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“I think it’s about time we got married.” Buccellati says one day at breakfast.
Abbacchio nearly chokes on his coffee, “Excuse me?”
Buccellati looks at him like he’s asked a silly question, "Well if anything happens to us, we’d want medical power of attorney for each other, and we’d get each other’s assets if one of us dies.” He shrugs, “I thought it would be practical, but if it makes you uncomfortable we don’t have to.”
Abbacchio stares into his coffee cup, contemplating, “It doesn’t make me uncomfortable.” It makes him the opposite of uncomfortable. Their life doesn’t exactly support a romantic relationship, but that hadn’t exactly stopped Abbacchio from wanting one. He couldn’t get a read on Buccellati though, but maybe his suggestion was less practical than he was implying. He doesn’t linger on it, he doesn’t want to make any assumptions.
Buccellati nods, “I’ll get the paperwork sorted, all you should have to do is sign.” They fall back into a comfortable silence. At least it seems comfortable. Buccellati wipes his sweaty palms along the front of his pants, ignoring how they shake slightly. Abbacchio fights the blush that threatens to spread up his neck. On the outside they seem perfectly composed, but their hearts both race at the same unrelenting pace.
Abbacchio didn’t know the first thing about jewelry, but here he was, at a jewelry store. It felt wrong to get married without rings, even if it wasn’t a true marriage. He had to be quick though, it was a miracle that he was able to measure Buccellati's ring size while he was asleep, so he didn’t want to push his luck for being out for very long.
“Good evening sir, how may I help you today?” The employee approaches Abbacchio from where he’s inspecting a case of rings.
Abbacchio opens his mouth, and then closes it. He hadn’t been prepared with a story or anything, “I’m looking for wedding bands, silver and gold preferably.” The small amount of jewelry that Abbacchio owned was silver, and Buccellati’s suit had golden zippers, so Abbacchio assumed he preferred gold.
“Oh wow, you seem quite young to be getting married. Who’s the lucky one?”
Abbacchio blushes, “They’re not for me. Doing a favor, for a friend.” He says, unconvincingly, but the employee drops it.
Abbacchio ends up leaving the store with two rings, one silver with a thin gold stripe around the circumference, the other the opposite, and two simple silver chains. He wasn’t one to wear rings, and if this truly was a practical marriage, having it out of sight may be a good idea. He didn’t know what Buccarati would prefer, wedding rings never came up in their day to day conversations.
Buccellati pulls some strings to get their marriage officiated without them needing to do anything but sign the papers. It’s anticlimactic, if he’s being honest. They are in his office, both sign the paper, and Buccellati puts it in an envelope to be mailed and that was it. It’s a silent affair, a slight tension hanging in the air.
“I-” They both say at the same time, and stop so the other can continue. Buccellati insists Abbacchio does. He pulls a small box out of his pocket, “I bought these, for us. It felt wrong to do it without them. But if you don’t want to, you don’t have to. I bought chains as well if you don’t want to wear it on your finger. That’s probably what I’ll do.” He opens the box to reveal the two rings.
Buccellati gasps, they’re beautiful. Abbacchio picks up the silver one and threads the chain through it, and clasps it around his neck. Buccellati grabs the gold one, how did Abbacchio know he prefers gold? And slips it onto his ring finger. He aggressively fights the blush that threatens to rise onto his cheeks, and ignores the pounding of his heart and the butterflies in his stomach. Christ he’s 18 and getting butterflies? Pathetic. He looks up at Abbacchio and finds him in a similar state, a slight blush dusting his cheeks. Their eyes meet each other, and wordless acknowledgement flows between them.
Buccellati then nods in acknowledgement, “Well then, husband, I think we skipped a few steps here. Let me take you to dinner.”
Fugo realized on his second night staying with Buccellati and Abbacchio. He had a sneaking suspicion that something was going on, heated looks, wordless communication, lingering touches. But it was confirmed that night when he was reading on the pull out couch he was currently sleeping on. Abbacchio walks into the kitchen in his pajamas, which was a rare sight. But Buccellati had been stabbed earlier that day and he hadn’t seemed like himself since. As Abbacchio fills a glass of water and grabs some pills from the cabinet, Fugo notices a ring on a chain around his neck. Strange, he’d never seen it before. Abbacchio must take great care to conceal it under his clothes during the day.
The next day at breakfast, Buccellati's ring catches Fugo’s attention. It’s identical to Abbacchio’s, but the gold and silver were flipped. “So how long have you two been married?”
Abbacchio nearly drops his fork and Buccellati chuckles, “Just a few months. It started as a logistical thing but turned into more.” He casts a loving glance towards his husband, Abbacchio blushes at it.
From then on they’re more open about being in love with each other. They kiss each other in greeting, use terms of endearment and lean on each other when they’re on the couch. Fugo finds it sweet, he watched his parent’s loveless marriage all of his childhood, and it was nice to have a loving relationship to be around. He felt almost like their kid in their dysfunctional little gang family. But these affections never leave the safety of Buccellati's apartment.
