Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Neither of them mention anything about that night. If Giorno had, Fugo would have told him he imagined it. And because Giorno is not stupid, he would not have believed him.

Not only that, but every time the memory pops into Fugo’s head it seems to light his skin on fire. If he keeps fucking thinking about it, he’ll have to see if actually setting himself on fire will get rid of this feeling.

On that topic, Giorno has not been very successful in dissuading the stupid fucking idea that he’s a vampire.

Obviously, Mista and Narancia have latched onto the theory with varying degrees of morbid enthusiasm. Abbachio doesn’t give a shit. Trish, at least, didn’t believe it, but Buccellati is giving it too much attention. Not that he’s actually a mythical creature, but that it’s better to be safe than sorry. If something might kill him, why risk that?

Not everyone has a functioning brain in their heads, though.

Mista and Narancia already filled the house with garlic. They even offered Giorno a jar of minced garlic with a spoon, which he accepted, completely stonefaced, and ate a heaping spoonful.

He does the grossest things.

Buccellati nearly wrung all three of their necks, because if he was actually fatally allergic, what would they have done?

Even if obviously nothing was going to happen, Fugo begrudgingly agrees. But Giorno should have at least pretended to choke.

He’s back in the filing cabinets, and he may have broken one of the codes. If he’s right, there’s surely documents using repeats of this cipher that he’ll be able to easily decode by applying the same formula. Buccellati’s brought him a laptop as well— one that can hopefully handle the processing load—so he can get started writing programs to crack these.

“If I’m right, these entries are the contact profiles of caporegimes from 1992. He might have used similar coding for either other contact profiles or other documents from that time frame.”

“This document?” Buccellati asks, holding it up.

“Of course,” Fugo replies, trying not to snap. Is he paying attention?

“I just used this one on it and it looks more like a record of sales.” He’s pointing to one of the simple hand ciphers in the textbook they picked up as soon as they realized this was going to be an issue.

Fugo snatches the notepad he’s been working in, knocking a solid stack of files off the table in the process.

Buccellati’s neatly scrawled notes are, in fact, showing that this document is legibly decipherable with two completely different methods. One of which Fugo had skipped because it seemed way too simple.

The notepad is crunching in his hand.

Are there any other ways to decipher it? How can they even know if it stops at two? Does he need to write an algorithm that runs through every single fucking possibility for every single goddamn document?

“Fuck this!” he barks, slamming his fist into the counter, and upon realizing that the notepad has yet to leave his hand, he launches that fucking thing clear across the room.

Buccellati watches it smack against the wall, unflinching and expressionless. Fugo’s body forces him to continue breathing with a sharp inhale, and the moment he does, his fist realizes it hurts. It sparks and pops with little shooting pains that he tries to shake out.

“Let me know if there’s anything else you need, another computer, maybe. Giorno will probably be back to helping you soon, ” Buccellati begins. “But if this is more trouble than it’s worth, then we’ll call it off.”

“With how little we know about the higher-ups, we can’t afford to just stop,” Fugo bites out. “So, yeah, I’ll need like six more fucking computers.”

“There’s other ways to find out what we need to know.”

“We can’t torture people we might need to work with,” he retorts. “And that’s only half of the reason we’re deciphering these, because you know Polnareff was right. Diavolo’s the only one who would have known anything about how the arrows passed hands. We’d all rather not have someone else turn up with a Requiem stand.”

Buccellati hums, opening his mouth to reply, before his narrowed eyes snap towards the other room.

“Go see what they’re doing,” he orders, and Fugo follows his attention to the slight sounds of talking from the other room. They’re hushed. It's the distinct sound of Mista and Narancia doing something stupid.

The slight dread pooling in his chest at the sign of trouble has him forgetting his frustration. He leaves Buccellati at the counter and passes through the living room. Their voices get louder as he turns the corner.

Mista, Narancia, and Giorno are standing in the hall leading to the back door. Giorno is the only one who doesn’t look caught off guard by his approach.

“Hey… Fugo,” Narancia trails off with a stupid grin. “We were just going to go for a walk.”

Mista elbows him.

“We were just hoping Giorno could come check out some plants that might be dying in the backyard. None of us have—I mean, we might not have been watering them enough.”

Fugo wants to roll his eyes. Or just kill them.

Giorno is standing straight, listening idly with that perfect, inscrutable expression.

He’s recovered nearly completely. Despite Fugo hardly being able to wrap his brain around that insane timeline of recovery, he’s back up and walking after just four days.

The way he moves is stiff, and a little stilted, betraying the pain he’s probably still in. Still, though, he seems to be in the clear after… what he did yesterday.

The only thing is that he can’t use his stand.

Not even a single hint of those gold sparks around his arms.

“They’re trying to see if I’ll burn in the sunlight,” Giorno adds easily. Mista throws up his hands and Narancia groans, as if they thought Giorno wouldn’t be able to see right through them.

“How are you this stupid?” Fugo demands. “Obviously he won’t, and even if he did, then he’d be fucking dead!”

“Well,” Mista tries. “This is the last test, and he’s passed all the other ones, so this is just all we need to really confirm—“

“He’s not a fucking vampire!”

“Are you sure?” Narancia challenges, ignoring Fugo’s rage. “Are you just scared you’re gonna be wrong?”

“Why are you going along with this?” He turns to Giorno, trying to block Narancia from his reddening field of vision.

Giorno just shrugs.

“I just want to go outside. I’ve been indoors so long it’s making me feel really strange.” Fugo doesn’t understand how he has the nerve to sound so reasonable. “They’ll at least be here to watch me, or am I supposed to never go outside again?”

Fugo sighs roughly, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“If you turn into ash we’re not even going to bother picking you up with a goddamn dustpan,” he threatens.

Giorno turns back towards the door, but not quickly enough to miss the way his lips curved in the slightest smile, breaking through his perfect expression. Fugo’s teeth click from the force of clenching his jaw.

“You totally do think he’s a vampire,” Mista snickers, throwing an arm around Giorno’s shoulders. “Come on buddy, let's show Fugo how silly he’s being—thinking you’re a vampire.”

He pulls the door open, marching them both out. Narancia and Fugo scramble to follow, and catch up in time to see Giorno blinking up at the blazing, afternoon sun.

“Well don’t look directly at it, that’s not good for anyone,” Mista remarks, letting go of Giorno and stepping back with a mock-appraising look. “You good?”

“Would he have burned already?” Narancia questions, and Fugo almost answers before Giorno takes an unsteady step to the side, almost staggering. He tilts his head down away from the sun, and holds his arms up to examine them.

His skin is flushed, and he looks dazed, and the way his face is pinching makes it look like he’s in pain.

Fugo’s heart drops to his feet.

“Oh, shit,” Narancia barks, Aerosmith’s radar unfolding into place over his eye.

“Why does it feel…” Giorno trails off with a wide-eyed glance up into the sun. “…like I’m actually burning…?”

Sparks of gold pop around his arms. He staggers again, tilting dangerously.

Fugo’s mind whites out, and he feels his legs move on their own as he lunges forward at just the right moment.

Giorno collapses, dropping like a puppet cut off its strings. Fugo grabs him, arms wrapped around his midsection. Mista, who was only a fraction of a second too late to catch him, immediately helps to support his weight.

“He’s still breathing,” Narancia informs them. Mista huffs.

“Okay—shit—let’s get him back inside—“ he breaks off, adjusting his hold and hoisting Giorno into a bridal carry.

“Did not think this was actually gonna happen,” he calls as he rushes back through the door. Fugo and Narancia once again scramble to follow, and Buccellati, who presumably realized Fugo was not effective in preventing mischief, sees them from the end of the hall.

“What the fuck,” he demands, eyes catching on Giorno’s passed out form in Mista’s arms.

“Funny story,” Mista breathes, hauling past. “He might be a vampire.”

“Get him upstairs, and then I’m locking you out of the house,” Buccellati snaps, tearing after Mista like a wraith.

“His breathing is getting steadier,” Narancia chimes in. Then, to Fugo, “Dude, what else could that have been?”

