Chapter Text
They never talk about the future. Leone has been on autopilot for years, making it through life on the simple principle that where Bruno Buccellati goes, he’ll go. He follows Bruno into hell, and he’s not stupid enought to think that any of them will make it back.
Leone isn’t motivated by anything ideological – doesn’t think about the implications of his actions. The red thread of fate entangled him with Bruno long ago, stitching his skin with promise of, well, he’s not exactly sure what. Expecting Bruno to lead him to salvation is too big of a thing to burden someone else with, but god if it wasn’t a silent promise all the same, finding Leone in that dark alley and leading him to a new life.
Leone watches Bruno die; can see the shift in him the second he returns with Trish. He spends the little time he has left on earth holding his breath, never taking his eyes off Bruno, waiting for the finality to catch up to them. Then, of course, it’s Leone’s turn to die. Without Bruno in this world, there is nothing to anchor him to it. With his final breaths he does what he can to help the squad – his found family, if you want to be sentimental about it – and then he wonders how long it will take for Bruno to follow him into the darkness. He wonders if he’ll close his eyes and lose himself to nothingness, or if there will be more. If there will be relief.
He opens his eyes a week later, pulled from the afterlife by a golden haired teen. It’s painful – ravages his body and mind in a way dying didn’t do. As he wakes in a Passione safe house, the room turned into a makeshift hospital, Leone is ready to strangle Giorno. Dying was simple, almost painless. Living sets his nervous system on fire, his atrophic muscles aching and tense – being alive has never felt so impossible.
Yet he’s back, occupying one out of three beds in the room, and the first thing he notices is that Narancia is next to him. Fuck . He doesn’t even know the story, but thinking that the kid has lived through the same cycle of living and dying and returning to life is enough for Leone’s fury to dissipate – for an overwhelming ache to fill his chest.
“Yo, orange-boy”, he spits, vocal chords straining from the effort. It feels like he’s gargled razor blades. “You okay?”
Narancia turns to him, pale, his cheeks sunken in, but he’s very much alive. His lips pull into a thin smile, and Leone can imagine how blinding it would be under normal circumstances. “Abbacchio!”
They’re both too broken to talk, but Narancia reaches for him. A trembling arm closing the distance between their beds. Only when he attempts to reach for the kid does Leone realize the trembling of his own muscles.
Their fingers touch, awkward and twitching, but it’s enough to ground them. Enough confirmation that they are, in fact, alive.
“I thought we’d meet”, Narancia breathes out, voice broken. “Knew I was gonna die… kept thinking we’d meet…”
Leone simply grabs a hold of Narancia’s hand. Holding it as steadily as he can manage. Truly, he’s not the person you turn to about existential things – nor anything concerning emotions, really.
“We’re here”, he manages, choking back the sobs threatening to spill out of him. “You were right. We did meet. We’re… here.”
It sounds shallow to his ears. Leone knows that it’s not enough to still the existential questions plaguing Narancia. It seems the kid died alone, much like Leone. He seemingly found peace in meeting his friends in the afterlife, and most likely, he was lost to the ether. Held by the nothingness until Giorno, freak of nature that he is, somehow ripped their souls out of thin air and forced them back into their bodies.
Leone’s been so focused on the kid next to him that he hasn’t paid attention to the bed to the left of him. Perhaps he’s purposefully ignoring it, knowing himself well enough that he’ll fall apart the second his eyes find…
“Leo…”
Fuck, the whisper is ghostly – broken and haunting – and Leone would recognize that voice anywhere. Has spent the parts of his life that mattered following that voice through Napoli’s underworld.
Leone closes his eyes, swallowing hard around the knot in his throat. Then he opens his eyes, nodding at Narancia – hoping the gesture comes across as somewhat reassuring – before he lets go of the kid’s hand.
His body aches as he turns on the bed, slowly managing to roll over so he can face the bed to his left.
He’s met by wide, blue eyes, and fuck – Leone’s drowning. Nothing could keep him from crying; he’s past trying to keep his sobs in. It’s too much. Even when he was alive he had a hard time to adapt to the concept of living. After everything he’s been through, there’s no way this reunion wouldn’t reach into his guts and rip out all of the anxiety; the pain; the desperation. Godammit , those heavenly blues, staring at him, and he can’t breathe, he’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s drowning.
“Leo - leone, it’s okay.”
Fuck, Bruno looks like a ghost. He’s pale, his skin ashen, even his hair looks dull in the dim light of the room. Only his eyes look truly alive. An alluring sea, and Leone’s already lost amongst the waves.
“It’s not”, Leone says, surprising himself with the force of his voice. Nothing about this is okay , he thinks, wishing he could say it, but much too tired to manage such a long sentence. He’s already spent most of his energy on Narancia.
