Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fugo realized he was gritting his teeth. He shut his eyes for a moment and rubbed his brows with the pads of his fingers, willing himself to relax. He’d had a perpetual headache for weeks now. It had rained for just as long, the air heavy with the clean scent. Even though he’d used an umbrella, his hair hung limp and wet as he went inside.

He folded the umbrella and set it in the bin by the door, then walked across the back row of the sanctuary. It was eerie there, in such a cavernous, empty room, with the lights shut off. This type of place was meant to only be seen full of people. It probably smelled musty, but he couldn’t smell beyond the beeswax - to make his nose stop bleeding. He shook the feeling off and walked up the stairs.

“You’re early.” Mista was leaning against the wall, lazily examining his gun, holding it upside down and sideways. He looked Fugo up and down. “Still raining?”

Fugo began to shrug but stopped halfway, nodding to him. Mista was already out here waiting, even though it was early. “Yeah.” The raindrops echoed as they hit the roof of the church. “But it’s fine. I can wait.”

Mista lifted his chin to affirm Fugo's implication that he may wait outside these walls until they were ready, but was interrupted before he could mutter any vague curtness. The door before them opened soundlessly and Mista quietly put away his gun, taking a gentle step out of the way. The rain pattering across the weathered building must have muffled all other noise, since neither had detected any sound or presence behind it until now.

He was alone and contributed little to the surrounding atmosphere. His expression, as usual, meek and revealing very little.
"It's good to see you well, Fugo."

Mista watched as Giorno addressed his guest, who was still dripping onto the hickory floorboards. His Don’s voice smiled but his face did not. Mista redirected his eyes back at the tiny puddle of water from Fugo's jacket. Giorno made no eye contact with the gunman but positioned himself in front of the door in a polite, invitational manner. "I've asked for a simple carbonara for tonight, but there will be antipasto, of course, so I hope you may find what you like. I've heard it's very delicious. "

With that he softly closed the door on Mista and continued down the hallway to begin their conversation. Fugo was alone. The only other time he had found himself alone in Giorno’s presence was four years ago, and in fact, Fugo could not quite recall the last time he’d heard Giorno's voice address him directly at all.

“Thank you.” He dipped his head, wishing he had the strength to continue small talk. Where has he gotten the food? Had he tried a new place? Wow, it’s been raining for so long. Instead, the echo of their footsteps between the raindrops prevailed. Fugo did his best to fight the stiffness he always felt upon seeing his Don. The fewer people there were around, the worse it was. He was always in awe of how Mista didn’t change at all in his presence, still completely at ease, without a racing heart or sweaty hands. He was both an annoyance and a security blanket to Fugo. He was so painfully transparent and curt yet so dependably predictable. Fugo was a bit surprised they were leaving him behind. In a way, he couldn’t even imagine Mista in a room with no other people, especially Giorno. He was so social it seemed he would cease to exist if left alone. And yet they did leave him alone. The pouring rain was both deafening and extremely far away.

Giorno did not respond. Of course it was nothing. Feeding his subordinate anything less than a decent meal would be a failure in his role as boss. He arrived at the table and pulled a seat back, waiting for Fugo to do the same before seating himself in front of him. The food had already been laid out. There was fruit, cheese, cured meats, and naturally, red wine.

"You may pour yourself some." Giorno pointed casually towards the open bottle. "I'm sorry to say we will not be attended to for this dinner, so please, go ahead and serve yourself." He placed his free hand against the side of his face, propping his head up while his arm rested against the table and smiled.

Fugo found himself uncertain. He recognized this attempt at comradery, and if that were Bucciarati, he would not have thought twice before taking his word for it and pouring himself a drink. But Bucciarati was no longer his captain. He wondered if it would only be right to pour his superior a glass first. He raked his memories for the correct etiquette. Giorno for once, did not seem to notice. Perhaps he truly didn't care.

“That’s no problem at all.” The ringing in Fugo’s head was hard to ignore, but at least his unease was more of a dull ache than a sharp pain in his brow. He stood again and grasped Giorno’s glass first, the contrary nature to his words hanging in the air. He poured the wine and set down the glass, grateful his quaking hands didn’t spill any. Then he poured one for himself. Maybe wine would ease him. He waited for Giorno’s first sip before he did.

From the opposite side of the table Giorno watched Fugo’s hands shake. Fugo understood that he wouldn't be able to mask all of his nervousness from someone like Giovanna, but even for him, he was being unusually quiet this evening. Giorno watched Fugo fill his own glass without taking a sip, paused, then offered a polite smile.

"I appreciate the gesture but I will not be partaking tonight."
He tiredly ran his finger along the bottom of the wine glass, having considered briefly a familiar trick. It wouldn't be necessary. Besides, Giorno was loathe to play the same hand twice.

"I haven't been well lately." Giorno's eyes were still cast down, looking at the glass in front of him.

It was like Giorno. To have a feast laid out for his guest and to not eat, himself. Fugo stared at him for a stiff moment, and then lifted his glass to his lips. Giorno really wanted him to. He could feel it in the air between them. The wine was excellent. He let it swirl over his tongue before he swallowed. The alcoholic sting was tangible all the way from his mouth into his chest. He’d gone so long without eating he knew he would feel the effects after only a few glasses.

He considered Giorno’s words for a moment. Sick. Though Giorno had never been the image of vitality, he was always sharp, and it was difficult to imagine him ailing in any way. Had Purple Haze permanently damaged him? Even Him? Giorno could see his brow tense, his shoulders straighten. So now he had injured his Don. He ran his tongue over his lip and set down the glass, looking right at Giorno, who continued to sit there behind his untouched glass. The tremor in his hand lessened. His boss didn’t seem to be in a punitive state, but one could never know with Giorno. “....Ah. Even so much later?”

Giorno could detect the concern in Fugo's tone and straightened his posture from his previously rather bored slump. "No."

He wanted to put his subordinate at ease, but at the same time, it was a labor to admit his vulnerability. But by now there was no hiding it. It had been a long summer and had begun transitioning into an even longer autumn, and Giorno had made himself scarce not only to lower ranked divisions, but his own men as well. Though he could hear the anxiety in Fugo's voice, he couldn't say he detected any surprise.

Giorno shook his head and furrowed his brow. "You're intuitive Fugo. I'm sure you've had an idea some conversation like this was coming. You’ve noticed I've been scarce," Giorno prefaced vaguely. It was as if he were clearing the table, and he no longer offered the same polite pleasantries from before. He didn't seem interested. Perhaps he was tired. Fugo was watching his boss retune himself to the business for which he had brought him here in the first place.

He bit his tongue. Giorno didn’t completely deny it was Purple Haze. But Fugo didn’t trouble him with an apology, just continued to watch him. Slowly, he lifted the glass again to take another sip.

Giorno removed his hands from the table surface and placed them neatly over his thighs. He waited for Fugo to return his glass to the table cloth before resuming.
"As you know, since Passione Solidato was established we have acquired some powerful new alliances. The Speedwagon Foundation has many operatives, which we inevitably encountered under Bucciarati's leadership. Since allying with Mr. Polnereff, our Intel acquired on our previous boss, as well as Passione, was no longer solely our own, you understand. In fact, we set off quite a few alarms for the Foundation ourselves."

Giorno's voice, though strictly explanatory, was easy to listen to. It held a soothing authority to it - He didn't mince words. Fugo kept his expression stiff. He already understood the news of the Speedwagon Foundation and wasn't yet certain where this was going.

"Well." Don resumed.
"There are certain things outside of our jurisdiction which they have studied for many years. Certain particular things which they would prefer not to involve me with at all." Giorno opened his mouth slightly, as if pausing with an untraceable sigh. He blinked, looking at the antipasto course in front of him before settling his gaze back onto Fugo from across the table.
"Specifically, things involving my own heritage."

Fugo blinked, listening intently. It was easy to get lost in Giorno’s voice and forget to pay attention to the message. One simply wanted to answer affirmatively, but he made sure he absorbed every word, and his thoughtfulness reflected itself in his eyes. He coughed briefly, bringing his hand to his mouth, loath to interrupt Giorno, but it hadn’t been loud enough to make a difference.

Giorno’s heritage? Fugo admitted he hadn’t thought of it before. That he was not some stranger brought to earth just as he was now, without a story of the gutter Bucciarati pulled him from. It was strange nobody ever wondered about it, he guessed. He continued to study Giorno as his lips moved.

"How should I put this." Giorno's expression was plain and gestureless, his posture free of any convolution. It was hard to imagine a situation where he was truly at a loss for words as he apparently found himself now.

"I never knew my father." He resumed, hands still obscured under the table. "I was raised in Japan in my early childhood and my mother was never interested in exposing any details. To be fair to her, I suppose I never asked. The Foundation may have considered this for the better, ultimately, but as you may imagine, some things are hard to put away forever."

Giorno paused and placed a hand on the side of his neck by the slope of his shoulder. "Impossible really." Fugo noticed that his boss' tone had gradually slipped into one of a much deeper gravity.

Giorno stopped and looked directly into his subordinate's eyes. His gold eyelashes heavily curtained his otherwise pointed gaze. "I am telling you there are certain documented traits which I too have inherited." He maintained his gaze unflinchingly.

"They have made me rather sick."

Fugo narrowed his eyes slightly. So it wasn’t Purple Haze. He felt a sense of relief wash over him. But the gravity of Giorno’s words was disconcerting. His father? Fugo wasn’t sure why he would be the only person in the room when talking about something like this. Apparently a huge personal detail about his Don. Or maybe he was the last to know. He wouldn't doubt it. Fugo let the wine glass sit as he listened. Giorno always spoke so meteredly, so level, and one’s heartbeat would slow to match his tempo. He had no idea what Giorno could mean by his father making him sick. His stand could heal most anything after all. His stand? Was it alright? All hell would befall them if something happened to his stand. “Sick?”

He could empathize. Fugo himself had been sick for so long. Now he was stuck with this long standing headache and cough, like he spent so much of his time smoking, even though he had, in fact, been smoking a lot less than he used to. Purple Haze had gotten into his lungs some time ago and Sheila had told him he looked like shit. He sort of permanently did. It was always his role to be “the sick one”. He couldn't even imagine Giorno being sick. He just imagined a thousand tiny vines erasing all illness from him.

Giorno nodded one time. He had no intention of detailing what that may have meant for him. "It's not a virus or a disease I could remedy with Gold Experience. " He had tried. "But with the proper diet and regimen I'm certain I could live for quite some time. My father lived at least a hundred years before he was killed. "

The conversation had taken a turn for the sinister and esoteric despite Giorno's mannerly demeanor. He spread out his fingers in front of him on the table top, drawing in a quiet breath. "Do you know what it was that kept him healthy for so long, Fugo?" His voice was soft, almost like he was addressing a child. All of Giorno's measures to alleviate any dread seemed only to exacerbate the intimate and silent atmosphere.

"Oh. It's stopped raining hasn't it." Giorno looked briefly towards the ceiling, pressing his back against his seat.

Fugo had to lean forward to hear Giorno's voice, as it had grown so quiet. A halting chill came over him. He blinked several times, shocked. A hundred years. He hadn't previously thought about what Gold Experience could have done in terms of life span. But Giorno's father? He couldn't have possibly had the same stand.

"Your father....used his Stand?" He couldn't imagine a Stand more powerful than Gold Experience, but that had to have been it. "His stand lengthened his life?" Fugo had a way of appearing frustrated when faced with pieces of information like this. He wasn't sure exactly what Giorno was getting at.

"He was a stand user," Giorno affirmed. "But just as you know, stands are grown from viruses-- he was afflicted with something else entirely. Something which I also have inherited."
He paused.

"Fugo, what kept my father in health for so long was blood."
Giorno lifted his eyes from the untouched glass to meet the young man seated before him.
"Drinking it. He could have lived forever if he hadn't been killed."

Oh. Fugo didn’t think there was anything he expected any less than what Giorno told him. Blood. So this had nothing to do with stands or viruses or very much about Passione at all. He eyed Giorno’s untouched wine. He was overcome with disbelief, as well as confusion as to his own place in this.

Unless.

Giorno watched Fugo grow dim across from him. He wasn’t sure why his blood would be of any interest - this man who was coughing and shaking and perpetually under the weather. But the spectre of it was terrifying. This couldn’t be anything but a proposal. “Just....blood? Nothing else?”

Giorno nodded unblinkingly, his hands resting once again by his thighs. Fugo was sharp enough. He knew he wasn't called in here for nothing and was quick to fill in the gaps.

"I wouldn't want anyone to sacrifice for me." Giorno's voice had hardened, resolute. "But I'm weak without it. Requiem is weak without it," he measured plainly. It was clear that during his time cloistered away, much had transpired. Fugo didn't wish to consider the details.

"What if I were to take away the headache you've been nursing all evening, Fugo. Would you let me?"
Giorno's voice was plain.
"Would you let me take your bad blood and turn it into something more useful?"
He pressed softly.
"You would be a new man too."

The silence in the room was overwhelming, muffling any attempts at sounding alive at all. Having worked under Giorno these past years, Fugo understood he was not the type to ever compromise unless truly direct stakes were present. And even then....had he ever even seen Giorno compromise before? Fugo understood his boss would never ask him to throw himself in the fire, but this felt similarly bleak. The stakes must have been high. Who else could he have asked?

"What would you do, Fugo?"

Fugo did all he could to quiet his breathing. He didn’t want to send himself into a coughing fit again. He felt so faint, his heart racing. The face of his doctor at the hospital hung before his eyes. All the EKGs and blood tests she’d done. The virus starts in the lungs, sure, but its final attack is upon the heart. It beats sluggishly, unable to pump blood to the extremities, the limbs hanging so heavy, purple, and swollen.

His face was pale as he stared back at Giorno. He’d knelt here in this room to kiss Giorno’s hand. He’d pledged to anything. There was no other reply to be had. And Fugo realized. Finally there was some good for him.

Fugo slowly rose from his chair, went to Giorno, and knelt at his feet. He bent his head, his hair falling forward and obscuring his face.
“I would let you, Giorno.”

Giorno considered him for a delicate moment from his wooden chair, his eyes an unnatural, albeit muted color. He smiled and accepted the gesture. Fugo's hands had stopped shaking. There was his strength. Giorno made no habit of surrounding himself with weak men, after all. He allowed Fugo to take his hand.

"We share each other's burdens. You're the only one I could trust mine with, Fugo. Allow me to do the same."

Fugo exhaled, warm. He took Giorno’s hand and kissed it. His Don’s hands were cold, even more so then the dreary day would cause, to the core of them. He realized he didn’t care what happened to him, even if he died from whatever this was. He’d already spent months almost dying. But another part of him trusted Giorno. One is always drawn to trust him, however unlikely that might be. Nothing was ever out of place in his hands.

His hands didn’t shake. “I will.”

Giorno smiled softly. No tears this time. Fugo had grown, and he understood his role in New Passione. It was a role Giorno of course intended on reciprocating with his own duties as boss.

"I've asked a lot of you this evening. But that's it for tonight." Giorno signaled he may get off his knees. "We should meet tomorrow."

Fugo was not surprised Giorno put off any further action until the next day. But it was strange. The last time he had held Giorno’s hand, he’d felt the heartbeat, he’d seen the blood beneath his skin. He was pale but he was very alive. Giorno has become an idealization of life in Fugo’s eyes. But now he was so pale - white and no pink reflex. Cold to the touch. Fugo dipped his head, released Giorno’s hand, and then stood.
“You’d like me to come here again, the same time?”

"You're welcome to dinner if you have the appetite.” Giorno waited for Fugo to straighten himself before following suit, lifting himself out of his chair to stand. "But it isn't necessary."

Giorno shook his head gently and walked with him towards the door Mista had been standing at for the duration of their conversation. Fugo wondered if he would have attempted to lean against the door to listen. Would he respect Giorno’s privacy? Maybe.

Mista nodded to him, coldly, attempting to be disguised as boredom.

“I'd like to keep it rather casual. Please try not to bother yourself too much, I'll do my best to make it easy, but please remember you are also a member of Passione. I'll do what I can." Giorno trailed off, remaining at Mista's side before offering a very meek smile of comradery. "Good night Fugo."

Fugo nodded gravely. He understood. He will see it through, regardless of what happens. He’ll do his best to make it easy. They often say that before killing someone. He knew Giorno would do his best not to, but the similarity in diction stood out to him.

Mista attempted to read him as he left, but all Fugo did was put his jacket back on and descend the stairs. Not too fast, not too slow.

Chapter Text

Fugo sat, head leaning hard against the plaster, cold and unmoving like the edge of a knife. What kind of creature pressed its head against a rock as if it would flatten? His headache had multiplied, obscuring poorly defined images around in his vision. His heartbeat shattered his skull like a hammer. Maybe he wanted his blood gone. 

They’d offered to keep him in the hospital, but he’d had quite enough. The lights were so bright; the cuffs suffocated his limbs. There was something about the corridors that exacerbated his dizziness. And it wasn’t like he was unfamiliar with headaches. He’d had them since childhood. Awakening his stand had only made them get chronically worse over time.

Fugo didn’t know how long he’d been here, as it grew dark earlier and earlier. He hadn’t bothered to get up and turn on the light after it became dim. He generally kept his room at the church very sparse, with whatever furniture was provided. A few books lay stacked on the desk, but otherwise it wasn’t tremendously lived-in. Fugo did stay here from time to time though, especially before his hospital stay when they had many late nights of planning his mission.

A soft knocking sounded two times from the hallway. Giorno waited a few seconds before cracking Fugo’s door open. He was still dressed in his black suit, though his hair had been released from its usual neat braid as if he was getting ready for bed. He slid into Fugo's room like a shadow and didn't introduce himself. Giorno respected his subordinate's privacy, but this was his building, so one could expect him to appear wherever he felt suitable. He shut the door softly behind him and glanced at the window, which provided the faintest light from the night glow. It was enough. It hid the heavy expression painted on his face and the grey under his eyes. 

Fugo began to straighten his posture in response, surprised by the abrupt entrance, but Giorno interrupted the silence. "If you prefer the dark, that's fine." 

Fugo opened his mouth. Apparently he’d lost track of time. “I --  it’s alright. Whatever you prefer.” He realized he wasn’t afraid in the slightest. It was more like the sensation of anxiety at a new social situation or going somewhere new, unsure how to get there.

The shadow stood before him, his yellow hair glowing faintly in the dim light, which occasionally illuminated a small flash of pale skin. Fugo dipped his head at him.

“Whatever is comfortable for you,” he repeated.

Giorno didn't acknowledge Fugo's manners. The hunger gnawed. How many months had passed since he’d been able to eat anything at all? He found that tracking time now took a more deliberate effort. He looked at his hands briefly, one grasping the neck of a glass bottle, the muddled silhouettes of tree leaves rustling over the dimly lit portions of his skin. The boss dragged Fugo's desk chair over towards the side of his bed before collapsing into it with one quiet motion. He folded his leg over the other casually and looked at the bottle before briefly tugging at the cork, which remained intact. 

"Looks as if I forgot a glass." He remarked mutedly in exacerbation. Forgetfulness was unlike him, but at this rate he couldn’t say he found himself surprised.  "I'm sure you have one yourself? Or you could always just drink from the bottle." Giorno offered Fugo the full bottle of wine, indicating for his assistance with the cork. He hadn't felt like struggling with it.

