Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: Description of someone being strangled, stabbing, consumption of alcohol

The clapping set him off. Its noise was driving into Fugo’s brain, nailing the point that he was supposed to go swiftly and move through the dance with speed. He knew some moves, but he wouldn’t call himself a dancer per se.   

The pianist’s fingers danced around the keys as the sound filled the room. The chords thrummed in the back of everyone’s heads, playing in a quick staccato. He heard a couple of voices exclaim about the melody being similar to Libertango.

He had to blend in, to seem one with the crowd. Brushing aside his bangs out of his face, he took in a clear view of who had begun the attack. 

The two approached each other, grasping their hands tightly mid-air.  

Fugo’s heart began to race, circling the man, glaring straight into his bright blue eyes. He was overwhelmed, being filled with a swirling rage in his gut. His jaw locked in a tight clench as he gazed at the challenger that stood in his way. He needed to focus. Fugo was wasting time.

He caught sight of the target - a woman drinking some champagne - before being abruptly tugged back into a half-embrace. 

Fugo didn’t know the blond’s name, as he only just met him. What he did know was that he was here for the same reason that Pannacotta was. A job. A kill. His kill, to be precise. He was Fugo’s enemy.

They began to strut and move around the dance floor, making sharp turns at corners as required. 

What was supposed to be a romantic feel for this tango turned to something dangerous. The blond returned the hate that Pannacotta had felt for him. They were two predators - two lions - circling each other, wanting to pounce on the same prey that only one of them could have. 

An oboe cut into the melody, the rasping sounds add to the feistiness.

The two began twirling around the dance floor, the silenced gun poking into Fugo’s ribs occasionally as their chests pressed together. Uncomfortable.

Snap.

He bent the blond over, tipping them both into a curved arch. Fugo takes note of how bizarre the male’s hairstyle is. Three curled donut-like shapes in the front, the rest of the long hair twisted and made into a braid, the end of it looped in on itself. Truly just, weird.  

That bend didn’t last long, the blond had straightened his back and they butted heads, out of rhythm with each other. It hurt Fugo, but he hadn’t flinched. Their eyebrows scrunched as the two twirled around once more, retracing their steps as the dance carried on. Their glares turned into calculated stares more than anything. Still full of hate and passion, but it was also competing. The first one to get to his prey would be the winner in the end.

Letting go of each other, their heads turned to look in the crowd, searching for the woman as they continued the dance. The blond had improvised a few gestures that Fugo could almost see as a twirl of a rose, an imaginary dress fashioning the man; Then their hands reunited, a sea tide clashing a rock once more. 

A violin began, it’s voice long and low, before bleeding into high-pitched volumes. It fitted their mood, fervor filling each step the two took, even if it lacked the intended romance.

Keeping an eye on his target proved difficult, and making sure the blond didn’t get in the way was much harder than he thought. He didn’t even know this man was there in the first place. This fellow rather casually invited him to dance by pressing a small, hidden dagger to his chest.

Fugo walked through the set of double doors that led to the ballroom. It was long and rectangular, the walls lined with Corinthian columns. Chandeliers hung from arches in the ceiling, giving the room glorious lighting, although it was a bit cramped. It was packed with women in fine, long, lacey, and frizzled gowns - some of which adorned in jewels or hints of gold - all in various pastel colors. The men wore tuxedoes, some being white elephants in the crowd; Those suits were reserved for the richest in the crowd, but the only difference apart from those distinct ones was just in the colors that they wore.

He was in one of the more common suits, fashioning a dark, emerald green coat and black tie, patterned with red strawberries. The suit also had a silver thread around the cuffs; The clips for them were the shape of strawberries, to match the tie. It was one of his fancier suits specifically tailored for these types of environments. 

He adjusted his sleeves, frowning at how they weren’t as evenly ironed as he had hoped they’d be. Fugo was always nit-picky at the smallest things, always careful to the smallest details. Constantly on edge, bouncing at the balls of his feet, on alert at all times. Pannacotta considered himself to be quite composed despite that, even in stressful situations. Rational, logical decisions were what he strived for. Planning meticulously, and only improvising when needed. 

This was how he worked. Failing as a hitman would mean disappearing, dying a painful death. He had to be careful of avoiding that outcome. Luckily, he hadn’t had too many close calls on the job. Fugo would like to keep it that way. 

Brushing past some of the couples in the stuffy crowd (some women having it so it was difficult not to step on their delicate dresses), he made his way to one of the dessert tables scattered throughout the ballroom floor. There were trays of small expensive sandwiches, scones, small cupcakes, tiny bowls of various fruits, and other sweets that Fugo wasn’t bothered to name or know. The dessert table wasn’t his main goal; In all honesty, he could care less about the food. 

