Chapter Text
It’s long since become overwhelming.
Two–years–old, barely as tall as the seat of the chairs he stands so obediently by in a crowded dance hall. Posture straight, standing tall. Not a mere movement leaves him as he listens to what he has been told. He doesn’t believe that he has a choice. His collar feels as if it’s choking him. With the wool suffocating underneath the bright, steadily hot lights. His feet ache in the shoes that feel as if they’re more meant for show than wear, but Pannacotta isn’t allowed to complain.
Not as he stands in the brightly decorated room meant to create the perfect picture of sophistication with the swirling gowns and the continuous pops of the corked champagne.
The boring conversation between adults around him fades as he tries to distract himself with the tall tree kept in the corner of the room. An intense stare focused on the candles of each pine branch as their flames dance underneath the glow of the chandelier above. He stares at the gleam of the ornaments, seeing the reflections of the other children around his age, sitting on the fluff white tree rug. How lucky they are to not be standing beside their parents.
He can imagine the mental scowl. Keyword of imaginary when he’s well aware of the scolding he’ll receive if his features are anywhere but in that perfect smile.
Even if they threaten to contort as his ears ring with the want to cover them from the loud voices as everyone talks all at once. Over each other. In varying volumes. Only clashing with the fast paced music coming from the stage. Drums, horns, and trumpets that echo in the blinding white room that would be sterile without its tacky gold accents.
He shifts on the balls of his feet. Immediately receiving a tight squeeze to his hand. He glances up at his mother. A silent stare between them before he looks down and stands still. His muscles ache at the long–term position, but he knows that look all too well through those cold blue eyes. Unrefined, and draws attention, his parents had explained.
He gives into her expectations.
It's sudden when he stumbles backwards at the bump. Perhaps not even the expression of seen but not heard qualifies for him. Pannacotta isn’t meant for attention. He’s yanked straight by his arm as he feels the glances taken towards him at the interruption. There are chuckles from his parents’ friends as he glares at the young couple who ran past him.
The coos and gentle teases he hears akin to fond and affectionate are cut off when he focuses on the following squeeze of his hand. Another strike. Pannacotta huffs lowly. It isn’t fair.
None of it is.
He glances around. Pausing as he sees the other children. How they play with toys, and talk to one another. How they’re allowed to. Conspicuously pulling at his collar, he jumps at the sudden crash of the cymbals. His heart beating painfully against his chest. It’s all too much.
A small whine emits. High–pitched, and calling for attention. The conversation comes to another pause. All eyes turn. All but the one he wants.
They only stare forward with a strained smile. Yet, the corners threaten to waver. Her other hand tightens on the glass of champagne just as his free one reaches to pull at her dress skirt. Wanting. Pannacotta should have known better than that. Strike three.
He hears his mother politely excusing them, but her grip on his hand tightens the same. He watches as her eyes go sharp as they turn away. Loud click of her heels against the warmly lit tiles as she forcefully pulls him along. Uncaring as his feet stumble to keep up.
Overtired and overwhelmed, he finds the pinprick, bruising touch to be the final straw. The tears stream as a sob bubbles from his lips. A mere warning that all toddlers give before there’s a deafening wail that fills the dance hall.
Heads turn when the shift in the air becomes apparent rather fast. Despite the way the noise of a young child shouldn’t be out of the ordinary. The cries are unpleasant, but rather expected. Yet, there are hushed whispers that come from behind cupped hands to the ears of those around them as the perfect facade that the Fugos’ brag about shows the slightest crack.
Pannacotta drops to the ground, continuing on despite the way his mother tries to forcefully pull him up. Voice commanding, but flustered as her eyes dart to the growing crowd who watch. He doesn’t want to be here. Wants to be home. Where it’s quiet.
“Pannacotta Fugo.” Comes the snap. “Get up. Now.”
Through the blurs of tears, he stares up at her. His lips tremble as he outstretches tiny arms towards her in a silent plea. As if being held can calm the spin of his brain.
She never will, though. Deep down, despite how young he is, he knows that. At least never in the way he wants. Needs. When he crawls into her lap, she steadies him because it’s what is expected from a mother. Her posture remains stiff, despite the way he tries to lean into her. Like any hugs he tries to give her will snap forward that part of her mind that will return it. Regardless, he still craves it.
A part of him always will, but she looks away.
There's a startled cry that leaves him as he’s yanked up into someone’s arms. His face pales at the sight of his father, who doesn’t bother to spare him a glance as with thunderous steps he carries him down the length of the aisle, heading towards the door. His arms are painfully tight around his waist as Pannacotta kicks at him to no avail. He watches the flames of the candles waver as the heavy doors are slammed shut.
