Chapter Text
Eventually, despite the combination of Narancia’s incessant wriggling as he tries to get comfortable and his irritated grumbling, Abbacchio does manage to get to sleep.
He doesn’t dream - or at least he doesn’t remember dreaming - and when he wakes up, the room is dark, and Narancia is no longer lying next to him. Part of him is glad to have the bed back to himself. There’s a much larger part of him that wishes that Bruno was lying next to him, arms and legs sprawled everywhere, drooling on the pillow.
Abbacchio supposes that it’s most likely nighttime now - had he really slept all day? - and that’s why the house is so upsettingly quiet. Bruno is probably still sitting vigil at Giorno’s bedside, and Abbacchio finds himself wanting to check on them.
He’s on his way past the kitchen before he realises that God, Bruno wouldn’t want him there - and if Giorno was awake, he certainly wouldn’t want him there either.
Rubbing his forefinger and thumb on the bridge of his nose, he considers what to do to help that wouldn’t piss them off. He feels a lot less shaky - so tea, maybe? He could make a pot of tea?
Sighing so heavily that his shoulders droop, Abbacchio enters the darkened kitchen.
The mugs have been cleared up from earlier, put back into their place. He supposes it’s not much use to make Bucciarati (or Giorno, for that matter) a mug of tea that will cool quickly, so of course, the logical option is to put it in a pot. The one that they have at home has a knitted cosy that looks like a pom-pom - he wonders if the teapot here would have a similar cosy, if he could find the damn thing.
Opening cupboards at random, he casts his eyes over shelves of crockery and what looks like stupidly expensive china (from the gold trim, anyway) until he finds it.
‘It’ isn’t a teapot, but he somehow wonders if it was what he had actually been looking for.
Teapot be damned , he thinks to himself as he carefully removes the liquor bottle from the shelf, the amber liquid inside swishing around. He carefully rotates the bottle around in his hands, trying to see the label.
And when he does, he’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. He lets out a choked sob, an awful in-between of the two.
‘ Laka: Cloudberry Liqueur ’ the label posts in a cursive typeface. He knows he shouldn’t drink it - he knows he shouldn’t even be thinking about drinking it - but it’s there in his hands, and everything has been so shit today, and perhaps he should indulge just a little bit--
“Are you kidding me?”
Abbacchio turns to the source of the voice - an incredibly ticked off Bucciarati standing in the doorway, eyes narrowed at the man through the darkness.
“Bruno, I-”
“You’re drinking ? At a time like this?” Bucciarati demands.
“I wasn’t, I-” He drags a hand down his face, still clutching the neck of the bottle with his other hand. “But, even if I was, what’s the damn issue? What else are we meant to be doing? Just waiting around?” Heaving a sigh, Abbacchio looks down at the label of the bottle, before placing it down on the counter. “I’m sorry, I just… I’m sorry.”
Bruno stands there with his arms folded, an unreadable expression on his face. Abbacchio selfishly hopes that it’s concern hiding underneath, but he knows that it’s more than likely to be anger.
Abbacchio leans against the counter lowering his head. His hair falls around his face in a curtaining fashion as he buries his head in his hands. “It’s my damn fault that he went out there in the first place. I was so focused on you having a good holiday that I didn’t even realise that’s what he was trying to do too,” He looks up, covering his mouth with his hand. “Oh, God, that’s why he wouldn’t have wanted to go in the sauna, isn’t it? Because of the scars?”
Bruno thins his lips together into a narrow line. “You couldn’t have known.”
“But I should’ve known!” Abbacchio cries out in disdain. “I should’ve seen it, and God, there are so many things that make sense now, all those little things, like with the food, and the flinching, and being up all night, I should’ve known-- ”
--And suddenly, there are warm arms enveloping him, silent and comforting. Neither one of them speak for a few moments, before Abbacchio mumbles into Bruno’s shoulder.
“I really fucked up on this one, didn’t I?”
At that, Bruno pulls away from the hug, resting his hands on Abbacchio’s shoulders with a weak smile and teary eyes.
“I didn’t realise you cared so much.”
