Chapter Text
The howl of the wind was so loud in Abbacchio’s ears that he barely heard the gunshot.
Giorno went down like a bag of rocks.
Abbacchio narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to budge from where he stood - thanks to Giorno’s vines, the enemy Stand user was exactly where he had been before the blizzard had hit, and all Abbacchio needed to do was squeeze the trigger.
His hair whipped around his face, lashing at his chapped cheeks. He moved his gun up by several degrees and just a few centimeters to the left, two finger-lengths away from the flash of bright blue flowers.
The pistol jerked in his hand, and a startled cry rang out right after the crack of the gun. Still wary, but reasonably sure he had killed the man, Abbacchio approached the vines to check.
It was just as he had expected. Splayed in a tangle of vines in a grotesque knot of mangled limbs, the enemy Stand user lay unmoving. Abbacchio's bullet had made a neat hole in his cheek and had exited at the top of his head, taking a sizeable chunk with it. Mushy bits clung to the man's hair, already frozen. His blood-filled eyes were still open and so was his mouth. He was very, very dead.
The blizzard didn’t end.
“Fuck.”
Abbacchio turned around and stumbled through the deep snow. He didn't know what sort of sign he was looking for, only that he was frantic for it. He continued to trudge through what looked like a featureless sea of white, until he lurched past a patch of bright red. There was a large indent in the snow bank.
The shrieking wind faded away in his ears, overtaken by a dull hum that spiralled into the dark pit of his stomach. He could see tattered hanks of glaring pink fabric and the dull gleam of gold ladybugs.
No.
Ignoring the sharp pain jabbing into his knee, at his entire left side, Abbacchio stumbled through the snow towards where Giorno lay.
The flash of gold grew brighter the closer he got. By the time he made it to the blood splatter, Giorno was already sitting up with a wince. Of course he saw Abbacchio right away, clumsily waddling through the snow like an idiot. Abbacchio clicked his tongue and made no attempt to hide his annoyance - he had ruined his nice shoes in Giorno’s blood for no reason.
Giorno cast a sharp look at his vines and had to yell to be heard through the screeching wind. “Didn’t you get the enemy Stand user?”
“I did. His ability must not deactivate upon death.” He waited for Giorno to get to his feet, offering no help at all.
“That makes sense. The pressure and humidity will need time to balance out again, and we’re in the mountains.” Giorno smoothed down his jacket, which only made the futility of the endeavour more apparent. Now, Abbacchio could see exactly where he had been shot: twice in the chest and once in the stomach. Blood outlined those tears in his jacket, but the skin peeking through was whole and intact. Giorno continued to talk as if none of it was even an issue, “That means we won’t be able to drive back today.”
“Fuck.” Unless they wanted to dig out the car and the winding way down the mountain, they were shit out of luck. Even then, Abbacchio could barely see Giorno without standing right next to him in the whiteout, so his confidence in them not driving off the road and into the ravine was lower than Mista’s standards. “We need to find shelter.”
Giorno nodded his head and stepped closer so that he didn’t have to shout. It brought him nearly eye to eye with Abbacchio, and the realisation that Giorno was almost his height now still made something squirm in Abbacchio’s chest. More accurately, Abbacchio’s extremely cold chest, which was half-bared to the elements. Giorno was no better. Maybe that was why Abbacchio didn’t shove him away when he stepped in even closer, until they were nearly touching.
Giorno did his best to hide his discomfort, but his chattering teeth and stuttering words gave him away. “There are usually service cabins or emergency ones near trails for exactly this type of situation.”
Abbacchio understood instantly. “I’ll use Moody Blues to look for the trail.”
Giorno nodded. His hair had come loose, and it hid his face as he tucked his chin down to his chest. In a futile attempt to keep warm, he stuck his hands in his trouser pockets, but not before transforming one of his gold ladybug brooches into a huge, snorting elk. It blocked some of the savage winds as it trudged along between Giorno and Abbacchio, offering limited warmth.
