Work Text:
April 15, 2008, 12:05pm
Giorno is on a solo mission to meet with the staff of a corrupt politician. Mista offered to go, but this was not the first meeting, and Giorno was certain there would be no threats.
Fugo sits at the baby grand piano in the formal living room. It’s all clear with gold accents, Giorno’s signature flowers painted on the side. It looks like it belongs somewhere between a tour production for a pop star and an art museum. He practices Swan Lake until his fingers hurt. It’s his favorite. He feels for Odile. He is the monster disguised as the lover for Giorno’s prince-eyes. His tie moves as his soul shakes. This composition is for no recital, but perfection is all he aims for.
Mista lays in the California King upstairs with his Guitar Hero guitar constantly fucking up the same lick on Miss Murder on expert over and over again. He keeps getting distracted between racing thoughts of not being there to guard Giorno and hearing Fugo downstairs. He tosses the guitar controller across the bed and debates. He debates asking him to quiet down, but knows better. Mista isn’t going to get any better at Guitar Hero right now, and he knows Fugo’s fingers are about to start bleeding. He slowly makes his way down the stairs as Fugo repeats the melody over and over again.
Over the years Mista has learned to live with Fugo. He doesn’t like to be easily-provoked, he’s always sour unless he’s with Giorno, and he is the most intense perfectionist to ever walk the Earth. It was easier before Giorno. Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia seemed to keep the redhead at bay– always better than Mista and never as good as Giorno.
He observes Fugo on the lucite piano bench from the bottom step for a moment. His back is perfectly straight and fingers red from impact. Jealousy flickers in his mind. He gave up on Guitar Hero– pressing buttons – while Fugo plays the same keys until each one hits right. His jealousy exits as he remembers Fugo does this because he’s fucked up, and not for fun. He watches as Fugo slouches and finally takes a break as he walks towards the bench.
“Can I sit with you?” Mista asks, nonchalantly.
“I guess,” Fugo says, sighing.
Mista sits on the bench. It’s uncomfortable. It’s a reminder that Giorno buys things for aesthetics over use sometimes.
“Did Giorno pick out this piano?” Mista asks, without thinking.
“For me, yes,” Fugo responds.
“Did he have to get you such an uncomfortable seat?” Mista asks.
“He liked the look of this model. For the amount of hours I sit here it’s bound to hurt either way,” Fugo responds.
“Why do you sit here until your fingers are numb? I give up on Guitar Hero ,” Mista says.
“Because it stops the feeling,” Fugo replies, more blunt than usual.
“Which feeling?” Mista asks.
“Guilt,” Fugo responds, dryly.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, you know. You’ve always been the logical one of the operations,” Mista says with a sincerity he rarely uses around Fugo.
“It’s hard to live with yourself. My stand is a sick monster. Even if I feel it a little bit, even if it’s not true, I need something to make it go away,” Fugo says.
“It’s been seven years,” Mista says, staring at the ceiling when it hits him just how much time has passed.
“For seven years I have thought primarily of my own cowardice. I let them die,” Fugo says.
Mista is at a loss for words. He was mad at Fugo at first all those years ago. Giorno was the one who made him understand why Fugo made the decision and they all worked it out shortly after. Purple Haze surely could’ve caused some damage, but it wouldn’t have saved everyone. He bites his lip to not get caught in the feelings of what could’ve been. Mista puts a hand on Fugo’s back to try and comfort him.
“You did what you had to do,” Mista says.
Fugo sighs again, puts his hands above the keys on the piano, and puts his head into them. His fingerprints begin to show in the crisp lucite.
“I miss them,” Fugo says.
“I don’t have any wisdom to offer you. If Giorno were here he’d say something wise about the passage of time. It gets easier with time, but I miss them too,” Mista says, earnestly.
“I guess,” Fugo says and pauses.
“I miss them and I want someone to miss them with me. Giorno makes me genuinely happy, but his high horse shit isn’t what I need,” Fugo finishes.
“I hate thinking about what could’ve been. I get too sad,” Mista says.
“I get so angry. It’s the only other time he accidentally comes out,” Fugo replies.
“In another world, maybe Bruno and Leone are making us dinner and Giorno is keeping drugs off the streets and Narancia is running around the house. But I think in all the potential variations you’re the brains and I’m the brawn,” Mista says.
“Our fate was always sealed, wasn’t it?” Fugo asks.
“I guess so,” Mista replies, letting Fugo lean into him.
“I guess Bruno and Leone sacrificed a lot for us to basically raise us. Now that they’re gone we’ve spent our freedom being adults doing grunt work. I never deserved that freedom anyway, not after my own actions,” Fugo lets out.
“I’m not good at this sort of stuff, but you can’t live in the past anymore, man,” Mista replies.
“My fate has always been tied to joining Passione,” Fugo responds.
“Everything is temporary. Even the Passione of ‘02 is different from the one of now,” Mista says.
“I guess you’re right, Giorno had you kill so many ex-operatives,” Fugo replies.
“Don’t remind me of all the blood on my hands,” Mista says, laughing heartily.
“Sometimes, if you remind yourself you killed bad people, it washes you clean for a few minutes,” Fugo says, trying to be comforting.
“I think I’ve been doing that subconsciously since the day I started,” Mista replies, walking towards the couch.
“No wonder I envy you,” Fugo grunts as he leaves the bench he’s sat on for so long his upper legs are numb.
