Chapter Text
Not too long after Leone nearly strangled Giorno in the garden, he wakes up and realizes he’s utterly, hopelessly, devastatingly in love with Bruno Buccellati. He wakes up earlier than normal, painfully aware that there’s a want in his heart that he’s lived with for years, but suddenly he feels it. It’s a physical, terrible thing, lodged in his chest, clear in his head, and just like that – he knows.
He sits up in his bed, untangling from the sheets, feeling light-headed. It’s not like he’s been unaware of his feelings for Bruno, fuck, he’s practically loved the man since their first meeting. It’s just… he’d resigned himself to the fate of pining for Bruno until the end. Didn’t see a point in saying it out loud, in risking a change to an already fine status quo.
Now, suddenly, like he’s been struck by fucking lightning, Leone wants to stop torturing himself with being miserably passively in love. It’s not enough, has never been enough. He died not having pursued this, and at the time it seemed fine, it seemed like the only path in life he could take.
Life doesn’t work like that, apparently, and neither does death. Leone fell into darkness wanting nothing, giving up on the shitty life he led, not even angry about the cards he was dealt. Then he was retrieved from complete nothingness, and he woke up wanting things. He stepped back into the world of the living allowing himself to acknowledge his want.
Small things, at first. Thin smiles and sunsets.
The big things crept up on him. Working out, feeling the burn beneath his skin, feeling alive in his body; spending time with Bruno and hearing him read; having some of Leone’s favorite writing recited to him in a nervous, breathless voice.
Fuck he’s wanted Bruno for so long. Those brilliant blue eyes that look straight through him, unflinching and uncanny in their stare; he’d drown in those sapphire depths any day; he longs for the shortness of breath, that feeling of being submerged in everything that is Bruno.
Dammit – has there ever truly been a day when Leone hasn’t longed for Bruno? His voice, commanding when it needs to, soft beneath the hard veneer. His heart, bleeding for others, bleeding for the world, always bleeding out, never asking for salvation.
Leone loves Bruno, wants this more than he’s ever wanted for anything, and he can’t bear it.
The sky is still dark, an ashen blue tainted with embers of orange.
He heads for the bathroom, this revelation heavy in his chest; too big, too powerful, overwhelming; it feels almost alien to him.
Leone splashes cold water in his face, as if something so simple could extinguish the flames beneath his skin. Then he leans on the sink, staring at his reflection. Yellow eyes wide, trapped in a state of shock, as if he’d never get this far in confronting his emotions.
He’s still not used to his appearance; short hair, like he hasn’t changed since then; since he stepped onto the streets of Napoli, thinking he could make a change. When he looks into the mirror, that same wide-eyed idealist looks back, thinking that this could work.
Leone isn’t oblivious, of course. He knows that there’s something there. Knows that Bruno’s eyes linger, knows that they share, well, moments… but moments aren’t the same as being in love. Moments won’t necessarily build the foundation of a relationship.
“Fuck”, Leone whispers, his mind echoing the sentiment tenfold. A relationship, eh? Is this truly where death has taken him?
Because that’s it, right? He’s a dead man walking, or well, maybe he’s just a man who accidentally died once. Either way, he knows exactly what he wants; and he knows that he can’t ignore it; and he has no idea how to broach the subject.
At an impasse like this, there are only a few options available. Running until he can’t breathe; doing push-ups until his arms give out; playing Ave Maria until his fingers ache. It’s not impossible to contain this revelation. If nothing else works, he should be able to drink enough to muddle his thoughts.
He can keep it to himself for a day, at least, and figure out what to do from here. Should he move out? Should he ask Bruno on a date? Should he just tell him and offer to leave immediately after, sparing them both the embarrassment? The last thing he wants is to open this door and be met with pity. Mild eyes and a forgiving smile, as Bruno obviously doesn’t return his feelings, but compassionately leaves a space for Leone in his life. Fuck, he’d rather have his chest torn open all over again.
Leone stares into the mirror, stares at a lost version of himself; a younger man, unsure of his place in the world; someone who needs nothing and wants everything. A young man who dared believe, however briefly, and then was twisted – by the world and himself – into the cynic he is now.
The door to the bathroom bursts open, and Leone flinches pathetically, only staying upright thanks to his grip on the sink.
There, in the doorway, as some cruel joke sent by the universe, is Bruno Buccellati. Black hair a mess, blue eyes hazy with sleep, and he leans on the door frame as if it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
“Leone?” Fuck his voice is deep; still drowsy and oh so inviting. “Sorry, I didn’t think…”
“I love you.”
The words just… bleed out of him. Leone might as well cut his own throat and spill his blood all over the white t-shirt that Bruno apparently sleeps in. He feels like he just unleashed something unspeakable into the world.
Bruno stares at him. God, does he stare. His body rigid, eyes wide and suddenly very much awake, his mouth open slightly. He stands there, agonizingly stunned, and the vacant expression, the stillness of his chest, has Leone recoil.
“Bruno, breathe. Please.”
At his command, Bruno starts breathing again, seemingly unaware that he’d held his breath for at least half a minute.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…” Leone murmurs, his voice failing him. “This is not how I wanted to do this, I don’t know what happened.”
As he speaks, those blue eyes focus on Leone’s lips, trailing his features with utmost focus. When Bruno finally meets Leone’s gaze head on, the crows feet at the corner of his eyes are pronounced, a smile reaching those blue oceanic depths.
“You’re serious?” Bruno takes a step into the room, his actions hesitant, but his muscles relaxed and trusting.
Leone closes his eyes, trying to suppress the hope surging in his chest. “Yes.”
“You’re not lying?”
When he opens his eyes, Bruno is so close. Eyes curious, expression schooled in an attempt to seem guarded but not succeeding.
“Bruno, why would I…” Leone sighs, ready to do anything to get this excruciating moment to end. “You can lick my face, if you want to make sure.”
The comment is at least enough to startle a laugh out of Bruno. “What if I were to lick your face, in this bathroom, where we’re both just standing around, staring, and you’ve just said…”
Fuck if Bruno’s incoherent rambling isn’t the most endearing thing Leone’s ever heard. He reaches out, his hand stiff with anxiety, and yet he manages to trace Bruno’s jawline somewhat confidently with his fingertips.
“I just said I loved you. You can do whatever the fuck you want.” He’s not even trying to sound suave, but the desperate note to his voice is still unbearably embarrassing.
“Okay.” Bruno nods, repeating the motion over and over, as if he’s stuck. “Leone, I love you too, and I have so much to… say… but I actually desperately need to pee, that’s why I burst through the door like a Trojan horse or something…”
“I’m not sure if that simile means what you think it means.” Leone says it as he dissects Bruno’s statement, his mind trying to grasp the enormity of this… toilet meeting. “Also, I’ll… go? So you can… you know?”
Bruno nods, very serious about the whole thing. “You can wait for me in my room?”
