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Blow after blow reverberates up Buccellati's arms in the ring. Sticky Fingers isn't there to cushion each impact of Abbacchio's padded fists, so every hit that lands sends tingles up to his shoulders and challenges his footing on the mats. Abbacchio is by far the strongest member of their team; his wide frame and few centimeters on Buccellati create an imposing figure for him to square up against. In his last life, Abbacchio had training at the academy to shape him into a competent fighter. In this life, he's picked up some of the dirty tricks along the way. Passione and Buccellati don't care how you fight. Just that you win.
Abbacchio overextends his left arm just a little bit. It's a fractional opening, but fractional openings are all Buccellati needs, and quick as lightning he takes that arm and uses the leftover momentum to hurl Abbacchio to the ground.
Both bodies hit the mats. Abbacchio hisses pain at how Buccellati holds his arm in a twisting grip, struggling against the leverage it presents. There's no sound in the private gym except for their panting and the roar of blood in Buccellati's ears. Some strands of silver hair have fallen out of Abbacchio's messy ponytail and settled in his mouth, stained lips parted in a scowl that's one part defiant, two parts pissed. Something in Buccellati's chest purrs at it.
Not now.
"Tap."
Two thuds on the mat. Buccellati untangles his limbs and rolls to the side, giving Abbacchio space to breathe and inspect the arm that was in a fierce hold not a second earlier. As he stretches and tests the limb, Buccellati is scanning the contours of that arm for injury— Buccellati believes his eyes over someone's word any day, especially Abbacchio, who has hurt himself in the line of duty before— until his eyes trail down to his chest.
While Buccellati is shirtless, leaving every scar and new-forming bruise on display, Abbacchio wears a tight black tank top; and that tank top has been pushed upwards by their struggle, giving Buccellati a view of well-defined hips peeking up over the band of his pants. There's a small bruise there, of unknown origin: was it the result of their work, their sparring, or was it put there by someone else? That Abbacchio sleeps around is old news among their team. Buccellati's mind wanders without his consent, summons the idea of mouthing at the sweat pooling at the ridge and sinking his teeth in—
He bites his tongue. Being alone with Abbacchio always ends with Buccellati gambling on his willpower, frustratingly stuffing down intrusive thoughts that show nowhere on his expression. His attention is wholly focused on smoothing out his heartbeat, and on pointedly ignoring how he can still feel Abbacchio's body pressed into his.
This is getting pathetic.
So pathetic he hasn’t noticed he’s staring, but thankfully some part of him remains proud enough to look distantly pensive instead of whatever combination of aching and annoyed-at-the-fact he feels in his gut.
"Again," he orders.
So they go again. Eight years of surviving through bare-knuckle, dirty fighting have made Buccellati a difficult opponent, but Abbacchio has always met the challenge. Like moody blues can replay events with unnatural precision, Abbacchio's recollection is close to perfect: any trick Buccellati uses works once, and only once, before Abbacchio learns how to anticipate and counter it. Without his stand, he and Abbacchio are equals in terms of skill— even with his ability to detach both sets of limbs, Abbacchio is no pushover.
Abbacchio traps Buccellati's arm high above his head.
"Tap."
Buccellati locks Abbacchio's head between his legs.
"Tap."
Buccellati digs a sharp knee into Abbacchio's back until he shouts.
"Tap."
His body is singing, blood alive, in a way it can only be in a fight. For all of Buccellati's elegance, bespoke suits, and calm disposition, he will always hold a fondness for the wordless language of violence.
Abbacchio twists Buccellati's arm painfully behind his head.
There's no tap. Buccellati grits his teeth, indignant and stubborn.
"Got you," Abbacchio's lips are close to his ear, voice breathy and smug. It sends the butterflies in Buccellati's chest into a flurry, the obstinate, traitorous things. He's in the mood for violence. He’s going to pin them to a display board and lock them behind glass for their unruliness whenever one leone Abbacchio is concerned. That’ll teach them for responding so readily to a taunt, for reminding him of the proximity of Abbacchio's body to his, the salt and flush of his skin, for distracting him from how he needs every last ounce of strength in his frame if he hopes to free himself from this hold.
