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   Buccellati is in charge.  

   Abbacchio holds fast to this stubbornly even when Giorno, unofficially coronated by action and determination, enough so that Passione in full was convinced of his seemingly-divine right to rule, took up the mantle, above the group, and so above Buccellati, who seemed fearful and thankful all at once in the face of this change. 

   When they clinked their glasses and slugged down their wine in celebration, Abbacchio notably abstained until he was alone.  He wasn't unappreciative of Giorno's efforts, but who was this, childlike even next to Narancia, childlike even with his stoic face and big but half-lidded eyes, to play pretend as an adult and reform them from the inside out.  How did he miss it?  Abbacchio wondered while swirling the liquid in his glass before abandoning it for the bottle.  In the sudden fray, he must have missed the moment when Buccellati was made to forfeit. 

   At the dinner, Giorno's strong but tender words of graciousness and ambition were dulled to Abbacchio by something more passive than anger but something more distracting than apathy.  He walked home in it and he slept in it for days. 

   While missing, because he was missing, he called on the company of people with more to lose than he did yet for some reason would grace him with their comfort until all were smeared over not with ash, but lipstick.  Abbacchio's creeping shame takes up too much room in the bed and forces them out.

   He's drunk at 2PM on a Sunday.  He's already thrown up, but only to make room for more.  His normal coat and pants are draped over the chair in the living room, and he on top of them, wearing a black tank and pair of boxer briefs instead.  His nail polish is chipped and his messy hair hasn't been washed in days and parts are crusty with what is no doubt vomit.  Abbacchio lays his head upside down over the arm of an ill-fitting chair he bought with his first earnings, along with a record player soon replaced by a walkman soon replaced by slipping into church when his gang wasn't in attendance, to listen to the choir and cry somewhere in the back of the nave.  The apartment is quiet.  Here his mouth is pulled into a discomforted, twitching smile. 

   "Where have you been?"  Bruno-- Buccellati-- is suddenly at his apartment door, and stern, which comes as no surprise; Abbacchio has only seen him smile a handful of times and not once was Abbacchio the cause. 

   Abbacchio left justice up to God and left God for Buccellati.  Those hands, big but lithe with sinew, guided Abbacchio in under the wings of Passione, those hands folded over themselves at the table while they ate dinner on the night Abbacchio received his stand.  Buccellati had asked Abbacchio very little about his past, what brought him there, and seemed at ease with this.

   Abbacchio knows Buccellati knows he's drunk and has been so for some time.  Morning to night and back again, the sunrise and sunset identical.  Time works differently in the fog, the world slurs and drips around him until it's too much.  Buccellati's mouth is a flat line bracketed by darker lips and Abbacchio catches himself staring.  It's too much.

     A car blares in the distance to punctuate the silence and Abbacchio's fingers slip from the doorframe back into the shadows of the apartment, his highlighted scapulae offering invitation to Buccellati, whose shoes with name-brand shine enter after with no hint of shyness.  Abbacchio's apartment is unlit in the afternoon and is dark, windows facing the opposite wall of a narrow street where sunlight tends to skip over, save for on the long days of summer.  Wood and tile floors and a bed in the living room with scattered candles and a tapestry of Nostra Signora hanging crooked on the wall, more for appearance than for prayer; Abbacchio struggles faithless among his more devout comrades.  He's chosen his idol.

   Abbacchio picks up another wine bottle, already open.  Buccellati watches him passively, but his brow begins to furrow. 

   "Don't you think you ought to take a break?" Buccellati asks and his voice is disparaging beneath its honey tone.  "You've been gone for weeks."

   "So?  Aren't I out a job?" Abbacchio retaliates.  "Giovanna's stepped up and I doubt there's much room for what I did before.  We've been given new life," Abbacchio says, taking a swig.  Buccellati darts to him and snatches the bottle, but his expression is stone.  Abbacchio moves to hit him but he is clumsy in his state and damages himself more than he would have Buccellati, and he throws up, and hates himself as Buccellati drags him to the sink and brushes back the hair clinging to his face. 

   "You can't do this, Leone," Buccellati says, his voice at Abbacchio's ear, and Abbacchio shivers before throwing up again, and soon he's done.  Tears squeezed out of his eyes are wiped away on Buccellati's sleeves, ashy kohl smudged in lines.  Buccellati helps him up again and into the bathroom, letting him slump on the red tile floor as his former boss prepares the water. 

