tunasub | OPEN POST 2022

the affectionate physical contact meme
(i stole this from bakerstreet; it's a shipping meme, but i'm happy to do platonic versions of any of these... hehe)

one; hugging. you just want to give your loved one a warm embrace. be it out of happiness, to comfort them while they're down, or just to give them something warm to latch onto, you just want to wrap your arms around them.

two; kissing. whether it's a peck on the cheek or a deep kiss, a kiss good-bye or a romantic kiss, you find yourself compelled to kiss the other person! be as tender or as passionate as you so choose.

three; holding hands. it's a simple gesture, really -- to reach out and take someone's hand. but that one simple gesture can convey any number of sentiments. what the sentiment is, is up to you, but you find yourself reaching out to take your significant other's hand.

four; carrying. is your loved one hurt and needs a lift? do they want a piggyback ride? or do you just want to spare them the effort of walking? whatever the reason, you're now itching to pick up your partner and carry them to their destination.

five; i love you. you've said it before or maybe you haven't but now you have to say it again or for the first time.

six; dancing. kick up the music, because it's time to dance! but no lone dancing allowed -- you need to have a partner! you can do whatever dance strikes your fancy. personally, i recommend the slow dance, but you can do whatever you want!

seven; massaging. did your significant other have a rough day? did they get hurt? or do you just feel like doing something really nice for them? whatever it is, you're giving them a nice massage now. they'll feel wonderful in no time!

eight; flirting. the easiest way to break the ice or maybe you're just an overly flirty person.

nine; cuddling. sometimes there's just no better feeling than curling up next to each other on a warm sofa. hold each other, lie next to each other, fall asleep on each other -- it's all good here.

ten; wild card! reroll, pick an option, or come up with something else!

Edited 2022-03-26 19:49 (UTC)

Ciiiii~nnabbaaarrr!

[ run

or don't. the sight of a particularly excited rutile isn't exactly rare — he's the earnest, easily impressed sort, so that kind of image is perhaps a staple part of the day for anyone who knows him. this time, however... it's more amplified than usual, a truly blinding smile on his face as he waves a pair of gloves around in the air.

does he trip and fall while running? almost. but he regains his footing gracefully (not gracefully), managing to come to a stop in front of cinnabar without a broken leg, or arm, or anything—

looking at him, that probably wouldn't have even spoiled his mood. ]

I've got a present for me! [ what, ] Would you like to test them out?

[ he's too hype to explain, okay. ]

[ and, of course, no matter how many times Rutile does this, Cinnabar reacts with shock and affront all the same. He's loud, annoying, and he seems to have very little regard for his own wellbeing, considering how often he decides to show up and bother them - they look a little concerned when he almost falls, but the look vanishes quickly when he keeps running and comes right up to them. They stumble backwards at once, putting the customary five-or-six-minimum feet between them once more, before holding their arms stiffly at their sides. Silver poison dances nervously in the air around them. ]

Idiot! You could have run into me! [ and then he'd probably get covered in mercury and they'd probably fall on the ground and break apart and it would be such a mess... Cinnabar shakes their head. ] W-what are you even saying?

[ the gloves in his hands don't seem to have registered - most likely because they're extremely normalized for Cinnabar. Every gem wears them! ]

[ oh, cinnabar. rutile, as usual, has little to no response to their harsh-not-really-harsh words, if only because that's the name of the game when it comes to them. if anything, there's an entirely too positive reaction to it all — there's a gentle smile, as he takes it as having been a bit too Much too Fast, rushing into the situation without explaining too much about it.

so, you know, rutile adjusts.

and he won't close the distance cinnabar's made between them, to at least keep his dear friend somewhat comfortable as he ruins their life. cheerily: ]

I'm saying I have a present for me, that I'd like to use to get another present.

[ HE'S JUST REPEATING THE SAME CRAPPY EXPLANATION oh my god. but this is more rutile being a playful little shit, and he'll certainly keep talking as soon as both gloves are put on, snug. ]

Eheh. Just kidding, I'll explain! You see, Doctor Figaro had someone put a strong charm on these!

[ no, actually, figaro personally did it. but he's gotta keep up his "weak" persona, you know. meanwhile, rutile is lifting up one gloved hand and using his other hand to frame it like it's some shitty infomercial channel. 3 low payments of 9.99— ]

He said the magic will let me get close to you without having to worry about anything. And that's something I've always wanted to do, so I'm sorry if I'm a little excited!

[ and shameless, but he's always that. ]

[ the explanation... is bad? they watch him with their usual pinched and annoyed expression (it's a good thing Rutile is immune to their little defense mechanisms) and proceed to look neither convinced nor satisfied by what he says. For one thing, should they trust Figaro's magic? They suppose it's worked before, but they still don't really understand it or how it works. For another -- well. As soon as he declares his intent, their brows raise up into their sparkly hairline, and they lean back even further, looking even more affronted. ]

... What's that supposed to mean? [ a beat. ] Creep.

[ magic gloves that let him get close to them...? Ignoring how embarrassing that is, they aren't even parsing what he's trying to say. Surely he's not declaring he's about to try and, like, grab them? For some reason? Cinnabar does not like that idea, regardless of how confusing his apparent desire to do so is. ]

I'm not some animal for you to pet.

[ oh my god listen here you little shi-

that actually gets rutile to pause, his excitement replaced by a very real look of concern. he doesn't get any closer to cinnabar, of course, and the next question is not asked hesitantly, but very genuinely: ]

Of course you aren't.

