Chapter Text
“You want this?”
Giorno watched Leone Abbacchio hold up a large serving platter, intricately decorated and only a little cracked. Watched Bruno screw up their face in thought. Pulled the blanket Mista had thrown over her, when she first arrived some half an hour ago, more tightly around her shoulders and continued watching.
“It’s really ugly,” Bruno said.
Leone, still holding the platter up, nodded. “That a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”
“Both,” Bruno sighed. Leaned against the counter, the box of things they’d be taking with them on their move to Leone’s housetucked against their hip. “I don’t know.”
Leone watched them for a moment longer. Seemed impossibly fond. “I have a really ugly one, too.”
“Hm?”
“It has a floral pattern.” Leone nodded. “My great-grandmother bought it.”
“I’ll consider it,” Bruno was smiling back at Leone. Giorno, snuggled in her blanket, felt like she was intruding but not enough so as to look away. Felt like she was watching a Hallmark movie, almost. “Let’s leave this one here, for now, then.”
“For now?” Leone snorted. “Will you make me come back for it, if mine isn’t ugly enough?”
“No,” Bruno scoffed. Paused. “I’ll make Mista bring it over.”
Leone shook her head, turned around; Giorno caught a glimpse of a sincere smile, stretched across her features.
“God,” Mista, as if on cue, stumbled into the kitchen. “Are you volunteering me for manual labour again?”
“No one’s volunteering shit,” Leone said. There was no bite to her words. “Volunteering implies acting on one’s good will. You don’t get a choice.”
“Cool, cool.” Mista sat down at the table. “Nice to see high school students aren’t protected under the constitution any more.” He looked to Giorno, sighed dramatically. “Run while you can.”
Giorno, perfectly cozy in her spot on the couch, just beamed back.
They were all in Bruno's house — well, Bruno's former house. Bruno, who began spending most of their time at Leone's, ever since they started dating six months ago, had finally decided to officially move over; they were leaving the house to Mista and Narancia, and Fugo, Giorno was pretty certain, and whoever else needed a place to stay. Bruno just worked like that. Giorno was sure it was only a question of time before Leone's house was open to squatters as well.
Giorno herself had been spending a lot of time at both their houses, recently — she’d been spending a lot of time not-alone, recently, and it was still an odd feeling. She found herself wary of falling asleep, at night, afraid that she’d wake up and this would all be gone — that she would discover the last few months had all been a dream, that she had never approached Bruno in a supermarket and gotten invited to their house for dinner, that’d she’d be in the back of her stepdad’s stolen van the whole time, scared, and thirteen, and —
And alone. She tucked her knees to her chest, pulled on the blanket tighter. Giorno had found out that, while she was good at taking care of herself, and while she could, if necessary, make it on her own — she really, really liked having Bruno around more. And Leone, even if Leone mostly just scowled at her. And Mista, even if he rarely showered. And Trish, and Narancia, and all the new music they introduced her to. And Sheila, who’d already threatened enough students in Giorno’s name that people all but parted for her in the hallways. And Fugo, who — well. Who was Fugo.
Bruno caught her eyes, then, across the room, and arched an eyebrow. Giorno, suddenly aware of how hot her face felt, just pulled the blanket over her head.
“Hey,” Mista spoke up then, saving Giorno from needing to explain herself. “I have a question.”
“If it’s about growing weed in the basement again, still not funny,” Leone said. Bruno, at her side, nodded. “Honestly, stressing your endlessly kind — whatever Bruno is to you — stressing them out is not cute — “
“Yeah, I know — honestly.” Mista huffed. “I’m not Fugo.”
“Your grades can confirm.”
Mista looked to Bruno, as if for help. Bruno just batted their lashes at him.
“Your girlfriend is bullying me again,” he said.
Bruno sighed dreamily. “She really is my girlfriend, huh?”
“— and that wasn’t the point, but fine.” Mista shook his head, sighed. Giorno noticed he was wrangling his hands. “I was just thinking. Okay.”
Leone and Bruno stopped making kissy faces at each other and turned to study him.
