[YOU JUST DRAGGED HER ASS IN PUBLIC UNAPOLOGETICALLY!!!!
SIR.
And now he's...well, he makes a good point, one she would normally agree with! However, being a performer means sacrificing some anonymity. Further? Well...
One thing at a time.]
I just didn't expect you to joke with me on a very professional post.
That's all.
[Even though she started it by taking him seriously and giving him shit for something he didn't actually say?!
Anyways.]
It's not the first time my name's been posted to the network, but I will admit it's the first time it's been made public that I perform at Nai'a.
Regardless, I don't believe there's any harm in it.
[Throughout the month of December, Fugo has slowly been placing a number of items underneath the Hill House Nattenfest tree. They are all neatly and precisely wrapped with paper featuring ugly sweaters (of course). He also fries up a large batch of struffoli and bakes some mustaccioli for the house. If you get a gift, you get a carefully-packaged portion of struffoli and mustaccioli.
Bruno's personal gift is a record player and some jazz records to play. More practically, he also gets a very lux-looking hairbrush and comb set that’s sized for his new bearpaw hands.]
[It's insanely hard to be sneaky in a house of many people, but Trish manages to slip a whole batch of gifts under the tree just prior to the eve of Nattensfest. They are wrapped in frankly awful looking wrapping paper, and vary in size depending on contents, but they all contain a box tied shut with red string that also fixes a card in place. The card itself has two sides, one adorned with a design of various cats, and the other side normally blank but now adorned with neat, tightly written cursive from La Befana, which to the Italians of the peninsula is a familiar holiday figure.
Each card has a unique message. For Bruno, it reads:
Bucciarati.
Grazie di tutto. (Thanks for everything.)
Buon Natale e felice anno nuovo.
Inside, it's sort of sparse. She knows nothing about Bruno, and there's nothing she can give the man who saved her life twice over and have it be enough, frankly. Regardless, there's a bottle of the limoncello they all helped her craft, along with a rather fancy watch. Since Bruno came with nothing, there's surely some things he misses having. Something practical and unobtrusive seemed best. Here's to the world's kindest capo.]
[ Late as it is, Abbacchio hands Bucciarati a wrapped square package directly, insisting he waits to open it. Inside are two records: a jazz record, chosen to the best of his ability as a man with minimal knowledge of the genre, and a record of classical pieces. Attached to the topmost slip cover is a small gift card with a handwritten note. ]
Seems you're being inundated with music… anyway I hope these are to your liking. Maybe if they aren't awful, we can listen together sometime. Hell, if they are awful, we can still do that but then you have to tell me why they're so bad.
[ Neither one of them had set out to intentionally hurt the other but they both had; whether it was with words or with actions, they had reached a critical point, between all the bad news and the emotion that came with it, and old wounds had been needled at unintentionally by Bucciarati's words until they were left raw and bleeding, where Abbacchio simply had to say enough, for both their sakes.
And so Abbacchio spent the next two days barely sleeping, analysing the conversation he'd had with Bucciarati from every possible angle he could before coming to a single conclusion; in his hurt and his grief, he might have over-exaggerated in some of his reactions.
He understands that Bucciarati was doing what he saw as the right and just thing to do; Abbacchio had agreed with him then – still does, even now, after everything, after he's given himself a chance to reassess his own feelings on the matter. He doesn't like it, doesn't expect that he ever will; nor that he's supposed to. The outcome was awful for all of them at the end of the day, but they did what they had to do.
It's halfway through the third day of ruminating (of moping and isolating himself in his own self-pity) that he hauls himself up out of the bed that he's made for himself, both literally and figuratively. He washes in an effort to look halfway decent; throws on some clean clothes, and stares himself down in his mirror for a good five minutes while he brushes his teeth twice for good measure, before he finally unlocks his own door and heads out into the hallway between his own room and Bucciarati's.
As much as he wants to delay the inevitable, he doesn't loiter around in the hallway. Padding quietly over towards Bucciarati's door, he knocks softly against it – whether that's because he doesn't want to disturb the man inside or is hoping, foolishly, that Bucciarati won't hear his knock if he's inside.
