Archive of Our Own

He never drank in front of him.

Never got drunk; not anywhere close to it. One drink is nothing. Two is barely anything. Not even enough for one to be fully tipsy. Perhaps the faintest hints, if even that, but he always stopped long before ever reaching that point. He just needed enough to feel that lightest, barely audible buzz in his mind where maybe sleep wouldn’t be a hardship that night. Just enough to let himself wind down. 

He never knew that his son was watching. 

His father was careful, Bruno knows that, but he was in the midst of learning that human side of one’s parents. At just 7–years–old, he saw more clearly. There wasn’t a choice in the matter. 

The bottle sits only half–empty. Abandoned when his father dozes on the couch, unaware of the way he sits on the steps of the staircase, looking down on him. He pulls his knees close to his chest; a rustle in his pajamas as the cool night air comes through the opened windows, brushing his skin as the scent of the sea hangs prominently within their home that is half–barren. The belongings of his mother are gone, anything left behind is sat in a taped up box near the door. 

The divorce has been finalized. A series of challenges all around him that a mere child is forced to confront. To watch.

To try to make sense of despite the way it feels like it doesn’t. Only there’s no option of ignorance. Not when there is a toll visibly being taken on the man that he looks up to more than anything. His father is quieter. He stares at empty spaces in a home he used to know, but no longer recognizes. Frequently becoming lost in his mind. To compensate, he picks up more hours down at the docks. Comes home tired, and Bruno can see the dark circles underneath his eyelids. Sees how slow his movements become until the night ends here. His arm slung over his eyes as he shifted on the couch. Never making it to his bed anymore, and is it purposeful? 

It’s not just a wonder when Bruno believes it to be so. After all, he can still smell traces of his mother’s perfume or lotion on those bedsheets. The smell is fated to stay even after countless washes. The basin overflowed with citrus soap, and he watched the fierce drag of the cloth beneath his father’s fingers, a harsh scrub like that could rid the scent of spices akin to nutmeg and cinnamon. It couldn’t. Bruno only knows when he sneaks in, trying to remember the nights he lied between them. 

All of these noticements unbeknownst to the man.

Bruno’s steps are silent as he eases off the steps one by one. Moving on his toes near his father. He stares down at him for a moment before he leans to grab the blanket hanging over the arm of the couch, tugging until it covers him. He draws back, wiping at his eyes. Lingering with a hunched posture. There’s space on the couch should he choose to join, but just as Bruno finds his hand reaching to grip the cushion to pull himself up; he pauses. One leg suspended in midair as his nails dug into the fabric.

Instead of pulling up, he pushes away. Fast to not chance giving in. Things are changing, and Bruno has to be strong. In the terms of a 7–year–old, that means sleeping in his own bed that night. Despite the darkness of the surrounding room. He curls tighter beneath his blanket through the sense of wanting ache.

It doesn’t stay that way; it morphs and changes until there’s a human being beneath that moment, that night, who is completely unrecognizable from the boy he once was.

“Passione giving you second thoughts?” 

It all starts there. Five words said in a quiet, near seething voice between two rigid bodies. Five words that had opened a dam that he held no knowledge of. Not entirely. It’s a loose excuse from a man with a darkened gaze, who stares at another he thought he knew. Watching how he startles at the sudden voice breaking through the silence of the kitchen, unaware of the way he was followed.

The cup has to be steadied in the palm of his hand. Abbacchio turned to the doorway to see Bruno standing in the middle.

“What?” He asks quietly, a face twitching. The confusion is honest; Bruno doesn’t budge. He enters further with a low stare, narrowing his eyes that trace over him.

As if skeptical, but it’s merely perspectival. To see the way he’s already beginning to close himself off at just five words. Mentally, he files it away. Just as he always does when it comes to anything regarding Leone Abbacchio. 

It was only natural. At least, that’s what Bruno supposes. A shallow level of confrontation. Abbacchio was his age; the two worked closely together. It was only logical a connection could form from being more than just the strangers they started as. Especially through the deep, hidden vulnerability he had seen in the midst of an addiction. He told himself that it was basic care that was to be expected from anyone. 

Interest was bound to follow. As a leader when figuring out his place within their team. Through his Stand; its abilities, and how he could work alongside the physical representation and visualization of his soul. Moody Blues was the name Abbacchio had quietly muttered when Bruno had asked. Standing in front of the humanoid being, taking in the cool glow of metallic purple. He found himself drawn in, giving quiet praise that this was just what their team needed. 

Then there was Abbacchio’s own set of skills; Moody Blues, as they have learned, isn’t quite suited for combat. The man behind her, however, was. Strength in those fists. His background was another feature to take in mind. Having a once been cop was interesting. It made Fugo nervous, hissing in Bruno’s ear that it was a mistake, but having that investigative line of thinking was a favorable aspect he was sure to acknowledge. 

That’s all it was. Interest. Which differs from infatuation.

So he says.

Because if that was true, if that was all it was, then it didn’t explain a sickening stir in his chest each time he looked at Abbacchio. A feeling he was unaware of where it began. Somewhere in the late nights they sat up together, each smoking a cigarette before it somehow turned to one shared between them, the two found themselves hiding reddened features. He just couldn’t think about it for long. Forcibly slipping it from his mind.

This tentative friendship that isn’t quite that anymore. It’s grown. Wherever he looked, Abbacchio was beside his side. Eyes clear with trust, and that realization made Bruno swallow harshly. 

He’s not the focus. 

“You heard me.” Bruno says sharply. 

It’s knowing Leone that makes it easy to realize the sudden switch. The teasing, easy nature found in those late nights shifted. There was a silence that was longer. Hanging over them. Stilted conversations and mechanical movements from the other. He closed back up; in a fast pace Bruno feels he can’t keep up with. 

He’s seen it before. The blank gaze in missions; the mistakes in regular delegated tasks in Passione. How lost someone can truly become when left to their thoughts. He’s seen it all before, and knows where it leads to. Bruno kept in the shadows. Watching over the frame, the way Abbacchio stood at the kitchen counter; his face scowled, partially covered by his hair slipping from his shoulder. The bruises were evident, painting a picture that he feels proves him correct in all he’s noticed. 

There’s no use in waiting for the spiraling path. 

He pulls a chair out at the table, tapping his nails into the wood. “Sit.” He says against the rhythmic clink. At no point do his eyes move away; Bruno keeps them pinned on Abbacchio even as he pulls away from the chair. 

Giving space, but Abbacchio doesn’t move. He’s following his movements with slightly wide eyes. Price he pays for not being able to find sleep; it should have been expected. “Bucciarati–” He tries, but he’s cut off by a glare.

“Sit down.” 

There’s a near silent exhale. He listens. Bruno keeps close, leaning against the edge of the table. He gets a closer look at the bruises. Abbacchio meets his eyes, looking at him questionably. Surprisingly patient in his wait. 

“Got you good,” Bruno murmurs, looking at the red mottled skin that already has purple creeping in at the edges; half of his face took a powerful swing. “You’re sharper than that.” His shoulders are loosening some. His tone dipping soft.

No response. It all fades when he cuts to the chase.

“You’ve been pulling away.” He notes out loud. Through it, he catches Abbacchio’s hands tightening; one against his knee, the other gripping the table. Interesting. “Well?” 

Abbacchio knows he eventually has to speak. There’s no choice in the matter. “Off day.” He mutters, short as always. “I’ll get it together.” 

It should be simple to take at face value, yet he’s shaking his head before he’s halfway through. There’s a fault with bearing too much of yourself, he wants to say to Abbacchio, but the words feel poisonous just sitting inside his head. They’re not the off days Bruno knows. The ones he’s mended.

“It’s different.” He elects to say instead as he leans further back, practically sitting on the table. There’s a hum to himself. “It happens. There’s a certain fog that clears, a certain reality being found, and certain men find they don’t have what it takes to be in an environment such as this one. Not in the way they thought– Eyes forward.” He’s trying to look away. The harsh bite is hypocritical when Bruno has pulled his own gaze away. His breath comes deep. “You know what happens to those men.” 

It’s not a question. Couldn’t be.

“I do.”

One can’t afford the price of ignorance here. Bruno lets those words sit there for a moment. He doesn’t ask anything.