For his part, Abbacchio minded the elk’s antlers and had Moody Blues replay the morning hours of the previous weeks, where hikers were likely to have passed by for some winter hiking. Owing to their proximity to Tre Cime Di Laveredo, Moody Blues found someone in a matter of minutes.
The woman was in her early twenties and was dressed in a light, windproof jacket and similarly windproof trousers. Her boots suggested that there had already been snow on the ground, and her woollen gloves and knitted hat told the same story. Both Abbacchio and Giorno looked woefully underdressed next to her. In their defense, they hadn’t anticipated chasing Deformography’s user up a mountain, when he was supposed to be in Verona. Tromping through snow hadn’t been on the cards, either, let alone in the middle of a blizzard, and it would have been a shame to renege on one of the few things Abbacchio and Giorno could agree on, which was that nothing short of sub-zero temperatures merited putting on more clothes.
The hiker wore a bright smile and stopped frequently to take photos, so Abbacchio fast forwarded with Moody Blues until they had to walk at a brisk pace to keep up. He didn’t let his gaze linger on Giorno after his initial glance, but the image of Giorno’s white lips and his ashen face stayed with him anyway.
It was another twenty minutes of fighting against the shove of the wind and the flying snow before they finally found a small cabin half-buried in even more snow. Gold Experience appeared briefly to turn the patch of snow blocking the door into a small army of snowshoe hare. They scattered in a wave of wriggling, furry bodies, disappearing as soon as they had come into existence. With a great heave and the crunching noise of breaking ice, Giorno threw the door open and they hurried in from the cold. The elk reverted back into the gold brooch and fell in the snow.
Calling the dust-choked shack a cabin had been generous. It was even smaller than the studio apartment Abbacchio used to live in after his spectacular fall from grace. Still, despite the cobwebs and the stripped down cots, it did a decent job of keeping them out of the blizzard, which still showed no signs of abating despite the death of the Stand user. If what Giorno had said was true, it would be the same all through the night. They could only hope that it would clear up by morning.
Abbacchio sighed and brushed the melting snow from his overcoat. He had to comb his fingers through his hair to shake off even more of the stuff. This wasn’t how he had imagined spending Christmas week.
“Come here, Leone. Let me fix your arm.”
Abbacchio’s lips twisted into a grimace, both at the prospect of Giorno’s brand of healing and his use of his first name. “We’ve been over this. Don’t call me that.”
“We have. We agreed I wouldn’t call you that in public.” Giorno remained unruffled, but the smirk tilting up a corner of his mouth betrayed his mirth. What a little shit. How had things gone so wrong in just two years? Abbacchio missed the days when Giorno had taken him seriously.
When it was clear that Abbacchio wasn’t about to get up from his spot on the cot, Giorno moved away from the windows to go to him instead.
Satisfied that Giorno was the one to cave rather than the other way around, Abbacchio unlaced his overcoat with the numb fingers of his right hand so that Giorno could take a better look at the injuries he had sustained from having a tree fall on him.
It was a shock to feel Giorno’s icy hands against his already cold skin. Abbacchio hissed in discomfort but he only tensed when Giorno’s light touch skimmed over the huge patch of discolouration wrapped around his left side. It looked like a smudged painting done in shades of red, with splotches of purple and slashes of black-red to serve as contrast. He made a muffled noise when Gold Experience’s touch prodded through his skin, right over his ribs, to better access the damage. A heartbeat later, Gold Experience’s healing power flashed through his side - once, twice, three times, - knocking a strangled whimper out of Abbacchio.
“Broken ribs?” Abbacchio hadn’t even realised that he hadn’t been taking in full breaths because of the pain earlier.
“Mhm,” Giorno hummed under his breath, clearly more focused on healing Abbacchio than making conversation. There was a small crease of concentration in the middle of his forehead that Abbacchio itched to soothe away with a swipe of his thumb. “Clavicle and left arm, too.”
Gold Experience healed them one by one, turning bone fragments and broken skin whole again. After the explosive pain faded away, it was as if Abbacchio had never been injured. Remarkable.
“I missed one.”
