Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fugo pants desperately as he runs through the rough thicket, his feet bare and his skin taut from the cold, pushing to race him as far away from his home, tears beginning to freeze tracks on his cheeks. Sharp twigs pierce his every move, slicing across his arms and feet as he breaks through the forest line, the wind whipping through his dirtied white hair, with the whisper of a yell floating across the freezing air as his father yells behind him, screaming and shaking his lantern in one hand and his shotgun in the other.

He preaches nonsense as Fugo escapes his wooden abode, in its rotting and putrid state, the walls desolate and damp—he yells of matters most personal straight across his scraggly fields to anyone who will hear his cries. 

“Shame!” his father wails. “Shame on you who tarnish our family name! Who sully our future! Who bares no wife or child!” 

His voice raises goosebumps on his skin, irrelevant to the cold night air.

Fugo can still feel tonight's welts, the dip in his back raw and painful, skin splitting sharply as his back contorts. The subzero air does little in the way of soothing him. His father had grabbed his prize possession– a leather belt with a heavy silver buckle– and walloped him again and again, grunting and huffing at every movement. 

“Those bloody books,” he’d sneered, “you’ll be a farmer like yer dad and me dad. You think you’re better than me, hah?” He had hit harder, riling himself up. Fugo did his best to hold in every gasp and cry, the corners of his eyes wet with tears, kicking against the floor as his hips dug into the table he was bent over. “Think you can go off and write ‘n read ? Think you can make money and leave me here alone ?”

Fugo had tried not to sob, for the tears would egg his father on, and he’d walked to his room on shaking feet and allowed himself to wail only once his face was buried in his pillow, filled with down from his own ducks.

With that memory in mind as fuel, he sprints on, making it to a small clearing where an unkempt dirt road meandered through, and he collapses and groans, picking the thorns and seeds out from his soles, shivering. He sits for a moment, attempting to collect his thoughts, panting and choking on hiccups and sobs, frozen like a fearful mouse, watching the twirling of his breath on the now stagnant air. He admires the way the frost claims all it touches, the way his nose was closing as mucus grew solid, the way anything soft now crunches underfoot, the way his goosebumps were so raised and prominent he could use them to sand wood. 

And, like a fearful mouse, he clenches up when he hears the clattering of a carriage in the distance. 

At once, he scampers for the bushes, his eyes wide with fear. Should he be caught here, he’ll be taken for a prize, surely; he’d had offers presented to his parents before– everybody knew about the curious boy with white hair and red shimmering eyes, pale skin and slender fingers, with a dusting of freckles and long blonde lashes. He’d go for a lot, a rare commodity, but his father refused to let his son become a nobleman’s fodder, instead insisting he’s to work on the farm and marry once he turned 16. Girls had approached him many a time of their volition, but Fugo always felt as though he was destined for more, as though he could climb the ranks. 

Voicing these thoughts to Father turned out to be a horrendous mistake, however, truly, for the magnitude of his rage was much greater than Fugo thought possible. His workload grew tenfold in response, his father determined to familiarise him with working life, to make sure he knew precisely just where he belonged. He raked the barn, sowed seeds, and drew pail after pail from the well which rested half a kilometre away. He’d been forced to cook with his mother, which he found incredibly emasculating regardless of how much he loved her, and went to bed at six, no later. Tonight's argument had truly been the last straw. 

So, Fugo sits in a quivering silence, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the blood in his veins, his back against a tree, listening to the thumping of hoofs growing ever near. He could hear clanking– thick, low, mechanical. The horses sound heavy, and heavy metals meant high quality– Fugo is no simpleton; a nobleman's horse shall pass through any moment now, and his pant-sodden and pitiful self can do nought but hide.

He prays the footman won’t notice him.

The carriage draws closer, closer, and Fugo’s heart beats faster, faster, until he can hear nothing but the swell of his chest. His fingers shake, nay, his whole body trembles , and he hopes the shuddering of loose bark beneath his back shall not alert them. 

He hears displaced snow and dirt squelching as the carriage tracks past, and breathes a short sigh of relief, slumping forward. 

Then, a shout from the horses as they shake and whinny in protest, the footman yanking on the reigns and halting the carriage. Fugo feels his heart skip a sickening beat, his body growing ever colder and acid rising in his throat. 

There’s a creak of the carriage door, and a soft wet sound indicates a small foot resting in the snow, then the other, until the person is fully out of the carriage and onto the path. Fugo clasps his hands tight as he sits as still as he can, listening as he would listen for his father’s footsteps, trying to ignore the whipping wind and the moaning of trees bending in protest. 

There’s a long inhale from the person. Then, a voice so mellow and young, Fugo thought it to be impossible, speaks quietly from behind him.

“Come. Please, present yourself before me.”

Fugo nearly sobs in fear. He sits perfectly still, frozen, and holds his choked cries in just like he’d practised most days. 

The voice beckons again. “Please, I don’t bite. However, I do hate repeating myself.”

Slowly, Fugo pushes himself up from the floor and steps on shaking legs out from the cover of the forest shrubbery. He stares at the ground, unwilling to meet eyes with his enemy, his body screaming to run, to flee, to put his hands around his ribs and curl up where he stood.

Eyes growing glossy, he collapses to his knees, sniffling, adrenaline like ice in his skin. 

“Please,” Fugo cries, touching his forehead to the ground. “Please! I mean you no harm!” Possibilities run through his mind. He could be captured, killed. Or worse, he could be returned home.

There’s a step, then another, until the figure is just in front of him. The first thing he sees are gold-tipped black shoes, more expensive than anything Fugo had ever seen in his life. Perhaps four times the cost of his house. His eyes dare not to trail up, but there’s the feeling of cold fingertips beneath his chin, and Fugo allows his head to be lifted ever so gently to meet the nobleman’s eyes.

Fugo goes colder at the sight.

A boy, no older than himself, holds his gaze, his eyes piercing his own with such an intensity it frightens him right to his core, leaving his body weak and his jaw slack. Though a thick coat of animal fur lays across his shoulders and cloaks his head, he can see locks of gold hair spindling down his neck and face, the same colour as the wheat he’d collect, with eyes as green as sour spring grapes. His skin is pale, blending with the fallen snow, and he can feel long, sharp fingernails poking the joining of his neck and jaw, where his head is anchored up from. The boy reviews him, breaking his gaze, leaning closer and assessing either side of his head.

“How did you know…?” Fugo whispers, shivering, looking straight ahead. His fingertips felt cold, dangerous, like the muzzle of a shotgun, nestled sweetly above his Adam’s apple. The boy makes no change in his posture, still leaning close, almost parallel with his cheek, bringing his lips to his ear. 

“I could smell you. Sweet, delicious, like summer fruit and lemonade,” he mutters, finally breaking his rigidity and stepping back, realigning his gaze with Fugo’s, tilting his head and darting from eye to eye. Fugo’s heart thumps again.

A queer reason, he decides, for he knows he smells unwashed and of blood and dirt. 

“I’m filthy. How could you possibly–”

“Right you are. Come,” he commands once more, silencing him and turning sharply on his heel, taking a step toward his carriage. Fugo, stunned, stays kneeled on the slushy ground, his mouth agape. Surely, he could not be asking to come with. Him , of all people, muddied and wet, an irritating cold spike in his evening plans, no matter how fruity or sweet he’s told he is.

“Pardon?”

The boy pauses mid-step-up into the carriage, turning around with an irritated raise of the brow, as though what he was asking of him was as simple as asking the time. “Come, please. You shall catch a cold.”

Unsure, but more terrified of denying this nobleman, he rises unsteadily to his feet, his bare feet slipping in the icy marsh. “I shall ruin your seats, surely,” Fugo tries to convince the boy otherwise, slowly straightening up, his gait poorly and waivering. “It would be… undignified to be caught in my presence.”

“Then undignified I shall be,” he replies quickly, his word undoubtedly final. He speaks it with such confidence it seems to manifest as law; he has no choice but to comply. So, gingerly, Fugo climbs into the carriage and winces as he sits upon leather pillows. There’s another man sitting in wait, with curly hair and his arms folded, who doesn’t look too surprised at the situation. He stares at the wet marks of his bare feet on the wood with a curl of his lip. 

The boy clambers into the seat next to the man and stares expectantly at him, tapping his feet. Fugo looks at the floor mournfully, and jerks forward as the footman realigns the horses and sends them cantering. 

“Why? Why rescue me?” Fugo queries softly.

“Precisely!” The boy points at him accusingly, accessorised with a stony stare. Fugo is momentarily dumbfounded at his energy, the audaciousness of his response. “You use the word ‘rescue’. I had no clue whether you were in strife or simply nocturnal, scurrying around like some fiend. Honestly, I could only assume you had been in trouble, yes?” The boy leans back. Fugo stares.

“Yes, I was…”

“Well?”

Fugo swallows. He doesn’t feel ready to discuss the events just gone so soon. He deflects, instead moving to learn more about this curious gentleman. “May I be so rude as to ask your name, sir?”

“Marquess Giorno Giovanna.” He smiles placidly.

He considered a baron or a viscount perhaps, but marquess? Fugo stammers over several words before blurting out: “I’m jeopardising your reputation here, your grace. You– you cannot be seen with the likes of me, why, a dirtied and rebellious farm boy, it’s–!” 

“Nonsense!” Giorno waves his hand dismissively. “Not at all. Don’t make me repeat myself. Your presence is plenty welcome,” he folds his hands in his lap and traces over his knuckles, looking out through the sheer curtains. 

The wind is loud, whistling through the gaps in the wood of the carriage. He thinks about the footmen again, how frigid they must be.

“But I don’t…” Fugo starts, attempting to recenter his thoughts. “I don’t understand. Why?”

Giorno turns back and looks up at him through twirling blonde strands of hair. “Because I could save you. Is that not enough?”

“No! I mean–” Fugo panics, waving his hands, “–this is plenty enough! More than, even, sir!” Giorno smiles at his blunder, unclasping his hands and gripping the bench, leaning forward.

“You shall bathe and change, and you shall sleep in the servant's quarters for tonight. We can discuss your arrangements tomorrow. Is that understood? Do you object to this?”

Fugo panics at the sudden instruction. The carriage felt stifling, much too warm now, a combination of the heated gaze of what Fugo assumes to be his butler, and the closeness of the marquess, and though the carriage is hugely spacious, felt as though he were in a pot, set to be boiled and served. 

He thinks of returning to home, however; returning to malnourished livestock and mould in his walls; returning to dry bread and grey water; returning to the rancid stink of his father's mouth, shoved right in his face, bellowing for hours. He weighs his options.

This boy was off-putting and strange, and much too forward. Should he not be afraid of a rogue in the woods? Doesn’t he risk assassination and kidnapping on the regular? Why should a Lord such as he put his trust in some lowly runaway?

But, Fugo allowed himself this foolish moment.

“Yes, your grace.”

Chapter Text

Giorno Giovanna lays across the arms of his sofa chair, groaning, stretched out and lax. “Mista,” he calls out, crossing his legs as he tilts his head back over the armrest. His eyes are greeted by his tan butler, curly and sweet mannered, bowing to meet his gaze.

“Yes, your grace?”

Giorno sighs. “I’m bored.”

Mista rolls his eyes, rising again. “My Lord, if I may, you are always bored. You have paperwork to do.”

Giorno sits up quickly at that, pointing a finger toward his servant. “Why, such an affront to your employer! I have no intentions of opening any of that blasted paperwork.”

“You must, I implore you, sir,” Mista sweeps in, collecting teacups and their saucers off the low table in front of him. He eyes the dregs resting at the bottom, swirling to revel in its deep grape red, but continues. “The social season is upon us. There’s not much time until it’s expected of you to marry and have an heir.”

“You know that to be impossible, Mista,” Giorno eyes him as he works, tracing his every move, watching where his eyes linger, where his fingertips trace. “No one shall divulge in my estate. It’s simply not an option.” 

Mista closes his eyes and shakes his head, shrugging. “You alone shall be your undoing; you cannot say I did not try.”

Giorno sighs as Mista exits and follows languidly, standing and meandering his way to his office; a working space fit for someone of his archetype, for the desk is engraved and adorned with shining bronze, with floor-to-wall bookshelves decorated with antique telescopes and globes. Upon entrance, he assesses the papers and their unbroken wax stamps, groaning at the prospect of writing a response; he throws himself into the plush leather chair behind his desk and skims over the classy handwriting inked onto the envelopes. Various ball invitations and morning teas from a number of barons and earls, requests for his presence at community events, blah blah blah! Giorno couldn’t think of anything worse. “I need a secretary…” he mumbles, organising the letters into piles mentally labelled ‘important’ and ‘waste’. A letter does, however, catch his eye; a request from a common person, sealed only with homemade glue and a sprig of lavender. He smiles at the effort and splits the letter gently, running his long nail beneath the paper seam. Inside, the peasant asks to expand upon the land he resides, currently in Giorno’s name, to better increase his farm’s yield. Giorno grins and stands, ringing his sprung bell tucked into his bookshelf, calling upon Mista. Within the minute, there's a knock on his large oak doors and Mista walks in, hands clasped behind his back.

“What can I do for you, your grace?” He stops a few respectful meters from where Giorno sits at his desk. 

“Tell Narancia and Abbacchio that I’ll be heading for the carriages. We’ve business to attend to.”

“At once, my Lord. I must remark the time of which you wish to pursue this endeavour,” he comments, Giorno scoffing and dismissing him.

“Honestly. Get me my coat and boots when you’re done.”

Mista dutifully obliges, sliding Giorno’s slender feet into his signature gold-tipped heels, insulated with animal pelt to keep him warm in the to-be frigid night. He walks Giorno to the front door, where his footmen wait patiently. A young man, though older than Giorno, bounces on his heels as he waits. Narancia was the name he bore, and Giorno was quite fond of him; he’d occasionally read some books aloud for him to follow along to. He was short and covered in labourers' scars– splinters and rose thorns, as well as burns and dust from the horses and their reigns. He used to be a rotten sod, left to pick-pocket and starve, so Giorno had ordered Mista to take the boy in. Though, still now months after his arrival, he wears an eye patch smelling of menthol and herbs: ointment for an eye infection he just can’t seem to shake. A small vial of opium laid in his bed drawers, should the pain grow worse, too. 

And to Narancia’s left, abruptly so, is a tall and brooding man, with pale blond hair strung up neatly behind his head, a feminine corset sitting as his waistcoat beneath the long black drapes he wears as his coat. He looks down at Giorno, his brow line heavy, and grunts, “I’ve readied the carriage. Narancia shall take the front; I shall man the back.”

“Thank you, Abbacchio,” Giorno pats the breast of his coat once before exiting his estate, bracing the harsh air. It’s a sudden freeze, cold biting at his cheeks, and he quickly throws himself into the leather interior of his carriage, Mista sitting across from him. There’s a boyish ‘hya!’ from Narancia, and the carriage groans under the weight of Abbacchio climbing onto the back. The horses kick into action, the wheels struggling to get any traction on the slush below them, but his thoroughbred horses march onward, toward the thicket next to his manor.

“It’s nippy,” Giorno concurs, hugging himself closer to his coat. Mista offers his gloves, but Giorno declines.

“It’s November, sir. ‘Nippy’ is a placid adjective for the months of nigh,” Mista retorts, leaning back and resting his hands on his hips after pocketing his gloves. Giorno doesn’t miss the way his heavy metal revolver lays across his torso, glinting in the low candlelight.

The open road traverses from a maintained path to his gateway entrance, before traversing onto muddy terrain littered with branches felled in recent storms. The path grows thinner before becoming windy, breaking through into the forest.  

Whilst in his thought, the clopping of hooves and the low light nursing him to rest, he smells something sweet. Something irresistible. He can feel his blood grow warm, his pulse thrumming throughout his veins. He can taste it, too, the flood of saliva, gritty berry seeds against his tongue and gums. Mista quirks a brow at the Lord’s sudden energy.

“My, what big teeth you have, your grace,” he muses. Giorno touches a fingertip to his lips; his eyeteeth have punctured them. Giorno’s eyes flash to and from the windows at the smell, his ears rushing, his heart thumping.

“Stop! Stop the cart,” he huffs, gripping the seats. Mista bangs twice on the wall behind him, and at once Narancia yanks the reigns up, slowing to a halt. 

“My Lord?”

“Wait here,” he murmurs, creeping towards the windows and peering through, then opening the carriage door and stepping out of the cart, fighting the wind off. The snow is not pretty– it squishes more than it crunches and mixes with the dirt beneath it, and he’s thankful for the pelt keeping his feet dry and warm. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose, taking in every scent, receiving the smell of everything that’s walked through or lived in the area in recent times. He can tell wild bunnies and dogs alike roam the area, smell freshly upturned dirt and flowering weeds. He can smell the gunpowder and lavender soap on Mista’s hands, where it plagues the interior of the carriage. He can smell tonight’s blueberry tarts on Abbacchio’s fingers and lips, he can smell the dirt and talcum powder on Narancia. 

But he can sense much, much deeper than that. He can smell the tang of finger limes and cream in Mista’s blood, hear his relaxed pulse if he focuses. He can taste boysenberry on Abbacchio, and orange and lemon in Narancia.  He can hear Narancia picking the threads on his coat, smell the apprehension bleeding from Abbacchio. And he can smell something lurking just nearby. Something sweet, something refreshing. It’s driving him crazy. He hasn’t met another person with a scent so inviting since his last hire. He tries to put words to the scent: strawberries that taste like summer sun and dewy grass of the fields they grew in, with fresh whipped cream, served on scones baked on a clear day, a dashing of fresh lemonade in hand, a talk with one most loved. He smelt like adoration, desperation. He breathed out. He could smell a fear most bitter, an acrid lingering miasma just a few feet in front of him. A pulse deafening his own, thrumming. He heard eyes squeeze shut.

He was not to be lost.

And so, Fugo finds himself walking into an estate larger than he’s ever seen before, his eyes wide, looking over every detail. There are spots of course, where one could wax or dust, but Fugo couldn’t spot these imperfections like Giorno could. The entryway was one large room, a double staircase leading up to the first floor. 

“Where’s Sheila E?” Giorno paces, motioning for Mista to take his coat, then folding his arms. “We have a guest. Tell her she needs to make up a bedroom, and– oh, there she is.”

“Not a moment, your grace.” The voice belonging to Sheila E made herself known, dusting her hands onto her apron and stepping into the hall from a corridor from Fugo’s right. Giorno smiled softly, greeting her and led her to Fugo by the hand, to which she offered a curtsy in return. 

“Our guest would like a room for the night.”

“Of course,” she responds, looking up at Fugo. Grey, hardened eyes bore into Fugo’s shaking ones, and he found it difficult to maintain eye contact with such a piercing stare. Long braids were pinned into intricate patterns across her head, along with a floor-length apron and working gown. She seemed brutish and hardened underneath her soft maiden exterior, and though Fugo couldn’t quite make out the shape across her left eye, there was definitely a prominent scar mottling the skin.

She clapped her blistering hands together. “I’ll boil some water for your bath and lay out some spare bed clothes for you.”

“Oh, that’s, well, thank you,” Fugo stutters out, stepping back and looking at Giorno, “I can’t quite believe this to- to be real yet, if I may. I just- I fear as though this may be a dream, coinciding with hypothermia, or- or a disease.”

“Oh, it is real,” Giorno says offhandedly.

“But why? I still do not understand why!” Fugo raises his voice, desperate for answers. He feels a pinprick of anger in his chest, having his questions go unanswered, but that fizzles out as Mista steps forward, protectively. Fugo did not mean to yell. 

“The Lord's word is final, sir,” he counters. “If he wishes you to join us, you stay as long or as short as he wishes. Capiche?” Fugo, still not really understanding or comprehending the motive or compassion to bathe and clothe him, just nods and bows. 

“Well, thank you, then. I owe you my life,” he says more out of respect than sincerity.

There’s a glimmer in Giorno’s eye, and for a moment, he stays still, unblinking. “Yes,” he murmurs. “You do.”

Chapter Text

Fugo is flabbergasted by just how gilded every room seems to be as he walks into the bathroom of his bedroom, Sheila E carrying buckets of boiling water in tow and replacing the bar of soap beside the porcelain bath. Every surface seemed to shine and glint, and he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. He recoils in faint disgust, horrified at the beige tinge his dirtied hair had taken, and the blotchy redness of his skin. Sheila E paid no mind. She tips the buckets, mindful not to slosh water anywhere, and works the cold and hot until the bath is no longer boiling. She pats her hands and retrieves spare bedclothes for him, setting them on his dresser, and then returning. 

“I shall set your room now,” she informs Fugo, who peered at her from behind the ajar bathroom door, half-decent. “Your bed clothes shall be laid out for you. Should you need any help, please ring the servant’s bell on the wall, and I’ll attend to you when I can.”

With a nod and a sigh, Fugo sinks into the bath, wonderfully deep and deliciously warm, soothing the cuts on his soles and the aching in his knees and shoulders. He submerges himself, squeezing his eyes shut, listening to the rushing of warm water in his ears and feeling the tingle of hot water on his cold cheeks. He could drown happy, here. 

Sheila E, having taken his clothes (what little he was wearing anyway), and folded them neatly away into a woven wash basket, whisked herself away as efficiently as ever, wrapping up the dusting linen sheets and laying out fresh ones, fluffing the goose down pillows and polishing the wooden four-poster frame, gathering cobwebs from the corners and dusting the trim curtains surrounding the frame of the bed. Once satisfied with her work, she walks briskly to the laundry room on the ground floor, bouncing the basket on her hip, descending the flights of stairs and heading to the laundry room with a soft pitter-patter of her work shoes on the tiled floors. A sweet, low voice calls out from the kitchen beside her wash station, a mellow voice humming through the halls.

“How you don’t tire, I’ll never understand, my dear,” a shadow appears at the doorway, and Sheila E looks up to see the man. He wears a homely smile, dressed to the nines in pristine chef wear, with nothing but flour across the apron. His raven bob sits awry in his busy state, a dusting of sugar peppered in his square fringe, and his eyes crinkle affectionately. Sheila E nods.

“I’m weary, Bruno,” she said, fetching previously filled buckets and tipping the water out. It was too cold to wash; the water would freeze. “I do tire, you know. I shan’t allow any of you to see it, however.”

Bruno gives a hearty chuckle. “Do you have many tasks for this evening?”

“Nay, only cleaning tonight’s dessert dishes, though Mista will join me for that. Otherwise, I am on call for the lord and his guest.”

“Hmm, another peculiar whim of his,” Bruno sighs, beckoning Sheila E into the kitchen with a curl of his finger. She pats her hands on her apron and hurries in, looking at the pastry dishes amid their preparation. Chilled eggs sit in small ramekin bowls, with silver measuring cups lying patiently for their turn. 

“Wash, please. Your hands shall be dusty,” he asks, pointing to the sink. It was one of the lucky basins that was fitted with a water tank, and Sheila E always took great delight in washing with ease. Their grace Giorno kept his finances to his accountant only, but he seemed to be in great possession, for all bathrooms soon should have their tanks to draw from. She rinses her hands as Bruno continues to ramble, folding his flour and yeast together. “Our lord confuses me so. Most frequently he shall spout strange revelations or descriptions. Lo and behold, he has bought another guest home through his olfactory endeavours. Though, I suppose all of us were recruited in the same manner.”

“..I believe so,” she muses. “I’ll never forget how he described me.”

“Oh? Pray tell, miss,” Bruno smiles, working swiftly, but still managing to meet Sheila E’s eyes as she talks.

She takes a moment to recall and gather her words.“‘Like plums and lemon grass’, he’d said. ‘A vicious twang with a soft underbelly. Like a farewell at the dusk of summer,’” she quotes, pausing her movements. Bruno looks over at her. 

“He has a way with words,” he says, laughing softly under his breath. “I, too, remember exactly what he told me.”

“Go on?”

Bruno lifted his head and puffed out his chest in a haughty manner, playfully mocking his Lord.“Salt, harsh and wind-whipped, cracked open to reveal soft, warm yolk. A blanket of seaweed, drifting you to sleep on the waves, only to wake in the clouds.”

Sheila E breathed out a chuckle. “Had you walked straight back from your crabbing nets?”

Bruno pauses as he returns to his station. “I hadn’t, no. I hadn’t seen the sea in many years before I met our grace. It stunned me. It struck me with the essence of divinity. Cooking for him shall never repay the enlightenment he has served to me.”

“Divinity, hm?” Sheila E thinks. “In that case– amen.”

Fugo drips his way into his designated room, frightened beyond all belief at the reprimand he may receive for wetting the floorboards or dirtying the room. He’d soaked for as long as he could, the water leaving his lips blue and his skin taut after it had cooled, and he shivered. He notices the fresh sheets laid without so much as a wrinkle or discrepancy in the fabric. Sheila E had also, at some point, left a steaming tea on the intricately carved bedside table, which bore folded nightclothes and spare linen. He towels his hair off, his locks now back to their appropriate platinum white as opposed to their dirtied tinge earlier in the eve. He slips on the drawers, and he shivers at the smooth texture as he ties the drawstring at the hips, his teeth chattering at the cold and the sweet feeling of soft clothing on warm, clean, supple skin. He’d been so used to itching wool and rough woven linen that fresh woven cotton was a delicious treat. His nightgown was much the same, though reminiscent of childhood and slightly embarrassing, as the gown flowed neatly to his ankles. He tightens the strings at his wrists and sits, combing his hair with his fingers to tame the flyways and pass the time.

He sits thinking at the incredulousness of it all. This gentleman, this nobleman, with servants who did not fear him but jumped to protect at the slightest raise of a voice; the manor of which resided no older landlord or parent; the willingness to invite him in. He shivered in fear— he felt as though he was going to be slaughtered. 

He was washed of dirt, filled with broth, and soon shall feed whatever beast lurks in the manor yard. 

He sips the tea.

He did not wish to take advantage of this opportunity, but the young Lord’s astute resignation and lack of fear scared him to his very core. He did not waver at the sight of him so poorly in his wake. He did not question his eyes, the way they jitter back and forth, as if they were tracking his very thoughts. He did not send someone to observe him as he bathed, should he steal from his luxuriously adorned facilities. 

Fugo determines, as the bedroom door opens and Giorno strides in, that this marquess is dangerous. And, that the marquess knows it.

“Ah, Sir Pannacotta,” Giorno walks with his back straight, and a smile upon his lips, still dressed in his day clothes. Without the large coat, Fugo can see now he’s dressed in a sleek matte waistcoat and deep forest green undershirt, a lovely patterned black cravat pluming from his chest. He looks up, but Fugo can’t hold his gaze. He’s never been called sir in his life. “You fair such astounding features, now that I am privy to see them; I thank you for your trusting.”

Fugo feels an immense pressure, a force, to look back up at the Lord. He settles on flicking back and forth between the roaring fire and the green of his eyes, keeping his face pointed towards the floor. “W-Well, likewise; unto me, you bid your trust,” Fugo says shakily, wringing his hands. They’re numb from the heat of the teacup. Giorno looks at him, a small smile on his face, and says nothing. After thirty seconds, of which felt like lifetimes for Fugo, he walks over to a floral chair in graceful strides, the chair creaking on its long four legs as he sits, and crosses a leg over the other. 

“I wish to know of the conditions that led you to me this evening.” He doesn’t pose this like a query. It’s a command. Fugo recites it as if he were at confession.

“My father and I do not see eye to eye— he does not see the value in education, of– of literacy, and of history. I am to be a farmer's son and nothing more. I shall marry, and my wife shall bear a son, who shall no doubt be a farmer’s son as well. We argued many a time about this. This evening he punished me to tears, I’m sure you can still see,” Fugo adds meekly, still wringing his hands as though he wished to deglove his fingers. “I vowed to make my escape.”

“You poor thing. Though, I must say, you’re foolish!” Giorno leans back, eyes closed and tapping his raised foot. “You’d be a snivelling blue mess, should I not have discovered you. Your blood would have become solid.”

“Simply another means to an escape, my lord,” Fugo expresses mournfully, daring not to reach for his saucer and tea, sitting frightfully still. Giorno still lays back in the chair, thinking. After a moment, he cracks his eyes open ever so slightly.

“You read?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what is it you read?” Giorno asks. Fugo thinks for a moment, raking through his memory.

“My favourite was always ‘Treasure Island’ in my younger years. I must say, I am a fan of Mark Twain, for his books were always most accessible to me,” Fugo reminisces and looks down once more. “But I liked ‘Beyond Good and Evil’,” he finishes with a nod. Giorno grins, closing his eyes once more.

“Ah, yes. Mr. Friedrich Nietzsche, I don’t mind his publications,” he ponders, smiling. “But he was right, yes; we should look beyond words, beyond what philosophers determine for this world, of will to power.”

“My father never thought intricately; thus, he did not understand my yearning for it,” Fugo jests, and Giorno chuckles. The tinkling laugh, so haughty but honest, made Fugo look toward the boy.

“I believe I’m beginning to garner an idea of the man your father may be. You speak well, then, due to these readings?”

“I thought that if I were to enter the world of the gifted, I should sound as such. But please, forgive any misspeaking, should I be so selfish to request.”

Giorno smirks. “On one occasion.”

Fugo, having lost himself in the opportunity for conversation, his first in many months, feels the shiver of fear he thought he’d rid himself of. He dreads the Lord’s next words. “Yes, your grace?”

“Work for me.”

Chapter Text

The Autumn sun wakes late, and if Fugo thought he would too, he was sorely mistaken. He dreams quietly, perfectly still beneath a woven quilt and his head swamped between down pillows, tranquillity undisturbed only by the wind whistling past the locked windows. The pressure of the quilt is lovely, it’s comforting, like snuggling with Mother, or hugging the cows in their paddocks. The mattress sinks and moulds around him, holding him tight, close. He’s safe here, he feels, as he continues to rest his weary head, blissfully forgetful of the events that had transpired the night before.

He dreams of soft rolling clouds, swimming through them and brushing the sun, warm like the skin of an oil lamp, clouds soft like the fur of a kitten. His hair is splayed everywhere, messy and knotted, its thin density doing little to help weigh down his flyaway hairs. He looks like a ruffled duckling– small, sweet, and utterly content. 

This, however, does not last long.

His door creaks open at an eye-watering hour– four-thirty in the morn– which does little to stir Fugo. It would take much to wake him from this slumber. He sleeps heavily, to begin with, but adorned in heavy and soft fabrics, he may sleep for weeks if given permission. His brain was finally getting a break from the chaos and riffraff from home. 

Mista trails into the room, tentatively at first. He mentally coos to himself at the sight of Fugo, dusty cheeked and up to his neck in bedding, crossing the room in long strides. He opens the curtains, tying them back with soft braided tiebacks, then dusting his hands on his black slacks, crease-free as always, matching his ever-clean waistcoat, a small pocket watch in his breast pocket.

“Pannacotta,” he murmurs, walking over to the bedside. Fugo, predictably, snoozes onwards. But the moment Mista places a delicate hand on his shoulder and shakes, Fugo jolts awake, sitting upright and momentarily losing sight of where he is. He takes a long look at his sheets and his nightgown, revelling in their texture, and scans the large dark room frantically, looking up for answers as the lovely honey-eyed Mista leans over and tilts his head. “Awake?”

“Ghh…” 

He remembers now, yes: the curious nobleman, no, the marquess , swept him away like a princess; bathed and put to bed. He groans, somewhat embarrassed,his heart racing. “Yes, yes. I am. My apologies, uh… please, call me, um, Fugo.”

Though a tad dark, the candles Mista has lit in the hallway shine dimly in, giving Fugo a look at whom he was talking with. The butler smiled.

“Alright. My name is Mista, and I serve as the head butler of this estate. The Lord has requested breakfast with you today, as it happens. You’ll begin your work this morning, a small task to practice, so please,” he explains, just as Sheila E bustles into the room with a handful of clothes, nearly tripping over her feet, “dress and make your way downstairs. You shall meet the rest of the staff and join us in chores to prepare for breakfast.”

Fugo nods wearily, accepting the clothes from Sheila E, bewildered as they both exit the room. 

He takes a moment to reflect on his happenstance, the absolute incredulity of his situation. He was overwhelmed, to put it frankly. Rooms larger than entire homes. More gold than King Midas could ever dream to own. Antiques that would make even his Grandmother jealous. And the Lord wanted him ! It was downright ridiculous. What could this man, who had everything, want from him? Fugo shuddered. It’d occurred that perhaps he wasn’t up to the tasks the Lord wanted to present to him. He already deemed the Lord peculiar, what with the smelling and the seemed route of acquiring staff he’d chosen to travel. 

He attempts to stop his brain from spinning, and decides to appreciate what he has in this moment, instead. He stands on sore legs, full of sorrow in leaving the warm embrace of the bed, but walks to the wooden vanity and looks; and by grace, his hair has never looked worse. He opens the drawers, which slide smoothly open, never catching or squeaking. He tames it with a heavy silver brush, the horsehair bristles a delight to feel on his scalp. His bangs settle neatly over his forehead, the white strands flowing down his nose and shoulders like snow. He pulls the nightgown off, soft as ever, if not now crinkled, and puts on the thin undershirt, gracefully tying his knots. Next is his long-sleeved shirt, with beautifully stitched ruffles across the chest seams, and he buttons his waistcoat across it. He sits to put his slacks and shoes on, slightly heeled with a neat silver buckle, and dons the warm, lined coat. He’s never been spoilt enough to own a coat, much less a waistcoat with buttons, and he revels at his appearance in the mirror. He thinks he might even look nice. He turns to assess his outfit, to get a good look at himself. He was quite thin, he recognised, having not seen his full body mirrored in a long while. His ankles, whilst modestly covered, still jutted in the leather, and his shoulders sank in the excess material of the shirt. He wonders if it would be proper for his hair to be shorter, to not graze his shoulders as it does now, but the marquess himself had flowing locks much longer than his own, so Fugo walks out the room with a sense of confidence unbeknown to him before, however gauntly he may appear. 

The manor is dark, the odd candelabra making light for which shadows purchase, and Fugo steps uneasily into the openness of the hallway, confidence waning. He feels small yet intrusive as he pads down the carpeted hall, shrinking inwards on himself. He descends the staircase, nearly jumping out of his skin when he sees where a tall man waits for him. Fugo tenses slightly as he gets closer and takes in the man’s hard stare.

“It’s wonderful to finally meet you, esteemed guest.” For an effeminate-looking man, he speaks rather lowly, though mellow, not gravelly or harsh like other men he knew. It does not calm Fugo, however. The statement does not appear to be false, though– Fugo senses no lie, no hidden disdain in his face. “My name is Leone Abbacchio. Please, do follow me to the supply room. You’ll be joining me in sweeping out the ashes from the fireplaces and lighting new ones. Don yourself in an apron,” he explains, walking past Fugo and past the staircase, behind which is a door bearing a bronze handle, which creaks and screeches as he twists. He grimaces. “I told Narancia to oil that already, for God’s sake…” 

Fugo has no time to think or interpret the man, only time to rush behind his billowing robes and let himself be led to the supply closet. He coughs as he steps in, cobwebs littering old tubes and cans, bottles of strange liquids hosting unknown sediment that floats in their wake. Abbacchio grabs a metal dustpan and thrusts it in Fugo’s direction– a thick wooden brush, thick with boar hairs and full of soot, jostles in the pan. He then grabs his own and sidesteps Fugo to exit, pointing out to him the few black aprons that sat on an old hook. They both grab one, Abbacchio flicking his hair up into a curling bun beneath his ears. Fugo doesn’t have ribbon to tie his hair, and he just knows he’ll fumble enough to dye his hair black.

