A/N: Day 29: Your Choice!
New Years was a lucrative prompt for me, so here are the other two ideas I had in mind,,

First segment: Warning for mentions of and allusions to someone accidentally getting set on fire.
Second segment: Warning for steamy content. Another heavy make-out as a precursor to sex with stripping but no full nudity. No sexual activities are explicitly described. Strong T or maybe a light M rating.

December 31st, 2001
23:47

"Fireworks are all set up," Trish announces, poking her head into the tiny living room. She looks awfully energetic, given the beachside chill and the late hour and all. (Abbacchio cannot relate.)

Mista, draped sideways in the room's only armchair, pumps a lazy fist in the air. "Hell yeah!"

All six Sex Pistols echo him with varying levels of enthusiasm, most of them with their little stand mouths stuffed full of leftovers, and Abbacchio barely stops himself from chastising them for spitting crumbs all over the carpet. This is his house, after all – well, his and Buccellati's, technically speaking – and so many brats running rampant through it all night long have already left it in a state. Which wouldn't be a problem if he trusted any one of them to clean up after themselves…

But. That's a shallow concern, in the end. Shrugged off thanks to the way Buccellati is cuddled up to him on their couch, half lying atop Abbacchio, situated between his legs where he's reclined sideways against the arm of the couch.

Able to sense his irritation, Buccellati sends a hand up to rub soothingly at his chest. It works to dispel some of the grump, and Abbacchio curls his arms tighter around Buccellati in return.

"Thank you, Trish," Buccellati says. And he sounds appropriately tired – but that's to be expected, being as he's still recovering from his stint as a walking corpse, and all. (Thank fuck for Giorno's distant relative.)

Trish preens at the thanks, just a little and mostly for show. "Narancia and Fugo helped some, I guess."

Wait.

That means –

"You left those two out there alone?" Abbacchio grumbles. "With flammable shit?"

"I'm sure they'll be –"

There's a bang, followed by a fwoosh and a flash of light. A shout. Some incoherent yelling.

"Ugh, god." Trish frowns, turning right back around to march out of the room the way she came. "Those assholes, can't leave them for a second…"

"Take the fire extinguisher," Buccellati calls after her.

Out of sight, there's the sound of Trish lifting said extinguisher from its home in the hall (where it lives tonight in case of this exact situation), and she raises her voice as she heads outside. "I swear, if you two set off any more of those before the new year, I'm going to –!"

The slam of the front door makes her threat go muffled, which is probably just as well. She's gotten pretty creative with them, and proud as it makes Abbacchio, Buccellati still winces sometimes.

Mista is laughing, a sleepy sort of thing that's more delirious than his usual cackle, as he runs his hands over his face and under his hat. "Ahh," he sighs, crazed smile dimpling his cheeks, "it's a wonder any of us made it this far."

Damn right. Abbacchio fights the urge to rub at the spot on his torso where a gaping hole lived for a terrifying few minutes back in April. Mainly because Buccellati is leaned comfortable against it.

Sitting on the floor in front of the armchair, Giorno cracks a nauseatingly soft grin. "You're a sturdy bunch," he says, as if he knows anything. (Yes, Abbacchio is aware that he owes Giorno his life, thank you for asking, but he also would not have been subject to that particular life threatening situation in the first place, were it not for Giorno. So. There you have it.)

Abbacchio's arms tighten reflexively around Buccellati. This earns him a tiny, comfortable noise, along with another chest pat. Which in turn reminds him how satisfying it is, to have the best seat in the house while Giorno is stuck on the floor – and just like that his irritation is soothed.

Beside Giorno sits Polnareff-who-is-a-turtle, and he chimes in with a, "Right you are!" as Mista slaps Giorno on the back and cheers, "You are, too, GioGio!"

That stupid smile on Giorno's face ticks wider. It's kind of sweet, Abbacchio guesses. He hasn't seen Giorno make that expression before, after all.

