Doors At All The Right Places

by Polyannka

Summary:

January 13th 1950, Naples, Italy. (approx. half a year before Giorno's arrival)

During the raid of a mafia-run drug lab, things go awry for Bucciarati - standing in the epicenter of an explosion, a building collapses onto him. Hiding under a fortunately placed door, he survives, though just barely.

In the wake of this event, every member of Team Bucciarati must stop to examine his feelings and the status quo... Bucciarati himself most of all.

His feelings are complicated to begin with... especially towards a certain quiet, moody, white-haired man, who hates himself as much as Bruno loves him.

Notes:

• For @lyll.

(January 13th 1950, Naples, Italy)

 

It was a bitterly cold morning. Even by the flickering warmth of the Bunsen burner, through the fog of steam, dust and cigarette smoke, the cold bit at Beniamino’s skin as he bowed over the boiling flask. No amount of smoke, not even the stench of his partner’s sweat could mask the artificial sweetness of D-IX in the air.

 

Beniamino bit back a gag. 

 

‘Hol’ the fort, aye’ Angelo croaked, pushing back his rusty chair. ‘Needa take a leak.’

 

The stout, pockmarked man’s words echoed off the walls of the basement. The decrepit metal door creaked as he made his way outside. Another flush of cold brushed against Beniamino’s face.

 

He scowled. This bastard … He still could not get over the shame of having to work beside such a dimwitted brute. But alas, the new Republic of Italy hated fascists and their “lap dogs” with a passion, and Beniamino Costanza, leading chemist of the Royal Italian Army, took too long to desert when it all fell apart. So, a trial, a corrupt judge with ties to the mafia and an agreement later, he had found himself here - tucked away in the basement of a decrepit old building in the outskirts of Naples, cooking a long-forgotten Nazi drug, which he, one of very few men, knew how to make.

 

Stretching his legs, Beniamino sighed. His head was throbbing. The substance would take another hour to fully cook, especially in this godforsaken weather. He may as well…

 

But just as he reached into the pocket of his shabby coat for his trusty bottle, he heard a muffled yelp from outside. His hand froze and he looked up, in sync with the four other men, each by his own station.

 

‘Angelo?’ one of them called. A groan came in response.

 

Fucking moron . Beniamino swore under his breath. That idiot probably just slipped, and was frozen into a puddle of his own piss. The youngest of the four, barely more than two kids, snickered to each other. 

 

The moment when Beniamino almost allowed himself a smug smirk, the heavy, old door suddenly burst open with a deafening thud . Its rusty hinges gave in and it fell, in a curtain of rubble and snow.

 

Clang.

 

Dust and confused yelling filled the air. Chairs scraped the floor, but Beniamino heard the sound, 

the metallic click of a handgun, clear as a shout. He struggled to his feet, scrambling to pick up a metal rod, heart racing. The silhouette in the doorframe looked eerily familiar, but from where…?

 

Then, the silhouette spoke in a deep, frighteningly smooth voice.

 

‘Do not move.’ he commanded. Silence fell over the basement. Beniamino gripped the rod. ‘Lay down your tools and surrender. You do not all have to die.’

 

A slim, pale man stepped down the stairs. His hair was neat and dark in the settling dust, eyes glowing blue like the flames of the burners. The dark gray of his handgun made a stark contrast with his impeccable white suit…

 

…and with a sickening lurch of vertigo, Beniamino recognized him.

 

That’s… that is…

 

‘What the-’

 

‘Shit! Shit! Boss, what should we…?’

 

The men dropped their tools and tumbled, panicking, but Beniamino froze. Sweat beaded on his forehead under dirty blonde hair, despite the cold. He had heard of this man, the one who haunted every drug lord’s nightmares.

 

Bruno Bucciarati, barely twenty years old. Nicknamed Sticky Fingers in the underworld for his unnatural dexterity, and known as Good Gangster Bucciarati on the streets, he was a fast-rising asset of feared gang Passione - and the most notorious vigilante standing against the drug trade, hunter of underlings and kingpins alike. Whispers of his merciless rage spread through the streets like mustard gas. They say he slices the biggest players open with a switchblade, from throat to groin…

 

‘Stand down.’ the intruder repeated firmly. ‘Do not try and attack me. I only want your chemist. His underlings do not need to die.’

 

Silence was palpable in the basement. Bathing in cold gray light from the port outside, the air was beginning to clear out. Angelo’s body lay crumpled into a stinking pile on top of the stairs.

 

The men exchanged glances, muttering to each other. Arm and legs trembling from the fright and cold, their eyes jumped about the basement erratically. Bucciarati stood at the door, unmoving, the barrel of his gun moving slowly from person to person. 

 

One of the men opened his mouth to speak. Bucciarati’s hand stopped. And at that moment, Beniamino Costanza made his choice.

 

Enough. He has had enough. Celebrated Chemistry professor of the University of Venice, then one of the leading minds behind Italy’s war efforts, he was not going to let this happen. He was not going to be captured in this shithole and locked up like a dog. 

 

He would not die bloody and screaming under the fabled hands of Bruno fucking Bucciarati . 

 

With one swift motion, Beniamino raised his hand and knocked his table over, letting the boiling liquid coalesce with the flames, in one last lethal flash of blue.

 

***

 

‘Why is it so quiet? I’m telling you guys, something bad’s happening… Let’s go in!’

 

‘No.’

 

‘But Bucciarati may be-’

 

‘I said no.’

 

‘Don’t be like that, Abbacchio, you-’

 

Mista tsk ed under his breath. He swung his foot to kick Narancia in the shin. The boy yelped, steadying himself on the wall the four of them were sitting on. Fugo grabbed his shoulders to steady him.

 

‘Not you too, Mista!’ Narancia complained loudly, his nose scrunched up. Snow glistened on the scruffy nest of his dark hair.

 

‘Shut it, you idiot.’ Mista admonished, pulling his coat tighter around himself. ‘Bucciarati said to wait for the signal, so we’ll wait for the signal. Have you heard any gunshots?’

 

Fugo shrugged his shoulders at Narancia. The older boy grimaced. 

 

‘But it’s been very long. Too long.’ he pressed on. Mista rolled his eyes.

 

‘Bucciarati said to wait for the signal.’ Abbacchio repeated stiffly. His voice was calm, but Mista could see how tensely he sat on the wall, white hair hanging before narrowed, gray-blue eyes. 

 

It really had been too long. Mista agreed with Narancia, but saw no use in letting the kid get even more agitated. He and Abbacchio were tense enough for the four of them, and frankly, in spite of these ten months spent with the group, Fugo’s focused look and this coldly obsessed glint in his eyes still creeped Mista out somewhat. 

 

‘ Signore carabiniere is right.’ he huffed at the team’s mentally-youngest, who was busy trying to find more candy in his pockets. ‘Shut up, kiddo. We wait.’

 

Narancia groaned and nodded sourly. Fugo turned back to continue his unsettling staring at the derelict old factory building. Abbacchio was already opening his mouth to protest against the usage of his hated nickname, eyes even narrower. Mista gave a small tch .

 

And then an explosion rang through the misty morning. Cracks ran up the side of the building, and it collapsed into itself in a puff of dust and rubble.

 

Water lapped at the stretch of gray rocks underneath the wall. A flock of pigeons cooed and took flight.

 

***

 

It was Abbacchio who saw first, Narancia who yelled first, and Mista who reached for his gun first - as always. Fugo preferred a more measured approach. Analyze the situation, decide and then go.

 

Not now. A building just collapsed onto Bucciarati now. 

 

Fugo did it all in under a second. Analysis - Bucciarati is in danger. Decision - they are going to help him.

 

By the time Mista’s gun clicked, Fugo was already on the pavement, running towards the ruin.

 

‘Fuck! Shit!’ Narancia shrieked. ‘What the hell is going on?’

 

‘The fuck knows!’ Mista yelled back as they dashed towards the building, shoving passersby aside. ‘This wasn’t supposed to happen!’

 

As they made their way towards the back door, where Bucciarati went in, trudging through the rubble and coughing in the falling dust, Fugo’s eyes stung from the debris. His heart raced inside his chest, but not from the pace. 

 

Mista was right. This was not supposed to happen. They watched the place for more than a month. Surveyed the people. Calculated every single possibility. It was simple - Bucciarati goes in, corners them and allows the young ones to escape, leading them into their arms while he gets the chemist. Simple and to the point. Nobody was supposed to escape. Nothing was supposed to explode. 

 

How did it happen? An accident sparked by panic? No. Bucciarati would never let some untrained thugs overpower him. Sabotage? But how? Why?

 

Fugo and Narancia had spied on the chemist for weeks, and Abbacchio had conducted a thorough investigation on his background. Beniamino Costanza was a disgraced scientist scared into submission to the mafia. He was an embittered, opportunistic drunkard, not a warrior . He would never have killed himself .

 

Fugo’s lungs burned as he treaded through the sea of bricks and wood. His chest tightened in panic. The red fog was threatening to descend on his mind.

 

No. Snap out of it. Observe. Help .

 

‘Bucciarati!’ Narancia wailed, kicking and throwing bricks. ‘Where are you? Bucciarati!’

 

Tears streamed down his face, dirty and gray. Fugo hurried over to him and grabbed his shoulders. Narancia trembled violently.

 

‘Calm down.’ Fugo told him sternly. ‘Think. Bucciarati is our leader for a reason. He is not the type to die like this. Now come, let’s find him!’

 

Narancia managed a shaky nod. He sniffled and wiped his nose, smearing dirt across his face. Without thinking - a rarity for him - Fugo grabbed his hand and they continued the search. They climbed through piles of rubble and under a half-collapsed roof, very much aware of the civilian unrest starting to form outside the building. 

 

We have to get Bucciarati, and fast. Before the police arrive . Fugo refused to even consider the possibility that there was no longer a Bucciarati to get.

 

All four of them made towards the epicenter of the explosion, coughing and fighting through the  remains of walls and stairs. Narancia sobbed as he yelled for Bucciarati and kept stumbling, his  voice slurred by tears, while Mista roared and swore, waving his gun around. Abbacchio marched and worked tirelessly through the ruins, but his eyes were wide and empty, his movements robotic. Coated in fine gray dust, he looked like a ghost.

 

It took them nearly an hour to get down to the remains of the basement. With bloody hands and glassy eyes, they dug and dug and dug, nose and mouth full of dirt. Policemen were circling the ruin, but they didn’t care.

