Chapter Text
"Not a fan of Billie Eilish?"
Bruno Buccellati, twenty years old and ten minutes away from opening up their shift in a 6-22 Supeco, startled; there was a person watching them from across a register, a tall person their age with silky silver hair and a small rainbow pin they hated their eyes for immediately being drawn to. The stranger had to clear their throat; Bruno startled, again, and felt their chest constrict as the person subtly hid the pin away.
"Uh," they said, intelligently.
The stranger arched an eyebrow.
"Not a fan of who?"
The stranger arched the other eyebrow. Ducked their head.
"It's her song," they motioned, vaguely upwards; Bruno recognized the beat of a tune playing near constantly on their store's radio station. I'm a baaad guy. "You were frowning — nevermind.” They cleared their throat again. "I am looking for the shift manager?"
"Oh." Bruno stood up straighter.
"Yes," the stranger mirrored. "This kid let me in, told me I'd find them here, but — "
"You did," Bruno wiped their palms off on the front of their uniform, extended a hand. Smiled. “It’s me. I’m Bruno.”
The stranger’s eyes widened a bit.
“Uh,” they said. Remembered, as if belatedly, to accept Bruno’s hand. Their palm was sweaty too. “Uh — hi. I’m Leone Abbacchio.”
Bruno kept smiling. “Nice to meet you.”
They were yet to stop shaking hands. “I’m supposed to start working here — you’re the manager?”
Bruno was not told the store would be getting a new employee, but was honestly not surprised. They rarely got told anything around here. They were good at winging it, at least. “I am.”
“Oh.” Leone finally seemed to realize the handshake had gone on too long; slipped their hand from their grasp. Awkwardly placed them behind their back. “Sorry, just — “
Bruno tried not to laugh.
“You look young.”
They got that a lot. “I am young!” They quickly closed the cash register, stepped outside. “Let me show you where everything is. Who — were you told what you’d be doing?”
“Uh.” Leone hesitated for a second before trailing after them. Bruno was sure they’d imagined their eyes straying lower than necessary. “Like — store stuff?”
Store stuff was, in general, what they hired people for. “Good! Full-time, or…”
“Yes. No. I mean,” Leone grimaced. “I’m here on a student contract. But I’ll be here daily.”
“Student?”
“College student.”
Bruno got that vibe. Leone did look too old for high school. “Gap year?”
Leone grimaced again. “Let's go with that.”
Bruno decided not to push it.
“Well,” they said, leading them down to the employers-only room. “Ever worked a register before?”
Leone shook their head.
“Okay,” Bruno started calculating risk-and-reward in their head. Today’s shift was Narancia and Sheila on the shelves, which left Mista and Fugo on the registers; neither of the two was someone Bruno felt comfortable leaving Leone’s training up to. Fugo had a very short temper and Mista wasn’t very good at math . They could always move Fugo to the office, and have her run the paperwork; but that was kind of illegal. “Uh. Wait.”
They walked out, then, and peered down the staircase Leone had just come from; Fugo and Narancia were already lurking.
“Is she nice?” Narancia theatre-whispered.
“She?” Bruno asked.
“Yes,” Fugo said. “We found her instagram. She writes about music.”
Bruno’s eyebrows went up.
“If you can call it that,” Fugo went on.
“I can!” Narancia said.
“Proud of you.”
“It’s metal.”
Bruno arched an eyebrow. They could see it now, Leone, with her dark lips and hooded eyes, singing along to — to whatever metal sounded like. They were not very up to date with modern music.
Narancia and Fugo were half-way through their daily wrestling match; Narancia got Fugo in a headlock, looked up to Bruno.
“Is she nice?”
“She — “ Bruno glanced over. Leone was watching them,from the office, wide-eyed. They grinned. “I think so.”
“...Okay,” Fugo said, freeing herself. Her bangs kept poking out at a weird angle. “Should we open, though? Weird hat guy is already outside.”
