Say My Name And Everything Just Stops

by nebbulosa

Summary:

Leone Abbacchio shouldn't want him and Bruno Buccellati shouldn't feel the same way, but the night was quiet, the wine too strong and the tension between them filled the bedroom like dry leaves falling from the trees in autumn.

Every line crossed tasted like regret. Surprisingly, that was the most delicious flavor they had ever allowed themselves to taste

The night was a slow, silent trap. The apartment on the coast of Naples felt more unfamiliar than usual, with the murmur of the sea seeping through the cracks of the poorly closed windows.

Narancia had insisted on cooking something decent for dinner and Fugo had accepted the challenge out of sheer pride. Giorno was reviewing documents in the back room, while Mista slept with his mouth open on the sofa, hugging one of his guns.

Bruno and Abbacchio, not really in the mood to socialize, had taken refuge in Leone's room on the second floor.
On the low table, two bottles of cheap wine were half-finished, and a third rested off to the side, still unopened. A warm lamp lit the room lazily, casting long shadows across the unmade bed and the jackets slung carelessly over the chair.

Bruno poured himself another glass, no longer paying attention to the wine-to-air ratio. "This isn't wine" he commented, staring at the dark liquid while swirling the glass. "It's a promise of regret. A trap"

Abbacchio let out a low, tired laugh. He was lying on the bed with his back against the cold wall. One leg bent, the other stretched out.
The laces across his chest were slack, half-untied. His sharp, hollow-eyed gaze lingered heavily on Bruno’s face.

"Speaking like a priest now, Buccellati... You're more drunk than you think"

"Maybe. But you're worse" Bruno replied, looking at him. And not just looking; fixating on him, as if in that gaze alone he could say something he didn’t dare speak aloud.

The atmosphere was thick. They hadn’t slept well in days, every step closer to the boss felt like another knot tightening around their necks: the paranoia, the fear of losing someone, the weight of every decision. It was all there, accumulated in their bodies, on their shoulders, in the words they never said.

Abbacchio drank slowly from his glass and felt his grip faltering, fingers wrapped tightly around the stem like letting go might undo something inside him.

"I swear..." he murmured, his voice dropping lower, the sentence trailing off into silence.
His eyes stayed fixed on the dark liquid that swirled with every subtle shift of his long fingers against the glass. "Do you know what the worst part of all this is?"

Bruno moved closer, saying nothing. He sat on the edge of the bed, near enough that the distance between them was less than the length of an arm.

"That one of us is going to die before this is over" Abbacchio continued, still watching the wine like it was the only thing in the room worth looking at.
"And you keep putting your life on the line like your death would fix everything for us"

Bruno remained silent. The wine in his mouth, half-swallowed, suddenly tasted like metal.

"I don’t want to watch you fall apart, Bruno"

That last sentence didn’t belong to the alcohol.
It came from somewhere deeper, older. Wound-stitched and raw.

Bruno lifted his gaze to him. Abbacchio still wasn’t looking directly at his eyes, but the tension in his neck and in the set of his shoulders said everything. Like he was on the verge of doing something but had no idea how to begin.

Bruno set his own glass aside, not taking his eyes off him. "Leone".

He only said his name, but he said it with a weight that cracked something in the air between them.
And Abbacchio's heart stuttered. Just for a second.

The silence between them stretched tight like a wet rope about to snap, the slight creaking of the mattress beneath Bruno sounded louder than usual. And although neither of them moved, their bodies were speaking to each other in a secret language.

He finally looked at him, and that eye contact was a spark dropped into a pool of gasoline. There was no room left to think.
Not with the heat of the wine in their blood, the exhaustion pulling at their bones, the tension they’d failed to resolve for far too long and not with the need «raw and aching» to feel something that still made them human.

Bruno leaned in without saying another word.Their lips met in a brief kiss, almost clumsy. A hot, wet kiss born from a mistake, from not knowing what the hell they were doing.

