Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

On Mondays, they met for lunch at Rodolfo’s. The logic was sound; Rodolfo’s was known for its seafood, and fishermen didn’t work on Sundays, so the dining room was usually empty without the star ingredient to draw diners in. They’d have the place to themselves, and Rodolfo was so glad to have the business that he’d overlook the sometimes unsavory conversations going on under his roof.

This particular Monday, most of the gang tucked into their meals eagerly; Rodolfo was still a fine cook even when he wasn’t preparing seafood. Only Bruno left his plate untouched, and glanced out the window with increasing frequency, until finally he cleared his throat and raised his voice to be heard over the other three: “Where’s Abbacchio?”

Mista looked at Fugo and Fugo looked at Narancia. Narancia shrugged.

“Sick?” Fugo offered.

“Nah,” said Mista, “I went out drinking with him last night, and he seemed fine then.”

Narancia slammed his hand on the table in glee. “And you’re still alive? Shit, that guy can really put it away.”

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Mista grinned. “He’s probably hung over, then.”

“No way, I’ve never even seen him hung over-”

“I don’t think he has the time,” interrupted Fugo, in a strangely quiet voice. He was staring at the untouched second carafe of house wine, the one they always ordered because otherwise none of them would get very much of the first. Abbacchio would drink the second one by himself and then go to work on whatever the four others had left over, and none of them thought to question this arrangement. It didn’t seem to affect his duties, and he was more relaxed when he had a couple of drinks in him.

They should have thought about it more closely, in retrospect.

He didn’t show up at all that day, or the day after that. Bruno went to his apartment and cautiously zipped himself inside when there was no answer. Empty. The bed had been slept in, the dishes recently eaten off of and piled in the sink. He was probably still alive, then, although Bruno wouldn’t rule out the possibility that someone else was using the apartment. It just wasn’t like Abbacchio to disappear like this - he was unwaveringly loyal, and even when he vocally disagreed with Bruno, he would faithfully follow his orders. Something had to have happened.

On the evening of the third day, Bruno was getting ready for bed when he heard a clatter against the window. He turned to investigate and heard another clatter, saw a small object, a pebble or scrap of rubbish, strike the pane. Crossing over to the side and looking out at an angle, always conscious of the possibility of attack from a rival gang or ambitious individual, he squinted down at the dark street and saw Abbacchio preparing a third throw.

He sighed and descended the staircase to the entranceway, opened the front door and shouted, “I have a doorbell, you know.”

Abbacchio looked at him blankly. “Couldn’t find it,” he mumbled.

Bruno glanced suspiciously at him and at the doorbell, there on the wall by the side of the door where all doorbells are normally located. He motioned Abbacchio indoors, heard him stumble on the stairs behind him, became aware in the enclosed space of how much he reeked of liquor, how incredibly drunk he was. They’d all seen him like this before, of course, though infrequently - he usually drank to a comfortable tipsy level and stayed at that point. Right now, though, he seemed barely aware of his surroundings.

They entered Bruno’s apartment and Abbacchio blinked in the glare of the lamp, stood in the middle of the room, slightly swaying. He looked tired and washed out; it took Bruno a moment to realize that he wasn’t wearing makeup as he usually did. His eyebrows were white-gray against his face without pencil, he had a mist of unshaven stubble that was barely visible on his pale skin. He looked at Bruno with no indication that he even recognized him.

“Where have you been?” Bruno asked, trying to keep his voice steady, neutral.

“Around,” he slurred, with a shrug that set him off balance.

“No you haven’t.” It had been days now, had he been drunk this entire time? Bruno approached him and was surprised to see him drop clumsily to his knees, shocked when he began fumbling with the button and zipper on Bruno’s slacks. “What are you doing?”

“Wanna suck you off.”

“No.” He pushed Abbacchio away with a firm hand on his forehead, held him at arm’s length for a moment, then let go. The man before him lurched forwards and crumpled to the floor, where he lay still. His breathing deepened and Bruno realized that he’d fallen asleep and tried to rouse him with no success. Swearing to himself, he brought out Sticky Fingers, and between the two of them they were able to deposit Abbacchio on the apartment’s one bed. He sprawled there, unresponsive, as Bruno muscled a blanket out from under him, turned his head to the side so that he wouldn’t choke if he vomited.

