Si Dolce È'l Tormento | A BruAbba Story

Bucciarati

Bucciarati awoke sometime that afternoon feeling slightly groggy but otherwise fine, only to find Abbacchio refusing to let him get up until the next morning. After a few hours of intermittent protest, Bucciarati quit arguing and let himself fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next time he drifted awake, burnt gold sunlight filled the room. Abbacchio was curled around him, long strands of soft hair falling in front of his face and his body heat chasing off the chill of the morning breeze sweeping in through the window. Bucciarati stayed still, trying not to wake him, but he shifted and pressed a kiss to the back of his neck.

"Buongiorno," Abbacchio murmured. "How do you feel?"

"Fine. I've felt fine since yesterday afternoon, Leone."

Abbacchio shifted closer, his voice still scratchy from sleep. "Humor me. I saw you stab yourself in the chest."

Bucciarati softened, taking his hand to interlace their fingers. "I'm fine now. I promise."

Abbacchio squeezed his hand before he let go of him, sighing. "Fine."

Bucciarati sat up, rolling his shoulders. A jolt went through him as his mind cleared from the haze of sleep. "Where's Dieci?"

"Tied up and out cold." Abbacchio rolled onto his back, scrunching his face up against the sunlight and stretching his arms over his head. Something about the movement reminded Bucciarati of a cat. "Narancia and Fugo have been taking turns watching her."

Bucciarati sighed. "Guess that's the end of this safe house."

He picked his way across the floor, strewn with various items of clothing, to the bathroom mirror. His hair was mashed flat on one side, and he was a bit stiff, but there wasn't even the shadow of a scar where Giorno had fixed him.

Abbacchio appeared behind him in the mirror. Bucciarati smiled sheepishly. "I don't want to say I was worried that getting stabbed would fuck up my tattoo, but..."

A small smile crossed Abbacchio's face as he wrapped his arms around Bucciarati's waist. "I'll still love you even if you tattoo is messed up." The smile faded, and he spoke quietly. "I'm glad you're ok."

Bucciarati leaned back against him. Through his thin t shirt, he could feel the even rhythm of Abbacchio's heart. Everything about him was solid and steady, a fixed point, as if it hadn't been just over a day ago that Bucciarati had been watching him slip away, begging him not to slip away. He pushed the memory away, forcing himself to focus here, now, with Abbacchio real and alive and standing there with him. When he let out the breath he didn't realize he had been holding, it was a little shaky. "Me too," he said softly.

They stood there another minute on the cold tile, Abbacchio's arms around him, just breathing. Years of instinct screamed at Bucciarati not to pull away, not ever to pull away. But that was from when he had to hoard all those precious moments with Abbacchio, the ones it felt like he was stealing from a story that wasn't theirs. And he didn't have to do that anymore.

Bucciarati stepped away, sighing at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't actually remember the last time he had showered, and that didn't strike him as a good sign. He ducked into the marble shower to turn on the water – he was going to miss this safe house – and held out a hand, waiting for the old pipes to cough up some hot water. His eyes drew to Abbacchio of their own accord, lingering behind him.

Bucciarati felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. "Join me?"

"Well..." The hint of a smile ghosted over his face in return. His voice was a low purr. "If you insist, capo."

Steam was beginning to drift from behind the curtain in lazy curls. Bucciarati breathed in the humid air and discarded his remaining clothing. He turned as Abbacchio pulled the shirt over his head and shook out his hair. Bucciarati didn't bother trying not to stare. He had been doing that for years. He had been trying to hide the exact expression he knew was on his face right now as Abbacchio stepped out of the sweatpants and met his eyes. That shadow of a smile broadened into a curve of his lips that left Bucciarati fighting a shiver. The smile, the uncombed hair, the sunlight on his ivory skin – it was too much, and Bucciarati wanted all of it.