Work Text:
[Phantom Thief Strikes Again!]
Groaning, Fugo swiped away the notification and hung his head. He could almost feel the upcoming rant from Abbacchio as soon as he stepped into his office after class.
Dropping his head onto his desk, he let out a small sigh. He had elected to take a journalism course as soon as he got into university, but this meant he needed to do a work-study of sorts. The only close one near the campus that seemed remotely interesting was with a detective named Leone Abbacchio - and Jesus Christ, that man had a lot of anger in him, more so than Fugo himself. He misjudged as well; it wasn’t interesting in the slightest. Usually, the days would drag on for what felt like forever, and most times he would be stuck sharpening pencils until a prank call came in and then both Fugo and Abbacchio would get annoyed - and stay annoyed - for the rest of the day.
Well, that was the case until a few weeks ago.
Now it felt like Abbacchio got angrier, and the days got longer.
At least it was exciting, he supposed.
“Ah, are you doing ok?” A voice behind him perked up, and Fugo jumped in his own skin.
Twirling around in his desk chair, he came face to face with his roommate - Haruno Shiobana. He was a major in biology, and it showed by how he decorated their room (Seriously. Thank fuck he’s a natural green thumb otherwise dead leaves would’ve littered their room by now). He was a year younger than Fugo, and didn’t look all that interesting; short, black hair and a thin build, with only his eyes being the most remarkable part of him. They were a beautiful pair of green, like the most expensive jades - although he usually hid them behind his fringe, which he refused to cut for whatever reason. Fugo had (apparently) been the only person who had seen them, other than his own family.
Haruno was entertaining to talk to, at least. There was always something that had happened in his private life that seemed too unreal to have even happened. According to him, his friend (who he had refused to disclose the name of, but he was almost certain it was the girl in the fashion department) had managed to piss off her dad that much that he ended up moving out and living in a hotel nearby instead.
Fugo grimaced, remembering why he was sitting up again. “You know that Phantom Thief that popped up?”
“Oh yeah, I saw on the news this morning,” Haruno answered quickly, shuffling over to his side of the room and dropping his bag. “Wild, huh. I didn’t think anyone could get into that gallery.”
“Fucked more like it. The staff even had extra guards out front ‘cause he had sent a note beforehand. Abbacchio’s going to go mental, I can sense it.” He sharpened his eyes at nothing in particular, instead imagining the scenario that was waiting for him behind the office doors.
Haruno let out a small chuckle and took his phone out of his pocket. Absentmindley, Fugo felt a light flush gently dusting his cheeks. His roommate wasn’t the most vocal and, even with his strange stories and occasional biology fact, most of their time spent together was in comfortable silence. Not pressuring, or a heavy silence - it felt like home - and it didn’t fucking matter what Narancia said, Fugo did not have a crush.
Not at all.
Haruno let out another, louder chuckle and gently bumped into Fugo (the flush was from the temperature, nothing else). “Hey, isn’t this your boss?”
Sure enough, it was - the long white hair was a dead give-away. The thief had apparently decided to use his face as a bounce pad, the sole of the sleek black shoes pressed firmly into Abbacchio’s face. Fugo felt himself recoiling a little; there was no question that it must have hurt, but at the same time…it was fucking hilarious. It was the way the older man’s face had been squashed up like something he’d see in a comic, and it made buckets of laughter pile up in his throat.
“Pfft--” He couldn’t stop a snort from erupting, quickly covering his mouth with his hand. “Ouch, or something.”
“Well, aren’t you sympathetic?” Haruno snickered quietly beside him, “But seriously. Isn’t that the Duchess’ Ruby? I heard it cost a lot, like, in the millions or something.”
Fugo took a closer look at the picture, and sure enough in the thief’s hand was a luxurious necklace with a display of sparkling rubies. There was a rather large one in the middle - the Duchess’ - that seemed to be extra adorned with silver diamonds. Talk about grandiose; Haruno had to be correct, that must cost a fuckton.
“I suppose there’s nothing the rich wouldn’t buy, even if it’s to stick it in a museum for the rest of its life.” Haruno piped up suddenly, and uncharacteristically sharp tone overtaking his voice.
