A/N: Day 16: Whistle

Obligatory police officer and fisherman AU,

Abbacchio's feet carry him through his patrol on automatic, walking the now-familiar beat with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.

…Which isn't a whole lot these days, but it's better than none at all.

He should stay more alert than this; do his actual job and all. Useless though his actual job might be, in a sleepy town like this, where the most Abbacchio's done is help carry some boxes or return a lost child that wandered a street too far from home. There isn't much chance to stop any real crime here – to be of any real help – but work is still work. That's what he tells himself, at least. This is only temporary.

So Abbacchio puts in a token effort to focus on the world around him, no matter how boring it may be. It's a quaint little fishing village, so the scenery is all picturesque. For him, though, the charm wore off weeks ago.

It didn't take him long to get his patrol route (and the layout of the entire town, for that matter) memorized, so there's no danger of getting lost, even if he spaces out. That happened once.

Now, he takes that same wrong turn on purpose and without a second thought. Fully aware of where he's going. Not at all minding the extra minutes it'll take out of his already-long day.

The whistling draws him in, like it always does. Like it did that very first day.

Patrols would be downright miserable without that familiar song carried on the wind, and today Abbacchio finds himself singing along under his breath. The whistling pulls him down a road that overlooks the beach, and brings him so close to the edge of it that his knees bump the guard rail.

The fisherman is there, on the beach. Just as he is every other day that Abbacchio follows the whistling, so there's no reason for his heart to skip as many beats as it does.

Then again – maybe there is.

The fisherman's boat is out of the water today, rather than docked or at sea. Probably for maintenance, because it seems like he's washing it, as far as Abbacchio can tell. He's done that before. That isn't anything new. No reason for the heartbeat skipping.

What is new, and a reason, is that. Well.

The (handsome) fisherman is shirtless beneath the bright summer sun, and Abbacchio is very much enraptured by the way muscle moves beneath tanned skin as the man works.

…God. This is delving into creepy territory, isn't it?

Most days, he gets a wave from the handsome fisherman and then goes about his patrol with a certain whistled melody stuck in his head. Twice, he even got a smile that pulled his stupid crushing heart out of his chest and plastered it messy on his sleeve for all the world to see – to say nothing of his blush.

These interactions are impactful enough as is, and Abbacchio doesn't even want to think about what they'll do to him under these conditions. Lucky for him, he hasn't been spotted yet, and so hasn't been waved to.

Maybe he should get out of here before he is spotted, or waved to, or smiled at, because all of this staring really is fucking creepy but his feet won't move.

Over the two months that Abbacchio's been stuck in this quiet seaside village, this fisherman has been the one thing that could qualify as a bright spot. Not just because he happens to be attractive, but also because…he always seems to be in high spirits. Always whistling while he works no matter what the weather as he patches nets, or changes the oil in his boat, or teaches tourists how to cast.

He's…he's sunshine, and Abbacchio's days have been overcast of late. Something about this handsome, resolute fisherman soothes some soft piece of Abbacchio. Calms him, almost, even from a distance.

Which shouldn't be possible and sounds like a stupid and disgustingly fond way to think of a man whose name Abbacchio doesn't even know, but. He's maybe dawdled away too many work hours standing here, collectively speaking.

He really should get going. Another thirty seconds and he'll head back to work, during which he will not think of sweat-slick skin and dark hair pulled into a tiny ponytail –

The fisherman turns around, and any thought Abbacchio had of leaving evaporates.

Hell, any thought he had at all evaporates, in the face of that smile when the fisherman catches sight of him. It really does rival the sun, and sends Abbacchio's heart diving into his stomach as his own mouth makes a pathetic attempt at returning the smile.

This is where their interactions usually end.

Today, it seems, is just full of surprises, though.

Because the handsome fisherman tosses his work aside – literally drops his sponge into a bucket so that he can wave with his whole arm, and shout, "I was hoping I'd see you, today!"

What the – how the hell is Abbacchio supposed to take that?! They've never. They don't really talk. To each other. And now the fisherman whose name Abbacchio does not know is saying something like that, while not wearing a shirt, and Abbacchio is stuck in place, unable to form words.

"Wait there," is the next bomb that the very attractive stranger who unwittingly brightens all of Abbacchio's days drops, "I'm coming up!"

