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It was a rare night of peace— if you could call it that. There was a safe house before Sardinia and a high-end one at that. It had a library, four bedrooms, the finest Italian leather furniture, a semi-stocked bar, a garden, and over-the-top chandeliers. It looked like a place tourists would spend serious money to stay.
The second they got there Trish had retreated to the largest of the rooms, Narancia passed out in another one, and Mista and Giorno were up to god knows what in another one— at least that was the assumption based on what Narancia told Bucciarati. Bucciarati was happy Giorno seemingly found community and even someone. The boy’s mission was noble, but dangerous. He, of all people, knew comfort was a luxury and a key.
He wandered up the grand staircase with intricate deep-wood carvings and velvety red carpet to make sure they were alone, enough. He really felt like he and Abbacchio had become parents at this point, even if he would have hardly been three years old when Mista was born. The kids' doors were closed, no one felt any enemy stands, the night could begin for the grown-ups.
As Bucciarati wandered back down the grandiose staircase, there was a sight to see. Abbacchio was changing out of his heavy leather outfit into a simple black silk nightgown. He looked drop dead gorgeous, pastel purple lipstick still on, lavender hair just a little bit messy from the length of the day, and dark circles setting in below his eyes. Bucciarati looked behind him to make sure the doors were still shut and no one would hear him
“You’re stunning,” he said.
Abbacchio just smiled. He liked to play hard to get. It had become a game. They weren’t really dating, but they were fucking and continually raising a rag-tag group of fuck-up children for quite some time. Abbacchio was in love with the man. He saved his life. He didn’t have to think around Bruno. Bruno gave him orders, purpose, and made him feel welcomed and even loved. He knew the black-haired man felt the same way, even if he never said it. Bruno was a natural born leader and always put his team’s safety above his own. Abbacchio would tell himself that’s why it never got as serious as he wanted it to be.
As Bruno made his way down the stairs, Abbacchio walked towards the bar. He pulled out two wine glasses and the only bottle of Pinot Noir he could find. It wasn’t great, but it would do. He poured two glasses far beyond the point where they were supposed to be. Abbachio started to chug the glass and twirl the strap of his silk nightgown.
“I worry about you when you do that,” Bruno said, walking closer to the long-haired man.
“The inevitable death via the boss will kill me long before the brain and liver damage will,” Abbacchio replied.
“Don’t talk like that, I just worry about you,” Bruno said, reaching out, twirling a strand of Abbacchio’s hair in his hands.
“You’re not my mother, Bucciarati,” Abbacchio snapped back, leaning his head into the crook of Bruno’s neck.
“I may as well be the way you suck on these,” Bruno said, sipping his wine, and removing his blazer and pointing at his chest. Abbacchio rolled his eyes.
“I’m not going to call you mommy, if that’s what you want,” Abbacchio said, laughing, taking another gulp of wine.
“I’m not opposed,” Bruno replied.
Bruno was a sight to see, lace lingerie clinging to his chest and a gold Serpenti watch climbing up his wrist. He just looked mobbed up. He looked like a leader and the great Capo he was. Abbacchio was so attracted to that: the ex-cop and the mob boss. He always felt some sort of way about the Capo's control.
They’d started hooking up in cars and hotel rooms shortly after Bucciarati found Abbacchio that fateful night. It was never serious, but always sensual. Bucciarati would always stay in the morning, He’d hold Abbacchio until all his troubles melted away. He monitored him. He kept him away from excess with the bottle. He made an effort to make him feel safe all this time, even when safety was a pipe dream.
Abbacchio poured them each another glass of wine, heading towards the couch. The silk of the nightgown almost caused him to slip off the supple leather of the couch. He grabbed his matte, pastel purple MAC lipstick off the coffee table and reapplied it.
Bucciarati threw his pants off somewhere along the way. His legs were long and the mesh and lace of his bodysuit covered everything, yet were so see through. He sat on the couch with his glass of wine and took a small sip, contrasted to Abbacchio’s sips-so-large-he-may-as-well-down-the-bottle.
“Is this wine any good, Leone?” Bucciarati asked.
Bucciarati wasn’t a big drinker. He did at events where he was supposed to and with Leone. He couldn’t tell the cheap from the expensive. Even when Leone was at his worst, he only drank the good stuff: Whiskey from Ireland, Bourbon imported from Kentucky in the States, the best-rated German beer, Moet from France, and the finest wine from the finest vineyards in Italy.
“As shitty as the kind you’d find at a University party, but it’s here, and it was free,” Leone replied.
