was more of a hole in the wall than a proper shop, but they had a fair selection of classical records and opera scores as well as some newer artists that Fugo was interested in. It smelled like old wood and dust, but in a way that was typical of music shops with older inventory. It was relaxing to the two of them.

To Fugo’s surprise, Abbacchio skipped the operatics and went to the jazz bins. He stood on the other side of the aisle, viewing the older man over the new arrivals.

“Jazz?”

“Just curious.”
“You got a favorite artist?” Fugo lifted a brow.

“Dunno.” Abbacchio quickly abandoned the bin, turning to look at some 80s club and new wave music. “Inquizitive today, are we?” He grumbled. Fugo walked to stand beside him, reexamining each record he flipped and discarded.

“You like this stuff?”

“Don’t I look the part?” There wasn’t a smile on his face, though Fugo definitely read it as a joke. With no reaction, Abbacchio continued. “...used to play in some of the clubs I went to right after I got discharged. Not sure why I bother, it’s not like those were happy memories.”

“What kind of clubs?” Fugo asked out of genuine curiosity, as he hadn’t been in any bars or heard of any clubs that played that type of music. He noted the way Abbacchio swallowed and side-eyed him, pausing before continuing to browse. His shoulders stiffened and then relaxed again.

Abbacchio’s mouth suddenly felt very dry. He swallowed again and wet his lips in hope he wasn’t making it too obvious.

“Clubs with other people like me,” he hoped that would do enough damage, turning slightly to avoid those piercing eyes of Fugo’s.

“Depressed, drunk, and lonely people? Wow, sounds like a blast.” Fugo knew he was pushing it. He was smart enough to know that Abbacchio meant he went to those underground gay clubs and goth lounges. He had just never been able to talk casually with anyone but Bucciarati. He supposed he was testing the waters.

“Thank you for the descriptors. It wasn’t that fun, but it was something.”

“You can say you went to gay clubs, I’m not gonna kick you or anything.” Fugo’s voice was hushed. “I don’t care. Bucciarati is the same sometimes. It’s an insignificant characteristic to judge someone by.”

Abbacchio huffed as he pulled out a record. From the glance Fugo got, it was New Order. He didn’t get a response, though when he thought about it he didn’t think it warranted one. They wandered until their laundry was done, walking over a few doors to collect their clothes and return home.

Chapter Text

Fugo watched Abbacchio’s form as he hurried up the stairs. His shoulders were pulled back like he was thinking about his posture and he tucked the hair hanging in front of his face behind his ears as he went to unlock the door. They had to have talked about more than themselves, Fugo thought. Why the hell else was Abbacchio so…un-Abbacchio-like?

He unlocked the door (Bucciarati made him a key) and they were greeted with the sound of running water. There was also a briefcase on the table. Fugo walked over to examine it, eyebrows furrowed as he knew they already received their payment.

“I’m gonna go put my stuff away,” Abbacchio called as he walked down the hallway to his room, closing the door behind him.

Fugo didn’t answer but cautiously followed him until he arrived at his own room. Something stopped him in his tracks. There was a piano in the living room. Fugo dropped his clean clothes. He stared at it, intensely confused. The first thing he thought of was their financial situation. There was absolutely no way Bucciarati could afford something like that. It was nice too, Fugo thought. It didn’t look new exactly, but it wasn’t beaten up.

The water shut off. The bathroom door opened. Fugo listened to footsteps approach him from behind. He would have turned, but he was still staring at the piano.

“It’s nice, right?” Bucciarati was standing next to him in boxers with a towel around his neck, hair wet and unbraided. Fugo turned to see a proud smile on his face as he stared at his apparent new purchase.

“How did you afford this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Have you seen our bills? Yes, it matters.” Fugo began to raise his voice, though he couldn’t keep his eyes off of the shiny, dark wood.

“The man who owns the repair shop a few streets over mentioned to me that he had one he needed to get rid of. I said I knew someone who might like to have it.” Bucciarati turned to look at Fugo’s face. “It’s a gift. For you. It’s yours.”

“I…” Fugo thought about the grand he had growing up. He thought about the way he felt when he could play without being corrected. He thought about practicing for special occasions or trying to play at a bar somewhere in the city. Fugo took careful steps towards it. Bucciarati scrubbed his hair with the towel, attempting to dry it. Fugo could feel those expectant eyes on his back as he sat down and revealed the keys. His eyebrows twitched as his hand hovered over them. “Is it tuned?” He asked before playing.

“I wouldn’t know. I thought you might.” Bucciarati shrugged with his hands on his hips, watching Fugo with a smile.

“Thank you. It’s—thank you.” Fugo shut the piano, suddenly shy about playing since he hadn’t in so long.

“You don’t have to thank me. You deserve it.”

To Fugo, that was always one of Bucciarati’s best qualities: his generosity. He never forgot a detail, never neglected to consider anything. Fugo thought the only time he had mentioned piano was the day they went out to sail, which had been close to a year ago now. He was so struck with gratitude he couldn’t even smile. He stared at Bucciarati’s smile with wonder.

“We got a piano?” Abbacchio’s head poked out of the hallway.

“Fugo did.” Bucciarati said proudly.

Fugo, watching from the bench, found it almost comical how Bucciarati and Abbacchio then locked eyes. He found it even more amusing how Abbacchio’s gaze was suddenly stuck to the expanse of Bucciarati’s tattoo. Something trivial to Fugo, but to Abbacchio who had never seen it in its entirety, it was probably a wonder.

Bucciarati’s hand scratched the back of his neck as he took a breath. Fugo wondered if Abbacchio was aware of the way his jaw was slacked. He huffed and stood up, walking between the two to get down the hallway, being sure to give Abbacchio a punch on the arm before retreating into his room. He would let them have their conversation, as long as he could listen too.

He listened from the other side of the door.

“Did you still want to…?” Bucciarati’s voice got closer.

“Oh, yes. Yeah. Um, did you have anything in mind?”
“I was going to ask you that,” Bruno gave a nervous chuckle before continuing. His voice hushed low, Fugo had to press his ear closer to hear. “But, if you’re up for a surprise, I know a place.”

Fugo could practically hear Abbacchio’s eyes widen, and as much as we wanted to continue eavesdropping, the thought of them flirting made him cringe. He sank further into his room and let them be, he would nag Abbacchio for the details another time.

Bruno approached Leone with a flirtatious confidence that left the older man frozen and unsure how to react.

“Yeah, yes, sure. That,” He cleared his throat and finally met Bruno’s eyes. “That sounds great.”

“Great,” Bruno smiled before continuing past and heading into his own room. “We can wait until the evening if that’s okay with you.”

“Of course,” He cleared his throat again. Jesus, it was too obvious how eager he was. “Yeah, that’s good.”

“Good,” Bruno smiled one last time before shutting his door.

The next few hours were full of tension. When Fugo finally emerged to try the piano, he noted how Abbacchio was sitting in the living room reading a magazine while Bruno sat across the room at the kitchen table reading a newspaper. He thought it was ridiculous how despite their obvious attraction they chose to sit so far away from each other. He supposed he didn’t quite understand it though, and maybe there was some excitement to be had in the anticipation of their date later.

Fugo sat down at the bench, opening the lid and playing a few scales to determine if it was in tune. It was, perfectly. He missed a glance Abbacchio paid him, as well as how Bruno lowered the paper to watch him play.

He began to play the piece he knew best by memory. He’d had issues in the past, getting angry when he messed up and had to start over, though for some reason he didn’t understand, when he had to restart the first few bars until he remembered correctly, he only shook his head and continued.

His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes twitched as he played, the feeling of his earrings swaying as he moved centered him and kept him focused. He played Liszt’s Liebestraum as if he had never stopped practicing it.

Bucciarati’s jaw dropped. Abbacchio’s eyes widened. The paper and magazine had been discarded by now, full focus was on the prodigy between the two men, and it stayed that way until Fugo stopped.

He had finally hit a point he couldn’t remember, about two minutes in. He began tapping his foot and biting his nail, hoping it might jog his memory. To no avail. He decided to close the lid and try again later, maybe he would do some exercises while the two adults were gone later. Fugo stood, freezing once he saw Bucciarati’s face. It was an expression Fugo had never seen before on the man, one of pure shock and amazement.

“Fugo,” he turned his palms up as if he didn’t know what else to do with his hands. “That was incredible.”

Fugo hadn’t felt a blush spread across his face in…he didn’t even know how long. But he knew he did now. “Th-thank you, Bucciarati.”

From behind him came, “I haven’t heard anyone play Liszt so well.” Abbacchio had stated (more to himself than the room) as he picked the magazine back up and continued reading. Still flushed, Fugo turned to look at Abbacchio. Head still tilted down at the magazine, he looked up at Fugo with a shrug. “What? It was really good. You should play in public sometime.”

“I don’t know about that…” He mumbled to himself instead of a ‘thank you.’ Abbacchio only turned the page.

“I could go get advanced lesson books the next time I’m out,” Bucciarati thought out loud. Fugo turned his attention back to him.

“Oh, well I could go get them. The shops that sell them will still be open for a few hours.” Though he would want to get more practice books, he also wanted an excuse to get out of that apartment. He could honestly hardly stand being in the same room as Bucciarati and Abbacchio after hearing them flirt earlier.

“Alright,” Bucciarati looked at his wrist for the time, “Well, we might be gone by the time you get back.”

“That’s fine,” Fugo was already heading down the hallway to get his wallet and bag. He threw his wallet and keys in a brown canvas and leather messenger bag before putting his boots on at the door. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“We won’t be too late,” Bucciarati called after him as he hurried out the door. Once it shut he turned to Leone. “Is a club okay?”

“I’m sorry?” Leone did a double-take into the kitchen.

“Is a club okay? For tonight? If not I can think of something else, it’s no problem.”

“Oh yeah, that's great. What uh, what kind of—” He ran a hand through his hair.

“One that’ll let us in.” Bruno stood and got a glass of water. “I have a private room.” He watched Leone as he drank, the other man was putting the magazine away and standing as well.

“They give those to regulars?” He shoved his hands in his pockets, not even sure what he was insinuating.