Abbacchio gawps at him. “Of course I care!” He looks away from Bruno, almost ashamed to make eye-contact with the man’s kind blue eyes, a sunny sky of undeserved forgiveness. “Bruno, when I woke up and saw him like that… I didn’t know what to do. And last night, when I saw the state he was in… I panicked.”
“I would’ve too.”
“You wouldn’t have. You’re a better man than I am, Bruno.”
Bruno rolls his eyes. “Enough of that. And don’t get me wrong - I’m still mad at you.” His expression suddenly turns dark - it always amazes Abbacchio how he’s able to do that, one extreme to another, though it doesn’t make it any less scary. “If Giorno doesn’t wake up, I won’t forgive you. I’m inclined to believe he’ll be okay, but you got lucky. We got lucky. This never happens again.
Abbacchio nods shakily. There were occasions when Bruno went from speaking to him as a partner to speaking to him as a Capo, but on this occasion, he knew that Bruno was speaking to him as a parent, desperately worried and distressed about the state of their child.
He’s beginning to understand that feeling too.
“I’m so sorry, Bruno. I’m not just saying this to get you off my back or whatever, I’m seriously sorry. You don’t have to forgive me for this. I don’t expect you to, and I don’t expect Giorno to either.”
Bruno sighs. “I don’t think he’d hold a grudge over something like this. I might be mad at you, but I don’t think Giorno would be.”
“He should be mad.”
“Maybe so, but he’s always been anything but predictable. You and I both know this.” He says, glancing towards the doorway. “He’s still asleep, but you can see him if you want. I can tell you’re worried about him.”
Abbacchio opens his mouth to bite back that of course he’s not worried, why on earth would he be worried? But he’s well aware of the fact that Bucciarati can see right through him and gives a weak smile, rubbing his upper arm nervously.
“... Honestly I’m a little scared.” He admits, not quite realising the words that have just spilled from his mouth until Bucciarati tilts his head to the side in confusion. He quickly tries to do damage control. “Like the last time I saw him, he wasn’t in a good state, and I’m…” Abbacchio waves his hand noncommittally in the hopes that Bruno will get the message.
“I’m not really sure what you’re talking about, Leone.”
He doesn’t get the message.
“I mean… You know. My partner. I…” He trails off, dismissing the sentence with a curt shake of his head. “Yeah, sorry. I’d like to see him, just to… check on him.”
Unspoken words hang in the air between them.
I don’t want to see any more dead people.
Entering Giorno’s room, through the dim lights, Abbacchio expects to just see a sleeping Giorno, bundled in blankets. Perhaps a little pale, a little sickly looking - he doesn’t expect him to be awake.
Neither does Bucciarati by the way he rushes over to the boy’s side.
Giorno’s green eyes follow the man across the room, but it’s quite clear to them that he’s not all there. His eyes are slightly glazed over - and they don’t realise how out of it he is until he smiles. A real, genuine, smile. Weak, definitely weak, but there all the same.
It almost looks out of place on his face.
“Hey, can you hear me?” Bucciarati asks, hesitantly, as he brushes a few stray strands of blonde hair from Giorno’s face. The boy only blinks back at him, still smiling, though his eyes still looked dead. Frankly, it was a little unsettling.
Bucciarati looks towards Abbacchio in desperation, mouthing ‘What do I do?’ with a panicked expression that he rarely saw on the man’s face.
Abbacchio could only shrug, before clearing his throat. “Uh, Giorno…?” He asks, unease clear in his tone. Giorno doesn’t react, only keeping his gaze affixed on Bucciarati, though his smile seems to droop a little. His brow furrows in an almost imperceptible way.
“... I’m here.” Bucciarati murmurs quietly in a comforting tone, still gently threading his fingers through Giorno’s tangled hair.
“You’re here.” Giorno whispers so quietly it’s almost as if he’s mouthing the words.
“Mum, you’re here .”
He’d know that dark hair anywhere.
Giorno is sure that he’d recognise his mother’s dark hair in a sea of thousands of others, he’d spent enough of his life watching it flow behind her as she sashays out the door, but that scarcely matters now, because she’s here .
‘You’re here.’ He tries to tell her, but he’s not sure if the words come out. There’s a look of concern on her face as she cards her fingers through his hair, and it’s an expression that he doesn’t think he’s ever seen on her face before.