 

And then they saw the first body. 

 

It was a dirty, stinking old man on top of the stairs leading down to the basement, crushed into a bloody pulp. Narancia wailed. Mista cursed. Abbacchio went still. Fugo kept digging.

 

‘Bucciarati!’ he shouted. ‘Bucciarati! Answer us!’

 

The others joined in.

 

‘Bucciarati! B…Bucciarati, please!’

 

‘Boss, where the fuck are you?’ 

 

‘Bucciarati! Bruno! ’

 

And then, when they had already clawed their way through another ton of bricks and three more bodies, then, through Narancia’s hysterical sobbing and Mista’s hoarse curses, a familiar voice called out.

 

‘Narancia! Mista! I am here! Here!’

 

The voice was deep, strong and definitely Bucciarati’s. Relief flooded Fugo’s entire body. Mista roared, shoved a plank out of the way, and there Bucciarati was, dirty and disheveled, crouching underneath the shelter of a big, rusty, metal door. A fucking door .

 

As all four of them charged forward to lift the door at once, Fugo reminded himself to buy Narancia some consolation sweets afterwards. 

 

And maybe erect a statue before the Royal Palace, commemorating fucking doors .

 

***

The door clicked shut behind them quietly. The spacious apartment was clean, neat and bathing in the blazing oranges of the sunset, as if unaware of the tragedy that had struck its inhabitants. The air was fresh yet warm, birds sang and children were playing outside. It was infuriating.

 

Had he been forced at gunpoint, Abbacchio still could not recall a moment of how the team made their way home. They had evaded the police and civilians, he supposed, rushed to Passione’s most trusted private hospital, had each of them examined and taken a rental car home. Abbacchio had some faint, cursory idea of how it had happened, but in truth, he did not care. The moment he had fallen on his knees beside Bucciarati and took him in his arms, time and space ceased around him.

 

His legs moved on their own as they carried their leader into his bedroom and he placed him gently on his bed. Mista, the least injured among the five, was already cracking jokes, Narancia, his dirty face streaked with tears, babbled on happily, while Fugo was trying with all his might to make him shut up. Bucciarati listened to their stupid shit with a calm, encouraging smile, and even held Narancia’s hand. It was mind-boggling - he was the one who nearly died, broke an ankle and got buried alive, and yet he stayed strong, cheering everyone else on.

 

Abbacchio just stood beside his bed, unable to say a word. His throat was tied into a knot. He had not let any doctor touch him, so he was still dirty and bleeding, but it didn’t even register.

 

He almost died. He almost died, and I let it happen. I failed him .

 

Abbacchio’s chest felt heavy, as if his ribs had turned into iron. Tears choked him, but he held them in. He could not disappoint Bucciarati again.

 

With a deep breath, he forced himself to focus on the outside, to the words being said.

 

‘All right, Narancia. Now listen.’ Bucciarati spoke up, his voice calm, bordering on tender. Mista and Narancia fell silent straight away. ‘We did well today.’

 

‘You did it all, Bucciarati!’ Narancia butted in loudly, his voice strained from hours of crying. ‘You saved the day while we just sat on our asses. We are sorry we let you down! But it won’t happen again! In fact, I’ll-’

 

‘ Narancia. ’ Bucciarati cut in, soft but commanding. ‘We all did well,’ he repeated. ‘The last man in the country who knew how to manufacture D-IX is dead. We dealt the mafia a big blow, without endangering Passione’s interests.’ He looked up, his gaze piercing Abbacchio’s, as if to make a point. ‘I am alive because of you. The four of you dug me out from underneath an entire building.’

 

Bucciarati paused and looked around the room. His eyes stopped at each team member, but to Abbacchio, it seemed as if he looked at him the longest. He felt his knees growing weak.

 

‘Thank you.’ Bucciarati said warmly. ‘All of you. I will never forget this.’

 

He was looking at Abbacchio again. His second-in-command’s face flushed under the heavy layer of dirt and blood. He could barely withstand the piercing blue gaze, warm yet blinding, like the sun itself.

 

‘But now,’ Bucciarati continued, looking away again. Abbacchio let out a heavy breath. ‘We must see this mission through to the end. Does any of you feel too tired to go out in town?’

 

The team gave a loud, resounding no .

 

‘That’s a relief.’ Bucciarati smiled, eyes slightly crinkled with silent laughter. Then, his voice turned into sun-warmed steel again. ‘Mista. Bathe, don something inconspicuous and go back to the building, survey the area. I don’t want anyone suspicious going in and out, taking any equipment or potential survivors.’

 

‘You got it, bossman.’ Mista saluted, waving his gun. As he turned to retire to one of the bathrooms, Bucciarati continued.

 

‘Narancia, Fugo. You two go to the central bank, talk to representative Salvini. Tell him I sent you and you require the money I deposited two weeks ago. He will know what to do. Then take that money to my informant, the one you met last month.’ Gentle again, he added. ‘And then buy yourselves dinner. You are permitted to take my wallet. Lavish yourselves, you deserve it.’

 

Narancia’s face lit up.

 

‘Consider it done!’ he exclaimed, breaking into a toothy smile. ‘That’s a mission we can definitely complete to perfection! Right, Fugo?’

 

The youngest rolled his eyes and grabbed Narancia’s shoulders. 

 

‘Come, you idiot.’ he huffed. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep him in line. You rest well, Bucciarati.’

 

‘Thank you.’

 

And with that, the chaotic pair was out the door, audibly laughing and bickering on their way to the other bathroom.  Abbachio’s chest constricted again. Suddenly, the air felt unbearably thick. He could not bring himself to look at Bucciarati.

 

‘Wh… where do I go?’ he managed awkwardly, voice strained. 

 

‘The bathroom.’ Bucciarati replied warmly. Abbacchio frowned. ‘Take a shower, unwind. Take your time. Then come back here. I’ll see to your injuries.’

 

Abbacchio’s mouth fell open.

 

‘Wha…what? B…but you can’t, you are… your wounds…’ he sputtered, overtaken by a mortified coughing fit. His face burned with shame. He rambled on, fidgeting in obvious discomfort. ‘I… there must be something I could do. I… I’ll go to the bank instead of Fugo and Narancia, or to the ruin… O- or I could write up a report-’

 

‘Leone.’ Bucciarati cut in tenderly. Abbacchio’s heart throbbed. His words died in his throat. ‘There is no need for you to go anywhere. The boys will take care of it. Now go, bathe and rest. You need it.’

 

‘I don’t deserve it.’ Abbacchio managed, his voice choked by tears. ‘I don’t deserve your kindness. I should have been there with you. Your life is worth a thousand of mine, and-’

 

‘Leone.’ Bucciarati repeated, this time more firmly. His hand caught Abbacchio’s, and the older man went stiff, face warm and red. Bucciarati’s thumb caressed the torn skin of his knuckles. His stomach jumped at how warm it felt. ‘This was an order. Go bathe, then come back here. We’ll talk after.’

 

With a strained nod, Abbacchio walked outside, legs stiff and struggling with every step. His hand tingled where Bucciarati touched it, but his stomach was spinning. Shame poured down his back like raw eggs, and he felt sick. Carefully buried memories were boiling on the surface of his brain, making his skull feel like it would split.

 

The first bribe. The second. The one after that. The faces of the criminals he let escape. That fateful night. The blood pooling on the floor. The pale, lifeless body of his partner, but now it kept flickering, transforming into Bucciarati and back. 

 

Bruno …

 

He saw Bruno lying in bed, hair tousled, eyes sleepy. He saw his smile, the way the light got  caught on his pale, bare shoulder. He saw his lips, wet and bitten, he saw his eyes shine. And then he saw him dead again.

 

Guilt crushed Abbachio’s back, like the building had fallen onto him instead of Bruno. Shoving the just-exiting Mista aside, he stumbled into the smaller bathroom, locked the door, then fell on his knees by the toilet and vomited. 

 

He lay there for a long time afterwards, hair sticky with blood and puke. His shoulders shook as he sobbed, breathless.

 

***

 

‘The white BMW! Let’s take the BMW, Fugo! I wanna drive it!’

 

‘So that you can crash it at the nearest corner? No. Bucciarati will kill us both. If we take the white, I drive.’

 

‘As if! I’m older than you, sucker!’

 

‘Shut it, you dumbass! You can’t even drive your own legs, let alone a car!’

 

Judging by the noise outside, Narancia threw himself at Fugo, and a fistfight ensued. Bucciarati chuckled to himself. He propped himself up against his pillow and reached for the glass of water the boys had left there for him. As he sipped it, he thought it tasted like heaven. 

 

Somehow, everything felt heavenly, the air, the sunset, the room around him. Hiding underneath the door, buried under the rubble, he had panicked like never before, heart pumping and head dizzy. He had tried to reason with himself, telling himself the police would come and search the ruins, that the team would never leave him - but still, he was afraid. As the frost of fear set in, his thoughts became more and more irrational, he thought he would starve or freeze down there, or the door would give out and flatten him into the ground. He was drenched in sweat and shaking violently, biting his mouth bloody when he suddenly heard them - Mista’s cursing, Narancia’s weeping, Fugo’s unyielding repetition of his name… but most of all, he heard Abbacchio fighting through the rubble and howling Bruno, again and again.

 

And then the door was lifted, Abbacchio ran up to him and took him in his arms. As the warmth of his skin reached Bucciarati, and fresh air filled his lungs, he realized he was going to live. He had let go right then and there, and since then, he had been floating in an inexplicably warm, boneless slumber.

 

In spite of his near-death, he could not help but feel relaxed and happy. Lying in his own bed, drinking his own water and seeing their faces, seeing Narancia, Fugo, Mista and Abbacchio made his heart soar higher than ever before.

 

‘Cut it out, you fucking idiots! Make your goddamn noise somewhere else and let Bucciarati sleep!’ Mista shouted outside, in the living room. 

 

Bucciarati chuckled. For a moment, he closed his eyes and sank back into his pillows, but then sighed and opened them again. No . He could not sleep yet. He was the head of a team that had almost fallen apart today. He had to think.

 

The plan’s misfiring was not the problem, by any means. Even if he did not say it, Fugo was visibly upset about it - but the plan was not miscalculated. There had been no way to predict Costanza’s suicide. 

 

His own almost-dying was not the problem either, odd as that may sound. The team’s reaction was . 