“No! No, I know the owner. Friend of the family, you could say.” He leaned a hand on the counter, setting his glass down next to it. “You should wear that lipstick you bought.” Bruno felt a smile threaten to crack the suave facade.

“The, um, which one?” Leone swallowed attempting to keep his cool, shifting his weight and avoiding eye contact.

“I think the black would look good on you,” He pressed himself off of the counter and began walking past Leone to his room. “Even though I did really like the purple.”

He couldn’t convince himself to speak, instead following Bruno down the hallway before turning into his own room and shutting the door.

God, why was he acting like this? He was so used to being nonchalant or self-loathing that he practically forgot how to interact with people. Leone threw himself onto his bed, suddenly trying to train his mind to act right tonight. They were going to a club, which he could handle. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Only it was a date. Unofficially. But it was so clear, he wasn’t even doubting it. He was simply in a state of disbelief at the concept of going on an actual date. Had he ever been on a date? He had gone out with people…well, he had slept with people. Not really the same, he figured. He thought back to the night before, talking with Bruno about his past. He didn’t go into his dating life or his sexual past, though the way he talked about his upbringing he thought he made it obvious.

The last time Leone had tried to talk to another man with hopes of going out was in high school. He was pretty sure of himself then. It made sense to him. There was a boy in his class—he couldn’t remember his name now—who he talked to every day about anything he could. They would eat lunch together, do homework, but it never went anywhere. Nothing ever happened. It was childish pining that Leone was never fully confident in but wanted to try anyway.

This was not childish pining. This was adult pining, and it was serious. Seriously bad. He pulled his hair.

What was Bruno into? He suddenly sat up, considering where the night could go. The thought of having sex with someone he would have to see again, no, work with, no, live with…even worse, someone he would probably want to have sex with again. Someone he really had feelings for. Someone he found utterly gorgeous and admirable, someone who (for some ungodly reason) wanted someone like him.

Why would Bruno want someone like him?

A knock at the door broke his train of thought.

“Will you be ready at seven?” Bruno asked from the other side of the door.

“Yeah, I’ll be ready.” He spat it out like poison, like suddenly he was dreading what could happen. Suddenly he was anxious and worried he would fuck it all up. Then his brain switched on him all at once, yelling at him for being a coward and telling him to get his shit together. ‘How pathetic would it be if you canceled? It’s not like you have an excuse. You’re in the same damn house,’ he thought.

He stood up and practically stomped over to his closet angrily yanking out a deep purple dress shirt and black slacks, tossing them onto the bed behind him.

He stared at the ensemble. He took a breath, told himself how ridiculous he was acting. He ran a hand through his hair before beginning to undress.

Across the hall, Bruno was thoughtfully choosing his outfit. He, too, was considering where the night could end up. He fished out dark blue pants and a black turtleneck from his closet, putting on a few rings he had collected over the years. He stressed over his appearance in a subtle way, like he was proving to himself that he could dress to do more than have a one night stand. It was the first time he was getting ready for a date that he intended to turn into a relationship.

Abbacchio stepped out of his bedroom and took the few steps down the hall into the bathroom, where he had left all of his makeup. He had to slow himself down to apply it more carefully, forgoing the smudges of black eyeshadow and replacing it with carefully applied pencil eyeliner in his waterlines, smoking it at the edges.

He looked at the lipsticks. The seal on the black hadn’t even been broken yet. He grabbed it quickly, ripping the plastic off and discarding it before twisting it up to admire the untouched shape. He had to face himself as he applied it in the mirror. He stared into his own eyes as he carefully traced the edges of his lips, the lips he hoped would get close to Bucciarati if they didn’t betray him and spit out some stupid bullshit to fuck it all over.

Abbacchio stepped back and looked at himself. To his surprise, he wasn’t repulsed. His first instinct wasn’t to spew some self deprecating speech. He didn’t even have a first reaction, he just looked at himself, for the first time in what felt like a long time.

He almost smiled at the man standing before him. But the door to the bathroom opening stopped him before he got the chance.

“Oh, sorry I—” Bruno froze and Abbacchio jolted with a startle. They were both entranced. Bruno swallowed what felt like a large lump. “It does look good. The lipstick.” Bruno was almost sad that it was going to get smudged later.

Abbacchio suddenly felt himself heating up at the fact Bruno was staring at his lips. “Um, thank you.”

“I wanted to ask if you’d be okay with me drinking, I know you’ve been trying to slow down your own.”

“I’ll set a cap at two, for myself. If you help me keep it.”

“Of course. I’ll try not to get too distracted.” The corners of his mouth twitched a smile.

“You can have as many as you like, I can handle one night on the sidelines.”

“I won’t get too ahead, don’t worry.” Bruno took his exit after leaving Abbacchio with another bright smile that he would file in his memory and recreate for himself later.

—

When the clock hit seven, the chime it set off was the only thing that snapped the men out of their trances. They had been ready at approximately 6:55pm but were so busy staring at each other that they failed to head out the door.

Leone was the first to recognize their state, opening the door after clearing his throat. Bruno followed, snapping himself out of his own mind enough to step through the door and begin leading the way. They walked in step with each other, as close to the other as was possible without tripping. They hurried down the first flight of stairs, Leone was being careful to not let his hair get into his lipstick. Bruno stopped all of a sudden. Fugo was coming home, he was walking upright below them.

He was mumbling something to himself. Leone noticed some papers and books sticking out of his bag. Bruno called out to him.

“Fugo,” he waved and the boy looked up with surprise. “We’ll be back later.” Bruno continued down the stairs to meet him, and Leone followed.

Fugo admired their appearances. They looked so put together, and for the first time he thought to himself that they looked like they belonged with each other. He would find himself thinking this more and more as time went on, but seeing Bucciarati stand so confidently and well dressed with Leone watching his shoulder from a few steps behind did something that he couldn’t explain. They looked perfect together at that moment. They looked like a partnership, a team, like the personification of a bond unbreakable.

“Alright, I’ll see you whenever.” Fugo began to hurry past them. Leone couldn’t help but study his face, and he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something wrong, or at least something on his mind. Abbacchio raised his hand as Fugo passed him, stopping the boy without touching him.

“You okay?” the scowl got slightly more pronounced and the crease in the brow deepened.

“Yes, yeah. Just thinking.” Fugo nodded quickly before paying him one last glance and continuing up the stairs. Fugo wouldn’t tell Abbacchio for another few days, but was thinking about how he might have met a friend.

Abbacchio watched him climb the remaining stairs quizzically. Bruno tugged his sleeve with a smile, and at his urge Leone followed.

Bruno liked to admire the way Leone’s clean hair reflected the lamplight as they walked along the streets. He listened to their shoes hit the stone streets, how Leone’s shoes echoed his as he followed less than a step behind.

Another tug on his sleeve, Bruno led Leone down a narrow alley and slyly linked their elbows.

“It’s not much further.” Bruno’s voice was hushed but impatient, and Leone could tell he was speeding up. “Please, if you don’t like it, let me know and we can go somewhere else.”

“I don’t think it’ll be a problem as long as you stick with me.” An elbow nudged Bruno’s side.

“Of course I will. I won’t leave you for a moment. I won’t even look away.” An instant answer, as if the question it was responding to was stupid.

“Is that a promise?” Leone’s voice was hushed. Hopeful, maybe.

“Absolutely. I would never lie to you.” Leone felt a squeeze on his arm.

He was so distracted by Bruno’s words and actions that he failed to realize how familiar his surroundings were. Yes, once he looked up and saw the alley they were heading down he remembered stumbling down it himself many times before, looking for somewhere he could forget he existed and looking for someone to help make him feel less alone. He remembered his sadness, and for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t picture himself in such a situation. It all of a sudden seemed so foreign, so odd to hate himself with such vigor that he would actively seek out the humiliation he thought he deserved. He swallowed hard and hesitated for a moment, accidentally pulling Bruno back when he halted.

“Everything okay?” Fingers entangled with his own.

At times like this, Abbacchio was more sure than ever that stands were manifestations of the soul, because who else but him could replay and relive his past with such gritty detail? It was as if Moody’s rewind was in his eyes, suffocating him with images of someone so unfamiliar, so unlike the clean, put-together figure he saw in the mirror less than two hours earlier.

The only logical reaction was to laugh at himself, laugh at what he used to be. That’s exactly what he did. He held back a laugh in the dark alley that a few months prior he would have been sobbing in.

Bruno’s eyebrows only furrowed deeper, stepping closer and practically pressing himself against the taller man. As Leone’s chuckle subsided, Bruno took his face in his hand. He felt the curve of his cheekbone and the softness of his skin.

“Leone?” The way Bruno’s thumb moved across his face made Abbacchio want to cry. Had he ever been touched so carefully?

“I just…I’ve been here before. I didn’t expect myself to ever come back again.” He began moving ahead, urging Bruno to do the same.

“I know other places too, we don’t have to—”

“No, it’s alright. It’d be better with you.” Subtly, maybe without even realizing it himself, he pulled Bruno closer to him as he walked.

Muffled music and sounds became louder as they approached a heavy door. A burly man blocked the entrance but hastily moved aside upon seeing Bucciarati, though he cast a glance and gave a scowl that rivaled the one Leone was used to having.

Deafening music and dim, dark lights greeted the two men as they entered. As if on instinct Abbacchio seemed to want to move to the bar and the dark booths in the back corner of the club, but Bruno pulled him to the left and down the hall to a flight of stairs. A woman stood blocking the entrance.

“You have a room reserved?” She held up her hand to make sure they didn’t move any closer.

“For Bucciarati. It may be under Polpo’s name.”

With an almost apologetic look, she quickly moved aside. “Of course, my mistake for not recognizing you. Please, go right ahead.” She unlatched a chain and made way for the two to move down the stairs.

The music grew quieter as they moved further down the narrow hallway, dodging a server or two who had gone down to deliver or take orders for drinks. Near the end of the hall, Bruno landed at a door, pushing it open with hesitation, as if he expected someone else might be inside. Once open, he let Abbacchio in.

It was a fairly large room where most of the walls were taken up by large couches and a table in the middle. Speakers on the walls controlled the volume of music from the rest of the club and a button could be pressed to call for drinks or other services.

