OPEN POST 2022

[siberia]

1. Post here with the character you want to play with in the header or body
2. Put your prompt in the body of the comment (or leave it to me - i don't mind coming up with something!)
3. ????
4. Profit

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE:
    
    

BUT ANYONE IS FINE . . . (full muselist)

Comments

gay...

[unfastens]

[ 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.

hes so dumb im sorry

[riproduzione]

[ 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. ]