Chapter Text
Listen. Ugh. This is all just a long con. A really, really, really long con.
It all starts with Bruno, as it should. Everything should start and end with Bruno and that’s the way the world’s meant to be, so there. More specifically, it begins with Bruno Subdivision B Section 3, which states: ‘Everyone who has a functional heart wants Bruno to succeed in reopening the Crab Shack.’
The other thing it starts with is Guido Mista’s outrageous simpy simphood. Simpsta Subdivision F Section 2: He still makes those dumb origami flowers every week for his idiot whore partner in crime, even though they’ll have been together five years come November.
Well, except for about a three-month stint when Giovanna first skipped off to college, and had a whole dramatic ‘I made you wait once, I don’t want to hold you back again’—yes, Abbacchio is using a squeaky voice—in which neither of them even pretended to try moving on, and—whatever. It was a whole thing.
Anyway, what Abbacchio is trying to get at is that even now, at age 22, Mista is still plagued by recurring dreams of the origami instructor telling him that he’s an artless slut with no creativity.
“I was there,” Trish had said on the matter. “She literally said nothing like that. She literally told you to keep trying.”
“You just don’t understand, Patrizia,” Mista had said, all tortured and shit.
So, during quarantine, like, two years ago, Mista occupied himself by being horny—seriously, why does Abbacchio always have to be the one who has to hear all about Whorevanna? (at least Pannacotta and he have worked out their wholesome little “Mystery of Love by Sufjan Stevens personified'' thing, providing some stability to this turbulent world) —and taking up art and design. And thus, it turned out that Mista actually has a genuine talent for graphic design.
And here, the two things converge into one.
Mista, having a heart, wants Bruno to succeed in reopening the Crab Shack. The heartwarming Crab Shack Buccellati saga is practically Springwood lore at this point, so Mista comes up with the idea of designing Crab Shack merch to sell on the boardwalk—illegally, but no one cares, honestly—to raise money for the fishing boat.
So really, all of this starts because Abbacchio made the mistake of trusting Guido Mista for a single second.
Thus thinks Leone Abbacchio, age 25, as he pushes past two tourists to the illegal merch stand.
“Ay, Abba.” Mista, already tan from the June sun, leans against the cash register. “Business is booming, d—uncleuncleuncle…” he gurgles reflexively.
“What. Is. This.” With the arm he doesn’t have cutting off Mista’s airflow, he brandishes a black tank top.
Mista’s face, which is rapidly turning red, falls. Then he laughs nervously. “It’s our biggest sale with the teens?”
The offending tank top has an admittedly impressive and uniquely styled sailboat tearing through the sea, and a fish is pole dancing on the sail mast.
He can STRIP TO CRAB RAVE and still give you a BONER: Just Ask the PIERS PSYCHIC! It reads in the sail. Then, in the spray of water: AND WAIT TIL YOU TRY THE CRABS!
“Someone came into my tent and asked me,” Abbacchio hisses. “Asked me about something that didn’t happen five years ago when I was also drunk!”
“You weren’t drunk,” croaks Mista. “You don’t drink!”
Abbacchio tightens his grip. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!”
“Uncleuncleuncle.” Mista slaps his forearm, and because his face is turning purple, and Abbacchio doesn’t actually want to murder the kid, he lets go. Mista overdramatically wheezes. “I mean it, though! You know how there are, like, Shore meme pages on Instagram? Someone posted it on there and it blew the fuck up! We’ve made, like, five hundred off it. It’s big bucks, Abba.”
One one hand, this was humiliating and a real dignity killer. On the other hand, Abbacchio historically does not have much dignity. On the first hand, this “historically” refers to about seven years ago and he’s very happy and well-adjusted these days. Back on the second hand—he promises this is it, now—five hundred is some major bank, and he’s willing to endure a slight on his character if it means building a better life for Bruno (and himself) (but especially Bruno).
But Abbacchio? Well, he’s the oldest out of all of them, he’s technically a father, he casually has a supernatural power, he volunteers at the rehab clinic that saved his life, and he’s also goth and sexy.
Basically, he’s saying that Guido Mista crossed the wrong fucking guy, and he’s gonna get his just desserts.
Which leaves us here, now. It’s early June, he’s reclined on a chair on the Springwood Beach with a hefty slathering of sunscreen and a large hat, licking moodily bluesily at his cone of black raspberry ice cream as it melts under the sun, and he stares out at the rhythmic waves and plots his revenge.
