Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The ride home was quiet, at first.

Abbacchio was asleep in the backseat, snoring quietly with his head pressed against the window. He’d made it abundantly clear that he had no intention of driving them back to the new hideout— not that he really could with one functioning hand, anyway. Fugo couldn’t really blame him, though, he’d exhausted himself in the fight against Man in the Mirror. Moody Blues was a reconnaissance Stand not built for combat at such a close range. As satisfying as it was to see Leone get his ass handed to him, Fugo didn’t begrudge him the rest. Even though he’d tried to abandon Fugo back in Pompeii. 

God only knew Fugo could use some sleep too, which was exactly why Giorno insisted on driving.

“Come on, I’m fine,"  Fugo had sworn. "Anyway, you’re still healing from the, ah…”

Fugo had trailed off there, hating to talk about Purple Haze, hating talking about its terrifying abilities even more. Giorno had just eyed him cooly, plucking the keys from Fugo’s breast pocket and twirling them around on his finger as he wordlessly, gracefully, opened the driver’s side door. Fugo knew he couldn't win against him.

Looking at Giorno’s silhouette, illuminated only by the car’s console lights and the moon, he knew it now, too. 

Giorno’s green eyes were fixed on the road, both hands wrapped around the wheel. He was tapping his long, elegant fingers in rhythm with a CD he’d found in the glovebox. Fugo didn’t recognize the song, but he noticed right away that Giorno’d left the volume low. Maybe for Abbacchio’s sake, but Fugo knew from his complaints on the ride there that the music didn’t quite reach the backseat; and besides, he doubted Giorno would do anything for Abbacchio’s benefit given the tension between the two men. No, the music seemed exactly the right volume to score a conversation. For that reason, even though it was starting to itch his brain like a fly buzzing across the room, he hadn’t dared turn it up. 

But Giorno was quiet, too.

It seemed he was waiting for Fugo to say something, which Fugo supposed made sense. He’d almost gotten him killed. And then he’d almost killed him himself, with his freakish Stand’s freakish virus, and here he was in the passenger seat, its freakish user. God, Giorno must hate him. 

Streetlights had been few and far-between as they took backroads out of Pompeii, but loomed as they approached a city, staggered like drunks along the endless horizon. As each one passed, the car was bathed in warm yellow light; flashbulbs capturing Giorno’s blond hair, his high, pink cheekbones, his sloping nose. Nobody could deny that Giorno was beautiful, but even in the mundanity of a streetlight’s glow, Fugo thought that he was radiant . 

“You’re staring,” Giorno said, finally breaking the languishing silence. 

Fugo could feel the redness creeping out from under his collar and up his neck, and realized he’d been holding his breath. He looked away quickly. 

“Am I?”

“Mm,” Giorno murmured, not unkindly. 

Fugo’s face burned as he fixed his gaze out the window instead, the passing streetlights now a dizzying strobe. He said nothing, fearing making the awkward situation even worse.

“Hey,”

His furtive glance back in Giorno’s direction was met with a small, embarrassed smile. 

“I didn’t say stop. I’m kind of used to it.”

Before he could think, Fugo scoffed. “Been turning heads since birth have we, Giovanna?”

One of Giorno’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows shot up. Shit.

To his surprise, though, Giorno laughed. Fugo wasn’t sure he’d heard him laugh before, Giorno was always so serious. The sound was high and clear, and for some reason made Fugo flush a half-shade deeper. 

“Hardly. I was an ugly child, and meek from beatings that just left me uglier.”

“I would not have guessed that,” Fugo said quietly. One thing he was confident he’d heard even less than Giorno’s laugh was Giorno talking about his childhood, which was more than fair. None of the gang liked to talk about who they were before Passione, but it was usually safe to assume that well-adjusted people didn’t end up in the Mob. More than the rest of them, though, even more than Bucciarati, it was hard to picture him as anyone other than this: nineteen, confident, shimmering. Giorno Giovanna seemed to have sprung to life fully formed, Minerva-like and… radiant.

“‘Giorno Giovanna’ was not even the name I was born with,” Giorno said, as if reading his mind. “I chose it myself.”

“You chose to name yourself Giorno Giovanna?” Fugo couldn’t help the mirth that seeped into the question. 

“Yes. Is there something wrong with my name, Pannacotta Fugo?” Giorno used his full name, looking at him sharply.

“Hey! Eyes on the road… GioGio.”

Giorno’s head snapped forward, his expression unreadable but eyebrows betraying some kind of surprise. 

“What did you just call me?”

Fugo stifled a laugh. “Are you seriously trying to tell me that nobody has ever called you that? You didn’t entertain any other options? You didn’t workshop the name with any friends at all?”

Giorno’s face dropped. “Uh, no. I didn’t… exactly have many of those when I arrived in Naples.”

“Oh,” Fugo said. He hadn’t expected Giorno to be honest with him, it caught him off guard more than any jab would have. The silence began to grow again between them, like a cat arching its back before stretching out long.

“Well, neither did I,” he volunteered nervously.

“You’ve got him,” Giorno replied, jerking his chin back at the still-sleeping Abbacchio. “And the rest of them, too.”

“So do you.” Fugo countered. 

They’d long since left the city in their wake, the night once again rolling out before them like an inky curtain. A moth-eaten curtain, Fugo supposed, to account for the pinpricks of starlight and the moon that allowed him to see Giorno’s hand resting on the gearshift. Triple-checking to make sure that his gaze was still fixed on the road, Fugo apprehensively inched his own hand forward to cover Giorno’s. Losing his nerve, he shied away at the last moment and awkwardly palmed his own thigh through a hole in his trousers.

“I am… very pleased to be your friend, Giorno Giovanna,” he said instead, wincing at the stiffness of the words.

To his surprise, again, Giorno reached out his hand from the stick and laced his fingers with Fugo’s.

