dumbshow | the critically acclaimed open post

the critically acclaimed open post

assorted shitty people

optional prompts/ideas

☆ caught in the rain meme
☆ little steps meme
☆ affectionate physical contact meme
☆ picture prompt also acceptable but link them so it's tidy
☆ AU ideas: soulmates AU, reincarnation AU, Bad End AU, canon divergent/roleswap AU, dorky college AU, crossover AU, super indulgent high fantasy AU
☆ melodrama is ultimate tier
★ SHIPPING AND FILTHY THINGS:
☆ non-fluffy relationship types I'm down for: codependent, master/servant power imbalance type ships, "we're bad for each other but worse for anyone else," other things I am failing to think of tbh
☆ things I won't rp: noncon (includes "dubcon"), incest, tsundere shit if your tsundere is just verbally abusive, gratuitous torture porn, you'll probably have to ask me about harder kinks and they will vary by character
☆ I don't have a kink list so pitch me an idea if u thirsty
☆ if you would prefer a locked post I can also make that happen

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[Leone Abbacchio is no stranger to repetitive behavior. Habits, maybe, habits for normal people—but none of them in the gang are normal by sheer virtue of their positions in life, to say nothing of everything else about them, so - habits happen to other people. To them, patterns. Even in the always wild, often reckless behavior of their little subset of the gang, predictability emerges in the downtime between missions. Almost a routine.

Not a comfortable routine, the way they live, but a routine nonetheless. Abbacchio has never vied for the position of leader, or even tried to bully Fugo out of the sort-of-second station he filled for a while, as he's never wanted it... but he's the oldest, and somehow the most level-headed in a crisis (he says), so it falls to him to keep the kids in line when Bruno is away on a mission of his own. This role he did actually bully his way into, but they listen to him when he tells them that Bruno being away for a few extra days isn't anything to worry about; that the short communication that could express only that, and even that too vaguely for comfort, is nothing to worry about. That the routine breaking in such a dramatic way is... just fine.

And naturally, when he's finally left alone and the others have... whatever it is they do to keep them busy, he smokes like a chimney and drinks most of a bottle of wine by himself. He does it on the roof of the apartment building they've holed up in in this town after telling the others he's going out somewhere, because he doesn't need the rest of the gang getting on his ass about his absolutely blatant lies.

Because Bruno being absent for days longer than predicted is absolutely something to worry about. The panic coils in Abbacchio's chest like a snake constricting around his heart, and with each passing day he wonders if the next morning will be the one where a message arrives, impersonal and with Further Instructions, telling them their leader has unfortunately been murdered and dumped in a canal somewhere they'll never see. Days turn to hours to minutes, and so Abbacchio leans his elbows on the ledge surrounding this rooftop and drinks straight from the bottle, watching the street, waiting.

It's not to say his stomach lurches every time he sees a dark-haired figure in the street below. It doesn't. Surely not. He doesn't look over his shoulder every time the wind makes something on the rooftop creak like the door opening, aside from every time he does.

He surely does not do any of that, but if he did, it would be better than letting his mind wander away to what will happen to the rest of them if they're left suddenly and tragically alone. He, personally, will probably will find a hole to crawl into until he dies—

It is at this point that the wind blows over some ancient construction materials left up on the rooftop which clatter away loudly enough to startle Abbacchio into spilling the rest of his wine. Now, he is only focused on all this adult grape juice he just spilled down his own leg. Great!!] —Fuck.

[It's been three days since he ought to have returned, and it isn't that it could be helped, but still Bruno regrets it deeply. The sheer nature of their line of work (work, that makes it sound so very innocent) means that even being an hour late is enough to give the gang anxiety. Three days, and he knows that they'll--

No. No, it won't be all of them. Narancia will fuss, but he'll quiet down if everyone else tells him not to worry. Fugo will have his suspicions and quiet anxieties, but ultimately he'll follow Abbacchio's lead. And Abbacchio . . . he thinks he isn't worth much, but he's a good second in command. He'll keep them calm and shoulder the burden himself, terrified and furious, taking it out on everyone and not ever saying the real reason why. It'll fester and boil within him, growing heavier and heavier, worse and worse, until something breaks.

These past three days must have been hell for him.

