Archive of Our Own ^beta

“It’s not stupid!”

“Yes, it is!”

“Come on, Fugo, it’ll be funny.”

“Funny?”

“Not like…” Narancia huffed in frustration. “I mean…yeah! It’ll be a fucking riot! And not just funny; it’ll be fun, too!”

“I don’t see how.”

“Don’t you ever want to, ya know, pretend to be someone else?”

“Like you?”

“I mean like anyone!”

“No.”

“Okay, well, don’t you ever want to just be…not you?”

Fugo pursed his lips in that way he often did when Narancia fucked up something in math, which meant Narancia knew the answer before Fugo even said it.

“All the time.”

Oh. So then, Narancia hadn’t known the answer.

“Then this is perfect! You’ll get a chance to be someone you’re not!”

“I won’t feel comfortable.”

“Sure you will! A lot more comfortable than how you usually dress!”

“I don’t know.”

Narancia wanted to whoop with joy. Fugo hadn’t said yes, not yet, but he was already wavering.

“C’mon, Fugo. Think of the expression on Mista’s face when he sees us.”

“I don’t know…”

Narancia was so fucking close to convincing Fugo, so close he could practically taste it.

“Mista bet me you wouldn’t dress up for Halloween,” he added nonchalantly.

“He did, did he?”

Victory tasted sweet indeed.

“Explain it to me again.”

Mista sighed. “Come on, Gio, I know you know what Halloween is.”

Giorno’s eyes narrowed. “Just because I’ve seen costumed children on All Saint’s Eve back home doesn’t mean I was ever one of them.”

“No, but you, I mean, you’re smart, you read, you gotta know.”

“I understand all of that,” Giorno replied testily, “what I don’t understand is why you want me to wear this.”

He plucked at the white robe he was wearing as he twisted his upper body to shake the cardboard wings at his back. “An angel, Guido? Is that truly how you see me?”

“Most people would find it flattering,” Mista muttered under his breath. Out loud, he said, “think about it. You defeated Diavolo, right? That makes you an angel.”

“If we’re talking about defeating the Devil, then I should be God, not an angel.”

Mista winced. “Yeah, well, that’s not, like, I mean, no one knows what God actually looks like.”

“We are created in this ‘God’s’ image; therefore, he looks like any one of us.”

“He has a point,” Fugo called from the other room.

“Shut the fuck up, Fugo!” Mista yelled back.

“Does the idea of me being God make you uncomfortable?” Giorno asked.

“He can call out your name during sex!” Narancia’s voice shouted from the same room Fugo was in.

Mista covered the upper part of his face with his hand, leaving only the penciled in mustache and beard around his mouth visible.

“What is he talking about?” Giorno asked with a twitch of his lips.

“Nothing! He’s just…God, he’s such a little twerp.”

“See? He’s calling your name already!” Narancia bellowed.

“A loud, annoying twerp,” Mista said. “Suck a dick, Narancia!”

“You’d like that,” Narancia shot back.

“You mean he’d like that,” Fugo countered.

“Both of you, shut up!” Mista argued.

“Perhaps you are better suited as the devil,” Giorno mused. “Such foul language.”

“Like you’re a saint,” Mista retorted and then winced, especially when Giorno’s lips curved into a smirk.

“If you’re done striking out,” Abbacchio said from the front porch, “let’s go.”

“Still waiting on the Wonder Twins,” Mista said, crossing his arms. “And you thought I’d be the one taking the longest.”

“No, I’m the one who thought you’d take the longest,” Trish said, standing on her tiptoes to peek over Abbacchio’s shoulder. “You know you’re never going to win any contest with how unoriginal you are.”

“There’s a contest?” Giorno’s eyes were back on Mista, his voice accusing. “You didn’t say we were entering a contest.”

“There’s a contest?” Mista weakly asked Abbacchio.

“I’m waiting in the car. Anyone not outside in one minute is finding their own ride,” Abbacchio said before turning on his heel and heading to the car.

“You think Bucciarati would let him leave without us?” Mista asked.

“He’d definitely leave without me,” Giorno replied.

Trish walked into the house, right between the angel and the devil, and put one hand on Mista’s back, right between his shoulder blades. She attempted to do the same with Giorno, but after waving her hand up and down a few times, decided to use both hands to push Mista out the door instead.

“I can’t believe you got him cardboard wings,” she chastised. “Cardboard! You know that we could’ve easily made feathered ones – Giorno could’ve made some albino peacocks or something.”

“Would that work?” Mista asked. “I mean, if the feathers were plucked, wouldn’t they like, turn back into pencils or whatever?”

Giorno watched the two of them fondly, then walked to the room where Fugo and Narancia were still getting ready. “Are you two joining us?”

“No,” Narancia said. “Fugo’s not happy with his hair.”

“Would you like any help?”

“No!” they both yelled, making Giorno laugh to himself.

“We got this,” Narancia called through the door, a little louder than necessary.

“This is a stupid idea!” Fugo argued.

“Well, too late now,” Narancia pointed out.

“Says you.”

“Yeah, says me.”

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

Giorno was curious now. “I really don’t mind waiting for you. I’ll drive.”

“No!” they both yelled again, followed by Fugo adding, “those wings will definitely be in the way.”

“Mista told you,” Giorno said with a grimace.

“Mista’s been going on about that costume for ions.”

“Eons,” Fugo corrected.

“Go on, Giorno,” Narancia urged. “We’ll catch up with you there when Fugo’s done being fussy.”

“I’m not fussy, I’m just-”

“If you’re sure,” Giorno replied.

“Just fucking go already,” Fugo snapped.

Giorno couldn’t help grinning on the other side of the door. He could relate; he still wasn’t terribly thrilled with his own costume, but Mista was excited about it, and Giorno had promised to do a duo costume, even if Mista really should’ve told him there was a contest on the line.

The wings, though…

“Gio!” Mista called from the front steps.

“Coming!” Giorno called back.

“He wishes,” Narancia muttered.