Abbacchio gives a coercive twist of the arm. Buccellati wants to accuse him of enjoying this. "Well?"
The glare Buccellati shoots him holds all the raw power of the sea in a storm. He spits it like a curse. "Tap."
They part. His scar-marked chest heaves to lessen the battery acid burn of oxygen-deprived blood coursing through him on every elevated heartbeat. Abbacchio's in similar shape. Buccellati has to force his gaze to flick upwards to focus on his face instead; focus intently on Abbacchio’s face so he doesn’t allow his eyes to drift down to admire how his chest ripples as he pants, focus so his mind isn’t tempted to supply him with images of those muscles flexing under his hand as Buccellati pushes him onto the mats for something more intimate than fighting—
Maybe that will wipe that self-satisfied grin off Abbacchio's face. The notion-of makes something stirs behind his ribs. Buccellati feels it pace, hungry, in time with his heart.
He shakes his head. "Again."
There's bite to how Buccellati goes at him now. His punches come out snappier. His carefully-neutral expression has fallen away to something more primal, a snarl at his lips with each connecting hit. The frustration that's been building in his chest, at the thoughts he can't suppress, at the awareness he can't ignore, of the way Abbacchio's increasingly- disheveled appearance makes them all the louder. Every clash that brings them in close is a fire that annihilates his focus to nothing.
Again Abbacchio overextends. It's a weakness Buccellati knows to watch for, and capitalizes on every chance he gets. The wheezing gasp Abbacchio makes as Buccellati's shin connects with his gut, and the grunt that follows as he brings both of them down onto the mat for a second time, is deeply satisfying to both him and the thing behind his ribs.
Except this time, the hold brings their faces close. This time, Buccellati's breath falls over Abbacchio's face, making those loose strands of hair dance. This time, Buccellati feels his heart freeze up, mind locked on the fact that only a few centimeters of open air separate their lips.
Worse, Buccellati realizes he wants very badly to close that gap.
Abbacchio's lavender eyes speak of the same want.
Who knows how long they spend frozen in that moment, the adrenaline-laced almost-kiss, but eventually something snaps. Abbacchio's brow twitches. With a roll of his hips, he flips Buccellati unceremoniously onto the mat.
Buccellati struggles. Without Sticky Fingers, he knows there's no easy way to free himself, and the desire to continue to spar has evaporated with their new positions.
His head, and then his fist, hits the mat. "Tap."
More weight than just a body leaves him when Abbacchio moves off. In secret, Buccellati is glad to have the overwhelming presence off him, even if it does little to ease the irritability off his shoulders; what's worse is how Abbacchio now watches him as they sit, wary and fully aware that he had only won because of Buccellati's split-second distraction. They note Buccellati's mistake, but don't comment on it.
"Want to go again?" he asks instead.
Buccellati considers it. His arms are sore, and he can feel the stinging bruises and cuts from their match that will be blossoming over the next twelve hours. What's more, he knows if he lets this continue, he's going to eventually lose the battle against his will: they'd already come dangerously close, and Buccellati is not about to cross the boundary the two of them have been toeing for months.
He's his boss. It isn't proper.
And even if he wasn't Abbacchio's boss, he has passione to think of. He's still rising, and he isn't in a position to pursue a relationship.
Even if he wants to.
No matter how badly he wants to.
Buccellati flexes his fingers, slowly curling and uncurling his fists. "No," he decides. "That's enough for tonight. We'll both be sore in the morning as is."
A little laugh hisses out Abbacchio's nose. Buccellati pretends to not hear the relief in it. "Sure. Shower?"
"You go ahead. I'll wipe down the mats."
Abbacchio makes a non-committal noise and waves his hand, heading off to the shower. Of course, this has nothing to do with the fact that Buccellati is trying to clear out his head, purposefully putting distance between the two of them to regain some small semblance of sanity.
