What Remains of Risotto Nero (A JJBA Fanfic)

Chapter 1: Pesci

His family never seemed strange to him when he was growing up.

Chapter 1: Pesci

It almost haunted him when he wasn't met by a family once stepping inside. Instead, there were only memories of one. Of course, it didn't surprise him, not in the slightest, but there was still that image in the back of his mind of a place normally bustling with people. And unlike the house's exterior, the inside wasn't inherently abnormal; there was just too much of it, like a smile with too many teeth—books, figurines, music boxes, wood carvings, paintings, and so many photos. Even the fireplace had a story; Risotto had used old bricks from an abandoned slaughterhouse just a couple of miles away to build it. They were all brilliant, creative minds. That was easy to see. There wasn't a single spot in the house that didn't consist of one of the residents' talents.

There were even salmon cartons still rotting in the trash from when Sorbet used to work at the cannery and it was the few things they ate. Ghiaccio still hated the smell of it; he always had. And not many food joints would deliver to the house either, so more often than not, it was the fish and Chinese food for supper.

Now that he was in the kitchen, though, he felt nostalgic for a time when he'd been new to the household. As it happens with being in an unfamiliar environment, he was often shy, and watching Prosciutto cook eased that feeling. Of course, this was a somewhat distant memory, more so than the others—Prosciutto had stopped cooking shortly after Ghiaccio's arrival. Despite having been practically a blink of his life, Ghiaccio missed those dinners. The cutting board he always used remained in the cabinet, knife marks and all. Even the smell of onion still lingered within the maple wood. "Don't come in here when I'm cutting onions, kid. It'll hurt your eyes." Ghiaccio remembered his stern yet affectionate voice so well. 

But there came an itching discomfort similar to that of a slow-moving storm. A storm, Ghiaccio thought. That was undoubtedly the best way to describe Prosciutto and Risotto's constant fighting, which just so happened to always occur in that damn kitchen. Much of it was a blur; nevertheless, he couldn't stand to think about the distant yells of an unhappy couple.

Ghiaccio made a detour to one of the many sets of stairs he knew led to the second floor. Delightfully (or not, depending on how you look at it), Ghiaccio was surprised that he knew where he was going, considering the overly-complicated architecture that made up the castle-of-a-house (the clutter did little to help either). It was as if it were somehow still engraved on the back of his hand. And this time, he wasn't as anxious when walking to the porch—more unnerved than anything. Because these steps were somewhat worn, with the center of each having a slight dip, a remnant of the many people that had come and gone, they were, quite literally, footprints of the past, a past so faint. As if needing a light to see it.

For now, of course, the light switch next to the railing had to suffice, and it did. That one switch lit up the entire house, the lamps, the fairy lights, the makeshift hightops. As if the house were a living thing that simply needed a poke or two.

And it was this poke that made going up the stairs all the more manageable, which Ghiaccio was somewhat grateful for. Had he needed to find a breaker somewhere amidst the winding hallways and numerous doors then he probably would've left right then and there. His short temper would never let him stay for longer than an hour, even though, in reality, Ghiaccio knew this would probably be an overnight affair. He wouldn't be surprised if, by the end of his excursion, he'd find the sun just peeking above the ocean horizon.

But first and foremost, and probably the most damning part of this trip, he had the bedrooms to go through. And the first to meet his eyes, the one right next to the top of the stairs, was Pesci's.