[ and if cinnabar thinks that's something he'd do, he needs to reconsider his approach. ah, maybe he did come on too strongly? cinnabar is so shy. ignoring the fact they just straight up called him a creep, and all the times they've been prickly. rutile doesn't see that, he's used to that. maybe he'd give them a gentle jab for being RUDE normally, but this is a time where he might be at fault...

he gently outstretches a gloved hand, palm up, regardless of whether cinnabar chooses to take it or not. ]

... You know, Cinnabar, wizards really like to dance! And I especially like to dance with the people I love. I... hm, I suppose I just wanted to have some fun doing something enjoyable and new with you. It's not something we can normally do, right?

[ that's what it's supposed to mean. ]

But if you don't want to, I'm content with not trying these out either! I did ask a little forcibly...

[ HE DIDN'T ASK AT ALL ]

[ he takes them so seriously. They don't actually think he's a creep (unlike Figaro, for whom the jury is still out), fortunately, and his very genuine response to them succeeds in making them feel a little guilty, judging by the twinge in their expression. Rutile is one of those rare people that Cinnabar likes, after all - not that they'd ever say this or even admit it to themself. And not that they're going to apologize for their behavior towards him anyway. The look is gone as quickly as it appeared, and then they're back to suspicious and judgmental, as per usual.

They are listening, though, which is possibly a mistake, seeing as he goes and drops the L-word in there without hesitation - they choke a little when he does, eyes widening, but he just moves past it like nothing happened?! Maybe he's the type who says that about everybody; he certainly seems like the type. They try to move past it, too, shaking their head just slightly... but it's going to stick in the back of their head for the rest of the day, at least. No one's said anything like that to them in hundreds of years. A light red dusts their cheeks, their true color blushing through the white powder. ]

... You always speak without thinking, [ they mutter, derogatory, but continue, trying to put it from their mind. ] I still don't know what you're saying... I don't know what "dance" is.

[ but if it involves touching them, then Rutile should already know Cinnabar's going to put up a fight about it. ]

[ oh. yes, rutile's absolutely prepared for that. but more than that, the mention that they don't even know what dancing is... it probably shouldn't be as big of a deal as it is, but all wizards love singing and dancing, so the fact that someone wouldn't know half of those things is a little unbelievable.

he keeps that shock as muted as he can. he doesn't want to embarrass cinnabar by acting as SHOOK as he feels about that. given the blush on their face, or what dancing entails... he's going to give them a hard enough time already.

BUT. first. ]

I do think about it! I just think... How someone thinks about you... I would be happy to hear those things, if it was positive. So if it would make someone else happy, or if it's a good thing and it's something I feel, shouldn't I say it?

[ that's a no. his ass DON'T THINK and he's apparently not going to let cinnabar just walk past him being embarrassing as fuck.

at least he moves past that quickly, because saying something so cringy and earnest and embarrassing is not difficult at all to him. easy as breathing, actually. easy as dancing, which brings him to: ]

But, what dancing is! Dancing... Let's see. It's like this! You would stand here— [ he shifts, raising both of his arms up and pretending cinnabar is holding one hand, the other resting in the air, palm toward him, at the height of cinnabar's upper back. he supposes since they don't know how, he would lead, so the position would be... like so! ] —and you'd hold my hand, with my hand resting here, on your back, and then we'd move to some music...

[ he'll even demonstrate. shamelessly. humming a song prettily under his breath, pretending to move through some slow, simple steps while holding the air (pretend cinnabar). ]

It's fun! Sometimes if there's a really catchy song, I'll do this by myself! Ehehe.

[ plan of attack: explain first, and then fight later. to cinnabar's comfort, of course. :) ]

[ NO... LET THEM ESCAPE IT'S GETTING WORSE...

this, at least, they can rationalize away a little bit more easily - it seems to confirm their thought that he just likes to say whatever he thinks will make people happy. Still kind, of course, but it feels less personal, which is a lot easier for Cinnabar to accept. They see little in themself worthy of love, and certainly not to a human (or "wizard," whatever that really means.) He's just being Rutile. They could tell him that such careless words could hurt someone, but they doubt he would listen. So they just stand there silently, eyes narrowing as he tries to explain himself.

It turns out that dancing is hard to explain to someone with no concept of it. First of all, that's a lot of touching, gloved hands or otherwise. They'd have to stand really close together to pull this off, too, if his demonstration is accurate, which is a deadly combination of dangerous and embarrassing. Secondly -- well, the first point wasn't really about dancing, specifically, but secondly, there's no music, and they have to assume that part is important, or else it would just be randomly moving around. ]

No way. I'm not doing that with you.

[ they cross their arms across their chest, a dubious look on their face. ]

Even suggesting something so irresponsible... You really are young.

Edited 2022-05-06 00:39 (UTC)

You there! Ah, just the man I've been looking for!

[ where are they?? some kind of jamjar, probably, but that's not important. What is important: there is an absolutely enormous decorated clay pot here, easily eight or nine feet tall. Stranger yet, it has arms and legs of stone. Stranger stranger yet, it's talking - or, at the very least, a jovial masculine voice is emitting from it in Gawain's direction. If there's any doubt, Alexander lifts an arm in greeting. ]

Sir Gawain, no? You've the air of a fine warrior about you - just as the rumors say! Ha ha! Oh, but don't worry. I'm not the sort who trades in gossip. I've heard only good word on the wind.

[ For some, the sight would probably draw out more surprise. Which isn't to say there's none, of course, since Gawain had simply been passing through and had been assuming the large pot was some part of the scenery, a remnant of a place long since forgotten. When Alexander speaks, Gawain's hand reflexively goes to the hilt of the sword at his side, but he also rather quickly relaxes as the pot identifies him. ]

That is I, yes. I am honored to hear that my skill and reputation carries well.

[ And for a beef of a man, Gawain has a gentle voice! Perhaps as to be expected for a Knight of the Round, noted for their romantic chivalry... Or at least most famously, for Lancelot, oops.