Bruno slept on the couch that night, equally angry and concerned.

He awoke to the sound of Abbacchio noisily vomiting up the contents of his stomach in the small bathroom. His back ached, the couch wasn’t designed for sleeping on, but he got up and stretched, boiled water for coffee in the kitchenette and toasted some bread. He was halfway through breakfast when Abbacchio appeared, still pale, eyes bloodshot, but more present than the night before. Bruno pulled out a chair for him at the table and he sat down gingerly, rested his head in his hands.

“What happened last night?” he said after a few minutes, in a voice that was weak and apprehensive.

“What do you remember.”

A pause. “...Not much.” There was a cautiousness in his tone; between Abbacchio’s actions the previous evening and his attitude now, Bruno was beginning to put a few things together.

“You passed out.” Visible relief. “I put you in bed and slept out here.” Abbacchio nodded and stood up, headed for the kitchenette where he poured himself not a cup of coffee, but a generous portion of gin in a juice glass.

“Just taking the edge off,” he explained as he sat back down.

Bruno frowned, lips pressed firmly together. “How long have you been drunk?”

“What day is it?”

“Thursday.”

Abbacchio took a sip. “I mean, what’s the date.”

Bruno jerked the glass out of his hand, splashing gin all over the table. He stomped over to the sink and poured out what was left, as well of the rest of the contents of the bottle. Abbacchio watched him in shock.

“We’re staying here until you’re sober.” He took the rest of his liquor down from the shelf, opened all the bottles and emptied them into the sink as well, creating a foul smelling cocktail in the drain. No temptations. He’d have to restock later, but he wasn’t much of a drinker himself. Abbacchio still stared at him, obviously fuming, but holding his tongue. Even now, he was following orders, like a good soldier.

“Fine,” he finally said, through clenched teeth. He left the table dramatically and stormed off to the bedroom; Bruno grumbled under his breath and looked at the final bottle in his hand. A very fine bottle of scotch, older than him and having set him back a good five hundred pounds when he’d had a job in the United Kingdom earlier that year. It would be a shame to get rid of this one before he was able to enjoy it. He finally ended up wedging it in his fireproof safe, on top of the one picture he had of himself as a baby, cradled by his parents, and the stack of cash he kept on hand in case of emergency.

He’d gotten where he was essentially by not dying. “Gangster” wasn’t a job he’d ever considered as a child, he’d just assumed he would become a fisherman, but he’d been good enough at staying safe and not asking the wrong questions that he was now in charge of his own squad, as unprepared as he was for this responsibility. And he found himself acting as a therapist as much as a boss, he tended to gather troubled children of the kind he’d once been, seesawing between practiced toughness and the need for emotional support. Abbacchio hadn’t caused him much trouble yet, though - he had an attitude, and he could get drawn into squabbles between the younger ones, but he was mostly past the drama of the teen years, and usually kept to himself when it came to personal matters.

And now here he was, sulking in the bedroom with the shades drawn. Bruno sat carefully on the bed, put on his Caring Older Brother demeanor. “Abbacchio.” No response. “Leone.” A head turned, two glazed eyes focused on him. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Something has to have happened, why else would you-”

“I drink until I can deal with things. Then I drink to stay that way. I just fucked up this time.” ‘Fucked up’ was an understatement, if he’d really stayed that drunk for that long.

“What can’t you deal with?” said Bruno, in the voice he’d use after one of Fugo’s meltdowns, or when Narancia was struggling with a difficult task.

“Everything.” Simple, and final, and explaining nothing.

“Leone, talk to me.” Bruno reached out a hand to touch his shoulder, but Abbacchio rolled away, lay facedown on the bed with a pillow clenched over his ears.

