A/N: Day 9: Opera

More slice of life but it's an AU this time-

Bruno has been living in his new home for a month and a half, and in that time, he's learned a few key details: whoever installed the shower fixtures somehow swapped the hot and cold labels around, most of the windows don't stay open without something propping them that way, the kitchen floor is a nightmare to traverse in socks…

And his downstairs neighbor really, really likes opera music.

Loud opera music.

Played at any and all hours of the day.

Maybe Bruno is being unfair. It's only happened…this would be the fourth time, since he moved into the duplex – but it really is grating. Especially today, when he's trying to relax on his day off after a hellish sort of work week.

Sitting curled up in the window seat with a cup of coffee loses some of its calming ambience with intense opera music playing in the background, coming from beneath the floor like some kind of bizarre, mismatched soundtrack to his life.

He's let it slide the past three times, but enough is enough.

So he abandons his coffee on the nearest flat surface, toes on some shoes, and heads down the outside stairs. A short path takes him to the front door of the downstairs apartment, and he lifts a hand to knock.

…

Then lifts that same hand again to pound. The music is even louder, from here – it's a wonder no one else on the block has complained (though he supposes the neighbor's houses aren't too close by).

After a few deafening seconds, the door is wrenched open, and Bruno comes face-to-face with the culprit.

Turns out, it's a man so unfairly attractive that Bruno almost takes an entire step backwards in shock. Even the ever-louder opera music fades out in the face of this beautiful man scowling in the morning sunshine.

…He'd be more beautiful if he wasn't scowling, of course, but somehow the expression suits his face.

"Who the hell are you?"

Right. Loud music. Complaint.

Bruno came here for a reason, and it wasn't to drown in (seething) golden eyes, or get lost in the fall of long white hair over strong shoulders. It also definitely wasn't to watch shiny black lips form rude words, and so:

"I'm Bruno Buccellati, your upstairs neighbor."

Handsome, rude man only frowns harder. Which shouldn't be physically possible, but is kind of impressive. "No one's lived upstairs in over a year."

"…I moved in almost two months ago." Bruno made several trips, even. Unloading the small, rented truck. Lugging furniture upstairs. It was quite a racket, he thought, and he's been doing his best to be an unobtrusive neighbor since. Unlike some people.

"Fuck." This fact confuses the attractive downstairs stranger, apparently. That scowl of his eases off, just a little. "You're serious?"

"Yes…?"

Now his neighbor frowns off into the distance at nothing in particular. Bruno waits for a handful of seconds while he does, watching a series of unreadable expressions flicker across the man's handsome face.

"I was wondering if you could turn your music down," Bruno bites the bullet at last, since it seems like there's no response incoming anytime soon.

The man returns to himself at last, blinking wide eyes at Bruno for a second before he answers. "Yeah. Sure – I'm getting ready to go out, anyway."

Then he shuts the door.

Before Bruno can even thank him. His mouth is still open on the word, even! Closing it, he frowns to himself as he climbs the stairs back to his apartment.

True to his neighbor's word, the music shuts off mere minutes after Bruno is back in his window seat. From here, he watches a white head of hair in full black attire duck into an equally black car and drive away.

…The man never even introduced himself.

x

Leone Abbacchio.

Bruno learns this name thanks to the junk mail accidentally dropped in his letterbox instead of the downstairs one. He'd put it where it belonged, nosed through Abbacchio's box to make sure none of his own mail was misplaced, and then went on his way.

With the name Leone Abbacchio running a loop in his head.

Not like he'll forget it any time soon, being as it's the name that's attached to that tragically gorgeous man with zero manners and a love of opera that Bruno does not share, and will never share if Abbacchio keeps playing that wretched symphony at four in the morning!

Irritation was already festering, thanks to a late workday followed by a half-asleep accidental cold shower. Now, after nowhere near enough rest and a rude awakening, Bruno is grinding his teeth as he shoves his feet into his slippers and stomps downstairs.

Pounding on the door comes easier, tonight (this morning?), and Abbacchio answers faster.

"What?" he snaps, an impressive snarl in place – and then he freezes. His mouth stays in a tight line, brows furrowed, but his eyes go wide when they land on Bruno.

"Can you please –"

Abbacchio turns, disappears inside, and after a moment the volume of the opera drops dramatically. Enough that Bruno can hear himself breathe a sigh of relief.

"Sorry," Abbacchio grumbles, as soon as he's back at the door. "I didn't realize you were…fuck, of course you're home." His voice goes softer with each word, talking to himself more than he is to Bruno, probably. "Normal people are fucking sleeping right now…god…"

And Bruno is sure that he himself doesn't make the prettiest picture – rushed down here in his pajamas after rolling out of bed too early – but Abbacchio looks awful.

Still handsome, of course, but he doesn't have any of the put-together class of their first meeting. No makeup, bags under his eyes, tangled hair pulled into a messy ponytail…his skin is too pale, in the stark moonlight.

The irritation in Bruno's system is evaporating at the sight, and he can't help the habitual "Are you alright?" that falls out of his mouth.

Abbacchio takes a deep breath, huffing out a snappish, "I'm fine."

Bruno doesn't buy that, but it isn't his place to overstep. They've only spoken twice, after all, and not for very long or about anything noteworthy. They barely count as acquaintances, let alone friends – and besides, he doesn't have the energy to pry or argue. So for now, he'll leave it be.

"Thanks for turning your music down."

"Yeah," Abbacchio grunts. "Sorry."

Dismissing the apology with a shake of his head, Bruno feels his mouth twitch in what hopefully passes for something like a smile (he's been told he's too stiff). "Please try to remember that I live here."