Bruno made a face. “Uh — in a moment.” They turned back to Leone.
“Today is going to be really weird,” they said. “If a customer is rude, tell them to leave. If they refuse to, call me.”
Leone’s eyes were still wide. She nodded.
“Fugo threatens to harm people a lot, but she won’t.” They wrapped it up. “Uh. We’re understaffed. And we don’t sell chargers, people keep asking, we never have.”
Leone nodded again.
“Okay,” Bruno clapped their hands. Turned back to Fugo. “Get Mista, tell him he needs to show Leone the ropes. Narancia — “
“I’ll stop eating peanuts while I stock them,” he promised.
“I don’t think you will,” Bruno said, fondly. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
Narancia saluted.
“Okay.” They turned back to Leone. “Let me show you where you can leave your things.”
Leone nodded.
They smiled, then, in a way they hoped was encouraging. “And you’ll be okay.”
“I don’t think I will,” Leone said; a corner of her lips quirked up. “But I appreciate the sentiment.”
__
"I see what you're doing."
"Do you now." Fugo, sixteen years old and two hours into her shift, refused to look at this customer. She was aware the tone she was using would get in her trouble, later, but felt it to be preferable to her honest reaction. Which did involve a physical altercation and at least two of the customer's teeth chipped.
"Yes!"
Trying to get you to pay? Fugo looked back to the screen showing the price, and sighed. "Six dollars, please."
"it’s five ninety nine."
Fugo breathed through her nose. "Alright."
"You can't scam me."
"Okay."
She half-assed two thirds of a breathing exercise while scoping through the drawer for a one cent coin. Thought she should start pulling a Mista. Just telling people they only accept credit.
"You know,” the customer was saying. “You could be nicer."
"Probably," Fugo finally found a single cent coin. She tossed it his way. "Here's your change."
The guy stared at it, then back at her. Reached out, and placed it back on the register.
“You can keep it.”
"Oh — "
Suddenly, there was another body pressing next to hers — Fugo froze up, for a moment, but then recognized the familiar scent of sweat and cologne, and shuffled out of the way with an overexaggerated sigh.
"We are so very sorry," Mista was telling the man, already working around the register. "You paid already? Need a bag? Won't even charge you. It's on the store."
"Don't need a bag," the man was saying. "Microplastic kills." He met Fugo's eyes, again; she bared her teeth.
"You're dying anyway," she told him.
Mista cleared his throat, loud. "Thank you for shopping with us!"
The man did not break eye-contact.
Mista elbowed Fugo (she hissed). "Go stack the shelves."
"You stack the shelves."
"Noo, I think you should do it," Mista kept nudging her. "Come on. I left like, ten boxes of penne in the pasta aisle. Go keep them company."
Fugo looked away from the customer, met Mista's eyes. He seemed to be pleading.
"Fine," she said. Pointed a finger. "If my final is off, though — "
"Yeah, yeah,” Mista was already fucking up her cash layout. “Threaten me later."
One last time, Fugo breathed through her nose, and turned on her heel.
At least the pasta aisle was quiet. It was all the way in the back, and there was currently a fifty percent off deal going off on some fragarolli up in the front, so not many people had reason to come here; she took her time, confident Mista wouldn’t mind, and then went on to fix the sloppy job he did before she got there. The store radio station kept playing the new Taylor Swift song on a loop. Like Fugo had to be told she needed to calm down.
She was just halfway through her mental speech on rainbow capitalism when the sound of someone gently clearing their throat broke her out of it. She turned around, already on edge again; relaxed, but only so slightly, when she recognized one of their shoplifting regulars.
“Hello,” Giorno Giovanna, because that was her name, said. “Do you work here?”
Fugo eyed the shape of Giorno’s tote bag. Could make out two shampoo bottles poking against the fabric, and one small garden shovel.
“No,” she deadpanned. “I stock shelves for fun.”
Giorno nodded, as if given a normal response. “Thank you for your time.”
