Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When one returns home from a journey, the first thing they think of is getting some good rest after all the troubles they’ve been through. Even in a war-torn world, one needs rest. Issue is, when one returns home with two extras in tow, who cannot go into the world on their own and have become entwined like a … strange little family, there must be some arrangements.

More specifically, where one can sleep.

“Spazzatura needs a bed,” Pinocchio said suddenly, as Geppetto had gotten done fixing three cups of hot cocoa.

The monkey the wooden boy mentioned was sipping his own, before letting out a chatter as if to agree. Geppetto paused as he was ready to drink his hot cocoa, blinking. “He can sleep in a chair,” said the woodcarver bluntly.

Spazzatura let out a squawk, flabbergasted by the suggestion. No, I will not! I won’t slowly break my spine like that, he said, in his own monkey tongue. Somehow understood by Pinocchio and Sebastian, though Geppetto still had yet to piece together the full words.

“He can’t sleep in a chair,” Sebastian objected from his place on top of Pinocchio’s shoulder, appalled. “I mean, sure, he’s a bit mangy and might get his hair all over the sheets, but he deserves a warm bed too even if he’s a little—”

Mangy? You call me mangy, little mister prissy blue-collar grasshopper? Spazzatura screeched, offended by the cricket’s descriptors. He slammed his cup of cocoa down, leaping to throw hands, up until Geppetto caught him.

“This behavior doesn’t land you a warm bed, you know,” the woodcarver remarked, blunt.

Spazzatura’s arms flailed and then stopped, and he let out a whine. Pinocchio tsked. “Oh Spazzatura, you can’t always resort to violence.”

“You say that like violent acts would be justifiable ever,” Sebastian said, mortified and shuddering.

“Well Spazzatura was justified in his violence towards Count Volpe, and Candlewick’s violence towards his papa was justified,” Pinocchio explained, waving his hands around on emphasis.

“That’s—that’s different,” Sebastian told him, paling a little at the mention of the Podesta. Geppetto grew rather pale too. They shared a glance at one another, while Spazzatura’s eyes went downward. They had heard what happened when Pinocchio was taken to the child soldiers’ camp, of what became of the Podesta and the uncertain fate of his brave son. Of how Count Volpe tried to crucify and—and how Spazzatura had— “It was necessary in those situations. Life or death.”

“I met Death,” Pinocchio said suddenly, once the word left the cricket’s mouth. “She was … strange, but I think she was helpful.”

Geppetto breathed a sigh of relief. A change of subject—good, now he wouldn’t have to dwell on the uncertainty of his own son’s future, or where theirs lied, or when exactly they would have to resort to violence if any soldiers from the Podesta’s league found out of Pinocchio’s whereabouts.

What does Death look like? Spazzatura chattered, leaping out of Geppetto’s arms, onto Pinocchio’s chair. He was grabbing Pinocchio’s arm in curiosity, shaking them. Tell me. I want to know.

“She looks a bit like a sphinx,” Pinocchio began, deep in thought. “But she had wings with many eyes, like an angel!”

“Sphinxes are from Egypt though,” Sebastian pointed out. “We live in—”

Spazzatura’s excited “oohs” and “aaahs” silenced the cricket. He leaned closer to the wooden boy and urged him on. ‘Tell me more,’ he demanded.

“There’s black rabbits. Four of them,” Pinocchio went on. “And they play card games. Kind of grumpy but they’re fun. They work for Death.”

“Is Death the sister of … the Wood Sprite?” Geppetto asked slowly, feeling a weird sense in his gut.

“Yes,” Pinocchio answered, nodding. “She is. She’s kind of blunt, a bit rude—called Wood Sprite sentimental fool—but she let me save you, so she must be good.”

“Or morally grey,” Sebastian muttered.

Spazzatura sighed. ‘Volpe used to threaten to kill me sometimes. It was then and there I wondered what the afterlife would be like,’ the monkey chattered. ‘Your story tells me that I’d have been in a paradise compared to his hell.’

“But life is beautiful,” Sebastian argued, hopping onto Spazzatura’s shoulder. “Don’t you enjoy it now that you’re free?”

Spazzatura nodded at this, wistful. ‘Yes but back then, I was very … lacking in self-assurance.’

Geppetto cleared his throat. “Enough of this…death talk. We should be getting rest.”

