Work Text:
Going back to Libeccio without the former member of his team made Bucciarati’s stomach twist.
He knew he had asked his subordinates to not come and he damn well knew Fugo would never follow him due to his logical thinking. And he was right, they had almost died. Technically he did. And so did Abbacchio and Narancia.
But still, he couldn’t help but feel hurt. A part of him lowkey wished his team could count six members right now.
He realized he had squeezed his eyes shut when a reassuring hand came on his shoulder. He turned around and his eyes met with Abbacchio’s. For once, they were shining and that fact made Bucciarati’s heart warm a little.
“Are you alright, Bucciarati?” he asked, voice low and quiet. Bucciarati nodded and put his own hand on top of Abbacchio’s, always happy to be able to touch him.
“I am, don’t worry.” He looked around. Narancia was already chatting loudly with Mista and Giorno seemed really interested in whatever Trish was telling him. Or maybe he was leaning in because he could barely hear her in the first place because of Narancia. That scene felt familiar and sweet. Bucciarati smiled and looked back at Abbacchio who was still staring at him with concern painted all over his face. Maybe he could allow himself to be true for once and pressed Abbacchio’s hand as he added “I only wish Fugo was with us.”
Abbacchio pressed Bucciarati’s shoulder before letting go of it with an understanding sigh. “Yes, I guess we all feel the same way about him.”
“It really was one hell of a week, wasn’t it?” Bucciarati tried to add. He cringed as soon as the words escaped his mouth.
Of course it was “one hell of a week”, they both died. Literally. And to this day, Bucciarati couldn't get that knot in his stomach to disappear.
When Giorno had revived him and said he could probably bring back Narancia and Abbacchio from the dead, he felt so relieved. But when they actually did come back, he couldn't help but feel guilty. He had wished they'd resent him, hate him even. But they didn't and somehow that hurt more. He should have been held responsible for the death of his comrades, for being the one in charge and the one who introduced them to that criminal life in the first place.
He snapped out of his thoughts to focus on his friend again.
Though Abbacchio raised an eyebrow at the strange observation, he shrugged and Bucciarati could discern the ghost of a smile.
Abbacchio joined the rest of the team, sitting next to Mista and glaring at Narancia in the process. The boy probably noticed because his voice immediately dropped to a much more reasonable level. Bucciarati repressed a smile and soon followed, taking place in front of Abbacchio, next to Giorno.
The evening went by pretty quickly and soon only empty plates remained on the table. As usual, Mista and Narancia made most of the conversation, bringing out weirder topics by the hour. Bucciarati didn’t talk a lot but it always felt endearing to watch Trish’s nose scrunch and frown as she was trying to answer as seriously as possible. Giorno was also starting to grow a little bit warmer, trying to get into the conversation as well. And Abbacchio almost didn’t give him a dirty look every time he dared to open his mouth.
Bucciarati wondered if that was what heaven felt like.
After a few hours Mista called the waiter and, before Bucciarati could say a word, ordered a line of shots. The capo crossed his arms across his chest and he knew that if a look could kill, Mista would be lying dead on the floor. The boy gave him an apologetic smile and tried to justify himself. “Come on, it’s not like we never partied-“
Bucciarati’s eyebrows furrowed even more and that was enough to get Mista to shut his mouth and avoid his eyes. Abbacchio leaned in and put his palm on top of the dark-haired man’s. “It’s gonna be okay, Bucciarati. We can always keep an eye on them. Also, the kid is right. I had my first hangover long before my eighteenth birthday.”
Bucciarati almost replied that this information was not reassuring at all, considering Abbacchio’s complicated relationship with alcohol but he kept it to himself. He nodded, only taking the first part of his sentence into consideration. No need to start drama. If anything, they were here to celebrate the fall of Diavolo.
And a drink or two can’t be too bad, right?
Right.
That was a mistake.