Fugo desperately wants to give him a perfect explanation. Instead, he settles for punching Narancia in the shoulder and snapping at him to shut up before racing after Giorno.

He’s up the stairs just as Mista is racing back down.

“Yo,” he calls past Fugo to Narancia. “We’re fucked. Come on.” He grabs him by the arm, and they both race out of the front door.

Buccellati probably isn’t going to let them come back for a while. Depending on how bad off Giorno is, he might even zip all the doors shut again.

Fugo pushes Giorno’s door open and Buccellati doesn’t bother turning to acknowledge him. The flat of his hand is pressed to Giorno’s forehead, and he’s tilting his arm to examine the reddened skin.

“Shut the curtains,” Buccellati tells him, still focused on Giorno. Fugo does, cinching the curtains even tighter closed and choking off the small bar of sunlight that had been allowed to peek through.

“He stood in the sun for thirty seconds to a minute before collapsing, and he said he did actually feel like he was burning,” Fugo reports.

Buccellati is silent.

“There were gold sparks around his arms, like when he uses his stand power,” he adds. It’s not the strangest part of the situation, but it’s the first they’ve seen of Gold Experience since Giorno first went down.

“I knew it wouldn’t be long for them to stumble upon some weird weakness of Gold Experience. This is a strange one, though,” Buccellati finally replies.

“A sun allergy, for the stand that creates life,” Fugo remarks. “When all life is powered by the sun.”

“It should be antithetical to his stand. I’ll have to assume that Requiem is to blame,” Buccellati sighs, and the tension in his back drops to give way to exhaustion.

“I’m assuming you at least tried to stop them,” he glances at Fugo, who nods shortly, and he leaves it at that.

They’re quiet for a while, and Fugo wonders how many more times he’ll have to stand here and watch Giorno be unconscious.

He sighs, letting his attention drift, before snapping back when Buccellati reaches out to pick Giorno’s arm back up.

The redness has gone down considerably. It almost looks like a sunburn, which either way, Fugo supposes it is.

The movement must have woken Giorno. He stirs, and Buccellati backs away, watching him carefully.

Fugo watches as his eyes crack open and he twists to push himself up. He blinks roughly, and opens his mouth to speak. His teeth are relatively normal. Still sharp, but they haven’t dropped or even given any indicator that they’re anything but regular canines since he… bit that random guy.

“I think I’m fine,” he decides slowly, not seeming to remember exactly what happened but guessing based on the context that something had gone wrong.

“You collapsed from exposure to the sun. Or was it something else?” Buccellati questions.

Giorno doesn’t reply. His eyes narrow, and he presses his hand to his chest. Gold flickers around him like an afterimage.

He leans down, and his fingertips reach a textbook on the floor. It twists, sprouting tufts of fur before darting clear across the room on its brand new legs.

The cat, in pursuit of the door, blurs past them and slips out with silent paws and one last glimpse of its tail.

Giorno shudders. Those gold sparks crawling across his arms look more like tendrils of lightning, arcing further up his shoulders and popping intermittently.

“Are you doing that?” Buccellati asks, and Giorno glances back at him.

“I think—maybe, yes,” he manages. It’s slowing down. Fugo watches as a little flare blinks out of his eye and another pops from his reddened cheek.

“It feels like burning,” remarks Giorno. His voice is strained, and Fugo winces.

Buccellati presses the back of his hand to Giorno’s forehead once again.

“Your temperature is normal.” The last few bits of pure gold lightning pass harmlessly through Buccellati’s hand before dying down. Giorno, still trembling, loses the battle to stay propped up. His arms seem to buckle, and he drops back down to the bed.

“It’s better now,” he tells them, clearly putting effort into steadying his voice. It’s half muffled by virtue of half his face being pressed into the pillow.

Buccellati and Fugo exchange a wordless glance.

Giorno, despite his efforts to remain collected, falls back asleep. His eyes slip closed and Fugo wonders if he passed out instead.

He turns to watch Buccellati, who is resting his chin in his clasped hands.

“Stay here, and watch him. I need to tell Abbachio, and then we’ll take turns watching him until he wakes up.”

“Abbachio too?” Buccellati nods. “He’s not going to be happy about it.”

“Of course not, but he won’t actually mind.” Fugo raises his eyebrows, but Buccellati ignores him.

He stands and leaves without another word. Once again, Fugo stares down at Giorno’s sleeping form.

———

After sleeping the whole day, and the entire night, Giorno pulled off yet another miraculous recovery.

The redness, which Giorno had admitted felt just like a regular sunburn, was the last to disappear. Some of it still lingers slightly on his face like a light flush, but it's otherwise gone.

According to Buccellati, he woke up the very minute the sun rose, and had reported no adverse effects.

Gold Experience is back in full, too. Giorno has been able to summon it completely and is, essentially, the same as before. It’s only if you manage to look closely enough that his canines might seem a little too sharp.

The sun allergy must have been some sort of fluke, or his power just relied on sunlight to be kickstarted. Buccellati and Fugo both mostly believe the latter, since he’s had absolutely no issue being exposed to sunlight since.

Mista and Narancia snuck back into the house in the middle of the night. Fugo doubts that they’ve learned anything from this experience, but at least Giorno isn’t likely to have any other surprise weaknesses now that he seems to have recovered.

Fugo makes the mistake of thinking that things have been quiet lately, so naturally, trouble hits them.

The dissenter group isn’t done.

The radio in the kitchen is pouring a stream of alerts, reporting bombings and arson committed on several nearby businesses, ones Fugo recognizes as both Passione-affiliated and in support of Giorno’s rule.

Buccellati clutches the radio, listening to the report past the noise of the others rushing around. He doesn’t even blink, and as the report seems to wrap around to repeat the beginning of the list, he straightens.

“You and Fugo should stay here,” he says, turning to Giorno, who Fugo hadn’t actually realized was there.

Giorno is silent for a moment.

“I am confident that I can control Gold Experience Requiem,” he replies evenly. “It wouldn’t matter if we were walking into a trap.”

“One of their stand users made Gold Experience disappear before you even got the chance to use Requiem. That was what brought you down last time, am I wrong?”

“You’re right, but doesn’t the same go for all of you?”

“We all, at some points in that fight, found that our stands were not responding. I think that suppressing your stand in particular is somehow problematic.”

“You’re also their target,” Fugo points out, and when Giorno’s icy gaze slides to meet his, he has to force himself not to look away.

Eventually, Giorno looks back to Buccellati.

“If you four aren’t back in two hours or less, I’ll be coming after you. Call me to meet you if anyone is injured, and keep track of who you take down.”

Buccellati nods and leaves to gather the others. Fugo can tell exactly when Mista notices that they’re leaving in a group of four, because he can hear the clamoring through the wall.

Being benched is far from new to Fugo. Giorno is obviously miffed, but he’ll have to get over it.

After heavy protesting from Mista, they finally leave as the radio splutters out more emergency alerts. Giorno turns his back to him and sits at the counter, staring at the radio. He looks like he’s been carved from marble, and moves just as much.

Fugo decides to ignore his pouting. He starts picking up all the shit the others threw around while getting ready, since they hadn’t bothered.

Maybe half an hour later, just as he’s tossing Mista’s empty boxes of bullets into his room, he hears it.

Voices. Inside.

It sounds like two people, and it's way too soon for any of their team to be back. No reason for them to be, either.

He keeps Purple Haze at the forefront of his mind, ready to materialize the instant he decides it. The back of his mind is reeling.

These can’t be burglars. This house is in the countryside, surrounded by vineyards, and people don’t come this far out of the way unless they know that it’s here.

Even the boldest intruder would prefer to wait until dark, unless they knew (or assumed) that all the residents had left.

The most likely assumption is that this whole operation, backwards to forwards, was a trap designed to draw them out. If this is the enemy, then the goal was never to attack those businesses, it was a front to leave their safehouse empty.

Fugo just doesn’t know what they want.

