Archive of Our Own

Chalet Una is a charming little building. Alpine style, stuffed to the brim with knotted wood paneling and one too many cozy chairs in every room. Large glass windows that show off spectacular mountain views of dazzling white snow and millions of glittering stars, sizable balconies accessible via over half the rooms…it’s the sort of place that might as well be part of the mountains themselves, tucked between knolls, grown up from trees.

Beautiful. Peaceful, too, under the right conditions – and Bruno really should’ve known better than to expect the right conditions when he accepted the invitation to come here.

Nothing about the term New Year’s Party implies peace and quiet, but he’d been hoping for just a little…

Doesn’t matter, what he was hoping for. He’s stuck with reality, and right now reality is standing on the outskirts of a lively social gathering. Wearing an open-fronted glittery blazer that clashes with the rustic décor something awful. Nursing half a glass of honey whisky. Staring-without-seeing at clusters of people he barely knows on balconies, at the mini bar, dripping over each other on the couch.

Maybe he can sneak away. No one would notice, probably. He’s not exactly known for being a social butterfly, and Illuso knows that. Hell, it’s how he managed to lure Bruno out here in the first place.

“Come to this little chalet I know in the mountains,” he’d said. “You hate your mother’s New Year’s parties at the Bivio, and this is much quieter – she can’t object if you’re still technically going to a company event!”

By ‘company event’ Illuso of course meant that plenty of the younger employees would be attending. Models, agents, interns, designers, receptionists, IT techs…this is Illuso’s party, and to his social butterfly credit, he sure did invite everyone.

…Except for the older crowd, of course. They’re all but obligated to go to Bruno’s mother’s anyway. Alongside her more popular fashion industry cohorts. Employees and colleagues with the highest prospects…

Ordinarily Bruno would be there, too. Paraded around.

He really does hate that. Her intentions are all the best, but he’s not a fan of being flaunted, bragged about, or match-made. Besides, hanging out with rich types doesn’t suit him. Never has.

Hence why this party isn’t much better. As far as the rich types go. The match-making, too.

…

There is, at least, a limit to exactly how many people can fit in this cozy family-owned chalet. The fact that Illuso surpassed this limit thanks to people dropping by from nearby hotels, however, means that there’s no avoiding some people. And there’s a certain someone that Bruno would rather not face around here somewhere –

Which he suspected would happen, but. Here he is anyway. At the lesser of two evils.

It’ll be fine. It’s almost midnight, only a half-hour to go – he should be able slip away to his room soon. The excitement of the fireworks will be a good distraction…

Movement catches the corner of his eye, and he follows it almost lazily.

Well. He follows it lazily, until he spots what looks an awful lot like a tall lumpy blanket darting from the stairs and into the kitchen.

Bruno blinks.

Then blinks again.

The hallway remains empty.

Everyone else seems undisturbed, engrossed in dancing, conversation, drinks, and dwindling minutes until midnight. No one noticed, aside from Bruno. If they did, they don’t care enough to still be looking.

Hm.

That half glass of too-warm honey whisky clinks onto the nearest flat surface – a decorative wooden shelf spattered in reindeer themed knick-knacks – and Bruno sets off toward the kitchen.

Any distraction is a welcome distraction. Even walking blankets.

Plus, from the kitchen, it’ll be easier to bow out and make a run for his room. He’s been trying to shake the weird holiday-flavored melancholy that kept him locked there in the corner for hours now. He owes a thank you to the walking blanket for spurring him to move, is Bruno’s last absurd thought before he’s standing in the kitchen archway. With a perfect view of said blanket.

Not just any blanket, either. This is a blanket that coordinates suspiciously well with the other bedspreads in this chalet, wrapped loose around the broad shoulders of a man.

Long, pale fingers stretch out of their dark red buffalo plaid enclosure and pluck a fig cookie from one of the dwindling platters. Cookie meets mouth, sticking halfway out as he goes about his business with cocoa powder and cream and the stove…

He’s – he looks handsome.

White hair long enough that it’s caught in the blanket. Tall and broad enough to put Bruno’s mother’s best models to shame (all of them except one, that is –). A strong nose. Sharp jaw. Hands that Bruno is absolutely staring at longer than is natural or normal or healthy, with their black-painted fingernails.

The stranger bites on that cookie in his mouth, chewing that piece while chapped lips nudge the rest of it further back between his teeth to hold on better.

Maybe it’s the late hour or that stupid whisky, but Bruno is enthralled.

It’s. Odd though.

He doesn’t recognize this man from any company functions, and he is one-hundred-percent the type of man that Bruno would remember. Besides that, he’s not dressed for a party. Not dolled up like Bruno, instead wearing pajamas and socks and that toasty blanket cloak – and ah, that’s right, isn’t it?

Illuso didn’t manage to book the chalet far enough in advance. He’d prattled something about that on the ski lift earlier, when Bruno was trapped and forced to listen. Another group had already booked one set of rooms…longtime friends of the Una family, apparently…

Unconsciously, Bruno steps further into the kitchen, the sounds of the party at his back threatening to burst whatever pleasant bubble he’s wandered into –

The stranger startles, cookie falling out of his mouth as he rounds on Bruno. And stares. With amber eyes boasting flecks of purplish blue.

Bruno does not at all regret following the lumpy blanket.

“Hello,” he tries. Aiming for casual normalcy.

Clearing his throat, the handsome stranger grumbles out something that might pass for, “Hi.” He kicks the remains of his cookie away, and it skitters beneath the cabinets’ edge. Wandering over to an upper cupboard, he plucks out vanilla extract and ferries it to his warming pot on the stove.

“…What are you doing?” Bruno asks, watching too-closely as deft fingers unscrew the lid and pour vanilla.

