Archive of Our Own ^beta

Fugo meets the ghost when he's fourteen and just barely joined a gang.

The boy draws a long, shaky breath. The cold night air isn't a relief, it burns in his lungs. He needs water.

He's still sweating cold, shivering, too thin, and shaky on his feet. He's just seen his soul and it terrifies him. Grotesque, ugly, volatile, and so, so deadly. Risotto told him he's lucky—Metallica manifests in my blood. It gives me iron poisoning. And Fugo gets that, and agrees, but it doesn't stop him from dwelling on how fucking horrifying the manifestation of his own fucking soul is.

Still, Purple Haze landed him a job.

Even if it's a job for killing people—and even if it's less of a job than a lifelong contract to sell his fucking soul. But then again, he would've been killed otherwise. Fugo's too dangerous to be let roam outside the organization. Alright, so he's a hit man now. It's not like he hasn't killed before.

A small sound breaks through his haze.

The rustle of rodent, or a bird, or some other animal. Fugo blinks, right. This area is overgrown. It was residential area, three years ago. But it became the sight of a gang war so brutal that even Fugo, swamped in his studies and caged by his parents, heard of it. Some number of civilians killed, some gang crushed by the organization—Passione—and the area totally destroyed.

Under the full moon, Fugo can still make out the skeletons of whatever apartments used to stand here. Left under government neglect, much of the walls have collapsed in on themselves, weakened by bullets, and further brought down by the elements. Although there've been talks of reconstruction efforts have been continually put off, leaving the site to be swallowed by vines and shrubs and bullet-scarred trees. If Fugo squints, he can make out the rusty stain of blood on some of the walls.

Then, something shifts. Moves. All white, and fast, and there's no sound.

Fugo freezes. Because that either means that he's imagined something—he hasn't—or there's someone very skilled stalking him. Like Risotto, who can move without so much as a peep of sound.

Purple Haze claws beneath his skin, throbs inside his skull.

Something moves, again. They aren't being very subtle.

Biting back his better instinct, Fugo says, "Who are you?"

There's a sound of startled surprise, a pair of bright green eyes warily gazing down at him from a broken window. The rest of the figure is obscured by shadow.

"You can see me." A voice states, and it sounds so young.

Suddenly, the hypothesis of some highly skilled rival gang member stalking him is looking less likely.

"Yeah," Fugo says, warily. "Why?"

And suddenly the figure isn't in the window, it's on the ground. Right in front of Fugo. The boy stares up at Fugo, green eyes intent. Fugo doesn't know if it's just the moonlight, but the boy looks so silver. Skin as white as pearls, hair that's all shades of grey and white and silver and eyes that are so bright.

Fugo's skin crawls.

"Huh," the boy eventually says. "Who are you?"

Fugo grits his teeth, and tries to leash his anger.

Then, before he can flare, the boy uncertainly adds: "My name is...Giorno."

Okay, thinks Fugo, he can deal with this. "Fugo," he stiffly responds, and then: "Why are you here? You shouldn't be."

The boy—Giorno—stares at him. Glances around. Thins his lips. Doesn't answer. Something flares under Fugo's skin. A child shouldn't be here. Especially at this hour. The lack of people and the history make this place a popular site for gang meetings. Yet this fucking kid is here, and won't answer him and this day has already been such shit.

Something grotesque pools in Fugo's gut. He can't—can't deal with this. "Go home."

There's a moment, the wind whistles, the moon shines. Giorno looks at him, and flickers. Flickers white, and silver, and Fugo can see blood crusting on the boy's turtleneck, and blood on Giorno's face. It's stark crimson against the alabaster of Giorno's skin.

"Worry about yourself," Giorno says, rather icily. "You look terrible."

Fugo bristles, but Giorno probably isn't wrong. "Yeah joining a gang does that," he grumbles, instead of slamming Giorno into the nearest wall.

The boy blinks. And there's something in his eyes, something bright, and burning, and angry. "Which one?" And then, "Passione?"

"What of it?" Fugo grits.

"Nothing," and Giorno says it with such a straight face that Fugo almost believes he isn't lying. But only almost. There's something in his eyes.

Fugo remembers the books he's read. He remembers reading through the classics, flipping through The Call of Cthulhu, the feel of an ancient Frankenstein copy beneath his fingers, cutting his skin on the edge of Dracula's pages—watching his blood seep into the paper. He remembers his grandmother talking about God, and Heaven, and Hell, learning about Hade's underworld, interpreting Valhalla, scrutinizing the Egyptian Duat, studying the theory of reincarnation.

This's all stupid, Fugo remembers thinking, humans and their need for an afterlife. There's no proof of a soul, and no credible way of knowing there's anything besides nothing after death.

Now, Fugo feels Purple Haze crawling beneath his skin, and sees Giorno flicker, and thinks oh.

Fugo draws back his arm, tries not to feel guilty at Giorno's flinch, and punches.

He hits nothing.

-

A year after Fugo joins La Squadra Esecuzioni, he takes his first life.

The training phase had dragged on as he learned how to use purple haze and not kill himself in the process. But the final result was hardly better. Purple haze is grotesque and ugly and that extends to the way it kills. Fugo's head is throbbing and his arm is bleeding but that hardly matters. All Fugo can focus on how that man had sounded, the expression, the way that—all at once—every bit of the man had melted. Skin bubbling, bones collapsing, molecules ripping until he was nothing.

Fugo stumbles through the door of his makeshift apartment. There's hardly a temperature difference between inside and outside. But there's a rug, and a table, and mattress for Fugo to collapse onto. Giorno perks, looking at him inquisitively. Fugo knows he looks like shit, pale skin—bloody clothes; he isn't sure how much is his own.

