A/N: Day 25: Goodbyes

Warnings for a brief and vague discussion on the edibility of birds, and casual violent urges via Abbacchio's inner monologue intended for comedic purposes.

Just some, silly nonsense,

The only thing making this family breakfast bearable is Buccellati's existence. He's sitting next to Abbacchio, thank god, and their knees sometimes bump beneath the table. A show of solidarity that's much-needed in the face of the three misbehaving miscreants across the way.

Not that they're…horrible. Or really misbehaving, exactly. They just have too much energy for this early in the day, and the only outlet they have for it is an excitable conversation about…Abbacchio's lost track.

It started as a discussion on the origin of coffee, he thinks, and from there spiraled to other edible plants, but now it seems like they're talking about birds that are commonly eaten versus birds that are not commonly eaten and trying to figure out where the distinction lies.

Which is all well and good, except for the way it's aggravating Abbacchio's headache by forcing him to overhear shit like:

"Imagine eating someone's pet bird – like, what the fuck?"

"Cats do it all the time, I think."

"Those are cats, Narancia. That's different."

"What makes eating a canary worse than eating duck, or chicken? It's messed up, but why?"

"Because ducks and chickens are supposed to be eaten."

"Yeah, but why?"

"What about seagulls? No one eats those, and they're everywhere."

Ugh. Abbacchio is a step away from slamming his head off the table and proceeding to hide beneath his arms until he passes out from one thing or another.

Buccellati's hand stops him. It pats his thigh with a gentle, soothing touch. Probably in sympathy for the no doubt godawful expression on Abbacchio's face. That palm rests there, a warm and soft anchor that's just overwhelming enough to keep Abbacchio grounded. And ease his headache some, as he focuses on that sensation instead – though, it's dangerous to focus on it too much. Because the children are present. And all.

That hand leaves his thigh far, far too soon so that Buccellati can use it to finish his coffee, and then the worst happens:

Buccellati stands up, clears his throat, and announces, "I'm heading out for a bit. I have a meeting with Polpo, but you're all free to carry on here until I return."

Now he's leaving (told them to carry on of all sentiments) much to the fanfare of the others with their cheerful goodbyes and energetic waves and promises to hold down the fort (yeah fucking right, Fugo). And Abbacchio is well aware that his grump regarding this turn of events is blatant on his face, but –

But that's no excuse for Buccellati to pause. To bend down and drop a kiss to the top of Abbacchio's head, right in front of the others.

"I'll see you later," Buccellati says – to the table or to Abbacchio alone it doesn't much matter –and then he's gone. Just like that.

The peanut gallery has a field day the second he's out the door.

x

Abbacchio is reluctant when Buccellati invites him out for a walk, indecision running rampant for a hot minute because it's cold as hell outside. The world is all frozen-over and unappealing with only a bare dusting of snow to make it kind-of pretty. Venturing out when you don't have to is for absolute weirdos, and Abbacchio wants no part in it.

Except…

Buccellati is inviting him out. Spends a few minutes going on and on about how the falling snow is picturesque, and how they haven't had time to themselves lately…

And honestly the fact that it's Buccellati who's asking is enough to seal the deal on its own – but when this is framed as a date –

How the hell is Abbacchio supposed to refuse?

So now he's out in the cold, freezing his ass off. Occasionally brushing shoulders with Buccellati while trying to work up some semblance of the courage required to take hold of his hand.

This personal mission of his is not going well so far. Things could be worse, he supposes. His hands are stagnant in his pockets, yeah, but he's successfully forgotten his gloves, having decided that an excuse to seek out hand holding is worth the potential loss of a few fingers. So step one is down.

…

…Buccellati looks nice, out in the fresh air.

Or, well, nicer, because he always looks nice, and even that is an understatement but the point is that Buccellati is at ease, out here.

The freezing breeze ruffles his bangs and flushes color onto his cheeks, and even though the scenery is dulled by winter, he himself is vibrant. Light on his feet and wearing a permanent almost-smile…it's altogether too much for Abbacchio's heart. Makes it tear open and dump his feelings messy into his stomach. (Which can't be healthy, but it's fine.)

It doesn't even matter that they've barely spoken two words to each other since they set foot in this deserted park. Getting to coexist with Buccellati when he's the closest he gets carefree is more than enough.

