Archive of Our Own

Trish was visiting Naples in June.

Fugo was informed of this, rather casually, by Giorno over lunch. “She’ll only be here for a week and a half,” he said, spearing a piece of octopus with his fork. “And she won’t be spending a lot of time with us. But we’ll share a few meals.” Slipping the food into his mouth, he ate silently; turning his head, he gazed out of the window with a strangely pensive expression. “I’m sure Mista wants to catch up. He talks to Trish a lot over the phone.”

“Oh,” replied Fugo. His body had stiffened at the mention of her name; ignoring the way his heartbeat had begun to race, he picked up his glass of water and downed it in one go. “Then…the meeting with Pescare…”

Giorno met his eyes. “It won’t clash. None of my plans are changing.” He lowered his gaze and raised his fork once more; paused; looked at Fugo. “You don’t have to meet her, of course,” he said. “Though I doubt Trish holds a deep grudge over what happened. It was five years ago. Besides, things turned out fine for her in the end.”

“It’s fine,” said Fugo hastily. “I’m fine with not meeting her.”

The conversation ended there. Giorno had never been one to pry for no good reason, which suited Fugo perfectly well, though he’d brought up Fugo’s biggest regret with a tactlessness that might just be deliberate. Maybe Fugo was simply overthinking things, but it could certainly be a warning. He wouldn’t put it past Giorno. He still remembered all the hoops he’d needed to jump through to rejoin Passione. Your decision was a sensible one, Giorno had said, but it demonstrated that you lack the qualities to be useful to my new Passione. So, prove it to me. Prove that you’re a changed man. Then perhaps I’ll let you in.

A solid year of loyalty had followed before Giorno had deigned to meet him again.

And though Fugo had since secured his spot in Giorno’s inner circle, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow, inescapably, out of place. It struck him at the strangest of moments—he’d be in a car with Mista, or walking a step behind Giorno, and all of a sudden he’d realise that he was nothing compared to them. They were moving forward. They were fulfilling their dreams. There was nothing out of reach for them, as long as they were willing to try, as long as they put their minds to it. They didn’t waste time on what-ifs, on wishful daydreams, on fantasies that could never be.

Fugo couldn’t say the same, for Narancia’s ghost haunted his every footstep.

It wasn’t as bad now. Having something to do—rejoining Passione, doing the work that Giorno assigned him—had set his mind to more productive pursuits, leaving less room for him to pointlessly wallow in misery. But the guilt was always there. It shackled his feet. It anchored him to the floor, heavily, so he couldn’t move. There, he prayed. There, he yearned. If only someone could whisk him back to that moment, if only there was a stand that could travel through time, if only he could take it all back and redo everything and step onto that boat…

Perhaps Fugo couldn’t save Narancia, but he’d do anything to hear his voice again.

And so he worked on, dreading the date of Trish’s arrival.

Three days after Trish had arrived, Fugo picked up the phone to an unfamiliar voice.

“Bring me breakfast,” said a woman. “Oh, and make it quick. I’m hungry.”

Fugo blinked in surprise—then he scowled, for he’d been in the middle of work, and decided to teach this mystery caller a lesson. “Excuse me?” he said. “Who do you think you are? You don’t get to order me around, you—”

His eyes widened.

“I want a cappuccino and a croissant. You’ve stayed in Naples longer than I have, so I assume you know the best places. Be at Vesuvio in an hour. Call me back when you get there.”

“You—” Fugo’s mouth was dry. “You’re—”

“Trish Una, famous singer.” Her voice was flat. When Fugo didn’t immediately reply, she continued, “You know the song Gold Glitter Girl? That’s me.”

Fugo stared at the papers before him, his heart pounding, his chest heaving. His lips parted, but he couldn’t speak. Distantly, he remembered coiffed pink hair and wary eyes; he remembered the blue waters of Capri, remembered the ruins of Pompeii, remembered the tower of San Giorgio Maggiore. He was standing on the pier. There was a girl lying in a boat. Her eyes were closed. Her arm was bleeding. She was supposed to be dead.

“Look,” said the girl, “I know you’re free. Mista said you weren’t doing anything important.” She sounded bored. “If you have a problem, take it up with him later. But I can’t leave easily and I don’t want to call room service, so you’d better hurry over. Bye.”

She hung up.

An hour later, Fugo stood stock-still in front of her hotel room, glaring miserably at the golden door handle. He’d forced himself to call back for her room number, but he couldn’t bring himself to go in—so he stood there, clutching a brown paper bag to his chest, itching to pace the corridor. He grit his teeth. He raised an arm to pull at his collar, and the cappuccino in the styrofoam cup that he was holding sloshed at the movement. Fugo swore under his breath. The longer he waited, the worse things would be; perhaps he could simply place her breakfast on the ground and knock, so that he could flee the scene before—

The door opened.

