Work Text:
When it came to bartending, Leone Abbacchio was the best in town.
He wasn’t the most obvious fit for the job. He didn’t particularly like talking with strangers, and his ‘look’ didn’t necessarily fit the upscale venue where he spent his nights. But the money was decent, and Bruno would swing by when he was in the neighborhood.
“Leoooon.”
Abbacchio huffed, eyes sliding over to the middle-aged man on the other side of the bar. He’d thought his first name would be easier for soused patrons to pronounce, but more often than not he ended up responding to some haphazard slurring of Leo or Lion or —
“Leonyyy…”
“Alright, that’s enough.” He pushed up his sleeves and slinked out from behind the counter. “You’re done for the night. What’s your room number?”
“1217. Want a key?” The man’s mouth slipped into a smirk, but before Abbacchio had a chance to take a swing the man had been caught by the shoulder by the… bouncer?
Since when was there a bouncer at a hotel bar?
But it didn’t seem to matter. The man was spirited away, and suddenly he was alone.
He caught a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, but figured it must be a trick of the light.
“It’s Leone, right?”
There were 5 more minutes before his shift was supposed to start. An unlit cigarette hung from Leone’s mouth as he turned to find a younger man—boy, really—peeking from the doorway, though he didn’t venture past the threshold.
“Who’s asking?”
“Can I come in?”
His lip quirked. “…Would be bad business to stop you.”
The boy’s face shifted, transforming caution into curiosity, and he slinked through the room silently. He came to perch on the stool at the farthest end of the bartop, by the glassware.
“I’m Giorno.”
Leone didn’t ask, but he guessed it wasn’t bad to know. He rolled the cigarette to the other side of his mouth and let the silence settle heavy over them again.
“…Are you allowed to smoke in here?”
“No, but I’m not smoking.”
There was another beat as the clock ticked over to 16:00. “…So, can I get you something to drink?” Leone huffed out a breath as he slipped the cigarette into the half-apron he mostly wore for show. “Giorno.”
He’d expected him to jump, blush, or… something. But no, Giorno just tipped his head.
“What do you have?”
“It’s a bar, we have whatever you want.”
“Oh!” That seemed to make something click, and he shifted forward in his seat. “A lemonade sounds good.”
It took a moment for Abbacchio to realize that the kid wasn’t joking. But he still had to be sure. “Are you… serious?”
“It’s warm out.” Giorno’s mouth fell into a little pout, as if that coupled with his rationale would make his request less ridiculous. “Do you not have it?”
“Of course I—“ He managed to turn around before rolling his eyes, proud of himself for managing to keep some semblance of hospitality. “One lemonade coming up.”
If they had been anywhere but his place of employment.
Leone dutifully reached for a glass and headed for the opposite side of the bar; he could feel his gaze following every movement. Yet when he returned, Giorno made a calculated effort to look away, resting his cheek in his hand as if terribly bored waiting those long twenty seconds.
The ice clinked against the glass as it slid neatly across the counter.
“There you go.”
“Thank you,”—and then, after a thought, he added—“Leone.”
‘It’s Leone, right?’
His lip curled, half-snarl half-smirk, as Giorno received his answer. Fuckin’ brat.
“Want me to keep it open?” Abbacchio asked coolly and delighted in the way the kid seemed to struggle for an answer. “Your tab.” Nothing, still. “D’you wanna pay now, or later?
“Later is fine.”
“Planning on staying long?”
“Is that alright?”
“As long as you pay, and,” He shrugged and pushed a slip of paper towards Giorno. A menu. “as long as you drink.”
The tension was mercifully cut by the arrival of a group of women, chittering and cheerful and most certainly of-age. The change in Leone’s countenance was immediate, if not radical. He squared his shoulders and let his brow relax, his hands smoothing over his apron before he left the little blonde-haired brat to his lemonade.
“…Another?”
“Please.”
Leone didn’t bother to hide his eyerolls anymore. Giorno supposed that he should be insulted that he didn’t—but every time, he couldn’t keep himself from smiling. After all, it meant that he was being honest, didn’t it?
Leone had worked every shift this week, and each day at 16:00 Giorno had rooted himself to the furthest seat at the bar.
He still ordered lemonade, even after the bartender showed him the name-brand bottle. And then when Leone told him it would be cheaper just to buy his own, Giorno only shrugged and said it tasted better here. Which it did. Maybe not so much because of the brand, but because of the view.
The glass slid neatly into his hands, and he nodded a quick grazie before Leone retreated back to the other side of the bar. Giorno took a sip and watched.
