Work Text:
Giorno drummed his fingers on the keyboard of his computer, feeling a headache coming on. It was a slight press at the back of his eyes, moving down slowly from the center of his forehead. He rubbed both hands over his face. He wished that this headache came from the pressures of being the boss of Passione but it instead had to do with his other life as a student. For a moment, he wondered if he could send Mista to intimidate his teachers into making him not have to write this essay.
The door to his office opened and he jerked his head up, alert. Most people knocked before they came in. Even his closest friends knew he didn’t like to be disturbed without any warning. He still remembered how one time Fugo had tried to be spontaneously romantic and come up behind him to kiss the back of his neck. In his surprise, he had accidentally turned his boyfriend’s strawberry-print tie into a coral snake. He had had to quickly undo the damage before it bit him. Once the situation had been diffused, though, Giorno had been immensely flattered.
“Who’s there?” he asked and then felt foolish for the way his voice caught.
No one stood in the door and so it must have been opened by the wind. In the villa where they stayed, none of the windows had glass and October air was chilling the city. His voice echoed back to him and a shiver worked its way down his spine despite himself. It didn’t help that he was meant to write an essay on Medieval superstitions and the Cult of the Eucharist. In the back of his mind, he heard Mista’s voice yelling about how the villa was haunted. Giorno hadn’t believed it--Mista believed most places were haunted, after all--but now he wasn’t so sure.
“Hello?” he called again. His voice echoed back, mocking him.
He was about to turn back to the blinking cursor on the blank document that was his essay when something jumped on him from behind, screaming nonsensical words. Giorno pitched forward, banging his chin on his desk. He shook the assailant off and jumped up from his chair before it toppled backwards.
Gold Experience appeared behind him, fists already raised. The second he saw who was sprawled behind him, he sighed and his Stand flickered before disappearing. Narancia pulled the rubber mask off and let out a howl of laughter. On one hand, he appreciated how his friends didn’t treat him differently now that he was the boss, but on the other hand, it often led to pranks like this.
“I’m four for four!” he cried, exultant. Tears were starting to stream down his face as he laughed.
“Four for four?” Giorno asked, raising a brow. He tried to keep his voice steady to offset how fast his heart was still beating.
Narancia nodded, still grinning.
“Yeah, I--” He dissolved into a fit of giggles again. He took a deep breath and fanned his face but couldn’t stop the peals of laughter.
Giorno folded his arms and tapped his foot, waiting for him to be done. Narancia wiped his face and gulped for air, his shoulders still shaking his laughter as he spoke.
“I got Mista, Fugo, Abbacchio and now you!”
He looked at the rubber mask clutched in Narancia’s hand and furrowed his brow. It was a mask clearly too large for him that depicted the bloated visage of an older man with a scar on his forehead and bugged eyes rolling up towards his head.
“What’s that?”
Narancia looked at the mask and lifted it up. “Tor Johnson.”
“Who?”
What Narancia lacked in the basic fundamentals of education, he made up for in a knowledge of random facts. He couldn’t do long division or geometric proofs but he could tell you every single one of Mark Viduka’s stats or movie trivia from Forbidden Planet .
“He was a wrestler who became an actor and was in that stinkfest, Plan 9 from Outerspace . They made a mask after him.”
He waved it around and grinned. Giorno felt his shoulders drop and he shook his head. Even though he had snuck up on him, there was no way he--or anyone, really--could stay mad at Narancia.
“Is that your costume?”
“Hell no. I found this in a bargain bin. My costume’s gonna be scary .”
He didn’t point out that Narancia had apparently done a good job scaring all of them with that mask but he wasn’t going to argue with him.
“What are you being?” he asked.
Giorno shrugged. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“It’s in a week!”
There was an outdoor party to celebrate Halloween and they were all going. Giorno was excitedly since, really, this was the first year he would probably have friends with whom he could celebrate. When he was little, his mother never made or bought him a costume and, if he went out, it would be by himself where kids would torment him and spray him with shaving cream. Even after the gangster changed his life, Giorno still had no one to go out with or have fun with.
Narancia leapt to his feet. “We need to fix this.”
He dropped the mask and seized Giorno’s wrist. He decided to give up on his essay for now. Once Narancia made up his mind, there was no fighting him. He couldn’t even pull rank since Narancia’s concept of rank was based entirely on age and since he had turned eighteen almost six months ago, he was lording it over Giorno more and more. He let himself be led through the villa until they came upon a sitting room. It was full with his trusted subordinates who were also his friends. Buccellati and Abbacchio sat together with that closeness that made Giorno wonder what the nature of their relationship truly was since neither ever spoke of it. Trish was back from tour so Mista was teasing her while she pushed him away good-naturedly, laughing and smiling. Fugo was sprawled on a chair, reading Frankenstein . He had told Giorno at the beginning of the month that he was going to try and read classic horror novels throughout the month of October. Even though he would be early at mass for All Saint’s Day, Giorno knew how much he loved Halloween.
“Giorno doesn’t have a costume!” Narancia exclaimed.
Trish, who was currently engaged in some kind of half-hearted slap fight with Mista, widened her eyes.
“Giorno, Halloween is in a week .”
He was beginning to learn that his friends took this holiday very seriously.
“You all have costumes already?”
“Of course,” Trish said.
Mista nodded. “Yep.”
“Yes,” Buccellati said with a nod of their own.
“Every day is Halloween for me.” Abbacchio flipped some hair over their shoulder.
“‘Fraid so,” Fugo said, flashing him a sympathetic smile.
Giorno felt a strange, unfamiliar heat prickle the back of his neck.
“Then...do you have suggestions for what I should be?”
He expected them to all start talking at once--which was what they were wont to do--but no one said anything.
“It should be your decision,” Mista said. “You’re wearing it.”
Giorno tapped his lip and thought back to a conversation he had had thanks to the first interloper in his life--at least the first that led him to his current position. Talking to Koichi after everything was said and done led him to speak to Jotaro, his apparent great-great-grandnephew who was twice his age and lived in Florida with his unfairly gorgeous husband. The discussion had led to revelations about his father who Giorno had known previously only to have “died in Egypt.” He had always known there was something off about his father since he would sometimes see his mother holding a framed photo of him--which he later stole himself--while she cried out “Dio-sama!”
