Chapter Text
The summer of 1988 had started out like any summer before it.
Early June had come and gone and with it flew Enrico Pucci’s fifteenth year of life. His birthday itself was relatively uneventful, save for a simple cake and mandatory family bonding over dinner. It was nice, albeit somewhat melancholy, to have the entire evening to reflect quietly on his life up to that point over a slice of homemade cake. Or at least it would have been nice, had it not been his twin brother’s birthday as well, meaning the other boy was required to tag along.
Enrico loved his brother, he really did, but there were some ( many ) things about him that grated on his nerves like two pieces of rusty metal being forcefully slid together.
For instance, Domenico Pucci did very few things quietly, in stark contrast to Enrico. Their parents often joked (much to their sons' shared chagrin) that the voice of the pair went to Domenico and the brains went to Enrico: together, they made one whole child. When the younger Pucci twin was around, it was impossible to focus on much of anything, but especially on tasks involving deep thought, such as Enrico’s mandatory theology studies.
Unfortunately for him, the Pucci twins were housed in the same dorm room at their Catholic preparatory school. This meant that in the late hours of the night, Enrico could make out the telltale, ungodly noises in the bunk above him that should make every Sister within a ten mile radius come flying to their door with a wooden ruler in her hand and a flaming prayer on her lips. Domenico was damn lucky that he hadn’t gotten found out by the various clergy roaming the halls at night and Enrico had never bothered to tell on him. It wasn’t necessarily because he agreed with the younger’s actions, there was simply little point in it: once Domenico decided he wanted to do something, he would do it - come Hell or high water, or a furious tongue-lashing from each of the three headmasters about ‘disorderly nightly conduct’.
Some things Enrico could let slide by with only an admonition or two in private, such as the far-too-often nighttime wrist exercises, but other things he found himself incapable of excusing. Sometimes his brother would take things too far and it was only fair to himself and everyone around him that Domenico should be punished for it. He shouldn’t get a free pass to do whatever he’d like just because he’s the younger brother of one of the top students at the school. In truth, Enrico feels like his brother should be on his best behavior because of that fact, if only so he didn’t have to waste his time with this sort of thing.
As he sits stock straight up in one of the hard wooden chairs of the headmaster’s office, leg tensely crossed over his opposite knee and his tightly intertwined fingers resting in his lap, he can’t help but grit his teeth and glare at his brother sitting in the chair facing the central desk a few feet away. This happened to be one of those times where he couldn’t, shouldn’t , simply let things slide, due in part because it was a staff member and not himself who had caught Domenico partaking in something less than savory. If it had been him to catch Domenico smoking weed behind the school’s chapel, there was a chance he could have recovered the situation quietly. At this point, though, Enrico could have counted on one hand the number of people he figured didn’t know what had happened.
Similarly-postured to Enrico and sitting directly in front of Domenico was the headmaster himself, dressed in his neat black suit and wearing a look of deep but familiar disappointment on his face. Father Jones was almost as old as the dark cherry wood panels lining the room but had lost none of the intensity in his eyes that he was well-known for around the campus grounds. His face was deeply lined with both age and frustration and Enrico could swear that a new frown line appeared around the man’s mouth every time Domenico was called into his office.
Domenico was pointedly not looking at the old priest, instead half-sunk into his chair and focusing his attention wholly on the ground below him. He kicked his polished black shoes against each other idly, putting new scuffs in them that Enrico or their mother would no doubt have to polish out again, in a show of callous disinterest while Enrico narrowed his eyes irritably and met Father Jones’s gaze. The clergyman spared him a sympathetic albeit deeply tired look before returning his attention to the boy in front of him. He cleared his throat and Domenico’s long legs stopped kicking.
A certain stillness fell over the room save for the clock ticking like a metronome on the wall behind Domenico, right above the door where he and Enrico had entered together minutes prior.
“Domenico,” Father Jones starts and Domenico tenses at the reprimand he could feel approaching. The two of them had done this dance more times than Enrico could count by this point and it was only his and Domenico’s junior year. Enrico wondered idly if Father Jones comes in with a script memorized when he gets wind of the younger Pucci’s latest idiotic infraction.
“Wes,” he interrupted sharply and Enrico’s fingers clenched tighter together in his lap at the clear show of disrespect his brother’s tone held. “I go by Wes.”
