#catboyabbacchio

on the white leather of buccellati's couch, the afternoon sun paints him in brilliant light, and throws abbacchio into shadow beneath him. buccellati's legs lock him down on either side, closeness that should only be allowed between them when necessity dictates, not pushed into at the whims of the thing that stirs between his ribs. abbacchio can play coolly detached all he likes, but his palms warmly pressed into buccellati's sides tell a different story.

as does how his pupils expand and make the lavender of his eyes vanish to nothing as he meets buccellati’s gaze.

buccellati’s fingers brush gently through the strands of silver that have fallen in front of abbacchio's face, too tender a motion for a man whose hands are a battleground of scars, cuts and bruises and jagged lines where the skin has been split on others more times than he can count. he feels that paradoxical need to both pull away and push deeper, to let the strands fall delicately between his fingers, to crane abbacchio's head back and taste his pulse. it's wrong to touch like this. it's wrong to have this. buccellati doesn't know if the way his breath catches minutely is because of the gentle, roving squeeze of abbacchio's hands on his hips or because he imagines it like pressing a detonator: that too bold a touch might send them into an inferno that finally sates the thing in his chest.

for a while, anyway.

that's usually why they end up like this.

something flickers across buccellati's expression, too fast to be parsed. a faint frown touches his lips.

the slam of the door shakes the building down to the restaurant beneath their feet. it's a harsh clamour that beats against buccellati's eardrums and does absolutely nothing to endear him to the irresponsible overstepping abbacchio is currently doing. irritation builds in the valleys of buccellati's bandaged and aching knuckles and presents itself in the whitecaps of his eyes, pushed in a way he can only be when abbacchio's pale eyes look at him with something like understanding. daring to draw connections like a man would connect fuses to a bomb.  

they're close enough that buccellati can make out the individual hairs, plucked and styled to compliment the rest of the sharp angles that define abbacchio's figure. and now they're drawn to a knife's point, not indifferent to but existing to spite how buccellati's scowl deepens further. try. that's the word that juts out in the jagged reef of abbacchio's thinly-veiled threat. try it, the knit of his brows say, and I will follow you to the ends of the earth. buccellati knows this. but it's not the thought of abbacchio hounding him for an answer that compels him to remain planted in abbacchio's face; now that he's been called out for his avoidance— a word that reads too much like cowardice for buccellati's liking— he simply can't leave. his pride won't allow it. 

abbacchio knows this.

buccellati knows this, too.

what he's most annoyed at is being cornered.

he breathes carefully around what must be a bruised rib, arms tight at his sides. abbacchio should know what consequences have followed words less laced with intent, by lesser people; but buccellati has no intention of fighting tonight. rarely does. beating back against abbacchio's stubbornness is as fruitless as stopping the moon from moving the sea.

"this isn't about proving," he answers, unflinching. "this is about what passione expects of us."

"right," skepticism cuts through before buccellati can launch into a lecture. we are passione's property, and so we must be ready to act accordingly... "as long as none of us get hurt, whatever happens to you is fine."

"I don't like your implication," buccellati's voice is not lacking warmth so much as actively annihilating it with every syllable. it's july, but frost is creeping up the metal of the floor lamp to their left. "I will do what is required of my station, abbacchio. regardless of the cost. you can stand here and demand answers all you'd like, but you knew what they would be before you asked. how many ways would you like me to reword it?"

frustrated silence washes off abbacchio in waves. buccellati can see words forming in a ball in his throat, held by a cage of clenched teeth. only respect and the knowledge of punishment keeps them there.

There’s something heavy in Bruno’s eyes, beyond the usual severity of his gaze when it comes to Passione’s matters. It’s glacial and terrible, yet devoid of any rage — he needs precision, not emotion, when it comes to disposing of those who dare get in Polpo’s way.

This is the kind of task he would rather tackle on his own, not because the order was directed at him specifically, but because he can’t simultaneously be a tool and a man.

He doesn’t need to give explanations when he’s leaving. At most, he would leave a note for anyone who might be looking for him and wouldn’t find him in his office. But this time he’s been intercepted, right before he made it through the front door.

Bruno sighs, and for an instant he’s ready to dismiss his offer — not in the kindest of manners, the work can be done without putting any of his men at unnecessary risk —, but he thinks twice. He’s confident in his ability to track targets down, but Abbacchio could save him time.