Fugo could sense that Giorno’s demeanor was entirely different than the poise with which he usually conducted himself but he neglected to point it out. He instead turned a blind eye to the slight shaking present in his hand. Fugo didn’t wish to draw out this process any further. He decided to forgo a glass and gripped the bottle in his hands. The cork was stubborn, but he finally managed to twist it out.

Fugo didn’t want to pressure Giorno with unnecessary questions. He didn’t know what this would entail, but more than anything he felt the need to be wholly available to his boss and wanted to make that clear. So he exhaled and drank some from the bottle. Once again Giorno had brought something of good quality.

 “Is there anything you need me to do?”

"We can just talk."  Giorno sat somewhat reclined in Fugo's desk chair, watching him take a generous swig out of the bottle. It was a little funny, and unlike himself to forget to bring a glass. Gangsters would make do he concluded, vaguely amused. His eyes caught the faint light which glowed from outside, but even then, they lacked the stripped calculation his men understood by now. Giorno was all business, all the time, but Fugo was aware of how unpredictable his don’s thought processes could be. It wasn't unusual for him to occasionally take a step back into some vague mischief during periods of less intensity. His boss wore a formal aura about him, but at the end of the day, he was the one writing the rules and was permitted to indulge his momentary whims at leisure. This felt like one of those times. Giorno placed an arm over the chair’s wooden armrest and pressed his face against his hand in a simple manner. "If small talk is hard, you can always read a book." He looked at the collection Fugo had gathered to pass away the time during his stints at his room here.

Giorno clearly didn’t want to talk business, but what else was there? Fugo looked at his stack of books, finding himself at a loss. He’d forgotten what he had. 

“Do you like to read, Giorno?” Fugo offered uncomfortably. 

"I do." Giorno nodded, hand resting by his mouth. "Are you very familiar with French literature, Fugo? I was eyeing your copy of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables on the table. I have a copy of that. In fact, I've been able to accrue an actual first edition copy--you're welcome to look at it whenever you like. It really is a powerful thing to see it in person. At least, for me it is. Even though I don't speak French at all." Giorno's voice smiled tepidly, but his face was still obscured in the dimly lit bedroom. 

"I wonder if you'd have an easier go of it." 

He trailed and watched Fugo examine the contents of the partially drained bottle, an extended quiet resuming between the two. "I of course, wouldn't mind listening to a story right now. That is, if I've interrupted your literature." Giorno's voice was rather quiet.

Fugo blinked, dipping his head at him. “No—you haven’t interrupted anything.” He took another sip. The bottle was unwieldy, but he pressed through it, flexing his arm. “I’d started it while in the hospital. Nothing to do there...I do admit my French is rather rusty, though, but I’ve got the idea.” He smiled, but it was more like with one half of his face. 

“It would be fantastic to see the first edition, if you don’t mind. Ah. I didn’t know you collected such things, Giorno...”

He pressed through his genial smile and stood, lifting the book off his desk. “If you want me to read it, I can, if you don’t mind it in French.”

"Of course not." The boss understood and placed his hand away from his face and onto his lap. "I think you'll enjoy it quite a lot. I'll do my best to keep up. I promise no more interruptions." An actual smile was finally detectable.

“Alright.” What an odd request. But at least one that was easy enough for him. Fugo bent to switch on his lamp— a warm, inoffensive light, set down the bottle, and sat back down where he was.  He opened the book and studied it a moment to remember where he’d stopped. Since Giorno said he didn’t understand French, he didn’t bother explaining where he was. He just took a swig and began to read. His schooling in French while growing up and during university had produced a believable enough accent when he spoke French, though it was clear he wasn’t a native speaker. Sometimes he forgot he had such a background. All those tutors and assignments. He’d grown used to the ache and disgust that came with the memory. It no longer hit him with much force.

Soon enough the words began flowing more freely. Giorno looked at the wooden floor and listened, glancing upwards when Fugo would pause to lick his fingers and turn the page. His grip on the language was tenuous at best, but he had read the story before and could imagine what Fugo might be describing.  Giorno breathed steadily, staring fixed through the floorboards. He could feel each breath expand his lungs then leave him, feeling tangibly emptier and lighter with each exhale. The saliva collected in his mouth, around his tongue, and Giorno was still listening. He swallowed and gently bared his teeth. The words were blurring together now, less chewed over than before.  Fugo coughed quietly before rubbing his eyes, creating shadows through the warm light. His wine bottle was largely drained by now.

The wine both made Fugo’s head pound and faded the pain into a cloudy haze over his mind. His tongue stopped catching on the words so much after a bit. Apparently all those recitations he had in school were worth something for his fluency. He liked this story. He hadn’t read it in the original language before. 

The thought of what Giorno would do still clung to his awareness, but he did his best to allow himself to sink into the story. The rebellion was under way and the armies were advancing. He admired those charismatic speakers who, clearly full of anger, still managed to speak with such hope.

There was an air around Giorno, though, like Fugo could be swept into a vacuum. He’d never felt such an anxious energy from him before.

Fugo's motions had become languid, his posture soft, though he continued to read perfectly clearly.  Giorno watched him fold his legs closer to him, his back slumped against the wall. He blinked slowly between sentences, reading in a language Giorno could not understand. 

….He declared in his transport that this would last through life; he said to himself that he really had not suffered enough to deserve such radiant happiness, and he thanked God, in the depths of his soul, for having permitted that he, a miserable man, should be so loved by this innocent being….

Fugo felt a cold hand pull at his wrist, a firm grip. He had not even noticed Giorno get up from his seated position, but now found his thumb pressed against his pulse.  Giovanna's eyes were dimmed from the angle he looked down at the bed. He could read some of the words himself from here. Fugo's skin was warm, his face softly flushed as if he had been sitting in front of a radiator heater on a winter day. 

Fugo inhaled, pausing in his reading when Giorno touched him. He’d moved so silently, just outside of his notice. The words began to stumble in his mouth, and his body froze up, even though he willed himself not to. He felt almost feverish, and his shoulders bunched up towards his ears.

"You can keep reading." 

The hand on his skin was so cold. But after his initial pause he did all he could to keep reading without break. His hand was shaking again, and he had to use a huge amount of force to keep the book lifted so he could see it.

Giorno wasn’t Giorno anymore. He was so close to him but he didn’t feel warm breath. His eyes cut like knives. But at the same time, he was more Giorno than ever before. His graceful hands, long fingers moving. Those long blond lashes. Fugo wasn’t watching him directly but he could perceive all these things to be true.

The literature became slightly rushed and deliberate--awkwardly defined like the last sheet of a musical composition which hadn't been practiced enough. Suddenly, a choked off sentence echoed abruptly in the simple quarters. Fugo cried out a half cry. There was pain, it wasn't avoidable after all. He gripped the book in his free hand, losing his page as he felt his warm blood begin to erupt against Giorno's snake teeth. He had resisted the curiosity and avoided looking for them before, but feeling them sunk deeply into his arm was proof that they had been there all along. His boss was bent over in his desk's chair, holding Fugo's left arm with both of his hands up toward his face. He could sense all of Fugo's tension and fear, pressed up against him, feeling his hand curl at the pain. He could tell he had done all he could not to flinch, which had caused Giorno to grip harder, like having to restrain a scared, small animal. Gold Experience stood behind him, tacitly, as always, as if it had been activated the entire time. Maybe it had. 

Giorno paused and removed his teeth from Fugo's skin, opening his eyes to watch the blood begin to stream down his arm--slowly at first. This was the first he had tasted of anyone else’s; it stained his teeth and he paused before licking the miserable taste off. But Giorno had been atrophying for so long now. The taste of anything was not only relieving, but almost pleasurable due to months of denial. His hands quivered for just a moment before he craned his neck once more. It became a little easier the more there was to lap up.

Fugo could feel Giorno’s hunger. It was likely he would have to struggle to remain calculating when he finally had blood. Giorno knew objectively how much blood to expect in Fugo’s system, but it was hard to measure when it crept down his arm, sickeningly pooling onto the desk. It was inescapable and freely ran off Giorno’s face and hands. Once he’d fully entered the vein, it flowed freely. He could feel Fugo holding his breath and stiff necked, kept himself from looking to his left. The book had dropped onto the bed beside him, and he grasped at the sheets with his other hand. His body bunched up, back arching. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed with all his strength to keep Purple Haze from appearing. It wasn’t just the pain. Fugo felt the invasion throughout his entire body. His mind wasn’t entirely there, and he did all he could to keep it floating in the haze wine provided, rather than sinking to dark, suppressed places. Giorno could feel him finally inhale again, ragged, when he had passed out.

It wasn't just the pain. It was the sensation of being devoured. Giorno felt Fugo's body collapse softly and glanced briefly towards his face. He hadn't expected him to go so quickly, but he supposed he didn't truly know what he had expected. Regardless, it made it easier for him and Giorno looked away once more and brought his arm close to his face, quietly sucking at him like a mosquito. The gooey warmth was comforting, unlike the stale nothing taste of wine, and despite his best efforts, was unbearably messy. Deeply colored blood pattered onto his black suit collar, dripping from the side of his cheek. It stained the bed, small droplets coalescing into a larger puddle which seeped into the textured fabric. The warmth stuck to Giorno's cold hands and made his grip on Fugo sticky and wet. This didn't come naturally. He took a opened-mouth breath, as if he were going to gag, pacing himself and allowing him to wipe away some of the blood under his nose. He breathed heavily for a moment and looked at Fugo's still breathing body. Gold Experience stood at the head of his mattress, and when Giorno glanced in its direction, it touched the side of Fugo's skull gently. Yes. There was still plenty of life energy left, though he could feel it's metered drain. With this assurance, Giorno could continue until he felt it completely diminish.

Fugo dreamt heavy and bad. His body was shaking but he couldn’t tell if it was feverish or freezing. He’d received a blood transfusion in the hospital, as his poison had ruined his blood supply, his hands and feet cold blue, and they needed it to replenish his oxygen. It had been long enough now, though, that they knew he could supply his own blood, once given time for it to grow back.

But now here he was again, brushing his fingers along the brink of death without the presence of mind to keep himself from sinking into the tar of his memories. Feeling someone's breath on him was falling through infinite trap doors, infinitely dark. An endless nauseous maze. Into nothing.

But then something unexpected happened. 

He felt his chest inflate again, he felt something like warm sunshine on his forehead. A hand resting there, gentle. Like it had known him all his life. And he had known it too. He felt the ache and the cold deep away, he felt a vitality, something delicate yet powerful. Like he had meaning, like there was a star with his name on it. Like someone smiled when they saw his name written. Like he adorned someone’s memory.

Giorno sat down, his back against the wooden chair, hands resting by his thighs. He breathed steadily through his nose and recomposed himself softly, hand resting by his chin which he had finished wiping off. He stared through the bedframe, then at his hand, which was smeared with spread-about blood. For the first time since, he realized he felt warm. Capable now of holding his own hand for comfort, and sharp enough not to feel worry over anything at all. And yet, he sat in the dimly lit room with clinical trepidation.  The blood did not wipe off easily. it was worse than wine and filled his whole senses with the ungodly, overwhelming pang of metallic. He caught his faint reflection in the window across from Fugo's bed, stared through it, and dimmed his eyes. Gold Experience, still at the head of the bedframe, continued to gently touch the side of Fugo's temples, allowing Giorno to feel how deeply depleted he had left him. He activated his stand and gradually, rapidly, began to feel this energy return to his vessel, like turning on a gentle faucet. The wine which had previously softened him could become his blood, though the punctures left on his arms would stay for some time. They were not neat. Giorno stood up while Requiem remained, briefly left the room, and returned to wrap his wound.

Fugo did not stay unconscious for very long after Gold Experience healed him. He lay still on the bed, blood spattered across the sheet. Giorno could already see a deep black bruise pooling around the puncture marks on Fugo’s arm. Fugo felt a horrible ache; the sensation that his arm was made of concrete. It was so heavy. When he came to, he was sober. The effects of the wine were gone. Gold Experience was still pressing its fingers against his temples. The pleasurable feeling dissipated, but he was left with a strange peace, a pleasant tiredness. He opened his eyes and stared soundlessly up at Giorno. The blood was still smeared across his boss, but Fugo felt very separate from it, like it couldn’t possibly be his.

Giorno was taking his time wrapping Fugo's arm. He was able to mend his vein, but just like Narancia's throat puncture had, it continued to leave a scar, Fugo's wound wasn't yet completely closed. 

"I'm sorry. I can't do anything else for the pain." 

 He could feel Fugo's eyes over him, but did not return his gaze.

Fugo’s headache was gone. He felt the pressure on his arm as Giorno wrapped it up. It probably was mostly to get it out of sight. Gold Experience moved its hands from his temples, and he realized he missed them, leaning towards them. They were so gentle, balm from the fire.

“...It’s alright.” His gaze fell on Giorno. It was soft, even though the man standing above him was so stark and sharp, covered in blood.

Giorno's hands were steady now--no slight tremor or pausing. But they had already grown cold again. The color was able to return to Fugo, but Giorno remained pallid. He looked at his own hands and realized he'd probably never feel that warmth for himself ever again. Nonetheless, the relief after being released from starvation was enough to sustain him enough, so he could barely care. Fugo's blood, poisoned by Purple Haze, now was largely devoured and sustaining his boss, who had stopped dripping in it, the streaks and smears drying around his face and hands. 

Giorno completed his loose tourniquet and gently released his arm like one would release a moth back into the night. Perhaps more delicately than what was necessary. He had nothing he could think of saying now. 

"I'll leave you now. So you can rest." 

He looked at Fugo's arm briefly before he redirected his gaze back to the floorboards. 

"I'll have your sheets replaced as well." His voice was muted, as he was conscious that it was evening, and for his subordinates, that meant sleeping. 

"Good night." 

Giorno placed Les Miserables back on Fugo's desk and turned off his light. Requiem departed. Without a word more, Fugo listened to his shoes steadily click across the wooden floor until he shut his door, and he could hear them no longer.

 --------

Fugo’s room was at the end of a long corridor, and the lights dimmed towards his door. Giorno walked back towards the light, where a sitting area lay at the top of the stairs. Mista was still up, his gun taken apart and laying on the table. The Sex Pistols were out but they were surprisingly not making much noise, just snacking. It sickened Giorno a little, so he didn’t look at what they were eating. Mista looked up at him when he arrived. He didn’t say anything about the blood, just stared. He nodded and grunted a greeting, working at a stubborn smudge on his gun.

Mista didn't have to say anything. The pistol's contented chattering dimmed as they each noticed him. He felt a shiver as Giorno walked by, wishing Number Five wouldn’t mention it, but knowing completely that he would.

"Giorno....." 

Mista didn't say anything though his stand betrayed him. It was his intent to carry business as usual and chalk it up to boss' affairs. 

"What happened...?" 

Number Five sounded scared. 

"No. It's ok."

Giorno shook his head softly and paused on his way towards his room. "Everything is taken care of. Please let me clean myself. " Giorno comforted and excused himself in the same breath, offering a small smile of reassurance. He didn't look at Mista, though he wondered if it was his intent to eavesdrop.  

Mista, meanwhile, felt as if Giorno suspected it. “You need anything, Giorno?” He set the piece of his gun down. “Cause I can go get it.” His stand just stared after Giorno. Usually Mista didn’t have to ask. He just knew. But there was a disconnection now that made his stomach turn some.

"I'm fine." Giorno pulled at his bloodied jacket sleeve and continued forward.  It was not his intention to be sharp, but once again, his only prerogative at the moment was to clean the blood from under his fingernails. He almost wanted to be irritated with Mista, but knowing him, he probably was just up with his pistols who had nagged him for a late night snack, since he hadn't been sleeping anyway. Mista wasn't that calculating.

Mista still felt it hang in the air. He got up anyway to go get Giorno a towel. Giorno never liked to leave things a mess. He came back with it and knocked on Giorno’s door.

Giorno had pushed his sleeves up and was standing in the bathroom, scrubbing the now dried blood off his hands. It was everywhere. He didn't know where else to begin. He hadn't heard Mista's knock through the rush of the sink faucet, but it didn't matter anyway. Mista allowed himself in. Giorno lifted his eyes briefly and caught Mista's reflection in the bathroom mirror. He was carrying a towel and his pistols were put away. 

"Mista, why are you here? I was going to draw a bath." Giorno delivered placidly, looking back down at the water droplets left on the sink.

“Oh, you know. The pistols were hungry.” Mista knew he was in Giorno’s space. He could just somehow sense that there was something shaky about him, though his demeanor was still firm and cold. He hadn’t intended on eavesdropping, but he very much did very much notice the blood...And from earlier, he knew Fugo had returned.

“And well—“ Mista shuffled in front of the partially open, fully stocked laundry cabinet.

‘There aren’t any towels in here.”

Giorno’s eyes were turned down as Mista laid the towel beside him on the counter. He set his hand heavily on his shoulder as he turned around to leave. “Oi, Giorno.” He paused a moment, actually rethinking what’s he was going to say for once. “I’ll be out here.” He left out the if you need me .

Giorno felt the weight of Mista's hand on his shoulder. The warmth lingered. He brought his own hand towards his face to rub away more if the mess but stopped when he noticed the blood strung in his hair, crystalized across his blonde strands like icicles.  It didn't phase Mista at all. He had known more than anyone else how unwell Giorno had become in the last several months. Giorno supposed he hadn't had to spell it out for him, how this would end up. 

"Fugo's well.” He interjected, feeling the need to clarify. 

"Requiem was with him.  He's asleep now." 

Mista frowned, looking down at his fingers for a moment, then nodded. At least that horrible feeling of death had stopped radiating from Giorno.

“Good.” He didn’t provide comment beyond that, but he reached over and pinched one of his boss’s locks of hair, gently pulling off the bead of blood between his fingertips.

Giorno winced softly, then moved Mista's hand away, barely touching his wrist.  His finger lingered there for a moment before he looked back up at him. Despite the heavy nature of this evening's events, for the first time in forever he felt quite well. Maybe it was time to indulge Mista and let him in like he so clearly wanted to be. 

"Mista. How about you come with me for a walk." 

He looked up with him, the washed off blood still smeared across his face. "You will have to give me a moment."

Mista couldn’t hide the fact that this pleased him, as if he were a dog waiting outside Giorno’s door all day, even if he tried. The general air around Giorno felt so much better and it really put him at ease. He didn’t seem to be bothered by Giorno peeling him off. “A’ight, boss.” He smiled wide, looking right in his eyes. “Take whatever time you need.” He finally left the room.

Chapter Text

Fugo had awakened late, the sun grasping through the curtains to fall across his face. He remained unmoved from where Giorno left him, still wearing his clothes from yesterday. His whole body was tired, but it was the type of tired as if he’d gone on a long run in crisp air. He felt no effects of the wine at all, noticing the glass bottle that now sat empty on the desk next to him. His arm fell heavy at his side but otherwise he had no specific complaint, except, of course, that he had to get up. He felt like he could continue sleeping forever— the night before was like a dream. His brain held it up past his reach. Oddly, what he felt was some sort of sorrow. Like he missed it. The wound lay on his arm, framed by a bruise and that was it. He might have not even believed it had happened at all if it weren't for the fact that the sheets were still stained with his blood.