The punishment should fit the crime. Therefore, Mista should be publicly humiliated in turn.
Now, everything Mista does is embarrassing. But loath as he is to say it, his most potent dirt is still, to this day, the Buccellati Venus rant. It’s long, it’s full of spelling and grammatical errors, it’s melodramatic, and it’s a really cringe example about how much of a simp he is.
Abbacchio does not and refuses to ever use social media. And besides, that would be too impersonal. He needs to read it aloud. He needs a Speech.
And, see, the thing is, people like Abbacchio don’t get many opportunities to give Speeches. So when does he do it? A Wedding. More specifically, Guido’s Wedding. He needs Guido to get married, so he can declare himself best man, and thus give a Speech. Which means he needs to ensure that Guido gets married.
How?
Easy. Bouquet straight to the face.
However, this means that Abbacchio needs to have his own Wedding. Which means that he’s going to have to get off his ass and stop procrastinating and actually Propose to Bruno. Which, like, he’s been meaning to. For about two-and-a-half years now, actually. But the pandemic sort of set them back financially, and he wants their engagement to be a happy thing that happens when they’re in a good place.
And now, well, Bruno’s actually qualified for a mortgage, and he’s weighing the ups and shipwrecks of various fishing boats on the market. And once he’s got the boat—which, holy shit, that could be in weeks—he’ll be able to start up the business sort of in increments, like his father before him: a part time crab stand, and then once business builds up a little bit he can have the Grand Reopening of the Crab Shack, and then Bruno’s been musing aloud how he’s thinking about adding various fish and clams to the menu to expand the business.
But, you know, starting humble.
Incredibly, and surreally, this goal to pursue his passion and honor his father’s memory is happening. It’s happening, finally, finally, finally, finally, and it’s happening this summer.
+
Me
Hello
son #4, the whore
Good morning Abba
Me
it’s 6PM
listen, your good at plotting things
son #4, the whore
I am on occasion
Me
good for you. I need your help.
-
The touristy ferry that crosses from Cape June to Delaware leaves from Cape June Terminal several times a day. The earliest is 6:30 AM, and this is the time that Abbacchio chooses to have his clandestine meeting with Giorno.
The captain of this ferry, Captain Pericolo, lives in a small house on the mainland and has been friends with the Buccellatis for years. He never makes Bruno pay for tickets, and even lets Bruno come to the helm and take the wheel once in a while. In typical shameless Buccellati eloquence, the first time he brought Abbacchio aboard, he said, “Hi Cap. Oh, this is Leone. He’s my soulmate.”
They weren’t even together at the time. His suffering is unending.
Since Abbacchio serves some unmistakable looks, the lady at the terminal sees him and Giorno and wordlessly lifts the chain. The dewy chill pricks their skin as they clang up the steel ramp, and they wander up to the empty top deck. The two friends lean side by side on the railing, the slick undisturbed layer of dew dampening their sleeves.
“So,” says Giorno. “How can I offer my assistance?”
God, he’s so insufferable. Abbacchio stares resolutely at the lavender dawn glow which glows over the whispering Atlantic. “I’m proposing to Bruno this summer. I need help scheming.”
Giorno’s expression lights up. “Really! About time,” he says. “Why now?”
“Hmph. None of your business.” Well, it is his business, actually, given that he’s key to Abbacchio’s plan of revenge succeeding. But Abbacchio can’t ruin his plot. It’s all a long con. “It’s for important reasons. I’ll tell you that.”
“Oka—” Giorno is drowned out by a low, deep foghorn sounding from the helm across the bay. With a rumble and a jerk, the ferry goes into motion. “Okay.”
“I’m thinking after the grand reopening of the Crab Shack,” Abbacchio says.
“Sensible.” Giorno nods. “Riding the wave of extreme positivity.”
“I know that, whore. [Pause!] ...Thanks,” he admits. “But I need help—okay, I don’t really need that much help.” He pauses. “I don’t need help. I just need to think aloud about how I’m gonna do this shit, and, like, what kind of specifics. And, ugh. I guess you’re good at listening and keeping secrets. Whatever.”
“Love you too, Abba.” Giorno smiles subtly.
“Ugh.” He sneers.