“Now,” the man– Abbacchio– continues, walking to the front of the staircase, tying his apron strings into a neat bow at the back, “There will be several rooms on either side containing fireplaces, on all three floors. Many are simply empty spare rooms for storage or hobby rooms. Only relight the fires of which there lays soot beneath it. We shan’t waste wood on dusting rooms,” he mutters. Fugo wonders if it’s simply early in the morning, or if his voice is always that deep. “You shall take the left rooms, and I the right. Understood?”

Fugo sways with fatigue and the sternness of his voice, nodding. “Understood, sir.” 

The front-most room is a large sitting area, with grand ceilings and beautiful floral couches in a soft shade of green, trimmed with gold, as most of the furniture in the estate is. A grand piano sits in the corner of the room near large arched windows and soft drawn silk curtains. Fugo wishes someday he could learn the piano.

He walks over to inspect the fireplace, removing the grate and sweeping the ashes out. He takes a moment to understand a good technique and to cease flicking his wrist in such a way that the soot projectiles across his face and hair. He groans, attempting to dust it off, but it simply spreads in lovely charcoal streaks. How would the Lord react to him, so dirty already at this hour in the morning! Filling the pan, he tips the waste into the burlap bag he took along with the apron and gently lays the ashes at the bottom. The last thing he needed was for it to plume across the floor. Grabbing a few small cuts of wood, he lays them in the fireplace, strikes the matches provided, and builds the larger logs on top as the flames swallow up the smaller fuel. His face warms as the intensity grows. He smiles, watching the flames dance. 

He moves from room to room, and a few he does not have to do; in there only lays cloth-covered furniture and cobwebbed shelves. 

After he reaches the third floor, he faces with two large double doors, engraved with swirls and sigils Fugo had never come across. Hesitantly, he pushes one door open and nearly drops the ashy sack he holds as the room is revealed to him.

The library, as it turns out, is larger than anything Fugo had come across before. In the centre lay two comfortable leather seats, plush and full of stuffing, with a low-sitting tea table on a grand red and golden carpet. Behind them is a dark fireplace, its brick chimney stretching to the ceiling in front of the twin staircase that ascended either side of the sitting space. Books adorn the chimney on shelves, small candles lit safely out the way, and shelves stretch as high as possible, packed to the brim with books and sorted by genre. To the left– nonfiction and historical books as well as architectural and medical studies, embossed in their sets, with small relevant decorations on their shelves–, Fugo notes a carefully constructed lizard skeleton displayed on a stand, in front of Charles Darwin’s ‘On the Origin of Species’. He ties the bag and places the dustpan down gently, in awe, and steps into the room, jaw slack and eyes wide. He tip-toes around, his hand on the banister of the stairs as he pads closer to the shelves, eating up as many of the titles and spine art as he can. Engrossed with the revelation of knowledge, his fingers twitch, and he reaches out to touch one of the spines.

He, consequently so, yelps and jumps as he hears a voice from behind him. 

“I thought you’d enjoy this place,” Giorno Giovanna says as he walks closer, tying his dressing-gown ties around his waist. Fugo’s knees buckle in fear, and he sits on the stairs, his heart thumping. He shouldn’t be in here, but how did Giorno know? The doors are closed, and it’s as early as five-thirty, and Fugo knows that breakfast is nowhere near done. He’d been dead silent, too, since the marquess slept on the highest floor.

But had he slept? His hair was perfect, nothing improper– he bore no sleep lines nor puffy eyes– and his voice was as mellow as the first time he’d heard it, no crackles or depth about it. His skin bore no wrinkles. His lips showed no cracks.

“My– My Lord, I did not mean to loiter,” Fugo stammers out an apology, his voice scratching his throat; he’d not spoken a word since parting with Abbacchio. “I merely, uh, I was…” Fugo feels his skin grow cold as Giorno pierces him with his cold resting face, his lips straight and thin. Fugo’s head is spinning, and his nails are scratching at his arms as he attempts to justify himself. Giorno steps closer, tilting his head. He decides on a word. 

“Enthralled.”

“P-Pardon?” Fugo whispers. Giorno offers his hand to Fugo.

“You were enthralled. It means, “captured fascination”,” Giorno explains, helping Fugo to his feet. “You, who longs for knowledge and literature, stumbling across my collection, which I must say, I am proud of,” Giorno laughs softly, stepping back and admiring his bounty of books. “There are some real treasures in here.”

“No doubt…” Fugo mutters. Giorno looks back at him with a brow quirked, and Fugo stands straight. “E-Er, no doubt, sir.”

Giorno grins. “That’s more like it. Come, sit with me,” he gestures to the armchairs to their right. Fugo excuses himself as he unties his apron, folding it and resting it with the sack of ash and timber, and cringes as he recalls the soot in his hair and painted across his face. He goes and sits in the armchair, Giorno already swinging his legs across the armrest, leaning his head on the other. He looks at Fugo, scanning him from head to toe. 

“Hm, those are some of Mista’s clothes. I’d have preferred something more in line with your persona, but I’m much too short to supply you clothes for that. You would have your ankles out,” Giorno jokes, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Fugo smiles to himself.

“How did you know I was here, my Lord?” He asks quietly, looking over at Giorno and swallowing nervously. He sits up, looking at Fugo, that intense searing gaze seeming to almost pass right through him, as though he was looking at the chair which held him.

“I could smell you,” he answers bluntly. Fugo swallows, taken aback and unsure. He sits in a half minute of silence before Giorno speaks again. “The lingering scent of gunpowder, it’s most unpleasant. I do tell Mista to store his ammunition away from his clothes and skin, however, that man has a fixation. He won’t let his darling revolver out of sight,” he sighs. “But the lavender he bears, now, that suits you. A charming touch of purple to the otherwise red tinge your skin and eyes hold. I could smell the ash as well, of course. Terribly overpowering. I could hardly sense the strawberries and lemon you hold naturally,” he chatters on, waving his hands in explanation. 

“You could smell all that from your room?” Fugo enquires, both fascinated and perplexed. 

“Oh, so much more, my dear newcomer. I could smell your fascination. And I could smell the rush of your blood as surprise washed over you,” Giorno stands, pacing slowly before turning to face Fugo, standing directly in front of him, looking down. Fugo sits back, his heart thumping, his back flat against the chair and his hands on both armrests. “I can smell that you fear me. That you are scared. I can hear your heart, just as clearly,” he comments quietly. Fugo can’t hold his gaze. He stares instead at Giorno’s flowing hair and ruby earrings. “Thump, thump. Thump, thump,” he continues, in sync with Fugo’s. Fugo shivers. 

“How…?” he says, almost silently. Giorno leans down and takes Fugo’s jaw in his hand, tilting his head to inspect all angles of his pale skin, every lash, every crease on his lip, every fold of his eyes, which were forced to look upwards at him. Giorno’s pale green eyes were flecked with blue, only now noticed as he was drawn close. His jittering rosewood eyes were entirely captured. Giorno smiles softly, letting him go and patting his head. Fugo swears his teeth are sharp, but concludes his fear is warping his mind. 

“That’s for you to figure out,” he says, before dropping his hand. He walks toward the double doors. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”

Fugo sits, heart thumping. He knows this now— he must investigate Giorno Giovanna.

Chapter Text

Giorno sits at the head of his ostentatiously long mahogany table; at the other end, Mista pulls a wooden dining chair for Fugo to tenderly place himself into. He has to squint to make out Giorno– his eyes are hardly up to standard, and he has long neglected the notion of getting glasses. His iris’ dance as he assesses the fuzzy green and gold of the boy across from him. Even from here, he can see the grin he bears. It’s a sly, mischievous smirk, as though he knows something Fugo doesn’t, and it unnerves him, makes him sweat in his borrowed clothes. 

Out prances a lovely chef with Sheila E at his side, silver meal trays on equally polished food carts, who pulls up besides Fugo and covering the table with dishes. First revealed were piles of steaming pancakes and fresh whipped cream, topped with blueberries from last night's dessert as well as fresh boysenberries. Bacon and high-quality breakfast hams laid in perfectly browned stacks, and eggs wobbled in their wake; ranging from soft-boiled to fried to tiny cups of hard-boiled quail eggs. Ripe red tomatoes and butter-soaked, herb-infused mushrooms graced his nose too– and in total honestly, Fugo felt himself become rather ill at the sudden scent of the decadent meal. He’d never seen a feast quite like this. 

“The Lord did not know which breakfast style suited your fancy,” Mista explains, as the chef and Sheila E place their trays and pour fresh orange juice into one glass, then milk into a slightly smaller and rounder one. “We have tried to provide you with as many options as feasible. Please, do help yourself.”

Fugo nods weakly, timid under so many intense gazes, and reaches to serve himself some fried eggs and pancakes. He smiles as he swipes a finger through the dollop of cream, and savours its sugary taste (to the disapproving glance of the servants, admonishing his table manners). His mother used to whip cream at home when they could afford to keep cows, and he associated her with airy cream and strawberries. After grabbing what he deems a respectable amount– not enough to intrude, not too little to offend– he sits, and frets over which of the served forks and knives to use, as they lay in their triads. Mista kindly steps forward, noticing his qualms, and removes the unnecessary cutlery, leaving him with just one knife and fork, a small teaspoon, and a skewer. With that, Fugo nods in a show of thanks and delves into the food. 

It’s masterful cooking, really. He can taste the love and passion the chef has for his craft, the gentle tenderness in which each ingredient is handled, loved until its form takes chemical change; irreversible, beautiful. Fugo thinks he’s never eaten anything better in his life. He at least knows better to speak with his mouth full (something his father often forgot), so he swallows and turns his head to the dark-haired cook. Next to him, a similarly raven boy bounces on his toes, arms behind his back as though he were done up in chains, and Fugo holds back a snicker as he notices the boy’s gaze fixed directly on the plate of bacon and hams. The boy looks at him and grins, but makes no effort to conceal his desire to start upon his breakfast.

“Erm, chef…” Fugo begins. The cook looks his way, smiling and giving him a curt bow.

“Bruno Bucciarati at your service, Mr Pannacotta. A wonderful surname you have been born into, indeed– the Pannacotta is a wondrous dessert. I shall have to make it for you sometime,” he says, charmingly. Fugo smiles and nods, but doesn’t allow himself to be allured, nor, lured in by this display of charisma. 

“Breakfast is simply remarkable, Mr Bucciarati, sir. You have a talent and a passion. I can taste it.”

Bruno preens under the praise, his eyes crinkling as he grins. “That I do. Please, enjoy.”

Fugo goes to return to his meal, and his eyes linger on Giorno at the head. He’s smiling, Fugo thinks. He can’t quite tell, perturbed by the fact he cannot see his expression properly. But, unmistakably, there’s a severe lack of plating or food in front of the marquess– he cannot even see a cup before him. 

“Will… you eat, my lord?” Fugo asks, fear creeping up his spine again. Giorno puts his head in his palm, elbow resting on the table, and shakes his head. He smiles as he talks. 

“I fear not. I have eaten already. Please, continue.”

Fugo swallows, nodding and returning his shaking hand to his bread and eggs, appetite slowly fizzling out, but too anxious to ignore an order from the Lord.

“I must confess, my Lord,” Fugo starts, after a few moments of silence, “I cannot make you out from here. My eyes, they fail me at such length.”

Giorno shakes his head, huffing a laugh. “We will have you done up for some eyeglasses then.” Standing, he leaves the piles of food to Fugo, his waxed shoes clacking as he walks over to the corridor. “Let us talk in my office, once you have finished. I will excuse you from chores for this morning.”

Fugo has half a mind to never leave the table, but regretfully, he eventually stands and is lead to Giorno’s office by Mista. As he leaves, he can hear Bruno tell the young boy he can help himself to the leftovers.

Giorno’s office had a warm fire going, one which Abbacchio had ignited, which helped with Fugo’s nervous tremors somewhat. He sits aside from Giorno, this time at a more intimate distance apart, and watches as Giorno splays himself across the armrests. 

“My apologies for my rudeness, this morning,” Giorno begins, boyish and all leg as he stretches, his gold braid swinging as he rocks. “I have been up since rather early. I fear I already ate before breakfast. However, I’m pleased to see you eating and bright this morning. How are you feeling? I understand this change must be… severe, at least. A wild, fantastical change from the life you’d been entertaining until now.”

Fugo gulps. He has questions to ask, queries to make, requests to inquire upon, but feels paralysed– avoiding the question would be rather rude, though, so he sorts through all his thoughts and selects his words carefully. 

“I feel… odd. As though I may be dreaming still. I know we’ve had this conversation, as if every hour I feel strange and incredulous, but I implore you to understand how large a change this is,” Fugo says honestly. Giorno knows it, too, for he sits up straight in his chair, focusing on Fugo’s face.

“When one lies, their face, their body, they speak truth for the individual. Your body composition changes,” Giorno explains. “I can smell it . You have not lied to me yet. I applaud you for placing your full trust in me.”

It was not entirely full trust– just what Fugo allowed to be exposed. He sidesteps the verbal bait Giorno was putting forth. “I have a question, if I may be so selfish?”

“Why, of course.”

“That boy in the dining hall, who is he?”

Giorno chuckles an airy laugh. “Ah, our lovely Narancia, the maintenance worker and gardener. He has a rather large appetite, yes, my apologies for his overbearing excitement. Though he is older than us, he is still growing. Now, about your position here,” he stands and heads for his desk, sifting through piles of papers and inked replies to letters past. “I wish for you to become my secretary. I’m in dire need of one, and the ladies I’ve tried to hire have all quit in favour of positions elsewhere,” he says, tinting his voice with mournfulness, and he places his head in his hands. “They did not… how do I put this. Find comfort in me, as a boss. They took badly to some personal matters and connections.”

“How terribly saddening.” Fugo responds tentatively. He certainly wasn’t selling the position to him.

“Indeed. I worry about them still, with this Jack the Ripper about. I pray I do not read their names in the papers, should the time come they are found.”

Fugo shivered. The Ripper had been active for a few months now, and it weighed on his conscience. He fears the day he turns a corner to discover the viscera of a woman once breathing. 

“What would the secretary work entail, my lord?”

“Replying and sorting my letters, for one,” he groans, straightening them into a neat pile. “There’s far too many. Condolence parties, the so-called ‘social season’, I am just sick to death of it! I wish to only attend what will benefit those around me. Charity parties and balls I will always attend and donate to. Private balls, I will not!” He exclaims. “Far too many proclivities take place. Women in short-cut dresses. Men practically hung from their hookahs. It disgusts me. I want to be approachable to all classes,” he explains, rather passionately. Fugo realises, with a pinprick of horror, that this passion is merely Giorno behaving humanely, not as this caricature of normalcy he seems to try to portray to others. He shivers and continues.

“As I grow to learn and understand you, my Lord, this will become a much faster process, I assure you.”

“Ahh,” Giorno sighs and leans across his chair once more, “I admire your intuitiveness. I also have regular dietary deliveries. I need you to account for that for me, and note when more is necessary.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

“You may liaise with my accountant for that. I have particular funds for these deliveries. Mr Murolo is a finicky piece of work, but he has a masterful mind when it comes to numbers.”

Fugo wonders what kind of man he was to be ‘masterful’ to Giorno. He wonders if he himself could ever don the title of ‘masterful.’

“Of course, your pay will not be monetary, but in exchange for your living and dining here at my estate. Should I choose to employ you out of this condition, you can earn a wage.”

“I don’t care for money, sir. I am content with the silken clothes you dress me in and the food prepared for me. Such life is a luxury.”

Giorno grins, toothy as always. “Indeed. I’m glad we see eye to eye.”

Fugo smiles and nods, but he has never felt further from it. He exits Giorno’s office, his large scrawling signature practically carved into the contract on Giorno’s desk, the weight of his decision heavy on his shoulders.

Eventually making it back to the room he was assigned to, he lands flat on his back on his bed, sinking into the sheets, groaning and willing his heart to stop beating so heavily. How was it, that just a handful of hours earlier, he was enslaved to his father's farm and fury, weeping into canvas pillows? Even his back was still yet to heal from the blows of his belt. It sat uncomfortable in his full belly, the sweetness of his staff and the care he was shown, as though making up for shortcomings elsewhere, yet to be unearthed, staff and Lord waiting to catch his prying eyes, or his straying fingers. Though the hours tick on, he cannot shake this feeling from his bones.

Chapter Text

Fugo sits in his Lord’s plush office chair, feeling wildly out of place. Giorno comes into the room not a moment later, holding a small leather pouch. He hadn’t forgotten their conversation of a few days prior. 

“I have many spare eyeglasses,” he mentions, and takes the thin frames out of their case. For a man with a gaze as piercing as his own, though, Fugo doubts they are his. He doesn’t question why he owns them. The lenses are small and oval, and the frames wiry in their stature. He slips them onto Fugo’s face, the arms of the glasses tracing sparks down either side of Fugo’s head. They’re a little less than the prescription he needs, still having to hold papers a little close to read, but he hardly has to be face to face with Giorno to see him now. The marquess smiles at him, gaze lingering for a moment, before grabbing a book from his non-fiction section (up the stairs, to the right,) and sitting on the settee near the windows, settling into his cup of tea and beginning to read. 

“They’re a little less than what I require, but I am very grateful nonetheless,” Fugo thanks his Lord, looking down at the pile of letters and paperwork he must sort through. Giorno gazes down at him pensively from his lounge spot, but doesn’t comment further. 

Fugo starts by categorising the letters. Paperwork, deeds, and legal papers go in one pile; the letters, and invitations, in another. There’s a miscellaneous pile to his right– postcards and advertisements of that nature rest there. 

The paperwork is easy to look at, if not for Fugo’s lack of understanding of Giorno’s personal life. He doesn’t know the estate’s address nor however many properties or acres he owns, let alone his birthdate or banking details. 

“Say; when shall I meet Mr Murolo, my Lord?” Fugo asks, looking at a letter sent from a charity. He puts it in the ‘invitations’ pile. Giorno lays his head back and thinks for a moment.

“Hmm. You two should become acquainted fairly soon, I think, so perhaps I’ll ask Mista to invite him for morning tea one of these days.”

“What kind of man is he, Mr Murolo?”

Giorno laughs softly. “He is an eccentric fellow. Conformity is not his style– he often disregards status and wealth, or social pressures. He does not ever refer to me as Lord or Sir, no! He is a strange, disrespectful little cat,” Giorno describes him effervescingly, waving his hands and scrunching his blonde brows. “He has the most curious wardrobe, too, might I add. I’ve never seen such a decorated top hat in my life, I have not!”

Coming from a man currently dressed in a dusty pink suit with a large jade brooch, Fugo gets the impression Giorno’s description of Mr Murolo may not be as over-embellished as once thought. Fugo smiles as he grabs the letter opener. He slides it beneath the wax stamp of a charity invite, and it slides through like soft butter. “I shall enjoy meeting him, then.”

Giorno nods, before turning back to his book. “You shall.”

It turns out, Fugo had little to worry about in the way of responding. Half of the letters overran their due dates for replies, and though it pained Fugo to throw away so many sincere attempts at conversation with the young marquess, there is, however, a letter that catches Fugo’s eye. One corner is tipped red, and the paper is peach-tinted where the letter has been licked closed. Fugo opens it tentatively, his heartbeat increasing. Could it be a threat? A declaration of love? It was most unusual. Fugo knows Giorno could probably hear his heart racing, but he had gone too far not to read it. 

To His Lordship Giorno Giovanna,

We request to hold a meeting regarding our deliveries and transportation of goods for the coming months. As you know, the winter months are nigh and this leaves many of our opportunities in jeopardy. We wish not to see you become feral– however– we do not rely on you as our sole consumer, either. 

Our meeting shall take place at your estate, as is the norm. Should you accept, we will be there on the eve. 

Take care.

The lettering is jagged and seems to be written with something akin to that of charcoal or lead, and does not bear a signature. Fugo is halfway through reading it again when he feels a cold breath on his neck. He freezes. He didn’t even hear Giorno snap his book closed.

“I’ll answer that one,” he takes the letter out from Fugo’s hand, pinching it as though it were diseased, and turns, throwing it in the roaring flames of the fireplace. 

Giorno is not pleased as he sits at the head of the table, as the members of a coven sit around his table. They are unkempt and filthy. They reek of opium dens and a thick musk, spiced with the waste of the streets. Mista scrunches his nose, and Narancia does not seem the slightest bit bothered. The rest have been sent to their chambers, unaware of their Lord's condition. They shall not venture out until the coven is gone.

At the other end of the table is the leader, naturally. Massimo Volpe sports long, straight auburn hair, his sunken eyes boring into Giorno’s. His nails are long, and he is rugged up in a warm coat and hat, lightly sprinkled with snow. To his left, Giorno’s least favourite member, Vladimir Kocaqi, sits with his eyes closed. Giorno is mighty certain he shall return to dust any day now, and even more sure he once resided in Transylvania itself. His body must have long forgotten how to absorb his nutrients. He surely is on borrowed time. To Massimo’s right is Vittorio Cataldi, a mousy ginger boy in clothes much too thin for the weather, and next to him, a fragile girl named Angelica Attanaiso; her hair like golden threads done up similarly to Sheila E’s, he notices– such is the fashion for young girls these days. She’s dressed properly, for once. He has always felt as though he could rescue the two children, and though all three of them had potential to be similar in age, their circumstances were much too different, so he forces a smile.

“Sezione Sangue. How lovely to see you all again. It has been a good full season since we last met!”

“Indeed, it has,” Massimo replies curtly. The two make dangerous eye contact before he leans forward on his elbows. “Let me get to the point here, lest we become snowed in.” 

“How awful,” Vittorio giggles, before Angelica swats him over the head. She watches on intently, her creepy doll eyes getting under Giorno’s skin. 

“The routes we use to deliver the…” Massimo trails off, eyeing Mista and Narancia. Mista stands, stony and sharp as ever, his deep brown eyes trained on the table. Narancia sits, picking at the scabs on his knees. Giorno knows they know their deal, but Massimo is too paranoid to care. “… Ahem. The routes we use to deliver the product will be unavailable, come December and January. The snow is to be much heavier this year, and with Jack the Ripper lurking around every one of our cobbled streets, it seems…” He looks between Angelica and Giorno. Giorno nods understandingly. “He is impeaching on my territory. I don’t like it, not one bit.”

“Yes, the Ripper,” Giorno says, placing his head in his palm. “He is quite the unfortunate addition to London, I will say. Killing prostitutes and such. He may think he is, ‘cleansing’, so to speak. But I can assuredly say, he is not one of us,” Giorno stands, pacing. “Virgin pure or whore deflowered, they all taste the same in the end. They are chemical and biological in their making. But mangled, torn to ribbons, well, how can one feast upon that?” 

“I’d given it some thought,” Kocaqi croaks, opening his eyes. “And I came upon the same conclusion. With an obsession with serving justice dressed in gore, he has made a terrible, ugly mess himself. It seems unbecoming.”

Angelica is noticeably more pale. However much Giorno does not agree with their methods, he cannot deny the value they bring to him. He walks over and places his hands on her shoulders gently. 

“Dear, I shan’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, and Angelica nods wearily. Massimo nods in agreement. Vittorio, unfortunately, pipes up again.

“If I catch him, can I kill him?”

“No,” Massimo and Giorno utter in tandem, and Giorno snickers. He could practically see Vittorio’s metaphorical tail tucking between his legs. 

“But why? If he’s doing all these blasphemous things, surely we should enact some kind of punishment?”

“If it is blasphemous, it is not up to us to decide punishment,” Giorno utters, his pupils almost pin-pricks as he turns his head to face Vittorio, his hands still resting on Angelica. “Who are we to decide how God will punish him?”

“You don’t believe in God, though.”

“But many pray to him to free the world of the Ripper,” Giorno states. “That, I cannot deny the people.”

Vittorio hangs his mouth open, an eyebrow quirked. “You’re pretty queer.”

Giorno heads back to his chair and sits, ignoring the rude slight. Notably, Massimo does not admonish Vittorio for it. “Now. Your routes will undeniably be affected by snow and sleet. That, and many are indoors. Then, it’s Christmas,” Giorno mentions.

“That’ll be good for collecting,” Angelica notes, “due to the hustle and bustle. But, oh, what if we get caught?” She becomes a little glossy-eyed at this, dramatic and overzealous as always.

“We take them too, of course,” Vittorio nods. “But, not too many. Then it’s noticeable.”

Giorno grimaces. “I do not like to hear of murder. And you know my rules. No one under twenty, and no one from the charities to which I associate myself. I wish for no accessories.”

“You’d drink from the wound of a pig if you could.”

“Indeed,” Giorno says mournfully. “Damn this life in which I have become tethered to.”

“It is much easier to throw your humanity away, my Lord.”

“I will do no such thing.”

Massimo sighs. “As you wish.”

Giorno tilts his head. “So, what will this mean for me in relation to my purchases?”

“Well…” Massimo looks off. “They will halt until January. Perhaps February, should the freeze remain.”

Giorno stills and nods stiffly. “I… understand.”

Massimo could look almost sympathetic under the warm glow of the chandelier. “I understand you require more than, say, Vittorio or I. You are young. New. It will be–”

“It will hurt, I understand. I have no qualms about what will happen to me,” Giorno brushes it off, waving a hand. 

Mista leans forward, whispering to Giorno. Giorno permits him to speak openly. 

“Narancia, do you have any questions?”

“D’you need me to pick up any of the, erm, product? I can run a horse down there in hardly any time.”

“No,” Massimo shakes his head. “We require not more attention to the warehouse. We are inspected more regularly than I’d prefer, regardless.”

“‘Kay, Mister,” Narancia says, dejected, before putting his knee down. “I’ll ready yer carriage.”

“Yes, thank you, Narancia. Our time here is up,” Giorno says, looking up and watching the wax of his chandelier drip down into their golden holders, waiting as the others stand around him. He thinks for a moment about their discussion, before standing to join Mista in walking them to the door, but slows his steps as he walks past the long winding staircase. His eyes flash with something akin to anger as he breathes in deeply. He closes his eyes, listening. 

“Sir?” Mista asks as he helps Kocaqi walk. Giorno shushes him with a wave of the hand. 

“Go on. I have matters to attend to.”

He frowns as Mista and Kocaqi walk off. He can hear a spike in rhythm, a heartbeat not far from here. There’s a soft lick of sweetness in the air, tangy with fear purer than anything he’d sensed in a while. He can taste it like ashes from incense on his tongue. The sweet cream. The horror-spiked strawberries. The burn.

Atop the staircase, cloaked in darkness, Fugo clings to the banister for dear life, shaking almost to death. He regrets listening in. But his consequences are set in stone as he hears the soft ascension of Giorno up the staircase. 

Chapter Text

The hallway is freezing, growing colder and colder. Frost lines the edges of the windows and collects on their sills, and the floorboards nearly burn Fugo’s bare soles as he scrambles to escape. He can see his breath as he pants, his voice catching as he whines in fear and abject horror, his stomach churning as he digests the information he’s just learnt. 

Giorno– strange, ethereal Giorno, with a smile as large as his home, was doing dealings… dealings in what? Fugo knows he’s missing something . There’s a key piece of the puzzle he can’t figure out. Human trafficking, perhaps? No… he’d mentioned something else. Recalling it, Fugo nearly throws up on his feet. 

“Virgin pure, whore deflowered, they all taste the same in the end.”

He’s eating people. Is that where he gets his sense of smell from? A certain biological effect of cannibalism? Or, is he some monster? Some behemoth in hiding, controlling his servants?

Fugo shakes his head, clearing his mind. He can’t be wasting energy on thoughts such as those. He needs to plan how to escape.

Fugo throws himself into a door on the left, finding the handle gives way after a few creaking crunches. As he all but collapses into the room, it’s obvious no one has been in here for an age; linen is thrown across furniture, cobwebs and dust bunnies littering every surface. It smells stale, and Fugo slams the door behind him before launching himself behind the furniture, buying time while he thinks of a plan. It was only the first floor; he could jump from the window. But he’d have to smash it– the panels did not open, and were firmly stuck to their frames.  His breath escapes him in cold puffs, barely visible in the dimly lit room. He can hear soft clacks of his Lord’s shoes, traversing closer and closer. 

Oh, God . Giorno was going to eat him. Fugo could feel tears prickling at his eyes, dust and fear coating his cotton nightclothes. It’s oddly reminiscent of the first time they met. With his back against the peeling wallpaper, the sting of dust in his lungs, and the frost of winter air making his skin prickle under his nightgown, he waits, like a small mammal in the thicket. 

He hears the footsteps come towards him, growing louder by the second. The click, click, of his shoes, like the clopping of the horses that first drew the carriage to him. If he didn’t feel like a sacrificial ornament then, he certainly did now. His heart leapt into his throat with each subtle click of the heels on the waxen and deep ash floorboards. He tilts his head back and his mind races– it’s much too late to make such a scene by trying to flee from the window, now. What should he do? Should he pray? He’d not been much for the idea of God, or Buddha, or a celestial being beyond scientific comprehension, but he calls upon everything and everyone he can to help him.

But Giorno Giovanna is not human, whether by biology or morals. He is something blasphemous, from an underworld. Something he can’t put a name to. Something mythological. Sharp teeth. Clear skin and entrancing eyes. That peculiar sense of smell. And now, the unknowing confession of sins is so severe it leaves Fugo trembling. So, perhaps, God would be unable to do anything at all. 

Tears stream down his cheeks. So cruel, he thinks, that just as he has tasted the delicacy of shelter, friendship, and security for the first time, it shall be ripped away from him. He thinks he might throw up, or soil himself, shaking as he weeps. He dined on world-class cooking and slept in heavenly sheets. Even now, he is adorned in the nightclothes worn by the devil’s butler. His nightgown itches on his skin, now, the sheer cotton no longer comfortable, as though infecting him. 

He goes colder, if possible, as he hears the footsteps stop outside the room. He freezes. The door creaks open. 

“Pannacotta,” is all he needs to say. His voice is level, his message loud and clear. But Fugo can hear the chagrin in his voice. Giorno advances into the room, and Fugo only make out Giorno by the golden illumination of the back of his wispy braid. His face is cloaked in darkness, and he can’t see his hands, whether they bear polished silver knives or a heavy metal mallet. As if he’d need a weapon , he thinks; Giorno could most likely lift him with his pinky finger, or turn him to dust with the strength of his fists– he’d had no example of this, but what did Fugo really know about the Lord? 

Quickly, he begins to assess his options. He can lie still as he is and accept his death– he need not sully his pride by begging or wailing. He looks from Giorno’s shadowed face to the door. Perhaps he could make a break for it, or find something to fend him off with.

Fugo knows, of course, that all attempts shall be futile and that his plans are worthless. That, wherever he is, Giorno will sniff him out and will feast upon him. After some agonising thought, slowly, he creeps along the planks, pressing gently with his palms first to ensure the wood does not groan in protest of his weight. He shuffles silently, trying not to get caught and tangled in his nightgown, watching Giorno. He sees the light catch on his sharp smile. 

“Fugo, come now. I haven’t time for games,” he drawls, lolling his head to lazily scour across the room. Giorno is playing coy; he can tell. So, a chase he shall give. He knows he is fast, and he is nimble, and though Fugo is yet to discover the scale of Giorno’s physical prowess, he feels a push of strength, the same push that guided him to leave his abode those few nights ago. 

There’s a pause where it feels peacefully quiet for a moment, where Fugo closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He thinks of his mother, and of the strawberries they shared, and the pancakes of this morning. The softness of his sheets. The tangle of his hair in the thick-bristled brush. The delightfully human sensations he will never again feel in a few short minutes. Tears keep his cheeks wet. 

Giorno breathes in deeply and takes a step forward. Fugo takes this as an opening to lunge for the door and break for it. 

With speed and might he’d not known before, he races past the cloth and barrels down the hallway, his feet grabbing for purchase on whatever ground they could find to propel him forward. He runs as hard as he can, his fear seeping into his thighs and calves. He sobs openly as he sprints, begging incessantly in a cracking voice to leave him be and to please spare him, tripping and landing hard on his heels as he practically jumps the staircase leading down toward the kitchen. He begs his arms and legs to swing faster, to move him forward. He can’t tell if Giorno is behind him; if he is running, or if he is giving chase at all. He speeds into the kitchen, looking around wildly. There’s a back door, which seems to be the servant's entrance, and so he runs to try it. It’s jammed, so with a forceful kick that leaves the ball of his foot stinging and his calf pulled, he blows it open, running into the cool air of the night. It’s frigid, the cold stinging his lungs, burning his skin. His feet are slick on the ground, mud climbing its way to his ankles. He can see the dim lights of the coven’s carriage in the distance, and he feels himself preparing to call for help, but stops his instinct– he knows they will bring him right back, perhaps share him with the Lord. But, with a stroke of luck, he spots the small gardener wrapping his ropes and tying them in the distance.

“Help! Please, Narancia!” He sprints and cries, the boy turning in surprise and hanging his ropes fretfully. 

“My God! What’s wrong with you?” Narancia holds Fugo by the forearms, Fugo sobbing into his face. He shakes, the thin wisp of his nightgown whipped by fragile cold air. Narancia is startled beyond belief– this boy, who’d so kindly referred him to his leftovers, bursting from the house in such a panic, dressed down and taut with fear?

“The… The Lord! He– He is evil! He is sin! You must hurry, we must escape!” Fugo grips Narancia’s shoulders, shaking him. The boy doesn’t budge, nodding slowly, a thick brow arched in confusion. He chuckles nervously, looking around behind Fugo.

“W… Well, I wouldn’t call it evil , sir,” he tries to pry Fugo off him, but Fugo is unwavering, his eyes wide. “Did’ja listen in to the meeting, then?”

Fugo looks up incredulously, anger sparking in his chest. “Of course,” he steps back, eyes raking over Narancia. “You were there, weren’t you? You know!” He bellows, stepping back again. “You know, and yet you– you- let him feast! You let him roam! You let him slaughter and maim and–!”

Amidst his fury, he raises a hand to bring down upon Narancia, to push him back and flee, but his wrist is caught from behind. 

Fugo’s anger dissipates at once, fear filling his soul once more. Narancia steps back slowly, folding his arms, with an eyebrow quirked. 

With a yank, Fugo is pulled back against Giorno, Giorno’s fingers gripping the underside of his jaw with his opposite hand. Fugo is taut with fear. 

“A little lamb, so white and pure, scampers into the undergrowth with the knowledge that, should he step much further, the beasts of which he’s learnt will swallow him whole,” Giorno murmurs, pressing his nails harder and harder into the skin of Fugo’s neck. He shivers, every hair on his body raised, his fingers white, and his lips bloodied from where he’s bit right through them. Fugo wriggles, fighting hard, and cries out in pain, thrashing.

“Let go! Unhand me! Narancia, please!” He turns to look at the boy but finds him all but smiling and laughing, turning to return his rope and tools.

Giorno breathes in deeply, leaning in to brush his nose against Fugo’s stark white hair, devouring the scent of his anger. It is warm, and it stings, like boiling soup, blistering and encroaching upon every crevice. “Calm down, Fugo. Please. You are safe.” 