Fuck, he knows his body is still too broken, knows that his legs won’t carry him, but his skin is itching with need. He needs to make it to Bruno’s side. Needs to touch him – to reach out to his anchor, the man Leone followed everywhere, even into death.
The strain of summoning Moody Blues almost has him faint, splotches of color clouding his vision as he tries to take in the world around him. His stand appears beside him, hunched over and slightly see-through, but it’s enough. Grinding his teeth, clenching the sheets of the bed in his fists, he manages to take the few steps needed to reach Bruno’s side. To touch his cheek, speaking through the virr and humm of his stand’s modem-like voice.
Through Moody Blues’ eyes, Leone sees Bruno, sickly and weak, but so very much alive. He may be a husk of a man, far from recovery, but his eyes shine as bright as ever. He’s no longer a man living on borrowed time. Leone strokes that pale skin, the purple fingers of his stand in contrast to Bruno’s hair and skin.
He registers a distant voice, something about him taking stupid risks, how he shouldn’t hurt himself, but he’s already fading from consciousness – clinging to it for as long as he can, just to look into those impossibly blue eyes.
Next time he wakes the room is bustling with activity. Narancia is sitting on his bed, chugging soda and chatting with Fugo and Trish. Giorno’s by the entrance of the room, overlooking the scene, while Mista is seated by Bruno’s bed.
Leone’s too tired to listen in on any conversation, and he doesn’t want anyone’s attention on him. He’s used to being a broken mess of a person around other people, but he’s always managed that while keeping some dignity. Now he just feels… at the mercy of others. Suddenly he owes thanks to Giorno for his life, suddenly he has to confront everything that he previously was allowed to just… leave behind.
He’s not ready to meet this face on. Not ready to talk to the others, to open wounds and answer questions and… goddammit, could Giorno be any less obvious about his staring? The blonde has his gaze locked on Mista, brows furrowed, as if he could control Mista through telepathy. Who knows, maybe he can? Shouldn’t be harder than resurrecting people, right?
Mista, on the other hand, is pointedly looking anywhere in the room except Leone. It’s an interesting performance, him chatting with Bruno, and then awkwardly turning to holler something at Narancia and the others, without letting his eyes find Leone in the process.
Leone isn’t offended. He wouldn’t want to look at himself, either.
For a while he can pretend he’s invisible; if anything, Mista’s antics help in that regard. Then everything comes crashing down fast.
“Guido”, Giorno says, almost a command, and Leone flinches at how they’re apparently on first name basis. At how Giorno’s apparently comfortable to order the kid around. Then Mista sighs, and he turns his chair to face Leone.
Mista regards Leone with guarded, dark eyes, his shoulders stiff. It only lasts for a moment. His bottom lip trembles, and then he’s diving for Leone’s bed, burying his face in Leone’s chest. “Fuck you, Abbacchio”, he breathes, his voice broken.
The others have grown silent, seemingly unsure if they’re supposed to acknowledge the outburst or not. To be honest, Leone isn’t exactly sure what to do either, and it’s not helping that Giorno is staring right at him with a constipated look from across the room. Like, sure, it’s more likely compassion, but Leone isn’t at a place in his life where he’ll interpret Giorno’s expressions in a sympathetic manner.
He lifts a hand, patting the back of Mista’s head lightly, as the gunman’s body is wracked with sobs. “I’m sorry?” He tries, not knowing what to say.
“You better be. You fucking died on us.” Mista mumbles the words into the sheets, into Leone’s chest, and it only now hits him that he has no idea what happened after. How much time passed until they found him. If they tried reviving him, if they… yeah. He won’t let his mind linger. Soon enough, they’ll tell him the whole story. What happened next, who, well, who was the next to die. Fuck. He can feel the itching beneath his skin, the quickening of his pulse, panic surging through his body. He keeps his hand on Mista’s head, doing what he can to comfort the kid, but just as much grounding himself.
He’s alive. They’re all alive. Even… and he turns to his left, his breath knocked out of him when he meets Bruno’s soft gaze. There are crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes, framing his wide blue eyes, and Bruno’s looking at them with a fond, sad smile. Leone wishes he could drown, but he’s very much alive, and very much has to deal with how Mista’s tears are now soaking through his sheets.
They never talked about the future.
It was like they both operated with the assumption that they wouldn’t have one. Good thing they stumbled across a blonde kid who randomly achieved godhood, then.
With a new lease on life, Bruno Buccellati finally leaves the mafia. He tells the kids over lunch. They’re at one of Bruno’s favorite restaurants, Leone seated by his side, as Bruno reveals his plans.