It’s a stupid question. This man is a guest here, too, he’s allowed to use the damn kitchen without Bruno nosing around in his business. And he knows that, judging by that raised white eyebrow aimed at Bruno.

A moment of staring. The heat from the stove is making the man’s cheeks go a little pink in a way that’s more charming than this entire cottage. He’s stirring the pot blindly, but turns back toward it when he mutters, “Making hot chocolate, what’s it look like?”

Seems like this man is all appearance and no manners. Though, Bruno can’t say he’d fare much better, accosted by a party goer while on a private vacation. And he does look tired. The noise from down here is probably keeping him awake, bags under his eyes and blanket around his heavy shoulders. Very much the type not to want to be disturbed.

But Bruno can’t bring himself to leave. For some reason. Maybe it’s that blush.

Sugar, a pinch of salt, and some more milk are added to the now-bubbling saucepan, the man hunting down the ingredients with practiced ease. He knows where to find each one, and all are put back precisely where they belong – a lot of the stuff Bruno had no idea was even in here.

“You seem to know your way around this kitchen pretty well,” Bruno says, leaning against the island counter. Eyes glued to the stranger and his hot chocolate. Casual conversation is fine, right?

Just…testing the waters.

Grunting – not sparing Bruno a glance – the man turns the burner off with one hand while reaching for a mug with the other. “The owner is a family friend. I spent too many winter vacations here growing up.” Piping hot liquid is unceremoniously poured into the mug. He doesn’t even move over the sink to do it, the movement smooth and offhanded.

“I see,” Bruno mumbles. He is, admittedly, distracted by the way this man has made himself the perfect amount of hot chocolate without even measuring. Definitely years of experience there.

…The generous splash of rumchata that tops off the drink has to be a more recent addition, its bottle hidden away in the backmost corner of one of the bottom cabinets once the man is done with it.

There’s no time for more stilted conversation after that – this blanket-clad stranger has barely straightened back to standing and plucked his mug from the counter when a wholly unwelcome voice makes itself known.

“Oh Buccellati,” the name is stretched out, obnoxiously singsong, and leave it to Illuso to be heard over the combined clamor of small-talk and music. “Where’d you run off to…?”

Bruno’s shoulders fall to slumping, and across from him the stranger glances from Bruno to the closed door behind himself. Perplexed or annoyed or more likely both. Whatever the case, Bruno has to get out of here, doesn’t want to be found, least of all by someone as meddlesome as Illuso, who’s no doubt got some sort of nefarious plot to –

“It’s almost midnight, and I’ve found someone who owes you a kiss!”

At that, Bruno outright flinches.

The other man in the room scowls. Sips at his hot chocolate and shuffles toward Bruno, on his way out, no doubt. Trying to avoid the voice that’s coming from the other kitchen door – one that opens more directly to the spacious lounge at the center of this party.

“Buccellati~!” That voice croons again, followed by a low grumble of, “Let me go, Illuso.”

Right about now is when Bruno stops listening and joins his kitchen companion in fleeing for the nearest exit, because those voices are only getting closer to the door, joined by a third that’s even more irate, and if he doesn’t want to be harangued into a miserable conversation, he had better get out. He bumps shoulders with the stranger in the kitchen’s doorway, mumbles an apology for spilled hot chocolate, gets a grouchy noise in return –

Then the front door cracks open – Bruno barely hears it, above the din of the party and the Illuso-versus-Prosciutto-featuring-Risotto argument he is once again far too engrossed in. An older couple knee deep in a conversation files in, stomping snow from their boots on the doorstep.

The stranger’s eyes go wide, and he clutches at his hot chocolate and his blanket – the other door to the kitchen creaks behind them, that couple is to their left, party to the right –

Bruno tries to go left, but all that achieves is bumping into that man again, spilling more of his drink. So Bruno is instead herded across the hall, a slender door is yanked open, and he is shoved into the closet before he can protest. Door sealed quiet behind him and this grumpy tall handsome stranger.

…

There’s silence, for a moment.

The scents of hot chocolate, cinnamon, and something softer like laundry detergent or shampoo are all Bruno knows. In the dark and the quiet. His eyes are slowly adjusting.

It…really is cramped, in here.

That man really is very attractive.

…This…could be much worse. Bruno has nothing to complain about. The worst he is right now is curious.

“Why did –”

“Sh!” attractive stranger hisses, his head tipped toward the door.

So Bruno listens, too. Bites his tongue on the question, because his companion here has a point about silence, if they don’t want to be found out. Best to wait until the coast is clear, and in the meanwhile think only on how warm the other man is. Between the drink and the blanket and the broad of his chest…

“I still don’t understand why we had to leave the restaurant before midnight,” a man is saying – half of the couple that came through the front door, Bruno guesses, because it’s not a voice he knows.

There’s a tutting sort of noise, probably courtesy of the woman with him, and then she says, “It just didn’t feel right, spending New Year’s away from Leone! We came here as a family, after all.”

Here, Bruno’s companion takes a long drink of his hot chocolate, the mug almost tapping Bruno on the nose they’re so close. His throat bobs as he swallows, and Bruno catches himself wondering if he’d prefer to be bitten or licked there, or a combination of the two –

“You know damn well that boy won’t leave his room,” hallway man harrumphs. “He’s sick anyway.”

“That’s exactly why we should be with him, dear; don’t be so heartless.”

“Someone has to have a backbone around here…”

Another big gulp of hot chocolate and the man – Bruno surmises that this is the mentioned unfortunate Leone, and those in the hall are his parents – rolls his eyes. Swallowing hard like there’s more liqueur than chocolate in his mouth. (For the time being, Bruno shelves all thoughts of tasting that mouth for himself.)