 

Not many men could say this, but Bruno Bucciarati was genuinely not afraid to die. Ever since he had started his war against all he had considered wrong, since the conception of his plan that fateful night when he had met Fugo, he had known he would one day die doing what was right. The possibility did not frighten him in the slightest. What did was the four faces he had seen upon his liberation. 

 

Mista had looked furious and determined, but his eyes were wide open in terror. Fugo was cold and methodical, but his hands shook like leaves in the wind. Narancia broke into a smile when he saw him, but his cheeks were puffy and red from crying, body wracked by sobs. 

 

Bucciarati was not afraid to die, but this prospect had horrified his team. Their eyes upon discovering the door haunted him. Especially Abbacchio… 

 

Abbacchio just looked dead .

 

Leone…

 

Bucciarati grimaced, running a hand through his hair. It was still wet from the shower he had taken at the hospital, and his hands smelled like over-aromatised, rich private hospital soap.

 

It felt stupid, how hard Abbachio’s reaction hit him. It should have been obvious, considering their bond and relationship, but still, it struck him like a shovel in the face. How much his hands had bled from digging through the rubble, how rigid his body had felt and how much his hands had been shaking, it unsettled Bucciarati deeply. The glassy, empty look in his eyes still cut him to the bone. He kept hearing that otherwise strong, deep voice rise higher as Abbachio had howled his name.

 

You damned, fucking idiot, he told himself. Leone wasn’t lying before. He really could not go on without you. And neither could the other three.

 

Bucciarati closed his eyes again, one hand gripping his white silk shirt. He had been trying to avoid this disconcerting truth for months, and now, it was here, a vulture clawing at his chest. And, along with it came the cold, slithery snake of doubt recoiling in his stomach. 

 

You knew this would happen, he reasoned with himself. Even before you met Fugo and the team was born. Such a close-knit group, this sort of loyalty and seamless teamwork come with attachment. This was inevitable. 

 

Bucciarati knew it had to be this way. Both to create the team that would finally make a difference, and to give Fugo and the others a home, he had to create a family . 

 

What he absolutely had not needed to do was to take Abbacchio, and tangle him up in this confusingly heated, symbiotic romance that overrode all plans and reason.

 

This love was the first thing he had ever taken, not for some other person or shining ideal, but for himself , and he had already made peace with that. It made him a more worthy person, his life infinitely better. What he had not anticipated was that maybe, it was making Abbacchio’s worse. 

 

When, a half hour later, Abbacchio knocked on his door, the idea was still holding Bucciarati by the throat, making his come in heavy and strained.

 

***

 

‘Come in.’ Bucciarati called warmly. Abbacchio swallowed and turned the doorknob. 

 

Underneath his flannel shirt and slacks, his skin was itching from how hard he had scrubbed it. Water droplets rolled down his hair and soaked the fabric. Normally, he never bathed this long, but when Bucciarati gave an order, he always completed the task to perfection.

 

‘Forgive me.’ he croaked, clearing his throat. ‘I took too long.’

 

Bucciarati’s smile was subtle but tender, and it made Abbacchio’s stomach jump. He had left his  bed and was now sitting on his gray suede couch, his attire just as flawless as each piece of  hand-picked furniture and expertly chosen shape and color inhabiting his bedroom. The former officer, a man of modest means, still felt slightly uneasy, not worthy of entering such a perfect scenery.

 

Bucciarati shook his head and gestured for Abbacchio to join him.

 

‘Don’t apologize.’ he half-admonished tenderly. ‘You needed this. Just as much as Narancia probably needs to joyride across town in our best car, antagonize a poor bank representative and eat himself into a sugar rush wild enough to completely exhaust Fugo.’

 

Abbachio’s laugh at this came drained and awkward, more polite than sincere. His tongue felt heavy and clumsy, and so did his legs as he walked over to the couch. He sat across from Bucciarati, trying to stifle his anxious fidgeting. Bucciarati followed him with his eyes, and it made him feel simultaneously antsy and comforted.

 

‘I took the liberty of making you a drink.’ Bucciarati gestured to the two glasses on the coffee table. His held a generous portion of sparkling white Martini, and Abbachio’s was something thicker, with a fine veil of steam. 

 

He took it with stiff hands and drank. Mulled wine had never been his first choice, but it was perfect now - rich and subtly spiced, it warmed his body.

 

‘Thank you.’ he nodded to Bucciarati. His voice cracked awkwardly. He was not sure what to say. Anything but what was in his head, he thought.

 

They took a few sips in silence. Bucciarati leaned back on the couch comfortably, but he had his entire body facing Abbacchio, signaling his undivided attention. He was already looking much better than in the hospital, clean, well-rested and strong as ever. Even without any effort, he had a superhuman, almost holy glow to him.

 

‘It’s getting a bit chilly in here.’ he suddenly said, gesturing towards the still-flickering embers in the fireplace. ‘Would you like a blanket?’

 

Abbacchio shook his head no. He felt uncomfortable, squirming under Bucciarati’s kindness. He did not deserve it. He deserved only to be admonished and ignored.

 

But Bucciarati only smiled, his gaze soft.

 

‘Well then…’ he stood up, limped to the fireplace and added a few logs to the fire, then sat  back, this time beside Abbacchio. He took the medicine box on the coffee table. ‘Please, give me your hands.’

 

Abbacchio’s face grew warm.

 

‘You…you really should be resting.’ he protested, but the gentle firmness of Bucciarati’s gaze told him it was in vain. Following a brief pause, he reluctantly put his bruised right hand in Bucciarati’s.

 

‘Thank you.’ Bucciarati nodded, the left corner of his mouth curving into a smile. ‘Don’t worry, I am more than fine now. That door really fell to exactly the right place.’

 

It shouldn’t have had to fall in the first place. I should have known this man would be a danger to you. I should have been there to protect you.

 

Abbacchio held his tongue. He did not want to break into another pathetic ramble of excuses and apologies. Against his instincts, he sat stiffly, letting Bucciarati work on his hand. Even through the sting of the disinfectant and the cold, soggy bandages, the warmth of those slim, nimble fingers made his stomach flutter. His skin tingled at every touch. He felt warm, happy to be cared for like this, but also guilty, undeserving of such touches and attention.

 

When Bucciarati pushed his sleeves up to access his arms, he recoiled.

 

‘I- I can do it for myself.’ he spluttered, face growing red. Shame bubbled up inside his stomach.

 

Bucciarati’s fingers wrapped around his forearm gently. All it took him was a soft please , and Abbachio went limp, relinquishing his arms.

 

As he disinfected each cut with prim, gentle fingers, Bucciarati smiled, his eyes taking on a look of pleased focus.

 

‘I am happy to be touching you, and looking at you.’ he remarked. The tenderness of his voice made heat flush in Abbacchio’s abdomen. ‘It means I’m alive and we’re together again.’

 

The older man’s face grew warm. Guilt stirred inside him, turning his stomach. Suddenly, Bucciarati’s touch felt unbearable, too warm, too kind, too sweet. He tore his arm away and hugged it, eyes wide. Then the words came pouring out and he could not stop it anymore.

 

‘S…stop it! I- I don’t deserve this!’ he croaked, throat constricted. ‘You- I almost let you die! I let you go in there alone, I- I naively thought he would not do anything reckless, and… and…’ 

 

His voice broke and he gasped, out of breath. ‘You almost died! We almost lost you, the world almost lost you, you got hurt, all while I was there! I owe you my life and I just stood by like a fucking ass while you almost got killed!’

 

‘Leone-’ Bucciarati reached for his shoulder, trying to comfort him, but Abbacchio went on, almost shouting.

 

‘I almost let you die! That- that is unforgivable! How could I call myself your right hand if I’m too weak and stupid to protect you from a drunken old man? Why would you trust me if I can’t even do this much? I should have been there! I- I failed you! I don’t deserve this kindness, I… you should hate me! You- I can’t sit there and take advantage of your gracious heart… Not until… You shouldn’t even speak to me until I make it up to you-’

 

His tongue tripped over the words, and a sob bubbled up in his throat. He turned away and covered his face in shame as his breath hitched. Tears rolled down his cheeks. His vacant hand gripped his thigh and he took shaky, broken breaths, trying to stop it.

 

A weight shifted on the couch next to him, and then he felt warm fingers peel his arms away from his face. Bucciarati got ahold of his hands, and this time, he didn’t let go.

 

‘Leone.’ he just said softly. The tenderness of his voice, not a speck of impatience or contempt in it, made another sob rattle through Abbacchio. Bucciarati sat and held his hands, thumbs caressing his knuckles through the bandages. ‘It’s okay. Today has been a long day. Cry, if you need to. But if you don’t, then listen to me.’

 

Abbacchio inhaled shakily, closed his eyes for a second, and pushed the sobs back into his body. The tears felt sticky and irritating on his skin, but he did not move to wipe them away. Holding hands felt too good to let go.

 

He sat, eyes on Bucciarati. The younger man looked him dead in the eye, blue irises burning gray ones. 

 

‘I understand why you feel this way.’ he began, his voice stern, with an undercurrent of tenderness. ‘These missions are important to the team, me most of all. I know you think the plan was miscalculated, Fugo does too. He wouldn’t say anything, but I could see it in his eyes. However, I disagree. You dug up everything there was to know about this man. There was no way of foreseeing this. You did an impeccable job, as always, and you followed my orders when you waited for my signal outside. You did nothing to earn my distrust.’

 

Abbacchio’s chest tightened. This was exactly what he needed to hear, but too good to be true.  

He deserved to be punished. 

 

‘We should have been closer to the entrance.’ he insisted. 

 

‘Their watchmen would have noticed you.’

 

‘I should have gone with you.’

 

‘Perhaps. Next time, you will. But it was my decision to go in there alone today.’

 

For a minute, they sat in silence. Abbacchio’s pulse was slowing down, but doubt still chewed at his insides. Bucciarati must have seen it, because he squeezed his hands tenderly.

 

‘I might call you Leone in here,’ he reminded him. ‘But outside, I outrank you, Abbacchio. If anyone, it was me who made a mistake. The responsibility is mine alone.’

 

A muscle jumped in Abbacchio’s jaw. He swallowed. The long-lost officer Abbacchio inside him knew Bucciarati was right, that he was his leader and his word was gospel… but the man, Leone, felt sick with fear whenever he had to let Bruno out of sight.