Red eyes slowly blink awake. Meet by the floral decals of the half slanted ceiling. With pink flowers and curly twining green stems throughout. A small body draws in on himself more, tightly gripping the stuffed animal of a cat as he comes to awareness. The fast–paced music of the dream falls into the soft melody of the soothing instrumental lullabies that his father left in the record player for him when he settled him down for a nap.
The thought makes Pannacotta shift. His father. His new father…The one who actually wants him.
Who makes everything better.
When it all becomes too much, too noisy, he takes him gently by the hand; leading him to his room not as a punishment, but to make him comfortable in the space dedicated for him. There’s no yelling, not a hit to come, no punishment when he sits down beside him, silent. Patient in his wait between the two of them with a soft voice telling Pannacotta to take his time. There’s understanding. Just understanding.
Why couldn’t they be the same?
This man, a vampire no less; of who they’ve warned him about, is different. He lets Pannacotta draw as close as he wants to him. Holds him steady with a warmth that is undeniable. Understands the storm of his head and covers his ears to further help muffle a world that can grow overwhelming. Pannacotta always leans into his palms, staring at him like he’s everything.
He has an actual father now, and the thought of him makes him stand.
The snow falls steadily. Flurries against the deep palette of the darkened sky. The man hums to himself with the glance he takes as he sits in the window alcove, watching the slowly turning weather as the autumn fades to a close and his apprehension over the winter begins. Not a pleasant thought as he adjusts his glance to fall back down on the book in his lap when there’s a quiet thump of a stuffed animal hitting the cushion of the window seat just by his feet.
Bruno looks over, being met with eyes still filled with sleep as Pannacotta’s head peaks over. He gives a tired blink as Bruno smiles at him.
“Good nap?” He asks with a chuckle when he receives a little grunt that turns into a yawn as a response. “It seems so.”
He shifts slightly, allowing room for Pannacotta to join him. Of which the boy immediately takes the offer. Climbing up before he squishes himself into the small space between Bruno and the window. Bruno shifts to allow him enough room to settle, feeling that pull of affection deep in his chest as he watches. His son. He brushes his hair back, smoothing out the disarray white strands that stood up from sleep. Pannacotta glances at him from the touch.
“Hi, ragazzo dolce.” He murmurs so softly. A voice full of nothing but love.
Not cold like his previous parents, Pannacotta thinks. Remembering a disregarding tone that made him feel akin to a dog. It makes him falter a little, but he compensates by turning towards the window and keeping himself close to his father.
Only another thing when he doesn’t seem put off by his quiet nature…nor his explosive anger. That’s a notion that truly did not and still doesn’t make sense to him. He’ll never understand it, but he takes what he’s given. Partially in fear of it disappearing.
Reaching out, he takes one of his hands, holding as he watches the trees sway in the soft wind outside. Bruno chuckles.
“Panna, dear, it’s hard to turn the pages with only one hand.” Yet, he doesn’t dislodge him.
He allows him to take any comfort he wants. Pannacotta never knew it could be this way.
Curled in a small ball, he stares out the window. His face pressed close to the glass as he feels the faint sensation of the cold just a barrier away. Bruno returns to his reading, sparing a brief glance nearby as Leone sleeps on the couch. Having dozed off in the silence, with only a mere stir having come from him when Bruno pulled the blanket resting at the end of the couch arm over him. Pannacotta hadn’t paid him any mind other than a passing sneer when he entered. Months, and this man is still here.
What does his father see in him to keep him around?
His attention is snapped by the increase of flurried snowflakes above from the gust of wind. A soft howl comes muffled through. He watches as they twirl against the dusting of snow laid on the ground. Underneath the moonlight, he sees the glow across the sheet of white; a bright and illuminating blue that stretches for miles through the forest with the branches of trees whose fallen leaves have long since been gone cutting patterns of shadows from above. He shifts closer.
Bruno glances at him. Smiling at the look akin to awe he catches. “Do you want to go out?” He asks quietly.
Pannacotta jumps. His head swinging back to look at him. The peaceful, near curious look falters. His cheeks puff out as he thinks to himself, searching for the right answer as his fingers pick at the buttons on his sweater.
“No,” He says flatly. Nothing more.
Bruno can’t exactly be surprised. Pannacotta never liked to participate in activities he deemed as unsanitary. Where other kids would play in the mud, Pannacotta would insist on Bruno carrying him when he saw even the slightest bit stick on his boots. Bruno has a tendency to cave. Where other kids would splash in rain puddles, Pannacotta would refuse to step a foot off the porch at the slightest raindrop. At the worst of the weather, Bruno would find him inside a blanket fort set up in his room. Content with the multitude of stuffed animals Bruno spoiled him with, and reading.
However, he sees it as something more.
“Panna, you know you’re allowed to play, right?”
