Archive of Our Own

"Do you have white non-alcoholic wine?" Bruno asks, setting the menu aside.
"Yes, Mucho Mas."
"Excellent. A bottle of the wine, the paella with Iberian ham, Galician-style octopus pasta, and two Americanos. Yes, Leone?" Buccellati clarifies.
"Yes," Abbacchio replies.
"Good, please wait."
Bruno crosses his legs and gazes at the sunset breaking through the thin branches of the olive trees. He wears a light beige linen shirt with a deep neckline, his favorite lace bralette, brown lightweight trousers, and summer loafers.
"Why do you want to drink non-alcoholic wine? Let's order a regular one for you?" Leone suggests, his fingers tightening on the pages of the cocktail menu.
"I won't drink without you. It wouldn't be right for me to drink while you just watch," Bruno explains, turning towards Leone.
"But we're on vacation. Why limit yourself because of me?"
"I can enjoy myself perfectly well without alcohol, especially in your company. It's something new, too. I've never tried white non-alcoholic wine. Only red, once."
"You shouldn't have..." Abbacchio exhales, pushing the menu aside.
"Leone. I want it this way. No one forced me," Buccellati insists.
"Okay..."
Abbacchio grips the fabric of his wide purple trousers and looks down at his feet, clad in black sneakers.
He still hasn't gotten used to the fact that he can't just have a drink whenever he wants. He has to awkwardly explain himself to anyone who offers, because saying you're on antidepressants and antipsychotics is inappropriate.
On one hand, they are a protection against the alcoholism deeply rooted in Leone's soul. On the other... on the other hand, it is sometimes unbearable. Alcohol gave him strength. It gave him a mood. It provided release.
With alcohol, Leone becomes cheerful around Bruno. He doesn't burden him with negativity, as he usually does. They would joyfully discuss everything, snack on the most expensive cheese, have mind-blowing sex, but now none of that exists.
The pills are supposed to replace alcohol, they are supposed to make Abbacchio cheerful, they have to, otherwise what is the point!?
There is no point. The pills don't make him cheerful. They make him no one.
Leone's pasta is brought to him—he hardly likes anything else as much, especially when not at home—and Bruno receives his meat, along with the wine.

The lovers had visited Plaça de Catalunya, the Sagrada Família, and the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Saint Eulalia, but Leone couldn't shake the feeling that he would have much rather just lain down or slept at home, despite his former delight for any church or cathedral.
No, Abbacchio still felt moments of awe, but those moments were so short, and were preceded by such agony—the heat, the feeling of clothing seams, other people's conversations, loud vendors—and the delight itself was so muted, more like respect, that upon leaving a church, he wanted to die on the spot or at least teleport to their hotel room, and this went beyond simple discomfort.
The bag unpleasantly dug into his shoulder, leaving a red mark, his feet in sneakers barely lifted up and down while walking, his t-shirt stuck to his armpits from sweat, and his shorts seemed to be slipping down a little, and all of it made him want to peel his own skin off.
Abbacchio felt he could barely speak and was ashamed, terribly ashamed of it. Ashamed almost to tears, but he understood that if he started crying, it would cause Buccellati far more trouble. So he endured, bottling everything up, sometimes taking Bruno's hand and then letting go—a gesture they had devised for when Leone, or more rarely, Bruno, felt unbearably bad without physical support and the sensation of the other's presence. It was how they could tell when the other was uncomfortable, but Abbacchio stubbornly kept saying that everything was fine and he just felt like holding hands.
It is good that the restaurant was cool—a pleasant, slight breeze from the air conditioning ruffles his t-shirt and shorts, and Leone can even feel it on the hair on his legs.
"To the continuation of our vacation," Bruno says, raising the glass filled by the waiter.
"To the continuation of our vacation," Leone clinks his glass with Bruno's and takes a sip.
"Mmm, what a tasty wine," Buccellati licks the corner of his lips. "Not worse than the regular one at all."
"Yes, pleasant," Abbacchio agrees and twirls spaghetti on his fork.
"Try the paella," Bruno offers, breaking off a piece of bread.
"Not bad," Leone replies, chewing slowly and not raising his eyes. "But to be honest, I still prefer pasta."
"I knew it," Bruno chuckles.
He carefully touches Leone's hand, as if checking if he is still there, or if he has flown away somewhere. Abbacchio looks up, meets Bruno's deep blue eyes, and for a moment, he feels a little warmer inside.
"The sunset is especially beautiful today," Bruno says. "As if an artist paints the canvas with pink, red, and yellow."
"Yes," Leone nods, but the voice in his head pulls him down: what does it matter if the sunset is beautiful or not, if you can't enjoy it like you used to.
He takes another sip of wine. The sensation in his throat brings him slightly back to reality.
"Are you tired?" Bruno asks carefully.
"A little..." Abbacchio replies. "But I'm glad we're here."
"Really?" Bruno smiles, and his smile holds so much trust that Leone feels almost ashamed.
"Really," he repeats and squeezes Bruno's hand under the table.

When they leave the restaurant, evening has already settled over the streets. The air is still warm, but a fresh sea breeze carries salt and coolness. The narrow streets are lit by the yellow glow of lanterns, and the hum of televisions and the smell of fried fish drift from open windows.
"Shall we go to the promenade?" Bruno suggests, adjusting the bag on his shoulder.
"Let's," Leone nods. He wants to put his hands in his pockets, but Bruno intercepts one, and the lovers decide to walk like that—after all, no one knows them here.
The path to the sea leads through a square where teenagers are playing ball and tourists sit right on the stone steps, drinking sangria. Abbacchio involuntarily frowns at their loud voices but tries not to show his discomfort.
"Look," Bruno points ahead, "You can already see the sea."
And indeed, beyond the last row of houses, a wide, dark expanse opens up, reflecting the city's lights. In the distance, the masts of yachts glisten, and the creaking of ropes and muffled voices of sailors can be heard.
They step onto the promenade. The wind plays with the edges of Bruno's shirt, and Leone's hair becomes slightly tousled, making him tuck the strands behind his ear.
They both gaze spellbound at the sea—Leone has never held any particular feelings for it, but thanks to Bruno, he has learned to love it. Perhaps because it is associated with Buccellati.
