Archive of Our Own ^omega

In the living room of Bucciarati’s hole-in-the-wall apartment, drowned out by the persistent hum of the heating that comes in and out, Sinatra plays low on the record player. A candle, amber and cashmere, has burned long enough to turn to liquid, and the scent hangs comfortingly in the air. A box of the frozen Christmas cookies Bucciarati makes every year sits thawing on the counter, and Bucciarati himself is bent over a box of ornaments, detangling a long string of white Christmas lights. Some of them have gone out, but he never remembers to pick up new ones; he doesn’t mind it, not really, because he can just keep the ones that flicker out of view with the tree in the corner as it is. 

If it were snowing, it would be the perfect night to welcome the Christmas season. But Bucciarati has learned, time and time again, that things do not always go to plan. Things are not always perfect. As much as he may chase it, perfection is just above, just beyond his reach. If it were any other way, his father would still be alive, he’s sure. But if Bucciarati’s father is anywhere near him now, he’s not tangible enough to help him detangle these damn lights. The most Bucciarati has gotten from him since he passed a few months ago is the sensation of a hand against his shoulder, fleeting and certainly a bereaved hallucination. 

His fingers are cramping up from how long it’s taken him to do all of this detangling. He inwardly scolds himself for throwing these so haphazardly in the box after last Christmas, setting them down in his lap and taking a break for a moment. He looks outside, to a sky that is starless and streetlights that flickers, and heaves a long sigh. 

It occurs to him then, as it does every now and again, how different life is. How different life will be. And this is a thought that he can typically shake off or ignore, that he pushes down with everything else that doesn’t matter, but there’s something about the Christmas season and the nostalgic smell of amber and soft cashmere and the sound of Sinatra that makes it harder to ignore things. Perhaps the warmth, courtesy of his oven running open in tandem with the unreliable central heating, is melting something off of his composure. Melting away the part of him that manages to forget, or feign forgetting, so easily. 

A sensation similar to the stinging of tears burns his eyes. He refuses to give in. So Bucciarati looks back down to the lights in his hands and sets to attempting to detangle them once more, shaking away the thoughts from his head. 

“Need a hand with that?”



The sound of glass moving about a box had sparked his attention, but Fugo didn’t feel the actual urge to see what the noise was until he heard the sound of a certain cord being pulled and dropped. Emerging from the doorway to the living room, he leans against it, looking over to Bucciarati. And not feeling the need to ask what he is doing, he steps forward. 

Bucciarati startles at the sudden voice. He’d entirely forgotten he doesn’t live alone anymore. He picks his head up to look at Fugo and takes a moment to regain his bearings. Then, an additional moment to process the question. “Ah–” he considers saying no, but then he looks back down to just how much of the godforsaken cord, knotted and bundled, he has left, and decides that perhaps some help couldn’t hurt. Maybe the company would assuage this odd sentimental feeling he can’t seem to shake. “Sure, if you don’t mind. I don’t know what I did to tangle them so much last year, but I’ll have to make sure I don’t do it again,” he laughs quietly–and a little awkwardly. 

It’s the least he can do, Fugo decides, after all that Bucciarati has done for him these past few months. So, he nods and joins Bucciarati on the couch, picking up what seems to be the opposite end of the string of lights, beginning to pull it through some of the larger knots. After a while of this, they end up with a mostly-detangled string, with some tight, small knots here and there…but they don’t need to worry about those until next year.

“Do you think they’ll still light up?” Fugo asks, trying to use his fingers to untie one of said knots, to no prevail. His brows furrow, and contemplates using his teeth for this. Of course, this is a terrible idea, and Bucciarati seems to have read his mind, standing from his spot on the couch.

“Only one way to find out.” Bucciarati shrugs, gathering the lights in his hands (carefully, so as not to re-tangle them somehow.) He plugs them in, and, lo and behold–they do light up! Well, most of them. Save for the ones that he’d already noticed were dead and the few that flicker and, okay, maybe a few more of them are out than last year. The important part is that enough of them are working that he doesn’t need to buy new ones, and he’s content with that.



While Bucciarati clumsily makes his way through settling the lights on the tree, Fugo peruses the box of ornaments. Some of them are glass, delicate-looking and ornate, with swirls of gold and silver glitter on forest greens, crimson reds. Many more of them are plastic, a good chunk likely hailing from the dollar store. The odd few look more personal. There’s one, sitting in the corner of the box, that looks to be made out of craft foam and popsicle sticks and glitter glue. 

Fugo looks up to see that Bucciarati is still fully engrossed in arranging these lights correctly, and watches him for a moment just to be sure. And then, gingerly, as though working with fine china, he picks up the crude little craft and takes a look at it.



