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Can anybody find me somebody to love?
Every day—I try and I try and I try—
But everybody wants to put me down,
They say I’m going crazy,
They say I’ve got too much water in my brain,
Got no common sense,
I’ve got nobody left to believe in.
The sky had long since turned an inky black, and all our comrades had already left, saying their goodbyes while I was still searching for the right bill to pay for our well-deserved dinner after the mission—I can’t bring myself not to pay, even though I know I could easily get away with it.
The restaurant was nearly empty, late as it was on a weekday. Among the few remaining patrons were Abbacchio and me.
Leone looked even gloomier than usual: he sat there, frowning like an owl, occasionally wiping his nose with a napkin and poking at his pasta with a fork in such a way that I almost felt sorry for him, like one would for a child.
“Are you sick?” I dare to ask.
“No, just a cold.”
“Goti ill at home? Your apartment’s always freezing,” I recall.
“Probably. The heater broke, too.”
“What? No heater either?” I exclaim. “When did it break?”
“A long time ago.”
“So why don’t you buy a new one?”
“I don’t need one.”
“How can you say that? Your old place freezes through in winter. Let me help you buy one.”
“No need,” Abbacchio refuses.
I fall silent for a few seconds, stunned by Leone’s stubbornness—what would it cost him to just agree?
“Does your throat hurt? Fever?” I ask, genuinely worried.
“No, just a runny nose.”
“That’s not good. Sleep like that for a few days and you might get an infection.”
“I'll be fine, Bruno,” Abbacchio insists.
“You’re already not fine. You’re lying to me.”
“I’m not lying,” Leone’s face goes even paler than before.
“This isn’t a threat,” I smile at his reaction, then offer, “Don’t you want to stay at my place? Just for a few days, until we get you a new heater?” I persist.
“N-no, it’s fine… It’s not that bad,” Abbacchio mutters.
“Leone, I don’t want you sitting in a freezing apartment in December,” I press on.
“Bruno…”
“You’ll get sicker, maybe even infect the others. And if not, you’ll just end up lying alone in that cold, cold flat…” I drag out, resting my chin on my hand.
“That’s manipulation,” Leone manages a faint smile.
“I know. I’ve got a sofa in the living room. Let’s swing by your place, you’ll grab what you need, and stay with me. You’ve stayed over before.”
Abbacchio rubbed the napkin in his hands, pondering, and then I suddenly felt embarrassed for being too stubborn and possibly tactless.
“Er, well, if you don't want to, I'm not forcing you, I'm just worried about you and” I'm trying to find a way to put it.
“I want to. I mean. Thank you. Go ahead. If you're not afraid I'll make you sick.”
“I'm not!” I'm excited “Shall we go?”
---
We leave “Libeccio.” I unlock my car and slip into the driver’s seat, while Leone takes the passenger seat beside me. I immediately start the engine and switch on the heated seats.
“To your place?” I say more like a statement than a question.
“Yeah. If it’s not too much trouble.”
“Of course,” I smile, hands on the wheel. “You can nap on the way. Do you sleep better with the radio on, or in silence?”
“Radio, maybe,” Abbacchio closes his eyes, sinking slightly into the seat.
“Alright,” I say, turning it on softly, pulling out of the lot, heading toward his apartment.
On the way I glance at him now and then, trying to see if he’s fallen asleep, but I can’t tell. Under his favorite dark-purple coat is a black silk Versace scarf with its signature gold print—one of my gifts. His fingers rest quietly on his knees, his nail polish chipped. Somehow this weary, worn-out image feels dear to me. As if I’m bringing him home after work, like a loving husband. But that’s only in my thoughts…
The city is nearly empty; nothing but the hum of the engine and the occasional shout of rowdy teens or drunkards. I take a familiar turn—I’ve dropped Leone off here before—and we pull up to the three-story building where he rents his flat
“Can you wait out here? It’s messy inside,” Leone says as we step out of the elevator.
“It’s fine. Let me help,” I offer.
“It’s really messy. Do not.”
I don’t push, waiting obediently in the hall. Where could it be messy, anyway? I’ve been inside—just one room, a sofa, wardrobe, dresser, and TV. He barely owns anything to clutter the place. Maybe he’s embarrassed it’s so bare? I should get him a painting for Christmas.