“Wes,” Father Jones tries again, likely trying to appease the boy for the time being to make this process go by quicker. Enrico is positive that the Father is a busy man and has better things to do than chide a boy who surely must know better by now and he bites back an apology that threatens to escape the tip of his tongue. Father Jones leans back in his chair and threads his fingers through the snow-white hair on the top of his head that fades to gray around his temples. “I know that you know what you did today was wrong. Illegal substances are not permitted on school grounds under any circumstances. Would you care to explain what Father McCartney caught you doing behind the chapel during lunchtime?”
“No.” Domenico replies simply, casting his uninterested gaze off to the side. He might be trying to play this situation off in that infuriatingly aloof manner of his, but Enrico could see the faintest twitch in his brother’s fingers, gripping the arm of the chair. He knew that if left to his own devices at this moment, Domenico would end up doing something impulsive and stupid. He may be mere minutes younger than Enrico, but unlike his brother he was built like an ox and just about as strong as one. He would easily be able to put a fist through the wood paneling if he so desired, at the cost of a few broken fingers.
Despite the knowledge that he was capable of doing such a thing, Enrico had never seen his brother resort to such brutish measures in his fits of anger, nor could he imagine him doing so under ordinary circumstances. Enrico had seen his brother get into a fight maybe twice in his life, but he had won both times and it was admittedly in the name of standing up for others. All things considered, Domenico tended to be a very gentle and compassionate soul, something Enrico actually admired. At least, he was gentle and compassionate when he wasn’t being put in the hot seat before the headmaster: in recent years, Domenico had developed something resembling troubling contempt for authority and he bared it at every opportunity. But it was only because of his own imbecilic actions that he was here in the first place, Enrico thought to himself, so the boy really just had himself to blame in the end.
Father Jones clenches his jaw slightly and sits up straighter, his hands clasped together firmly on the surface of his polished mahogany desk. Papers, likely the incident report detailing Father McCartney’s witness account, were neatly stacked by the priest’s weathered hands and Domenico seemed to be glowering at them rather than the man in front of him. “Third-years aren’t permitted to leave the courtyard without express permission, save for emergencies. Not only did you disobey this basic rule, Mr. Pucci, but you were caught red-handed using illegal drugs that you smuggled onto school grounds.”
Enrico took a deep breath to steady himself, counting primes in his head beginning at one to focus his energy on remaining collected. It was a nervous habit that he suspected he had acquired earlier in life, but he found that it helped him think clearly and consider all the information laid before him. Of course, he knew the basics of what had happened, but seeing Domenico not show a single shred of remorse makes his stomach knot in anger. If it had been him in his brother's situation, he would be doing nothing short of groveling pathetically at Father Jones’s feet as he begged for forgiveness. Not half-melting into the chair like some sort of delinquent, fidgeting and looking as if he'd like nothing more than to tune out the headmaster's voice and retreat back behind the chapel to indulge once more in various contraband. A lump forms in his throat and it was all he could do to not launch himself into his own tirade of admonishment at his idiot brother’s missteps. Keep counting , he reminds himself.
It was just his luck that today was the only day of the week when he couldn’t have joined his brother in the courtyard for lunch: Father Morrison had recently started allowing Enrico to join him during the hour-long lunch break for quiet study sessions after seeing how particularly intent he was on becoming a priest himself after graduating. Enrico had been infinitely grateful to the man and took the opportunity to study under his tutelage every Tuesday at noon, spending his lunch reciting verses and interpreting them ad nauseum. Granted, it wasn’t what he considered much fun, but it was vital to his background in theology and would allow easier access in the long run when enrolling in seminary. On this particular Tuesday, he had actually brought materials necessary for his pre-examination studies to go over and was quite looking forward to receiving Father Morrison’s guidance on certain moral quandaries presented in the practice problems.
Of course, when Brother Dylan burst through the door and breathlessly exclaimed that Enrico was urgently needed in the headmaster’s office for an issue regarding Domenico, Father Morrison only spared him the same sympathetic look he got from every damn staff member at the school and insisted he go. He gave his word that they would review the materials next week instead, but Enrico couldn’t help but feel a cold wave of disappointment wash over him. He hurriedly gathered his things, but not because he was in any rush to come to his brother’s rescue: no, it was because he was sure he was about to die of embarrassment at being called away to help clean up the inevitable mess Domenico had caused, right in front of the man who had agreed to personally tutor him. It was nothing short of humiliating, and Enrico was furious at having his own studies suffer because of someone else’s actions, let alone someone he would have to go home with.
