A/N: For BruAbba week day 1 over on tumblr! I sorta smushed the family and team prompts together. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Framework

"You said 'team'," Abbacchio says, not bothering to mask the sour expression on his face, "but it's just you two, isn't it?"

Roughly forty-eight hours since Buccellati had extended his initial invitation, and here Abbacchio is. Cleaned up, and a fresh stand user to boot – his initiation into Passione had gone well. So, of course, the next step is to introduce him to Fugo, and hope that goes smoothly….

"Three, now that you're here," Buccellati amends. They're at the usual restaurant, so he takes his usual seat next to Fugo.

"Right." Abbacchio slumps into a chair on Buccellati's other side, but seems to be staring Fugo down across the table. "How old is he, anyway?"

"He's –" And Buccellati wishes he could count on Fugo not to escalate Abbacchio's apparent crabby mood, tries not to give him the chance to, even, but:

"I'm fourteen," Fugo says, nose practically in the air.

There's an amused snort from Abbacchio. "So I'll be babysitting?"

Fugo's face falls into a scowl, and he opens his mouth to respond, but this time, Buccellati cuts him off. "Abbacchio, please respect Fugo." Sure, he's glad that Abbacchio isn't still wasting away in back alleys – but Buccellati wishes that the personality shining through could be a bit more…agreeable. Especially when it comes to this.

Fortunately, that admonishment is all it takes for Abbacchio to go quiet. At least he can follow orders.

"I heard," unfortunately, Fugo isn't done being offended, and decides to take advantage of the silence, "that you used to be a policeman."

Abbacchio, damn him, takes the obvious bait. "What's your point, brat?"

"How do we know you're not a double agent?"

Now that's a bit unfair of him, on various levels, Buccellati thinks. Fugo ought to know better, and very probably does, but when he's angry his judgement takes a backseat. "Fugo –"

"Me? A double agent?" Abbacchio, apparently is absolutely willing to engage in this argument, which makes Buccellati's crowd control job more difficult than it should be (honestly, if anyone's babysitting here, it's him). A grin flashes over Abbacchio's mouth, bitter and ugly. "Kid, I was a PR nightmare for them, like hell I'm still employed."

"Oh?" Fugo raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed with what he no doubt deems a weak argument. "I've heard they stage things like that sometimes."

Abbacchio's face takes on another edge of darkness, and Buccellati knows that Fugo is delving into dangerous territory, but he doesn't seem to notice.

Again, Buccellati opens his mouth to stop this before it gets out of hand, and again he's cut off.

"Right," Abbacchio growls, "I got a man killed just so I could join your shitty little club."

"You'll never be able to advance through the ranks," Fugo spits. He sounds patronizing, and that's definitely not going to go over well. "You know that, right? They'll never let a former policeman –"

"Of course I know that, dipshit!" Yeah, nope, didn't go over well. Abbacchio's voice is steadily growing in volume. "That's not why I'm –"

"And," Fugo, of course, raises his own voice even louder, "Buccellati will never be allowed to discuss anything of real importance around you. I, on the other hand, am his right-hand man, so maybe you should do as he says and respect me!"

Abbacchio sits forward in his seat, leaning across the table with a sneer. "You're still a snot-nosed fucking brat. Why don't you try respecting your elders?"

That gets Fugo up out of his seat, his hands curling into fists. "I have a higher education than you, you washed up –"

Buccellati stands up and slams both palms down onto the table. He doesn't need this coming to blows – it's already gone much worse than he'd hoped.

Luckily, that works to quiet them both. Fugo's face goes defensively defiant as he sits back down with a huff, while Abbacchio relaxes back into only mild irritation.

"Enough," Buccellati says, stern but not loud enough to disturb the other patrons. They've done that already, no need to keep it up. "Abbacchio," he turns to the man in question, "Fugo has been by my side for a while now. His age doesn't mean he isn't competent, so I'll say it again: respect him."

Albeit in a grumble, Abbacchio agrees. He doesn't look at all happy about it, but it's better than nothing.

"And Fugo," Buccellati rounds on him next, "Polpo and I have done extensive background checks. Abbacchio is clean." That's a lie; Bucellati had possibly pulled a string or two – but he had done the same for Fugo, so he figures it's only fair. "On the off chance that he is a double agent, I'll deal with him myself."