Bucciarati must have made this, right? 

The ‘BRUNO,’ poorly written in Sharpie on the back, says yes, he did.

 Fugo has to fight a laugh at the image of Bucciarati, must-always-act-composed (even if he sucks at it sometimes) Bucciarati, distant and yet undeniably warm Bucciarati, small and happy as he scrawls his name on a craft he was proud of.

Bucciarati, ‘I wish I could do more for you’ Bucciarati, being proud of something–something he made. It’s just not an idea Fugo finds to be…fathomable. And yet, in the Bucciarati that nearly trips over the lights before him, perhaps some modicum of that lingers. 

“Okay! I got it, I think.”

Fugo hastily throws the stupid foam monstrosity into the bin just in time for Bucciarati to turn around. When he does, he’s smiling–but it’s not an ear-to-ear sort of childish thing, and Fugo wonders, briefly, where it went. He knows that, of course, in order for Bucciarati to even end up in a line of work like this, something must have happened. Something terrible. After all, what kind man who takes fucked-up teenagers into his cheap, shitty apartment just indicts himself into the Mafia? Until he’d met Bucciarati, Fugo wouldn’t have thought ‘kind’ and ‘Mafia’ could logically fit into the same sentence. 

His thoughts are quickly interrupted as he watches the man pass him, bending down to pick up the box of ornaments, placing them down onto a chair next to the Christmas tree for easier access. The silence is awkward, and Fugo realizes that he forgot to say something. “It looks nice,” he quickly says, feeling bad, even though he knows Bucciarati was not looking for approval or anything of the sort.

 

“I’m sure it’ll be nicer once it’s decorated,” Bucciarati explains. When he turns to Fugo, there’s an unfamiliar look in his eyes. If Fugo didn’t know any better, he may mistake it for brimming tears. Bucciarati would never admit that that assumption might happen to be correct. He’s nearly cried into his box of ornaments every year since he was twelve; having someone around to stop him further from giving into the urge is foreign.  “Would you like to help me?”  

Fugo watches as Bruno picks up the handmade craft he was just holding a moment ago, the man’s eyes suspiciously refusing to really look down at it. He hesitates for a moment. He’d never really been asked if he wanted to help with things like this before. Unless it was something he was forced to do with his extended family for appearances, decorating the house was always left for the help. The option–being properly given the choice–is, somehow, comforting to Fugo. He nods, moving to begin helping place them on the tree. He lifts a plastic orb out of the box, holding it as if it were one of the glass ones–because you never know when something is actually sentimental–and hooks it onto one of the synthetic branches. 

Though the room is not truly silent, the pair graced with Sinatra’s rendition of Let It Snow, Fugo feels oddly compelled to start conversation. And the first thing he asks is, “don’t you miss the smell of pine? From a real tree?”

Bucciarati smiles, but it’s more of a melancholy expression than anything. Somewhere in it, though, lies fondness. “I never had a real tree growing up. At least, not that I can remember much,” he explains. “We always sprayed our fake ones with pine air freshener, actually.” 

Fugo raises a brow, “That’s not a bad idea, actually. Does it really work?” he questions, the idea of running out to grab a can of it from the store oddly appealing. 

“Well, I haven’t been around real pine enough to know!” Bucciarati chuckles, hanging another one of those personal-looking ornaments on the tree. It’s one of those photograph ornaments, and the picture is black and white, a man and a woman. They look young. Happy. “It was convincing enough to me, though. I can’t say I’ve ever felt a need for anything more.” 

There’s something sad in the way he says that last sentence, and Fugo really notices just how off Bucciarati seems now. He takes in the scene before him, fully. The Sinatra track changes. Fugo had never known Bucciarati to be a Sinatra man. And the candle burning, although pleasant, isn’t one that Fugo recognizes.

“Are you… okay ?” 

Bucciarati seems to freeze, only for a second. “Yes,” he says, though his expression falters briefly, “of course I am. Why do you ask?”

“You seem off,” Fugo shrugs, hanging another ornament on the tree. “I didn’t know you liked Sinatra. And I didn’t know you liked cashmere and amber candles, either. I never knew you to be the festive kind.” 

Bucciarati is silent. Fugo thinks he struck a nerve, or that he said something off. A part of him fears, in part, that Bucciarati is upset with him. But eventually, he gives a response. “It’s a tradition. My father loved jazz. And my mother burned amber candles around this time of year.”

Fugo figures that Bucciarati’s love for tradition makes sense. He just seems like the type to be sentimental about these types of things. He nods to Bucciarati before asking, “How come you don’t visit them for the holidays?”