She turned around, and started walking away. Fugo stared.
“Wait,” she called out. “I — what?”
Giorno stopped. Looked back, face still frozen in that unreadable smile.
“I — work here?” Obviously.
“Oh,” Giorno said. “Walked back. “Congrats.”
Fugo spluttered.
“Can you tell me where the fruit aisle is?”
“Uh, yeah, it’s — ” Fugo started, then paused as Giorno grabbed a box of penne right from under her nose and shoved it under her jacket. “ — Seriously?”
Giorno just beamed, all innocence and bright teal braces bands. “Pardon?”
Fugo stared. Let her take another box.
“I will say you threatened me,” she told Giorno. “When they replay the footage.”
Giorno nodded. “I can come threaten you in front of them, if you need me.”
“Thanks?”
“Fruit aisle?”
“Oh, you’re actually going there?” Fugo realized, from up-close, that Giorno had freckles. Felt some sort of way about it. “I don’t think we have anything worth stealing left, though. Those avocados have been here for over a month.”
“Everything is worth stealing,” Giorno said. “But, no, I’ll pay for fruit.”
“Okay?”
“Down by the cereal, right?”
“Yes — wait,” Fugo scowled. “You know how to get there?”
Giorno shrugged. “I’m a regular.”
“Why ask, then?”
Giorno just smiled. Started walking away.
“Maybe I just wanted to talk to you,” she threw over her shoulder.
Fugo’s mouth went dry.
“Or you just needed an excuse to get through to penne.”
Giorno just giggled. Then sobered up. “Did you know you have ghosts?”
Fugo stared. “Ghosts?”
Giorno paused. “Yes.” She nodded. “In the cereal aisle.”
Fugo had no idea how to respond to that.
“Hm,” was what she said. Mentally cursed. “We — don’t discriminate.”
Giorno kept nodding.
“Against the living status — of the customers.”
“That’s nice,” Giorno said. “That’s a good policy.”
Fugo nodded.
“Well,” Giorno said. Gave Fugo a small wave. “Have a good day.”
By the time Fugo thought to wave back, Giorno was long gone.
__
“So,” Bruno said, clipping together the last of the receipts. “Good job, you guys!”
The room of their fellow store workers gave a half-hearted response; Narancia, however, gave a solitary holler, slapped his knees.
“Day down!”
“Shift down,” Fugo corrected. “Bruno has to stay here. Show some solidarity.”
“Shit, you’re right.” Narancia immediately curbed his enthusiasm. Bruno laughed.
“How are you in such a good mood?” Sheila asked. She had slid so far down her chair she was de facto taking up two seats. Fugo, whose space she was infringing on, was uncharacteristically un-indignant about it; Bruno had reason to believe it had something to do with the baggie of assorted fruits a customer had left on her register.
“It’s just a sugar high,” Mista said. “They eat sugar packets.”
Trish, the new part-time worker, screwed up her nose. “They do?”
Bruno was not proud of that. “I don’t.”
Mista was nodding. “Every time they get light-headed, they just pop one.”
“Ew.”
“I don’t,” Bruno tried again.
“Straight out the bag.”
“Mista.” Bruno made the mistake, then, of glancing sideways; Leone Abbacchio was there, and watching them with what almost passed for amusement.
Bruno, flustered above what was regular, looked away.
“God, Bruno.” Sheila was saying. Her knee was digging into Fugo’s face. “At least get some protein in there?”
“I do!” Bruno said. Then, “Wait. No. I don’t, because — because I do none of those things.”
They glanced at Leone again. One of her perfectly defined eyebrows was arched, black lip curled upwards.
“I saw you,” she said, as the rest of the room cleared out. Her voice was low, slightly raspy.
Bruno startled.
“Sorry,” she said. Watched them struggle to re-collect the receipts they’d just dropped for a second before squatting down to help; despite what Hallmark movies had taught Bruno to expect, their hands did not brush.
