Abbacchio dreams like he always does.

Blue eyes and black hair and bronze skin. A bottle in his hand. Gentle fingers, the bottle leaves. Water that tastes sweet and distilled. Somebody frowns.

"Abbacchio," he says, and it's a terribly sad tone of voice, "you're late. Remember?"

Outside the window, the sun is shining, so bright it almost hurts his eyes. Gold on the pale stones. Glittering on the water. Somebody wrenches open the window. The scent of salt and garlic and fresh-baked bread.

"Alright," he says, "I know. I'm coming."

"Here," Buccellati says, pausing in front of him. He digs a canister out of one of his pockets. It's plain and white, screw-on lid. Abbacchio furrows his eyebrows.

"What?"

Buccellati tilts his head. "It's food. You haven't eaten in days."

Abbacchio blinks. Wonders how long he's been here. "Ah," he says, pauses, hesitates, "I can't eat on my own. I can hardly lift a finger."

Buccellati pauses, looks at him, looks at the canister, looks at him. "Ah."

A moment. The ocean crashes vaguely in the distance. Bubbles pop. The ground rumbles lowly with magma. The petrified shell is warm on his skin—bubbling heat below it's surface. Bright fish swish around beyond his bubble.

Abbacchio clears his throat. Buccellati shakes his head, seemingly to himself, and unscrews the canisters. A silver spoon catches on the light, and Buccellati is offering him a spoonful of soup.

He opens his mouth, hesitantly tries it—(stupid, because it could be drugged, would be drugged if this were a Cipher Pol cell, but it isn't, and this is Buccellati, and somewhere along the line that began to mean some level of trust.) It's vaguely sweet, mostly savory, with a touch of miscellaneous bitter tastes and slimy clumps that say half the broth flavoring is probably dissolved nutrient pills. It isn't the worst thing he's ever had.

Somewhere around halfway Abbacchio starts to feel vaguely nauseous. It's not drugging so much as it is a sharp intake of food after a period of starvation. He closes his lips, shakes his head best he can. Buccellati's expression pinches.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah," Abbacchio says, "just—full. I was cannibalizing fat. So actual food is..." if he could, he would make a vague motion with his arms, "y'know."

"Oh," Buccellati says, nodding. "Sure. I'll come back later then..?"

Abbacchio nods, ever so slight, and Buccellati moves to leave. And Abbacchio will be back alone, is the dark and the glow and the crashing ocean and—"Wait!"

The fishman pauses, turns back around to face Abbacchio and he can feel heat rising in his cheeks because actually what the hell. He just called Buccellati back because he didn't want to be alone. Kind of pathetic.

Buccellati cocks his head. "Yes?"

"I—" he pauses, stumbles, "I wanted to apologize. For the other day. I—I'm sorry. Fishmen...minks, humans too, people shouldn't be slaves. Cipher Pol—I don't...know. I don't know."

And it's terrible because he means it, terrible that he means it. Treason.

Something in Buccellati's expression softens.

"It's alright," he says, and he's almost smiling. It's something close to breathtaking. "Apology accepted. Thank you."

Abbacchio smiles, too, if weakly. "So," he says, and clears his throat, "what is this place anyway? I've never seen anything like it."

Buccellati laughs, small and light, he settles down beside Abbacchio, spines down and dormant. "No, I don't imagine you would've. We're at the very bottom of the ocean. The trenches."

Abbacchio blinks. "The trenches? But..."

The fishman nods. "It's the coral, it's...It makes it's own field of pressure, as long as you can make it down in a bubble then you'll be safe from pressure in it's area. And it's more..alive than shallow coral. And carnivorous. It's luminescent as a lure."

"The hell," Abbacchio mutters, "no wonder revolutionaries are so hard to track if you've got this kind of place as a base."

Buccellati's eyes crinkle. "They're hard to find."

Abbacchio sighs. "Yeah. Harder than Cipher Pol's, at least, unless it 0 or 9. I don't think 0 even has a base to find." He pauses. "Then again, that's above my clearance."

Buccellati hums. "What is in your clearance?"

He snorts. "Sorry, it's not going to be that easy."