“Peepholes exist, you know,” said the young woman standing beyond the doorframe. Fugo’s stomach lurched; he stared at her, his eyes helplessly drinking her in, struck dumb at the sight of this spectre of the past that had now materialised before him. She was older now. Her clothes were different—she was in a beautifully-draped turquoise dress that, while short, was nowhere as revealing as what she’d worn as a teenager. But she was also the same. He remembered those round eyes, those soft features…

Trish Una narrowed her eyes at him. “I get it,” she said. “I’m beautiful. Now, if you’re done ogling me…” She whirled around and strode into the room, her cream stilettos clacking against the floor. “I’m hungry. Bring my breakfast in.”

Numbly, Fugo shuffled into the room behind her. The door began to close behind him; he shut it with an elbow, his eyes darting about as he took in the beige-gold walls, curtains, bedsheet. This was the Vesuvio, so he’d expected expensive decor. But for it to be so gold—

Trish sat in one of the armchairs and crossed her legs, melting into the luxury.

“Well?” she said.

Fugo placed the paper bag and styrofoam cup on the coffee table and turned sharply, determined to leave as quickly as possible.

“Take a seat.”

“...What?”

“I said,” replied Trish, “take a seat.” When Fugo just looked blankly at her, she sighed and gestured at the armchair opposite her. “I have some questions for you.”

And so, his legs feeling like lead, Fugo walked heavily over and dropped himself into the chair. His palms were slick with sweat. He gazed at the wallpaper behind her, for he couldn’t meet her eyes; he rubbed his hands against his pants, thinking of that fateful day, thinking of Narancia…

“Just to be clear, this isn’t about that.”

Fugo stared at her.

Trish was examining her nails—they were turquoise, matching her dress, and Fugo spotted golden suns painted on her index fingers. “I know who you are, obviously.” She raised her head. Her expression was disinterested. “I’m over what happened. I don’t need anything from you.” She shrugged. “So, don’t waste your breath apologising. I mean, there’s no apologising for what you did, anyway. Not that it matters.”

Her words slapped Fugo in the face. All of a sudden, he felt like an intruder, like he didn’t belong. Trish was like Giorno and Mista; of course she was, for they had fought Diavolo together and won. She had moved on, swiftly, just as they had. The past had no hold on her. It had vanished at her back as she walked on, treading the path of her ambitions.

His hands curled into fists. “Then—” He sucked in a breath. “Then, what do you—”

“I want to ask you about Giorno.”

Fugo’s mouth fell open.

“Giorno?”

Trish looked away for a moment. Something shifted in her expression. “Yes. I wanted to ask if…well, if everything’s okay with him.”

“Uh…” Fugo folded his arms. “Why?”

She leaned back, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s been a little withdrawn. At first I thought he might just be having an off day, but it happened again when we had lunch yesterday.”

Fugo tried to recall his meetings with Giorno over the past few days. “I mean, he seemed the same to me.” He frowned. “Why don’t you just ask him directly?”

“I can’t.” Trish bit her lip.

“Why not?”

“Look, I just can’t, okay?”

Fugo raised his eyebrows. There was something fishy going on; Trish was avoiding his eyes and examining her fingernails once more with an intensity that seemed wholly unnecessary. “Why not ask Mista, then? He’s closer to Giorno than I am.”

Trish sighed. “I can’t. There are some things I don’t talk to Mista about, because…well, anyway, he can’t keep a secret to save his life.” She raised her eyes and gave Fugo a piercing look. “But you can, can’t you?”

He decided not to respond to that. “Look, I really have no idea what you’re on about,” he said. “Giorno seems normal to me.” He paused. “Why the secrecy, anyway?”

“None of your business,” said Trish, drawing her legs towards the armchair. “Anyway…” Her voice was small, and she was looking at the floor. “So, there’s…well, never mind, is he still single? Is there a girl in his life?”

Fugo’s brain promptly stopped working.

“Uh.” He sat there awkwardly. “...No?”

“Oh.” Trish shifted in her seat and re-crossed her legs, smoothing out her dress, still avoiding eye contact. “Okay.”

Only then did it click in his head.

“Wait!” exclaimed Fugo, jabbing an accusatory finger at Trish. “You wanna get with Giorno?”

She groaned and pressed her face into her hands. “Shut up.”

Fugo scoffed. “Well, he’s not interested.” He remembered seeing women fawning over Giorno; remembered him rebuffing them with varying levels of politeness depending on their ties to the mafia. “I mean…okay, he might be into you since you at least know him, but I’ve never seen him show any interest in anyone. At all.”

Trish lowered her hands and gripped the seat of the armchair, digging her nails into the leather upholstery. “I know that, genius,” she snapped. “And, for the record, I’m just looking for a bit of summer fun.” As she spoke, her eyes grew distant. “I don’t want something serious. Being a mafia wife would kill me.”

They sat there in silence for a few moments, her words hanging between them. Distantly, Fugo remembered her recent hit, Gold Glitter Girl, once more. He’d heard it countless times, blaring obnoxiously from the radio in Mista’s car. The beat reverberated in his memory; the lyrics soared in his heart. I drank your sunlight, banished the lingering night.