"You should bandage that," Giorno says, pointing to Fugo's arm, like Fugo doesn't already know.

And Fugo can't breathe—

He chokes on the tie around his neck, and is constricted inside his clothing. Lungs squeezed. Sweat and blood crusting onto his skin, he'll have to peel off his shirt. Too much blood-someone else's blood. And his, still coming from his wound, soaking into the mattress. Itchy. It's so itchy and disgusting and Fugo can't breathe—

"I can't bandage you," Giorno says, "I can't activate the shower."

A shower. Right. Fugo squeezes his eyes shut. It's a miracle their plumbing works at all. Risotto—especially because until now Fugo hasn't contributed to their limited budget—doesn't cover his costs of living. The shower will be cold.

"Fugo," Giorno says, gently prodding. "It's alright." But Fugo doesn't want any prodding.

Fugo snaps himself up, snarling. "You haven't killed someone before!"

Giorno looks at him for a long moment—his expression is disconcerting on a child's face. He shifts, flickers, white and silver and red. Fugo feels cold, so, so cold. "Once," says Giorno, "I killed someone, once." His expression is steel. "And I didn't have the ability to survive the repercussions, so I paid in my life."

Fugo snarls, jerks himself off the mattress, stalks off to the bathroom. Tugs his clothes off and winces at the way they take some skin with them. Shoves himself into the shower, feels the water fall over him like lukewarm ice and tries not to punch the wall.

There's no shadow behind the shower curtain, but there's a voice.

"Fugo, do you believe in the afterlife?"

Fugo scrubs the blood from his skin viciously, accidentally hits the wound on his arm. Hisses in pain. For a moment, his vision blinks black. Without the crust of fabric and blood and dirt, his wound has started pouring blood into the water and down the drain and Fugo can't think.

"I'm coming out," he hisses, and Giorno is out of the room when he shuts off the shower and dresses himself in a towel.

He steps out, his skin is ice, the water doesn't help.

Giorno look at him, points to the closet. "First-aid."

"I know."

He grabs the first aid kit and slams himself into a chair. Immediately regrets it. His vision blinks and he's all at once too heavy and too light. Bandages, right.

"Hey Fugo," says Giorno, unblinking green eyes, "Do you believe in the afterlife?"

Fugo wraps his arm, tries to ignore the pain. The afterlife. Where souls go—where they're supposed to go. Ghosts are a special case; tied to earth by a grudge or a bond or something left unfinished. Probably. He's never asked Giorno. Normally...normally... Fugo thinks of Heaven and Hell, Hade's underworld, Valhalla—"Are you trying to comfort me?" And it's bitter. His expression twists. "'Trying to Say 'hey it's okay you killed that guy! There's a second life! Don't feel bad!' is that what you're trying to say?"

Something in Giorno's expression twitches, but otherwise remains blank. "Not entirely," he admits, and Fugo feels something broiling beneath his skin. "I'm not...faking," Giorno says, quiet, small—which is so completely out-of-character that it takes Fugo back. "I genuinely believe in the afterlife," says Giorno, and his voice is still low, but it isn't small, "a second chance."

Fugo blinks. There’s a beat. He adjusts the bandages.

Giorno continues on so smoothly that Fugo almost believes he meant to all along. “But no one—” you, “should latch onto that second chance and abandon their first.”

And to Fugo, it all sounds like a bunch of garbled bullshit. Giorno, he’s learned, has a terrible habit of never being outright. Which Fugo gets, he gets it, but that doesn’t mean he has to like it. “…So you’re saying it was better him than me.”

Giorno freezes, opens his mouth to say something, doesn’t, pauses—shakes his head. “No…no,” he says, soundly as close to unsure as Fugo’s ever heard him. “No, I’m saying that you survived. And you’re alive. And—” Giorno stumbles, “—I’m glad, for that. Don’t throw it away, please.”

-

After his third kill, Risotto offers him a place in their communal home.

“You’re able to pay your share,” Risotto, tall, with black sclera and red irises—he’s the image of intimidating. But he’s also Fugo’s new caretaker, and almost smiling. “Illuso will probably be a bitch about it, but you’ve more than earned your place.”

Risotto has a reputation, but it’s only really upheld in work. In reality, when Risotto’s with them—his team, well….he’s not exactly warm. But he kinda is, in a reserved way. He’s a fair leader and a responsible boss. He keeps peace in his team, and sometimes uses his cut of the money to buy them birthday presents.

But still.

Risotto, noticing his hesitation, adds, “We cover lunch and dinner too, and basic hygienics. Anything else is on you, though.”

Fugo gets along well with the team, for the most part. He clashes with Ghiaccio in a way he almost enjoys, and he respects Prosciutto, and no one flinches at the sight of Purple Haze and even if Illuso pokes fun at his stand—nobody criticizes Fugo for cold cocking the bastard.

In the end, Fugo realizes, he trusts them.

But still.

Risotto stares at him, then, demanding but not criticizing: “Do you have something to say?”

And Fugo thinks of Giorno. Tied to those stones, where he died, and alone.

“I can’t,” Fugo says, tries to collect his thoughts. Risotto waits, patiently. “I—it’s my own personal reasons. I appreciate the offer, I do, I really do,” the sincerity startles even himself, “but I can’t.”

There’s a lovely awkward beat. Risotto stares. “Alright,” he says, eventually, and doesn’t question any further.

-

Fugo comes back, bloody and bleeding and faint on his feet. It wasn’t even a target that did this to him. Fucking hell.

He slams open the door, and promptly forgets his pain.

“You look…” His throat is dry, voice cracking terribly, “different.”

