A/N: Day 24: Scream

Abbacchio has woken up screaming from enough nightmares to know one when he sees it from the outside.

Not that Buccellati is screaming – he's quiet, despite the way his mouth is trembling, and his body is tensed on the bed as he shifts around, tossing his head. His breath comes faster, and his bangs are stuck to his forehead with sweat.

Instead of sitting useless next to him, Abbacchio should do something. Probably should have done something the second he woke up to Buccellati's thrashing and muttering, but in his defense, his heart is in some kind of panic because he's never seen Buccellati like this.

Not like he's ever really had the opportunity to. They don't share a room – or share a bed – all that often, and right, yeah, Abbacchio should wake him up and alleviate those distressed whimpers already.

He reaches out a careful hand, resting it on Buccellati's shoulder. It's warm under his palm, through the fabric of Buccellati's t-shirt. Abbacchio gives a gentle shake, and then another when Buccellati stays steadfastly asleep in nightmare-land.

"Buccellati," he whispers. Shakes one last time, more vigorously, and Buccellati jerks awake at last.

Gasping and staring wide-eyed at Abbacchio, he starts to come back to himself. The tension in his wound-taut muscles evaporates a little more with each steadying breath he takes.

Despite his slowly relaxing posture, he stays quiet and still for a good minute or two, his eyes locked with Abbacchio's. All the while, Abbacchio doesn't let go of his shoulder. His hand is stuck there, as he hovers over Buccellati. Awkward and too-close and unable to look away.

"Are you okay?" Abbacchio asks, when he can't stand the silence paired with the weight of Buccellati's gaze anymore.

Buccellati doesn't answer. He doesn't so much as nod or shake his head or shrug. His expression is neutral as he sits up and brushes Abbacchio's hand off of his shoulder before leaving the bed entirely. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, and Abbacchio watches him go.

Realizing that his hand is still raised, paused where that shoulder was a second ago, Abbacchio lowers it and tries to ignore the weird pang in his chest.

Should he follow…? That might be an intrusion, right?

But Buccellati left the door open, and there's only the sound of running water coming from inside, so. Maybe it wouldn't be.

Then again. What could Abbacchio do, besides gracelessly barge in on all the messy feelings that (he's recently discovered) Buccellati keeps meticulously hidden. Nightmares undoubtedly fall into that category, and nightmare aftermath along with them.

It's getting harder to just sit still, the longer that water runs.

…Wanting to check on Buccellati shouldn't be intruding too much. He'll kick Abbacchio out, if he really doesn't want company. He's done it before.

Throwing aside the covers, Abbacchio throws caution right along with them and crosses the room. The plush hotel carpet gives way to the cold bathroom tile, and there's Buccellati. Standing at the sink, washing his hands – or maybe just rubbing them together under the faucet. Hard to tell.

In the dark, it's hard to spot any hint of expression on his face, but he seems pretty damn concentrated on his hands. Lost in thought, or something like that.

Abbacchio knows the feeling of being trapped in your own head all too well. And that sure as hell is what this looks like, in his professional opinion. He keeps his distance and stands just inside the door, though. Doesn't dare step closer for fear of overstepping.

"Buccellati," he says, after a moment, when the hand-washing has carried on too long. His voice is at odds with the dull silence and splash of water.

It seems to snap Buccellati out of his trance, at least. He blinks, and tosses a quick glance in Abbacchio's direction.

Then it's right back to staring at his hands as he cups them under the faucet, gathering water in his palms to splash his face with. He does this three times, and on the third he leaves his hands pressed to his face, water dripping between his fingers and down his arms.

Abbacchio bites his tongue on an errant are you okay that tries to escape. He already asked that, and he didn't get an answer – there's no reason to believe the response would be different this time.

(Besides, it's an obvious no. Whether or not Buccellati admits it.)

So he stays by the door. Not saying anything. Not moving. Not being of any help.

The sink's still running. Buccellati's shoulders quake on a heaved sigh, and then he straightens up, his hands dragging up over his face and back through the length of his hair as he moves. It leaves his sopping wet bangs sticking up in places, and sends water droplets running down his face.

He swears under his breath, and then turns the faucet off at last. Spares a second to frown at the mirror. Reaches up and readjusts his bangs – then thinks better of it and grabs for a towel.

As Abbacchio stands and watches, Buccellati dries off his face before making another attempt at fixing his bangs. He's quiet, but that's nothing unusual. He doesn't seem any worse for wear on the outside, except for his semi-sluggish mannerisms.

But when he turns to Abbacchio there's something off about his expression. A downward pull at the corners of his mouth that's not quite a frown. A tired tint to his eyes that are shining even in the dark of the bathroom.

"Are you coming back to bed?" Abbacchio asks. Because Buccellati sure isn't moving.

Again, it seems like he's snapped Buccellati out of something. With a curt nod, he breezes past Abbacchio and back into the hotel bedroom.

God – what the hell is Abbacchio doing? It's obvious that Buccellati doesn't want to be bothered about this, so Abbacchio should've never followed him in here in the first place…

By the time he picks all of his mixed feelings up off of the floor to gather them into an uncomfortable, squirming ball in his gut and follows, Buccellati is already in bed. He's lying on his side, facing away from Abbacchio's half.