“Oh.” Shit, it’s not even a word, if anything it’s like a surprised gasp.
Leone nods, and then immediately flees the bathroom, at first thinking he’ll just lock himself in his own room, lay down on the floor and just cease to exist. His body acts on it’s own though, leading him through the door of Bruno’s room. He closes it behind him, and then he just… stands there.
He’s never actually been here before. Hasn’t even imagined what it’s like, because he’ll daydream about a lot of shit, but thinking about this would feel like an invasion of privacy.
It’s a fairly large room, bright with the light from a French balcony. There’s not much of an attempt to style the place. A queen size bed positioned along the wall; deep blue silk sheets an absolute mess. Fuck they look shiny. Of course Bruno sleeps on silk sheets and Leone’s mouth is so goddamn dry. Next to the bed are piles of magazines and books; it looks chaotic in a way that hints to a hidden sorting system. An ordered chaos that’ll make sense to only Bruno.
In the corner of the room a closet stands ajar, some clothes stored neatly, some thrown over the doors or on the floor. Leone glimpses more than a few pieces of lingerie – lace in black and blue and white – and he has to forcefully drag his mind out of the gutter.
Not knowing what to do with himself he sits down on the edge of the bed. His body is tense, the muscles of his shoulders pulled taut. He tries to focus on breathing, his mind a complete mess. It feels like he’s dreaming. Like he’s once again replaying a bad experience from his life, watching it, detached, with no control over the events.
He’s not sure how long he sits in the room, eyes on the door, time seemingly not moving at all. Not even seconds have the grace to tick by – to give him the comfort of knowing that this drawn out torture is nearing its end.
Then a zipper appears on the ceiling above the bed, Bruno’s pale fingers grasping the golden edge as he peeks out from the void. Leone meets his gaze, and Bruno genuinely looks shocked enough at being found out that he seems seconds from falling out of the ceiling.
“What are you doing, Bruno?” Leone’s voice comes out soft, slightly uneven with laughter, as he basks in the stare of those sapphire eyes.
“I wanted to know if you actually were here.” It’s barely a whisper, surprisingly broken, as Bruno’s eyes take Leone in, searching for something.
“There’s a door. You can knock.” Leone sounds like an old man trying to offer helpful solutions and he absolutely hates himself.
“I can’t knock on my own bedroom door.” Whatever that is supposed to mean, it’s clear that it makes perfect sense to Bruno. Fuck if that unique brand of freaky logic isn’t why Leone loves him.
They stare at each-other a while longer, the silence fairly comfortable, but only because of the distance between them. Eventually, Leone’s neck starts hurting from having his head thrown back for so long. “Bruno Buccellati, you better come down from the ceiling or I’ll fucking pull you from the void myself.”
His order is met with laughter that almost sounds bright – that almost breaks the spell of insecurity that’s still present in Bruno’s features. “Okay.”
It’s been months since they, well… woke up. Both of them have recovered well, but as Bruno grabs the edges of his zipper and lowers himself onto the bed his muscles are clearly straining from the effort. Leone readies himself to catch him, but only if it’s necessary. He doesn’t want to make Bruno feel weak.
Finally, sitting on the bed next to Leone, Bruno sighs, his shoulders slumping.
“Hi”, Bruno says, looking up at Leone through dark lashes. There’s an edge to his voice, a nervous tick to how he runs pale fingers through his black hair, tucking it behind an ear.
“Hi.” Leone chances a smile, feeling a pressure build in his chest. Not even when he was bleeding out in Sardinia did he feel this dizzy; was his breath punched out of him with such a force.
“I can’t believe my hair is longer than yours now.” Bruno reaches out, his hand unsteady, his fingertips light as they play with the short, silver hair at Leone’s temple.
At the touch, Leone sits absolutely still, his eyes not leaving Bruno’s face. It’s unreal. A lost dream cruelly springing forth from years of fantasies, played out before his eyes like every other mirage of his stand. “I can’t believe you love me. You were supposed to be the one with good taste.”
Bruno’s eyes harden at that, an expression he would normally wear when recklessly throwing himself into fights just for the sake of it. In one smooth motion he straddles Leone, the muscles in his thighs tense, his hands gripping Leone’s shoulders with urgency. “Fuck you, Abbacchio. I’ve thought about this so much.”
He leans in, only slightly, the tip of his nose at Leone’s jawline, that black hair a soft curtain, brushing against Leone’s neck and fuck if he doesn’t shiver.
“There have been so many moments where I’ve thought, ‘this is it, he’ll actually come to my door tonight’ and you never do. Never.” Bruno keeps talking, his whispers urgent, almost angry.
“I’m sorry.” Leone’s hand is in Bruno’s hair now. He loves feeling those soft strands in his palm, to see his pale fingers card through the delicate darkness.
“Remember when you cut Trish’s hair? I stayed up until sunrise.” Something like a shiver runs through Bruno’s body – the tense muscles of his thighs. His voice is still harsh, accusing and sad.
Leone can do nothing but nod. “Me too. I thought about it for hours. What would happen if I followed you here.”
Bruno leans back, those blue eyes immediately on Leone’s lips; trailing his features; locking on his gaze. Azure depths, pulling him in – an ocean ready to swallow him whole. “Remember when you died, Leone? You fucking died, and I never slept past that point.”
“You died first.” Leone responds, not even thinking about what he’s saying. He’s got no control of his voice anymore, and it spills from him a broken murmur. “I knew the moment you returned from the belfry. You died first, on that godforsaken island, and you didn’t even tell me.”
Bruno shakes his head. “No, you died. Do you understand, Leone? You died. You died. You died…”
There’s nothing he can say, because what else is there to add? Leone Abbacchio left this world, and then there was nothing. He didn’t make the choice to return. Can’t claim that he came back for Bruno, and Bruno can’t claim he’s here for Leone’s sake. They threw themselves at certain death, entered the void, and now here they are, pulled into a world that shouldn’t have a place for them; a world where everything left unsaid is the only thing they can talk about.
Both hands framing Bruno’s face, Leone rests his forehead against Bruno’s, feeling the warmth of his skin, the huffs of short, angry breaths. “You could’ve told me to come here, you know? I would’ve.”
Bruno laughs, a short, dejected noise. “I’m never telling you to do anything again. Look where that led us.”
Leone trails his hands down Bruno’s sides, the soft t-shirt creasing at his touch, Bruno’s skin flush and hot beneath the thin fabric. Only when his hands come to rest lightly on Bruno’s waist does he speak, raising an eyebrow, hoping to achieve a tone that is somewhat enticing. “I think you sitting on my lap is a pretty good outcome.”
“Shut the fuck up”, Bruno whispers, and then he kisses Leone. One of his hands at the back of Leone’s head, the other at his neck – nails pressing crescents into skin. It’s intense, a tidal wave of want, but fuck if there isn’t something vulnerable and disarming about how Bruno kisses him again and again and again; soft presses of lips that grow more and more insistent, until Leone lets his lips fall open in invitation.
