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“Your hair is getting long.” Bruno’s eyes never leave his tea. It’s a flippant statement, one that means nothing to the younger boys.
“Mmm,” hums Abbacchio, uncrossing and recrossing his legs. Bruno doesn’t make eye contact, just continues to look down and read the daily news; but Abbacchio – Abbacchio’s blood is on fire, adrenaline coursing through his veins, and it’s all he can do not to straddle his boss right there.
He knows what that phrase means, though the boys don’t seem to. Narancia and Fugo continue their quarrel, Giorno and Mista continue playing footsie beneath the table, he’s sure they haven’t figured it out. Trish, on the other hand, looks up with half-lidded eyes, smirk quirking on her face. She winks at Abbacchio while Bruno has his head down, then focuses back on her tea as if nothing ever happened.
Abbacchio is thankful for his heavy makeup routine – if they could see the blood rush into his face, they would figure it out just as easily as Trish has.
“How does 8 o’ clock sound?” Bruno looks up this time, face still stoic and hard. Abbacchio imagines it broken above him, sweat dripping down onto his face, and chokes.
“Fine,” he replies, clearing his throat. The boys are none the wiser, but Trish grins into her tea.
**
Abbacchio has never cut his own hair. When he was young and clean-cut, he would visit barber shops – always regularly, always the same barber, always on a schedule. When he left the police force and joined the gang, his schedule stopped, and his hair just kept growing.
The first time Bruno told him his hair was getting long, he ignored it. He was rebelling in every way he could, letting his hair grow to the bottoms of his ears, to his shoulders, then past his shoulder blades. When Bruno mentioned it again, they were sitting outside of a smoldering building, mission very nearly going awry. He turned to him with the same taut face, this time covered in blood and dirt.
Your hair is getting long, he had muttered, and Abbacchio broke. His split ends were driving him wild, he was full of adrenaline, and he almost lost his life. He laughed for the first time in months, and finally conceded.
As long as you cut it, he replied, grin wide. I’ll take care of it.
And that was how they ended up here, in Abbacchio’s cold apartment, Abbacchio letting Bruno touch him more intimately than anyone had dared.
There’s the quiet snip of scissors, the hushed puff of a spray bottle, and underneath it all is Bruno’s calm breathing. His fingers card through Abbacchio’s hair, taking more care than is probably necessary, tapping little rhythms out into his scalp.
“Bruno.” It’s a thinly veiled moan, Abbacchio barely catching it before it leaves his throat. “One layer, I told you.” He clears his throat, hoping Bruno doesn’t notice the heat in his cheeks.
“Mmm,” hums Bruno from above him. He taps the scissors onto Abbacchio’s ear. “Tell me what you really want. Use your words, Leone.”
So much for getting past Bruno. When he drops his first name, it makes the lump in Abbacchio’s throat expand. To punctuate, Bruno tugs gently on a lock of hair, and this time Abbacchio’s mouth falls open in a moan he can’t stop. There’s still so much time before Bruno finishes – his every move carefully planned, every lock cut into perfect place – but Abbacchio finds his body already vibrating at his touch. He’s teasing a little more than usual, or Abbacchio is more eager; either way, every prickle of fingers on his scalp has Abbacchio’s gut twisting, fingers clenching into his pants.
“Just like that,” Bruno praises, rewarding Abbacchio with a scrape of the comb down the back of his neck. It sends a shiver up Abbacchio’s spine, and he can feel Bruno’s smile in the way his hands move.
He finishes up the back, taking the most agonizing pace possible, until finally he comes around the front and Abbacchio can see him again. Bruno’s face is schooled into non-emotion, but his body gives him away: his chest is burned red, black lace between his lapels scraping over and leaving small white trails. The blood reaches up into his neck, filling the tops of his ears. Burning desire in his eyes would be unnoticeable to anyone else, but to Abbacchio, it’s as clear as the noonday sun over Venezia.
“Took you long enough,” Abbacchio mutters. The words come out more desperate than he’s expecting, so deep in his throat they’re almost a growl.
A ghost of a smile blinks across Bruno’s face, and he begins to comb Abbacchio’s bangs down in front of him. “I could always just take an extra inch off,” Bruno threatens, empty.
Abbacchio’s vision is consumed by the silver of his hair, but the heavy weight of Bruno’s body on his lap is unmistakable. Bruno’s body is warm against him, and it takes all his own willpower not to tear off his clothes.
“I don’t think,” he groans through gritted teeth. “This is how you normally cut hair.”
There’s that hum again, like nothing strange is going on, and Bruno grinds his ass down into Abbacchio’s lap.
“An extra inch.”
But the icy façade is melting, and Abbacchio can see Bruno’s anticipation crawling under his skin. His hands are moving quickly and the cut in front is quick and easy. The blood in Abbacchio’s body all rushes straight into his cock, feeling the way Bruno’s body vibrates beneath this suit. He can’t stop himself this time, and before he knows it his hands are reaching around Bruno’s body and pushing him down into his lap.
“Leone,” Bruno breathes; his composure is breaking.
“You’re finished,” Abbacchio growls, knowing full well that his hair is done. Bruno doesn’t make any move to protest, confirming, and Abbacchio lunges.
He tastes the sweet flesh of his neck first and Bruno’s hands are around him, scissors dropped forgotten to the floor. The spray bottle joins them a moment later, Bruno’s hands favoring a grip on Abbacchio’s hair. He runs them through while Abbacchio’s teeth sink into his neck, tugging hard and turning what would have been an unnoticeable red mark into what will be a nasty, purple bruise. It’s ringed by black lipstick, smearing where Abbaccho licks at it to assuage the pain, and then he’s moving to Bruno’s mouth because it’s hanging open.