And in light of that, it feels selfish to think that the past three days have been hell for him, too, but oh, it's been exhausting. He's wearied down to his bones, bruises splattered over his body, zippers here and there betraying how severe his injuries had gotten. He'll heal, but he hadn't expected that kind of delay. He hadn't expected that kind of resistance, but marveling over it won't do any good.

But now he's home. He's home (home being defined as wherever his gang resides) and he doesn't smile as he hears that curse, but still there's something endearing about hearing it at all, because it means that he gets to hear that familiar voice. It reaches into his heart, and something in the line of his shoulders relaxes. Hearing Abbacchio curse means he's home, and oh, god, but he's missed being home.]

If you're going to yell at me, I'd prefer you to do it up here.

[He very much means that. But there's something quiet in his voice. He isn't scolding. What he means, what his tone is truly saying, is: hello, I'm home, I missed you.]

[The sound of that voice behind him does not startle Abbacchio so much as pull taut something in his chest, the thing that's coiled around his heart for three days that never really goes away but can sometimes be calmed—and abruptly lets it go slack. Relief washes over him completely, overwhelming for a moment and then smoother, simpler; manageable. Whatever Abbacchio thinks he is, as a man, as a person worthy (or not) of living any kind of life and whether or not any of it is true, what is true is that he is better with Bruno around.

Not great. Not really even good; but better. He remains something of a mess, something fractured into pieces and put back together incorrectly. Sure, he functions - he breathes and walks and gets through the day, somehow, but he doesn't ever feel right without Bruno beside him. Or at least—at least nearby, at least somewhere Abbacchio can see him and feel his presence and grasp onto that little modicum of peace.

It isn't something he can express in words, not good ones; but even he knows it's fairly obvious. It's obvious now, when instead of turning around to look Bruno in the face he stands there with his hands on the roof's ledge, knuckles white, staring at the street below with his shoulders hunched and oh, god, it's been three days. Abbacchio takes a deep breath.

And then he turns around, and he's scowling as per usual, but something in his eyes softens for just a moment as he, too, feels like he's come home. God.]

Fuck, [he says again, and he's still a tiny bit drunk but that's mostly three days of anguish talking, packaged neatly into one word. For emphasis, he adds,] Fuck you in particular. What took you so long?

[Besides the obvious - the usual? Whatever. Despair filtered down into anger he has nothing to do with still seeps through Abbacchio's very footsteps as he moves away from the ledge toward Bruno, one of his hands raised before he's fully crossed the distance to land squarely on Bruno's shoulder. The other, more tenderly, brushing his cheek.

So it's been a long three days and he kind of smells like his very own liquor store, but besides that: finally.] You look like shit, you know.

I'm very aware.

[He's aware of a lot of things. He's aware that Abbacchio spits all that at him out of terror and relief, not true anger. He's aware that it really means something softer, something like I was afraid and I missed you and I'm so glad you're back. And he's aware that right here and now is the only time they'll get to themselves, so they'd best savor it before they head downstairs.

Because, see, there, they'll be Abbacchio and Buccellati. They'll be authority figures, and yes, Bruno will be injured, but he'll still be strong. Beaten, but not broken, not by a long shot. He'll have to be a sturdy pillar, something strong so the others don't feel as though the ground beneath them is shaky. But here . . .

Here, he can be Bruno. He can tip his head into that touch and let his eyes close for just a moment. He can take half a step forward, coming in closer, and reaches for his hip, thumb stroking gently at him.]

There were a few more obstacles than I thought there'd be. It turned into a fight and two days of hiding before I thought myself recovered enough to come back.

Edited 2018-04-13 01:00 (UTC)

[Abbacchio means about a dozen things he can't put into words when his thoughts have been eating themselves alive for three days, so it's beyond fortunate that Bruno can absolutely read him like a book. It's true—downstairs they have jobs to do, and Bruno has so much more to do than he does, but Abbacchio won't leave him to hold all of them up without any support. The mess he is right now, he can't do the job he wants.

So, here. On the rooftop the world continues to turn without them just for a little while, just enough for them to be two people fitting each other back together.]

You could have contacted us, [he says, knowing that of course that wasn't an option. It was fucking agonizing not knowing, he means, and moves his hand from Bruno's shoulder to his waist. His fingers trace Bruno's jaw and he frowns over a bruise, but—he's back, which is more important.