“It’s not your fault,” they said, instinctively. Pretended their cheeks were not warm. “You — saw me?”
Leone snorted. “Eat sugar.”
Bruno bit down on their lip.
“I did,” Leone repeated, more confident now. There was a teasing undertone to her deadpan. “And I saw you steal cheese cubes from the dairy section. So I guess you weren’t lying about getting some protein, uh.”
Bruno ducked their head.
“I pay for it,” they said.
“You shouldn’t,” Leone said.
They cleaned up in silence.
"So," Bruno said, once they were done. "How was your first day?"
Leone bit her lip.
"Well," she said. Sighed (Bruno giggled). "Yes. Like that."
Bruno nodded. "I feel that."
"How was your day?"
Bruno found themselves caught off-guard. Visibly blanked out.
"Huh," Leone said, squinting down at them. "Are you...not familiar with this concept?"
Bruno blinked. "What concept?"
"Common decency being returned?"
Bruno pressed their lips together.
"I do work in a store full-time," they said. Leone breathed a laugh. "So. I guess, no?"
"Okay," Leone tucked some hair behind her ear (Bruno failed not to stare). "I'll just have to reintroduce you to it, then."
Bruno's chest did a flip.
"So you," Leone said. "You just never leave, huh?"
Bruno hesitated. Laughed, shook their head.
Leone grimaced. "How old are you?"
"Twenty," Bruno said.
"Huh." Leone's eyes were looking anywhere but their way. "Interesting."
"Is it?"
"So am I," she said. Cleared her throat. "You — um. I guess I don’t even need to ask, uh, whether this was your dream job — "
"It obviously was," Bruno teased. Leone still ended up looking like a deer caught in the headlights. "No, uh, I actually used to run my dad's business."
"Oh?" Leone leaned against the wall. "Was it also a supermarket?"
"No, just a regularmarket." They said it like it was one word, because they thought that was funny. "It was a fishing store. But we had to sell it. So now I'm here, until — " Until forever, probably, but they didn't need to say that. Didn't want to say that. They swallowed. "Yes. Well."
"A regularmarket?" Leone, thankfully, didn't push. "That sounds nice."
"It was."
The silence got awkward. Leone cleared her throat again.
"Anyways," she said. "When are you free to go?"
"Good question," Bruno sighed. "In an hour, in theory."
Leone frowned.
"It really depends on whether everyone shows up for the other shift,” Bruno explained. “And how much work I got done during my shift. All that.”
“All that — what?” Leone frowned. “Go back. What?”
Bruno laughed, helpless.
“Whether everyone shows up?” She was frowning. “Do people...not?”
Bruno nodded. “But it’s not their fault,” they hurried to add. “Sometimes they get sick. Or they have an important thing they can’t reschedule. Or no one is scheduled, and if I don’t stay, they’ll have no one to work the register, and I don’t want anyone doing a double-shift — “
“So you do a double-shift?”
“Yes, but — nevermind —”
“And, hold on.” Leone cut them off. “That’s not even your job. You have, like — “
“Inventory,” Bruno supplied.
“That.”
“And deliveries, and — yeah.”
Leone stared.
Bruno shrugged. “It’s how it is.”
“What the fuck.” Leone shook her head. “I don’t think that’s legal.”
“I mean,” Bruno thought on it. “Maybe it’s not. But, uh, it beats being unemployed.”
Leone kept staring. They withered under her gaze.
“Do you — “ Leone spoke up. “— Need help?”
Bruno looked back up, surprised.
“Like — with the next shift.” Leone was staring at the ground again. “I did just learn how to work a cash register. I could be useful.” She grinned, lopsided and hopeful. “Mista says I’m a natural.”
Mista did like to give pep-talks. Weird as they were. “I — that’s a fifteen-hour workday.”
Leone shrugged. “You’re working it.”
Bruno’s workday, really, usually lasted far after the store closed, but they were not about to bring that up.
