[Normally it would have just been a brief glance in Chariot's direction, but warm laziness is already settling in. Bruno's eyes drift over slowly to Chariot instead.]
Well, Chariot was at least. [He looks back at Polnareff eventually, one corner of his mouth turning up into a lazy, teasing grin.] You were already a bit of a shit by then.
Fuck you, I called you handsome! And you stole from me, you little brat, don't act like it was the other way around!
[Ah. That's a lazy smile right there, which usually means Bruno's already tired. Well, it is midnight; he'd been surprised he'd been up at all. Soon, then, he'll bring them both back to bed, but not just yet. ]
I compared you to a knight, whereas you, you little bastard, wouldn't shut up with calling me nonno, so be grateful I'm not dumping you off my lap right here and now.
[It doesn't take much into Polnareff's protest before Bruno's reduced to a fit of laughter. It starts off silent at first, but soon Bruno's burying his face in Polnareff's neck for volume control. He shakes his head a little, holding onto Polnareff tighter and pressing himself into him a little firmer.]
No, don't. [It's almost a small whine amid the laughter.] I like it here. It's warm.
Don't, he says, after insulting me. Don't, don't-- you deserve it, you little brat--
[He kisses the side of his head firmly, his fingers tight around his hips. Then it's one arm tight around his waist, the other firmly beneath him, as Polnareff stands. Really, it's easy to pick Bruno up; the guy doesn't weigh too too much.]
C'mon. Cute as you falling asleep on me is, I'd actually like to lie in a bed for my birthday.
[It's difficult to say whether that is a hum of acceptance or protest when Bruno kisses Polnareff's neck chastely. He nuzzles him a little before letting his eyes fall closed.]
[Like hell he can still walk. Shamble around and bump into walls, maybe. They go up the stairs slowly, Polnareff rubbing one hand over his back. A beat, and he grins.]
Remember the first time we met? I got stuck to you, and we had to climb the stairs? Shame we weren't together then, those twelve hours would've been way easier.
[Bruno hums his agreement, still with a lazy smile.]
It wasn't that bad. [A beat and then he grins a little wider.] Well, once you stopped being such a huge baby about Sticky Fingers, it wasn't. Now I'm used to you being melodramatic.
You put a hole in my stomach, don't pretend it was something normal.
[He hoists him up as he says it, underlining his point. A beat, and then, in his best attempt at an Italian accent:]
"Oh, buon giorno, my name is Bruno, let me just open a hole in your stomach, oh, why are you reacting like that, it's just a hole in your body, ohh, you look so sexy when you react like any normal person would--"
[Bruno opens his eyes, sitting up a little, and smacks Polnareff's chest. It isn't hard enough to really hurt, but not something that should or could be entirely ignored either.]
Vaffanculo, [he says, settling back against Polnareff.] I do not sound like that. I've never met a single Italian that sounds like that.
[He kisses his fingers, grinning broadly as he does. They're sleeping in Bruno's room tonight, apparently, as he turns the corner and nudges the door open.]
Bossy, bossy Bruno-- what's the magic word so you get put down nice, bossy?
[Bruno buries his face back in Polnareff's neck for a moment with a small put-upon sound. He's tired enough that this is a struggle, but he's still smiling.]
You think just because it's your birthday... [There was more to that sentence, but it's lost. Gone forever. Bruno lifts his head.] Don't.
[And that Polnareff is so helpless to the whims of his boyfriend. With a heavy sigh he sets him down gently on the bed, wrinkling his nose as he does. He follows right after, slipping to lie between his legs, resting his chin on his stomach.]
Don't go to sleep yet. That's what I want for my birthday.
[In the back of his mind, Bruno recognizes that could be interpreted about a hundred different ways. He thinks to clarify, but it doesn't quite manage to happen when he somewhat forgets what that was supposed to act as a stand-in for anyway.]
Okay, [he agrees, and is at least aware what he's agreeing to. Even if his commitment to it might be edging towards questionable at this point because now that he's on the bed, it won't be long before keeping his eyes open requires simply too much active effort.] You're cute.
[Bruno surely means what he says, but he's also not known for staying up late, so Polnareff doesn't have much hope beyond another twenty minutes. Still, you can do a lot in twenty minutes. You can watch your boyfriend slowly lose coherency and have fun with the resulting conversation. You can hear him call you cute, his voice just a touch firm, which is even cuter (and thus makes him the de facto winner of this cuteness contest).]
Am I?
[He slides his hand idly over his skin, palm flat against his chest, until he can feel the steady thud of his heart.]
Guess that makes us a pretty set pair, huh?
[A beat, and then:]
About how much are you actually listening right now, hm?
