sleepytimejunction | electric tapestry

electric tapestry

It's been a couple of years since he'd left Italy. Primarily, his skills in speaking English help him get along, especially with his various contract jobs. Of all of them, the Speedwagon Foundation pays the nicest, and the money is usually clean -- that's not exactly typical of most places, but it's kind of refreshing for a change of pace.

Not that Abbacchio probably deserves clean money.

Anyway, he's technically off shift, not that he'd care if he was still on the clock, as it were. He's seen this guy around a few times and hasn't really cared to know who he is, just kind of assumes he's probably upper management somewhere. He isn't bad to look at, but Abbacchio doesn't exactly play nice either. He'd said something along the lines of stop staring or fucking do something about it to the man.

That's about what led him to being on his knees in a closet sucking the guy's dick. Not that he has a problem with it; if he hadn't wanted to, he'd have put up a fight but he genuinely didn't expect him to be this big. To Abbacchio's credit, he doesn't choke, though.

He slides off with a lewd, wet pop and strokes him.

"This all you wanted? Fucking up my lipstick? That shit isn't cheap, stronzo."

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[WELL. That's...that's uncomfortable, and thankfully Stands won't be picked up on security cameras (save by another Stand user who looks at them, and there currently aren't any who might be observing), so his dignity is probably safe, for the moment.

But it really is something, to look at himself played back like this — not just for the filthy porn of it, but because it's a way of seeing himself from an outsider's point of view. Something that never comes easily to him, with how deep in his own head he tends to get.

It's even playing back the noises Abbacchio was making while he got fucked. Holy shit.]

Okay, okay, cut that out.

[He's not blushing! He's not flustered. He's just surprised, that's all it is. Surprised.]

I meant, like. ...Something other than that.

Wait, wait. I wanna test something...

[Licking his lips, he tries to think about it. That maybe he can... loop it? Play it on repeat.

And holy shit, it absolutely does. It loops. This is the best. Abbacchio is practically cackling to himself but remembers to at least dismiss the playback so that the Stand is back to its usual form.]

Okay. Okay, what... uh. Should I play back? [Because unfortunately, drunk as he is, his mind is certainly more filthy than usual. So it'll probably just jump to their little tryst in the closet.]

Hmph.

[Oh my god it's like a shitty VCR except real and tangible. This is the best thing to happen to porn since...whatever...good things have ever happened to porn, he doesn't know.

But the little viewing party that Abbacchio's Stand has just put on leaves him bristling and petty, and so before he can think better of it he grasps Abbacchio's chin in his hand and kisses him hard, pushing his tongue past his lips and sweeping it along the backs of his teeth, the inside of his cheek.

Then, after a breathless minute flavored of lipstick and whiskey, he pulls away and narrows his eyes slightly, looking smug.]

That. Play that back.

[Fuck. Honestly, he kind of wishes Jotaro was going to keep kissing him, and it takes a moment for his mind to catch up to the order. Right, okay, play that back.

His Stand approaches, static rushing over its form before it takes on Jotaro's appearance. Almost everything is right, except for the timer that's clearly on its brow, showing the exact time it'd just happened. A few seconds back, like he needs to know at least about how far back he's clocking it. The fucking in the closet was just the first choice he'd made.

Just like before, his chin is taken. It's weird; the pressure is exactly the same, and it even tastes like Jotaro did just a few seconds ago. The tongue is warm, swiping the inside of his mouth, and it's like an exact copy.]

Fuck.

...It's an exact copy.

[And that's fascinating, even just seeing it up close like this is incredible. He can call up things from an hour ago or a second ago, and the Stand will reenact it right before his eyes.

It's incredible. The ultimate investigative Stand. No wonder it belongs to a former cop who's a hell of a lot smarter than he likes to let on.]

Hah. Felt good, huh?

Tasted like you too.

[He mumbles it, not caring how it sounds. He probably won't even remember saying it.]

Good, yeah. Felt like a person. You. Only difference is the timer. So-- yeah. Exact copy. That'd be right.

Yeah? What do I taste like?

[He runs his hand lightly over Abbacchio's back, then hauls him the last bit of the way to the nearest waiting car — one which, he observes with a wince, appears to be an embarrassing convertible "midlife crisis" mobile.

Well, that's all right. At least he won't have to worry about Abbacchio hitting his head on the roof as he gets in the door.]

Booze, I bet. Right?

[The Stand disappears and he curls his hand into Jotaro's coat, not unlike the way he'd done before. The car makes him blink slowly, less judging and more thinking along the lines of how much money Jotaro has to burn. Huh. Must be nice.]

Yeah. [He huffs, amused.] Wasn't bad. Kinda nice, actually.

[As soon as he's in his seat, Abbacchio sighs and closes his eyes. Yeah, it is definitely tempting to just pass the fuck out here.]

[Like most cars at the Speedwagon Foundation, the keys are waiting on the seat, because this is an enclosed garage and anyone dumb enough to try to steal a car is going to have to get past security anyway, so why bother locking up to begin with? At least it makes it convenient when he needs a car in a hurry, he thinks, as he heads around to the driver's side and hops in.]

Seatbelt on.

[He's such a dad.]

...Did you drive here to work today? How did you get here? If you brought a car, I'll make sure someone picks you up tomorrow morning.

Whatever, daddy.

[But Abbacchio is going to put the seatbelt on. Not without barking out a laugh at Jotaro.]

Did I drive. Fuck no, I took the bus. Don't know much Japanese, but I got a book that helps me get by. You know how fucking expensive cars are?

Don't.

[If there was ever a time when he might've found that weirdly hot, that time abruptly came to an end at the moment he became an Actual Real Dad. Eugh.]

...Haven't bought one lately, so no.