“I already told you.” Well, this was going nowhere. Give him some time to cool down, and then try again. He left the bedroom and busied himself with the small chores of the day - cleaning up after breakfast, showering, opening the mail. Abbacchio stayed in bed all morning but emerged for lunch and managed to keep down half a sandwich. He moved slowly, senses dulled by the hangover; Bruno tried to engage him in a game of checkers in the early afternoon, but he made inexplicable moves and dropped the pieces, and they gave up halfway through. In the late afternoon, he took a shower, and at least looked a little better when he poked his head out from the bathroom, hair wet and a towel around his waist, to ask if he could borrow some clothes.

Bruno was careful to avoid the vices that had brought down many of his peers. He drank infrequently, never took drugs, didn’t gamble, accepted the services of the occasional call boy when they were gifted to him but mostly stayed away from prostitution. Too much of any of these could take over your life, as was evident by the shell of a man currently dripping all over his bathroom floor. But he had a weakness for clothes. As he’d grown up and had more money at his disposal, he’d poured most of it into the coffers of designer labels, and at this point, had quite the collection of high-quality pieces. And all of it was custom-tailored, fitted to his specific body. Abbacchio was a little taller than he was, broader in the chest and more muscular in the shoulders.

“I don’t think I have anything that’ll fit you,” and it was another hour before Mista showed up, collected Abbacchio’s keys, and returned with a bag full of clothing.

“I tried to pick out some comfortable stuff,” he said, in the overly-cheerful voice of someone who wanted nothing to do with the situation at hand. “You’ve got some pretty weird clothes.” Bruno prepared himself for a crack about Mista’s “endless fucking parade of cropped sweaters”, and possibly having to separate the two, but Abbacchio, sitting uncomfortably on the couch in the clothes he’d arrived in, simply glanced at Mista and accepted the bag without a word. He pawed through it and winced at a sweatsuit with the logo of the Napoli Police Academy, but pulled it out and went to the bathroom to change.

“Right, well, see ya around,” said Mista to the closed door, then said his goodbyes to Bruno and left. And that ended up being the last conversation for the time being, they ate dinner in silence and Abbacchio went to bed early, dodging any attempt by Bruno to discuss what was going on.

One day down. How long did it take for someone to sober up, anyway?

When Bruno woke up the next morning, he peered into the bedroom and saw Abbacchio still in bed, tangled in the covers, sweating and shaking violently.

Chapter Text

He’d seen things like this before.

Polpo was generous in fulfilling his request not to work in the drug trade; he knew that his squad brought in less revenue than some of the others, but it was enough. He’d worked with other squads over the years, though, and he’d seen the addicts they’d accumulated - desperate people, willing to do absolutely anything for another hit. And the ones who actually went into withdrawal would be trembling and aching, their bodies in crisis from the loss of the substance they’d grown to depend on. “Junk sick” was the casual term for it, it was described variously from “the worst flu you’ve ever had” to “hell on fucking earth.”

He had no idea it could happen with alcohol.

Bruno was starting to wonder if he’d gotten himself in over his head on this one. He’d anticipated a few days of Abbacchio moping around the apartment and then everything going back to normal, but this was an unexpected challenge. At the very least, though, he knew how to deal with the flu. Aspirin. Fluids. He filled a glass with water and dug through the medicine cabinet, knocked on the frame of the bedroom door to announce himself and sat gently on the edge of the bed.

“You awake?” he whispered. Abbacchio turned his head gingerly, looked at him with glassy eyes. “Come on, sit up.” This was evidently a difficult request; he watched the other man struggle to lift his torso from the mattress and finally set the water and aspirin on the nightstand and delicately helped him into an upright position. Abbacchio’s hands shook too much to hold the glass and Bruno had to carefully tip a stream of water between his shivering lips, it took a few tries before he actually swallowed one of the small white tablets, but at least then they’d accomplished something. This was a solvable problem.

“You might feel better after a shower.”

“Okay.” Hoarse, passionless, not even an agreement so much as the easiest response. A slow shuffle towards the bathroom, Bruno acting as a brace against Abbacchio’s unsteady gait. Bruno turning on the shower, carefully testing the temperature, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Abbacchio clumsily stripping out of the sweatsuit, which was more sweat than suit at this point. No surprises there, they’d all seen him in various stages of undress when-. Shit. When he’d been drinking.