“If it’s not by the boss, nor by Polpo…” He turns fully to him then, fully seating himself; unknowingly looming over him with the boosted height. Abbacchio’s chin lifts to follow the movement. Face blank. Steading itself. “Then it will be by me. Passione doesn’t take risks, and messages have to be sent. They’ll decide how, and they’ll make me carry it out. Hell, they’ll drag Fugo into it to strike the sentiment into him to keep him in line.”

He sounds haunted. Abbacchio’s lips twitch, fighting a frown or a small smile that nearly comes off as sick when he’s aware of everything Bucciarati is insinuating. He never thought he would pity this man through the rose–tinted savior glasses he had on.

A tactic Bruno has watched be played out before. Leaders having to dispose of one of their men when loyalty falters. When there’s even the slightest shake in Passione’s foundation. It sends home a deep message, creating order while not having the boss or higher ranking capos get their hands dirty. 

He sees it in flashes in his mind. Remembering the strikes against his body from fists covered in the blood of another. He swallows it down.

“That won’t happen here.” He says, trying to keep the breathy tone away from where his mind threatened to slip away. He shakes his head to himself. “No. My men listen.” 

Abbacchio nods. “We do.” He confirms.

“Oh?” Bruno muses. “Then tell me what exactly it is that is making you so unfocused.”

Silence falls; a room growing cold where all that is left is the ticking of the clock. Abbacchio’s lips are pursed shut. Bruno plays along, knowing that he can wait this out. Leaders know well how to read their men. How to dig into them in every type of way. It’s the fear of being figured out that always snaps the line. Lips are desperate to lie in order to keep up the facade threatened to be seen through when control is slipping from between one’s fingers. All Bruno has to do is lean back with a straight posture and stare down at him. Knowing that his dull eyes feel like bugs crawling beneath the man’s skin. 

He’s right.

That near ease he once had is gone. Because he’s not just sitting listening anymore. Pupils have turned into pinpricks as hands begin to shake. It’s a swift shift that has Bruno’s eyes partially widening, but he finds himself leaning closer. A part of himself is intrigued while the more, less selfish, side of him feels a tug within him. 

Then, within a blink, the man was trying to stand. As if to run, but he’s not quick enough.

“Don’t,” Bruno says in a low voice. A warning that makes him freeze. Neither of them are leaving, not until there is an answer he deems acceptable. One that is nothing but the truth without any of the bullshit he sees through.

Abbacchio hovers above the seat, staring at the doorway with every ounce of desperation. It’s an odd reaction. With a heavy breath, Bruno comes to stand in front of him, eyes narrowed when Abbacchio’s darted away. Without a word, his hand reaches up to cup his cheek, forcibly angling his head down, and he keeps it there to make him unable to look anywhere but at him.

“Tell me.” Bruno demands in a heated whisper. His eyes never strayed from the man in front of him.

“It’s not…” Abbacchio huffed in frustration. Feeling his breath brush his lips. He’s holding back, Bruno’s noticed that too. He got used to the teasing, the slightly snappy responses when the two would banter. “You’re reading too much into this.”

Part of that comes back. Drunk or sober, Abbacchio was never good at hiding his annoyance. It makes him smirk. Briefly, when this isn’t to be taken lightly. His fingers brushed over the bruise just below his eye, ignoring the small flinch. He doesn’t need to say it out loud, he saw how today's mission went. 

Abbacchio pulls back, his breaths are loud, nearly akin to panting from the heavy heaves. Bruno gives space. Barely. 

“That pistol–whip said otherwise.” The mere sound of the strike had even Bruno’s expression twitching at the crack, Fugo cringing from the other side of him as they watched him go down. “All because you paused. Am I not correct?” 

Abbacchio begins to pace around the kitchen. “At least Fugo’s mockery was normal.” He mutters beneath his breath, but Bruno still hears it, deciding to let it go. 

“It’s not just the mission.” He points out. Not when he’s been secluded more. “Don’t think I don’t notice the empty bottles you’ve been trying to hide.” 

He deflates some. Both of them do. There’s a beat.

“So, what is it?” He pushes further for the countless times he’s held Abbacchio’s passed out body. For the times he’s held his hair back as he retched. 

He crosses his arms as he waits. 

“Please,” The man whispers. Desperate for Bruno to drop this. 

They’re dancing around.

Abbacchio’s back where he was, hunched against the kitchen island to be across from him. His face turns, his hair falling, but he still catches it. It takes him aback when he sees a tear rolling down his cheek. It’s faint, a thin sliver and only one that falls away quickly. What’s left is a small streak he nearly can’t catch in the dark that makes it appear like nothing was there. Like it didn’t happen.

Abbacchio opens his mouth, closes it, and looks positively terrified, like a caged animal. It’s an expression he’s only seen a few times before. Rare and small. Never as raw as the one he wears now. 

Bruno blinks. He doesn’t know how to proceed. He’s seen this man cry before, but something speaks differently about this. It sparks a small amount of horror in his chest. 

“I’ve prayed.” He starts shakily. “I tried to keep it away. God, I–...I need you to know that.” 

Bruno purses his lips. “Abbacchio.” It can’t be worse than what they’ve already done. God is forgiving, so they say, but Bruno doesn’t believe they qualify any longer. “Leone. Just tell me.” 

They’re tired; that much is obvious. Patience is a virtue that can only extend by so much. There’s a quiet exhale.

“I gave you my devotion.” He finally whispers. “As your subordinate.” 

He’s quite aware. A loyalty any leader would envy, but it worried Bruno in the beginning. Blind obedience wasn’t what he wanted, and pulling anything truthful from Abbacchio was tough. In the throes of grief and addiction, he appeared nearly mindless, but Bruno knew there was someone more beneath it all that wasn’t just his struggles. Someone he got to know.

“It’s grown.” 

Someone he got to know that is blunt when he needs to be. Bruno blinks.

Oh.

He misread everything about this situation. He thought…The words repeat on a loop; “What?” He asks before he can stop himself. His voice drops low as Abbacchio’s staring at him, it’s strained, nearly scratchy when his throat runs dry. 

He doesn’t repeat it when Bruno knows exactly what he means. It clicks without truly needing anything more. 

The two stand there across from one another, the space between them suddenly feeling huge. Different from their shoulder brushing as they sat together nights ago with one cigarette shared between them. He understands now why Abbacchio pulled his hand swiftly back like he had been burned.

Yet, he’s neglecting to mention himself. The reddened features he himself held and the lump in his own throat as he watched Abbacchio talk low about something he couldn’t retain when he truly wasn’t listening. His eyes drifted, taking in every part of him. Bruno only covered it by a long drag and refused to think much of it.

There’s a movement that has him pulled back to the surface. Abbacchio is shaking. 

He pushed too far; made his own connections that proved false, and now where does that get him? He’s wracking his mind trying to find that answer. Bruno comes forward. Slow, but there’s a faint thump across the kitchen tile, Abbacchio is stiffening at each step. Bruno watches him flinch. Both of their hearts hammer in their chests, neither can feel an ease to breathing.

He didn’t like having to think of it in those moments he was alone. Those thoughts weren’t what a leader should be thinking. Yet, when he was with him…there was a difference. At least in something.

“Abbacchio.” 

He calls out softly so his head will lift toward him. The fear is shining bright in violet eyes. Bruno swallows, losing bravado, that fire that was there at the start of this all dissipates. He thought this could have been easy. They stand there, staring at one another.

“Are you being honest?” 

It’s just as blunt.

A beat passes. Abbacchio staring. Holding tight to crossed arms. Then, there’s a silent nod, making Bruno give a small hum. Once more, he steps closer. Barely any space left between their bodies. He raises his chin when Abbacchio is taller than him. His breath is soft, seeing the others' eyebrows slightly scrunch together. With a small smile, Bruno leans in before his mind can talk him out of it.

The kiss is small. Practically a peck.

He huffs slightly, feeling like it’s not much as he doesn’t look at Abbacchio’s reaction. He leans back in. Another kiss that he lets linger this time. His hand had reached up to rest on Abbacchio’s shoulder as if to steady him, but it’s a loose hold. Needed when he feels the way he stiffens and believes he’ll pull away. There are enough bearings in his mind to go and do so himself. He overstepped further. So he thinks.

Disproven when those lips trail after him, finally kissing back when Abbacchio’s mind catches up. Bruno feels hands with a touch as light as a feather hover above his waist. Barely coming to hold. 

Though he is pressing himself closer as he follows Bruno’s move. He sighs into it. For a slight moment everything eases in the both of them as they focus on the warmth and pressure. How something settles within.