The smug look he'd garnered from watching Abbacchio get reprimanded slips off of Fugo's face. "Yes, Buccellati," he promises, back to being his usual, serious self.

Crisis averted (at least for the time being), Buccellati sits back down again. Maybe they can eat lunch without yelling at each other, that shouldn't be too hard, right? He should see about ordering something…if they haven't scared off the wait staff….

Knowing Fugo and Abbacchio as he does, Buccellati has hopes that they'll get along eventually, of course. But Fugo is cautious, and Abbacchio wants nothing to do with anyone, so if it happens, it'll take time. If he's patient, though –

"So what does your stand do?" Fugo asks.

Oh, that's not a good idea. He's going to start another argument like that. Buccellati knows what Abbacchio's stand does, and he also knows it's a sore subject at the moment – which, come to think of it, is probably the reason for Abbacchio's bad mood today.

He really should intervene and stop this clear attempt at civil conversation, but Abbacchio is already frowning – he's not going to let this go. And Fugo might pester him in private about it, anyway.

Whatever happens, Fugo will have to find out sooner rather than later, for the sake of their three-man team. So for now, Buccellati sits and watches and waits.

"Why should I tell you?" Abbacchio grouses.

"We're going to be working together," Fugo explains through clenched teeth, "I need to know what you can do."

Abbacchio gives Fugo a considering look for a few long seconds. "In that case," he says, crossing his arms over his chest, "I should know what yours does, too, right?"

Fugo seethes. "I'm –"

"Mine creates zippers." This time, Buccellati elbows his way into the conversation before his teammates can escalate it to another shouting match. "I can get into anywhere, and open anything…" To demonstrate, Buccellati has Sticky Fingers unzip the table down the middle –

– Which has the added bonus of making Abbacchio and Fugo each scramble to catch their respective half.

"Woah," Abbacchio grunts as he hefts his half of the carved mahogany. He can hold it upright pretty easy, Buccellati accidentally notes. "Can you do that to people?"

It takes Buccellati a millisecond to answer, because he has to tear his eyes away from the way the muscles in Abbacchio's chest flex. Oh dear. "Yes."

"Nice."

"Dammit Buccellati," Fugo, apparently, is having a harder time keeping his chunk of table upright, "what was that for…?"

Now that the tension in the room has eased, Buccellati has Sticky Fingers zip the table back. There's a sigh of relief from Fugo.

"Your turn, Abbacchio," Buccellati says, moving right along in his attempts to keep the not-unpleasant atmosphere from dissolving. (Abbacchio seems to respond well to orders, he's starting to notice.)

Moody Blues makes its appearance, then, all static at the edges. "It rewinds," Abbacchio explains, as Moody Blues' counter starts up and it slowly morphs into Buccellati's form, "and replays the actions of anyone, as long as it's where they were."

It's weird seeing himself from the outside, Buccellati thinks, as he watches himself go through the motions of introducing Abbacchio as he had moments ago.

"That…" Fugo frowns, as if the admission tastes sour in his mouth, "will come in handy."

Eyebrows raised, Abbacchio disengages Moody Blues. "Thank you." And his tone isn't pleasant, exactly, but it's friendlier than earlier, at least. He kicks at the leg of Fugo's chair from under the table. "Your turn, right-hand man."

The jibe falls flat in this scenario. Fugo sits up straighter, even as his eyes dart around the room. "Mine is…uh. I can't show you here."

"I think," Buccellati says, eager to not see anyone drop dead at the end of this, "you better just explain it."

A short, terse sigh from Fugo. "…It spreads a deadly virus, one that'd even kill me if I got too close."

Abbacchio blinks. "Oh."

Fugo grimaces. "Yeah."

"Fuck, man." There's something that sounds like real sympathy in Abbacchio's voice, even if it's faint. "I thought I got a shit deal, but congrats: yours is worse."

Fugo gets a confused sort of frown, squinting at Abbacchio as if he can't tell whether or not to take him seriously. "…Thank you?"

"I mean," Abbacchio ploughs right ahead, "aren't these supposed to represent our souls? Wonder what that says about you."

At that, Fugo flat out winces. It could easily be taken as an insult, but he seems more morose than mad, Buccellati thinks. "I…don't like to think about it."

"Me neither – about mine, or yours."

"Actually, yours is kinda fascinating, see…."