“See you over there!” Giorno shouted through the door, making Fugo roll his eyes.

“Can’t fucking miss him,” Fugo commented.

“He’s got it bad, what can I say,” Narancia said.

“Giorno? You mean Mista.”

“Fine, both of them,” Narancia said around the hairpin in his mouth. “And stop fussing! It’s bad enough you wouldn’t let me go all out with your hair.”

“I told you what happened the last time I tried that.”

“I wish I’d seen it,” Narancia sighed.

“No, you don’t.”

“Oh, come on, I bet you looked bad ass with platinum blond hair.”

Fugo gave him a look, and Narancia backed away, holding up both hands in a placating way. “Fine, fine, but I still think…” he trailed off, his lips twisting into a frown.

“You still think what?”

Narancia was staring at Fugo’s hair. Fugo had complained the temporary color he’d applied to his hair for an undercover job had left his hair a dull gray shade, and to go back to his natural color, he’d needed to bleach it first, which had dried out his hair.

The thing was, that was before Narancia had joined, which meant it wasn’t all that long ago. Even allowing for the fact that Fugo’s hair was longer than it had been when they’d first met, it wasn’t as if it had grown all that much. He’d had his fingers in Fugo’s hair, and it had been soft, much softer than Narancia’s hair, which had always been thick and a bit coarse, even before his own ill-advised adventures with hair bleach.

He supposed Fugo was right, though, and the more he looked at Fugo, the more he was glad Fugo had stubbornly refused. He looked good. Better than good.

“We’re going to win,” Narancia announced.

Fugo rolled his eyes. “You’re dreaming.”

He hadn’t refused to enter the contest, though. Narancia couldn’t help grinning.

“You look perfect,” he said with an approving nod. “Now help me with this thing,” he added, holding out the strip of navy fabric between his hands.

“What the fuck are they supposed to be?” Mista whispered to Giorno, who was still adjusting his wings in exasperation.

“Who?” Giorno asked without looking up.

“Gio,” Mista said with exaggerated patience. “You know who.”

“What I know is that cardboard wings are exceedingly uncomfortable. I thought you were good with your hands?”

Mista sighed. “Not when it comes to like…arts and crafts bullshit. You shoulda asked Trish for help with this.”

Trish wagged her finger at Mista. “Do not even drag me into this,” she chided. “I’m more of a designer than a seamstress. And what you should have asked me about sooner was what to use for the wings. Honestly, Giorno, why would you ask Mr. Fashion Disaster for help?”

“I didn’t,” Giorno protested, swatting at one of the wings that would not stop flopping onto the side of his head. It bounced back immediately. “This was all Mista’s idea.”

“You, however, agreed,” Trish reminded him.

“Yeah!” Mista said with a grin. “You tell him!”

“I’ll get back to you and that atrocity you somehow squeezed yourself into. Is that a codpiece?”

Mista responded by rapping his knuckles on it, causing Trish to roll her eyes.

“I don’t know what you see in that buffoon,” she murmured to Giorno as she gave the wing harness a yank to center it behind Giorno.

“His codpiece is that size for a reason,” Giorno whispered back.

“Now I see,” Trish said, stepping back to assess the position of Giorno’s wings.

“The moment I take a step, they’re just going to shift again.”

“I know,” Trish sighed, “and you said you plucking feathers from one of your creations would cause them to immediately revert back to whatever they started as.”

“That’s correct.”

“Gio,” Mista said. “You have that look in your eye.”

“Just one of them?” Giorno teased.

“What did you say to him?” Mista asked Trish accusingly.

“You’ve known Giorno longer than I have,” she reminded him. “You know any ideas he has are his own.”

“I don’t trust you two when you put your heads together.”

“I don’t trust you and Narancia when you two are together, but you don’t hear me complaining about it.”

“You do complain about it. Gio, back me up here.”

“Only when Fugo is involved,” Trish protested.

“The dynamic is definitely different when it’s the three of them,” Giorno mused.

“No,” Trish said, shaking her head. “No, it’s not the dynamic that’s involved. It’s that there are more of them.”

“Uh uh,” Mista disagreed. “You very clearly stated that Fugo loses brain cells when he’s with us.”

“That’s not actually possible,” Giorno said, biting his bottom lip.

“Giorno!” Trish scolded. “You’re going to ruin the lipstick I just applied.”

“You’re wearing lipstick?” Mista leaned in and examined Giorno’s mouth, tipping his head to one side.

“You’re wearing eyebrow pencil,” Giorno retorted.

“Is that what you used?” Trish said, gripping Mista’s face with one hand. She sighed. “You’re impossible. Giorno, please excuse us, I have to help Lucifer here with his facial hair.”

Giorno could hear Mista complaining about Trish messing with his face all the way to where the bathroom was located. At least he assumed that was the direction they were headed in.

“She’s going to fix his face, isn’t she?” Fugo murmured on Giorno’s left.

“I’ll bet his makeup was melting by the time they got here. That guy sweats a lot, you ever notice?” Narancia’s voice came from his right.

Giorno could see the lime green out of the corner of his eye. Had Fugo, like Abbacchio, decided not to dress up at all? Fugo hadn’t sounded thrilled with the idea in the first place, but Narancia surely had convinced him to go through with it.

Except…he’d seen Fugo’s jacket out of the corner of his right eye. Were his wings to blame, funneling the sound from one side to the other? Impossible.

These thoughts flew through his head even as he turned to see the shock of dark hair at his shoulder, and then turned his head to take in the blond at his right, wearing a skintight tank top. His ears had not deceived him after all, and he’d been correct with his assessment of Narancia’s ability to wind Fugo around his little finger.

Giorno took a step back to avoid smacking his friends with his wings, and when they turned around to face him, he gave them a polite golf clap, making Fugo cringe even as Narancia schooled his face into his best attempt at a Fugo-like scowl.

“Very nice,” Giorno praised them, “but I don’t think it will score any points for you in the contest.”

