#it's supposed to be able to fix grammar and the doc is english so it should work?? but there's nothing

[schnaf]

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[andddromeda]

amore a mezzanotte [ part 1 ]

genre: fluff??? some angst bc i ended up projecting a lil at the end?? characters: bucciarati & reader ft. team bucciarati and my irl friends bc why not word count: 3242 summary: a week in summery italy felt like the best thing to do after your first year in university to unwind from the stress of finals and university life in general. what you didn’t expect was to feel so enraptured by one of your tour guides. a/n: i always seem to spawn story ideas from my daydreams lmaooo thats probably why im projecting so hard on all of my fic ;;; also ive just had this in my docs for a really long time (after editing i just like left it alone for like weeks) that i thought that i might as well just post it now so yeah!! (pls forgive any grammar or spelling errors, i got too lazy to really fix anything anymore)

Bustling excitement filled the plane as the pilot had brought it to a rolling stop, people swam into the aisle for a chance to get off before anyone else, babies cried at the sudden commotion, a fiasco that took about fifteen minutes before you could even stand into the aisle to exit. Eventually coming off the plane, you were greeted by the blinding sunlight and the burning heat so characteristic of Rome in the summertime. The humid Roman heat left you tacky, your skin unable to breathe under the thin layer of sweat that was beginning to form. The twenty hour trip you and your friends endured was torturous, leaving your joints stiff and your friends begging for a cold water bottle to chug down. Your fatigued body burned under the sun as you and the friends you travelled with stepped out of the plane and onto the tarmac. But as you stepped onto the walkway that led into the airport, your heart filled with an immense appetite to see the things Italy had to offer, dispelling the fatigue you felt through the two layovers and the long flights. Despite your aching and jetlagged body, and theirs, you rushed to pull your friends along, impatient to get to the luggage carousel and out into the city, wishing settle into the hotel as quickly as possible and to savor the climate and sights before sun down.

Summer was the needed break from a hectic first year at university, and it gave you and the friends you made a chance to have a kind of fun together that never gave itself the chance during the school year. You were all so excited to spend a week in Italy together that staying in cheap hotels didn’t even matter; finding a cheap bundle for a tour guide and hotels kept your wallets sighing with relief, and one of your friends having already visited the summer before meant that at least someone knew where they were going so there was no need to splurge on overpriced tours. Just being in Italy, having your feet planted on the ground after a long, shakey 20-hour flight, you felt the most relief you’ve ever felt in the past nine months despite the jetlag.

Leaving the walkway and entering the greater airport area made your heart swell up even more, excitement pounding at your ribcage, shaking your entire body. You couldn’t pull on your friends any harder as they tripped over their own feet trying to match your pace, shouting for you to slow down and that the city wasn’t going to go anywhere without you. Even after retrieving your luggage, you were bouncing to where your tour guide group was supposed to meet the four of you, your anticipation building with every minute that your friends dawdled. Through the automatic sliding doors were crowds of people holding signs printed in various languages, no doubt the names of the people they were meant to pick up that day. Your eyes darted around the crowd scanning for your name printed in big bold letters, and a group of six men stuck out from the rest as they weren’t dressed in the black suit and tie like many of the chauffeurs were. In the middle of them was a raven-haired man holding the sign with your name printed large.

His expression was serious and his azure eyes were piercing, spottable in the chaos of people, yet you couldn’t help but stop in the middle of it all and take a moment to stare at how clear his eyes were-- like the familiar Lake Tahoe only an hour away from campus year round as it reflected the sparkly blue skies. This time your heart swelled with something other than anticipation; you could feel a heat burn your cheeks, and you convinced yourself that it was just the summer air and some early signs of heat exhaustion. Your eyes couldn’t help but run across the rest of the man’s stoic face, taking in every chiseled feature-- his lips stretched thin, his clenched jaw relaxing, his sharp cheekbones and jawline. Even that god awful bob that his hair was cut into looked good framing his face. It wasn’t until your friends had caught up to you that you realized that you were just gawking at a stranger in the middle of a sea of people. But in just a moment, your friends also spotted the tour group and the man holding the piece of paper with your name on it and began to stare just as you did, even only a little.

You began to walk towards the tour group, as that appetite to see Rome gripped you again, and called for your friends to follow. As you grew closer, you were able to take a better look at the six that were supposed to tour you around Italy for the next week. They were clad in oddly fashionable wear-- one even in a holey green suit-- and were fit and tall. You would be lying if you said you weren’t intimidated by them even just a little, so much so that, at the sight of a lavender-haired man’s glare, you shrunk back slightly when you went to wave to the group. Now in front of them, they towered over you, wondering how your 5’2” friend would feel standing next to these giants. When the man you were admiring just moments before noticed your wave, his expression softened and a sweet smile formed across his face. Butterflies grew in your stomach, keeping any words from coming up. With such a gentle smile, you couldn’t help but think that he had just become even more attractive, and no doubt your friends behind you thought the same.

