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Pucci's not a clumsy person. He's made a point of not being one, always taking care while he walks and paying attention to his surroundings. The last thing he's ever wanted is for people to spot him limping. The fewer people who know about his twisted foot, the better. His family's in agreement, and for most of his life, he's had shoes custom made to fit him, and he rarely takes them off in public. It's only when he's completely alone that he takes them off - and today is one of those days, since no one else is at the church.
So when he trips, he's confused. It's his fault of course, it has to be, but he's not the kind of person who stumbles, not even without his shoes on. His foot throbs slightly and that's how he knows he must have caught it on something. He turns around to see what was left behind-
Only to find the nativity from the front entrance, sitting in the middle of the aisle. It's a beautiful display, older than Pucci and made entirely out of bone china with painted details over the creamy white surfaces. And despite the fact that there's a full display in the front entrance where it lives, it's here, right where people are walking. Pucci hurries over to pick it up and peer inside. What happened here? Of course, all the figures have been toppled over, either when it was moved, or when Pucci tripped.
He carries it back to its proper place in the entryway, setting it firmly on its home pillar, and then setting the glass figure in place again. He's so confused. What was it doing in the middle of the aisle? And how did he possibly miss it while walking? He sets Mary and Joseph in place, and starts with the wise men, when he reaches for the third and finds that instead of the hard china, his fingers dig into something soft and warm. A doll?
Pucci picks it up to get a better look. It's a tiny, miniature man, close to the kind of fashion dolls Perla always had growing up. Though he's not like any Barbie doll Pucci's ever seen before. This one is wearing an armless spandex turtleneck and bright yellow pants.
"Well, you're not one of the wise men." Pucci tells the doll, turning him in his hand as he looks for a name on him, or some other sign of a brand. "And you're not an angel."
"Are you sure?" the doll says, and Pucci drops him automatically. Half a second later, he scrambles forward, catching the doll again before he can hit the floor. It's more instinct than any conscious thought to save him, because the moment Pucci's hand closes around the warm, fleshy body of the doll(?) again, he has to fight not to drop him. Instead, he powers through the feelings of disgust and quickly shoves the doll back into the nativity. The doll brushes himself off, as if he were only mildly inconvenienced. "Be careful, unless you want to pick my limbs up off the floor."
A million questions rush through his head - Who is he? What is he? How did he get in here? - but he latches his jaw shut and doesn't let them spill out and reveal his ignorance. Instead, Pucci crouches to get a better look at the creature, remaining silent as he studies him.
If he's a doll, then he's the most perfect doll Pucci's ever seen. There's a level of detail that he's never seen before, even on some of Perla's disgustingly expensive fashion dolls. Those dolls are usually well made, but there's always an artificial quality to them. This man's hair looks real, perfectly tousled and shaped in a way that no plastic hair ever could be. There are so many little details, too, like his long green nails and his sharp incisors peeking out of his mouth as he speaks. No doll has ever been as perfect as the miniature man before him. Which begs the question: what is he then, if not a doll? A demon? Pucci glances back toward the baptismal font. It's full of water...
"I'm not demonic. If you drop me in holy water, I'll just be very, very wet." The doll reads his mind - or maybe just his body language and intentions. Pucci's not being subtle and he corrects himself. The man doesn't seem too concerned, speaking ever so casually about it. "I don't drown easily."
"I don't believe most people do," Pucci says off-hand, his mind busy weighing on other possibilities. He knows what to do if you find an intruder in the church, and he knows (in theory, anyway) what to do if something unholy is happening. But Pucci's not sure what to do about a three-inch man sitting in their nativity scene. He watches as the man pulls the baby Jesus out of the manger, drops him on the floor, and then sits in the wooden trough.
He doesn't feel like a liar. Is that naive of him? Pucci isn't sure what exactly this man is or what he wants, but his intentions don't feel malicious. He finally asks a question - "What are you doing in here?"