In retrospect, there were a lot of warning signs. The drinking had just been his personal quirk - Fugo’s temperamental, Mista has that thing with the number four, Narancia’s dumber than paint. Abbacchio drinks like a fish. It had been funny at times, annoying at others. There had been the times he’d passed out. The times he was even crankier than usual until he had a drink in his hand. When everything was considered together, it seemed clear that Abbacchio had a serious problem with alcohol, but Bruno hadn’t even considered the idea until this week. And it was his job to connect the dots like this, how could he have missed something so obvious?

The shower had gone on long enough; Bruno reached in and turned off the water, collected the still-shivering man and draped towel after towel over him in an attempt to ward off the chill. He’d never had siblings of his own, considered his squad to be younger brothers of a sort but ones that could largely take care of themselves. He certainly didn’t think he’d ever be a father - his loyalty and sense of responsibility belonged fully to the mob and he wasn’t the sort of person who could easily focus on more than one task. Nevertheless, the thought that struck him as he helped Abbacchio get dressed, led him to the couch and wrapped the spare blanket around him, and began combing his hair, was that this was like taking care of a child. A tall, foulmouthed child with a right hook that landed like a sledgehammer, but a child nonetheless. Vulnerable. Lost.

When Bruno had recruited him, scraped him out of the drunk tank (there it was again, another clue he’d missed) because it seemed like a good idea to have a former cop on the payroll, his hair was barely longer than regulation length for a police officer, just starting to grow out. He hadn’t cut it since, perhaps in a symbolic attempt to leave that part of his life behind, or perhaps out of sheer inertia. Whatever the reasoning was, it took a long time to untangle and was nearly dry by the time Bruno finished and switched to the task of trying to get food into him. There was a pot of yogurt in the fridge, thankfully - he made a mental note that he was running low on food, he usually ate out and hadn’t anticipated spending this much time at home - and the child obediently swallowed, even allowed himself to be spoon fed after the mechanics of delivering yogurt to mouth with shaking hands proved to be too difficult. And then, it was naptime.

Or naptime of a sort. What it ended up being was an afternoon of Abbacchio drifting into unconsciousness and then jerking awake, confused and agitated, and the cycle beginning again. Bruno had pushed an armchair into the bedroom and sat there doing paperwork, planning to be on hand just in case - just in case what?

“I’m going to die,” Abbacchio said in a surprisingly clear voice around early evening, startling Bruno.

“No you’re not,” he responded, in a voice he hoped was reassuring, betraying none of his actual fear.

“It’s okay.” Blunt, casual, and in a reassuring tone himself, as if Bruno had apologized for forgetting his birthday, as if his possible demise was a mundane event. No worries, everyone. He’s only going to die. No, he’s not, damn it, he’s just being dramatic. People don’t die from going sober. Do they? Bruno actually had no idea.

He went back to the paperwork, a large pile of shipping manifests. The mob controlled everything going in and out of the ports, including which contraband was allowed in, and usually, he preferred to have Fugo go over this kind of thing with him. He was great at spotting faulty sums, impossible weights, suspicious patterns, and it was taking Bruno hours longer to inspect the numbers with his fifth grade education and poor grasp of math. But Fugo was sensitive, terrible at handling emotional stress. He’d have a hard time being there. He definitely shouldn’t be there when Abbacchio dies.

He’s not going to die.

Is he? Concerned, Bruno roused him from another shallow sleep, got him upright with a weak grunt of protest. Walked him around the apartment as if keeping him moving would keep him alive. He definitely had no idea what he was doing at this point, maybe they needed an actual doctor, but the doctor the mob used was frankly fucking creepy and did more harm than good half the time. And Bruno didn’t know how to find a civilian doctor, he’d never needed to, did you just show up at the hospital?

