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After retiring, Bucciarati wanted to lead a calm, simple life. He bought a good apartment in Naples and moved in with Mista, developing a romantic relationship with him. 5 years later, Bruno was 25 and thriving as a local baker. Guido was 23 and hadn't found his goal yet, but he had a loving boyfriend to support any choice he made by his side. And, of course, a fat stack of cash the ex-capo hid in a public bathroom to provide a luxurious life.
However, calmness wasn't an option when dating Guido Mista. Bucciarati cut ties with almost everyone in Passione, excluding his old teammates. Mista, on the other hand, kept seeing all his friends, especially Formaggio. Bruno didn't hate the guy but thought his boyfriend could have better friends: he and Guido were banned from 11 local bars for cheating on poker (and a local gangster swore to kill both if they set foot in his place again).
To avoid being a party pooper, he never hangs out with Mista's friends. Most of them were members from La Squadra or underlings that Bucciarati didn't even remember who they were, so he wasn't missing out much. Guido always bids him goodbye with a kiss and promises to return before 3 AM, and he always keeps his promises. Usually missing a tooth or bleeding, of course.
It was 3 AM, and Bucciarati was waiting for his boyfriend to come. Their bed was perfectly arranged to absorb Mista's tired figure, the bathtub was filled with cold water, and the coffee machine infused the kitchen with its delicious scent. Something pounded his chest as if something was wrong on the funky side of the city, but Bruno couldn't grasp that feeling. He pushed it to the back of his mind, patiently waiting for Guido.
Suddenly, it was 4 AM. Bucciarati was walking in circles inside the apartment, smoking a cigarette as cheap as the coffee capsules he bought. Their rug felt dirtier. Their walls looked smaller. The ugly lamp Mista insisted on buying looked uglier. That damn apartment felt empty. Suffocating, to say the least.
It wasn't until his flip phone rang on the coffee table that Bucciarati stopped smoking while keeping his eyes on the street under them — he had a privileged vision of Mista stumbling into the building while waving at him with a big smile on his face from the balcony. He jumped from his seat and lunged to the ground, grabbing the phone and picking it up.
— Bruno. — Prosciutto's voice rang from the other side. He seemed calm. Too calm for comfort. — I'm sorry to call you so late. I'd ask if you were sleeping, but old habits die hard. You're probably up waiting for Guido to return.
— You still know me in the slightest, at least. — Bucciarati chuckles sarcastically, nervously tapping his fingers on the table. — But I suppose you didn't call me to relive our sweet memories, nor call me to drink with you and your boyfriends.
— Oh, right. Your boyfriend shot me in the arm. — Prosciutto says those words like it's another Sunday morning for him. However, it's a cold Friday at midnight. — And he's currently passed out on the couch. Formaggio is taking care of him, but I'd appreciate it if you came to pick him up. He looked on the verge of tears before he collapsed.
— WHAT?! — Bucciarati jumps to his feet, his eyes widening like two footballs. — You have to be kidding me.
— I wish I was. Risotto has stapled the wound, so I'm good to go. I don't know if I can stop Ghiaccio from strangling Guido any longer. — Prosciutto sighs. — See you in 30 minutes?
— 10 minutes. No more than that.
Bucciarati climbs the stairs all on fours, pathetically diving face first into the second floor and crawling towards the closet, fishing out a brown coat and wearing it over his comfy, checked pajamas. He replaces his slippers with his winter boots and runs downstairs, grabbing his car keys before rushing out of the apartment.
He went straight for the stairs, refusing to wait those 12 tortuous seconds before the elevator reached the fifth floor. He entered the Lamborghini Gallardo and gripped the steering wheel with trembling hands, hitting the pedal so hard his foot hurt. The car skidded out of the parking lot, driving down the dark roads.
A million thoughts ran through Bucciarati's mind. Mista wasn't the possessive type of guy — his boyfriend would rather chew on glass than bother him with jealousy, so he discarded the option in which the gunner shot his ex out of grudge. Prosciutto also wasn't the type to confront people (one of the reasons why they broke up), so he also discarded this scenario. Bruno couldn't understand how Guido ended up shooting a person and fainting right after.
Maybe it was the weed. Bucciarati remembers scolding his boyfriend like a parent grounding a child when he found out Mista was smoking weed with Formaggio. Their friendship was destructive enough, and the ex-hitman was as reckless as his boyfriend — but without a partner to keep him on a leash. Maybe Formaggio indulged Guido in smoking with him, and he got too high...
