A/N: Day 26: fashion

"Abbacchio, could you give me a hand?"

Looking up, Abbacchio nearly chokes on his wine.

It's a well-established fact that he'll do anything Buccellati asks of him, anytime, anywhere, regardless of outer circumstances; his loyalty knows no bounds.

But Buccellati asking him for a favor dressed like that is. Well. Immediate guaranteed agreement.

…If Abbacchio can stop ogling long enough to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth and say so, that is.

He tries to speak, fails, clears his throat, and tries again.

"What is it?"

For half a moment, Buccellati seems to hesitate. "Fugo thinks makeup would complete the look," he says eventually, tugging at his hair as though self-conscious, "and I agree – if nothing else, it'd at least make me less recognizable. But I don't usually wear it, so I was wondering if…you could help."

Haha.

Abbacchio is going to kill Fugo. That kid has meddled his last.

"O-of course," Abbacchio answers, because of course.

"Thanks." Relief flashes across Buccellati's face, along with what might be a blush – but then he turns around to head for the stairs, so Abbacchio isn't sure.

Whatever the case, Abbacchio scrambles off the couch, leaving his wine on the coffee table in favor of much sweeter company.

…Ugh, what a cheesy thought.

At least Buccellati still has his back to him, so he can't see how flustered his outfit – and the whole damn situation, to be honest – is making Abbacchio.

That sheer white top is sensual murder and ought to be illegal, Abbacchio thinks. Especially when worn by Buccellati, with his tanned skin, and his winding tattoo, and his build….

Abbacchio had seen his nipples, for fuck's sake. Through his shirt! It's absolutely uncalled for. He wants to tag along on this mission, if only to punch out anyone who dares to stare too long at Buccellati.

And those tight, black leather pants! What the fuck!

Why'd this shady drug dealer have to operate out of a nightclub in Passione's territory, anyway? Why do Buccellati and Mista have to be the ones to deal with him? Abbacchio would kill for a chance to dress up and go out for a night of ass-kicking alongside Buccellati – just imagining Buccellati fighting in this outfit is hot as –

Buccellati's heels click off the bathroom tile, and Abbacchio hauls himself out of his overactive, selfish thoughts.

Now isn't the time. Buccellati asked him for a favor, and seeing as Abbacchio wasn't invited on this mission, he had better do all he can to help from this end, via cutting to the chase and grabbing his makeup bag.

"I don't have anything to match your skin tone," he tells Buccellati, trying to be as casual as he can as he rifles through the bag of necessities he keeps in the bathroom closet, "but you don't need it anyway. You have great skin."

Well that was one hundred percent unnecessary to tell him, Abbacchio, you could have just not explained why you're skipping the whole foundation and contouring shit. Who compliments someone's skin unprompted like that.

Thankfully, Buccellati doesn't seem to mind, seeming to be preoccupied with his own thoughts. He tugs at his hair again, offering no input aside from nodding along.

"I'll probably just do something with your eyes," Abbacchio continues, burying his face back into beauty products in a futile attempt not to get flustered at the sight of a flustered Buccellati. "Maybe fill your brows a bit," even though they're already a good shape, "we can skip fake lashes, too," because the natural ones are thick enough on their own, "but I might have a lipstick that would look good on you," which would damn near be any color.

…All of this is the plan, anyway. If Abbacchio's hands ever stop shaking.

He doesn't know why he can't calm down. Doing someone's makeup isn't a particularly intimate affair, but this is Buccellati, and Abbacchio's feelings are a mess. He tries to straighten them out as he straightens the lineup of beauty products on the bathroom counter, but to no avail.

"Sounds good to me," Buccellati says, sounding steadfast – but he's fiddling with his hair again.

Abbacchio reaches up to grab his hand, not sure where he gets the confidence to gently guide it back down to Buccellati's side, but, "You'll ruin your hair if you keep pulling at it."

Buccellati sighs, fingers flexing in Abbacchio's hold. "I'm not used to having my bangs pulled back," he explains, sheepish.

Oh, yeah, that is different isn't it? "It looks nice on you," though, so that's – wait Abbacchio hadn't really meant to say that out loud without fretting over whether it was a good idea or not first –

"Thanks," Buccellati mutters, and there's definitely a tiny blush on his ears now, spreading to his face. His free hand comes up to fuss with his hair, and Abbacchio grabs that one on reflex, too, getting a brief, grateful smile in return.