Fugo is filled with blinding anger at this preposterous comment– safe ? How could he possibly be safe, trapped in an iron grip, pressed against the devil? With a lurch like a rabid animal, he lunges forward, sinking his teeth into Giorno’s forearm, where his hand still presses against his neck. Giorno just closes his eyes and smiles. Fugo bites as hard as he can, growling in anger as he feels blood smear across his lips and tongue. It’s tangy. The blood is stone-cold.

“Fugo,” Giorno’s tone is much more venomous now, and he practically drags Fugo back across the grounds by his jaw. “Must you be so difficult? The journey to your room will be arduous, should you fight me like this up the staircase.”

Fugo lets go, more angry than scared now, and tries to shrug Giorno off. Rage swells in his body, but when he looks at Giorno, part of him still recognises the charitable Lord who welcomed him in. 

“Unhand me!” Fugo’s retort is rude and clipped, but restrained with fear. 

Giorno eyes him for a moment, then lets go gently, fingers trailing across his cheek. “Alright. I ask that you allow me to escort you to your room. Please. Let us talk.”

“You… You’re a monster,” Fugo utters. Giorno quirks an eyebrow.

“I think you’ll find only one of us has drunk blood today, Fugo,” Giorno remarks, gesturing to Fugo’s bloodied lips. Fugo licks them automatically to hide his crime, but the taste of cold blood makes him recoil. “Colour me impressed. Jealous, even.”

“How? How can you find humour in this?” Fugo retorts, and Giorno’s smile wavers. He dips his head in a bow before looking up at Fugo.

“Please. I will explain and answer all you wish to know. But I ask you to stay.”

“And if I do not?”

“Then you may leave,” Giorno looks up at him, unwavering now. “I will not force you to remain. But I shall not let you leave with false conclusions about my identity. Should you know the truth, you shall know it all. I shall not allow you to sully my identity with falsehoods and misunderstandings.”

Fugo steps back, bumping his foot against the staircase up to the rooms. He swallows. He shouldn’t. Why on Earth should he give any time to his Lord? What could he say that would convince Fugo to stay, to forgive? But, as he looks around him, avoiding the eyes of his Lord, he considers it. Without his eyeglasses, it’s mostly a blur of lights. But, in front of him, his Lord is bright, clear. 

“Alright. Okay. I’ll listen.”

Chapter Text

Giorno sits with his eyes closed at his desk in the office room, listening as Fugo paces behind him, his arms folded and eyelids fluttering as his thoughts race. He pauses to assess the literature on the shelves beside him. He scans the spines, skipping through classical history and science fiction titles until Aesop's fables stare back at him, the divine and mythological dancing their way into his thoughts. He’s terrified of the thought of browsing the other titles besides it, but he knows he must; and so, he peers onwards, warmed by the fire behind them both. Bibliotheca Classica , a dictionary on all that was mythical, talks of cyclopses and harpies, sirens and phoenixes, griffins and basilisks. Bullfinch’s Mythology is much the same, the author outlining his personal mythos beliefs, and then– he can feel a cold nausea fill him as his eyes grace an old book next to it, its spine tattered and dusting, adorned with the name The Vampyre . Fugo slides the book out with shaking hands, handling it with utmost care. He need not read the book to know Giorno matches this description. Sharp teeth and pale skin, highly regarded in society, with a penchant for blood. He can tell by the quirked smile on his face. 

“It can’t be,” Fugo says, stepping back towards Giorno and laying the book in front of him. Giorno takes a deep breath. 

“What proof do you require?” He asks. He stands, walking over to Fugo. “I have described in inordinate detail your physiological discrepancies simply by smell; I have located you in silence and darkness. I have dragged you across my yard.” 

Fugo’s lip twitches in fear. “The teeth. That’s the defining nature of those… those fables, yes? They– They bite, and drain their victim, and…” Fugo trails off. Despite the overwhelming realness of his situation, he still feels silly talking about matters so unscientific in nature. Giorno nods. 

“You’d be quite correct, however— I have never partaken in the ‘draining’ you speak of. I’m very new to this, Fugo,” he murmurs, tilting his head. “And I have my humanity and my values with me. I shall not take an innocent life until this immortality deems me unworthy of its pleasures.” Giorno steps closer, close enough to take one of Fugo’s hands by the wrist, his other palm draped softly across Fugo’s. “Do you trust me?”

Fugo swallows. “I don’t know.”

“I do. Please, take a look yourself. Let this be all the proof you need.”

Giorno brings Fugo’s fingers up to his lips, and parts them, opening his mouth slightly and revealing long, pointed fangs. Fugo breathes in sharply, his heart thrumming, and cups Giorno’s face rather harshly, tilting his head and inspecting. His brows furrow, then relax, then his face contorts in terror, his scent mulling colours and flavours of fear, curiosity, horror, relief. Giorno closes his eyes. However, Fugo traces a finger down the length of one of Giorno’s fangs, testing the point as one would test the sharpness of a blade, and Giorno feels a sense of shock at this sudden display of audacity, gripping Fugo’s wrists quickly, resulting in Fugo’s finger dotting with blood, having been ever so slightly punctured. Fugo tenses in fear; he doesn’t know what the display of blood will trigger in Giorno. But, he simply closes his eyes again and breathes in deeply. 

“Fugo,” he begins, taking the hand and placing it over his heart. It rests still. “Do you believe me?”

Fugo shakes in fear, but he is relieved that he is not some other beast. If he has sworn by his humanity, he shall have no choice but to believe it. “I… I do.” 

Giorno smiles, nodding and moving back to his seat. “Right. I’m glad.”

Fugo stands, staring at the smudged prick of blood on his finger. “You said you are new. New to this lifestyle? We are both new in age; will you remain that way?”

Giorno sighs at this. “I believe it to be an internal disease or genetics. A new concept, yes, but I see no other explanation. Please, do sit.”

He does, and Giorno begins.

“I was born into a wealthy household. My mother was prolific in the underground markets and exchange of goods, and by God; it makes me shrivel and weep at the things she did. Supposedly, that is where she met my father. I have only one photo of him, but I can tell in an instant that he is the same monster I have mutated into. He has no family line that I can trace. I’m sure I have other siblings in the same boat, why, I’m quite sure of it, he was a scandalous man, but I’ve no hope in locating them, and frankly, I want very little at all to do with them. My mother was well off thanks to her dealings, and my father suddenly came into abundant wealth and assets. 

“I was a poorly young thing— dressed to the nines and always fed, but only due to the butlers and maids who came and tended to me. Mother could be in heaven or hell for all I know. But, one by one, they vanished; and thus, the house was my own, come recent years. When I turned fifteen, the legalities were handed to me; I’d word that Father had been killed. How; I’m unsure, but all I know is that within that week, my hair had taken on a golden hue,” he curled his hair between his fingers, “and my appetite was insatiable. I couldn’t stomach anything. I resorted to contacting an old client of my mother's, which so happened to be of my nature, and they set about organising my meals and explaining to me what was to happen.

“There’s much I don’t know. Much I am to learn. But please, dearest Fugo, I vow never to succumb to the dark and wicked intents that claw at my conscience, the actions my mother and father took. I swear by it,” Giorno nods, as does Fugo.

“I understand, my lord. But, these meals…” he gulps. “What do they pertain?” 

Giorno shuffles uncomfortably. “Why, blood of course. But, only from scumbags and evildoers. I forbid them from providing me with the innocent.”

“Are they alive when you receive it?” Fugo asks without thinking. He almost can’t bear to hear the answer.

“Yes,” Giorno grimaces. “I dislike it very much. I intend to go the winter break without sustenance, both due to my provider's request and my desire to cease killing.”

“Could you not feast upon a staff member? Must you drain all their blood, or merely a little?”

The blond man sighs deeply and puts his head in his hands. “I don’t know. I really don’t think I could muster the courage to ask those who know.”

“Who does?”

“Mista, and Narancia. Narancia is too poorly for me to feed from. And I don’t think Mista would ever tell me to stop. He’d gladly let me turn him to dust before letting me starve.” Fugo doesn’t doubt this for a second. 

“I think, should there ever be a time where I trust you greatly, I shall let you feed from mine own blood,” Fugo says slowly. “I did feel greatly indebted to you. Then, I felt rage, as though I’d been deceived. And now, I feel as though I’m returning to a middle ground.” Giorno nods understandingly. 

“Dearest Fugo, it is no small quantity of change you have undergone in these days. I’m surprised you have yet to go mad.”

Fugo chuckles. “I feel as though I may already have.”

Chapter Text

At the front door, Narancia is pacing, his nail betwixt his teeth and a worried look on his face. Sheila E stands with a scowl on her face, waxing the banisters of the staircase that graced the front room.

“Narancia!” She calls out, startling him. “You are marvelling in unnerving me, boy! Whatever are you moping about!” 

Narancia squeaks in response, standing still in his place, wringing his fingers. “Well, miss, err… I’m worried about the, erm…” 

He couldn’t explain to Sheila E the circumstances of the other night's mishap between his Lord Giorno and Fugo. Not since Sheila E was unaware of Giorno’s condition! He looks left, then right, sweating. “I’m worried about the young Lord, miss. Mr Murolo is due any minute. I don’t wanna mess up, no!” He attempts to lie swiftly, but he knows nothing gets past Sheila E, the quick witch. 

She places her waxy hands on her hips, walking down the staircase and approaching him. She pokes sharply into his chest, eyes like iron. “Don’t lie to me, lest I punch you in that sauce box of yours.”

Narancia shakes his head, clasping his hair. “Alright! Okay! I’m worried the young Fugo may ‘ave come into great strife! Received a real batty-fang!” 

Sheila E grabs either side of Narancia’s head and swivels him around, impatient. “The Queen’s English, please! I thought Mista taught you to leave your street slang to London slums!” 

Narancia gives a meek laugh, which lightens Sheila E up a bit. “Trouble. Bashed. Sir Pannacotta was arguin’ with the Lord,” he explains. “I dunno why! But, er, the Lord dragged ‘im back. Haven’t seen ‘im since. I sure hope he’s okay,” he mutters. Sheila E shrugs. 

“He will be his undoing, and you cannot change that.” 

Narancia opens his mouth to respond, but his eyes widen. He scampers for the front door, cracking it open. 

“Mr Murolo! He’s here!” He groans, heading for the servant's entrance, Sheila E hot on his tail. “He’s on that unruly grade horse, he is. She kicked the life outta me, chuffing and throwing her head around,” he rambled, pushing the door open to bright sunlight. 

In the distance, a man rode upon a singular horse, his brightly beaded top hat resting upon a curt blond bob. He had saddlebags on either side of his grey mare, who gnawed at her metal bit so ferociously she foamed at the mouth. He gave a slight wave to the employees, who gave each other a look before heading over and addressing the man. 

“G’mornin’, Mr Murolo, good as ever to see ye,” Narancia said, offering the man a hand off his horse, to which he gratefully accepted. 

“Yes, yes. Always a pleasure to come and help the boy,” he says, his voice meek and low. He fetches his folders out of the saddlebags, passing them to Sheila E who struggled to keep them all in her grip. He strides towards the door, leaving Narancia with the wild horse, who was already huffing incessantly. He gave a pleading look to Sheila, a kind of ‘don’t leave me here’ stare, but she walked onwards, leaving Narancia to tie the mare in the stables. Mista opens the front doors, smiling. 

“Welcome, Mr Murolo. The young lord won’t be a m–” 

“Yes, yes, I know. Teenage boys and their sleeping habits, why, it’s outrageous!” Murolo chides, walking inwards. Mista cringes.

“Sir, your boots, if you don’t mind–” 

“Oh, these old things? Don’t worry, I’ll clean up on my way out,” Murolo waves a hand dismissively before the sharp voice of Sheila E rings out through the room.

“Cannolo!” She shouts, stopping him in his tracks. “Wipe them. Now.”

He scowls at her but does what he’s told. 

At the levelling of the staircase, Giorno stands with his hands folded, Fugo standing a few steps up to his left. Fugo is still dressing in Mista’s spares, but he adorns a golden pin Giorno insisted he wear, ( “To mark yourself as an employee of my estate,” he’d said, pinning it to his chest. It was a small golden arrow, surrounded by golden trailings and detailing.) He chuckles at the noise. Fugo watches on incredulously. 

“So this is Mr Murolo,” Fugo mutters, bemused. Giorno nods. 

“A queer man, yes, but mighty fine at what he does.” 

Murolo holds a hand over his eyes as if he were staring at the sun, and squints. “Have you gotten taller since I saw you last, Giorno?” 

Giorno closes his eyes at the lack of honorifics, shaking his head. “Why, I’ve no idea. I shall have to ask Miss Una at my next refittings.”

“That you shall. Your cuffs look short,” he says offhandedly. Fugo looks to Giorno for his reaction, who blanches. 

“Do they really?” Giorno whispers to Fugo, who shrugs. Murolo motions for them to keep climbing the staircase, hurrying them ( “We haven’t all day!”)

When they reach the office, Giorno sits in his plush leather armchair, Murolo and Fugo sitting opposite. Murolo looks between Giorno and Fugo, an eyebrow quirked. 

“Who’s the kid? Dinner?” Murolo jests. Giorno frowns and Fugo’s heart races, eyes wide. He’d forgotten Murolo was keyed into his vampiric affairs.

“Cannolo, please. Mind yourself. This is my secretary, Fugo Pannacotta.”

Murolo peers at him again and opens his mouth to comment, but Giorno puts his hand up. “I care not for your input on the matter. I care for my quarterly report, if you may.”

Murolo grumbles, pulling his papers out. “First, to work out your land tax,” he said, pulling out deeds to shires and counties, Giorno’s loopy signature on each one. Whilst Fugo’s eyes were growing wider and wider, Giorno groaned and leaned back in his chair.

“Must I?”

“I shan’t let you be convicted of tax evasion, Giorno. It would look bad on me, seeing as you’re the most prolific landowner in England. Now,” he continues, unabashed, “You own twenty-thousand acres. Most are farmland, save for some shires. Any property over thirteen thousand pounds, you shall pay twenty per cent tax, so–”

“Pay it, I don’t care!” Giorno waves his hands in frustration. 

“And you don’t wish to sell the land?”

“It’s all inherited, anyway. I love the farmers and their produce. I want to leave everything as is!”

Murolo rolls his eyes, scribbling numbers in a leather-bound book. “As you wish.” 

Fugo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The absurdity of it all was overwhelming. He felt dizzy just thinking about the responsibility. 

“Now, for your balances. Your total is five hundred thousand pounds,” Murolo circles a letter from the bank, outlining his balance. Fugo audibly gasps and draws the eyes of the other two, Giorno giggling. 

“Please, pay no mind, Murolo. Fugo here has come from squalid conditions. Matters of such still phase him.”

Fugo blushes, embarrassed, and Murolo pats him on the shoulder. “No matter, kid. These rich bastards get off on flaunting it, regardless.”

“Murolo, please mind your language in front of me,” Giorno folds his arms, scowling. “Go on.”

“Right, well,” he fetches some bank letters, placing them in front of Giorno. “How do you wish to divide your funds for the coming year?”

Giorno taps his lips with his finger, thinking. “Hm. First, I wish to delegate five thousand pounds to charities in the next year. As for what charities, I’m unsure about some. The Speedwagon Foundation shall receive two thousand. I’ll decide on the others at a later date.”

Murolo nods, writing. “Do you wish to pay in one lot?”

“I’ll send it monthly, or whenever they host an event.”

“Understood.”

And so, they work out every sector of Giorno’s life, assigning thousands of pounds to refurbish the estate, wages, and tax. Murolo encourages him frequently to sell, as he has no means of income other than donations, but Giorno refuses. It makes Fugo’s head hurt, and he’s just glad he doesn’t have to do any of the numbers work himself just yet. He’s not lacking by any means, but never has he seen sums quite so large. They discuss the money set aside to pay Sezione Sangue too, minus the two months he needn’t pay for. Murolo seems masterfully unfazed and departed as rambunctiously as he arrived. Giorno bids him adieu, before slamming the door and leaning against it, sighing. 

“He has no mercy for me, no,” he groans, swaying as he stands. Fugo grabs his elbow to steady him, concerned.

“My lord? Are you poorly?”

“No, no. I didn’t have breakfast is all. I’m planning to cease breakfast and just have lunches to conserve stock, however, the meeting went longer than I thought,” Giorno blinks, resting a hand on Fugo’s shoulder. “I’ll be in my room. I’ll get Mista to fetch me lunch, don’t fret,” he smiled, Fugo nodding. He had grown less and less phased as the days crawled on, and he’d become more accustomed to the casual manner in which Giorno referenced his condition. Giorno climbs the staircase, a calculated step at a time, Fugo watching from the bottom. Suddenly, the servant’s entrance door opens loudly, Narancia stomping in, his hair wild. He spots Fugo, and a smile bursts over his face, charging in. 

“Oh, Sir Fugo! You’re alive!” He jumps, wrapping his arms around Fugo, who freezes.

“Hello, Narancia… Why wouldn’t I be?” He asks, stepping back as Narancia detaches himself. 

“You challenged the Lord! I thought he would’ve belted you!”

Fugo grimaces. “We… talked it out.”

“Ah, good, good!” He nods. Narancia winces, putting a hand over his eye. 

“Ah, sorry mate. My eye isn’t good. I gotta ask Abbacchio for some ointment again, and a new eyepatch. I’ll catch you around!” 

As quickly as he bounced in, he scampered out, leaving Fugo momentarily stunned, before he walked upstairs to the study. He would sleep well tonight. The day had well and truly tired him. 

Chapter Text

Narancia raps on Abbacchio’s door, close to the servants’ entrance, tucked away past the laundry room. He fidgets whilst he waits, tapping his heel on the ground and groaning in pain, impatiently. Finally, with a woosh, Abbacchio opens the door and peers down at the boy.

“Yes?”

“I’m, er, not in a good way, Abbacchio,” Narancia complains, pushing past and walking into the incense-hazy workspace. Abbacchio grumbles and closes the door behind him, scowling.

“How so?”

“Me eye’s hurtin’ a lot again, and the patch is mostly dried.” Narancia hops onto Abbacchio’s desk, where a mortar and pestle lay, covered in oils and herb granules. Though peeved at Narancia’s sudden intrusion, Abbacchio swoops his hair up and tucks his fingers behind Narancia’s ears, peeling the eyepatch off his face. 

Immediately, he can tell it’s getting worse. 

Pus has crusted across his eye, a drop like tree sap resting on his cornea. His lashes are thick with the stuff, oily and smelling of skin and sweat. The skin beneath his eye looks wrinkled and puffy, purple against his browned skin. Abbacchio frowns, taking the eyepatch and putting it in the trash basket, before going to his cupboards and rifling through. Narancia watches, a bit on edge, as Abbacchio pulls out a vial, three small jars, and a needle. He grabs some gauze and dips it in a pail by his workbench, walking back over.

“This will be cold. Please let me know if it hurts too awfully,” he murmurs, his voice deep, concern hidden within his timbre. Narancia nods, and Abbacchio applies the gauze.

Instantly, Narancia feels a blinding, piercing cold, causing him to cry out in discomfort. He wriggles, crying, and grips Abbacchio’s sleeves. Abbacchio grimaces but grabs Narancia’s jaw with a ferocious strength to hold him still. He tries to be delicate and not press on the skin; the wound is spongy and glistening in its rawness. He holds the gauze aside with his fingers and pries the eyelids apart– thank God they separate with little resistance, and Narancia rolls his eyes back, blinking in pain.

“Stop– Stop, stop, stop!” He yells forcefully, pushing Abbacchio away. Abbacchio allows him to. 

“Breathe, boy. You are strong.”

Narancia looks up at the tall man. His right eye is completely hazed over; his once brown eye now the colour of tea as a white cloud of bacteria circles the surface of his eye. His sclera is red, and seems separated at the junction between iris and not. Abbacchio gulps.

“It’s worse, isn’t it,” Narancia sniffles.

Abbacchio nods. “Yes. Please, allow me to cover it once more. I’ll give you some pain medication in the meantime,” he explains, and Narancia melts in joy. Abbacchio takes a needle, holding the vial upside down and drains a small amount. He examines the jar, ensuring it is in fact opium, and not something toxic, and with a pinch of Narancia’s arm, injects him with the narcotic. Almost immediately, Narancia’s arms and jaw relaxes, purple fingerprints left from where Abbacchio gripped him. 

“Must I use the straps?” Abbacchio offers, gesturing to the chair behind them, with cracking leather straps, including ankle, wrist, torso, and mouth. Narancia shakes his head.

“I’m a strong boy.”

“That you are,” Abbacchio mutters, heading to grab a spare mortar and pestle. He’s lucky; Giorno is kind enough to use his wealth to stock his medicine man, even going to such lengths as to pay for the importation of useful oils and plants. He takes a spoonful of mint and sage and adds some eucalyptus oil to help turn it into a paste. He then takes a clove of garlic, crushing it with a knife, and drags it across the skin of the eye. He scoops a dollop onto a fresh eyepatch and applies it to Narancia’s head, tracing his nails through his hair. 

“I added mint this time, to help keep the temperature of the skin down. I don’t want you getting a fever.”

“It stings,” Narancia complains. Abbacchio nods.

“That means it’s working. Now,” Abbacchio sits at his desk, Narancia hopping off to watch. “I’ve been keeping with the latest ophthalmology updates, the development of–”

“What’s op-thalo-mogy?” Narancia interrupts. Abbacchio frowns.

“Study of the eye. Now , there’s been an improvement for anaesthetic for eye surgery, only a few years ago–”

“What’s ana–”

“Makes your skin numb, boy. Listen!” Abbacchio slams his hands on the table. “Cocaine! Doctors use cocaine to make your eye numb, so they can remove the bad flesh. I’m not a surgeon, but I’ve no doubt I could talk to the Lord and see if anything can be done, should you want me to.”

Narancia listened and nodded, still a little woozy from the opium. But he knew he didn’t want to bother his Lord with meagre issues such as his little eye infection. The patch was cooling on his eye, though the garlic made his flesh sting like hell. He shook his head. “I shall be fine, Abbacchio sir.”

“Very well. Get out of here; I’ve your notes to take and deliver to the Lord. Off wit’ ye!” 

Mista opens the door to the Lord’s bedroom, where Fugo is helping him shimmy off his coat and step out of his boots. He makes eye contact with Fugo, then Giorno, who tells him to leave the large porcelain mug on his dresser and to leave them. 

Fugo helps his Lord sit on his bed– a gorgeous floral four-poster, made of mahogany and trimmed with rosewood. He kneels, unlooping the laces of his boots from their hooks, sliding the heels from his delicate feet, feeling the thousands of strands of silk that made his socks. He looks up at Giorno, who has his eyes closed and was unbraiding his hair. Fugo gulps. “What can I do for you, my Lord?”

Giorno pulls his feet onto the bed and leans back into his down pillows, brushing his front curls out with his fingers until they lay placidly across the bridge of his nose and the dips of his eyes. “Please fetch me my mug.”

Fugo gulps, but fetches it regardless, and goes pale at his reflection in the dark berry colour of the blood in his hands. He knew it to be blood before he even saw it, but it smelt intensely of copper and sliced through his nose, permeating everything as if it were on his own palms. He felt sick watching it slosh in the cup, the bright red droplets left on the glazed porcelain almost tipping him over the edge.

“Fugo!” Giorno snaps, frowning. Fugo thrust the drink into his hands.

“Yes, of course. I’m sorry, my lord.” 

Giorno looks Fugo up and down, and curls a lip, smelling his nausea. “If you’re to be sick, do it out the window, please.”

“I-I’ll be okay. Drink, please,” Fugo begs. Anything to make the smell go away.

Giorno maintains eye contact as he brings the cup to his lips, licking them, then tilting the glass to drink the blood. His eyes roll and close as he takes the first gulp, colour returning to his face as he sips. When he takes the cup away, his lips are a peachy orange. His brightly coloured eyes have more vigour to them. He sighs but never looks into the goblet. 

“You see, Fugo, I am biologically changed; I am wired to crave, to indulge. I must drink for my body needs it so. But I still have humanity. I cannot look the act in the eye, no; not just yet,” he murmurs, maintaining eye contact as he sips again.

“Does it… taste good?” Fugo implores. He is curious. His stomach wriggles in anticipation, in nervousness, but he must know. Giorno’s pupils seem to jitter not unlike Fugo’s, rapidly pulsing as he processes the question.

“Yes. Yes, it is good.”

“Could you describe it, my Lord?” Fugo presses. He expects reprehension. It doesn’t come.

“Like liquid ecstasy. I feel it coat every surface of my mouth, of my oesophagus; I feel the nutrients permeating my cell walls, coating every organ and capillary; I feel the pulsing of life beneath my deadened skin.”

Fugo sits, stewing in the answer, chewing on his lip. 

“Do you wish to try it?”

“Heaven’s no!” Fugo cries, and Giorno laughs, a tinkling thing. 

“Don’t fret, my dear boy. I shall never make you, not unless you wish to of your own accord.”

“My Lord,” Fugo says almost breathlessly with the audacity of the clause, “I doubt that day shall ever come to fruition.”

Giorno shrugs, just as a knock resonates through the room. “You never know. Come in!” 

Abbacchio enters the room, standing tall as ever. Instantly, he looks suspiciously at Fugo, then to Giorno’s china chalice. “Your brew smells rather strong today, my Lord. I don’t remember infusing anything quite so potent.”

“Oh, yes, dear Fugo here has blessed me with a recipe from his corner of the Earth. It’s rather wonderful, so I must have it all to myself, I’m afraid,” Giorno swiftly lies, grinning. It’s obvious Abbacchio only half believes him, but he does nothing more than open a leather book and read from it. 

“Narancia is getting worse.”

Giorno’s grin falters, and he tilts his head. “Do you have a diagnosis yet?”

“I believe it to be conjunctivitis , a recently discovered eye infection. I’ve been treating it, but the infection is rather frightful. He is in a lot of pain. I’m unsure what more I can do for him other than prevent fever and keep the skin cool and clean,” Abbacchio says in his ever-quiet voice. Fugo frowns, concerned for the boy, who had only just jumped into his arms with joy. 

“There is a medical conference soon in Lyon. I wish to attend to garner better knowledge as so to treat him. The conference is for the current smallpox outbreak, as well as cholera, but I don’t wish to miss something vital.”

“Please, do go. I implore you.”

“The conference is in January; I wish to leave by next week to avoid the snow and make a stop in Paris for supplies.”

“Then, by all means, do what you wish. You pay shan’t be docked.”

Abbacchio nods and looks the pair over again. “Are you sure you’re well, my Lord?”

Giorno frowns. “Do I look poorly? I’m simply resting.” Abbacchio twitches a brow but says nothing.

“As you were, my Lord. Fugo.”

“Sir,” Fugo nods his head as Abbacchio closes the door. Giorno giggles and winks at Fugo. 

“Close one.”

Chapter Text

Abbacchio walks with a stern frown back down the double wooden staircase and breaches the kitchen and servants' quarters once again. He could hardly smell the Lord’s brew but he knew it to be strong; little permeates through the smell of mint and lavender on one’s hands and nose. Metallic, tangy, something dark, judging from the peachy hue the Lord’s lips took. Then there was the issue of Fugo residing within the Lord’s own room. He would understand if it was Mista– the boy would lay his life down for his Lordship, but nay, it was the younger boy and the newest recruit helping his Lord to his bed and undressing his feet. 

Abbacchio’s frown deepens as he enters back into his chamber, placing his leather book and papers back on his cluttered desk. He puts back the bottles of dried herbs and oils and sets his mortar and pestles in the pail to soak, all the while thinking of the scene he had before him. Was the Lord friendlier with Fugo than he once suspected? He began pulling out his leather suitcase, lined with canvas, placing folded clothes and garments in for his trip. He packed a few essential ointments too in case he were to find someone injured during his trip. He was glad the Lord had boys his age around the estate to help him, namely Narancia, but Fugo seemed to have a tautness around him whilst in the Lord’s presence. His movements were stiff. He tensed at fast movements. His eyes, though he hated to admit it, unnerved Abbacchio. What was making Fugo so jittery? Does he fancy the Lord?

Abbacchio shakes his head at the thought. “How appalling,” he mutters. He makes his way through the halls and out the back door for some fresh air; he is greeted with the sight of Bruno combing through the vegetable and flower gardens, a woven basket in hand, filled with freshly pulled onions and leeks. He’d also picked a few purple and yellow edible flowers, one of which sat prettily in his hair. Abbacchio wanders over, his hands in the pockets of his cloak.

“It's a bit cold to be frolicking, isn’t it?” Abbacchio says quietly, Bruno startling nonetheless. 

“Abbacchio! Goodness,” he laughs airily, “You’ve frightened me. It’s chilly, indeed, but a cook must have his ingredients. Come, please; join me in the kitchen,” he insists, and the two make haste for the warmth of the kitchen, Bruno setting his basket down and washing his hands. Abbacchio meanders over, eyeing a pot of boiling water.

“What do you plan to make?” Abbacchio asks, moving silently through the kitchen, peeking into cupboards and looking across shelves. Bruno eyes him curiously.

“Leek and mushroom soup, for Narancia. Say, are you looking for something?” He asks, dragging a knife across a shining stone, and sharpening his utensil. 

“The Lord had a different lunch today. It’s hard to describe the smell to you, it was simply in a mug. Have you any idea?” He says it almost accusingly, and Bruno doesn’t miss it. He turns his back to the chopping board, resting his body against the counter and folding his arms, knife still in hand. 

“I’ve no clue what dish you are referring to.”

“He says it's a speciality from Fugo’s corner of the world.”

Bruno quirks an eyebrow. “English cuisine hardly varies that intensely across the mainland. This concerns me, I will say. Mista and I alone are in charge of what the Lord eats and drinks. If the Lord requested it himself, I can do little more than stand by.”

Abbacchio sighs. “It’s unfair of me to question the Lord. It is only the young Fugo I question.”

Nodding, Bruno puts a hand on Abbacchio’s shoulder. He twitches a brow at the touch, his stomach tightening. 

“I know, Abbacchio. Your worry for the Lord’s health is highly respectable. But no matter. We must accept what we cannot change,” he removes his hand and turns back to the kitchen. “Oh, and if I could borrow some of your lavender from your stock; I wish to make scones.”

“O-Of course,” Abbacchio responds, dusting his hands of sweat and walking to his room. Appalling , he thinks once again.

With a grip as strong as iron, a woman is lifted off the ground, kicking her feet. She tries to scream, but finds it does little more than send the blood rushing to her skull– she could feel her eyes popping, her tongue extruding out her mouth as the calloused hand around her throat gripped ever tighter. The gentleman was tall, and built well; he was dressed respectably; and he trailed a single finger down her breastbone, stopping it above her pubis. 

“This,” he murmurs. His voice is deep, though she can’t hear it over the thrumming of her blood in her ears. “I shall take it.” 

He grabs the neck scarf that lay across the lady’s neck, choosing instead to hang her from it with his grip rather than kill her by hand. She claws at the cloth but can’t get a nail underneath; her windpipe is not as crushed by the handkerchief but is certainly damaged. Only slight whisps of air whistle in. It is much crueller than squeezing her to death. At last, her eyes close, though the lids do not meet, for her eyes were much too bulged. The gentleman lays her on the ground, by her back doorstep, taking a small knife out of his breast pocket. He drags it across her neck, fresh red blood pooling in the slit of the wound as he pressed harder and harder, skin giving way to fat to muscle. Happy with his work, he grabs the hem of her tattered gown, raising the pleats above her waistline, pulling her bloomers down and revealing her pale milky stomach, faint brown strands of hair dotting above her panty line. 

He grabbed her by both sides of her hips, shuffling her into an apt position on the stairs, and took the knife to her abdomen. 

“Bearer of life,” he mutters, pressing down. There were more layers of fat here than the neck, the plump pouch of warm mass that sat above the uterus, protecting it, insulating it. “Bearer of life who so abuses it,” he continues to prattle on to nobody but himself; he presses harder. There was no cleanliness or precision; the incision was not that of a caeserian cut, but a harshly cut y-incision as though he were autopsying her, so he could pry her flesh open as if opening a burlap sack with fruit to bear inside. He put a hand into the warm insides, the fat slipping across his fingers, the blood irritating him as it decreased his visibility. He felt what he was looking for, however, and transferred his knife to the hand, dragging it in a rough circle to rip out. 

The uterus hung out of the incision, a chunk of bladder caught in the crossfire. He yanks, gripping it in a fist and severing the cervical connection.

 He stands, admiring. The sun is just beginning to rise. Grabbing the handkerchief, he wipes his hands and blade before hopping the fence and donning his hat. 

With a wet slap, the uterus slaps against the wooden table inside Sezione Sangue’s warehouse. Massimo stares, before gulping. He’s not queasy, he’s seen his fair share of body parts, however, he knows this is a signature—a beacon. The man twirls a finger between the fallopian tubes, rolling the slick ovaries between his fingers before drawing the blood on his finger onto the table. He looks to be in thought. 

“You,” the man says. Massimo looks up to make eye contact. He spots Vittorio standing in the back, looking intrigued, an excited smile on his face. Angelica clings to him from behind. The man he makes eye contact with is frightful. His eyes are wide and piercing. His hair hangs in small curls. He dons a top hat dressed in green ribbon. “What are you… What are all of you…”

Massimo stands, both hands braced against the table. “How did you find us, Jack?”

The Ripper doesn’t blink as he answers. “I caught the young boy. I saw him drink from a man in an alleyway.”

Massimo sends an angry glare to Vittorio, who swallows harshly and instantly gets rid of his grin. “I see.”

“I’ve been looking for your… coven. I believe you could be of use to me.”

Kocaqi’s beady eyes overwatch the situation from his armchair. All four are momentarily stunned by the admission. Jack the Ripper, coming to vampires for help? Vittorio laughs. 

“ We can be of use to you ! Ha!” He laughs, emerging. Angelica seeps back into the shadows. “You know what we are, so why do you think we would work for you!” 

“Vittorio, be quiet,” Massimo says. “What are your terms?”

Vittorio mutters as the Ripper goes to speak. “You can’t be serious…”

Massimo isn’t entirely serious, but he also knows that the Ripper is a hot commodity at the moment. Selling him out isn’t entirely off the list. To him, the Ripper is merely a mosquito upon his territory, draining blood that is rightfully his. He listens as the Ripper talks.

“Allow me to observe your carnage. Let me be witness to the bodies. Let me…” he says, looking back at Angelica. “Let me be privy to the effects on the human,” he murmurs. 

His gaze is neither hungry nor vengent. It is entirely manic, empty. He stands at an easy six foot, dressed well. His smile is so close to being human. If she didn’t know better, he would’ve made for a convincing vampire.  

“What do we get, hm? What’s to say I don’t kill you here and now?” Vittorio pipes up again.

The Ripper faces him now. “I’m useful as an alibi. ‘Blame the Ripper’ is the latest crime trend. There are so many copycats. It’s…” the Ripper puts a hand to his head. “It’s disgraceful.”

Angelica squeaks. “W-Why do you do it?”

The Ripper bows his head and thinks. “I enjoy it. I’m cleaning up London.”

Vittorio goes to speak again , but Kocaqi holds up a hand.

“Your name. Give us your name, and we’ll accept,” he finally says. 

The Ripper smiles. 

“Cioccolata. Dr Dolcio Cioccolata.”