“Tired.” Abbacchio was stumbling, having trouble keeping his eyes open. Just sleepy, he’s not going to die. Don’t let him die. Bruno brought him back to the bedroom and watched him lie down, curl up in a ball under the covers. Another short shaking fit and then he was asleep, breaths deep and even, and he stayed asleep while Bruno worked into the night, scribbling sums in the margins of the shipping manifests, remaining vigilant for the slightest sound or movement from the bed.

By midnight, it seemed that it was probably safe enough for Bruno himself to get some sleep. Another day down.

“How are you feeling today?”

“Okay.”

He didn’t sound “okay”, he sounded like shit, but Bruno supposed it was a relative term; he certainly sounded better than yesterday. And he actually got out of bed under his own power, had breakfast, fed himself the rest of the yogurt. His hands were shaking, but not as much as before. And even though he went right back to bed afterwards, it was definitely a step up, right? They’d be back to work in no time.

Bruno peeked in to the bedroom mid morning. Abbacchio looked back at him blankly, lying unmoving in the dim light from behind the shades. He allowed himself to be roused for lunch and took Bruno’s suggestion to stay out of bed for the afternoon, looked out the window, or rather, sat with his face pointed at the window but his gaze fixed with the same glassy stare. Bruno again asked how he was feeling and got an “I’m fine” in response. Nothing about any of this seemed “fine”.

Mista rang the bell that evening with the delivery of the groceries Bruno had asked him to get earlier that day. Bruno went down to the front door to meet him, relieved to talk to someone who would actually respond. “How did today go?” he asked, looking through the bag Mista had handed him - bread, salami, some decent looking pears, another pot of yogurt. It was almost bizarrely mundane.

“Oh, all right,” said Mista. He had been handling daily operations over the past few days, a job which he was eager to do but for which he was almost entirely unprepared. “We went and collected protection money this morning, and then I tried to go see Polpo but, uh, he didn’t believe that I was in charge, and he wouldn’t talk to me.” He stopped there, looking slightly embarrassed.

“...Is that it?” Bruno prompted.

“Nnnno.” A sheepish smile. “It was really nice out, so we went to the park.”

“Ah. Okay.”

“We got ice cream, it was fun.” Mista anxiously scratched the back of his head with the sudden realization that a pleasant field trip was his major legacy as squad boss.

“I see.” It did sound fun, certainly more so than spending days on end cooped up in a tiny apartment with a sulking alcoholic. He hoped that all of his work was worth it. “Thank you, Mista, I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.” Bruno turned to go back upstairs, leaving Mista there on the stoop to contemplate his life choices. The damned park. There’d been a pleasant breeze blowing in through the window all day, not that Abbacchio had seemed to care, and the bougainvillea would be in bloom, it must have been quite nice, and-

“Shit.” He dropped the groceries on the floor and jogged towards the table where Abbacchio sat pouring a drink from the bottle of scotch. How the hell did he even get into the safe?, Bruno thought. Oh. Fucking Moody Blues.. He should have just zipped it into the wall. Yet again, he wasn’t thinking; he’d missed something vitally important.

“No,” he said in a warning tone, as if to a dog. Abbacchio brought the glass to his lips and Bruno darted across the room, tried to pull it away in a brief tug-of-war and finally just unzipped Abbacchio’s hand. The glass hit the table with a clattering thunk, sloshing expensive whisky as it landed. Abbacchio snarled and grabbed at it with his other hand so Bruno unzipped that one too, a little sloppier from their struggle, the zipper line spiraling out along his wrist.

“I just need one drink,” he said, coldly furious.

“You can’t stop at one,” Bruno explained. What a cliche this had become, but cliches had to come from somewhere.

“I need it,” he insisted. “Everything hurts.”

“Take an aspirin.”

“I said everything hurts. You don’t fucking get it.” Angry as hell, with far more emotion than he’d displayed in the preceding days.