“Are you kidding?” Narancia asked. “This is a Passione party. We’re part of the boss’s inner circle. We’re fucking famous here. They’ll know exactly who we’re dressed as.”

“Famous?” Giorno asked.

Fugo sighed. “He has a point. They may not know exactly who the boss is, but they know you’re very close to…him.”

Narancia chortled next to him, earning him an elbow in the stomach. “Quit it, fucker,” he said, whipping out his knife.

“Thank you,” Fugo said smoothly, taking it from Narancia and flicking it open. “My costume was missing something.”

Giorno appraised them both from head to toe. Fugo’s hair was sticking up in random places, and it was only because Giorno was paying close attention that he noticed the orange headband. There was little contrast between the hair accessory and Fugo’s blond hair, but it did its job in giving Fugo’s hair a deliberately mussed look. Narancia’s hair, on the other hand, seemed to be fighting the gel he’d used in an attempt to style his hair into Fugo’s distinctive bangs – and Giorno was suddenly tempted to ask Narancia if he’d mind if Giorno styled those bangs in curls, just once – but for the most part, they’d pulled off their costume idea. Height aside.

And perhaps width, to an extent, as well, because the lime green jacket draped more loosely on Narancia than it did on Fugo, bunching up a bit in the front, and Narancia’s skirt, which didn’t close all the way around Fugo’s hips. And, of course, the tank top. That had always been a tight fit on Narancia, but it looked absolutely painted on Fugo, especially with the points of his nipples clamoring for attention.

Giorno thought it best not to point that out.

“My costume’s missing something, too,” Narancia said.

“Like what?” Fugo sneered. “You’re wearing everything I normally wear.”

A braying laugh interrupted any response Narancia might have given, and Fugo turned his head to glare at Mista.

“Everything?” the gunman choked out. He had one arm draped around Trish. “So, like, you’re obviously wearing stripper underwear, too.”

Narancia’s nose crinkled. “Ugh, no. I tried those things on, but it was like having a permanent wedgie. I’m going commando.”

Fugo placed his face in his hand and shook his head, while this time it was Trish crinkling her nose.

“I did not need to know any of your underwear habits,” she said, using the eye pencil in her hand to poke at Mista’s hand until he withdrew his arm.

“You know,” Mista complained, “you’re going to have to get used to that for the contest.”

“Not until then,” she said, poking his chest with the pencil.

“Wait, all three of you are part of this? Isn’t that cheating?” Narancia turned to Fugo. “Isn’t it?”

“How do you fit into this?” Fugo asked Trish.

Trish’s shoulders slumped, and Giorno seemed to find something on the ceiling fascinating, as Mista pointed to them both.

“I’m the devil on one shoulder,” he patted Trish’s right shoulder.

“Therefore, Giorno’s the angel on the other,” Fugo finished.

“So you’re still an angel and a devil, then,” Narancia stated.

“Technically, Giorno’s Trish’s conscience, and I’m her temptation.”

“Trust me, I’m more than capable of resisting temptation,” Trish hurriedly interjected.

“If Trish is part of the costume,” Narancia said slowly, “then it’s not a couple’s costume.”

“She’s just a prop!” Mista said, earning him an elbow in the stomach from Trish. “I mean, like Giorno’s wings, for example.”

“If you’re Trish’s temptation,” Fugo pointed out, “then technically, she’s an essential character element. Otherwise, you’re just another angel and a devil.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” Mista said. “Think it’s too late to switch our entry from couple to group?”

Trish shaded her eyes with her hand and sighed. “How do you even function?”

“Come on,” he said, grabbing her hand and tugging. “Let’s go cross off our names on one list and put them down on the other.”

“But I’m not even on the list in the first place,” Trish protested, but she allowed Mista to pull her toward the DJ table.

“I assume you two have entered as well?” Giorno asked. The question was for both of them, but his gaze was on Narancia.

“Fuck, yeah,” he said. He glanced over at Fugo, and at the way he was holding the knife, and blanched. “No, no, Fugo, not like that.”

“I’ve seen you hold a fucking knife before,” Fugo snapped. “You’ve pointed one at me more than once.”

“Yeah?” Narancia asked, looking around. He made a beeline for one of the tables and returned brandishing a fork. “How do you like it? Now I’m definitely you.”

Giorno tried to bite back a smile, but he couldn’t, earning him a glare from Fugo that rivaled the one he’d given Mista. It didn’t surprise Giorno that Fugo was the type to hold a grudge for a long time.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” another voice rang out. “Lu! Lu, come check this shit out!”

Narancia whirled around, the fork held out in front of him, but he immediately ran behind Fugo and peered over his shoulder at Formaggio, who was bent over laughing, right up until Fugo lashed out with the knife, severing one of the many legs sticking out from Formaggio’s costume.

“Hey!” Formaggio protested, catching the fuzzy black appendage before it hit the ground. “That’s cheating!”

“What’s cheating?” Illuso asked, approaching from the side, sipping from a juice box. He was wearing a pink gingham dress and an oversized bonnet.

“Nice dress,” Narancia said. He was still behind Fugo, his fingers digging into his friend’s upper arms.

“Nice corset,” Fugo added bluntly.

“Thank you,” Illuso said, making a point of toying with the bow between his fake breasts.

“Miss Muffet, I assume,” Giorno said drily. He didn’t seem terribly pleased to see Illuso, either.

“Aw, come on,” Formaggio said, reaching out with the fuzzy spider leg to ruffle Narancia’s hair. “Let bygones be bygones, right? That’s what the new boss said. Supposedly.”

“I’ll fucking kill you!” Narancia said, sliding his hand down Fugo’s arm and grabbing his wrist so he could thrust the knife at Formaggio.

“This isn’t very comfortable,” Fugo said, attempting to shake Narancia off his arm.

“Oh,” Narancia said, releasing Fugo’s wrist and taking a step back. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“I am quite capable of handling it myself,” Fugo continued, slicing the blade through one of Formaggio’s antenna.