“You too, Pannacotta Fugo.”

A moment passed, and Giorno did not withdraw his hand. Silence, again.

“Besides, I would not really count on him,” Fugo indicated to Abbacchio, “as a friend, considering how he left me to be put down like a rabid dog back there.”

Giorno laughed once more. The sweet sound rang in Fugo’s ears like the high register notes of a piano.

“That makes two of us. Signor Abbacchio is not very fond of me either, I fear.”

Fugo snickered. “No, I suppose not. My apologies for that, er, unfortunate incident when we first met, while we’re on the subject.”

Giorno regarded him conspiratorially. “Pannacotta, if I tell you a secret will you swear on your life to never tell another soul? I mean it— I’ll kill you if I find out you’ve spread this. No mercy.”

Fugo rolled his eyes and suppressed a grimace. “Don’t call me Pannacotta. Call me Fugo. Or Panna, if you really must use that name. And yes, I can keep a secret. Do you really think Bucciarati would have kept me around for this long if I couldn’t?”

“I didn’t actually drink Leone’s piss.”

“What? How?” Fugo was incredulous. “I saw you drink it. I saw it going into your mouth, and the teacup was empty! And you couldn’t have switched out the teapots! You definitely didn’t spit it out either, or I would have seen that too.”

“Yes, you do have a tendency to stare at me, I've noticed.” Giorno smirked

“Shut up, Giorno. You drank piss. You’re a consumer of urine. You imbibed Abbacchio’s cock water.”

Giorno laughed at that raucously. “First of all, gross. Secondly, I’ll show you exactly how I did not drink piss. Here—” 

Giorno tilted his head back and seemingly ran his tongue over his teeth under his lip. Fugo could hear the shimmering sound that accompanied one of Gold Experience’s transformations, and Giorno turned back to him grinning widely.

“AUGH!” Fugo yelped. Giorno’s front teeth had been replaced with… jellyfish?!

Suddenly, there was a loud thud from the backseat followed by an even louder roar of pain, confusion, and anger. Abbacchio was awake, and had seemingly hit his head on the roof of the car. 

“Oh good, you’re up. Just in time, too,” Giorno said, calmly withdrawing his hand from Fugo’s to shift the car into park. His teeth had returned to normal, as had his demeanor— cooly sliding back into his professional façade as he looked at Abbacchio’s scowling face in the rear view mirror.

They were back already? How long had Giorno been holding his hand? Had he really let Fugo, even just for a few moments, see under the mask?

“Fuck you, Giovanna. And fuck you too, Pannacotta, what the fuck are you screaming at, you mammalucco?” Abbacchio was unbearable at the best of times, but at his worst and crudest upon rude awakening.

“Do NOT call me Pannacotta, stronzo. We’re home anyway, so levati dai coglioni and go the fuck to bed, porca troia!” Fugo responded in kind.

Abbacchio swung his door open grumbling and climbed out. He loped up the driveway, turning back to gesture rudely at the car before disappearing inside. Fugo watched him go, waiting until he was gone to unbuckle his seatbelt and reach for his own car door. He knew if he chased after Leone the ensuing battle would wake up the whole house, and he didn’t want to do that to Bucciarati tonight. Not that Abbacchio didn’t deserve it.

“Hey, Panna?”

Fugo turned back and realized that Giorno was still there, smiling at him. 

Cautiously, he smiled back. “Yeah?”

“Call me GioGio.”

Chapter Text

“So how about it? Will you share one last drink with me, or have we pickled ourselves enough for one night?”

Giorno’s eyes sparkled deviously as he grinned at Fugo through wine-stained teeth. Their glasses stood half-full on the table, the kitchen a graveyard of empty bottles after the gang’s impromptu piccolo festa. It was rare that they got a night off, and especially on a mission as stressful as this one. Everyone had jumped on the opportunity to cut loose, even Bucciarati after Narancia had promised to stay sober enough to keep watch with Aerosmith outside, and Trish had promised to stay sober enough to hold them to it. The gang drank hard and fast, and as a result, had already stumbled off to bed. That left Fugo and Giorno alone in the kitchen, crowded on one side of the dining table of their new safehouse, tipsy and flushed. 

Fugo swallowed thickly, the haze of the wine starting to dance around the corners of his vision and giving his surroundings an almost satiny quality in the dim light. “Gladly,” he said, “but I don’t think those bastards left us much to use for our last call.” 

Giorno tapped his chin thoughtfully, sipping away the last of his glass. Fugo followed suit as Giorno stood up carefully, just barely leaning on the table as he did. 

“I have an idea,” he said slyly, crossing the room and kneeling in front of the sink. From the cabinet beneath, he withdrew a full wine bottle. An expensive-looking one. 

“From Leone’s stash.” Giorno passed Fugo the bottle before sitting down again. Somehow, between getting up and coming back, Giorno’s chair had scooted closer to his and was now so close Fugo could smell his cologne– herbal, gingery, sweet and intoxicating. He tried not to sniff too obviously. 

“Don’t ask me how I know about it. Just understand that I never take personal infractions lightly.” Giorno’s tone was serious, but his mouth quirked up in a smile as he said it.

Fugo inspected the bottle suspiciously. 

“What?” Fugo had to have misheard, but he could have sworn that Giorno actually giggled . “I haven’t done anything to that bottle, and besides, you’ve done nothing to provoke my ire.”

“And God willing, I never do.” Fugo deadpanned, examining the label. “Blackberry wine, wow. I took Abbacchio for a drunk, but not a lush.”

He popped the cork and poured heavy into their cups.

“To Signor Abbacchio,” Giorno announced, raising his in a toast. “May you drink my piss even though I did not drink yours.”

“I am still not sure I believe you, but I’ll drink to that.”

“Cin cin, Panna.”