It’s like the world’s center of gravity shifts, the planet tilted, the oceans spilling into the vacuum of space. At the center of Leone’s universe, there is Bruno; drinking in his soft sighs; licking at the corner of his mouth; his bottom lip; a hint of teeth as he explores Leone’s mouth, indulgent and all-consuming.
Bruno’s voice echoes through his head. You died, you died, you died, and Leone’s overwhelmed. By rights, they shouldn’t even be here. But they are. They are. Leone breaks away from the kiss, only just enough to mouth at Bruno’s jawline, licking at the smooth skin and enjoying every shiver it elicits. “You’re alive”, he whispers, feeling his lips pull into a smile against Bruno’s flushed skin.
It’s better than life; better than life after death; Bruno Buccellati is on Leone’s lap, his muscles strong beneath warm skin, his breaths heady against Leone’s cheek. “You’re alive. You’re alive, Bruno - you’re alive…”
His voice barely carries, his hands tremble as he grasps Bruno’s waist in a tighter hold, and god fucking dammit, Leone Abbacchio is alive too. He’s in his body, his pulse racing with need and lust and want, and he’s breathing, and Bruno’s grinding his hips down and they’re alive. They’re both alive.
“Thank you”, he hears Bruno whisper, as if Leone’s given him a compliment and not just stated something that is factually true.
“No - thank you”, Leone replies, his brain uncooperative and his mouth forming words that make no sense.
He leans back, needing to take this moment in. Needing to see Bruno like this; eyes glazed over, blood hot skin, his dark hair a mess. Azure eyes find Leone’s, golden sunlight meeting the vast ocean, and there are crow’s feet at the corner of Bruno’s eyes when he smiles, the joy lighting up his every feature. Bruno grins with kiss-stung lips, so Leone dives in to bite at them – to kiss them even redder.
There’s a hint of a knock on the door, but it’s not enough of a warning for either of them to react. Trish tears the door open, already talking when she strides into the room.
“Bruno, do you know where Leone is? I checked his room and…” as she catches sight of them she falls silent, emerald eyes wide, but there’s a smile on her lips.
Leone completely loses his ability to speak. He feels like he’s fallen in front of a truck, and this is it, this is what will truly do him in. On his lap, Bruno makes an attempt to disentangle their limbs, but it’s awkward and they’re both dazed, so they end up the way they were, Bruno straddling Leone, both of them just staring at Trish.
Then, finally, Trish snickers and waggles her eyebrows at them. Leone has never been so relieved in his life, and fuck if he dosen’t feel like he’s already had a bad influence on her. If she makes any inappropriate jokes about this he will know he’s failed as a parent.
“Oh, don’t mind me. I’ll grab breakfast on the way to school. Bye!” She shuts the door, leaving as quickly as she appeared. Her steps are light as she stalks down the corridor, and they can hear her giggle on her way down the stairs.
Leone doesn’t know how long they sit there, staring at the door. His hands are still resting on Bruno’s waist, their grip loose yet very much there. At least he remembers to breathe as his mind slowly plays through what just happened, over and over. Not just the interruption – which was traumatizing enough – but the steps that lead them here. Everything that’s happened in the past hour.
Bruno is the first one to laugh, his head tilted back, easy giggles spilling from his lips. He looks at Leone with glistening blue eyes, inviting him to share the relief and joy. Then Leone’s laughing, almost carefree, and it feels so good. He chases that sound, needing more; diving in to kiss Bruno again, drinking the laughter from his lips. It starts out playful, but when Bruno kisses him back it’s heartbreakingly tender; soft fingertips at Leone’s jaw, his chin, angling him into the kiss.
He let’s Bruno push him back on the bed, one hand next to Leone’s head, the other tracing patterns on his chest. It’s not lewd as much as it’s searching, and Leone recognizes this too well; the desperate need to ensure the other is still there – that there’s a soul inhabiting a body that much too recently was empty.
Perhaps he should hunger for more, but at this moment, this is everything he could dream. He doesn’t want more than this, not right now. Suddenly, inexplicably, it seems that time is on their side. They can have this; a quiet moment of finding each-other; exploring this thing they’ve avoided for years. It can be slow and trembling and tender.
Leone doesn’t know how many hours they spend on Bruno’s ridiculous silk sheets, clinging to each-other, hands trailing beneath clothes, but never undressing. There’s a flow to it that he can get completely lost in; rolling waves on a shore; the push and pull of tender kisses, deepening with a frenzy and then softening again.
Bruno’s scent is everywhere around him, in the sheets, on his skin, carried on broken breaths against his lips. Rosewood and citrus and salt; an devastating sea that overwhelms Leone; an ocean he drowned in the second he woke from the dead; an ocean he’ll always want to be submerged in.
“Fuck, Bruno”, he whispers against the top of Bruno’s head, soft hair catching on his lips as he speaks. “I love you.”
He gets a shaky breath in reply. They haven’t actually spoken these past few hours, at least not by using words. “I love you too.”
For a while they’re silent, Bruno resting in Leone’s arms. The sun shines bright outside, its rays almost insufferable as they gleam through the doors of the French balcony.
“What took you so long?” Bruno’s voice is muffled against Leone’s chest, sounding small and vulnerable.
Leone sighs. “I could ask you the same thing.”
His hands trace Bruno’s back, pressing at the tense muscles there, needing to ground this conversation in this brilliant, beautiful thing they’re sharing. Needing to remind them that while they may be stubborn asshats, they still found their way here.
“I was your superior. I couldn’t just…” Bruno shakes his head, a shudder running through him. “It would be fucked up. You were always so loyal, I couldn’t just take advantage.”
“I guess that’s admirable”, Leone whispers, thinking that he would’ve let Bruno do anything. God, fuck, a look and Leone would’ve been at his beck and call, even in the bedroom… and this is probably the last thing Bruno wants to hear. Talk about confirming his suspicions.
“You know, I marked a passage in the book.” At first Leone doesn’t quite follow, but then he realizes that Bruno is referring to Ada or Ador – the book that Bruno stole from him months ago. “I had been planning to read it to you for weeks, but I was too much of a coward.”
Leone huffs a laugh. “We’re equally good at depriving ourselves of happiness, aren’t we?”
Bruno shifts on Leone’s chest, reaching for the books that are piled next to the bed. Once he finds the one he’s looking for he browses through dozens of dog-eared pages, and if anyone but Bruno had done this to Leone’s favorite book… damn. If Narancia had done something like this Leone would’ve broken every CD in his record collection, and if Giorno would’ve had the nerve – Leone would’ve straight up defenestrated the kid. Now, he simply smiles, his heart fluttering at the thought of Bruno staying up late reading, finding all of these passages he wants to share with Leone.
“Okay”, Bruno says, letting the book rest on Leone’s chest, only leaning back enough to be able to see the words. “Shit.”