“But…” He hesitated. “You do like Giorno, don’t you? At least a little.”

A surprised look fell over Trish’s face for a few moments. Then she rolled her eyes. “Not that much. I’ve had boyfriends, you know? I mean, it makes me a little sad that I can’t be with him, but it’s not like I pined hopelessly over him or something.” But her cheeks were slightly pink, and there was a thoughtful look on her face; eventually, she said quietly, “Still…yeah. I do like him. A little.”

Silence fell between them once more.

Trish tilted her head, and Fugo watched as the morning sunlight illuminated strands of her pink hair. “I mean, Giorno’s pretty cool.” She was speaking tentatively, as if she were giving voice to her feelings for the first time. “He’s really suave and well-dressed, and he’s painfully handsome…but, more importantly, he inspires me. He’s just so…determined. Even when the odds seem impossible.” With every word that slipped from her mouth, her chilly exterior thawed a little more. “You know, joining the music industry as a fifteen-year-old wasn’t easy. I had to deal with a lot. And sometimes I doubted myself—sure, I had some talent, but I wasn’t anyone. I was a nobody from nowhere. But then I remembered his resolve, and…” Her lips curved in a smile. “I found the strength to carry on. To fight for what I wanted, even though the odds seemed impossibly slim.” She gestured at the room around her. “And I made it. I never told Giorno how much he helped me, but…well, I couldn’t have done it without him. That’s why I wrote Gold Glitter Girl. To be clear, it’s not really about me liking him…but it expresses my feelings about our relationship.”

Fugo looked on in stunned silence. There was something incandescent about Trish’s expression; it was like she had been transformed, like a greying cocoon shell had split open to reveal glistening butterfly wings. The very air seemed to have stilled around them. Time stopped for just a moment as Trish sat there, floating in old memories, in feelings that could never amount to anything.

But the moment ended. She ran a hand through her hair as the emotions died in her eyes; standing, she took a few steps towards the door, stopped, and turned. “If you tell anyone about this,” she said sharply, “you’ll regret it. And I mean anyone, not just Giorno.”

Fugo eyed her warily. “Sure.”

“Though…” Trish leaned against a cabinet, balancing one of her heels on the floor. “It’s probably for the best if I don’t try anything at all. I mean, it’s true that no one’s had any luck with Giorno so far. I don’t like rejection. And…” She looked away. “Things would get weird if Mista found out.”

Silence.

Fugo cleared his throat. “Well, if there’s nothing else, I’m gonna go.” He stood up stiffly. “I have work to do.”

“Sure,” said Trish quietly.

He was at the door when her voice rang out once more. “You know,” she said, “about what you did all those years ago…to be honest, I don’t know if I’d have done anything different. I was a scared little girl back then. Giorno inspired me to stand up for my beliefs, but that was later.” She paused. “So, I guess I don’t blame you for your decision. And, I mean…well, he always spoke fondly of you. Narancia, that is. I figured that, if he liked you, you couldn’t be that bad. And…I guess he was right.”

Fugo’s breath caught in his throat.

Then he was shoving the door open and walking briskly down the hotel corridor, his eyes burning, Narancia’s laughter echoing in his head.

Five days after Trish had arrived, Gold Glitter Girl was blasting in Mista’s car.

“You…really like that song, don’t you?” said Fugo uncomfortably. They were on their way back from a mission—the road almost seemed to shimmer under the noon sunlight, and Fugo squinted at it as their car weaved through the brightness. “I don’t know how many times I’ve heard you play it.”

“Dude, it’s an awesome song.” Mista bobbed his head to the beat, grinning widely. “It didn’t become a hit for nothing.”

“It is good,” admitted Fugo. Now that he knew what the song was really about, every lyric held a new significance that it had never had before. And every happiness you gave to me, I wish I could give to you. Just wanna make you smile, it’s true. “She’s a good singer.”

“Oh, definitely.” They hit a red light, and rolled to a stop; Mista turned to Fugo. “You met her, right?” He smirked. “Gorgeous, isn’t she?”

“Wha— You—” Fugo sputtered. “I mean…” He remembered her heart-shaped lips and long slender legs, and felt his face warm. “I…guess?”

Mista glanced at him and snickered. “You guess, huh?” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “She’s beautiful. Absolutely stunning.” The lights turned green, and Mista sent them speeding into the distance, his gaze softening as he peered at the cars ahead. “Trish is the prettiest girl I’ve ever met.”

Fugo coughed. “What, do you have a thing for her?”

“Oh, for sure.”

For a few moments, the only sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the bright chords of Gold Glitter Girl.

“Wait, what?” exclaimed Fugo, leaning forward as he stared at Mista incredulously. “You also—” He remembered himself,  swallowed the words that were about to leave his lips and continued, “You like Trish?”

Mista nodded. “Pretty much, yeah.”