The swing of jazz music had brought the room more life, the guests beginning to talk louder as the party went on. Only a few began swaying into the melody. 

Fugo pulled out a small photograph of the woman he was assigned to hunt down. She was olive-skinned, had a pretty face, a brunette, and had some sense of style. Or, well, from what he saw in the photograph. Wearing tacky-leopard patterned dresses and expensive purses and heels wouldn’t be what Fugo called a sense of style, but then again he had holes at the ends of all his suits. 

Speaking of his suits, it reminded him of a time when an old-friend, Narancia, commented on them, saying that he looked a bit like “swiss cheese”. Fugo used to tutor him back when he was still in university; A heartwarming feeling spread through his chest as memories rushed back into his head.

He kind of missed tutoring that guy, Mista as well (who, Fugo remembered, dressed like a hobo often - the beanie and tattered clothing and the fact that he didn’t even shower often only proved his point more). They were terrible at mathematics, but even if the two pissed him off every time he met them, they were good company.

Narancia was surprisingly good at putting things together, just not great at showing his work and interpreting what he had done. The guy also couldn’t remember the multiplication table at times. Fugo sometimes wondered how he even passed some of his classes in high school and got into a good-ass university.

Mista was a theater guy, studying in performances and the arts. The only reason he received tutoring from Fugo was that, similar to Narancia, he had a hard time putting the right equations on paper. Except Fugo knew the hobo-looking guy was good at math, fantastic at solving it in his head, just not so great at putting numbers on paper.

When was the last time he saw them…?

Shit- he drifted off again. Pannacotta seemed to be doing that lately, he wasn’t sure as to why, but he had to cut it out.

He hid the photograph in one of the inside pockets of his suit, tucking it in right next to his gun. 

Looking up, he began scanning the crowd for the woman. It took some time, but eventually, he spotted her. The woman seemed to be chatting with some men, fashioned in a tight-black dress that ended just at her heels. There was a cut in the front, exposing her legs. Was she trying to find a partner? Fugo didn’t have much information on the woman, other than that she was a part of some business that scammed a lot of their customers.

As soon as Fugo had spotted her, he directed his attention to the rest of the crowd. He wouldn’t want to be caught staring, or he would lose the target. Taking only small glances in the woman’s direction, all he had to do now was wait for the right moment to take her out.

That was his main goal, sneaking into an expensive ball filled with rich people, finding that particular woman, taking her out, and leaving as soon as possible with no evidence left behind (he had planned to accomplish this with a small lighter he kept on hand, a little fire does not harm a corpse after all). 

Unfortunately, his plans changed when he spotted a man begin walking up to him. 

Fugo’s social anxiety had already been on a high bar the moment he walked into the room, he never wanted to interact with anyone. He was fine without any conversations of any sort. By keeping quiet, it would reduce his chances of getting caught. Being directly approached was not ideal. No, it wasn’t good at all.

He hoped that the blond was looking at someone behind them and that he was reading the situation wrong.

Regretfully, he was wrong.

The blond walked up to him and halted by his side. Fugo swallowed nervously, but one could miss it among all the chatter and music. However, for Fugo, it was as loud as a gun being shot right next to your ears - a continuous ringing that never faltered.

“I never thought I’d meet someone with your color of hair in this day in age.” Goddammit. Of course, he had to perceive it as an insult. Fugo scowled and gritted his teeth. His voice was smooth, had a small accent to some of his words, but otherwise spoke fine Italian. Fucking hell - Fugo did not ask for this. Could the guy just leave so he can continue the job without further interruption? Please, that’s all he is asking.

Fugo didn’t reply, his voice caught in his throat. He kept his eyes on the target, at least that could help him focus on something. 

That was a mistake.

“You keep staring at that woman,” he paused, tipping his head at the other man, his golden hair moving along with it, “do you know her?” Fugo glanced at the blond, seeing him wear a small smile on his face. It unsettled him; He didn’t like how the question was phrased.

After a moment or two, Fugo returned his gaze to the target, he replied with a curt, “No.”

“If that’s the case, then why are you staring at her?”

Fugo turned back to the blond, shooting him an annoyed glare, “Is it any of your business?” 

The blond was taken aback; He straightened his posture, the smile planted on his face morphed into a sly smirk. There was a playful look in his eyes, a look that Fugo was not so comfortable with acknowledging. 

It was evident that Fugo would not be able to get rid of this guy so easily. 

“You intrigue me,” his voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. Pannacotta raised an eyebrow at this, unsure of where the blond was coming from.