It started nice. Bucciarati only took one shot at first. He forgot how bad alcohol could taste and he winced when he swallowed the liquid. He felt Abbacchio’s mocking gaze but avoided it like a pro and took a second one just to shut him up. After that, he had been able to keep an eye on Narancia so he wouldn’t drink too much. But he had underestimated Trish’s impressive capacity for alcohol.
Now she was standing on the table, singing surprisingly well for a drunk teenager. Mista and Narancia were cheering, Giorno was smiling and clapping his hands and though his arms were crossed, Abbacchio seemed to enjoy the show. Bruno was too, lowkey. Trish really had an amazing voice and sounded impeccable even acapella. They should talk about getting her on a real stage soon, she really could become a great artist.
But now was not the time to think about what the future could be. He climbed onto the table once the song was over and asked Trish to get down.
He was expecting some kind of refusal, just like these countless times he had to get Abbacchio home and ask him to stay on his bed to sleep. Almost every time he had to stay, sitting on a chair nearby his subordinate’s head so he would finally fall asleep. If he ever tried to leave, the man would just catch his jacket and beg him to stay. What else could he do? So he stayed, every damn night Abbacchio got wasted, sleeping with his arms crossed on an uncomfortable chair and waking up early in the morning, stiff. Usually, Abbacchio was still sleeping and Bucciarati took advantage of his loud snoring to get out of the apartment, undetected. Abbacchio never seemed to remember and Bucciarati never brought it up.
But Trish didn't argue. She listened and got off the table by grabbing the hand Narancia was offering her. Bucciarati blinked twice, surprised by how easy it’d been and the lack of demand. “Are you offering us a song too, Capo?” Mista asked, his voice full of mischief.
Bucciarati rewarded him by looking daggers at him and Mista smiled innocently. He jumped off the table but stumbled when he landed. Abbacchio caught his arm and tilted his head. “Be careful, you better not sprain your ankle because you can’t handle alcohol.”
He looked happier than usual. The single shot he took for now probably played its part.
Bucciarati figured he had never seen Abbacchio tipsy. And though him being completely drunk looked terrible, he found the little light burning behind his merry eyes pretty charming. He felt some butterflies flutter in his belly the longer his friend was looking at him. But after some time the culpability was back and his stomach tied again, thinking about how he had killed that man.
“Well, not everybody can be as good as you at this game.” He answered bluntly. It sounded harsher than what he first intended and Bucciarati bit the inside of his cheek. But much to his relief, Abbacchio scoffed and let go of his arm. This time however, Bucciarati missed the warm pressure of the light-haired man as soon as it left. He brushed it off and went back to the team.
They had fun for some more time. Abbacchio drank too much again but Bucciarati tried to ignore the frown that was deepening between his eyebrows. He also soon noticed Trish who fell asleep on Narancia’s shoulder. He had never seen the boy so upright and still in order to not wake her up. Bucciarati laughed lightly and brought his hand to his mouth in order to hide it.
He approached Trish and slightly shook her shoulder to wake her up. She opened an eye and Bucciarati granted her a kind smile. He stroked her hair and stood back up when her head left Narancia and she rubbed her sleepy eyes.
“Alright I think it’s time to get home everyone.” He said with a soft voice he even forgot he could have.
Mista was about to argue but Bucciarati raised a finger. “No “but” Mista, I’m calling a cab for all of you.”
Mista’s head dropped, defeated and Bucciarati refrained himself from pushing it. He had no idea if these shots he took helped him feel more but it was almost like his heart was about to burst from sheer fondness. He was alive, his teammates were with him and he couldn’t feel happier though the guilt was still heavy on his mind.
He got cut from his train of thought by Abbacchio clearing his throat behind him. Bucciarati turned around to meet with his gaze. Tipsy was long gone and though he drank less than what he was used to, he was definitely drunk this time.
“I think I’ll come home by foot actually.” He declared monotonously. His shoulders dropped and he looked a thousand times more tired than it seemed a moment ago.
The sudden shift in his behavior alarmed Bucciarati. He’d known the man long enough to know when his thoughts were starting to bother him. “I’ll walk you home then.” The dark-haired man replied before even thinking twice.