“I’m trying. I want to help you-”

“You’re doing a shitty fucking job.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Bruno snapped. He’d put his life on hold, opened up his home, and this was the response he got. If Abbacchio thought he was just going to sit back passively and-

“Fuck off.” Abbacchio kicked the table, hard, handless arms crossed over his chest in defiance. The bottle of scotch tipped and rolled sideways, crashed to the floor in a shower of glass and amber liquid. Five hundred pounds, dripping in between the cracks of the floorboards and soaking into the throw rug, while this overgrown child sat there scowling at him. Bruno had had enough.

“Fine,” he said, and marched down to the corner store, returning moments later with a large paper bag. “Fine,” he said again, reattached Abbacchio’s hands, slid the bottle out of the bag - a plastic jug of the shittiest, cheapest vodka he could find, closer to industrial cleaning fluid than to something potable. “Drink, I don’t care.” He unscrewed the cap and slammed the bottle on the table, turning his face away from the unpalatable smell of the liquid. “I’m done with you.”

And he left. He was going to go have a real dinner in a nice restaurant, maybe the bistro a few blocks away, the one run by an actual French chef. It was Saturday night and the place was crowded, but they knew who he was, they made room for him, served him the tenderloin that they’d set aside for any VIP guests who might arrive. The chef himself came out with a fine bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, on the house for monsieur Buccalleti, popped the cork and poured a small amount for him to taste.

Peppery, full-bodied, robust but incredibly drinkable. A perfect match for the steak, but wonderful on its own.

He suddenly felt as if he’d rather be drinking vinegar.

Shit. He’d screwed up again, let his emotion get the better of him when he should have stayed cool-headed, in charge. Shit shit shit. Abbacchio had probably drunk himself blind by now, they’d have to start all over, it might take a week this time. Shit. He gave his apologies to the chef and took his leave, strode quickly back to the apartment, embarrassment and concern mounting with every step.

Abbacchio still sat at the table, head down, one arm curled over his eyes and the other outstretched. The vodka was untouched. Bruno cleared his throat. “Sorry.”

The man at the table didn’t look at him, didn’t even move, but after a moment mumbled, exhaustedly, “This is really hard.”

“I know.” He drew up the other chair, put a reassuring hand on Abbacchio’s shoulder, but pulled back when he flinched, muscles stiffening in defense.

“Don’t.”

“I-”

“Just… don’t.” He turned his head away from Bruno, staring off towards the far wall. “It was bad enough having to work with you every day, and now you’ve seen me like this, and I just... can’t deal with you touching me.”

Bruno sighed. He was hoping they wouldn’t have to address this. “Do you hate me that much?” he said, lightly, trying to give them an out.

“...No.” There it was. “That’s the problem.”

“Oh.” It was out in the open now. Silence. “Is that what,” he waved his arm at the vodka, the scotch shellacking the floor, “all this is about?”

“No.” Abbacchio actually turned back to face him, head still resting on the table, eyes a thousand miles away. “I mean, I guess that’s… part of it, but, it’s really everything. I can’t handle it.”

He sounded lost. Not confused, but defeated, unable to even consider moving forward. “What can I do to help?” Bruno asked, trying not to sound condescending, attempting to be a friend.

“I don’t know. Nothing. There isn’t anything.” He turned his face towards the table again, took a deep breath. “...I don’t know why I’m alive.”

Silence.

“You don’t need a reason,” Bruno finally said through the shock.

Abbacchio winced. “Stop being so nice, I know I don’t deserve you-”

“That’s not true,” Bruno interrupted.

“Stop. You’re my boss, and-”

Bruno had to laugh. “Do you know how many people in the mob are sleeping with each other? This isn’t the police force-”

“STOP.” Bruno fell silent. “I don’t want to be here any more. Get Mista to babysit me.”

“Mista could use a break.”

“Fugo, then.”

“I’m not going to make Fugo-”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Because I care about you,” said Bruno, without thinking. Abbacchio stared at him. “I care about you, and I don’t have the… luxury to figure out what that means right now. This isn’t easy for me, either.” Being open like this also didn’t come easily, he rubbed his fingertips together nervously as he tried to find the words. “And I can only do so much at once, I can’t be your doctor and your boss and” your boyfriend. Lover. Whatever they’d call it. “Whatever else you need.” He wasn’t even sure if he’d want that. It had been a long time since he’d thought about himself.

