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It’s late at night and you’re returning home after a mission gone sour. The man had children, their mother lost in birth, no one at home to raise them. He’d told you this and you’d hesitated, a fraction of a second, until the grating, disembodied voice in your head commanded you otherwise. The sharp, metallic whirr of zipper after zipper, punch after punch landing and breath after shallow breath fading out into nothing.
He had children at home, all three under ten years old, left with no one to raise them. Maybe they’d be adopted, ushered with their belongings into loving homes, safer and warmer than what a dirty mafiosi could provide. Maybe they’d turn to drugs, end up strung out and blissfully numb by the roadside, begging for change to fund their next string of hits. Maybe they’d die, cold and alone, in the unforgiving walls of a crowded orphanage. Maybe they’d end up like you, barely a man and trapped under the heavy hand of the black-eyed capo. Somehow, that is the most horrid outcome you can imagine.
The man’s final breaths play on repeat behind your closed eyes as you clamber into bed. You may as well have killed his children yourself, unzipped them into pieces and left the remnants to rot on the street. They’d be joining their father soon enough, adding more numbers to the crowd of zombified addicts or lifeless Passione pawns that littered the neighborhood. It was inevitable, and it was guaranteed by your own hand. When they die, however it may be, it will be your fault.
Your body must be trembling as fast as your heartbeat is racing when you finally settle beneath the sheets. He stirs next to you, all long limbs and silvery smooth hair and warm, bare skin. He embraces you lazily in his sleep, but it doesn’t stop your shaking. Doesn’t stop your mind as it spirals out of control. Doesn’t stop your guilt from twisting in your heart. He had children at home with no one to raise them. It didn’t stop you.
His arms are around your waist now, pulling you in close and nestling you against his chest. You turn to face him as his eyes flutter open, lids heavy with sleep. He can tell in an instant that something isn’t right. Your breathing is fast, shallow, and laborious, washing over his skin in frantic puffs of air that seem to wake him further.
“Bruno, are you alright?” He asks with the sweet syrup of sleepiness and a tinge of worry in his quiet tone, gaze zeroing in on your knitted brow and wide eyes.
You tell him yes, you’re fine, everything is alright. The mission was successful but difficult, you’re tired, it’s late, he should get back to bed, he’ll be exhausted in the morning. Your resolve crumbles like a dam, every rock and stone holding it back washed away by salt tears. You can’t stop it. He told you he had children at home with no one to raise them, and you couldn’t stop.
His hands are on your face and his thumbs brushing the wetness from your cheeks nearly as fast as it pours down them. You can tell he’s afraid and you hate it. It was a promise you’d kept near and dear to your heart that as long as he lived, Leone Abbacchio would never be afraid again. As long as you lived, he’d be proud and fierce as a lion, never having to watch his back or worry over making the right decisions. You’d be there to guide him, console him, support him, dry his tears, and above all else, ensure his safety under your command.
You could stop him if you wanted to, but you don’t.
His forehead is pressing against yours now, one hand cupping your cheek still and the other wrapped protectively around your waist. He’s speaking so softly and reassuringly into your ear, lips barely brushing your lobe.
“Whatever happened was out of your control,” he says and its exactly what you need to hear, even if it’s a lie.
“He had children, with no mother at home to raise them. And I didn’t stop,” you speak these plaguing thoughts aloud for the first time in a timid whisper, choking back the hiccup that threatens to break into your admission.
“He chose this job, you were just doing yours,” Leone reasons, insistent and reassuring and so warm. You know you’ve given this speech before. It isn’t your fault, sweetheart, you’re not to blame. He knew the risks of the job. It was out of your control.
It does little to console you now, but the tears eventually stop pouring and your trembling subsides, soothed away by his gentle hands.
“What of our children, Leone?” You ask after moments of silence, dead serious and nearly clinical, “where will they go when I— when we aren’t around to protect them?”
“They’re capable enough. Mista’s a killer shot, Fugo’s smart enough to deal with anything, and Narancia’s made it on the street before,” he assures you, smoothing a hand through your hair.