Bruno strode in like it was his home, pulling Abbacchio by the hand with him. There was a small bar and fridge on the opposite wall, two made drinks sat on the bar as if they had just been placed there.
“I had to pick for you, but I hope you like it. I called ahead so they would have it ready. We can go back upstairs later if you want to, though.”

Leone took the cold glass from Bruno's hand, their fingers brushing in the action. He took a sip without asking what it was. “It’s limoncello?” Bruno nodded as he took a drink of his own. “I haven’t had this since I was a kid.” It was more a statement to himself than to the other man.

“There’s also,” Bruno reached into the small fridge beside the bar, which was in fact a wine fridge, and pulled out two bottles. “These. I don’t know which you prefer, but there’s a good selection if you want to choose.”

Leone stepped closer and examined the white closer, before pointing at it. “This one.”

Bruno smiled and put the decided-against bottle away, setting their drinks down. He leaned over and turned the music up, carefully opening the chosen bottle and pouring Leone a glass.

“Drink number two, then.” Bruno handed him the glass.

“Holding me to it, I see.”

“I told you, I would never lie.” Bruno poured himself a glass as well, drinking it rather quickly as Leone was only a few sips in. Before Leone knew it, he noticed Bruno had also finished the glass of limoncello that had been waiting for him. A part of him wondered if he had really consumed it so fast or if he had poured it into a zipper-void when he wasn’t aware. “Come on,” Bruno pulled Leone by the hand again, over to the couch. He set the bottle of wine down on the table in front of them. “Let's relax.”

Maybe Bruno could hear how fast Leone’s heart was beating. Leone did indeed need to relax, though it wasn’t because he was anxious or nervous anymore. On the contrary, he felt quite comfortable and at ease. He couldn’t identify exactly why his heart was racing, though he figured it had something to do with the fact that he was now reclining close to — very close to — the man he was inexplicably falling for.

The two collapsed into the softness of the couch, Bruno being sure to fall as close to Leone as possible.

“You must come here often if you have a room like this.” If Abbacchio turned his head a bit more, he was sure he could smell Bruno’s shampoo in his hair. The man had sunk into the couch next to him, his head resting on Leone’s shoulder.

“You said you came here before, too.” He turned his head, his chin now resting on Leone’s shoulder as his arm snaked behind the other man’s neck. “How often?”

“I asked you first.” It was becoming hard for Leone to ignore the fact that if he moved a centimeter more their noses would be touching.

“Mm, no, you didn’t ask me a question. You told me a statement. It’s a true statement, but it wasn’t a question. I asked you a question.” His right hand found the collar of Leone’s shirt and began tracing its hem. “I wanted you to answer.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Too often, embarrassingly often. I never came down here, though. I would sit at the booths upstairs. The ones in the back.” He felt his chest tighten and shifted awkwardly.

“That’s a shame. You should have stood in the light. I would have invited you down had I seen you.”

“Why’s that? So you could have recruited me earlier?” Leone felt his eyes droop with lust and ecstasy as he tried to watch the path Bruno’s finger was taking.

“No,” The finger traced a line along his neck, to the corner of his jaw and forward to his chin. “It’s because I think you’re beautiful.” It traveled back down his neck until there was room for his hand to wrap around the side of Leone’s neck.

“Don’t lie like that. Like you’re telling the truth.” His head just barely shook. He was hoping it wasn’t a lie, of course, but he hadn’t quit his habit of self-depreciation just quite yet. “Don’t lie and tell me what I want to hear.” Deep down he knew it was true. Somewhere, he felt it.

“You really think I’m lying?” Bruno titled his head, their lips practically brushing against each other.

Leone was holding in a breath as he nodded.

Suddenly, he had lost sight of Bruno’s blue eyes reflecting the red lights of the room. His breath hitched. Suddenly, he felt a tongue on his neck, tracing a curve from his collarbone to his jaw. Suddenly once more, he saw blue eyes in front of him.

“You know I’m telling the truth, you lied.” Bruno leaned in again, resuming his previous position ghosting over Leone’s mouth. “You taste too sweet to be telling me the truth. Liars are always sweeter.”
Leone huffed at the method of interrogation. “How can you be so sure?”

“I’ll try it again if I need to prove it, but it works every time.” Bruno sat back, and before he knew it, Leone was missing the closeness. Bruno almost laughed at the pout he tried to hide. “What’s another good one…” He tapped his chin theatrically before shifting so that his knee was between Leone’s thighs on the couch. He hovered over his thigh, and Leone had to resist the urge to pull him closer. “How about, ‘were you hoping I would kiss you just then?’”

Leone was too distracted by their positions to answer, but he wasn’t too distracted to notice how his heart once again began racing and his chest tightened even more and he grabbed onto whatever part of the couch he could. Bruno’s right hand grabbed his face firmly, lifting his chin higher and forcing Leone to look into his eyes.

“I need a yes or no answer, or else I can’t prove to you that it works.”

“I–” His eyes flickering between bright blue orbs and soft lips should have given away his answer perfectly fine, but if Bruno needed to prove it to him then who was Leone to deny him that wish? “Yes. I was.”

Bruno moved Leone’s head to the side, dipping down to lick up the other side of his neck and sinking down to shift his weight onto the man, trapping him underneath him. “See, you were telling the truth just then.”

“So?” Leone’s eyebrow crease deepened momentarily, as he realized the situation Bruno had put him in.

“So, what?” The hand gripping his jaw moved to entangle its fingers in the hair behind his neck. Bruno moved in closer.

“Aren’t you going to? Or are you going to keep teasing me?” Leone, from somewhere within him, muscled up the gaul to rest his palms on Bruno’s thighs. In an even more shocking twist, he surprised himself by tracing them further up the man’s chest until his fingers were entwined behind Bruno’s neck, the blunt edges of his hair brushing against his knuckles.

“I guess I shouldn’t be too mean just yet.” It felt like an eternity before Leone felt lips on his, but one he did, he melted into the kiss like he had never let himself go before.

Bruno could feel the lipstick begin to smear against his own mouth, but if anything it was a sign of achievement. He tugged on the hair at the base of Leone’s skull, earning something between a whimper and a moan, and tilting the man’s head to a better angle. Leone barely had a moment to taste Bruno’s tongue before the man’s mouth had moved to his neck, biting and sucking until they were both sure it would leave a mark. Leone’s knee jerked as he tried to hold in a moan, his hands finding fabric to grip onto.

“You can make noise here. No one else will hear us.” Bruno spoke quickly, trying to keep his time disconnected from Leone’s neck to a bare minimum. By the time his lips were connected again, he could feel the body beneath him sink further into the couch, letting out heavy breaths and soft pleading for more as Bruno moved from one spot to another and then another.

As if the severity of the situation had just hit him, as if he was suddenly considering the consequences of his actions, Bruno pulled back. “This is okay? This is what we want, right?”

All hesitation had left Leone’s body with the first kiss Bruno allowed him. There wasn’t even a moment where he considered lying or stepping around his words. “I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted you. I’ve wanted to be yours.”

Heavy breaths synchronized with the other’s. Hands grasped the other’s face. “You and me,” Leone could barely hear Bruno’s voice above the music. “We aren’t going to leave each other.” It was not a proposition or a request. It was a fact that had been true since the day they had met, but this time was the first time it had been vocalized.

“You’re crazy if you think I’d ever leave you,” Leone moved his head, preparing to kiss Bruno again. “The only time I feel at ease is when I’m with you.”

At that, Bruno couldn’t help but crash into Leone and kiss him again. He would have been crazy not to.

Chapter Text

Once their initial building lust had been taken care of, Bruno and Leone had what one could call a fairly normal date. By the time they made it back upstairs to dance, Leone’s lipstick was only a shadow of black on his mouth, but Bruno had gone to the bathroom to clean his face and neck. As he did, Leone was left to calm himself down in their private room, awaiting his date’s return.

Bruno’s fingers were laced with Leone’s below the bar as they waited for drinks. Leone figured he had better start sobering up soon and stuck to water, but Bruno (who proved to be holding his alcohol rather well) ordered a martini. 

Upon receiving drinks, Leone led them through the crowd, navigating between bodies until he found a relatively quiet booth on the opposite side of the dancefloor. Bruno sat leaning forward on his elbows and Leone reclined opposite him. They each took a sip.

“Are you sure about what you said earlier?”

“What’s that?” His mind began going over every single previous conversation.

“‘The only time you feel at ease’...that thing. Is that really how you feel?”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, I thought you knew that.”

“Well…I guess it’s just that no one has ever pledged their loyalty to me so readily before.”

“That’s a surprise. You seem to have Fugo wrapped around your finger. I mean that in a good sense. The boy really looks up to you.”

“He’s good. The world wasn’t kind to him. It wasn’t to any of us.” Bruno shook his head as he took a sip. “I’m considering expanding.”

“Expanding…?” His eyebrow raised.

“Finding new people to join our team.”

“You mean your team? I’m not a part of the leadership.”

“I could find worse people to lead with me.” Bruno responded pointedly.

“Yeah,” Leone scoffed. “You could find better, too.”

“It doesn’t have to be official. ‘Off the record,’ if you like. But I’d want you there with me.”

“You’re really asking this of me?” There was a look of suspicion in his eye.

“I wouldn’t lie. This is important to me.” Bruno’s face turned serious, almost as if he was offended Leone would think he could joke about the subject.

“You should know I have a hard time denying you what you ask of me.” Leone took another drink, longer this time. Bruno smiled before tearing his eyes away to check his watch. The way his eyes lingered toward his wrist gave Abbacchio the impression there was still something that had to be said. 

“We should start heading back, Fugo is probably asleep by now.” Downing the rest of his drink, Abbacchio noticed Bruno stumble a bit as he stood.

“Come on,” Leone held onto Bruno’s arm as they moved to the exit. Bruno muttered thanks to the employees they passed as they exited, and once outside he pulled Leone into a shadow.

“Is my affection for you too obvious?” he was gripping Leone’s shirt collar. “Is it distracting? If I asked this to become a serious relationship would it be a hindrance to our work?”

