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shifting infinities

"It’s said that the amount of possible infinities is infinite. Between the numbers of one and two, there are countless numbers more. It was something Fugo had talked about once, mentioned as a part of mindless dinner talk around the round table. Bucciarati had considered it that night. Infinities. The transfer from one into another. Progression towards an end that has no finite distance away from you."

a short character study-esque work reflecting briefly on bruno's life.

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you will see your beauty every moment that you rise ; 5

“Do you believe that people are born evil?”

   The question has Bucciarati taken aback. This fact hides within him, invisible to Giorno. Giorno isn’t looking at him anyway. This is a question he’s asked himself many times, and a question he still cannot answer with any small degree of effort. He takes a pause to contemplate, to create a desirable answer. Coming to understand Giorno Giovanna is like approaching wild prey--Bucciarati knows he must be careful not to startle him back into hiding.

   Bucciarati shakes his head softly. “No, I don’t.”

giorno struggles with the idea of good and bad. 

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you will see your beauty every moment that you rise ; 4

“I can’t take this, I feel so stupid,  like I’m never gonna do anything right, and am I doing any better? I dunno, I’m never doing anything the way I wanna and I can’t figure it out no matter how hard I try, and, and--” Narancia starts to ramble, words and feelings pouring out of him like running water, but none of it is coherent between the hitching of his breath.  

    “Narancia, please, try to calm down,” Bucciarati rubs the boy’s back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

narancia misses his mom.

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             it floods the sky and blurs the darkness like a chandelier

      Narancia collapses face-first into his bed with a huff. He’s never felt so  drained--at least not since joining Bucciarati’s team. He clutches a pillow to his chest, curling around it. And then, he buries his face in it and starts to cry. 

      Everything seems to spiral, hitting him all at once with the force of a barreling train. He’s been struggling to grasp the same basic concepts, and all day, he’s been failing. All he’s learning goes over his head, just above his reach, and right when he thinks he’s understanding he screws up. It drives him mad, and he knows it drives Fugo crazy, too. 

      And above all, Narancia misses his mom. 

      His grief over losing her has slimmed out with the passing of time, and he’s filled the holes left by her death and his father’s negligence with the family he’s acquired since. But sometimes, on days like these, he can’t help but wonder what life could’ve been if she’d never died. He rummages his mind in search of a memory of her, trying in vain to recollect the feeling of being in her arms, to hear the sound of her voice again. But she is little more than splotches of color and tales spoken bitterly over dinner by his father who sat across from him, despondent and cold. 

     Too busy wailing into his pillow, Narancia doesn’t hear the knock on the door. In fact, he doesn’t notice anyone’s entered the room at all until he feels something brush against his leg and flinches away in response. 

      “I’m sorry, I assumed you heard me come in,” a familiar voice, velvet and smooth, registers in Narancia’s head as Bucciarati’s. Immediately, he drops the pillow in favor of diving into Bucciarati’s arms. The man adjusts himself, sitting on the bed properly so as not to drop him. Gingerly, he cards his fingers through Narancia’s hair, another hand resting supportively on his back.

      “I can’t take this, I feel so stupid,  like I’m never gonna do anything right, and am I doing any better? I dunno, I’m never doing anything the way I wanna and I can’t figure it out no matter how hard I try, and, and--” Narancia starts to ramble, words and feelings pouring out of him like running water, but none of it is coherent between the hitching of his breath.  

      “Narancia, please, try to calm down,” Bucciarati rubs the boy’s back in what he hopes is a comforting gesture. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

       Narancia’s tearful rambling turns into wordless sobs. Bucciarati doesn’t push, content to let him cry it out for as long as he needs, whether that comes with words or not. Still, it worries him to hear the way Narancia has to gasp so needily for breath, to feel his whole body tremble and jolt with his fight for it. Being unable to do anything but hush his cries and try to piece together the cause of them on his own leaves a sense of unease and helplessness in the pit of Bucciarati’s stomach.

