Author Note: Second-person narration is from one character to another, as if they are retelling their stories. Trigger warning for mild descriptions of self-harm.

This is a chapter in a part 5 backstory collection. Heads up, everyone is gay, but you knew that. If you want more, you can find all seven chapters and a preview of a Giorno-era retelling under my author name.

When Doves Cry

(Bucciarati)

Call it last time. The last time we argued that way. The last time we made love. The last time I brought you to silent tears. Last time.

I came back for you on Sunday afternoon, Fugo's restless fears squirming into my head at last. He was right. We hadn't seen you all weekend. I said you were sleeping it off. He said anything could happen. I said you were probably writing letters to dead people again. I told him I stole your razors when we broke up, but he pointed out that you were still shaving somehow and anyway you had a set of throwing knives. I went to check on you.

Your door was unlocked, which meant you hadn't touched it since I slammed it Friday night. Untouched – the roses I brought you still lying on the table in their plastic sleeve, the wine standing open, your shirt hanging on the bedroom door. The sun streamed in, a splendid October afternoon. Moody Blues wore my likeness, frozen in an attitude of bewilderment, frustration, despair. The instant before I walked out. Infinitely more patient than I, your stand bided over you where you sat braced between the floor and the wall. Exactly where I left you, as if I'd cut your strings and you slid down in a heap on the spot.

"Sweetheart? Leone? It's two days later. Haven't you moved at all?"

Your head was in your hands and I hoped for an instant that you'd fallen asleep, simply dozed and drowsed the weekend away, but when you looked up at me I saw that it wasn't so. Your eyes were puffy and dazed as a midnight traveler's.

"You took that overnight flight from heartbreak city?" I asked you, easing into the room. The two chairs were neatly tucked under the table, the bare wood floor was swept and warm in the autumn sun. I knew I was only scared of tripping over memories. Unnerved by your hazy stare, I turned to Moody Blues instead. "Couldn't you do anything for him? What kind of lover are you? Useless."

I swatted my doppelganger with mock indignation, but so gently because I knew the touch would rebound onto you. Moody Blues gazed back with sad, helpless eyes – my face and my eyes, but was the expression mine, yours, or a mood all its own?

"He really didn't move this entire time?" I asked it. Your stand is wordless, always, but such an excellent actor that sometimes its rogue gestures speak volumes. "How is that possible?"

My image melted away as Moody Blues resumed its own smooth, mauve features. Catching my eye with its insectoid, mannequin gaze, it glanced down at its hand and gave a tiny start, as if realizing suddenly what it held. What was that for? I tilted my head in confusion, and Moody Blues mirrored my movement, ironic, then held out one beseeching hand and froze in place, still as a statue. The digital timer on its forehead glowed blank and aimless, like an alarm clock that doesn't know where to begin again after a power outage.

I turned back to you. You. A cast-off puppet, a broken doll. It should have been me standing vigil over you, not your own stand. Inwardly, I clutched at my resentment like a tight collar that I must, I must loosen. God, it was choking me. Heedless of the glass shards and spattered wine that haloed you, I slid down to kneel on the floor before you.

I wanted to take your chin in my hands, gaze into your eyes, take your body in my arms and ease you over onto my lap, whisper words that would make it alright, rock you until the tears came and passed, breathe life into you again. But I had no inspiration; the words refused to come forth. And the last time I reached for you – my hand halted as if you were trapped in a thick glass box – the last time, you were like a statue, stony and petrified, fear shining in your eyes. Could I risk that again? I thought if you ever looked at me that way again, I would break beyond any hope of repair.

So close that I could hear your slow, shallow breaths, you seemed far beyond my reach.

"Leone? Love, what do you need?"

You only stared, incomprehensible misery answering me from your eyes.

I held out my hand as if to a wild animal, an injured dog, half expecting you to shy away. But slow and cool as Moody Blues, you mirrored my gesture – so perfectly that I had to turn my hand to wrap around yours before our fingers simply collided.

What had Moody Blues meant? What had you held?

I turned your hand over, exposing your long white wrist. Soft as a doll, you offered no resistance. You didn't meet my eyes as I inspected first the long, blood-caked gashes crisscrossing your forearm and then your moon-blank face. I sighed. I had left you surrounded by glass shards, nothing else in reach – what had I expected? What the hell was I thinking? What kind of lover leaves a man with nothing in reach but pain?

"Zippers won't fix this," I said. "I could close it, but that would only put any infection under a layer of skin. First aid. Food and water, then sleep."

"Sorry," you croaked. "Bruno–"

"No. This isn't yours to apologize for. I threw a wine glass at you and walked out. I said words that hurt worse than these little cuts. I didn't check on you until Fugo made me. I was trying to be better than this. I'm sorry, Leone. I'm the one who's sorry. You don't have to be."