"I took shelter here." The man has his legs crossed, sprawled out comfortably in a manger, despite the basic fact that no one should ever be able to sit comfortably in one of those. Pucci would know - he sat in one once, on a dare from Perla, and it had been something he had instantly regretted, even before he got caught and yelled at. "It's too bright outside, but this place is comfortable and dark. Don't worry - I'll leave once the sun sets."
Again, it doesn't feel like a lie. Pucci's always been good at reading others’ intentions, and he's fairly certain that everything he's being told is true. "Will you be able to get out by yourself?"
"I got in by myself," Dio says, and that's enough of an answer. Anything else he has to ask is simply for his own curiosity, and of that, Pucci is certain he'll be given non-answers at best or lies at worst. But he doesn't really need to know what this man is. If he's standing safely in a church, he can't be evil - and God said to show kindness where one can, and to be vigilant.
Pucci straightens up, wiping his palms on his robes. "The sun sets at 6:25 today. Please be gone by then. If you need me to set you back on the floor, I'll come by and do that shortly before then."
He's not even two steps away before the small voice calls out to him. "Did I hurt you? Your foot's twisted."
Pucci glances down and then back again, shaking his head ‘no’. "I was born like this. It doesn't hurt any, it's just a mild inconvenience."
The small man tips his head again. "If I healed this for you, would you say my name three times?"
His other answers didn't feel like lies, but this one feels like a fishing hook, a lure meant to drag him in. The small man is hanging out of the nativity, leaning against thin air like it's a solid wall. He's smiling, broad and big.
"What's your name?"
"I'm afraid I can't say it."
Pucci's eyebrows creep up further. This is absolutely a sign of something terrible. Still, he finds himself curious to know how exactly the man plans to tell Pucci what to say when he can't say it. "Then how do I know what it is?"
He points one tiny finger up, the perfectly sharpened green nail directly aimed at the sky. "His name, in the language of Europe's most famous peninsula."
A riddle. Pucci's mouth twitches as he realizes that he's been hooked all the same. He leans against the nearest pew and thinks it over. The language of Europe's most famous peninsula. Which peninsulas are there, anyway? Scandinavia? Does that count as Europe, or Nordic? Or maybe it's the Balkans, or one of the others further south-
Italy. That's a peninsula. And God in Italian is- "Dio?"
Instantly, the man in the nativity perks up, standing up straight. "Again."
"Dio," he says, and yes, that is his name, because the atmosphere is almost electric. "Why can't you say your own name?"
"Rules. Conditions. None of that matters. Once more, and I'll heal you." The man promises, and he steps out on the air, proof that yes, he doesn't need Pucci to help him at all.
But Pucci finds the name weighing heavily on his tongue. "What happens if I say it a third time?"
"Only one way to learn. Go on. Once more." The man cajoles Pucci. But it's too much, and Pucci shakes his head. Dio's voice is buttery smooth and ever so tempting. "If not your foot, what else do you want? Money? Fame? Flesh? Name your price. There's nothing that lies beyond my grasp."
"I don't need anything." Again, he presses. "What happens if I say it again?"
Silence from Dio, then a sigh. "Many things, but none you're ready for, if you truly aren't tempted. Will you throw me out, then?"
"No. You agreed to leave." He curls his fingers over the bench and looks down at his foot. Life would be easier if it were straightened out, but it's not as if Pucci is in any great trouble now. There's nothing he wants in this world - at least, nothing physical, nothing that a gift could give. His toes flex, and Pucci just straightens out. "Please keep your promise... Dio."
The moment the name passes through his lips, the building tension boils over, and it's almost as if the air cracks. Pucci's not sure what to expect when he says Dio a third time, but it wasn't what happens, which is that one moment, Dio is about four inches tall, and the next, he's towering over Pucci. Every single perfect miniature detail is writ in large now, and Pucci's breath hitches as Dio leans into his space, his heart beating so quickly. It's not just fear ruling him - it's something else.
