Chapter Text
It doesn’t feel like it’s been three months since Syracuse. It doesn’t feel like it’s been any time at all. Italy is encased in amber, with only the sun filtering through the golden sap to mark the passage of time. Fugo used to think that once he figured himself out it would be all uphill from there, a process of healing that, once started, could not regress. He was wrong.
They’re in a meeting, Fugo and Mista and Giorno. Sheila E stands guard at the door, her presence a comfort in Fugo’s peripheral vision. They understand each other, he thinks, but she doesn’t have the discomfort that he does. Giorno Giovanna told her she was welcome, and so she was. She, as always, takes his word to be that of a god. Fugo isn’t so steadfast in his beliefs. He spent the first month post-mission flinching at sudden noises, keeping his head down and his voice quiet. Mista eventually gave up on needling him, settled into a frozen silence that neither of them seem to know how to break. It’s weird to think that they used to be friends.
Giorno Giovanna is another beast entirely.
The late afternoon light adds to the slow, heavy feeling of the room, streaming in blocks of orange through the window. It falls on Giorno’s hands as he leafs through a financial report. He’s quiet. No words are wasted. He reads in silence, and gives Mista a summary of his approach to the next month’s protection money. Mista writes it down, joking about something, but Giorno makes eye contact with Fugo and smiles.
It throws Fugo off. It always throws him off. It’s not that Giorno acts like nothing strange ever happened in their relationship— like Fugo didn’t leave them, like Giorno didn’t send Fugo on a suicide mission to find himself, like Giorno didn’t hold his hand as he cried. It’s that Giorno seems to be perfectly willing to pick up their relationship right where they left it nine months ago. Fugo still isn’t sure he deserves that.
He sighs and pulls at his collar. Giorno appointing him his chief strategist was another surprise, one he’s determined to live up to. There’s a lull in Mista’s diatribe, and he speaks up. “Here’s the report on Trapani.”
Giorno holds his hand out for it, expectantly but not imperiously, his fingers brushing Fugo’s as the report passes between them. “Thank you. It’s time we do something about Trapani,” he says, already halfway engrossed in the report’s contents. He flips through the pages with a gentle hand, then looks up at Fugo, the full force of his attention re-settling on him. “Did you come across anything strange while preparing this report?”
Fugo crosses his arms, trying not to wilt under Giorno’s gaze. “The team there is well balanced and strong, with a firm grip on the region’s resources. However, Trapani’s drug trade has been growing over the last several months, and every soldato sent to investigate has come back with empty hands. I looked into it, and found several rumors pointing to a member of the team whose stand can manipulate memories, but nothing in the official files confirms that. If it’s true, we have a more systemic problem on our hands than we originally thought.”
“Yeah, I was one of those soldati,” Mista grumbles. “Sheila, too. Not even Voodoo Child came up with anything, and I don’t like it. You got a plan, boss?”
“Of course,” Giorno says absently. “I’m going in person.”
“What?” says Fugo. “That’s a terrible idea.”
Giorno gives Fugo a sharp look, and Mista sits up in his seat. Even Sheila glances over from her post.
“I won’t be going alone,” Giorno says. “Fugo will be joining me.”
Fugo blinks.
“I’ve heard the same rumors,” Giorno says, returning his attention to the report in his hands, “And more. Rumors of dissent, dissatisfaction, doubt. I can’t seem to get a clear answer about what’s going on there, so I don’t see that I have another choice.”
Fugo’d heard those other rumors too, and bites his lip before he says so. “Why me?” he asks.
“You were only recently pardoned. News of your new position hasn't spread far beyond this room. Despite your work with the narcotics team, it's feasible that I would station you far from me, not trusting you to be closer.” Giorno smiles. “I’ll be undercover; you'll be yourself, with a few details tweaked. For all appearances, you and I will be joining the Trapani squad permanently.”
Fugo frowns. “I suppose not many would recognize you outside of Napoli.”
Giorno nods and looks at Mista. “What do you say? You think this is a bad idea.”
“Damn right I do,” Mista says. “It's way too dangerous.”
“I've been in dangerous situations before,” Giorno reminds him. “So has Fugo.”
Mista shifts uncomfortably, looks at Fugo, and frowns.
Fugo looks down at the desk. “I’ll run precautionary scenarios,” he says. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with, but I want to be as prepared as possible.”
“Thank you, Fugo,” Giorno says. He sits back in his seat and looks out the window, the sun’s rays lighting on his curls, his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes, which seem almost blue in the light. “How can I claim to be changing Passione if I secret myself away, hiding from danger the same way Diavolo did? How can I send others to danger in my place and claim that I’m better than him simply because my cause is right? Many of the old Passione’s problems stemmed from the drugs, of course, but not all. There was the disconnect, the detachment. No one knew the boss. No one spoke to him, saw him, worked with him, and there was no respect there because of it. This is an important mission, and it’s time I took it on myself.”
Giorno’s tone implied finality, even said in his careful, gentle way. There would be no arguing about this.
Fugo watches him, in vague awe as always. “Of course,” he says, after a minute. “What do you need from me?”
Giorno looks back at him, shadows passing across his face and turning the blue in his eyes green. “I’ll make the travel arrangements. You learn as much as you can about the Trapani squad and be ready to leave when I call for you.” His expression softens. “And practice your acting skills.”
Fugo raises an eyebrow, nods, and excuses himself. Giorno smiles after him, then looks back at Mista, who's watching him through narrowed eyes. He sits up a little straighter. “What?” he asks, primly.
“I'm onto you,” Mista says.
“I don't know what you mean.”
“It doesn't have to be Fugo. I know you trust him after all the shit that went down in Syracuse, but it doesn't have to be him.”
Giorno purses his lips and shrugs. “I think this will be good for him. It's unlikely Purple Haze will be needed; it'll be good to get him back on the beat of normal missions. Besides, I… I need him to be comfortable with me. I want him to be comfortable with me. A mission together seems like a good way to achieve that.”
Mista raises an eyebrow, but doesn't comment.
“Now, if you're done, will you get in contact with the Trapani Capo and tell him to expect two new recruits?” Giorno allows himself a small, excited smile. “I have preparations to make, in the meantime.”
“Whatever you say, boss,” Mista says, snatching up Fugo’s report from the table and flipping through it. Giorno nods, satisfied, and leaves Mista alone.