There’s a new flush on his cheeks, and his eyes dart over the pages, nervous and lost. Leone raises one of his hands, caressing Bruno’s cheek. “I love when you read to me, and I don’t give a shit about pronunciation. It’s perfect because you’re the one reading to me.”
Bruno bites a smile, looking up at Leone, a vulnerable gleam in his eyes, but it’s easy to see how he relaxes his shoulders all the same. “Fucks sake Leone. Stop being so romantic, or you’ll outperform me.”
“It’s not a contest”, Leone murmurs, smiling back at Bruno. “But I’m glad I’m winning.”
He’s met with a groan, Bruno looking like he’s only just restraining himself from punching him. “I’m going to read it now, so you better shut up”, Bruno mutters, his eyes falling close as he takes a deep breath. “And yet… I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.”
Fuck Bruno’s voice is warm, and he speaks with a smile, his eyes still closed as if he’s praying. Leone leans forward, kissing him only for a second. A chaste press of lips, much better than attempting to speak.
“Did I win?” Bruno opens his eyes, blinking several times at the bright light of the room.
“Like I said, it’s not a damn contest.” Leone rolls his eyes, exaggerating hos words and his gestures. Chasing more laughter, more smiles, from Bruno – doing anything to coax more carefree joy from him. “But yeah, I think you won.”
They spend an inordinate amount of time giggling. It’s not even funny. Leone can’t remember when he actually giggled like this before. Sure, there’s been once or twice with Trish, but he’s never actually admitted to himself that that was, in fact, well, giggling.
It’s just past noon, when Bruno normally would wake up, and Leone is finally the one to suggest they get breakfast. Bruno agrees, but refuses to let Leone head down the stairs and make a normal serving of fruit, yogurt and coffee.
“It’s my turn”, Bruno says, actually winking, like he’s collected himself enough to be suave all of a sudden. “Put on something that isn’t sleeping clothes, and we’ll head out.”
Leone follows the directions, not putting much thought into his look. For every second he’s in his room, apart from Bruno, his thoughts drift further and further, dangerously close to a panicked spiral. Of course, most reasons for them not to do this aren’t relevant anymore. Bruno isn’t capo, Leone isn’t his lapdog, they’re not part of Passione, their relationship wouldn’t be a liability, and yet… and yet. Will he ever not be stuck in this cycle of elation and despair, years of catastrophic thinking, and the ability to replay the worst parts of his life at his fingertips?
He ends up not being able to think at all, and thus wearing his work-out gear, an all black outfit with a muscle tee and shorts. To feel like he’s put an effort in he also applies some lipstick – purple – and a thin eyeliner. The drama works surprisingly well with his short hair. Fuck, for a moment it feels like looking through a window at his past self. The work-out gear, almost a uniform, the hair styled to fit regulations, his eyes wide with something like hope. It should feel like a depressing reminder of the naive kid he used to be; the idealist he himself murdered; but the Leone Abbacchio who stares back at him through the mirror doesn’t feel like a remnant of the past. There’s a set to his shoulders that feels new, his expression open and hopeful in a way he hasn’t allowed himself, probably ever.
It’s been at least half a year since he died, and yet he hasn’t felt that he woke up a new man until this very moment.
Bruno is waiting for him by the front door, wearing a pair of dark gray linen joggers and an almost unbuttoned white shirt. Beneath the ensemble he’s wearing a dark bodice, black lace tight over tan skin and muscle. Fuck he’s a revelation, and thankfully, Leone seems to have a similar effect on Bruno. As he walks down the stairs Bruno leers, actually biting his bottom lip as his gaze is fixed on Leone’s thighs.
“I thought your work-out gear would be the death of me”, Bruno murmurs, and then he’s crowded Leone against the front door. “God you’re hot.” The words are whispered against Leone’s lips, as if it’s an ultimate truth, as if it makes sense, as if Bruno doesn’t leave him breathless by simply existing.
What can he do but kiss Bruno? Unhurried and tender, biting at his bottom lip, licking into impossible heat. Leone melts beneath those hands as they trail up his arms, blunt nails digging into the meat of his muscles.
He’s not sure how long they’re distracted before actually opening the door, but he knows there’s a purple hue to Bruno’s lips that neither of them have been able to wipe off, and there are bright red scratch marks on Leone’s bare arms.
As they walk, Bruno easily takes Leone’s hand, entwining their fingers. Then he walks them through the suburbs, pulling Leone into a seemingly closed restaurant as if he owns the place.
Despite the intrusion, they’re greeted with warm smiles, a woman – seemingly the owner – coming up to hug Bruno before showing them to a table. Leone hangs back slightly, taking in the scene, taking in this part of Bruno’s life that he’s known about, but never seen before.
They don’t have to order anything. Within minutes the woman returns with a plate of pastries – buttery and flaky, with a chocolate filling – and an espresso for each of them. It’s a surreal experience, Bruno’s relationship with the owner so very much alike the ones he established with restaurants that were under his protection. Watching them interact is like time traveling, Leone momentarily forgetting that anything’s changed since then.
The woman lingers by the table. Leone’s not sure what to do with her presence, so finally he looks directly at her. Apparently that’s what she’s been waiting for, because she smiles and immediately starts talking.
“And who might you be?” As she speaks she’s clearly taking Leone in; the lipstick he reapplied on the way here; the muscles, and perhaps the markings, of his bare shoulders. “We haven’t seen you before?”
“I’m, uh…” Leone trails off, turning to look at Bruno. He feels like he’s just been introduced to a partner’s family for the first time.
“He’s my, well, we live…” Bruno continues, voice just as unsteady.
Fuck it. Leone decides to be brave. “I’m Bruno’s partner”, he says, the words feeling dangerous and larger than life. Shit. He just said it – just let those words out into the world like an unspeakable horror. Saying it out loud is him looking directly at this thought for the first time; the opposite of the years they’ve spent not talking about what they are or what their future will be like.
“Oh, so you’re the one he’s finally started cooking for?” The lady asks, and Bruno blushes so deeply at her words. Leone’s heart feels like it’s about to burst.
Finally Bruno nods, avoiding both Leone and the woman’s gaze. “Yes, and, well… the rest of our family.”
“I’m glad!” She pats Leone on his shoulder. “Bruno’s always so secretive, but it makes me glad he’s got y’all at home.”
It’s such a normal interaction it feels absolutely surreal, and Bruno still won’t look at Leone. To get his attention, Leone once again decides to take some initiative. The morning has him feeling brave, and when he reaches for Bruno beneath the table, his hand barely reaching a knee, he’s once again rewarded by hazy eyes and a warm smile.
Breakfast has never passed this quickly before.
