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Due to the nature of his work, Fugo didn’t have the luxury of being truly unavailable. His competence and proximity to the Don had made him the person to call when something particularly unpleasant needed to be dealt with. Last month’s gambling room shooting, for instance, or the arrest of a soldato on (possibly) false robbery charges. So when Fugo’s cell phone rang in the middle of the night, he jolted awake, expecting another fire that needed putting out.
“Hello.”
“Do you like spaghetti aglio e olio?”
Giorno’s tone was serious, although his question wasn’t. Or was it? Given the seemingly infinite range of highly specific and highly ridiculous Stand abilities, it was hard to be sure.
“Yes,” Fugo answered, just in case.
“Good. I’m making some now, and I was hoping you could come over and eat it.”
So it wasn’t Stand-related. And it wasn’t an emergency. Fugo blinked into the bedroom darkness, his heart still pumping bright and pointless adrenaline through his veins.
“Giorno, it’s…” He glanced at the faint glow of his alarm clock. “It’s 2:30 in the morning.”
“Really?” The line went quiet for a moment. Giorno must have been checking the clock. “I could have sworn it was just midnight.”
Time had slipped away from him. Again. It had become a recurring problem ever since Giorno stopped sleeping, and while two and a half hours wasn’t that bad, it was certainly deserving of attention. Fugo, however, was distracted by the admittedly less concerning issue—had Giorno actually thought it was reasonable to invite him over for spaghetti at midnight?
“Well, regardless of the time, can I trouble you to come over?” Giorno asked.
Irritation whipped through Fugo. He’d slept for less than two hours, and he didn’t have the energy or the patience to entertain his boss’s bizarre whims. So Giorno was making pasta. Great. That wasn’t his problem.
Then he imagined the empty house and the steaming pot of spaghetti. He imagined Giorno, standing in his kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, peeling garlic and cutting it into thin slices. All of it was a huge waste, of course, but for whatever reason, Giorno was choosing to waste it on him.
And, ultimately, it was a request from his Don.
“I can be there in ten minutes.”
Fugo didn’t consider the issue of safety until after he hung up. He had, of course, been alone in a room with Giorno before. Even after it had happened, he’d been alone with him several times. But not at night.
Fugo tried to dismiss the thought as irrational. There was no meaningful difference between meeting Giorno during the day and meeting him at night. Giorno could kill him at any time he wanted, if he wished it. That had been true for almost the entirety of the two years he’d known him, not just the past few months. But he hadn’t wished it, and it hadn’t happened. Giorno’s restraint hadn’t faltered once.
Still, he couldn’t shake the spookiness of it. A deep, pre-rational part of Fugo’s brain understood that he was walking into the lion’s den. A lion was a lion, no matter how well-fed and placid it was.
He had the key to Giorno’s house, but he rang the doorbell anyway. Letting himself into his boss’s home was too casual for his taste—he preferred to be invited in. (The irony of that was not lost on him.)
“I don’t know how you did it, but that was exactly ten minutes.”
Giorno greeted him with a rare smile, apparently eager to prove that he could keep track of time, if he put his mind to it. The smile, however, only drew attention to Giorno’s fangs.
“I didn’t want to keep you waiting,” Fugo said, trying not to stare. “Sunrise is in three hours.”
As soon as he stepped into the foyer, the scent of garlic smacked him in the face. That was worrisome. Giorno’s house was large enough to be fairly called a mansion. The kitchen wasn’t near the foyer, and he shouldn’t have been able to smell anything cooking from there.
“Do you mind eating in the kitchen?” Giorno asked. “I’m still putting the finishing touches on a couple of things.”
“Sure,” Fugo said, deciding that asking about the smell wasn’t worth the effort. He’d find out shortly.
The garlic smell only became more pungent as they ventured deeper into the house. By the time they reached the kitchen, the smell was corporeal. Fugo could have opened his mouth and taken a bite out of it. But despite his supposedly “heightened senses,” Giorno appeared entirely unaffected. He went to the stove and scooped pasta from a pan onto a large porcelain plate. The noodles glistened with fat. Giorno flecked them with chili flakes, then began to grate a generous helping of parmesan over them.
“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asked.
“Just water, thanks.”
He sat at the small table in the corner of the kitchen, which had already been set with cutlery. Giorno placed the pasta and a glass of water before him. Then he removed a tray of garlic toast from the oven and a mixing bowl of garlic-garnished salad from the refrigerator. Fugo’s stomach ached preemptively. He hadn’t mentioned that on the phone.
