Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

            “Ok sweetie, I think we’re about done here; now are you absolutely sure about all this?”

Johnny stared vacantly at the wall fixture behind her, mouth drawn into a tight line.

His mother crossed her arms and sighed like the whole world was against her. “Honestly, I don’t know why you picked New York City. Not that I don’t think this place isn’t worth the rent, but do you know how many used syringes I saw lying around on my way back here?” You counted?

There was a pause. “Well then, mister, if you’re still giving me the silent treatment, I might as well leave you here,” her presence seemed to consume the apartment, “but I still wish you’d reconsider. Your father and I are on your side, really.”

Johnny felt his teeth clench. Liar, he wanted to scream, that asshole doesn’t care what happens to me, he never has!

His kept his eyes fixed in place. Anywhere but on her.

“Leaving now.” Johnny rose slightly.

He hazily caught a glimpse of his mother kicking aside the dozens of empty cardboard boxes scattered about the floor. The door opened, and with it, his mother’s final words to him:

“I’ll phone you when I reach Danville.” Johnny made no plans to answer it.

 The door clicked shut, loud as a gunshot, leaving Johnny alone with the reverb.

            Two months had passed since Johnny Joestar cut himself off from his family for what he hoped was forever and, well, life was just fucking peachy. The insistent blare of his alarm woke him from a dreamless sleep. He cracked one bleary eye open and extended an arm to turn the damn thing off, slapping around his bedside table before hitting the target.

He heaved himself up and blinked the sleep from his eyes. The morning death knell was replaced with the underlying white noise of the city. Car horns, construction, sirens, a fait gunshot here and there. It was a far cry from the buzzing cicadas and distant rumbling of thunder that had lulled him to sleep as a kid, but he’d just have to get used to it.

He turned to the open wheelchair facing his bed. This was his biggest hurdle every morning; with all his strength exerted in his forearms, he crawled to the edge of his bed, turned himself around, reached behind to grasp the armrests and very carefully lifted himself up and down into the seat. Until it rolled backwards under the force of his shaking hands and Johnny’s stomach plunged as fell on his back with a startled yelp. He’d forgotten to lock it in place last night again.

Any pain he should’ve felt below his torso didn’t register, but he was wide awake now.

Johnny crawled from the ground up into the chair. Success. That done, he was free to move around his apartment and get ready. Johnny’s morning routine would consist of: downing his meds with a cup of instant, a splash cold water on his face, and a swish or two of mouth rinse. He threw on a cleaner set of clothes and shoved his permanent cowlicks under his customary hat. Fuck breakfast, who needed that shit. Everything tasted like cardboard this early in the morning.

Six-thirty- time to go. Johnny locked the door behind him and wheeled himself over to the elevator. Punched the ground floor button. The doors dinged open to Lucy lounging in the lobby, as per usual, finishing her homework last-minute before she caught her bus. Her blond hair was done up in a side ponytail that swung with her head as she whipped around to face him.

“Morning, Johnny!” she beamed, smile brilliant as ever.

“Mornin’ Luce.”

 Lucy Steel was the niece of Stephen Steel, the owner of the comfortable apartment complex in the Upper East Side where Johnny currently resided. Her doe eyes shone with concern.

 “I heard a loud noise from a floor up, that you?”

Johnny wheeled past her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ok, well, Stephen wanted me to remind you that rent’s due this Friday,” She called after him.

“Tell ‘im I said I got it,” answered Johnny. They waved goodbye to each other through the revolving doors.

             New York was everything Kentucky wasn’t; countless skyscrapers loomed on all sides, and the streets were jam packed with bodies, making Johnny feel like fenced cattle. The people didn’t make it any better, either. They were so pushy, like they all had somewhere more important to be than the next guy. Anyone you made eye contact with clutched their possessions just a little tigher. Johnny could steer himself around at what he thought was an acceptable pace, but he’d heard more than a few grumbles from the pedestrians around him who had to make a little space. It wasn’t all bad, though. At least it wasn’t home.

The city offered him the comfort of anonymity, a place impersonal, densely populated and far enough so that nobody from his hometown would ever find him.

The streets were still shadowy in the predawn light, and the air was brisk with the onset of winter. Johnny noticed a fair amount of construction on every block, it seemed; the city was installing even more sidewalk ramps after the ADA had been passed. Good. Now Johnny didn’t have to worry about clattering himself up and down every goddamn curb.

Finally, after about twenty minutes of rolling along downtown, he reached the Steel Ball Records shop. The lights were on and the door wide open, which meant HP was already here. A clandestine establishment, it was surprisingly bigger on the inside than the store front led one to believe. To passersby, it might have looked like a hurricane ripped right through the place, with second-hand vinyl and CDs packed indistinguishably in cardboard boxes and precarious stacks. Several decades-worth of posters eclipsing each other on the walls and ceiling to the point where their original color was all but forgotten. Despite this, Johnny had familiarized himself with its organized chaos. Not his top choice for a job, but it was close enough to his apartment and allowed him to spend time around his favorite records.

As soon as Johnny entered the shop, however, he was greeted by a whiney, leering cockney accent. Oh, Jesus.

“’Ay Jojo, lookin’ a little lame this mornin’,” This was beyond unfair; how had Diego manage to arrive before him?

Diego didn’t laugh, he cackled. “You know what that means.”

Diego Brando had perched himself on top of the checkout counter with one leg crossed over the other like the pompous ass he was.

“Diego, I’ll seriously run over your toes if you play five records of DIO in a row again.”

“Helluva lot better than your girly rubbish,” he shot back.

“I’m gonna curb stomp your ugly lizard face and your magical wizard metal.”

“Ya sure you can manage that from all the way down there wi’out yer pin pegs, luv?”

“The hell does that even mea-“

“You two can knock it right the fuck off, it’s too early for this,” commanded a stern voice from the back room. Diego stiffened. HP emerged carrying a bundle of precariously balanced vinyls.

Heather Pescitelli, ‘HP’ for short, was the manager of SBR. During the job interview she had asked what Johnny’s top five favorite albums were, and just like that, he was hired. Johnny liked how she didn’t ask too many questions.

She frowned in Diego’s direction. “Get down from there.”

He obeyed, still narrowing his reptilian eyes at Johnny.

She set the stack down on the counter, tucking a strand of hot pink behind her ear. “If you two can’t last till noon without dishing it out on each other, I’m choosing.”

Both snapped their heads around in a panic.  “Wait no, you don’t have to- “

Too late, HP was already blasting “What a Fool Believes” on the turntable, and the two of them forgot about their feud for the rest of the day.

            Johnny arrived home later that day with the beginnings of a migraine. He wheeled into the hallway just in time to catch the mailman pulling his mail out of the bag.

“Oh, I’ll take that.”

The mailman eyeballed him, as if gauging whether or not he was some weirdo trying to steal somebody’s mail. He had an oddly-shaven goatee, which Johnny could’ve sworn looked like a skull. He coughed, looking away and fumbling around his pockets and pulling out his key. This seemed to satisfy the goth mailman, as he wordlessly shoved the mail into the boy’s hands and walked away.

Johnny began flipping through the small stack of papers once he got inside. One after another he balled up and tossed the junk mail into the recycle bin with disinterest, but one particularly colorful flyer made him pause. It was bright red, with pictures of pizza and food Johnny had never seen before but looked mouthwatering. Pizza Napoletana di Zeppeli, it said in bright yellow lettering. That was Italian, right? There were a ton of little Italian places in New York, weren’t there? Whatever the case, the only word that mattered to him was “pizza.”

Johnny hung it on his refrigerator along with the dozens of other take out flyers he’d received in the mail. Not today. Though he’d left with a substantial sum in his bank account, most of it went towards monthly rent. Rent that was due this Friday. That meant he had to mind what was in his wallet--he could only order takeout so many times before he had to wait for his next paycheck.

So instead, he heated up some frozen lasagna that had been lying around in his freezer since last month. He carefully took out the molten plastic container from the microwave and parked in front of his television set. Another re-run of Seinfeld. The ‘lasagna’ had the texture of wet sawdust. How could pasta even have the texture of wet sawdust?

 Screw it.

Johnny snatched the pamphlet off the fridge and dialed the number. A moment of ringing passed before a chipper male voice answered,

“Bonasèra, you’ve reached Zeppeli’s, how may I help you?”

“Uh, hi, can I get a…” He gave the menu a quick glance, picking out the first thing that sounded familiar, “large margherita pizza?”

“One large pizza margherita. Anything else?”

“No, that’ll be it.”

“Your total is $11.50, can I get an address and phone number, please?”

Johnny gave him his number and address, as well as his credit card number, and the guy on the other end cheerily told him his order would arrive soon. The phone clicked back onto the receiver. Johnny stared distantly at the tv. There was nothing left to do, except sit back and wait for the doorbell to ring.