"But where will Spazzatura sleep, Papa?" asked Pinocchio, tilting his head as he clasped his hands together. The monkey mimicked him.

"He'll sleep..." Geppetto trailed off, trying to think of a place. Then it hit him. "On a spare pillow I've got."

Spazzatura would have been offended by the prospects until they made it to the room upstairs, where Geppetto brought a pillow from the attic and laid it at the foot of Pinocchio’s bed. The monkey curled up on it, surprised at how warm it was compared to the roughness of his past beds when with Volpe. He let out a contented sigh as his limbs rested, his body in a state of bliss.

‘Thank you.’

 Geppetto didn’t understand monkey language, but he knew appreciation when he heard it. “You’re welcome,” he muttered. He then tucked Pinocchio in, and the wooden boy yawned.

“Goodnight, Papa. Goodnight, Spazzatura. Goodnight, Sebastian.”

“Goodnight, Pinocchio,” chorused the three, the final using his own tongue.

And that night was the first they all rested together in their bedroom as a family.

Chapter Text

“Spazzatura?”

The monkey looked at the wooden boy, who sat in his chair at the table across from him. Those black holes of eyes were somehow filled with a twinkle, this spark of life that he’d never seen in the children at the circus – all made of flesh with both ears, normal human skin and all – and a smile that could light up the darkest depths of the earth. And they stared at him, the mangy monkey, with a sense of care and curiosity. It was something Spazzatura was not yet accustomed to – this warmth, affections, innocence. Everything he’d never seen from Volpe.

And he didn’t need to do anything in return. There was no bribes. No “buts” or anything. He didn’t have conditions imposed. He was … free. It was almost overwhelming to sleep on a soft pillow, to wake up and not be yelled at or pushed or thrown or kicked or hit or— or treated like garbage. He was pat on the head, scratched behind his ears, greeted with warmth — he was treated normally by these three, this puppet and old man and cricket. These three strangers who came into his life, gave him a home and a sense of what life could be — beautiful.

A strange arrangement. Volpe would say something of how bizarre it was. The strongman and his wife would whisper. Others would say it’s stupid. But Spazzatura left all of them behind long ago — well, rather, he got rid of Volpe. The other circus members had been shot after Il Duce ordered Pinocchio’s execution in front of a crowd of many children. He and Volpe were only spared because Volpe used every last penny to bribe his way out of the end of a rifle. Spazzatura was like a kitty cat, tail tucked between his legs, lost without the brave wooden boy who could stand up to the fox. When Pinocchio came back, the primate chose him, and ended up falling over a cliff… while Volpe’s back snapped on the rocks below. What happened next was history.

‘Yes, Pinocchio?’ He found it easy to communicate with the boy. Was it the fae magic that pulled his body and soul together, making him able to communicate with animals? If so, then how come Geppetto would talk with Sebastian, but never able to fully comprehend the monkey's chatters? Was Sebastian touched by the Wood Sprite's magic too? He pondered briefly, but was interrupted by the boy's question.

“How come you’re named after rubbish?” 

It was a blunt question. Innocent, it sounded, but still blunt and enough to cut through the air like Volpe’s sword. Geppetto dropped his fork. Sebastian nearly joked on a tiny piece of sausage he’d taken. The wooden boy sat in his seat, tilted his head at Spazzatura, whose head hung low in response. 

His heart had been struck. Geppetto understood the topic was sensitive. He knew not of Spazzatura’s full story, but had heard from Pinocchio of how Volpe had beaten him, and judging from the bandaged tail, blind eye and fur … it was three years of harsh abuse. Too many for a scrawny creature. “Pinocchio!” Geppetto exclaimed. “That’s not — you can’t just ask—”

“But Papa, that’s what his name is…” Pinocchio stood up and pointed at Spazzatura, his voice now filled with upset. “Just like how I was named ‘pine eye’, and Sebastian’s name means ‘venerable’ and ‘revered’, and yours means …” The boy’s lip trembled. “Why does he get a name like that? He’s not garbage! He’s a friend ! He lives, breathes air, eats and drinks and— and he does things just like us!”

Spazzatura looked up with sad eyes. ‘Because that’s all I was to him, even when I was just a baby in a cage.’ 

“Cage?” Sebastian hopped over to the primate. “What do you mean?” As a traveler, he had heard of … expeditions in Africa. The empire of Ethiopia seized, taken over and – well, Spazzatura didn’t look like he was from around this country. Apes and primates, they didn’t come from Europe, which could mean that … “Was Volpe a poacher or… that kind of explorer?” 