“Giorno.”
“Yes?”
“That’s a lot of food.”
Giorno looked at the plate he was spooning salad onto, then back at Fugo.
“I peeled a lot of garlic,” he said.
“How much? How many cloves?”
“Honestly, I lost count.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be good at that now?”
“At counting?” Giorno smiled emptily. This time, he did not show his teeth. “Just a superstition, I’m afraid. As you can see, garlic doesn’t repel me, either, and neither do crucifixes. If they did, I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere in this country.”
He set the salad and a few slices of garlic toast in front of Fugo. Then he leaned against the counter, crossed his arms, and waited.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Don’t mind me.”
Well, that was definitely impossible.
Fugo picked up his fork and wound a bite of spaghetti around it. He raised it halfway to his mouth, then set it back down.
“Are you…are you really just going to watch me eat?”
Giorno frowned. “Can’t I?”
The question only made Fugo more awkward. If he said no, he was certain that Giorno would respect his choice. He would slink off into another room, despite the time he’d spent preparing the food and the delight that lit up his face when Fugo had arrived at his doorstep. He was weird like that.
“You could join me,” Fugo offered, gesturing at the empty chair across from him.
“I can’t taste food,” Giorno reminded him gently.
“You don’t have to eat. But maybe you could…drink? Instead?”
Giorno’s gaze sharpened with interest, and, if Fugo could flatter himself, respect.
“Would you be comfortable with that?” he asked.
“Yes,” Fugo said. Then, feeling the need to clarify, he added, “I’m not offering myself.”
Giorno’s face turned pale, then scarlet.
“I wouldn’t have assumed you were. I’m not going to drink your blood, Fugo.”
Oh. In that case, he’d just committed a pretty serious faux pas, hadn’t he? A sincere apology was necessary, but the best Fugo’s genius brain could do on two hours of sleep and a suffocating amount of garlic fumes was:
“Why not?”
The question was so perplexing that Giorno forgot his embarrassment.
“Are…Are you asking me why I won’t drink your blood?”
“Well, don’t you want to?”
Giorno stared at him until sweat started to bead on Fugo’s back. Then he sighed. He took a glass from the cupboard, filled it with tap water, and sat down at the table.
“Morally, vampirism is supposed to be a bad deal,” he said. “It offers a living death in the guise of immortality. It bestows power at the same time it inflicts an insatiable and murderous appetite, which makes satisfaction impossible. It is a violent, isolating condition, and the fact that it can be passed down from parent to child is laughably ironic. However.”
Giorno dipped his index finger into the glass of water. There was a moment of brightness, and then the water became red and viscous. He sucked the blood from his finger, and Fugo realized that he’d been holding his breath.
“Through some accident or miracle, I’ve inherited a power that allows me to live as a vampire without harming anyone,” Giorno continued. “In a way, I’m living more virtuously now than when I was a human and ate meat. Nothing has to die to sustain my life now. There are other drawbacks, of course, but ultimately, I have the ability to make this power work for me, and that’s exactly what I intend to do. I won’t squander it, but I won’t abuse it, either. I will do both what I must and what I can. And I will never devour a comrade. Never.”
He spoke with his usual starry resolve, and as much as Fugo wanted to believe him, something about his explanation left a sour taste in his mouth. It wasn’t doubt, at least, not in his intent or his ability, so perhaps it was in his optimism. Giorno had referred to vampirism as “a bad deal,” but he’d had no choice in the matter. He’d inherited it. Even if he “made that power work for him,” there were some things he’d already lost forever. Undoubtedly, he’d lose even more things along the way.
Keeping his eye on Giorno, Fugo took a bite of pasta. Immediately, Giorno’s intensity dissolved into anxious curiosity.
“How is it?” he asked before Fugo had even finished chewing.
“That’s a lot of garlic.” But the flavor wasn’t as overpowering as the smell. Cooked thoroughly, the garlic had acquired a mellow creaminess, and the chili flakes added a much welcome brightness against that rich backdrop. “You should cut the garlic back by at least half. But if you did, I’d eat it again.”
Giorno beamed. Fugo couldn’t remember him looking so happy before.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said. “I couldn’t taste it, and I wasn’t following a recipe, so I had no idea how it would turn out.”
