It's been a long time since I've done a 5-times fic and I really enjoy doing these, so I thought I would do this one to practice writing the gang ;)

I've got a multi-chap Part 5 fic coming too, so stay tuned!

Famiglia

A JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Fanfic

Bucciarati is always there for his team when they need him the most but sometimes they get the chance to return the favor. (A 5 times fic)

1.

Abbacchio

Leone Abbacchio typically tried to stay as far away from the graveyard as possible. His nightmares gave him enough reminders of his past that he didn't need to purposefully seek more out. However, there was one day every year that he was drawn there by some sick gravitational pull that he couldn't refuse and didn't want to.

It was raining, of course; maybe his mood was so dark it had caused the weather to change. He hadn't even told anyone where he was going, just made some excuse that he had errands to run. He hadn't even brought an umbrella. He just trudged through the graveyard, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets, until he reached the grave he was looking for.

He stood there, head bowed, as his long hair stuck to his face, refusing to shiver in the cold. It was still fresh in his mind even several years later, of course, the nightmares wouldn't let him forget. More often than not he would close his eyes, see his partner diving in front of him and slamming into the floor in a pool of blood, his life slipping out of him and there was nothing Abbacchio could do. In fact, it was his fault it had happened at all.

"I'm sorry," he found himself whispering for the millionth time to the grave. An overwhelming heaviness stole its way into his body and he forced his legs to move before he couldn't anymore.

Abbacchio didn't really know where he was going, but his body did, walking the familiar path until he reached the liquor store. He strode in and bought the first bottle of something that he could drown himself in. He left, and walked into a dripping alley behind the store, barely sheltered from the rain as he squatted with his back against the wall.

He stared at the bottle for a long time. It had been months since he had drunk anything aside from the occasion glass of wine. Bucciarati had told him sternly to sober up when he'd joined Passione and had helped Abbacchio kick the habit, but he just didn't care right now. It wasn't like he could disappoint anyone more than himself.

So he opened the bottle angrily and drank until he felt the numbing effects start, and he could do little more than slump against the wall in the filth—right where he belonged.

Somewhere, halfway through the bottle, he found his way to his feet and back through the wet streets to his partner's grave. He collapsed to his knees, soaked to the skin, and shivering uncontrollably from the cold. But he didn't really care at this point. He just continued to drink as the rain dripped down his face.

A shadow appeared over him and the rain stopped momentarily. Abbacchio didn't even care if it was a Stand user come to kill him. They could put him out of his misery.

"I thought I'd find you here."

The familiar voice, actually made him feel worse, if that was possible. He couldn't look up at Bucciarati. He hadn't told the other man where he was going but of course he would remember what today was. Bucciarati was annoying like that.

He didn't reply, simply sat there, hoping pointlessly that Bucciarati might leave him alone. He was so out of it by now anyway, barely able to focus or move.

There was a sigh and Bucciarati crouched down and gently took the mostly empty bottle from his lax hands. Abbacchio didn't even try to stop him.

"Come on, you're soaked to the skin and you'll freeze to death out here," the dark-haired man said matter-of-factly. "You're coming home."

Abbacchio tried to shrug him off but only managed to slowly start collapsing toward the ground.

Bucciarati caught him by the arm and in one swift maneuver, pulled him upright. Abbacchio's legs didn't work, but Bucciarati had already shifted the ex-cop's arm around his shoulder, his own tight around Abbacchio's waist to keep him upright.

"Come on, amico."

Abbacchio's head hung as he allowed Bucciarati to practically drag him back to the house. He could have fought the indignity, but he just didn't care anymore.

He was barely aware of getting back. His head swam mercilessly by now and he was getting more and more out of it by the second, a complete exhaustion overtaking him. His knees finally gave out completely, but Bucciarati was there to catch him, heaving him back up.

"Just a little further," he coaxed.

Abbacchio groaned, not doing much to help as Bucciarati dragged him to his room.

By the time Abbacchio hit his bed, he really didn't remember anything.

The next morning, he woke with a pounding headache and a sick stomach, so much worse than when he used to drink on a nearly nightly basis. He groaned and rolled over, finally realizing he was in his bed, dressed in dry pajamas—he could see his normal outfit laid out across a chair next to a burnt-out fire in the grate. He blinked, and saw that on his bedside table there was a thermos and when he clumsily grabbed it and popped the top, he found it held strong black coffee, still hot.

