Chapter Text
When Bucciarati wakes up Abbacchio’s hand is still in his.
He feels like he’s dreaming.
A few days ago when he saw his own body--cold and lifeless-- and put it in the ground, he knew his life would never be the same. He knew he would have to get used to living without his body. He feared he would have to get used to living without the person he loves, but now, a little of that fear is alleviated.
Abbacchio shifts next to him.
Bucciarati closes his eyes, pretending to be asleep.
When Abbacchio wakes up his hand is still in Bucciarati’s. He leaves it there for a second, then pulls it away. He sits up. Light is gleaming between the curtains of the hotel room window. Abbacchio looks down at the man laying next to him. His face is peaceful. His hair is still in a neat braid laying across his shoulder.
Abbacchio is disgusted with himself.
He hates the feeling of waking up next to a man whose face is unfamiliar to him. He hates the feeling of waking up next to anyone whose face is not Bucciarati’s. Most of all, he hates how peacefully he slept last night, next to this man.
Abbacchio gets out of bed and puts on his pants. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out his lipstick. He slaps some on, glances back at the man in the bed one more time, and then leaves the room.
After just laying there for another minute, Bucciarati sits up.
The dream is over, and he’s disappointed.
He’s not sure what he was expecting. Did he think if he laid there pretending to be asleep Abbacchio would try to wake him up with a kiss on the cheek?
He hides his face under a pillow and lays back down.
***
The sound of someone pounding on the door pulls Narancia from a deep and peaceful sleep. Mindlessly, he drags himself out of bed, over to the door, and opens it. “Yeah?”
Abbacchio looms over him in the doorway, frowning. “Get up. We’re leaving in five minutes.”
In that moment Abbacchio’s gaze flicks over the room, and he notices Giorno sitting up in bed. And Mista laying in bed next to him. His eyes go wide.
“Mkay.” Narancia swings the door shut.
“Hey--!”
Abbacchio’s frown deepens. He doesn’t like having doors slammed in his face. He considers pounding on the door again, waiting for Narancia to answer, and grabbing him by the neck, but he decides against it. Not this time.
Instead, Abbacchio just stands in the hallway for a minute. He could check out the complimentary breakfast, but he’s not really that hungry, so he starts walking back towards the room he slept in. He figures he should at least make sure Bucciarati-- or whoever that guy is-- is awake.
With only a little hesitating, Abbacchio slides the key in the door and pulls it open.
Bucciarati is sitting up in bed, his hoodie on.
“Oh. You’re up… good.” Abbacchio steps a little further in. “We should be leaving soon.”
“Right.” Bucciarati nods.
Abbacchio nods back at him.
There’s a pause.
“Uh…” Abbacchio leans against the wall, “about last night…”
Bucciarati looks up at him-- expectant, nervous.
“I was… tired.”
“Yes,” Bucciarati nods again, “I know.”
Abbacchio looks off to the side, pushing his hair over his shoulder, “...Maybe it’s better if we just forget about it...”
Bucciarati closes his eyes. He feels a slight sense of doom underneath a strong sense of frustration. He laughs. “Forget about it, huh?”
“...Yeah,” Abbacchio looks at Bucciarati, raising an eyebrow, “What’s so funny about that?”
“We held hands.”
Abbacchio frowns.
“I don’t think we did anything to be ashamed of.” Bucciarati shrugs. “But if you insist, I’ll try my best to put it out of my mind.”
“That’s not--! Uhg,” Abbacchio crosses his arms indignantly, “I’m not saying I’m ‘ashamed’ of anything. I just don’t want you to think I…” He looks off. “I’m not gonna be calling you ‘Bruno’ from now on. Okay?”
He’s stung. “I expected as much. I can accept that without forgetting what happened.”
Abbacchio sighs. “Fair enough.” He slouches a little further against the wall. “I mean. It’s the mature thing to do, I guess. To face facts…”
Bucciarati gives him a curious look. “Yeah.”
Abbacchio slides a little further down the wall. “And… I’ll admit it. I’ll admit that,” he looks for the right words, biting down on his lip.
Bucciarati leans towards him, listening intently.
“I’ll admit that there’s something--”
Just then there’s a knock at the door. Abbacchio goes to answer it.
Bucciarati sits back.
“Buongiorno.” It’s Giorno.
“What do you want?”
Under Abbacchio’s cold gaze, Giorno tries not to shrink. “We should get out of here right now. Before another enemy finds us.”
