A/N: This is my half of an exchange with Andi (irogato here and on Ao3) who provided me with a title and prompt...! Thank you for your kindness, patience, and friendship! ❤
Pockets of Joy
'Don't get lost.'
Abbacchio frowns at those three little words. They sit there, in the margin of this map, above some quickly-scribbled directions and penned in the same handwriting. As if Abbacchio would have trouble making it to the marked location. Who does Buccellati think he is…
A glance over his shoulder shows Abbacchio that Buccellati, apparently, thinks he himself is a comedian. Perched in the passenger seat of that car with one corner of his mouth tipped oh-so-slightly upward. And – unless this is a trick of the sun's glare on the windshield – there's a certain glint in his eye. Amused. Like he's funny.
His hand raises on a wave. The tiniest, most mocking little thing, accompanied by that grin of his twitching, and Abbacchio glowers at him because that was one time. One time, when he got a little turned around on a mission. Nothing serious. No big deal.
Abbacchio found his way quick enough for it to be a non-issue, and therefore not at all worth remembering.
(So what if he made it to their rendezvous late because of it? And so what if he was so busy grumbling he physically ran into Buccellati in the middle of his search for Abbacchio?
It was nothing.
Really.)
Fugo leans on the horn, and Abbacchio swaps to glaring at him instead. Exaggerated (rude) gestures are shooing Abbacchio off, Fugo telling him to get going already, and Buccellati is still being a smug asshole in the front seat.
Lip curling, Abbacchio barely manages to keep from kicking at the car's bumper. Lifts a foot to do just that but winds up stalking off instead. Face hot. That taunting wave and 'Don't get lost' circling his head.
Once Abbacchio's out of the way, Fugo is quick to swerve around him and speed off, passing by so closely that if Abbacchio wavered he would've been hit. That little shit.
And Buccellati was watching Abbacchio out the window on the way past…
As if Abbacchio doesn't already have these directions memorized – he didn't even need them written down, but Buccellati had insisted. Had gone over the particulars of Abbacchio's task twice, including exactly where he's supposed to go and how he's supposed to get there, and Abbacchio's sense of direction is just fine, thank you.
…He was also one-hundred-percent not too enthralled with Buccellati's proximity to pay proper attention. The warmth of him leaning over Abbacchio's shoulder to trace a path along the map was not at all distracting. Why the hell would it be.
Abbacchio is still standing on the side of the road like an idiot, clutching his customized-and-memorized map. Doesn't Buccellati know this type of physical evidence shit would be troublesome if it fell into enemy hands? It could lead anyone right to their informant (someone that Abbacchio's drawn the short straw of clearing a meeting with, thanks to Moody Blues' ability) and render this entire operation moot.
As such, Abbacchio should destroy it. It's such an incriminating thing. He doesn't need them anyway, the directions on this map.
…
Every time he glances at the printed off rectangle, though, he sees, 'Don't get lost.' and his heart squirms in his chest – and if he keeps hesitating like this, he's going to be late meeting up with Narancia and even later meeting up with their informant. Then there'll be much more than lighthearted notes from Buccellati to contend with.
Abbacchio folds the map. Does it in a weird, lopsided, doubling-back kind of way so that the map itself is fully hidden, and only a tiny sliver that reads, 'Don't get lost.' is visible. He tucks it into his pocket.
If, later on, that personalized bit of the note somehow finds its way into Abbacchio's sock drawer for safekeeping, then that's nobody's business at all.
Grocery shopping, at face value, is boring as all hell. A necessary evil, if Abbacchio wants to eat without leaving the comfort of his own dingy apartment, or without having to interact with other human beings. And he doesn't hate it, exactly, but he does approach it with the same level of enthusiasm that he approaches all other household chores with. (Read: almost none.)
Grocery shopping with Buccellati, however, is a terrifyingly domestic thrill ride that sends Abbacchio's stomach into some kind of fit.
He has yet to decide if this makes grocery shopping better or worse.
Whichever it is, it involves Buccellati brushing up against Abbacchio in damn near every aisle, always finding some excuse to skim past him. Asking him to reach higher shelves. Pressing that list of his to Abbacchio's shoulder, using him as a table to cross items off. Lines of invisible ink burned into Abbacchio's skin through paper and fabric, leftover sensation lingering long after Buccellati's finished writing –
Yeah.
Yeah, it's definitely…worse.
Pretending that this is nothing but work-related camaraderie doesn't fly in here. Far from official Passione business and nestled between baked goods while Buccellati presses his palm to loaves of freshly packaged bread, checking for the softest one.
He has nice hands. Abbacchio can't help but notice for the thousandth time.
Kind of boxy in shape with short, neat nails that could use a good buffing. Callouses on the tips of his thumbs and sides of his pointer fingers from gripping so many goddamned zippers. Another on his ring finger from an awkwardly-gripped pen that he holds too tightly at all hours. A scar along the back of his palm from some long-forgotten fight.
One of these wonderful hands bumps its knuckles into Abbacchio's side, gently urging him to their next stop after Buccellati's picked out his bread. Warmth spreads outward from that spot. Floods Abbacchio's entire torso.
Fucking hell – what's he even doing here? Why the hell did Buccellati bring him along? He's not even carrying anything. Hasn't snagged anything from a top shelf that Buccellati wouldn't have been able to get himself with some help from Sticky Fingers. There is not a single sensible reason for Buccellati to have invited him along, and yet here he is!
Well. There's no explanation that's not. The simple fact that Buccellati wanted his company. That is.
…That doesn't track. Can't be it. Clinging to time spent with Buccellati is Abbacchio's thing; it's not supposed to work the other way around.
They wander past the produce section next, and Abbacchio is so giddy thanks to this extended Buccellati exposure that he can't help himself. Reaches out to snag an apple as they walk, and sidles in to stride at Buccellati's elbow, aiming for the basket hanging in the crook of it –
Buccellati stops. "Don't even think about it, Leone."
Mouth twitching into a crooked grin, Abbacchio lifts the apple out of the basket, holds it where Buccellati can see. Tries not to think too hard about how close they're standing. "It's just an apple."
The gentle slope of Buccellati's nose wrinkles, and he pushes Abbacchio's wrist away with warm, calloused fingers. "No," is all he says.
Abbacchio continues to brandish the innocent piece of fruit. "It won't kill you, you know."
Sour expression unconvinced, Bruno insists, "It's disgusting."
"You have strange taste."
Buccellati's eyes get an odd sort of sparkle to them, at that. It sets off weird butterflies in Abbacchio's stomach, when accompanied by a tiny grin. "Yes," Buccellati agrees, grabbing the apple out of Abbacchio's hand none-too-gently, and hefting it unhappily. He brushes past Abbacchio to lean over and return it to its display. "I do."
And he – pats Abbacchio on the chest, on those last words. Touch lingering before he walks on, and that content set to his face never wavers once through the checkout and afterward. Loading up reusable shopping bags and ferrying them out. Abbacchio somehow winds up carrying both of them, snatched them up while Buccellati was paying…
It's fine. This bizarre domestic reflex is fine. Buccellati's secret-small smile as he winds his arm around Abbacchio's on their way down the street is – fine.
