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Things had changed in the past six months, since the induction of a certain Giorno Giovanna.
Abbacchio was in his room, reading. That, in and of itself, was not particularly unusual. It gave him space to relax and time to himself.
What was unusual, however, was the knock at his door.
Oh, he got interrupted often enough, when a gang was getting unruly, or Narancia blew up the toaster (something about orange juice and sardines. Abbacchio did not know, nor did he want to in the slightest).
Those knocks were usually a lot more heavy handed than the hesitant, timid tapping.
He glanced at his watch. 12:37. Of late, the group had been trying (and often failing) to keep a reasonable sleep schedule, now that they were part of the Don's inner circle, and often had to be present at his meetings, plenty of which were held much too early in the day.
"What is it? It's late and I'm reading." Displeasure coloured his voice.
The door opened a crack, and he was surprised to see a shock of pink hair as Trish poked her head into the room, looking uncertain.
"Um," she began, eyes flitting about the room, landing anywhere but him. She opened the door further, squaring her shoulders. "I was wondering if you could maybe help me with my makeup?"
"What."
Her gaze dropped to the floor, shoulders curling inward. "It's– well, I thought, maybe you could…" she mumbled uncertainly.
"It's 12:40 in the morning," he stated flatly.
"Right," she murmured, turning away, seeming crushed. Spice Girl phased into sight, one hand placed comfortingly on Trish's shoulder, head turned to stare Abbacchio down accusatorily. Her eyes bored into him, lips turned down in displeasure. Trish's "I'll, um. I'll go. Sorry to bother you."
The soft, unexpectedly defeated tone of her voice sent an abrupt flash of guilt through him.
"Wait–" the word slipped out before he could think. Trish paused. He cursed himself. Was he really about to do this? Use up part of his rare free time to interact with someone who wasn't Buccellati?
He cleared his throat, then muttered gruffly, almost too low to be heard, "why, ah, why are you asking me, and not Buccellati?"
Her head snapped around, and he saw her blink in confusion. "He wears makeup?"
"Yes?" That man had more foundation on than most celebrities.
"Oh. I didn't know that." She squirmed uncomfortably, Spice Girl still looming threateningly over her shoulder. "He's probably asleep now anyway."
"What gave you the idea I wouldn't be?" Abbacchio demanded.
"Mista said you stay up late to read."
"Is that so," he muttered. He was of half a mind to tell Mista that the tripe in his Trippa alla Mormannola came from cows, which had four stomachs, but decided against it. The revenge was not worth Buccellati's disapproval.
Trish watched him from the doorway for a long moment. The hope in her gaze was somehow far more potent than Spice Girl's unwavering, unblinking stare.
" Fine ," he snapped, glancing at his page number and snapping his book shut as he stood. He set it down on his bedside table, beside a pile of four or five other books he was intending to read next.
The way Trish's face lit up with delight was criminal in how it set off a little firework of happiness in his chest. Buccellati was the doting parent here, goddamnit. Abbacchio was the imposing superior, the Arsehole Supreme, as Narancia had dubbed him (all too cheerfully, now that he thought about it).
Spice Girl faded back into Trish's body as she danced barefoot across the carpet toward him.
Oh God. He was going to regret this so much, wasn't he?
"Come on," he grumbled, leading her toward his bathroom. Flipping on the lights, he reached for his makeup collection.
She watched wide eyed as he laid everything out. The main theme was purples, blacks and greys, pale foundation and even paler concealer. His lipstick was more expensive than he cared to share, and absolutely worth it.
"What were you thinking of doing?" He asked, forcing his voice to remain flat. He was certainly not curious, and definitely did not admire other people's makeup ever.
Okay, maybe he was a little curious. Just a little.
Trish chewed her lower lip uncertainly. "I'm not quite sure. Eyeshadow, maybe? Or eyeliner." She tucked a stand of hair behind her ear. "Eyeliner's really cool."
"Okay." Eyeliner was sick as fuck , but he was damned if he was going to indicate his thoughts. "I have liquid and pencil liner. Most of my eyeshadow is purple, which I don't think is your colour."
"What about that?" Trish asked, pointing to a couple of little, round containers of green eyeshadow. They looked oddly vibrant and out of place among Abbacchio's muted selection.
"Yeah, okay. Try some if you want."
Trish hesitated, one hand hovering over a cheerful, glittery grass green. Her other dangled uncertainly over his excessive spread of eye makeup brushes. "Um."