While I’m musing, Leone emerges with a canvas shoulder bag.
“Got everything?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, let’s go,” I press the elevator button.
On the way back I notice Leone dozing off, head bowed, shoulders slumped. His lips pressed tight, cheeks flushed pale, dark circles under his eyes. I imagine interrogating people with a head cold—it must be awful. My poor Leone. I feel almost sick with the urge to hold him, to take his pain away. No matter how much I try to live with love and optimism for the future, sometimes sorrow slices my heart with sharp strokes.
I’m at a crossroads—I think there’s mutual affection between us, but I’m terrified of being wrong. Every door I open risks slamming the others shut. And if it came to it, could Leone refuse me, given my higher rank? He respects my authority too much. I don’t want hierarchy in our relationship.
I’m trapped. We’re waiting for each other’s confession, but neither of us dares. At least, I want to believe that. My life would have no meaning otherwise. I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be un-in-love.
We arrive at my place, and I gently wake Abbacchio by brushing his shoulder. His sleepy face looks impossibly endearing, like that of a newborn kitten. We get out of the car and head into the apartment—home sweet home! How I missed it all day.
“Make yourself at home, Leone. Don’t be shy,” I say, helping him hang his coat on the rack.
I show him the room that will be his for a few days, then leave to fetch some medicine.
Standing in the kitchen, I almost gasp when Abbacchio comes in. He’s wearing a long-sleeved top that reveals his collarbones and shoulders, and fitted pants—where did he even find something like that!? I swallow nervously, set the basket of medicine aside, and approach him with a bottle, careful not to stare too much.
“Open your mouth,” I ask.
“What is it?”
“Cough syrup. Open up.”
Surprisingly, Abbacchio obeys without resistance. I tip the medicine into his mouth, holding his chin, and he grimaces.
A shiver runs through me at my own actions, and I freeze for a few seconds, as does he. Did I go too far?
Abbacchio rarely shows emotion unless it’s anger, but right now I feel him as if we’re one. The room fills with awkwardness, unspoken words, and maybe even a touch of passion (at least for me). My cheeks burn. I turn away, busying myself with putting the medicine back, touching my face as if I could wipe away the blush.
“Look, this is nasal spray—use it often. This is antiviral—take it every night for a week. I’ll make you some tea with lemon,” I say in the friendliest tone I can manage, hiding my embarrassment.
“I don’t like tea with lemon.”
“What!? I won’t make you coffee this late—you won’t sleep. Let me at least make you regular tea,” I offer, and Abbacchio agrees.
Leone sits on a chair while I put the kettle on, and I walk over to touch his forehead with my hand (though I’d much rather with my lips!).
“There’s a bit of a fever, I think. Let’s measure it, shall we?” I ask, pressing my own forehead for comparison.
“Buccellati, I’m not a child,” Abbacchio replies gloomily.
“I’ve asked you to call me Bruno,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time. “You’re not a child, but you can’t take care of your own illness. You sleep without a heater and keep suffering,” I say all in one breath, then continue, “Can you just listen to me? Or do I have to order you? This isn’t a joke.”
“Sorry. Let’s measure,” Abbacchio turns his head away.
“You could’ve ended up with pneumonia already!” I raise my voice without meaning to.
“Bruno, please stop,” Leone squeezes his eyes shut and covers his face with his hand. “Nothing happened. My head hurts from loud noises.”
“Oh… Sorry. I didn’t think. Forgive me,” I realize what I’ve said and answer with disappointment.
“It’s fine.”
I sit down on the chair beside him and look at Leone. He’s hunched over, fingers interlaced, swaying lightly from side to side.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t appeal to my authority. I’m ashamed…” I admit, biting the inside of my cheek.
“It’s fine,” Abbacchio repeats.
“I don’t want to be above you in our relationship,” I say, trying to catch Leone’s gaze. “No orders in everyday life. Not even as a joke. I was wrong.”
“As you wish,” Leone shrugs. “But you’re still above me, Bruno. Always.”
“What do you mean?” I don’t understand.
“I’m unable to hold a candle to you.”
“Leone, we’ve talked about this already. Don’t say that. You know it’s not true.”
“It is true.”
“Why? Why, Leone?” I implore.