And then, as Buccellati sits back and only half listens, the two of them start to…psychoanalyze each other? Which somehow segues into talk of college? He's never been, so he follows that even less, but….

That turnaround sure was faster than Buccellati thought.

This small, slipshod team might just work out after all.

"God fucking dammit –!"

Abbacchio shoulders his way into Buccellati's apartment, negligent of how he whacks Buccellati with the door in the process. He's got an arm around a limp Narancia, holding him up and half dragging him inside – otherwise, Buccellati would reprimand him for that entrance.

"What happened?" he asks instead, dread spiking in his heart.

He doesn't get a response right away, as Abbacchio hauls Narancia over to dump him on the couch. Buccellati closes the door and follows, trying not to pester. He'll get the story soon enough, he's sure.

Flopped on the couch as Narancia is, his head lolls to the side to reveal a bloody gash on his forehead. It looks nasty, but Narancia's face is suspiciously devoid of blood for having such a bad wound – albeit one that's definitely stopped bleeding….

Like this, Buccellati can tell that it'll probably heal just fine, and he breathes a small sigh of relief as he kneels in front of the couch for a better look. Narancia getting seriously harmed on his first ever mission – even if it had been more of a test run than anything – isn't at all what he'd intended.

Just in case, Buccellati gives the rest of Narancia a quick once over, but it seems like being knocked unconscious is the worst of his injuries. Thank goodness.

"Didn't this kid just get out of the hospital?" Abbacchio growls from off to the side. Out of the corner of his eye, Buccellati can see that he's got his arms crossed, that signature scowl on his face.

Buccellati focuses back on Narancia, carefully tipping his head to see his head wound in better light. "That was over six months ago, by now," he says, surprised himself when he remembers. The boy in front of him still looks so vulnerable.

There's a snort from Abbacchio. "Well he sure seems to be in a hurry to get back in."

…For some reason, Abbacchio's ire in this situation makes Buccellati want to smile. No blood on Narancia's face, and the bleeding's long stopped, huh?

"What happened?" he asks, because it seems like Abbacchio is more interested in complaining than explaining. "Did he stay with you, as planned?" If not, Buccellati is sure that can be amended for future missions, given how eager to please Narancia is. His stand ability is perfect for protecting Abbacchio's Moody Blues when it's in replay mode – with a little practice, they'll make a formidable duo.

That, and….

Buccellati has a suspicion that Narancia can bring Abbacchio out of his shell in a way that neither he nor Fugo could ever dream of doing. It's already starting to work, by the sound of it.

"Yes, he did," Abbacchio grumbles, "stayed a little too close, the little shit."

Oh? That's interesting. Buccellati brushes some of Narancia's hair away from his cut, and then turns on his knees to face Abbacchio a bit more. "What do you mean?"

Abbacchio's eyes roll. "Well. Learned something new about his Aerosmith, today. It's got a radar – did you know that?"

"No, I didn't." Something like pride bubbles up in Buccellati's chest at that information. "Sounds beneficial."

"Yeah, once he gets the hang of it, maybe." There's a glare on Abbacchio's face, and he directs it over Buccellati's shoulder and towards Narancia. It doesn't look anywhere near as vicious as usual. "Tonight, though, the kid was so distracted by it – apparently he had no idea he could do that – he was practically tripping over me…."

"Is that how he got hurt?" (In all honesty, Buccellati wouldn't be surprised. Narancia can be a bit overzealous.)

Abbacchio lets out a humorless bark of laughter. "Oh, no – it gets worse."

Even if he's glad that they're both okay, Buccellati can feel a headache coming on at that. "Do we need cleanup?"

"I don't know – probably?"

That doesn't bode well. 'Probably' no doubt translates to 'yes' in this case, and Buccellati sighs. "Abbacchio –"

"Fuck, I know." Abbacchio lets his arms uncross and fall to his sides. "I'm a terrible guardian, and this was just supposed to be a test run – let me finish, lecture me after."

A lecture isn't exactly what Buccellati had in mind, and he definitely wasn't going to call him out on being a terrible guardian. He figures he better let that slide for now, though.

"Anyway," Abbacchio continues, "all his excitement set off some kinda alarm, somehow, so we had to book it. We didn't make it two blocks from the warehouse before we ran into some no-name street punks, and he wouldn't just let me handle it, the little fucker."

Ah. Buccellati can guess where this is going.

