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Intricate filigree on eggshell walls draws Buccellati's eyes upwards to twelve-foot tromp-l'oeil ceilings, where cherubs and peacocks peer down into the villa's ballroom. The string quartet playing a version of Waltz Op. 64, No. 2 fills the air with a richness only matched by the gold leaf on every raised wall panel, and in the center of the space, a dozen couples twirl in elegant box steps in time with the music.
A champagne flute is growing warm in Buccellati's grip. Were this simply a social function, where Polpo's only expectation was for him to put on his most charming face, he might have more than a single glass. But Buccellati's purpose here tonight is to lay the groundwork of a coming war. Twenty-two of the most powerful men and women in Naples court one another over dry wine and live music— and in war, Buccellati does not allow his gaze to be distracted. Twenty-two people means twenty-two sets of motives to discern, twenty-two constant threats to be judged, dismantled, snuffed out; twenty-two relationships to be influenced and, as necessary, sabotaged.
The dancing steps of war are something he knows intimately. The dancing steps of a waltz, however, are foreign to him. Staying among the dancers won't do him any good.
From the outside, Buccellati only seems to lean into Abbacchio beside him; but where his white suit blocks their bodies, he's tapping Abbacchio lightly on the wrist. "Let's move back."
Abbacchio follows without question, his black-on-black suit emphasizing the broad strength of his frame; secretly, Buccellati is thankful for how the solid, immutable weight of Abbacchio's figure seems to swallow the abrasive luxury whole. The way his collar meets pale skin makes the handsome angle of his jaw more prominent.
Buccellati's eyes drop to his champagne. They do not rise until the two of them have broken away from the crowd, hovering beneath a floor-to-ceiling mural of women frolicking in a garden. Buccellati is no wallflower— he commands a calm charisma that makes his name resonate with trust in civilians and respect in Passione. Lingering at the edge of the action feels wrong. It's something that makes his grip tighten slightly on the flute as he finally takes a drink.
"Didn't think I'd ever see you turn down an opportunity to dance," Abbacchio notes dryly. His adam's apple bobs as he takes a sip from his own flute of champagne, though it's less empty than Buccellati remembers, telling him it's not the first.
"I never learned how."
Abbacchio hesitates briefly as he lowers his glass. It's a subtle reaction, but not one that's lost on Buccellati's ever-vigilant gaze. Surprise. Disbelief, maybe. "Really?"
Buccellati hums.
"Huh," his brow twitches like he's both processing this information and deliberating over how to phrase his next question. "Not something Polpo bothered to teach you?"
Buccellati eyes him from the corner of his vision, expression inscrutable. Polpo— that is, Polpo and the tutors he enlisted— taught Buccellati many things. Theology. History. Rhetoric. Violin. Debt settlement. Bone-breaking. Blood-letting. How to use a gun. How to torch a building down to its foundation. But not one person responsible for Buccellati's violent and eclectic education taught him how to dance.
He takes a sip of his champagne. "It wasn't important."
The conversation is neutered by Abbacchio's non-committal hum, the following silence is filled by the transition to The Blue Danube. From this distance, reading anyone's lips is a challenge, and the strings make it impossible to discern even the conversation twenty feet to their left anyway; there's no shortage of things to observe, but Buccellati can't glean concrete details from a single one. His lips twitch into a frown.
One thing he can discern is the press of Abbacchio's lavender eyes into his skin. A question is hanging, unspoken, behind his glossy black lips; Buccellati feels it more than he sees it, aware of the look only in his peripheral.
"Would you like to?"
"Excuse me?" Buccellati asks, having in fact heard him quite clearly.
Abbacchio seems to have waited for the exact moment he goes to drink, but if it's revenge for throwing him earlier or just an inconvenient bit of timing is lost on Buccellati. Not that it matters. Buccellati's poker face will always be better, and the smooth motion continues despite the fact that he knows exactly what Abbacchio just asked but refuses to acknowledge it.
He knows Abbacchio just asked him to dance.
He also knows what closeness does to them both, and why it's a bad idea. That argument is a tired one. They've had it too many times already.
"Learn how to dance," Abbacchio clarifies, pretending his disinterested act is in any way convincing when he's spent the last three minutes working up the will to ask like a madman works up the will to stand in an open field during a thunderstorm. "I don't know much, but I can show you how to box step. Might come in handy."
"Polpo is expecting us to watch for—"
"There's fuck all happening tonight and you know it, Buccellati."
"That doesn't matter."
Abbacchio is right, but that doesn't matter. They have their task and Buccellati is going to see it through to the end.
Even if it bores him to tears.
Even if the prospect of sneaking off to some quiet room, just the two of them, appeals to a part of himself that Buccellati is quietly trying to smother with his own hands.