“I assure you that I’m not that interesting.” Fugo turned his head, letting his eyes set on his target once more. The woman took another glass of champagne. Her now-lackadaisical attitude showed how the drink was affecting her, the effects allowing the woman to let go, and not be aware of her surroundings. 

That’s when he felt it, a sharp edge poking into his chest. This, of course, caught Fugo’s attention almost immediately, causing him to rapidly turn his head to the blond. He glanced down, seeing a fancy blade up and against his chest. The hand holding it had pastel-blue painted nails, a glossy finish added to it. 

The blond took a step towards him, making sure to cover up whatever action he makes from the rest of the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice.

Fugo gulped, his eyes narrowing at the blue-eyed fellow. His braid had been tossed over his shoulder, the blond hair tightly woven to a neat end. 

“I wasn’t done with my sentence.” The blade pressed further into his chest, a threat was implied in the gesture.

Pannacotta remained silent, keeping one eye on the target while also focusing on the situation at hand. 

“Care for a dance?” 

Fugo let out a small laugh, surely he had to be joking.

“Have you ever considered not being so obvious?” The blond muttered as everyone twirled their partner, snapping Fugo’s attention to him.

Fugo, confused about what the blond was meaning, tilted his head in question. A sharp turn had been made, directed by him, in which the blond followed through. Fugo was somewhat glad that he had learned a bit of this dance back at his family home. 

“You’re a smart guy, you should be able to figure it out.” the blond gritted, right as they tipped over into that bent arch, like before. 

“I’m not sure as to what you mean,” Fugo replied, pulling the both of them up and back into that half-embrace, crossing the dance floor once more. Their hands gripped painfully tight as they danced. 

The blond leaned in a bit closer, his tone barely even a whisper, “No one keeps a hand-gun with them at a ball.”

Fugo felt a shiver go down his spine, euphoria sparking in his head. Of course. How could he have been so stupid as to not realize this earlier?

This blond, whom he was dancing with, was another hunter! Of course! His buyer hadn’t mentioned him having to work with someone else, but maybe it was in the documents? No, Fugo was sure to have re-read those multiple times. That’s fine. The buyer just never mentioned this other hunter. Okay.

The buyer never mentioned another hunter.  

That was a bit odd, considering that Fugo had a strict policy of working independently.

“I’m sure that no one keeps a dagger with them simply to threaten others to dance, at a ball.” Fugo retorted, matching the blond’s low tone. His response received a small, fake smile from the blond, nails digging into Fugo’s hand at the remark. It wasn’t painful, but it did make him wince a tad bit.

The music wavered, it’s climax was approaching steadily. 

The two have a similar mindset, they moved around the packed ballroom floor in such a way as to get closer to the target. Fugo took note of how many drinks she was downing. How high was this woman’s tolerance? She was sure to pass out soon, and if not soon then any moment now. She certainly looked tipsy, stumbling as she walked and was unaware of two men targeting her, giving big smiles to those she passed by.

By the time the two separated once more, the music had switched from solos to a full-blast orchestra. The clapping increased significantly in volume, with more of the crowd joining in as time passed. All sorts of instruments accompanied each other in that same tango-rhythm, all lining up and being in unison during their play.

Fugo took another glance at the crowd, trying to find the place he saw the woman last.

Hold on a second, she was just there- right next to the dessert table Fugo was at before his dance. He swore that the woman was right there-

His eyes scanned the crowd, but to no avail, he couldn’t spot the brunette. The target had vanished from Fugo’s sight.

He stopped dancing, taking a couple of steps backward, peeking out of the corner of his eye to see that the blond stopped as well.

Backing away from each other, Fugo began to push through the crowd, not bothering to apologize to anyone; He doubts anyone would notice either way. 

Where was she? Fugo had seen her not even a couple of seconds before she left. 

He pauses, turning around several times. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek, he felt himself involuntarily gulp as a swirling feeling of confusion filled his gut, restricting his breathing a bit.

Fugo spotted the blond once more, noticing him making a bee-line to one of the doors, leading outside to a large patio.

Might as well use that to his advantage, he follows the other hunter, catching up to him and trailing behind him. The fellow certainly did not like this, but he allowed it. 

“ Galileo~!! Galileoooo.. Galile-o! Ga- ” 

The loud singing (more like shrieking, if you will) halted Fugo and the blond in their places. 

The woman was found laying down on a posh armchair, several glasses of champagne stood at the foot of it. She waved her arms wildly in the air, imitating a conductor, pretending that she was leading an orchestra. Her makeup was smudged all around her face; The woman kept smearing it more and more when she used her hands to pull on it, painting bizarre expressions; another sign that she is truly wasted.   