“I could be a vampire.” He took a deep breath and added, “I mean I technically am one.”
Six sets of eyes stared at him in mild disbelief, probably all wondering if he was joking or not.
“You’re what?” Mista blurted.
“I’m half-vampire.”
He saw Fugo’s hand go from his book to his neck, where Giorno had left a love bite. He had always known his eye teeth were longer and pointier than normal but had thought nothing of it until his conversation with Jotaro.
“Does this have anything to do with when that super hot marine biologist came to visit?” Trish asked.
“Yes. He told me about my father. So--”
“Do you have vampire powers?” Narancia cut in.
“No, I don’t think so--”
Abbacchio merely rolled their eyes and pretended to look disinterested. Buccellati patted their knee and smiled consolingly.
“That’s boring.” Narancia pouted and folded his arms over his chest.
Fugo put his book down and bit his lip. Giorno watched his expression carefully.
“My nonna is going to kill me,” he said slowly, gravely. “She will rise from her grave and kill me. I’ve slept with a member of the undead.”
He laughed after he said it and Giorno felt his chest unclench. He was worried about Fugo’s reaction since he knew his boyfriend was the only one among them who was truly religious. Mista and Narancia, however, were already focusing on something else.
“Whoa, whoa-- slept with ?!” Mista exclaimed. “You two have had sex ?!”
“They sleep in the same bed,” Trish said as if she were an expert and not the youngest out of all of them. “I kind of figured.”
“Nuh-uh--I used to sleep in the same bed as Fugo all the time and we never did anything!” Narancia shouted, always having to be the one speaking the loudest.
“That’s different,” Trish shot back. “You weren’t dating.”
“Still! How come you didn’t tell us?!”
Buccellati shook their head and sighed. “It’s Fugo and Giorno’s business--not ours.”
Abbacchio sniffed through their nose and cast Fugo a dirty look. Giorno knew that Abbacchio took to Fugo like they were their younger brother or, far more likely, a younger version of themselves. He also knew that they didn’t like that he was dating Giorno since, after all this, they still had yet to warm up to him.
“It was only once,” he said and shot Giorno a helpless look.
Mista hooked an arm around Fugo’s neck and slapped his arm. “You’re not a virgin anymore!”
“That makes one of us,” he snapped back.
Mista put a hand over his heart as if he’d been shot. He also backed away from him, which Giorno knew was smart. Fugo was getting close to losing his temper. Giorno stepped towards him and threaded their arms together. He squeezed his hand supportively, which made Mista make a kissy face while Trish put her hand over her heart as if to say, “Isn’t it romantic?”
“Are you all done?” he asked tiredly.
“Sure. All done.” Mista grinned toothily, letting him know that they were only done for that moment.
Fugo turned to him and said, “You make a cute vampire, GioGio.”
Fire flared on his face and Giorno knew he was blushing.
“I need to work on my essay.”
He pulled away and dashed from the room. He had no problem holding hands with Fugo or kissing him or even having sex--even though Fugo’s defensive “It was only once” was in fact true--but being complimented like that made his heart skip and his face flush. He made it back to his office and patted his face as if it would make the blush fade. He lowered his hands and his back immediately tensed. Something was wrong. When Narancia had dragged him away, he had dropped his mask on the floor. The mask was now not only on his desk was resting on the lamp so the blank eyes stared at him.
Giorno stepped forward slowly, keeping his guard up. Next to the mask was a folded note. He opened it and saw words written in English.
“‘When I look out my window,’” he read, surprised at himself that he was speaking in a whisper. “‘What do you think I see? When I look out my window, so many different people to be.’”
Giorno lowered the note and looked around. This was an old song from the sixties. His mind immediately went to Narancia but his knowledge of random facts didn’t extend to music--or, at least, music made before 1990. He had a suspicion that this was a new enemy and a new enemy bold enough to mock him by breaking into his office. Giorno put the note down. He might be sixteen and he might blush when his boyfriend told him he was cute but he was still the boss of Passione.
--
When he came back to the main room, Buccellati and Abbacchio were gone but the others remained.
“They went out for a ‘quick pasta,’” Narancia said, his finger quotes sharp and full of attitude. “I think they’re on a date.”
“Of course they are,” Mista put in. “I dunno why they don’t just tell us.”
Fugo shook his head. “No, no. They’re just dancing around it and Buccellati is giving Abbacchio time while they figure themselves out.”
Trish sighed.
“I wish they’d get on with it. It’s annoying.”
Giorno blew out an exasperated breath. Everyone got distracted so easily.
“Someone broke into my office and left a creepy note,” he impressed. “Look.”
He passed the note around.
“Isn’t this a Hole song?” Narancia asked.
“Donovan did it first,” Trish corrected. “But I like Hole’s version better.”
“Of course you do,” Mista said with a laugh.
She elbowed him in his exposed midsection and he yowled in an exaggerated show of pain.
“Season of the Witch,” Fugo said. “Maybe it’s what they call their Stand?”
There was nothing in the note that said whether or not a Stand user was involved but odds were good. Giorno nodded. It had been his suspicion as well.
“Season of the Witch?” Mista asked. “Oh! That’s the third Halloween movie, right? With the masks? I always thought that one got a bad rep. It might not have had Michael Myers in it but it doesn’t deserve the hate.”
Trish nodded. “I agree. The one with the cult was way worse.”
“The newest one was good, I thought,” Narancia put in. “At the school. Didja hear they’re making another one?”
Giorno sighed. They were getting off-topic again.
“It’s a reference to the song,” he insisted. “Not the movie. Was that song even in the movie?”
“Dunno. I liked the little jingle in it, though. It was way creepy.”
Trish elbowed Mista again and he pinched her in return. Giorno rubbed his temples. He was the boss of Passione and yet he couldn’t wrangle his friends to stay on topic.
“The lyrics might be a hint to the Stand’s power?”
Fugo’s voice was closer than it had been and Giorno looked over to see that he was right near him. He smiled gratefully and his boyfriend tweaked the loose skin at his elbow in return.
“That’s a good point. The user must be taunting us,” Trish said. “Maybe it can look like people? Since it says ‘so many different people to be.’”
Mista widened his eyes again. “What if it’s one of us right now ?!”