Then Abbacchio pulls back like he’s touched a flame. He’s staring at Bruno with wide eyes.

“I–” Abbacchio tries to say, but he’s not sure what he should say.

Bruno doesn’t move. “Come here.” He says simply, his hand making a beckoning wave. He does. They’re in each other’s spaces yet again. “There’s no shame.” Bruno whispers close to his ear. 

Abbacchio looks down at him. He doesn’t speak. A response given when they’re fitting together once more. A slow kiss in the night.

Shame. It's almost funny. Tied to the quality of strength, the latter is an equally odd notion. It takes on various meanings and develops in oneself differently. The way one internalizes it comes at a young age. Though the aspect of identity can connect into it. Bruno remembers quite well.

His father dabs at the blood. With one hand steady against the back of his head to keep it held straight, he has Bruno sit on the counter. Stiff as a board. Gangly as any 11–year–old. Attitude of one when he sighs; there’s a shake in his chest with it.

The tissue is pulled away. His father is staring down at him to where the bruises are beginning to form with the blood collected against the front of his shirt, creating an uncomfortable press against Bruno’s skin. His knuckles are split. He tries to hide them in his lap, but it’s an attempt voided when his father reaches out, taking him by both hands to see. 

He lost the fight.

There’s a low exhale before his hands are let go. 

“Why?” Paolo says simply. Never been a man of many words. One, two, a few do the trick when what matters is all in the tone. The expression equally; Bruno can see the clenched jaw that shows the displeasure over the state he’s found him in, furthered by the crease in his eyebrows as he waits. 

Bruno shrugs, watching the miniscule way the features shift. Smoothed together in an instance, but the deep breath doesn’t hide it. His head hung low. Bruno looks away, moving to slide off the counter, but a hand on his shoulder keeps him there. Steady, but firm.

“Papa,” He’s still not meeting his gaze. “I want to lie down.” 

There’s a low hum. “And I want my kid to stop lying to me.” 

When Bruno still looks at the ground, he crouches to be the one to meet his eyes. The concern shines deep. Sparks a burn inside the boy’s chest, but calling it anger feels like it’ll strike him to admit. 

“Come on.” His father whispers, waiting. “No one’s leaving until you tell me.” He only chuckles at the annoyed stare.

Bruno knows he’s right. Proven it before that he’ll wait him out and always win. No matter the way Bruno huffs now, or how he whined as a toddler. Perfected patience. 

“It was just words, Papa.” He tried to play it off. Looking him in the eyes as he says it with the hopes that he’ll let it go. “It’s fine.” 

It’s not that simple. 

“What did they say?” 

It takes a long pause. What follows is a whisper, and Paolo can’t lean close enough in time to catch it. 

“Bruno.” His voice drops stern. However, he bows his head towards him, letting him whisper if that will actually get him a response. He just won’t let him hide.

There’s another moment before Bruno takes the option. Leaning forward to say it in his ear. His father leans back, letting it process. His lips pursed as he tried to find the words in response. 

"Frocio." 

A slur on repeat. Paolo heard him the first time.

“They don’t understand what they’re saying.” Is all he can find. It’s said in a soft voice that Bruno finds himself growing angry hearing. He sounds so sure. Like it can’t be true. 

“What if they are right?” He snaps before thinking.

There's silence. Only the drip of the faucet then it dawns on him. Feeling like ice has been poured over him with how cold his body becomes. 

He faces him. Being met with a blank face. Nothing can be taken back. 

When his father steps forward, he braces himself. A hand tightened against the edge of the countertop, his face turns away. 

Arms wrap around him, pulling at him gently until he’s pressed against a chest. 

He’s shaking violently. Enough to nearly dislodge himself from the hold. His father has never hit him before; an action that never crossed Bruno’s mind before, but his heart beats fast as the tears that were pricking his eyes throughout the outburst spill.

“I’m sorry–” He croaks out, feeling sick. “I’m sorry, Papa–”

There’s a quiet noise as his father steadies him in his arms, pulling him from the countertop. It’s just as easy as he’d done when Bruno was real young. The weight of a preteen is not a bother as he settles him against his hip, practically rocking him in his arms when Bruno’s face hides in his shoulder. Paolo’s cheek presses against his head as he stares out the window at the darkening sky.

As any father would, he grew worried when the sun began to set and Bruno hadn’t returned home. He knew that as his son got older that he would become more independent. As the time ticked on, he didn’t have the patience to wait any longer. Grabbing a flashlight by the door as he headed out. He found him at the docks he had been on shift at hours ago. Bloody and beaten, staring out at the ocean with a face Paolo had never seen before. One he couldn’t describe. It made his heart heavy as he told him to stand up. That they were going home to talk.

“Nothing to be sorry for.” He says quietly now. That heavy heart is back at hearing the muffled sobs.

Bruno grips ‌his shirt tighter. “Something’s wrong with me–”

“No,” The strong voice cut through the hiccups. “You’re not going to talk like that.” He readjusts him. Moving to sit at the kitchen table. A curled up boy held close in his lap. Where he’ll stay there until the tears slow their roll. Until his eyes are half-lidded and Bruno listens to the quiet hum beginning to fill the room. 

They don’t talk about it. Not entirely; not in full. It’s the way that the two of them are. The love says it all in a quiet way, and it remains just the same in this silent acceptance Bruno always found within his father. He looks him in the eyes the next morning and sees how nothing has changed. 

His mother visited for Christmas that year. A tension drifted through as the once family of three sat together. A movie was playing on low as Bruno lay curled up on his side with his head resting in his mother’s lap. Briefly, he thought back to that moment with his father.

Nothing changed. Not in the way his father spoke to him, not in the way he looked at him.

Bruno shifted, looking over his shoulder to see her face. He thought about telling her. It took her a moment to sense his stare. Looking down, she tilted her head, reaching her hand to brush his overgrown bangs back. 

“Someone needs a haircut.” She muttered. It’s a light–hearted tease, but Bruno can hear the shuffle from the armchair nearby. His father’s eyes are on the TV, to the old film playing. “What is it, Dolci?” 

He simply curls closer, listening to the chuckle.

“Most boys your age are embarrassed by the sappy moments. Find it unmanly…”

He hums lightly. Blinking as if to clear the previous thought. Those words wouldn’t form.

They never could. Not once did Bruno ever say them out loud. To himself or any other. His act of coming out had been formed by an act of cruelty and violence towards him despite his father's acceptance. An identity he known since he could remember. Because he saw the way he stuck out amongst his peers and the odd feeling being perceived in such away never disappeared. He pushed it away. Never knowing what could come from it other than what already had.

He lies beside the answer now. The sheets are tangled around his legs. Weeks of this. Still feeling as if they’re dancing around one another. He stares at him, listening to the light breaths of sleep pass. The warmth of the sun coming through the window spreads across Bruno’s bare back; he can hear the slow pace of the early morning from the street below. 

He feels the heavy lift in his chest. Nothing settled. Despite the way they keep falling into bed together. 

Leone’s arms aren’t around him anymore. Not in the way they had, as the two fell into an exhausted heap against one another. Bruno remembers trying to sear that glowing, golden feeling of the night into his mind. His eyes squeezed shut. Grateful for the way the room was dark around them. How his face was hidden near Leone’s naked shoulder. His breaths were trembling exhales. One, twice, only two escaped before he bit his lip shut, replaced by a fast beat of his heart that made him feel sick.

Those arms had settled around his waist. Keeping him drawn close. He lifted his head then, meeting the other’s gaze. Silently, Bruno leaned forward, connecting their lips.

The kiss was tender. That’s what made his heart skip a beat. He tried to distract himself; tried to deepen it with the hope that the heat he tried to instill wouldn’t make the tremble within him noticeable. Leone pulled back, catching his breath and staring down at him. Words were on his lips, he knew, but something held him back as Leone leaned back in. It’s almost humorous.

However, the kiss stayed slow and soft. 

That warmth was reduced to a cold chill that remains. He sits himself up, staring down at the crumpled bedsheets. His throat clicks with every swallow, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He refuses to look at the body next to him, splayed out and resting. Bruno shuffles to the edge before he quietly tiptoes around the room.

“God,” He whispers in a breathless tone. Slowly, he gathered his clothes lying on the ground. Nothing would make him look decent, but it would be enough to exit. Though he pauses, glancing at the door before he looks over his shoulder at Abbacchio. The love bites on his neck and trailing to his chest feel painful, like they’re clotting at the arteries. It’s become a routine. He’s been here before; leaving means admitting. There will have to be acknowledgement Bruno feels himself deflating.