 

‘Let me go with you next time.’ he croaked, through gritted teeth. 

 

Bucciarati’s mouth curved into the shadow of a smile. He ran his thumbs along Abbacchio’s wrists.

 

‘I will.’ he promised. ‘Today, I was reminded of the importance of teamwork yet again. I think it’s best if we don’t leave one of ours alone, unless absolutely necessary.’

 

Abbacchio exhaled. The promise made him dizzy with relief. He squeezed Bucciarati’s hand back, resolute.

 

‘I will protect you.’ he swore, voice deep and solemn. ‘Always. Until my last breath. The world can’t afford to lose you. You are a gift.’

 

He felt stupid saying this, aware of the pathetic heat his voice caught as he said it. It was sappy and embarrassing… but also more true than anything else he had said that day. And when Bucciarati smiled, joy wiped out all embarrassment.

 

‘So are you, Leone.’ he replied tenderly. ‘And I hope one day you’ll be able to see this as clearly as I do.’

 

Abbacchio’s face flushed a warm red. His heartbeat stuttered. Warmth tingled in his stomach. They reached for one another in unconscious unison. Bucciarati wrapped his arms around Abbacchio, who draped over him in return, embracing him. Bucciarati’s warmth, and the scent of those soft, dark locks made his head spin. He lost control of his arms and mouth, clinging to Bucciarati as the word spilled out.

 

‘Bruno…’ he breathed into Bucciarati’s hair, inhaling his scent. His arms closed tighter around him. Bucciarati’s hands slid up his back, caressing his hair.

 

‘Leone…’ he replied, nuzzling Abbacchio’s neck. The older man’s body felt heavy and warm with relief. 

 

Bruno was here, warm, strong and alive in his arms. They were together again. The temple of Abbacchio’s soul stood unharmed, its only pillar tall and proud, not a crack in the marble.

 

They stayed like that for some time. It could have been minutes, hours, or a day, Abbacchio could not tell. They just sat, melting into each other’s arms, a bundle of warmth, breathing and slow, synchronized heartbeats. Abbacchio kept nuzzling Bucciarati’s hair, who rubbed gentle circles into his back in return.

 

‘Am I not hurting you?’ he murmured into Abbacchio’s neck. ‘Are you injured?’

 

‘No.’ Abbacchio said. He was, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the feeling of Bucciarati’s body in his arms, to see, hear, feel and smell him more.

 

Snuggling closer to him, Bucciarati craned his neck slightly and planted a small kiss in the crook of his neck. Abbacchio’s face grew warm. He gave a choked little sound, arms going stiff around Bucciarati. All it took was this one kiss, and he was already hard.

 

Bucciarati chuckled quietly and continued kissing him, small, soft touches of lips against neck. When he reached a sensitive spot under Abbacchio’s ear, the older man shuddered.

 

‘Leone…’ Bruno murmured his name, sending a shiver down his spine. ‘Is it okay if I continue? Do you want to…?’

 

His nails ran along Abbachio’s spine. Abbacchio shuddered again, mind going hazy. A choked, hoarse yes spilled from his throat on its own.

 

***

 

Here I go again …

 

It was a rare and extraordinary thing for Bruno Bucciarati to feel out of control, in any area of his life. Yet here he was now, growing weak at a single sigh, and Abbacchio’s body against his. From the very beginning nearly two years before, doubts and discipline always slipped away when they were together like this. 

 

No matter how wrong and selfish he considered such love to be, being with Abbacchio just couldn’t help but feel right . Like complete fulfillment.

 

 ‘Leone…’ he exhaled the name again. He couldn’t get tired of it, of how the sound and feeling of this short, graceful word signified this person, the one he loved the most.

 

He also loved how Leone always reacted to his name, pulling closer to him in open, instinctual joy. Kissing his neck more with gentle, wet suction, Bucciarati shifted on the couch, sliding a knee onto Abbacchio’s lap. A heady warmth swayed him as he felt Leone’s hardness against his thigh. Instinctively, he reached out to cup his face and kissed his lips, slow and warm.

 

Leone leaned into it, and their lips coalesced with equal intensity. Their kisses grew greedy quickly, escalating to clashing tongues and suckling lips. The thrill of the day made them crave each other more, savor the small things they often almost took for granted - the warmth of the other’s skin, the feel of their muscles flexing towards touch, their scent infusing this small, common space as their mouths gasped and kissed and suckled. Bucciarati’s hands and lips rushed into Abbacchio’s pull, wanting more and more… but then he broke away and inhaled deeply.

 

No .

 

Bruno Bucciarati was a man of thorough, quality pleasure, on the giving and receiving end both. He disliked hurrying and haphazard, half-assed lovemaking. He absolutely detested “quickies”, yanked-down trousers and hiked-up shirts in inconvenient, unsanitary places. Oh, no. When he desired Leone, he took his time - romantic warm-up hours, a private room, a comfortable bed and long, devoted foreplay was, to him, the bare minimum.

 

So, he took a deep breath, pulled his brakes and sat back. For long moments, he just watched Leone, took in the sight of his flushed face and wet lips and the vulnerable look in his eyes, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly and his chest rose and fell with each breath. His heart raced at the sight, and a heavy warmth simmered in his lower abdomen.

 

He took Abbacchio’s hand and pulled him lightly, guiding him to recline on the couch.

 

‘Come, amore .’ he whispered, positioning himself atop Abbacchio. He draped a leg over his hips and leaned in, caressing his face. ‘Is this comfortable?’ 

 

He ran a thumb over Abbacchio’s lower lip, watching him with genuine concern. He suspected a great deal of bruises and wounds he still had not seen. 

 

‘Yes.’ Leone nodded, breathless. He tucked a leg under Bucciarati’s bandaged ankle to support it, bringing them together hip to hip, chest to chest. ‘Tell me if your ankle hurts.’

 

Bruno’s stomach fluttered, lips twitching into an involuntary smile. He caressed Abbacchio’s face and planted a soft kiss on his mouth.

 

‘I will, tesoro, I will.’ he assured him. His heart jumped at how Abbachio blushed at the pet name.

 

Especially considering the tough facade he had to maintain in public, and the necessary ruthlessness of the job, expressing his affection like this always gave Bucciarati an immeasurable high. He leaned forward and kissed Abbacchio again.

 

This time, he reined in his urges and took it slow, switching between barely-there brushes of his lips, teasing suction and licking at Leone’s lips, savoring their softness. His hands did not rest either, he kept caressing Leone’s hair, kneading gently at his waist and hips, running his fingertips over the other man’s spine. This earned him a string of soft gasps, shivers and quiet ah s, in delicious contrast with how Leone flexed his hips against his, how his hands groped at his body, shaky and instinctual. 

 

‘I love your hands, amore .’ he murmured in Leone’s ear, with a soft kiss on his neck. ‘It feels very good when you touch me like this…’

 

Satisfaction bubbled up in his stomach as Abbacchio blushed at the compliment. It still amazed him, after almost a year, how his steadfast, manly, yet oft melancholy right hand always fell apart at the simplest little praise. 

 

‘And your lips…’ he added, with a measured, almost smug half-smile, running the tip of his tongue down Leone’s jugular and earning himself another strangled ah . ‘I feel like I could kiss you forever…’

 

Leone looked away, his face a feverish red. Bucciarati could see his lower lip tremble, feel him straining against his thigh. The high it gave him, pushing these buttons, was warmer, headier, more intoxicating than any victory on the streets.

 

Heat glowed inside his lower abdomen, and he was hard too, almost to the maximum. He wanted to draw it out, savor the feeling, absorb more of Leone’s pleasure. Tenderly, he slid a hand down Abbacchio’s neck, stopping at the topmost button of his dark blue shirt.

 

‘You feel tense, caro mio .’ he murmured, with a deep, deliberate sweetness. ‘Let me massage it out of you…’

 

Leone managed a nod and a hoarse okay , still unable to look at Bruno. His lover, smiling to himself, rid him of his shirt with swift, nimble fingers, and set it aside. He chuckled quietly at how Leone had tucked it into his slacks, proper as a soldier at a military inspection. 

 

Warmth spread from his core outwards, all the way to his fingertips. He could not recall anymore, when amused affection at these quirks of Abbacchio had turned heated and desperate, into actual, true love.

 

With another gentle amore, he guided Leone to lay on his stomach and sat atop him, straddling his hips. For a moment, he let his gaze sweep over the bare torso underneath him, the way the broad back curved into a slim waist, the lines of the sharp shoulder blades and the faint shadows of muscles on the pale skin. With a fleeting brush of his lips against Abbacchio’s neck, he cracked his hands and got to work. He massaged Leone’s back very gently, careful to avoid the darkening bruises littering his back, kneading and pressing at the painfully knotted muscles. Answering Leone’s soft sighs and quiet, throaty gasps with whispered, syrupy endearments, he interrupted his massage with caresses and kisses, slow and patient. Knowing how this would always excite his lover, he contrasted this caring pace by pressing his hardness against Leone’s backside, letting him know how much he wanted him. 

 

Abbacchio squirmed and sighed under his hands, eyes closed and face pink. His hair, his gorgeously long, white hair spread out on the sofa, and fuck, it made Bruno feel overcome by how much he loved him, heart throbbing and cock straining in the confines of his beige slacks.

 

Inhaling deeply, Bucciarati ran a finger down the valley of Abbacchio’s spine. The older man shuddered, hips flexing against his hard-on. Bucciarati’s eyes fluttered closed, and it dawned on him - defeat, yet again.

 

‘I want to take you tonight, caro mio .’ he whispered, barely audible. ‘Will you let me?’

 

***

 

The question was quiet, yet somehow desperate, the sound sharper with Abbacchio’s eyes closed. His heart stuttered at the endearment, his mind hazy from the massage, he could scarcely think. 

 

Head swimming and muscles weak like jelly, his cock was painfully hard against the cushioned sofa, twitching with every word of praise Bruno had whispered throughout his massage. He shivered as he felt his lover lean over him, his dark hair tickling his neck. His lips brushed against his cheek, warm and tender.

 

‘You do not have to.’ Bruno added, loving and calm even through the dark strain of desire over his voice. Abbacchio’s heart throbbed and his limbs sprang to life, turning over to lie on his back and pulling Bruno down by the nape of his neck to kiss him. 

 

They stayed joined like this for a long time, mouths open and tongues sliding against one another. Abbacchio’s cock pulsed at how deep Bruno’s tongue plunged in his mouth, and at the drop of saliva trickling down his chin, onto his neck.