It wasn’t a particular secret to Fugo that Haruno had gotten into the university via scholarship; it was something the boy had initially been subject to quite a lot of harassment for, so it made some sense he had some scorn towards those from more affluent backgrounds. Although, he didn’t show it outwardly - these sorts of comments were reserved solely for the two of them, in the safety of their dorm room.
A secret little reserved for just the two of them…
Fugo coughed, “Did the guy ever give a name or is he just ‘The Phantom Thief’?”
Haruno sat back down onto his bed, turning his phone off and dropping it onto the soft cushion beside him. “Yeah. He said it was something like--
“Giorno fucking Giovanna.” Abbacchio spat out.
Fugo sighed for what felt like the thousandth time in the last hour. For that last hour, his boss - Abbacchio Leone, the one who got his face kicked in - had been on his usual rant and rave about the elusive phantom thief that had been plaguing his department.
The older man was currently hunched over, nursing his nose with a white plaster stuck over the bridge of it, not creating a flattering image of his face. To be fair, he didn’t look friendly most of the time. If the scowl on his face was permanent, Fugo was sure he would’ve driven away anyone by now - but it wasn’t. When he did have a normal face, he could be considered somewhat good-looking; he was tall with shockingly white hair that was usually tied in a low ponytail, and his drab sense of fashion (black, black, and more black) worked on him. Fugo wishes he had that talent when he was going through his emo phase - not that he’s truly out of it just yet. Combine that with the two-toned eyes that resembled ametrine - someone could love his ugly mug, Fugo supposed.
Although now, that wasn’t what Fugo was seeing.
“Fucking bastard…stood on my fucking nose. I’ll get him next time. I just gotta grab him.” He was muttering to himself, just loud enough for Fugo to hear him. He was bouncing his leg rapidly as he kept periodically touching his nose, only recoiling at the sudden and sharp pain. “He can’t keep running forever.”
“Yeah, like that’s gone so well for you so far, huh?” Fugo droned out, neatening up the stacks of paperwork in front of him.
“Shut it brat.” His boss grumbled, “I swear to whatever God is above, I’m going to catch him. Y’hear me, Pannacotta?”
“Please don’t use my first name, it’s weird.” Fugo spat out. It wasn’t a name he liked; it was too...saccharine for him. Who names their child after food anyway? “Has there been anything new with the guy, or is it the same old nothing again?”
Abbacchio sighed and stretched up, dejected. “Nothing but a name and what we already know. It’s not even a good name. ‘Giorno Giovanna’, fucks sake. I bet he’s not even a real Italian.”
Fugo didn’t have anything to respond to that. Abbacchio went back to his work, and so did he. There was nothing much anyway, so he saw fit to open his messages. Three from Narancia, and Fugo was regretting it already. His ‘friend’ (nuisance, more like) was an avid follower of the Phantom Thief news, and as such he saw it fit to bombard Fugo with stuff he already knows - being in a journalism work-study and all. Besides that, it was usually just nonsensical tired ramblings at three in the morning. He didn’t have to deal with this, so he was closed down his messaging app.
Ding!
Huh? One from Haruno? That was new. Haruno hardly ever messages him, and when he did, it was usually just to remind him to close the curtains when he was out at work. Actually, he supposed to be at work right now. Why was he on his phone - unless it was his break or something?
[Haruno]: Hey, check this.
Attached was a photo of a slip of paper - a calling card. It was the same one that had been used the last time; pastel pink paper with fancy calligraphy scrawling out the message of ‘ Tuesday. 8:30 pm and the Grand Passione. I shall come to steal the Requiem Arrow. This will be my ultimate show. Hope to see you there♥ ’. It was the usual date-and-location card, although the date…
Today was Tuesday.
There was an exhibition today.
“Abbacchio!” He shot up, making the detective jump up in surprise. Fugo was almost certain that he had been falling asleep. “I got something!”
“Shit! Let’s see.” Abbacchio stormed over ripping the phone out of his hands. He skimmed over it, and then almost ran over to the coat hanger and grabbed his usual - black. “C’mon! We’re getting this fucker!”
Fugo panicked a little, fumbling around with his phone and quickly sending a thank you to Haruno before grabbing his bag. They still had time to get to the gallery, but it was on the other side of town, and the exhibition would be starting in a few moments, AND Abbacchio had been drinking a bit which meant they needed to take public transport.
Shit.
