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A strong, deep breeze flew past Trish’s face. Or, more appropriately, a fist. She staggered backward, wordlessly using Spice Girl’s softening to make the impact against wherever she was falling—a tree, most likely, she wasn’t sure, couldn’t check—as painless as possible. While Spice Girl was a new addition to her life, since her encounter with the Notorious B.I.G., she’d begun to unconsciously use her Stand, becoming more… synced? Was that the word? In tune? It was weird, frankly, but hey, if it stopped her from having a concussion during a practice duel with Bruno, who didn’t go easy on her when they fought, she didn’t question it.
With a boing, she bounced back to her feet—turned out it was a tree she was falling against. She then attempted to roundhouse kick Bucciarati. Of course, he was a trained fighter, and had expected this. He had zipped the ground below him, ready to burst out. Trish, on the other hand, was a novice, and while this was just practice sparring, she had learned the most basic of her fighting skills outside of how to use Medusa, her little self-defense knife, in a trial by fire. Or, more appropriately, trial by airplane-on-fire. Everyone needed a break after that shitshow, so here they were, resting in the Sardinian countryside’s vast mountains, in a safehouse. At least, resting until her motley crew had enough strength to continue on to Cala di Volpe. To continue to where she would face her own history for the first time.
Trish Una was not ready. Not that she’d ever be, likely, but she didn’t have the luxury of being ready to face her dad. Not yet. Not now. So, in the meantime, she’d face Bucciarati. He was a good substitute for her father anyway. Hell, he acted more like her father than her dad ever did, to the point where the others had begun referring to Trish as Bucciarati’s “daughter.” Narancia also had begun jokingly referring to Bruno as ‘Mom’ and Abbacchio as ‘Dad’. The two ignored him, but the others would always suppress a chuckle. Still… The two men, very obviously a romantic item, also very obviously enjoyed the nicknames, as a small smile would slip each time they heard before they hastily regained their composure once more, attempting to hide their affection for the team, and failing miserably.
During their ill-fated plane ride, Giorno, Narancia, and Mista had been messed up pretty badly, so they were out of commission. Each day, Trish checked on them, and each day, they returned to their usual perky selves. This was slowed down a bit by Giorno not operating at full healing capacity, and Abbacchio working as guard to watch for intruders. But, they all needed some rest. This downtime also meant more time for Bruno and Trish to practice. And, practice they did, each day, for hours. Bruno was a stern teacher, and honestly, Trish was tired. She just wanted to go see Abbacchio and do her nails with him—after all, he’d offered, and her last manicure was chipping.
On top of that… Her muscles ached, and while it wasn’t personal, this fight felt personal. With each punch, Trish grew angrier and angrier. It wasn’t anger at Bruno, of course, but at the situation—having to fight for her life, having to miss her mother’s funeral, not going home yet. Yet… she had to fight. She might not have been as brave as Giorno, might have only been good at running away, but fighting was the only tool she had in her arsenal. So, fight she did.
Her own distracted thoughts aside, Trish heard the unmistakable noise of a zipper. Spice Girl, unsoften the tree, Trish commanded her Stand.
On it. Wordlessly, Spice Girl did as she had been bade to do. Of course, milliseconds later, a fist flew out from under Trish’s feet. She leapt away in a swift motion, as if pirouetting. She didn’t stick the landing, per se, landing on a sharp, jutted rock. She barely registered this. It didn’t matter, as Bruno, swept by the principle of inertia, jumped directly into the tree. Sticky Finger’s fist—and Bruno’s, by extension—made a hard, painful-sounding noise as it hit the tree’s trunk. Bruno was silent. However, she could see the barest trace of a wince on his face.
Trish smirked to herself. Finally, she’d gotten an advantage. Spice, let’s finish this.
Of course, my dear. Trish could sense a smile on her Stand’s metallic voice, echoing from the depths of her heart.
“Wannabe!”
In a flurry of punches, Spice Girl advanced toward Bruno, who… Wait. Hold on…!
“Spice Girl, stop!” Trish cried. Bruno had disappeared once more, seemingly having zipped himself into the tree’s trunk.
Shit. “We missed. Dammit!” She hit her fist against the ground, hard. Wincing for an attack, she braced herself. She’d lost. That advantage was short-lived. She berated herself for messing it up yet again.
Yet… A punch never came.
Instead, she opened her eyes to find Bucciarati offering his hand to her, as he had done at the dropoff point the week before. At the elevator. These memories hit her like a wave, threatening to beat her to a pulp. She felt a twinge in the scar around her wrist, a phantom pain. But, she could tell; unlike then, now, Bruno was pitying her. That hurt the most.
“...Why didn’t you take the win?” She asked, taking his hand.