The couple’s conversation fades and clashes with another that’s even closer.

“Aw, c’mon Prosciutto – I was joking!” There’s a clear grin in Illuso’s voice. He never was one to be deterred.

Bruno wishes he had some spiked hot chocolate right about now. Or that honey whisky he so thoughtlessly abandoned on that knick-knack shelf. The intoxicating presence of Leone will have to do in its stead.

“Fuck off.” Prosciutto, apparently, did not at all approve of Illuso’s so-called joke. Can’t blame him. Bruno is also of the opinion that it was tasteless. “Don’t you have anyone else to be harassing?”

Illuso laughs, gleeful. “Only Buccellati, if he’d show himself.”

This is exactly why Bruno will not show himself, thank you.

Outside, Risotto breaks his silence with, “You know he hates parties.” Which is kind of him to remember, maybe, but all it’s going to do is incite more of Prosciutto’s rage. Sure enough:

“Why did you invite him anyway?” are the next scathing words out of Prosciutto’s mouth.

“For fun, of course!”

Well. That’s enough of that. Time to tune back into the other conversation going on out there. It isn’t really much more appealing, and from the tense set of Leone’s sour mouth, he agrees.

“We left a perfectly respectable restaurant gathering to come back to this sloppy crowd of youngsters tearing the place apart.”

“Be nice, dear, or have you forgotten how to have fun?”

“We come here every year. Donatella owes us our privacy.”

“Now that’s not fair, she runs this place alone and has a daughter to raise! She needs the business.”

This conversation is soon overlaid with yet another voice – this one nowhere near as grating as any of the others. Friendlier, more buoyant, and what Bruno feels safe referring to as his saving grace from having to unwittingly eavesdrop for the rest of the night.

“Illuso! There you are – Formaggio is looking for you. He’s all lonely on that deck over there, see? And Prosciutto, I think Pesci’s had a touch too much to drink…”

Thank the powers that be for Jean Pierre Polnareff. And his decision to attend this party instead of the fancier one. (No doubt it has something to do with that attractive man Avdol who owns the chalet next door, so Bruno thanks the powers that be for him, too.)

Prosciutto goes grumbling off, back into the thick of the party with Risotto in tow from the sound of it, and Illuso flounces around Polnareff, asking if that special guest of Polnareff’s can make it (yes, definitely to do with Avdol, then). Across from Bruno, Leone is making some kind of face. A grouchy expression that only twists all the more when Polnareff does not leave well enough alone and instead:

“Oh? Who’s this? Don’t you two have a party to attend?”

Ah. Oh dear.

He’s spotted Leone’s parents.

“We were just heading up to our rooms,” Leone’s mother tries.

“Nonsense!” Polnareff is not having it. Too jovial for his own good with a habit of being flirtatiously friendly with everyone he meets. “You’re both too well-dressed to waste the night – come join us!”

Leones scoffs into his mug, muttering something under his breath that Bruno doesn’t quite catch. From what he’s gleaned about Leone’s parents, Bruno assumes they’ll decline the invitation strongly. And Leone’s father tries to, starts with a, “No,” but his wife is faster.

“That sounds lovely, actually! My husband was just grumbling about having to leave our previous engagement…”

Polnareff (and Illuso from the sound of it) happily welcomes Leone’s parents into the fray. Folds them seamlessly into the party, helped along by some of the more personable office girls and models and townsfolk and whoever the hell else showed up here tonight – and as they pass, Bruno overhears one last tidbit.

“Honey,” Leone’s father hisses, “I think most of these men are gay.”

Leone makes a choked off noise, and Bruno claps a hand over his own mouth, biting the inside of his lip to keep in the bizarre urge to laugh.

“Honestly, dear, don’t be so closed-minded. Our Leone has been with boys before!”

More under-the-breath grumbling from Leone. His cheeks are flooding darker. It’s a good look on him.

His parents are getting farther down the hallway, voices starting to fade out. Bruno thinks he hears more about Leone, his father complaining about leaving him alone sick, then his mother changing her tune, insisting they let their son rest because he didn’t look at all well when they left…

And then they’re swallowed by the festivities. Too close to the closet for comfort, still, but nowhere near close enough to allow for immediate discovery when Bruno lets out this breath he’s been holding. It comes out as a puff of bitter laughter, and Leone seems equally disgruntled, his brow scrunched and mouth downturned as he sucks down more hot chocolate – his mug has to be almost empty by now.

Another moment or two, and Bruno deems it safe enough to talk. Albeit softly, just in case.

“I take it you’re Leone.”

The stranger-who-is-confirmed-to-be-Leone nods, and his eyes lift from that rapidly-emptying mug of his to meet Bruno’s. Even in the dim dark of this closet, they have a golden shine to them that’s downright captivating. “Buccellati?” he guesses.

For some reason, Bruno’s mouth opens and spills, “Call me Bruno,” before he can stop it. It doesn’t make any sense. The way Buccellati rolled off of Leone’s tongue was lovely…

“Bruno,” Leone mumbles, as if testing the name out – and that rolls even lovelier off of his tongue. Makes something spark in Bruno’s overexcited stomach. Leone moves to take a sip of his hot chocolate, then stops. “Were those your friends out there?”

“Coworkers.”

Wordlessly, Leone offers his mug. Holds it out into the middle of the cramped space between them with the mouth angled toward Bruno. Leone’s expression barely shifts. One white eyebrow twitches, maybe, but that permanent frown of his stays put.

The scents of chocolate and cinnamon are even closer, now. Crowding Bruno in a way that’s altogether cozy, tempting him forward along with those long fingers tipped with black nail polish – and he takes the mug into his own hands. Brushing hands with Leone no matter how he tries not to. Feels bizarrely giddy. (Feels seen.)