Chapter Text

Fugo is startled awake by the hustle and bustle of the morning, Sheila E flying into his room at a pace and flinging his curtains open. 

“Come on, please!” Sheila E never breaks her cool character, but she’s more frazzled this morning. Fugo rubs his eyes.

“What’s the occasion?” He mutters. 

“All of us are due for measurements and refitting for uniforms. The Lord wishes to supply you with a wardrobe too, so please, make sure to get ready with haste! I’d hate to be late,” she rambles, ripping Fugo’s towels out of the en suite and throwing them in a linen basket before haughtily walking off, leaving his door ajar. Somewhat peeved and thrown off, he makes way for the dresser and throws on his clothes, ready to join his Grace and his servants downstairs for breakfast. 

Giorno was generous in the way he treated his staff; he was unlike other Lord’s or Lady’s of his time. The servants were allowed to eat in front of him, or do their chores through the main galleria instead of the servant's hallways. Though, some were sticklers to tradition and manners, namely Mista and Abbacchio; whereas Narancia and Sheila E gratefully accepted the minutes shaved off their chores by cutting through the estate. Unless guests were over, they were equals– their respect for him too great to abuse this trust placed in them. 

Fugo had finished tying his cravat as he meets with the others in the foyer, Bruno working in a flurry in the kitchen adjacent to the dining hall. He looks at Abbacchio and Mista. 

“Does he need any assistance?”

Abbacchio scoffs quietly. 

“You’re always welcome to ask– that is, if he has a minute to spare you,” Mista responds, jovially. He is excited about today, and having a moment in the city. His Lord is yet to make an appearance. Fugo nods, nonplussed about his options, but makes way for the kitchen. There, he sees Bruno working his magic, keeping bacon in tow and cracking eggs, omelettes stacking as he chops more bell peppers and mushrooms. 

“Bruno?”

He doesn’t look up but gives a smile. “Mr Pannacotta! So good to see you. What can I do for you? Any requests?”

“No, no,” he answers with a smile. “Just come to see if you need a hand. Would you like me to cut those for you?”

Bruno seems a little taken aback, and a huge smile blossoms over his face. “Of course! Please— come join me; many hands make light work,” he leaves the small vegetable knife for Fugo, who takes up his position in stride, allowing Bruno to focus on plating the meats and omelettes. Fugo works quietly, engrossed in making his cuts as perfect as possible, tidying the vegetables into neat cubes. They’re not as perfect as Bruno’s, and it takes twice as long, but Bruno loves the company, Fugo can tell, and he appreciates getting to know the man better.

“Say, Fugo…” Bruno begins, thoughtfully. “Abbacchio came to me a few days ago, asking about you.”

Fugo stills for a moment but continues chopping, feigning his surprise instead as a moment to clean his knife of residue. “Oh? Pray tell.”

“He said you’d given the Lord a chalice of some sort; a kind of tea? Herbal?”

Fugo swallows, hairs standing on the back of his neck. “Erm— well, yes, I did. The Lord requested it so.”

“Interesting. Would you kindly enlighten me as to how you prepared it? I shall add it to the Lord’s menu, should he request it again,” Bruno asks, spinning to grab salts and peppers from the opposite cabinet, as though he were dancing. Fugo can’t detect any accusation or malice in the words. 

“It's uh…” Fugo had to think quickly. “A… a floral tea. But, ah, it’s a blend from my mother. Clover, and ginger, as well as, um. Hibiscus. Hibiscus tea,” he said, somewhat meekly. Bruno gave him an odd look, which prompted Fugo to continue: “Sorry, I don’t like talking about my mother. Some hard memories. But the tea always made me feel better.”

Bingo— he’d hit Bruno’s soft spot. He placed a hand on Fugo’s shoulder, gripping. “Dear boy, how thoughtful you are. Hibiscus tea, clover, and ginger. An odd blend, but highly beneficial in ancient medicine…” Bruno peered at him, before swiping a finger across Fugo’s forehead, collecting the sweat on his finger. He kept his eyes on Fugo as he put the fingertip to his tongue, Fugo stiffening. Bruno rolls his tongue around his mouth, leaning closer and tilting his head. “But, Mr Pannacotta, I’ve a refined pallet. And, unfortunately, you taste like a liar,” he mutters, sending Fugo’s body cold, even against the roaring flames beneath the saucepans beside him. “Please, for the sake of my Lord, my Grace; how about you tell me what you really served him, hm?”

Fugo’s mouth gapes, and he stutters, before Bruno quickly pulls away; Abbacchio’s heels click sharply against the stone floor as he approaches. “Hurry the hell up!” He taps the face of his pocket watch. “We’ve to leave in ten minutes!”

Bruno gives him a smile. “Take the plates then please, Fugo, Abbacchio. We shall eat quickly; Narancia can have his on the carriage if he is tacking the horses.”

Abbacchio grunts in response and takes three plates, and Fugo can’t get away from Bruno quick enough. 

“Fugo,” Bruno warns. “We shall be talking about this.”

Fugo nods, perturbed. His meal tasted delicious, of course, but not without the twang of guilt. 

Giorno joins them finally in the carriage, and it’s shoulder to shoulder— Mista and Giorno are on one side, Sheila E, Fugo and Bruno on the other. Narancia was humming along outside as he mans the horses, Abbacchio keeping guard at the back of the carriage. 

“What kept you this morning, my Lord?” Mista asks, bolder than the others; he’d known Giorno the longest, and they were all curious as to what kept the boy away for so long. Giorno groans and lays his head back. “Slept in.”

“I woke you up with breakfast as I do every day, your Grace,” Mista replies, bemused. 

“Yes, I simply went back to sleep,” Giorno retorts. “I was tired.” 

Sheila E grumbles from Fugo’s right, the boy and the man like Greek pillars on either side of her. She folded her arms. “We’re going to be late,” she huffs.

“The streets will be full, this close to Christmas,” Giorno wonders. “Speaking of— I shall get you all Christmas presents whilst we’re out. An ample opportunity.”

Bruno beams. “Why, thank you, Lord. You needn’t.”

“Oh, I shall,” Giorno waves his hands, fanning the statement from the carriage. “You treat me well, and I must do unto others as they do unto me.”

Fugo smiles. He’s still shaken from this morning, but he’s got seeds of hope blooming in his chest like wild ivy, clinging to anywhere he can reach, so the opportunity doesn’t slip from his grasp. 

He assumes Giorno can tell; a smile twitches in the corner of his mouth.

Trish Una’s fashion galleria was renowned for having the finest quilts and best seamstresses in the country, herself included; having inherited the fabric empire from her father, she made no small moves about it, indulging customers from all classes, backgrounds, and countries. A classy businesswoman, though much too young to manage alone. Giorno often sent Mr Murolo over to help with her expenses, and she, of course, had her posse of businessmen all too eager to get to be a part of the Una brand. She greeted Giorno with a kiss to each cheek, today donning a floral dress and pink hat, a peacock feather iridescent against the bright pinks of her bustle and corset. 

“Giorno, darling. It’s been a while,” she says, her voice thick with her Italian accent. 

“It has, I apologise; personal affairs have swallowed up my life as of recent.”

“Well, no matter, you’re here now,” she ushers them inside, handmaids waiting with cups of Darjeeling and scones. She greets them all with a kiss on the cheek, and she giggles as Narancia presents his cheek to her, hands behind his back. “Always a pleasure to see you, church-bell,” he jests, Trish rolling her eyes and giving him a kiss regardless. 

“How many times have I said I hardly understand you on a good day, Narancia?” She jokes back. She then sees Fugo and tilts her head. “Pardon my rudeness. Your name?”

“Fugo Pannacotta, miss,” he nods, offering her a hand should she feel uncomfortable. She accepts graciously, smiling. 

“Another one to your troupe then, Giorno?” She muses, making her way up to the front desk. “Uniforms, uniforms, uniforms. Dreadfully boring. I take it you all need refitting?” 

Giorno nods. “Dearest Fugo needs a new wardrobe–”

“Your latest stray, darling. My, you cost me in fabric”

Fugo turns pink at the bluntness, and Giorno quirks a brow. “I… suppose. He’s been wearing Mista’s, but he’s just not as broad.”

Trish nods, switching from socialising to writing notes in a bubbling scrawl. “Of course, well, I’ll gather his measurements, personally of course, and then size the rest of you. Come, we shall make this quick.”

Fugo nods, being escorted by a handmaid as Giorno writes a list of all he wants. The others take the time to peruse the shops nearby quickly. 

Fugo undresses until he’s just in his bloomers, protected by a wonderfully intricate privacy divider, propped up behind him. Trish walks in, donning a measuring tape and soft cotton gloves. 

“I’m going to measure essentially everything, Fugo,” she informs him. “Please let me know should you wish to stop or alter anything.”

She worked at a blinding pace, filling in the chart with his measurements. Fugo was unfamiliar with being sized for anything at all; his extent of clothing was his father’s old clothes, darned in the arms and legs where the fabric rolled off his little limbs in waves. When she was done, she gave a pinch to his bicep. “We’re finished here, darling. You could use a little more meat, it’ll be cold these coming weeks. But, not too much. I’d hate for you to outgrow the pieces I shall make,” she gives a short smile before leaving him to dress again.

The process repeats, Sheila E left for last. She undresses until she’s just in her bloomers and corset cover. Trish lets her eyes wander as she assesses her form, lifting her arms and pressing between her shoulder blades to better her posture. “You’d make a fine model for this establishment, Miss Sheila E,” Trish comments, taking the tape to her skin. Whether the day had watered down her process, or whether intentional, Trish donned no gloves— her fingertips like icicles, drawing her nails across goosebumps blossoming on Sheila E’s forearms. She shivers. 

“Why, thank you,” she replies.

“Do you know how to sew?”

“I can darn and mend,” she replies honestly. “I’m not one for crafting pieces, however.”

“Shame,” Trish murmurs, laying the measuring tape from shoulder to fingertip. “If you ever wish to learn, please don’t hesitate to ask. I do lessons.”

Sheila E’s face prickles, and she shrugs, before apologising; Trish has to recheck the measurement. “I couldn’t afford lessons, Miss. Not that the Lord doesn’t pay me well, o-of course,” Sheila E backtracks. Trish laughs. 

“I wouldn’t make you pay, dear. Giorno is a wonderful associate of mine. I shall have to visit more often. He does have an astounding garden. I always take inspiration.”

Sheila E’s prickling has developed into a hot blush, her eyes stinging with embarrassment and crumbling composure. She dares not make eye contact should Trish observe her stuttering, but she simply continues to prattle on. “His little gardener does do well. But the cheek on that man! I should reprimand him, but his pleading face always makes me laugh, I can’t help it!”

Sheila E can’t help what comes out of her mouth next. “Do you look for qualities like that in a man?”

Trish isn’t thrown off by the question but indulges the gossip. “Why, of course not. He is silly like a friend's younger brother may. Fear not, Sheila E, should you wish to engage with him, he is yours for the taking.”

Sheila E laughs out loud, apologising for her rudeness. “Oh, please, Miss. I don’t look at men in that way. I’m much too busy.”

“Women, then?” Trish asks, and Sheila E looks at her with wide eyes. 

“Why, I hadn’t considered it, but, well… I suppose it would be easier than pursuing some of those buffoons.”

Trish nods, sighing. “Quite right. My father had wanted me to marry rather quickly, to keep business smooth. Produce and heir, blah blah. Standard business practice. But I just can’t imagine it! I want to practice my craft; I’ve no time for children!”

Sheila E laughs. “We are young, Miss. We have our whole lives to find whom we love.”

Trish takes a moment to look over her bare collarbones and neck before meeting her eye. “That, we do.”

Chapter Text

Christmas Eve was deafening throughout the estate. Fugo had spent the week sorting through letters on the Lord’s desk, sifting through invitations to Christmas balls and jovial festive occasions. To each invitation, Giorno gave a thoughtful glance before returning it to its pile and shrugging. 

“Should I be required to appear before them?” He’d posed the question to Fugo. And Fugo, having done his independent research of each sender in his own time, had replied accordingly: ‘Yes, my Lord, it is imperative; No my Lord, their reputation is mottled and withered; Entirely your choice, my Lord, though associates may query your appearance…’ So on and so forth, until there was a nice compilation of events spanning across the last dregs of December. A small gathering of important names at his home for Christmas Eve, followed by the Speedwagon Christmas Ball, and New Year's Eve celebrations at a local courtyard, open to the public. 

Fugo took the time to reflect on his own previous Christmas celebrations. Usually, he was busy this time of year, with keeping the animals warm and fed, and figuring how to scrape together a present for his parents. He’d bought sweets and hatpins for his mother in years past; new gloves and a shining straw hat for his father. He loved them both, yes— family is always fickle in its nature, and though Fugo wouldn’t go so far as to say he despises or hates his father, it’s simply in his best interests to keep a large distance from him. 

His gifts were always in the best interests of his parents. A set of gardening tools, crockery or shining shoe horns— his gifts always seemed to become communal in the end. He didn’t mind all too much, but it meant Fugo hadn’t really left anything behind when he’d run away. He’d only ever owned the clothes on his back.

’Tis the morning of Christmas Eve, the estate once again alive and breathing, bustling with noise. The busiest of all being Bruno– in the few days since their confrontation, Bruno had been so busy with heading into town and buying stock, wary of the impending bad weather, and the feast he should be preparing, he’d had no time to confront Fugo about his actions towards the Lord. Giorno had insisted he mustn’t worry about extra food for Christmas Day, that the leftovers from the festivities shall be plenty, and they can treat themselves to glazed hams and eggs for breakfast. Bruno wasn’t quick to take up the offer, insisting he cook more, that it was unfit for a Lord to eat something such as ‘leftovers’, but Giorno was adamant. Currently, Bruno is preparing the desserts chilled overnight, dusting puddings and whipping cream, along with preparing the main course; glazed ham and roast vegetables, thick crunching slices of pork crackling, Yorkshire puddings and gravy, date puddings and plum pies.

Abbacchio is helping decorate the foyer, being the tallest, leaning to hang holly and pine branches from the stairwell and placing a delicate porcelain angel atop the large fir tree. Narancia is busy pruning the gardens and raking the gravel entrance to be smooth and even, waxing and polishing the brass knocker and knobs and every other shining surface he could see. Trish had called in earlier that morning, mopping her forehead with a silk handkerchief, no doubt extremely overwhelmed by the large influx of sudden resizing and orders sent her way. She’d given a parcel to Mista, which turned out to contain small Christmas brooches, antique illustrations on each pin, as her Christmas present to the estate. Fugo swelled with happiness as he pinned his to his chest, his new suit donned, his cravat done up high in the shade of mute maroon. 

Fugo walks around the estate, assisting in the chaos, hanging baubles where he can, hurrying dining sets and silverware to Sheila E, and looking around for one man in particular. Mista, the ever-knowing butler, was nowhere to be found. He looks to Sheila E for help as he sets the cutlery with her, leaning across the finely woven tablecloth to rearrange the floral decor.

“Any idea where Mista could be found?”

Sheila E frowns and lays her plates with more vigour than required. “I, too, wonder where he is. Perhaps lounging in the courtyard, laughing at us scurrying around like ants doing his work,” she says scathingly, and Fugo chuckles. 

“I’m sure he’s doing work,” he replies, believing it wholeheartedly. Mista had a wonderful sense of humour about him, and was playful in his own regard, but never lacked in participation or effort. Sheila E knows it too; she sighs and saunters to gather champagne flutes. 

Given the slight break in the pandemonium, he skitters through the servant's corridors, peeking his head in and out of rooms looking for Mista. Though he’d been here for nearly a month now, there were still hallways blanketed in mysterious darkness he’d been all but terrified to explore, sensing a kind of spiritual miasmas— something innate telling him not to press further into territory unknown. But, today, he sees a light from under the door of a room, and he knows without looking, the man he seeks is in there. 

With quiet steps, he presses an ear to the wooden door. There’s not a peep. He creaks the door open slowly, stepping forward, and walks into something cold, something hard.

His eyes lock with Mista’s deep black eyes as he stumbles back, the barrel of his prize revolver aimed directly at Fugo’s forehead. It’s so close, in fact, that he can almost make out the manufacturer's engraving on the handle: Webley. Fugo stammers, struggling to stand back up, and it takes Mista half a minute to register that it’s Fugo; pale, quivering, harmless Fugo. He rolls his eyes and walks into the warmly lit room, sighing. 

“If your intentions are pure, you best approach with them. Sneaking around will cause you issues, Pannacotta,” Mista scolds the boy, and Fugo nods fretfully. 

“U-Understood, sir. My, uh, my apologies…” The boy trails off as he enters the room. Every wall is covered in weaponry and military paraphernalia– brand new shining Lee Metford rifles he’s sure Mista brought home with him when they were in town for fittings hung neatly in rows. Some rifles there are undoubtedly not English too, their barrels too bulky, their wood too light. Ammunition sits stacked in boxes, tools and metal scraps littering a worktable, currently housing a disassembled handgun. 

Mista notices the silence and turns to eye Fugo. “I take it you haven’t seen the weapons room before. ‘The Barracks,’ Narancia likes to call it.”

Fugo steps further in, eyeing the rifles on the walls. 

“These are… very well maintained,” he comments, thinking. Mista smirks, folding his arms. 

“I spend my leisure time here. I would hope they look up to par.”

Fugo chuckles. “My father taught me to shoot. His gun was right awful, though. Something was wrong with it. Always strayed to the left.”

Mista bites his tongue and doesn’t imply the fault laid with Fugo’s technique. “What type of gun? I know little about your family, but from where we found you, I assume your father to be a farmer.”

“That’s right. It was a, uh, twenty-two? A shotgun, to keep people off the land. And to, uh. You know.”

“Kill livestock.”

Fugo shudders with the memory. “Yes. The wood was cracked and it was rusting. Every shell scraped as you took it out.”

With a violent shiver, Mista cringes at the thought and turns back to his table. “Stop it! I can’t handle hearing about something that torturous. 

Fugo relents, and goes to look at what Mista’s doing. 

“It’s my latest piece– an Ordnance revolver from Switzerland,” he explains, unprompted. “1882, so a few years old now, but still just as feisty.” The cylinder and both wooden grips are laid aside, the inner workings of the gun laid naked and bare. Mista is using a small paintbrush to dust the metal of gunpowder and debris, and the room smells like wax and varnish from the freshly polished wood. Acrid and pungent, it makes Fugo cough. Mista licks his lips in concentration as he lifts the cylinder, peering down each chamber, inspecting for imperfections.

“Get used to it, kid. That’s the good stuff,” he jokes, placing the cylinder down and doing the same with the barrel, holding it to his oil lamp and checking the metal. Fugo laughs heartily; he’s still getting used to the way Mista speaks servant-to-servant. It’s informal, it’s haughty, and it makes Fugo feel safe. 

“Do you have a dream model?”

Mista revels in the attention his hobby is getting from Fugo and answers eagerly. “Well, of recent, I’d love to get my hands on a Mannlicher rifle… but they’re in Austria-Hungary, and my days of service are over, I’ve no way of getting there. A few years was enough. Still… it’s sleek, it’s new. But of course, the go-to favourite is the Colt Pocket from ‘49…” Mista looks back at his revolver, the assembled one, twisting it in the light. “Just imagine. A revolver, laid with gold. What a statement.”

Fugo nods. “Certainly would be. Speaking of; Sheila E made it quite obvious to me that she was displeased at your absence a moment ago.”

Mista groans and tucks his revolver into his pants, walking out at a pace. “Honestly. We are having guests over– of course, I’m going to check the state of the weapons, should they be needed.”

Fugo grabs him by the arm, bowing his head and swallowing nervously. “My apologies, Mista… But I’d come to find you for a reason. I’ve caused some trouble with Bruno and Abbacchio.”

“Oh?” Mista swivels, intrigued. “Go on.”

“The Lord requested I bring him his… supplements… nourishment, however we wish to phrase it. Abbacchio was witness to the event and confided in Bruno. Bruno, in a marvellous show of loyalty, confronted me about it. But the man has been too busy to follow up, and I’m fretting. I can’t possibly…” Fugo rambles. “I can’t tell him!”

“No matter, you anxious thing,” Mista claps him on the shoulder, buckling Fugo’s knees. “I’ll tell him it’s private. I’ll pull rank if I must.”

Fugo feels like a massive weight is off his shoulders. “Oh, thank you ever so much, Mista.”

Mista simply flashes him a grin and walks into the foyer, bracing for the lashings handed to him by Sheila E. Their loud quarrel brings a smile to his face. 

Six pm rolls around with a ferocious pace, and guests funnel their way in. Giorno hasn’t made his way downstairs yet, and Fugo fights the urge to bite his nails. Sheila E drifts around the room like an apparition, serving guests with champagnes and quiches, and she makes a pit stop at Fugo’s location, hissing at him.

“Where is he? Go get him!”

Fugo nods, though afraid, and ascends the staircase, then the next, until he’s padding along to the Lord’s room on the third floor. He can hear a faint murmuring, or groaning– alarmed, he knocks.

“My Lord? Are you quite alright?”

There’s a bit of silence, then a groan.

“Fugo…”

He pushes the door open, slipping inside then closing it as though someone would see in. He turns to face Giorno, and it’s a sight– he’s half collapsed on the floor, and he looks clammy, his golden locks spiralling down his face instead of curled neatly atop his head. He’s pale, deathly so, almost translucent, and his lips are red from where they’ve been bitten through. 

“My God!” Fugo exclaims quietly, hurrying down to Giorno’s level and kneeling, placing a hand beneath his chin. “My Lord, I–” 

Giorno pushes him back with a sudden force that sends him back onto his palms, his wrists spraining as they hit the floor. “Don’t!” 

Fugo takes a moment to nurse his hands as he gets back on his knees. “M-My Lord?”

It’s uncanny to see Giorno like this. He’s cowering, turning his body away from Fugo, his eyes screwed shut. His seemingly perfect, unshakeable persona has crumbled. He’s weak. “Please, my Lord. Speak to me. Let me help.”

Giorno lets out a shaky breath. He’s breathing through his mouth. “I can’t… I can’t possibly.”

“My Lord ,” Fugo presses, fierce loyalty prickling his skin. “You must let me help. Let me ease your burdens. Let me set you free from anguish as you did so to me.”

Giorno doesn’t let his words shine through. He whimpers and tries to edge further away, his head flying back into the wall behind him, startling Fugo. 

“Damn it all to Hell!” He shouts, squeezing his fists. “Damn this life! Damn this curse!”

He feels it click. He sees the answer, clear as day. “Your Grace, are you, perhaps…” Giorno looks at him, dreading the rest of his sentence. “Are you… hungry?” 

Giorno puts his head in his hands, drawing up his knees. He’s half dressed, with his pants and undershirt on, and socks pulled to his knees. 

“ Ravenous ,” he whispers. “It hurts. I’ve never gone this long. I can’t think. I can barely stand.”

Fugo shuffles closer. “I implore you to remember the terms of my employment; that I serve you under every circumstance. That when this time was to come, you should feed from mine own supply.”

“But I couldn’t possibly,” Giorno tries to protest, clutching his shoulders and trembling. “It’s ghastly. Beastly. What if I go too far? What if I kill you?”

“My Lord, I am not so weak. I shall fight tooth and nail, for I know above all instinct you wish for my health.”

Giorno laughs sadly. “You are not, no. But, I am not human.”

Fugo inches closer again, placing a palm on the top of Giorno’s head. He’s stripped himself of the manners expected of ‘Master’ and ‘Servant’; presently, they are merely boys in strife. Giorno freezes at the unexpectedly gentle caress. “No, you are not. But you are my Lord. That is enough.”

Giorno feels a sense of calm, and takes a deep breath in, before shuddering and turning his body away from Fugo again. “Shit… You smell, just, oh my God…” 

Fugo knows it's like him bearing witness to the greats of Bruno’s cooking, the salivating way he observes the latest dishes, but he flushes at the vulgarities spewing from Giorno’s mouth. Giorno is desperately clinging to any faint ribbons of control. 

“Giorno, please,” Fugo pleads with him, taking both his hands in his own. And Giorno’s control wears away. He lunges, knocking Fugo down to the floor for a second time this evening, Giorno perched atop him like a feral animal. His canines were poking into his lip. Fugo undoes his cravat slowly, staring at Giorno. “My Lord. Are you in there?”

He simply stares back.

Fugo undoes a top button. “My Lord. Should I be afraid? Will you control yourself?”

No answer again. Fugo frowns.

“Giorno ,” he says harshly, a twinge of fear escaping which he’s sure Giorno can smell, and it knocks him back to his senses. 

“Yes,” he murmurs breathlessly. “Yes, I’m here. My apologies. I won’t feast, I assure you.” He lowers his face to Fugo’s neck, seeing the way his pulse races beneath his opal skin. “Please let me know if it hurts too awfully.”

That’s all the warning he gets before Giorno bites down, right at the junction between shoulder and neck, and Fugo cries out, Giorno slapping a hand over his mouth. There’s something electric, but also painful, very painful, like thick gauged needles pressing deep into taut flesh. His legs tingle, his hips wriggle, and he grips onto Giorno like a madman– pulling him closer, pushing him off, he can’t tell.

Giorno rolls his eyes as warm fresh blood floods his mouth, sucking at the puncture marks over the tender blue veins. It’s addictive; he doesn’t think he could ever live without this experience ever again. He’s so sweet, so airy, every mouthful feels like he needs more and more. His cheeks feel hot, and the muscles in his mouth hurt, his legs ache from perching, and he loses suction a few times, making a loud squeak as air rushes in between his lips and Fugo’s skin– it’s his first time, and it’s imperfect and strange and awkward, but he can’t deny it’s not the best he’s ever felt. The grip Fugo had on him was iron-like, his gasps of pain and surprise rumbling against his left cheek, hot breath accumulating in moist droplets on the palm clapped firmly over Fugo’s lips. He feels he could stay this way forever. And yet, he knows he cannot. So, when his stomach hurts no longer and his head stops spinning, he pulls away. 

Fugo’s eyes are closed, and tears run down the sides of his face, collecting on his ears. Giorno feels unfathomably guilty. The blood isn’t squirting from his wound per se, but Giorno presses a handkerchief to the wound and stays close.

“Fugo,” he whispers. His throat is clogged. He clears it and tries again. “Fugo?”

“Yes, my Lord?” Fugo utters, barely. 

“I… I don’t know how to thank you. You’ve done something unimaginably scary for the sake of my health.”

“’Tis my job,” Fugo slurs, blinking slowly. Giorno can’t help but lay his body atop Fugo’s, curling his head into Fugo’s weeping shoulder. He presses a small kiss to his jaw, subtle enough to barely be felt, and could ultimately be passed off as simply European. 

“Rest here. I shall bandage you and attend the gathering. Please do not force yourself.” Giorno stands on shaking legs, grabbing a long silken scarf and tying it around Fugo’s neck in place of a bandage, and lifts him with his newfound strength onto his canopy bed. He moves his pitcher of water and diamond-cut glasses closer, placing a more obvious kiss on his forehead. 

“Ring the servant's bell should you need anything. Mista will be the one to turn up.”

Finishing dressing and opening the door, he sends one last regretful look to Fugo’s resting frame before exiting, ready to brace the party.

Chapter Text

Giorno’s smile was usually forced for most of his events, rather preferring intimate, one-to-one insightful conversations than the hustle and bustle of an evening’s interlude to his ever-busy life; but, tonight, it is plastered on more so than ever before. His gaze drifts and his eyes grow glossy, thoughts leading back to the image of Fugo on his bed, his eyes closed, and his lips curled in pain, his breath heavy. It plagues him. Most guests, thankfully, do not intrude, merely waving down the servants for more food and drink. Giorno sits with his head against his hand, his legs kicking intermittently as he dwells. He feels much too alive, much too satiated, his energy is too high– he doesn’t deserve it. If Fugo were to perish under his watch, under his care… 

“Whatever has got you in your mind tonight, young Lord?” A cheerful smile from a greying man enters his vision. Giorno stands to shake his hand, ever grateful for his presence. 

“Sir Polnareff. It’s been much too long. I take it you’re well?”

The Sir chuckles, spinning his wheelchair to sit beside Giorno, parked next to the eloquent cabriolet couch. “Very. Your parties are a highlight of my calendar.”

“I’m honoured to hear that, Sir.”

“Now,” Sir Polnareff leans close. Giorno can see the misty grey of his blinded eye from here, and he thinks to Narancia, the way his eye swirls the same. He gulps. “What bedevils your mind tonight, Giorno?”

With a sigh, Giorno leans back, twisting a finger through the delicate curl that drops from his temples. “Same old. Troubles with my… afflictions.”

Sir Polnareff nods in understanding, clued in on the secrecy. He, after all, was one of the men tasked with bringing down the man who was Giorno’s father. 

The mission was long, chasing through underground networks, drug and sex trades, and black market channels across Europe. Men died. Young men. Giorno feels like a felon himself for daring to be in front of the man who risked his life for the safety of Her Majesty’s Kingdom, for which his bravery granted him the Victorian Cross. He feels immense guilt being from his father’s blood, his mother’s womb; the skin and blood of these torrential monsters. He can rarely meet the man’s eyes. 

“Young Lord, as always,” Sir Polnareff places a comforting hand on Giorno’s cold ones. Giorno admires Sir Polnareff’s strength to even touch a man of his species. It nearly brings him to tears. “Confide in me, or the Speedwagon Foundation, or my colleagues. I cannot let you fester in its conditions alone.”

Giorno nods weakly. “Is Sir Kujo here tonight?” He diverts.

Sir Polnareff shakes a head, winking, and taking the bait. “Nay. He’s got an enfant to care for at home.”

Eyes widening, Giorno leans forward. He knows he looks like quite the Mary-Ann, all dolled up and perched over the armrest for gossip, but the only man stonier than Abbacchio sporting not only a wife, but a child?

“You jest.”

“I do not, seigneur.” Sir Polnareff is remarkably happy. “Lady Kujo and the Sir were wed four months before her arrival. Little Jolyne.”

Giorno quirks a brow, a mischievous smile donning his face. “But surely that means…”

“A bastard child, yes!" The Sir gives a clap to Giorno's shoulder. “Please forget I told you that,” he waves his hands expressively, dismissing the statement. Giorno spots Mista behind him, who’s trying to convey some kind of message with his eyes and brows. Giorno couldn't care less at the minute. “Between you and me, I think he married to avoid scrutiny. I’ve never met the Lady myself, and he never mentions her. But he writes all the time of Jolyne and her advancements.”

Giorno grins. “How quaint.” He’s glad he’s managed to steer the conversation away from himself.

Mista does eventually break into their bubble, alerting the Lord the night is drawing to a close, and that should he wish to address the room he should do it now. He toasts to a bountiful new year, thanks his constituents for their patronage through the years (to which a very drunk Mr Murolo hollers and cheers), and invites them to clear out when they are ready. Sheila E is forced to put Mr Murolo to bed on the first floor, as he was absolutely intolerant. The thought of him trying to ride home on his wild mare, though a spectacular image, would not be in favour to the Lord. He grumbles as she folds his tie and socks, trying weakly to fight her off as she peels his jacket off his limp frame. Sheila E is almost in her mind to slap him, but should he wish to rest in his britches, so be it. She leaves him a half-dressed clump on the bed, his snores already reverberating through the wooden hallway. Giorno is itching to bound upstairs and check on Fugo but remains present with his guests until the night is well and truly over. He tries not to seem too hasty as he departs the ballroom, thanking his chef and his servants and wishing them a merry Christmas.

With a quiet creak, he opens his bedroom door to Fugo in the same position as he left him, and his heart plummets, sick rising in his throat. He closes his door, rushing over to his bed and placing a hand to his chest. He’s still warm, thankfully, though goosebumps litter his skin as the December chill permeates the manor’s brick exterior. The blood has stopped seeping into the handkerchief, and he’s relieved to see that Fugo has drunk from the pitcher at some point. His hair near his neck is tinged orange and red, and Giorno sighs, emotional. He can’t help but lean down to hug the boy, cradling his head and tucking his chin into his shoulder. Fugo cracks an eye open.

“Giorno…?”

Giorno sits up and nods, taking Fugo’s hands in his own. “Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling?”

Fugo closes his eyes again, barely wetting his cracking lips with his dry tongue. “Weak.”

“I’m so–”

“How was the party?” Fugo croaks, cutting off Giorno. He knows the Lord will ramble incessant apologies for hours, should he not derail his train of thought. Giorno stutters in response.

“G… Good, I suppose. I appreciated seeing friends from far across the continent. Matter-of-fact, Mr Murolo is sleeping here tonight. He is rather…”

“Tanked,” Fugo slurred. Courteous language seemed bereft for the accountant’s current position. Giorno can’t find the energy to laugh.

“Let us say that. Fugo,” he begins, “you cannot distract yourself from the events this evening,” Giorno implores him, recognising the subtle shift in topic, and sighs, gripping Fugo’s hands more securely and looking away from him, deep in thought. His eyes are far away, his thoughts loud in his head. Fugo groans. 

“My Lord, please. I shall be okay, and we shall do this many a time until the snow gives way to spring, and the suppliers can deliver again,” he explains, rubbing a thumb over Giorno’s cold white knuckles. He shivers, cold, and Giorno makes up his mind. Reaching behind him, he rings the sprung bell tucked neatly away in the woodwork to call for Mista, Fugo watching him, tracing every movement. They don’t speak a word.

Mista ducks his head in, before slinking in like a cat and making his way over.

“What can I do for you, my Lord?”

Fugo gulps and feels extremely self-conscious as Mista glazes his eyes over him, assessing him. 

“I’ve fed from him. Please assess his injuries and prepare a hot bucket for his bath.”

Fugo lifts his head at that, looking at Mista. He seems unperturbed on the outside. He wonders if he’s unsettled at the development of Giorno’s condition. He nods at the Lord’s words. 

“Fugo, I’m going to assess you physically and mentally. Is that going to be okay?”

Fugo just nods, grimacing at the deep muscular pain in his shoulder as he does so.

With Giorno fretting loudly beside him, Mista helps roll him out of his jacket and waistcoat, removing his shirt. Giorno helps him sit up, and Mista places a hand to Fugo’s chest, Fugo closing his eyes. Mista’s hand is large and calloused, and delightfully warm. He feels like a caring father, Fugo imagines.

Mista feels his heartbeat, a rapid and flittering thing– but it’s present nonetheless. After watching Fugo's breathing and deeming it sufficiently deep, he checks his skin. The room is stiflingly quiet as he does so, Giorno observing. He doesn’t blink once. There’s a blossoming purple bruise across his right shoulder blade where he’d hit the floor as Giorno pushed him. The bite is marred with little purple and red spots atop the bruise, hundreds of little petechiae like bloodied poppy seeds from Giorno’s inexperienced feeding, sucking blood to the skin rather than out of the wound. 

“Of course, I’m of no experienced mind when it comes to vampire bites,” Mista concludes, checking Fugo’s head and eyes. “I only know basics, what’s taught in the military. But there’s no pus, no sign of infection. The wound has swelled the appropriate amount.”

Fugo sighs in relief. 

“But, of course, I cannot contact Abbacchio should it get infected. He doesn’t–”

“My Lord, Abbacchio leaves for France tomorrow. Have you forgotten?” Mista quirks an eyebrow. Giorno frowns. Right. Of course; the medical conference in Lyon. Fugo chuckles.