Giorno looks at him with wide eyes. Bright, green eyes. On his not-a-super-small-child-face. As in, like, Giorno aged. He no longer looks like the small probably ten-or-so child that Fugo had found him as. Now, Giorno is tall. Probably taller than Fugo himself. He’s tall, and his terrible bowl-cut has been outgrown into black bangs that frame his marble-carved face. He looks almost like a freshman now, stark contrast to his previously elementary appearance.

Giorno smiles in a way that almost looks shy. “Yes,” he says, simply, voice deeper and smoother.

Fugo feels the air catch in his lungs, because oh, that’s Giorno. And he’s beautiful. A wish kicks Fugo in the gut, and it’s painful. Because it didn’t happen, and it can’t happen, and it’ll never happen—but Fugo wishes so much and so deeply that Giorno had actually lived that long. Lived in a way that would let Fugo hold his hand, and touch his hair, and kiss his cheek, and it hurts.

“Fugo?” Giorno says, a little unsure.

Fugo gasps for breath, air stutters its way into his lungs and he coughs on it until he’s hacked up blood.

Giorno snaps to attention at that. “Fugo, first aid, now.”

It isn’t a request. Fugo complies easily. He grabs the kit from their table—(they don’t store it in the closet anymore. It’s too far and too high and Fugo once blacked out while trying to reach it. He won’t ever forget how completely shaken Giorno had looked when he relayed how Fugo was only saved when Risotto visited next morning.) So Fugo sits himself down, and begins bandaging. A would on his side, bruises blossoming over his chest, cuts on his face.

Giorno looks at him, unreadable.

“You aren’t usually injured this much…hard target?”

Fugo shakes his head. Scrunches his nose. Anger flares inside him, briefly. “Nah, some fucker from Buccellati’s squad.”

Fugo doesn’t miss the way Giorno’s eyes sharpen, then burn. “Buccellati?” Giorno asks, demure, “That’s the Naples group, right? Why would you clash?”

Which is a little bit of information that Fugo doesn’t really remember ever mentioning—but that’s not really his business. So he won’t ask, at least for now. Fugo snorts. “Apparently I ruined his chase and got in the way of his mission. Little shit. I was literally just walking around and happened to see him literally shooting bullets around one of my favorite bakeries! He set the whole fucking street on fire!”

Giorno hums. “He?”

“Pretty sure his name was Narancia, since he doesn’t fit the description of anyone else from that team,” Fugo answers, finally finishing wrapping his abdomen, and beginning on dabbing the cuts on his face.

The ghost pauses, nods, “How’d it end?”

Fugo laughs—chokes on air and begins coughing. “Buccellati came and broke it up. Honest-to-god hilarious to watch Brat was treated to that ‘I’m disappointed in you’ look.”

Giorno chuckles lightly, and for a moment Fugo almost thinks it’s real. “And then?” Smiles Giorno, “No offer of reparations?”

Fugo shrugs. “Buccellati offered, but I declined. It was pretty obvious he didn’t trust me, and I don’t trust them either.”

“Hmm.”

When it becomes apparent that Giorno won’t continue the conversation, Fugo takes that mantle. “I’m pretty envious of the Buccellati team, honestly.”

The other quirks his head in interest, raises an eyebrow—it’s such an elegant movement and Giorno is so close. Even if Fugo can’t feel his heat, and doesn’t hear his breathing—he’s so close. If Fugo just reached out, just a bit, he could brush a strand of hair out of Giorno’s face and—“Do they have something?”

Fugo laughs, and doesn’t think about how he’s never felt Giorno’s hand in his. “Something?” He chuckles, “They’ve got everything. Seriously.” Fugo sighs. “In La Squadra we’re paid by commission, and it isn’t a huge amount. We don’t have any steady income. Buccellati’s team has territory.” It comes off a little more bitter than he intended. “They keep Passione dominance in the area and in turn get paid both by a Capo and they get a cut of protection money! Can you fucking believe that? We can hardly afford a simple movie trip.”

Fugo rants, Giorno listens. It’s a familiar rhythm.

-

Sorbet and Gelato are dead.

Murdered—

And Fugo is sticking with their killers.

Tortured—

Fugo remembers vividly, how Sorbet looked when he was pieced together. Like some fucking jigsaw puzzle. Except those hadn’t been cardboard pieces they had been Fugo’s team and it didn’t reveal some happy picture, it clued at a death more gruesome than Purple Haze.

The apartment is trashed. The dishes haven’t been done in days, neither has any cleaning. There’s a stack of books by the mattress, coffee-stained covers. It’s Wednesday evening and Fugo hadn’t left the bed since yesterday afternoon. There’s a half-eaten apple, it’s brown. It’s the most he’s eaten since Monday morning. He can’t have slept more than six hours combined.

The air is a smog of mildew and dust and sweat and Fugo can’t breathe. He coughs, coughs so hard that his lungs constrict and his throat closes up and tears prick at his eyes. And Fugo can’t breathe—

Giorno’s there in an instant. Black hair turned blonde, looking glorious and untouchable and so, so sad. “Breathe,” he says, quietly.

So Fugo does.

And Giorno’s still looking at him.

“What,” Fugo spits, with more bite than he intended.

Giorno opens his mouth, closes it, thins his lips. “You need to do something.”

Fugo looks at him dryly. “Something.”

“Anything,” the blonde says, shifts. “Whatever will make you…not…not this.”

Fugo grits his teeth, glares. Casts aside his blankets, stands, he’s a little shaky. “Like!? What, you want me to join them? Go die with them?” He sneers, and he’s being mean and terrible and he knows it. But his skin is broiling and there’s lava is his pores and—

“If it makes you happy,” Giorno says, a little quiet—in such a way that Fugo almost believes that’s all there is to it, “If it makes you live. If you truly want to.”