Before Abbacchio could say a word, Giorno leaned in the rest of the way and kissed him on the lips. Giorno’s mouth was frigid even though the kiss was firm and insistent. He had the audacity to press fingers against Abbacchio’s cheek and heal what felt like a cut, right in that moment, making Abbacchio swear at the unexpected spark of pain.
Abbacchio tamped down his annoyance. “You should take that jacket off. It’s drenched.”
Giorno raised both eyebrows. “Are you going to keep me warm?”
“In your dreams.”
Irreverent, Giorno walked his fingers over the dips that defined Abbacchio’s abs, making Abbacchio’s breath catch in his throat. “You know, this would be romantic if we weren’t in danger of freezing to death.”
“Not a word,” Abbacchio growled, bothered in every way possible. “Just--- Not a single word, Giorno.” Just because they had had a couple of one night stands didn’t mean that they were suddenly together.
“Yes, yes, ‘no one needs to know’. I’ll take this to my grave.” Giorno laughed, but Abbacchio saw the way his expression settled into pleasant yet empty lines and folded away.
Sure enough, a moment later, Giorno got up and moved to the cot next to his. Rather than unzipping his jacket and shrugging it off, he turned the moisture trapped in his jacket into a cloud of delicate white moths. They looked grey in the murky light of the rising moon, their wings transparent and paper thin.
“We should probably sleep. We need to keep our strength up.”
Giorno’s words echoed Abbacchio’s earlier thoughts, but try as he might, sleep refused to come to him. He was too wound up over the mad chase that afternoon, from Verona all the way up into the mountains. The adrenaline had finally worn off, and a low-level dread had crept in to take its place. Abbacchio couldn’t relax even when he heard the rustle of cloth and the creak of Giorno’s cot, and the silence made it all the worse.
Through the sluggish crawl of his thoughts, Abbacchio noted dully that his breath still fogged on the air. He really should put his overcoat back on, but it was still wet in some parts and had frozen in others. He also hadn’t called Bucciarati to let him know they wouldn’t be able to return that night. He fumbled his phone out to do just that, but the cold had killed the battery and it wouldn’t turn back on.
“Hey, brat, I need your phone.”
The only response Abbacchio got was an unintelligible murmur.
Abbacchio shook his head at no one in particular and moved to Giorno’s cot. He could see a corner of Giorno’s phone sticking out his trouser pocket, so he fished it out without waiting for Giorno’s permission. As he unlocked the phone and looked for Bucciarati’s contact, Giorno uncurled and turned over.
Two years ago, Abbacchio might have smacked Giorno’s reaching hand away. Now, he didn’t even bother resisting when Giorno pulled him down with a hand on his shoulder, so as to spare his own ego. Giorno liked to wrestle, and once he set his mind on something, he was like a dog with a bone, impossible to dissuade.
“You’re so clingy,” Abbacchio huffed, injecting every ounce of spite he possessed into his words. Even so, he snaked an arm around Giorno’s waist and held him close. It was gratifying to feel how Giorno shifted and squirmed until they fit all their angles and planes together. God, he felt so good in his arms.
“And you’re on the phone,” Giorno reminded him, his voice muffled where he had pressed his face into the crook of Abbacchio’s neck.
“Did you run into complications?” Bucciarati sounded concerned on the other end of the line.
“We got the briefcase, but Ribollita attacked us with some sort of weather Stand, and now we’re stuck in the middle of a blizzard.” Abbacchio stopped short when he realised how that sounded. “We found some sort of emergency cabin and we’re going to wait out the night here.”
“Microclimate Stand,” Giorno mumbled, because even when half-asleep, he had to be a smartass. Abbacchio didn’t dignify his correction with a reaction.
Bucciarati didn’t miss a beat. “I trust that Giorno took care of all your injuries.”
Abbacchio took one look at Giorno’s sleepy face and decided that putting him on the phone would only be a waste of time. “He did. He hasn’t slept in the past two days, so he’s already passed out. I’ll check in again in the morning - hopefully while driving back.”