He takes a step forward, now unbothered, since this oddity is at least easy enough to classify in "probably fae," and so Gawain of course remembers his manners. If a fae gives you kindness, then it's of course correct to be kind in turn. Though the fact that he already knows his name is a bit troublesome... Ah, well. ]

If I may, why have you been looking for me, Sir Pot?

[ not quite a fae - closer to an ancient magic artifact that's long forgotten its purpose, but, seeing as Alexander wouldn't know what the fae are, anyway, he may as well believe what he likes. The moniker earns a hearty laugh from him. ]

"Sir Pot!" Ha! What a lark! [ he folds his arms across his chest. ] My name is Alexander - Iron Fist Alexander, some call me - a wandering warrior jar. And, as you might surmise, I'm in search of fine warriors, so that I might learn from them and become stronger, myself. 'Tis a quest without end, and all the more enjoyable for it!

[ clearly, he's in good spirits, despite being displaced and lacking a face. ]

Tell me, my friend, is it true that you become invincible when struck by the rays of the sun?

Edited 2022-07-07 02:41 (UTC)

[ Gawain finds his smile becoming a touch more genuine as the pot now known as Alexander talks. The way he speaks is more than a bit familiar, since, well. Knights just have a particular way they like to speak... ]

It is indeed, Sir Alexander. The sun has given me its blessings, and so I stand as her strongest warrior when her rays shine brightest.

[ He admits it easily, since it certainly is a part of his legend, so it's well known, but also considering Alexander's quest, it only seems fair to be honest. He can guess that this will either be a pleasant conversation or a duel, both of which he would enjoy equally. ]

Is this a quest you pursue for its own sake? Or was it one given to you?

[ oh!! he actually seems surprised that it's true, though it's not exactly easy to tell. He's never heard of such a power - but with witches that draw their strength from the moon, it's not so hard to imagine. ]

So it is true! But... Mmm... I take it such a blessing is no skill that can be learned or taught. A shame. I'll have to search for another way to toughen up the old chassis. [ much to think about. ] As for your question, I'd consider it the former! It's in a warrior's nature to ever strive for greater glory, is it not?

[ it's a bit more complicated, really, but for all the warriors within, he himself is a singular entity - one carrying their wishes, perhaps, but embodying them, as well. ]

Indeed. It was a blessing granted upon me by a holy man upon my birth. As my liege is blessed by the moon, so too am I by the sun. I do not know if it is something he can teach, for I have never spoken with him myself.

[ Which, considering his was a blessing upon birth whereas Arthur's was a gift from a certain lake-dwelling lady... It's little more than coincidence, but Gawain prefers to think of it as fate. But regardless, he still brightens. His genial, gentle smile gets a little more, well. Sunny! ]

But so indeed it is. There are few pursuits nobler than to strive for such. It is why I am a knight, after all. [ ...But. To be a knight and pursue such an ideal was one thing, but fae? That's a bit newer. Even the Green Knight was not quite the same thing, despite the name. ] Forgive me if this is a rude question, but I have never met one that looks like you, Sir Alexander. Are you a warrior yourself?

Edited (i mean both are true but this one is less confusing) 2022-07-10 04:17 (UTC)

[ he -- well, he doesn't nod, lacking a neck to do so with, but he makes a few agreeable "hm" noises that suggest he's in agreement with Gawain's assessment. Or his own previous one, anyway. Blessings aren't something one can just beg for - not any blessing that's worth it, at least. He has to imagine so. The gods are fickle, but not that fickle! ]

Oh? Not to worry, it's not rude at all! Though I did think the title "warrior jar" made it rather clear. Yes, despite appearances, I'm a fighter! [ he taps a long finger against his upper arm. ] Hmm... yes, I suppose it's reasonable you may not have seen another jar before, seeing as you're not from The Lands Between. Well, most of my kind are not warriors. I'm something of a unique specimen. But that only makes it more important that I grow stronger.

[ He thinks to elaborate about his confusion, but... No, it's of little importance. Things are just either named super literally or extremely metaphorically when it comes to fae! But of course, between the two, he naturally prefers the straightforward. He's a simple lad... ]

So indeed. I sometimes find myself as a somewhat wayward traveler. So now my journeys have brought me here, and to you.

[ Gawain laughs a bit ]

So, it must be fate! If you are looking for a duel, then I of course would be happy to test my own blade against your skill, should you wish it.

[ gawain you are overthinking this ]

Oh? Truly? I would never say no to such a request! Although, I... Hm.

[ Alexander looks like he's contemplating something. Or sounds like he's contemplating something, anyway. Truth be told, he's heard Gawain is really tough, and he's a little bit afraid that fighting him might spell the end of him. A warrior jar is only as strong as his pot, and one good swing from an invincible knight's sword might split his in two... ]

... Hm...! No, never mind me! Let's have at it! Shall we find a good spot?

[ if he dies here, then he wasn't really much of a mighty warrior to begin with, right? overcoming that fear is part of his journey!! (he's still kind of scared, but luckily, he's naturally hard to read.) ]

[ look if you don't overthink the fae you're going to have a bad time????? ]

[ At the hesitation, Gawain nods and places a hand over his chest in the sort of perfectly chivalric gesture that's a stereotype. ]

We need not duel to grievous injury, should that be your concern. [ He laughs softly, and it's quite warm and gentle. ] In fact, that may be preferred, since there is still much of this land I would like to see.

[ But, you know. He also wouldn't turn down a proper duel either, since that's just part of being a knight, in his view. ]

Regardless, let's! I shall leave the choice of the battlefield to you, as I am the visitor.

