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Pucci wakes every morning in the world's most luxurious bed to the light of the dawn coming in through the windows. It's a soft glow that draws him out of his dreams - always the same dreams, always Dio and Cairo and the little spot of blood on his fingertips - and leaves him warm and swaddled in silken sheets and comforters and pajamas.
The pillow is warm under his face. When he moves, it's to turn the pillow to the cool side and to let that radiate through him. It's too soft to mistake it for anything other than what it is, but he still lets himself imagine that it's Dio's chest he's lying on and not a pile of down feathers. He imagines that he's beside Dio, sleeping on his massive chest, one thick arm around him.
Every morning, he wakes. Every morning, he weeps softly, missing and mourning Dio while the sun steadily creeps up and the dark twilight of his bedroom turns to a cheerful fire of oranges and pinks. When the light reaches his face, he dries his eyes and climbs out of bed to begin his morning routine. He's always been good at keeping a routine, even when life has made it hard. It's one of his best talents.
The servants wait for Pucci in their usual places. Each of them was handpicked by Dio. Each of them has a fleshbud, right in the center of their foreheads. All of them do as they're told, perfectly obedient, perfectly charming. His bath is always drawn when he leaves the bedroom, fresh towels stacked nearby, today's outfit laid out for Pucci. The servants used to try to dress Pucci, like they would have in the old days. He had humored it for a few days, and then called Dio and asked that the servants not do that anymore. Pucci preferred to dress himself. The next day, they stopped, lying his clothing out for him and leaving Pucci to put it on.
He wears what they pick. Pucci could call and ask Dio to stop this too, but he doesn't care that much. The clothes are always nice, always well fitted, and no one sees him in them anyway. It's easier to go along with the small things.
Breakfast is always in the garden. That was one of the other few changes Pucci asked for. It used to be in the dining room, but now he takes it in the garden. The smell of flowers is welcome. He likes to eat by the rose bushes and to let their sweet scents wash over him. They remind him of Dio.
Ms. Turner is waiting by the table and chair as always, dressed exactly like the servants from Dio's teenage years. It's a very accurate replica. Dio put a lot of thought and love into recreating this part of his life for Pucci. He knows it's Dio's way of sharing a part of himself with Pucci. As apologies go, it's an extravagant one.
Breakfast is porridge with brown sugar and dried berries, a hardboiled egg, a bowl of fresh fruit, and a glass of juice. The egg has already had its shell removed. Ms. Turner holds a folded piece of paper in her hand and a book, the cover turned away from Pucci. "Shall I read today's message?"
"Sure." He has a few bites of the porridge and listens carefully as Ms. Turner reads Dio's message, which arrived shortly before breakfast, dictated by phone. Pucci wishes they would let him take the call and hear Dio's voice, but that's one thing Dio won't budge on.
"Dearest Enrico, I have sent a book for you to read. ‘King Solomon's Mines’ was one of Jonathan's favorite books. I disliked it at the time, but as I have grown older and tempered my emotions, I have come to appreciate it. Read it and share your thoughts with me in your usual manner. I love you dearly."
Pucci reaches out to run his thumb over a flowering rose. The petals are thick and red, soft against his thumb. He thinks of roses and vines, and Dio standing over him. His face had looked so strange then. Pucci remembers the blood on his fingers, the same shade as the rose, and the way Dio turned away when Pucci reached for his face.
Ms. Turner sets the book on the table. The book is ancient, with a thick red cover and a simple illustration of an oval shield with a spear behind it. Pucci looks at it. The red is more lurid and vivid than the rose, more like the shade of blood in comics than blood in real life. Pucci nods and lets go of the rose, going back to breakfast. He'll read this in the garden once he's finished eating. It's important to eat - and Dio's asked that he do so. Pucci's appetite has been gone for months. The first week, he didn't eat at all, not until he heard Dio's voice over the telephone telling him to do it for him.
"I'd like to speak to Dio tonight." He asks, as he always does. Every morning with breakfast. Letter. Instructions. Food. Roses. And a plea phrased as a command.
Ms. Turner stands by the table, waiting patiently. As always, she nods at his request, and does not promise anything. She can't, not any more than he can. Everyone here does as Dio wills them to.
Pucci eats his breakfast and goes off to walk through the gardens as he does every morning, and has since the first week he arrived here. The gardens are lovely. It's a recreation of the one that was in the Joestar manor when Dio lived there. Pucci saw those memories a few times, and he's done his best to help recreate it more accurately. When Dio visits, he'll see it and know that Pucci's created it from his memories. He'll be touched, and perhaps ashamed as well, but Pucci will be there to hold his hand and assure him that there's nothing to be ashamed of. Pucci loves him and there are no conditions to his love.