Pannacotta glances at him. Stone–faced. A hidden nature in those silent features Bruno’s still learning to read through for the sake of his son. He doesn’t know that there has been a quiet voice in the back of the boy’s mind. The one who always believes that the notion of trust is nothing but fickle. It doesn’t last. For all his love towards the man, he wonders if this kindness can always be there? That it is not just a facade when there’s a feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even more than half a year later.
It can’t always be this way, can it? He looks down at their still joined hands.
Three–years–old, but he knows that all it takes is one wrong move out of line. He’s been tested before. Knows that words aren’t always surface level sincere. His parents taught him well when Pannacotta learned the hidden nature in them and bore the consequences.
He sees Bruno’s face soften further as he tries to bring him into his arms.
“Panna–”
He makes it hard to uphold everything he’s been taught. With a voice that is too soft, and a touch that is too gentle. Despite the way he craves it, it has a way of becoming overwhelming. Fast. Pannacotta rips his hand away from the hold, immediately crawling out of the space made for him. His feet hit the floor with a fast pad as he storms from the room.
Bruno sighs. Watching as he goes. He wonders what could have been done to make him so scared of allowing himself the simplest motion of being a child.
He shifts on the cushion, taking a glance out the window once more. His gaze is intense on the snow when an idea hits him. It’s how his attention snaps towards Leone just as he stands. The book snaps shut.
“Wake up.”
What he has to ask finds itself of the utmost importance.
He already had a slight idea. Saw the countless trees ranging in size decorated throughout the villages he traveled to for supplies. All the garlands, candles, poinsettias, and holly strewn about in various shops and home windows. The gifts, stockings, and brightly coloured ornaments that brought a sense of magic alongside the snowmen, reindeers, and the concept of Santa. The holiday season is more than appealing, especially for a child. A warmer meaning comes from the notion of family.
The excitement is palpable as Leone explains this to Bruno. There’s a need to start immediately.
It’s how Pannacotta finds himself standing by the staircase early the next morning, watching as the two men work to drag the tree through the door.
“Is this really necessary?” Leone huffs, briskly wiping back long white strands of his hair that had fallen loose from the ponytail.
Bruno smiles. His mask lifts up when he remains dressed in his protective gear as the search for said tree had run into the day. The snow is a blinding light underneath the rays of the sun. Pannacotta shifts on his feet, having remained asleep in his orb throughout the expanse of the trip.
“What do you think?” Bruno turns to him, hopeful and excited.
The boy only stares at him. “Pine.” He points to the ground with a disgusted look over the mess they dragged in as the pine needles scatter themselves across the floorboards.
“We can clean it, Panna,” Bruno reassures him. Yet, he only crosses his arms as he continues to watch them. A faint motion of a huff leaving him.
One that Leone matches as he straightens himself. “Lets just hope there're no bugs.” He says absentmindedly.
He can feel Bruno’s eyes burning into him as there’s the sudden, fast thumps traveling up the stairs in a panicked flee. A bedroom door slamming shut in faster succession.
“Leone.” Bruno’s voice comes out low before he shakes his head.
“Your kid’s too much of a neat freak.”
He gets a swat on the back of his head as Bruno passes by to close the door.
The topic of Christmas is properly brought up as Bruno prepares the younger for bed that night. Kneeling in front of his turned form as he buttons the flowy white nightshirt. Lost in thought over the countless new sewing patterns of clothes he has set up on his bed, musing that he should begin to sew some warmer fitting clothes for him as the season takes its turn. Longer sleeves, thicker socks, an actual coat when he reasons that the sweaters and cardigans won’t be enough any longer.
He comes to a pause as he wonders if it’s necessary out of logical technicality with Pannacotta being a ghost, but tells himself that it wouldn’t hurt. The principal of it all. Especially when he knows that the boy has the ability to feel a faint sense of warmth, shown by the way he clings to him so tightly despite Bruno, too, being a part of the undead. He found something akin to the sensation, and Bruno smiles to himself as he makes plans.
Standing, Bruno motions for Pannacotta to sit on the bed as he goes to his dresser to grab for his hairbrush. He notices the scattered papers set on the wood, with the scribbles of crayons muddling together in their colours. He picks one up before he looks at Pannacotta.
“You can decorate the tree, caro.” He murmurs with bright eyes shining with excitement for him. They can’t afford the ornaments many other trees see, but he reasons another option can keep the magic alive while pulling Pannacotta’s interest.
The boy looks up from the picture book that Bruno was meant to read to him. A patience that always becomes limited when books become involved.
His head tilts, unsure of what his father means as he watches him gather the blank sheet of papers and his crayons, sitting next to him on his bed. He demonstrates. A simple snowman that has Pannacotta leaning close, watching him colour in the scarf. He holds it out to show off.
