A/N: Happy Februabba! Prompts by seralinnette on tumblr/twitter!

As with last year, I'll do my best to write something for each day, and I'll stick any applicable warnings in the beginning notes of the chapter, so without further ado:

Day 1: New Years
Warning for some allusions to alcoholism.

Abbacchio doesn't open the door when Buccellati knocks, but after a handful of seconds he does call out, "Who is it?" which is more than Buccellati was expecting.

Counting that as permission to come inside, Buccellati does, courtesy of Sticky Fingers. "It's me," he says. Unnecessarily, because who else would be zipping their way through the front door – but it feels weirder not to announce himself somehow.

It's dark inside the apartment, and there's a lingering smell that implies Abbacchio did a some cleaning, at least. That's progress, especially considering the shape this place was in last week…

Holidays don't treat Abbacchio well. Soured memories, Buccellati suspects, but he doesn't know because Abbacchio doesn't talk much about his past. Made a face the first two times Buccellati asked, shut down and grumbled on the third, something about having enough of the past thanks to his stand.

Buccellati doesn't ask anymore. But he will impose his presence, at least today, because it's a sad night to spend all alone.

…He tried to drag Fugo along, but he insisted on sleeping through the turn of the century. That, Buccellati knows for a fact, is due to soured memories. He won't push where that's concerned, but Abbacchio is another matter entirely.

And there's the fact that Buccellati…doesn't want to spend tonight by himself. He has no soured memories. His family memories are treasured; it's the lonely ones he has trouble with, and, right, that's enough dwelling on that.

Abbacchio is here, now.

Toeing off his shoes, Buccellati shuffles into the apartment while shucking his coat. It's not too dark to see, the moonlight spilling in through opened curtains brightens things up. As his eyes adjust fully from the dim hall lighting, he spots Abbacchio, sitting slumped at his tiny dining table. His shoulders drooping and his eyes glaring vacant in the direction of the clock.

"Abbacchio," Buccellati says, softer now that he's closer. He drapes his coat over the back of the only other dining chair, and waits.

Abbacchio blinks at him, his eyes slow, and sits up that much straighter. "Buccellati – what are you –"

"It's New Years."

That'll have to be enough of an explanation. Even though there's a furrow between Abbacchio's brows, he closes his mouth. Stares at Buccellati. There's a half-empty bottle of wine in front of him, no glass in sight. He doesn't reach for it.

"…Okay," he says, eventually.

Neither of them talk, after that. The only noise is the quiet ticking of the clock, which is starting to drive Buccellati up the wall. A glance tells him that there's only about ten minutes of 1999 left.

It should feel weird, spending them here like this.

But it doesn't.

For once, Buccellati can't even muster frustration at the scent of alcohol that clings to Abbacchio. The sense of hopelessness that hangs over this apartment like a heavy curtain when Abbacchio's in one of his moods – altogether too often – is gone tonight, which probably helps. More progress.

Abandoning his spot at the table, Buccellati wanders around it until he gets to that window. "Do you think we'll see fireworks, from here?" he asks, to shut that clock up.

Abbacchio shifts in his seat, leaning forward until his elbows can rest on the tabletop. "Don't know," he mumbles. After a pause, he adds on, "Probably. Everyone's going crazy over the turn of the century." To his credit, he only sounds a little bit grumpy and not very drunk.

For some reason, that makes a spot of warmth sprout in Buccellati's chest. He has no idea why.

It doesn't matter, anyway.

"Yeah." Buccellati turns away from purple-gold eyes that shimmer in the dark, to stare out over the city instead. "You're right."

According to the clock, there are about four minutes left of the year, now. Buccellati sneaks glances at it in between staring out the window. Behind him, the sound of Abbacchio rolling the wine bottle between his hands and picking at the label joins the ticking of the clock, and then…

Fireworks. Lighting up the sky (and causing a cacophony to rival the sounds of the apparently very excitable family that lives above Abbacchio).

There's some kind of thrill in Buccellati's stomach at the sight, and he's not sure why, because even if the world feels different at the start of the year, nothing actually changes – not even with the turn of the century. But he's always loved fireworks. He and his father used to watch them, and they even set small ones off on the beach, once, the year before…well. The year before it all went to shit.

Buccellati unlatches the window, opening it for a better view. A cold breeze finds its way in, but it barely registers.

…Though.

Buccellati does feel the contrasting warmth that presses in next to him, along with the scent of alcohol to battle the fresh air as Abbacchio hovers close. When Buccellati glances over, there are lights reflecting in Abbacchio's eyes, and that weird feeling in his chest returns.

The bottle of wine is dangling between Abbacchio's fingers. Without preamble, he lifts his arm and tosses it out the window, where it shatters against the sidewalk five stories below.

Buccellati is having an awfully hard time ungluing his eyes from Abbacchio. That warm pool in his chest keeps him stuck, watching the wry twitch of Abbacchio's lips, and the fireworks still mirrored in his eyes, washing him in color.

Eventually, Buccellati hauls his attention back to the display outside. They stay like this – Abbacchio beside him, close enough to reach out and touch – as the excitement around them piques, then settles down.

When the last of the fireworks have gone off, Buccellati reaches out to close the window. Abbacchio's hand on the glass stops him halfway.

"Leave it," Abbacchio mumbles. And then seems to realize that he's standing very close, hovering over Buccellati, now, and yanks his hand back as if burnt. Takes half a step away and clears his throat. "Fresh air…"

Buccellati, for some reason, can't help but smile.

A/N: Told myself I'd keep these under 1k words this year, and I already failed. :")

Thanks for reading!