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Four Passione members sit at the restaurant table, eyeing their new recruit.
“Giorno Giovanna, huh?” Abbachio swished his head over his shoulder. Giovanna nodded his head in response.
“You don’t seem like the type to get down and fight for what's right..but if Bucciarati picked you, he couldn’t have made a mistake.” Fugo took a bite of his cake, and handed a slice to Giorno.
“I do. I just usually run alone, so there isn't much word out of me yet. It’s weird how Bruno was able to find me so easily. I did kill Leaky Eye Luka, but it wasn’t for fun. It was strictly for business.” Giorno reached for the cake, before it was eventually snatched before him by a hand with black nails.
“It’s Bucciarati . Not Bruno.” Abbachio scowled, eating his new piece of cake.
“Dont mind Abbachio, new guy. He’s always like that, especially with new people. While we’re here, I can introduce us!” Narancia started. “Abbachio’s the closest with Bucciarati . He used to be a cop, but some stuff happened, and now he's here. He doesn’t talk much, but his stand is super helpful. As for myself, I used to already be in a gang when I was younger, so I'm pretty experienced in this field.” The boy flexed off his story, before being interrupted.
“We’ve pretty much all already been involved in nasty business beforehand, Narancia. I don’t think your story is all that different to be flexed off of.” Mista rolled his eyes whilst playing with his bullets. The two immediately started arguing, before Fugo introduced himself subtly, not giving much information besides thinking he's the only rational one in the group.
“Well usually after one of us joins the group, we need to have a small party as an initiation ritual. Alcohol lets you say things you wouldn’t usually say, so we need to see if you’re really trustworthy..” Mista pokes his head out and points a finger to inform Giorno, who was already a little tired from all the bickering.
“What??! I don't remember doing tha-” Narancia is kicked in the shins by Number 7, eventually catching on. “Oh yeah…! We have that stash near the back, we can finally use it!” He exclaimed. He smiled at Mista, both excited to get wasted after so many missions that almost resulted in failure. Abbachio lifted an eyebrow at the mention of alcohol, and Fugo pinched his nose bridge in an effortless attempt at reminding the two they weren't old enough. Giorno hadn't yet caught up, thinking it really was an initiation.
“All right. I’ve got nothing to hide. I joined La Passione with pure intentions, nothing more and nothing less.” Giorno took a seat at the table, when a hand was placed on his shoulder.
“If pure intentions means overtaking the boss, that is.” Bucciarati chimed in with that charming smirk. Narancia and Mista instantly pitched in their ceremony idea, earning the approval of Bruno as a way to get closer to each other.
“Before all that, we do have one mission we need to get out of the way first. I say we let Giorno take care of most of it to see what he’s made of.” Bruno squeezed Giorno’s shoulder and smiled, an attempt to make him feel welcome and important. Abbachio’s brows furrow at this.
“And what if he fucks it all up?”
“He’s not going to.”
“Being so young he hardly knows how to use his stand, I'm guessing. Just saying we shouldn't let him take the lead in his first mission is all.”
“That’s enough, Abbachio. It’s just a test, and the enemy isn’t nearly as strong as the ones we've faced in the past.”
“..”
After a few seconds of silence being broken by the bullets’ burping, the group ended their feast, not needing to pay a single lire as always. As they got in the car, Giorno was taken aback by the seating.
An average car could only fit five people, and this one was no exception. He stood at the side of the open car door.
“What's wrong? Backing out already?” Abbachio laughed.
“..Where do I sit?” Giorno asked. Narancia, Fugo and Mista eyed each other as the members sitting in the back.
“Go squeeze in and sit on the floor, Narancia. You’re the smallest.” Fugo demanded.
“No way! I just got my pants back from the cleaners. Who knows how many times Mista’s thrown up on the floor hungover here…” He snaps back. Mista’s face flushes, and before another fight blows up, Bucciarati steps in.