The target began another verse of Bohemian Rhapsody, which, in Fugo’s opinion, is a phenomenal song. Pannacotta would gladly enjoy listening to it. Though, with how the woman was “singing” the lyrics at the moment, it brought unpleasant goosebumps up Fugo’s arms, cringing at every high note she made. It ruined the song’s general mood and made it sound like as if it was a bunch of bogus. 

She was an easy shot. The target was almost asking to be killed at this point. The woman hadn’t even noticed them staring at her exposed self, still singing as if it were the end of the world - her voice made it even easier to target her. 

Pannacotta glanced at the blond next to him, spotting him pulling out the very same blade he had used to lure Fugo into that dance. The blond’s eyes narrowed, locked with Fugo’s. He watched the other with keen intent, arching an eyebrow - signaling the other hunter to make his move.  

Fugo, in turn, reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out his gun - fashioned with a silencer. It was average, medium in both size and weight, coated completely in a black finish. There was a muted click, indicating that it was cocked and loaded, ready to fire. The blond glanced down at the weapon before returning his gaze, now covert. Fugo couldn’t make out what the hitman was trying to tell him; The look the man was giving him was indescribable.

The big question for the two of them was who would be the one to take out the woman, who had switched to warbling, “Somebody to Love” for her small concert of crickets. 

In a rapid movement, Fugo aimed the gun at the target and shot.

However, just as he pulled the trigger, Pannacotta was shoved to the side, causing the bullet to go off to nowhere. The blond sprinted towards the target. His heels echoed against the stone-brick patio as he ran to the target, now well aware that something was wrong. Before he could get any farther, Fugo leaped and grabbed the back of the blond’s black vest, the two tumbled over each other - landing with loud grunts.

He rolled and rough-housed with the blond, the two swinging and grabbing at each other. Fugo attempted to get on top of him and pin him down, possibly immobilize the other hitman. The man swung at him with his dagger, Fugo only narrowly avoiding it. Pannacotta hissed as it grazed a bit of his cheek.

Every time the blond reached out or tried to crawl forward, he was immediately pulled back. His blade, and even Fugo’s gun, was discarded in the process. The weapons clattered away from the two. Both of their suits were soon covered in dust from all the wrestling they were doing. Eventually, the taller man straddled the blond down, keeping him from getting away. Fugo formed a choke-hold around the blond’s neck, attempting to suffocate him. The other’s hands gripped against Pannacotta’s, scratching and pulling at it as Fugo gave a cold glare. This was his target, he was assigned to this mission, he wanted the cash.

The blond’s eyes held fury, bewildered rage aiming directly at Fugo. His eyebrows were scrunched together, forming an angry crease between them.

Fugo only narrowed his eyes as he attempted maintaining steady breaths, winded from tackling the blond. The other hitman’s jaw was clenched, his face turning a bit blue. His eyes were becoming a bit fuzzy, unfocused, but his hands kept at it with Fugo’s, becoming more and more desperate to be released of the pressure. 

He ignored the slight stinging on his cheek, focusing his gaze on the man pinned below him. 

That was until he felt a sharp pain overcome him, the source of it emitting from his thigh.

Fugo gave out an agonized gasp, letting go of the blond. He looked down to see the tanned hand gripped around the blade that was sticking out of his leg. 

There was loud coughing coming from the blond, deep inhales as he finally receives the oxygen he lost while being choked. He pushed the attacker off him, his chest heaving in and out as he lay on the ground. The hitman rolled over to his side, attempting to pick himself back up, still hacking and gripping at his chest, tugging at his open-collared top.

The searing agony that shot through his body was tough to ignore - he had to bite his tongue to prevent a yell erupting from his body. Taking a glance at the source of the pain, he saw the blond’s hand gripping the blade that was currently in his leg. 

The biting pain only grew worse when the blond had quickly tugged back the blade, causing even more blood to begin gushing out of Fugo’s leg. He curled in on himself, trying to cover the bleeding. Pannacotta began pressuring the wound, the excruciating feeling spreading across his chest, his heart pounding in his ears.

Fugo kept gripping his leg, releasing a ragged cry before looking up, his gaze blurring every couple of seconds. The blond had recovered, standing tall after brushing some of the dust off his clothes. He kept rubbing his neck, which had already begun showing bruises and marks of where Fugo’s hands were. 

A realization overcame both of them, their eyes widening as they turned their heads to find an empty armchair. 

Silence overcame them as the huge fact of “ You lost your target stupid, the sequel ” was hammered into their brains. 

“For crying out loud -” He heard the other hitman hiss, hunting around for any traces of the woman left behind. Eventually, his pacing came to a stop, freezing for a moment before slowly turning to Pannacotta. 