“What, because—” Fugo frowned, because while he wasn’t especially fond of Trish, even he could tell that there was so much more to her than her beauty. “Just because she’s pretty?”

Mista shifted in his seat. He raised a hand and scratched his chin for a few seconds, as if he were considering Fugo’s words. Then he said, “You know, she’d be the prettiest girl in the world to me even if she wasn’t objectively beautiful.”

Fugo blinked.

“Actually,” said Mista, “this isn’t my favourite song of hers. I mean, it’s my second-favourite, but…” He tapped a button on the radio, and the song stopped playing as the CD slid out. “Hey, would you open the glove compartment and pass me the CD labelled ‘Solo travel’?”

It didn’t take long for Fugo to find it. The CD, which had been written on with a black marker, shone in the sunlight; he handed it to Mista, who inserted it into the player, pulling his hand away as the strumming of a lone guitar filled the air. “It’s this one.”

“Wait…” Fugo looked at the radio in confusion. “A ballad? Since when did you like ballads?”

“I’ve always liked ballads, dude,” said Mista. “ And slow romantic songs are my jam. This isn’t that, but…well.” He chewed his tongue. “I mean, guess you wouldn’t know that, since I’ve been listening to Trish a lot, and she sings pop…and I was in a rock phase when I met you.” He exhaled deeply. “I don’t think I’ve played this for you before. It’s a little-known b-side of hers. It’s not really that popular, but she made two versions, a pop one and an acoustic one.” Mista paused. “This is the acoustic one, obviously. She played the guitar herself. It’s her on the recording.”

Fugo listened. The guitar was playing minor chords, but there was something warm about the sound, something sweet. Trish’s voice floated over the music. We were there together when the sun went down, when the stars in the sky, one by one, went out.

“Actually,” said Mista, “she was just a pretty face at first.” His voice was soft; Fugo wondered if his hushed tones were a sign of respect for the song that was playing between them. “Then we beat Diavolo together, and she became a friend. I wasn’t interested in her. Sure, she was pretty, but our friendship wasn’t like that, y’know?” He hummed. “Things changed last year. It was the fourth anniversary of us beating Diavolo, and, well, also the fourth anniversary of everyone dying…”

Fugo froze.

“I was really upset. I think Giorno could tell that I was upset, because he kept asking after my well-being, but I tried to act tough and not let it affect me.” Mista laughed. It was a strained sound. “I guess I was also scared because I felt like something might happen, I mean, because it was the fourth anniversary…and Giorno’s always been really cool about my fear of the number, but…I dunno. He was stressed out about work, and I didn’t want to add to his troubles.”

“Oh.” Fugo didn’t know what to say. He looked away, his fingers laced tightly in his lap. “I see.”

“Then Trish called one day, and it all…I dunno, burst out of me?” Mista chuckled quietly. “I just sat there and cried like a baby. It was real unmanly. Real pathetic. I thought she’d give me shit for it. But she didn’t. She…” A warm expression softened the lines of his face. “She just stayed on the line, listening. She told me that it was okay to cry.” He glanced at the side mirrors, his gaze suddenly shy. “And then she wrote this song for me. Sanctuary of Sunlight.” Mista smiled. “And that’s when I finally realised how amazing she is.”

Strangely, inexplicably, memories of Narancia flashed before Fugo’s eyes. He was like that, too. Fugo remembered screaming into his arms when he’d happened across his mother one day, remembered clinging onto his body, desperately, as if Narancia was his anchor to sanity. If Trish was comforting, Narancia was even more so. He gave just as good as he got when Fugo blew up at him, but they always made up in the end. He was there. He was constant. He was kind…

Mista’s voice startled Fugo out of his thoughts. “Trish made me realise that there are different kinds of strength.” He clicked his tongue. “You and I, and Giorno, we use our stands to fight through everything. That’s the path we chose.” His eyes lit up. “But Trish is different. She has a stand, of course, and she could kick literal ass if she wanted to, but she doesn’t. Instead, she fights with her voice. She fights with her iron will.” Mista tapped his head with a finger. “It’s brilliant. She told me that wearing a beautiful dress is like putting on armour and applying makeup is like doing war paint.” His smile widened. “She’s strong, in her own way. She’s incredible. And she has a really cute laugh. I love making her laugh.”

Fugo stared at the car floor. Once again, he felt as if they were suspended in a moment in time, in a brilliant fantasy that could never be. He swallowed, hard. He’d always thought that Mista had everything figured out, that he wasn’t trapped in stasis like him, but perhaps…

“So, I honestly admire Trish a lot,” said Mista. His voice was tender. “Sometimes when I’m tired or frustrated, I think of her…think of how hard she works, how determined she is, and I put on her songs and remind myself to keep fighting.” He rubbed the back of his head. “I’ve honestly never liked a girl this much. Or this seriously. Maybe it’s different ‘cause we were friends first…but when I think about Trish, it’s who she is as a person that really gets me, y’know? What she looks like on the outside doesn’t really matter. As long as she’s herself, she’s beautiful to me.”