“Anything you draw, we’ll cut out, and hang on the tree, yes?”
Pannacotta stares blankly at him, slowly taking the papers Bruno holds out. All blank, and he feels his brain match the motion as the wax crayon is placed in his hand. Sensing this, Bruno pays no further attention as he begins to lightly drag the brush through his hair.
As the night passes on, he stays that way. Despite the way he's supposed to be asleep. He stares hard at the paper, hearing his father’s voice downstairs. Remembers the bright facial features he wore over the aspect of the holiday in a way he can’t understand.
He lifts the crayon. The red is faint. Unsure. He tries for him. Despite not understanding it.
“Undignified, Pannacotta.” He remembers his old father’s voice saying once. Wasn’t even old enough to understand what the word meant, but it didn’t matter to the prick of guilt that always came. How the frustration would follow, but the anger deep in him only made them more disappointed in him. Eyes that sharply viewed him as broken. The crayon hovers.
He was a hindrance. Only born because it was expected. Everything had to be perfect. Meant for their image. A quality seen as the only importance in their life.
Through it, he knows Christmas well. All that it demands. All those parties they had to attend. Searing bright lights still in his mind. The remembrance of a tight grip on his hand. Squeezed with each imperfection they deem him to have. He didn’t stand up straight. He didn’t smile correctly. His face was scowled. He looked tired and bored. Flinched at every noise. Worst of all, if he made a scene via shouts and tears from an overwhelmed body, they could never understand. An embarrassment.
His lip trembles at the thought of it all. He crumbles the paper with a sniff before the tears can hit it. The crayon snaps underneath his hand before he launches it to the floor and shoves the paper deep underneath his bed.
Christmas is bullshit, and no matter what Bruno does to try; he doesn’t change on that position. Becoming angry with each mention of the holiday. Leone has always had front row seats to that anger.
All the hits and yells. The desperation in Bruno.
He thought he’s long since seen Pannacotta at his angriest, but doesn’t the coffee table flying on its own have his thoughts beat? The red wine spills everywhere in the expanse of the living room, his book tears at the invisible force of the pull from his hands, and with a rattle to the wall the photo frames fall to the floor.
Pannacotta wasn’t supposed to be awake. Put to bed hours ago, but he stands in the middle of the mess. Red–faced, with tears streaming that he wipes harshly away. Leone stands in the doorway, staring at him rather unimpressed.
“Pick up the book.” He says after a beat.
It makes Pannacotta blink. The glare breaks for a moment at the stern tone. Leone could nearly be surprised himself when it had slipped, but he reasons that if he can’t obviously make the three–year–old pick up the coffee table or shattered glass shards that have gone scattered, then he can sure as hell make him pick up the loose pages.
So, he stands there. Unwavering. Snorting when the glare only intensifies.
“Going to take more than that, kid. You made the mess; you pick it up.”
He wonders if he’s overstepping. He’s not the kid’s parent after all, but he’ll be damned if a child walks all over him and he lets him.
Pannacotta doesn’t move for a long moment. Enough so that Leone is expecting a further tantrum to rear its head in more.
He sighs to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. Cursing Bruno. He didn’t get much of an explanation of why he had to be left alone with a child who could snap his neck with his mind if he so chose to. If it worked like that. He’s unsure, but knows that there is strong hate in such a little body that he would try.
Regardless, Bruno had bounded down the stairs; his cloak and mask in his hand as he pulled Leone aside to ask him for a favor. His eyes bright and big as he pleaded softly for him to watch over Pannacotta, stating that with him asleep there wouldn’t be much for him to worry about. With the desperation in his voice, Leone found himself agreeing. Now he curses himself for it. What he and Bruno neglected to think about was Pannacotta having a nightmare, and the demand for his father. His behavior grew more out of control the longer Bruno stayed gone.
There’s a stomp of his foot, but slowly Pannacotta bends down to snatch the pages and the book that barely hangs by its spine. As he slams them down on the end table by the couch, Leone says nothing. His stare is burning. Pannacotta huffs. He picks them up once more, patting them neatly together before placing them down softly. Leone nods. Better.
He comes further inside the room, not paying the younger any mind anymore as he eases the coffee table up from its side and goes to pull it back to its original spot.
As he goes back towards the doorframe, he grabs the broom he dragged from the kitchen in the first wave of the tantrum. Yet, when he turns; the glass is mysteriously gone.
He looks at Pannacotta. Already having a feeling that’s proven right as the glass has come to float around the boy. Glimmering from their suspension in air, the remnants of the wine stick to it. Leone feels himself stiffen despite not wanting to show his cards. He swears his heart skips a beat.
“Fugo,” He says in a careful voice.