The fishman nods, slight smile. "Figured." Pauses, then, "Tell me about yourself? I joined the revolutionaries six years ago, when I was thirteen." He pauses, then blinks, almost owlishly, huffs a laugh. "I don't even know your name."

Abbacchio stays silent, opens his mouth, closes it, pauses, hesitates, "Cipher Pol picked me up twelve years ago. My...codename's Abbacchio. I picked it."

"Abbacchio," Buccellati says, like he's tasting the name. And he says it right, says it the way Abbacchio has always heard it in his mind, the way no one else has ever said. It makes something in his blood sing, beneath his bones, deeper than his memories. It feels right. "Nice to meet you, then. I go by Buccellati. Although," he gives Abbacchio a crooked smile, "I guess you already knew that."

"Yeah," Abbacchio echoes, "I guess."

Buccellati hums. "Hobbies? Favorites?"

Abbacchio huffs a laugh. "You don't really have...hobbies, in Cipher Pol, not a lot of free time when you have a whole world to run, but I like—"

"Opera," Buccellati says, "and white wine, and ruchetta salad and margarita pizza. And you hate naive people."

He blinks. He doesn't even know what ruchetta salad and margarita pizza are. But they sound right. "I—yes. Yeah. How..?"

"I don't know," Buccellati says, voice clicking and warbling and uncertain in a way Abbacchio hates. "I need to go. I'll...be back in a few hours, excuse me."

And like that, he's out.

Abbacchio dreams like he always does.

Setting the broken nose of a black haired boy with violet eyes so bright they almost hurt to look at. A glass of red wine on a white tablecloth. Three slices of cake. The sun on his skin through the window, the chatter of patrons in a language he knows like the back of his hand—opera coming in through his headphones. The instruments swell, drowning out the childish squabbling around him.

Across the table: blue eyes crinkled up and glittering like the midday harbor, the sun lighting his hair up so the navy blue shines through just a bit more than usual, bronze skin, expression pulled into something undeniably fond. It's breathtaking. He looks at Abbacchio and says something that he can't hear through the music and he thinks he's blushing but hopes the makeup covers it.

He takes off the headphones. Breathes deep. Garlic and salt and fresh baked bread, squabbling around him, somewhat irritating, not really. He looks across the table and smiles.

"Sorry for leaving so abruptly," is the first thing Buccellati says to him when he slips back into Abbacchio's bubble. Water clops off of him onto the stone.

"No," Abbacchio says, shakes his head and—and he can actually do it. It's still hard, slight movements, but it's more than just slight twitches. How long has it been? "It's alright. I guess. What was that about..?"

"I..." Buccellati pauses, closes his eyes, opens them, sighs. Sits down beside Abbacchio, back leaning against the petrified shell, shoulders slouching. The dripping fabric of his loose-fit suit touches against Abbacchio's side. Beneath his palms, the ground is warm. Buccellati tilts his head, meeting his eyes.

"I don't know," Buccellati admits, and now more than ever he looks human.

It feels like—like the first time, like it took a lifetime and a half but now Abbacchio sees. Sees his dark-circled eyes and his clenches fists and he looks lost. There are marks on his face: scars and stripes and dimples, when he's smiling. And he looks like a person. Who laughs and love sand hates and Abbacchio thinks: how did I miss this?

A pause, a moment, and Buccellati's looking at him with uncertainty.

"I don't know either," Abbacchio admits, and he feels like laying his soul out. "I don't—I don't know anything. You're a fishman and a revolutionary and you're...you aren't what you're supposed to be, you know? And if they—we—were wrong about fishmen then the revolutionaries, or Ohara, or—"

He bites that line of words off because it's actually treason. Is everything Abbacchio has been trained against questioning since he was six. Conditioned against. And it was conditioning, he knows enough psychology to know that. And normally Abbacchio would be alright with that, because he knows complete obedience is vital for maintaining order but—

"Yeah," Buccellati agrees, and his eyes are wandering. "That's good. You're in the right way, you know. They call us a terrorist organization. They lie about a lot of things."

Buccellati looks at him. Meets his eyes. Blue, like the sea and the sky in one. They look ethereal. Or sacred. Or familiar. Like something Abbacchio can trust.