“Are you Signorina ( Y/N )?” His voice was velvety, sweet, and sharp at the same time, what swam around in your stomach becoming a raging mess of nervousness, attraction, and-- it occurred to you days later-- desire. You could feel that want to explore Italy intensify, only if this man were the one showing you around. You nodded in response to him, just as your friends caught up to you, because you feared that if you said anything, what you felt right then would’ve been obvious to the rest of his group at just a squeak out of your mouth. In your state, you hadn’t even noticed that he spoke perfect English.

“And this is the rest of your group then?” He gestured to your friends behind you, and this time, as they also heard his voice, couldn’t help but react similarly to you: one of them inhaling sharply, you heard an audible “Ooh” followed by a chuckle, and the last you heard give out a comment about how his voice matched his face. You cleared your throat of any lingering butterflies, and to silence your friends, and turned to introduce them.

Your tall, blonde friend Anna, who had made the comment that the raven-haired man no doubt heard, introduced herself first with a bubbly outburst and wide grin, and she wasted no time making a groan-worthy pun that no doubt made everyone, especially the lavender-haired man, roll their eyes. Second was your 5’2” brunette friend Alex, whose sharp inhale you recognized as hers, and introduced herself with a flash of a smile and a quick wave. Your friend Megan, petite and with silver-tipped hair, who was the one to audibly ogle, introduced herself last with a flip of her hair and a cute grin.

Lastly, you introduced yourself. “And I’m ( Y/N ). It’s nice to meet you all!” You gave them a nervous smile, still not over your butterflies, and thanked them in advance for taking them around Italy.

“No worries, it’s our pleasure,” the raven-haired man said as he too turned to face his group to introduce them individually.

You learned that the man in the green, holey suit was named Pannacotta Fugo, that you could just call him by his last name, and that the short girl-ish boy next to him was named Narancia Ghirga, wearing a similar grin that Anna had on her face when she introduced herself. The man who shot you a glare earlier was named Leone Abbacchio, who demanded that you call him by his last name only, and that he meant no harm, that he was just wary of strangers, that it was no problem as long as you didn’t go out of your way to annoy him (followed by chuckles throughout the group). The man with the odd hat (cap?) was named Guido Mista, who said he preferred to also be called by his last name though didn’t mind either way, raising an interested eyebrow at Megan. And the blonde was named Giorno Giovanna, who only smiled and waved. An interesting bunch, you thought, as the leader, you assumed, introduced himself last.

“And I’m Bruno Bucciarati, and you can address me however feels comfortable. It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.” His smile never wavered through his introductions. Your eyes began to curiously scan the faces of Bucciarati’s friends, and you noticed that they were all fairly attractive, wondering how you four got so lucky. You figured that Megan would want a moment with Giorno and Fugo particularly, as they seemed her type, that Anna would love hanging out with Mista and Narancia, as they seemed like the rowdy bunch she could get along with, and that Alex would love Abbacchio, as she had a huge hard on for angsty types.

Even you can just acknowledge a person’s physical attractiveness, but as you looked back to Bucciarati, you couldn’t help but feel something else for him. As if you wanted his eyes on you and you alone. You tried to blink away the thought immediately after thinking it, feeling almost indecent that you would even consider the idea that this god of a man would want anything from you but your money. You turned away from him to hide the flush across your cheeks and towards your friends, suggesting that you all head to the hotel if everyone was ready. To your ignorance, they all noticed you staring at Bucciarati again and the look of embarrassment painted pink on your face and kept in mind that they could have a little fun and use this to tease you later on. Anna had the slyest grin across her face-- you knew as signature of her brainstorming a sneaky plan to reveal who knows when-- as she patted you on the back, and agreed that you should all head to the hotel before one of them passed out from exhaustion, heat, or both. The other two agreed to go to the hotel to rest a bit and freshen up, and you addressed Bucciarati, though not bringing yourself to look him in the eyes.

“In the bundle we paid for, it said that transportation would be provided,” you stated, looking around for a van or any other type of vehicle or just anywhere but directly at him.

“Yes, we’ll act as chauffeurs as well as tour guides,” he began to explain. “However, travelling in a large vehicle isn’t very convenient in Italy so we’ve prepared two cars with five seats each.” Looking to the rest of your group, he continued, “I assume that you would want to be in the same car together, so in one car will be my men and in the other will be you four and myself.” At the declaration that Bruno Bucciarati would be the one to accompany you and your friends in the same car, your heart almost lept out of your chest. Excitement crept up your arms but nervousness floated in your stomach-- who would sit where? Should you call shotgun? Would one of your other friends claim the seat next to Bucciarati for a chance at the cute Italian man? Swarming thoughts occupied you as he guided the four of you to the car and even up until you all had your bags packed into the trunks of the two cars. It wasn’t until the slam of the trunk door had you finally coming to your senses, glancing to your three friends.

“Who wants to sit in the back?” You asked them as they debated amongst themselves.