[And there it goes again, one of those idle reminders that the privileges the Speedwagon Foundation affords him are much like the size of the house he grew up in — normal to him, and very much not normal to anyone else.

He shifts the car into gear and starts to pull out through the garage, piloting deftly toward the checkpoint that leads out onto the street.]

Not into the daddy kink, huh. Good to know.

[What a firm reaction. Maybe if he were more sober, he'd think about it, hold onto that detail. As it is, he's just going to curl up in his seat, settling into the numbing warmth he has.]

Well, s'fuckin' expensive no matter where you go. 'Specially here.

There y'go. Little reality check for ya, Jotaro.

Handle on the side, it'll recline the seat back.

[He pulls onto the road, shifting to driving one-handed while he steals a glance over at the way Abbacchio is drowsing in the passenger seat. When he relaxes, his features grow softer, and there's actually a surprising delicateness to them, pale beneath the smudged black lipst—

Oh.

Oh, fuck, did he wipe his mouth after they split that bottle, or did he just bypass the gate with lipstick on his mouth and a puddle of sleepy man in his passenger seat.

Good fucking grief.]

...But you're doing all right. They pay you well enough to get by?

[Oh, right. Car seats do that. With a bit of fumbling, Abbacchio finds the handle and leans his seat back, getting more comfortable. The wind on his face is actually pretty nice.]

Mm? Oh. Yeah, s'fine. Got a roof over my head, I eat. Probably would do better if I didn't throw it all away on wine, but that's on me.

All right.

[Why does something like that even matter, he asks himself silently. It's only contract work with the Foundation, but it's not as though they'd be unfair in their pay. And it's none of his business, anyway, Abbacchio is an adult and he can spend his paycheck as responsibly or irresponsibly as he wants.

But he still finds himself glancing over, watching him settle in and relax, and catches himself fretting anyway.

It's probably just because he saw the guy take an arrow to the throat today. Nobody could see someone get stabbed in the throat and stay calm about it.]

Well. I'll give you directions to a restaurant before I leave. The chef is Italian. If you get tired of being crap at Japanese.

[A tired little laugh escapes him.]

Real Italian, huh? Well. Be nice to talk to someone in Italian I guess.

[He feels himself getting more tired, ready to sleep. It's like he's floating. When was the last time he felt this good? God, not for awhile. This is the longest he's been around someone in ages, too.

What a time.]

[He drives, following the route to Abbacchio's apartment and otherwise staying quiet, letting him doze in the passenger seat as he sees fit. It's a nice enough day out, and the sun is warm, and the breeze over the windshield is cool.

Eventually, he finds the apartment, and pulls up to the curb on the street in front of it, shifting the car down into park before leaning over and running his finger down the curve of Abbacchio's cheek.]

Hey. Wake up. This is it, right?

Mm?

[Abbacchio blinks blearily, confused and tired. He barely lifts his head, trying to check to see if this is it. It... looks right, anyway.]

Mm-hmm. [He closes his eyes and nods before slumping back down against the seat, sighing.] Keys in pocket.

...You've got to be kidding me.

[He sighs, thumping his hands lightly on the steering wheel before shaking his head and emerging from the car, walking around to the passenger side in exasperation.]

Fine. C'mon, knees up.

[Apparently, he wasn't kidding about the princess carry, because that's precisely what happens — he simply lifts Abbacchio up and out of the car, drawing him into his arms and against his chest so that he can stay as drowsy-drunk as he wants.]

Uh-- hey--

[He shouldn't be surprised; he witnessed Jotaro's strength before, but he's still a bit startled as he's picked up like he's a fucking damsel. Abbacchio instinctively puts his arms around Jotaro's neck, breathing in sharp for a moment before he relaxes.]

What th' fuck.

You're tired and drunk. Figured you probably didn't want to move.

[And all things considered, he's starting to feel a little guilty about the latter bit. Maybe he should've intervened before the guy could drink quite that much of the hard stuff. On the other hand, he nearly died today, so maybe he gets to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Oh, well. It's weirdly nice to have arms draped around his neck like this. It reminds him a little of how Jolyne hugs him with her own little bandy arms and her sticky candy kisses, and this is nothing like that at all, except that it's been a long time since he let someone touch him with anything even resembling affection, hasn't it.]

You said your keys are in your pocket. I'll get you inside.

Did I? Huh.

[Everything is fuzzy right now, but he's not ungrateful for Jotaro's help. He digs out his keys from his pocket, leaning in once they're close enough to open the door.

The inside is... tiny. Very tiny. It isn't a filthy mess, but there are a few stray empty wine bottles here and there. It comes down to just clutter, really. A forgotten jacket draped over a chair, shoes in the wrong place, and so on.]

Couch is fine.

...Hm.

[It's a neat trick, toeing his shoes off without losing his balance or putting Abbacchio down once he steps through the door, but he manages it well enough. It's...awfully cramped quarters, but he supposes for just one person it's probably enough, especially in a foreign country that can't possibly feel like home.

Carefully, he picks his way over to the sofa and lowers Abbacchio down onto it, then heads for the kitchen and starts opening cupboards in search of a glass to fill with water from the tap.]

You got any bread or anything around here?

Mm. [Abbacchio curls up on his side. He should probably clean up for a variety of reasons -- sex, almost dying, work was a pain -- but he doesn't move much.]

I dunno-- croutons? [He snorts.] That'll work, I guess.

No rice?

[It's mostly an attempt at being snarky about him being a foreigner in Japan, until he remembers that oh, right. Italians eat rice, too. They make dishes out of it, even. Whoops.

Regardless, he fills the glass and brings the water over, crouching down near the side of the sofa to offer it to him.]

Start drinking. You'll thank me later.

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