Archive of Our Own

“Is this an intervention?”

Narancia, sitting across from him at the empty dining room table, already stuffing his face with leftover pizza (do they ever eat anything else? Why does this one look so… weirdly greasy and hard?) with all the enthusiasm of a starving teenage boy, looks up from the hard task he’s working on, and makes wide eyes at him. His cheeks are full, like a chipmunk. Cute, if not a bit disgusting.

“…Yes?”

“Why do you sound so unsure?”

“I don’t know,” Narancia shakes his head. “Bucciarati staged all of this. I just came here ‘cause he told me we would get food together after this.”

“You came just for the food?”

“Yes!”

“Ah, well, I came here because Fugo threatened to burn down my work desk.”

“Dude,” Narancia punches him in the shoulder. Ouch. “That’s because you overwork, right? Fugo’s told me aaall about it. You get him really mad—lucky he’s so, uh, admirative of you, else you’d get a few forks.”

“I’m not sure if admiration is the right word,” Giorno says mildly. “And he doesn’t use just forks. He is rather creative, I find.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m usually the… subject topic. That’s the right word, right? The thing you test on. The subject. The topic.”

Giorno closes his eyes and leans back into his chair, drumming a rhythm against the table. Narancia waits for a moment, then shrugs and turns back to his food.

“How are you?” Bucciarati asks, opening the first box, then the second, then the third, etc. It’s like an endless loop (sounds familiar). “Did you work today again?”

“No, there was a bird chittering outside the window and I got distracted.”

Bucciarati smiles down at the pizza, but it looks a bit blank. “Is that so… Was that bird made by you?”

“Yes.”

They both fall silent.

“What is happening right now…” Mista mutters.

“Just ignore it,” Abbacchio says. He is already used to seeing them act like this.

They all sit down at the table, making small talk and ignoring the silent Bucciarati and Giorno, then begin eating. The pizzas disappear quickly.

Meanwhile, poor little Narancia, who already overworked his molars (and stomach!) earlier, can only stare enviously as the others begin cutting up slices and biting into them. Oh, yes, poor little Narancia, who overate cold, old pizza, and now has a stomach so full that he can’t even open his mouth without feeling like vomiting.

Mista pats his back consolingly, and then makes a show of biting into a slice, dripping grease and cheese everywhere, picking up a mushroom topping and eating it with very small, delicate bites, prolonging the pleasure, and then fold another slice into a frankly bigger than needed roll and opening his jaw wide and—

Giorno turns his eyes away from the massacre, but he still gets to hear Narancia let out a piteous, muffled wail.

Giorno waits until everyone has finished eating (though Mista perseveres—he’s just an overachiever, and his current goal is to make Narancia suffer) in order to start speaking:

“So,” he begins, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin, like it restores his dignity after they all saw him battle with greasy lips for a good 10 minutes (at the very least), “is this an intervention?”

Bucciarati’s eyes widen, and there’s a sudden flurry of emotion on his face: surprise, confusion, hilarity, concern, and confusion again, before it settles onto a kind of hesitant, amused concern. “Yes, I suppose you could call it that…”

“Sigh.”

“Did you just… say ‘sigh’ aloud instead of sighing?”

“I haven’t been able to emote properly for days now.”

Abbacchio squints at Giorno, then turns to Bucciarati with an honest-to-God smile on his face. “You know what? I like this Giorno better than the usual.”

“Leone…”

“No, he’s right, I also like this Giorno better than the usual.”

“Giorno, you can’t just say this about yourself…”

“Alright. Wait a second there,” Trish interrupts, holding up a hand. “Why is Giorno like this?”

“You came here for an intervention without knowing why?”

“He overworked himself.”

“He’s like this just because he worked too much?”

“I welcome you to try it, Trish,” Fugo says dryly.

“Hah? You got something to say to me? You think I got to my popstar status just by sitting around and threatening people?”

“Don’t mind her,” Mista says in a whisper, leaning into Fugo’s space. “You know how she was in London this morning? Due to the flight times, she had to cancel a spa day to come here. You know how she gets about spa days.”

Fugo nods. They all know how she gets about spa days.

Meanwhile, Bucciarati continues on his speech: “—and that is why I think we should all go on a vacation together. I’m sure it will relax you a lot, Giorno, and that is something you more than deserve, after how much you’ve worked in the past year!”

“And, conveniently, because I worked, you all go on a vacation too.”

Bucciarati nods with a salesman smile. “Of course! We need to be with you, for bodyguard reasons.”

Even Abbacchio can’t contain his snort at that.

Giorno doesn’t even bat an eye. “And who will be taking care of Passione in the mean time? Polnareff?”

“Ah, no, apparently he wanted to go to Japan for something… so we’re taking him with us, naturally.”

“Ah, but of course. The wish of one man is above the well being of a whole organization countless of people have died for—which was almost our fate, all of us.” Giorno nods. “That makes perfect sense.”

“I’m glad you agree.”

They share a smile—Giorno’s looks like one of a plastic doll. His eyes don’t move or crease at all.

“Is this real life…?” Fugo mutters. “Am I delirious? Is it because of the mushrooms on the pizza? Mista, I told you not to get that topping.”

“If you’re talking about Bucciarati and Giorno smiling at each other like they’ve just committed a genocide—no, I’m seeing it too,” Trish says dryly. She sighs, then pokes one of the mushrooms she flicked off her slice earlier. “Maybe it’s a group hallucination…?”

Bucciarati stands up, and takes the roll of paper he left on the ground earlier. He gives one end to Abbacchio, who holds it up with barely a sigh, and then unfolds it carefully.

“This is my plan,” Bucciarati begins, pointing to the small dot on the little Italy of the majestic, giant world map he just unfolded. “We start in Italy, and then we end back in Italy—but it’s a world tour! We should begin with Europe, and then go to Africa, and then to America, and then to Asia, to Middle-East—oh, should we got to some islands too? What do you think about Hawaii? Indonesia? Should we go to Australia!?”

By the end of his excited ramble, the stars in his eyes look like they’re about to explode into supernovas.

“Great plan,” Abbacchio drones on with dead fish eyes, looking like he’s had the whole pitch engraved in his head for three years from how many times he’s heard it—that would explain the many nights where the low whispering from their shared room just does. not. end. They just thought it was due to, uh, couple activities.

“Yeah!” Mista exclaims. “I really like the part where we travel!”

“Is staying out of Italy for this long feasible…?” Fugo asks, sweat already beading on his forehead.

“If we’re going to Europe, can we go back to London first? I need to get my spa day.”

“Can we join you?”

“Mista, I love you, and I would love you even more if you became more presentable—which can be achieved by doing things such as taking a bath, taking care of all that dirt under your nails, and also stop trying to pick up all the cute girls you spot. Yes. You can join.”

“Kids, focus please. Narancia, what do you say?”

They all turn to him. He groans into the table, then lifts a shaky thumbs up.

“Great! And you, Giorno?”

They all wait impatiently for a reaction, but Giorno looks like he’s deep in thought—it makes sense. After all, Bucciarati is asking a tall thing out of him, telling him to leave the organization he is the head of (and nearly died multiple times in the process of becoming the head of it) for quite a long time, simply because of overworking, when he could just rest at home for a few days and all would be fine.

A frown appears on Bucciarati’s face. “Giorno… If this is really too much for me, I can always remove a few locations from the list…”

“Is that really the problem there,” Abbacchio mutters, then shuts up wisely when his husband turns blank eyes towards him.

But still, no answer from Giorno.

“…Did he fall asleep? Giorno?”

“…”

“Giorno…?”

“Ah!” Giorno exclaims suddenly, body jolting forward like he just had a grand revelation, eyes going wide in the first sincere physical show of emotion he’s had so far. “Narancia, the right term is test subject! You’re Fugo’s test subject!”

“My what now?”

Narancia’s eyes widen, and he stands up suddenly, pain completely forgotten in the face of such a discovery. “Ah! Thank you Gio—ugh.” He goes green suddenly, and slams a hand over his mouth. “I feel… I feel sick… Ugh… Hey, Mista…” He turns to his friends. “You mind lending me your hat for a second…? It’ll be just like a plastic bag…”

“Take one step closer and I’ll shoot you.”

“Ugh…” Narancia’s stomach makes a terrible noise. He collapses onto the floor.

“…What did he eat?” Bucciarati asks, after a long moment.

“The pizza that was in the fridge.”

“That pizza is one week old… Mista, I told you to throw it away…”

“Oops.”

They all look back at Narancia, still collapsed on the floor, making muffled moans against the ground. Abbacchio closes his eyes really tightly in order to avoid laughing.

“…So I guess that means the vacation will wait until Narancia feels a bit better…?” Mista asks, tentatively.

Abbacchio bursts out laughing.

.

.

.

Naturally, Narancia ends up with a rather mild case of food poisoning, but since he complains the whole time he’s stuck in bed and is near unreasonable, they are forced to wait a whole week before they can even begin to prepare for the trip.

Bucciarati, who has been morose for the past week, seems to shine like the sun itself on the day of departure. He’s not quite smiling, but there’s just something in his attitude and composure that screams “I am a middle-aged, overworked parent who finally gets to go on vacation without having to worry about my children dying.” Which would make sense, except that the children are coming with. Thus, there is still risk of his children dying.

When Fugo tries to explain this perfectly logical image to him, Giorno only shows three consecutive blinks. They’re sitting on their suitcases in front of the house, while Bucciarati and Mista run inside searching for the absolutely crucial pair of bird-watching goggles they’ve forgotten.

“Your point being?”

“This vacation can be beneficial not only to you, but also to Bucciarati,” Fugo continues, like he wasn’t just rudely interrupted. It’s one of the many things he allows to Giorno and only to Giorno (Bucciarati doesn’t count, he’s the parent). “You have both been stressed out for a long period of time, due to all the responsibilities you have held over the years. Of course, it’s more flagrant with you right now, since you are still a growing boy, but Bucciarati has also been working hard since young. Thus, this vacation will not only help get your ideas clear, but also give Bucciarati a vacation for his ten consecutive years of hard work in Passione.”