When Dio visits, he'll understand that he has no reason to send Pucci away. He isn't angry with Dio. He could never be angry with him. But he wants to come home to Cairo and to live with Dio, like they did before.
Out in the midst of the garden, Pucci sits on the lip of the fountain and slides his shoes off, tucking his feet underneath his body. He sets a hand on the straightened sole of his foot and strokes it. It never causes him pain anymore, and he never stumbles on it. The sun is warm on his skin and he tips his face up towards the light, soaking it in. Sometimes, he feels like one of the flowering bushes out in the garden, like if he just gets enough sunlight and food, he'll bloom too. Big thick petals, unfolding one by one, until his face is obscured by the deep purple flower growing from his skull.
He stays there until the servants come to fetch him, coaxing Pucci inside the house for lunch.
From there, he spends the rest of the day alternating between reading and writing. He writes his own letters back to Dio, revising and revising over and over again, until he comes up with the perfect thing to say. He wants so badly to show Dio how much he loves him. Pucci likes to think about Dio as he reads them, lounging on his bed with the paper between his fingers. Just like they used to read together. Pucci would sit on the bed and Dio would sprawl over it, his body always touching Pucci's in some minor way. His nails would stroke along Pucci's ankles and calves, or he would lie his own legs upon Pucci's, like a big cat might. Sometimes, Pucci would tease him about it, asking if Dio was afraid that Pucci would slip away if Dio wasn't constantly aware of him.
He used to tease Dio a lot. That was the trouble. It had only ever been in good fun. But Dio-
Pucci lies his head on the arm of the fainting couch and closes his eyes. His head throbs and he waits for the pain to pass. It always does. It's like the sorrow he feels in the mornings and the loneliness at night. It comes, it goes, and he remains.
When it passes, he rises and begins to write again, until he has a letter worth sending. Pucci folds it twice, tucks it into an envelope, and presents it to Mr. Johnson, who takes it to put with the mail. It will go out in the morning while Pucci sleeps, and with it will come another letter from Dio. One day, it won't be letters that arrive, but Dio. Pucci just needs to be patient, and to write every day, and to wait.
He has become very good at waiting.
In the last afternoon, he goes down to the chapel. This wasn't part of the original Joestar Manor but Dio knows how important Pucci's faith is, and so he's gone and added it. It's lovely, much like the one in the church Pucci grew up in. It's larger than he needs, and the pews always sit empty. Pucci prefers to kneel before the altar and pray. He laces his fingers, palms pressed flat against each other, and bows his head.
The first prayer is always for Perla's soul. She took her own life, and Pucci knows that means you're condemned to Hell, but he prays for God to show her mercy. She was an innocent, she didn't deserve anything of what happened to her. Let the people who were responsible suffer in her place, as they deserved, and let her go to Heaven where she belonged.
The second prayer is for Dio. Pucci changes that, depending on the day. Sometimes, he prays that the Joestars are defeated soundly, and that Dio is troubled no longer. Other times, he prays that Dio find peace and comfort in his World and this one, and that he no longer lives in fear. But most times, he prays for Dio to forgive himself and let Pucci back into his life, instead of keeping him so far away. It was an accident. Pucci's forgiven him.
The third prayer is for himself, soft and short. Pucci never liked praying for himself, but he supposes he should now, in the hope that God hears him. If He could undo what was done, then everything could be fixed. Everything could be fine again, and he would give up this English countryside and return to Cairo once more. He misses the desert so much. This place is wet and green and grey all the time, and he misses the gold of the desert more than he can say.
And after that? After that, he just remains kneeling in the chapel, speaking to God, hoping that he hears Pucci's prayers and heeds them.
Dinner is in the dining room, which of course it is. The table is large, more suited for two dozen people and a seven course meal. Pucci always sits at the head of the table with two servants on either side to make sure he eats. If he doesn't, they'll tell Dio and in the next letter that arrives, Dio will have some command or order, or something else that Pucci will be forced to obey. He would rather not have another demand resting on his shoulders, so he eats the bare minimum of what's expected of him, seated in the spot meant for Dio. He should be sitting in the chair to the right, and Dio should be where he is. That's the way it should be - maybe the way it will be, one day. He's prayed for it and he'll keep praying and asking for as long as he has to, until it comes true.