Narancia let out a frightened yelp and jumped onto the back of a chair in one fluid motion.
“No way!”
“What if that’s where Buccellati and Abbacchio are right now?” Mista shouted.
Giorno found himself wishing that Polnareff was here and not visiting with his husband. He occasionally could get as bad as his friends but he was older and more mature. He added levity to the conversation.
“I don’t think that’s it,” he said. “I don’t know what it is but the Stand user wants us to know they’re out there. And they want our attention.”
Mista twisted a stray thread that escaped his hat and frowned.
“How do we know?” He cocked his head to the side and lowered his thick, dark eyebrows.
Giorno wasn’t sure about that. He looked futilely at Fugo.
“Well. A Stand that can look like people wouldn’t be able to copy their memories,” he said. “So we can just test each other with stuff only we’d know.”
That would clear things up more quickly. He smiled at him gratefully.
“Makes sense.” Trish turned to Mista. “What’s my nickname for you?”
“ Coglione ,” he replied without a moment’s hesitation.
Giorno stifled a laugh, despite everything.
“Trish, what’s your favorite movie?” Narancia asked.
“ Clueless ,” she replied. “What’s your favorite album?”
“ Me Against the World ,” Narancia replied. “Fugo...where is Giorno most sensitive?”
Giorno’s face flared up again and he was glad that Fugo looked equally embarrassed. He mumbled something under his breath.
“Oh?” Mista asked with a giggle. “What was that?”
Fugo looked at Giorno who shrugged. They weren’t going to give up easily.
“The birthmark on the back of his neck,” he said quietly.
Giorno’s hand went there reflexively while Narancia and Mista roared with laughter. There was no doubt that they were most definitely themselves.
“I guess that settles that,” Giorno said.
“Nuh-uh--what about you?”
All four of them were looking at him.
“Fine. Ask me something.”
Fugo shot a warning look to the others as if to let them know that he wasn’t going to let them ask any more questions about their love life.
“Alright--who do you think Jeff Beck should have replaced in the Traveling Wilburys?”
“Bob Dylan,” he said automatically and then scrunched up his face.
Fugo turned to the others.
“See? No Stand could know how much Giorno hates Bob Dylan.”
“I didn’t even know that,” Trish said.
“And that’s why I’m dating him and not you.”
“That and you both only like boys, I mean…”
“Fair point.”
They were getting off-topic again. He waved a hand.
“I’m going to talk to some of our subordinates to look into it and see if anyone is talking on the street.” Giorno held up the note. “This is someone who wants us to find them.”
They all looked around at one another, nodding and he was glad that, despite their goofiness, his friends were all capable killers. Part of him knew that was a weird thing to say about a group of teenagers but they weren’t just teenagers, they were mobsters.
“I hope we kill them by Halloween,” Narancia said with a pout. “I don’t want this to ruin the party.”
And then sometimes they were all just teenagers.
--
They filled Buccellati and Abbacchio in when they returned (after, Mista insisted, they pass the same test the five of them had) and Giorno delegated information to his men on the street. It was then the boring matter of the waiting game while they gathered intel on who might have been targeting them.
Giorno figured that the time in between would be spent looking into the gang’s other interests but his friends had something else in mind.
“You need a costume, Giorno,” Narancia told him seriously. “And you can’t just wear your regular clothes and a cape. That’s not a costume.”
He sighed and turned away from his computer. At this rate, his essay was never going to get written. If it came to it, he supposed that he could bribe Fugo with kisses to get him to write it for him. He hated using down and dirty tactics on his boyfriend but he also knew that Fugo was a far better student than he ever could be.
“If I agree to let Trish loose on me to make my costume and do my makeup will you drop this?” he asked.
“Sure!”
Giorno let out another sigh of resignation and turned his hand out. “Fine.”
Narancia beamed, his goal met, and ran out of his room. He went past Buccellati as they entered with a quick “Hiya!” as he dashed down the hall.
“He’s excited,” they mused.
“I just wish they’d all remember what all we have to do rather than concentrating on a party.”
Giorno sighed and dropped his chin into his hands.
“Giorno.”
He looked up and met Buccellati’s eyes.
“Yes?”
“We have very little information to go off of at the moment. You know, when the time comes, everyone will be ready.”
He nodded. Though he was in charge, he still respected Buccellati and their advice deeply. Giorno had a dream but Buccellati had experience. Between them and Polnareff, he felt like his life was a little more balanced.
“Thank you.” He looked at the screen where his unfinished essay mocked him. “Buccellati?”
“Yes, Giorno?”
He tapped his fingers on the keyboard and looked at them out of the corner of his eye.
“What exactly is going on between you and Abbacchio?”
They stood abruptly and looked at their bare wrist. “Look at the time. I’ll leave you to your work.”
Buccellati beat it out of there so fast and with such urgency and Giorno was surprised that they didn’t use their Stand. He smiled a bit in amusement. There had to be something going on. He would have to share this information with the others. Buccellati was right. They didn’t have to focus so heavily on the enemy Stand user when they hadn’t made a move. He couldn’t help but be a little excited for Halloween, anyway. It was his first true Halloween with friends.
Giorno turned back to the computer and glanced at the open textbook. This essay wasn’t getting easier and the fact that he could find so little on the cult of the eucharist beyond basic definition simply added insult to injury.
“Giorno.”
He whipped his head away from the screen and towards the door. No one was there. Moreover, the voice had been only vaguely familiar. It didn’t sound like any of his friends or subordinates but he somehow knew he had heard it before. The room remained empty. He stood up from his chair slowly, calculatedly. He didn’t bother to call out “who’s there?” Watching horror movies with Mista had taught him that that was a terrible idea.
“Giorno…”
He looked around the office for any chance of entry. The open windows of the villa provided a way for potential attackers but they were in his view at all times.
“Haruno…”
That name gave him pause. No one in Passione should have known it. Even at school he was registered as Giorno Giovanna. Haruno died along with his natural hair color. The voice, he realized, sounded like his mother’s but different. His mother’s, his stepfather’s, a whole slew of voices combined into one, flat pitch that was only residually familiar. He spun around in the room, hoping to see someone, even if it was just their stand. A note rested on his desk that hadn’t been there before. He could have guessed what it said but he opened it anyway. As he predicted, there were English lyrics in it.