“…Oh. I see.”

At the lackluster response, Fugo turns towards Giorno, only to see him looking into the distance, arms crossed on top of his knees.

“I agree,” he says, eventually. “Bucciarati seems overjoyed. Hey, did Bucciarati go on his honeymoon trip yet?”

“Honeymoon?”

“Yes. If Bucciarati really needs to go on a vacation, he can just renew his honeymoon. Why do I have to be dragged along?”

“…Bucciarati isn’t married.”

Giorno manages to convey his incredulity even through his blank face. “They’ve been married for years now, Fugo.”

“…”

“…Fugo? Wait, where are you going?”

“I cannot believe you two,” Bucciarati says, with the most displeased scowl they’ve ever seen on him. “I am so disappointed. Why did you start fighting? Now, of all moments too? You just— ah!” He stops with a cold huff.

Abbacchio and Fugo, sitting next to each other into the backseats, staring fixedly ahead, make a point to not even glance at the rear view mirror, despite Bucciarati’s many attempts to meet their eyes. They both sport a bruise on their face.

The rest of the team tries valiantly to pretend that nothing is going on, looking out the windows of the car like the scenery is the most interesting thing they’ve ever seen in their whole entire lives. It’s not their fault those two decided to fight just as they were running late for their totally legally paid, civilian flight.

“…It’s because you didn’t tell me,” Fugo mutters mutinously, bravely.

“What is it?”

Fugo jerks forward to grip the front passenger seat, almost sending Bucciarati headfirst into the wheel. “You got married and you didn’t even tell me!”

“I didn’t get married.”

“But you’re married to Abbacchio!”

“…How did you learn about that?”

A gasp echoes through the van. Everyone turns to stare at Abbacchio accusingly.

“What.”

“You got married to Bucciarati and you didn’t even tell us?” Narancia asks slowly.

Abbacchio scowls and crosses his arms. “You’re speaking like I got married to a will-less doll. Bucciarati had a part in it, you know.”

“When did you get married!?”

“We didn’t get married!” Abbacchio exclaims, then rolls his eyes. “We… Damn it, we just woke up one day and the marriage certificate was at the end of the bed.”

“You went to Las Vegas without us!?”

“Mista, focus,” Trish hisses, though she looks just as offended as him.

“We can go to Las Vegas together later,” Bucciarati snaps. “It was… nothing but a drunken incident. It does not matter.”

“You sleep in the same bedroom?” Narancia says, incredulous.

“Bro, we’ve slept in the same bedroom too,” Mista intervenes.

“Yeah, but we’re bros. It’s different.”

“Good point.”

“Oh my God,” Trish mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Please. I beg of you. Shut up.”

The road to Portugal is long, and it’s simply impossible to make it a one day trip. When they reach the French south coast, they search for a little, inconspicuous village near the sea. They stop the car there and sign into a small, quiet little hotel.

From their common hotel room’s window, the sea can be seen, in the distance.The atmosphere is nice, here. The wind blows strong, creating large, all-encompassing waves.

“Are any of us even wearing swimsuits…?” Fugo asks, squinting suspiciously at the sea like it’s going to jump at him.

“I’ve got it!” Trish exclaims, pushing the edge of her shirt over her shoulder, showing off her swimsuit top. Predictably, it’s black, with only a small pink ladybug decorating the part where the string meets the bra. Cute, simple, effective.

Mista holds his chin in thought. “Aren’t we staying here for the night? It’s fine if we get our clothes wet.”

Meanwhile, Giorno stares at the sea. It’s a lovely place. The water must be so cold. “Abbacchio, do you have a swimsuit on, right now?”

Abbacchio takes one look at his face, and immediately becomes suspicious. “Why are you asking.”

But Giorno just turns towards Mista, and lays a hand on his bicep. “Mista. Let’s throw Abbacchio into the sea.”

Ten minutes later, Abbacchio trudges back from the depth of the sea, drenched into cold-to-mild sea water, makeup smeared and clothes completely soaked. He tries to stomp on the ground, but the sand just makes him sink further, making his walk look even more ridiculous.

“Giorno Giovanna!” he screams. “Come here and let me beat your ass!”

Giorno, sitting on a towel next to Trish and Bucciarati, only offers a wave. Meanwhile, Narancia, Fugo, and Mista, all act as bodyguards and immediately jump back on Abbacchio, trying to drag him further into the sea to play with them.

Trish rolls her eyes and looks away from them. “You’re not going to swim?” she asks Giorno.

“I never learned. And sea water gets my hair horribly curly.”

She sighs, forced to turn back to the scenery due to Giorno’s unwillingness to talk. “How obnoxious,” she says mildly, sipping on her strawberry syrup. “He’s not even using Moody Blues.”

“I told him to avoid using his Stand,” Bucciarati says with a smile. Poor Bucciarati. He still holds hope that this vacation will end up relaxing for him. “We don’t know these parts well. It’s better to stay as discreet as possible—after all, Stand users attract one another.”

A distant scream comes: “Why isn’t Bucciarati getting this treatment too!?”

Wisely, when the trio looks over to see his reaction, Bucciarati pretends to be drawing figures in the sand.

In the end, renting only one bedroom turns out not to be the best of decision.

When Abbacchio threatens to cut off Giorno’s hair while he sleeps, Giorno only pulls down his eye mask and drops straight onto the mattress, pretending to have fallen asleep instantly. Worried for his safety, Mista and Narancia pile up around him, while Fugo threatens to cut Abbacchio’s hair in retribution.

The next morning, a raccoon-eyed Bucciarati pushes Abbacchio into the driver seat.

“This is your fault,” he says. “Do you know how long Fugo’s bouncy leg kept me awake? He was worried you were really going to cut Giorno’s hair. Is a little sea bath worth a sleepless night?”

“Look at this,” Abbacchio hisses in kind, waving a handful of his hair in Bucciarati’s direction, keeping his eyes on the road. “You see this? My coloration’s gonna vanish, and I’m gonna be left with white hair.”

Bucciarati’s eyes narrow. “Well, I think you’d look great with white hair.”

“You want me to look old…!?”

“I’m just saying I think you’d look great with any hair color!”

They glare at each other until Fugo kicks the driver seat, making Abbacchio jolt forward. “Do you want us to die? Forget the marital issues for a second. Eyes on the road,” he drawls, eyes stuck on his phone.

Abbacchio grumbles, but doesn’t say anything more. Bucciarati crosses his arms and looks straight ahead.

Awkward.

Trish pretends she doesn’t see it and turns to Fugo. “You’re still on your phone? Passione will survive without you for five minutes, you know.”

“I’m just waiting for the La Squadra report,” Fugo answers, nervously tapping his finger against his thigh, like one would on a desk. “They were supposed to send it five minutes ago. I don’t see why they would be late.”

“Uh, because they’re on a mission?” Mista suggests.

“Isn’t this supposed to be a vacation…?” Abbacchio mutters, then mumbles a curse when Bucciarati reaches over to slap his bicep lightly.

“Yes it is. Narancia, don’t open the window on the highway.”

“Just a sec!”

Fugo shakes his head furiously. “Even if they’re on a mission, that’s not an excuse!”

Before Fugo can become too stressed, Giorno intervenes: “If they’re on a mission, it’s possible they just encountered something unexpected. Give them more time, Fugo.”

“You’re just too soft on them—hey! Narancia, give that back!”

Having just snatched Fugo’s phone out of his hands, Narancia grins, then throws the phone out of the window. It disappears into the wind.

Silence, only the rushing of the wind echoes in the car.

Gaping, Fugo whirls around to look at the road. He glances multiple times between the empty road behind them, the slowly closing door window, and the already sweating Narancia. Road, window, Narancia. Road, window, Narancia.

Then, slowly, the witnesses look away.

Five seconds until murder.

“Should we do something about that?” Mista whispers into Giorno’s ear, looking at the objectively utterly awkward scene in front of them.

They’ve just stopped for lunch, having arrived in Spain. The restaurant is a small, quiet, homely thing, and there isn’t even an English version of the menu, so they’ve sent Fugo ahead to see if anyone inside speaks English or Italian—and also to let him out to calm down.

It would have worked, if only…

“Fugoooo,” Narancia whines again, twisting in Fugo’s hold. His ear has become entirely red, and his eyes are already watering, though he valiantly tries to keep his usual tough act. He’s forced to bend at the waist, as Fugo effortlessly holds his ear at waist level. “Let me go!”

“Shut up,” Fugo hisses with a smile, then turns back to the fearful waiter in front of him. “As I was saying…”

“I would say to get Bucciarati to take care of it,” Trish says, lifting a disdainful eyebrow, “but…”

The three of them glance back at the family van behind them. Bucciarati and Abbacchio are still inside, decidedly not talking to each other. It’s just as well—who knows what the end result would be: full make out session, or hissing cat fight? No one can say for sure.

Trish rolls her eyes. “That’s just the vibe we want for a family vacation.”

“What family? Us? We’re just a bunch of thugs.”

Trish shakes her head, adopting a wise tone of voice: “Bucciarati and Abbacchio are the arguing parents, Fugo and Narancia are the bickering children, Mista is the weird cousin no one invited—”

“Why am I relegated to cousin!? I can’t be part of the main family!?”

“—and I’m the cool, smart, successful daughter.”

Mista grumbles. “And what? I can’t just be your cool, reliable, successful big brother?”

“And, of course,” Trish continues, somehow having become deaf in the past twenty seconds, “GioGio is… is, uh… Wait, actually, who are you GioGio?”

“The Boss funding the whole vacation,” he answers matter-of-factly, “all for some sort of evil plan, of course. Mista, you can be my henchman.”

“Gio, not you too… I went from cousin to henchman?”

“You did throw Abbacchio in the sea at Giorno’s bidding.”

“He deserved it,” Mista replies ruthlessly. “I guess I’m good with being Giorno’s henchman. It’s always better than being Fugo’s brother. I would fear for my life if I were Fugo’s brother.”