   Abbacchio doesn't quite understand what's going on, is this another dream like so many that have come before, when he's lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling and imagining Buccellati's hand in his, and that's it, that's all he needs and he is both pacified and broken with his heart burning in his chest?  Is this another dream that captures him when the gang sits together under the umbrellas of some bistro, Abbacchio always at Buccellati's side, and, dazed after a sleepless night, he daydreams themselves alone under a pavilion by the beach, in love, whatever that means.  Narancia squalls at Mista, and Abbacchio snaps back to reality to  bark at them.

   Buccellati pushes up his sleeves, and directs Abbacchio to the tub.   Abbacchio protests inarticulately but the other man's gesture is unwavering.  Were he able, Abbacchio might thank the heavens for the amount of alcohol in his system that allowed him to strip down in front of Buccellati.  All white and ribs and bruises from colliding with his minimal furniture, and bruises from those who use their teeth under the sheets.  The tub is full and Buccellati lets Abbacchio step in on his own.  Once Abbacchio is seated, Buccellati's hands push his head under the warm water and begin lathering his greasy, crusty hair with soap, fingers working gently but firmly into the silver.

   "I'm still here, Leone.  Giorno is taking over, but that doesn't mean I'm gone.  It's a change, and I don't expect anyone to ease into it-- maybe Mista-- but I also don't expect or condone anyone martyring themselves on my behalf."

   Abbacchio wants to snap at him that it's not for him, but he's too weak to lie.  He says nothing and instead cries and it doesn't stop, even as Buccellati scrubs his face with a washcloth.  Why is he doing this?  He must think so little of Abbacchio, inebriated and incapacitated, too old, a broken bird like the rest of the group Buccellati has taken in.  Still he says none of this.  He knows he's being selfish, he never stopped being selfish.  Buccellati takes Abbacchio's chin in hand and looks him over, pushing his hair back with his other hand, wiping his forehead and the makeup that stubbornly sticks to his face.  Abbacchio's blue eyes seek out Buccellati's but the man is looking him over like a specimen, searching for grime.

   "Buccellati," Abbacchio rasps.

   "You can call me Bruno, Leone."  Still not looking at him.

   It seems wrong, but he does it.

   "Bruno."

   Bruno's eyes find Abbacchio's.

   "I... I... uh,"  Abbacchio knows this is not the time, and he rewords carefully.  "Thanks."  And then his eyes, open and bright, tremble.  Bruno peers curiously at him, and Abbacchio lifts his head, craning his neck back, and kisses just under Bruno's jaw.  Bruno appears unfazed and keeps scrubbing.  Abbacchio worries he's fucked up beyond forgiveness now, and retracts. 

   "Is this because you're drunk?" Bruno asks in a low voice.

   "No," Abbacchio answers with more truth than intended.  Bruno gives a half-nod, black hair bouncing just a little.  His movements slow until his hands dip into the water, and Abbacchio remains looking up at him, a little scared, unable to see Bruno's face.  Soon, he can-- Bruno slouches, and Abbacchio doesn't know what's going on in his head but when Bruno's lips begin to trace his neck and jaw he sees Bruno less as an adult on a pedestal high above what Abbacchio can reach, and more as a nervous explorer, whose hands are climbing up his chest with unintended slowness, nervous, and shaky. 

   "No, Bruno, stop, you don't have to do this--"  Abbacchio says, and Bruno's mouth pulls away, startled.  "You're not-- You're, not like this, this isn't what you want to do."  Abbacchio though dizzy from the booze and heat suddenly clear.  "You're not this."  He wants to say, I don't expect this from you.  You're not this person.  You're not like me.  You're far away and I'm looking on and holding a hand over my eyes, because the sun sits behind your head, and you call my name to follow.  To keep following.  We don't stop.  We don't meet in the middle.  I trail behind. 

   "I'm not a symbol," says Bruno.  It's as if he can read Abbacchio's mind.  "You and I catch each other when we fall, just like the rest."

   "I don't need you to do this."

   "Someday, when you're alright, and I'm not, you can take care of me," Bruno exhales, it takes a lot for him to admit that there may be a day-- another day-- when he can't walk as tall as he would like.   "I came because I sought you.  I wanted to know you were still alive.  I was afraid you weren't."  Blunt, but Abbacchio understands why, though he can't wrap his mind around why Bruno would be looking for him-- kindness is foreign to Abbacchio outside of the gang, and Bruno at the head, acting out of kindness masked unintentionally as duty. 