“Good timing,” he croaks. “Narancia has been looking poorly, if it is not too austere of me.”

Giorno groans, shaking his head. “Timing, timing. Damn it all.”

With a flourish, Mista turns on his heel to leave. “I’ll be back with the bucket and medical dressings. Are you alright to bathe yourself, Fugo?”

“Leave it to us, thank you,” Giorno snips, hurrying to pour Fugo another glass of water. Mista, good-tempered as always, does as he’s instructed.

Fugo found himself weak, but not incredibly so, as Giorno walked him to the Lord’s personal bathroom. The bath was deep and square, with brick steps leading up to the porcelain tub. 

“Eviscerate ranking and propriety for this evening, Fugo,” Giorno comments as Fugo looks away, holding on to Giorno for support as he unties his trousers and removes his silken black stockings. “Be not meek with me. Allow yourself to relax and rest.”

“A servant brandishing his skin at a marquess is hardly a relaxing image, my Lord,” Fugo replies, his voice whisper thin. Giorno rolls his eyes.

“It’s hardly brandishing. We are both men. Come, let me help you,” he says, giving a hand to Fugo to help him ascend the slippery bricks. 

Somehow, that rebuttal does little to calm Fugo.

But he has other things to think of as he slips into the boiling heat of the bath. Mista had hauled giant steel buckets up, one in each hand, expertly manipulated not to spill a drop over the entire trek up three stories. Fugo’s skin blooms pink in the heat of the water, oils of orange and soap dressing his skin, steam dancing towards the candlelight. Giorno kneels on the brick slab beside the bath, scooping water into a glass and tipping it across Fugo’s angel hair, his scalp peeking through as the water carves valleys and rivers through his hair. Fugo grumbles, shivering at the feeling. He’s never been so pampered. Giorno swallows, nervous.

“Is this okay? I’ve never done this before, I’ve only ever had this done by my staff–”

“‘S incredible, sir,” Fugo mumbles, becoming pliant and malleable, though he was melted wax. Giorno fills his palm with soap, spreading it between his palms. 

“R-Right, okay. I’m going to wash your hair now.”

It feels unnatural at first, washing someone else's hair, and the strands stick and slip across his hands. Fugo’s hair was very thin, too, and Giorno had much overestimated the amount of soap needed, globules dropping off the strands and onto his back, but Fugo couldn’t notice if he tried. His eyes were much too rolled back in his head, his eyes shut, goosebumps littering his skin. Slowly, though, he gets the hang of it, watching his sharp nails carefully lest they puncture him. Giorno runs his fingers over a bruise on the back of his head from their earlier scuffle and feels his lip curl in disdain toward himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. Fugo frowns.

“Shut up,” he groans, feeling the twang of anger in his chest. It made him a tad fearful. “You don’t like repeating yourself, huh?”

Giorno nodded, taken aback by the rudeness. But, it was he who insisted they throw manners out for tonight. “Indeed. But emotions overwhelm me, and in the end, it feels as though I’ve never said it at all. For no change has occurred within myself.”

“Don’t be selfish then!” Fugo sits up and turns to face Giorno, to make eye contact. Giorno found he couldn’t look away– the shining blush across Fugo’s cheeks, his water-clumped lashes sticking, almost invisible in their blond hue. The way his eyes, though shivering and jittering (he really must ask Abbacchio what causes that), maintain solidly connected to his own gem-green eyes. Fugo points at him. “We made this agreement. Don’t break a promise to me.”

Giorno nods, feeling as though he were punched. “Alright. I vow it.”

“Good.” He sits back in the water, settling back down. “It would be ironic of me to apologise, considering the manner of my statements and the pronouncement of rescinding our roles, not ten minutes ago. But know I am thinking it.”

Giorno chuckles, returning his fingers to Fugo’s head. “Duly noted.” 

Chapter Text

Dr Dolcio ‘Jack’ Cioccolata prowls the streets, in a fine suit and steamed top hat, nodding at the men and women who walk him by. He keeps a fine-lipped smile and his jaw raised high, engaging in drunken conversation that greets him around every bend, internally grimacing at every stare that meets his eyes. 

He hates the East End. Totally despises it. Bodies strewn like filth, nought but rags on their bones, eager lust in their eyes and a revolting gait. It was his job to dress the streets the way his mind was decorated internally– adorned with slick muscle and tough cartilage; to show London he isn’t impervious to hagglers and sluts that beg and pray to him. He is above, he is revered. He must become greater. He is a healer, chosen by God. He can, does choose who deserves to live, who deserves to heal. He chooses who deserves to die.

He spies an opportunity; a woman, no older than twenty-five, dressed in dirtied teal cloth, from prior drunken falls or a day's worth of work. He feels his blood pulse with disgust, and with adrenaline, working hard to maintain his facial expression and his gaze. Keeping his eyes off her, he walks closer and closer until the woman meets his placid stare. She’s assessing him, as all women do; how does his jaw rest? With anger or confidence? Is he to grapple and grope, or lead with a gentle hand? He’s clean-shaven and dressed well, and knows he’s attractive, so he walks with confidence, knowing she could never say no to a treat such as his presence. He morphs his faux unassuming look into a sweet turn of the lip. She’s sitting on the side of the cobble street, nursing a blister on her toe, unlaced boots tossed wrathfully to the side.

“Dear girl, why do you find yourself out here tonight?” He queries, keeping his voice mild and low. The woman leans back on her hands, gazing up at him. From this angle, he can see her eyes, the same matching teal of her dress, and the coil of blonde hair that rests haphazardly on her forehead. With a sigh, she stands tall, looking at him. If the blister was causing her pain, he couldn’t tell. 

“Coming ‘ome from work,” she replies, her voice high and crackly. Cioccolata folds his arms together, leaning back on his heels, grimacing. Even the accent he hated, sounding as though she needed to clear her throat, or swallow the frog she must be housing betwixt her teeth. She looks him up and down. “You ought to leave this part of town, sir. Dangerous ‘round ‘ere these days.”

“Why, I could say the same to you, young lady,” he quips, holding a gloved hand out for her to take. “Those murders will carry on, unless fine things like yourself return to whence they came. Please, allow me to walk you home.”

The lady looks him over again, before accepting his hand and smirking, crinkling her eyes. She links arms with him, sauntering alongside. “It’s cold tonight, mister. It’s dreadful being out here alone, during these holy and festive times…”

Cioccolata hums in placid agreement. “It is frigid, isn’t it.” The lady gives him a quick side-eye, a small smile creeping up her face as Cioccolata snakes a hand around her waist, settling on the fabric of her hips. She looked decently respectable in the way she carried herself, the way her makeup was precisely applied, but Cioccolata could tell a whore from a city lady. The sway of her hips, the fraying of the hem on her dress, the loose bow done up across her corset bodice, the way her breath huffed out in front of her though walking no faster than a lazying alley cat. Turning into an opening, she points toward a small collection of apartments, nestled around an open brick courtyard. “Number thirteen. Tha’s me,” she nods. Cioccolata smiles at her.

“I’m glad you got here safe. I’m sure to see you around town again, Miss…”

“Miss Celcie. And to whom do I thank?”

“Dr Cio,” he replies, folding his arms and looking down at her. He doesn’t move or retreat, simply looking her over, gazing at her blue eyes. He knows he could be perceived as threatening now, but her body language doesn’t seem to suggest she sees it.

“Care for a spot of tea? You must be freezing,” Miss Celcie, offers, and Cioccolata nods graciously, smiling. 

“Thank you, darling,” he leads her in by the hand, taking a seat by her bed.

It’s a small place, with a bedroom in the corner and a kitchenette resting against the window opposite it, with just a kettle and an oven, and a small cupboard for clothes. But Cioccolata knows he didn’t really come for tea.

Miss Celcie wastes no time at all, pushing Cioccolata to lay back on the bed and straddling his hips, looking down at him.

“So, there’s no tea?” The doctor jests lowly, and Celcie runs her tongue across her lips. 

“‘Fraid not, sir.”

“Hmm,” Cioccolata leans back, raising his hips to meet her sex, and she groans, placing her hands on his shoulders and bracing herself. She gazes at him through her lashes, salaciously sliding her finger down to his tie and waistcoat buttons. She dares to pry them open, and Cioccolata acts on impulse, darting a hand out to her throat and flipping her beneath him, seething at her audacity but playing it off as making her submit to him. They stay like that, Celcie whining beneath him, biting her lip. Slowly, Cioccolata reaches for his back pocket, feeling the smoothness of the metal blade against the silk lining of his pants. He plays it off by trailing his knuckles up her bare leg, until he can feel the heat of her core against his fingertips. 

“You pathetic little thing,” he murmurs. He grips her legs tightly between his knees, tightens the grip on her throat, and with his other hand, plunges the blade into her sex and rips upwards.

The shriek that Celcie tries to erupt with flattens against his palm, precipitating drops on his skin, beads of pure terror running down his wrist and fingers. Her eyes bulge from the pressure of her yell, and she tries with all her might to thrash and flail; the doctor is much too strong.

“Filth,” he spits, shaking her at the throat. “You think you can try to seduce someone like me?”

Tears stream from her eyes, trailing down and settling in the crevices of her ears, and she blabbers wetly about salvation and forgiveness, but it's too late to beg now. Cioccolata slams the knife into her again and again, leaving no spot of skin unsullied, tearing the layers dressing her away; it takes all of thirty seconds for the trapped air in her lungs to bubble out from the wounds and for life to leave her. In his rage, he continues to slash, tearing her to ribbons. Eventually, the thrumming of blood in his ears dies down, and he can hear a snicker from outside.

Someone is watching him through the hazy, dusting window. With a grip on his knife, he unsaddles the corpse and approaches the door, watching the silhouette, raising it as he opens the door. 

“Woah!” a young voice cries out. Tentatively peering closer, Cioccolata recognises the boy as the redhead from the covenant. “Calm down, sir! I saw you leading that Missy in– came to let you know a guardsman was hanging around like a bloody fruit fly. You’ve got,” he checks his pocket watch, “thirty seconds, before he rounds that corner again.”

Cioccolata looks between his work and the door before cursing. He exits, taking his jacket and tearing it off; he’s far too sweaty, and the December air is deliciously calming on his skin. Vittorio skitters along at his side, seemingly dancing along the cobble streets with his bare feet. 

They exit out from under a large archway, and it couldn’t have been more than a few moments before there’s a holler and a clattering of footsteps. Vittorio grins and skips in front of him.

“Told’ya.”

Cioccolata grunts, wiping his brow. “Thanks.”

“Why’d you do it?” He tilts his head, quirking a brow. Cioccolata doesn’t answer, keeping his stride fast until he’s out of the area. Vittorio groans and complains about it the whole time, but eventually, Cioccolata whips around and grabs him by the shoulders.

“I hate the lowly, the deprived, the selfish slugs that litter the streets. My job is keeping people alive, and there are those who seek to end their lives through acting a harlot and moping on the streets,” he spits, grabbing Vittorio with ever-increasing strength. Vittorio doesn’t budge, still smirking up at him. 

“Like me?” he asks. “Look at me, rags an’ all. Filthy face, drinkin’ blood from poverty-stricken little kids and their parents,” he says with a smile. Cioccolata’s face does not falter, but Vittorio can hear the way his heart peaks intensely with interest. “Our views don’t align, but we both kill. Both for pleasure, I presume. Food, cleanliness, it all makes us happy.” 

“It is all they are there for.”

“Right you are. I mean,” he blabbers on, “there’s a nobleman who needs blood too, an’ so we give it to him, but he don’t let us take it from kids or young ones. So he don’t get pleasure out of it. I don’t reckon he likes himself too much, but you know,” Vittorio shrugs. “Bein’ different is a little hard.”

Cioccolata pauses, thinking. These low lives are associated with the upper class? Was vampirism not just a plague of the worst of the worst? “And would I be familiar with this noble?”

Vittorio looks around before licking his lips and grinning. “Little blonde kid. Giovanni or somethin’? I never pay attention to those meetin’s anyway,” he shrugs again.

Cioccolata’s heart thumped out of his chest, his mind soaring. He’d no idea he’d exposed himself to merely one mouth away from the marquess. He swallows, donning a brave face and walking onwards. 

“What a life that must be.”

Giorno sat beneath the Christmas tree that towered over everything in the dining hall, grinning as he slowly slid presents out from beneath the Christmas tree. It was early, dawn only just yawning over the hills surrounding the manor, blessed tips of pink and purple draping over the tops of buildings. His beloved staff also sat around him, in an intimate show of vulnerability; Sheila E’s hair was down, raining down her shoulders and pooling at her feet where she knelt, still in her nightgown. Mista had a sweater on and was handing out mugs of hot chocolate, forever unable to stop his subservient nature. Abbacchio had dressed and had gratefully accepted his present earlier (an ivory mortar and pestle and a dainty silver brooch; to which Abbacchio thanked Giorno profusely.) He’d left the estate after giving Narancia a kiss on the head and promising him he’d fix him. Fugo was in his white linen nightgown, looking almost monochrome, or like a stick of chalk, Narancia had so kindly interjected that morning. He himself didn’t look too good. His eye was puffed up closed beneath the herbal ointment, the patch concealing the disease beneath it. But he was chipper, even if his head hurt and his teeth ached. And occasionally, you could catch the whisper of a snore in the air, having floated generously down from Mr Murolo’s room. 

It was tranquil.

“First, my gift to Mista, my ever-beloved butler and personal assistant,” he took a large square box out from under the tree and passed it to him. 

“Why thank you, my Lord,” he grins, tearing eagerly in. When he spots the brand, he halts, shaking his head. He pulled the gun out with shaking hands, assessing its awe. 

“There’s no way– these aren’t supposed to be manufactured before next year–”

Giorno shrugged. “I pulled some strings. You’ve done a lot for me this year. You deserve it.”

The gun, a Colt M1889, shone brilliantly gold in the early morning sun and had Mista shocked beyond belief. Giorno grinned, before moving on, leaving Mista to fumble between thanks and stuttering vague sentences like “you can't” and “you mustn't”. 

“Bruno!” he yelled. “Get out of the kitchen, I told you, no working on Christmas!”

Meekly, the cook saunters in, sitting down in his uniform. 

One by one, they each receive their gifts; Sheila E received a beautiful mother-of-pearl hair comb, adorned with gold and pearls. 

She held it in her hands, shaking. “Sir..? Why would you get this for me, i-it’s so–”

“Oh, I didn’t buy that,” Giorno snickered. “That’s from Miss Una.”

Sheila E blossomed a beautiful red and spoke no more. But, her hair twisted up beautifully into the comb. Giorno had gotten her a magnificent soap blend, which would practically melt away her blisters and callouses. 

Narancia received well-made trousers and a beautiful woven hat, to protect him from the sun and the dirt, as well as some easy-to-read books (Giorno knew he would still read them to him regardless.) Bruno was treated to ivory knives, and golden hairpins to keep his ingredients out of his inky locks. Then came Fugo’s turn.

“To Fugo, from Giorno,” 

Fugo was nervous, frighteningly so, and his eyes could hardly focus on the paper as he tore it. A smooth, brown velvet box lay in his hands, and he strokes a thumb over the top. He looks up at Giorno, nervous, and he nods gently. 

Opening the box, Fugo gasped and felt his eyes fill with tears, naturally. He tried to will them away. In his hands sat beautiful thick lenses, swapped in thin green wire and adorned with deep forested arms of pearlescent shavings, like a radiant vine adorning his face. And just when he’d gotten a grip on his incessant blubbering, he put them on. 

For the first time, everything was clear. Perfectly so. No need to squint or to lean in. He just stared at Giorno, looking at what he’d been missing the whole time; the deep red gems that dangled from his ears, or the wisps of his hair that flicked up over his head. The blonde eyelashes he could finally see. He did this with everyone, finally able to make out Sheila E’s scar on her face; Bruno’s stubble; Mista’s freckles. It was all stunningly overwhelming. 

“You look beautiful,” Sheila E said, placing a hand on his. “He’s outdone himself this Christmas, haven’t you, my Lord?” Her eyes are also teary. Fugo swamps her with a hug before sitting back, a huge grin on his face. 

“Thank you, my Lord. You… You have healed me.”

“Oh, hush. I should’ve done that weeks ago. You’ll make me sound like God if you’re not too careful.”

The others giggled, but Fugo less so. 

The man who revived him, who bathes, feeds, dresses and attends to him. Who fixes his ailments and teaches him. A man he was willing to give blood for. 

What’s not holy about that?

Chapter Text

On the eve of 1889, Giorno and his staff mingle at a New Year's function hosted on local land, at a grand dancehall, inviting the presence of all people from all classes and walks of life. Narancia could not make it, the poor sod, for his head was thrumming in pain, and therefore, Bruno declined to come, in favour of caring for the young boy. With a snivel, Narancia bid them farewell, Bruno ruffling his hair and shuffling him to bed. 

Sheila E, Mista, Fugo, and Giorno made a rather quiet entry, Giorno shaking the hands of common folk and nobles alike who greeted him, all of whom had come to pray and wish for bountiful opportunities come the end of the eighties; for good luck and good fortune. Giorno had a small wreath of delicate smoke around his head from a long, thin pipe, quote ‘a gift from foreign ancestors’. The smell was light, unlike the heavy puffs of choking tobacco from thick cigars, almost like incense, and made Giorno look that much more ethereal, however impossible that may be. After learning (and forgetting) the names of people who’d come to exchange greetings, champagne and Shiraz were handed out in delicate glasses, with large pots of warm soups and freshly baked bread freely available from the front. Giorno wasn’t hungry, and with a knowing look from Fugo, he bid them from their duties, telling them simply to enjoy the festivities and not to worry about him.

In complete honesty, Fugo is teetering between terrified and content. Terrified that Giorno had pounced upon him as though he were rabid and had knocked him down with ease and a feverishness that made Fugo shudder. He is horrified to think that he could grow from there, that that was only his first feed. He is content, on the other hand, that Giorno showed such a display of vulnerability, and his ability to come back to one's senses when a meal of a lifetime is displayed right in front of him. It was a deep, intimate, and physical show– no, engagement, of primal instinct, preservation, and restraint. Hiding what one truly wants. 

Fugo knows if he were asked, he’d have let Giorno feast until his eyes glazed over. Suddenly the wound on his neck is hot, blindingly so, and his newly tailored evening suit doesn’t fit quite right. 

Darting off towards the large open balcony, he covers the journey in large hurried strides, gasping in cool air, the feeling akin to breaking a fever, complete with the delicate trail of sweat meandering down past the curve of his ear. Couples littered the balcony with interlocked hands, with pinstripes and pearls adorned for the most important night of the year. Fugo feels overdressed, overwhelmed, and entirely improper as a servant boy in such a fine establishment. He tries to slow his breathing, unsure why he’s gotten so worked up. The night air should help, but the sting of December cold makes his neck sore, and the never-ending star-littered horizon makes him anxious.

And should the night not feel suffocating enough, there’s a tap on his shoulder and a distinct smell of farm life from behind him. 

His heart drops to the bottom of his suede shoes, and the breath in his body is knocked out of him in a swift, singular moment. He waits a moment, shivering. Hadn’t he been sweltering just a moment ago? He’s sure he was. His eyes aren’t focusing, though he’s donning his new frames from his Lord, and he’s sure he could make out the shadows of buildings in his vision just moments before. His body hardly lets him walk, so he swivels slowly on the spot. 

Ah. His father is here. 

“ Fugo .” He drawls. He’s not exactly dressed up, per se, but looks nicer than the average eve whence he came. His shirt is buttoned, and his pants are rolled above his boots. But it’s for show, and Fugo spots the imperfections as easily as anything; the darning has come undone, and the shirt remains crinkled and unironed, but it’s the eyes that unsettle Fugo the most. Pure, unbridled, putrid rage. Absolute swirls of disdain and hatred emanate from his entire being. He looks Fugo up and down, from his purple shoes to the intricate green detailing on his waist coast, and the silk chiffon cravat done tight to his neck. His father's lip quivers in agony, and Fugo can assume every thought which is to rush from his father’s mouth any moment. “My dear son. What is this?”

Fugo finds his throat dry and his brain devoid of any answer. He’s searching for something that won’t irritate him further, but every answer is wrong. But, silence will only make him angrier, shall it not? He tries to divert his eyes, but his father grabs him by his lapels, forcing him to stumble forward. 

“How on earth ,” his father murmurs, trailing his hands across the fine stitching. His nails still have dirt underneath them. He has blistering skin and flaking scabs on his knuckles. Fugo can feel the sting of his father’s silver buckle again, what brought him to Giorno three months ago. “How did you manage this, ha?” His father takes Fugo by the jaw, turning him around and assessing his face, his neck. He sneers when he spots bruising flourishing just beneath his collar, peeking through. “You couldn’t bear giving your family the money, your father no less…  All those times I protected you from buyers, and you sell yourself anyway,” he spits. Outsiders are beginning to look, or flutter their way back inside, ignorant of their conversation, of their reunion. 

“It’s not–” Fugo chokes out, his body forcing the statement from him, a knee-jerk reaction from the absurdity of the claim, but his father slaps him clean across the cheek for responding anyway. Fugo’s glasses clatter to the ground. If he wasn’t already blind, the tears welling from the sting certainly made him. His father grabs him by the jaw once more, shaking the tearful boy. 

“Selfish! You selfish, selfish boy!” His father hollered, shaking him back and forth violently, Fugo losing his footing more than once. “You abandon me! You abandon your livestock! Your future! Your mother!” 

Fugo knows all this, of course. He struggles with the guilt, day in and day out. Should he not return, let bygones be bygones? He allows himself to grow limp. He deserves this. 

And then, in a swift movement, Fugo recognises the blonde and black whirr of his Lord, and his father is ripped from him and pressed over the limestone railings of the balcony, a hand around his throat. Giorno is almost nose to nose with him, and Fugo has a brief moment of humour to try to awaken himself; he knows Giorno must be retching inside, that close to his father’s rotting mouth. But he’s probably too consumed, smelling his rage, for he can spot his father's feet slowly leaving the ground as Giorno slides his body further and further over the railings. 

“And who might you be?” Giorno speaks in a tone frightfully calm. His exterior hasn’t cracked, but the thrumming of his blood– Fugo’s blood– is frightfully loud in his sensitive eardrums. 

“Why does that…matter–” his father chokes out, gripping the limestone balustrades, “Can a father not… discipline his son?”

Giorno hasn’t noticed, but his nails have started to sink into Fugo’s father, his fingertips seemingly swallowed by the scruffy skin of the farmer’s neck. Giorno feels the warm blood rushing through the artery just beneath his thumb, pulsing with fear so palpable. Palatable. He turns his head to look at Fugo. He speaks just a word.

“ Please ,” Giorno murmurs. His hands are wrapped almost internally now, and his mouth is full of saliva. Fugo knows his Lord is begging to feed, or to, at the very least, drop him onto the descending staircase below them. Giorno is shaking, his face beginning to break that marble stare. 

Fugo shakes his head ‘no’ and sees desperation in Giorno’s stance, though he can’t quite make out his face. He’s glad, on some part– seeing the rejection would sting. But he can’t kill his father. He won’t make that decision. He won’t ask for the trigger to be pulled, nor does he want Giorno to face the consequences for such an action. Father or not, without Giorno, he has nothing.

Giorno holds him there for a moment longer, the backs of his father’s knees skimming the top-most of the guardrails, before he’s thrown down, pinned by the sole of Giorno’s boot.

“Do not ,” Giorno begins, his voice throaty and deep, “make me do this again. You so much as lay a finger on him, sir, and I shall maim you. I will cull your livestock and feast on it and you. I will burn your land to the ground. Do not make me repeat myself.”

His father irritatingly does not say a word. Giorno eyes the crowd watching him, then looks at Fugo. His expression is unreadable. Fugo wonders if he upset him. Giorno walks in long strides out the doors and across the dancehall, tearing Sheila E’s and Mista’s focus from the wine. They trot after him, a stumble in both their gaits. 

Fugo stands on shaking legs, staring at his battered father. His heart hurts, and he wishes at that moment he’d never found Giorno at all. He’d been better off succumbing to frostbite or hypothermia in those woods. Or wolves, God forbid, he wants to be useful to someone!

The carriage ride back is awful. Fugo can’t stop shivering, regardless of the cold. He’s sweat through his undershirt, his neck is itching terribly, and he wishes to heave and cry and shriek. Mista can tell something is afoot, but can’t contribute much besides mouthing off brazenly at the horses and then immediately apologising to them. Sheila E is much too drunk to deduce any social cues; she’s asked where they’re headed perhaps a dozen times and giggled at nothing a dozen more. 

Giorno is illusive as always, but sits straight, plain-faced, with his hands in his lap. He feels ill. All he can smell is strawberries and wine. Fugo’s fear is sticking all over him, making his skin crawl, and Sheila E could do with moving a few feet across, instead of counting how many buttons are on his jacket. The moment Mista tumbles down to open the gates, he races in, throwing his coat at Bruno and heading for his wine cellar, tucked behind the grand double staircase. Bruno blinks at the sound of the large wooden cellar door slamming closed. 

“Is something the matter…?” he queries. Fugo can’t help but tremble. Bruno was not the person he needed to face right now. He wishes Narancia were here.

“He’s got a fuckin’… stick up his ass, or somethin’,” Mista slurs. Sheila E chortles loudly, swatting Bruno when she notices his disapproving gaze. She goes to respond, but Bruno deftly interrupts her with his palm straightened out in front of them.

“Make your way to the courtyard. I’ll bring you some tea and cake. It’s an hour to midnight— I wouldn’t want you to miss New Year’s,” Bruno offers the pair. His bribe works; their faces light up, and they link arms and celebrate, hooting and hollering as Bruno shuffles them ahead. “Check on him,” he orders Fugo as he departs, which wakes him from his dissociative swaying. “He trusts you– and thus, so do I.”

Fugo could feel his tears welling again but nodded. He is a faithful servant to the Giovanna household and his fellow working men and women. He shan’t let the house crumble into disarray over a man like his father. And so, on quivering legs, his brave heart steps onward, where his Lord no doubt awaits him.

Chapter Text

Art by @TangerineVanilla

Fugo had never entered the wine cellar before– that was Abbacchio and Bruno’s domain. He’d spotted the two often, sharing a dusty bottle of aged Chianti, procured from the sloping green hills of Italy, murmuring pleasantries to each other across a polished leather settee. He’d heard them discuss many a topic as he polished metal wall sconces and dusted pictures in the halls, Bruno’s airy laugh and Abbacchio’s low huffs dotting their conversations.

“Oh, I’d love to go to Sardinia,” Bruno commented, swirling his glass. Abbacchio had leaned back, his corset removed and abandoned on the tea-table, his hair down and his eyes closed. 

“You just want to go fishing.”

Bruno had ducked his head, embarrassed, and looked to the side. “Perhaps! It’s also an area in Italy I’ve never travelled to before.”

Abbacchio chortled quietly, tipping his glass back and sipping. “Rich bastard. God forbid there’s somewhere in Europe you’ve yet to discover.”

Bruno aimed a kick at Abbacchio, scowling. “You are visiting France in mere weeks, are you not?”

“That’s for work,” he shrugged, tilting his head. Fugo could see how Bruno’s eyes darted across Abbacchio’s form. “It doesn’t count.”

There was an energy leaking from the room that made Fugo’s cheeks warm, his coat feeling tight. Like he was watching something he wasn’t supposed to see. Witnessing Abbacchio so utterly relaxed, not so withdrawn and done up as Fugo was used to seeing him, a sly smirk on his reddened mouth and his lids half open… watching the normally composed and meek Bruno stumble drunkenly over his words and cover his actions defensively… It made him turn on his heels, his heart racing, forbidding himself to entertain such impropriety. 

‘Love’, ‘intimacy’ and other topics thereabouts are not well known by Fugo. He had seen his mother and father share a kiss, perhaps twice, and laughed at the thought of them being coital. But he doesn’t know where to draw the line between friend or lover, or perhaps what love was supposed to look like, feel like. The racing in his chest when he looks at Giorno, though mostly fuelled by fear and terror, is also of respect, of gratitude. He wouldn’t know love if he’d felt it. He’s sure the other servants love him, in some regard, maybe only so far as caring. Bruno scared him, and he couldn’t identify how he felt, really. Abbacchio respected him but stayed out of his way. Well, out of everyone's way, really. Sheila E was the first he grew to respect and become friendly with, from the first night when she’d drawn his bath and gathered his clothes, to quiet evenings when she insisted on brushing Fugo’s hair for bed. 

“You’re really quite a marvel,” she’d said one evening, plaiting his hair. Fugo squirmed, goosebumps dotting his skin. Soft touches seemed to make his skin crawl. “I’ve never seen hair anything like this. Miss Una sure does well in matching your suits.”

Fugo listened to how she hummed. “You sure like Miss Una a lot.”

Sheila E had clipped him around the ear for that comment. He was sure what they held for each other was ‘love’; he’d seen the urgency Sheila E held on days they were due to visit their seamstress, or the way her hands shook as she opened her Christmas present from her. And Mista would invite him into his barracks, ask him to clean guns and count ammo, and laugh at his inexperience with such things, often clapping him on the back and telling him to get some hair on his chest, to come shoot foxes on the property with him.

His father had always frowned at Fugo’s natural effeminacy. Always told him to look like a man, act like the boy he was. That no son of his would grow to be a pansy-wearing sodomite. Fugo had read stories of Ancient Greece and Rome regarding the practice, descriptions of poems between male lovers making his nervous and guilty under the candlelight. He found a stark contrast between the Catholic English views and the views of those from millennia past. He wanted to believe his father, that marriage was between man and woman, recounting the words of the bible, as one would believe their parent about anything. Though neither him nor his father were baptised or believed in God, his father weaponised it; that he was to marry a nice girl in a nice church, and have many children to support him later in life. He couldn’t fathom how he would ever get to the point of marriage.

His lack of affection until now, his divided view on these regards and the world of adulthood he’s been rocketed into, makes his head spin, like his blood is flowing backwards. He knows he lacks experience for his age, most of the boys around his home had wives or children, but he’s not even sure what he could count as experience. His hand brushes against the bite mark on his shoulder, remembering the savage hands grappling at him as Giorno drank and sucked, and he suddenly feels as drunk as the two servants hollering in the gardens, his knees weak and mouth dry. He pushes the thought aside as he descends to the cellar.

He is nervous. Beyond nervous. He’s sure that Giorno can smell him sweating through his cotton shirt, and that makes him sweat even more.

The steps trail down, candles wavering in their small enclaves in the limestone walls. The cellar doors were shut, and it took most of Fugo’s strength to push the heavy spruce doors open. Shelves lined the walls with bottles of all kinds, barrels and kegs stacked along the floor with faded labels and heavy iron nails keeping them shut. He spots golden hair from behind one, tucked between two shelves, and hears the sounds of small sniffs and cries. Fugo’s heart thumps in his chest, blinking rapidly as he tries to keep himself grounded. The cellar is cold, but Fugo still removes his jacket, draping it over a keg, attempting to let the cool air calm him down. He walks slowly, trailing his hands across the barrels, approaching Giorno. In the dimness of the cellar, only illuminated by the candles in the hallway, Fugo could spot two red dots. He swallows hard and shudders. These were Giorno’s eyes, glowing red and piercing him through the dark. He tries not to let his fear get the best of him and continues on forth, until Giorno was sat on the ground in front of him a few metres away. 

There is a heavy silence, thick with unspoken words. Fugo stands still, eyes darting around, refusing to hold eye contact with that frightful red stare. Giorno durst speak a word.

“I…” Fugo starts. All manner of topics floats through his mind. He doesn’t know what is or isn’t the right thing to say. “...Mista and Sheila E are celebrating in the courtyard. Bruno, er, told them to.” 

Giorno doesn’t move. He stares forward, taking breath after shuddering breath. He’s breathing through his mouth, Fugo notices. It makes him uncomfortable, and it makes his neck tingle. It reminds Fugo of when they first met– those first evenings and mornings spent playing word games, teasing Fugo with the notion of what he really is. It had led Fugo to the idea that Giorno was fully embraced with his identity, that he knew the demon that encapsulates him. But nay, Fugo could tell Giorno struggles accepting what he is.

He hates it more than anything. Fugo sighs.

“I couldn’t let you kill him–”

“I know.” Giorno cuts him off. His voice is deep, much deeper than the usual flowery tone he had. It echoes in the dark limestone room. “But I want to. And I cannot live with that.”

Fugo’s chest hurt with the situation. It was utterly unfair what Giorno was facing.

“Seeing his hands on you… on my secretary… yelling cruelties…” Giorno shakes as he talks, his whole body vibrating with rage. “Reminded me of my father. The stories of his atrocities. How he treated those he owned, those he loved…” Giorno cards his fingers into his hair, pulling out his delicate curls and tugging hard. “His only solution was death. He had to die. People like that cannot live in this world.”

He stands suddenly, yelling and cussing, taking his arm to the shelves and sweeping, collapsing the wooden brackets and sending bottles crashing to the floor, wine seeping into his shoes and staining the concrete below. “Christ!” he screams, gripping shards with such fury they crumble, dusting out of his palms. His hands return to his hair as he moans in pain and anguish, sinking to his knees. “Stop it! I don’t want to kill! I don’t want it… Stop this,” he begs, and Fugo finds himself rushing to his side, ignoring the sharp sting of glass in his knees as he throws his arms around Giorno, pulling him close. “I’m not him! I’m not…” He feels large sobs tear their way through Giorno, and Fugo pulls back to take Giorno’s fingers from his head and interlace them with his. Giorno continues to cry, his red eyes shining from the illuminated tears, his lips cracked and wet as he pleads incessantly. Fugo is relatively uncomfortable, having been told his whole life to lock tears down, to hide pain. But this is his Lord, his master. He needs somebody, and Fugo would be there for him. Fugo moves both of Giorno’s hands into his lap, moving his left hand to hold Giorno’s shoulder and wipes his tears with his right, his palm cupping his cheek as Giorno hiccups.

Giorno searches his face, his eyes, for any ulterior motives, for any fear. He dares to breathe through his nose, to see if he can smell it, and a whine is punched out of him at the overwhelming sweetness, dizzying from the smell of wine, of the closeness of Fugo, the wetness of his eyes and the thumping of his heart. He lets his head collapse on Fugo’s shoulder, breathing shakily, his head swimming. He can feel Fugo jump at the contact, and feels the dull thud of pain spasming through his scapula; this was the shoulder he bit from. He pressed a kiss to the fabric above the wound, apologetically, then one more at the crook of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks. Fugo shakes his head stiffly, and brings his hand up to pat Giorno’s back, rubbing small circles. 

“Ah, not– not at all, my Lord,” he mutters thoughtfully. “I understand this must be an incredibly turbulent time for you.”

Giorno rests, letting his heart attempt to slow, feeling safe in the comfort of Fugo’s warm skin. He was especially fragrant, the sweet champagne smell of alcohol and sickly nervous swear. His jaw clenched as he processed his findings and felt his fangs peeking out again, and in a quick decision he shoves Fugo back, frightened of himself, of what he could do. Fugo gasps as he hits his back against the cold, wet floor, his hands slipping and grazing as he attempts to sit back up, surprised at the sudden rejection.

“I can’t possibly,” Giorno starts, his hands covering his face as he trembles, feeling his stomach cramp. “I’ve fed just recently… How is this happening?”