Bucciarati sucks in a sharp inhale before he speaks. He’d been anticipating the question. He knew full well it was coming. But answering it is daunting. It’s sort of a milestone, really; the first time he has to explain it to someone else, someone who doesn’t know. He hangs another ornament. “My father passed away last year, and my mother and I don’t do much speaking. She has a new family now.” 

Dumbfounded, Fugo stares at the ornament in his hands for a few seconds, before realizing his silence is incredibly rude. “Oh- uhm- I’m sorry…” he stutters out, the silence between them is awkward now, even with the music playing. “Is this your first Christmas without him?” he asks quietly, his eyes still glued to the orb.



No, Bucciarati is about to say, but that would mean he’d have to explain further, and he’d have to get into the story of how he came to join the Mafia, and Fugo is only thirteen and has only been staying here for a couple of months and– 

It would be wrong to be so open. At least, that’s what Bucciarati tells himself, but his reasoning runs much deeper. His hands are already beginning to shake. He won’t be able to keep any semblance of composure if he gets into it. And besides, if Fugo knew the story of how he came to be indicted into the Mafia, would that change the boy’s faith in him? Would that affect the trust they’ve built up? 

Bucciarati is all Fugo has.

No, Fugo is all Bucciarati has. Fugo is all he has left, and Bucciarati knows that Fugo would be just fine without him, but it’s easier to pretend it’s the other way around. It’s easier to tell himself the watered-down truth, because the truth is bitter. Too bitter. 

“Yes,” he finally says, “it is.” 

Finally, Fugo’s body begins to move again, and he hangs the ornament that he’d been holding for far too long on the tree. He looks up at Bucciarati, a small, reassuring smile on his lips. “It’s my first Christmas without my family, too.” It’s an obvious statement, one Bucciarati already knows. But he thinks that just maybe, the similarity may be as comforting to Bucciarati as it is to Fugo. 

Bucciarati, in an instinctive gesture, reaches to put a hand on Fugo’s shoulder as comfort, but he stops himself immediately. As if trying to play it off, he reaches for an ornament instead. Fugo was not born yesterday–actually, Fugo is easily classified as a genius–so the trick doesn’t work on him. He isn’t offended by the hesitance. Usually, he’s grateful for it, but this time, it makes him a little sad. 

So after Bucciarati hooks the next ornament onto the tree, Fugo pulls him in for a hug. 

Bucciarati tenses–he’s, reasonably, surprised. But his hands fall into place naturally after a moment as he returns the gesture, thumb running along the back of Fugo’s shoulder. Though he initiated the hug more for Bucciarati’s sake, Fugo realizes just how much he could use a hug, himself. 

“It’s alright,” Bucciarati mumbles into Fugo’s hair, “because we have each other now, right? You’ve become a part of my famiglia. ” 

Fugo nods, tearing up a bit himself. He blinks it away, even though Bucciarati couldn’t have noticed anyway. And when they pull away, he looks up at Bucciarati and says, “I love the smell of cashmere.”

Bucciarati brushes a lock of Fugo’s hair away from his face, in the way moms that aren’t Fugo’s do.  “Good, because I stocked up on these candles. The house will smell like cashmere for weeks.”

“And pine, when we buy that air freshener,” Fugo contributes.

“I might even have a can left in my closet,” Bucciarati says. He finally brings himself to let go of Fugo. Fugo thinks he might like a hug more often. But before either have time to dwell on it, a more genuine smile appears on Bucciarati’s face–one not unlike the kind Fugo pictured earlier, looking at the tacky childhood ornament, foam and popsicle sticks.


“Now, come with me. I still have cookies to bake, and I’m not great with ovens.” 

“Shit, shit! Bucciarati, what the hell did you do?”

Mista coughs as the smell of burning fills the kitchen, waving a hand in front of his face in an attempt to clear it away. He frantically turns off the oven and goes to crack open all of the kitchen windows. The high heat of their house flows out in the same way that cool, crisp winter air flows in; Mista hadn’t minded the heat before, but in the face of horrifically burnt cookies, the clean air is welcome and far more refreshing. 

From his place in one of their closets, Bucciarati calls back, “I’m not great with ovens, you know!”

“Yeah!” Mista yells back, shaking his head. “I can see that! Smell it. Ugh, nasty.” 

“Sorry!” 

And as Bucciarati attempts to pull the box of ornaments from the shelf at the top of the closet, Abbacchio rushes over to catch it as it falls over Bruno’s head. 

