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A thing of beauty demands our attention, and Leone is locked the fuck in on the scantily clad man with whom he shared a bottle of wine and a cramped double bed last night, resulting in them sharing a few whispered words of praise, and a moan or two, or more, by the early morning.
Bucciarati’s studio apartment is nice (Leone's mom would have called it “cozy”); it's much nicer than Leone’s inland rental. The morning sun filters through the window, throwing sharp golden shapes onto the wooden floor and onto the nicest piece of furniture in the house. The tufted bench is pastel green, with gold threads tracing the upholstery stitch-work and superfluous tassels dangling from the skirt. Leone keeps meaning to ask about it – because it doesn’t really match anything else in the place. He’d ask right now, but he is too entranced with who is half supported by it, humming absentmindedly, hollowing out the cheeks of his bum, as he leans this way and that, making Leone's fingers itch, remembering their firmness and power.
Bucciarati’s skin, caramel latte smooth with scant dark hairs, looks amazing in the dim room. Leone is getting an eyeful of it because it would seem Bucciarati doesn’t realize that Leone is awake. Or maybe he does? One thing is for sure, Bucciarati is taking his sweet time choosing how he will dress for this run-of-the-mill Tuesday whilst wearing an arsenal of temptation – a pair of black lace underwear, hiked higher on one cheek that flexes as he leans onto the bench, a matching bralette with a strap that is currently askew and looped about a firm bicep and, to Leone, the most carnally alluring bit - a pair of mauve silk socks held up by garters which indent Bucciarati’s athletic calves.
He wasn't wearing garters yesterday.
Bucciarati's fingers walk across the hangers until he finds something he likes; with languid finesse, he presses the disregarded options deeper into the recesses of the closet so he can survey his selection better. With an adorable head-tilt, Bucciarati considers the suit before him, then leisurely pushes past it, and turns his attention to the next.
Dragon eyes dart back down to the straps of the garters that jolt a memory loose from his head. The first time they hooked up, Bucciarati was wearing sock garters — not the pair he sees now — but he remembers when Bucciarati unexpectedly pulled him close shortly after they fucked up some American goons that thought they'd talk shit about a man wearing lingerie. It would have been one thing had it been on the street, but it was in Libeccio, Bucciarati's home base, and an example had to be made. Leone remembers sloppy, adrenaline-laced kisses in his hair, neck and ear, and lips that tugged on his earlobe and begged, not ordered, Leone to take him. He pushed Bucciarati into the restroom; Sticky zipped the door closed. He hoisted Bucciarati up against the sink, and when he dropped to a crouch to pull those tight, white pants off, he saw them. Leone was overcome with the need to tongue those straps. To worship those legs with nips and licks, the tip of his tongue exploring under the elastic and then working his way up to inner thighs and a bulge that was confined in lace—
Leone's mind snaps back to the present when his wandering eyes land upon a detail becoming more and more evident in the light of the rising sun. He knows Bucciarati has a meeting with Polpo in under an hour. If he were a good soldato who knew his place, he would be getting up and figuring out breakfast. Unfortunately for his potential career aspirations, his greedy eyes land upon testimony of their coupling. For at least half an hour after their passion gave way to sleepy satisfaction, Leone gently traced lacy patterns with his fingernails on Bucciarati's sweat-cooled back as they lay, heart upon heart. When Bucciarati began to snore, Leone hesitantly spelled out, again and again, the words he was still too afraid to speak aloud to the only man he had known worthy of such declarations. Thankfully, Bucciarati couldn't see the faint, incriminating flourishes of Leone's "T", "i", "a", "m," and "o" repeatedly scratched pink upon his supple, tanned back.
Worried that he would do something that would give him away, Leone elects to start a conversation only vaguely related in the hope that Bucciarati will put on a shirt and hide his lover's confession. ”How is it that you know for certain which socks you are going to wear, but haven’t picked out your pants or shirt?” His voice didn't quite convey the debonair charm he was hoping for, but it was close enough.
A hand freezes in midair, in the most dancerly manner, the chin tucks, and Leone can feel Bucciarati's grin and gleeful side-eye before he sees them.
“Good morning, Abbacchio,” Bucciarati purrs over his shoulder. He keeps leafing through his wardrobe, though the motions now seem more for show. He noisily drags a hangered suit across the bar. "Did you sleep well?"
Leone leans up on his elbows and quirks a brow. "Don't change the subject," he grins lopsidedly. He finds he is a bit sore from their lovemaking, but instead of considering it a nuisance, he's pleased, perhaps a bit smug. Throughout their day, he'll be bodily reminded of what happened here last night. Come to think of it, he hopes Bucciarati is just a little sore, too, for similar reasons.
"Everything should start with a good foundation," Bucciarati starts up in a singsong manner, pointing a finger in the air. Leone has heard this lecture before. "Besides, I am a flexible man—" he pauses. Leone knows he is being tested, dared, and he is proud of how well he is able to stifle any snarky remarks, "and I am sure I can make my initial choices work in my favor."