Fugo dusts the sandy pebbles from his palms, before crawling forward to meet Giorno. “Please,” he begs his Lord, “be not afraid to be yourself in front of me, my greatness.”

Giorno cries out in frustration, removing his hands and gripping Fugo by the shoulders, shaking him harshly. 

“Is this–” he starts again, Fugo frightened to his core and instantly stilled, “--something you fear not? Something you wilfully indulge? Nay, tolerate?!” He yells, Fugo’s ears ringing from panic and the volume. Giorno’s face is streaked with wine and tears, his canines poking into his bottom lips, his pupils like slits in his reddened, manic eyes. He huffs heavily, shaking as he waits for his answer. 

Beautiful, Fugo thinks. Maddened, dreaded, yes– but beautiful. He takes his thumb, tracing it over the cheek of his saviour, then brings it to Giorno’s lip, those cherry eyes darting across his face in a frown-framed panic. Fugo parts his lips, pressing the pad of his thumb into Giorno’s razor sharp teeth, pushing further and harder until the skin splits, and the tooth plunges into the meat of his digit. 

Giorno feels something break within his chest, something snap, and the beast that first bowled over Fugo on Christmas Eve takes centre stage once again.

To Fugo, the reaction was immediate and carnal. Giorno, with his hands still on his shoulders, spins him and presses his sternum to the floor, his knees bent painfully beneath him and leaving him with a crick in his ankle. He yelps as the glass pushes its way into his clothes further, poking through to his skin. Giorno digs his fingers into the soft waistcoat and shirts and rips, the fine stitching breaking away in an instant, climbing and pinning his hips into the floor with his weight. Fugo yells at the pain searing through the bones of his pelvis. He shivers as the cool air hits his back, and he attempts to shuffle, to crawl out from under Giorno, but all efforts die as he feels teeth sinking into the back of his neck. A choked cry escapes as he feels pain pang up into his temples, the muscles in his shoulders forgoing his intentions prior. He feels Giorno shudder, taking his lips away and sobbing once, before delving in again to the thin meat of his ribs, Fugo actually shrieking this time. He is terrified Giorno may accidentally punch a hole in his nerves or his lungs, adrenaline making his whole body vibrate. Giorno feeds from each wound for only short periods of time, seeming to try and fight off the urge, but ultimately succumbing once he feels the slick of Fugo’s blood on his lips, the taste of his scent coating his dry throat. Fugo cries, tears falling down his cheeks, but the response is involuntary, like the quickening of his heart or the shortness of his breath. He could not hold back the wails and tears, nor quiet the kicking of his legs.

His loyalty terrified Giorno.

He feels a hand in his hair, cold fingers pulling his head up, so Giorno could mutter in his ear.

“Are you okay? You sound though you’re being put to death,” he murmurs, trailing his tongue up the side of Fugo’s neck, the sweat like rosemary atop his sweet roasted lamb. Fugo hears a whine leave himself, and a shiver harshly assaults his body.

Is this more than just drinking, this display of intimacy? Was this still Giorno, was this how he felt? Was it normal for a vampire to conduct himself this way during feeding? Fugo nods the best he could, refusing to let those kinds of thoughts cloud his mind. His voice is high, and it cracks as he speaks. “Yes, yes, my Lord,” he utters truthfully, and his voice seems to ground Giorno. He holds Fugo’s head up by snaking his fingers around the front of Fugo’s neck, feeling his rabbiting pulse, fingers wet with blood, wine, and tears. He sighs, licking his lips. 

“What am I to do with you,” he says quietly, tracing his teeth against his neck and plunging them in once more. Fugo panics– the bite mark was far too high, far from concealable against the pallet of his skin.

“Gio– Giorno--!” he squeaks, grappling forward and trying to move from under him, but Giorno presses his cheek into the floor, biting down once again. Goosebumps draw Fugo’s skin taut as the wine soaks in and stains his clothes. 

Giorno drinks until his senses clear up, until he can think clearly again, to which he yelps and scampers off Fugo’s waist, panicking. His hands feel sticky and wet, and blood is staining his teeth peach-orange as it mixes with saliva. Fugo groans in appreciation as he rolls and lays flat on his back, straightening out his legs and rubbing his sore hip bones. Giorno scoots to his side, a quivering hand landing on Fugo’s cheek, tracing down, Fugo sucking in a gasp when his nails trace the bites on his neck. Giorno bites his lip, refusing to let more tears fall. Fugo can tell the spiral Giorno is about to take, the spell of begging forgiveness and apologies. He grips his hand and yanks him close, hoping to startle him out of it. They’re truly a mess, covered in blood and thousands of pounds worth of wine and glittering brown glass, chest to chest, panicked breaths intermingling with each other. Giorno swallows and closes his eyes. He’s okay, Fugo’s okay, he’s alive. He agreed and encouraged this. He’s not evil, he’s not taking advantage of him. He’s not forcing him. He can hear Fugo’s heart racing from underneath him, and his tongue twitches as he swallows the blood in his mouth. He could only compare the feeling of overwhelming desire to consume as akin to lust– the want to drain, to bleed. His skin stays cold, but his eyes meet Fugo’s, then dart down, then back to his. Their noses are brushing, and there’s the faintest feeling of cupids bows touching. Giorno can feel the pull, Fugo sees it in the way Giorno’s eyes flicker. Fugo tilts his head up, exhaling shakily.

And somewhere, deep within the house, a blood-curdling scream erupts.

Chapter Text

Narancia’s funeral was quiet, broken only by infrequent claps of thunder in the distance.

Fugo stood quiet, huddled under an umbrella with a sobbing Sheila E on his arm, his top hat as high as his collar. He tried to keep his eyes down, but he couldn’t help but trail his gaze to the casket before him, seeing only tufts of black hair from where he stood. Mista laments off to his left, with Bruno to his right. He was visibly trembling. Giorno stood, drenched in the rain, with both hands gripping the coffin, his head hung low. 

There were others, too, aside from the Giovanna household. Miss Una had come, working with the undertaker to provide Narancia’s resting clothes. She provided a gorgeous black eye patch for him to don, and she herself was dressed in black frills, a lace veil over her eyes. It was Fugo’s first time seeing Dr Kujo, who he’s sure turned up for Giorno’s sake, with Mr Polnareff at his side. He retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket, handing it to Mr Polnareff, who nodded his head in thanks and dabbed at his nose. The members of Sezione Sange turned up too, since Narancia was present at their meetings. Vittorio looked right bored, but at least Angelica and Kocaqi held sombre expressions. 

The priest rabbited on about his story, which Fugo listened keenly to. His Lord had taken Narancia in after spotting him in the streets. He dressed him and taught him how to perform his chores, and created a delightful livelihood for him. He was often spotted making jokes to his friends, shooting with Mista, or brushing the horses. He was born in May. He’d had one brother. He was eighteen at his time of death. 

They recited the Lord’s prayer, Sheila E clutching him with force. 

And that was it. 

The Lord placed rosemary upon the lid of the casket, and Narancia was lowered into the ground. 

Giorno wasted no time in returning to his manor, why, Narancia was buried in the grassy hills next to the stables. With long strides, he escaped, not interested in hearing what Dr Kujo or Miss Una or anyone else had to say. He half-dashes to his room, shivering— with the morning events, no fires had been lit— and yanks his scarf off just in time to throw up on his rug, his knees giving out from below him. He retches, gagging and gasping for air in between sobs, with the only spit-up being pink-tinged stomach bile. His head swims with the events of the last seventy-two hours. 

“Stay,” Giorno had begged Fugo. Fugo peered back with those wonderfully tremoring eyes, nodding. He stood, exiting his cellar and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He grabs Fugo’s abandoned jacket, resting at the entrance to the wine cellar, throwing it over his shirt and hoping to disguise much of the wine stains. There’s little he can do for his hair, though. 

The shout has come from within the servant's corridor, a deep winding path into the east of the estate. There’s a lamp alight in the hallway, and as Giorno sprinted down into the belly of the servant’s quarters, he saw Bruno on the ground, crying out in disbelief and what can only be described as the sound of intense emotional turmoil. He held back the feeling of vomit in his throat. He can’t be sick. He’ll deposit all the blood he’s drank, right here in front of Bruno. Giorno’s heart sank, he felt cold, and he knew at once what was wrong.

He knows that Narancia is dead. 

He walked closer to Bruno, who looked up at him with a splotchy red face, his lips puffy and his face wet with tears. He heaved deep breaths, trying to compose himself, only to push himself further against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut and wailing. Giorno bends, wrapping his arms around Bruno’s midsection and hauling him up, dragging the twenty-something-year-old away. He slumped him against the wall of the servant’s entrance, and Bruno is far too hysterical to question his strength. Mista and Sheila E have stumbled in, sobering up, Mista ready to charge forth.

“My Lord, please, let m–”

Giorno held out a hand, refusing to speak. If he opens his mouth, he will undoubtedly fall apart. He turned, descending toward Narancia’s room.

He’d smelt it first. Infection, deep, rancid, sour pus and acrid bile. Death as strong as any he’d encountered before. He turned off all emotion in his mind and in his body. His hands didn’t shake, he no longer feigned his breath. He stopped blinking. He entered the room, his face stony and unwavering.

Narancia was gaunt and grey, his cheeks vacuumed to his skull and his mouth ajar. The room smelt putrid, and whether it was pre- or post-mortem, Narancia had defecated and vomited across his bedsheets and onto the floor; his mouth and neck were slick with bile and evidence of heavy emesis. His right eye was swollen heavily, crusted shut, and his soiled sheets mingled with the sweat pooling off his body, now cold. Giorno felt his undead heart begin to thump, and he tried to will it to stop. He went closer, examining. His nails were blue, as were his lips and eyelids, and when Giorno put his hand on Narancia’s, it was barely warm, and yet to stiffen. He must’ve only been dead an hour or so. On shaking legs, he exited, staring vacantly ahead of him and making his way back toward the main entrance where Mista and Sheila E waited anxiously. Sheila E took one look at him and shook her head frantically, shuddering.

“Please tell me he’s alright, sir,” she begged quietly. Giorno stopped in his tracks, staring ahead at her. He did not speak. It took him a few moments, but Mista eventually spoke up and swallowed. 

“I… I’ll call for the horses, and… and give you the number for Lyon…” Mista croaked, stepping back. Giorno did not move. He did not speak. He stared at the ground, trying to will the smell of decomposition from his brain.

Giorno did not remember much of the following hours. He had given weary thanks to the mortician who came to retrieve Narancia’s body and sat with the coroner after his autopsy. He remembers being told Narancia died of sepsis, due to a complication with his eye infection; his specific condition was rare; that Abbacchio’s homoeopathic method of treatment would have had no chance at quelling the storm of septicemia. He had called the conference and asked for Abbacchio in the following hours, his eyes prickling and dry as he trailed his gaze over the typed report of Narancia’s findings. He’d croaked the word ‘sepsis’, and Abbacchio went quiet, before Giorno then managed to utter that he was gone, and then the line crackled out. His head swam. 

Giorno tried to pick himself up from his floor, crawling until he could stumble to his feet, staggering his way into his bathroom and coughing. He hears steps behind him, but can’t bear the thought of discussing his state. In the back of his mind, he hopes it’s Fugo.

When asked, Fugo had stuck true to his word and remained in the cellar, until Mista came down with a candle and bag in one hand, clothes in the other. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes were red, and Fugo had an incredibly awful feeling about the news he was to receive. 

“Here,” he had offered Fugo his clothes, and hung his head, pinching his hand to his eyes and breathing out. “The Lord asked me to fix you up. He’s… not in a good spot. Narancia, he…” Mista stared at the ground, blinking. “He’s g– he’s moved on. So to speak. I can’t… I can’t say it.”

Fugo’s mind had gone quiet as he accepted the clothes, swaying as he stood. “...God.”

Mista swallowed hard, his voice catching on his sigh. “There’s, um, bandages and cotton balls in the bag, for the bites.”

The two were quiet for a while, Fugo stripping out of his wet clothes and wiping himself off, picking glass from his knees and palms. Mista didn’t seem ready to leave, and his lip trembled. “We– we used to fish, and hunt together. He– He wasn’t good with a gun. Couldn’t handle the recoil,” he rambled, smiling and placing his hands on his hips, clearing his throat. “Ha! Ahem, sorry. I don’t— I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

Fugo shook his head, hurriedly. “It’s alright. I don’t… I can listen, if you’d like.”

So, Mista told him stories whilst he buttoned— how Narancia and him argued over which of their fishing-line knots were better, or Narancia messing Mista’s shots up on purpose. Their late-night discussions early in their employment, Mista talking about his time in the army, Narancia telling him about homelessness. “He wanted to go to school,” he crackled, looking at Fugo with watery eyes. Fugo felt his chin wobble, and he put a hand on Mista’s knee, smiling sadly. 

“I would love to have taught him.”

“My Lord, I’m coming in,” Fugo warns Giorno, before entering his bedroom and making his way to the bathroom. He eyes the puddle of bile on the floor, side-stepping it and making haste for the bathroom. Fugo acts now as head butler, with Mista on indefinite bereavement leave, and moves confidently, swiftly.

His Lord is a right mess. His curls stick in sweaty ribbons on his forehead, his eyes wet and his cheeks red, barely meeting his gaze. He hiccups, crouched over his basin, trembling. The storm grows closer outside, whistling through gaps in the iron window frames, freezing the polished bathroom, rain howling and rapping on the glass panes, threatening to break in. Fugo walks in on light feet, wrapping his arms around Giorno’s middle and helping him sit on the side of the bath. Giorno doesn’t say anything, just stares at his secretary. He hasn’t seen Fugo much in the flurry of these cold, desolate days. Lost in thought, he watches Fugo run the faucet, filling a glass and bringing it to his Lord's hands, forcing his cold fingers around it. “Rinse your mouth, my Grace. I shall prepare softer clothes for the rest of the day. Worry not about meetings or appearances. I’ve cleared your schedule until February.” 

Giorno blinks, shaking his head, “I don’t need all tha–”

“Drink,” Fugo demands, more forcefully. “I apologise for my rudeness, my Lord. But you need to recover your mind and spirit. Give me that honour of tending to you in a time of great need.”

Giorno shrinks back, rinsing his mouth, internally grateful for Fugo’s unrelenting attempt. His mouth feels less acidic, though he’s sure his tongue reeks like old blood and distress. Fugo busies himself in the room over, and when Giorno waddles in, lethargic and morose, he turns with a bittersweet smile and holds out his hands. Giorno steps into them, and Fugo begins to work on undoing buttons and string ties, taking off his waistcoat and tie, unclasping his necklace, and removing the pin from his collar. Fugo undresses him gently, stepping him out of his pants and shrugging off his undershirt before slipping his bedclothes over his head, tying the strings and pulling the ribbon from his hair. Sitting Giorno down on the bed, he retrieves his treasured hairbrush from his spotless vanity, returning and combing through his sodden blond hair, his hands only ever soft, his love only ever strong. When Fugo lays his Lord down in bed, tucking him in, Giorno beckons him close, reaching out to stroke his cheek with a trembling hand. He presses his lips to Fugo’s cheek, then rests his forehead on him, before returning to under the covers. He hopes it’s enough to convey his thanks. He can’t muster the energy to speak. Fugo smiles sadly. 

“Ring for me, should you need anything at all. I am at your utter whim and mercy, Lord Giorno Giovanna,” Fugo says, before turning to retrieve the rug, hoisting it under his arm before carrying it out, returning only to draw the curtains. Giorno lays in the dark, his pillowcase wet from his hair and tears, listening to rain pelting the sides of his manor. He shivers, and whimpers quietly, the scent of fresh decay lingering still in his nose.  

Sheila E’s been working hard to keep the house in order whilst the servants are in disarray, and acting as Giorno’s spokeswoman for now. Fugo had chased after Giorno once the funeral concluded, so she spoke confidently to the funeral party, brandishing her arms to them all.

“Esteemed guests, please do make your way to the manor for the wake, where we shall celebrate Na–,” she choked up, yelling over the rain, “Narancia’s life. We shall prepare fresh food and drinks. Please, shelter from this terrible storm!”

At once, the guests hurried forth. Dr Kujo had Mr Polnareff in a bridal carry, as his wheelchair was just about useless in the mud, and Mr Polnareff was making many a jest about it. Her eyes stung in the rain, but she marched forth, discarding her boots and hiking up her gown, running around lighting fires in the sitting rooms and wiping tabletops, igniting the wall sconces and delegating space for umbrellas and hats. Tired, Bruno trudged in, his face pale and eye-bags dark. Sheila E stomps in front of him, hands on her hips.

“What’s the menu?” She asks roughly. Bruno barely looks up at her.

“... I don’t know,” he croaks. “How can I even think to cook right now, Sheila E?”

Sheila E’s eyes were ringed red, and her lip trembled. 

“For God’s sake!” She cried, lifting herself onto her toes and walloping her palm across his face, a loud clap resonating. “Pull yourself together!” 

Bruno staggered, clutching his ear and looking at her, wide eyes. Her eyes were fierce, dark grey with the winter, the scar trailing across her face red from the frost. She trembled in anger. “Now, more than ever is not the time to draw to a still. The master is no doubt bedridden with grief. Mista likewise. Fugo is bearing the brunt for us all by tending to him, and you can’t even do your part! Whatever you saw that night, our Lord saw tenfold! He held him!” She screamed, tears brimming her eyes, panting in her sudden exertion. Bruno bends, pulling Sheila E into a swooping hug, burying his face in her cold neck. 

“Of course, little miss,” he shakes, letting her weep into his shoulder. “You’re right. He’d be laughing at us, the mess we are.” 

Sheila E breaks from him, scanning behind her at the entrance room beginning to fill with guests. “Tea— now. Herbal and Earl Grey for this weather.”

Bruno nods. “Buttered bread and soup for lunch. And orange cake.”

With a smile, Sheila E takes the hats and coats from her guests, sitting them down. With a turn, she nearly knocks into a tremendously tall man, who peers down at her, low-set eyes scanning her over. 

“My apologies, sir!” She blurts quickly, to which the man waves his hand.

“No trouble, dear. Though, going barefoot?” He draws his eyes to Sheila E’s feet, to her ankles, and it makes her feel ill. She steps back.

“They were right dirty, and I’d rather not contribute to the mess,” she says harshly, to which she feels a tug on her hair. Whipping around, hand raised, a ginger boy and blonde girl jump, wide-eyed. 

“Whoa! I was just looking!” The ginger remarks, the girl nodding.

“It’s so long…” she says dreamily, reaching her hand out again. Sheila E steps back, brows furrowed. 

“How exactly did you all know Narancia…?” she questions, but was cut off by a man gripping the boy by the back of his collar, cursing at him. His dad, or brother, she supposed. 

“Ack–! Sorry!” He squeals an apology, but Sheila E doesn’t buy it. She can feel Dr Kujo and Mr Polnareff staring at her. She takes the moment to flee to the kitchens, leaving the children to be disciplined. Fugo’s finally entered the room, she notes, and stops before him.

“Do you know those four?” she murmurs, pointing to the group, but another old gentleman she doesn’t recognise has joined them. “Er, five?”

Fugo narrows his eyes. “Indeed. They are clients of the Lords.” 

Sheila E squirms uncomfortably. “They’re a strange lot. And that taller gentleman, with the curly hair… I don’t trust him, at all. He’s perverted. And, just…” she trails off, aware of his gaze on her. “Please don’t lose sight of that man. I’m going to put something dry on.”

Fugo nods, and makes his way toward the couches, sitting among the group, adjacent to his two seniors.

“How’s the boy?” Mr Polnareff asks. Fugo sighs.

“Not good, I’m afraid. He’s been sick with grief,” he clings his hands together, Dr Kujo nodding.

“If it is any consolation,” he mutters, Fugo startling. He’d never heard the doctor speak. “I, too, have faced grief this way. Should he need…” he trails off. Fugo nods, thanking him— he gets the impression Dr Kujo is a rather reserved man. Fugo turns his gaze to the man in front of him.

“I never got your name, sir,” he probes, assessing him. He smirks.

“Dr Dolcio Cioccolata,” he replies, lax and bored. He trailed his eyes around the place, quirking a brow. Fugo was liking him less and less by the second. “Lovely place.”

“Quite. I don’t recall seeing you before.”

“Oh?” He chuckles. Kocaqi leans forward, brandishing a wicked glare at Cioccolata.

“Apologies, sir,” he smiles cheerily. “He’s an associate of ours. He wanted to give his condolences to the Lord.”

Fugo only vaguely remembers the quartet from their meeting, recalling their vampiric nature. Was Dr Cioccolata another vampire? He’d have to ask his Lord. He turns to face Mr Polnareff, to continue talking, when the air is punched from his stomach. 

There, standing in the entrance, soaked and swaying, is Leone Abbacchio.

Chapter Text

Leone Abbacchio is a failure– he’ll tell you so.

Starting life well didn’t seem to halt the flow of fate. Abbacchio was raised well, educated, and was well on his way to joining Scotland Yard as a lead detective. He was proper, courteous, and found himself helping others instinctually. Whether petty crime or helping the community, Abbacchio did it all. But his morals weren’t stiff nor strong, leading him to become more pacified in the face of corruption. On an eerie afternoon, plagued by low cloud and smog, he’d stopped a brawl and accepted a bribe not to persecute the youth whom he’d caught. The kid had slinked off with a grin, pocketing his hands and jeering at the other lad.

This boy would later directly kill a partner of his in the force.

Shame ate at him, and he removed himself from his line of work, leading him to nurse bottle after bottle, day after day, sinking himself into the brick of his alley, wishing to fall between the cracks to never again resurface. Through time and coincidence, he met Giorno, who offered him refuge in exchange for the sweet empathy he harboured, so deeply hidden within him, coaxing it out through gentle words and soft actions. Becoming a naturopath wasn’t on Abbacchio’s cards per se, but it calmed him. The gentle mixing of tinctures and balms, swathing wounds in cool gels and relaxing the body, it was a treat.

Abbacchio didn’t know how he could be so blind. Blind to modern medicine, blind to his facade of medieval treatments, blind to the worsening of Narancia’s condition.

Fugo hadn’t seen Abbacchio so pale in his life as when he walked in the doors to the manor three days ago, soaked and desolate. He and Bruno had had the most terrible screaming matches in the following hours, from desperate consolation to threats of death. Since, the whole house was in disarray. Meals were oddly timed and often requested to be fetched by oneself; Mista was locked in his barracks, and Giorno spent most of his time in bed or in the stables. He hadn’t seen Abbacchio at all after his grand entrance, and Sheila E had washed every bed twice in order to distract herself. Her hands were raw and peeling when Fugo had cupped them, kissing her knuckles and telling her to rest. Boils from submerging her hands in harsh soaps spotted her knuckles, and though she refused at first, Fugo never relented, dragging her by the wrist to her room and ordering her to sleep. Though she cussed and grumbled, the sounds of her snores not minutes later eased his mind, the whirlwind it is. He leaves no room for emotion at current, only logical problem-solving and solution-based thoughts gracing his mind. His feelings surrounding the matter can wait. 

When Fugo thinks to check the cellar, this is where he finds Abbacchio, sitting against the cool limestone and burping vomit into his lap. At least a bottle and a half of fine red is empty, Abbacchio’s hair ratty and tangled, his eyes red and mouth agape. Fugo watches the scene, swallowing the uncomfortable reminder of what drunkards do to men such as himself– he half expects Abbacchio to lunge at him and begin to wallop, as he steps toward him. But nay, he simply shakes his head side to side, no energy to meet his eyes.

“Did I do…ssthe right thing?” he slurs, barely awake. Fugo squeezes his nails into his palms.

“Yes. You did all you could.”

Abbacchio coughs a sob and waves his bottle. “He wanned… you’ta teach him… said’ya seemed smart…” He cries openly, wailing like drunk men do, and Fugo feels his heart clench. 

“Stop that,” Fugo warns. “Don’t speak like that. Pull yourself together, and get yourself to your room.”

With Abbacchio legless and Fugo frail, he seeks Bruno in the kitchen for help, finding him with his head in his hands and perched on a stool. Bruno is reluctant to help, angry even, but he can’t find it in himself to leave him there.

“He promised,” Bruno whispers. “He said he wouldn’t touch the stuff again. Not like that.”

Fugo puts a hand on Bruno’s shoulder, begging. “Please. I am trying to carry this whole house on my shoulders. I cannot have you all continue to mope. Please…”

Bruno breathes harshly through his nose, standing in a sudden move and grabbing a large iron ring of keys from his apron pockets, walking forcefully past Fugo, who trips over himself in the hurry to catch up. 

“Be not angry with him, Bruno, he–”

Fugo doesn’t get the opportunity to respond before he turns around, his large blue eyes wild and wide. 

“You don’t know,” he mutters, pointing toward Fugo, “the days , the months I spent with him, shivering and worthless, nursing him back out of those dregs. The bastard. ”

Fugo is confused at his passion for a moment– he’s but a man, drinking like men do. Men are brutish, and their breath stink of their drink as they laugh loud and wildly. 

But he saw how those men drink, how they share drink, how they–

Abbacchio swirls his glass, Bruno giggles into his. They talk of Italy and of passions. Bruno’s ankles rest on Abbacchio’s lap. Abbacchio is smiling. They clink their glasses, and the sound resonates, and–

“You love him.”

Fugo regrets it as soon as he’s said it, his chest iced cold as Bruno stops walking ahead of him, the cellar door mere metres in front, where Abbacchio may well be dead and gone. He hears the keys jingling as Bruno’s hands shake. When he responds, he does not face Fugo. 

“I do.”

Fugo swallows, nodding. “Take care of him. I’m… I’ll see to the Lord.”

Bruno can’t hear much over the thrumming of his guilt and hurt. Fugo walks away, heading to the stables, and he sighs. Was he that obvious? He enters the cellar, Abbacchio groaning and lifting his head. 

“Bucc…rati..” he gurgles, lolling his head and sliding onto his side. Bruno feels his lip tremble, and crouches in front of him. 

“Leone. You need to get up now. It’s bedtime.”

Abbacchio looks up at him, pitifully. “Why?”

Bruno yells, shoving Abbacchio, who cries and laughs. “For God’s sake, Leone! I thought you were past this!”

Abbacchio just hiccups, staring up at him. “You’re…. awf’lly bothered, Bruno…”

Bruno can do nothing but ignore him, his heart hurting too greatly. He slings an arm under Abbacchio’s oafishly large frame, wringing him up by the waist and wrist. He lets himself fall into Bruno, pressing their cheeks together. 

“Y’ smell good, Bruno…” he murmurs, bringing a lazy hand up to trace his features. Bruno lets one tear fall, then another. Abbacchio presses Bruno’s cheek to turn his head, so their noses line up. Bruno knows what he’s going to do, and really, he should stop it. But he can’t bring himself to. He needs this moment, he needs this reason to keep moving forward, and Abbacchio won’t remember it anyway. 

He presses his lips against Bruno’s, and it’s not amazing– he’s drunkenly moving his mouth, and he tastes like dry wine and vomit, and it’s acrid and sweet, and it’s horrid, and it’s the best damn thing he has ever tasted. Bruno’s knees give out and bring them both to the ground, teeth clacking and foreheads smacking together. Abbacchio groans and tries to find his face again, before slumping in Bruno’s lap and letting himself lay, pressing small kisses to his breastbone and muttering nonsense. Bruno is tired. He allows himself this fraction of time. 

Giorno is in his riding slacks and shining boots when Fugo trudges into the stable, polishing the tack and bridle of his horse's kit. Fugo’s never seen him so dressed down in the day (other than actually dressing him), and he’s noticably shorter without his usual heeled boots. His usually ornate hair is strung up in a high ponytail, and a mare as blonde as his Lord waits for him, nodding playfully. 

“Fugo,” he says, smiling at him. 

“You look blinding today, my Lord,” Fugo jests, for it was the truth– the setting sun illuminates him in almost a heavenly way, and he shrugs himself further into his scarf. His eyes drift across the pale expose of Giorno’s neck, wayward blonde wisps tickling his nape.

“You love him.” 

Bruno stops.

Fugo wills the thought from his mind as he steps closer. “Who’s the sweet lady?”

Giorno steps closer, rubbing the velvet nose of the mare, who huffs in turn. “This is Gold. She’s been with me since I was seven or eight, hence the… creative name.”

Fugo laughs, bringing a hand to her face tentatively. She nudges it, lifting her lip to flash yellowed teeth. 

“I’ve missed animals…” Fugo sighed, treasuring the feeling of wiry hair under his fingers. Giorno watches, his cheeks pink from the cold.

“Did you have a horse?”

“Ah, no, unfortunately not,” Fugo replies, absentmindedly. “Father never wanted one. Didn’t like watchin’ rich people prance about in their carriages.”

Giorno blinks, and Fugo snaps out of his daze. “S-Sorry, my Lord! I didn’t–” But he’s cut off by the sound of Giorno’s tinkling laugh, haughty and high. 

“Ah! Fugo, your countryside accent is delightful,” he comments, placing a hand on Fugo’s shoulder. “I should engage your temper more often.”

Fugo groans. “My Lord,” he replies weakly. Giorno winks before going to fetch a blanket and saddle. 

“So, what animals did you have?”

Smiling fondly, Fugo recounts to his Lord. “We had a dozen chickens, but Father didn’t believe in naming them, since there were so many. There was a gorgeous brown hen I used to secretly call Crumbs, however. We had three cows and a bull; Augustus was his name. The cows were June, April, and May.”

Giorno grumbles from across the room. “Your father is sounding smarter by the minute, Fugo.”

He giggles and continues. “They were such sweet cows. Very loving. Augustus was a right brute, though. Scared me half to death. And we had a donkey, called Charlie.”

Giorno grinned. “A donkey ! How precious. Do they really holler and squeal?”

“They do. A lot.”

Saddling the horse, Giorno smiles and reaches beneath her to tie the straps. “Do you wish to ride with me?” He asks lightly. Fugo tries not to answer too quickly or enthusiastically. 

“Of course, my Lord. Should that be okay,” he added. 

“But of course. I just asked, didn’t I?” 

Giorno helps Fugo on first, helping boost his leg over the horse, then getting up efficiently himself. 

“Now, place your arms around my waist,” he commands, “so you can secure yourself. Let your hips rock with her movement. If you start to get too sore,” he adds, “let me know. Alright?”

With that, he leads Gold from the stable, Fugo adjusting to the heavy sways and thumping of his coccyx on the steady back of the horse, entering the muddied paddock and progressing to a trot. Fugo yelps, gripping Giorno’s midsection and wincing as he bounces, Giorno laughing as he expertly moves along with the horse. 

“Sway, Fugo, sway!” He yells playfully, and Fugo can ignore the pain for just a moment, pleased to see his Lord in higher spirits today. “Let yourself move with her.”

Fugo closes his eyes, breathing deeply in the crook of his Lord's neck, feeling the smooth expanse of his torso, the strong muscle beneath it, the hoofed beast beneath him. He smiles. And he sways. 

Singsonging and blithely oblivious to the atrocity of his actions, Vittorio drags three teenage youths into the cellar of their warehouse, ignoring their thrashing and protests, wrenching them into heaps of tangled limbs. Two girls, and one boy, crying and screaming at the top of their lungs. They’re weakened, but alive and alert, Vittorio running his tongue along his peach-tinted teeth, savouring the taste of their blood. Cioccolata said not to touch them, he knows , but surely he’d understand! He’s not but sixteen himself, and though vampiric in nature, taking three-on-one is still a challenge! Regardless, he’s completed his goal. Cioccolata had come to them days prior, sitting them for a meeting.

“He’s dangerous,” Cioccolata points out.

“How so?” Kocaqi replies, Angelica stretched lithe and pale across his feet. Volpe watches from afar, arms folded. 

“He’s newly turned, so you’ve informed me. He shall become a liability to you. Claim for territory, for fame… he shall become his father.” 

Volpe twitches. “You know nothing of our nature.”

“So I wish to learn,” Cioccolata combats. 

Volpe sighs roughly, turning to sit in his creaking chair, his head in his hands. He understands the gravity of his choice, of the weight behind Cioccolata’s sentiments. He knew Giorno’s father of course, having worked in the black market with him– it’s how Giorno asked for help with his vampirism, after all. A snivelling sixteen-year-old boy, his black sleek hair infected by blonde strands creeping from his scalp, insatiable with hunger and clawing at his throat in desperate understanding, dressed to the nines to descend into the East End's most decrepit cesspits of human atrocity and filth. Volpe pitied him then. He was younger. Gullible. But Dio Brando was feared, revered, and by God, if Giorno were to become him, he would desecrate the little land Sezione Sangue has to its name. 

So Cioccolata had devised a plan– if he were to change Giorno’s blood supply, say to… younger individuals, then should he be able to taste the difference, he would act out. Froth with rage at the covens nerve to offer him anything but what His Highness desired. It would give reason to attack. To claim . 

Vittorio is excited beyond belief at the thought of owning an estate such as Giorno’s, taking claim to his servants and assets. His rhyming songs do little to calm his prisoners, who try to worm their way across the floor with bound arms and legs.

“ One said it was a boggaaaart,” he starts, singing cheerfully, dragging the boy to a chair and lifting him, grunting. “Aaaan' another he say ‘ Nay ’!”

The boy whimpers in fear, blubbering and trying to talk. Vittorio grins, looping their arms behind the chair and pushing on his back with his foot so as to dislocate his shoulders. The boy shrieks as they give way with a loud crack, the girls startling and shuffling toward each other in fear. 

“ I t's just a ge'man-farmer, that has gone an' lost his waaaay!”

The first girl protests harshly, screaming and kicking with all her might as Vittorio goes to hoist her, too, into a chair. But it’s to no avail, and he snaps her thumbs back for good measure.

“One said it was a bull-calf, an' another he said ‘Nay ,’” Vittorio hollers over the screaming of the girls, yanking the final teen by her hair and kicking her down. “It’s just a painted jackass, tha’s never learnt to bray!”

With all three lined up and screeching, he retrieves bundles of cloth and short cuts of rope, stuffing the linen in their mouths. “So they hunted , an' they hollo'd , till the settin’ of the sun,” he binds the ropes tightly, yanking as he finishes his song and the rest of his team, along with the Ripper, come to investigate, “An' they'd nought to bring away at last, when th' huntin'-day was done.”

Cioccolata frowns, peering at the individuals bound, blinded and gagged. Vittorio beams, full of pride, showcasing his work with a flare of his hands and a step of his foot. Angelica sits at the base of the stairs weakly, somewhat distressed. Volpe and Kocaqi are standing side-by-side beside Cioccolata, an eyebrow quirked. 

“Did it, yes sir!” Vittorio rubs a hand over the boy's head, ruffling his hair harshly. The boy whimpers weakly, the girls whining incessantly. They’re irritating Cioccolata. 

“These will be the marquess’ blood supply when the frost departs,” he murmurs, assessing the trio. “No signs of malnourishment, nor disease. You did well, kid.”

Vittorio giggles and claps, startling Angelica. She’s making active efforts not to look at the girls, no older than her. 

“And you reckon he can tell the difference?” Volpe inquires. “It’s possible, of course, but he’s new. Wouldn’t know the taste.”

“He’s a smart lad. He should have no trouble discerning the taste.”

“And with this, you’re sure to prove that Marquess Giovanna is unstable, will retaliate violently… and give us the opportune time to claim his assets, no?”