"Bruno," Abbacchio grunted, shaking his head.

Sometimes he thought he really didn't deserve these new companions of his, but he would be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for the friendships he had made and Bucciarati in particular had saved his life—more than once.

He supposed he could do worse.

2.

Narancia

Narancia knew that he shouldn't have walked through this part of town, but by the time the thought entered his head, it was already too late. He'd been running errands for Bucciarati and somehow ended up in his old stomping grounds which he tried to avoid as much as possible for obvious reasons.

Reasons that became even more obvious when he heard someone call his name.

"Hey, look at that! Is that you, Narancia?"

He froze, hands clenching into fists, then just continued walking at a faster clip, pretending to ignore the other boys approaching him.

"Hey, wait a second, don't just leave, it's been a long time since we caught up!"

One boy, older, and bigger, grabbed Narancia's arm, yanking him around. Narancia stared up at him, recognizing him from the old gang he used to run with. The same people who had gotten him falsely accused and thrown in jail.

"Where have you been, Narancia?" the boy asked, a deceptive friendliness in his voice that Narancia knew better than to trust.

"None of your business," he said, jerking his arm free. He made to turn around, only to find that he was hemmed in by two other tall boys.

"Come on, Narancia, we should catch up," the first boy—Tony, Narancia thought his name was—wheedled. "We heard you had joined on with Passione."

"Yeah, what of it?" Narancia snipped.

"You're a big-time gangster now," Tony said mockingly, poking Narancia in the chest. "Bet you think you're better than us."

Narancia shook his head, refusing to be baited. "Look, I have to go," he said stiffly and turned.

Tony grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the alley, slamming Narancia against the wall.

"Not so fast. Turns out, we're down a runner—our usual one just got nabbed. But it just happens to be my lucky day now that I saw you. What do you say, help us out for old time's sake?"

"I don't do that anymore," Narancia snarled as the other boys closed in on him. He began breathing heavily. He had just gained his Stand power, and was not very good with it yet. He wasn't even sure he would be able to call it when he was this agitated.

His knife on the other hand…

Narancia began to edge his hand behind him and dipped his hand into his pocket as he felt the comfortable grip of his switchblade before he swung it out and slashed it across Tony's ribs, kicking upward into his groin before he dashed away.

"Bastardo!" Tony grunted, staggering. "Get him!"

Narancia was cut off by the other two boys, and he lashed out at one of them with a cry of rage but the other grabbed his wrist and his throat at the same time, disarming him and throwing him back into the alley.

Narancia hit hard, the wind knocked from him as he tried to manifest his Stand.

"Little punk!" A foot thudded into his ribs and he cried out, curling up to try and fend off more blows. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back, a fist wrapped with brass knuckles slammed into his face, smashing his head against the ground.

It was then just a flurry of fists and feet, and he could do nothing.

"What the hell is this?"

The barrage ceased and gasps rang through the boys.

"It's Bucciarati," one whispered, already backing away.

"Narancia, are you all right?" Bucciarati asked, not taking his eyes off of the teen's assailants.

Narancia pushed himself up onto shaking arms, blood dripping freely from his nose. "Y-yeah."

Bucciarati took a step forward and the boys stepped back, seemingly terrified. "Narancia belongs to my famiglia, and any assault on him is an assault on me. Remember that."

The boys looked like they were about to piss themselves as they nodded quickly.

"Yes, Mr. Bucciarati," they said quickly before running away.

Narancia spat blood in their direction as Bucciarati strode toward him and crouched down, taking his chin gently into his hand to raise his face, jaw tight with anger.

"I—I'm sorry, Bucciarati, my Stand…it doesn't work right yet…" Narancia babbled, feeling terrible for failing one of the first and simplest missions he'd been trusted with.

Bucciarati's face softened, and Narancia realized that the older man's anger wasn't directed toward him but the punks who had done this. "It will in time, there's nothing to worry about," Bucciarati said. "But let's get you back home and taken care of." He helped Narancia to his feet and handed his dropped knife back to him.

Narancia limped along, with Bucciarati's arm steadying him, before he sighed. "I hope that someday I can be as badass as you." He realized he said it out loud and blushed, biting his swollen lip with a wince.

But Bucciarati just chuckled, and tousled his hair. "I'm sure you will be."

Narancia smiled to himself, glad he had found his true famiglia at last.

3.

