Chapter Text
Fugo despised the very notion of romance. To him, it was frivolous, an indulgence that served no purpose—especially within the harsh and treacherous world of the mafia. It was a distraction, a vulnerability he couldn’t afford. And yet, it gnawed at him—this unshakable awareness of his new boss.
Giorno Giovanna.
He was infuriatingly kind, a quiet contradiction to the ruthless organization he now commanded. Maybe Fugo was overthinking it—he often did—but there was something about the way Giorno treated him that felt... different. The way he lingered in conversations, how he always seemed to have time for Fugo’s endless rants about law, philosophy, or whatever else spilled from his mind. Giorno would offer him the last bite of a dessert he didn’t want to finish, an absent yet intimate gesture that Fugo couldn’t stop replaying in his head.
It was maddening.
Walking past Giorno’s open office door, Fugo caught a glimpse of him seated at his desk, engrossed in his work. Giorno rocked gently in his chair, a stack of papers on one side and a computer humming softly on the other. His golden hair caught the afternoon light, casting a faint halo around him, as if the sun itself was conspiring to make him more radiant. Small, delicate reading glasses perched on his nose, and he adjusted them with a precise touch, his fingers brushing the frame’s edge.
Fugo froze.
Giorno’s lips were slightly pursed in concentration, his hands moving deftly as he typed something incomprehensible to Fugo. Whatever it was, it was undoubtedly confidential, shrouded in the same enigmatic air that surrounded Giorno himself. His polished black shoes rested against the chair’s base, the faint creak of leather punctuating the quiet room.
He was beautiful in a way that felt almost unlawful.
Fugo swallowed hard and forced himself to keep walking, his footsteps echoing faintly in the corridor. He couldn’t let himself feel this. He didn’t feel this. It was just the stress, the whirlwind of emotions that came with juggling university and his unexpected return to the mafia. That had to be it.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
He retreated to his room in the sprawling mansion, a space that should have felt foreign but somehow didn’t. It was quiet and comfortable, a stark contrast to the chaos of his mind. Growing up in wealth had accustomed him to such surroundings, but here, there was a strange sense of safety he couldn’t explain.
Perhaps it was because of Giorno.
Fugo shook his head, trying to banish the thought. Instead, his mind drifted to the teammates he had lost—friends who had fought for a dream that wasn’t even theirs.
Abbacchio. Bucciarati. Narancia.
Their names echoed in his mind like a requiem. Fugo bit his lip, the familiar weight of guilt settling on his chest. He remembered Mista’s face that day, eyes heavy with sorrow as he delivered the news. The group of six had been violently reduced to three.
Fugo sighed deeply, placing a heavy textbook on his desk. The thud was almost as oppressive as the guilt he carried. He sat down, running his hands through his hair, trying to refocus. Finals loomed on the horizon, and science was an unforgiving subject. But he was determined to finish his degree, even if it felt like a Sisyphean task.
Hours slipped by as he worked, the glow of his computer screen illuminating his furrowed brow. His hands moved restlessly—clicking, typing, wiping at his face, tugging at his hair in frustration. The sluggishness of the internet only added to his irritation. When the page reloaded without warning, he groaned, his hands hovering above the desk as if he might slam them down.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his fingers gripping the desk’s edge. The sensation of the wood beneath his palms grounded him, a reminder that he wasn’t the same volatile teenager he had once been. He was better now—or at least, he tried to be.
The soft click of the doorknob went unnoticed at first. It wasn’t until he leaned back in his chair, exhaling a long breath, that he saw the figure standing beside him.
Giorno.
He held a small dessert in his hand, the faintest smile gracing his lips.
–
Giorno leaned back in his chair, the quiet rustle of papers the only sound in his office. The afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows, casting a golden glow across the room. Stacks of documents surrounded him—reports, financial statements, coded messages from allies and informants. His reading glasses sat on his nose as he scanned yet another page, his pen tapping idly against the desk.
He sighed, placing the paper down. The sheer monotony of it all was beginning to wear on him. His mind drifted for a moment, his gaze landing on Coco Jumbo, the turtle resting on a velvet cushion in the corner. Polnareff’s soul resided there, his sharp wit and wisdom often a source of unexpected comfort.
“Another long day,” Giorno muttered, more to himself than to the turtle.
Coco Jumbo shifted slightly, his small head poking out to regard Giorno with what almost felt like curiosity. Giorno smiled faintly. “At least you don’t have to deal with this paperwork.”
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. One of the mansion’s butlers entered, carrying a tray with an elegantly plated dessert—a slice of mille-feuille, its layers of pastry and cream perfectly arranged.