Leone’s parents said something about him being sick, Bruno remembers belatedly. With his palms wrapped around the warmth of the mug and eyes fixed on creamy brown froth.

Sharing beverages with sick people isn’t a good idea. Sick strangers even less-so.

The worst Leone looks is tired, though – he hasn’t sniffled or coughed or even shivered, wrapped up in that blanket of his. And Bruno is too fucking tired of this stupid party and his meddling coworkers and there’s something so sweet about this gesture – something so sweet about this man – that Bruno can’t help but bring the mug in closer. Huddle around it like it’s something precious to protect. He breathes in chocolate and rumchata and the fresh cotton of Leone’s blanket and feels calm.

“It’s not poisoned, or anything,” Leone mumbles, from his half of this tiny closet. “Unless you’re allergic to alcohol. Or chocolate, I guess.”

Ah. His cheeks are going pink again. Flushing darker the longer Bruno stares.

It’s got a smile tugging at one corner of Bruno’s mouth.

Leone only blinks at him, then swallows. His eyes shift to the side and then upward before inevitably falling back to Bruno, who cannot stop staring at the sharp lines of that face to save his life.

“Oh – and I’m, um, not actually sick,” Leone scrambles, when the silence only continues to stretch because Bruno cannot force his mouth to work. “Just wanted my parents to stop trying to force me into –” He huffs out a sigh. “You don’t have to fucking drink it, you know.”

Lifting the mug, Bruno takes a sip. Warmth spreads from his tongue to his toes, so he takes another, relishes in the rich flavor and the heat alike.

Wonders what they’d taste like on Leone’s tongue –

Bruno is far too tired for social interactions, perhaps. Has been distancing himself for far too long, maybe.

He’s…disarmed, here. In this closet with Leone. And his lipstick is marking up the pristine white lip of this mug, smearing muted pink gloss over it. “This is delicious,” he mumbles into the hot chocolate.

Leone’s expression twitches toward something that might be a smile, and his fingers curl tighter into the blanket around his shoulders. “Thanks,” he grumbles. Shifts in place some. Reaches up to turn the light on, which lends a gold sheen to his hair and makes that blush of his all the more vibrant. “It’s my holiday coping mechanism.”

“I can see why.”

A snort of amusement from Leone as he leans against the wall at his back. Polished wood paneling, like the rest of this chalet.

This hall closet doesn’t seem oft-used. There are a couple of forgotten jackets hanging behind Bruno, and some sparse shelving to his right, along the backmost wall of the closet. Another shelf overhead that Leone’s tall enough to knock his head against, if he were to shift too far to one side. There’s the faint lingering scent of cedar all around, overpowered by spicy chocolate and Leone. Bruno’s cologne doesn’t stand a chance.

As for Leone himself…

Thanks to the additions of light and close proximity, Bruno can spot lingering traces of dark makeup beneath those stunning eyes. Like it wasn’t fully removed, smudged into place and clinging at the base of his eyelashes, accentuating the tired bruising under his eyes.

Below that, there’s the fading flush of his pale cheeks, dotted with barely-there freckles. A couple shallow dents on the left side. Acne scars, Bruno guesses.

There’s a short pale line right to the side of his nose – another scar, this one from a cut and only noticeable because Bruno is standing far too close. Leone’s nose itself is a handsome thing, well-matched with the sharp lines of his cheekbones and jaw, with a bump in the middle. The urge to touch it comes out of nowhere, and Bruno keeps both of his hands wrapped tight to his borrowed mug, drinking down more hot chocolate. (He’ll finish it at this rate; hopefully Leone doesn’t mind.)

Chapped lips hold the remains of dark lipstick in their driest creases, and are barely peach colored. Wholly charming as-is – Bruno would love to make them go soft – but to see them coated in black lipstick would be –

Hell. Bruno is getting carried away and he knows it. His gaze lingers on another scar, this one more pronounced and on Leone’s chin, maybe from a fall? Who knows. Doesn’t matter.

What matters is that Bruno should not be staring so intently at this beautiful stranger, contemplating the pale column of his neck (dotted with two moles) or the way his collarbone peeks out from the crooked set of his long-sleeved t-shirt. Fabric loose and shifting as he adjusts his blanket, broad shoulders rolling.

Bruno hauls his eyes upward before they can spend too much time getting acquainted with Leone’s chest.

Ogling at close quarters is not at all subtle. Bruno is still trying to decide if he cares about that.

Amber eyes catch on Bruno’s, and they really are interspersed with periwinkle, shimmering and surrounded by white eyelashes. Enhanced by more dark leftover makeup. Kohl and mascara.

There goes Bruno’s excitable stomach again, and that worn out heart of his joins in, too. They want more Leone, which is ridiculous, because Bruno has known the man for all of ten minutes and any attempts at conversation have been met with hesitant-grouchy participation.

None of that changes the fact that Leone is beautiful. Or the fact that he gave Bruno this hot chocolate.

“You look nice.”

Bruno’s weak heart skips at those words from that mouth, and he stares all the harder at Leone – who is blushing all over again. So pale he can’t help it. Maybe didn’t mean to blurt that out, but he did, and Bruno’s greedy feelings are delighted.

So he’s being ogled in return, is he…?

“Thank you.” It comes out softer than Bruno was going for. It’s all right. They’re close enough for Leone to hear.

And Bruno did try to look nice, tonight. He had to, if he was going to stand a chance existing around so many of the agency’s best, and so shimmering eye shadow and dark mascara and that lipstick he’s been told makes him look kissable it was. Heels, too. His sleekest slacks. This open fronted blazer that’s not thick enough for wintertime but shows off his favorite portions of his favorite lingerie and hugs his waist just right.