Fugo grits his teeth. “You’re going to criticize me? For not wanting to fucking die? Maybe you do want me to die, just leave and leave you alone because you don’t want this fucking drag in your home and—”

—And he’s going too far and he knows it but it really only hits when Giorno takes a step back and there’s that expression. The one that’s so blank and placid and rings of distress.

But when Purple Haze breaks a capsule, no one can stop it. There’s destruction and deaths and sometimes there are bystanders and no one, much less Fugo, can stop the carnage. Fugo’s temper simply doesn’t back down. And he’s so frustrated. At the world, the boss, the organization, Giorno, and himself. But there’s only one person he can yell at here, so he looks at Giorno and tastes venom on his tongue. He tries to stop it, he really does, but he just can’t.

“Why are you even here,” Fugo seethes, “you never told me. You’re supposed to be dead! Why are you staying!?”

Giorno looks, expression flashing with something Fugo can’t decipher. He isn’t expecting an answer, really. Giorno’s never told him before, and it’s not like Fugo asked politely.

“You told me once,” begins Giorno, “that some stands linger after death. Become stronger, even, carrying out the single minded will of the user.”

Fugo bares his teeth. “And?”

The ghost gives a small smile. A bittersweet thing. “I’m a soul, you know. In some essence I am a stand. This place is too overgrown for it to be entirely natural.”

Alright, nothing Fugo couldn’t have figured out himself. “And?”

Giorno looks at him. “There’s a will,” the ghost says, quiet, but not weak, “a grudge, maybe. Something I’m here to do.”

“The person who killed you?” Fugo guesses, because that’s what it is in every horror novel. “You could’ve asked me.”

The ghost shifts, all silver and white and shades up grey—crimson. Eyes burning so green, intent, and full, gaze scalding on Fugo’s skin. “Bruno Buccellati killed me,” Giorno says, with all the quiet confidence of a python. “He slit my throat, a quick, easy death.” Dread kicks Fugo in the ribs, pushes the air from his lungs, catches the words in his throat. Because Buccellati, in the end, is too softhearted and Giorno was a child— “But in reality it wasn’t ever, really, Buccellati that killed me.”

Which is exactly what Fugo doesn’t want to hear. “Alright,” his voice sounds a bit far away, “what happened then?”

Giorno glances around. “You know this history of this place, yes?”

Fugo nods, “Yep, gang war, right here, right. I always assumed you were just caught in it and killed.”

The ghost chuckle lightly, it’s a far away sound. “In a sense, yes. Some Passione member decided I was in the way and tried to kill me with a shovel. But I was in the kitchen and he obviously wasn’t expecting me to offer a fight, so I stabbed him with a kitchen knife and hid in the attic.”

“But he was still alive long enough to tell someone about the kid who stabbed him,” Fugo infers, feeling a little nauseous.

Giorno nods, looking gold and silver and red. A hum. “Buccellati must’ve been younger than you are now, and it was probably a test of loyalty. More than likely the organization had someone over his head.”

Fugo’s smart enough to know what Giorno is saying. Even if he doesn’t want to hear it, or think about it, or know that it’s true. Fuck. And Giorno’s just looking at him.

Then, because when Giorno hits it’s with iron and knives and every low blow—“So it wasn’t Buccellati that killed me, it was Passione.” The ghost’s eyes burn, so bright and green and it scalds on Fugo’s skin. “It was that who controls Passione, it was the boss, Fugo.”

Giorno doesn’t say ‘the boss who you won’t betray, who you side with, who you cower before,’ which is a mercy, if small.

He hears it anyway, and Fugo can’t breathe—

Days of underpayment and not enough to eat and too-cold and no territory. Frustration. He sees his anger reflected on a team of faces that aren’t his own. His cup breaks. No one criticizes him for it. Sorbet and Gelato, so vivid, so expressive in their pain, all pieced together in a jigsaw puzzle of skin and flesh. He leaves. Ghiaccio tries to spike him on his way out.

Giorno, red, bloody, throat slit. In a body Fugo can’t touch and can’t kiss and can’t—Giorno, dead. Dead and looking at him, gaze scalding on Fugo’s skin.

And Fugo can’t breathe—

“Fugo, breathe,” says Giorno, and so he does.

Air stutters into his lungs, catches on every raw patch, and the breath burns, but at least he’s breathing. “Alright,” he says, worn out, with most of his vitriol burn up, “You want me to betray the boss, for your revenge.”

The ghost pauses, glances away, “In part,” he admits, small, kind of guilty.

“Okay,” says Fugo, takes a deep breath. “Okay.” Which doesn’t mean ‘I will’, but it means, ‘I’m thinking.’

Giorno glances at him, takes a step forwards, a step back. Glances away, glances back. Fugo watches with a dull curiosity. The ghost shifts—white, silver, and gold. “It was only for me in the beginning,” a pause, “but now it’s for you, too. You’re miserable.”

Fugo blinks, the air catches in his lungs, anger flares. “Well what am I supposed to do!?” His anger flares, but only flares, it doesn’t catch. It stutters and smokes, but it doesn’t rage. “I only do solo missions for a reason, I’ll sooner kill them than the boss.”

A moment pauses, the smell of stale food and dry blood, Fugo feels nauseous. “Is that what you think?” Giorno’s tone is level, and so, so sad.

“Yes,” Fugo says, “I won’t help. I can’t help—Giorno I can’t help.”

The ghost steps forward, closer, so close that Fugo could touch him. His eyes are so, so green, burning. “You can help.”

Fugo looks away. “I can’t.”

“Fugo,” a beat, “do you trust me?”

And that’s the thing isn’t it? Fugo does, he trusts Giorno—more than trusts Giorno, he has faith in Giorno, and knows Giorno, and loves Giorno.

“Yeah.”

