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Bruno Bucciarati twirled a slip of paper between his long fingers. It had only been a few hours since Giorno had given it to him, right after fucking him blind in a Korean spa. He leaned back against his seal brown, leather sofa and crossed his legs. He looked at Giorno’s phone number pensively. Surely there was nothing wrong with a repeat fuckbuddy. In fact, it would be more convenient, and possibly even healthier, than hooking up with a new stranger every time he fucked.
He slipped the piece of paper into his pants pocket as he strode towards the window. Bucciarati looked out at the DTLA skyline. Downtown always felt much more like a city than anywhere else in LA. Instead of a mishmash of different architectural styles dwarfed by palm trees, there were skyscrapers densely packed into city blocks.
He pondered how his aversion towards committed relationships had all started. After the death of his father, he was largely responsible for supporting himself. He did want a family someday, or at least a spouse, but it was never the right time. “What’s the point of settling down now,” he used to think, “before I make six figures and can properly support a family?” Having accomplished that, his new line of thought became, “I work well into the night, then I’m out the door by seven each morning. I’ll make my first million before I start a family. That way, I can cut back on the hours I spend in the office, without sacrificing financial security.” Then, after that—well, he’d run out of reasons. However, he was so settled into his way of life, devoid of meaningful interaction though it was, that getting into a real relationship felt almost frightening. The idea of having a friend with benefits was much easier to accept.
Bucciarati had to exercise all of the control he had to not call Giorno right away. “He’s probably not even home,” he thought, with an odd tinge of jealousy. He could so easily picture that tanned, blonde man with the sparkling eyes dancing with some other guy at a club. Bruno shook his head to clear it. “Why should I care if he’s with someone else?” he thought. “I just met the guy.”
Embarrassed with himself, he went to bed. He thought of Giorno, the mystery boy who had so easily seduced him. He remembered Giorno’s broad shoulders, above the water in the hot tub where they’d met, and the wet, blonde curls that lay against them. He recalled swinging with the force of Giorno’s thrusts in the room filled with pink salt. Then, the grand reveal—when Giorno walked up to him in the locker room, standing just below 5’8”. Knowing that a smaller man had dominated him like that gave Bruno salacious feelings. Now, he stroked his cock to thoughts of Giorno overpowering him through charm alone, taking control of him, relieving him of the pressure he always felt to control everything in his life. He’d never been with a shorter man before Giorno, and he’d still never had sex knowing he was with a shorter man. The idea of really leaning into it sexually made his head swim. He climaxed into his silk pajama bottoms. In his stupor of an afterglow, he fell asleep and dreamed of Michelangelo’s David.
The next morning, he finally called Giorno.
“I want to see you today,” Giorno said. “I’ll be working on this couture dress all weekend, so I could use a little break mid-day.”
“It would be my pleasure,” Bruno replied.
…
The Fashion District was a curious place. Despite the area’s association with style, the buildings were some of the drabbest, ugliest structures Bruno had ever seen. Some stores tried to jazz up the gray or beige cement by draping fabric from windows. In most cases, the stores that sold to the public left their doors open, to entice passers-by with their glamorous wares. Under umbrellas outside storefronts, business owners displayed costume jewelry. Other stores hung waist trainers from wall to wall. Hasidic business owners cut bolts of sequined fabric for customers. Quinceañera and prom dresses were on display in close quarters, forming rainbows of taffeta and silk. The district had a lively energy. The cornucopia of items added a feeling of excitement to the air. With so much to choose from, the possibilities were endless.
Bruno arrived at Giorno’s workspace. He stepped into the unmarked building. His host stood in the middle of the room, constructing a dress. It wasn’t just any dress, though. Giorno had packed a thin layer of soil into the shape of a ballgown and covered it in gardening wire. He weaved buds between squares of wire, so that the soil was barely visible.
“Are these what I think they are?” Bruno asked.
“Queens of the night? Yes.”
“How did you source all of these?” Bruno asked. He smiled, impressed, tracing his eyes over several hundreds of cacti on the verge of blooming. “These are impossible to get. I know, because the office manager at my firm complained about finding just a few for a floral arrangement.”
Instead of answering, Giorno passed him a sketch. It showed the finished dress. No soil nor fabric was visible on the one-shoulder evening gown—just yard after yard of white flowers.
“It’s gorgeous,” Bruno marveled.
Next to the dress form, Bruno spotted a cardboard box filled with at least a foot-high pile of egg timers.
“Some kind of productivity hack?” Bruno teased, gesturing towards the timers.
Giorno just cocked a half-smile.
“Let’s go. I know a place.”
…
Giorno took Bruno to a hip waffle place called Shaky Alibi. It had a retro feel, and a menu of ultra-indulgent dishes. This was not the atmosphere Bucciarati had been expecting. He thought for sure that the “mid-day break” Giorno was looking for was a quickie in some closet. Now, they were sitting down in a restaurant, as if they were on a real date.
“I want you to go to LA Fashion Week with me,” Giorno said. “I have a show on Monday. The flower dress is the final piece.”
“LA has a fashion week?” Bruno asked. He ate a bite of his fresh Belgian waffle, which dripped with chocolate-hazelnut swirl and homemade whipped cream.
“It’s not as big a deal as Paris or Milan, but yeah. Sometimes it’s nice to be a big fish in a small pond.” Giorno drank down the rest of his doppio.
