Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was towards the close of day when the package carrier drove up the winding path to Villa Giovanna. The Boss of Passione had been working in the garden, as was his wont most evenings after a taxing day of facilitating crime. He heard the engine and peered up from beneath the wide brim of his straw hat to see the truck. Giorno grew giddy, for he knew what had just arrived.

“Mr. Vecchio! Good to see you.”

“Don Giovanna! Likewise.”

They shook hands and engaged in a bit of chiacchierare¹.

Victor Vecchio was a pleasant-featured man, warm brown eyes and sandy hair, tanned from his labors beneath the long-lingering sun.

They had shared some classes together years ago. Back then, Victor had been in one of Giorno’s recurring study groups, which fell apart once Giorno stopped attending them².

Speculation abounded until semester break, and after that most people forgot about Giorno Giovanna—then all of a sudden he had money to spend in and around Napoli.

And now Victor delivered to his old classmate’s multi-million-euro Villa in one of the expensive neighborhoods.

Giorno pulled the dusty gloves off his hands and tucked them into the front pocket of his overalls. He waited with great anticipation as Victor stacked the hand trolley and rolled the packages to him. Each box was reinforced, and each had air holes.

“Where do you want these?”

“Side door will do. Follow me.”

Don Giovanna led the deliveryman around the side of the Villa, through some latticed arches which smelled of hops, past an herb garden rife with rosemary. Giorno unclipped from his belt a set of keys and unlocked the side door.

The side door entered into a mudroom and beyond that, a rather tasteful kitchen with appliances worth several thousand Euros a piece.

“Would you like to come in? There’s a table just inside we can put these on.”

As a general rule, a delivery person was not supposed to go into others’ homes. Given that this was Giorno Giovanna however, he made an exception.

“No problem at all.”

In total, there were eight separate boxes, though Don Giovanna insisted that they be staggered to avoid groups of four. The Boss signed the delivery notice and returned the retractable pen to Mr. Vecchio with a satisfying click.

“That should be everything,” concluded the deliveryman with smile. “Enjoy your, uh—delivery—and your evening.”

“Victor. Wait a minute, please.”

Giorno Giovanna wandered off, but when he returned, he pulled a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator. He offered both the water and an envelope³.

“Oh, I couldn’t—“

“I insist.”

Victor wouldn’t fight him too hard on this. It was clear Mr. Giovanna was doing very well for himself, whatever the circumstances were. So he accepted both items graciously and left the Don to his mysterious packages.

Giorno was halfway through unboxing his delivery when Jean Pierre Polnareff informed him of an important phone call, one involving signing off on a trade scheme abroad, so he ran off to attend to it.

Pannacotta Fugo had elected to take a break not long after that.

As the Director of Operations for Passione, he oversaw various teams, including but not limited to the Organization’s accountants and legal experts. Fugo worked from an office in Giorno’s massive Villa, which was mutually beneficial from a co-working standpoint.

(Also from a defensive standpoint. The enemies of Passione would rather not risk attacking the Don because of the Purple Haze Guy.)

He saw about brewing espresso for himself, but curiosity seized him at the package stacks on the table. So Fugo lifted the lid of the box without reading the shipping label.

There were plastic containers within the box. He did not notice the air holes until he picked one up, then immediately dropped it.

Oh god. Oh god, oh my god….

“What in the world!?” Fugo’s voice cracked, and he raked his fingers down the sides of his face, then held his own shoulders not entirely unlike Purple Haze himself, body wracked with a shiver.

Mista, slinging a waterbottle around his finger, comes to investigate the source of distress. “Uh, everything okay there, Fugo?”

“No! No, everything is not okay!” Fugo inhaled sharply. “Giorno bought an entire box of—“

Mista drew nearer to the box. The waterbottle-slinging died as he saw the creepy crawling little blighters, one per container out of—wait, how many goddamn containers was that?

“Jesus.” Mista stared at the three stacks of boxes, and while he was too lazy to do the arithmetic, that was a whole damn mess of spiders.

“That’s all you have to say?” Fugo grit his teeth. “This is excessive, even for Giorno.”

