[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.
[But that doesn't mean he's barred from understanding all of it. He knows some words. He knows enough to know the shape of what Bruno's saying. Polnareff returns that wide smile, his eyes darting about his boyfriend's face.
This is most assuredly a bad idea. But it's his birthday, and maybe for his birthday all he wants is to pretend they've got some kind of future.]
You'd make a pretty buon padre too, you know. And . . . [Hmm.] Ah, you lost me for the rest of it. But something about mothers. Yours? Shit, she's still alive, isn't she? [There's that sensitivity he's so known for.] There you go, at least one of our parents gets to see their grandkids.
Mm. If you're too tired to translate, just give me one word answers. [He kisses him, the movement sweet.] Would we live in France or Italy, lovely?
[It isn't as if it matters. They're never going home, not together, not like this. But still, something in Polnareff sighs happily at that answer. Francia, home, he and Bruno back in that little cottage in Ars-en-Ré.]
[He misses Bruno's wearied complaint, which is a shame, but at least he understands that last sentence. Polnareff laughs softly, his fingers playing against his stomach.]
Our princess, huh? Yeah, I bet. Our darling princess. Mm. What would we name her?
[A baby girl, tiny and loud and perfect. He knows how to raise girls. Or at least: he knows how to raise a teenage girl, and he and Bruno can figure out the younger years together.]
[Bruno's quiet for a moment while he thinks. The fingers on his stomach steal his attention for a second or two, but he forces himself to stay on-task. What would be a good name? It would have to be something that isn't exclusively French or exclusively Italian, though his knowledge of the former is limited compared to the latter. Hm...]
[He thinks back to the books he's read, going through the names he can remember and lining them up with their Italian counterparts until one jumps to the forefront of his mind. He's met Italian girls with the same name.]
[He hums softly. That's a good name. It's neither overwhelming French nor Italian, and yet fits perfectly within both cultures. It's a good name, but nothing that reminds either of them of their pasts. Polnareff kisses him again.]
Emma it is. Emma, our princess.
[Emma, who doesn't exist, who will never exist, but that Polnareff imagines for just a few moments more.]
And what would you do? [That's not a question Bruno can answer in one word, but whatever!] Stay home with her, or go and work?
[Bruno hums softly into the kiss, hand coming up to lightly stroke Polnareff's cheek. He continues to stroke his cheek with his fingertips even after Polnareff pulls away. Even a handful of months ago, he wouldn't entertain this conversation under any circumstances. But looking at Polnareff's face, it feels safe enough to talk about. Even though it's entirely impossible and they both know it, it feels okay to pretend there's a future for them beyond this city.]
[He stays pressed close this time, their noses bumping together, so close he can feel Bruno's hot breath gusting against his cheek.]
Stay at home, huh.
[He assumes. Maybe. It's very hard to know what Bruno's saying in detail, but years of living across Europe means he's got a pretty good scattered knowledge of common words among the romance languages.]
So I'll be our breadwinner. You can cook for us. But you gotta make sure you let our girl get both her cultures. Italian and French cooking. No making her love Italian food more. Promise?
[He says it steadily, his eyes locked on Bruno's expression, terribly uncertain about his next few words.]
A little village like the one I've got at home . . . you come home with a kid and no ring, all of a sudden you got all kinds of rumors flying around you.
[It's not a proposal, not at all. Even if they had all the time in the world, it's far too soon in their relationship to be thinking about such things. But he murmurs that, because if they're going to be fantasizing about impossibly domestic things, he'll go the whole way.
The words tastes odd on his lips. Husband, not wife, and it feels clunky, like he's misspoken somehow. But . . . he runs his thumb over his left ring finger and amends that thought. It's more as if he's trying out a new word in a foreign language, uncertain of the shape of the syllables but willing to try.]
[Thank god, he thinks, because there were so many ways that could have gone badly. But Bruno is grinning, and so Polnareff tentatively returns it, his eyes darting around his face.]
Yeah, a husband.
