Work Text:
Abbacchio wakes up to the sound of something his window breaking. It’s followed by an immediate thump. He reacts in an instant. The combined instincts of police training and gang conditioning lead into him reaching below his pillow, clutching his knife, throwing off the blankets, leaping out of bed—
A rush of cold air slams against Abbacchio’s skin. His light sleepwear is mournfully inadequate for anywhere other than below his blankets. There’s a figure there, in front of his broken window, somewhat thin and awkward, the moonlight pours in, reflects gold on the intruder’s hair.
Abbacchio blinks. Blinks again. Eyes adjusting to the almost-black of his bedroom.
“Giorno?” He says, kind of incredulous, and immediately scowls because what the fuck. He shoves his knife back under his pillow.
Giorno nods, smiles brightly, brings a finger to his lips. “Shhh.”
Abbacchio scowls harder. Glances at the glow-in-the-dark electric clock. Four in the fucking morning. It’s to early for this. “What the hell are you doing in my room?”
“I was sneaking,” the blonde says, not a trace on irony, “sneaking. Shh.”
“You broke my window.”
Giorno blinks, pauses, purses his lips, looks honestly confused. He looks behind him. At the window. At the glass beneath his feet. Why isn’t he wearing shoes. “Huh,” he says, “I thought it was mine.”
“How the hell,” Abbacchio growls, and tries to hold back his temper, “did you think it was yours? Wait—no, why the fuck did you break the window?”
Giorno gives him a flat look. “They’re locked from the inside. And I can’t go in the door. Cause I’m sneaking.”
“Sneaking,” Abbacchio says, voice dry. Giorno smiles brightly, nods. Okay, he thinks, alright. “Sneaking from what?”
Because he is, technically, part of the Don’s security. (In reality, he just doesn’t know how to retire. Doesn’t know what else to do. Doesn't have anything else to do. And it grits on his nerves, feels like skinning himself alive, to take orders from Giorno. But Buccellati is dead and—)
“From Mista,” Giorno easily answers, “I can’t feel it at all but I’m pretty sure I’m bleeding out! And probably drugged. It would be very bad for Mista to see.”
Abbacchio’s thoughts grind to a halt. He squints. In the dark he can hardly make out more than Giorno’s pale face and gold hair. “Fuck,” he curses, and flicks on the lights. It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust but—oh. Oh.
Giorno’s side is bloody crimson, shirt sticking uncomfortably to the wound. His skin is too pale but also flushed and there’s a somewhat dazed look on his face. Abbacchio’s first thought is to pass the blonde off to one of the others but Narancia’s in school—staying in a dorm and Fugo’s on some diplomatic trip and Buccellati’s dead and Mista—
“Please don’t tell Mista,” Giorno says, and he looks so, so sad. “He told me not to go. And he needs sleep.”
He’s halfway between snapping a call for Mista or just straight up letting Giorno deal with it himself but—Abbacchio is an asshole on the best of days but that doesn’t mean he has no standards. Abbacchio is an asshole, a goddamn prick, but he won’t be an asshole to someone who’s bleeding out and drugged.
“Okay,” he says, and tries not to let the sounds snap. “We’re going to the kitchen—you’re stepping on glass.”
Giorno blinks. Looks down. “Weird,” he says, frowning, and begins bending down to touch the glass. What the actual hell. The blonde looks back to him. “I can’t feel it. At all. Huh.”
“Stop—” Abbacchio pauses, Giorno just looks at him, “just...follow me.”
The blonde nods happily, stepping straight on the glass. Abbacchio has to fight back a wince. He guides Giorno out of the bedroom and down he hall—to the kitchen, and by proxy, the med cabinet. He flicks on the light, shining synthetic white over the blue walls and wooden kitchen table. He pulls out a chair, glances at Giorno who’s thus far followed him wordlessly.
“Sit,” he says, with as much authority as he can.
“I want pudding,” Giorno blurts, and then sits. “Chocolate pudding. We don’t have any. Did you know we don’t have any? The fancy kind doesn’t taste right. Gas station pudding is better.”
Which is—yeah, just, no. He is not dealing with that. Instead, he turns around and opens up the kitchen cabinets. Only half of which are actually full of food, the other half being taken up my medical supplies. He fishes out a roll of bandages, disinfectant, some kind of salve, a needle, thread—why the hell is there a stapler here.
He resolutely ignores the stapler, closes the cabinet, and shoves the supplies onto the kitchen table.
“I’m dealing with your side first, then your feet,” he tells Giorno. The blonde makes no move to assist, he scowls. Steps closer. Giorno flinches.
“Please don’t,” the blonde says, recoiling ever so slightly, “you’re scary,” he explains, and then looks mortified.
Abbacchio freezes.
What…?
Giorno’s eyes are blown wide in alarm, but he keeps talking anyway. “Just—just sometimes you remind me of my stepfather and—” there’s definite mortification on his face now. “I can’t shut up oh my god, Abbacchio please sew my mouth shut!”
