Chapter Text
They decided to get two rooms, each with two double beds. That way someone can sleep in the turtle, and they’ll each have their own space.
Bucciarati sits on the bed in one of these rooms. Polnareff is on the nightstand. Giorno stands at the little hotel room counter, pouring a cup of tea, which he brings to Bucciarati.
“Thank you, Giorno.”
Giorno sits on the other bed, “No problem.”
Bucciarati takes a long drink of the hot beverage, slowly letting it warm him up. He lets out a sigh of relief.
“It’s been a long day,” Giorno remarks.
“Yeah.”
Just then, there’s a knock at the door. Bucciarati goes to stand, but Giorno’s quicker. He dashes over, peers through the peephole briefly, then pulls open the door, “Hey.”
“Hey.” Mista strolls in.
“Evening,” Bucciarati smiles at him, “would you like a cup of tea?”
Mista shakes his head, “ehh no thanks. I was thinking about taking a walk around the place. You guys wanna come?”
“Sure,” Giorno nods.
Bucciarati looks down at his mug. “Abbacchio and Narancia should be back with food soon…”
“It’ll only be a minute,” Mista reassures him.
“Okay, well,” Bucciarati waves them off, “You two have fun. Polnareff and I will hold down the fort.”
There is an audible gasp from the turtle, “Bucciarati… you remembered I’m here…”
“Okay we'll see you in a bit,” Mista waves as he walks out of the room, Giorno following close behind him.
As the door closes, Bucciarati sighs. “I hope they don’t get into any trouble.”
“Oh, I’m sure they’ll be fine,” Polnareff smiles a little turtle smile, “they’re good kids after all.”
“They are,” Bucciarati agrees, “but that doesn’t mean trouble won’t find them.”
***
“Mmm, smells good,” Narancia opens the pizza box on top, and takes a long sniff.
Abbacchio slams the box shut on his nose. “Don’t even think about it.”
“AAHH what the hell?! I wasn’t gonna eat it!” Narancia holds his nose, whining, tossing his head back, nearly losing his balance, nearly dropping both pizzas.
Abbacchio doesn’t really seem to notice. He’s looking down the empty city street. It’s the dead of night. They were lucky to find a pizzeria that was open.
“Let’s go.”
It’s only a few blocks to the hotel. They walked here, and he can manage to walk back, although it might take him a bit longer.
The small dark haired teen and the tall light haired man walk along the sidewalk together.
“Is it clear?” Abbacchio asks.
Narancia nods from underneath Aerosmith’s head’s up display. “It’s clear.” He slides his hand down his face in a quick motion and the stand is gone.
Abbacchio was glad for the opportunity to fetch the pizza. He wanted to get some fresh air and take a break from things. He didn’t necessarily want to do that with Narancia, but he’s making do.
“So--” Narancia begins, his tone of voice quite serious, “me and Giorno and Mista were talking, and we think you should stop being such a jerk all the time. We’re not ‘in a gang’ anymore, after all.”
“Is that so?”
Narancia nods emphatically, “It’s not like you can just push us around whenever you want! We’re… ya know, we’re all just friends now!”
“Hm.” Abbacchio’s expression becomes pensive. “So was it a show of friendship when the three of you made a plan to toss me out of that train compartment?”
Narancia considers this, “Well… yeah, basically.”
Abbacchio throws him a look of pure hate.
“Okay okay, I know that wasn’t very nice, but we were just trying to help!”
“Unbelievable.” Abbacchio shakes his head as he walks. He can tell his pace is slow, and he appreciates that Narancia is keeping step with him. “How exactly were you trying to help? What were you hoping to accomplish?”
“Well…” Narancia glances around, as if looking for the answer on some storefront or some piece of trash on the sidewalk, “we just wanted you and Bucciarati to, like,” the pizza boxes are in his hands, otherwise he would do the motion, “connect.”
“Connect, huh? And then, what, I would just accept him?”
“Yeah...”
Abbacchio sighs as they wait for the light to change colors at an intersection. “It’s not that easy, Narancia. It’ll take more than a ‘connection’ to get me to trust this guy. And way more than that to get me to think he’s Bucciarati.”
They go through the intersection in silence. Two more blocks to go.
“Ya know, you’re a pretty shitty boyfriend.”
Abbacchio stops dead in his tracks. “Excuse me.”