   "We aren't quite free," Bruno goes on, "but we're more so now than ever.  If anyone's out of a job here, it's me," he says with what may be a hint of relief, "and I need to learn to like it."  He lifts his hands from the water and holds onto the edge of the tub, turned away from Abbacchio.  "And if I'm free, then I..."  He's still turned away.  "You're my friend, Leone.  I'm not upset.  Only when you're unwell."

   "Fucking..."  Abbacchio sits up, water splashing just over the side of the tub, hitting Bruno's bent knees, for which Abbacchio swiftly curses and immediately apologises before a sob wracks his shoulders and he grips Bruno's hand shakily.  "You're," he coughs out, fingers curling over into Bruno's palm.  His other hand is over his face with a fistful of hair.  Bruno stares at him, not knowing quite what to do.  He is so used to tending to the needs of others but now that his own are intersecting, he is shy, uncertain.  But his chest is there for Abbacchio to lean his head against and Bruno smiles and Abbacchio doesn't see it.

   Bruno helps Abbacchio out of the bath and up onto his feet and Abbacchio is taller than him until he doubles over into Bruno's arms, and Bruno takes the opportunity to kiss him lightly on the cheek, and despite everything, Abbacchio doesn't expect it.  He breathes in sharply, and squeezes his eyes shut. 

   The early evening dark, the messy bed Abbacchio hasn't made or washed in some time, and when he lays down he hates that it smells like anything that isn't Bruno, now that Bruno is there among his small piles of detritus and more than that, his emptiness laid bare before him, trash and dust, bottles and old CDs, nothing of note. 

   Abbacchio still trying to push Bruno away, still trying to save Bruno when Bruno has no interest in being saved, even as the other man climbs over him and splays his fingers across his collar and neck.

   "Why me?  Why would you do this with me, of all people? Don't do this for me.  You give and give and leave nothing for yourself.  Don't give this.  I'm nothing. You must be so embarrassed. "

   "No," says Bruno, unbuttoning his shirt and stretching his arms back to slide out of the sleeves.  He is arched over Abbacchio, who gazes up at him, and suspends his disbelief long enough for Bruno to continue.  "I'm happy here."  Bruno's expression would betray his words, but Abbacchio knows to rely less on the expression on his face and more on his actions.  Bruno's heart is a mystery Abbacchio seeks to release but knows he may never, and knows that's okay.  This is now, and Bruno holds Abbacchio's white wrists as he leans in and kisses him. 

   Leone has stared into the fuzzy dark with his brain and eyes heavy.  The fingers that weave with his, and the straps he is done up in for the evening's activities still wrapped black around him, are cold comforts as he imagines walking white beaches among protruding rocks, overlooked by kids playing among the cypress.  A stranger drags their nails over his back and he is dead to it. 

   The ocean spray.  Seagulls.  Somewhere, a patio, crossed legs and sandals, light shirts, his hair picked up by a breeze not too blustery.  Is this the house Trish lives in now?  Do they visit, the two of them, for Bruno to take care of her, another kid orphaned into his care, and Abbacchio as Bruno's... friend?  Involved with the kids as he's always been, always liked to be?  Narancia in school, playing soccer, Mista and Giorno meeting together for business purposes (and fun, as well-- it's inevitable) when Bruno is sent away to live, and Abbacchio fills in sometimes, and when he doesn't, he imagines he is there and they steal kisses in a stone alley and hold hands under tables.  That he is even able to dream these things, he considers himself rich, too well-off for who he is.  The only kisses he steals are from the girls and boys at the bar who follow each other home.  Abbacchio doesn't need to hold Bruno's hand.  Bruno exists and Abbacchio can look on at the man who saved him, and the past rushes away in the Napoli tide.

   Bruno brings him back suddenly, with his hands clutching the sides of Abbacchio's face.

   "Be here with me, Leone," he says. 

   Maybe this time it isn't just another idle dream, one of those many pushed quickly out of sight to allow him to settle again into what was, admittedly, a pretty privileged reality— close, and close enough to reflect the light, intangible as light always is.  But now, here is Bruno's warm skin, beneath Leone's fingers, with no aureole to blind him. 

   Leone nods and turns his head, kissing the inside of Bruno's palm, eliciting yet another smile, and this time, Leone catches it.