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In the middle of taking his metro connection, Leone notices a hole in his pocket.
It’s rush hour, and the wide corridors of the station are packed to the brim with huddled masses of passengers ready to stop at nothing on the way to their objective, their final destination -- the outside world and the chilling exterior, a liberation from the sweltering halls. No way to turn around without knocking into at least ten random people, getting his feet stepped on, his pride insulted, and his wallet potentially stolen.
Is it worth the risk ? Probably not. But he’s got a fucking hole in his pocket -- and those are brand new pants, the first pair he’s bought since he got back to a healthy weight. How can they already be torn ? It’s not like he often carries sharp objects in his pockets. Not just loose ones, anyhow.
If those horrible little moths have taken to invading his home once more, now, in the middle of winter when they should all be dead and frozen, he’s going to be pissed.
He’s just about three miles away from his apartment, too, and ten minutes late to his appointment, so there’s no way he’ll make it in time to change even if he manages to get through the impenetrable, ever-moving flock of passengers. There’s nowhere for him to go but straight ahead.
He loses himself in the underground passages until a little sign charitably indicates that his exit is right up that flight of stairs. As he starts climbing -- as quick as his long legs will carry him, two steps at a time -- he’s welcomed by the outside world with a chilling gust of wind, the kind that manages to worm its way inbetween layers of clothing and engulf every bare centimeter of flesh into a case of ice. He grits his teeth and powers through it even as the wind pushes him backwards, relentless and biting. To keep at least a semblance of warmth, he wraps his arms around the measly protection his (admittedly, overly) fashionable winter coat brings, and shuts his eyes halfway closed to keep them from drying. He also prays to God that none of these steps are frozen over, because if he slips and breaks his ass today of all days, well, that’ll just be the icing on top of the fucking cake, won’t it.
At last, with a few more efforts against the blast of freezing wind, he’s outside.
Without a snug tunnel to dive into, the wind calms down around him, allowing Leone to open his eyes fully -- and alright, okay, maybe people who enjoy snowy winters do have a point.
It’s not often that it snows in Naples, not even at the coldest points of February. But it being so rare is part of the appeal : even the light layer of powdery snow covering the streets and trees and cars and roofs makes everything look just a little bit more magical. The Christmas lights have long since been taken down (not that Leone’s complaining : bringing holiday cheer so far into the year is a thought that makes him want to retch), but the cloudy winter light emanating from the waning sun makes it look fairytale-ish nonetheless.
It must have snowed some more while he was stuck in the commutes. The snow on the road hasn’t yet turned brown and muddy from rush hour traffic, and as he takes the first few steps in the direction of the church square, its first layers feel soft and pliant under his feet. A few kids are busy shovelling snow from a car’s hood into their arms and throwing it at each other, laughing and shrieking like dying seagulls. Not wanting to get hit by a stray projectile now of all times, Leone quickly gets going and crosses to the other side of the street.
All this white makes everything look so eerie. It feels like a black and white movie -- or at least, that’s the thought that crosses Leone’s brain until he looks down at his hands and finds them a fiery, bright red.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and sticks them as far as they can go into his pockets, forgetting the tear in his left side entirely until he feels the stitches widen under the pressure.
“Ah, fuck,” he repeats, with slightly more spirit this time. “Fuck. Shit. Goddamnit.”
He’s been jinxed. He has to have been jinxed. Or cursed, maybe -- a curse seems more likely. Maybe he’s joked about the occult one too many times around the kids, and a legitimate witch overheard and cast some kind of evil spell on him. Just to make sure that none of his dates would ever go perfectly as planned.
Now, let’s be completely fair. None of them have gone completely haywire so far . The first one had actually been pretty great (that seafood plate had been the freshest and nicest he’d ever had), but he most likely would have done quite a few things differently, had he known beforehand that it was a date (for instance, he would not have gone for the crawfish you have to break apart yourself).
He had been the one to offer the second invitation, no surprise this time -- and he did love that little tapas bar, so he’d kept some high hopes for this particular evening. What he hadn’t planned was that, unbeknownst to him, the bar was to close at only ten that night because of some bullshit stag party planned later, causing both he and his date to be practically thrown out with a bunch of hazardous doggybags and to end up eating sitting on the docks like some drunken teenagers.
Admittedly, it had been kind of fun.