Chapter Text

          Business was slow. The steel clatter of the kitchen and contented chatter of lunchtime had trickled down to just a few individuals. Gyro Zeppeli was leaning against one of the kitchen carts, pouring over a book on organic chemistry. Giacomo was taking a phone call while the twins tossed more wood into the domed brick oven in the back. Gyro payed no attention to them.

His concentration was broken by a piece of paper shoved in his face. “Ué, nzallanuto.”

The book snapped shut. Sighing, Gyro snatched the order from the offending hand and squinted at it. He was supposed to get off in five and Pocoloco should’ve been here by now.

“One large-“ Gyro interrupted his brother’s words with a wave of his hand. “Yeah, yeah, I can read.”

Giacomo glanced at the textbook. “You sure can. You’re lucky pa’s out or he’d throw a fit if he caught you reading on the job. Again.”

Gyro tightened his impromptu hair bun. “Need I remind you, if I fail this next MCAT, that’s another $310  down the drain.”

“Right, right. Now go work your magic,” said Giacomo, turning back to the counter.

Gyro took a pinch of flour out of a bowl and dusted his palms. Dough-cutter in hand, he turned to a bin of premade dough balls and excavated a mound the size of his fist. The ball was dunked in flour before being thrown onto the counter and gently prodded with methodical fingertips.

“Say, Giacomo,” Gyro mused, “I’ve been thinking…If I ever open my own clinic one day, I should offer family discounts. For you guys, especially.”

Giacomo turned from his task of money-counting, raising an eyebrow. “You know, you’re not making this whole doctor business sound as profitable as you’d pitched it to him.”

Gyro snorted. “Il Vecchio will wear his joints down before he lets a single dime slip through his arthritic fingers,” he was already ladling the dough with generous helpings of fragrant tomato sauce, “but he’ll thank me when he gets cheap healthcare in this country.”

“Pennies, more like,” Filippo snickered from somewhere behind him. “Nah, pennies are worthless,” Benvolio quipped.

“Huh? How are they worthless?”

“’Cuz you make more than one cent in the time it takes to stop and pick up a pe—”

“Oi, you two gonna fire this thing or not?” Gyro pointed to the finished pizza; the whole process had taken less than three minutes. Even more stunning was the fact that it was perfectly circular.

Benvolio rushed over with a comically large wooden pizza peel, leveling it with the edge of the counter. Gyro gently nudged the pie onto the peel without disturbing its shape. It was then handed to Filippo, who slipped it into the smoldering brick oven, taking it out and rotating it every so often. After sixty seconds, he shoveled the pizza out. It was still immaculately round.

The mozzarella sizzled as Gyro placed it into a box and deftly cut it into a series of exact triangles. The crust popped and crackled each time the blade ran over it. He stood up to admire his handiwork. This was sacred geometry: creation revealed itself from a point of singularity, branching into eight parallel slices of harmonious congruency that held up the infinitely rotating dome of the cosmos—

“Quit staring at it like that, it’s creepy.”

No time to waste. Gyro fixated a pizza saver in its center and tucked the box away in his bag. Slipping his jacket and hat off the coat hanger, Gyro waved to his brothers, who answered with calls of “drive safely” that followed him out the door.

            Some poor bastard’s car horn blared as Gyro cut him off. Whatever. The faster he got there, the bigger the tip. In theory.

Why did he have get an order from all the way in Manhattan? This was a job that should’ve gone to Pocoloco, had he showed up on time for once. Next time he saw him, he was going to hide his wallet.

The closer Gyro got to his destination the more apparent it became that this customer lived in the posher side of town. He navigated through rows of well-kept brownstones and wondered how many organs one had to sacrifice to afford one of these things.

The brownstones were eventually replaced with upscale apartment complexes. Gyro scanned for numbers, not an easy feat in the dark. This one…? Yeah, it had to be, he’d checked. He parked his 1978 Dodge Omni in the only empty space available and got out without bothering to check if it was legal or not. Slinging the pizza bag over his shoulder, he speed-walked to the brass revolving doors of the place. His breath fogged in the dim amber glow.

Inside it was roomy, almost cavernous, with a high ceiling and a good twenty-five meters between the front desk and the expansive lounge area. Sparse but tastefully furnished. It was brightly lit by a gaudy chandelier in comparison to the rest of the interior, but a couple of fire places by the lounging areas lent it a slightly more inviting atmosphere. Gyro didn’t understand why the folks who ran this place needed so much space for just the ground level.

A quick glance at his watch confirmed that it had been twenty-eight minutes since he took off. Tough luck if he tracked dirt and flour on the expensive carpet, he had a delivery to make to a big-name client.

The clearing of a throat stopped him in his tracks. Oh great, it was one of these apartments.

“May I see your credentials, sir?” came a solemn voice behind the front desk. It belonged to a bespeckled, smartly dressed gentleman who appeared tall even while sitting down. He had an…interesting bowl cut. Gyro fumbled for his I.D. and the restaurant business card and handed them over.

The man nodded his sage approval as he handed them back. Gyro tipped the brim of his hat good evening and took the elevator to the ninth floor.

After some backtracking, he finally reached apartment 939. He straightened his uniform and polished his teeth with his tongue before ringing the doorbell. Seriously, why would a person living in a place like this bother with his family’s hole-in-the-wall? Perhaps caviar and cucumber sandwiches got boring after a while. Suddenly, Gyro felt like Raffaele Espositio in the court of Queen Margherita.

The door was answered by a small child- wait, scratch that, a young man in a wheelchair. Gyro faltered; he expected some tailored yuppie with glass of vintage in one hand, not a baby-faced Kurt Cobain. He peered up at him from under a worn beanie peppered with holes from which small tufts of strawberry blonde poked through. His beautiful, yet worn eyes were laden with heavy dark circles. Gyro felt himself pinned under their intense blue.

He realized he’d been staring. “Uh, p-pizza pizza.” Oh, goddammit.

The boy furrowed his brow slightly and dug $2.30 out his wallet as they exchanged pizza for dough. A decent tip for one large, but Gyro couldn’t help feeling bummed out for not scoring as well as he’d hoped. Served him right for that fuck up, he supposed. Maybe this kid was some addict crashing at a friend’s place and most of his cash had been spent on heroine or something. That sort of thing was common, wasn’t it?

Nevertheless, Gyro collected himself and flashed his most winning smile. “Thank you for ordering Zeppeli’s, have a good night!”

The kid was still staring hard at him. What, was there something on his face? In his teeth?

“Yeah…thanks,” he muttered, and retreated behind the door again. It shut with a soft click, and Gyro was alone again.

Gyro huffed, scratching his head. What a weird kid. Although…

Perhaps it was a good thing that Pocoloco ran late after all.

            Johnny shut the door and wheeled over to the dining room with his pizza in tow. What a weird guy. Did everyone in New York go for the avant-garde aesthetic? The delivery guy (who for a split second forgot where he worked, apparently) had a close-cut, patchy scruff checkered along his jawline. That wasn’t even the strangest bit; the man wore honest-to-god grills, with the words “GO! GO! ZEPPELI” etched in gold lettering. It was an unconventional form of advertisement, to say the least.

Oh well, he’d gotten his pizza and that was all that mattered now. Johnny eagerly opened the box to…confusion.

When Johnny thought of pizza, he tended to picture a melty, cheese-laden triangle with barely any sauce underneath. This was no such pizza. Rather, it had far-in-between slices of mozzarella swimming in tomato sauce, with a few basil leaves scattered throughout. The crust was spotted with char.

This looked more like someone had literally thrown the ingredients together and hoped a pizza would somehow form. Johnny wanted to get angry, but the delivery clown was probably long gone by now, and he didn’t feel like digging the lasagna out of the garbage bin. This was $13.80 he wasn’t ever getting back. At least it was nice to look at; no, really, this was the most perfectly circular pie Johnny had ever seen.

 Johnny tentatively picked up a slice, took a small bite. Then another…and another.

Before he knew it, the whole slice was gone. Johnny didn’t consider himself a crust person, he usually threw them out. However, this crust was so flavorful he wanted to devour it down to the last bite. It was slightly crispy on first contact, but light as air on the inside without being too chewy.

And oh man, the sauce; Johnny decided that it didn’t need any more cheese than it already had, else the tomatoes’ sweet acidity be compromised. God, he sounded like a food critic. Johnny took another slice. He also made note how eating more didn’t make him feel too awful like usual, and before he knew it half the pie magically disappeared. Every pizza he’d ever tasted before was wiped clean from his memory and ceased to exist.

It was some minutes before Johnny remembered how to breathe. Breathing heavily, he felt something warm slide down his cheek. He raised a trembling hand to meet it, and his fingertips came away wet.