He slips down the hall, staying low and hugging the wall. If he can just reach Giorno, they can attack together. Especially if Giorno is able to summon Gold Experience Requiem, the intruders would be beyond fucked.

Unfortunately, it seems he’s closer to them than he is Giorno. He passes another short hallway, and just as he’s nearly to the kitchen, he sees them.

And they see him.

Two men, one Fugo recognizes as the asshole with the immateriality stand. They must have just walked through the fucking wall to get inside.

He doesn’t recognize the other.

Summoning Purple Haze, he forgoes stealth and launches himself towards them, yelling in hopes that Giorno will hear.

“Figured you’d be here,” the one he recognizes spits before that sheen glazes over his body. He might be able to dodge the punch, but Fugo doesn’t think he can stay immaterial long enough to avoid his virus.

The other man has stepped back, simply watching. Not a good sign. He’s shown no indication of what his stand could be either.

Is Giorno deaf? Where the fuck is he?

Fugo whirls back around, readying Purple Haze. He cocks his fist, and sends it flying into the wall, through the man’s immaterial head. He’s kept count, calculated this man’s limit, and the very second those lethal capsules burst, he’ll become corporeal. There will be no escaping the viral load around his face.

Except Purple Haze never lands the punch.

Purple Haze isn’t here anymore.

Fugo chokes on the strangest sensation. Like clingwrap wound tightly around him. Or his skin is the plastic film, and something is pushing against it, threatening to burst with the pressure.

“These strong stands are rough,” the other man remarks, stepping back forward. There’s a flicker of something humanoid behind him that must be his stand.

Just as Fugo had figured, the man he’d tried to punch has become corporeal again. He raises the barrel of his gun to Fugo’s head.

“We don’t need him, Verza,” the other man says to the one holding the gun. He wears a gunmetal grey suit that’s too loose for his body. It makes him look slightly ill, and the grey eyes don’t help either.

He seems to be in charge. Verza, Fugo supposes, nods and it's as if his finger presses the trigger in slow motion. He can’t believe he’s going to die while Giorno is too deaf or too dumb to hear it.

Purple Haze is trapped underneath his skin, and he’s helpless to the fate he’s found in the gun against his temple.

Except Giorno is not deaf.

Something stutters like a scratched disc. Maybe it’s Fugo’s heart, maybe it’s the vacuum devouring the air in the room, or maybe it’s reality itself.

Green tinges the edges of his vision, blurry and crawling. His eyes slide to the walls, frozen as he watches vines conquer every inch.

There is something behind him.

The gun at his temple seems so trivial.

He lets his head be turned by the instinct to face danger, and he sees him.

The light has been stolen from the room, but it’s not dark. It’s as if the sun has turned its eye onto them. Giorno, gaze fixed on Verza, has summoned Gold Experience Requiem.

In that terrible, false darkness behind him, there are the brightest violet eyes.

Fugo’s throat is so dry he couldn’t hope to swallow, even if he figured out how to move his body. Giorno takes a step forward, and his wide eyes follow the movement unblinkingly.

“Fuck,” he hears one of the men breathe. He doesn’t know which, but the gun trembles in Verza’s hand, and the other man has turned as grey as his suit.

Metal creaks, and a beast made of gold stretches out its heavy limbs.

This can’t be a stand.

It straightens. Giorno reaches out, and Fugo can feel the entire inside of his body twist.

This is how he imagines it feels to be thrown out of an airlock into space. For a split second, he’s exposed to the infernal surface of a star, before every millimeter of his body turns to ice.

Something cracks.

Fugo blinks, and then there is nothing.

He can breathe, and he can feel his own body. The room is back, with all of those vined walls, but the light is coming from the pale sunlight in the windows.

There is something on the floor.

Fugo is trying to look at it. In front of him, something is moving.

Static pops in his head. His eyes try desperately to force themselves away, but there’s something on the ground—

It’s writhing.

Bile rushes to his throat, as if his whole body is rebelling against even acknowledging that something is there—

“Look away, Fugo,” says Giorno. “Think about something else.”

His voice is smooth. Ice to his bruised mind. He does what Giorno tells him to, and his eyes find Giorno’s.

They’re so bright.

He doesn’t think about the thing that hurt to think about. It doesn’t hurt anymore. Fugo somehow blinks, and he turns to look back at the enemies.

Verza is gone. It’s just the other man, who is still grey-faced, but coating his terror with rage. His eyes twitch wildly around a spot on the floor, and his whole body spasms before he finally turns his snarling face towards Giorno.

“What the fuck did you do?”

The air shivers.

“If you want, I can say that I killed him,” Giorno replies. His voice is too perfect. There’s precious little humanity in it.

Fugo has no idea anymore where Giorno ends and Gold Experience Requiem begins.

“He’s still fucking there—right there—but—he—you—“ the man shifts, like he’s going to try to fight. “What did you do to him?”

“He’s still there,” Giorno agrees. “But he doesn’t exist.”

Gold Experience Requiem’s divine eyes are fixed onto its next meal, but Giorno’s are on Fugo.

“I broke his soul.”

His chest burns. He hasn’t managed to take a breath for what must be years.

“He’s not alive, and he doesn’t exist. It was quick,” Giorno adds, and Fugo doesn’t fucking know how he manages to make that sound comforting. “He’s only still here because you’re trying to remember that he is.”

The man twitches, his ill-fitting suit crinkling with the movement.

Then, he laughs.

It’s a wild, breathless cackle.

“God made me to kill you,” he breathes, and those dull grey eyes manage to shine as a humanoid figure manifests in front of him.

The clingwrap sensation, forgotten until this moment, is ripped away. Purple Haze is back within his reach, but—

“Your stand is the Devil.”

The stand is as grey as its user. It has no face. There are no markings, no features, and the light doesn’t seem to know how to land on it.

Just a void of grey in the shape of a man.

“My Silver Dagger will kill you.”

The stand doesn’t move, but the room seems to.

Giorno stumbles.

His hands fly to his chest and to his throat. Gold Experience Requiem disappears in a blink, as if it were never there, and Giorno is forced to his knees.

That grey stand and its user tremble with the effort it takes to force down Gold Experience Requiem.

Giorno is bleeding red and gold. A sickly mixture pours from his eyes, nose, and clenched teeth. He claws at his chest like a wild animal, curling towards the ground as pure sunlight crackles under his skin.

Just as Purple Haze attempts to smash all his capsules into the man’s face, the world goes white.

As he approaches the ground in slow motion thanks to the brutal hit to the back of his head, he guesses that there must have been three intruders.

——

It’s cold. Everything hurts.

Fugo peels his cheek from the icy stone floor. A rough cough rips through him as he comes to, blinking the blurriness from his vision.

He’s in a cell. Except it really looks more like a cage. Beyond the square, latticed bars is a room that is just as dark and dank. There’s an acrid, mildewy stench permeating the air, making it harder to breathe. The unmistakable, metallic scent of blood is the strongest.

Wherever he is, it has to be underground.

Fugo turns, panting shallowly as he tries to examine as much as he can, when he sees him.

It’s obvious why he can smell blood.

He can only see Giorno’s curled back from where he’s laying a few feet away.

Blood coats the floor underneath him. It has such an odd sheen to it, as if it’s closer to ichor.

His gold hair is loose and torn from its braid. Fugo can just barely see the ends, how they drape down and turn dark as they seem to soak into the blood.

His heart stops completely, slamming to the ground like a lead weight.

There’s too much blood, and he’s not moving.

Forgetting his own infinitesimal pain, Fugo scrambles over to him, hands sliding in the mess of gleaming blood.

He grabs Giorno by the shoulder and pulls him over onto his back. Crushed bones grind beneath his fingers and he can feel through Giorno’s skin how deep the damage reaches.

Fugo remembers the first time that horrible fucking stand hit him. The way Giorno must have been about to unleash some of the Requiem power the moment it activated, and the force of sudden suppression blew like a fuse.

The suppression of a fully realized Gold Experience Requiem, back into a body which was never really meant to house more than a human soul, killed him.