“Hey!” Formaggio yelled, reaching for Fugo’s wrist and catching it as it headed toward the second adornment on his headband.

“He’s doing you a favor,” Giorno said calmly. “Spiders don’t have antenna.”

“I coulda just taken this thing off,” Formaggio complained, sliding off the headband. “You didn’t have to fuck with it.”

“You didn’t have to fuck with Narancia, either,” Fugo said coldly. “You’re lucky to be standing.”

“He had it coming!” Formaggio argued hotly. “You had it coming,” he repeated, glaring at Narancia.

“You tried to feed me to a goddamn spider!” Narancia said, moving to stand next to Fugo. “I still have fucking nightmares!”

“You almost burned me to a crisp!”

“You started it,” Narancia said. “Fugo, he started it.”

“Kill me now,” Fugo muttered.

“If you wish,” Illuso said, smirking around the straw between his lips.

“You’re both rather fortunate the boss – that is, the new one – thought you were redeemable,” Giorno commented.

“You’d better use smaller words around Narancia,” Formaggio said. “He’s not very bright.”

The blade of Narancia’s knife was pressed against Formaggio’s neck in the blink of an eye. “Neither are you,” Fugo sneered.

“Temper, temper,” Illuso said. “From what I read, we’re not the only ones who were given a second chance.”

Fugo pressed the knife a little closer, and Formaggio’s eyes flicked over to Illuso. “Maybe don’t piss him off while he’s got that thing near my jugular.”

“I was thinking of removing your mandible,” Fugo said, pressing a second blade against the side of Formaggio’s face. “Spiders don’t have those either.”

“Yeah!” Narancia chimed in. “They don’t have mandoubles!”

“Try it,” Formaggio growled, “and I’ll shrink you down to nothing.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Giorno said, adjusting the headband that held his halo. “The boss disapproves of in-fighting.”

“You’ve had your fun, Pannacotta,” Illuso said. “Come, Formaggio, we’ll find a place where I can sew that back on for you.”

“Don’t call me that,” Fugo said, but he lowered his arms and took a step back.

“He knows your name?” Narancia asked incredulously. “How’s he know your name?”

“It’s called reading,” Formaggio said. “You should try it sometime.”

Narancia started to lunge toward his nemesis, but Giorno turned in time so Narancia bounced off one of the oversized wings instead, allowing Formaggio and Illuso to head toward one of the bathrooms, where there were sure to be a few emergency sewing supplies given the number of times soldatos needed to stitch themselves up.

“Shit!” Mista said, returning with Trish. “What the fuck happened to your wing?”

“Narancia,” Fugo said.

“And you called me a cheater!”

“It was an accident!” Narancia said defensively.

“It was,” Giorno said. “It was entirely my fault.”

“Do you really hate them that much?” Mista asked in the most woebegone tone.

“I made no secret that they were rather uncomfortable,” Giorno reminded him.

“Rather uncomfortable,” Mista said. “You coulda just said ‘these things suck,’ ya know. I’ve heard you say tons of shit that’s worse.”

“When the occasion called for it.”

“I’d say those wings were an occasion that called for swearing,” Trish said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail against the broken wing.

“You could work it into the theme of conscience and temptation,” Fugo suggested, “since one’s conscience isn’t exactly an angel. It’s the determination of right versus wrong.”

“I don’t think the judges are going to read that deep into it,” Mista said, reaching up to rub at his chin, only to be stopped by Trish slapping at his hand.

“I just fixed that,” she reminded him.

“I have an idea,” Giorno said, “but I’ll need to go out back.”

“It’s that way,” Fugo said, pointing.

“He knows which way the back is,” Mista said.

“Does he?” Fugo asked coolly. To Giorno, he said, “congratulations on your improved sense of direction.”

Giorno sighed internally. He’d almost prefer Fugo lashing out physically the way he did with Narancia over the constant little digs. Perhaps it was Fugo’s own conscience that kept him from getting too close or allowing anyone else to do the same for him.

“Ha!” Narancia said, pointing. “You suck at directions, too, Giorno!”

“I did work as a taxi driver before I ever met you,” Giorno reminded him.

Fugo snorted. “You don’t need a decent sense of direction if your goal is to fleece tourists who are unfamiliar with the city.”

“Watch it, Fugo,” Mista said evenly. “Before you say something you’ll regret.”

Fugo’s clenched jaw relaxed, and he bowed his head. “Sorry, Giogio. That was unkind of me.”

Giorno tapped his finger against his lips. “Was it? I thought you were treating me like you’d treat the others.”

“He was definitely doing that. He treats us all like we’re stupid,” Narancia said, throwing his arm over Fugo’s shoulders. “Dontcha, Pannanarama?”

“Not Bucciarati,” Giorno mused.

“You’d be surprised,” Narancia said, dropping his arm and batting at the bangs in his face.

“Bucciarati is intelligent and cunning,” Fugo said.

Mista grinned. “Yeah, tell us something we don’t know. You don’t need to suck up when he’s not around, ya know.”

“Weren’t you the second in command for a time?” Trish asked.

“Technically, yes, but there were only two of us to begin with.”

“I remember those days,” a voice purred in Fugo’s ear, and he tensed.

“Melone,” Giorno said. He pressed his lips into a tight line.

Melone left Fugo and moved to stand in front of Giorno, appraising him from top to bottom much like Giorno had done to his friends earlier, only with an exaggerated lick of his lips as he did so.

“Watch it, creepazoid,” Mista said.

Melone clucked his tongue. “Is that any way to speak to one of your fellow soldatos? We’re all one big happy family now, after all.”

“I refuse to be part of the same family as Tweedle Dum,” Ghiaccio complained. “Absolute moron.”

“I never even fought you!” Narancia protested hotly.

“Breaking character already?” Melone teased.

“Not really,” Mista said. “They’re both hot headed as fuck.”

“Shut up, Mista,” Fugo and Narancia said in unison.

Mista gestured toward the pair, his eyes locked with Melone’s, as if to say “see?”

