Work Text:
2 AGOSTO 2002, 23:01 CEST
NAPOLI, ITALIA
"Well," Bucciarati said, watching the last round of a random billiards game wrap up. "Shall we head over to the counter for a bit?"
Abbacchio stretched. "Yep. I could use something to take the edge off."
They'd gone down to a local dive bar earlier that evening to let loose a bit after a relatively busy day (which, in Bucciarati's case, mostly consisted of paperwork). Nothing too shabby, though they hadn't started drinking yet.
Nothing too fancy, either.
Mista was planning on picking them up around one a.m., which Bucciarati knew would give the two of them plenty of time to get everything out of their systems. That was fine.
Plus it would give him and Abbacchio some degree of "alone time".
They arrived at the bar counter a moment or so later, taking their seats. The bartender, a beefy-looking woman in either her thirties or forties, approached them, giving them a kind smile. "Alright, what can we start you two off with?"
Bucciarati gestured to himself and Abbacchio. "Two shots of vodka, each."
"Comin' right up."
She poured their shots, passing the glasses on to her patrons. Bucciarati and Abbacchio grabbed their first shot glasses, toasting, before downing them at the same time. They waited a few minutes, and then downed their second shots as well.
Two shots turned into three, then, for Bucciarati, three turned into four turned into five...mostly to prevent Mista from having a nervous breakdown when he would eventually pick them up from the bar. He wasn't sure how much Abbacchio had, but, to be fair, he wasn't paying any attention.
Five turned into six.
Six turned to seven.
The bartender gave him a bemused look. "I think you need a break."
Bucciarati waved his hand in dismissal. "I swear to drunk I'm not God."
Abbacchio facepalmed.
"Okay, Signor I'm-Not-God," the bartender said, smirking. "I'm cutting you off for the next half hour. Come back when you're a little bit more sober."
"What about 'im?" Bucciarati asked, gesturing to Abbacchio (and coming dangerously close to accidentally smacking him in the face).
"I'd say he's still got a few more before he's cut off."
"In that case, I'll order a pint of Guinness and call it at that," Abbacchio decided.
The bartender nodded, satisfied. "One pint of the good stuff, coming right up." She left for the other side of the counter, allowing Bucciarati to gaze upon his partner without being interrupted.
And, boy, was he gorgeous.
"You're prettyyyyyy," Bucciarati slurred, booping Abbacchio on the nose with an index finger. “How many ‘ave you had?”
“This’ll be my fifth,” the goth replied, gently moving his superior's appendage out of eye-poking range.
“You didn’ ‘ave more?”
“I’m trying to cut back.”
“Ahhhhhhhh.”
The bartender returned to the counter, holding Abbacchio’s pint in her hand. “Here you go. Overall tab's 100€, when you get the chance to sober up a bit and pay for it. Now shoo.”
Bucciarati felt himself being ushered away from the bar area, and he started to think maybe, yeah he might’ve had too much because tunnel vision started to kick in and he felt like he wanted to do something batshit crazy (but he wasn’t sure what).
“Whaddya wanna do?” the Capo slurred, grinning like a complete maniac.
“There’s a darts board nearby,” Abbacchio responded, scanning around the area. “We could do drunk darts.”
“Drinking game?”
“Christ, no! Absolutely not!”
“So how are we...how are we gonna play drunk darts then?”
“We’re already drunk, idiot!”
“Oh yeaaah…”
I forgot about that…
Shouldn't be too difficult.
Then again, a bullseye was a bit more difficult to attain since he was a bit drunker than he’d expected.
Difficult, yes, but not impossible.
“How much d'ya wanna bet on this?” Bucciarati asked.
Abbacchio took another sip of Guinness, raising an eyebrow. “What, money?”
“No, chores,” the Capo said sarcastically. “Yes, money.”
Abbacchio smirked. “Alrighty. Loser pays for the tab...and coughs up another 50€.”
“Pfffft,” Bucciarati snickered. “Fifty euros is noooothing. Let’s go for 100€.”
“200€.”
“400€.”
“800€.”
“1000€.”
“Deal,” Abbacchio said, grinning maniacally. "No take-backs. And no Stands, either."
Bucciarati laughed. "Whaaaaaat? You think I woould use Sticky Fingaaz to zip a black hole in the darts thingy?"
Abbacchio kissed him on the forehead. "With you? Anything's possible."
"I looooooove you."
"I love you too." Abbacchio grabbed the darts from a nearby counter. "Want to go first?"
"Hell yeah."
Scores start at 501, and first one to 0 wins. I wonder if we can get that far, but hey. Bring it!
The game started off alright, but over the next probably half-hour-to-hour or so it deteriorated into utter chaos as both of them kept missing their boards a bit more often than they'd liked.
"Alright," Bucciarati said, readying his latest shot. "Here goes."
He tossed the dart with his eyes shut, raising an eyebrow when he didn't hear it hit the board...or the wall, for that matter.
Abbacchio winced.
"Did that hit?" Bucciarati asked.
"If you were aiming to poke me in the ass, then yeah."
The Capo's eyes widened. "Did I actually...?"
Abbacchio turned around. Sure enough, Bucciarati saw something pointy and with fins (that wasn't a shark) poking out of one of his lover's glorious (clothed) buttcheeks. He doubled over, laughing so hard that his stomach started to hurt.
"Did you want to get it out and actually try to aim for the board this time?" the goth asked, the telltale sign of laughter on his face.
"Sure!"
I wish I had brought a camera for this.
Ah, well.