Fugo

Fugo clenched his hands shakily against the bathroom sink, his whole body trembling as he fought to try and control himself. Blood from his split knuckles dripped slowly into the white sink, and for some reason that only made him madder.

He had never known why he got so angry sometimes, it was just so hard to control. And he never knew what was going to set him off or when it was going to hit him. Today he'd almost botched a job for Bucciarati just because he couldn't keep his anger in check. He'd just barely finished before he had taken his fists to the nearest wall, leaving his hands a bloody mess.

Ever since…what had happened with his teacher…he had been so scared that he would hurt someone else. Someone who didn't deserve it. And now with his new Stand power, he felt even more volatile, especially since, unlike all the other Stand users he had met, he couldn't really control it and Purple Haze was too deadly to take out and practice with much.

His fists clenched harder and he slammed them down on the sink, feeling the pain shoot through him again. Why was he always a screw-up? He didn't understand why Bucciarati even bothered to talk to him that day in the restaurant. He should have stayed out on the streets. Alone. It was where he belonged.

There was a quiet knock on the door.

"Fugo?"

Damn, Fugo bit his lip. It was Bucciarati. "I—I'm fine," he called quickly, voice shaking.

Now what the hell was he going to do? He reached to turn on the facet to cover the sob he knew was coming but with his hands clumsy, he was just a moment too late as his chest heaved and the pitiful sound echoed against the bathroom walls.

He yanked the water on as several tears finally broke loose and slid down his cheeks. He found himself on his knees, hands gripping the edge of the sink with the water running, blood dripping from his busted knuckles down his arms.

The door opened and Bucciarati came in, turning off the water before he knelt next to Fugu.

"Fugo, what's the matter?" he asked.

The young man bit his lip until he tasted blood, but looked up at his leader, seeing concern in Bucciarati's dark blue eyes.

"I—I just…" he couldn't finish, ducking his head with shame.

Bucciarati rested a hand on his shoulder and stood, urging Fugo up as well. "Come here, sit down." He made Fugo sit on the closed toilet and took hold of his shaking hands, gently prying them out of their fists. He tutted and grabbed a towel, placing it in Fugo's lap before he settled the hands there.

"Let's get these taken care of first," he said and wet a washcloth as he spoke. "You know, Fugo, it's not new for any of us to be angry."

Fugo shook his head. "But I know I'm not the same. I can't control it like a normal person can."

"Then learn," Bucciarati said simply and turned back to him, pulling over a stool to sit on as he took one of Fugo's hands and began to carefully dab the blood away with the cool cloth. Fugo hissed. "You can learn anything if you put your mind to it. I'm here to help you. I recruited you because I saw your potential. You're brilliant, and quick-thinking, and with a little training, I know that you'll be able to control your rage and use it for good."

Fugo ducked his head. "I don't know how it can be good."

Bucciarati smiled. "Well, righteous fury is quite useful in our line of work and can be quite intimidating. But I didn't recruit you as an attack dog, Fugo. I know there's more to you than that. Which is why I know you'll be able to control it in time. It may take a while, but nothing is done overnight."

And for some reason that seemed to be the exact thing that Fugo needed to hear. Bucciarati was good at that, he'd realized; saying what you needed to hear at the proper moment. It made the lump return to his throat, and he ducked his head, hiding his face as Bucciarati finished cleaning his hands and wrapping the bloody knuckles with gauze before he reached out and took hold of Fugo's chin, raising his face, a small smile on his lips.

"Come on, you must be hungry after your mission. Let's go have supper."

4.

Mista

"Come on, Mista, would you just get in the car already?!"

Fugo was at the end of his rope, but Mista was having none of it, arms crossed over his chest, shaking his head. "I'm not going on a mission with four people. I don't have a death wish!"

Abbacchio was leaning against the car, head tilted skyward with a look of complete exasperation. "You're all idiots. We don't have time to fool around. Get in the damn car."

But Mista put his foot down. "No way! I already told you guys that I'm not going on a mission with four people and I don't care if you don't believe me, you'll thank me for this."

Abbacchio grunted and yanked the car door open, getting inside while muttering darkly, slamming the door behind him.

Narancia stuck his head out the open window. "Come on, Mista, four is better than three, right? Especially if we all work together!"

"It really isn't," Mista growled. He'd tried to explain this to them before, but they'd never listened to him, only laughed at him. He didn't even know why he felt this way, but he wasn't about to take chances either. This went beyond normal superstition. He didn't know what to call it, he just knew that it was important. Four was bad luck, and that was that.