‘He wanted an exotic pet,’ Spazzatura snorted. ‘I was abandoned by my kind when I was a baby. No one wanted me because my fur was white and my eyes were too crimson. Then poachers came and caught me, left me in a hole at the bottom of the jungle while they went to get their trucks. Volpe found me not long after.’ 

“I heard him yell that - the last part - when I walked into the tent.” At that moment, Pinocchio realized the weight of those words. “About saving you.” He looked at Spazzatura, his metaphorical heart aching. “Did your kind really leave you behind because of your fur?” 

Spazzatura nodded, his frown deepening. ‘Yes - and when Volpe took me in, he gave me my name … Spazzatura. Rubbish. That’s all I ever was to him. He started beating me when I was a month old. I’d taken a cookie from his tray in our trailer. He called me a leech, and-…’ a sad whine escaped the monkey. 

If Pinocchio’s eyes could fill up with tears, at this moment they’d be overwhelmed. He got out of his seat and went over to Spazzatura, bringing him into a tight hug. “Poor Spaz… you’re not rubbish,” he told him. “You never were. You were just brought into this world on a rough beginning, but now you’ve done your best, and that’s the best you could’ve done.” Feeling the monkey’s arms wrap around him for a tighter hug, sniffling emerging from the simian, he added quietly, “Now you’re part of our family.”

‘I’m glad to be.’

---

“Sebastian?” 

“Yes, Pinocchio?”

“Do you think … a name can be a burden?”

Sebastian froze. Ah, the B word – he never thought he’d have to talk about this again, but here, the context shifted. It was no longer fathers and sons at play here, but names and what they carried – a whole ‘nother can to crack open. Something the cricket hadn’t prepared himself for.

“Depends on the name. Why do you ask?” Sebastian tried to hide his discomfort, keep a calm and neutral tone. But it was hard, especially when he knew, partially, what this was about. Who it was about.

"Spazzatura's name." Pinocchio bit his lip. "It means—" rubbish. Rubbish was a burden. But Spazzatura wasn't a burden. He was a friend, family, and he deserved a better name.

"I know what it means." Sebastian held back a sigh, shaking his head. "Pinocchio, a name can be a burden, that much is true." As a writer and traveler, he should know. He'd been to several countries and heard of many horrid names in various languages. But this was a rough case. Never did he meet someone named— "Heavy burdens, reflecting on the upbringing of some – sometimes." He looked down, pushed aside the book he was peering into. "But changing a name is hard, especially when you grow up with it."

Something flickered in Pinocchio's mind. A memory. Kind hands, warm eyes, a smile and a name that spilled from Papa's voice — muffled, but he could almost hear it...

My name now, it wasn't always my name. 

"If a name means something horrible, then it should be changed," the wooden boy said, clenching his fists. 

Sebastian sighed. "Pinocchio, you can't change someone else's name." 

“Why not?” A simple, well-meaning question. So innocent. But he knew too much, beneath his innocence.

“It’s their choice,” was the cricket’s response.

It was simple, yet Pinocchio still frowned. He didn't want Spazzatura to be stuck with a name so… so cruel and twisted, and - and unjust! He wanted to fix it, but how? It was the monkey's choice, as Sebastian said, but still…

Then it hit him.

"I'll help him pick a new name."

Pinocchio ran off, leaving Sebastian to call for him. "Pinocchio, wait! Aspettare! You can't- that's not what--!" 

The cricket sighed. "Oh, still as caring and unrelenting as ever, I see." He shook his head. He loved the kid, but gosh, he jumped to decisions too fast. 

Here's to hoping his Pa can get things across to him before he reaches Spazzatura. Last thing we need is a misunderstanding, again.

Chapter Text

Uno.

Sebastian’s wish wasn’t just limited to fame and fortune. He craved those, yes, but there was something else. Someone else.

On the boat back home, to La Toscana — towards where his new life awaits — Sebastian closes his eyes and sees him.

Mario Mariposa, a gorgeous butterfly. Golden skin. Lavender wings. Beautiful eyes. Black mandibles he could kiss, if he could just reach out to him and — well, that’s impossible now. São Paulo is far away. Sebastian knows he’s never going to be able to see his butterfly again. Never going to hold him, to cuddle up to him, to have a life with him.

