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“So…” Fugo says, once they’re in the apartment. “Am I supposed to call you Capo?”
Bruno has been dreading this. They shuffle in place, take a deep breath. Fugo, still at the doorway, looks as out of place as ever.
“Actually, I’m not — “
“Cause I won’t,” she cuts them off.
Bruno pauses.
“Like,” Fugo hugs herself. Continues glaring. “You can’t even drive.”
Bruno still doesn’t know what to say.
Fugo trails off. “...You made us take a tram.”
Bruno starts laughing.
--
Bruno say little as they get into the car — the driver’s seat, this time, because while their ability to actually drive is questionable at best, Fugo doesn’t currently seem to be in a state to. They go through the motions of what Fugo told them they need to do — Fugo, who’d been giving them road safety lessons for the last few weeks, because apparently learning how to drive by watching older mob members do it from the backseat didn’t cut it — Fugo, who’s still quiet, still looking anywhere but their way.
They just ended a mission. Things got a little out of control.
Bruno keeps their face relaxed, taps out a little beat on the wheel. Forgets to signal a few times, but otherwise does pretty well, by their standards. Fugo continues staring straight ahead, breathing still laboured, face still caked in blood.
The job was to take care of a few rogue Passione members, check if they were up to something. Things escalated, beyond what was reasonable but not beyond what Bruno had grown to expect. They think Fugo panicked. They’re pretty certain Fugo panicked. Whatever the reason be, she got her stand out, apparently unaware (or, Bruno thinks with a dose of bitter concern, uncaring) that the men she was about to Purple Haze were between her and the only exit — that there was no way for her to take them out without infecting herself too.
Bruno acted on instinct — could still feel their heart going still in their chest as they screamed, across the room, for Fugo to Stop, that it was an order, and the sound of the man trying to yell their name before they shot him with his partner’s gun.
It’s handled, now. They made it look like an infight, gone wrong. There’s no sign anyone else was ever there.
Fugo went pale the moment Bruno snapped, and has been quiet since.
It’s been half an hour now, and Bruno is starting to get concerned. They don’t want to push — don’t want to freak her out — want to apologize for yelling because they feel bad about it, but they’d gotten scared — they know it’s not an excuse but aren’t sure Fugo understands she’s not in trouble — and then it’s also possible that Fugo’s just gone quiet because she just saw a man’s head explode and she is so young and —
“Red light,” Fugo warns. Bruno slams the brakes.
They wait for it to go green in more of the same, palpable quiet. Bruno’s mouth tastes like ash.
“...So,” Fugo is the one to speak, again. “What now?”
Bruno looks over, confused.
Fugo doesn’t meet their eyes. “It’s gone yellow,” she adds.
Bruno continues driving.
“What do you mean, what now?” they ask. “We go home. We get dinner.” They grimace. “You take a shower, first, though.”
Fugo scowls at the dashboard. Bruno decides to give her some time to process.
“...I don’t get it,” she does, very quickly.
Bruno bites their cheek. “What don’t you get?”
“Stop using that tone,” Fugo snaps. “You sound like a fucking therapist.”
Bruno says nothing.
Fugo sucks in another deep breath. “I fucked up in there.”
“You didn’t — well.” Bruno winces. “You did. But I caught you in time, so — “
“I fucked up,” Fugo cuts her off. “I — panicked, and went off on my own, and you had to improvise a whole other plan, and my literal job is to plan ahead so you don’t need to do that — “
“That’s not true,” Bruno says. “The whole point of a team is that we make a collaborative effort.”
Fugo’s lips are a thin line.
“This wasn’t a collaborative effort,” she croaks. “This was me, being stupid, and you, needing to fix everything.”
Bruno shrugs. “Things happen.”
Fugo curls into herself, and slumps back.
“This was your second mission,” they add. “This wasn’t supposed to happen. You couldn’t have been ready — “
“I made it happen,” Fugo snarls. “If I’d followed my own plan — you need to turn left here, oh my god, signs — “
Bruno sloppily corrects themselves — the car hits a bump on the road, but they both ignore it.
“What’s the point of having me strategize,” Fugo goes on. “If I’m going to be the one to fuck it up? It’s just — “ she sighs. Slumps back in her seat. “Fuck.”
Bruno gives her a cautious side-eye. Looks back to the road.