Abbacchio let out a low growl and yanked Bruno closer by the collar, his fingers digging hard into the muscles of his back. The glass he had been holding slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor, spilling the red liquid like a confession.

"This is a terrible idea" He murmured against Bruno's mouth but didn't pull away. If anything, he tilted his head slightly so that their mouths fit together as if they had been made for this moment, for each other. "Terrible"

Bruno slowly licked his lower lip. His breath smelled of sweet wine, strong and intoxicating. "Then tell me to stop"

Abbacchio stared at him. His eyes were narrowed, glassy with heat. "I can’t" he said. "I don’t want to" He swallowed hard, as if desire was burning inside him. His hand rose and rested on the base of Bruno's neck, right where his pulse was beating strongly.

The next kiss was wilder. Tongues clashing, breaths collapsing into gasps, hands losing all sense of restraint. Bruno pushed him with his body, coaxing him down until he lay flat on the bed. Abbacchio grabbed him by the neck, gripping hard as if anchoring himself to something solid while everything else threatened to break apart.

Bruno let out a muffled groan as he felt those nails dig into his skin, as if Abbacchio were desperately marking his territory. Kisses trailed down his jaw to his throat and then to the line of his collarbone.

Bruno fumbled with the rest of his jacket, clumsy fingers loosening fabric while his mouth worshiped every inch of revealed skin. Abbacchio arched beneath him, eyes closed, every touch feeling as a release.
The weight of the day «the war, the losses, the choices» melted away in the press of his lips.

"Only tonight" Bruno whispered into his ear.
"Let’s not think". And Abbacchio, voice rough like gravel, whispered back. "I never think when I’m with you"

The lamp flickered once like the entire room was holding its breath. Their bodies began to move beyond the kiss. Their hips were grinding, moans stifled in the crooks of each other’s necks.

The heat was rising fast, rational thought melting like ice in an abandoned glass. The friction between duty and desire, guilt and need, all collided into something fevered and unstoppable.

Abbacchio lay sprawled on the wrinkled sheets, Bruno above him, kissing his neck with a mixture of hunger and reverence. Their hips met again and again in a rhythm that was too deliberate, too loaded with intent to pretend it was still an accident.

Bruno’s shirt hung open, exposing the tattoo on his chest and the sun-tanned, scarred skin beneath.
Abbacchio’s hands moved over him with trembling fingers, tracing every inch like he was memorizing a map he was afraid to lose. Every touch drew a soft gasp from Bruno’s lips, like secrets being confessed one breath at a time.

“Shit” Abbacchio whispered, voice as rough as his thoughts. "This is wrong”

Bruno bit his earlobe in a slow, wet, and deliberate rhythm. “Maybe it is”

“But you’re still not stopping” The silver-haired man murmured, torn between duty and pleasure.

Bruno looked up at him, his eyes were blown wide, pupils dark and hungry. His cheeks flushed with wine and want. “Neither are you”

Abbacchio swallowed thickly and his fingers slid down Bruno’s back in slow movements, until they dipped under the waistband of his pants. The feel of soft, hot bare skin knocked the air from his lungs.

Bruno shuddered under the touch. He leaned in, pressing his weight against him, pinning him down without a word and lowered his mouth to his chest, licking, kissing and marking every inch of his body.

He bit down near a nipple. Gently at first, then harder, until Abbacchio gritted his teeth and let out a sharp, guttural breath.

“Motherfucker” he growled but his hands didn’t move. The bite left a reddish mark that immediately began to blossom. Abbacchio arched his back, not to pull away but to offer himself more. There was something sacred in the sweet violence of that gesture as if the pain made it real.

Bruno smiled against his skin. Lost, utterly lost in the moment. This was not a matter of strategy or calculation, it was simply the warmth of Abbacchio’s body, the taste of salt and sweat on his tongue and the thrill of touching what had always been forbidden.

