Chapter Text
Before he’s really awake, Abbacchio registers the familiar sting, running up and down his torso, and his back. It hurts-- that’s for sure. Everything hurts. Everything feels like it’s about to fall apart. But that something that’s holding him together, it’s familiar. It doesn’t really make the pain any less, but it comforts him a bit, giving him some reassurance that he isn’t going to fall apart-- that he’s going to make it.
“...Shit...”
“Abbacchio? Abbacchio! Mista, I think he said something!”
The sound of footsteps.
“Hey, don’t touch him, you could make his injuries worse.”
“Abbacchio?”
“...N… Narancia?”
Abbacchio’s eyes open to a hospital room. The grinning kid with his hair in his face right next to him-- it’s Narancia alright. On the other side of the room Mista leans against the wall. One hand is on his gun, and his eyes are looking right back at Abbacchio, wide with surprise and relief.
“Grazie a Dio,” Mista sighs, leaning even further against the wall, collapsing almost, “You’re up!”
“You’re alive!” Narancia adds, pumping his fist in the air.
Abbacchio rolls his eyes at this, but he can’t quite find it in him to make a retort. ‘Of course I’m alive dumbass’ or something like that. Instead he focuses his strength into trying to sit up.
“Hey! Take it easy!” Mista steps towards the hospital bed, holding his hands up in a halting gesture.
With a muffled groan, Abbacchio manages to get into an upright position. He takes another look around the room. The small window to one side offers a peaceful, coastside view. He’s starting to remember.
“Uh, maybe you should lay back down, Abbacchio--”
“I’m fine.” He attempts a deep breath, but can’t quite fill his lungs all the way.
“Hah...” Narancia nods to himself, “right. You’re going to be okay. I’m just glad you’re gonna be okay.”
Once again, in place of a biting comeback, Abbacchio can manage little more than an annoyed glance.
Mista, relaxing against the wall again, sighs, “Yeah for real. We seriously thought… I mean, I thought you were, ya know. Gone. For a while there I really thought you were gone for good.”
Abbacchio looks down at his lap. He sees his torso is wrapped in bandages. As strange as it is to think back on, he thought he was gone for good too.
“You were crazy lucky,” Narancia beams, “You somehow survived the Boss’s attack! But when we found you, we all really thought you were dead, and we were in a hurry to get out of there, otherwise, Giorno could’ve healed you, …”
Once again, Abbacchio attempts a deep breath, and as he exhales he lets out a whisper filled with hatred, “Giorno…”
“Hey, hey, don’t blame him, he feels really bad about it,” Mista shrugs it off like it’s not that big a deal, “I mean, as soon as we dealt with the Boss Giorno was the first one to say we should come back for your body.”
“But we got here and-- surprise! You’re alive!” Narancia’s voice is still full of disbelief, “How cool is that!”
‘Lucky me’ Abbacchio thinks to himself. He can’t believe of all the people that could have stayed with him when he was in the hospital, he ended up with these two degenerates.
“The doctor says you should be better soon-- you just need plenty of rest,” Mista reassures him.
It seems weird to Abbacchio that Giorno didn’t just heal him once they learned he was alive. But he doesn’t feel like asking about that. He slides a hand along his bandaged stomach, following along the path of the wound underneath.
“Where’s Bucciarati?”
***
“Take a left up here.”
Giorno nods, “Right.”
It seems like it’s been a while since the car made a turn, as it meanders along the backroads of an unremarkable corner of the country. Maybe even longer since any of the three people inside it had said much of anything.
Trish sits with her arms loosely crossed over her body, her eyes wide open but unfocused in the passenger seat. Giorno holds onto the steering wheel tightly, weary that he could doze off if he’s not careful. In the back seat there’s a man, staring out a window, his features mostly obscured by the dark hoodie pulled up over his head.
They’re all numb. It’s easiest for Trish just to stay numb for now. As for Giorno, he doesn’t mind being numb, as long as it doesn’t make him doze off.