"He just had to put himself between me and them. Didn't even get the chance to summon Aerosmith before they dropped him." Abbacchio is scowling at the memory, and Buccellati drops his gaze to his hands, because he knows exactly what's coming next in the story.

Sure enough, Abbacchio's knuckles are bruised and swollen.

"I took care of them, though."

Buccellati hums, sitting back on his heels. "He did well, then?"

"…I guess. I swear he's worse than Fugo."

In Abbacchio-speak, that can only mean one thing, and Buccellati is glad that his prediction proved true. "His wound looks clean," he says, seeking eye contact.

There's a muffled, grumpy sound from Abbacchio, and he averts his gaze.

"And the bleeding's stopped, too."

"What," Abbacchio snaps, making eye contact at last, "did you think I was gonna let him bleed out?"

Standing up and turning back to the couch helps Buccellati hide his smile from Abbacchio (though he's not sure why he feels the need to do so). "You handled things very well," he says. The wound on Narancia's head doesn't particularly need it, but Buccellati zips it closed anyway. "Did you find out what I needed you to?"

"It was Luca. It's always Luca."

"I figured."

There's a beat of silence, during which Buccellati contemplates the level of cleanup this will need. He may have to look into things himself. Some of it will depend on what state Abbacchio left those street punks in….

"Buccellati," Abbacchio breaks into his thoughts, his voice strangely soft, "do you really think he's cut out for this life?"

Buccellati sighs again, because the answer in his heart (absolutely not) doesn't match the one in his head (with practice, he could be), and neither of them are going to reassure Abbacchio any. He goes with the basic truth that he's had to accept. "It doesn't matter if he's cut out for it or not. He's in it now."

"I was afraid you'd say that," Abbacchio mumbles, so quiet that Buccellati almost doesn't hear it.

There's a soft noise from the couch, then, and Narancia slowly stirs awake, blinking up at the ceiling. It seems to take a moment for it to sink in where he is, but when it does, he's up like a shot, as if he hadn't been passed out a minute ago.

"Buccellati!" he says, bouncing onto his feet with endearing excitement, "I got a radar!"

"So I heard."

"It tracks breathing, I think – like, the little dots on the screen are people, or animals, or whatever, and I protected Abbacchio, just like you asked, so –"

"By picking unnecessary fights," Abbacchio interjects, brushing past Buccellati to get to Narancia, using his height to his advantage as he glares down at him. "You were only supposed to protect me when Moody Blues was going. Not in a fistfight, for fuck's sake."

"But I wanted to help!" Narancia seems to be regretting standing up so fast, as he sways a little on his feet, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Man, I've got a killer headache."

"Yeah, that tends to happen when you're knocked out."

Narancia teeters some more, and then flops back to sitting on the couch. He presses both hands over his face, shaking his head as if to clear it. Eyes covered as they are, he misses the way panic flashes briefly over Abbacchio's face – fortunately, Buccellati catches it.

It's likely that Narancia's only dizzy from overexerting himself, and they both know it. But Buccellati nudges Abbacchio with an elbow. He seems embarrassed at being caught caring, and gives Buccellati a frown. It's…cute.

Still, it's not going to convince Buccellati of anything. He tips his head in Narancia's direction.

Abbacchio sighs, getting the hint whether he wants to or not.

"…You did good, kid."

"He won't come up to the fourth floor."

Even if he's not there to see it, Buccellati can hear the eye roll in Abbacchio's voice. "What?" he asks, caught off guard. "Why not?"

A brief moment of scoffing from Abbacchio. "Four is unlucky, apparently."

Buccellati is…not sure how to respond to that. Of all the problems he had foreseen potentially cropping up today, this is not one of them. "…The apartment is on the fourth floor, though."

The longsuffering sigh on the other end of the line comes through as pure static. "Yep." A pause. "You gotta stop making me vet the new guys."

Biting his lip to keep an amused smile at bay, Buccellati leans back in his chair, letting his ramrod posture rest for a moment. "Sorry, Leone," he says. (Steadfastly, he ignores the way that, across the table, Fugo is mouthing 'Leone' to a snickering Narancia next to him.) "Like Narancia, his stand ability is well suited to protect yours, so I thought it best to send you with him, at first."

A muffled grumble of protest comes from Abbacchio at that, of course.