Something in Bruno’s eyes made Leone question whether or not this was a sober thought. “I’m capable of keeping personal and professional life separate, to an extent.” His fingers brushed over one of the gold clips that held Bruno’s braid in place. It was the one he fixed in the bathroom after Leone messed it up when they kissed. “No, it wouldn’t interrupt our work. It would make coming home after it that much more enjoyable.” A smile crept in when Leone wasn’t paying attention.

Bruno let out a light hearted laugh, grabbing his face and kissing him twice more. There was a seriousness backing his soft eyes. 

“I need you to promise me that you’ll put goals above me, just as you put them above yourself.” His hands gripped Leone’s shoulders. “If or, God forbid, when the time comes, I need you to tell me right now that you would not hesitate to leave me behind if it meant completing what our team sets out to do.” He took a careful pause. “Just as I would leave you behind.” 

He almost sounded like he didn’t want to be having this conversation, but it had to be made clear. He spoke thoughtfully, carefully slowing his speech so as not to slur. Even while intoxicated Bucciarati was a loyal man. A serious man. One who would not accept foolish mistakes because ‘feelings’ were at risk.

“I promise. Call it a vow,” Abbacchio rested his hands on Bruno’s shoulders. “How could I say no?”

They returned home walking arm in arm. Bruno’s arm was wrapped around Leone’s waist as they climbed the stairs together. His fingers began tugging at the shirt clinging to skin. 

“It wouldn’t be too hard for me to get this off of you, you know.” He was murmuring into Leone’s ear, sending a chill down the taller man’s spine. “Maybe if we get a day that’s just us…” 

“Maybe I’ll listen to you when you’re sober.” Leone began fishing for his keys.

“Ask me again in the morning, I know I'll say the same thing. I want to see your body again.”

Before he could get the key in the hole, Abbacchio froze. He turned slowly to Bruno, who was grabbing at his torso with eyes locked on his face. 

“Again?”

Bruno froze. He squeezed at Abbacchio’s waist. He had to remind himself he didn’t see Leone because he was spying or being a pervert and trying to get a peek, but because the man was filthy and drunk and could barely stand up—let alone shower—on his own. He also had to remind himself that Leone really didn’t seem to remember much about the night he arrived.

“Yes. The night I met you properly and brought you here, that’s when.”

“Why did you…”

“You were filthy and dripping wet from the rain. You smelled like the alley behind a bar.” He spoke with pity, and Leone listened as if he was ashamed to hear it. “That’s no condition for someone to start anew in. I washed you.”

Bruno cleansed him of his former self. Both literally and metaphorically. Leone felt shockingly disconnected from the man Bruno was discussing: it took a lot for him to picture himself like that now. Progress?

“And you saw…everything?” He gave up on opening the door. His hand dropped back to his side as he breathed the question implying that sensitive subject.

Bruno did not swallow with embarrassment, however. Nor did he hold back a laugh or try to defend himself. “I saw everything.”

It was a way Leone did not expect to hear the statement: it was said so simply, like a fact that had no emotion or implication attached to it. It just was. Bruno saw him in his entirety. That’s just how it was. It made Leone shockingly…relaxed. Despite his calm, he decided he couldn’t bear to imagine the scene anymore and unlocked the door instead.

Lamplight illuminated the room. Fugo was nowhere to be seen, but it looked like he had left the living room light on for the two. Abbacchio noticed his door was shut when he got a peek down the hall, but he was soon brought back to reality by Bruno letting go of him to lean on the kitchen counter. 

Bucciarati— for the first time in a long time— realized that he was exhausted as a result of having too much fun. He had forgotten what it felt like to go out with someone he was interested in and have it end so incredibly well without hurrying to bed. He was enjoying staring at Leone’s flustered face more than he had enjoyed sex with anyone else he’d been with before.

“I think I’d better…” Leone started regretfully. “I’ll start getting ready for bed soon, I think.”

Bruno’s gaze did not break. “I should do the same.” 

Neither man moved. Leone’s weight shifted a few times, as if he was about to turn and head down the hall but stopped himself at the last second. The only movement Bruno made was tilting his head to get a look at the other man from a new angle. It was a good five minutes before Bruno spoke up again.

“My bedroom is open to you, if you’d want.” Bruno could tell his suggestion made Leone’s hair stand up.

“I’m not…I don’t think it’s—” Leone stuttered.

“Just to sleep, tonight.” Bruno cast his eyes down and withheld a yawn. “I like the idea of falling asleep next to you.”

“Yeah, I do too.” Leone let out a cathartic breath. Maybe just this once he would give in to something risky. Maybe he’d allow himself something he really wanted.

They fell asleep that night tangled up in eachother.

—-

Fugo awoke the next morning to a quiet apartment, as well as wonderful weather. A bright sunny day to make his head ache even more. 

His mind had been racing before he finally fell asleep, due to a certain stranger he met on the streets. He had been walking home when he decided to take a longer route, intentionally trying to avoid running into Bucciarati and Abbacchio. Down an alley not far from the apartment was a boy who looked to be his age digging through a trash bin. Normally Fugo would walk right past and not say a word, but for some reason he stopped. Maybe that was what was eating him, the reason he stopped. Maybe he reminded him of himself, or maybe he just felt such pity he couldn’t get him out of his head. Whatever it was, he couldn't take his mind off of the meeting.

The boy’s name was Narancia Ghirga. Something was telling Fugo they would meet again, whether at his own volition or that of the universe.

Fugo was in the living room drinking coffee when Bucciarati emerged from the hall, greeting the boy with a refreshed ‘good morning’ and pulling two mugs from the cabinet.

“Good morning, Bucciarati,” Fugo took a sip. He figured it would be rude not to ask how their date was, but he didn’t want the details of it. “How did it go?”

Though Bruno was practically beaming, Fugo could tell there was a hint of reservation behind his eyes. It put Fugo off, but not enough to worry and ask about it. “It went great. I think we…I think we’ll work out together.” 

Ever the realist, Fugo couldn’t help but ask the dreaded questions. “You don’t think it’ll interfere? I mean, you aren’t worried about getting feelings involved in work?” He treaded carefully, not wanting to offend.

“Of course I am.” Bucciarati shook his head and sat down near Fugo. “But I think about that all the time, with you, for example,” He gestured his hand to Fugo, not recognizing the gravity his words had. “If I had to leave you behind…if I had to leave you not knowing whether or not you’d be okay…that would kill me, Fugo.”

“You…you shouldn’t need to worry. You’ve helped me this far, I can—”

“It’s not that I’m worried, it's just the principle. You’re my family now. It isn’t easy for me to let my family go.” Bruno cast his eyes down and shifted his foot closer to Fugo. 

The ground beneath Fugo’s feet shook, and he had to remind himself to center his breath. 

“Well do you, you know, do you love him?” Fugo’s voice was hushed. He felt like a child asking the question.

Bruno laughed through his nose. “Oh, it’s too early to diagnose. Though I’m sure somewhere down the  line I’ll look back and realize I loved him all along.” His words stopped there, but in his head he continued, “Yes, I’ll realize that ever since I saw him, vulnerable as his body may ever be and beautiful in the darkness, that I loved him all along.”

Fugo was beginning to miss eavesdropping.

“Can I ask you something?” The words came out before Fugo had registered it. Bruno leaned forward with interest, setting his coffee down on the low table in front of him.

“Of course. Anything,” Bruno said.

“Why did you help Abbacchio? Like, I guess, why him? There are so many people who need help, and I’m sure a lot of those people could handle what we do. Of everyone you’d heard whispers about, why did you land on him?” Fugo studied the thoughtful expression that grew on Bucciarati as he took in each word of the question.

It took him a moment to answer.

“I suppose, hmm,” Bucciarati took his chin in his hand, and began drumming his fingers and his knee. “I guess something about him just…stuck with me. The only thing I’d heard about him was some off-hand comment in a bar about the alcoholic cop who got his partner killed and was now shacked up in the alley. It’s not attractive, I know. But something in that story…I suppose something between the lines, maybe something only I could see, stuck out to me. I wanted to meet him, to see if what I felt was still there when I saw him. And it was.” He sat back, seeming satisfied with the answer he gave.

“So…you went off of a gut feeling, right?” Something like reason began to sprout in Fugo’s mind. “Something you just couldn’t shake, that’s what got you to help him?”

“That’s a good way of putting it, yes.” Bruno cocked his head. “Is there any reason you asked me?”

Fugo shook his head fervently. “No, no, I was just curious.”

“Right,” Bruno nodded. He knew there was something more on the boy's mind— Fugo even knew he could tell— but he chose not to dig deeper. 

A door shut. Fugo noted the speed at which Bucciarati shifted his attention to the hallway and subsequently smiled at the person who emerged from it. Abbacchio’s hair hung over his shoulders as he sauntered into the kitchen. Fugo noticed the man’s eyes fall on Bucciarati before he turned his back to look for a mug. He noted how his shoulders relaxed when he caught sight of the cup sitting ready for him on the counter. He watched Abbacchio’s hurried movements: haphazardly pouring his coffee, scooping in a bit more sugar than he usually would had he been paying more attention, and turning to sit in the living room so fast that the hot liquid nearly spilled out of the cup.

Fugo anticipated Abbacchio’s next move. He did not expect the man to take a seat right next to Bucciarati, and he definitely did not expect to see Bucciarati’s hand land just above Abbacchio’s knee when he sat down. They began conversing as if Fugo was not there.

“You slept well?” Though Fugo couldn’t totally see Bucciarati’s face, he knew there was a smile there, framed by soft eyes.

Abbacchio gave what Fugo had come to view as his own version of a smile; that is, an upwards twitch of the corners of his mouth that for a moment made him look at ease. “Very well, thank you.” He took a satisfied drink and sat back fully. 

Fugo fixated on the hand placed above the knee. The subtle movement of the thumb and the twitch of a squeeze. The category that touch belonged to was something that had always scared him. He attempted to imagine himself receiving the same kind of touch, but he could not do it without also picturing breaking down or slapping the hand away. He could not do it without picturing a hand that was old and worn, wrinkled and creped. Fugo grimaced. 