Was he…crying?  Crying over a pizza?  Oh, this was rich. Johnny laughed in spite of himself, chuckles interspersed with hiccuping sobs. Without a doubt, this was the best thing Johnny had eaten since he moved to New York—probably the best thing he’d eaten in his entire life. Regret gnawed at him for not tipping the delivery man more.

Maybe it was the presence of centuries of tradition in every ingredient, or the loving care that went into every step, blending together to create something that tasted like- home. Like family. Not his, granted, but things he hungered for yet couldn’t bring himself to admit.

Whatever the case, one thing was for certain: if a slice of pizza could reduce him to a sniveling wreck, then Johnny Joestar had reached a new low.

Chapter Text

            Johnny became something of an obsessive regular of Zeppeli’s, ordering three large pies a week on average. Some recessive corner of his mind dimly registered that this probably wasn’t healthy or financially sustainable, but his taste buds and crumbling impulse control were louder.

It was always the same delivery guy, too: every time he opened the door to receive his order there he was, eyes and teeth sparkling under the brim of his cap. They’d developed a vague familiarity with one another, such that the man would venture a few words besides his usual greeting from time to time. Good pizza, eh? I see you got Quattro Formaggi this time; good choice, good choice. Nice weather we’re having, he’d say, glancing at the ceiling. Johnny would offer little but a heftier tip in return. Such attempts at conversation were wasted on him, but he decided that it didn’t really matter so long as he got his food while the other got paid.

“I just thought of a joke,” Delivery Guy said one evening. Johnny wasn’t given time to reply before he continued with, “How do you know you’re in love?” Each gold-plated tooth carried Johnny’s reflection, slightly distorted over the letters, taunting him.

“…How?”

 Somehow that toothy smile split even wider. “If they steal a pizza your heart!”

Johnny was rendered speechless. That was so stupid he wanted to laugh, but he wasn’t going to laugh because it was not funny. Like, at all. As far as Johnny was concerned, this meatball was just an obstacle standing between him and his dinner. 

“Wow, that was…” Delivery Guy was grinning down at him expectantly, “cheesy.” He threw back his head in a loud guffaw. “Nyo-ho, I like the way you think! Plenty more where that came fro-“ But Johnny already shut the door in his face.

            Johnny braced one hand while he struggled to open the microwave door. HP said she’d replace it before January, but a busy woman could make no immediate promises. Finally, after some give, it busted open, and the aroma of hot pizza wafted through the small employees-only room. It wasn’t quite as good as when it was freshly made, but dammit if it wasn’t the best microwaved pizza Johnny had ever had. He took out the piping-hot plate and was about to slam the door shut when a hand appeared out of nowhere and swiped a slice. Johnny whipped his head around just in time to catch Diego scurrying out the door.

“Diego, you wet sock, get back here!”

“What’s going on?" HP stood up from her place behind the checkout counter as Johnny sped after him. Diego was already at the far end of the shop, chowing down the slice, his slice. “HP, tell your pet velociraptor to quit scavenging off other people!”

HP heaved a sigh as she strode across the room. Diego began stuffing his face faster. Not fast enough; he let out a squawk as he attempted to dodge a rapidly approaching HP, but she obstructed his path at every turn and snatched the slice out of his grimy little claws. Johnny’s satisfaction melted into horror as she took a bite of it herself.

A few moments of thoughtful chewing passed before she swallowed and said, “This is really good, you could’ve brought some in for all of us.”

“HP…not you too,” lamented Johnny. Diego leered at him like it had been a group effort all along.

“Sorry about that Johnny, couldn’t help myself, it looked too good to throw out.” She was still eating it as she gave Johnny a pat on the shoulder. “Tell you what, I’ll give you my pudding cup for today. Chocolate, it’s in the fridge.” Now it was Diego’s turn to look betrayed. Johnny smirked at him while he bit into his remaining slice.

“Mmh, been a while since I’ve had pizza that good,” HP wiped her hands along the front of her jeans. “Where did you get it from?”

“I got a lucky little advert in the mail for this place called Zeppeli’s.”

HP’s expression went cold. She seemed to look through Johnny rather than at him. “Ah,” she murmured. “That explains it.”

Before Johnny could ask what was wrong, the bell at the front entrance jingled, alerting staff that a customer had walked in. Everyone straightened up and went back into work mode. Lunch break was over.

            “Diego, go home already.”

He was buzzing about every which way: pretending to wipe away dust, flipping through records and inspecting them, basically anything to create the illusion of industriousness. He glanced up from his puttering, “I, uh,” and slunk his head back down. “I thought ya might’ve needed a helpin’ hand at the end o’ the day, ‘sall.”

HP gave him a lopsided smile. Had maintaining a balanced workplace not taken precedence, she would reprimand him less. The way he would repay her with small favors evoked the image of a dejected puppy begging for attention. There was no need to prostrate himself so much; HP liked him better when he was just Diego, her coworker, not her loyal servant. “Johnny already dusted everything, I reorganized all our 70’s vintages, and you don’t have to worry about that stack of outgoing shipments until Sunday. Go home. Rest.”  

“Blasted JoJo,” Diego spat. HP closed her eyes in irritation. Not this again. Since their first day on the job together, there had been no love lost between Johnny and Diego. She remembered it clearly: as soon as Johnny entered the shop they both froze. A look of panicked familiarity flickered across their faces, the air crackled. The tension then erupted into a bout of hollering- something about a high school rivalry and an international track meet- until HP came between them before the fists started flying. She had absolutely no interest in knowing what happened, but if they couldn’t be at least halfway civil during business hours they were both fired, and she knew how desperately they both needed this job. Thus began an uneasy truce of sorts.

“Stop it, Diego. As much as your teenaged selves would disagree, this isn’t a competition.”

His shoulders stiffened into a protective shell against her words. “Tha’s just it, it doesn’t ‘ave ta be, but then he waltzes on in like he runs the bloody place-“

“He doesn’t, I do, you’re just projecting,”

“-he can’t reach anythin’ without my dino grabber-“

Their voices were steadily growing in volume. “Johnny does alright for himself, I just make the necessary accommodations-“

“An’ then all the while I’m just,” He stood with his arms dangling at his sides. “Takin’ a backseat, I s’pose.”

HP pinched the bridge of her nose. How was she supposed to console this bitter child without stoking his ego? “I take it that’s why you stole Johnny’s pizza earlier?”

“Christ, no, I was just ‘ungry, I swear!”

“Pack a lunch, then.” HP fingered the gold cross around her neck, gathering her reserve. “Look…sorry for bringing up Johnny’s name while we’re alone together,” A faint coloring bloomed on the cheeks of the man across from her. “But these kinds of sentiments don’t pair well with work, okay? I am not ignoring you or playing favorites,” Her voice resumed its managerial tone. “Which is why starting now I want you to dispel that kind of thinking from your head. The only thing I hate more than stolen food is a toxic work environment. Ah-ah, don’t worry, I’ll tell Johnny as much.” She stepped forward and extended a firm hand on Diego’s shoulder. He stood up a little straighter. “I’m lucky to have you both; this place is too easy to miss, after all.” They both shared a quiet chuckle at that, though Diego still didn’t quite meet her eyes.

“Maybe ya oughtta get a flashy neon sign, then. Blend into the rest of the city.”

She gave his shoulder a strong pat. “See? You’re not useless, you have plenty of good ideas. Where would I be without you? Now, go home. Don’t make me repeat myself again.” She made to go back to her evening work before turning once again and calling out, “One more thing.” A knowing smile played across her lips. “I want you to wear your becks from now as well.”

Diego grimaced. “But I hate those things, they’re fugly as all hell.”

“Sorry, but I can’t have you knocking everything over just to pick it up and knock it back down again. Bad for business.”

Diego spread his arms wide, walking backwards. “My mince pies are in fine workin’ order!” He spun around to face the exit, “I can manage all roath m’ limbs just fine, unlike some pe-“

And tripped on a stack of outgoing ‘74 records, all in mint condition. It toppled to the floor, bringing Diego along with it.

HP was almost impressed. Almost. “Now you’ve bought yourself a reason to work overtime. C’mon Godzilla, help me clean these up.”

            Unfortunately for Johnny, the act of savoring his pizza had been cut short thanks to a certain cold-blooded scoundrel. So he dialed up, ordered a large Four Seasons, and passed the time by idly flipping through the channels. Upon answering the door, it became apparent that tonight was not going to be like all the others. He almost didn’t recognize him: Delivery Guy towered over him as usual, but he’d dropped the overly-friendly customer service façade, that flashy grin was nowhere to be seen, and his cap had been taken off to reveal…oh, wow. Waves of sandy blonde hair cascaded over his shoulders. They framed his chiseled face, somehow making his features look darker, although the unreadable expression certainly helped.

