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Fugo was walking down the corridor of Nuova Passione’s shiny headquarters, minding his own business, when he found himself suddenly pulled aside by one Guido Mista.
“Say,” asked the gunman, voice conspiratorially low, “do you think Abbacchio’s dabbling in dark magic?”
The sixteen-year-old gave his friend a murderous look. Less than a month ago, Giorno took over the organization and tasked Fugo with examining all its legal and financial records. Fugo missed the days when his most difficult job was tutoring Narancia. With all his newfound responsibilities, he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in days, and the dark circles under his eyes were beginning to look like bruises, yet this bastard’s got the time for gossipy nonsense?
His reply came out a hoarse, ghastly sound. “What. The. Fuck are you on about?”
“Dude.” Visibly taken aback, Mista gave him a worried look. “Are you alright? You don’t sound alright. Has the dark magic gotten to you as well?”
If glares were daggers—Mista would probably be just fine. After all, he had survived far worse in battle. Sighing in resignation, Fugo forced himself to ask again, “What, exactly, are you blabbering about?”
“You didn’t notice?” Mista sounded concerned. “Abbacchio’s been acting weird these days. Two days ago, I got up in the middle of the night to take a leak, and saw him coming down the stairs from the rooftop—hey, now that I think about it, it was three in the morning, the witching hour!”
Fugo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “He probably just went up for a smoke.”
“Nonono, you don’t understand. Abbacchio looked different that night. I’ve never seen such a look on his face before…” Mista’s hands flailed as he struggled for words. “He had the look of someone keeping a big secret. You know, like, they’re trying to conceal something, but the more they try, the more they think about it, and their whole face gets weird!”
What the actual fuck. Thinking of Nuova Passione and its less than stable foundation, Fugo frowned. “You’re not saying that Abbacchio’s keeping secrets from the organization?”
“What?” Mista looked genuinely confused. “This ain’t about the org, man. I’m talking about magic! Dark magic!”
“Because you saw a strange look on his face.” Fugo could feel his nails digging into his palms.
“No, wait, hear me out.” Wisely, Mista took half a step back. “I didn’t think too much of it at first, either. If it weren’t for what happened today, I’d have forgotten all about it. But, today, I saw that look on Abbacchio again, just a few hours ago. He was holding a piece of paper with that weird look on his face, and it gave me the creeps. I asked Number Five to fly over and take a peek, and—” Mista paused, probably for dramatic effect, “it was some Satanic looking shit!”
The corridors were quiet, save for the birds chirping outside the window. As Fugo listened to their chorus and counted back from ten, he made the mental note to ask Giorno for a raise.
“Have you considered,” asked Fugo calmly, “that the ‘Satanic looking shit’ you saw might be the cover of a death metal album?”
“No way.” Mista answered with confidence. “You know the music Abbacchio actually listens to. Also, it was hand-drawn, and it had a line of unreadable text underneath—probably some kind of spell. The whole thing looked so freaky Number Five was crying when he got back!”
As if Number Five doesn’t cry over burned toast. Fugo could no longer resist the urge to roll his eyes. “Do you honestly have nothing more important to do?”
“But this is important!” Mista whined. “Come on, it’s Abbacchio. We can’t let dark magic bewitch him and turn him away from the Lord!”
Fugo tried to picture what Abbacchio would look like as a dark mage—probably not too different from how he normally looks. “Fine. I’ll go,” he said, to get Mista to shut up, but a part of him was curious, too.
He found Abbacchio in the library. In the fight against Diavolo, Abbacchio and Buccellati were wounded badly. They were recently released from the hospital under strict orders to rest and recuperate, so Fugo had to make sure they only did light paperwork. He knew Abbacchio spent most of his free time here.
The alleged dark mage sat in a window nook with his headphones on, reading a book. Fugo peeked at the cover—an ordinary detective novel, not a how-to manual on arcane rituals. As Fugo moved closer, he could hear the leaked notes from Abbacchio’s headphones—classical music, not death metal.
It must be the lack of sleep. Fugo thought. The lack of sleep made me catch the stupid from Mista. What am I doing here?
