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Abbacchio does not trust that new kid. Gio-what’s-his-name-that-sounds-fake-as-hell. He looks more like a model than a gangster, skin completely unblemished, hair perfectly arranged in that stupid fucking hairstyle of his, little ladybug brooches over his tits. He sits down at the table, ankles crossed, talking to Bucciarati like he knows him, like they’re friendly . Put some respect in your fucking voice, brat. He wants to wipe that fucking little smirk off of his stupid face. As he shifts a bit in his chair, feeling like he needs to piss, he gets an idea.
“Why don’t you sit down and drink some tea?”
That little brat picks it up, his delicate face twisting slightly in disgust. Fuck yes.
They’re crammed in the back of a car, Abbacchio’s hand is still sore from where Bucciarati zipped it back on. He rubs it, hissing at the pain. It feels good. It’s what he deserves. The car rattles, much too cheap for Passione. He tries to press his face to the window, get some sleep, but Giorno is talking. He’s talking to Bucciarati, his tone measured, but familiar. Abbacchio grits his teeth. Who the fuck does he think he is, talking to Bucciarati like they’re close friends? You’ve only known him for a few days at most, what gives you the right?
“Good idea, Giorno.”
What the fuck did he say? What the fuck did that little shit say because it probably sure as hell wasn’t good! Something’s burning in Abbacchio’s chest, and he feels an impulse to kick the back of Giorno’s seat. He does it, of course, without thinking. It makes him feel a little bit better, but the burning hatred in his gut doesn’t subside. Giorno barely reacts to him, but Bucciarati shoots a glare at Abbacchio. It shoots straight to his gut, like he can see the fire of hatred there and he doesn’t like what he sees. Abbacchio shrinks underneath the weight of his gaze, feeling like he’s being pressed against his seat like a butterfly to a board. The moment stretches agonizingly onward, like time has slowed to a crawl, just Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and the weight of his hatred for Giorno and himself.
“We’re about five minutes from the train station.” Giorno says, in his infuriatingly melodic voice. Why the fuck is he driving? I can drive better than that shitty asshole.
The turtle is cramped, the air stale and slightly smelling of mowed grass. Abbacchio shifts on the couch. Narancia is trying to engage Trish in conversation, while she looks like she wants to kill everyone in the room and then herself. Abbacchio can’t really blame her. He’s about to turn up the volume on his Walkman when Bucciarati leans over him. His eyes look like a frozen-over sea, and Abbacchio feels like he’s been stuck to his seat.
“Abbacchio?” His voice is cold as steel.
He stops his music. “Yeah?”
“I’ve noticed that you don’t seem to like Giorno.” Bucciarati is still looming over him, looking at him like an angry god and Abbacchio is naught but a bug beneath his gaze. “You may have your opinions, but he’s a member of our team. And I expect you to be civil. Are we clear?”
Abbacchio grit his teeth. What the fuck do you see in that little shit? He’s pretentious, he’s arrogant, he doesn’t fucking respect anyone, most of all you! Something more feral and pathetic writhes in his gut, like a wounded baby bunny that should be put out of its misery. He nods, pressing his boot to the heel of his weakness.
It cries out as Bucciarati walks away, disgusting and needy and wanting. Abbacchio kicks it again.
They’re getting into the tiny little boat, Narancia still looking like he saw something neither Man nor God nor a shitty little street rat was supposed to see. It’s probably fucking Giorno’s fault. Abbacchio digs his fingernails into his palms, hatred releasing into pain. God, he’d prayed while they sat alone in the turtle, please let him get himself killed while we’re on this mission. Buccirati’s cold disappointment never stops shining in his mind’s eye. They’re bunched up on the front of the boat, like two peas in a pod. Giorno’s shoulder presses into Bucciarati’s chest as he leans closer, closer- closer .
Abbacchio almost knocks the boat over, but he settles for digging his nails into his leather pants leg. At the edge of his senses, he can hear Giorno whisper something.
What is it? What the fuck is he telling you that we can’t know? That I can’t know? Indignation in his chest, he slowly inches forward.
“I don’t think it’s wise to talk about these things publicly,” Bucciarati says. “Especially when people are listening. ” He turns to Abbacchio, his gaze firm as always. Abbacchio tries not to shrink away. “We’ll continue this conversation later.”
The sun is high behind San Giorgio Maggiore, coating the entire scenery in a golden glow. Abbacchio sinks back into his seat, his anger and resentment a heavy lead ball in his chest. He shoots another glare at Giorno’s retreating back.
Bucciarati, we’re talking about this later.