They sit down on the cold stone slabs right at the water's edge. Leone rests his head on Bruno's shoulder and, for the first time all day, feels he doesn't have to pretend. The heaviness inside is still there, but with the sound of the surf, it feels lighter.
"You know, sometimes I think we think too much about how to vacation correctly. But a vacation is just about being close."
"Perhaps," Leone agrees, squeezing his hand tighter.
An orange trail lights up on the water from a passing boat. Leone watches it and, for the first time in a long while, catches himself not thinking about the pills, the wine, or his weakness. Only the sea, the cool air, and Bruno's shoulder.
The streetlights begin to turn on. A noisy group of Spaniards enters a restaurant, and Abbacchio flinches at their loud laughter, but Bruno leans slightly towards him and says:
"It's alright, dear. Do you want to leave?"
Leone nods, feeling that these words are the only thing keeping him afloat. No one has ever been able to care for him the way Bruno does.
They stand up and head onto the promenade, where the clear melody of a guitar is spreading. A man with long grey hair sits on a stool right against the wall of an old house; next to him is a black instrument case already jingling with coins. A small crowd of passersby has gathered around: tourists are filming, locals are nodding to the beat, and a few children are dancing barefoot on the tiles.
Abbacchio involuntarily slows his pace. His ears catch the light sadness, then the unexpected joy in those arpeggios. It is as if every note is saying: life is hard, but it's still worth smiling.
Bruno, without letting go of his hand, pulls a couple of coins from his pocket and tosses them into the case. The musician nods gratefully and continues playing, transitioning into a well-known Spanish tune.
The musician falls silent, the crowd disperses, and Bruno gently tugs Leone's hand, leading him further along the promenade. The light evening breeze carries the smell of waffle cones and melted chocolate.
"Look," Bruno points to a kiosk with a sign that reads "Helados," "Shall we get some ice cream?"
"You know I'm not one for sweets."
"Have to take everything from a vacation," Bruno winks.
They approach the kiosk, and behind the glass, a multitude of flavors are visible: strawberry with berry pieces, pistachio, chocolate, salted caramel, coffee, lemon, and others. The saleswoman smiles welcomingly and chatters something quickly in Spanish.
"Which one for you?" Buccellati asks.
"Coffee."
"One with two scoops of coffee and one with two scoops of pistachio," Bruno orders confidently.
"For you," he hands the brown ice cream to Leone.
Abbacchio takes a bite and, to his surprise, finds it quite tasty.
"Alright. Not bad."
"See!" Bruno smiles contentedly, "Little joys are the most important thing in life."
They sit on a bench right at the water's edge. Behind them, people are noisy, mopeds pass by, and ahead stretches the dark sea with the moon's reflection. Bruno leans back against the bench and enjoys his pistachio ice cream, while Leone quietly finishes his coffee cone.
"And yet," Abbacchio says after a pause, "sometimes I think I shouldn't have come. I'm just ruining our vacation. I don't even have the strength to rest."
Bruno turns to him and places his palm on his knee.
"Leone... Our vacation isn't about running around cathedrals or drinking wine; it's about us being together. That you are next to me. That's all I need."
The words sound so simple that Leone doesn't believe them at first. But something in his chest tightens and warms, and he turns away towards the sea to hide his glistening eyes.
They throw the paper napkins into a trash can and walk leisurely along the water. The waves lap softly against the concrete slabs, and there is something lulling in that rhythm. Strings of lights light up along the promenades, illuminating rows of cafes and small souvenir shops.
"Look," Bruno gestures towards a man who has set up easels right under a streetlight, "an artist painting portraits."
"Hm," Leone stops, "Do you want one?"
"Do you?"
"Me?.." He wrinkles his nose slightly, but a flicker of interest shows in his eyes, "I've never bought such portraits."
"Then let's try," Bruno decides and is already pulling him along.
The artist—an elderly man in a straw hat—smiles, inviting them to sit side by side.
"Sit, amigos," he says with an accent, preparing his pencil.
Leone feels awkward, as if caught without his defenses, but Bruno places a hand on his shoulder and reassures him:
"Relax. Let it be a souvenir."
While the artist sketches lines quickly and confidently, Leone looks at Bruno. His shirt flutters slightly in the wind, his gaze directed somewhere towards the sea. As if he carries no heaviness or doubts. Only light.
"Look at me, amigos."
"Oh, sorry," Buccellati smiles awkwardly, "I was distracted."
"Especially me," Abbacchio thinks to himself.
Fifteen minutes later, the artist turns the sheet around: almost weightless portraits, light shading and blending. Their silhouettes side by side, and the lines of Bruno's face seem to radiate warmth even on paper.
"Gracias," Bruno thanks him and places a bill in the box, "Look, Leone. We're on paper now."
Leone takes the drawing, studies it for a long time, and gives a quiet chuckle.
"You look... happy here."
"Because I am happy," Bruno replies so simply that Leone has nothing to say in return.
They walk on, and the crowd gradually thins. The music from the street bars grows quieter, only the sea continues its noise. Leone unexpectedly catches himself thinking that he doesn't want to leave—for the first time in a long while, he feels he can be a part of this evening, not a stranger in it.
They turn onto a narrow path leading to the pier. The boards creak underfoot, and fishing boats sway in the water on either side—dark silhouettes faintly lit by the moon. The noisy promenade is now somewhere behind them, and here, silence reigns, broken only by the lapping of water and the occasional cries of seagulls.
"Quiet, huh?" Bruno says, stopping in the middle of the pier.
"Mhm," Leone inhales the salty air and feels his shoulders drop, as if the tension is leaving with every breath.
They sit right on the edge, letting their legs dangle over the water. Beneath them is thick darkness, where the occasional flicker of reflected lights shimmers.
"You know," Bruno says, leaning back on his hands, "sometimes I think the sea reflects our lives—calm and storms replacing each other. But you can always hope for a smooth surface."
Leone smirks.
"If we're talking about me, then my sea is more of a swamp."
"No," Bruno objects softly. "You are the sea. Even when it's dark, even when it's heavy, there is still depth in it."