[How dare you accuse him otherwise, Polnareff?? Honestly... Just let him enjoy your warm hand on his skin instead of slandering him like this. You're being rude.]
[Some of that might have made it out of Bruno's mouth normally, but all his carefully laid arguments are gone now. They'll be back tomorrow.]
[He hooks his fingers along the collar of Bruno's sweater. His sweater, actually, which means it's big enough that he can slide his hand in easily, fingers tracing along his collarbone and up his neck.
His boyfriend is so sleepy, and that means his guard is down. Hmm . . .]
Did you really never think about kissing your Stand?
[That's the firm, final answer. And seems to be it at first. But then Bruno crinkles his nose as something appears to occur to him.]
That'd be weird.
[What that something is though? Well, Bruno's not elaborating and he's already moving on as he shakes his head.]
Sticky Fingers was for missions. That's it. You know like how I stole your watch. That's how we started. Then it was more like how I met Giorno. Only normally he would have ended up dead and no one would know how to find his body.
[Isn't that a rambling conversation? Polnareff's smile fades a little, his expression stilling as he listens. His fingers drift against Bruno's skin, tracing the hollow of his throat.
There's a lot he could say to that, because there's a lot of information packed into those few sentences. He could try and ask after that dark prediction. No one would know how to find his body, Bruno says sleepily, so easily that it's a statement, not a brag. It's easy to forget just how deadly his boyfriend is, and maybe Polnareff ought to try and pursue that line of thought. How many people have you killed with Sticky Fingers, he could ask, and he already knows that Bruno will be able to rattle off a fixed number.
He could ask, too, about his childhood: about using Sticky Fingers for the first time, how he'd explored all the potential his Stand had. Was it a wondrous moment or a mundane one? Had he thought he was magic, as Polnareff had, or cast his Stand in a darker light?
Or perhaps neither. Perhaps he'd simply accepted it and moved on. Just for missions, Bruno says, and Polnareff can't imagine ever thinking of Chariot in such cold, concrete terms. His Stand is so much more than a tool to be used, regulated to certain times and places. God, Chariot used to be there constantly, an invisible comfort that he'd never gone without. Even now, Chariot comes out far more than Sticky Fingers ever does.
He could ask after a lot of things. But what Polnareff says, quietly and with a smile, is:]
[Bruno hums his soft agreement with a lazy smile.]
And Fugo, too.
[And Narancia. And Mista. And Trish. They were all his. Not in that possessive way that Giorno talks about it, but he knows he has responsibility over each of them, even Mista, who has never really needed his guidance as much as the others, and Trish, who he only knew for such a short period of time. And now they're Polnareff's. Not because in Polnareff's future, Polnareff picks up where Bruno left off and there's ultimately very little Bruno could say or do to change that, but because Bruno trusts Polnareff to have them.]
You're good for them. [Better for them in some ways than Bruno. Not all, but some.] I'm glad they trust you.
[And Fugo too, and he hums his agreement. Fugo is more like a brother than a son to him, truth be told-- it's a different dynamic, and with far less snuggling-- but the protective instinct is still there. Polnareff sighs, his fingers tracing idly against Bruno's skin, his eyes locked on his face.]
Me too.
[He shifts upwards, resting his head on Bruno's shoulder, his hand sliding down to creep beneath the other end of his sweater. They're tangled up in one another like this, legs interwoven, and he likes that. He likes the way Bruno curls up against him, seeking out heat (or affection, or both).]
I like it, you know. With them. I like being there for them. Explaining shit and throwing Fugo into the ocean and just letting them be normal kids. And-- [He kisses Bruno's cheek, his fingers tracing just beneath his ribs.] --I like getting to do it with you.
[It's with a sleepy gaze that Bruno watches Polnareff shift. Once he's settled again, Bruno curls in with a soft, pleased hum. Bruno returns the kiss to his cheek with a gentle nuzzle because kissing just takes a little too much energy for him to spare at this point.]
Mm, me too.
[It's not a sad thought he has, not really, but he thinks it would have been nice to have a family with Polnareff. Time spent between France and Italy with little ones of their own. It's enough to put a smile on his face as he wraps both of his arms around Polnareff's middle.]
[That's Bruno's nickname, to be sure, but it feels right to use it here and now. Polnareff kisses his cheek again, his fingers sweeping over his skin. Not that he knows it, but bundled together, legs tangled and comfortably warm beneath their blanket, their thoughts are running along a similar vein right now.