Fugo growled, slamming his hands against the steering wheel. "If you don't get in the car now, stronzo, I'm leaving you, and you can explain what happened to Bucciarati!"

"What's going on?"

Mista spun around, feeling slightly ashamed to see Bucciarati himself approaching them.

"Mista's being an idiot," Fugo snarled.

"I'm not!" Mista protested, and appealed to their leader. "Bucciarati, it's really bad luck to go on a mission with four people. They just won't listen to me."

Fugo growled and Abbacchio made a gesture that was like a full-bodied eye-roll. Mista clenched his jaw, furious at his new team for not understanding.

Bucciarati looked between them for a moment, silent, then he stepped forward. "Why don't Mista and I take this job? I have another for you three."

Everyone's eyes widened. "Are you sure that's wise, Bucciarati?" Abbacchio asked suspiciously.

The dark-haired man nodded. "We'll be fine. There's another job that needs your expertise, Abbacchio." He handed the man a slip of paper.

They drove off and Mista suddenly felt bad, glancing away from Bucciarati.

"Mista, come."

He followed to another car and Bucciarati drove into the city.

"I'm sorry about that," Mista finally murmured, chin resting in his hand as he looked out the window.

"It's no trouble."

Mista clenched his hands. "I don't need you to patronize me."

"I'm not patronizing you," Bucciarati said.

Mista chewed his lip. "I just don't know why I think the way I do but…I can't help it."

"It's valid to you, and that's what matters," Bucciarati said simply. "And, whether or not the luck is true, if you believe it, it will be in your heart, and that can compromise a mission just as much as a preternatural force."

Mista sank against the seat. "I bet you're probably regretting taking me on."

Bucciarati glanced over at him. "Not at all, Mista. I picked my famiglia on the merits I saw in all of you. The others will understand eventually, once they get to know you better."

"I don't know, they'll probably always think I'm a weirdo."

Bucciarati smiled. "None of us are normal. And perhaps that's why we fit together so well."

Mista sat up a little straighter, feeling a little better. "Well, okay, I mean, I guess you probably know better than I do."

And maybe Bucciarati was right. Maybe being with the others could even someday cure Mista of his superstitions. Stranger things had happened. He just knew that he was happy where he was at the moment and didn't want anything to change that.

5.

Giorno

Giorno didn't remember much about the car ride back from the mission where they'd faced Illuso. None of them were in any condition to drive, really, but Abbacchio had lost a hand so Fugo took that duty after he'd had to practically drag Giorno into the car. Giorno had tried to get Abbacchio to allow Gold Experience to fix his hand, but Abbacchio had simply bandaged it and said Bucciarati could fix it later. Giorno was too tired to deal with the older man's stubbornness.

Besides, he was so exhausted and achy, he wasn't even sure he could have managed it. In retrospect, it had been a really stupid idea to get himself infected with Purple Haze's disease, but he hadn't seen any other way to win the fight at the time. The snake's blood being an antidote had been pure, dumb luck, and, obviously, it wasn't an instantaneous cure because he was really feeling the effects.

Luckily it wasn't that long of a drive and Bucciarati and the others came to meet them when they pulled up to the place they were staying.

"You all look terrible," he said quietly, with concern. "Come inside and let's get you patched up."

He helped Fugo and Mista and Narancia helped pull a glowering Abbacchio out of the back, but Giorno just watched from his slumped position in the passenger seat, literally having no strength to move.

Bucciarati glanced up at him with a frown as he looked up from quickly zipping Abbacchio's hand back to his arm.

"Giorno? Are you injured too?" he asked worriedly.

"Kid's a first-class idiot," Abbacchio grunted, cradling his arm to his chest.

"What happened?" Bucciarati demanded.

"He purposefully infected himself with Purple Haze," Fugo said.

"What?" Bucciarati cried, striding forward and yanking the door open. Giorno glanced up, trying to rise from the seat.

"It's fine, I fixed it," Giorno said tiredly, making to pull himself out of the car, getting his feet on the ground.

And he was collapsing before he could stop himself. But strong arms caught him and supported his weight. Giorno flushed with embarrassment, but clung to Bucciarati, unable to help it as his legs trembled with fatigue.