“There are too many reasons to name them all. My heart is rotten, unlike yours. I know that,” Abbacchio hides his face in his hands.
“How!? How can you say such a thing!?” I exclaim.
“I just know what kind of person I am.”
“You judge yourself unfairly,” I argue.
“Yeah? Really?” Leone asks with irony.
“Yes. Really. You’re smart, intelligent, with an unusual way of thinking, phenomenal memory, and above all, you’re loyal and… loving,” I say, without noticing my own smile. “I feel that you love all of us. In your own way. Maybe the others don’t see it, but I know it.”
“I feel awkward… Thanks, I guess… I’m glad I look that way in your eyes, but…” Abbacchio trails off.
“No ‘but.’ I’m only speaking the truth,” I hear the kettle whistle and get up to turn it off. “And I want you to understand that too.”
I take out mugs, pour in the tea leaves, then boiling water, and place one in front of Leone.
“Do you want something to eat? I have biscuits,” I offer.
“No, thanks. I don’t feel like eating,” Abbacchio refuses, taking a sip.
I take out the biscuits anyway, set them in the middle of the table, and grab a couple for myself.
We drink in complete silence, and I begin to feel uneasy. Not because of the silence—being with Leone was pleasant both in conversation and in quiet—but because of the unspoken things, the walls he hides behind while sitting in front of me.
The only thing that comforts me is the thought that I am the one person Abbacchio has opened up to this much. At least he admitted he doesn’t love himself. That alone is precious, and must have cost him greatly. Irritability and anger make it easy to conceal.
I treasure his moments of sincerity and try to keep the dialogue alive however I can, to learn more and pay closer attention. Every moment, every stray word matters. As if piece by piece I’m building the puzzle of Leone’s personality, so that at the right time I can praise him, say something encouraging, just be there, or invite him for a walk.
Abbacchio seems to me like an angel with torn wings, though he’d never agree with those words. But I can’t think of him any other way. An angel, who, on top of everything, loves to hurt himself and pluck out the feathers that remain.
Do I get tired of playing the spy, trying to find out everything about Leone?
No. Not at all.
We finish our tea, I put both mugs in the sink and return the biscuits to the cupboard. "Will you manage in the bathroom? I'll make your bed in the meantime. Your towel is hanging on the towel rack."
"Yes, thank you."
I wash the cups, and that sweet melancholy overtakes me again.
I need Leone. I need him desperately. I don’t know how I’ll let him go back into his place once he recovers. I need more evenings like this, I need to have dinner with Leone, I need to wash our dishes, I need to spread sheets on our shared bed, I need to make him coffee every morning, I need to lie down with him while reading a book as he watches TV, I need to pick out new plates with him at the store!!!
I hear the sound of running water, and it briefly pulls me out of my daze. I realize I’ve been scrubbing the same plate for five minutes.
I go into Abbacchio’s room, pull out the bedding from the couch, and start struggling with the duvet cover.
Suddenly, a question pops into my head and won’t let go. Will the pillow smell like Leone..? And how will it..?
No! How stupid is that! Am I a teenager or what!?
I need Leone’s scent. I need to feel it.
I take his bag, place it on my lap, and bury my nose inside. A wonderful fragrance, so much that I can’t even describe it – love, pure love, that’s what it is. Bitter tears sting my eyes.
What kind of man am I if I can’t even confess?
The water stops, and I set the bag back on the floor, zipping it closed. My nose tingles, and I feel even more pathetic. I wipe it quickly, just as Leone enters the room.
"Everything’s ready for you," I smile at Abbacchio.
"Thanks." Leone sits on the bed and slowly reclines, gracefully raising his arms.
"Good night, Leone," I say, holding my breath. "If anything, wake me up."
"Good night," Abbacchio replies, slipping under the blanket.
I switch off the light and leave the room.
He’s like a swan… Even sick, he shines with perfection, with those wonderful white hands like wings. If I were an artist, Leone would be my only muse.
I have to confess. I must confess. Or at least ask who we are to each other. I think I’m good at reading people. Usually, I see their motives right through. But with Leone, a mistake would cost too much… But I'll have to ask once he recovers. I’m still hoping for a kiss.
I go into my bedroom and put my laptop on my lap. Time to write Polpo an email about the finished job. Same format, same greeting, same closing… Sometimes it’s so tedious. After sending the email, I browse a travel forum. Ah, if only I could go to Australia…!