"And you're not vetting him," Buccellati reminds, "you're checking his new apartment for bugs."

"That'd be a lot easier if he would come," bang, "up," bang, "here," bang.

Buccellati assumes that's Abbacchio stomping to punctuate his words. Which probably means: "Is he below you?"

"Checking out the third floor apartment right beneath this one, yeah."

Wait, that doesn't make sense. Buccellati had checked for this apartment himself, and so therefore he knows which ones are occupied, and which are free. "But someone's –"

"Living there," Abbacchio finishes. "I know. He sent his stand in to unlock the door after making sure no one was home."

The urge to pinch the bridge of his nose is strong, but Buccellati resists. Across the table, Fugo and Narancia have lost interest and resumed their math lesson, so at least he doesn't have that to worry about.

Mista's antics, however, pose a whole new set of problems, and there's only so much Buccellati can do over the phone. "Well," he says, considering, "I guess we'll have to find him somewhere else."

"Yeah," another static-riddled sigh, "that's what I thought."

"So did you call me at work just to complain?" Buccellati asks, halfway joking.

"You're not at work, you're having a nice, relaxing lunch with Narancia and Fugo while I'm – holy shit!"

"…Leone?"

A high pitched voice that is definitely not Abbacchio comes over the line, then, muffled and distant so that Buccellati can't really tell what it's saying.

"Abbacchio?" Buccellati tries again.

"I'm here, sorry. One of Mista's damn bullets –"

"We're called Sex Pistols!"

A frustrated noise from Abbacchio, and a yelp from the stand – Buccellati guesses that Abbacchio probably flicked it away from himself.

"One of Mista's Sex Pistols just flew in here," Abbacchio explains. "He has them scouting this building for other empty apartments. They say if this doesn't work, he wants to take them to check the block, but he – and I quote – "absolutely can't live on the fourth floor or the fourth room anywhere or he'll die"."

"…I see."

"Oh, and buildings with only four floors are also off limits."

"Obviously!" Sex Pistols squeaks.

"Obviously," Abbacchio dutifully repeats.

In that case, finding a replacement apartment in a secure location might take a little longer. "Put him on the line."

More grumbling from Abbacchio, of course, but Buccellati can tell he's moving to follow the order despite his complaints. There's the slam of the apartment door, and the ding of an elevator opening.

"Whee~!"

"Stop swinging on my hair, or I'll –"

"Waah! Okay fine, don't hurt meee…!" That tinny voice stretches off into a wail.

Apparently, the same Sex Pistols is accompanying him – Buccellati can hear Abbacchio's sheer exasperation through the phone as the elevator dings again. Then comes the sound of another apartment door opening and closing, and then shuffling as the phone changes hands.

"Hey, boss man!" Mista's voice is pumped with strong sunshine, in a stark contrast to both Abbacchio's grump and Sex Pistols squeak alike, and is followed by a muffled thwack. "Ouch! What the – is tall dark and angry always this violent?"

Buccellati sighs. He'll have to have a talk with Abbacchio when he gets back. Seems he's been spending too much time with Narancia and Fugo. Who are currently busy making increasingly angry gestures at each other.

One problem at a time.

First thing's first, the apartment issue – which is easy enough to solve, all he has to do is pass on information in a civil manner. "I heard that you need a different apartment."

"Yeah, see," Mista says, "I appreciate that you found me a place, and all, but I don't do fourth floors as a rule."

"We'll find you something another day," Buccellati promises, "but it'll take some time. For now, call Sex Pistols back. There's no need to draw unnecessary attention to yourself."

"Roger that! Thanks!"

Buccellati hums in acknowledgement. "Put Leone back on the line."

A beat of silence.

"'Leone'?"

Oh.

Whoops.

Buccellati can feel his face heating up, and even without looking, he can tell that Narancia and Fugo are staring at him with amusement; he can hear them start to giggle. So that's what gets their attention. Of course.

"…Abbacchio," he amends, well aware that it's far too late.

"Oho," and that bright tone of Mista's sure has taken on a suggestive note, "sure~!"

By the sound of it, though, Abbacchio snatches the phone back rather than waiting for it to be handed to him. "So are we invited to lunch now?"

"Yes."

"Great. See you soon."

There's a distant, "So, Le-o-ne, how's come you're on a first name basis with –" from Mista, then the sound of a tussle, and then the line goes dead

"Another one, Buccellati?" No sooner does he barge into the office then Abbacchio starts in on the complaints. "Really?"