Careful to keep his mouth zipped shut, Abbacchio climbs into bed. Settles with his back to Buccellati's, mirroring him. For safety.

…This is awkward. Even more so than earlier, when they first discovered the one bed predicament, and even more so than when they crawled into it together.

The silence now is overbearing, thick with some kind of tension that Abbacchio can't place but makes his stomach twist. He toys with the idea of telling Buccellati that there's nothing to be ashamed of, that showing a small piece of vulnerability only makes him human – but he doubts it would help. And he wouldn't have the courage to actually say it, anyway.

So they're just. Staying here. In this stifling atmosphere.

Neither of them are going to get any sleep at this rate. Abbacchio knows that he, at least, doesn't feel even the slightest bit tired anymore, and a glance over his shoulder reveals the tense set of Buccellati's back.

"…Do you want to talk about it?"

Buccellati's back goes even tenser, and his head moves, shifting on what might be a shake. "Just go back to sleep, Abbacchio."

And that's – that sets off an indignant spark in Abbacchio's chest – he's defensive and nervous all at once, and it's clear that Buccellati is bothered by whatever he was dreaming about, and he'd sure as hell pester or comfort Abbacchio if their roles were reversed.

And so therefore: "I will when you do."

Buccellati sighs. Sharp and quick. "It's nothing."

Like hell it's nothing. Staring over his shoulder like this is starting to hurt Abbacchio's neck, so he rolls over properly, until his front is facing Buccellati's back. "Are you sure?"

"Yes."

Well, that's good for him. Abbacchio, for his part, is not at all sure. Not with the way Buccellati is lying there all stiff, with his legs curled up toward his chest and his arms wrapped loose around himself. The ends of his hair and the collar of his shirt are still damp.

He remembers the sad set of Buccellati's mouth, and the look in his eyes as he zoned out – and this isn't Abbacchio's place at all but he can't just lie here.

So he ignores the panicked squirming in his stomach that says this is a horrible idea, crosses the line between their halves of the bed, and wraps an arm snug around Buccellati's waist.

"Abbacchio," Buccellati says, and his body doesn't quite stiffen, but nor does it relax just yet, "what are you doing?"

Part of Abbacchio's mind is wondering the exact same thing, arguing violently with the side that's keeping him here and urging him closer to Buccellati. "It – it helps keep the nightmares away."

"You know this for a fact?" There's something light to that tone, and it calms the storm that Abbacchio's insides have become, just a little.

…The effect doubles when Buccellati starts to relax, settling in against Abbacchio's chest.

"Yes," Abbacchio lies, because technically this is an untested theory based on his own lonesome wants when he's woken up screaming, but no way is he about to admit that, not when Buccellati is being cagey about feelings. He tightens his arm around Buccellati's waist. "Trust me."

Buccellati hums, as tension leaks from him in tangible waves, still more leaving him on a deep sigh. And he lies there content (and hopefully oblivious to Abbacchio's thundering heart) until he's calmed enough to feasibly fall asleep.

Which is good for him. Abbacchio is doing his best, over here, but it's hard, seeing as this is the first time they've cuddled ever.

At least it's calming one of them down.

Once Abbacchio's heart is done doing somersaults, he's sure he'll nod off, too. Should be any second now.

Buccellati's hand presses warm atop Abbacchio's arm around his stomach, and his thumb brushes Abbacchio's skin. Gentle and slow. "Thank you," he whispers.

And, god, there's no way the somersaults will stop now.

Humbled and overwhelmed and not actually having been very helpful, Abbacchio mutters, "Of course."

x

Months later, when Abbacchio wakes with a choked off scream, Buccellati's arms find him immediately. Winding around him before he's even fully conscious – while breaths still sting as he gulps them down deep, and he twists in that constricting hold until he recognizes who those arms belong to.

"You're okay," Buccellati says, mouth pressed to Abbacchio's sweaty forehead, "I've got you, you're alright, shh…"

Hell. Abbacchio doesn't even remember what he dreamt. All that's left are snatches of dark, unpleasant things that slip away the more he focuses on Buccellati holding him, and on those fingers running through his hair.

Slowly, his hammering heart tries to return to normal. He feels tears on his cheeks at the same time as Buccellati thumbs them away.

Clinging so tight to him is pathetic and selfish but it helps Abbacchio feel safe – and Buccellati isn't letting go, so Abbacchio doesn't, either. For some reason the heartbeat beneath his cheek is matched in pace to his own, which doesn't make sense, but there's a lot that's foggy right now, so Abbacchio focuses on breathing. On a sturdy hold and careful hands and soft kisses.

"You know," Buccellati murmurs, once Abbacchio is calmer, and his breath is only hitching on every fifth intake or so, "I hear this helps keep nightmares away."

As he talks, he coaxes Abbacchio to lie back down fully without separating them. He cuddles up even closer under the covers, and the warmth spreading through Abbacchio's chest is fast chasing away any residual chills that shake down his spine.

"You know that for a fact?" Abbacchio mumbles, his voice trembling with him.

Buccellati thumbs over Abbacchio's cheek again, following it up with a gentle press of lips. "Yeah," he says, arms wound tight around Abbacchio, "I do."

A/N: Thanks for reading!