These words lodge somewhere in Leone's chest. He doesn't answer immediately, just watches the reflection of the moon trembling on the small waves.
"You always manage to make everything seem better," he finally says, quietly. "I envy that."
"I'm not making it seem better—" Bruno turns closer to him, "—I just look at you and see more than you see in yourself."
Leone swallows sharply and turns away, as if afraid his eyes will betray too much. But his hand finds Bruno's on its own, and he squeezes it, not letting go.
They sit like that for several minutes, as the gentle night wind ruffles their hair and brings the smell of iodine and seaweed. In the distance, a ship passes slowly, leaving a long trail on the black water.
"Do you want to come here tomorrow during the day?" Bruno asks, "We'll buy fresh fish right from the fishermen. Like back home."
"I do," Leone replies without hesitation, surprising himself.
And in that moment, he catches a strange feeling: something like a promise to himself—as if not all is lost as long as he has this sea, this evening, and Bruno beside him.
They remain sitting on the pier, silently watching the play of lights on the water. Words are no longer needed. The wind grows slightly colder, but it doesn't bother them; on the contrary, it refreshes their skin, calming their thoughts.
Occasionally, Bruno says something quietly—not a whisper, as Leone never liked that—and Leone doesn't always make out the words, but he understands their meaning from the tone: “I'm here, it's alright, we're together, just breathe.”
The boats rock gently, the boards beneath them creak, and the moon slowly climbs higher. Time becomes viscous, almost unnoticeable.
Their hands are intertwined, and neither thinks of letting go.
Somewhere far away, a ship horn sounds, and the reflection of its lights shatters into hundreds of silver droplets on the black surface.
And the night goes on. Breathing. Listening to them.
And it seems that in this silence lies the answer to everything.
"Are you alright, little lion? Tired?" Bruno asks again.
"Yes, I'm alright. A little... What will we do later?"
"I suggest the usual," Bruno chuckles.
"Okay," Leone replies, smiling.
Abbacchio hadn't even smoked once all evening.
.
"Oh, Bruno," Abbacchio exhales, pinned against the wall, head tilted back, exposing his sensitive neck.
"I want you here and now," Buccellati bites and then immediately covers the thin skin with kisses, "May I?"
"Yess..." Leone places his hands on Bruno's head, hinting for him to go lower.
Buccellati slips the deep-necked shirt off Abbacchio's shoulders and presses his lips haphazardly to his chest, leaving wet trails and seemingly accidentally brushing his nipples with his fingertips, before rising up and capturing Leone's mouth with his own, pressing his groin against Leone's, making them both moan into the wet, competitive kiss—who would gain the upper hand?
Abbacchio grabs Buccellati's hair, wanting to kiss him even deeper, while Bruno closes his hands on Leone's buttocks, kneading them.
"To the bed?" Bruno finally pulls back, a thin strand of saliva stretching between their lips.
"Yes."
They make it to the bed in another kiss, and Bruno gently pushes Leone, making him lie down, and sits on top of him.
Abbacchio runs his hands over Buccellati's chest, feeling its firmness and hardened nipples, while Bruno rubs his own erection between Leone's legs.
Abbacchio feels nothing between his legs.
He realizes his head is splitting, not from passionate heat, but from a painful one. As if he has a fever of 38 degrees.
His cheeks burn painfully, his mouth is dry, and both magnetic poles are pressing on his temples with all their might.
"Bruno, wait," Abbacchio asks, grasping Buccellati's hands with his palms.
"What is it?" Bruno asks worriedly.
"I don't think I’ll be able to," Leone admits.
"I understand, forgive me. How are you feeling?" Buccellati climbs off Abbacchio and lies down next to him, placing a hand on his forearm in a tender gesture.
"Sorry," Leone squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can to keep from crying.
"For what? Don't apologize."
"For letting you down. How many times is it now?" Abbacchio covers his face with his hands, feeling an unstoppable wave of emotions about to crash over him.
"You are not letting me down, my love."
Leone sobs and digs his fingers into his forehead, the nail marks burning painfully.
How could he ruin such a romantic, wonderful, simply marvelous evening?! For the first time in so many days, Leone had felt like a complete person, felt that his life was whole, but no—it slams his face into the asphalt again. How can he continue to disgrace himself like this?!
"What the fuck is wrong with me?!" Abbacchio chokes on tears so hard his words are barely distinguishable, "I can't even have sex with the person I love!"
"Everything is alright with you, Leone, my dear, don't blame yourself," Buccellati gets up on his knees and pulls Abbacchio close, kissing the top of his head, "Sex is not the main thing at all. The main thing is you."
"There's not a single piece of me left because of these fucking pills!" Abbacchio almost shouts, "I'm ruining our whole fucking vacation!!!"
"Shhh, my dear, you're not ruining anything," Bruno covers Leone's forehead with kisses, holding him tighter, "Breathe, in and out."
"I can't!!! I can't..." Leone groans as if in physical pain.
"You can. Come on, with me—inhale... exhale. Inhale... exhale."
"I'm tired..." Leone says in a hoarse voice, "I'm tired of all this, I'm tired of being treated, I'm tired of not getting hard, I'm tired of disappointing you, I'm tired of being autistic, I'm tired, fuck, God, I'm so tired, I can't do anything..."
"I understand, Leone. I'm here. And I'm proud of you, my sunshine. It's hard for you, but you're coping. You're doing so well," Bruno looks into Leone's tear-filled eyes.
"I'm not coping, Bruno, I'm not coping. It's all too much... Everything... Everything in the world, everything in the world is pressing down on me," Abbacchio rambles, "It feels like I'll only rest underground... But I don't want to die. I want to be with you..."
"You won't die. And we will be together," Buccellati kisses the tears on Abbacchio's face, making him grimace, "my golden one, you will be okay. We'll go home, and you'll go straight to the best psychiatrist we have. We'll drop this one. If the treatment isn't helping. Everything will be fine. Giorno will arrange it all."
Leone's sobs grow quieter, and he presses against Bruno with all his strength, trying to hide from all the surrounding darkness. Touching Buccellati could swallow up a part of it.
