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Bruno dreams of flowers.
It doesn’t mean anything. He dreams of guns, violence, and paperwork, too. Dreams are only flashing synapses and sawed-off memories. It never means anything. Bruno is not given to romantic thinking.
There isn’t much time for dreaming now, anyway. He finds his sleep as of late is fitful and always abruptly interrupted, caught in the short hours between fighting for his life, and others’. He wouldn’t have time to overanalyze the fractured bits of the dreams he does have if he wanted to.
Right now, however, is one of those precious few calm hours. Having secured a manageably safe area in the turtle’s stand, Bruno finds himself able to breathe for a moment. Of course, after the brief respite, he forces his mind back to unsavory matters— namely, how they would deal with whatever goons would be thrown at them next, as they were undoubtedly on their way to them already.
Crowded into the modest room, the rest of the gang lazes about, save Giorno, who is rifling absently through the small refrigerator, and Mista, currently on ceiling watch.
Bruno himself sits on the floor, near the coffee table. The T.V. hums, unwatched, in the corner of the room. The near-silence is alien after everything. Bruno almost wishes for the loud noise of the train as recompense, but the stand is muffling it somehow. It doesn’t really matter; he’ll make do.
It’s a few minutes of the faint white noise, and his own intent brooding, before he’s interrupted by Mista’s overly-loud voice.
“Oi, Buccellati? Could you stop thinking so damn loud for one minute, I can hear you all the way over here, chrissake.”
Frowning, Bruno opens his mouth to retort, “Well, if I stopped, then who w—”
His insult is cut off by a sudden touch against his elbow: Giorno's.
“He’s not wrong,” he asserts, albeit gentler. Bruno keeps frowning, but Giorno’s hand is still on his elbow, and he’s losing his focus just a bit in result.
“I... We need to figure out our next move,” he says finally, firmly.
Giorno looks at him, but only nods absently and sits beside him on the floor, legs folded in front of himself, chin propped on his knee.
He looks younger than he has possibly since Bruno first met him.
He sits quietly as Bruno goes back to work, sorting through the few files he’s managed to keep on him.
He goes back to it for a while; Mista’s irritating, melodramatic sighs taper off soon enough after. Bruno would roll his eyes if he wasn’t so preoccupied. Though, less so with the task set before him, and more so with the boy sitting beside him.
He knows, knows Giorno is playing a role here. That he has a goal in mind that isn’t in perfect line with Bruno’s own, but. Bruno can’t help but feel a strong connection to him anyway. He was enigmatic in such a specific, strange way; it made Bruno want to dig in closer, push him further, see how far the kid could truly end up going.
Bruno lets his gaze settle on him from the corner of his eye as he bit absently at his bottom lip, considering.
Giorno was growing, under Bruno’s careful eye and guidance. Bruno could see the way he held himself, so young but already so well-versed in his own capabilities. Confident, with straight shoulders and ever-present seriousness.
He thinks he might see a bit of himself in the kid, but he doesn’t know if that’s arrogance or pride.
The part of Bruno that sees more than himself in Giorno, a better leader, a fiercer spirit, and the part that would, he knew, willingly follow his orders even now, well. Hopefulness for a new recruit, one of his own men, was one thing; admiration and submissiveness, another.
“Buccellati.”
The name is spoken quietly but it snaps Bruno out of his reverie harshly. He prays to god he doesn’t look unnaturally flushed when his head turns towards Giorno, gaze fully rested on him now.
“You aren’t getting any real work done,” he states, knowing but still soft.
He wants to protest, say he is, or he was, at least, before Giorno came to distract him, made his mind lose its tack and begin wandering again, but. Bruno recognizes the nonsensical loops he's making, and stops himself.
They have a long, dangerous trip ahead of them, and they’re all exhausted from the hell they’ve been through so far. Giorno is right: he isn’t getting much work done daydreaming about distant futures and his own unsure present.
He worries his lip between his teeth again before nodding once decisively and reaching for the now proffered hand in front of him. He lets himself follow Giorno away from the coffee table and back towards where the rest of the group are sprawled out, in various states of unconsciousness.
Bruno sets himself on the end of the unoccupied couch, reluctantly admitting defeat at the instant relief that comes from rolling back his shoulders.
After a moment, he notices Giorno sitting down beside him. He stretches his legs out in front of himself, before dropping back against the cushions, and... leaning, only slightly, but still clearly a bit in Bruno’s space. Normally, the man would take it as enough of a hint to move, but he’s at the end of the sofa already, and, something languorous and instinctive makes him still instead. There’s the quiet sound of popping tired joints, and then— warmth. Against Bruno’s left side, from his shoulder down to his waist.
Barely daring to breathe too deeply lest he ruin—whatever, this is—, he turns his head down, to look at, well. The top of his subordinate’s head. Which is rested on his shoulder.
Bruno... doesn’t know what to make of it, honestly. Forces himself to relax under the slight pressure; inhales deep. Giorno smells like— dirt and wheatgrass, and maybe faintly of blood too. His breathing is deep and regular where it fans out gently across Bruno’s collar. It’s... nice. Comfortable, even. He tries not to examine it.
It takes a few minutes of calculated breathing and circular, wondering thoughts, but eventually, Bruno drifts off too, lulled by his own exhaustion, the vague distant motion of the train, and the soft feel of Giorno’s hair under his cheek.
They have a long way to go, and little indulgences can’t hurt them in the long run too badly. (At least, this is what Bruno will tell himself later, trying hard not to think of body heat and silky hair, and the liability of caring.)
It’s the best sleep he’s gotten in ages, and he doesn’t dream of anything at all.