Bucciarati cursed softly and pressed the back of his hand against Giorno's head. "You're burning up too. Let's get you inside."

Accepting no protests, Bucciarati simply picked Giorno up and carried him toward the house. He said something to the others, but Giorno was honestly too weary to pay attention, the steady swaying lulling him the rest of the way into sleep. He slumped his head against Bucciarati shoulder, succumbing to the pain and exhaustion.

He woke an indeterminate time later with a cry on his lips, soaked in sweat, and huddling in his tangled blankets as his nightmare flashed across his eyes. Visions of his past that he only wished he could forget and yet knew he never would.

"Easy, Giorno."

Giorno whipped around to see Bucciarati sitting by his bedside, leaning over him. The older man reached for a cloth and began dabbing the sweat from his face and neck as Giorno caught his breath.

"Your fever just broke." Bucciarati turned back to the side table and took a glass of water off of it. He slipped a hand behind Giorno's head and raised him so he could drink. He gulped several long swallows, terribly thirsty, before he had to come up for breath.

"How long?" he murmured, looking out the window and seeing it was dark, sometime in the middle of the night.

"You've been asleep for about ten hours," Bucciarati said.

Giorno felt his stomach sink. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

Bucciarati frowned. "Why? From what I heard, you composed yourself well, and pulled off a miracle. Fugo and Abbacchio both have you to thank for their lives, though you'll probably never hear it from them."

Giorno glanced away. "I—I know we don't have the time to waste while I recover. I'm sorry I'm keeping us from leaving…"

Bucciarati cut in, a stern yet concerned look on his face. "Do not apologize for that. We can afford a few hours of recovery. It's nighttime anyway."

Giorno stared at him, not knowing what to say. He wasn't used to the understanding. He could only remember one time when he had gotten ill as a child and lay in bed, sick and fevered for days, while his step-father groused about not having someone to do the chores. He was surprised he hadn't died. No one had bothered to take care of him, let alone sit by his bedside in dedicated vigil.

Something passed between him and Bucciarati, and the capo seemed to gain some understanding of what was going through Giorno's head, because his face softened completely and he reached out to brush Giorno's disheveled hair out of his face in an almost subconscious gesture. "You should rest some more. I'm sure you'll feel better by the morning. Then we'll leave."

Giorno nodded, his eyes already slipping shut as he felt Bucciarati adjusting the blankets around him. For once, he did truly feel safe where he was.

(1)

Bucciarati

Sometimes, being the indominable leader was not entirely easy, especially when you had to hide your own pain in order to keep up the morale of the group.

The fact was that Bruno Bucciarati was not truly indominable like his famiglia thought he was. What it came down to was that it had been a very rough week.

They were currently dealing with an ongoing gang-war with some new Stand users rising up, and they'd been on their toes non-stop for days now, never knowing when an attack would come. None of them were sleeping very much, but Bruno wasn't sleeping at all, making sure the others got rest, ate, all of that, while he found himself subconsciously neglecting his own basic needs. On top of that, or maybe because of it, he felt like he was coming down with something, and he did his best to hide the fact though his constant headache had turned into a full body ache after a couple days. But he still stood strong, refusing to put himself out of commission when they weren't out of the woods yet.

Abbacchio kept casting suspicious looks at him, and Bruno knew he couldn't hide anything from the ex-cop, but Abbacchio also typically stayed out of other people's business, which he was grateful for. The others were completely oblivious, expect Giorno, who Bruno had caught looking at him with a slight frown on more than one occasion, but he also didn't say anything.

It was probably all of this combined that lead him to not being quite quick enough to avoid a blow from the enemy Stand user who had caught him when he'd gone to get the car to pick up the rest of the group. He was able to defeat his opponent, but not before receiving a deep gash in his side.

Bruno knelt on the ground, panting for a long moment after the fight, before he was able to call Sticky Fingers to close the wound. He somehow managed to stagger to his feet and get into the driver's seat of the car, leaning back with a grimace of pain. He hurriedly grabbed a water bottle and scrubbed the blood from his suit as best he could, cursing himself for wearing white. He didn't need the others' concern right now—they couldn't lose any time taking down the rest of the gang.

He pulled up and motioned the others in the car, swallowing hard as they piled in, blinking to clear his suddenly blurry vision, hands gripping the steering wheel.

"Bucciarati?" Giorno asked from behind him and Bruno started, seeing the boy leaning forward. "Are you okay?"