The dim moonlight caused a shadow to appear on his face, appearing more intimidating than how he was. His lips frowned slightly, his posture straightening as he looked down at the injured hunter. Fugo saw all of this from the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t paying attention.

His main concern was his leg, the one that was bleeding extensively at that very moment. It made more sense to care more about that than the blond glaring at him in some funky-pissed-off way. 

Turning around, Fugo spotted a mini-medical station next to a fire extinguisher, not too far from where he sat. He tried scooting backward, using his good leg to push himself. It wasn’t very successful, the movement made the injury worse - it was already arduous to prevent himself from fully collapsing. Pannacotta turned over to his stomach and began crawling, using his upper body strength to try and reach the medkit. 

He stretched his arm out, felt his fingers spread apart as he grabbed at the smooth, white plastic corner of the box. Just barely there-

Fugo stopped for a moment as he heard receding footsteps; Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blond retreat, head down the steps and into the large gardens of the mansion. His braid swayed as he went, it brushing against him from shoulder to shoulder. 

Sparing his life was an odd decision, Fugo would normally disagree with that action - you have an enemy or target, you end them - but, for the moment, he is glad he isn’t a corpse.

Fugo continued, pulling himself forward before he was finally able to grab hold of the medical kit. He relaxed against the wall, flicking up the two clips before opening the lid of the box. Inside were needles of various sizes, surgeon’s stitches, an ointment bottle, blue and white bandages, various sizes of gauze dressings, as well as a few more items that the hitman was not that interested in. He briefly gazed over the wound on his leg, before picking out the needed tools to tend to it. 

After wrapping up his leg in blue-bandages, Fugo lifted himself onto that same armchair the woman had been on. It was a bit of a struggle, with one of his legs being physically unable to move, but he managed. The quality of the chair was fair, neither good nor bad. It had a unified royal-purple color, nothing unique about it. The frame was made of black iron; Its legs ended in a sort of swirl, its design following other parts of the chair. 

Fugo, with nothing better to do, let himself mull over the blond. For one, the snarky bastard exceeded his expectations of a regular hitman. Fugo would’ve been a bit more dead if the events that played out had even changed a slight bit. A trickster, for one, but he could also see him as a keen killer. This brought up the question of the other hunter sparing him again.

His mouth formed a straight line, thoughts circling that one fact. The man could, in some ways, say that he was grateful for how things turned out. Living was an upside to most things, after all. 

Fugo leaned back, relaxing against the back of the armchair. His thoughts returned to the beginning of their interactions - the beginning of the ball. For the most part, Fugo had been alone at that dessert table, a couple of hours at the least. The man only came to him as soon as a good chunk of the ball went by, around midnight, if Fugo could remember the time correctly. 

He thought back to the driving gestures the blond did, how he acted, how he persuaded him to that dance. Fugo felt his face warm up a smidge, remembering how much he relished the dance, dancing with the other hunter. An odd feeling, he would admit. Pannacotta brushed it off though, burying the feelings within him, never to be seen again.

He distracted himself with a thought that he had already come to terms with: They lost the target. 

The loss would prick at him for the next couple of days, as it usually did. It put him through a sour mood, but he would get over it with some other mission he had in his stack of anonymous-signed letters. He pulled out the photograph of the woman he was assigned to and stared at the glossy finish of the polaroid.

He had no use for it since the mission was already a failure, so he might as well cover up the remaining evidence.

 Fugo slowly pulled out one of his many lighters, flicked the cap open, a small flame danced at the opening of it. He let his hand play around with the flame, moving it under the photograph, letting it lick the ends of it until it started to smoke and turn charcoal-black. 

He closed the lighter, the flame dousing itself, before putting it back in his inner coat pocket. Pannacotta watches the polaroid begin to burn, only letting go of it once it had been completely enveloped in flames. The photograph wrinkled in on itself and turning an ash grey, the contents of it had become unrecognizable. Its edges were rigid and burnt, some pieces falling apart as the flames seem to disappear into thin air. 

It never really ended up like this, the missions. Giorno was good at his job, he knew that and presented himself well for it. He didn’t need to repeat himself, he could prove it. The blond was successful and efficient in his work.

Of course, when he kept losing the target every 5 seconds thanks to a certain idiotic hitman, he was a little pissed. A small amount, nothing major.

He paced around the garden pathway, gripping his dagger tightly. If it weren’t for him finding out that there was, indeed, another hunter who coincidentally had the same target as he did, then maybe he would’ve succeeded. 