"We really had a good walk today, didn't we?" Bruno begins, knowing how hard it is for Leone to talk after these episodes, "I liked that street artist the most. He had such quick, confident hands… In just fifteen minutes, he drew two such beautiful portraits. That's where real talent hides."
He lightly touches Leone's hair, running his fingers through it.
"And the geese at the Cathedral of the Holy Cross? How funny they are! I was afraid of them as a child. They seemed scary, huge, with beaks like knives. And today… such important, funny guardians. Maybe they guard the church like we once guarded the streets of Naples? Funny."
He pauses, leans slightly towards Leone's ear, continues more quietly:
"And the Sagrada Familia… it's not even a building, it's a whole world. As if the air itself is different there. It's something incredible, isn't it? It's like you're not looking at a building, but at a living being. I thought: maybe Gaudí was really carrying out some divine plan? Or maybe he was just obsessed with his idea. But I want to believe the former. The temple seems to breathe, to grow on its own, and those stained glass windows… they are so bright, as if a piece of the sky is hidden in each one. If God could speak to people not through words, but through stone and light, then Gaudí's temple would probably be the conduit. You know, I'd like to see it finished one day. We'll come back here, won't we? When it's completed."
Bruno smiles and kisses Leone's temple, not breaking his speech:
"I always thought our churches in Italy were better. But… I was wrong. They are different. Not better or worse. Just different. People all over the world know how to create beauty for something greater. And that's probably the most precious thing about us."
He runs his palm over Leone's shoulder and continues:
"But the gelato is still better back home. Their ice cream here is too sweet. I'd give anything for a good pistachio one right now. Remember the one from the shop on the corner near our house? I'll definitely buy some when we get back. A whole kilogram."
Buccellati lets out a soft chuckle and adds:
"I definitely wouldn't survive in Asia. Everything's spicy there, everything smells of spices. We'd both be sitting there hungry... No, I'm made only for pasta, wine, and gelato."
Bruno strokes Leone's chest, speaking more quietly, as if lulling him to sleep:
"Tomorrow, we'll stay here. We won't get up, we won't go anywhere. We'll just lie next to each other, watch movies, doze. Do you want me to order food here? We won't even have to go out."
He takes a breath and changes the subject again:
"And the day after tomorrow… we can go to the museums again. It's so quiet there, and the paintings seem to talk to us. I want us to see everything together. We'll get audio guides. You know, I always remember things better when I can discuss them with you afterwards."
He falls silent for a second, but picks up the thread again, as if afraid Leone might retreat back into his thoughts:
"And I also want to see the aquarium. There's a huge tunnel you can walk through, with sharks swimming overhead. Can you imagine? We'll hold hands, and there will be a whole sea around us. It will feel like we're in the water ourselves. And it won't matter what anyone else thinks."
He smiles softly, tilting his head slightly, continuing to stroke Leone:
"I want us to have lots of memories. Even the simplest ones. Look: you're lying here, I'm next to you, we're silent… and that's a memory too. It will come back to you when things are hard. And I want you to feel warm when you remember it."
Bruno presses his lips to Leone's cheek and lingers for a moment:
"It's alright, Leone. You're here. With me. And I'm with you. Tomorrow, and the day after, and always."
Buccellati lowers his head and sees Abbacchio breathing steadily. He smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.
"Not asleep yet?" In response, Abbacchio shakes his head, "You have to take your night pills, little lion. Can't skip them. And at home, you'll start new ones. I'll get them and bring some water."
Buccellati tries to reach for the nightstand where Leone's pills are, but the other man has a death grip on him and doesn't want to let go.
"Agh, I've been captured!" Bruno puts up a playful resistance, trying to escape, "I'll be really quick, I promise."
Leone sighs and lets Bruno go, feeling as if he's releasing a lifeline. In moments like these, he desperately needed physical contact, but he understood he wasn't in the best state to get up. His head was splitting from the spent tears and shouts, and Abbacchio buried his face in Buccellati's pillow, which smelled like him—this dulled the pain a little.
His head was empty. Completely.
Finally, Bruno returns with a glass of water, takes the packet of pills from the nightstand, and presses out two. With Buccellati's help, Abbacchio swallows them and lies on his side.
Bruno unbuttons his shirt and takes it off.
"We completely forgot about the air conditioner. You'll feel better soon," Buccellati stands up and turns on the AC with the remote, setting the right temperature.
Leone follows Bruno's example and unbuttons his shirt too, setting it aside. He unzips his fly but feels he doesn't have the strength to take his pants off, which makes him feel even worse. Abbacchio lies helplessly, arms splayed out, feeling like an empty sack.
"Need help getting your pants off?" asks Buccellati. Abbacchio nods, and Bruno helps him.
Leone watches as Bruno folds their clothes and feels abandoned. Not by Buccellati—by life itself. It was passing him by, just like Bruno was standing at the closet with his back to him now. And there was only one reason for it all, and he knew it perfectly well.
Abbacchio sighs heavily, and as soon as Buccellati sits back on the bed, he hugs him, making him lie down.
"Sleep?" asks Bruno, receiving a nod in return, "Goodnight," he says and turns off the light.
Leone kisses him on the lips in response and presses against his chest. The thin sheet is tangled somewhere near their feet, and Abbacchio really likes the feeling of Buccellati's warm skin against the cool air from the AC. He kisses it, as if in thanks, and closes his eyes, still existing in some borderline state between being and non-being.
Abbacchio falls asleep almost immediately: many say you sleep better after crying.
He wakes up feeling as if he'd only slept for half an hour and turns to look at the clock.
3:34
His brain had tricked him.
Bruno is lying as if holding someone, and Leone feels ashamed that he shifted in his sleep and escaped those tender touches. Buccellati's face is relaxed, its usual focus gone, leaving only a quiet, almost childlike vulnerability. His long lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, and his lips are slightly parted, as if he's about to whisper something in his dream. His hair has fallen onto his forehead, framing his face with unruly strands, making Bruno seem younger.
Abbacchio lies in the dark for a long time, listening to Bruno's even breathing. A sliver of dark night is visible through a gap in the curtains. He carefully gets up, trying not to wake his sleeping love, and goes out onto the balcony.