"Bruno…" a voice breaks the silence, and my heart jumps.
"Yes? What is it? Fever?" I leap from the bed, putting the laptop aside.
"No. I… forgot my pills. I can’t sleep without them. Do you have any sleeping meds by chance?" Leone asks.
"I don’t know if I have sleeping pills, but I do have some sedatives. Let me check." I rub my eyes and head to the kitchen.
Abbacchio sits at the chair, waiting while I dig through countless boxes of medicine – no, I’m not a hypochondriac, I just keep pills for all occasions and for everyone. And I hate throwing them away. Finally, I find the right pack and check the expiration date.
"There’s Atarax. Will that work? It shouldn’t conflict with your meds?"
"Yes, it’ll work. Thanks. Can I get some water?" Abbacchio asks, then swallows the pill.
"Good night again."
"Bruno… Good night."
I head back to my room, but before I can sit on the bed, Leone follows me.
"Bruno… Can I… talk to you for a bit?" Abbacchio asks uncertainly at the door.
"Of course," I smile. "Be braver."
"Are you… okay?"
"Yeah, why?" I don’t understand.
"Atarax is a sedative. Were you prescribed it?"
"I got it with a prescription, don’t think anything—"
"I don’t mean that."
"Don’t worry," I reassure him, though I’m a little nervous at the sudden question. "I used to take it a while ago, just a little. I know it can be addictive."
"Alright, sorry."
"For what?"
"Doesn’t matter."
Abbacchio lingers in the doorway for a few more seconds, and the silence grows awkward.
"Sit on my bed," I suggest.
"Can I?"
"Of course."
"I just wanted to say, uh… If something can be solved without tranquilizers, you can come to me… if you want…" Leone says hesitantly, sitting at the edge of my bed.
"Thank you," I reply, running my hand over the sheets before looking up. "I can say the same to you. But I think we’re both too proud for that."
"Maybe."
"Don’t you want to change that?"
"I’m not proud. I’m pathetic," Abbacchio exhales.
"Leone. You’re not pathetic, and you know it. You’re just afraid of burdening anyone and afraid of opening up."
Abbacchio covers his face with his hand, brushing it through his hair, clearly not wanting to argue.
"But my doors are always open to you. Literally and figuratively." I want to place my hand over his but stop myself.
"I’d like to spend more time with you, like when we sat at ‘L’antiquario,’ remember?" Abbacchio looks at me. "Only without drinking."
"No one’s stopping us but ourselves. I don’t mind," I smile, my heart fluttering with tenderness.
"Thank you." Leone brushes his hand along the sheet but quickly pulls back when it touches mine.
"For what?"
"For everything… For putting up with me. For spending time with me. And for today."
"I wouldn’t spend time with you if it meant putting up with you. I’m glad you agreed to stay at my place. You need to learn how to accept help."
"I don’t know how… It feels like I don’t deserve it."
"I know it’s hard. I don’t know how to either."
Abbacchio hugs his knees, and I can see how cramped he feels inside himself.
"Get under the blanket with me, you’ll warm up," I offer, my cheeks flushing red.
To my surprise, Abbacchio doesn’t resist but quietly lies down beside me, careful not to touch me, though I still feel his warmth.
"Bruno."
"Mhm?" I turn my head.
"I want to hug you," Leone says suddenly. "A lot… I know maybe—"
"So?" I cut him off. "Hug me."
"I’ll infect you."
"Don’t touch my lips and just hug."
Abbacchio hugs me, pressing only the top of his head against my chest. I wrap my arms around him in return, my heart ready to burst with joy. Leone! He offered! He didn’t push back against my words about help – he wanted to hug me! My sweet one, never before has he shown such gestures! This means something, it definitely means something! My poor, sick Leone, only I can secretly press my lips to your crown.
Abbacchio pulls away first, lying back on the pillows, supporting his head with one hand, lips curved faintly.
"You have a beautiful smile," I say fearlessly, and Leone hides it behind his hand, only for it to grow wider at my compliment.
He rests his hand under his head and turns toward me, as if asking for more compliments, but instead, I ask:
"Why don’t you want to buy a heater? You can’t always rely on my warmth."