“You’re always such a downer,” Bruno said, leaning in towards Abbacchio. He began to slip the silk spaghetti straps off of Leone’s shoulder and kiss his neck.
Abbacchio set down his wine glass, now stained by his lipstick.
“But, I like that, you know,” Bucciarati said as he pulled away from Leone’s neck.
Abbacchio was never a man of many words, but the occasional cynical quip or raw sincerities. Truthfully, Bucciarati had fallen in love at first sight. He saw a beautiful, broken man in the rain and wanted him all to himself. His moodiness, tactical intelligence, and ability to be right alongside himself with that familia they were basically raising made him fall even harder. Bucciarati was a man of business. He was a man of business. They were on the run now. There was no boss to appease, no mission on anyone else’s order or dime. It was Bucciarati leading Giorno’s noble ideals.
Bucciarati wasn’t surprised when Leone said nothing in return. Leone laid his head on his chest and listened to his heartbeat and wrapped his arms around Bruno’s waist. Deep down, Abbacchio knew there was a high probability this would be their last time like this. He was reminded of a time shortly after he started going on missions with Bucciarati.
“What are we?” Abbacchio asked in that cheap hotel room off the coast.
“I don’t date coworkers,” Bucciarati replied to him.
They were looking at the ocean, nearly nude. They had just completed a kill using Moody Blues and Sticky Fingers making one hell of a dynamic duo. After saying that, Bucciarati wrapped his arms around Abbacchio’s waist from behind and gave him a very intense kiss.
“But I do kiss them,” Bucciarti said as his hands went below the waist.
In that moment, Abbacchio had never felt more loved, yet never felt more heartbroken. He respected Bucciarati as a man of business and he knew people in love were often killed in unison in this business.
For some moments, Abbachio’s eyes had fluttered shut. To Bruno it looked like he was shifting in and out of consciousness. He left a hefty lipstick stain on the top of Bruno’s bodysuit and his exposed chest. Bruno smiled at that as he ran his fingers through Abbachio’s silky hair.
Abbachio eventually got up and sat up, expecting a normal routine. They’d sleep together whether it be here or in that garden outside or in the bedroom set aside for them. They’d wake up intertwined in one another and move on with business.
“So are you going to fuck me in this big mansion or what, Bucciarati? I didn’t get all dressed up for nothing,” Abbachio said as he awoke, suppressing emotion and flirty as ever from all the red wine.
“I wanted to talk first,” Bucciarati said.
“I don’t like talking much,” Abbacchio replied, wine clearly hitting.
“I know. You know I did it to keep us safe. To keep you safe, Leone,” Bucciarati said, pulling Abbacchio down so he was laying in his lap face up staring at him. His thumb grazed Abbacchio’s lip, smearing it with lipstick.
“I know you did. You have made me at ease, at peace, and wanted when I didn’t deserve any of it,” Leone said, trying to flip his head over. Bucciarati grabbed him by the neck and kept Leone looking at him.
“I love you, Leone Abbacchio. I have from the second I found you. I loved you in every car and every hotel room. I loved you on every kill mission and in every ocean we’ve been lost in,” Bucciarati said, tears almost forming in his eyes. He was too stoic to cry. His thighs began to shake, sticky on the leather of the couch as Abbacchio laid in them.
“You never had to say it, you showed it. I knew it would take the inevitable high risk of death for you to ever admit it. I went on that boat selfishly knowing it was my last chance to ever get this confession out of you,” Abbacchio replied.
“We aren’t coworkers anymore, but comrades,” Bruno said, leaning down to kiss Abbacchio, more matte purple smearing his face.
“I love you too,” Leone said, sitting up, smiling sincerely for the first time, in a long time.
Bruno heard a whisper from behind him and instantly turned his head and even considered summoning his stand.
“I fucking knew it,” Narancia said, turning to the three behind him all lined up at the very top of the staircase.
“Don’t you think it’s a little invasive to watch that?” Giorno asked, body leaning into Mista whose arm was wrapped around his waist.
“It was a bet Fugo and I had. You three are just as guilty,” Narancia said, sadness clearly masked in his voice.
“Is something up?” Abbacchio asked as he laid his head on Bruno’s shoulder.
“Just the kids being kids. Don’t worry about it, il tesoro . Let’s enjoy that garden made of tourist’s dreams.” Bruno replied.
Bruno led Leone out the back door and the kids on the staircase smiled. There was a lot of loss along the way, but at least some people really did get something out of it. There were refined sparks in the dying days.