No. Mista definitely meant to shoot that shot. He knew his boyfriend. Bucciarati saw him in action, and that man would never fire his gun without a target. He always had someone on the other end, meant to get a bullet in their head. His gun was his mistress. Guido would never fire his beloved pistol out of nowhere. Bruno knew something was up. But what?
Bucciarati swerved the car through the streets, crossing red signs and driving on the wrong side. He'd do anything to get to Mista. Thank God there were no pedestrians. And, if there were any, he wouldn't care. Bruno only cared about reaching Guido and driving him home to safety. That was all he wanted.
An audible grunt left his lips once he saw the commotion by far, cursing Formaggio and his lineage (if that stoner could ever get laid long enough to pass his genes forward). The crowd, filled with drunkards, prostitutes, and weird-looking people, opened to give way to his car. Bucciarati kicked the door open and grabbed the spare gun Mista gave him in case something happened, making it very clear he'd commit crimes if anyone tried to mess with him or his car.
Bucciarati didn't realize how much of a lunatic he looked until all eyes were on him inside that house. His hair stuck to his wet forehead, his cheeks were red, his blue eyes were wide, and he wore pajamas. He looked like a stay-at-home dad who woke up by a police call. His eyes inspected the living room until he saw the too-familiar man. Scolippi.
Things were starting to make sense now. Bucciarati passed by the purple-haired man while giving him a death stare, knowing he had something to do with Mista and Prosciutto's incident even before getting more clues. Scolippi meant trouble. Mista and he had a fling that lasted for 3 weeks before the gunner dumped him for being too clingy. Since then, the sculptor kept stalking his "ex" and begging him to rekindle their thing, even after Guido started dating Bruno.
His boyfriend was isolated from the crowd, kept inside a room with Formaggio, Prosciutto, and his boyfriends. Risotto gave Bucciarati a sympathetic look, while Ghiaccio gave him the same look he gave Scolippi. He wasn't right on the brain, so fair enough. His ex-boyfriend had a cloth wrapped around his left arm and looked as fine as ever. His blank stare would never give away that he got shot. Mista was on Formaggio's arm, covered in sweat and blood.
— So... Uh... — Prosciutto glanced at Bucciarati, who looked as confused (and pissed) as ever. — Any questions?
— A lot, actually. Especially to you. — Bucciarati narrows his eyes, glaring daggers at Formaggio. The man avoids his gaze, looking like a guilty pup. — Why and how did Guido shoot someone, and what the fuck is Scolippi doing here?
— Wherever Mista goes, Scolippi follows. You should know that by now. — Ghiaccio grunts, not satisfied that his boyfriend got shot in that scuffle. — Not inviting that asshole is useless! He always gets into any party Mista goes to! It's almost like he's tracking him, but he went too far this time, and I'm going to-
— Let's start from the start, okay? — Bucciarati interrupts Ghiaccio and rudely pulls Mista from Formaggio's arms, cradling him and alternating between looking at his boyfriend's friend and Prosciutto. — What got Guido so angry? He never pulls his gun out of nowhere.
— Scolippi, of course. Like always. — Risotto sighs, trying to calm down Ghiaccio while checking on Prosciutto. He never stopped being a capo and caring for his ones, just like Bucciarati. — It was all too quick. Scolippi approached him, and they started arguing. In the blink of an eye, Mista pulled his gun and fired. It was probably meant to hit Scolippi, but he pushed Mista to the ground, and the shot got Prosciutto.
— God... — Bucciarati groans in frustration, wanting to wake Mista up to slap him around. — I'm sorry, Prosciutto...
— I've felt worse. — Sometimes, Bucciarati forgets he amputated his ex's arm and leg in a fight after they broke up and became mortal enemies for a few days. Thankfully, Giorno healed Prosciutto as a favor, and they left it all behind. — The bullet barely grazed me.
— That's good to hear. — Bucciarati sighs in relief, turning his attention to Formaggio again. The man looks more sorry than himself, even though he has nothing to do with it all. — I suppose you were side by side with Guido, as always. You two are inseparable.
— Man, it was tense as shit there... I was smoking pot and drinking some booze with Mista, and- — Formaggio rants, causing Bucciarati's eyes to double in size. The ex-hitman clears his throat, knowing he said too much. — Scolippi came out of nowhere, dude! He came to Mista and started to beg him to come back to him, saying he was better than you and shit...
— Can you say at least one sentence without shit or dude in it?!