Pucci's still not used to eating alone - and he wouldn't call the two silent figures by his elbows company, since they never speak with him. Apparently that's how it was in the old days. Servants would be seen, not heard, and their job was to anticipate what someone needs. They don't speak, and Pucci doesn't particularly want to speak to them either. The fleshbud's left them somewhat dull, obedient and agreeable but without anything under the surface. His dishes are taken as he finishes, and new items are set in front of him - soup, then a main course, then dessert.
He always thinks about Perla over dessert. When he was young, he ate with his parents and Perla in the dining room in their home. It wasn't as grand as this one, but it always had extra seats that were never used. Later, once his parents were too busy with their own lives to spend every dinner with their children, his dinners were always spent with Perla. They rarely used the dining room, which was even emptier with two people. Instead, they would take their plates to the front porch and balance them carefully on their knees while sitting on the swing, side by side on warm summer nights.
Pucci had loved that swing. He knows Perla thought he only sat on it for her sake, just so she had someone to help her get it moving and keep it swinging back and forth. He did always tell her that they were going to drop their plates - and a few times, they did. But he did love that swing. There was a special thrill he felt, knowing his parents would have been appalled if they saw what they were doing. Pucci wasn't loudly disobedient by nature, but it was fair to say that he did get some delight in rebelling in small, quiet ways. It was the same reason he would never scream or lash out or throw the kinds of embarrassing tantrums every other teenager loved to pitch, but he often indulged in sly, smirking comments and careful jabs at anyone who thought they were the smartest person in the room.
Dio had loved that about Pucci. He always wore that put-off face and was quick to remind Pucci to pay attention to whatever important thing was being said. Pucci always was listening. If he wasn't, his jokes wouldn't have been so perfectly pointed or clever. Listening carefully let him make the jokes, and Dio loved them. Despite the faces he pulled, he was always quick to set Pucci up for another. Sometimes Dio even smirked before he could catch himself, delighted by Pucci. That was the real reward - that quiet approval from Dio, the knowledge that Pucci had taken him by surprise. He wanted nothing more than to prove he was Dio's equal, to stand beside him and to be more than one of the interchangeable servants too afraid to speak their mind. They were all so afraid of what Dio would do. Pucci never was.
He doesn't tell jokes anymore. There's no point in it. No one here laughs at anything he says. Dio only sends letters and rarely calls, and when his voice comes over the line, there's something lying underneath it that makes Pucci feel sick. Once, he tried. He was speaking on the phone with Dio and he thought of a sly joke about Dio's lack of knowledge when it came to fashion trends. But the moment it formed on his tongue, he choked on it, and his head pounded so badly that he had been forced to end the call and lie down. In his bedroom, he had curled into a ball on the bed and imagined vines growing through his body, moving beneath his skin. He could see and feel the shape of them as they crept forward, seeking some way out. They would emerge through his eyes and nose and mouth, and the terrible pressure on his skull would finally let up, all while they budded and bloomed. It was easy to imagine himself lying on the bed, terrible and beautiful flowers in purple and red and gold on his face and hands, and all of his body twined in green, green vines.
Would Dio come to see him then?
He finishes the food on his plate today. Pucci feels like a child on their best behavior before asking for a favour, as if perhaps the last few hours worth of perfect conduct will be enough to tip the scales. "Mr. Daven, will Dio be calling soon?"
"I cannot say." Mr. Daven bows his head, and his hair falls over the fleshbud, hiding it from sight. It sometimes makes Pucci wonder what others must think of the buds when they see them. Maybe they don't. They're small, after all. It would be easy to miss them. "If Lord Dio will call, it will be within the next hour."
"Then I'll wait in the study for him. Thank you." Pucci stands and leaves the servants to take care of the rest. He makes his way upstairs, past the wall where portraits hang. It makes him feel a little strange to pass them all. A new one appears every few months, some new painting of Pucci sent here to the mansion. At first, he thought maybe they were gifts from Dio, apologies in his own way. Now, Pucci's sure that they're exiled here, just as he's been. They suffer from the same fatal flaw that Pucci does these days, a lack of spark and light behind his eyes.
It's here, it's still here. Dio just can't see it anymore...