       “I just,” Narancia takes deep, shuddering breaths, but they’re breaths nonetheless and Bucciarati considers that to be a start. “It was such a bad day, and I’m trying my best, I really am, but I can’t figure out anything Fugo’s been teachin’ me, y’know? I feel dumb all the time, and I’m really, really tired, and…” his voice goes hushed, cracking on every word, “I miss my mama. ” 

      In that heartbeat, Bucciarati understands. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can still hear the beeping of a heart monitor and the sound of mechanical breaths. Suddenly, he’s seventeen again, running fingers through damp hair as the hollow feeling of loss sets in. Bereavement wraps cold hands around his neck. He inhales past the suffocating memory, exhaling in a hum of acknowledgment. 

      “I just don’t know what to do, Buch, and my dad just started hatin’ me after that and I keep hearing hospital noises and it’s all my fault and--”

      “Shhh, Narancia,” Bucciarati slips back to lean against the headboard. “Nothing, nothing that happened to you was ever your fault. You’re alright. I have you now.” 

      Narancia wraps his arms tighter around Bucciarati’s waist. He is quivering against his chest, fingers tightly balled into fists as they grasp the fabric of his suit. Bucciarati holds him closer, carefully closer. He holds him in a way that he hopes solidifies the sentiment that he will not be letting go of him. He will not be going anywhere any time soon. 

    “I can’t do anything right.”

     “Don’t say such silly things,” Bucciarati shakes his head. “You have done so much good as a member of this team. As a member of my famiglia. You light a dark room with ease.” 

     “It hurts so bad, Bucciarati, it hurts.”          “I know,” Bucciarati’s voice dims to hardly above a whisper, but there is nothing but empathy in his tone. Incompetence settles deep within him. He cannot seem to think of the right words of comfort for something he’d never comforted within himself. After a moment’s deliberation, he adds, “I lost my father three years ago myself. Believe me, I know.”

     Narancia looks up at Bucciarati for the first time today, teary eyes shimmering with more than hurt. Somewhere within the deep purple is a glimmer of admiration. Of hope, even. Narancia has known almost nothing about the past of the man he’s always had on such a high pedestal. To hear that he shares something like this in common with someone so strong, someone so good, is reassuring.

    “It never gets easy,” Bucciarati smiles sadly down at the boy in his arms, “but it does get easier. And you have us now. I, as well as the rest of our team...we aren’t going anywhere.”     For the briefest moment in time, Narancia seems to remember the feeling of his mother’s love.

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you will see your beauty every moment that you rise ; 3

   “Do you, like,” Mista coughs, “I mean, when you say I’m… irreplaceable. Do you mean it?”

   “I don’t say things I don’t mean, Mista.”

   “No, I know that, I know, but…I don’t know. Haven’t been feelin’ it lately.”

mista recovers from injury the old-fashioned way. 

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                                    you don’t see what you possess,                                          a beauty calm and clear

“Fuck, fuck, owch! God, when did it get so hard to sit up?”

“After you were stabbed and shot yourself three times.”

Bucciarati sets a bowl of pasta on the nightstand beside Mista, who has been bedridden since yesterday. Since Giorno hasn’t been around, out on a lengthy interrogation mission himself, Mista’s had to recover from his injuries the old-fashioned way--bandaged up and in bed until Giorno returns this evening. Although Mista’s never been one to keep quiet about the pain of the injuries inflicted on him -- usually by himself -- he’s always managed to adhere to his bed rest. 

Today, however, something seems off about him. It’s not in his manner of speech. It’s not overt in his actions. But Bucciarati can feel it in his gut, a hunch that something is amiss. Still, he doesn’t mention it, and he doesn’t plan to until he must. Besides, he doesn’t have any concrete evidence that his hunch is more than a hunch, so he leaves it be.

