A/N: For BruAbba week day 4, wound up combining comfort/quiet/rest prompts :'D

Schmoop warning, bc author doesn't know how to stop and BruAbba makes my heart gooey.

Night Go Slow

Abbacchio wakes up by rolling to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty and cold when it should be warm and full of Buccellati.

It's unpleasant, and he wrinkles his nose as he squints open his eyes. There's no way it's morning yet, and the still-dark windows prove it. A glance over towards the alarm clock helps, too, and Abbacchio confirms that there are still a couple hours before sunrise.

This begs a couple questions. The most pressing of which is: where is Buccellati? Followed closely by: why is Buccellati awake in the first place?

Abbacchio has his suspicions about the answers to both questions. Since Buccellati isn't at his desk, bent over more paperwork (that Abbacchio had already wrestled him away from twice earlier), then that only leaves two options. Either Buccellati is away on sudden gang business, or….

Sitting up is something Abbacchio immediately regrets. The comforter falls off of his shoulders with the movement, leaving his bare torso exposed to the chill of the room. No thanks. Before he climbs out of bed he wraps the duvet around himself as a toasty shield, and keeps it there as he stands.

The door to their little balcony is still latched, but that doesn't mean much, what with Sticky Fingers and all. Abbacchio opens the door, and sure enough, there's Buccellati.

Relief seeps into Abbacchio at the sight of him – he hadn't realized how actually worried he was that Buccellati snuck out for something dangerous. But he's here, thankfully, in his apparent favorite place to think.

…Or overthink, depending on the day. And today sure seems like one of those days.

Buccellati's shoulders are tense beneath his t-shirt, his hands too-poised on the railing, his back ramrod straight. He has to be cold, what with those thin pajama pants and bare feet in this downright frigid early-spring breeze.

At any rate, Abbacchio's starting to feel cold just looking at him. So he lets the balcony door fall mostly shut behind himself as he steps up behind Buccellati, bedspread and all. He wraps his arms around Buccellati's shoulders, bringing the blanket along with them so as to sufficiently cocoon them both.

Buccellati is chilled to the touch, and he lets out a deep sigh at the contact, sinking into it with a shiver. "Leone," he mumbles.

"Bruno," Abbacchio answers back, dropping a kiss on his cheek, because it's late and they're alone and he can. "What are you doing up?" And Abbacchio can make an educated guess as to the reason, but maybe by striking up a conversation, he'll be able to help – or at least start to coax Buccellati back to bed.

"Did I wake you?" Buccellati asks instead of any satisfactory answer, derailing Abbacchio's plan. Curse that kneejerk kindness of his.

Oh well. Abbacchio will make do.

"No." Abbacchio steps in even closer, so that his front is pressed entirely along Buccellati's back. He really is cold – how much longer was he planning to stand out here like this? "You're freezing."

"Mm." That's barely an acknowledgement, but Buccellati does pull his hands away from the railing in favor of folding them over his stomach. Now they're both fully encased in the comforter.

Where Buccellati's melancholy mood is concerned, though, Abbacchio isn't about to give up without a fight. So he tries again. "What are you thinking about?" Because there's very definitely something on Buccellati's mind, and whatever it is, it's keeping him awake and out in the cold – and away from Abbacchio.

Buccellati shivers again, most likely from the warmth returning to him. "Nothing," he says, in a way that's too calculated to be believable.

Great, now Abbacchio has to debate the pros and cons of calling him out on that obvious lie. No matter which he chooses, he's unlikely to get a straight answer. He's well aware that there are some things that Buccellati isn't allowed to tell him, because Abbacchio's status in their gang is low, thanks to his former career.

And then there are the things that Buccellati can't tell him for other, more personal reasons. There's some ache, deep in him. Abbacchio only recognizes it because he's felt it in himself, and he has no idea what's causing it in Buccellati – the source is too buried for him to touch just yet.

Maybe he's still too rough around the edges himself.

All he knows is that, even if he's not much help, he'll stay by Buccellati's side and soothe what he can. It's the least he can do.

So Abbacchio settles for the middle ground between calling it out and letting it slide: "Are you sure?" The question is posed with concern.