“What does it matter?” Domenico’s words brought Enrico back from the brink of his thoughts at a nauseating speed. “I’m just trying to have a little fun. Besides, doesn’t Father McCartney have more pressing matters to attend to than following me around? I’m sure my brother would love to have another tutor under his perfect thumb.”
There is a tense moment of silence between the brothers in which they seem to be having an entire argument between themselves, trying to mentally taunt the other into relenting first before Father Jones clears his throat again and brings both of their attention back to him. The old priest exhales a deep sigh through his nose and closes his eyes as Domenico’s narrowed gaze tears away from his brother and resumes glaring at the floor beneath his feet. Enrico huffs out his own frustration and crosses his arms across his chest, staring burning holes in the far wall to his right.
“Boys, please. Back to the issue at hand: Mr. Pucci - Wes , if you’d like - you’re well aware of the rules at this school. You sign a behavioral contract at the beginning of every year. You should know by now that we do not take these matters lightly and just possessing illegal substances on school grounds is cause enough for expulsion.” Father Jones leans back in his chair, unclasping his hands to fiddle with a pen near his fingertips and staring piercingly at Dominico as if he could somehow read his thoughts just by looking hard enough. Enrico wishes it were that easy.
The older Pucci stiffens in his seat as soon as expulsion is mentioned and he whips his head back to stare at the man behind the desk fast enough to nearly give himself whiplash. Of course he was aware the consequences of such a severe violation of the rules would be met with an equally severe punishment of expulsion, but he had hoped Domenico would be able to skate by with another simple slap on the wrist. He also knew that to hope for such a menial punishment was damn near as idiotic as the inciting offense. Enrico wished he could say that his prayers of a light sentence were entirely for his brother's sake, but it was really a selfishness that subconsciously brought his hand up to clutch the small silver cross around his throat.
He could only imagine how hard it would be to become a priest himself if his twin was expelled - it’s going to be hard enough as it is, he doesn’t need any added difficulty from Domenico’s end. Who would take moral and spiritual direction from a man who cannot even control the actions of his own twin, a being he intimately shared flesh and blood with? Not to mention the ridicule and teasing he would face from his peers should Domenico suddenly disappear from school grounds. News traveled fast, rumors traveled faster. Perhaps Father Morrison would even refuse to help him with his studies after this fiasco. Enrico could think of little worse than being completely alone in a place such as this, in a place meant to promote not only spiritual but social connections.
Domenico, predictably, seems to brush off the idea of expulsion entirely, but his expression noticeably darkens and his lower lip juts out slightly in a childlike pout. If Enrico weren’t a man of God and a firm believer in solving conflict with words and not rash actions, he would fly across the room and shake that look off his face himself. It wasn’t just Domenico’s future on the line here and Enrico didn’t know how else to get it through his brother’s skull.
“The correct course of action would be for me to expel you effective immediately and call your parents to collect you.” Father Jones pauses, leaving a moment where Enrico can hear nothing but the pounding of his heart in his ears and the number eighty-nine echoing in his mind. What comes after eighty-nine? Does anything come after eighty-nine? “However, I am not going to do that.”
Enrico’s eyes widen and his jaw feels like it drops to the floor in disbelief. This truly has to be an act of mercy from God Himself; something akin to divine intervention. For a moment, he feels so elated that he could jump out of his chair and scream his thanks to the heavens, but instead he bites down gently on his bottom lip and forces himself to remain still in his chair. Ninety-seven comes after eighty-nine. Domenico’s own head jolts up and he stares wide-eyed at Father Jones, shocked, like he had been rehearsing his goodbyes in his head before he even stepped foot in the office.
“Father,” Enrico starts, surprised out of his normal composure and unable to keep a slight waver from his voice. Father Jones simply holds up a hand to quiet him, and his mouth snaps shut obediently.
“I’m not going to expel you, Mr. Pucci, for one reason. I’ve noticed your brother, Enrico, working quite hard on his studies in preparation for his upcoming graduation next year. I hear he is quite interested in becoming not only a priest, but a true man of God, and I am impressed with his dedication and faith. I feel that by allowing you to stay here at this school, it may afford you a second and final chance to take a page from Enrico’s book and become both a better student and a better Christian man.” There is a pause before the priest continues and Domenico looks more and more bitter with each word spoken. “However, some disciplinary action is still needed, so your access to the game rooms and library will be strictly limited. No leaving school grounds at any point for the next week, even over the weekends. You’re no longer a boy, Wes, and I’d advise you to straighten up your act before - and if - you graduate. Be warned, I will be far less kind should this happen again.”
