A/N: Day 23: Dance With Me

There's music coming from inside Buccellati's apartment.

It's a casual indulgence, maybe, but this isn't a track that Abbacchio recognizes. Which could mean anything, of course, but Buccellati has his favorites, and Abbacchio knows at least those.

And. When he knocked a few minutes ago, there was no answer.

There wasn't one a few seconds ago, either.

Nor is there one right now.

Buccellati always answers – or, at least, he has the few times that Abbacchio's dared to come calling…which is something that's been happening more often than usual, and for more casual reasons. Abbacchio feels a thrill of something at that thought, but also right now. Right now, he's worried.

That Buccellati is asleep would be the best explanation, with him being buried in work a close second. Buried in work is unlikely, though, given that Buccellati isn't the type to need music to focus.

If he's asleep, on the other hand, it's very definitely by accident. Because it's only late afternoon, and Buccellati never naps – almost never goes to bed at a reasonable hour, even. So if he's asleep in there, it's likely that he's in an uncomfortable position or location or both.

…And if, by any chance, there's some other reason that Buccellati isn't answering…

Well. Whatever the case, Abbacchio deems no answer for the fourth time probable cause. He's been lurking out here long enough, so he reaches into his pocket for the spare key that Buccellati gave him (the existence of which still sends him into an internal frenzy if he thinks about it for too long, so he tries not to dwell on it).

Abbacchio lets himself in, and without the thin wooden barrier of the door this unfamiliar music is a couple steps shy of deafening.

Yeah. This is definitely strange. Buccellati never plays his music this loud. It's something Miles Davis, Abbacchio guesses, because it sounds vaguely familiar, but it's definitely not one of the usual ones…

Toeing his shoes off, Abbacchio follows the noise to the living room, where Buccellati's secondhand record player lives.

Buccellati is there, sitting on the couch.

He's awake, but. The sight of him isn't exactly reassuring.

His posture is defeated, shoulders bowed inward and head tipped down. His hands are tangled together in his lap, feet angled toward each other. He seems small, curled in on himself like that, and Abbacchio's chest tightens at the sight. It only gets worse, the longer he lingers here staring. Buccellati's expression is blank in a way that Abbacchio's never seen it before. His eyes are worn and weathered and empty.

In the background, one music track melts into the next, and Abbacchio's hands twitch with a desire to do something.

"Bruno," he tries. His voice sounds weak against the music.

Dull blue eyes lift from where they're staring into nothing to meet Abbacchio's. There's an overwhelming vat of something painful in their depths, too buried for Abbacchio to puzzle out exactly what it is. But it hurts to look at.

Buccellati doesn't say anything. He tries to, Abbacchio thinks, but his mouth falls shut without a sound.

"Are you alright?"

A weighty pause, followed by a stiff nod.

Why does Buccellati even bother to try and keep up appearances behind lies this flimsy? And, for that matter, why the hell does Abbacchio keep giving him the chance to do just that? No reason at all, beyond his own cowardice, and so this time he forges on, spurred by that horrible, empty expression.

"Did something happen?"

Buccellati's eyes blink slow, and shift away. His hands twitch, squeezing at each other as he stays tightlipped. "It's nothing for you to worry about."

Something in Abbacchio's heart cracks. Starts to bleed.

He wants to demand answers. To force Buccellati to tell him what's got him looking so fucking sad – wants Buccellati to trust him – but the unnaturally fragile shape of Buccellati kills frustration as fast as it manifests. All that's left are the pieces irritated with his own useless floundering.

"Are you sure?"

With a heavy sigh, Buccellati's shoulders sag further under the weight of the world (that he just won't share). "Please drop it, Leone."

The idea of leaving this alone doesn't sit well with Abbacchio in any way.

But Buccellati is turning away, avoiding eye contact and leaning an elbow on the couch's arm. He props his temple on his fist, eyes downcast. He doesn't send Abbacchio away, but he doesn't say anything more, either.

For a long while, he just sits there. Lax and devastated on the couch.

And Abbacchio stands here. Feels kind of like falling apart and kind of like sitting beside Buccellati and kind of like running away – but in the end his feet are stuck fast to the floor.

Leaving doesn't feel right. Falling apart wouldn't help. Sitting beside Buccellati would be…

Abbacchio doesn't belong here. He shouldn't be here, witnessing this.

Buccellati won't let him in – has never let him in – and this is by far the worst case of upset that Abbacchio's ever seen him mired in. Going over there to comfort him is his kneejerk response, but that closed off posture and the sheer dread hanging in the air combine to keep him rooted to the spot.

"I'll be fine," Buccellati says, out of nowhere. His voice is so soft that Abbacchio nearly misses it.

And, fuck, maybe he will be, but he's not right now – and a lot of good that thought does stuck in Abbacchio's head instead of tumbling out of his mouth as some semblance of…of something.

Buccellati shouldn't feel like he has to say that. He shouldn't feel the need to be the one to offer reassurance when he feels this bad, just because Abbacchio is panicking at his own redundancy.

Words won't work, though. Abbacchio doesn't have any in mind that feel powerful enough for this situation. The music croons on in the background all the while, an odd sort of counter to the messy melancholic feelings that flood the room. Or maybe it adds to the atmosphere. Abbacchio isn't sure. It doesn't really matter, but…

It gives him an idea. A weird, out of place one that pulls his feet forward before he can decide if it's any good. He's already hesitated enough today.

Shoving down the urge to overthink it, Abbacchio steps up and offers a hand to Buccellati.

"Dance with me?" he asks, because at least that would be better than wasting away on the couch. He thinks. Feels kind of dumb standing here, and hates that those are the only words he can manage to get out instead of anything useful, but.

It's all he's got.

Buccellati blinks at the proffered hand, and then at Abbacchio. His eyes are just as dull as before, and he stares for so long that Abbacchio again contemplates fleeing this apartment entirely. The maintained eye contact keeps him here, dismal though those eyes are.

And then, slowly, Buccellati reaches out. His fingers brush Abbacchio's palm, and then his hand closes around Abbacchio's, and he allows himself to be helped to his feet.

They're standing close, now. Just a single step apart.

There's a shimmer of something in Buccellati's eyes. Some not-quite-formed emotion, maybe, pushing against the blankness and fighting to surface – or maybe it's being forcibly dampened. Abbacchio doesn't pretend to be an expert on feelings, and he certainly doesn't pretend to be an expert on Buccellati, but whatever the case he should probably get moving before this mess of an interaction gets even worse.

Trying as hard as he can to bury any apprehension or nerves, Abbacchio rests one tentative palm on Buccellati's waist – his hand is shaking –

And Buccellati sinks against him. He melts right in, pressing his face into Abbacchio's shoulder and winding his arms around tight and holy shit Abbacchio's heart is hammering.

He isn't cut out for this.

But he wraps Buccellati in his arms, anyway. He's not about to reject this, and right, yeah, they're supposed to be dancing. Some kind of gentle sway is all they can manage, as wound together as they are, but Abbacchio refuses to loosen his hold any, and Buccellati's hands are clinging tight to his clothes, so this will have to do.

It's in some kind of rhythm, at least. Still counts as dancing, probably. Even though Abbacchio is biting back on the urge to cry. Which is the most counterproductive reaction he can think of.

He doesn't mention it when Buccellati starts to tremble in his arms. Just holds him all the tighter and hopes it'll be enough.

A/N: Inspired by that scene in PHF, where Buccellati finds out about the drugs and has Fugo put on that record he doesn't like and then wallows alone...

Sorry it's a little late, had some errands to run,

Thanks for reading!