The wine was sweet and rich on his tongue. As loath as Fugo was to give him credit for anything, Leone had decent taste for the most part. Though Fugo would never approve of his taste in men. His eyes started to narrow as he thought of the way Abbacchio shamelessly flirted with Bucciarati as if they were the only ones in the room, being far too familiar with his capo for Fugo’s liking. It had been the way the two had so casually left together that night— Bucciarati drunk, loose, and leaning heavily on the taller man, Abbacchio’s arms wrapped around his waist like it was the most natural thing in the world— that had prompted Giorno to propose one last drink in the first place, seeming to sense the discomfort in Fugo.

He let the thoughts fall away now as he gazed at Giorno. His blond braid was slackening, as were his curled bangs, letting golden tendrils fall across his face. His cheeks were dusted in fuchsia, and his features were more tender than Fugo was sure he had ever seen before. Most likely from the excess of wine, but Fugo allowed a sliver of himself to believe that the softness in Giorno’s brow, the ease of his smile, were a result of his company. Only a sliver, though, Fugo prided himself on being too smart to crave what he could not have. Most of the time.

“You’re staring, again.” Giorno had made a game of pointing out whenever Fugo let his burgundy eyes linger too long, ever since that first time in the car. 

“So’re you,” Fugo replied, not bothering to look away through his jagged white bangs. It was true, all night Fugo’d felt Giorno’s eyes on him, the back of his neck hot under the scrutiny. 

“So I am,” Giorno broke eye contact first, taking a sip of his wine.

“The others are such lightweights,” Fugo said quickly, hustling the conversation along so as not to dwell on his boldness. “Calling themselves gangsters with such poor performances, absolutely shameful.”

“Yes, I must say I did not expect that from Mista,” Giorno laughed.

Narancia, one bottle deep themselves, had dared a drunk Mista and each of the Sex Pistols to take a shot of Sambuca at the same time; Trish upping the ante by offering to massage Mista’s gun arm if he managed double shots. Everyone could hear him retching in the bathroom afterward. An amused but stern Bucciarati had ordered Narancia and Trish to deal with the consequences of their stupid dare, and he and Abbacchio left not long after. 

“And Narancia… my god.” Giorno continued. “They should know better than to chug from the bottle like that!”

“Hey, go easy on them. They were a street rat, it’s not like they grew up drinking out of crystal goblets.”  Fugo laughed at the mental image.

“Wait, you are telling me to go easy on Narancia? ” Giorno giggled again, this time Fugo was sure of it. “I didn’t know that, though.”

“Their manners are bad enough that it’s not hard to guess,” Fugo snorted. “I brought them in, way back when. Their eye was so messed up that we weren’t sure they’d be able to keep it. Bucciarati told them to scram and go back to school once they were healed, we were both so mad when they turned back up with a Stand. That little shit. I’m glad to have them around, though.”

Giorno was looking at him with barely concealed surprise, and Fugo realised that the liquor had made him uncharacteristically loose-lipped. Not that it wasn’t true, though, Narancia was a little shit, and Fugo loved them fiercely like a blood sibling. 

“I didn’t know that either, Panna,” Giorno said lightly. “I didn’t quite take you for the nurturing type.”

Fugo could feel the blush climbing back up his neck as he took another swig of wine. “I just brought them in and fed them spaghetti, what do you want from me? Besides, there’s lots you don’t know about me.”

Giorno sipped pensively, gazing off somewhere.

“Anata no koto ga shiritai, ” he sighed, almost wistfully.

“What?”

Giorno glanced back at him and tilted his head, clearly at least tipsy if not more. “What?”

“I don’t… speak Japanese.” Fugo had actually been meaning to teach himself the language but hadn’t gotten around to it yet. He rather enjoyed being a polyglot, and studying language was a good way to take his mind off other things. Plus, it had gotten him some awesome scores off of tourists too distracted by his English, French, German, Spanish prowess to notice him rooting through their pockets. “You speak Japanese?”

“I am Japanese. It’s my first language.” Giorno chuckled, the sound ringing sweetly in Fugo’s ears. “I guess it comes out once a bottle’s worth of wine has gone in.”

“I didn’t know that,” Fugo said dumbly. How had he not known that?

“And what I said means ‘I want to know you,’ so I guess we both have some curiosity to sate.” Giorno tipped an eyebrow up as he refilled their glasses. “What’s something I don’t know about you, Pannacotta Fugo?”

“You first,” Fugo hid his nervousness with another gulp of wine. 

“No.” Giorno smiled warmly. Fugo knew this was a losing battle, and racked his brain for something interesting. 

“Um, my birthday is this month. I’m an Aries.”

“Nice try, but I already knew that.”

“How?”

“Mista told me. Drink!”

Fugo scoffed. “When did Mista tell you that? And when did this become a drinking game?”

“When I asked him, and when I decided it was.” Giorno shrugged. “Drink. ”

Fugo smiled into his cup as he acceded. Was he really playing a drinking game with Giorno Giovanna? He decided that questioning the moment would only make it pass faster, so instead, he savoured the taste of blackberry on his tongue, the warmth in his belly, the feeling of having Giorno so close. 

“Okay, your turn, GioGio.” Fugo raised his white brows at him expectantly.

“Well, you didn’t actually tell me something I didn’t know already, so I think it’s still your turn, Panna.” Giorno said smugly, though not without humour. 

“Alright, alright,” Fugo acquiesced. “My favourite food is strawberries.”

Giorno rolled his eyes at him. “Nope, too obvious.”

“Is it? How so?” Fugo couldn’t remember ever eating strawberries around Giorno, or even talking about them. Mista again?

Fugo’s heart leapt into his throat as Giorno reached out towards his face, emerald eyes locked on garnet ones. He flicked the earrings dangling from Fugo’s ears, earrings shaped like silver strawberries. Damn.