Now if only Abbacchio could pull himself together and hold his hand, things would be perfect.

It's not that hard! Nowhere near a dramatic gesture! Just a simple reach over, and he can tangle his fingers with those gloved ones that keep bumping into his coat sleeve. Buccellati won't turn down the contact, especially under the guise of keeping Abbacchio's hand warm.

They're already a…couple.

This will be fine.

All Abbacchio has to do is –

Buccellati steps in close, looping his arm through Abbacchio's in one smooth motion that keeps them locked close together while allowing Abbacchio's hand to stay in his pocket. He leans his bright warmth into Abbacchio's stunned shoulder like this is the easiest thing in the world and says, "Why do you look so grumpy? It's a beautiful day."

"No it isn't." But Buccellati is. "It's cold as fuck." But Abbacchio's face sure is toasty. (And he only looks grumpy because he was having an internal debate over hand holding, but that's settled now. In a way that isn't doing any favors to the wild feelings loose in his stomach, though his scowl is starting to unthaw.)

"Maybe," Buccellati hums, nudging at Abbacchio, and even flashing a small, fleeting smile up at him. One that looks almost shy. "But it's not so bad like this, with you."

God-fucking-dammit Abbacchio is going to keel over right here and now – forget the cold; overexposure to Buccellati is what's going to do him in.

He wants to kiss Buccellati, suddenly and more than anything, but considering how he struggled with simple hand holding, there's no way that's happening. All he can do is try not to hide his face in his scarf as he mutters, "You're the warm one."

"Hm?"

"I said you're the one who wanted to come out here."

Buccellati's arm winds tighter around Abbacchio's, and he leans all the closer, properly cuddled up. "Well," he says, ears starting to go red, "we…haven't had time to relax together, just the two of us, so I thought –" He cuts himself off, suddenly. The smile drops from his face in an instant, and he stands frozen still. "Shit."

Abbacchio stops right along with him, panic spiking. "What is it?"

"I forgot…" Buccellati's posture droops along with his expression, before he's able to cover it with his typical rigid businesslike stance. "I'm supposed to meet with Luca this afternoon. He has some kind of complaint."

"Skip it," Abbacchio advises on reflex even as his heart sinks, because he knows Buccellati won't.

Sure enough: "If I do that, he'll go over my head and things will be worse."

Abbacchio has never hated anyone more than he hates Luca in this moment. Has the urge to smash Luca's head in with that damn shovel of his, because Buccellati is checking his watch, and his face is falling into neutral territory. Any carefree edge or shadow of a smile is long gone.

"I can make it if I hurry," Buccellati mutters, while untangling his arm from Abbacchio's, heading out already. "I'll see you later, Leone."

But Abbacchio grabs him. Moves on automatic to clutch at Buccellati's coat sleeve, and now he's just staring into stern blue eyes.

Buccellati, of course, opens his mouth to protest.

But Abbacchio doesn't give him the chance. Before he can think better of it, he darts in and presses a kiss to Buccellati's cheek. When he pulls back, there's a dark smudge of lipstick left in his wake. "See you later, Bruno."

Buccellati brushes the mark on his face with gloved fingertips, as some semblance of his earlier smile returns. It's slow and fragile, but it's there and growing stronger by the second. Then he nods, his ears pinker than the chill accounts for, and hurries on his way.

Abbacchio watches him go until he's gone, trying not to think about how Buccellati didn't bother to wipe his cheek off.

The thought is enough to keep him warm all the way home.

x

Today is perfect, because they finally have time to be properly alone, in the comfort of Abbacchio's own apartment. Out of the cold and away from their shitty (not at all lovable) team.

Buccellati's schedule is miraculously cleared, so he's free to lounge on Abbacchio's couch and function as a cozy pillow. His thighs are so comfortable that Abbacchio doesn't even remember what movie they're supposed to be watching – it very much faded into the background the second Buccellati's fingers started running gentle through his hair.

It's only a matter of time before he falls asleep under this careful touch…basking in the attention and mere presence of Buccellati…

One of Buccellati's hands leaves his hair to stroke over his cheek instead, and like this, it's all too easy to turn his head some and kiss at those fingertips. Because he hopes it'll earn a fond tilt of Buccellati's mouth – and it does, and god, Abbacchio wants to lose himself in that.

