A/N: Day 13: headache
(Pacific Rim AU) Buccellati seeks out his copilot after a battle gone awry.
Warning for briefly described instances of past character death.
Buccellati raises a fist, and knocks as unobtrusively as he can on the solid metal door in front of him. It's still loud – still aggravates that throbbing behind his eyes, but he ignores the flare-up of pain. Waits patiently here.
No matter how long it takes Abbacchio to answer, Buccellati knows that he's in there. For one thing, he wouldn't be anywhere else after everything that happened today, and for another, Buccellati can feel him nearby. A mind just out of reach. Probably intentionally so. Trying to focus on that fleeting ghost of a connection is making Buccellati's headache worse, though, so he pulls back. Stares hard at the door.
It opens after a moment. Only because Abbacchio knows without a doubt that it's Buccellati, out here, and not some nosy medic or a starry-eyed rookie (Abbacchio's words, not Buccellati's).
And Abbacchio looks…about as well as can be expected. Hair down, if a bit tangled; he probably hasn't brushed it since taking it out of its earlier ponytail. Smudged makeup under his eyes that was sloppily removed, jumpsuit open and hanging around his waist to reveal a tight undershirt. His shoulder is bruised, already purpling. Buccellati should've brought ice, too…
"Come in," Abbacchio mutters, before Buccellati can even get a word out, and he's already slinking back toward his bed. Taking a heavy seat.
Buccellati follows as if he's pulled along by some magnetic force, closing the door behind himself as he goes. It shuts with a heavy clang of finality, but he's more than used to schooling his expression against painful spikes in his headaches by now. Worth more concern is Abbacchio, who's in much worse shape.
Aspirin won't really help, but. It'll ease the physical ache.
Sitting down next to Abbacchio, Buccellati offers the pills along with a bottle of water, and Abbacchio accepts both of them wordlessly. This extended stretch of silence between them isn't awkward, anymore. Is almost comforting in its familiarity.
Would be entirely comforting, if not for the darkened mood that clings to Abbacchio's being, bogging him down.
All Buccellati really wants to do is lean his sore head on Abbacchio's shoulder. Close his eyes and sleep the day away – but Abbacchio's got that swollen bruise, there, and too many thoughts-memories-feelings prod at the edges of Buccellati's mind. His own collection alongside Abbacchio's. More than either of them are used to sharing outside of the drift. It doesn't matter.
Abbacchio swallows his aspirin with a mouthful of water, caps the bottle and sets it down on the floor. "How's your head?"
Buccellati's never even told Abbacchio that he gets headaches after every neural handshake, and he wonders if Abbacchio recognizes that he's come to that realization all on his own. Not that it really makes much difference either way.
"It's fine," Buccellati says. At the moment, he is far more invested in seeking out eye contact with Abbacchio to pay any mind to the way his head throbs on even the slightest movement. "How's your shoulder?"
A derisive snort from Abbacchio. "I'll live." The words fall bitter from his mouth. Like he resents that fact.
…He does, a little. Buccellati frowns. Didn't want to notice that detail, but he couldn't help it. Even aching as it is, his brain is always reflexively reaching for Abbacchio's anymore, no Pons required. Most of the time, that's a comforting thing – or even fun – but right now, it only –
Ah. He shouldn't be thinking this.
Abbacchio's nose scrunches up on a scowl, and he shoves further onto the bed. Wedges himself into the bottom corner, back against the wall. He glares hard at a spot on the floor. "Sorry," he spits.
Oh, Buccellati misses that warmth at his side already. His heart sinks heavy in his chest. "You don't –"
"I did it again." A deep breath, sucked in shaky and let out rough through Abbacchio's nose. "In the middle of a kaiju attack." His hands curl into fists, gripping handfuls of his pants. "I can't keep pulling this shit, it's going to get us –"
"It turned out fine, Leone." And it will continue to turn out fine. Buccellati won't even entertain the idea of losing this, losing Abbacchio. Can't let it happen, so he won't. It's as simple as that. No matter how many times Abbacchio gets lost chasing the rabbit, Buccellati will sit with him through it. Pull him out of there however he can and pick up the pieces afterward and they'll be okay.
At the very least, they'll be alive. That furious snarl on Abbacchio's face is beautiful because it means he lived, today. "By some stupid fucking coincidence, and only because Requiem was on our asses the entire goddamned time."
"You snapped out of it." It's progress. If only Abbacchio could see that.
"That doesn't matter!"
On this last word, Abbacchio kicks hard at an already-dented metal bedpost, heavy boot that he still hasn't taken off clanging too-loud, and Buccellati winces before he can help it. A combination of the noise and those spears of self-hate that Abbacchio's mind wields too handily.
Buccellati doesn't know what to say. Wishes he were better at these things, but all he can offer is his presence and a soft sympathetic, "It matters, Leone…"
Abbacchio shakes his head, dismissive. "Please shut up."
He takes a few more deep breaths, during which Buccellati stays as quiet and calm as possible. Bites his tongue on whatever sharp, frustrated thing he might say. Offers what he can, from over here, just like when they're in their jaeger, in the hopes that he can be some kind of balm to Abbacchio. Because that's what Abbacchio is for him, spreading out and filling all those lonesome corners that Buccellati can't stand on his worst days.
It takes a while, but eventually, those hateful tears in Abbacchio's eyes recede. His sharp glare settles, and the aggravated rise and fall of his chest evens out. His knuckles are no longer cracking from being held so tight.
Slowly, Abbacchio's gaze shifts to Buccellati. Honeyed gold sinking into his skin, caught in his own eyes at last. Achingly familiar and with a sad edge to them that makes him want to cry. But only almost.
"Come…" Abbacchio swallows. Picks up a hand to beckon, fingers twitching. "C'mere."