As they go, Buccellati plucks his pen and that crossed-off grocery list out of his pocket. He bends the arm wound with Abbacchio's, his elbow poking Abbacchio in the ribs while he scribbles on that paper resting in his palm. Probably crossing some last item off, Abbacchio guesses, guiding Buccellati out of the path of a streetlamp.
Buccellati doesn't take long to polish his list. The pen is tucked back into his pocket – opened courtesy of Sticky Fingers, Abbacchio's pretty sure he's never seen Buccellati use the actual pockets built into his clothes – but the paper, he crumples into a ball. Waiting for a trash can, most likely…
…Or, waiting for Abbacchio's coat pocket. Because that's close enough.
Leaning in, his fingers ghosting through fabric accompanied by the sound of one of Sticky Fingers' trusty zippers, Buccellati deposits the balled-up list somewhere in the depths of Abbacchio's jacket.
Without comment.
…
"Buccellati –"
"Throw that away for me, when you get home?" Buccellati requests – and –
Sure, it's fucking bizarre as all hell, but Abbacchio has heard far weirder things. Doesn't really want to go too in depth detailing just how bizarre of a request he'd be willing to fulfill at Buccellati's behest, for Buccellati's sake. Especially not when they're standing as close as this, out in public, with just the beginning shards of a reciprocated relationship between them.
At least. Abbacchio wants to hope that it's reciprocated. Specific words haven't exactly been exchanged.
But Buccellati is here. He took Abbacchio grocery shopping.
Wants Abbacchio to throw away the list for him…?
"Sure," is what Abbacchio eventually mumbles, in response to that request. Distracted by Buccellati's warmth at his side and those brilliant blue eyes and a pile of maybe-reciprocated-feelings.
Buccellati nods, looking pleased. Then he simply goes back to strolling along down the street, holding Abbacchio's arm. Huddled up against him, threading his fingers through-and-around Abbacchio's so they're both carrying this reusable grocery bag together, now.
Abbacchio's cheeks are hot. Have to be red. Hopefully he can pass this off as a byproduct of the cold weather.
It's not until he's back to his own apartment and shedding his coat later on that he remembers – and even then, he only really recalls when his knuckles brush up against the rough texture of a zipper-where-it-shouldn't-be while hanging his jacket up.
Gleaming gold and so out of place that it can only belong to Sticky Fingers, Abbacchio tugs it open thoughtlessly, aiming to retrieve that list –
Only to barely catch the apple that comes tumbling out.
He snatches it up before it hits the floor, nearly drops his coat in the process, but keeps hold of both items with a grumble of, "Dammit, Buccellati," under his breath.
Already, he's fighting off a fond smile.
This is the same apple that he tried to sneak into Buccellati's basket, because of course it is. That crafty bastard packed it away in Abbacchio's coat instead…shoplifting little sneak…
Finding no trace of that balled-up grocery list or even another zipper, Abbacchio finishes finagling his coat onto its hanger with fruit tucked under his arm, and then wanders toward the kitchen. Runs the apple under the faucet and pats it dry, intent on eating it because he's not an oddball and has normal taste in food, thank you very much – and Buccellati went to all that trouble of gifting it to him.
(No, he does not feel at all giddy about that, why do you ask?)
Biting into the apple, Abbacchio is immediately met with resistance. Sudden and too-chewy, if the way his teeth stick against it are any indication.
He pulls his mouth back. Squints at the apple, and there's a hint of texture that doesn't match in there, in that crevice made by his teeth. So he bites off a smaller piece, conscious and careful, tugging it away more than he actually bites down –
And sure enough, there's paper in this apple.
It takes some careful nibbling and additional digging with his fingernails, but Abbacchio works it free, and is unsurprised to find that it's Buccellati's discarded grocery list. It's all sticky, now.
Stashing this inside of an apple is something that would only make sense to Buccellati, and for some reason has Abbacchio's chest flooding with fondness. What the fuck.
His mind is thoroughly stuck to that ridiculous magnetic man as he unfurls the list and heads for the trash can. The leftover half of the apple is held between his teeth for safekeeping as he goes, because dammit he will finish this fucking apple. And he will thank Buccellati for the thoughtful gift tomorrow…
List unfolded, Abbacchio stops short.
His jaw snaps shut, and he once again scrambles to catch the apple that falls, holding it against his chest one-handed as he absently chews – because – his eyes are stuck on that little crossed-off grocery list –
At the bottom, there's an additional note that reads, 'Thank you'. With a little heart drawn beside it.
Abbacchio's own heart beats heavy at the sight of it, and he can't bring himself to throw this sticky mess of a paper away.
The goddamned blaring alarm clock yanks Abbacchio from fitful, hard-won sleep, and he slams a heavy fist atop it. Can't get that piercing noise to shut up fast enough. Maybe even summoned Moody Blues to put it the whole way out of commission in his half-asleep haze – but that's a problem for tomorrow morning. Or whenever the hell Abbacchio decides he needs to wake up on time next.
So. Maybe never.
Whatever.
There's no fucking way that he is going to drag himself out of bed today. He will not move from this spot for an entire month if that suits him, because nothing that he'll have to face is worth aggravating each and every bruise-scrape-sore-spot he got during yesterday's mission.
Oh, great – just stretching in bed here is enough to set off a chain reaction of pain –
Abbacchio hurts from the bottoms of his feet to the crown of his head and that is not at all an exaggeration.
He spent the entirety of yesterday walking. And running. Kicking, stomping, fighting, too. And the aftereffects of all of that reverberate up his calves, thighs, hips, stomach, chest, neck. Everywhere. All the way to his poor pounding head. Still smarting from where someone yanked a chunk of his hair out. (He's grateful for his bloodstained hat, or the damage would be far worse. As it is, strict revenge was enacted.)
His bruises have bruises, and that is also not an exaggeration. There's clear purpling blossomed over top of old faded yellow-green in more than one place. That one on his abdomen is now twice as big as it used to be. Sore and swollen and visible at the open front of Abbacchio's top.
Another bruised bruise is on his arm. He can feel it, even if he can only barely see the edge of it through the torn sleeve of his shirt…a lovely cut there that smeared blood over his sheets…
It's a miracle he even made it through his apartment and under his covers, upon stumbling home last night. And it's no wonder that he didn't even bother to so much as peel his clothes off before collapsing into bed, never mind taking off his makeup or combing out his hair.
There was no such thing as a shower before bed last night, either. Yesterday was the pits. No need to prolong it, and with this sort of wakeup, today's not shaping up to be much better. He's still mired in just as much misery as he passed out with last night, a million minor injuries piling up into a big stack of ow that he just wants to roll over and ignore.
Damn his responsibilities. Damn that sunshine leaking through his curtains. Damn Bucce–
Ah.
Abbacchio can't even finish the thought. There's no damning Buccellati. He doesn't deserve it.
Plus, that sick fluttering the mere idea of him sets off in Abbacchio's gut is the only positive sensation he's got, right now.
…This morning would be salvageable, if Abbacchio had stumbled home leaning on Buccellati last night. Or with Buccellati leaning on him. Some combination thereof would be best, and then they'd have collapsed into bed together. Injuries not hurting even if they were jostled. Abbacchio would have been lulled into his first proper sleep in years…
But. That's not what happened.