Wants to drown in the warm blue of Buccelalti's eyes, or sit up and wrap around him properly, pull him down so they can –

Buccellati's laptop pings, and Abbacchio is ready to commit real actual murder.

That damned machine is still sitting open on the coffee table even though there's supposed to be no fucking work today, and Abbacchio is too furious about its existence to even bother reading over Buccellati's shoulder when he inevitably leans forward and opens the email. (Though admittedly, the squished angle of his head on Buccellati's lap doesn't give him the best view, anyway.)

There's quiet for a moment as Buccellati reads. He's stuck here, for now, and so Abbacchio uses this opportunity to stealthily wind one fist into the fabric of Buccellati's shirt. He sends the other arm to wind around Buccellati's legs. Just in case.

"I have to go," Buccellati announces as he snaps his laptop shut.

Worst case scenario confirmed, Abbacchio grunts out his displeasure and tightens his hold.

Buccellati's fingers rub a soothing apology into the roots of Abbacchio's hair before they abandon it, leaving it starved of affection. And then he tries to stand up, but Abbacchio holds fast, so it doesn't exactly go well. He falls back to sitting with a sigh.

"Leone."

Abbacchio deepens his scowl, pressing it into the thighs that are supposed to remain his pillow for an indefinite amount of time until he falls asleep and Buccellati gently urges him into a more comfortable position, wherein Buccellati's entire body will become his pillow, and he himself will act the part of a very warm blanket –

"It's urgent," Buccellati insists, for some reason still bent on leaving this cozy atmosphere in favor of the harsh cold of work.

"So is this." Abbacchio's complaint is muffled by Buccellati's pants and so therefore incoherent. Oh well. The point still stands. He's not about to relax his hold. He's not moving, and neither is Buccellati, for that matter.

…Except that they both are, courtesy of Sticky Fingers.

Dammit.

The mission of standing up via zipping poor unfortunate Abbacchio apart is completed, and leaves him to fall dejected to the couch without Buccellati's loving support.

And Buccellati must feel rightfully guilty about that, because he leans down to press his lips to Abbacchio's forehead. "I'll be back," he murmurs into the skin. This is followed up by another lingering kiss, this time to Abbacchio's cheek. "I promise."

Funny that he failed to mention when he'll be back. Which means he's going to be away much longer than either of them want, and Abbacchio had better resign himself to a lonely evening of waiting up.

It's not Buccellati's fault that he's got shit to do. Abbacchio knows this. Their job isn't the kind you can just brush aside to worry about later, certain gangsters have this funny quirk of killing you if you're late, time-sensitive missions exist, etc. etc.

But he still can't help but grumble to himself, "At least kiss me goodbye for real, if you're going to keep leaving…"

Halfway to standing, Buccellati pauses. Raises one eyebrow.

Ah.

Abbacchio didn't mean to say that so loud. His face is heating up, but he does his best to maintain eye contact. He said what he said, after all.

"If you insist."

That's all the warning Abbacchio gets before Buccellati is on him. Catches his mouth with fierce contact, the kind that's easily deepened at this angle, which is something Buccellati takes full advantage of as he presses in – lets his lips slide free only to latch them back on again and again – teases his tongue in and out – nibbles Abbacchio's bottom lip – tangles his fingers into long white hair – steals chaste kisses by the handful in between more intimate ones – licks along Abbacchio's teeth – pushes their mouths together with insistence –

And then he lifts away. Only a little breathless, whereas Abbacchio is gasping.

Dark lipstick is smeared over Buccellati's mouth. Abbacchio tries to chase the tempting spit-slick and kiss-swollen shape of it, but Buccellati is pressing a hand to his shoulder and standing up out of reach as he says, "I'll see you soon, Leone."

Then he's gone, the charming bastard.

Out the door before Abbacchio can even begin to catch his breath or calm his heart.

God. Affection festers heavy in Abbacchio's heart and stomach alike as he curls up on the couch with no way to express it. Mark his words, one of these days he's going to be the one to bid a premature goodbye first – see how Buccellati likes it…

A/N: Thanks for reading!