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Touching Leone, at first, was a sick thing.
Skin to skin under any circumstances was motivating for the extra effort it took every morning to put on the boots. To wear sleeves that covered her arms, even in the humid summer heat of Naples. Work came first, and business was business, and Bruno Bucciarati could do it all with a little fire at his fingertips. He was untouchable in every way.
Then Leone came.
He was golden, faithful and good in a way that left him reeling - and Bruno wasn't put off. Not mentally, I mean. He was just like anyone else until he called out to him, asking for help. And why did he volunteer? He was useful, she thought, and innocent. He had secrets, just like Niveo. And secrets that became scars like the ones he had were just another motivator for good work. He liked people with secrets when they worked for him.
No one could keep them for long. Not on missions. Not when Bruno was giving orders.
He didn't feel the need to meddle with Leone Abbacchio. Nothing was untouchable for the Capo, with his white designer suit and zippers. Nothing but him. He - Abbacchio - looked like that, almost like a saint. Not just because he gleamed in the sunlight on his window seat, scattering crumbs for the birds. Not because he twisted a knife with the lethality of an assassin, but he tied his hair with the utmost care. Not because he was Bruno's right-hand man. It wasn't the way he recited his prophecies, his Italian proverbs that meant nothing to him and everything to the target. It wasn't that some days he followed orders from him, other days he questioned them. It wasn't because he saw him cry, he saw his hate. It wasn't just that he had seen him cry and hate it too.
It was all of these things at the same time that made Bruno suspect that he might actually be connected to the Saints of Leone.
He grounded him like no one had done before. They all had a place in his life, a little box where they belonged, where he planned for them to be at every moment. If they moved, if they waited any longer, or tried to trick him into stepping outside his designated borders, he would finish them off. It was no good an errand boy if he stole profits that weren't his, if he bit the hand that fed him. While Leone suspected, Bruno thought about how much he loved him. He loved him in every ventricle, in every atrium, in every heartbeat, in every blood coming and going through his veins and arteries. He loved it in every oxidation of glucose, in every slow and gradual death of its matter.
He chose to fearlessly feel all the love he was denied for mistakes that could never have been his. He chose to feel it and surrender to it, and experience mutual respect and affection, and explore the fruits of something right, something true.
They made a good team, no doubt. Bruno, a lockpick, a gambler, a crook. Leone, corrupt, brutal, cruel. A shadow. Your spider. She kept all her secrets, even his own, and she kept them well. There has always been something different about Leone Abbacchio.
He didn't fit into any singular box his mind could conjure up. He was a fleeting thing, always a different mood, always a different place. Leone was his accomplice, his shadow, his conscience.
Maybe Bruno was delirious as a result of the heat that afternoon, but he swore he saw a drop of sweat run down his temples, while his chest filled with all the air that could fit in the volume of his lungs, perhaps exasperated in tachycardia after the long smile gave him a checkmate for all his arguments that never convinced him to give up He touched him that day. Leone also touched him. He told the level not to follow him and was pleased to know that he was only a few steps behind. He could count on the highest .
Bruno Bucciarati was conquering and burning his world, but sometimes all he could think about was him.
He didn't want to drown in his touch. He could be patient, very patient, and he would be. It would take time. He would never have used energy, effort and days to do this if it weren't for Leone.
Touching him was a sickening thing at first. It was running water and burning lungs and the body of the only person he cared about. Skin, everywhere, cold as stone, white as starch. He had to stop. He would be lost there, in the ocean that was Leone, he wouldn't breathe.
Then touching him was panic, but less vivid. Leone's pale, flushed skin was warm. He was so alive, and as he always had been, he could anchor his mind to him. An anchor for a ship in moving water was a lifeline. Bruno could come up for air if he really tried. He had to let go too soon, but they could both see the progress. He was covered in sweat and the purple one watched him with wet eyes, but they were happy with what they had accomplished.
Touching wasn't such a terrible thing after a while. He was ready to undo. Dirty Hands when he got home, ready to take off his suit and keep it. Just to feel her knuckles as they brushed against his, to touch her palm when he wanted attention from him. Leone had become a sharp weapon for his own use during his time at Passione, but he was the softest thing Bruno had ever been able to touch.
The water still came, but he found it calmer, more gentle, and always there. Captain Bruno Bucciarati, King of the Seas, waiting for him, smiling, reaching out to pull him out of the water. He no longer thought of a different time, touching a different person, another person he was allowed to love. Leone was different. Touching him was less a chore than a pleasure. For the first time in years, he found comfort and security in the contact. He found contentment. Only with him.
Touches came in many forms: fingers intertwined with fingers, legs with legs when they sat down, just to stay close. He was looking for excuses to brush the hair out of his face and the snowy one was looking for one to hold his hand. When he fell asleep in the haze of her heat, Bruno touched his forehead, his hair, his nose. Albus kissed him once, after asking permission, and it was the lightest of touches, but he didn't feel like he was drowning. He felt like he was flying. Leone was magic. Or he himself was a Saint. His lips were soft and his eyes sparkled and he was so good. Too good. The Capo could not understand this feeling of happiness.
On a bad day, he needed a touch. Comfort. And they had never done this before, but he thought maybe he could hold it. No words could ease a wound so deep, so old, but if Bruno had learned anything, it was that it was possible to soothe the memories of a bad touch with good ones. Leone left him, and he held him, on his creaky old bed in the D'Amare house. He had never been this close to anyone and felt like he could stay. It was the exact opposite of being packed like a badly made garment in protective transport so long ago. Bruno kept his swooning secret then, just as he kept his tears now.
Touch became medicine and normality. Bruno was someone he could be without his gloves, his suit, his stand. Sometimes he thought he really had done it. He had become something of a man for the other (for himself too, Leone reminded him) and he was never a sacrifice. He was part of life with Abbacchio. He enjoyed life with Abbacchio. He loved.
Touching Leone, at first, was a sick thing. Dangerous and unpredictable, unarmored and vulnerable.
Touching him now was a breath of fresh air, golden sunshine, smiles and that laugh and long, stark white hair and his love for Leone. He would love that man like he'd never loved anyone. He would embrace flowers, vases, music, paintings like never before. She would gobble up strawberries and raspberries, feel the delicate heat of crimson blood running through her nostril, run down her lips dyed with the blackest lipstick and drip down her white chin and have the pleasure of cleaning it with her tongue just to feel the taste and the adrenaline. that lurked over Leone's taste buds. He was holding him at night, being held in return. I was waiting for him on the docks without thinking about the port. It was fixing each other and being broken together, knowing they would make it back.
Bruno Bucciarati was not Bruno without Leone and his touch. No longer.