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"I'm not going to live forever you know."
Bucciarati says, taking the bottle from Abbacchio's hands to take a sip.
"No offense, but I didn't think that was possible anyway." He retorts, taking a drag from his cigarette.
"Don't be smart with me. I meant that I'm going to die in a few years."
"No you're not." Abbacchio silently motions for the bottle, "or I'll kill myself."
Bucciarati shrugs, handing the bottle over. "I can't stop you if I'm dead. Pass me the lighter?"
"Look who's being smart now." He leans in to light Bucciarati's cigarette with his own, not bothering for the lighter.
"I'll jump right now if you're gonna keep talking shit."
Bucciarati huffs out a dry laugh, coughing when the smoke gets in the way.
"This cannot be good for us."
"You gotta be more specific."
"I don't know? The drinking? The smoking? General activities?"
Abbacchio lights another cigarette.
"You're the one that wants to die. I'm just accompanying you."
Bucciarati raises a silent eyebrow in disbelief. Abbacchio shrugs. Motions for the bottle. Their hands brush as Bucciarati passes it on. It lingers. It burns. They know that their existence is fragile. There shouldn't be any need to mention it. Bucciarati presses on anyway.
"Im serious." He says.
"Will you take care of the team when I die?"
His eyes are glossed over. Open. Not unguarded but walls lowered. Abbacchio's heart seizes. He doesn't dwell on it.
"I thought Fugo was your second in command. Playing favourites, Bruno?" He can't help it. The name slips from his mouth like blood washing down the drain. Easy. Painful, but still easy. It's only reserved for when they're entangled in the sheets. He knows that. He doesn't take it back.
Bucciarati snorts. "You know what I meant. Leone."
He's teasing.
Bucciarati told him he loved him two nights ago, coming down from the height of his orgasm. Abbacchio froze. Didn't respond. They don't talk about it. There is something in the night though. Something that makes Abbacchio desperately want to reciprocate. Tell him that he loves him too. He can't. It's not real. Bruno just wants closeness. An anchor. It's not love. No matter what it feels like.
There is laughter that echoes from the street. His brows furrow.
"I have no intention to be a babysitter. If you die, I'm killing myself." He knows it's a lie. He is stupid and reckless with his heart and he came to care for those two stupid teens Bruno took in. And Bruno. He cares desperately, stupidly for his ragtag team of depressed teenagers. He doesn't let it show.
The laughter comes closer. "What if I jumped in front of these two?" Bucciarati muses, a smile dancing on his lips.
"What a way to ruin their first date." Abbacchio laughs. "Please don't go." He says inside.
"How do you know it is the first?"
"I was a detective."
"You were a police officer." Bucciarati counters.
Abbacchio leans down.
"They are young. The guy is very clearly trying not to panic holding her hand. She laughs way too hard."
"Astute observations, officer." Bucciarati laughs. The couple passes them.
Their eyes linger.
Bucciarati takes the bottle from him. There is so little left. He takes it all in one gulp.
"Leone." He says. There is something heavy in his voice. "Go get another one?"
This was their third. They should stop. They really should. Tomorrow is going to be hell at this rate. Again, this is why they got five.
"Sure." He says.
The inside of the house is warm. He shivers with the unexpected warmth that envelops him like a blanket. In a couple hours he will have to go home. He never spends the night. Not even when he's absolutely drained. It's too close. Too much. He clumsily takes the bottle opener. It's fine. He says. Wine splashes his fingers as he opens it with too much force. He wipes it on his shirt.
Bucciarati is waiting for him with the empty bottle in his hand. The bottle is exchanged and Abbacchio returns inside to throw it in the trash. Bucciarati can have the first sip. Customary, respect, whatever.
When he returns, the bottle is untouched. Bucciarati is waiting for him.
"Come here." He says.
He expects it to be passed on. Bucciarati tilts the bottle towards his lips. Asking.
"Fuck it." He thinks. So the alcohol is fed to him, sip by sip.
He stops Bucciarati with a tap against the glass.
Bucciarati takes the bottle back. Licks the rim and oh god that mouth... He takes several mouthfuls. Like he's trying to get some encouragement.
"Can I have a cigarette?" He asks. "Mine ran out."
"It's menthol."
"Dont care." It's passed and lit.
He takes several deep breaths. As if trying to calm his nerves. Abbacchio doesn't like it.
"Leone." He says. A warning. "I'll say this once and only once. Stop me if need be."
No. No, this is not happening.
"I love you."
No.
His brows furrow.
"No, I'm in love with you. I want what we have to be real. I want to come home and have you here with me. I want to cook dinner with you and wake up to you. I want to be stupid. And reckless. With you. If you don't want that. I understand." He laughs, humourless. "God knows I wouldn't want it either." He sighs, takes another breath of his cigarette. "But I want you. In any way. Any form. I wanted you to know it. I can't die without you knowing it."
"Stop talking about dying." He snaps. It's wrong. He can't stop himself.
"I can't live in a world without you. You gave me a purpose. A reason to wake up. I-" he swallows.
"I love you too." It's a mistake. Bruno deserves better. More. The world in fact. His heart is a traitor. The bottles of wine are traitors. He can't find it in himself to be mad.
Bruno looks at him like he hung the stars.
"Can I kiss you?"
"It's a mistake."
"Maybe." He answers. "Indulge me."
So he does. He kisses Bruno with all the words he swallowed over the months. It's suicide. It's addicting. And for once, he finds that he doesn't care.