With pink-stained cheeks, Leone nods. His fingers twitch around the edges of his blanket like they’d been clinging to his mug earlier, so Bruno offers it back – thinks about telling Leone he looks nice – is the most handsome man Bruno has ever seen –

Leone shakes his head. “You finish it.”

That’s something that Bruno is more than happy to do. The hot chocolate is cooling down quickly, now that there are only a couple mouthfuls left, but it still does the job of heating Bruno to the core.

Particularly the pit of his stomach.

Unless that’s solely a result of Leone’s proximity.

“I should be getting back to my room,” Leone says, groping for the doorknob, and Bruno’s heart leaps into his throat –

No sooner does Leone have the door cracked, though, then more voices float close-by, and he yanks it back shut, quick and quiet. His mouth is pressed into a crooked frowning line, hand jerking away from the door to cling back to his blanket.

“What is it?”

“There are people in the kitchen,” comes the grumbled explanation.

Ah. Maybe a few in the hallway, too, if that ringing laughter is any indication. There was nobody around this half of the house before – not that Bruno is complaining, see, because this means: “We’re stuck here until they go?”

Leone’s nose wrinkles. “I am, at least. My parents were right down the hall.”

What a shame. Bruno downs the rest of the spiked hot chocolate, and sets the empty mug onto one of the shelves beside him. “I should stay, too,” he says, for no real reason.

“Don’t wanna face your shitty coworkers?”

Yes, that – Leone got it in one, really. But more than that, though, Bruno is having way more fun in here than he’s had all night. Finds Leone’s company vastly preferable. “They can be pushy.” To put it in the politest terms Bruno can manage.

As if to drive his point home, nearby chatter floats through the closet door. Melone joining the group in the kitchen. The unmistakable rich notes of Tiziano’s voice, murmuring lowly to Squalo about finding somewhere more private to watch the fireworks, followed by the front door opening…

“I get it,” Leone says. Back to leaning against his wall, and like this there’s just about as much space as possible between him and Bruno.

It isn’t much to speak of, that space. If Bruno wanted to (and he does very much want to) he could lift a hand and press it to the center of Leone’s chest. Wouldn’t even have to extend his arm, could keep his elbow comfortably bent – then again, he’s not leaning on his wall. Drawn in toward Leone as he is.

That might have equal parts to do with how handsome Leone is, and the chill that’s seeping in now that the hot chocolate is gone. The front door opening and closing to let frostbitten air into the hall isn’t helping, either.

Someone climbs the stairs above their heads, wooden floor creaking. The front door opens again, people traipsing in. Maybe from neighboring chalets, drawn in by the festivities.

Leone sags sleepy against the wall. Bruno wants desperately to engage him in some kind of conversation. Ponders a handful of questions and wonders which ones would be appropriate and which ones would be overstepping. He never was the best at small talk, which was never as much of a tragedy as it is right this exact moment, trapped in close quarters with an attractive stranger.

“Are you cold?”

Right about now is when Bruno realizes he’s shivering. On and off, just a little bit, when the cold seeps through the cracks around the door and meets his lace-covered chest. “A bit.”

The ever-present furrow between Leone’s brows creases deeper. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, amber eyes zeroed in on Bruno, flicking downward from his face and then back up. A casual sort of thing that should not be sending an entirely different type of shiver racing down Bruno’s spine – he wonders if maybe Leone would be open to sharing that warm blanket of his. It looks awful cozy. Plenty big.

Fingers twisting into dark red-and-black fabric and cheeks awash with fresh pink, Leone asks, “Want to share my blanket?”

Bruno’s heart lurches, picks up the pace into an overexcited beat because yes absolutely please he would love to – suddenly wants nothing more –

“If you wouldn’t mind,” is what he says out loud. Not-quite-calm but here’s hoping Leone can’t read that in his voice. Or else maybe he wouldn’t mind if Leone noticed that. Wouldn’t mind if Leone picked up on flirting, in which case, maybe Bruno should step this up a notch.

Leone swallows hard, nods – opens his arms and blanket cocoon all at once.

That’s more than enough encouragement for Bruno. He takes that single step forward, properly closes the minimal distance between them and sinks gratefully into Leone’s warmth. Because he really is so, so warm. Especially when he folds his arms around Bruno’s shoulders, wrapping him in the blanket by extension, holding him in close against Leone’s front.

God is it nice.

Pressed together as they are, Bruno can feel Leone’s faster-than-it-should-be heartbeat. The way the soft muscles in his chest and arms shift as he settles.

It’s…been far too long, since Bruno got the chance to be close to someone like this…

“Is this okay?”

Considering Bruno’s fingers are already twitching with a desire to wind themselves into Leone’s shirt: “It’s perfect.” (And would Leone mind it too terribly if Bruno wrapped his arms around that broad back and squeezed until they melded together?)

Leone’s chest hitches on a breath, heartrate picking up. He grunts out an affirmative noise that vibrates through him, just like his words had. It’s got Bruno sidling that much closer on reflex. This man is…

Bruno is not in the habit of cozying up to strangers, but Leone has somehow become the exception. The cotton of his shirt is soft and worn, his shoulder the perfect pillow for Bruno’s cheek. Pleasant accidental circumstance is working wonderfully tonight – but Bruno keeps his arms hanging loose at his sides. Putting them anywhere else would be incriminating. Might make this too real.

…Not that he wouldn’t love for this to be real. But they haven’t exactly done much talking. Don’t exactly know each other.

And that should be amended.

(What’s the harm in flirting?)