“The same could be said for your partner,” Giorno told Melone.

“Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here! I can hear everything you say! And I wouldn’t get so pissed off if you weren’t such an annoying little shit!”

Me? Narancia mouthed to Fugo, who shook his head and tipped it in Giorno’s direction.

“My apologies, madam,” Giorno said politely, curtsying in front of Ghiaccio the best he could with his angel robe.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m going to fucking kill you!”

Melone put his hand on Ghiaccio’s shoulder and tugged at the red yarn wig on his own head, reminding Ghiaccio exactly who he was dressed as.

Fugo leaned toward Trish. “Enjoying the show?” he whispered.

Trish nodded and whispered back, “I did not expect the two of you to show up wearing matching costumes.”

Fugo merely shrugged in response as Melone trailed his fingers over one of the patches on Ghiaccio’s shapeless dress. “I can be rather persuasive.”

Ghiaccio slapped at his hand. “Not here, Mel.”

Melone laughed and touched his fingers to his partner’s cheek. “You’re adorable when you’re angry.”

“Must be adorable all the time, then,” Narancia said. “Seriously, Fugo, he makes you look chill.”

“At least we’re dressed as something recognizable!” Ghiaccio screeched. “Who the fuck dresses as their-”

Melone, who had moved to stand behind him, slapped his hand over Ghiaccio’s mouth and rested his chin on his partner’s shoulder.

“I wish we’d thought to do the same,” he murmured. “You know how I’d love to see you in my pants.”

“Speaking of pants, are those mine?” Mista asked.

“Fugo doesn’t own any leather pants,” Narancia explained.

“Neither do you,” Mista pointed out. “And you shoulda asked before raiding my closet.”

“Like you ask before raiding my candy stash? Besides, this was the closest we could get to Fugo’s pants looking anything like mine. He needed something that hugged his legs.”

“They do do that,” Melone observed.

Fugo didn’t miss the way Melone dragged his tongue over his lips as he stared at Fugo’s legs. It made Fugo’s stomach turn.

“The skirt doesn’t quite fit,” Melone continued.

“Yeah!” Mista said. “That’s right! I see why you needed my pants and not Narancia’s.”

“I rather like the way it…parts,” Melone said, holding out two fingers and spreading them apart, “like a stage curtain, right over your-”

“Shut it, Mel,” Ghiaccio growled. “You don’t need to perv over the likes of him.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Narancia asked hotly. “Fugo is definitely perv-worthy!”

Fugo slapped his hand over his face, and Trish leaned behind him, toward Narancia, until her lips were practically touching Narancia’s ear.

“I think you’re making him uncomfortable,” she murmured.

“Me?” Narancia screeched. “Why don’t you take it up with that asshole?”

“You can take it up with my asshole anytime you like,” Melone said with a lecherous grin.

“Excuse us,” Ghiaccio said between gritted teeth. “We’ve got a contest to enter.” He grabbed Melone’s arm and dragged him away.

Melone threw a wink at Fugo over his shoulder, and Fugo’s clenched jaw resembled Ghiaccio’s.

“Good riddance. I never liked Angry-dy Ann anyway.”

Giorno tittered, making Mista grin.

“See, Gio, I told you. I’m fucking hilarious.”

“Your wardrobe, definitely,” Trish said. “I can’t believe you own black leather pants.”

“And you thought Fugo did?”

“They look good on Fugo.”

Fugo’s face heated up.

“They look good on me.” Mista continued to argue.

“You pair animal prints with houndstooth and paisleys!”

“I think they look good on you, Mista,” Giorno offered.

“Maybe I should start wearing leather pants,” Narancia pondered.

“They’d look good on you, too,” Trish said without taking her eyes off Mista.

“Now you’re just being mean. I’d call that abuse of au-”

Trish kicked him in the shin. “I swear, I can’t believe you’re older than I am.”

“I’m older than you, too,” Narancia reminded her.

“We know,” said three voices in unison.

Narancia looked at Trish, then Giorno, and finally Fugo. “Well, it’s true.”

“What’s true?” Abbacchio’s voice came from behind. “The fact that there’s no way Giovanna’s going to win the costume contest?”

“Leone,” Bucciarati scolded.

Abbacchio pointed. “His wing is broken. And not because of anything I did.”

“Oh no,” Giorno said robotically. “How dreadful.”

“You little devil,” Mista said, rubbing his hands together gleefully. “You have a plan, don’t you?”

“Perhaps,” Giorno replied with a hint of a smile.

“At least we dressed up,” Mista shot back. “You couldn’t be bothered.”

Abbacchio snorted, and Bucciarati shook his head. “As much as I hate to correct you, Mista, Leone is very much in costume.”

“What is he, an undercover cop?”

“I see why you might think that, but no. Like the four of you, we’re wearing a couple’s costume.”

“You are?” Narancia asked, his eyes widening.

Mista took in Bucciarati’s sweater. It was a soft gray cable knit with a smattering of pompoms sewn on it in gradient shades of gray. It wasn’t Mista’s style, but Bucciarati had a knack for making weird combinations like that work. Of course, it was exactly the type of sweater Trish would give Mista shit for if he were the one wearing it.

So, what were they dressed as, then? Was Bucciarati dressed as a character Mista was unfamiliar with? Maybe someone from an old fisherman’s tale, perhaps a child protagonist, and Abbacchio was the cranky older man who shouted at clouds.

Come to think of it, that might be it exactly, because those pompoms did somewhat resemble clouds.

“Clouds,” Mista said. “You’re a cloudy sky.”

Bucciarati smiled. “You’re correct. I’m cloudy.”

A squirt of water hit Mista right between the eyes. “With a chance of rain,” Abbacchio said smugly before reholstering his water pistol.

Narancia howled with laughter while Trish merely snickered behind one hand.

“Clever,” Giorno said.

“Like I care what you think,” Abbacchio said.

“I was talking to Bucciarati,” Giorno replied, earning a chuckle from Bruno.

