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Leone Abbacchio hadn’t intended for the door handle to break. The pressure of his grip was no more forceful than the average customer’s, disregarding the frustration and anger that accompanied it. Now, as he watched the metal doorknob slowly roll further into the restaurant’s interior, he was left little choice but to reluctantly go in after it.
Why the man was even here in the first place was beyond him.
Each step echoed softly has he entered the small seating area. With no patrons around to fill in the empty spaces between the tables, Abbacchio had little issue weaving around tables, lifting dining cloths left and right in search of that faulty piece of junk.
Not that it mattered.
What was Abbacchio seriously going to do with the door handle anyway? The man had no clue how to fix whatever was broken in the first place, let alone have the right tools for the job. All he was doing was trespassing where he doesn’t belong, wasting time before he eventually had to go back…
Abbacchio lifted his head up from underneath the table, only to make contact with its underside and bang the back of his skull against the round wood paneling.
“Son of a—”
He clenched his jaw as well as his eyes, holding back a plethora of swears as he silently cried out in pain. There was no one around to watch him make a fool of himself, but his own self-respect kept him from acting out of this character he had built for himself.
He much preferred who that character was over the truth.
As Abbacchio slowly reopened his eyes back to the unlit room, shoving his hair back with his fingers to reveal that the private seating room was only a few meters away from his feet. Not putting much thought into his next movements, Abbacchio allowed his body to guide him through the same motions he took several times prior to the table he knew all too well.
Despite it being the dead of night, the light of the moon shining through the old window curtains gave the small private space much needed light. Fighting back the heavy weight that had descended on him, Abbacchio ultimately gave in his body’s desire for rest and seated himself down in his usual space by the windowsill. The chairs on this table had been neglected, still scattered on the floor as opposed to the upside down position that the other chairs were in, just as they were left a few weeks prior. There were five all together, almost perfectly equidistant. If asked, there was no doubt the staff could add a sixth chair alongside the others. A seventh however, wouldn’t fit, as much as anyone could try. Not with a table this size.
The man shook his head at the notion.
Seven chairs would be unnecessary anyway.
There were only six members for him to keep an eye on now.
There was no telling how much time had passed as Abbacchio sat in his chair, staring up into the ceiling and taking in the feel of the room around him. The place stunk of garlic and seafood, overlaid by a carpet of lemon scented dish cleaner and bleach, a staple for any self-respecting cleaner’s arsenal. If he focussed hard enough, the sounds of utensils clashing against glassware could fill the room.
Diving deeper into his memory, Abbacchio could easily recall the argument that started between Narancia and Fugo being groaned out by the music blasting through his headphones. Neither of them had any class, breaking out into a physical fight within the restaurant despite the countless requests from Bucciarati not to cause a scene if they wanted to remain in good standing with the owner. Not that there ever had been much to worry about, the man practically owed Bucciarati his life or fortune.
It was that very reasoning that Abbacchio wasn’t going to continue worrying about the damned door handle. If the restaurant’s insurance wouldn’t cover it, then Bucciarati could easily fork over money for a new one.
That man had more money now than any of them knew what to do with…
Closing his eyes once more, Abbacchio crossed his arms and pictured the look on Mista’s face as he screamed about some lousy piece of confectionary the waitress had brought over. Something about the number four again…
Keeping his eyes closed, he went through the motions of grabbing a slice for himself haphazardly in the air, allowing the scene to keep moving on around him without a care in the world. That is, until Bucciarati stepped in, disappointed in the team’s behavior while he had been away. Abbacchio never signed up to play babysitter to the group of brats, but somehow Bucciarati’s eyes always found themselves falling onto him when something went wrong.
Scoffing at the ridiculousness of it all, Abbacchio silently mocked Bucciarati’s orders about paying attention and greeting the newbie, all the while keeping his attention focused more on his music than the man’s new charity project.
That was, until the kid spoke.
“I’m Giorno Giovanna. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
That voice didn’t come from Abbacchio’s memory.
The man snapped his eyes open, jerking his head in the direction of the entrance. Standing there in that audaciously pink suit of his was none other than Giorno Giovanna himself. An impossible feat, considering the teenager had been buried deep in the ground.
Rage easily overtook the man as he jumped out of his chair, slamming his knuckles on the table as he knew exactly what the hell was going on.
The time on Giorno’s forehead— no. Moody Blues’s forehead gave away the truth rather easily.
What was in front of him was nothing more than an echo, a memory of something that had long since passed. The teenager’s recording dared stood in the doorway, waiting for a response from his introduction.
He wanted to dismiss the stand entirely, appalled that it even dared to bring an image of this kid back to life.
And yet…
“Was that really the best name you could come up with?” Abbacchio spat at his stand, knowing full well that Giorno wasn’t even his original name. The man couldn’t fault the teenager for wanting to put as much distance between himself and folks as much as he had. Abbacchio recalled doing one better and moving as far away as could from this when given the opportunity.
He slammed his fist in the table once more, unsatisfied with how he let the conversation play out. Abbacchio motioned his stand to rewind, only by a couple of seconds, as he pulled himself together to meet with the teenager a second time.