There’s a further misfortune when Bruno knows this man and how he thinks. That realization always makes his blood turn to ice. He turns to him fully, watching the slight stir. A furrow in light eyebrows. His makeup is smudged. Bruno can’t even imagine the way he looks, sure that the lilac lipstick is everywhere on bare skin. 

Leone will take it personally…and it will eat him alive. He’ll replay the night when sitting in an empty bed, trying to imagine everywhere he went wrong. He’ll close himself off, putting words in Bruno’s mouth, and making decisions for him.

The suit jacket dropped from his hands.

“Fuck,” He mutters, standing amiss. 

They haven’t discussed it since that night. If you can truthfully call that a confession. He cares about him. Bruno needs that to be known. This isn’t out of humor or pity. It’s…

Silently, he slipped back into the bed. Slowly lowering his head to rest back on his chest like he never left. He listens to the rhythm of his heart, feeling the way his eyelids flutter briefly, despite the way his own heart is hammering inside his chest. Everything around him is warm. That should be good, but no matter what, that cold chill always seeps back in. Nipping at his bones. This was never…His eyes squeezed shut in frustration. A low huff passed through his lips. 

He stiffens at the shuffle beneath him, lifting his head slightly to see those eyelids twitch before cracking open. Wincing at the bright light of the morning. Instinctively, Leone goes to roll over onto his side away from the window, but he jolts at the weight he finds against him in sudden remembrance.

Bruno can’t help the chuckle that escapes him. “Throwing me around, huh?” He teases lightly as he moves to sit up. At least, propping himself up halfway. Bodies still pressed close to one another. He hears the faint hum as Leone rubs at his face. Bruno’s learning that the mornings don’t suit him quite well. “Good morning.” 

He grunts. His hand fell away. Those arms are back. Like it’s second nature. Loosely resting over his hip, and Bruno feels himself lean into them. 

“Morning.” His voice is scratchy. There are remnants of his lipstick, a faint stain against pale pink, smudged in the corner of his lip. Small streaks nearly just short of meeting his chin. Long strands of hair are tangled, some falling in front of his face. Bruno looks down at him. Taking him in. 

“You’re a sight.” He comments out loud, smirking at the glare shot his way. Those eyes travel. Bruno watches the pupils move before they roll.

“You think you’re one to talk?” He snaps softly. Moving to sit up, his hand unconsciously tightened around Bruno’s waist. The latter of which shifts slightly. “Looking worse for wear yourself, boss.”

The smirk grows. “I’m sure, and whose fault is that exactly?” 

Bruno raises an eyebrow in amusement. His eyes darken, falling half–lidded, the way they always do at the start of this routine that always leads them here. Yet, he feels how his face softens at the same time. It’s an odd notion he tries to swallow down.

He tries to rely on the heat. For a while. Despite the heavy drop in his stomach each time. There’s a want for something more; to make this feel real when said heat can only do so much. It’s nearly humorous. At least from Bruno’s perspective. 

Curiosity grew just as the way it had for his peers. Natural in anyone the older you get. He found himself standing at bar counters, searching the scene. Careful. Always. It never went further than a liquor–filled make out session before he was pulling away from the stranger he’ll never remember an ounce of features to. A blur as he shook his head, and pushed past with his eyes angled at the ground. His sweat chilled in the night air as he walked in a mindless direction.

He didn’t want that. Hook–ups that led to nothing. That held nothing in them. A relationship solely on sex.

What exactly makes a relationship? Bruno is trying to find the answer. One that he keeps running from because it’s easier that way. It’s a cold rationality. One that is odd. He’s accepted this part of himself. If that can be said and believed. Reality is much different than the thoughts of your mind. Suddenly, everything's out there. Given to an audience. What was once nothing but his own hangs between another. He's expected to lie it out there all bear, but Bruno doesn't know how to remove the lock. He doesn't have a key he believes he threw away because...

The first crush comes young for a majority. From actors, actresses, sports figures, and musicians to movie characters or those in cartoons, to someone on the playground or the kid next door. Thousands of instances, but the names Bruno thought of as a child were always different. That was fine. As children don’t blink an eye. They don’t see a difference the way adults do. Not until it’s passed down, taught, and they soak it in like a sponge. 

He’s seen it in practice. In the men and women turned from the church doors; what’s preached to the congregation makes it known they aren’t welcome. He's experienced it himself. In the boys he once sat with on the playground, growing colder towards him as they all got older. For a while, the words queer and sin circled in his head. Bruno grew quieter. Careful.

That practice taught secrecy. Bruno told himself it was the way it was. It doesn’t hold up here. With Leone. It can’t, and he tries, it’s not due to a lack of. 

He shifts at the flicker of the lights above him. Watching the brief dim before they settle for the time–being. The storm is rough as he watches it from the window, leaning against the wall through the parted curtain. A soft touch of lace between his fingertips. It’s almost calming, listening to the roll of thunder overhead as the dark clouds swirl.

Bruno looks over his shoulder. A rustle catching his attention just as the strike of lighting flashes through the room, lighting the other’s face. Fugo lies asleep on the couch, unconsciously turning to his other side before his breaths even out once again. He looks so young. Bruno sighs. The curtain slips as he moves forward, slow steps tracing the living room as he glances at the time. The headache is palpable. 

It’s as he’s adjusting the nearly fallen blanket around Fugo that the door finally opens. Finally.

“It’s 3 A.M.” In a stride, he turns the corner of the entryway. Already looking at him unimpressed.

Leone leans against the door. Head hung, but the shoulders shaking says it all. The bottle clutched in his right hand says further. 

Bruno doesn’t speak. Just silently pulls Leone against him until his head is resting on his shoulder. He moves damp strands of hair back before his hand lands to cradle against his head. The other holds steady against his back. The soaked clothes don’t bother him. He feels the tremble against him before one arm wraps around him, holding tight like Bruno will disappear. Or let go.

Eventually, he shifts to be able to cup his cheek, having Leone look him straight in the eye. 

“How much?” He whispers.

There’s a small exhale. The whiskey is clear, but Leone shakes his head. His pupils aren’t dilated, and his feet remain steady. 

“Just this.” 

Bruno can see the truth as he nods. Not drunk. It’s a change. “Come on.” He whispers. “Fugo’s asleep on the couch.” There’s a loose head tilt given towards the living room. Always the value of privacy. 

They shift to the older’s bedroom. Leone lying down on his bed watching the lights flicker as the howl of the wind is shrill against the window. The man breathes deeply. Bruno comes to sit on the edge of the bed before his face scrunches. He reaches, tugging on Leone’s wet shoes to let them thump against the floor. Leone can see the wheels turning in his mind.

“You don’t have to…” Leone sighs, glancing away and feeling the pull of dried tears against his cheeks. He stares up at the ceiling to not have to look at him. 

“Have to what?” Bruno whispered. 

“This. Any of this.” He wipes at his eyes, reaching back towards the bottle. A hand wraps around his wrist, tugging.

“Put it down.” Bruno tries to bury the hiss. 

Leone smirks. It comes across as empty. “Yes, boss.” He snarks, watching how Bruno glares. He listens, however. Letting the bottle thump against the wood of the bedside table. “Happy?” 

He hums, moving to stand from the bed. The other watches; nearly expecting him to leave. Instead, Bruno is rummaging through drawers, pulling something that Leone can’t see with his body in the way. He leans back against the pillows, feeling the thrum in his head that remains low when the bottle has been stopped. 

“Your mascara is running.” Bruno comes back. The package of makeup wipes crinkled beneath his fingers. “Looking like a mess.”

“What a way with words.” 

That gets him a little huff; the edges of his lips quirking up. “Just come here.” He whispers whilst leaning closer himself. 

Leone sits up. Their foreheads almost touch as the older angles his head down. Bruno’s fingers perched beneath his chin to stabilize as he dragged the wipe down his face, ridding of the makeup. He feels the tension leaving Leone while his own begins to grow. He pushed it aside, steadying his hand.

“What did you mean?” He asks. Watching Leone’s eyes blink open, pale lashes fluttering. ““This. Any of this.” Is what you said correct? What exactly does that mean to you?” He swipes at underneath his eyes, wiping away the mascara beginning to crust together before he moves to the stream. Leaning closer to see in the low light.

There’s a snort. “You’re kidding. I don’t think it needs to be spelled out.” 