“We’re getting close,” the voice from the back comes again, low and calm.
“Right.” Giorno scans the scenery in front of him. For the most part they’re still in the middle of nowhere, with the occasional modest home popping up on either side of the road.
Trish straightens up in her seat, her interest piqued now that they’re nearing the end of the journey.
“There’s a town not far from here-- some nice restaurants, a school,” the man in the back offers, “I think you’ll like it.”
“Okay,” Trish nods, uncrossing her arms.
“Just another mile or so, Giorno.”
“Right,” Giorno lets up on the gas a bit, slowing down, and keeping a careful eye out.
“It might be too dangerous for us to get in contact with you for a while. But I promise, when things settle down, we will check in on you, and make sure you’re safe.”
Trish nods, glancing back at the man behind her, but not quite letting herself get a good look. “Okay”
“I’ll leave you my personal number, but only use it in emergencies, and even then, only call from a payphone if at all possible.”
Once again, “Okay.”
The man in the back lets out a deep breath, sounding relieved. “Right up here, Giorno. On the left, the one with the tulips growing out front.”
Giorno pulls into the driveway and puts the car in park.
For a moment the three of them sit, fully numb, completely silent.
“The house across the street,” the hooded man points out the back window, “is home to two women. Signora Beatriz and Signora Dora. Tell them you’re a friend of mine. They’ll help you any way they can, I’m sure of it.”
Trish nods again. “Okay.”
She turns towards the man in the back, this time, allowing herself to look right at him. His dark eyes meet hers unevenly, uncertainly, and the numbness seems to fade for a second, but it’s worse like this-- it’s horribly uncomfortable. They break eye contact. He leans forward, the wild bright pink locks on either side of his head swinging in front of him a bit, and he speaks in that voice-- low, and strange, but warm underneath it all.
“We need to get out of here right away,” he hands her a slip of paper, and a house key, “memorize the number, then destroy the paper.”
“Okay. Got it…”
“Good luck, Trish,” Giorno smiles at her from the driver’s seat.
She smiles back. “You too.” She looks back at the hooded man one more time. “Thank you. For everything.”
The emotion in her voice leaves him stunned momentarily, but he manages, “Just stay safe, okay?”
Trish pushes the car door open, and as she gets out, she adds, “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.”
She shuts the door behind her, and makes her way up to the porch. They watch and make sure she gets in.
“I hope she remembers to lock the door behind her…” the man in the back mutters.
Giorno starts the car.
"You know, Giorno, you could stay here too, if you wanted.”
The two of them make eye contact through the rearview mirror. “No way. I can’t. I have too much to do.”
“I know,” the hooded man sighs as Giorno pulls onto the road, and begins the long drive back, “I know… but wouldn’t it be nice...”
***
“I said,” Abbacchio resists groaning in pain, managing through clenched teeth, “Where is Bucciarati?”
Mista and Narancia look at each other. Then Mista looks down. He mumbles something, “uhh, well, you see, um…”
“He’s…” Narancia begins, choosing his words carefully, “with Trish and Giorno. They’re taking Trish somewhere safe.”
Abbacchio considers this. Sounds about right. But why did they hesitate?
“Alright you two have bothered him enough for the time being! Let’s let him rest.”
Abbacchio frowns severely at the strange, foreign sounding voice, as he looks around the room searching for it’s source.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” Narancia looks over towards the nightstand. Abbacchio follows Narancia’s line of sight until his eyes land on a turtle.
“Is… that…”
“Oh right, forgot to tell you about the weird French guy who lives in our turtle now,” Narancia says apologetically.
“Nice to meet you,” the reptile grins in a very disconcerting manner, “I’m Polnareff.”
After a moment, he replies, a little numb, “Uh… Abbacchio.”
“Yes I know who you are! I’ve only heard great things about you! Well, mostly great things... But in any case it’s nice to finally meet you!”
