Archive of Our Own

Narancia runs through the streets of Naples, glancing every so often over his shoulder to make sure he's not being pursued. His mission is simple: purchase and bring an item of great importance to their future plans without being caught by a certain golden-haired member of their team. It'd been drilled into his mind again and again that failure would entail the ruination of several weeks of careful planning, reinforced by threats from a certain fork-wielding friend-- suffice it to say that Narancia is currently on high alert, the item stored underneath his shirt and tucked into the waistband of his pants. He trots through side alleys and between people's homes with reckless abandon, ignoring shouts and protests as he jostles his way through teeming crowds and kids playing soccer. Similar situations have been treated with the same quality of calculation, which is to say, none: Narancia's strategy is speed, speed, speed.

Turning a corner, he stops to catch his breath and wipes away a bead of sweat that's trickling into his eyes, using a few precious moments to let his elevated breaths rise and fall and evaporate into the crisp spring air. Narancia likes this weather: it reminds him of the day things changed for him, the day he felt the breeze come in through the open end of the narrow alley and tasted good spaghetti for the first time in his life. Spring is a time of change, of new beginnings and new lives, a step towards the right direction.

Come to think of it, he muses as he starts on his venture once more, his shoes pounding a steady rhythm against the cobbles on the ground, Giorno joined their team in the spring, too.

Fugo waits for Giorno to initiate the game, one hand toying with an ebony pawn while the other rests comfortably against his chin, elbows on the table. He wonders why he was specifically the one chosen to serve as a diversion while the others went on 'phase two' of their proceedings-- surely Mista would have been a better candidate-- but there really hadn't been any point in arguing it, especially considering that the alternative was letting Giorno catch on to what they were doing. These were grounds that had to be tread carefully, after all: Giorno is shrewd, and every attention had to be paid to make sure that their plans would successfully go on without a hitch. Fugo watches as Giorno contemplates his first move, those quick, blue eyes darting across the monochrome checkers of the chess board, reading far ahead into a future that even Fugo, Fugo the genius, Fugo the prodigy, can't anticipate.

Giorno's gaze is like the first dawn of spring: unpredictable, daunting, yet still promising.

To Fugo's side, the laughter of schoolchildren going home for the day filters in through the half-opened window, muffled farewells and greetings audible through the panes of glass. Giorno raises his head for a moment, his concentration broken as he hears the hopeful 'goodbye'-s, as if he knows that those words can be strangely transient, and can, in reality, be premonitions and excuses to greet each other again, anew, in the morning.

He gives Fugo a little, knowing look, and Fugo has to avert his eyes, because he knows exactly what Giorno is alluding to.

("Farewells are just an excuse to say hello again, Fugo.")

And as a sudden chill winds itself into the room through the crack in the window, like the last wistful gasps of winter, Giorno makes his first move, sliding a snow-white pawn over onto Fugo's side of the board in one fluid motion. Shapely lips form a faint smile, and there's warmth there, barely calculated, barely noticeable.

"Your turn, Fugo."

Abbacchio still doesn't know quite how to deal with the not-so-newcomer now, the golden brat that'd appeared in his life as swiftly and naturally as the way the seasons transition. He equally feels trepidation about treating the younger man (boy, really) as a senior and a superior, even if tradition and protocol demands it of himself-- there he is, Giorno, sitting behind a spacious desk with the gang sign emblazoned upon the wood in gold leaf, a stack of papers to his right and a pile of files to his left. Giorno's eyes are glued to his task, his fingers wrapped around a fountain pen that's gliding and forming neatly printed words on paper. Abbacchio's assignment for the day is to 'guard the boss', which has a myriad of connotations: one, to make sure that no harm befalls the 'Capo' (not that anything could, in Abbacchio's opinion), and two, to make sure that Giorno stays on task and doesn't inadvertently happen across any other plans that the rest of the team members may or may not be concocting.

In short, Abbacchio summarizes it as 'babysitting'. Or, he would, if only his position allowed it.

Barely concealing his boredom, Abbacchio slumps down on the couch on the other end of the room, idly reaching over to pick up a rather old, worn book that'd been sitting in the shadows of the coffee table (hidden? perhaps). He flips through it with little interest in the contents, more aware of how carefully the book has been treated over the many years, and how, strangely enough, there's more than one bookmark installed within its pages, seemingly at random intervals. There are several, sometimes within two or three pages of one another, and Abbacchio furrows his brow in thought as he plucks one such placeholder in between his thumb and forefinger, inspecting it as if it holds a key to understanding some sort of hidden code.

He barely notices Giorno rising from his desk and moving towards him.

The book and bookmark is gently taken from his hands, and Abbacchio sits up and turns towards Giorno, who almost apologetically returns the slip of paper between the pages of the novel and closes it with a sense of finality and secrecy, looking a bit embarrassed, even, by the fact that Abbacchio's managed to find a little piece of something that he'd carefully kept under wraps.