It killed him. This is a corpse. Giorno is dead.

The skin of his chest is soft and mottled red. If Fugo were to press against it, his demolished ribcage would offer no resistance, nor pointless protection for his crushed organs.

Fugo’s shoulders spasm and he grits his teeth.

Somehow Giorno seemed immortal. Maybe he beat the odds too much, but the idea of him dying has always seemed so completely incongruous. Fugo would be surprised if the sun ever rose again, since we’re going to be ignoring the laws of the universe from now on.

He’s dead too, for sure. It’s a mystery why these dissenters decided to capture him and lock him up with Giorno’s body instead of just leaving them both dead in the house.

They want something from him, and Fugo will sooner kill himself than give anything up. He’ll just pop one of Purple Haze’s capsules in his mouth like a cyanide tablet and let his own useless fucking stand take him out.

Giorno’s neck is sort of twisted by the position Fugo pushed him into. Half-craned and awkwardly pressed against the stone floor.

It looks uncomfortable.

Fugo hesitates, reaching forward and pulling back five times over, like he’s scared to get caught touching some museum artifact. Like an alarm will go off the second his hand actually makes contact with his face.

It’s ridiculous, and so fucking frustrating.

He’s dead. It’s not like he’ll care.

Fugo nearly growls as he slaps his hand against the side of Giorno’s cold face, and he fixes him in a way that’s easier to look at. His hair is a disaster, but Fugo can’t do more than simply brush the most irritating loose strands from his face. The streaks of blood they leave make him ill.

“So when is he going to make his miraculous recovery, or is the cat out of his nine lives?”

Fugo jumps, whirling to face the source of the drawling voice.

“I’ll admit that I went overboard. We hoped to grab him alive, but he just wouldn’t go down,” the man in grey remarks, stepping closer to the cage.

“And what the fuck do you want?” Fugo barks. He hates the scratch in his voice. It sounds weak. Purple Haze is, predictably, already locked tight underneath his skin. Has been since long before he woke up.

“Everything, obviously,” the man replies. He gestures widely, pale grey eyes glinting with a manic light. “I want the world.”

Fugo doesn’t reply—doesn’t really know how. Of course this guy would be crazy.

“You’ve had the honor of seeing my stand, Silver Dagger. God made stand users, and then gave me the power to hold dominion over them all,” he continues. “It is God’s will for you to serve me.”

Goddamn. This is a cult.

“There is something, though, and your ‘boss,” the man says the word with distinct mocking. “Knows what it is. Or, I guess, knew.”

Dread creeps up his dry throat.

The man considers him.

“Since he’s out, though, I’m hoping you do too. I know we miscalculated a little bit, since you weren’t actually there, but I’ve got a couple of questions.”

Fugo isn’t blinking. Or breathing.

“About Rome,” the man clarifies, and Fugo’s whole body turns to static.

“You’re right,” he hears his voice reply from very far away. “You miscalculated. I wasn’t there.”

The man hums and steps even closer.

“There’s been a couple rumors, and we’ve done some…detective work of our own. Something he has, or something he did, turned him into a thing with the power of the Devil,” he hisses. His eyes sear like ice, crouched to Fugo’s level. “I’d just like to know what.”

Fugo does not want to see this man’s Requiem stand. He doesn’t want it to ever exist.

“You’d have to ask him,” Fugo spits.

The man’s eyes flare before he suddenly straightens and turns away.

“I’ll let you think about it. You should try to remember before we start helping you jog your memory,” he threatens, and steps out of the room. The door slams behind him and the bolts slide back into place locking them in.

Despite himself, and despite everything, Fugo presses his hand to Giorno’s jaw, cupping his bruised face.

He’s going to have to figure out a way to kill himself, and he can only hope that the rest of his team won’t try to do something as stupid as rescue them.

Defeating this man would be hard, if not impossible. Surely they could just fucking shoot him, or something. Getting rid of Mista’s stand doesn’t stop him from having a gun. His team are not even close to helpless without their stand powers, he’s sure they can figure something out.

They have to.

If it's true that rumors, or even the truth about Requiem is starting to spread, there’s going to be a fucking disaster.

There are more arrows. Polnareff was right, It’s only a matter of time.

Something flutters beneath the light touch of his hand.

His finger must have twitched in some odd way, or it was his imagination.

He presses slightly more, just underneath his jaw, and tries to pretend that he isn’t actually checking.

There’s nothing for too long. It was so fucking stupid to actually think—

Until, once again, there’s the slightest heartbeat.

All the air in Fugo’s lungs leaves him at once.

That delicate, impossible sensation cannot be real.

But it is.

He stays agonizingly still. In his head, he keeps count.

Sixty seconds, twenty-two pulses. Not a heart rate anyone should be able to survive on. Yet—

He hovers the flat of his hand over Giorno’s parted lips and wonders if he’s imagining the faintest exhale.

Grabbing him as gently as he can, he pulls Giorno back onto his side. If his lungs can still function at all, the weight of his crushed ribs and chest are probably weighing down on them.

Then, Fugo does the only thing he can think of, and bites his own arm.

He nearly screams as he forces his jaw down hard enough to draw blood, but once the metallic taste bursts into his mouth, he pries Giorno’s limp jaw open and shoves his arm inside.

Nothing seems to happen. Fugo decides not to care. He holds Giorno’s face, tilting it up and watching as the blood drips slowly from his arm and down his throat. Hopefully he doesn’t end up fucking choking.

He stays like that for what feels like hours. His arm has long gone numb, and every time the blood slows, he claws at the wound to make it deeper.

The beat of his heart has increased.

Fugo has counted nearly every minute, mind keeping track of that precious movement with unwavering focus.

An hour ago, it broke thirty. Now, after about another half hour, it’s broken forty.

Fugo stares into his pale face and wonders if he’s immortal.

Beneath his numb wrist, Giorno’s lips twitch. His face scrunches, and Fugo holds his breath as he watches his eyes slowly crack open.

He looks up at Fugo through his barely squinted eyes, and Fugo knows he’s not all there.

“Finally, goddamn,” he breathes, taking his mauled arm from Giorno’s jaw and noting how his glazed eyes seem to chase it. He pushes up his lip and sees that those fangs have finally started to react.

Pressing one between his thumb and his forefinger, he holds his arm above Giorno’s face and lets a drop of blood fall onto his cheek. Even as just barely open as his eyelids are, Fugo can see his pupils dilate, swallowing the irises.

He grins at the sight, his chest twisting in kind of a funny way. This is working, though, and Fugo almost feels high on it.

With Giorno’s fangs fully dropped, he shoves his other arm into his mouth.

He only has time to register the slightest sting before everything goes ice cold, then warm, then absolutely numb.

Only his vision, as paralyzed as even his eyes are, can tell him that his muscles have spasmed against the stone floor, where he has now fallen limp.

Fugo sort of forgot about the venom.

It’s terrifying, but he’s pretty sure he won’t die.

The guy Giorno bit did wake up, and was completely normal before Mista shot him, thinking he was going to turn into another vampire.

Somehow, even if he did, Fugo isn’t worried. Giorno is here, alive, and moving.

In the corner of his vision, he can see Giorno’s gold hair draping over his arm.

Maybe he’s imagining it, because he really can’t feel anything at all, but somehow it feels warm.

Stupidly, because he knows Giorno will not be able to use Gold Experience and cannot heal him in any way outside of that, he feels safe.

He feels completely safe, with one gored arm and Giorno fucking draining the other, just because Giorno is alive.

Somehow, he falls asleep knowing that they’re going to get out of this.

——

Fugo wakes up slowly, again, and as he remembers the fact that he volunteered himself for a significant amount of blood donation, he thinks he should probably feel worse than he actually does.

That’s not to say he feels fine. He doesn’t know how long it’s been, he hasn’t had anything to eat or drink, and he probably has a concussion, but he sort of figured that Giorno would need a frankly dangerous amount of blood.

He feels warm. Someone is holding him, and he can feel the faintest vibration reaching his bones.