Just in time, Narancia lets out another shriek, body wiggling awkwardly in an attempt to free himself from Fugo’s death grip. Fugo doesn’t let up, still smiling angelically to the waiter, who seems to have finally gotten used to the spectacle, and is now showing the menu to Fugo with dead eyes.

“You think we should intervene before Narancia takes out a knife or…?”

In answer, a bird chirps.

Mista and Trish look over to see a little bird, in shades of black, obediently perched on Giorno’s shoulder.

“…Gold Experience?”

Giorno catches their eyes and winks, a secretive smile appearing and disappearing so fast that they fear that they just imagined it all. In a blink, Giorno is already blank-faced again, looking away. Suddenly, the bird has flown away, and there’s a phone in his hand, in shades of… black…

“Huh? Wait, isn’t that Fugo’s phone…?”

Oh…

Oh!

“GioGio,” Trish pronounces slowly, then falters, not knowing how to express her thoughts. “…I don’t know whether you’re angelic or devilish.”

“Both, obviously,” Mista blurts out.

“I’m touched you have such a high opinion of me,” Giorno thanks politely, then raises his voice and waves his arm. “Fugo! Your phone came back!” Such a misleading way of announcing it—like it’s all just a coincidence.

Fugo doesn’t question it, only accepting his phone with a relieved sigh, immediately dialing back home. Narancia also lets out a relieved sigh, and then hides behind Trish for the remainder of their meal. This finally pushes the arguing couple to come out of the van, both pretending that they haven’t been speaking without looking at each other for a good ten minutes (at the very least).

Of course, Giorno blows them all away with his English skills, even rendering Trish speechless. In no time, they are seated at a table, with a fully translated menu (which, unfortunately, they have to pass around awkwardly), and then they finally get to eat.

Due to the fact that they’re in a foreign country, they all attempt to remain as inconspicuous as possible—that is, until Mista comments on Trish eating three times her weight in one sitting, and she proceeds to try and shove an entire plate into his mouth, barely softening it with Spice Girl at all.

In the end, they have to compensate the restaurant for the trouble: destroyed physical possessions, but also healthcare for the trauma induced.

“By the way,” Giorno says lightly, climbing into the front passenger seat, “I hope you know we have a limited amount of funds for this trip.”

He closes the door behind him, leaving them in silence, and then stares at them from inside with an inquisitive stare, as though asking why they’re making such shocked faces.

“…But we just spent so much in one meal…?” Narancia asks hesitantly.

“By the end of the trip, we’ll be begging for money,” Abbacchio says dryly, going around the van and getting into the driver seat.

Bucciarati opens his mouth, closes it, and then shows a smile so fake that it would scare the blood out of your body. “I hope you all know how to write ‘I need to feed my family’ in English,” he says, and then gets inside the car too.

…Well, that sets the mood.

.

Driving through Portugal ends up being a misery and a half, because Abbacchio takes one wrong turn and suddenly they have to go through all the little roads of the country in order to get to their destination.

Neither Bucciarati nor Giorno seem to mind that, both lightly dozing off, and Mista even begins looking excited as he appreciates the honestly beautiful and homely sights they get to see, but for the rest of the van, it’s an absolute nightmare. Fugo’s phone keeps losing signal, Trish can’t read her magazine in peace, and Narancia accidentally hits a wrong button on his gaming console three times. Meanwhile, Abbacchio quietly glowers.

Eventually, they manage to get back on the highway, which comes from a large sigh from everyone except Mista.

Hours later, standing in their hotel room, the team exchanges looks. For once, they are all united on one idea:

“Now that we’re here,” Abbacchio voices for all of them, “let’s get wasted.”

“No!!”

Never mind.

Abbacchio rolls his eyes. “Live a little.”

“Half of us aren’t legally allowed to drink,” Bucciarati says.

“We’re mafia. We are never legal.”

“Alright, alright, don’t start fighting again,” Trish calls, though her voice is muffled from having thrown herself face first onto the bed. It’s not even her bed. She has a whole other room just for herself, absolute princess that she is. “Let’s go stuff ourselves.”

“Again?” Mista mutters. “Trish, I think you’ll explode.”

“There will certainly be an explosion, and there will certainly be a victim, but it won’t be me.”

Mista tilts his head back, considers it, and then whispers to Giorno: “Since when can Trish build bombs…?”

Giorno doesn’t deign give an answer to that question. Trish can do anything she sets her mind to—and if that’s learning how to build a bomb in less than five minutes, then she will succeed, just as she usually does. He gives Mista a solemn nod: “I’ll make sure your grave looks nice.”

“…Thanks.”

They try to eat dinner at a proper restaurant, but after the 23^rd debate they have in front of a restaurant (trying to decide whether they should enter or not, with Abbacchio always refusing just because), Bucciarati gets annoyed enough to send them all back to their hotel room.

In the end, they order. The food is good. Trish doesn’t explode, and neither does Mista.

Bucciarati excuses himself from the room for exactly 50 seconds, and comes to back to a nightmarish scene.

“…Okay, I’m not mad. I just wanna know.” He takes a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “…Who got Giorno drunk?”

The answer is instantaneous, said as one voice: “Abbacchio.”

Bucciarati turns to Abbacchio expectantly, but it’s no use—Abbacchio is equally wasted, slung across the window sill, half of his body on the brink of tipping over and falling out. On the ground around him, three empty wine bottles populate the place, and he has a fourth one in hand.

“…Did you let him drink four bottles in one sitting…!?”

Fugo shakes his head. “Ah, no, it was Giorno.”

“So you let Giorno drink three bottles in one sitting!?”

“No, we all shared, Giorno just dumped two of them in the sink. He said it was because they tasted bad, but I thought they were fine…”

“How much did they both drink, then?”

“Abbacchio took two glass. Giorno only had a few sips.”

They both look back at Giorno, who is now standing on the table with a determined expression and a half-undone shirt, refusing to come down despite Mista begging him to. He has a fourth, unlucky curl in his hair, poorly made, in a clear attempt to bother his bodyguard—the question is whether Giorno himself did it, or if Trish decided to have her revenge that way.

“…I’ll let you deal with him,” Bucciarati decides. “And don’t drink anything else! It’s bad for you kids to drink. Your body hasn’t developed fully yet!”

“I know, I’m the one who told you about that study… But it’s fine to have fun once in a while.” Fugo smiles. “Abbacchio’s been asking after you for a while now. I think he’s trying to spot you in the street in order to welcome you—or jump into your arms, whichever. And,” he lays a hand on Bucciarati’s shoulder, “I’m sorry for blowing up about your marriage… it shouldn’t matter to me whether you two are together or not, but… Well, if you decide to get a divorce, make sure not to get shared custody—you’re clearly the favored parent.”

With that said, he heads towards the Giorno-disaster-in-the-making, leaving Bucciarati completely speechless.

Abbacchio turns out to be completely unreasonable.

As soon as he notices Bucciarati approaching him, he whirls around and leaps to—

…Hug him tight around the waist.

“Abbacchio…?”

“Don’t…” The word is muffled, as Abbacchio’s face gets smushed into Bucciarati’s stomach, top of his head arriving just under his chest. He removes his face off of Bucciarati long enough to mutter: “Don’t call me that… Call me like you did before…”

Oh no. Abbacchio is a whiny drunk?

Bucciarati has known him for close to five years now, and he never knew Abbacchio as a whiny drunk, of all types of drunk. When Abbacchio was still struggling with alcohol regularly, he was more of an angry, sobbing drunk, not whiny.

“Like I did before…? Ah. Leone. Leone, you need to stand up.”

Immediately, Abbacchio lets go of him, shuffles backwards, and awkwardly ascends, standing up slowly. Then, he looks back at Bucciarati, expectantly. His heavy makeup hides any plausible flush on his cheeks, but his ears are red.

He takes a deep breath, and then shouts: “Let’s get married again!”

“…What?”

The others have quieted down now. Bucciarati glances over to see that Giorno has finally come down from the table, and is now standing next to Trish, shoulders lax. They’re all observing the scene Abbacchio is causing.

Bucciarati turns back to meet Abbacchio’s intent gaze.

“…What are you saying?”

“I admire you more than anyone,” Abbacchio continues, leaning in further, his forehead nearly touching Bucciarati’s—he’s burning hot and unsteady on his feet. It looks like he’ll pass out soon.“You’re the one who gave sense to my life, and you’re the one who allowed me to continue on existing.”

“I’m glad you feel this way,” Bucciarati replies neutrally. It feels like his back is about to split in two from having to lean back so far. He can already hear Mista whistle for the acrobatics.

“I want to stay by your side.”

“I would be glad to have you by my side, of course. Leone, you need to—”

“Forever.”

“O-oh?”

“Can I?”

“I… Leone, of course you can—”

Before he can even finish, Abbacchio makes a muffled sound of pleasure and squeezes tight, finally leaning back and letting Bucciarati stand straight again. His head stays in the crook of Bucciarati’s neck.

Silence. Bucciarati’s heart beats hard in his chest. His hand shakes as he delicately lays it against the back of Abbacchio’s head.

Wh… What… What just…

Suddenly, someone bursts out laughing.

Bucciarati almost jolts in surprise, having totally forgotten about the others. It’s not a laughter he recognizes, so he turns around, only to see Giorno trying to smother his giggles behind a hand. The rest of the children are looking at Bucciarati with faces that scream either disgust or awkwardness.

…Well, at least one of them is having fun.

In the morning, neither Abbacchio nor Giorno remember anything.

“Me? Laughing?” Giorno’s eyebrows nearly lift off his face in surprise, though it doesn’t keep him from drinking his coffee. “Are you sure you didn’t accidentally bring back an intruder?”

“No, it was you,” Trish says dryly, stirring her cup of tea. “You just took one sip of wine and became like this. Aren’t you supposed to drink alcohol during mafia events too?”

“That’s right, I’ve never seen you like this,” Fugo says. Now that the night has passed, he’s gone from apathetic to worried. “Did someone spike our drinks? Nothing happened, but they might be trying to poison us somehow…”

“Then I will trust my poison expert to find an antidote.”