— Oi! I'm speaking! — Formaggio grumbles to Ghiaccio, clearing his throat again. He looks as high as Mista probably is. — As I was saying... He came with that same cheesy bullshit, saying he and Mista were so good together to let it go to waste... But Mista was fucking pissed! I never saw him like that! He always ignores Scolippi and turns his back on him, but... Man, was he angry! He started saying how much he loves you and that Scolippi needs to understand he'd rather kiss a horse's ass than get back with him, and-
Formaggio stops talking to chuckle, covering his mouth and shaking his head. If Bucciarati weren't almost having a heart attack, he'd laugh, too. It was cute to know that Mista still wanted people to respect his relationship, no matter how drunk or high he was. However, he needed more information, so he gently (or not so) prodded the man with his foot.
— Oh, right. Uh... Oh, yeah. Mista started slandering the shit out of Scolippi, calling him names and telling him you're the one for him... Do you believe that bitch-ass twink tried to hit Mista? Oh, boy... Mista started to whoop his ass! He was going for it! He body-slammed that loser! Scolippi looked like a mop! Shit, I can't! — Formaggio burst out laughing again, smacking his own thigh. Risotto let out a discreet snort, something the others noticed (but pretended not to). — But that bitch is dirty... He tried to grab Mista's gun! That's when Mista pulled it and tried to shoot Scolippi, but that bastard threw him to the ground, and good ole' Prosciutto here got shot!
— Thank you for the intel, Formaggio. Now I know my boyfriend didn't start a shootout out of nowhere. — Bucciarati sighs and throws Mista over his shoulder, hearing his boyfriend emit a low moan. It looks like he's regaining his conscience. — I'm sorry for the inconvenience, boys. I'll keep an eye on Mista from now on.
— You should keep an eye on yourself, too. You look drained. — Prosciutto grins, giving his ex a head nod. Bucciarati flips him off but doesn't hide a smile. — Drive carefully. You have your Prince Charming with you this time.
— Thank you for your worry. — Bucciarati offers the men a messy handshake, leaning onto Prosciutto's ear to tell him a secret. — Tell me your price to handle Scolippi.
— I don't need your money. Use it to buy yourself a better rug. — Prosciutto retorts, giving Bucciarati a friendly pat on the shoulder. Ghiaccio tries spying on their conversation, pretending he's not peeking over Risotto's shoulder to hear them. — That one sucks.
Feeling a lot calmer, Bucciarati walks out of the room towards the exit. He wants to find Scolippi and stare into his soul, but he decides it's better not to. Everyone looks at him, but he couldn't care less, knowing that his boyfriend is safe in his arms (slumped over his back like a sack of potatoes). Bruno carefully lies Mista on the backseat and enters his Lamborghini, driving out of that damned place while thanking all existent gods for keeping his dear Guido safe.
He stops by a red sign and sighs, leaning his head to rest on the steering wheel. Bucciarati constantly feels on the edge, fearing the day Mista will get into trouble too big for him to step into and solve. He still remembers the countless times his boyfriend jumped in front of bullets and blades for him, fighting enemies with nothing but a gun and sentient bullets to fend for himself. That's why Bruno couldn't be mad. Because he knew Guido would do anything for him — even if it culminated in accidents like the current one.
He notices Mista grumbling and stirring in the backseat by the rearview mirror, watching him sit up and rub his reddish eyes. As soon as the gunner looks at Bucciarati, his bottom lip quivers, and he lies again, turning his back on his boyfriend. Bruno stifles a chuckle, knowing he's about to cry. He hates himself for it, but the ex-capo pretends to be mad to make Guido talk. He hates getting the silent treatment and always blurts out to break the silence.
— You're mad at me, aren't ya? — Mista mutters, not waiting for an answer before saying something else. — I know I fucked up bad... Don't think I shoot the blondie on purpose... I didn't, okay? I-I didn't aim for him...
Bucciarati wants to swerve the car into the nearest alleyway and kiss Mista all over his face until he understands everything is good between them. However, he wants his boyfriend to speak out. Guido hates talking about his feelings, and it's because he mostly has no idea of how. It's a natural process, so Bruno lets him speak his thoughts without intervening.
— That motherfucker... He keeps following me anywhere, no matter how hard I ignore him! He's everywhere, anywhere... It's a living nightmare, Bruno. Formaggio told me he'd stop begging for a chance if I pretended he wasn't there, but that fucker... He can't get enough of no's! It's like he feeds on rejection! — Mista's voice grows louder in frustration, cracking at the end. — I was done with him... I had to step up for us at least once... Let him know I belong to you. I'm yours, not his. I'd never die for him. I'd die for you. You know I'd do.