“I’ve got a house, in the suburbs”, he says, breezily. “It’s close to a good enough school. Trish has already been accepted to start during the next semester.”
As they talk about school, Fugo glances at Narancia, but doesn’t say anything. Narancia on the other hand looks equal parts excited and angry. “You’re leaving us?”
Bruno tsks at that. “I’m leaving Passione. There’s a room for each of you at my house. I expect you to visit… if you want.” He manages to keep up appearances until the end of the sentence, his voice wavering.
“Of course we’ll visit!” Mista says, glancing at Giorno as if he’s ensuring he’s not speaking out of turn. Shit, the kid is whipped. Leone needs to give him a pep-talk, like, help him realize he doesn’t have to be a loyal dog to the first hot blonde that pays him attention.
“Yeah! Trish needs company that isn’t two old men.” Narancia says, smiling brightly.
No one at the table seems to react to the fact that Narancia seemingly has just assumed that Leone will move in with Bruno. No one except Giorno. Of fucking course. The blonde turns to Leone, blue eyes attentive and calculating. “Is it rude of me to assume you’re also leaving the organization?”
The kid is too observant. “Maybe.” Leone almost growls, and honestly, it’s a bit embarrassing. He’s an adult, after all. He’s supposed to hold himself to higher standards than the actual teens he’s surrounded by.
He takes a deep breath, steadying himself by sipping on his white wine. “But you wouldn’t be mistaken, I’m leaving as well.”
A chorus of voices erupt, everything from Narancia’s “what the fuck” to Fugo’s “I knew it”. Leone doesn’t pay attention to any of them. He just meets Bruno’s gaze across the table, holding his breath as he’s trying to gauge his reaction. They haven’t talked about this, and Leone has practically invited himself into Bruno’s home. It’s beyond rude. He’s of course ready to go back to living in a shitty studio apartment somewhere, but… god, he wants this. Wanting something is an alien feeling, but fuck if he doesn’t know that he’ll go on a goddamn bender if Bruno doesn’t want him in his house.
He’s met with a small, intimate smile. It’s subtle enough that their gang of dorky teens likely doesn’t pick up on it. Bruno lowers his head, something between a small nod and a bow, and shit.
Leone’s doing this.
He’s moving in with Bruno, without having talked to the guy about it even once.
Within a week, he’s settled into his new home. A room on the second floor, down the hall from Bruno’s master bedroom. Trish claimed a room on the ground floor, wanting some privacy. Without having the routine of Passione bullshit to deal with daily, Leone’s immediately lost.
His body is still a wreck, joints cracking and muscles stiff with knots. Every morning, he wakes to the reminder that he’s a dead man. Some nights, he relives his final moments, but his brain has a hard time recreating the all-consuming pain of it. Instead, he’s by the sea, watching from afar as his chest is torn to shreds. Watching Moody Blues stagger, and lash out with what little energy he had left.
Just like he’s spent his life removed from his trauma, replaying it as if he’s a mere spectator to his pain, he replays his death with a detached sort of interest. It feels unreal, like a scene from a movie.
He starts running to feel something. To dull the ache of his muscles. When he wakes early in the morning, sometimes before the sun rises, he pulls on a t-shirt and shorts, and runs until he can’t breathe. It brings him back to the police academy – the routine of a proper workout, adrenaline and endorphins dulling his senses, making him feel present in his limbs. It’s not really a routine as much as it’s a desperate cycle of chasing down pain, of pushing himself too hard, but once Trish starts going to school it actually morphs into something like a normal workout.
Leone goes for a run, sometimes shopping on his way home if they need groceries. He prepares a simple breakfast, toast or a smoothie bowl, preparing a pot of coffee for Bruno and tea for Trish.
Normally he’ll talk with Trish while she eats, let her gossip about teachers and fellow students. Transitioning from a journey full of stand battles and death to normal school life isn’t the easiest thing, and she’s gotten into more than one – as the teachers like to call it – altercation. Narancia has apparently had a hand in not only giving her a knife, but teaching her how to use it effectively, and it isn’t exactly great in a school environment. Instead, Leone offers her advice on how to subtly use her stand to put people in their place without leaving a trace, and well, Bruno doesn’t particularly approve of the example he’s setting, but if Bruno wanted to have opinions on Leone’s parenting skills he shouldn’t sleep through breakfast.
“Has he always been this lazy?” Trish asks one morning, nodding at Bruno’s pot of coffee, where it’s cooling on the kitchen counter.
Leone shrugs. “Who knows.” At first he considers leaving the conversation at that, but then he sighs. “It’s not laziness. I just don’t think he’s ever been able to rest before.”
Trish hums at that, clearly taking the words in. “That’s kinda sad.”