On their way home, they stop at the grocery store. Mista has arranged for the whole squad to reunite at the house tonight, and Trish has of course insisted that they cook for all of them – Leone knew it was a mistake to teach her and Bruno how to cook. He’s limited them to a simple caesar salad, where they replace all the raw egg shit in the dressing with mayonnaise. Partly because Bruno seems to have some sort of phobia when it comes to raw eggs, and partly because these dinners always have Leone’s anxiety spike enough without also babysitting Trish and Bruno in the kitchen.
As they’re getting ready to pay for the groceries, Bruno stops him from grabbing plastic bags. Then he puts a zipper on his thigh, gesturing towards it with a raised eyebrow. “We can just pack things in here.”
“Bruno Buccellati, you’re not storing raw chicken in your leg”, Leone hisses, and if there’s a higher power that could ensure the people around them don’t hear this conversation Leone is ready to find religion this instant.
“Why not? It’s convenient, and using less plastic is good for the environment.” Bruno looks genuinely perplexed, and if Leone wasn’t so horrified he’d want nothing more but to kiss him.
Leone grabs two plastic bags. “Shut the hell up. We’re not serving the kids void food.”
“Do you think it would taste weird?” At least Bruno isn’t insisting on the zipper solution. He does seem genuinely intrigued, though.
“I don’t know, man. If you store something in the void for a while it’s gotta add something to the taste.” Leone mutters the words while paying, hoping the cashier is actually as bored as he looks and not paying attention to the conversation happening in front of him.
“Well, I spend a lot of time in the void. Do I taste weird?”
Leone is well aware of the fact that he’s been dead, but he truly feels like he hasn’t died ever in his life until this moment. What the fuck. He groans. “You can’t just say that.”
He packs up the groceries with Bruno at his side, blue eyes watching him intently. As Leone is handling a bottle of wine Bruno clears his throat, and even at the corner of his eye Leone can catch a glimpse of a bewitching grin. “I like it when you use my full name,” Bruno starts, a sing-song note to his voice. “Makes me want to do stupid shit just to hear you say it.”
Stupid shit like making Leone drop the wine, apparently. Neither of them manage to catch it, and it smashes on the floor. Leone’s honestly too flustered to be mad, and Bruno just looks pleased with himself.
“Don’t worry about the wine. It was cheap, anyway.” Bruno says it as he grabs the grocery bags, walking out of the shop with determined steps. For a moment Leone considers rushing into the store to grab another bottle, but ultimately he follows Bruno down the street, wrestling a bag from him as he catches up. They spend the short walk home bickering, and it’s easy in all the ways Leone’s life never is.
When they’re back home they unpack everything, getting the ingredients ready for when Trish is back from school. They’ve only got a few hours before the kids show up, and for once Leone’s not vibrating out of his skin with stress. In fact, working side by side with Bruno is calming – better than meditation – at least until Bruno takes a step back from the kitchen counter and unzips both his thighs.
“The fuck are you…” and Leone falls silent as he watches Bruno pull two bottles of expensive wine out of his body. He knows the wine is expensive, because he recognizes those labels all too well. “Bruno… did you steal those?”
Bruno shrugs, putting the bottles in the fridge. “It’s your favorite, right? White wine from the Amalfi Coast, you goddamn snob.”
Leone just… stares, and Bruno turns to him, offering him a smile and a shrug.
“A little shoplifting has never killed anyone.”
And yes, Leone’s been in the mafia. He’s simply not allowed to judge anyone for doing illegal things. It’s just… sometimes he’s still stunned by how effortlessly Bruno just… breaks the law. It shouldn’t be hot, but god fucking dammit, it is.
And then, as he’s hung up on how he’s apparently hopelessly attracted to Bruno’s bad boy side, a thought occurs to Leone.
“Bruno Buccellati. Shoplifting may seem like a petty crime, but it’s seriously disrespectful to small business owners.” He slips into the best commanding tone he can muster, straightening out to tower over Bruno.
“Oh, are you saying I’ve been disrespectful, officer?” Bruno purrs, and fuck, his eyes are blown wide, practically begging Leone to pin him down, and Leone’s brain short-circuits. Next thing he knows, he has Bruno on the kitchen table, those muscular thighs wrapped around him, and Leone’s kissing him so deeply, the table creaking with every unhurried shift of their hips. It’s too good, all-consuming, and it’s not near enough. Leone needs to remove every item of clothing right this instant, and of course, that’s when the front door slams open.
They barely have time to separate, the process only made all the more challenging with how Bruno’s skin is marked with purple lipstick, his dark hair is wild, and his chest is heaving with uneven breaths. Leone isn’t even sure how he manages to not lean back in and chase the heat, the scent of Bruno Buccellati coming undone.
Trish walks in, stops at the kitchen door and clears her throat, as if they haven’t already noticed her.
“Are we going to have to establish ground rules?” She asks, and she’s surprisingly good at taking on a parental tone – the threat of a lecture coming up. “Because I’m gonna have to know which areas of the house are safe, you know?”
“We’re not gonna fuck in the kitchen, this is where we keep the food”, Bruno says, seeming genuinely offended at the suggestion. Leone can’t help but snort out a giggle, both hands on Bruno’s shoulders as he hunches over in quiet laughter.
“Oh god”, Trish groans, but even without seeing her expression Leone can tell she’s smiling. “I never thought I’d have to deal with parents hooking up in front of me. Fuck my life.”
The humor isn’t exactly sucked out of the room, but they all fall silent at the implication of her words. Leone straightens out, turning to look at her, and while she looks slightly paler than usual, there’s still the gleam of a smile in her eyes.
“Don’t say a word”, Trish mutters, pointing at the both of them. “I’m happy for you. Just make sure I don’t have to see anything too explicit.”
“We promise.” Bruno speaks seriously, as if this is some sort of religious oath.
“Good.” Trish stalks off to her room, and only when they hear the stereo in her room blast one of Narancia’s hip-hop records does Leone dare lean in for another kiss. It’s soft, sweet, and Bruno immediately bursts out laughing. It’s enough for the charged air of the kitchen to dissipate, and they once again focus on the dinner plans – but not without stolen glances every now and then.
They spend the afternoon prepping for the evening. Not that there’s a lot of cooking to do, the salad only requiring a dressing, croutons, pan-fried chicken, and for the actual lettuce to be chopped. The preparations instead go into things like cleaning up the living room (Leone’s mostly guilty of leaving shit like books and towels all over the place), arguing about which CD should be playing when the boys arrive (something by Savage Garden), and whether or not they should allow the kids to drink during the evening (maybe a little, but watered down).
The kids arrive in a limousine, because why wouldn’t Giorno rent the most audacious thing ever. Or maybe he owns it, shit – that would be even worse. The kid doesn’t even have a license.
Leone waves to all of them, watching Narancia tackle Trish hard enough that Bruno needs to catch both of them. That’s enough of a cue for him to retreat into the kitchen, before he’s doomed to deal with similarly awkward greetings.