“‘When I look over my shoulder, tell me what do I see? Some other cat lookin’ over his shoulder at me.’”
Giorno put the note down and, reflexively, looked over his shoulder. A shadowy form slipped by the wall and he nearly jumped. The form was gone as quickly as it came but Giorno felt rattled. Of course, if someone were still watching, he didn’t want to show it. He saved and closed his essay before walking out of the office. He kept his pace even and his back straight. He saw Fugo’s open door and let out a sigh of relief. His boyfriend was inside, sprawled on his bed and reading more of Frankenstein .
“Wow,” he said to himself, “you can really see where Percy forced his way into the edits…”
Giorno cleared his throat and he looked up sharply.
“Oh. GioGio. Hi.”
He put a slip of paper in his book and placed it on his bedside table.
“What’s wrong?”
Giorno realized that he might have looked as rattled as he felt and cursed himself. He always tried to exude an aura of coolness--a sense that he was in control.
“I got another note...while I was in my office.”
He stepped in and gingerly perched on the edge of the bed.
“Did you see anyone?”
“A...shadowy figure.”
It felt silly when he said it out loud but he felt marginally better when Fugo, perhaps reflexively, crossed himself.
“They’re bold, coming in here while you’re around.”
“Could be a remote stand.”
“Even so.” Fugo sat up completely and reached a hand out to touch Giorno’s shoulder. “Do you want me to stay in your room tonight?”
He hesitated for a moment before nodding. Fugo didn’t make this offer regularly. He was still wary of his Stand and preferred to sleep alone because of it.
“Thank you.”
Fugo kissed his cheek and Giorno leaned back into his embrace. As he did, though, his mind was racing. He had a feeling that the Stand user wasn’t simply going to wait around for them to dig up information. They had to be ready.
--
Giorno shouldn’t have been surprised the next morning when he and Fugo emerged from the same bedroom that everyone was going to say something about it.
“Guess it’s not ‘just one time’ anymore,” Mista said, punctuating his statement by letting out a loud whoop.
“Ooooooohhhh,” Trish and Narancia cried in unison.
Abbacchio rolled their eyes but Giorno noticed that they were looking far more disheveled than usual and that Buccellati shared the same appearance. It was for his former Capo’s sake, however, that he didn’t deflect onto them.
“Nothing happened,” he said instead. “Something happened.”
He filled them in on what happened in his office last night. Mista, of course, immediately produced his gun.
“I see that fucker and I’m filling them full of lead.”
“You can’t shoot a shadow,” Trish pointed out.
“I can after we make Giorno turn it into frogs or something.”
They were, at least, on task. He held his hand up.
“I’m going to see what the investigators have come up with. Then you can shoot shadow frogs.”
Giorno saw Buccellati smile as they noted him taking their advice. Sometimes he just had to go with whatever it was they said. When the time came, everyone would do their part and remind Giorno--and whoever was watching them--just how deadly they all were.
--
The news from his men on the street was troubling.
“A cult?” Fugo asked. “That sounds like something out of an Argento film.”
Giorno stopped himself from shuddering at the thought. Fugo, for a date, had once taken him to a double feature of Suspiria and Inferno and Giorno had been haunted by them for weeks afterwards.
“A cult using a Stand,” Mista said. “One of them has to be its master, right?”
Giorno nodded. A cult had to have a leader and that leader had to be using the Stand. He called it Season of the Witch in his head for simplicity’s sake but he was sure that that what its master called it since the notes were dropping hints the size of anvils.
“What does it want?” Narancia asked.
“Something about reviving their God,” Giorno said, reading off of the report he’d been given.
He looked at the faces of his friends, wondering what they thought of all this. He was troubled. One person using one Stand was one thing but a horde of people was another. And who knew if Season of the Witch was the only Stand in the cult’s possession? This, though, was a lead.
“They’re going to act on Halloween,” Fugo said. “They have to. It’s in three days and they would. I mean...freaky cult and all.”
Trish looked between Mista and Narancia before turning to Giorno.
“Should we tell Buccellati and Abbacchio?”
Giorno opened his mouth to answer but Mista cut him off.
“Leave them out of it for now. I mean, sure it’s gang business but Abbacchio let slip that they were going to the party together. Let them have their date. We can always call them for backup.”
He couldn’t argue with that and he knew that the others most definitely would if he pressed the issue. The five of them were powerful enough on their own. If need be, at a safe distance, they could convince Fugo to use Purple Haze and wipe out the cult in its entirety.
“Alright. The report says they aren’t acting quietly and have been gathering in an abandoned church near the center of the city.”
He rattled off the address and the others nodded in the sort of unison that one only saw in children’s television shows when the heroes all agreed to work together and form a giant robot.
“We should check it out,” Trish said, “during the day.”
“Yeah,” Narancia agreed. “Definitely during the day.”
“Not all of us,” Fugo said. “That’s too conspicuous. One scout with some backup.”
Mista nodded and raised his hand half-mast. “I’ll do it.”
Giorno turned his hand out in agreement. Mista was best suited for it since, when need be, he could move in and out without drawing attention to himself. Trish and Fugo were too flashy, he was too well known and Narancia was Narancia.
“Don’t be too long,” he said. “Be back by sundown.”
Mista gave a laconic salute and smirked. “You got it, boss.”
--
Finding the church wasn’t difficult. Mista had a good sense of direction and, more than that, the entire church had a bad aura on it. He wasn’t religious in the sense that Fugo was but he did cross himself upon looking at the sandstone walls and steepled belltower. It didn’t look like the other cathedrals and instead resembled a mausoleum or a chapel in a cemetery. Mista figured the cult couldn’t have that many numbers just by the fact that very few people could fit inside. Still, he had to be careful. He walked by it, hands in his pockets. He had dressed down in a sweatshirt, jacket, and jeans with a regular knit hat. With his curly dark hair and undereye circles (a gift from his maternal side of the family), he looked like anyone. He most definitely didn’t look like Giorno Giovanna’s number three man or the best shooter Passione had ever seen. The church’s front door was open, which was curious. The cult could have been recruiting. That’s what those places did, right? A charismatic leader indoctrinating people into the cult. He honestly had no clue but the open door was interesting.