His fingers moved lower, fumbling with the buttons of Abbacchio’s pants. He arched his hips without a word, a silent yes that needed no translation. The belt came undone with an obscene clink in the room’s thick silence. Bruno slipped his hand inside without hesitation.

His palm pressed against the heat of him through the thin fabric, and Abbacchio let out a low moan. “You’re hard as a rock” Bruno whispered, eyes locked to his. “Because you’re stroking me like you’re trying to rip my soul out through my cock” Abbacchio growled, gripping his thighs hard.

Bruno’s grin curled sharp at the edges. “What if I am?” Then he moved down slowly, his mouth leaving a wet trail across Abbacchio’s stomach. A path of heat and reverence. He tugged his pants down and let them fall to the floor, never breaking rhythm.

When he reached the edge of his underwear, he leaned in and pulled them down with his teeth, inch by inch like a slow, gentle punishment. Abbacchio pushed himself up slightly on his elbows, staring down at him through tousled silver hair. His eyes were narrowed and glassy with want. "Don’t keep me waiting, Bruno. I’m too fucking drunk to be patient"

Bruno looked up at him with a crooked smile and pulled down to free him completely. Abbacchio’s cock was already fully hard. Veins flushed, skin hot to the touch, throbbing like it was ready to be worshiped or destroyed.

Bruno wrapped one hand around the shaft, stroking with a slow, steady rhythm. He kissed the tip, then ran his tongue over it savoring it with his eyes never leaving Abbacchio’s.

Abbacchio let out a groan that sounded halfway between a curse and a moan of pleasure, muffled in the back of his throat.
He shifted against the sheets like a fragment of reason was trying to claw its way back, a screaming voice inside reminding him this was wrong.

But it didn’t matter because Bruno was already descending, taking him deeper inch by inch. His tongue twisted, his throat swallowing with his lips pressed together in an obscene and perfect pressure.

He started to move up and down, painfully slow. His mouth sealed tight, tongue switching between soft flicks and sudden pressure that made the other man shudder.

Abbaccchio grabbed him by the hair, holding the strands tightly not to stop him but to hold him there, to keep the heat and the pressure exactly where he needed it. "More" he snarled, breath ragged. "Fuck me whole”

Bruno let out a growl with his mouth full and quickened his pace. Saliva, gasps and breathless heat filled the air like smoke. Every time he rose, he swirled his tongue over the head with precision, and every time he went down he took more, sucked harder like he was trying to choke on it on purpose.

Until Abbacchio arched hard, back taut, and let out a moan that cracked through the silence like glass shattering. “Fuck. God, Bruno, you’re gonna make me—”

But Bruno pulled away just in time. His lips were moist, his chest heaving, and the taste of him still fresh in his mouth. "Not yet” he said, and crawled back up to kiss him. Tongue slick, claiming, tasting like him.

Bruno stripped off the rest of his clothes with such speed Abbacchio wasn’t sure if he used his hands or his zippers. He didn’t care. He pulled him in with open legs, both hands dragging him close, needy and without shame.

They rubbed against each other, their bodies felt hot and slippery, letting their breaths collide. Their cocks rubbed shamelessly against each other but they were both so hard that even the slightest movement felt intense.

They moaned into each other's mouths, swallowing the desperate sounds, open and unfiltered.

“Fuck me now” Abbacchio said in a hoarse, staring at Bruno as if challenging him. “Before I ruin it by thinking”

Bruno gasped against his mouth. “Are you sure?” Abbacchio took his face in both hands, feeling the warm, sweaty skin beneath his fingers. “I’m more sure about this than I ever was about joining Passione. No offense”

Then Bruno lowered his hand between their bodies, aligning himself with him. Neither condoms nor lubricant were necessary at that moment; urgency alone was enough. Saliva, alcohol, desire. And tonight, that was enough.