One thing Fugo learns very quickly is how to knock. Since he’s now in the know, they seem to have gotten a little bit lazy on locking doors and keeping their extra curricular activities to their room. But once new additions get added to their team, all of it ceases. Fugo doesn’t think any of them would mind, but with Buccellati looking to become a capo, it was much better to keep it hidden.
Giorno didn’t know how to feel about his new companions. He was thankful for Buccellati’s trust, but it was going to be a task to gain the trust of the other team members. Specifically Leone Abbacchio. It was very clear the man did not trust him. But Giorno had done what he did best, played along with his schemes and pretended like everything was normal.
“We’re going to the docks. Fugo, lead the way.” Buccellati orders. Fugo nods and leads the gang down the street away from the restaurant. Buccellati hangs back slightly, and gives Abbacchio a look that tells him to do the same. Giorno doesn’t want to pry, but he only has so much trust for the men he has just met. So he hangs back behind Mista and Narancia, blocking out their yammering to listen to the conversation behind him.
“Leone, I expect you to be more mature.” Buccellati doesn’t seem angry, but there’s a tone to his voice that could make a grown man break into a cold sweat.
But Abbacchio seems unaffected, “Tsk, you bring another kid back here, and you expect me to trust him right away? You know me better than that Bruno.”
Buccellati gives him an exasperated look, “I’m not asking you to trust him immediately, but he’s fifteen, he shouldn’t be acting more mature than you are. And you trust me, and I’ve given him my trust, so that should mean something to you.”
Abbacchio tsks again, but doesn’t say more. Giorno gives it a few more minutes before making his way to the front of their little procession, trying to make it seem like he wasn’t listening in. He doubts his presence went unnoticed, Buccellati has a sharp mind.
Another person who seems like he has a sharp mind is Fugo. Giorno had only known him for under a half hour, but his privileged upbringing and intelligence is evident in everything he does. If anyone had noticed what he had, it would be Fugo.
He matches Fugo’s pace and walks next to him for a moment before speaking, “So Buccellati and Abbacchio are on first name basis?” He doesn’t want to explicitly say it, but he phrases it as a question and gives Fugo a look that he hopes gets the message across.
Fugo barks out a laugh, “He was scolding him wasn’t he? But yes,” He lowers his voice slightly, “They are married. It’s really none of your business, but Buccellati trusts you, so you’d find out soon enough anyways. Those knuckleheads are too dense to realize anything, and it’s not like they go around advertising it, so keep your mouth shut.” There’s a hint of protectiveness and anger in Fugo’s voice, it’s obvious how much he cares for the two.
Giorno nods, “I didn’t hear anything.” He glances at Fugo, and returns his nod sternly.
Trish had had a long day. Her head ached and she was thirsty. But Narancia was still not back with the groceries. He had been gone for a while. She felt indifferent towards him, but it was still a little worrying. She needed to get away from these boys though. They were loud, smelly and didn’t know much about personal space.
She tries to lie down in one of the bedrooms, but her worries don’t let her sleep. Everything about this situation plagued her mind. Her father, the six men she didn’t know that she all the sudden had to place her full trust in, and what the future held for her. After she was delivered to her father, then what? She gives up on any chance of rest, her tossing and turning had given her nothing but frustration.
So she goes to find something, anything to pass the time. There has to be an office here, perhaps there was a deck of cards, or a magazine or book that would distract her for a little bit. Before she finds an office, she finds a linen closet, another bedroom and two bathrooms.
The last door at the end of the hall is the office, and unlike the other rooms, the door is closed. Buccellati and Abbacchio hadn’t been downstairs, so Trish assumes they were inside. She knocks gently, but doesn’t get a response, so she goes in.
She doesn’t get far before she sees them. They are both sitting on the loveseat, fast asleep. The coffee table before them is strewn with papers, and there are some in both of their hands. It seems like they were trying to work before sleep took them. Buccellati is curled into Abbacchio’s side, his head resting on his shoulder. The hand that isn’t holding onto probably very classified documents is clutching at Abbacchio’s shirt.
Trish backs away and quietly exits the office and closes the door. She feels like she is interrupting a very private moment, and doesn’t need them to see her snooping if they woke up. She doubts either of them are very heavy sleepers. Despite it all, she smiles. She doesn’t think she’d seen either of them smile until now.
Bruno gapes at Leone’s lifeless body. He was gone. It was immediate Giorno had said, so he hadn’t suffered. He squeezes his eyes shut, forcing away his tears. He doesn't have time to mourn right now. Destroying the boss was all that mattered right now, but his grief threatened to overwhelm him.
He had known death all his life. He had committed his first murder at 12 years old. This shouldn’t phase him. But his legs threaten to give out from under him, and despite his body not feeling pain anymore, a dark feeling threatens to spread through his chest. They would meet again soon, they would only have to be apart for a short while.
Although Bruno is only a few meters away from the corpse, it feels like miles. He sits heavily on the rock and takes Leone’s hand. He presses his lips to the back of his lover’s hand, and gently sets it back onto his chest. Reaching behind his neck, he searches for the clasp to the chain around his neck. Finding it, he unclasps it and refastens it around his own neck.
Before he stands, he kisses Leone’s forehead, “I will see you soon, my love.” He whispers. Back to business. He ignores the looks of confusion and devastation from his teammates, they have to get back to work.