A cigarette ignites into a red dot between his fingers. He takes a drag, looking at the night sky, feeling the smoke burn pleasantly in his lungs.
'He's too alive for someone like me.'
Abbacchio can't look away. Every breath Bruno takes, even and deep, seems to pull him out of the darkness he keeps falling into. Sometimes Bruno's fingers twitch slightly, and Leone catches himself wanting to take them in his own—to feel that this life is next to him, warm and real.
And that's what's frightening and painful: here is the person worth living for… But Leone doesn't know how to live.
Abbacchio suddenly felt afraid of his own thoughts. What if Bruno fell in love with someone else? Not this broken, pill-dependent man with emptiness in his eyes. But with the Leone he used to be—angry, sad, passionate, vivid, but above all—alive.
Bruno's voice startles Leone:
"You're so beautiful... What's wrong?" asks sleepy Buccellati, rising from the bed.
"Can't sleep... Wanted a smoke."
"Nightmare?"
"No. Just woke up."
Bruno comes up behind Leone and hugs him, kissing his back.
"You can always talk to me. Remember?"
"I remember..." Abbacchio inhales the smoke and leans on the balcony railing, "I'm scared that... that you fell in love with a different version of me. Not the one now. Not this pathetic parody."
"You are not a pathetic parody, Leone. You are a complete person. You are a personality. Don't say that. I fell in love with you at first sight and I continue to love you just the same," Bruno assures him.
"Well, not at first sight," a small, ironic smile flickers on Leone's lips.
"That doesn't matter. At second sight. I grow more certain every day of how much I love you. I love your rare smile, which only I see, I love your hair, I love your smell... I love your mind, your sincerity, how loving and gentle you are... How attentive you are... I could remember more if I weren't so sleepy."
"I want to believe you..."
"Believe me, Leone. I would never lie to you," Buccellati holds Abbacchio tighter, "let's rest? And we'll dedicate tomorrow just to us."
"And what's the point of our vacation then? We paid for everything just to lie in a hotel?" asks Leone.
"First, we paid for the hotel too. Second, forget about the money. If you're tired, you shouldn't force yourself to suffer tomorrow. Let's just rest alone, the two of us? I'd be happy to do nothing too," Bruno suggests.
Abbacchio finishes his cigarette down to the filter, crushes the butt in his hand, and flicks it off the balcony.
"What are you doing? You'll burn yourself!" Bruno exclaims.
"Then I'll feel something," Leone replies hoarsely, not looking at him, "I want to feel something. I can't cut myself. I can't have sex."
He lowers his head, his hair falling over his face, hiding his eyes. His shoulders tremble slightly from the tension.
"Leone... you don't need to hurt yourself to prove you're alive. You are alive right now. Here—your breath. Here—your heart. Here—I am next to you."
Abbacchio is silent, but his breathing becomes uneven.
"You think you're losing yourself," Bruno continues quietly, stroking his shoulder, "but I see you. Not a pathetic parody, as you said. The real you. Tired, tormented, but still real. You can be anyone with me. I didn't fall in love with someone else, only with you."
Bruno gently takes his hand, the one that had just been crushing the cigarette butt, and carefully uncurls his fingers.
"Hurt?" he asks, not accusing, just caring.
Abbacchio gives an almost imperceptible nod.
"So you can feel. But let me help you feel differently. Tomorrow we can just stay by ourselves. No one will bother us. Sleep, lie around, talk or be silent – whatever you want. And the day after, we'll go to the museums, if you have the energy. We have time. There's no need to rush."
He hugs Leone from behind, pressing him close, and holds him for a long time. Abbacchio freezes at first, but then slowly, very reluctantly, relaxes into those arms.
Bruno holds him tightly, as if his hands alone can keep him from falling into the abyss. His voice is even and quiet, almost lulling:
"You don't have to be strong. You don't have to be cheerful. I love your silence too. Even your darkest moments – that's still you. And I'm still here. Do you hear?"
Abbacchio lets out a strained exhale, as if for the first time that night allowing himself to loosen the grip inside his chest just a little.
"Let's try to sleep," Bruno says cautiously, "The night is still long, and tomorrow I want to wake up next to you. We'll just sleep, have breakfast in bed, watch the sea from the window. Do you want that?"
He takes his hand and leads him back into the room. Leone doesn't resist. On the bed, Bruno settles him down, lies down beside him, and hugs him again.
"Like this. Just breathe. I'm with you. And I will be tomorrow too. And always."
The words gradually dissolve into the silence. Abbacchio lies with his eyes closed, his breathing becoming more even. His hands are still tense, but there's something in Bruno's voice and his warmth that slowly lulls the anxiety to sleep.
Buccellati falls asleep almost instantly, and Abbacchio smiles at his adorable face. Just minutes ago he was talking about his cosmic love, and now he's snoring peacefully.
Leone kisses him on the nose and closes his eyes, not understanding what he did to deserve such an angel.
.
Morning arrived lazily and quietly, without rush. The sun had just begun to break through the thick curtains, leaving soft golden stripes on the sheets and floor. The room smelled of bedding and the night air, which still carried traces of tobacco smoke.
Bruno wakes first. He lies still, listening to Leone's even breathing. Abbacchio is sleeping soundly, his cheek pressed against Bruno's shoulder, his hair slightly disheveled, the shadow of his long lashes falling on his face. Bruno carefully kisses the top of his head, trying not to wake him, and closes his eyes again, allowing himself to simply listen to the sound of his loved one breathing.
Leone wakes up later, when morning has fully entered the room. His voice is hoarse, his eyes slightly puffy, but they lack yesterday's emptiness, holding only a usual, sleepy tiredness.
"Good morning," he mumbles, not lifting his head from the pillow.
"Good morning," Bruno smiles softly.
They order breakfast directly to the room: a basket of still-warm croissants, two glasses of fresh orange juice, and strong black coffee. A waiter brings everything on a large tray, and Bruno insists they eat in bed. Leone wrinkles his nose at the crumbs on the sheets, but Bruno just laughs:
"Let there be a mess. There's life in it."
That's how they spend the morning: slowly, without plans, talking in fragments, enjoying the silence more. Sometimes Leone gets up to smoke on the balcony, and each time Bruno follows him, hugs him from behind, and presses his face to his back.
