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“You sure you’re alright?”
It isn’t usual for Abbacchio to worry about his capo.
Then again it isn’t normal for Buccellati to sit in the parlour crying his eyes out.
“I’m fine, really...nothing to worry about...” the addressee sniffled, dabbing at his tear stained cheeks with a tissue he produced from his zipped open sleeve, before trumpeting into it, blowing his nose.
“I just...I’m a bit emotional today...I’m fine, alright...”
Strangely enough Buccellati looked fine, well as fine as a grown man with red eyes and crumpled tissues piling in front of him could look.
But he was smiling with the occasional hick-uppy giggle he couldn’t suppress.
Abbacchio was lounging on the settee opposite him, wine glass in hand (It was grape juice actually. The bottles Buccellati had confiscated had been moved to a new hiding spot after Abbacchio had discovered them in a cabinet inside Coco Jumbo.) assessing the situation.
Anyway Buccellati hadn’t objected to Abbacchio joining him, so it couldn’t be that serious.
“Ehm...”
Having Buccellati look at him that way, all sniffling and yet somewhat excited, didn’t make it easier, but there were questions that needed to be asked.
“Why did you open a zipper to my room about,” here Abbacchio glanced at the grandfather clock on top of the ornamental tallboy, “40 minutes ago...”
“Did I do that, I’m sorry I must have gotten the wrong door...”
“...so Moody Blues could sneak out?”
Silence did not necessarily mean consent.
But it sure as hell meant a guilty conscience.
“...ehm,” Buccellati cleared his throat, “some Stand-only thing? Listen, I don’t want to get involved into their...”
“Oh, you are involved in this one, aren’t you Bruno?”
Silence.
Abbacchio leaned back staring at the ceiling for a change and continued in an oddly mild tone:
“This room we are sitting in; it’s adjacent to my room, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. But can you please tell me Bruno why there is a cover thrown across the davenport? That and the candles making it almost look like a make-shift altar?”
“Maybe...Fugo? His family... catholic down to the roots...” Buccellati babbled.
“Why is the floor littered with rice?”
“Mista? The Sex Pistols perhaps?” Buccellati tried, but his heart wasn’t in it anymore.
“And why did someone zip shut a hole in the glass door leading to the terrace, trying to give off the impression they had smashed through it, when it was actually...”
“Narancia’s Aerosmith!”
“...a wedding bouquet!”
Abbacchio finished, glancing at Buccellati in a way the latter couldn’t read.
“And you know why I know? Because Moody Blues has a powerful throw but terrible aim!”
Abbacchio wished for Buccellati to come up with an air-brained cover story.
Luck wasn’t on his side.
“I’m sorry, Leone...”
But Abbacchio wouldn’t let him continue and waved Buccellati into silence.
Then he leaned forwards, steepling his fingers.
“All I want from you is an explanation that has neither the words ‘Stand’ nor ‘Wedding’ clashing in one sentence.”
Abbacchio stared gravely across the coffee table.
Buccellati retorted the stare.
“It was a wonderful ceremony...”
That was when Abbacchio lost it.
“...and Sticky Fingers was so nervous he blanked at the vows, but then Purple Haze got his back and handed him his cheat sheet ...”
Buccellati continued recapping the wedding ceremony unperturbed by Abbacchio screaming and ranting until he was too tired and had flopped down again on the couch, face buried in his hands.
“I don’t believe this...”
“...by Gold Experience and you know what, he would have made an excellent pastor...”
“Of all Stands why did you chose ladybug guy to marry them!? You know I can’t stand this humanoid Art Deco lamp.”
“Like Aerosmith?”
Buccellati had the gall to look offended.
“You know he just sort of hovers. And the Sex Pistols wouldn’t have made it through the vows without fighting each other. But they looked nice in their little pastel dresses strewing flowers...”
Buccellati sipped his tea and waited for the screaming coming from the couch across him to subside before he continued.
