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You’re too deep in thought to notice Bruno Buccellati leaning on the doorframe to the kitchen. The comforting smell of cooked pancetta and onion that wafted through the safe house brought him to where he stood, watching you intently as you slide diced celery and carrots into the large cooking pot. He notes how your tongue pokes out slightly when you concentrate, and how delightfully gentle your brow furrows bringing out small creases by your eyes, and feels the tips of his ears flush a pink when he realises he’s been staring too long.
Your hands are practiced in the culinary arts, being designated the gang's cook when you joined a couple years ago, so whilst they danced their familiar dance around the stove your mind drifted into a calmed spot of reminiscence. It wasn’t until you heard a cough that you were brought to reality.
“Nara,” your voice was soft, assuming the poorly boy was behind you, “it’s almost done, don’t worry. Get back to bed and rest you silly…”
“Bella, I’m not Narancia.”
A richer, deeper voice than you expected cut you off, surprising you enough to spin slightly to face him, a bashful smile gracing your features as you feel a blush bloom over you.
“Ah, buongiorno Bruno…” A silence falls over you as you try to wrestle with your ever rising heart rate, before you gesture widely to the stovetop. “Soup, for Narancia. He’s come down with the flu, poor thing. He looks completely wrecked.” You recall the way you found him in the early hours of the morning, hunched over and shivering, trying to pour himself a glass of water.
“I thought this would make him feel better.”
“You’re very kind.” Bruno feels his smile widen as your thoughtfulness, his heart squeezes gently as he steps towards you in the kitchen. He pretends not to notice how sunny your skin looks against the yellow tiles, how your hair, still frizzy and unbrushed, glows in the morning sun and the way the flow of your daisy print dress emphasises your seamless movements. The giggle you let out doesn’t help the conflict in his chest.
As water boils and parmesan rinds and chicken stock is added to create the broth, you finally turn and push your hair up and away from your face.
“That should simmer for about…” The clock hands show 20 minutes to 7. “I’ll check it on the hour.” With a nod you bunch up your shirt sleeves to your elbows, brush your hands against your dress and stare at the full sink in dread. Tackling the dishes was never your favourite part of cooking even though it was, ultimately, the most important step. As much as you wished, continually looking at it wouldn’t make it clean any faster. Bruno senses your disdain against the dirtied dishes and rolls up the sleeves of his suit jacket as an offer to help.
Pristine, you think as you notice him walk towards the sink, in everything he does, even his goddamn sleeves are rolled to perfection…
Before you can begin to thank him, Bruno had already started to fill the sink with hot water, both of your actions then falling into a sweet rhythm of domesticity as he washes and you dry. The silence that falls upon the kitchen doesn’t feel awkward, but instead mirrors the quiet of the early mornings in Napoli. A quiet bubbling of the broth and the occasional birdsong breaks into the white noise, following the gentle clinks of kitchenware being washed.
If it wasn’t evident to you before, it’s definitely clear now, the way Bruno looked right now couldn’t fall short of absolutely gorgeous. His hair was unbraided, with two long strands falling past his suit collar and onto his back like inky droplets on a page, and, while he looked somewhat tired due to the earlyness of the morning, his eyes held the warmth of the sea complimenting the crinkles that formed when he would smile. He was obviously dressed for the day, given that he was in his typical white spotted suit, but the lack of his dress shoes pulled him into an atypical sense of domestication that you wish you could see more of with him.
“What’s on your mind Bella?”
You almost drop the bowl you’re holding. His eyes are on you, and you notice him studying your features in gentle concern. With a laugh you brush your capo off, trying not to feel so flustered about being caught daydreaming about him, and wracking your brain for some topic to change the subject with quickly.
“When I first moved to Italy I lived with an old lady, you know. I lived with her for about two years before she died. She, um..” You pause, smiling fondly at the memory of her. “She taught me how to cook. I remember she would cook this soup for me whenever I was ill, or if I missed home, or even if the weather was too cold. Even if I said she didn’t have to.” Bruno chuckled.
“She reminds me of my Nonna.” He leans back against the counter next to the sink to face you. “She was a powerhouse of a woman. I remember staying with her one summer before my parents…” You can tell Bruno doesn’t really want to relay the story of his parents divorce and brushes past it quietly. “That summer I got into a fight with one of the boys in the neighbourhood. We beat each other black and blue over something so trivial I can hardly remember why.” His gentle laugh makes you smile, and your eyes fall to his smile lines as he speaks. “Nonna dragged me away from the park where the fight occurred, cursing the entire way home and I fear she threatened me with both slippers that day. But still, she fed me one of the most comforting meals afterwards.” The sweet memories you both share of the older generation strengthen the bond you both have as you laugh fondly together for a while.
It’s not until the ferocious bubbling of the soup that your attention is dragged back to what initially brought you into the kitchen to begin with. Your eyes glance at the clock and fluster. 07:08, fuck. Bringing the soup down from the boil, you take a small sip from a spoon and shake your head before silently sprinkling in some salt, and basil and thyme herbs. Stelline pastina is next to be added, and you thank the gods it doesn’t have a long cooking time. At least that’s the final ingredient before you can serve this to poor Narancia, who has been waiting for this for about an hour.
Bruno falls back to watching you again as you command the kitchen, your gracefulness without effort. You remind him of his Nonna with the way you conduct yourself when cooking. Your posture looks so confident and the way your face scrunches up in concentration makes you seem a lot more mature than you actually are. In moments like these he forgets he’s almost an entire year older than you.
“Nonna Bea. That was her name, or at least that’s what she told me to call her,” you begin, with your hands full of the soup bowl for Narancia. “She would tell me stories about her son a lot. About his life, how he was always a rascal to her, and that he always had an affixion for the sea. How he grew up too fast and had his own son too young for her liking.” The list is spoken with kindness, wanting to replicate the old lady’s appreciation for her son. “He died some years back in a boat accident I think. She never really got over it…”
“I’m glad they’re together again.”
The air feels somber as you catch Bruno’s eyes.
“Me too.” You give out a small smile to him. “I think I still have the photograph of him somewhere. She gave it to me for safekeeping just before she passed, I’ll try and find it if you want to see.”
Before you let Bruno answer you notice a shivery, slightly pathetic hunched creature in the doorway. Swathed in an orange and blue throw you find a barely standing, very ill looking Narancia. He lets out a large sniffle and a spluttery cough before groaning, one clammy hand reaching out for the soup bowl you’re holding, and the other gripping the blanket across his shoulders. His big wet eyes remind you of a begging dog and you have to stifle a laugh at the poor boy's expense and hand him his food.
“Be careful, it’s hot.” Your warning is said too late as you watch him wince at the hot broth. Both you and Bruno look at each other with knowing smiles as he lays a fond hand on Narancia's blanketed shoulder, getting ready to direct him back to bed. Footsteps echo upstairs and the house breathes into a silence again. It wouldn’t be long before the smell rouses the others awake, and the wave of personalities crashes against the silence of the morning, so you sit and watch the Italian morning in preparation.