Enrico sees the muscles in Domenico’s jaw clench and relax, his entire body tense like a steel cable pulled too taut and ready to snap at any moment. Enrico stands and bows his head to the headmaster, making his way over to stand in front of the desk next to his sitting brother. He clamps a hand firmly on Domenico’s shoulder, almost too tightly, and Domenico tenses at the touch. Enrico knows he’s debating on whether or not to forcefully shrug off the offending hand but the indecision buys Enrico some time to speak.
“Thank you, Father Jones. Your kind words and your clemency regarding this situation are very much appreciated. We are indebted to you and this institution for welcoming us wholeheartedly and instilling within us good virtues and I make a solemn vow to you that my brother will never be doing something as foolish as this again, or you may expel me, too. Domenico may be irresponsible and insensitive at times, but I assure you that he’s more compassionate and generous than almost any man I know. Thank you for giving him another chance."
It’s not entirely truthful, but it isn’t a lie and seems to do the job well enough. Father Jones looks pleased even as Domenico huffs and finally pulls his shoulder roughly away from his older brother’s hand. The younger twin stands and spins on his heel, shoving his hands into his pockets as he makes quickly for the door and Enrico watches after him, silent fury once again bubbling up in his belly.
“Hold on, Wes,” Father Jones says lightly, as if he weren’t dealing with a petulant and completely flippant sixteen-year-old. Enrico knows this is far from the first time the priest has had to deal with this scenario and for a moment there’s a new degree of admiration for Father Jones’s patience. He wonders if the Vatican is taking applications for canonization or will be in the future. “I’d like to finish this meeting in prayer, if you don’t mind.”
Although Domenico doesn’t respond, the words seem to root him to the spot and he eventually gives in, bowing his head just slightly as if to allow the priest to continue. Father Jones folds his hands together in prayer and Enrico lowers his own head and lets his eyes slip shut, hands coming together in front of himself as well.
“Dear and merciful Lord, please help us turn our spirits toward you so that we may find the strength to overcome our shortcomings. Forgive our doubts and fears, mistakes and defeats, so that we may be filled with your love and strength. May we know peace and joy in the face of adversity and may we grow beyond our sins to bask in the light of your eternal love. For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever. Amen.”
Before Enrico can echo the
‘Amen’
, he hears the door to the office close and when he opens his eyes he finds that only Father Jones and himself are left in the room.
Although the Pucci family had accrued their sizable wealth through generations of occupational medicine, law, and episcopacy, they were never ones to flaunt the money they possessed. The family, only recently immigrated to the United States from Florence in the 1920s, settled in the Italian quarter of New Orleans upon arrival and the wealth was passed from father to son until it eventually landed in Enrico’s father’s capable hands. The aforementioned patriarch, Niccolò Pucci, worked hard to ensure his family was not unnecessarily rubbing their wealth in the faces of others, but much like his predecessors was not opposed to the occasional nonessential luxury item. Sure, they lived in a comfortable four-bedroom house nestled right on the edge of the suburbs, situated between one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the city and a sprawling woodlands, but compared to the family’s combined earnings and the nest egg of old money that had long-since been tucked away into a private bank account, they lived a relatively modest life.
Nothing about the family was otherwise particularly eye-catching, save for the Pucci name locally bringing to mind images of an old world family of semi-notoriety. Of course, there was the occasional odd stare or two from people in the neighborhood unfamiliar with the family and their rather notable heritage, but each member of the Pucci clan had learned to shrug off any ignorance - intentional or otherwise - that was thrown their way. Niccolò had always enforced that his children would not be needlessly confrontational and would simply accept the faults in people as they were; he reassured them, when the occasional insult would be tossed the family’s way, that they must forgive and forget and that God would take care of the rest. Their duty as humans was to recognize the inherent flaws in the minds of men and to learn to see past them in the sake of bettering themselves. It was easier said than done, but then again how often was the high road an easier path than the low?