Sex Pistols is starting to get wound up, the more alive Mista comes, and they squeal with excitement when he finally sits upright, using his legs thrown over the arm of the chair to propel himself to standing. He gives an obnoxiously loud stretch, and then pats Giorno on his mess of golden hair.

"C'mon, let's go help extinguish Narancia. He'll probably need Gold Experience to replace a leg, or something."

"Hm." Giorno climbs to his feet, pausing to pick up Polnareff-who-is-a-turtle on his way, and follows Mista toward the hall. "I'd wager that Fugo is the one on fire."

"Oh? You wanna bet on it, boss?"

Their conversation fades out (Abbacchio is loath to admit that he's pretty sure Giorno is going to win that bet, because he recognized those screams from a previous flaming Fugo incident), and is replaced by the slam of the front door – and, fuck, finally Abbacchio is alone with Buccellati. As this holiday should be spent.

"It's nice, having everyone over," Buccellati says. He must be delusional from exhaustion. Poor thing.

Abbacchio kisses the dark head of hair pillowed on his chest. "That's one word for it."

That – even though it's not a joke – earns a laugh from Buccellati. A sweet, puffing thing that sends warmth spreading through Abbacchio's insides.

"You love them," Buccellati claims.

"One or two of them," Abbacchio acquiesces. Only because it's a special occasion.

Humming, Buccellati presses a kiss to Abbacchio's chest, and then leans up to brush another one over his jaw. "It's almost midnight," he says, "we should go join everyone outside."

Abbacchio heaves a heavy sigh, wrapping his arms tight around Buccellati's middle and squeezing his legs in on either side of him. "I think we should stay here."

"Leone," is all Buccellati says, in that lighthearted tone of his.

And fuck, fine, okay. Abbacchio unwinds his arms and starts to sit up straighter, allowing for Buccellati to do the same so that they can both finagle their way from the comfort of the couch to the chill of the outdoors.

Fugo is sitting towards the bottom of the porch steps, with Polnareff-who-is-a-turtle beside him and one of his sleeves scorched to all hell. His watch remains unscathed on the opposite arm, and he's watching it closely. He announces, "It's midnight," just seconds before the distant commotion starts up.

Narancia, who someone has given a lighter to, lets out an overly loud, "Whoo!" He dives for the nearest firework, sending it up, and Trish does the same on her end, with Giorno handling the middle. Mista is handing sparklers off to each of the Sex Pistols, and all-in-all Abbacchio fully expects his and Buccellati's quaint little beach shack to burn down by the end of the festivities.

It's still standing for now, though. So Abbacchio leans content against Buccellati, who's resting his elbows on the railing of their worn wooden porch. Wraps an arm snug around Buccellati's waist and cuddles him to chase away the cold as they monitor a handful of irresponsible brats playing with fire.

Pressed to Abbacchio's side, Buccellati tips his head up. There's a serene sort of smile on his face, fireworks reflecting in his eyes and lighting up his face –

And Abbacchio can't help but bend down and press his mouth to that waiting grin.

x

January 1st, 2005
1:12

Their humble house along the coast is a sight for sore eyes after the grandeur of Giorno's home. Sticky Fingers gets the door – so to speak – as always, and Bruno leads Leone inside by the hand.

It's an hour into the new year, and by all accounts Leone should be too tired to stand. Instead, he's only almost too tired to stand. It's a near thing, and the way Bruno leans him against the front door to claim a deep, languid kiss could tip the scales either way, depending.

A thigh presses in, slipped between his own to rub forward and oh.

So the scales are tipping that way, huh?

Leone's head falls back on a groan, his mouth leaving Bruno's with a wet noise.

And Bruno laughs at him. A soft, sweet sound that sets off gentle sparks low in Leone's gut – or maybe that's the steady attention of that thigh – he can't really tell which – probably both –

"Are you tired, Leone?" Bruno teases. He's taken to peppering Leone's throat and jaw with kisses, since he's been robbed of mouth-contact. These plush attentions feel impossibly good, especially so when Bruno presses in tight, body aligning fully with Leone's, his warmth and weight enveloping Leone all over.