“Hold on” Bruno murmured, gripping Abbacchio by the hips.
He began to push in slow, controlled, and Abbacchio let out a garbled curse, his fingers digging deep into the sheets. He wrapped his legs around Bruno's waist with desperation, forcing him to go deeper. Their moans tangled into one wet, ragged sound.

The bed creaked. No sounds could be heard from the first floor, not even from outside the window. Only the rhythm of their hips colliding, the breath between them and the electric scrape of skin on skin.
The room reeked of sweat, wine and years of buried desire finally igniting.

Bruno thrust harder and deeper, each movement driven by something unspoken. Abbacchio writhed beneath him, kissing him like he might fall apart if he stopped.

And somewhere in the middle of it his voice cracked open like a wound. “Bruno... don’t die before you do this to me again”

Bruno didn’t answer with words. He just kissed him like he was holding on for dear life, then moved faster, his rhythm now driven by instinct more than control.
The wine had stripped everything else away «judgment, caution, guilt» Now there was only this.

Only flesh on flesh. Only breath shared through gasps and groans. Only sweat dripping down their torsos like the room was on fire.

Abbacchio’s mouth hung open, his head tilted on the pillow with hair scattered like spilled silver ink, plastered to the sweat on his neck and forehead. Bruno held him tight by the hips, his fingers digging so hard they’d leave bruises by morning.

“You’re... fucking your back up, you bastard” Abbacchio grunted between moans. "You’re gonna regret this tomorrow”

Bruno gasped out a wrecked and wild laugh.
Abbacchio laughed too until Bruno slammed in deeper, sudden and brutal, forcing a scream from his throat.

“Bruno... stop--stop for a second, shit”

Bruno froze, opening his eyes slightly wider, heart pounding as if it would burst out of his chest. “Does it hurt?”
Abbacchio breathed in slowly, trying to relax his muscles. “It burns like you shoved an entire fucking bottle inside me, you asshole”

“Do you want me to stop?” The black haired man asked, pulling one hand off Abbacchio's hips to touch his jaw, caressing his chin. Abbacchio turned his face to look at him, eyes glassy, voice ragged with wine and want, as if something cracked open wide inside him. “Don’t even think about it. Just... spit on me. Use your zippers or something”

Bruno let out a hoarse, unhinged laugh. Without answering, he leaned in, grabbed his hips more firmly and spat mixing saliva with what little fluid remained.

Then he pushed in again, this time looser, wetter, with a rhythm that was disgustingly perfect.

The sound of their bodies meeting, flesh on flesh, wet and obscene, filled the room like a filthy kind of percussion, the kind only they could play.

“You’re swallowing every fucking inch, Leone” Bruno growled, his voice thick with lust, his hips driving in without pause.

“I’m so drunk I can’t even feel where your dick ends and my spine begins” Abbacchio laughed a wild, wrecked sound, covering his face with one trembling hand.

Bruno gasped and lowered himself to bite him near the collarbone, feeling the taste of salt, skin and sweat. Abbacchio shuddered, letting out a gasp and a curse, feeling his muscles tighten.

“Don’t stop” he begged, voice cracked open. “Take me, Bruno. Fuck me. That way I won’t think”

And that was what shattered Bruno completely. He grabbed Abbacchio by the waist and started fucking him with brutal force, the kind of rhythm you only have when you’re drunk, wrecked, out of your mind.

Each thrust shoved him forward, making the bed creak under the weight of their moving bodies.

Abbacchio’s body jolted with every movement, face flushed, eyes hazy from sheer, blinding pleasure. “You’re gonna make me come without even touching me” he sobbed through moans.
“You’re gonna make me come just from this. Just from what you’re doing to me”

Bruno leaned over him, panting like something untamed and licked the shell of his ear, his voice deranged with desire. “Then do it, Leone” he whispered, ragged and demanding. "Do it. And fucking look me in the eye”

Bruno grabbed him by the chin, his fingers firm, possessive, shaking with restraint, and tilted Abbacchio’s face up toward him. "Look at me" he growled.