“Then you can help,” and he says it with such confidence that Fugo believes it. “So,” Giorno continues, “all that’s left is if you want to go.” His eyes glisten.

“…And if you’re wrong? If people die?”

“Then,” says Giorno, “would you rather know you tried?”

Fugo thinks of Gelato, Sorbet; tortured and mailed with a grotesque ruthlessness that could only really be commissioned by the boss. Thinks of Giorno, with his neck slit, and his life taken, all alone and festering a grudge. And he thinks of himself; how his family was taken, and loyalty abused, and how he wants to keep what he has so desperately and so badly.

“Okay,” says Fugo, and stands up. “Okay.”

-

Fugo follows the ladybug to a charred street—and then follows Buccellati’s team’s tracks to Pompeii.

Before leaving, Fugo had listened on the plan. Kidnap the boss’s daughter, use her to find out the boss’s identity. So he doesn’t know the details, but he assumes Buccellati’s team must’ve been put in charge of Trish’s transportation. Therefore putting them in direct confrontation with La Squadra.

He tries not to think too hard about the charred street, and the bullet holes, and the fact that the ladybug had previously been a strand of Formaggio’s hair.

There was no body, he shouldn’t jump to conclusions, he knows this.

Even if…they had killed Formaggio. Fugo can’t act, not yet. He needs to follow them until La Squadra next attacks. He knows it’s a crude plan, with failure glaring from ever shadow, but it’s all he has. Even Risotto had completely broken off contact with him.

Don’t think about it.

Pompeii is hot, it’s noon, and the sun is beating down relentlessly. Fugo’s tie is suffocating around his neck, fabric sticks to his skin. Giorno’s ladybug brooch is heavy in Fugo’s chest pocket. He didn’t bring water. The stones are scalding. He’s following witness reports, and a branch of Buccellati’s team is supposed to be here.

He finds his answer when he finds blood on the ground, and hears bullets shooting, and sees a shattered mirror.

Fugo speeds up, his legs ache—he needs to be there.

Breathe.

Fugo skids a corner, and there’s Illuso, on the ground, bleeding, and over him there’s Narancia. Stand out, a jet fighter; Fugo doesn’t want to see how many bullets it can shoot. The other one, with grey hair and violet eyes and clutching at the stub of his bleeding shoulder barks something like, ‘NARANCIA, before he can go back into the mirror world..!’

His legs ache and his lungs burn and he needs to be there.

Fugo trips his way into the scene, skidding in front of Illuso before any bullets are loosed. Illuso makes a high choking noise behind him, and stutters something like ‘Fugo what the fuck.’ But he can’t focus on that. It won’t matter that he got here before Illuso was gunned down, if they both end up dead.

The one gurgling blood from his arm—Abbacchio, Fugo remembers—narrows his eyes, expression tight. Narancia looks tense and trigger happy. They’re going to die if Fugo doesn’t do something.

Breathe.

Purple Haze bursts from his back, growls lowly. Its checkered purple is stark and dangerous against the bright sandy tones of the surrounding rock. Behind him, Illuso’s breath hitches.

“Move, and we all die,” Fugo’s voice is hard edged, and dangerously serious. “Purple haze will kill everything in its range and trust me, we’re all well within its range.”

Illuso curses, loud and vulgar. “Fugo what the hell! No, no, I am not dying to Purple Haze you can’t—I’ll—I’ll fucking kill you Fugo I swear.”

“Suck it,” Fugo hisses, eyes not moving from the pair, “I’m busy trying to save your life here.”

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Illuso responds, then coughs. Bad sign.

Abbacchio glances to Narancia, the teen looks back. Looks at Fugo, a flash of recognition. “Hey,” Narancia starts, “aren’t you that cheese guy..?” The lines of his face solidify something more accusatory. “You’re the guy who fucking ruined my mission last time!”

The older shuffles a bit closer to Narancia, Fugo tenses. Still no moves to attack. “You know him?”

Narancia nods at that same time that Illuso says: “You know them!?” With considerably more vitriol.

Fugo clears his throat, almost adjusts his tie. “Alright, now, let’s just remember that if anyone makes moves to attack, we all fucking die.” Purple haze growls a little louder, perhaps sensing the tension. Or maybe it did that because that’s just what it does. Growls and slobbers and kills and it’s right beside them and—breathe.

“We aren’t surrendering,” Abbacchio says, at the same time that Illuso says, “I’m not running away.”

Fugo nods as pleasantly as he can, given the situation. “Of course, but perhaps, if we all think rationally,” he pointedly kicks Illuso’s leg, “and cooperate, then maybe we can reach a compromise.”

If Abbacchio weren’t down an arm, and using the other to attempt to stop his heavy bleeding, then Fugo’s sure he would be crossing his arms. “I’m not making my capo’s decisions,” he says, tightly.

“That’s reasonable,” Fugo agrees, because he’s got a little bit of tact. Much different from Illuso gurgling ‘fuck you’ from the ground. “Do either of you have phones on you? We can call him.”

Narancia shrugs, stand still out. “Nah! They’ll all probably come if we take too long though!”

Somehow, Fugo doesn’t really like the odds of him vs. the whole of Buccellati’s team. “Alright,” he says, pulling a phone from his pocket. “What’s his number?”

So Abbacchio warily relays a number, and Fugo makes a call.

The line opens up with a very on-guard sounding, “Who is this?”

Before Fugo can respond, Illuso tactlessly yells, “We fucking need you up here or Fugo’ll kill us all!”

There’s a beat of silence, and Fugo tries to keep from sighing too heavily. “…And who, exactly, am I speaking too?”

Kicking Illuso’s side, again, Fugo responds, “Ah, this is Fugo. I am speaking to Buccellati, correct?”