“Hey,” Mista gestures at the turtle with the gun in his hand, “what happened to letting him get some rest?!”
The pain in his torso combined with the weirdness of this turtle is too much for him-- Abbacchio lowers himself back down slowly, closes his eyes and fades off.
***
“Giorno-- do you have a hair tie I could use?”
“Um, let’s see,” Giorno takes a hand off the wheel and reaches down the front of his shirt. “Here you go.”
“Grazie.”
Bucciarati combs the huge mess of hair back with his fingers and manages to tie it up in a loose bun.
“I might have a hair brush too, let me check--”
“It’s fine.”
Bucciarati stares out the car window. It’s nice out. Clear and warm. It’s been a long day and it’s nearly over now; the sun is just over the horizon.
“You should try to get some sleep,” Giorno suggests, looking at Bucciarati through the rearview mirror, “I know how to get back.”
“No,” Bucciarati shakes his head, “I’m… not really tired.”
Giorno looks at him a moment longer, then glances away.
“Well…” once again he shakes his head, this time to clear it, rather than to say no. “Actually, I am tired, now that I think about it, but, even if I wanted to, I doubt I could get to sleep.”
Giorno nods in understanding. “I’m… I’m sorry. About all of this.”
“You saved my life. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
“But…” Giorno’s grip on the wheel shifts and tightens, “I couldn’t save your body. I couldn’t really save you and now--”
“Giorno,” Bucciarati says in a sigh, “What’s done is done. Both of us lost something. But now, Trish is safe. We’re all alive. That’s more than I could ask for. That’s all that matters.”
After a moment, Giorno nods. He chooses to nod, rather than argue the point.
“You must be tired.” Bucciarati gestures to the side of the road, signaling for Giorno to pull over, “Why don’t you let me drive for a while?”
“I’m fine, really.” It’s getting dark-- Giorno flips on the headlights. “Besides. This is all I’m good for right now, isn’t it?”
“Giorno.”
“I know, I know, we’re alive, that’s all that matters.”
“Look,” Bucciarati’s voice is even, direct, but clearly not frustrated, “you saved my life, and you lost your stand. I’ll do anything I can to help you get it back. But right now we need to regroup.”
“Right,” Giorno considers this a moment, “Do you think they’re doing okay without us?”
A small smile starts up on Bucciarati’s face, “I hope so,” but then just as quickly it fades away, “I don’t know…”
***
“Maybe we need to take the other furniture out first.”
“That’s not it, there should be plenty of space! We made space!”
Abbacchio peaks into the hospital room to see Mista and Narancia trying to position the hospital bed over the turtle sitting on the ground. He takes a sip from the mug of hot tea in his hand.
“Lets just turn it on it’s side, and jam it in there,” Mista begins to lift the bed.
“Hey be careful! Don’t just jam it on me you’re going to kill me!” Polnareff trots away from the metal bed frame as fast as he can.
“Dammit turtle quit moving!” Narancia shouts, lifting his side of the bed. They both aim the edge of the bed at the key positioned in the turtle’s back, but he manages to avoid them.
As Polnareff whines in terror, Abbacchio comes in, and barks out at them all, “Hey! I don’t need the damn bed, so don’t put it in the damn turtle.”
“Oh hey Abbacchio,” Narancia drops his side of the bed with a slight crash.
Mista sets down his side as well, “Yeah okay sure-- you don’t need it-- it’s not just for you anyways. At the rate we’ve been getting injured lately we could use three or five of these things in there. Especially since Gold Experience is out of it...”
“Besides, it’ll be better for taking a nap on than the couches,” Narancia points out with a shrug.
Abbacchio considers this. He places his mug on the nightstand. “Narancia, hand me the turtle.”
“My name is Polnareff! What are you doing with me!?”
“Shut up,” Abbacchio mutters as he takes the reptile from Narancia. He turns him on his side and rests the red jewel on the key embedded in the turtle’s back against the metal bed frame.