“Dont start! Giorno, just sit on someone's lap.” Bucciarati states not looking back, starting the car. Giorno looks at his three options. His face couldn’t explain his emotions better, with a painful, disdained feeling. He eventually sits on Mista, with his seat being closest to his side either way. Narancia and Fugo immediately started taking pictures, laughing, while Mista and Giorno sat still without moving a muscle.
The mission wasn’t what they were expecting. The enemy was weak, with a stand even weaker. Narancia was hoping Giorno’s stand could do something time related, as he’s heard rumors about that in the past. But when Giorno knelt down to transform a pile of ash into hundreds of wasps, the six watched as the enemy was turned into nothing but a group of big red inflamed balls, and the battle was over in a minute. It didn’t take much for the group, besides one, to take an immediate liking to the new recruit. On the car ride back, to make things less awkward, Giorno gave life to a couple of things he found lying around.
“Aww, this one's so cute! It was the attitude of a certain someone here!” Narancia lifted the hamster towards Abbachio, comparing their stern faces.
“You might as well just be calling Abba cute straight to his face then..” Mista disagreed with a hand to his head.
“Dont call me that!” Abbachio quickly turned his head and reached for Mista neck, but was completely out of range with Giorno sitting right on top of his target.
“Chill chill!” Mista ducked even further behind Giorno, who stood still as a rock while the car tilted in another fight.
After finally getting back to their home (which seemed like an abandoned building where no one would suspect a gang to hide out in), Fugo began giving the newcomer a tour of his new house. It seemed nice. Everyone had their own room that was personalized according to their interests. Narancia had dozens of posters, action figures, and a unique bed shaped like a plane. Mista had lots of food lying around demanded of Sex Pistols, with dirty clothes scattered on the floor, and a stench that was uninviting. Fugo went more in detail with his own room, showing books he had been reading as a child, and how he still rereads them now. His memories stung, but they were still a part of him he refused to let go, whether it be by choice or not. His room was tidy and nice, a reflection of his mind. Moving onto the second floor, they had sneakily entered Abbachio’s area. It was dark, dimly lit by one small lamp. There were scented candles recently put out that smelled of lavender, which gave the impression Abbachio had trouble sleeping. The walls were plain white, with a little bit of yellow residue, also hinting at indoor smoking. His bed was unmade, there were shoes by the door, and- wait, shoes by the door? That must mean..
“Shh! He’s right out there!” Fugo whispered and pointed at the window leading to the balcony, where sure enough, Abbachio sat on a chair with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine on the other, all while listening to music with headphones on. Luckily, he was too engulfed in his own world to notice the two sneak into his room.
“If he knew we were here, he’d actually kill us, not even an exaggeration.” Fugo sweated as he grabbed Giorno’s hand and swiftly made their way towards the door. Giorno was bad at showing expression on his face, but he was actually having a good time. He enjoyed learning about different people and their views on life. As the two started making their way downstairs, Giorno noticed one room, besides his own that was in the living room for now, was missing.
“What about Bucciarati's?”
“What about him? If it’s his room you want to go in, you’ll have to ask him personally. It feels wrong stepping in there uninvited, like an invasion of privacy.”
Guess it didn’t feel wrong to step into anyone else’s room then.. Giorno thought to himself. When they made it down the stairs, the two stopped dead in their tracks when they saw an entire cake on the table.
“I thought we were just gonna have a couple of drinks..” Giorno side eyed Fugo.
“I thought so too..” he responded, “Mista, Narancia, when did you have time to get a whole ass cake? We just got here!” He pointed at the two.
“Well.. this is actually Buccurati’s old birthday cake, from last year…we were gonna eat it that day, but that was when he had the sudden idea of going out, so we ended up storing it..” Mista scratched his head, setting the plates.
“And it’s ice cream cake, so it didn’t go bad!” Mista chimed in, knife at the ready. Bucciarati was in the back of the kitchen, bringing out multiple bottles and cups. Despite living in Italy, Giorno had only drank once. He didn’t like the taste it left. Not knowing his own tolerance, he decided to just try to lay it low for now, even if the whole ceremony was for him.