The blond had searched the mansion grounds after he had left the other hitman, both inside and out, searching for this woman. For an intoxicated person, she was somehow very easy to lose - that only made him even more annoyed. 

Giorno eventually came to terms with the fact that the night was wasted. No target, no kills, no cash to pay his bills. Exasperated, he decided to try and shake off his thoughts by wandering around the foliage of the gardens. 

He began fidgeting with the dagger in his hand, mindlessly twirling it between his fingers. Giorno’s thoughts trailed back to the man who had been the cause of the whole mission going to waste. The blond had a gut feeling that he recognized the man from somewhere. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly how he knew the guy’s face, so he let the thought slide - it went back to a neglected place in his mind. 

The blond wouldn’t admit it, but he was a little concerned for the man’s wellbeing. The wound he inflicted upon the man was only intentional in the sense of self-defense. He never intended bringing harm to the guy, but the damage had been done. 

Maybe that’s what drew him back to the place where he left the other hitman. Giorno made sure to walk slower, give out as little noise as he could. He didn’t want to be revealed, not looking for a confrontation. He just wanted to see if the guy was doing okay. He knew that he should keep on with the mission, try and find a trail, but for some reason, he felt like this was more important. 

He made his way off the grass and onto the main path, it leading down the side of the mansion, decorated with various shrubbery and flowerbeds. Finally, Giorno walked up to the large potted hedge that sat at the corner of the wall. To the right of the plant led to the patio, which was where the blond last remembered leaving the white-haired man.  

“So you’re back,” Giorno jumped at the sudden voice, stopping abruptly and pushing himself against the wall. Did he make himself aware to the other man somehow? He doesn’t remember making any sounds.

“To be fair, I’m not even sure if you are there or not, or if you’re even the right person I’m talking to; I’m told I have high intuition.” Giorno parted his lips slightly, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. He could leave, now knowing that the guy was probably doing just fine, but something halted him - anchoring him to his hiding spot.

The blond kept his silence, waiting to hear if the man will continue. He heard the guy let out a small hiss of pain, halting his speech. 

“I uh… wanted to say thanks,” Giorno arched an eyebrow upwards upon hearing this sudden gratitude, leaning a bit forward, “for sparing me, you know, not the stab wound.” Giorno wouldn’t dare to peek around the corner and risk being seen, but he could imagine a small smile forming on the guy’s face. He couldn’t picture it being sarcastic, contrasting his tone of voice. It felt calming.

A couple more minutes passed by before the man spoke again, this time in a whisper, “You’re probably not there then. That’s… fine.” There was a touch of disappointment at the end.

It made Giorno’s heart drop a bit, the tone affecting him slightly. 

He turned his heel noiselessly and left, walking slowly to mask his presence. The blond pondered over the man’s words, thinking that they will be the last things he’d hear from the other hunter.

Giorno took one more glance over his shoulder, his braid swaying slightly at the action. The ball sounded as though it were finally calming down, the party dragging on its ending to the early morning hours. Some of the guests had already begun leaving, the pairs of intoxicated couples twirled around and yelled about, a couple entered their expensive four-wheelers - and had already sped off onto the main road.

He glanced back at the stone-brick pathway that led back to the patio. There was that thought, still tugging at the back of his mind, that he recognized him. Somewhere, maybe at some store? At another mission? Giorno wasn’t sure.

A small smile snuck onto his face as he remembered the dance, although competitive, he wasn’t sure of another time where he felt so full of energy. 

A tiny part of Giorno admitted to enjoying his company. Maybe he’d find the guy again some other time.

Meanwhile, Fugo looked down at his immobile leg and wondered as to how the hell he would be able to get back to his motel room, without arousing suspicion.

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: Graphic depictions of injury in detail, angst, mentions of live feeding to pets (like crickets to a frog, if you're squeamish about that), description of neck-snapping, arson, mentions of drugs 

Slam!

Fugo pressed his back against the door, exhausted from having to climb up a set of stairs with an injured leg (that was poorly bandaged, mind you). He gave out a pained sigh as yet another jolt of pain came from his thigh. He fumbled with the two-sided “Do Not Disturb” sign and opened the door just enough to hang it up outside his motel room, slamming it closed again. 

He sounded a disgusted “ eurgh ” as he took in the odor of the room. Suddenly, the apartment back at university didn’t seem so bad of an option to live in.

Fugo squinted at his surroundings, eyeing the matted-green carpet, beige, warped walls with chipped paint at the corners, and plain furniture; Those of which consisted of a creaky, firm bed that constantly gave Fugo back pains, a lamp at the head of it, and one at a desk that a chair sat at. The room, despite having its own “perks”, was bland, empty, quiet. 

Silent.