Pannacotta shifts on his feet. He says nothing verbally, but Leone gets an answer when the glass shards carry themselves towards the kitchen, placing themselves in the wastebin as Pannacotta’s face scrunches between concentration and a slight hint of guilt. Leone had nearly expected those shards to simply impale his body. A thought that makes him deflate lightly when he watches how Pannacotta looks away from him before walking out of the room.
He stands there. “What the fuck?” He mutters to himself.
Leone tries to let it go, wiping up the wine that spilled and straightening the living room, but something gnaws at him. Even as he tells himself to ignore it. Pannacotta made it clear repeatedly on where they stood, he’s pushing his luck when he didn’t even think of himself as someone akin to parental standing or even focusing his attention on a kid, but he finds himself faltering when he walks by the kitchen to see Pannacotta sitting at the table in his lonesome with tears continuing to drip down his face. A little nose scrunching with sniffs.
How he glances at the window. Wanting.
“You can wait for him on the porch.” He finds himself saying awkwardly. Unsure of what else he can do.
Pannacotta looks up, eyes red–rimmed, and he doesn’t even have the energy to muster a glare. Just a pitiful stare. That’s how Leone knows he’s truly miserable. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Never been good with kids, he has long since realized.
“I’m…going out there, anyway. Need a cigarette.” The last part is said in a low murmur. Should have counted it out, but nonetheless, he turns to gather his coat. If Pannacotta wants to follow him, then he can. He won’t stand and wait. Push any further.
Still, he can’t help but move Pannacotta’s little coat from the rack to place it lower. Folded on the entryway chair for him to reach before he eases the door open and pats at his pocket for his cigarette pack.
At the first puff of smoke, the door eases open behind him ever so slowly.
The boy doesn’t look at him as he stands in the doorframe. Pulling his coat tighter, and Leone wonders if as a ghost he can even feel the cold. He keeps his eyes pointed towards the sky, however. The blue is bright. They don’t speak to one another.
Leone should have expected it, but he scoffs lightly while flicking cigarette ash. He looks back at the woods. The moment the eyes are off him, Pannacotta moves out more. He stands on the steps, staring at the snow curiously. Out of the corner of his eye, Leone can’t help but watch.
He steps off the porch, flinching when his feet meet the cold wetness. He stands there stiff, and Leone has to grimace at the painful to watch actions.
“You act like you’ve never seen snow before.”
Pannacotta jumps, like he forgot he was there. He turns. Those red eyes burn at the monotone tease. There it is. Leone only gives him a blank look.
“You ever built a snowman before?” He asks. Unsure why. More smoke passes through his lips, joining the already present cloud drifting through the chilly air. Pannacotta stares at him. Not answering. He’s used to the silence. Has learned to read him without ever realizing it. “It’s simple. Roll three balls of snow. Differing sizes. Stack them on top. Create a body. Decorate. Whatever; simple, kid.”
Pannacotta stands there. He takes another drag of his cigarette and says nothing more. Lets him take it as he will.
Just as before, he eases himself further into the snow in slow steps. His translucent frame nearly blends in as he kneels to take a handful of snow. His fingers pricking at the cold. Bright and clean, he realizes. Different. Not to his mother, however. She’d remind him of the cost of his clothes with each careless step he took, according to her. With tiny hands, he packs it into a ball. Staring before he takes a glance back at Leone, who nearly laughs when all he can see is red eyes peeking through the expanse clearing.
“I’m not doing it for you.” He says with a shrug when Pannacotta scowls.
He’ll let him figure it out on his own, and in the end; he does. Just as Leone stubs out his cigarette, and is left standing aimlessly in the cold as he regrets broaching the topic when he has to wait for Pannacotta. Sighing lowly with each extra roll of the snowball, the boy seems insistent to take.
“Set myself up.” He mutters to himself, watching as Pannacotta finally stacks the snowballs on top of one another. Only managing two. He looks at Leone expectantly again. For a moment, the man is confused. Does he want praise? Then it clicks. “Doesn’t have to be decorated.” He tries to say, but Pannacotta's face twists, and the man decides another tantrum is not worth it. “Goddammit.”
He bends down, grumbling curses under his breath as he brushes the snow around to find what he was looking for. He gestures towards a handful of stones.
“Here.” He scowls. In an instance, they’re floating past him. Pannacotta busies himself, and Leone falls back into wait.
When the sky begins to have a golden hint to it, there’s a crunch in the snow.
Pannacotta’s head snaps up, watching the familiar figure come along the sightline of the property. He lights up as he stumbles away from the snowman in a hurry, nearly falling into the snow, but he straightens himself up enough.
Bruno doesn’t seem surprised as he kneels down to catch him in time just as he throws himself in his arms. Adjusting him, he picks him up to carry in one arm. Pulling the strap of the cloth bag higher on his other shoulder, nudging the contents out of view with his leg.