“Our field is unpredictable,” is what they say, because that’s what they got told when they first joined. “You get used to it.”
Fugo doesn’t seem pacified with that answer.
“I just don’t get,” Fugo says. “Why you’re acting like this isn’t a big deal.”
Bruno got the feeling it might be like that. “I know — this, what you saw tonight — is a lot, and if you want to talk about it, we can, but I’m just — “numb, to it, by now — “I’m, just, used to it, I suppose.”
Fugo looks up at them, with an eyebrow arched. Rolls her eyes.
“Yeah, uh, blood, okay.” She laughs, humourless. “I’m talking about the fact I proved myself literally useless, tonight, and you’re still being so — “ she flails. “Nice? To me.” She exhales. “I don’t get it.”
They’re in front of their apartment, now. Bruno pulls up, stops the car, but makes no move to get out.
“Fugo,” they say. “I’m — “
“I get you being nice to me so I’d join,” she starts, again,in a tone that’s bordering with hysterical. “I get you being nice to me while we worked, so I’d like, trust you, and do well by you, and everything — “ she draws a shaky breath, and Bruno realizes, like a punch to their gut, that there are tears in her eyes. “But now I proved to you that I’m, I’m not that good, or competent, or whatever, and you’re still just — “ She wipes at her face, angry and uncoordinated. “And it’s not like I can leave, or betray you without you getting me first, so I don’t — “ she pulls her knees to her chest, and sniffs. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”
Bruno stares. Watches Fugo continue to hold tears back, badly, curled up in the passenger’s seat. Wants to reach out, but know it’d probably be a bad idea — satisfies with turning around so they’re facing her, and tries to look non threatening.
“Fugo.” Their mind is racing through everything they know about her — the things Fugo told her, the things they overheard. Doesn’t — isn’t sure where to start. Isn’t sure where to take, this conversation. “I don’t — you don’t have to — “
They turn back around, inhale. “You are not in trouble.” They shut the car off. “I have no reason to be angry at you. Let’s go.”
They’re quiet on the climb up to the apartment. Fugo hesitates, just for a second, before going for the bathroom — Bruno finds the leftover food to reheat, bites through three of their nails in the process.
“I got worried,” they say, the moment Fugo is back from the bathroom, clean and with hair still damp. “That you’d get hurt. But you didn’t — “ They push a plate into her hands, and move for the table. They hope she’ll follow. “I can’t say you did nothing wrong — you need to, need to be more careful with your Stand, you can’t just — “
“I knew you could get out in time,” Fugo says. She sounds like she doesn’t expect them to believe her. “I knew — I would never do it, never, if I thought it’d get you, I — “
“This isn’t about me.”
She doesn’t seem to be listening. “— I saw you get out of worse situations, I knew you would do be okay — “
Bruno drops their plate on the table, turns around. “But you wouldn’t!”
Fugo blinks.
Bruno exhales. Sits down.
“I,” Fugo pauses. Looks away. “I know that — okay. I didn’t think, I get that — “
Bruno continues biting through their nails.
“But casualties — they can happen — I didn’t endanger you, right, I — “
“You don’t have to worry about me,” Bruno says. “I’ll take care of myself. You — “
“Why do you worry about me, then?” Fugo snaps. The plate in her hands looks like it might crack, or fly off, or something — Bruno takes it from her hands, sets it down too. “You — thanks — you act like I’m, I don’t know, invaluable, like I’m not just a — “
“Fugo, “
“— random kid you took off the street, jesus, I’m not special, there’s a shitton of,” she makes a show of air-quotation marks. “—geniuses, out there, you could get to work for you just in exchange for, I don’t know, the same amount of money, they don’t give a shit, I’m not even easy to work with, I’m literally the worst person to work with, even now you’re walking on eggshells — “
Bruno stops fiddling with the plates. Winces.
“— and then I have the audacity to suck at my job too and you’re still,” she throws her hands up. “What are you hoping to get here? What are you — why?”
Bruno can’t look at her. “Why what?”
“Why don’t you kick me out?” Fugo laughs, the same hysteric, bitter sound. Bruno flinches. “Why aren’t you — I don’t know, angry? Visibly angry? Why are you making me dinner? Why are you so — “ She seems at a loss for words. Stares ahead, breathing heavy. “Nice? Why are you nice?”