“See anything you like?” His voice was lower, thicker, with traces of an accent Johnny could only guess was Italian.

There was no telling what this guy wanted from him or hoped gain from this encounter, but Johnny refused to be thrown off. “Yeah, that box you’re carrying right there.”

They made their usual exchange, but just as Johnny was about to make his withdrawal, Delivery Guy propped a tanned forearm up against the doorway, blocking any form of retreat.

Johnny was taken aback. Who did this guy think he was, laying claim to his doorway like that?

“Um, can I help you?”

“Not really,” He cocked his head to one side, peering the young man below him. “Just wondering what you’re doing with so many pizzas, ‘sall.”

“Well, obviously I’m going to eat them-“ Johnny got about halfway through slamming the door on his fingers anyway when a hand, quicker than eyes could follow, stopped it.

“So rude, yet you keep ordering again and again. Why?”

Panic began to bubble in Johnny’s chest. “Wh-why do you care? Look, you can have my wallet, just-“

“Woah,” Delivery Man lifted his hand off the door like it burned. “I appreciate your patronage and all, but I’m not interested in any shady business, alright? Sorry for scarin’ ya. What I don’t appreciate, however, is nearly losing my digits for it and having the door slammed in my face, capisce?”

Johnny relaxed, somewhat, though he kept his hand poised on the doorknob. “…I’m sorry.” This was the longest conversation he’d had with anyone in a while and he was exhausted, but he supposed he had been a bit of an ass till now. “For, almost taking out your fingers.”

That decadent grin made its grand reappearance. “Nyoho-ho, how else would I make you delicious pizza without the use of my magic hands?” He waggled his fingers for emphasis.

So he’s the one who makes them? Delivery Guy detached himself from the doorway. “Well, enjoy your pizza, and your evening-“

In a fit of impulse, Johnny reached out and grabbed his wrist just as the man was turning to leave. “Wait, don’t go,” he pleaded. “How do you make it? What’s your technique?”

Delivery Guy looked down at him incredulously, before dislodging his hand from the boy’s surprisingly strong grip. “Sorry kid, but I can’t tell you that. Family secret, ya know?”

He slung his bag over his shoulder. “I’m flattered, though. Ordering as much as you have is high praise. Enjoy your pizza, uh-?”

“Johnny,” he said before he could think better of it. 

“Gyro.” He tipped his hat farewell. “Well then, stàtte, Johnny.”

Johnny stared after him as he walked away. He got as far as the elevator before the other called out:

“Wait- aren’t gyros supposed to be Greek or something?”

Delivery Guy- Gyro- grinned at him through the closing doors. “Nyo-ho, wouldn’t you like to know?” And then he was gone.

Johnny lacked the wherewithal to take his pizza to the dining room, so he ate it right then and there in the foyer. The box opened like a treasure chest, revealing a colorful wheel neatly divided into four sections of sizzling prosciutto, olives, artichoke hearts, and baby portabellas. Johnny chose a slice that lay somewhere between prosciutto and artichoke. His mouth exploded in a sweet, tangy celebration that momentarily transported him out of the frigid New York cityscape.

He demolished the slice and exhaled long and slow. Now he could think clearly. Not surprising that he’d been turned down, it came out of seemingly nowhere. But this was far from over. Gyro thought his brush-off was enough to cow someone as fragile-looking as a boy in a wheelchair, but Johnny was going to show him just how tenacious he could be. He was prepared to shoot the guy as a last resort if it meant getting answers for how something could be so life-shatteringly good. His eyes swiveled over to the landline.

Yeah, high praise indeed.

Chapter Text

            Gyro’s years as a deliveryman brought him to the doorsteps of cults, paranoid recluses, crack houses, creepy children who stared at him while their parents searched for money, and anyone else who somehow got the Zeppeli’s advert in the mail. But this time he found himself ill-equipped to deal with terminally pretty boys obsessed with unearthing his family’s trade secrets. Experience taught him to engage as little as possible with customers, but this time around he’d been bold, exuding all the charm he possessed for a possible drink or two. And now it came back to bite him in the ass. Pate was right, being away at college only rotted his brain.

First, Johnny bribed him with increasingly larger tips before withholding them altogether, earning his address a spot on Gyro’s List of Spitwads Who Don’t Pay Me Enough for This Shit. Typical of rich people to put a price on someone else’s heritage. As much as Gyro knew that a pizzaiolo’s life was not for him, he’d never sell his family out like that.

Weekends found the joint packed and lively. Each time the phone rang Gyro felt his nerves grind themselves down to bleeding stumps. After making a round of other houses, he found Giacomo on the phone yet again. He turned when he heard the back door slam at Gyro’s arrival, frowning deeply. What the fuck? He mouthed.

“Hey, what did I d-“ His brother cut him off with a sharp wave of a hand.

“Are you sure? It will take awhi- yes…certainly, of course, sir.”

“Who-?” One look from his brother gave him all the confirmation he needed. Gyro’s stomach clenched. Why couldn’t this brat leave him alone? “Your total is $430.25. Will that be all? Alright, have a good night, sir.” Cche?

Giacomo wiped away a sheen of sweat that had begun to gather on his brow. “This guy wants one of everything. Extra-large. He wants it delivered within 3 hours, says his grandfather’s dying and wants Italian for his last meal.”

Filippo almost dropped the precious cargo on his pizza peel. Benvolio kept turning the can opener handle on an already-open can of San Marzanos. Even Mother, from all the way cross the diner, came close to overfilling her customer’s glass of water.

Only father remained focused on his work. <<So, get to work, then.>>

“But- but look how busy we are! We don’t have enough man-power!” Benvolio spluttered, gesturing to the crowded vicinity. “Yeah,” Filippo added. “We have five tables already waiting!”

“And three more callers on hold.” Giacomo was now rubbing his temples rhythmically.

<<Then quit wasting time and take their orders.>>

Gyro seized moment to step in. “Pate,” He swallowed. <<This- this is a huge honor and all, that someone regards us so highly, but at the moment we’re, ah, understaffed.>>

Gregorio Zeppeli actually stopped what he was doing and looked each of his present sons in the eye. <<And you call yourselves Zeppeli men.>>

No one dared utter a word, but the internal groan shared by each of them was nearly audible.

<<Your grandfather once cooked for over five hundred starving infantry men. For some it was the last meal they ever had, but he never failed them. Do you know what he did as soon as he was relieved from duty? He came home to rubble and ruin, and immediately got to work helping feed the survivors of Napoli. Never once did he complain about how tired he was, or how overwhelmed, when there were hungry people before his very eyes. The man could stretch a ration of flour beyond imagination! He rebuilt himself from the ground up!>>

Some patrons were shooting nervous glances in their direction. Mother carried on like normal, pouring drinks and taking orders like her children weren’t having their hides flayed in front of dozens of people. Traitor.

<<And when danger came not from a foreign power, but from the very streets we called home, I came to this country with what I could pack in a single suitcase and the clothes on my back! When have I ever failed you? I built all this,>> He waved his hands vaguely at the air around him, <<for you. I rebuilt this family out of nothing, and what do I get?>> He paused for dramatic effect. <<THANKLESS COWARDS WHO CONVENIENTLY FORGET THEIR TRAINING. I will hear no more complaining about a job I know you all were born to handle. Start acting like it.>>

Mother bustled her way over, clapping her hands to dispel the catatonic stupor that befell her children.

“You heard your father, get a move on!”

And that was that.

Gyro sighed. “I’ll call Pocoloco.”

            Pocoloco arrived in record time for once, carrying extra cheese, pasta, tomatoes, meats, and all the other necessities. Gyro was there to greet him at the back stoop.

“Yo man, what gives? You said code purple-”

Gyro took a few bags from him. “We’re in a tight spot. He ordered one of everything. Supersized. Wants it delivered at light speed for some event that I don’t buy for a second.”

“This the same manic pixie dream boy you keeping telling me about? ‘Cause I told you once and I’ll tell you again, don’t stick your dick in cra- Ow, don’t kick me!”

“Keep your voice down, my parents are right over there!” Gyro hissed, jerking his head back violently.

 “’Kay, geez, you call me in on my night off and this is the thanks I get…”

As they entered they were met with a wall of hot air and warm greetings. Father quickly approached, swapping Pocoloco his apron and hat for the remaining groceries in his hands.

“Thank you, so glad you came. You work on all pasta dishes tonight.”

“On it, Boss.”

“Good man.” Father gave his arm a quick pat before going back to frying the cotoletta. Gyro scowled. Why did he have to shamelessly treat Pocoloco better than all his own sons combined?

            It took a while, but all their joined efforts (including Mother’s) paid off with a good thirty minutes remaining. The result was over a dozen plastic bags filled with Styrofoam boxes and two full pizza bags.

