パン 🥖 JJBA oneshots!

🥖 | [bruabba] blinding lights (2/2)

Word count: 3100 (noiceee)

Completed: 3/6/20

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2
your touch

The stripper leads Abbacchio out of the private room and down the hallway, to an elevator marked employees only. He presses the call button, before signaling for Abbacchio to come close, glancing up and down the hallway:

"As you can see, you're not supposed to be here. So if anyone comes, just grab onto me and pretend you're really drunk."

He must take this job really seriously. Abbacchio can play drunk well enough, but he's concerned whether this skinny man can really support his towering 1m88 frame. "Er, I think pretending I'm drunk will be good enough...."

"Sure, whatever you like. You're handsome enough to be an employee, anyhow." The stripper grins at him, before slipping through the elevator's opening doors. Abbacchio isn't sure what to say to that, but luckily the ride is short. The elevator opens up to another empty hallway. "Hmph, L'Unità Speciale must be on right now. Nobody's here."

"La Squadra Esecuzioni? L'Unità Speciale?" Abbacchio asks as he follows the stripper down a maze of lockers. "Are they, like, special groups?"

"Yeah. They're Passione's two best. Their shows are nothing short of amazing... but of course, since this is a strip club, even the most talented dancers are considered "subpar" and "indecent."" The pride in the stripper's voice briefly switches to bitterness. He stops in front of a locker, opening it and pulling out a few articles of clothing. "How's the weather? Do you know?"

"It's pretty windy tonight, so it might be a bit chilly." Abbacchio replies. He honestly does not realize he's still looking at the other man until said man has fully slipped out of his work outfit, allowing Abbacchio to see him completely naked. Feeling his heartbeat accelerates, Abbacchio immediately turns away — but not before catching sight of the bruises the stripper has mentioned. There are more than he realizes: purple and black on either side of his hips, green on his back, blue along his legs, even the new red ones that Abbacchio has left on his neck. He suddenly feels a pang of guilt for not asking beforehand if it was okay to leave marks.

The stripper must be used to changing in and out of different looks, because in less than five minutes he has already finished getting dressed, wiping off his makeup, and redoing his hair. Looking at him creating a reverse French braid on the top of his head without a mirror is like a magic show, even to someone who's used to taking care of long hair like Abbacchio. The stranger pins his hair in place, and Abbacchio silently decides those golden circular hair clips fit him much better than the headband adorned with spikes earlier.

"You said "whatever I like," right?" The sudden question startles Abbacchio a little bit. He nods, and the brightest smile tugs at the corners of the stripper's lips:

"Do you mind if we go get some pasta?"

"Not at all." Abbacchio replies, and the happiness that practically radiates off of the other man as they exit via the backdoor makes his heart ache. It's almost like no one has ever done this for him before. He opens the car door for him, before getting into the driver's seat and entering Libeccio's address into his GPS.

The drive is quiet. Naples shines like a jewel against the night sky, bathed in the warm golden hue of street lamps and headlights and patio heaters. To their right, people and places are a lively blur as they drive past. To their left, the Mediterranean Sea stretches out infinitely, the quiet rumble of its waves giving the late hour a calming lull. Abbacchio glances at the man sitting beside him, whose wide eyes are trained on the pretty scenery, mouth now slightly agape. There's not a trace of that sly flirtation left on him, and it strikes Abbacchio right then that he knows nothing about this person.