“Well since Megan’s small, she can be in between Alex and I,” Anna announced before anyone could say anything and everyone else agreed to that, knowing of your little crush on your driver and wanting more material to use to tease you later that night. You caught the sight of a sly grin on her face, finally realizing that the three of them clearly knew, and your lips curled into a sheepish smile, a little embarrassed that your little secret was found out. You agreed as well and climbed into the passenger’s seat.

The drive to the hotel that came in the bundle you paid for was about fifteen minutes after you gave Bucciarati the address, but it felt like the longest fifteen minutes you’ve had to endure in your life. In between the awkward start ups at conversation and the quiet giggles from whispered jokes in the back, you stole glances at Bucciarati when you knew he couldn’t see, even in his peripheral. Being this close to him allowed for you to see every minor detail in his face. The slight wrinkles under his eyes showed the tiredness of having to work since a young age, the faint lines across his forehead showed the stress despite how he looked only twenty years old or so. His eyes looked so clear earlier, but the distanced look in his eyes told you that his mind was somewhere else at that moment. His lips were once again pressed thin and his jaw was clenched. He looked like a man who had the world carried on his shoulders, like a man who was the only one who could. You recalled how serious he seemed when you met him. You credited it to professionalism, but the rest of his team didn’t match it. It made you wonder if it really was hospitality or if this serious look on his face indicated something else. Not that it really mattered to wonder about these things. You had a tendency to overthink just about anything, clearly even a stranger’s expression.

He would occasionally catch your glance, and at those moments, you’d turn to look out the window in embarrassment, cheek in the palm of your hand to feign disinterest. You really should’ve just been looking outside at the city, you knew, but each opportunity to look at Bucciarati felt like a gift, as if he was the real view Italy had to offer, as if that was what you had paid to come to this country to see. Each time he’d notice you staring, you would hear him huff in amusement, going back to concentrating on the road not too long after. And the cycle would repeat, much to the pleasure of your friends in the back watching everything: glance for a minute, turn to the window to hide a blush, followed by silent giggles from behind. You were glad your friends found it entertaining, but fifteen minutes couldn’t pass by more quickly even if the beating of your heart and the shake in your legs wanted this to last forever. After your last look at Bucciarati, your eyes laid on a hedge arch outside the car window which led into a courtyard littered with tables under awnings, one of which read “Hotel”.

When your driver announced your arrival, your friends didn’t hesitate to pop out of the car, scrambling for their bags so they could quickly check in and relax. In the excitement, they completely forgot that there was another car they had to wait for and made their way into the lobby to have a look around. You followed but stayed to wait for everyone else, thanking Bucciarati as he also stepped out of the car. He gave you a smile that made your heart skip one if not two beats, saying that the other car should be there soon so you could retrieve your luggage. He walked around the car and stood beside you on the cobblestone sidewalk to wait as well. You two were separated by only a few centimeters when he came to rest next to you; you could almost feel the fabric of his white suit against the exposed skin of your shoulder, and you could faintly smell the cologne he was wearing in the slight breeze that passed by. In your closeness, you could hear your heart thrumming in your ears, you could feel your palms grow damp, you could feel the redness in your face that you blamed the Italian summer for. But before you could collapse, from heat stroke or something else, Giorno pulled up and parked behind Bucciarati’s car as you quietly thanked God, rushing to the trunk to pull your things out. You said nothing to Bucciarati or his team as you raced to reunite with your friends so that the four of you could  get checked in as soon as possible.

You only booked one room for the four of you, as you could all share the two beds and one couch that the room came with. When the receptionist gave you the room number and the two keys it came with, you heard Bucciarati announce to the four of you that him and his group would also be staying in the same hotel for your convenience. You nodded and gave him your room number on the fourth floor when he told you that they were staying on the fifth. And just as quickly as you had at the airport, you grabbed ahold of your friends and pushed them to the elevator and on your way to the fourth floor, absolutely ready for a hot shower to melt away your jetlag and calm the fluttering in your stomach. This time, they weren’t as resistant, actually excited to get into the room to flop onto the beds and relax their tense muscles. But before you four got into the elevator, Megan asked for a moment, rushing up to Bucciarati.

“Could I get your phone number?” You heard her say, mentioning how she paid for international calling, and your heart sunk to your stomach, churning in the bubbling acid below, fizzling away any butterflies you had left. “Just so we can tell you when we’re ready to head out again.” And he agreed, typing in his number into her phone as you just quietly begged to get to the room already. You saw his lips move as he talked to her, but your mind was elsewhere-- how you didn’t have a chance since everyone loved Megan everywhere you went, how it was stupid of you to think that you even had a chance, how you shouldn’t have hoped for anything because this was a trip for you and your friends to enjoy together, how you had always had that tiny wish in your heart for a romcom-style fantasy where you fell in love with a foreign country, how you were foolish for wanting that. You watched as she walked back, and you turned to press the button to call the lift, all the while just hoping that a shower could keep you from feeling any worse.

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