And Abbacchio thinks of faulty science and killed reporters, of burned islands and blacklisted books, of slave auctions and starving children, and says: "Yeah. I know. I figured. I—" something awful tears its way from his throat, a strangled mess of a scream and a sob, and he says, "I fucked up."

"You..." Buccellati purses his lips. Shakes his head, looks away, looks back. Looks like guilt and pain and care and it's something Abbacchio never wanted to see on him. "I don't know how much to blame you. You said Cipher Pol picked you up twelve years ago? You look—shit, you look my age."

"I'm eighteen," Abbacchio says.

Buccellati makes a low, pained noise.

"On paper I'm twenty five," he says, "it's all lies. It's all...I don't know how much of everything is a lie." He huffs a kind of laugh. "The nature of species? The validity of the Reverie? Justice? Reincarnation itself? You have to register for it, you know, and on my Cipher Pol contract an official benefit is reincarnation to a nice cushy noble life when I die. It's ridiculous. What say do mortals have in reincarnation?"

According to the government: none. The Celestial Dragons came down from the sky itself, are incarnations of gods, and the World Government is their gift to humanity. And because it's a divine gift, serving it and maintaining it is a positive on the karmic scale. And the people heading it, who have climbed it's sacred ladders, proven their worth, earn the ability to weigh in on karmic scales. Decide your reincarnation.

It sounded like bullshit, even when Abbacchio was a child.

"Yeah," Buccellati says, and there's a strange kind of expression on his face. "Yeah. Did you ever believe it? Reincarnation, I mean. They're quiet, and stamped down, but there are plenty of people, islands of people, who don't believe the official statements on religion and reincarnation and karma and service."

"I don't know," Abbacchio answers, truthfully, "I just..I don't know. Not the parts about service—about helping the world government being able to just...give out better next lives. Not that. Fuck. If karma exists, through reincarnation or—or something else—I'm going to hell."

Buccellati looks at him, and Abbacchio can see confusion there. Uncertainty, something confused, something like hope, something that hurts. "It's a nice thought, reincarnation" Buccellati says finally, after a beat too long. "Second chances."

"Second chances," Abbacchio echoes. He wonders how many of those he's had—how many he's fucked up, if he's still living like this. Like he's drowning in his skin, doesn't know who to follow, is lost in the dark with no light. "Maybe."

(They sit in silence. Talk about music. Abbacchio asks if fishmen and mer sing, thinks they would sound beautiful in opera, and Buccellati says yes. Says it's only in small select, usually hidden, places, says he's heard them sing in a lot of revolutionary bases. And Abbacchio wonders.)

(Buccellati doesn't put more poison in his veins on his way out. It's been so long he can almost lift his whole hand, now. And Abbacchio wonders.)

Abbacchio feels the sun on his shoulders, the black fabric of his cloths burning in the heat, breathes in salt and sea and there's a choice before him. There's a boat in front of him, Buccellati standing on it, and that's all that really matters. He doesn't think about what's behind him, doesn't think of any other choice, because there's only ever been one he could live with.

He looks at Buccellati, and he thinks: I love you, I would follow you into hell, I would die for you, and he steps forward. Feels the boat rocking beneath him, somewhere between solid and liquid.

And then he's bleeding, and he's dying, and he doesn't regret it. And he vaguely hears the screams, the pleas, and he sees black hair and blue eyes and bronze skin, and it's the end of a dream.

Buccellati tumbles back into his bubble only some hours later. His skin is pale and clammy and his breathing is all off. And he's looking at Abbacchio like he's a miracle, or a puzzle, or something terrible. There's fear, there, and hope.

"I dreamed last night—this morning, a few minutes ago," Buccellati says, abrupt and out of the blue, and it's kind of strangled. "You died for me. Abbacchio you died for me. I felt like I was dying and I still do."

"What?" Abbacchio asks, vaguely confused, vaguely nauseated. He pulls himself off the wall, out of his slouch, because he can do that now-he's weak but the venom's almost gone and he could bite off his tongue. But he knows what Buccellati is talking about. Because sometimes Buccellati looks at him and It feels like the start of a dream that ends in red—"Buccellati what?"