“Jesus, man! You’re fallin’ apart, Bucciarati!” Narancia laughs as he enters to find Mista fanning Bucciarati's burnt cookies, and Abbacchio asking why Bucciarati didn’t let him bring out the decorations. Of course, Bucciarati calls it “tradition” and that he could have caught them himself. The fact that even Abbacchio is struggling to hold the heavy box–overstuffed with far more ornaments than they really need –says otherwise.  

To drown out the chaos, Trish turns up the volume on the radio, Sinatra canceling out all of the noise surrounding her. Fugo sits next to her, unraveling a string of lights that is perfectly untangled, kept this way every year since that first Christmas he and Bucciarati shared. The sweet, inviting, strong scent of cashmere manages to shield the living room from Bucciarati’s failed attempt at baking. 

The front door swings open, a gust of cold blowing into the room. Trish pulls her robe tighter around herself, turning to see who’s responsible. Giorno is quick to close the door behind him, smiling sheepishly at Trish in apology. A general store bag is slung in the crook of his elbow, which he sets on the coffee table before going to shrug off his coat and hang it in the entryway. 

“I wasn’t sure which pine spray to get. They have a lot of variety these days,” Giorno explains, pulling out three bottles of air freshener and two spare boxes of Bucciarati’s signature pre-made cookies, as though he had anticipated the initial box being ruined. Because it is, every year. 

Fugo looks up, spotting the boxes. “Oh, good. I was about to call you and remind you to grab some more cookies.”

“The cashmere is saving you right now,” Trish shakes her head. “Avoid the kitchen if you value your life.”



“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Bucciarati rolls his eyes as he walks in, carrying a box in his arms while Abbacchio carries a larger box in tow. He swaps what’s in his arms for the two cookie packages. “If you are so afraid of the kitchen, I’ll bring these in myself.” 

Giorno nods and takes the box into his arms, following Abbacchio into the living room. Just as they enter, Fugo finishes unraveling the lights, and stands with them neatly wrapped loosely around his arm, ready to begin wrapping them around the tree. 

“Narancia! Get off your ass and help with the lights!” Abbacchio calls out, carefully placing the ornament box onto the coffee table. Narancia slides in a few seconds later with the help of his brand new orange socks (an early gift from Fugo) before using Trish to catch himself from falling. 

While Fugo and Narancia hang the lights, Trish, Abbacchio, and Giorno work on separating the ornaments to decide which ones will make it onto the tree this year, because they all know they have far too many to actually be able to use them all. Trish holds one up, a certain handmade one, a look of utter confusion on her face.

“What is this ?” She asks, turning the “ornament” around every way imaginable to try and figure out just what it is. There’s no name on it, so she’s left in the dark until…

“Oh hell yeah ! You found it!” Narancia beams, taking it from her and turning it upside down. “Ain’t it awesome! It’s a penguin, can’t you tell? I made it last year!”

“It sure looks like a penguin–”  Abbacchio interrupts. Narancia’s eyes sparkle with pride. And then Abbacchio finishes his sentence, and Narancia’s expression falls rapidly. “--that got hit by a fucking bus.”

“Hey! Not cool!”

Bucciarati returns from the kitchen in time to hear this debate. He gives Abbacchio a disapproving look. “Be nice, Leone.” 

Abbacchio rolls his eyes. “I am being nice. Nice and honest. Don’t you love honesty?”

“Not when it’s brutal, ” Bucciarati delivers a light smack to Abbacchio’s shoulder. “ Mista! Come here, decorate with us!” 

“Coming! Just lemme set a timer for this batch, will ya?”

“Timer?” Bucciarati’s brows furrow as he joins the others in sorting through the ornaments. Quietly, he mutters to himself, “I thought you were just meant to wait until they turned golden brown.” 

Mista emerges from the doorway to the kitchen. He spots Narancia’s ornament sitting on the coffee table. “Oh, sick! The penguin! Lookin’ good, lil buddy.” 

“Right? Thank you, Mista!” Narancia admires the stupid craft. “Abba said he looks like he got hit by a bus.”

“Oh no, Abba’s right,” Mista laughs, “but he looks great for gettin’ hit by a bus. He’s a survivor.” 

Narancia, as offended as he is, says nothing in response. Instead, he flips Mista off and hangs his penguin on the tree before the lights are even finished being put up- front and center, for all to see. Bucciarati makes no protest to this. Abbacchio and Trish are visibly displeased. Mista, looking through the other box of miscellaneous decor, is amused by the penguin’s presence on the tree. 

