Chapter Text
When Abbacchio finally reached the front door, he hesitated. His fist was already raised, but should he stay and knock, or go away silently?
It wasn’t the first time that he had been here, in the 3rd floor of the old building where Buccellati lived, and his reason to be here was a good one, he told himself, trying to gather the courage to knock on the door.
That same morning, the team had been doing their usual work; controlling the places under their protection, collecting debts and fees, dealing with some thugs from other gangs, beating a few assholes from their own gang that apparently didn’t know what loyalty was, etc. Plus, now they also had to protect Trish Una from traitors within Passione, but since Pericolo handed her to them, things had gone smooth so far. Nothing to worry about, or at least, not until Buccellati almost passed out after teaching some idiots not to fuck with Passione gangsters.
It was weird to see him falter like that, and the group was obviously worried about their Capo, no matter how hard Buccellati tried to reassure them that he was just a bit dizzy for not having eaten anything at breakfast. Bullshit.
In the end, they managed to convince Buccellati to take the rest of the day off so he could get some well-deserved rest. As expected of him, he was very reluctant at first, but Fugo convinced him that they could take care of everything (including Trish) for the rest of the day.
And that’s how now, late at night that same day, Abbacchio decided to pay his superior a visit. Just to check on him, he reasoned, but deep inside he knew there was another, more selfish reason to be there. He longed for Buccellati’s company. He always did. But lately, and with that brat named Giorno now being part of the team, Abbacchio felt that he needed his company (and to take a break away from the gang) more often, and this was the perfect excuse for that. How selfish could he be…?
Ignoring the voice in his head, Abbacchio finally knocked on the door and waited for a few minutes. He was going to knock a second time when he heard muffled footsteps on the other side, and the door finally opened, revealing a man that resemble Buccellati, but in a… less than flattering state.
“Abbacchio… Did something happen...?” his voice sounded a bit hoarse, his eyes looked tired and with the dressing gown and disheveled hair, the Bruno he was seeing looked like a cheap, off-model copy of the original one. Even his face was a bit paler than usual.
“No, everything’s fine… I just, um, I thought I should check on you after what happened this morning… You-” he made a brief pause, and bluntly added, “You look terrible.”
Buccellati chuckled softly, but his laugh was weak “Thanks for noticing.” He motioned for Abbacchio to enter inside, with a neutral yet welcoming smile on his face “My house is your house”, and the taller man complied, hearing the door closing behind him.
Despite being relatively familiar with the place (he spent a few nights there, when Buccellati first recruited him and Abbacchio didn’t really have anywhere to stay), he still felt like he shouldn’t be there, it was as if Abbacchio was violating his Capo’s privacy, entering on his home like that, uncalled, uninvited. It was odd to see this part of Buccellati that was more personal, in contrast with his composed, more formal, gangster side. It just didn’t seem right. It didn’t feel right, not for Abbacchio.
However, is uneasiness faded away and was replaced with curiosity as he noticed the large amounts of papers in the small living room. There were piles in the sofa and in the coffee table, making it impossible for more than one person to actually sit on the sofa. When Buccellati realized this, he hurried to quickly move some piles from the sofa back to the coffee table, apologizing while doing so. His movements however, were kind of clumsy and slow, lacking the natural energy that the usually had.
“What are all those papers for?” Abbacchio questioned, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow, already imagining the answer.
“Just paperwork.” he shrugged it off, as if it wasn’t any big deal.
“Paperwork? Buccellati, by the looks of it, here’s enough paperwork worth of two or three months.”
“Well…” Buccellati turned around to look at him while still organizing the different piles. “Now that I’m a Capo, I have to file and sign more reports, and with Polpo dead, I also have to sign his files and take care of all his unfinished business.”
“Please-” Abbacchio frowned, staring directly at his superior “-don’t tell me you have been doing paperwork the whole day, when the very reason we told you to take a day off was so you could rest from work .”
Buccellati didn’t answer him, instead his lips curved in an apologetic smile. He sat on the armrest of the sofa, next to Abbacchio, who was standing, while gently massaging his temple “I need to get all of this done and sent to the Boss by the end of the week, though.” That wasn’t a lot of time, considering the amount of documents and that it was already Thursday.
Abbacchio sighed loudly, Buccellati was a perfectionist, almost a workaholic, when it came to his duties as a Passione mobster. Not that Abbacchio could blame him, after all, his efforts and dedication to the gang are what allowed Buccellati to become a Capo in the first place, and a highly respected member way before that. But it was crystal clear that Buccellati was sick and not in the best state to do any kind of work, even if it was something as boring as filling, checking and signing documents.