“I can’t ask that of you,” they said. Leone rolled her eyes.
“You’re not,” she took the receipts from their hands. “Did you eat?”
Bruno blinked. “Yes,” they said. “You saw me.”
Leone looked horrified.
Bruno ducked their head again.
“Do you not eat real food?”
“I have breakfast!” It wasn’t even a lie. They always got a granola bar, or something. “And then I have something at home.”
“I’ll get you real food,” Leone said. “What do you like?”
Bruno shrugged.
“Okay,” Leone bit her lip. “Do you have — dietary restrictions?”
“I try to keep kosher — don’t buy me food.” Leone was already moving out the door. “Don’t — Leone!”
“You can’t stop me,” Leone said. “I’m off the clock.”
Bruno stared.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” she added. “Maybe less. Then I can take a register.”
Bruno kept staring.
Leone looked away, still smiling. “See you later.”
Bruno forgot to say goodbye back.
__
“You know,” Fugo was saying. “This is exactly what they want.”
Giorno Giovanna, fifteen year old and honestly a little sleepy, had just accidentally activated the anti-burglary alarm in the grocery store she stole from semi-regularly. This meant the shift manager had to be called in; Giorno was currently holding out her tote bag for Bruno to inspect, and was not subtle about listening in on the conversation they were having with the cashier on-duty.
“Do they?” Bruno angled the bag so that its insides were hidden from security camera, and pretended not to notice the dozen or so mini croissants lovingly wrapped up inside. “Who are they, again?”
“The — the people who run this, I don’t know?” Fugo said. “Do you expect me to back my bitter working class attitudes with facts? In 2019?”
Bruno laughed, and pushed the bag towards Giorno. “I guess not.”
“Like, the reason they underschedule us is so we’d cover for each other and not complain — god, once the word gets out you just need to hire lesbians and they’ll pile over each other trying to score a human rights violation, it’s over for us.”
“I don’t like what you’re implying,” Bruno said. Addressed Giorno. “Let me look at your receipt again.”
Giorno handed them the slip of paper; it advertised a single bottle of fruit juice she just paid for.
Bruno nodded. “Well. I see nothing suspicious here.”
Giorno looked over to Fugo; she was clearly watching. They both looked away.
“It must be an old price-tag, or something.” Bruno went on. “On your wallet, maybe. Those set off alarms, sometimes.”
“Possible,” Giorno nodded. “I am an honourable customer.”
“You are,” Bruno nodded. Turned back to Fugo. “Anything else you needed?”
Fugo shook her head.
“A communist uprising, maybe?”
“Is communism a joke to you?” Fugo snorted. “I'm okay.”
“I don’t think communism is a joke,” Giorno said. “Or impossible, really.”
“Of course you don’t,” Fugo sighed. “Bruno, could you actually get Abbacchio to take over? I'm taking my break soon.”
Bruno nodded. “Sure.”
“You’ll really do anything if she’s involved, huh.”
Bruno’s eyes widened. “Stop — stop being terrible.”
“Sorry, boss, it’s terminal.”
They turned around without a response; Giorno watched Fugo watch them, and laughed.
“So,” Fugo said, once they were alone again. “Do you need anything else?”
Giorno shrugged. “Just to give you this.” She placed the fruit juice before Fugo, and delighted in how her eyes widened.
“You —” Fugo’s voice cracked. “Need to stop giving me gifts.”
Giorno tilted her head, hummed. “Why?”
“Because,” Fugo’s face got very red. “It’s — suspicious.”
“Oh,” Giorno frowned. “Did I get you in trouble?”
“No — I mean.” Fugo’s face was getting redder still. “I mean. No. But.”
Giorno smiled.
Furiously, Fugo looked away.
“Plus, I’m allergic to pears,” they added. Cleared their throat. “I can’t drink this.”
“Oh.” Giorno grimaced. “Unfortunate.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll get you another one, then.”