“Gimmie gimmie, Bucciarati! I’ve been waiting the whole damn day for this!” Mista snuck up from behind in an attempt to take one bottle for himself, but was met with the table instead of the bottle after Bucciarati's zipper sent him back.
“No way, if anything you’re getting the least amount of drinks..” Bruno sighed as he turned back to face the gang.
“That’s not fair, Abbachio’s already drinking in his room. And smoking! I thought you told him to stop.” Mista takes his seat with a pouting face.
“I did tell him. Whether he chooses to listen or not is up to him.” Bruno shakes his head. “I’ll go get him, then we'll distribute drinks and play a game I’ve saved.” Bucciarati goes upstairs. Giorno felt this was more of a..friends party than an initiation ritual. And it was. Bruno’s gang had been together for years, depending on the person who joined. They had been each other’s family, and been there at their darkest moments. With the constant requests and troubles around the Passione, they’d only have a few hours to sit back and relax, and take it in that they were all alive and kicking. Mista had been planning this party for a while, and what better way to start it than to introduce a new face along with it.
“Do you often drink?” asked Fugo, taking a seat next to Giorno.
“No. I tried it once a couple of years ago, but didn't like it. Same with smoking, all it did was burn my throat, and it didn’t give me that ‘buzz’ everyone swore it would.” Giorno responded while pouring himself a nice glass of water to get started. He got a few strange looks.
“You don't smoke to get buzzed. You smoke to kill yourself faster. That’s what goes on every smoker’s head.” Abbachio muttered under deep breaths as he and Buccirati descended downstairs.
“Aw don't be such a buzzkill, ‘Bacchio. At least try to stay a little positive, just for today.” Narancia groaned as if he knew this would happen, pulling his face down so his eye sockets would drag down as well.
“It’s gonna take a lot more than a couple of drinks to get me ‘a little positive’.” Abbachio began pouring himself a glass of whatever was closest to him.
“Ah- Hey! Bucciarati, he’s already starting! Tell him to stop or let us start too!!” Mista pointed across the table. Bucciarati took his seat as well, so they were all at the table.
“All right, fine then. May this..’toast’ go towards la Passione!” Bucciarati
Waved his head as he waved his champagne in the air, and Narancia and Mista downed their first shot of vodka with a sour face.
“Yuk!! I don't remember it being this bad!” Narancia stuck out his tongue whilst shaking his head aggressively, as if he could shake the taste out of his system.
“You idiot, it’s all about how you drink it. It’s the technique.” Mista showed off his skills while the others watched dumbfounded in silence. He earned an applause from one peer. After a few drinks of his wine, Abbachio sent Moody Blues to play some music, as the white noise was unbearable. With the more upbeat, western rock playing, the party was much more livelier. Bucciarati stood, bending over above Giorno to help him drink things down. It only took two full glasses for the kid to begin slurring his words.
“Tch. Way to get the kid wasted. He’s not gonna be able to even answer the questions we wanted to ask him.” Abbachio laughs, taking another swish.
“Just to get him on his feet, Leone.” Bucciarati chuckles. He sits back down, and takes out an old game of his to prevent everyone from going overboard right away.
“Why are we playing games teenage girls do with their friends? We should be doing this somewhere else, not at a table with cake and balloons.” Fugo hunches over disappointed.
“Shut up, we’re doing as I say” Bucciarati clears his throat as he shuffles the cards. Four shots in, Mista keeps looking Abbachio in the eyes across the table.
“..What?” Abbachio snorts.
“You’ve been drinking since before we even set the table. How come you’re completely fine, even when you've had at least five glasses of wine!” Mista’s voice raises as he switches from shot glasses to bigger cups.
“Ever heard of tolerances?” Abbachio’s brow furrows.
“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t explain-”
“After you drink so much, you build a higher tolerance to these things. It takes more and more to feel an effect, until eventually it leads to liver damage.” Bucciarati placed a hand on Abbachio's head to shove him back in his seat. He immediately changed his focus to Giorno, while pouring himself his first wine glass.