They're…close to that stage, Abbacchio thinks. Doesn't dare to hope. It was paperwork that pulled Buccellati away, yesterday, and an early morning meeting with Polpo, too.
So now Abbacchio is the damned one. Lying here alone.
Beyond uncomfortable, coated in grime and last night's makeup. He was sweating in his not-sleep, because he didn't even bother to take off his fucking socks before letting himself get sucked into the temporary comfort of his blankets, and now he feels gross. Tangled hair and smeared lipstick. Dirt from the fight in his bed, to compliment the blood.
Everything needs changed – especially Abbacchio himself – all because he was too much of a lazy ass to hose himself down last night. (…Something else that would've been easier with Buccellati at his side.)
What Abbacchio should do is haul his aching body out of bed and commence hosing himself down now (alone) but he will not at all be doing that. He's already aggravated every centimeter of his being just by lying here. No sense in making it worse.
…Even if Buccellati will want to meet and debrief at Libeccio…
More butterflies. Wonderful.
It's…not as if Buccellati will have anything kind to say about Abbacchio's contributions or performance yesterday. Because Abbacchio was maybe a tiny bit less-than-cooperative. Possibly jumped in where he shouldn't have. Potentially couldn't follow the order to fall back and lead half the trouble away. Just had to stay with the rest of the team. (Had to see Buccellati – all of the others – safe.)
That doesn't matter, Abbacchio tries to tell himself. He doesn't care whether or not Buccellati approves of his actions, because in the grand scheme of things everyone is alive and the mission was not flubbed.
Abbacchio counts it a success.
And there! He just completed his own debriefing in his head. Now there's no need to go and experience Buccellati chewing him out in front of the rest of the team. Abbacchio can just roll over, and –
Ugh, what's with this weird scraping on his chest? It stands out as the only thing that doesn't hurt – out of place among the protesting, chewed-up skin rubbing at the fabric of his clothes – but it is pretty damn annoying. Catches on the inside of his shirt and presses awkward into him when he flops onto his front.
Now he has to roll back over, and there go all of his other aches, flaring up to drag him further into a pit of misery because why the hell should he ever get a break…
With an absent hand, Abbacchio reaches up to rub at that spot on the left side of his chest. There's a familiar texture beneath thick cotton, and. Now that hand is no longer absent. It is, instead, very much focused and present. His half-closed eyes pop open wider and he throws off the blanket with one hand while his other is busy dipping into his shirt – because it can't be –
Oh, hell.
It really is a zipper.
Inlaid in his skin and bearing a golden sheen. Unmistakable pull attached. Sticky Fingers' handiwork on him yet again.
…How in the fresh hell did Buccellati get it there without Abbacchio noticing? There just wasn't time, in between zipping apart enemies and calling out orders – and ah, great, now Abbacchio's brain is helpfully supplying him with every instance wherein he and Buccellati accidentally-or-not brushed against each other during combat and oh, right, yeah. Turns out there was plenty of time after all, to plant a zipper.
Hah. Fantastic. Now Abbacchio is blushing. Butterflies frantic in his stomach, fluttering up into his chest cavity. Might even burst out of that zipper there, at this rate.
…
Staring down at said zipper like this is starting to aggravate Abbacchio's headache, along with drawing attention to the funny way he slept on his neck, so. Time to gather what wits he can carry and open the damn thing, for better or worse –
What the hell could be so important that Buccellati would take the time to stow it in Abbacchio's skin during a mission?
A simple, folded slip of paper, apparently.
That's what spills out when Abbacchio tugs on the zipper, at least. The pocket melts away, gold dissolving, and the scrap of paper tumbles over the side of his chest and onto the bed, with his clumsy hand scrambling after it to pick it up. Unfold it.
And, as he does, he remembers, 'Don't get lost' and 'Thank you ❤' and now – now he's reading –
'Good work today.'
Oh.
Fuck.
Abbacchio's brain goes all fuzzy warm, and his face heats up beneath bumps and bruises and scrapes. Pain falls away, overpowered by a surge of affection that he's powerless to stop, it's poised on the wings of so many butterflies. His bed might as well be cloud nine.
This note is freestanding. Written on its own. It is not scribbled down as a funny little add-on to his orders, nor is it scrawled at the bottom of a grocery list.
It's just a simple, thoughtful note, penned in Buccellati's neat hand. Directed at Abbacchio, delivered to him on the job, where showing a certain level of personal fondness would be frowned upon (to put it gently).
Buccellati…thought of Abbacchio. During all of that. Noticed him – left a note that's complimenting him – when he didn't even fucking follow orders – put all of them in danger –
Ugh. Abbacchio's heart is so full it could burst. His cheeks sting with blush and brush burns alike.
Maybe he'll drag himself out of bed today after all.
He needs to get in the shower before he melts so much he just drips down the drain, at any rate. So going on with the rest of the day won't be too much of a struggle, from there. These simple words from Buccellati will see to that.
…But first, Abbacchio makes a quick stop at his sock drawer. Better hide this note with the others.
Just in case he needs a pick-me-up tomorrow, too.
Reading private notes that may or may not have been delivered via zipper pockets in public is a bad idea. This, Abbacchio knows from past experiences, being that this is his fourth note, and the first three were wholly mortifying even when he opened them alone…
He knows better than to make a spectacle of himself in public (at least when it comes to this).
But. See.
Curiosity pairs with the sudden need for instant gratification, and together they drive his fingers to close around that little golden zipper pull the second it appears at the base of his ribcage.
Control is, apparently, out the window. Abbacchio is hoping against hope for another note, damn it all. His heart is already fluttering, and he's wondering what the hypothetical note might say, can't be assed to wait all the hours until he's home to find out.
Then again – this could be anything. Might not necessarily be a note, considering Buccellati's got no reason to be gifting Abbacchio one now.
…Not that lack of apparent reason has stopped Buccellati before.
…
Whatever it is, it's already burning a figurative hole in Abbacchio's side, as he fiddles with the zipper but doesn't open it. He runs his fingers over the sealed-up zipper teeth on the outside of his shirt. They're fully visible if anyone looks too closely at him, so there's another point in favor of opening it now; nosy comments from the others are not at all preferable. Especially about personal shit like this…
Plus, Abbacchio is in an extra fragile reeling state right now, thanks to Buccellati's initial touch.
God – he can still feel those fingertips that grazed with purpose along his side, Buccellati passing by on his way out of the restaurant. Walking so close that dark hair brushed Abbacchio's shoulder, and he caught the soft scent of familiar cologne as Buccellati leaned in and said –
Something.
Fuck if Abbacchio was paying proper attention at that point. Buccellati's presence is a thousand different flavors of distracting. Even the span of his squared shoulders – now paused a handful of steps ahead of where Abbacchio stands frozen – is doing things to Abbacchio's heart.
This level of proximity is absolutely nothing new. Nothing at all to get flustered over. Just standing on the sidewalk, for fuck's sake…
Earlier shouldn't have been a problem either, and yet. Sensation is lodged in Abbacchio's brain. Tangible and lingering on his skin. Buccellati's closeness wreaking havoc even after the fact.