“Your dessert, sir,” the butler said, setting it down on the edge of the desk. Giorno blinked at the pastry, its plush and thick layer enticing to someone who would have an appetite. Giorno, however, did not. “I didn’t request this.” He pointed at the pastry, a gentle gesture despite the confusion in his voice. “It was prepared earlier, sir. The chef thought you might enjoy it.”
Before Giorno could inquire more, the butler made acurt nod and turned on his heels to leave, black tailcoat swishing behind him. The new boss stared at the dessert. He wasn’t hungry—he hadn’t been all day. His appetite had dwindled lately, replaced by a persistent restlessness. Still, the gesture was appreciated. He set his pen down with a quiet sigh, deciding to take a short break.
As he stood, Coco Jumbo shifted again, and Giorno walked over, kneeling beside the turtle. “What do you think, Polnareff? Should I try it?”
The turtle made no response, of course, but Giorno chuckled softly. “I thought so.”
Giorno stood from his chair before he picked up the plate and stepped out of his room with the same effortless elegance that had come to define him. The double doors to his quarters were massive, carved from dark mahogany and inlaid with gold filigree that swirled into the shape of blooming roses. The handles were ornate, wrought in the shape of vines twisting together. As the doors swung open, they revealed Giorno standing in the doorway, a vision of composure and grace. He tugged at the high collared burgundy suit he wore, the outside of his room a bit warm for his taste. The fabric shimmered faintly in the light, its richness enhanced by subtle embroidery along the lapels. Beneath the jacket, he wore a soft lavender shirt, unbuttoned just enough to hint at the golden chain of a necklace resting against his collarbone. His signature golden hair was as immaculate as ever, styled into its intricate curls that framed his serene, striking face.
In the hallway, the opulence continued. The floors were polished marble, gleaming under the light of grand chandeliers that hung from high, intricately painted ceilings. Rich burgundy and gold dominated the color scheme, with accents of deep emerald and cream. Every detail, from the gilded moldings to the handwoven tapestries, spoke of refinement and wealth.
As he stepped into the grand hallway, the soft click of his polished shoes echoed faintly against the marble floors. The hallway was lined with tall windows draped in heavy velvet curtains, their gold tassels tied neatly to let in the afternoon light. Ornate sconces adorned the walls, their soft glow complementing the natural light streaming in.
He hadn’t gone far when he noticed Mista presumably walking towards the staircase, just outside Giorno’s room. The older man yawned, rubbing at his familiar beanie before he noticed Giorno walk past him. Mista looked back as Giorno passed, his eyes immediately drawn to the plate in Giorno’s hands. His expression shifted, his brows lifting in recognition and delight before he stepped back quickly. “Is that—?”
Giorno arched a brow, his lips curving into a faint, knowing smile. “A mille-feuille,” he said, his voice smooth and even.
Mista straightened up, his attention now fully on the dessert. “You know, Boss, you’ve really got this whole ‘elegant mafia king’ thing down. Fancy food, fancy house, fancy suits... He gestured vaguely at Giorno, smirking. “You even look like you belong in one of those old Renaissance paintings.”
Giorno’s gaze softened, though he didn’t respond directly. Instead, he adjusted the cuffs of his jacket, his movements calm and deliberate. “I strive to maintain a standard,” he said simply.
Mista rolled his eyes, though his grin remained. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t forget the little guys when you’re ruling the world, okay?”
Giorno’s smile returned, small but sincere. “I haven’t forgotten anyone, Mista. And I don’t intend to.”
For a moment, the two stood there in companionable silence, the air filled with the faint sounds of the mansion—the distant hum of conversation, the soft rustle of leaves in the garden beyond the windows.
“Say, Giorno…” Mista broke the silence, grinning. “Is that for me? I haven’t eaten since breakfast.” And Giorno could only raise an eyebrow. “You could ask the kitchen for something. This isn’t for you.”
Mista pouted dramatically. “C’mon, Boss, don’t be stingy.” His hands lingered over the plate, fingers moving in anticipation as if he hadn’t eaten in years.
Giorno shook his head, turning the other way curtly while his grip on the plate remained firm. “No, Mista. I know exactly who this is for.”
Mista’s grin faded slightly, replaced by a curious look. “Ah, I see.” He smirked knowingly but didn’t press further. “Well, don’t let me stop you.” Giorno only nodded and continued his stride.
Mista watched him go, shaking his head with a grin. “Man, that guy’s something else.” He looked back one last time before heading for the velvet carpeted stairs.
Giorno nodded and continued down the hall. His thoughts turned to Fugo. To Giorno’s knowledge, Fugo had been studying since morning, likely skipping meals and water in his relentless pursuit of perfection. He always pushed himself too hard, especially when it came to his studies.