“Fine, fine, we’re coming.”
Abbacchio turns back towards the room, and looks around. They didn’t really bring any luggage. They didn’t bring much of anything. He notices a pair of sunglasses sitting on the counter, picks them up, and hooks them on the front of his shirt.
Bucciarati stands, and they both head for the door.
Giorno turns to go, but at the last moment he notices out of the corner of his eye that one of the two beds looks like it has imprints where two people slept. He raises his eyebrows a little, and leaves, followed closely by the other two.
***
Abbacchio sits in the back row of the SUV, one leg kicked up on the seats next to him, his arms crossed, headphones and sunglasses on.
In the middle row Mista and Narancia sit with the turtle between them. Bucciarati’s in the passenger seat, and Giorno’s driving.
“You know there’s plenty of space inside me-- I mean--” Polnareff closes his tiny turtle eyes in embarrassment, “In the turtle’s stand-- you know what I mean. If any of you would like, you're more than welcome to come inside… the stand…”
Mista snorts.
Narancia just leans a little further against the door.
“Thanks, Polnareff,” Bucciarati glances back at him, “but it’s such a nice day…” he points out the windshield, “and I really want to take it in as best I can.”
Polnareff’s head bobs up and down, “Oh yes, of course!”
“It’s been forever since I visited France,” Bucciarati smiles, “it’s good to be back.”
“Indeed! Bienvenue!”
Narancia sits up a little straighter, his expression suddenly astonished. “Huh… this is the first time I left Italy… weird.”
“Seriously?” Mista raises his eyebrows, “You haven’t even left on vacation?!”
Narancia shakes his head, “Uh-uh.”
“Huh,” Mista’s head tilts a little as he considers this, “weird.”
“Bucciarati... I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Giorno takes a hand off the wheel to gesture at his own head, “I really like what you’ve done with your hair.”
“Oh,” Bucciarati reaches up and feels the bump of the braid going down his scalp. “Thanks. It is more manageable like this… I didn’t do it though. Abbacchio did.”
“Oh.” Giorno nods, a bit slower than usual.
Mista once again raises his eyebrows.
Polnareff smiles, knowingly. He looks around, hoping to share this knowing smile with Mista or Narancia, but neither of them look at him, so he just smiles knowingly to himself instead.
“So,” Narancia leans towards the front of the car, propping his head on the back of Giorno’s seat, “uhh, I was just wondering… how are things going. Ya know,” he glances at the back row, then back at Bucciarati, “with Abbacchio and you?”
“Um… well...” Bucciarati is not at all sure how to answer.
“Nancia.” Mista shoves him in the side with the heel of his boot. “Mind your own damn business.”
“Ow!” Narancia frowns at Mista, grabbing his side.
“It’s fine,” Bucciarati assures them, “I don’t mind you asking. But, really, it’s not something you need to worry about either. Abbacchio and I…” Bucciarati tries to find the right words, “we’re… getting along fine.”
“So…” Narancia leans even further forward, “He’s not still acting like he doesn’t think you’re you, right?”
Bucciarati opens his mouth to respond, but finds he’s run out of words. He closes his mouth, and allows a silence to hang over him in the space where he should’ve answered Narancia’s question.
Mista yanks Narancia back into his seat by his collar, saying, “Don’t worry about it, Bucciarati. Abbacchio will come around.”
Giorno nods, glancing away from the road to give Bucciarati a reassuring smile.
Bucciarati smiles back, then looks down, saying, quietly, almost to himself, “I hope so.”
***
“I didn’t really take you for the type to hang around libraries, Giovanna.”
Giorno shrugs as he picks a book from a shelf and adds it to the stack in his arms, “I want to take advantage of the opportunity… I doubt I’ll be able to find a place with this many old books again any time soon. And besides,” He glances back at Mista, then continues walking along the path of shelf, “I figure it’s the safest place for me.”
Mista leans against one of the bookshelves, crossing his arms. “Don’t worry about safety. I’ve got your back, ya know.”
They decided to spend the afternoon in Lyon-- the last major city they’ll pass through before reaching Polnareff’s place. Partly for recreation. Partly to lure out any enemies that might be lurking around.
Giorno squats down to peruse the books on a lower shelf. “I know it’s not the most exciting place. If you’d rather do something else you can go. I’ll be fine.”
Mista considers this briefly, then says, “I dunno what makes you think I have something better to do, but I don’t. So, do you want me to help you carry those books, or what?”
“Sure,” he hands some up to Mista.