Alright. Admittedly, it had been great . Good food (albeit a little lukewarm), chilly air, the sound of the sea, the stars above -- wonderful company, to top it all off. It had been a nice night, and a nice date. Something to remember, for sure. Something that he knows he’ll think about really fondly in a few years. It had even ended with a goodnight kiss, right on the cheek.
But it could have gone much better, is the thing. And that simple fact is enough to make Leone Abbacchio absolutely certain to have been cursed by some type of love witch at some point in his life.
He takes a sharp left, then follows the slippery road for five more minutes. He takes long steps, but he doesn’t run -- he’s way too close to the meeting point to allow himself to slip and fall now. At last, he sees the church, with its cute little pew covered in fresh snow and its square, where an empty fountain stands, circled by lions of stone stuck into an eternal roar.
And leaning against the curved edge of the fountain’s basin, Leone’s appointment is waiting.
He’s blowing warm smoke from his o-shaped mouth like a human locomotive. He looks the coziest he’s ever been, submerged into this thick, fluffy coat -- the collar of which is covering his neck almost completely. It looks incredibly warm, and Leone, through the excited thrum of his heart, feels a pang of envy ; his coat and statement-scarf are doing very little to protect him from the cold.
Still, it’s rather imposing. And only Bruno Buccellati could make a faux-fur hermine coat look good in the 21st century.
“Hey,” Leone calls out as he finally gets in hearing distance, revelling in Bruno’s little head tilt. He gives a wave of his numb, red hand, before pushing it back into his pocket to leech off the warmth of his leg.
“Hey,” Bruno replies in kind -- and not to be cliché, but his smile could make snow melt. “You know, you’re impeccably late.”
“I know, the metro -- uh ?” Leone blinks, trying to ignore the way a few stray snowflakes have gotten stuck in the strands of Bruno’s hair. “What do you mean, impeccably ?”
Bruno’s smile turns satisfied, as though he had been anticipating the question.
“You have a pattern. Last time, you were precisely eighteen minutes late, too. And the time before that, as well. Almost to the second !”
“What ? That can’t be right.”
“I promise you, it is. Look.”
He shows a little stopwatch hidden in the palm of his hand. Sure enough, it reads 18 minutes and a handful of seconds more.
“Funny, isn’t it ? It’s like you have a clock in your head that’s just a little bit off. You must be really good at waking up without an alarm.”
“... Well, yeah, but I always thought that was the caffeine addiction talking. Unrelated topic, why do you keep a stopwatch on you ?”
The sound of a zipper opening and closing as Bruno hides away the stopwatch inside of Sticky Fingers’ weird purple void. He shrugs.
“I wanted to test my theory. That’s what being a good scientist is all about, Leone.”
“Ah, right, right,” Leone nods, unable to stop himself from smiling. “Okay, that makes sense. My apologies, professor Buccellati, I hadn’t realized the extent of your research.”
“It’s alright. I hope that’s helped you understand. You’re a good study subject, I’ve found.”
Leone rolls his eyes, but the smile appears to be stuck on his face in a way that he can’t quite shake off. Bruno looks at him for a few seconds, before his eyes drift down to Leone’s hands -- now reddened down to the wrists. His eyes go wide.
“Leone, what the hell. Are your hands freezing ?... It’s not even -5°C.”
“Ah, yeah, uh. I guess I just have sensitive skin.”
He takes his hands out of his pockets and shows off the marbled skin and lobster-colored joints.
“I haven’t been moisturizing properly,” he jokes, trying to will away Bruno’s frown.
It doesn’t work.
“Well, I can see that. Give me your hands.”
Leone obeys, and in only a few seconds, Bruno’s gloves are off and zipped around his own hands. It’s a nice, snug fit, and the leather has a fuzzy inner lining, still warm from Bruno’s skin.
“Hey -- hey ! Don’t give me those !” He immediately protests, and goes to take them off. “What about your hands ? You’re gonna get cold too.”
“My hands are fine,” Bruno says, and takes Leone’s arm as they begin to walk. “The café’s right next door, so this is just until you can get yourself warmed up. How did you even get so cold in the first place, say ?”
A pause.
“... Got a hole in my pocket,” Leone grumbles. “Brand new goddamn pants, too.”
Bruno grins.
“Did you buy them for today ?”
Leone feels his cheeks heat up. In the cold, it feels tingly and weird.