Dio wraps a hand around Pucci's waist and draws him near. His other hand presses against Pucci's chest, firm and hard and unrelenting. "You're not what I expected. I pay my debts. May this bring you answers in troubled times."
For a second, Pucci thinks maybe Dio's about to kiss him, his lips so soft looking and glossy with green lipstick. His mouth drops open slightly in anticipation.
But then Dio's gone, and all Pucci sees is half a second as he fades into the darkness of the chapel. Pucci's hand is gripping the bench, and he realizes belatedly that the other is wrapped around a book. It's small and brown, with a couple on the front holding hands and looking into the sunset. HANDBOOK FOR THE RECENTLY DECEASED, it promises.
There's no trace of Dio but for the book in Pucci's hand and the shock he receives when he takes a step forward and his hips roll too far, overcompensating for a curled foot that's no more. His foot lies flat on the floor, straight as the other, and Pucci's left uneasy and uncertain if what he did was a good idea or not.
--
A little over six months later, Pucci makes his way into Perla's room with the handbook and half a dozen candles. He sets them up around the hook rug and picks her favorite dress from the closet - the blue and white one she always wore when they were going out to parties. The dress gets set in the middle and Pucci walks around the circle, lighting the candles one by one.
If his parents saw him, they would be appalled. But neither of his parents are here. Mother is still in the hospital. Father might be visiting her. Pucci's not sure. The family's been broken since last week, when they pulled Perla's body from the river. Pucci spent the first three days in the hospital, and he still ended up answering most of the questions the funeral director had. They had him stand in the showroom and pick out the coffin they were going to bury his sister in. He picked a pink coffin, the same shade as Perla's favorite roses. Today, they buried her in the graveyard, his father mentally checked out, his mother a sobbing mess, and Pucci trapped between them.
Now here he is, forsaking all his vows and doing the unthinkable: trying to raise his sister's ghost so he can speak to her again.
Pucci reads from the handbook and he wills the dress to come to life - to fill and float and to bring her back, to please bring her back. He has to talk to her, at least once more. He has to apologize, to explain, to say- something. Anything. All the words he never said. All the things he meant to tell her. He has to let her know it was an accident. It was never meant to go like that...
But the candle burns, and the dress remains limp, and she doesn't appear.
"She isn't here." A voice - Dio's voice. Pucci turns to look for him, but he doesn't see him... "Up here. The dollhouse."
Pucci looks and realizes what he means - the Barbie Dreamhouse, in all its plastic glory. The house had lost interest to Perla some time ago, but she was always a kind and sensitive girl, and it bothered her to just throw it away or lock it in the attic somewhere for it to collect dust and be forgotten. The Barbies are posed in the same way they have been for years - Malibu Barbie out by the pool, Great Shape Barbie in her athletic wear in the elevator, Skipper in the kitchen with Tutti and Todd, and Ken in the bathroom-
No. Not Ken. Dio. He's leaning against the sink, dressed in spandex and a heart headband, and pants left sprawling open. He's small again, inviting Pucci to come near. "You used the book."
Pucci's an emotional wreck, that's certain, but he can keep it together long enough to talk with him. He just steps closer to the shelf. "I tried to call her back, but she's not- she's- you came. Did I call you?"
"You did. You've been calling me since the moment you awoke in the hospital." Dio pushes off the sink and opens the cardboard door, stepping through and into the living room. "I've just been waiting for the proper moment to reintroduce myself, and to offer you my services."
He tightens his grip on the book. For six months, it sat on the shelf in his room, almost entirely forgotten after a few weeks, just like the miracle of his foot. He might have forgotten about it forever if not for Perla and her waterlogged body. He had hoped the book could help, but her dress is still and silent as ever. Dio is here, and he might be the only person alive who can help him. Pucci sets a hand on the bottom floor of the Dreamhouse. "I need to speak with my sister. Please-"
"Are you sure you want that?" Dio sits in a plastic recliner. "Do you think she wants to listen to you?"