It reminded him: Last night wasn’t his only responsibility for Giorno. He shook off any disorientation and looked at the time. ‘Shit”. He had to meet Sheila in under an hour. He pushed himself out of the bed to begin searching for his shoes.

The weather had cleared up considerably. Fugo was late enough that the morning autumn chill had already thawed, the sun's rays tangible on his skin, unfiltered by any clouds at all.  Sheila absently tugged at her scarf, watching a broken spider web float with each slight wind gust. She understood today's business was hardly crucial, but it was irritating that Fugo thought he could spend her time on his terms. Sheila sometimes wondered why she was so often paired with Fugo on these kinds of missions. She supposed if the situation ever called for it, her stand, combined with Fugo's calculating nature, was good for interrogation. Nonetheless, there was an atmosphere of guarded aggression that routinely made itself felt around them. They were both known for their tempers.

"You're late!" Sheila lifted her chin and pointed at him. "I was beginning to think you forgot... You're getting sloppy." The comments battered him like she had been eager to spit them out. Even for Sheila E, this was a rather pointed greeting. Maybe she was also getting frustrated at the endless slew of busywork lately.

The “you’re getting sloppy” hit Fugo with a particular force, but he only responded in a scowl. He was, in fact, still wearing his clothes from yesterday, irreparably wrinkled. Why hadn’t it occurred to him to bring a change of clothes? Whatever. If he had gotten ready properly he would have been much later than he already was. It couldn’t be helped. 

He lowered himself into the passenger seat. “Sheila. Can we get coffee?” He really didn’t feel like questioning people today. In fact, he just wanted to continue where he left off in Les Mis . Maybe he could check himself back into the hospital. His headache was gone though. And his irregular heartbeat. That was a start. Fugo glanced to the side. The amount of anger Sheila was holding in her jaw was almost funny to him.

Sheila squinted incredulously as she pushed the car into drive, the clear morning sky allowing the sun to glint off any surface reflective enough. Sheila was not about to lounge at a café before having completed any of the tasks assigned to her, even if she did have all day. Fugo had exacerbated her patience already. She opened her mouth to say something sharp, then shut it before anything hurtful had the chance to escape, glancing in his direction before taking a turn. "Listen Fugo," She began in a terse, but resigned note. "I understand we shouldn't have to bend to the rest of Passione when we work directly under the boss but -- wait." She did a double take. "Do you seriously already have blood on your jacket?"

Fugo was simultaneously feeling serene and impatient. Impatient with having to see Sheila. All he really was thinking about was Gold Experience. This morning everything seemed so pointless. They knew the first patron would vacillate and the second patron would be hours of questions but eventually give in. He didn’t want to have to wait around for results he was already aware of.

“Oh? Oh yeah. Guess I forgot to wash it off.” He glanced boredly down at his jacket. There was actually quite a bit of blood. He didn’t indicate if it was from a long time ago or if it was today. He didn’t really care. “But wait.” He frowned, changing the subject. “Who’s wanting us to bend?” To be honest, he may have been paying attention a few days ago, but by now it felt like ages ago.

Sheila narrowed her eyes and looked ahead towards the road in front of her. She wasn't sure she wanted to know about any fights he had before meeting up with her. Besides, she trusted he would tell her whatever information she actually needed to know. Fugo's affairs were his own. But then again, since when did Fugo have any affairs?  Outside his job he had just been....existing. Smoking more than eating cause he didn’t really taste what he ate. But coffee. Coffee sounded good. Fugo didn’t seem to really care if he arrived late in yesterday’s clothes stained with blood. It was comedic, though no one laughed. She made a quicker-than-necessary turn and decided to let it go. The blood would look intimidating enough anyway, she supposed.  "It shouldn't be that important. You know how it is--wealthy family, suddenly late on payments, probably something no good going on, you know all about that right? I'm hoping it won’t be too unpleasant a visit...but then again, Mista's been assigned." She trailed off a little, faint irritation in her voice. This was why she had wanted Fugo to meet her in a timely manner.

“Huh...Mista? Wow, then they’re really late aren’t they.” He ignored her comment about him knowing about the ins and outs of white collared affairs. Because it was true. “Doubt it will end well. You should get espresso too.”

"Yeah." Sheila frowned deeply, understanding the implication. "We'll have coffee when we get there.  Until then maybe you can explain why you couldn't be assed to change into a clean jacket, Pannacotta."

Part of her wondered if he had snapped again, although that didn't seem likely. At least not lately. Fugo had been rather consistent in controlling his temper for quite a while.

Fugo leaned back his head and lifted his eyes, inhaling silently. He didn’t feel like this. Sheila wasn’t his capo—Mista was. And even so, he wasn’t sure what Giorno would want her to know anyway. “You’re expecting a riveting story, I know. but it was a nosebleed, Sheila.” It wouldn’t have been a surprise. It was rather constant when he was in the hospital. Maybe the story was boring enough she wouldn’t inquire.

"And you didn't even bother to change beforehand? That's fucking gross."  Sheila half muttered under her breath as she parked the car. 

"Listen, Fugo.." She started without looking at him as she turned the car keys. 

"I don't know what your issues are lately but please keep it together, ok?" 

Sheila lifted some of her usually scathing tone before glancing in his direction. It was almost just a little pleading. 

Sheila had known Fugo for some time now, and since their first mission, he had changed considerably from the aimless washout she had first met years ago.  He had gained considerable more control over his untameable stand as well as his caustic emotions. So all of this: the blood stains, the lack of punctuality, his general disinterest, though subtle, seemed a little regressive.

Fugo frowned more deeply. Christ. “Just wasn’t at home this morning is all. Didn’t have another jacket.” He hated being called out and didn’t know what to say. Her softer tone really put him off, though he knew it shouldn’t. People shouldn’t always be knives. He just felt blinded by scathing light.

“Don’t worry. Planning to keep from bleeding. As much as possible.”

Sheila peered over her nose at him as he unfolded himself and shut the car door on her. She had a feeling he wouldn't take that well, but she was his partner and if she didn't say anything, who would?  She put her indignation aside and pulled herself out of the car. It wasn't the blood she was concerned about. 

Sheila watched as Fugo waited several places ahead. 

"Hey, hey." 

She started. 

"I trust you Fugo P."

Her tone was the slightest bit apologetic, no longer condescending, light and made to cut the tension. They had a job to do.

She locked the door and quickly shuffled over to meet him.

Fugo narrowed his eyes then shoved his hands in his pockets.

 “Are you sure that’s a good plan, Sheila E?”

But there was a slight smile to his mouth as he waited for her before turning back around.

 --------

“Where the fuck is Mista.” Fugo took out a cigarette and put it between his teeth. “I’d guessed we meet him outside...But It’s not like he bothered to let us know what he was planning to do.” He eyed Sheila and offered her a cigarette. “I wonder if he’s already inside.”

This part of town didn’t bother to hide its wealth at all. They cared to maintain the buildings here, lined by nicer cars parked on the street around them. Clearly these people weren’t short on funds. The restaurant housed itself inside a hotel, it was one of those that kept white tablecloths and pristinely folded red napkins. The wine glasses reflected pristine light, even through the front windows. The doorman eyed them at first, but he was familiar enough with Fugo and Sheila that he refused to make eye contact.

Fugo scanned what he could see through the front window. Oh. Mista wasn’t hard to spot, even through all the obstacles. Fugo and Sheila weren’t late, but Mista was already inside and sitting at the table. 

“Dammit.” Fugo shoved the lighter back in his pocket and began to walk towards the door. He tried to remember what this family was. Big jeweler from Napoli. Business in the family for six generations. Pillar of the community and all that. The patriarch had grown old and suffered a stroke last week, his rehabilitation was looking less and less likely by the day. The man was powerful enough it was in the papers. But the son....was more modern minded. Some new lawyer who thought the rules would protect him. Somehow, Fugo recognized the name. Maybe they’d started law school at the same time. Their payment silently was not made this month. Fugo figured the son thought he was above all his father’s paranoia, though since there was absolutely no word, there was no proof. Fugo and Sheila reported the missing payment to Mista, and Mista had responded, then told them to come here at this time.

Mista pressed back in his chair and brushed his chin with the backside of his hand. He could hear the door behind him open, the light from outside briefly causing a small glint  in the expensive dishware laid out before him. He looked up briefly as the waitress placed an order of bruschetta in front of him. Just as she began refilling his wine glass, the steps behind him approached. Judging by the overwhelming scent of cigarettes it was just Sheila and Fugo. By a sliver, they were late. 

"Oi, Sheila, did you get lost? That's not like you." 

Mista addressed her boredly before she had even had the opportunity to reach her seat. "Not as late as our guest, though, it seems." 

She eyed the empty chair across from Mista before pulling hers back to seat herself.  Sheila glanced at Mista from the corner of her eye. Judging by his rather stiff posture it seemed he had already gauged this situation as a lost cause. At least for their impending visitor. whoever he was. 

"Sorry." She mumbled under her breath. Fugo could sense Sheila’s mouth harden the way it did when she was hiding her frustration, like she was sucking on a candy that wasn’t there.

"Well, it's fine. It’s not like I have anywhere else to be right now anyway. -- The bruschetta is pretty decent at least, right?" 

Mista gestured with his fork indicating for Sheila to take some before he did. 

"So! Since we're already waiting, I’m going to go ahead and order dessert and more wine. We have all day-- it's fine." 

Mista seemed unconcerned. This was typical -- after all, it was just some rich kid who needed to be reminded how deep a pit he was really in. 

Fugo pulled out his chair and stared as Sheila took a bite of Mista’s food.

 “Decent.” she responded. “It better be. At this place.” And Mista laughed. At least with him, he actually found it funny. He never laughed out of obligation.

"By the way. Fugo. I'm out of cigarettes. Can I borrow one." Mista gestured, but didn't glance in his direction.

Fugo coughed shortly, pulled out a cigarette, and handed it to Mista without a word, staring directly at him through the entire process. Mista didn’t appear to notice at all and continued addressing Sheila, asking her various inane questions, including what she was planning to order.

Their waitress came by and filled all their wine glasses. Mista leaned back in his chair and leisurely listed a few items to order, looking over the menu and taking his time, as if the waitress only had one table to tend to.

The front door opened once more, and Fugo wouldn’t have noticed except for the fact that the man who entered dripped such a commanding nature, it seemed to fill the whole room. The host didn’t need to inquire about who he was: it was clear. Perfectly on cue, he gestured to the table where Mista was still ordering and chewing on his cigarette.

"Hey, are you still listening?" 

Mista jokingly indicated the waitresses' sudden divergence in attention. He waved his hand softly in front of him before smiling, looking back down at the menu, and sucking on his cigarette between his teeth. 

The man who seated himself across from them was dressed in black, nicely suited and perfectly manicured. He looked about the same age as Mista and Fugo. At this point, though,all these kids’ faces were beginning to become indistinguishable to him. They were all the same: they all thought they could play the system. He could tell by his posture alone the trust fund truly believed he held the upper hand. Mista didn't even look at him. He continued his leisurely order. 

The dark suited man held his posture stiffly, his jaw unclenched. He stared directly at Mista who was busy paying him no mind. Briefly, Fugo caught him tearing a quick glance away as their eyes met. Fugo's hunch had been right. He had known him--Vince Mancini. He had recognized him, despite so many years having passed. It was not a pleasant reunion-- and one Fugo doubted he would even acknowledge. Fugo couldn't help but hold his breath for a moment, hoping that Vince wouldn't remember him. Or at least wouldn't recognize where he was from without knowing his name. But then again, Fugo and his family had also made the papers. It was certainly a massive scandal at school. The last time Fugo had seen Vince was in their law classes, but it wasn't as if his current suit was all that different- just black instead of grey. 

The Mancini diamonds. Their name was plastered across all of Napoli, all of Italy. This man thought he had inherited the world. Fugo doubted he'd begun sweating yet. He'd noticed the blood remaining on his jacket. Oh well. It wasn't like he wanted Vince to look at him too closely, though the glance he saw did indicate some familiarity. He took a sip of his wine and averted his eyes. It didn't really matter. Vince was either an obedient man or a dead man. Sheila just looked bored, examining her nails.

"That will be all for us. And of course, whatever Mr. Mancini wants." 

Mista lowered his menu and looked pleasantly up at his waitress who was still scribbling down the order Mista had edited about three times. 

"Thank you. Water is fine for n-" Vince absently looked through the waitress's drink menu as he was cut off.

Mista sucked the air between his teeth and tilted his head to the side, eyes cast down and smiling.  "Mr. Mancini, we're all friends here. Look at us, we're all at least on our second glass of wine, it seems like you may have some catching up to do. " 

Mista flicked his stump of a cigarette before taking a final drag and extinguishing it in the ashtray beside him. 

"He'll have the fish." 

He returned his menu to the waitress without looking at her.

Mista always took his time when beginning a wake up call. These kids were all the same. They just needed to be taught about the world. The waitress returned and poured him some wine. They watched, waiting for him to take a sip.

Vince stared at Mista for a moment, rebellious and unafraid to hold eye contact. “Let’s cut to the chase now, shall we? And not waste anyone’s time.”

"Ohh yeah... I see. I understand now. " 

Mista tilted his head back and nodded solemnly. 

"There's somewhere you'd rather be." 

He lamented, wearing a stiff pout and shoving some food around with his fork. 

"Well I'd hate to be the reason you're running late, Mancini." 

Mista pushed his seat away from the table and unfolded himself, tossing his cloth napkin into a ball onto the table. 

"Hm. Now that I think about it though, I think I remember Fugo telling me you always did have a nasty habit of running late. Didn't you now Fugo?" Mista had begun leisurely walking towards the opposite side of the table, his head tilted.

Fugo set his glass back on the table, his eyes heavily following Mista as he moved. He didn’t make eye contact with Vince, but he did manage to look rather bored. Of course Mista would bring up their connection immediately. “Tragic habit, really.” He affirmed.

Vince fiddled with his watch for a moment, his gaze flashing up to Fugo briefly, then returning to his wrist.

“I’m just sure we’re all busy people here, is all.” 

He lifted his wine glass, taking a sip as he finally glanced up towards Mista.

Then there was a smart rotary click.

Vince's glass shattered into jagged pieces which flung themselves across the table, creating an erratic red wine stain across the white tablecloth. Dishes clattered as the few occupants on the far side of the hotel reached for their purses and searched for an exit with alarmed tones. Mista didn't even seem to notice. He had only shattered Vince's wine glass, but the shards had projected far enough to collect in the three diner's laps. Fugo could feel a vague tickle where a piece had left a small, clean cut under his eye. 

"You know. I may not look it but I'm a pretty busy guy myself." 

Mista put his pistol away before grabbing Mancini by his hair and slamming his face onto the littered tablecloth set before him. 

"Some mistake! Showing up late to such a nice dinner."

Mista crouched down and forced the debtor's face into the glass. 

"You were the fourth to be seated. Don't you know how unlucky that is??"

He continued in exaggerated disbelief before looking towards his men. 

"Honestly, what do they teach these private school suits anyway? Huh Fugo? Not how to count I guess." 

Vince’s cool was long gone by now, obviously. He hadn’t imagined this brand of violence would occur in such a public, upscale place. But that was precisely because he was unfamiliar with this business. His father had always had a peaceful relationship with these people. Vince hadn’t realized that his father was someone who was willing to bow so low to somebody else. He had been the king of an empire. But there were apparently bigger fish, even in the same pond. And that peace was expensive. Very expensive. He looked up at Mista, the fear finally pooling in his eyes, shards of glass stuck to his face. He was unable to respond. All of Mista’s words registered as a foreign language.

Sheila hadn’t blinked, taking another bite of her bruschetta she’d shielded from the shower of glass. Fugo wiped the blood from under his eye, his expression still as bored as ever, even as he laughed lightly to himself. “Guess not.” He shrugged.

Mista decked Vince's head against the table once more before releasing him and bringing himself back up to stand over him. "You reach for that silverware and I'll have a bullet through your teeth Mancini. You owe us a lot of money. Fugo-- How much."

 Fugo thought for a moment.

“Oh, well, there’s interest now.” He stared at his finger, then rubbed the stain away with his thumb. “I’d say it’s up to a million.”

Mista exclaimed quietly in disbelief. 

"A million lire..! That's a tidy sum isn't it, Mancini. Just how many prostitutes could you pay off with a million anyway?" Mista laughed his jarring, obnoxious laugh, touching the cool metal of his pistol with his other hand.

"You should know, you're not going to be given the opportunity to meet anyone after me. There aren't any hands you can shake or any dicks you can suck to get you out of this. Our family has never had any problems with your father before but if you want to break that, the ball’s in your court." 

Mista stopped for a moment and looked down at him. 

"If you see me again you should know what that means." 

Mista kicked the legs of his seat so Mancini collapsed to the floor. 

"You get 12 hours. We're all really busy people."

Vince gasped loudly, scrambling back up as soon as he could get his bearings, looking up at Mista, who stood there with his hand on his hip. “But that’s! Double!”

Fugo sipped from his glass, looking at his nails. “Should have paid on time...” He tilted his face to the side, looking down at Vince. “If there’s no more trouble you’ll just be seeing us.” He gestured to Sheila, his tone disingenuously polite and businesslike. His eyes were incurably bored. 

 “Oh. And your cufflinks. Diamonds, really? How ridiculous is that. Give them to me.” 

"Just don't take his watch, Fugo." 

Sheila held a hand over her mouth as she finished her appetizer, talking over it. 12 hours for a million lire, the guy got it rough. Mista's tolerance for white collars really was decidedly short. 

"Oi, Fugo, those don't suit you at all! " 

Mista laughed as Vince shakily attempted to remove the well-secured wrist cuffs. 

He looked up briefly at his harasser. It was here Fugo could see just how beaten his old classmate was. He had begun to cry and hadn't seemed to notice.

Fugo thought back to what seemed like eternities ago. Vince in his law classes. He’d never actually had anything against him personally, truth be told. They hadn’t interacted much, but he remembered his image clearly. Vince had always questioned why he had to go to school. Law school was just for show, Fugo guessed. He was the prince of a great empire, after all! He already knew what he was going to do with his life. He was only interested in jewels and business. Fugo had always supposed Vince was lucky. He wasn’t somebody locked into an empire he didn’t want.

But now, here he was on the littered marble floor. It was almost sad. But even kings need to remember when to bow. And at least it was a weekday. The banks weren’t closed.

“Fine, Sheila, I won’t take his watch.” Fugo set down his glass and fastened the cufflinks into his own sleeves, one by one, letting them flash up at her and Mista. “Look, they’re so garish.”

"Maybe you'll grow into them." 

Sheila offered dryly. 

Fugo smirked. “Maybe I will.” He watched one glint in the light for a moment.

Mista glanced over his shoulder at Fugo as he stretched slightly, his hand resting on his back. He paused before exhaling shortly through his nose and smirking vaguely. 

"Fugo and Sheila, we're done here." 

Mista’s boots crushed stray glass under his footfall. 