"I don’t know why. I’m just used to always feeling like crap," Abbacchio shrugs.
"What do you mean?"
"I don’t know. I don’t notice when I feel bad, so I ignore all the reasons. And now it’s all piled up into this."
"You can’t live like that, Leone."
"I know, but I kind of don’t care."
I exhale, at a loss for how to help when he doesn’t even recognize when he needs help.
"Sometimes I forget about pills, food, or warm clothes. Something… makes me enjoy suffering."
"Oh… I don’t even know what to say…"
"It’s okay. I wouldn’t know either. I’m used to living this way."
"You don’t deserve this suffering. Your basic needs are fundamental. I get that it’s hard to follow your inner desires during your worst periods, but… At least know that I care whether you eat, sleep, or have a headache."
Abbacchio furrows his brow and looks away, unable to answer. Clearly, it’s hard for him to accept. If we lived together, I’d take care of all his needs, but for now that’s impossible.
As he says this, Leone realizes how absurd it sounds once the thought leaves his head. Same for me. I know about depressive episodes, but every detail of Abbacchio’s life still surprises me, my brain racing through possible solutions – that’s just how I’m wired.
"I’m here," I say, and I truly mean it.
To prove it, I ruffle his hair lightly and grin at my own mischief.
Leone doesn’t resist, instead leaning into it like a cat, and my heart races. I’m afraid he’ll rest against my chest, and then it really will burst, flooding me with oxytocin.
For better or worse, Abbacchio strokes my hair in return, and I can’t help but flash him a wide smile. We really are like cats, getting to know each other through touch. Or maybe like puppies.
"Can I see what you’re reading?"
"Of course." I place the laptop on my lap. "I love reading about travel. And dreaming that someday they’ll let us go… It’d be great if the five of us could travel somewhere, right?"
"Yeah," Abbacchio yawns, sinking deeper into the pillows. "As long as we don’t fight there."
"Haha! It would take something terrible for that to happen."
I get lost in a thread where someone describes German cuisine and don’t notice how quiet Leone has gotten. I turn and see him peacefully asleep on his back, head tilted slightly.
My joy. At least I don’t have to worry that he can’t fall asleep here because it’s unfamiliar. Good that pills can at least help with his eternal insomnia. Silly thoughts cross my mind – he’s like Sleeping Beauty. I’d kiss his pale thin lips, slightly parted as if for me… No! That’s awful! I can’t! That’s an old fairytale, kissing someone without consent is wrong… Maybe just…
"Are you asleep, Leone?"
No answer.
"Just don’t trick me."
I brush my lips lightly against a strand of hair on his cheek. He’s definitely asleep.
I lie back, closing my eyes, his hair’s scent still in my head. I’m not a maniac, but if I could, I’d spray that smell on a handkerchief and keep it with me every day…
As usual before bed, I take my diary and pen from the nightstand and open it – just recently I’ve picked up the habit.
"12.10.2000
Today nothing matters except that Leone stayed the night with me because he’s sick. Right now, he’s asleep in my bed from the Atarax, and I’m terrified of waking him. We have to get up early tomorrow, but still!
My sweet Leone, I wonder if you realize how much I love you? Maybe not… I need to try harder. Though, how could it be more obvious? I’ll do everything to show you what it feels like to be loved. Deep inside, I hope you feel something for me too. Maybe you’ve just bewitched me, and it’s all in my lovesick head. Maybe you’ve just never known affection, which is why you fell asleep so sweetly after a few kind words. Even if that’s the case, let my home be the place where you can safely be yourself.
If only you knew how much I enjoy teasing you sometimes. Watching you try to snap back. And after that, I wouldn’t believe in our love? Then you’d be the greatest schemer of all, Leone. I don’t believe it. I refuse.
I want to listen to you, so you never stop talking. Every word of yours – I hold it in my mind. Please, never be ashamed of your feelings. I’m writing this like a prayer. Just a little longer, and I’ll confess for sure.
Ah, how I’d love to show you these notes someday! It would probably be hilarious."
I finish writing and quietly put the diary and laptop away. Slowly, slowly I turn off the light so as not to wake him and glance at the clock. Only 23:13.
Climbing under the blanket, I look at him. Forgive me, sick Leone, but this is the most wonderful day in months.