A man scurried out through the doorway and Mista pretended he wasn’t looking. He leaned up against a lightpost and pulled a pack of Marlboros and tapped one out. He didn’t smoke, really, but he had to have a reason for why he was standing in one place. He lit it and took a drag, pretending to be a seasoned smoker. Mista squinted into the smoke and bobbed the cigarette up and down with his lips like he was Humphrey Bogart or James Dean. The smell was pretty awful--the only cigarettes he’d ever really smelled were Abbacchio’s cloves--but he ignored it. The man stopped and looked at him. Mista, playing the part, gave him a half-hearted wave. He took the cigarette from his mouth and ashed on the sidewalk.
“Nice weather, huh?” he called.
The man’s stare intensified. He wore a black friar’s robe tied hastily with length of rope. He was certainly out of place, like a throwback to the 16th century.
“For October,” he pressed on and then, continuing his act, he waved his hand in disinterest. Brought the cigarette back to his lips.
The man muttered something and darted around the side of the church. Mista counted slowly to fifteen before he stubbed out his cigarette and followed him. He reached under his sweatshirt and tapped the butt of his gun where it rested in his waistband. He kept Sex Pistols hidden in case this guy was the Stand user. He was trying not to draw attention to himself and having six little imps floating around him would contradict that. He saw the wannabe monk reenter the church through a back door and followed. The door led to a staircase that went down and he followed it slowly, carefully. He moved when the man moved so he wouldn’t hear the echo of his footsteps.
At the floor was a winding basement that reminded Mista of a story from his childhood. When he was really little, his mother had given him a book on Greek mythology. She had never known what interested children since she had never been interested in having any. The second Mista came down the last step, he thought of one of the stories from that book. The labyrinth. He hoped that there wasn’t a flesh-eating minotaur waiting in the center but considering how things usually happened, what there was wouldn’t be far off. He also got the sense that this basement section was far larger than the church above it. Metal hands stuck out from the wall holding torches that flickered against the damp stone. Despite his sweatshirt and jacket, Mista shivered.
“Season of the Witch,” he muttered. He still thought of that movie rather than the song. The catchy jingle for the masks, especially.
He followed the man quietly as possible, the rubber soles of his sneakers barely making a sound on the stone floor. As he walked, he kept track of each turn. A right and a left and another right. To his surprise, the winding path didn’t take that long to lead to a decently sized atrium. A stone slab stood in the center and there were more torches to light it up. An altar was set up at the far end, and above it was a stone statue of some demonic-looking creature. It resembled both a goat and a man as well as someone he didn’t have a name for.
“Madonna mia,” he muttered and crossed himself.
A man knelt at the altar and Mista could just make out a shadowy form hovering over him. This had to be the Stand master.
“Any news?” he asked from his position. If he spoke, then he wasn’t praying, at least. Mista reached for his gun.
“Mista was outside the church,” the man reported. “At least, I believe it was him.”
“Good. And you let him follow you?”
“I’m...not sure.”
“Either way, it’ll work out. You’re dismissed.”
There was a finality to the man’s voice that Mista didn’t like. The man bowed his head and left. He followed him quietly, unable to shake the feeling that the kneeling man knew he was there. That this was a setup. He shuddered. Either way, he figured this first guy had to go. Something, something odd, filled his chest then. It was a strange feeling like worms were digging in his chest, in his head. Mista felt a grin slip on his face as he reached for his gun. He followed the disciple, this man, out into the chilly fall air. He walked behind him like a shadow as he walked across the brown grass to the edge of the property. The little plot of grass was surrounded by buildings and factories, a strange and religious sore thumb. Mista’s grin widened.
“Only three more days ‘til Halloween, Halloween, Halloween.”
The man turned but it was too late. The gun was leveled at his head. Mista felt his smile widen even more, to a painful degree, and cocked his head to the side.
“Only three more days ‘til Halloween…” Without summoning his Stand, he shot the man point blank in the forehead. Still grinning, he lowered his gun. “Sil-ver Shamrock!”
Mista stared at his smoking gun and at the man’s body and blinked, confused. Why did he do that? He was supposed to not draw attention to himself. He took one hand off of the gun and pressed it to his forehead. He had to get back. He had to tell Giorno.
--
“And you killed a guy,” Fugo said.
Mista shook his head. “It felt like. I wasn’t in control. Someone made me do it.”
Trish shuddered and looked at Narancia who looked at Giorno.
“You said you saw the Stand?” Giorno asked.
He nodded. “Yeah. Maybe it’s a mind control thing.”
Giorno nodded with him. That was possible but it didn’t seem quite right.
“Either way, we can’t just go in without more information.” He sighed. “I hate to say this but I think we should wait until Halloween when they act and just simply... re act to whatever they do.”
“I can’t believe I come back from tour and already you all have me fighting a demon-worshiping cult.” Trish shook her head. “One thing I’ll say is that it’s never dull with you all.”
Giorno smiled. He felt better that they were together. The five of them would make it work. They took down Trish’s father, the boss of Passione, and his incredibly overpowered Stand. They could handle one little cult.
“Let’s go to bed for now,” he said. “No use in discussing any more when we don’t have all the facts.”
With that agreed, they went their separate ways. Giorno stopped at his door when he realized that he wasn’t alone. Fugo stood with him, fidgeting with his tie and the cuffs of his suit jacket.
“Can I...stay the night again?” he asked.
Giorno looked at him and swallowed nervously. There was something different about this question than his suggestion last night. Despite his awkwardness, there was a glint in his eye that wasn’t usually there.
“Sure…”
He shut the door behind them and Fugo walked towards the best slowly but calculatedly. He kicked off his shoes and slowly stripped off of his clothes, leaving him only in his underwear and tie.
“I think your pajamas from last night are in here,” he said.
“I don’t need them, thanks.”
He stretched languidly, lifting his arms high above his head and then bringing them down. He stroked his fingers down his ribs and gave Giorno a beseeching look.
“Come here.”
Giorno walked towards him, feeling confused. The one time he and Fugo had had sex, they had both been immensely awkward and bumbling but it had been. Nice. It had felt good and sweet and this. This felt all wrong.
“Pannacotta?” he asked.
“Giornoooo,” he cooed. “Come here.”
He held his arms out, the tips of his fingers brushing Giorno’s sleeves.
“What’s going on? This isn’t like you.”