Narancia steps in front of Abbacchio, and turns around to face him, his expression twisted with anger, and, a little sadness. “It’s one thing when you’re an asshole to me or to Giorno-- we can take it. But Bucciarati…” Narancia presses his lips together in frustration, “He lost his body! Can you imagine what that’s like?! He’s already probably really messed up and then you have to go and be a complete dick to him on top of everything else?! Can’t you just give it a rest!”
Abbacchio blinks. He shoves past Narancia, and continues walking, grumbling, “You don’t understand anything.”
Narancia follows close behind him. “‘Ohh, you don’t understand anything Narancia,’” he speaks in a high pitched, mocking voice, sticks out his tongue and blows a raspberry. “I get it. I’m dumb.”
“You’re so fucking sensitive!” Abbacchio groans. “I’m not trying to be ‘mean’. I’m trying to be practical.”
Narancia frowns. “Either way. It’s really annoying.”
They walk in silence for another block.
“I just… ” Narancia looks down at the pizzas in his hands, “I wish you would give him a chance… if you would just give him a chance… you would know it’s really Bucciarati.”
Abbacchio glances down at him.
“I mean. If anyone could tell, you could.”
Unwilling to continue discussing this topic, Abbacchio just grimaces, and looks away.
***
“Number Six stop playing with your food! Number Two-- leave Giorno alone! Mama mia can you guys behave for once in your lives!”
The hotel lobby is all but empty this late at night. There’s a restaurant area that’s darkened and closed off, but Giorno and Mista went in and sat down at the bar anyway. An open jar of maraschino cherries sits in front of them, and the Sex Pistols are chowing down.
“Giorno’s so much nicer than you Mista!” Number Two coos from where they sit tucked inside Giorno’s central hair ring, “and he smells WAY better!” Number Two nuzzles into Giorno’s hair.
Mista opens his mouth to scold his stand again, but he stops himself short, pressing his lips together, embarrassed.
Giorno plucks Number Two out of his hair, and places them on the bar with the others. “It’s fine, Mista,” he says, completely unsure what to make of this situation, “uh… I just took a shower, so I guess I… smell good right now?”
Mista chooses to neither confirm nor deny.
Giorno wishes he hadn’t said anything.
“Okay that’s enough you guys,” Mista rounds up his six little stands, and pulls out his gun, “time to get back in.”
With only a little complaining, the team piles into their home.
“There we go.” Mista sighs, closing the gun and laying it down on the bar. “Sometimes they’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
Giorno just looks at him for a moment.
“I mean,” Mista back tracks, “They’re definitely worth the trouble! I dunno what I’d do… if I didn’t… have my stand…”
Looking off pensively, Giorno takes a cherry from the jar. He chews it and swallows. Then, he turns to face Mista, and says, “I will get Gold Experience back.”
Mista nods once, emphatically. “I know you will.”
Giorno smiles at him appreciatively. “I don’t know how exactly,” he admits, “but I’m going to figure it out… that is, as soon as we get into hiding, and as soon as I figure out how to restore Bucciarati’s body…”
Mista nods again, but stops himself mid motion, “Wait-- what was that about Bucciarati’s body?”
“I’m going to find a way to bring it back. And to reattach his soul to it, of course.” Giorno answers, simply.
“Oh. Uh… okay.”
Giorno stands. “We should head back.”
“Yeah.”
They walk out into the main part of the lobby. Mista presses the button and they wait for the elevator.
“Giorno…” Mista scratches his chin as he speaks, “about Bucciarati… We buried him. His body, I mean. And if you try to bring him back now it’ll be like— Well, look, there’s some things you just shouldn’t mess with. Ya know?”
Giorno thinks maybe he should try to placate him-- say something like, ‘don’t worry about it Mista. I won’t do anything too crazy!’
He decides instead to be honest. “I’m going to restore Bucciarati’s body. I don’t really care if it goes against some sort of taboo. And, if that makes you uncomfortable, or something, then… I’m sorry.”
Mista frowns.
The elevator arrives and they climb on.
Mista goes to press the button for the tenth floor, and the doors begin to close but just then--
“Hold the elevator please!”
The unfamiliar voice is quickly accompanied by an unfamiliar figure, grabbing onto the doors of the elevator. It’s a man, dressed in a trench coat with wild dark hair. He rushes into the elevator, hurling himself between Mista and Giorno, colliding with the wall at the back.