“Leone,” Bruno breathes when they part for air. There’s black lipstick staining his mouth, and it looks so sweet when Abbacchio’s name rolls off his tongue.
“Bruno.”
He’s squirming in his lap, Abbacchio thrusting up hard through his suit. Abbacchio could come just like this, rutting into him and watching his skin begin to prickle with sweat, but Bruno isn’t having it. He pushes his hands down into Abbacchio’s thighs to lift himself off, that sweet friction disappearing and leaving the two of them panting.
“Bed,” Bruno gasps, and Abbacchio is lifting them both into the air with no grace. Bruno’s legs wrap around his torso and he grinds his hips down, turning Abbacchio’s legs into jelly; he quickens his pace before he drops both of them onto the floor, not bothering to close the door before he tosses Bruno unceremoniously onto the bed. In moments, Abbacchio’s body is covering Bruno’s, smothering him with kisses and nips, unbuttoning the suit jacket with a practiced effort.
His hair falls over Bruno’s face, but Bruno isn’t annoyed. Instead, Bruno lifts his hand full of Abbacchio’s hair and kisses the palm of it, running his lips over the soft locks that fall over his palms. He’s kissing Abbacchio’s hair, feeling the silk run over his lips, and all of the blood is suddenly in Abbacchio’s cock.
“I want you to pull my hair,” Abbacchio breathes, and Bruno’s eyes widen.
“Are those words that you’re using?” He’s teasing him, in a moment like this.
Abbacchio’s face contorts into a scowl, and he forces the suit jacket the rest of the way off of Bruno’s shoulders. Bruno complies, his fingers in Bruno’s hair, pulling with delicious force, just enough but not enough to hurt. It tears a moan out of Abbacchio’s throat, one that begins as his name and melts into something primal. Abbacchio’s jaw is tight, teeth clenched hard.
“Ride me,” he groans through them, and Bruno’s surprise instead manifests as self-satisfaction. It very quickly turns into Bruno giving orders, telling him to get into a cross-legged position while he opens the drawer beside Abbacchio’s bed. He takes the moment to ungracefully shuck the rest of his clothes onto the floor, Abbacchio doing the same.
Bruno comes back to him bottle-in-hand, popping open the cap and slicking up Abbacchio’s cock. He sees the confusion in Abbacchio’s face, and, looking away from him, wipes his hand on the sheets.
“I’ve been ready all day,” Bruno breathes. Then he’s sinking down on Abbacchio’s cock like it’s what he was meant to do.
Abbacchio’s vision goes completely white.
The heat enveloping him is tight and perfect and never ending. Bruno doesn’t take any time to adjust, just slides down easy and slow onto Abbacchio, splitting himself open with the most intense focus. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands, wants nothing more than to scratch lines up Bruno’s back, but they have to hold his body up in this awkward cross-legged position. He digs them into the sheets instead, giving him enough of a grip on the physical world to peel his eyes open.
His cock jumps inside of Bruno when he sees him. The bruise is already beginning to bloom on his neck – a nasty purple – and his head is thrown back, chest exposed while he balances on Abbacchio’s thighs. Balance becomes too much work once he seats himself fully on Abbacchio, whole body shaking, and leans forward to wrap his arms around the pale body. His hands thread themselves into Abbacchio’s hair, and when he pulls it’s all the encouragement Abbacchio needs to move.
Hips moving of their own accord, he pulls out as far as he can tilt his hips, then thrusts hard up into Bruno’s waiting body. The groan that tears from Bruno’s throat is beautiful, but the harsh pull at his scalp is so much more incredible. He can feel Bruno’s hands shaking when he pulls Abbacchio’s head back, exposing his neck.
It should be clumsy and messy and uncomfortable, but because it’s Bruno, it isn’t. He bounces in Abbacchio’s lap and presses his mouth to his Adam’s apple. His hands are pulling so hard on Abbacchio’s hair that there are tears in his eyes, pain lighting fire in his gut, striking all the way up his cock. It’s never uncalculated, never sloppy, just all Bruno’s careful plan and easy movements.
He meets Abbacchio’s erratic thrusts with grace, tugging on his hair and clenching down around him at just the right times. The intimacy – every breath Bruno takes, everywhere their skin touches, every tug, every small cry and gasp and moan – it’s all too much, so much more than Abbacchio gives to anyone else; Bruno knows him better than anyone else.
“Leone,” Bruno cries, and that’s it. His name, inside Bruno’s mouth like it belongs there. The name only Bruno uses, crashing down on him like a wave, and he’s gone. Abbacchio’s vision goes dark and he’s peaking, throat raw and red, sharp pains in his scalp rooting him to the Earth. He can only feel pieces, knows that Bruno’s cock is rutting against his stomach, knows that Bruno is dripping gasps of “Leone, Leone, Leone,” over and over again into his ear.
He opens his eyes just in time to see Bruno’s face while he comes, too close and blurry, but perfect all the same. His eyes are screwed shut, his mouth open in harsh gasps, his whole body tense. Come lands in hot ropes on Abbacchio’s chest, splashing up to hit the bottom of his chin. Bruno shakes on top of him, tries to come down from the high.
They don’t separate until Abbacchio can feel the come beginning to cool on his chest. He grimaces when he pulls out of Bruno, disgusted by the soft squelch of his come falling out of Bruno’s body. The sheets are a mess, but Bruno will stick around and wash them, like he always does.
“No sleeping yet,” Bruno announces, landing a light slap on Abbacchio’s chest. It comes away covered with come, and he can’t hide the scowl as he wipes his hand on the sheets. Abbacchio shoots him a warning look, but Bruno continues like he’s done nothing wrong. “I’m still covered in pieces of your hair, and it’s starting to itch.”