Giorno’s head is pressed firmly into his chest. His arm is tight around Fugo’s waist and he looks about as tightly burrowed against him as possible. He still looks pale, and his grip feels weak, even for sleeping.

That familiar, completely inhuman, inaudible rumble from deep inside his chest feels so much stronger like this. Fugo swears he can feel it in his fucking toes.

He tilts his head, looking up, and realizes they seem to have migrated into the back corner of the cell.

There’s a noise from beyond the metal door.

Fugo jerks up from the floor, and he shoves Giorno behind him. At the disturbance, Giorno only twitches and falls completely still. His insanely weird breathing stops, too, and everything feels so much worse without it.

Not a single moment too soon, the door swings open, and the man in grey steps through. Another man follows behind him, wearing a navy pinstripe suit and twirling a long blade.

“I hope you’ve got something for me,” the man in grey announces, stopping in front of the cage. “But in case you don’t, this is my colleague, Reblec, and you will become very familiar with his stand, Six Blade Knife.”

He doesn’t know about Giorno, and he can’t know. Fugo cannot let him find out.

Without meaning to, he hunches slightly, pushing Giorno further behind him and further out of view. It doesn’t go unnoticed, but by the mocking smile forming at the edges of the man’s lips, it just looks like the sentimental action of a weak civilian.

He doesn’t care.

There’s no question he’ll answer. His only goal is to protect the delicate, immortal thing—weak and still sleeping—behind him.

“If that’s the way it's gonna be,” the man drawls and motions towards Reblec.

“Yes sir,” he says, and then spins the long blade in his hand like some sort of party trick. The metal blurs before settling into the illusion of sixfold blades like how a fan seems still even in fast motion.

He seems to take aim, and Fugo has only a moment to clench his jaw before one of those sixfold blades sparks and tears away, passing harmlessly through the bars of the cage and slashing against his chest.

The attack forces him to cry out. Once his vision clears, and he’s left with just the white hot pain, he looks down at the wound and is relieved that it is, as he figured, fairly shallow.

It's fine. He can last.

“In case you’re confused, I want you to tell me exactly how your friend got that stand. I want to know the source of the power he found in Rome.”

The man sounds far from patient.

“You really did mess up,” Fugo tells him. “Only he knew, and you killed him. What even was your plan?”

Both men are silent. Reblec is watching the man in grey.

“Well,” he begins, eyes drifting to the ceiling. “I know it was my fate and my duty to kill him. After I first took him down, which I hadn’t expected would be so devastating to him, it seemed that he had died. He was no longer seen with the rest of your little group, which only confirmed this, but neither were you.”

“I’m a liability,” Fugo drawls, not actually giving a shit and mostly hoping this maniac tires himself out.

“No,” he corrects. “You’re their second best medic. So your Giovanna was alive somewhere, but barely, and all we had to do was figure out where.”

“He was doing a little better than ‘barely alive,’ wasn’t he?” Fugo antagonizes, darkly satisfied by how the man’s eyes flare. “You brought your only teammate who could escape my stand in case I gave you trouble, but where did that get him?”

Both men are silent. The air is so thick Fugo can feel it like a weight.

“You know, I can't even remember his name,” he finishes, and that strikes them.

“Neither can we,” the man snarls. He grabs Fugo’s collar through the bars and yanks him forward, slamming his face against the metal so hard his vision swims.

“We can’t even remember him. That power belongs to God, and only God can decide who holds it—that thing sold its soul to the Devil for my rightful power—“

The man’s face drains color until he’s as grey as his suit. Fugo is unceremoniously dropped back onto the floor as the man scrambles from the cage.

“What—“

He’s staring behind Fugo as if the portal to hell opened on the other side of the cage.

“I can’t feel your stand,” he barks, and Fugo can hear the tremble he’s failing to hide in his voice. “You’re dead! You have no soul—“

Fugo turns, and Giorno is bracing himself off of the floor on his arms, as still as a carved statue.

His eyes are so bright, and so, so empty.

They’re fixed on the man in grey.

Something deep and fundamental in his brain is screaming at him to get away. He wants to crawl away, or at least get out from in between them.

Not all of his brain registers that this is Giorno.

“I killed the Devil,” Giorno tells him, voice creaking strangely. His fangs have dropped to their full length, and a horrible chill grips Fugo’s spine.

“I took his soul.”

The door slams, and both men are gone.

Something dark and unfathomable has crept into the very air of the room. It feels nothing like Gold Experience Requiem, but it's just as heavy.

Then, as quickly as he felt it, it leaves.

Giorno’s arms crumple from the effort of supporting his own weight and he crashes to the ground. Fugo lunges forward and pulls him up, trying to help him not be completely on the floor. He cringes when he realizes Giorno’s head is now on his lap.

“Sorry,” he mutters, face already burning. “You good?”

Giorno wheezes. “Not really,” he chokes out. Fugo curses.

“You’re fucking alive, though, holy shit—“

Giorno’s shoulders quake in what Fugo realizes is laughter.

“He pissed himself,” he manages to choke out. “I really did do that, though. To the old boss. He’s probably going to convince himself I was lying.”

“He wants Requiem,” Fugo cuts him off, shaking Giorno a little to get him to snap out of it.

“I know,” he manages. “It would accept him, too.”

Fugo doesn’t know how he knows that. Or what the criteria is. But Giorno sounds sure, and that being true makes everything worse.

“So we have to stop him,” Fugo guesses. “Neither of us can use our stands and we’re locked up. You’re also not looking too good, so any ideas?”

Giorno falls silent. A moment passes, and Fugo realizes.

“You need more blood.” Giorno doesn’t reply, but Fugo can feel his jaw clench from where it’s resting on his knee.

He at least needs to be at full strength, if nothing else. Once the man in grey gets a change of underwear, he’ll be back in here to torture answers from Giorno, who will be no more willing to give them. If they decide to put him down for good, too, Fugo’s sure that they could figure out how to kill him.

He’s guessing Giorno wouldn’t come back if they aim for the head. Hopefully he never finds out if he’s right.

That thought is what makes him move.

He shoves his arms under Giorno’s and yanks him up by the armpits, ignoring the sting of his sliced chest.

Pushing his back to the wall, he drags Giorno and props him up beside him.

“I guess just try not to kill me,” he deadpans, rolling the back of his head against the wall as he turns to face Giorno.

His eyes look pained, and his skin is clammy. He’s going to need to drink more, Fugo already knows he didn’t drink enough the first time.

He looks at Fugo like he knows he’s right, hates it, but knows how useless it is to argue. His eyes drift back to the metal door as his chest heaves with every labored breath.

“Fugo,” he wheezes. “I want them dead. I want to kill them.”

“Okay, great. We’re fucking working on that,” Fugo drawls. Giorno scared the hell out of them, but they’re going to be back any moment, and he'd rather it not be while they’re doing this.

Giorno looks back at him.

His eyes are such a vibrant color.

“I’m sorry,” he bites out and Fugo’s heart skips a little.

“Seriously, just don’t drink enough to kill me and it’s fine—“

“No,” Giorno cuts him off. His pinched eyes are unblinking. “This is my fault.”

Fugo’s halfway through rolling his eyes before Giorno manages to continue.

“I took down the man holding the gun to your head. I even guessed that the other man was the one with the suppression power, and I still acted irrationally.”

That isn’t what he expected. Fugo stares back, uncomprehending.

“If he had shot you, I could have healed you. You never would have died. I wouldn’t have let you. He probably would have been too stunned by Gold Experience Requiem to do anything either way, but I still…”

“It’s fine,” Fugo tells him. “You reacted automatically. You weren’t thinking, but you made a decision and reacted quickly based on instinct.”

Giorno saw two men, one holding a gun to Fugo’s head, and chose to attack the immediate threat. It’s extremely simple.

“I’m sorry,” Giorno repeats, and Fugo’s head is buzzing.

The idea of Giorno not thinking before acting is as unbelievable as him dying. Fugo has never met anyone as devastatingly quick-minded as him. Every split second action seems to have a hundred strategies.