Yeah, he could have guessed that Giorno hadn’t followed a recipe.
“Why did you use so much garlic?” Fugo asked. Giorno shrugged, then drank deeply from his glass.
“I suppose I missed it,” he said, licking the blood from his lips. “It would taste like ash to me now, but freshly peeled garlic still smells exactly how it used to, and scent is close enough to taste. I liked it. Before I knew it, I’d peeled all the garlic I had.”
Well, Fugo thought as he bit into a piece of garlic toast, that explained where his lost hours had gone.
“It’s a strange thing,” Giorno mused. “I haven’t craved something my body would certainly reject like this before. When I started changing, I expected the thirst. And it was bad in the beginning, remember? I was a mess, but it was easy enough for me to meet that desire. I gorged myself on blood like a tick, and once I did, the thirst all but left me. I still need blood, but since I can conjure it any time, there’s nothing for me to want. But garlic is something I’ll never enjoy again. I don’t need it, I can’t eat it, and I want it more than ever.”
He swirled the blood in his glass as if it were wine, then set it down on the table.
“If my desire for blood can shrivel up in just a few months, then I wonder what will happen to the rest of my desires in time? Now that I’m immortal, I could, in theory, achieve all of my goals. I could exhaust every possibility. When I do, what will I want then? The impossible? I’m told that’s what my…predecessor pursued. He was an evil man, and what he was trying to achieve is too embarrassing to comment on. But I wonder if he was just trying to give himself something to do after his life lost all of its value and meaning. I don’t want to be like him, but perhaps it’s only a matter of time. Perhaps immortality can only lead to one place.”
By now, Fugo had polished off his salad. He wiped his mouth and took a sip of water.
“I thought you’re not immortal, technically. Sunlight can kill you.”
Giorno raised his eyebrows, amused.
“Technically, yes. But that won’t happen.”
“You sound pretty confident.”
“I am confident. It’s unlikely that I’d find myself suddenly exposed to sunlight with nowhere else to shelter. But if I did, I’d simply grow myself a fleshsuit.”
Fugo grimaced, but he was intrigued.
“A fleshsuit,” he repeated. “You mean…”
“It’s exactly what it sounds like. I would grow a protective layer of flesh around myself and wait until sundown.”
“…And you’re sure that would work?”
“It works. I’ve tested it.”
Jesus. Of course he had tested it. Fugo could picture it now—Giorno, drawing back a curtain and sticking his arm into a sunbeam. They couldn’t leave their Don alone for more than a few hours before he started performing potentially lethal experiments on himself.
“You’ve certainly thought this through,” Fugo muttered.
“I don’t sleep anymore. I have a lot of time to think.”
And a lot of time to peel garlic.
“People often wish to be immortal,” Giorno said. “But now that I am, I don’t quite know how to feel about it. It’s a big thing to wrap your head around. I won’t die, and I’m too powerful to be killed. But I wonder if I’ll get tired of it. I wonder if, someday, I’ll want to feel the sun on my skin so bad I can’t stand it.”
His gaze was distant, as if he were peering through the mists of time to see the future he’d described. Fugo suddenly felt like his stomach was full of ice.
“Don’t say that.”
Giorno blinked, his attention snapping back to the here and now. He looked truly surprised, which only made things worse. They weren’t exactly “friends,” but did he really think he wouldn’t care if he talked that way?
Apparently, he did. That stung more than Fugo expected.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Giorno said. “It’s just a hypothetical, if a bit of an extreme one. I don’t feel like that now, of course.”
“And you won’t feel like that.”
“I certainly don’t plan to. But with enough time, who can say?”
“I can. I’m saying it now. You won’t. You’d better not, Giorno, or so help me God.”
He could feel himself growing angrier, but it wasn’t like his usual outbursts. This rage was clean and sure as spring water. It wouldn’t hurt, he thought, to let it flow through him.
“I know you’re strong,” Fugo continued. “But ‘exhausting every possibility’? Don’t be so arrogant. Your current dream is impossible enough, and if you ever achieve it, I’m sure you’ll set your heart on another ridiculous goal. That’s just how greedy you are. The sun will burn out before you accomplish everything you want.”
“That’s rather pessimistic.”
“Not as pessimistic as you talking about walking into the sunlight,” Fugo huffed. “Also, nothing you said about desire is unique to vampires. Wanting what you can’t have is just how desire works. Really, you’re no better a human.”