Pocoloco was helping Gyro load the car while everyone cleaned up and tended to the few remaining customers of the evening. Gyro ran a hand through his greasy hair, puffing his cheeks out as he breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

“Good job.”

“Yeah, you too, Gyro.” Pocoloco turned to leave. “Well, have fun delivering to your friendly neighborhood pizza junkie.”

“Actually, I just thought of a great idea!” Gyro said, a little too brightly for both their current states. He tossed the car keys to his friend. “You deliver it.”

Pocoloco threw them back. “Nuh-uh, no way, I am not getting roped into your bullshit again.”

Gyro caught them right before they collided with his face, bouncing them right back to the other. “C’mon, hombre, we’ve delivered to many of the same jackasses before, haven’t we? How’s this any different?”

They continued their game of hot potato. “Because this Johnny-boy of yours sounds like a calculating little psychopath who launches himself at people’s ankles and I don’t fucking know what he’ll do to me.”

“Look, I screwed up, ok? Besides,” clink, “He only did that once. Plus, you can easily out-run him if he crawls after you.”

“You’re,” clink, “Not helping.”

Clink. Gyro stopped suddenly. “What’s that above your head?”

Pocoloco looked up before Gyro punted the keys at his chest and bolted for the door.

“FUCK-” Pocoloco scrambled after him but by the time he made it to the top step Gyro had locked the door.

“ESTÙPIDO, OPEN UP!”

He banged on it fruitlessly, catching the muffled laughter on the other side. Pocoloco sighed in defeat, walking over to retrieve the discarded keys.

“Anda el Diablo…”

            This was not Gyro. The tired-looking, African american man above him surveyed the plastic bags at his feet, then glanced beyond the threshold.

“Your grandfather’s not really passing away, is he?”

“…Sorry. That was low.”

The man let out a long-suffering gust of air. “Want me to help you bring all this in?”

Not for the first time in his life, Johnny regretted everything. He offered up his wallet.

“No, no, I’ll take care of it. Here, just take all that I have.” The man's eyes widened at the over $300 being offered to him.

“Holy hell, really?”

“Yup.”

“Thanks a lot buddy, you’re not so bad after all!” Oh, so he had a reputation now. Jesus, he really should’ve thought this whole thing through.

Delivery Guy #2 filed the money, save for a single dollar bill, and pulled out a pen from the front pocket of his shirt. He lay the dollar flat against his doorway and scribbled something on it.

“Here, take this.”

Johnny took the dollar from his outstretched hand. On it…was a phone number.

“Um?”

“Oh nononono, it’s Gyro’s. ‘S what he gets for calling me on my night off and being an ungrateful bastard.”

The corner of Johnny’s mouth twitched. Evidently this guy didn’t care that he was still on the job. “I know right? And he looks like Fabio crossed with a rodeo clown.”

Delivery Guy #2 keeled over, clutching his knees for support. “H-holy shit, you have no idea. Hoooo man, I like you more and more. Well,” He straightened up. “Enjoy all this fucking food, Johnny-boy.”

Johnny watched him go. “Man, today is my lucky day, Gyro’s gonna be sorry he ever…”

He looked down at the jackpot in his hands. He was used to getting what he wanted, and he always got what he wanted.

Chapter Text

            As firstborn son, there were certain filial obligations Gyro was expected to uphold. Had they all decided stay in Italy Gyro would probably still be living with his parents, like every other twenty-something. But this was America, the land of opportunity and youthful rebellion, so when the opportunity to leave presented itself he took it, like every other twenty-something.

And yet, his family still had ways of tying him down. His parents made the natural assumption that his newly-wrought agency meant easing the strain off his poor mother by hosting Sunday dinner every other week. “Women love men who help out with the cooking,” Mother assured him. “It will be good practice for your future in-laws.” That was…progressive, Gyro supposed. He tried not to dwell on the future as he skewered his involtini in quick succession with a fork. Muffled, piquant appraisals of the ragù sauce were aired around the dinner table when the phone rang.

“I’ll get it.” Gyro excused himself and went into the kitchen to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hey, uh, so don’t freak out or anything, but I got your number.”

What.

 “Excuse me, who is this?” Gyro asked, unsettled.

“Johnny, duh. Your most loyal customer.”

Gyro went cold, his grip on the telephone and reality slackening. He collected himself before it became too obvious. Hang up? No, that would be a dead giveaway. Act dumb? Yeah, act dumb, maybe he’ll think he dialed the wrong number.

“I’m sorry, whom?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, I know your friend gave me the right number.” Oh. In hindsight Pocoloco looked a little too happy that evening. Someone’s ass was going to get kicked later, but for now Gyro persisted.

“Sorry, don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” he laughed nervously. There came a sharp exhale from the other end, as if he should feel annoyed by this whole situation. Gyro was annoyed, and much, much more. “How long are we gonna play this game? Jut tell me how you do it already.”

The events of the past few weeks came to a boiling head, and Gyro finally snapped.

“YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT GAMES? THEN LISTEN HERE YOU LITTLE-”

<<Is everything alright?>> Mother poked her head around the corner, her usually warm face etched with concern. “Fine!” Gyro called back, storming out to the adjacent balcony, trailing the spiral phone cord with him. He ignored the contents of the kitchen counter being knocked over in the process. When he made it outside he slammed the sliding glass door hard enough to rattle.

“I heard “fine,” does that mean you’ll tell me?”

“What- no, listen,” Gyro hissed. “I know your address. I can and will report you to the police for- for-”

“For what? Stalking?”

“I’ll press charges! If you keep calling that counts as criminal behavior!”

“Fair point.” Gyro gripped the iron guardrail, staring at the sprawling borough below. This was indeed a strange hand fate dealt him. Who went to all this trouble for a fucking pizza recipe? “Think logically here; do you love our pizza that much? Is it really worth all this trouble?”

“Yeah, I guess. I just wanna know how you make it, that’s all.”

“Well, if you only had a passing interest, surely you’d know to back off when someone tells you it’s one of your family’s best-kept secrets, right? Think about it, would you compromise a precious family heirloom like that?”

“Probably.”

If it weren’t for the stupid cord Gyro would fling Johnny’s smug little voice all the way back to Manhattan. “Porco Dio, there’s no getting through to you, is there? You’re insane.”

“I’m not insane!” retorted Johnny.

“Oh yeah?” Gyro said, his voice conveying the smirk on his face. “Prove it. I’m free noon to one, come by the Neapolitana and face me like a man.”

The kid’s blasé demeanor was beginning to slip. “I- I’m not obligated to go down there, but you have to come here when I-”

“Y’know, you don’t get out much, do you?” Silence. “Just hail a taxi. Brooklyn’s not as far in a wheelchair as it used to be.” More silence. A part of Gyro felt bad for exploiting the boy’s possible weak points, but at the same time he relished his momentary loss of control. Eye for an eye and all that jazz.

“Anyway, the choice is yours. Come have lunch with me, my treat, and we’ll settle this clusterfuck once and for all. Keep harassing me, and more importantly dragging my family into it, and I’ll call the cops. Do we have a deal?”

A pause. Then a flat “deal.”

“I mean it,” Gyro warned. “Unless you can convince me otherwise, I ain’t telling you a damn thing.”

“I said fine!”

“Fine! Great!” And the line went dead.

Sighing for the umpteenth time that week- no, month- Gyro yet again ignored the spilled miscellany on the kitchen counter and hung up the phone. The key lime green wallpapers seemed a little too bright; his tired brain made a mental note to get it replaced sometime, landlord permitting. He walked back into the dining room to find five pairs of eyes locked on him. Except father’s, stoic as ever.

“What was that all about?” said the twins. Freaky, how they often read each other’s mind, but the same questioned lingered over everyone in the room. Gyro took his seat and began eating again. The ragù was now lukewarm.

<<Just some girl issues,>> He lied. Mother frowned deeply at that.

<<That didn’t sound like any way to talk to a lady,>> she admonished. This was an uncomfortable door to walk into, but weathering parental dating advice was a lot easier than explaining whatever the hell just happened on the balcony.

<<Shielding yourself through the telephone is for cowards. No matter the distance, you need to show more respect towards women if you want to get married one day. Speaking of which, whatever happened to that nice girl you brought home in college? What was her name? Haley? Helen? Harri->>

His brothers snickered. It was in moments like these one felt inclined to crawl underneath the table and never come back out.  <<Mamma, please, we’re not together anymore! I’ll get married when I finally gain stability in my life.>>

<<And I wonder whose fault that is,>> she huffed.

<<Speaking of stability,>> All eyes immediately turned to the opposite end of the table, where father sat. Every back stood a little straighter.