Bruno doesn’t know how to respond.
“You can’t just — this seems too good to be true,” Fugo goes on, in almost a whisper now. “And if something is too good to be true, it’s usually not true, I know there’s a catch and I’m just, telling you, I suppose, I’m not going to leave, I have nowhere to leave, you can quit acting, just — “
“I’m not,” Bruno says. Is shocked at how shaky their voice sounds. “I’m not — acting, or hoping to get anything from you, I’m just, “ The fact that Fugo thinks this set-up — the set-up of having to live in their shitty apartment and get covered in blood at no-warning, that this is too good to be true, is making Bruno’s head hurt. “I don’t expect you to believe me. I know I can’t prove anything — I know you have reasons to mistrust me — I —” They shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
They pick their fork up, even though they know they won’t be able to stomach anything right now. Stare into the plate.
“Maybe the catch is the part where you realize this is actually pretty terrible,” they add.
Fugo snorts. “Oh, I know it’s terrible, don’t worry.”
Bruno looks up.
“It’s just.” She shrugs. “A pretty decent brand, of terrible.”
Bruno feels a small laugh escape them. Fugo gives a grimace of a grin in response.
“That looks disgusting,” she adds, gesturing to food.
Bruno laughs again. "Thanks!"
Their meal goes by in silence. It is not a wholly uncomfortable one.
__
“Oh my god.”
Bruno, who just got pulled over for failing to signal a turn, just laughs at Fugo’s show of frustration; is, honestly, a little proud of themselves for knowing why they’re getting pulled over. Usually they just hope no one asks them.
Fugo is still groaning theatrically. “I told to let me drive.”
“Hey,” Bruno watches the police car pull over too, someone get out. “Would you really want to be the one in the driver’s seat, in this situation?”
“We would not be in this situation, if I was in the driver’s seat.” Fugo scoffs. “Oh, good. It’s a corrupt one.”
Bruno realizes she’s talking about the cop. Elbows her. “I thought all cops are corrupt.”
“Yes, the famous saying,” Fugo snaps. “ACAC.”
Bruno snorts. Then the police officer is knocking at their window, and they roll it down.
They’ve seen this one, around town, a few times before. She’s noticeable, because she paints her lips black, and not because Bruno is gay. As attractive she might be, she’s still a police officer. And Bruno has standards.
“Hello,” they say, all faux-chipper. “Is there a problem?”
“Uh,” Abbacchio says. “Yes?”
Bruno just blinks, and continues smiling blankly.
Fugo elbows her way into the conversation.
“Are you rising the prices on us?” she asks. Abbacchio seems taken aback by the tone.
“Uh,” she answers.
“We’re paying you,” Fugo continues. “Remember? Passione?”
Abbacchio is still staring.
“Are you taking bribes from so many people you can no longer remember the list — “
“Okay,” Abbacchio steps back. “You — you can go.”
“You can go to hell,” Fugo supplies.
Abbacchio makes a face. “Hey — “
“Thank you!” Bruno is rolling the window back up. Pushes Fugo back into her seat, holds back a laugh. “Wow.”
“Don’t wow me,” Fugo says. “Stop at the next crossroads, I’m driving.”
“No — “
“No? Yes.” Fugo scoffs. “Also, wow, nice job checking out the person writing us up for a ticket, what are you?”
Bruno splutters. “I wasn’t — “
“It’s not some cops are bastards — “
“We’re at a crossroads,” bruno announces, even though they’re not. Stops the car. “Let’s go. You can drive.”
“Thanks,” Fugo spits. Catches their eye. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
Bruno’s mind is reeling. “Are you — what are you — “
“You know what I’m implying,” Fugo is already getting out of the car. “Don’t make me say it. I will say it.”
“You will not — there’s nothing to say — what kind of a person do you think I am??”
“A stupid one!”
“Okay — “
They finally finish switching seats. Bruno’s face still feels hot.
“Oh my god,” Fugo is saying. “Get some taste, oh my god,”
“I’m sorry,” Bruno is saying.
“God!”
Bruno laughs into the dashboard. “I really won’t.”
“Yeah, you won’t,” Fugo says. “I’d drive her over with this car first.”
“This car?”
“Yeah.”
“This specific one?”