“I think the two of you enjoy baiting each other just a little too much,” Bruno observed.

Neither Giorno nor Abbacchio said anything, and Mista broke the silence by asking, in a panic, “shit, how does my face look?”

“Too easy,” Abbacchio said.

“Ha ha,” Mista grumbled. “I mean, did anything wash away?”

“Are you suggesting I don’t know how to set makeup?” Trish asked.

“No, but I don’t think you were planning on me getting a direct shot in the face.”

“Not in public, at least,” Bucciarati said thoughtfully.

Mista shook his head. “Just when I forget how weird your sense of humor is, you remind me.”

“Did you prepare your routine for the contest?” Bucciarati asked as if Mista hadn’t said anything.

“Routine?” This time the trio of voices belonged to Mista, Narancia, and Fugo.

Abbacchio sighed as Bucciarati explained that the costume contest judges would take into account how well the participants sold the illusion – an undercover audition of sorts, disguised as a Halloween party.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Mista said, his jaw dropping open. Trish placed her finger under his chin and closed his mouth.

“Simple enough,” Giorno said with a one-shouldered shrug. “We post an ethical dilemma for Trish, with each of us trying to sway her decision.”

“You’re a fucking genius, Gio,” Mista said.

There was a trio of eyerolls in response this time.

“Fuck, there’s Risotto,” Abbacchio grumbled. “I hate that fucking guy.”

“We’re on the same side now,” Bucciarati reminded him.

“Someone’s got goth envy,” Mista muttered, but not quietly enough.

“Turn around,” Abbacchio said. “Your costume’s missing something.”

“It is? Is it my tail?” Mista spun around in a circle, trying to get a glimpse of his tail instead of simply reaching behind him to grab it.

“My foot up your ass.”

Bucciarati covered his laugh with a cough, and then tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.

“We should greet him,” he said. “We may have our differences, but he’s good at what he does.”

Abbacchio gave a curt nod, and the two of them headed to the other side of the room.

“Do you have a moral dilemma in mind?” Mista asked Giorno.

“Shit! We have to do something, Fugo!” Narancia said, shaking his partner.

“Try to teach him math,” Mista suggested.

“Seriously, Mista?” Trish asked.

“It would be hilarious!”

“Why?” Narancia demanded. “You don’t think I can!”

“We’re not doing a math lesson,” Fugo snapped.

“You don’t think I can, either! I’m Fugo,” Narancia said in the most nasally, uptight tone he could manage. “I wear a thong because I have to have something up my ass at all times.”

Mista guffawed, but Fugo didn’t find it nearly as funny. His eyebrows drew together, and just when everyone thought he was ready to use one of Narancia’s knives against him, Melone and Ghiaccio walked by, and Melone blew him a kiss.

Fugo’s face immediately went slack jawed, his drawn together brows now conveying an expression of confusion rather than anger. He closed the knife blade and began waving his hand around. “Where the fuck did it go?” he asked Narancia. “You bastard, tell me where you hid it!”

“It’s in your hand,” Narancia said, puzzled.

“Where?” Fugo asked, looking at his empty hand instead of the one holding the knife.

“The other one,” Narancia explained.

Fugo switched the knife to his opposite hand and held open his now-empty hand. “Not there either!”

Narancia finally understood what Fugo was doing, and he punched Fugo in the stomach. “No, you fucking idiot! Can’t you do anything right?”

Fugo hauled off and punched Narancia in the mouth. Narancia grabbed Fugo’s hair and jerked his head down so he could knee him in the face, but at the same time, Fugo grabbed the necktie Narancia was wearing, so they ended up headbutting each other instead.

“You know what?” Trish asked. “Perhaps that pencil mustache could use a bit of touching up.”

“You’re not going to make them stop?” Mista asked.

“They’ll stop when they’re ready,” she said. “We can practice the moral dilemma while I’m fixing your face.”

It took a few more punches thrown and a couple of kicks and bitch slaps before Fugo and Narancia stood facing each other, breathing heavily and bleeding.

“You’re such a dick,” Narancia said.

“You started it,” Fugo shot back. “You’re older, remember?”

“You’re smarter!”

“I don’t know, you both look pretty dumb to me,” Formaggio said, like fuck, how long had he been standing there?

Narancia reluctantly glanced over and saw that Formaggio was no longer wearing his spider costume, or at least, not the entire thing.

“Look ma,” Formaggio said, “no hands. No extra ones, that is.”

“I thought you were gonna enter the costume contest,” Narancia said.

“We were gonna recite that nursery rhyme and all,” Formaggio said with a shrug, “but ya know, then we’d have to deal with Ghiaccio if he lost to us.”

“He was also afraid Risotto was going to kill him,” Illuso said, still dressed in his Miss Muffet costume.

“Why?” Narancia asked. “Other than the fact that you deserve it.”

“How was I supposed to know Prosciutto was gonna dress as an octopus?” Formaggio exclaimed. “It’s not like I copied him.”

“I see you, too, have eight legs,” Illuso intoned in his best Risotto impression, making Formaggio flinch.

“Risotto was an octopus?”

“Technically, a Kraken,” Illuso said.

Formaggio nodded. “Not just that, but he had Metallica dressed like little guppies. I didn’t know we could use our fucking Stands for this!”

“Not only that,” Illuso said, “but he had an entire ocean theme. He was a Kraken, Prosciutto was a siren, and Pesci was the Hydra.”

“What the fuck does a siren have to do with the ocean?” Narancia asked.

“He means one of the beautiful women who lured sailors to their death,” Fugo explained without looking at him. He asked Illuso, “where did Pesci put the extra Hydra heads?”

Illuso tugged on one of his ponytails, and Fugo nodded.

Narancia knew he was being ignored on purpose, which was bad enough, but Fugo was voluntarily interacting with Illuso, who he supposedly hated, and that made it worse.