In the study, Pucci sits behind the desk and waits for the phone to ring. Sometimes it does. Mostly it doesn't. Either way, Pucci waits very patiently for Dio. He's become very good at it. Sometimes, he thinks back on his life and reflects on how it seems to have been designed to teach him to wait on other people. All those days spent kneeling in church were good for something other than simply bringing him closer to God. He amuses himself with the book Dio sent. It's well written, but dated in a way that many books from those times are. It's a story that takes place in Africa, and he can think of a few very funny and pointed things he could say about that to Dio, who likely had not considered that Pucci might feel differently than him about it. The thoughts squirm in his mind and then slip away, the ache in his temples a warning that he should let this go. It's almost as if the fleshbud can hear his treacherous thoughts.
But they aren't treacherous. It's just teasing. It was only ever teasing. His love of Dio was never meant to be in question. Pucci lays his hands flat on the desk and remembers reaching up to touch his forehead, and his fingers coming away with a drop of blood on them.
Just a drop of blood. Just a mistake. But shortly after, Pucci was sent away, and Dio hasn't looked at him since.
The phone rings. Pucci quickly discards the book, not bothering to mark his page. He'll find it again later. For now, he drags the receiver to his ear and bites back the eager, breathless 'Dio' on his lips. Last time he spoke with such careless enthusiasm, Dio had swiftly hung up and not called back for a month. Pucci wouldn't let that happen again. He composes himself, trying to be the person Dio wants - the Pucci he remembers. "Good evening, Dio."
"Pucci." His voice brings instant peace to Pucci's beating heart. Dio is as strong as ever, his presence washing over Pucci. It sinks into his skin and he sags at the desk, savouring the relief his body feels. "You wished to speak?"
"Yes, I did. I've received each and every one of your letters, and treasured them all. But nothing is a substitute for your voice." He speaks carefully. Not too carelessly. Not too eagerly. Not too bored. Find the middle path. "And I know it's the same for you."
It must be. It must. Dio must love Pucci, because if he didn't, he wouldn't keep him tucked away in this precious place. He wouldn't supply Pucci with clothes and food and books, and rare things beyond compare. If Dio didn't care, he would look Pucci in the eyes and lie to his face. He wouldn't regret what he did, because he would have done it on purpose.
It was an accident. Just an accident. A misspoken word, a gesture read as a threat. Pucci had reached playfully for Dio and now, now he could see how it hadn't felt that way to him. Dio didn't mean to, he just reacted. Pucci understands, and he forgives him, because he loves him. So, if Dio would undo it, if he would just take the fleshbud out of Pucci, everything would be fine. He wouldn't be upset. He would be more careful in the future, but that's all.
If Dio would just let Pucci forgive him, they could return to the way things were. He could leave this museum and return to Egypt, and to Dio's arms.
He doesn't dare say any of it out loud. The last time he said it, Dio sent him to this place. Pucci might have a fleshbud in his brain, but he can still learn. He can still think and feel, and he can control himself. Even as his mind aches and his body screams with longing, he can make himself behave. He can be patient. He can be understanding, forgiving, pliant but not a pushover. He's still Enrico Pucci after all. The fleshbud couldn't take that away.
On the other end of the phone, he hears the soft sound of Dio. It's easy to picture him sitting with the phone in one hand, his other resting on whatever book he was reading, or the person he was drinking from. The light of the room would be low, barely lighting the planes of his face until he looked like some far off statue posed high on a roof. Pucci wishes deeply that they were sitting beside each other, just so he could lift his hand and run it along the curve of Dio's jaw. And miles away, miles and miles and miles, Dio admits ever so softly, "I have missed you."
"So have I. Come and visit." He's been given an opening and Pucci is going to take it. Pucci is oh so careful to be at his very best, his hand resting on the cover of the book. "Come see this beautiful place with me. The roses are blooming in the garden and the scent of them is heady. We could spend the night among them, and your plans for the world to come."
Another long pause. Days pass. Ice ages come and go. Pucci stays still, perfectly still, not wanting to move too quickly lest his heartbeat be heard through the phone and reveal how it hammers in his chest. Dio is silent and Pucci wants so badly to keep spilling words until Dio speaks to him again. He runs his fingers along the edges of the book and he breathes in and out and waits.
"Soon, once my body has been prepared." Dio says, and Pucci nearly cries out, the sorrow rushing over him, drowning him. He wants to throw the receiver down and to scream. He wants to beg. If he could, he would throw himself at Dio's ankles and claw at them, he would debase himself utterly and beg to please, please, please let him come back. Let him be near. If the fleshbud can't be removed, then please, God, let him at least live with Dio once more. Don't keep him here, locked away with the model of a life Dio no longer wants to live, so far away.