Giorno not thinking sounds like such bullshit.

Except Fugo doesn’t think he’s lying, and that’s even worse.

Somehow, Giorno made an irrational decision. For some reason, he acted on instinct despite his quick mind telling him the real threat.

It happens to the best of them, every once in a while, Fugo supposes.

They lapse into silence.

Fugo’s patience is slipping. Giorno isn’t focusing, which isn’t normal. His eyes flick from Fugo, to the door, to the rest of the cage, and back to Fugo, squinting oddly like there’s a million things demanding his attention.

Fugo thinks he hears a noise behind the door. He freezes, and Giorno’s form tenses in the corner of his eye.

After a long moment of Fugo barely breathing, no one comes. But they can’t risk waiting around any longer.

Fugo throws his arm out and grabs the back of Giorno’s head, clenching his mess of gold hair in a fist. It’s the softest thing he’s ever felt in his life, and that just pisses him off even more.

His arms are thoroughly chewed on already. In the split second before his brain catches up to him, he moves.

He shoves Giorno’s face against his neck, and the second his lips make accidental contact with his skin, he realizes what he did.

Giorno, having been fully pulled off balance, falls against him and immediately begins scrambling to push himself back up.

Fugo frantically grabs him by his shoulders. Giorno grips his forearms and uses them to steady himself the rest of the way.

Fugo does not look at him. He keeps his eyes on the floor. His face is probably fucking crimson red.

“Sorry—just—wherever’s fine. Maybe, like, my bicep—“

“It would…um…” Giorno trails off. Fugo risks a glance at him and there’s red high on his cheeks. It would probably be even stronger if he hadn’t lost so much blood.

Holy shit.

Fugo would feel so baffled by that expression if he didn’t want to kill himself right now.

“…it would work the best,” Giorno finishes. His wide eyes are focused on the floor.

“Fine—yeah. That—that’s fine.”

“Are you sure?”

They’re wasting so much time. It doesn’t matter, as long as Giorno can still stand to look at him after this is over.

“Just do it,” he snaps, and with regained, shameless urgency, he pushes Giorno’s face back into the crook of his neck.

This time, Giorno doesn’t fall.

Fugo has an instant to feel the heat of his breath before the softest prick breaks his skin.

That rush of ice and heat coats every nerve with absolute numbness once again.

He can only feel the pressure of Giorno against him, against his neck, cradling his head as he drinks.

The venom has to be doing something to his brain.

Distantly, he can feel even with every nerve paralyzed, as that rumble starts in Giorno’s chest. It starts soft, then gets stronger, and at some point, Fugo realizes Giorno has detached himself from his neck.

He thinks there’s a hand pressed to the wound. The vibration reaches his fingertips and toes and he realizes he can move them.

His renewed feeling is interrupted by Giorno hustling him further into the corner. He wraps something around Fugo and it takes until he’s zipping the collar tightly to cover his neck that he’s given him his suit jacket to cover the wound.

He does not need to do that. Is he just going to be shirtless, now? What the fuck are those guys going to think they were doing when they come back in here?

Especially because Giorno has not let go of him. His forehead rests against the crook of his neck, not far from the wound, and his arms are wrapped around his middle.

He’s so warm. The thump of his heartbeat feels thunderous to Fugo’s ears in the silence of the room.

Fugo fails to get his mouth, let alone his vocal cords, to cooperate in the effort to begin cursing him out.

The paralysis has worn off enough for his eyes to move. He blinks, and stares.

Giorno’s lightly tanned skin is no longer pale. It carries a red flush from Fugo’s blood. It makes the tattoo, or weird birthmark, or whatever it is—of a star stand out distinctly.

His gold hair trails in a mess of spikes down his back.

He doesn’t think he’s asleep, but he’s curled fully around Fugo. It’s so obviously defensive, like he’s trying to physically block any threat from reaching him.

The thought makes Fugo’s chest feel impossibly tight.

He can move now, barely.

All he does is drop his head forward to lean into the crook of Giorno’s neck, just as he’s resting in his.

The strange breathing from his chest just gets stronger, until it shuts off in an instant.

There’s a noise beyond the door. For real, this time.

Giorno is impossibly still. His muscles stiffen and he seems to somehow shift into an even more protective position.

Fugo can’t see them, but someone enters.

They try to say something, but Fugo can’t hear them.

He’d wondered before if the weird chest vibrations were growling.

They’re not.

The person tries to come closer, and Fugo learns what a growl sounds like.

It’s absolutely animalistic. His limbs lock like he’s taken another shot of venom, and everything freezes.

Everything except Giorno, who detaches himself from Fugo and stands.

Fugo watches as he straightens, first oddly hunched before rolling his limbs out with a disgusting popping sound.

It’s the sound of his joints and bones snapping back into place after having been practically liquified, Fugo realizes and has to stamp down his nausea.

There’s four men on the other side of the cage. The man in grey has brought more stand users to protect him from the monster, but they too are frozen.

The man in grey barks an order that Fugo doesn’t really hear, but the man with the knife stand that attacked Fugo readies his ability.

He can only watch, frozen, as a blade is thrown with full force into Giorno.

It slashes, following a devastating arc from the top of his shoulder, severing half his torso and ending near his hip.

Half of Giorno’s torso hits the ground.

Giorno looks down at it, picks it back up with the arm he has left, and sticks it back on.

Flesh reforms in an instant. Before Fugo can even blink, his scarless skin covers the wound like nothing had ever touched him.

He rolls his shoulders once more, and advances forward.

More stands appear, but their hesitation costs them everything, because Giorno has reached the bars.

The four step back, but Giorno throws himself against the metal lattice like a rabid dog.

The metal dents from the assault, and Giorno switches to grabbing at the bars and pulling.

When the metal crumples underneath his fist, the whole world seems to snap to a halt. Fugo watches the hunted eyes of the enemies land on the mangled steel in Giorno’s bare hands, and they try one last time to attack him.

The man in grey looks like he knows he’s about to die. He looks terrified, cowering behind the people he called his servants, from something with no stand to suppress.

(Which is something Fugo is resolutely not thinking too hard about right now. Because this isn’t Gold Experience, is it?).

The man with the knife stand fires off one last shot, one that Giorno dodges with inhuman speed before launching himself out through the mangled bars and digging his claws(?) into the man’s face.

And his hand…sinks…into his face. It looks almost like Trish’s stand, but definitely not.

Someone has pulled out a gun. Bullets land in Giorno’s back as he rips the life out of this guy’s body through his face. He doesn’t even flinch, and hardly even bleeds as the bullets fall from his closing wounds and clink against the floor.

The air has a weight to it. Everything feels colder, darker, and heavier.

It’s as if Giorno’s existence is so far beyond humanity that existence itself is warping to fit him.

Natural laws forced to bend for something unfathomable.

Fugo remembers Gold Experience Requiem.

He remembers how that ascended stand seems to have all the power of the universe at its disposal. It can rewrite existence as it sees fit and change fate itself.

It’s so far from human that Fugo can’t tell how much of Giorno is left after Requiem bleeds into him.

He’s like a god.

This—Fugo thinks as he watches another man torn open, the entire front half of his neck ripped from his body and landing on the other side of the room— is the other end of inhumanity.

As far as Fugo can even fathom in the opposite direction as Gold Experience Requiem, is where Giorno has taken himself.

The man in grey is screaming.

Giorno’s hair shines the richest gold in the low light. The way it lands in perfect spikes down his back sends chills up Fugo’s spine, and he doesn’t know why.

It only gets worse when Giorno lifts the man up with supernatural strength in his dagger-like fingertips, each stabbing through the man’s suit with terrifying force.

He’s summoned Silver Dagger, but that grey-void stand can do nothing to help him. It tries, clawing harmlessly at Giorno as he slams its user into the wall, over and over, but there is no stand to suppress.

The way his shoulder twists shows that strange star-mark, and Fugo has to look away.

The screaming quiets into a rough gurgle before the only noise in the room is dripping.