 

Then they broke apart, panting quietly. Bruno smiled at the wet trail shining on Leone’s neck. Back when they started, he had used to apologize and wipe it away, but then he realized - his lover actually liked it.

 

Abbacchio breathed in and worked up the courage to look Bucciarati in the eye. Still, his voice came out strained and low when he spoke.

 

‘I want it…’ he said hoarsely, face burning. ‘I want you, I want you so badly, but uh-’

 

He shimmied awkwardly up into a sitting position, his lower lip trembling - an uncomfortable, involuntary sign of his embarrassment. One hand holding Bruno by the back, he grabbed his collar with the other. 

 

‘But before, I- you-’ he stuttered, his tongue clumsy. ‘I also… I want to…’

 

He trailed off and swallowed, unable to say the words. Bruno smiled and caressed his face, and shit, it was affectionate, not smug or sarcastic, and Abbacchio’s heart throbbed. He cleared his throat.

 

‘I… if that’s okay, I… before you… I’d like to…’ he struggled, then let his hand fall awkwardly to the button of Bruno’s slacks, a wordless implication. The younger man smiled, caressing that hand with his own.

 

‘I would love that.’ he told Abbacchio softly, then kissed him and stood up, unbuttoning his own shirt with that air of fluid confidence that had glowed around him since the very first time. ‘Now, come to bed, amore …’

 

Abbacchio’s heartbeat quickened, and snap, he was on his feet, struggling Bruno’s shirt off him while he cursed under his breath. He tossed the white silk on the sofa and swept Bruno up in his arms, taking him to his bed and ducking under the canopy to place him in the nest of his pillows and blankets. At that, Bruno’s face flushed a faint pink and he smiled, with shining eyes and loving lips. His arms and legs opened, and he turned towards Leone with all of his beautiful, slim torso, completely and utterly inviting.

 

Fuck, shit, bloody goddamn fucking hell … Abbacchio swore silently. A second later, the bed creaked under his weight as he fucking leapt on top of Bruno, crashing their lips together. He kissed him, long, filthy and open-mouthed, one hand cupping his face and another groping him, kneading at his hips and thighs. Legs intertwined, they ground against each other at a slow, lustful pace. Abbacchio’s tongue slid in and out of Bucciarati’s mouth as if making love to it, mimicking the rhythm of their hips. Then, remembering he had intended to pleasure Bruno, Leone abandoned his lips and tipped up his chin to access his neck.

 

Bruno lay underneath him, exposed. A man of style and self-care, his hair was shiny and soft, his skin much creamier and smoother than Abbacchio’s own. When Leone looked at him, his heart raced. He saw both the beauty of his lover and a web of imaginary spots and lines - a map of Bruno’s weakest points.

 

Other men may have found such accuracy unnecessary, but not him. Leone Abbacchio prided himself on remembering everything.

 

So he pored over the map and visited every spot, kissing, sucking, exploring. He kissed the spot underneath Bruno’s ear, suckled at his earlobe, dragged his tongue down to his collarbone. He forced himself to be as tender as he possibly could be, knowing that Bruno preferred soft, drawn-out pleasure to even minor pain. With greedy restraint, he suckled and licked his way down Bruno’s chest, leaving faint, reddish kiss marks in his wake. Then, he caught a nipple between his lips and sucked, long and devoted.

 

‘Oh, Leone…’ Bruno exhaled, growing tense underneath him. Abbacchio felt his cock twitch against the mattress.

 

Contrary to what Leone had expected, Bruno had always been rather vocal in expressing his enjoyment. He sighed, gasped, panted and moaned without restraint, and most of all he talked, whispering encouraging, sweet nothings, murmuring praises and moaning small, broken words of pleasure. Leone remembered the first time they had kissed, eleven months and ten days ago in Bruno’s favorite bar, drunk and stupid in love. He remembered how Bruno had caressed the back of his head and whispered it feels good, my love , saying something Abbacchio had thought but could not utter as if it had been the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

I love you, Bruno, I love you so unbearably fucking much …

 

Abbacchio bowed over Bucciarati’s chest and stayed there, switching between sucking and licking at his nipples. Arching his back and squirming under him, Bruno kept caressing his hair and back, letting out tremulous, breathy mmh s and ah s. When Abbacchio nipped at one nipple gently with his teeth, he shuddered and gave a choked, throaty moan.

 

‘Oh, Leone…’ he repeated, his voice deep and heavy like honey. ‘You arouse me so much, caro mio …’

 

He smiled at his lover, face pink and eyes burning with love. Abbacchio shivered, a warm flush spreading inside his chest. Bruno was sprawled comfortably on the bed, flushed pink, his nipples red, shiny and puffy. Slowly, he closed his eyes, still smiling, and dragged a teasing hand down his torso, stopping just above the waistband of his slacks. Abbacchio swallowed at the sight of his excitement, bulging underneath the beige fabric.

 

He loved how Bruno always glowed, with this fluid, golden confidence. Even when he himself stuttered and blushed. Even when he looked away. Even when they had gone home from the bar that night and continued in this very room, when they, shirtless and with their hands in the other’s pants, had both confessed they had never been with anyone else before. 

 

Now too, his confidence spilled over and Abbacchio soaked it up, encouraged. He breathed in, heart throbbing, and continued. Slowly, he ran his tongue down Bruno’s torso, over his sternum, in the faint line between his flat abdominals. He dipped it inside his navel, earning himself a strangled, keening sound, and Bruno’s hard-on pressing up against his chest. He was dizzy with anticipation, but he waited, took his time licking down the would-be trail of hair stretching between navel and groin. Once down there, he planted a fleeting, barely tangible kiss on the bulge. Bruno gave a choked haah . 

 

Abbacchio cursed under his breath. He felt intoxicated, control slipping away. Forgetting himself, he pressed his face against Bruno’s hard-on and breathed in, filling his lungs with his excitement.

 

‘Oh, god…’ Bruno exhaled, gripping the back of Abbacchio’s head. He never cursed. ‘Leone, please…’ he begged quietly. ‘I want to feel your lips on me…’

 

His words hit Leone on the head, making him feel deliciously dizzy. He swallowed, mouth watering.

 

‘Just lay back…’ he murmured absent-mindedly as he unbuttoned Bucciarati’s slacks, the words  spilling without restraint. ‘Lay back and relax, I’ll make you feel very good…’

 

He unzipped Bruno’s pants and yanked them down to his knees. The tight, white boxer briefs he was wearing, already wet where his head pressed up against the fabric, followed suit. Bruno struggled them down his legs and kicked them aside, eyes shut. Abbacchio didn’t wait for a plea or encouragement - he ran his tongue up his lover’s cock, up the soft, hot skin to the red tip.

 

‘Mmmh… Bruno…’ he mumbled, beyond caring about decorum or dignity, and engulfed Bucciarati’s cock, burying it inside his mouth.

 

One hand kneading at Bruno’s thigh, he bobbed his head up and down, careful. With shameful grunts and moans, he sucked greedily, mmh ing as Bruno’s head hit the back of his throat, deliciously thick. He switched between swallowing and letting go, only to suck on the head like a lollipop, or lick at the slit, teasing the hyper-sensitive bundle of nerves in the back. Trying to restrain the stuttering thrusts of his hips, Bruno locked his thighs in place and moaned, choking out broken praises, hand still in Abbacchio’s hair. Leone worked tirelessly, eager to pleasure the man he loved.

 

As the salty taste of pre-come flooded his mouth, he mmh ed again, lips locked around Bruno’s cock. He swallowed him again, deeper and deeper, burning to make him his and his alone. He would have sooner died than admit it, but secretly, in a remote corner of his conscious, jealousy stirred inside him every time Bruno displayed affection towards one of the boys. He , Abbacchio, loved him more than any of those three, he wanted to be the only man to be loved by him. 

 

When his cheeks hollowed and Bruno bottomed out inside him, they both grunted together.

 

‘ Gh-haah ’ Bruno choked out, hips arching up. ‘I- ah, I’m so close, my love… Please, just a little bit more…’

 

Leone’s mind went hazy and crimson, and his cock throbbed against the bed. He licked and swallowed Bruno’s head again, rubbing his tongue against the sensitive spot as he bobbed his head, humming. Without stopping, he sucked and sucked, rubbed and rubbed his tongue, saliva and pre-come trickling down his chin and neck…

 

…and then Bruno arched his back and came with a loud aah , his abdominal muscles jumping in a broken, erratic rhythm. His come, thick and musky, flooded Abbacchio’s mouth, who swallowed it with gusto, happy to consume a part of Bruno, a part no other man would ever get to taste. Then, he let go of the softening cock with a wet sound, and let it fall against Bruno’s stomach, pink and shiny with saliva.

 

With Abbacchio’s head resting against Bucciarati’s thigh, they both just lay silently for a good minute, panting with their eyes closed. Then, the older man kissed his way up his lover’s inner thighs and propped himself on one elbow above him, pulling him into an embrace. 

 

Bruno finally opened his eyes and smiled up at him, face still flushed, lips bitten.

 

‘Thank you, amore .’ he murmured, joining their lips softly. ‘You made me feel incredible. You have the loveliest, most skilled lips in the world…’

 

Leone blushed, hot and red, and buried his face in Bruno’s hair. The praise sent a shiver down his spine, and Bruno’s hair smelled warm and fresh and amazing, like home, and shit, he was still hard as a rock. As if trying to enhance his suffering, Bruno ran his nails down his spine and kissed him under his ear, warm breath tickling his neck.

 

‘My sweet Leone…’ he whispered. ‘No man on this Earth could wish for a better lover.’

 

And with that, he guided Abbacchio to lie back, briefly turning away to rummage in his bedside table. He came back with a tender smile, holding a small bottle of lubricant. Abbacchio had no idea where he always got these, the comfortably warm, sweet-scented, visibly expensive ones.

 

‘And now…’ Bruno murmured, running a finger down Leone’s torso, down to the button of his pants. ‘It’s my turn to pleasure you, tesoro . Can I…?’

 

Abbacchio nodded, his head swimming. No coherent thought remained in his mind, none but quietly repeating I love you .

 

That was the only thing Leone Abbacchio, this man of flawless memory, did not remember. He could always recall the moment he decided he would follow Bucciarati anywhere, the time he had his first wet dream, then lucid fantasy about him, the night they first called each other Bruno and Leone, and their first lovemaking, clumsy but ardent… but he could not remember the point at which he started loving him.