<<What are you going to do?>> There was no need to ask, he knew very well what Gregorio meant. Swallowing his food, with some difficulty, he replied, <<I will work the family business a year longer, I’m retaking the MCAT, and I’m going to reapply.>>

<<And what, pray tell, will you do if you waste your time and our money again?>> He’d set his utensils down and was now fixing his eldest with a piercing stare.

Gyro steeled himself. <<I won’t let you down, father, I’m paying for the testing fee->>

<<Julius. What did we agree on?>>

Gyro tensed at the sound of his birth name. It was the trump card that gave Gregorio the unfair advantage in the Zeppeli household, even in his own dwelling. He looked to little Andrea, who remained silent and out of the way the whole time, idly pushing around his food. He was far too young and sensitive to be worrying about these things, much less watching his family argue. Hopefully father would go easier on him when he got older.

<<…I’ll take over the family business and work there until I die.>>

<<Until you die.>> Gregorio had a knack for spinning the life of a pizza chef into a lifetime of hard labor. It would be almost laughable, and not all together undesirable, if not for Gyro’s sudden urge to lodge his steak knife in the wall behind his father's head. That would be a death sentence. Giacomo looked like he wanted to say something but decided against it.

In the end it was Andrea who broke the silence. “I’m gonna go watch cartoons,” he declared as he pushed himself from his chair.

“We second that notion,” said Benvolio, and the two vacated their seats as well. Giacomo followed without a word, leaving Gyro alone with the parents.

They were still looking at him, but at least there was a light at the end of the tunnel. “Well, those ghosts aren’t going to bust themselves, nyo…ho. I’ll clean up after.” Gyro shoveled the last of his food down and took his gleeful exit.

            Welp, it was official: Johnny had a vendetta against every person in his life, even the poor pizza guy. He still hungered for knowledge, but not without first burning every bridge, even the ones that never formed in the first place. Why? Because he never got used to the idea of asking nicely, vehement rejection was sure to follow. After all, basic human decency got you nowhere, according to his stupid fucking fa-

The phone rang again. Johnny thought perhaps a bit too eagerly that it might be Gyro, but as soon as he answered it his heart sank through the floorboards. Her timing was impeccable, as always.

“It’s me. I know you want to keep this brief, so I won’t be too long.”  There was that, at least. “We’re coming up for Thanksgiving this year.” Johnny’s menial relief shriveled up and died. “Please, JoJo-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Please,” his mother repeated. “Everyone wants to see you again, they sorely miss you. Do it for your grandparents at least.”  What she didn’t say was your father and I want to see you again, and Johnny didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“No promises,” was his curt response.

“One more thing,” she said before he could make a move to hang up. “Your father has had a sudden increase in debt from purchases he doesn’t remember buying, mostly food. Do you know anything about this?”

Johnny glanced at the rolodex on the counter where he hid the sticky note which held dad's credit card number, like a wish he could only use once. “No idea.”

“We’ll get to the bottom of it.” They both hung up.

Johnny was about to wheel away when the phone range yet again. Nope, no more of this for tonight, he was going to go lie down and clear his thoughts and forget about the whole mess. Only when Grandpa Joseph’s voice came on voice mail did he backtrack.

“Grandpa! Sorry, I thought you were a telemarketer or something.”

“I’ll have you know I used to work as one, for a short time. How ya been, boyo?"

Johnny grinned sheepishly. Grandpa Joseph’s hearty voice always brought back the gentlest of memories. “I, well, I’m still adjusting, but I’m making a new name for myself.”

“Good, good! You know, that’s what your Great-Great Grandfather did, too; he uprooted and made himself anew.”

“Didn’t he die crossing the Atlantic?”

“Ah, well, he died without regrets. In any case, I’m calling to ask if you’ll be joining us for Thanksgiving?”

So, the timing wasn’t coincidental. Dismayed, Johnny said, “Mom told you to call, didn’t she?”

“That she did.”

“You do realize this is basically emotional blackmail, right?” He was only half-joking.

“I understand that relations between you and your parents haven’t…been the best,” his tone turned sympathetic. “But unless you have other plans- and I completely understand, that’s within your own decision-making power- it just won’t be the same without one more grandson.”

That last sentence stung. This was most certainly emotional blackmail, but with Grandpa Joseph it was usually enough.

“Alright, I’ll be there,” relented Johnny.

“Excellent! You don’t have to bring anything; Suzi and I will take care of it all and make sure you’re welcomed.”

They exchanged further pleasantries before saying goodbye, and then hung up to permanent, merciful silence. Johnny went to bed early that evening, agitated and fearful of all the events to come.

Chapter Text

            “Hey Luce, you like Italian?”

Lucy gaped at the plastic bags piled high on Johnny’s lap, so high she could just make out the top of his head from where she sat. She set aside her flashcards and hopped over to inspect them.

“Where did you get all this?”

“Zeppeli’s. You might’ve seen it in the mail. Red and yellow flyer, real fancy-lookin’?”

Lucy shook her head, ponytail swinging. “I don’t remember anything of the sort.”

“Huh. That’s funny. Well, I can’t eat all of this, so take your pick ‘fore it goes bad.”

She continued rummaging through the bags. Each box was labeled in black sharpie, but there were so many pasta dishes, calzones and plain old question marks that she ended up choosing some at random. Stephen could hold onto them for later, but today she decided she was going to skip the lunch line altogether. The box she selected held several buttery rolls filled with melted cheese and bits of salami, cute little pinwheels that fit in her palm of her hand. A plastic container of marinara had been set aside for dipping. Oh, her friends were going to be so jealous!

“These look so good!” She glanced up from the gift in her hands. “Thanks, Johnny!”

But he was already out the door before she could offer any help. “Anytime.”

 Lucy pursed her lips into a tiny pout. She couldn’t help but worry about him, even though she got the feeling that was probably the last thing he wanted to hear. Who was he trying to impress? No matter who you were, it never hurt to ask for help every now and again.

            HP glanced at the bundles dropped at her feet. “What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing,” said Johnny. “I just can’t eat all this food by myself, so I decided to give some away.”

HP picked up a bag and peered inside. “Zeppeli’s again?” There it was again, that cagey mien.

“What else?”

“Thank you, Johnny. These can go in the breakroom.” She smiled, though it came out sounding like she’d throw it to the sewer gators given the chance. Geez, she didn’t have to accept if she hated Italian food that much. Whatever luck you’d call it, along came someone who would eat it all. Diego appeared out of nowhere, snatched up a bag and sniffed at the contents inside. He tore open a box and practically shoved an entire calzone into his gaping maw, then disappeared as quickly as he’d came. What the fuck.

“Anyway,” continued HP, unperturbed, “what else did you want to tell me?”

Johnny blinked. “Uh- I have a quick errand to run at around noon, is that ok?”

His manager turned back to the wall of vinyls, thumbing her way through a corridor dedicated to solely to James Brown. “You need to tell me these things in advance, but otherwise fine, just be back within the hour.”

“Actually, I may have to leave a little early for that.”

“Oh?” Her brow furrowed as she tried to make equal use of her eyes and ears. “How far are you going?”

“Arthur Avenue.”

HP stopped. Johnny began to fear that she’d seen right through him, but then she let out a quiet exclamation.

“Ah, there it is.” She slid Live at the Apollo out from its niche in the forest of record spines. “So,” she turned back to him. “What business do you have in Arthur Avenue?” Damn.

“Just some, uh, last-minute Thanksgiving prep.” HP peered down her nose at him. “My grandma’s Italian, so I thought I’d pick up something special for her, y’know? I’m booked all week, so it has to be today.” Those last words felt wrong in his mouth. Not because he wasn’t used to lying, but because these days Johnny never, ever had a full schedule anymore. Nothing better to do, nowhere to be, no one to see.

In spite of it all, it seemed to work: the coil behind the taller’s eyes unwound little by little, until the tension in her face lossened altogether. “Fair enough. Make it quick, and I’ll try to save some room in the fridge for whatever you buy.” Bless your heart, HP.

            Gyro’s near-sighted remark about transportation was a big fat lie; it took Johnny three attempts before he was able to flag down a cab willing to get out and help with his chair. Oh well, he could sue the pants off NYC transit later, what mattered was that Johnny was here. Pizza Napolitana di Zeppeli was a small, well-kept storefront with a few tables and chairs set up outside. The sidewalk was free of the usual debris that plagued the rest of the city no matter where you went. Pots of red and white pansies hung from the window sill, mere inches of brick separating them from the chaotic graffiti next door. He shivered despite his heavy flannel and woolen garments and fled into the warmth.

Inside was smaller than expected; a few tables here, a row of seats facing the window, a few booths up against the walls, filled with hungry people enjoying their lunch breaks or grabbing a pick-me-up. At the other end of the shop Johnny could see a giant domed brick oven and a glass counter filled with all sorts of tantalizing pastries, around which milled several workers who looked disturbingly like Gyro. His arrival was noticed by a middle-aged, red-aproned woman who was busy pouring coffee. “One moment,” she called.