Abbacchio tried «he really did» but his eyes fluttered, pupils blown wide rolling with every brutal thrust that drove into him.

Bruno didn’t let go. He held his face there, watching the way his eyes lost focus, the way his mouth dropped open and the way every snap of his hips sent Abbacchio somewhere past reason.

Bruno picked up one of Abbacchio's legs and bent it until his knee was against his chest, changing the angle with deadly precision. Each push now struck him right in the center of his soul. And Abbacchio couldn’t hold it. Couldn’t pretend. Couldn’t wait.

With a ragged moan that sounded more like a growl than a climax, he came hard against his stomach, feeling his body shiver, the muscles clenching and every nerve vibrating. The pleasure hit him so violently, so deeply, it blurred the edges of his vision.

His body trembled with each thrust, tears that were either from pleasure or surrender ran down his face mixing with the sweat on his cheeks. In his throat, a broken sound tried to become a name but couldn't.

Bruno felt him tighten around him like a trap snapping shut and couldn’t hold back any longer. With a low, broken moan, he came inside spilling in waves, his back tense as steel. He held himself there, buried deep on Leone, trembling and panting like he’d just run for his life.

A few seconds later he collapsed on top of Abbacchio, their sweaty bodies sticking together like one creature made of heat and too many buried feelings.

Bruno pulled out of him and Abbacchio wrapped his arms around his waist without hesitation, not willing to let him leave just yet.

“Shit” Bruno whispered, barely conscious.
“What… what the hell are we doing”

Abbacchio didn’t answer. He was already halfway asleep, his mouth slack, his eyes closed and a stupid, lazy smile still tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Did you fall asleep?” Bruno asked, his voice shredded, too tired to even shift his weight.

“Mmmnnh” Abbacchio grunted a noise halfway between contentment and coma. "Fuck me again in the morning”

Bruno let out a soft, exhausted laugh and let his head fall onto Abbacchio’s shoulder.

And that’s how they fell asleep. Drenched in sweat, stained inside and out, wine still bitter on their tongues, their hearts pounding in their chests like war drums.

Naked, tangled in the sheets stuck to their skin as yet another consequence they couldn't escape.

There were no sweet words or promises, only the thick, humming buzz of drunkenness and the weight of knowing that tomorrow, maybe, they wouldn’t be able to look each other in the eye.

 

★

 

The light filtered in through the crooked curtains in thin golden lines. The clock on the nightstand barely read six in the morning.

Abbacchio didn’t know exactly when consciousness had crawled back into his body, but the first thing he felt was a sharp, stabbing pain in his temple. A dull echo pounding in his skull, like every breath was reminding him just how much he’d had to drink.

The second thing: I feel sticky.

The third: Why is there an arm around my waist?

He opened his eyes slowly as if even blinking might crack his skull in two. Everything was blurry, painted in that grimy gray haze unique to mornings after.

The mattress beneath him was soaked with dried sweat, the air reeked of old wine. And the weight against his back? It wasn’t a pillow.

It took him a second—and a gut-churning lurch in his stomach—to register what he was seeing. Or rather, who.

Bruno.

Naked, asleep beside him. His arm was around his waist and his chest rose and fell slowly and calmly. His black hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat.

Abbacchio’s blood hit the floor. He sat up abruptly, cursing under his breath, then pressed his palm to his forehead like he could somehow shove his brain back into place. “What the fuck did we do?” he whispered more to himself than anyone else.

The room answered without speaking: clothes strewn across the floor, shattered glass, and a empty bottle of wine tipped over beside the bed.

The air felt thick with the smell of sex. His body ached in places he couldn’t afford to ignore.
When he moved, a sharp twinge between his legs made him gasp. It was a confirmation of the raw sting, the lingering burn. The echo of a night still pulsing in his skin.