“You don’t have to worry about them,” he says with a kiss to your forehead, “just get some rest.”
And you do, caged in his arms and lulled into dreamless sleep by the reassuring beat of his heart.
A handful of days later, you return from another mission in the dead of night. It hadn’t been quite as gruesome as the last, just some simple reconnaissance, flanked by your team’s young gunman as backup. As you enter your shared living space, your body is brimming with the untapped potential of an impending fight.
Every ounce of adrenaline drains from your muscle fibers when you see him, long hair tangled and head in his hands, slumped across the kitchen table. Mista tosses a glance in your direction, silently slinking off for his own room. You’re thankful for this.
Shoes and coat quickly discarded, you lean against the edge of the table and survey the collection of items gathered on top of it. An empty bottle of wine with no stained glass to go with it, two faded photographs, and the loaded pistol you kept in your bedroom out of paranoid fear of a break-in while Mista happened to be out of the house.
As quietly as possible, you open a zipper across the table just large enough to nudge the gun inside, zipping it up for safekeeping. The man sitting next to you stirs, finally raising his head and looking at you with eyes glazed over. His mascara is a mess, running down his face in wet, black rivers. His dark lipstick is smeared across his mouth and chin, the same shade as the marks coating the lip of the wine bottle.
He doesn’t speak, just stares at you with that pathetic, pained expression. You try to keep your face calm and smooth, bringing a hand to press against his cheek. He’s freezing, he trembles when you finally touch him.
“Leone,” you murmur softly, testing the waters as you shift your hand to fully cradle his face, “Can you tell me what happened?”
He’s silent still, shifting his glance from you, to the drained glass bottle, and back again. It had been a while since he’d last relapsed; he’d been doing such a good job taking care of himself too. You’re not upset with him in the slightest but his eyes betray his fear that you are.
You hate the expression he gets on his face when he’s afraid. So, you dip your head to gently kiss it away. You start with his forehead, smoothing the furrow of his brow, move down the bridge of his nose until you can feel his shaky breaths against your chin. You kiss each eyelid softly, letting damp lashes tickle your lips, before mirroring a peck on either cheek.
When he finally opens his eyes to look at you again, he’s nothing but a pitiful puddle of goo. An embarrassed blush rises in his cheeks and his lips purse in search of one last kiss.
It pulls at your heartstrings just enough to draw you into him, sealing your lips over his and bringing both hands to support his face equally. As you pull away to speak, you dab at the wetness along his lash line, wiping away the smoky tears and not minding the way your thumbs are stained black. He’s unspeakably gorgeous like this, but you know he needs the reassurance too badly to let yourself marvel.
“You can get this under control, my love,” you remind him, whisper-quiet, still stroking his damp under-eyes, “you’ve been doing such a good job, Leone.”
“But I—,” he starts, voice broken and obviously hoarse. You cut him off with another quick kiss.
“‘m sorry, I just—,” is all he can mumble out as you separate from his lips. You cut him off a second time with yet another lip-lock.
“Bruno, please,” he begs, and you know he’s asking you to be an audience for his latest pity-party, it’s-all-my-fault, I’m-to-blame, you-deserve-better conspiracy. There was no way you’d sit idly by while the most beautiful, lion-hearted, adoring man you’d ever met endlessly degraded and belittled himself for giving into temptation.
“I don’t want to hear it, if you have anything unkind to say about yourself.”
Finally, your words effectively shut his mouth.
You rouse him from his chair in the chilly kitchen, ushering him into the room you unofficially share. It was yours before it was his, but touches of Leone are everywhere, from the discarded hair ties and loose bobby pins littering the floor to the containers of nail polish and lipstick lined up like soldiers atop your dresser.
After you coax him into bed, you quickly remove your own pristine white suit, draping each piece over a hanger in the closet before retrieving your very favorite set of pajamas. The shirt was Leone’s, black and oversized with a small logo on the breast from some training camp he’d attended years ago, in another life. It’s well-worn and it reeks of him no matter how often you wash it, the emblem worn and chipped from being stretched across his broad chest.