Reaching Fugo’s door, Giorno knocked lightly before opening it. The room was large but modestly furnished—bookshelves lined one wall, meticulously organized, while a neatly made bed sat in the corner. A desk dominated the space, its surface covered with textbooks, notes, and a laptop. The faint scent of ink and paper lingered in the air.
Fugo sat at the desk, his shoulders tense, his hands hovering above the keyboard. Giorno watched as Fugo nearly slammed his palms down but stopped, inhaling deeply instead. His leg bounced anxiously beneath the desk, a clear sign of his overwhelmed state.
Giorno stepped inside, his shoes barely making a sound against the polished floor. He placed the dessert on the desk beside Fugo, who still hadn’t noticed him.
“You’re working too hard,” Giorno said gently.
Fugo startled, his head snapping up to look at Giorno. “Boss!—what are you—”
“Take a break,” Giorno interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. Fugo lips twitched downwards before his gaze slowly made it’s way to the computer in front of him, the website still loading. “I…” He sighed, fingers grazing the notes in front of him, “I can’t. Finals are coming up, and I’m behind–"
“You’ll only make it worse if you keep this up,” Giorno inturrupted yet again, his voice softening. He pulled out the chair beside Fugo’s desk and sat down. “You’re going to burn yourself out, Fugo.”
Fugo hesitated, his gaze flicking to the dessert, then back to Giorno. “I don’t have time for this.”
“You don’t have time not to,” Giorno countered.
There was a pause, the room filled only with the faint hum of the laptop. Giorno studied Fugo’s face—the furrow of his brow, the tension in his jaw. He wanted to say more, to tell Fugo how much he admired his dedication, his sharp mind, his strength. But it wasn’t the right time.
It might never be the right time.
"...Come with me,” Giorno said suddenly.
Fugo blinked, hands stiffening over his keyboard before he glanced back at Giorno. “W-what?”
“To the beach,” Giorno announced, his tone calm but leaving no room for debate, as though the suggestion were the most natural thing in the world. “You need fresh air, and I need a break from my work. Let’s go now.”
Fugo blinked, caught off guard by the abruptness of it. His mouth opened to protest—to question, “Now? Seriously?”—but the words faltered before they formed. His restless leg, which had been bouncing with pent-up tension, stilled for the first time in what felt like hours.
He studied Giorno’s expression, searching for the reasoning behind the sudden proposition. There was something in the way those emerald eyes met his—steady, commanding, yet tinged with a quiet insistence that felt almost... tender. Giorno had a way of doing that, of making a simple look feel like a persuasive argument. Fugo hated how effective it was, how it left him scrambling to find resistance that wasn’t there.
His hands twitched, rising as if to emphasize a protest he hadn’t fully formed, but they fell uselessly to his sides, heavy with resignation. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice low but lacking any real bite. He pushed his chair back with a scrape, standing reluctantly. “But only for a little while.”
Giorno’s lips curved into a small, satisfied smile, the kind that made it clear he’d known Fugo would agree all along. He rose with effortless grace, his tailored jacket settling perfectly on his shoulders as he gestured toward the door. "That’s all I ask"
Fugo hesitated for a moment, glancing back at the table. The plate with the untouched mille-feuille sat there, forgotten amidst the exchange. The delicate layers of pastry and cream, once so carefully presented, now seemed almost trivial, their sweetness abandoned. It struck him as oddly symbolic—of what, he wasn’t entirely sure. Maybe it was the constant push and pull of his life, of the moments left behind in the shadow of bigger decisions.
He shook the thought away, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he followed Giorno out of the room. The pastry remained on the table, untouched, its presence a quiet reminder of something incomplete.
Fugo followed Giorno down the hall, his mind still spinning. The suggestion to go to the beach had been so unexpected, so unlike the Giorno he thought he knew. The boss was always calm, always composed, always working. Yet here he was, practically dragging Fugo out of his room to take a break.
He glanced at Giorno’s back as they walked, the golden hair catching the dim light of the hallway. He moved with an effortless grace, like he belonged everywhere and nowhere all at once. Fugo hated how his chest tightened at the sight.
The two of them passed Sheila E, a trusted bodyguard of Giorno’s. She lay sprawled against the plush bench perched under a painting, lazily pushing her cuticles back. “Going somewhere, boys?” She teased, her gaze flicking between them and her hands.
“The beach,” Giorno replied simply, not breaking stride.
Sheila E raised an eyebrow. “The beach? Now? You’re full of surprises, Boss.”
Fugo rolled his eyes, quickening his pace to keep up with Giorno. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Sheila’s knowing grin or whatever commentary was surely brewing in her mind.
By the time they reached the front door, Fugo’s initial reluctance had begun to fade. The idea of stepping outside, away from his books and the suffocating weight of his thoughts, was starting to sound... tolerable.