Outside of their little sanctuary, the front door opens and closes again. This time the cold doesn’t reach Bruno at all. Leone’s arms around his shoulders keep him held close despite the way his cheeks are going redder by the second and his eyes are wandering the ceiling. Not looking at Bruno.

“You look nice, too,” Bruno says, belatedly.

Leone balks. Mouth dropping open for a second and eyes dropping back to Bruno – and god he’s so beautiful – nice is an understatement. “I look like shit,” he says, after a moment of floundering.

Shaking his head, Bruno leans in closer. Feels Leone’s arms tighten around him. “You’re stunning.”

“Shut up,” Leone snaps. Then grumbles, “I’m in my pajamas for fuck’s sake.” Or something that sounds an awful lot like that, the grouchy set of his mouth barely moving. He’s staring at the closet door. Resolutely looking away from Bruno. Again.

Hm.

“You know, I came here because I thought this would be more bearable than my mother’s party at the Bivio.”

(Turns out, he can’t have fun at any party. No matter how fancy or free or fancy-free. But that’s all but irrelevant right now…)

Disgruntled, caught off-guard by the non sequitur, Leone’s eyes wander back to Bruno. The frown between his brows creases deeper. “All parties are unbearable.”

Bruno’s mouth twitches on a small smile. “Not if you have the right company.” At that, Leone starts to go all flustered again, so Bruno figures he better keep talking. Doesn’t want to overwhelm him. Not yet. “She’s in the fashion industry, runs a big modeling agency.” Which Bruno is quite proud of, sure, but that doesn’t mean he enjoys being stuck in any sort of spotlight, or the treatment from colleagues and competitors who think that’s given him a leg up in the industry – but he digresses.

He’s still got Leone here, with him. And a point to make.

“I help run things. And she’s always trying to set me up with someone. Usually models.” Here, Bruno can’t help but relax further into Leone’s hold. Stare at him until those golden eyes shift toward him some. “I hate it. She always gets my type wrong.”

Leone swallows. The bob of his throat all too tempting at this range. If he asks what Bruno’s type is, Bruno will gladly explain in detail, but it turns out Leone isn’t the type to do that. Which somehow makes him even more endearing. (Just like everything else about him – Bruno is too far gone.)

“Those guys outside seemed pretty convinced that you wanted to kiss one of them,” is what Leone says. One suspicious eyebrow tweaked higher. Like he doesn’t trust Bruno’s advances.

And that won’t do at all, but. He’s unknowingly given Bruno an opening, with this.

“I had a…” Bruno searches for the right term. “A bit of an aesthetic crush on one of them. Risotto,” he admits, only the second time he’s said anything of the sort out loud. The first time, it didn’t go so well. (How was he supposed to know Prosciutto was secretly dating the guy?)

Leone’s head finally swivels, turning to face Bruno properly at last. “Risotto Nero?”

Oh, perfect. “You’ve heard of him?”

“…I’ve seen him on magazine covers.” There’s pink spreading over Leone’s cheeks again. Pretty behind those faint freckles. He looks like he’s trying desperately to avoid Bruno’s gaze, but Bruno is kind of determined to keep watching him – doesn’t want to make him uncomfortable, though. “He’s…not bad looking.”

Not bad looking is an understatement, but not as big of an understatement as Leone denying his own beauty in this moment, so Bruno lets it slide. “Yes, not bad at all,” Bruno acquiesces. “I have a thing for tall guys with white hair, and that goth look is –”

“Holy shit,” Leone says, his face scarlet, “shut the – shut the fuck up.” He ducks his head, heated forehead landing on Bruno’s shoulder. “Jesus fucking christ,” he’s mumbling, “don’t even know me…”

The spill of Leone’s hair reveals the tip of one reddened ear. He’s got an industrial piercing. A long black barbell with pointed ends. Bruno hopes he gets the chance to lick it, someday.

And – god, Leone is cute, in a way. Way too endearing. Lifting his head from Bruno’s shoulder the minute he realizes what he’s doing, and pressing back against the closet wall instead. Leaning there, glaring weakly at Bruno for daring to flirt with him, or something like that. Bruno almost feels bad for teasing him, but:

“I’d like to know you.” Bruno is being completely honest in that. Finds Leone intriguing and then some. Already, he’s freefalling into those little glimpses of soft beneath all this sharp.

Leone’s eyes narrow. His fingers twitch where they hold the blanket around Bruno. “Stop joking.”

Bruno shuffles a centimeter closer. “I’m not joking.” Because Bruno doesn’t tell jokes. Especially about this. There’s no faking these butterflies.

Those eyes are devastating, some piece of Leone’s posture deflating. He’s staring at Bruno with an indecipherable expression on his face, the sort that’s got Bruno wondering if it was a mistake to try and start something with a total stranger – because he’s tired and Leone’s tired and maybe it really was an asshole move to try and flirt when Leone was just being nice. Neither of them can leave this little box.

But…Leone’s not trying to pull away. Isn’t reclaiming his blanket. Is just chewing on his lip and staring hard at Bruno’s eyes. Maybe trying to discern for himself if this is all a lie.

He said Bruno looked nice first. Shared his spiked hot chocolate.

Bruno meets that gaze as earnestly as he can.

Whatever strange air has developed between them is shattered by a series of thumps. Someone starting to ascend the stairs above them, from the sound of it –

Said someone trips, on their way, judging by the series of bangs. Muffled giggling filters through afterward, from at least two different people. Something is said about how holding hands was supposed to prevent falling on the stairs, followed by more giggling, and then there’s no talking at all.

Just a…series of pleasured noises…? Bruno thinks that’s what those are, anyway. Sound carries better from the hallway, but. There’s some awfully suspicious creaking coming from above.

Delightful.

Just what this charged moment needed.