“You know how — there are like, unwritten rules of — of behaviour, on dates?” Mista stammered. Bruno and Leone exchanged another look, and then Leone leaned forward, and Bruno glanced to Giorno questioningly.
Giorno, who had no idea where Mista was heading, just shrugged.
“If two girls go on a date — like,” Mista took a deep breath. “Like, I get the femme-butch thing. I think. Narancia explained and Fugo yelled at me and Trish sent me links.” He ran a hand under his hat, pulled out a mouse. “But, uh, neither of you is very butch, right?”
He peeked up, very briefly at Leone, and then quickly to Bruno. Bruno snorted.
“No, Mista,” they said, clearly trying not to laugh. “Neither of us is very butch.” They caught Giorno’s eyes again, and rolled theirs.
“Right,” Mista nodded. He was back to staring at his mouse. “So — uh. I get femme-butch couples have, like, rules — “
“Rules?” Leone arched an eyebrow.
“Bad wording,” Mista grimaced. “But — they know — ugh.” He flopped his forehead onto the table, groaned. Bruno winced, sympathetic. “Between the two of you. Who opens the door?”
Bruno’s eyebrows went up. They glanced at Leone, who just shrugged.
“Honestly?” they turned back to Mista. “Narancia, usually.”
Leone burst out laughing.
Mista nodded along, like it made sense. “Okay,” he went on. “But — other things — “
Giorno watched Leone rest her elbows on the counter, lean in semi-threateningly.
“Like — other things — that men traditionally do — Bruno, tell her to stop looking at me like that.”
Leone had taken to staring at Mista unblinkingly. Bruno snorted into their hand.
“Sorry,” they said. “I can’t.”
Leone nodded. “They’re not traditionally masculine enough.”
“I know my phrasing is bad!” Mista’s forehead was back on the table. “But — I just don’t know how to figure out — like, door opening, bad example, but — “ He took another breath. “Like, when two people of the same gender, who aren’t — who pays the bill? Who pays — who pulls out a chair?”
“Oh my god,” Leone straightened up.
“Like, there’s no — nothing to go by!” Mista threw his hands up. “Are you supposed to bring flowers? I don’t know!”
“Are you asking for yourself?”
Mista fell quiet. Leone’s jaw fell open.
“Oh!” Bruno leaned over. “You are going on a date!”
Mista whined into a table. Giorno, surprised, peeked out from her blanket cocoon.
Leone was still staring. “You are?”
“Wow, miss Abbacchio.” Mista sighed, sat up. “Be more surprised, would you? Yeah, I’m going on a date.” He sighed into his palm, let the mouse chew his finger. “A guy asked me out. We’re going on Friday.”
Leone and Bruno locked eyes. Leone was grinning.
“Okay,” she said, looking over. “Who’s the guy?”
Mista snorted. “Not telling you.”
“So it is one of the students,” Leone nodded. Paused. “It’s one of the students, right?”
Mista rolled his eyes.
“Mista.”
“He’s eighteen, chill.” He pulled another mouse of his pocket. “But not a student. He’s just a tourist.” He shrugged. “So I guess if I fuck it up it won’t be too awkward, but…”
“Cut that out,” Leone snapped. Softened. “Where’s he from?”
Mista flushed. “Japan.”
Leone whistled.
“How’d you meet?” Bruno asked, and grinned as Mista flushed even darker.
“Shut up,” he said. “You’re not being helpful. At all.”
“Split the bill,” Leone said. Snorted. “Bring him flowers if you feel like it. Honestly, if he saw the rats, nothing will freak him out.”
Bruno elbowed her. Laughed.
“They are mice,” Mista scowled. Hesitated. “And the doors?”
Leone leaned into Bruno’s side, and sighed.
“You’re overthinking it,” she added. “Just do what Bruno and I do.”
“Call Narancia?”
“That can always work,” Bruno was nuzzling into Leone’s hair. “But we mostly just stand around open doors and gesture for the other to go in first.”
Leone nodded. “It’s a tradition.”
Mista nodded too. “That why you’re always late?”
“I’m sure it helps.”
Leone, smug, grinned at Mista. “Are you nervous about the date?”
“Uhhhh, yea, obviously.” Mista threw his hands out. “I never got asked out before! I’ve never been on a date — what do I even do?”