“GioGio…” Fugo holds up a hand to his chest, cheeks pinking.

Trish rolls her eyes. That guy.

Meanwhile, Narancia nibbles on his toast, squinting at the Bucciarati-Abbacchio pair at the other end of the hotel cafeteria. Supposedly, they’re still choosing their drinks, but everyone knows it’s just a thinly veiled excuse to discuss some things together.

Mista leans in to whisper: “It’s adult stuff. You’ve got jam on your nose.”

Narancia goes cross-eyed. Fugo has to step in and help him get it off for him.

“You make it sound so suspicious,” Fugo mutters, folding the paper handkerchief nervously. “Are they arguing again? They seemed to be doing alright yesterday.”

“Define ‘alright,’” Trish laughs.

“Did something happen yesterday?” Giorno asks at the same time.

They exchange awkward looks.

“Uh, GioGio, we know that you don’t like Abbacchio, but…”

“Who said anything about that?”

“…Bucciarati and Abbacchio are getting remarried.”

Giorno blinks. “They divorced and remarried in one evening?”

Trish waves her hand dismissively. “Not literally remarried. It’s symbolic! Very romantic. It would make for a wonderful romance film… which might get funded by the mysterious Passione organization…?” She looks at him from the corner of her eye.

Giorno sighs. “Consider it done.”

“They’re coming back!” Narancia hisses, and then straightens, looking forward stubbornly. Not all suspicious. Great job, Narancia.

Bucciarati and Abbacchio definitely sense the awkward mood once they arrive, laying down their platters in silence. It doesn’t help that they are forced to face each other. The rest of the table pretends not to see the obvious solemn air they carry.

“About last night,” Bucciarati begins.

“I won’t drink again,” Abbacchio interrupts. He leans on his elbow, looking directly at Giorno. “Heard you were even worse than me. Just how much did you drink?”

“Three bottles.”

“Lie.”

A quick smile flashes on Giorno’s face. “A few sips, I believe. I don’t have a high alcohol resistance.”

“And all those times you drank at meetings with your Capos?”

“I drank just as much alcohol at those parties as I drank your ‘tea’ when we met.”

Bucciarati looks between the two of them with a confused expression. “Tea?”

Oops, the rest of the table thinks collectively, as Abbacchio goes pale. Busted.

.

They give up traveling by car. Instead, their generous, rich (and totally not villainous) Boss funds an airplane ticket.

Arriving in Český Krumlov, Czech Republic, Fugo’s eyes are nearly glittering. During the flight, while the rest of them either watched movies or slept, Fugo read the whole pamphlet three times over, his excitement growing with each read.

“It’s such a beautiful town!” he exclaims as they disembark. “Bucciarati, Giorno, I’m sure you will enjoy staying here!”

After they sign into an hotel and leave their suitcases behind, they walk through the streets, following Fugo’s guidance (has he already memorized the whole town plan?).

“This town has ancient frescoes in the art district,” Fugo tells them—or rather, tells Bucciarati and Giorno, completely ignoring the rest trailing behind. “There’s also an art gallery with works from Salvador Dali and Picasso. Should we head there afterwards?”

“That sounds wonderful,” Giorno says, nodding along.

“What is that?” Mista asks, pointing to a colorful fresco, which clearly represents two dancing people.

“A cat,” Trish says, holding her chin in thought.

Narancia scratches his head. “What? Isn’t it a cow?”

Abbacchio takes a look too. “I think it’s a flower.”

“Ignore them, Fugo,” Bucciarati quickly says, seeing him ready to blow up. “It’s no use. They’re just doing it to mess with you.”

“I’m telling you guys, it’s definitely a cow!” Narancia insists, actually starting to sound aggressive over it. “Can’t you see the spots on the skin? And the big nose! That’s a cow!”

“I don’t know, man,” Mista says slowly, squinting at the fresco. “I don’t really see it… I think Trish might be right.”

“…Well,” Bucciarati relents. “Trish and Abbacchio are doing it to mess with you.”

Giorno blinks at the rest of the group behind them, and then lays a hand on Fugo’s back (he has touch privileges), pushing him along gently. “Where is that art gallery you were speaking of? I’d love to visit it with you.”

“GioGio…” Fugo’s body goes rigid under Giorno’s touch, but he soon regains his control and nods solemnly. “Of course! It’s just after this corner…”

Bucciarati glances between the group of frescoes-admirers and the duo of art enthusiasts, and makes his choice.

“I can’t believe you three left us behind like that,” Trish mutters, chewing her plastic angrily—it’s fine, Giorno will transform it into a butterfly later anyway. “Do you realize what you did to me? You left me with these three!”

“I’ll pay a shopping trip for you later,” Giorno soothes.

“Only one?”

“Trish…”

“How about two? Just for me?” She flutters her eyelashes, then laughs when he continues looking unimpressed.

“After that, we can go to the museum of torture,” Fugo says, to the suddenly very interested Narancia. “That’s what I’ve been really excited about. I think we could all learn a lot from going there. I’ve already bought a notebook.” He waves the Art Gallery-curated notebook (also funded by their non-villainous Boss).

“You’re gonna become a real pro!” Narancia cheers.

Mista looks up from his plate of 3pm lunch. “Isn’t he already a pro…?” he asks, ignoring the Pistols’ continued clamor for food.

“Even more of a pro. A professional pro.”

“A professional professional?”

“Oh, is that what pro means?”

Fugo takes in a deep breath, shakes his head, and continues on as if he heard none of that exchange: “So as I was saying, this museum is really interesting for us! It was founded in…”

It’s honestly fascinating, watching the way Narancia’s brain unhooks as Fugo continues explaining. His eyes go blank, an emotionless smile appearing on his face as he nods and hums along, completely oblivious to everything ongoing around him.

Trish sighs. “Do you think it’s contagious? Do I risk catching Narancia’s dumb?”

“He’s not dumb,” Giorno says. “He just has different interests.”

“Different interests which include anything that doesn’t involve using his brain.”

“The games he plays often need to use strategy.”

“Or he can just use brute strength.”

Giorno doesn’t have any excuse for that. He waves his white flag, and apologies to Narancia for not defending his honor any further—maybe he could, if Narancia gave him a few more arguments in his favor. Instead, he looks at the silent couple, on the other side of the table. “They’re still not talking?”

Trish follows his gaze. “That spells trouble. What happened to their upcoming wedding?”

“Would you prefer them being more romantic?”

Tilting her head back, Trish closes her eyes and tries to imagine it: Abbacchio and Bucciarati, acting all lovey-dovey… Maybe kissing, holding hands, exchanging fond, secret smiles… A shiver hits her. “Ew,” she says aloud, opening her eyes. “Is that what children feel when they see their parents kiss?”

Giorno doesn’t have any answer for that. His mother kissed so many people that it became second nature to him. “Perhaps they’re still afraid of failure,” he says, considering. “Of hurting each other, or of showing their true feelings.”

Suspicious, Trish’s eyes narrow. “You seem quite invested in the development of their relationship.”

Giorno blinks and drops his gaze. “If they get upset with each other, it’ll be troublesome once we get back to work.”

“…I don’t know why I expected anything else from you.” Saying so, she flags down another waiter: “Strawberry cake for me, please. The most expensive you have.”

They both watch the waiter leave quietly.

Giorno turns back to her, sips his tea, and then says, with all the sweetness in his voice: “I hope you know how to beg for money in all languages.”

As they leave the museum of torture, Fugo’s eyes are sparkling with all the stars in the universe. During the visit, he kept tugging on Giorno’s arm, bringing him along and asking him, for all methods and tools, whether they should begin using that too. He even asked that for a boiling mechanism. Narancia started looking wary after that one.

“I’m so excited to get back to work,” Fugo says. “I’ll be able to get so much information if I use all of that.”

“You’ll also give me so much nightmares if you use all of that,” Trish says in kind.

“Considering you’re not even part of Passione, it doesn’t concern you.”

“It does concern me, because every time I call, Mista shares every little detail with me.”

“Well, he shouldn’t do that. That’s putting you in unnecessary danger.”

They exchange fake smiles, which slowly slide towards Mista.

“Let’s go to that place!” Mista exclaims suddenly, pointing to the first sign he spots—Marionette Museum. “It looks so great! And a civilian business. Which means we can’t commit murder in it.”

Bucciarati squints at the plethora of papers on the front entrance. “They’re doing a performance today, for an opera called… Don Giovanni!”

“That’s almost Don Giovanna!” Narancia exclaims. He jumps to thump Giorno on the back. “GioGio, we definitely have to go! That’s your namesake!”

“What an unfortunate namesake,” Abbacchio mutters.

“Indeed…” Giorno agrees.

“Am I dreaming?” Trish asks, patting her face like she’s trying to shake herself awake. “Am I really seeing Giorno and Abbacchio agree on something? Those two?”

“You would agree too, if you’d seen the opera,” Abbacchio says. “But you’re right. You know what? Never mind. It’s a fortunate namesake, fits Giovanna very well.”

Giorno actually starts frowning, glaring up at Abbacchio. “Take that back. I am nothing like Giovanni.”

“That, you still have to prove.” He enters the museum lobby before anything else can be said.

Giorno storms in after him (if his graceful walk can be considering storming in). Bucciarati follows with a sigh.

Just before they enter, Fugo and Trish turn back towards Mista. In one voice: “Don’t think you can escape us that easily.”

And then, they’re gone, and Mista is left in the street, alone with his fear.

“That was so sad!” Mista weeps, biting on a tissue handkerchief, like he’s some fair maiden from a fairy tale book. “How could Don Giovanni do that! The main couple were so sweet…”

“They got their happy ending,” Fugo reminds. “Get up. We can’t leave until you get off your seat.”

Mista grumbles but finally stands up, letting them walk out of the opera room. Abbacchio, who was sitting on the very end of the line, is already outside. He has a tough face on, but they all saw him wipe away a tear during the final act.

“Feels like my eardrums are about to fall out,” Trish mutters, massaging her temples. “Why is opera so damn loud?”