“Yeah, why?” Fugo makes a show of signaling a turn. Bruno rolls their eyes. “Do you plan on crashing it any time soon?”
“I might sell it for parts so I can send you into politics.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Since you have so much to say.”
“Blow me, Buccellati.”
They’re still giggling when they hand their report over to Polpo — he says nothing, but does raise his eyebrows.
“I see your team is doing well,” he says.
“Yes!” Bruno confirms. “Thank you for trusting me with the recruiting.”
“Thank you for not betraying my trust,” he says. “Do you need more people?”
They do. But they do not like most people Passione has. “Uh — I will get back to you. If there is a need.”
Polpo continues peeling their banana, and says nothing. Bruno remembers they’re out of fruit.
“Am I free to leave?” they ask.
Polpo watches them. “Are you in a hurry?”
They kind of are. “Well. Supermarkets close in an hour.”
Polpo laughs, the way he always does, in a way they know he wants to be intimidating.
“You are funny,” he says.
Bruno says nothing.
“As long as you’re serious about work,” he shrugs. “But. You will take another recruit.”
Bruno pauses at that. Has a fleeting, please, no one from the Executioner’s thought before nodding.
“When can I meet them?” they ask.
Polpo smirks. “He says you already did.”
Bruno’s stomach sinks. Might be one of Executioners. They hope it’s Risotto. Though they don’t believe Risotto would lose his entire team, that easily. And then get sent to work with Bruno.
“He just passed the exam,” Polpo continues (Bruno breathes a sigh of relief — a newbie, then. Not ideal, but also, not Proscuttio). “He seems to fit your theme.”
Bruno pauses at that. “I have a theme?”
“Yes,” Polpo snorts. Smacks his lips. “Teenagers.”
Bruno stares.
“A small kid, big voice,” Polpo goes on. “You made us pay his hospital bill a while ago?”
Standing there, in front of Polpo’s cell, Bruno imagines themselves unzipping a really deep hole in the ground, crawling in until no one can see them, and screaming.
__
“Fugo.” Bruno slams their hands down on the table before her — immediately winces. “Sorry.“
Fugo continues stirring her coffee. “It’s okay.”
“Okay — Fugo.”
She looks up, purposefully slow and disinterested; she knows what this will be about.
Bruno’s not-mad-just-disappointed look still catches her unprepared. Swearing under her breath, she looks away. A clear admission of guilt.
“Fugo,” Bruno repeats. “Did you tell Narancia how to join Passione?”
Fugo takes a long drink.
Bruno seems at the verge of hyperventilating. “Fugo — “
“Does it matter?” Fugo snaps. “He’s in now. Might as well join your team.”
She can feel Bruno’s eyes on her, staring through her head. She takes another long drink. Can’t taste shit.
She startles as Bruno collapses into a chair, face hidden in their hands.
“What,” she says, because.
Bruno says nothing. Doesn’t lift their head.
With a rising tightness in her chest that she’s not ready to entertain, Fugo leans in. Puts the mug down, because her hands are shaking. “Bruno.”
They shake their head.
“Oh, fuck off with that.” She kicks back in her seat. Crosses her arms. “What’s the big deal? He’s — “
“He’s a kid!” Bruno yells, still into their arms. They’re fully slumped onto the table now. “He should be in school. He — “
“Well,” Fugo grits out. “He isn’t, so.”
Bruno says nothing.
Fugo tugs at her tie, annoyed. “Plus, he’s older than me — way older than I was when you recruited me, it’s not like this is new — “
Bruno sits up then, and Fugo immediately loses her train of thought, because they look like they’re about to cry.
“I know,” they croak. “I should have never recruited you.”
Fugo stares. They hide their face again, shoulders tense.
“I”m sorry,” they sniff. “I’m fine.”
Fugo can’t look away. “You’re not.”
They shake their head. “Nothing you should worry about.”
Fugo realizes she started to nervously tap on the table. She stops.
“Don’t,” she starts. Pauses. “Stop that.”
Bruno is biting their nails. Looks up.
“If you hadn’t offered me this job, I’d probably have gotten killed by now.” Fugo needs to look away, because this whole scene is too vulnerable. “And Narancia really wanted to join, and — he’d have found a way, whatever we did, and he — “
Bruno reaches out. “Fugo, you don’t need to comfort me — “
“I’m not,” Fugo pulls her hand away. Crosses them again. “I’m just telling you facts.”