[ If Abbacchio had ever doubted just how deep the corruption ran in the country, he'd have his answer tonight. Not that Bucciarati expects him to be surprised, at this point - Abbacchio was a jaded man before Bucciarati found him, after all - but seeing the likes of Polpo (supposedly incarcerated) hobnobbing with some of Italy's most "respectable" politicians is certainly eye-opening. For Bucciarati, it's simply another reminder of how crime and justice are two sides of the same coin. Power is there to take; the only difference is how you do it and what you use it for, and Bucciarati prefers the route with less red tape.

It's a black tie affair, all crystal flutes and golden lights, and while a small-time group like Bucciarati's normally wouldn't be invited to such things, Polpo had a fondness for him. Whether it was genuine or sadistic was difficult to tell; he'd long stopped wondering. All that mattered was that being in Polpo's pocket gave him some amount of freedom and power to do what he felt was right. And sometimes, keeping his badge of honor as the capo's favorite underling meant accepting invitations to fancy parties. There's something to be said, too, for Bucciarati's charisma. However charming he normally was, he was infinitely more appealing when next to the grotesque mountain of a man that was Polpo. (Polpo probably knew this, too.) Passione was present tonight almost purely as a show of good faith, and to weigh down some pockets, too, in the interest of keeping both parties happy: Passione gets to keep operating in the underworld, and the boys in charge of the outside world get cash and influence in their favor - and, of course, the continued assurance of their safety, implicit behind every cordial smile.

Obviously, inviting Mista or Narancia was a no-go; they'd cause trouble. Fugo was a possibility - Bucciarati had tapped him for these kinds of things before, but that's exactly how he knows Fugo despises these kinds of events. They hit too close to home. And going alone indicated a lack of trust between himself and his subordinates to the rest of the gang. So Abbacchio it was. Fugo is his right-hand man, but Abbacchio, a year older than him and twice as world-weary, was his own special kind of dependable - he was closer to a peer than the others, and as such, Bucciarati found himself ever-so-slightly more comfortable relying on him for non-business needs.

Such as, for example, being tired of fraternizing with the rich and soulless after an hour and a half. He manages to slip out of the group; somehow, he seems to know exactly where Abbacchio is in the crowd - typical Bucciarati - and slinks up behind him, gently setting a hand on his shoulder. ]

Abbacchio. I need you for a second.

[ he says this, but his expression says "let's get some fresh fucking air, please, I need a smoke" - or, well, it says that to Abbacchio. He's good at maintaining that poker face. ]

Edited 2022-07-18 04:26 (UTC)

[ Showing his face at events such as this is not typical for Abbacchio and his attendance is only at the request of Bucciarati. At best his patience is thin, he doesn't have Bucciarati's charisma or Fugo's experience with dealing with these kinds of people. Not to mention, Abbacchio has a reputation among certain groups of people, one that will likely follow him for as long as he finds himself in this line of work. Fortunately, there's very little expected of him and his being here is largely performative, a good deal of his time here tonight has been spent avoiding familiar faces and dodging questions that test his tolerance. Any misconduct doesn't just reflect poorly on himself, after all.

Part of making sure he gives off a good impression of Bucciarati — and Polpo, but Abbacchio cares less about that — is that he's made some effort in looking less dour than he usually does. Minimal makeup so that his features aren't quite as harsh, though he's still dressed all in black. Wearing a tie is as uncomfortable as he remembers, but all that matters is that he's presentable. He's good enough at being inconspicuous, at keeping his mouth shut while keeping his eyes and ears open — he's not the one that's here to socialise, that's been left to Bucciarati. As long as Abbacchio stays within his periphery, then there's not much else for him to do other than offer false and awkward platitudes to the social elite while he pretends he's not hating every second spent with these people.

When Bucciarati finds him, he's quietly taking in a conversation about some sort of redevelopment plans in a local neighbourhood, predicated on false promises to the community that lives there. He's more than happy to excuse himself from the small group with a stoic nod towards Bucciarati. It would probably be in poor taste to thank him for the intervention while they're still in earshot of the businessmen, so he keeps that to himself as he falls into step behind Bucciarati. ]

Everything alright, boss?

[ Quiet, keeping his voice low. It's certainly nothing serious, that much is obvious, but Bucciarati looks like he's just about done with this farce. Which is saying something, especially considering his face hasn't particularly given anything away. ]

[ at the question, he huffs, a distant suggestion of a dry laugh through his nose. Bucciarati has no doubt Abbacchio knows nothing is actually wrong - not really, anyway - but his gentle concern is, as always, noted. He also has no doubt that an hour and change of this has Abbacchio wanting a moment to breathe as much as he does. Neither of them are really built for high society. Or politics, for that matter. ]

Come with me.

[ his hand slips away again, and he turns to start navigating through the hall, very much hoping that nobody who knows him and wants to talk to him stops him. He's done a good job making a name for himself; he wears it as a badge of honor when he's out and about on the streets, or among others from Passione, but in this setting, it's almost a nuisance. Some vaguely-familiar suit does catch his eye and give him a small smile and wave, despite his efforts; apparently, though, Bucciarati looks busy enough that he can get away with a simple nod in return. Having his man trailing behind him probably helps.

Normally, he'd just call out Sticky Fingers and create a private doorway for them. Considering the number of non-Stand users present who might see him, though, he resists the urge, and simply hopes that no one else has decided to flee to the balcony. Fortunately, luck's on his side: it's not very big, and so not well-suited for holding any group conversation. Especially any that might involve Polpo. Once he hears the door close behind them, he sighs, then turns to face Abbacchio. ]

Sorry. I needed an excuse. [ to get away, that is. A soon-to-be-capo pulling one of his men aside for a private conversation is nothing anyone would blink at. ] I'm fine. You have cigarettes on you?

[ Bucciarati, theoretically, doesn't smoke, and so doesn't carry them. Only when he's offered one by a friend - or when he's anxious about something out of his control. ]

[ The assessment is a correct one, of course. Abbacchio has done more than enough mingling in a single evening to last him the entire rest of the year, all the conversations he'd been dragged into had been stilted or uncomfortable with the way others were trying to upstage each other.