But Buccellati looks like he's caught by a mania, or a sickness, or something wonderful. And he looks like he could be crying. "You chose Abbacchio as a code name, but your birth name—it's Leone. Isn't it? Leone Abbacchio?"

And the way Buccellati says it feels like a punch the gut. Like someone tearing off his skin and flaying him inside out. Like knocking his head hard enough to blink his vision and digging out all the forgotten parts f his memory. And Abbacchio looks at Buccellati and thinks: I know you.

"Yeah," Abbacchio says, and something tugs in his head, pulls like the start of a migraine. "And you're—you're Bruno Buccellati and—"

And then Buccellati is lurching forward, and he's close enough that their breaths mingle. And Abbacchio looks in his eyes and sees the sea and the sky and a lifetime of memories. Then—then Buccellati is cutting through his binding and shoving a knife into his hand, and his grip is hard on Abbacchio's wrist when he forces the blade against his throat.

Buccellati bleeds red at the edge of the blade, and he looks like he could cry, but his grip doesn't shake. Abbacchio looks at him with wide eyes and gritted teeth, and he wants to ask why? But he knows why.

He knows: he could kill Buccellati here. Abbacchio could shove the blade into Buccellati's throat and it would kill him. Abbacchio could slowly press the knife against Buccellati's flesh, and Buccellati wouldn't move.

He knows Buccellati trusts him. And he doesn't do anything at all.

Abbacchio pulls his hand back, the knife drops—gets thrown—to the side. It clatters against the stone. Buccellati falls into him.

"Fuck," Abbacchio says, feels Buccellati's warmth on his chest. He's gentle on Abbacchio's injuries, even now, like this. "Buccellati I fucked up. Both times. In every way."

"I don't care," Buccellati says, kind of muffled by Abbacchio's damp suit. "I don't care."

"I do."

Buccellati doesn't say anything. Abbacchio silently curses. Because what is this luck? What is this pattern? What is this justice? How can he fuck up worse on the second chance than on the first? How can he fall higher and harder and more terrible this time than last?

Last time—he was nobody, was a fuck-up and a failure and Buccellati saved him. This time, he's a fuck up and a failure and an agent of death, he's killed Buccellati's people and defended Buccellati's tormentors and Buccellati saved him, again. And it shouldn't be possible to love someone this deeply, this fully, this terribly.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he doesn't know what he's apologizing for. Anything. Everything.

"It's okay," Buccellati says, pulling back. His eyes are shiny. "It's okay. Please believe me. It's okay."

But it isn't. It really isn't. "Shit," Abbacchio manages, "Buccellati, you can't just… I can't."

"But! You..." Buccellati trails off, and there's a terribly raw, vulnerable kind of emotion on his face. Abbacchio's whole chest swells. "What can you do?" he asks, "How can you forgive yourself?"

I can't, he wants to say, but he looks at Buccellati and it dies on his tongue. Buccellati looks at Abbacchio with his whole heart in his eyes, and he looks like he could break, and Abbacchio thinks. Really thinks. Thinks he could try.

"I'll become a double-agent," he says, and he feels dizzy, like the wold is tilting, "I'll—Buccellati, I'll join the revolutionaries—I'm in a unique position, I'm already Cipher Pol, I can—I can spy from the inside."

Buccellati's pupils blow open. The spines on his arms are bristling. "You don't have to do that. You—we wouldn't make you. That's—if you were caught—you..."

"I need to," Abbacchio says, and his mind is made. "I want to, Buccellati, I want to."

And that's the thing isn't it? He needs this, he wants this.

A beat. The crashing sea. The pop of bubbles. The swish of fish. Buccellati's eyes stay locked on him. His skin pricks.

"Even if I didn't want you to?" Buccellati asks, quiet, harsh against the silence. "Your death… Abbacchio."

"Yeah," Abbacchio answers, "even though."

Because he's done with following. Last time he followed Buccellati, and he doesn't regret dying for him, never will, but he regrets not seeing Buccellati like he sees him now. Buccellati was dying last time, slowly, and Abbacchio knew but he didn't see. Buccellati was lost, was just as lost as him, and he didn't see that.