“Watch it.” There’s no heat at the tone. “But if that’s the way you want to word it, then fine; spell it out, because I don’t know.” 

There’s a linger in the silence.

“Out of all ‌the men you could have…” The words fall short as he shakes his head to himself. The alcohol tastes nothing but bitter now. “Don’t feel stuck with me.” Is what he decides to finish with. His voice is strong, but Bruno can hear what’s covered. Sees it from their close proximity as he watches the flicker in his eye. 

The wipe hovers. Bruno blinks. It’s…deeper than either of them have been. Leone’s eyes are shining as they stare at one another. 

"This is the reason why you drank?" He bites out. His eyebrows furrowing. A low breath leaves him like a huff. "Why I stayed up? With Fugo insisting to wait with me? So the both of us can be sure you came home? Ridiculous, Leone-" 

He pauses when he both sees and feels the other shrink into himself. Bruno looks away, pulling back with a glance towards the window covered in raindrops. 

“That’s not what this is.” His voice drops to a whisper. 

He hears the heave of the man’s chest. “I don’t–” 

“No,” He cuts in. “Stop allowing for your mind to tell you it's pity or force because it refuses to believe anything more." It's unsightly.

His hands unconsciously clenched, like they’re trying to wrap around the neck of the bottle no longer there. Leone gives a humorless chuckle. Almost lost to the sound of the storm. “Just seems like more than you signed up for.” 

“I know what I was getting myself into.” His voice is cold. Leone blinks. His expression fell further. “Don't look at me so low.” 

It changed nothing. He knew everything Leone was. Everything he had been through. Had sat through the repercussions and effects, the toll it took that he had held him through. That he tried to take the pain himself to shoulder. None of which ever changed his view of the man, despite how some nights he would be tired. Through the clean–up or bearing the metaphorical hits as Leone lashed out. How there were moments he felt frustrated at the step–backs. At finding another bottle somewhere in his possession. It’s the truth about addiction, however. It’s not a straight step forward, it’s not pretty. There are moments that test you when nothing in life is wrapped with a picture perfect ribbon.

He felt a wavering breath brush his lips. "Get it together." Bruno whispers.

He leans closer, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Ignoring the chemical taste from the makeup wipe…and how a tear slips. Leone tries to move towards his lips. Blinking when Bruno pulls back.

His mother had opinions. Too kind, too selfless; Bruno was always doing something for another at even a young age. It’s a quality many envy. That parents want their children to have, but his mother worried about it. Kindness was one thing, burning yourself alive to keep another warm was different. 

The blood is back where the bruises will soon join. Different from before because at 16–years–old they will always be there somewhere in the path he chose. He doesn’t remember driving here. Everything is a blur leading up to the door opening. 

“Mona.” 

A muffled voice, not his own, calls out. He lifts his head at his mother’s footsteps approaching. The look of surprise falling into one of horror as she took in the state of her son. The door opens wider, the frame lightly bouncing against the wall before she grips it. 

“Bruno…” She whispered before clearing her throat. Her grip wavers as she steps aside, leading him in. 

He stares at his blood–soaked shoes, feeling the way his shirt clings wetly to his skin. Pristine white now a soiled, rusted red, turning brown. Somewhere, deeper in the house, he can hear an infant crying from its cradle.

“Come here, Tesoro.” 

She calls out like he’s still young. The lights shifted around him. As he blinks, he’s sitting on the bed of the master bedroom, listening to her rummage in the connected bathroom. His eyes burn. He can feel himself shaking before he forcibly straightens his posture. A mission gone wrong. The bed dips beside him. 

The antiseptic burns. Bruno tasted something bitter filling his mouth. He doesn’t look at her. The baby has stopped crying. Held by a shadow that appears in the doorway. Low murmurs drifting around him. 

“No. Just let me–”

“Mona, he’s–”

“I know!” She snaps, letting the tension hang. There’s a brief sigh. “Just…prepare the guest room for him, Amore. Please.” 

He misses the response, but said shadow of the man is gone. His mother’s new family. He swallows harshly. Hands frame his face.

“Who did this?” She asked, brushing back a lock of his hair. “Where is your father–?” 

“Mama. Stop,” He croaks out. Voice raw. He pulls away.

He shouldn’t have come here. It was nothing short of foolish and dangerous. The questions were sure to come. An awaited explanation that he couldn’t give. Not that he would ever know where to begin. Start from joining Passione or the fact that the blood on his shoes is partially from a team member shot dead in front of him? Whichever way you begin it, the reaction is the same. The horror will only grow. To either disgust or this heart–wrenching sorrow, he can’t watch tonight.

She pauses. Her expression conflicted. Her breath comes out heavy as the rag twists in her hand. He stares at the photo on the dresser. Perfect in every way; scenery, clothes, the wedding rings glistening. From a man’s hand resting on her shoulder to her cradling a baby in her arms. A toddler stands between them, smiling brightly. Restarting looks so easy. In a way, it still manages to feel unfair. 

She didn’t visit last Christmas. Nor his birthday. The summers he stayed over stopped. Their calls got shorter and the letters were even fewer. They got busy, is that enough to say? Enough to act like by the age of 10–years–old, it wasn’t just holidays left between seeing each other that are slipping to be equally up in the air. 

“Fine,” She huffs. “Lets pretend this is normal.” 

He says nothing. There’s silence between them. Time ticks. She’ll ask, prod more, and he won’t know what to say. Doesn’t know why he came. His eyes slipped shut. With gentle hands, he feels her pull him against her. For a brief moment he lets himself linger in it. There’s a kiss pressed to his forehead. 

“I have to go, Mama.” He pulls back, standing on unsteady feet.

“The guest room is being set up–” She follows after him into the hallway, watching him stumble and waver. “Bruno.” 

There’s a keyword there. He looks back at her. Silent. She sees it. Feeling a lump in her throat grow. Bruno wonders what she sees when she looks at him. Doesn’t believe he wants to know the answer when he believes he can safely say it. He’s a reminder. Nothing else. Of a life she left behind. Some nights, he wonders if it would have been easier if his parents never met. He listens to the huff of humorless laughter.

“It’s been busy.” She says. Her voice drops at the realization that they’re standing outside the nursery. Her eyes shifted between the door and him.

“I know.” He follows suit, straightening his posture. Somehow, it turns into a standstill. He offers nothing more to her; Can't. They urged him to be strong for himself and for each other. Good intentions within their minds, but it has somehow turned into a noose wrapped around Bruno's neck. It chokes the life out of him, and quite frankly he doesn't know how to untie the knot. 

Isn't that pathetic? 16-years-old. Not a child anymore. A mafioso at that. The noose isn't so metaphorical any longer. 

His mother watches the shadow pass through his eyes. “You know…you can always visit, right? That you can come to me, Bruno, for anything.”

There’s a lot he can say. Tell the truth and let it all go. Do you truly miss me? 

“Pa’s waiting for me.” Instead, he smiles as if it’s meant to comfort. Turning away to exit like he never came.

When he chose his father, he watched her face waver. Yet, she didn’t stop him. She let him make that choice at just 7–years–old, as did his father. He remembers late in the night, the anger. Compensating for the changes a young boy found himself going through. Then he felt guilt. Enough to be sick. Life moves on. It happens. 

“I can’t be for convenience's sake.” 

He thought it could be another thing to rely on. Giving is easy. Taking is selfish. Weak for a leader like him, who sits at his desk. The sound of the voice drifting. He sounds so tired. Hurt. Bruno should have seen it coming. Should have known. A man was living on borrowed time.

The chair squeaked, giving away his shift under narrowed eyes. 

“Leone,” He greets the man quietly. 

He should have known. Avoidant and cold, neither go unnoticed. He kept him at arms length. 'In your head, you can't just keep pinning your self-doubts on me, Leone-'

-At some point, both come to the surface, unable to be ignored any longer. Now they find themselves here. Bruno’s time has run out. He looks up at him. The paper crinkles beneath his palms before his hands clasp together. On the other side of the desk, his partner stands there. 

“What is it?” 

There’s a scoff. A flash in his eyes, but Bruno sees the closed off posture. His arms are crossed against his chest, and he doesn’t come any closer. He covers his smirk. Unknowingly giving him leverage as Bruno’s heart threatens to skip a beat. Yet, he keeps ‌control in his hands. Raising an eyebrow with a cool expression. A faux mocking interest, like the conversation will pass with ease.