Leone turns away from her, busying himself with cutting up oranges as to not seem too emotional. He totally needs to make orange juice right this moment. It’s not out of character and a total breakfast-overkill for a normal weekday. “Yeah, I guess it is.”
Trish, sweet girl that she is, seems to pick up on his mood, because the next second she launches into a rant about a new makeup release. “Sixty euros! For a lipstick! How dare they?” she swears, as if they both don’t know that Leone will buy her said lipstick before the day is over. He won’t buy it because he’s nice, he’ll buy it because Narancia or Fugo will definitely shoplift it for her if he doesn’t step in to be a responsible adult and buy her whatever she wants.
She leaves for school, pink hair bed-head messy, and Leone won’t comment on it. She’s lived through more than most people do in a life-time. Lecturing her about whether her hair-style is appropriate or not feels utterly insignificant. However, he does prepare himself for the call from her homeroom teacher, reminding himself that he can’t raise his voice at the poor lady, and can’t call her an “uptight cunt” nor “nosy piss-drinker”, no matter what she implies about Trish’s style choices. There have been incidents . Plural. He tries not to think about his protective side, he’s just being objective; if someone implies Trish dresses inappropriately because she shows some skin, they are the problem, and Leone’s picked up a thing or two from his time with Passione. No matter who on the school board calls him up, he’ll ensure that Trish gets a calm, normal school life, and that everyone’s too scared to get in her way.
When Bruno finally drags himself into the kitchen, dressed in dark linen pants and an unbuttoned, white shirt. It’s nice to see him like this. He’s clearly put some thought into his look, but it’s relaxed. It’s also nice to know that even a dressed down Bruno Buccellati wears lingerie under his loungewear, simply because he likes it. Perhaps the look should seem provocative, almost filthy, but if anything Leone finds it endearing.
“Orange juice, what a luxury!” Bruno’s voice comes with a rough edge, sleep addled and still not entirely recovered from… before. Leone bites his lip to keep his mind from slipping, to stay in the moment. He focuses on how Bruno’s lips pull into a wide, lazy smile – how his eyes glitter like a crystal clear ocean.
Taking a steady breath, Leone allows himself to bask in the praise. Technically it’s more like an objective statement – Bruno is happy there’s orange juice available – but Leone made the juice, and thus he made Bruno happy. He makes a mental note to add oranges to his daily grocery routine. From now on, they’ll have fresh orange juice every day.
“Trish is on her way to school?” Bruno speaks softly, already eyeing the magazine that Leone’s picked out for him.
“Yeah. She’ll be on time, everything’s chill.” Leone pours some coffee for himself, sitting down opposite Bruno at the kitchen table.
“Good.” Bruno smiles, softly, his eyes on the magazine. He’s not reading as much as he browses the pages slowly, looking at the photos.
They have breakfast in silence, the way they usually do. If Leone sneaks a glance at Bruno every now and then, it goes unnoticed, or at least it’s not commented upon. Sometimes he just has to make sure that Bruno’s still there – that the Bruno opposite him has a pulse, a flush to his skin, a breath that has his chest heaving.
They both have nervous ticks these days, and they never talk about it. When things get out of hand though, there’s always a sense of understanding amongst them. Leone and Bruno and Trish have all summoned their stands when spooked, lashing out at nothing. They’ve offered to pay for Trish to see a therapist, but Bruno and Leone just continue like they’ve always done. Silent and repressed.
Despite everything, this routine feels okay. Good, even. Leone wakes from his nightmares, and then he runs until he wants to live, and then he makes sure Trish is ready for the day. Finally he serves Bruno orange juice and watches him read while trying not to seem too intense in his staring. In the afternoon he reads, whatever’s close at hand. Leone’s read cheesy romance novels and conspiracy manifests about how the moon landing was faked. He doesn’t care what book he finds, he just needs a book in his hands while waiting for Trish to return from school. Sometimes he listens to music, but too often the classics make him feel nostalgic for a man that he hasn’t been in years. Some part of him still enjoys the lyrics, but he’s not that person anymore. More than once Bruno catches him throwing his headphones on the floor, and what can Leone do but smile at him like a fool? Like this is normal behavior from an adult.
It’s not like he takes his running that seriously, either. Most nights he has white wine for dinner, and often it’s more like a bottle than a single glass. Neither Bruno nor Trish comments on it. If anything, they seem to find it normal, and fuck if that shouldn’t be a warning sign. Leone doesn't care, though. He died and came back. He’s still in pain, all of the time. If he wants to run until he can’t breathe and drink until he can’t think, that’s his prerogative.