Silence. Bruno began to wonder if he’d said the wrong thing, if he’d have to revise his statement, but after a moment’s contemplation, Abbacchio sat up straight, as professional as he could look with the persistent tremors still wracking his body.

“Be the boss,” he said. “I can follow orders.”

“Stop drinking.” Abbacchio frowned, anxious. Too much to ask at the moment. “Okay, smaller steps. Don’t drink tonight. Have dinner and go to bed.”

He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Another day down.

Chapter Text

Bruno jolted awake at the sound of a door being opened. It took a moment for his vision to swim into focus, and for his brain to piece together that it was just Abbacchio retrieving a broom from the closet to sweep up the broken glass from last night’s misadventure.

“You don’t have to-” he mumbled, still half asleep.

“Let me.” Bruno nodded and drifted back into slumber to the soft swish of broom straws against the floorboards, the tinkle of glass shards joining a pile. He awoke again about half an hour later and reluctantly roused himself into a sitting position; the past several nights on the couch were really doing a number on him in terms of accumulated loss of rest and comfort. Abbacchio was now washing the floor, alternating between scrubbing and rinsing - was that his only dish towel? Best to leave it, he’s making an effort.

They had breakfast together, toast and fruit and coffee, a normal meal without incident, albeit a bit quiet. Abbacchio seemed somewhat softer, more subdued, and it took Bruno until midway through his second cup of coffee to realize that this was Leone unmasked, without the harsh makeup and imposing clothing and the layer of anger and drunkenness on top of it all. Was this the first time Bruno had seen him actually sober? Sitting there across the table, dressed in jeans and a crumpled gray t-shirt from the bag Mista had brought, he actually looked like a twenty year old for once.

And sad. Quiet and sad. Bruno had not only missed the alcohol problem, he’d missed the deeper complication that was compounding it, though to be fair it had been hidden behind layers of protective camouflage. This would apparently be something they’d have to deal with going forwards.

“How are you feeling today?” he asked, carefully.

Abbacchio looked up at him, wounded, almost breakable. “My goddamned head is fucking killing me.”

Bruno had to laugh internally as he went to fetch the aspirin. Whatever else might change, the Leone at the core of all the artifice was still a foulmouthed asshole, which, Bruno was surprised to realize, he really enjoyed about him.

He called Polpo after breakfast to explain where he’d been the past couple of days and to give his permission for Mista to handle things for as long as he’d be out of action. Polpo, predictably, thought the entire situation was funny, because Polpo, as always, was an asshole. But Polpo was also his boss, and he half-listened to him babble on as he acted the boss himself and kept an eye on his subordinate who was sitting at the table with the still-open bottle of shitty vodka within arm’s reach. And closer now, he was leaning towards it, Bruno got ready to drop the phone, but- he was just screwing the cap on, putting it on the shelf where the rest of the alcohol used to be with a slight look of regret.

“I don’t actually want that,” said Bruno, covering the mouthpiece of the handset as Polpo droned on in his ear. Abbacchio removed the bottle and mimed as if to pour it down the sink, raising his pale eyebrows in question. Bruno nodded. “Buy me more scotch instead.” An actual smile, slight and fleeting, but real. Something else that he was surprised to realize he enjoyed.

It wouldn’t be the worst idea, he thought later, daydreaming in the midst of working on those damned shipping manifests. Since he’d become squad boss, he’d seen relationships as the kind of attachment that could only work against him, an unnecessary distraction from his career, but he did, sometimes, feel a little lonely. And he did have to admit that despite all of the trouble, it had been a little nice to have someone else around the apartment, and that despite his best efforts to drink it away, the man who was currently sprawled out on his couch, flipping through a magazine, still had the body of a cop fresh out of the academy, and that was a little nice as well.