The bed starts to get sucked in, shrinking itself into the jewel, but it halts about halfway through. Polnareff begins to whine again.
“Mista, jam it in.”
“Wait! WAIT!”
Ignoring Polnareff’s objection, Mista kicks the bed frame hard into the turtle, and it goes in the rest of the way with a slight whoosh.
“Mon dieu…”
Abbacchio, without really thinking, leans over to set the turtle down. A shooting pain runs through his guts, illuminating the fact that the two days he spent in the hospital really weren’t enough to recover all the way. Or even most of the way. He straightens up slowly, and speaks in a low tone trying to hide any hint of pain in his voice, “Okay. Let’s get out of here.”
“Not that you need to rest or anything,” Mista absentmindedly picks up his gun off the nightstand, making sure its loaded as he speaks, “but, we don’t wanna draw attention, the less of us there are walking around the better, and I mean, you’re pretty tall so--”
“I’ll be in the turtle if you need me,” Abbacchio says, half defeated, half agreeing. He grabs his mug, takes a step over the key, and vanishes.
“Phew,” Narancia scoops up the turtle, “What a relief.”
Mista gives him an inquisitive look.
Narancia places the turtle securely atop his head, holding it in place there. “I’m just glad we’re really getting out of here with Abbacchio alive.”
“Yeah… safe and sound.” Mista opens the door, and they begin down the sterile hospital hallway.
“We all made it out of this mess alive, huh?” Narancia asks with an air of realization, almost in awe.
“Yeah. Well...” Mista presses the down elevator button, “mostly…”
They get in, the doors close and they ride down in silence for a minute.
“Should we have told him?” Narancia’s voice is barely more than a whisper.
Mista answers, loudly, “How the hell were we supposed to tell him?” He sighs. “I think it’ll be easier if Bucciarati just tells him himself.”
Narancia looks at him doubtfully. “Yeah, easier for us.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Mista insists, as they come out onto the first floor of the hospital, “Look. Giorno and Bucciarati will be able to explain what happened. If we tried, we’d probably just end up making things even more confusing.”
“I guess so…” Narancia glances down at his shoes, continuing to hold the turtle tightly against his head.
“It’s not such a big deal. Like you said. We all survived. What’s the big deal? It’s nothing to worry about, okay?”
Narancia nods.
“You’re such nice kids,” Polnareff pipes up from atop Narancia’s head, “worrying about your friends like this, it’s really sweet!”
“Shut up!” Mista and Narancia both shout at him.
***
Bucciarati drops a set of hair ties, and a pair of sunglasses on the drugstore counter, then turns around to find his blonde companion. “Giorno, are you getting anything?”
Giorno comes out from one of the aisles, and, sheepishly, pulls a box of chocolates out from behind his back, “I figure, between Narancia and Sex Pistols…”
“Yes,” Bucciarati takes the chocolates, “good point. We should get two.”
With his other hand, Giorno reveals a second box from behind his back.
“Perfect.” Bucciarati returns the first box to Giorno, “I’ll get some cash while we’re here…” he goes behind the counter, and unzips a hole in the register. He takes a stack of bills, and jams it in his pocket, along with the hair ties.
“They should be here soon,” Giorno says, looking out the window of the drug store, past the sign that says ‘out for lunch’.
“Right,” Bucciarati puts on the sunglasses, and heads for the door. He unzips a hole in the wall big enough to step through, and points Giorno in, following him closely through the portal, and out into an alleyway.
Bucciarati pulls the hood of his jacket over his head as they enter the main street of the little town.
Giorno’s eyes flick to the nearby street sign-- Via Legna -- that’s where they were supposed to meet.
Though there aren’t many people out at this time of day, the two of them-- the large dark clad man and the smaller one dressed in pink-- blend in as best they can.
“Giorno,” Bucciarati speaks in an undertone, “I see them, over there,” he indicates a nearby cafe using only a glance.