He knows the answer. Pucci's head falls forward and he squeezes his eyes shut. He's the reason she's dead. Pucci knows she hates him. She died thinking he did that to her on purpose, but- "I have to. I have to talk to her. Even if she hates me. I have to speak to her."
Dio nods, clearly expecting that to be Pucci's answer. "Then you're in luck. I'm the one man who can bring her back to you. I can't make her happy to see you, but I can put her in front of you."
"God, thank you." He feels the tears start to well up again and he fights to force them down. He has to remain calm through this. "Thank you, Dio."
Dio's lips part in a smile, his sharp teeth showing. He leans forward, his eyes bright. "There's a cost."
Ah. Of course. Pucci feels his hope drop like a lead balloon. More the fool him for thinking this might be a favour. After all, he did say 'services'. No wonder Dio insisted on paying Pucci last time. A balance had to be maintained.
So what will the cost be? He offered Pucci wealth and fame last time, so it has to be something Dio doesn't have. His soul? His life? Or both. Pucci closes his eyes, his head leaning forward. What will he pay to speak to her one last time? What is it worth to just speak to Perla, to tell her it was all an accident?
It's worth everything.
"I'll pay it. Dio." Pucci says again, and he swears Dio's bigger than before, and brighter somehow. He nearly glows as he perches on his plastic throne. "Whatever you want."
"You never fail to surprise. Aren't you worried about the cost?" Dio raises his eyebrows. What can Pucci even say? If he can pay it, he will. If he can't, does it even matter? His life's been torn apart. The idea of going back to some pathetic semblance of 'normal' is unthinkable. His sister is dead, and he's to blame. His brother's alive - or was alive, Pucci doesn't know what he is now. Pucci needs something to hold onto, and there's only one thing left, one thing he can believe in.
"Name it. It's yours."
"You." Dio says, looking down upon Pucci with dark eyes. "If you accept this, state my name once more."
"What?" Pucci isn't sure he understands. 'You' is vague, and though he's willing to pay it, he can't help but want to know exactly what that means. "Are you asking for my... my soul? My body?"
"That, and more. All of you, Pucci - your body, your mind, your company, your intelligence, whatever spark of life you hold that makes you unpredictable." Dio holds up a hand, his sharp nails entreating Pucci to come near. "Say my name once more. You'll speak to your sister, and bid her goodbye, and then you'll be mine."
All of him. Will he be snuffled out? Or torn apart? Or-
No. He's spent his whole life asking questions and wondering, and what did it get him? A dead sister. A pile of unanswered questions.
Put like that, the choice is obvious. "Dio."
One moment, he's in the dollhouse. The next, he's in front of Pucci, one hand drawing him in close. Pucci's heart pounds in his chest and he braces himself for whatever comes.
Which means that his first kiss is delivered while he's tensed up and waiting for a blow. His mouth drops open, and Dio pursues him, the kiss turning deep and overwhelming. All Pucci can do is grab at Dio's broad chest and hold tight as he's kissed, again and again, until he finally loosens up and kisses back. His eyes shut, and he melts into it, forgetting about everything.
Something soft presses against his back and he opens his eyes. Dio's above him and he's sprawled out on Perla's bed. His long green nails work over Pucci's skin. "Or should you be mine now? If you insist on a wedding first, then I'll need to find you a ring."
A wedding? Pucci is so confused. He thought for certain he was going to die. Dio said he wanted all of Pucci-
Oh, God. He's misunderstood it this whole time. "You want me."
"Yes."
Only one question left unanswered. "Why?"
Dio looms over Pucci, his long blond hair falling around them in a curtain until he can only see Dio. The room fades away and Dio's eyes stay focused on Pucci, amber-warm and sharp. "It's a lonely life. I want someone to share it with. You have something no one else does. I want that to be mine."
"Oh," Pucci says, and as Dio leans in to kiss him again, he stops the swell of questions in his mind, wrapping his arms around Dio's shoulders and kissing back. The answers don't matter. He can just enjoy this - and enjoy being wanted.