A weight has been lifted from Fugo’s body, and the release of Silver Dagger knocks the wind from his lungs as he’s finally able to feel Purple Haze beneath his skin.

He looks back up in time to see Giorno rip his fingers out of the shrivelled corpse’s chest, letting it slam to the floor.

Turning back to him, Fugo can see his eyes.

They are too alive to be human. He is woundless and his perfect skin shines in the low light like something stolen from a museum.

He looks like he belongs in a museum, as immortal as a bronze cast sculpture.

Fugo doesn’t know if he’s human anymore. He doesn’t know if he ever was.

It doesn’t really matter, though.

There’s as much of Giorno in the thing staring back at him as there is in the thing that can summon Gold Experience Requiem and rewrite existence.

Of course Giorno would be unbeatable even without his stand.

Giorno steps forward, and despite himself, Fugo freezes. If Giorno notices, he doesn’t give any indication. He only places a light hand on the lock of the cage and gently crumples the solid metal with his clawed fingers.

The door swings open easily, and Giorno steps through, ignoring the hole he’d torn through like a feral beast.

He grabs Fugo, who considers for half a second whether he’s about to be eaten, and pulls him off the floor. The sudden change in position and low blood pressure has Fugo’s vision blacking out.

His head buzzes, feels hot and cold at the same time, and dark shapes swim around in his absent vision for a solid thirty seconds. When he comes to, he’s being supported fully by Giorno, still holding him upright by the arms with too much ease.

“Jesus,” he wheezes at the sensation. He’s lost too much blood to have also not eaten anything for… he doesn’t know how long. “You better be grateful.”

Giorno huffs a laugh, eyes crinkling around the corners. His teeth are bloody and perfect when he smiles. Those fangs are still out, way too long to be mistaken for human.

He lets Fugo push him away, and he follows him out of the cage.

Those men didn’t lock themselves in, so the metal door opens easily.

“Is there anyone else here?” Fugo asks, glancing around the dark rooms. They’re underground, seemingly in a section of connected basements. It’s fairly small, but enough for a headquarters. Stuff is scattered around in a manner typical for a gang hideout.

“No,” Giorno confirms, and Fugo almost nods before stopping. He doesn’t have Gold Experience right now. How can he tell without being able to sense life energy? Can he still sense it?

“How do you know that?” Fugo demands. Giorno pauses and blinks at him a little before looking away. He avoids Fugo’s discerning gaze.

“…I can smell it,” he admits. “There’s no one here. No one is alive, except us.”

Okay. Interesting.

Fugo kind of wishes he didn’t ask.

“…right,” he replies after a long moment. Giorno’s face is a grimace, his mouth forming a tight, thin line.

Eventually they find the stairs. Climbing up, they enter into a very small, weathered house. The windows, half busted through, show the remote countryside.

Fugo inhales like he’s taking his first breath, trying to clear as much of the dank ass scent of the underground from his sinuses.

There’s nothing of note inside the house. They pass through to the door.

The sky is streaked with red, orange, and gold like the brightest fire as the sun lifts itself off of the horizon. Pebbled clouds scattered all over seem to glow as they announce the sunrise.

Fugo busts down the door and steps out, nearly racing out onto the long grass.

Giorno isn’t following him.

He looks back, and Giorno is frozen in the doorway, wide eyes locked on the rising sun.

It hasn’t reached him yet. He flinches back, shrouded in the shadow of the door.

“Come on,” Fugo calls, reapproaching the house.

Giorno’s wide eyes lock onto his, and Fugo sees terror in them.

Abruptly, he remembers. He steps in front of Giorno where he’s cowering in the doorway.

“Dude,” Fugo huffs. “Stop acting like a rabid dog. You’ll get your stand back, and you’ll be fine.”

He grabs Giorno by the bicep and he can feel the absolutely impossible strength inside those tensed muscles. Giorno watches him. His eyes never leave Fugo’s.

Fugo yanks him out of the doorway with all his strength. Giorno lets himself be pulled from the house.

His bared teeth are clenched, fangs still dropped, and his breath leaves him in a hiss. He drops to the ground, half swallowed by the long grass, and he cowers beneath his arms.

Fugo drops down beside him, heart dropping as he watches Giorno’s skin burn and blister in the merciless sun.

It’s so much worse than the last time.

Eventually, it seems to settle. Fugo pries Giorno’s arms away from his head, cringing as he tries to avoid the worst of the burn.

Giorno’s whole body shudders, and Gold Experience appears.

So do the sparks.

Gold Experience, with its hands at Giorno’s sides, sparks with pure light.

It seems to wreath his hands like electricity. That gold lightning travels across Giorno’s burned skin, burrowing into him through every inch.

It looks like a disinfection.

Despite his better sense, Fugo grabs Giorno by the shoulders and lifts him back up, helping him lean his weight solidly against him. That bright lightning passes harmlessly against Fugo’s skin. He can barely feel more than a slight shock of warmth.

Giorno’s face was mostly spared from the burn.

His back, though, looks horrible. If he’s not imagining it, though, Fugo thinks some of the blisters have gone down after Gold Experience appeared.

Giorno’s nearly collapsed against him, gasping for air. Fugo can feel his chest heave against his side with every agonized breath.

He is so unmistakably human that Fugo nearly wonders if he’s just woken up from a strange dream. There’s no claws on his hands, his fangs have sheathed completely, and there’s no trace of anything but himself in his eyes.

He’s out cold, too.

The sparks die down just after he goes limp.

Fugo has to adjust his boneless slump, careful to avoid the worst of the burns but hardly gentle because he’s fucking heavy.

There’s no way he can carry Giorno anywhere far. Not as weak as he is.

He glances around. They’re in pure countryside. There’s absolutely nothing, and probably isn’t for a while. No cars to steal, either.

A sigh drags itself from his chest, and Fugo pushes Giorno halfway back to the door before standing and heading back inside.

There’s gotta be a phone or something in here.

———

Buccellati couldn’t hide his relief over the phone, but still made sure it wasn’t a trap before he rushed the team over to pick them up.

Fugo received very strange looks for wearing Giorno’s jacket. He knows he especially looks strange with the collar zipped completely to his chin, but he’s absolutely not taking it off until he has something else to cover the bite mark on his neck.

There’s absolutely no way to explain it. Even the most rational reason, which they have, doesn’t change the fact that it was super fucking weird.

Thinking about it is making the memory volunteer itself in his brain, of Giorno pressed to the crook of his neck, cradling his head—

He’s probably also getting strange looks for being completely red in the face.

The instant they get back to the safehouse, Fugo shuts himself in the bathroom and cleans the wound, immediately slapping a bandage over it and his arms.

Then, he crashes, and sleeps for the entire day, save for when he’s woken up to eat.

When he finally rolls out of bed, at some point the next afternoon, he’s able to fill in the missing pieces from what Giorno reported.

Most of them, anyways.

“Dude, you got mosquitoed,” Mista tries to feign sympathy through his laughter. “Tough break.”

The coffee mug narrowly misses his head and smashes against the wall.

Buccellati is not hiding his laughter well enough for Fugo’s taste. He’s just about to turn and start fucking yelling again.

“Did he ever say how he knew that Gold Experience Requiem was more than my stand?” Giorno interrupts, a deep furrow in his brow as he tries to fill in the missing pieces in his mind. It snaps Fugo back into focus.

“He mentioned rumors about what happened in Rome, and said they had done their own ‘detective work,” Fugo provides. “They knew I wasn’t there for that, and they really just wanted to question you. After they thought they killed you, they got desperate and figured I had to know something at least.”

“If there are rumors, then they won’t be the only ones,” Giorno decides. “Since this group is dead, or the leader at least is, it would be best for us to consider helping Polnareff search for all the arrows a top priority, under what is demanded of us by Passione.”

“Oh, is that all?” Abbachio drawls, but puts up no argument.

“Agreed. If his organization is willing to work with us, it might be beneficial,” Buccellati agrees. A tuxedo cat jumps into his lap and Fugo is briefly thrown by it before remembering that Giorno made it. Out of a textbook.

