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Risotto’s breathing hard. He’s already missing an arm, and that damn Bucciarati is moving too fast to get a hold on with Metallica. There-! He’s about to stop, to turn, he can tell - so he readies Metallica, to reach out to the iron calling to him in his blood, but Bucciarati’s eyes pick that moment to flash up and meet his. He stops for a heartbeat in a beam of light streaming in through the window and his eyes positively glow, all electric blue and lightning. The intensity that flickers through them right as he calls out Sticky Fingers! is just enough to make Risotto forget about Metallica, forget about attacking, and before he knows it a fat silver zipper encircles his leg. In another instant, Bucciarati is there reaching down and without ever taking those eyes off him he zips his leg off and tosses it halfway across the room.
He doesn’t waste any time yanking Risotto’s head up by his hood and throwing a leg over his shoulder, pressing him hard into the ground. His one arm scrabbles for balance but he can’t look away, just stares right back into his eyes that practically drip with - not fury, like you would have expected from another boss, but concentration. Pure concentration. Risotto mirrors that concentration back, flicking over his face — his nose, his lips, the myriad of cuts that he put there himself — but he keeps coming back to his eyes. Blue, piercing, sharper than anything he could make with his stand.
They both breathe heavy and silent for seconds that feel like hours. Risotto can feel the weight of Bucciarati’s leg lift as he braces himself against the wall behind him, hoisting it even higher —and bringing Risotto’s head extremely close to his crotch.
Oh.
His mouth goes dry. Bucciarati doesn’t even look like he realizes the position he’s put Risotto into. He’s still too caught up in the fight, in winning, in finally getting what he wanted. If this night goes well, says a traitorous little voice, he might not be the only one getting what he wants. No -- no, stop that, he’s the enemy. But he doesn’t have to be, it maintains.
Bucciarati pushes his hand into Risotto’s hair and yanks, pushing back his hood and making the angle he’s looking up at that much more extreme. “Tell me everything you know about your boss.” His voice is scratched up from the fight, just like the rest of him, and Risotto’s head swims with how weirdly right it sounds — because he doesn’t like that he hurt him, not at first, but it feels wrong that he feels wrong about hurting him like that, he should revel in that small victory, not feel remorse for it, but -- it’s also unfairly hot that Risotto got him worked up like that. He can’t respond. Instead, he flicks his eyes down -- just a few inches, and then right back up, but just that tiny break made him extremely aware of just how close his face is to Bruno’s. Even held down like he is it would take barely any shifting to stretch up, close the gap, and —
What is he thinking?
Bruno’s mouth is parted slightly. He’s still breathing hard. His eyes are still locked firmly on Risotto’s, and his lips shimmer faintly with — is that lip gloss? He almost wants to laugh at the absurdity of a capo putting on gloss just before a fight, but the way his hand takes that moment to tighten in his hair makes him reconsider, and then when he wets his lips all he can think about is how his gloss might taste.
“Well?” Bruno (when did he become Bruno?) tugs again, sending a jolt through Risotto’s body, and leans forward, enough that Risotto is entirely relying on the grip of his hands on his hair and hood to keep him upright. His face is even closer, nearly nose-to-nose, and those eyes are boring holes into him. He’s heard he does that, he thinks dimly, sees right into your soul and pulls you out of yourself. He can’t stop thinking about kissing him. Bruno’s palm brushes against his cheek as he readjusts his grip, holding them even closer together. The brief contact makes the warmth of his skin feel like coals swiped over his face.
“Capo, are you going to say anything?”
“You’re beautiful,” Risotto whispers out.
Now it’s his turn to be stunned silent, Risotto thinks, and then he gets dropped on the ground. His head smacks painfully against the concrete and he halfway rolls over because he forgot he only had one arm to catch his fall. He rolls back, though, and looks up again at Bruno, who’s just standing there. His eyes are intense, still, but this time they shine with a bit of fragility, of confusion. They pick up the reflections of the broken glass strewn across the floor of this place, and it looks like he can see a thousand possibilities in his eyes.
“Has anyone ever told you that?” Risotto can hear himself say. “They must’ve. How can anyone look at you and not notice?” Oh god, he’s still talking. “I mean, you’re gorgeous.” His voice gets softer, shyer, so the last word is barely there. “Lovely.”
They’re both quiet for a few moments more. He can’t take his eyes off of Bruno’s face. Dust floats around them, catching the light. He’s staring, spellbound, when he remembers just how pretty his mouth is. It hangs open, still, and the sunlight he jerked up into makes the pink gloss glitter.
“Can I kiss you?” He says, even quieter. He doesn’t know how he’ll get up there to do it, but he’ll be damned if he gets out of this fight (is it a fight?) without kissing him. He licks his lips without even thinking about it, and he can feel his face heat up like he’s still in high school when Bruno flicks his eyes down to see it.
He doesn’t even realize what Bruno’s doing when he kneels down over him, straddling his leg. It takes Bruno lifting his chin up for him to understand what’s about to happen, even though he asked for it. A drop of blood slides down his cheek, and for once it’s all Risotto can look at as Bruno pulls him in.