“Maybe they’re smuggled?” Mista kept a respectable distance between himself and the giant boxes filled with arachnids. He knew how much ammunition was in his belt pouch and under his hat, and Mista was pretty sure Sex Pistols could not get them all in the event of a freak act of nature which resulted in all the containers opening simultaneously.

“You think?” Fugo exhaled forcefully, trying to will himself into relaxation. “The Boss won’t turn down a money-making scheme, but… wait, no, he’d be against creature smuggling.”

“Yer right. But if they were already here, eh? Seized ‘em from a rival gang, or somethin’.”

Fugo shook his head, strawberry earrings whipping with the force of it. “For goodness’ sake, Mista, they were shipped by post.”

The two men speculated for a few moments more when “Farmer” Giorno stepped back in. He doffed his straw hat on a hook near the mudroom entrance and dusted his hands off.

“Giorno, what the hell is this?” Fugo did not mince words, gesturing in the Italian way towards the gratuitous arachnid stack.

“Tarantulas.” Giorno’s perfunctory answer made Fugo’s eye twitch.

Fugo had his arms folded tightly. “Yeah, obviously. But like—explain?”

The Boss of Passione picked up the smaller container that was dropped on the counter and peered at the tiny creature within. He beamed, seeing the angry little feet raised in warning, knowing that she had arrived alive and well.

“It’s for a hobby group I joined back in March. Found them after joining our regional entomology chapter…they have been a welcoming bunch.” Giorno placed the container back in the stack, then took a box cutter to the others. He wanted to ensure air flow even though the creatures did not require much.

“You belong to an Entomology chapter?” Mista snorted. “Nerd.”

Fugo ran a fingernail over his bottom lip. “Hey now, I belong to that society, too.”

“You’re both nerds, then.” Mista’s grin was extra toothy, growing with every extra eye roll from Fugo. “Don’t love ya guys any less for it. But you really are. The both of ya.”

Giorno raised his eyebrows in interest. “That’s right, you looked into keeping bees. Forgot about that. Did you ever…?”

“Decided against it, ultimately. My next door neighbor’s deathly allergic to them, and besides, it’s a major time investment.”

“Huh.” Giorno clicks the box cutter blade back into safety mode and stows it in the lower drawer. “Didn’t realize that. But you’re still a member?”

“I enjoy their specialty products.” The more fastidious blonde man shrugged; he enjoyed their lip balms and received a discount as a member. Fugo wasn’t about to be ashamed of that.

“Oh.”

“So you’re in a bug club.” Mista’s summary was simultaneous accurate and inaccurate, but nobody moved to correct him. “And you bought a bunch of tarantulas...why? ‘Cause Boss, I’m gonna tell you now, you already hoard house plants. You do not have room for a thousand tarantulas.

“Not even with your big ass house,” Mista finished, gesturing animatedly at the rest of the interior. The Villa was a classy place, albeit filled with too many knickknacks (in Mista’s opinion).

“They’re gifts mainly. They go to the members of my hobby group, and to the local high school and university.” Wisely, Giorno elected not to unbox the creatures in front of his two colleagues.

“Ahh, you’re donatin’. That’s surprisingly wholesome, Boss.”

That fact filled Mista with warmth. Giorno might be a ruthless bastard, he might regularly defraud the Italian government to the tune of millions of Euros and he might commit many other crimes, but Giorno did give back to the community. He was one of the best men Mista knew.

Fugo felt similarly, though a thought nagged at the back of his brain. “Why couldn’t you just make these? You know, with your Stand?”

“I suppose I could have.”

“Bro, what?” Mista blinked a couple times, clearly put off by the fact that Giorno could create spiders out of nonliving material. The thought had never occurred to him even though Giorno could clearly make fish and frogs and the like.

Mista’s reaction brought a tiny smile to Giorno’s face. “I could have, but honestly? I can’t spend the time messing around with my Stand all day, and even if I did—some will be used for breeding. I don’t know how I feel about mass-releasing my Stand creations without knowing what that could do to the tarantula genome.”

Pannacotta Fugo appeared rather thoughtful about this, once Giorno said his reason. Mista squinted suspiciously at Giorno, though. “Yeah, but you did that with some butterflies before.”

The Boss cleared his throat politely, wanting to save face. “Yes, well, the swallowtail population was ailing.”

“You’ve met Ophelia, right?”

