A/N: Day 2: Cooking

Domestic nonsense ahead...

The familiar clatter of keys unlocking the front door comes an entire hour earlier than Abbacchio was expecting – so he rushes out of the kitchen, hurrying for the entryway and accidentally-on-purpose blocking Buccellati's path as soon as he's through the door.

"You're early," Abbacchio blurts, his heart doing something overexcited and confused in his chest. At this rate, he'll be found out.

One of Buccellati's eyebrows tweaks higher as he sets his luggage down, tucking his keys into his pocket. "Hello, Leone. I missed you, too."

Haha.

That is not funny, and it doesn't make a tiny shard of guilt impale Abbacchio's stomach for his subpar greeting, either. It's a nice companion to the squirming embarrassment that's already settled in.

Buccellati is watching him with a weird expression. Getting weirder.

That's deserved. Because Abbacchio is acting weird. And the longer he stays quiet, the weirder this gets, and so he opens his mouth and lets some words fall out before his brain is fully collected. "Welcome back."

That weird expression melts into a tiny, fond smile. Fuck. Buccellati steps closer, easily halving the distance between them. "I caught an earlier train," he explains.

Ah.

That's. That's great, just fantastic, wonderful all around. Nerves and joy play tug-of-war with Abbacchio's insides. He's stuck now.

Bruno is home, and Abbacchio is happy about it – ecstatic, even – but because of the little scheme he's cooking up (ha) in the kitchen, he can't bring himself to wrap Buccellati in a tight hug and smother him with kisses like he wants to. His brain is too busy searching frantically for a solution.

Moody Blues is waiting in the other room, paused, and Abbacchio could call him back, yeah, only he didn't check the timestamp and so has no idea where in the process his stand is paused.

Maybe he could pretend he was the one standing at the counter, but that means he'll have to finish dinner himself, and if he could do that, he wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.

"What are you up to?" Buccellati is very close now, chin tipped up and eyes sparkling with something so genuine it makes Abbacchio's knees weak. "I was away for two weeks; I thought you'd be happier to see me."

Finally, Abbacchio frees his useless frozen limbs and grabs for Buccellati. Clutches him close, squeezes him in a tight hug that's instantly returned. He buries his face into Buccellati's shoulder in a way he hasn't been able to for two weeks.

"I am." These excited-nervous thrills that keep racing through Abbacchio's stomach are proof of that. God.

Buccellati hums out a comfortable noise, pressing a kiss to Abbacchio's temple, melting against him, a perfect fit in his arms. "I really did miss you," Buccellati says, voice low.

That's a lot for him to say, Abbacchio knows, and he feels those words right to his core. "Me, too." He clings ever-tighter to Buccellati. "You just surprised me."

They stay that way for a moment, until Abbacchio figures he had better let Buccellati breathe, and backs off just a little. Keeps his arms wound around Buccellati's waist – and falls into deep blue eyes, getting so lost that he forgets what made him frantic until:

"Hm." Buccellati leans into Abbacchio's chest, nosing around. First at the base of his throat, and then at the junction of shoulder and neck.

Odd, even for him.

"…What are you doing?"

"You smell like pasta," Bruno announces, when he comes up for air, his eyes making playful contact with Abbacchio's.

Shit. "No I don't." There's no way that's possible, after all. It's a kind of hot and stuffy in the kitchen, sure, but scents don't transfer like –

Buccellati licks him.

Right behind the corner of his jaw, along the hairline. Then follows it up with a gentle bite, and then suckling pressure that's got Abbacchio tipping his head to offer more access, because holy fuck. The spot is thoroughly ravished to bruising by the time Buccellati pulls back.

Falling slow and delicate back to earth – coming back to himself – Abbacchio has every intention of ducking down to kiss Buccellati in return, but he's interrupted by the man himself.

"You're lying."

Oh! Right!

Lie detection!

Abbacchio is fucked, now, most especially because of that self-satisfied smile that flashes across Buccellati's face.

(…The hickey afterward wasn't necessary, was it?

Will Buccellati do that again, if Abbacchio keeps denying things?)

"Leone," Buccellati says, hauling Abbacchio out of his very-distractible-today thoughts with warm palms cupping his jaw. "Are you making dinner?"

Excellent question. Simple, and easy to answer. So of course Abbacchio takes his time mulling it over before offering up a, "Maybe." It was either that or 'kind of', but 'maybe' sounds less ominous. He thinks. Hopes.

"'Maybe'?"

"…Yeah."

Buccellati uses his superior grace and charm (and his stand) to slip out of Abbacchio's arms, escaping around behind him in the direction of the kitchen. "What happened?" he asks, acting like Abbacchio blew up the stove or something (that was one time, and it was Narancia's fault).

"Nothing." Nothing that's not embarrassing to be caught doing, at least. Abbacchio is competent when it comes to cooking!

But, see. This is a special occasion and he gave it his best, which called for a little help to get things just right. He scrambles after Buccellati, again caught between hiding his stand and thinking up excuses and readying explanations – too bad the walk from the entryway to the kitchen is short.

So now Buccellati's standing in the doorway to the kitchen, tiny frown in place at the sight of Moody-Blues-rewound-to-Bruno standing paused at the counter, halfway through opening a pack of mushrooms. Ingredients littered all around. Including the pasta that Buccellati caught wind of, which has been hanging around made for a bit, now, because Abbacchio can do that part himself, thank you.

"Is…am I making my own welcome-home dinner?"

"No." Abbacchio squeezes past Buccellati, putting himself between boyfriend and kitchen yet again. "Moody Blues is."

"Why –"

"Because I tried to last night, but you make it with all your weird ingredients, and I couldn't remember the right amounts of everything because you don't write shit down, so it came out…" absolutely disgusting, he could wince at the mere memory, "wrong."

The only response is a raised eyebrow from Buccellati. Abbacchio plows on.

"So. Moody-Bruno is making it, while I…write shit down…so next time I can. Do it by myself. For you." It feels like he's blushing. Maybe he can blame the heat of the kitchen. They should open a window. Or something.

Buccellati smiling again doesn't help the whole blushing situation. Especially not when he reaches up to bury his fingers in Abbacchio's hair, just at the base of his skull, so he can tip Abbacchio down for a kiss.

"You're very thoughtful," Buccellati mumbles, when they part. His mouth is close, and plush lips catch Abbacchio's again before he can protest.

Abbacchio does his best to grumble, anyway.

It doesn't work, considering all it gets is a sweet little laugh from Buccellati that's got Abbacchio's heart doing somersaults.

Hand trailing out of Abbacchio's hair, Buccellati brushes it over his shoulder and down the length of his arm until he can entwine their fingers. "Here," he says, guiding Abbacchio to the counter, "we'll finish it together."

x

"Moody-Bruno is a good cook," Buccellati jibes, later, once he's done eating and is sipping contentedly at his wine, waiting for Abbacchio to finish.

Scoffing, Abbacchio stabs at the last of his dinner and grumbles out an amused, "That's not what I usually use him for," on automatic, because Buccellati doesn't know the half of it.

Silence.

Across the table, Buccellati is sitting frozen. With a considering sort of expression in place.

…

Abbacchio's words-that-he-didn't-mean-to-let-slip catch up to his own ears and he almost chokes.

A/N: Thanks for reading!