But here goes. “So, I mean. Ring. Can’t be too glittery, because that’s dumb. Can’t be super expensive, because that’s also dumb. I could probably just go simple, but have you met me? That’s dumb. I looked up crab rings, but the only ones I could find are thirty dollars on Etsy. They’ll give him, like, tetanus.”
“What if you found a fish ring?” Giorno suggests suddenly. “He was talking about how, ideally, he could expand to different types of catches on top of crabs. Like clams. Tuna, swordfish, maybe some mahi mahi, depending on the new No-Fish Zones.”
“Fish…” Abbacchio says thoughtfully. Somehow, the slosh of water against the boat and the salty wind flapping in his eyelashes aids his thinking process here. “It could… it could be a symbol of, like, growth. Expansion. Bigger and better things.”
He turns, and Giorno’s wearing a smug smart little expression. Abbacchio assumes it’s because he’s a good planner and he knows it. “I really—believe me here—really hate to say this. But you’re right. Fuck you.”
This first vital step of his revenge now planned, Giorno and Abbacchio contentedly, quietly stand side by side as the ferry makes its gentle way through the sleeping bay. A few rays of sun break free and race over the waves. Giorno points out the dark glitter that’s a pod of dolphins dancing for an inhale. Abbacchio says they’re stupid. An ideal interaction.
The warmth of the summer day begins to seep in by the time the ferry reaches Delaware, and rather than get off, they claim a seat on the top deck and sunbathe. Giorno pulls out a book about shipwrecks and boats throughout history and asks if Abbacchio wants to read it together. Abbacchio says all boats and shipwrecks are stupid, but nonetheless slumps onto Giorno’s shoulder and lets his eyes train over the archaeological pictures.
+
“Look it.” Giorno strides into the room, where Fugo, Narancia, and Mista are vibing on the floor, and opens his phone. They crane in to see the screen.
“Uh, Giorno, not for nothing,” says Narancia, “but you know you’re showing us monster breeding porn right now, right?”
“Oh, oops. Wrong link.” He exits out of that horrible video. “Sorry, that was from Jolyne.”
“Your cousin sends you monster porn?” Fugo’s voice is strained.
It’s sort of a rick roll situation in the family group chat, where someone will be like ‘wow I heard this great song,’ and someone else will be like ‘is it the monster porn’ and the first person will be like ‘no,’ and—you get the drift. Giorno hums, electing not to elaborate, and pulls up the correct link. “Okay, now look.”
Their faces slacken in wonder, in various degrees of funny expression. Mista, whose expression is second funniest, guffaws. “Gio, you didn’t.”
“I did,” Giorno confirms smugly. “I planted the idea into his head, and he took it. It’s not my fault that this is the first result for ‘fish ring’ online.”
“Wow, you must be stealing my IQ points again,” Fugo drawls. He looks closer. “What color is he getting?”
“Gold.” Giorno can’t help how smug he looks. Smugness is so deserved here. “As fishermen might say—hook, line, and sinker.”
+
It’s a regular old day in the Passione Piers fortune telling tent—shady, and with enough space under the drapes that it ushers in the subtle sea breeze. Abbacchio insisted on this. Cause, listen. He’s an irreplaceable part of the Piers, and if he baked to death, where do they think they’re gonna find another bona fide psychic?
Everyone who comes in is, unfortunately, interesting. Even the people who seem boring as shit. Everyone’s got something at some point that makes them look at life in a different life.
And then Josuke comes in.
No, not the insufferable one with a hair complex and a mischievous streak as wide as he is tall. Abbacchio’s talking about the one who used to be Fugo’s roommate. That spring, Giorno had gone to visit Exeter for a few days, and realized that there was a birthmark on Josuke 2’s shoulder that matched both his and the rest of the Joestar clan.
Abbacchio likes this one, specifically because he remains constantly confused by the Joestars. Which, you know, same.
The other notable thing about this guy is that he, to this day, apparently has no recollection of the beginning of his life.
Abbacchio’s honestly surprised he didn’t come to him sooner.
But he shifts in his seat into Professional Mode and pretends not to know him. “Good morning,” Abbacchio says. It’s 3PM.
“Hey,” says Gappy. “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m—”
“I know who you are,” Abbacchio interrupts. “But you don’t.”
Gappy’s eyes widen. “Man, forreal? I’m not big news in the Joestar family, I didn’t think you’d remember.”