Vaguely, Fugo remembered the conversation he’d had with Trish two days ago; remembered how her whole being had seemed to open up as she’d spoken of Giorno. He cracked his knuckles. He cast his gaze out of the side window. “Are you…ever going to tell Trish how you feel?”

“Nah,” said Mista immediately.

They sat in silence for a few moments.

“I think she knows, actually.” Fugo turned to look at Mista; he didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but he was shocked by the calm expression on Mista’s face. “Yeah, she definitely knows. I’m pretty obvious. We just don’t talk about it.” He shrugged. “But even though we haven’t discussed it, we have a good thing going. Like, a give and take. She doesn’t tell me about her boyfriends and men she likes. I don’t make any passes at her or say anything flirty.” He sighed. “I mean, I would love to date her, but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t wanna be tied to the mafia like that, so…there’s no point in asking.” There was a weariness in his voice. “It would only hurt us both.”

“Oh.” Fugo looked at his hands. “That makes sense.” He hesitated. “Uh…I’m sorry to hear that.”

They drove on. Mista glanced at him, took a deep breath, and said, “I mean, it’s no big deal. Really. I’m not just saying that.” He rolled his shoulders; whistled along to the song for a few moments. “This won’t last forever. I’ll get over it, find some other girl…granted, who knows how long that’ll take, since I spend so much time with Giorno.” His lips twitched. “Honestly, dude seems determined to keep me single. He gets all quiet and annoyed when I flirt with a girl in front of him, and then he walks off silently and shit so I have to follow…”

Fugo remembered Trish’s concerns. “Well…I guess he thinks that stuff is a waste of time.”

“Yeah, Giorno’s married to his work.” Mista laughed. “But, well…liking someone who doesn’t like you back hurts, obviously, but it’s not all bad.”

“Wait, what?”

“I mean, crushing on someone is thrilling. It’s exciting, it’s fresh, it’s new. And when it happens…that’s just life, y’know?” Mista flashed him a grin. “Sure, I might be idealising Trish a bit too much or whatever, clinging on to her even though she’ll never date me, but there’s nothing wrong with a bit of that. It hasn’t consumed my life or anything. And liking her, drawing from her strength, made me a better person. So…why not?”

The last chord of the song rang out in the silence.

“Hey, put in the previous CD,” said Mista. “I wanna listen to Gold Glitter Girl again.”

And so they sped on, drenched in sunlight, Trish’s sweet voice drifting in the cool air.

Nine days after Trish had arrived, Fugo received a dinner invitation from Giorno.

“It’ll be at my house tomorrow,” he said, “and Trish and Mista will be there too.” Apparently noting the utter bewilderment on Fugo’s face, Giorno continued, “She thought it’d be nice to invite you. Mista and I agree. Well, it’s up to you, but I hope to see you there.”

And so, ten days after Trish had arrived, Fugo found himself sitting in Giorno’s dining room at dinner. It was a cheerful affair; Trish talked enthusiastically about her upcoming tour, gave them sneak peaks of upcoming songs, and even performed a live rendition of Gold Glitter Girl after Mista begged it of her thrice. I wish I could show you what you’ve done for me, oh, you lit up my life, if only you could see.

Though Fugo showed no outward sign of discomfort, there was a nagging sense of unease in his chest that was increasingly hard to ignore. For one, he was privy to the knowledge that Trish liked Giorno and Mista liked Trish; that alone coloured innocuous interactions in a way that Fugo found rather irritating. But there was one more thing. There was one more thing which put him on edge, which gnawed at him as the night wore on and Giorno took out a second bottle of wine.

It had been strangely comforting to learn that Trish and Mista indulged in useless fantasising as well, that they spent time yearning for a reality that could never be. But they were still different. They were still better than him. Trish seemed able to set her daydreams aside whenever it pleased her; Mista was content to keep dreaming, certain that it was a  temporary state of being. Fugo couldn’t do that. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t find anything good about longing to see Narancia again, about the happy memories that had been tainted by bitterness, by regret. There was no strength to draw from. There was only weakness. There was only a grim reminder of his past failings; there was only a solemn promise to never be so cowardly again.

So, when Trish announced that she had to leave and Mista offered to accompany her back, Fugo was all too ready to make an exit as well. “I should be going too,” he said. “Thanks for dinner. I really enjoyed it.”

But Giorno met his eyes. “I won’t keep you,” he said, “but there’s still half a bottle of wine left.” He gestured at it; Fugo looked, and saw that that was indeed the case. “Would you like to stay a little longer and finish it with me?”