That was that. Abbacchio was happy that Bucciarati hadn’t given him the usual lecture about not getting into stupid fights with Giorno. Come to think of it, Abbacchio couldn’t remember the last time he had been on the receiving end of Bucciarati’s exasperated ire. It might have been just before their Capo’s birthday. Or maybe it was when he had been stuck on a different mission with Giorno and had had that argument about the roofs being a viable escape route. Not that that mission had been a total wash. They had taken down their targets neatly, in record time, and then they had broken into that one apartment and---
Abbacchio cleared his throat noisily and refused to let himself retread that memory, even though he was already flushed with embarrassed heat. His cheeks and chest prickled and tingled, but the worst part was that Giorno had noticed.
To Giorno’s credit, he didn’t make fun of Abbacchio. He just flashed Abbacchio that crafty smile of his and gave him a devious look. It was only slightly diluted by the softness of fatigue, but Giorno didn’t let that stop him from dropping a kiss on Abbacchio’s jaw, then his mouth.
Abbacchio let the phone fall from his hand - he needed both arms to hold Giorno properly. He was still shivering, even though Abbacchio was the one without his overcoat. “Didn’t you fight that popsicle with Mista when you first joined us? This should be nothing.”
“White Album’s user.” Giorno fiddled with the zip on his own jacket and opened it so that the front of their bodies made a single line, skin to skin. “It was much colder, but it also ended very quickly. Besides, it was the beginning of spring in Venezia, not winter in the mountains.”
That made a certain sort of sense. Giorno could replace frostbitten parts, but he couldn’t do very much to heat up his own body, could he? Abbacchio brushed Giorno’s hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. He couldn’t resist kissing his temple. “No handy animals to create to keep you warm?”
“‘ve got you.”
Abbacchio rolled his eyes, but he kept his arms wrapped around Giorno. Slowly, tentatively, Giorno eventually returned the embrace. His hands weren’t quite as cold anymore, and Abbacchio enjoyed the way they rubbed up and down his back slowly, like the blind touch of a fitful dreamer.
The wind continued to rage outside, making the door and the windows rattle loudly. Stealthy fingers of cold air slid through the minute gaps in the log wall. Giorno was soon shivering again, and as he grew colder, so did Abbacchio.
Moody Blues appeared with a crackle of white noise and settled behind Giorno with a thoughtful beep that wasn’t unlike a dial tone.
“That’s true, you’re not very helpful like that,” Abbacchio agreed.
Moody Blues cocked its head to one side, then nodded resolutely. Abbacchio made space and moved his arms down to Giorno’s waist so that Moody Blues could put its arms around Giorno’s chest. As the timer bar blinked and started cycling through nonsensical numbers, Moody Blues reshaped itself into a perfect copy of Abbacchio, right down to the heat of his body and the way he moved. With them all on their sides, it was a simple matter to protect Giorno from the cold.
“Oh.” Giorno stirred and craned his head back to look at Moody Blues. He cupped his hand over the one Moody Blues had over his heart. “Hello. Didn’t know you could do that.”
“Moody Blues can impersonate me. That’s how I got that mirror bastard back in Pompei.” Abbacchio tightened his hold. “Now, go to sleep. Moody Blues is just here to help keep you warm.”
Giorno was genuinely tickled. He laughed and kissed the back of Moody Blues’ hand. “There are two of you and you expect me to just go to sleep?”
What a fiend. Moody Blues turned its hand over and trapped Giorno’s hand against his chest. “It’s not a sex thing! Go to sleep!”
“I respectfully disagree, Leone.” Not only did Giorno not go back to sleep, he leaned up against Abbacchio, pressing firmly against him as he drew him into a hungry, open-mouthed kiss.
Abbacchio was only human, and Giorno was handsome and very eager. They probably shouldn’t be doing this, something about expending energy needlessly, but the yammering of the voice of reason fell by the wayside as blooming heat rushed through his veins.
Giorno smiled against his mouth as Abbacchio kissed him back, slick and hot and liquid. A bruising tenderness bubbled over, fed by the way Giorno pushed against him and clung to him, choosing him - him, of all people, - over everyone else, every chance he got.
