Chapter Text
"You little brat!" Pannacotta stood on the tips of his toes to avoid having the lapel ripped off his suit jacket as the waiter yanked it upwards to scream in his face. "You think you can just walk out without paying?! If you don't cough up the cash, I'm calling the cops!"
"Are you familiar with the DeSica vs. Argento case from 1982?" He didn't make eye contact as he spoke, looking upwards and idly searching for patterns in the ceiling. "Going by that judicial precedent, there's a very good chance the court will see this as me acting out of necessity. So, if you'd really like to waste your time and money suing a teenager, I won't stop you." Pannacotta's gaze eventually found its way back down, eyes locking with his captor's, irreverent and insufferably smug. "And I won't lose a thing."
An impotent, frustrated little growl escaped the man. He gave up and turned sharply to a lone patron a few tables away for backup, forcing Pannacotta to match the movement if he didn't want to be torn out of his clothes. "B-Buccellati! Come teach this punk a lesson!"
In his white suit, the man named Buccellati had managed somehow to blend into the background like a ghost-- and so similar to a ghost, his presence was deeply haunting once noticed. Suddenly, Pannacotta got the feeling he might actually be in trouble.
"Put the little man down," Buccellati sighed, subtly lifting a hand to massage his temple. "I'll cover his meal."
"But… But it's the principle of the thing," the man whined, squeezing the fabric in his hands. "Are you really gonna let him get away with stealing?"
" Drop him, " Buccellati repeated in the same stern tone one would use on a dog. Begrudgingly, the waiter relinquished his grip on Pannacotta's clothing, allowing his heels to finally meet the ground again. After straightening himself out, the boy stared at the floor and muttered his obligatory gratitude for the assistance he didn't want, need, or ask for. Buccellati's reply was quieter still, simply motioning for him to come and sit. Instead, Pannacotta stood and stared.
"Don't worry, I don't bite," Buccellati assured him with a patient little smile. "And I don't lecture, either."
Still, he was motionless. Buccellati shrugged, picked his utensils back up, and spoke regardless of whether he was being listened to or not. "That was some pretty esoteric knowledge you just cited there," he said as he wound up a forkful of spaghetti. "How'd you know that?"
To stay silent would've been impolite. A born and bred gentleman, it physically pained Pannacotta not to do the bare minimum for someone who had, so far, shown him no ill will. "Just… part of my coursework." He tucked his hands behind his back and fidgeted with his fingers there, where Buccellati couldn't see his anxiety. "Up until recently, I was pre-law."
"Pre-law? At your age? How did that come to be?"
A pit opened up in Pannacotta's stomach. He was being spoken down to, chided and coddled. This strange man didn't actually care about his life story-- he just wanted something from him. Probably something perverted.
Pannacotta had to pause a second and take a mental step back. The wiring of his brain was all frayed and tangled now, finding nonexistent patterns and fueling olympic leaps in logic. There was no evidence to suggest that Buccellati wanted to take advantage of him, and though that could change at any moment, Pannacotta was no clairvoyant. He couldn't let one little bump in the road, one bad past experience, cripple him forever. If the rest of his hollow little life was spent falsely identifying and fleeing from lechers, he'd be better off just killing himself now. Still, he had to ask the question-- some version of it, at least. "...Are you trying to make small talk with me?"
"Absolutely," Buccellati nodded. "Tell me, you're clearly very intelligent-- so how did you get here?"
Pannacotta couldn't help but scoff. "You're asking a hell of a lot of questions."
"Well, if you feel it'll make things more even, you're free to ask me anything you'd like."
He thought for a moment, running his tongue over his teeth. "Why did you pay for my meal?"
Buccellati didn't have to think about his response. "You seemed lonely."
"...I suppose I should rephrase," Pannacotta sighed exhaustedly. "What do you want from me?"
Buccellati took a little longer to answer this time, absentmindedly tapping the table as he came to his conclusion. "...I think I want to be your friend."
That was his cue to leave. Pannacotta turned in the direction of the door, and the waiter blocked his path with a nasty scowl. It looked like he wasn't going to be able to slip away as easily as he had hoped.