A few minutes later Bruno joins him in the kitchen, and Leone turns to watch him, simply to catch that soft, unguarded smile that Bruno reserves for his old gang. He’s not even jealous of that tenderness, his heart instead skipping a beat at seeing Bruno so happy.
While Leone nearly cuts a finger off while distractingly chopping garlic, Bruno pours him a glass from the expensive Amalfi wine, staring intently at him until Leone finally takes a sip.
“Does it taste weird?”
Fuck, Bruno sounds genuinely worried. Leone almost feels bad about making the guy feel all self-conscious about his stand. He offers a smile, drinking more of the wine. “No, it’s perfect.”
“I’m glad.” Bruno speaks on a breathy note, clearly relieved. Then he leans in, placing a soft kiss at the corner of Leone’s mouth.
Turning back to the chopping board, ready to hack up the lettuce, Leone clears his throat. “Hey. You should show Giorno the garden.”
Bruno narrows his eyes, leaning over the kitchen counter to properly invade Leone’s field of vision and stare at him. “Leone, I swear to god, if there are booby traps…”
Okay, fine, Leone deserves the scrutiny, but he’s genuinely trying to be nice here. Turn over a new leaf, so to say. “There are no booby traps. I just feel like he could help us figure out how plants work.”
Bruno nods at that, as if he thinks the explanation makes sense, but he doesn’t look entirely convinced. When he leaves the kitchen, Leone can still feel those azure eyes on him, likely trying to decipher Leone’s motivations.
Maybe ten minutes later, he’s done everything but assembled the salad. Leone leans back against the kitchen counter, closing his eyes. When he’s still like this, just listening in, the house feels alive. He can hear Trish and Narancia and Fugo, holed up in Trish’s room, hollering about Snoop Dogg. Then there’s a rustling from outside, a certain uncanny edge to the movements of vines and the blossoming flowers, quiet voices carried on the evening breeze.
The house has never felt dead during the months Leone’s lived here, but he can’t help but to think of it as a body; a hollow shell that can only feel like a home when infused with laughter and bickering and – ew he’s growing soft – family.
He sighs, grabbing his glass of wine and steeling himself as he heads for the balcony. It’s still bright outside, the sky a pale turquoise, the sun hours from setting. There’s an itch beneath Leone’s skin as he leans on the railing of the balcony, a certain unease as he looks for Bruno, and yet… the first thing he makes out amongst the greenery is loose golden curls, Giorno’s hair wild with no trace of his normally spotless hairstyle. The sleeves of his blazer are rolled up to his elbows as he pokes at a flowerbed, hands and arms already stained with grass and dirt. Bruno’s hunched by his side, intense eyes following Giorno’s every move. He seems hesitant to touch the plants himself, but when the air glows with a golden hue and new vines suddenly spring from the dirt, Bruno’s slender fingers are there, his face open in awe. God, Leone gulps down the rest of his wine, trying to drown the fondness that grows in his chest like nausea.
Finally, standing a few feet back, leaning against a cherry tree, is Guido Mista, dark eyes fixed on Bruno and Giorno. To outsiders he might just seem like a vigilant body-guard, loyal and subdued, but to Leone there’s almost something sad about the scene. Fuck if he doesn’t see himself in those set shoulders, those amber eyes tender as they watch Giorno work. History has a cruel way of repeating itself, doesn’t it? Indeed it does, and Leone needs more wine.
He heads for the kitchen, refilling the glass with a generous serving. Then he stands at the counter, just breathing for a bit. It took him years to reach this point in his life; years of bad decisions and suffering and death. The thought that the kids are doomed to follow a similar path has anxiety surge through him, his pulse quickening as he feels powerless at the whims of the universe.
Leone needs to not be alone right now, so he grabs his wine with a trembling hand, and then heads for the ground floor. He’s not sure if he’s intending to interrupt the music argument in Trish’s room, or if he’s willing to join Giorno’s plant school, but ultimately, he doesn’t have to choose.
When he reaches the living room there’s shouting from outside, high-pitched laughter and furious yelling. Loud enough to immediately catch his attention, but not panicked enough to have him worried.
The first thing he sees is Fugo, eyes determined, a white soccer ball at his feet. Then there’s Narancia, laughing as he’s trying to hold Bruno back, arms spread wide in some kind of defensive stance, but Bruno, god, he moves with all the skill of someone who went through his teens playing in the alleys of Napoli. He side-steps Narancia like a dancer, taking the ball from Fugo with little effort, easily keeping his distance from Mista with fluid movements. When Bruno dribbles it’s not out of necessity; the others can’t keep up with him anyway. Instead he seems to do it just for fun, his eyes narrow with concentration, but his mouth drawn into a gleaming smile.
In this moment, it’s like Leone’s entire world narrows to this singular thing; Bruno, his cheeks flushed, his hair plastered to his face in sweaty streaks, laughter spilling from his lips as he runs laps around Narancia and Fugo and Mista.
Leone is frozen in place, watching Bruno effortlessly pull a maradona, like he’s never done anything but play soccer.
He’s moving before he’s put any thought into it, stepping out into the garden. Narancia is the first to notice him.
“Abbacchio!” He waves, his voice an uneven pitch. “You gotta help us take down Bruno! He’s fucking unstoppable.”
Leone rolls his eyes and sighs, doing his best to play the part of a reluctant adult. “Whatever you say.”
He’s seen enough to know he won’t have a chance against Bruno’s street-smart tricks, but Leone did also grow up playing soccer. It may have been with a proper team and actual rules, and only during elementary school, but he should at least be able to even the odds for Fugo, Narancia and Mista. Four against one should feel like overkill, but Bruno is looking at Leone with a spark in his eyes, a challenge that Leone could never back down from.
They settle into some sort of formation, Mista grinning as he takes a spot next to Leone, while Fugo and Narancia hang back a few steps. There doesn’t seem to be an actual goal set up, so Leone assumes the point of the game is simply to win against Bruno.
At first he has a hard time focusing, wanting nothing more but to stand back and watch Bruno dance over the lawn. Eventually Narancia’s hollering orders directly into Leone’s ear though, so he decides to go for drastic measures. Getting a firm grip around Bruno’s waist is easy enough, and then Leone lifts him off the ground, leaving it up to the others to finish the job. Narancia keeps shouting at Mista to take the ball, but nothing happens; Leone’s about to lose his grip of Bruno when Fugo finally rushes by, taking the ball and running away with it.
It’s enough of a victory, and Leone finally lets go of their unstoppable opponent.
Bruno’s out of breath, seeming to be somewhere between laughing and cursing Leone out, azure eyes turned dark as he unabashedly looks Leone up and down. It’s hot for all of a second, until Bruno punches him in the shoulder. “You bastard.”
“Shut up, Peppino.” Leone kisses him then, kisses those parted lips, tasting a salty hint of sweat on that gleaming skin. Of course he immediately pulls back, not because he's self-conscious as much as he can’t allow himself to lose himself again. This is so new, so charged, that every touch electrifies him.