Somehow, the conversation led the two men to the Boss’ personal bedroom—overcrowded with plants at the windows in a way Fugo would find suffocating, but Giorno found cozy—and to a vivarium on the shelf. Giorno pressed a finger on the transparent wall of the habitat and peered cautiously down into it.

“Hello, beautiful girl.”

The species in question was Brachypelma boehmei, the Mexican Fireleg Tarantula. Ophelia was a rather sizable critter, could encompass the man’s palm, most likely.

“I made her with Gold Experience some years ago, and now she lives with me.”

“Wow. She looks like the real deal, though.” Fugo put his face closer to the glass, felt reasonably protected now that there was just one slow-moving spider chilling out on a rock.

“...Damn.” Mista put his face right up next to Giorno’s. “That’s a big ass spider.”

Mista tried to think about what he would do in the case of any freak spider escapes. Giorno would probably be mad if he shot this particular tarantula. Maybe the Sex Pistols could lasso it like a very tiny eight-legged bull?

“You remember what you made her out of, Gio?” Mista asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

“Hmm. Usually it’s whatever I have on hand at the time, so…” The Boss stood, recalling the memory of the day in which he created Ophelia. He had been sixteen, or maybe seventeen then. “Might have been popcorn.”

“Popcorn?” Mista snorted, then full-out laughed. “Man, I dunno what I expected. But sure, okay.”

“Would you still be able to revert her back to...ah, popcorn?” Fugo’s question indicated he was thinking about the implications of Giorno’s Stand powers.

“Not sure. Not inclined to try, either. We’re pals now.” Giorno walked over to his desk planner, to check when Ophelia was last fed crickets. She was probably good for another week.

“Right…” Fugo straightened himself.

He hadn’t known then that this would be the start of a whole new ongoing topic of conversation.

Life in Passione passed as usual.

Thursday nights were reserved for trashy television, a guilty pleasure of Giorno’s. Sometimes a man got himself shot, or arrested, or some other inconvenient thing and the Boss had to tend to it. Otherwise he clung to the ritual religiously.

Mista was kicking around after work again. He had an active social life, but no hot dates this week—that was the excuse he used even though he was clearly invested in Fernando and Maria Luisa’s budding romance on Amor en la Frontera.

The gunman had popped down to the corner market for all his personal snacking needs, which were extensive. Giorno had made popcorn while he was out and was now flipping through the recorded programs. Mista had kicked off his boots and settled onto the couch when Fugo stopped by and stood in the door frame, seeming incredulous.

“You’re still here, Mista? It’s 7pm.”

“Yeah, I’m hanging out with the Boss man tonight.” Mista leans his head back to study the Director of Operations and squints critically at him. “Don’t tell me you were still here working?”

The blonde shifted his briefcase over to the opposite hand. “Yeah, well. I got sidetracked.”

“You really lose yourself in those spreadsheets, huh?” Mista remarked. He was fully sprawled out as though he owned that section of the couch now. “I can’t relate to that at all, but man, I respect it.”

There was a loud rumble of thunder right outside, which had Fugo pausing. “Oh goddamnit, is it storming?”

“Yeah, it was rainin’ a fair clip as I was getting back. My hat soaked through.”

Giorno sipped from his cup of tea politely as he waited to start the program in question. “You could always join us, Fugo?”

Fugo groaned. He needed to go home at some point, not stay at Giorno’s all night. Yet he dallied and checked out the nearest window, seeing that there was a full-on downpour out there. He sighed as he retraced his steps back to the media room, where he decided to take a seat on the empty armchair. “Fine, I’ll stay for a few minutes. At least until the storm blows over.”

Giorno nodded in approval. “I’ll start the program, then.”

The storyline unfolded in the usual dramatic fashion. Fugo was entranced, too; it was a trainwreck and he was fascinated by it. Not because it was good, but because of the unique and ill-decided takes on old tropes.

The protagonists were having passionate relations on screen when the power cut off, followed by an immediate peal of thunder. Giorno counted for a few seconds, then frowned.

“Don’t you have a generator?” Mista asked, picking through a handful of chocolate candies in his palm.

“I should,” Giorno said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “I’ll be right back.”