Enrico hummed to himself with these thoughts on his mind as he slung his leather bag over his shoulder and made his way leisurely to the front door of the Pucci residence, fishing his key out of his pants pocket and unlocking the door in one swift motion. It was early evening by now, the air sweet and warm with the light June breeze, and he had just finished his duties at the local church for the day. School was out for the summer and had been for about a week, but before Enrico and Domenico had taken to packing their things and evacuating school grounds, Father Morrison had pulled Enrico aside and suggested that he gain experience by volunteering at the local church before he enrolled in seminary.
So far, the Father’s advice had not steered him wrong and he had thoroughly enjoyed each moment of his work, even if it was unpaid. Payment didn’t matter to him much, if he were honest. The experience, from sweeping the dusty stone floors of the Cathedral-Basilica of Saint Louis, to talking with patrons of the church about hardships and joviality alike, was more than enough payment for him. Not to mention, the Basilica was one of the more beautiful sacred grounds in the city and Enrico had always found himself admiring the French Gothic architecture of it, so he jumped on the opportunity to volunteer there as soon as it presented itself. Luckily for him, his continued dedication and passion for a future career within the folds of the clergy had impressed the men both within and outside the church and he had begun to make a name for himself as a loyal and faithful young man.
Fortunately for him, his parents had also taken notice and felt the need to reward his hard work with a minor summertime vacation to a place of his choosing - provided the time would be used in part to study for his entrance examination, of course. With his family’s monetary support, Enrico managed to book a flight to Egypt, a place he had always been interested in as his father had once mentioned in passing that part of the family had descended from the region centuries prior. The plane was set to leave in early July, so Enrico had forced himself into overdrive to garner as much work experience as he could at the church to make up for the month he would be absent. It would be the first time Enrico had ever been permitted to travel by himself and even though the idea unnerved him somewhat, his parents had felt that he was more than capable of handling it. He was responsible and punctual and he always made sure to listen to his instincts if things didn’t feel right. Enrico was flattered and proud that they thought so highly of him, but thinking about the trip quickly approaching still gave him the faintest ghost of nervous butterflies in his belly.
Despite his various anxieties pertaining to traveling alone, Enrico had a strong feeling that the trip would be overall pleasant, educational, and a nice getaway from the pressures he felt to succeed on his chosen path: not only were the Pucci men and women descended from old money and incredible influence within Italy, they were devout Roman Catholics and religion was an integral part of the family’s heritage. When he was little, his father would tell him and his brother about a distant relation they shared to a pope that lived in the mid-fifteenth century, but framed the tale in such a way that Enrico felt his father were talking about being directly related to Christ himself. His father had always been good at storytelling in that way, making his sons feel as if they were born to walk the path laid out before them. Well, one of his sons, at least.
Enrico sucks in a deep breath through his nose before he crosses the threshold of the doorway and closes the door behind him. He glances around at the solid, polished wood pillars that line the entrance hallway and the dark panels that encased cream-colored walls. His mother had always taken to busying herself with making the house look absolutely spotless for her family: she didn’t work outside the home, nor did she particularly want or need to, so she was granted plenty of time to do so during the day. It certainly helped that her three children were now grown enough to be mostly self-sufficient and had since stopped trying to messily decorate the house themselves in the way children were so prone to doing.
Still, Enrico couldn’t help but feel a smile come over his lips at the thought of how hard his mother worked at housekeeping for her family and made a mental note to buy her some sort of gift, just as he tried to do every week. She always insisted that there was no need, but he and his father both agreed that she deserved it. Even though she eventually came to expect it each Saturday, she cried each and every time Enrico presented her with a bouquet of flowers, or when Niccolò bought her a new piece of jewelry. It just made it all the more worthwhile.
“Mom, I’m home.” Enrico calls out to the hallway and upon hearing no reply, shucks his shoes off at the door and lines them up neatly against the wall. He glances at the other shoes present and notes that Domenico and Perla seemed to be home, but not their parents. Come to think of it, he did remember his mother saying something that morning about needing to go shopping. His father had the weekend off work, so he probably joined her. He shrugs to himself and hangs his bag from the nearby metal coat rack, slipping his shoulders out of the light jacket he was wearing as he walks into the living room.
No sign of life here, either. Enrico furrows his brows and tosses his jacket over the back of the couch, making another mental reminder to himself to retrieve it later and hang it in his closet with his other jackets so it doesn’t wrinkle. He exits the living room back into the hallway and glances at the glossy dark wood banister that was attached to the side of the staircase. He could faintly hear voices from upstairs so he latches his hand onto the railing with a sly grin and starts making his ascent. As he climbs up, the voices grow louder and louder until he could hear the telltale airy laugh of his younger sister, Perla, echoing through the second level of the house.
