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Opening his heavy eyelids in someone else’s bed wasn’t even the worst part of Bucciarati’s morning — and not a novelty for him, either. A short but intense night in a shady club became a pastime he indulged in every other weekend, along with a drink or two for courage. The pounding headache intensifying with every step was a clear sign he had one too many, though, and it was an issue if he was planning to spend the Saturday productively.
He got out of the man’s bed with a hiss, failing to keep his shaky legs straight. Dragging his heavy body to the bathroom, he was trying to remember the guy’s name — something starting with an L, that he was nearly certain of. The larger issue was the name he made up. It was Nico two weeks prior — a simple one, easy to remember. But he let the creative juices flow a little too extensively last night, leaving him clueless as to what he made up this time. It must’ve been unusual, because Bucciarati vaguely recalled the guy’s surprised expression.
It didn’t matter, anyway. The guy wouldn’t remember. They never did.
He opened the door and glanced at the washing machine laden with rubbish. A bunch of hair ties, bobby pins, a black lipstick, a police identification card, the usual.
Wait, an identification card?
Bucciarati grabbed the ID to inspect it further. There he was, Leone Abbacchio, with a blurry picture — seemingly taken a long time prior, back when his hair was short. Well, at least he knew the name now. But that made little difference.
Bucciarati was a wanted man. Wanted in a bad way — by the police, that was. One slip-up, and he’d be done for. It seemed too convenient for a cop to stumble upon him in the club and take him home. His heartbeat sped up just thinking about all the things he might’ve said while drunk. He was so out of it that he wouldn’t even know if he let something important slip.
Killing the guy seemed a little extreme, but if things got heated… Though he preferred to get some information out of him instead — slight blackmail at best, nothing excessive. Wake the guy up, get the upper hand with Sticky Fingers, make him talk. Then leave, preferably forever. Simple as that.
He did his thing in the bathroom, calm and composed, raising no suspicion — not like anyone would know, anyway, but better safe than sorry. He opened the door slowly, taking note of the surroundings, then came out, placing soft and quiet steps. He must’ve looked ridiculous, walking around in nothing but a pair of tight boxers. He took a mental note to always put on pants when leaving someone’s bed.
To his utter surprise, Abbacchio was already awake, dressed in nothing but loose tracksuit bottoms, staring at Bucciarati in horror. Why, though? Bucciarati hasn’t done anything yet.
“I see how it is,” Bucciarati began to talk. “You thought you’d—”
“What’s that fucking thing?” Abbacchio pointed to the door.
Bucciarati glanced sideways. “What thing?”
“The big blue thing with a zipper for a dick. What the fuck is this, Benito?”
“Beni—” Shit, this was what he came up with? No wonder Abbacchio was startled when he told him his name. Idiot. He had bigger problems than the name, though. The bastard could see Sticky Fingers, and if he did, he certainly had a stand of his own.
“So that’s the grand plan? Send out a cop with a stand to beat me up, huh?”
Sticky stood tall, ready for a fight. Its knees bent slightly, making Abbacchio shudder in terror.
“I’ve no idea what the fuck you’re on about. And get that monster out of my damn living room!” Abbacchio shouted, backing off until he hit the wall.
“Wait, you actually don’t know what’s going on?” Bucciarati relaxed, calling Sticky Fingers back. “You don’t know who I am?”
Panting, Abbacchio searched the room with his eyes. “Where is it? Why did it disappear? Am I dreaming?” He started pinching his wrist until it turned red.
“No, stop it.” Bucciarati came up to him and held both his arms, separating his fingers from the wrists. “You’re not dreaming. Not sure why you can see my stand, but…” He sighed. “I thought you lured me in to get some information out of me.”
“What?”
“Well, you’re a cop.”
Abbacchio raised one eyebrow in pure disbelief. “Are you a criminal or something?”
Bucciarati opened his mouth. “Well, I—” He closed it, thinking of the best way to save his face. “If you tell anyone you saw me, I’m telling your superior you sleep with gang members.”
For a moment, the world froze. Abbacchio’s eyes were the size of chestnuts. “You’re a what?!”
Shit. Bucciarati should stop saying things while hungover.
They stood in silence for a moment before Abbachio freed himself from Bucciarati’s tight grip. “Shit, shit, shit, shit .” He took a deep breath in, staring at the ceiling. “If you don’t tell anyone, then I won’t either.” He held his hand out, waiting for the deal to be sealed.
Bucciarati squeezed just a tad too tightly. “Deal.”
They parted with a sigh.
“Want some coffee?” asked Abbacchio, seemingly too shocked to delve into why Bucciarati had a monster following him around. “I think I have some cookies, too.”
“Sure.” Bucciarati stated plainly, following him to the kitchenette in the same room. “By the way, my name’s not Benito. I made it up.”
“Glad to hear that. I thought your parents hated you.”
Bucciarati scoffed. “My mom’s not a fan of my occupation, but other than that…”
Bucciarati went back to the bedroom to put on his pants, then came back and sat by the table, watching Abbacchio go from one side of the counter to the other, preparing the meal.
“What is your name, then?” he asked.
A knock on the door saved Bucciarati from making the choice of whether to tell the truth or make up a new name — a believable one, for a change. The sound came from the mudroom, and seemed rather insistent.
Abbacchio glanced at Bucciarati with concern. “Let’s pretend we’re not here. I don’t want anyone to find out gangsters sleep over at my place,” he whispered with a smirk.
It was a shame Abbacchio was a cop. Bucciarati was almost beginning to like him. Besides, he was hot, walking around with that muscular back. His hands rose and fell, searching through cabinets Bucciarati could probably barely reach, and the thought alone made his legs weaker.
After a few more irritated knocks, they heard the key turning in the door and looked at each other in pure dread.