If Bucciarati does greet Abbacchio, he'll be met with tired, bloodshot eyes (whether from lack of sleep, or otherwise), and the overall demeanour of a man who is struggling to grapple with his own conflicted feelings. ]
[ Suffice to say that Bruno has been doing a good deal of ruminating, himself - he's just better at looking like he isn't. In fact, he's been going about his daily routines just as before. If concealing one's struggles is a craft, then Bruno's nearly perfected it. Of course, he gives Abbacchio a wide berth out of respect. They haven't spoken since then, and that's fine, because Bruno doesn't get to decide if he's worthy of forgiveness.
Everything he did for his mission, he'd do again if he had the choice - it was a success, and it was the right thing to do, difficult as it was. If he'd hesitated to mourn the fallen, held back to keep the survivors safe, been honest about his condition, then they would never have been able to snatch victory away from Diavolo. Bruno believes all of this wholeheartedly. He also knows that he'd lied to his closest companions, sacrificed them for the cause, and left their bodies behind.
All of it is true. He's a pragmatic man; at the time and now, he thinks the justness of his cause made it worth it. At the same time, though, he cares - too much, he's heard over and over - and seeing the emotional fallout of his choices so clearly in Abbacchio has left him with guilt sitting heavy in his gut like a stone. There's no undoing what he'd done in Italy; there's no helping it if Abbacchio rejects him now. Abbacchio died because of him. In Ryslig, though, there's more uncertainty, and Bruno wonders if things would have turned out differently if he'd chosen his words better. If he'd been gentler, more apologetic. He's used to wearing his authority plainly, using it in concert with his confidence to lead others. Maybe he should have tried his heart, instead.
But there's no changing what's been said - there's only waiting for a response. Bruno knows it's Abbacchio even before he knocks, even without him saying anything, thanks to his new nose. Opening the door, Bruno looks as put-together as ever, aside from the tired eyes and sloppy braid, both of which he sports almost every day in Ryslig now. Abbacchio looks exhausted -- but Bruno's seen him looking worse. It's a relief to see him at all, if he's being frank, and that's what shows in his eyes, not nerves. ]
Abbacchio, [ he says, quiet but cordial, eyes searching the other man's expression. ] What do you need?
[ For all the thinking he'd done about their conversation, he wishes he'd put more thought into this when Bucciarati opens the door and addresses him. ]
Bucciarati.
[ He responds in kind, but the sight of Bucciarati already has Abbacchio straightening his back into a familiar rigidity, and it's immediately clear that he's here as Abbacchio, and not as Leone, for all the difference it makes. It's subtle, but Bucciarati will no doubt pick up on it – it's in the way he dips his head out of respect, or how his hands remain stiff at his sides rather than stuffed into his pockets.
Abbacchio doesn't expect to be invited inside, and he doesn't expect that Bucciarati would want to converse with him at length; and why would he, after the way he'd spoken to him? The least he can do now is to say his piece as clearly and concisely as he can and try to take up as little of Bucciarati's time as possible. Wherever the dust may settle after that is out of his hands, he'll simply have to accept it. ]
I just wanted to apologise; the way I spoke to you was out of line, and–
[ His shoulders slump, and he heaves out a deep exhale; as if he's been holding his breath the whole time he's been standing here. The shift is as clear as day, the distinction between Abbacchio, the soldato and… Just Leone, a man who is tired, and hurt, and confused. He brings his head up, eyes meeting Bucciarati's. ]
bucciarati i'm losing my fucking mind here. between everyone's stupid depressing bullshit and drama that wont. shut. up.
there's someone making fugo anxious? and narancia. because of course. of course narancia was brought up. why am i even telling you this you already know.
i can't i need a fucking drink. or several. i don't want to be conscious. you can join me or not but i figure you at least deserve the right to know that's where i'm at.