He gives you a sleepy smile as the shirt falls just above the seam of your thighs, lifting the blankets to give you access. It amazes you how sweet he can be in these private moments, when his facade of a grumpy, intimidating gangster falls and he shows you the soft, squishy heart that lies beneath it. Sometimes you yearn to unzip him just to see it with your own eyes, to wrap your hands around it with protective tenderness. Even more often, you wish you could unzip that troubled head of his, root around in there and pluck out the pieces that make him hate himself so. You’re aware such things cannot actually be done, but you can wish.
It amazes you even more how quickly he calms down once you’re finally there to console him. You know he’s a mess, tormented by the demons of drink and his own dark past, but you don’t mind it. Caring for him is no chore. To you, Leone is somewhat like the old, nonfunctional pontoon your father had once kept moored at the marina. The boat itself couldn’t run, engine broken for as long as you could remember, but it still stayed afloat. It may not have been suitable for travel from coast to coast, but it was a reliable pillar of support that made the perfect spot to relax and cast a fishing line on warm summer days.
Other fishermen had taunted your father, called him a fool for paying the docking fee on a craft that wouldn’t run, especially when he had a perfectly operational sailboat floating right next to it. The old man could never bear to exchange it for scrap, seeing the beauty in something that could no longer run properly, but floated anyway.
That’s what Leone was to you. Someone broken-down, but somehow still floating. Someone that begged to be put to rest and traded in for something new and pristine. Like your father, you’d hold onto him no matter what, and would pay any price to keep him above the water’s surface.
You fold your arms around him this time as you slip into the bed, slipping reassuring hands under his shirt to palm at the skin of his waist. He’s still a bit cold, so you snuggle him closer, letting him tuck his head into the crook of your neck. It’s a bit awkward given your height difference, but your sweet lion loves to be cradled like this despite being at least half a head taller than you.
He doesn’t speak, and you assume it’s due to your earlier insistence upon not letting him slander himself. You’re thankful for the silence, allowing your presence to spread out over him atop the blankets. Leone had once said that being around you soothed him, helped the racing thoughts and harmful urges slow down and quiet. Leone had once insisted that he didn’t need your help, and you knew that was true. He was perfectly capable of being his own self-control, his own caretaker, his own protector.
No, he didn’t need your help to survive; he needed you.
You didn’t have to give him the pep talks or verbal reassurance or the tough love when it came to his dependence on alcohol. You didn’t have to sacrifice yourself for him, didn’t have to run yourself ragged to ensure he was tended to. Your existence in his close proximity was more than enough to put him at ease.
It had been strange getting used to the fierceness of Leone’s love at first; the way he’d ask you how you were feeling or how your day had gone before asking you for anything else, how he’d silently run his fingers through your hair whenever you awoke from a foul nightmare. How he’d make sure there was always a portion of pasta left in the pot for you, how he’d keep the boys occupied with a trip to the store or some gelateria while you enjoyed a much-needed nap.
He struggled to say “I love you” often, but you didn’t mind it. Leone showed his love daily in the way his glare softened and his lips quirked with a hint of a smile and his entire body opened up for you the second you came into his view. He showed it in his whispers of your name, in his soft touches, in his perfect obedience to your instructions when you made love to him.
Leone was so perfect, you found yourself muttering prayers of thanks to any god who’d take pity on the tar-black soul of a gangster. Exaltation and praise for the lord who’d brought you to that doorstep in the middle of a rainstorm, who’d softened his hardened heart enough to let him follow you home, who’d allowed you to keep him safe and warm in your bed for so long.
You realize vaguely that Leone is dozing peacefully against your shoulder, a little stream of drool trickling onto the sleeve of your borrowed shirt. It’s not as if you mind; his face is calm and blissful as he sleeps. You wonder briefly what he’s dreaming of that makes him appear so perfectly content, but you know it’s a silly thing to question. He’s told you before.
These days, Leone only dreams of you.