"Not this one, per favore."

And it's almost astounding how sincere Giorno is about that statement, and Abbacchio can only stare, realizing that the first rays of breaking spring can be both powerful and tentative at the same time-- that spring is dormant before it appears in full swing.

He feels like he's touched on that dormancy for the first time.

Bucellati remembers his own birthdays, back when he was still a child and learning how to scope his way through the different paths of life. He remembers his mother, always smiling and offering another slice of cake, his father, sitting a little distance away and watching him with warm eyes, and the sound of the ocean, rolling waves hitting the seaside and lulling him into a state of perpetual peace. His birthdays are in autumn, much like spring in that it heralds the coming of another season: though his transitions serve as the premonitions towards colder days and longer nights, of recollections of sitting in the small house that the family shared and watching the stars fall above the horizon, reflected upon the moving waves of the water. He and Giorno are opposites, in that sense-- Bucellati remembers each and every one of his birthdays in vivid details, of fluttering kisses to cheeks and little trinkets that his father'd bought him from town, wrapped clumsily in broken bows and wrinkled paper. His birthdays were warmth before the cold chill of winter, where his soul slowly went into hibernation and then stopped moving altogether: Giorno's were frost before the first spring breezes that would come and shake the greenery awake.

Bucellati remembers the first day that he met Giorno, of feeling that breeze blow through his body and recalling that autumn decay would eventually make way for spring rebirth.

Giorno had said that he was going to bring change, and it was then that Bucellati had noticed that he'd almost forgotten what that word meant.

And here he was now, presiding over his young superior who has taken to napping near the window, his gold hair catching the last waning lights of the day. Bucellati reaches out and runs his fingers through the soft strands, a slow smile creeping over his expression as he watches Giorno sleep.

Rest well, he whispers to the boy in repose, watching over him as the world turns and readies itself for night. He knows that he can take over for now, if only even for the time being, like fall reaches gently out to summer.

Mista knows what the other team members think about him and Giorno, and frankly, he doesn't really give a damn. It's the day before 'the big one', and Bucellati and the others have all given the 'night before' to him, telling him to 'keep Giorno occupied', all quotation marks rendered with playful crooks of the finger and subtle nudges to the shoulder. He'd told them all to go fuck themselves, of course, but here he was now anyway, the so-called 'wonderboy' nestled in his arms and resting his head against his chin, breathing softly and gently in an even, steady rhythm.

He can never get used to how close Giorno enjoys being, mostly because he'd thought he was straight for most of his life (ha ha), and mostly because Giorno seems so distant, so removed from physical affection. Mista doesn't mind it so much, though (he's had weeks and weeks of practice), and he moves to wrap one arm around Giorno's shoulder, keeping his eyes glued to the television that he's only half-watching as he speaks against the mess of blond hair that's precariously close to his lips.

"Giorno, you awake?"
"Mm."

It's a vague answer, but Mista knows that Giorno is awake and probably lucid. A faint floral scent tickles his nose, and Mista almost sneezes as he shifts on the couch, bringing Giorno with him and wondering what it is about the younger man that makes him feel so damn lucky-- it's not just the literal interpretation of the word, but something much more visceral, like...

...well, Mista's never been one for words. He doesn't quite know how to describe it, but it's like being offered a towel after being under cold water, or like the first prelude to a symphony, or something to that extent. Keeping it simple is a trait that Mista is known for, but Giorno likes to tear down those barriers and inject a whirl of complexities that make his head spin and his heart stop, leaving him stranded in Giorno's wake to grudgingly accept that Giorno is something new, something...different.

Mista wishes he minds this even just a little bit more than he actually does.

So when Giorno turns his head and cranes his neck to place a gentle kiss on his jaw, Mista pretends he doesn't feel the tingle of warmth that the cold lips provide. Giorno, the 'wonderboy' that's brought a new meaning to 'change', Giorno, the one that's brought life to something completely unintentional and made it grow into something that Mista can't quite fathom (nor really cares to).

An early spring.

Giorno walks into the room and finds himself face-to-face with his friends, the scent of freshly baked cake permeating the room and rising towards the ceiling, along with renewed laughter, broken anticipation, and days of planning. He feels embraces, pats on the back, well wishes and unspoken words, reverberating in a silent crescendo that yells:

He stops in his tracks, ushered into the center of the room by his friends-- the first friends that he's made in his life.

His first connections.

His first beginnings.

And Giorno smiles, though it's not a smile that means the coming of anything new, nor is it his customary look that indicates foresight-- it's just a smile, genuine and simple in its sincerity, embarrassed and happy in its transience. It's a smile that he'll remember for the rest of his life.

"Mille grazie."

To Giorno, his friends are the coming of spring. He met them in the wake of the coming season, he fought with them as the frost melted, and he lives with them in the warmth of Naples, day after day, week after week.

He doesn't want it any other way. This is his gift, and this is his future that he'll pass on for years to come.