Abbacchio was about to refuse, just like Mista a moment ago but Bucciarati shook his head.
“I insist.” He said simply. Abbacchio sighed and put his hands in the pockets of his long jacket.
There was always a good enough reason to spend some time alone with Abbacchio.
After the taxi left, Bucciarati was left alone with the white-haired man, waving back at four little hands that soon disappeared in the dark.
When darkness and silence were back, Abbacchio put his hands back in his pockets.
“Well, we better get going.” Bucciarati tried, leaning towards Abbacchio.
The man groaned and Bucciarati gritted his teeth in anticipation. That was going to be a long walk.
After half an hour spent in silence, only disturbed by the sound of their feet on the concrete, they eventually arrived in front of Abbacchio’s place.
“Well, uh… Thanks.” The tall man muttered.
Bucciarati crossed his arms and looked up, trying to anchor his gaze to Abbacchio’s. When their eyes met, Abbacchio didn’t look very comfortable with the eye contact and broke it rapidly.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Bucciarati asked.
Abbacchio hid his face behind his long silver hair and turned his back on Bucciarati. He opened the door and went inside. After a few seconds, he looked back at Bucciarati and invited him to come in by gesturing his arm.
“Make yourself at home.”
Bucciarati got in and headed for the kitchen. He sat down on a stool that was facing the table. He heard Abbacchio closing the door and soon the man emerged in the kitchen. He decided to lean against the wall facing his superior.
Bucciarati reiterated his question. “Is everything alright, Abbacchio?”
Abbacchio pinched his lips and the dark-haired man noticed a subtle rocking gesture, demonstrating how obviously nervous his subordinate was about whatever was running through his mind. Bucciarati wondered if standing up to get closer and touch his arm would be considered going too far but Abbacchio started speaking before he could decide on an answer.
“I can’t do it anymore, Bucciarati.” The sentence was short and blunt. And it didn’t make any sense.
“What do you mean?”
Abbacchio went to his cupboard and took two glasses and a bottle of wine. He poured the wine and gave Bucciarati a glass, already sipping on his own. After a few gulps, he shut his eyes and pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I mean that I do not wish to stay in the mafia anymore.”
Bucciarati, who was bringing the glass to his lips, stopped. That was definitely not what he was anticipating. He could have expected a thousand other subjects before guessing this one. He had to look astonished because when Abbacchio opened his eyes again to look at him, he winced and looked away. His face was depicting obvious pain and embarrassment and Bucciarati felt sorry for his lack of words.
“I died there.” Abbacchio explained. “On this beach. And I do not wish to experience it again, I just feel so… Undeserving of this. I was dead and it should have remained this way.”
That, Bucciarati could understand. He sometimes caught himself checking his own pulse or pushing on his chest until he felt his heart ache. And that uncomfortable feeling of utter dread in his ribcage made him wonder if he wasn’t still a corpse sometimes. Him too sometimes wished he had stayed dead in the Colosseum.
“I get it.”
Abbacchio looked back in his direction, “Do you?”
Bucciarati nodded, offering him an apologetic smile.
Abbacchio crossed his arms. “Then how can you accept to do it all over again? How can you be fine with Narancia staying in this cruel world? The kid should be at school, not in the mafia. And don’t get me started on Giorno.”
The concern in Abbacchio’s voice made Bucciarati grin stupidly. So he did care for the golden child after all. But thinking about what he just had said made his smile drop in an instant.
Bucciarati took a sip of wine and a deep breath before he answered: “I don’t accept it. And I wish we could all get out of this mess." He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. "I do not want to die again either but God knows I’d do it again before having to watch any of you die in front of me again.”
Bucciarati’s voice got caught in his throat. Images flashed in his mind: Abbacchio lying on this rock, body and suit drenched in blood, his open eyes hauntingly empty; Giorno’s body being impaled on those railings, Narancia falling to the ground and not waking up again, Mista’s cries of agony… He didn’t wish to relive these events ever again.