Without breaking eye contact, Giorno withdrew his hand, brushing against Fugo’s jaw as he dropped it to his chest. His breath caught as Giorno traced one elegant finger down the length of his tie, also patterned with strawberries. 

“Panna, please,” he said playfully, his fingertips lingering on Fugo’s sternum before darting back to the stem of his wine glass. “Do you take me for being unobservant?”

Fugo shook his head. “No,” he exhaled, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice. “I just… never thought you’d find anything worth observing about me.”

Giorno smiled faintly. “That’s where we disagree. But you still owe me a fact I didn’t know, so drink.”

It was Fugo’s turn to roll his eyes at Giorno, but he obliged anyway. “You are relentless, you know that? Okay, I used to play piano as a child. Did you know that one, smartass?”

There was no venom behind the barb. To his surprise, Fugo didn’t mind being teased by Giorno all that much. If one of his siblings needled him like this, they’d probably have found themself soaked and sputtering from Fugo emptying his glass over their head ages ago. 

Giorno lit up with this newest revelation. “I didn’t! Panna, that’s wonderful! You must play for me sometime.”

Fugo felt himself blushing again at Giorno’s excitement and turned away to hide it. “Sure, the next time we find a safehouse with a piano, I’ll play you my whole repertoire.” 

“I’m serious,” Giorno said, sounding slightly hurt at Fugo’s flippant response.

Fugo looked back at him quickly, smiling as reassuringly as he could muster. “So am I,” he said, delighting in how Giorno perked back up.  “And I believe it’s your turn at last, GioGio.”

“So it is. My birthday is also this month, and I am also an Aries.”

“Nope!” Fugo crowed. “I knew that one! I’m six days older than you, Mista told me.”

Giorno snorted. “Good to know that Mista’s extremely liberal with personal information. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Keep it in mind as you drink, GioGio. And try again.”

Giorno drank deeply. When he set his glass down, his eyes rolled up to look at the low ceiling. “I suppose I could tell you my birth name, I bet you’re curious about it since I mentioned it that time…” he trailed off and swallowed hard. “It’s—”

“You don’t have to,”  Fugo interrupted quietly. “You told me your name is Giorno Giovanna, and that name suits me just fine. GioGio suits me even better.”

He hadn’t intended to say the last part aloud, but it slipped out of his mouth unbidden anyway. It was worth it, though, for the dazzling smile Giorno gave him. “GioGio does suit you better.”

Tipsy— or drunk— as he was, Fugo felt as though the world had narrowed to just Giorno deep in thought, his brow furrowed, lips twisted, eyes squinting in concentration. Fugo thought he was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. He felt his heart thrumming, hummingbird-fast, in his chest that still sparked with Giorno’s unexpected touch. He found he was greedy for more.

Perhaps it was right in that moment that Fugo finally admitted to himself that he could never win against Giorno, not truly, or against the feelings he had for him. 

“How about this,” Giorno said, pulling him back to the present. “I’m not a natural blond.”

Fugo tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at the gold halo of hair framing Giorno’s face. “What? No way. That’s too… that’s too pretty to be dye.” He barely realised what he was saying, letting the compliment hang in the air.

“It’s not dyed either, I just kind of woke up with it one day. My hair was black up until about a month ago.”

Fugo scoffed at him. “That’s even less believable than you turning your teeth into jellyfish to avoid drinking urine.”

“It’s true!” Giorno insisted, reaching for the bottle again and draining it into their cups. “Your turn.”

“I don’t know, I’m not very good at this.” Fugo sighed. “Why don’t you just ask me something you want to know?”

Giorno tapped his fingers rhythmically along the table’s edge. “Okay… Why don’t you approve of Bucciarati and Abbacchio? Is it because they’re both men?”

Now that was a question Fugo wasn’t expecting, and it caught him completely off guard. “What? N-no, that’s not— I’m gay, of course that’s not—” he sputtered, wincing internally at what he’d just accidentally revealed, and at how Giorno’s eyebrows shot up when he said it.  

“It’s… not that,” he tried again. “It’s just that Abbacchio, sbirro scum that he is, doesn’t deserve him. He’s his capo, he basically raised me, he’s practically my fa—”

This time, Fugo caught himself before he could spill more of his guts all over the table. Of all the things he did not want to get into, his extremely complicated, quasi-filial feelings towards Bucciarati topped the list. “Besides,” he said, surging ahead again to keep himself from dwelling on his confessions, “I swear that every time I forget that Abbacchio is a stupid fucking cop, he acts like an utter buffoon when Bucciarati does something romantic. He's just as dumb as the rest of them. It’s embarrassing. ”

Giorno burst out laughing, any tension between them popping like a soap bubble as he leaned forward and put a gentle hand on Fugo’s arm. “You’re funny, Panna. I didn’t know that about you. And it’s my turn, so ask me anything.”

Fugo reddened as Giorno did not pull away, and found his nervous lips curling into a smile of their own accord. He looked at him, rosy and coming undone at the edges, his hair curling in every direction after escaping its plait, his flush revealing a light spray of freckles, his lips plush and stained almost violet with wine. He was so, so exquisite he almost hurt to look at.

“Ti aspetto, Panna,” he sighed, arching one eyebrow. One blond eyebrow.

“Here’s my question,” Fugo blurted without thinking, “Why’d you lie about your hair? Your eyebrows are blond.” 

He pushed his face closer to Giorno’s to get a better look, confirm his suspicions. “And your eyelashes, too. You can’t dye those.”

“I told you, it just happened one day,” Giorno murmured, his words tickling Fugo’s cheeks from their proximity. Fugo didn’t retreat, though, he was too distracted, too captivated by holding Giorno’s gaze closer than he ever had before.

“Your eyes aren’t green at all,” he breathed the observation aloud. “They’re much more than that… they’re blue too, like aquamarine. So beautiful…”

Fugo trailed off, caught up in Giorno’s eyes, so like the Tyrrhenian sea that surrounded his home. He felt like he could drown in them if he wasn’t careful. 

