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even when it is long into the future, and bruno has seen more strays raised and nurtured, and protected by not only his hand but the strength of passione - he won't regret taking fugo off the street. he know he did the right thing. he does not think himself a saviour, that tribute should lay at his feet when he sits and by his bedside - but he knows he does the right thing for the right reasons. his wrong decisions are not at the expense of his charges.
mista always tells him that it seems that he has everything under control, that if they need to be one step ahead bucciarati has already secured their lead. it feels good to have a plan and know there are others who believe in it. that they believe in you. he knows mista believes in him. he knows narancia believes in him. he knows fugo-
he knows fugo believes in him. bruno doesn't think he deserves that, out of all of them.
if his team are his projects - doomed otherwise without a guiding hand, put back together and held with his hands until they could stand up on their own - then, like all projects, bruno has improved with time. he reminds himself that does not make fugo a failure, but instead it makes bruno-
fugo takes his wrist and guides bruno's limp hand to his throat. his thumb presses gentle and without any intention to the boy's larynx, feeling a cut of pain through his heart like a hairline fracture. during puberty, the cartilage around the body's larynx enlarges, protruding from the skin as one of its many signs of growth. fugo pushes on bruno's thumb to make him stroke at fugo's skin. bruno feels that sharp cut through him again as he obliges, curling his fingers against the back of his neck, scratching his baby hairs.
the reciprocation makes fugo grin. low-lidded eyes and his bottom lip hiding most of his teeth. he's adorable. he crawls even closer, crushing bruno against the arm of his apartment's couch. bruno tries to pause his hand but the regular shift of their bodies while fugo inches closer makes his fingers crawl into the boy's hair and pull a trill of pleasure. the hand in his hair makes fugo feel better. bruno reminds himself it makes him feel better, it makes him feel good. if it didn't make him feel good, he wouldn't let it happen.
bruno takes control in all of their lives - the roles each of them play in missions, the orders he expects them to follow. who to extort, what to redirect, where to go. they trust him when he is the leader, and so, bruno tells himself, that must mean that fugo trusts him, because bruno did not tell him to do this. if he did-
(fugo has lived in bruno's apartment for some time, now. mista was already planning out the new one, the 'underlings house', and that if anyone else joined they were gonna have to get their own place or wait until they got another guy after that. bruno doesn't know how he's going to explain - or how he won't explain and instead come up with an excuse - why fugo keeps refusing living with the other two.
"please, bucciarati," the first time fugo had asked he begged in a tone that made bruno's heart crumble, something different than acerbic rage and a shameful temper, something unlike even the uncertain peace he feels between the spontaneous fire. it's softer. it's barely lucid. "i want- i need you to kiss me.")
if he did, he'd deserve the same fractured skull the old man was buried with.
but he hasn't told fugo to do anything. fugo has told him, asked for him, and that makes it okay.
fugo is in his lap. he presses bucciarati against the arm of the couch, no matter how much space bruno allows him to come closer. is it conscious? is it not? if he always gives fugo space but fugo pushes them farther back until neither of them could squirm from the other's touch, then it is fugo who needs them crushed together, tangible and undeniable. if he crawls back on his own hesitation, though, is he betraying what he's promised to the boy? bruno picks his other hand up, the one he realizes he's forgotten about, and lays it across the curve of fugo's back, and presses him reassuringly.
he kisses bruno, finally, after his whole body shook with unquestionable happiness. settles in his lap with both legs bracketing bruno's, who realizes that fugo is already hard. he doesn't wait to rut, just pushes down as he loses track of where to put his hands except knowing he needs them on bucciarati, all over and everywhere at once. he grips bucciarati like it's going to hurt if he lets go and bruno returns the same - because he knows that's what the boy needs.
fugo mouth is open, even as bruno's remains sealed in the offered kiss. he realizes the other wants a tongue in his mouth, so he drives into fugo, tongue into teeth and gum and feeling his body squirm in his lap. his tongue brushes against a hole in his teeth and he wonders if fugo has only just now lost his final milk tooth. the thought makes bruno groan shamefully into fugo's mouth and it makes fugo grind down harder.