"Okay, I guess I'll cut to the chase," Buccellati sighed, finally realizing how weird his statement might have come across and preparing to linger in that gray area anyways. "Where the hell are your parents? You're clearly well-educated, not to mention well-dressed, so what happened? Why are you dining and dashing?"
Since he didn't feel he had much choice, Pannacotta would answer Buccellati's questions, but only one at a time. "I'm doing it because I need to eat," he muttered, kicking the ground. "I'm on a budget. Pickpocketing is hardly an income, so I'm stretching my money for something that matters."
"Sounds like you don't really have a place to go back to."
"I prefer it that way."
"Bad relationship with your parents?"
"That's putting it mildly," he scoffed.
"How much money do you have left?"
"Enough."
"All stolen?" Pannacotta didn't reply. Buccellati crossed his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "I won't tell."
Pannacotta suddenly felt the need to defend his actions. He stomped over to the table, pulled out a chair, sat down, and scooted in close. "Though you ask how I got here, it's clear to me you've already made up your mind. So yes, it's as you suspect-- I did run away, b-but I swear it was for good reason."
Mentally, he tried to prepare himself to speak, tried to find the right words, tried to cut anything that might have made him seem vulnerable and squishy and human-- seem like a mark . The goal was to leave no question unanswered, whether it had been asked or not. "You see, when I was in college, I had an a--" he choked a moment, voice leaving him as a roulette wheel of all the possible terms he could have called that situation rolled around in his mind. "...an altercation with one of my professors." Despite the fact that it couldn't have been more than six months ago, the memory was strangely fuzzy.
"A physical, violent altercation," he stressed, "the kind that gets you arrested and charged with attempted murder. And all he did to earn it was… piss me the fuck off," Pannacotta added with a grumble, trying his hardest to craft the image of a rabid, snarling, mad dog so that Buccellati would think twice about fucking with him if he was so inclined in the first place. While his statement was technically true, after a fashion, it still felt so deeply wrong to say.
"By the end of the day, Mother had the case thrown out and arranged for us to relocate to Father's ancestral estate in Milan. And I… I couldn't sleep that night, so I just… laid awake in the train car, listened to the rattle of the wheels, watched the sun rise..." That, for some reason, he remembered clearer than everything else.
"I didn't even have time to settle in when we arrived the next day. The moment there was a roof over our head again, Mother set about trying to enroll me in another school. She pretended yesterday hadn't happened, though it was the thing that forced her to uproot our whole life in under twelve hours. There was no psychological evaluation, no regard as to why I did it, no punishment for my bad behavior. No care, whatsoever. Not even a week since I'd snapped and nearly killed someone, and they were content to just… release me back into the general populace," he said distantly. 'Release' was a bit of a strange word in this context, but it seemed right. Pannacotta felt more beast than man.
"I suppose that's when I… when I realized that no matter what I did, it wouldn't tip the scales. They wouldn't suddenly start loving me, and they certainly weren't going to rid themselves of me so long as I was still of use. So I ran," he concluded. "Stole as much of their money as I could stuff in a suitcase, hopped onto another train, and made my way back… home." That last word was so heavy with meaning that the moment it fell from his lips, he felt physically lighter. Having spent ninety-five percent of his life at the estate and the other five percent on campus, he'd only ever seen this city in maps, but it was still more home to him than Milan.
"Who in their right mind would leave that situation empty-handed? I'm not Mother-fucking-Teresa," he scoffed, "I'm not just gonna start slumming it. Stealing a fraction-of-a-fraction of their vast wealth won't harm them, no matter how much I wish it would. They should just count themselves lucky I didn't burn the fucking house down before I left."
Perhaps he shouldn't have mentioned that last part. It was a little too genuine and made him sound about half as psychotic as he truly was, which was still far more than a normal person could tolerate. It was such a strange feeling; no more than a minute ago, he had tried so hard to paint himself as scary and dangerous, but this was just… different. He wanted to be invulnerable. Not unlikable.
Finally, his eyes turned back to Buccellati, only to see that the way he looked upon him had changed. Surprisingly, it wasn't with horror, but sympathy ; and for that reason, he hated it so much more.
"...I'm sorry that happened to you."
"Don't be," Pannacotta spat back, glaring at the table. His fingers curled into a fist, nails digging into his palm. "I'm no victim, so I don't need your pity. It's less than useless."