Abbacchio extended his hand and placed it on the other man’s forehead, surprising him, but he didn’t care.
“You’re feverish.” he sentenced, almost with an accusatory tone.
Buccellati kindly pushed aside his hand, and for a brief moment, Abbacchio thought that his heart skipped a beat. Unlike his own hands, Buccellati’s were smooth and warm, and the older man was tempted, if only for seconds, to intertwine their fingers but that thought quickly disappeared when Buccellati spoke again.
“I’m totally fine, Abbacchio.”
“No. You would be better if you were in your bed. Resting. As you were supposed to.” despite trying to sound as serious (even menacing) as possible, Buccellati only grinned, entertained.
“I should’ve known you would do this.”
“Only because you are overworking yourself.” Abbacchio glanced at the papers, then back at Buccellati. “Say, you go to bed and get a good sleep, while I stay here doing some of your paperwork, so you won’t accumulate more work.”
“Wha- No! I appreciate your help Abbacchio, but I can’t let you do my work for me, that’s not right…”
“Buccellati, I really don’t want to knock you out, but God you are stubborn.” while Abbacchio wasn’t being 100% serious, his threat wasn’t an empty one either. Under normal circumstances, if they were to fight against each other, Abbacchio had little to no chance against Sticky Fingers, being Moody Blues rather mediocre when it came to physical fighting. However, without their Stands, Abbacchio had the upper hand with his training from the Academy and the various tricks he had learned upon becoming a gangster. Not to the mention he was more muscular and taller than Buccellati himself, and he had yet to lose any arm wrestling match he had with his fellow gang members. Despite very rarely engaging in fist-fighting, it would be a big mistake to underestimate Abbacchio’s raw strength.
Buccellati slowly closed his eyes and sighed, defeated “Fine, you win.”
After that, his Capo set the modest guest room ready for Abbacchio (even if he made it very clear that he wouldn’t stay over), took a few leftovers he had from the fridge and offered them to him and explained how the documents should be organized, debts and payments there, contracts here, reports of accomplished missions over there, and each pile organized by date, from oldest to newest. It wasn’t until Buccellati made sure that there was nothing else to inform him of, that he finally left for his bedroom, but not without Abbacchio warning him that ‘If you wake up in the middle of the night and try to do paperwork while I’m asleep, I’ll find out with Moody Blues’.
Even then, Buccellati just rolled his eyes jokingly before closing the door, leaving the other man alone.
In the silence of the night, Abbacchio sat on the sofa, grabbed a pen and started reading the documents, filling the reports or calculating the debts and payments and writing down the final numbers. It was -as he had expected- boring work, and his mind would wander from time to time, his own thoughts unable to ignore the fact that Buccellati was asleep just a few meters from where he was sitting. A little, annoying voice started to speak, telling him that he was there only to get all of Buccellati’s attention, only to spend more time with him, even when he was the first one to dismiss Narancia’s idea of paying their Capo a visit later today, an idea born out of pure concern, unlike his own. Such a selfish guy he was with such selfish needs.
There was a honest concern, though, what if La Squadra Esecuzione tracked them down and tried to attack Buccellati? In his current state, even if he could summon Sticky Fingers, it would be in a weakly state, and he would need someone to protect him. Huh, “protect”.
A bittersweet laugh escaped from his lips. He couldn’t protect anyone, and even if he could, the risk of failing was too dangerous, too great, too painful. He had failed once in his life, and it destroyed his career, his aspirations, his psyche and pretty much everything he was until he met Buccellati. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He… couldn’t afford it.
Buccellati had given him more than what he could have asked for after he left the Force. Admiration and loyalty were poor, yet honest attempts at returning the favor. The idea of Buccellati getting killed because of his own recklessness was something that Abbacchio’s heart was not ready to handle. He had already experienced survivor’s guilt, and damn he was sure as hell he didn’t want to feel anything like that ever again.
His inner thoughts were silenced when he heard a muffled sound coming from Buccellati’s room. He was snoring. It wasn’t too loud nor too obnoxious, and Abbacchio even found it comforting; that way he didn’t feel so lonely in the wee hours, and he knew that Buccellati was alright without going to his room.
Until he fell asleep on the guest’s room, Abbacchio had a faint smile on his face.