He felt his legs giving out under him just as he got close enough to the bed, collapsing on it with the least possible grace anyone could think of. Fugo groaned as his limbs gave out - dissolving into nothingness - refusing to move at his will. He craned his neck, turning to look at the analog clock on the wall, seeing that it was well past two in the morning. It took him two hours to get back to this goddamn motel. Two fucking hours. 

He is so sick of taxis in Naples. Was Rome a better option? Maybe Florence? Sicily could have been a good shot. Out of all places, why did Naples have to have services of a quality similar to an infant who hadn’t even learned how to walk? 

Fugo wished he would never have to experience a taxi ride like the one he just went through. The first taxi he had called bailed on him just as he saw his leg. It went up and left . Rude bastards.

This proceeded to happen a couple more times before a woman let him into her car. Fugo really should have rethought his priorities - but as someone who wanted sleep more than a hibernating bear - he didn’t think much of the situation he was about to get himself into. The drive was horrendous and Fugo had no idea how he kept in his fuming attitude from the driver. (Don’t worry, it gets worse ). She kept making abrasive gestures, barely paying attention to the road for the entire ride to the motel. Cars would swerve past her, honk their horns at her, and she would still pay no mind. Fugo could still hear her whining about her brother being un rompicoglioni . Not only this, but the woman was also reckless - sharp turns, going off lanes without warning, abrupt stops- oh, if Fugo could only end there.

Molto apprezzato to taxi drivers! 

He may have relished dancing with the other hunter, but oh , did Fugo loathe him. It is thanks to that man that he lost the target and was in this semi-immobile condition. 

Fugo ignored the burning question at the back of his mind, asking why he even gave into his playful antics. He was allowed to let loose for some time- it was a simple dance. Well, as simple as a tango could get. It was fun. Fugo was allowed to have it. His parents do not own him anymore. He has free will.

He can dance with that same blond and so many other partners. Fugo wasn’t.. as sure that the tango would be quite as thrilling, but it would be dancing nonetheless. He can do that. 

Why was his mind circling that hunter? He was an obstacle, and Fugo had barely made it out alive due to that man. The albinistic man remembered how the blond passed by him as he was reaching for that emergency medical kit. It wasn’t like the guy intentionally saved his life...

...right? 

Fugo was overanalyzing the moment. It was a one-time act. He should leave it at that. 

He knew that he couldn’t pass out now, despite how much his brain was screaming for rest. His back made small cracks as he sat back up; Fugo could feel his energy seeping, attempting to stand up. A jolt of pain passes through his body, causing the hitman to stumble before regaining his balance. Fugo searched through the motel dresser and found another medical kit and a small, rolled-up towel before promptly returning to the brick (that most would know as a bed).

Pannacotta elevated his leg and let it lay flat on the covers; He proceeded to unwrap the bandages he had put on back at the patio. This was to reduce blood loss and reduce circulation through it, something he had learned from Mista before he switched majors. Fugo’s brain was buzzing with memories as he went through the process of treating the stab wound, sterilizing the edges with rubbing alcohol and cleaning it. He bit on the rolled-up towel, preventing any involuntary hissings of pain, despite no one else being in the room but him.

After looking over the wound once more, he reminds himself that these dress pants were of no use anymore. There would be no way to conceal a hole this big with stitches and hemming without it looking odd or out of place. Plus, the bloodstains would be arduous to wash out, and Fugo had no means of committing to the practice. So much for this… not only that, but this would mean that the coat he is wearing would also be out of use.

It’s not like it was damaged or anything; Fugo had no other clothes that had a color even similar to this emerald-green one. He couldn’t wear mismatched suits, those were way out of his standards and - not to mention - it would be quite ridiculous of him to even consider it. Who would even wear something similar to that of what Fugo had just thought of?

Mista. Mista would. Yeah, he definitely would. 

Even worse, Narancia would support him in the decision - just to spite Fugo. He knew that the short king had some taste in clothing, but despite this, he would still go along with whatever bullshit Mista was trying to pull off.  

Mista is the type to wear zebra pants to every meeting, whether it be back when he studied for medical school, at theatre groups, at conference rooms, at Fugo’s mock court trials- it was anywhere, really. Fugo could even recall him saying that he didn’t shower because it “wasn’t necessary”. He was a madman.

Then again, as Fugo dug deeper into his memory lane, he remembered the time that Mista had been arrested because of- get this- shoplifting for clothes. He remembered being called, picking up the phone to: “ Oh, yeah swiss cheese, can you come to the police station for a quick sec, ” before the nutjob hung up on him. And- just as soon as he got there- he found Narancia wheezing on the floor of the waiting room. Fugo couldn’t get a word out of Narancia because of his breathless laughter. He resorted to asking the police themselves, wondering what the situation was about. They led him to an interrogation room (keep in mind, he still was not aware of why Mista was here in the first place), assuming that Fugo knew about the circumstances.