Fugo hesitated. He looked at Trish, who had already stood to leave, and saw her gaze lingering on Giorno. There was a question in her eyes; it reminded him of what she’d asked him that day. I wanted to ask you if everything is okay with him. He frowned. He supposed Giorno had been a little quieter than usual. It was probably just because Mista was loud and Trish became even more chatty when tipsy, but maybe there was something else, something worth looking into…

So, they sat and drank, conversing quietly, as the clock ticked on in the distance. They talked about work, the economy, and Giorno’s plans for the future—absolutely thrilling topics, for sure, but safe ones, ones that Fugo didn’t really mind talking about. When Giorno finished his glass of wine, he departed from his chair and returned with another bottle. “Oh, I think I’ve had enough,” said Fugo, but Giorno shook his head and poured himself another glass, at which point Fugo became certain that something was wrong.

He waited. Surely, since Giorno had asked him to stay, he would bring up the issue eventually. But he didn’t. Instead, Fugo watched as Giorno drank that glass of wine and started on another, then another. Little by little, his eyes grew less focused. He started gesturing more vigorously, and his posture began to loosen up, and it was at that point that Fugo decided that he had to get to the bottom of this, because he’d never seen what Giorno was like when drunk and didn’t plan on finding out.

“Hey…” Fugo winced at the strangely thin sound of his voice. He cleared his throat. “You’ve been drinking a lot. Is something wrong?”

Giorno blinked. He looked at the glass of red wine in his hand, frowned, and slowly raised his eyes to look at Fugo. “Oh,” he said. “No, I’m fine.”

“Um, okay.”

They sat in silence for a few moments.

Fugo was staring uncomfortably at the white tablecloth when Giorno spoke up again. “Hey, Fugo,” he said, “have you…” He looked away for a moment. Fugo took in the tension in Giorno’s shoulders and the way that his jaw had tightened, and wondered what on earth he was about to hear. “Have you…” Giorno paused, swallowed, and continued. “Have you ever had feelings for someone who didn’t feel the same way?”

Silence fell heavily between them once more.

“Uh…” Fugo stared at Giorno, struggling to reconcile the words he’d just heard with the image of his boss that lived in his head. “I mean, I’ve never seriously liked anyone.” He crossed his arms. “Why?”

Giorno looked at his lap, and didn’t say a word.

Finally, Fugo figured out what Giorno must have meant. “You, uh, have a thing for…” He paused. If Giorno liked Trish, then his feelings were in fact returned. Of course, they still couldn’t be together since Trish didn’t want to be a mafia wife and she seemed to be trying to spare Mista’s feelings, but Giorno’s assessment of the situation would be incorrect. Then again, Fugo couldn’t reveal any of this. “You have a thing for Trish?” It seemed absurd. After all, it was bad enough that Trish and Mista had crushes—Giorno had never shown interest in anyone, and by far seemed to be the most unemotional of the three, so Fugo really felt like he was living in some kind of surreal alternate reality. “I mean, she’s pretty and lively, and she’s a great singer, so I can see why…”

The clock ticked on.

Giorno looked at him with a slightly strained expression, looked away, and took a long drink from his glass. “Never mind. It’s nothing.” He glanced at Fugo again and took another drink. “Forget it.”

On the surface, it seemed that Giorno had simply decided not to talk about whatever it was. But though Fugo couldn’t really explain it, he was inclined to think that he’d gotten something wrong somehow. Maybe Trish wasn’t the one Giorno liked. Who, then? Fugo mentally combed through a list of potential names; it was a rather short list, since there were very few women in Passione. Besides, Giorno had rebuffed everyone who approached him, so those women didn’t count, for they certainly would return any feelings he had for them. Fugo scrunched up his face in thought, ignoring a wave of concern at the sight of Giorno reaching out to pour himself yet another glass of wine. None of this made sense. Giorno didn’t even like flirting. Mista had confirmed it in the car a few days ago. He’d said that Giorno went quiet when he’d flirted, that Giorno always walked off silently so that he’d have to follow—

It was only then that the fairly obvious explanation for all this hit Fugo square in the face.

His eyebrows shot up. “Wait, you’re gay?” he exclaimed.

Giorno took a sharp breath and glared at him, his entire body stiffening, so Fugo raised his hands and quickly said, “Uh, I mean, that’s totally fine. I have no problem with that. Really.”

He watched nervously as Giorno sighed irritably and took another long drink of wine. “I’m not gay,” he said. “I’m pansexual.” When Fugo just sat there, mystified, Giorno sighed again and said, “Bisexual. I’m bisexual.”

“Oh.”

“So…” Giorno swirled the wine in his glass and met Fugo’s eyes. His expression was inscrutable. “It doesn’t bother you, then?”

Fugo wondered if Giorno had ever told anyone else this before. At the very least, Trish and Mista seemed to be out of the loop. “Yeah, it doesn’t bother me.” There were no cracks in Giorno’s impassive mask, but the very fact that he’d felt the need to ask at all meant that he was insecure about Fugo’s response. “I think Bucciarati was bisexual, actually. I saw him with both men and women.”

Something occurred to him.

“Mista…uh…I don’t think he…”

“Yes.” Giorno’s voice was quiet. “I know.”

Fugo cringed at his stupid statement, and looked away.