He was so close he could feel how shallowly Giorno was breathing, taste the wine on his exhales. As if for the first time, Fugo noticed how close their faces were, only centimetres apart. God, Fugo was an idiot. He’d just blabbed about his… inclinations unprompted and was now invading Giorno’s space talking about how pretty his hair was, how beautiful his eyes were. Of course he was uncomfortable. He had to be.

All of a sudden, the alcoholic fuzz, the closeness, the dim lighting was all too much. Fugo jerked away, he stood too quickly, dizzying himself and nearly knocking over several chairs in the process. Giorno looked up at him, brow knit in concern. 

“Panna, are you—”

“I— I’m sorry.”

Pannacotta Fugo turned and ran, like the coward he knew he was. 

✹✹✹

Giorno heard Fugo thundering up the stairs, watched his silhouette disappear behind his bedroom door, and sighed deeply.

So close, he thought as he picked up his wine glass, empty, and Fugo’s with one sip left. Giorno brought it to his lips, carefully drinking from the same spot Fugo had. An indirect kiss would be enough for tonight. It had to be. 

Giorno opened the window to the night, letting in a gust of cool air as he collected the empty bottles from around the kitchen, making sure to snag the one they’d pilfered lest Abbacchio find evidence of the crime. Giorno wasn’t sure what he would do if he found any, but he suspected it would be very pleasant for neither himself nor Fugo. Still, risks aside, it had been worth it. 

Had he not been open enough in his flirtation? He hadn’t been expecting that confession from Fugo. It was nice to have his suspicions confirmed, but was it possible that Giorno had misread him? Did he not like him the way Giorno did?

Sighing again, Giorno turned the bottles into fireflies and watched their little lights float away into the velvet blackness. 

“Ti aspetto, Panna.” he whispered.

I’m waiting for you. 

Chapter Text

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with you, or are you going to make me guess why you’re acting weird? ‘Cause I’m a good guesser, Fugo.”

Fugo leaned back against the wall of the living room, crossing his arms at Mista’s interrogation. “Acting weird, how? You’re the one who should have the wicked hangover.”

Mista scratched the scruff on his chin and pushed his shoulder into the wall, jet eyes fixed on Fugo. “Oh yeah? Well, you’re the one who woke up the whole house last night slammin’ your door, you inconsiderate ass.”

“Shut up, Mista. I’m not acting weird.” Truth be told, Fugo had a bit of a hangover himself, but that wasn’t the main cause of his shaking fingers, the knot at the bottom of his stomach. He kept looking over his shoulder, wringing his hands in indecision. Should he talk to Giorno? Apologise? Or just keep running? Every moment he did not catch sight of his sunshine hair was one more moment to put off choosing. 

“You keep peering around the corner like you’re scared something’s gonna jump out at you. Why are you so scared of Giorno?”

Fugo’s eyes narrowed. “Who said I was afraid of Giorno?”

“Well, Narancia and I are here; Bucciarati and Trish are on the porch and we would hear them coming back in; you’d rather die than act this jumpy around Abbacchio; and as far as I know there aren’t any ghosts in this house,” Mista shrugged, counting off the gang members (and potential ghost) on his fingers. “That just leaves Giorno. Did something happen between you two? Last night?”

Saying nothing, Fugo dug the toe of his shoe into the carpet as he stared at a cobweb dangling from the ceiling. Nothing had happened, not really, but somehow, when Fugo woke up he felt some profound difference. He wasn’t sure what it was, and not knowing made him want to jump out of his skin. Why did he feel like he might have just irreparably altered his and Giorno’s friendship? Maybe even ruined it? But more pressingly, how could he get Mista to drop this?

“You don’t even remember half of last night. What do you mean, did something happen?” Fuck . Wrong choice, Mista was going to take that as an invitation to keep up his amateur detective work. 

“So something did happen. You’d deny it right away if not. Let’s see…”

Feeling his hands curling up into fists, Fugo stalked away silently and threw himself down on the couch. “Mista…” he warned. 

“If you’d gotten into a fight, you’d have told me to mind my own business and threatened to sic Haze on me, but you wouldn’t deny it. Which means…”

“I will sic Haze on you if you don’t let this go right now. I’m not in the mood.”

Mista plopped down onto the couch right next to Fugo and wrapped his arm around his shoulders tightly. “Oh, you’re never in the mood, Fugo. But I am. It’s not like you to dodge questions, so now I’m really intrigued. Whatever happened, you must have been really rattled.”

Oh God, Fugo thought, shrugging Mista off before he got his stink all over him. Mista finding out about his aborted attempt to drunkenly kiss Giorno— was that what happened? That’s what Fugo had wanted, he realised, the revelation making his palms start to sweat— might actually kill him. It was certainly more dangerous than any assassin after them and the Boss’s daughter. 

“Mista, keep this up and I’ll start thinking that you were the cop bastard instead of Abbacchio. Drop it. ”

“Fuck off,” Mista said cheerfully before snapping his fingers, face lit up with pride. “I’ve got it! Fugo, why didn’t you tell me you liked Giorno? I’ve got all the best moves, I’ll totally help you out so good, bro.”

Grinding his teeth, Fugo glared at him. “You know, I don’t think it’s very fair to hit someone so breathtakingly idiotic but for you, Guido Mista, I’ll make an exception.”

Mista ruffled his hair condescendingly, making Fugo’s eye twitch. “Come now, Fugo, that’s not very nice. Respect your elders, especially the ones who are gonna teach you mad game.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not very nice.” Fugo glowered.

“Don’t I know it, fratellino mio.”

Fugo sighed and crossed his arms tightly over his chest. “Okay, fine. I think I might like Giorno, but I don't know. Just please don’t tell anyone until I figure it out myself. And cut it out with the ‘little brother’ shit, we’re twenty, not kids anymore.”