“Y’know, Bucciarati, we got a real fancy oven,” Mista starts, and from the tone of his voice Bucciarati knows this is going to be a joke, “you can set the timer on the oven. The button’s front and center. You should try it sometime.” 

Bucciarati sighs, though the corners of his lips quirk up anyway. “Duly noted. Thank you, Mista.” 

“Gotta make the cookies right if we want Santa to come!” Narancia chimes in. “What? Why’re you all lookin’ at me like that? Can’t let the big man go hungry.” 

“Uhh…yeah. I think we have enough good ones for him,” Mista plays along hesitantly, not sure if Narancia is joking or not. He has to be, right? He’s 19. There’s no way he isn’t joking.

“Good, good. Last year we barely had any! I just left out a gallon of milk with an apology letter.”

“ That’s what that was?! I got blamed for that!” Mista exclaims. “Abbacchio yelled at me for letting the milk go bad!” 

“It didn’t go bad! Santa drank it! It was gone in the morning!”



“Yeah, because we dumped it!”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!” Narancia seems to be growing frustrated, and looks to the others to back him up. “C’mon, guys! I’m not crazy, right?!” He asks, shocked when they all look away awkwardly.

“You’re not serious,” Trish says it as a statement, as though it’s fact, but Narancia’s expression points towards a different conclusion. “You’re not. Are you?”

Narancia blinks at Trish, speechless. “Are you tryna say Santa isn’t real?” 

“That’s absolutely what we’re saying, yes.” Abbacchio grumbles. Bucciarati, again, smacks his arm. Abbacchio looks at him incredulously. “You’re not encouraging this.” 

“I won’t shut it down, either,” Bucciarati looks at Narancia. “Beliefs are personal. It’s good to know what you’re passionate about, Narancia. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.” 

Narancia seems to be reassured by this statement. Bucciarati’s on his side, and if Bucciarati’s on his side then he’s gotta be right–Bucciarati is never wrong. Fugo, now finished with settling the lights on the tree, facepalms. Still, he stays quiet, lest he too receive a smack on the arm. Giorno, who hasn’t looked up from the box of ornaments at all during this discussion, just looks confused. 

“I don’t even-- I can’t. Nope. I’m done. I’m done!” Trish waves her hands dismissively, walking away from Narancia to pick up a random ornament and hang it on the tree. This prompts the others to leave the present conversation, grabbing their own ornaments and hanging them up as well. 

As they all put up their ornaments, Narancia drops one, gets scolded for it, and promises to make another one to make up for it. This, of course, gets shot down immediately and causes Narancia to tell the group that he will not be putting the star up this year, out of spite. Given that it’s an annual tradition for Narancia to be the one Abbacchio would hoist up to put the star on top–he’s small and light–this leaves Abbacchio to decide who it is he will be replacing Narancia with. He could just use a stepladder, but even his cold, dead Grinch heart feels like that would leech some of the spirit out of Christmas. 

He looks over his options. Bucciarati, who certainly wouldn’t mind being picked up, is heavy. Mista, a good few inches taller, would be even harder to lift. That leaves Giorno, Fugo, and Trish–and he can also cross Fugo off of the list, because the last time he laid a hand on his shoulder, he nearly got socked in the face. 

Trish is giving Abbacchio a look that is equal parts pleading and an attempt at threatening. Giorno stands awkwardly and unassuming, looking lost in thought. Abbacchio decides the latter is a better choice. 

“Alright, Giovanna. It’s all up to you.”

Giorno blinks, looking up at Abbacchio. “Sorry?” 

Abbacchio slides his hands beneath Giorno’s armpits from behind, hoisting him up like he’s a cat. He’s surprisingly light, though he’s not particularly bulky in stature anyway, so Abbacchio isn’t too shocked. Giorno doesn’t really protest. He sort of just stiffens and looks incredibly perplexed. The sight is enough to knock Narancia out of his brooding–he and Mista both break out into laughter. Trish snickers a little, immediately taking out her phone to snap a picture. 

“Why are you holding me, Abbacchio?”

Bucciarati grabs the star, handing it to the blonde. “Here. Put the star on the tree.” 

Giorno nods, and Abbacchio lifts him a little higher so he can place it on properly. It takes a couple of attempts to get it right, but he manages. As a reward, he is returned to his spot on the ground. Abbacchio gives him a pat on the back, and Giorno’s sure this is the closest thing he’ll ever get to a compliment from the man. Narancia, after the laughter, frowns a little. 

“I want my job back next year,” he pouts, and Abbacchio nods. 

“No objections from me.”

Narancia grins, offering to make Abbacchio an ornament to thank him, and is immediately shot down once again. And as they finish decorating the tree, and Fugo brings out the can of pine air freshener, the oven timer goes off. 