Certain days he yells at Trish’s teachers, seeking the confrontation, and other days he argues with Bruno about how all of Trish’s teachers are assholes, and it almost makes him feel something. Almost makes him want something. He’s not used to the feeling; so he runs further and drinks more.
Most days Bruno orders take-away for dinner. He’s already friendly with several of the nearby restaurants, strolling over to chat with the workers in the late afternoon, returning an hour or so later with dishes that definitely aren’t meant as take-away.
Trish loves being spoiled, and while Leone thinks that maybe they should set a better example and cook more often, he’d never want to disrupt Bruno’s routine. He may not know much about healthy living, but he knows that once you find the little things that keep you going, you keep at it no matter what.
At the end of most nights, Leone finds himself on the balcony with Bruno. They sit side by side, watching the sunset. It should be calming, maybe even romantic, but it’s a relic from when they were recently resurrected. The first time they did it, Bruno had dragged Leone from his room, whispering “let’s watch the sun and see if we feel anything” .
Fuck, who says something like that? The only person in the world more fucked up than Leone, most likely. They never actually talked about if they felt anything that time, watching the sun, but both of them cried. Ugly cried . Hopefully that counts as an emotion. Crying side by side, not touching until Bruno had wrapped an arm over Leone’s shoulders. An awkward side-hug, but oh so comforting at the time.
Since then, Bruno will grab a coffee, or on rare nights a small glass of grappa, and he will sit down on his chair on the balcony. Leone will always circle him, like a stray dog, until he finally refills his glass of wine and joins him, only moments before those golden embers turn orange, morphing into spilled blood.
They watch it together, like clockwork, never speaking, but sometimes, their hands brush. Sometimes, Leone turns to Bruno, and he finds those blue eyes watching him instead of the sun, as if Leone is more important than the giant burning hell-ball that gives the earth life.
Maybe it should feel too isolated, but Leone appreciates the simplicity of his new life. Truly, never before has he felt content where he is. In Bruno’s house, he lacks little; if anything at all.
They even have a garden, it’s quite a wild thing. A bougainvillea that climbs the side of the house, blossoming with purples and pinks. Wild grass, trees with cherries and olives and lemons. None of them knows how to take care of it (and the obvious thing would be to invite Giorno over, however, Leone won’t be the first person to voice that idea) but they try. It’s kind of fun, dragging Trish out of the house and asking her to help them dig a flowerbed. Something about her rolling her eyes and complaining the entire time and still doing a better job than Bruno and Leone combined just… almost has him feel something. Like this could be home. An actual, long-term home.
They don’t talk about the future, and they don’t talk about their, well, shared home. Leone has always fit perfectly by Bruno’s side, so, truly, most of the time there’s no need to talk. They’ve gotten good at reading each-other, at knowing when the other needs company – or space. Leone never attempts to help with Trish’s homework, because it’s understood that Bruno will be the one to read her essays and look through her math equations.
Perhaps it’s creepy, but most days Leone finds himself watching them from afar. They’re often seated at the kitchen table, so he can easily see them if he’s seated on the couch in the living room. If the weather is particularly nice, they’ll sit in the garden, and Leone will be seated on the balcony. Other people would probably consider him overbearing, but they all have a tendency not wanting to let each-other out of their sight these days. The creeping dread of what happened the last time they allowed themselves to look away still lingers; scars that’ll likely never heal.
For a while, it genuinely seems like Bruno can help Trish with her homework. She often pauses to ask questions, clearly trying to find her way back to the normalcy of studying. Within weeks though, the dynamic shifts. Trish wraps up her work quickly, and then she sits with Bruno for an hour or two, browsing through her books to show him tasks that he can do. She corrects his algebra, has him rehearse grammatical terms, and one time Leone’s pretty sure she actually asks Bruno to write a poem.
It’s cute, but watching them Leone feels an uneasy feeling nesting in his chest. He can’t ignore the fact that Bruno had his childhood taken from him. That Bruno grew into a street-smart, brilliant man through sheer stubbornness and brutality. The man who now scrunches his face up while staring at an equation; sticking his tongue out as he sketches out an answer; erases it; and then does it all over; has clawed his way through life. Has always been running and found solutions to his problems while moving – has never had the chance to slow down and study what he wants to study. Bruno died not having had the chance to explore a life outside Passione, and Leone will never forget that fact. Will never not choke up when he catches Bruno smiling at simple things, like how one of the plants in their flowerbed has actually survived, or how Trish gives him a top grade on his algebra work.
For months now, Leone’s considered offering to teach Bruno, well… whatever Bruno wants. It’s not that Leone considers himself a genius or anything, but out of all their friends, he’s the only one who’s gone through a normal education; if anything, he should at least be equipped to point Bruno in the right direction.