Buccellati, of course, doesn't answer. He leans his head back, resting it on Abbacchio's shoulder. He's quiet for a long moment, and in the interim, all Abbacchio can do is hold him. He's warm and solid and alive, blue eyes staring out at the city, or up at the stars.

Abbacchio noses at his hair, kissing the side of his head. No matter Buccellati's mood, Abbacchio feels lucky to know him.

"…Am I a good person?"

"Yes." Abbacchio doesn't even have to think about the answer, and forces himself not to think about what an out of place question that is. That, of all things, isn't something Buccellati should be insecure about ever.

Doesn't he know what a positive impact he has on the people – on the world around him? By merely existing, Buccellati has given Abbacchio a renewed sense of purpose. And Buccellati's personality makes him feel like he's not as rotten as he thought; like there's more good in him than he realizes. Abbacchio can see that the others feel the same.

Now if only he could say this. Put it into physical words. But his throat stops up when he thinks about it too long, and he doesn't know if a sobbing, probably incoherent declaration of love will do much.

There's another sigh from Buccellati, even heavier than the first. His body is back to being all tense, and at a loss for what else to do, Abbacchio squeezes him tight. Wrapped up in Buccellati is where he'd live, if he had the choice, and he hopes this is as much of a comfort to him, too.

In his arms, Buccellati starts to shift. Abbacchio loosens his hold just enough to allow Buccellati room to turn around, grateful when he immediately sinks back into a hug, face-to-face this time. One of his arms wraps up around Abbacchio's shoulders, and the other goes around his waist, pulling them flush together.

Buccellati's face is pressed into Abbacchio's chest, dark eyelashes fluttering against his neck.

Readjusting his hold so that the blanket stays around them both goes well with holding Buccellati as close as possible. Abbacchio breathes in the man in his arms, kissing at his hair. If this is all he can do, then he will.

"I lied," Buccellati mutters, sounding dramatically miserable – at least by his standards. Probably an attempt to lighten the mood. "It's not nothing; it's everything."

Even if it is partially a joke, Abbacchio knows that means it's halfway not. He dips his head more, so that his mouth brushes Buccellati's forehead as he speaks. "I know how that goes." He really is all too familiar with having too much on your mind to sleep.

An amused noise that sounds almost like a laugh leaves Buccellati, and he heaves another deep breath into Abbacchio's skin. There's something bittersweet about this whole thing that Abbacchio can't quite put his finger on, although he's sure it mainly stems from his inability to be much help at all.

"…I'm tired, Leone." Any humor or drama is gone from Buccellati's voice, leaving it thin and weary.

Abbacchio's chest pangs. He feels that sentence to his bones; knows that its meaning goes far deeper than he wants to think about. More than anything, he wants Buccellati to not feel that way, but fuck if it isn't beyond his capability to achieve that right now. "We should go back to bed, then," is all he says in the end.

"Yeah." But Buccellati makes no move. "Probably." His fingers tangle in Abbacchio's hair to stroke through it as best they can in this position, pulling some of it free from the blanket.

Abbacchio shivers at the feeling, kissing Buccellati's cheek. It's an inadequate gesture, he thinks, to convey just what Buccellati means to him, and how badly Abbacchio longs to help him – Buccellati has given him a life, after all.

Guilt crashes cold into Abbacchio's stomach. Can't he do a better job of repaying that? Is he even trying?

"I might not be able to sleep, though," Buccellati admits.

Promptly, Abbacchio tries to kick the guilt out. This isn't about him feeling sorry for himself. This is about Buccellati. "You should at least get out of the cold."

Buccellati's arm unwinds from around Abbacchio's shoulders, sliding down to join the other one wrapped around his waist. "I am."

There's the feeling of lips pressing a kiss to Abbacchio's collarbone, and he suddenly feels a lot warmer. Whatever weight Buccellati had put behind those two simple words, Abbacchio knows he absolutely doesn't deserve.

"You still need rest," Abbacchio mumbles.

"Hm…." Buccellati sags against him, fingers brushing nonsense patterns over the skin of Abbacchio's back. He's gone lazy and quiet, which is a good sign – or at least, Abbacchio hopes it is.

A soft sort of sadness still hangs over Buccellati, though, and the nighttime breeze is starting to penetrate their comforter cocoon. So Abbacchio takes a step back, untangling himself from Buccellati for now, but leaving the blanket wrapped around them both as best he can.