Bruno gives her a shaky smile.
“I’m happy to be here,” she says. “Meeting you might be the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Bruno’s eyes widen. Fugo can’t look.
“So you need to — get yourself together.” She scoffs. “You’re acting like you ruined our lives, or something.”
Bruno hesitates. “I’m not sure I didn’t.” They sigh, rub at their face again. “Not sure I won’t.”
Fugo gets an idea. She looks to them, arches an eyebrow.
“Well,” she says, in her best impression of their voice. “Let’s see if that will happen.”
Bruno looks confused, for a really long second — then the realization dawns on them, visible in the raise of their eyebrows, the way their mouth falls open.
“ — you.” They laugh. Fall into themselves. “My own words, against me.”
Smug, Frugo shrugs. Continues drinking her coffee.
She can taste it, this time. It’s bitter. But it’s better than nothing.
__
“So,” Fugo says, over her morning tea. She’s finally gotten to the point where she’s willing to ask for specific food stuffs. Bruno is genuinely proud. “Remember when you said you’d never — “
“Shut it,” Bruno warns. Continues styling their bangs. “I know what I said. I am living by it.”
“Are you now,” Fugo keeps watching them. “Wow. That’s a lot of hair product, boss.”
She only calls them ‘boss’ when she wants to be annoying. Bruno sighs.
“Leone is no longer a cop.”
“Leone, huh.”
They feel their face flush. “She is a member of the team now.”
“Sure is,” Fugo takes a sip. “And why is that, again?”
Bruno presses their lips together.
Fugo arches an eyebrow. Clears her throat, and does another imitation of Bruno’s voice. “Oh, hello, miss former class traitor, I see you got fired,”
“Shut up.”
“And are also wearing a lot less clothes now, which is in no way affecting my thinking process — “
Bruno scoops some hair gel out, and swipes it across Fugo’s forehead. Fugo shrieks, and backs away.
“Fucker!”
“Yeah,” Bruno says. Laughs. “And quiet down, seriously, Leone will hear — “
“Leone will hear what?”
The doors to their right open, and Leone Abbacchio peers in. She’s just joined, a few days ago, and is yet to fully relax; seeing her in the mornings, though, with her face bare and guard slipping, keeps Bruno hopeful.
“Nothing,” Bruno says; Fugo is already escaping the hallway. “Good morning.”
Leone arches an eyebrow; cracks a smile. “‘Morning.” Her hair is reaching past her collarbones now. It looks soft and silvery.
“Slept well?”
“Yes,” Leone says. Leans against the door frame. “You?”
“I did.” It’s not even a lie. Having another adult around has really helped the household matters run more smoothly; they get to go to bed at eleven, now, even earlier sometimes. Leone is very good at making Narancia turn the tv off. “I made coffee.”
“I saw,” Leone smiles; Bruno felt their chest flutter. “Uh. I had a question — “
“Hey!” The doors to their left slam open, then; Bruno startles. Thinks they have too many doors, in this house. Too few locked. “I have a question!”
Bruno turns around, looks at the intruder; Narancia beams at them, and all frustration melts away.
“Shoot,” they say.
“Okay,” Narancia puffs his face up. Exhales. “So. Gender?”
Bruno frowns
“Oh my god,” Fugo’s voice, from the other room. “I was just explaining — “
“Uh, yeah, she was doing something,” Narancia rolls his eyes. “But, like, she doesn’t speak normal people — “
“Excuse me?”
“— and you do, Buccellati, so — “
Fugo is at the doorway. “I just said gender was performative.”
Bruno is nodding along.
“Yeah, and then you said that matrix thing, and I stopped listening.”
Fugo rubs at her face. “Heteropatriarchal matrix?”
“Bless you!”
Fugo leaves.
“So,” Narancia turns back to Bruno. “Gender?”
Bruno is watching. “Uh?”
Narancia is bouncing at his feet. “What’s that about?”
Bruno looks to Leone; she shrugs, communicating, apparently, that she is helpless here. “I — don’t know?”
Narancia pouts.
“I’m sorry?” They squat down, so they’re more eye-to-eye. Fugo used to yell at them for doing that, but Narancia doesn’t seem to mind. “Why are you asking?”