“Mista,” Leone said. “I seduced Bruno by showing up to their house and cutting some carrots.”
Bruno hummed. “Really poorly, too.”
“Hey.” Leone pressed a kiss to the back of their hand. “Point being — we don’t fucking know.”
“No idea,” Bruno confirmed. “Just be yourself!”
Mista made a grimace.
“Don’t pull that face at me,” Leone said. “I’m honestly surprised you even got asked on a date. You’re already exceeding expectations.”
“Stop being mean to your students,” Bruno chided. Couldn’t hide a smile. “But really, Mista, you’ll be fine.”
Mista whined again.
“Do you have something to add?” Leone called out, then, and it took Giorno a moment to realize she was being addressed.
“I’m fifteen,” is what she said.
Bruno nodded. “Good advice.”
“Okay,” Leone said then; tapped on Bruno’s hand, so that they’d let release their hold. “Break over. Let’s get the rest of your shit.”
“Yeah,” Mista said. "I need you out of the house so I can grow that weed garden.”
“Still not funny!”
Leone turned to Giorno. “Are you going to keep sitting there?”
Giorno, back in her cocoon, nodded.
“Alright,” Leone carefully picked Bruno's discarded box up. “Have fun.”
__
“Oh, look, it’s the Consumption Kid.”
Fugo looked up from her book, squinted at Sheila. The latter just grinned, and flopped her school bag to the ground; Fugo wordlessly moved her things out of the way so Sheila could sit, sighed.
“That’s a new nickname.” Sheila had been going through the list of known diseases, as ways of addressing Fugo. Fugo wasn’t sure why this started — or if she was the only one on the receiving end of it, honestly — but admittedly was impressed by the fact Sheila was yet to run out of conditions. Or repeat any. Fugo was keeping track.
“Yeah,” Sheila nodded; she pulled a bag of Pom-Bärs out of her jacket pocket and ripped it open. “The bags under your eyes are an endless source of inspiration.”
“Thanks,” Fugo marked the page in her book — it was Anne Bronte’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, due next week for the feminist literature class she was taking on the infallible reasoning of well, if my parents are already disappointed. It had been a mistake, she’d quickly learned. She did not have the temperament for class discussions.
She accepted a bear-shaped flip from the offered bag, and fell back against the window.
“So,” Sheila asked, her mouth full. “Are you going to help Abba and Bruno move today or what?”
“Why are you asking it like that?” Fugo snapped.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” she bit the bear’s head off first. She knew it was silly, but it still felt ethical. “So aggressive.”
“Oh, I’m aggressive?”
Fugo glared.
Sheila beamed, through stuffed mouth. Laughed as Fugo made a face.
“So,” she swallowed. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” Fugo ripped the rest of her flip in half. “I mean. I’m basically cleaning out the couch for myself, so.” Mista had already informed her she wouldn’t be getting the bed, whenever she chose to move in — she didn’t know how to tell him no necessity in this world would have her willingly sleep on the same mattress he shed his gross unwashed body over for the last eight months.
“Aw,” Sheila grinned. “Not following Bruno into Abba’s house?”
“So we’re committing to that nickname?” Fugo grimaced. “And, no, not if they’re both there.” She’d seen enough PDA for a lifetime. She wondered how long a couple could stay in their honeymoon phase. The two were getting ridiculous.
“Yeah, I feel that,” Sheila nodded. “Murolo would house you too, you know.”
Murolo was a friend of Sheila’s sister, who’d moved out of country two years ago to backpack across Australia. Both Trish and Sheila were now defacto living with him, though Trish also had a room in Leone’s house.
Fugo didn’t know how to communicate that another overly-affectionate couple in her living environment was the last thing she needed. She shoved the rest of the flip into her mouth instead, hummed. “Murolo is weird.”
“Are you still mad he called you sensitive?” Sheila rolled her eyes. “He’s alright, come on.”
“I’m sure he is.”
“And we banned him from performing card tricks on weekdays, so.”
“Good for you.”
Sheila laughed. Kicked her legs up and onto Fugo’s knees.