“Hi, Panna.” He murmurs gently, cooing as the boy shakes in his arm, reaching for his mask, but Bruno eases his hand away. “I know you want to see me, but I need the shade, remember? Let’s get you inside.”
It serves as a sudden reminder.
“Mama.” Pannacotta points towards the snowman, waiting for his reaction. The smile is immediate.
“Seems you had fun.” He says, pulling the boy closer. “It’s lovely.”
It makes him beam. There wasn’t a scold. Not over the childish act, or the way his pajamas are wet from the snow. Pannacotta rests his head on his shoulder. Tightly gripping the fabric of his cloak. Climbing up the steps, Bruno spares a quick glance in the other man’s direction.
“You too, Leone. It’s cold.”
Leone humorously rolls his eyes at the needless mother hen act towards him, but with the cigarette long since finished, there’s no reason to deny the notion.
He lingers throughout the rooms, pulling the curtains shut as Bruno’s voice flows through the entry hall before he hears the two make their way up the stairs. Just as he goes to make his way towards his own room, he nearly collides with Bruno coming down the steps, watching as he brightens up when he’s able to catch him.
“I’m so sorry, Leone.” He says quickly. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot the way I did.”
He shrugs. “It was fine. He was fine.” He waves a dismissive hand.
The look he gets is doubtful. “I saw the crack in the coffee table. You don’t have to lie.” With all the love he has for Pannacotta, he can’t deny the notion that he’s a handful. Bruno signed up for it. He’ll never regret it. It’s said with a smirk before Bruno deflates slightly. “Truly, I didn’t plan to be gone for all that long. I knew exactly what I needed. I just got held up on my return.”
“Oh?” Leone raises an eyebrow, leaning against the wall.
It’s there that Bruno’s expression turns sheepish.
“I may have nearly got caught.” He says. Leone’s jaw immediately clenches.
“Bruno–”
“–But I got them!” He pulls what he hid behind his back. The cloth bag is brimming with books. Children’s books that are a part of a collection. He moves towards the living room, trusting Leone to follow after him. He does. “I wish I could have gotten more, but this will have to do.”
He moves towards the tree, with a few ornaments he had stolen from the multitude in the village it’s decorated alongside the paper chains Bruno had done in an attempt to draw Pannacotta’s interest. There are already a few gifts waiting. Simple clothes Bruno sewed for his child, and a few that Leone has no clue about when they remain nameless so far.
“Isn’t that overboard?” He asks from the doorframe, watching Bruno stack piles of books on the coffee table. “The kid doesn’t even seem to like Christmas.”
God, an understatement in Leone’s mind. Any mention has Pannacotta’s face twisting with unreadable emotions before it settles into that deep anger. He takes it differently than them. Staring with distrustful features that Leone isn’t privy to. He nearly has to applaud Bruno’s patience through the indistinguishable meltdowns. The man still doesn’t know how he does it without appearing tired and bothered.
He supposes some are more built for parenthood than others. Then snorts when he thinks of his parents.
Bruno glances at him. “It’s not that he doesn’t like it; it’s that he becomes overwhelmed.”
It felt like fighting tooth and nail for Pannacotta to give him even an inch of a reason. The mention of presents had made him break, staring at an unknowing Bruno with such hatred when he believed he knew how it worked. Couldn’t believe this father would be the same as them. Everything in the vicinity flew on their own in various directions, many items striking Bruno.
“He only views it one way. I think I’ve come up with a way of sparking that interest and excitement in his own way. Without being too much, that is. I’ll match his level.”
He spreads the books out, staring down at their covers. It all paid off. Leone hums. He can’t imagine there could be a single thing that could have Pannacotta liking anything to do with the holidays. Bruno straightens as if he could read his mind as he sighs slightly.
“I just want to give him a perfect first Christmas.” Without stepping outside Pannacotta’s comfort. He’s carefully toeing the line.
Leone begrudgingly feels himself soften. “I know you do.” He murmurs. “He’ll like anything you give him. It doesn’t need to be this big spectacle. Just you and him.”
“You’ll be with us too.”
He pauses at that. “Bruno–”
“I’m not going to have you sitting in your room all day.” He’s steadfast and stern in his voice. “You’ll celebrate with us.”
It makes him chuckle. “Don’t think Pannacotta would appreciate it.”
“He’ll have to deal with it.” The seriousness in his tone makes him falter from the light tease he tried to give. “I’m aware that he’s scared. That he struggles to trust easily. I can validate that to a degree. Comfort him, and make it known that he’s safe, but I cannot let that fear be in charge. It doesn’t help him or us.”
He meets his eyes. Bruno doesn’t waver from the position. Staring at him with blue eyes full of nothing but sincerity.