Following behind Bucciarati is a welcome relief, not that it's evident in how he's looming ominously behind Bucciarati's shoulder, the tight set of his jaw and the crease in his brow implying anything but relief. Eyes narrow minutely at anyone who looks particularly interested in stopping Bucciarati for more mindless chat, posture and expression a well-practiced facade intent on keeping people at bay.

Once they're finally on the balcony and out of sight from the people inside, that act slips away. Leaning back against the stone balustrade and casually propping his elbows up on the top, a snort that sounds more like contempt than humour and what sounds like 'you and me both' muttered under his breath. It was stifling in there, unpleasant. Abbacchio might be the less personable of the two — to put it generously — but that doesn't mean it doesn't take its toll on them both. A quirk of his brow at Bucciarati's question, and a small nod, but nothing more. ]

You know I do. [ predictable in that respect. ] Not like you to ask, though.

[ Considering Bucciarati's position and notoriety, more people were likely vying for his attention; it's him who drew the short straw tonight. He fishes around in his jacket pocket he produces a battered-looking packet and gives it a small shake — the rattling from inside confirming it's also where he stashed his lighter and holds it out towards the other man, making eye contact. ]

That bad in there?

[ he doesn't answer directly, reaching out to take the proffered lighter with one hand while stretching his neck with the other - clearly, being away from the crowd means he's relaxing, too, slight as it may be. There's no need for him to impress Abbacchio. ]

Even I have my limits, [ he says coolly around the cigarette in his mouth. ] Thanks.

[ he lights it, and it tastes awful, as usual, but he takes a drag anyway; it's a welcome distraction - an excuse, like he'd said. (He likes pretending it's not a nervous habit.) The night air is a cool relief from the overwarm hall, too: a breath of fresh air, sans the cigarette smoke, and he resists the urge to loosen his tie. Eventually, they'll have to go back in, annoyingly stuffy as the suit feels, and he'd rather not have to petition Abbacchio to re-tie it for him. Bucciarati settles for unbuttoning his suit, coming to lean on the balcony beside him. ]

I can tell when they're lying to my face. It was starting to wear on me.

[ he could go into detail, but he'll save that for if Abbacchio asks - he's not one to share his troubles. ]

[ on the other hand, Abbacchio has no such qualms about hooking a finger under his tie, pulling on it until it's looser and unfastens the top button of his collar. Anything to make it feel like it's easier to breathe after being in there for so long.

Bucciarati is free to pretend it's nothing more than an excuse. He'll do nothing but quietly enable Bucciarati each time he asks because Abbacchio won't be the one to call him out on it, even if that was how he'd picked up the habit back at the academy in the first place. Instead, he glances sideways towards the other man, eyebrow raised. ]

Oh? [ he does have a knack for spotting lies a mile away. ] I don't think some of them are actually trying to cover up the fact that everything coming out of their mouths is bullshit.

[ Some of the men inside carry themselves with arrogance, most of their communication done with a nudge and a wink, subtle underhanded comments that are easy to miss unless you're in the know. It pisses him off and has him huffing out a deep exhale in annoyance. He wasn't going to join Bucciarati in smoking, but the reminder that they're not done here has him taking one out. A quick tap against the box before he places it between his lips, words coming out mumbled as he clicks the lighter. ]

How long exactly do we have to stay before it's socially acceptable to get out of here, anyway?

[ Regardless of his own feelings, he'll endure the unpleasant company for as long as he needs. ]

[ yeah, he didn't even have to lick anyone this time

at the question, Bucciarati sighs, a light hum following it. ]

It's only the third floor. I could call Sticky Fingers right now and have it carry the both of us down to the ground.

[ it would be so easy, too - so easy, in fact, that the only thing keeping Sticky Fingers from manifesting from Bruno's desire to do just that is his wealth of experience in controlling his Stand. Alas, it's only wishful thinking. The brief respite from the party would only cause more (and worse) problems later, tempting as it is. He is, unfortunately, responsible, as his mother often laments. Another puff on the cigarette, and he continues, putting a swift end to the escape fantasy. ]

The capo will signal when we can leave. Either that, or we go when he does. [ Unfortunately, Polpo does have a taste for the finer things in life, which means their chances of getting out early are slim to none - he loves sitting around and downing bottles of expensive wine. They taste better outside of prison, he'd told Bruno, and pontificated on how the atmosphere of a room can affect the flavor of wine almost as much as the barrel it's aged in. Bruno thinks that's probably fanciful bullshit, but he remembers it anyway. Proof that he's listening. ] Unless there's an emergency, it's his call.

[ his eyes wander to Abbacchio's profile. ]

You're going to have to endure this for a while longer.

[ Angling his head to glance over the balcony at the suggestion, there's a quirk of his mouth. As plausible as it is to make a sneaky getaway with Sticky Fingers, however, Abbacchio also knows it's not on the table. ]

Mhmm, and I'm sure your absence would be greatly noticed by people desperately falling over themselves to get a minute of your time.

[ Even with his attempts to sound neutral about the whole situation, the sardonic edge to his words is more than obvious. It shouldn't bother him, people vying for Bucciarati's attention — it's part and parcel of the job after all — but it's the type of people that have his hackles raised and glaring daggers from across the room, ready to step in at a moments notice. Of course, he'd handle it with significantly less decorum and class than his leader would…

The confirmation that they're here until Polpo says otherwise pulls a quiet groan from him, exhaling smoke and making sure to direct it away from Bucciarati. Their capo certainly enjoys his indulgences and has made that much perfectly clear this evening, showing no signs of slowing down. If they're to leave when he does, this could wind up being a longer night than he'd first anticipated. ]

Y'know, [ he turns a pointed stare towards Bucciarati, ] maybe you should have brought Narancia. He'd have caused half a dozen emergencies all by himself in no time. Could've been out of here already, eating a calzone on the way home instead of whatever hors d'oeuvres they have on offer here.