“Um,” says Abbacchio, because he’s very literate. And also very shocked. And also oh god that isn’t satisfying at all. Which doesn’t make sense because he hates Giorno, hates him because he’s in Buccellati’s place, hates him because he’s better, hates him because Abbacchio is scornful and jealous and—
“You’re not that bad though!” Giorno protests, waving his hands kind of all over the place, which definitely can’t be good for his wounds. “You’re a good person!”
And isn’t that just amazing? Abbacchio hadn’t even thanked him in Sardinia, hadn’t treated him with any more compassion even after he pulled Abbacchio back from death. Hasn’t treated him with any more respect even after Giorno ascended to Donhood—hasn’t given Giorno his loyalty, not really. He’s carried out orders because it’s all he lives for, not out of loyalty. Because Buccellati is the only one that’s ever held his loyalty and Giorno took that from him.
“Am I,” he says, and it’s spiteful and bitter and biting. Because he couldn't save Buccellati, couldn’t save anyone, couldn’t even die. And he blames Giorno, blames Giorno who’s sixteen and bleeding out and drugged and he knows it’s wrong, knows Buccellati was dying far before Giorno swept them into that suicidal crusade.
“You are,” Giorno says, and it’s amazing, that conviction, that faith. And Abbacchio wonders, bitterly, how he’s capable of that, of placing that trust in Abbacchio. In giving him his loyalty when Abbacchio won’t do the same. “I’m sorry,” Giorno mutters, doesn't meet his eyes.
Irritation flares beneath Abbacchio’s skin. Because he’s always hated Giorno’s apologies. Because it was Buccellati’s choice and it was Giorno’s fault and he doesn't have the right. He hates looking in Giorno’s eyes and seeing pity, seeing guilt, because he doesn’t want that. Doesn't want the reminder that he’s broken, that Buccellati’s dead.
Shut up, he wants to say, you have no right, he wants to say. But he won’t. Because Giorno is sixteen and bleeding out and drugged and Abbacchio will do a lot of things but he won’t do that, not now, not here.
Instead, he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, opens them. Feels the early morning chill on his skin. Sees Giorno’s side dyed muted red under the white light.
“I’m closing your side,” he grits, and begins carefully cutting off the section of fabric that’s sticking to the wound. He places the bloody cloth onto the table—looks closer at the mess of pink flesh and red blood and—“Giorno,” he says, voice half-strangled, “why exactly did you shove dirt in your side?”
“Um,” says Giorno, flush stark against his sickly pale complexion, “I was going to use Gold Experience! It didn’t work. I turned the frogs back to dirt, but I couldn’t get the dirt out.”
“Lovely,” Abbacchio mutters, and tries not to think about Giorno shoving dirt in his side, trying to repair his flesh, and then having frogs squirm around in his insides. He doesn't succeed. And it’s kind of—kind of horrifying to think about.
He works in silence, managing to remove all the dirt he can, and then he treats the area in disinfectant and begins sewing the wound shut. It’s hard, like this, to see Giorno as anything more than a teen. It’s hard to see the image he’s built in his mind; the cold marble statue that killed Buccellati and didn’t fail in what he set to do. It’s…
He ties the thread and cuts it from his needle. Begins bandaging the wound.
It’s strange, he thinks, to see Giorno like this. See Giorno sixteen and bleeding out—it’s frustrating. Frustrating because Abbacchio’s trying to hate him but he can’t. Not like this, not now.
“Thank you,” Giorno mumbles, because Abbacchio truly isn't expected to do this. For all he never swore loyalty, Giorno never made him.
“Don’t.”
Giorno startles, looks at him, wide eyed. “Oh.”
Abbacchio sighs. “Just...go to bed. To sleep. Now.”
Giorno’s eyes flicker to the clock. He crosses his arms. Makes an expression that’s almost a pout. “No.”
Abbacchio frowns. “Did you sleep at all last night? Er—tonight?”
The blonde shakes his head. “No!”
He curses under his breath. “Then go to sleep!”
“No!”
“Why!?”
“I’ll be older than you!”
Abbacchio blinks incredulously. What the actual hell did they get Giorno with? “I’m sorry?” He asks, “What?”
“If I don’t sleep,” Giorno says, smiling brightly, “and you do...then eventually I’ll be awake longer than you’ve ever been. Therefore I’ll be older than you. So you very much cannot tell me what to do.”
Which is probably the stupidest thing Abbacchio’s ever heard. “You,” he says, very firmly, “are going to sleep.”
Giorno shakes his head, again. “I have work to do!”
Abbacchio’s pretty sure he’s getting a headache. “I’ll...” he trails off. What do kids like, anyway? What does Giorno like? “I’ll make you chocolate pudding. For when you wake up. If you go to sleep.”
The teen pauses, blinks at him, and then—then laughs a little. “Alright,” he says, and it sounds kind of giddy, “cheap ingredients?”
“That can’t be healthy,” Abbacchio says, and Giorno kind of just wilts. “But fine.”
“Alright,”Giorno says, immediately brightening, “see you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Abbacchio agrees.