He never asks though, and he doesn’t care to figure out exactly why that is. The jumble of thoughts in his head would take much too long to sort through, and while Leone definitely has masochistic tendencies he doesn’t torture himself anymore… at least not that much.
Late one night there’s a knock at his door. Leone isn’t asleep. He rarely manages to crash before midnight.
Out of his two housemates, he’s unsure who would risk rousing him from sleep though, but he’s not annoyed. If anything his mind is racing, thinking of a thousand catastrophes that could have occurred while he was foolishly lounging in bed, listening to music.
When Leone opens the door he’s met by Trish, red eyed, biting back sobs, her face streaked with tears.
“Trish?” Fuck, he should be more eloquent – ask more pointed questions – but he’s at a loss. Has never known how to approach other people’s grief.
“I’m so tired”, she whispers, a hand coming up to pull at her hair. At first he thinks it’s subconscious, or that she’s trying to untangle her messy curls, but she’s pulling hard. Hard enough to rip some loose strands from her scalp.
“Uh”, Leone manages, pathetically, slowly raising a hand to stop her. Then he’s just standing there, awkwardly holding her hand. He has half a mind to just drag her up the hallway to Bruno, but he doesn’t even know what’s going on and… Trish came to him. She knows better than anyone that Bruno would help her in an instant, and she came to Leone.
“It’s late, of course you’re tired.”
At least his statement is stupid enough that she snorts out a laugh. It’s a pained sound, a sob more than anything, but it’s also progress.
“I’ve always liked my hair”, she starts, voice uneven. “I like it even now, but also… when I see my reflection out of the corner of my eye, I see him. I hate it. I never knew him, but he’s like a ghost and he just won’t… I can’t stop seeing him. Everywhere. ”
“I don’t see him when I look at you.” Leone says it earnestly, leaving the rest of his statement unsaid. Out of anyone, he should be the one most likely to shy away from her. To have an animal part of his mind kick into fight or flight, but Trish is… Trish. He could never see her for anything or anyone else.
“I think I want to shave it off.” Her voice is steady. She’s not “thinking” at all, it’s clear she’s already decided what she wants to do. “I mean, it grows back, right? I think the change would be good.”
Leone nods, as he takes the words in. “It would suit you.”
Trish rubs at her eyes, sobs having subsided, and then she smiles at him. “Wanna shave it off for me?”
“Hell yeah, you know I’m a slut for drama”, Leone says, knowing lewd language is a short-cut to make her laugh.
He sets up a chair in the bathroom, not completely unfamiliar with this, having held Narancia down to cut his bangs more than once. The first couple of minutes he’s fully immersed in the task, making sure that she’s sure, leaving a few millimeters of hair as he starts buzzing it off.
Once he’s found a pace, his hands steady and his breathing calm, he relaxes enough to feel a heavy gaze on him. Looking up, he finds Bruno in the doorway, arms crossed in front of him, leaning against the doorframe. His gaze is slightly unfocused, like the buzz of the shaving machine woke him up and he’s still drowsy, but he’s smiling to himself, soft and intimate and fond. For a moment, Leone forgets what he’s doing. He just basks in those brilliant blue eyes, in the electrifying tension between them.
Then he remembers that this definitely isn’t a task he can fuck up, and he goes back to concentrating on the haircut.
Once Trish has a buzz-cut she admires herself in the mirror, grinning widely. “You think school is gonna get on my ass about this?”
“If anyone says anything I’ll shut those twats up”, Leone says, and Bruno immediately groans, exasperated yet amused.
Trish turns to him, a hand still stroking the newly buzzed hair, as if she can’t get enough of the sensation. “What do you think, Bruno?”
She gets a smile in reply, as Bruno hesitates for a moment to take in her look. “You look great.”
Trish jumps from the chair, giving Leone a quick hug before she heads out of the bathroom. He doesn’t even have the chance to hug her back. “Thank you Abbacchio, I owe you one!”
She’s out the room, heading back down the stars, a skip in her step. Leone doesn’t know what to do with himself. Bruno’s still there, looking at him with an intensity he’s normally good at ignoring, and the bathroom is a mess.
“You’ve grown quite skilled as a hairdresser”, Bruno says, quietly, the smile not leaving his lips.
“It helped that she didn’t squirm like a rabid dog”, Leone deadpans, and he doesn’t even have to mention what he’s referring to – Bruno is probably just as scarred by the Mista incident as Leone is.
Bruno snorts, running a hand through his hair. He’s beautiful like this; relaxed and unguarded. Leone can’t help but smile, feeling it at the corner of his eyes – how the fondness of his heart likely creepys into the yellow of his eyes.