Sensing Fugo’s presence, Abbacchio looked up from his book. “Hey,” he greeted, calm and normal, with no trace of the strange look Mista described.
“Uhhh…” Fugo tried to find the right opening. What was he supposed to say, A superstitious fool was worried about you, so he sent me to save your soul?
Abbacchio didn’t wait for him to finish. Brows furrowed, the older man took his headphones off. “How long has it been since you last slept?”
Roughly twenty hours ago, Fugo slept at his desk for two full hours. This time he even had the foresight to move the documents before he fell asleep so as to not drool on them. After that, he downed three cups of coffee. Fugo didn’t think he showed any signs of fatigue, but apparently the ex-cop thought otherwise.
“Sleep is overrated,” grumbled Fugo. This had been his mantra for the past few days. “I’ve got much more important things to do.”
“Like what?” Abbacchio’s brows furrowed even tighter.
Fugo was at a loss for words—how could Abbacchio, of all people, ask such a stupid question? To an organization like theirs, everything was important. However, before he could erupt into a lecture on the significance of paperwork and keeping records, his sleep-deprived, Mista-infected brain chose to auto-reply with, “Like the fact that you’re keeping secrets.”
The other man looked surprised for a second, then, suspiciously, turned his gaze away.
Shit, he really does have something to hide. Fugo couldn’t help but respect Mista’s intuition, though he doubted it had anything to do with dark magic.
“At a time like this,” said Fugo, carefully observing Abbacchio’s expression. “I don’t think it’s wise to do what you’ve been doing.” Keeping the language deliberately vague, Fugo wanted to see how the other man would react.
Unfortunately, Abbacchio did not take the bait. Like a large cat, the taller man uncurled himself from the window nook and turned to face his accuser. “So,” he said, eyes narrowing, “how exactly am I being unwise?”
Fugo gulped, but there’s no turning back now. “This is a volatile time for Nuova Passione, and there are plenty of people waiting for Giorno to fail. We are the only ones he can trust; there shouldn’t be any secrets between us. In fact, we need to be more honest with each other than ever.” There, a good argument with good logic. Fugo mentally applauded himself.
But Abbacchio just smiled, which did not seem like a good sign.
“You’re right. We should be more honest with each other.” Patting the spot next to him, Abbacchio gestured for Fugo to sit down. The man looked intimidating when he was expressionless. Smiling, he was downright terrifying. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Answer me honestly, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
Abbacchio had always been true to his word. If Fugo agreed to this, he wouldn’t need to beat around the bush about whatever Mista saw that got him so worried. But what could Abbacchio want from him? Fugo wasn’t the one keeping the damn secrets.
“Fine,” he sat down with his arms crossed. “Ask away.”
Despite Fugo’s sullen look, Abbacchio’s expression softened, as though he liked having a short-fused walking timebomb around. How strange. Fugo thought he knew Abbacchio, but that day, on that Venetian pier, he realized he didn’t know any of his friends. How come they had the guts to defy Diavolo? If he were to choose again, Fugo could not say for certain that he would get on that boat. His whole worth lay in his ability to make smart choices—that was the lesson drummed into him since childhood. Fugo could not bring himself to make a stupid choice, even if he knew it was the right thing to do. A clever coward, he thought, clutching his knees.
“Fugo,” asked Abbacchio, “are you working yourself this hard out of guilt?”
Abbacchio’s words were clear, but Fugo’s brain refused to process them. Instead, he was reminded of the maelstrom of emotions he felt when he had to return to Naples alone. There was resentment. There was fear. And all too familiarly, there was anger. How could they abandon everything they’ve worked so hard for, just to save some girl they barely knew? Fugo shuddered to imagine the gruesome ends that await them. In that restaurant they used as a meeting place, he finally found the sense of home his parents’ big, cold mansion failed to provide. The team was his family—or, at least Fugo thought they were his family; maybe Buccellati and the others didn’t want someone who couldn’t keep up and board the damn boat. Either way, Fugo thought he was about to lose them forever.