“Well, yeah. I wanted to look good. None of my old clothes fit me since I’ve been, y’know.”
He rubs the back of his neck.
“Since I’ve been… Getting better. So I indulged a little.”
He feels Bruno’s hand in the small of his back, a gentle, comforting pressure.
“We can send it to my tailor, if you’d like. It only look like a few stitches would be needed -- unless you want me to just put a zipper on it.”
“Hey, that might be a neat fashion statement.”
“You’ll have to show me your new wardrobe, too.”
Leone huffs.
“I mean, if you want. I don’t have any pictures, but the next time we do this, I’ll make sure to wear something different.”
“I was actually thinking we could go to yours,” Bruno says. “After this, I mean. That way you can show me everything you’ve bought at once.”
When Leone looks down at him, Bruno’s expression is impassive : he’s looking straight ahead, focused on the path and the way pale sunlight makes the snow shimmer and gleam.
But where his arm is being held, Leone can feel Bruno’s thumb -- right there, where he’s warm, rubbing gentle circles in the crook of his elbow. It’s a soft, tender pressure, but it’s also a question, a quiet one, a new one, that makes Leone blush from head to toe.
God, he wishes his statement scarf was bigger. He needs something to hide his face in.
“Yeah,” he croaks, thankful that he’d gone the extra mile and vacuumed the whole place just this morning. “Yeah. Okay. We can do that for sure.”
“Great. I’m excited, I’ve never seen your place.”
“It’s… Not much, really. Just a bachelor pad.”
“Maybe, but it’s yours,” Bruno says, and doesn’t even wait for that statement to fully settle in before he continues. “Not to mention that if I’m there, it won’t be much of a bachelor pad. Right ?”
“Right, I guess not,” Leone replies, and, okay, his stomach is doing something very weird right this minute. Maybe it’s trying to compete with the furious beat of his heart, or the way his brain is just pumping out dopamine by the handful.
They walk to the café with their arms linked together, like a pair of seasoned lovebirds, and it’d be foolish of Leone to try and deny how much he enjoys it. He’s got Bruno at his side, warm where they touch, sole focus of his attention ; the rest of the world muffled and quiet as though covered by a much thicker layer of snow.
The café itself doesn’t look like much (though the fading winter light is working wonders for its façade). It’s the kind of establishment you can find dime a dozen in this neighborhood : a literal hole in the wall, surrounded by other pubs and small shopping outlets, and a covered terrace that, considering the weather, might as well have been put away entirely. But Leone’s grown attached to it those past couple of months. He goes there almost twice a week now, in a familiar routine that, most surprising of all, managed to give him something of a sweet tooth.
They go inside. Bruno is the one to open the door and waits for Leone to walk in first, which is just absolutely too much -- but Leone thanks him for the display of chivalry anyway. Either Bruno doesn’t notice Leone’s teasing tone or he simply doesn’t care, because all he does is nod with a smile. Leone goes to remove his statement scarf, suddenly way too tight around his neck, not to mention that it feels sweltering in the café’s abrupt heat.
The café is packed , and noisy to boot. Not much light comes through the windows because of the building’s orientation to the northeast, which gives it a strange, greyish atmosphere inside. It would seem cold, almost -- gray and dead and morbid, if so many people weren’t busy chatting joyously over steaming cups and if the high-perched TV in the corner wasn’t blasting spanish music channels at the highest possible volume. Even the bar itself is crowded with people sipping coffees and tiny glasses of warm-me-ups, young and old alike : an older gentleman, who looks like he’s lived there all his life, is busy reading his newspaper while puffing out pipe smoke. Next to him, two office ladies are sharing shots of cherry liquor while debating over something that seems incredibly important, though Leone will likely never know what it might be.
Inside, it smells like cigarette smoke, honey, hot coffee, and orange blossom. Despite the noise and the people, the atmosphere feels weirdly familiar, and not all that annoying or overbearing. Maybe that’s what immersion therapy is. If so, it certainly paid off.
They manage to find a table deeper inside of the café. Leone settles into the booth seat while Bruno takes a regular chair, and there they sit, face to face, around the tiny tiny table, next to a group of four teenagers sharing a plate of pestiños.
“This is where you go after work ?” Bruno asks after shedding his coat -- effectively looking like he just lost a hundred pounds, and revealing the black turtleneck he’s been wearing underneath. “I hadn’t imagined that you’d like this kind of ambiance.”