He hadn’t realized it had stayed around, much less apparently pick Buccellati as a clear favorite.

Mista and Narancia begin chattering with each other, Buccellati joining after a moment, idly petting the cat and brushing at the top of its head with his thumb.

It’s extremely happy to be there, and Fugo can hear it purr even from where he’s sitting. The thing sounds like it has a rumbling motor installed in its chest.

The sound is very familiar. It reminds him of something he can’t really place. He watches the cat, listening as it bugs him what kind of noise he’s thinking of—

Giorno is still pouring over something in his mind, clearly, sitting ramrod straight with that furrowed expression of complete focus. Even as the other inhabitants of the room absorb themselves in chatter, he’s unable to keep himself from strategizing.

Fugo looks back at the cat, and back at Giorno, before the realization hits him so hard he nearly chokes on it.

Clapping a hand to his mouth and sucking in a breath, he feels his face heat up.

Everyone’s attention snaps to him, including Giorno’s.

He watches Fugo with those furrowed brows, which only deepen when Fugo throws his arm to point accusatively.

“You—you—“ he splutters, and Giorno is opening his mouth to start questioning what the hell he’s talking about, before his gaze flicks over to the cat.

The cat is still purring happily, unbothered by the crisis.

Giorno turns red.

“Dude, what the fuck are you trying to say?” Mista begs with renewed urgency at Giorno’s reaction.

“What happened?” Narancia, too, is frantic to ask.

Buccellati is watching him with raised eyebrows, glancing back and forth between him and Giorno.

Giorno, who is turning away with a hand over his face and looking at the floor.

Fugo breathes a completely disbelieving laugh. It sounds hysterical even to his own ears, but there is no way—

His own face has gone back to beet red, which at this point seems like it’s default state.

He knows the sound because he’s felt it come from Giorno’s chest. Every time.

The weird, freakish, inhuman rumbling from his chest as he clings to Fugo.

He purrs like a fucking cat.

Fugo drops back into his seat. Giorno is still cringing in the chair across from him, and Fugo’s conscience starts catching up to him.

“Nothing,” he wheezes, still struggling. “I just remembered something. Don’t worry about it.”

“What the hell?” Narancia remarks. “Then what was that?”

“Giorno, what’s he talking about?” Mista pleads. Giorno shakes his head wordlessly, clearing his throat.

“Everyone go back to talking right now,” Fugo demands, and is predictably ignored.

Buccellati, who Fugo had stopped paying attention to, suddenly seems to realize something.

“Oh,” he says very simply, and then quickly laughs before turning away and schooling his face once more.

Fugo’s heart drops to his feet.

Mista and Narancia, now even more desperate to get let in on the secret, round on him and beg Buccellati for answers. He better fucking not—

“It really is nothing, and it’s not any of our business, so leave it,” Buccellati orders. His tone leaves absolutely no room for argument, despite the arguments that Mista and Narancia continue to whine.

Fugo lets out a long breath and counts his lucky stars that Buccellati didn’t decide to be a weak link.

Giorno stands up a little too abruptly, and all eyes are back on him.

“Sorry,” he laughs politely as he slips between the chairs and makes his escape. Fugo might have even believed it to be casual if it weren’t for his red face. “I’ll be back down in a moment.”

All five of them—minus Abbachio, who looks like he sincerely couldn’t give less of a shit—watch him go.

He’s probably not going to come back down until he’s washed his face and schooled his expression back to stone. Fugo honestly feels a little bad. Someone could go check on him, but—

“Why are you guys all looking at me?” he demands. Buccellati raises his eyebrows. Do they seriously—? Shouldn’t Buccellati?

“Are you serious—? I—he—“

His spluttering only raises more eyebrows.

Fugo is going to take Mista’s gun and start putting holes in everything.

“Oh my God,” he bites under his breath as he launches himself from his chair and escapes after Giorno.

He finds him as he passes by the bathroom. The door is open, and Giorno has just finished washing his face. Water clings to his dark eyelashes, and his gaze shifts as he turns from Fugo’s reflection in the mirror to look directly at him.

“I don’t know why I’m here either,” Fugo snaps and Giorno blinks.

This is so fucking awkward.

They stare at each other for a beat too long before accidentally starting to speak at the same time.

“You good?” Fugo tries and immediately cringes as Giorno cuts his own question off, interrupted.

“Fine,” he assures, but hesitates.

Fugo watches him and waits, barely breathing.

“I—uh…” he begins. “I am sorry for the…” he motions vaguely. “That. It just happened, and I wasn’t really… thinking as I normally do.”

This is absolutely mortifying. It’s traveled so far beyond awkward.

“I understand that is no excuse, and I must have made you uncomfortable, so I—“

“Shut up. Please. Oh my God,” Fugo wheezes. “It’s fine, we’re good, I don’t give a fuck.”

Giorno just blinks stupidly at him again.

“Never bring it up again. I’m taking it to my grave, and if you know what’s fucking good for you, you will too,” Fugo advises him. Seriously, Fugo is trying to help him, here. He’d never hear the end of it. Mista would probably get it on the news.

“You were the one who brought it up,” he mutters, and if Fugo weren’t so flustered he would be in awe that Giorno is arguing back at him.

“Shut up! Never again,” he vows.

“How does Buccellati know? Did you tell him?”

“He heard it after you bit that guy and fell asleep. That’s when you first did it.” Giorno’s hand is back over his face, and washing it was pointless because now it’s back to just as red as it was before.

“I did that in front of him?” Giorno chokes. “I thought it was just yesterday—when—I didn’t realize—“

“Dude, he’s not going to tell anyone, so don’t worry,” Fugo flounders, completely out of his depth. He pauses for half a beat before adding, “—except maybe Abbachio.”

That was probably the wrong thing to say, because Giorno blanches.

“That might as well be everyone, then—!”

“No, no—he won’t give a fuck. Seriously. I promise, Mista and Narancia not knowing is the important part,” he reassures him.

Giorno looks faint, scrubbing his hands against his face in a way that screws up his curls.

“Whatever,” he groans through his hands. “It’s fine. Not a big deal.”

Fugo lets him try to convince himself of that.

He leans back against the counter, and after a few long moments, Giorno joins him and does the same.

They stare at the shower curtain together.

“Thanks for healing me before anyone saw,” Fugo mutters. He’d woken up and the bandages had nothing underneath.

“I owed you that much and more,” Giorno replies. “Gold Experience replenished most of your blood, too, but let me know if there’s anything else I didn’t fix.”

That explains why he woke up like nothing had even happened. No pain and not even a single scratch.

“I’m fine,” he assures him.

They go silent again.

Fugo wonders what everyone downstairs is thinking. They’ve probably already been up here for way too long.

“Do you want to go back downstairs?”

Giorno doesn’t reply. His brows pinch and he huffs just barely loud enough to notice.

Fugo lets him consider it. They probably have to, he just needs to savor every moment without Mista and Narancia’s incessant pestering at being left out of the loop.

“Or,” Giorno begins slowly. “We could go visit Trish.”

“They’ll have forgotten about it by the time we get back,” Fugo adds, and Giorno nods.

“Come on,” he orders, grabbing Giorno’s wrist and pulling him out of the bathroom. He thunders down the stairs, Giorno’s light feet behind him, towards the front door.

“We’re going to visit Trish,” he hollers in the direction of the living room and cuts off any protest by slamming the front door behind them.

“You drive,” he orders Giorno, who simply nods without protest and slips into the driver’s seat of the nearest car.

Thank god they just keep all the keys in their cars. It’s not like anyone who’s coming all the way out here wouldn’t be able to jack them anyways.

He drops into the passenger side just as Giorno cranks the engine.

As he shifts the car to reverse and turns to watch where he’s going as he backs up, Fugo can see his unfiltered expression.

There’s the slightest, unconscious smile curling the corner of his lips, like he’s getting away with something.

His eyes—crinkled just barely at the edges—are so bright and so human that it leaves Fugo breathless.