A/N: Day 8: Tattoo
"Can you do me a favor?" Buccellati asks, standing there with his hair-still-wet and his shirt-still off.
…Sharing a hotel room with him was a mistake. Between the domestic bathroom sharing and the cramped proximity and the Buccellati gently waking Abbacchio to ask what he wants for breakfast…
At least they each have their own bed. Abbacchio doesn't know what he would've done if there had only been one, last night. Died, probably.
There is only one bathroom, though. Which circles him back around to the domestic bathroom sharing thing, and the way that Buccellati had beckoned Abbacchio in soon after showering, citing that the space is big enough for both of them to get ready in together.
And it. It is, but Abbacchio would be able to focus a lot better on fixing his hair and putting on his makeup if Buccellati would get fully dressed.
It's alright, if Abbacchio stares at his own reflection and nothing else. It was fine, when Buccellati left the bathroom to grab something form his zipper-laden suitcase.
But now…
Now Abbacchio is being directly addressed.
Speaking of. He owes Buccellati a response. Or maybe some eye contact. He hauls his gaze up from the swirling lines of ink on tanned skin in the nick of time, right when dark eyebrows are starting to twitch into frown territory.
"What is it?"
"This needs ointment," Buccellati explains, gesturing to the fresh portions of his tattoo, "but I can't see what I'm doing on the back very well." He tucks his hair behind his ear, and then untucks it. "Do you mind…?"
Unless Abbacchio is imagining things, Buccellati's cheeks are going a bit pink. Must be the leftover steam from his shower. Because that's the reason that Abbacchio is feeling a little flushed, personally. It definitely doesn't have anything to do with the prospect of. Touching Buccellati's skin.
…Now Abbacchio is staring again. Fantastic. He snaps out of it, and sets his eyeliner aside for the time being. "No – no, I don't mind."
Buccellati's expression eases into a not-quite-smile, and Abbacchio bows his head, hiding behind his hair to wash his hands. Prolonged exposure to that not-quite-smile is dangerous to his health.
By the time he's done thoroughly drying his hands, Buccellati is already at work.
A glass jar of some fancy looking goop is open on the counter in front of them, and Buccellati dips into it with a careful fingertip. He smooths a thin layer over the freshest lines of his tattoo, starting at the bottom – low on his stomach – and tracing the path upward.
The lacey black pattern was expanded a couple days ago. Now, it covers more than just Buccellati's ribcage and chest; the swirling black lines extend over his abdomen and creep toward his neck, and the whole design wraps around the entirety of his back.
It's a beautiful piece, and the addition has increased Abbacchio's gawking tenfold. If the tattoo was nice before (and oh, it was more than nice), it's a masterpiece now. One that Abbacchio would kill to brush his palms over, or run his mouth along, or scratch –
Shit.
Fuck.
He has permission to touch it, the tattoo. Because he's been assigned a simple task.
A simple task that he is already failing, by virtue of not doing it.
Getting on with it before he chickens out and flees the hotel without mascara on or luggage in hand, Abbacchio dips a finger into the jar of thick ointment.
"Not too much," Buccellati instructs. His attention is focused, and he's busy around front, still, making sure each line is coated.
Abbacchio nods, because opening his mouth to speak is a bad idea, and moves around behind Buccellati. Time to survey the task in front of him properly while trying not to get swept away by the sheer existence of Buccellati.
All of the neat, inked artwork is a captivating contrast on the tan canvas of Buccellati's skin. The new portions of the tattoo are a little darker than the older lines, positioned perfectly so they'll blend right in once they're healed, and right, yeah, that's too much staring.
Tentative and slow, Abbacchio reaches out.
Then he pulls back, and goes higher. He'll start at the top, because touching Buccellati's lower back right off the bat makes Abbacchio's stomach feel like it's in a blender.
This, here, is bad enough. Warm, smooth skin is almost imperceptibly raised in places, thanks to the fresh needlework, and Abbacchio is as gentle as possible as he traces his fingertips over it. His heart is thudding heavy in his chest all the while, which isn't helping – and Buccellati shivers at his initial touch, which is helping even less.
Speaking of Buccellati, Abbacchio sneaks a glance in the mirror and catches sight of an expert hand rubbing ointment over the lines on his chest, now.
Hand stalled out because he's fucking staring (again!), Abbacchio refocuses.
…
Oh, hell, he wants to kiss the back of Buccellati's neck so bad.
It only gets worse when Buccellati tilts his head to get a better view of the side of his tattoo and apply ointment there. Because his hair falls away from the his nape and there are goosebumps there and –
It's nothing. Doesn't mean anything. It's a natural reaction to the chill of the air, and the ointment, and light touches to sensitive skin.
Abbacchio pulls his hand back, and reaches around Buccellati to gather more ointment onto his fingers. Keeping his mind from running in overexcited circles is impossible, and his heart has moved to his throat now, but at least he manages to finish this top portion without incident.
Lower back is next.
Haha! Fantastic.
There is no way that Abbacchio will survive.
But Buccellati asked for help, dammit, and the amount of times he's done that in situations that aren't work-related, Abbacchio can count on one hand. So he steps up, does his best to accept the heavier-than-it-should-be burden of applying fancy moisturizer to a healing tattoo.
His fingertips meet the skin just above Buccellati's waistband – and – and Buccellati (finished with his half of the work) bends forward, leaning on the counter to grant better access.
That's…helpful of him. It is in no way hindering Abbacchio's ability to focus on this simple task.
It's a wonder his hand isn't shaking, as his fingers follow the curve of Buccellati's back, tracing the tattoo. As it is, he's swallowing down his heart, which is now acting on its own to try and climb out of his throat and spill all over the floor.
Ah, wait, maybe his hand is shaking? Whatever the case, Abbacchio tries to be gentle, but more goosebumps erupt on the back of Buccellati's neck, and he lets out a quiet sigh, and Abbacchio can't take much more of this.
He finishes quick and careful as he can, because he doesn't want to hurt Buccellati, or screw up the expensive, beautiful line work, but this is overwhelming in the worst (best) way.
Once he's done, though, neither of them move. They just stay here, like this, for a while, with Buccellati only shifting to stand back up straight.
Abbacchio has no reason to linger this close.
He needs to put his mascara on. Lipstick, too.
They've got an entire day to be getting on with. There really isn't time for Abbacchio to loiter here and breathe in Buccellati's scent (hotel shampoo, clean, freshly-inked skin, and that soft something that always accompanies Buccellati) all day.
Still. It's not like Buccellati moves, either. Just stands with his head bowed and his ears going red, one hand brushing over his tattoo…
The horrible desire to reach out and touch him again hits like a freight train, so sudden and ferocious that Abbacchio's fingers twitch with it and he takes a half-step forward. The more Buccellati curls in on himself, the worse it gets, but Abbacchio holds fast. Keeps his distance.
"…Thank you," Buccellati says eventually, screwing the lid back onto the jar of ointment. He washes his hands and hurries out of the bathroom.
All of the tension drains from the room with him, leaving Abbacchio's stomach hollow and weightless all at once. His heart is still pounding, but his breath comes easier, even as he deflates.
He stares at Buccellati's retreating, tattooed back until it's out of sight, and hates himself for wanting to reach after something so unattainable.
A/N: Thanks for reading!