Chapter Text
“How ‘bout we play strip poker!” Is what Narancia suggested, quickly followed by a chorus of “no’s” and a mildly concerned “how do you know what strip poker is?”
“How about we just play normal-ass poker. No stripping necessary,” is what Abbacchio counter-suggested, met by various noises of agreement and a groan of “aw, man, seriously?”
“Thank God for that,” Mista sighed, “I didn’t even put on underwear today.”
Everyone ignored that.
And so, Fugo pulled out a deck of cards and Giorno helped clear the dining room table and Narancia begrudgingly got the chips. Buccellati took his place at the head of the table as he always did, and the rest of the little family scrambled to their own seats.
“Giorno can’t deal us in anymore cause he’s a fucking cheater. Give me the deck,” Abbacchio said, making a hand-it-over gesture towards Fugo.
Giorno, thoroughly outed for being a dirty cheat, gasped and gripped his chest— a man scandalized. “That was one time. And you say that like Mista wasn’t hiding cards up his sleeves the whole game. My cheating was justified.”
“Well, actually,” Mista butted in, “I’m Abbacchio’s favorite, so he doesn’t give a shit when I cheat.”
The entire table (sans Mista) then broke out into various different versions of “isn’t Narancia his favorite?” and that was enough to shut the gunman up with little more than a defeated humph.
Fugo cleared his throat, handing the deck to Abbacchio, “Anyway, let’s just get this over with. I can already feel the migraine coming on, so I’d like for this to be done as quickly as possible, please.”
And then, Buccellati in all his charm, wagged his finger with a devious smile, tsk-tsking at the mere implication that they’d start without—
“A bet,” he said. “Stakes, something to make this interesting.”
Now, everyone hated Buccellati’s bets, but they had to admit they were interesting. He always played dirty, and thus he always won, which meant that one unlucky member of their family would always be on the receiving end of whatever dare he’d propose for them. One time, Narancia was dared to speak solely in Crazy Frog quotes for a week. Another time, Fugo had to speak in rhymes and riddles. Giorno was forced to live in the treehouse for a day and a night (which he actually enjoyed), and Mista was pressured into getting a piercing in an… unsavory place. Which he also enjoyed. Their family was weird.
The only one who hadn’t yet suffered at the conniving hands of Buccellati was Abbacchio.
The silver-haired man and the brunet locked eyes.
“For tonight, whoever wins will pick the dare for whoever has the least chips by the end of the game,” Buccellati decreed. With a flourish of his hands, he went on to finish, “Let the games begin.”
-
That night was when Abbacchio’s luck had turned to complete and utter dogshit.
Giorno wasn’t the only cheater, he found out. Everyone had been cheating. Fugo stacked the deck when Abbacchio wasn’t looking, Narancia had marked the cards with his pocket knife the day before, and the other bastards were all in on it, too. And of course, once again, Mista was sneaking cards up his sleeves.
Abbacchio didn’t find out immediately. Really, he just thought he had lost his not-quite-losing-but-not-winning-etiher streak, a genuine and eventually inevitable slip up by Lady Luck. She couldn’t protect him forever, he figured. And so he wasn’t all too upset. Not initially, at least.
See, Bruno loved him. There was no way he’d give Abbacchio a ridiculous dare like he had given the others once upon a time— he’d go easy on him, surely. And even if he didn’t, Abbacchio would take whatever else came at him. He wasn’t so prideful, but he knew how to keep his dignity in… less than ideal situations. Surely, he would be fine.
The sound of a zipper snapped him out of his bitter rumination, reminding him exactly why he was not fine right now.
“Your shoulders are so broad, it’s impossible to get this thing zipped up,” Bruno griped, fighting with the silver zipper currently stuck around the middle of Abbacchio’s back.
“Not my fault,” Abbacchio snarked back, “You’re the one who’s making me wear this—” a strangled cry of pain as Bruno finally finagled the zipper all the way to the top of Abbacchio’s neck— “ridiculous fucking dress.”
And, Lord, was the dress ridiculous.