And this time—well. He's Cipher Pol.

Buccellati had been his guiding hand for so long, and he could have that back. He could follow Buccellati again but—he doesn't want that. Doesn't want it for Buccellati and doesn't want it for himself. Buccellati is kind and forgiving but Abbacchio doesn't want forgiveness, doesn't need forgiveness. His path is atonement, is penance, is looking at his mistakes and trying to be better for it.

Abbacchio's been following blindly for two lifetimes and he's over with it. It's never done him well, it's never done anyone well. There's a bone-deep ache in his whole body, a terrible kind of agony, and he wants to do better. Wants to try, at least. Wants to fight against his mistakes, and even if he'll never make up the difference, at least he'll have tried.

Buccellati's expression pinches.

Abbacchio doesn't take his words back.

"Okay," Buccellati says. Sighs, steps back, closes his eyes, looks like he's trying to pull himself back into one piece. "Please don't die."

"I'll try."

Buccellati opens his eyes. Purses his lips. "Good. Can I kiss you?"

Abbacchio blinks. "I—what?"

"Please," Buccellati says, "can I kiss you?"

"I—" there's a pain in his chest, like he's dying, like he's suffocating, and it's hope and love and dread, "I'm sorry. I—I can't. I..."

How can he explain this? How does he describe this?

"Why?" Buccellati asks, and it isn't heartbreak in his voice, but it's similar.

"Buccellati..." you saved me once, you saved me twice. I died for you, I would die again for you. I looked at you and spat vitriol and you dressed my wounds. I've looked at you like you were god, I've looked at you like you were less than human. I see you now. I used to love you so much I was sick with it, I love you again and it feels like I'm dying. You have my heart but the thought of taking yours makes my skin crawl. "...You deserve better."

A pause, a moment, silence. The crash of waves and pop of bubbles and swish of fish. Buccellati watches, spines bristling, and Abbacchio sees anger on his face—resolve.

"Abbacchio," Buccellati says, slow and quiet, "that's the one of stupidest things I've ever heard." He lifts his hand, cups Abbacchio's face, gentle. His skin is slippery, a different kind of texture than human, but it's Buccellati. His skin burns.

"But—Buccellati—"

"No," Buccellati cuts, sharp and clear. "You regret what you did in this life, you know what's wrong, you want to be better. Abbacchio, I want you, and you can tell me you don't want me but you can't tell me what I deserve."

And what can Abbacchio say to that? Because Buccellati means it. He means it, and Abbacchio doesn't know what to do with that.

(He does.)

(He wants it too.)

He…

"Shit," Abbacchio says, "I—shit, okay. Okay. Then if you'll have me."

Buccellati's eyes crinkle up, glittering a bright and brilliant blue. Like the Naples skyline in midday. Like everything Abbacchio's ever coveted. He draws close, closer, and their breaths mingle, and Buccellati's lips press on his. They're warm and soft and gentle and don't reach for more than Abbacchio's ready to give and—and they're Buccellati's.

Abbacchio wants to cry.

Instead, he stretches his arms around Buccellati's back, and presses him into the tightest hug he can give.

"I love you," he says, raw and honest, and he's wanted to say it for a lifetime and a half.

"I love you too," Buccellati answers, and it goes straight to his chest. "And call me Bruno now."

(A lifetime ago, they still called each other by their last names. Because it was the mafia and they were young, and probably going to die, and anything else was terrifying.)

"Yeah," Abbacchio agrees, "Bruno. I'm Leone."

Bruno beams.

"Don't die on me," Bruno says.

"I'll try," Leone answers, doesn't promise safety because he'll do a lot of things but he won't lie to Bruno.

"Good," Bruno says, soft, and his hands are gentle on Leone's skin. He closes his eyes. Leans into the touch. "That's the best we can do."

He would die for this, he thinks, for Buccellati's skin on his, and a love so deep it could swallow him whole, for the second chance of a second chance. Has died for this. There's salvation beneath his fingertips, dancing on his skin, and Buccellati is only part of it. It's the second chance of a second chance, a third attempt, and Leone—

Leone tries.

Updates next week. Reviews are appreciated.