“I don’t know,” Narancia says. “I just. You seemed to have it figured out.”
“Ah.” The only thing Bruno has figured out, really, is their father’s squid pasta recipe.
“And I don’t,” Narancia scratches his head. “Like.”
“What,” Leone speaks up. Stutters, visibly awkward. “What do you — need, figured out?”
Narancia squints at her. “Why are you asking.”
Bruno opens their mouth to interfere — Leone beats her to it.
“Just,” she says. “I don’t know. We can figure it out together, if you want.”
Narancia studies her for a second longer. Then grins.
“I like you,” he announces.
Leone’s eyebrows go up.
Narancia looks back to Bruno. “I don’t know what my gender is.”
“Ah,” Bruno says. “Well. Neither do I.”
Narancia’s eyes widen comically.
“But,” he stutters. “You are — you look — “
Bruno smiles.
“You look okay with yourself!”
“I am okay with myself,” Bruno says.
“But — “ Narancia falters. “Gender?”
Bruno doesn’t want to laugh. But it is kind of funny. “Gender.”
Narancia has his face in his hands. “Gender.”
“Do you think,” Bruno lays a hand on their shoulder. “Do you think gender is necessary?”
Narancia peers through his fingers. “Um.”
Bruno waits.
“Can it...not be?” he asks.
Bruno shrugs. “I don’t think it is, at all.”
Narancia gawks.
“I mean,” Bruno says. “I’m not really bothered by it. You know.”
“I,” Narancia seems to be processing. Bruno can almost imagine pieces coming together, behind their eyes. “I — now I do.”
Bruno laughs.
Narancia startles. Stares up at them, again, with renewed awe.
“I don’t need gender?” he asks, like a kid confirming the ice cream they got as a gift is indeed free. Bruno nods. “Wow. I don’t need gender!”
“No one needs gender,” Leone says.
“No one needs gender!” Narancia yells. Fugo can be heard, unenthusiastically cheering, a room away. “Okay!”
“Okay?”
“Okay!”
He gives Bruno a hug, then, and Bruno freezes for a moment before hugging him back. Leone takes longer to react, once Narancia turns to her; Bruno watches her awkwardly pat Narancia’s back as he hangs off her midriff, and holds back a snort.
If their heart keeps skipping beats, well. That’s for them to know.
__
“Do you,” Abbacchio hesitates by the doorway. Bruno looks over their shoulder, hums. “Do you…..ever, like, take breaks?”
Bruno looks back to the stew their making. Because they are careful, of course. It has nothing to do with the fact that Leone’s hair is still damp from the shower, and framing her face nicely, or with the fact that her shirt is almost wholly see-through. Or with the fact that they are about the lie.
They go back to stirring the vegetables. “Sometimes.”
There’s a beat of silence. Leone walks over.
“You know,” Leone says, in a low and a teasing voice, just a small distance away from their ear. Bruno tries to hold back a shiver. “You’re not the only one who can tell when people are lying.”
Bruno glances over. Leone’s face is close enough they can see the mascara smudges under her eyes.
“Huh,” they say, because, you should still check is threatening to slip up. “Well.”
Leone breathes a laugh.
“I get to, sometimes.” Bruno decides to let their stew rest. At least someone should. “The rest of you do it all the time.”
“Do we?” Leone pouts. “I mean. I bet the kids do. But I don’t.”
Bruno arches an eyebrow.
Leone raises hers indignantly. “I am so honest.”
“You told Narancia Fugo drank his soda.”
Leone ducks her head. She blushes very easily, Bruno is learning.
“I saw you drinking it,” Bruno ads. Grins. “But I won’t tell.”
“You know,” Fugo’s deadpan cuts through the moment, and they both jump back. “Freud believed that witnessing their parents be intimate can cause a child to develop severe symptoms later in life.”
“We are not being intimate,” Leone says, the same time as Bruno asks, “Are we your parents?”
They share a look. Bruno starts laughing.
Fugo is rolling her eyes. “Sure, and Freud was also otherwise full on shit, but nonetheless you are gross, can you stop doing this in the kitchen literally every morning, I just want my fucking Pop Tarts,”
They part, let her squeeze through; she continues talking while getting her food, but it’s barely properly enunciated and Bruno stops trying to make sense of it. They stare at Leone, instead; it’s been their favourite past time, ever since they clumsily confessed their feelings two weeks ago and had Leone, equally clumsily, confess they were mutual.