It hadn’t been a dream. He sat there on the edge of the bed, hunched forward, hair falling in damp, matted strands. Sweat cold now, shame warm.

He couldn’t look at Bruno. “Fuck me again in the morning” he remembered, the phrase echoing like a rusted bullet, still lodged somewhere deep, never quite finishing its shot.

He rubbed both hands down his face, exhaling like he could push the memory out with his breath. “What the fuck did you do, Leone” he muttered to himself, his teeth clenched tight.

The worst part wasn’t what they did. It wasn’t the lingering heat between his legs, the soreness, the stickiness or the vivid clarity of what they had crossed last night. The worst part was that a part of him «a big, undeniable part» didn’t regret it, and that fucked him up more than any hangover ever could.

“No” he whispered, closing his eyes. “No, no, no. Not with him”

Him. His leader. The one who saw him as his right hand. The one who had never touched him like that until last night.

A whisper of movement behind him. Bruno stirred, half-asleep, murmuring something Abbacchio couldn’t make out. The sound of his voice, hoarse and soft, still coated in sleep, hit Abbacchio like a punch to the chest.

The memory surged all at once: those lips, those thrusts, that moan, right at his ear— He got out of bed like it was on fire. Stumbled to his feet, naked and shaking, hands fumbling blindly for his clothes on the floor. He dressed without looking or wiping off the dried sweat clinging to his skin, all he wanted was to leave before the walls closed in and crushed him.

Behind him, Bruno murmured again. “Leone”

Abbacchio froze, his breath caught in his throat. That voice «so gentle, so unconsciously full of affection» the kind of affection they had no right to share.

“Sleep” Abbacchio said quietly, barely turning his face toward him, not daring to look him in the eye. "Don’t say anything”

And then he left the room without looking back, without closing the door behind him properly. Fists clenched, jaw tight, and a soul spilling over at the seams.

★

When Bruno woke up, the bed was empty.

All that remained was the echo of Abbacchio’s body heat—that invisible warmth left behind by someone who’d been far too close for far too long.

A bitter sensation rose in his throat. Had he dreamed it?

He sat up slowly, body aching, feeling his muscles pulled tight. His limbs felt heavy and slow, as if they didn’t quite belong to him anymore.

He glanced at the floor. His shirt lay crumpled there, his belt hung off the edge of the bed and a dry stain on the sheet was too explicit to deny the truth.

It hadn’t been a dream. And Abbacchio was gone.

Bruno gathered his clothes with hands way too calm for the situation and dressed halfway. His bare skin felt cold against the fabric like the clothes didn’t belong to this version of him anymore.

Then he walked to the bathroom, brisk and silent. He undressed quickly and looked at himself in the mirror, carefully observing his messy reflection, especially the bruises on his neck that extended down to his collarbone and chest. The water in the shower took too long to heat up but he got in anyway, he couldn't stand any longer the feeling of his skin still sticky with sweat. His body didn’t flinch at the cold, it just accepted it.

He leaned his forehead against the cold ceramic wall, eyes closed, breathing slow beneath the stream.

He didn't think anything, couldn't allow himself to feel. He just washed as if by scrubbing hard enough he could wipe away the memory, the ghost of a touch still burning on his skin.

 

★

 

Abbacchio was in the kitchen, standing by the half-open window.
The sky outside was an undecided shade of storm-gray as if even the weather couldn’t make up its mind. His black jacket was pristine, the chest straps pulled tight as if holding himself together on the outside might fool whatever mess churned beneath the surface.

Luckily, the rest of the team was nowhere to be found. Apparently they’d gone out to try some new breakfast place Mista wouldn’t shut up about.

He had a cup of coffee in his hand, steam rising from it with little enthusiasm, and his expression was a wall.
On the table, the ashtray teetered on the edge of overflowing. The remains of at least one full pack lay buried in the ashes like consumed bones.

When Bruno entered, Abbacchio didn’t look at him. He just drank slowly, wordlessly.