“That’s right. Come late January, in a few weeks, this blood will reach his lips, and begin a frenzy. It will no doubt destroy his psyche.”

Cioccolata grinned ear to ear, staring at the meat ready for him to play with. He had to move discreetly, quietly. But it was coming together. All he had to do was bide his time. 

Chapter Text

Fugo’s mind hadn’t paused to slow, not once over the past week, and it was affecting his work. Abbacchio, grouchier than ever, having been locked out of the wine-cabinets, yelled at him more than once for flicking ash over the mantle and onto his clothes. Sheila E also had to click her fingers in his face more than once to bring him back down to Earth, a confused look upon her brow.

“Is something the matter?” She queried, but Fugo had quickly shaken his head. Nobody could be privy to the nature of the thoughts in his head, not even himself. He pushed them, down, down, until he forgot about them long enough for them to spring forth, catch him off-guard, pin him in his weak points. He just couldn’t rid his Lord from his thoughts. 

Fugo dreamt almost every night of him, a right plague in the wrinkles of his brain. Soft words, gentle touches, hair as fine as spider-silk, lips as soft as down. Fugo wakes, warm and swaddled in his fluffy sheets, his mouth dry and his skin sticky, cursing himself, morning after morning. And it doesn’t stop there. 

His dreams leak into his thoughts during his conversations with Giorno, and he leaves his words clipped so as not to tumble out proclamations of adoration or affection. His skin prickles, his blood thumps, and he’s humiliated all the same as if he spoke, because he knows Giorno can hear his heart, smell his blood. But if Giorno noticed, he made no move. He just lazed on his canapé, reading and asking Fugo any number of questions. Fugo spends his hours trying to forget his Lord’s frenzy, the smell of him upon him, mingled with his blood and tears, the way his Lord gripped him, strong and bruising, with that eye-rolling attack on his neck. Fugo thinks himself wrought and sick when he covers his face in his hands, his pleased smile and burning blush infecting his body.

“And I told her, I didn’t want nothin’ to do with her,” Murolo points his fork at Sir Kujo, an unfazed look forever etched on his face as the money man laments. They’re at a private dinner with Giorno, at his estate, a sort of commemoration of the approach of spring. “But she kept-a writin’ letters, and Giorno, I tell ya, I could’a built a house outta them, there were that many.”

Giorno half smiles, half grimaces. “I see…”

“But, that’s women nowadays. Pushy and unrelentin’ in their pursuits. No offence, missy,” he shrugs at Sheila E, who is doing her damnest to remain at her post beside the door. 

“You can hit him, madam,” Sir Polnareff laughs, pointing at Murolo. “Shame for you to talk about women that way. They are beautiful things. Flowers that need tender care and encouragement.” Fugo looks towards Sheila E, whose brow is twitching to return to her stony scowl. He doesn’t exactly think of roses and lavender when he sees her. Perhaps poison ivy and nettles. Certainly not a woman who needs ‘watering’, or ‘nourishment’, whatever that meant.

“Well, Giorno, whilst we’re explorin’ this topic, it’s probably about time for you to find a wife, ain’t it?” Murolo asks, raising an eyebrow. Sir Kujo looks between the two, huffing and frowning.

“Don’t succumb to such pressures, Giovanna. Men who prioritise such pleasures go nowhere…”

“Now, now!” Murolo puts his hands up. “I ain’t tellin’ him to run himself to the brothel. But, you know… You need some kind of heir, or at least a next of kin. It’s important. People see a fine young man as himself with no one by his side, in this big empty house o’ yours, and, well. They talk.”

Fugo can feel himself grow sick listening to his conversation. Mista rolls his eyes beside him.

“I’ve already asked him that a hundred times,” he whispers. “But he always says he’s not interested. I’m starting to think he might bowl for the other team.”

Fugo’s heart thumps in his chest. “Don’t… say things like that.”

Mista just chuckles. Fugo knows Giorno can hear them anyway. 

“It’s not… entirely a bad idea,” Giorno admits. Fugo feels his blood pressure plummet, his feet tight in his shoes, his waistcoat choking him. “I have been thinking lately. Perhaps it is time, since the social season draws close.”

“Oh-ho! Well I never!” Sir Polnareff laughs, clapping. 

Fugo’s thoughts swell and ebb rapidly. Giorno with a wife, a woman. Her belly swollen, then with child, then with two. Giorno’s loving gaze, not up to him but down to her, her hand upon his shoulder, his lips upon her neck, his hand upon a breast–

He thinks he’s going to throw up. He clings to Mista desperately. 

“Fugo, are you–” 

“My apologies,” he whispers breathlessly, briskly exiting the dining room and rushing up the stairs to the third floor, to his sanctuary of late– the library. Giorno pretends to pay no notice to his fleeing servant, looking down meekly as his interrogation continues. 

The library is warm, the hearth spitting sparks as the wood within crumbles. Fugo sheds his necktie and waistcoat, throwing himself into an armchair and groaning, feeling all too warm still. He considers stomping out the fire and wallowing in the dark, lit only by oil candles in their caverns across the wall, but he denies this motion. If his Lord wished to relax before bed, as he often does, he’d need the room warm for him. Or would he? Do vampires care for temperature like Fugo, a man of warm blood and sweat? He doesn’t know. He takes off his gloves and rolls his sleeves up, wishing he could fall asleep and never wake up. Of course, he would never choose to return to the way things used to be. Shivering in fear, sprinting from his Lord whilst fictitious accusations run rampant in his mind. Or, even earlier, walloped by that heavy silver buckle his father wore. He’d been here for just over three months now. Everything seemed to have happened so fast. Fugo lets himself fall into the comfort of thought, reflecting on the joy of Christmas morning, the day spent in Miss Una’s parlour, the walks to the town, the breaking of wax seals, of skin, of buttons, of– 

Stop that! Fugo spun, hanging his legs off one end of the arms and his head over the other. Wearily, he lets the warmth of the fire carry him into dreamless sleep, his arms folded across his middle. 

When he wakes, he knows hours have passed, for the fire is low, though not quite reduced to coals, and the oil lamps have dimmed. He knows he will face the mother of all reprimands from his colleagues for abandoning his dinner duties; of that he is certain. But he takes this moment to relax, to feel the embroidery of the seat, the plush of the cushions. He sighs.

“My, you are frazzled of late,” he hears a voice from across the room speak, and he throws himself up, his heart racing. Illuminated only by the weak fire and the glowing of red eyes, his Lord sits across from him, legs crossed at the knee, a book halfway read in his pale hands. Fugo doesn’t even know what to say. He knows he’s done for. He’s been caught. 

“My apologies, my Lord…” Fugo whispers. “I was quite ill at dinner. I don’t know what came over me.” 

Giorno snaps his book shut, looking up at him with an odd intensity Fugo hadn’t expected. It wasn’t quite rage that made the marquess’ lip curl. But it was an ugly emotion, something that plagued him. 

“Do you wish to continue working here?” Giorno speaks lowly. Fugo nearly falls back in his chair. 

“Why– Why of course, my Lord, I could never–”

“Is that the truth? I’m afraid I’m a tad too wound up to sniff it out, so you’ll have to be certain in your words,” Giorno continues, pointed. Fugo is taken aback. Where had this anger come from? “Is it here you wish to work? Or is it me? Do you slave away, or do you take joy in it?” 

“My Lord,” Fugo tries to get a word in, “You, it’s you that I serve, no other agenda–”

“Then why ,” Giorno puts his head in his hands, “Have you been avoiding me so? Are you so disgusted by my nature? You need only ask, and I shall will you away, or delegate other roles, or–”

“Stop it! Just stop!” Fugo cries out, sitting. Giorno is tapping his foot, his grip on his hair growing stronger and stronger. “It’s a matter most c…complex, my Lord. Personal tribulations that a man like you should have no burden of hearing.”

Giorno mutters. “It’s never a burden. You and the others are the only joy in my life.”

Fugo tries not to let the words of his Lord tear his heart open. He, instead, slides off the armchair into a deep kneel, placing his head on Giorno’s shoes, his fingers wrapping around socked ankles. 

“My Lord… please. Don’t… make me speak. I shall ruin everything ,” Fugo all but whimpers, pathetic and teary. Giorno keeps his head down. 

“Do I disgust you?”

“Never,” Fugo replies quickly, truthfully. His heart is racing. He is so very close to his Lord outside the context of feeding, or bathing, or mending. “You could never. I would give myself to you, over and over. Whenever you ask. Forever.”

Giorno can feel himself shaking. “Do not lie to me, Pannacotta. Do not–”

“I cannot,” Fugo mumbles. “I could not live with myself if I did.”

Giorno cannot understand Fugo, his dutiful compliance, his willingness to support a monster such as himself. He knows he is a menacing fright, a creature of evil and of night, an abomination sent to Earth to torment and scare. He cannot find it within himself to deny this. He takes Fugo’s jaw in his hands, pulling, forcing Fugo to brace himself on Giorno’s armrests and rise on his knees, his cheeks puffy from sleep, his eyes determined. He holds Fugo’s head in his hands, the sweet flesh of his neck just below his fingers, where they long to slip under his skin and drink until his flesh is pruned, his cheeks hollow and grey. 

“I could kill you,” he whispers, frightened. Fugo does naught but blink. He tilts Fugo’s head, his nails digging into his cheeks. 

“I know,” Fugo speaks, breathless, his voice catching in his throat. “I’d let you.” 

Giorno feels his breath punch out of him. His grip tightens. “D– Don’t. You shall fly too close. Your wings shall melt.”

Fugo swallows, an effort considering how taut his neck was in Giorno’s pull. He does not reply. Only gives Giorno a knowing look. Of course. 

“Have… have you not seen, nay… heard, smelt , these past days…” Fugo practically begs Giorno to say it for him, embarrassment lurching forth as acid in his throat. Giorno closes his eyes. 

“I’ve not. There is too much on my mind.”

Fugo groans, trying to look down. Giorno keeps his head steady, his grip crushing.  “Whatever is it that you keep dancing around?”

“I can’t ,” Fugo begs. “It is rotten. Dirty and unbeguiling. I couldn’t possibly speak to you in such a manner.”

Giorno’s worry grows. “Has something happened? Has someone said or done…” His thoughts trail off. “Gods above, Fugo, you could be fraternising with one of the servants, and it wouldn’t mean a thing to me.” 

Thank God, only one of them can smell lies. Fugo just widens his eyes and stammers.

“What– Whatever do you mean?!”

“Do you not look upon Sheila E with adoration? Or, or Mista, if so that way inclined?” Giorno stutters. Fugo could shriek in despair. 

“No! Of course not, never!”

The fire couldn’t possibly be hot enough to warrant the colour of Fugo’s face of current; splotchy pink infects his skin. Giorno closes his eyes, breathing through his nose. There’s Fugo’s natural scent, of course. Sugary and summery. He assesses its undertones. His heart is fluttering, the fragrance of the blood in his cheeks and his straining legs making him dizzy and weak. His grip grows stronger still, and Fugo winces. Giorno can’t find it within himself to care, not with a sound that sweet. For God’s sake, Giovanna, get it together! He lets go in an instant, afraid of himself. Of the beast that had so nearly crushed his skull and lapped it up.

In a turn that makes Giorno groan in confliction, Fugo looks almost saddened to be released. 

“You are devilish, Pannacotta,” he whispers. He ignores the thumping of his secretary’s heart. He stands, intent to flee to his bedroom, where he can escape this heat, and stare at his ceiling. Fugo falls back from his knees, looking up to the hand Giorno offers him. Standing slowly, he seems unsure of what to do. In all ways, Giorno supposes, he remains the skittish lamb he’d first met, months ago, frozen and fearful. Testing, he moves a hand to Fugo’s jaw again, tracing the blooming green and purple of bruising just beginning to ripple. He doesn’t speak. He steps closer, and Fugo places a hand upon his Lord’s shoulder. Beckoning Fugo’s head down, Giorno places his lips upon the bruises, kissing lightly. He starts from his cheek, to the angle of his jaw, close to his chin, and back up to his other cheek. His head swirls, feeling Fugo’s legs tremor beneath his touch, his hands sweating. The heat of his neck, glistening and white, right there, is all too much to bear, and so he presses his lips there too, Fugo gripping tighter to anchor himself. 

“Gio– agh, my Lord–” 

Giorno stops hurriedly, looking back at Fugo. He’s breathing heavily. Giorno isn’t breathing at all. 

“Are you alright, Fugo…?” Giorno murmurs. Fugo nods sharply, jerking his head once. 

“Again, please–” 

Giorno doesn’t waste any time, feather-light on Fugo’s neck. He’s been here before, of course, and he knows this crook well. But never has he treated it with such care, such love, dusting with kisses. The blood thrums, and it makes Giorno’s eyes red and his teeth sharp, but he won’t–

“Bite,” Fugo says, almost unheard, and Giorno does. Gently, puncturing with ease, not the crazed attacks fueled by starvation like his visits prior. He licks over the wound, kissing around it, Fugo’s grip hard enough to shatter glass. 

“You,” Fugo whispers, loud against Giorno’s mouth, “You said you were… ah- looking for a suitor. A wife.”

Giorno hums. “Did I?” 

Fugo nods. “At dinner.”

Giorno laughs. “I lied. I wanted them to leave me alone. If they thought maybe I was conducting a search by myself already…” Fugo sighs audibly in relief, and Giorno laughs again. “Did it have you worried?”

Fugo can’t bring himself to speak, but the taste of his blood speaks for him. 

“What we have,” Giorno mutters against his collarbone, “is far from servant and master. It is far too intimate.”

Fugo nods. “It is that thought which has plagued me so.”

The pieces begin to fall into place for Giorno, understanding at last his aversion to him as of late. “We do not need to let those roles define what we have, Fugo. I am already not human. I do not, and have never, allowed myself to fall into any category. I implore you to join me in the in-between,” Giorno says. “It’s not a proclamation of anything, or an admission of love, or… anything standard as such.”

“I understand,” Fugo breathes. 

“With this… I must come forth to the others about my nature,” Giorno admits, stepping back from Fugo. “With Narancia gone, and just yourself and Mista knowing… it feels unfair. It is not right. There is only so much I can continue to keep from those whom I love and care for.”

Fugo nods. Giorno draws a tight smile, letting go of Fugo finally. Fugo’s heart is heavy. Everything has changed, and will continue to. He knows that soon, the comforts he dwells in will not be so possible, should the manor fall into chaos. Turbulence is upon them, and it’s been thrumming in the pipes since Narancia’s death. It only takes a catalyst for all Hell to break loose. Fugo dreams, for the first time in days, of melancholy and decisions, spilt blood, and terror.

Chapter Text

“My Lord,” Sheila E responds as respectfully as she can. She’s halfway bent across Giorno’s bed, tucking in his new, and rather uncooperative, sheets for spring, and Giorno sits at his vanity, prattling away and asking her questions. “My relationship with Mr Pannacotta is as ever. He completes his tasks, I complete mine. And then I go amend his work.”

“What do you think of him?” 

Sheila E finally relents, standing from his four-poster bed and wiping an arm across her beading forehead, folding her arms with a huff, giving him her signature pointed stare. “Whatever is the point, my Lord?”

“Do you fancy him?”

Sheila E stares incredulously, then resumes placing his pillows into their slip cases. “You wouldn’t catch me dead with a man… like him.” 

Giorno bristles, his brow twitching. He, too, folds his arms in response. “So, what is wrong with him?” 

“There is nothing!” Sheila E says, exasperated, fluffing his pillows with force. “I simply do not have eyes for him. He is very kind, yes, and often gets so busied in his work he cannot hear a word I say. He attempts with great valour to be assertive and masculine, but it falls short in a rather endearing way. That is all. I do his hair on occasion, and he invites me for a tea now and again in the library to discuss work. What do you need this information for, my Grace?”

Giorno takes in the knowledge with a small smile, nods, and stands, making way for the door. “Performance report.”

Sheila E whispers to herself once Giorno is out of earshot. “Bollocks.”

“Ah, that Fugo,” Mista hums, serving Giorno tea at his desk. “He’s a bit wimpy, isn’t he?”

“Do be kind, Mista,” Giorno remarks. “He started life rather impoverished.”

“I… suppose,” he grimaces. “Apologies for the faux pas. He’s quite lovely to be around.”

Looking up at him curiously, Giorno focuses on his words. “Is that so?”

“Mm. He let me tell him every story I had about Narancia the night he died. Helped me… accept it, a little, at the time. He’s good at not interrupting or pushing opinions. Merely, actually , listening to one’s story.”

Giorno blanched at the mention of Narancia’s death. It had been just over a month since his passing. The sting hadn’t quite worn off, just yet. “That’s awfully kind of him. Would you consider you two close?”

Mista frowns, folding his tea towel and folding his arms. “I suppose we are. We ought to be, knowing your condition. We’ve to stick together, to handle you,” he jests, pointing a tanned finger in his direction. Giorno allows himself to smile, even though he knew he was like the metaphorical animal to be handled. He doesn’t let the comment hurt as much as it could have. He watches Mista dust the mantelpiece, his usual fervent motions slower and more practised, seeming to be lost in thought. When finished, he pauses at the door before leaving.

“One thing, my Lord.”

“Yes?” 

Mista turns the brass handle, giving Giorno a look before exiting. “Do go easy on him.”

“A bloody concubine !” Fugo all but seethes, digging his fingers into the wounded dirt of Narancia’s grave. He sits near the paddocks where his headstone lies, on a metal bucket to protect his britches, and battles with himself not to rip fistfuls of grass out. The sun beats down on the back of his neck, not with a sting yet, but knowing the pale expanse of his body, it shan’t be long. “Who does he think I am, Narancia? I know you’d be wildly fascinated, oh yes, all over it indeed. That wicked man, oh , that insolent, conniving, blasted loathsome–!”

“Something the matter, sir?”

Fugo nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears Bruno’s voice behind him. He faces him in wild surprise, laughing and huddling closer to himself, like a man scorned. He feels sweat beading across his body in an instant.

“Why, not at all. Was it something I said?” He hopes Bruno laughs his outburst off.

Bruno gives him a look, smiling softly and sitting on the damp grass. He lifts his head to the sun, his raven hair almost blue as it shines, eyes closed, and lips parted. He is weary, Fugo notes. The crinkles around his eyes remain as his face relaxes. In a low, comforting timbre, he murmurs. Fugo can only recognise a few passages, but knows it well enough. He clasps his fingers together, interlocking them, bringing his thumbs to his lips and murmuring along. When the prayer is over, the two sit listening to songbirds and the wind before Bruno speaks. 

“You are a man of God?” 

“Raised Catholic,” Fugo admits. “But I do not practice.”

Bruno hums in understanding. “I’m afraid it’s too strongly ingrained for me to forgo. I will always fall back on it.”

Fugo understands, to a point. There is relief knowing there will always be something larger than oneself, omnipotent and all-encompassing. But lack of results tested his faith, as an upbringing such as his was bound to. 

“Do you come here to pray often?” Fugo asks Bruno. He nods.

“I come to pray for him, to talk to him, to listen. You needed someone to talk to as well, I assume.”

Fugo’s ears turn red. “I… did, yes. It’s quite a personal matter.”

“I will not push. Should you seek comfort elsewhere, I advise talking to our Grace Giovanna. Please do not…” Bruno sighs, leaning back. His fingers tap in worry. “Please do not listen to the wickedness that urges one to drink, Fugo. It is a vile, putrid sickness. Drown a casserole in wine for all I care… just not yourself.” 

“I know, Bruno. I promise it to you.” Fugo pauses. He’s really becoming quite personal with Bruno here, isn’t he? Perhaps this is what they need– a heart-to-heart, with Narancia’s grave as their mediator. He decides he can press onward. Perhaps Bruno requires more than the dead to discuss with. “How is he?”

Bruno grimaces with an intensity so foul, Fugo thinks there must be bile in his mouth. He’s certain he’s mucked this up.

“We had another row. He just won’t change his mind.”

“Are you alright?”

“ He certainly won’t be. He’s taken himself on a horse down to the beer-house. The George, or something. I couldn’t care less. Well, I do , but…” Bruno bit his lip. Fugo’s fingers were still clasped together. “That afternoon, when I went to him in the cellar, and ran into you… I was quite rude. Short-clipped and hasty. I apologise for how I was acting.”

Fugo shakes his head. “No, no. Please. We were all in disarray. Abbacchio was not exactly in a fine state, and with what you’d seen days earlier…”

The wind whistles along, bearing pollen and leaves, swirling at his feet and dancing onwards. He need not speak onward. They both know. Bruno looks at him. 

“Why are you out here, then? I understand it’s personal, however… If I can help, I would like to. Please,” Bruno mutters quietly. “I feel awfully helpless of late.”

Fugo bites his tongue. He is out here for another reason, other than his engagements with his Lord playing on his mind. Supposing that they were airing all their grievances, he sighs, preparing himself for a conversation he really didn’t feel like having. 

“Today is my birthday, Mr Bucciarati,” he admits. Bruno’s eyes widen. “February fifth. I am eighteen today.” He makes the mistake of gazing over Narancia’s headstone. He was hardly older than him. It makes him sick, so strongly that he coughs, shaking his head, wringing his hands.

“And you thought not to tell us?” Bruno inquires, confused. “We’ve not got you presents, or dinner, or–”

“Please,” Fugo puts a hand out, wincing. “I can’t. In all honesty, Bruno, I have a particular disdain for my birthday. It was rarely celebrated, and gifts few and far between. I would rather ignore it and continue working. Besides, the hullabaloo of celebrations… I can’t think of anything worse,” he laughs. “Our house could use celebration, indeed. But not at my expense, I beg of you. I won’t enjoy it.”

Bruno’s face seems to fall. Fugo knows that hosting would likely help take Bruno’s mind off everything, preparing huge meals and servitude of the highest standard a fair distraction to the absence of their littlest servant. But he nods.

“I understand, Fugo. Will you tell Giovanna?” 

Fugo freezes for a moment. He doesn’t know. “I… I’m unsure if I can. He will be right vexed.”

Bruno laughs lightly at that. “He will be. You are certainly his favourite. He’s been asking all of us how we feel about you.”

Fugo turns his neck so fast his nerve pinches, crying out and clasping a hand to the base of his head. “He what ?”

“Oh, indeed, Mr Pannacotta. Even asked poor Miss Sheila E if the two of you were fraternising. How invasive,” he winks, and Fugo groans. 

“I’m going to kill him!”

“I’d advise against that, but I understand.” Fugo looks at Bruno. His heart warms seeing him lighten up.

“What did you say about me, Bruno?”

He stiffens, but doesn’t lose his cheery air. “Ah, well. I said you’re most capable and have been wonderful in these turbulent weeks. We aren’t the closest, but I trust you. Even though,” he adds, “I know you are keeping something from me, the Lord too. But you have his trust, and so you have mine. That is all.” 

Fugo nodded. He expected that. “I trust you, too, Bruno. Everyone respects you a lot, I’ve found.”

“Hush,” he admonishes shyly, standing and helping Fugo to his feet. “Go rest your neck. We’re to be rained on in due time, if you look that way.” He points to the south, where a gurgling rain cloud is about to cast away the sun. When they make it indoors, they part ways, Bruno heading to his kitchen, Fugo toward his room.

He’s about to enter when, very faintly, he hears a sound. Many sounds, actually. Tinkling, melancholic and full of rue. It’s the piano, and his Lord is playing. How many years has it been since Fugo heard a piano? He doesn’t know, but he’s enraptured. The music stops, then starts from another bar, and that plays a few times over. He knows the grand piano is in the sitting room, toward the front of the house, but this is more distant, quieter. 

Searching, like a wolf on a scent, he treks up the staircase, quietly, as though any disturbance would break the trance the song had put his Lord under. It’s on the first floor, past the mezzanine, through the corridor that Fugo had run down the night he peeped on his Lord’s meeting with Sezione Sangue. He thought most of these rooms had nothing in them; he’d never had to light a fire in any of them, save for the odd study. But sure enough, in a room to his left, the door lay ajar, and his Lord, plainly dressed and a focused look on his face, plays gently on a shining upright piano. The piece is inquisitive, slightly mournful, he finds, and the beginning of the pattering of rain on the window makes him feel oddly emotional. The keys are in-tune as far as he can tell. 

The playing stills, Giorno turning to look at him. He smiles. "Smelt you. Sorry.”

“No matter,” Fugo breathes, stepping in. He decides that, should the Lord be alright with it, he will dust and clean the room up for him. He stands silently, whilst Giorno finds his finger’s place on the keys. 

“Chopin,” he mutters, focused. “Nocturne in C-sharp minor. I’m working from bar 49. I thought today would be a nice day for it.”

The technical terms Giorno explains, whilst he plays, are mostly nonsense to Fugo, but he perches on an old pouffe and listens regardless. He’s too stunned by how a human hand can move that quickly, that precisely.

Though, not human anymore. 

“Do you find the piano easier now that you are turned?” He asks when the playing stills. Giorno nods.

“I do, actually. I do not find my knuckles locking up as they once did. Nor does it pain me so, after hours of practice.”

“I didn’t know you had this room,” Fugo admits. He stands, brushing his trousers of the dust. Giorno shrugs. 

“There are many pianos throughout this house. There are some rooms I’ve not ventured into since my father left them to me. You’re more than welcome to find one for yourself,” he smiles. Fugo’s heart thumped. Giorno knows he’s always wanted to learn how to play. He’s more to focus on right now, but he takes that knowledge and keeps it safe.

“I’ll have a look. You’re to have Miss Una call at four, need I remind you?”

“No, no,” Giorno stands, groaning. “I remember. Social season beckons her. And no doubt she wants a chat.”

Fugo nods and finally heads back to his room. When he opens his door, there is a small strawberry cake on his desk, and a simple card. 

“— B.B.”

The bar is a reasonable volume, not too many patrons, with only a few drunkards approaching their limits for the night. Cioccolata sips his bourbon quietly, surveying. He’s looking for the women, of course, but the men too. Who is stronger? Taller? Who poses a threat or a risk? There are no women in a bar, obviously, so he keeps his eyes on the windows outside, leering at those walking by.

A man stumbles in, seeming drunk already, but Cioccolata swears he’s seen that gait before, turning to watch him walk inside. Pale hair, pale face, more stubble than he recalls. He doesn’t know his name, but he knows who it is. That decrepit servant, bursting through the wake of that other servant in the Giovanna household, wet and whining, obtusely pathetic. His interest is immediately piqued. Just what is he doing here? Cioccolata can’t imagine there’s anything that house lacks that he could find here.

Unless… unless that house is the problem, and he’s escaping it. And he knows he’s not drunk, however much he stumbles or murmurs. It’s the classic taxonomy of lost men, a man falling through his rock bottom. Family , none. Genus abandoned, Species null . A man with nothing left to lose, is a man with everything to gain, he thinks, and therefore he knows tonight is his chance to make a move on the Giovanna household.

He watches the man for nearly half an hour. He orders a red wine, too quietly for him to know if it’s fruity or dry, and does not sip from it, gulping like a man starved. He sees alcoholism more and more, though he does not believe it a vice. A man should drink if he feels so inclined. 

He strikes when he goes to order another, standing and heading to the bar. 

“The Sauvignon, again,” the man says, Cioccolatta sidling up next to him. “Not the Blanc. God, I hate that shit…”

“Not a white man?” Cioccolatta poses him a question. The man peers up at him, glaring.

“No. Decidedly not. You look to be one.”

“I divulge, on occasion,” he leans against the bar. “But it’s the burn I chase. Personally, if it doesn’t make your throat tickle, it’s not strong enough.”

The bartender hands him his red, the man throwing a handful of shillings his way. It makes the other patrons' eyes widen. “Keep me supplied, please.” He ignores Cioccolatta’s words. 

This makes him grin, his mind ticking. “You… Yes. You probably consider yourself too refined for that nonsense. The foul stink of beer, the vomit of spirits. No, no. Wine is acceptable. Drink as much as you wish, you’ll never look the part.”

That gets his attention. He swirls his glass.

“Tch. What are you, some kind of alienist?” He spits. 

“No, no. A doctor I am, but not of the mental sort. No point treating that lot.”

The man looks at him now, somewhat at ease. “A doctor, you say? I was one… I suppose not now.”

“Oh?” Cioccolata sits, crossing a leg over the other. “Pray tell; what is a doctor doing in a place like this?”

The man chuckles. “You ever lost a patient?”

“Many. Some cannot be saved– some refuse to be.”

“Mm.” He swirls his glass for a while longer. He can’t catch his eyes nor his expression. He could use a few different methods. Though he indeed looks the part, seduction is out of the question. He has a large dose of laudanum in his pockets, should he find a way to slip it to him. But he seems smart, and it’s unlikely he’ll get away with it. Causing chaos and slipping away with him seems unlikely, too. He’d use it as an outlet to fight, or sleep through it, and he’s a large man. Huge, tall, and broad. And as strong as Cioccolata is, drunkard strength, which blesses the man, is locked behind his own sober apprehensions. 

Cioccolata knows he needs to plan his words carefully from now on. “I work for Westminster. I could help secure you a position if you needed one.”

The man shakes his head, groaning. “No, no. I was more of a naturopath. I have no doctorate. Bloody hell, that’s far from here. I don’t even know you! Like hell I would…”

No wonder his patient died, Cioccolata thought. He keeps his taunts to himself.  “Would you like training?” 

“Huh?” 

“Dr Cioccolata,” he holds his hand out. “I wouldn’t mind helping you along with medicine, even if just nursing.”

“I’m not some lady you can accost into working under you, Doctor,” he snarls. 

“By no means, Mr…?”

“Abbacchio.”

“Mr Abbacchio. You would have a ward, you would work with , not under ,” he gently speaks. “You would save people. Whereabouts do you live?”

“North. In fields.”

Hm. Even when drunk, he knows his basic safety. “I have a small medical outpost on the way. Please feel free to come by anytime.”

He’s lost him, he can tell. The man is just far too stubborn and dead-set on drinking himself to sleep. 

“Locked the bloody cabinets… locked me out of the cellar…” He mumbles. He talks to himself as the doctor steps out. Cioccolata remembers the route from here to the coven, thankfully. Sezione Sangue’s warehouse is a fourty-minute walk, an hour in the sleet and rain, and he knows the man won’t be leaving until at least midnight. He's plenty of time.

When the large metal door to the warehouse scrapes open, Angelica is sitting by herself with a doll in one hand, a small brush in the other. 

“Jack!” She squeaks, shuffling to her feet. Cioccolatta knows she’s terrified of him, and she was right to be. He doesn’t need to clarify to her that he would never kill a little girl, why, they were pure and righteous! But that fear keeps her wary, keeps her strong. He realises he’s been staring whilst in thought.

“Ah, little miss. Where would I find Volpe?”

“He is out patrolling tonight,” she nods, wringing her hands.

“And Kocaqi? Even Vittorio?”

“Yes. Blood supplies, all that.”

“Hm. I suppose you will do. I need your help with something.”

Angelica raises a brow. “What with?”

“There is a Giovanna servant at the bar down the road, alone and intoxicated. I don’t think we should kill him, not yet. But I have ideas. I need you to prepare a space for him. I will be waiting for him, when he eventually leaves.”

Angelica grins, clapping her hands. “Incredible! Yes, alright. Do you want your tools?”

“The blood-letting ones, yes. A chair and rope, as well. Not those rickety wooden ones. This man is taller than myself.”

When he gives his instructions and leaves, he heads not back to the bar, but the dirt road he knows will lead west from here. Sure enough, a tall man with long pale hair is stumbling down, without his horse, heading for a small turn in the road. Cioccolata marries his steps with his, keeping himself silent, before he tackles the man to the ground, a fist in his hair, slamming his face into the gravel and dirt. Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much in the way of knocking him out, curse the English rain, and he reaches back to grab a handful of Cioccolata’s waistcoat and rip him forwards, scrabbling for an advantage. Cioccolata is loving the thrill, even more so than when he took the lives of those whorish women. Yes, sharp nails scratching him in desperation made him egregiously happy, but an actual fight? Why, he was elated. Thankfully, a strong, practised chokehold got him lulled into drunken unconsciousness. Hauling him back to the warehouse was no easy task, but the glee on the faces of Sezione Sangue made it all worthwhile.

Chapter Text

It’s all quite exciting for Angelica– see, it’s not been long since she was turned into the creature she is now. 

Vladimir Kocaqi turned first; hundreds of years ago now, in the late Middle Ages, when clothes were becoming more complicated and disease more rampant. He had to stave off human blood, relying on pigs or cattle, for the plague ruled across Asia and Europe, Kocaqi dotting between countries here and there to escape it. Slowly, he aged, only rejuvenated by human blood ever so infrequently, from small towns untouched by travellers or plague. Upon meeting Massimo Volpe, an uninterested and partisan of absolute neutrality, in the face of the Seven-Year War, they both agreed to relocate from Prussia and gain vampiric territory in Great Britain. Kocaqi had only a small reign, Massimo none at all. Eastern European vampires were vast, wealthy, and in swathes. The larger kingdom of England seemed more promising.

The next century began mostly quietly, advances ticking away here and there, progression to the next human age rifling the powdered faces and silken frills of those who quite liked their reign and dominion. War and unrest came around every year like winter, largely ignored in the same manner– staying locked in their house, fire lit, and drinks in hand. They had no real citizenship, travelling as they pleased, and when conscription came a-knocking, both knew they would never be called upon. 

Kocaqi was not at all interested in love; he’d once had a sister, but that was hundreds of years gone, now, and had no desire to ever involve his heart in matters such as ‘family’ or ‘romance’. Massimo had sporadic lovers, often meek and mostly educated women, the few who came into contact with him. He would never go so far as to dedicate himself to a partner, leaving them confused and heartbroken when he vanished, though Angelica believes the right one just hasn’t come around yet. 

Living conditions slowly improved, and towards 1850, they found a little ginger boy, scrambling through their belongings as they moved. Massimo, of course, was most displeased, ready to tear the boy to shreds and eat him. Kocaqi, however, implored him to turn the boy, to add to their ranks. Perhaps they both saw themselves within him, perhaps not. Massimo Volpe knows not what exactly drew him to Vittorio Cataldi, and his explosive and overbearing personality, once turned, fed, and nurtured, makes his eye twinge. He does not regret it, however. Vittorio was enthralled with his newfound infinities, desperate to drink, smoke, seduce, and rob. It took many patient years for him to settle, to not run off the deep end and get himself abjured by the two, lest the Yard find them.

And then, at the dawn of the decade, 1880, a frail girl abandoned on the steps of a building entrance caught the eye of Volpe. Shivering in English winter, in a flimsy dress and no shoes, gaunt and as pale as snow. When he inquired inside, he learnt this place was a makeshift hospital for cholera, and that they couldn’t take her in for other ailments, that they knew not why she was sick. He had no choice but to turn her. 

With the bustling increase of the population in England, the crowded masses of people and influx of foreign travellers, food was never scarce for the group. There was always a child gone astray, a man too deep in his drink, a woman a touch too distracted. Kocaqi was one of the oldest of his kind in the city, watching covens grow and shatter over the years. He’d learnt of quite a large disruption amongst other vampires, namely followers of local celebrity and affluent lawyer, Dio Brando.

So, he was most surprised when his son, a blonde boy, no older than seventeen, swayed and stumbled into his warehouse, clutching his chest and weeping, begging for explanation and solace. 