Bruno’s head perks up at the sound of the oven beeping, standing from his spot on the floor where he had been placing presents under the tree. He walks over to the couch, picking up a few more to place. “Could you get the cookies, Leone?” he calls out, setting the remaining gifts neatly underneath the tree. 

The beeping stops with the sound of a button being pressed, and then another sound can be heard. That of a door opening, followed by a swift coldness filling the house before said door closes. “Smells good in here, Booch!” Mista’s voice calls out, but with it, a bell? A bell jingles with every step he takes, and Bruno stands, wandering to the front door to find Mista in an elf costume, grinning stupidly.



Bruno is caught completely off-guard by the sight. Mista has been the long-standing king of ugly sweaters, but this is…new. He freezes for a moment before breaking out into a fit of laughter. “Mista, what on earth are you wearing?”

“It’s called fashion, Bruno,” Mista shakes his head in mock disapproval. “It’s 2021! Get with the times, old man!”

“You’re almost 40. Old man yourself.”

Mista’s mischievous expression drops as his face pales. “Oh, God, man, don’t remind me.” He grips at his chest–rather, the cheap bright green fabric clothing his chest. “I’m goin’ into the worst decade of my life!”

“Not for another year,” Bruno rolls his eyes, though the gesture is fond. Since retiring, Bruno has come to loosen up significantly; he’s not obligated to look after the group anymore, after all. Of course, the lack of obligation doesn’t change the fact that he’ll always be the parent of their makeshift little family. Having Christmas in his cozy little house in Ischia every year as opposed to the old mansion, where the old rooms are all left intact, is an annual display of this fact. “Alright, come in, come in. Sit down! Dinner’s almost ready–where’s Giorno?”

“He’s right behind me with the gifts,” Mista explains, adjusting his stupid hat. 

Abbacchio emerges from the kitchen now, just in time to say, “you left your Don alone to carry gifts?” Mista turns to look at him, prepared to make some sort of snarky retort, but words die on his tongue when he spots what Abbacchio is wearing. The apron tied around his waist is a lovely shade of lavender; it’s the words, embroidered in black, that catch him off guard. 

‘DON’T kiss the chef,’ it says in bold, but then, the cursive subtext goes on to specify, ‘ unless you’re my husband.’ 

The fact that Abbacchio is shirtless beneath this apron, combined with his Halloween pajama pants, ties the whole look together. Mista really absorbs the sight before him, looking back at Bruno. (He, frankly, isn’t much better. He’s wearing a sweater with a picture of a fish on it, captioned with ‘Merry Fishmas and a Crappie New Year!’ ) 

Just then, Giorno enters with the gifts, though he’s hardly visible behind the stack of them. He nearly tips over in his attempt to close the door behind him, (how he even opened it is a mystery to all of them, as well) and Mista needs to take half of the presents before they all topple over. 

As Bruno guides them into the living room to set their gifts down, Mista takes in a deep breath. “It really smells good in here this time, Bruno! Good job on the cookies for once!”

“Thank you! I didn’t make them.” Bruno adjusts an ornament, noticing how the bottom of the tree is filling up fast. How they’re going to fit everyone’s presents is beyond him…but they’ll worry about that later.

“That wrapping job is horrible,” a new voice emerges from behind them, and they all turn around to find Trish, holding gift bags in both hands. 

“So’s your face,” Mista immediately snaps back. 

“Shut up, asshole,” she rolls her eyes before setting her bags down, turning back around to hug him, but stops before doing so, fully taking in the sight. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“Fashion. You should know, you’re the model,” he sighs dramatically as he wraps his arms around her in a tight hug. 

As Trish makes her rounds of greetings to everyone, stopping to laugh at Abbacchio’s apron, she looks around the living room. “It looks nice in here! Who put the star up?” She asks, looking back to Bruno.

“It was a team effort. We’re getting old,” Bruno admits, but proudly follows it up with, “we still have yet to resort to the help of a stepladder, though! Still filled with Christmas spirit.”

“And muscle aches!” Abbacchio yells from the kitchen, “you’re heavy!”

“Oh, stop! I haven’t gained that much weight!” Bruno yells back. He turns back to his guests, though seeing them standing in his living room feels natural, even if it’s been an awfully long time since they have been. “He loves it. More to love.” 

“I’m stayin’ in shape,” Mista contributes. “I care a lot about my physique, y’know?”

“What physique?” Giorno asks, poking at Mista’s stomach. 

“Says you! You haven’t grown since you were 16!” 

“Touch é ,” Giorno shrugs. 