“There’s really no talking you out of this, is there?” Abbacchio pinched one of Giorno’s nipples between his nails, drawing a startled yelp out of Giorno and making his face turn bright red. “You’re really determined.”
“Now you’re getting the idea.” Giorno sneaked a hand between them and squeezed the bulge in the front of Abbacchio’s trousers, making Abbacchio choke on his own spit. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it.”
“You’re really asking for it.”
“Nice of you to finally notice.” Giorno wound a lock of Abbacchio’s hair around his finger and tugged playfully, as if his pink smile could fool Abbacchio into thinking he was sweet in any way. He was infuriating. Abbacchio had no idea what was going on in that head of his, though he suspected he was probably slightly unhinged. He was hot and fiercely loyal, and fair in the most ruthless of ways. Giorno was all that and more, but he was never sweet.
Abbacchio let him have it, and he had Moody Blues there to help.
They continued kissing, because they had never really stopped. Giorno’s fingernails dug into Abbacchio’s scalp, dragging down to his nape and his back, leaving trails of fire that made Abbacchio shudder and gasp. Just as Giorno’s hand crept up to Abbacchio’s chest, Moody Blues caught his wrists in one hand and used the other one to grip Giorno’s jaw.
Abbacchio snickered at the gurgle of surprise from Giorno, and at the groan dying in his throat as Moody Blues pressed the back of his head against its shoulder. Giorno looked exquisite like that, with his neck stretched out in a graceful arc, his Adam’s apple bobbing with uncertainty. He was already fully hard.
Moody Blues nosed into the sensitive hollow just below Giorno’s ear and kissed the hinge of his jaw. Giorno arched back against Moody Blues with a strangled sigh, and Abbacchio could feel the sensations reflecting back to him as if it were him pressed against Giorno’s back, his hips tucked against Giorno’s firm ass. In a way, Moody Blues was him, but it was also not him, because he could do other things with his mouth as Moody Blues started to make out with Giorno.
Abbacchio found himself brushing long, silver hair out of the way, along with the golden curls dripping over Giorno’s shoulder. Abbacchio looked for the strange birthmark on Giorno’s shoulder and kissed it, sucked on it, until it was sure to bruise the next morning. From there, he trailed lower and lower, filling his mouth with the tightness of Giorno’s pecs. Abbacchio only moved on when he was happy with the neat imprints of teeth he had left behind. They framed Giorno’s chest in the shape of a sloppy heart, just outside the area Giorno liked to put on display for everyone to see.
Giorno jerked and bucked between Abbacchio and his Stand, writhing shamelessly so that he was grinding up against Abbacchio one moment, and then rocking back into Moody Blues the next one. Abbacchio gripped his hips and held him in place as Moody Blues opened Giorno’s trousers and dipped a hand inside.
“Leone---”
Abbacchio swallowed his stammered pleas in their kiss. He could feel the heaviness of Giorno’s stiff cock in his hand - Moody Blues’ hand, - but he could also feel the softness of Giorno’s hair along with the unbelievable smoothness of his taut skin. He couldn’t stop himself from drawing Giorno’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting down, nor could he resist soothing it with his tongue when Giorno whimpered in delicious pain.
Moody Blues released its hold on Giorno at the same time as Abbacchio did. They were of the same mind, after all, and there was no delay between Abbacchio’s will and Moody Blues’ actions.
Giorno grabbed Moody Blues’ wrist so that it couldn’t stop stroking him, but Moody Blues already had its hands on Giorno’s biceps, holding him partly immobile. At the same time, Abbacchio gripped Giorno’s thighs and took his cock into his mouth.
He was still warm there, and Abbacchio would make it warmer still. Giorno moaned and whined, unable to stay still, especially when Abbacchio took more of him into his mouth, until his lips could rest against the root of him. Yet, no matter how much he struggled, Gold Experience never made an appearance.
Abbacchio grew bolder after that, as if there had been anything holding him back in the first place. He lavished all his attention on Giorno’s cock, licking up the underside, tonguing at the tip, wrenching groan after airy groan from Giorno. When Giorno tensed under his hands, against his mouth, so close, Abbacchio drew away completely, licking his lips to chase the taste of pre-come.