He looked… different when he was mixing a drink. Eyes focusing as he pushed up his sleeves, or maybe re-tied his hair. Some little motion to signal his shift in attention. It was endlessly fascinating to try and guess what liquor Leone would reach for next, or how long he’d hold it upside-down. One, two, three seconds, then a turn of the wrist.
Giorno had started to recognize certain orders, and could perform the order of operations in his head. But it was always Leone’s hands that he pictured wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
Around his—
And just like that it was done. That one was a whiskey sour. He’d thought about choosing that, but what if he didn’t like the taste of whiskey?
He glanced at his phone. Five more minutes.
Leone stepped out from behind the bar as if on cue, and Giorno’s eyes blew wide. Shit! Not now, it was the worst possible time to take a break!
“Leone!”
His voice surprised himself, too. Four minutes. Giorno tipped back his drink in one gulp and fixed his lips into a frown.
“What?”
“Can you,” Passive voice? He chided himself. How many times had he rolled the exact words he wanted over in his mouth? “I want to order something.”
His fingers traced the rim of the glass. What was he so self-conscious for? It was stupid. Childish. And he was not a child, or at least wouldn’t be, three minutes from now. But keeping count was childish too.
“If it’s another glass of—“
“A lemon drop.” Even the word tasted bitter on his tongue, and Giorno tipped his head in that catlike, coquettish way. “You can make that right?”
There was a moment of silence where he felt certain that the whole bar could hear the pounding of his heart. And then with a crooked, painted smirk, Leone got to work.
He plucked a lemon from the cooler and a knife from the block. One cut, lengthwise, to halve, and then a swipe of the flesh along the rim. Leone’s nails sunk into the rind—they must have. Giorno didn’t seem to notice his own mimicry, the half-moons he carved into his palm.
Two minutes. Ice, vodka, then a long squeeze of the fruit. He didn’t even particularly like lemons, at this point it just felt… well, like a cheeky joke. The bartender picked up another bottle, then a small carafe. Giorno let his eyes linger over his face, only to force down a small guilty noise when the other man caught him staring. He couldn’t even hear the shaker over the echo of his pulse between his ears.
Leone wiped his hands on his apron. Next came the straining, then serving. And for once, one minute ‘til, the glass was for Giorno. He placed a hotel napkin between them, followed by the drink itself.
“There you go.”
“Don’t you want to check?”
“Check what?”
Giorno’s brow furrowed. “My ID.”
Leone huffed out a laugh, but Giorno didn’t see what was so funny. He pulled the card from his pocket and held it out to him.
“You’re supposed to check.”
“I thought you were perceptive, kid.” He scoffed, “Have you seen me card anyone? This whole week?”
“Well, no—”
“So why would I start with you?”
Why would he? “Because you’re good at your job, and you’re supposed to.”
“Fine.” If he hadn’t known better, he would have thought there was a brush of color down Leone’s neck. He snatched the ID from Giorno’s hand. “But if it’s your birthday or some shit, you better be prepared.”
“Why?” It was his turn to flush. “For what?”
And for the first time, Leone seemed almost dangerous. “Well, Giorno Giovanna.” He moved suddenly, fishing two shot glasses from the drying rack and the same bottle of vodka from before. “It’s a bartender’s job to get you fucked up on your birthday.”
He poured, served, and then just… looked at him.
“Cheers.”
It was so ridiculous that Abbacchio almost had to laugh.
Giovanna, red in the face after just one cocktail and a shot, was the most talkative he’d ever been. Leone had mentioned something about the lemons and the kid (not a kid, some small voice reminded him) had immediately begun an interrogation into the drink. A question drunk. Great.
Were they Amalfi or Sorrento lemons? It apparently mattered, and Giorno wasn’t impressed when Leone didn’t know the answer.
“Well, I don’t take criticism from teenagers.”
“It’s not a criticism!” He puffed out his cheeks, “You should just know what your ingredients are.”
“In case someone asks?”
“Exactly.”
Oh god. Giorno was being so saccharinely sincere that it was almost endearing, as if everyone came in to ask about the lemons before ordering baby’s first drink.
“Do you want another or not?”
“…Yes.”
He made a show of his compliance, even as their hands brushed along the stem of the glass. “No more lemons, though.”
“Alright.”
“Any preference?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“A what?”
Leone struggled to hide his snicker, but a straight face was important for getting the reaction he wanted. Not that he wanted. But. “I said, do you want a blow job?”
He could almost see the steam threatening to pour out of Giorno’s ears. “Are you— can you?— I mean, if you’re offering, I…” He sputtered, brow drawn tight in confusion, but somehow managed to keep eye contact.
If he was offering.