Another beat. “…Yes. Excuse me, but my team doesn’t happen to be injured, do they?” And it rings of a threat.

Fugo glances at the pair. Narancia is relatively fine, cuts, the start of bruises. Abbacchio, on the other hand… “Abbacchio’s down an arm,” Fugo answer, bluntly, there’s the sound of shattering glass on the other end, “But that hardly matters, it’s fixable enough. What matters right now, is that our groups come to a truce. The lack of one will mean both Narancia and Abbacchio’s death. It’ll mean mine, too, but I’m willing.”

Silence.

He knows Buccellati is a good judge, he hopes Buccellati knows he isn’t buffing.

“What are your demands?”

Fugo lets out a little sigh of relief. “For now my goal is really just to leave this alive, with my partner. For that, you need to come, alone. If anyone accompanies you it’ll be a trigger.”

A beat.

“Alright.”

The wait for Buccellati if fucking torturous. Illuso won’t stop with his passive-aggressive comments, and Purple Haze slobbers all over Fugo’s side—it’s the longest the beast has ever been out. It does nothing for Fugo’s nerves. Abbacchio is a wall of steely silence, and Narancia keeps taking Illuso’s bait. The sun is strict and Giorno’s brooch is heavy against his chest and the ground smells like blood and Fugo’s tie is suffocating and—

Breathe.

Thankfully, Buccellati arrives alone.

Small mercies.

The man is looking at Purple Haze with obvious wariness. Fugo holds up a hand when Buccellati is approaching the area that most close range stands can cover. He doesn’t want to be in range of whatever stand Buccellati has—if it is a close range stand, that is. Fuck. Calm down.

Fugo offers a strained smile. “Abbacchio here said he couldn’t make any truces without you, now you’re here. Your word?”

Buccellati’s glance flickers to Abbacchio, fixates on his bleeding stub. Curses lowly. “You’re the hit man team, right? You’ve been attacking us. Why should I let you go?”

Fugo pauses, glances at Abbacchio and Narancia very pointedly. “Well, I’m not you, but I wouldn’t really like the odds of being down two men and still having to fight the entire hit man team.”

Buccellati tenses. “Then you’ll continue trying to kidnap,” a pause, “the subject.”

He can’t quite hold back his sneer. “Like she’s better with you than us.”

Narancia flares. “Hey! We’re not trying to goddamn kidnap her! We’re guarding her!”

Fugo still doesn’t know the full situation so files that bit of information, and digs for more. “Oh, to do what exactly? ‘Can’t be anything good.”

“Naran—” Buccellati begins, but Narancia’s already taken the bait.

“We’re bringing her to her dad! She’s gonna be happy and meet her dad and stuff, unlike you guys, who’ll probably just torture her or something.”

Keeping to his record of literally never helping anything: Illuso mutters, “And it’d be worth it to find the boss.”

Fugo hisses, kicks Illuso in the stomach particularly hard. He coughs, and chokes and swear something like ‘Fugo I’ll kill you,’ and begins getting up. But Purple Haze moves just a bit closer and the hit man goes stock still. Good fucking riddance.

But damage has already been done and Narancia yells an outraged, “See! You fuckers jus—”

“—There will be no torture,” Fugo says, “We’ll just get the information and leave. She’ll be alive.” And, then, because his temper’s flaring and he really can’t help himself, “Which more than I can say for her if she meets the boss and actually does have a single scrap of information pertaining to his identity.” It’s more bitter than he intended.

Buccellati’s eyes sharpen. He’s curious, but he’s also got a job. A job which is certainly not questioning the boss’s intentions.

So Fugo takes the initiative. He trusts Giorno’s hypothesis, and he trusts his own research ability. Buccellati is a kind man; he joined Passione to save his father, he’s extremely well liked by the people of his territory, he’s got a street reputation as a gentle guy who helps old ladies and breaks up fights.

“Buccellati,” Fugo starts, voice serious, “in all the years you’ve worked in Passione, have you ever heard a scrap on the boss?”

Buccellati’s silence is an answer in on itself.

“And,” Fugo continues, “have you ever seen what happens to those who dig for his identity?”

This time, Buccellati shakes his head. “I know they disappear.”

Fugo snorts. Illuso mutters, “Understament of the fucking century.”

He draws a breath. “La Squadra used to have a couple,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady, he can hardly convince Buccellati to rebel if he’s broken down crying. “A few months ago—”

“Oioioioi,” Illuso says, “Fugo no, no, we don’t talk about that."

“And?” Abbacchio prompts, and Fugo’s pretty sure it’s only out of spite.

Fugo sighs. “They were named Sorbet and Gelato. Long story short, La Squadra runs on fucking nothing and we all sold our souls for underpayment, so they went searching out for the boss’s identity. They came back—”

“Fugo, please don’t,” which is so uncharacteristic for Illuso that it throws Fugo back.

He gets it—he doesn’t want to say it either. He doesn’t want to think about it. But he needs to say this; he needs to play on Buccellati’s heartstrings.

“—came back in pieces.” Fugo sees his own nausea reflected on Buccellati’s face. Good. He hasn’t even got to the gruesome part. “they disappeared one day, we found Gelato’s body, but not Sorbet’s…He arrived in the mail, Buccellati. Each piece in its own glass case. Slices, Buccellati, each of them a few centimeters in length.”

The man looks stuck. Illuso is uncharacteristically silent, and still. Abbacchio’s expression is tight, Narancia is quiet.

Fugo continues.

“Sorbet’s expression was pure pain, he was sliced alive. He didn’t die of a slit to the throat, or a bullet, or poison. He was sliced alive.” Buccellati takes a step back; Fugo tries to keep his voice steady. He doesn’t succeed, of course, but at least he isn’t crying. “Gelato must’ve watched, he died of suffocation. Choked on his gag out of fear.”