“I’m home,” He calls again and he can hear Domenico hurriedly shushing their sister as she struggles to stifle her laughter. “What are you two doing up here?”
The oldest of the Pucci children gets no response save for more quiet laughter and desperate shushing and he makes his way to where the sounds are coming from: Perla’s room. He knocks lightly on the door before reaching down and twisting the doorknob, pushing open the door and peeking inside. Domenico and Perla are both sitting on Perla’s bed, hands held to their mouths to try and cover their respective giggling fits as their eyes dart to Enrico standing in the doorway. Enrico frowns, feeling vaguely like he missed some great joke between them. Or a joke about him. Perhaps both. There was really no telling with these two.
“Enrico! Welcome home,” Perla finally manages to speak, a wide grin splitting her face. Her sandy blonde hair bounces around her shoulders as she springs off the bed and bounds over to her oldest brother, wrapping her arms tightly around his middle and burying her face into his chest. Enrico blinks down at her and reaches awkwardly around her shoulders to pat her back. He wasn’t really one for physical affection beyond a brief hug or occasional kiss on the cheek, but Perla never seemed to take notice of his awkwardness. She was, however, undoubtedly the most touchy-feely of the trio and never missed an opportunity to pull her brothers into hugs or blow teasing raspberries against their cheeks. Enrico knew that (like himself) Domenico didn’t necessarily enjoy prolonged physical contact from strangers, but he was more prone to putting up with and often returning the sentiment Perla showed to him.
Speaking of his twin, Domenico was being oddly reserved all of a sudden; as soon as Perla had diverted her attention from him, he had noticed that Domenico turned his eyes away and instead focused on fidgeting with his fingers. He had been more and more distant these past couple weeks, ever since the incident at school. It had only seemed to worsen when their parents announced that they had arranged for Enrico’s little jaunt across the ocean, despite his efforts to convince Domenico that the trip was more educational than anything. Domenico had been avoiding him as much as possible since then and only seemed to talk to him when he was forced to. It hurt quite a bit that he didn’t want to even be around Enrico, let alone tell him what was wrong, but Enrico had long since discovered that the best course of action with the other boy was to let him come to him when he was ready. It had always worked before, so Enrico decided to ignore the sudden bashfulness and resist the urge to bring it up directly.
“Good to see you too, Perla. Many thanks for the warm welcome,” Enrico detaches himself from his sister and she skips back over to her bed, throwing herself onto the plush surface. The carefree movement causes Domenico to involuntarily bounce in place for a few seconds and that combined with his sulky expression is enough to make Enrico chuckle to himself. “What were you two talking about? Not me, I hope.”
“Maybe! I’ll never tell, brother mine.” Perla chirps and for a moment she looks so much younger than fourteen. Her expression brought back so many memories of similar scenarios, where Perla would craft lighthearted jokes at Enrico’s expense and laugh about them with Domenico until she was blue in the face and a sulky Enrico had eventually felt obligated to join in the laughter. It would always end with the three of them rolling on the floor, struggling to catch their breath while Enrico indulged in a little play-wrestling with his unruly younger siblings. Enrico shakes his head to clear his mind of the intrusive memories, but a bittersweet emotion settles in the pit of his belly like a weighted stone. He wishes things could go back to being that simple, with no obligations or cares in the world. At least Perla had managed to retain her cheerful innocence thus far, even if the twins hadn’t in certain respects. He supposed it was just a part of growing up, but he dreaded the day - should it ever come - when their sister would be pressured into silence.
“She got a boyfriend.” Domenico pipes up, sitting cross-legged next to Perla. She shoots him a betrayed look and he allows a smirk to slowly cross his lips. “She was telling me all about how she wants to hold him and kiss him and-”
“Shut up!” Perla grabs the nearest object to her, which happens to be a rather large stuffed bear, and whacks it against Domenico’s face a few times as he laughs and holds his arms up to defend himself. Enrico raises an eyebrow at them, catching the dusting of red that’s appeared on Perla’s face, but he’s more than pleased that Domenico has finally spoken to him of his own free will. His brother’s voice comes as a balmy relief after nearly two weeks of seldom hearing it. “You promised you wouldn’t tell, Wes!”