But they came back. Buccellati and Abbacchio were badly wounded, and the others also had various injuries, but they were all alive—even that Trish girl, who turned out to be quite a formidable Stand user. Before Fugo could fully comprehend their miraculous return, Giorno proposed to take over and reform Passione, which was even crazier than betraying the boss—who in their right mind would acknowledge a fifteen-year-old schoolboy as the new don? Yet, to Fugo’s shock and surprise, even Abbacchio went along with this insanity. What exactly happened without him? Even with Buccellati in the ICU, the next in line should not have been the new guy. Sure, Fugo had witnessed firsthand how bold and resourceful Giorno can be, but this was just too preposterous.
Join us, said their preposterous new leader when they found him, as though Fugo wasn’t the first person to join Buccellati’s team, far before any of the others showed up. In a sense, Giorno was right. Buccellati disbanded his team in Venice, and everyone but Fugo left that pier as a new person with a new path. The “us” Giorno spoke of was not the “us” Fugo knew. Yet, everyone treated him just the same, as if he never left out of cowardice, never backed down from the right choice.
So he joined Nuova Passione and dove head first into work. Was it out of guilt? Fugo didn’t think so. He was only doing what he did best. Taking on the boss was too much for him, the least he could do was take on the paperwork the boss left behind. Not to mention, he was the only one who understood the legal and financial jargons. Guilt or no guilt, Fugo had to do it.
Shaking his head, he answered, “No. I’m just doing my job.”
Abbacchio frowned. “It’s not your job to go without sleep, is it?”
Fugo blinked. Was Abbacchio worried about him? He knew the man cared deeply for his companions, despite his carefully cultivated air of aloofness. But, out of their ragtag gang of misfits, surely Fugo required the least amount of concern. In fact, he thought he shared a special bond with Abbacchio—Buccellati was too kind, Narancia too naïve, Mista too reliant on intuition and superstition—compared to their teammates, the two of them made decisions based on facts rather than feelings. But then, that day in Venice, Abbacchio was the first to board the boat, even though he must’ve known it was suicide.
“It’s also not your job to give a fuck,” replied Fugo, knowing and hating how petulant it made him sound. He didn’t need anyone to worry for him. At the San Giorgio Maggiore pier, Fugo was the only person with a shred of self-interest, and he was the one who made the rational choice. Fugo was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
Abbacchio did not look impressed. “It is my job to give a fuck,” he said, staring Fugo in the face. “You still remember why we’re doing this, right?”
As if he could ever forget. Giorno “I-have-a-dream” Giovanna had been talking his ears off about how Nuova Passione will use mob resources to build a world free of poverty and injustice. It sounded like a utopian fantasy, but Fugo had read the books. More than a century ago, thinkers and theorists and revolutionaries had already dreamed the same dream; to make that dream a reality would be difficult, but not impossible. He just didn’t see how any of this had anything to do with his sleep schedule.
Seeing the blank look on his face, Abbacchio sighed. “That ideal world you want is not gonna be built by ascetics who abuse themselves, you know. The aim and the means are never entirely separate. An organization that runs on sleep deprivation is not going to create a future people want to live in. So,” he reached out and rustled Fugo’s hair. “Stop torturing yourself and go the fuck to sleep.”
The window nook was a good spot. The cushions were soft and comfortable and warmed by the mid-spring sun—a perfect place for a nap. Fugo could hardly keep his eyes open, but he valiantly tried to resist its allure. “What about the documents? Who’s gonna go through them when I sleep? You can’t expect Mista or Narancia to take over; Narancia… Narancia barely knows how to read…”
Abbacchio gave a wry chuckle. “Your talents are invaluable, but have a little faith in the rest of us, yeah?”
That’s not what I meant, Fugo wanted to say, but his mind was drifting further and further away, and speaking was becoming difficult. “You, injured… need rest…”
“Bruno and I both look healthier than you right now,” said Abbacchio. Something felt strange with that sentence, but Fugo couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “Mista and Narancia are also doing what they can. And when you wake up—” A hand caressed his hair gently, and it reminded Fugo of how his grandmother used to soothe him to go to sleep. Finally, he stopped resisting and allowed himself to sink into the soft cushion beneath him. “When you wake up, we’ll all still be here. I promise.”