Bucciarati lends Mista a hand after a long moment of the other’s struggling, propping him up with a couple of pillows to make sure he’s comfortable. Luckily, Bucciarati is able to stay home and make sure Mista doesn’t hurt himself further today--the gang has, for the most part, been given a few days off now that they took care of their last assignment. 

“Thanks, Buch,” Mista grunts out once he manages to get himself upright. His hands are still a bit shaky, so Bucciarati also takes it upon himself to set the bowl in Mista’s lap, making sure it doesn’t fall and spill on him while he’s in no state to undress himself. 

“Never a problem, Mista,” Bucciarati gives him a small smile. “Although I must say I do wish you would be less reckless when it comes to these missions. You are irreplaceable as a gunslinger and as a teammate.” 

Mista seems to scoff at that, but it’s hard to tell as he shoves a forkful of pasta into his mouth. “Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes. Even with his mouth full, his usual joking tone falls flat today. Bucciarati’s brows pinch subtly with concern. He stands for a moment, waiting to see if Mista elaborates further. But then the other looks at him with a brow cocked, and Bucciarati decides to treat it as a harmless tease. He tells himself that if Mista needs something, he’ll let him know, and then he turns to leave. 

Just upon reaching the door, he hears a, “wait a sec” behind him. Bucciarati turns his head, peering at Mista expectantly. The other sets the bowl down on his lap. He’s content with letting the heat radiating off of it soothe his aching legs. He stares into it, stirring the pasta mindlessly as if the words he needs are hiding in it. It’s odd to him, the feeling of asking for support, because he doesn’t often need it. The muddled quality of these shitty thoughts in his head is getting to him. 

“Do you, like,” Mista coughs, “I mean, when you say I’m…irreplaceable. Do you mean it?” 

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, Mista.”

“No, I know that, I know, but…I don’t know. Haven’t been feelin’ it lately.” 

Bucciarati turns fully, approaching the bed and, after a moment, sitting tentatively at the foot of it. He gives Mista a look that urges him to continue. Mista searches his pasta for more words like he’s already said all the ones he had to offer. Like the ones he has to say won’t carry the emotion behind them well enough. It has been a long time since he’s felt so weighed down. To be downtrodden and blue is unusual for him, and it always has been. 

“I guess it’s just been like...I dunno. After that last mission, I’m really wondering if I’m more of a liability than a teammate.”

“You’re not a liability at all,” Bucciarati shakes his head. He can’t even begin to fathom why Mista would doubt himself in such a way. “You’ve always been a crucial part of our success.”

“Yeah, but...since Giorno came around and I’ve been relying on his stand more and more, I guess I’ve been thinking more about wins and losses. You and him, you have this ability to lead confidently. If I get an order from either of you, I just know it’s the right thing, you know? Fugo’s super smart, and Narancia and Abba have these crazy useful abilities, and I guess I’m like…” Mista scratches the back of his head, which is, uncharacteristically, devoid of his hat. “What the hell do I do? Play with guns and then get hurt because I aim ‘em the wrong way?” 

Mista sighs deeply. Shakes his head, and then struggles to put the bowl on the table next to him, opting to hug a pillow instead. “Now that Gio’s not here to fix me up on the spot and I had to limp my way to the getaway car, I guess it’s setting in. I feel like I dragged everyone down, and it would’ve been so much easier if I was better at not getting hurt. Feels like it’s that way most of the time.”

Bucciarati’s hit suddenly with the memory of holding a limp Giorno in his arms, head hung low. Narancia was bleeding out down the aisle, Mista was passed out against a seat. Sardinia had been within reach. And he recalls blaming himself, barely maintaining his composure in front of Trish. He recalls the feeling of his father losing his battle for life in a hospital bed. The sight of him being wheeled away with severe injuries, the struggle of fighting the nurses barricading him from going along. 

“I suppose I understand why you would feel that way,” Bucciarati swallows, carefully choosing his next course of action. Mista’s too busy berating himself, staring down at his bandages, to notice Bucciarati’s hesitation. “But I assure you that your injuries were not for naught. We still came out of the mission alive.” 