This gets a snort from Abbacchio that Bruno hopes is amusement. "Like I could forget…"

That offhanded response shouldn't get Bruno's heart to lurch in his chest. But it does. He isn't sure whether he should be flattered or insulted by that, and apparently his heart doesn't know either. That's something to unpack in the morning – later in the morning – and not while standing here on Abbacchio's doorstep, minutes before sunrise.

Bruno pulls himself together as best he can. Sets the…feelings…aside, because now there's something like an awkward silence between them, with crickets in the background and everything. "Goodnight," is all he can say, but it does the trick.

At Abbacchio's answering nod, Bruno returns to his upstairs apartment and tries to salvage at least one more hour of sleep.

It's difficult, with his head stuffed full of Leone Abbacchio.

x

Bruno's forehead meets his desk with an unsatisfying thunk, and he groans into the wood.

From downstairs comes the opera. Courtesy of his infuriatingly beautiful neighbor, as usual.

Bad enough that Bruno can't get this…weird crush…off of his mind, he can't even focus when he manages to focus, thanks to that damn music.

He's doing his best to ignore it and keep working.

Abbacchio must have a reason – Bruno hopes Abbacchio has a reason, because they've started to wave to each other when they cross paths coming or going, and he swears he even saw Abbacchio smile the other day. And it's been nothing peace and quiet since that nighttime disturbance a couple weeks ago, so it's obvious that Abbacchio is trying.

Or he has been trying, up until about fifteen minutes ago.

Paperwork doesn't fill itself out. Bruno's laptop, logged into his work email, is glaring at him accusingly, too. The splitting headache that he left the office early with doesn't help.

Pushing away from his desk, Bruno resigns himself to another awkward downstairs visit, where he knocks as loudly as he can without pounding.

This time, the opera goes quiet before Abbacchio answers the door. He looks more put together than the other night, but his broad shoulders are slumping. "You're so damn quiet," he grouches without preamble, "I didn't know you were home."

"It's alright," Bruno says on a sigh. "You'd have no way of knowing." Loud music transgressions are easily forgiven on account of the fact that he's weak for white hair and golden eyes and cleavage of that muscular chest. (He's too worn to fight it today. Does his best to keep his gaze from lingering where it shouldn't.)

Plus, Abbacchio always turns the music down without a fuss. And that constant frown of his is lighter, today.

There's a long pause – as there always seems to be when Bruno talks to Abbacchio – wherein he can't look away from those eyes. He really should excuse himself and get back to work, now that the issue is resolved.

Abbacchio's voice stops him, though. "I can – you can text me."

Bruno blinks. The afternoon sun is bright enough for him to spot the pink starting to color Abbacchio's cheeks.

"That…might work," he says, ignoring the pack of butterflies let loose in his stomach at the thought. It's for convenience's sake. Not getting-to-know-each-other's sake. Calm down…

"Um." Abbacchio clears his throat, and pulls a sleek, black phone from his pocket. He unlocks it and hands it to Bruno. "Here…"

Bruno's first thought is that Abbacchio really should put a case on this, because aesthetics aside, one good drop and it's all over – but his second thought is more along the lines of 'his hand touched mine and he's so warm and his nails are painted black and oh no'.

He plugs in his number, and saves the contact under his first name, after some panicked deliberation. Then he hands the phone back, carefully.

"I'll text you," Abbacchio says, doing just that before tucking his phone away. "Then whenever you're home, you can just…"

"Text you."

Some kind of clumsy smile flashes onto Abbacchio's face, disrupting the butterflies in Buccellati's stomach. Pale cheeks are still all flushed, too, when Abbacchio promises, "I'll try to use headphones, when you're around."

So he does have headphones. Bruno was always a step away from grabbing a pair, every time he saw them in some store, over the past few weeks – but again, it was never his place to overstep. Now, though, bolstered by that phone number, his mouth runs away from him, and: "Why do you listen to your music so loudly, anyway?"

The smile is traded for a frown, and Buccellati's stomach sinks.

But Abbacchio doesn't send him away, or slam the door in his face. Just takes a second to respond, and when he does, it's quiet against the soft backdrop of opera music.

"It's…what I do instead of drinking, now. To clear my head."

…Oh. "I'm –"

"Don't worry about it." Another quick, wry grin.

Bruno nods, his mouth twitching in return. His heart is a nervous mess, but his head is killing him, and even that little nod didn't do him any favors and maybe he should take something, because he's a little dizzy –

The next thing he knows, there are warm fingertips brushing aside his bangs, and he's eye-to-eye with solid gold that's much, much closer than it was a moment ago.

"You…" Abbacchio's fingers twitch, on both hands, one of which is steadying Bruno's shoulder, the other still on his forehead. "You have a fever."

Indeed, it must be quite high, because Abbacchio pulls away as if burnt. That explains why Bruno was so out of it at work, this morning, and why he's so bleary right now. "I'll rest later." After he finishes the work he brought home.

Abbacchio squints at him suspiciously, but Bruno should really be getting back upstairs, no matter how much he'd prefer to dawdle here.

"Do you want to come in?"

Bruno freezes, half-turned away. Slowly – so as to keep his balance, this time – he spins back to face Abbacchio. "What?" Surely he can't have heard right. Something like that absolutely is for getting-to-know-each-other's-sake.

"I just…I'm making lunch, and you look like you need it." Another fleeting smile flits across Abbacchio's face, and if he keeps that up, Bruno's poor flustered heart is never going to calm down. "I owe you an apology for all the opera, anyway, so. If you want…if it's not weird…"

For once, Bruno doesn't let himself overthink it before answering. Just listens to the excited-nervous swarm in his stomach.

"I'd love to."

A/N: Thanks for reading!