The sudden urge to kiss that grin sweeps through Abbacchio, but he fights it off. Now is not the time.

"A-anyway," Buccellati gently reclaims his hands, letting them fall to his sides, "you better get started. I'll have to head out, soon…."

Right: work. Time to focus on work.

…Being this close to Buccellati, though, especially when he's wearing that shirt-that-probably-doesn't-even-count-as-a-shirt, makes concentrating difficult. Plus he smells nice. And Abbacchio has to focus on the strong lines of his face…

Makeup is one thing Abbacchio is well-practiced in, at least, even if it's a little different doing it for someone else. His hands fall into their routine easy enough no matter how haywire the rest of him feels.

Through it all, Buccellati is the ideal model. He barely moves, except to respond to prompting as Abbacchio tips his face this way and that, asks him to open and shut his eyes. Not even the eyeliner fazes him. If anything, Buccellati seems lost in thought – and if Abbacchio knows him at all, he suspects that he's worrying about the mission.

"You alright?" Abbacchio asks when he's finished with everything except the lipstick.

Another small sigh from Buccellati as he blinks newly made-up eyes a few times, probably trying to get used to the mascara. "I really need this mission to go well," he admits, voice quiet. "We need to stay in Polpo's good books. And drugs are…."

"It'll go fine," Abbacchio assures him automatically, because this is Buccellati, and he never fails. That said: "As long as you keep an eye on Mista."

As he talks, Abbacchio digs through his lipstick collection, perusing options for Buccellati – black, blue, matte black, purple, green, purple-so-dark-it-might-as-well-be-black, blackest black, red….

When he finally finds the shade he's looking for (a rose gold color that he has no idea why he bought, because it's not like it looks good on him), he turns to find Buccellati scrutinizing himself in the mirror, tugging at his shirt and furrowing his brows.

Abbacchio's eyes fall to his chest to follow the movement, and he yanks them back up. He's about to step in with the lipstick when:

"What do you think?"

Buccellati accompanies that dangerous question with a gesture toward himself, so there's no doubt he's asking about his appearance. Abbacchio is forced to pause for a good while to stop himself from spitting out something embarrassing, disqualifying about the first dozen responses that cross his mind this way.

"I think you look great," he settles on, even though 'great' doesn't even begin to cover it. But he can't exactly say 'that outfit really makes me want to jump your bones' can he? "Just one more thing," he says, holding the lipstick aloft.

He steps in close, then, to apply it for Buccellati – which is definitely a mistake.

Paying this close of attention to Buccellati's mouth at a time like this is a recipe for disaster (never mind that Buccellati is perfectly capable of applying his own lipstick) but.

Here Abbacchio goes anyway, his hand cupping Buccellati's jaw to hold him steady as he smooths rose gold over the plump softness of slightly parted lips, the color complimenting tan skin….

It's almost a relief when Abbacchio caps the lipstick –

–But it's even more of a relief when Buccellati immediately hauls him in for an insistent kiss. No more than a warm press of that plush mouth against his own, it's still heated enough to make Abbacchio start to melt.

"God, I've wanted to do that all night," Abbacchio rambles as soon as they part, breathless despite the relatively chaste kiss, and there he goes again, spouting out things he meant to keep to himself.

But Buccellati looks pleased – like he wants to lean back in for more, even, if the way his pupils blow wide as his eyes fall on Abbacchio's mouth is any indication.

Speaking of mouths –

"Fuck – your lipstick."

"Oh!" Buccellati raises a hand to his mouth, not-quite touching it. "Sorry, I…didn't think…."

Black has smeared with gold to form an interesting mix on Buccellati's lips. It's a fantastic look, Abbacchio thinks – but with Buccellati heading out on a mission, it can't stay that way.

So he scrambles to fix it, hoping neither of them get distracted this time around.

x

As soon as Buccellati and Mista are out the door (Buccellati having left Abbacchio with the heavy promise of "I'll see you later tonight,"), Fugo elbows Abbacchio in the side.

Abbacchio bristles as he's pulled out of his half-concerned, half-aroused, all-eager-for-Buccellati-to-come-home state. "What?"

"Nice lipstick."

A/N: I cheated a tiny bit with this one – found a scrapped blurb I had started for BruAbba week and went from there.

Thanks for reading!