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It's a night like any other. They are drunk, on Bruno's balcony. Passing bottles and cigarettes like always. Like nothing had changed between them. Like Leone didn't lay down his head on the butcher's table months ago. Like he didn't agree to a mutual suicide and a slow painful death.
There is a press of lips against the crown of his head. A bottle is pressed into his hands. Leone licks the remnants of alcohol and minty smoke from his lips.
Some things. He reminds himself. Some things have changed. He smokes only menthol cigarettes now. They feel like home in his lungs. The alcohol is chased away with gentle kisses from a mouth that only knows how to bite. It's confusing. They sit down cuddled and swaying in place. They talk about death still but also about what to eat for breakfast. His clothes smell like him. His mind still yearns for that relief of death he chases like a rabid dog.
A beat. A breath. A smoke.
"Amore?"
"Hmm?" There is a noncommittal grunt against his shoulder. It rattles against his bones like a gunshot.
"What's wrong with us? Why can't we be happy?"
Leone lifts his head from where it was resting on Bruno's shoulder.
"I'm happy."
"Be serious."
Leone laughs at that. He pops open their new bottle.
That is new too. Now they bring everything into their little corner on the balcony. Maybe that's just winter. Maybe it keeps the wine cooled. Maybe going inside feels like an end to their safe haven. He got rid of the chairs two months ago. They sit on the floor regardless. He rolls the empty bottle towards the balcony door. It clinks against the glass with a noise that would be worrying if he was more sober. He stares at it empty eyed as he waits for Leone to finish taking the first sip. He's stalling, Bruno knows. He will indulge it for now.
"Would you be satisfied if I said Passione?"
Bruno stares at him, unimpressed.
"Didn't think so." He scoffs. He passes the bottle to Bruno.
"We're dead men, my love."
Bruno's heart drops. Leone is not a man of words. He doesn't care for grand declarations of love. Doesn't dare to call Bruno his. Doesn't call him love. Not when they're anywhere but their bed. Not like this. It's always in the way he holds him. The way he acts like he doesn't see Bruno cry sometimes. The way he tears apart the men who dare to come after them.
"I am the only man who gets to kill you." He had said to Bruno once. Blood still fresh on his knuckles and wearing the gaze of a wild animal. Their first ever mission after that first time he'd said "I love you."
Polpo hadn't been happy about hearing the demise of the man that was supposed to be their intel.
"Collateral." Bucciarati had reported. "He shot at me when we tried to capture him. My men acted accordingly. It was a necessary loss to get the job done cleanly."
It wasn't the first lie he'd told his capo. But it was the first selfish one. Afterwards he had taken Leone home and rode him like a man possessed right on the doorstep. That. Bruno thinks. That was the day things had changed. But no matter how different, some things stayed the same. Like their late nights when they kept swearing up and down they would quit. Like the way he still woke up at death's door and the way he kept knocking.
He lights a cigarette for Leone. Passes it along with the bottle and a kiss.
"I think it was always supposed to be this way." He continues, unaware of Bruno's inner thoughts. "We were born on borrowed time and we're still living it, even when we rot."
He takes a hearty sip. There is something different in his eyes when he lowers the bottle. It's heavy and raw. Bruno rarely sees him so unguarded. It makes his hands ache with the need to carve into Leone's eyes. So he doesn't have to look. Doesn't have to see that devotion so clear like a guard dog kneeling at his master's feet.
"But I'm so glad I get to spend the last of my days with you."
Something in Bruno breaks at that. That's not Leone. His Leone doesn't talk like that. He says that he will kill himself if Bruno does and laughs when he pulls him off the edge. His softness is a prize hard earned and never given so freely. Offered so easily. It feels wrong. It makes him feel worse than anything in his head can do. His veins light up with rage. He yanks the bottle away from Leone and rips his cigarette off his hands just before it reaches his mouth. He falters for a second, doesn't know which one to abuse first. Settles on the cigarette as his grip tightens around the bottle and as he crushes the filter.
Leone laughs. Too loud and too long for the quiet of the night around them. It's an ugly sound. Undignified. Not like the charming, quiet, self deprecating ones. Bruno hates it. He lights up another cigarette without even a comment. He hates that even more.
"Did I make you mad?" He asks, voice gentle.
"Stop that." He chugs the wine in his hands. Maybe it's a nightmare.
"I'm sorry, amore." He pries open Bruno's death grip on the bottle. His hands are soft. His voice is even softer.
"Stop it!" He almost wails. He's overreacting. He knows. It doesn't help. His Leone is not soft. It feels unnatural, it feels wrong. It feels like a goodbye.
Leone holds his hands. There is a tremble to them, nerves alight with pain and rage and panic. He doesn't pull away.
"I'm not jumping, Bruno."
"Of course not." The reply is instant, instinctual. "You'd much rather shoot yourself. Jumping is my style."
Leone huffs at that. There. His heart stills just a bit. That's the Leone he knows.
"Bruno." He begins. "Don't take this in any other way than I say it."
He nods. Fears not yet quelled, but calmed just a fraction. He can do this . He can listen.
"I am only saying this because you asked me about it. But I was serious. When I said that I'm happy."
He lets go of his hands to light them both cigarettes. An apology for making him angry. He accepts it a little bit too quickly. He is a romantic at heart after all.
"I am a rotten man." He continues , exhaling a column of smoke. Head tilted back, exposing his bare throat, pale hair shining like silver in the moonlight. He looks ethereal.
"We all are. You are still the best of it all." He places a quick kiss on his cheek. "I know you don't like it when I call you my saviour but indulge me for a second." There is a knowing smirk on the corner of his mouth. The bastard.
"I was, and still am, destined to die a death gruesome and ugly. I'm far too aware of it. So believe me when I say I could not be happier spending my stolen time loving you."
The tension in his heart finally snaps as he looks into those golden eyes he loves so much. The wine sits forgotten between them. He doesn't need it. Leone is his poison. His intoxication.
"Leone." He says. His voice is cracking. He swallows to make it go away. If he's unsuccessful, Leone will pretend not to notice, he knows.
"Loving you is the most monstrous thing I can ever do. It will kill you eventually. It will break you and torture you and it will make your last minutes hurt ten times worse when the time comes. He swallows again. "But I am a selfish man. Promise me that you'll die with me." He grabs at his arms like a man drowning. His nails scratch angry red lines across Leone's forearms. He gets held tighter for it.
"Only ever if you promise to make it hurt." He smiles. Bruno's heart soars in his chest. Suddenly the world feels like there is nothing except Leone in it. Like there can never be anything else.
"Always." He says, like a prayer etched into his very bones and kisses him like the answer to it.