[ he does, indeed, already know, and he's grateful that Abbacchio at least messaged him before running off to drown his sorrows; Bruno would be worried about him otherwise. That, and he has to agree with him on needing a fucking drink. ]
It's exhausting. I'm trying not to think about anything. I am glad you sent me an e-mail. Are you in your room? I wouldn't mind a drink, either.
i am... though i have to be honest with you i didn't really have any plans beyond "get shitfaced"
[ If the offer had been turned down, he absolutely would have headed out alone (pointedly so, because he doesn't keep any alcohol in his space for reasons,) scrounged up some of the absolute worst wine this shitty peninsula has to offer and then lock himself away in his room for the foreseeable future. Hell, if it weren't for the possibility of his thoughts outing his intentions, he might have considered not telling Bucciarati at all. But, in truth, he also wants the company, and he at least knows well enough when to ask for it. ]
It's gotta be random, right? There's no other reason Trish would be a bear like Bucciarati. What does she have in common with Bucciarati? I can't really think of... wait I guess they're both pretty hardworking. But that still doesn't make sense, because so was the Boss.
Why am *I* a zombie deer, anyway? It has to be random, because if it's not, then it's what... a joke on how I look? on how I died? But if it was really random, would I feel different as a demon? Because I kind of do, when I think of it. Not a bad kind of different, just... different.
Man, I'm not sending this anywhere, am I? I can't wait for the network to go back to normal. I don't know if the Boss can take another day of this.
[ please imagine Bucciarati wondering who's blowing up his proverbial phone only to find out it's fucking Doppio. He can't believe this!! Unfortunately, his stream of thoughts is also going straight to the network... ]
Don't send this garbage to me. I told you to stay away from us. Why are you thinking about Trish? You don't have the right. I hope he can't take another day. That would make life simpler.
bucciaSHIT Now I can't even think about people without them seeing it???
[It's hard to stop, is the tricky thing.]
I WISH I wouldn't think about her I wish I wouldn't think about Bucciarati either if THIS is what's gonna happen but Trish... She's got nothing to do with me.
[ After watching (and destroying) a tape of the broadcast, Bucciarati is the first person Abbacchio seeks out—and for once it's strictly business. He has the decency at least, to catch him in the early evening on his way out of the house, though Abbacchio is noticeably staying out of what little sunlight is remaining. ]
Bucciarati, do you have a minute to talk? It's about the position I hold at the Lucky 38.
[ it's a good night to be out of the house, frankly. Of course Bucciarati watched the broadcast; of course it bothered him. But there's very little to actually do about it. Religious zealots aren't the type that can be reasoned with, and going after them would neither save the people who were already hurt nor stop this from happening again, provided he even had the means to do so. He doesn't have the power to make a difference here. Tonight, he has no intention of doing anything other than clearing his head.
The sun hasn't fully set yet, but he already looks a little more bestial from the lack of daylight, fur crawling up his chest and neck and around his cheekbones in a manner similar to Trish's. ]
I'm sure you probably saw the broadcast last night, I didn't get a chance to watch it until a few hours ago — please don't ask where I got the tape, it's already been taken care of. [ That's just the kind of people they are, unfortunately. It's important to keep an eye on goings-on. ] It isn't exactly every day you get to see your boss butcher a man on TV.
[ If he sounds flippant about the ordeal, it's far from the truth. Pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before he eventually settles for crossing his arms across his chest. ]
For the time being, I'd rather stay there. [ He speaks candidly, though he drops gaze and lowers he voice slightly. ] I think the routine is good for me, in some way. I know I can always go elsewhere, but considering the circumstances, [ he uncrosses an arm, holds it out slightly, tips of his fingers slowly beginning to change colour and texture in the sun. ] You said it yourself months ago, a lot here isn't ideal for nocturnal creatures.
Mukuro has never given me any impression that this isn't just who she is, and I think... Giorno feels similarly. I suppose I just wanted to get your thoughts on how you'd proceed with this. It's not just her at the casino, after all, there are others who work there and I'm concerned that they may fall subject to unwanted attention.
[A few days ago, something happened with the televisions. Fugo himself doesn't entirely understand why or what happened, only the results: a large number of his friends disappeared into static. And the only sign that they are still alive-- if not well-- are the shows and movies that have slipped in among the regular broadcasts.
Part of Fugo itches to investigate. But he has to set that urge aside: with so many of the other monster volunteers absent, the orphanage has to be his number one priority. He explained as much to Bruno, Abbacchio, and Reira before he left: I need to make sure they're safe. I'll come back once everything has gone back to normal. I'll make sure to regularly check in. Send me a message if you need anything. And, as promised, he has sent several check-in messages. This one is ... a little different.]