"Well, for the record, I am a fan of the lace and the garters." Leone offers.
"I know," Bucciarati teases and gives his bum a prim little shake. He makes an indecisive hum before pulling a suit from the rack with the air of finality. His usual cut. His usual dazzling white, but this one has grey pinstripes instead of his trademark ermine spots.
"You are feeling confident this morning," Leone teases back. He is smiling broadly now. There is no use in hiding how chuffed he is to be exactly where he is at this moment. Bucciarati saunters towards the bed, from the waist up looking like the familiar, imposing gangster the neighborhood reveres, but below, the garters make him seem more naked than he is, and Leone wants to deposit a kiss or two on the inside of honey-colored thighs and that spot on the inside of Bucciarati's knee, just below the garter, that makes him squirm. Leone wouldn't dare humble him in public, but ensconced in his private quarters? Yeah, just a little bit.
"Confidence is part of the job." Bucciarati is standing over him now, leaning into the tall mattress, equal parts intimidating and enticing, and he half-tosses his trousers onto the foot of the bed. Leone shifts in the heavy, white sheets, readying himself for the possibility of a second, no, third round. "Besides, why wouldn't I be? Don't you feel confident when we are out in public?"
Leone reaches out and lets the back of his fingers trail up and then down the thigh that is supporting Bucciarati's weight. "Well, yes," he admits. His eyes wander from Bucciarati's gaze down to his eye level. Bucciarati clears his throat and stills Leone's hand with his own near his hip, which means Leone can still extend his thumb towards the softness of that inner thigh— "Leone," Bucciarati murmurs, and the throatiness of the lilting syllables makes the soldato melt. "I admire your persistence, but you are going to make me late."
Leone shrugs affably. "Fine, fine. I concede." Bucciarati leans over and deposits a quick kiss on Leone's crown and wiggles out of reach. "But we are spending tonight at my place, and the garters stay on."
"There's some more of that confidence!" Bucciarati winks, "I would be amenable to complying with your request." Bucciarati nods and checks his silhouette in the mirror. He then makes eye contact through the reflection. "And I have to say, I am so happy to hear you say that. I planned a little surprise for tonight, and well—" he looks at his watch. "…well, I don't have time to say more. See you at Libeccio for dinner, bello." With that, Bucciarati zipped his way out of the bedroom wall, leaving Leone in confused silence.
Leone flopped back into the bed and exhaled. Bucciarati is planning something for tonight, for him. Though not explicitly said, it sounds like they will be sleeping together two nights in a row. He smiles and congratulates himself; then, in a burst of energy, he bounds out of bed and takes a quick shower, singing and whistling all the while. Not opera, no, some American song Narancia has been playing on his boombox and in the car on repeat for days. Is he singing the words right? Who cares.
He gets out of the shower, still whistling the same tune, and looks in his overnight bag. He pulls out his usual trousers and gives them a shake before setting them on the bed. When he reaches in for his trusty button-up shirt, a pair of opaque purple stretch lace underwear tumbles to the floor.
What?
Those definitely aren't his. And he hasn't seen Bucciarati wearing this particular article of clothing. Dumbfounded, he looks in his bag for the underwear he packed. Inside, he finds an unsigned note, scribbled in familiar handwriting.
Tell Moody to play 7:07 AM to 7:09 AM.
When Moody takes on Bucciarati's form, he notes the impish grin first. "Hello, Abbacchio. Thank you for last night." He tilts his head, and his tousled morning hair shifts. "I am hoping we could try something a little different next time."
Bucciarati smirks and reaches into the top drawer of a nearby bureau. Fishing about the back with a look of concentration, the smile returns when he finds a familiar wad of lace and holds it aloft.
Leone shouts at his Stand before he can help it. "That won't fit me! I doubt it fits you!"
Bucciarati spins the garment on his index finger and winks. "You'd be surprised what stretch lace can accommodate." Leone wants to retort, but he has nothing. His mouth snaps silently shut like a grouper's.
Moody-Bucciarati walks past the stunned soldato, and Leone can read his accidental love confession quite clearly, scrawled on Bucciarati's back. With the exaggerated movements of a striptease, Bucciarati unzips Leone's overnight bag, pilfers his pair of black briefs, and replaces it with his lacy substitute. Moody-Bucciarati freezes when he hears Actual-Abbacchio snore from the bed.
"You are lucky I find your snoring endearing." Leone blushes. He'd try to deny that he snores, but his own Stand provided the evidence. "OK, loverboy, I am going to stop talking to myself now and get dressed." Moody-Bucciarati glances at his watch and scribbles the note Leone is still clutching to his chest. "I can't wait to see you in the lace," Moody-Bucciarati stage whispers.
The playback ends, and Leone finds himself awkwardly mooning at Moody, not Bucciarati. Moody makes a soft whirring sound.
"Yeah, I'll tell him tonight."
She beeps.
"While I am wearing his lace panties that are entirely too small and uncannily match your skintone."
She beeps again emphatically.
"Yeah, I know. I am in deep." He smiles despite the myriad implications. "Let's go."