But there isn’t anything else he can do. At least, his wish wasn’t in vain. The wooden boy, who he gave up everything for — he lives, and that’s what matters.

Life is beautiful, but it is painful — that, Sebastian knows is certain. 

Due.

They planned their life together, sort of.

“Perhaps we’ll get married. But I want to see many places first, especially La Toscana.”

"But, Sebby… I don't have much time, you know how short life can be for butterflies…"

Sebastian pauses, ponders, and then:

"...well, how about this, my time in La Toscana will be brief. Just a couple of days. When I get back...I'll bring you the finest ring, and we can get married at that chapel by the pond, run by that mosquito. Padre Mosca, I think his name was?"

Mario's dark eyes glistened with hope, and a hint of sorrow. "... Deal. But I'll miss you..."

"I'll miss you too," Sebastian replied. "I'll write to you though."

The light in Mario's eyes grew brighter. He nodded his head. "I'll answer as fast as I can!"

Tre.

Sebastian gave Mario flowers before he left for the docks a week later, late noon. 

Mario took a feather from his hat, placed it in Sebastian's hand. "Here. Take this with you, meu querido namorado," he told him. "So you'll have always a piece of me with you in your travels."

"Mario, you're going to make this ugly cricket cry..."

"No, not ugly. Handsome."

"But-"

"Shhhh. Words are too precious and our lives are too short. Write me a letter when you arrive at La Toscana, yes? Or send me a postcard from La Riviera Italiana..."

"Will it reach Brazil in time...?"

"I think it will. Try, meu fofo namorado. Just try."

The butterfly kissed the cricket's forehead, his mandibles rubbing against the top. 

Sebastian held back tears, breathing in. "Arrivederci." 

"Adeus."

Quattro.

Sebastian never came back. He couldn't, not when he knew Pinocchio needed him. He had a new family now - Geppetto, Spazzatura, and the wooden boy with a human soul. That should have been enough. 

He could still write letters. So he did - he wrote many letters, never knowing that only a few would arrive at Mario's tree.

Pinocchio eventually asks about the letters. Sebastian simply says:

"It's for someone special."

Yet it's not enough. It will never be enough.

Chapter Text

It’s hard settling in Sicily. It’s nothing like that little Florentine town in La Toscana, where you could see the sunset from a hill. Everyone talks differently, says things differently, and Candlewick knows nobody.

It’s hard to speak to anyone.  How can he explain what happened? It’s a story that’ll get him arrested by the army faction in the island, and he’ll be labeled enemy of the state. Lucignolo “Candlewick” Ferraro, father killer and psychotic boy. Who would believe him? Dissidents are rare. Not many are brave to say ‘no.’

So when old man finds him, covered in ashes and dust and a head scar with dried blood matting his clothes… all he can say is, “Bombs.”

-

The old man – really, he’s just four years older than Father, no, the Podestà had been – introduces himself as Giorgio. He lives on his own, says his daughter and her family left the country for Switzerland a while back.

“My grandson was around your age,” the greying haired man murmurs, as he washes him. It’s an odd feeling, Candlewick thinks, as it was always his mother who washed him. Set out the best clothes for him while his dirtied clothes would be left out to be washed and dried. It should be Mama who does this. 

"Did he leave to escape war?" Candlewick asks, before his eyes squeeze shut as water is dunked over his head. It's cold, but he still feels a burning inside him - a burning that's been there ever since he said 'no.' 

Giorgio sighs. "Yes, child." He scrubs the boy's hair for the last time. If he sees bruises, he never asks, which is something Candlewick is thankful for. "He was...luckier, than most." 

Luckier than I, dangles on the tip of Candlewick's tongue. But he knows better than to speak out like that. So he's quiet. Doesn't say a word as he's given a towel to dry up, while Giorgio leaves out clothes for him. He doesn't utter even a 'grazie', because what does someone say to a stranger. What does a dissident say to a normal citizen?

He slips on the simple white shirt, with its simple brown pants and simple shoes. He takes his mother's scarf. It's a bit dusty, matted with bits of ash - but it's special, it's mama's, and he can't let it... 

Candlewick wraps the scarf around his neck, sighing. He breathes in, out, and looks at his reflection in the tin tub. Father left a scar. The last time he'd ever hurt him. Because his father is gone now, and there's only him - and Mama is...

She's free, he realizes, and that's all that matters.