"It's my fault–"

"It's not. Come on, get up, we need to wash your arms."

"Last night. I told you no."

"I know. You don't want to get back together. I keep thinking you'll reconsider and then last night, I finally thought… Well. I was wrong, that's nothing new. This soap might sting."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not what you want."

"What? Don't say that, love. You're all that I want. I threw a tantrum because you got so close and after all, I still can't have you. This is a me problem and I'm so sorry that you got hurt in it. Again."

The tap water took so long to warm up at that apartment you had. My fingers were stinging with cold as I ran them up and down your arm, slowly rubbing away dried blood while trying not to re-open any cuts. My eyes were on your skin, so I didn't notice that you were working to get more words together.

"No. Not that. I tried…"

Another long pause.

"Oh, love. Don't stop talking. Please, I'll listen better."

Your voice broke down to a whisper, and I knew you didn't have many words left before your silence took hold. I used to think you were being dramatic, but by this point I knew there was no choice involved here.

"Tried to tell you… no. I couldn't. I had to…"

Realization dawned as slowly as the warmth coming into the stream of water. My fingers stopped working over you – I let our hands thaw as I worked on the puzzle in your face instead. You had fallen silent again, so I tried to piece things together aloud for you.

"I asked you to get back together and you told me no. But then you changed your mind and started kissing me, like we used to – I didn't understand that, but I wanted it to be true so badly, I just went with it. Until you froze up. I couldn't stand seeing that fear in you. And then you started saying things to me–"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You're not, you're not like him–"

The water was suddenly scalding, unbearable. I pulled our hands out of it.

"Except when I am. I know you meant it. I was getting the hell out of there when you started begging me to stay. That's when I lost it with you. I'm really sorry, Leone. I know you. I know where this is coming from, and I still wasn't good enough."

The water hissed and steamed, rushing down the drain. I fumbled with the faucet.

"So why?" I was trying to keep my bitterness away from you, but the words were just spilling out. The opposite of your silences. "Why did you pull me back in if you didn't want me?"

"Had to," you choked out, stifled. "Lost my choice."

I stared into your beautiful, ruined face and I looked at all the pieces. His face reflecting from every shard of you.

"Did you ever want me? Or was I always – just another–?"

You only shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut against the tears.

"Leone, please!"

But your words had deserted you. Another time, I would have yelled in frustration. I would have pulled you close and tried to soothe you. Last night, I met this same silence and I threw a glass at you and walked away. Wrong, so wrong, so wrong.

I could still do better. I kissed the back of each hand that I held, and then dropped them. You needed to break contact in these strange moments. I took a step back; you needed space, an escape route. I knew he used to corner you. I knew he hurt you. If I knew then what I know now – the gaslighting, the guilt trips, your apology the only ticket out of hell – maybe I would have understood how my endless needs were hurting you. I didn't know, couldn't imagine, too young, too simply used to trace the labyrinth in your eyes.

I waited you out. Watching the digital clock on your stove count the minutes; I let the clock teach me patience. Watching the misery rip through you like a storm; I let that storm teach me caution. As it left you, the forlorn look in your eyes, the exhaustion in your falling shoulders. Devotion, I thought. What I feel for you is no longer passion, but devotion.

Eventually, you found your breath again. Still wordless, still avoiding my eyes, you put your other arm in my hands – the one still caked with blood. Relief washed through me. We might never kiss again, we might never share a bottle of wine again, but you could still trust me with this touch. I could have laughed and hugged you, spun you round in my joy. I knew better. One-handed, I fixed the faucet to the only bearable temperature and set back to work cleaning your cuts in silence.

I found your antibiotic cream and gauze rolls in the bathroom cabinet. Fugo was right; of course you still had a kit with a couple bare razors hidden there. That wasn't even very hidden. Your tears dried by the time I finished bandaging and found a box of stale crackers, the last food in your apartment. When did I stop checking if you'd bought groceries? Was it six weeks after we broke up? Three? One? Thank God I forced the team to eat so many meals together. Crackers, water, and – a sad parody of our scene last night – I led you to bed, tame as a lamb.

My father used to sit on the windowsill by my bed and smoke after he put out the light. I was too old for a goodnight kiss, too old to tell stories to. That had been my mother's job, anyway. At a loss, we used to watch the moon toss and plunge through the clouds, or on a darker night I would listen to his breathing and I suppose he listened to mine. My love felt as hollow as his, that night. So I perched on the edge of your desk and owlishly watched you drift off to sleep.

I kept my vigil religiously this time. Fugo came by, mid-morning before you woke, having convinced himself that we had both died in a lovers' suicide or perhaps eloped. I sent him to buy food and coffee – blessed coffee. Then he went to get the week's assignments from Polpo. Better Fugo than Mista, or God forbid, Narancia. I don't know what it was about brunets that drove our capo to excess, and now, thank God, we'll never know.

