no dictionary fuckers allowed

i mean i hate me so why wouldn't they yanno 

You need the practise showing respect, anyway, Buccellati liked to tell him. And that was why it was almost always Abbacchio's turn to write the thing up.

(Well.)

Abbacchio's hair swishes gently over the paper when he looks up at Buccellati, one eyebrow tipped up with a sort of disapproving grace that only Abbacchio can muster. "Will you ever write one of these?"

"Absolutely not," Buccellati says, waving a hand at him. They perch their chin on one hand, elbow resting against the table. "Get back to work."

Abbacchio rolls his eyes, this dramatic motion, and looks back down at the page, where the greyed-out ink has stopped midsentence. He gets back to work.

Abbacchio is right handed. And so, Buccellati sits on his right, where when they tuck their hair behind their ear and watch, they can see the gentle curve of Abbacchio's fingers around the pen, the spread of his far hand over the corner of the paper. They can see his long fingers divided by thin knuckles, the way his fingers stack delicate when his hand is tipped to the side. His pinkie finger curves in to touch his palm when he is writing. His tendons shift to rise up in narrow crests under his skin.

His hands are so long, so slim that Buccellati can't help but watch them.

Abbacchio is speaking to them. "Did you hear me? I asked you a question."

"No, I didn't." Buccellati keeps their eyes trained on Abbacchio's fingers. "What did you say?"

"It doesn't matter. You're staring." Abbacchio puts his pencil down neatly and folds his hands together, fingers weaving between each other, space zigzagging between his knuckles. "You do that a lot."

"Do I? Don't answer that. I do." Buccellati glances up to Abbacchio's eyes, which are -- blank, largely. Serious and unemotional. Abbacchio, in short. "It's your fault, you know."

"My fault." Abbacchio separates his hands again. "That you're staring?"

"Mmhm."

"How so?"

Buccellati shrugs with one dismissive shoulder. "You have beautiful hands."

"Have I," Abbacchio says. He leans his head to one side, then the other, thinking, hair sweeping across his face. He holds one hand out, flexed, fingers a convex curve, and purses his lips. "They're all right."

"They're wonderful." Buccellati takes the outstretched hand in their own, thumbs skimming across Abbacchio's fingertips. They rest the width of Abbacchio's fingers across their palm, other hand tracing out the edges of Abbacchio's fingers, the long shapes of them and the barely-there curves between joints. "Like a piano player's. Have you ever played piano?"

"No, never. I was a cop, not an artist." Abbacchio watches them watching him, a sort of distant look on his face. His fingers twitch when Buccellati brushes over them. "They're just hands."

Buccellati leans down, presses a chaste kiss to the flat of Abbacchio's knuckles. "Beautiful hands." Another kiss, one to the tips of his fingers, one to the base of his wrist. Abbacchio watches them with a sort of quiet curiosity, watches their intensity from a distance.

Abbacchio's hands are like music in and of themselves. Sheet music, maybe, the lovely interplay of lines and curves. Or violin tones, with the sounds stretching out long and thin over the air. Buccellati strokes down across the back of Abbacchio's fingers with their own, taps at his third knuckles in order like playing a song.

Abbacchio's mouth opens to speak but stays there, still, when Buccellati presses their tongue to his fingertips, dips it down into the space between fingers. They lap at his knuckles, at the webbing down between them, and then back up to wrap their tongue around the tip of Abbacchio's middle finger. Abbacchio pulls in a breath.

Buccellati pulls his finger into their mouth and sucks on it. They can feel the tendons of his finger pulling across the skin, making his finger twitch against their tongue, Abbacchio's gasp carrying out through to his hand. They close their eyes. For effect.

(Maybe there's another reason they get Abbacchio to do the writing.)

They pull back away and Abbacchio's finger comes out of their mouth with a little pop, a string of saliva connecting to their lips. Abbacchio is, by now, dusted red across his cheekbones, throat working to swallow.