“Then why do you stay?” Abbacchio’s voice got soft. That was when Bucciarati noticed the single tear that fell down his cheek. He wiped it away hastily however he was fully aware his friend had already seen it. He hawked to dispel the embarrassment.
“I can’t leave them.”
“Then leave with them!” Abbacchio cried out. The sudden raise of his voice made Bucciarati jump and his friend had to notice because his voice was back to a whisper when he added: “We’ll find somewhere, a place where we can all be safe. Come with me…”
The man’s voice turned into a plea and Bucciarati felt his heart ache.
The realization that everything could be all over felt relieving. But it was unrealistic anyway. Giorno would ask for more and Bucciarati could never leave him on his own, not yet at least. Or could he?
“They’ll want to stay. Giorno and Mista at least. I can’t leave them in this, I brought them in I have to own up to it now, to what I’ve done.”
Abbacchio sighed in slight annoyance. “Listen Bucciarati, I don’t know about you but we’re only 20. How do you think your childhood friends would react if you were to die this young? Your parents? Your siblings if you have any?” He groaned. “It may have been a tough path to get here but right now we have a choice. A choice we may never have again. Have you never thought of getting out of here? Leaving the mafia for good? Without fearing for your life I mean.”
Bucciarati let his mind wander for a few seconds.
He was never one to have a lot of close friends and except for his childhood neighbor with whom he used to play football, he never really got any childhood friends. Nor did he have siblings. Well, he had a younger half-sister from his mother's side but he never actually met her so that didn’t really count.
But his parents? His father would feel so sorry if they met so soon in the afterlife. And if he was still here, he would probably feel like he had failed his son.
And his mother… They hadn’t talked in ages. Sure, they sent each other cards for Christmas and he sent her flowers on her birthday but that was about it. They tried to keep in touch at first, they really did. But being in the mafia ended up being a lot more time-consuming than one would think and, now that he thought about it, it’d been more than five years since he last saw her in person. What a terrible son he had been. And now he’d die on her? Before saying goodbye? Before telling her he loved her? Even though he felt betrayed, abandoned even when she told him on his 14th birthday card that he had now a sister. Even though she left him and never asked for more news after he had stopped giving them. Even though she hadn’t been there for him after his father’s death and God! how that had hurt him. But oh… How he wished he could hug his mother again.
He really didn’t want to die. Not now. Not yet.
“It sure sounds tempting…” He admitted.
“Listen Bucciarati. I-“
The black-haired man raised his head. Abbacchio seemed calmer than earlier but still a bit awkward.
“I told you a week ago that you are the person I feel the closest to. That I feel-“ He stopped, bringing his hand to his lips and pressing them hard enough to smudge a little bit the lipstick he was wearing. “At ease when I’m with you.”
Bucciarati smiled as he felt his face heating up. Yes, of course he remembered.
“And I’ll follow you anywhere. If you want to stay in the mafia, I will stay as well. If you want to leave, I’d be more than happy to join you. You are my guiding light and if you asked me anything I’d do it in the blink of an eye because-“
Abbacchio stopped again, looking like he was looking for the most appropriate word.
“You are my best friend.”
Huh? Best friend? Was that it? After asking him to quit everything to leave with him, that wasn’t exactly what Bucciarati was expecting from this conversation.
He raised an eyebrow and tried to keep his disappointment to himself.
He had known of his feelings for Abbacchio for quite some time now. He had always been so thoughtful and unselfish around him. Just like he had been in the past few minutes, luring him with a better life that they could get if it wasn’t for Bucciarati’s stubbornness.
What had made him become aware of how deep he was, was when he realized he had picked up on so many of his subordinate’s habits. Remembered tons of ridiculous details about him : how the band he claimed to be his favorite were The Smiths but how his most replayed song had to be Fascination Street at this point considering how often Bruno could hear it over his headphones, or how he tried to be discreet while sorting his food so Mista wouldn’t mock him telling him he was picky for not eating carrots, or how he was unable to walk in a straight line if it wasn’t for the way he followed the tiles on the ground…
But he could never talk about it because he knew that Abbacchio would do anything to make him happy, without taking his own feelings into account. And that, Bucciarati could not accept. He could never confess. It had to come from Abbacchio.