“So,” she started. “Mista is helping Bruno pack up right now, so he’s off the unloading duty.” She threw one flip out the window. Two pigeons immediately started fighting over it. “Trish is coming to help, but she just got her nails done yesterday, so I don’t think she’ll do much — and Nara will be there, but.” She made a face. Fugo nodded. “You know.”
“Yeah.”
“So it’s just you and me.”
“And our PE teacher?”
“Abba will disappear to make out with Bruno not thirty seconds in and we both know it.”
Fugo winced. Could see it happening. “Yeah.”
“And like, Giorno will be there,” Sheila shrugged. “But her hands are noodles.”
Fugo could feel her face spasm awkwardly. “Yeah.”
Sheila shot her a stare.
Fugo arched an eyebrow.
“Hm,” was all Sheila said.
Fugo arched the other eyebrow.
“So,” Sheila went on. “Want to tell me what that’s about?”
Fugo decided to play dumb. “What’s what about?”
Sheila kicked her in the shin. She sucked in a breath, decided to change strategies.
“You’re weird about Giorno.” Sheila bit into another flip. “I got it at first, cause she was like, acting super dodgy and you get super protective around Narancia — “
“Excuse me?”
“— but it’s been months and every time we all hang out, you just,” Sheila shrugged. “You’re still all tense. What’s up with that.”
Fugo frowned. Scooted back.
“I mean,” Sheila tilted the bag her way. Fugo took a flip. “You’re always tense, around new people, but that goes away after a month, tops.” She burped. “Especially if they’re that non-threatening.”
“Oh, bet she’d love being called that.”
“She can fight me with her noodle arms.” Sheila grinned. “But, yeah, no. Why does Giorno keep you on edge?”
Fugo bit her lip.
“Come on, cooked cream — “
“I don’t know!” Fugo yelled. Slumped. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “I think she just doesn’t like me.”
Sheila burst out laughing.
Fugo flipped her off, flicked some crumbs her way — Sheila swiped the bag out of her hands, grabbed a mouthful.
“Nah, dude.” She always spoke with her mouth full. “She’s just scared of you.”
Fugo paused with her hand mid-way to the bag.
“Ah,” she said. Retracted.
“Not that she should be,” Sheila added. Nudged Fugo with her foot. “It’s just that she just met you and, well, she doesn’t know how to laugh off your freak-outs yet.”
Fugo made a noise of understanding. “I mean,” she added. Realized she was tapping out a beat, against her thigh. “I mean — I do — she has a — “
“You’re not scary,” Sheila cut her off. “No — shh — shut up, oh my god. “
Fugo bared her teeth, and Sheila threw a flip at her forehead.
“See?” Sheila said. “You’re a loser who shouts a lot and, yeah, that’s annoying but it’s not scary.”
Fugo, somewhat conflicted, leaned back. Hmphed.
“It’d be different if you, like, hit people in anger or something.” Sheila popped another potato bear into her mouth, rolled her eyes. “Like, random people. You can hit assholes, I don’t care.”
“Oh, you don’t care? You’d be the one swinging first, please,” Fugo muttered. Tugged on her shirt. “But,”
“No but.” Sheila kicked her again. “If you’re about to say, uuuuh, what if I lose control, let me stop you right there.” Fugo bit into her lip, but kept quiet. “I know you — like, I can see you lashing out over nothing, we all see that, you should definitely see someone about that, but who am I to judge — “
“Yourself,” Fugo supplied. “Apparently.”
Sheila winked. “But — no, real talk — “ Her eyes suddenly widened, and she sat up. “Oh, shit, I have just the thing your nerd ass will eat up.”
Fugo grimaced. “You could have phrased that better.”
“Gross — ever heard of Lundy Bancroft?” Sheila dusted her hands off against each other. “I can tell from your face you didn’t. Anyways — “
“You can tell from my face — “
“Did you, though?”
Fugo didn’t. Still scoffed.
Sheila threw the bag her way (Fugo caught it). “Well, he works with abusive men, and, uh, long story short, it has nothing to do with anger.”
Fugo frowned.