Leone hates it.

“You heard me.” He growls. Because he may not know it, but he proves Bruno’s thoughts true. He’s cold. He’s distant. Everything, every little movement, whether his own or Leone’s, is dictated by him. Through the weeks, Leone’s been replaying each instance in his mind, trying to discover if the man even realizes, and he doesn’t know which answer he wants more. 

Nothing feels real. Leone’s not dull enough to expect anything close to a normal relationship inside the mafia, but…

“If this is all out of pity, I’m calling it quits.” 

There’s silence. Then a laugh. Bruno’s shoulders are shaking with each chuckle. He forces himself to take a breath.

“Bold,” He says with a sharp smile, standing from his seat. “Perhaps edging on overdramatic.” He steps around the desk, keeping close and leaning against it like it exerts power. “Don’t you think?” 

Yet, he’s seeing the toll it’s taking. His eyes are bloodshot as if he spent nights awake thinking over this very thing. Replaying how Bruno pulled away. How he dodged any touch that he himself did not initiate. Bruno can imagine the way he stared into the mirror. His eyes carefully ran over himself, trying to find the flaw. Believing it has to be obvious. That it was him alone. Hours stood in front until pupils glazed over and legs felt like lead, ready to give out from the burning strain.

It’s an image so clear when, after all, he knows him. 

“Always getting in your head, letting your thoughts control you…Have you been drinking again?” 

It’s not fair, and as much as Bruno wants to look away, cold eyes stay pinned as the other’s face grows red. 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” He hisses, finally getting a word in. “Use that against me–” 

“Watch it.” Bruno cuts him off, coming close. “Don’t forget your place, Abbacchio. Don’t forget where we are. We’re blurring the lines enough, but I am still your leader–” 

“Is that all you are?!” His voice raises, the shout bouncing around them as storms forward. Their noses could practically touch. “What am I, huh? A quick fuck? Is that it? Just someone you can blow off steam with?” His eyes burned bright. 

Bruno huffs. “That’s not…” He falls short of explaining. Just wordlessly shaking his head. The walls feel like they’re closing in. 

“I know what I was getting myself into. I’m not that stupid to pretend it would be sunshine and frolicking through a fucking Daisy field.” His teeth are clenched. “I get it. You’re right, we’re blurring the lines, and I’m going to need you to make them clear.” 

He backs away. Feet stumbling like he’s going to pace.

“What are we?” He continues.

“This is–” Bruno’s heart is hammering. 

“What do you want this to be?” He’s continuing to push. Bruno feels like his head is underwater. He looks down. Unable to bear Leone’s face dropping. “Anything. I want you to say anything. What is this?”

Silence. 

“You told me there would be no shame. I–...I can’t even tell if you love me.” 

Bruno flinches, meeting his gaze. His mind races to speed up when his lips move, but the words aren’t forming. He has to say something. Has to give into what Leone is desperately wanting because that’s the only way to keep him. 

“I’m scared.” Comes out. He feels sick. Like his heart stops at the realization of how deeply terrified he is of the man leaving him. 

The anger dies at those two tiny words. Leone looks at him. Actually sees him. Pale skin and shaky hands.

“Of?” His voice is soft, but still demanding. 

Silently, Bruno sits on his desk. He can’t turn back now. “I’ve never had anyone like this before.” He speaks honestly. “I’ve kissed strangers without an ounce of affection shared between us, I was a virgin until you, for God’s sake, Leone, I never knew anyone could look at me the way you do.” His eyes are refusing to look at him as he bites his lip. “I don’t know what to do with it. Not when it feels like it hurts.” 

Leone pauses. “Hurts?” He repeats quietly.

He nods slowly. “Hurts.” He looks him right in the eyes as he says it.

And suddenly, that exhaustion falls deeper. Leone stands motionless in the room. Listless. Then, he turns on his heels. The door doesn’t even slam as he leaves. Bruno lets him.

Bruno sleeps alone that night. Lying in a cold bed where his chest jumps rapidly. He believes there should be tears, but whatever was supposed to be there is disturbingly absent and only sparks another prick of pain at the metaphorical wound he feels within.

There’s a hand cradling the small of his back. Giving a small shake. 

“Come on, kid.” It’s early. The 7–year–old tries to curl deeper underneath the blankets, but they’re pulled away. “Nope. Dock, Bruno. You promised to help.” 

There’s a tired mutter before Bruno rolls onto his back, staring up at his father through a tired gaze as he sits him up slightly against the pillow. Hands framing his ribs. There’s a growing smile from him. One Bruno doesn’t reciprocate. 

“What is it?” Paolo asks. 

He can’t name the expression despite the way his face twists. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to turn away in his father’s grip to hide his face. It doesn’t work. Even as he tries to kick at his arms. 

“Bruno,” He hears. Feeling childish when he’s easily steadied. There’s a small sigh. “We still have time.” He murmurs beneath his breath, and Bruno falls confused. It’s made clear when his father shuffles in the bed, moving to lie down beside him while keeping him held close to his chest. 

Hesitantly, Bruno pushed closer. Tiny hands reach out to grip at his father’s sleeve. His cheek pressed against his arm. His father looks down at him. He’s getting bigger now. No longer the small infant he spent plenty of sleepless nights with in a similar position. Paolo smiles to himself. The warmth in his chest never changed. 

The house is quieter these days. He runs a hand down Bruno’s back, feeling how his fingers curl more into the fabric of his shirt. Always been an affectionate boy. 

“Do you miss her?” 

There’s a freeze at the whisper. Bruno says it before he can try to stop himself with a certain reminder. The impulsivity of children that any parent becomes used to throughout all stages of their child’s life. There’s a stretching silence that makes Bruno wonder if he’s ruined it.

At this age, he misses the conflicted expression.

“In a way.” His father admits. Voice gruff as always, but there’s a gentle nature in it Bruno will always remember. His hair is brushed back. 

There’s a small sniff. He thinks of the whispers given behind his father’s back. Any place they go. From the dock to the store, they range from sympathy to an edge of cruelty. It trickles down to Bruno. They’re a part of the town gossip. With faux pity given towards the way his upbringing will go, that makes Bruno burn as it’s questioned if his father can do right by him. 

All the changes…

“I’ll always care for her.” He continues, shifting to sit up. Bruno is still against him in his hold. “For the years we had together, and the way she gave me you. I don’t resent her, Bruno. I can’t.” 

He doesn’t respond.

“Just got to be strong, huh?” His father rests his cheek on the top of his head, feeling the small nod. “Attaboy.” 

Bruno tries not to cling tighter. 

“Come on. Breakfast and then we’re heading to the dock.” He stands up. Bruno is still in his hold, but he switches position as he holds the boy upside down by his ankles, smiling at the sudden squeal. “You made a deal, Bruno!” He gave him a small swing. The giggles rang loud.

“Papa!”

He didn’t have the words for it then. So young. It terrified Bruno to see a love like theirs die just like that. In the eyes of an adult, he knew there was more, but in the eyes of a child he only saw it as sudden, and it was head–spinning. Formative. Because how does one see it coming? How does one stop it? 

In the early morning, he finds him on the porch. He steps out, letting the door shut silently behind him.

Abbacchio doesn’t turn. He stares straight forward, wispy white strands lifting in the breeze. Puffy eyes lingering. Yet, he remains breathtaking in Bruno’s eyes. There’s awareness of his presence. He listens in silence as he approaches. Sitting on the stone steps beside him.

Bruno's hands are clasped in his lap before he reaches in his pocket. Pulling a pack of his own cigarettes from one. He places a stick between his fingers while his other hand remains searching. There’s a low curse that leaves him when he can’t find his lighter, reasoning that he left it inside. Either that, or Fugo has swiped it. He thought smoking outside ‌the townhouse would have been a nice enough compromise…

“Did it again, huh?” Abbacchio scoffed, having seen the scene play out from the corner of his eye. He reaches back towards his coat pocket, pulling out a lighter. “I’m getting tired of replacing them.” 

He released an amused huff. “He’s particular.” 

Bruno places the cigarette between his lips, leaning as Abbacchio strikes the light. His hand came up to cup the flame to stabilize it against the brisk wind. He follows Bruno’s motion.

“What do you want?” He grunts. A low voice vibrating against Bruno's ear in a position such as this. The sun is rising above. Abbacchio doesn’t know how long he’s been out here. Just needed air. 

Bruno follows his gaze. “You misunderstood me.” He says quietly, “Not that I made it easy in the first place.” 