 

Maybe, he had from the beginning. All he knew was that he always would, forever.

 

And until Bruno stays and loves him too, nothing else matters.

 

***

 

‘Mmmh… Does it feel good, amore? Are you ready for more?’

 

‘ Hh-aah … yes… fuck, god, yes, please…’

 

‘Good… Relax, my love. I’ve got you… Relax…’

 

Bucciarati inched closer to Abbacchio and kissed him, soft and wet, as he slid another finger inside him. They had been like this for the past half-hour or so, lying on their side and facing one another, occasionally kissing, legs entwined. Bruno had one arm around Leone and another snaking down his back, between his buttocks. Fingers generously lubricated, he had been caressing and massaging the opening for quite a while now, then sinking inside, digit by digit. In spite of his core-rocking orgasm earlier, one built up during ten days of work-related deprivation, he was hard again. They lay with their hips together, cock wet and stiff against the other’s abdomen. 

 

Leone’s head rested on a pillow, hair tousled and face pink. Eyes closed, he was gritting his teeth and panting, shallow and shaky, his member twitching against Bruno’s navel. It was longer and thicker than Bruno’s own, veins throbbing angrily under the soft, now-red skin. The younger man had asked earlier if he would like to come once, before they made love, but he had declined. Inside, he was tight and hot, burning feverishly around Bucciarati’s fingers.

 

Bruno smiled as he gazed at him, his beautiful face and pale, statuesque, naked silhouette. His chest swelled with affection, and shamefully, even pride. Part of him wanted everyone, the whole city of Naples to see this, them together, Leone - the most beautiful man in the world, his and his alone . Even though by now, everyone in their favorite bars, most visited restaurants, the opera and the royal theater, knew them, who they were for the world, and what they meant for each other, this kind of love was still frowned upon. He had once shot a drug dealer who spat in Leone’s face and called him dirty fag cop , and he was sure many people whispered behind their backs every day, damaging his reputation as the invincible deliverer of justice in the city.

 

Deep down, however, he didn’t only not care. He secretly enjoyed holding Leone’s hand in the opera, kissing him by the bar counter, pulling him on top of himself in their private box at a restaurant. And each time, he wanted someone, anyone to come by and see, and rejoiced when they did.

 

Smiling to himself, he tipped his head forward and kissed Leone, tongue plunging into his mouth. Thrusting deeper with both fingers, he slid his other hand down between their bodies and grabbed their cocks, rubbing the heads together. They moaned in unison, and Leone’s hips stuttered forward, smearing pre-come on Bruno’s belly.

 

‘M-more…’ he managed, his voice strained. ‘Bruno- fuck, please… more…’ 

 

The last more came out a strangled moan, one Bucciarati felt in the tip of his cock. He inhaled  and withdrew his hand, leaving their cocks twitching and unsatisfied. Softly, he kissed Abbacchio’s forehead.

 

‘It’s been a while, amore. ’ he caressed his face tenderly. ‘Are you sure?’

 

Leone nodded, one inch away from being frantic. Bruno’s heart did a little somersault.

 

‘All right…’ he murmured, scooting closer. ‘Just let me know if it hurts…’

 

And with that, they were kissing again, hands all over each other. Bruno took his time introducing a third finger, easing his entry with some more lube, but Leone was eager to receive him. Soon, they were rocking their hips together again, tongues battling, and he was inside him up to his knuckles. By then, Leone was leaking continuously, his breathing fast and labored.

 

When Bruno’s fingers rubbed at his prostate, he yelped and went stiff against him.

 

‘Shit…’ he panted, eyes clouded and lips wet. ‘Enough, I’m ready, please-’

 

He didn’t finish, but his lover knew what he wanted. He guided him onto his back and pushed his thighs apart gently, kneeling between his legs. Bowing over Leone, he kissed him, once and then again, running his clean hand down his face. At that, Leone actually smiled, earnest and crinkly-eyed, and it made Bruno’s stomach feel like jelly. Now, it was him who leaked onto the covers, chest and face hot.

 

Uncapping the lube again, he coated his cock from tip to base. He gave himself a few tugs, to ensure he wasn’t too close, and watched Leone squirm in anticipation. 

 

‘I’m coming, amore. ’ he told him lovingly, and guided himself to his entrance. ‘Hold on to me.’

 

He went in with surprising ease, over halfway in one gentle thrust. They gasped in unison, and Leone jerked, thighs stiff.

 

‘Easy, easy.’ Bruno whispered, guiding Leone’s arms to hug him. He gave him a gentle kiss and tucked his hair behind his ears. ‘It’s okay, love. I’ve got you.’

 

He couldn’t help but smile. He was bursting, filled to the brim with Leone’s presence, with how much he loved him. His cock ached inside him, ready to explode, but he inhaled and regained control.

 

‘Can I move, tesoro? ’ he asked softly, steadying himself on one elbow.

 

‘Yes.’ Leone answered hoarsely. Bruno sighed, got ready, and sank into him, then withdrew again. Angling his hips to Leone’s prostate, he thrust inside gently, and gave his lover’s cock a gentle tug. His thumb rubbed at the sensitive spot in the back, and he rocked gently, whispering loving little nothings…

 

…when Leone suddenly arched his back and moaned, mouth dropping open. Eyes shut, he spilled all over Bruno’s fingers in thick, white spurts, his abdominals jerking in a broken rhythm. He kept gasping, and turned his head away, embarrassed.

 

Bruno’s eyes widened, his heart and cock throbbing. Fuck, I just fell in love with you all over again…

 

‘Are you alright, love?’ he managed, panting softly and focusing all of his willpower not to move his hips. His cock ached for friction, but he didn’t obey the urge.

 

‘Fuck…’ Leone muttered, covering his face. ‘I’m so sorry, I- it’s just been…’ Bruno opened his mouth to speak, to assure him it was okay, that he was happy he had arrived at the top, but Leone continued. ‘Go on… Finish. I want- I want you to come too.’

 

The younger man peeled his hand away and looked at him, searching his face to be sure, but Abbacchio just nodded. Bucciarati smiled and leaned down to kiss him.

 

‘Thank you, amore…’

 

And with that, he braced himself and started to move. Body draped over Leone’s, he rocked back and forth gently, holding his lover by his hips, careful not to overstimulate him. He wanted tender and controlled motions, but soon, he was slipping. He buried his face in the crook of Leone’s neck, inhaling his scent and warmth, kissing the red-marked, soft skin… Shit . It was too warm, too heady, too perfect. Bruno was swaying, and then he heard himself say:

 

‘Moan for me, amore.’ he rasped. ‘I want to hear you… Please…’

 

He was scrambling to regain his thoughts, he felt ashamed, but his hips didn’t stop moving and Leone did as he asked too, letting his gasps and quiet moans travel down Bruno’s spine and make him shiver. 

 

From there, it only took Bruno a few slow, hard thrusts and he came too, going still and breathless as he spilled inside Leone. 

 

‘Leone…’ he panted. ‘Leone, my love, Leone…’

 

He laid on top of him like this for a while, still inside him and repeating his name. He tried to will strength into his limbs, to get up and regain control, but somehow, he couldn’t. As soon as he pulled out, his arms gave out and he sank back into Leone’s embrace. The older man’s body felt warm, comfortable, and his fresh, manly scent, mixed with the warm, familiar air of their tryst, infused his lungs. Something was pulling him towards Leone, because he felt like love, like home .

 

Exhausted, Bruno planted a soft, wet kiss on Leone’s cheek. 

 

‘Forgive me if I was too rough, amore .’ he murmured, one hand caressing the other man’s hips languidly. ‘I’ll make it up to you with another massage in the bath…’

 

Leone returned the kiss, locking his arms around Bruno.

 

‘Thank you. But not now. Let’s just stay like this for a while…’

 

‘Yes.’ Bruno agreed and gave a tired, breathless chuckle. Moving, let alone standing up, felt impossible. 

 

So, he let himself sink into Leone’s hold, eyes slowly closing.

 

‘I love you.’ he whispered, still sometime before he fell asleep. 

 

A few seconds later, he heard Leone reply with I love you too .

 

 ***

 

‘Fugooooo! This is no fun! Go faster!’

 

‘For the last time - no . This is dangerous enough as it is.’

 

‘Killjoy.’

 

‘Brat.’

 

‘ Pannacotta .’

 

‘Fuck you.’

 

Narancia tsk ed and leaned back against his seat, pouting. It was a clear, starry night on the road from Naples to Pompei, the sea lay still and glittered, reflecting the full moon. The town of Torre Annunziata sat perched by the sea, its thousand colorful houses romantically lit in the night. Surprisingly for mid-January, the air was more crisp than cold, and it felt cleaner as they drove away from the city, more alive.

 

Alive was exactly what Narancia wanted to be right now. Fugo could frown and grouse about danger and irresponsibility as much as he wished - Narancia was craving danger.

 

‘You know, speed is kind of the point of joyriding.’ he quipped, taking a swig of his almost-empty bottle of cranberry liqueur. ‘This is more like sad-riding. Or sad-crawling. Sad-slithering-’

 

‘I get the point.’ Fugo snapped. His fingers went white around the steering wheel. ‘But for fuck’s sake, I’m not going to crash the car! Point final .’

 

Narancia shot a sideways glance at Fugo and snickered. He looked very cute as he stared at the road grumpily, only locks of blonde hair and a straight nose peeking out from behind the collar of his oversized light green coat and red corduroy newsboy cap. Narancia found it very endearing, how the cold always made him grouchy, and how he always spoke French when he was mad.

 

‘ Va te faire foudre .’ he managed, with a horribly Italian accent. Alright, languages had never been his strong suit. Especially when he drank.

 

‘It’s foutre , you idiot.’ Fugo shot back, irritated, but Narancia could see the smile hiding in the corners of his mouth. ‘Why the hell are we going to Pompei anyway?’

 

‘Because I want to laugh at the dead.’ the older boy retorted. He threw his back and laughed. ‘It’s a beautiful night to be alive!’

 

The sky spun around Narancia, the stars blurring into a myriad white stripes. The cold tickled his skin, making him shiver with delight. He was sweaty in his too-light leather jacket, properly drunk, his stomach full of candy and artisanal pastries. Euphoria tingled through his body, from his skull to his fingertips. He downed the rest of his liqueur. It didn’t even burn anymore, he felt nothing. 