“I’m glad you helped her”, Bruno says, looking out the door now; gazing down the corridor, at his bedroom door. “You’re much better at the emotional stuff.”
Leone barks out a laugh at that, squirming where he’s stood, trying to shake the tension that’s itching beneath his skin. “If you think I’m good at emotions you need a new frame of reference for mental health.”
Bruno shakes his head, his gaze on the floor now. “I’m serious, Leone. You’re really empathetic, and it’s… nice.”
Blue eyes find him again, bottomless azure depths, and fuck Leone’s drowning again. His throat seizes up; a dead man is looking at him; a man he’d never see again is right in front of him; and Leone’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s drowning…
“Thank you.” It’s a pathetic, strangled noise, but he manages to get the words out. He’s drowning, but he’s enveloped in warmth. He’s drowning, but Bruno’s words hold him like a loving embrace. He’s drowning, but it’s okay.
“Yeah, goodnight.” Bruno’s out the door immediately, heading back to his bedroom. Leone doesn’t follow him, isn’t ready to examine if he’s reading too much into things or if Bruno’s actually invited him to… fuck, he could never follow him, but Leone does think about it.
For a moment he simply stands in the bathroom, staring at the empty door frame, imagining following Bruno. He’s taller; he’d only need a few steps to catch up with him. Then he’d… he’d what?
Fucking hell, Leone is a fool.
He cleans up the bathroom, saving a lock of Trish’s hair and putting it in the cabinet. It feels like the right thing to do, if she ever has second thoughts about the new haircut. Leone knows all about doing drastic things, only to think them over a week later and wondering what the fuck got into his head.
He goes to bed, unable to sleep. Nothing new, but his racing heart is not because of the fragility of life, because of the nothingness he now knows awaits him at the end… he’s sleepless at the thought of Bruno waiting for him. At the thought of Bruno leaving his door open for Leone, and Leone failing to follow through. Goddamn is he pathetic.
The kids come over quite often. Practically weekly. It’s rarely the whole squad; Fugo and Narancia are the most frequent, either coming by to pick Trish up on the weekends, or staying for dinner on the weekdays. Mista also drops by a lot, often just to chat and grab a cup of coffee, or to hang out on the balcony with a case of beer. It’s expected that he has less free time, suddenly holding such a high rank within Passione, but dammit if it isn’t endearing how he spends so much of what little time he has at the house. Sometime he even forces them to watch a movie, and on those days he will always drag Giorno along with him.
Leone tries to be a better person to the blonde kid, but it’s tough. In the beginning he disliked Giorno’s aura or whatever, decided to put him through some kinda hazing for the hell of it, but now it’s even worse. The kid resurrected three people without their consent, and Leone knows that he’s supposed to be grateful and maybe that’s why he’s extra railed up about it. He knows that he’s supposed to be grateful for being alive, but more than once he’s imagined cornering Giorno in the kitchen; to just tower over him and spit “what if I wanted to stay dead, huh?” in his face. Because Giorno might be a don, but when he’s with the rest of them he’s just the youngest member of the squad. An idealist who’s in over his head, and sure, he might’ve succeeded with everything he’s set his mind to, but that doesn’t mean Leone has to like him.
Giorno sometimes comes over without Mista. These times he sits with Bruno on the balcony (because Leone has irrationally banned him from the garden, and Bruno humors Leone’s unacceptable feelings for now) chatting for hours. He’ll always hang out with Trish for a bit, polite and interested in what’s going on with her life, and then he’ll wave goodbye to Leone and he’ll leave.
Leone is an adult. He knows he shouldn’t be annoyed by every little thing the teen does, but he’s not good enough of a person to stop himself.
A couple of days have passed since Trish buzzed her hair off, and Fugo and Narancia are coming over for dinner. It’s normal, it’s nothing to get frazzled over, but Bruno is obsessing over the table setting and Leone is already drinking and Trish wants help with her makeup. They always get like this. Anticipation completely incapacitating them whenever they get a chance to hang out with the others. It’s never easy to simply enjoy the normalcy of things when they all know what came before.
Leone stops by the kitchen table, on his way to refill his wine glass. He reaches out with his free hand, grabbing hold of Bruno’s shoulder. “Everything looks perfect.”
He tries to say it matter of factly, but he knows why Bruno gets like this, and it’s hard not to acknowledge the hurt behind the obsessive behavior. “Besides, they’re feral. The second they smell food they’ll inhale it. As long as we feed them they’ll be happy.”
Bruno lets out a long breath, shaking his head. “I know you’re right, but…”
Leone nods, giving Bruno’s shoulder a squeeze. “Yeah.”
He turns to leave, grabbing his wine bottle from the kitchen on his way to the bathroom. “Anyway, I gotta help Trish get dolled up.”