Fugo’s head snapped up.
“What — “ she seemed at a loss for words. “What — why?”
Giorno shrugged.
“I know all of you work long hours,” she said. “And don’t get much sun. So I thought you could use something with sugar, that’s also not an energy drink.”
She tried not to laugh as Fugo subtly pushed her half-empty can of Red Bull behind the register.
“And I needed to buy something,” she went on. “Else it’s suspicious.”
“Right.”
“It’s just what I do,” Giorno said. Smiled. “Can I get you another juice?”
Fugo watched her for a second. Frowned.
“Well,” she said. “If that’s what you do for everyone.”
Giorno felt that wasn’t what she was trying to convey. But was willing to take it, if it meant Fugo accepted her present.
They started moving for the drink aisle; stayed quiet, all the way. Giorno tried not to mind. Tried not to read too much into the situation, or the body language — tried not to overanalyse her own emotional response. Thought about the begging woman down the block, who she was about to bring the croissants to. Managed to cheer herself up.
She also managed to distract herself, apparently — she stumbled as she realized she was about to walk into a man, caught her footing.
“My apologies — “ she started; then her eyes zeroed in on the lack of actual ground under the man’s feet— he was floating a solid ten inches above the ground. She closed her mouth, and looked up.
“Oh my god.” There were three other store workers in the aisle; the girl with braids, the very loud friendly one, and the one with the hat. Giorno could not remember his name. “You can see him too?”
If the look on Fugo’s face was anything to go by, she could see him as well.
“Yes,” Giorno said.
“Shit,” Sheila, the worker with braids, said. “Ghost girl is legit.”
Giorno straightened up. “I never lie.”
“No,” Fugo said.
“Man,” Mista — Giorno finally remembered his name — laughed. “And here I was, thinking the edibles were just kicking in.”
“You're high?” Sheila said.
Mista shrugged.
“At work?”
“Well, I can’t really clock out.”
Giorno was just about to tell him her stance on casual drug use, when Fugo ran a hand down her face, muted a scream.
“I’m having a psychotic break,” she announced.
“You are not,” Sheila said. “There’s a ghost in our cereal aisle. We can all see him. It’s real.”
Fugo was shaking her head.
“Aaand rationalism fails you again.”
“Fails me — fuck you,” Fugo frowned. Paused. “This is mass hysteria.”
“This is not mass hysteria.”
“Like in Seattle 1954.”
“Oh my god.”
“Wow,” Narancia, the final worker, was talking to the half-translucent man floating above them. “A real ghost, huh?”
The man laughed, apparently awkward. “I guess so.”
“Woooow,” Narancia kept saying. “Can you slime?”
The man frowned. “Uh?”
“Slime,” Narancia repeated. “Can you?”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Come on. Be cool.” Narancia said. “Slime me.”
“What — “
“Stop bothering the ghost, Narancia.” Fugo said, then apparently caught herself. “Wait. What am I saying? There is no ghost.”
“I’m afraid there is,” the ghost said.
Fugo groaned again.
“How did you die?” Narancia asked. He’d climbed atop a ladder, by now, and was swinging his legs around wildly. It kept going through the lower half of the ghost’s spectral form.
“I — didn’t, actually.” The man cleared his throat. “I’m just in a medically assisted coma.”
“Oooh.”
“Yes,” the man seemed flustered.
Mista scowled. “Why?”
The man was now visibly ashamed, "For a video."
“Huh?”
"Yeah,” the man sighed. "I work for Buzzfeed."
Giorno watched Fugo’s face contort, and held back a laugh.
“What kind of fucked up videos are you making?” Sheila demanded.
The man hesitated. “I — you know.” He grinned, sheepish. “The Buzzfeed ones?”
“Ah,” Sheila said.
“Oh my god!” Mista clapped his hands. “That’s why I know you!”
Sheila zeroed in on him then. “You watch Buzzfeed?”
“Like you don’t,” Mista said.