 

That’s good. That means I’m drunk. Weeeeeeeeeeeeee …

 

He squinted to focus on the cliffs to his right. Swinging his arms with all his might, he threw the  empty bottle away, heart jumping as he heard it shatter.

 

‘ Woooo-hoooo! ’ he shrieked, swaying. The scenery tilted around him, so he closed his eyes. He realized his seatbelt was undone. He threw his arms open and shouted. ‘Fuck the dead! Long live the living!’

 

A steely hand gripped his arm. Then it slapped him in the face. His eyes popped open.

 

‘What are you doing, you idiot?’ Fugo yelled at him, purple-blue eyes blazing, face red from the cold. ‘Fasten your seatbelt this instant!’ Leaning over Narancia’s lap, he snatched the unopened second bottle from the glove compartment. ‘And no more drinking! What the hell has gotten into you?’

 

He immediately turned back to watch the road, but Narancia could feel his focus, piercing his skin. Malaise stirred in his stomach. 

 

Bucciarati almost died, that’s what’s gotten into me, he thought. That building has gotten into me. That old hag nurse asking those dumb fucking questions has gotten into me. Where is my family, she asked. My real family, she said. What the fuck’s that supposed to mean? This is my family.

 

Someone in my family almost died today, you stupid cunt.

 

Narancia closed his eyes and shifted in his seat. Suddenly, he was feeling nauseous. Everything he had been trying to forget, to throw away in that empty bottle, floated up to the boiling surface of his conscious. 

 

‘Fugooo…’ he whined, popping a handful of marshmallows into his mouth. ‘Give me the bottle.’

 

He munched aggressively through the sticky candy, chewing up his feelings, but to no avail. He  only felt more on edge. The marshmallows tasted cheap and artificial, sickeningly sweet. Fugo did not budge.

 

‘Fugoooo…’ Narancia repeated, drawing out the syllable. His voice trembled at the end. 

 

The car left the sign reading Pompei by the road. Instinctively, as if reading Narancia’s mind, Fugo turned left, towards the seashore. Ever since they met, he always knew exactly what Narancia wanted.

 

‘You’re not drinking anymore.’ he said matter-of-factly. Narancia opened his mouth to protest,  but with one hand held up, he silenced him. He circled for a few minutes, and finally stopped the car at a dark, derelict bay. 

 

Surrounded by rocks and the silent sea, it was only them and the moon. The waves stretched mere inches away from the wheels of the white BMW. Fugo stepped on the brake, unbuckled his seatbelt and turned left, facing Narancia. He held a bottle of water in one hand and a baguette in another.

 

‘Drink.’ he commanded. ‘And eat this. All that candy will upset your stomach.’

 

He broke off half the baguette and handed it to Narancia. The older boy swallowed. There were instantly a dozen comebacks on the tip of his tongue, one cheekier than the next. But looking at Fugo’s slim, stern face made him close his mouth and obey, biting into the fresh, still-warm bread. It was heavenly. Exactly what he needed. Fugo was right. 

 

He always was. And he could always get Narancia to do as he said.

 

‘Good boy.’ he patted Narancia’s head, with a small smile. Narancia’s stomach did a little somersault. He blushed and took a bigger bite. 

 

Fugo had such a pretty smile. And face. His whole being was pretty, with that always soft, blonde hair, that slim face, those commanding eyes and sulky, pink lips. He was much more handsome than Narancia, but it wasn’t envy that made the older boy’s chest constrict.

 

‘Unfair’ Narancia mumbled into the baguette, his face hot. Fugo chuckled, and it made him fucking glow . 

 

Narancia’s stomach jumped. He chugged half the water, hoping it would cool his heating chest. There was no need. Fugo’s next sentences splashed him like a bucket of ice.

 

‘You shouldn’t have drunk so much.’ the younger boy said quietly. ‘Bucciarati is fine. When something happens, you should just… talk to me.’

 

The discomfort, strangely, made Narancia laugh, high-pitched and awkward. He felt nauseous again. He didn’t want these feelings, he had been trying to drink them away all evening, but they were coming back. He saw flashing images of the building collapsing, Bucciarati under that door again, heard Fugo yelling his name and Abbacchio retching in the bathroom, not even caring if they heard him. That was bad. Abbacchio always cared.

 

He shuddered, trying to chase it away. His head was swimming.

 

‘Don’t look so cunt-struck, Fugo, it doesn’t suit you.’ he giggled, and stuck out his tongue, but  his voice trembled. ‘There’s nothing to talk about. I just like to drink.’

 

‘ Hah .’ Fugo gave a dry, mirthless laugh. ‘If you say so.’

 

He shrugged, but his eyes said I don’t believe you . The dark irises burned Narancia, but Fugo stayed put, without a word, then turned away. His side profile was just as pretty as his front.

 

Knowingly or not - probably the former - he did the right thing. Narancia Ghirga always clung to someone the hardest when they acted indifferent.

 

Say something. Do something. Hug me, you ass .

 

On most occasions, Narancia struck back via teasing or resistance. Now, he was way too drunk for any of that. Looking at Fugo, he felt pulled in, craving to get closer.

 

‘Oi, Fugo.’ he called, drawing out his friend’s name. 

 

‘Hm?’ Fugo replied softly. He quirked an eyebrow. Narancia’s stomach jumped.

 

‘Promise me something.’ he managed, hiccuping at the end. Fugo nodded, as if to say go on . Narancia took a swig from the water bottle. Awkward and strained, he continued. ‘Promise me you won’t…’

 

His voice faltered. Promise me you won’t die , he wanted to say, but that would have sounded ridiculous. Promise you’ll never leave me would have just sounded pathetic. Normally, he didn’t say these things, didn’t talk. He tried to convey them in other ways - following Fugo everywhere, sharing his sacred snacks, climbing into his bed at night, when even the small, cozy room they shared felt too big, too cold.

 

‘Promise me you’ll never tell me to dye my hair blonde.’ he blurted out. Fugo cocked his head to the side, perplexed. Oh, yeah, he never did tell him that story …

 

‘Okay?’ he laughed, smiling like Narancia was a kid, and ruffled his hair. ‘Jeez, that would look atrocious on you. You do annoy me, but not this much.’

 

He caressed Narancia’s face playfully. His hand was smooth and warm. The older boy’s face went pink. That bloody leather jacket really was too thin.

 

He felt so cold. Instinctively, he reached towards Fugo, and the next thing he knew, he was already in his arms. Warm relief blooming in his stomach, he pressed his face into Fugo’s chest, inhaling his scent. He smelled unfairly fresh. Narancia probably stank like booze and stale candy.

 

‘Fugo…’

 

‘Yes?’

 

‘Promise me… Even if… even if the team falls apart, even if… if everyone else leaves us or dies, I… do you promise you’ll always stay with me?’

 

***

 

Shit. Why this? Why now?

 

Narancia clung to Fugo tightly, arms around his waist, face buried in his chest. He smelled like a damned pastry shop, his hair was so soft and his frame, paradoxically shorter and skinnier, but stronger than Fugo’s own, trembled in his friend’s arms like a leaf. 

 

‘Of course I’ll stay with you.’ he whispered into the messy nest of dark hair under his chin. His heart throbbed inside his chest. He hoped Narancia couldn’t feel it. ‘I’ll always stay with you. Dumbass…’

 

Fugo felt his face growing hot. He tried to will it away, but the heat just spread, like fever through a child. His heart raced. He felt stupid and helpless. These times, even his nose and neck went red, he knew it, like a fucking clown . His embrace tightened around Narancia, his arms moving on their own. 

 

Let go of me, he pleaded in his head. Enough, you idiot, let go! Stop forcing your bloody warmth and cuteness on me .

 

Narancia gave a small mmh and nuzzled his neck. Let go, he repeated inside, and caressed the other boy’s back, sliding a hand up in his hair.

 

‘Comfy…’ Narancia mumbled into his chest and giggled, as if he hadn’t just said something of such fucking magnitude. Fidgeting to find a comfortable position, he squirmed onto Fugo’s lap. He was always clingy, but now, drunk, he shed the little control he usually exercised. Hell, the amount of control Narancia had was infinitesimal, and now he was pretty much moaning into Fugo’s chest and digging around his crotch with his knee.

 

Fugo took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Come on, he nudged himself. Think of something not so nice and soft. Something annoying … 

 

With Herculean willpower, Fugo inhaled, stopped his hands, and thought of Abbacchio.

 

He had been the second to be picked up by Bucciarati, not even six months after Fugo. He was older, quieter, moodier, he did everything differently than Fugo. By now, the youngest had learned to recognize the small, fleeting signs of his attachment, but otherwise, Abbacchio just seemed to hate everything and everyone - aside from Bucciarati.

 

Narancia shifted, now curled up on Fugo’s lap. He rested his head on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck. Abbacchio, think of Abbacchio …

 

Yes, the only thing Abbacchio did not hate was Bucciarati. It had been obvious from the get-go, he did not only love Bucciarati, he worshiped the man. Narancia did too - no, don’t think of Narancia -, but not like him. To Na- the others, Bucciarati was a big brother, a father even. To Abbacchio, he was everything. He followed him everywhere, protected him even when not necessary, took his word as absolute. If he ever contradicted or advised Bucciarati, Fugo never heard it. The two of them talked a lot in private, though, so he could not be sure.

 

‘Mmh… you smell good.’ Narancia muttered, pushing a hand under Fugo’s coat. ‘And you’re really warm. You make the best couch.’

 

Fugo’s chest burned under his sweater. He took a deep, cold breath. He would not get hard. He would not lose control.

 

Abbacchio really was an asshole. He always left his coffee mugs and plates in the sink, contributing to Mista’s insufferable mess. He always snapped at them for the music, for fighting, for talking too loudly, for breathing in his presence .

 

‘Hey, Fugo… this is so comfy, isn’t it?’

 

‘Mm-hmm.’

 

The fights, Fugo recalled. They fought a lot in the beginning, they did with everyone, except Na- but anyway, they fought. Abbacchio didn’t trust Fugo, he didn’t want him around Bucciarati. Fugo didn’t trust Abbacchio, he thought he was an angry, run-down loser. In the first month, they had a shouting match every day. Fugo didn’t get physical, the man was scarily large, but he hurled his best insults at him. Once, when he called him a dick-sucking dirty cop, an incompetent, spineless loser, Abbacchio hit him so hard he chipped a tooth and fractured his wrist. 