“I’m glad to hear you both enjoyed the performance!” Bucciarati exclaims brightly, somehow managing to stay optimistic despite the near automatic complaints after each and every activity done together. “Giorno, what about you?”

“I didn’t exactly get to enjoy the performance,” Giorno says duly. “Narancia kept poking me in the arm.”

“It was you! You were on stage!”

“No, I wasn’t. I’m not Giovanni.”

“Giovanna, Giovanni, same thing.”

“Are you saying you think me capable of committing the same sins as Don Giovanni?”

Narancia gives Giorno a once-over look. “I mean…”

“Narancia, be very careful with what you say.”

“You’re surprisingly pretty devilish, even with your angelic looks,” Narancia grins, bumping Giorno in the shoulder. “I wouldn't be surprised if you got dragged into hellfire some day. Well, that’s fine though! We’ll just have to find a way to follow you into there!”

“…I’ll drag you down with me,” Giorno says decisively. His features relax into something that could almost be called a smile. “I’m glad you enjoyed the performance too, Narancia.”

.

“Woohoo!!!”

“Giorno, come on! Lift your arms too!”

Giorno lets Mista manhandle him into lifting his arms up in a triumphant pose. The rest of his body does not follow: his legs remained straight-laced, and his expression becomes even more lax—bored and unimpressed.

“What are you guys doing…?” Fugo mutters uncomprehendingly, staring at the three of them. “Are you seriously acting like you’re on the top of the world? It’s just a little mound.”

And little mound it is. Yet, as soon as they arrived in Krakow, Poland, Narancia insisted on heading towards the famous little “mound” (Kościuszko Mound). Bucciarati agreed if only in order to avoid making him throw a tantrum.

And now here they are—watching Narancia and Mista scream like they’ve achieved a life’s dream, while Giorno is reluctantly dragged along. The other tourists around them are giving them a wide berth.

“Please,” Trish begs, trying desperately to drag her sun hat down to hide her face. “I can’t be seen like this with these idiots.”

“Why did you come on vacation with us then?” Abbacchio asks, unsympathetic. “Seems like a bad plan from the start.”

“Abbacchio,” Bucciarati chides softly. “Don’t be so mean with the children.”

“You know I’m right.”

Trish groans, but she also can’t refute this.

Three hours and a lecture from the local authorities later, they all stand in front of a large, ancient building.

“Sukiennice,” Fugo tries to pronounce. “This is the oldest shopping center in the country.”

“The architecture is beautiful,” Giorno remarks. “I wonder if— yes?” He gets interrupted by Trish tapping him on the arm.

She silently holds out a hand, palm up, and offers a wide smile when Giorno looks at her.

Wordlessly, Giorno digs into his pocket and produces a shining, brand new credit card. “Here you are. Have fun, Trish. Take someone with you.”

“Thank you, GioGio!” She leans in to kiss his cheek, then begins walking away. “Narancia! Come on, I need you for something.”

Fugo watches the scene with dead fish eyes. “Did you really have to give it to her?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“She’s going to spend all your money.”

“If that makes her happy, then so she shall.”

“You know she has her own salary now, right?”

“So what?”

Fugo’s lips pinch. “You’re spoiling her.”

“Do you want me to spoil you too?”

Fugo groans and hides his red face in his hands.

Hours later, Trish comes back with the biggest, most pleased of smiles on her face. She is followed by Narancia, who is carrying so many bags that it would make anyone else drop to the ground from the weight. On the contrary, Narancia looks to be more baffled than suffering.

“Thank you Giorno, your… graciously-lent card helped a lot.” Saying so, she drops the card in Fugo’s outstretched hand. “You don’t mind paying for me to ship all those packages back home too, right?”

“Go ahead,” Giorno allows.

“You give her too much money,” Fugo mutters.

“Fugo, if you wanted to buy an entire shop, I would gladly give you all my funds too.”

Fugo goes red again. “…Thank you. But please don’t. Just one Trish is enough.”

.

In London, Trish finally gets to head to her interview.

As they wave her goodbye at the base of the TV studio, Trish doesn’t even have the decency to look stressed or overwhelmed. Instead, she looks more relaxed than ever—even more relaxed and haughty than when they met her.

In order to wait for her to come back out, they all head to a nearby bar.

“I want an English breakfast,” Mista demands as soon as they sit down.

“It’s noon?”

“Your point being?”

“I want gravy!” Narancia exclaims, peering over Giorno’s shoulder as he looks over the menu. “GioGio, what are you getting?”

“Pudding.”

“That’s not a proper lunch,” Bucciarati chides. “Why don’t you get something traditional? I was thinking we could all try fish and chips. Or maybe something else…? Did you have something in mind already, Abbacchio?”

“Wine.”

“Thank you for your input.” Bucciarati turns towards Fugo, who is anxiously staring up at the lit TV, hung on the wall at a corner of the restaurant. “What’s wrong?”

“Isn’t that the channel where Trish’s interview is taking place?” Fugo asks. “It’s being broadcast live, right?”

Just in time, the channel broadcast changes, and the talkshow Trish is supposed to appear on comes on. Trish’s face, as she is introduced, is of a cold kind of radiance—both Trish and Giorno are masters at handling this type of beauty.

“Excuse me,” Bucciarati flags a waiter, in his heavily-accented English, “could you please put the volume on higher?”

The team all watch anxiously as Trish talks with the hosts and other guests. It’s clear, to them at least, that she struggles not to make her Italian accent known—and not only that, but she doesn’t seem to be that welcomed by either the hosts or the guests. At one point, one of the guest jokingly compares her to Big Ben, and the arm of her chair splinters into pieces, under the strength of her tight grip. Even then, she keeps a calm face.

Hours later, she comes back out of the TV station building, fuming.

“The nerve of them!” she explodes, as soon as she’s out. “I come to them, and they treat me like this? See if I ever say a kind word about them again! Hmph!” She turns around sharply, walking away without a clear destination. “Let’s go sightsee!”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know, but I think if I see Big Ben right now, I’ll murder everyone around us and truly become my father’s daughter.”

…Sounds great, Trish.

Of course, as all things should be, as soon as Trish sees Big Ben (because of course they would see Big Ben while sightseeing), she flies into a rage.

.

The private jet they rent stays silent for the whole flight to their next destination.

Only Giorno remains awake, the others far too exhausted after a day of cussing out the whole of London—or trying to keep Trish from cussing out the whole of London, it depends on the perspective. Not only that, but they had to somehow wriggle a struggling Trish into the plane.

Speaking of Trish, she’s half-lying down horizontally, her head pillowed on Narancia’s lap. Sleep seems to have finally calmed her down, though a stubborn wrinkle stays on her forehead, reminiscent of her frown. As for Narancia, he has a hand in her hair; he must have been patting her before falling asleep, something he must have copied from Bucciarati. From the way he’s positioned, his neck will hurt once he wakes up, but he looks so peaceful in sleep that Giorno doesn’t have the heart to get up and reposition him.

Mista and Fugo are seated just in front of them, both also asleep. Pamphlets and pamphlets occupy Fugo’s lap, all already thumbed through several times. As for Mista, he fell asleep as soon as they boarded, and Narancia took the opportunity to draw on his face with sharpie. Giorno can’t wait until he inevitably wakes up before Narancia and decides to take his revenge.

Giorno himself is seated next to Bucciarati, with Abbacchio facing them. It was awkward when they were awake, with Abbacchio too “shy” to say anything (at least in front of Giorno), but now that they’re both asleep, it’s the perfect place to be. At least they don’t make any noise in sleep, contrary to Mista and Narancia.

His eyes linger on Bucciarati.

The stress that has been building up for months (if not years now) seems to have vanished completely: the tightness around his eyes, the rigid smile on his face, the constant headaches… Bucciarati seems happy. The vacation truly is doing him good, just as Fugo said it would.

Now left alone, with no one to see his deceit, Giorno takes a moment to relax: sinking into his seat, a slow, satisfied smile unfurls on his features.

It’s all working out as he intended to.

.

The routine doesn’t change, even when they land in Montreal, Canada. Immediately they head to the hotel and leave the luggage behind, acting like the travel is the hardest and most exhausting part of vacations—which it is!

“Vacations are too exhausting,” Abbacchio drawls, staring up at the ceiling.

“I think they’re fine,” Giorno says. “It must be exhausting for you because you’re getting older. Shouldn’t you start thinking about retirement?”

“No one asked for your opinion.”

Fugo jumps up. “Don’t worry, GioGio. I’ll always ask for your opinion.”

“…Thanks, Fugo.”

“Let’s do something healthy,” Trish decides, staring out the window and completely ignoring the band of fools inside. “I feel like Mista gained too much weight recently, with everything he ate.”

Mista squawks, indignant, though it’s muffled by the mattress he’s face down on. He lifts himself up on his elbows. “But you ate more than me! And I can gain as much weight as I want to.”

Fugo shakes his head, sagely. “The weight you gained is called karma.”

Narancia gasps, dramatically. “Is it because he told Trish she was eating too much?”

“Excuse me for thinking a whole wedding cake in one sitting is too much! And she just did the same to me anyway…!?”

“It’s different,” the three answer immediately, in one voice.

“How is it different!? Explain it to me in detail!”

He’s interrupted by Abbacchio putting a hand on his shoulder. The usually straightforward, mean-spirited man gives him a pitying look. “It’s cute that you still think you can win.”

“Not you too!”

Bucciarati manages to find a company which rents bikes, which Trish approves immediately, despite Narancia’s complaints that he never learned how to ride a bike. Now standing in the street, they all peer over at the map of the city Fugo has unfolded (where did he even get it?), trying to decide which place they will visit today.

“Art gallery,” Trish suggests.

“No, we already did that in Europe.”

“Europe and America are two wildly different places.”

“We’re in Canada,” Abbacchio stresses. “Just how different do you think it’ll be?”

“Fair.”

“Botanical garden,” Giorno decides for them. “This one,” he points on the map. “It’s far enough to make the travel enjoyable, and I’m sure it can give me inspiration for the garden back at the HQ.”