The more he looked at the hand, though, the more he began to separate it from the touch that he associated it with. There was no greedy hunger or perverted mission that the hand seemed to want to fulfill. This hand was placed there with no intention of traveling further or nagging for more. Its placement and lack of motion was proof of a genuine feeling, something pure and benevolent, something that Fugo had never associated with that sort of contact ever before.

He began to want to see more of this sort of touch, if only to prove to himself that physical contact without the grounds of sexual behavior was possible. Though, maybe romantic touch did have grounds of sexuality, it was not necessarily inherently sexual. Platonic touch, for example, was a completely foreign idea to Fugo. The concept of it was just as absurd to him. To Fugo, it was difficult to believe without experiencing, though seeing did help him a bit.

“I have business at Libeccio’s today,” Bruno turned to better face Fugo, snapping him out of his trance. “You both are welcome to join me. Of course, I’ll be doing many of them on my own but I always appreciate the company.”

Fugo stood as he finished his coffee, heading to the kitchen. “I wanted to practice more today, but I’ll join you later.”

“We can go there together then,” Abbacchio nodded to Fugo before turning to Bucciarati. “You’ll be okay for a bit without us, surely.”

“I’ll do my best.” Bruno smiled as he talked. Fugo realized how strange it was all of a sudden, the vigor with which Bruno now smiled. Normally his smiles were reserved for charming superiors and feigning ignorance while overseeing trades. Now they were constant and warm, and it reminded Fugo of a child. 

Bucciarati had changed. He had softened in Abbacchio’s presence. He now seemed to work with a grace above that of which he had worked with before. It was almost carefree in nature, if you took into account the fact that Bruno—in his work—was not a carefree person.

Fugo watched the man finish his drink and stand, probably telling the two he’d be going to get dressed, before walking to his room.

Abbacchio shifted himself closer to Fugo, lowering his voice.

“Today, if you’re up for it, we should try to talk to someone about the drug trades.” Abbacchio’s voice was stern and determined, as if he would go try to uncover something even if Fugo didn’t want to be involved.

“I guess…well, how do you want to go about this? This is serious. Especially if we are keeping it from Bucciarati,” Fugo barely raised his voice above a whisper in the last part.

Abbacchio paused, breathing a careful sigh before choosing his next words. His eyes moved back and forth so quickly, as if he was trying to look for something he had lost. “I think it’s best we go over his head to make sure he doesn’t know. I think we need to go to Polpo.”

It made the hair on Fugo’s neck stand up. Facing Polpo alone was a nerve wracking experience he would rather not go through again.

“He’s…I don’t know…” 

“He would know. He would be able to tell us everything.”

“I…” Fugo couldn’t argue with that. He couldn’t come up with any reason why Abbacchio was wrong. Of course it was the answer. The obvious one. Just the most undesirable as well. “...alright. We leave an hour after Bucciarati.” Fugo tried to ignore the way his hands shook as he stood.

Abbacchio nodded, satisfied. He, of course, didn’t personally care too much about the handling of drugs, but if Bucciarati was passionate about it—and especially after hearing why he held the position he did—Leone was more than willing to go out on a limb for the man.

Chapter Text

Polpo’s home was not modest, in any sense. It did not have the grace that German Baroque did, nor did it hold significance like the court of the Sun King, it was garish and gaudy. Fugo positively hated it. Their stay did not last long. Fugo allowed Abbacchio’s hand between his shoulder blades to keep him moving and keep his mind off of the situation. It was not so much facing Polpo that had Fugo up in arms, but the prospect of getting Bucciarati in trouble because they went behind his back. 

Abbacchio approached the situation with something of a practiced grace. Fugo was astonished, to a degree, considering that at home Abbacchio tended to be quiet and keep to himself. Sure, it was obvious he had at least some level of education and that brooding nature made him somewhat intimidating, but never did Fugo get the impression he could have such command in him. 

He supposed that was the policeman in him. Perhaps he had dug it up for Bucciarati.

Their audience with Polpo was anticlimactic to say the least. Abbacchio fudged that they were there on Bucciarati’s behalf.

“The boy never had any interest in the trade. He hoped to lead a team of bodyguards and watchmen. Noble, to be out of the way of the main stream of profit, I suppose.” Polpo shoveled some food and drink into his mouth between sentences. Fugo had to try not to cringe with distaste, but whenever he got a glance at Abbacchio, the man was poised and composed. He carried on the conversation as if he was friends with the man before him.

“We came to you for clarification more than anything else. You see, there has been an increase in minor turf disputes between sellers and mules. To better understand the issue and step out where we must, we wanted to clarify with you the territories and substances of our area.”

Polpo examined Abbacchio for a moment. His eyes ran up and down the man’s figure. Abbacchio spoke with practiced clarity. It was convincing to Fugo, at least. What he was saying was true: there had been an increase in violence due to drugs in the area. What Abbacchio was saying made perfect sense, it was just a matter of whether or not Polpo decided their group was worthy of knowing the information.

“You’re the cop?” Polpo spat as he spoke.

“The former, yes.” Abbacchi leaned forward. “I understand my former profession makes you understandably suspicious of me. However, I’ve pledged my full and unadulterated loyalty to Bucciarati. I am more than willing to do the same for you.”

His words held gravity. Fugo felt the force behind them. Polpo’s brow twitched. He let out a hearty laugh.

“Don’t trouble yourself. Bucciarati is one of the men I hold the most trust in. I have great expectations for him. I know he would never bring a policeman in as deep as he is. As deep as you, boy, are too.” He motioned to Fugo. “He made it clear to me why you would be an asset. Though I’m skeptical, to be honest, I have no reason to doubt you.”

“Of course, Capo. Please, forgive my assumption.” Abbacchio bowed his head and swallowed. Fugo would not notice the sweat on his brow.

“In truth, I meant to keep substances away from Bucciarati and Luca’s territory. Simply put, I did not want it to distract them. Our most profitable have been heroin and cocaine. I am considering outsourcing pills, but we’ll see how our profits are in the next while. I apologize for the violence in your areas. I trust it is not distracting you from your normal work?”

Fugo spoke up. He knew Abbacchio was not yet completely familiar with the ‘normal work’ Polpo spoke of. 

“It hasn’t yet, Capo. We only wanted to get in touch now in hopes of understanding the issue before it becomes a hindrance to the important work we conduct for you. Thank you for taking the time to speak with us.” Fugo swallowed before adding, “Bucciarati greatly appreciates it.”

“I’m sure,” Polpo turned to take an impressive few gulps of wine. “Thank you for stopping by. Family is always welcome in my home.”

The way those words were spoken were not the same as how Bucciarati had called Fugo his family. This was more sinister than that. It made Fugo want to run away.

It made him excited for the day Bucciarati would be Capo. 

They left promptly after that. Fugo hurried out so that Abbacchio didn’t have a chance to leave him. They were a few blocks away before Fugo spoke up again.

“So, what do you suppose we do now?”

Abbacchio stared ahead, continuing walking. He did not reply.

“Abbacchio? This wasn’t your only plan, was it? You think the job ends at investigating?”

Still he did not answer.

“Abbacchio!?” Fugo shoved the man to get his attention. Abbacchio finally faced him. He looked as stoic as he did in Polpo’s house. “What the fuck!? Do you plan to tell him? Don’t you know how he would take it? Were you going to wait it out?” Fugo stared daggers into Abbacchio’s eyes, which were now averted. “Of course you didn’t have a plan. Why would you?” Fugo threw his hands up and continued walking. Tears of frustration threatened to form. “Failed cop no better than the rest of the police in this city, or anywhere in this fucking country.”

“Hey!” Abbacchio ran to catch up, reaching out for the boy, but before he could, Fugo turned abruptly.

“No! Don’t fucking touch me!” He could feel his vision blurring. “I’m going to Libeccio’s.” His body felt hot with anger. Sure, he didn’t have a plan either. His and Abbacchio’s stands were either volatile or not built for combat. How could the two of them end something that went all the way to the top? The way Polpo spoke, it didn’t seem like this was his idea. He was taking orders from the Boss. Did Abbacchio even realize how far up this went?

—

Bucciarati was a bit puzzled at the way Fugo stormed into the restaurant and threw himself into the opposite chair. He did not ask questions. He knew better than to do so. Bucciarati ordered half of a cake for the table and waited for Fugo to pick the strawberry off the top of his slice before pressing him.

“Is it Abbacchio?” His voice was soft, like he was expecting disappointment.

Fugo shot him a glance and furrowed his brows as he chewed. He contemplated his answer. Finally, he swallowed. “Yes. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I see,” Bruno’s head bobbed as his mind ran through all the different scenarios that had happened in weeks previous. Abbacchio misplacing things, using Fugo’s things without knowing, etc. Though they had only dove into their attraction the night before, Bruno found himself unable to stop thinking about Leone. “If you don’t mind me asking, is he on his way?”

“Probably,” Fugo sank deeper into his seat and huffed. Shoving another forkful of cake into his mouth. 

Bucciarati glanced at his watch, trying to think of a conversation that wouldn’t upset the boy. “You were gone for a few hours.”

“I was.” Fugo waved a waiter down and asked for tea. 

“Shopping? Exploring?” Bruno suggested.

“Sure.” Fugo did not make eye contact. 

Instead, he gulped down water as if he were in a desert. Suddenly he remembered Bruno’s penchant for telling a liar from an honest man. His tie felt too tight.

Bucciarati knew he was keeping something. Though he figured that ‘something’ was a petty argument. Something that would be resolved later, nothing to worry about. He knew Fugo better than anyone, he liked to think. He trusted the boy. He trusted their team.

Their team.

Now that was something Bruno could get used to. He smiled to himself, imagining the three of them with a few other faceless bodies making their way up the ranks. Someday, he would have an influence. He would have a say. He could have power.

They sipped tea in silence until Fugo’s demeanor calmed and Bucciarati noticed his shoulders relaxed. After another twenty-five minutes or so, Abbacchio sat down.

“Good afternoon,” He unabashedly took the seat closest to Bucciarati. Leone was met with a reply and a hand on his thigh under the table.