But- no, there were still a lot of reasons it would be a bad idea. Abbacchio was so newly sober, anything between them would complicate that; Bruno didn’t want to be the single person in charge of keeping him that way, or a substitute for the crutch the drink had been, a replacement addiction. He didn’t want to get into a relationship because he thought it would make Leone happy, if that was even possible, or because it would be all too easy to take advantage of a troubled friend’s feelings for him. Everything was still far too complicated, he needed more time to to figure things out. But- it could happen. The realization was a private thought to contemplate and savor.

The day progressed fairly quickly. Bruno had his paperwork to finish and then instructions to give to Mista, another long call to Polpo. Abbacchio mostly sat around the apartment, but with more visible boredom and less aimlessness than the day before. They played checkers after dinner and Abbacchio actually won most of the games this time, which was usually the case - only Fugo was better than him, and Fugo mostly refused to play, declaring it “too boring” and trying to get everyone to play chess instead. If everything continued to go well overnight, Bruno figured he could safely go back to work the next day.

It was still fairly early when Abbacchio went to bed; at the very least, one of them had been getting plenty of sleep. But he’d done well today, hadn’t needed much care or guidance. Bruno began to feel guilty that after promising to be the boss the previous night, he’d spent most of the day on legitimate boss duties, though things had turned out okay anyway. He should at least give him some positive reinforcement, though.

He entered the dark bedroom, heard the creak of the springs as he sat on the edge of the mattress, the rustle of blankets as the man in bed turned to face him. “You did a good job today,” he said, in what he hoped was an encouraging tone of voice.

“Thanks.” Bruno started to stand, steeling himself for another night on that damned couch, but was stopped by a single audacious word, a now-or-never request: “Stay.”

Absolutely not, he thought. Not now, bad idea. He swung his legs up on to the bed, lay down, ordered himself to stop and finally reached an agreement between his brain and his body to stay above the covers. “Is this okay?” he whispered to his friend and coworker Leone, draping an arm over him and feeling a brief surge of excitement to sense another body fitting itself back against his.

“Yeah.” This is a really bad idea. A hand, still trembling slightly, reaching up to cover his own. I’ll just stay until he’s asleep. Comfort. His last thought before he fell asleep himself was I’m a terrible fucking boss.

He woke up alone, still on top of the covers, having slept straight through the night. Shit. No sound from anywhere in the apartment. Double shit. In listing the things that could go wrong, he hadn’t considered “Abbacchio disappears again” as a possibility, but he’d been fairly sloppy about this whole thing, hadn’t he? He’d never wanted to be the boss anyway, didn’t have any grand vision for the future or desire for control. His life in the mob was one he’d fallen into by default, and he’d tried to make the best of it, but there were always going to be ways in which he fell short.

Like losing someone who needed your help, he thought, and quickly amended that. He’s not necessarily “lost”. He could have just gone out for the newspaper. But the morning wore on and he still didn’t come back. He was gone. Shit. And, Bruno noticed, as his eyes fell on a conspicuously empty spot on his dresser, that asshole took my Valentino sunglasses.

There wasn’t much to do now but to go to work, what day was it, anyway? He counted backwards in his head, Monday already. And nearly lunchtime, he’d best meet up with the rest of them at Rodolfo’s.

Fugo perked up when he walked through the door. “How’s-” he started, then saw Bruno was alone and correctly read the “we are not discussing this” look on his face, and shut his mouth. Mista followed up with a “Huh? Oohhh.” and Narancia repeated “What? What the fuck is going on?” until Fugo pulled him aside and explained the situation in a brusque whisper. They were all quiet after that, at least until the waiter came to take their order, in the middle of which, the door opened and Abbacchio walked in.

He was back to the black clothes and full makeup, freshly shaved and showered, wearing his usual style like a suit of armor and striding into the room like he was walking the runway in Hell. Mista fumbled in the middle of his order but caught himself and managed to continue as if everything was normal. “...garden salad, and uh, one carafe of house wine. I mean, two.”

“One,” said Abbacchio, taking the empty seat at the table. He removed the sunglasses he’d borrowed from Bruno and slid them across the table; he smelled like nail polish and hairspray, but, importantly, not at all like liquor.

Bruno smiled at him. He smiled back, slight and fleeting, but real.