“I know when I’ve been beat, even if it isn’t by a usual metric. Consider this a draw, Trish.” He smiled at her, his expression emanating pride. Was he pitying her…? “That’s enough sparring for today. Good work, Passerotta mia. ”
He’d taken to calling her that when he was really proud of her. My little sparrow. After she’d let slip that her mother had called her that, from then on, the pet name had stuck, to the point where no one batted an eye anymore when it lingered on the air. Still, it had emerged from a slip on her end. When she had been putting on her mother’s limoncello hand lotion, she had offered him some for his callused hands. He had kind hands, but also, hands that were in sore need of lotion. Still… She hadn’t realized how much she’d also sorely needed the kind of familial affection her mother had given. Now that she was gone, these boys were the closest thing she had to a family.
She’d missed it.
“Thanks, Dad. ” She joked. The adrenaline coursing through her began to finally fade away, leaving a satisfied sense of exhaustion. The kind of tiredness that comes when one accomplishes something.
“Now then, let’s—” He cut himself off. “...Trish. I’m going to need you to not get up.”
Trish ignored him. “Why? I’m fine, Bucciarati. Honest. I’m not a porcelain doll, I swear—” As soon as she got up, she was knocked over by some surprisingly intense pain. Her arm hurt like a bitch. She had put her free hand to it instinctively, then pulled it away, only to find it covered in blood.
Ah. That’s what had happened. She looked over at the rocks behind her, where she had fallen, and some red on top of a jagged spike confirmed her suspicions. She felt a bit lightheaded, but not horribly so. She was fine. Clearly. She wiped the blood on the grass beside her. However, Trish looked up again at Bruno, and could see concern in his gaze.
The twenty-something knelt down to her. He tsk ed under his breath. “This is all my fault. You alright? Here… Lemme just—” With that, Bruno let go of her unbloodied hand to unzip his arm, pulling out a surprisingly large first aid kit. How did it even fit inside? Trish decided it wasn’t worth asking. Stands were an enigma she wasn’t ready to fully unpack at this moment. Bucciarati was as well.
“Bucciarati, it’s fine. It’s not your fault—it’s mine. I forgot to soften the surroundings. Managed to get the tree, but missed the rock. It’s my mistake.” She chided herself, looking away from him in shame. An amateur mistake. How was she ever going to be good enough to win against her father? At this rate, she was likely going to be dead as soon as she was in the same room with the bastard. Why did they even bother...
Bucciarati’s voice cut off her spiraling thoughts. “Ah, I see. Well… Can’t argue with that, then.” As Bruno spoke, he took out some antiseptic wipes from the void in his arm. It seemed that that comment was enough to reduce his guilt, as Trish noticed a bit less caution in his movements. “Trish, I’m going to need you to come closer to me, so I can patch up your arm. This is going to hurt.”
Can’t hurt more than when my dad tore my fucking hand off, she mused to herself. Still… She moved toward him, and as soon as she felt an intense stinging, she backed away instinctively. Tears pricked at the sides of her eyes. A couple of choice expletives had flown into the air as well. And yet…
“Trish, do you need a moment?”
Through gritted teeth, she managed, hoping her voice wasn’t shaking, “I’m fine. Just... Get this over with. ...Please.” She moved back toward him. As she did, however, he paused.
“Trish, I have an idea. It’s a bit unconventional, but… If you are all right with it, perhaps we can use Spice Girl and Sticky Fingers as supports, so that way, when you back up on reflex, you won’t fall again. Is that okay with you?”
It was unconventional, yes, but knowing Bruno, it would likely work. She nodded.
Nodding back, Bruno released Sticky Fingers, the Stand’s metallic zippers and chrome-plated body glistened in the late-spring sunlight that streamed through the leaves of the tree beside them. The light also bounced off of the zippers on Bruno’s suit, and the golden barrettes in his hair. Spice Girl followed suit, the light not hitting her as much as she was in the shade. However, her Stand, while less metallic than Bruno’s was, was still radiant in her own way.
Trish felt some warmth against her shoulders, and light pressure—the Stands, clutching her shoulder. “Here, let’s try this again.” Bruno held her injured arm’s hand with his own free hand. “Brace yourself.”
The pain was a bit more bearable this time as Trish was braced by the Stands resting beside her. It was an odd sensation, to be held in place by these spectral fighters; it felt like someone was wrapping their arms around her shoulders in a protective embrace. She squeezed Bucciarati’s hand.
“There. That’s the antiseptic. Turns out the gash isn’t very large, but you likely hit a vein on the way down during that fall, which would explain the blood. I won’t need to zip it closed, or have to do stitches, luckily, but I’m going to have to bandage it up.”
She nodded. “That’s fine. Thanks, Bucciarati.”
“No problem, Trish.” He let go of her hand once more to grab some cotton swabs from the first aid kit, dabbing rubbing alcohol on one. “Brace yourself, this is gonna sting.”
The sting came yet again. No wonder the Stands hadn’t moved. Still, depositing the used swab by opening up a hole in his palm— “I don’t like to litter,” he explained— he took an unused one, and used it to dab her arm dry.
As he returned to the work of bandaging her arm, Trish eventually managed, voice a bit hesitant, “Bucciarati…?”
“...What is it, Trish?” He asked, now grabbing some light gauze.