After noon, they go down to the pool. The water is cool and clear, like jelly, thanks to the bright tiles. Leone sits on the edge for a long time at first, but then decides to enter, letting the water embrace him. For the first time in a long while, he looks truly relaxed, thankfully there are almost no people – everyone has gone to the sea. The sun touches Abbacchio's skin, droplets run down his chest and neck as he closes his eyes. Bruno sits nearby on the edge, watching him. He watches intently, as if afraid that if he looks away, Leone will disappear back into his darkness.
After swimming, they sit on the loungers for a long time, wrapped in towels, lazily drinking water with mint and lemon. Abbacchio is silent, but his face is calm, and Bruno treasures every such minute like a jewel.
After swimming, they doze in the room, covered by their favorite heavy, warm blanket – despite the weather and temperature, they both prefer the feeling of being slightly weighed down. Under the same heavy blanket, they watch a classic film on one of the Italian channels.
"Well then, will we go down to the restaurant?" Bruno asks, picking up his phone.
"No… too noisy," Leone replies, lying back on the pillows, "Better here."
"Then we'll order room service. What shall we eat?"
Leone turns his head towards him, grimacing as if the question itself tires him:
"I'll have the Malagueña salad. And apple juice."
"Are you sure that's enough?" Bruno worries.
"Yes."
"Won't you have coffee?"
"No, it'll upset my stomach."
"Okay, understood. I'll probably have the grilled fish and a latte. And olives."
Abbacchio pulls the blanket higher over his chest and silently watches as Buccellati places the order, listing the dishes. His voice is even, calm, as if everything is under control.
Twenty minutes later, there's a knock at the door. Bruno accepts the tray with its service: silver domes, hot plates, a bowl of olives, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee. He thanks the waiter, closes the door, and carefully places everything on the table by the sofa. He removes the domes – and the room is immediately filled with the aroma of tomatoes, baked fish, lemon, and freshly brewed coffee.
Leone reluctantly gets up, stretches as if his body is still resisting the day, and approaches the table, sitting down next to Bruno.
"Not bad," Leone mutters, trying the first spoonful of salad.
"Of course it's not bad," Bruno smiles softly, bringing the coffee cup to his lips, "I chose the hotel, after all."
They hardly talk after that. Just the quiet sound of a fork on a plate, muted swallows. Leone eats slowly, sometimes pausing to catch his breath before picking at the salad again. Yesterday's heaviness is still palpable: he remains slightly tense, his shoulders not fully relaxed. But he feels better next to Bruno.
Bruno eats his fish contentedly and sometimes transfers olives to Leone's plate, as if sharing unobtrusively. Abbacchio doesn't object, silently taking them. These small gestures replace words. He likes it so much that it shows on his face, and it makes Leone smile.
Through the slightly open balcony door, the evening air drifts into the room, smelling of stone and sea. The distant hum of the street is audible from outside, but it's muffled and doesn't press down on them.
Leone leans back against the sofa back, lifts the glass of apple juice, and takes a slow sip. Bruno watches him from the side and doesn't ask anything. He just sits nearby, quietly, allowing Leone to eat at his own pace and exist in his own silence.
Dinner passes like this – unhurried, without conversation, but in this simplicity lies their closeness: the food, the warm light, the shared table, and the feeling that it's just the two of them – and that is enough.
When the plates are empty, the room retains the light scent of fish and lemon, mixed with the evening air drifting through the balcony door. Bruno places his half-finished coffee cup on the edge of the table, leans back, and takes a deep breath, as if absorbing this silence.
Leone gets up and walks to the balcony. He opens the door wider, letting the night wind inside. The city hums from outside: distant voices, occasional engine sounds, the clinking of glasses from neighboring terraces. It's all mixed together, but thanks to the room's walls, the noise seems a little softer.
Abbacchio sits down in front of the table, stretching his legs. His hair is slightly ruffled by the wind, and he holds a glass of cold apple juice in his hands. He takes a small sip, holds the liquid in his mouth, then swallows – as if tasting not the flavor, but the moment itself.
Bruno follows him out, brings his coffee cup, and stands beside him. He looks down at the streets where the lantern lights merge into golden lines, and among the old stone houses, vendors are in no hurry to pack up their goods despite the late hour.
Leone listens to the city noise through the hum in his head. Music from afar provides a backdrop, like a scene from a movie you can watch from the sidelines. He doesn't notice himself slipping into derealization. Leone holds the glass in his hands but hasn't drunk from it in a while – he just turns it, looking through the glass at the city lights. His gaze seems frozen, his eyes glazed. Abbacchio's breathing becomes even, as if controlled by a steam engine. Inside, everything begins to swim: the walls, the light of the lamps, the buildings. The sensation of the balcony's height fades, and even the movement of the wind feels unreal. The walls of the room are too straight, Bruno's movements seem unnaturally smooth, as if he's an actor playing a role beside him, and even his own hands seem foreign – the long fingers clenched around the glass as if they belong to someone else.
Leone slowly clenches the glass tighter, so hard his knuckles turn white. But even the pain in his fingers feels muffled, distant. As if his body is here, but he himself is somewhere off to the side. Nothing is real. Not him, not the room, not Bruno.
He exhaled sharply, setting the glass down on the windowsill.
"Let's go for a walk," he said suddenly, too abruptly, as if the words had escaped on their own.
Bruno turned to him, surprised.
"Right now? It's late."
"Yes," Leone replied curtly, "I need to."
He walked back into the room as if afraid that if he hesitated for a second, he would change his mind and remain in that viscous state. He grabbed a The Smiths CD, pulled his headphones from his bag, put them on, and checked several times if they were sitting comfortably, if they sealed his ears tightly. The music came on louder than usual—a steady rhythm immediately filled the space around him, drowning out the city's hum and his own thoughts.
Bruno followed him in. He saw Leone was already in his sneakers and didn't even argue—just took the key card and put on a light jacket.
"Okay. We'll go together."