"See you tonight, Mr. Mancini." He offered a nonchalant wave and continued walking.

“Hm.” Fugo took a moment to finish off his glass before standing up. “They actually serve the good shit here.” There was no need to waste it. He glanced up at his counterpart. “You done yet, Sheila?” Mista was already out the door. He was markedly ignoring Mancini, who was staring wide-eyed at the wreckage before him, unsure what to do with himself.

Sheila took a step forward, slowly crunching the glass underfoot. 

"Yeah." 

She answered distantly and stopped before Fugo's old classmate. She paused before lowering herself quietly before him. Vince's face was littered with ugly scratches, many still bleeding freely. Sheila sucked the air in between her teeth softly. 

"That's going to scar ugly.." 

She lamented seriously, lifting a hand to pick a piece of glass out of his forehead. Mancini grabbed her wrist before she could do so. He was shaking and Sheila easily pushed him off, back onto the glass-littered floor. 

She spat and Vince remained there, his eyes darkened, his lip ripped open a bright bloody red. 

"Fugo.." The blood pooled at the corner of his mouth. "What happened to talking your way out of anything?"

Fugo inhaled, staring out with his mouth open for a moment before he glanced down at Vince. He’d wished more than anything that his old classmate would remain silent. It was already disturbing enough that there was any reminder at all. His lip twitched slightly before he finally conceded on looking at him directly.

 “I believe all I did was talk, Mr. Mancini.”

This man didn’t need any help. The scars would be nothing a little laser treatment couldn’t fix, unless the man wanted some sort of badge of honor, proof he’d spilled blood before. Fugo both could predict and didn’t understand these types. And touching Sheila? What kind of idiot move was that?

Vince, however, was still staring intently at Fugo. His voice emerged quietly but grew stronger. “So that’s it then? You decided it was all worth it for this ?”

He was growing indignant. The ringing which obscured any understanding of earlier events growing loud and steady enough to embolden him. 

"It wasn't enough for you?" 

Mancini practically coughed out his words, a rugged short laugh. 

"Your kind has always made me sick, Pannacotta. Your parents are decent people. They just wanted the best for you I guess, misguided things. But you're the type who will not ever be satisfied until you've ruined everything." 

The blood bubbled a little through his teeth.

Sheila could feel the air growing colder around them. She didn’t like it, but all she could do was stand there.

Fugo licked his lips, a dead ghost of a smile haunting his mouth. “Vince Mancini, offering his services free of charge, I see. Generous as ever.” He took a step forward, and Vince could see his exhale travel through his rib cage. “If you already know the answer, then why do you ask?”

Vince made eye contact with him, though Fugo’s gaze dripped acid. His bloodied mouth ran like a faucet. “In that case I have a question for you. Was it some sort of initiation? Kill a man!’ He began picking himself up, trembling angrily.  ‘Or do you just do that for fun? Oh. Or was it personal. Was he going to fail y—“

Then all of a sudden Vince was on the ground again, and Fugo’s hand flatly pressed his face into the glass. 

“Oh that.” He paused. “Vince. The truth might hurt you.” He punched him into the floor. “The truth is. I can kill a man whenever I want.”

The glass tore into his face, exacerbating the ugly jagged scratches that were already there. Vince gritted his teeth, leaving some of his blood and saliva patterned across the floor. 

"I have the money, Fugo!" 

He barked angrily, a pleading note echoing across the now emptied restaurant. 

"That's what you came here for, right? I have it!!"

Sheila squinted her eyes at the battered young lawyer, allowing him to spit out the words.  She looked back at Fugo. They were getting somewhere. 

Fugo stood over his old classmate, his fists not fully uncurled.  He said nothing and looked at his old peer in unbridled contempt. You could see the poorly constrained anger leaking through each and every crack. 

"That's what you’re good at." Vince coughed. He did not stop, even in his defeat. Fugo found this annoying and not at all noble.

"You exploit people's good will and ruin them when they become an obstacle." Vince slowly contorted himself into an upright seated position, his hands supporting him over the shards. "But I'm not going to die over my integrity. I’m not going to lose my life over the principle. Maybe you chalked me up as naive, but I’ll tell you I learned better. I’m no righteous idiot. You won’t leave me like you did Professor Baresi." 

Vince's voice had grown quiet, shaky, and metallic.

Vince squinted up at Fugo, a droplet of blood trickling down from just below his eye. But Fugo wasn’t seeing him very clearly. He saw more of a vision of jagged shapes and colors. Of course. Everything always circled around to the beginning, again and again. And he couldn’t escape. Did he clench his fists or did he release them? He couldn’t tell anymore. “....a righteous idiot.” The voice felt like it was disembodied and coming from far away. 

“Righteous. So that’s what he was.”

Vince looked up at Fugo, mouth dripping. He was waiting for Fugo to speak further. He didn’t.

The next thing Fugo saw was Vince doubled over after he punched him hard in the face, much more squarely than before. Simple. But there was something worse. Suddenly he couldn’t see much, lost in fog, except for the hand that was hovering in front of his face. He counted. Oh. Only two were intact.

It was Sheila now who was speaking. He couldn’t hear what she said. But he knew she was seeing Purple Haze too.

Sheila E, meanwhile, was crouching down, covering her face with her scarf. She had so many questions, she felt she could vomit them up all over the ground. I trust you, Fugo P. What the fuck are you doing? Letting some of the most basic taunts in the book affect him like that? And the look on his face....There was something terribly wrong.

She suddenly stood up and whipped around, grabbing Fugo’s shoulders. He looked like he was the one who had been punched, his eyes clouded over, but his mouth was shut. Tears were streaming from his eyes. Purple Haze loomed behind him, but she avoided looking at it or at Mancini, who was beginning to writhe and moan on the ground.

“Fugo....” It took a moment for her voice to come to her, but when it did, it was weaponized. “Fugo!! Get out of there!” She shook him, and when that didn’t work, she slapped him across the face.

The capsule clattered out from between his teeth and fell to the floor. Vince was feeling the pain now, and he’d begun to desperately look up towards his attacker. (His mouth couldn’t even form words, but when he saw it fall, he used the last remaining strength he had to grasp it and tuck it between his own teeth. He still at least had that much sense left.)

Sheila said no more, her hand hovering for a moment before measuredly balling into a fist and placing it beside her hip. She looked at him, her other hand still gripping his jacket by his wrist. There were a few staff in the back corner of the restaurant doing their best to remain quiet and unseen, and Sheila glanced briefly in their direction before releasing Fugo's wrist and tearing herself off him. She quickly wiped her mouth and walked away, her expression unreadable.

Fugo inhaled abruptly like he was holding his breath for a long time, then pressed his hand to his forehead. His headache returned, an unbearable pulse. Purple Haze finally faded away, and the taste in his mouth was strong like sulfur and it filled his nose. A foul antivenom. One side of his nose started dripping blood again.

Sheila didn’t look at him. Mr. Mancini stopped writhing in pain, but his body went limp with exhaustion. Fugo didn’t look at either of them. He just felt it in his throat. Having regained feeling back to his limbs, Fugo turned and stiffly strode outside, leaving a trail of the occasional drop of blood. By the hedge by the restaurant entrance, he collapsed to his knees and threw up. 

Sheila inhaled silently before glancing down at Fugo. She resisted the impulse to softly kick him in the ribs -- a thought she put away quickly, but admittedly, was briefly present. 

Fugo could feel her gaze harden on the back of his neck. He could almost feel her shaking hands and breath from here as well. Sheila said nothing to him. She didn't have to. He could practically see her retreat back under the dismissive and skeptical veil she reserved for strangers—the one she wore when they met. A long silence passed. Fugo finished wiping his face, locked away any residual distress, and lifted his head to stare through the shining parking lot cars. 

"Another nosebleed." 

Sheila mumbled, smally, her hands at her side. The stain left on his jacket from before had only grown in his mess, the garment rendered unsalvageable. She paused once more before fishing for cigarettes and lighting one up under the hotel awning, shutting her eyes. Her hand wavered briefly before reluctantly offering one to Fugo.

Fugo shut his eyes like it would erase this whole mess, finally straightening. His brain echoed with radio static. A tear escaped his eye as his nose oozed, thankfully not poured, blood.

He was ashamed, but he took it, glad to have a cigarette to rid the unholy taste out of his mouth. Absolutely no words came to him. He knew Sheila would be upset. He’d gotten to the point where he could feasibly use his stand, But it would only be appropriate in times discussed with his teammates to formulate a plan. Nobody was prepared to deal with this kind of fallout. Not here, not for something so mundane. They were all lucky Sheila had knocked him to reality soon enough to activate Purple Haze Distortion and undo the virus before it had the opportunity to irreparably infect all three of them. 

Here, his brain hadn’t even worked. He hadn’t even realized Purple Haze was even there, not past the stench of dusty libraries and musty office couches that had come to him.

He lifted his fingers to his brow.

 “Sheila. ....I hate that I put you through that.”

Sheila looked directly at him and frowned with bridled derision, the flash in her eye laced with grim anxiety. 

"Yeah." She answered vaguely, lifting her cigarette away from her teeth and watching a bead of sweat drip off the side of Fugo's face. 

It was clear she didn't want to talk about it anymore. There was no pleasure in being right. 

And he knew it. But all he could do was wait for her to finish her cigarette and eventually take him away.

Chapter Text

Mista finally finished cleaning his gun, though admittedly, it was an neverending job. It was his habit, pulling the revolver out and taking it apart, especially after he was rudely awakened by the Pistols and all he could do was wait until they were done eating.Tonight, number 5 had apparently been sleeping too close to number 3, and their loud exclamations had awakened everybody in the room. Mista had frowned and turned on the light: “What’s so important that you woke everybody up! G—“ But Giorno was nowhere to be found.The routine upheaval had left him awake and not very tired at all though the Pistols were already nodding off as they waited for Giorno to finish washing his stains in the bathroom.

"Thank you for waiting." Giorno noted plainly, touching the clasp of his collar as Mista swiveled around from facing the window. "Since you're still dressed, we should stay up." His eyes wandered to the window before returning to Mista and smiling.

"Let's walk."

“Sure.” Mista shoved his gun in his pants and allowed his hand to rest on the handle. He wondered if Giorno needed anything from him. It had been a while since he had suggested a leisurely walk together, but really, nothing would surprise him. The two made their way downstairs and Mista held open the heavy entrance door for his boss.

“You feeling better, Giorno?”

The rain that plagued them for so many weeks had finally stopped. All that remained were shallow puddles collected in the old and unmaintained concrete pathways which were too clouded to reflect the surrounding electric glow of Napoli in the evening. Giorno tilted his head and nodded in the affirmative, a slight, somewhat empty smile still on his lips as he exited the church gate and continued walking towards the heart of the city. "I guess it has been a while since I’ve left the villa." He admitted haltingly, as if he originally intended on denying anything had been out of place at all.

Mista smiled,a beam of light taken from the electric city glow. Everything felt misplaced since Giorno had become unwell. The boss couldn’t really hide how pale his face had grown and how often he stayed in bed-- at least, not from Mista. He gestured widely as he walked. “We should celebrate, then. Where would you like to go?” He announced before leaning down by Giorno’s side. “Pizza is still open for the drunks — or a glass or two might be in order,” Mista continued, not giving his boss an opportunity to respond. He opened his mouth, only halfway done with his list of suggestions before coming to an abrupt stop, inhaling softly. “Or, um, can you do that now...?” Mista made an awkward pointing gesture towards Giorno, drawing his brows together. He was clearly heavily concerned by the latest development in Giorno’s condition: Mista would, but hated, eating alone.

“Hm.” Giorno tilted his head once again. His partner’s excitement was tangible and though it put him at ease, Giorno found himself somewhat reluctant to shatter it. The past two seasons had crawled by dreadfully, in which time Giorno had gradually lost much of his vigor, as well as his appetite. It had been some while since he had been able to eat anything at all. It seemed that Mista was hopeful that after completing his ritual he may return to his more familiar routine. He seemed to be under the impression that the blood might work like medicine. Well, who was to say? For once, Giorno had found himself completely unprepared for what fate doled out to him. Asides from Mista, there was no familiarity in the process.

“Maybe not...but,” Giorno bunched his fingers into a relaxed fist to alleviate the chill. “We should go to Posillipo.” He changed topics,his eyes catching the streetlight’s yellow glitter as he looked forward, then upward towards Mista. The thought of seeing Napoli in its entirety lit up from above was enticing.

Mista laughed clumsily. “You always want to go there. But, sure.”
Giorno’s reserved response failed to deter him.You can at least have a drink, though, right? If not a cocktail, maybe just wine. That one seafood place. What was its name? Their wine is excellent. You know they have an exclusive partnership with my favorite winery? They’re the only restaurant in Napoli that can serve it. Imagine that. Having your own winery on retainer....” He didn’t stop talking, expecting no answer at all, eventually meandering to a question. “What car you wanna take? I can drive. No need to call anyone else this late.”
Mista remembered that Giorno had been less likely to call in drivers lately. Maybe it was just the normal trajectory for a boss. Just him and Fugo around, maybe. Oh yeah. He had forgotten Fugo until now, and he sucked on the inside of his cheek. It didn’t matter, really. As long as Giorno was feeling better.

"Well." Giorno allowed Mista to fully complete his meandering chain of thought before continuing. "I thought we should take the train tonight actually."

Their shoes clicked across the uneven stone streets as their silhouettes weaved in and out of the street lamps’ brief illuminations. Mista glanced down at his boss, but Giorno continued walking. There was no realistic need for either of them to take the train over driving, but the fact Giorno himself recommended it suggested a willingness to engage which had been missing as of late. He wanted to see his hometown the way he used to be able to: ending up wherever the train would take him, finding a quick sum of cash wherever it was easiest presented. But tonight, they were avoiding the heart of the town in favor of a quieter perch above the city.

"Posillipo should be rather empty by the time we get there, I think." Giorno's voice held a stifled note of nostalgia. Mista walked beside him, leaning somewhat to the side to ensure he heard Giorno. “Oh, I’m sure. It’s always cleared out by now. It’s after midnight, right?” He realized he didn’t know, the quiet of late night had long since fallen across the city. They walked down the center of the avenue, the streetlamps old and yellow in this part of town. Even before this affliction, it was impossible for Giorno to truly blend into public. He did his best to remain unexciting, of course, but to Mista, he always walked regally, a beam of light following him. He both shone blindingly and slipped between the shadows.

Hm.

“Oi. Giorno...If you could be anywhere in the world, where would you want to be?”

"Anywhere?" Giorno glanced in his direction, taking a moment to process the spontaneity. "Well." He stalled in thought, redirecting his gaze back in front of him. Mista was gradually closing the small gap between them, having shoved his hands in his pockets and leaning forward to better meet Giorno's height. He probably couldn't hear well from under his cap. That or the years of wanton close range firing. Giorno narrowed his eyes and smiled at his companion, the clatter from an incoming train crescendoing in the distance. "Probably Napoli, right?"

Mista smiled, tilting his face up at the streetlight. “Well come on, that’s too easy.” His hip tapped against Giorno as he walked. He kept edging into his space, even with his hands occupied. Sometimes he had to be right beside Giorno to hear his voice. Giorno never put in the effort to make it louder. “Ok fine, fine: where in Napoli?”

They’d reached the platform, where a lone street lamp shone. The train grew deafeningly loud before rolling to a stop in front of them.

Giorno hummed shortly under his breath. "Why do you seem dissatisfied?" He glanced up at Mista, his smile undefined, brows drawn together. "Have you outgrown your hometown?"

Mista laughed. “Hell no! Nothing compares to Napoli.”

They began to edge into the sparsely occupied train as it opened its doors, Giorno first. Mista shuffled onto the train after him, struggling with the idea of where to put his hands, so he placed them into his pockets at first, but couldn’t help it that one eventually wandered to Giorno’s back when the train began to move. His boss looked up at him."Indulge me, Mista. Be a tourist for me tonight."
Mista immediately frowned. A tourist? His disdain was instantly palpable, but he neglected to vocalize his complaints. The train prepared to coast to its stop at the next station. Posillipo was quite a bit away, but Giorno didn’t feel like sitting, so he stood next to Mista by the door. Right as the train prepared to depart, a man rushed through the closing doors, sliding his way in between them. He hadn’t expected anyone to be standing by the entrance, so he careened directly into Giorno, knocking him off balance. Giorno stumbled forward, though Mista’s hand was on his back. The man waved halfheartedly, hurriedly trying to make his way to a seat.
“Oi.” Mista grumbled. “OI! What do you think you’re doing??”

The man paused before answering, looking around for a seat, still trying to catch his breath. “Sorry, man.”
This did not satisfy Mista, so he took the brief opportunity of his passing to push him, sending him stumbling into the row of seats across from them.

Giorno, having already recomposed himself, looked over his shoulder at the man struggling to do the same, unbalanced as the train rounded a small curve. He held onto the railing above him and leaned back with the car’s momentum, appearing completely unphased. The train resumed a straight course and everyone in the car righted themselves. The man, having finally found his footing, whipped around in an expression of clumsy indignation. "What the he--"
But instead of Mista, he was facing Giorno's outstretched hand, the other having released its grip from the metal railing.
"Excuse me, are you ok?"

The man looked visibly perturbed, but after a pause, decided allow Giorno help recenter him.

"Of course." He grumbled. "It's your friend there who has the problem."
"I'm sorry. Please try to forgive him." Giorno released the strangers hand and let it lay to his side. "We're not from here and I’m beginning to think he’s maybe had a few too many tonight." He looked back at Mista before smiling apologetically at the man in front of him. Giorno was somewhat off-putting, extremely calm, and a somewhat forced quiet fell over the man when he met his eyes.

Mista didn’t like this game as much. He’d always hated tourists. But it was easy enough for him to play the part, only censored because Giorno had shushed him. He stood against the door with his arms crossed, scowling boredly. The man glanced over Mista, avoiding eye contact. “He’s definitely had too many. You should get him home.” He let his gaze fall back on Giorno, before frowning skeptically. He opened his mouth as if to say more,but only shrugged and huffed, holding onto the railing before conceding to disengage.

Giorno nodded once more in compliance and dipped his head apologetically. He waited for the man to shuffle a comfortable distance away before swiveling around to meet Mista, who was looking rather unimpressed.
"You're tense, Mista. Why don't you have a seat? Our stop isn't for a few more stations.' He stepped aside invitationally.

Mista followed his instructions without thought, Giorno holding him still with his eyes. His frown slowly melted off his face ashe uncrossed his arms, sliding into the seat by the window. Mista looked back towards Giorno as he sat down. He hadn’t seen him in such a normal place as a train for a long time. His boss looked strangely small here.“You want to get a drink, Giorno?” He repeated.

Giorno looked over at him. "Is something bothering you?" He refused to change topics.