“Careful, Bucciarati.” Abbachio quickly whispered, in an attempt to remind Bruno of how lightweight he was. Bruno gave him a small look of ‘I know how to handle myself, I could say the same to you’.
“As I was saying, Giorno. The first question I have on this card is about your earliest memory. Tell me, what comes to mind?” Abbchio takes a sip and tosses the card across the table, where it spun and faced the direction of the victim.
“My uh..childhood?” The kid took a swish from his glass as he adjusted his chair. “It’s nothing interesting. About as…as interesting as your guys’story, hell, even less. I never met my father, and I just remember my mother never being home.” He looked down at his half-empty glass, staring deep into the dizzy reflection of his own face. He began to see his face shift into a small child in the reflection. “She would leave me alone in my crib, and I wouldn’t even cry. It was useless. Futile, one would say.” His small trembling was interrupted with a hiccup, and he finished his glass. Mista poured Giorno a nice whisky on the rocks to slip more information out of him. He earned a little laugh from the moody purple one.
“Okay my turn my turn!” Narancia sprung up as if he had completely ignored the recent speech. “Give me one, Bruno!”
“It’s Bucciarati.” Abbachio corrected, also pouring a whisky to try something else. He made a painful face at his first sip.
“Okay Narancia. Your card is..” Bucciarati lifted one eyebrow up. “It’s an action card. It shouldn’t be hard at all unless you're too far gone.” He looks over to Narancia behind the card, who's spinning in a circle while sitting down…somehow.
“Just say the word!” Naranca stops.
“Walk in a straight line, ten steps.”
Narancia immediately springs up, and horribly walks to the living room before falling over a couple of times, earning laughter from a few.
“I’ll do you one even better, boss! What do you say to seeing-..seeing ELEVEN CARTWHEELS!” He finger guns the table, and Bruno places one hand on his head, taking another swish.
“Pannacotta..” He looks at his subordinate with a plead of assistance. Fugo stumbles a bit to get up, and behind slowly walking to retrieve his friend. But his walking speed is no match for Narancia’s sloppy movements. The boy crouches down, measures his area and does one..two..three cartwheels! The fourth is followed by a loud crash as he catapults out the living room window into the cold streets of Italy. Everyone is at least a little drunk now, considering there was no screaming, but laughing. Even Narancia was laughing, laying on the floor covered in blood. He couldn’t feel any of the pain. He could just feel that he was having a good time with friends- no, family. Hauling his ass back indoors, making note of cleaning the mess later (passing it onto Giorno), he lays down on the living room floor, already passed out before making it to the table.
“Gone too soon..” Mista sheds a tear. “O-okay okay, my turn!” Mista slurs and slaps his chest repeatedly. No one seems to have noticed that Bucciarati had somehow made his way to abandon his chair and sit between Abbachio’s legs.
“Mista…..Guido Mista…” Bucciarati shuffles some cards, and the full name makes goosebumps travel down Mista’s spine. “Hmm…What’s one thing you wish you could change about yourself?” Mista immediately tilts his head to the ceiling.
“God, why'd they have to make these questions so depressing! And PERSONAL!” He had crawled down to the floor, out of sight, mumbling something. Eventually he had made his way to the side of Giorno’s chair, getting head level to Giorno's chest.
“The questions should be for him!” He whispers the last word, pointing out what he thinks is secretly.
“Leave me alone, bastardo!” Giorno gently kicks Mista to the floor, and as a response Mista grabs the foot that hit him, pulling him down as well. The two begin to wrestle on the carpet living room, drunk out of their minds, and unknowingly trample over the blacked out Narancia.
“You’re supposed to answer our questions!” Mista says, on top of Giorno. Immediately the positions switch.
“It’s a fucking turn game! It was your turn!” Giorno spits out. He’d never talk like this, he’s usually a very soft spoken guy.
Narancia is still out cold, despite getting harshly nudged. Fugo had made his way to the corner of the room, with his back facing everyone.
“..Looks like we didn’t get far.” Abbachio tilts his head to the side.