“Good idea,” Bucciarati approves. “Let’s go to the botanical garden, then!”

“We should make sure not to get separated,” Fugo worries, folding the map and putting it back in his pocket. “Do all of you have your phones? Narancia, try to keep track of our positions. Giorno, can you give take something from each of us so that you can always track us back do—”

“Race you,” Giorno says shortly, and then starts pedaling so fast that in one second he’s at the other end of the street.

“Wait!” Narancia cries, and immediately follows Giorno’s lead. In no time, he has disappeared in the distance too.

Wordlessly, Fugo follows suit, his expression one of barely controlled anger. As he disappears too, his bike makes worrying creaking noises—he must be gripping it so hard that it’s about to break.

The remaining team members gape at their sudden disappearances.

“Did they really just leave us behind?” Trish asks, disbelieving. “In a town we don’t know? Do they even know our destination?”

“Unbelievable,” Abbacchio laughs. He doesn’t look that upset about it.

“I can’t believe they’re having fun without me,” Mista mutters. “But if I join, it would make us four members who left. But if I stay here, it also makes four… What should I do…?”

Bucciarati pats him on the back comfortingly. “Go your own separate way.”

“Bucciarati… You’re right!” Mista exclaims. “I’ll just create my own path—resolve can open up new paths, even in darkness!” With that dramatic cry, he, too, disappears into the crowd, cycling so fast that he’s a blur.

“Did he just go in the wrong direction…?”

“Don’t mention it, Trish.”

Of course, Giorno wins the race. By the time the rest of them arrive, he’s standing in front of the entrance of the botanical garden, back turned to them. His bike is already neatly attached to prevent theft, but he’s not moving, just staring into the garden.

Bucciarati descends from his bike hurriedly, rushing towards Giorno. He takes him by the shoulders. “Giorno? Giorno! What’s wrong? Did something happ… en…” He falters, as Giorno points to something behind him. He turns around, only to see nothing but plants.

Narancia follows the direction of Giorno’s finger too, squints, and then gasps: “Is that a frog-shaped bush!?”

“It is,” Giorno replies. His eyes glimmer with a thousand stars. He even smiles. At the same time, a colony of frogs appear in a circle around him, birthed from the dirt (and also Gold Experience). He’s really being affected. “That’s a frog.”

“Giorno, I understand you’re excited, but giving life to this many frogs at one time is going to ruin the local ecosystem. Giorno. Giorno, people are starting to notice. Giorno!”

It doesn’t just stop with the mess created at the entrance of the garden. Even after they enter and get deeper into the garden, Giorno seems to have lost his grasp on Gold Experience, and a variety of small animals and bugs continue to appear. Plants grow under Giorno’s steps, and it comes to a point where someone has to carry Giorno in order to avoid leaving obvious footprints after them.

Except that, of course, he keeps turning Mista’s clothes into more plants and more bugs, so he has to be passed around under the threat of just rendering Mista topless. First it’s Mista (who then weeps about his destroyed shirt), then it’s Fugo (which is just counterproductive, considering his brand of fashion), then an attempt with Narancia (but Giorno’s legs are too long and drag on the floor).

Thus, eventually, the responsibility lands on Bucciarati. Strangely, apart from a few blooming flowers, nothing else happens to his clothes.

Favoritism. Plain, unbothered favoritism.

.

When they arrive to Las Vegas, Nevada, their first destination is, naturally, a casino.

As soon as they enter the building, it’s like their whole personalities shift—from relaxed and easygoing, to tense and ready to murder. The atmosphere in the building awakens the mafia members in them—Giorno even straightens and adopts his infamous Don Face.

Trish fixes them with a glare once they sit down at their assigned table. “Relax. You look like you’re going to a drug deal.”

“We would not do that,” Bucciarati informs.

She rolls her eyes. Of course, she knows that.

“I’m going to gamble all of our savings,” Giorno says decisively, and then immediately stands up and heads to the poker table.

“Wait…” Fugo calls weakly, lifting a hand up. He doesn’t stand up though, and instead remains sitting, watching Giorno walk away. He turns back to the rest of the table. “Is this… Is this fine…?”

“Maybe he was serious about learning how to beg for money in all languages,” Narancia snickers.

“Don’t say that,” Fugo snaps. “There’s no way Giorno would be so unreasonable as to leave us without any funds.”

“Have faith in him,” Bucciarati says serenely. “Fugo is right. Giorno wouldn’t risk it.”

“Uh, guys,” Mista interrupts. “I think he really did bet all our savings. You guys see that pile of coins he’s got in front of him?”

They all look over. Giorno has so many coins in front of him that it looks like he can’t even see his opponents or even the card dealer. How can he win if he can’t even see the other people’s expressions? Isn’t poker a game of expression-reading first and foremost?

“We can always rob a bank,” Abbacchio suggests.

“…I suppose you’re right.”

Giorno comes back twenty minutes later, empty-handed.

Trish’s heart drops into her stomach. “Did you really lose everything!?” she hisses, standing up and slamming her hands on the table. “Giorno! We have to at least get back home somehow! Wasn’t that all of our physical cash!?”

“…Are you calm now?” Giorno says, voice neutral. “I can explain.”

“You better,” Trish barks. “Or else you’ll know just what I inherited from Diavolo.”

“The owner was at the table,” Giorno continues, as though Trish said nothing at all. “He didn’t have enough money on him. This casino now belongs to us. Speaking of.”

Just in time, a nervously sweating employee approaches with two thick suitcases, laying them down on the table. They are, without a doubt, full of money. The employee shuffles away with a bow to his new employer.

Silence.

Trish’s death grip softens, a sweet smile appearing on her face. “You know that I love you, right?”

“Hey,” Fugo interrupts, “he’s already funding you a sponsor, your apartment, a romance movie and multiple shopping trips. Do you really have the guts to ask for more?”

“Yes. There’s something I want right now, and this is the perfect place for it. Giorno, I assure you that it will be in your benefit—you told me yourself.”

Inquisitive and open to the idea, Giorno lifts an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“I want a wedding.”

.

They’re halfway into the country, in a small, local hotel when the opportunity arises. One evening, Giorno excuses himself to bed earlier than the others, leaving them among themselves.

As soon as he’s out the door, Bucciarati stands up suddenly, drawing all the attention in the room. “There’s an issue,” he says, adopting a somber voice. “Unfortunately, I could not convey it to you all until now—it concerns Giorno.”

“Giorno? Is something wrong with him…?” Is there something that they haven’t noticed, somehow? Is he in danger? Is he upset over something?

Bucciarati nods, solemn. “He still hasn’t cheered up.”

“Indeed…” Fugo looks down at the ground, pensive. “Even though this vacation was planned out in order to make him happy, it looks like it hasn’t helped at all… Is there something we’re missing?”

“…But he smiled a few times!” Narancia attempts, only to falter immediately. “But you’re right… Even when he laughed, it was because of alcohol, or just because he was making fun of us.”

“Making fun of us doesn’t count,” Trish decides.

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Do you have any idea of what we can do to resolve this, Bucciarati?” Abbacchio interrupts.

“Aww, we knew you cared.”

“Shut up.”

“I fear we may have to undertake drastic measures,” Bucciarati says gravely, closing his eyes in preparation for what he’s about to say.

They all stand at attention at his tone. Tension builds.

“Team. Mission ‘Make Giorno Happy,’ begins now!!”

“What happened to you?” Giorno mutters, slapping his hand against Mista’s stomach—it’s mean, but he could have gone without being woken up at 3am for this. “Where are the others?”

“They’re coming back soon,” Mista says. “I just had to come back earlier because Fugo got angry and accidentally pushed me onto the smashed window glass. And Bucciarati was getting antsy about leaving you and Trish and Abbacchio alone.”

“Smashed window glass?” he repeats. “Why would you smash windows—I was kidding about begging for money. You don’t have to rob any banks, I’ll pay for everything.” He straightens Mista’s shirt, covering the old wound, that is now nothing more than a memory and some phantom pain.

Mista snickers. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t a bank we robbed.”

“Hm?”

However, Mista refuses to give any more information about that matter. Instead, he grins mischievously. Only the pain of getting his wound fixed makes his annoying expression disappear.

In no time, the door to the hotel room is opened once more. This time, it’s the rest of the team which appears: Fugo, Bucciarati, and Narancia, all of them carrying large bags over their shoulders.

“Santa Claus…!” Trish exclaims under her breath, staring at Bucciarati.

Mista’s eyes go to Abbacchio. “Does that make him Mrs. Claus?”

“We’re the elves,” Narancia adds helpfully.

“Shut it,” Abbacchio snaps. “Look.”

They all look over as Bucciarati starts to take the items out of the bag, one by one, all of varying shapes, sizes, and colors: pink, white, green, red, yellow—all soft, comforting colors.

Plushies.

Cats, dogs, frogs, ladybugs, whales, dolphins, even fruits and food… so many plushies, that it starts to feel as though they’re about to drown under them.

“They’re shaped like friends,” Narancia says helpfully.

“I don’t see any shaped like you,” Mista says.

“Bro…”

“Bro.”

“Shut up. How did you manage to stick all of them into only three bags?” Trish asks, rising an eyebrow at the ridiculous difference between the size of the bag and the rapidly growing pile of friend-shaped plushies. “Did you at least leave some money behind? You’re going to ruin them.”

“We paid for all of them,” Fugo reassures. “It’s just that it was in the middle of the night, so we had to hurry.”

“You could have just waited until morning…”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Narancia interrupts. He picks up a plushie—a small little green and yellow frog, and just slams it into Giorno’s chest.

Giorno accepts the plushie with wide eyes, still eyeing the remaining pile incredulously. “So you decided to rob a toy shop…? In the middle of the night…? Because you wanted to surprise me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You don’t like them?” Narancia picks up another plushie, this time a cat one (Hello Kitty?), and moves it around like it’s asking the question: tilting its head and lifting a little paw. “Sob sob sob,” he mutters, moving the paw to make it look like it’s wiping away tears.

