A/N: Day 11: Tradition

Warning for NSFW discussion between the pre-canon squad. Nothing graphic is described, and no actual sex acts participated in by anyone are recounted in any detail, but they have a group conversation about the flavor of ejaculate.

This is borderline crack, and I apologize in advance. Just wanted to unwind and write smth stupid and funny,

"Hey," Mista says, fork and knife stilling on his plate, "since we're eating lunch –"

Narancia groans, cutting him off, and rolls his head on his shoulders in a dramatic gesture. "Not again."

"What – it's tradition!"

"No one likes this tradition but you."

Fugo is absolutely correct in that assumption, so much so that Abbacchio almost speaks up and vouches for him. That would draw him into the conversation, though, and so he stays steadfastly quiet. Besides, someone else will definitely –

"Yeah!" Narancia chirps, sure enough and without even bothering to swallow his latest bite first. "Let us eat in peace!"

Peace is always a toss-up with present company, but this time Abbacchio intends to stay as uninvolved as he can for as long as he can. Bows his head over his plate and sits unaffected beside Buccellati – maybe a little closer than usual, sue him – because companionable silence is all he needs. So he will continue to pretend that that is all there is at this table for as long as humanly possible.

"Honestly," Mista mutters to himself, around a bite of pasta, sounding almost offended, "when else are we supposed to talk about weird eating habits except for while we're eating…?"

"That only makes sense to you," Fugo mutters right back.

Narancia snickers, snorting his drink out of his nose and causing a general commotion full of squawking and under-the-table kicking that goes on for a few minutes before fortunately settling down on its own.

That lends pretty well to Abbacchio's strategy of pretending he's literally anywhere else. He'd put his headphones on and drown things out completely, but he's morbidly curious about what topic Mista's got up his sleeve today.

(…Plus, earlier, Buccellati playfully tugged said headphones off of Abbacchio's head, completing the gesture with a tiny shadow of a smile. So Abbacchio is still very much reeling from that. And he reels all over again, every time their elbows happen to brush.)

"People that like, eat come – do they actually like the way it tastes?"

Abbacchio drops his fork.

Beside him, Buccellati launches into a violent coughing fit.

"Ew!" Narancia shrieks, physically recoiling.

"That's disgusting, Mista," Abbacchio growls, getting involved after all while tamping down the urge to pat Buccellati's back. And. Maybe also fighting off the heat rising in his cheeks. At least he can play it off as irritation.

"We're fucking eating, here!" Fugo kicks out under the table again, and he must connect, because Mista yelps.

"It's a legitimate question!" Uncaring of danger and rubbing at his shin, Mista barrels onward. "I've heard that people collect that stuff and drink it! There's more to it than just spit or swallow."

Narancia has progressed to making gagging noises, and Abbacchio has made the choice to abandon his meal entirely in favor of…damage control? Chaperoning? Because now Fugo is holding his spoon like a weapon, and in his hands, it might as well be one.

Buccellati, for his part, has regained almost all of his composure. Still trying to eat, bless him, even with a faint flush clinging to his cheeks and ears.

This is the type of conversation topic that deserves to be dropped.

But.

If they don't humor Mista, he'll go on and on with his own tangents in whatever directions he pleases. Case in point, he is now pondering: "Wonder what dictates the spit or swallow preference in the first place – does it work the same as having a favorite food?"

So Abbacchio takes one for the team, and grumbles, "It's the same as any other sexual preference. And people have fetishes."

Mista hums in acquiescence. "Sure, but the texture is terrible, y'know?"

"Ha!" One of Narancia's obnoxious fingers points at Mista from across the table. "You've sucked dick before?!"

"You haven't?" Mista counters, raising a cool eyebrow. Unaffected.

Narancia goes quiet at that, bringing his pointing finger back to tap at his own chin. He gets all lost in thought. Like he's searching his memory, wracking his brain for some recollection that may or may not exist.

Rolling his eyes, Abbacchio has the overwhelming urge to drown himself in pesto sauce.

"Should I have…?" Narancia wonders aloud.

"No, Narancia," Fugo reassures, even though he's bent his spoon in half singlehandedly. "Mista forgets that his experiences aren't universal."

God. There isn't enough wine at this table. Abbacchio isn't getting paid enough for this. Later, he'll pester Buccellati for a raise, because he's still sitting this one out, enjoying his dessert instead of facing the horrible, off-key music.

With a segue like that, Abbacchio is afraid that this conversation will spiral into comparisons of sexual experience – which is something Abbacchio very much does not want to discuss with anyone, let alone these shitty kids.

So he swallows a mouthful of wine along with his pride and puts the conversation back on its original track. "You get used to the texture."

"But the flavor!" Mista, (un)fortunately, latches back on. He's picked up real steam now, gesturing with his fork, eyes wide with enthusiasm. "It's not anything to write home about, either."

"Flavor depends on the person." What else can Abbacchio do except offer his wisdom, at this point? He's made his own goddamned bed. "Some people taste better than others." He tries very, very, very hard not to think about Buccellati or – heaven fucking forbid – glance in his direction.

"It has to do with diet, doesn't it?" Fugo interjects. Like this is a proper family discussion.

…Then again, they've discussed cannibalism before. So this might as well be a proper family discussion – as much as this is a proper family, anyway. Abbacchio is positive that this conversation rates worse, but at least it shouldn't end in a week's worth of jokes about eating Narancia first if food gets scarce.

"Yeah – yeah, so d'you think, people who have a thing for swallowing, like…monitor their partner's diet?"

Always asking the real questions, that Mista.

"Ah!" Eyes lighting up, Narancia finally takes the pondering finger off of his chin and holds it aloft with his realization. "So is that where the strawberry thing comes from? When people eat strawberries, and someone asks if they have plans later?"

"Where the hell do you hear that shit…?"

"Yeah," Mista confirms, plowing right over Fugo's concerns, "fruit is supposed to make you taste sweeter."

Well, they're not wrong. Abbacchio grunts in agreement and confirms, "It's true, fruit does help."

…

He isn't expecting that to be what gets the entire table to shut up.

Even the clink of Buccellati's spoon stalls out, and Abbacchio doesn't get what's happening until he follows the other three sets of eyes to the seat beside his own.

Buccellati sits frozen, there. Chair so close to Abbacchio's that they might as well be touching. His spoon is in the middle of dipping into a fruit parfait. He's glancing around the table. Gaze flat but ears tellingly aflame.

…Well!

Fuck.

A/N: I promise that actual content will return tomorrow, uh,

Thanks for reading,