Bucciarati has to inhale sharply to not lose control of the car, counting the seconds to pull up to their home and comfort Mista in the way he deserves. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling his heart break as he hears Guido sniffling. Bruno wants to kill Scolippi for making his boyfriend cry.
— I told him everything I should've said for a while now... I was so, so angry... I thought I was going to die right there. My heart hurt like a bullet hit it. Fuck, I was going insane. The more I yelled, the more he came closer... He tried to hit me, and I saw red. I beat the shit out of him like I did when he tried to break into my apartment the day after I dumped him. — Mista chuckles between his tears, curling up further while trying to find the right words to describe how he tried to kill Scolippi and ended up shooting Bucciarati's ex. — I-I was too high... Too drunk... I'm sorry, amore mio... I broke our accord and drank too much, so... Scolippi got the upper hand when I tried to... Uh... Shoot his shoulder. The gun fired anyway and hit Prosciutto... But I didn't mean it...
More sniffles echoed through the silent car. Mista was trembling, maybe out of adrenaline or sadness. His cap hid his curls, his mesh shirt had holes, and Bucciarati could see a few bruises on his boyfriend's tanned skin whenever the car drove under a streetlamp. It filled with renewed anger, but he knew Prosciutto would send a message to Scolippi for him.
— Don't be mad at me... I'm just a fool... A drunkard... A stoner... A goofy, silly manchild... But I love you, and you know it. I'd hug you forever until our bodies fused, bones and all... I'd gladly be your meal and drink if we were stuck in a hole without food or water... — Mista mumbles through a choked sob, rubbing his eyes and lying on his back while rubbing his face, trying to disperse the tears flowing down his cheeks. — You know it. I'd marry you now... I'd fight God for you... I don't know why you're with me, but I'll make any sacrifice to keep being worthy of your love...
Bucciarati lowers his head, opening a broad smile that hurts his cheeks. While Mista's tears slash his heart with the sharpest of knives, his love confession makes him feel as warm as the brightest sunny day of summer. Their building shows up at the end of the road, and Bruno speeds, parking the car a little too tilted for the others to park.
— Please, say something... Your silence is killing me. — Mista grumbles, finally staring at Bucciarati. He looks a lot upset (and high). — Let me know how bad I fucked up, at least...
— Not in a bit, mio amato. — Bucciarati finally speaks and gets out of the car, opening the door and helping Mista get up. — Come on. I have everything prepared for you. Almost everything, because the coffee is probably frozen at this rate.
Mista walks into the elevator, still sniffling and trembling like a child after getting an earful. However, he feels comforted when Bucciarati pulls him by the waist and lets him rest his head on his chest. Guido can hear Bruno's heartbeat, his favorite sound in the world. It causes his eyes to close for a split second, long enough for the elevator to reach their floor.
The so-familiar apartment welcomes the couple. Mista tries to throw himself onto the couch but is caught midair by Bucciarati, who drags him towards the bathroom. He lets out a short grunt, but he knows he'll be in good hands. Bruno undresses his drunk lover and carefully sits him inside the tub, rinsing his hair and face. Guido closes his eyes, melting instantly into his boyfriend's touches.
Bucciarati squeezes a dollop of shampoo into his palms and rubs them, rubbing and scratching Mista's scalp. He can't help but smile as he sees Guido leaning closer like a kitten, gently dragging his nails down his boyfriend's nape to foam his small curls.
— I'm very proud of you for confronting Scolippi, Guido. I never spoke to him because I know I'm better than him, but... You did very well, although someone else got hurt. — Bucciarati muses, rinsing Mista's hair while tilting his chin up so he won't get shampoo in his eyes. — You're my hero. Every single day, you prove to me how lucky I am to have you with me. I will never stop loving you, not even after my heart stops beating.
— Are you sure? What if you ever get tired of me? — Mista grumbles, scratching his nape in embarrassment. He loves it when Bucciarati says those words but always feels like hiding his head underneath the ground. He doesn't feel worthy of them. — Won't you ever get tired of good ole' Mista here?
— Not even in a million years. — Bucciarati pulls Mista's hand, kissing his fingers. His boyfriend got a tattoo on his knuckles spelling his name. Formaggio was too high when he did it and accidentally wrote "Burno" instead of Bruno. The mere gesture of eternizing his name on his skin was sweet enough to make Bruno adore Guido even more, so the misspelling got ignored. — You're precious to me. You're my oxygen. Ti amo.