“I like them,” Giorno says, numbly. “I just… didn’t expect this.”

“But you like them?”

“Yes, I do.” He heads to the pile of plushies, clutching the one in hand close to his chest. “Hello Kitty, Smoochy, Keroppi, Pompompurin… You really… You really gave me the best possible.”

“Bucciarati chose most of them,” Fugo informs.

A tense moment of silence, as Giorno remains back turned to them, just looking down at the pile of plushies. They await judgment.

Then, slowly, Giorno sits down, knees folded underneath him, and starts picking up each plushie, squeezing them once, and then putting them back down. He does it twice, thrice, four, five times, and then turns back towards them, eyes wide and amazed: “I don’t know if it’s because it’s 4 am and I am just utterly exhausted, but I think this is the best gift you could have ever given me.”

A collective sigh of relief. So they have succeeded in their task!

“Hooray!” Narancia cheers.

“Great job, Team!” Mista exclaims.

“Not bad,” Abbacchio mutters, trying not to seem too pleased about it.

“GioGio, you mind if I take a few plushies for myself?” Trish asks.

“We should sort them better,” Fugo mutters, sitting down to start.

While Giorno stays on the ground, seemingly still in shock over the sudden gift, the rest of the team all begin sorting out the plushies into Giorno-exclusives and Others (Giorno was the focus of the mission, after all), talking between themselves, leaving the main job to the one most suited for it: Bucciarati himself.

Bucciarati kneels down besides Giorno. “Giorno,” he calls, voice softening. “Are you happy?”

Unexpectedly, Giorno doesn’t look back at the plushies, but rather looks at their friends behind them, like he’s studying each of their faces. His eyes linger on Bucciarati himself, and then, slowly, a smile blooms on his face. “Yes. I’m happy.”

They share a smile, then get back to sorting the plushies.

When they reach New Orleans, they go out exactly one time.

Somehow Giorno manages to find a group of dancers, joins them, and then proceeds to charm absolutely all his dancing partners—not even in a romantic way, but he even manages to make an older lady suggest her granddaughter for marriage (although, jokingly).

It takes a miracle to drag him away from that group.

.

When they reach Mexico, they stop at Mexico City in order to let Mista take exactly one cooking class.

It turns out to also be a competition, in which each participant has to learn then remaster a traditional Mexican dish. Mista, who is completely foreign to the local cuisine, keeps a confused expression throughout, contrary to the other participants who all look like they already know each and every little detail of the recipe.

The rest of the team, sitting on the side awkwardly, just watch and occasionally cheer Mista on when he starts looking a bit too confused—although he always assures them that he’s got everything under control.

Of course, to the bafflement of all the other participants and also the judges themselves, Mista wins.

It doesn’t seem to matter to Mista though. As soon as the jury pronounces its final judgment, he picks up his plates and hurries to the team’s table.

“You gotta taste this!” he insists, laying down a plate for each pair—one in front of Bucciarati and Abbacchio, one in front of Narancia and Fugo, and a final one in front of Giorno and Trish. However, instead of paying attention to the others’ reactions, he focuses solely on Giorno and Trish.

Obediently, trusting Mista not to poison him, Giorno swallows a significant bite immediately. He chews slowly, and his expression doesn’t change, despite the amount of spice there is on the dish.

“What do you think?” Mista asks, anticipation making his knee jump. “Giorno?”

Giorno waits a moment to answer, like he’s thinking over his answer. Eventually, he nods and smiles: “It’s good. Congratulations, Mist—ah!”

Grinning wide, Mista leaps to hug Giorno, shaking him by the shoulders—Giorno endures it without complaint. “GioGio! I’m glad you like it!”

Trish lifts an eyebrow. “That’s right. You’re usually so hard to please. Is it really that good?”

He nods. “You should try it too, Trish.”

“You know I don’t like spicy food,” Trish mutters, but accepts the plate and fork. Tentatively, she puts the smallest of bites in her mouth, and chews softly. She continues to frown, even as she puts down the fork again. She faces Mista, silent, and then says: “Yeah. It’s good.”

“Why… why are you frowning then?” Mista asks nervously. “You don’t have to lie to like, not hurt my feelings.”

“I’m mad,” Trish says, smile slowly growing on her face. “I can’t believe I’m actually liking something so spicy.”

Mista cheers and then proceeds to tackle both Trish and Giorno off their seats, upturning the table and ruining the remaining the lunch for the rest of the team.

.

In San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, they decide to take it easy: eating good food, enjoying their time together, and of course, going to the beach again.

“You gotta learn how to swim at one point, GioGio,” Mista laughs. “You can’t just rely on me to carry you everywhere every time.”

“What do I pay you for, then?”

“My good looks!”

Standing in chest-level sea water, Giorno sighs. He places his hands on Mista’s shoulders once more, and lets the rest of his body start to float. “Go slower this time. I don’t have the movement of the feet memorized yet.”

“Alright, alright,” Mista assures, slowly backing away, deeper into the sea.

Fugo watches them leave with a raised eyebrow. “Is that really the best way to learn how to swim?”

“That’s how I learned!” Narancia nods. “I just clung to a rock and tried to copy what others were doing. It’s too bad we only have Mista instead. A rock would have been great.”

“Are you saying Mista is lesser than a rock…?”

“What are they doing…?” Trish interrupts, squinting over to the beach, where only Bucciarati and Abbacchio remain.

They are sitting side by side, though they don’t seem to be talking.

“Are they holding hands?”

“No, almost holding hands,” Trish precises. “Are they really too shy to hold hands? They got married less than a week ago. I was there. We were all there. We all saw them blushing like strawberries. I have a pic of them smiling—Abbacchio, smiling.”

Fugo offers her an unimpressed stare. “He was getting married, of course he would smile.”

“Exactly!”

“Maybe they’re just shy,” Narancia suggests. “They don’t want to hold hands in front of us.”

“Are they kids…? Who gets shy about that kinda thing.”

“Look at Fugo.”

The GioGio #1 fan who sometimes barely manages to hold Giorno’s gaze, looks back at them, confused. “What?”

“Never mind us,” Trish says kindly, offering him pitying eyes. “Just focus on progressing, alright? I’m sure you’ll get there soon, sweetie.”

“Are you insulting me or…?”

“Hey,” Mista’s voice suddenly interrupts. Without noticing, both him and Giorno have swum over to them—however, they are both staring at the shore. “What’s happening over there?”

They all look over.

Bucciarati and Abbacchio still aren’t talking or interacting, and they’re still staring resolutely either at the sand, or at a book. However, right behind their back, Sticky Fingers is hugging a blushing, twisting Moody Blues tight.

Fugo coughs. “…I didn’t expect Abbacchio to be the, uh, excuse me for the term—the blushing maiden.”

“Do they not realize?” Giorno mutters, raising a curious eyebrow.

“Let’s not tell them,” Narancia decides, for all of them.

“Yeah.”

Back on the beach, Sticky Fingers grins and pinches Moody Blues’ cheeks. Oblivious, Abbacchio rubs his smarting cheeks with a frown.

.

In Colombia, the only activity they do is—

“The worst!” Fugo explodes, three minutes into it, even though he only has the bottom of his legs in it.

“I think it’s cool,” Narancia says blandly, though he doesn't look particularly enthusiastic.

“It’s good for your skin!” Trish exclaims, but she, too, is trying hard not to grimace. “Although… I wish it wouldn’t look like this. Couldn’t we just have gone to a hot spring instead? I heard those are good for your skin too…”

“So you like it but you also don’t like it?” Mista questions. As for himself, he looks completely relaxed. He’s got some even up to his chin.

“Excuse me for not liking being covered in mud!” Trish snaps.

“…I knew taking a mud bath was a great idea!” Bucciarati cheers, expression bright as can be. “I’m glad we’re all enjoying it.”

Mista leans in to whisper in Giorno’s ear: “I think the happy mask is about to crack.”

Giorno doesn’t answer. He looks like a marble statue, completely rigid. Cold to the touch. Absent from the situation. No one can blame him.

“I like it,” Abbacchio interrupts, no joy in his voice. “Very… muddy.”

“Alright,” Bucciarati snaps, smile getting sharp. “I get it. You’re not enjoying this. Just, please, five minutes?”

“Yeah,” Mista continues. “I think he’s cracking.”

.

.

Of course, because their team has been cursed since the very beginning (Giorno doesn’t count), on the way to Australia, their plane crashes.

Or well, that’s what Bucciarati summarizes, looking over the remains of their private jet plane. It is in ruins, split in two at the middle, with some parts still in flames.

Click. Click. Click.

“Oh yeah,” Trish mutters, with a purposeful thick French accent, squinting her eyes, “work those angles, babe.” Saying so, she continues to take photo after photo of the plane crash.

“Trish, could you not,” Fugo bites out, fingers digging into his scalp like he wants to tear his hair out. “We don’t even know where we are!”

“That’s right!” Mista screams, face down in the dirt. He suddenly whirls up, holding his head in his hands. “I don’t even have enough food to feed the Pistols!”

“Screw the Pistols!” Narancia whimpers back, spread eagle on the ground. “We don’t even have enough to eat!!”

As for the pilots, they seem to be OK, lying down on the ground next to Abbacchio, who is sitting down, looking absolutely exasperated. “Maybe you should keep your strength then,” he says dryly. “And we’re not completely defenseless, are we? We’ve got the golden brat to create some kinda marine creature to bring us back somewhere safe.”

Bucciarati sighs, finally turning away from the sight. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. Everyone, let’s not panic— where’s Giorno.”

They all stop short at his question, then look around.

Trish, taking pictures. Fugo, having a breakdown. Mista, worried for his kids. Narancia, worried for his stomach. Abbacchio, looking down at his nails next to the passed out pilots.

And…

That’s it.

Where is Giorno?

As Bucciarati opens his mouth to ask the question again, a loud sound comes from behind him. They all turn back towards the plane, still on fire.

“Is Giorno inside…?”

“WRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!”