Bruno swallowed. "I'm fine, but another enemy attacked when I went to get the car. We need to go now, surprise them while we still can."

He sped off down the street, not giving Giorno another chance to check on his health. He had to keep his focus.

The fight was quick and dirty, but they'd already picked off most of the Stand users so they outnumbered the ones who were a real threat. Bucciarati felt relief wash over him in the knowledge that they had won.

And then a wave of dizziness overcame him, as he felt something hot dripping down his side. He put a hand there, trembling slightly, and realized the action of the fight must have reopened his wound.

"Bucciarati, did you get injured?"

He stared at Giorno, the boy wavering in his vision as he fought with everything he had to stay upright. He opened his mouth to reply, but that was too much work. He found himself suddenly toppling backwards.

Someone caught him with a grunt and lowered him to the ground as Bruno's head continued to swim sickeningly.

"You damn idiot," Abbacchio's voice growled. "I knew you were pushing yourself too hard."

Bruno didn't have the strength to answer; the adrenaline that had been keeping his body going all week was completely used up, and he could only stare up at the roof of the warehouse they were in, before his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he finally allowed unconsciousness to take him.

He woke again to a flurry of quiet voices, though they were getting less quiet by the second, seeming to be in some sort of argument. He blinked his eyes open and tipped his head to one side to see Narancia and Fugo bickering about something, completely unaware that he was awake. His mind was still too muddled to tell what they were arguing about but with them it was anyone's guess. He had enough presence of mind to realize he was in his own bedroom and that there was morning sunlight streaming through the window. He also still felt exhausted and there was an ache in his side, though when he reached up and pushed his shirt aside with seeming monumental effort, there was nothing but a light scar there under his fingers.

The door opened and Giorno strode into the room, glowering at Fugo and Narancia. "Shh! I can hear you from the hall! Go help Mista and Abbacchio with breakfast."

Oh god Bruno thought blandly, Mista, and Abbacchio in the kitchen. He really needed to get up.

"Hey! He's awake! Bucciarati!"

Fugo caught Narancia by the arm before the teen could simply jump on top of Bruno, which is what it looked like he was posturing to do.

"Hey," Bruno smiled at him, his voice a croak.

Giorno looked utterly relieved as he hurried over to the bed, hovering as if he wasn't sure how he would proceed.

"Bucciarati! How—how are you? Do you feel okay?"

Bruno's smile widened. "I'm very tired, but I think I feel better."

"You slept for three days, and had a really bad fever!" Narancia informed him. The boy's wide eyes and even Fugo's tight-jawed expression told Bruno how worried they had been.

"Come on, yelling isn't going to help him," Giorno said. "Please go help with breakfast."

They both exited with one more glance at Bucciarati before Giorno slumped onto a chair that had been pulled around from Bruno's desk to the side of his bed. Bruno noticed the dark circles under the blonde boy's eyes and frowned.

"I apologize for any worry I caused," he said softly. "But have you been sleeping?"

Giorno huffed a sigh and rubbed his eyes in a very childlike manner that reminded Bruno just how young he was. "A bit, we've taken shifts, it's just…" He looked down at his lap. "You were really bad off and even with Gold Experience's healing, I was afraid you wouldn't…" He bit his lip and Bruno reached out and squeezed his wrist.

Giorno shook himself. "I'm sorry, I should be taking care of you. How is your wound? It was really deep, internal bleeding. There might still be some residual pain."

"A bit," Bruno replied honestly, running his fingers over the scar again. "But I think you did okay." He cleared his throat, hoarse and slightly dry, already from talking even that much.

Giorno jumped to his feet. "Let me get you a drink of water."

He came back from the bathroom with a glass of water and Bruno nodded gratefully. "Help me sit up, please."

Giorno helped him up and propped the pillows behind his back, then handed him the glass. Bruno drank thirstily, wondering actually when the last time he had drunk anything was. He handed the glass back to Giorno as the door opened again and Abbacchio came in, casting a wary look toward the bed, before his shoulders slumped, the only indication of relief.

"Good, you are up," he said. "You better not do that again."

Giorno cast the other man an accusatory look, but Bruno just sighed and leaned further into the pillows, still weak from the fever. "It wasn't exactly my intention."

Abbacchio crossed his arms over his chest. "That doesn't make neglecting yourself less stupid. You should know better."