His eyes were hooded and his lips slightly parted. Fugo leaned in and Giorno expected a kiss but instead he dragged his tongue slowly up his cheek.
“You taste good.”
“Fugo!”
He drew back and grinned wolfishly. Giorno narrowed his eyes. This wasn’t his boyfriend. Gold Experience flickered into a view and--gently, since mind control or not, this was still Fugo--shoved him. He caught himself on the edge of Giorno’s bed and, when he looked up, the sultry look was gone.
“Giorno?” Fugo looked down to see his state of undress and went bright red. He yelped and tried to cover himself.
“Are you alright?” he asked. His Stand slipped back into nothingness and he slowly approached the bed.
“Yeah, I…” He put a hand to his temple. “When I walked into the room, I felt different but I was still aware of myself but not...entirely. Like I saw it happening but like it was a movie and then I realized it was really me but. It’s not mind control.”
Giorno cocked his head to the side. “It’s not?”
“No...when I saw me doing...all of that and scusa , GioGio...when I saw it, it felt like there was someone else in my head with me. It’s. Kind of like...temporary possession?”
“I think I follow.”
“Season of the Witch must possess you with someone to make Mista kill that guy and me be all...yikes.”
As he said this, Fugo grabbed his pajamas he had folded and left on Giorno’s bed to quickly change. He saw him flush as he switched his thong for underwear more suitable for bed and knew that this was definitely his boyfriend.
“Did you know who it was?”
“No. It could just be any dead person to get the job done. But I’m sure it could be people we know to mess with us.” He shrugged as he buttoned up the front of his flannel pajamas. “I’m just making this up as I go, though. I just know I don’t want to experience it again.”
Giorno nodded. “I can imagine. Are you alright?”
Fugo nodded. “I am now. I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to be, although…” Giorno wiped his cheek where it was still wet. “Let’s just stick to regular kisses?”
“Good plan.” Fugo looked to the side and then back at him. “Not right now, after that, but some time do you...wanna do it again?”
He blushed and bit his lip. It was times like these where he remembered that, despite his position, he was still a teenager.
“Sure. Yeah. But not tonight.”
Fugo nodded.
“Not tonight. I’m gonna, um, go to my room. Good night, GioGio.”
He leaned in to give him a soft good night kiss and left. Giorno smiled after him until he realized that he left the clothes that he had been wearing--underwear included--on his floor.
Oh, I am so turning these into snakes…
--
Giorno had to admit that Trish really did deliver on his costume. He was a vampire since she said, after learning about his heritage, that she couldn’t not fashion him a vampire costume--bought from a high end costume shop. He felt very debonair with his dress shirt and vest and brooch that held his cape shut. He looked around the main room of the villa to see the others’ costumes and to stop himself from twirling in place just to see his cape swish. Buccellati was dressed as a 20s flapper with a sparkly headband and a fringe-covered minidress that shook whenever they moved. Abbacchio--who was smoking greedily on one of their clove cigarettes--looked just about as they always did.
“I’m a ghoul,” they said, blowing sweet-smelling smoke out between their black-painted lips.
“You literally look like you do every day,” Mista said, shaking his head.
He wore a flannel shirt with bits of fur stuck to it and poking out of the sleeves. He had stuck on pointed ears and someone--Trish, no doubt--had made up his face to make him look like a semblance of a werewolf. Trish herself was painted a light blue and had sprayed her hair to match.
“What are you?” Giorno asked.
“Do you remember Scooby-Doo and the Ghoul School ?”
“No.”
“Oh!” Narancia exclaimed. “You’re the ghost girl from it! Neat!”
He wore a sweatshirt covered in orange and black fur and attached to the sleeves were strings that brought up three more arms on each side. Narancia had also painted extra eyes on his face.
“You said you were gonna be scary,” Mista said, “but spiders ain’t that scary.”
“They are when you’re shrunk down to the size of a bug and stuck in a jar with one.”
“Ah, point.”
He was having trouble figuring out Fugo’s costume. He looked like he was wearing clothes from the Regency era. Giorno recognized the style from that television special of Pride and Prejudice with that one, handsome actor with the nice sideburns.
“I’m Percy Shelley,” he explained. “I was going to be Lord Byron so we could sort of match, GioGio, but I couldn’t find a good wig.”
Giorno nodded. “Oh.”
He hadn’t even thought of doing a couple’s costume with Fugo and even if a vampire and Lord Byron were only tangentially related, he felt himself blush thinking about it.
“You two go ahead to the party,” Mista said to Buccellati and Abbacchio. “Trish needs to redo my makeup.”
Giorno, of course, didn’t mention that Trish had used setting spray and Mista’s makeup wasn’t going anywhere. Abbacchio narrowed their eyes but the two of them left.
“Good. Let them enjoy their date. Meanwhile, let’s go to the church.”
In their costumes, Giorno had to admit that they all looked a little ridiculous but he saw the dangerous looks his friends wore and nodded.
“Right.” He looked at them and tapped his chin. “We may have to split up.”
“Um, as someone dressed as a character from Scooby Doo , I’m going to go on the record and say that’s a bad idea.”
He ignored her. “Me, Fugo, and Narancia will go to the basement and Mista and Trish will look in the church itself. Hopefully, it’ll only take the five of us. Everyone ready?”
The four of them nodded the affirmative. Giorno fiddled with his cape and bit his lip.
“Remember, this thing has momentary possession. We don’t know how powerful it can be or if it’s worse if the Stand actually touches you. Just be aware. As far as I know, there’s no way to guard against it. What I do know is that a force will disrupt it.”
He looked at Fugo who looked away and blushed, memories of the other night astoundingly clear. Giorno looked back at them.
“Let’s go.”
--
Fugo didn’t like closed in spaces. He didn’t like places where Purple Haze couldn’t be at least five meters away from him. The light from the torches cast wasn’t enough to go by. Narancia clung to his back, his fur covered legs bumping against Fugo’s jacket as they walked. He wasn’t sure why he was leading the way.
“How did Mista say to get to the room with the altar?” Giorno asked.
“He said he couldn’t remember,” Fugo whispered back.
He had a suspicion that it was a residual effect from the possession. It didn’t work for them because now they were literally wandering in the dark.