Despite Fugo’s bluster, Giorno’s face softened. He pressed his lips together, suppressing a smile, and shook his head.
“I wouldn’t have guessed that you of all people would try to comfort me,” he said.
“I’m not doing that.”
“It’s precious to me nonetheless.”
This guy’s actually pretty hopeless, Fugo thought, not for the first time since he’d known Giorno. Then, Will he be alright on his own?
It was like all the light in the kitchen had grown sharp. Fugo was excruciatingly aware the Giorno would outlive him. Not only that, but while he would have the privilege of growing older, Giorno would not. Decades would pass, but he’d remain just as he was—youthful and stagnant. He would bury everyone he knew and everyone he would ever know.
And yet, he could call something like this “precious,” as stupid as it was. When he was long gone, would Giorno remember this? The warmth of the stove and the gleam of the cutlery? The sound of his voice? The scent of garlic?
He hoped he would.
“Fugo? Are you alright?”
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I think I ate too much.”
There was still half a pan of spaghetti left. And at least three servings of cold salad. And half a loaf of garlic bread.
“You can take the rest home with you.”
The thought of eating this much garlic for another meal was truly daunting. But Giorno seemed pleased to pack up the leftovers for him, and Fugo knew that he wouldn’t refuse. If it meant he’d have to be creative about reorganizing his fridge when he got home, then so be it. Anyway, he didn’t like to let food go to waste.
“Are you sure I can’t help with the dishes?” Fugo asked as Giorno walked him to the door.
“I couldn’t let my guest clean up.”
“Don’t I work for you?”
“I didn’t invite you because you work for me.”
Outside, it was still dark. The air was cool and, compared to Giorno’s kitchen, almost deliriously sweet. Fugo breathed deeply. His skin felt like it was secreting garlic oil, and he wanted nothing more than to shower, brush his teeth, and fall into a dead sleep.
“Thank you for coming,” Giorno said. “I know I ask too much of you.”
“Yeah. It’s tough to be cooked for and fed. You’re really putting me through the wringer.”
Giorno’s eyes narrowed in amusement, and Fugo felt himself grin. This wasn’t so bad, whatever it was. Lingering on the porch and making jokes that wouldn’t be funny to anyone else, it was easy to forget that they were both monsters. It was almost like being normal people.
“You didn’t really answer my question,” Fugo said.
“What question?”
“I asked you if you wanted to drink my blood. You gave some nice answers about why it would be wrong for you to do that, but that wasn’t what I wanted to know. Do you want to drink my blood?”
A breeze carried the scent of the garden to them—mulch and roses. Giorno said nothing. He stared at him, the angles of his face softened by the porchlight. Then his eyes fluttered shut and he leaned forward, his lips drawing close to Fugo’s neck. Blood rushed to Fugo’s head.
“Wha—”
“Your breath smells nice.”
Giorno’s voice was quiet and fond. He was serious, and Fugo suddenly realized that he wasn’t afraid of him. He hadn’t just walked into the lion’s den—he’d stuck his head between the lion’s jaws. He couldn’t help but burst into laughter.
“You’re smelling my breath? That’s really gross!”
“Not at all. You smell alive.”
“You’re so weird!”
“So I’ve been told.”
Giorno inhaled once more, then took a step back.
“Like I said, I don’t have a strong desire for blood. I’ve had it, and it’s not interesting to me. But I think you’re interesting. Does that answer your question?”
“Not really.”
“Well, maybe I’ll come up with a better answer for you next time.”
Next time. Those words had a nice ring to them.
“Next time you feel like cooking for me, you should try to follow a recipe,” Fugo said.
“I’ll think about it.”
“You always say that, and it always means ‘no.’”
“You know me pretty well, don’t you?”
“Yeah. I guess I do.”
It was surprising, but also not. They’d worked together for two years. Giorno was endlessly strange, and he was only getting stranger, but he did know him.
He wanted to know him a lot better.
“Not long now until sunrise,” Giorno said. “You should get some sleep.”
Slowly, almost regretfully, he placed his hand upon the door.
“Good morning, Fugo.”
“Good morning.”
Fugo stood on the porch until Giorno closed the door behind him. Then he walked across the driveway to his car, the bag of leftovers pleasantly heavy in his hand. The stars were out. Dawn was on its way.