Mista shrugs weakly in response, and it pulls at Bucciarati’s heartstrings to see him so subdued.

“Do you remember the day that Abbacchio was flying us to Sardinia, and in a matter of minutes, I’d almost lost all of you?”

Mista tries to pick out the memory from the fragments he has of Giorno’s first eight days. It feels like a fever dream, hazy and distant. “Sorta, yeah. I mean, I remember shooting that fugly meat mass in the face and then passing out. And I remember waking up when we’d already landed.”

“Giorno had lost both of his arms at the time. Narancia was bleeding out. It was just Trish and I sitting in the aisle, thinking we’d rid ourselves of that monstrosity, and the first thing I did was blame myself,” Bucciarati admits, crossing his legs as he casts his gaze down to his lap. “I sat there, and I said to myself, ‘this all happened because of me. Because I was naive enough to believe we would be safe on a plane.’” 

Mista picks his head up at that, a hint of passion returning to his eyes. “What? That’s crazy, you had no idea stands like that even existed! You were just doing what you thought would be best to keep us safe. And it paid off in the end, because look at us. Everyone’s alive, that shit-eating boss is dead, and you and Giorno are great at leading the new Passione.”

“Well,” Bucciarati locks eyes with Mista again, “I could say the same to you. I understand you when you say you feel like a liability. But things did not get dangerous just because of you. You chose your actions because you believed they were best. Our work has gotten more challenging now that we’re at the top.”

“Yeah,” Mista can’t formulate a solid argument to that. It’s true that it’s been hard work to rebuild Passione, and life as a gangster is always going to be difficult. “I guess you’re right.”

“I wouldn’t have recruited you if I didn’t trust your judgment. You are able to make calm and clear decisions, even in the face of true terror. And,” Bucciarati stands, but he maintains eye contact and shoots Mista a smile, “you have some of the best determinazione I’ve ever seen.”

Mista beams back at him. “Thanks, Bucciarati.”

“Of course. Now get some rest, alright? Giorno should be home within the hour.” 

Bucciarati heads downstairs, confident that he’s assuaged some of Mista’s insecurities. And Mista, newly reassured in his unwavering determinazione, decides that he better rest up so he can get back on the field as soon as possible. 

(Still, the ego boost goes right to his head. And Bucciarati ends up rushing right back upstairs when he hears a yowl of pain as Mista decides to lay back down way too quickly.)

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so i logged onto tumblr just before

and i see?? 13 notifications already?? what a leap! thanks to everyone leaving notes on my work here :0 

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you will see your beauty every moment that you rise ; chapter 2

“I can’t carry it anymore,” Abbacchio shakes his head, swallowing against a break in his voice. He closes his eyes against oncoming tears, knowing that if they fall, it won’t bring any relief. Crying never seems to help. It only leaves him feeling as if he has less within him than what he started with.

or, abbacchio wakes up from a nightmare. 

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                     darkness, darkness everywhere, do you feel alone?                     the subtle grace of gravity, the heavy weight of stone

 When Abbacchio jolts awake, it’s to a dark room with sweat clinging to his skin, his breath stuck somewhere on the way to his lungs, and a deep remorse in his pounding heart. He gasps, a hand flying to his chest as if that will make it any easier to breathe. But he knows all too well that slapping a hand over a gaping wound will do nothing to stop the bleeding no matter how desperately you try, and he knows all too well that a hand to his own chest will not seal the gaping wound that was left in him when he learned that fact firsthand. 

Beside him, Bucciarati stirs. Every ounce of Abbacchio wants to run, but he can’t seem to get himself to move. He feels frozen. Stuck in place as the imagery of his partner crumpling before him plays over and over in front of his eyes, ingrained in the back of his eyelids when he tries squeezing them shut. A warm hand comes to rest on his thigh as he feels the bed shift a bit. 

“What’s wrong, Leone?” 