“Oof, thanks.”
“Sure,” Mista’s voice is flat, “what floor?”
“Twelve please.”
Mista goes to press the button, but stops himself. He thought there were only ten floors, but sure enough, now that he looks, there are buttons for the eleventh and twelfth. He looks back at the man briefly, then presses the twelve button, and leans against the wall.
Just then there’s a DING to signal they’ve reached the second floor.
“So what brings you fellas to Torino?” The man with the wild hair asks, conversationally.
“Nothing much,” Mista shrugs.
“Sightseeing.” Giorno adds, from the other side of him.
“Great, great.”
DING. The third floor.
“What about you?” Mista asks.
“Oh, well, it’s business for me!”
“Huh.”
Giorno bites his lip, trying to catch Mista’s eye, but trying not to be obvious about it. Something is up. He can sense it.
Mista’s all but positive there were only ten floors earlier. He’s got a feeling this guy is a stand user. Probably an enemy. Sex Pistols are fed and ready to go. He should probably just shoot this guy, but…
DING. Fourth floor.
Mista crosses himself quickly then presses the five button.
“Oh, uh, hey, didn’t you have to do something on this floor, Giorno?”
Giorno raises his eyebrows, “uhh…”
“You needed to get ice or something… right?”
Mista gives Giorno a serious stare, trying to send him the telepathic message of GET THE HELL OUT. Mista knows he can’t get into a shootout with Giorno in the room. Not when he’s completely defenseless against stand attacks.
There’s a DING and the doors begin to open as they reach the fifth floor.
“Y--yeah.” Giorno nods in understanding, and heads towards the doors.
Just as Giorno’s shoe crosses the threshold, the elevator doors start to close, quickly-- way too quickly. Stunned, Giorno yanks his foot in just in time, and stumbles, falling back onto the elevator floor.
“The hell--” Mista looks at the strange man, who looks back at him, his expression mystified. Mista sighs. He pulls Giorno to his feet, whispering in his ear as he does so, “stay behind me.”
Giorno stands in the corner of the elevator, Mista right in front of him. Mista pulls out his gun and aims it at the man with the wild hair.
DING. Sixth floor.
Mista takes a deep breath, cocking his gun.
The man across the elevator looks back with wide uncertain eyes, holding his hands up in surrender, “Don’t shoot!”.
Mista isn’t sure what’s going on, but it’s late, and he super can’t be bothered to think anything through. He pulls the trigger-- and again-- and again--
BANG BANG BANG.
But in the split second it would take for the first bullet to reach him, the man is seemingly sucked into the floor.
Mista’s eyes go wide. “Shit.” He shoots at the floor where he disappeared-- BANG. Nothing. One more time. Just in case. BANG.
DING. Seventh floor.
“Mista…” Giorno places his hand on his shoulder.
Barely hearing him, Mista shakes some bullets out of his hat and reloads, “just stay near me, okay?”
Giorno opens his mouth to argue, or to help, or to do… something. But he realizes he doesn’t have anything to offer. He can’t do anything.
Mista points his gun all around the tight space. “Number Three, Number Seven… can you get out?”
Two of the Pistols try to squeeze through the gap in the elevator door, but they go limp with the effort. “Mista we’re stuck!”
DING. Eighth floor.
“Damnit!” Mista, completely frustrated, points his gun at the elevator buttons-- sends half his bullets into them BANG BANG BANG-- then aims at the little display indicating the current floor number, and sends the other half that way BANG BANG BANG.
“Mista. Stop.”
Once again, reloading, Mista sighs. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna get us out of this.”
“By shooting the buttons?” Giorno asks, hopelessly.
“Oh and you have a better suggestion?”
There’s a distorted electronic buzz, likely indicating the ninth floor.
“We need to think this through.”
“Um…” Mista cocks his gun, this time aiming it right at the space between the doors, “It’s okay. I figured it out.”
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
***
DING. The elevator reaches the tenth floor. The man with the wild hair steps out, leaving the elevator empty behind him. The doors close. He smiles to himself.
“That was almost too easy,” He opens his trench coat, inside is a little box on a string. “With my stand power Free Fallin I was able to trap those two losers no problem. Heh, well, they were pretty weak.” He closes his trench coat. “Now if only I could find the others… they should be somewhere on this floor.”