It isn't the first time he's thought about children and Bruno. God, no; how could it be? Sometimes he thinks Bruno, too, has similar thoughts, but Polnareff nevers brings it up. That's a conversation that won't ever go anywhere and they both know it. It's a conversation that promises nothing but heartache, and yet--
And yet still, Polnareff thinks about it. He thinks about a cottage in France, and how empty and dark it must be there right now. The portraits are all still in their frames, but the beds are empty and the windows are dusty, and it's been years since anyone's made that house into a home.
He thinks about how nice it would be, to fill that house with laughter and love once again. How easily Bruno would fit in back in that little village in France, and how it would be, raising a child (or two, or three) with him. God knows he'd be good there. God, he'd be mobbed by all the neighborhood kids on sight; they'd learn in a second that he was secretly soft.
What would they do, finally able to get away from all the violence of their lives? Who knows. He thinks of how they first met, back in April; of that bizarre madness they'd all shared. Bruno had been a teacher then, hadn't he? Yeah. So maybe he'd be a teacher. He'd be good, he's patient like that. Maybe, hah, maybe he'd be a fisherman. Maybe he'd just stay home and fuss about cooking all day. He'd be good at whatever he chose, Polnareff has no doubt, and in the end, it wouldn't really matter what he did, because he'd be doing it alongside Polnareff.
And himself? Ah, well. He still doesn't have an answer to that question. Truth be told, he's tried not to think about it, because it's as pointless a question for him as it is for Bruno. His life has a set path. Thirteen years from now, sure as anything, he'll still be fighting. There'll be no filling that cottage in France, no matter how badly he wants to, and that's just the truth of it.
That's the trouble, really, with knowing the future. You can't change it. You can't even hope to change it. And it would have been nice, he thinks wistfully, to imagine they had some kind of chance at that domestic bliss.
His expression has grown pensive, he realizes belatedly, and blinks hard, snapping out of it. He smiles down at Bruno.]
Hey. You still gonna insist you're not falling asleep on me?
[Bruno shakes his head a little, though it's hard to say what that means when that's all there is. After all, he could agreeing that he's not going to insist he's still awake. He could also be confirming that he refuses to give in. Or he could just be nuzzling Polnareff. Really, it's the second possibility with the bonus of the third.]
Pensando a te. E bambini. Si potrebbe essere un buon padre.
[He already is, of course. To Giorno especially. But it's different taking in someone Giorno's age compared to raising someone from their earliest memories on. Polnareff would be good at it though. He's good at most things, Bruno thinks, but he'd be really good at that. Any child of his would become his whole world, be at the forefront of his mind and heart always. He'd be a bigger pushover than Bruno in the end no matter how much he accuses Bruno of being a softie deep down. The harder moments wouldn't seem quite as hard with Polnareff there, too. He'd put smiles back on everyone's faces, one way or another.]
[Most of all, he'd make wherever they were warm and loving. He'd make it a home.]
Abbiamo potuto visitare Mamma durante le estati. Mamma vorrebbe te.
[France was a lot closer to Milano than Napoli after all, but really, he'd want his mother to meet Polnareff. She'd probably tolerate his sense of humor better than his father ever would have, but more importantly, she wasn't the typical Italian mother who was overprotective of her son. If anything, she'd probably be relieved that Bruno found someone who loved him as much as Polnareff does, that Bruno could be selfish enough to take happiness for himself.]
Almeno fino a quando hai iniziato a parlare di cibo. Poi si sarebbe rinnegare voi. [Another pause, but this time with a wider smile.] E mi probabilmente per amarti, ma lei avrebbe tenuto il bambino.
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Well, Chariot was at least. [He looks back at Polnareff eventually, one corner of his mouth turning up into a lazy, teasing grin.] You were already a bit of a shit by then.
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[Ah. That's a lazy smile right there, which usually means Bruno's already tired. Well, it is midnight; he'd been surprised he'd been up at all. Soon, then, he'll bring them both back to bed, but not just yet. ]
I compared you to a knight, whereas you, you little bastard, wouldn't shut up with calling me nonno, so be grateful I'm not dumping you off my lap right here and now.
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No, don't. [It's almost a small whine amid the laughter.] I like it here. It's warm.
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[He kisses the side of his head firmly, his fingers tight around his hips. Then it's one arm tight around his waist, the other firmly beneath him, as Polnareff stands. Really, it's easy to pick Bruno up; the guy doesn't weigh too too much.]
C'mon. Cute as you falling asleep on me is, I'd actually like to lie in a bed for my birthday.
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I can still walk.
[A lot of mixed messages happening here.]
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[Like hell he can still walk. Shamble around and bump into walls, maybe. They go up the stairs slowly, Polnareff rubbing one hand over his back. A beat, and he grins.]