The fire takes. Their shoulders are pressed tight. They feel the warmth radiating. It’s brief. A few seconds, but as both draw away, neither speaks. Neither looks at one another. Bruno keeps his hand raised, taking a long drag while Abbacchio turns his head back straight.

Eventually, he has to blow out the smoke. Feeling it linger heavily in his chest. He passes it to the other. Fingertips brushing.

“As long as I could remember…I had to be self–sufficient.” Bruno murmurs, watching his inhale. His chest creaks like a dam beginning to give way. “I don’t know how to let go.” 

It’s simply said. Yet, Bruno feels exhausted. Be strong is a phrase that plays on repeat. It’s the way someone like him makes it through life when you have someone relying solely on you–

“–When you have to be the one they lean on to steady themselves. Breaking that reality is breaking them. Letting them down.” It all falls from his lips. “I’m scared. Not of you. Not of us; not in the way you think, Leone. It’s not shame, or a relationship chosen out of convenience and pity. I–” 

His voice croaks. Leone faces him, flicking ash. His sigh released the smoke. His mouth is partially open before he shakes his head to himself.

“I never…” Bruno doesn’t know how to go on.

“I get it.” He cuts in. “Serving a purpose for your whole life…you forget what it’s like to want.” He shrug likes the hurt passes.

His eyes dangerously burned as his Adam’s apple bobbed with each swallow. The cigarette is passed to him. He holds it. The sharp, bittersweet smell wafting around them. Mixing with the slight liquor coming off of the other.

“I never thought I could have this.” 

He believes that Leone knows what that feels like more than anything. It’s the final part of allowing himself to let go. He gave up on the idea, believing it wasn’t in the cards for him. Because the fear gripped him hard, tearing at him from the inside; the fear of becoming like his parents, the fear of Passione, the fear of simply letting go and allowing this part of himself he was taught to feel shame over. To feel hate towards. Yet, as he turns to Leone, he feels a flicker in his breath. 

“I get it.” The older man says. “Waiting for the rug to be pulled, huh?” 

“Yes,” Bruno whispered. He looks him right in the eyes. Feeling how wet his own have become. The tears slips without permission. Bruno gasps lightly, going to wipe it away when a hand tugs at his wrist. Leone's holding gently, squeezing against his fingers. Bruno watches it all through blurry eyes. A broken noise escapes him. 

Through it, he never meant to hurt him. He makes him feel like more than just his role in Passione. There’s something grounded when he’s with him that makes him feel more human. It’s strange in Leone’s view when he believed it could only be the opposite. A burnout had to be waiting. He wants to say that, but Bruno is speaking once more, voice rough. The whisper nearly taken by the wind. 

“I want this.” 

Everything that it entails. So damn bad. 

The cigarette is stomped out. A free hand smelling of nicotine cups his cheek, brushing away the tears. Neither remembers who initiates the kiss, but Bruno remembers the sob that escaped him and how gentle Leone kept it.

A relationship is not on one person’s shoulder. It’s teamwork. Togetherness; nothing more and nothing less when it’s not a fight for control. When they pull away, Bruno nods with a promise to himself he gives to Leone. Tries to allow himself to open up. Learn how to when he’s not alone. It’s not easy; there are moments he reverts, and there are moments he allows himself to let go.

“Ever slow danced before?” 

“Fuck off.” 

The laugh that escapes him is loud and bright that it makes Leone’s glare crack from the twitch in his lips from where he sits at the dining table. A moment to themselves. He shakes his head, but Bruno is already approaching, holding a hand out. He doesn’t take it. Refuses to move. God, like that could be enough to stop the man. Always so persistent. 

As such, he’s pulled up, anyway. The music of the radio swelling around them.

“Come on.” Bruno whispers. He holds one hand. “If I am leading, your other hand will be on my shoulder.” He waits. “Mine on your waist.” Nodding when both are in place. “See? Then step to the left, move your right foot over your left. Reverse. Step right. Left foot over right. Angle, circle. Just like that.” 

Leone follows along. Flushing when he feels his feet nearly become tangled, narrowly avoiding stepping on Bruno’s foot, who seems to have expected it by the way he maneuvers to accommodate ‌the mistakes. His face has to be bright red, while Bruno’s doesn’t even twitch.

“It’s okay.” He says, keeping up with the movements. “It takes a bit to properly nail it down when you have not just your own movements to focus on, but your partner’s at the same time. Just follow my lead, yeah?” 

He grunts. Not looking Bruno properly in the eyes. The shift isn’t going unnoticed. Is this what he was missing? This sweet softness hidden underneath the protective coldness. He tries to breathe through a strained chest. His heart beat rapidly. It all feels much more real. 

“You can always add a spin.”

With their intertwined hands, he lifts them up. Going to twirl Leone. At the highest point, he has to stand on his tiptoes to try to pull him through. Before he can blink, he feels the wobble in his feet. The lean of his body weight has him stumbling forward. Being placed on Leone, who is forced back when he tries to steady him. Both of them were nearly falling until Leone’s hand slammed against the table to brace himself, slipping into the chair. His other arm grips at Bruno’s hip. Holding tight. Unaware of the way he practically pulls him into his lap.

They look at each other. Both with wide eyes.

“Jesus,” Leone huffs. His face breaks into a smile he can’t hold. He watches Bruno’s body shake with his own held back laughter.

He shifts to make himself more comfortable. The two don’t say anything over the position. The music drifts around them as they breathe softly. For once, Bruno believes, the two of them appear lighter. It’s an almost intoxicating feeling from the spark of warmth it initiates. Perhaps the aspect of normality with it. Bruno smiles to himself.

There’s still this sense of before that is lingering. Of course. Fear couldn’t be dissolved that easily. Not with how long–term it has been able to grow, but tonight is not for it. Tonight something grows further and deeper. Tonight comes a brief moment of letting go. Of trying. Something that Bruno is able to accept because it sparks something inside himself. Akin to hope towards the future that he hadn’t had since his father died and he was stuck in the making of his own design.

Leone leans back in the chair, keeping Bruno held against him. The latter of which gives a small hum against the warm thrum coursing through his body. 

“Not exactly easy when you’re shorter than I am,” Leone chuckles.

Bruno raises an eyebrow. “Truly a way with words, Caro mio. You make me feel so loved.” He ignores the way the man freezes beneath him at the term of endearment. He rises. “Come on. I’m not done.”

He rolls his eyes, but stands with him. Both taking each other’s hand once again. 

“Switch.” He moves Leone’s hand to his waist as his own raises for his palm to cup the nape of his neck. “Then you lead.” 

There’s hesitation, but Leone moves. Trying to copy the movements Bruno just did. Under his muttered directions, in reminder. Left. Right. They circled the kitchen.

“When are we ever going to do this?” He asks. Voice dropping soft, but maintaining a certain sharpness. Perhaps an edge of bitterness creeping in.

“Does it matter when it’s something for us?”

There’s not a verbal response. Bruno doesn’t expect one. He feels himself being swayed lightly in the man’s hold, and he finds that he leans into it. Following his movements as he sighs quietly to himself. Slowly, with a swallow, he rested his head on his shoulder. His hand slid to loosely cradle his upper back. 

The dance comes to an end. They simply hold one another as the music drifts and swells around them. For a brief moment; all feels okay. Like it’s only them and this moment. No fear. No self–doubt. Nothing akin to self–hatred. 

There’s a small squeeze against him that has him lifting his head. Leone is the one who initiates the kiss this time. Bruno lets him. 

Control slips between his fingers. Bruno learns through the years the simple truth that it doesn’t make a relationship. Finds himself settling in it. They both give. They both take. It’s a trial and process for them both to learn, and they do it together. There're tribulations, but what relationship succeeds without them? Perfectness is a rose–tinted reality. A definition comes from a person’s perspective only. 

“You totally blew it, dude!” 

Leone groans from the couch as the front door opens, leading in a group of five teenagers. Signaling the end of his and Bruno’s afternoon to themselves. Leaning against him, Bruno nudges him lightly at the reaction, raising an amused eyebrow. Leone just pinches his side as retaliation, smirking at the brief yelp and the smack he gets to his chest. 

“Drop it, Mista.” They pause at the cold tone they hear from Giorno. It goes unheeded. 

“She was cute and interested!” The older protests, continuing on despite the rigid posture of the younger and the way Fugo elbows him as he moves past.