Abbacchio clears his throat, opens his mouth. He tries to speak, but no words come out. Nothing but a gasping breath, and it feels way too much like fighting for words, fighting for strength to fix what he’d broken. His shoulders feel heavy, heavy like he’s carrying pounds of stone on his back. Gravity does not grace him gently; it grabs at him, trying to pull him down. It’s like he’s sinking, sinking in remorse and bitterness and a craving for that bitterness to manifest on his tongue and burn his throat. For the burn down his throat to fill him with artificial warmth and numb fog. 

Bucciarati squeezes Abbacchio’s thigh to bring him back to the present. Abbacchio turns to look at him, seeing concern sparkle in his eyes even in the darkness of the room. Bucciarati sits up properly, offering his shoulder for Abbacchio to lean into, and then his wrist for Abbacchio to ground himself with his pulse. Abbacchio takes both offers, pressing his fingertips into the other’s wrist to get a feel for his pulse, and then relaxing against his shoulder as he sucks in a deep breath. 

“A nightmare?” Bucciarati asks, voice still thick with sleep. 

Abbacchio hums an affirmative, focusing further on his breathing. Bucciarati takes noticeably deeper breaths as a guide. It’s his wordless way of saying, ‘breathe with me,’ and became a comforting habit of his to help soothe disorienting panic. Abbacchio matches their breaths and effectively manages to calm down. Still, his chest, while filled with a solid breath, remains filled with grief. While Bucciarati is certainly alive, his old partner certainly is not. And his old partner never will be again.   

“Do you want to talk about it?” A hand comes to rest on the side of Abbacchio’s bicep, caressing him gently. 

“I…” Abbacchio sighs, swears under his breath. “God, I just don’t know when the guilt is gonna go away. It’s so...it’s fucking heavy, Bruno.”

“I know, tesoro,” Bucciarati mumbles once for Abbacchio, and then a quieter, “believe me, I know,” that sounds more for himself. 

“I can’t carry it anymore,” Abbacchio shakes his head, swallowing against a break in his voice. He closes his eyes against oncoming tears, knowing that if they fall, it won’t bring any relief. Crying never seems to help. It only leaves him feeling as if he has less within him than what he started with.

“You have carried it this long, though, and…” Bucciarati wracks his sleep-riddled brain for the right words, the right phrase. “Time does not heal all wounds. But it makes it easier to forget the way they hurt, if just for a moment.” 

There’s a beat of quiet between them before Bucciarati continues, asking, “do you regret what you did that night?”

Immediately, Abbacchio feels anger pump in his blood. “What kind of --”

“Answer the question.”

“Yes, of course I do. Of course I regret that night, and I regret everything that came after it.”

“Have you learned from it?”

“I sure fucking hope--”

“Yes or no, Leone.” Abbacchio takes a breath. He thinks about it for a long moment. He wants to say yes. He wants to scream it, yes, he’s changed, he would never do anything like that again. But a part of him feels wrong to say that, given the remorse that claws at the fabric of his being on nights like these, given the voice in his head that tells him how shit of a person he was, is, and always will be. 

“Do you want to know what I think?” Bucciarati suggests quietly, noticing Abbacchio’s reluctance. The other man looks up to him, searching his eyes for the words he’s about to say, and Bucciarati hopes he only sees good things in them. 

“I think you have become a better man simply by regretting your decisions.”

The dual-toned gaze locked with his own shimmers with tears. Abbacchio looks down with a grimace. 

“There are some who, in your position, would not feel guilty. They wouldn’t learn,” it sounds a lot like Bucciarati has personal experience with those who don’t learn. Those who haven’t. It sounds almost as if he is, in some way, referring to himself. Bucciarati thinks of the crimes he’s committed. He thinks of the men who drove him to it. “They would carry on doing what they do without being affected.”

“Those people are pieces of shit, then.”

Bucciarati chuckles softly at that. “Yes, I suppose they could be.” 

