Chapter Text
The words weren’t meant to sting; it was matter-of-fact-Mista saying something matter-of-factly.
The young Don’s inner circle was tired, and sometimes bone-tired people say boneheaded things, especially their bonehead. His team had been working grueling hours, scrambling to decipher the hows and whys of running the enigmatic empire they paid for with friendships forsaken and lifeblood spilt. They had overcome. They would move forward. There was no stopping them now. As ever, they worked well together, but they were stretched to their limits, having to fill the roles of upper management and the Unita Speciale, and process rather significant changes.
Day in and day out, from dawn until dusk, they worked. Today, Giorno and Fugo had things to do in Napoli. The rest of the team was first sent to meet with a group of Balkan smugglers in Salerno. Later, they hunted down and interrogated some unaffiliated Standusers causing problems on the docks in Sorrento.
It was after 10 PM when Narancia, Mista, Bucciarati, and Leone piled into the limo heading back to Napoli. Leone and Narancia simultaneously put their headphones on, and Mista amiably chatted with Bruno while the underboss sent updates to Giorno on his mobile phone. Arms crossed and eyelids drooping, Leone would catch snippets of the conversation between Mista and Bruno in the quieter moments of the opera’s soundtrack.
“At least you've got nothing to worry about, Bucciarati! It’s not like you’re even you anymore.”
Leone’s tired eyes went sharp as he glanced over at his lover. Of course, Bruno played it off gamely, charmingly, Bucciarati-ly while Mista backtracked and stammered out an apology. Leone didn’t intervene; Bruno didn’t need defending. Well, that’s what he had repeatedly told Leone, until Leone let him have his way. Frustrated, Leone closed his eyes again, feigning sleep. Thankfully, Leone’s flat was their first stop. The couple got out of the car, and Mista and Narancia drowsily spread out across the seats like housecats. Leone closed the car door and took a moment to stretch. When he turned, he saw Bruno was halfway up the walkway to their shared place.
Bruno sedately opened the front door and, without a word to Leone, went directly into the bathroom. Left in the darkness of the kitchen, Leone ran his hand through his hair and blew out a big sigh. He faintly heard the shower hiss to life.
It had been a month since the funeral. On a fundamental level, Leone knew they were all doing the best they could, considering the insanity of the situation. He wasn’t there for their weird showdown with their former employer, so he didn’t understand. But what he also knew was that the man currently showering in his bathroom was bearing an incomprehensible burden; the body born in September 1980, named Bruno Bucciarati, had been fingerprinted in a Roman morgue and buried before that body's 21st birthday.
It was undoubtedly hard on the rest that were at the Colosseum; Giorno, Narancia, and Mista all underwent the bodyswap too, but they were in an ally’s body - and they eventually returned to their own. By some cruel twist of fate, Bruno was imprisoned in the body of the enemy. And it seemed permanent. Leone tried to remind himself that at least Bruno isn’t a tortoise. How on earth would they have all dealt with that? Yeah, it could be worse.
Once Fugo and Leone were truly convinced who the older, tattooed stranger they saw before them was, they immediately suggested psychotherapy. Well, if Leone recalled, his exact words were, "This is so fucked up. You need therapy. I need therapy." He regretted how harshly that came out, but the sentiment was sincere. Bruno disagreed and convinced them all that he would surely be institutionalized if he told the honest truth to a professional. Any of them would be. They’d have to figure it out on their own– it’s what they had always done. And they made it this far, right?
Leone found it best to try to keep things as normal as possible and let Bruno talk to him when he felt OK about opening up. They would take on the elephant in the room, one bite at a time, to mix a metaphor. The showerhead switched off, and Leone dashed to the bedroom. Freshly changed and beneath the covers, he steadied himself with a deep breath. He loved Bruno, and Bruno needed him. He would listen in the dark to the brave soul he’d given his life for, now bound within the body that murdered them both. The bathroom door creaked open. Bruno slipped silently into bed and stared at the ceiling.
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Leone smiles encouragingly at his lover on the neighboring pillow. Lit only by the moonlight through the curtains, he watches Bruno will his anxiety back into submission. It’s a physical act; the eyes close forcibly, brows follow suit, and lips set in a thin line. A couple of deep breaths in. Each exhale becomes less shaky by the end.
These lips are less full than the ones Bruno was born with, the lips Leone fell in love with, but these lips, and the man behind them, are alive, and Leone will take that over the alternative.
He comes in close, to crowd Bruno’s vision so that when he opens his eyes, green eyes now, all he sees is love. Affection. Understanding. Support. Two masks, “fake it until you make it” invisibly etched across their foreheads, hold each other’s gaze.
Leone has gone through some weird shit on account of his line of work, but he won’t try to pretend to understand what it is like, being trapped in someone else’s body.
Mista and Narancia tried to explain it, which helps, since Bruno hasn’t broached the subject. Leone gets the concept, but he knows there are some major gaps in vocabulary to describe Stand bullshit. Being pulled into a mirror dimension - Leone sure as shit lived it, but there are no words in the Italian language, any language, to convey the actual feeling of the experience...
So maybe it would be pointless for Bruno to talk about it, but he needs to start somewhere.