Leone lets out a low puff of air. “Haven’t you done enough for me, Bruno?” He asks in a quiet voice he barely ever gives. Not when it lets that tentative vulnerability through. Yet, with him, Leone found himself not shying away from it. His presence makes it easy in a way he doesn’t understand. No one has ever made him feel like this before.
Bruno smiles. “You’re part of our home.” He says softly. Watching the man’s face waver through various emotions just between them. Bruno’s lips part slightly, but slip shut a moment later. What is on his tongue…It’s too much. Pushes the boundaries.
He looks back at the books, shifting focus.
Pannacotta stares at the wrapped object left on the top of his bookshelf. Kept concealed by the scrap of a vivid red cloth tied together with a lace white ribbon. It appeared randomly in the night, and he tries to play back his mind far enough to when it could have happened. The only logical answer being when he was asleep, and he doesn’t understand.
He shuffles on his feet, glancing towards the door. The confusion is more than palpable, but even then he’s not dull. A clear present, and why?
Pannacotta doesn’t get those. Hasn’t before. Shouldn’t now. He knows so. Each gift left under the tree would be removed with each notion his old parents felt as if he did wrong. Until there was only one left. Even then, they made it known he didn’t deserve it with an act that a two–year–old enjoying a gift was wrong. A waste. Always so determined to have him grow up sooner than a child should, but he wasn’t one to them. He was a doll and a step. The only thing remotely given was a teddy bear from his grandmother to celebrate his birth. It's stained with dirt in his closet.
Even so, there’s a curiosity of a child there all the same. He tells himself that he can peek. If it’s not for him, it will be easy to place back in the cloth and tie off. Bruno won’t have to know of his disobedience.
Slowly pulling at the ribbon, he tugs the cloth back, consistently looking over his shoulder before his eyes snap to the book revealed.
It’s simplistic. A plain beige. He traces the fabric cover with a cluster of illustrated rabbits. Uncoloured, with bows tied around their necks. Without a further thought, he’s flipping the cover open, allowing himself to become lost in the words.
So much so that he barely notices the door creaking open mere minutes later. Nor the steps until a figure crouches down next to where he lies on his stomach of the plush carpeted rug placed in his room. A lock of his hair is tucked back before a hand rests on his back, patting slightly to get his attention. It takes a moment for Pannacotta to be able to pry himself away from the book, and he does so with a small grumble.
There’s a fond chuckle.
“I see I chose well.”
Pannacotta pauses. His posture goes rigid as he meets his father’s eyes. He swallows harshly as he closes the book, shyly passing it to Bruno.
“Sorry.” He mumbles. His voice drops to that wispy tone. Small and fearful. Sure of his punishment for what feels like snooping despite it being left in his room. He failed the test, did he not?
Bruno shakes his head, placing the book back in his hands. His own resting gently on top of Pannacotta’s as he smiles. “It’s for you, Tesoro.”
There’s a blink. He doesn’t understand it.
Bruno’s smile goes sad. A part of himself always breaks at the facial expression. A child shouldn’t know such a feeling.
“Panna, I won’t ever take from you. Not in the way you believe I will.” Believes is normal. He watches Pannacotta’s eyes dart away from him. His body curls in on himself more. Shy and unsure. “I didn’t mean to push. This holiday…I wanted to show my care. As it is meant for.”
The parties were never all it was. An importance that comes with family. The quality time is all that’s needed with a reminder of familial love Bruno is determined to instill in him. As for the gifts…he uses this to get Pannacotta comfortable with the notion of being allowed things. Allowing himself to be, quite simply, a child.
“It’s yours.” He squeezes his hands. “Always will be.” Along with the other wrapped books waiting in his closet, he’ll place out each night in the countdown to Christmas Day. It will be something between them. Calm and quiet. “Do you want me to read to you?”
Pannacotta looks up with an expression that takes Bruno silently aback. He looks so happy. So beautifully happy with a guard that finally allows itself to be let down. A tradition forms there. Christmas learns to not be as overwhelming as Pannacotta once knew it as. Just as his face lights up, before Bruno can blink; he’s pulled into a tight hug with a loud squeal ringing in his ears. Bruno can’t help but return a surely bruising hug of his own.
“It looks like you’re torturing him.”
Bruno looks over his shoulder at the newcomer who’s come to join them in the kitchen. Finally able to properly start the day once retrieving Pannacotta, who remains in his arms, balanced on his hip as the two idly look through a cookbook for an idea of breakfast. Rhythmically, Bruno has been giving him squeezing tight hugs with plentiful kisses disposed on his head throughout. A game caught, and he teasingly huffs at the playful comment.
“He loves it. Gets mad if I stop.” He squeezes him tighter, earning a giggle as if Pannacotta hadn’t just been glaring at Leone with a wish of death in his eyes for the interruption. Now he looks at Bruno as if he’s his whole world.