Abbacchio sighed. Okay. "In this case, I would say you want a round brush. However , you first need to prime your lids, or the eyeshadow won't stick as well and it'll be less vibrant."
"Oh."
He took a brush for himself and a tube of primer, dotting it onto his lids. He'd taken his usual makeup off less than an hour ago, Jesus Christ. Why was he doing this?
He demonstrated how to prime with quick efficiency, then gestured to her to try.
She set her jaw determinedly, picking up a clean brush and the proffered primer.
"You can also put it directly onto the brush, then apply it to your lids. It might help avoid using too much."
Trish gave one nod, carefully following his advice. Her hand wobbled slightly as she raised the brush to her eye, and she took a second to steady herself before quickly swiping it over the lid.
Abbacchio found himself unexpectedly absorbed in her process, her brushstrokes a mix of confidence and caution as she blended the primer out. Every now and then, her eyes flickered questioningly up to his in the mirror, and he would give her a small nod of encouragement.
The brush clattered noisily onto the countertop as Trish set it down. The sound was unexpected, after the few minutes of calm.
"Now what?" Trish asked, eyes bright with excitement.
Abbacchio absolutely did not have to suppressed a smile at her excitement, no sirree.
"Now you put the cap back on the primer, if you please, and then you can get a clean brush and start applying the eyeshadow."
She scrambled to do as he said, cap missing the tube once in her zeal to get it back on and move onto the eyeshadow.
"You can do just a solid colour, or you can take a darker shade for the outer lid, to add some dimension."
Trish snatched up one of the other three containers of green. It was the only one that was particularly darker than the grass green, but Abbacchio thought it might have been a little more blue than was ideal. Oh well. This was more to practise technique than anything, and Trish could get her own eyeshadow tomorrow or sundering.
Realising that she was looking to him for guidance again, he let out another sigh, and went for his usual purples.
"Like this," he grumbled, sounding as put upon as he could make himself. Heaven forbid he ruin his reputation of being a cold and heartless bastard.
He applied a dark, smokey purple to the outer corner of his eye, and worked his way inward, switching to a lighter tone as he went. Figuring it was more her style, he added a touch of silvery shadow to the inner corner, something he would usually forego.
"Normally I would suggest you use a third colour for your eyeshadow as well, but." He glanced at the third container of green powder. It was a horrendous neon green, much too loud for this occasion. He had no clue when he'd gotten it, never mind why .
Trish watched him attentively, eyes round and large. Unscrewing the cap, she dipped a round brush into the shadow, tapping the excess into the lid. Her eyes hardened in determination as she brought the brush to one lid.
She used small strokes as she went, carefully evening each eye out as much as she could.
And then for the liner. Not that he'd ever admit it, liner was one of Abbacchio's absolute favourite parts in the makeup process. It changed so much about your look.
It was funny, watching Trish squint as she did her waterline, trying to prevent tears from forming at the awkward wave unfamiliar tickling. His lips didn't twitch even slightly at that. Emoting was for everyone else.
"Now the tricky part," he said, when she set the pencil down, turning her head from side to side to see the difference made by the dark liner.
He pulled out one of his liquid liners, waterproof like the majority of his makeup.
"Start on the outside…" he mumbled, absorbed as he made practised, confident strokes.
He didn't normally go for large, bold wings, but he'd be taking this all back off soon anyway. And goddamnit they looked cool. Maybe he would have to give himself actual winged liner in future. Damn it for looking so good.
The excitement on Trish's face as she tried her hand at it was much too endearing.
The wings ended up a little bolder than he thought she had intended, from her efforts to even them out.
"Oh my God." Trish stared at her reflection. "Oh my God! I look so freaking sick!"
The green eyeshadow enhanced her eyes gorgeously, contrasting prettily with her hair. The winged liner tied it all in, as it was often wont to do.
"Thank you so much!" She exclaimed.
She hugged him.
It took Abbacchio a second to realise what was happening, and by the time it had, Trish was releasing him, eyes wide.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry! I know you're not a hugger, I got carried away. Sorry." She awkwardly bit her lip.
Recovering from his surprise, Abbacchio blinked at her. "That's… alright," he told her, startled to realise it was true.
The relief that flooded Trish's face was quickly replaced by a grin that could only be described as downright mischievous.
"What," he demanded suspiciously.
"You're actually a big softie, aren't you?"
He sputtered indignantly, "I am not!" Unthinkable! Him, a softie? Him?