Another deep breath in, held, and released, and Bruno opens those eyes. A little shinier in the silvery light. Leone reaches out to caress that cheek, more angular but warm, soft, and definitely in need of the quick kiss Leone promptly deposits there.
“You OK?” Even though Leone really would like to know, he is convinced that Bruno hears that as a rhetorical question, which he supposes is better than thinking that Bruno is outright ignoring him.
Sincere eyes search Leone’s. Hands reach and find Leone’s, but there is that momentary hesitation on their way that breaks Leone’s heart. Those hands ended both of their lives, and Leone thinks Bruno doesn’t know how to contend with that.
“Yeah, are you?”
Leone nods quickly and messily kisses Bruno’s face, focusing his onslaught on rosy brows, eyelids, and the sides of his freckled nose. He does this so Bruno can let a tear or two fall and not have to own up to it; they can both pretend it’s just those messy kisses that sometimes wet his cheek in moments like these.
Bruno comes in closer, rearranging limbs and hooking his chin over Leone’s shoulder. He sighs.
Leone mumbles, “Mista didn’t mean it–”
Bruno forcibly hugs the breath out of Leone so he can’t finish his sentence.
“I don’t want to talk about Mista.” He shakes Leone just a little to emphasize his point, but he doesn’t let go; in fact, he pulls Leone in tighter, and nuzzles into Leone’s hair. The silence swirls around them, trying to isolate and corner Bruno, to coerce him to wrestle his demons alone, without Leone.
And that simply won’t do. Not any more. Not ever. Leone takes a gamble.
“Is there anything you do want to talk about?”
Unexpectedly, Leone’s nape can feel a grin growing even if he can’t see. “Not particularly. Unless you want to talk about plans for my vacation.”
Leone ducks out of Bruno’s embrace to look him in the eyes, the same mischievous eyes he knows and loves. He doesn’t dare linger because Bruno might realize he sees a lone tear lingering and threatening to fall. With a wry smile, he turns his attention to fussing with Bruno’s hair, gentling the clips from overlong locks. Leone keeps his eyes there as Bruno discreetly dabs away the evidence.
“You mean it?!” Once Leone is sure he’s done, he looks down again, kissing Bruno’s tear-salted nose..
Now it is Bruno’s turn to nod.
“How long?”
“Until San Gennaro’s Day.”
Leone tilts his head skeptically, “That’s an awfully long time for a Don to go without his underboss.”
A shrug. “Fugo is capable enough to cover for me. They’ll be fine.” Bruno dives into the junction between Leone’s neck and shoulder, kisses the spot thoroughly, and waits for follow-up questions. It’s inevitable when that man is on the scent of something that doesn’t sit right in his stubborn head. The police force should have cherished him when they had him. Bruno chooses to see it all as their loss and his gain - and occasionally his exasperation when he would prefer to sweep things under the rug.
Hands up in feigned surrender, Leone sighs. “Fine. I will trust your assessment of the situation.”
He feels a warm, wet tongue ticklingly blotting along his collarbone. Bruno has said that this new body can’t taste what his former tongue could. Leone supposes old habits die hard, and he lets it go with a fond smile and a kiss to Bruno’s forehead. Little does Bruno know that Leone has been thinking about places he would like them to visit together.
Milan seemed like a good option. There is little gang activity, and, more importantly, even less Stand activity there. Bruno might be able to relax a bit more. There are museums, shopping, and, of course, the Scala Opera House. Opera was what informed Leone what love really was - grand, tragic, life-changing - and their love was all that and more. He didn’t have a ring just yet, but it would be a wonderful place to start such a conversation, as equals. Partners in an adventure to have a fresh start.
Leone tucks Bruno in and rolls over to snatch his phone from the nightstand. He thumbs out a quick message while avoiding Bruno’s attempts to see the screen. Hitting send, he locks his phone and crams it under the pillows.
The tears are dried, banished by Bruno’s indomitable spirit to carry on and curiosity about Leone’s mysterious behavior. “What was that about? Did you just tell Mista to apologize?” He squirms out from under Leone. There is no longer a noticeable size difference between the two, as there used to be; in fact, Bruno is now taller than Leone, but luckily, Bruno hasn’t challenged him - yet.
“Wha–? No.” Leone shrugs. “That dumbass knows he stuck his foot in his mouth, and whether he mans up to it or not is between you and him. I am booking us a trip before you can change your mind.”
“To where?” Bruno arches one of those skinny brows.
“It’s a surprise. A day’s drive from here. Unless you feel like getting on a plane or train because I am not sure if I am ready–”
Bruno stops him there. “No.” He shakes his head resolutely, dispelling visions of that harrowing week. “A leisurely car ride would be fine.”
“And vaguely normal,” Leone chuckles. He hopes a few hours alone in a car will give them both space to talk more about, well, everything.
Bruno smiles broadly, and Leone congratulates himself as if he had just won the jackpot. It’s a different smile, sure, but he wants to get used to it. He wants it to light him up inside and out like Bruno’s former smile did.
“I like this. You taking charge is something I would like to see more often.”
“See,” Leone savors the affable moment, aiming to stretch it further, “even the way you say that makes it sound like an order.”
Bruno cradles his head with care and kisses him sweetly. “Then you heard me clearly.” He gives Leone a peck on the nose. “And I expect absolute compliance.”
“Yes, sir.”