The Boss left the room to investigate, and Fugo sighed in the dark. He crunched on buttery popcorn, not looking forward to going out in the rain later.

Mista sipped his soda, and his eyes wandered in Fugo’s direction. The man was thinking, and that meant trouble. “Damn. I can’t help think about how Giorno’s Stand could just turn all of that into spiders.”

Fugo processed the statement, stopped chewing on the popcorn in his mouth, and looked down at the bowl with growing trepidation.

“Mista!” he chided the man. “I’m eating!”

“Sorry, Fugo. My bad.”

Fugo covered his mouth as he finished chewing, then set the bowl aside. “Now I can’t get the thought out of my head.”

“Me neither,” Mista said, without a trace of residual shame. He tipped his soda back and gave a hearty chug. “That’s an OP ability. Imagine eating something, and the next moment it’s bugs.”

“Goddammit, Mista! Seriously?!”

When the Boss finally returned to find his friends in the dark media room, he found half the popcorn scattered around the couch and Fugo yelling into a pillow. Mista had stolen Giorno’s chair in an effort to put distance inbetween them.

“Hey, Boss!” Mista greeted him with cheer.

“Hey,” Giorno greeted back, observing the mood in the room. “Everything okay over here?”

“I’m fine,” Fugo said, removing the pillow from his face. He inhaled sharply, and then exhaled in the same fashion. “What’s the news?”

“Funny story. Apparently our generator was lent out to Capo Pericolo recently, and Polnareff neglected to ask for it back. So we are stuck in the dark until our local power grid is restored.”

“Damn. That could be five minutes from now, or like tomorrow.” The gunslinger scratched his chin thoughtfully, and he began to pick up the popcorn littering the floor. “Ah well, Amor en la Frontera will have to wait.”

The Boss’ face was filled with grim acceptance of not being able to watch his soap opera, but that was the way the life of a mafioso went. “Maybe it will be up in an hour. Rarely ever takes a day anymore. I’ll go get some candles, and…”

The blonde man gestured to the carpet. “Both of you get this cleaned up, hm?”

As Fugo begrudgingly picked the kernels off the carpet, he looked up and noticed Mista eat one, and was all the more squicked out. “Mista, what are you doing? Just make some more.”

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” Mista said with a muted crunch, his cheek bulging like a chipmunk’s.

The three men decided to wait for a time. Pannacotta Fugo hoped in vain that the rain would diminish before having to leave, but it showed no signs of letting up.

In the midst of that chat, they somehow got on the subject of games they could play. Giorno had not invested in many board games, though now that they were without power and bored, the notion seemed like a good idea.

“Not a problem, Boss. Me an’ the boys are experts at killing time. If we don’t have a game, we made one up on the spot.”

“What boys are you referring to?” Fugo asked, half-curious.

“Y’know, some of the guys. Couple of ‘em are captains under Pericolo…” Mista trailed off vaguely, which either meant he didn’t want to name said friends (for fear that Fugo might make fun of him), or he was making them up entirely.

“But look, that’s not important. What is, is that you an’ me and Giorno, we can come up with something, no sweat.”

Sometime later, Giorno had two plastic containers, each with a Mexican Fireleg tarantula. One was slightly smaller than the other, along with slightly different banding. Both men were eyeing the arachnids by candlelight, each man with an abundance of suspicion.

“Not much of a game. It’s a 50-50 chance,” the Boss said, crossing his legs.

“Giorno’s right,” Fugo snorted. “We could point out which one we think he recently created, but what does that prove?”

“You’re perfectly right, Fugo. We need to up the ante.” Mista glared at the closest arachnid, who appeared to stare back impassively with her eight beady little eyes. He shivered. “Shit… My skin’s crawling just lookin’. Eight legs, eight eyes… That’s sixteen…”

“It’s just a number, Mista,” Giorno coached him. “Breathe through it.”

Mista inhaled slowly, and then exhaled. “Right, I’ve decided. This round, I’ll have a go, and Fugo will have a go. We pick the one we think is a bluff, and because we are true mafiosi… You, Giorno, dump the spider out on us to prove it.”

A beat of silence passed among the three men. Fugo stared at Mista as if he were out of his mind, and Giorno simply raised his eyebrows.

“You want me to put the tarantula on you?” he asked, just to clarify.

