Work Text:
In the dark, Bucciarati's heart beats. He can hear the roar of blood in his ears, so why does he still feel dead? He lays sleepless, staring at the ceiling, thinking nothing at all until the sky turns light gray as dawn breaks. Maybe he had slept, then, because it feels like no time at all has passed. The same feeling washes over him when he thinks back to April. It feels like just yesterday despite the fact that it's well into the colder months by now. There's an ache deep within him, a yawning void of dread and guilt and anguish that is ever present and inescapable. The remedy is so easily attainable, if he just had the strength to reach out and take it. It's right there, in Abbacchio laying sound asleep by his side, in the warmth of his body. Bucciarati trembles at his side, inches away, begging himself to close that gap and wrap his arms around the sleeping man and then this unbearable hurt would dissipate. But Bucciarati is, above all things, a stubborn man. It's good in some cases, extremely beneficial when it fuels his desire to stay alive and keep fighting for good, but it's also detrimental in the fact that he cannot admit weakness even if the weakness is not really that at all.
Abbacchio is not his boyfriend. They just lay in the same bed because they're afraid ( Bucciarati isn't afraid, he insists to himself, he just prefers to keep a close eye on his subordinates). They just have sex when Bucciarati is lonely and desperate to prove that he is alive (Does it not require life to feel that?), or when Abbacchio can't distract himself from thinking about getting drunk (a vice for a vice). Abbacchio would never want to be his boyfriend, because Bucciarati is too trauma filled, too cruel, too weird, too emotional to be what Abbacchio needs. He can only pretend for so long.
He has never asked if Abbacchio wants to be his boyfriend. Abbacchio has never asked him. So the gap remains, the ache remains. In his sleep, Abbacchio stirs and the newly shed beams of sunlight fall across his face in a way that makes him look nothing short of angelic. Even asleep Abbacchio is majestic, his expression calm and regal. Bucciarati can't help but think his parents named him well.
"My little lion," he whispers into the silent room, "my brave, beautiful lion."
Abbacchio stays asleep. Bucciarati spends the better part of the next half hour just watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing, just to make sure that he is, in fact, still breathing. The icy fear that grips his heart subsides a bit as he watches. Then, it's time to get up. He never sets an alarm, he always wakes up before them. Carefully, so as not to disturb Abbacchio, he slips out of bed and pads on silent feet to the closet to get dressed for the day. It's cold out, but he opts for a white shirt that's on the thin side. It goes good with his corset, a garment he had tailored specifically for himself that's become a comfort item of his lately, the gentle pressure around his midsection helps keep him grounded. If he gets too cold, he can wear a coat. Past that, he goes through his morning routine robotically. He's in charge, if anyone has something negative to say then they're smart enough to keep their mouths shut. He's the Don, no way was he going to let a child take on that burden. He listens to Giorno's input, but for all intents and purposes the organization is under his control. Desperately, he wants to leave, but leaving would mean he couldn't act as a shield between the worst parts of the underworld and Giorno anymore, so he stays. What's a little more trauma in the end? He can handle taking the bullets.
The drive to their pseudo-office is quiet and uneventful. He stops to pick up coffee on the way, and sips it gingerly until it cools off enough for him to drain the whole cup in one go. He parks in back of the sprawling estate the gang has claimed and rushes inside. He takes the stairs up to his office and gets to work. It's boring work, more similar to a desk job than anything else. A desk job with the added spice of getting threatened on a daily basis and occasional bloody field work. He sits in meetings with member after member, complaining about this and that until Bucciarati tells them it is how it is, good day sir, and they leave in huff. He labors over budgeting, trying to find an alternative source of revenue as he moves forward with his plans to eliminate the drug trade, staring at numbers until they start to swim on the page and he can't even do basic addition anymore. Fugo helps with that part, talking through the complexities with him until he understands. Bucciarati isn't a stupid man, he just never truly applied himself in school, never saw a reason to keep going when he had his path through life locked in, so he struggles. It's embarrassing despite how much his friends reassure him.
For the most part, he does it alone.
This kind of work is inherently lonely. He sees so many different people, but all of them want something from him. He has no downtime to sit with his friends and chat, to simply socialize, and he misses that. The corset he's wearing hugs him snugly, and he imagines for a moment that it's Abbacchio's warm, strong arms around him, holding him close, whispering everything's alright, you're doing brilliant. Depraved, that's what he is, imagining someone's arms around him when that someone probably hates him.
Around nine in the morning, he watches a car pull up to the back lot. Fugo gets out, scans back and forth to check for anyone following him, and dashes inside. Bucciarati stands and opens the door for Fugo once he gets up the stairs.
In the doorway to Bucciarati's office, Fugo pauses. Bucciarati clears his throat awkwardly. "Can I help you with anything in particular, Fugo?"
"Are you alright?"