As soon as she was done she strode gracefully over to where Johnny waited, handling a water pitcher, cups and a stack of menus under one arm. Her mirthful eyes matched the grey streaks in her dark hair.

“Welcome! How many are we seating today?”

“Just one.”

When she spoke she carried a strong, oscillating accent, rhythmic and familiar. “I’m so sorry, all our indoor seats are currently taken. Would you like to wait, or would you prefer a table outside?” As much as he enjoyed the indoor warmth, because of the limited time allotted to him Johnny answered, “I’ll have a seat outside, if you don’t mind.”

She led him outside to an empty two-person table and pushed a chair out of the way, seeing as he didn’t really need it. She sat down a menu and a cup and filled it with ice water. “I’ll just have coffee for today,” said Johnny. “Is Gyro here?”

A look of momentary surprise crossed her face, dissolving into the shallow valleys and rivets on her face as she smiled. “Ah, you know my son?”

With a smile as infectious as that, Johnny almost felt bad lying to her.

“Friends from college. I’m Johnny, pleased to meet you ma’am.” Shit, did Gyro even go to college? He looked old enough to have at least gone for a year before dropping out. Johnny offered his hand anyway, drawing on his reserves of inner bluegrass cordiality. She met his outstretched palm warmly, much to Johnny’s relief.

“It’s an honor to meet you, too, Johnny. Gyro should be on break right now, I’ll go fetch him if you’d like.”

“Thank you, miss, uh, Mrs. Zeppeli.” Of course, their name’s plastered all over the front of the building, idjit.

But she didn’t move. She looked down at him expectantly. “Um…?” Johnny’s smile grew self-conscious. Had she seen through him?

“Coffee?” Mrs. Zeppeli asked.

“Oh! Right,” Not wanting to embarrass himself further, he hyper-scanned for the most familiar-looking option. “Americano?”

“Certainly.” She smiled once more as she collected the menu and sashayed her way back inside. Johnny sipped on his ice water despite his frigid form, casually sparing a glance or two in the window. From where he sat he could see the unmistakably tall figure of Gyro, his hair in its usual updo, and his mother following close behind with two cups and a coffee pot. They both disappeared from his periphery before Johnny heard the front door jingle open behind him. Gyro appeared and took the seat opposite while Mrs. Zeppeli placed a mug in front of Johnny and filled it with steaming hot drink. For Gyro, a small espresso cup.  

“Thank you, ma’am,” beamed Johnny.

“You’re very welcome, Johnny,” she replied. Gyro just looked sour.

Once she disappeared again so did the country-boy façade, leaving just the two just of them, looking at each other, arms crossed, neither moving.

“So,” Gyro said after a moment passed. “You came.”

Johnny took a tentative sip of his coffee, then pulling a grimace as he decided it needed a lot more sugar. “Sure did. Nice outfit,” he said as he reached for the condiment caddy.

“Oh yeah?” Gyro tugged uncomfortably at the red bandana around his neck. “What’re you all bundled up for? It’s only fifty out.”

“So I got my own internal climate, what about it?” Johnny challenged, ripping open a sugar packet.

Gyro scrutinized him. “Thermoregulatory dysfunction of the lower body due to partial or complete paralysis?”

Johnny’s sugar landed just shy of its mark. “How the hell did you know that?”

“And if I could hazard a guess, judging by your abdominal movements it’s only a sacral or mid-lumbar-level injury,” Gyro freewheeled.

Johnny didn’t appreciate the scrutiny. “Don’t fuck with me, where’re you spoutin’ all that witchcraft from?” Gyro grinned like he was about to share something confidential.

“I’m a med student.” 

Johnny shuddered inwardly. Doctors. “I thought you made pizzas.”

“Eh,” he drooped a little. “Future med student. Not quite there yet.”

“Well, good luck with that, I guess.”

“Thanks.”

Another interval of noisy quiet ticked by.

“You’re, uh, not wearing them.”

Gyro coughed. “Wearing what?”

“Your grillz.”

“Oh, yeah, pa hates it when I wear them in the kitchen.”

“So, do you like, put them on in the car?”

In place of gold stood blinding white. “Keeps ‘em coming back.”

If that was supposed to be directed at Johnny, he had no answer to give, so they petered off yet again into an awkward silence. Johnny rotated the cup in his hands until the liquid formed a distracting whirlpool. This was going nowhere fast. Now that he was here, on Gyro’s home turf, what was he supposed to say? None of his previous tactics worked, and the odds weren’t looking much better this time around. He peeked at his watch; time was running out.

Gyro reached for his espresso and knocked it back in one go, all but slamming it back on its saucer like he’d just downed a potent snort of bourbon. “Look, I’ll be real with you,” he leaned forward and pointed one criminating finger at Johnny. “You kinda scare me. I admire your persistence, but you almost single-handedly broke our kitchen, forced me to change my number, and it was all semi-bearable until you stopped tipping me. Tips are a deliveryman’s lifeblood, do you understand?” He punctuated those last few words with quick stab through the air. “You better have a fucking good excuse for all of this. Tell me, Johnny, exactly what you plan on doing with the family technique.”

Johnny kept his gaze level and continued sipping his coffee. Might as well. “I wanna make it at home by myself. That way I won’t have to keep calling and you won’t ever have to see my face again.”

Gyro scoffed. “You’ll have to try harder than that. How do I know you’re not gonna sell it to some third party and put us out of business, huh, rich kid?”

“I’m not, I swear!” Johnny gazed into the swirling vortex of his cup, willing it to carry away his inhibition. “How do I explain it…Y’ever come across something so, I dunno, special, for lack of a better word? And you know if you go anywhere else in the world you’ll never be able to find it again?”

“You’re not the first foodie to tell us that,” Gyro was still unimpressed. Johnny chewed his lip, bracing himself for the embarrassing confession about to be let known.

“Then, am I… y’see…” The pizzaiolo egged him on with a hike of his brow.

The words that followed tumbled out in a quiet mumble. “…Am I the first to literally burst into tears when I ate your pizza?” Gyro looked puzzled.

“What?”

Heat rose to Johnny’s ears. “You know right well what I said.”

“No, say that one more time, I didn’t hear you.”

Johnny grit his teeth. “I said, it was so mighty tasty it…brought me to-”

“Huh? What was that?” Gyro cupped a hand behind his ear.

“IT MADE ME CRY, OK?”  

Gyro drew back at his outburst. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“A’ facc.”

“…Yeah.”

Just as Johnny feared, he began to snicker. “Don’t laugh!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he combed a hand through his hair, still chuckling. “If you can call what you’ve done these last few weeks flattery, then I’m flattered. I’ve gotten my share of praise, but making people cry tears of joy? That’s a first. Although between you and me,” he leaned forward slightly, “I don’t know if it’s because I’m that damn good or you’re just cracked in the head,” he made a point of tapping a finger against his cranium. Johnny gave him a look. “The former, definitely the former,” he added hastily.

Johnny set his coffee mug down. “Just hear me out, will ya? I don’t cry buckets over everything I eat, but what you brought over that first night? It’s like crack. I don’t know what you put in it, but it’s all I’ve been able to dream about for fucking weeks.”

“Wow, cheesy.”

“Shut it. That pizza was the best I think I’ve ever had in my short life.”

“That’s nice and all, but hyperbole will still get you nowhere,” said Gyro.

Johnny pressed on. “Before then it was like…aw hell, how do I put this, the way it compares I’d never even been full? That make any sense?”

That gave Gyro pause. “Never been full? I don’t follow; all mothers are master cooks, surely yours fed you well enough to have more than a few recipes in her apron.”

“We had housekeepers.”

“What?! She didn’t cook for you!?”

Johnny shook his head.

“Not once?”

Another shake.

“Then, don’t you have any cookbooks or kitchenware or, or something lying around?”

“Left in too big a hurry to pack much.”

“You’re loaded, go buy some!”

Johnny's mouth twisted into a half-grimace-half-smile; Gyro sure got emotional over other people’s mothers. “Look at me, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I never fucking learned how to cook and I never had much interest, ‘till now. When you said you were the one who makes them-”

“Well actually-”

“You listening or what?” Johnny snapped. “So anyway I thought, ‘hey, this might be my chance to crawl out of the bag I’m in, with my two remaining limbs.’ And goddamn, I don’t know what it is about this place, or what it is you do with your magic hands,” Gyro glanced involuntarily at his hands. “But you brought meaning back to something I took for granted my whole life, if it was ever there to begin with, so why can’t I do that, too? Why can’t I just try to be a normal functionin’ human being and cook m-my own damn meals-”

Suddenly, Gyro leaned partially over the table and unfastened the red bandana tied at his throat. Questions teetered over the edge of Johnny’s lips until he realized Gyro was offering it to him.