[ abbacchio... is exactly right, of course. The suggestion of a smile lightens his face a little bit; he sighs through his nose, shaking his head and pinching the cigarette in two fingers. ]

I'm the one who would have to clean up after him.

[ which would just end up being more work for him, specifically, and he'd probably have to do more brown-nosing to make up for it; he's a generous man, but he's not that generous. He rests both elbows on the top rail, letting his gaze drop back down to the Napoli streets. When he joined Passione, he'd been prepared to get his hands dirty doing unsavory business, and to bow his head to unsavory men. This is part of the job as much as being down in those streets is. Perhaps it says more about him that he prefers the nights where his role is to pass judgement with his fists on some poor fool in these alleys over ones like tonight. But Bucciarati made his peace with his own nature long ago. Violence comes easily to him - or, at least, more easily than playing the fool and yes-man, trying to navigate this political maze.

Abbacchio, he thinks, isn't really suited to either. ]

It's not that I'm surprised that they're lying. Even when I was a kid, I knew this was how the city worked. [ he continues explaining himself, taking a pause to inhale from the cigarette again. His tone is an open one, a bit more honest than usual. Again: in front of Abbacchio, it's not as necessary for him to put on airs. ] I just don't like it. It's an unpleasant reminder.

[ of the world they live in - the world that drove both of them to their current positions. After a moment, he looks over to his companion again. ]

Are you upset that I brought you?

[ Cleaning up after Narancia, as well as all the ass-kissing that would surely come afterwards? It would be unbearable, definitely not worth it in the long run. In some ways, the work they do here is no different from the work with the polizia, people pleasing and cleaning up after others. ]

True enough.

[ Bucciarati speaks, and as is often the case, Abbacchio listens. His words serve as a stark reminder that even though their point on the road is the same, they reached it from different directions. How it is that Bucciarati ended up here isn't something he has all the details on — not in the same way that Abbacchio's are easy to find through newspaper clippings or official records discretely swiped — what he does know, or has managed to piece together, is that Bucciarati's involvement with Passione has gone on far longer than he'd originally believed.

In hindsight, it makes sense, and while he's never had the sense that Bucciarati is passionate about this life the way others are, he finds it hard to imagine the man doing anything else. He's pulled out of his thoughts at the question, though, answering with little delay. ]

Of course not. You really think I'd have let you show your face at this thing with any of the others? I may have a reputation, but at least I'm not likely to embarrass you by getting into a debate over someone getting their facts wrong, or being a loud menace. [ A pause while he takes another drag of his cigarette, before smirking lightly. ] Besides, do you think Mista would have been able to keep the pistols under control with so much food on offer?

[ What he means to say, is that he thinks Bucciarati made the right choice, and also that it feels nice to be needed for something once in a while. ]

[ "A reputation" - Bruno would forget that he had one entirely if the rest of the organization didn't consider it such a black mark. In his mind, Abbacchio's entirely divorced from his background. He's just another person. A trusted ally.

He smiles a little, closing his eyes. ]

Mista would be my last choice. [ yes, even beyond Narancia. The reasoning, unfortunately, is left to Abbacchio's imagination, as Bucciarati continues on. ] Mm. You're reliable. And unlike the rest of us, you still know how to function in society.

[ he's clearly painting himself with that brush, too, lending some credence to the idea that he has no life but this one, though he obviously has no way of knowing Abbacchio was thinking as much. ]

I used to go alone, but I liked the idea of having someone I could fall back on here.

[ there is the matter of "seeming weak," yes, but the greater truth is that he finds these parties stressful -- and, as far as he's concerned, Abbacchio is the singular member of his gang that he can be honest with about that. The others would be depending on him. It's a role he cherishes. But, once in a while, it is nice to be able to depend on someone else in equal measure. ]

[ Bucciarati's inclination to take Abbacchio as he is, without holding him to the standard of what he used to be, it's something he appreciates even if he thinks it's to the detriment of his superior. How many people might think less of him for recruiting a former officer of the law? Of course, he doesn't think Bucciarati would pay much mind to such shallow opinions in the first place.

The jab at Mista's expense has Abbacchio grinning, lopsided and with the tiniest hint of teeth, head dipping with the action. Without their gunslinger here to defend himself, it would be all too easy to come up with outrageous scenarios he might get into. He doesn't, though, instead focuses on that latter statement, shaking his head in disagreement. ]

No, no— I think you're giving me far too much credit there. I just got good at pretending.

[ Functioning in society is not something Abbacchio would claim he knows how to do. Years spent mimicking the adults he looked up to that surrounded him as a child, doing as he was told and keeping his head down. ]

Sounds miserable. [ And in contrast to Bucciarati's thoughts: ] Bringing along someone from your team probably looks good for you, no? Reminds people you have a team, one you can trust, one at your beck and call. You're climbing the ladder.

[ Usually, Bucciarati considers keeping Abbacchio away from drinking too much to be one of his responsibilities. Once a year in April, however, he'll ease up on that self-imposed rule. Any red-blooded Italian man would tell you that a birthday party without wine is hardly a birthday at all. He can trust Abbacchio for one night - and it's all the easier to do so when he's around to supervise him, besides. Their lives are hard enough already without forgoing a little bit of indulgence.

And, speaking honestly, times like these are just about the only bits of relaxation that Bucciarati affords himself anymore. It's a relief to step back from the numbers and shadows and blood that make up his day job, to forget the kindly grandmothers and penniless fathers desperately hoping he can save them, even if for only a night, and focus on a friend - not out of concern for their health or for business reasons, but out of love. Not a single birthday is skipped in Bucciarati's gang. Some, like Abbacchio's, even run late into the night.