Her dark locks frame her face just as they always had, his sight is too blurry to see her face properly, but he knows that it’s her. He’s unwell and she’s come to look after him, she’s come to take care of him--
“ Mum, you’re here.” He whispers, barely able to believe it.
His mother’s expression turns difficult, her brow furrowing, and for a horrible second, Giorno thinks he’s fucked it all up. But the hand swipes hair out of his eyes gently, and she smiles at him.
“I’m here.” His mother says.
“You’re not going anywhere?”
“I’m not going anywhere .” She confirms. “But you need to rest. You’re still recovering.”
He furrows his brow. He doesn’t want her to go. She says she won’t, but he thinks she’s said that before, and she’s left anyway. He can’t quite remember, everything just seems so… fuzzy.
She says he’s recovering - what’s he recovering from?
“Promise me you won’t go.” He demands. “Promise me that you won’t leave me.”
With a quiet sigh, she strokes his hair back.
“I promise I won’t go anywhere. Just rest.”
Satisfied with her answer, Giorno shuts his eyes and drifts off into a dreamless sleep.
“I promise I won’t go anywhere. Just rest.” Bucciarati reassures him, looking on fondly as Giorno allows his eyes to drift shut.
There’s a silence in the room before Abbacchio speaks up from the end of the bed.
“What the fuck was that?”
Bucciarati shoots him a glare, pressing the back of his hand to Giorno’s forehead. “He doesn’t have a fever. He must’ve just woken up and been disorientated, confusion is common in people with hypothermia.”
He doesn’t miss how Abbacchio shudders at the word, looking away from the boy in the bed towards the window and the snow outside. “Yeah, but that’s only when it’s bad, right?” He purses his lips, glancing back to the pair. “I thought he was meant to be recovering. Getting better, whatever.”
“Perhaps he was just dreaming, then?”
“Maybe.”
Abbacchio sighs heavily before walking over to the bed, perching himself on the opposite side to where Bucciarati is sitting vigil. The dark-haired man looks at him curiously. “Making yourself comfortable?”
“We promised him we wouldn’t leave, yeah?” Abbacchio responds gruffly. Bucciarati can’t hide his amused smirk.
“I think that was more directed to me, rather than the both of us.”
“Fine then, mum .” Abbacchio rolls his eyes. “You’re not leaving him. I’m not leaving you.”
With that, Abbacchio reaches over Giorno to pat the bed in front of Bucciarati. “Come on then. Lie down.”
Bucciarati raises an eyebrow, exasperated.
“What?”
“When I was sick, my mum would always sleep in the same bed as me, ‘cause I’d always get nightmares. So go on.” Bucciarati’s expression turns to one of amusement.
“Don’t give me that, acting like you didn’t do the same thing when Narancia was in hospital!”
“It’s not that, I just… I don’t want to overstep any boundaries with him, especially not while he’s in such a vulnerable state.”
Huffing, Abbacchio turns to the dresser and opens one of the drawers, yanking out a large woolen blanket made of pastel patchwork squares. He drapes it over Giorno before lying down next to him. Lifting the edge of the blanket nearest to Bruno, he glances between him and the snoring and slightly drooling teenager.
Bucciarati rolls his eyes and clambers underneath the blanket too.
The pair stair at the ceiling for a few moments, Giorno between them, before Bucciarati reaches across Giorno’s chest to nudge at Abbacchio’s shoulder.
“Hm?”
Bucciarati doesn’t respond, simply opening his palm. Giving a light huff, Abbacchio accepts the invite, placing his palm in Bucciarati’s own.
The pair link hands, leaving them resting over Giorno’s chest as some sort of protection.
A lifeline through clasped hands, and a silent promise that they’ll get through.
Of all the ways to go, Abbacchio really didn’t think choking on hair would be one of them. Despite this, he finds himself awakening the next morning with a mouthful of blonde.
Shooting up straight, Abbacchio coughs, tugging strands of hair out of his mouth with a disgusted expression.
“... Why were you eating my hair?” A quiet voice asks, and Abbacchio pauses his choking to look down at the extremely fatigued looking Giorno lying next to him.
Abbacchio glances away, tugging the blankets further over Giorno. “Why was your hair in my mouth?”