Mista sighed abruptly in agitation, irritated that his emotions apparently seeping through him. He preferred to keep things simple, but found himself frustrated with no outlet. “Not really--” He shook his head in annoyance. “Hell, I don’t know, honestly? I feel fine. I like my job. I like being capo, and I like the leisure. You know that --I can’t hide anything from you. Just. Lately I feel like I need to blow off some steam. You know? Like I can’t sit still. And honestly? Suddenly things are less easy than they need to be--"
“This is about Fugo.”
Giorno interrupted. He continued to look at Mista as he inhaled sharply, reclining steeply backward into his seat. He really couldn’t hide anything. After all, this was not a topic his don was unfamiliar with.
“You don’t trust him.”
Mista looked to the side, frowning deeply.
“Not particularly.” He mumbled.
"Well, you don’t have to." Giorno's expression remained unmoved as he continued to stand over Mista. He looked briefly to the window before directing his attention to his comrade. "But. It's not like you to brood." He took a seat next to him, as if reconsidering. A moth which had found itself displaced inside the moving car knocked itself against a strip of fluorescent light.
“You know, Giorno...I just feel he’s been dropping the ball lately.” Mista was mumbling, looking away.
Giorno said nothing.
“Look, it’s like I know he’s pledged loyalty and everything, yeah I know. Shit, it’s been what, five years since? Things are different now. And I know that...and I like how things are. But it’s like, working with Fugo, it’s like working with disclaimers. It’s not that I think he’d betray Passione, hell i guess he never actually did-- It’s that I can’t trust him to get it. We are not on the same page. If I were to tell Fugo to deliver a hit for me -- for you, Giorno--, you know honestly I feel like I’d have to check twice just to make sure the fuck wasn’t left there still breathing. It’s not that he’s sneaky. He’s absent. I don’t know. To me, it’s just as bad.”
His boss looked down at his shoes.
Mista knew it wasn’t like him to sulk. But it gripped him. It was Fugo’s indecision which plagued him the most, an unwillingness to act which would always, inevitably, cost lives.

He turned his head to one side. “I just like things to be straightforward. You know.” He turned his dark eyes on Giorno, his hand open and placed by his head in gesture. “I just feel like one of these days he’s going to make everything more complicated.” He followed Giorno’s eyes up to the moth, but it didn’t seem to interest him. “....but Sheila’s fine. She’s reliable.”

Giorno nodded affirmatively, leaning forward in his train seat with his hands clasped between his knees. He looked down as the train announced their upcoming station. "A little patience goes a long way with him. You know?" He said with a dry thoughtfulness.
"I'm certain he'll straighten out. He does good work by me, he just needs a little guidance now and then." Giorno looked back at him. Mista sniffed.

Giorno finally released his hands from eachother. They would not get warm. The moth, persistent and compelled, had drunkenly wandered to the light at the other side of the car. It must have damaged its wing at some point since it flew so awkwardly. Giorno shut one eye as it fluttered desperately before his face and settled on his jacket. It immediately stilled, which gave it the appearance of a small, live brooch.
"Besides." He reached for the creature, gently cupping one hand over it.
"Things always tend to work out when you're in charge. Right?"

When Giorno removed his hand, there was no trace of the moth anymore. Instead, lifted up to his face between his index and his thumb, Giorno peered through a dark silver ring decorated with a relief of a small, ornate compass.

“Oi, what did you take this time?” Mista brought his face down close to Giorno’s hand, then grasped it in his and lifted it up.

Giorno smiled softly and narrowed his eyes as Mista gripped his wrist. He obliged and allowed him to examine the ring that he’d procured while shaking the disgruntled passenger's hand from before. "What do you think, Mista, is it worth keeping?"

Finally, the train drew to a measured stop, indicating their arrival at Posillipo. Giorno waited for the exiting passengers to clear some before following suit, leaving the ring in Mista's keep, as he’d already grown bored with it.

Mista hummed, examining the newly procured goods. “Not too bad of taste for an idiot, I guess.” He muttered, still grinning. It was clear, however, that Giorno was long since disinterested and turning away. He gladly pocketed it and followed his don off of the train car, a new lightness in his step.

"You know, you can sometimes see a few stars up here at night." He said in passing, Mista one pace behind, watching his braid fall between his shoulders. "But it feels like a waste to have the bar close on us before we could order anything."

“Ah, yeah. But what better time to admire them than after drinking, Giorno?” He clapped him on the back, more confident in his sturdiness than he had been. “They’ll still be there. Just a little brighter.”

Chapter Text

Fugo leaned his head against the wall, nursing his cigarette. He had lost count as to how many he'd lit since yesterday about three cigarettes ago. It did not matter. A muffled vibration crept across his knee as his phone buzzed against his bedsheets. Fugo cut his eyes down to the motorola he’d been ignoring all day. Four missed calls and his voicemail was full. Oh. There was also a text. Reluctantly, he picked the thing up and flipped it open.

He had not expected it to be from Giorno. This whole time he’d assumed it was Mista having to detangle the aftermath of his actions the other night and he didn’t yet feel like facing the impending consequence. .

Please call me back.

Fugo hissed, sucking the air between his teeth, and watched his cigarette’s smoke curl in the air, then looked at his wrist. He wasn’t wearing his watch. He'd overslept and the sun was already beginning it’s descent back to earth. He snuffed his cigarrete, drew his eyebrows together in a wince, and dialed the number.

It only took one ring for Giovanna to pick up.

 "Hello." 

"Giorno, I'm sorry, I should’ve been available when you called, I-" 

Giorno cut him off before he could he could elaborate. 

"Oh. No. It's nothing urgent. I'm just glad you called back. I was beginning to wonder if I should be worried-- How are you feeling, by the way?" 

His voice was unconcerned and casual.

Fugo paused, the words he had haphazardly planned sticking to his throat. His hand still shook as he held it to his ear. He never wanted to disregard his boss, especially for so dumb a reason.

But something about Giorno’s tone was soothing and slowly melted his anxiety.

“I’m— alright. I don’t think there’s anything to worry about.” He swallowed, looking to the side. 

"That's reassuring." Giorno's voice smiled. 

"I was hoping you'd come pay me a visit this evening at the villa. I guess I have been a little concerned about your wounds from the other night. They weren't closed by the time I left. I would like to have a look at them if that's alright."

Fugo’s eyebrows furrowed. He’d completely ignored his wound, almost forgetting they were there. “Yeah— I mean. Yes. I can do that. Is there a time you would prefer?”

"Anytime before morning is fine." Giorno confirmed openly. 

"It shouldn't take too long, just an impromptu check up, so I'll just expect to see you when I see you." He punctuated his sentence with another smile. 

"Oh. Before I let you go: please clear your voicemail..."

The dial beeped as Giorno ended his call. Fugo stared at his phone for a second, still stunned, then dialed the number for his voicemail. He frowned at all the prompts the robot spat at him. “Delete all.”

It was 18:00 in November. The sun was already setting, leaving a vague haze as all the city lights switched on. Traffic had cleared enough since the rush home for him to justify driving.  He pressed himself into the car seat and held a hand over the heater to make sure it was working properly before frustratedly rubbing away the residual fog off the windshield. The streetlights grew dimmer as the restaurants and cafés became less frequent and he entered the historic district where Giorno lived. After some searching, he found a spot where he felt he could safely leave his car. Fugo huffed quietly through the cold and shoved his keys into his pocket. It was exceptionally quiet in this neighborhood. He felt it could be midnight, that there were so few people around, even though it was still technically daytime. He knew better, though, as a few streets over was a center of tourist activity. Rarely did they venture this way.

He approached the old church, walking up the wide, flat steps. Of course. It would be locked. Best to keep it inaccessible to the odd tourist that wandered out this far. He wished Giorno had only told him a specific time, all this guess work and psuedo-formality was beginning to frustrate. Fugo didn’t really want to call again just to say he was outside. 

The crunching of dead leaves sounded to his left, and Fugo turned his head sharply in response. He wasn’t alone. Someone was walking on the path beside the building, towards the graveyard. The overgrown plant life that grew at the back of the church rustled. It was Mista. Who else could it have been? Apparently he hadn't yet noticed his subordinate lingering at the gate a bit helplessly, watching his capo's shadow grow more distant. It would be awkward to shout for his attention, especially considering the news he had undoubtedly received from Sheila. He flexed his hands by his sides, turned his head, and decided to pursue him. Though it was late autumn, the plants that grew between the garden pathways grew thick and lush, albeit muted in color from the crisp air. Mista walked through with great familiarity, pushing past any fronds that crept through the steel bar gates. Fugo hastened his pace to close the gap between them. Though Mista walked casually, he was so certain of where he was headed, impossible for him to get lost. Fugo did not carry the same confidence, and in fact was feeling rather childish and unsure of what he was trying to accomplish, instead focusing on the back of Mista's cap. He'd figure it out; for now he settled with quietly following his capo towards the correct entrance, at some point finding the right moment to reveal himself. Mista stopped as he reached the edge of the veranda. 

"Are you lost?"

Fugo held his breath, unsure if Mista was addressing him or a stranger. Not that he expected there to be much of a difference. It felt like eternities ago that he and Mista were close. It was hard to imagine that they used to work side by side, unquestioned trust, a well-oiled machine. But now Mista’s eyes held the same steel as they would for a trespasser, whether he knew it was Fugo or not.

“It’s me.” He stepped forward towards him. For some reason he was always fated to state the obvious to Mista. “It’s locked.”

Mista set his hand on his hip. “You forget something here?”

Fugo felt a sudden flash of heat spread across his face. "No."

His response was small. It tumbled flat and pointlessly out of his mouth; his capo appeared as if he hadn't heard him at all. Mista stared through Fugo indirectly, his posture betraying his boredom,a painful ambivalence to his entire manner. He stared through Fugo as he would through a band street kids who weren't savvy enough to realize they couldn't hustle him. The pain was dull, but it had compounded over time. Ever since Fugo had been re-initiated as a member of new Passione, Mista had prioritized securing a deliberate barrier between them. They didn't fight, but Fugo felt the consistent lack of eye contact,how he subtly managed to skim over Fugo's seat at the table when laughing at a joke made over dinner.Their reunion was hardly a happy one, granted, but Fugo had always somewhere assumed that over time he could overcome the barrier between them. Mista had never been the grudge holding type; surely there was a link that could be forged between them. But here, five years later, Mista's voice addressed him heavy with distrust. There was a missing piece. By now, the memories just felt like a rotted organ that festered rather than providing any of its past functions. 

"No?" Mista gauged his subordinate from a distance. "Then why are you following me?"

Fugo frowned, biting his lip, unsurprised. He was starting to sink into the quicksand, at a loss as to what else to try. He’d done all he could think of to prove his loyalty; not only to his boss, but his capo as well. Fugo knew he couldn't bring Narancia back. He was still reluctant to even think about him, even after so long. Fugo couldn’t say he even blamed Mista for his coldness. He felt the same things about himself in many ways, yet he was stuck here, playing the role of himself, even though he wasn't the character the audience had been rooting for.

"....because I need to get in."

He tried his best not to appear so indecisive, even in small ways. Waffling about it would not gain him any sympathy from his capo. He just had to state his purpose.

Mista finally shifted his stance, letting his hand fall to his side. His face was obscured in the shadow, unreadable. Fugo found himself kind of glad it was. 

"Boss' orders?"

Mista sounded a bit incredulous, but mostly unimpressed. He looked to the cement and opened his mouth as if he were going to sigh. 

"I didn't realize we were expecting company. Giorno won't let you in?" 

He wasn't quite ready to yield, remaining stationary, towering over his counterpart.

Fugo opened his mouth, willing his fists to unclench. It was a strange mix of anxiety and bitterness. "....Yeah. Orders. But he said to come this evening. Not a specific time. So I didn't want to disturb him by calling just to get him to come down--" His mouth was dry and he stopped to cough quietly. "Especially. If someone else could let me in." His eyes made a quick, narrowed glance.

Mista blinked and said nothing. Fugo could just make out the glint of his dark eyes from here. Some distant chimes in the garden rang amidst the dry silence before Mista turned back around and fished for the ring of keys he'd been keeping in his pocket. 

"If I wasn't here I wonder who would've let you in."

He lifted the ring with the correct key and pressing with mild force, opened the back door.

“Well. It’s good you were here, then.” He passed as Mista held the door open for him and waited for a moment, but Mista stayed put. Fugo blinked. “You going in too?”

Mista exhaled. “Nah, not just yet.” He sounded a bit absent. Maybe that was why he was so agreeable.

Fugo nodded. “Okay, then. Um. Thank you.”

Mista nodded in acknowledgement. 

"He's awake. He's probably in his study if he doesn't know to be waiting for you. I'd guess anyway." 

He shrugged shortly with his back turned and left Fugo alone inside the once-was church.

Fugo nodded and once again walked across the dark sanctuary toward the stairs. They creaked as he ascended each step. He didn’t know where the study was. But as he peered down the hallway, there was a small flicker of light from a room about halfway down. In a place with so few lights, maybe the place he needed to be was marked by one. The door was shut, a warm glow present along the bottom of the door. Fugo knocked. 

"Come in." 

Giorno's voice sounded muffled from inside. Fugo turned the doorknob and entered his study. The room was considerably more lit than the rest of the house, but gave an inoffensive glow from the candle upon his desktop. 

"Fugo!" 

Giorno greeted, placing his hand on the table to lift himself. He wore a pleasant smile and turned to meet him.

The extent of Giorno’s warmth was unexpected, and Fugo stood for a moment, a deer in headlights.He stepped inside, closing the door and almost-smiled, crooked to one side, clasping his hands together. “Hello, Giorno.”

He was nervous for some reason.

Giorno glanced quickly at Fugo's clasped hands before returning his attention back up to meet him. 

"You came so quickly, I didn't realize you were here."  He stopped short a few paces away rather than closing the small gap between the two of them. He looked at Fugo for a moment then folded his gloved hands in front of him in turn. 

Fugo huffed, smiling. "Ah, well, I...." He thought back to his late start.  "....After I got your message, I didn't really see a need to wait around with nothing else to do." He laughed shallowly, then gazed at Giorno as he spoke, his smile fading.

"It's only been a few days, but, I trust you've been well?" Giorno flexed one hand, spreading his fingers as he spoke. 

"I realized I hadn't seen you off that morning. Normally, of course, I wouldn't have thought twice about it, but truthfully I've found myself kind of bothered. You know. I should have checked your wounds. We shouldn't guess around with this sort of thing. I'm sure you understand the importance of documentation, right Fugo? So, I guess for that reason alone we should be open with each other. It'd be useless to waste each other's time beating around the bush over something as important as one's health, so please, show me your arm now." 

Giorno's voice was both pleasant and authoritative. He reached out with one hand, waiting for Fugo to lift his sleeve and present him once again with his arm. 

"Please try to be completely honest with me."

Giorno’s conduct that morning hadn’t felt odd to Fugo at all at the time, and the fact that Giorno was still dwelling on it came as a surprise. Giorno never seemed like someone who dwelled on the past. Fugo had just gotten up and left, but, now that he thought about it, his behavior later the same day had been out of the ordinary. Would Giorno care about that? “You shouldn’t be bothered about it--I ’ve been alright. But of course. I can show it to you. Making documentation is probably the prudent thing to do. I, uh.” He smiled again, hoping his face didn’t show red in the candlelight. It felt strangely intimate. “I won’t. Hide anything.” Giorno’s eyes bored into him.

Giorno didn't answer and received Fugo's arm between his hands for examination. The last he remembered, he had it wrapped in a tourniquet, still raw and barely cleaned from fresh blood. By now, however, the puncture wounds had closed and appeared only faint pink, like a healed scar would. Clean, but still evident. 

"It seems to be healing fine. It shouldn't hurt. Does it? " He announced before pressing his fingers over his limb briefly.

Fugo watched as Giorno’s hands lifted his arm towards the light. “No, it doesn’t hurt.” Fugo’s eyes followed Giorno’s hands. Giorno wore gloves even while inside, and their touch on his arm was surprisingly soft as he slid his fingers over his arm to ensure it wasn’t swollen. If he were being honest, Fugo hadn’t even paid a second thought to his arm. Sure, it may have been an odd injury, quite deep and likely to bleed, but it was very small. And it barely hurt anymore, just a light shadow of a bruise. But Giorno was still thorough, examining it for over a minute. 

Over the past few years, Giorno had adapted snugly not only into his new role as boss, but also as the squad's unofficial medic. Though he had no expertise in treating illness, wounds he could mend and occasional, brief physicals like this were not necessarily unheard of. Giorno's presence over the subject was commanding in intimate quarters. 

"What about anything else-- how's your sleep?"

Giorno he hadn’t ever examined Fugo except for when he did his best to mend Fugo after the incident with narcotics, but Fugo remembered so little of that except for vague follow up, as he had been exceptionally ill.

“....sleep. I’d say I have vivid dreams, but I always did.” Although he wouldn’t admit that many lately were regarding Giorno and Gold Experience.

"Do they keep you awake at night?" Giorno looked upwards to meet Fugo's gaze, still holding his arm. His expression seemed unbothered, making direct eye contact as he softly released Fugo from his grasp. He appeared mildly, but sincerely, curious.

The stare was intense, and Fugo couldn’t help but blink in response.

“At times. But then again, they always have.”

He couldn’t quite meet Giorno’s eyes, but at the same time, couldn’t stop looking at him. He brushed his sleeve back down. “So, generally, I believe I’ve been alright.”

"...I'm glad." 

Giorno looked down as Fugo readjusted the cuff of his sleeve, letting his own hands fall back to his side. The light behind him flickered persistently. 

"You know, Fugo." Giorno took a step back and placed a hand on his desk.

"You've had a few late nights. I know you think you're used to it but your body might believe otherwise.  Your circadian rhythm could be off. That happens more often with lousy weather I've heard. Your body isn't getting enough sunlight so it doesn't know what to do with itself or what time it is." 

Giorno had leaned backwards so his desk was supporting his body weight. He continued to look downward and scuffed his shoe languidly against the rug.

Fugo still watched Giorno intently, avoiding eye contact. Giorno looked like a ghost here, clothed in white and bathed in flickering light.  But some of Fugo’s anxiety had faded. Apparently he wasn’t concerned at all about the episode with Mancini, so there was a speck of relief.

Another smile grew crookedly onto his face. “Oh, yeah. For certain. I’m sure my circadian rhythm is off and has been for quite some time.” He laughed shallowly again. “It’s the nature of things.”

And, well, spending a month bathed in fluorescent hospital light didn’t help.

Giorno drew his eyebrows together and looked directly up at his subordinate, a quaint and reluctant smile drawing across his mouth. Fugo's dry laughter lingered uncomfortably.

"I suppose so..."

He parted his lips briefly in a huff of subdued laughter. It was just enough to briefly catch the tips of his pointed teeth-- a trait that at a distance was easy to forget. 

"Well, Fugo, regardless, if you need anything, the villa's always open to you. If there's anything you're forgetting to tell me please don't hesitate to contact me."

Fugo knew his face flushed this time, and he clenched his jaw. But all he could do was stare at Giorno’s teeth, mesmerized for a short moment. They both seemed so alien and so expected. He looked back up. He couldn’t quite shake his nervous laughter, and he shook his head. “Uh....Thank you, Giorno. I suppose we’ll be in touch. In the future I’ll let you know the time more specifically so you can let me in.”

"Oh. You don't have a key."

Giorno asked and stated in the same breath. 