They get lost admiring the trail of hickeys disappearing down her neckline. Fugo elbows them, though, on her way out, and they snap out of it.
“Honestly,” she’s saying. “This is borderline psychological warfare. The only reason I’m not Purple Hazing this entire household is because it’s your birthday.”
“I appreciate that,” they respond, happy to see Fugo is having an easier time cracking jokes about their Stand. She seemed afraid of it, back when she first got it. Bruno is no therapist, but can imagine being afraid of the manifestation of your soul is not a good thing. They’re happy to see her less afraid.
Then they look back to Leone, who’s staring at them with mouth slightly agape, and they realize they never told her it was their birthday.
“Hey,” they smile. Try to deflect.
It doesn’t work. “It’s your birthday?”
Fugo’s eyes flit between them, and then she cradles a box of Frosted S’mores to her chest and flees the kitchen. Bruno awkwardly giggles.
“Sorry for not telling you,” they say.
“It’s okay — “
“You know, that I’m a libra.”
“— it’s just — oh.” Leone cracks up. Bruno beams. “Stop. You can’t joke your way out of this”
Bruno decides to switch their approach. Presses in closer to Leone, bops her nose with theirs.
“I thought you said it was okay.”
“It is,” Leone assures them. Her eyes seem to have trouble looking anywhere but their lips. “It’s just — ugh." She squeezes them, lightly. "You’re distracting me.”
Bruno presses themselves flush to her chest, brings their foreheads together. Hums.
Leone’s hands go around their waist, and they consider it a battle won. “Bruno.”
“That’s my name,” they whisper. Look up to her, smile. “You look very pretty.”
She kisses them, the way she always does; with that tentative, slow caution that melts into a kind of comfortable desire. No desperation, no hurry, just the solid warmth of another body next to theirs and the knowledge there will always be more time to make for each other. The kind of a kiss that does not need to last forever, because it is confident it will not be the last.
Bruno thinks, a little hazy and more than a little giddy, that they might be in love.
“Seriously,” Leone repeats, as they part for breath. “Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?”
Bruno sighs. Pouts.
Leone presses another kiss to their lips. “Stop that.”
Bruno grins. “But it’s working.”
“Ugh,” Leone kisses them again, on the corner of their mouth. “You are using your powers for evil.”
Bruno laughs, cups her face.
“Sorry,” they say. “I really am.”
Leone looks back at them, and shrugs.
“I just,” Bruno sighs. “I don’t like — birthdays?”
Leone arches an eyebrow.
“First time hearing that,” she says. “Fugo’s birthday isn’t in weeks and you’re already planning out her gift, I don’t — “
“Yeah, yeah,”
“And Narancia tells me you let him have two?”
“We weren’t sure which one — okay.” They shake their bangs out of their eyes. “I — don’t.”
Leone is watching them.
“I don’t want special treatment?” Bruno says.
“Okay,” Leone is frowning. “But consider this.”
“Uh—huh.”
“You are,” she says. “Worth — the special treatment?”
Bruno feels themselves flush.
“Okay,” they challenge it. “But consider this.”
“M-hm?”
They groan, and plop their face into her chest.
“I don’t know,” Bruno says. “I — I don’t want, just because it’s my birthday, I don’t want you to feel, you know, pressured, to do things to me — “
“Pressured? Bruno — “
“I know I might be a hypocrite, but I love doing things for you — I don’t want you to feel obliged to do the same, you know, I don’t even — “ They suck in a breath. “I never liked being treated differently on my birthday. Can — hey — you know what could be my gift?”
Leone is smiling.
“Just,” they smile back. “Not getting called out on my hypocrisy?”
“No,” Leone says, decisive. She still grins. “You said you didn’t want special treatment.”
She kisses them when they groan again, and Bruno thinks, yes, they probably are in love.
__
Bruno wakes up, two weeks later, to the house suspiciously quiet. They sit up, already panicked, and reach for their bedside clock.
It’s ten. It’s ten, in the morning.
They never sleep this late.