He can see them, again, their expression, all pieced together and horrifying and that’s his team. He—he—he needs to breathe.

Buccellati looks heartbroken.

“Buccellati,” Fugo says, as a final push, “they were lovers.”

The capo makes a choked kind of sound, glances at Abbacchio—he’s steel-faced, but pale. Narancia looks like he’ll vomit. Illuso is quiet—Fugo is glad he can’t see his expression.

There’s a silence that stretches too long, filled only by the sound of Abbacchio’s dripping blood. “Oh,” Buccellati says, after a bit, he doesn’t continue. Well, Fugo doesn’t want words of pity anyway.

Fugo gives the other a pointed look. “So, if that’s what the boss responded to an attempt to uncover him, how do you think he would react to a daughter? A daughter, who might’ve grown up on stories about her father, little habits, small quirks, a hint there, a hint here.”

Buccellati looks pained, and pale, and betrayed.

Fugo counts this as his victory.

-

They're in Sardinia. The sun is hot and Fugo can feel the beginnings of burn on his skin. There's grit in his clothes--dirty with sweat and blood, crusty with salt. It's itchy on his peeling skin. He didn't have the opportunity to drink before Notorious B.I.G crashed their plane, and every breath is sand through his dried throat. There's dirt beneath his cracked nails, and his palm is sticky with sweat and blood.

And yet--

Formaggio isn't dead, but he's injured. Completely incapacitated. They can't drag his limp body along, so he's been left unattended at some place. There's such a real and vivid possibility that he'll be attacked while Fugo and the rest are away. Or die of an infection before they get back. If they get back. Tensions are high and teamwork is low--La Squadra and Buccellati's team get along like oil and fire. Which is to say; they spark and flare until they're burnt into the ground. There's a very real possibility that they'll tear each other apart, and burn each other down, and the boss will come and sweep up the ashes.

And yet--

The air smells like salt and wildflowers. The ocean glitters brilliant blue, and it's gold-green horizon promises tomorrow. Giorno's brooch presses comfortingly against his chest. Risotto is tense and on edge but his eyes aren't dead. There's something in them, gleaming white and bright and hopeful. Fugo looks at that, blinks, feels the expression reflected in his own features, feels the seaside breeze blowing through his hair, and soothing the heat. He takes a deep breath and--

And Fugo can breathe.

-

A capsule breaks, and there are two people in range.

The virus bursts from its shell like pieces of shrapnel; fast, unavoidable, and deadly. The boss—Diavolo—is closest. Fugo sees the brief moment of terror on the man’s face—and then, it’s gone. The virus briefly bubbles on Diavolo’s skin, and then his lips slips from his face, eyeballs melt into his skull, nose collapsing in on itself as the muscle gives way, and the bone falls like yolk from a shell.

There is a brief moment of satisfaction, a catharsis, and then—

Fugo feels acid on his skin, underneath his cloths, broiling bubbles and blisters over his leg. He feels his bones melt away like ice over flame, his muscles turn to goop, and it’s like he’s submerged his leg in a pit of lava. Too hot and too cold and it crumbles under the weight it used to support.

The ground closes in on him—the purple mist that had previously only stretched far enough to encompass his leg is waiting for him. Patiently, waiting for him to fall headfirst into its venomous embrace.

And then, with the sound spilled beads, they all drop. Instead of landing in a comforter of virions, Fugo lands on a hard bed of ice. There must be hundreds of millions of them, tiny, almost microscopic, beads of ice. Each one encasing a virion.

Vaguely, over his haze of pain, Fugo registers Ghiaccio yelling insults at him. Voice cracking. Fugo smiles, just a bit. he feels so cold, and sleepy. Like he’s pulled an all-nighter, or two. His body feels so heavy, like it’s weighed down by lead. He…really needs to sleep.

Somewhere, a small spark of logic flare sin his head. Warning bells. They’re screaming that he isn’t going to sleep he’s going to die. That the exhaustion comes from the copious amounts of blood he’s losing.

Ah, right, his leg. Or, his lack of one. The junction where his leg used to connect to his hip burns, burns so badly.

But, he can’t die here, he really can’t.

There’s Giorno, at home, waiting for him. He needs to at least say goodbye. He can’t just…

Logically, Fugo knows there’s no hope of surviving this. Unlike with Abbacchio’s arm, there is no intact limb to zip back on. Buccellati cannot save him.

Something wriggles in his shirt pocket. Where the ladybug brooch is stored. It presses heavy against his breast. Something moves, again. It takes every bit of Fugo’s strength to peel open his eyelids, making out blurry, hunched forms. Risotto’s red eyes, Buccellati’s blue ones.

Over the blood rushing through his head, and the ringing in his ears, Fugo makes out: ‘leg.’

The wriggling in his chest pocket grows, and there’s weight there, an extra limb. Growing, ripping fabric.

There’s burning flare of pain on his hip. His whole leg is molten. The bone’s casting into place like cooling metal, flesh melding into itself; tightening and loosening and scraping against his new sensitive nerves.

Breathe, says a voice, in his head, and it sounds like Giorno.

And so he does.

-

Fugo wakes up with his heart beating and the image of melting flesh and the sensation of being whole.

Panic courses through his nerves, and the teen flies up in an instant. His eyes snap open, take a moment to adjust to the bright, florescent lighting. Then his other senses trickle back, the smell of antiseptic, the feel of polyester hospital blankets, the sound of air conditioning.

Something shifts. Fugo snaps his gaze over there.

Risotto, heavy eye bags, bandaged limbs, sitting hunched beside his bed.

Fugo’s toe twitches. The toe he was supposed to have lost.