"But your parents--"
"Don't need them, either," Pannacotta cut him off, vehemently shaking his head. "Them, or anyone else. With the money I've saved, I plan to buy a small place and live completely alone-- no friends, no family, no lover, no one to bother me. That's my ideal life."
Buccellati put his elbows up on the table and rested his face in his hand. "...Well, then why did you pick this restaurant?"
Confused, Pannacotta looked back up. "...Pardon?"
"Of all the restaurants you could've picked, why this one? Why tonight?"
"I don't see how that's relevant, Mr. Buccellati…"
"Actually, it's very relevant. I'll tell you what-- I'm fond of you," he concluded. "I don't think it's a coincidence that we've met."
"...Where are you going with this?"
Sure that he'd stick around long enough to find out, Buccellati took the liberty of not answering his question just yet. "What's your name?"
"...My name is Pannacotta Fugo," he replied. By telling Buccellati his life story before his name, he had failed to follow one of the most basic social protocols, but it hardly mattered now. In a strange way, it was cathartic to skip the pleasantries.
"Well, Pannacotta Fugo… how would you like to come work for me?"
"Work… for…? After that whole fucking-- did you not hear everything I just said?!" Pannacotta raised his voice, and the others in the restaurant began to take note. "Are you deaf , old man?! I could kill you!"
"Well, that's interesting," Buccellati nodded like he was actually considering the possibility. "I'm looking forward to it."
Pannacotta bolted up, jarring the table and causing the utensils to spill off the sides of Buccellati's plate with a loud clatter. "You think I won't turn on you?! Are you insane?! "
"You're not the first person to ask that, and you certainly won't be the last," Buccellati laughed, lounging comfortably in his chair as Pannacotta bristled like a feral cat. "Please don't take this as an insult, but I know for a fact that you're no danger to me."
Defeated, he plopped back down. "...I really don't think you comprehend what you would be getting yourself into."
"Then allow me to learn," Buccellati pressed with a little pout, picking his scattered utensils off the table and setting them on his napkin. "I think you'll find I'm well equipped to deal with such things."
While he had a decent first impression of the man, Pannacotta had learned the hard way that first impressions were worth nothing. In silence, he watched Buccellati open his wallet and pull out just enough cash for one meal. It was no surprise, in the end; from his dress and the deference of the staff, Pannacotta had intuited almost immediately that this man was a mafioso, and the fact that he didn't have to pay for his own meal was his final confirmation. That meant if he accepted his offer of employment, he would likely become one too.
The path of the mafioso was a lifelong commitment lined with thorns, and whether Buccellati proved to be as honorable as he portrayed himself or not, Pannacotta didn't plan on spending more than a month or two by his side. A smart person would have refused outright, but Pannacotta needed the money. He could risk it. Besides, he knew what to look out for now. If Buccellati began acting strangely towards him, he'd be able to escape the situation before it became unmanageable. But, if he fumbled somehow and found himself at Buccellati's mercy, there was no point he could see in trying to escape. With all his hard-earned hindsight, if he was foolish enough to get himself ensnared and exploited again, he would prove once and for all that he didn't deserve his autonomy. A swift death in captivity was the best he could hope for.
Buccellati stood and offered his hand, completely derailing Pannacotta's train of thought. He looked up at him like he was staring directly into the sun.
"Having a mind like yours on my side could do me a lot of good, but I'm not blind," Buccellati laughed wryly. "And it's not only myself I'm looking out for. You may think your fierce, impulsive rage to be a detriment, but… I want to bring out the best in you. Fierce and-or impulsive rage notwithstanding. So come with me," he said as his fingers curled inwards, a silent invitation for Pannacotta's to join them.
Pannacotta bowed his head and heaved a weighty sigh, ears turning pink. Buccellati's exhausting kindness caused t he threat model he had constructed in his head to disintegrate, reminding him once again that no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't predict the future. It might be bright, or it might be dark, but it couldn't possibly be worse than anything he could imagine. He had t o know what Buccellati's angle was, and would never figure it out by making wild assumptions.
For the first time in so long, Pannacotta Fugo reached out and held someone's hand.