“What’s this for?”

“You’re crying.”

Johnny refocused, realizing that he was now indeed crying, in public. “Shit, not again.” He dug his palms into his eyes, more so that he wouldn’t have to face the world, or Gyro.

“I’m not judging. Use this, I’ll wash it later.”

Normally, if a stranger offered him a tissue he’d immediately reject the offer, but Gyro’s eyes were earnest. This close, Johnny could see they were a mottled green in the overcast midday light.

Johnny accepted the cloth and blew his nose into it. It smelled faintly of sweat, garlic and rosemary. He daubed his eyes a few more times before gingerly handing it back.

“Sorry. You didn’t need to see that.” His own voice sounded distant, like the last echoes of thunder after a sudden downpour.

“You got something off your chest that’s been sitting there for a while, nothing wrong with that.”

For all of Gyro’s sincerity, behind it lurked an internal battle, with a side of damn, kid, what kind of life have you been living? It was all consequential after spilling his guts like he did, but Johnny didn’t like how his eyes kept roaming from him to his wheelchair and back again, deducing what they could from the fractured pieces of his life that he provided.

“I don’t want none of your pity, just so you know.” Gyro leaned backward, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

“Yeah, I know what you want.” He deliberated on his thoughts some more before he spoke again, very carefully. “Look, I feel for you, I really do. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but it sounds like a lot. But…I’m afraid pity’s all I can give you.”

Johnny’s heart sank. “I don’t like it either, but there’s just no way. As a Zeppeli man, I must uphold tradition and ensure the integrity of our establishment. That means keeping our business practices under lock and key, and we have the legal right.” That final phrase sounded too stiff, rehearsed, like he was saying it more to himself than to Johnny.

So in the end, family came first. Johnny wished he could relate. Really, what did he expect? No matter how ruthlessly he chased something it would always dissipate into thin air before he could lay his hands on it. Fate, it seemed, was vindictive enough to deny him something as simple as a brand-new derision.

Gyro took notice of the bummed-out look he probably wore. “Well, now that we know what’s been eating you this whole time,” he snorted at the questionably-accidental pun, “you don’t need to keep calling. In fact, please don’t, Manhattan’s a bitch driving to in the dark.” Though he wouldn’t let it show, Johnny was grateful for the clumsy tonal shift on the chef’s part.

“Anyone can learn how to cook, and that includes you. But if you’re ever in the mood for mom’s home cooking, you’re always welcome here.”

“Really? Even after I almost broke your kitchen?”

Gyro let out a short bark of laughter. “Oh, they don’t know you by name, but my family loves you. Every time you give your address Giacomo instantly recognizes you. We made more money in those few hours than we ever have.”

Johnny allowed himself a phantom smile. “Glad I could be of some use.” Then he frowned. “But wait, how come you guys don’t make as much? That’s damn criminal.”

Gyro licked his lips and gazed into his empty cup. “We’re well-known locally, but for some reason we have a hard time getting attention outside of Arthur Avenue. That’s why it surprised me that someone from the Upper East Side got our pamphlet in the mail, much less gave us a call.” He looked to Johnny. “Funny, how luck works.”

There was no traceable malice in his voice. Instead, it carried something Johnny had never heard the likes of before. He could’ve spent all afternoon trying to come up with a name for it, until he remembered his original schedule. The watch hands read fifteen ‘til.

“I need to get going. I told my manager I’d be back within the- shit, I told her I was gonna pick up a thanksgiving gift for my grandma and I got nothing to show for it.”

“My treat, remember?” To his confusion, Gyro got up and strode back indoors, emerging a minute later with a brown paper bag.

“Here, you’re nònna will love these.” Johnny peeked inside the bag.

“Sausages.”

“Best around. I just stole those out of the pantry, so I’d get going before my parents catch you with them.” So much for integrity.

Johnny was taken aback. “Gee, thanks,” he said, but Gyro was busy flagging down a taxi.

“Do you need help getting in?”

“I got it.” Johnny rolled up and lifted himself into the passenger seat without falling. Gyro took care of the wheelchair and set it in the trunk.

“I don’t suppose you’ll pay for my cab fare, too?”

Gyro’s mouth twitched. “Shitty brat, I’ve humored you enough today.”

Johnny returned his smirk. “Smell ya later, Zeppeli.”

“Smell…what?” But the cab door slammed shut and sped away before he could ask further.

            Later in the evening, Giacomo handed him an order slip. Gyro took one look at it and threw it down.

“CCHE FREVAAA--”

            Gyro repeatedly punched the doorbell. There was no telling what sort of stunt this brat would pull now, even though things seemingly ended on a high note just hours before. A minute went by before Johnny came to the door.

“Oi, what did we agree on--” He froze when he saw that the apartment sprinklers were on, the fire alarm beeping, and Johnny was dripping wet. In his hands was a plate of something Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.

“Don’t tell me that’s supposed--”

Johnny glared and shoved the plate at his chest. He wants me to eat it. Gyro reached over with a thumb and forefinger and broke off a piece of the soggy charcoal with Johnny’s eyes on him the whole way. Half of it disintegrated on contact.

Gyro inspected the “pizza” and took a wavering bite. It tasted as one would expect.

When he was finished vehemently spitting it out on the hallway carpet, Johnny didn’t look hurt. If anything, he was surrounded by an air of smugness. See? I told you so.

“Fine! I give in! Let me through,” said Gyro as he marched his way in, wet hair be damned. He didn’t linger long enough to appreciate how huge his apartment was because he was quickly becoming soaked as well. The kitchen was easy to find; piles of dishes filled the sink, smoke still hung about in the air despite the man-made precipitation.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

Gyro threw open the refrigerator door. Not much to speak of: a carton of eggs, fruit, some yogurt, and a jar of peanut butter, for some reason. “Inspecting your fridge.”

“Why the fuck are you going through my fridge?”

“So I can make a list of everything we need when we go grocery shopping.”

His eyes widened. “You’re gonna teach me how to cook? But I just wanted you tell me, weren't you the one who said I was capable or some shit?”

“Well, then I was mistaken, because you clearly have no idea what you’re doing! Everything I’m about to tell you has been closely guarded and passed down for generations, and not once have they ever been tampered with. I won’t tolerate this,” he waved at the cluttered kitchen, “level of disrespect.” He swung the refrigerator door shut and moved on to the freezer. “Plus, I need to keep an eye on you the whole time as a precaution, in case you do end up leaking our secrets to the public. Also, you’re a walking fire hazard.”

The paraplegic fixed him with a poisonous glare.

“Oh, sorry, my bad.” He wiped away at the water that kept drizzling into his eyes, in his mouth, until he gave up. “One more thing…Sorry for not telling you this, for obvious reasons, but it’s actually impossible to make an authentic Neapolitan pizza at home.”

Johnny was pissed as a half-drowned cat. “What?! You couldn’t have told me that earlier!?”

Gyro sucked in the air between his teeth. “Yeah, yeah, I could’ve. If you're going to make it the old-fashioned way you need a woodfire brick oven. A conventional oven isn’t capable of producing the same level of heat, or you’d burn your lovely apartment down trying.” By this point his glare was positively seething.

“Don’t give me that look, not when you haven’t even tried anything else on the menu. The way you've been living just can't be healthy. Besides,” He brushed away a wet strand of hair. “There’s a whole lot more to Italian cuisine than just pizza. I promise you, as a Zeppeli, that every other dish we make is as much a masterpiece, if not more.”

Johnny still looked unsure. “You mean it?”

“Hand over my heart.” In his clearest declaration of honesty, he slid his hand over his heart. “You still up for it?”

Johnny pursed his lips once more, and then finally nodded in agreement.

“Bona! When are you free?”

“I’m off work on Sundays.”

“Then it’s settled.” He stepped around Johnny to the door, when he felt a hand grab his arm.

“Hey, Gyro…I wanna say thanks, but you really, really don’t have to do this,” said Johnny, strained somewhat.

“Then listen closely,” Gyro shook him off. “Lesson one: don’t place any weird hopes in me, because I’m not some sort of overblown savior. I’m only doing this ‘cause it’ll weigh on my conscience if you get yourself killed in a fire or chopping onions.”

Johnny’s face returned to its usual impassiveness. Easier than being indebted, for sure. “Thanks.”

“Sunday at three, be ready,” he repeated, and left him there, careful not to slip on the wet granite floor. If anyone asked he'd say he walked into a busted fire hydrant.

Ask Gyro about his dislikes, and the number-two thing he'd say, after his birth name, of course, was that he hated the sight of people who could not help themselves. When confronted with such, he had two options: be like his father and walk away, or feel obligated to do something about it.

I have my work cut out for me, he thought, the taste of burnt failure still acrid on his tongue.