#pulledplug

ㅤ ㅤ Prattling, prattling, prattling — the sound of her voice spread in the air like a warm summer breeze carressing their skin, bringing some light as the sun hid behind dark clouds. Raindrops hitting the windows formed a cacophonous but pleasant symphony, the building whistling in the wind like a hideous prison. Nature was losing the battle, though. Memories, desires, plans! Sweet nothings and valuable advice sharing the same space, the storm of ideas rivaling the storm outside the house. If Reimi could not release her energy walking through the streets, joining the living organism that was Naples, feeling the pulse of all people as if they were one, someone needed to be her audience to listen to her speech. Abbacchio was not there by chance. He was not a worthy adversary, even if he dominated whatever the current topic was. He could cut her wings with his assertiveness, but he didn't. In fact, he was putting out the fire with gasoline.

ㅤ ㅤ Both elbows resting on the table, her chin was supposed to be propped up on her fists if it wasn't moving up and down without interruption. Her gaze was divided into two unequal parts, the fragment of that spectacle of unsaid beauty could not compete with his reactions to her words. Eyebrows brought together, painted lips pursed tight, eyes shining with some idea that never knew freedom — until that moment. ❝ A part? How big is this part? ❞ Oh, Reimi could not prevent the amusement, almost childish mischief across her face. Taken by surprise but able to regain dominance with enviable speed, her whole body turned towards Abbacchio, giving him all the attention he deserved. The answer, or its existence, did not matter. She already won. ❝ Considering how hard I worked to get your attention, it’s a good start. ❞ Her head tilted slightly to the side, hair strands trying to hide her features but stopped by a quick gesture of her fingers. Happy, grateful, even silly. The path to her heart didn't have twists and turns.

➤ you seem to be busy for new interactions / ✧ i don’t have ideas so i can’t approach you yet.

"so you've never been outside of naples, then?"

the nearly-drained bottle of courvoisier in the sand is damning proof of how much they've let the evening get away from them— must be letting it get away from them, if they've whittled the small talk down to conversations of the places they've been. to the question, buccellati weighs the last splash of cognac and his response in equal measure.

          "I've been to milan," he answers. quantity and duration of stay are left in the air— a frustratingly exact response, guarded even with the pleasant warmth of alcohol in his gut and the smell of tobacco from the night's cigar drifting between them. where his mind remains locked, though, his limbs have landed him right next to abbacchio, legs knocking easily in the sand without much mind for the implication-of. far more can be drawn from abbacchio's leather jacket resting on buccellati's shoulders, offered in defense against the september chill. through the flyaway strands of abbacchio's moonlit silver hair, buccellati sees his brow cock skeptically.

and the abbacchio licks him.

abbacchio licks him, and the contents of the entire conversation previous have been hurled off the deck of buccellati's awareness and plunge into the depths, never to be retrieved again. that traitorous heart of his skips a beat.

          "you're not lying," abbacchio notes, then takes the glass of cognac from him as if he didn’t just run his tongue up another man’s cheek.

a frown takes up residence on buccellati's face. they must be really drunk, if abbacchio is feeling that bold, and buccellati is feeling charitable enough to not scold him for the cooling trail of slime up his cheek. there must be a word for this kind of tension, he thinks; but what it may be is lost on him, like so many other thoughts and elegant words get thrown overboard whenever abbacchio sits close to him. and then abbacchio does something so daring and so stupid that it should earn him a punch or at least a rebuttal, bruno buccellati has broken bones for less, but somehow he knows how to be just daring enough and just challenging enough to poke at the hungry animal of buccellati's heart.

and who is he if he doesn't answer a taunt with a taunt? he knows abbacchio loves his predictable underreactions.

loves how he gets even more.

          "you know, abbacchio..." he begins, shiftly minutely under the heavy leather to face him.  "licking is effective, true. but I know another, more direct method of determining when lies come out of someone's mouth... would you like me to show you? tell me something. what's your favourite colour? let me see if I can suss out your lie."

each word drops buccellati's voice lower, until it's little more than tantalizing bait at the end of a line. like the tides drag driftwood and all the things the ocean swallows inevitably to the shore, buccellati's dripping tone draws abbacchio closer until the minute distance between them could hardly be considered distance at all. and on abbacchio's expression is that familiar cocked-brow skepticism, a curl of his lips that's half amusement, half curiosity.

         "yellow.”

and the moment he does, buccellati's fingers tangle into those flyaways like they've been yearning to all night, their lips colliding with familiar roughness. probing. the second-hang cognac hazes his mind in a different way when he tastes abbacchio with it.

hook, line, sinker.

september chill returns between them. buccellati recedes, bringing his fingers back beneath abbacchio's coat to hug it closer to his body. the pink of his tongue darts across his lips as he ruminates over the taste, as if he's giving it deep consideration and not just enjoying the combination of drink-lipstick-abbacchio.

          "that's a lie," he concludes.

abbacchio huffs. buccellati isn't sure if it's dull amusement or shock, but decides he likes either.

          "is it? maybe you should try again."

HOW DARE YOU PUT THA T ICON

The noise bleed through his headphones buzzed louder than a hornet nest in their silence. He’d sat cross-legged on the bed fifteen minutes ago; nothing moved him when he dove into music. The smack of his fist on his thigh made a rhythm of ‘thwack thwack thwack’. It chained a crude parallel to the music every other beat; like a drunk singing off key. His eyes were half closed, Tupac rapped about his homies, the dream of world peace, the ways bodies broke under violence. He shook his head to the beat. The words were a trance, didn’t need to tap into something primal so much as siphon it. He was a creature of himself. 

The song marched on.

‘The question is will I live? No one in the world loves me I'm headed for danger, don't trust strangers Put one in the chamber whenever I'm feelin' this anger’

A minute passed when he froze; he lowered his arms. Something he couldn’t name cracked without sound. He chewed his trembling lip. Fuck, the panic in his voice wouldn’t drown.

“Mista, Mista! You ever get tired of me?”

      that face. it was different, but his aura. the way he      carried himself. everything about him angered her      to her very core, but she couldn’t figure out why.      it was just as if his very existence pissed her off.