Mista waved his hands. “Yeah, but if we guess that they are popcorn, and they are popcorn, then you just turn them back into popcorn when you do it. So there’s no spider!”

Fugo rubbed his forehead. “Jesus Christ, how could this possibly go wrong…?”

“No, I think we should follow this game out to its logical conclusion,” Giorno said in approval. “Mista, it’s the first round, and this is your go. Pick the fake tarantula, and you win the round.”

Guido Mista, energized at the thought of proving himself a keen observer, inspected the critters in their Tupperware. The bigger one was definitely impressive, and in his mind, the exact sort of creature Giorno would make to show off. He remembered Ophelia being roughly the size of a man’s palm, which this one was.

“This one.” Mista poked the container on the right. “Popcorn city, baby.”

Giorno kept a poker face. “All right, let’s see whether you are correct on that. Hold out your hand.”

Guido Mista steeled himself for the ultimate test of a mafioso’s will and held his palm up. Giorno peeled back at the lid carefully, and then he nudged the tarantula out.

The creature seemed perturbed at first, and grumpily regained her bearings on Mista’s palm. She tickled him as she moved her legs.

“Giorno, you are supposed to turn them back...”

“Yes, I know,” Giorno broke the news to him gently. “You picked Ophelia, though.”

While this happened, Fugo covered his mouth to keep from laughing at Mista’s obvious mistake. He tried not to be rude, but his friend was eating his words at the moment.

“Oh, s-so I was wrong about this one. Uhh…”

“Correct. She’s cute though, don’t you think?”

Mista grit his teeth. “She’s uh...yeah, real cute, Giorno. With her giant spider fangs and her long history of bug murder given how large she is. C-could you please...”

Ophelia had slowly begun crawling along his forearm, aiming for the shoulder. Mista immediately pulled his head down towards his body, turtle-like.

“Don’t worry, she’s very docile.”

Giorno placed his palm on Mista’s shoulder to coax the creature up onto it. The tarantula climbed onto him willingly, then changed course and began exploring Giorno’s arm faster than he anticipated. She climbed upon the nape of his neck, scooting along the edge of his collar. When the Boss lifted his opposite arm to help in the capture, she escaped to his back, clinging along the fabric. Somehow, she ended up perched on his chest window.

“I think I will put this young lady into her enclosure. One moment.”

“Here, Giorno. I got you.”

Fugo came to the Boss’ aid with Tupperware, but the arachnid raised her forelegs defensively. Mista, looking faintly traumatized, only watched as they contained the tiny creature, whose fury seemed very great for her size.

When the time came for Fugo’s round, the man smirked and looked at both containers. He had an educated guess, but he pointed at both of them. “Both are spiders.”

“Hey!” Mista retorted. “That’s not how the game is played.”

“No, I know exactly how the game is played, Mista. If we say ‘Popcorn’, we have a 50-50 chance of it being a spider. So I am guessing they are both real. That way, we remain tied at zero…” Fugo looked entirely too smug at using a technicality to get out of it.

“You know I only have the one tarantula,” Giorno said thoughtfully. “Are you really going to chicken out of this, Fugo?”

“Yeah, come on, Fugo. Where’s your sense of adventure? Your sense of competition?” Mista nudged their friend, trying to egg him on. Perhaps they could have Fugo trying one round of Spider-or-Popcorn. “You really going to let me be the bigger badass?”

“I know what you’re doing.” Fugo glared at Mista, and also at Giorno, though more softly with him. “Fine. I’ll try just this once, and I warn you. I cannot be held responsible for murdering Mista.”

Of course, Pannacotta Fugo had had recent handling experience with Ophelia. So for him, he puzzled back and forth for a moment, trying to decide which of the tarantulas was Ophelia and which Giorno had recently crafted from nonliving matter.

“This one.” Fugo tapped the edge of the container holding a Mexican fireleg. “This one is popcorn. The banding is a little different than I remember.”

With great ceremony, Giorno unsealed the container and gently nudged the tarantula out towards Fugo’s palm, only for it to turn into popcorn upon contact. Fugo broke out in the largest grin ever, happy at winning his round—while Mista pouted. “Okay, I am beginning to see the charm of this stupid game.”