"Forgive me-- Mista must have left you in." He murmured, turning away quickly to walk to the opposite side of his desk where he pulled open a drawer inside which rattled around various baubles, like official seals and ballpoint pens. And a ring of keys. He lifted it to sift through his collection before feeling the side of one's jagged edge and settling upon it to remove from its brothers. 

"This key is designed to get you anywhere in this complex." Giorno returned again to meet Fugo, holding it up. It caught no light from the flame from his desk; it was old and dull. "So really there's no need to call."

Fugo hadn’t expected receiving a key, but when he thought about it, he did suppose that he would be coming here on an at least semi-regular basis. He held out his hand and watched as Giorno set it there. “Thank you, boss. I hope it’s not an inconvenience.” He closed his hand around it and shoved it into his pocket. “You’ll, uh. Be in touch when you’d like to meet again?” He was having trouble formulating words. His Don made him nervous, and having a key to his complex seemed to exacerbate this.

"Of course." a similar expression returned to Giorno: a trace but dubious smile. 

"Don't be expecting it for a while, but I'll let you know. You'll have adequate notice, so try not to concern yourself with it for now."  He lifted his chin to look Fugo squarely in the face. "So until then, just consider it business as usual. Right?"

Chapter Text

Fugo could not bring himself to completely open his eyes. The midday sun assaulted his vision, glinting off the metal awnings and tops of cars. He knew the way back at least. He’d only been gone for a minute to park the car and he supposed he could always follow the sound of Narancia’s voice as he piloted Aerosmith. He hadn't ever once once done so silently, even with Fugo’s pointed reminder that stealth is generally a helpful attribute to have in this line of work. Still; Narancia had been laughing nonstop all morning. The lack of the incessant stream noise now could be felt, the change in the air striking, a vacuum out here in the sunlight, washing away any white noise as he approached his teammate again.

“Shit!….fuck. Fugo, I know you weren’t gone that long but--  I fucking lost them! Seriously, they were there and then they just. Weren’t anymore!” Narancia breathed raggedly, his attention half distracted, still searching with Aerosmith. “Fuck! They’re not even on my radar, they're nowhere! I wonder if they suspected something...” He gritted his teeth, grasping the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white. “...Fugo.” He finally turned his face towards him, his voice starting to shake. “Fugo, I fucked up. I lost them.” He pounded his fist on the railing. The metal echoed hollow throughout the alley. “Fugo....” He frowned to himself, lifting his uncurled fist up to his temple, lightly brushing away his curtain of unkempt hair. It was shaking. 

 “What should I do....?” 

Narancia turned his head up to look directly into his eyes. Fugo opened his mouth to answer. Nothing came. He averted his gaze upwards, back to the bleached white afternoon sky.  

He opened his eyes to the pale stucco above him. Narancia? Dim light, mostly from the crack under the door. Fugo’s hand flexed instinctively, his head turning to face away from the white. He squeezed his eyes shut once more. They hurt. It was a welcome distraction as Fugo’s senses gradually returned to him. It was his room in Giorno’s villa. He couldn’t tell what time it was, as the curtains over his window were closed. The ache in his arm finally twisted its dagger, and he swung his arm over to press on it with his other hand. How could his dream have been so....loud? Now, here in the church it was unbearably silent. Only a small chirping from outside interrupted the dead air, the distant sound of a cricket rubbing its legs together. 

Fugo squeezed his eyes shut once more, wincing softly before sliding himself against the bed frame, digging in his back pocket for his phone. He had no idea what time it was, and his cell phone was dead. He drew his knees up, clutching it in mild frustration before shoving it back into his coat pocket and throwing his arms back down to the mattress. This was what it would feel like waking up in a bomb shelter underground. It was certainly dark enough.  Fugo brushed the hair out of his face before finally swinging himself to the side of the bed and leaning downward to feel for his shoes.

Again, Giorno was gone. The sheets had dried some, but even in the dark, Fugo could see his blood stains splattered across the bed. He should bring a change of clothes from now on, he noted, feeling the not yet dried stain across the front of his jacket. It was time to go home and forget about this for now.

He reached upward to rub his eyes. He’d forgotten. His arm felt like concrete and the wound on it ached with, probably already a black bruise. He let it fall to his side again and stood up. It was so dark he had to feel for the edge of the desk as he walked by, and as he finally opened the door, he was greeted with yet another stretch of vacant darkness. There were no lights on at all. He paused for a moment to balance himself, then walked down the hallway, brushing his hand along the wall. He decided he was glad he couldn’t look at the extent of the stain on his jacket. The metallic smell was all-consuming. 

Only after squinting for a while, Fugo detected the faint light at the end of the hall. It must be morning by now. Giorno must be sleeping then. Fugo felt his way along the plush strip of carpet that led toward the light, having already narrowly avoiding knocking over any of Giorno’s decor. The small golden sliver slowly approached. 

The surroundings registered foreign to Fugo, even though he’d walked this hallway several times before. The closer he got to the light, the less obscure his surroundings became. He slid his hand along the plaster until it met the doorframe, and then the doorknob. His hand stopped there, thinking better of it. But Giorno had said he was welcome, didn't he?  He'd even given him a master set of keys. Besides, it was the only visible light in this blacked out compound. The door was silent as Fugo turned it’s handle and entered. He stepped forward into the room and lifted his chin. The rose walls in this room were segmented by white columns at the corners, bordered by floral decorative relief. It was warm in here, lit by a stoked fire that illuminated the gloss titles printed on the spines of the parlor’s many books, housed neatly in towering bookshelves. Fugo had never realized there was a library here. He hadn't spent much time wandering the complex, certainly not for leisure. He took another step, peering ahead cautiously before finding himself gazing directly into Gold Experience's empty green stare. They stood before the fireplace, turned backwards to watch the door.  A face, framed by blonde hair, proceeded to peek over the edge of the cushion, turning to reveal a familiar pair of yellow eyes. Both gazes fell heavily on Fugo before a rustling sounded from the back of the furniture.

Fugo paused, unable to look away from the motionless stand  for a breathless moment, remembering its touch from the night before. This feeling was coupled by the sense of peace that standing in a library gave him ever since he was a child, although that feeling was complicated by new sense of horror and needles of ice along his spine in libraries thanks to his experiences in university. The dichotomy of alarm and trust put him immediately at unease, he could feel his mouth dry. He stood there, parting his mouth softy, as Giorno turned to look at him. Why did he always have to process so much before doing anything at all? He felt idiotic, intruding here without any reason.

“I’m sorry. Good morning, Giorno. It seems I got turned around. I apologize.”

His comment didn’t do anything to abate his idiocy.

"..."

Giorno didn't dismiss Gold Experience, who did not move at all. 

"You must have been sleeping a long time...it's not morning anymore, Fugo." 

Giorno's voice was quiet, muffled by the wall of cushion between them. He did not stand up from his lounging position and turned to readjust himself, dangling an arm over the opposite side of his chaise towards the floor. 

Indeed, the clock resting above the mantle indicated it was close to 15:00. It was well into the afternoon. If it weren't for the thick layers of curtains over the windows, the sun would have been falling in sharp rays across the floor. 

Fugo knew his face was flushed, and he was comforted by the fact that everything in the room was bathed in a pink glow. “....Oh.” It hadn’t even occurred to him that he could have slept that long. 

Giorno ignored him, his gloved fingers almost skirting the hardwood as he stretched backwards, casting flickering shadows from the fire. Noiselessly, there was movement from the tangled mess of shadow. A scorpion propped its speared tail upwards as it lumbered aimlessly on eight legs.

Fugo was about to formulate a better answer, but his eyes fell upon the large arachnid approaching him. That, the color of the room, along with the languid way Giorno was draped over the chair, gave the whole place a sharply surreal climate. He paused, unsure of how to respond to it. Maybe turning and leaving was the most rational answer. Nonetheless, his curiosity enveloped him like a heavy blanket, weighing him down into a kneel, trying his best to examine the creature.

 “Is that a yellow-tailed scorpion?”

Giorno pulled his hand up from the floor and rested it on the cushion he laid on. Another scorpion appeared, crawling on the arm of the chaise. He pulled his legs up slowly to his chest, then nodded in affirmation. “They're from England...Why?” Gionro’s gaze was pointed and clear. “Or rather, how do you know so much about scorpions, Fugo?" A third creature skittered away from his shoe.

A weird smile hovered over Fugo’s mouth as he bent to examine them, lowering one knee to the ground. He realized now there were even several more. Their camouflage among the fireplace-lit hardwood was impressive and dizzying.  “I’ve read about them before.But I’ve never seen them in person....” His voice diminished into a mumble as he was absorbed into looking at them, even setting his hand on the ground and tipping his head to look under the chaise.

"What a strange choice of topic." Giorno smiled from above. He watched as Fugo peered underneath the chaise for any remaining creatures, knowing that they would seek the dark once exposed to light. "Though I will admit, I'd never seen one myself either. Until now anyway.  A coincidence you'd find me. I guess it was just on both of our minds." 

A scorpion, startled by Fugo's movements, quickly crawled over his hand to move past it’s disturbance, determined to reunite with its brothers. Giorno followed it with his eyes, watching it search for a crevice by the nearest bookshelf. After a moment of frantic searching he blinked, and it was gone. Fugo could no longer feel the radar gaze of Gold Experience on the back of his neck. In its place was a copper coin, wobbling noisily before settling flatly down on the hardwood.

Fugo laughed and grimaced a bit at the abrupt manner in which the spell was broken.  “I just think they’re remarkable, I guess.” He thought back to the encyclopedias and volumes of animal facts he’d read as a lonely kid. Now that they were gone, he set his hand on the floor and pushed himself back up to stand. His gaze wandered to the bookshelf, falling upon the spines and reading the various titles. “Imagine having so many eyes.” He paused as he tilted his head to read a long foreign one. 

Giorno nodded. 

"Maybe it's like seeing with your stand’s eyes." His voice was still quiet, and his gaze still had yet to meet Fugo's face.

"If I hadn't been with Gold Experience you would have snuck up on me. I'm not used to company around this time." 

It occurred to Fugo for the first time that he might actually be interrupting his boss in the middle of the night. Fugo paused, his fingers on a book. He was embarrassed again. “Oh....I woke you.” Maybe Giorno was like the vampires he’d read about in books who slept during the day. He took a step toward the door. “I, by no means, need to be here.”

"No." Giorno folded his arms into himself and pressed his body against the cushion. "It's alright. As you can see maybe I was wanting for a bit of company." He exhaled and smiled, having already dismissed his stand. Giorno finally met Fugo's eyes, directing a pleasant and earnest expression at his guest. "I couldn't sleep. And after you went down, well, it didn't feel quite right to linger in here alone. Truth be told I didn't realize you'd be out for so long, and as I said, I'd like to apologize again for not seeing you off last time."

Fugo’s shoulders relaxed slightly, Giorno’s words were unexpectedly tender, though his eyes shone acute and yellow. He took a step forward, unconsciously mirroring Giorno’s posture, folding his arms into himself. “It’s quite alright. I didn’t think twice of it. Who knew how long I’d be out.” He laughed awkwardly. “And it appears it can be quite a while.”

"Yes." Giorno nodded in confirmation before squinting for a brief moment, smiling up at Fugo.  "Well I hope the rest found you well. It seems you needed it." He warmed his hands in the creases of his folded arms and paused. "...I hope you already know this, Fugo, but I am very grateful for your sacrifices. I feel... better." He delineated his words carefully, his gaze shifting far through him.  "I feel like I could run for days without sleep. If it weren't so bright outside, I'm sure I would like to be out there, enjoying the daylight. At least usually I would, I think. But right now I'm content in front of the fireplace with Requiem, looking at books. It’s exhilarating enough." Giorno's brow twitched suddenly, realizing he had trailed off. His eyes immediately refocused back to his guest, redrawing his gently fading smile. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, you're refreshing to me. "

Fugo finally felt the relief he had been thirsting for. “Oh. I’m very glad to hear that. It’s a small price to pay for your health. We can’t have you under the weather.” He smiled, his euphemism glaring. But at least he really did feel fine, at least compared to his normal state. Though he wasn’t as sure what to say in response to the unexpected compliment, so he paused for a moment, the smile lingering on his face. “Have you....uh. been reading something good?”

Giorno blinked, then looked down, maintaining his polite smile. Fugo was bad at receiving praise, he supposed. He reached for one of the open books strewn in front of him. It was flipped to a page on yellow tailed scorpions. "Truth be told. I was just looking at the pictures."  He thumbed the crease of the book and spread his hand over the page. "This one has such detailed illustrations, see." He lifted the book to show Fugo. He balanced it in one hand to turn the page with the other, struggling to do so with his gloved fingers. Giorno placed the book on his lap before unceremoniously removing the glove on his left hand to turn the page.

Fugo hadn’t seen Giorno take off his gloves for quite some time. He couldn’t help but follow Giorno’s hand with his eyes. 

“Your library is so beautiful. I hadn’t realized that you’d have one until you told me about Les Mis . But of course you would... And with a nice encyclopedia set...” He bent himself so he could see the page.

Fugo knelt close to where Giorno was seated to better see the illustrations, dimly lit by the warm firelight. To his surprise, it was the same set Fugo had grown up with--the official ones his parents would update every two years or so. The spine indicated it was an older copy--out of date, but in excellent condition, housing all of the information it could on any topic starting with S through Sm. A handful of others rested at the edge where Fugo kneeled, and a great wave of nostalgia hit him all at once. He was suddenly able to smell the bleached substrate used for the pages of the books. Fugo had been in public libraries plenty of times, particularly before he’d joined Passione and had spent much of his empty time finding shelter between the bookshelves. He realized that aside from Buccelatti's small study, he hadn't been in such a personal place like a private library in many years. It shouldn't be such a surprise--a personal library was an uncommon luxury. It was funny that it could feel so familiar. He wiped the hair away from his face before taking up one of the volumes Giorno had selected, brushing away the thin layer of sweat that had begun collecting from the heat of the fireplace. It was warm in here. Actually, it was hot. Fugo exhaled silently as he quickly wiped the side of his face, feeling how warm his cheeks had become. 

“Fugo--" Giorno interrupted, staring at him from the opposite end of the chaise. 

"Forgive me, but. Your clothes are stained..."

It was only when he’d leaned in closer that Giorno could notice the deep bloodstain on Fugo's red coat, obscured somewhat by the heavy shadows set by the fireplace.

Fugo winced. He knew he’d forgotten something. And by the way Giorno said it, it wasn’t something that could be ignored. He set down the volume, brushing his finger along the smooth page edges. For some reason, it made him sad. Sm-Sz could wait, though he really didn’t want it to. He wasn’t sure why he was so willing to invade Giorno’s private space, anyway.

But then the next realization hit him. He’d meant to bring a spare outfit for the next day, or at least brought some clothes to keep in the wardrobe here, but he’d forgotten. He’d come empty-handed.

“Ah. I apologize....” He looked down at the large, ugly stain that was now clearly visible to him. “I didn’t remember. Guess I need to go home and change.” He stood up again, his sweating starting to become apparent to him.

Giorno watched him unfold from his crouched position, keeping his eye on the dark, reaching stain. 

"You don't want to go out like that, do you? It's the middle of the day." Giorno pushed away his books and followed suit, finally rising from his comfortable position on the furniture. He stood directly in front of Fugo now, meeting him at eye level, still looking at the stain.  "You might draw some unwanted attention." 

Giorno pulled his glove back on and rested his loosely clasped hand by his mouth, placing the other on his hip. His expression otherwise betrayed nothing.

"I'm not sure you can salvage your jacket."  Giorno minimized the reality of the situation. The coat was absolutely wrecked.

"Well. I suppose it was my fault....I'm sorry Fugo, let me replace it. For the meantime I'm sure I have something to at least send you home in."

Fugo opened his mouth, ready to politely resist. “Ah, there’s no need. I’ll just be going to my car....”

But his words were overshadowed by how Giorno spoke with a sense of finality, especially now that he was standing. His sense of leisure evaporated. His subordinate would not be going out looking like this. Fugo cringed, thinking about how he’d gone out like this just the other day. 

Defeated, Fugo tilted his head down the few degrees it took to make eye contact with his boss. “Thank you.”

Giorno seemed pleased, albeit subtly, his expression nonplussed. “Just a moment, then.” And for a moment, Fugo was left in the dim parlor alone, along with the now suffocating heat and familiar atmosphere. When Giorno left, the room suddenly felt more tangible, his feet firmly planted onto the floorboards. The rose color in which it was painted felt delicate and no longer overwhelming, and he found himself undeterred. Suddenly, the ornately decorated room felt so simple. He felt like he could belong here. 

The notion made him uncomfortable, however. He wondered if he had been too informal with Giorno, in retrospect, wandering into his Don's private leisure time. He’d been warming himself by the fire with Requiem. It did appear to be a rather intimate scene, albeit a still one. But then again, Giorno had been so polite and receptive...Fugo frowned deeply. Giorno was always polite. And Fugo was never quite certain to what boundaries were appropriate to transgress. He found himself all at once deeply frustrated by his hospitality. 

Soft clicking resonated from behind as Giorno's footfall left the soft carpeting from the hallway and returned to his library. Fugo turned around, frowning as usual. 

"Here, you can wear these." Giorno lifted the folded bundle of clothing towards Fugo. "Don't think much of it— you don't need to return them or anything. There are plenty of others."

Fugo still had no idea if he’d gone too far. After Giorno drank his blood, why would he need him around any longer until he needed it again? Maybe he was just stumbling around, trespassing in his grand, yet very private, home. But on the other hand, he was so hospitable, inviting him repeatedly to check his arm, chatting with him more than what was necessary. Fugo bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t know. Why wasn’t it an authoritative hand from above? Why was his voice so soft? How could such a soft voice change the entire nature of a room, which shrunk back down in his absence, the statue at the altar absent, and thus all the atmosphere. He looked past his lashes at the books. 

He was startled when the door opened again, though Giorno was only gone a short time. He took it. “Thank you.” He was glad for the excuse to take off his jacket. The heat was getting to him, the room beginning to swim before his eyes. 

Giorno exchanged the white dress shirt in his hands for Fugo's stained red jacket, giving it a once over before folding it over his arm so the discoloration faced away. He waited in amiable silence as Fugo buttoned his shirt, staring distantly through him before reverting his gaze. He smiled friendly. "It suits you Pannacotta." He tilted his head and placed one hand by his chin, his eyebrows drawing in slightly. "You look clever." He narrowed his eyes and widened his smile briefly before shutting his mouth, meeting his gaze. 

Out of all his company, Fugo was the least inclined to spend much on his wardrobe. Certainly, he always showed up presentable and dressed according to circumstance, but it was usually quite repetitive. Giorno couldn't care less what he wore, truthfully, as long as a job was being performed correctly. He let his subordinates have complete agency over such details. Nonetheless, the change in appearance was vaguely amusing. It matched his personality a little too on the nose -- astute.

Fugo fastened the last button, looking back up at Giorno. He huffed, his mouth breaking into a half smile. He could tell it was really expensive material, but he knew Giorno had infinite resources to replace it. It just fell so differently on him that it took a moment for him to gather his bearings. It brought him back to a much earlier time, when he paid more attention to his wardrobe. And he could feel Giorno's amusement, his gaze heavy on him, and the intentional personalization hit him of being called by his name. Once again, he was thankful for the pink tint of the room. "Thank you, Giorno." He felt his name roll off his tongue, realizing he hadn't actually said it in a long time. 