They stepped out onto the street. The night carried a coolness, smelling of salt, the sea, and expensive wine. People still sat at outdoor tables, occasional laughter and the clinking of glasses could be heard. The music in his headphones made the world around him muffled, almost silent, and thanks to that, he could move forward without flinching at every shout or voice. Every movement, every step confirmed: the world is solid, the street is real, the air touches the skin.
The derealization didn't disappear completely—a thin film still lay between him and reality, but now it wasn't suffocating. Abbacchio still felt as if he were behind glass, but the glass no longer pressed in on him from all sides. It was cracking, and through the cracks, the real emerged: the chill of the evening wind on his face, the stone of the pavement, Bruno's footsteps beside him.
Leone didn't fully return to himself, but at least he stopped sinking. The world was still alien, but no longer hostile—and this small relief gave him the strength to keep walking.
They walked further, down a narrow street emerging from shadow into the yellowish light of streetlamps. Laughter, conversations—everything passed by Leone, muted by the music in his headphones. He caught himself no longer automatically counting his steps, just walking. After a few minutes, the street widened and opened onto a square. For Leone, it all still felt a bit flat, like a painted backdrop, but no longer so frightening.
Abbacchio stopped at the edge of the square, lifted one headphone to hear the world—and froze. The sounds of an acoustic guitar and Morrissey's voice mixed with the street noise, and it all sounded as if from a distance, but there was something calming about it.
Bruno moved closer and took his hand in his.
"Everything okay?" he asked softly.
Leone doesn't answer—he just gives a slight nod. The movement is awkward, but genuine. He slowly sits down on a stone bench by the fountain, stretches out his legs, and closes his eyes. The evening air is cool, and this sensation finally breaks through the remnants of the veil.
Bruno sits down beside him, asking no questions. He just pulls a piece of chewing gum from his inner jacket pocket and offers it to Leone. He takes it, unwraps it mechanically, and puts it in his mouth. The mint is sharp and refreshing, bringing him another step closer to reality.
Abbacchio opens his eyes and looks at the square: the fountain, the people, the soft lights from the shop windows. It still feels like a dream, but no longer a hopeless one.
The water in the fountain falls in thin streams, and its steady noise pleasantly breaks up the street's cacophony. Leone still has his headphones on, but the volume is lowered slightly, so he can hear both the music and the guitarist nearby. This double rhythm strangely soothes him: one layer from reality, the other—its filter.
He watches the people around him.
A group of young people in leather jackets sits right on the stone steps, drinking beer from cans and talking in low voices. Their laughter sounds tired, drawn-out, lacking the day's excitement. One guy with a guitar keeps playing, not for an audience, but for himself: his fingers move slowly over the strings, as if he himself is falling asleep with the instrument.
Two middle-aged women by a café are quietly arguing about something, gesturing with their hands, and restrained laughter occasionally breaks through their voices.
Off to the side stands a family with a child: a boy stubbornly pulling his parents toward the fountain to throw one more coin into the water. The father smiles wearily but allows it, and the bright sound of the coin is surprisingly quiet.
Closer to the edge of the square, a group of waiters in identical vests smokes, chatting among themselves—they too are resting after a long day. Their voices hold relief mixed with fatigue; they laugh at jokes only they understand.
And all this life around them moves at a measured pace, without extra tension. The city seems to be slowing down but not stopping, continuing to breathe quietly along with the fountain's water and the muffled voices.
Leone watches it all, and it feels a little easier. Everyone in their own little world, and it all adds up to life.
Bruno sits relaxed beside him, elbows on his knees. He doesn't hurry him, doesn't suggest going back, only occasionally turns his head to check on Leone. And each time their eyes meet, Leone sees calm and warmth in his face, as if the entire city becomes safe simply because Bruno is here.
Ten, fifteen minutes pass. Leone increasingly catches moments when he isn't thinking that "everything is unreal." The wind chills his hands, the stone bench is hard and rough, the taste of mint returns to his mouth. This is all real. Not perfect, not completely—but enough to hold onto.
"It's not bad here," he finally mutters, more to himself than to Bruno.
Bruno smiles at the corner of his lips.
"I like it too."
Leone sits on the bench by the fountain, his head slightly tilted. Through the music in his headphones, he catches a familiar melody—the jagged chords of an electric guitar cutting through the street noise, catching his ear. He lifts his headphones, listens more closely, and suddenly smiles at the corner of his lips.
"Do you know what song he's playing?" he asks, turning to Bruno.
"No," Bruno says, looking at the musician but not recognizing the tune.
"'Layla' by Eric Clapton," Leone says, perking up slightly, a spark in his voice. "Do you know Pattie Boyd? She's a model and was married to George Harrison, the guitarist for the Beatles. Well, this song is dedicated to her. Clapton confessed his love to her by playing it for her. Imagine what she must have felt? And then they started dating—right under Harrison's nose. And yet, Harrison and Clapton remained best friends. George even attended their wedding."
Bruno's eyes widen, a slight smile touching his lips.
"Truly an amazing story. What a beautiful song. You can tell it's full of love and... I'd say, a kind of longing, even though I don't understand the words. And then they were together?"
"No. Clapton isn't the best person. He became an alcoholic and cheated on Pattie. Imagine—cheating on Pattie Boyd? The goddess of beauty?"
"That's sad," Bruno says, looking at the musician whose fingers run over the strings, "but at least their love story left such a mark on music."
"That's true. Clapton was one of my inspirations when I was learning to play guitar. Though I had an acoustic one. But this song has an acoustic version too—very melodic. Pattie Boyd was the inspiration for another legendary song, you've probably heard it—'Something' by the Beatles."
"Of course I've heard it," Bruno smiles, "Harrison wrote it?"
"Yes. The irony is that they broke up a few years later. The song turned out not to be about eternal love," Leone says, smiling slightly at his own thought. "Remember, I told you when I was a teenager, I had an acoustic guitar. I used to play for hours, my fingers would bleed. Clapton was one of my inspirations. Along with him, Jimmy Page, David Gilmour, Robert Fripp, and others—I wanted to be like them, thought if I learned to play their songs, I'd become a little bit like them myself."
He leans back against the bench, his eyes warming for a moment with the memory.
"Back then, music saved me. It was the only way to cope with what was inside."
Bruno looks at him with particular attention, tilting his head slightly.