"I am well, how are you?" Bucciarati answers, knowing full well that's not what Fugo was asking.
"Bucciarati, please, talk to us."
Memories of Fugo, please talk to me from the first time Fugo had a panic attack come rushing back. Bucciarati finds something about the reversed roles incredibly funny. He had sat on the floor, a foot away from the trembling boy, whispering assurances until the adrenaline had worn off and Fugo trudged back to bed. Now Bucciarati sits weary in his office as Fugo prepares to lecture him about taking care of himself.
Fugo starts, "Did you think we wouldn't notice? Your nails are so bitten they're bleeding."
Ah. He's right. Bucciarati has a habit of absently chewing on his nails when he's particularly stressed, a habit he thought he'd kicked years ago that's returned in full force as of late. He'll have to go back to painting his nails to make sure he doesn't bite them down to the quick. Maybe Abbacchio will let him borrow his matte purple color, Bucciarati has always loved how it looked. To be fair, he hadn't expected anyone to notice. He hadn't known it was that bad.
"We're all worried about you," Fugo continues. "We barely see you outside of work. We miss you, Bucciarati, we just want to make sure you're okay. You've been so isolated since..." he trails off, unwilling to finish his sentence.
"Since what, Fugo?" Bucciarati snaps. Nobody will say it.
"Since you came back."
It's a cop out answer, they both know that. Bucciarati huffs once before silence falls over the room, thick and heavy like a wool blanket. Fugo shifts nervously from foot to foot and he casts his gaze guiltily to the ground. Bucciarati speaks first.
"I have a meeting at ten-fifteen. I think I'll go down to the track for a little while."
"Okay," Fugo says, resigned, before trudging off to his own office.
The track is in the athletic wing of the building, and it smells like new turf and rubber. Each lap is half a mile long, and Bucciarati likes to run it until he can barely feel his legs anymore. He has about an hour and five minutes to pound this restless energy out of his system if he wants to have a couple minutes to settle himself back in his office. Okay, that's fine. That's plenty of time. There's a locker room off to the side of the track with three lockers total and a shower, and Bucciarati is thankful that he hastily shoved his exercise gear in one of those lockers a few days ago. He changes quickly, messes around with the speakers throughout the track and blasts the loudest, angriest music he can think of, then hits the track with a fury. The rhythm of his pounding feet blends into the thundering bass of the music. The music sets a faster pace than Bucciarati typically runs at, but the burn in his legs feels euphoric, it feels like living. He runs until he loses himself in the rhythm of his footsteps and the music, until his thoughts dissolve like an uncoated pill, until there is nothing but the here and now, the burn of his lungs and his legs. By the time an hour and five minutes runs out, his legs feel like jelly. All of his anger, self doubt, and self hatred has been sweat out, leaving him hollow and exhausted. He changes back into his day clothes and drags himself back up to his office to prepare for his meeting.
It's boring as hell, the man spends the entirety of the meeting trying to convince him that Passione's image is suffering and they need to rekindle the dwindling fear that the general public has of them ( You've got to keep them scared, he insists, otherwise all your footholds are going to crumble). He has an argument, but so does Bucciarati. Passione's image is fine, their reputation isn't declining in any tangible way yet, so why kick up the violence? Why waste their efforts? Why cause more harm? Bucciarati dismisses the man and never learns his name. He promptly dissociates through the rest of the day. Bucciarati's heart aches so terribly, he was never meant for this line of work. It's a miracle he's survived this long, made friends with enough people to end up with the position he has now. He wonders for a moment what he would be like without Passione's influence in his life, and he finds he can't imagine himself in any other way than he is now. He continues working.
By the time Bucciarati gets home, the ache in his heart is impossible to ignore. The sun has long since set, but when Bucciarati arrives home, Abbacchio is just finishing up with dinner. At least he ate. That's more than Bucciarati did, he can't remember if he had eaten lunch today. His stomach growls. Abbacchio smiles at him.
"Hi, Bruno. Are you hungry?" he asks, holding up a slice of his pizza as an offering.
Staring at Abbacchio's beautiful face, the question slips from Bucciarati's lips before he can stop it, "Can I kiss you?"
"Of course, whenever you want."
Finally, Bucciarati closes the gap between them. He presses his chest to Abbacchio's, raises trembling hands to cup Abbacchio's jaw and bring him impossibly closer once their lips meet. It never feels like enough. Their souls could be one and there would still be too much space between their bodies. Abbacchio pulls away first.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Bucciarati answers quickly, swallowing hard. "I'm fine."
"You're trembling."
"It's fine. I'm just hungry, my blood sugar might be low."
Abbacchio looks unconvinced, but he drops the subject anyway. "You should drink some soda, then. Or eat something sugary."