Shaking off his nerves, he followed quickly behind Abbacchio. It was still strange, the fact that there was an exhibit happening at all. With the sudden break-ins, everything was on a tight lockdown - everything except for Grand Passione.
It was enormous - the largest gallery in town - and was home to thousands of precious jewels and gems. It was practically asking to get robbed one day. The gallery director - Bruno Bucciarati - was determined to keep it open, it seems, and Fugo was starting to think the man was insane; all of that wealth, amid a rouge thief, and he just keeps it open for anyone to come in? Fool. The director and Abbacchio seemed to have some history though, so maybe it was a spite robbery.
Fugo would be lying if he said he felt alright about this. Of course, he was fine - excited, even. He supposed he had bent the truth before; this, this was what he wanted to report. The dazzling showcases of gentlemen thieves and elaborate mysteries that had enraptured him as a child, wrapping him a whirlwind of fantastical displays marvellous tricks and trades. It was the suspense of the mystery, the secret identity, the tension ...it was everything Fugo had wanted from the course, and he was finally getting it!
Running wild through the road behind Abbacchio, wind in his hair and smile plastered on his face - his mind lingered on something:
How did Haruno get the calling card before the department did?
As soon as Fugo had stepped into Passione, he was overwhelmed with the amount of security. It was a wonder what a single angry phone call from Abbacchio could do, huh?
His boss was over speaking to Bucciarati, the director seeming to thank him profusely whilst Abbacchio fumbled over his words in a blushing mess. As if they didn’t have a thing going on; Abbacchio would surely have a part of him that prayed he’d never catch the thief if it meant he had a reason to see Bucciarati.
Fugo turned his attention away and into the bumbling crowd of guests. He felt horribly underdressed in his sweater and jeans when everyone else was dressed to the nines with expensive fabrics and jewellery. Smart-suited waiters carried trays of champagne flutes through the crowd, some guests daring to take two. Faint jazz trickled through the crowd like a fresh river, calming the anxious mood that had drifted in from the cold outside and rejuvenating the gallery's elegance. Golden light drafted down from the chandelier fixture above, certain rays refracting through the display cabinets' glass - all except one.
The one with the Requiem Arrow.
It was legendary - and Fugo could hardly believe he was in the same room as it. There wasn’t a soul in the world who hadn’t heard of it, and the mythos that went with it was equally fascinating. According to some sources, it had belonged to ancient beings who existed before humans and could grant mystical powers. Some say it was the treasured possession of a vampire who had lived at the bottom of the ocean for a hundred years. Others - and the more recent one - claim it had belonged to an incredibly secretive mafia boss who sought its power for his own protection against traitors. Either way, they all agreed that it had ended up in Bucciarati’s hands by chance and nothing more.
They hadn’t unveiled it yet, so it sat behind a crimson veil shielding it away from prying eyes until the time was near - and Fugo couldn’t help tapping his foot in anticipation. This was his chance to see Giorno Giovanna - or so he liked to call himself - in person.
“Here, kid. You look like you need it.” Abbacchio bumped into him, holding two flutes of champagne.
“Finished flirting, huh?” He took one of the glasses, ignoring the way his boss spluttered beside him. “Drinking on the job as well? How’re you gonna catch this guy when you’re plastered?”
“It wasn’t flirting.” Abbacchio spat out in a hushed whisper. At least Fugo was right about his priorities. “Besides, I’ve earned a drink - and you have as well. I don’t know how your friend got a hand on one of the calling cards before they came out, but we had a heads up this time. Just in time as well. Trust me: we’ve earned this.”
“We’ll earn it when we catch him.” Fugo joked back, and they clinked their glasses, both of their eyes fixed onto the main display.
Bucciarati stood on the podium right before it turned 8:30. Just twenty more minutes to go; Fugo couldn’t stop himself from shaking. “Hello, and welcome. I am sure that with the recent news and…heightened security you must be very on edge, but I would like to quell your fears by saying no harm will come to any of you--”
The director’s speech was cut off as a resounding boom echoed through the hall, the lights turning off in a flash. Fugo jumped to his feet, fumbling to grab the camera that was slung around his neck. Beside him, Abbacchio jumped up and started a quick sprint through the frantic crowd to the arrow.
Shattering glass suddenly crashed through the room, the jazz band long since abandoned their post with only chaos filling the once calm ballroom area. Police were running frantically through the crowds, trying their hardest to find wherever the thief was - and Fugo was enjoying every bit.