Mista's eyes got teary again. He sniffled and lowered his head, staring at the soapy water. Bucciarati chuckled while lathering his boyfriend's body with liquid soap, reveling in Guido's soft side. Bruno rarely had time to be sweet when his boyfriend adored and idolized him 24/7, but he always said the right things in those moments. Things sweet enough to bring his puppy-like boyfriend to tears.
Mista left the tub after getting thoroughly cleaned, letting his boyfriend pamper him. Bucciarati wrapped the boy like a burrito and held him close, sitting him at the vanity. The hair dryer felt overly noisy to Guido's sensitive ears, so Bruno turned it to the lowest temperature and carefully dried his boyfriend's hair with a towel. It took him longer, but his lover was worth all the time.
Bucciarati brought his boyfriend to their bed, lying his naked body on the mattress and grabbing his favorite oil. Mista had a Pavlovian reaction to the sound of the bottle cap popping, getting hard at the spot whenever it was time to put on any body product. However, he was too tired and upset to even think about having sex. All he wanted was to be cared for like a pup. Bruno was going to give it to him. He'd give it all for his dear Guido.
It was like fire melting an ice cube. Bucciarati warmed up the oil before massaging his boyfriend's body, using his slender fingers to firmly press the knots on Mista's spot. He felt pleased to see the boy groaning and drooling on the sheets, eyelids fluttering as the stress left his tired body. Guido was almost asleep, but Bruno's touches always kept him awake. He'd never dare to sleep on his boyfriend.
— Don't fight the tiredness. You look like a child not wanting to sleep. — Bucciarati chuckles, taking extra care around the areas Mista had bruises on. A particular circular motion on a purple contusion has the boy whimpering. — But let me dress you up first.
Bucciarati gets off the bed, making Mista grunt in displeasure. However, he returns quickly, dressing his boyfriend with a crochet sweater and white underwear. Bruno finally realizes he's still wearing his coat and boots, removing both before slipping under the covers and pulling Guido to lay atop his chest. Both men sigh in relief, feeling safe again in each other's arms.
— I guess I won't see Formaggio for a while now... You'll probably want me to stay home until things get fine again. — Mista mutters, looking up at Bucciarati with doe eyes. — But it's okay to invite him here, right? Juventus will play against-
— Of course not. He owes Rigatoni €150. Formaggio'd get more gunshots in one go if he set foot in our neighborhood than you ever got in your whole career. I spent a lot of money to convince Rigatoni you're just a silly, unsuspecting boy instead of a gambler like Formaggio. — Bucciarati pinches Mista's side, causing him to chuckle and hug him tight. — But Prosciutto will sort things out for us. Everything will be back to normal in a few days.
— Heh... I like blondie. I hope he doesn't hate me for shooting him. — Mista grins, rubbing his face against Bucciarati's chest. — Man... We'll have a hell of a story to tell our kids, huh? The day papa Mista shot someone during a fight!
— I definitely won't tell our kids you fired a gun against my ex. It won't sound so cool if they hear the R-rated version. — Bucciarati giggles, causing Mista to roll his eyes and nibble his collarbone. — You look a lot chatty for someone who was almost falling asleep inside the tub.
Tears stream down your face.
— It's kinda your fault. — Mista pouts, looking at Bucciarati again with pleading eyes. Bruno loves it when his boyfriend gives him those eyes. He never denies what Guido demands like that. — What about a song?
I promise you, I'll learn from my mistakes.
— Mm... — Bucciarati pretends to think about accepting the request, but his smile gives him away. Mista smiles wider, making Bruno wince about how cute he is. — Any requests?
Tears stream down your face.
— That one about the lights I always listen to when traveling with you... It makes me feel comforted. — Mista chirps. — And your voice makes it better.
And I.
— Mm... I like it, too. It reminds me of papa. — Bucciarati sighs and holds Mista closer. Tears prickle his blue eyes, but Guido pretends not to see it. Instead, he touches Bruno's skin under the pajamas, caressing his ribs. — I thought you were the one in need of comfort.
Lights will guide you home.
— I always feel comfortable around you. — Mista whispers, closing his eyes. Bucciarati presses their lips together in a chaste kiss before closing his eyes, feeling every inch of his body fusing with Guido's. The cherry scent in his boyfriend's curls makes Bruno sleepy. — I love you, Bruno.
And ignite your bones.
— I love you too, Guido.
And I will try to fix you.