“This one’s on me.” Abbacchio could make a blow job with his eyes closed, but to do so would mean missing the impending meltdown. Giorno squirmed in his seat, the idle thought of what he’d offered seeming to slide down his spine.
Not that he was much better—how easy it’d be to anchor his hands to the side of the stool and slip beneath the bar—but his apron hid whatever evidence of his own arousal might have been stirring.
He broke their stare for just a moment to grab the whipped cream. When he returned it seemed as if Giorno had managed to work out his bait-and-switch, and his face had soured into a delightful pout. “Disappointed?”
“Should I be?”
Smartass. “No, of course not.” Leone covered his smile with his glass. “Bottoms up.”
Shit.
Abbacchio laughed as Giorno tried to fish the ice cube out of his top, his attempt at ‘tossing one back’ having gone miserably awry, and came to the horrifying, baffling conclusion that the kid was charming when he wasn’t trying so hard.
Maybe it was some twisted sense of superiority that Leone had never indulged, but he… sort of liked this little cat and mouse game. At least as long as he was the cat, plying and pawing and pushing another drink.
And much to his surprise, Giorno pushed back. Or, well, tossed.
“Alright, that’s enough.” The words were familiar, but his tone was more jovial than threatening. Leone wrapped his hand around the forgotten glass and finished it for him.
“Is it?” Giorno huffed, “I thought you were going to ‘fuck me up.’”
“You’ll feel it in the morning, kid.”
“Will I?” Again with the questions. “Do you want to make sure?”
He made a small noise of disbelief and turned away, starting to wash up. What the hell did Giovanna mean by that? “No more drinks.”
There was no one left but them, so the quiet should have been expected. Welcome, even. But Leone found himself throwing glances over his shoulder, waiting for another… something. But Giorno just sat there politely, twisting a lock of hair between his fingers and frowning.
Disappointed?
Why would he care? What did it matter?
Should he be?
Tch. Just some stupid kid across a bar. He’d met dozens. Giorno Giovanna wasn’t anything—anyone—
“Leone?”
He turned a little too quick, a little too eager for his ego to bear.
“I want to go to my room.” His face was flushed but determined. “I want you to go to my… with me, my room with me.”
And then Giorno Giovanna unceremoniously slumped back into his chair, pouting as he waited for his answer.
Had he just… tried to proposition him?
More importantly, was he going to say yes?
Leone felt his lip twitch into a twisted grin, and before he knew it he was reaching for the whiskey. One last pull for the road. “Depends. What room?”
His answer was immediate. “Presidential suite.”
Presidential—?!
“What the fuck, kid.”
“I’m not a kid.” He offered next, “I’m Giorno Giovanna.” And then, seemingly without a second thought, “My father owns the hotel.”
A shiver ran down his spine, and he almost spit out his whiskey. At least the dad explained the suite, he supposed.
“That’s one floor down, right?” Abbacchio didn’t wait for an answer before slipping out from behind the bar. One hand snuck behind Giorno’s back, his thumb brushing along his spine, and he leaned in close enough to feel the heat of his cheeks. “Can you walk, Giorno?”
He grinned. “Are you offering to carry me?”
Leone rolled his eyes and was met with a short laugh, and Giorno unsteadily jumped down from his perch to grab the other man’s wrist. They took the stairs instead of the elevator.
Their lips met the moment they crossed the threshold, messy and biting and skilless, kicking off their shoes as they stumbled their way to the bed. Giorno was too short and Leone was too impatient. Everything tasted of alcohol, especially him, and he chased the amaretto-sweet of his tongue. Hands met over the buckle of Giorno’s belt.
He had promised him a blowjob, hadn’t he?
“You mind?” He buried his voice against Giovanna’s pulse; could feel his hum. Okay. “Okay.”
Abbacchio worked free the belt, then the button. He hooked his thumbs through the loops and tugged Giorno’s slacks down to his knees, palm ghosting over the tent in his boxers on the way up to…
Fuckin’ lightweight.
He wiped a smear of lipstick from the corner of the younger man’s lips, who then sleepily chased his heat on instinct. It was sort of cute, even if it meant an early end to their tryst.
Leone went through the motions, still—peeling off his shirt, then Giorno’s, and then finishing what he’d started before. He tossed their clothes into a corner to be dealt with in the morning. The least he could get out of tonight was a good night’s sleep.
“Leo…?”
“Shut it.” He slotted himself behind Giorno, one arm slinging over the boy’s waist possessively. And then, with just the slightest hesitation, Abbacchio pressed a kiss to the curve of Giorno’s neck. “…G’night, birthday boy.”