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The first time Buccellati hears it, it doesn’t register. It’s not a scene of any importance, after all: there is an oil lamp on a high shelf, with a handle and mostly there for decoration, and Buccellati can’t reach it to dust it off. He’s just about to get a ladder when it’s hooked on a fishing line and brought carefully down to his level, hanging in front of him.
“Thank you, Pesci.” Buccellati takes the lamp from Beach Boy’s line. “You’ve become more precise lately. Good work.”
“It’s nothing, big brother Buccellati,” says Pesci. Then, for some reason, he makes a choking sound in his throat and heads for the door.
Buccellati stares after him, then shrugs and starts wiping off the lamp. He’ll still need a ladder to put it back on the shelf, but practice is practice.
The second time Buccellati hears it, it actually sinks in. Prosciutto is sick and Pesci is practically hovering around his room, bringing him food and frequently checking up on him.
Pesci is headed toward Prosciutto’s room again when Buccellati catches him by the back of his jacket. “Where are you going?” asks Buccellati.
“To see if big brother needs anything.” Pesci pulls, but not hard enough to be serious.
“And how many times have you done that today?” Buccellati asks.
“...I don’t know.”
“Enough times. We don’t need you getting sick. You’ve already made sure that he’s fed and has enough water to drink. You can rest now.” Buccellati lets go of his jacket.
“Yes, big brother Buccellati.” Pesci slinks in the direction of his own room, and Buccellati watches until it hits him.
“...Did… he just call me… big brother?”
“I don’t know why you’re surprised by this,” says Abbacchio, raising his teacup. “It’s obviously a title he’s used before for people he respects.”
“It’s embarrassing,” Buccellati says. “None of you have ever called me that.”
“We could start,” says Fugo, with a smile. “Big brother Buccellati has a certain ring to it- I’m just joking! Don’t give me that look!”
Buccellati tones down his glare. “Should I say something to him about it?”
“If it makes you uncomfortable, you should. It’s a gesture of affection,” says Giorno, “it doesn’t serve its intended purpose if you don’t like it.”
Buccellati sighs and rests his head in his hands. “...I’m not exactly sure what it makes me.”
Narancia pats his shoulder. “This kind of stuff’s hard, huh? I know when I’m talking to my younger friends-”
“Narancia, nobody thinks of you as older, give it a rest.”
Mista gets a fork thrown at him.
“If he comes crying to me,” says Prosciutto, “I’ll break your legs.”
“I wouldn’t blame you.”
That’s the only exchange Buccellati has with him on the subject.
“You wanted to talk to me about something, big brother?”
“Yes, I did. Come in.” Buccellati is relieved when Pesci chooses to sit across from him on another sofa, rather than next to him. It gives a certain amount of distance that he’s sure he’ll need. “About what you’ve been calling me lately...”
“Ah!” Pesci flushes slightly. “Should I have asked first? Do you not like it? I can stop-”
“It’s not that. Instead, it’s… should I be calling you brother as well?” Buccellati asks. “I’m not used to this.”
Pesci blushes even more. “Y-you can call me whatever you want. It’s okay with me.”
“Hmm… I think I’ll just stick to what I’m accustomed to.” Buccellati gauges Pesci’s reaction: he really doesn’t seem to mind. “But I’m honored that you would give me that title.”
Pesci beams at him, and Buccellati smiles a little back, and that’s that.