Fugo was right, though. Narancia was stupid, and this costume idea was stupid, and he wished he’d dressed as Bucciarati instead of Fugo. He looked ridiculous in Fugo’s clothes, which he’d known were riddled with holes, but he hadn’t realized how much skin showed until he had Fugo’s pants on. How long had he known Fugo and not really noticed the huge holes at the hips?

It sucked that Fugo looked really fucking good in Narancia’s clothes.

He stormed off without a word. Fuck Fugo, and fuck Formaggio, and fuck Illuso, too. Fuck all of them.

“Narancia?”

He’d been sitting in a chair outside, in the dark, when Giorno approached, a small swarm of fireflies lighting his way. Narancia hurriedly rubbed at his face and looked up to see two large, feathered wings on either side of Giorno.

“Wow,” he said, impressed despite himself. “Those are way better than the old ones.”

Giorno turned around and pointed at the albino peacocks on his back. “These are, technically, the old ones,” he said, turning back around with a smile.

Narancia liked Giorno’s smile. It was never reserved around him the way it was around Bucciarati or Fugo. Or even Mista, sometimes. But especially not the way it was reserved around Fugo.

Stupid Fugo.

“I take it you are not entering the contest after all,” Giorno said casually.

“Gee, ya think?”

“Formaggio and Illuso have also withdrawn.”

“Yeah, I heard. Something about eight legs.”

“And here I thought it was because Fugo coldcocked Formaggio.”

“He what?”

“Knocked him out cold,” Giorno explained.

“Oh. Coldcocked. Right. Sorry.”

“Do you know why?”

“No. Don’t care, either.”

“I thought perhaps you might as it concerns you.”

“Me?”

“Formaggio was bragging about how long it took you to figure out you were shrinking that time you fought. You never told us that part.”

“I told you the important parts!”

Giorno nodded. “You did.”

“Fugo and he had a good laugh over it, I’m sure.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?”

"Hmm."

“I mean…did you say Fugo coldcocked Formaggio after he said all that shit about me?”

“It would be difficult for him to say anything while unconscious.”

“Oh, right.” He raked his fingers through his hair – or tried to, at least, until they got stuck in the gel and hairspray he’d used in an attempt to emulate Fugo’s hairstyle.

Stupid. He looked so fucking stupid with his hair like this.

“You’re not stupid, Narancia.”

“Oh, I’m stupid all right. If you ever have any doubts, just ask Fugo.”

“I don’t need Fugo’s opinion. I have my own.”

Narancia gave a little huff of laughter. “Yeah, you definitely make up your mind your own way.”

“You’re an important part of the team, Narancia. We wouldn’t have succeeded without you.”

“Yeah, well, I do have a pretty bad ass Stand.”

“You’re rather bad ass yourself.” Giorno sounded like he really meant it, too.

Over the loudspeaker, someone with an exaggerated French accent was announcing the group costume contest would begin shortly.

“That’s your cue,” Narancia said. “You should get back in there.”

“I suppose I should.” Giorno didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

“Hey, Giorno.”

“Yes?”

“You ever figure out that moral dilemma?”

“You mean butting in where one’s opinion isn’t welcome?”

Narancia laughed. “I mean for the contest.”

Giorno’s wings spread out wide once again. “So do I.”

“Good luck. I hope you beat Risotto and his squad.”

“As the expression goes, if you can’t beat them, join them.”

“Beat them anyway.”

“Metallica’s guppies will be difficult to top.”

“What if Trish’s temptation has its own devils and angels?”

“Perhaps…three of each?”

Narancia grinned, and Giorno smiled back.

“As I said, Narancia, you’re pretty bad ass yourself.”

This time, Narancia absolutely believed Giorno meant it.

When Giorno left, the fireflies disappeared with him, and the grounds were plunged into darkness once again.

Not complete and total darkness; he could still see some of the lights in the manor from where he was sitting, and there was a little bit of moonlight when the clouds weren’t blocking it.

Clouds. Cloudy with a chance of rain. God, Mista’s face when Abbacchio shot him with that water gun. Narancia couldn’t help it, he started laughing all over again. Shit, that was so. Fucking. Funny. He’d have to ask Abbacchio to replay it for him again sometime.

His laughter died when he realized he wasn’t alone, and he was about to summon Aerosmith when he realized exactly who was out here with him.

“What do you want?” he asked testily.

“You.”

Of all things Fugo could have said to him, those were the last words he could have ever imagined coming out of Fugo’s mouth.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Fugo sighed. “It means I’ve been on edge all night. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

“That’s not a fucking answer. What do you mean, you want me?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Sorry, no.”

“Don’t play dumb, Narancia!” Fugo snapped, and then, “sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Yeah, I totally believe that.”

“I didn’t mean that as an insult this time. Happy now?”

“No, I’m not. So why don’t you go on home and leave my clothes in my room when you’re done. You don’t have to fucking wash them or anything. I’ll deal with them later.”

“I’d love to take off your clothes,” Fugo groaned. “That’s the problem.”

It was the way Fugo said it that made it click. Fugo was right; he really was fucking stupid.

“Did you mean it?” Fugo asked tightly. “When you said I was p…” he trailed off.

“When I said-”

Static blared over the speaker mounted in the tree above them, the same speaker that had announced the group contest would be starting soon, and then music began to play. Fugo groaned again, but this groan was pained in a different way.

“Rags, buttons, and gingham and yarn…” the voice sang. “To mend the heart that’s broke in two…”

“Is that Ghiaccio?” Narancia shouted.

Fugo nodded, which was a neat trick since his shoulders were almost up to his ears.

“He’s…holy shit…he’s actually…wait…now that he’s not screaming the lyrics anymore, he’s actually kind of good.”

Fugo nodded again. His shoulders slowly relaxed, and he stretched his arm out slowly. Narancia met him more than halfway, leaning his cheek into Fugo’s hand. Fugo sucked in his breath, and Narancia nuzzled Fugo’s palm with his nose.

“Nara,” Fugo whispered.

Narancia pressed a kiss in the center of Fugo’s palm. “You really want me?”