Buccellati has been wondering when he'd show up, given his behavior all morning has been less than civil, to say the least. "Be nice, Leone," he admonishes, flipping through paperwork.

He gets a frustrated huff in return, and Abbacchio storms closer to lean angrily over the desk. His hair brushes Buccellati's hands. "Don't we have enough kids in this family already?"

Oh, that's cute of him to say.

Buccellati stands up from his seat a bit, cupping Abbacchi's face as he leans forward to brush a kiss over his cheek. "It's sweet that you think of them all as family," he says, fingers stroking over a cheekbone before he pulls away and sits back down.

"You – you –" Abbacchio cuts himself off with an irritated grunt, rubbing a hand over the cheek that Buccellati just kissed. He's looking a little pink, even. "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do." Going back to his paperwork is impossible at this point – by now, Buccellati is just shuffling around papers in an attempt to look busy and not amused. Or lovestruck.

"Quit looking so amused," Abbacchio gripes.

Okay, failed point one. Fortunately point two seems intact. Buccellati deems it safe to look up at Abbacchio, giving him a small grin. "I'm sure they think of you as family, too."

"Buccellati. Listen, I can't –"

"Giorno will grow on you," of that, Buccellati has no doubt, "just like the others did."

Abbacchio scowls at that thought, but the expression isn't as harsh as it used to be. It's just…typical grumpy Abbacchio, pretending that he doesn't have a soft spot for their group.

(And that's a dangerous thing to have, as Buccellati knows from personal experience, but at the same time he wouldn't want it any other way.

On bad days, love makes Buccellati feel like a selfish idiot.)

"He's different," Abbacchio says eventually. It's not an outright denial, though.

And he's also not wrong, Buccellati knows, because he knows why Giorno's joined up. Because Buccellati's in on it, he'll have to be careful to act like he's not if things go south. But. He's not surprised that Abbacchio can feel change in the air.

When Giorno talks, he has a way of making the impossible sound possible. Buccellati needs that kind of hope. They all need that kind of hope. Even Abbacchio, whether he wants to hear it from Giorno or not.

"He's quieter," Buccellati allows. It's the safest trait he can bring to light, to keep Abbacchio away from the more lethal secrets. "You can't complain about that."

"Hmph. Maybe." Abbacchio seems to consider for a moment. His scowl darkens, and then eases, and he sinks into the empty seat in front of Buccellati's desk. "But if you think he belongs with us, I'll…" he makes a face like he's eaten something spoiled, "put up with it."

"Thank you for your noble sacrifice."

"I trust you," Abbacchio mutters, keeping his voice down so as not to wake Trish. He's tagged along into the turtle, to help Buccellati settle her, he says – but Buccellati guesses that what he really wants to do is steal a moment alone to talk.

"This is still going to be dangerous, Leone." Buccellati makes sure Trish's head is properly supported by the throw cushion. It's not ideal, but it'll do.

Abbacchio is a little ways away, pulling a blanket out from one of the cupboards. "I don't mind dying," he says, too-focused on his task for that to be a casual statement, though he tries to make it sound like one.

"Neither do I." Which is kind of a redundant admission, all things considered, since Buccellati's body is….

Anyway. His point still stands, and now that they've both admitted it, Buccellati finds that all they can both do is stand and stare at each other. It's a weird sort of solidarity that – despite their countless missions together – they've never shared quite as deeply as this.

"Then…" Abbacchio breaks eye contact first. He unfolds the blanket, spreading it over Trish's sleeping form and tucking it in at the edges of the couch where he can. "It looks like we've got a new kid to look after."

"Yes." The smile that tugs at Buccellati's lips is a sad, sorry excuse for one. "We do."

A/N: Imo Sex Pistols is the most adorable stand. Mista's six rowdy children. I love them. (Btw, it's number 5 who's with Abbacchio in this fic, if anyone was curious,)

Also, Fugo joins before Abbacchio here, bc that's...just what I've always headcanoned? I think there was a canon-related reason once upon a time but I can't think of it rn. I know it's common these days to hc Abbacchio as joining first, so, apologies.

(I also apologize for any errors. Life is busy irl and I didn't have as much editing time as I wanted, so I hope it's okay.)

Thanks for reading!