But he lowkey asked Bucciarati to run away with him, didn’t he? Couldn’t that mean something at least?
No, now was not the time to wonder what this could mean. Best friend was more than enough and Bucciarati was planning on keeping it this way. Also asking your best friend to not die was the bare minimum a best friend could do. All this meant nothing more.
“Right, the bestest friends.”
Oh no, he just sounded annoyed. Why on earth would he say this like that? He bit the inside of his cheek as soon as he saw how offended Abbacchio looked. Mind you he was actually hiding it pretty well but Bucciarati knew him well enough to know better. Because they were best friends, right?
“I don’t want you to die, Bucciarati.”
Bucciarati snapped. “Then I won’t die!”
Now he just sounded pissed off.
He tried very hard to keep any more words from escaping his mouth but two shots and a glass of wine were probably too much for him to control his thoughts completely. The knot in his stomach tightened out of guilt.
“What’s that all about? You’ve never been afraid to die so why now? Because now you are? Because you’ve experienced death already? Well then you must know damn well how I feel.” He almost forgot to breathe and inhaled clumsily as if he just remembered he had to. “Of course, I am scared as hell. And of course I don’t want to die. I don’t want any of you to die but… If I just abandon them and let them die without even trying to save them, I’ll never be able to live with myself."
Bucciarati tried to calm down but the way Abbacchio was looking at him, unmoved, infuriated him. His brows furrowed and he hesitated only for a second before adding: "It’s my fault you died. And it’s also my fault Narancia died as well. I will never forgive myself for that!"
Saying it out loud stung much harder than he would have thought. His throat burnt, threatening to release a sob anytime. But somehow it made Abbacchio's gaze soften in sympathy and Bucciarati's shoulders dropped.
When he talked again, his voice sounded weary, exhausted. It was more of a whisper than anything else. "You should have left, just like Fugo. That was the right thing to do.”
“But I didn’t.” Abbacchio’s voice was steady and low. Bucciarati didn’t dare to look at him.
He felt sick. His head was spinning and he could already tell he’d suffer from a migraine in the upcoming ten minutes. He wanted to get home and scream and shout and cry until he’d pass out from exhaustion. He wanted that guilt to go away, to disappear. They were all alive and that was what mattered the most. So why did the unwavering gaze of Abbacchio make him feel so weak and vulnerable?
“I don’t want to lose you again.” He muttered, feeling tears form in his eyes. He really couldn’t handle alcohol well.
Abbacchio took a step forward and knelt in front of Bucciarati, searching for his eyes. When he finally found them, he spoke. “I don’t want to lose you either, Bruno.”
The unexpected use of his first name was too much and Bucciarati burst into tears. He was well aware that such a burst of emotions was very unlike him but he couldn’t care less at the moment. The knot in his stomach wouldn’t go away but right now, between everything he’d been keeping to himself, the fact that he literally died a few days ago and having one drink too many didn’t make it any easier to keep calm. He might as well let it all out for tonight.
Abbacchio, taken aback, fluttered his hands around Bucciarati’s shoulders, unsure of what to do to comfort his superior and Bruno plunged into his arms, wrapping his own around Abbacchio’s neck. It took a few seconds before the older man settled but he embraced him back eventually.
Bruno kept on wailing loudly, almost sounding like an animal in pain for a few minutes. It was long. It was painful. His whole body was hurting and shivering.
Heavy tears dropped on Abbacchio’s neck but he couldn’t care less. Every now and then he squeezed his capo slightly to comfort him when a sob came out louder than the others, burying his nose in the back of Bruno’s neck.