“What happened?” Fugo rasps, tone all scratchy, voice cracking, throat too dry.

Silently, Risotto hands him a glass of water. He doesn’t speak until Fugo’s drunk it down. “That my question,” Risotto says, tone heavy. Threatening, almost, except not really. Because that’s Fugo’s Capo. And all Fugo can really feel is comfort in the familiar voice. “We thought you’d die despite Ghiaccio dealing with Purple Haze,” continues Risotto, “And then you grew a leg from your pocket. There wasn’t too much time to question before we attached it.”

Fugo blinks.

His minds whirls, blood rushing in his ears, pieces things together.

“You didn’t…” Fugo pauses, “happen find a ladybug brooch, did you? In my breast pocket.”

Risotto shakes his head.

Fugo knows he didn’t lose that brooch.

A ghost is essentially a lingering soul; a stand.

Giorno, Fugo thinks, and the breath catches in his lungs, Giorno. “How…” Fugo’s voice sounds weak, even to himself, “how long have I been out?”

“A few days,” Risotto answers.

A few days. A few days since Rome, a few days since Diavolo was killed. Then, a thought stirs in Fugo’s mind. It’s an ugly, oily little thing, a vague notion, a whispered doubt. And it’s horrifying, it makes his blood freeze, and his ears ring, and his stomach churn.

Fuck.

Fugo jerks himself out of bed, ignoring the burn in his joints. His vision flashes black, his head spins in vertigo. Fugo sways on his feet, nearly collapses under his own weight. His new leg has never been used, and it has yet to meld completely into being part of him. Risotto catches him before he falls.

“Careful,” the man says, simply.

And Fugo can’t breathe—

A beat.

“Risotto, do you trust me?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Fugo takes a deep, shaky breath. Tries to ignore the fit of nerve-wracking nausea in his stomach. “Will you bring me Melograno Street?”

Risotto pauses, looks at him, nods. “Sure,” he says, simply, and shoulders the rest of Fugo’s weight. “I guess you won’t tell me why?”

Fugo shakes his head, immediately regrets is a pain stabs through his skull. Winces. “I will if you insist.”

Risotto doesn’t insist. Fugo appreciates it. He doesn’t appreciate the way that Risotto princess-carries him to the car though. Fugo settles into shotgun, and Risotto blandly speaks to him about the events since Diavolo’s death. Formaggio is still in the hospital; yet to wake, but certain to survive. Cioccolata is safely locked up and guarded. They haven’t killed him yet, and won’t until everyone has had a crack at him.

Which is all very well and good—but also not Fugo’s primary concern.

Giorno.

They’ve lapsed into silence by the time they reach the old, beaten building. Walls shot up, windows shattered, roof overgrowing with vines and bushes and morning glories. Just as Fugo remembers.

It would be comforting, if only Fugo didn’t have such terrible bone-deep dread.

Fugo manages to stumble himself inside the building, and drag himself up the stairs without Risotto’s help. He hesitates outside the door. Risotto glances at him, but doesn’t push.

A beat.

Fugo twists the handle; the door rusts open, squeaking on its hinges. Steps inside. Risotto doesn’t follow, just waits at the door. It smells like must and blood and stale dishes. As he remembers. He flicks the light switch. There’s his unmade bed, his worn sofa, his dirty rug.

There is no Giorno.

A ghost is a soul, bound and tied to the mortal realm by force of will; the strength of a grudge, the perseverance of a goal. Fugo knows this.

He swallows, throat too dry. It doesn’t help. He’s trembling already, legs threatening to give out. His organs are ice, and his blood is oil. Fugo’s thoughts stutter and skip. It is Diavolo all over again.

Something shifts.

Hope is a deadly gamble.

Fugo’s eyes flick to the table. There’s a first aid kit, messily strewn about. A few empty cups of coffee. And, stark against the molted greys and dulled browns: a single golden lily.

Hope is a deadly gamble; one that doesn’t pay off.

Heartbreak kicks Fugo in the lungs, shatters through his ribs, clutches its unforgiving claws around his chest. Fugo manages to stumble his weight to the table before his legs give out. He grasps the lily.

It’s perfectly preserved; golden petals showing no signs of wilt.

A sob garbles in Fugo’s throat. Something shifts. He glances over. It’s Risotto, still at the doorway. Watching. Figure blurry in Fugo’s swirling vision. The man doesn’t speak, doesn’t comment, doesn’t question. Small mercies.

“Hey Risotto, do you know what lilies symbolize?”

A moment, no answer, the sound of blood; too loud. “No,” Risotto says, eventually.

Breathe.

“They’re long-lasting plants.” The lily gleams, gold, so, so gold. “Wilting in late summer, or fall, and then coming again in the spring.”

“Right,” Risotto answers, tone revealing nothing.

“For this reason,” Fugo take another breath, short and shaky, “they often symbolize rebirth. Death—a life after death, specifically. A second chance, of sorts.”

Hey Fugo, do you believe in the afterlife?

“I see,” Risotto says, tone level, and he steps past the threshold. “Maybe you’ll meet them again, someday.”

And Fugo can’t breathe—

The flower holds heavy in his hand, like real gold. Yellow lilies can symbolize thankfulness, too.

Risotto settles in front of Fugo’s collapsed form. Stretches out a hand.

Hey Fugo, says the lily, I believe in the afterlife. Thank you.

Risotto’s hand is still there, a promise, waiting. Fugo sees it through blurry eyes.

But, says the lily, second chances are for those who try on their first.

So Fugo clutches the golden lily in one hand, and grasps Risotto’s offer with the other. Risotto pulls him up easy, shoulders half of Fugo’s weight. They depart, back to the hospital; to Formaggio, and Buccellati, and the promise of tomorrow.

Fugo breathes.