Bucciarati, I have a favor to ask. Technically two favors, but you could accomplish the first at the same time as the second.
1) Would you mind bringing me some more clothes? I thought I had enough to last the week, but I underestimated how messy children can be with less people around to help wrangle them.
2) Would you be willing to take on a few hours of the night shit for the next few days here at the orphanage? Things have been very quiet so far, if busy given the lack of staff, but I would appreciate having someone on call during the night hours. There's a television in one of the staff rooms, so this wouldn't interfere with you keeping an eye on the broadcasts.
[About five minutes later, a second message arrives.]
Correction: Night shift, not night shit.
Sorry. I don't know how that one slipped past me.
[He is mortified. Not necessarily by the nature of the mistake (shit is whatever) but more that it's a mistake at all. This otherwise perfectly typed message is NOT up to his standards!!]
[ it is very unlike Fugo to make a mistake. Bucciarati doesn't care if he does - obviously - but he knows him well enough by this point to take it as a sign that something is wrong. Or, more likely, that Fugo is exhausted. The orphanage is Giorno's project, and as such, he largely leaves it to Giorno to manage; he doesn't know how many volunteers are usually there, but judging by this message, the answer is "a lot more than there are right now."
Leave it to Fugo to take it all on himself. It's actually a relief that he reached out for help. ]
Roger that.
Are you still at the orphanage now? I'm heading over.
[ so he'd better still be there when Bruno gets there...!! ]
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<Zigazigah>
We're ruining Maya's post.
I'm not nervous and I'm not putting a toaster in my professional bathtub, end of story.
<bucciarati>
You're more flustered over this than I would have thought. I've seen you being much more inflamattory elsewhere.
[ yes, he spelled that wrong. do not point this out to him, perhaps... ]
In any case, nothing's been "ruined." The only thing to be concerned about is your full name and location being publicly posted.
<Zigazigah>
SIR.
And now he's...well, he makes a good point, one she would normally agree with! However, being a performer means sacrificing some anonymity. Further? Well...
One thing at a time.]
I just didn't expect you to joke with me on a very professional post.
That's all.
[Even though she started it by taking him seriously and giving him shit for something he didn't actually say?!
Anyways.]
It's not the first time my name's been posted to the network, but I will admit it's the first time it's been made public that I perform at Nai'a.
Regardless, I don't believe there's any harm in it.
<bucciarati>
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ooh girl
UGH im in pain, thank you
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getting the full gamut of bruno icons from this thread
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Happy Nattenmas!
Bruno's personal gift is a record player and some jazz records to play. More practically, he also gets a very lux-looking hairbrush and comb set that’s sized for his new bearpaw hands.]
una lettera di nattensfest per te
Each card has a unique message. For Bruno, it reads:
Bucciarati.
Grazie di tutto. (Thanks for everything.)
Buon Natale e felice anno nuovo.
Inside, it's sort of sparse. She knows nothing about Bruno, and there's nothing she can give the man who saved her life twice over and have it be enough, frankly. Regardless, there's a bottle of the limoncello they all helped her craft, along with a rather fancy watch. Since Bruno came with nothing, there's surely some things he misses having. Something practical and unobtrusive seemed best. Here's to the world's kindest capo.]
nattensfest 2021.
an extremely belated nattenfest gift
Seems you're being inundated with music… anyway I hope these are to your liking. Maybe if they aren't awful, we can listen together sometime. Hell, if they are awful, we can still do that but then you have to tell me why they're so bad.
action | backdated to dec. 22nd!
And so Abbacchio spent the next two days barely sleeping, analysing the conversation he'd had with Bucciarati from every possible angle he could before coming to a single conclusion; in his hurt and his grief, he might have over-exaggerated in some of his reactions.
He understands that Bucciarati was doing what he saw as the right and just thing to do; Abbacchio had agreed with him then – still does, even now, after everything, after he's given himself a chance to reassess his own feelings on the matter. He doesn't like it, doesn't expect that he ever will; nor that he's supposed to. The outcome was awful for all of them at the end of the day, but they did what they had to do.