“You know if we grow this team, you two should really not show this thing off. Some might think it’s unprofessional.” Fugo’s eyes did not meet Bucciarati when he said this. He wanted to watch Abbacchio’s face. 

“I’d tell them to mind their own damn business.” Abbacchio reached for the teapot, not regarding Fugo at all, though he did feel the hand tighten on his thigh. He turned his head to Bucciarati with furrowed brows, who was watching Fugo with narrowed eyes.

“You're making it everyone’s business.” Fugo responded sharply, hitting his fist on the table.

“ Hey,” Bruno spoke sternly, removing his hand from Leone’s leg and placing it in his own lap. “Fugo, if this is to be a problem, we can work something out.”

“I mean think about it Bucciarati, do you really think people are going to respect you once they find out about this?” Fugo waved his hand to the two of them. He turned away in his chair. Once his words hit him, he felt some shame in the statement. He felt even more shame knowing that he directed it at Bucciarati.

Abbacchio looked down. He felt embarrassed, almost ashamed. Fugo had a point. It was stupid of the two of them to disregard that fact. Bruno let out a shaky breath. Abbacchio could practically feel him tense up. 

“I hope you didn’t mean that in the way it sounded.” Bruno breathed through his nose, his posture perfect and his face calm. He was pristine as he stared Fugo down. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt this time, but it would be good to never hear you speak like that again.” 

Abbacchio was scared of this version of Bruno. This was barely the same man who flirted with him in the convenience store or teased him in the night club. This was a man who knew the world he worked in. This was a brutal man. He was cold, icy like his eyes.

Fugo had never heard Bruno use that tone of voice with him before. It’s how he knew he had offended him. It’s how he knew that Bruno took it as a sign of disrespect. He did not apologize because he knew it wasn’t what was called for. He only replied, “Yes, Bucciarati.” 

Bruno took his time before speaking again.

“I knew we would have issues at first, but now I can’t help but wonder if this problem is going to affect our work,” The statement had to be a lie, it just had to, Fugo thought. Especially with what Bucciarati was telling Fugo that morning. “Whatever is going on between the two of you is childish, and Fugo, I really expected—”

“It’s not his fault.” Abbacchio cut him off. Fugo’s body froze and grew hot. This would not go well if the man was going to do what Fugo hoped to God he wouldn’t do.

Bruno’s demeanor broke as he looked at Abbacchio inquisitively. The older man continued.

“It was my idea, first of all,” Good start, Fugo thought. How selfless . “I thought it would be a good idea to get information on where all the substances in the area were coming from,” Fugo watched Bruno’s jaw tighten and his eyebrow twitch. “We asked Polpo about the trade.”

Fugo felt as if he had been turned to stone. The variable was not whether or not Bruno would be angry—it was a given that he would be. The variable was just how angry he would be.

“Trade?” Bucciarati’s eyes were dark, cast down. He sounded as if he knew the answer but was afraid he’d not be able to take it.

“The drug trade.” The finality with which those words were said made it clear to Fugo that Abbacchio expected Bucciarati to get up and leave.

Which is exactly what he did. The chair scratched the floor, the silverware rattled as Bucciarati threw his napkin onto the table. He thanked the waitstaff and maitre d hurriedly. He was out the front door before Fugo and Abbacchio could take another breath.

“Happy?” Fugo crossed his arms. He had to admit, now that the sneaking around was out in the open, he did feel a bit better. He did not like that it came at the cost of his superior’s mentality, someone whose composure and reason he looked up to. 

“It’s better this way, I suppose.” Fugo watched Abbacchio’s hand rub his face as he stood. “Knowing what I know about him, he’ll seeth for a while and blow off steam—probably all alone and to himself—and then he’ll come out with some huge resolve. Something to work towards.” Admittedly, Abbacchio had hit the nail on the head. That did sound like Bucciarati. “Just like after…you know.” 

“Yeah.” Fugo bit his nail. “When he’s capo…when he’s capo he’ll fix it. He’ll do what’s right.” His eyes flew open to look at Abbacchio, who was standing with a determination that didn’t quite fit the scenario.

He stuck his hand out to Fugo. “We—you and me both—we’re going to help him get there.”

The chair scratched the floor as Fugo stood, taking Abbacchio’s hand with such force that the older man could do nothing but smile at their future ahead.

Chapter Text

Three days had passed. No additional investigation had been done. No additional comments had been made by Bucciarati. Most of his time at home was spent sitting in the living room or in his bedroom. He sat in silence, and his face was beginning to take after Abbacchio’s signature scowl.

What he did not let on was that two days after Abbacchio came clean, coincidence led him right into a small trade. It angered him that this was going on under his nose, in the neighborhood he had made it his responsibility to look after.

He had allowed this without even knowing.

He could not comprehend it at the time, but what he felt was embarrassment.

It was the third day, now. Fugo had been leaving the house more often than he had previously because he could not stand sitting casually next to a man he had so clearly angered.

He’d been meeting Narancia. Despite his lack of common sense and knowledge, Fugo did find it a refreshing break from the seriousness of his usual crowd. The boy was developing an eye infection, Fugo could see it as much as Narancia tried to hide it. He was feeling especially content when he returned that evening. The sun was setting and the city looked as if it was glowing orange.

He was humming as he unlocked the door, but once he turned the knob and saw Leone leaning against the wall of the hallway, the look the man had was enough to shut him up.

Leone’s arms were crossed, and his eyes were ready to meet Fugo’s when he walked in the door. Fugo couldn’t read his expression, but it was one of caution. He looked irate almost, but there was a hint of understanding.

“Fugo, come here.” Bucciarati’s voice led Fugo’s gaze to the living room. He sat unmoving on the couch opposite the wall with the record player. He sat with his hands folded, elbows resting on his knees. He stared straight ahead, at the fishing net on the opposite wall.

Hesitantly, and slowly, Fugo took off his shoes, set down his bag, and stood at attention in the living room.

“Put my record on, please.”

Fugo turned to the cabinet, searching for Miles Davis’s Bitches Brew, Bucciarati’s favorite. Once he found it and carefully took it out, he was stopped.

“Not that one. It should be on the turntable already.”

With robotic movements, Fugo returned the record to its place. He straightened upright again to uncover the turntable, flicking the on the switch and moving the needle. As he did, he caught a streak of white hair from behind the corner. As the record started, Fugo recognized it as one Bucciarati had specifically expressed regret about buying.

“I owe you an explanation, as someone who wants to lead. I did feel…disappointed by your decision to not tell me. Especially because I consider you the one who knows me best, and I really respect your judgment and mind in general. I see why you did what you did…at least I’m trying to…”

Disappointed. The word hit Fugo like a sledgehammer. For the next several minutes, Bucciarati’s words were punctuated by his silence. He said he was trying to understand, but his tone told Fugo that he still didn’t. Curious as to what was catching Bucciarati’s eye over his shoulder, Fugo turned.

The net.

The net.

Bucciarati’s father’s fishing net. It was all that was left of him. All because of…

Fugo understood now. He thought he knew before, but he hadn’t the slightest idea.

Now, it hit him.

—

Fugo regressed to his habit of eavesdropping. After the confession and confrontation, it made him feel safer to keep his distance and observe by audio only.

He found the only time he spoke up now was when Bucciarati asked him about work or when he was with Narancia, whose eye seemed to be getting worse and worse by the day.

It was unusually hot that day. Fugo was reading in his room. The window was wide open and his curtains were flowing whenever the light breeze came to visit them, he wondered if the men on the balcony didn’t notice or just didn’t care.

“Here,” A glass on the table. Bucciarati had just bought a new set for the balcony. A table and four chairs made of light wooden slats.

“Thank you,” Abbacchio said with immediacy. “Is there anything we have to know for the next week?”

Fugo had noticed his drinking had an uptick in recent days. He wondered if it was about the drugs or about his relationship.

“We should be on standby to escort some higher ups. On Saturday we have to watch a card game,” Bucciarati said as if it was no big deal. He sounded as if he didn’t care, which was unusual.

Fugo noted this in his mind. He turned a page.

He recalled how, after Bucciarati spoke to him in the living room, Abbacchio emerged from the hall when it was safe. Bucciarati stood as Abbacchio kept walking to him, and Fugo saw the confusion cross his face when the older man kneeled before him.

Abbacchio’s head was down. Fugo observed the way his back arched inwards and his breathing steadied. “We will follow you,” Abbacchio turned his head to glance back at Fugo.

The look in his eye made Fugo drop to his knees.

“We have full faith in you as our leader. We’ll be with you, no matter what you want to do.” Abbacchio finished.

Fugo’s mind snapped back to the present. He zoned in on the conversation once again.

“Remember when you mentioned expanding?”

“I do. What about that?”

“You’re still pushing that?”

“When the time comes, when it’s right, yes. I’m pushing that, I suppose.” Bucciarati cleared his throat.

“Then I think we need a bigger place.” Abbacchio paused. Or another place, at the very least. Whichever is cheaper.”

“We have three bedrooms here, it’ll be fine.” Fugo could hear the head shake.

“Three bedrooms and four people?” Abbacchio couldn’t possibly be this oblivious…

“Oh come on, you’re quicker than that.” Bucciarati had that teasing tone.

Abbacchio stopped to think. Fugo wished he could watch his face. “I’m sorry, what am I missing here?”

“Three bedrooms for four people, I figured Fugo could keep his and…” Fugo was incredibly tuned in.

“And…?” At this point it seemed Abbacchio was pleading for the thoughts to be vocalized rather than pleading because he was unaware as to what they were.

“My room is big enough for two. I figured we would share. That is, if you are okay with sharing.”

Fugo heard the breeze, and the creak of a body shifting in a chair, and he exhaled a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“I—” Another long pause. “That’s fine.”

Fugo decided he would interrupt.

—

Two nights later, Abbacchio had begun shifting his belongings from one room to the other. Fugo noticed as he was walking by Bucciarati’s open doorway that he had changed his sheets from light blue cotton to a white set with a similarly light duvet. Abbacchio’s sheets had curiously disappeared.