Mista glances down at the front cover of the book on top of the stack. He frowns.
“Giorno…”
“Yeah?”
“I thought you were going to focus on getting back Gold Experience.”
“I am.”
“I thought you were going to… put the whole ‘bringing back Bucciarati’s body’ thing on the back burner.”
“That’s right.”
“Then,” Mista holds up the black leather bound book with a runic design, “Why are you getting this demonic looking spellbook?”
Giorno meets his gaze evenly. “Maybe there’s a spell for how to get my stand back in there.”
“Mama mia…” Mista sighs, holding up another book from the stack, “And what about ‘ Ancient Necromancer’s Guide to Expedient Resurrection ’, Giorno? You think you’re gonna learn about your stand problems in there?!”
From somewhere beyond the shelves, someone goes “Ssshh!”.
Giorno straightens up and drops three more heavy books on the stack in Mista’s hands. “I can multitask.”
A shiver runs through Mista’s body, “Geez, Giorno! Just touching these books is freaking me out-- I don’t wanna get cursed!”
“That’s fine,” Giorno takes the books from him, “I just need you to create a distraction while I sneak out. Normally I would just turn them into caterpillars and stick them down my shirt, but, well…”
“Can’t you just check them out?!”
Giorno sighs. “They don’t just let people check out Ancient Necromancer books… and besides,” he shrugs, “It's not my style.”
Mista rolls his eyes a little, waving Giorno away, “Alright, alright, you head out, I’ll make sure no one’s looking.”
Giorno gives him a nod, turns away, and walks off with the books.
Mista pulls out his six shooter, and cocks it.
***
Abbacchio absentmindedly flips through some shirts on a rack. None of them excite him. He’s not a fan of French clothing, or anything about France for that matter. Still, he could use some new clothes. He pulls a black shirt with yellow details off the rack, holds it up to his torso with one hand, then jams it into the turtle, balanced on the palm of his other hand.
“Good choice.”
The not very familiar--but definitely not unfamiliar-- voice makes Abbacchio jump as he turns to see who it is. “Oh. It’s you.”
Bucciarati holds both hands up. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
Abbacchio gives him an inquisitive frown. “I’ve been keeping an eye on the entrance. You didn’t come through there, so… what? Did you zip in through a dressing room or something?”
Bucciarati did in fact zip in through a dressing room. You know me so well-- he wants to say. “Does it matter?” he says instead.
Abbacchio goes back to absentmindedly browsing the clothes. “I guess not.”
“Have you seen anything suspicious?” Bucciarati asks. He almost adds ‘besides me’ but decides against it.
“Besides you?” Abbacchio asks. Regret.
“Yeah…”
“Not really.”
“Hm…”
Abbacchio picks out another shirt, this one a dark blue. He considers it for a moment, then looks at Bucciarati. “What do you think?”
“It suits you.”
Abbacchio raises his eyebrows, “Uh… no. It’s totally boring-- I’d never wear this.” He holds it up to Bucciarati, “But, it would definitely be an improvement on the hoodie…”
Bucciarati swallows. “I’ve been meaning to do something about that…”
“Maybe one size up,” Abbacchio flips through till he finds it, then holds the shirt up to Bucciarati one more time. “Yeah. That works. I wouldn’t say it ‘goes with’ the pink, but at least they don’t clash.” He jams it in the turtle.
“Thanks,” Bucciarati gives him a forced smile.
Not buying it, Abbacchio asks, “What? You need clothes don’t you?”
“Yeah. I just…” he looks off, “I wish you didn’t have to keep helping me with this kind of thing…”
“Why not?” Abbacchio walks over to a different rack, and starts going through the clothes there, “I don’t mind.”
Bucciarati follows him over. He decides not to answer, and to let the subject drop. The truth is, he does want Abbacchio’s help. He needs it. He just doesn’t want that help to come from a place of pity.
He wants it to come from a place of love.
“Maybe something in a lighter color…” Abbacchio flips to a white shirt with black spots. He pauses for a split second, then goes back to flipping even faster. “Maybe this one,” he holds up a light, heathery grey shirt. “Yeah… That’ll work.”
“What were you going to admit?”
“...Huh?” Abbacchio inserts the shirt into the turtle, and immediately begins walking over to another clothes rack.
“This morning. In the hotel room.”
“It’s a pain to find pants that fit right…” he remarks, thumbing through a rack of trendy looking jeans. “Oh well. I’m sure something here will work.” One by one he begins sneaking the entire rack of pants into the turtle.