“I mean,” said Giorno, “even if he…was attracted to men, I wouldn’t pursue him.” He was gazing at a point behind Fugo’s head, apparently lost in thought. “Nothing can come before Passione. I mean, it’s bad enough already that I’m sitting here, wasting time talking about this, when nothing can come of my feelings.” He placed the glass of wine on the table and leaned back in his chair, his chest rising and falling as he took a few deep breaths. “But I wish I could be with him. I wish I could take his hand.” Giorno looked at the floor. “I dream of it, and wake up only to have my joy crumble into ash. And…”

Fugo quickly tried to think of something to say. “Well,” he said abruptly, “I guess…you really like him, then.”

Giorno stopped speaking; blinked; raised his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “I love him.”

Fugo stared blankly at him.

“I…” Giorno stood up shakily, and it was then that Fugo truly comprehended just how much he’d had to drink; he watched worriedly as Giorno began to pace the room, swaying slightly with every other step. “I’ve had feelings for Mista for years. It began when we fought Ghiaccio together. He was incredible. Strong, brave…you weren’t there, you have no idea.” He stumbled, turned awkwardly on his heel, and randomly made a sweeping gesture. “It took me a year to realise I liked him. I thought it would pass, that I’d get over it, but…” He shook his head stiffly. “The more I knew about him, the more I felt for him. And so I fell in love with him. It was inevitable—as inevitable as Newton’s apple falling to the ground.” Giorno leaned against the sofa and swiped a hand over his forehead, his shoulders rising and falling as he took shallow breaths. “But we’re on earth, not in space, so zero gravity doesn’t exist. I mean, it can be created, I guess. But—oh, screw analogies.” He stared at the floor. “I don’t know how to get over him. I really don’t. I suppose I was never good at relinquishing things, or people, I desired. Well, that’s a crude way to put it; I don’t just desire Mista, I love him with all my heart. I just…”

He closed his eyes.

“It hurts,” he said, and Fugo couldn’t find the words to say.

So, he sat there, silently re-evaluating everything he knew about Giorno and his friendship with Mista. Fugo had always thought they were reminiscent of himself and Narancia—he suddenly realised that maybe this was one of the reasons why he’d felt so out of place, for Giorno and Mista shared an easy camaraderie that had been lost to him for good. They fit together. They supported each other’s strengths, made up for each other’s weaknesses. They were walking into the future side by side. At least, that was what Fugo had thought. But now…

“I love him so much, Fugo,” said Giorno softly. He raised his head. “I just…it’s like he lives in my heart. And I don’t know how to make him go away.”

Though everything about this situation made Fugo want to run screaming out of the door, he forced himself to stay put. “Okay.” He tried to inject a soothing note into his voice. “I get it. Well, anyway. Can I…uh…get you a glass of water?”

“No, you don’t get it.” Jerkily, Giorno lowered himself to the ground; drawing his knees to his chest, he said, “Mista gives me strength. I’ve never told anyone this before, but…sometimes I feel like the world I’m living in now isn’t real, like all this…Passione, beating Diavolo, becoming the Don…is all just a silly dream I cooked up to distract myself from my loneliness.” He sighed. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. There was a time in my life when all this seemed unachievable; back then, all I could do was dream. It still feels like that sometimes. But Mista…” He breathed in, slowly, his expression softening at the very mention of that name. “He’s solid. He’s dependable. He’s right there by my side. He shines so brightly—when he comes by, it’s like the clouds parting to reveal the sun.” Giorno smiled. “When I’m with him, I know that all this must be real, because I don’t think I could have dreamed up someone like Mista. He’s incredible. I really admire him. His confidence, his endless optimism…it’s not fake, that’s just how he is, and sometimes I wish I could be a little more like him.” He tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, gazing at nothing in particular. It was as if he was living in his own reality, in a world constructed by wishful words where everything was beautiful and winter never came. “He’s really funny…sometimes when I manage to forget myself, when I can let go of my role as Don and just be me, he makes me laugh so hard that I can’t breathe.” Giorno raised his arm as if he wanted to point at something, but his hand flopped back onto the floor. “And there’s just something so…honest about him, so open…and he’s handsome, you have to agree with me on that, he’s so handsome. When he wore a suit for that dinner last week, I could barely look at him lest I give myself away.”

“I mean…” Fugo tried to remember what Mista had looked like. “I don’t swing that way, but he’s objectively good-looking, I guess.”

Giorno looked at him for a moment, his gaze searching.

Then he sighed and rested his chin on his knees. “I suppose you must think I’m wasting my time,” he said. “I certainly think so. This must all seem rather silly to you.”

“No, it doesn’t,” said Fugo quickly. He blinked; he was startled by his own words. “I mean, I’ve never been in love before, but…”

There was someone he longed for, too.

His chest hurt. “There’s…there’s someone who lives in my heart as well,” he said. “And I don’t know how to make him go away, either.”

“Oh.” Giorno seemed slightly dazed, but there was a flicker of understanding in his eyes. “I see.”