Bruno feels his face soften further, swaying him for a moment longer before slowly he places him down. Ruffling his hair as the boy takes off towards the living room to busy himself. Leone and Bruno move around the kitchen in a comfortable silence. The snow falls lightly out the window.
Looking up from the breakfast he prepares for himself, Leone pauses for a moment, catching sight of Pannacotta quietly sitting in the living room. Stuffed animals and books spread around him. He wonders if Pannacotta ever gets bored with the same toys. Money tight. Then he wonders why he cares enough to spare such a thought, laughing quietly to himself as he shakes his head, humming slightly before he turns away with nothing said.
Yet, as he stands on the porch that night, cigarette in hand; he thinks harder. Of the toys and the gifts under the Christmas tree. How he already bought Bruno a gift out of courtesy, at least that’s what he tells himself. He stares at the still built snowman in their yard. Lop-sided, but standing. It’s soft, but perhaps one more gift won’t hurt, he thinks to himself when he turns to the logs next to the door with an idea that strikes.
Christmas Eve is a soft and quiet day. Bruno watches from the couch as Pannacotta draws at the coffee table. The boy smiles to himself over the ornaments he creates for Bruno to hang tonight. Leone sits in the armchair, wineglass in one hand, stealing glances at the other man before his eyes dart away all too quickly back to the book in his other hand.
“Is there something that you need, Leone?” Bruno elects to ask when Pannacotta leaves the room for more paper. His face is lit with amusement. There’s silence as the man doesn’t meet his gaze now. “Oh, come on, don’t pretend now.”
The chuckle makes Leone smirk before he stands. Bruno blinks as he walks out, confused, but it doesn’t last when he reappears just as fast. A wooden box in his hands, that he holds out to Bruno, and the confusion deepens even as he takes it.
“What is this about–?” His eyes widen just as he pops the lid. There’s silence. “You did this?” Bruno whispers as he stares at the collection of wooden peg dolls. Varying sizes. “For him?”
Leone crosses his arms, looking away slightly. “Whittled them myself.”
Bruno’s smile is bright as he reaches out for one. Turning it in his hand. “Leone–”
“Pretend it’s from you.”
That makes Bruno pause. Gaze drifting between his friend and the dolls that were painstakingly whittled over mere days. Half of them are painted to include features. Detailed.
“What do you mean?” He asks.
“He won’t take it knowing it’s from me.”
It's only logical, but Bruno's face twists before he gives a small smile. It comes across as sad. “You took the time to make this for him. It would only be right for him to thank you for it.”
He shakes his head. “Pretend it’s from you.” He repeats. Stubborn, and Bruno knows nothing will get him to change his stance.
“Fine.” He says as he stands to place the gift underneath the tree. He stops just beside him, reaching out to squeeze Leone’s arm. “But thank you for this, Leone. He'll love it. I appreciate it.”
He says it’s nothing. Plays it off. Believes he means it, but there’s a soft smile hidden behind his hand watching Pannacotta pop the lid open the following morning, gasping with bright eyes. Bruno smiles watching both of their reactions.
“You did a lot for me.”
Pannacotta whispers one night in a warmly lit room, the chill of the weather just a window away as the fast snowflakes fall in a swarm. His eyes are pinned to it. It makes Bruno pause in his reading, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. He hums slightly.
As the years go by, certain aspects become easier. An up that is to be found. Though, just the same, certain notions are harder bearing in mind teenagers. Bruno takes the wins wherever he can find them. Revels in those moments. As through it, Bruno wouldn’t change a thing as he sits against the frame of the bed with his sixteen–year–olds son’s head resting on his shoulder, tucked tight into his side as if he’s young again; all while Bruno reads.
Remembering those nights in a similar position. With a fussy toddler, a sleepless child, or a teenager who had moments where he felt that his brain couldn’t turn off for him. He never would change it. Especially not in this time of season.
Through that first Christmas Pannacotta ever had, the tradition the two formed stuck. Somewhere in the holiday season, they sit with a book between each other. One on one time Bruno is prevalent to make with each child. Through it, it has remained a symbol to Pannacotta of the quiet Bruno found for him. The space he made without a trace of judgement as he took that beginning year at his pace.
His voice is soft as he reads out loud. Pannacotta doesn’t have the sense to be embarrassed. Or view this as childish with the faint sensation of warmth that blooms in his chest that his father still does this.
“You’re my son. Of course I did.” He responds quietly. His smile is just as warm as Pannacotta feels, and perfectly him.
Pannacotta matches it. Their comfort was always important to their parents. He made sure of it in a way no one else would.
“Ti value bene.” They both say to each other that night, though it never needed to.