Remember the first time we met? I got stuck to you, and we had to climb the stairs? Shame we weren't together then, those twelve hours would've been way easier.
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It wasn't that bad. [A beat and then he grins a little wider.] Well, once you stopped being such a huge baby about Sticky Fingers, it wasn't. Now I'm used to you being melodramatic.
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[He hoists him up as he says it, underlining his point. A beat, and then, in his best attempt at an Italian accent:]
"Oh, buon giorno, my name is Bruno, let me just open a hole in your stomach, oh, why are you reacting like that, it's just a hole in your body, ohh, you look so sexy when you react like any normal person would--"
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Vaffanculo, [he says, settling back against Polnareff.] I do not sound like that. I've never met a single Italian that sounds like that.
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[He glances down, regarding him. A moment, and then:]
Anyway, you're right. Definitely should've rolled my R's more if I wanted to sound like you. "My name is-a Brrrrruno--"
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Hush!
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Bossy, bossy Bruno-- what's the magic word so you get put down nice, bossy?
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You think just because it's your birthday... [There was more to that sentence, but it's lost. Gone forever. Bruno lifts his head.] Don't.
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[And that Polnareff is so helpless to the whims of his boyfriend. With a heavy sigh he sets him down gently on the bed, wrinkling his nose as he does. He follows right after, slipping to lie between his legs, resting his chin on his stomach.]
Don't go to sleep yet. That's what I want for my birthday.
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[In the back of his mind, Bruno recognizes that could be interpreted about a hundred different ways. He thinks to clarify, but it doesn't quite manage to happen when he somewhat forgets what that was supposed to act as a stand-in for anyway.]
Okay, [he agrees, and is at least aware what he's agreeing to. Even if his commitment to it might be edging towards questionable at this point because now that he's on the bed, it won't be long before keeping his eyes open requires simply too much active effort.] You're cute.
[A belated correction.]
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Am I?
[He slides his hand idly over his skin, palm flat against his chest, until he can feel the steady thud of his heart.]
Guess that makes us a pretty set pair, huh?
[A beat, and then:]
About how much are you actually listening right now, hm?
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[How dare you accuse him otherwise, Polnareff?? Honestly... Just let him enjoy your warm hand on his skin instead of slandering him like this. You're being rude.]
[Some of that might have made it out of Bruno's mouth normally, but all his carefully laid arguments are gone now. They'll be back tomorrow.]
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[He hooks his fingers along the collar of Bruno's sweater. His sweater, actually, which means it's big enough that he can slide his hand in easily, fingers tracing along his collarbone and up his neck.
His boyfriend is so sleepy, and that means his guard is down. Hmm . . .]
Did you really never think about kissing your Stand?
[Priorities.]
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[That's the firm, final answer. And seems to be it at first. But then Bruno crinkles his nose as something appears to occur to him.]
That'd be weird.
[What that something is though? Well, Bruno's not elaborating and he's already moving on as he shakes his head.]
Sticky Fingers was for missions. That's it. You know like how I stole your watch. That's how we started. Then it was more like how I met Giorno. Only normally he would have ended up dead and no one would know how to find his body.
He's a good kid.
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There's a lot he could say to that, because there's a lot of information packed into those few sentences. He could try and ask after that dark prediction. No one would know how to find his body, Bruno says sleepily, so easily that it's a statement, not a brag. It's easy to forget just how deadly his boyfriend is, and maybe Polnareff ought to try and pursue that line of thought. How many people have you killed with Sticky Fingers, he could ask, and he already knows that Bruno will be able to rattle off a fixed number.
He could ask, too, about his childhood: about using Sticky Fingers for the first time, how he'd explored all the potential his Stand had. Was it a wondrous moment or a mundane one? Had he thought he was magic, as Polnareff had, or cast his Stand in a darker light?
Or perhaps neither. Perhaps he'd simply accepted it and moved on. Just for missions, Bruno says, and Polnareff can't imagine ever thinking of Chariot in such cold, concrete terms. His Stand is so much more than a tool to be used, regulated to certain times and places. God, Chariot used to be there constantly, an invisible comfort that he'd never gone without. Even now, Chariot comes out far more than Sticky Fingers ever does.
He could ask after a lot of things. But what Polnareff says, quietly and with a smile, is:]
Of course he is. He's ours, isn't he?
[A beat, and then:]
Our son.
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And Fugo, too.
[And Narancia. And Mista. And Trish. They were all his. Not in that possessive way that Giorno talks about it, but he knows he has responsibility over each of them, even Mista, who has never really needed his guidance as much as the others, and Trish, who he only knew for such a short period of time. And now they're Polnareff's. Not because in Polnareff's future, Polnareff picks up where Bruno left off and there's ultimately very little Bruno could say or do to change that, but because Bruno trusts Polnareff to have them.]