Mista and Narancia are sitting at one of the outdoor tables.
Giorno nods subtly.
For a moment Bucciarati considers how best to approach. He feels a pang at the thought of how he must appear to them. He thinks, perhaps he should send Giorno ahead, and just avoid interacting with the rest of them altogether.
“BUCCIARATI! GIORNO!” Narancia has stood up at the table, waving his arm wide, beaming, “OVER HERE!”
“NANCIA!” Mista stands up too, the better to shove Narancia back into his seat, “We’re supposed to be laying low, remember?!”
“Oh, yeah…”
Bucciarati closes his eyes for a moment, shakes his head, and smiles.
As soon as Bucciarati reaches the table, Narancia stands back up and throws his arms around him, “You made it! So you got Trish some place safe?”
Bucciarati is shocked a little by the embrace, but he relaxes after a moment, “Yes. She’s safe now. It’s good to see the both of you.”
Narancia releases him, and goes to hug Giorno, meanwhile Mista slaps Bucciarati on his upper arm, smiling, “good to see you too, Bucciarati.”
Suddenly the wind picks up, and his hood is blown off, revealing the haphazard pink mess of hair pulled up underneath.
Bucciarati looks at Giorno, Narancia, and Mista, each of them more than a little shorter than him now. He takes off the sunglasses.
“So,” Narancia’s eyes meet his, unflinching, eager, “What now, Bucciarati?”
Bucciarati glances at Giorno, then Mista. They both seem as ready as Narancia, or close to it, at least. Ready to take orders. Ready to follow him. Bucciarati takes a deep breath, hesitating, knowing his voice is going to come out sounding strange, not at all sure what to say, he begins, “Well. I--”
“OH! I almost forgot!” Narancia reaches down, towards one of the chairs, and comes back up with the turtle in his hands.
“What? Huh? I’m awake!” Polnareff shakes his tiny turtle head in surprise as he’s held up in front of Bucciarati who, in turn, looks down at him, also a bit surprised.
“Abbacchio’s in the turtle! Safe and sound! Er,” Narancia lines the red jewel up with his eye, and peers inside, “I think he’s sleeping,” he leans in to get a better look, and his head gets sucked inside. Mista yanks him out by the collar. He gasps, “Yeah! He’s sleeping!”
Bucciarati takes the turtle from Narancia. “Has he recovered?”
Mista and Narancia look at each other, a little uncertain. Mista offers, “He seemed okay to me…”
“Hm,” Bucciarati sighs in understanding. He then looks the turtle right in the eye and says, “Thank you for your help, Polnareff.”
“Oh, it’s no problem,” Polnareff shrugs his tiny turtle shoulders. “It’s not like I have anything else to do, honhon.”
Bucciarati gives him a curt nod, then tucks him under one arm, and turns back to the other three. “We could all use some time to recover from our last mission. The organization knows that I betrayed the Boss. Whether or not they realize that the Boss is dead is irrelevant right now-- in any case, people will be after us. I think it’s best that we all go into hiding, for a while, at least.”
The three teenagers in front of him all look a bit grim at this.
“Perhaps…” Bucciarati pushes a stray hair out of his face, “it’s best if we go our separate ways. That way it will be most difficult for the organization to track--”
“We’re sticking together, Bucciarati,” Giorno interrupts him, completely serious.
Narancia bobs his head in agreement, “Yeah, duh!”
The two of them look at Mista, who quickly agrees, “Of course! I mean, I figure, the rest of you probably wouldn’t last long without me anyways.”
Bucciarati can feel his heart straining. “In that case… I suppose the next thing is for us to get somewhere safe.”
“If I may…” Polnareff pipes up from under Bucciarati’s arm. “We could go to my house. It’s in the French countryside. I think you’ll all be safe there for a while.”
The rest of them look down at the turtle, then at each other.
“Sounds like a plan,” Mista shrugs.
Bucciarati nods, “It’s a plan."