At noon, you woke clear-eyed but still wordless. I kept my distance and I kept my sadness to myself. We ate. Your eyes followed me like house cats mooning after strangers, hoping someone might open the right door and let them back into the comforts of home.

After breakfast, you showered, shaved correctly and with no additional blood loss, and dressed as you always do. I helped you replace the bandages on your arms. I'm no expert, but nothing looked pus-filled or oozy, hot or swollen, so I figured healing was probably happening.

I thought we were ready to go rendezvous with the team, but you were searching for something, aimlessly at first and then with growing urgency.

"Use Moody Blues," I reminded you.

You smiled ruefully – the first smile I'd seen since Friday – and raised your stand. I could tell you were searching back through time, both of you concentrating and motionless, the digits on Moody Blues' timer flickering. It turned out you had left your paper and pen in a drawer a couple days before. From the way you dismissed Moody Blues with a nod, I could tell that you had forgiven yourself. You settled on a chair and began to write. Seeing your concentration engaged again soothed me. I leaned against the window and watched you nibble the end of the pen, write and stop and write. You always wrote obsessively and secretively to the people you had lost; I was stunned when you pushed this page my way.

I keep your letter folded in my wallet, on top of the only photo of my father left in the world. God help the man who tries to pick my pocket.

"Dearest love," you wrote.

"I don't want you to know the rest of what he did to me. Leave me that dignity. Just know this is his fault, not yours. I know you walk on eggshells for me. I wish it wasn't like this. But it's not enough and I can't ask any more of you.

"I'm not what you need. The price I've paid for trying – love, if you knew, you'd end this too. It was easy when we'd just met. It's since we've been fighting, like there's a tension now that neither of us can release. I can't reassure you enough that you're not losing me. You can't put to rest the ghosts from my past. It's terrifying for me to be in these daily fights again – you're nothing like him, honestly you're not, but I keep expecting it. When I'm like this, I have nothing left to give you. I'm so sorry, but for both our sakes, you have to accept that we can't be lovers.

"Please stay in my life. Please stay as a friend, don't give up on me. You're every bright thing in my world. Let me see the light in your eyes every day and I'll know the future is better than the past.

"Yours always," you signed, "L."

"Oh, love," I said, putting the paper down before my shaking hands could tear or crumple it, "I do know the price you've been paying. It's written on your face every day. Only I thought… if we got things right, it'd be like before, when you were happy with me. You were so happy! I don't understand what changed."

You only shook your head. You were as helpless as I was. It was time I finally accepted that. I slid down into the chair facing you, wrapped your hands in mine.

"Okay," I whispered. "Okay. We can't get back there. I'll stop asking this from you. We'll just… stop."

You extracted a hand to tap the last lines of your letter – please stay in my life. Please stay as a friend. Your eyes were sadder than I'd ever seen.

"Absolutely," I told you. "I can't stand to lose you either. Stay with me. We're going to be friends."

I gathered up your hands again, gripped them tightly. We sat that way a while in silence, while passing clouds periodically dimmed the light from your one window. You called up Moody Blues to sweep the floor, a rote task you ran by replay while you sat and studied the folds of my knuckles, the lines on my palms, the smooth indentations left on my fingers by rings you'd placed there.

In my mind, I was running through every glorious future I'd ever imagined and letting each one go like a kite snatched by the wind. Only one of our futures would survive that day. It wasn't the one where we disappeared to Argentina together and made a slender but graceful living from a small vineyard. It wasn't the one where we discovered a secretive cadre fighting human trafficking and traveled the world stamping out cruelty. It wasn't the one where I won status and riches in Passione, secured Napoli from our own gang's depredations, married you in a small, lovely, and religiously inappropriate ceremony, adopted children and raised them as mafia royalty to take our places and keep our city safe as we retired to a villa high over Napoli to tend our terraced garden, drink good wine, and grow old together hand in hand above the winking sea. I sighed as I let go the strings on each of those radiant, long-tailed dreams.

No, the only dream left clenched in my fist that day was this one: I would continue working with lean-spirited dedication to rise in Passione. Instead of soaring on my heart's wings, I would carry my heart as deadweight while I climbed that endless hill. Still, each year would be a little easier than the last. My team would grow, fed by our gradual success and shepherded by our shared authority. You would be a good second-in-command, but not a great one; stern but uninspired. I would take as many lovers as I liked, each one beautiful and compelling, yet none able to outshine you, the moon in my night sky. Maybe one of them would hold my attention, a gem if not a star, and maybe I would have a family after all. You would be uncle to my children, rival to my lover, heir to my success. This dream shone with a wan and silver light, but it felt real; it rang true.

"Come on," I said at last, as the sun slanted away and left your living room washed in blue. "Fugo has our next assignments. We might have a long night ahead of us."