his cock is more or less rutting against bruno's thigh, but when fugo pushes his hips forward as far as he can, the firm shape of his cock hits bruno's own straining arousal at awkward angles. he hates that he thinks fugo is cute in his lap. he hates that fugo loses his breath from the heavy kiss and buries his face into bruno's neck, biting and sucking and creating questions that bruno is going to have to hide with a high collar or makeup tomorrow. fugo needs him when he's like this, fugo wants him to be proud that he isn't going anywhere else but to his arms.
fugo breathes wordless against bucciarati's ear, but he can hear him - aren't you proud of me? aren't you relieved? don't you want me? am i still desirable? - even as he can barely form bruno's name on his open mouth, gasping too much and gripping bruno's shirt with every wave shot through him.
"can we," fugo somehow asks, and bruno knows what he wants.
"no," he replies, shutting his eyes tight - it hurts how his own voice betrays him, how he can hear his own arousal thick on his tongue. "your- you aren't taking your clothes off."
"i want to," fugo groans, gripping bucciarati once, twice, until one of his hands is on his jaw and fugo is looking at him, slack-mouthed and gyrating his hips. "i want you to see me."
"i can see you," bruno promises, stroking fugo's hair again, feeling the shame wash out with fondness. he does care about fugo. even when the boy wants him to do things he'd kill other men for doing. even when the boy wants him to be the type of person that should never leave a fantasy. "keep - keep going, fugo. you're doing well. you're doing amazing."
that slack-mouthed expression drops to something more heavy as fugo flutters his eyes shut, drinking in the praise like it's ice water on a hot beach. bruno keeps one hand on fugo's waist and the other moving to his neck as he draws the boy in, unsure if what he feels is relief over him listening or because he doesn't have to look at his face cut through with insurmountable pleasure. fugo lifts himself and brings himself down, mimicking what he thinks riding bruno's cock might feel like. it leaves the very thing between bruno's legs aching to find better friction than the prison of his trousers.
but he won't - he can't - concede to fugo's newest pressing desire. he fears he'll break, anyway - he broke when fugo wanted to kiss him, he broke when fugo slept in his bed, he'll break when fugo wants bucciarati's hand down his pants, when he wants to take it all the way --
shame floods him like the warmth in his trousers. he doesn't usually come when fugo rides his lap. the boy is so high up on his thigh, though, that it might have been something intentional this time. fugo rocks into bucciarati's thigh and presses into the outline of his dick with his own and buries his head into bucciarati's neck, whining thank yous and please, bucciaratis as he fucks himself as deep as he can with nothing but a thigh and bruno's hand on his back, guiding him forward in those ruts until the boy is content and finally peels from bruno's body.
the couch's arm hurts pressed against bruno's back like this. he knows it could be easier, to help fugo and make himself at least comfortable as he does so. but that would veer too far into making it something normal, something to look forward to. it shouldn't be, no matter how much he knows it has a purpose. whether it is relief or re-victimization, well. bruno would rather fugo figure that out. he is not here to control him, after all. he is here to take care of him. he knows the role he plays for the boy, just like the role he plays for the rest of the growing team.
justifying it to himself makes this part easier - the part when fugo is almost there, shaking in his arms, groaning and gasping and stealing more kisses that bruno struggles to give. he has his arms tight around bruno and he pushes his hips harder into him until that tension rushes out of him, marked with a pitched mm-mm and a gasp sharper than the others. bruno drags his arms around fugo's back and rubs gentle circles into his spine, feeling the full-body shudder that fugo gives as he comes hard, needy, and desperate.
he continues a slow roll of his hips, but it lacks direction. lacks the urgency and the need and the unspoken you take care of me that just makes his heart hang heavier. bruno continues to rub at fugo's spine, pushing his strawberry red coat in odd scrunches as he calms the boy. fugo keeps his head buried in bruno's neck after he finally stops grinding on his lap, exhaling a warm sound into the older man's sweaty, kiss-slicked throat.
"there," bruno breathes, as their legs start to lengthen down the couch. fugo is so light, so easy to carry, but bruno worries if he moves him, he'll think he's being disposed of. "there you go. good boy."
he hates how he said that. he can hear fugo's content, happy sigh. bruno shuts his eyes and buries his pride even further, all while stroking fugo's back.