 

When he called him Bucciarati’s brainless dog, he just stood and nodded. Yes, I bloody fucking am, he then yelled back, and it’s the only thing I won’t ever regret!

 

‘Oi, Fugo…’

 

‘Hm?’

 

‘I love this coat, definitely keep it.’ Narancia told him, then, with that same breath, fucking tore the buttons open and wrapped his arms around Fugo, snuggling up underneath the green coat. With an airy innocence, he then added. ‘But the sweater is better… even if it looks lame.’

 

Fugo coughed. His face was as hot as a furnace. Now, Narancia could definitely feel his heartbeat. Abbacchio, Abbacchio …

 

‘What do you mean lame?’ he croaked, trying to keep his voice cold. Narancia giggled and scooted closer to him.

 

‘Well, it’s not lame, per say…’ he snickered, the damned brat. ‘It kinda just makes you look like a substitute professor in Victorian England.’

 

He looked up at Fugo, dark eyes shining from underneath a crown of long lashes, and then it sank in with another flush of warmth and a skipped heartbeat - the little shit was doing it on purpose . 

 

Fugo swallowed. He tried to cling to the long, white hair and those snarls and moodily spat words, but it was slipping away. He felt his cock stirring under Narancia’s thigh, and he knew he felt it too.

 

‘Shut up.’ he said hoarsely. ‘You dress like a call lady.’

 

Narancia chuckled, an openly deliberate, tantalizing sound. Fugo tried to recite the digits of pi, but he was slow, his memory shaky at best. Then, Narancia planted a soft kiss on his neck, and the numbers crumbled into fine dust.

 

‘Stop it.’ he rasped. This voice felt deeper, more strained than his own.

 

Narancia just chuckled again and continued kissing him. His lips were wet and warm, and he sucked at Fugo’s skin like goddamn candy , and shit, fuck- 

 

‘I said stop.’ he managed. He was hard as a rock. The chuckle Narancia gave at this sent a shiver down his back.

 

‘Why would I?’ the older boy murmured, one hand slipping under Fugo’s sweater. ‘You want it too…’

 

He nudged at Fugo’s hard-on with his knee and as he shifted, Fugo felt it - he was just like him, stiff in the constraints of his own pants. Fugo’s breath hitched as he ran his hand down his abdomen.

 

‘Narancia.’ he croaked, trying weakly to push him away. ‘Stop fucking around.’

 

Narancia caught his earlobe between his lips and sucked on it. Fugo audibly shivered, and his cock twitched under Narancia’s thigh. He opened his mouth to protest, but the older boy was faster.

 

‘Please…’ he exhaled, dragging his hips against Fugo’s. ‘It’s cold without you… And lonely… I just want to hug you a little.’

 

No, that’s not what you’re doing! Fugo wanted to yell, but the sentence froze in his throat, choking him. Narancia’s words reverberated inside him. His arms moved on their own as they pulled Narancia closer, beyond his control.

 

‘Fugo…’ Narancia drawled, his voice low but heavy. ‘I love you… You’re my best friend. You’re my everything… I love you so much…’

 

He kept interrupting himself with long, wet kisses, hands kneading at Fugo’s waist. Fugo didn’t even try pi, or conjugating Latin verbs anymore. He was scolding himself inwardly, admonishing at how this was wrong, how they were brothers, how he should have been responsible, and stopped it months, a year ago. He should have said no when Bucciarati proposed they room together, should have stopped spending his every minute with him, should have been sterner and  sent Narancia away when he had first sneaked into his bed late at night…

 

I should have pushed him away after that first kiss, I should have beaten his stupid ass. I especially shouldn’t have kissed him back and complied like a pathetic moron when he suggested he give me those lessons …

 

Frantic, scared shitless, furious at himself, Fugo tried to let go of Narancia, but somehow, his arms became disconnected from his body. 

 

When Narancia tipped his chin down and kissed him on the lips, slow and teasing, with just a tiny touch of tongue, he was already lost. Holding Narancia by the hips, he kissed him ardently, ignoring how cold it was and how their teeth kept clacking together.

 

Deep down, he knew he would never forgive himself for this, but it felt so right . He could only hope it did for Narancia too.

***

 

It was quiet, cold and dark by the ruin, save for a few flickering streetlights. The policemen had left an hour ago, only birds circled the rubble. Oh, and one homeless man. Mista didn’t know if he was sleeping or dead. 

 

He didn’t even care, really. The wall was hard under his ass, and he was freezing, and out of beer and cigarettes. Surveillance duty was the worst, he decided. He flicked a cigarette butt away.

 

In truth, he could have gone back to the apartment. Nothing was going to happen. Costanza was the mafia’s man, for sure, but more a pawn than a comrade, and it’s not like they would take bloody revenge right here in this fucking dock at half-past midnight.

 

Why didn’t he go back then?

 

He wasn’t sure, but whenever he made up his mind, he couldn’t get up. He felt tired, sloppy, morose. Why, he had no idea. The mission was a success, Bucciarati was fine, Passione was sure to reward them for this feat. Mista was excited about their next mission, when a year ago, he didn’t think he would ever be excited for anything, period.

 

It sounded corny and lame, like a too-honest comedy that wasn’t funny at all - Guido Mista, the gunslinging good-for-nothing who finally found purpose in a gang .

 

As often as he complained, he secretly loved this life, the thrill, the race to the top, even the guys. 

 

This company, this brotherhood made him so happy, it sometimes scared him shitless. Especially in moments when it was threatened to fall apart. Attachment, the strings that held him comfortably in place otherwise, tensed and started to pull at him in these times, and it felt more disconcerting than anything he had ever experienced.

 

He was glad he didn’t have to go with Fugo and Narancia and watch them being stuck on each other. It would have been a reminder of the tense strings, the pull…

 

…and that was why he stayed, bruising his ass on the concrete. Because he was sure that right about now, Bucciarati and Abbacchio were in bed, stuck on each other in an entirely different sense. 

 

Mista was rooming above them. Not that they were loud, but sometimes, he still heard them. And come on, it had always been obvious - Bucciarati was gay, and Abbacchio was uniquely obsessed with him. Everyone knew, Mista once heard Narancia babbling to Fugo about how wow, he just saw Bucci and Abba kissing in the kitchen, can you believe it?

 

Mista didn’t know if Bucciarati knew they knew. Probably. There wasn’t much Bucciarati didn’t know. 

 

The fact that Bucciarati didn’t even try to hide the relationship made it even more unsettling. It meant this wasn’t casual fucking or blowing off steam. With the hand-holding and tender looks over coffee, the way they could whisper in a corner for hours , it looked like love.

 

Humiliating as that was to admit, Mista felt envious. Normally, he could push it down into his subconscious, focus on the mission or go out and get laid, but at moments like this, it always resurfaced.

 

Ridiculous, isn’t it?

 

Renegade gunslinger Mista, sitting on a wall and freezing, all alone and craving for company, for someone to just waltz into his life and become his special person, to fill this aching void.

 

Mista sighed and spat, disgusted with the universe. 

 

***

 

At the quiet click of the entrance door, Bucciarati stirred and opened his eyes. The white clock on the wall signaled two fifty-three am, and, judging by the sound of the sole footsteps and the lack of giggling, Mista just arrived home.

 

As he passed the leader’s bedroom and walked up the stairs, Bruno let out a quiet sigh of relief. It meant his surveillance trip was uneventful, thank god.

 

Bruno sat up and looked to his right, then instantly smiled. With his back to him, Leone was fast asleep, hair spread out on the pine green covers, his breathing slow and even. He remembered how, not long after his arrival, he had found Leone in the kitchen one night, and he had confessed he used to be an alcoholic and had trouble sleeping without booze. 

 

Bruno knew he hadn’t touched liquor since. His heart swelled at the thought.

 

Sleep tight, my love, he told Leone silently. You deserve it.

 

Speaking of sleep, he wondered if Fugo and Narancia had arrived while they slept. Probably not. He would have heard that. They did this every once in a while, disappearing for a night. As long as they followed his orders and Narancia studied, Bucciarati let them. They never ran into trouble, and whenever they came back, Fugo seemed more relaxed and happy than any other time.

 

Bucciarati hoped they were sleeping well, wherever they were. They needed it too.

 

He glanced out the window. Somehow now, after a few hours of sleep, he saw things more clearly, for the first time in months.

 

This could not happen again. He couldn’t risk his life like that - this wasn’t the time. Bucciarati sensed that day would come, but not now, not yet. They had a bigger purpose - reforming the city, and that began with Passione. Bucciarati needed a team for that, and after yesterday, he now knew they needed him too. They might not, one day, but now they do. He’s the only man who can do this, and until they can too, he needs to be here to guide them.

 

And even beyond that, he just loved them, for fuck’s sake. When they lifted the door and he saw their faces, he felt happier than ever before. This was making him happy, this life and mission he had with them, and, selfish as that may be, he didn’t feel ready to give it up. 

 

Maybe he never would be…

 

He looked back at Abbacchio and smiled, warm inside. Maybe, this was okay too, he thought. The boys knew, he was aware of that, and they approved. He and Leone were both happy, happier than they had been in a very, very long time. They even worked better together. 

 

Bruno sighed, with a hint of amusement.

 

There was no point in thinking about if he could allow himself this love or not. He used to think he was way past, or even he daresay beyond this, but then he met Leone and his stupidity hit him right in the face. He was in love, he had no choice there. They both were, head over heels. But, he decided, as long as it makes them happier, better, more whole people, there is nothing wrong with continuing.

 

It made them stronger, he saw that now. And, more importantly, gave them a space to be weak together.

 

A door to a quiet place where they could both be human and whole.

Notes:

1. If you are a random person who stumbled upon this fic - thank you for reading, I hope I managed to pique your interest.

2. To @lyll, my beloved roommate, best friend, waifu and soulmate. Happy birthday, baby <3 This is for you, a love letter and thank you note for the past years, for everything you are to me. I love you earnestly and sappily, from the bottom of my stupid heart! Thank you for being you and being here for me, baby, you're the best, a true friend, a sanctuary and inspiration both. I wish you an amazing 21st year of your life, and I hope I'll get to stick around until the very last one <3

Love you,

yo wife *kiss kiss*

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of 1940s Vento Aureo