The shouts have died down, so Leone looks around to see where Fugo disappeared to. He finds the poor kid cornered in the other end of the garden, the game apparently having shifted to Narancia trying to get the ball by any means necessary. Aerosmith hovers just above a nearby rosebush, and Leone would be furious and lecture them all on gun safety if the whole thing wasn’t so… well, so ridiculously funny.
Watching the others mess around in the garden, Leone finally sees what caught Mista’s attention. Trish and Giorno, taking turns to throw another soccer ball at each-other, attempting to catch it on their head or feet and juggle it. They’re absolutely inept, laughing as they throw the ball again and again. Mista’s eyes are on Giorno, transfixed as he watches the blonde throw his head back in laughter, relaxed and carefree in a way Leone’s never seen him before. When Trish throws the ball especially hard, hitting Giorno square in the face, Mista looks about ready to tackle her, and Giorno just keeps laughing, immediately deescalating the situation without even knowing it.
Fuck, the gunman’s got it bad. Leone should… do something. Something that’s actually helpful and not, well, irrationally mean.
“Dinner’s ready”, he says instead, his voice a little breathless and surprisingly paternal. Then he helps Bruno herd the group to the kitchen table, only stopping briefly to elbow Narancia and mutter in his general direction about inappropriate use of stands. All he gets in reply is Narancia staring at him, and then, finally; “do you want to explain what Moody Blues did at the safe house”. They agree to never speak of it again, as long as Narancia doesn’t actually shoot (or bomb) Fugo.
Of course, dinner is complete chaos. Mista brags about his most recent mission, where he only got shot twice, and Giorno clearly attempts to keep him from sharing details while Bruno stares at them like he’s about to implode from worry. Meanwhile Fugo and Trish team up on Narancia, trying to force him to recite multiplication tables. Eventually Leone resorts to serving all of them wine, and Bruno doesn’t even stop him.
In the midst of the mayhem, a hand comes to rest on Leone’s thigh. It should probably surprise him, considering how this is the first time anything like this has happened during their dinner parties, but he doesn’t even flinch. Instead he looks over at Bruno, smiling when finding those azure eyes staring at him. It’s amazing to find that even something small, shared briefly amongst the chaos of the others, still feels easy.
When they’re done eating they remain at the table, chatting and arguing about everything and anything. Every now and then Mista pipes up with one of his horrid thoughts (how much octopus would you have to eat in twenty four hours to be more octopus than man), and then the others holler at each-other for another half an hour, discussing the thing as if it’s actually a legit philosophical theory. Normally Leone would be annoyed by these conversations, but now he’s focused on Mista, watching how the kid listens to the bickering, but rarely offers his own input. Instead he just… watches, and it’s so painfully clear what’s got him acting this way.
Eventually the kid actually rests his chin in the palm of his hand, sighing wistfully. That’s when Leone makes up his mind. He stands from the table, clearing his throat.
“I need a smoke.” The statement barely gets him any attention, so he points at Mista with an overly dramatic gesture. “You’re coming with me.”
“Dude, I don’t smoke”, Mista says, barely looking away from Giorno.
“You do now”, Leone replies, dragging him to his feet, not letting go of his arm until they’re on the balcony, the doors closed behind them. Leone puts a cigarette between his lips, the silence deafening until he starts flicking his lighter.
“Are you gonna force me to smoke, or…?” Mista trails off, genuinely looking lost.
Leone groans. “If you ever smoke I’ll beat your ass. We’re here because we need to talk about Giorno.”
Mista immediately narrows his eyes, leaning into Leone’s space as if to sniff him and determine if he’s a threat to the Don. “Why? Did you put something in his food?”
“Fucks sake”, Leone grumbles, almost choking as he inhales smoke. It’s been a long time since he last smoked, and this experience is really making him regret ever getting into the habit. “Why does everyone think I set traps for the guy?”
“Because you forced him to drink your piss?” Mista says it like he’s offering helpful input, but his eyes are less open than before, a hard edge to an already intense darkness.
“Okay, fine.” Leone rolls his eyes, taking another swig from his wine. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll set booby traps in the garden.”
“You set fucking booby traps in the garden?” Mista’s voice is high pitched, and now he’s actually pointing a very accusing finger in Leone’s direction. This isn’t going anywhere near as good as he’d hoped.
“No, I didn’t, that’s not the point”, and Leone pinches the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, sighing deeply. “I just… I’ve seen the way you look at him.”
“Oh, good job! Real observant of you. I’m his second in command. It’s my fucking job to keep him alive - thanks for noticing.” The harsh tone in Mista’s voice almost manages to hide how he’s clearly taken aback at having been found out. He’s always been good at using attack as a defense.
“Shut up, Guido. You know what I mean.”
And the kid actually shuts up. Aghast, one arm reaching behind his back for his gun, as if he’s actually considering shooting Leone. It’s probably out of instinct more than anything, thinking that any problem can be brute-forced, and fuck if Leone doesn’t know how poorly that usually turns out.
Leone sighs again, and he doesn’t even feel his age. He feels ancient. There’s not even that much of an age difference between him and Mista, but Leone’s already died once. They’re on different wavelengths when it comes to things like repression and regret.
“I won’t discourage you from it”, he finally says, putting the cigarette to his lips and immediately regretting his decision. “If anything, I want to do the opposite. I know that look. You probably do too - you probably watched me follow Bruno around with those very same eyes.”
Mista doesn’t look at Leone, but he doesn’t deny it either.
“You’re so young”, Leone says, forcing the words from his lips. These kinds of talks are so much easier with Trish. She’s only ever known him as a fairly supportive figure. With the others it’s harder, because just by speaking these words he’s stepping out of their comfort zone. “I’m not saying you have to dive headfirst into anything, but just… don’t deprive yourself of what could make you happy. Don’t hold out until it’s too late.”
Mista nods, still not looking at Leone. He’s tapping one foot against the balcony railing, a steady staccato, somewhat containing his nervous energy. “Thanks, I guess.”
“I don’t want you to tell me thanks. I want you to be happy.” Leone puts his cigarette out against his chair, hearing it sizzle against the metal frame, giving up on this whole smoking thing.
“And you think I’ll be happy with Giorno?” Mista actually turns to Leone now, dark eyes narrowed once again in suspicion. “Don’t you… hate him?”
Leone shakes his head. “I hate what he represents. To me, personally.”
Fuck, he really does not want to talk about this. Making sense of his feelings in his own head is hard enough, why would he challenge himself to explain them to a teen? And yet, he owes Mista this much… well, technically he owes Giorno this, but he’s not gonna squeeze another heart-to-heart into this already intense evening.
“When I first looked at him, I saw a clueless kid joining the mafia for all the wrong reasons. Then I got to know him, and I saw an idealist who was in over his head. That shit scares me, man. His journey ended differently than mine, but I expected him to burn out spectacularly.”