“Mmm.” Bruno responds. “Well, I didn’t pick any bad vibes from Giorno. He drank the stuff as instructed, he didn’t seem suspicious we could have poisoned it, so he trusts us enough..and I can say the feeling is mutual.”
Abbacchio didn’t agree. He never did.
“Well, with everyone doing their own thing..let's do ours as well?” Abbachio looked down as Bucciarati was already playing with Leone’s string that went across his open chest. “Are you sober enough to walk?” He got up and extended a hand to help Bucciarati, who took it right away. Their warm and cold hands couldn’t be more different.
“Yeah…it was just a couple of drinks, they’re already wearing off.”
“That’s good..because I was holding back over there. I’ve been saving my stronger stuff to do with you privately.” Moody Blues pickles up a few drinks and glasses, and it follows his master and the other. Fugo hears all of this talk and silently cries, still head down in the corner.
The two stumble hand in hand as they make their way upstairs, taking a right into Abbachio’s room and out to the patio. Bucciarati leans over the railing as Abbachio pours two stronger drinks. The sun had left long ago, being replaced by the moon. Bruno looked up at the stars, glass in hand.
“Something’s got your attention?” Abbachio interrupts.
“The stars.” The older one responds. “It’s just nice. They’re always there, yet we seldom notice them.”
“It’s more than just the stars that feel that way.” Abbachio responds, lighting a cigarette. He offers one to his partner, expecting a ‘those things will kill you, ya know’, but instead is met with the opposite. Bucciarati takes it from his hand and places it in his mouth.
“Guess you’re really drunk.” Leone smiles.
“I told you..I’m not. It’s just a rare occasion of wanting a smoke.” Abbachio places a hand on Bucciarati’s back, bringing them closer before lighting both cigs at the same time. Abbachio stepped back, but Bruno stayed put.
“..Do you think you’ll regret taking that kid under your wing?” The quiet one attempts to make small talk. He takes a drag.
“No. I'm sure he’ll only contribute positively. He seems like a good guy. I had that feeling, the same one I had when I picked you, Mista, and the others up when we first met.” the other responds. He coughs after burning his throat a little. He had never developed an addiction to nicotine, unlike Abbachio, but he always denied that was the case. Bruno would smoke sometimes when stressed. And if it wasn't due to stress, it was to try to match his partner in crime. He had admired how Abbachio was always silent. He’d sometimes come back to the house late, reeking of alcohol. But nevertheless, he was home, safe and sound. Bruno had offered his assistance multiple times, but was always turned down. And that was that. They were both grown men, there needn't be any unnecessary tension. Everyone had their own problems. Problems that don’t always want uninvited help. They both took a drink at the same time, Abbachio trying to shrink the gap separating them without being noticed.
“Bruno, I really mean it from the bottom of my heart when I say thank you.” He turned to face the other.
“I still have my issues, I’m constantly being eaten away by my own thoughts, but when I'm with you, and with everyone here..” Abbachio turns away when saying this part. “I’m happy. Really.”
Bucciarati watched the back of his head. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in, beginning with an arm around Abbacio's shoulder, and then a full body embrace. It was stupid, and childish. Hugging is for kids, a simple way of conveying emotion without saying anything. But sometimes, the most simple way is the right way.
“I’m glad I was able to help you, Leone. You don’t know how much that means to me.” Burno smiles wholeheartedly, and peeps over to give Abbachio one small kiss on the cheek. Abbachio doesn’t say anything. He knows it’s just because his comrade is drunk. And if Abbachio is aware enough to think these thoughts, it meant that he himself was still sober. He chugs the rest of the whiskey, before switching back to wine. He knew he shouldn't be mixing two different types, but did it anyway. Hell, maybe he’ll even get a third one just for the sake of it. Thirty minutes of small talk continued, and now the two were finally out of it enough to not know what the fuck was happening. This feeling was what Abbacchio lived for, and what Bucciarati preferred a few times a year. The two were laughing, and as much as Abbachio wanted to feel something for the man, he still felt unworthy enough to be loved. To even think he deserved someone as amazing, as powerful as Bruno Bucciarati…Abbachio should be hanged for his crimes. The two still play around, touching each other's chest windows, joking to strip further.