There's pink flaring to life on those sharp cheekbones. Like it always used to, after they met formally for the first time, and Buccellati would catch Abbacchio staring at him. Two down-on-their-luck pilots thrown into a drift compatibility test together thanks to a rapid decline in viable pairs.
They'd been some of the best, in their day. Had similar trauma…the idea was that they could fit together. With all their jagged edges.
Abbacchio had to be dragged back into the field. Buccellati went where he was needed. Didn't matter if he liked it or not.
Definitely didn't matter if he liked Abbacchio or not (though he very much did). Buccellati did his part and coerced Abbacchio and got them both to the bridge to pilot those scrapped-together pieces of their old lives. Whatever was salvageable. (Less of Moody Blues. To this day Buccellati has never seen a jaeger so destroyed as that one, when its wreckage was hauled in all those years ago. Abbacchio shouldn't have survived for so many reasons, that day. But he did. He's here.)
Not exactly a smooth start, between them. Getting to know each other too-well and too-fast and they never stood a chance at shutting each other out, so it was only a matter of time until Buccellati felt dangerously comfortable.
So…here he is now. Months later. Inching his way further onto the bed to sit in close to Abbacchio, because everything hurts less with him close.
Buccellati is so weak around Abbacchio that, when Abbacchio pats one of his own thighs and mumbles, "Lie down," Buccellati does as requested. Feels a certain giddy fondness in his chest as he does, too, blossoming bright against whatever gloom has crept in.
His head is in Abbacchio's lap, and they'll be okay, the two of them. Together.
"Can't blame you for getting a headache after spending so much time in my shitty brain," Abbacchio grumbles, and Buccellati wants to protest that, but –
Gentle fingers land in his hair. His eyes slip closed on automatic, and words fall away. He sighs out a soft, pleased noise, and Abbacchio responds by rubbing his fingertips in a bit firmer. Steady, soothing circles that ease away the headache. Both of Abbacchio's hands are at it, now. One massaging at Buccellati's temple, the other along his scalp…
So much warm and gentle contact that Buccellati could fall asleep, here. Relishing in those hands in his hair. The soft-firm thighs beneath his head. All of Abbacchio so wonderfully within reach.
And then…one of those hands starts to tremble. The other disappears, lifted away somewhere higher – probably to catch that wet, quiet gasp from Abbacchio –
Buccellati knows what's coming even before the memories brush his own. He can see it almost plain as day, for a moment.
These are his memories, too, now. This friendly, open-faced brunet that used to grin at Abbacchio and has kissed Abbacchio, held Abbacchio, loved Abbacchio – Ennio, his name was, and he screams when the kaiju gets to him, tears him out blasts him apart and leaves nothing, ripping open a significant amount of Abbacchio, physical and figurative, whose heart is rent in two as agony lances down his spine, through his limbs, into his skull.
Abbacchio died that day along with Ennio. Some significant piece of him is long gone. He sees himself as nothing but scarred remains that just barely get by, but he's improving and Buccellati aches.
Wet drips onto his forehead, seeping through his bangs to get to skin. It's not blood, he tells himself. Not a blood droplet from his father, who is curled over him and begging him to wake up. (Some of the last words he'd ever say but Buccellati was lucky enough to give him a proper goodbye in the med-bay after the dust cleared which was more than Abbacchio got.)
No. It's not blood, now. Just tears squeezed from sore eyes, and Buccellati wrenches his own eyelids apart. The hand stroking along his scalp is still shaking, but it keeps at its work, easing his headache.
Abbacchio hovers overhead, hunched and quivering, with a hand pressed over his eyes. Tears leak out between his fingers or roll down his cheeks. His mouth is twisted downward, and each breath he takes hitches on a sob. They make Buccellati's chest hurt; he reaches out without thought.
One hand meets a bruised, curled-in shoulder while the other brushes the damp, scarred skin of Abbacchio's face –
And it snaps something, in Abbacchio, who reclaims both hands only to wrap his arms tight around Buccellati. So, so tight, and he's squeezing ever-tighter, but Buccellati doesn't mind. Winds his own arms around Abbacchio's torso, helping to hold himself half-upright, making this awkward position a bit easier.
He buries his face in Abbacchio's shoulder, because Abbacchio is thoroughly burrowed into him, right now.
This…is the hardest it's ever been, for Buccellati to hold in tears.
He does it, though. For Abbacchio's sake.
"What if I –" Abbacchio's breath hitches. His voice is muffled, with his mouth shoved against Buccellati's shoulder, but it's fine. Buccellati can understand him fine. "What if – the same thing happens, to you, because I'm – I can't –"
"Shh, Leone," Buccellati soothes. Tries to ignore the way his own voice is a shaky mess that he can't raise above a whisper.
Abbacchio only shakes his head. Eyes clenched shut and nose digging into Buccellati's collarbone. "I can't survive – again –" More painful, hitched breaths. "If I lost you, it'd be my fault, and I'd – I'll die – I can't, Bruno, it's too –"
"I know." The words are barely-there. Buccellati runs his hands over every bit of Abbacchio he can reach. His hair, the back of his neck, his shoulders, that too-hot forehead. "I know…"
Those arms wound around Buccellati cling all the tighter, and he can't get any more words out. Can't tell Abbacchio that this fear is mutual and that he himself would sooner die than lose Abbacchio because somehow he doesn't think that would help even though it's the truth.
Curling impossibly closer, Abbacchio starts trembling in earnest. His voice is barely there. "Don't – don't leave me, please."
Buccellati presses a firm kiss to the nearest roughened scar. He promises the impossible because he can't stand not to. "I won't."
A/N:
1. Every time I watch Pacific Rim I go feral thinking of drift compatible BruAbba
2. Big shout-out to Anticia for naming Ennio with me, :")
Thanks for reading!