“Yes,” Fugo whimpered.

Narancia lifted his head and toyed with one of the straps of his tank top. God, Fugo looked good in it. “Since when?”

Fugo swallowed. “Since the first time I saw you in this.”

That had been the day Narancia had waltzed into Libeccio to slam his Passione badge on the table. He’d been so focused on Bucciarati’s reaction, he’d not even noticed Fugo’s, other than to throw a wink in his direction.

Fugo had been so fucking young then.

Fuck, so had he.

It was because Fugo was younger – not that much younger, but still younger – that Narancia had pretended not to notice when his feelings for the younger man had started to become more jumbled and confused. There were times when he’d punched Fugo to shut him up, when what he’d really wanted to do was cover that foul mouth with his own, to swallow the insults spewing from Fugo’s mouth until Fugo forgot what he was saying.

It hadn’t helped one bit when he’d seen Mista and Giorno going at it on the bench that time. It had made Narancia wonder what it would be like to make Fugo scream his name like that, writhing beneath him while Narancia kissed and licked and marked his body in every place his clothing invited him to. His chest, his belly, his hips.

As if Fugo could read his mind, he could feel Fugo’s cold fingers graze against his hips, where the biggest holes in his pants were. Fugo knew damn well Narancia wasn’t wearing anything beneath them.

Oh.

Of course. Of course, Fugo knew exactly what he was doing.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Fugo whispered.

Or not.

“Welcome to my world,” Narancia joked, and then he hissed when Fugo’s fingers slid all the way into the opening so he could grab a handful of Narancia’s ass and pull him close.

“Is that my knife in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” he tried to joke, but his voice got high pitched at the end.

“Can I kiss you?” Fugo asked.

If Fugo could use his wardrobe against him, then Narancia could do to the same. He grabbed three of the straps in the front of his tank top and yanked them down so Fugo’s lips were within kissing distance.

“No,” he said. “Because I’m going to kiss you first.”

“Young love,” Polnareff sighed. He leaned forward and propped his chin in his hands. “Amour is in the air.”

“I swear,” Trish sighed next to him. “I thought it was bad enough watching Mista and Giorno dance around each other for nearly two years, but these two were ridiculous.”

“You could have just ordered them on a mission somewhere remote.”

“Or I could’ve just waited for them to figure things out on their own,” Trish pointed out. “You know how Fugo is. That man is more stubborn than anyone I’ve ever met.”

“Polnareff’s been your consigliere how long now, and you still think that?” Kakyoin laughed.

“Hey!” Polnareff protested. “I’m not as impulsive as I used to be.”

Avdol nodded.  “I can vouch for that.”

“Keep it up, and I’m not going to miss you at all when you return to Japan,” Polnareff said.

“He’s lying,” Avdol assured Kakyoin.

“I know,” Kakyoin said with a smirk. “He’s not very good at it.”

“Hey!” Polnareff protested.

Trish observed the three men with interest. When Giorno had created new legs for Polnareff using his prosthetics, the Frenchman had been overjoyed, but it had been nothing compared to the way his face had lit up when his old friend Avdol had shown up in Italy.

Giorno had, of course, also transformed the older man’s prosthetic arms – despite how incredibly impressive they’d been to begin with – into flesh and blood limbs as well, although it had taken a bit of convincing, with Polnareff vouching for Giorno and explaining that if he held a grudge against everyone whose father had tried to kill him, he wouldn’t be working with Trish, either.

Avdol had decided to settle in Italy with Polnareff a year ago, and although he wasn’t an actual member of Passione, his help had been invaluable on more than one occasion.

Kakyoin claimed to be touring Europe as part of a long overdue vacation from the Speedwagon Foundation, and although that was probably true, Trish knew he’d wanted to see for himself the power of Giorno’s Stand.

It was strange to think that back before Trish was capable of forming lasting long-term memories, these three men had been part of a mission to hunt and kill Giorno’s biological father. It was not, however, nearly as strange to think that Polnareff had part of a second mission to hunt and kill Trish’s biological father, once again alongside a man who was the great-great-grandson of Giorno’s other father.

Three years ago, it would have sounded like the overly convoluted plot to a movie that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a drama, an action film, or a B-movie in the horror genre.

Kakyoin elbowed Polnareff in the gut, and she realized why she was so comfortable with them; she worked with men just like them.

Polnareff was Narancia, clearly. Emotional, impulsive, and loyal to a fault. Kakyoin, on the other hand, was obviously Fugo – smart, sarcastic, cynical, and not afraid to physically assault his closest friends to make a point. Did that make Avdol this group’s Mista, though?

Kakyoin made an offhand comment about magnets, and Avdol threw his head back and laughed. There was a story Trish would have to get from Polnareff later, but for now, the suggestion of an embarrassing story, along with Avdol’s easy laughter and laidback demeanor, meant he might not be exactly like Mista, but he was certainly close enough.

Of course, none of them needed to be any of Trish’s friends. Like Trish’s closest friends, these men were perfect the way they were, but it was funny to see how close they were despite their differences. She was lucky to have met them, just as she was lucky to have been introduced to Bucciarati and his team. She was exceedingly fortunate that the so-called Escort Team had managed to convince the Hitman Squad to join them in protecting Trish and in defeating her father.

Her father had definitely reaped what he’d sown.

The fact that the identity of the new boss remained a secret, despite very deliberate hints being dropped that it was actually Bucciarati, when the hints didn’t point to it being Risotto, and sometimes Giorno…all of these men, loyal to her and to each other, no matter how much they pretended they despised each other.

It was mindboggling.

Her gaze strayed to where Narancia and Fugo were still awkwardly making out, to another area of the courtyard where Giorno and Mista were doing the same, albeit less awkwardly, before returning to the three men at her side, regaling each other with tales of their adventures.

Avdol was the first to recognize that Trish was being left out of the conversation, and he gestured for her to stand between him and Polnareff.

It was mindboggling, all of it, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.