“You really are a wonder when you’re like this.” Abbachio sets out a cigarette on Bucciarati’s open chest, not even feeling it.
“It’s a mystery how you’ve built up your intolerance up to this level!”
“You said it yourself, when- how you were eh, explaining it to Giorno.”
“I dont remember whatever the fuck I said to that kid. Hell, I don't even know what day it is.”
“...”
“...”
The two laughed harder than they had been this whole time. Bucciarati fell to the floor, where he was joined by Abbachio. After a few minutes, Bucciarati reached for Abbachio's hand in a futile attempt to get up. While reaching for his hand, Bruno put on a troubled face, staring at that arm.
“You’re still doing that?” Bucciarati finally got up.
“..Doing what.” Abbachio knew exactly what he meant. What he was referring to. But he didn’t acknowledge it in a poor excuse of being too drunk.
“Don’t play stupid.” Bucciarati sloppily pushed back the man’s sleeve up to his elbow. Abbachio’s whole arm was covered in different colored slashes and bruises. If he were sober, he would have pulled his arm back and snapped. But he wasn’t in the right mind. Nothing mattered right now. Maybe in a day, but for now he wanted to relax. So why did he begin pulling up his other sleeve unprompted? His left arm was even worse, considering he was right handed and harbored more strength there.
Bucciarati looked him in the eyes.
“What do you want me to say?” Bruno asked.
“I’m not asking you to say anything.”
“Then why show me this?”
“I’m not in my right mind.”
The two stared at each other. Abbachio wanted Bruno to do something or say something. Not in a surprised, worried way, they were too old for that. Just in a way that made Abbachio know someone saw his troubles.
Silence. The two had been growing a little tired as the frogs croaked, and more stars showed up.
“I doubt we’ll remember this tomorrow. I’m gonna get going, help me clean the house tomorrow. I'm sure the others will still be passed out cold.” Bucciarati tidied himself up, hoping it’s the least harmful way to end the night, and stumbled to get to the door. Abbachio let him leave without any problems. Bruno had a point: they wouldn't remember this tomorrow. The alcohol had served its purpose of hosting a fun time with friends before eventually ruining one's life if over-consumed. Things only went bad for Abbacchio because things had always been that way. There was no point in feeling bad about it. That’s just the way things were. Abbachio took out another cigarette, despite already putting them away for the night, and wiped his watery eyes. The rain began falling down fast. He sludged back to his room and locked the door. He had stripped down to just his undergarments, before sitting on the floor against his wall. He smashed the wine glass he had previously been using on the rugged wall, shattering it into little pieces. Not feeling any pain under the influence, Leone grabbed the biggest piece, and stuck out his arm in front of his own body. Pushing down at his wrist, and dragging up by a foot, he slammed his head on the wall behind. This was supposed to be a fun get together. But he should have known. Abbachio and fun couldn’t mix.
Yes, he felt like he was part of a family.
Yes, he knew his companions loved him.
And yes, he still had his own problems to deal with. Whether his own problems brought down the rest of his companions was up to them, not him. Abbachio couldn't control what others thought, coming up with his own thoughts was hard enough. Blood gathered down his elbow. It wasn’t that deep. But there was a lot more blood than usual. Closing his eyes and furrowing his brows, he demanded Moody Blues to replay Bucciarati’s disgust from their previous conversation. Maybe that would motivate him to cut deeper. But Moody Blues was nowhere to be seen. Was Abbachio’s willpower really that weak right now? He took another drag from his cigarette, before putting it out on the pool of blood below him. Looking down, he noticed his thighs were a little too clean, and could have huge slashes on them right now. Using the same glass shard, he began to stab. But after a few drags, he stopped. It wasn’t worth it. He was mad for no reason other than his own problems he was probably making up just for the sake of it. He groaned in anger. He was too tired to put up with any of this shit.
This is why he always preferred to be alone. When substances don't help, you can always count on yourself.
What a joke.