It's ridiculous. They're…dating? Something like that. Every small preliminary piece of a relationship is there. Delicate touches and grocery shopping and sweet little notes sprinkled into Abbacchio's life courtesy of so many zippers (plus one map).
A certain mutually understood closeness between them that Abbacchio can feel pulling him ever-deeper into Buccellati's orbit. Calming him just as much as it frazzles him.
The notion of dating sends Abbacchio's stomach flipping – and ah, right, now he remembers.
Buccellati was ushering Abbacchio along. That's what he said. It was something about getting to work, because of the way Abbacchio had peeled himself lazily from his chair just then, and was taking his sweet time leaving…
That verbal message was absolutely not received. Went in one ear and out the other, in fact. Here Abbacchio is, still dawdling!
Still stopped dead in his tracks on the sidewalk, fumbling with a zipper that's only attached to his clothes but could very well have been sealed to his skin instead. If Buccellati had been of a mind to slip his fingers inside of Abbacchio's shirt. (Like he did last time – which is something that Abbacchio will never be able to get over – the implication that Buccellati's warm fingertips touched the sensitive skin of Abbacchio's chest and he didn't even notice until afterward –)
And. There's Buccellati. Mere steps away and half-turned, now, so there's no way he hasn't noticed that Abbacchio's stopped following the group. It's only a matter of time before everyone else notices, too.
So it's time for Abbacchio to pick up the fumbling pace.
While his hand does something altogether ill-advised and busies itself with tugging open that zipper. Fishing around in Sticky Fingers' swirling vortex, which dissolves as per usual once it's been divested of its cargo.
Not that Abbacchio is paying much attention to that little pocket of space itself anymore. Oh no, his eyes are thoroughly glued on the note – because it is, in fact, a note. Again.
The paper wasn't even folded this time, and it bears a message just as straightforward as the rest:
'You look beautiful today.'
Fuck!
Abbacchio's face heats up in record time. Gets way too hot for this early in the spring. There's no explaining this stupid blush away if anyone spots him. He doesn't stand a chance at denying this shit. His tongue feels glued down, the edges of the note wrinkling between his fingers as he grips it tight and he recognizes this paper.
Buccellati got it from the host's stand, Abbacchio thinks, while taking a business-related phone call. He…needed it to write an address down.
Or. He needed half of it. For that.
The other half, apparently, he needed so that he could pen a note that would leave Abbacchio knocked out of focus for hours on end, and send his heart into a full frenzy. Let loose an entire flock of starving butterflies to devour his stomach.
God, if Abbacchio rereads these four simple words one more time, his brain will burst. He'll be left a useless puddle on the ground, fully molten from affection. Holy hell.
He has to duck his head and press that awful, wonderful note to his stomach just to get it out of his line of sight – because if he can see it, he'll read it – and it's bad enough that he can't get the words out of his head, sees them seared on the backs of his eyelids every time he so much as blinks.
Christ, what the fuck is wrong with him? Is he really losing it over this? Out here on the street in broad daylight with the others nearby –
Why didn't he wait until he was at home?
Sure, the hours upon hours of work would've been excruciating, all the while he anticipated what could be in his pocket, but. He's too overwhelmed, knowing. Will not possibly be able to carry on with his day.
"Are you coming, Abbacchio?"
Oh, hell.
Of course Buccellati is still watching. Looks all pleased with himself, too. Has a certain sparkle in his eye; mischievous in nature because he knows exactly what he's done here, the charming bastard. He tips his head, gesturing down the street toward where the others are getting further ahead but are still close enough to turn around and make fun if they spot Abbacchio like this.
"Yeah," Abbacchio grunts. Not sure how he manages any type of response. His fingers close around the note, crumpling it some. Taking the time to fold it properly is dangerous, though. In this fragile state, he might read it again if he does that – so clutching it in a fist and stuffing it into his pocket will have to do.
…He'll flatten it between books later, if he has to. It'll be fine. Legible, and able to be saved with the rest.
For…future rereading.
…
Now to convince his feet to move from where they're pinned by Buccellati's gaze.
"Heeeey – what's the hold up?"
That's Narancia, waving from a block down the road, and – before the others catch on – Abbacchio falls back to earth. Picks up one stupid uncooperative foot and then the other until he's walking. His face is equally stupid and uncooperative, all incriminating with that blush he can't frown away.
Buccellati doesn't move until Abbacchio draws level with him, which is a whole new source of fluster. (Not that he'll ever complain.)
They go side by side from here onward, their elbows brushing all the way thanks to Abbacchio's hands shoved into his pockets coupled with the fact that Buccellati doesn't bother keeping any sort of distance. He's in no apparent hurry to either reclaim or maintain his personal space, and only sidles closer, the further they go.
Abbacchio can't even pretend to mind, despite the fact this is not at all helping the whole blushing issue.
And despite the fact that the others notice all the closeness and the blushing – Abbacchio snaps at them to mind their own fucking business, because he's not about to separate from Buccellati's side.
Especially not with that latest note burning a hole in his pocket and his heart alike.
Self-inflicted misfortune adheres itself to Abbacchio, and he wears it draped over every little facet of himself. He's no stranger to fucking up royally. Each mistake is as mortifying as the last, and most of them have a hefty handful of life-ruining bullshit thrown in for flavor. Just to make him that much more miserable.
So, it comes as no surprise when he makes the irredeemable error of stumbling home to Buccellati's place in a fucking drunken stupor.
…To be fair, it's not as drunken of a stupor as it could be. Abbacchio cut himself off before it got too bad. Was too fed up with himself to continue – not that it's anything to be proud of, the clumsy way he clings to sobriety. Because it wasn't enough to keep him from coming here, was it?
Not at all. He couldn't even manage to drag himself to his own damn apartment.
Here he is instead, filth dumped on Buccellati's doorstep.
Abbacchio even gets pissed at himself because the door won't unlock for him no matter what he tries. Doesn't catch this latest mistake until Buccellati opens the door from the inside. He's beautiful. Devastating. Close, but always so goddamned far.
And he's…frowning in a way that sends Abbacchio's heart plummeting through the bottom of his stomach because he's fucked up again. Is standing in a wobbly, unsightly spill, can barely make eye-contact with his superior that might be his boyfriend if only Abbacchio weren't so wretched as to not deserve him.
Shit. This is stupid. Abbacchio is tearing up. He's not that drunk but he's way too drunk for this. Hasn't felt alive in days upon days. Opens his mouth to explain and holds up a finger to keep Buccellati quiet because he can't stand to hear anything, right now, about how much of a disappointment he is.
He already knows that. Too bad he can't get any words out.
He'll…turn around. Stumble his way out of here and back home somehow, although his vision is too blurred and his sense of direction has all but evaporated because oh god look what he's done now –
Buccellati cannot love this spiraled version of Abbacchio. It isn't fair to keep taking.
…But.
There's a hand, warm and steady, that reaches out for Abbacchio. An altogether gentle touch that guides him inside, helps him over the doorstep and closes out the world behind him. Careful fingers brush escaped tears from his cheeks, right here in the fuzzy-dark entryway of Buccellati's apartment.