"I'd like to hear you play," he says quietly, "it's a shame we don't have a guitar here."
Leone snorts and looks down at his hands.
"I haven't played in a long time now. My fingers aren't the same, and... my state isn't either. But sometimes, when I hear something familiar, like now, it feels like that version of me is still somewhere nearby."
Bruno gently touches his shoulder, as if confirming: yes, nearby—and it hasn't disappeared.
Buccellati is silent for a while, listening to the music with him. Then he turns slightly and speaks quietly, as if afraid to break this fragile moment:
"You're smiling. That means you’re still in the state."
Leone doesn't open his eyes, only shakes his head slightly. But the smile remains.
"I would have liked to see you back then," Bruno continues, his voice even and warm, "a teenager with a guitar slung over his shoulder, stubborn, with dark lipstick and black clothes. I would have fallen head over heels for you."
Leone lets out a quiet huff. The music fills the pause, and Bruno's words settle over it, as if becoming part of the melody itself.
"You know I don't understand music," Bruno admits softly, "but I know for sure that you hear things in it that I don't. And that makes you special." He places his palm on Leone's hand and gives a slight squeeze.
"You're flattering me," Abbacchio smiles, showing his teeth, and looks down.
"Not one bit," Buccellati says, kissing Abbacchio's cheek.
Leone feels a blush spread across his cheeks, and he pecks Bruno on the lips, shielding his face with his hand.
"I love you," Buccellati says quietly, intertwining their fingers.
"I love you too," Abbacchio can still feel the kiss on his lips, despite its fleetingness.
"Shall we walk to the sea?" Bruno asks.
"Of course, let's go."
The streets closer to the promenade grow quieter. Tourists have already dispersed to their hotels, and only occasional footsteps echo from the alleys. The streetlamps paint golden spots on the cobblestones, shadows lengthen, and the air gradually fills with a salty freshness.
Bruno walks beside Leone, a little faster than usual—the sea is pulling him toward itself. Abbacchio still has his headphones on, but the music is turned down to a minimum—now he can hear the splash of waves somewhere ahead. This sound cuts through the remaining noise in his head, calming him more than any melody. They hold hands, sharing this moment together.
And then they step onto the beach. Before them lies the dark sea, scored by a line of moonlight. Waves lap lazily against the shore, and at this late hour, the water is utterly alone.
"Hear that?" he turns to Bruno, taking off his headphones, "It's so... real."
"Yes. Real."
They walk along the shoreline, unhurried, each step accompanied by the splash of water, as if the sea itself is speaking to them. The waves roll in and recede, leaving foam that slowly dissolves into the darkness.
Leone is the first to sit down on a rock, not far from the water. His posture is slightly tense, but his gaze is fixed straight on the horizon, where the sea merges with the sky. Bruno sits down beside him, a little closer than usual, and draws his knees to his chest. For a while, they are silent.
"I love this sound," Leone finally says, "It doesn't demand anything from me. It just is."
"Like breathing," Bruno agrees. "Or a heartbeat. It doesn't need to be controlled."
Leone gives a slight nod. Now there is only the sea and the night. The wind ruffles their hair, bringing a salty taste to their lips.
"Feel it?" Bruno stretches his palm forward, letting the cool droplets spray from the waves. "As if the water itself wants us to know: it's here."
Leone looks at his hand, then does the same. Their palms grow slightly damp, and he suddenly smiles—tiredly, but sincerely.
"You taught me to love the sea, but sometimes I still feel a kind of... fear of it. Looking at its horizon, I feel like I'm nothing in this universe," Leone stares into the dark abyss.
"But you are everything in mine, Leo," Buccellati replies.
Abbacchio gasps and mutters an embarrassed "you too."
"I'm so glad you can share this love for the sea with me," Buccellati rests his head on Abbacchio's shoulder. "You have no idea how much. It's all one ocean, you know—the Mediterranean Sea and our Tyrrhenian Sea. The waves have their own home, and a larger, shared homeland... Just like people have a small hometown, a larger country, and our planet Earth," Bruno takes Leone's hand in his. "And we were fortunate enough to be born in the same time, the same country, the same city, and to meet..."
"Yes... Sometimes I remember, you know... My worst periods and how I hurt myself... And it becomes unbearably bitter, painful, and shameful, because I really thought about depriving myself and you of our happiness. If I could rewind time... There wouldn't be a single scar on me."
"That is in the past. You have changed," Bruno says, taking both of Leone's hands in his and kissing them. "There is nothing to be ashamed of, my dear. Your scars do not mar you in the slightest. They are a stage of life you have passed through. A part of you, but not a shameful one. A sign that you are a true hero. They are all healed." Buccellati turns his head away, and a solitary tear traces its path down his cheek. "I am so glad I can cover them with kisses..."
"Bruno... My love..." Abbacchio's lips part, unsure how to respond.
"Yes," Buccellati smiles, despite the flowing tears, "do not mind me. Today is a good day."
"A good day," Abbacchio agrees, despite everything, trying to smile back but unable to keep from tearing up himself upon seeing Bruno like this.
They sit in silence for a while, until Bruno starts to giggle.
"What are you laughing at?" Leone asks, wiping the corners of his eyes.
"It is funny, how we are both sniffling," Buccellati says, covering his mouth with his hand, but his cheeks give him away.
"Romantic," Leone tilts his head, looking into Bruno's laughing eyes.
They simultaneously lean in and kiss each other's lips, carefully, as if for the first time, allowing the salty wind and the sound of the sea to be their witnesses. It is short at first, a little awkward, but their lips are in no hurry to part—the kiss holds softness, weariness, and gratitude for being together. Leone tastes the salt—whether from the sea or from tears—and suddenly understands: this is the most real thing that has happened to him in a long time.
Bruno quietly cups his face with a palm, holding him in that moment, and Leone closes his eyes, allowing himself, for the first time that day, to simply be. He hears only Bruno's breathing and the distant sound of the waves. Everything else—the anxieties, the fatigue, the thoughts—dissolves into the night.
The waves roll in and recede, the moon reflects in the water as a silvery path, and the night seems to embrace them both, promising that whatever tomorrow brings, they can face it together.