Work Text:
November 20, 2008, 9:05am
They’ve lived in the gated mansion in Posillipo for about half a decade at this point. Giorno wanted to give them safety and privacy. It was up a long and winding driveway a passerby would miss if they were unaware of its existence. Now that enemies were dying, much of the city work was done with schmoozing of politicians in Rome and assigning tasks to low-levels via online encryption. It’s been a long time since they’d been to Naples for anything serious.
Giorno wanted to send Fugo and Mista on this mission because it was their wheelhouse and never truly his. Nearly every skeleton of old Passione was dead, but rumours of a mysterious man in Sicily claiming to have connections to Polpo and the “real” boss were sent down the grapevine to Giorno alongside a tip that there are hidden document boxes in Bucciarati’s old warehouse.
Mista climbs into the driver’s seat of the new sleek, black with red interior Alfa Romeo 159. Fugo begrudgingly takes the passenger’s seat. This is a road they feel like they should have memorized, but have forgotten as years go by to numb the pain. Fugo pulls out a GPS.
Mista starts to drive, right hand on the wheel, left hand on the radio toggle. It turns on to Love Lockdown by Kanye West. It’s not the right mood. Mista loves it, maybe even lives it. The thought of anything with an exciting beat is pissing Fugo off. Mista turns the knob to Love Story by Taylor Swift. Also not the vibe, even if he could scream every word. He turns it again– Somewhere Only We Know by Keane. Fugo smiles softly before turning his head towards the window. The ride to the location in silence.
Before arriving at the warehouse they pass what used to be Libeccio. Once Passione decentralized, they lost customers. It’s a new, hip bar now. Fugo wants to cry. Mista’s heart sinks as memories replay in head– pasta, annoying Abbachio, the first time he saw Giorno. He wishes they weren’t so alive still.
The warehouse is a few blocks behind the restaurant. It’s almost hidden and there’s a gate with a passkey.
“What do you think the code is?” Mista asks, breaking the over twenty minutes of silence.
“It’s probably Abbachio’s birthday,” Fugo replied, snarkily to hide his pain.
Mista rolls down the window and quickly presses the number pad- 0325 .
“Good thinking, Fugo,” Mista says.
They drive right through the gate and park across from the door.
“What about the key to the door?” Mista asks.
“If this was Bucciarati’s don’t you think he zipped it somewhere?” Fugo says.
“Not to be morbid, but what happens to that stuff when the stand user dies?” Mista asks.
“I don’t know,” Fugo says, in monotone.
They walk over to the welcome mat that reads “ Benvenuti ” in script font. Fugo lifts it up and sees something peculiar– the sunken in outline of a zipper in the cement.
“Do you have a knife? I could just shoot the lock off, but that would draw too much attention,” Mista says.
“Of course I do,” Fugo kneels down, fully pushes away the mat, and chips away at the zipper outline.
After around ten minutes of meticulous digging, the key comes out. Fugo stands up, puts it in the lock, and lifts the door.
The first thing Fugo sees is a children’s math workbook and new-with-tags orange bandana. He doesn’t cry—he breaks . His knees hit the floor before he registers the pain. The sob comes strangled, buried in his palms. He can’t control it anymore.
Mista sees metal ammo cans marked .38. It was for his revolver, probably stashed from Bruno. Part of him wants to take them, the other part wants to let them rest at their moment in time.
“It’s okay, Fugo…you know it wasn’t your fault,” Mista says as he walks over, kneeling next to him.
“But it was,” Fugo tries to restrain himself from screaming as Purple Haze pops out of him for a split second.
“I wasn’t there. I could’ve stopped them. I was so selfish,” Fugo is somewhere between sobs and screams as Purple Haze is popping in and out with each word.
If Mista is good at anything it’s being calm. He’s never been the one to deal with Fugo like this– not since they were kids. Even then it was Narancia more than anyone. Mista knows he lacks the capability to say something wise, calming, and self-aggrandizing all at once which fixes the issue. He just sits down next to Fugo.
“This sounds weird, but Bruno and Leone were like my parents in a way, even if they were hardly two years older than me. Survivor’s guilt hits us all, regardless,” Mista says.
“I could’ve stopped them,” Fugo says in the same demeanor, Purple Haze sitting across the room shaking.
Mista stares into Haze’s eyes. He pities the thing. He pities Fugo. He will never understand his pain and guilt even when much of it is the same as his. Fugo carries so much shame. Mista feels a tear form in his left eye.
“You don’t know that,” Mista says, turning his head towards Fugo.