“I mean, it has something to do with anger,” Sheila rolled her eyes. “But, like, no one starts hitting their loved ones because they got pissed.” She stole the bag back. “They do it because they know they can get away with it, and because they don’t really see women as people, and all that shit.” She shrugged. “You know, the same reason as to why you’ll call Mista a balding shell of a sixteenth century peeping Tom but won’t insult Giorno.”
Fugo felt her eyebrows go up. “Because I don’t see Mista as a person?”
Sheila grinned. “Do you?”
Fugo held back a snort. Ruminated on the information.
“I know you don’t believe me,” Sheila added. “I’ll link you a PDF.”
“I can get the physical copy, it’s fine.” Fugo pulled out her phone. “What did you say the name was?”
“Lundy Bancroft — it’s called, uh, ‘Why does he do that’, I think — the PDF is literally online and free, though.”
“Yes,” Fugo wrote down the title, pocketed the phone away. “But if I can get the actual book — “
“Oh, sorry, it’s not an actual book if it’s not on paper — “
“Didn’t say that.”
“I can’t believe all the content just evaporates once we put it on the internet,”
“It’s a proven fact we retain 30 percent less information when we read things in a PDF format, don’t — “
“ — god forbid we made books more accessible or, I don’t know, didn’t kill the Amazon rain forest — “
“It’s already printed — “ Fugo sighed. “You won’t save the planet by reading PDFs only, you get that — “
“Fake ass book fan, it’s not real unless it’s carved into wooden tablets like I’m the goddamn Moses — “
“Okay, first of all, it was stone, so — “ Fugo caught herself. Slumped into her knees. Heard Sheila laugh, above her. “I hate talking to you, this always happens.”
Sheila’s laughter grew. “Yeah, love you too.”
Fugo flipped her off. Couldn’t help smiling.
__
They decided to wait for the rest of the group at the beach — Leone and Bruno disappeared before anyone else could get there, though, and then Narancia and Trish arrived and Narancia was talking about crabs and the next thing Giorno knew, she was barefoot in shallow water, holding up wet rocks as Narancia continued imparting scientifically-questionable information her way.
“Wow,” Trish, who had refused to get into water but was watching from a nearby rock, said. “You like crabs.”
Narancia, who’d paused for a breathing-break, nodded enthusiastically. “They’re neat!” He made little pinching motions with his hands, a face to follow. “And dangerous.”
Giorno glanced down at her bare ankles, and hoped this was another blatant fabrication. She’d already caught him saying they could breathe carbon dioxide, which she didn’t think they could. She was fairly sure he was making things up on the spot.
“Did Fugo teach you all of that?” Trish went on to ask; she'd already changed sunglasses twice, in the fifteen minutes they’ve been here, and was currently wearing heart-lense ones. The other two pairs were pushed up into her hairline; one with bright-yellow sun-shaped frames, and aviators with reflective rainbow-lenses.
“Uh, she tried.” Narancia squatted down to poke at something in the water. Giorno mentally flinched. “But this is all from Coyote Peterson.”
Trish nodded. “You like Coyote Peterson?”
“I like it when he gets stung.”
“Hm.” Trish waved at Giorno then, pointed at her hands. “Give me those.”
Giorno dutifully handed the rocks over. Watched Trish study them with great attention, tried not to fidget.
She straightened up as two figures approached — relaxed, but only slightly, as she recognized them as Fugo and Sheila. Narancia immediately stood up, though, and started leaping towards the coast.
“Fugo!”
“Jesus.” Giorno could see Fugo hide behind Sheila, and Sheila readily jump out of the way. “Don’t touch me with your gross sea hands, what’s wrong with you?”
“Ah,” Trish said, not looking up from her rocks. “Friendship.”
Giorno wasn’t sure how to reply. Trish was nothing but nice to her, but she was also really intimidating. Not many people could make three pairs of glasses work.
She continued watching, instead, as Narancia dragged Fugo into water with him; almost missed Sheila slipping away and up the rock-side, and coming their way.
“Hey, babe.” Trish looked up as she approached. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too,” Trish responded; handed the rainbow aviators her way. “I have rocks.”
“Oh, baller.”
Giorno looked away as they continued exchanging affections — watched Fugo almost fall into water, Narancia laugh. Couldn’t help but smile at the scene.