She looked back at the bloody handprint beside her, not daring to meet his gaze. “I don’t know if I’m ready to face my father. Not when I make amateur mistakes like this.”
Bruno stopped. “Trish, no one is ever truly ready to face their fears. Don’t beat yourself up for this more than you already have. Self-flagellation doesn’t do you any good.” The way he said this made it seem like he’d learned this from personal experience. And yet… A question nagged at her, that she had to voice:
“What if we die, and it’s my fault?”
He took a moment before he responded to that, her question lingering in the air. “We won’t die.” She could feel the delicate friction of the gauze against her arm. A bit of pressure followed; he must have been wrapping it up in compression tape.
Bruno spoke once more. “Trish. Give yourself some credit. You just began fighting, and you successfully have been dodging my attacks. I’ve faced Passione soldati who spent their entire lives fighting, and who, when I faced them, didn’t even notice I’d zipped them apart.”
Was that a compliment? It seemed like it was his way of giving her a compliment. Bruno wasn’t very good at those, but it was clear that he meant it. Must have been high praise.
“...Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She blushed. The two of them rested in a kind of awkward silence; she wanted to tell him how much she appreciated the kind words, how useless she was, so on. But, nothing came out.
This unbearable silence hanging over their heads, Bruno finally finished his attempts at first aid. With that, he put away all of the supplies, closed the kit, unzipped a portal yet again into a vast, amethyst-shaded void, and chucked everything back into his arm. There was no noise to suggest they’d fallen anywhere. Trish preferred not to think about the implications of this. Bucciarati was a weird dude. Still, he was a weird dude who cared about her, who had seemingly adopted her, and honestly, it warmed her heart.
The work of restraining Trish done, Spice Girl went back into her User, a warmth returning to her chest and a sort of petrichor of crackling energy lingering in the air where she’d been. However, Sticky Fingers remained outside of his User, studying Trish intently. Bruno zipped the portal closed with a sort of accomplishment.
Trish and the Stand locked eyes. Or, more appropriately, she locked eyes with his visor. He had the same bowl cut as his user, the same zippers everywhere. There was an expression on the Stand’s face that was hard to read. Before Bruno opened his mouth to speak, Trish felt herself buffeted by warmth, realizing that her chin was resting atop the spirit’s shoulder. He looked cold, but in reality, thrummed with a kind of warmth, like a sunbeam. It was oddly comforting.
With that, Trish finally registered what was going on: Sticky Fingers was giving her a hug.
She could see Bruno, absolutely aghast, frozen in place . “Sticky Fingers… You have to ask Trish before you hug her…! Come on…! ”
“ Ari.” The Stand responded defiantly. “Ari ari. Ari? Ari.”
“Don’t sass me. Trish has had a long day. Be conscientious.” He shook his head after scolding his Stand, moving closer to Trish. He’d been sitting, legs crossed, and threw a glare his Stand’s way.
With a begrudging sigh, Sticky Fingers finally let go of Trish, mumbling a few Aris as apology before returning to his User, the same kind of static crackling that had followed Spice Girl’s exit electrifying the air.
Once that was done, he shook his head. “Trish, I’m sorry. Did he make you uncomfortable? He normally doesn’t—”
Before he could finish his sentence, Trish had tackled Bucciarati in a hug. She buried her face into the fuzzy, spotted shoulder of his suit, and felt his bobbed black hair brush against her cheek.
After a moment of being frozen stiff due to the shock of an unexpected hug, he eventually softened, and hugged her back. “Ah, that’s why he did that,” he mused aloud. “To be fair… I would have asked if you needed a hug if he hadn’t.”
Trish responded by hugging him tighter.
“I, uh… Honestly, Trish? I have no idea how to help. But…” She felt a pat against her shoulder. He was trying, bless him.
She couldn’t help but chuckle. “A hug is fine.” She replied, her words muffled a bit from the suit. Trish poured as much strength as she had in her sore, tired muscles to hug him. “It’s more than enough, Bucciarati. Thank you.”
Finally letting go of him, she could see him smile gently. He pecked her forehead before getting himself up, then waited for Trish to follow suit. “Come on, Passerotta.” He offered her his hand once more. “Good work today. You deserve to relax. And that’s an order.”
“Fine, fine…” She jokingly rolled her eyes. “Still… Thanks,” Trish said, using his hand to propel herself upward. She then let go, and the two of them began to walk toward the safe house.
The two of them were silent. Yet, after a while, Trish finally spoke once more: “So, Bucciarati… What’s for dinner?”
“...You know, that’s a good question.” He chuckled a bit at that. “I guess we’ll find out.”
They stepped into the sunlight, and a few butterflies flew past Trish, their scaly wings glistening on the wind. The breeze carried the warmth of the season. As they approached the house, she went inside, hearing the joyful voices of the rest of her team. Trish felt something tug at her heart. A renewed hope for her chances. And… Of course, the conviction that tomorrow, during sparring practice, she was finally going to beat Bruno Bucciarati.
Not that she couldn’t before, but her experiences that day had confirmed it: She did, finally, stand a chance against the trials ahead.