“And…” There was a lump in Fugo’s throat. “And there are so many things that I wanted to do with him. There is so much time that I wanted to spend with him. All these years, I’ve been longing, longing, and I’ve been stuck in one place, because I can’t get over it. I can’t move past this. If I could just turn back time…”

“You…” Giorno coughed. “You couldn’t have saved him.”

Fugo tore a hand through his hair. “I know, dammit! But if I could just hear his voice again, one more time, or hug him again, or, or—” He slammed a fist on the table. “Narancia should be here right now. They all should, but him especially, because he had so much going for him, so many hopes, so many dreams.” His eyes stung. “He should have come to dinner. He would have loved the food. He would have loved Trish’s song. He always liked songs like that, songs about being inspired by others, about a new lease of life, about appreciating—”

He stopped mid-sentence.

In that moment, something had finally clicked in his head.

“Hey, Giorno.”

“Yes?”

“You…” He recalled something that Mista had said a few days ago. “Would you say that loving Mista made you a better person?”

Giorno thought for a few moments, frowning as he visibly tried to work through his alcohol-induced haze. “I don’t know if it happened because I’m in love with him, but…yes, Mista has made me a better person.” He paused. “Rather, he makes me want to be a better person. I think of him, and I try to be a little friendlier, a little more optimistic…yes, I’d say that he brings out the best in me.”

“I feel the same way,” replied Fugo. He looked at the door before turning back to Giorno once more. “Honestly, I think I’m only still sitting here with you because of Narancia. He was way better at all this, uh, emotional stuff than me.” He tilted his head. “I used to run away from these kinds of conversations. I mean, I’m not really comfortable with them even now. But…I’m trying.”

He took a breath.

“Do you think that maybe…I mean, when you feel for someone so intensely and what you long for can never be, there’s pain, of course. But maybe there’s something worth treasuring too.” He thought of Trish and all that she’d achieved. “Maybe there’s something that will stay with you, even if your feelings fade.”

“I…” Giorno looked away. “I understand. I think you’re right. But whenever I see him with women, it hurts, and it’s distracting. I just want to let it go.” He absently picked at a spot on the floor. “I’ve been in love with him for five years, Fugo. In that time, many women have expressed interest in me, but I can’t bring myself to try anything because my heart is spoken for.” He sighed. “I just…I want this to end.”

Something occurred to Fugo. “Then…” He remembered the first time he’d met Narancia. He’d looked at him, a small boy combing through the trash, and suddenly thought that they were one and the same—alone, abandoned, left to find their own way. This was different, of course. Giorno was nothing like Narancia. But as they sat there, lonely together in a place untouched by the hands of time, he realised that in one aspect they weren’t so different after all. “Maybe we can try spending more time together? I mean, you’re pretty much always with Mista, and I…”

He and Narancia had once been inseparable.

“Well,” said Fugo shakily, “I think it’s time I hung out with another friend.”

Giorno watched him for a long moment. A vague longing struggled in his eyes.

“I’d like that,” he said faintly.

And so they sat there, talking quietly, as the minutes passed into midnight.

Fugo didn’t see Trish off at the airport.

But as he drove back from his mission, her shimmering voice poured from the speakers of his car radio. Now I’m a Gold Glitter Girl, shining brightly in the world. It was a song that held a secret significance for all of them—Trish had penned it, Mista loved it, and Giorno was described in it. But there was more than just that. There was something universal about it, an inherent truth in its words, that seemed to resonate within them all.

Fugo eased his car around a corner. As it turned, the noon sunlight slipped in through the windscreen. It was clear to him that he couldn’t move on from Narancia in the same way that Mista might move on from Trish; it was clear to him that he would never stop longing to see Narancia again. There would be pain. There would always be pain. And Fugo knew, without a shred of doubt, that he would never forgive himself for leaving Narancia behind.

But there was joy, too. It lingered, long-forgotten, like firefly lights in the dark recesses of his mind. Narancia was sweet. Narancia was kind. All these years, Fugo had thought of him with guilt, and perhaps he would continue to do so still—but there was another way of remembering him, another way of loving him, that he’d only just consciously realised. He was still stuck. He was still trapped in pain. But maybe, just maybe…

He always spoke fondly of you, Trish had said.

Fugo glanced at his watch. He swore under his breath; he was late for lunch with Giorno. They’d agreed to spend more time together, though Giorno’s ears had turned red when he’d been reminded of his drunken rambling. I’m sorry you had to hear all that, he’d said. Then again, I suppose that if I’d kept silent, nothing would have changed.

Frowning, Fugo stepped on the accelerator. He didn’t really know what would come of this. There was certainly a lot of ground to cover, for they were both guarded people who knew little about each other on a personal level; regardless, whatever happened, the important thing was that this was something different. This was something new. If he kept this up, if he kept pulling at his shackles, if he kept reaching out of the darkness, fuelled by memories of sunlight…

And so he drove on, barrelling through the summer heat, leaving only dust clouds behind.

FIN