But if he'd had to hide...] If it's not done, you're not going back out alone. I'll disobey orders, I don't give a damn.

Shhh.

[It's not a reprimand. It's barely a word. But it is a disagreement, because he won't let Abbacchio throw himself away for something so minor and pointless.]

I'm done. They said there'd be at least a week before they needed anything, if they did.

[So for at least a week, they'll live in this hotel. They'll stay just long enough to get into a household routine and then they'll be uprooted again, and there's nothing he can do about it, but still Bruno feels a bitter sting. There's always going to be a part of his soul that wants to do better for Narancia (and Fugo and Mista, yes, but Narancia especially), and there's always going to be that disappointment when he realizes once again he can't.]

I'm all right.

[That, added belatedly as he realizes Abbacchio's fingers are tracing over a bruise.]

[Don't shush him... He scoffs, quietly, acknowledging Bruno's disagreement and disagreeing with that, because he would do what he's professing he'll do anyway, if given the chance—probably. The odds are good, ironically. The only thing the odds are good on, when it comes to Abbacchio.

But he's placated, for the time being; a week is good. A week of waiting for another message, a new set of orders, which will stick in the back of his mind and keep him up at night but for the rest of the week... it will be alright. It will be good enough until it isn't again, because that's the kind of life they lead, and it bothers Abbacchio on behalf of everyone else (except maybe Fugo on a bad day, because he's got attitude) rather than himself—

But it's a week, and a week is longer than he'd hoped for, and he'll take things as they come before he goes mad trying to plan ahead for more time than just a week.]

Don't, [quietly; it's taken considerable getting used to, the idea that he can touch and be touched, the fact that Bruno is as fragile and human as any of them. Bruno spends all of his time worrying about the rest of them, he has no time to put aside for himself, and that's where Abbacchio comes in; so don't, for fuck's sake, just complain about feeling like hell for once.] We already covered how you look like shit.

[So he won't linger on the bruise - not, at least, with his hands. It's fine.]

So how long will it take this time for me to convince you to go to bed?

When I'm done.

[Writing reports, reviewing what he'd done and how he might have done it better, assuring the others, recounting his mission . . . oh, and eating something, probably. It will take hours, but it's all necessary.

He leans in, bumping their foreheads together. It's as much affectionate as it is wearied, and he savors the heat of his skin. He can smell the alcohol on his breath, but he can't be bothered to scold him for that just now.]

But you can sit up with me if you'd like.

[Yes, eating food to survive is probably a required task. Abbacchio will order pizza later, when he's in the mood to interact with any other human being besides Bruno. It may take a while.

It may take a while also for the fact that he's spent a good fraction of the past three days wasted out of his mind to be less obvious. He's never claimed to have good habits, for whatever that's worth—if he has any, they're all centered around Bruno anyway...]

If you think I'll let you stay up all night, you're absolutely insane. [He drops his hand from Bruno's face and winds both arms around his waist now, holding him there, mercifully going quiet instead of swearing up a storm. He hasn't actually been angry at Bruno, so his yelling is tempered for now.

Although, actually...] You sleep at all for three fucking days?

[Like, he hasn't really, but that's par for the course for only one of them.]

When I could.

[Which means no, not much, not proper sleep. Catnaps, mostly, here and there when he could try. He doesn't bother to lie, though he's tempted to. A beat, and then, with a bit of a spark in his voice:]

Did you?

[He hums, not quite disapproving but not quite approving either - acknowledging. It's better than not at all. Then,] When I felt like it.

[Which, given his track record...]

I'm just fine, so don't start.

[He doesn't agree with that, but he'll at least concede that Abbacchio is likely better off than him. But they could both do with a good night's sleep.]

Try and stop me.

[It's a gentle joke.]

I can lift you over my head.

[Probably. Over his shoulder, at the very least. This, like all Abbacchio logic, is the simplest answer and so the correct one: if he can physically lift and toss Bruno into a bed, Bruno has to sleep first and not scold anyone about their bad habits.

So there.]

[He huffs something that might be a laugh, amused by his direct logic.]

You can. But that's not going to help me sleep, will it?

It's a damn good first step.