These moves only make Abbacchio want to cry harder but he can't, somehow. His heart sits heavy-sore in his chest, but he can't feel it beating. Every piece of him is aching, reaching.
It's just such a shame that he doesn't belong here.
"Shh, Leone," Buccellati is murmuring. His soft voice makes it through the white noise. Is soothing against an age-old hurt that Abbacchio can't name. His fingers are still on Abbacchio's cheeks. He calls Abbacchio Leone, even though he has more than enough burdens to bear already, and he says, "You're always welcome here."
God – did Abbacchio say that out loud? He must've. Is kind of having trouble controlling his mouth right now and therefore cannot be held responsible for whatever might spill out of it. (Why can't he look away from Buccellati.)
Warm-gentle-perfect fingers clean off more tears. Dip down to cradle Abbacchio's jaw. "It's all right," Buccellati says, but –
It's not, and the choked sob that wrenches free of Abbacchio's chest is proof. He needs to flee this scene before he fucks up worse and ruins one more precious life with his presence.
But he's…he can't move. He's too trapped in soft, coaxing words that bring him further into Buccellati's apartment, his life. Unerring presence wrapping Abbacchio up in warmth and safety and fresh clothes borrowed direct from a secondhand dresser. Feeding him water and something light to settle the unhappy alcohol in his stomach and continuing to wipe the tears from his cheeks no matter how messy they spill.
Stopping this pathetic crying session isn't going so well and the ends of Abbacchio's sleeves wind up soaked but Buccellati doesn't kick him out.
By some miracle that Abbacchio can't fathom, he is kept here.
He's brought to Buccellati's bedroom when he starts drooping. Is held against Buccellati's chest as they curl together in bed, and he stays there for a greedy amount of time. Soaks comfort through the cotton of Buccellati's t-shirt. Relaxes into limbs wound around his body and fingers carding through his hair.
That old ache is slow to subside, under normal circumstances. But here in Buccellati's arms, every hollow crevice in Abbacchio's chest is filled with something bright. Something he clings to. (No matter if he deserves it or not.)
Buccellati calms him. Consoles all those wretched pieces Abbacchio doesn't like to air out.
He's lulled into a sleep that's more restful than he thought possible – and the next morning, Buccellati is still here.
Waking up like this is worlds away from the godawful drone of Abbacchio's half-smashed alarm clock. There are no aches and pains, today, not even the littlest bit of a hangover. His mood feels stable. Emptiness packed with warmth and comfort and Buccellati sprawled in close.
Ah. Fuck.
Pink is spreading over Abbacchio's cheeks already, and it only gets worse when Buccellati shifts. Opens blue eyes that light up when they land on Abbacchio, setting off a fluttering in his stomach.
"Did you sleep well?" Buccellati whispers.
A shiver ambles up Abbacchio's spine at those words, that easy tone they carry, but he manages a nod. Because he slept shockingly well, thanks to Buccellati.
Sleep-warm arms reach out to wind their way around Abbacchio. He's flushing ever-darker, melting to nothing as he's wrapped up in more and more gentle care that he just can't fathom, can't take. Buccellati is so close, squeezing Abbacchio in a tight hug – and Abbacchio's arms twitch upward to return it weakly.
Then Buccellati is pulling back with a lazy sort of affection. Like they've got all day to lie here, when they very much don't. His eyes are dipped sleepy. "Feel better?"
Helpless, heart in his throat, Abbacchio nods again.
Buccellati makes a soft, pleased noise, and starts to shift up onto his knees to get out of bed – and Abbacchio has about two seconds to miss that presence before warm lips brush a light kiss over his cheekbone – and then Buccellati is gone.
Leaving Abbacchio to short circuit – a process that he has to forcibly end, when Buccellati returns fully dressed and bearing Abbacchio's freshly-washed clothes from the night before and offering to let him borrow some makeup –
And. All right.
Maybe Abbacchio, thereafter, spends the entire fucking day short circuiting.
How is he supposed to recover, when Buccellati remains close by for every minute their schedules overlap? Walking to the team's designated meeting spot. Eating lunch. Walking home, now that the day's over…
No matter how Abbacchio insists to his overexcited heart that Buccellati is only doing this so there's no repeat of the 'drunkenly stumbling to the wrong apartment' phenomenon – the thought just doesn't stick. For some reason Abbacchio can't quite convince himself.
Must have something to do with waking up safe and warm in Buccellati's bed to kind words and those lips on his cheek –
God, everything on Abbacchio's face except for his lipstick came from Buccellati's makeup bag, and he hasn't been able to get over that, either. (Their skin tones are nowhere near matching so Abbacchio had to skip covering his dark circles but he can't even begin to care.)
So, of course, this enthusiastic, lovesick corner of Abbacchio's brain has latched eagerly onto the fact that the two of them are walking home alone. In the dark. With a mood between them that is an extreme contrast to that of last night. The peace of this morning has miraculously carried over, lingering.
Buccellati's mood is light, tonight. As if something happened to bolster him, and get him that much more buoyant without all those heavy cares burdening his shoulders like they usually do. It's like he's set all of that aside for a moment, and is taking some time to just exist. Which is something that he deserves, and even sorely needs.
A thrill scrambles nonstop through Abbacchio's insides. Because even after everything he's done – even after showing up messy and distraught on Buccellati's doorstep by mistake – he's allowed to be here.
Close to Buccellati and basking in that good mood. Abbacchio woke up with him.
Fucking hell…
It…doesn't help that the feel of this right now is…remarkably similar to a date.
Their uncertain lifestyle means they don't get many chances to go on actual dates (with dinner and sitting down and dressing up), so now Abbacchio's hungry heart has taken to questioning every minute they spend alone together. Measuring it up to see if it qualifies.
Little stolen moments between official Passione business, most of it spent walking or driving. It's all time spent in close contact so Abbacchio labels those instances with a hard maybe. Missions together? Definitely not dates, not enough stolen touches (usually) and zero affectionate undercurrent (…usually). Grocery shopping might count in that it felt intimate enough. Especially with that fucking apple, somehow. Abbacchio's heart is weak as the rest of him.
Sharing a bed might also count – but! Seeing as Abbacchio was half-drunk and spectacularly depressed last night, that one is on thin ice…although the wakeup was…nice. Sleepovers aren't dates, though.
Except that they are –
That line of thinking isn't doing any favors to this most lovesick corner of Abbacchio's brain. He should focus on reality, on the here and now, with Buccellati at his side. Walking home together in the dark. Alone. Lighthearted air between them.
Minimal air between them, too, as Buccellati keeps himself suctioned to Abbacchio's side. Their shoulders brush on every step, never more than a centimeter apart.
Even the backs of their hands nudge at each other's. Knuckles bumping…
It'd be so easy to just grab onto Buccellati's hand at this distance – they've done it before with shopping bags for fuck's sake – it shouldn't be a problem. If only Abbacchio didn't need every last bit of his courage and focus just to keep a mortifying blush at bay. Never mind this persistent fluttering in his heart that he should probably get looked at.