Giorno shook his head. "I know it's not the same, but it's the best I can do to replace it." He repositioned his hands to hold the red jacket in front of him and did not offer to return it. He paused, allowing the cracking of the fire to fill in the silence as he looked over his nose at Fugo's shoes. "It's still daylight. You should probably get home and eat something. Gold Experience has replaced any blood you've lost but, for good measure you know." 

Fugo knew very well that his shoes were scuffed. In fact, he didn't remember when he'd last shined them. He knew they had been at least when he bought them, but when would that have been? He dipped his head. At least there was a slight relief as the intensity of Giorno's eyes left his face. "You're probably right. I really lost track of time." He smiled. "Thank you again." 

Giorno nodded and returned his smile, lingering just long enough to watch Fugo's shadow leave. He turned to place the bloodied jacket over the back of his seat before returning to his resting position in front of the fireplace.

Chapter Text

Fugo finally sat down, leaning back and stretching his feet out underneath the tablecloth. He sighed. “Sheila, we might be here awhile. Without the Mancini funds, I have to start the budget from scratch.” He leaned over and lugged the laptop onto the table, bunching up the tablecloth. “So feel free to order whatever.” At least he didn’t mind being here. The food was good, as was the atmosphere. And they could have the room as long as they’d like. 

He started typing, frowning deeply at the screen. All the calculations he’d made were rendered unusable. He might as well start a new spreadsheet. He sighed, frustrated. The waiter came by, dipping to ask Sheila if she wanted anything. She hummed, blinking, unbothered by Fugo’s frustration, tugging the wine list out from under his computer. 

Fugo shot a quick glance at her from behind his laptop screen and continued tapping away, choosing to ignore her leisurely sigh. She placed her menu face down onto the table and jabbed him with her foot, interrupting the minimal progress he'd made. He whipped around to face his harasser, who was resting her face on one hand, propped against the table. "Hey Fugo. It wouldn't be wrong to order wine with dessert at this time. Would it?" Sheila seemed positively unconcerned. 

"I don't care what you do, Sheila." Fugo shrugged, his tone muted and final. He cut his eyes and returned to the work in front of him. 

Sheila's eyes rested on him for another full second before she looked up at her waiter and made a quiet, exaggerated shrug, her palms turning upward. "Well then, two tiramisu and a bottle of Crémant Bordeaux. Just one. Some of us are on the job." 

The waiter nodded in understanding before removing their discarded wine lists from the table. He left the third in the place across from Fugo and left. Fugo watched as he updated a column and drew his brows together in skepticism. Tiramisu and rosé? That sounded like an overly sweet pairing that Giorno would order for the table. He had a penchant for sweet things, apparently. Not that he could taste them. 

But he chose to ignore her, for the time being. Who cares how sweet it would be? It just didn’t seem like an order she would normally make, but when he tried to think of an example of what he considered normal, nothing came to him. Apparently he’d forgotten to store that information. His brow sank further. That’s when it came to him. He knew why it was familiar, and his heart sank to the floor. His fingers stopped typing. It was Buccellati’s order. He didn’t ever seem to mind overwhelmingly sweet food as long as it was good. Why would Sheila know this? He squeezed his eyes shut. What was the point? He should be concentrating, anyway. Sheila didn’t stop jabbing him with her foot. It was almost habit by now. She found his frustration somewhat funny. “You take it so seriously.” 

Fugo sighed, the tapping of his fingers on the keys coming with extra force. “You know just as well as anyone else that this is time sensitive. I have to get it done and get it done right.”

Not that wine sounded like that bad of an idea. He was just generally tired. Nobody else would get it done. And even if someone did, he would want to read it over just in case. 

Sheila remained unmoved as the waiter returned, pouring her a glass and setting the bottle before them.  "You act like you're the only one capable." She remarked, taking a sip. 

"Well. I'm the only one who is." Fugo snapped without looking at her and aggressively input cmd>x . He looked down at the dessert the waiter had placed beside his computer. He could smell the syruppy coffee scent from here. He ran his thumb across the panel of his laptop as it processed a new spreadsheet, lagging frustratingly. Fugo exhaled quietly through his nose before unrolling the bundle of silverware next to him. 

"Hey. Fugo, what do you think you're doing?" The intrusive voice across from him warned. "That's not for you. That's for capo." 

Fugo paused briefly to examine his harasser, poised with her hands on her lap, face rigid with a flat expression. He flicked his napkin before placing it back on the table and stabbing his fork through the cake. "Mista can order his own." 

Sheila grinned to herself, covering her face with her hand. Fugo in a bad mood was always funny to her, and she didn't quite know why. She unwrapped her own napkin and gingerly set it across her lap.

Fugo scowled at her. "Let's see you do it, then. You don't have to deal with this piece of shit laptop."

He set his fork on his tongue and the creme began to dissolve, sweet and syrupy, in such contrast to his expression. His face softened slightly, still frowning. The image of Buccellati ordering one came to him. He'd sat across the table, and Fugo had felt like such a child then, looking up at him. Buccellati's smile shone down like a sunbeam. 

"No, this one's for you."

Fugo sighed, looking away from Sheila. Then he flipped over his wine glass, picking up the bottle to pour one for himself. 

"You know." Fugo began, pulling himself away from his busywork. "You never met him. But this was my previous capo’s favorite." 

"Buccellati?" 

"Yes." Fugo set down the bottle. "That's why we chose this place. Buccellatti liked their tiramisu." His eyes remained gently fixated on the small glitter of light reflecting off his silverware. He lifted his glass to his lips. 

He stared down into the glass, lightly swirling the wine. Every thought about Buccellati had different lighting to it, glowing from the distant past. Centuries ago. The sun seemed farther away ever since. He sighed and pushed Enter , gazing away at the wall as he heard the computer struggle to perform the calculations. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get a new one. He just never got around to it. He glanced over at Sheila. “How is it? Do you agree?” 

"It's good." She raised her eyebrows, taking the fork away from her mouth. Fugo nodded and looked back down at his laptop. 

"It has Mista's approval so I guess that's why we never left. Even after." He doubted it was Giorno's decision in the end. More like his lack of one, resulting in their upholding of the now irrelevant memory. It was difficult to change Mista's habits, after all. Mista was a man of habit. He respected Buccellati, and like his first capo, made an effort to maintain his public image around his hometown. The role suited him well enough, and even before the climactic events, Mista had long been swept under Buccellati's wing. It was tacit, but understood, that if anything were to happen to him, Mista would be the successor. 

Fugo scooped up another forkful, placing it in his mouth. He wondered how many years it had been. Maybe this place was more a home than anywhere else. And who knows how long Buccellati had gone here before they’d even met. He let it dissolve on his tongue. It was good, with rich espresso flavor. Buccellati’s taste was never wrong. 

Sheila smiled. “I’m glad.” 

Fugo sniffed. He placed his fork back onto the tablecloth and returned both of his hands to hover over his keyboard. It didn't matter, honestly. Though he had spent much more of his formative years between these walls than anyone else, it seemed he was somehow the least attached. Mista was his superior, so he respected the vague nostalgia he caught from time to time in his delegations, but honestly, it was not a habit he valued much. Buccellati was not this way. Fugo's first capo was a generous man but not the kind to allow his decisions to be clouded by any meter of sentimentality. At least, for most of his life, Fugo believed this to be true. Certainly he had been with him the longest. For some time Buccellatti had mentored him, having made it his prerogative to weaponize his analytical nature. Everything Fugo knew had been handed down from the late capo himself. 

It was funny in a way, how Mista was in many ways less accommodating, but somehow more tangibly sentimental than his predecessor. Fugo continued to clack away at the computer in front of him, finally having hit a vein of productivity. It really didn't matter. 

Fugo had felt guilty for his lack of attachment to it for a while, but, regardless of how much he wanted it to, it hadn't formed. In fact, when Mista first suggested they continue meeting there, he’d felt a thread of grief strike his heart. New Passione had pretty much shaken all ties to the old Passione, and he'd embraced that. Nostalgia tended to exacerbate his grief, and everything being new was refreshing to him and helped lift the dull grey cloud of loss. Grief was very personal to him, and Mista's louder sentiments always managed to strike him off center. But what was he going to do? Especially now, years later, even these thoughts were ancient and fossilized. Giorno had been their don for quite some time and likely would be for much longer. What good was sentimentality? It was always the trail to the most vulnerable place within a person.

All Fugo could do was persist, and that was part of why he was so frustrated. All the working ahead he had done to prepare this month's budget was for nothing with this Mancini business. Oh well. Gotta get it done. 

Sheila was busy inspecting her knife, having eaten her fill of dessert, when the bell rang at the entrance. Judging by the host's enthusiastic greeting, it couldn't be anyone other than their capo himself. The host waved him towards their room, and Mista vaguely acknowledged him, already more than familiar with the procedure. He exhaled deeply as he entered the private room, placing a hand on the small of his back. 

"Mista, I'm sorry you're too late." 

Mista tilted his head from his deep sigh and raised an eyebrow at Sheila's voice from her seat across from him at the table. 

"Someone has already eaten the cake I ordered for you." She lamented, dragging a slow, pointed gaze to her right. Fugo stopped his typing and, on cue, directed his gaze to face his capo, completing the intangible triangle between them. 

Mista paused, placing one hand on the back of his chair as he looked over at the barely eaten piece of tiramisu set by Fugo's computer. He let out an exacerbated whine, his face contorting into an expression of exaggerated disappointment. "Eh, Fugo, if you're going to start robbing people of their simple pleasures, at least don't waste it when you do." 

Fugo took a moment to look up at him from his work, but once he did, it was with an expression of unbridled boredom. “I didn’t want to feel left out of the party.” He glued a slight smile onto his face. “And I wasn’t gonna waste it.” To prove his point, he lifted his fork again and slid it into the dessert. “We can order you a few more if you want.” He turned back to his typing. His capo wouldn’t mind if he kept working. At least, he usually didn’t. 

Sheila brightened at Mista, at least to the extent that Fugo lacked. “You hungry?”

Mista pulled his seat back and sat himself down before reaching over the table for the wine. "A man could eat." He finished emptying the remaining contents of the bottle before offering a playful smile, his eyes squinting. It was clear Mista had spent his day making himself useful: the scent of nauseatingly expensive cigars clung to his jacket, the kind that may be offered to high paying patrons at some upscale casino. However, now that he was here with the rest of his team, all urgency he may have had melted away. Mista whipped open his napkin before leaning forward and resting one arm on the tablecloth. "I've got to tell you-- it's good to see you holding down the fort even when I'm away. Taking care of business I see." 

Mista turned his attention from Sheila back to Fugo. He smiled as Fugo’s brow drew together skeptically. "It's good to see!" Mista leaned back and lifted his hand in playful defense. His ring flashed briefly, catching the overhead restaurant light. He rested his back up against the seat before continuing. "The boss needs me to take a little business trip. I don't know how long I'll be gone. No longer than a week I'm guessing." His attention wandered to his full glass of wine and he reached to take it after pausing briefly. "Paris, apparently. Though I’m shit at French." 

Sheila blinked. “Wow, a whole week. A grand plan, I guess. You sure you don’t need to bring anyone with you?” She flashed a crooked smile, toying with her fork. 

Mista opened his mouth to answer but then looked up at the waiter, who’d approached again. He set down a new bottle of wine to replace the first. “Ah, Mister Mista! What a pleasure to see you. The usual, I presume?”

Sheila laughed. “You sure you don’t want to get something else this time?” 

Mista laughed and took a sip before landing his focus once more on Fugo, who had not discontinued his endless stream of typing. "Hey Fugo, what is it you're working on anyway?" 

Fugo squinted at Mista’s somewhat patronizing words, but he didn’t engage with them, taking his time to address the question. Holding down the fort, apparently. He finished the line he was typing and tapped the Enter key. “Just finishing the budget. Had to change it all due to the loss of the Mancini account. We can absorb it just fine- just had to calculate it from the beginning.” 

"Mancini...." Mista talked around a piece of bread, his free hand touching the rim of his full wine glass. "Fugo, you're talking about Mancini? The diamond guy? I already told you, he paid." He lifted the glass to his mouth. 

Fugos typing stopped. "He paid." 

Mista nodded dismissively in the affirmative. "Yeah, like I told you. Your little stunt scared some sense into him." He laughed airily. "Seems like you finally made some use of that stand of yours." 

Fugo squinted, his fingers frozen as they hovered over the keys. Since when was using his stand a good thing? He’d thought it was cause for punishment. He glanced at Sheila, but didn’t say anything. Then he sighed, slamming his hands down a little more firmly than expected. “No need for a new budget then.” He shut the computer, then lifted his fork again, gazing over as Mista shoved the rest of the bread in his mouth. That was a sight he’d never remembered with Buccellati, who’d always eaten his food so politely. Fugo tried to imagine Giorno sitting here. Had he ever come here since Buccellati was gone? He honestly couldn’t remember. Giorno had definitely begun to adopt the reclusive ways of being a Don. 

"I'm leaving his evening." Mista resumed. "So unless the boss says otherwise, I assume you two know how to keep yourselves busy." 

Fugo said nothing, understanding that his capo had functionally relieved him and Sheila for the time being. Things had been rather slow....although. It was odd that Mista would be traveling for such an extended time.on his own. Fugo looked down and realized maybe it was just a trip Giorno himself didn't want to make. Then again, maybe that was more difficult a task for him these days.

Fugo’s expression was flat. "Hope you have some time to get some good French food, then.” He bent, lifting his briefcase and opening it on his lap. He set the laptop inside and took out a bundle of money.

"Ah, Fugo." Mista caught him as he finished collecting his things. "Actually, I have an errand for you." Mista put down his glass and repositioned himself in his chair, searching for something in his back pocket.

"I'm not going to have time to regroup at the Villa before I leave--I need you to return this to Giorno for me." He directed casually, placing a palm sized brooch onto the tabletop. It was red and fashioned into the design of a ladybug --Giorno's. "I don't think I'll be needing it anymore." He continued to smile, like somehow this too was a joke.

Fugo gazed down at it for a minute, then picked it up. It was warm from being in Mista’s pocket. For a moment, his hand hovered over the open briefcase, but he changed his mind and set it into the inside pocket of his jacket. Something made him want to be quite careful with it, though it was something quite sturdy. “I’ll take care of it.” His face remained flat, even as Mista smiled, eyes bright.

He stood, leaving Mista and Sheila at the table to finish up, seeking out the owner by the host station. He discreetly slid the bundle of money over to him. "Thank you, as always.”

Chapter Text

The church key laid in Fugo’s hand, cold and heavy, a sharp contrast to the dull tapping of his finger on the plastic tab of his keys. He looked up at the large wooden doors, pausing at the threshold with a breath. Was it even right to enter through the front doors? They were so regal, as if they were meant to frame the procession of a king. Maybe Mista’s garden entry was the best way. Fugo looked down at the key, then closed his hand around it. He turned and walked down the steps, making his way over to the garden gate. It swung open with a deep creak. Wait. Were the dogs here? He was fine with dogs, just didn’t want them to be a surprise, especially if they were alert, in guard dog capacity. He took his chances. The garden, however, was unoccupied, the overgrown plants luxuriating in the evening sunbeams that escaped between the buildings. Fugo kicked a stone to the side. A much more reasonable door. He stuck the key into the lock.

A sharp noise disrupted the quiet. It was an alert bark followed by the clamour of dog's nails against hardwood. Fugo paused, one foot in the door as two dobermans greeted him at the doorway of the garden entrance.  He kept himself still as the dogs lifted their heads to follow his every movement, one standing at his feet, the other curiously watching him from a distance. It was the latter who nosed forward close enough for Fugo to be able to read it's collar. "Cici..." He breathed. The dog lifted her head and barked authoritatively before panting and shifting her stance. Fugo winced at the deafening noise but finally allowed himself to step inside. He was about as familiar with Mista's dogs as they were with him. That is: familiar of their existence, but unable to distinguish one from the other. In a way he sympathized with her. He was not who she was expecting to see.

The dogs watched him closely for a minute, then promptly lost interest. He was, in fact, not Mista. They knew nothing exciting was going to happen. Fugo exhaled abruptly. Again, it was dark inside the old church, as if nobody was here. Fugo walked across the former sanctuary, his shoes clicking on the wooden floor. The scant light that filtered in from the boarded windows cast his shadow long against the wall. He held out his hand to grasp the handrail, then made his way up the stairs. He assumed Giorno would be in his study. That was his best guess, anyway.

Again, there was a sliver of light under the door at the end of the hallway. As Fugo stepped onto the carpet, his footsteps no longer made much noise. Then he reached up and knocked on the door.

There was no answer. Gentle music drifted through the closed door, bathed in a faint light. Giorno was definitely in there. Fugo paused, his folded hand against the door. Someone was playing the piano. It was shortly accompanied by a stringed instrument. The viola, probably, by the sound of it. Fugo looked down at the brass doorknob before turning it to let himself inside. As he expected, his don was seated at his desk, for once untidied with various documents and papers. He was leaning forward, closely following the words to the book in front of him, his head propped up by his hand. His eyes looked up from the evidently frustrating document to meet his guest, his brow knitted in a faint, concentrating scowl. "Fugo." He acknowledged him plainly before looking back down at his desk. He could not recall summoning him. "Is everything well?" It was clear he was not as interested in chatting as he had been the last time Fugo interrupted him.

Fugo stepped inside, letting the door click shut behind him. He looked down at Giorno, then dug around in his pocket. After he found it, he took a step forward, the brooch lying heavily in his hand. “Yes.” He placed it on the desk beside him, careful to avoid the papers. Giorno eyed the red brooch placed in front of him and seemed to scowl. Mista was apparently overconfident and decided he had no need for the token.

“Mista said to return this to you. He had to leave directly from the restaurant.” Fugo paused a moment, tilting his head to listen to the music. “Mm.” A bridge that he liked floated across the room. He shut his eyes. “You like Beethoven, Giorno?”

Giorno rustled some papers before setting them aside to look up at Fugo. "Honestly? I don't actually know what you're talking about." He rested one hand on the other, making direct eye contact. It was simultaneously challenging and honest, some of his usual veneer of courtesy chipped away. "This is Beethoven, then? I couldn't have told you that, I don't know anything about this kind of music. In fact I forgot it was on at all." Giorno slid his hands off the table and to his lap, leaning back to sink in his chair. 

Fugo smiled crookedly, subtle. “Ah.” It was like a joke he had with himself. He looked away for a second, over at the radio. “It sticks with you when you’ve spent hours practicing the melodies over and over.” He looked up at Giorno, the smile still on his face. “I guess you’re busy, though. Just wanted to get it back to you.” He knew Giorno was being polite, but an unexpected visit was probably not very welcome.

"So you play?" Giorno, still sunk into his office chair,  tore his gaze away from the brooch to look back up at Fugo. "Actually, that doesn't surprise me." Giorno reconsidered before quickly looking away and readjusting himself into an upright position. He could just picture Fugo seated in front of a piano performing complicated rhythms and chords with all the passion of performing routine auto maintenance. "Mista found you playing piano at a bar once upon a time didn't he." Giorno looked down at the handwritten Japanese in front of him, documents scattered between the transcribed Italian and English originals.