Mista laughed. “No, little brother, you are twenty. I am twenty-two, and Narancia is twenty-one, and as your older siblings, that gives us the right to torment you.”

The wicked look in Mista’s eye shot a pang of dread straight to Fugo’s heart. Goddamnit.

“Oi! Narancia!” Mista called across the room to where Narancia was, inexplicably, perched atop a large dresser, tinkering with an old radio they’d found in some dusty corner.

“What?” they shouted, not removing their headphones.

“Fugo’s got a crush on Giorno!” 

Fugo could feel his blood pressure spiking. “I am going to kill you. I mean it this time,” he breathed, as calmly as he could. 

“What?” Narancia yelled back louder, gesturing to their still-covered ears.

“Take those off, you stupid delinquent! I said that Fugo,” Mista shouted, gesticulating wildly in Fugo’s direction, “has a crush,”— the Sex Pistols were now forming a heart in midair, like some kind of humiliating circus act— “on Giorno!” He finished grandly, twirling his fingers in front of his forehead to indicate Giorno’s signature 3 curls.

“Oh! ” Narancia gave two enthusiastic thumbs up before turning back to their stereo. 

“So you’ve chosen death, Guido Mista.” Fugo snarled, knocking Mista off the couch and rolling him onto the floor, attempting to get his hands around the larger man’s neck. 

Infuriatingly, Mista only laughed, the Pistols dancing around the room shrieking “Fugo has a crush on Giorno! Fugo loves Giorno! Fugo loves Giorno!” Number Five was crying as it chased after the rest.

“Oh, good.” Abbacchio’s impassive voice lolled into the room before the man himself, drinking coffee out of a china cup. “The two of you can pack up your shit and run off together into the sunset, and Bruno won’t even get mad at me for kicking him to the curb.” 

He took a moment to survey the scene, before turning disinterestedly away from where Fugo’d pinned Mista down and was in the process of throttling him. He took another sip of coffee. “Narancia, get off the cabinet.”

Narancia looked up only to stick their tongue out at Abbacchio, who responded with a much ruder gesture.

Adrenaline and embarrassment were coursing through Fugo’s brain, so much so that he didn’t even notice at first that Abbacchio had called the capo, Bruno.

“Hey! That’s Signor Bucciarati to you, stronzo!”

Mista took advantage of Fugo’s temporary distraction to flip their positions, digging a knee into Fugo’s chest. He looked down at him with a look that was equal parts amusement and a sharp warning. I deserved that, that look said, but don’t push it. 

“Yeah, why are you the only one who gets to call him Bruno?” Mista clambered to his feet and adjusted his stupid hood. Fugo followed him, shooting a death glare to both of them that went unnoticed.

“Hey Bucciarati,” Mista called to the capo, who’d just walked in typing on the laptop. “Can I call you Bruno?”

“No,” Bucciarati said without looking up, settling on one end of the couch. 

“Can I call you Bruno?” Narancia yelled, having finally taken off their headphones.

“Stop it!” Fugo fumed, unable to keep himself from stomping his foot on the carpet like a child.

Bucciarati glanced over at Narancia. “Sure, if you get down from there.”

Narancia beamed. “Okay, Bruno!” 

They dive-bombed off the cabinet and onto the opposite end of the couch, almost knocking over both in the process. 

“No fair!” Mista hollered. “I want to call you Bruno!”

“You can’t call me Bruno, Mista,” Bucciarati said, “but the Pistols can.”

Narancia started cracking up at Mista’s stricken expression, as the Pistols whizzed around the room shrieking “Bruno, Bruno! Bruno!”

Fugo could feel himself reaching his limit, his fists clenching and face burning. “All of you, shut up! Just shut the hell up!”

“Oh Bruno, by the way,” Abbacchio said, leaning against the wall and sipping his coffee with a smirk, “did you hear that Pannacotta has a little crush on Giorno?”

“Is that so,” Bucciarati said evenly, eyes fixed on the screen but a smile’s ghost on his lips.

“Don’t call me— Don’t you dare— Shut your troia mouth, you polizia scum!” Fugo was so angry he couldn’t see straight as he shouted over the din. He couldn’t stand the noise for a second longer, not Bucciarati’s typing, not the Pistols’ chattering, not his quasi-adoptive siblings’ laughter. He stormed out of the room—

—only to collide, head-on, with Giorno.

“Panna, good morning, or I guess good afternoon now.” Giorno said, smiling goodnaturedly despite the previous night, and the awkward position they now found themselves in. Fugo, being the slighter of the two despite also being taller, had stumbled with the impact; Giorno’s arms coming up reflexively to keep him from falling, effectively holding Fugo to his chest. 

Fugo blinked at him, feeling his face turning pomegranate-red underneath his white bangs. He shook Giorno off roughly— too roughly— and dashed up the stairs, slamming his door to Giorno’s questioning gaze once again. 

Once safely behind his bedroom door, Fugo shoved his face into a pillow and let out a long, frustrated scream. Why couldn’t Mista have just minded his own business? He should have known better than to have admitted anything to him, he was probably telling Giorno all about Fugo’s feelings right now. Fugo hated the twisting feeling in his gut, the idea that he might have forever messed up his first friendship in years pounding in his skull and making him feel sick. Behind it all, caught somewhere in the back of his throat, was a tiny spark of hope that Giorno might feel the same way. But it was likelier that he’d hate him once he found out, of course he would, he was Giorno Giovanna. Fugo was a wreck, a horror who killed everything he touched, an atom bomb with a hair trigger who would never, ever, be loved by someone like that. There was no chance.

Feeling himself begin to tear up, Fugo wiped his face furiously on the pillow before whipping it across the room. It hit the wall with such force that a frame hanging on it wobbled, sliding off its peg and crashing to the floor with the tinkling sound of shattered glass. 