Bruno poured himself a cup. Then he walked toward the table, his footsteps were soft and firm at the same time. He sat beside him, leaving a careful amount of space between them.
The silence was heavy, only breaking by the coffeemaker dripping in the background like a broken clock. Outside, the sea kept crashing against the shore, indifferent to the lives unraveling behind closed doors.

The smell of bitter coffee hung in the air, layered over stale cigarettes. The kitchen was dim, the ceiling light flickering like it didn’t want to witness what was about to happen.

Abbacchio kept his eyes fixed on his cup.
His long, bony fingers—nails chipped and poorly painted—gripped the ceramic too tightly. His jaw was clenched, with his lips pressed into a hard line.

His hair was damp, clinging to the back of his neck, freshly washed but still drying. The jacket covered everything else: the bruised neck, the tightness in his shoulders and the dull ache still humming low in his spine.

The minutes passed like liquid lead until Abbacchio finally spoke. His voice was low, like he was afraid of waking something up. "Do you remember anything from last night?"

Bruno’s eyes flicked briefly to the side of Abbacchio’s neck. The faint red mark still blooming there, shaped like a mouth that hadn’t known how to be gentle.

His throat tightened. Bruno looked at him without blinking, his expression was calm, almost detached. But beneath his eyes, a storm churned.
"Yes" he said without hesitation. The honesty in his voice hit like a blast of frozen air.

Abbacchio let out a brief sigh, resigned. A sound perhaps of anger or even regret, all of it tangled, knotted up just as it was in his heart.
He turned his gaze back to his coffee, like it was a dark well deep enough to drown in—because he didn’t know how else to say what needed to be said.

"It wasn’t a mistake for you, was it?" The question was heavy. He didn't say it as a trap, as if he expected Bruno to pretend it was all a mistake, close the chapter, and move on with their lives. It was a last attempt to give a name to what was destroying them from the inside. A statement disguised as a doubt.

Bruno shook his head slowly. His fingers curled tighter around the mug, but his voice didn’t waver. "No. It wasn’t" Abbacchio clenched his jaw, like that answer had landed exactly where he’d expected but it still hurt just the same. "Then" he breathed in so slowly it could’ve made him dizzy, "why the fuck didn’t you ever say anything?"

Bruno raised his eyes deliberately. And when he spoke, his voice came out with that rare, raw kind of honesty that people only reach when they’re ready to lose everything. "Because I’m scared"

The confession dropped like a stone into still water. Abbacchio blinked, startled by the unshielded truth in his boss’s voice. "Scared of what?"

Bruno swallowed thickly. His eyes never left Abbacchio's: dark, deep, full of so many emotions at once, just like always. But today, there was something else. Something trembling beneath the surface, a fracture finally splitting open. Like a wound finally bleeding.

"Scared that one of us is going to die" he whispered. "Scared of losing you without ever having had this. Without ever having touched you, or heard your voice like that, or felt your warmth. Scared that it’s all going to end, and I’ll never have told you”

He paused. His voice cracked just slightly like a rubber band being pulled too tight.

"I love you, Leone. I’ve loved you for years. Since before I even understood what it meant to watch you without being seen. Since before I admitted to myself that I needed you near just to breathe right. And every time you get hurt, every time I see you walk away, I think— 'If I don’t say it today, and they kill him tomorrow… how the fuck am I supposed to live with that?'"

Abbacchio closed his eyes. One. Two. Three seconds passed. The silence between them was suffocating. When he looked at Bruno again, his gaze didn’t hold anger, it held something way older, even deeper. Something shaped like pain, that kind of pain that keeps you alive.

"You bastard" he muttered. "Do you have any idea how many times I wondered if what you felt for me was just duty?" He crossed his arms, as if it were the only thing keeping him from reaching out and touching him.

Bruno frowned, ready to respond, but Abbacchio lifted a hand—not yet.