“I don’t!”
“You do,” Mista insisted. Fugo nodded.
“You said you have a crush on Jen.”
“That — god, shut up, Pannacotta.”
"Wait," Giorno said. Looked up at the man. "You used to work here."
They all looked to Giorno, then back to the ghost. He nodded.
"I did," Risotto Nero, as Giorno now recognized him, said. "We got fired last year."
"We?" Mista asked. Sheila was still scrutinizing Giorno.
"How long have you been stealing from here?"
Giorno addressed her, "Five years."
"Da-amn,” Sheila looked impressed. “And they still let you in?"
“It’s not like I ask for permission."
"A group of us," Risotto was explaining. "We formed a group, and asked for better hours."
Sheila grimaced. "You got fired for unionizing?"
"I mean — we got fired because of other reasons." Risotto grimaced. "But the boss only minded after we unionized."
"What kind of behaviour?"
"Uh — depends." Risotto kept grimacing. "Ghiaccio was rude to customers. Formaggio kept a cat under the register. I refused to kill ants. You know."
"We do not," Sheila said.
Narancia flexed. "Ant rights!"
“So now you work for Buzzfeed?” Fugo looked horrified. “Jesus. Is this our future?”
“Fuck you, I’d quit now if it meant going straight to Buzzfeed,” Mista was saying. “Like, forget reshelving. I’ll die my armpit hair for money.”
Risotto was making another face. “That’s not exactly what we do.”
“Right, my bad.” Mista rolled his eyes. “I’d get put in a medically assisted coma, for money.”
Risotto ducked his head in shame. “Touche.”
“God,” Sheila pouted. “This fucking blows. Finally, something fun happens in our store — “
Fugo was scowling at her. “You think this is fun?”
Sheila ignored him. “— and he isn’t even like, a victim of a mysterious murder we now need to solve.”
“Yeah!” Narancia sat up, as if just remembering to be upset. “That’s not fair!” He turned to Risotto. “You! Why aren’t you dead?”
Risotto stared. “I — sorry?”
Narancia crossed his arms, looked away. “Well, ‘sorry’ won’t do much good now.”
“We can always kill him,” Sheila suggested.
Risotto looked mildly alarmed.
“Just break into the Buzzfeed headquarters and — “
“I’m actually in a private clinic — no.” Risotto frowned. “Why am I telling you — please don’t kill me.”
Mista threw his hands in the air, shrugged. “What other choice do we have, man? We’re bored.”
Risotto seemed unsure whether this was safe to take as a joke. Said nothing.
“But really,” Sheila said. “Do you have anything we can work on?”
Risotto frowned.
"Like," she swung around. "Some other unfinished business that's keeping you from moving on?" She grinned, hopeful. "Revenge?"
"I — no," Risotto said. "I do not need to move on. Again, I am not dead — "
Giorno cleared her throat. “Are you on good terms with your parents?”
Risotto stared down at her.
“No,” he said. “But I am okay with that.”
Giorno could relate. “I respect that,” she went on. “Is there someone else you are not on best terms with, that you do want in your life?”
Something in Risotto’s face made her know she’d struck a nerve. She grinned.
“No,” he lied.
"Oh, there totally is," Mista leaned in. "Please tell me it's a romance thing.
"It's not," Risotto said, too quickly to convince anyone.
Mista mouthed a 'hell yeah'. "Ghost matchmaking."
"There is no — "
“We will let you be if you truly have nothing to work on," Giorno cut in, with a blatant lie (she got Risotto's attention). “But really...is this not a chance of a lifetime, to fix what might otherwise be beyond repair?”
Risotto was squinting. Or maybe it was his sclera contacts giving him trouble. He seemed to be wearing sclera contacts. “Is it?”
Giorno almost got lost in the logistics of specters feeling pain. “Absolutely.”
“I’m with Ghost Girl,” Sheila said. Grinned. “Let's fix your love life.”