He’d be able to see the thief in the flesh! Ten more minutes. It was just like the stories he’d read. He was living the fantasy he always yearned for. Five more minutes. The screaming from the crowd was almost an exact replica of those passages in his books, if not a bit more overwhelming to experience in person. Three more minutes. The window opened, billowing crimson curtains letting in the coldness from outside, flashlights turned towards the sudden movement. One more minute…!
“I’m so glad you could all make it.” A smooth voice piped up from the window. The light suddenly jolted on, blinding Fugo and the other guests at the sudden change, “You don’t know how happy I am that you’re here.”
There he was, standing on the window ledge - arrow in hand - was the Phantom Thief.
Blond hair rivalling gold billowing in the wind, immaculately pressed black suit that seemed to fit him like a glove with a luxurious emerald ladybug pin that he had swiped at the last robbery displayed proudly on his chest like it belonged there. White gloved hands grasping the famed arrow - adorned with rubies and sapphires - in two fingers; dangerous. At any moment, he could drop it. Elegant white mask pressed onto his face; eyes only obscured by his hair that he had yet to push out of his face.
This was him - Giorno Giovanna.
Fugo couldn’t breathe.
Giorno let out a soft chuckle - a familiar chuckle - and with his free hand, slicked back his golden hair. “Well, well, well. It seems you came prepared in advance, Mr Abbacchio. I’m flattered.”
“Shut up! You’re the one who should’ve been more careful if you didn’t wanna get caught!” The detective spat back, “Really! You left your calling card out in the open, and some poor fool picked it up!”
“Oh? And what if that was my intention?” Giorno covered his mouth, hiding a sly smirk, with his hand. He hadn’t moved one inch from his spot on the high window ledge. He was above all of them - literally. Fugo felt his breath catch in his throat, and went to grab his camera.
Without warning, the thief leapt off the window and balanced delicately on the chandelier - throwing Fugo off his balance in surprise. Internally, he sighed. That would’ve been the perfect photo for the news, but that didn’t matter right now. The officers surrounded the area in seconds, and Giorno seemed to ponder mockingly for a few moments.
“Ah~ It appears I’m stuck. Whatever will I do?” He proclaimed, loud enough for Abbacchio to hear even over the frightened screams of the party-goers.
“Just give it up already! You’re right. I came extra prepared this time. There’s nowhere for you to escape to.” Abbacchio smugly grinned, crossing his arms over his chest. Fugo went to snap another picture.
“Hm…. oh! I think--” Giorno moved again, downwards this time. Fugo kept his grasp on the camera, determined to get another shot.
A familiar pair of jade eyes invaded his camera space.
Fugo clicked his camera on instinct.
“Well, now. That wasn’t so hard. I expected better, Leone Abbacchio. Especially with all of these guards around.” He laughed, now standing on another window ledge, the backlight of the city illuminating him - and the arrow, that was still in his hands. “I think I’ll take my leave now. Oh! Mr camera-boy?”
Fugo snapped back to reality at the mention of him, and finally turned around to face Giorno. The thief was smiling down at him - a smile he’s seen before. Where?
“I do hope you enjoyed my close-up. Make sure the papers do it justice.” He winked - blew a kiss - and just as soon as he arrived…Giorno Giovanna was gone.
He could barely register Abbacchio shaking him (whether he was angry at him or asking if he was ok, he didn’t know). Fugo had gotten a close-up of the Phantom Thief. Fugo had gotten a close-up of Giorno Giovanna - and he had spoken to him. Well, more like Giorno had spoken a sentence to him, and he flustered around trying to catch his words.
Giorno Giovanna was so very familiar - and Fugo dreaded to think about who the possible (and most likely) suspect could be. Shaking his head slightly, he waved away that thought. There was absolutely no way; they were two different people.
His pocket buzzed.
Snapping out of his daze, he went in to grab his phone - still ignoring Abbacchio yelling beside him - and moved to a more isolated spot of the ballroom, leaving his boss to deal with the others. Sure, he’d probably get reprimanded for it in the end but…
One message from Haruno.
Gulping, Fugo pressed on it.
[Haruno]: Did you enjoy the show?
Attached was a photo of a gloved hand and an arrow - the arrow.
Fugo felt like screaming.