“Life’s full of disappointment.” Domenico answers simply while the soft plush rump of the stuffed bear hits his forearms and the side of his head. Eventually Perla gives up on clobbering her brother and she tosses the abused bear up by her pillow, crossing her arms and putting on a halfhearted pout. Domenico glances at Enrico, whose eyebrow is still raised, but finally sighs and gestures for him to close the door and get comfortable. The older boy does so quickly and takes his seat on the white faux-fur rug decorating the bedroom floor.
“You got a boyfriend?” Enrico tries gently, relief at his brother’s willingness to talk morphing into a bubbling curiosity. His hands idly play with the fur under them, pinching and rolling the wispy bits of hair between his fingertips thoughtlessly. “When did this happen?”
“Only recently, I promise,” Perla’s posture relaxes and her arms uncross from her chest, settling instead at her sides as she leans back against the wall her bed is pushed up against. Another grin takes its place on her full lips but her eyes look distantly up at the ceiling, likely clouded with memories of the mysterious boy. Enrico wishes he could see her thoughts himself, to judge this kid firsthand. “But you can’t tell mom and dad. I met him at the diner uptown. He’s really cute, you would like him. Not because he’s cute, that’s why I like him. You’d like him because he’s-” Perla does her best imitation of Enrico’s voice, gaze breaking from the ceiling to look down at her oldest brother and wink. “-an upstanding young gentleman.”
Enrico blinks at what’s apparently supposed to be the imitation of his voice as Domenico barks out a laugh and falls backwards onto the puffy pillows behind him. The older twin shoots him a glare before returning his attention to Perla, who’s giggling over at Domenico.
“So, you met him in a diner. What’s his name?”
“I can’t tell you his name but he’s sooo cute.” Domenico interjects before Perla is able to open her mouth. His voice is a couple octaves higher to imitate her voice and now it’s Perla’s turn to look offended. Enrico clears his throat to cool the playful tension between his younger siblings and turn their attentions back to him.
“When did you two meet?” Enrico asks before Perla has the chance to grab her stuffed bear again and resume beating Domenico with it. He has to admit, his curiosity is piqued: Perla’s never had a boyfriend that he’s known of before and she tells him most everything. What she doesn’t tell him, she tells Domenico and Enrico has a practiced knack for being able to quickly wrestle the information out of him. He would know if she did, at least he’d like to think he would. Regardless, the idea of his younger sister having a boyfriend is enough to make him nervous and a little wistful.
“A few weeks ago. Some jerk tried to steal my purse while I was sitting in one of the booths and he chased the guy down and got it back for me. Apparently he’s a delivery boy and he just happened to be delivering some drinks to the diner, how crazy is that? He asked me on a date last week and we had dinner together and now we’re having lunch this weekend, same place! I think the diner will become, like, our spot. Couples always have special places they meet at, right? The diner can be ours - it’s like fate, or something.”
“Last week?” Enrico’s eyebrows knit together. “Why didn’t you tell me you had met someone? Or Domenico?”
Perla frowns and shoots Domenico a look. “I did tell Domenico - Wes - and he was supposed to tell you, too.”
Domenico ignores the look he’s getting from both siblings, rolling his eyes and falling back onto his elbows, now half-lying down with his legs still crossed together on the bed. “Christ, Enrico, it’s not like you’re our dad. We can do things without asking you first, you know. Maybe the reason she didn’t tell you anything is because she wanted to avoid the inevitable interrogation that would follow. And maybe I didn’t tell you because I’m not your personal little reporter.”
“Interrogation? I’m trying to take an interest in my younger sister’s life, what’s wrong with that?”
“You have a tendency to-” Domenico pauses, letting his head roll back so he’s staring up at the ceiling and breathing out a soft sigh through his nose. “-lecture. You’d probably end up hunched over at your desk for the next week, meticulously carving out a ‘relationship schedule’ for them to follow. I can see it now: ‘No physical contact until the fourth date. If your hands touch accidentally I will have you arrested. No kissing until precisely three months into the relationship. Sex? More like eternal damnation - marriage or bust, buddy.’”