“Speaking of not growing, where’s Nara?” Mista asks, and as if summoning him, the front door swings open once again.

“‘Sup, fuckers?” It’s Narancia’s go-to method of announcing his arrival. Everyone in the room turns to him. 

“How do you have so much energy?” Another familiar voice comes from behind him as Fugo lugs in their bag of gifts.  “And why am I carrying these? You’re stronger than me.”

“I drove!”

“Because you begged me.”

“Fuck you! Did not.” 

Fugo’s response comes in the form of a long sigh. And then, when he spots Mista’s outfit, a pinch to the bridge of his nose. He already wants to go home. “Sorry we’re late. Narancia can’t drive,” he directs to Bruno, who shakes his head dismissively. 

“Fuck you!” Narancia puts more effort into it.

“You already said that.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you!” Narancia shouts now, sighing heavily before turning towards Mista. Immediately, he bursts out into laughter, folding over and clutching his stomach. “What the fuck ?!” he chokes out, stumbling towards his best friend and grabbing his shoulders. “You look like Christmas puked on you!” he snorts and hugs Mista- once he’s calmed down a bit. 

Mista looks offended by this, but hugs him back anyway. “Must I tell everyone?! I look good , thank you very much! Not my fault you’re jealous!”

“‘Jealous’ is not the word I’d use,” Trish retorts, her eyes on her nails. “Do you need a hand, Fugo?” She turns towards the disheveled man, walking towards him with her arms extended to take a few of the presents out of his hands.

“If you don’t mind,” Fugo nods, grateful for the help. Trish helps him add to the growing stack beneath the tree while Narancia and Mista carry on with their reunion as though they haven’t seen each other in decades. Fugo, meanwhile, becomes re-acquainted with Bruno’s home–rather, the way that, even with how rarely he steps foot in it, it still manages to feel like home. Sinatra plays low–now on the television, as opposed to vinyl, or a radio–and the sweet, inviting scent of cashmere fills the air. And of course, beside the fake tree sits a can of pine air freshener. 

Fugo’s brought out of his thoughts by Abbacchio’s voice, announcing that dinner is ready. Bruno’s table is certainly not as sprawling as the one back home in an ornate dining room meant for parties thrown for dozens. Fugo prefers it that way, as do most of the gang. He takes the seat to the right of Bruno, across from Abbacchio, who always sits to his left. 

Usually, Narancia settles to his right, and across from Narancia sits Mista, but Mista doesn’t sit just yet. Instead, he lingers in the doorway, letting Abbacchio and Bruno finish setting out the food before giving any sort of explanation as to why. 

“Abba! I gotta give you something.”

Abbacchio raises an unamused brow. “Why? We’re opening gifts after dinner.”

“No, no, I gotta give you this now, though.”



Abbacchio stares at him for a long moment. He looks at Bruno, who shrugs. “Alright. What is it?”

“Come with me,” Mista beckons, but instead of waiting for Abbacchio to actually come join him on his own accord, he slings an arm around his shoulders and escorts him out of the room. 

Trish watches them out, raising a brow but ultimately staying silent, smiling as Bruno sits down. “It all smells delicious,” she mentions, waiting for Bruno to begin taking his food before beginning to make her own plate.

“Abbacchio made everything, but I will thank you on his behalf.”

Narancia starts eating before everyone, of course. Before Mista and Abbacchio even return from their mysterious mission. And when they do return, nothing has changed. Abbacchio looks the same and Mista hasn’t changed out of his stupid elf costume, so Narancia asks, “what was all that?” with his mouth full, for which Fugo hits his arm. 

“Nothin’!” Mista quickly retorts, smirking deviously, sitting down and making his plate. Abbacchio only sighs, staying silent as he starts eating with the rest of them. Bruno glances at him with a raised brow, and he only shakes his head softly, implying that Bruno will know in due time. 

“How is everything going in Passione, Giorno? Mista?” Bruno asks, opting to completely overlook whatever little secret Mista and Abbacchio are sharing, for now. 

“Very well,” Giorno gives Bruno a cordial smile. 

Beside him, Mista looks at Abbacchio, laughs a little, then looks away before nodding his agreement with Giorno. The process of laughing in Abbacchio’s direction and then looking away repeats a good few times. Everyone opts to ignore it. 

Narancia slaps the table as a means of getting everyone’s attention, for which Fugo and Bruno both give him a look. When he opens his mouth to speak before swallowing, Fugo raises his fork as a threat. Narancia obeys, for once.

“I got news!” Narancia looks at Fugo, and then at Giorno, who both know about the news he’s going to share already. The others give him their full attention. “Guess who graduated ?!”