“No, I’m kidding. Giovanna told me about your amnesia.”
“...Oh?”
“Well, did he tell you that I can unlock your past for you?” Abbacchio interrupts him again, this time before he can even start. “Let me rephrase that. He did tell you, the second time you met up. You’ve been thinking about it ever since, but this is only your third time visiting Springwood and you’re just like, what the hell. Why not.”
“Uh.” Gappy swallows trepidatiously. “Should I, um. Pay you now?”
He narrows his eyes. “Can you buy me an acai bowl from the place down near Springwood Crest?”
“S—”
“A nutella bowl, specifically. No bananas.”
“Oka—”
“Extra coconut,” he finishes.
“Yeah, sure,” Gappy agrees. He looks a bit dazed.
“Cool.” Abbacchio leans back in his chair. He figures he’ll go right ahead. “Alright, Josuke. You know your four balls? Everyone’s always passed it off as a genetic quirk, and they’re right. But it’s more than that. You’re not just a test tube baby—you’re a genetic fucking freak. So basically, two scientists at Morioh University’s grad program basically spliced their DNA together to make a hybrid clone, which is you. Jesus fuck, this is weird. Anyway, it was kinda gay, but then the government—”
Just then, the back curtains to the tent part, and in slips one Bruno Buccellati. The man interjects: “Abbacchio.”
...who pauses. He glances, annoyed, over his shoulder. “Hello?”
“Come with me,” Bruno commands.
Abbacchio sneers. “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“Well, go on break.”
“My break’s at four.”
Bruno is already walking forward to grab at the fabric of Abbacchio’s sleeve. “As general manager of Passione Piers, I say that you go on break now.” He’s doing that low authoritative thing with his voice, which can bring people both metaphorically and physically to their knees. It’s always kinda weird to see the cashiers at McDonalds kneel submissively when Bruno asks for extra pickles.
Thankfully, that effect doesn’t work on Abbacchio unless he wants it to. “I don’t care if you’re my manager.”
“Alright, then. As your best friend.”
Oh, damn. Usually, dropping the ‘boyfriend’ word is enough to get Abbacchio to, say, go buy him a bagel. But the fact that before everything else, they’re each other’s best friends, is sacred. So Bruno only pulls the Best Friend Card when it’s a big deal.
But he’s also petty. “Who says you’re my best friend?”
Bruno frowns. “Who is, then?”
Abbacchio opens his mouth to answer ‘the acai bowl that this guy is about to get me,’ but he suddenly has a Thought. “Wait. How did you get here? Did you steal my car?”
“Just—come with me.”
As Bruno drags him out of the tent, Gappy watches them go in bewilderment. “Should I just… go?” Too late. They’re already gone.
-
Bruno doesn’t elaborate as they weave through the buoyant crowds, past the games, past the rides, under the arch announcing PASSIONE PIERS, their footsteps muted on the solid boardwalk. He doesn’t elaborate as they descend the ramp off Springwood Boardwalk to the staff parking lot, where, sure enough, Bruno has ‘borrowed’ his car.
He shoves his hand into Bruno’s pocket and snatches his keys. “You get in the passenger seat, you thief.”
“Hehe,” he says unapologetically, sliding in shotgun.
Slinging an arm around the seats, he looks over his shoulder to back out. A family with too many fuckin’ kids in strollers is taking their fat fuckin’ time on the sidewalk, as if they’re trying to block Abbacchio in. He lays on the horn. “I’m tryna get out, here!”
Eventually, they move, and then the car’s out on the wide, sunny, sandy streets. Groups of people mill down the sidewalk, carrying beach bags and dragging bougie boards behind them. The vintage motels are back to life, with kids dashing around the balconies, chilling in the bright motel pools. The air is warm, and the days are good.
“Now are you gonna elaborate what’s got you so desperate?” he asks. He’s got the window rolled down, one elbow propped on the door.
“Mm. No.”
And he doesn’t elaborate the whole way back to the Crab Shack. It’s lit a little tremor of curiosity in Abbacchio. He wouldn’t put it past Bruno to get insanely horny at noon on a Tuesday, but usually if that was the case, he’d start dirty talking when Abbacchio was turning on the engine. So Abbacchio shrugs it off. The skybound gossip chain of the seabirds is nearly as loud as the shit-and-rotten-fish combo as they pass over Route 44, and eventually pull off to the side street that boasts the Crab Shack.
