Work Text:
The scratchy sound of a fountain pen staining paper echoes throughout the silent room, dark ink branding the stiff parchment with the loopy curves of a signature. A rustle of paper, and the finished sheet is set onto a tousled stack of near-carbon copies. The only difference is what has been printed onto them—neat sans-serif font Italian, some embedded in code and others not—before Giorno signs each and every one with the stamp of approval; his signature.
Although, after a time, even the perfect letters of the computer-printed script start to blend a bit.
Giorno sighs in exhaustion—not having slept in over a day, it begins to feel as if he’s become a pile of rickety bones. He absentmindedly dips his fountain pen into its inkwell, swirling the ink inside the glass container and watching it paint the transparent sides with little care. Giorno has so much left to do—he almost winces as he pictures the tall stack of unsigned and unread papers, too tired to even lift his head—and figures it might be best to take a short pause.
(Even at an almost subconscious level of functioning, Giorno has to stifle the reflex of guilt that blooms at the mere mental mention of a ‘break’. He doesn’t have the time to rest. If it’s just a pause—and not a full break—it doesn’t count, right?)
Giorno fumbles for a drawer in his desk, the cool glass knob a calming sensation against his palm. He pulls out a sheet of parchment—notably without printed words, nor a designated place to sign his name—taps his pen gently against the rim of the inkwell, and begins to sketch. The free flowing feel of the pen mapping out shapes onto a blank canvas—curved petals that tilt up towards the sky, winding stems out of which sprout serrated leaves supported by pinprick-thin petioles—bring Giorno to a lulling sense of calm, barely having to keep his eyes open to uphold the rhythmic swirling of the pen. As he draws, the roots of thought taking hold in his consciousness spread, hyphae worming instead into vivid and dreamlike imagination. Thoughts burst into imagery like fireworks, and their scorching ashes burn Giorno’s cheeks a bright pink. Absentmindedly, stems turn into long strands of hair and ink-edged leaves twist themselves into scowling eyes and a painted pair of lips. Giorno can’t help but think the figure is beautiful; albeit a shallow interpretation of the real thing.
He keeps sketching, filling in the darker gaps with swathes of ink. Every stroke adds more depth, more personality to the man drawn out on the paper, and his expression is a stereotypical one; scowling, lip upturned and his eyes lowered. Yet biases unfurl the more detail Giorno adds, the man’s guise becoming heavier with anger as Giorno’s breath weighs in turn. He fills in the brows, shading them with another layer of bitterness, and lowers the drawing’s lids until the parchment is glaring at him no longer with an expression of pure disgust but with one of mixed hatred and lust, almost like a lover would.
Giorno wants to slap himself over this little crush, then finds himself wishing the slap would instead come from the other. His breath hitches, his pen stopping itself midway through a stroke.
Just this once. This one time, and I’ll never think about Abbacchio this way again.
(It’s always “just this once”, a promise that Giorno can never seem to keep. It’s almost as if it has lost its meaning, more of a ritual before a compulsory task than a warning to heed.)
He can never get Abbacchio off of his mind, every second left to drift off eventually winding its way towards him, as if his thoughts are creeping vines of poison ivy. Giorno stitches snapshots of moments spent with him together like puzzle pieces, tying together an idealised version of gruffness and care, the one that sends the most sparks flitting up and down his body. Hesitantly, Giorno pushes the drawing of Abbacchio to the side, laying his head down on the wooden desk and closing his eyes. A familiar face framed by long lavender strands fills up his mind. Abbacchio scowls at him, rolling his eyes. He glares at him as if he’s worthless, and somewhere deep in Giorno’s subconscious responds to that with a buzzing, blooming arousal.
His breath hitches on a whimper, not even noticing his hands wander down to his lap. Lithe fingers twitch, playing with the button on his slacks.
God, how desperate can you get?
Giorno’s lashes flutter, vulnerable.
Do you really want me that badly?
He squeezes his thighs together, the friction forcing a gasp from his lips.
You’re fucking pathetic. After the way I treat you, you still come back to me like an addict to their vice.
Giorno unzips his slacks, finally giving in to reluctant routine.
If you’re gonna be that obvious about it, I might as well teach you a lesson.
He imagines Abbacchio’s strong hand curling into a fist.
Giorno can’t help as a soft moan escapes him, followed by a painfully genuine, “oh, please, please do…”
Amongst scattered papers and pens, ensuing each wave of building pleasure and loss of restraint, budding roses sprout, creeping out from crevices and blossoming up towards the warm golden light of the desk lamp, the flowers’ beauty so radiant as to almost be seductive.
❊ ❊ ❊
With the heat of Giorno’s presence long gone, the chirping of crickets peaks to a chorus as the full moon hangs lulling in the onyx sky, milky light washing in through the open window. Barely visible in the dead of night, a stray moonbeam casts onto crimson petals scattering an ornate desk. Their delicacy is tempting, a sensual aura only woven like so from the heat that blossomed them, gleaming like Eden’s apple in the moon’s faint glow.