And, anyway, there are already enough points of contact to cherish. Abbacchio doesn't need –
Fingertips glide against Abbacchio's palm, and Buccellati's hand settles in against his. Squeezes tight before relaxing the hold to casual.
Shit. That fluttering in Abbacchio's heart picks up the pace. Which is ridiculous. As previously mentioned, they've done this kind of thing before. It's fine. Abbacchio begs his heart to stay calm but it doesn't listen. His fingers twitch around Buccellati's hand, and he hopes like hell he's not going all fucking clammy, or anything. Getting this flustered is stupid. They shared a bed last night. He's wearing Buccellati's makeup.
(Oh, god, they shared a bed last night. He's wearing Buccellati's makeup.)
"Still feeling better?" Buccellati asks, voice all gentle, and there's no way he doesn't know the answer to that. Cozied into Abbacchio's side as he is. How could anyone be miserable like this?
"…Yeah." A pathetic answer, but Abbacchio's fluster is rising to the forefront, here. Blushing is inevitable. Not even a millimeter of space is left between them, they're fully plastered together now – Abbacchio can feel Buccellati's chest expand as he breathes. That distance isn't easing up, even though they're approaching Abbacchio's place.
Buccellati lets out a pleasant little hum, and his thumb brushes the back of Abbacchio's hand, trailing over his knuckles. A gentle touch to join the other overwhelming points of contact.
All of it is so comfortable. Soothing, just like last night in Buccellati's bed.
There's no space left in Abbacchio's chest for any sort of awful ache, like this…maybe he can relax, after all.
That idea goes out the window almost immediately – because Buccellati uses the (literal and figurative) hold he's got of Abbacchio to lead him down a side alley. One that's kind of off the beaten path, not the way Abbacchio usually goes home; it comes out right across the street from his building, though. Offers a perfect view of the front entrance.
This path also happens to be that much longer, thanks to the detour. It'll keep them together longer.
Abbacchio has no idea what they're doing here. Or why they linger at a slowed pace.
…He is not at all about to disturb this rare peace by asking questions. The scenic route is fine, and more time spent with Buccellati is ideal.
Just before the mouth of the alley, Buccellati stops entirely. Caught up in him as Abbacchio is (in more ways than he can count), he stops, too. Makes the mistake of looking at Buccellati, now that there's no need to focus on where they're going, and…
There's. Moonlight dazzling Buccellati's eyes. They sparkle with it.
A look that's even more overwhelming when Buccellati turns to face Abbacchio properly. The tiniest bit of distance put between them only so Buccellati can lean in face-to-face – and he's squeezing Abbacchio's hand, capturing every last bit of his attention. Stopping his heart for a handful of beats and then sending it pounding, because holy fuck when did Buccellati get so close –
Abbacchio could kiss him, at this distance.
That's…terrifying uncharted territory that he would love to throw himself into. (If he weren't such a coward.)
Buccellati, though, isn't moving to breach that last gap. He's just maintaining this too-close distance, which might be a blessing. It's bad enough that, from where he is, he can probably hear the harsh beat of Abbacchio's pulse and feel the heat from this blush. There's no need to share more incriminating evidence of so much blatant longing.
Lifting his free hand – the one not tangled with Abbacchio's – Buccellati rests his fingertips on the center of Abbacchio's chest. On bare skin. His touch is impossibly warm, and his eyes hold Abbacchio's gaze as Sticky Fingers opens a zipper beneath Buccellati's fingers.
Something a bit heavier than a note is inserted. The pocket is sealed.
All the while, Abbacchio can't look anywhere but into those eyes…
Eyes that are still sparkling. Buccellati breathes against Abbacchio's mouth with a hand on his chest. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says, so close that Abbacchio can taste the words –
Buccellati squeezes Abbacchio's hand one last time, lets his fingers brush down the length of Abbacchio's generous cleavage – holy fucking shit – and then he ducks his head with a small grin and scurries down the street. Toward his own apartment building.
His ears are red at the tips, Abbacchio can't help but notice.
Though that's nothing compared to the full-bodied flush Abbacchio himself is sporting. But. It's nice to know he wasn't the only one flustered out of his mind at that proximity. Those touches.
(God. All of this is such a one-eighty from last night's events. How can Buccellati still be so attached as to pull this type of stunt, after the way Abbacchio cried all over him? His ugly selfish heart left out in the open all greedy and broken – it doesn't make sense for Buccellati to pick it up and nurture it but he does, and Abbacchio is endlessly lucky in this one thing.)
As soon as he can unstick his feet from the pavement, he crosses the street in a daze.
Alone in the dark though he may be, he refuses to open that zipper until he's safely locked inside of his own apartment. No more falling to pieces in public. Lord knows he's had enough of that, lately.
And it's a hell of a good thing he does wait, ignoring this wildly fluttering pulse of his, because zipping open the pouch in his chest reveals a piece of paper wrapped around something hard that turns out to be a key. To Buccellati's apartment.
And the note it was folded into reads, 'Drop by anytime.' with 'Sleep well, my love.' added beneath that and –
How in the fucking hell is Abbacchio supposed to cope with this?
Forget sleeping. He'll pass out before he can peacefully drift off. His face is on fire. He'll combust. Turn to ashes right here and now and get vacuumed up by the landlord so they can re-rent his apartment without trouble –
God.
Fuck.
He's weak and he's a wreck and he's so in love it hurts and this note finds a home at the very front of his sock drawer. Buccellati's key is left out on top of his dresser, waiting to blindside him all over again in the morning.
Contrary to Buccellati's well-wish, Abbacchio does not sleep well.
For once, he spends his night tossing and turning over something altogether pleasant.
Buccellati's eyes have been getting an all-too-familiar rundown look to them, over the past week. The sort of look that Abbacchio pays rapt attention to.
There are bags underneath those eyes that Buccellati can't quite cover fully with that makeup he's started wearing more often. And they don't sparkle like they did in the moonlight or even when he wrote on that damned map. They're…too dull. Hurt to look at.
The rest of him isn't faring much better. His squared shoulders hold tighter than normal, only going lax at the edges when he thinks no one is looking – but the joke's on him, because Abbacchio is always looking, even when he shouldn't be.
So, none of this is lost on Abbacchio. These signs of wear and tear that Buccellati fights to keep hidden. Exhaustion is even evident in what Abbacchio can't see, thanks to Buccellati distancing himself. Which is a subtle thing, but. The contrast between this and waking up to lazy affection in Buccellati's bed is all too tangible to Abbacchio.
And, sure, he could be imagining things. It might be just that selfish something twisting through Abbacchio's gut and making him believe that Buccellati is burning out when really all it is, is that he doesn't want to see Abbacchio anymore –
Abbacchio knows better, though. He has to remind himself time and again that he knows better.
(Buccellati said 'you're always welcome here' and gave him a key to prove that – even though Abbacchio has been too damn scared to take him up on that – the offer is hopefully not rescinded – so it's just – Abbacchio knows better. Through the self-doubt, he knows. If he doubts Buccellati, what's left?)