Bruno leaps out of the passenger seat and dashes around to open the door for him—but he doesn’t let him stand. “Close your eyes.”
Abbacchio grins. “Close my eyes?” He obeys.
Then Bruno’s warm hand circles his wrist and pulls him up. “Follow me, love. Don’t open your eyes.”
Bruno leads him the usual route: through the crunchy gravel driveway around to the left side of the Crab Shack. But rather than go right to reach the back door, Bruno pulls him forward, into the beaten grass, and onto the old pavement that leads to the dock.
“Alright. Open your eyes.”
And there’s the boat.
“Holy shit.” He looks at Bruno, because his happiness has to be brilliant right now. It is. His blue eyes put the brightest summer day to shame, and his tan face is stretched in unbound joy. “Holy shit!”
It’s humble, as far as fishing boats go. Around 30 feet long, a black hull, and the helm and everything else a scratched and dull white. But the aluminum glints in the sun—almost concealing the elegant words painted on the side.
“Meet Sticky Fingers,” Bruno says, his voice thick with emotion. The marsh slushing beneath the dock, he walks forward and lays reverent fingers on her hull. “I just brought her in from the marina an hour ago.”
“She’s beautiful,” Abbacchio says. God, he means it.
“I told the rest to come over soon, but I wanted you to see her first.”
Those words break the reverie. He yanks Bruno into his arms, nearly tugging him off his feet, and kisses and kisses his hair. Yes, and soon, that hair will get back to being loose and textured from the sea, just like it’s always been meant to be. He can’t wait. “God, I’m so proud of you. She’s incredible. You’re incredible.”
Bruno clenches Abbacchio’s torso under his arms. “I’m so happy,” he says muffledly into Abbacchio’s t-shirt. “I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”
“She’s incredible,” he can only repeat.
“Sticky and I are gonna catch so many good crabs together!” They spin around on the dock as a single dancing being. Well, probably a drunk one, with their stumbling.
“And I’m just one fucking step closer to being a trophy husband.” A moment passes, and then—shit. He freezes. “Uh—I mean.”
Bruno pulls back a little. And his expression doesn’t look shocked at all; but he’s got a little trickster smirk on his perfect face. “No, no, don’t get all shy on me,” he says. “You are.”
What? What? What? What? Huh? What!
He means, like, OMG. Like, yes, he knows that, like, theoretically he’s always known they’re gonna get married, right, and they’ve even talked about it before, a lot, but this is the first time that he sounds so mischievous about it? Does Bruno know? He’s got the delivery date for the ring memorized, it’s three days from now, so there’s no way—like, holy shit, he’s gonna marry the love of his life, and, like, what—
Bruno kisses him to shut his brain up. (Goddamn—remember when the thoughts that wouldn’t stop talking were suicidal? Now it’s—now.) And they do a lot of that (shutting up and kissing) right on the dock, until:
“Brah!” Narancia shouts. “That’s a fucking boat!”
+
The ring is here.
The crab fishing has begun.
But, okay. He thinks that maybe he spoke a little too soon about the whole Crab Shack reopening thing. It’s the beginning of July, which isn’t really relevant, but basically what Abbacchio’s saying is that every second he doesn’t propose is a second that Mista gets away with his crime.
Remember. This is all a long con.
On this particular day, he’s volunteering at the clinic from 2 to 7, so he needs to leave around 1:12, because it takes 46 minutes to drive there.
Even though Guido no longer works at the Piers, the gang still meets up ritually at their round table outside the shitty boardwalk pizza place Libecco’s. More and more often, Abbacchio brings his own food, because his metabolism just isn’t the same as it was when he was twenty. But this morning, he just didn’t feel like it.
Whatever.
He’s blessing his ears with “Orinoco Flow” by Enya in his headphones—he doesn’t really care about bumping into people—but when he looks up, he finds that all his friends are already there. Weird. Narancia’s never been punctual to jackshit in his life, which Abbacchio knows very goddamn well from the fifteen minutes he waited in court for Narancia to show up so he could adopt the damn bastard.
Bruno’s inside the pizzeria, having a small conversation with the girl behind the counter. She looks delighted. Ha. Reasonable.
When Bruno comes out and takes his seat, he smiles at the table and says, “I ordered for everyone.”
Abbacchio lifts an eyebrow. “Special occasion?”