Just in time, the plane bursts into a giant tree. Flocks of birds burst out, in the same instance, disappearing into the sky. The fire disappears, somehow.

“…Yeah. He was inside.”

“So, like, did we land on an abandoned island?”

“Seems like it.”

Trish and Abbacchio, sitting side by side, watch on as the other members of the team run around trying to calm Giorno down long enough to explain to him the situation. Half of the surrounding vegetation has reached a truly outstanding growth rate—some of the plants, born only minutes ago, have already died once and been replaced with their children.

“WRYYYYYYYYYYYY!!”

“I guess he doesn’t appreciate waking up in a crashed jet plane.”

“Mhm.”

“…Show me that pic from earlier?”

.

Surprisingly, they don’t stay in Japan very long.

On the first day, Giorno leads them to a simple, ordinary neighborhood. He stops in front of a house.

“This is… this was my grandparents’ house.”

They observe the house. It doesn’t look particularly daunting, or beautiful, or even like it belongs or ever belonged to a rich family. Instead, it is almost comically banal, making it unimaginable that Giorno was ever related to anyone who lived there.

“I never lived there, though,” Giorno continues. “My grandparents disowned my mother as soon as I was born. My mother only showed me the house because she told me she wanted to burn it down.”

“Oh. Do you want us to burn it down right now?” Narancia asks.

“My grandparents probably died long ago. It’s no use now.”

“So you’re saying,” Abbacchio says, “that if they were still alive, you would burn the house down?”

“…It’s an idea to consider.”

They watch the house a bit longer. The curtains of the window on the first floor shift a bit—the inhabitants must be getting antsy.

“They’re gonna call the cops.”

“Yeah. Let’s leave.”

As the others start to leave, Narancia lingers long enough to make I-see-you gestures at the house. “I’ll come back,” he promises, “and I’ll burn you.”

Their next stop is a pitiful apartment complex, in a quieter part of town. The building looks like it’s about to fall apart, cracks and mold appearing at the bottom.

Giorno gestures at the first floor. “My mother and I lived there.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good place to raise a child,” Trish says, looking at the band of typical hooligans squatting under the stairs. “Was it already like this back then?”

“…It’s too bad other people live there. Else, I would burn the place down immediately.”

“Oh.”

Giorno walks up to the staircase and lays a hand on the banister, though he doesn’t climb up. The hooligans peer at him silently, understanding without a word that Giorno is not someone they can mess with.

The rest of the team awaits his judgment.

Eventually, he says: “…Let’s go buy maid outfits.”

.

Arriving in India, they decide to do a road trip, hiring a guide to help them get around the country without too much trouble. After all, they have so much to see: the Himalaya, the rajistan, the dalai lama… Uh, you gotta ask Fugo for the details.

“I’m Ben,” the man introduces himself. He seems amicable and friendly, offering them a big smile and even extending a hand to shake. “I’ll be your guide for this afternoon. Nice to meet you all! You guys come from Italy, right?”

As soon as the word “Ben” is pronounced, Trish’s entire body stiffens. Bucciarati lays a comforting hand on her shoulder—or perhaps he’s actually just trying to keep her from doing something stupid, such as taking out her frustration on a poor, innocent man.

“Indeed, we come from Italy…” Bucciarati tries to form a normal conversation with their guide.

“So we met Big Ben already,” Abbacchio says, “and now we’re meeting little Ben.”

The comparison is too much—Trish snaps.

“So, what did we learn, Trish?”

“To smile wide and proud in your mugshot!”

“No.”

“That Giorno is generous and will always pay for me to get out without further trouble?”

“Once again, no.” Bucciarati pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you know the amount of trouble it would cause, if you really were arrested and you had to be transferred back to Italy?”

“You could just break me out.”

“She’s got a point,” Abbacchio says, completely abandoning his role of disappointed parental figure. He seems more proud than anything. “Good left hook, Trish.”

“Thanks.”

“But I’m the one she hit…?” Mista says hesitantly.

“You were in my way.”

“You know this will appear in the news, right?” Bucciarati continues. “Weren’t you concerned about your image as an idol? What will your fans say once they learn that you were nearly arrested for assault?”

She laughs. “Oh, I already posted my mugshot on Instagram. Do you want me to read the comments?” Before she even finishes her sentence, she’s already pulling out her phone.

“…Please don’t.”

“At UnaDasTras says: love the disheveled look, maybe a proper mugshot-themed photoshoot would be great? Eyes, eyes. At U-Hope says: yaasss queen, you look bomb as always, love the smile, xoxo. At Gio dot Giova—hey, wait a second, Giorno, you have an Instagram account?”

“Yes. Although all my posts are private, so you’ll have to follow me back to see them.”

“Oh my God!! You bet I will!”

Watching the two teenagers get completely distracted without being able to step in and interrupt, Bucciarati turns back to Abbacchio, opens his mouth and makes several false starts, and then asks: “Wasn’t I supposed to be scolding her?”

.

In Greece, they board onto a cruise ship, visiting each of the islands.

After a while, Abbacchio gets tired of seeing Giorno posing with statues for photos and consequently being mistaken for Gods everywhere they go. He takes Bucciarati by the collar, and tugs him away.

“Let’s go fish or something.”

Of course, Bucciarati’s face brightens considerably. “Fish? Oh! How exciting! Do any of you want to come with?”

Narancia sticks out his tongue in disgust. “Who wants to smell like fish for the whole day?”

They all take their turn refusing the offer—how can they ever accept fishing when they can instead go have fun with all the activities on the cruise ship?

But surprisingly, while Abbacchio glares at him with the force of a thousand suns, Giorno agrees with a bright smile: “Of course. That seems like an enjoyable activity.”

While the ones who hold all the money leave to go fishing (on a cruise ship…?), the rest of the gang watches on, mouths agape. As soon as the shock finally passes over, they regroup in a tight circle.

“Okay. How much money do we have left?” Narancia asks.

They all hold out their hands at the same time.

Trish makes a face. “3€? And a button, really, Fugo?”

“I thought it was a coin,” he excuses, putting it back in his pocket. “What should we do?”

“Rob a bank.”

“Mista, no.”

“Ask Giorno for help?”

“He’s not here right now,” Trish sighs. “And if we bother his time with Bucciarati and Abbacchio, he will definitely refuse to lend us anything.”

Narancia snickers, elbowing Fugo. “He’ll send us swimming with the fishies.”

“Nice one, bro!” Mista high-fives him.

Trish watches on with the knowledge that her dreams of finally getting some spa-worthy masseuse have been shattered. Fugo pats her on the shoulder, sympathetic.

.

In Budapest, Hungary, Trish finally gets her one wish: they go to hot springs.

—Which, well, alright. Maybe it isn’t quite what Trish wanted, since a spa and a hot spring are two different things, but it’s close enough to finally make her stop whining about it.

As they all sit back in the hot spring, wearing only towels, soaking up in the warm water, Trish hums lightly.

“I had a good time,” she says idly. “I’m glad we went on this vacation.”

“I really liked the torture museum,” Fugo says, smiling.

“Of course you would focus on that…”

“I liked the part where Giorno went god-like and almost killed half of Australia’s wildlife,” Mista cheers, gently elbowing said Giorno in the ribs.

Giorno keeps his eyes closed, like he’s trying to emulate a monk.

“…It wasn’t too bad,” Abbacchio says gruffly, after a moment. He’s got an arm around Bucciarati’s waist. “I guess.”

Bucciarati gently pokes him in the chest. “Be a little more positive! Didn’t you like our wedding, at least?”

“It would have been better if it had been just the two of us.” His grip around Bucciarati tightens.

Bucciarati’s eyes sparkle. “Leone…”

Face screwed up in disgust, Narancia sticks his tongue out, making fake retching sounds. “Don’t kiss in front of us!”

Abbacchio rolls his eyes. “What? You want us to leave just because you’re too much of a child to let us kiss here?”

“Actually,” Giorno interrupts, eyes flying open. “There’s a room just over there that I also rented. You two can go there for private time.”

“Ew.”

“…I didn’t mean like that.”

“Thank you for the attention, Giorno,” Bucciarati sighs, but a smile is tugging at his lips. “Will the rest of you be alright without us here?” In the end, he can’t help but baby them a little.

A chorus of agreements, as they all wave Bucciarati and Abbacchio goodbye. Bucciarati waits until the door closes behind them to turn to Abbacchio with a smile.

“Now that it’s just the two of us…”

Abbacchio follows him into the other room with a chuckle.

It’s only later in the evening, when Bucciarati and Abbacchio leave their private room after taking a good, long soak, that either of them hear from the others. As they’re passing by the rest of the team’s room, a cry is suddenly heard from inside:

“WRYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!”

“Oh God. Who got Giorno drunk again!?”

.

.

.

“You know what,” Giorno says, stepping out of the family van, bright smile on his face, skin shining with health. “I think this vacation was indeed much needed.”

“Agreed!”

“It was great!”

“It was alright, I guess.”

“Guys…”

Mista and Narancia follow, both brimming with energy. Trish comes out of the van with a sigh, sunglasses still perched on her face, the perfect picture of a rich celebrity on vacation. Meanwhile, Fugo and Abbacchio guide a dead-tired Bucciarati out.

Poor Bucciarati. He had to deal with a drunk Giorno again, yesterday evening.

“Never again,” Bucciarati swears, face pale and gaunt like he just went through years of famine. “Never again.”

Fugo and Abbacchio exchange a worried look.

Bucciarati sighs, and then finally straightens up his slumped shoulders. “Well… In the end, I achieved my goal, so I suppose that there is really no room for complaining.”

Saying this, his eyes are stuck on Giorno—bright, happy Giorno, who now shows his smile proud and wide, and who doesn’t hide his laughter and happiness. They’ve all become closer to one another over this vacation, but none has become more affectionate than Giorno.

Yes, perhaps this terribly tiring vacation was worth it in the end, if only to see Giorno’s smile.

Giorno must notice his gaze, because eventually he looks back at him. His expression brightens. “Now that we’re all well-rested, let’s hurry up and get back to work!”

…Never mind.