"Of course." Pucci says, and the control of his voice should be commended. He deserves a standing ovation for his performance. Could you believe the only acting experience he has from Christmas pageants? You would think he was a master from how his hand trembles instead of his words, which remain level and buoyant. "Soon. Before the roses fade, please."
"Pucci, my dear friend. My treasure." Dio sounds so wistful, as if he were speaking of someone long dead, not alive and breathing and on the phone. Pucci feels the emotions swell and knows that he can't keep carrying on. This performance is about to shatter utterly. Maybe Dio can sense it, or maybe he can only think of himself, because he speaks in that far-off tone that betrays his mind has moved elsewhere. "Not before the roses fade. But soon after that."
A lie. It's a lie. He's heard it before, but never to him. Only to the others. Pucci thinks for one mad moment that he should say that - he should call him a liar, and then Dio would see that Pucci could see through him, but he loved him still, he loved him, liar that he was, if he just came here-
The pain in his head swells and he puts his forehead on the desk, feeling it ache through his skull. It aches where the fleshbud is touched by the wood. If he pressed down on it, would it pop? Would his head explode? Would he collapse and bleed out here on the floor, so far away from home? And what would the servants do with his body?
Maybe his skull would finally be sent home, cleaned and polished, until he and Jonathan could sit side by side in Dio's bedroom.
Dio is still speaking. He's talking about the events of the day, his plans. Pucci turns his head to his side and looks at the phone receiver, a honeyed voice dripping from the dark holes in its surface. Silently, he listens, bidding goodbye distantly to Dio when he has had enough of speaking out loud. And when it's over, when Dio is gone, Pucci lays his head down once more and cries until his head aches so badly that he goes blind.
The servants find him like that. They ask no questions. They just haul Pucci upright and walk him back to his bedroom, undressing him and feeding him water, and then putting him to bed as you would with a child. He cries through it all, alternating between ugly sobs and silent tears. It's not the first time they've done this, but the humiliation he feels is as vivid now as it was the first night. He was special and loved, and Dio cared for him, Dio cared about him above all others.
Now Dio can't stand to look at him, because of an accident. All because of a simple accident.
Sleep doesn't take him. There's no mercy left in this world for Pucci. He lies there in the world's loveliest bed, in a beautiful English house, and wishes for a death he can't give himself.
He feels a hand touch his side, and then a form curl in behind him, snaking an arm around Pucci’s chest to hold him. Whitesnake. He comes so rarely these days, even when Pucci could use him. The fleshbud keeps him at bay. His very existence is too subversive, too full of doubts that could turn deadly.
But Pucci needs comfort badly and he turns to face his stand, burying himself against the damp pseudoflesh. He weeps a little, and he finds comfort in Whitesnake’s embrace, even if it’s cold and limited.
Whitesnake’s mouth touches his forehead, and in that low and echoing tone he speaks with, he whispers out words. “Ask him to remove it.”
“I tried.” Pucci says, and his tongue feels so heavy in his mouth.
“Ask again. One last time.” Whitesnake’s lips touch the fleshbud and Pucci gasps as he feels something tighten in his skull. Whitesnake speaks all the same, pushing Pucci through the shocking sensation. “If he will not, then I will.”
Pucci clutches at Whitesnake’s flesh and lets out a laugh, his throat so raw that it comes out half broken. “How? We can’t touch it.”
“I can. I can open your skull. It will be there, wrapped around your disc.” Whitesnake reaches a hand up to touch Pucci’s head and for a moment, he feels his skin slowly part. His eyes are gritty and blurry from all the crying, but for a moment, he clearly sees the path. Whitesnake might. He might.
But- “It could kill us.”
“Then it kills us.” His resolution is firm and he draws back to look Pucci in the eye. Pucci sees himself through Whitesnake’s eyes - and Whitesnake through his own - until the images blur together and they’re one and the same. “We will return to Cairo, one way or another.”
Cairo. One way or another. Alive and triumphant, ready to prove Dio wrong… or a shattered skull in a box. Perhaps Dio will tenderly glue him together, the way he attaches ships' masts and rigging to the diorama of the shipwreck in his study. No matter what happens, he’ll feel Dio’s touch one more time.
Pucci squeezes his arms tight around Whitesnake, holding to the part of himself that he has always been afraid of, but now loves so dearly that it leaves a lump in his throat. “To Cairo.”
“To Cairo.” His stand agrees, and resolved to a plan of action, Pucci is finally able to sleep, spending his last night in a bed that was never meant to be his.