“I left them. I left Narancia like he was a mathematical equation. I left the man who was more of a mother to me than my mother ever was to miss out on his death. I disrespected his honor. Look at the monster across from me, Mista. We could’ve done it,” Fugo says, just in tears now.
Mista has no idea what to say. This is not his wheelhouse. He starts wondering if Haze could’ve killed the boss but it’s a tiring rabbit hole for a tired mind.
“Can I…hold you?” Mista asks hoarsely, knowing he’s seen Giorno do the same.
Fugo nods and plops himself into Mista’s arms. Mista naturally wipes away his tears.
“The man you’re holding isn’t me, it’s the shaking mess across the room. I am a monster,” Fugo says, picking up the orange bandana, clutching onto it for dear life.
“The monster across the room is a total badass, though,” Mista says, running fingers through Fugo’s hair.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Fugo asks, seemingly calmer.
“I guess so,” Mista responds.
“I just miss them,” Fugo says.
“We all do,” Mista responds.
“You know, I don’t want to be this way but guilt never dies,” Fugo says, slowly standing him from his position in Mista’s lap and arms on the floor.
“It’s going to be okay,” Mista says, with a little uncertainty.
Purple Haze disappears. Fugo shoves the bandana into his pocket in hopes it will serve as a reminder of happy memories someday.
“I guess we have to find those files,” Fugo says, sighing.
“I think there’s file boxes over in that corner,” Mista says as he points.
Lucky for them, there are only three boxes– each marked with a region: Sicily , Naples, and Rome .
Fugo grabs the Sicily box and starts rummaging through. The only file with any notes about Polpo and a direct line to the boss is a file about a man named Marcus Fettucine. There’s details about his stand- Hot space. He has the ability to turn any room to boiling temperatures, burning victims alive. The third page details dirty work he did for the boss– incinerating anyone who got too close to knowing his identity. Fugo suddenly feels gracious about how spared he was.
“Found it,” Fugo says.
“How do you know that’s the one?” Mista asks.
“He’s one of very few not marked dead or I know for a fact we killed. He also has a page of missions done for the old boss,” Fugo says.
“How easy will he be to kill?” Mista asks.
“Hard and even harder to track. He seems to know how to keep a low profile. There’s been no reports of anything remotely like his stand since 2001– we would’ve heard about it,” Fugo says.
“Are we going to need GioGio?” Mista asks.
“He can boil people alive, I think we are going to need GioGio,” Fugo says.
“We have to go on a real mission, lord help us,” Mista says, lightheartedly.
“Lord help us, indeed,” Fugo responds.
Mista opens the door, locks it, and keeps the key for himself. He adds it to his keyring. He notices its intricacies– the top is a black and white clover and the key is a brassy gold. It’s so Bucciarati it hurts. His heart sinks again, but less heavy this time. He smiles thinking about pasta dinners and learning the trade of being a gangster.
“Can we listen to a CD on the way back?” Fugo asks, opening the middle console.
“Yeah, which one,” Mista asks.
Fugo pulls out All Eyez on Me by Tupac.
“It was one of Nara’s favorites,” Fugo says.
“Throw it in,” Mista says, starting the car.
The drive is peaceful as they head back towards the suburbs– the leaves are golden brown, the air is crisp and gold, and the car still has a hint of that new car smell.
“Hey Mista,” Fugo says.
“Yeah,” he responds.
“We’re almost out of gas,” Fugo says, pointing at the gage.
“There’s a gas station up the road, we’ll stop there,” Mista says.
Shortly after that comment, Mista pulls into the Tamoil. Fugo gets out to put gas in. Mista always has to stop in the damn shop. They are hardly ten minutes from the mansion and he can’t help it. Fugo finds this unnecessary, but lets him have his fun.
Mista comes out of the store carrying two bags of potato chips and orange fuzzy dice.
“Look what I got,” Mista says, chip in his mouth, walking towards the car.
“What's the reason for the chips, we’re so close to home?” Fugo asks.
“The bullets are hungry,” Mista says.
“You didn’t even use them once on this mission,” Fugo scoffs.
Mista’s cheeks go red.
“I got dice too– orange for Nara,” Mista says.
“That’s nice,” Fugo responds.
It’s a nice gesture. Mista hangs them on the mirror, gets in the driver’s seat, and speeds back home.
They enter through the garage to find Giorno awaiting them at the dining room table.
“How did the mission go,” he asks.
“We found the document,” Fugo says, handing the paper over to him.
“We’ll go to Sicily in a few months. I want to track him down and see what we can get from those lower in the organization,” Giorno says.