“So Mista said that there was an altar with a statue of a demon. And this is a Stand that possesses people. Do you think they’re trying to raise this demon and use the Stand for it to possess them?”
He felt Giorno nod next to him.
“That’s mad spooky, shit,” Narancia said and shuddered.
“Hey, Narancia, can you use Aerosmith to see if there are any cult members around here?” Giorno asked.
“Sure.”
Fugo watched as the small plane materialized and flew off into the darkness. Narancia adjusted the headpiece and scrunched up his face.
“I can sense a few people a little ways ahead,” he reported. “Left, right, left and another right.”
“Thanks, Narancia.”
Fugo felt him lean in towards him but didn’t feel the bump of his spider legs.
“Narancia?”
He turned and saw that it was Giorno holding onto him. Fugo whipped his head to the other side and saw that no one was there.
“Narancia?” he asked again.
“He’s gone,” Giorno said.
Fugo’s foot hit something and he bent down to pick up the item. It was one of Narancia’s spider legs.
“The cult took him,” Giorno said and he felt him tense. “They took him right under our noses. They aren’t getting away with that.”
Fugo smiled at him. “No, they are not.”
--
Buccellati would have liked to be having a good time. The music in the center was good and they were with Abbacchio and lost in a crowd of people who didn’t know who they were. They looked incredibly good in their white satin flapper dress and was hoping for tonight to end well and, judging by how Abbacchio kept checking out their legs, it would. Still, this good night that was a potentially great night was marred by a niggling suspicion at the back of their head. None of the others had made an appearance at the party. Buccellati hadn’t seen Trish’s sprayed-blue hair or Giorno’s golden curls or heard Fugo yell and stomp on the foot of someone who got too close to him. It was incredibly suspicious.
“They’re up to something,” Abbacchio said.
Buccellati nodded. “They are. I think it has something to do with that Stand attack.”
“Little fuckers. Why would they leave us out?”
Abbachio scowled and, with the black circles painted around their eyes and the white greasepaint, they looked downright sinister.
“That’s a good question.”
Buccellati sighed and looked around at the crowd. They had wanted to drink wine and dance with Abbacchio and take them home. They wanted to finally have that move made. They wanted to be official and let feelings be laid bare and kisses shared over Buccellati’s satin duvet.
“We have to go after them, don’t we?”
They nodded, cringing as they did.
“I’m guessing they’re at that church we found out about?”
“The one whose address they hid from us?” Abbacchio asked dryly, lifting a brow.
“That’s the one.”
“Fucking hell.” They sighed. “Let’s go.”
Buccellati reached out to squeeze their hand. It was hard to tell under the makeup but they ventured to guess that Abbacchio was blushing.
--
Narancia struggled against his restraints. He was laid out on a slab in what he figured was the altar to that demon. He tilted his head back as far as it would go and got a view of the upside down version of the statue. Even from this angle, it sent a shiver down his spine.
“Let me go!” he screamed. “I’ll kill you! I fuckin’ swear, I’ll kill all of you!”
A man wearing a black, hooded cloak leaned over him.
“You will be quiet and savor this opportunity. I would have preferred Giorno Giovanna himself but one of his most trusted subordinates will do nicely.”
“If you think I will ever be quiet, stronzo --”
Another cult member leaned from the other side of the slab and placed a gag over Narancia’s mouth. His words dissolved into muffled grunts.
“You’re a fine vessel,” the first man said. “Let Season of the Witch flow through you and attain greatness.”
Narancia didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t know who this cult worshiped but he definitely knew that he didn’t want it possessing him.
“We must summon Him,” a cult member said.
“And then I will use my powers to fill this boy with His greatness.”
Ewwwwwwwww…
Narancia began to put it together. This guy was their leader ‘cause the others couldn’t see his Stand. They thought he just had magical powers. Either way, he didn’t want to be filled with anyone’s “greatness.” He waited for the leader to turn towards the statue and manifested Aerosmith. With his scanner, he spotted two CO2 blips and hoped that it meant that Giorno and Fugo were close. God, he hoped they would get here soon.
--
“Narancia!” Fugo snarled.
Giorno put his hand on his arm but he ignored him.
“They’ll hear us.”
“They know we’re here! They took him .” Fugo knew he had lost it. He knew his temper was overcoming him. There was a metallic taste in the back of his throat--the one he got whenever he snapped. “They took my family!”
He stormed forward using the directions Narancia had given them before he disappeared--no, since he was taken . Fugo’s hand shook where it held the discarded spider leg. He burst into the altar and saw Narancia strung out across a slab with his mouth gagged. The leader turned towards them, a look of surprise on his face as if he hadn’t expected him. There weren’t many others in the chamber or at the altar. He figured many of them were up top, preparing for whatever it was the leader and these trusted disciples had planned. Fugo clenched his jaw. He wished, suddenly, that there were more down here for him to kill.
“Fugo!”
Giorno’s voice was distant behind him and his rage was building. Purple Haze appeared next to him, drooling and shaking.
“Fugo, stop!”
Giorno grabbed his arm. He nearly jerked away but he saw the look in his boyfriend’s eyes.
“If you go off, all of us will die . Stop it.”
Purple Haze disappeared and Fugo took a deep breath. Giorno was right.
“Giorno Giovanna.”
They both turned and saw that the leader was addressing him. Giorno stood up straight and rolled his shoulders back. At once, his boyfriend who blushed when he called him cute was gone and Fugo was looking at the boss of Passione.
“My Stand, Season of the Witch, operates on possession. I want to bring my Lord into this world using my Stand and a ritual done on a night in late October.”
Fugo looked at the statue behind him and thought it looked like Baphomet but not. It gave him the chills.
“And you want to do that to Narancia?” he asked and his hand clenched around the spider leg again.
Narancia struggled against his restraints, his eyes wide. Fugo thought there was blood smeared on his face but it was just the makeup from his extra spider eyes.
“We would have preferred Giorno. Our Lord fused with the boss of Passione. We would be all-powerful.”
Despite everything, Fugo rolled his eyes. This guy was too much.
“Well, I’m here.”
He shook his head. “No, no. Narancia Ghirga will do nicely. He’s...spirited.”
Narancia, where he lay, flipped him off as be he could with his wrists tied down on the stone slab.
“But you...Giorno. And you, Fugo. I want to try something.”