“God, I hope so,” Mista says, before getting elbowed in the ribs by Fugo. “Once again I say, what gives Panni!”
Abbacchio stares. “God, you’re all weird,” he decides.
“Oh yeah, speaking of. Lemme show you guys this gnarly bruise I got at the competition last week.” Narancia stands and hooks his finger into the waistband of his shorts to show off a black bruise on his hip bone. Trish bites her lip and looks away, her expression unreadable—a little wistful, a little sad.
“I wonder if bruise blood tastes different than normal blood to vampires,” Mista wonders aloud.
“A little bit,” Giorno instantly answers. “The base taste is the same, but there’s something infinitely sweeter about blood fresh from the vein.”
Mista stares at him blankly. “Babe, what?”
Abbacchio feels a faint vibration, and he looks beneath the table to see Bruno’s knee bouncing furiously. Kind of annoying. He puts a hand on his thigh to still it. “Is everything okay?”
“Mhm,” Bruno says, overly brightly. Realizing that, he coughs. “I, erm. I accidentally ordered too much caffeine. Boy oh boy, do I have the jitters.”
“Well. Okay.” He smooths his thumb over his skin. “Dumbass. Maybe d…”
He’s interrupted by something very unusual: Signora Libecco herself bringing out the pizza and a plate of garlic knots. As their most loyal customers for over half a decade, they’re very close with the good signora and the rest of her employees, but she very, very rarely brings out the food herself. As in, like, never.
Bruno… half-convincingly looks surprised. “Oh, thank you!”
Not everyone else, though. All of his friends wear expressions so shit-eating that he’s tempted to hit up the porta potty and fulfill their appetite. And Libecco and her employees not-so-subtly linger by the entrance. Abbacchio looks around and frowns. “Okay, you’re all acting weird.”
“We’re all weird.” Bruno starts picking through the garlic knot, and he places the top one on a paper plate and slides it to Abbacchio. “Here you go.”
He frankly couldn’t give a shit about what these little shits are up to. They’re weird, he’s goth, and he’s hungry. So he takes a big hunkering bite of that first garlic knot.
As he’s chewing on it, Bruno says to him, “Hey, love.”
He looks up. “Mm?”
Bruno smiles softly. “Do you wanna tie the knot?”
He freezes. His heart spikes. His eyes widen. And then something small and hard lodges in his windpipe.
Instantly, he splutters, spitting half-chewed dough unceremoniously into a napkin. Whatever it is is really stuck in there, and he begins to choke uncontrollably.
As his vision is currently blurring from the force of his coughs, he only half-notices as Bruno sinks to one knee and begins to read off some writing on his hand: “Dear Leone, comma, enter key new paragraph, this is Bruno. I love you so much. I knew when I saw you that you would change my life. You know, we are a lot like the Crab Shack. We started out being crabs, but now are various things like swordfish, and even clams.”
He mutely slaps the table. He can’t breathe; he can’t breathe. The whore comes behind him and wraps his arms around him, balling a fist in his solar plexus. He starts doing compressions, and Abbacchio’s entire chest heaves.
Bruno seemingly does not take notice. “Enter key new paragraph. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that we have built such a beautiful life together, and we grow better every day. We should spend our whole lives growing together. Marry me, please?”
With one final, hearty smack between Abbacchio’s shoulder blades, the object dislodges… and a slimy silver fish ring shoots out of his mouth and hits Bruno right in the forehead.
Bruno beams. Moisture comes to his eyes, “Is that a yes?”
Abbacchio hunches over, wheezing. Then he blinks at Bruno. “What?” he asks hoarsely.
Then he double takes, and vaguely recalls what Bruno just said while he was choking—something something swordfish something something marry. Oh, wait. And that’s a spit-coated ring in Bruno’s palm. In lieu of an answer (his throat still hurts. A lot.), he nods thickly, and then hauls his Capital-F Fiancé into a choking embrace.
Narancia is jumping around like a monkey. Fugo is saying something like ‘finally.’ Mista is full-on bawling, but not as hard as Libecco’s daughter. Giorno looks dazed, like he’s been struck again by how lovely the world can be. And Trish is taping—on her aesthetic camcorder, of course.
And, of course, Abbacchio does not notice (nor does he care) about a bit of it.
+
It’s the same goddamn ring. Just in a different color.
Motherfucking Whorevanna.