Leone shrugs and takes off Bruno’s gloves, placing them in the middle of the table for Bruno to take.
“Yeah, me either. But whaddaya know. I guess I just find it… Cozy, in a way.”
He snorts, idly poking at the fluffy cuffs of the gloves.
“Maybe I’ve gotten so used to the brats screaming into my ears all day that now I can’t live without it.”
“Hah. That would be kind of a cute reason.”
“Those kids have ruined me and my peace, potentially for life, and you find it cute ? How cruel of you, Buccellati.”
Bruno laughs. The melted snow in his hair has turned a few strands damp, and his bangs are sticking to his forehead. Unsure if he should or shouldn’t, Leone takes a half-leap of faith and reaches over to fix them ; Bruno, as meticulous as he is with his hair, lets him. Leone’s hand lingers a little against Bruno’s face, settling against his cheek, curving over his jawline, emboldened by the encouragement. Bruno closes his eyes, and Leone can feel his eyelashes brushing his fingers as he does.
Christ, his hands are so damn cold still ; or maybe it’s Bruno’s cheeks that are so warm.
“I’m glad we’re doing this today,” Bruno says, almost too quiet to be heard. “It always feels a little bit sad around winter, doesn’t it ?”
“Yeah;” Leone replies, rubbing his thumb against Bruno’s cheekbone. “But -- it’s great. Being with you, I mean. I’m glad we’re doing this too.”
“Mmh,” Bruno hums approvingly, and gently holds Leone’s hand tighter against his cheek. “Hopefully we can do this more often. It should be pretty calm now that those issues with the Tuscan gangs have been solved...”
How is it that his hands are so warm ? Does he have a special technique or something ? He wasn’t even wearing gloves for like, the past ten minutes. And now they’re just the perfect kind of heat, making Leone’s skin tingle as blood finally rushes back through his fingers.
“Although,” Bruno continues, and opens his eyes as he lets Leone’s hand go free. “That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t enjoy every second now.”
“... Agreed,” Leone mumbles, trying not to pick as his nailpolish as he leans back and crosses his legs. “I hope that… You’ll like it here. The pastries are really fucking good.”
Even while looking away, he can feel Bruno’s eyes on him, tired but full of light and smiles. He sees Bruno’s hands on the table, and can’t resist the temptation to hold them, just because he can -- and the satisfaction that fills him when his affectionate caress is returned runs deeper than anything he’s felt possibly ever.
They order hot mint tea and a serving of mantecados. They arrive all piled up onto a nicely decorated plate, smelling faintly of almonds and cinnamon, brought by the owner in person -- an aging, imposingly moustached man who speaks (and he rarely does) in just about the thickest andalusian accent Leone has ever heard.
“Thanks, boss,” Leone tells him, and the guy pats him on the shoulder before he leaves, which amuses Bruno greatly.
“You’ve made a friend out of the owner ?” he asks, blowing on the steaming cup before he takes a tentative sip.
“Yeah. What of it ? You’ve got your old ladies, I’ve got my old café owners. To each his own.”
“Oh, that’s sweet.”
“Isn’t it ?”
“No, I mean the tea -- though little old men being enamored with you is also incredibly sweet.”
And it’s true that this mint tea is sweet. Almost too sweet, in fact -- the taste of honey almost overpowers that of the mint and makes Leone’s tongue feel numb for an instant. But it’s hot, and tasty, and it’s really nice on a cold day like this.
The mantecados, on the other hand, are homemade and not at all saturated with sugar ; so all in all, it’s a pretty nice balance they’ve got going on.
Bruno gets some almond powder on his black turtleneck, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s eating like he enjoys it, which makes Leone immensely happy ; it’s not often he sees Bruno indulging in sweet snacks, or in much of anything at all. But he does here and now, taking another pastry and asking for another serving of tea.
“I’m kind of loving your enthusiasm,” Leone says as he finishes his first cup, a pleasant warmth spreading throughout his chest.
Bruno snorts, rubbing his hands to remove any stray almond powder. He has to take a moment to finish chewing before he speaks again.
“I’m just showing my appreciation,” he says once he’s swallowed. “I love this kind of thing, those, those sort of... very crumbly, very comforting holiday cookies. They remind me of my childhood. I hadn’t really expected you to like them as well, they didn’t seem like your type. You’re full of surprises.”