“It sure is,” Bruno agreed. “Since you’re hitting the caffeine so hard, want to come by tonight as well?”
Giorno adopted a smug smirk. He held Bruno’s hand, stroking one finger down his palm.
“Were you expecting a different sort of get-together today?” Giorno flirted. “Have I left you wanting? Sure. I’ll come by tonight.”
…
Bucciarati paused in the doorway for a moment when Giorno arrived. He looked over his new paramour. Giorno had the perfect musculature, and considerable bulk. It was emphasized due to being packed into a relatively short body. He led Giorno into the bedroom.
For the first time, he made love to Giorno while knowing about their height difference. Giorno kissed him gently for what felt like hours. It was the opposite of any sexual encounter Bruno had had in years. He was used to knowing eye contact, hiding in stalls, anonymous, rushed sex… but now, time got hazy, and he lost himself in Giorno’s full lips. The way he kissed, it felt like he had an infinite number of techniques—a never-ending ability to titillate with minimal touch. Then he began to touch Bruno, and things got even better. Giorno undressed him delicately and ran his fingers across his neck, chest, and abdomen. He threw off his own cut-out jacket to reveal even more bare skin beneath, and cuddled up to Bruno, skin against warm skin. He licked up his palm and began stroking Bruno’s cock slowly as he nuzzled into his neck. The sensation was intense and light at the same time. Being touched so slowly and gently was almost unbearable.
“Take a deep breath,” Giorno whispered into Bruno’s ear. “Enjoy yourself.”
Bruno took his advice, but he still felt a desire like heat in the pit of his stomach. He grasped desperately unto Giorno, bucking his hips into the hand job, moaning louder than he ever had before. Giorno slicked his fingers with lubricant and began fingering Bruno. This was exactly what he needed. He felt his nerve endings react to every millimeter of Giorno’s hands, and every slight change in his movements. Finally, when Bruno was open and dripping precum, Giorno pushed Bruno’s legs back towards his head and entered him. He made eye contact with Bruno and brushed his black hair off his face.
“I told you I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” Giorno teased.
“You’re so fucking hot it’s ridiculous,” Bruno blurted out. It was the first of many compromising vocalizations he’d make before they collapsed into each other’s arms, soaked in sweat and cum, still making out.
…
“So, this is LA Fashion Week, huh?” Bruno asked as they stepped out of the car.
“Part of it,” Giorno answered. “There are the InStyle shows, then there’s Art Hearts Fashion. This is Art Hearts Fashion.”
They passed a garden lit all in purple, where people schmoozed and enjoyed light catering over high tables. In the lobby, small business owners hawked their wares between shows. Indie designers packed in racks of clothes, models gave out comp cards, and even hospital beds were set up for light cosmetic procedures.
“My show’s the first of the night,” Giorno said. “You can come backstage with me.”
After passing through a banquet hall featuring a runway, pink-purple lighting, and a gigantic chandelier, they made it backstage. Giorno fussed with the queen of the night dress. It was not yet in bloom.
“Are you nervous?” Bruno asked. “They only bloom one night per year, right?”
“And there’s no way to tell which night it will be,” Giorno confirmed. “I think I came up with a strategy, though.”
The room filled, spotlights were directed at the stage, and the models began walking to electronica. Giorno was visibly nervous, but only barely. He fitted a model with a slicked-back bun into the magnum opus dress. Just before she walked out, the flowers went into bloom. Giorno breathed a sigh of relief. More flash bulbs went off than ever before. The audience was audibly impressed by the dress made only of white, ethereal flowers. As the model turned around at the edge of the catwalk, Bucciarati caught a front view of the masterpiece. What Giorno had done was spellbinding.
…
The boys stayed for the other shows, dropped off Giorno’s pieces back at his workspace, and joined the Art Hearts director for an afterparty at a cowboy-themed gay bar in WeHo. It was just before twilight when Bruno was about to say goodnight.
“Can I show you something?” Giorno asked.
“After tonight? I’m pretty sure anything you have to share with me is worth seeing.”
They drove in relative silence most of the way back to downtown, but it was a comfortable silence. The night had been dazzling—almost magical. Once parked, Giorno unlocked the entrance to the building. The dress was back in the middle of the room, still in bloom and fragrant. They walked over to it. Giorno looked at the crack beneath the door.
“The sun’s rising now,” he observed.
In front of their eyes, every flower on the dress turned into an egg timer. The new timers Giorno had bought in bulk were now cracked, burned, or both, looking utterly depleted as they fell to the floor.
“I made these egg timers into queens of the night. It’s… an ability I have, turning manmade things into organic matter. I set them for just enough time to bloom before the end of my fashion show tonight. I wasn’t sure if it would work, but it did.” Giorno picked one up. “Even if I turned them back into plants, they would still be wilted,” he said, demonstrating such. He turned the dead bloom back into a timer. “It’s sad in a way, don’t you think? Yeah, this dress probably helped me make my name. It was a big success. Being ephemeral only makes my designs more intriguing. But it’s bittersweet that something that took so long and looked so beautiful could only last one night.”
“A lot of things are transient,” Bruno said. “That’s okay.”
Giorno looked up at him. Tears swam at the corner of his eyes.
“Some things last forever, though,” he insisted. “Right?”
Bruno made a zipper in the floor and kicked the timers into it.
“Right,” Bruno reassured him. His voice was shaking. “Some things last forever.” He gathered Giorno into a kiss, sensing that something in his life had shifted dramatically.