“And come on, Purple Haze? You know how fidgety he gets when faced with deep emotions. Oops, capsule dropped, ‘Till death do you part in less than thirty seconds...’”
Cup clinking into saucer, tea refill.
Abbacchio waited.
“Also the alb and stole happened to be his size...”
Done screaming into a pillow, Abbacchio sat up again, defeat written all over his face.
“You know what really makes me mad? Sticky Fingers never came to me to ask for Moody Blues’ speaker-hand in marriage. I’m offended...”
“Don’t be so overly dramatic...”
Buccellati felt safe enough to sit down a cup of tea in front of calmed down Abbacchio.
Only it was a cheap one, he wouldn’t trust him with the good china yet.
“Also, you’re not his father...”
“Did you really think you could keep this a secret?”
Abbacchio was all serene and composed again, which Buccellati just knew to be the calm before the storm.
As a precaution, Buccellati pushed the cup out of his reach.
“I sure didn’t feel Moody Blues getting all agitated and excited for the past few days. Or how he was having second thoughts throughout today, wearing down the carpet in my room pacing up and down...”
First drops turning into heavy rain.
“And how they all got brushed aside when fucking Sticky Fingers grabbed his hand and he nearly fainted. Sure didn’t feel that...”
Storm warning.
“And the stupid veil placed on his head; and the kiss: Especially the kiss. The one that wouldn’t just end, suffocating me via our tactile bond until I nearly passed out. The fuck Bruno, just ‘The Fuck’?!”
This gotten off his chest, the, albeit lethargic, first rays breaking through the clouds of his emotional sky, Abbacchio deflated and accepted the tea Buccellati handed him.
“Also the ring doesn’t fit, but he won’t admit it…”
Abbacchio mumbled glancing at the red throbbing ring forming on his ring finger.
There was nothing he could do.
His Stand was now a wife. (Why did his Stand have to be the wife? He was the top Stand, Goddamnit!)
Awesome.
Nothing like a cold Darjeeling brewed by some lobotomised monkey (Who had allowed Mista back into the kitchen? Let alone make tea?!) to calm your nerves.
A soft chuckle escaped Abbacchio’s lips.
“Crying your eyes out like some housewife over their only son’s future in wedlock...”
“They’re Sticky Fingers’ tears of joy, fine?”
This was a lie and they both knew it.
Buccellati flopped down next to Abbacchio on the couch, opened a zipper on his left hip before fishing out a sugar bowl and two cupcakes (Talk about Muffin top.).
“From the wedding reception,” Buccellati explained and Abbacchio no longer fought against this madness.
He offered one Abbacchio who took it, albeit reluctantly, then he added one, and after tasting it two more cubes to his tea and put the bowl back.
(Wasn’t it just lovely how he was capo and pantry in one go?)
The icing was too sweet, but at least it overshadowed the tea.
Abbacchio dreaded the question, but he had to ask.
“Where are they now?”
“In the study next room and don’t worry; both are exhausted, so they won’t, you know...”
Abbacchio knew.
The nudge in the ribs was thus uncalled for.
“Must be pretty cosy in there...”
Abbacchio unfastened the lacing on his coat.
“They’re sitting in front of the fireplace. We went inside Coco Jumbo for wedding pictures. You know a neutral background...”
“...a jungle...”
“Anyway, there was a downpour and I thought they might enjoy a bit of free space, cuddling in front of a roaring fire...”
Buccellati was so hopelessly romantic it almost hurt.
Scratch that last thought, it hurt.
Damn, did it hurt.
Almost as much as his tactlessness.
Speaking of which...
“To the newlyweds,” Buccellati said and Abbacchio finished his cupcake before Buccellati could try toasting to it in the absence of glasses to do so with.
“Fuck you,” Abbacchio mumbled through one third of cupcake still occupying his mouth.
“And to their blessed future: sposa bagnata, sposa fortunate.”