[A husband, he thinks again. It's easier to say the second time around. Still unnerving, but a little easier. He doesn't know what the rest of that sentence means, but he hears a question, and he knows Bruno.]
There's a pretty cute guy that I'm thinking about asking. You wanna hear about him?
[Truth be told, Bruno doesn't think much about marriage. It's not that he has some sort of negative view about it because of his parents' divorce, but it's just never been much of a priority. After all, the higher he climbed in the chain of command, the less and less he was inclined to rope anyone else into his life. So, even now, he doesn't put much stock into the idea.]
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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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[But that doesn't mean he's barred from understanding all of it. He knows some words. He knows enough to know the shape of what Bruno's saying. Polnareff returns that wide smile, his eyes darting about his boyfriend's face.
This is most assuredly a bad idea. But it's his birthday, and maybe for his birthday all he wants is to pretend they've got some kind of future.]
You'd make a pretty buon padre too, you know. And . . . [Hmm.] Ah, you lost me for the rest of it. But something about mothers. Yours? Shit, she's still alive, isn't she? [There's that sensitivity he's so known for.] There you go, at least one of our parents gets to see their grandkids.
Mm. If you're too tired to translate, just give me one word answers. [He kisses him, the movement sweet.] Would we live in France or Italy, lovely?
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Mm... Francia.
[Polnareff's been away from home long enough. If Bruno got homesick, it wouldn't be that hard to go back for a visit.]
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Boy or girl?
[A beat, and then:]
For our first.
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Oh, sicuramente una ragazza.
[More to himself, he softly mutters,] Sono stanco di ragazzi...
[Bruno nuzzles Polnareff again with a small, content hum.]
Sarebbe stata la nostra principessa.
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Our princess, huh? Yeah, I bet. Our darling princess. Mm. What would we name her?
[A baby girl, tiny and loud and perfect. He knows how to raise girls. Or at least: he knows how to raise a teenage girl, and he and Bruno can figure out the younger years together.]
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[He thinks back to the books he's read, going through the names he can remember and lining them up with their Italian counterparts until one jumps to the forefront of his mind. He's met Italian girls with the same name.]
Emma.
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Emma it is. Emma, our princess.
[Emma, who doesn't exist, who will never exist, but that Polnareff imagines for just a few moments more.]
And what would you do? [That's not a question Bruno can answer in one word, but whatever!] Stay home with her, or go and work?
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Stare a casa con lei. Almeno per qualche anno.
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Stay at home, huh.
[He assumes. Maybe. It's very hard to know what Bruno's saying in detail, but years of living across Europe means he's got a pretty good scattered knowledge of common words among the romance languages.]
So I'll be our breadwinner. You can cook for us. But you gotta make sure you let our girl get both her cultures. Italian and French cooking. No making her love Italian food more. Promise?
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[This is said firmly while he nuzzles noses with Polnareff.]
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[He murmurs it more as a placeholder than anything, because now he's thinking of something else.]
Mm. Before we get our Emma, though, there's something else we'd have to do first.
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[He says it steadily, his eyes locked on Bruno's expression, terribly uncertain about his next few words.]
A little village like the one I've got at home . . . you come home with a kid and no ring, all of a sudden you got all kinds of rumors flying around you.
[It's not a proposal, not at all. Even if they had all the time in the world, it's far too soon in their relationship to be thinking about such things. But he murmurs that, because if they're going to be fantasizing about impossibly domestic things, he'll go the whole way.
The words tastes odd on his lips. Husband, not wife, and it feels clunky, like he's misspoken somehow. But . . . he runs his thumb over his left ring finger and amends that thought. It's more as if he's trying out a new word in a foreign language, uncertain of the shape of the syllables but willing to try.]
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Yeah, a husband.
[A husband, he thinks again. It's easier to say the second time around. Still unnerving, but a little easier. He doesn't know what the rest of that sentence means, but he hears a question, and he knows Bruno.]
There's a pretty cute guy that I'm thinking about asking. You wanna hear about him?
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Stai cercando di farmi ingelosire?
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