“Bucciarati takes up a lot of space.” Giorno mutters, his voice still weak, exhaustion clearly present.
Abbacchio is more than familiar with Bucciarati starfishing across the entire bed, as well as his extremely cold feet that he always puts on Abbacchio’s to warm them up. He secretly hopes that Giorno hadn’t been a victim of that overnight.
“Hm. You feeling alright?”
“... Yes. I’m quite alright, thank you.” Giorno says politely, and oh, whoops, there it is! Abbacchio is right back to wanting to throttle him.
“You almost died.”
Shrugging while lying down can’t be easy, but Giorno tries anyway. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” Huffing out a quiet laugh, Abbacchio looks away from him. Giorno looks at him quizzically. “Is there a reason both you and Bucciarati are in my bed?”
“You were really out of it last night. Bucciarati didn’t want to leave you alone while you were recovering, and I didn’t really want to leave him alone either.”
“Recovering.” Giorno confirms.
“Yep,” Abbacchio answers, popping the ‘p’. “You weren’t in a good state.” He continues, finding it difficult to look at Giorno as they talk about the incident.
“I…” Giorno drifts off as he frowns. “Abbacchio, I must be honest. I don’t really remember.” He murmurs, attempting to sit up. Abbacchio quickly steadies him, adjusting the pillows, so Giorno can be propped up. Bucciarati doesn’t stir, aside from giving a slight snore.
“What do you mean, you don’t remember?”
Languidly, Giorno rubs at his forehead with his brow furrowed. Not being able to put the puzzle together - or even having all of the pieces - is frustrating him greatly. His body aches, and he feels more exhausted than he thinks he’s ever been. He remembers… The snow. Abbacchio shouting at him, icy water, not being able to breathe--
He remembers accepting his death.
He remembers Abbacchio being there, and not being there at the same time.
Giorno frowns. “I remember the cold. And you-- I think you were there. It’s not that clear.” He doesn’t miss the way Abbacchio’s shoulders stiffen.
“You fell into the lake. The ice broke. Then there was a snowstorm, and we couldn’t get back here.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It was my fault. It’s my fault you went out there in the first place, my fault you were on the damn lake. And I left you alone to freeze, and because of what? My fucking agenda for being an asshole to you? There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not, Giorno. It’s really not okay.” There’s a tearful edge to his voice. “When I woke up, and you weren’t responding, I was absolutely terrified. I thought you were dead. Bruno would never forgive me. The others would never forgive me. I’d never forgive myself.”
“ I forgive you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Well I do.” Giorno emphasises. Abbacchio doesn’t say anything else, and Giorno hopes that the man won’t push that part of the conversation any further. He really doesn’t want to see Abbacchio cry - someone as strong and stoic as him - the idea is a little disconcerting.
“Anyway,” Giorno begins. “If I’ve swallowed water, you shouldn’t have let me lie on my back. I could’ve thrown up the water and aspirated.” Abbacchio gives him a look, which Giorno takes as the man seeking clarification. “Choked. On the vomit. And died.”
Abbacchio waves his hand in a dismissive manner. “Bucciarati’s been sitting vigil with you since we got back, and we’ve both been here for the night. Nothing happened, and even if it did, we would’ve noticed. You’re fine.”
No thanks to you , Giorno wants to bite back, but he’s too used to analysing people. The way that Abbacchio is sitting, hunched over, not making eye contact, his hair around his face in a curtaining fashion, it all screams guilt.
Giorno decides to offer him an olive branch.
“... And was there anyone else here?” He questions.
“Just us two. Why?”
Giorno lowers his head.“Nothing, it doesn’t matter.”
Abbacchio lets out a heavy exhale. “There was… You woke up for a little bit, a few hours ago.”
“I did? I don’t remember.”
“I’m not surprised. You weren’t all that lucid. I think you mistook Bucciarati for someone else.”
Giorno narrows his lips into a thin line as he remembers her dark hair. Or rather, his dark hair. Giorno wants to suffocate himself with the pillow out of embarrassment.
“You thought he was--”
He cringes. “I know. You don’t need to say it.”
A mischievous grin blooms across Abbacchio’s face. Giorno regrets the olive branch now - it would’ve been much better to let Abbacchio stew in his guilt.