Fugo laughed reservedly, a bit self conscious. He wasn’t sure what Giorno thought of all that, and he wasn’t going to reveal anything on his face. “Ah, yes. He did.” It felt like a lifetime ago. Or as if he’d dreamt it. He remembered that his playing was subpar after years of neglecting his studies, but nobody in the bar really would have cared. He’d just been given generic compliments. He did his best to maintain eye contact with Giorno. “Used to play violin and piano quite a bit. Haven’t played all that consistently since school, though.” He laughed stupidly once more, then finally stopped.

Giorno did not laugh. "Violin?" He kept his gaze still. "Well. That was a long time ago. Before we met even. Would you still remember how to play?" He fiddled with his glove, pulling it gently so it would not stick so closely to his fingertip. Giorno seemed interested, albeit mildly, as if he were searching for a means of procrastination. He was not at all as he was the previous time Fugo had encountered him alone: accommodating and leisurely.

Fugo blinked. His don’s manner was much less relaxed than before, but at the same time, he wasn’t sending him away. Giorno was still holding Fugo steadily in his gaze, by no means brushing him off. He frowned a little. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can still play. Just some rust.” He stared out wistfully for a moment. That was truly such an eternity ago. He wondered if his old violin was still sitting in his parents’ house somewhere. But he blotted that from his mind quickly, shaking his head.

Giorno watched the distracted sequence transpire over Fugo's face in silence.

"You don't even own one anymore."

Fugo met his don's unflinching gaze. He was transparent, but the conversation was enough for Giorno to turn from his papers, if only for a minute. Fugo inhaled slightly. “Haven’t for a while now. Time got away from me.” He didn’t have a good reason for it. Something about Giorno’s gaze made him want to provide a full explanation. 

Before either could fill the silence between them, the clamour of animated dogs came from outside. Giorno turned. "Oh. They got out." Giorno's look was serious as he pushed himself up from his desk.

The realization of what he’d done suddenly struck Fugo. “Ah. I must have left the door ajar. I apologize, I....” He didn’t know what Mista did with his dogs or where he allowed them to go. His faux pas was yet another reminder that his presence in Giorno’s villa was alien.

Giorno swiftly moved from behind his desk and into the hallway to follow the source of the increasingly violent noise. His footsteps clicked to a full stop in front of the cracked garden door, right before an elongated glowing square of evening light. Giorno squinted down at it briefly before turning his head to face Fugo behind him. His brow was furrowed in suspicion as the dogs audibly growled from behind the barrier. Without saying anything, Giorno removed the glove to his left hand and lifted his fingers to his lips to whistle for his dogs.

Fugo stood behind Giorno as he whistled, then watched as the dogs, now quiet, slunk back in through the door, their heads lowered in obedience. However, he did notice that their mouths were dripping. He stepped towards them, into the deep orange sunlight. Yes. It was blood. Fugo pursed his lips and looked back toward Giorno, who was looking down at them with a serious expression. Fluidly, he knelt down before them and outstretched his hand, prompting the larger of the two to crawl forward and deposit the mangled, wet, remains of a living thing. 

“It’s a rabbit’s foot.” Giorno assessed after a brief moment of fondling the disembodied part. He clasped the bloodied foot loosely, brought it to his side and reached forward to place his other hand over Armani’s muzzle, shaking it gently. 

“Poor thing.” He lamented briefly, extending his affection to the other who had nuzzled her way forward. “Mista keeps them on a pretty consistent schedule, I must have fallen behind on dinner. -- Forgive me, girls.” Giorno returned the chewed part back to Armani, now assessed as a trophy she had earned. He paused, looking down on them before smiling softly -- the first time this evening. 

“Shame about the rabbit, although...They were hungry. It couldn’t be helped.” 

Fugo flexed his hand by his pant pocket as Giorno straightened himself and removed his dirtied glove, the two of them on opposite ends of the evening’s shadow. 

“Well Fugo, was that everything? I must thank you for returning my brooch to me, but if that is all I should probably care for their supper already. The sun is already coming down.” 

Fugo could certainly feel it; the boring warmth of the setting sun on the back of his head, the light illuminating stray strands of hair white into nothing. His eyes flickered, quickly looking Giorno up and down before settling back on meeting his gaze. 

“Ah. Yes.” He returned his boss’s graciousness and accepted the invitation to leave. 

Giorno smiled at him before he turned his back to the villa, towards the city streets still bathed in lingering daylight. 

Chapter Text

The heat was oppressive. Fugo felt the sweat gathering at his temples even here, cached inside the thick stone walls of the church. Mista was talking in excited tones that washed over Fugo, sunken too deep in thought. His ears still rang from the cacophony of gunshots, how he’d heard the car door open, a shriek from Sheila as she realized that he was in danger, and then the blast. They’d just meant to surveil: the car wasn’t supposed to arrive for another hour still. With luck, they had cleared the scene before the shooter could determine the identity of the trespassers, the only casualty being the bullet which had grazed Fugo’s arm. Naturally, the wound hurt, but he fought against the sting, concentrating on the fog collecting at his brow; the familiar headache he would get when he was overwhelmed.

The notes Sheila had gathered stared up at them from the table. There was no mistake. In just about a month, the deaths from overdoses had nearly quadrupled. So much for eliminating Volpe. In just a few years, they were observing another spike in cocaine consumption, this time a batch cut with something apparently fatal. At first, the emotion hadn't struck Fugo, but he felt it rattling in the back of his skull: the buzzing of a thousand wasps. He didn't even remember how long he had to spend in the hospital following that. It was a few short years ago, which simultaneously felt like one minute and a millennium ago. He exhaled, not quite a sigh, and moved his eyes about the room. Sheila was listening to Mista intently, a murderous grin across his face: he was beyond angry. Beside him, Giorno was very quiet, as expected. Fugo wondered what he was thinking. From here he was paler than usual, however, it may have been the sub-par lighting of this ancient room. The only light came from the lanterns on the chandelier. It could have been midnight, for all he could see outside. The windows were all shuttered. Perhaps to keep out the heavy summer air.

Mista drummed his fingers stiffly against Giorno’s desk, punctuating the restless atmosphere. Giorno’s eyes followed the rhythmic motion against the hardwood, absorbing Mista’s tension. He broke the pattern briefly as he brought his hand up to roughly wipe away the beads of sweat which had begun to collect at the base of his cap. 

“It’s Italian shit you know.” Mista didn’t move at the touch. It didn’t startle him.

“I know.” Fugo’s voice was distant, across the room. 

“So tell me how it is possible, in an organization filled with stand users whose job is to survey and report illicit activity, some of our girls, here in our hometown of Napoli, are now dead. Right under our nose.”

“...” Fugo scowled dully at a distance at the question, understanding its rhetorical nature. To be honest: since when did Mista care this much? The death toll, certainly, was tragic, but even upon his induction to new Passione, Mista seemed more swayed by his don’s orders than his own moral guidance.  This was somewhat of an unfamiliar scenario: Giorno remained quiet, seated behind his subordinate. Fugo’s gaze slowly shifted through Mista, half heartedly waiting for his boss to speak. Though he knew Mista’s ire wasn’t directed at him, he could not help but feel as if a spotlight was bearing down on him. He was the one who was originally asked to take care of this. But here it was again, the monster he’d slain, standing again, three heads sprouting from where he’d sliced its neck. “I know.” His brow twitched. “Somebody has stepped in.” He exhaled. “And they don’t seem to care if we see them.” He balled his hand, trying his hardest not to let the boiling acid rise from his throat. His other hand scratched at his fist. 

Giorno wasn’t looking at him either, and Fugo tried his best to focus on his don and let the fire drain away. All that mattered is what he had to say.

And the focus was helpful for him too, as the pain from his arm would flare up in each moment he wasn’t contemplating, as his nerve grew lax. At least the shots had clarified one fact: there was clearly something awry with Lupo’s hideout.

Sheila traced it in the paper in front of Mista, but Fugo couldn’t help but look to Giorno as he stood still next to him.

“If it is coming from inside the city I’m not opposed to shutting it down.”

Giorno’s eyes were reluctant to lift from studying the wood grain desktop. Truly. He knew no subtlety. He furrowed his brow and looked forward at his assembled crew, disheveled and dripping from the midsummer heat. They all looked at him in various levels of anticipation. They expected Giorno to be angry, and certainly, the development pulled at his temper, but in this moment, in the poorly lit study, Giorno pressed his thumb against the pads of his fingers, just to reaffirm the comfort of his own warmth. The early evening night which filtered through the gap in the curtain fell like a knife, splitting a visible barrier between him and his crew. He swallowed discreetly as a cold sweat dappled the nape of his neck. 

“This is solvable.” He reiterated, more concerned with the means it would take to escape Passione’s surveillance than with the drugs themselves.

“Sheila, Fugo: I am sure I will once again be relying on you, please don’t let me down.” Giorno quietly curled his hand into a loose ball and wiped the side of his cheek with his thumb.

Fugo nodded abruptly from where he stood. “Well, the great advantage we have is we know exactly where they are.” He rubbed his shoulder briefly. It ached in reply. “We may need to approach with discretion”—he couldn’t help but glance at Mista—“as it seems they are prepared for and very eager to engage in confrontation.”

He looked to Sheila. Sheila brushed her hand along the page. “I’ll start surveillance. Fugo and I will find the best place to infiltrate.”

Mista grinned, gritting his teeth together. “Maybe it’s best to send me this time.” He avoided eye contact with Fugo, but Fugo could see the excitement ripple through him. Mista enjoyed confrontation.

Fugo looked up at his capo, saying nothing, maintaining a quiet glower. "The boss has sent us. Me and Sheila will take care of it. " He asserted quietly. Mista's gaze shifted down to where Fugo was sitting, meeting his glazed over expression. He paused briefly before pushing himself away from the boss' desk and stepping forward to close the small distance between him and his subordinate. He let out a restrained laugh, smiling broadly before clapping Fugo on his shoulder, agitating his fresh wound. "That initiative makes me believe you, Fugo! It'll be nice to spend a few days on your feet, I wish I was so lucky."

Fugo, squinting, did his best approximation of a smile as Mista hovered over his face. “It will be no problem.” His statement was borne of gritted teeth. He’d felt the wound open again, no doubt soaking his new bandage. Oh well. What did he expect? He was always so lucky.

Sheila nodded. “We can take care of it.” She mainly addressed Giorno, though Mista still stood over by Fugo. “We can have a show of force later.”

Mista stepped away from Fugo, who glanced back at Giorno. He still seemed deep in thought, which was strange. Giorno was usually very present, even if he was quiet. He was not the type to be distracted.

Giorno's eyes followed Mista as he leisurely returned to his position by his desk. His brow twitched as he placed his folded hands by his face. There was a strong metallic smell which floated his way as Fugo bent himself forward slightly, gripping his arm where his wound yet again oozed. He pursed his lips briefly and glowered in concentration towards his capo, willing the sensation away. 

“..oh. Fugo..” 

Sheila leaned forward, seated next to him. 

“Your arm.”

Fugo did his best to wave Sheila off, though he still found himself gritting his teeth. The wound was not severe at all, just a graze, but it bled so much regardless, and he felt the wet warmth well up again underneath the patch of gauze. Sheila still looked at him concerned, but didn’t pressure him. If he said he was ok, he was ok.

Giorno lifted his head, an agitation stirring within him as Fugo shirked his teammate away. It was a detail that frustrated him: having missed checking on his teammate. It was much like a small blemish in an otherwise empty canvas. He furrowed his brow deeply before addressing its victim. “Your arm is still injured.”

But when Fugo heard Giorno speak of his arm instead of the task at hand, his breath caught in his throat. It really wasn’t worth so much attention, let alone from the don. “Ah....it’s just a graze. It’s nothing severe.” He did his best to arrange his shoulders so they didn’t give away that he was in pain, already exhausted from being the centerpiece of this evening's session.

Giorno's brows drew together softly in an expression of abstract concern. An uncomfortable wave rolled over him as Fugo adjusted himself. His hand placed over the gash did nothing to mitigate the nauseating and sweet smell that Giorno now realized had been following him all evening. He tapped his tongue to the roof of his mouth and did not swallow, feeling the spit pool around his jaw like he was sick. An empty silence proceeded, albeit shortly before finally, Giorno unfolded himself from behind his desk.

“Fugo.” He pushed his chair back neatly. “Please show me where you were injured.”

Fugo opened his mouth, ready to deny the need for it, but was met with such a serious expression from Giorno that there was nothing left to do but comply. He watched as Giorno walked around the table to where Fugo sat, and Fugo slid the chair back to give him room to stand in front of him. He began to lift his hands to remove the bandage, but Giorno set one hand over his, and Fugo stopped. 

Giorno peeled away the gauze. The wound had indeed opened again, blood welling at the center of it. Fugo looked at it, unphased. Blood did not surprise him, and he only exhibited a small hitch in his movements where the pain bit.

Giorno's hands rested steadily over Fugo’s forearm, feeling his brief stutter of malaise. He pressed his thumb over his skin, and the small well of blood responded by easing into a thicker, faster gush. He pressed his tongue to the top of his mouth in concentration, once again suppressing the urge to swallow any more of the gracious scent or any of the oddly accompanying saliva. Giorno felt Fugo's hand flex as he stroked around the inflamed center where the bullet had grazed him, and his frown deepened at the small, irritating protest. Fugo moving his other hand to brush back the hair that obscured his face only distorted his pointed focus, aggravating his highly exerted concentration as he called for Gold Experience. His face betrayed nothing of his discomfort as he worked GE's hand over the wound in order to at last properly mend it.

Fugo exhaled, focusing on the uproarious sound of Mista’s voice as he continued to explain to Sheila what, in his opinion, should be done. Giorno was so close, and Fugo could intensely feel his presence beside him, like dry ice. His breath betrayed him, as he felt the skin moving underneath GE’s hand. But all at once the pain dulled incredibly, more like that of a sharp bruise, only hurting if it was pressed. And then it was over. Giorno removed the handkerchief, now stained bright red, Fugo’s skin now intact underneath.

Fugo nodded in thanks, letting his stained shirt fall back over his shoulder. Giorno straightened his jaw and pushed himself back away from his subordinate as GE unceremoniously faded behind him. Mista was still talking in animated gestures, keyed up and laser focused on the present situation. Giorno turned to face him as Fugo had already done, the dark room momentarily captivated by their capo's unyielding dialogue. For once, Giorno was relegated to the audience, seated amidst his peers, away from the warm lamp light which fell upon his desk. And for once, he found himself more comfortable doing so. The distance from the artificial, buzzing electric lamp calmed the relentless tension in the back of his eyes, melting the faint and ever present nausea that had followed him for days, conceding slowly to a growing appetite. Giorno attempted another dry swallow, realizing despite his efforts to suppress it, his nausea had kindled an inflamed sensation of thirst which rested heavily over his entire body. 

Fugo touched his arm absentmindedly beside him, before quietly coughing into a fist. Giorno in turn curled his own hand over the now balled up strip of bloodied tourniquet, and slipped it discreetly into his pant pocket. The sinking summer sun had given away to a seasonal evening downpour, and the sparse raindrops against the now dimmed window pierced every sensitivity as Giorno pursed his lips over a mouth so dry it was as if he had swallowed a fistful of cotton. He glanced down briefly before unfolding himself from the crookedly-placed chair beside Fugo and stood amidst his team.

"Mista, I trust you are taking care of this. I have other business to oversee this evening. Please excuse me." Giorno dipped his head politely before turning to exit the room, his hand lingering briefly on the back of his chair.

Fugo was somewhat startled. He had never seen Giorno leave a meeting prematurely. Usually the others were dismissed, and he and Mista lingered at the table. But today Giorno appeared rather pale to him, a sheen of sweat across his forehead. Fugo had never noticed that before. Even in the heat of a battle, Giorno had never exhibited a wet forehead or shaking hands. Could someone who had GE in their palm ever fall ill? Fugo hadn’t thought of it before. 

Then again, he couldn’t know. He was not in a position to analyze him. So Fugo looked back to Mista. Mista was somewhat startled by Giorno, but it resolved quickly. “Yep. Got it.” 

Mista's voice echoed throughout the hallway. He had adopted a serious tone, confident even in Giorno's absence. The pelting rain resonated distantly as he removed himself from the collection of voices, the drenching noises growing more audible. The house became rapidly dim with the onset of this evening downpour, none of the lights yet lit as the sun began to rest its head. Giorno's shoes clicked softly across the hardwood as he continued into the thicker dark, feeling a small but immediate release, like one had opened a window on a winter evening when the fireplace had been over-kindled. The sensation was too relieving to be very troubling, though it did not escape his concern. Giorno's expression remained flat as he turned the brass doorknob to an unoccupied room. The metal was ice cold, and Giorno ran his hand down his pant leg to alleviate the sensation. 

The room was relatively sparse compared to the others: a brass framed queen sized bed, a bedside table and wooden floor, framed by four wallpapered walls, heavily decorated with filament and undelicate floral patterns. The window's curtains were parted, creating sheer gradients across the floor that crept over Giorno's shoes, the rain droplets swimming languidly and organically, small organisms themselves. He wanted nothing more than to stick his tongue out and take them all in. Giorno stood amidst his malaise, feeling swayed by the waves of it. This thirst was unyielding, and nothing he had tried could quench it. The sensation now stirred in him differently; it was base. 

Giorno parted his lips to take a shallow breath of air as he sat on the edge of the bed. His gaze bored into the paneling of the floor, his expression unmoved, feeling a cold phantom sweat drench him, mimicking the oozing painting the rain droplets left in their wake. He did not blink and reached into his pant pocket to remove the strip of dirtied tourniquet. He could not feel the presence of his own fingertips as he did so, only feeling in his palm the weight of the still wet, still fresh blood. Certainly, it would soon dry -- only enough to dye the cloth red, little more. He looked at the crumpled strip of cloth and wrapped his hand gently around it, fortunate enough to have secured it still fresh. A few drops stuck to his fingers, sticky, as he finished evaluating it and placed the cloth into his open mouth. 

He sucked at the thin tourniquet curiously, his hand pressed by his lips, gently squeezing the cloth for any bit of wet it had left in it. The dirty, metal taste was relieving between Giorno's teeth and caused him to milk the tourniquet for any bit of moisture available. He let it lay on his tongue knowing when there was nothing left, still wanting, his perversion hardly whet, only a saccharine taste coating the inside of his mouth. Giorno removed it, finally, the cloth misshapen and wrinkled, discolored and trashed. 

He felt the weight of a cold hand on his back as he stared at the prize. His expression remained bare as Gold Experience transformed the depleted strip into a small moth, so the object of his momentary intrigue may never return to him again. His hand rested heavily over his thigh as the insect felt its way over him before gently fluttering off. Giorno swallowed, feeling the ghost of the taste linger, and realizing with a hollow disgust that in this moment, he could not weigh any other thought in his mind other than that he wanted more of it. He spread his fingers slowly over his thigh, feeling the fibers of his pant leg, grounding the repulsive conclusion. He curled them back into a loose fist and left the room.