When five days had gone by, Fugo returned from a meeting with some associates to find Abbacchio’s room bare, save for a bed and dresser. If he hadn’t known better he would have assumed the man moved out. It was midday when he returned, but neither of his adult counterparts was to be seen. He even braced himself to check behind Bucciarati’s closed door but was (thankfully) met with nothing he didn’t want to see.

He contemplated leaving again, considering the minuscule amount of paperwork he had to finish and the studying he could be doing. He finally decided to leave a note on the kitchen table for the other two, forcing himself out the door before he could convince himself to stay. Two hours, he wrote.

Fugo went looking for Narancia. The empty room, though he knew it didn’t mean one less person, made him feel like there could be more. Especially after his conversation with Bucciarati, he felt like Narancia could be good.

Chapter Text

One thing Fugo did not expect from Bucciarati was such vehement, flat-out rejection. He seemed…repulsed by the idea that Narancia should join them. Even in private he expressed his distaste towards the idea— Fugo could tell by the echoes and whispers of disapproval he heard coming from behind the closed door at the end of the hall. Abbacchio did not push back very hard at all, in fact, his only solid response was “So, I gave up my room for nothing?” and of course that was meant as a lighthearted tease, though Fugo frankly did not appreciate it.

Fugo would carefully bring up the idea at breakfast every few days. In all honesty, he actually didn't disagree with any of Bucciarati's reasoning. Fugo wouldn’t say he looked down on people who were less educated than him as he was obviously very privileged in that realm, but he had a hard time not interpreting it as a waste of potential. It was also true that while Narancia was young, Fugo was younger when he joined Bucciarati. Although, here again, it was hard to ignore that Narancia acted even younger than Fugo ever remembers acting, and this was also cause for hesitation. 

Besides both of these issues specific to Narancia, Fugo began to suspect that Bucciarati was becoming hyperaware of his effect on young adults. It was becoming alarming to him, Fugo thought, that another teenager wanted to involve himself in his lifestyle. This was only underscored by recent revelations regarding the drug trade in their area. 

Fugo watched Abbacchio make the espresso for the house. He was skimming the newspaper. The church bells were ringing, but Bucciarati was not at the table. 

“Is he still sleeping?” Fugo inquired as he turned a page.

“He wasn’t there when I woke up,” Abbacchio retrieved two cups and two saucers from the cabinet. “He’s been going to the docks in the mornings, I think.” Fugo watched as a small spoon and a jar of sugar was placed on the table in front of him, followed by his espresso.

“What, is he fishing?” Fugo spooned sugar into his cup and stirred, neglecting to thank Abbacchio.

“Could be, for all I know.” Abbacchio tugged at the newspaper, and Fugo willingly let go of it. “This Narancia…”

“Yeah?”

“I think it’s got Bucciarati shaken up. He really, really doesn’t think this is a good idea.”

“If I can be frank with you,” Fugo huffed. “I find it a bit offensive that Bucciarati will put all of his trust in me while failing to take my judgments seriously.”

Abbacchio shrugged in agreement…well, maybe not agreement, but with sympathy, at the very least. Fugo continued.

“It really makes me feel like a child, you know? I know I’m not as high up as he is, and I haven't been in this for long, but I’ve been in it long enough to where I feel like I can make these judgments about people! I’m really considering telling Narancia to just visit Polp himself—“

“No!” Abbacchio dropped the paper to the table and met Fugo’s eyes. “That’s too far, Fugo. I understand you want someone new, but this isn’t the right way to go about it.”

“Just let me finish, Abbacchio…” The steadiness of Fugo’s voice was surprising the older man. Fugo didn’t seem nervous about the implication he was going to go against Bucciarati. Abbacchio listened. “Narancia is getting sick. He won’t say it to me, but every time I see him, it’s his eye. It gets worse and worse, and I know we don’t have any obligation to help him, but I just thought if he was [art of the family, then maybe—“

Fugo was cut off by the front door opening.

“Buon giorno,” Bruno shut the door and went straight to his room, not greeting either of his housemates directly. The bedroom door shut down the hall.

“I’ll talk to him.” Abbacchio finished his espresso and started towards their room. Fugo followed to his, hoping to overhear.

——

Bruno stood by his dresser unbuttoning his shirt when Abbacchio entered.

“There’s coffee, when you want it.”

“Thank you, bello.” Bruno folded the discarded shirt and fished out a new one, not turning towards his lover, keeping his focus on his buttons.

“Did you go to the docks?” He shut the door behind him and sat on the bed.

He touched the sheets and it reminded him of Bucciarati’s and his intimacy with each other. They actually hadn’t had sex yet, had only gotten passionately handsy and kissed until their mouths were dry and they could only laugh because of how out of breath they were. Bruno was hesitant about going further, but Leone could tell it was because he was concerned about going too far too fast. Leone also thought that Bruno was nervous he was a coping mechanism rather than a lover, even though he had proven to Bruno he was telling the truth when he pledged his devotion. It was fair, though, like most of Bruno’s judgments. Considering they had now only known each other for a couple of months, he supposed moving slowly wasn’t the most horrible thing to do. In retrospect, pledging devotion to Bruno on their first real date wasn’t the most sane thing Abbacchio could have done.

“I had a disposal to complete.” Bruno turned and smiled, but only as if to say, What, did you think it would be something pleasant? He followed by clarifying, “It was a one-man job, and confidential. No need for company.” Bruno held Abbacchio’s face and kissed his forehead. It was haphazard like he was using the action as a mask.

Abbacchio looked up at Bruno before his face moved too far away. “I want to talk about Fugo.” Bruno’s face stayed unchanged, the corners of his lips resisting the urge to frown. “He’s starting to get worried about this Narancia kid.” Bruno dropped his hands and turned away.

“If he thinks he can guilt me into it, that’s not how this works.”

“He doesn’t even want him to join us, I think,” By saying this, Abbacchio was really pleading for Bruno to not shut him out. “Fugo told me Narancia is ill, and that he thinks if he joins us we can help him get better.”

Bruno slumped on the bed next to Leone. His head hung low. Abbacchio tried to meet his gaze, but Bruno’s hair fell in the way of his eyes. His back raised and lowered slowly with his breath. He brought his tanned hand up to rub his eyes and left it there, supporting the weight of his head.

“It’s been weighing on my conscious…” Bruno began.

‘I can tell,’ Abbacchio thought.

“All of this going on right in front of me…who am I to involve kids in this? They are babies, Leone.” There weren’t tears in Bruno’s eyes when he turned to meet Abbacchio’s gaze. It instead seemed to Abbacchio that Bruno had already shed all the tears he held within him. “I walk down the street and people greet me like their protector, and little do they know I’m the inspiration for kids to start dealing drugs and killing. It’s busy work, the things we are doing! Watching card games…dumping bodies…” 

Abbacchio stopped him lest Bruno begin to list every nefarious task they had ever been set up with.

“Put those to the side. Fugo isn’t asking for you to send this kid to Polpo, not really,” A hand on Bruno’s thigh makes his eyes soften. “He’s asking that you help him get better. He just thinks this is the only option.”

——

Bucciarati’s resolve and tenacity were not an inherent trait, Fugo could argue. Sure there was always Bruno’s confidence and wit, but his passion was something more learned. It was perhaps acquired upon meeting Abbachio. Fugo was not offended he did not earn this honor, the inspiration for Bruno’s passion, because he knew it didn’t mean Bucciarati cared any less about him than before, only that he had discovered a new way to care for someone and something else. Fugo knew that when Bucciarati joined Passione, it was out of necessity and fear for his father. It was good luck that Bruno was charismatic and good at this job. Perhaps, Fugo sometimes pondered, he joined out of spite. For whom, Fugo wasn’t sure. 

Fugo thought he saw a glint of this resolve in Narancia, who after recovering from his infection on Bucciarati’s dime, approached Polpo himself. He then proved he had Bucciarati’s good luck too.

Bucciarati did not condone it, and perhaps Polpo had a bone to pick with him for God knows what reason, because the next thing Bruno knew, Fugo and Narancia were eating lunch at his regular table and Abbacchio was sitting there looking like he was in between head-spaces (deciding whether or not to slap Narancia or pull Fugo aside and ask why the hell he supported this idea in the first place).

Narancia took Abbacchio’s old room. Bruno softened up again. Abbacchio gradually hardened. Fugo was pleased with his calculated addition. He also didn’t mind having someone to chat with while the adults were talking.

——

Narancia had been in with them for three and a half weeks and had joined on half a dozen missions. With each one, Bruno became more comfortable with Narancia as an asset, and Leone became more casually (teasingly, Bruno knew) abrasive in his speech with the younger members of their group. It made Bruno smile, watching Abbacchio get comfortable and Fugo make a friend. Stabbings were often caused by a fork, but so what? Boys will be boys!

Abbacchio started working out again, in private. Fugo figured it out when he saw Abbacchio passing the bookstore he was browsing with his hair tied up hauling a duffel bag over his shoulder, his t-shirt drenched in sweat. Fugo ran out at the spectacle.

“The hell are you coming from?”

Abbacchio sighed with defeat. Holy shit, Fugo thought, he’s wearing sneakers.

“The showers are closed. Plumbing work.” Abbacchio’s eyes were pleading with Fugo to cut him some slack and let him walk away in peace. 

Fugo only turned and let him be when he remembered Narancia was still at their apartment, and that Abbacchio would get enough shit from him once he walked in the door.

——

Naples was getting hotter. June was ending and July was beginning. Campari and cigarette smoke hung in air in the evenings. It was a good thing that Leone preferred his walks around 4pm when most of the shops had closed for their midday break and he didn’t have to worry about seeing any former coworkers driving around in their police vehicles. He could avoid the signature aroma and at least get a taste of fresh air that way. Maybe they should move out of Naples city center, he thought. Perhaps closer to Pompeii…

Fugo watched Bucciarati as Abbacchio left the apartment. He noticed the soldato’s lingering gaze on the door. The oscillating fan made his hair flutter as it passed him. Narancia was in his own world. He had his headphones plugged into the boombox in the living room, bobbing his head to the beat that leaked out of the earpieces. The front door shutting must have snapped him out of it, because he too seemed to notice Bucciarati’s lingering gaze.