Right, then I gotta ask him about the dark magic. Fugo reminded himself, before drifting into sweet, sound slumber.
* * *
“Leone?” When Buccellati went to the library to look for Abbacchio, he saw the other man raise his finger to his lips. Upon closer inspection, he noticed Fugo sprawled out on the window nook, clearly catching some much-needed sleep.
Softening his footsteps, Buccellati beckoned for Abbacchio to follow. When they were finally far enough from the slumbering teen, he pulled the other man into a deep kiss. In his overly-enthusiastic endeavor, Buccellati knocked the book Abbacchio was holding right out of his hands, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. After their narrow escape from death, the two of them had finally confessed feelings for each other, and every moment not spent together became a test of will. Earlier, when he was attending a meeting, Buccellati tried very hard to concentrate, but his thoughts kept drifting back to Leone Abbacchio.
“I suspect,” said Buccellati after the kiss, “that you are magical. I can’t stop thinking about you. You must’ve put a spell on me. I’m all bewitched, bothered, and bewildered now.”
Abbacchio flushed. “I didn’t peg you as the sappy, corny type.”
“Hmmmm. Do you mostly mind the sappiness or corniness?” Buccellati asked, holding back laughter. Abbacchio flustered was simply too precious. He was tempted to make more dramatic declarations of love.
Before Abbacchio could answer the question, something on the ground seemed to have caught his attention. Following his gaze, Buccellati saw a suspiciously familiar-looking piece of paper. It must’ve fell from the pages when Buccellati sent the book flying earlier.
“Wait, is that…?”
Before Buccellati could finish, Abbacchio tried to rush over and pick it up, but Sticky Fingers was faster than any human. Turning the paper over, Buccellati confirmed his suspicion—it was one of the doodles he made when he was bored.
He dropped out of formal education at twelve, never took art classes, and had little innate talent. Once, Fugo saw his doodle of a fish and asked him whether he’d been reading H. P. Lovecraft. Suffice to say, Buccellati was no great painter, but he really liked making doodles. It calmed him and gave him a way to express himself. When he tried to bottle up his feelings for Abbacchio, Buccellati drew things that reminded him of the other man. He knew it was impossible for him to capture the beauty of the man, so he scribbled lions and lambs and star-shaped headpieces instead. The one he just found was one of those—a newborn lamb wearing a star on its head, with a few lines from “Love Sonnet XI” scrawled below. Buccellati thought he had disposed of it along with other scraps of waste paper. How did it get picked up by Abbacchio?
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to go through your things.” Abbacchio lowered his head. “I just… couldn’t sleep that night. When I went to the rooftop for a smoke, I bumped into the desk and it fell off. I knew that pile of paper was going to the garbage bin, so…”
Buccellati felt his face heat up. “You don’t mind?”
Abbacchio looked confused. “Mind what?”
It suddenly occurred to Buccellati that maybe Abbacchio couldn’t tell what he drew or what it meant. He tried another question. “Why did you take it?”
The other man looked away, hiding his expression behind a cascade of hair. “I… wanted something to remember that night by.”
Buccellati’s heart began to thump uncontrollably—that was the night they first got together, and Abbacchio took his doodle as a keepsake. “Who’s the sap now?” he teased, laughter in his voice.
With an indulgent eyeroll, Abbacchio took back the piece of paper, picked up the book, and carefully put it back in its place. “Whatever. You threw it away. Finders keepers.”
* * *
When Fugo finally woke up, the sun had almost set. A note was left next to the cushion he used as a pillow, telling him to head downstairs for dinner after he wakes up. He recognized Buccellati’s handwriting, but couldn’t tell what the dark blot of eldritch horror painted at the bottom was supposed to be. Pasta, maybe? Looking more closely, Fugo found a line written in Abbacchio’s neat script: Giorno made ramen.
The mention of food made him realize how hungry he was. There was still a lot of work to do; if Fugo skipped dinner, he could probably head back to his office and finish a few more documents. However, that plan seemed to have lost its appeal. Fugo read the note again, before carefully folding it up. Abbacchio still owed him an answer.
Putting the note in his pocket, Fugo was ready to uncover the mystery of dark magic now.