Their shutters are all drawn, which is also odd — they keep them open, at all times, so they can wake up with the sun. They even got Leone a little night mask, when she moved into their bed, because she hated it. Hated it, but respected it — there’s no way either of them would have drawn the shutters.
And someone shut their alarm off. It’s all disturbingly suspicious; already on edge, they creep out of bed.
They’re midway through unzipping the door when it swings open; Leone is at the other side. She stares them down. She seems disappointed, but not surprised.
They gawk right back. There’s a platter in her hands. There’s food on it.
She sighs. “Go back to bed.”
Bruno does not move. “What — “
“Bed.” She pokes the front of her platter into their chest; they take a step back. “Don’t make me carry you.”
Bruno is still processing. “You could.”
“I could,” she confirms. “But then I’d have to put this platter down and I don’t trust our terrible children not to steal your breakfast the moment it’s out of my hands — “
Bruno doesn’t know which part of that sentence to address. “My breakfast?”
“Yes,” Leone confirms. “Now get back to bed.”
Bruno doesn’t. “Why?”
“So you can have breakfast in bed.”
“I — why?”
Leone sighs. “Because I asked you to?”
That’s reason enough. Bruno goes back to bed.
Leone sets the food down, and they admire the array of slightly burned toast, lovingly sliced fruit, and the waffle decorated to look like a smiling face. There’s some cheese, too, made to look like a zipper. They are genuinely moved.
“So,” they start, as Leone sits down next to them, and cuddles up. “Couldn’t help but notice you calling Fugo and Narancia our kids?”
Leone shoots them a look, and then rests her head on their shoulder. “Maybe so.” She steals one strawberry.
Bruno’s heart is so full they think they might just burst open. “That’s nice.”
Leone shrugs. Swallows.
“Didn’t take you as a maternal type.”
“It’s a front,” leone deadpans. “I sound sarcastic because I don’t know how to shut it off, but it really is. I always wanted kids.”
Bruno pauses, with their hand half-way to the toast.
“I kind of assumed I would never have any, because I didn’t want to marry a man,” Leone continues. Her voice has lost its snark, gone a little softer. “And then, you know, raising any with a woman did not seem like a possibility, so I just filed that away, as, as, unrealistic.”
Bruno wraps an arm around her, and pulls her close.
She clings onto them. “So, I — I know they’re not, technically, our children, but — “ she shrugs. “I love them. And I love you.”
Bruno’s heart is beating fast. This is the first time she said it with words.
“And it’s closer than I ever thought I'd get, to, to actually having a family.” Leone finishes. She sounds a little stuffy-nosed. “So — yeah. Sorry if this is weird.”
“It’s not,” Bruno says. They mean it.
“I mean, it is, but — “
“It’s not,” They insist. Pull back, so they can make eye contact (Leone’s eyes are teary). “I love you too.”
Leone blinks, flushes.
Bruno cups her cheek. “And you are my family.”
Leone is biting down on her lip.
“All of you are,” Bruno promises. “And — and, honestly, if you asked Narancia, he’d call you his mom.”
Leone ducks her head, laughs.
“Fugo wouldn’t, but that’s just her front.” Bruno lets Leone nuzzle back into their chest. “She still refuses to call me an adult.”
“Because you can’t drive?”
The list has since expanded to include their inability to pay taxes, operate a microwave, and start a computer. “Shush.”
Leone does shush. She also grabs another strawberry, from the platter, and prods it against Bruno’s lips until they let her feed them. She does it again, with the toast, but eats most of their waffle herself. They spent the rest of the morning in bed.
“Hey,” Bruno thinks to ask, once it’s already pushing noon. “What is happening?”
Leone looks up at them, hazy eyed. They continue playing with her hair.
“Oh,” she says. “Your special day.”
Bruno’s hand stills. “My — “
“Mhm,” Leone says. “Got Fugo to clear your schedule, and got Narancia to take her out for lunch, and now you have no business to attend to, and will have to relax, I guess.”
Bruno stares. “What — “
Leone cracks an eye open, and grins.
It’s frustrating, what that face does to Bruno. “Why?”
Leone shrugs. “You said you didn’t want any special treatment on your birthday.”
Bruno nods. “Yeah!”
“Well,” Leone closes her eyes again. Is still grinning. “It’s not your birthday.”
Bruno finds themselves, truly, with nothing to say.