“I mean, usually I just get regular tea here.” He scratches his cheek, feels a stray crumb on the corner of his mouth, and quickly wipes it off. “But, I thought you might like that. And I needed something of a change, too, since I always order the same things. Heard it’s good to break your routine every -- ”
He realizes that he’s rambling, and coughs.
“Yeah. Uh. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. We can order some to go, too.”
“That’d be nice.”
Bruno taps his fingers on the side of the glass cup, in a quick rhythm that closely matches that of the music still blasting from the TV. He looks a little dreamy, in that posture, in that grey light, with his shoulders low and his head tilted to the side. His hair is fluffed by the humidity like a duckling’s down, a thick expanse of black that reaches just slightly under his jaw. He seems happy, and relaxed, like he’s having a good time -- even just sitting there with Leone over some too-sweet tea and pastries in a smoky little café.
“Thank you for taking me out again,” Bruno says, beaming, in a mirror image of Leone’s current emotions. “Next time will be on me.”
There’s a sweet twist and pull somewhere deep inside Leone’s chest. He scoffs to hide the fact that he’s simpering.
“So there’ll be a next time is what you’re saying, uh ?”
“Mhm,” Bruno replies, bending down a little with his chin in his hands. “If you haven’t grown tired of me yet, that is.”
“Psh. Don’t be absurd.”
As if he could.
And it’s then that Bruno starts looking positively serene, and pleased, as he takes another sip of hot tea. Leone briefly wonders if he’s helped with that, somehow, if he’s made Bruno a little happier just with this simple outing.
That thought is almost enough to make his brain short circuit.
He feels like he’s discovering love for the first time -- like he barely fits inside of his body. The sensations are so unfamiliar, and so vibrant and new, and so exciting . Like walking into a warm room after years of morbid winter, it’s a comfort, it’s a “maybe”, it’s a myriad of possibilities — it’s a road with a hundred million different paths, all of which he’s impossibly excited to take.
Even so, it’s still a little funny, calling it love. And thrilling, too, in the best of ways.
“Come here,” he suddenly asks, longing for Bruno to be closer, and held right there in his arms -- and in a strange show of bravery, he taps the booth seat right next to him.
Bruno chuckles, but does as he’s told ; he goes around the table and settles next to Leone, bringing his legs close to his body. It’s a little bit crowded on the booth now, what with the number of other customers around them, but they make it work by sitting as close together as they can, which, really, is just fine by them.
Leone relishes in the feeling of Bruno’s body next to him for a little while, soaking in his warmth, appreciating the new angle he gets of his features, until he feels Bruno poking at his calf with the toe of his shoe.
“I really appreciate the taking it slow part, but,” he says, his voice a murmur now that they are so close, “we’ve been… Tiptoeing around the real thing for a while, now, haven’t we. And this is our third date.”
Both his hands settle against Leone’s arms, brushing upwards until they reach his shoulders.
“So…” he pulls on Leone’s lapels, just a bit, to bring him a little closer to his height. “I guess what I’m wondering is… Are you planning to just look at me all evening ?”
Leone’s heart skips a beat (more than a few, truly), but he smiles anyway, just a little crookedly. His hand snakes up to poke at Bruno’s waist.
“Maybe.” A poke. “Maybe.” A squeeze. “Depends.” A caress, going up to his ribcage. “Will you let me get away with it ?”
“No,” Bruno answers with the brightest expression, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “No, I don’t think I will.”
And he kisses him, just once, softly, on the lips.
His mouth is so warm from the tea, Leone can feel his lipstick melt.
When they break apart, Leone swallows, and has to try very hard not to look away. He fights his instinct and confronts Bruno’s tender gaze, not shying away this time around. His heart is pounding like crazy -- everywhere, in his chest, in his temples, in his stomach where heat is bursting in waves. It’s really hard to explain how exhilarating, how foreign it all feels, though not in an agonizing way ; it feels like just the start, like there’s so much to discover yet, so much to try and figure out and experiment and do.
For now, he chooses to kiss him again, to the sound of Bruno’s delighted laugh and with his hands cupping his jaw. And he does it again, just to make sure he gets it right. And then he does it again. And he does it again.
And then some more, for good measure -- his hair a curtain, shielding them away from any exterior gaze, and their legs intertwined, and the tea still on the table, cooling off, until all the honey has settled at the bottom.