“Huh?” Mista furrows his brows. “You’ve been a dropout since like, ever. How the hell did you graduate in your thirties?”

“I got my GED, dipshit,” Narancia grumbles, offended by being called a dropout. “Applause, anyone? C’mon, I did school! I did math. ”

“Holy shit!” Mista exclaims, extending a fist for Narancia to bump. “Congrats, man! You finally learned math, huh?” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m a genius now.”

“That’s incredible, Nara!” Trish grins, standing to walk around the table to give Narancia a tight hug.

Giorno and Fugo both smile proudly. They already had their big reactions when they first found out Narancia was aspiring to get his GED after sustaining the injury that took him off the field. At the other end of the table, Abbacchio also gives Narancia a supportive look.

“Good job, kid,” he says, and Narancia doesn’t mind being called kid this time, just this once. “I’m proud of you.”

Beside Abbacchio, Bruno is shockingly quiet. Narancia quickly realizes that this is because he’s–tearing up? 

“Booch, are you crying?” Mista asks, incredulous, and everyone’s attention turns toward the man at the head of the table.

“ No, ” Bruno insists, but he wipes at his eyes anyway. “I’m just very proud of you, Narancia. More than words could ever explain. My old age is…it’s catching up to me. I think I’m going into menopause,” he jokes, shaking his head and laughing at himself. Abbacchio places a supportive hand on his back.

“Good. We don’t need any more kids.” Abbacchio grumbles–lovingly, in the Abbacchio sort of way–as he takes a long sip of his drink.

After settling down once more, the group exchanges more recaps since the last time they’ve all been together (a long while) while they eat. Mista can’t stop grinning wickedly at Abbacchio, swearing he’s being slick about it. Narancia kicks him from under the table, yelling at him for keeping secrets before finishing his food, shortly followed by the rest of them.

“Presents?” Narancia asks abruptly. 

“Narancia. That’s rude.” Fugo lightly kicks his shin, giving him a look of disappointment.

Narancia shrugs in response, taking his plate to the kitchen to clean up before settling down on the living room couch, prepared to open gifts. Abbacchio, however, sighs heavily before leaving the dining room, veering off into the hallway and disappears into his and Bruno’s bedroom. It takes him a while to reemerge, but the entire group waits patiently for him, anyway.

And when he does enter the living room again, he’s in a full Santa Claus costume, complete with the beard and hat and a pillow to stuff it. Narancia seems to light up at this, and Fugo only manages to get out a mere, “oh no,” before Narancia shoots up from his seat.

“SEE?! I fucking told you guys !!!” 

On the porch of Bucciarati’s childhood home, quieted by the door separating him from the commotion inside, Bucciarati stands while his team–no, his family –are in the living room pouring drinks and taking pictures as the last minutes of the year count down. Somewhere beneath the noise they’re all making, Sinatra is playing, and a cashmere candle flickers atop some shelves. Bruno himself exhales a long breath, watching it condense into mist before him. He watches as the ocean waves lap against the shore. He thinks about all of the times he’s watched these same waves against this same beach over the course of his life.

After his mother left, when he was seven.

Returning home from the hospital.

After he’d indicted himself into the mafia.

He thinks about all of the times he’s thought about these waves against this same beach.

From the balcony of his shitty apartment in the city. 

Detangling his lights on the couch of his and Fugo’s shitty apartment in the city.

Lying in a bed in a hotel, sleepless because he didn’t need to sleep anymore.

From the balcony of his bedroom in a mansion that had always felt far too big to be a home.

And here he is again, full-circle, as another year comes to a close. Much older than he thought he’d ever get to be–though 41 really isn’t that old–and with a family he thought he’d never have the luxury of having. The door opens behind him, and Fugo emerges from the warmth of the house, out into the biting air of a late winter night.

“Hey,” he says, quickly explaining, “they’re loud. Needed a minute.”

Bruno nods, humming his acknowledgement. Fugo leans against the railing beside him, watching the waves, watching the beach. 

“You okay?” Fugo asks.

Bruno nods, and he smiles. It’s genuine. “More than. I couldn’t be happier.”

“Really?”

Bruno looks over at Fugo. Smiles a little wider. And brushes a lock of his hair away from his face in the way that mom’s that aren’t Fugo’s do, tucking it behind his ear. “Yes, really.”

Fugo smiles back, and just the same way he did all those years ago, he pulls Bruno in for a hug. “Thank you, for giving me a family.”

“Thank you for letting me.”

Around them, onto the sands of his youth as the clock strikes twelve, snow begins to fall.