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The mission was supposed to have been an easy one. Split up, track down the bastard who had been skimming from Passione’s funds, talk some sense into him, and report back to Polpo when it was all said and done. How it had turned into a high speed chase involving several police cars and an angry stand user, Abbachio didn’t know. He was just glad it was fucking over.
Groaning, he lowered himself into an armchair, allowing his bruised and battered body to relax. When it had just been him, Bucciarati, and Fugo, they had lived in a small two bedroom apartment with a leaky ceiling and a lumpy couch Abbacchio had called his bed. Then Narancia had joined, and soon after Mista, and when it became clear they needed more than one small bathroom, Bucciarati had upgraded them to a two story town house. Despite the annoyance of living with three teenage boys and one aggravatingly attractive boss, it was… nice. Nice to have his own bedroom, and an armchair by the fire. Nice to live in a home that felt like one.
“You’re smiling,” said Bucciarati from the doorway.
Abbachio schooled his expression into a scowl. “No I’m not.”
Bucciarati hummed, limping slightly to sit in the chair opposite Abbacchio. He sighed as he pulled the barrettes from his hair, and slid expensive leather shoes off his feet. “Some mission, huh?”
Abbachio grunted.
“I can’t believe Intel didn’t warn us our target was a stand user. I’m glad we were prepared or that could’ve ended… poorly.”
Bucciarati turned his face towards the fire, and Abbachio took a second to gaze at him. Bucciarati was worse for wear, with a ripped sleeve and black eye. His fingernails were caked with dirt and blood, another smear of which adorned his left cheek, and Abbacchio keenly hoped wasn’t his. Nevertheless he appeared poised and alert, his brown skin and dark eyes holding their signature perpetual warmth. Abbachio had never liked blue eyes very much. He found them cold and uninviting, but Bucciarati’s, which were stormy with rings of brown and gray, had always intrigued him. Bucciarati had hooked him that night in the alleyway, and like a caught fish, Abbacchio hadn’t stood a chance. Alcohol and rain had skewed his vision then, but he still remembered Bucciarti’s face. His stern expression. Abbacchio thought he was the most beautiful man he had ever met.
Present day Bucciarati turned to him, and Abbacchio looked away quickly. “Abbachio-“ Bucciarati started, but cut himself off. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Abbacchio, today’s mission went well in the end, but it’s very possible that one day in the future, that won't be the case. And when that happens, I want you to look out for yourself and the boys before anything. Prioritize yours and their safety, regardless if I am in danger. That is my duty as your leader. Do you understand?”
Abbacchio stared at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Bucciarati sighed again, and ran a hand through his messy hair. “Don’t argue with me. I’m too tired.”
“No.”
“No?”
“No. Quit talking like something bad is going to happen. And even if it did, we’d find a way out of it. Fugo, Mista, and Narancia may be annoying little brats but they’re not completely incompetent. I know Moody Blues isn’t the most valuable when it comes to combat, but that doesn’t mean I can’t fuck things up when I need to. We’re all here for you Bucciarati, so just, don’t say stupid shit like that ok?”
Abbacchio took a deep breath and slumped back into his chair. He looked up to find Bucciarati staring at him, his mouth open ajar. He blinked. “I’m sorry. If I scared you. I-” Bucciarati looked away. “I’m scared of losing you. All of you. You’re my family and I… I don’t think I could live with that. Is that selfish, Leone?”
Abbacchio stared. It wasn’t the first time Bucciarati had used his first name, but it still surprised him, hearing it on his lips. He shook his head. “Selfish? Are you kidding me Bucciarati? You’re the most selfless person I know.”
Bucciarati's pained expression twisted into a small smile. “You can call me Bruno, you know.”
“I can't,” Abbacchio said automatically.
That made Bucciarati laugh. "Sure you can. I'd like you to."
“Is that an order?”
Bucciarati looked at him strangely, as if he was filing that response and calculating an appropriate answer. "Sure," he said after a minute. "Going forward, I'd like you to call me by my first name when it's just us. Let’s forgo formalities, we can just be Bruno and Leone."
Bruno and Leone. Abbacchio's hand twitched. He licked his lips, and then cleared his throat. Bucciarati knew how to make Abbacchio uncomfortable, and Abbacchio knew he did it on purpose. The fireplace suddenly seemed unbearably hot. “I think you just like hearing your name said out loud,” he huffed after a beat.
Bucciarati shrugged. “Maybe. It’s not like I get to hear it very often.”
“Oh come on. I’m sure you have friends, girlfriends.”
Bucciarati shook his head. “I’ve never had one.”
“What, a friend?”
Abbachio received a kick in the shin. “A girlfriend, jackass.”
“What, ever?”
“Yes. Have you?”
Abbacchio snorted. “Yeah, of course I have.”
And he had. In high school. During the academy. During that period between the force and Passione when Abbachio was eternally depressed and drunk and desperate for any physical connection. There had been guys too that time, and others who hadn’t identified as quite one or the other. Not that any of those interactions had qualified as relationships. He hadn’t been capable of human emotion then, not until-
Bucciarati was talking. “I joined Passione when I was a young boy. Growing up there wasn’t time for relationships outside of the gang, and anyways I wasn’t interested. I only wanted to protect my father. As a teenager I realized I was good at talking to people, and people liked talking to me. I learned to use that to my advantage. I kissed a lot of people to get what I wanted.”
Abbacchio smiled at that. “The charismatic Bruno Bucciarati, beloved by all.”
Bucciarati moved to kick him again, but Abbachhio dodged. “I slept around for a time. I guess I wanted to see what the fuss was about. I never really liked any of the people though. I think a few of them liked me. Hopefully they found better, everyone deserves love in their life, if that’s what they’re looking for of course.”
“Who knew the famed mafia capo could be such a hopeless romantic.”
Bucciarati laughed. “Oh please, it’s the little joy I get in this life.”
Abbacchio grinned. “Are you saying I don’t bring you joy? Seeing my horrid face everyday?”
“You’re right, excuse me. Your disgustingly proportionate face brings me infinite happiness.”
The banter was so natural, Abbacchio felt himself blushing, and cursed his pale skin. He was glad Bucciarati found his face proportionate. Or whatever. “Whatever,” he said out loud.
“And so modest too.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“I shan’t,” said Bucciarati cheerily.
“Good lord,” Abbacchio groaned, throwing his head back onto the chair.
Bucciarati opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a yawn. It was nearing 5 am at this point, and it would be good for both of them to get some sleep before their next assignment tomorrow. Bucciarati rose from his chair, grabbing his barrettes and shoes as he went. “I’m heading off to bed. I suggest you do the same, Leone. Sleep Well.”
And with that, he leaned down, kissed Abbacchio on the cheek, and walked out of the room. Abbacchio was left staring at the place he had been, mouth hanging open in shock. God, he was so fucked.