Trish laughed, and gave him a soft, genuine smile. "But seriously. Thank you."
Abbacchio found himself answering with a smile of his own, dredged up from somewhere deep inside him by her sheer delight. "No problem, kid."
Her eyes lit up, and before she could say anything, he was shooing her though his room and into the hallway, pressing a bottle into her hands.
"Here's the makeup remover. Put some on a cotton pad and use it to wipe the makeup off. Don't get it in your eyes."
He'd closed the door in her face and dropped back into his chair before he realised he'd given her his only bottle of makeup remover.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," he muttered to himself. No way was he hunting Trish back down, never mind asking Buccellati if he could borrow his remover.
Moody Blues appeared beside him with a soft dial tone, looking down at him enquiringly.
"Shut up," he told her, glaring at the wall. He was not going to go to Buccellati, he was not going to go to Buccellati–
He stared at Buccellati's door. Moody Blues hovered over his shoulder in a way that felt oddly taunting, and he turned to glare at them.
A faint glow spilled into the hallway from under the door, suggesting that Buccellati at least had a lamp on.
Steeling himself, he knocked, willing Moody Blues away.
Muffled by the carpet, he didn't hear Buccellati until the door was abruptly opened, almost startling him into jumping back.
"Leone!" He said, seeming surprised. "What brings you here so late?"
He stared at the doorframe. "Makeup remover."
Buccellati's gaze flickered up to his eyes. "Of course. Whatever did happen to yours, though?" He stood back to let Abbacchio through.
"Gave it to Trish."
"Oh. Does this also have to do with your change in eye makeup?"
Abbacchio scowled. "Yes. I was demonstrating." He looked Buccellati in the eyes daring him to say something mocking.
"Oh no—you look lovely—it was just unexpected," Buccellati said hastily. "Although…" mirth sparkled in his eyes. "Is our beloved Abbacchio doing something out of the kindness of his heart?"
Abbacchio gave him the most cutting stare he could muster, pushing on through to the bathroom.
Buccellati reached around him, passing him his bottle of remover. "Here you go. I'll be out here if you need anything else." The other man seemed to be holding back laughter; Abbacchio was positive he could see his lips trembling.
Muttering to himself under his breath, he took a cotton pad from an ornate glass jar on the counter. Buccellati would be the kind of guy to store his cotton pads in one of those, wouldn't he.
Buccellati glanced up when he closed the bathroom door. Abbacchio swore he could actually see the laughter rising in his body.
"Well," his capo said after a moment, when he seemed to have gotten himself under control. "Goodnight Leone."
"Goodnight." He hovered awkwardly for a second, then gave a stupid little wave . A wave! Oh God, he was hopeless.
He hastily exited the room before he could embarrass himself further. He paused, mortified in the hallway, as Moody Blues manifested, watching him in an oddly comforting way.
His mortification rose to new heights as soft giggles spilled from the room being him.
"Arsehole," he hissed, raising a middle finger to the door. To his horror, he must have been audible, because the giggles grew louder.
Thoroughly done, he hurried back to his room, cheeks aflame, to finish getting himself ready for bed.
Several minutes later, he was wearily climbing under his covers. He had meant to finish the chapter of his book, but helping a teen with their makeup, and the subsequent mortification was astonishingly draining.
Voices drifted faintly through the walls, sounding much too animated for the late hour. Trish and Narancia he thought.
Smothering a smile, he rolled over, turning off the bedside lamp and plunging the room into darkness.
"G'night Moody," he said, half muffled by a pillow.
There was a soft whirr and a beep from his Stand in response, and Abbacchio felt the gentle caress of sleep claim him.
A month later, and he'd all but forgotten about the late night makeup session, after telling Trish she should get her own makeup, because it wasn't hygienic to use someone else's.
He was out in town, on a routine patrol, passing a group of teens when he heard one of them say something that caused him to pause.
"Trish, your makeup is amazing!"
He did a surreptitious little double take, and sure enough, that was Trish's pink curl of hair right there.
"Thank you! My dads taught me."
The group continued on, chattering happily, and the full weight of Trish's words hit him.
Dads . Plural, with an S.
"Shut up," he grumbled to Moody, who was beeping in a way that sounded suspiciously like laughter.
Things had changed, he reflected, as he continued on his way, a lightness to his step that he hadn't had for many a year.
There was a swell of happiness in his chest and the sun was shining.
All was well.