Bruno laughs, and when Leone looks over his shoulder to look at him, Bruno actually sticks his tongue out at him. “She doesn’t need your help with that, old man.”
“Fuck off.” Leone mutters it as he walks away, his cheeks burning with the embers of a blush, a stubborn smile unwilling to leave his lips.
Trish raises an eyebrow when she sees the state he’s in, but she doesn’t say anything. Fuck, she’s definitely his favorite kid. Too clever for her own good, but unlike Fugo she doesn’t say every single thing she notices out loud.
It’s a weird scene, though; Leone crouching next to her, too tall to hunch over and observe her makeup progress comfortably, but he does it anyway. Their dynamic is weird alright, and sometimes he wonders what kind of person Trish will grow into when she’s an adult, considering that a wine-drunk man is the person teaching her makeup tricks.
If she grows into a better person than he is, it’ll be enough.
For once, she doesn’t want something advanced. She’s just a bit jittery with nerves about Fugo and Narancia seeing her new haircut, and she wants to explore makeup that’ll go with her new look. Mostly she just throws ideas at him, and Leone simply nods, slightly out of his depth.
Then she asks about how to achieve a good smudged eyeliner, and Leone’s in his element. If there’s one thing he knows, it’s drama; blacks and blues and purples.
“Just use all of the black things you have”, he says, picking up a brush to demonstrate how he normally blends his look. “Eyeshadow, eyeliner, liquid liner… you just layer all of it, and it’ll seem both effortless and skilled. Also, if you mess it up it just adds character.”
Trish nods, trying to follow his example. “I was always impressed by your makeup-game, you know.”
When she says it, it almost sounds like a joke, but Leone decides to take it as a genuine compliment. He’s been around teens long enough not to second-guess their compliments; if nothing else it gives him some peace of mind. Makes him feel less, well, lame.
“If you rub a finger beneath your eye, just below the water line, you can achieve an even sluttier look.” Leone says it stone-faced, of course, because it’s guaranteed to make her laugh even harder.
Once they’re done, all they can do is wait for their guests. The take-away containers are in the oven to keep the food warm, and Bruno’s on the balcony, seemingly enjoying the summer breeze.
Trish heads for her room, saying something about getting a hip-hop record she bought recently and how she wants to see Narancia shit himself when he hears it, and Leone snickers as he heads for the balcony.
The sun is far from setting. It almost feels unnatural, sitting next to Bruno like this outside of their evening ritual. Leone sips his wine, trying to land in the moment. Trying to control his nerves.
Then Bruno turns to him, eyebrow raised, his black hair rustled lightly by the wind. “Did you just teach our daughter how to apply a slutty eyeliner?”
Leone stutters at that. He didn’t expect Bruno to mention it… and if Bruno were to mention it he expected a stern talking to, not… this.
For a moment he’s speechless, staring dumbly at Bruno. Then his mind catches up to him, and he smiles despite himself. “Did you just refer to Trish as our daughter?”
Whatever pretense at authority was in Bruno’s expression before, it falls away in an instant. He stares at Leone wide-eyed, hues of pink spreading on his pale skin, blooming into a full-on blush, and fuck if Leone’s heart doesn’t skip a beat.
For a while they simply stare at each-other, Leone’s mind racing as he tries to think of anything to say, but before he has the chance to put his foot in his mouth, Bruno smiles brightly, and turns back to the view.
The next second Fugo and Narancia burst through the front door, and Leone can pretend for a second that they’re the reason he didn’t push things with Bruno further. He can pretend that it isn’t because he’s still hesitating – a goddamn coward in the face of something like want.
After all, Leone’s used to not allowing himself things, and it almost feels normal not to allow himself to pursue the tension that is so clearly building between him and Bruno.
“Holy shit, your hair!” Narancia hollers. Leone can hear Trish laugh as he pushes himself out of his chair, and when he turns around he sees her blushing, stroking over her buzz-cut with one of her hands.
“You look like Sinéad O’Connor”, Fugo offers, something like a smile on his lips; Leone reminds himself that he has to compliment the kid on his taste in music later.
“Wanna touch it?” Trish asks, something like a teasing tone to her voice.
Both boys immediately reach out, stroking carefully at the sides of her head.
“Shit, I wanna shave my head”, Narancia immediately says, eyes glittering with hero worship. It’s too cute, so Leone immediately heads for the kitchen. He has a hard time dealing with the tightness of his chest, with how seeing the kids bonding has his heart clench.
Bruno comes to help him plate the food. They work shoulder to shoulder, quiet and focused, fairly in sync, fingers brushing every so often. Leone thinks that he could get used to this, only belatedly realizing that, well, he already has.