He peers one way, and then the other, frowning to himself. He pulls out his phone, and dials a number, “Hey. It’s me. I’m having trouble tracking these guys down… to the left?”
He turns. Out of the corner of his eye, he could have sworn he saw something move. He swallows. Slowly, carefully, he starts to walk in that direction. He turns the corner, and freezes in place.
A few feet down the hall, facing him directly, is a turtle.
He frowns. “What on earth…”
He walks towards the turtle, carefully. He picks it up and inspects the strange key on it’s back. He looks right at the red jewel in the center of the key. he thinks he spots something strange in the reflection, but just as he looks at it, something collides with him.
The metal frame of a hospital bed digs into his face and shoves him across the room, throwing his body against the wall, and nearly crushing him beneath it.
On the other side of the bed is a man with pink hair, dressed in black sweats, frowning severely.
“Ah… ow!”
Bucciarati pulls the man in the trench coat out from underneath the bent and broken bed frame.
“Wait wait! You don’t understand! I--”
Bucciarati zips his mouth closed. “Have you seen two young men-- one with blond hair in a braid, the other in an orange hat?”
“This is the guy Bucciarati!” the high pitched voice of a tiny golden figure with a number five on their head comes from Bucciarati’s shoulder.
The man in the trench coat nods, feebly.
“What did you do with them?”
He tries to speak, but the zipper prevents him, so instead, he reaches in his trenchcoat and pulls out the box on a string.
“Release them.”
He hesitates.
Bucciarati’s fist collides with his face-- sending him flying once again.
“Release them.”
The box vanishes, and Giorno and Mista appear in the hallway.
“Bucciarati!” Giorno’s eyes are wide with relief.
“Are either of you injured?” Bucciarati asks, his expression calm but his voice serious.
They both shake their heads.
“Good. Get out of here, and take Polnareff.”
Mista and Giorno look at each other, then at Bucciarati. They nod, Giorno scoops up the turtle and they hurry down the hall to one of the hotel rooms.
Bucciarati turns his attention back to the man in the trench coat.
***
It seemed to take forever for the elevator to arrive at the ground floor, but Abbacchio wasn’t about to climb up ten flights of stairs, so they waited.
As they ride up, Narancia rests the pizza boxes under his chin, smiling to himself.
Abbacchio thinks, briefly, about the sleeping arrangements tonight. Ideally he’ll sleep in the same room as Mista. Narancia snores. Giorno is Giorno. The idea of sleeping inside the turtle makes him uncomfortable because of Polnareff’s teeming, constant presence there. And as for the other guy… it’s probably best if Abbacchio just avoids him.
Narancia bounces a little in place as they near the tenth floor.
Abbacchio’s tired. His whole body aches. He’s hungry, and he could use a shower. He’s just as eager to get to the hotel room as Narancia.
In the split second after the DING signalling their arrival on the tenth floor, and before the creak of the doors sliding open, Abbacchio registers the nearby sound of someone getting the shit beat out of them-- complete with muffled cries of pain.
“Whoah,” Abbacchio pushes Narancia behind him, and peers out of the elevator onto the tenth floor. The sound is coming from just around the corner.
Some sensible part of his brain tells Abbacchio that he should stay away from whatever’s going on over there-- he’s not exactly in fighting shape himself. But something-- curiosity, he assumes-- draws him towards the noise.
He sneaks out, Narancia close behind him. He’s already got Aerosmith out. “Looks like… two people. One’s barely breathing.”
Abbacchio nods.
They reach the end of the hall. Abbacchio stands right against the wall, and peers around the corner.
His eyes go wide.
Limbs are scattered across the hall, but no blood. The bruised and beaten torso of the man in the trench coat lays in the middle of the hall, and above him stands the man with pink hair, and right next to him is a ghostly presence all too familiar to Abbacchio.
His heart drops.
“Sticky Fingers.”
Bucciarati and his stand turn towards Abbacchio’s voice in tandem.
Narancia peaks out past Abbacchio, “Whoah! What happened?! Who is that guy, Bucciarati?”
Bucciarati glances down at the scattered body parts, seeming almost embarrassed. “Narancia, Abbacchio-- good-- you’re both safe.” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. “And you brought pizza. Grazie a Dio.”