Suppressing a yawn, Bucciarati gestures for Abbacchio to lay back down with him. He doesn’t move him from his spot on his shoulder, instead letting him rest on his chest to listen to the steady pace of his heartbeat. He watches the other man’s eyes carefully, waiting for them to flutter closed before he closes his own. 

“You know, what doesn’t kill you doesn’t make you stronger. It’s bullshit. It’s just...shitty.”

“Or maybe,” Bucciarati presses a kiss to Abbacchio’s head, “you were always stronger than you realize.”  

[stickyyfingr]

you will see your beauty every moment that you rise ; chapter 1

“I know, logically, that what I’m doing is wrong, but...I can never seem to stop myself,” Fugo is hardly coherent. Bucciarati understands anyway. Bucciarati understands not only his words, but also the meaning behind them. It’s familiar, and although he may not be able to get into the nooks and crannies of Fugo's head, he can empathize. The sensation of doing wrong under the guise that it’s the only right you have left fills him for a moment. Bucciarati reminds himself that he is no longer twelve.

       “I know,” is all he provides.

or, fugo comes out of a fit of rage.

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                 shadows all around you as you surface from the dark,                 emerging from the gentle grip of night’s unfolding arms      The first thing that Fugo registers is that there’s something warm and wet against his knuckles.

    As the sound of ringing and rushing blood in his ears subsides, he pieces together the lengths of what just occurred. He’s seated on a closed toilet lid and Bucciarati is kneeling down before him, wiping at his bloodied hands with a damp paper towel. His heart pounds in his chest, and he can still feel adrenaline coursing through his veins. Slowly, grey seeps back into the picture of black and white mentality. Light comes back to his vision as he emerges from darkness. The grip of volatile impulse lets him go free. The second thing Fugo registers is guilt.

    He feels the stinging of tears threatening to fall. At first, he fights them, squeezing his eyes shut. He’s already made a mess of things. Bucciarati must feel so burdened by him. Narancia never deserves to be on the receiving end of his breakdowns, not to mention how uncomfortable the rest of the group must feel watching them go down. His cheeks burn with shame, shame in himself, his emotions and his inability to control them.

    Hearing shifting, Fugo opens his eyes to see Bucciarati standing to toss out the dirty paper towel. He hears the sink run for a moment, the faucet squeal as it’s turned back off. Bucciarati returns with a cold paper towel to pat gently at his cheeks, cooling him off. It’s a gesture meant to calm him down, Fugo knows; Bucciarati’s done this before, many times. He leans into the touch, sucking in shaky breaths.

    “It’s alright to cry, you know.”

    The tears welling up in his eyes spill over, staining his cheeks like rain streaming down window panes. Bucciarati pulls his hand away to toss out the cool paper towel, too, and Fugo prepares to hear a door open, to hear Bucciarati slip out to give him time to figure this out alone. Perhaps that's best, he figures. It's best he's left alone. He had warned Bucciarati, years ago, that all he would do is hurt him; it would make sense for him to slip away. For him to be disgusted. Instead, the other man returns, sinking down to sit on the tile. For a long moment, he’s quiet. There’s no sound in the room save for Fugo’s sniffling and the hitching of his breath, though his emotions leak out of him and cling to the air, only making it harder to breathe.

    “Narancia is okay,” Bucciarati reassures, folding his hands in his lap. “Mista has him, so you know he’ll be alright. You didn’t do much damage.”     “That’s great,” Fugo already sounds congested, but beyond that, he sounds weak. Fragile. Like he’s moments away from shattering. Or like he’s trying hard not to step on his own scattered pieces and feel the pain again. “I’m sorry.”

    “I am not who you should be apologizing to,” Bucciarati curses himself for the sternness in his voice and for the way it makes Fugo flinch. “But I’m sure you’re forgiven. You’re always forgiven here, Pannacotta.”