“…My room is up those stairs,” Leone grumbles, when the stairwell tryst is about two minutes deep.

Bruno’s laugh sneaks up on him, gets buried in Leone’s shoulder to keep it muffled. That grouchy frown cements itself on Leone’s face, a grimace aimed at the ceiling, and the sight of it has Bruno smiling. A small amused thing to go with his laugh.

The corners of Leone’s frown are twitching upward. That sends warmth flooding Bruno’s chest.

“You could just sneak past. I think they might be too busy to notice you.”

A particularly loud moan sounds from overhead, and Leone’s expression twists sour. “No thanks.” Leaning more of his weight against the wall, he sinks toward the floor a bit. “I’d rather wait.”

“That’s probably for the best.” And Bruno does not mean that in a selfish way. Not entirely.

There’s some tamer conversation floating in from out in the hall, now. Leone’s parents asking an assorted group of party-goers if they’ve ever made hot chocolate from scratch before, apparently leading them into the kitchen to show them how. One or two people are stumbling drunkenly on the way. Illuso’s vocal excitement is audible above the rest.

“Great,” Leone mutters, his arms twitching around Bruno’s shoulders. “Looks like I’m stuck here while they show off.” He sinks further down the wall, nearly eye-level with Bruno, now. “And there’s people fucking on the fucking stairs…”

Having Leone’s face right there with his flushed red cheeks, and his muscled arms heavier around Bruno the more he slumps toward the floor, all of him so close – it’s got Bruno intoxicated.

So much so that he tries again to let Leone know just how much he enjoys the present company.

“Maybe we should get comfortable.”

Purple-gold eyes meet Bruno’s. That flush of Leone’s roars right back to life as he ponders those words. Searches Bruno’s face some more. Might just find what he’s looking for, this time, because his mouth is curving upward at one corner when he says, “You might be able to sneak back out there. Don’t want to keep you from your party.”

Oh, this is much, much better than that party Bruno never really wanted to attend in the first place. He will happily stay here.

“I don’t mind. You heard Risotto: I’m not big on parties.” And he’s usually not big on being cuddled up to complete strangers either and yet here he is. Grasping at straws to stay close to Leone.

With a scoffing sort of sound, Leone starts to sink further toward the floor. Apparently taking the ‘get comfortable’ concept and running with it. “Sucks that you go to so many, then. At the Bivio.” Leone is sitting on the floor, by now. Tall frame scrunched between Bruno’s legs, knees bent and toes pressed to the opposite wall.

He’s taken the blanket with him, too, leaving Bruno with a residual shiver.

There’s nowhere else for Bruno to go. Nothing else for him to do. He has no choice. Won’t fit between Leone’s long, shapely legs…not like this…

No, all that’s left to Bruno is to sink down slowly. To lower himself toward Leone’s thighs. Keeping a close eye on Leone’s expression. Tracking that blush, watching eyes that watch him. He perches on top of those legs, as close to Leone’s peaked knees as he can. Resting his own knees on the floor and grabbing for the blanket.

And Leone accepts him. Helps wind the blanket around Bruno, even. Face aflame and hands held steady.

“This okay?” Bruno checks.

“Mhm.” Leone hums, tight-lipped.

Nodding, Bruno lets more of his weight rest on those powerful thighs. It’s a nice seat. Softer than those abundant armchairs by far. “The parties there do suck,” he says. “I don’t like the stuffy atmosphere.” He much prefers the cozy atmosphere in here.

In this position, Leone’s arms settle sort of awkward around Bruno’s shoulders, but they stay stubbornly in place. The most comfortable sensation Bruno’s ever encountered.

Above them, the crescendo of moans reaches a certain pitch. That couple on the staircase is enjoying themselves thoroughly, and Leone is outright glaring at the ceiling. His scowl is charming. Looks good on his face.

Bruno is beyond enamored.

“You think this is better than a rich people party?” Leone grumbles.

Humming, Bruno pretends to consider. There’s no contest, now. “It was meant to be a change of pace.” And meeting Leone sure has changed the pace, in Bruno’s opinion. So he counts that as a success.

Leone’s legs shift, and Bruno finds himself slipping downward to compensate – sliding in closer to Leone – bracing himself on strong shoulders and all-too-pleased when those arms wind tighter around him in turn. Accepting him at this distance. Encasing him here.

“It’s.” Leone swallows. “It’s usually more peaceful around here.”

“Sounds nice.”

“It is.”

Now that Bruno is off of his feet, they’re letting him know just how unhappy they are to have been wearing these fashion-before-function heels for so long. Even though all he’s done today is stand around, he still should’ve done it in a more sensible pair. Something he’d broken in more, or maybe his wedges.

He doesn’t need shoes in here, at least – and they’re making it difficult to fully relax, anyway – so one at a time he reaches down and yanks them off. Sets them aside. Feels Leone’s eyes watching all the while.

Without his shoes, sitting this close to the ground becomes a lot more pleasant. As if the warmth of Leone’s thighs-arms-chest-body wasn’t pleasant enough already.

Ah. Now Bruno’s face is starting to heat up. Gravity continuing to pull him in toward Leone.

“Maybe I should extend my vacation so I can enjoy it properly.”

“Not a bad idea.” Leone is eyeing Bruno again. “If you’re serious.”

So Bruno meets those eyes head on. “I am.” He’d love nothing more than a few extra days to spend in this particular company.

Leone holds their eye contact for a long while, then. Background noise falling away. Bruno’s world narrowed down to periwinkle-flecked gold, glistening in the dim closet lighting. Leone’s features look even more angular, with all those sharpened shadows. Shared body heat seeps into Bruno, keeping any chill well at bay.