Bucciarati concedes, taking a seat across from Abbacchio. The older gets him a soda and hands him the extra slice of pizza. He finishes the pizza in about thirty seconds (he hadn't known he was that hungry) and the soda does make him feel a bit better. Maybe it really had been his blood sugar the whole time. Through the meal, he never takes his eyes off of Abbacchio, giving him a look that he knows he'll read as come to bed with me. Bucciarati doesn't think he can bring himself to ask. Thankfully, Abbacchio understands. Once dinner is finished, they waste no time getting to the bedroom.
They strip without much show, Bucciarati is so desperate to get his hands on Abbacchio that he doesn't want to waste any time. Abbacchio shudders when Bucciarati places his cold hands on his bare shoulders. His skin is warm against Bucciarati's chilled palms. Bucciarati kisses Abbacchio again, straddling the blond man's waist, reveling in the feeling of skin against skin. If this is the moment his heart chooses to give out from all the stress he's under, he would die satisfied. He kisses Abbacchio like his life depends on it, in some ways it does. He shoves those thoughts down to the back of his mind and focuses all his attention on Abbacchio's muscular chest.
Slowly but surely, Abbacchio rips him apart at the seams, unravels him into one single strand and winds him back up in a new, better shape. In Abbacchio's arms he is strong, though his body is trembling and his knees are weak. Pleasure builds in his core until he can't think about anything but Abbacchio's feather light touches, about all of the places they're connected to each other. They are as close as they can possibly be, and the roaring beast that has been craving this touch is satiated. When he finally crests the mountain of pleasure and finds himself immediately plummeting off a cliff, he cries. He sobs into Abbacchio's bare chest long after he finishes, and continues to cry as Abbacchio carries him to the bathroom, setting him on the counter top, and starts drawing a bath. While the bath fills, Abbacchio gently takes Bucciarati's face into his hands and tenderly wipes away the dark haired man's tears. He pulls him into a hug that makes Bucciarati cry harder. The embrace is so warm, the feel of skin on bare skin is so intense, that he fears he may burn up and turn to ash. He can't bring himself to pull away though, for he knows this can't happen again. He has to be strong, Abbacchio needs him to be strong.
"It's okay," Abbacchio murmurs soothingly in his ear, his broad chest rumbling with the sound. "Cry it out."
Oh, it all aches so terribly. He knows he could never cry out all the pain even if he cried from this moment until the universe collapsed in on itself, there just aren't enough tears. He clutches Abbacchio like he's the lone life preserver in a raging, stormy sea. Slowly, Bucciarati's sobs decrescendo until they're nothing more than uneven gasps. Abbacchio lets him go in order to turn the tap off, and Bucciarati finds himself chasing the warmth. He's so cold without it. He reminds himself that Abbacchio holding him for even that long was way more than deserved. He must seem unhinged, crying like that. Abbacchio probably worries that he'd hurt him, that he's taken advantage of him, that Bucciarati hadn't wanted it. Why did he have to break down like that?
"I wanted it," he blurts out, causing Abbacchio to pause. "I just got overwhelmed."
He doesn't pause for long, however, because he's already crossing back to take Bucciarati's hand and leading him to the hot bath. "I know you did. It's okay."
"It's not okay," Bucciarati wails, high and desperate.
"It is. It's okay to get overwhelmed. You needed to let it out so you did, there's no shame in it.”
But Bucciarati is ashamed. It burns hot and low in his stomach, heating up his face, making him wish he could just disappear off of the earth. No one wants him here anyway. The whole squad would disagree with that statement, but deep in his heart he knows it’s true. The things Narancia brought to the group were crucial, his energy was great for morale. Everyone loved him. Even Abbacchio’s presence was necessary, firm and commanding, to keep control over the group. Bucciarati brings nothing but broken promises.
“I can hear you thinking from here,” Abbacchio sighs. He takes Bucciarati’s face in his hands, eyes full of concern. “Cancel your meetings tomorrow. I’m not letting you out of bed until ten at the earliest. I’ll let the boys know you’re not working.”
“Abbacchio-”
“We just had sex. Please, call me Leone,” he says, but Bucciarati knows he wants to be addressed by first name for deeper reasons than that.
It’s Bucciarati’s turn to sigh. “Leone,” he starts over, “I can’t do that.”
“You can do anything you want. If they throw a fit about it, we will take care of it. You are not working tomorrow and you are not leaving our bedroom until you get eight hours of sleep.”
Bucciarati says nothing, but he lets Abbacchio pick him up off the counter and place him into the bath. He lets Abbacchio slide into the space between him and the rim.