"You can't be serious."
"We have a job, Abbacchio."
Abbacchio rolls his eyes. "Bullshit. "
Oceanic blues snap to drill into Abbacchio, stern. A test of will is playing out between them: internally, Buccellati is doing the mental math, balancing how much effort it will take to get Abbacchio to drop this (a lot) against how much effort it will take to recover from whatever could go wrong here if they leave for twenty minutes (far less).
He sighs. It's a victory for Abbacchio, though only a technical one.
"You might be right," he's already moving for the exit. "Twenty minutes, Abbacchio. Let's see how good a teacher you are."
With his back turned, Buccellati can't tell if Abbacchio is smirking as he picks up behind. But he imagines he is.
Abbacchio, as it turns out, is an excellent teacher. Buccellati is just a poor student.
This whole affair is grossly unfair. Every ounce of Buccellati's concentration is needed to follow the steps Abbacchio lays out before him, but every ounce of concentration is also needed to ignore how Abbacchio's hand has slipped down to the small of his back and the fact that he does not want him to remove it, ever.
It's pathetic.
What's more pathetic is how, for all of the grace Buccellati projects, for all the brutal elegance and lightning-fast steps when he fights, Bruno Buccellati cannot fucking dance.
His polished black oxfords catch Abbacchio's toes again. The brave face does nothing to hide how Abbaccio's hand tightens minutely on Buccellati's own at the pain. They stop. But the music continues to filter through the walls, only the low warbles of the cello reaching the bedroom they're using as a studio.
"Cazzo," Buccellati hisses.
"It's fine," Abbacchio readjusts his grip on Buccellati's lower back in a way that brings them just a touch closer. Buccellati is suddenly all too aware of the proximity of Abbacchio's chest to his face and how comfortable it would be under his cheek. "Maybe we should try letting you lead."
"I'm used to that."
Faintly, Abbacchio's lips notch into a sardonic grin. "Should we try again?"
The clock tells Buccellati that, somehow, only ten minutes have passed. He doesn't know if his ego and willpower can sustain another ten of this kind of torture.
"Yes. From the top."
At least one part of him is willing to find out.
The night ended without incident. Two weeks pass before they're alone again, and in that time Buccellati had driven himself mad over the steps he couldn't seem to parse that night in the villa. Parts of his hardwood floors are still sticky from the tape he'd placed there to mark where he should go, movements he repeated with the same rigor he once applied to learning how to reload a gun, repeating actions over and over and over again until the motion became as automatic as breathing.
They're three bottles deep when Abbacchio puts a record on. Somewhere in the kind of haze only good wine and better company can put Buccellati in a waltz drifts from the record player and into his ears. Somehow, he ends up standing face to face with Abbacchio.
"Dance with me," he demands.
An exasperated half-laugh, half-huff winds its way out from between Abbacchio's lips. "You're drunk."
He must be. That's the only reason Buccellati would ever be stupid enough to ignore all of his self-imposed rules about subordinates (well, a subordinate) and duty and the ever-forward direction of his gaze. Alcohol has a novel way of making him stop giving a fuck.
"I am still capable of moving my feet," he bites back. "And so are you."
"Are you? I doubt that."
"I'll prove it."
Abbacchio cocks a brow, but doesn't stop him as he sets their arms in the right position. This time it's Buccellati who rests his hand on Abbacchio's back, tugging him close with the kind of strength he usually only reserves for manhandling.
Which he supposes this is.
Of a sort.
A much more appealing sort than the usual kind he does, which ends in bloody noses and broken hands.
Buccellati guides Abbacchio in a simple movement. Like all things, Buccellati does naturally better when he's leading, not following, and Abbacchio steps easily alongside him. An intoxicating heat that's more than the wine is pooling between them, magnetic, and Buccellati feels like the tides tugged by the moon. Down, down his head falls, until it comes to rest on Abbacchio's chest.
He feels the stutter of his breath that might be a gasp. But Abbacchio doesn't stop.
Doesn't stop him, either.
"You've been practicing," he notes.
Their bodies fall into rhythm with the music, gradually allowing their movements to become more flowing and natural until they're floating along the perimeter of Buccellati's living room. He thinks he's starting to get the hang of this, seeing the patterns beneath the structure like he learned how to box all those years ago, right up until his shoe lands square on Abbacchio's foot.
"Cazzo!"
"And what do you have to complain about, huh? My foot hurts."
Buccellati scowls at him like he's burned him. "Why is this so difficult, Abbacchio?"
"I don't know," he admits. "But you're already better than you were. It'd be a crime to stop now."
Oh.
"Right," something dangerously close to fond hisses out Buccellati's nose. "From the top."
They stay that way until the record runs out and sun rises.