Bruno pressed his lips into a thin line. Yes, he should. He had been the one to tell Abbacchio the same thing when he'd first taken him on, helped him get sober. Truth was, he got preoccupied a lot, spent more time taking care of others, and maybe that wasn't a bad thing, but he supposed it didn't help them if he wore himself down like this either.

Voices, and more arguments sounded on the stairs and Abbacchio growled, glancing towards the door.

"I told them…" he muttered, shaking his head.

"Come on, Narancia, let me carry it, you'll drop everything!" Fugo cried.

"Only if you keep trying to grab it from me!" Narancia retorted.

"Hey, Pistols! Get out of that, you already ate!" Mista's voice was added to the cacophony.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Abbacchio said wryly. "It's your turn to deal with them."

The three boys burst into the room, Narancia bearing a breakfast tray with a grin on his face. "Surprise! We brought you breakfast in bed!"

Bruno couldn't help smiling as the three of them bore the tray to him and was actually rather surprised that it looked half-way edible. He could at least distinctly pick out something with eggs—frittata?—and slightly burnt sausage, and the sliced fruit was easy to distinguish.

"That was very kind of you, this looks delicious," he said.

Narancia grinned and Mista looked at him solemnly.

"You need to get your strength back so there's lots of protein," he said, pointing to the plate and swatting one of the Pistols away as it began to float toward the tray.

"Also, there's lemon and honey in the tea, for your throat," Fugo told him.

Bruno thanked him and started eating. It was, to his surprise, rather good, and he found he actually was rather hungry, famished actually, and he should be, seeing as even before he collapsed, he had barely eaten anything.

By the time he had finished he did feel a little better, though was still tired. "Thank you for this. I do feel better now."

The tray and dishes were removed by Fugo, and Narancia sat on the edge of the bed. "Anything else we can get you, Bucciarati?"

He shook his head. "Not right now, I really need to get up, I have things I need to see to…"

"No, you should stay in bed!" Mista said firmly, standing up as if he were physically going to keep Bruno in the bed. "Seriously, whatever you need we'll get it."

"You really don't need to go to all the trouble," Bruno protested.

Everyone looked at him, stunned.

"But, Bucciarati," Narancia said quietly. "You always look after us, take care of us. Why shouldn't we do the same for you?"

Mista and Fugo nodded in agreement and Abbacchio pierced him with a warning look. Giorno smiled.

"Exactly, it's our turn to pay you back a little. For everything you've done for us," he said.

Bruno was touched, but still… "I really appreciate it, but there's so much…"

"We'll take care of it," Giorno said, shrugging. "If it hasn't already been done."

Bruno looked up in surprise. Abbacchio rolled his eyes.

"What do you think we've been doing the last three days? Everything's been seen to, Bruno, just get your strength back, okay?"

Even more relief uncoiled in Bruno's chest and he felt himself sinking even further into the pillows. "Well, I suppose I'll take your word for it, then."

"Good," Abbacchio said and nodded to the others. "Come on, let him sleep."

Everyone trooped out but Giorno who was still sitting by his bed. Bruno glanced at him. "You should rest too."

"I really am fine," Giorno said with a small reassuring smile. "Just…I'm glad you're okay."

Bruno gave him a fond look, but already felt his eyelids drooping again. It seemed like his body was telling him he still needed rest even if his mind wasn't. And if Giorno needed to stay here to make sure he was okay, he wasn't going to begrudge the boy that. He would make sure to get Giorno to sleep later.

He didn't wake again until the room was dark, telling Bruno it was nighttime, and a movement in the room seemed to be what had woken him.

He glanced up, blinking in the dim light to see Abbacchio at the foot of his bed, lowering a blanket over a lump resting there. Narancia seemed to have fallen asleep curled up at his feet, looking for all the world like a kitten. Abbacchio seemed to notice Bruno stirring and shot him a half-hearted glower, pressing a finger to his lips to warn him never to speak of this, then slipped from the room.

Bruno smirked and watched the sleeping Narancia for a few seconds before he turned to his side and saw Giorno's blond head resting next to his shoulder. He was fast asleep, slumped over in the chair with a blanket around his shoulders, breathing deeply.

Bruno reached out and brushed a hand over his curls gently before tugging the blanket further around Giorno's shoulder.

He was so grateful to have such a tight famiglia, and he wouldn't trade them for the world.

Contented to know that they were all safe and sound, he allowed himself to slip back into slumber.