Besides that, there's the rational stock he takes of Buccellati's behavior:
Healthy color fading from his skin. Blank eyes aimed at breakfasts that don't get eaten. Dodged conversations from anyone about anything that doesn't specifically have to do with the days' work ahead of them. Night missions that he handles alone. Sore spots covertly rubbed or stretched out multiple times a day. Plastic expressions that are caricatures of the real things, stale and overdrawn. Not a single genuine smile in his eyes for days.
…Except for one, maybe. Weak, not at all convincing, and offered to Abbacchio the single time he bumps their knuckles together. Dares to ask how Buccellati is doing, if he needs anything, even though Abbacchio knows the answer he'll get.
He has to try, anyway. He doesn't know what the hell else to do…
Except that he does. Sort of.
He…has an idea. Along with a key to Buccellati's apartment. There are possibilities, here.
Abbacchio could, theoretically, just show up at Buccellati's door. Waltz right on in (uninvited!) to check on him. Could even deliver a sorely needed dinner, make sure he goes to bed on time instead of drowning in work, offer to massage those overburdened shoulders. Really dig his hands in and feel, until all the hurts are gone. (Hah. What a concept.)
Maybe, Abbacchio could even share Buccellati's bed again.
Because. That night spent curled into Buccellati's side sure did a lot for Abbacchio's emotional well-being and he's not above seeing if it could offer Buccellati even the tiniest bit of salvation. But without the help of liquid courage, that type of setup is…daunting.
…
Baby steps are in order. Abbacchio will get there one of these days.
In the meanwhile, if he doesn't conduct himself with slow care, here, he'll run off. He knows he will. He's a goddamned coward that has to approach Buccellati with hesitation. Even after everything, deep down he still cannot believe – cannot fathom – that this man could want him in such an intimate way. Abbacchio is terrified of ruining that like he's ruined everything else –
Ugh. This isn't about Abbacchio.
The point is: there will be absolutely no creeping into Buccellati's bed.
(Never mind the question of whether Abbacchio would be welcome or not. That 'Drop by anytime.' note is still sinking in.)
So, via all of this overthinking, Abbacchio has landed on a note as the safest available option. With the added bonus that it'll give Buccellati a taste of his own impossibly sweet medicine. (Abbacchio is blushing at just the thought of those memories tucked into his sock drawer.) Conversations yield nothing, after all, and penning out a few simple words ought to be easier. Right?
…It also happens to be a tactic that's proven to work, with how it's pulled Abbacchio out of himself before. Little messages from Buccellati to drown everything out with fluster and fondness.
Here's hoping it can offer something similar coming from Abbacchio…
What he wants – more than anything, the first thing he can remember wanting in a long while – is to wedge himself further into Buccellati's life. Even though he could ruin it, he has to try. Lay out whatever support he can for Buccellati's sake and be there to repay even a little piece of that caring kindness that's been gifted to him since the day they met.
Since they're a couple (holy shit) that means it's Abbacchio's job to pick on Buccellati until he takes care of himself. Or lets Abbacchio take care of him. Otherwise, what the hell is Abbacchio here for?
He digs up a pen and a spare piece of paper. This shouldn't be too hard. He's been brainstorming for days.
…
Thinking and doing are two different things.
Extra time to compose himself is in order, and Abbacchio isn't even ready for work yet, would you look at that, so he goes to get dressed. Puts on his makeup, too. All the while there's that ridiculous fluttering in his stomach.
Not afraid to die but he is, apparently, afraid to sit down and write out the words, 'Please take a break from work before you collapse.' He manages it somehow. Does it while standing at the counter and leaves his pen hovering for a disproportionate amount of time before and after writing.
Staring at that flimsy collection of letters until they blur together doesn't do much to instill confidence in them. What a way to learn that lesson.
Abbacchio drops his pen, and flees to the bathroom to style his hair.
This doesn't do much for his confidence, either, but at least he appears ready for the day, now.
He can go out and meet Buccellati and deliver his note and everything will be completely fine and not the tiniest bit mortifying. (He's blushing already. Can't help but feel he's about to cross a line.)
There's no way that Abbacchio can hope to be as stealthy with his delivery as Buccellati was. He's lacking a helpful stand and romantic courage alike, for that type of shit, but he'll try to scrape together the nerve to carry this out. For fuck's sake, slipping a note into Buccellati's pocket isn't that much different than sneaking an apple into his grocery basket.
(An apple that was then gifted to Abbacchio with fond words hidden inside of it –)
Abbacchio can do this.
It's no worse than confronting Buccellati in person. It's better, actually.
Be that as it may, Abbacchio leaves early, stuffed with too much restless energy to wait any longer. His fingers are firmly crossed that this will be a good choice that allows him to run into Buccellati before anyone else shows up to be nosy. Seems like it'd be easier to work up the gumption to enact this intimate reverse pocket-picking without an audience, thank you…
He manages, by some miracle (that largely involves bursts of speed-walking during attempts to quell rising anxiety), to be right outside Buccellati's apartment building at the exact moment Buccellati himself is leaving for the day.
Frozen in his tracks at the bottom of his building's front stoop, Buccellati stares. His eyes are fixed on Abbacchio, who can't bring himself to offer a verbal explanation for his presence here on the sidewalk just yet. Maybe because he's too stunned by the sight of Buccellati in early morning sunshine, no matter how worn he seems. Fuck.
Despite the fact that Abbacchio knows his hair is tangled from his hurry, and his cheeks are red from considering the daunting task ahead, Buccellati offers him one of those pathetic, tired smiles.
It's beautiful. It hurts.
Abbacchio would die for it (will die from it, at this rate).
"Good morning, Leone," Buccellati says, with a certain layer of warmth in his voice. That alone just about bowls Abbacchio over, but in addition to Buccellati stepping in close…it is altogether too much.
What the hell is Abbacchio thinking, trying to do this? He can barely offer up a, "Morning, Bruno."
That name still feels bizarre on Abbacchio's tongue. Like he shouldn't be allowed to use it, even though he's privileged enough to be here right now, falling into step with Buccellati on their way to Libeccio. Alone. With just each other.
…A walk that only gets cozier as they go. Thanks to Buccellati brushing their elbows together. Huddling closer to Abbacchio, like Buccellati is cold, or something, which can't be right, because it's nearly summer. There's a crease that appears in his brow, too, his eyes gaining that intense sort of work-focus that looks downright painful, when paired with the tired lines of his face.
Abbacchio's close enough to catch the brunt of Buccellati's exhaustion. It curdles the anxiety in his stomach, but.
At least it'll be no problem to pass him the note from this position. With this much incentive.
Pre-written words sit heavy in Abbacchio's pocket, his fist curled around them. They're liable to wind up illegible, if his palm sweats on them much more. Which would be a shame. He doesn't have the strength to write that shit again.
Never mind that it's not that far to Libeccio now, Buccellati's purposeful stride ushering them along – so Abbacchio gathers himself. Takes full advantage of Buccellati's distracted proximity to –
Slip his hand into Buccellati's nearest blazer pocket.
The…space is warm. From being so close to his body.
And, of fucking course Abbacchio is nowhere near subtle enough for Buccellati to miss something like this, so his footsteps are stuttering and he's lifting his arm out of the way, staring with raised eyebrows at Abbacchio's hand lingering in his pocket.