Perla gives Domenico’s knee a light slap and he lolls his head to the side to throw her an uninterested look. She sticks her tongue out at him and Enrico tries to ignore the biting comment on his character. He wasn’t that much of a control freak he didn’t think. So what if he asked questions about his siblings’ lives? He was trying to be a good older brother to both of them and sometimes that meant screening out bad influences. He had failed before with Domenico’s newfound habit of sneaking out to smoke weed and he was now attempting to be better with Perla. She was his only sister, after all, and it was almost like an ingrained duty that the oldest brother would thoroughly check any boys that might come knocking at the door.
He would honestly still do the same for Domenico, if he ever decided to actually tell him things about his life. Sometimes, Enrico would stay up late studying or reading in the office and he would catch Domenico crawling in through a cracked window in the living room with lipstick stains on his shirt and hickeys littering his neck. Of course, when it was brought up, Domenico would become incredibly defensive and cagey about the subject until either he or Enrico grew frustrated and stormed upstairs to bed. It was almost like he didn’t even know Domenico anymore and the thought of completely losing his twin to whatever was going on in his life tore away at his insides like a parasite. He’d be damned if his grip on Perla loosened too.
“I’m not doing it on purpose. I just want you to be safe. Both of you.” Enrico darts his eyes between his younger siblings and fists his hands in the furry rug below him. Domenico tips his head back again to stare at the ceiling, seemingly in thought, and Perla slips down off the bed to sit next to Enrico and wrap her arms around him again, much gentler than when he had initially entered the room. He feels her face nuzzle against his shoulder affectionately.
“I know. I really, really appreciate it. But I have a good feeling about him! He hasn’t even asked to kiss me, yet.” Perla rubs her head against her brother’s shoulder. “Though just a warning: I might let him kiss me this weekend. Maybe. If he’s good.”
“Sinful!” Domenico shoots up out of bed, pointing an accusatory finger at his sister. She simply gives him a deadpan, thoroughly unimpressed look in return that rivals the one he gave earlier, but he continues without skipping a beat. “None of you are free from sin, it seems. Repent, or burn in hell for eternity!”
“Domenico.” Enrico puts on his best impersonation of their mother’s warning inflection, but the other boy jumps off the bed with a grin and pulls Perla off of Enrico’s shoulder. A small yelp of displeasure leaves her mouth and Enrico frowns at the roughness of the action, unintended as it may be.
Domenico pulls their sister to the ground and straddles her legs so she can’t escape, jabbing his pointed fingers into her sides to make her squeal. Perla kicks her legs out at him to try and wiggle herself free, laughing and squawking with delight and perhaps some annoyance as he tickles her sides relentlessly. Finally, she manages to lodge a freed foot into Domenico’s side and push him off, scrambling to get on top of him and unleash the same punishment. Enrico can’t help but sigh and halfheartedly try to separate the two, but a door closing downstairs draws all three of the Pucci children’s attentions to the door. They all share a look, stock still, before each one scrambles to their feet.
Domenico manages to get to the door first and grabs onto the doorknob, turning his head back to Enrico and bringing his index finger up to his lips. Enrico realizes he’s being told to keep their conversation private and briefly contemplates the morality of that, but decides he’d rather not jeopardize Domenico’s seemingly reestablished trust. Domenico seems pleased with Enrico’s sharp nod of agreement and pulls the door open, the three siblings rushing out into the hallway to grab onto the railing at the top of the stairs and peer over to look at the opened front door.
Still coming through the doorway is their parents, their father holding two armfuls of groceries with his foot propping open the door for his wife. He peers up at his children with a raised, near-white eyebrow before jerking his head back at the door.
“There’s more groceries in the car. Domenico, Enrico, grab the rest of the bags. Perla, help your mother start to put things away.”
“ Wes .” Domenico mumbles under his breath before he begins to slink down the stairs with a dejected slump in his shoulders. Perla follows close behind him but stays a step or two back so she can reach down to ruffle his hair. He was getting tall, Enrico notices. Perla was too, but he suspected that Domenico was certainly going to be taking more after their father in terms of his height: the boy was nearly at (if not already at) the six foot mark at only sixteen years of age, while himself was coming in at just barely over five-foot-eight the last time he had been measured. As much as he hates it, he has to resist the small itch of jealousy that forms at the back of his mind at seeing his younger brother surpass him, even if it is in such a trivial manner. Enrico watches his two siblings descend for a quiet moment and thinks about how much they’ve all grown and how much growing they still have yet to do before he, too, starts walking down after them.
Despite the change happening all around them and the unknowable change that he knew was still to come, during moments like these it was easy for Enrico to feel as though nothing had really changed at all.