Chapter Text
The Abbacchio-Bucciarati household has a rhythm, though it tends to get a little mdesessy when it rains.
Outside, the summerstorm’s wind rattles the windowpanes; inside, the air is heavy with humidity and the rich, grounding aroma of fresh coffee drifting from the kitchen into the lounge.
"Trish, dear... out." Bruno leans down, his tone tired with the weariness of a long day – still sweet, though. Trish hid beneath the coffee table again—a habit she’d picked up God knows when. In the corner of the living room, Giorno splays his tiny legs on the rug, meticulously organizing his colored pencils.
She glances at her father, then at the window shaking under the force of the gale, and back at him. Her big doe eyes provide the only answer he needed: No.
Bucciarati purses his lips, suppressing a sigh. He didn't know when and why she became afraid of the rain; but fear can be irrational — especially when it comes to children. "What about reading that magazine you like?" he proposes.
That sparks a glimmer of interest in her emerald eyes, yet, she ponders it for a moment before reaching out. Her fingers hold two or three of his just lightly. "O-kaaaay." The word comes in a whine when a sudden thunder breaks through the clouds again and, nervously, she reaches her arms up.
"Oh, don’t worry, come up!" Bruno murmurs, a soft smile curving his lips. She is seven now, and sometimes he forgets how small she’d been when she first joined the family at four years old. The thought tightens the ravanette chest with a warm, protective ache.
As he scoops her up, adjusting her weight, he heads to Leone’s bedroom in search of the magazine. It takes a moment - and some kisses over the girl’s pinkish curls to soothe her - before they’re back and settled onto the sofa.
Giorno glances at them, yet, the frog plushie he’s always carrying around has most of his attention. It seems to be Mr. Ribbit’s dress-up moment for the night since the small shirts and hats of his are spread throughout the carpet.
A grin adorns Bruno’s face at the reasoning and Trish curls on his lap, her small hand mindlessly twisting one of the buttons on his pajama shirt.
The rain lashes the windows violently. "So, which one do you find the prettiest?" He points to two different outfits on the glossy pages ever so theatrically to distract her from the noise.
Trish studies the pictures with a silent, intense focus, her fingertips tracing the silhouettes of high-fashion models.
"This one?"
"This one!" She confirms. "It’s pink, so I like it."
"Let’s see..." Bruno slides his gaze to the text under the photo. "Oh, it’s actually from an independent stylist."
Eventually, as he reads the brand's vision for the piece, the little girl’s attention shifts between the dark windows and her father’s face.
It is part of a winter collection – a crochet sweater made with granny squares, colored in black and bright pink with golden yellow details.
Trish reaches up, oblivious to her father’s monologue, small fingers brushing through his dark hair.
Bruno stretches his legs out, losing himself in his own interest for the article, forgetting to read aloud. It was a rare moment for him— no chores, no deadlines, just the warm weight of his daughter over him and the sound of the storm.
When he notices she'd gone silent, he looks down. Trish is now curling into a ball, hiding her face against his shoulder.
"Principessa?" he whispers, smiling ever so enchanted to her pink bob, a messy halo. Then he reaches for the fluffy blanket draped over the back of the couch to wrap it around her. Trish isn’t much of a tight sleeper and he is well aware that if he tried to move her to her own bed now, she’d be awake and crying within ten minutes.
"So, you finally found the 'off' switch?" Leone amuses; his voice drifting from behind as he brushes his freshly washed hair.
"Just barely," Bruno glances over his shoulder and adjusts the blanket, careful not to wake the little girl. "If I move an inch, the alarm goes off." he chuckles.
Laughing back ever so lightly, the goth sets the hair comb aside and places his hands on Bruno’s shoulders, squeezing the tension out of them with a firm, grounding pressure. Then his eyes shift to the little boy standing silently by his hip.
Giorno doesn’t make a sound, but his fingers curl tightly into the hem of his father's night shirt.
"And what about you, piccolino?" Leone greets.
A small nod comes from the boy; a smile curving his lips as he looks up with those wide olive green eyes.
With a sight, the man leans down and hooks his hands under Giorno’s arms, lifting him up into a one-armed carry. The little boy immediately tucks his face into the crook of his father's neck, his small frame relaxing the moment he was off the ground.
Abbacchio moves to the opposite side of the sofa with a low grunt. He sinks into the cushions as Bruno makes space for them, settling Giorno securely against his chest.
Only then he meets Bruno’s affectionate gaze. The room is quiet now, save for the wind outside and the still heavy rain.
"We're stuck here for a while, aren't we?" Leone whispers, his hand resting protectively over Giorno’s back.
Bruno leans his head back against the sofa, a small, tired smile lighting up his face. "I think we are. And I wouldn't have it any other way."