“Besides,” Bruno continues, “I have to make it up to you for ruining your stay with this party.”

Cheeks pink, Leone’s head gives a minute shake. “It’s fine,” he says, too-fast. Clears his throat again. “I mean – you didn’t throw it, and it’s not like I was having a great time before…”

Looking away from those eyes is impossible. Bruno won’t even try. “And now?”

Chest hitching and voice softening, Leone murmurs out an, “…It’s better.” His fingers flex along Bruno’s upper back, digging in that much more.

“I’m glad,” Bruno mumbles. Tells himself that kissing within minutes of meeting someone is not advisable.

Posture worsening again, Leone’s knees lift and his arms lower, and Bruno gives up on keeping a respectable distance. He follows the pull of gravity. Sinks into Leone properly as those arms wrap around his waist and oh, hell – the warmth that Leone radiates – soft muscle pillowed along Bruno’s front as he ends up essentially lying on top of Leone…

Melting into him. Face buried in Leone’s neck, Bruno’s fingers wind into the fabric of Leone’s shirt at last – and he settles, relaxes, breathes – could fall asleep like this –

The blanket fits well around them both. Only Leone’s shins are poking out, near as Bruno can tell, with the comforter wrapped secure at his own back. Keeping himself and Leone cocooned together in this tiny closet.

Cotton, cedar, and chocolate overlap with a scent that’s entirely Leone. Bruno breathes it in deep and nuzzles closer before he can remember that this might not be appropriate – but Leone’s arms stay secure around Bruno’s waist. Sinking into the comfort and warmth of him is fine. Resisting is impossible.

Bruno will be selfish. Just this once. Go after something he wants.

Because Leone wants him just as much, it would seem. Strong arms winding around, warm palms rubbing firm up the length of Bruno’s back… And that’s. Bruno doesn’t.

Things like this don’t happen to him.

“Still cold?” Leone whispers.

A noncommittal noise is the best Bruno can offer, followed by a mumbled out, “No.” He is not at all cold anymore. Doubts he’d be cold even if the two of them were buried in a snow drift right now.

From the feel of it, Leone is nodding. Pleased, maybe. He, too, takes a deep breath, and seems to relax further.

Bending his knees inward so they press flush to Leone’s sides and curling his arms around, Bruno settles into this hold-that-might-as-well-be-a-hug. He didn’t foresee himself ending the year while straddling a stranger in a cramped closet, but. He’s grateful. Wouldn’t have this any other way. Wonders if Leone will teach him how to make hot chocolate from scratch. If he’ll ever be lucky enough to taste chocolate-cinnamon on Leone’s tongue.

God. Leone is so comfortable. In every conceivable way. Talking to him is easy. Being around him is easy.

Bruno doesn’t have to perform.

(Love at first sight is pushing it, but this is awfully close.)

…He’s probably smearing makeup all over this poor man. Is definitely about to fall asleep on top of him, eyes falling closed.

Leone – if he notices – doesn’t seem to mind overmuch. He rubs Bruno’s back some more, just one hand this time, Leone hugging him just as close. Raising goosebumps from everything but the cold.

Outside of their little sanctuary, the sounds of excitement crank up a few notches. Someone shouts out that there’s less than a minute left, and thus starts the stampede toward the lounge, the living room, the balconies. Supposedly clearing the kitchen and the hallway, pulling everyone toward the big scenic windows to wait for fireworks.

Leone nudges at Bruno’s temple with his jaw, until Bruno gives a soft hum of acknowledgement. Looks up at Leone as best he can from this close.

“Want to go up to my room?”

Bruno stares. Blinks. Sits up just a tad. His mouth curves into a smirk, and, he knows what Leone means by that, but he can’t resist. “That’s awfully forward of you, Leone.”

Leone’s face goes scarlet. This much blood pooling there only to recede and then repeat can’t be good for him. “Just to hang out, to talk,” he stutters out. “Away from the – I’ve got a good view, from my window, so we wouldn’t have to – fuck, I just –”

“I’d love to.”

Jaw snapping shut, Leone gives a short nod by way of an answer. He’s got his own little smile in place, quivering over hesitant lips that are maybe unused to offering such a genuine expression.

Fond warmth rushes into Bruno’s heart, chasing away any residual chill. Loath as he is to leave the comfortable sanctuary of this closet and part from this much contact, Leone’s room will be even more private. Offer more pieces of Leone that Bruno can collect and cherish.

Beneath Bruno, Leone starts to wriggle. Pushing himself more upright, so Bruno lifts away some to help out.

“Make a run for it during the countdown?”

Bruno nods – and the second he does, someone calls out a loud ‘ten!’ from the living room, and then he and Leone are both hanging onto each other, counterbalancing their way to standing. Leone almost hits his head on that stupid shelf while Bruno reaches for the doorknob –

They tear out of that tiny closet on ‘seven!’, Leone leading the way, his blanket wrapped at his upper arms like an especially chunky shawl.

Bruno doesn’t bother to glance down the hall into the depths of the party, or through the kitchen archway. He doesn’t let his eyes wander from Leone. They’ve grabbed each other’s hands, thanks to some weird automatic reflex on both their parts, and they run up the stairs like that. By the time everyone gets to ‘three!’, Leone is tugging Bruno toward his bedroom door.

The countdown winds the rest of the way down, reaching its finale just as Bruno shuts the door behind himself, and he can’t stop smiling. Grins at Leone’s bright red cheeks and follows him to the window, where they stand side-by-side.

Leone wraps his blanket around them both. Huddling in close.

They poke their heads through a crack in the curtain and Bruno watches the fireworks with that sharp cheekbone pressed to his –

And he hopes the rest of this year is just as unexpectedly divine.