“You said you were going to admit something.”
Once he’s gotten about ten pairs of pants in, Abbacchio pauses. He slowly pulls the eleventh pair off the rack. He sighs. “Uh… I was just gonna say that--”
“Excusez moi Monsieur,” just then, a saleswoman approaches them, “you cannot have pets in our store.”
Abbacchio stares at her coldly. He replaces the eleventh pair of pants. “Well then. We’ll just take our business elsewhere.” He turns to leave, and Bucciarati follows closely behind him.
They go out onto the city square, and walk along the sidewalk, side by side.
Abbacchio offers the turtle to Bucciarati, “Could you hold this? It’s kinda gross.”
Bucciarati takes the turtle.
They walk in silence for a few seconds, until Bucciarati, almost bursting, asks, “Well?”
“Well what?”
“You were saying something… about what you were saying this morning… about...”
“Oh right.” Abbacchio wipes his hands on his pants. “Uh…” He pauses in his step, taking a deep breath.
Bucciarati pauses too, standing in front of him, his eyes wide.
“Look,” Abbacchio closes his eyes for a moment, “do you, uh,” he opens them slightly, meeting Bucciarati’s gaze. “Do you wanna get a drink with me?” He points at a restaurant across the street.
Bucciarati’s eyes go even wider. That’s not what he was expecting. “Uh… okay.”
***
It really is a beautiful day.
If someone had told Bucciarati a week ago that he would soon be sitting at a restaurant in France with the man he loves, sharing a bottle of wine, on a beautiful sunny afternoon it would have sounded too good to be true.
Abbacchio sips the last sip out of his glass and sets it down. He sighs. “I guess I’ll have to get used to it. French wine, French food, French clothes…”
“It could be worse.”
“Yeah…” Abbacchio glances down at a third chair pulled up to their table with the turtle sitting on it. “Doubt it could get much worse than French turtles.” He takes the open bottle sitting between them and refills his glass. “So is he asleep or what? He hasn’t said anything in over an hour…”
“Not sure.” Bucciarati takes a sip.
“Freaky.”
For a moment Bucciarati just watches Abbacchio. “You were going to tell me something. Weren’t you.”
Addressing his wine glass, Abbacchio says. “Well. Yeah.” He takes a long drink. “But… it’s not a big deal.” He places the glass down, and slouches in his seat a little, crossing his arms.
Bucciarati looks at him, attentively.
“I’ll admit… there’s something…” Abbacchio scratches his cheek, “something about you.”
Bucciarati waits patiently for him to elaborate.
Abbacchio goes back to sipping his wine.
“And?”
“I told you… it’s not a big deal.” Abbacchio slouches a little further down.
Bucciarati can tell this is difficult for him. Any frustration he felt is gone. He wants to hold his hand.
“It’s…” Abbacchio shrugs, “it’s hard to put into words.”
“Well,” Bucciarati’s voice is gentle, “if you could try, I’d appreciate it.”
Abbacchio presses his painted lips together for a moment. “I guess you seem like an okay guy. I don’t mind you being around… I thought I would, but, I don’t. I guess… there’s just… something about you. Something I… don’t mind.”
Bucciarati’s not sure what he was expecting-- but it wasn’t this. He smiles softly. He wants to hold both of his hands. “I don’t mind you either, Abbacchio.”
Coming back up for air, Abbacchio straightens up. “Yeah well… doesn’t mean I trust you, or anything.”
It stings, but only barely. “One thing at a time.”
Abbacchio considers this, then nods. “I guess so big guy.”
Bucciarati’s stomach turns. Big guy?
“Looks like they found us,” Abbacchio says, grimly, looking past Bucciarati.
“An enemy?” Bucciarati looks around, and immediately sees what Abbacchio was referring to.
“BUCCIARATI! ABBACCHIO!” Narancia waves as he approaches, Giorno right behind him, both of them looking a bit frazzled.
“Hey…” Bucciarati gives them a concerned look, “Have you two seen anything suspicious?”
“Well, ya see--” Narancia sits down at the table, then jumps up as Polnareff screams.
“AAHH!”
“AAAAHHH!” Narancia also screams, falling on his butt.
Giorno sets down half a dozen thick books on the little table. “We didn’t run into any enemies. However… there is a problem.”
Concerned, Bucciarati raises his eyebrows.
“Bucciarati... um,” Giorno hangs his head, “Could you break Mista out of jail?”