True to his word, he trots along in the direction of the stairs. Abbacchio mirrors him up on the road, feet finally moving while he's in a daze thanks to this break in routine. All he can do is go with it, and going with it brings him face to face with a beautiful man at the top of an old stone staircase in a picturesque little fishing village.

"Hi," the fisherman says. His smile – his everything – is even more devastating up close. "I'm Bruno."

Holy shit.

It takes Abbacchio way too many seconds to pull himself together and respond, and all he manages is a simple, "Leone," because they're doing first names, apparently.

Fuck.

Bruno's eyes are a more vibrant blue than the ocean, and there's a smattering of freckles over his nose, probably from the sun. His dark hair is messy in its ponytail, his bangs starting to escape from where they're pinned back. There are more freckles scattered on his shoulders, and his chest is glistening with sweat and alright that's enough ogling.

"Nice to officially meet you," Bruno is saying, as he offers a hand for Abbacchio to shake.

It's calloused and warm, and somehow fits perfect when aligned with Abbacchio's. He should probably say something back, right? The only thing that comes out is a quiet, "Yeah," so that'll have to do, while he's busy drowning in Bruno's eyes.

Bruno reclaims his hand, and ah, Abbacchio kept hold of it awkwardly long, didn't he? Stupid mistake. He's got to pull himself together. He is a professional adult and not a skittish teenager experiencing attraction for the first –

"I…wanted to thank you."

…What?

What the hell?

Abbacchio hasn't done a single noteworthy thing since he got to this town, and he's especially never interacted with Bruno before (that's the kind of thing he would remember), so there's no reason for Bruno to be thanking him.

"My father told me how you helped him, the other day."

Oh.

Oh, that was Bruno's father? Come to think of it, he did look sort of familiar – that's right, he's usually working with Bruno. But today he's missing, along with Bruno's shirt –

"It was nothing." All Abbacchio did was carry a couple of boxes, because the man's hand was all wrapped up in a cast and he didn't look like he should be handling heavy stuff.

Bruno shakes his head, and then tucks the resulting loosened strands of hair behind his ear. "He's very stubborn. He broke his wrist the other day, and still wants to do everything himself…you helped my argument to get him to take some time off, so thank you."

"I…" Abbacchio is all set to protest that whole helping thing, but something in the set of Bruno's expression stops him, and instead he settles on a nice, safe, "You're welcome."

Nothing on earth or anywhere else could prepare Abbacchio for what Bruno says next.

"It's nice to see you around so often."

It's the sun's fault for how fast Abbacchio's face heats up, but the way his innards turn to thousands of fluttering butterfly wings is all on him.

"I mean." The tips of Bruno's ears are red, and his relaxed posture goes a bit rigid. "It makes this little town feel safer, seeing you so dedicated. There are rumors of gang activity on nearby islands so, um. It's…good to have an officer around."

Somehow, the clarification doesn't calm Abbacchio's newfound butterfly swarm any. "It's…" He's got the overwhelming urge to hide behind his hat or duck into his collar. Like a professional adult. "It's my job."

They stand there, for a time, in surprisingly companionable silence. Bruno sure doesn't seem to be in any hurry to get back to his boat, and Abbacchio is most definitely not in a hurry to get back to his boring daily walk. Eye contact with Bruno can fill the remaining hours of his day. Nothing wrong with that.

"Well…I shouldn't keep you." That's what Bruno says, anyway – but he lingers. Doesn't move right away. The red from his ears is starting to spread to his cheeks.

Abbacchio is more than happy to be kept, but saying that aloud would be overkill. Just the thought of it sticks his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He has to say something, though, and so: "It was nice talking to you." (For all the zero words Abbacchio squeezed out over the entire conversation – god –)

Against all odds, that subtle smile crosses Bruno's face again. "It was." And then, miracle of all miracles, he adds, "I'll see you tomorrow, Leone."

Tomorrow, he says. Like they'll do this again.

"See you…"

And then Bruno heads back down to the beach. Tosses one last wave over his shoulder once he's at the bottom of the stairs, and shit now he knows that Abbacchio was watching him the whole fucking time…

At least he doesn't seem to mind. He's whistling again, as he resumes his boat maintenance.

Abbacchio convinces his feet to move and gets on with his patrolling, humming that melody long after the beach is out of earshot.

A/N: Thanks for reading,