He walked over (nearly falling over on the way), pulling the dart out of his companion's butt. It didn't look to be in there very deep, mercifully, so that was one less thing to deal with.
Although, upon closer look...
"That ass is so perky!" Bucciarati drunkenly commented, lightly smacking Abbacchio on the butt. "It's like a bouncy—"
"I get the point, Bruno," Abbacchio said hastily, hiding his laughter behind his hands. "Tell you what—last round, and then we'll get you somewhere to sober up a bit."
"Fiiiiiine."
Abbacchio threw his last set of darts. One landed close to the top, and the other two missed the board entirely.
All of Bucciarati's darts missed, though thankfully no more butts were impaled.
"Okay," Abbacchio said, collecting the darts. "For both our sakes, I think we should call it quits here."
"Probably," the Capo accepted.
The final score?
Abbacchio: 97.
Bucciarati: 308.
Welp.
I now owe 1100€.
"All right," Bucciarati said, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. "I'll pay the tab and get you the rest of the money when I'm sober. Cash or card?"
Abbacchio nodded. "Cash, preferably. And, yeah, the rest definitely when you're sober."
They returned to the bar counter, and Bucciarati coughed up the amount needed to pay for the tab. So far, so good.
Then he let out a pained noise as he felt his stomach start to turn on him.
"You good?" Abbacchio asked, concerned.
Bucciarati shook his head. "I think I'm gonna hurl."
"Okay...let's find where the hell the lavatory is."
Fortunately, it wasn't very far away, and Abbacchio whisked him into it and locked the door before the Capo made his offering to the porcelain shrine in front of him.
"Oh godddd..." Bucciarati groaned, feeling more bile start to come up. "I have regrets. Plenty of them. So many—"
He vomited again, closing his eyes this time so he wouldn't have to see it. He felt Abbacchio pull some of his hair out of his face, tying it back with a hair tie (at least, that's what it felt like) before rubbing circles on his back.
Yep.
Definitely need to impose a limit on myself.
This SUCKS.
"I think that was the last of it," Bucciarati said after what might've been a few minutes, getting to his feet. To be fair, he did feel significantly better, but that smelled so nasty that it took everything he had not to dry heave onto the floor.
"Great," Abbacchio responded, flushing the toilet. He ushered Bucciarati to the sinks, cleaning his face up with a wet paper towel before the two of them washed their hands and exited the lavatory.
"So, what now?" Bucciarati asked.
"Well, it's 01:08," Abbacchio said, checking his watch. "I think Mista's probably waiting for us outside."
Bucciarati nodded, leaning against Abbacchio with a smile on his face. "Lead the way, handsome."
Abbacchio smiled back, gently ushering him out of the establishment.
Sure enough, their ride was waiting for them in the parking lot, and Mista rolled down his window and waved at them as soon as the two were noticed. "Yo, did anyone order a designated driver?"
Bucciarati snickered. "For here, or to go?"
"..."
"Stop being weird," Abbacchio chided, though his voice was lighthearted and tipsy more than anything else.
"Me? Pffffffft. Never."
Mista raised an eyebrow. "Do I want to know?"
"We got drunk, had a darts match, Bucciarati lost, he owes me 1000€," Abbacchio drawled, gesturing to the inebriated Capo in question, "and he also ended up coughing up another 100€ for the tab."
"...Just how much did you have?!"
"Total?" Bucciarati shrugged. "I lost track."
“He had seven shots of vodka,” Abbacchio responded. “I had five minus one shots and a pint of Guinness.”
“So, in other words, you’re the more sober one of the two,” Mista deadpanned.
“Probably. Unless you happened to have stolen a breathalyser on the way up.”
“I didn’t, so I’m probably just going to have to take your word for it.”
"I'm gonna be soooooo hungover tomorrow, aren't I?" Bucciarati muttered.
Abbacchio snorted. "Yeah, probably."
"Technically, today, since it's after midnight," Mista butted in. "But I'd rather you didn't puke in the van."
"Don't worry, I already got it out of my system in the dingy-ass lavatory that they had over there."
"...Noted."
Bucciarati stretched. "Are there any fast food places open?"
"If there are, I'm not driving you there."
"Aw..."
"Sorry, Bucciarati, but I'm under orders to take your butt straight home."
"Fair enough."
"Maybe it's just as well," Abbacchio said, ruffling Bucciarati's hair and smirking. "He's a lightweight."
"Am not!"
"Are too!"
"Am not!"
The goth gave him a dubious look.
Bucciarati sighed dramatically. "Okay. Maybe a biiiit..."
His partner chuckled. "Come on. Let's get you in the van."
Bucciarati walked towards the vehicle, though Abbacchio ended up being the one to help get him in the back seat and buckled up (because apparently the Capo kept missing the thing that connected the seat belt to the catch no matter how many times he tried).
"Thanks," Bucciarati said gratefully.
"Of course," Abbacchio responded, closing the door and taking the seat right next to him.
"Was it worth it?" Mista asked, starting the engines.
Abbacchio snickered. "Making a shittonne of money off of a bet? Hell yeah."
"You're just saying that because you won," Bucciarati pointed out. "I, for one, had fun."
"I did, too!"
"Well, so long as you two enjoyed yourselves, that's the main thing," Mista said, shrugging.
The two of them muttered something along the lines of, "yeah, yeah, we did"; though that was the last thing Bucciarati remembered before leaning against Abbacchio and passing out from (what was hopefully) exhaustion.
He did, indeed, wake up with a bitchin' hangover in the morning.