"Those damn brats have too much energy," Leone manages to grouch, even as teeth scrape down the side of his neck. He drags his hands up Bruno's back, hauling him closer and breathing him in. "Next year we're staying home just the –" Oh, fuck, Bruno latches on and starts sucking a bruise into sensitive skin near the base of Leone's throat. "Just the two of us."

Bruno hums around a mouthful of skin before letting it pop free. Offering a tiny, charming smile that still never fails to dissolve Leone's stomach into butterflies, he says, "That's what you said last year, too."

"And now here we are," Leone grumbles, trying and failing to maintain a frown. Rubs his way back down Bruno's back and settles his hands low.

"We could have spent the night." The playful sparkling in Bruno's eyes betrays this as a joke, but still.

"No." Leone can't help the way he arches forward with a grunt at a rougher press of that thigh, huffing as teeth nibble their way along his jaw. "No way would I do this in one of Giorno's –" Bruno is sucking on his neck again. "Shit – guest bedrooms."

Giving Leone's marked up neck a break, Bruno drops a kiss on his chin instead. "Me neither."

"Good." Even that gentle kiss overwhelms him, though, and so Leone hauls Bruno into a grind – keeps it up until Bruno is panting out just as many pleasured noises as Leone already is –

"Well –" Bruno gasps, one of his hands winding its way into Leone's hair, tipping his head for a proper kiss that Leone moans into. Bruno's soft mouth works his thoroughly, his lips slick and full and tinted with Leone's lipstick – and Leone does his best to give as good as he gets until Bruno abruptly pulls back and announces, "I'm not tired."

God. Damn it all.

Leone clutches at Bruno, leans down to kiss him once, and then again and again. Wet and a little sloppy, they're both gasping between each one, and Bruno's lips are thoroughly bitten.

"Me neither," Leone murmurs into that waiting mouth.

"Good." Bruno is fingering the plunging collar of Leone's shirt, now. "Because it's about time we finished ringing in the new year."

Leone didn't think his heart could beat any faster than it already is, but there it sure goes, picking up the pace and thudding heavy with anticipation. He knows what Bruno means by that – and even if he didn't, the upward tilt at the corner of Bruno's mouth and scant rings of blue around blown-wide pupils would give him some idea.

A handful of well-practiced zippers later, and Bruno is clad in nothing but red lace. His body is still pressed up against Leone thanks to his stand's efficiency, and Leone has never been more grateful for Sticky Fingers' existence.

This lingerie is the set that Leone bought him for Christmas – custom-made so that it clings to him – with tasteful cutouts – and the panties cover him, but they don't really –

Leone is having an impossible time curbing his wandering hands, but Bruno's murmurs of encouragement along with a growing heat between them assures him that it's not at all minded.

"Leone," Bruno groans, and he's back to kissing and sucking his way along Leone's neck and across his shoulder – which is bare, suddenly, courtesy of Sticky Fingers.

And then Leone's shirt is fully gone, leaving the soft scrape of lace and warmth of skin to overwhelm him as Bruno leans in with insistence – Leone's pants are next – and his hands are sneaking beneath lingerie and he's kissing Bruno again – and –

"Fuck," Leone gasps, wrenching his mouth away, almost cracking his head off the door. "We should probably…" he trails off, words lost to the feeling of Bruno's thigh nudging upward as blunted nails scrape down his back.

"Upstairs?"

"Yeah –"

Untangling is a clumsy business, easier said than done, and they trip over each other's feet all the way to the stairs. Leone can't help the bits of laughter that escape him, Bruno smiling right along as they hurry up the steps.

They tumble into bed together, trying to arrange their limbs in some sensible way without pausing their latest kiss, which is harder said than done – but –

There's nowhere else Leone would rather be.

A/N: I have this very self-indulgent headcanon that Crazy Diamond would be able to repair whatever disconnect happened between Bruno's soul and body.

Thanks for reading!