    The use of his first name sends Fugo burying his face in his hands with a wail. Carefully, as if also avoiding cutting himself on one of his broken pieces, Bucciarati rests a hand on Fugo’s knee. When there’s no protest, Bucciarati runs his thumb along his skin comfortingly, though this turns to an absent gesture as the older of the two becomes lost in thought himself. He sucks in a breath as if he’s considering saying something, but lets it go in an initial decision against it. Another breath, and this time, he speaks.

    “I can imagine,” there’s a pause as Bucciarati bites his lip for a moment before continuing, “I... know that it’s scary. The feeling of knowing you may have hurt someone. Coming alive again from a mechanical...defense to find that there’s blood on your hands.”

    “I don’t mean to hurt him, or anyone,” Fugo gasps for breath. His hands are wet with tears, but it’s preferable to blood. Especially blood that isn’t his own. “I have no control. One moment it’s alright, and the next, everything is just… red. ”

    Bucciarati hums his understanding, nudging him to continue. It’s only a nudge, though, not a shove. He's never been forceful, and this doesn't go unappreciated. Fugo gathers his words, gathers his breath, gathers his pieces off the ground. They fall down again with a cry as he curls into himself more. The guilt consumes him. He feels as though he is drowning.

    “I know, logically, that what I’m doing is wrong, but...I can never seem to stop myself,” Fugo is hardly coherent. Bucciarati understands anyway. Bucciarati understands not only his words, but also the meaning behind them. It’s familiar, and although he may not be able to get into the nooks and crannies of Fugo's head, he can empathize. The sensation of doing wrong under the guise that it’s the only right you have left fills him for a moment. Bucciarati reminds himself that he is no longer twelve.

   “I know,” is all he provides.

   “Are you mad at me?”

   “I am not.”

   “Should I be mad at myself?”

   “That’s…” Bucciarati thinks on it for a moment. “No, I don’t believe you should be. But that’s your decision. Only you have the power to decide what you need to... adjust within yourself.”

   Fugo silently slips off the lid of the toilet onto the floor. He doesn’t have to say what he wants for Bucciarati to know; rather, he knows that Bucciarati’s instinct will end up being what he hopes to get out of the action. The hand on his knee moves to his shoulder, and after a moment of deliberation, pulls him closer. Fugo turns to hide his face in Bucciarati’s chest. The other doesn’t seem to mind.

   “Being angry at yourself is never helpful.” This close, Fugo can feel Bucciarati’s voice rumble in his chest. It’s comforting. Even if there are only four years between them, Bucciarati has never failed to give off the sensation of a parent’s love. “I was angry with myself for a long time when I was young. Being in the Mafia has never been...a dream of mine. I wanted to be a fisherman, just like my father.” There’s a wistful quality to his voice. Nostalgic, but deeper. Fugo realizes just how little he truly knows about the man who saved his life. He’s almost shocked to hear that someone so composed and admirable is able to understand what it’s like to harbor such self-hatred.

   “In any case,” Bucciarati’s other arm comes up to pull Fugo into a proper hug, “I will support you in any way I can. I promised you that when you joined my team. And you are now a part of my famiglia.”      He squeezes Fugo just a bit, just enough to feel safe.    Just enough for Fugo to feel like, for a moment, all of his shattered pieces are back together again.

[stickyyfingr]

waiting for you, baby (through the coldest days)

“silence. fugo feels it there next to him, but it has no heat, no body warmth, no comfort. it’s loud silence, a taunting presence. “i wish i’d stopped you. i wish i had stopped myself from not going, too. i wish that so many things could have gone differently.”     birds fly south for the winter. fugo is too busy trying to remember the shade of narancia’s eyes to notice them. “god, i loved you. i love you, love, still. forever. always.”

fugo lets himself reflect.

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[stickyyfingr]

the meaning of home

"tonight, there’s something dejected swimming in the depths of his sea-blue eyes. within them, there is a looming storm. if leone didn’t know any better, he would say they were shimmering with the subtle shine of unshed tears."

bruno thinks about his past, and abbacchio reminds him that the present isn't too bad.

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