“Please. Please---”
Moody Blues wrapped its hand around Giorno’s cock again, jerking him off roughly and without finesse. Abbacchio whispered hoarsely in his ear, in an outpouring of filth and lewd encouragement, until Giorno came all over Moody Blues’ fist and their stomachs.
Giorno panted hard, his eyes half-lidded and glazed over. He seemed to have only just enough energy left to summon Gold Experience to turn the mess into sprigs of pale blue forget-me-nots. He shot Abbacchio a dazzling smile and tucked one of them behind Abbacchio’s ear. “‘How glad I am we could not resist.’”
“Have you been going through Fugo’s books again?”
The bastard put his head on Abbacchio’s shoulder and promptly fell asleep.
Abbacchio wanted to be irritated but all he managed was a loud sigh.
Moody Blues regarded him with a blank look, settling back into place without Abbacchio telling it to. It snuggled against Giorno’s back, hooking its chin on his shoulder. “I think I like you.”
Abbacchio flinched and shook his head. He adjusted Moody Blues' hair, smoothing it out, just like he would have in front of a mirror. It was strange that Moody Blues’ lavender lipstick was still flawless when everything else wasn’t, but it was one of those things Abbacchio had learnt to accept years ago.
Moody Blues, still wearing Abbacchio’s form, still speaking with his voice, tried again. “I love you?”
“No, we don’t. I don’t.” At least, he and Giorno hadn’t done anything that alluded to that. And what meaning did the words even have if there were no actions to back them up? Abbacchio’s heart was not so easily swayed.
Moody Blues gave him an empty smile. It looked eerie and alien on Abbacchio’s face.
Giorno continued to snore softly, draped bonelessly against Abbacchio, entirely oblivious.
Abbacchio brushed the flowers aside. He pulled Giorno’s trousers up and tucked him back in, then curled against him. The wind had quietened down significantly at some point, but the both of them had been too preoccupied to notice. Abbacchio closed his eyes and resigned himself to a sleepless night.
Morning couldn’t have come sooner. Abbacchio ached all over from sleeping in an uncomfortable cot meant for one, but stacked with three. He put Moody Blues away as soon as sunlight streamed through the windows.
Giorno had just enough courtesy to be an early riser, despite having slept only several hours. It must be nice to be able to function on so little sleep, and without any coffee to boot.
“We’ll get breakfast when we get off this mountain,” Giorno promised, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as they got ready to head out again. His jacket was rumpled and his chest was studded with vivid bruises, but he looked no worse for wear otherwise. He was disgusting.
Abbacchio yawned and shuffled to the door with his overcoat hanging off his fingers, still damp to the touch. Giorno took care of that as he walked past Abbacchio, the moisture fleeing as a swarm of ladybugs in his wake.
The winds had died down just as they had expected, and some of the snow had even started to melt because of the rising temperatures. They weren’t going to stick around to see if the weather would take a turn for the worse, since dark clouds were already starting to gather where it had been unbroken blue just seconds ago.
They stomped through the snow again, avoiding grey sludge and cracking ice. The air was unpleasantly humid and it was like breathing soup. Cold, miserable soup. What felt like an age later, they finally spotted their car, and from there, it was a cautious jog down the trail. The road ahead appeared clear, which meant that they would be home very soon.
Abbacchio tossed the keys to Giorno and got into the passenger seat. If there was one thing he liked about going on missions with Giorno, it was that he never had to drive unless he wanted to. He also pulled out the golden brooch he had picked up by the cabin door on the way out and handed that to Giorno, too. “You forgot that.”
Giorno’s lips curved into a sunny smile that made his eyes shine with good humour. “Thanks.”
It took two attempts to get the car’s engine to turn on and stay on. Giorno blasted the heating in the car to chase away the last of the cold. It was comfortable, perhaps too comfortable, because all Abbacchio thought of as he looked out the window was that the view down into the valley below truly was magnificent, especially bathed in the morning glow. Then, he was out like a light.