“Shit,” Abbacchio mouthed, rushing to the other room, slamming the door behind him, leaving Bucciarati alone and confused.
He heard muffled voices coming from behind the wall. Someone was asking Abbacchio why he wasn’t opening the door, clearly annoyed. “We were supposed to go out, too. You forgot again?”
The puzzles began to fit in Bucciarati’s head. A man with a key to Abbacchio’s apartment, coming in on a Saturday morning, with no warning. Asking why Abbacchio forgot to take him out again . And Abbacchio getting paranoid about him seeing Bucciarati in his kitchen, topless .
It all made sense. And though Bucciarati preferred not to be seen by more people that day, he had no intention to hook up with cheaters . He stood up and grabbed the door handle with full certainty.
Both men turned to the door in an instant, staring at half-dressed Bucciarati.
“Who the fuck is this , Leone?” The man was annoyed at first, before his features eased into realisation. “Why is…” He seemed flabbergasted at the sight before him. “Why is Bruno Bucciarati walking around your house half-naked?”
The man knowing his name wasn’t enough to distract Bucciarati from the objective. “I slept with him last night,” he said confidently, crossing his arms. “Yeah, we had sex, for your information.”
If Abbacchio’s eyes were the size of chestnuts before, now they turned into tangerines. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.
“You’re gay?” the man asked, equally as bewildered as he was amused. “Holy shit, Leone.”
Bucciarati froze. Somehow, he must’ve misjudged the circumstances.
Abbacchio turned towards the wall and slammed his head against it. “I’m… Just don’t tell anyone.”
The man stood there, completely motionless, trying to say something but failing each time his mouth opened, until he finally uttered a broken sentence. “Hide, dude.” He looked in Bucciarati’s direction.
Bucciarati hesitated. “Huh?”
“Hide! Fucking hide, before—”
The door opened again — wide and loud. A group of three people came in with a blast. A tall cake packed in a huge plastic container sat in the hands of a middle-aged woman in the centre, and two other people swung helium-filled balloons on her sides. “Happy birthday, Leo—” she began to speak, but the words stalled in her throat. The cake landed on the floor — fortunately still in the container, though the shape changed distinctly.
Bucciarati felt three pairs of eyes observe his chest, shift to Abbacchio’s, then back to him.
“What in the—” the older man on her side tried to say something, but failed. A younger woman stood with her mouth agape, not even attempting to make sense of the situation.
Abbacchio’s face turned a deep shade of red. “It’s not what it looks like,” he tried to protest, in vain. It couldn’t have been more obvious, especially with all the lipstick stains Bucciarati still had on his collarbones.
“I— I should be leaving,” Bucciarati tried to get out hurriedly, all the stuff he left be damned.
He was stopped abruptly by a tight grip of one of the women on his arm — presumably Abbacchio’s mother, though Bucciarati was scared to make assumptions again.
“Your friend can stay, Leone. We can all have some cake.”
Abbacchio’s eyes were glazed with tears. “Thanks, guys,” he said in a tired voice. “Come in.”
“It was my brother, you dickhead.” Abbacchio muttered, stuffing his face with what remained of the cake. He was on his fifth piece now. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter, anyway.”
They were sitting on the sofa, by the table, with four other plates left empty. Fully dressed, at last.
Bucciarati clenched his jaw in embarrassment. “I meant well…” he said, poking his first piece with a dinner-sized fork. “You think they know who I am?”
“My brother, yeah, clearly,” Abbacchio answered truthfully. “But the rest, don’t think so.” He glanced at Bucciarati. “It’s okay. He won’t tell anyone.”
Not like there was anything left to tell. It must’ve been bad enough already, even without Bucciarati’s occupation taken into consideration.
“By the way, happy birthday,” Bucciarati mumbled, smiling at Abbacchio with the most cheerful expression he was able to pull. “I can grant some birthday wishes as, you know, a retribution. For all you had to endure.”
Abbacchio snorted. “A glass of wine would do. And disappearing from my life forever afterwards, preferably.”
Bucciarati chuckled. “You got it. I have a good one in my pocket,” he offered with a mischievous smirk. He unzipped his thigh to showcase an unlabeled bottle of red wine, then zipped it back up to Abbacchio’s absolute bewilderment. “Made it myself.”
“Freak,” he murmured, taking the bottle from Bucciarati.
“You’re not gonna ask me how I did it?”
“It’s not my first time seeing things, so… I’ll just let it slide.” Abbacchio went to a cabinet and took out a pair of glasses. “I always thought I was crazy, though, so at least this one’s sorted.”
Bucciarati heard that stand users tend to be pulled towards each other, but it was the first time he found a cop with one. The part about disappearing from Abbacchio’s life could be hard to fulfil considering the characteristics of the unusual abilities. Which, for whatever reason, made Bucciarati optimistic. He didn’t want to leave Abbacchio’s life for good, and it was a problem he never knew he’d encounter — not with a cop, of all people.
“Here,” Abbacchio placed a glass on the table. “For vanishing from each other’s lives after this.”
The glasses clinked.
“You’re gonna be an issue, aren’t you?” Bucciarati asked enigmatically, taking a sip.
Abbacchio mirrored the motion. “Am I?” He wiped some of the wine from Bucciarati’s lip, then brought their faces together. “Suppose I already am.”
He kissed Bucciarati, cupping his jaw in his free hand. His lips tasted of strong grape wine, and he smelled of last night’s mistakes. And Bucciarati knew he wouldn’t be able to get over him for a while.
“Disappearing from each other’s lives, my ass,” he whispered into Abbacchio’s lips, feeling the corners of his mouth rise.
“I mean, you’ve already met my parents. No looking back now.”