You're good for them. [Better for them in some ways than Bruno. Not all, but some.] I'm glad they trust you.
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Me too.
[He shifts upwards, resting his head on Bruno's shoulder, his hand sliding down to creep beneath the other end of his sweater. They're tangled up in one another like this, legs interwoven, and he likes that. He likes the way Bruno curls up against him, seeking out heat (or affection, or both).]
I like it, you know. With them. I like being there for them. Explaining shit and throwing Fugo into the ocean and just letting them be normal kids. And-- [He kisses Bruno's cheek, his fingers tracing just beneath his ribs.] --I like getting to do it with you.
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Mm, me too.
[It's not a sad thought he has, not really, but he thinks it would have been nice to have a family with Polnareff. Time spent between France and Italy with little ones of their own. It's enough to put a smile on his face as he wraps both of his arms around Polnareff's middle.]
I love you.
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[That's Bruno's nickname, to be sure, but it feels right to use it here and now. Polnareff kisses his cheek again, his fingers sweeping over his skin. Not that he knows it, but bundled together, legs tangled and comfortably warm beneath their blanket, their thoughts are running along a similar vein right now.
It isn't the first time he's thought about children and Bruno. God, no; how could it be? Sometimes he thinks Bruno, too, has similar thoughts, but Polnareff nevers brings it up. That's a conversation that won't ever go anywhere and they both know it. It's a conversation that promises nothing but heartache, and yet--
And yet still, Polnareff thinks about it. He thinks about a cottage in France, and how empty and dark it must be there right now. The portraits are all still in their frames, but the beds are empty and the windows are dusty, and it's been years since anyone's made that house into a home.
He thinks about how nice it would be, to fill that house with laughter and love once again. How easily Bruno would fit in back in that little village in France, and how it would be, raising a child (or two, or three) with him. God knows he'd be good there. God, he'd be mobbed by all the neighborhood kids on sight; they'd learn in a second that he was secretly soft.
What would they do, finally able to get away from all the violence of their lives? Who knows. He thinks of how they first met, back in April; of that bizarre madness they'd all shared. Bruno had been a teacher then, hadn't he? Yeah. So maybe he'd be a teacher. He'd be good, he's patient like that. Maybe, hah, maybe he'd be a fisherman. Maybe he'd just stay home and fuss about cooking all day. He'd be good at whatever he chose, Polnareff has no doubt, and in the end, it wouldn't really matter what he did, because he'd be doing it alongside Polnareff.
And himself? Ah, well. He still doesn't have an answer to that question. Truth be told, he's tried not to think about it, because it's as pointless a question for him as it is for Bruno. His life has a set path. Thirteen years from now, sure as anything, he'll still be fighting. There'll be no filling that cottage in France, no matter how badly he wants to, and that's just the truth of it.
That's the trouble, really, with knowing the future. You can't change it. You can't even hope to change it. And it would have been nice, he thinks wistfully, to imagine they had some kind of chance at that domestic bliss.
His expression has grown pensive, he realizes belatedly, and blinks hard, snapping out of it. He smiles down at Bruno.]
Hey. You still gonna insist you're not falling asleep on me?
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Pensando a te. E bambini. Si potrebbe essere un buon padre.
[He already is, of course. To Giorno especially. But it's different taking in someone Giorno's age compared to raising someone from their earliest memories on. Polnareff would be good at it though. He's good at most things, Bruno thinks, but he'd be really good at that. Any child of his would become his whole world, be at the forefront of his mind and heart always. He'd be a bigger pushover than Bruno in the end no matter how much he accuses Bruno of being a softie deep down. The harder moments wouldn't seem quite as hard with Polnareff there, too. He'd put smiles back on everyone's faces, one way or another.]
[Most of all, he'd make wherever they were warm and loving. He'd make it a home.]
Abbiamo potuto visitare Mamma durante le estati. Mamma vorrebbe te.
[France was a lot closer to Milano than Napoli after all, but really, he'd want his mother to meet Polnareff. She'd probably tolerate his sense of humor better than his father ever would have, but more importantly, she wasn't the typical Italian mother who was overprotective of her son. If anything, she'd probably be relieved that Bruno found someone who loved him as much as Polnareff does, that Bruno could be selfish enough to take happiness for himself.]
Almeno fino a quando hai iniziato a parlare di cibo. Poi si sarebbe rinnegare voi. [Another pause, but this time with a wider smile.] E mi probabilmente per amarti, ma lei avrebbe tenuto il bambino.
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