It's after hours in Libeccio; naturally, Bucciarati and his boys are entitled to use the space whenever they desire, and that's exactly what they did for most of the evening, scarfing down food and drink and generally causing a ruckus without the worry of irritating the patrons. The presents have been opened, the cake has been eaten, and the younger members have retired - Narancia after passing out from eating his weight in cheese and crostata, and Mista after excitedly informing Abbacchio that 21 isn't a multiple of four, so this would be a lucky year for him - but the elder two linger on into the evening. It's rare for Bucciarati to drink much; tonight, though, there's a pleasant warmth in his veins from the vintage he and Abbacchio have been languidly sharing. The hard lines in his expression have eased away, and, for once, he looks closer to a regular young man than a mafia boss. ]

Do you have any plans now that you're a proper adult? [ it's an idle question, conversational; he's sitting back in his chair, relaxed and loose. ] Are you interested in traveling? Or buying a house, maybe? You're around the right age to get married.

[ Birthdays are… strange, he thinks, but the fact Bucciarati wouldn't simply let it pass without doing something has Abbacchio feeling appreciative, for once, of where he's managed to end up. There's really no place he'd rather be, having spent much of the evening with the team — as much a ragtag group they may be — and being able to spend some time with Bucciarati without all the strings that come attached with their day job. It's nice.

He's sitting comfortably — if lazily — in his seat, leaning heavily on one elbow and swirling around wine in a lipstick-stained glass. Abbacchio is more than aware that just how much he's drinking is being monitored, and a year ago it might have bothered him, but as it is now, there's no real danger of him throwing a fit over it. The atmosphere is different, and as prone as he is to bouts of melancholy fuelled by cheap wine and self-reflection, there's little of that to be had tonight.

He's content. And while it's a strange thing to feel for Abbacchio of all people, how can he not be? ]

Travelling might be nice if I had the time.

[ Time is a luxury they simply don't have. He brings the glass to his lips, finishing the remainder when Bucciarati states that last thing, and it all but has him choking on the drink. Cheeks growing hot, he's thankful for the pale setting powder across his face, even then he's not entirely sure that it's doing much to hide just how much the statement caught him off guard. In all the time he's been part of the team, Abbacchio has never once expressed any interest in relationships, gone so far as to subtly divert the conversation away from the topic whenever it arises — usually when Mista's begins swooning about actresses or models. Spluttering over his words, he sets his glass down. ]

Again, where am I finding the time t— to even consider dating someone, let alone thinking about marriage.

[ Wiping at his bottom lip, smearing some remnants of dark purple across his knuckle as he stares wide-eyed at Bucciarati. For such an innocent statement, it was certainly a reaction. ]

[ he'd spoken the words without much thought, for once -- normally, Bucciarati is extremely particular about his words and actions, but it's the end of a long day and he's most of the way through his glass. A few things are bound to slip through. In his mind, it's a fine question: he always wants to believe that everyone in his group would be able to find happiness eventually, some semblance of a normal life, in spite of the dark road they're walking. Someday. It's idealism, he's aware, but it's nice to think about when there's no danger of it distracting.

(Of course, he tends not to include himself in these what-if dreams. There's no life he can imagine outside of Passione.)

Abbacchio's outsized reaction gets a rare laugh out of him, quiet and sincere in spite of the alcohol. ]

Are you shy about this? I didn't know.

[ maybe that's why he's always avoiding the subject; Bruno's observant enough to notice he never joins in when Mista gets going about girls or horoscopes or the like. The idea that this reaction might have anything to do with him, specifically, is light years away from his mind. ]

You swore your life to Passione, but it's still yours to live. I don't expect you to dedicate all your time to me, Abbacchio.

[ he'll take Abbacchio's devotion and loyalty, but never his happiness - he's had enough of that stolen from him already. And Bruno knows that Abbacchio feels like he owes him everything. He's not stupid. A little nudge can't hurt. A reminder that Bruno didn't reach out to him just to recruit him into his gang, but to lift him up, too. ]

[ Laughter from Bucciarati is such a scarce and pleasant sound, equal parts charming and mesmerising, capable of chasing off the ever-present crease of his brow. It's one that he wishes he could memorise, record and catalogue each one away, make note of what elicited the sound, just so he could do it again in the hopes of hearing it once more.

The thought enters his mind unbidden: if he wanted, he could. He has the means, all it would take is a date and location, a rough time. It would never be the same, though. Moody Blues might be able to repeat it as many times as Abbacchio wanted to hear it, but it would never have that same warmth, would always be tainted by a cassette-player static that marks it unequivocally false. The idea of disrespecting Bucciarati's privacy in such a way, leaves him feeling unclean; entertaining it for even a fraction of a second has him thinking he ought to visit a confessional, and he hasn't done that in years. ]

Why would I be shy about that?

[ He scoffs, then sips at his wine, so that he doesn't blurt out something utterly reprehensible about how shy he is when he's going home with strangers. Bucciarati knows a lot of things about Abbacchio, by nature of their working relationship and the dire straits in which he found him, but his love life, or lack thereof, is one aspect he keeps decidedly separate. Or has tried to, with increasingly failed desperation after the first real time he and Bucciarati spent an evening together, just the two of them. Abbacchio's problem, ultimately, is that he cannot lie to Bucciarati. Not effectively. He fusses with refilling his glass, in the hope that it will distract from how he's definitely not meeting Bucciarati's eyes as he speaks. ]

Even if there were someone. [ and there is. ] There's no way they're interested, so I'm not looking to pursue something that wouldn't work out. [ he doesn't notice his slip. ] And anyway, you know the job, you know how it is. That's all there is to it.