“So, how often do you guys have sex?” 

Fugo was appalled at the words. His head could only manage a creaking turn towards Narancia, who so nonchalantly held his inquisitive gaze towards Bucciarati. Fugo could only out of the corner of his eye see Bucciarati resist the urge to cough out his cappuccino. 

“I’m sorry?” Bucciarati genuinely, truly hoped he misheard.

“Sorry, I just feel like you know, if I was with a girl, I would want to have sex every night! Or even like every day, even. But is it different with a guy?”

Fugo could not help but drop his jaw at the audacity. The innocence with which the question was asked was almost impressively contradictory to its content. It almost made Fugo laugh. Bucciarati did see his mouth twitch a smile upon glancing over at Fugo. 

“Well, man or woman, it differs from person to person. And sometimes there is only sex, and sometimes there’s more.”

Narancia nodded his head, deeply and sincerely considering this response. 

“So, there is something more?” 

Bucciarati’s eyes narrowed, but only so much so that Fugo barely noticed. Fugo also only barely noticed the smile Bucciarati tried to hide, and the cocking of the head. 

“Yes. There is something more.”

——

Bruno goes along with Leone to Pompeii one Thursday. It would be better to go before it starts sweltering, Leone thinks. 

Bruno enjoys listening to Leone’s history lessons. He knows a particularly impressive amount about the Villa de Misteri, though Bruno enjoyed the House of the Vettii the most. 

The putti in the dining room fresco is acting out hard labor and producing luxurious goods, Leone notes. Bruno nods his head, listening. Leone then clarifies that the scenes were meant to be comical, that the wealthy diners would giggle at the cherubs making wine and perfumes while the slaves of the house stood by to serve them food and drink. 

Bruno stops to stare a bit longer. The phallic forms throughout the house suddenly seemed less comical to him. 

“The owners were slaves. But they freed themselves. They built their wealth after.” Leone relishes the feeling of Bruno’s presence at his side. They stare into the triclinia with scenes of divine punishment. Bruno pondered why slaves would continue enslaving more people to uphold their wealth. Perhaps the work wasn’t so awful? Was it noble, even? 

Could he buy himself out, he wondered? Could he build a house of extravagance with someone he loved without being forced to enslave others in his fate?

Would everyone die at the end anyway?

Chapter Text

“How about these numbers?” Bruno watches Fugo’s face, pushing his thumb into his lips causing a frown to form.

Fugo feels his eyebrows knit deeper. A vacation home? This is really what Bucciarati was asking him about? Stand users and drug dealers were running rampant, and Bruno Bucciarati wanted Fugo’s opinion on his budget for a vacation home?

“Other than the impracticality?” Fugo was resisting Bucciarati’s insistence that he take this matter seriously. He always felt a subtle sense of accomplishment when he got on Bucciarati’s nerves in this way. Normally, Bucciarati was right, and so Fugo savored the moments where he knew for certain he was the one with a clear head.

“Alright, save it.” Bucciarati crumpled up the scribbles and numbers and crude budget that he had shown Fugo and shoved it in his pocket. “I get it…” His voice fades from Fugo’s ears as he steps out on the balcony to smoke.

There was another thing Fugo was noticing— the smoking. Bucciarati wasn’t really one for vices, but more and more he had been indulging in a cigarette at midday. Sometimes Fugo would wake up to the smell of it leaking through his bedroom window around two or three in the morning. He had always assumed it was Abbacchio, but now he wasn’t so sure.

Narancia suddenly burst in the door with groceries (Bucciarati enjoyed keeping him busy with unserious tasks unless he really needed Aerosmith), and Fugo stood to help him put them away instead of watching Bucciarati inhale and exhale.

When Abbacchio arrived home with his duffle bag (Fugo tried not to giggle at the memory of the sneakers) Fugo had noticed three cigarette butts in the ashtray outside when he was sure it was empty that morning. Fugo also noticed that Narancia didn’t actually buy groceries, he just bought snacks and sweets.

He sighed as he shoved the last bag of chips into the cupboard, sending all his malice towards Narancia with a glare.

“Libeccio’s for dinner,” Fugo yelled over his shoulder.

“Good,” both Bucciarati and Abbacchio replied at once, one on the balcony and one in the bedroom.

——

It was good luck that someone— a recent retiree who used to pay protections for his bar and laundromat— had a one bedroom up for grabs. After learning of Bucciarati’s recent visit to the house of the Vettii, Fugo made an educated guess as to what the apartment searching meant to him. It was really human, Fugo thought. Especially coming from a man he tended to idolize. He withheld the words “pathetic” and “futile” from his mind, trying to be considerate.

He hoped Bucciarati would move his smoking habit to his new apartment in Pompei.

Narancia had become a leech on Fugo. Fugo could tell that Abbacchio was noticing. Abbacchio also began noticing how amusing Fugo found it when Narancia insulted him to his face. The sex question was just the beginning. After the apartment acquisition, Bucciarati took Abbacchio to it as frequently as they could get away from their responsibilities. Bucciarati actually offered to pick up work from Polpo outside the city centre, as long as the work was fit for two (he chose tasks carefully of course, for fear his excuse to vacation might spark a turf war).

Fugo was surprised at how much he enjoyed having the both of them gone. With Narancia around, it really made Fugo feel like a grown-up. He really felt like he had tangible responsibilities and that he was capable of delegating them to himself.

The conversations he had with Narancia generally reaffirmed his grown-up-ness. Every once in a while, they would touch on something a bit more profound that would remind Fugo that intelligence has degrees. And depths. And that it’s also not everything.

“What do you think of them, Fugo?” Narancia asked after they ate lunch one day. The adults were god-knows-where.

“Bucciarati and Mr. Moody?” Fugo clarified, though he didn’t really need to. “I don’t know. I don’t really get it, but maybe I don’t have to.” He shrugged.

They were on the balcony. Fugo in Abbacchio’s normal chair, Narancia in Bucciarati’s.

“What about it don’t you get? I’m assuming it’s nothing bad you mean to say— I’d hate to rat on you…”

“Oh, stop it. Bucciarati knows I’m not like that.” Fugo shoved Narancia in his chair enough that it began to tip, but he caught himself on the balcony before he fell over. He was giggling. “No it’s more like I just don’t understand the attraction.”

“I’d understand it! I mean, they’re both good looking guys. They’re all cooped up in the same room. Something is bound to happen.”

“Well I get that, dumbass. It’s just…” Fugo hesitated. Narancia suddenly got the feeling this was becoming serious. It was like the air pressure out on the balcony changed. “You know, I see it all happen. All of it. I’ve seen how Abbacchio notices when Bucciarati starts to worry. I’ve seen the way Bucciarati cleaned Abbacchio up— literally wiped him down— the first night he came here. And it’s just so foreign to me.”

“Didn’t you ever see your parents, like, care for each other?" Narancia contributed thoughtfully.

“That’s different I think. Plus, my parents were never that…in love. At least not when I was around.”

Narancia hummed. Fugo felt like when he got serious Narancia really tried to hear him. He appreciated that.

“But you’ve never acted like that? You know, like when you have a crush? Kind of, like, jumpy or embarrassed? Not sappy or whatever? Not at all?”

Fugo didn’t like crushes. It was mostly because he was scared that what happened to him was because of a crush.

“No. I’ve never had one.” He got defensive, even though Narancia was far from the offensive.

That was also why he wasn’t quite grasping that Abbacchio and Bucciarati acted the way they did because of a crush. He couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

He realized Narancia probably wouldn’t understand unless he told him. This was a person he let in, just as Bucciarati let Abbacchio in. Bucciarati told Abbacchio about his past and his intentions. Bucciarati felt a deep…something…for Abbacchio. So Fugo told Narancia about his something.

“Did…did Bucciarati ever tell you what happened to me?” Fugo muttered, unsure of where he was leading himself.

“Huh-uh. He said you were angry, but that you were learning to grow around the anger. Never said about what.”

Fugo smiled in Bucciarati’s absence. His respect never wavered. “Sometimes it’s about nothing. Sometimes it feels like that’s just how I am.” Fugo had accepted that much. “But I think mostly I can pinpoint the anger to one experience in my life. It happened when I was at university.”

—

Bruno took Leone to the docks that morning. That “something more” conversation was starting to get to him. He did want something more. Leone, in spite of the heat, was wearing dark pants and a white linen shirt that hung on his frame effortlessly. Bruno resisted the urge to ask if he’s been working out lately. Bruno is wearing linen too: a blue shirt and matching shorts.

Leone notices his clothes are the color of the Mediterranean. He worries he might lose sight of Bruno if he were to fall overboard.

Bruno takes Leone sailing to Puolo, at the other end of the bay of Naples. They both seem to forget the looming grandeur of Vesuvius, being so close to it. From Puolo, they are reminded of their size. They are reminded of the doom that is inevitable.

Bruno watches Leone stare longingly at the volcano. Leone feels like he could fall into himself.

Leone doesn’t ask to help Bruno sail. He knows he would be of no help, and he loves watching Bruno work the boat more than he could ever enjoy doing it himself.

“What do you think the boys are up to?” Bruno looked over his shoulder towards Leone.

“Dunno. Hopefully not setting anything on fire.” Leone was leaning over the side with his hands in the water, feeling the waves lap his wrists.

“I think it’ll be good for Fugo. Less alone time. More time to devote to someone else.” Bruno laughed and spoke his thoughts aloud. “I think he needs to learn to hold his own. Sometimes I think he relies on me too much.” Bruno turned away from Leone again.

“Yeah, Narancia could be like his passion project.” As soon as the words left Leone’s mouth, he felt his chest cave in. He wiped his hands on his shirt and stood up, carefully approaching Bruno. The younger man was sitting with his feet in the water, having taken a break from manning the ship. He was waiting for Leone to join him.

Leone did. He crossed one leg under the other, only letting one foot dip into the sea. When Bruno turned to look at Leone, he was met with eyes that were scanning him. Searching for the truth.

“Oh, Leone.” Bruno’s shoulders slumped. He knew what Leone was searching for.

“If that’s all I am,” Abbacchio stared into the waves. “Let me down easy when you’re done.”