“He didn’t.” Mista says it forcefully, sounding like a protective lover, or maybe an evangelist.
Leone can do nothing but smile at that. “Exactly, he didn’t.”
For a while they sit in silence, and then Mista clears his throat. “What do you think about him now?”
“I think he makes you happy, and I can work with that.” Leone chugs what’s left of his wine. There’s something like relief in his chest, and he feels like he might’ve actually pulled this conversation off, but damn is it draining. “Also it doesn’t matter what I think. If you fall for someone, you better fucking go for it, without worrying about what people like me will think about it. I make people drink piss, if you haven’t noticed? My opinion doesn’t count.”
Mista snorts a laugh at that, his cheeks pink with a flush that he’s clearly trying to hide.
Young love, what a thing. Leone wonders what his life had been like if he’d been able to feel things at such a young age. “Seriously, don’t make my mistakes. Don’t wait until you’re dead to think about these things.”
Mista ponders his words for a while, turning to glance through the windows of the balcony doors, smiling once he finds Giorno in there. “Next time we come by, you’ll treat him like a real person?”
Leone nods. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks, man.” Mista scratches at his neck, gaze lost somewhere in the greenery of the garden. “I needed that. There’s no one to talk to about things like this.”
Well, shit. Leone guesses he deserves to become the therapist of the entire gang if he inserts himself in their lives like this. Still, it’s not like he’s a stable enough person to guide young adults through life… what the fuck.
And despite that – despite feeling like the worst person for the job – Leone attempts a smile, leaning over to pat Mista’s back in what he hopes comes across as a supportive bro-gesture. “Come by with a case of beer, anytime.”
When Mista joins the others, Leone goes to lean on the railing of the balcony. He just needs to breathe, to enjoy the silence and let the night air cool him down. When he looks down at the trees of the garden – blooming vines now blending into the already lush crowns – there’s movement at the corner of his eyes. Leone blinks and blinks and blinks, feeling like his eyes must be mistaken, but beneath the balcony stands Bruno. Head thrown back to looking up at Leone; a small smile on his lips; eyes glistening with what Leone hopes to god isn’t tears.
“Uh, what’s up?” Fuck Leone’s voice is like gravel. Why on earth did he empty his glass before this encounter?
“I went to pick some cherries for the desert”, Bruno whispers, his voice barely carrying to the balcony.
“Did you… hear anything?” Pathetic. Truly. Why on earth would Leone try and guide someone else in the matters of the heart when he speaks like a broken dictionary.
Bruno simply nods at that, and the next few things happen in such quick succession that Leone can’t keep up. He does hear the faint sounds of Sticky Fingers – of zippers tearing through the fabric of spacetime – and then Bruno’s next to him, leaning on the railing as if he’s been here all along, never out of Leone’s reach.
The silence lasts for an eternity, and Leone would complain, except he actually knows what being lost to the ether feels like. In comparison, this still is bliss.
“Did you ever think it was too late for us?” Bruno asks, straight to the point, and when he glances at Leone he doesn’t seem uncertain as much as genuinely intrigued.
“Yeah, I did.” Leone holds his gaze – the meeting of an unruly ocean and a burning sun – relaxing beneath those eyes that know him. “I kept you waiting forever. The more time that passed, the more I felt like a dick about, you know, going for it. It started feeling wrong, considering how long I didn’t do anything about it.”
Bruno actually snorts a laugh at that, reaching for Leone; a warm hand coming to rest at the small of his back, and Leone could just melt beneath those fingers… so that’s exactly what he allows himself to do. The night breeze enveloping them with a chill embrace, lost the second they cling to each-other, their shared heat building and building and building. When Leone kisses Bruno, he feels like he’s being resuscitated over and over; closed eyes lost to the nothingness of non-existence; his skin charged with the rush of being alive.
Bruno takes a step back, a tender smile as he holds Leone’s gaze. “My lion, there’s no such thing as too late. I would have waited forever for you.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.” Leone raises a hand, pale fingers tangling in black hair. “I’m sorry for taking so long.”
“I’m sorry too”, Bruno murmurs, already leaning in for another kiss. It’s gentle, almost chaste, but Bruno hums happily, the hand at Leone’s back grasping his shirt, the other hand grasping at Leone’s short hair, pulling slightly. The tease of more – of what’s to come – is enough to have Leone break the kiss.
“I can’t fucking wait until when we have the house to ourselves”, he breathes out, voice rough. Bruno just smiles at him, a wicked gleam in the dim light of night. It should be nothing but annoying, so of course it just turns Leone on more. Instead of doing anything about it he takes a deep breath, patting a hand gently against his lips to try and figure out how badly they’ve smudged the lipstick this time.
Meanwhile Bruno’s tugging at his shirt, seemingly trying to style it into something a little less disheveled. Really, he should be focusing on his hair; the dark strands stand in all directions, electrified by how Leone’s run his hands through it over and over.
“I’ve memorized a quote from Ada”, Bruno says, mild eyes looking at Leone, little to no trace of the heat they just shared. “I like shoplifting phrases and words that describe the world better than I ever could, and I’ve been thinking about this quote a lot.”
“Okay”, Leone manages, an ache already in his chest. There’s something magical to how Bruno’s grown so fond of Leone’s favorite book; a thing so precious that Leone himself could never think to ask for it.
Bruno nods, closing his eyes, his shoulders tense as he starts speaking. “Maybe… maybe the only thing that hints at a sense of Time is rhythm; not the recurrent beats of the rhythm but the gap between two such beats, the gray gap between black beats: the Tender Interval.”
Leone’s smiling before Bruno’s done speaking, but it’s only when Bruno opens his eyes again, and immediately looks worried, that Leone realizes that he’s not only smiling; he’s crying. “I get what you mean”, he manages, voice slightly unsteady.
Bruno brightens up at that, looking less distressed about Leone’s tears. “You do?”
“Of course I do, you stole the book from me, asshat.” It’s not even an attempt at humor, nor an attempt at deflecting. The words just spill from Leone’s lips like it’s a normal thing to say, and he doesn’t have the chance to feel mortified because Bruno laughs. Of course he laughs, bright starlight beneath dark velvet skies.
Bruno reaches for him, a slow movement, careful as he entwines their fingers. Then he smiles, a heartbreakingly tender thing, as he pulls Leone towards the balcony doors, to join the others. “I look forward to sharing these tender intervals with you, Leone.”
Bruno says it like a promise, and Leone follows him back inside the way he would follow Bruno Buccellati anywhere; through life and death and life; through violence and intimacy and confessions. This world might be a twisted thing, it might not even have room for dead men to walk the earth again, and yet, and yet, something tells Leone that his future will be easy the way nothing in his past has been.
Together they’ll chase these tender intervals, and never before has Leone been so excited to wake to a new day, because he’s alive, fuck – he’s alive, and he’ll keep living, with Bruno by his side, until he’s forever lost to the ether.