He doesn't give Buccellati time to question him as he crouches, slides one arm behind his knees, the other behind his back, and sweeps him up into a bridal carry.

Buccellati latches onto him automatically, arms wrapping around. "Leone –"

"Bedtime." Abbacchio has to focus all of his attention on carrying Buccellati the few steps while not dropping the blanket – because if he focuses on that light in Buccellati's eyes, or the little grin on his face, Abbacchio is liable to combust. He can already feel a faint blush on his cheeks.

Glad now that he left the door cracked, Abbacchio nudges it the rest of the way open with his foot. Maneuvering them inside is easier than he thought it would be, given that Buccellati is heavier than he looks, and the duvet makes things awkward. Abbacchio gets them inside and dumps Buccellati back onto their bed, where he bounces a little.

Since the comforter is already slipping off of Abbacchio's shoulders, he tugs it the rest of the way off so he can toss it over Buccellati instead. It covers him completely, draped over his head.

Abbacchio, meanwhile, is freezing without anything covering his top half. He makes a mad dash across the room to close and lock the balcony door, and then hurries back to sit next to Buccellati – who, by now, has dug his way out of blanket jail.

Seeing as it's too cold to waste any time, Abbacchio burrows right back under the duvet, lying down. Next to him, Buccellati is still propped up on his elbows. Blue eyes meet Abbacchio's gold, when he looks, and he's immediately caught in that gaze.

…Despite his best efforts, it still looks a bit morose. Of course nothing he can do will fix Buccellati's woes overnight, but that doesn't mean he can't keep soothing.

Abbacchio tugs at Buccellati until he's lying next to him, and then pulls the comforter snug over their shoulders. Facing Buccellati as he is presents the perfect opportunity for more holding, so of course he takes it. He only has to inch forward a little before he's close enough to tuck Buccellati into his chest.

Buccellati clutches at him in turn, snuggling up with a sigh that sounds far less tense than earlier ones. "Tha –"

"Don't thank me." Abbacchio really can't take another thank you for his clumsy attempts at comfort. He feels sloppy with care and concern.

"Thank you," Buccellati says, anyway, because he's a stubborn:

"Shithead."

"You're an absolute charmer, Leone. Is this how you cheer someone up?"

For that, Abbacchio's only available comeback is obviously to kiss Buccellati all over his face. Words are hard, even if banter with Buccellati is usually as natural as breathing.

Something about the mood tonight is off, though, and Abbacchio is wary of overstepping…something. Of screwing up. Again.

So he goes for the embarrassing actions, rather than words he's sure will come out messy. Plus, Buccellati is undeniably kissable. It'd be a shame not to take advantage of that.

It's all fun and games until Buccellati catches one of those kisses with his own mouth, and Abbacchio freezes.

"I'm glad you're here," Buccellati says.

There's that melancholy expression back on his face, though, despite the heartwarming sentiment – and Abbacchio can't take it anymore. He sits up a bit to better look Buccellati in the eyes.

"Everything will work out, somehow Bruno." Turns out he has some words to offer after all, albeit slightly clumsy ones. "You have enough resolve to make it through anything, and…I'm here, if you need me. For anything."

Buccellati's eyes sparkle, because they're wet, and he better not start crying, because then Abbacchio won't stand a chance.

"I care about you," he manages to finish.

Now it looks like Buccellati is the one at a loss for words. He stares for a half-moment, and then wraps both arms up and around Abbacchio, lifting himself a bit with the hug. And Abbacchio has to return it, but when he does they lose their support, so they both wind up lying back down somewhat gracelessly, Abbacchio half on top of him.

Buccellati's hold stays firm, sealing them together with very little space for air in between as he squeezes.

And Abbacchio can't tell him just yet, how alive that makes him feel.

"I love you, Leone."

A/N: This was inspired by Buccellati mentioning that, pre-canon, his heart had been "dying a slow death". Like, ouch, gang life was really taking a toll on that poor man….

Oh, also, I just want to die via BruAbba fluff/angst like that's my preferred way to go,

Fic title is swiped from the song of the same name by Catey Shaw.

Thanks for reading!