~~~
True to his word, Abbacchio does not let him out of bed so much as a minute before ten the next morning. He locks his arm around Bucciarati when he makes his initial attempt to roll out of bed around six, then switches to using most of his weight to keep him down when Bucciarati gets restless around seven-thirty. He doesn’t budge when Bucciarati complains about all the work he’s missing, or that he needs to use the bathroom ( figure it out, he says, and Bucciarati gives a frustrated, “Sure, let me just will away my need to piss”). He only relents when the clock finally hits ten, and Bucciarati breaks for the bathroom immediately, giving Abbacchio a passing middle finger that he doesn’t dignify with a response. Surprisingly, Bucciarati returns to the bed fifteen minutes later with two waffles, awkwardly balancing several toppings in his already-full hands. He hands Abbacchio his waffle, and Abbacchio notes that it looks like Bruno decided to make his own waffle out of brownie batter. He’s being oddly complacent. He doesn’t complain about being unwillingly bedbound once as smothers his brownie-waffle in whipped cream and strawberry sauce. He kisses Abbacchio lightly when he passes him the blueberries. He’s definitely scheming.
By the time noon rolls around, Bucciarati has made himself busy. He’s gotten the laundry done, washed and sorted and put away, and has now tasked himself with making lunch. Abbacchio finds him frowning at the nearly-empty pantry.
“How could we have run out of food?” He mutters to himself. “Ab-,” he corrects himself midway through, “Leone. Will you please run out and get the stuff we need to make some pizza? I want to make something that takes a bit longer, since it’s still a bit early. Store bought pizza crust is fine because we don’t have all day to wait for real crust to rise, but I’d like to hand make the sauce.”
Abbacchio falls for it hook, line, and sinker, even though they just had pizza last night. Bucciarati waits seven minutes after hearing Abbacchio’s car leave the driveway before he grabs his key and makes for the office. He parks in the same lot and dashes up the stairs, desperate to at least get through a few emails, only to be met with Mista. He’s sitting on the stairs, blocking Bucciarati’s path. Bucciarati tries to step over him, but Mista seizes his ankle to prevent him from moving past.
“Mista,” Bucciarati says sharply. “I have to go to work.”
Mista shrugs, “Sorry, Boss, Abbacchio says you’re not allowed within forty feet of the workspace today. Those are doctor’s orders, and I can’t go against them. You’re on a mental health break.”
“You’re being childish.”
“I know, I’m horrible for not allowing you to work yourself to death. So sad,” he adjusts his grip on Bucciarati’s leg so he can hold him with one arm and pull his phone out with the other. He thumbs through his contacts, and though Bucciarati can’t see from this angle, he knows who he’s calling. “Yo, Abbacchio. I got your man. You might want to invest in a child lock.” Bucciarati pulls at his leg again, but Mista’s grip is firm.
Bucciarati can’t quite catch Abbacchio’s response, but he swallows thickly anyway. Abbacchio is going to be so angry.
“He’s on his way,” Mista says, confirming Bruno’s worst fear. Dread settles in his stomach, and it must show because he speaks up again, “No one’s going to be mad at you. We just want you to be safe.”
He doesn’t respond, he just sits on the steps beside Mista and lays his head in his knees. It’s only about ten minutes between the end of the call and the time Abbacchio bursts through the door, and miraculously Bucciarati doesn’t try to escape the situation once. The second Abbacchio makes eye contact with him, Bucciarati feels like he knows everything.
“What are you running from, Bruno?” Abbacchio asks, bringing his hands up to cup Bucciarati’s jaw like he always does. Bucciarati recoils like he’s been burned, flinching away so aggressively that it hurts his neck.
He takes two steps back before he bangs into Mista. He’s trapped. His breath comes in short and sharp. The walls are closing in. He sinks to the floor, wrapping his arms around his knees and trying to disappear. “I’m not running,” he gasps. “I’m not running.”
Mista steps back from him, giving him more room to breathe, as Abbacchio joins him on the floor. He doesn’t touch him, just kneels a foot away so Bucciarati knows that he’s there. “Breathe, Bruno. Slow down. You’re having a panic attack.”
“I’m not! I don’t have panic attacks.”
“Just breathe, then. Just breathe.”
Bucciarati tries, counting a few seconds between each inhale and exhale. It starts off stuttery, but it slowly begins to even out. Finally, his breathing returns to normal and he sits exhausted on the stairs. Mista moves around to his side, placing his hand gently within reach. Bucciarati takes it. He extends his other hand to Abbacchio, who takes it in kind. “I can’t do this,” he whispers. “I can’t do this by myself.”
“You’re not by yourself,” Mista says. Bucciarati raises sore eyes to meet his gaze. “We’re always here to help you. You don’t have to do this by yourself, no one’s expecting you to.”
Abbacchio nods solemnly in agreement, “You are never alone.”
Bucciarati opens his arms as best he can to offer Abbacchio and Mista an invitation. Gently, they both move into his arms, embracing him warmly. He leans his head against Abbacchio’s shoulder, feeling the warmth of Mista’s arm across his back.
“I’m not alone,” he mutters. This time, he lets the words start to take root in his heart.