“Wait, Fugo, you’re jealous of me?” Mista asks, laughing so much his back falls into the leather cushions.
“Envy, not jealousy,” Fugo corrects him.
“I didn’t even know those were different things,” Mista responds.
“Jealousy is about possessions and we both have enough Mafia money to buy a small island. Envy is wanting something someone has that never belonged to you in the first place,” Fugo explains, laying back casually on the couch.
“I never gave it much thought, I guess,” Mista replies.
“Of course you didn’t,” Fugo retorts.
“What do I have that you never did? We’re almost evenly matched,” Mista says.
Fugo could practically scream out Giorno’s name at this point, but he feels himself having fun with Mista. He feels youthful for just a second. He can’t ruin it.
“I’m going to try and let go of the past,” Fugo says, looking away.
“Whatever man. I hope you can, we should watch TV,” Mista says.
“I’ll find the remote,” Fugo replies.
Fugo stands up and stretches and searches for a moment until he sees it on top of Giorno’s coffee table books. Fugo takes a second to observe the stack: Gucci, Renaissance Art, Planet Earth: An Illustrated History, and an Emporio Armani catalog. It’s so Giorno . Fugo smiles when he thinks that. He tosses the remote to Mista. Mista starts his ritualistic channel surfing.
“I hate Law and Order . I’m already in the mafia and the American laws confuse me,” Mista says.
“Never fun to watch your studies or job or both on television,” Fugo replies.
Mista clicks through channels of local news and sports matches and sells shows.
“What about Drake & Josh ?” Mista asks.
“Not feeling it today,” Fugo responds.
“It’s a guilty pleasure,” Mista says.
“For you,” Fugo retorts.
Mista clicks the controller again.
“I like this one,” Fugo says.
“ What Not to Wear ? Really?” Mista asks.
“I watch it with Giorno sometimes. It’s funny; a guilty pleasure,” Fugo replies.
“To you,” Mista retorts.
Mista clicks the controller.
“Honestly, this is fine,” Fugo says.
“Yeah, Deadliest Catch rocks,” Mista replies.
“We should get snacks,” Fugo says.
“I’ll go grab them,” Mista responds.
—
Mista brings back bags of junk food and lays them out on Giorno’s fancy table. He knows Giorno will give him shit for it, but he doesn’t care.
“You know Fugo, I never took you for a What Not To Wear kind of guy. I think they’d tear you to shreds,” Mista says as their eyes are locked in on the crabs on the boat.
“You admit you watch it by saying that,” Fugo replies.
“I mean, Giorno keeps it on at night sometimes, you know,” Mista says.
Fugo’s heart sinks for a moment at the reminder Mista has what he doesn’t. He moves away from Mista on the couch for a moment. He looks up at the ceiling and taps his fingers together, trying to craft the perfect response. He bites his inner lip out of rage.
“I think they’d tear you to shreds too for what it’s worth. You’ve always got the Cavalli pants on with the Spider-Man looking crop top and Medieval looking hat,” Fugo replies.
“At least my main suit doesn’t have holes all over it,” Mista responds.
“You know, we could ask Giorno who he’d think would get torn to shreds more once he’s back,” Fugo says.
“It’s on,” Mista replies.
They sit there like that for a while, crunching chips, comfortably apart. At some point Fugo grabs the designer blanket hanging over the arm of the couch and Mista steals some of it. They’re focused on the state of the boats. They exist in their own world for a moment. Fugo always liked TV as an escape and Mista always liked TV.
____
At some point, the door creaks. Both of their eyes slowly move from the TV to Giorno who even without Requiem present, radiates gold. He is in his black cutout suit, custom-made shoes, and perfect pin-curl hair. He is pristine. He walks towards his subordinates on the couch.
“How did it go?” Fugo asks.
“The government will not be discussing the mere concept of Passione for a long time,” Giorno says, smiling.
“How’d you do it?” Mista asks.
“Don’t worry about it,” Giorno responds.
“No really, how did you do it?” Fugo pipes in.
“I brought the numbers and some money we’d consider pocket change. It’s easy to keep them in order when you’re the real order,” Giorno replies.
Mista rolls his eyes, faking hurt that Giorno answers when Fugo asks.
“Glad they’re off our ass either way,” Mista says.
“Me too,” Giorno responds.
“We have a question for you,” Mista says.
“What is it?” Giorno says, as he sits down between the two, grabbing a bag of chips.
“Which one of us would get torn apart more on What Not To Wear ?” Mista asks.
“I feel like they’d make you throw all your Cavalli pants away and make Fugo change his hair,” Giorno responds.
“That’s not the answer we asked for, GioGio,” Fugo says, putting a hand on Giorno’s arm.
“They’re mean to everyone, it’s a draw. They’d probably even make me throw stuff I like away,” Giorno says.
“You dress better than both of them,” Fugo says.
“Dressing better than them doesn’t make for good tv,” Giorno replies.
“Fair enough,” Fugo says, leaning further into Giorno.
“This however, does make for good tv, but can you guys not cover our really expensive table in food next time?” Giorno says.
“Fine,” Mista says, rolling his eyes, leaning further in towards Giorno.
Giorno does nothing to fix the situation either. He sits in the middle of the couch with Mista on the left side of him and Fugo on the right and watches Deadliest Catch like his life depends on it until no one knows how many hours have gone by.