[He can always just stare disapprovingly at Bruno until he sleeps, which, honestly, he will probably do while Bruno works tonight. He can object and insist until he's blue in the face, but ultimately he still trusts Bruno's judgment. So, pizza, and perhaps even more wine—]

If you ask me, it can wait until morning.

Then--

[He leans in, kissing him quickly, and then pulls back just a little.]

--it's a good thing I wasn't asking, hm?

[Hmm. Hmm. He's absolutely weak to Bruno's affection, leaning minutely after that kiss and winding up resting their foreheads together again. Yeah, that's pretty convincing...

No, wait. No. Bruno, for fuck's sake.]

You know I don't wait for you to ask.

Tell me something: is your plan to just keep arguing with me so we stay on the rooftop and don't go downstairs?

[It's an evasion, of course, and he knows he risks earning Abbacchio's anger by doing it, but better that than the alternative. Other days he might just offer an order instead, a firm rebuff that brooked no argument, but right now is about reconnecting, and he doesn't want to spoil it.]

One of them, maybe. "Is it going to keep him away from his goddamn paperwork?"—That's the first step for every plan.

[Also, go the fuck to sleep? That's step two of every plan, but he likes to think that's implied by now. Maybe he should have waited in the bedroom with some warm milk and a lullaby if he knew Bruno was going to be such a little shit about just sleeping, again—] For fuck's sake, take a night off for once.

[He shouldn't. He really shouldn't, there's a thousand and one things he needs to do, and the sooner he gets it done the better. They're small fry, and small fry can't afford to slack off, because there's not a whole lot farther down they can fall.

But he's exhausted and in pain, and he's fairly troubled by what he'd seen during his mission, and honestly, he really does need to recharge.]

All right.

[Besides, he assures himself, he'll do a better job when he's rested.]

But you're coming with me.

[He doesn't mean it sexily. It would just be nice to lie against Leone tonight.]

[Oh—agreement, so early in this half-an-argument? That's new. New enough to make Abbacchio pause, waiting for the next condition, like he has to tolerate a bed full of paperwork as Bruno spends all night sitting up anyway.

But apparently not, after a few silent seconds.

(And while reunion sex is always good sex, they're both so out of it right now that it would be more trouble than it's worth, without sleep—)

So. Give him a moment; is this how it feels to get what he wants?! Shocking.]

Only because I finished my wine, [a blatant, stupid lie and they both know it, so maybe that's the point.]

Alright.

Did anything happen while I was away?

[He doesn't mean as a team. If anything notable had happened, Abbacchio would have led with that. But it's good to know who bickered and who allies and who favors whom and why, because all those things add up and affect the social balances of the gang.

He works hard to ensure there's no one left out. Oh, they can fight and gang up on one another, but none of them can be allowed to become the least favorite.

Absently, he takes his hand, threading their fingers together.]

[Well it's time to head downstairs before somebody changes their mind; the moment their hands connect, Abbacchio steps toward the stairs, tugging Bruno's hand.]

Not much. Just today Narancia declared war over breakfast and switched sides twice before lunch.

[He's tired when he says as much, but it's a different kind of tired than the world-weary constant exhaustion that's seeped into his bones from the work they do. It's just an everyday "dumb kids" kind of tired—a good kind, if there is such a thing when your "dumb kids" all know how to kill a man and none of them are good-tempered.

He himself has probably whacked at least two of them upside the head in the past 24 hours; the usual.]

They worried about you. Fugo pretended he didn't, but he's full of shit, as usual.

He does take after you.

[But he squeezes his hand as he says it, trying to assure him that was a teasing joke.]

I'll say hello to them. I'll assure them. But then . . . I think they can wait until tomorrow, don't you?

[That may be a joke, but Abbacchio still recoils from the very thought anyway. Please, he doesn't actually want to co-parent these rabble-rousers. And Fugo... well it's not a lie that the two of them are similar in more than a few ways, but none of them are particularly flattering.

But he just makes a face, exaggerating it to go along with the joke.]

They better wait. They won't like how I get if I have to listen to them tell you all the boring shit they did for three days. [because he is so likable normally] And you're going to bed.

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the critically acclaimed open post

rooftop: scenic, time: dusk, melodrama: out

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