“Hey,” Sheila called out then. “Want sunglasses?”
Giorno blinked, momentarily unable to process she was the right addressee. “Uh — why?”
Sheila shrugged. “You’re squinting. Thought you could use them.” She was waving the sun-framed pair around; Giorno ducked her head.
“No need,” she said. “I don’t mean to — “
“Girl,” Sheila snorted. “Don’t risk your vision to be unobtrusive. Come on.” She turned to Trish then, sighed. “She’s worse than you, sometimes.”
Trish leaned against her knee. “I don’t see what you mean.”
“Just take them,” Sheila thrust the pair Giorno’s way. “God. You’re both too much.”
“You say like you don’t love me for it.”
“Never said I didn’t.” Sheila threw a hand around Trish’s shoulders, settled in. Nodded at Giorno again. “She wanted to offer you a pair, like, as soon as you got here, but was scared you’d think she was annoying.”
Giorno felt her eyes widen in confusion. “I — why?”
Trish hid her face in Sheila’s braids. “I don’t know.”
Sheila just laughed. “You’re kind of intimidating, Giovanna.”
Giorno blinked.
“I didn’t say that,” Trish muttered, still hiding her face. “I just said — “
“That she’s too cool for you?”
Trish whined.
Giorno stared.
“Don’t give me that look,” Trish sighed, finally looking Giorno’s way. “You show up, you get my dad in rehab, your hair is cool. What am I supposed to think.”
Giorno finally remembered to put the sunglasses on. Almost poked her own eye out, in the process.
“I — “ she started. “Technically, it was the school administration that made your dad go into rehab.” It was six months ago that Giorno decided solving her new school's drug problem was the best way to kick-start a year. She still couldn't believe it actually worked.
Sheila nodded. “On your evidence, too.”
Trish shrugged. “Yeah, but…” She traced a shape on Sheila’s knee, nuzzled against her side. “I guess I just. Didn’t. Think people would care, until Giorno showed up.”
Giorno, distinctly aware of how hot her face was, found herself grateful for the sunglasses.
“I — “ she started again. Cleared her throat. “Am glad I could help you realize that.”
The look Sheila gave her could be described as nothing but aggressively approving. Giorno tried to return it.
Fugo approached them then — Narancia was a few feet behind, digging around the sea floor again.
“Well, damn,” Sheila called out. “You didn’t drown.”
“I'm desolate about it too,” Fugo retorted dryly. Nodded at Giorno without meeting her eyes. “How — uh. Are you doing.”
“...Good,” Trish said, then turned back to Sheila. Handed her a rock. “Have this.”
“Wow,” Sheila accepted it, held it up to the sun. It was still a little wet, and covered in algae. “Did you make it yourself?”
Trish nodded. They both burst out laughing.
“Well,” Fugo, said. Turned to Giorno. “I see Bruno's move is progressing well.”
Giorno nodded. “They wanted to show Leone a spot at the beach.”
Fugo rolled her eyes. Sheila, who was now fully wrapped around Trish, stuck out her tongue.
“Told you!”
“Well,” Fugo ignored her; squinted towards Narancia’s general direction instead. “I guess we’re watching Narancia look for crabs, then.”
“Had any better plans?” Trish asked, from against Sheila’s shoulder.
Fugo side-eyed her. “The bar is not very high.”
“Did you, though?”
Fugo just looked away.
Giorno started playing with the remainder of Narancia’s rocks — they varied in size, and colour, and she was pretty sure a few of them were just ocean-worked pieces of glass. She tried to build a house. Realized she was pretty bad at it. Decided to make an abstract mural instead.
“What are you making?” Narancia’s voice, loud and out of nowhere, nearly made her lose her footing.
“Nothing,” she said, turned around; Narancia was standing not a foot away, with wet sand in his hair and a large crab in his hands.
“God,” Fugo was saying. “Put it back.”
“I will!” Narancia rolled his eyes. Shoved it closer to Fugo’s face, and failed to react as Fugo flinched. “Say hi to Mister Smith.”
“I don’t want to say hi to Mister Smith,” Fugo said, earnest.