"Do you know what it feels like?" he continued, his voice quieter now. "To watch you take care of everyone else? To see how you look at them like they’re your kids, your soldiers, your sins? And me? What was I? The bitter bastard who followed you because he had nowhere else to go? The washed-up cop who only knows how to kill and drink?"

His voice trembled at the edges, but it never broke.

Abbacchio dragged a hand over his jaw, then lowered it, tapping his knuckles once against the coffee mug like he was forcing himself to stay tethered to the table.
His eyes didn’t meet Bruno’s, instead, they were locked on the wood grain.
“You always looked at them like they were fragile” he said, quieter now. “You never looked at me that way”

He finally glanced up—just for a second.
There was no accusation in his gaze, just the truth that was tired of being buried deep down for years. “I used to think it meant you didn’t care. Now I think it’s because you thought I could take it” His hand trembled as he set the coffee mug down with a dull, final-sounding thud.

"The first time I saw you… it was in that alleyway. It was raining. My hair was soaked, I had dried blood on the face and the knuckles, and still, you looked at me like I wasn’t something to be afraid of. You told me I could stay. You gave me a place.
And you know what I thought?"

He leaned in, his eyes were burning. "I thought: ‘I’m fucked. Because this man is going to be the end of me’"

Bruno stared like he was witnessing an eclipse— a scene so stunning and impossible to look away from. He didn’t speak, even if he wanted to. Every word spilling from Abbacchio’s mouth was a revelation too heavy to hold.

"I’ve loved you since then. Since that fucking night in the rain. But you were untouchable. You are the leader. You are the one everyone looks up to. You are everything I’m not"

"Don’t say that," Bruno whispered. "Don’t talk like you’re less"

"But I am!" Abbacchio slammed his palm on the table—a dry, brutal sound that cracked through the room like a warning shot. "I have no redemption left. No faith. No dreams. All I have is this fucked-up stand and this broken loyalty that keeps me following you even when I know we’re both gonna die"

And then his voice softened. "And still. I love you, Bruno. love you with a desperation that eats me alive" he confessed, his hands trembling.
"I hate watching you risk your life every damn second. It kills me to see you willing to die for everyone… everyone but yourself"

Bruno swallowed hard. He stood up, circled the table, and gently took Abbacchio’s long, rough hands into his own. He squeezed them, soft but steady. "Why didn’t you ever tell me?"

Abbacchio looked at him, his eyes glistening from exhaustion. From carrying all this weight for years without speaking it aloud.

"Because I didn’t know if I could survive you not feeling the same"

Bruno smiled tenderly, so slightly that it was almost imperceptible. "So what do we do with all of this now?"

Abbacchio lowered his gaze to their joined hands. "I have no fucking clue," he murmured, barely audible.
"All I know is… if you touch me again like you did last night, I won’t be able to keep pretending I’m not ready to die for you"

Bruno leaned in, brushing their lips together in a trembling, barely-there kiss. "Then don’t die" he whispered. "Not before I touch you again like the world’s about to end"

Abbacchio looked into his eyes. Held that gaze.
And for the first time in years, he smiled for real. "You’ve got a problem now, Buccellati" he said, voice low and raw. "Now you’re gonna have to make good on your promises"

Bruno didn’t respond. He just held him.

And they stayed like that, as two men clinging to something fragile but real, in a kitchen that still smelled like cigarettes, in a rented apartment by the coast, while the world outside kept turning.

Even though, for a moment, they didn’t need it to.

Notes:

this is the first fanfic i’ve ever written in my life and i’m terrified 😜
honestly, the idea came out of nowhere
i never thought i’d actually go through with writing something like this haha

in case it’s not obvious, my biggest inspiration was reputation by taylor swift (and especially dress ofc)
this is my little contribution. i hope the other 3 bruabba fans out there enjoy it

P.S. english isn’t my first language, sorry if there are any mistakes