The door to the locker room clicks shut behind him. He drags the mop and bleach from storage, letting the acrid, sterile scent and repetitive motion burn away anything that falls out of line with his usual trains of thought. Where had he gotten the upper hand on Abbacchio? What had he improved on? What does he need to work at? The three circuits he takes of the mats are his usual thoroughness and not at all Buccellati giving Abbacchio a generous amount of time to shower and get dressed.
He doesn't think he could stand to be in the same room as a shirtless, wet Abbacchio right now. He'd implode on the spot.
Twenty minutes and three passes of the mats makes him feel something close to calm again. The bleach smell sticks unpleasantly to his hands, though he doesn't pay it much mind. In ten minutes he'll be showered and smelling pleasantly of his shampoo, and after that he'll go home and pour himself a nice glass of cognac in order to forget about the want reflected back in Abbacchio's eyes and the small bruise on his hips.
He swings the locker room door open. It presents him a view of powder blue mosaic tiles, warm wooden benches, and Abbacchio's body naked save for a white towel wound around his waist.
Shit.
Freshly-showered, judging by the rivulets that run off his skin. Not that Buccellati is looking at those. His gaze certainly couldn't be categorized as lingering, and it certainly isn't betraying him after its twenty-minute admonishment while he cleaned.
He swallows hard.
Two glasses of cognac.
It occurs to him too late that he's staring again. His expression holds steady with the accumulated experience of eight years of smothering his emotions as a means of survival. He doesn’t know why holding Abbacchio’s gaze is somehow more difficult than staring down the barrel of a gun, only that it is. It’s not even a hard stare. Abbacchio looks, if anything, mildly amused as he extends Buccellati the bottle of water from his bag.
"It takes you twenty minutes to shower?" there’s a tightness to his voice that could be annoyance. Must be annoyance.
He takes the bottle anyway. As the water hits his mouth he does everything in his power not to think of the phrase an indirect kiss.
"It's called conditioner, Buccellati."
He isn’t sure what his frown is for: Abbacchio’s tone, or how hard he finds it to keep his gaze level. Either way it’s a warning without words: watch it.
"You can shampoo and condition in ten minutes," Buccellati retorts.
"Maybe you can. Less hair."
"I suppose," Buccellati hands him the bottle back, half-drained, not realizing the extent of his thirst. "Thank you."
Abbacchio shrugs. The bottle goes back into the bag, and Abbacchio pulls out a wide black v-neck. Buccellati recognizes it; the neck is wide enough that it dips down to below his pecs, outlining the toned muscle there. As he does, Buccellati goes about collecting his supplies for the shower, teeth gritting so hard his jaw bulges behind the blinder of the locker.
"You realize we're the only people who use this gym," Abbacchio asks. "Mista or Fugo won't even touch what you leave in the fridge. They're terrified you'll unzip them."
"It's the principle of it."
A little grunt. Abbacchio hauls his bag over his shoulder just as Buccellati closes the locker. "See you tomorrow?"
"Yeah," he feigns dismissiveness with a wave of his hand. "Ciao."
Something is on Buccellati's tongue that wants so badly for Abbacchio to stay, but for all of the reasons he could contrive, none get past the cage of his teeth. He knows letting this go on is a bad idea. He shouldn't let himself linger on this any longer, should go home and work out this tension with a different kind of fist. And the urge only grows, rises to a crescendo in his chest as Abbacchio's hand comes down on the handle to leave—
"Abbacchio, wait."
For fuck's sake. Now his mouth's betrayed him, too.
Abbacchio turns around. One manicured brow is cocked, frozen in a perfect look of curiosity and mild amusement. It takes Buccellati a moment to string together something— anything— to justify why he asked him to stop.
"Do you want to get something to eat?" he asks. "A new ristorante opened nearby, and I've been meaning to visit it."
"Yeah, why not?" he gives a small huff of laughter, the kind that makes his shoulders swell up and then drop abruptly that Buccellati does not find endearing at all. "After you shower."
Buccellati's eyes snap shut. A long, hissing sigh winds out his nose. Is that all it takes to derail his train of thought? A date that isn't a date?
"Of course. I'll be quick."
Buccellati has never showered faster in his life.