“I’m Giorno Giovanna. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
Was it really? Or was it a front? A mask of politeness in order to gain their trust? Even without the replay of Bucciarati, Abbacchio could still picture the respect on the man’s face. The sense of pride in having found a partner to scheme away against Passione as they pleased. If he hadn’t known any better, by the way Giorno and Bucciarati poke it was as though they had known each other for years.
“I —”
Abbacchio’s voice got caught in his throat, practically choking him into silence. The voice of Bucciarati echoed through Moody Blue’s thereafter, preventing him from saying anything more before the bust of questions from his teammates would drown out any noise he made.
Until the stunt he pulled.
“Rewind again.”
“I’m Giorno Giovanna. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
Abbacchio kicked the chair next to him, flinging the furniture piece away from him to clear a path directly to the brat. There were so many things he wanted to say. To scream into his ears and demand answers for this hell he was being put through.
Did Giorno have any idea what he had left behind!?
“Why!? Why did you do it!?”
Moody Blues rewound again.
“I’m Giorno Giovanna. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
And again.
“I’m Giorno Giovanna. It’s a pleasure to meet you all.”
The man grabbed onto the memory’s shoulders, digging his nails into the imitation fabric and shaking him. Despite being so close, Abbacchio couldn’t find the courage to look the stand in the eyes.
“Please. Just, go home. This isn’t fucking worth it!”
We weren’t worth it.
I wasn’t worth it.
“If you insist.”
Abbacchio’s head shot up at the new voice in the room. For a single second, he thought would have thought it had come from the teenager in his arms, but that wasn’t the case. Standing in the middles of the dining room with a round sphere in his hand was none other than Pannacotta Fugo.
“I can go back if you really want me to.”
There was no mockery in the younger man’s voice, only a somber and flat offer to look away and pretend he hadn’t seen what hole Abbacchio had dug himself into. Maybe, if it were anyone else, the man would have screamed, barked out an insult to leave him be and storm off to continue this repetitious cycle somewhere else.
But this wasn’t just anyone.
He let go of Moody Blues and stepped back, unable to stand being so close to anyone right now. “I don’t care. Do what you want.”
“Abbacchio —”
“Why are you here Fugo?”
The teenager looked down at the object he was currently fiddling with in his hands. “I just happened to walk past this place on my walk. When I saw the door was ajar, I got curious. News of someone breaking into Bucciarati’s favorite restaurant is something he shouldn’t have to hear firsthand.”
Abbacchio forced out a laugh. “You? On a walk? This late at night?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“You and everyone else.”
Fugo placed the door knob on the tabled and approached the replay, taking great care to observe as much as he could without ever making contact. There was no objection on Abbacchio’s part, already flustered enough as it was to get caught like this.
“I thought you told Bucciarati this wasn’t healthy…”
“You — when did you—?” Blood boiled underneath Abbacchio’s skin as he learned of Fugo’s new tendency to eavesdrop.
“Again, I just happened to be around. I swear it was an accident.”
Abbacchio scowled. “Right. And my missing bottle of wine was an accident too?”
“Oh, for the love of — I just can’t stand thinking about his face! His stupid, idealistic — I…” Fugo turned back to the image of Giorno, “I just wanted to forget him. You can’t miss someone you don’t remember.”
The time it took to walk closer and wrap his arms around Fugo had been lost to him, but the instinct to drive that line of thinking away from the teenager had taken over and qualms the man had about personal space.
“No amount of alcohol in the world will let you forget him Fugo. Not someone like him.”
Reflecting back on his life, this would be the second person to intrude on Abbacchio’s life. Taking it for a joyride and ditching him with the repercussions of their actions.
“What a bastard.”
The both of them looked back at Moody Blues, “People like Giorno… are willing to take the first step no matter what. A means to an end.” Raising his hand, Abbacchio was about to dismiss the echo of their gold boy entirely, when Fugo grabbed onto his wrist to stop him.
“I want to say something to him… before he’s gone.”
The man granted him a silent nod.
“Giorno. You left a lot of shit for us to clean up. You better take some responsibility for that. I… can’t deal with loss again… dammit… I hope it was worth it and you better appreciate what Bucciarati is doing.”
Abbacchio did not judge the words that the teenager spoke. This was Fugo’s way of letting Giorno know that what was happening since his departure, giving them both a sense that something worthwhile came about after all they have been through.
Not wanting to leave things to go unspoken, the man also let loose the remaining thought he had bottled aside for so long.
“I want to understand why you did it, where the faith came from. I really do. But I guess we’re just very different people who see the world in vastly different ways… look. Do us all a favor and in the next life, give yourself a break and take it easy for a while, ok?”
Abbacchio prayed that the both of them did.
With those final words, Moody Blues was able to drop the teenager’s form, fading out of reality and leaving the two on their own. A silent agreement was formed between them to never speak of this event to anyone, although both had someone in particular in mind.
Abbacchio let out a long sigh and marched towards the exit, motioning Fugo to follow suit as the two departed for their long trek back to home base. With any luck, they would make it back in time for a couple of hours of mock sleep and then start the day anew.
Right as he stepped out the front door, Fugo darted back in and scribbled a note on some receipt paper before hustling back to meet up with Abbacchio, lest he get left behind. Waiting for the morning manager was now a note, resting next to the broken door knob with two words written in a neat, legible cursive.
“We’re sorry.”