Giorno tensed next to him and glared. Fugo folded his arms.
“My Stand acts remotely but a touch from it can possess someone with the spirit of someone connected to them.”
Fugo didn’t like the sound of that. He didn’t want his nonna possessing him or someone worse, like Volpe. He loosened the restraint on Purple Haze but not quite.
“What does that--”
Giorno didn’t get to finish the sentence as a shadow touched his arm. His body went rigid and his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Giorno?” he asked.
“Giorno?” the leader echoed.
Giorno stared blankly and touched his face. He grinned broadly and manifested Gold Experience.
“Giorno?” he asked again.
The Stand lunged forward and began beating the surrounding cult members with its fists. Next to him, he heard Giorno crying out his usual battle cry but it sounded...crueler than usual.
“Giorno?” he asked a third time.
He turned to him and then back to the leader who stared at his fallen disciples with a look of fear.
“Who…?”
Giorno grinned broadly and jerked a thumb towards chest.
“You thought it was this Giorno but it was I, Dio!”
--
Mista kicked aside another body of a cult follower and dropped more bullets from his hat. He was glad none of them got tangled in his fur.
“There are more,” Trish called.
“More over here, too, Mista!” Tre called.
He swore under his breath. How did this cult have so many followers? Did they have some sweet offer? Did they give paid vacations? Mista was running out of bullets. He felt the ground shift as Spice Girl softened it to trip up a group of black robed followers.
“Watch it!”
“Don’t take that tone with me, coglione !” Trish called back.
“Aw, sweetie, I love it when you talk dirty,” he teased.
Trish made a gagging sound and he laughed. He hoped things were going well downstairs. He saw that statue. If something like that was going to be summoned, he wasn’t really onboard with that. He saw The Exorcist . That thing possessing any of them would be bad news.
He saw another group of followers rushing them but a void opened behind them and sucked them in. Mista lowered his gun in surprise.
“What was that?” he asked.
Trish walked over to him and shrugged. “I have no idea...although...I think I heard a zipper open.”
“Oh.”
Two large, pale hands came down on their shoulders and the smell of clove smoke hit his nostrils.
“Yes,” Abbacchio said. “‘Oh.’”
Buccellati walked out from the corner of the church, an unamused look on their face.
“Hey,” Mista said, cringing. “What’s up?”
“Oh, just wondering why we were at the party and all of you are fighting a cult.”
“Um…”
Mista looked at Trish.
“We wanted to give you alone time,” she said.
“Yeah. Figure out whatever the fuck is going on with you.”
Buccellati sighed. “Touching. But no. You two are going to tell us everything.”
The two of them stood side by side, arms crossed and wearing matching scowls. Mista felt like a child being chastised. He looked at Trish who shrugged. He wanted to go back down into the labyrinth and help Giorno but that wasn’t an option now that they were caught. He just had to fill Abbacchio and Buccellati in and hope that everything was fixed by the time they were done.
--
Fugo wasn’t sure what to do. Narancia was still tied to a stone slab and Giorno was saying his name was God . The cult members were incapacitated but the leader remained. He was, however, cowering near the statue as if he knew, somehow, who it was who had possessed Giorno.
“You’re named after God?” he asked.
“No,” Giorno said, his voice louder than normal. He was speaking English, too, which threw him for a loop. “I’m named after my father but he was so drunk that he missed two letters in filling out the birth certificate!”
He wasn’t quite sure what to make of that. Giorno cocked his head to the side.
“You’re Italian. Ugh, like that Zeppeli. One of my only regrets is not killing him myself.”
Zeppeli? Fugo was astounded at the name. Zeppeli had been his mother’s maiden name. How did this...Dio know it?
“Giorno--”
“I told you, my name is Dio. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
That sounded a bit like Giorno, he thought. His boyfriend hated saying things twice.
“Alright, Dio...who are you?”
As he spoke, he manifested Purple Haze behind him. This was how Giorno had broken the possession on him.
“I am--what are you doing? Hey--!”
He made sure his Stand’s hands were open palm as he shoved Giorno, hard. He didn’t want to risk one of the capsules breaking. Giorno stumbled and when he looked up, his gaze was softer.
“Fugo?” he asked.
“Oh, good. You’re back to normal.” He frowned. “Who’s Dio?”
Giorno looked away before he said, “My father.”
Fugo knew that he had learned the truth about his father when that marine biologist and his boyfriend who couldn’t be in the same room as Giorno had shown up. He seemed...horrifying.
“Lord Dio…” the cult leader whispered.
If he wanted to say more, it was drowned out by his body being incinerated by a hail of artillery fire, courtesy of Aerosmith.
“ Vaffanculo! ” Narancia sneered. He had apparently pushed his gag down enough to free his mouth. “Now can you both get me out of here?”
Fugo shook his head, coming back to his senses. Right--Narancia. He had almost forgotten. As he walked over to Narancia, he gave Giorno a sideways glance. When everything was done, he would have to ask him what his mother’s family had to do with his father.
--
It was nearly midnight when they finally made it to the party. Narancia spun around--a seven-legged spider now. Mista and Trish danced together but tried to make it look as though they weren’t. Giorno found it rather amusing. Near them, in the crowd, he saw Abbacchio and Buccellati kissing.
“I knew it!” Mista screamed and grabbed Trish’s arm.
“Whooooo!” Narancia crowed.
Giorno laughed and leaned into Fugo. The bass of the music thrummed between their bodies when they touched.
“You alright?” he asked. “You were possessed pretty badly.”
“You might want to rework that sentence,” Giorno teased.
Fugo put his arms around his waist and rested his chin on Giorno’s shoulder. He breathed out through his teeth as he smiled, savoring the feeling.
“So how was your first Halloween with us?” he asked.
“No one died, we stopped a demon from being summoned and I get to see you looking like Mr. Darcy.”
“I’m Percy Shelley!”
Giorno laughed and turned his head to kiss his cheek. He liked this. This calm after a fight.
“So...GioGio...I was thinking.”
“Yes?”
Fugo rocked his head from side to side on his shoulder.
“After the party...when we get back to the villa…”
“Yes?” Giorno flushed, thinking of their conversation a few nights ago.
“I help you finish that essay.”
He deflated.
“Oh. Yes. The essay.”