Bruno never really dared to wonder how Abbacchio smelled. If he did, it would have felt as if he was violating some kind of unspoken rule. But now that he could smell him, it felt good, reassuring even. He knew Abbacchio was a man who took good care of himself but was still pleasantly surprised. He smelt like conditioner. Bucciarati’s fingers drew up his back and tangled into his hair, asking for more closeness.
It felt like a stolen moment but still Bruno wished he’d never have to let go.
But after a few minutes, his tears stopped flowing and his breathing started settling. Before letting go of the embrace, Bruno murmured in Abbacchio’s ear: “I really don’t want to lose you again, Leone.”
He felt it when Abbacchio startled in his arms, hearing his first name and a sad shy smile painted Bruno’s lips. The light-haired man backed up and looked at his superior, face red and eyes swollen from all the tears he had shed. Bruno wondered if he had ever looked at Leone with as much adoration as he could perceive in his friend’s gaze.
Leone slipped his hand against Bruno’s cheek and Bruno leaned into the touch, closing his stinging eyes.
“I won’t leave without you.”
Bruno brought his own hand up and rubbed his palm against Abbacchio’s knuckles. “Are you sure we could find a place where we could all live safe and happy?”
His voice sounded as weak as he was feeling.
“I can never be sure but we can always try. But please, come with me. I-“
Once again, he cut himself mid-sentence but this time Bucciarati pressured him to finish it by furrowing his eyebrows.
“…I need you in my life.”
“Because I’m your best friend?”
Leone turned his head, dodging Bruno’s eyes again. “No…”
His hand soon followed, leaving Bruno’s cheek to his dismay. The tall man sat cross-legged in between Bruno’s legs and hid his face behind his hair. He opened his mouth but it soon closed as he bit his lower lip.
“Then why would you need me, Leone?” Bruno pressed again.
“What am I to you, Bucciarati?”
The question caught Bruno off-guard. It was probably a test but what was the right answer? If he told him how dearly he cared about him and his feelings weren’t reciprocated, he would lose his most valued teammate and closest friend. But what if Abbacchio felt obliged to return his feelings if he tried? Because that was what he always did, do whatever it took to satisfy his capo.
No, that was unacceptable.
“You already know that. You are the most esteemed member of my team and my dearest friend. I wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for you and I am grateful to have you by my side.”
Technically, he didn’t lie. Well, only by omission so it didn’t count anyway.
Abbacchio narrowed his eyes and Bucciarati felt so helpless he poured himself another glass of wine and drank it chug-a lug. If he was going to embarrass himself, the least he could do was break a few of his barriers beforehand.
The tall man talked again, his eyes unwavering. “Is that all?”
“I don’t know Abbacchio, what do you want me to say?" He complained. "That I value you? That I care about you? That I want you?”
Abbacchio swallowed with difficulty, face reddening and it took Bruno a few seconds to process what he had just said.
“By my side, I mean.” He hastily added, hoping to clear up any kind of innuendo. “Of course.”
The flush spreading across Abbacchio’s cheeks was a clear enough hint that it, in fact, didn’t work and Bucciarati felt his own face grow warmer.
Well, at this point there was nothing left to lose. He could always blame it on the wine later.
So he reached Abbacchio’s face and softly tucked his hair behind his ear. Ignoring his pounding heart was a lot harder than he wished but he leaned in anyway, getting his face closer to his subordinate’s.
“I do need you, Abbacchio.”
The light-haired man sat up and Bucciarati could feel his breath brush against his skin. They were close enough so Bruno could discern tears forming in his eyes.
“Then please, please, Bucciarati!” The pained expression on Abbacchio’s face tied up Bucciarati’s stomach in knots again. His voice was stifled, he was begging. “Don’t die on me. Come with me, we’ll flee. Anywhere you want to go. But please, come with me!”
He knelt down, his own fingers running up Bruno’s chest to reach the back of his neck as he grabbed hold of his capo’s hair.
And that was much more than Bucciarati could process.
To hell with this.
