Work Text:
In less than two weeks, you’ve risen from no-name soldato , to becoming a member of a capo’s inner circle, to becoming the right-hand man of the Don of Passione himself. And while your position has changed, and your power has grown exponentially (in theory, you’ve yet to test this out), each new title comes like a fresh coat of paint over a piece of old furniture. You like to joke that Giorno only keeps you around because you’re easy on the eyes, but he can’t see the rot that has already been seeded inside you—little termites crawling around under your skin.
You kneel before him and kiss him on the ring he holds in front of you. Behind you, patiently waiting their turn, are all the other ranked members who belong to this organisation, that now belongs to this boy, who’d sent you to the jewellers three days ago with the circumference measurement of his left middle finger, told you to get the gaudiest thing they had to offer. That ring could have kept you fed and housed for about five months, before all this (you use ‘all this’ to denote this new life. This perpetually new life of yours, that won’t ever get old, because you, in all likelihood, won’t either).
Yesterday you got yourself fitted for an angora wool jacket. So soft. So light. The tailor tells you it’s made of rabbits. Turkish rabbits, the best kind, he says proudly, ethically sourced, as if you were the sort of person who cared about shit like that, as if you hadn’t shot two men that morning and gotten your old jacket stained red with a very unethically sourced dye.
Already there are rumours abound, that Passione is ruled by a man with the face of a boy, some kind of immortal being who does not age. Giorno hears the talk and it amuses him greatly, but he also knows the power of gossip, and is happy to keep it fed. He dresses as a walking anachronism—hair and clothing that don’t look like they are of this time. His features just foreign enough to hint at difference, but not so foreign as to be completely other; his Italian a touch too perfect for him to have been born into it. Giorno stands out with the subtle dexterity of someone who has learnt to blend in, plays his part in this pageantry like the atheist priest who understands the salutary effect of religion—the ageless Don of Passione, even time dare not touch him, how dare you?
And so you get on your knees, and kiss the shiny golden ring you’d bought for him, set the precedent for the ones lined up behind you.
The sun is out; it is a beautiful day.
. . .
They say time heals all wounds. But you’ve spent enough nights with Narancia curled around you, weeping silently for his mother, to know that the only thing you can really count on time to do is to pass. (Narancia doesn’t cry anymore). You’ve never been afraid of change, and you still aren’t. What terrifies you now is stagnation, the thought that it might not change, that it’ll just be like this from now on, day after day, after week, after month, after year, that you will continue to feel like this, that time will continue to pass, but this terrible worm-eaten hollowness inside you will not go away.
Fugo is still out there. The only other one left of the old team. You find yourself split down the middle into two equal halves, wanting to have him back and not wanting anything to do with him at all. He wasn’t there then, why should he get to be here now? You want to punish him with your absence, forgetting that in doing so you're also punishing yourself with his.
It doesn’t take long for you to track him down—he’s barely in hiding—but Giorno says not to approach yet. He says he does not want to force his hand, wants the choice to be his own. You want to tell him that Fugo has already made his choice. There was no way you could have found him if he didn’t, on some level, want to be found. Giorno does not know him like you do, but you are nothing if not dutiful, and so you keep your distance, abide by the last choice you can both be certain that Fugo had made.
You’ve become something of a regular in that restaurant. You sit by yourself and don’t talk to anyone. You order drinks just to observe that figure at the piano through the mirror behind the bar, with his back to you on the tiny elevated stage lit by warm white light. When you first heard him, you’d been shocked by that soothing, inoffensive melody, his fingers dancing so deftly over the keys. You’d never thought him capable of that sort of softness, but it had made sense, in hindsight; it had always puzzled you why Fugo took such great care of his hands, more than any other part of his body. You too would probably care more for the parts of yourself that could produce beauty.
He looks like he’s gotten a bit thinner. You wonder if he’s been eating properly. When you leave, you hand the bartender a hefty tip and tell him who it’s for. He glances down at the stack of bills and asks wryly if you want to leave a number.
Oh. Oh, you shouldn’t . But a half of you just wants to light that fuse and see what happens.
So you wink, and you smile, and you say, “just tell him it’s from Bruno.”
It might just be your imagination, but you think Fugo’s sitting up a little straighter the next time you visit. That’s good. That’s very good; he shouldn’t get to slouch.
. . .
Giorno keeps you on a tight leash, only lets you out for the most crucial and foolproof of missions. There are days where you feel like a glorified messenger-boy, bringing the Don’s latest direction to his underlings. You feel like you might be his only friend. When you realise this you also realise that he might be your only friend as well. There had been others, but they're gone now, sacrifices in his pursuit of a drugless Italy. You wish that they were still here, but you know that they had died for a worthy cause, and you take comfort in knowing that whatever cause Giorno is willing to sacrifice you to will definitely be worth it as well.
Six months in, Giorno finally caves and tells you to bring Fugo back. He needs the help, because as good as he is with people, Giorno is at sea when it comes to the actual logistics of running a criminal organisation. Charisma will only get you so far without money, and money means numbers means Pannacotta Fugo.
You sit in a car with tinted windows, parked behind the restaurant as he walks out of work. He doesn’t fight back when you grab him, like he’s been waiting for this moment, and you—keeping him immobilised with your arm around his shoulder in a parody of an embrace, your face in his neck—you are wondering if maybe now things might start to change again.