JJBA ONESHOTS

(Giorno&Abbacchio)Flux

   <spoilers for pt.5 character rekationships/dynamics and personalities>

Description-

Abbacchio realizes that Giorno really isn't the perfect, arorgogant, kind of superior person Abbacchio has painted him as. 

My Giorno+Abbacchio friendship/family agenda

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A loud groan emits from the old stairs below Abbacchio's feet, and for what seems like the thousandth time (and probably is, given how many times Abbacchio has done this), the man mentally curses how the load sound fills the whole house. Honestly, it gives him a headache; it's too late at night for this, for any of this.

When Abbacchio, finally, reaches the ground floor and enters into the dark kitchen, he's glad that the team isn't home. The man fumbles around for a few seconds, struggling to find the light switch, and then having to squint as the bright lights flicker on—thank god the electricity isn't out. It takes a few seconds, but eventually Abbacchio's eyes adjust to the light and, as expected, he finds the kitchen completely empty. The blinds are drawn, surfaces clean and untouched; perfect for his purposes.

With everyone, bar Giorno (Abbacchio had wanted him to go, but the brat had been injured from his last battle, and Buccellati had insisted on leaving him), out, Abbacchio nearly had the house to himself. So, when Abbacchio digs through the fridge, there's no Bruno to gently pull his hand away from the wine bottle, no Narancia to model for.

It's pretty miserable, Abbacchio knows this, but it doesn't stop him. Abbacchio half-contemplates fetching a proper wine glass from one of the cabinets, but it's just him here anyway. Besides, that's a whole lot of extra effort he simply doesn't want to pour into such a thing. Abbacchio glances at the clock and, almost immediately, regrets it. Three in the morning; worry tugs at his gut.

The team had left this morning, led by Bruno, they were supposed to be back hours ago. Then again, the storm had also started up hours ago, harsh winds knocking over trees, heavy rains causing flash flood alerts. By all logic, they had been tired and exhausted and, not able to muster the mind to trek home in this kind of weather, crashed in the nearest motel. It had happened before.

God, how utterly and completely annoying, Abbacchio thinks to himself, popping off the cork and hoisting the bottle to his lips. To make matters worse, he was stuck here with that perfect brat. Giorno's mere presence annoyed him—(the saccharin smiles, the elegant movements, how the kid always seemed so confident)—Abbacchio wishes that 'Giorno has a broken rib' hadn't been such a strong argument for Giorno not going on a dangerous takedown mission.

One sip, and another, and another—Abbacchio promised he wouldn't do this so much anymore, but it's only once—it's okay if he gets a little drunk, even if when he wakes up with a hangover in the morning and Bruno is (hopefully) there to help him, he'll be bogged down with shame and regret.

More than anything, Abbacchio wishes he could have gone. Abbacchio hates this feeling of uselessly waiting here, glancing at the clock every few minutes wondering if Narancia has another broken nose, or something worse. Of course, he knows that he isn't suited for a mission like that, Abbacchio is strong, but Moody Blues just doesn't hold up very well in the fast paced, chaotic, several-person fight that the others had departed on.

(Giorno would've gone, if not for the broken rib; Giorno was suited for combat, suited for healing—suited for seemingly everything. He, with all his honeyed words and gilded movements, was suited for dreaming.)

Brows twitching in annoyance; Abbacchio casts aside his first bottle. Christ, has he really become such a heavyweight? He isn't even drunk yet, only tipsy. What a disappointment. Abbacchio only has the smallest amount of trouble walking straight when he goes to the cabinet for a second, unopened, bottle.