“No, hey, you called him--”
“Please shut up.” Giorno mutters irritatedly, rubbing at his forehead again, and the ache that doesn’t quite seem to subside. He doesn’t particularly want to lie there any longer, in the company of a seemingly grouchier-than-usual Abbacchio.
“Fine, fine.” Abbacchio grumbles. “Just go back to sleep, kid. You’re safe. We’re here. Just rest… and stuff.”
Allowing his eyes to droop closed once more, Giorno thinks he might actually believe Abbacchio’s words.
The rest of the week passes in a blur of hot soup, and soft blankets, and Moomins - God, so many episodes of the effing Moomins. Narancia had decided to move the TV into the room that Giorno was resting in so he could ‘Keep him company’, resulting in any rest that Giorno hoped to get being interrupted by the painfully squeaky children’s cartoon voices - the only options for the language being Finnish or English, neither of which Narancia understood.
Giorno didn’t really have the heart to tell Narancia to go away either, especially not after Narancia’s admittance of his tears of worry after that first night of Giorno being unwell. Guilt bubbled up in Giorno’s chest at that, harried apologies spilling out, each of which Narancia steadfastly refused, chasing away with a hug.
Abbacchio had no such issues with kicking Narancia out, however, all but chasing him out with a broom. Though Bucciarati was a bit more gentle, he still very much shared the same sentiments, which were to ‘leave Giorno alone and let him rest’ - especially after an incident when Giorno had partially collapsed in the bathroom. No one wanted to take any more chances with Giorno’s health, not with the weak state he was already in.
A fortnight later, Giorno sits at his desk, fountain pen in hand. It’s one that they’d picked up from the airport - navy blue and silhouetted with gold Moomins. Being trapped in the cabin during a snowstorm hadn’t left them much time for souvenir shopping, and thus at Narancia’s insistence, a shopping spree was had at duty free within the Helsinki airport.
Bucciarati had picked up another snowglobe for his collection, and though Abbacchio’s gaze had lingered over the dozens of mysteriously flavoured liquors lining the shelves, he’d eventually decided against it, and had gone to wait in the first class lounge with Giorno - the boy still somewhat recovering, and absolutely exhausted.
Even now, two weeks later, Giorno wouldn’t consider himself fully recovered, the cold still biting, much of his time spent with a blanket draped over his shoulders (Yet another one of Narancia’s airport purchases, though this one a bit more sensible and considerably more subtle with the moomin-patterning).
Exhaustion also seemed to be something that frequently troubled Giorno lately, though it really was something he hoped would abate with time.
Accepting that he wasn’t yet at full strength and unable to do the things that he had previously was difficult, to say the least, but he couldn’t help but think back to how helpless he’d been - how unwell he’d been after the incident in Finland, and though being unable to get out of bed by himself was frustrating, and upsetting at some times…
Being taken care of was nice.
Having his family around him was nice.
For someone like Giorno, who had been almost entirely self-sufficient since before he could walk, losing his agency would have been the worst possible thing. But now that it had happened, after days laid up in bed, being spoon fed awful soup because his hands were too shaky to hold the utensil himself - he’d found acceptance with the situation.
Peace hadn’t quite been found yet, though, especially as there’s a thundering knock at his door, and hushed whispering. Rolling his eyes, Giorno sets his pen down (It was getting to be time to take a break, anyway) and calls out to whoever happens to be lurking behind the door. Of course, he had his suspicions.
“Yes, Narancia? Mista?” He asks, the door being pushed open as soon as his not-quite-invitation leaves his mouth. As expected, Narancia and Mista enter, immediately making themselves comfortable on Giorno’s half-made bed (So sue him, he was still recovering, he didn’t have time for such things) as well as Fugo, to his surprise, still hovering in the doorway, carrying a tinfoil covered dish.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Fugo?” Giorno asks, with a slight smile. Rolling his eyes, Fugo places the dish down on the desk.
“They wanted me to carry it up the stairs.”
Narancia makes a buzzer sound as he rifles through Giorno’s obscenely large plushie collection, Mista already falling asleep next to him.
“Not true! You said you wanted to carry it, since we’d drop it.”