“Fuck!” Fugo cursed, hauling himself off the bed to examine the mess. Catching sight of himself in the jagged reflection, his face hot, eyes red and wild, teeth bared in a feral snarl, he suddenly felt overwhelmingly claustrophobic in the tiny bedroom. He needed air, and fast. 

 He dashed out of the room and down the stairs, coming face to face with Bucciarati on the landing.

“Ehi Fugo, are you—” 

Fugo pushed past him without a word, without even looking the capo in the eye. Ordinarily he would have reamed anyone out for such rudeness, but right now he burst out the front door and into the yard without a look back. His vision was clouded over with tears, but he ran as fast as he could across the vineyard they were hiding out in and skidded down a steep hill that led to a small field ringed by trees. 

Fugo stopped then, chest heaving and brain on fire. He didn’t have to turn around to know Purple Haze was behind him, he could feel the Stand’s hot breath on the back of his neck, hear it wheezing grotesquely through its stitched mouth. Fugo tried to call it back, but Haze refused, stumbling around the clearing and eyeing him balefully. 

“Get back here!” Fugo demanded angrily. Haze only hissed at him in response, continuing to circle the area as if stalking prey. 

“ Argh! You useless, good-for-nothing, infuriating monster! ” Fugo raged. 

Purple Haze paused, right in the centre of the field. It screamed, bringing down both fists against the ground in response to Fugo’s fury. "UBASHAAAA!!!"

The virus came spilling out of its knuckles in a grave violet mist, sending Fugo scrambling backward to get out of his own power’s range. 

“Goddamnit!” he shouted at it, watching death seep into the ground below, the grass wilting and blackening as quickly as an ink stain on a dress shirt. It wasn’t long before the early afternoon sun killed the infection, but the damage had already been done: in that circle of soil, Fugo knew every living thing had been killed. 

Fugo sank to the ground as Haze finally disappeared. He’d done it again, let his fear, his anger get the best of him, destroyed something beautiful. That seemed to be all he was capable of. Tears welled up in his eyes again, and this time Fugo let them fall. 

“Panna? Are you out here?”

Giorno’s voice rang like a bell across the field. Fugo hugged his knees to his chest, knowing Giorno couldn’t see him at the base of the hill. Shit .

He swiped at his cheeks, staring at the dead patch. Nothing would ever grow there again, and it was all Fugo’s fault.

“Yeah, GioGio. Over here.”

Fuck it. Maybe it was best for Giorno to see him as he truly was. 

“Hi,” Giorno said, dropping down to sit next to him breathlessly. Had he really chased after him?

“Are you okay? Bruno said—”

“Don’t call him Bruno!” Fugo snapped, unable to tamp down the outburst before it exploded out of him. Giorno hadn’t even been there for that argument, why couldn’t Fugo just keep control of himself for one fucking second?

“Bucciarati said he saw you go outside, and that you seemed really upset. And you ran away from me, earlier. Are you okay?” Giorno corrected himself without missing a beat, with no skepticism or judgement. Fugo was a little dumbstruck, he could not remember the last time someone had simply… listened to him. Narancia asked stupid questions, Mista was prone to backtalk. Abbacchio would often do the opposite of what Fugo asked just to spite him, and he would never dream of ordering Bucciarati around. Giorno just listened.

“I… I’m sorry, GioGio. I guess I’m not very… good at being friends.”

Giorno did not reply, just kept looking at him attentively with those arresting sea-green eyes. Fugo stared forward, fearing that looking back at him would instantly kill any shreds of dignity and nerve that he was clinging to.

“I know I’ve got all them, but it’s just… different with you. They’re my family, and with family you don’t need to try as hard, you know?”

“Honestly, I don’t. I’ve never had a real family.” Giorno’s voice was smooth, betraying no emotions other than simple interest. “Do you feel you need to try very hard with me?”

Fugo could feel the tips of his ears beginning to turn a shade of burgundy comparable to the wine they’d stolen the night before. God, why did his body have to betray him like this? Broadcast his emotions before he got the chance to rationalise them, think them through? 

When he opened his mouth to speak, a scoff escaped unbidden. “Of course I do. You’re you. You’re driven and intelligent and beautiful, sometimes I can hardly believe you’re real. And of course I want you to think I’m funny, and smart, and worthy of your time. Of course I’m always trying to impress you. How couldn’t I be?”

Fugo shoved his hands under his thighs to resist the urge to clap them over his mouth. Anything to keep from embarrassing himself further.

“You know I already think those things of you, though, right?”
Guarded, Fugo finally turned to look at Giorno. He figured there was a fifty/fifty chance that he was making fun of him, but Giorno’s features were soft with sincerity.

“You do?”

Giorno laughed. “Panna. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever met. I’ve told you that you’re funny. You’re beautiful, and fierce, and you’re caring even if you hate to show it. What is there to not be impressed by?”

It took Fugo a moment to process Giorno’s reply. He really thought he was beautiful? Did he mean it, or was he just pitying him?

“That,” Fugo said morosely, pointing to the dead spot on the field, dark like a black hole in the clearing’s centre. “That’s what there is to not be impressed by. I kill everything I touch.”

Giorno rose to his feet and strode over to the patch, running his hand over the wiry dead grass. 

“Purple Haze did this?” he asked, seemingly deep in thought. 

“Yeah. It wrecked… I wrecked it.”

“The virus eats other viruses, and it kills parasites as well, yes?”

Fugo scratched the back of his neck. “Anything that’s alive. That’s what makes it so dangerous.”

Giorno bounded back over to him, eyes sparkling. “Panna, this is perfect! You sterilised the soil!”

Fugo scowled. “Everything’s dead. Nothing will grow there now, and it’s my fault.”

He turned his head so Giorno would not see how upset he truly was, but felt his fingers brush against his cheek. 