[ Maybe it's the wine, loosening his usual reticence, blurring carefully maintained walls of professionalism. Maybe it's how nice Bucciarati looks, when he's relaxed like this, the easy way in which he holds himself that draws Abbacchio in and keeps him fixated. No doubt in a week, he'll look back at this conversation and find himself apologising for saying something awkward. But he's never felt so at ease, so like he was supposed to belong in someone's presence. And so, carefully but softly; ]

Besides, I want to be here. With you. I really can't think of anyone else that I'd rather spend my time with, Bucciarati.

[ lucky for Abbacchio that Bucciarati would never try prying into his love life unless he brought it up first; despite Mista's big mouth, Bucciarati has zero idea what any of his boys do behind closed doors, and he'd like to keep it that way, thank you. Well. Present conversation excluded -- but he doesn't consider this prying as much as making idle conversation and letting a little bit of his concern for Abbacchio's emotional wellbeing show. None of them have many connections, outside of one another, but Abbacchio's the only one that strikes him as lonely. Something about the way he carries himself, maybe.

Or maybe it's because he says things like I really can't think of anyone else that I'd rather spend my time with. Flattering - heartwarming. A little sad. Bucciarati wonders if he's at fault here, for bringing him into Passione and separating him from his past community so cleanly, but it's difficult to feel too guilty about it when knows how the police are. And he likes spending time with Abbacchio, himself. His lips draw up in a little smirk. ]

Abbacchio... [ his tone is gentle, if faintly exasperated, in a fond sort of way - the way one responds to a friend making a foolish but harmless decision. The dots aren't connected yet. He sees Abbacchio nervously keeping his gaze elsewhere, the tiny slip in his words, and it's as Abbacchio thinks: Bucciarati knows when he's keeping something to himself, but that doesn't mean he knows what. Just that he's touched on something here.] I suppose you're in luck tonight, then.

[ there's a pause as he contemplates what to do with this "something," idly swirling the wine in his glass. Again: he doesn't want to pry. But he does want to help, and, clearly, he's someone Abbacchio trusts, even if it's not enough to be entirely honest. ]

You shouldn't be so convinced it wouldn't work out "if there were someone." You're a good man. [ he tilts his head slightly, gazing thoughtfully at him. ] The job can be flexible. If I can help you, I will.

[ If he knew Bucciarati thought of him like that, as lonely, he'd choke, but only because of how dreadfully true it really is. Of how aware Abbacchio is of the fact — more than he'd like to be — it keeps him awake sometimes, when he thinks of what could have been. Different choices and he'd be living an entirely different life, or, maybe the same choices but with an even lower opinion of himself. He doesn't allow the thought room to breathe, not when Bucciarati is calling his name. It's like second nature, the way he returns all of his attention back to the man opposite him.

Luck…If that's what this is, then he'll contentedly accept it. He'd accept anything Bucciarati would be willing to give him, truthfully, and he's sure he knows that. Is sure that it's obvious to him, and to everyone around them, but it never draws attention or seems out of place — that's the effect Bucciarati has on people — in that respect, Abbacchio is no different to someone like Narancia. Except, he's pretty sure Narancia merely looks up to Bucciarati, thinks of him as cool, rather than worrying about if he's been caught staring too long.

A small silence washes over the table, and Abbacchio thinks for a moment, relieved, that the topic has been dropped. That he'll live to see another day of keeping these feelings locked up and out of sight. Until Bucciarati is echoing his words back at him, and he realises his own mistake. "A good man" floats up to join his already addled mind, swimming around among all the other tiny compliments and words of praise that he's filed away here and there, each one chipping away at his fragile resolve, each one prompting the question, "what if?" What if he laid his entire soul bare for Bucciarati? Surely he has enough grace that he'd let Abbacchio down softly.

He answers by gripping his glass a little too tightly, head tilting back as he finishes the rest of the wine. Setting it down, he fixes Bucciarati with a stare, one he hopes reads as completely unamused at having his slip of the tongue sussed out, and not as one that is genuinely afraid of losing one of the few people he cares about, all because he couldn't just get over whatever these unhelpful — and borderline unprofessional — feelings are.

Bucciarati's offer is kind, but ultimately one that is of little use, because the man sat opposite him doesn't know how to take a break. ]

… You could give me all the time in the world off, but it won't change a damn thing, because you— [ He stops, floundering for something, anything. Folding his arms across his chest, he leans back in his seat in a way that draws his shoulders up and, hopefully, doesn't bring attention to how flushed he feels. Disappointment is he what he aims for, and what he's experiencing, as he mutters out a weak argument. ] You can't just snap your fingers and make someone else's job flexible.

[ At this point, he's almost certain he's done for. Should get up and excuse himself, retreat to the bathroom just long enough the topic to stop being relevant, then politely feign a headache and insist he should leave. ]

OPEN POST 2022

and for fun here's some cute prompts!!! if u need em

mg shoving the door down rutile wants to DANCE with cinnabun

I'M BACK ALIVE AND HUNGRY FOR RUTILE

OHHH OUTSTRETCHES HANDS

GRABS THEM!!!

SWINGS YOU AROUND

gets launched into space

oh.... goodbye.... send me letters from mars

i'll bring you a cool rock as a souvenir...

for chwisty

kyaa kyaa

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

crawls out of a hole in the earth

sticks out leggy

pour abbacchio

pours him into a fancy glass

abba calling him boss is extremely cute

gotta make sure everyone else knows it too

no subject

no subject

no subject

he wasnt supposed to sound jealous but—

teehee

no subject

no subject

no subject

abbirthdayo

scandalised

blowing up abbacchio is always my secondary goal

itt the goth doth protest too much, methinks

gay...

hes so dumb im sorry