Fugo looks a little embarrassed at the accusation, but doesn’t deny it either, simply stepping back out of Narancia’s warpath as he goes for the dish on the desk.
“Okay, so because you got hyperthermia-”
“-Hypothermia,” Giorno corrects, tugging his blanket around his shoulders. Narancia pauses.
“What?”
“Hypothermia. Hyperthermia is a condition related to an abnormally high body temperature. Hypothermia is characterised by an extremely low body temperature-”
“- Okay, because you were dying ,” Narancia emphasises, staring at Giorno as if daring him to argue again. (Giorno opens his mouth and then closes it again, realising that there really isn’t an argument. He was dying. Not for the first time, either, in his short life. That’s a strange thought.)
With a flourish, Narancia removes the tinfoil paper cover from the dish, revealing a… Pie?
“Ta-da!” Narancia announces, with slight jazz hands. Giorno blinks at it.
“A pie?”
“A cloudberry pie!” He grins, already scooping one of the slices out and balancing it on the tinfoil as a plate. “Just like the one you almost died for!” Narancia hands the slice to Giorno, who looks at it nervously.
“Try it! We spent all morning working on it, and we thought you should try the first piece!” Giorno gives a weak smile in response, thanking them all, as he picks it up hesitantly, and takes a bite.
It’s not what he expected.
He’s really having trouble keeping a straight face.
“Well?” Narancia asks, eyes shining as Giorno chews slowly. Mista is sitting up now, watching Giorno chew (painfully) slowly through half-lidded eyes. “What do you think? Is it good?”
Eventually managing to swallow the mouthful, Giorno smiles, his brow furrowed a little. “Mmm! It’s really good!” He says, perhaps a little over eagerly, but Narancia doesn’t seem to notice, offering him a proud smile in return as he quickly dishes out slices of pie to Mista and Fugo, keeping one of the larger slices for himself.
“I’m so glad you like it! Mista did like four- three attempts on the pastry and I tried my best with the cloudberry filling, I had to go to one of those fancy bougie shops for them, but since we wanted you to have the first taste we haven’t even tried it--”
Cutting himself off, Narancia takes a huge bite of the slice of pie, Fugo and Mista doing likewise. For a moment they’re all smiles, relieved that Giorno had liked it - until the taste of it hits Narancia properly, and his face absolutely falls .
“What the fuck?” He exclaims, disgustedly. “Oh my God, why the fuck is it so sour ?”
Fugo coughs into his fist, clearly struggling with the pie. “The berries are… Very, very tart.” He frowns, watching in disgust as Mista spits his mouthful out into his hand. “Christ, Narancia. What the fuck did you do to these berries? Honestly…”
Narancia looks about ready to start throwing pie everywhere, and it’s at that moment that Giorno decides to interject with what he’d learned of the dish since coming back from Finland.
“As it turns out…” He begins, placing the partly eating slice of pie down on the desk gently. “Cloudberry Pie isn’t actually a common dish at all. The ‘Beginners Cookbook for Finnish Recipes’ had terrible reviews, mostly because of the simply awful recipes. Cloudberry Pie being one of them.” Giorno informs as gently as he can, but Narancia still looks absolutely disheartened.
“That absolutely sucks.” He spits out, disappointedly. “That’s so sad, we just wanted to make your pie since you didn’t get to enjoy Finland at all with being sick and stuff.”
“It’s… It’s my own fault that I became ill, Narancia--”
Narancia is immediately covering his ears. “Nope! No, Gio, we’ve been through this, it’s not your fault!”
Giorno sighs, looking away from them all and back to the papers scattered haphazardly across his desk as Narancia removes his hands from his ears.
“Okay, but we have like… Half a pound of cloudberries in the fridge downstairs, what are we even meant to do with them?”
Giorno ponders the question for a moment. “... Cloudberry Liqueur is quite a popular drink. All you’d really need is a spirit base and allow it to steep in the alcohol for a matter of weeks…?”
Despite Abbacchio and Giorno’s kinship and their newfound respect for each other, Giorno offering up Abbacchio’s bathtub for liquor production was very much a grave mistake, which resulted in all of Giorno’s hair products being replaced by glue as an act of sweet, sweet revenge.
It seemed family vacations would be off the table for quite a while.