“No, Panna, death is a part of life. This soil is weak, that’s why the vineyard didn’t plant grapes down here, and why the grass is yellowing. When Haze hit it, the virus killed the other diseases and weeds and then died out, leaving only the healthy soil.” Giorno lightly pulled Fugo’s face back towards him, and a small smile broke over Fugo’s lips at the touch and the revelation in his words.

“So it’s actually… a perfect environment for new growth,” Fugo breathed.

Beaming, Giorno grabbed a stone from within arm’s reach and called out Gold Experience. Within seconds, he was holding a delicate sprout, red-stalked and leaves splayed like fans over his elegant fingers. Its hair-thin white roots curled in his cupped hands, nestling into the etched-in lines of his palms. The sight was so lovely, Fugo wondered momentarily if he should look into palmistry, if only to glean the barest more insight into this ethereal man before him. 

“Will you plant it with me?”

Giorno’s voice called Fugo from his reverie. He felt his blush returning as he wrapped his hands around Giorno’s, and the fragile little life they now held together. Giorno smiled at him, and carefully transferred the plant to Fugo. They walked to the dry patch, and Giorno dug a hole in the centre with his fingers. Standing up, he brushed them off on his trousers, leaving dirty streaks on the pink fabric. 

“What?” he laughed, catching Fugo’s stare. “It’s only dirt. We should only need one sprout, what we’re planting will spread.”

Fugo crept forward across the dead grass and gently laid the seedling in the earth. Covering the roots with soil, he looked up at Giorno, who nodded. Once Fugo returned to his side, Giorno knelt and buried his fingers in the dirt again. 

The earth shimmered, green spreading from the centre of the dark blotch in a swirl of life. The tender stalks sprouted leaves, then flowers, blossoming in white and yellow, stems twisting with each other and fruiting. Before long, Fugo and Giorno stood in front of a veritable thicket, leaves reaching skywards and vines heavy with ripe strawberries.

“Oh, GioGio…” Fugo was at a loss for words.

“I hope you like it,” Giorno said, and Fugo couldn’t be sure, but thought he detected a hint of nervousness.

“I love it. I… Thank you.” he smiled at Giorno, a real smile, and Giorno grinned back at him.

“We did it together.”

They sat together for a long time, eating strawberries, talking and laughing. Fugo could not remember the last time he felt so light, so carefree. 

The sun hung low in the sky, splashing vibrant pinks, oranges, and yellows across its vast canvas. They watched in silence, laying side by side, propped up on their elbows. Fugo couldn’t help but sneak glances at Giorno, at the light dancing across his face, the skyscape’s colours reflected perfectly in his eyes like stained glass in miniature.

“You know, GioGio, perhaps there’s hope for me with this whole ‘friend’ thing, after all.” Fugo said once the sun was brushing the treetops, casting them in a golden glow.

Giorno rolled onto his side to look at him, and Fugo did the same.

“Actually, I’d really… I would like to join your family, Panna. If you’ll have me.”

Fugo felt something seize inside of him. Was that what he wanted? For Giorno to see him the way he himself saw Narancia, Mista, even Abbacchio? To be family? 

“What if I don’t—” he began, cutting himself off when Giorno’s face began to fall. Fugo shook his head as if trying to erase his words from existence. “No, no. What I mean is… what if I want something… different?”

Willing himself to be brave, he reached out to touch Giorno’s hand where it lay between them, his ivory fingers barely grazing Giorno’s tanned ones. Catching him, twining them together, Giorno smiled and pulled him in close, his breath tickling Fugo’s cheeks once again. 

“Oh, Panna,” he sighed. “There’s more than one way to be family.”

And then, they were finally, finally kissing.

At first Giorno’s plush, pink lips only brushed Fugo’s, as if asking for permission, daring him to take it further. Frozen in shock and breathless with want, it was only the stirring feeling inside of him that allowed Fugo to slowly start to deepen the kiss. For the second time, Fugo was struck by how Giorno listened to him, his body, the way he moved against him in perfect harmony with Fugo’s own movement. Giorno’s fingers were tangled in Fugo’s stark white hair, locking him into the dizzyingly close embrace. It was all too much, and not enough. The feeling was unlike anything Fugo had ever experienced— soft, slow, sweet, and utterly intoxicating. Fugo felt drunk again, and giddy, like the ground had been pulled out from underneath them as Giorno traced lazy circles on his bare skin through the holes in his suit. Finally, they broke apart only to breathe, but seeing Giorno’s flushed face, his oceanic eyes so close made the space between them last only momentarily before Fugo allowed himself to be swept away by Giorno’s undertow once again.

Wrapping his arms around his waist, Fugo tugged gently to pull Giorno on top of him. He hummed contentedly, the sound vibrating against Fugo’s lips and making his kisses hungrier. When Giorno opened his mouth above him, Fugo slipped his tongue inside eagerly. He found the taste of strawberries still lingering there, made sweeter by the taste of Giorno himself. With his warm weight pinning him down, feeling Giorno's chest swell with every laboured breath, running his hands over the curve of his back, Fugo swore he’d never felt more alive. 

Gravity had pulled Giorno’s bangs out of their victory rolls, his hair falling over Fugo’s face and secluding them in a golden curtain as he pulled away first, gazing down at Fugo, blushing and beaming. 

“GioGio, I…” Fugo could barely string a sentence together.

“Donna mirai ni mo, ai wa aru,” Giorno whispered. 

“I still don’t speak Japanese,” Fugo smiled.

Giorno only laughed, burying his face in Fugo’s neck and kissing him there softly. “It means, whatever comes next, we have each other. Because I’m your family now, Panna.”

“And I, yours, GioGio.” Fugo returned the embrace, breathing deeply Giorno’s heady scent of herbs and ginger, of green and earth and life . 

Fugo knew he could never win against GioGio, and so instead, he sweetly surrendered.