Now. Kocaqi and the rest are not fans of this boy. Not in the slightest. His father, however influential, caused many territorial issues: lack of food, and all manner of conflicts. And here was his son, up to his eyes in shillings and a house as large as Scotland itself, begging for help and food– food they hardly had themselves. Kocaqi has been around a lot longer than Giorno thinks, so his scheming is quiet, and so he helped him. With returns in mind, or not, he knew some kind of alliance to keep them tied would someday come with benefits. A dinner here, a dinner there. But it’s never enough for his ever-growing home. With Abbacchio tied and bloodied before him, he grins, knowing Giovanna will be paying them back soon enough. 

How Giorno learnt it was Fugo’s birthday is no mystery to him. Bruno likes to talk with Abbacchio, but in his absence, it’s Sheila E– and Mista would no doubt be unrelenting in his pursuit of knowledge kept from him. And, of course, Mista can keep nothing from his Lord. 

“You failed to mention to me that it was your birthday,” Giorno sulks, sitting with his arms crossed in his armchair, Fugo deftly ignoring him by stoking his comments into the fire down in front of him, the library slowly heating up. The afternoon had grown cold, evening a crisp lilac in the sky, little snow left as January departs. 

“It was of no importance to me.”

This just makes Giorno frown harder, his face crinkled in thought and discontent. “It matters most to me.” He shuffles further down into his chair, folding his arms. 

“Bruno kindly made me a cake. That is more than I could ask for. And stop that awful face you’re making. You’ll wrinkle yourself to bits.” 

Giorno can’t hold his smirk back and groans back into his chair once more. “I’m not sure that I wrinkle anymore. Though, I think of that old Kocaqi, so perhaps it’s possible.”

Fugo does entertain the idea. “So, you can age? You are not some mythical avoider of death?”

“Most certainly,” Giorno acquiesced. “Human blood will cease the ageing. Though perhaps the more appropriate term would be ‘decaying, ’” he grunted, assessing his pale fingers and long nails. His nail beds seemed to take on a blue tint, and Fugo knew his fingers were as cold as they looked. 

“How old are you, then?”

“We are as old as each other, I believe,” Giorno said, after a small pause. “I aged whilst I continued to deny my condition. I believe I have breached eighteen, perhaps nineteen, before I encountered you.” 

“Do you wish to remain ageless?” Fugo asked, finally sitting in the armchair beside him. Giorno didn’t answer straight away, and to that Fugo understood, sitting in equal silence– mortality and its consequences were not for light conversation. 

“I am… unsure.”

“It’s alright, my Lord. You need not have the answers. I am simply curious.”

“Never mind me,” Giorno said, stretching back in his chair. “I believe last we spoke, we came to an agreement.”

Fugo’s stomach flipped at that, swallowing roughly around the innate protest brewing in his throat. He wasn’t expecting this topic to be sprung upon him so suddenly. “We did.”

“Do you still feel comfortable with that?”

Fugo takes a moment to think, his nerves gripping him, Giorno’s tender words pulling at his chest, his stomach sick with swallowed glee. “Yes.”

“Then, please, if you do not mind,” Giorno stands, closing his book. “I’d love for you to join me in my chambers.”

Fugo thinks he’s on the brink of passing out, as he processes. “Excuse me?” He replies quietly, before he can catch his mouth. 

Giorno flashes him a look. “The places your mind goes, Pannacotta. No, I wish to spend some downtime with you. It’s close to the end of the day,” he heads to the door. “Before supper whisks us away from each other.”

Fugo stands slowly, nodding, and walks toe-in-toe with Giorno to his bedchambers, beet red. He feels… guilty, almost. Giorno wants affection, not anything as intense as love or lust, and he taints every interaction with mindless blubbering and sweating hands. He can attend to Giorno, why, he’s done it many a time, dressing or bathing or washing his hair. It need not be so complicated. 

Settling his mind and heart, he removes his shoes and loosens his cravat before grabbing his Lord’s hairbrush, settling on the large poster bed with him. 

“Sit up for me, please,” Fugo asks gently, Giorno relaxing. With soft, delicate movements, he unties the bow from his plait and unwinds the braid, his golden strands sitting in waves. Gently, he passes the brush across his head, guiding his fingers through tangles, Giorno placid and quiet beneath him. 

“Can you...” Giorno starts, Fugo halting.

“Yes?” He replies, but finds Giorno’s hands ushering him to sit back. 

“Like this,” he mutters, sitting Fugo against his huge ornate pillows, before sidling in between his legs, leaning back against his torso. Fugo smiles softly, though his heart betrays him, and it makes Giorno giggle quietly. Fugo has no doubt Giorno can feel it hammering away on his spine. 

“May I?” Fugo asks permission to wrap his hands around his torso, Giorno nodding.

“Of course. You don’t need to ask. Whatever is comfortable, Fugo.”

Fugo swallows, holding his wrists as he cradles Giorno into his body. He finds he relaxes almost instantly. Giorno always comments on how he smells– strawberries, ice cream, the lot. But Fugo hasn’t had a chance to indulge in Giorno like this, and he finds himself breathing in deeply. He smells like his powder, lavender and cotton, but his hibiscus perfume was light, sweet. Fugo rests his head on his shoulder. It begins to rain outside. 

“You should begin to receive your orders again, soon,” Fugo murmurs, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly on his wrist. Giorno nods slowly.

“...I will. Goodness. Has winter gone that quickly?”

“Grief… warps time, I’ve found.”

Giorno turns his head slightly. “Have you much acquaintance with death?”

Fugo tilts his head, undecided. “I’m… not quite familiar, in cases such as Narancia. I’ve not lost many close to me. I don’t… have many close to me. It was always Mother and Father. My Grandfather passed when I was much too little to recall.”

“But you have lost.”

“I have,” Fugo sighed deeply. “Many animals I had dear to me who succumbed to winter's frost, or starved.”

Giorno sat in an angered silence. Rubbing his thumb on Giorno’s hipbone, he whispered. “I know. I, too, was infuriated with my father for his lack of care.”

“Oh, I’m all familiar with a father’s ‘lack of care’,” Giorno spat, shaking his head. “Look at me. Everything I could want at my fingertips, and yet, I am cold and alone, immortal with this curse.”

Fugo was stunned– his Lord was usually quiet, placid. Soft and cheeky with his words. This outburst had Fugo thinking.

“Have you been plagued by this thought of late, my Grace?”

Silence. Then, in a small voice– “Perhaps.”

Holding him closer, Fugo hopes to give Giorno the impression he is warm and safe. That he is not quite as alone as he thinks. It works, for what Fugo can discern. Giorno snuggles down, closing his eyes and sighing. Fugo’s heart skips a beat as the thought crosses his mind, but he has thrown all caution to the wind. Gently, he places a kiss atop the crown of Giorno’s head, closing his own eyes and pressing his cheek to the top of Giorno’s head. 

They stay like that for a moment, quiet and content. Then, Giorno’s eyes fly open– he’s caught it. The smell of blackberries, mute, but close. Then, a heat, an overpowering heat, making Giorno grimace and wince. Fugo opens his eyes to see whatever’s the matter, but he spots it before he can ask.

Sheila E is standing at the door, her face hard, the tray of tea trembling in her hands, the china rattling against the saucer. Slowly, the two frozen, she places it on a table next to his door, before walking out of the room at a fiery pace.

Fugo could die. He could walk straight to that cup, smash it, and shred himself to pieces with the shards. 

“Is she…” he starts, but he doesn’t know what he would even say. Giorno rises slowly. 

“Lock the front doors and the servants' entrances. Tell Mista to gather everyone at my office. No one leaves.”

Fugo does as he’s told. He finds Mista in his barracks as he heads to the servants' entrances, who’s happy as ever to see him.

“Hey, Fugo!” he calls after him, halfway through packing his empty lead shells. “Brave enough to shoot yet?”

“Not quite, Mista,” Fugo mutters. He feels like he’s going to be sick. “Get Bruno and Sheila E. The Lord has requested everyone to be in his office.”

That wipes his cheery demeanour right off him. “What? What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. Just do it.”

It’s stuffy in the office. Fugo and Sheila E both look like they’d rather be anywhere else. Giorno has a stony look about him, resolved and determined, but solemn. Cold. Bruno is worried, and Mista is all-around confused. With a loud clunk, the doors close. Giorno sits at his table, beckoning Fugo over. It’s much too confronting to face everybody. Humiliation rolls off him in waves. 

It’s silent for a full minute. Mista picks at his loose threads, detecting that something has happened. “Are you okay, my Lord?”

Giorno nods. “I am fine. I am in good health. This is regarding a private matter within the house.” Bruno looks between the two, slowly gathering information. Giorno starts again. “I’ve found a need to express something to you all, something sensitive and… baffling, perhaps, to you.”

Mista has gathered what he’s going to say. He gulps, nervous. 

“Fugo, would you please pull your collar down?”

Whipping his head around, his eyes wide, Fugo gapes at his Lord. Giorno hardens his gaze. “I won’t ask again.”

With trembling fingers, he reaches for his cravat, pulling his buttons apart and lowering his collar. Bruno gives a sharp intake of breath, and Sheila E stops scowling and stares. Her cheeks are pink.

“Whatever happened?” Bruno asks. The bruises from Giorno’s feeds are alternating in colours– his freshest one was still a deep plum colour, whereas his first one was a yellowed green now. Puncture marks glitter his pale skin, deep red where the blood was scabbed. 

“I did that,” Giorno announces. “For a few years now, I have required blood for sustenance. Not for any medicinal or homoeopathic reason, but my nature as human, Homo sapien , has been… altered.”

Bruno, confused, tilts his head, tapping his fingers. “How would that not be medical?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Sheila E spits, growing more and more distressed by the second. Her hands reach for her hair, and she paces around his office, muttering. “Oh my God. Oh my God !” 

“Sheila–” Giorno tries to talk, but she whips around, advancing on him, a finger pointed his way. 

“ You ,” she snarls, leaning towards him from over his desk. “I have served you for years. Years! All this time,” she wails. “All this time !” 

There’s a click, and the situation grows frightfully more desperate, as Mista has unholstered his revolver and has it pointed straight at Sheila E. Nobody moves. She turns slowly, lip trembling. Though corseted, her hyperventilation is obvious from her whining wheezes, as desperation wracks through her. 

“Step back from his Grace,” Mista threatens, professionally still. Bruno is torn, itching to intervene. But his Lord must have some explanation!

Sheila E takes half a pitiful step back. “My sister was killed by one of your lot. My beautiful sister, drained and discarded, like some Godforsaken bottle. You knew this! I told you this! And you!” She faces Mista, tears streaming down her face. “You knew this whole time?”

“I’m sorry,” Bruno interjects, “but what is it he knows? What is… his kind?”

Giorno stands, looming. Fugo can’t tell what he’s feeling. He didn’t know Sheila E had a sister, nor that she was killed. Sheila E backs down as her Lord stands, frightful of him now, stepping back.

“Of course… it makes sense now. ‘Plums and lemongrass. Farewells at the dusk of summer.’ You were smelling my blood, my being, my…” 

“Bruno, I am what they call in modern text, a ‘vampire’. A being that was once human, now destined for eternal life by feeding on the blood of humans. A territorial beast, a pack animal, a fantasy creature,” he states. Bruno doesn’t think he’s being serious for a moment. But he steps back, sitting on the small couch, thinking. Giorno could smell the sea on him, even after he’d stayed from the shore for over three years by that point. He knew he’d always have the ocean in his blood, but he didn’t think of it like that. And that drink, that Fugo lied about, the one he served his Lord, that Abbacchio said smelt strongly, a deep colour…

Bruno goes pale, his legs numb. 

“And you brought Fugo as what, a concubine? A plaything for you to keep like some food-slave?” Sheila E sniffles, looking to Fugo. Giorno flushes, deeply offended. 

“Of course not… Fugo decided of his goodwill to help me. I’ve been having blood delivered; I would never kill for it. But whilst the snow was heavy, Fugo offered to help through the period where I would essentially starve,” Giorno explained. Bruno nods. 

“So you have never killed?” he quietly asks. Giorno shook his head.

“Never,” he replies adamantly. “I would rather die than reject the lasting dregs of my humanity.”

Sheila E finally sinks to the floor, her skirts swallowing her up. Giorno crosses from behind his desk, joining her on his knees on the floor. He looks at her with determination.

“Sheila E,” he starts softly. “I leave it to you, should I ever succumb to my nature and kill, to neutralise me and dispose of me. You have full permission to end my life should I threaten another. And, if you wish for me to investigate your sister’s killer and bring him to you, I will, to my fullest extent. You have my word. I shall not be like the behemoth that ended your sister’s life too early.”

Sheila E looked up and him with tearful eyes, her deep facial scar prominent against the blotched pink of her eyes and skin. “I don’t know,” she whispers. “I don’t think I can forgive you.”

Giorno nods. “You need not forgive me now.”

“Were you attacked, then? By one of these creatures?” Bruno asks hesitantly. 

“No. My father was a vampire. Something in me was awoken after he died. I have his disease.”

“Mista, you knew? Fugo?” Bruno sounds heartbroken. “Did you feel you could not trust me, my Lord?”

Giorno winces. “Not at all, Bucciarati, it’s not as though you haven’t earned your place at the table, so to speak. I… needed as few people as possible to know. I had Mista and Narancia as my help. With just Mista remaining, and Fugo, of course,” he whittles off. “I knew I couldn’t keep it from you forever.”

“Abbacchio doesn’t know?” 

“He doesn’t. Where is he, for that matter?” 

A very faint bashing from downstairs interrupts them. Mista smirks. “That’d be him, right on time. That drunkard must’ve lost his way.”

Of course, Fugo thought. The front door was locked. Sheila E stays put on the floor, whilst Giorno rises and heads down. 

“I’ll speak with him about this privately. And about his recent behaviour. Bruno, thank you for trying with him. And thank you both for listening to me.”

Giorno shakes himself off as he heads downstairs. It’s not often he was nervous, and he knew Sheila E would react badly. But it could’ve gone worse. He would just have to see how it would go with Abbacchio.

When he opens the door, he’s nowhere to be seen. He knows he’s here, he can smell him, but there’s nothing, save for a small crate on his doorstep. But, as he steps closer, the smell gets more intense, and he kneels by the crate. The smell is stronger. With shaking fingers, he grips the lip of the wooden crate with such force that the wood crumbles, snapping and splintering under his fingers, tearing the nails from the walls of the box. In neat packages, with the quantity and date, sit four blood bags, labelled “Leone Abbacchio.”

Giorno’s eyesight swells, and he retches, holding the box. This can’t be happening. He can’t lose two servants over two months. Two friends . 

He can just make out the tone of Mista’s voice as his ears begin to ring, his eyes unfocused. He’s stopped breathing entirely. There’s a small placard on top of the packages, simply signed.

“Love,  S.S”

Chapter Text

Six years ago, Giorno became what he is now, and it's upon receiving his serv— his friend's blood in bags, that he reflects on his history, before and during his transition to monstrosity. 

The manor was deathly quiet, nought but frost crackling on sealed windows and the creaking of wood beneath Giorno’s feet. The usual bustle of maids and butlers alike was absent; the crackling of the hearth in his room was gone. Giorno knew at once that his father had taken one step too far. Privy to his dealings, he was, and it was only a matter of time before he crossed one too many. It had been quiet for a day and a half, and Giorno could stave off his hunger and thirst no longer. 

Green eyes scour the mansion, his hair black as night, as he stalks into the empty mezzanine, peering over the balcony at the ground floor entrance. There is no lamp alight or burners on. All he can see is the glint of moonlight begging for entrance through the parlour's cloaked windows, twinkling on the gilded surfaces it could reach, and perhaps a lantern or two alight at his front door. 

Giorno wasn’t particularly attached to his father– he’s seen him a handful of times in recent years. Maids tended to him, fed him and bathed him; his mother had been missing for some time now. It’s the quiet that ate away at him. It left him to his own thoughts, scary and repugnant as they were; they tell him he’s to become like his father, that greed will eat him up, that the power he holds will never be enough. His public outings were met with quiet disdain; everybody knew Dio Brando, narcissistic and powerful, and the bastard child he kept tucked away in his room, funny-looking and ever so silent.

Giorno knew he looked different from the other children, for his eyes didn’t fold the same way, and his lips were fuller, his hair straighter. He’s not particularly sure where his mother was from, but every so often he’ll find a treasure within the manor, or a letter to his mother he’s snuck a look at, and he’s whittled down the possibilities to either the Japanese or Chinese Empire. It’s not as if his father will make the effort to inform him. His name was anglicised a long time ago, in an attempt to assimilate with the other Lords and Ladies. Whatever it was, Giorno can’t recall anymore. 

As he descended to the first floor, there was a resounding bang at the front doors. He could hear all manner of chittering behind them, and could spot a carriage or two through the gap in his curtains. His mind told him it wasn’t safe, for what if it was his father’s men coming to make him pay for Dio’s misdemeanours? Or, worse yet, what if he was set to inherit his market, and they were coming to whisk him away?

He opened the door just a crack, peering up at the men at his door. A large, surly man stood front and centre, looking down at him. He was incredibly hard to read; was it disdain on his face, or pity? 

Whatever it was, Giorno felt calmer at once. For the first time in his life, he was looking at someone who looked like him; those same pointed eyes, the same jet hair, the same full lips.

“Would you happen to be Giorno?” He asked lowly. His accent was good, seemingly familiar with English, though his vowels were still slightly too sharp. He had dark circles beneath his eyes, and his voice was weary. Giorno nodded. 

“I am.”

The man peered past him, looking into the house, speaking pointedly. “My name is Jotaro Kujo; my team and I have been working together to apprehend your father, Dio Brando. May we come inside?”

Giorno, relieved, had gladly welcomed them in, fumbling around to light the wicks in his entryway. He watched Mr Kujo advance into the room, assessing tabletops and mirrors, running a finger over dusting surfaces and frowning. 

“I apologise, ah, Mr Kujo. I’d offer tea, but—”

He held out a hand, shushing Giorno. “It’s alright. I presume this house hasn’t been occupied by any staff for a couple of days now. Have you eaten?”

“I’ve had bread and butter, and some fruits and such…”

“Hm. Good enough.”

Giorno had perched tentatively on his settee, fiddling with his hands. Mr Kujo had eyed him carefully, sitting opposite him and reading from the file in his hands. 

“Your father, Dio Brando, was killed last night, following a night’s long stand-off with the Yard and my team. He killed some of my men and injured many more.” 

Giorno clutched his armrest at his news, dizziness setting in at once. His breath grew hasty, and guilt seeped in through his nightgown. 

“I…”

“Did he ever involve you with his business?”

“I would, err… On occasion, he had me attend galas and such. He inherited a title from my uncle, see, and as such, I suppose he had to show his lineage would continue.” He prattled off, stunned. His father, a murderer…? No, he’d long known he was not above such sins. But he supposed denial was a powerful sedative to his train of thought. 

“Ah, yes. Jonathan Joestar. His death is no longer being investigated, with such little evidence left from the steamer that sank,” Mr Kujo continued lowly. “But it is regarded that he was murdered. Your father is a suspect. Suddenly receiving wealth and title is a common motive.” 

Giorno sat tall at this. He’d admired his uncle, his pictures in the hall showing him as a smiling, charismatic man. This was well before his time, but he’d never heard a word about his uncle from his father’s mouth. He’d only had it explained to him by an assistant of his father, accounting for the similarities they shared. 

“In fact, we are distantly related. My lineage descends from the Joestars,” Mr Kujo mentioned offhandedly.

Giorno looked over the man once more, feeling his eyes prickle with moisture. He opened his mouth to speak, but the man had held up his palm once more to quiet him. 

“Don’t even think about apologising, or grovelling at me. Listen, this is a lot to take in at once. I understand. But you yourself aren’t clear of any accusations. People on my team think you’re his right-hand man, a back-up figurehead, or anything else they can pin on you. You need to cooperate. I’m breaking protocol here, technically, by interviewing you in your own damn home. But I think you’re innocent. There’s not a chance in hell a man that conceited would employ his son. If you had any part in it, you would’ve fled long ago. But this is serious. You’ve got the Yard, you’ve got agents from Japan and Egypt and France and God knows where else; you’ve practically got your Queen in your courtyard. So, I’m going to ask you some questions and look around your property. I won’t hesitate to take you into the coppers,” he points at Giorno, sternly, “should I find reason to. Don’t think I’m going to let you off. So be honest with me.”

Giorno, looking all of his thirteen years, nodded solemnly, biting his lip to stop himself from crying. He was a man now, in charge of his home, the deeds. God, the paperwork he was due for. Giorno steeled himself and listened before those thoughts could crush him further.

Mr Kujo pulled out a small pencil from his pocket, opening his leather notebook.

“What is your name?”

“Giorno… Brando.” 

“Can you confirm for me your date of birth?”

“April sixteenth, eighteen sixty-eight.”

“Am I correct in saying that as of today, January seventeenth, eighteen eighty-two, you are thirteen years of age?”

“Yes.”

Mr Kujo scribbled for a moment before looking back at Giorno. “How many times would you see your father during, say, a month?”

“Maybe once,” Giorno replied. “But only on special occasions. I have gone up to three years without seeing him.”

“What kind of special occasions? Your birthday? Christmas time?”

“Ah-ha, no,” Giorno shook his head. “If there was a gala or an auction I was to attend. Occasionally, in recent years, he would take me to church for Easter mass. He seemed to develop quite an attachment to God in his… last years.” 

Mr Kujo nodded at this, writing in small, compact characters. Giorno tried to peek over, intrigued, but he flashed him a stern look.

“An attachment to God, you say? Do you have reason to believe he was involved with the Church?”

“Not at all,” Giorno said resolutely, folding his arms. “Unless he was seriously misguided, I don’t think he took it seriously. In the way that believers of Christ do, anyway.”

Mr Kujo looked curious about the information, though when Giorno thinks back, it’s hard to imagine his face looking anything but still. 

“How did he take it, then?”

“He studied it, almost. He never appeared as though he was praying or taking the sermons seriously. He always looked as though he was waiting to catch something the bishop said that would further his research.”

Mr Kujo had turned his page, scribbling quickly. “Are you baptised?”

“I am. It was in the best interest of my father to assimilate me as best as possible.”

He nodded, understandingly. “But you do not follow any Catholic values or traditions.”

“I observe Easter and Christmas. And I will occasionally attend mass when requested by my father. But that is the extent of my following.” 

“Do you recall any friends or conversations that your father had?”

Giorno had leaned back, mind still reeling, but answered the best he could. “On the topic, there was a priest who came over more often in the last couple of months. I couldn’t hear much of what they discussed. They had discussed God and heaven, along with science's role in religion. He never spoke to me.”

“Do you know anything about this priest? What parish he is part of, or his name?”

“He’s not English,” Giorno notes. “He’s an American, dark skinned, with very curly hair. His hair is grey, but he doesn’t look much older than, say, fifteen or sixteen. His voice is still high, but he’s quite tall.”

“If he’s fifteen, it’s unlikely he’s reached official priesthood yet. But this is quite significant information. Most of Dio’s clientele are protected noblemen or bums with no significance. They’re hard to locate or prosecute. But, I’ll ask the Yard to contact the United States to look for any African American seminarians.”

“Semin..arian?”

“Men attending a seminary,” he replies, writing on a separate bunch of parchment now. “It’s a school to educate young men to become priests.”

“I see...”

Mr Kujo spent a while writing on this parchment, concentrating on conveying this new information. Giorno sat, his ears buzzing, mouth growing drier by the second. It was too much to take in. Why was his father talking with a teenage worshipper? This father, whose voice grated on his ears, that smooth, low tone that felt like it was hypnotising you to do his bidding, devoid of love, how it made him sick. His father, who once brought him a Christmas present, a small set of earrings, and even though he found out later they were his father's older pair he’d since replaced, the idea of being in his father’s thoughts still made him cling to hope– hope that his future would be normal. His father, whose servants never quite heard what Giorno said, only moved in languid motions, their eyes glossy. His father, standing tall next to him at events, a hand on his shoulder, a nauseating grin on his face. His father, who murdered his uncle, who murdered this man’s colleagues, who was dead now himself. 

He was dead. Giorno was orphaned.

Well, he knows his father was sinful in every which way, and has no doubts he’s got siblings across the Channel to other hypnotised mothers, but he knew none. Jotaro Kujo was related to him, apparently, on his uncle's side, but that was so long ago it could barely count. He would be this man’s uncle if that were the case, and Giorno would have rather locked himself away for the rest of his life than make them deal with some estranged offspring, born to the man who killed their lineage's patriarch.

Mr Kujo continued asking him all kinds of questions. What was his mother like? What were the names of the servants? Was he aware of his father’s crimes? And when it was all over, Giorno shook the man’s hand, wobbled to the front door and bid them well, then turned around and threw up. 

Mr Kujo had indeed made sure Giorno was taken care of, giving him names for certain contacts, such as an accountant, a cook, and a set of maids to care for him. He was maturing fast, and come his fourteenth birthday, almost exactly three months later, his manor was bustling once again. He’d transitioned smoothly to adulthood, even changing his last name to rid himself of that past identity, and though still in his early teen years, he was doing well in his home classes, mastering not only numeracy and literature but manners and decorum. But peace never lasted for Giorno, it seemed. One of his maids was dressing him for bed one evening, brushing through his hair, which had just started to brush against his shoulders. 

“My!” She had exclaimed, raking a finger through his locks. “Your Grace, it seems to be… I’ve never seen this before!”

“What?” Giorno’s heart leapt, turning to face the woman. “Is something the matter?”

“No, my Lord, it’s just… it seems to be that your hair is changing colour!” 

At once, Giorno had sprung to his feet, leaning closer to his mirror. Indeed, as he pulled his parting tightly, he could see a line of blonde, deeply shimmering, like his father’s—

Giorno, at this realisation, had yelled, gripping at his hair, fanning through his sides and checking across his scalp. Panic swept through him. He knew his father was ageless, long outliving Giorno’s uncle; he had been told his father needed human blood for medical treatments due to this condition, and that’s why he needed to buy and sell the people he was made to view at those awful, awful auctions. Was Giorno also sick?

“My Lord—”

“Out!” He yelled, crying and clutching at his head. “Leave! Tell everyone to leave!”

The maids had done as they were told. Once again, his house was silent. Giorno would enter his kitchen, eating the ingredients as they were, and slink back to his bedroom. But he found, as the days went on, and as his mail piled up, his hunger was subdued less and less. His stomach would cramp, from his navel to his throat; his whole body convulsed in agony as it begged for food. 

It’s not as though Giorno wasn’t eating enough. He had plenty of fruit and his vegetable garden, and had plenty of crusty bread. There were even slabs of cured meats he could eat without needing to cook, and though it seemed to sate his hunger more so than vegetables, he would always return to his unbearable pain come the next morning.

His hair was blonde to his ears now, and he shivered constantly, cold, but still sweating. His mouth ached, and he found his eye teeth reaching further down, butting into his lip. He knew what he was becoming. 

It took two more weeks before Giorno could take it no more; unrecognisable now, with his sunken face, blonde hair, and dried, bloody lips. Hunched over, he threw himself into his father’s office, now his, and searched desperately for any clues, anything he could find. Most had been seized as evidence, but there was a letter left in the fireplace, tucked into the grate before the hearth, and Giorno clutched at its singed edges, shaking. 

It read:

Mr Brando,

We understand your need for territory, given your large number of employees and the business you conduct. We are unwilling to give up our land, the little we own, nor are we interested in joining you in your endeavours. We are, however, open to discussion about letting you utilise the space within our terms. Mr Volpe and I will be the only ones present at such a meeting, should you accept. We ask you not to bring others along– you can turn as many humans into vampires as you like, but we are both aware they are nothing in the face of a full-blooded, born vampire. Consider this not a threat, merely a promise at the prospect of you attempting to defy our authenticity as a coven. 

Should you wish to meet, we are located in a warehouse near the Charterhouse. An old brick maker's place. Come whenever. We shall await you.

- S.S

Without so much as donning a coat, Giorno flew down to his stables, grabbing his prized Gold and throwing a leg over, Gold huffing at his temperament and stamping worriedly. Bareback, he gripped her body with his knees and looped the metal bit in her mouth, snapping the reins and sending her into a canter through the rain. 

It’s twenty minutes of Giorno’s legs burning, his eyes stinging, and his palms being cut before they make it to stretches of buildings, Giorno blindly navigating his way through the crowds, desperately trying to find this warehouse. St Paul’s Cathedral stood tall in the distance, shrouded by rain, and as he looked down, pausing to marvel at it, he noticed a sign directing him to an old brickery. The area was residential enough now that Giorno knew it had to be the old warehouse mentioned in the letter. Squeezing Gold down the lane, he tied her to a lamp post beside the entrance, almost collapsing as he slid off her wet back, leaning against the door to the warehouse and bashing his forehead against the metal, his arms far too weak to do any more than clutch at his stomach. 

It took two minutes for someone to open the door, and they caught Giorno as he tumbled from his resting place against the door’s knocker. The man was old, witheringly so, but held him firm. Giorno, having not seen a person in almost a month, was hit by the smell of clover and yarn, steamed clothes, and what must have been the acrid smell of old blood. 

“Goodness,” the man muttered, guiding Giorno into a small wooden chair. Giorno’s hair stuck to his face, masking his eyes. He curled in on himself, sobbing, shivering and biting his lip to attempt to curb the sniffles that escaped him. The man watched him for a moment before taking Giorno’s face in his hands and brushing the hair from his eyes. But, as he opened them, the man froze, his grip growing ever more crushing.

“You’re Dio’s boy.”

Giorno cried at that, nodding, the old man’s nails pressing into his bony cheeks. Giorno was unmistakably Dio’s son, with those ocean eyes marred by a blinking red hunger behind them, and curling blond hair like a cherub. 

“Kocaqi, step back. We don’t know what he’s capable of,” Another voice advised quietly. The older man– Kocaqi– stepped back, making way for the younger man to step forward. 

“You,” Giorno spluttered, “You wrote to my– my father, yes? You are vampires?”

The man eyed him carefully. “We are. As are you.”

“No!” Giorno cried, curling his arms over his head. “Don’t– don’t say it. Please. It can’t… Please. I need your help.”

There was a snicker from behind the men. Giorno may have imagined it, but it appeared that two children were peeking out from behind the stairwell, observing them. 

The younger man curled a lip, grimacing. “Why on Earth would we do that? Do you have any idea what your father did?”

“None!” He’d yelled, clutching his head. “I know so little, and… and I don’t know what’s happening to me, and… and God, it just hurts! It hurts so badly!”

No, it appeared Giorno was not imagining such things, for one of the children stepped out and tentatively moved closer. A girl, no older than himself, clutched a small stuffed toy as she walked closer. She seemed intrigued, her long golden hair framing her gaunt face. Giorno looked at her, and he saw himself reflected in her. The younger man hissed at her to return upstairs at once, but she did no such thing. She got closer, until she was standing over him, Giorno staring up, her eyes red, his eyes raw. 

“You smell like a vampire,” she said bluntly, sniffing. “But I can also tell you mean what you say. You’re so… sad.”

The man and Kocaqi both seemed to hesitate at her words. Giorno hiccuped. “How can you smell such a thing?”

“It’s a skill we have as vampires. I can tell you can smell us, too. You’ve got to be observant when you’re like me. So I can tell you’re being honest. You don’t know why you’re in pain, and you hate it a lot. Don’t you know how vampires work?”

“I’ve not a clue,” he’d muttered, putting his head in his hands. 

“Angelica, enough. We’ll take it from here.” Kocaqi smiled at her, waving her off. “She is right. We are looking at things from a business perspective. But you are merely someone whose father didn’t do right by him, and who is now paying the price for it. My boy,” Kocaqi murmurs, crouching in front of him. “You need blood.”

The house hadn’t known peace in months. Tragedy after tragedy was how it seemed to operate, with Abbacchio’s disappearance the latest addition to their chronicle. In light of the delivery of his blood, Giorno had discarded any emotion he had left regarding the situation, remaining cold, level-headed, and utterly unavailable. Bruno was adamant that Abbacchio was alive, stating he knew a human had more blood than that, and they were using him as a pawn. Giorno is inclined to agree, but Mista is already set on mourning. There’s no doubt he’s dead, he’d said, during an argument with Bruno. It’s a clear message to the Lord. 

Giorno had held a meeting with his staff later that week. Under no circumstances were they to retaliate; instead, allow Giorno to conduct investigative work alongside Fugo and Bruno. 

“If you wish to assist, by all means, please do,” he muttered. “But do not hinder me with proclamations of death. Whether he is dead or alive… Sezione Sangue had captured him with intent.”

Sheila E was abrasive as ever, cornering Fugo afterwards and harranging him for information.

“What else are you keeping from me, Fugo? First, it’s your birthday, then it’s my boss is a goddamned vampire, now what? Do you know where he is? Is he dead?”

Fugo just sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes. “Sheila E. I keep nothing from you now. I have promised that to you. I know that Abbacchio was drinking again, and he had a quarrel with Bruno that sent him to a pub down south; I swear to you, I know nothing else.”

Sheila E’s lip quivered. “He was drinking again?”

Fugo nodded, pulling her in for a hug. Neither of them particularly enjoyed physical contact, but they both knew there was nothing more that could be said with words alone. “Yes. Listen to me. Keep with your chores. Don’t leave the house unless you must. It’s dangerous.”

“I’m not a princess, Pannacotta,” she grumbled, pushing him off. “I can hold my own.”

“I… understand,” he replied, choosing his wording carefully. “But, if I were to find your mangled body after the Ripper got to you, or your blood in a box on my doorstep, or your braids in a locket–”

“I get it,” she muttered, her voice wet again. “I’ll stay here. But I won’t hesitate to fight.”

Fugo knows she would never win against the undead beings she was threatening, but their argument would never end should he rebut her again. 

It was four days of no answers before another crate was delivered to their door. This time, the message was clear, in the form of a letter. 

Mr Giovanna, 

We regret it has come to this. It appears that we are no longer in your best interests, having gone years with nothing to show for our generosity. You sit in your castle, purchased with money from extorting people like us, and we’ve nought but payment for the product and the occasional invite to small events. Do you shun our kind so badly? Is your tolerance so low, even to yourself? In trying not to become your father, you have mutated yourself into an uncaring, loathsome beast regardless. You are his son, through and through. A simple payment is all we deserve? For taking you in at your worst? Think not of this as greed. You have much, we have little— there is no equality in our transactions. 

We have made a recent partnership which has opened our eyes to your transgressions; the threat you truly pose to England. We seek either reparations for your misguided attempts to keep us at bay. You can receive your bad-mouthed servant in exchange for your estate or monies equivalent, or you can expect us to visit with more of these gifts. 

Take care.

Beneath the paper lie four more bags. Giorno cannot see a name on them, but takes a tentative sniff of them. It’s overwhelmingly sweet, sticking in his nose, like pollen, wet with rot. It’s immature, it’s not seasoned, and Giorno grips the bag with rage. He’s unfamiliar with the smell, but this was the blood of children; a boy and a girl, whose terror lingers in the bag. He can hold back no longer. He decides, for the safety of his staff, he shall take them on, alone. 

Fugo watches with worry as he observes his Lord shaking. He can only hope he does not act rashly.