So finally, finally he closed the gap between them, crushing his lips against his friend’s. It took Abbacchio a second to reciprocate the kiss but he melt almost immediately, his grip tightening around Bruno’s hair. It would probably hurt if Bruno wasn’t enjoying it.
It tasted like tears and alcohol but Bruno’s mind had never been so clear.
Feeling like they were still not close enough, Bruno fell to his knees, sitting on Leone’s lap and squeezing his chest against the one in front of him. He started leaving Leone’s lips to let his own wander against the man’s sharp jawline, smiling when a soft groan escaped thin black lips.
“Bucciarati, please…” Abbacchio pressed his cheek against Bruno’s temple. “Please.”
The shorter man stopped kissing the pale skin exposed in front of him though he left his hands on top of Leone’s shoulders and looked up.
“Are you not enjoying it?” He whined, concern piercing through his voice.
Abbacchio raised his eyebrows and leaned in to leave a chaste kiss on plump, buzzing lips. “I am. It’s just…" He paused. "Gosh, Bucciarati-“
“Bruno.” He rubbed his hand against his friend’s chest, feelings a shiver under his fingers. He felt a bit feverish from the kissing, the crying and the drinking too and he hoped it wasn’t too noticeable. “Please, call me Bruno, I think we’re over this now.”
“Bruno…” Abbacchio grabbed his face and looked at him with fervor.
He really had beautiful bluish-almost-purple eyes. His dark eyebrows really highlighted his gaze. Did he paint his eyebrows by the way? Were they as light as his hair? Or maybe on the other hand he dyed his hair. If he didn’t, was every hair on his body as pale as his head? He had never seen a hair on Abbacchio, not even on his arm, legs or jawline. Maybe he was just not a hairy person after all.
“Can I ask you a question?”
Bruno snapped out of his thoughts. “You know you can, Abbacchio.”
“Leone. I think we’re over this now.” The man said with a teasing smile. He paused and his smirk dropped slightly. “Well uh, you know I’d do anything for you. And I’m willing to forget what just happened if that is what you wish for, no matter how excruciated it would be. But I want you to know…”
His grip tightened, squeezing Bruno’s cheeks between his palms in the process. “Bruno, I like you. I really do. I’ve liked you for so long I can’t even remember when I realized it. You are everything to me. I cannot picture my own life without you in it. And I need you to realize how enamored I am when it comes to you.”
Abbacchio closed his eyes and brought his forehead against Bruno’s. “Please, consider it. Come with me. Let’s run away together.” He whispered.
Bruno’s mind was running so fast he could almost hear the gears. Leone, his dear Leone liked him. He liked him. And they kissed. And he wanted to run away with him, get a better life with him in it.
“I love you too, Leone.” He murmured. Was it too early to use the word “love”? He wasn’t lying after all. And Leone didn’t seem to mind anyway.
He paused and sensed his lover tense up against him, waiting for the verdict.
“I’ll talk to Giorno in the morning. I hope I can convince them although I doubt it.” Leone pressed their foreheads together harder. Bruno sighed. “But I’ll leave with you. We can go to my childhood home, my father bequeathed it to me and it’s big enough so we can fit six people in it.”
Leone shrieked and dived into Bruno’s neck, pulling him so close it felt like their bodies were about to mush together.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”
When his face emerged, he started kissing Bruno’s face all over as if his was trying to not leave an ounce of his skin not-kissed. Bruno giggled and stroked his hair. Leone finished his kiss streak by the lips, pushing his against Bruno’s like a teenager.
“Please, don’t ever leave me.” Leone sighed.
“I won’t, I’m sorry.” Bruno replied, brushing his lover’s hair, tucking it behind his ear.
“What are you sorry for?”
Bruno lowered his head. “I left you waiting for me.”
Leone scoffed. “It doesn’t matter. From now on, I am yours.”
Bruno hugged him again, his cheek resting on prominent collarbones. He let his fingers trace circles on the skin exposed under the lacing of Leone’s top.
“You are mine.” He repeated. “And I am yours.”
When Leone kissed his bangs, he wondered if that was what heaven felt like.