Hah.
Abbacchio should. Retract that. No reason to leave it there.
He should absolutely open his fist to drop the folded piece of paper, and then settle his hand back at his own side. Pretend nothing's happened, and walk on. With as much nonchalance as possible. Like he does this daily –
But he doesn't reclaim his hand. Isn't given the chance to, in the end, because his movements have gone slow and halting and Buccellati's reflexes are perplexing and incredible enough that he –
Latches onto Abbacchio's arm. Wraps his own arm around it the second that hand leaves his pocket and holds it there. Like they've been walking arm in arm all along, Buccellati's fingers curling around Abbacchio's bicep and gripping him in close as they go. Which is a move that would swallow up all of Abbacchio's focus, if it weren't for the way that Buccellati is reaching into his blazer pocket at the same time.
That hand is investigating the scene of the crime, while Buccellati spares a glance to Abbacchio's face.
Much as Abbacchio would love to look away right about now, he can't. He's stuck watching. Is enthralled, even. Pulled in physically closer, a byproduct of Buccellati lifting both hands to unfold that note right in full view of the world on this very public street.
He reads it over as they walk. It takes him less than a second.
Plenty of time for Abbacchio's insides to tear themselves apart.
If this phenomenon gets much worse, he'll have to stop walking – won't be able to take it –
Buccellati beats him to the punch there. He stops in place, halting Abbacchio along with him, and Abbacchio is once again helpless, hanging on every detail of Buccellati's expression. From those eyebrows twitching toward a furrow, to that mouth that's pressed into a wobbling line as he stares hard at the note. Waiting for a verbal reaction is torture.
Why is Buccellati scrutinizing it like that? This is not at all good for Abbacchio's heart. Suspense is killing him and he absolutely overstepped, here, what was he thinking –
Intense eyes land on Abbacchio, that face set in laser focus. There's no way Buccellati doesn't notice the heat staining Abbacchio's cheeks – but he doesn't seem to mind. No matter how severe his gaze.
The arm wound around Abbacchio's tightens, and then Buccellati is hauling him toward the nearest solid brick wall. Which starts panic rising in Abbacchio's chest until he remembers that oh yeah, Sticky Fingers – and Buccellati's got a hole zipped open in the side of this building already. Is dragging Abbacchio into its swirling depths. Sealing the space off from the rest of the world once they're inside.
…
This is. Much better. As far as privacy is concerned.
But.
It's also much worse.
Much, much worse, in that now they are close and alone and Abbacchio is too flustered for this. It's too early in the day. He barely managed to work up the courage to deliver that note, and now he and Buccellati are facing each other in Sticky Fingers' weird dimension. Darkness all around but light coming from somewhere. (Maybe Buccellati himself. Fuck. Abbacchio is unsalvageable in his love.)
"What…" God, how can Abbacchio talk when those eyes are just staring at him? Looking right through him with so much intensity.
And Buccellati still hasn't let go of Abbacchio's arm. He's apparently all too content to watch Abbacchio's bright red face while sinking in close one mortifyingly purposeful centimeter at a time. Overwhelming and wonderful, he is the only thing left in Abbacchio's shrunken world. The fatigue written on his face is softening at the edges.
Or else, maybe Abbacchio is just too busy drowning in blue eyes to register anything else. They're sparkling again. Which means this risky stunt was at least a success.
He swallows, and makes another talking attempt. It goes a little better this time.
"What are you doing?"
Even as Abbacchio speaks those words (softly, can't raise his voice above a whisper, for reasons unknown it feels wrong to do so, here and now), Buccellati is leaning closer. Fingers holding gentle to Abbacchio. Slipping down toward the crook of his arm.
It's impossible not to grab onto Buccellati in turn. One of Abbacchio's hands lifts all on its own to grip tight to Buccellati's elbow. Warmth radiating through each point of contact.
"I'm taking a break from work," Buccellati explains. Matter-of-factly. Expression deadly serious. He stows that note purposefully in a zipper pocket on his chest – god, right above his heart – and then he presses in flush to Abbacchio. The whole of him impossibly comfortable as those arms wind around Abbacchio's waist and oh fuck. "Like you told me to."
Haha.
Well!
Abbacchio sure as fuck did tell Buccellati to do that, didn't he? And it's not like he hates this. Not like he's about to complain about being held in this pocket of utmost privacy. Thoroughly hidden from the world and with Buccellati as his only company…
Mortification aside, this is actually how Abbacchio would prefer to spend the rest of his days until death.
Which – may be close at hand – thanks to his spiking heartrate going erratic around skipped beats – because –
Buccellati is leaning up onto his toes. Getting steadily closer. Leaving Abbacchio with no choice but to wind his arms around Buccellati's back and support him while those eager hands shift to cling at Abbacchio's shoulders in turn.
All of this only serves to pull them in tighter to each other. Until Buccellati's breath is warm at Abbacchio's lips – he tips forward at the same time as Buccellati angles upward –
And Abbacchio can hardly fucking believe it when that impossibly soft mouth presses firm against his own.
Quick and wet and utterly satisfying, it sets off even more anxious fluttering in his gut, soothes something hurting deep in his chest – holds him together and tears him apart as his eyes slip shut and he freefalls. A tongue pokes out just for a moment, traces his bottom lip – and then it's gone. Buccellati pulling back with care, leaving only a hairsbreadth of space between them.
Holy fuck. There's…black lipstick smudged on Buccellati's lips.
Abbacchio's heart will never, ever beat at a normal pace again as long as he lives. (Not much longer. As previously established.)
"Thank you," Buccellati says. The words are mumbled into Abbacchio's mouth. On another kiss. One that Abbacchio returns with all the fervor he's got. "For the note."
Fucking hell. It's a wonder Abbacchio's ears are aware enough to catch that, what with all the fireworks going off in his brain.
"…You started it," he grouches out – which is –
Of all the things he could've said – after Buccellati fucking kissed him – twice! – he says that.
What is wrong with him?
Something serious, definitely. Whatever it is, Buccellati is standing here and accepting it with a gracious smile. The first one he's had in a while that wasn't bogged down by some tense horror or other. Those bags are still under his eyes, barely concealed, but. He's smiling. It reaches eyes.
"I can stop, if you want."
Ah. Fucking…
That voice is soft and there's breath on Abbacchio's lips that tastes like that stark peppermint toothpaste he can't stand but Buccellati loves – and –
And there isn't a damn thing in this entire rotten world that Abbacchio would want Buccellati to stop. Not the notes. Not the kissing. He isn't even sure which one of those Buccellati is offering to cut back on, here, considering how close the two of them still are. Fingers rubbing at the top of Abbacchio's spine while his own hands press tight to Buccellati's waist.
"No," Abbacchio barely breathes the word out. Is still stuck in blue eyes. Buccellati is his own personal sinking sand. "You don't have to…"
Stop, is what he means to say.
It must come across, somehow, because Buccellati's mouth is pressed to Abbacchio's anew. Softer and sweeter and more intense than before, drawing him in with comfortable, terrifying familiarity.
x
They're late to meet the others.
Buccellati blames it on getting lost.
A/N: Thanks for reading!