“I do,” Sheila gestured at the crab. Flipped it a peace-sign. “How’d you two meet?”
“I’m guessing, in the water,” Trish muttered.
“We did!” Narancia beamed. Put the crab back into the sea — Giorno moved as far from it as the rocks would allow. “I actually met him months ago.”
“Huh,” Trish said. “How do you know it’s the same crab, then?”
“Mister Smith is more of a state of spirit thing,” Narancia explained. Watched the crab scuttle away from their group. “Also, Fugo took a marine biology course and can tell if it’s the same one.”
Giorno, intrigued, glanced to Fugo — was surprised to find her already looking her way.
“Yeah,” Fugo stammered the moment their eyes met, looked away. Looked a little sunburnt. “Uh, there’s — there’s, um, striping.”
Narancia was nodding along.
“Ah,” Sheila said. “Striping.”
Fugo glared up. “Yes.”
“The identifying striping.”
“That’s what they teach me in college, yeah.”
The conversation was cut short by a loud honk from the beach; they all turned around to see Mista waving from the rented moving van, and Leone walking their way.
“I guess the lovebirds have returned,” Fugo said.
Trish made no move to get up. “Better not keep them waiting.”
“We should charge them overtime.”
“They’re paying us?”
“We’re paying you in love, assholes.” Leone, now within earshot, snapped. Narancia nearly fell over.
“Abba!”
“Christ, don’t drown.” Leone made a face. “You’re all wet. Why are you all — Fugo.” She squinted at the person in question. “Why is he wet?”
Fugo scowled up. “Am I his babysitter now? Get lost.”
“You get lost.” Leone returned the gesture. “Get lost in the van, more specifically, Bruno is waiting.”
“Ah, well, if Bruno is waiting — “
“Hello, miss Abbacchio,” Trish piped up, then, and Leone’s face softened.
“Hey, Trish.”
“Unbelievable,” Fugo muttered.
“How was your day?” Trish ignored the comment, and continued smiling up at Leone. The aforementioned squatted down by them.
“Pretty okay — also, we really need to go, so — “
“Right.”
“I appreciate you trying to butter me up, but — “
“Gotcha.”
“We can wrap Narancia up in some towers,” Sheila offered, helping Trish stand up.
“Like a wet dog!” Narancia beamed.
“Yep.”
Giorno watched the group move towards the van; almost missed Fugo trying to get her attention.
“Sorry,” she blinked, slow, and looked over. “Hi?”
"...Hi.” Fugo squinted at her. “Are you — are you coming?”
“Oh.” Giorno shuffled her feet, nodded. “Yes.”
Fugo nodded. “...Okay.”
Narancia, who was already at the beach, yelled at them to hurry up.
“Or I’m stealing your shoes!”
“Good for you,” Fugo muttered, into her chin; Giorno held back a laugh. Fugo always sounded so fond of Narancia, even when technically insulting. “You’d have to find your own first, loser.”
“We had to talk him out of wearing them into the water,” Giorno said.
Fugo blinked, as if she’d forgotten Giorno was there. Or that people could hear her.
Giorno decided to stop talking.
They made it to the beach slowly, both cautious of sharper rocks — Giorno slipped, at one point, and Fugo grabbed onto her forearm to keep her from toppling over; if Giorno’s chest still felt a little fluttery as they climbed onto the dry sand, well, Giorno would blame it on the adrenaline rush.
“Jesus,” Mista said, from the van. “Took you forever.”
“Eat me,” Fugo told him.
“Think I’d get food poisoning.”
“Haa, Foogo poisoning.”
“Nice one, Narancia.”
Giorno spent the ride to Leone’s house tucked in between Narancia and Bruno, with her knees pressed to her chin and the hem of her pants slightly damp. Fugo, who was driving, kept arguing with Mista over reading Google Maps. Narancia fell asleep a minute into the ride, and was now drooling onto Giorno’s shoulder. Bruno had their arm hooked over the backrest, so they could still hold hands with Leone.
She wasn't sure when or how, but somewhere in the twenty minutes it took them to get to Leone’s house, Giorno had fallen asleep. When she woke up, she was not alone.