It's halfway through the third day of ruminating (of moping and isolating himself in his own self-pity) that he hauls himself up out of the bed that he's made for himself, both literally and figuratively. He washes in an effort to look halfway decent; throws on some clean clothes, and stares himself down in his mirror for a good five minutes while he brushes his teeth twice for good measure, before he finally unlocks his own door and heads out into the hallway between his own room and Bucciarati's.
As much as he wants to delay the inevitable, he doesn't loiter around in the hallway. Padding quietly over towards Bucciarati's door, he knocks softly against it – whether that's because he doesn't want to disturb the man inside or is hoping, foolishly, that Bucciarati won't hear his knock if he's inside.
If Bucciarati does greet Abbacchio, he'll be met with tired, bloodshot eyes (whether from lack of sleep, or otherwise), and the overall demeanour of a man who is struggling to grapple with his own conflicted feelings. ]
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Everything he did for his mission, he'd do again if he had the choice - it was a success, and it was the right thing to do, difficult as it was. If he'd hesitated to mourn the fallen, held back to keep the survivors safe, been honest about his condition, then they would never have been able to snatch victory away from Diavolo. Bruno believes all of this wholeheartedly. He also knows that he'd lied to his closest companions, sacrificed them for the cause, and left their bodies behind.
All of it is true. He's a pragmatic man; at the time and now, he thinks the justness of his cause made it worth it. At the same time, though, he cares - too much, he's heard over and over - and seeing the emotional fallout of his choices so clearly in Abbacchio has left him with guilt sitting heavy in his gut like a stone. There's no undoing what he'd done in Italy; there's no helping it if Abbacchio rejects him now. Abbacchio died because of him. In Ryslig, though, there's more uncertainty, and Bruno wonders if things would have turned out differently if he'd chosen his words better. If he'd been gentler, more apologetic. He's used to wearing his authority plainly, using it in concert with his confidence to lead others. Maybe he should have tried his heart, instead.
But there's no changing what's been said - there's only waiting for a response. Bruno knows it's Abbacchio even before he knocks, even without him saying anything, thanks to his new nose. Opening the door, Bruno looks as put-together as ever, aside from the tired eyes and sloppy braid, both of which he sports almost every day in Ryslig now. Abbacchio looks exhausted -- but Bruno's seen him looking worse. It's a relief to see him at all, if he's being frank, and that's what shows in his eyes, not nerves. ]
Abbacchio, [ he says, quiet but cordial, eyes searching the other man's expression. ] What do you need?
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Bucciarati.
[ He responds in kind, but the sight of Bucciarati already has Abbacchio straightening his back into a familiar rigidity, and it's immediately clear that he's here as Abbacchio, and not as Leone, for all the difference it makes. It's subtle, but Bucciarati will no doubt pick up on it – it's in the way he dips his head out of respect, or how his hands remain stiff at his sides rather than stuffed into his pockets.
Abbacchio doesn't expect to be invited inside, and he doesn't expect that Bucciarati would want to converse with him at length; and why would he, after the way he'd spoken to him? The least he can do now is to say his piece as clearly and concisely as he can and try to take up as little of Bucciarati's time as possible. Wherever the dust may settle after that is out of his hands, he'll simply have to accept it. ]
I just wanted to apologise; the way I spoke to you was out of line, and–
[ His shoulders slump, and he heaves out a deep exhale; as if he's been holding his breath the whole time he's been standing here. The shift is as clear as day, the distinction between Abbacchio, the soldato and… Just Leone, a man who is tired, and hurt, and confused. He brings his head up, eyes meeting Bucciarati's. ]
I'm sorry, Bucciarati.
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cw alcohol abuse, references to suicidal ideation
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beginning february; <harmonia>
<bucciarati>
What is it?
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[oh worm,,,,,,,]
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<abbacchio>
bucciarati i'm losing my fucking mind here.
between everyone's stupid depressing bullshit and drama that
wont. shut. up.
there's someone making fugo anxious? and narancia. because of course. of course narancia was brought up.
why am i even telling you this you already know.
i can't
i need a fucking drink. or several. i don't want to be conscious.
you can join me or not but i figure you at least deserve the right to know that's where i'm at.
