Chapter Text
It was really only a matter of time. Leone Abbacchio had known he would drink himself to death someday ever since his partner died on the job. He had known it would take days, if not weeks, for anyone to notice he was missing. What he did not expect was for his consciousness to continue it’s existence. Despite, like almost every Italian, being raised catholic he really wasn’t the most religious person. A part of him had hoped for heaven to be real, the part of him that craved to see his partner again, but even then he was sure he wouldn’t make it there. No, he had believed after death everything was going to just be over. Haunting the shabby apartment he had died in was not on his list of possibilities. As he looked at his physical form, something he had been trying to forget dawned on him. He had ultimately neglected everything to focus on drinking. Which made floating over his withered body a dreadful experience. Unkempt hair, a jogger stained with all kinds of liquor, face equally stained by weeks old make up that he had been to weak to wipe off. The moment he was found was more embarrassing than anything. The police kicking down his door felt like a cruel joke. A reminder of what he had been, and what had become of him. Too bad he couldn’t change his fate now.
His bastard of a landlord gave the flat up for rent only two weeks after. Abbacchio was prepared to scare the shit out of the new tenant with his newfound spooking abilities, because spending the rest of his dreadful death sharing a three bedroom apartment with someone he didn’t know, and probably wouldn’t tolerate, sounded even worse than dying for a second time. Unfortunately for Abbacchios plans, the moment ‚Mr. Bucciarati‘ walked through the door for a sighting, he was absolutely mesmerized. The black hair that framed the man’s face looked as soft as silk, his blue eyes piercing, and just the kind Abbacchio could get lost in. He was, plain and simple, a breathtaking sight. In the same way one could have phantom pain after loosing a limb, Leone would swear his heart was beating faster.
When the key turned in the doors lock for the first time after that, Bruno, as Abbacchio had learned, came in with boxes upon boxes balanced in his arms. His hair was tied back, and his face red from climbing the stairs withs such baggage. If asked, Leone would have sworn his own face was heating up aswell. Just then his dream of a peaceful future rooming in silence with the beautiful man came to an end, as said man put down his boxes, turned, and stared right through him with a raised eyebrow. „So. Who are you?“ Stupid as Bruno already made him, he looked around him to see who was being spoken to, before turning back to his eyes being met perfectly. He pointed to himself in confusion. „Yes. You.“ The amused look on his face would’ve been enough to kill Leone if he hadn’t already passed. "Abbacchio.“ He said simply, to stunned about someone being able to see him to force out a full sentence. What the hell was happening. „Bruno Bucciarati. I suppose we’ll be living to- we‘ll be roommates from now on.“ Abbacchio just nodded, and tried, really tried, to go back to his stoic demeanor. Something about Bruno just got through to the man he was, before his partner had died, before he became an alcoholic. Before everything. „It’s- Leone. Leone Abbacchio.“, he huffed.
Their first 24 hours together were more than awkward. Questions hanging in the air were left unasked and unanswered. The two of them barely spoke at all, Abbacchio just hung around wherever Bruno was not. He ‚sat‘ (as much as someone without a physical form could sit) on the couch all night, and waited for Bucciarati to wake up, just to continue avoiding him. Sitting on his couch in the middle of the night, lost in thought, was a habit from his living days. Returning to it made him crave alcohol, because of course alcoholics can’t catch a break, even in death. He didn’t think it through. He just concentrated hard enough to grab a bottle of wine from his stash under the sink, the only bottles that weren’t lost when the flat was cleared, and chugged it. The entire volume of liquid ended up on the floor. Fuck him, apparently he was now forced to learn how to be sober. How ironic.
Turned out to be a great icebreaker though. In the morning, as Bruno cleaned up Abbacchios mess, he broke the silence with a kindhearted, „So Leone… tell me about yourself.“ Something about the entire situation made him vulnerable, so with a gruff, he told Bucciarati the truth. How he had joined the force chasing righteousness, how the job had corrupted him, how he still felt at fault for his partners death, how he found refuge in drinking, and how it had inevitably killed him. Bruno just listened, the sympathetic look on his face made Abbacchio want to shout at the other man. He didn’t want to be pitied. He did this to himself. In response to his vulnerability, Bruno told him all about himself aswell. He understood the longing for righteousness. He was a waiter at a local restaurant called Libeccio. He had a tendency to help others, little to no questions asked. His father died when he was young, not that he wasn’t still young at the mere age of twenty, and he coped by overworking himself, which he had apparently never admitted openly. And he, honestly, had no idea why he was capable of seeing Leone. The conversation ending with him admitting that he was glad Bruno could see him was a sign that he had gotten way to comfortable way to quickly. But perhaps, after he had lacked friends before his end, he could allow himself to let go of his harsh exterior if it meant making one now.
Their daily life together quickly became accompanied by a routine. Abbacchio would sit at the table with Bucciarati for every meal, even if he himself could no longer eat. He would wait for him to return from work, ask how his day went, they would settle down somewhere and start talking about anything and everything. When his depression got the better of him (because why would he get a break from that ever) Bruno would sit there with him, and he’d offer to listen, or offer to be a distraction, but he wouldn’t force anything. He was so… gentle. Kind. Generous. Everything Abbacchio was not. He could not even begin to fathom how somebody like Bruno could accept an intruder like him into his home, but he couldn’t be more grateful. In the back of his mind a terrible realization was brewing, but he was too enamored with the other man to give it a second thought.