Abbacchio turned around in front of the full length mirror in their shared bedroom, a tight scowl on his face as he watched the polka-dotted fabric spin. It was one of those dresses you’d expect to see a housewife ripped straight from the 1950’s wear, complete with a swing skirt, a button down top that was far too tight for the man’s… rather large chest, a sash wrapped round the waist, and a little scarf tied round his neck as the icing on the cake. Bruno beamed from behind him, proud of his hard work.
“Do a little twirl for me, won’t you?” Bruno asked, so sweet, so hard to say no to.
And Abbacchio twirled around, and the dress spun in dizzying waves of little black raindrops on white fabric, and Bruno was savoring every second of his partner’s misery like a fine Piedirosso.
When the man was done twirling (with easy success, he might add— he was used to wearing heels at this point so it was no big deal for his ankles, at least, with little to mention about his pride), Abbacchio faced Bruno, eyebrows drawn up and rose red lips pouting in one last plea for mercy.
“This is dehumanizing,” he tried to reason, “you’re better than this. Have some sense, Bruno.”
But Bruno, too distracted with appreciating the very complimentary way that the dress hugged his waist, waved him off. “You look lovely, cuore mio. Now go on downstairs, the others want to see you.”
Bruno finished with a quick tap on Abbacchio’s behind, and escaped the bedroom before the violated man had time to process what just happened.
Now, Abbacchio didn’t actually dislike dresses. In fact, he wore them often, loved them, had a few hanging up in his closet at this very moment. The collection was his pride and joy, a number of designers and styles and all with very, very high price tags. Abbacchio wasn’t really one to indulge, but he wanted to have some finer luxuries in his life (to which Bruno would often reply with mock hurt, “I’m not a fine enough luxury for you?” and God, did Abbacchio love that man). All in all, dresses were simply a part of him, an irreplaceable facet of his life.
But that isn’t to say he didn’t have… certain standards for the things he wore. And right now, this Stepford-esque monstrosity was meeting absolutely none of them.
Abbacchio liked form-fitting; this skirt was loose and flowy. Abbacchio liked complex designs, corsets and lace and hell, if he was really feeling it, spandex; this ensemble was plain in the worst of ways, so simple and so drab it made him grimace just looking at it. Abbacchio, self-conscious as he was, liked showing some skin every now and again; this dress was so conservative that he felt scandalous just for leaving his ankles exposed.
The only saving grace was the little touch that Bruno insisted on adding. He had the skirt custom made by a tailor he knew from the city, using the very same pattern that Burno wore on his suit. Abbacchio’s expression softened as he continued to look at himself in the mirror. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.
-
This was bad.
This was fucking awful.
“Woah, who’s that hot piece of ass you brought up to your room, Buccellati?” Mista catcalled, whistling as Abbacchio (horrifically red in the face, wanting to crawl into a hole and die), descended the stairs.
Fugo smacked him on his exposed stomach, definitely hard enough to leave a mark, saying, “Don’t be fucking weird about it, dipshit. Have some respect.”
“I think he looks kinda nice, actually!” Narancia chimed in with a tilt of his head. And Abbacchio was then reminded why the boy was his favorite. “It’s not what he usually wears, but y’know, it still suits him in a weird way.”
Abbacchio finally reached the bottom of the stairs, standing in front of his family with his arms crossed. His baneful glare was cast towards Giorno, met with equal intensity from the boy.
“Say it, Giovanna,” Abbacchio snarled. “Spit it out.”
And Giorno batted those stupid blond eyelashes of his, the picture of innocence. “You look just fine,” he said, perfectly calm and collected and lying through his goddamn teeth.
Bruno clasped his hands together, letting out a sigh. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it, Leone?”
“If by ‘not so bad,’ you mean ‘I didn’t die and that was literally the only good thing to come of this,’ then yes, things are just peachy.”
“Ah— now, now, caro— I think we both know you’d have preferred dying over this.”
And that’s how it began. With a game, a dare, and a silly little dress. However, Abbacchio would soon come to face the horrors that still awaited him. He had to keep this up for a week, after all. This was just the beginning.