<bucciarati>
It's exhausting. I'm trying not to think about anything. I am glad you sent me an e-mail. Are you in your room? I wouldn't mind a drink, either.
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[ If the offer had been turned down, he absolutely would have headed out alone (pointedly so, because he doesn't keep any alcohol in his space for reasons,) scrounged up some of the absolute worst wine this shitty peninsula has to offer and then lock himself away in his room for the foreseeable future. Hell, if it weren't for the possibility of his thoughts outing his intentions, he might have considered not telling Bucciarati at all. But, in truth, he also wants the company, and he at least knows well enough when to ask for it. ]
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<purplepiper>
What does she have in common with Bucciarati? I can't really think of... wait I guess they're both pretty hardworking.
But that still doesn't make sense, because so was the Boss.
Why am *I* a zombie deer, anyway? It has to be random, because if it's not, then it's what... a joke on how I look? on how I died?
But if it was really random, would I feel different as a demon? Because I kind of do, when I think of it.
Not a bad kind of different, just... different.
Man, I'm not sending this anywhere, am I?
I can't wait for the network to go back to normal. I don't know if the Boss can take another day of this.
<bucciarati>
Don't send this garbage to me. I told you to stay away from us. Why are you thinking about Trish? You don't have the right. I hope he can't take another day. That would make life simpler.
<purplepiper>
Now I can't even think about people without them seeing it???
[It's hard to stop, is the tricky thing.]
I WISH I wouldn't think about her
I wish I wouldn't think about Bucciarati either if THIS is what's gonna happen but Trish...
She's got nothing to do with me.
<bucciarati>
<purplepiper>
<bucciarati>
1/2
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action, day after the broadcast
Bucciarati, do you have a minute to talk? It's about the position I hold at the Lucky 38.
action
The sun hasn't fully set yet, but he already looks a little more bestial from the lack of daylight, fur crawling up his chest and neck and around his cheekbones in a manner similar to Trish's. ]
What is it?
[ he can guess, but he asks anyway. ]
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[ If he sounds flippant about the ordeal, it's far from the truth. Pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment before he eventually settles for crossing his arms across his chest. ]
For the time being, I'd rather stay there. [ He speaks candidly, though he drops gaze and lowers he voice slightly. ] I think the routine is good for me, in some way. I know I can always go elsewhere, but considering the circumstances, [ he uncrosses an arm, holds it out slightly, tips of his fingers slowly beginning to change colour and texture in the sun. ] You said it yourself months ago, a lot here isn't ideal for nocturnal creatures.
Mukuro has never given me any impression that this isn't just who she is, and I think... Giorno feels similarly. I suppose I just wanted to get your thoughts on how you'd proceed with this. It's not just her at the casino, after all, there are others who work there and I'm concerned that they may fall subject to unwanted attention.
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sometime during the tv event! 1/2
Part of Fugo itches to investigate. But he has to set that urge aside: with so many of the other monster volunteers absent, the orphanage has to be his number one priority. He explained as much to Bruno, Abbacchio, and Reira before he left: I need to make sure they're safe. I'll come back once everything has gone back to normal. I'll make sure to regularly check in. Send me a message if you need anything. And, as promised, he has sent several check-in messages. This one is ... a little different.]
Bucciarati, I have a favor to ask. Technically two favors, but you could accomplish the first at the same time as the second.
1) Would you mind bringing me some more clothes? I thought I had enough to last the week, but I underestimated how messy children can be with less people around to help wrangle them.
2) Would you be willing to take on a few hours of the night shit for the next few days here at the orphanage? Things have been very quiet so far, if busy given the lack of staff, but I would appreciate having someone on call during the night hours. There's a television in one of the staff rooms, so this wouldn't interfere with you keeping an eye on the broadcasts.
2/2
Correction: Night shift, not night shit.
Sorry. I don't know how that one slipped past me.
[He is mortified. Not necessarily by the nature of the mistake (shit is whatever) but more that it's a mistake at all. This otherwise perfectly typed message is NOT up to his standards!!]
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Leave it to Fugo to take it all on himself. It's actually a relief that he reached out for help. ]
Roger that.
Are you still at the orphanage now? I'm heading over.
[ so he'd better still be there when Bruno gets there...!! ]
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