The five stood in the entryway, crowded together as they took off shoes and raincoats. Bruno can briefly hear the shaking of an umbrella on the porch as Trish lingers in the open doorway. Mista shoves Fugo away, his head following Giorno as he moves to the coat rack. 

“And you shot her down! What the hell, Giorno? Golden opportunity!” 

The door slammed shut.

“Why are you obsessing over it?” Trish scoffs. “Better for him to say no then to make her believe she has a chance and lead her on.” 

“Or drag her down into the mafia.” Fugo comments in agreement. “Looks real charming to a lady, huh, Mista?” He sees Trish throw a smirk his way as the two watch Mista stutter over himself. 

“Oh, fuck off!” He elects to say, glaring when Narancia laughs. “It’s just weird–!”

“I said, drop it!” 

Everyone pauses, eyes turned to the strength and volume of Giorno’s voice. It cracks between the entryway walls. There’s a silence that lets it hang. Giorno meets no one’s eyes as he delicately hangs his coat, turning away to climb up the stairs. 

Bruno watches him pass by the doorway on the way there. He shifts on the couch, paying mind to the clock. He watches it tick ever so slowly as the others move around before he stands, deeming it a respectable wait as he goes to follow after the boy. Leone watches him, biting the inside of his cheek before he huffs, turning back to Narancia who sits in the armchair across from him, babbling about something. 

As he turns the corner of the upstairs hallway, he sees the crack left in the door. Alongside, the flower that has wrapped around the doorknob. Red Columbine. A specific symbol Giorno uses time and time again. As such, Bruno doesn’t knock as he slips in. 

“Giorno.” He says from his position in the doorway, closing the door to at least give a small piece of privacy.

The boy sat up immediately from where he had been lying on his side. 

“I’m fine.” He says before Bucciarati can say anything. Keeping his head tilted downwards, but Bruno can see the way he blinks his eyes rapidly. He purses his lips, glancing back to the doorknob where the flower sits on the other side. 

Gold Experience is more sentient than any Stand he’s seen before. Often acting out without their user’s permission. Like now.

“You know how I feel about lying.” Is all he says. Coming close to sit on the edge of the bed. Reaching to cup his chin, he angles Giorno’s face towards him. Giving a sympathetic noise at the puffy eyes despite the lack of tears. 

Giorno crumples just at that. Bruno can see it in his eyes. It used to startle him. How expressive Giorno could be to only him. It felt delicate, and perhaps truthfully, Bruno was terrified he would break what clear trust was given to him.

He lets go. A small push away that Giorno barely feels.

“Take a breath.” He says. “Then tell me what it is.” 

Giorno’s silent. His gaze trails. Falling to the promise ring that sits on Bruno’s finger. He’s been doing that more, the man has noticed.

“What is it?” He repeats once more, trying to capture his gaze, but Giorno’s shifting his eyes away. He huffs. “GioGio.”

He sees the waver.

“I have all night.” 

He watches it break.

“Something’s wrong…” He says so quietly that Bruno has to lean close to catch it. There’s an uncomfortable grimace on Giorno’s face. His body seemingly tries to hunch in on itself, but Giorno’s grown so used to holding anything back that it only comes across as stiff and painful. “With me.” He finishes.

The words are familiar. “What do you mean?”

He’s fallen silent once more. Bruno sighs, briefly running a hand through his hair. Giving a slight tug at the strands. Patience is a virtue. He knows that. On a team like this, he has to, or else he wouldn’t be the leader he should be. 

When he lifts his head, prepping to prod some more, Giorno is staring at his ring again. It makes Bruno pause. God, on repeat, he’s been doing that…Oh. His lips pressed together. He nods silently to himself, moving to rest against the bed’s headboard. Giorno shuffles to grant room, but Bruno notices that he still keeps himself rather close. He just doesn’t want to look at him. Fine. 

His hand rests between them, letting Giorno see the ring closer.

“A promise ring. Abbacchio got me it a year ago.” He says softly,. “Just…wanted something. For the two of us.” 

It’s a simple, thin band where there’s a pearl sitting in the middle of a golden spiral that spins out to wrap around two gemstones on either side. Falling just short of the infinity sign. 

“For what couldn’t be said out loud…At least, not the way one would entirely want.” He sighs to himself. Giorno’s stare doesn’t waver. The gemstones are blue. Two different shades, one dark and the other lighter; a sea blue colour that contrasts with the deep colour on the other side. Even in the low bedroom lighting, both are sparkling. “It’s our birthstones. Sapphire and Aquamarine. Nothing too fancy, which is exactly what I wanted. Abbacchio was the same. Needed something subtle.”

He smiles. Leone gave it to him on their anniversary. Looking nervous. 

“They both stand for protection.” Giorno whispers. 

Bruno laughs quietly under his breath. “Of course, you know that.” 

The tease won him a small smile. It fades with a twitch of his lips. 

“I…I don’t know who I am,” He says.

Another girl approaching him. Another girl he turned down. This time, Mista questioned him. Wondering what the hell is wrong with him. Those exact words. Said in an overdramatic tone that was meant to be teasing, but Giorno saw what laid beneath. Mista, truly, didn’t understand him. Couldn’t make sense of it. Giorno didn’t know how to respond. Feeling placed underneath a spotlight as Mista looked at him like something was off.

Bruno shifts closer to him. “You’re still young.” He tells him. “You have plenty of time to figure that out. It’s important to do it at your own pace, GioGio.” 

“But, Mista and them–” 

“Don’t get to decide that. Mista is a direct reflection of how society’s thinking holds strong. He’s still learning to break from that mold. They can question all they want, and you will be telling them to keep it to themselves, but who you are is only for you yourself to know within time.” 

Mista’s not purposefully cruel to the ones he calls family, but Bruno means what he says. It’s been years since Bruno has gone to church, yet Mista still believes in some semblance of a God. Shortly after joining their team, there was a service Mista planned to attend. Bruno went with him, sitting in the back row at his side because he was curious about piecing together the younger. He watched how he barely breathed during the sermon until halfway through, he stood. Walking out. Bruno followed steps behind him. Not calling out or talking. Just silent. Only squeezing his shoulder as they stood on the porch steps. 

Giorno swallows harshly. “How did you know?” He whispered. It’s the most emotion he’s seen come from him.

“It’s different for everyone. For me, it was a natural realization when I was young. Before I knew certain views on it.” He smiles slightly at him. It comes across as sad. “I get it, Giorno. It's terrifying in the beginning as you try to parse through the thoughts. You can’t let them swallow you whole, however, it will kill you.” 

He can’t see that happen to him. He can’t watch Giorno fall into a spiral of deep–rooted hatred. That terrifies him the most.

“Give it time.” He adds. “That’s, in a way, all that you can do, Giorno. Your sexuality, how you love, what you can give, is for yourself, but you can’t force the answer or a realization that I know you are looking for. It would make it easier, but it’s not how growing up works.” 

He sees the way Giorno is trying hard to not appear devastated. It doesn’t hold up well. Not from how pale his face is, how his hands shake, and the way he turns to look at Bucciarati with this hint of desperation in his eyes. The words are a struggle. Bruno accepted that about Giorno. He can’t expect the openness that the others have and how they’ve given it to him. It would be unfair to assume Giorno could be the same as them when that’s not a reflection of reality. There are differences in everyone. You learn how to manage them. 

Right now, he reaches for Giorno’s hand. “It won’t always be like this.” He squeezes ever so lightly. “Not by a longshot. You’ll learn to accept yourself, and one day breathing won’t be so hard.” 

Giorno nods. It doesn’t fix anything. Not in the moment when it’s nothing short of a lot to take in. 

There’s something calm to be found in the realization that differs from all he’s used to know. Something settles when he finds it all easier to say. He says all he ever wanted to tell his younger self, if given the chance. Because it's what he wanted to hear more than anything throughout various ages and stages of feeling unable to let go. Where that noose held tight and locks believed they had lost their keys. Be strong. There're differing meanings in strength that he wished he could have seen. It's not too late, however.

“Grazie,” Giorno murmurs quietly. He squeezes back.

His eyes are clearer. Bruno smiles. 

“Of course, Giorno.” 

Through the looking glass, perhaps the man feels something akin to hope, knowing that Giorno is younger. That perhaps it can be easier for him than it was for himself because he has someone to speak to. That’s all he needs to know. Yet, he doesn’t speak it out loud. Simply finds a sense of peace and lets it be able to speak for itself.