When he asked about Mista, he - very distinctly - remembered the police asking the albinistic teenager whether or not he was Mista’s lawyer.

It took around half an hour of explaining to both the police officers and Mista himself that there was a difference between being a law student and a lawyer . Fugo was 17. He was in university. He was studying law. 

There’s a difference there, Mista, you brainless invertebrate. 

Maybe Fugo should stop digging back down into memory lane. Bringing up those two brings back guilt - and Fugo already has too much to spare. 

Leaving them MIA one day, without any note or message as to why, and never even bothering to contact them… it all boils down to him being ashamed. It brings him back to his motel room, to the reality of his situation. What it felt like to be a hitman. He had dropped out of undergrad a few days before leaving, without even notifying them about it. Its been..

Two years. It had been two whole years since he had last seen those two. 

He could try contacting them sometime. Perhaps as a.. note that he’s still there. Still alive, at least. Fugo could write a letter to them, since he doesn’t want to risk using the motel’s phone service, after all. He could try taking a break from his job, try to live a life of comfort. Didn’t Mista and Narancia aim for a calm life after their studies in college? As their New Year’s resolution one time? 

A shiver went down Fugo’s spine, causing him to be abruptly shaken back to reality. 

He looked to his suitcase by the bed, recognizing his usual red attire and various other suits, along with other tools - varying from small combat knives to lockpicks - anything that would be useful in most kills. Eventually, after some struggling and awkward bending of digging through his belongings, he found his makeshift medkit. Opening it, he saw all of the necessary supplies to treat injuries and other various wounds.

He picked out the needle and thread, sterilizing the needle before beginning the slow process of stitching his skin together. It’s similar to the process of sewing holes in clothing, a meticulous task. He hesitated before pricking the edge of the wound, flinching at the pain stemming from it. 

After sewing the two edges of skin together, he tied a double-knot - ensuring it won’t be undone at any point. He cleaned the wound once more, put ointment around the edges, and wrapped fresh bandages around it.

Fugo nearly fell face-forward after trying to stand up and clean the mess around him; His injured leg appeared to have fallen asleep while being bandaged up. Fantastic idea, you’re incredibly smart Pannacotta. Perhaps he should have made a mental note of how he wouldn’t be able to go anywhere for a couple of days at least . He had to tend to the wound and make sure it won’t get infected during any travels he might have.

Just as he had begun throwing away all of the bloody gauzes and other dirty, disposable tools, Fugo heard something slip under his door.

He turned his head, seeing a paper envelope sitting at the foot of the door.

Pannacotta stared at the letter, slowly beginning to approach it. He brought out his gun, going over to peek through the peephole. 

A chill ran down his spine as he saw no one on the other side. He looked down at the letter on the ground, crouching down to retrieve it.

He picked up the letter, seeing the front written in calligraphy and ink. 

“ Passione: Pannacotta Fugo ,” He read aloud. 

Funny. He never remembered giving anyone his last name in years.

“Goldie, I’m home!” Giorno yelled out into his apartment.

His frog paid no mind to this, as she was sitting on one of her branches in her terrarium. At this time of night, she is typically waiting for her owner, as it’s almost time for her to eat. Her tank was hexagonal, sitting atop a cabinet. She had a small lamp beside it, along with another terrarium typically used for her food.  

Giorno stepped over the letters he had at the foot of his door, maneuvering around the small mess of objects on the floor. He placed down his duffle bag of tools before unbuttoning his vest and throwing it on one of the dining room chairs.

He had forgotten to turn off the light in his kitchen. Dammit, that would show up on his electric bill. 

Giorno filled up a kettle, placing it on the stove and turning it on. He made sure to shut the curtains at the window, not wanting for neighbors to peep in and ask why this random man was awake at one in the morning.

He walked back over to his front door, crouching down to collect the letters he had gotten while he was out. Giovanna also took off his shoes, placing them beside the wall next to the exit.

He made sure to also check in on Goldie, seeing that she was still in her tank. He adjusted the rubber lid on top of the terrarium, then opened the cabinet door beneath it and grabbed some tweezers. Giorno also made sure to check in on the second terrarium, where her live prey also lived in. He picked out a couple of insects before plopping them into Goldie’s home, making sure to not disturb her nor touch her as he did so. 

He retreated into the kitchen to fill up a small watering can. His next step was to clean the terrariums and water the plants in his apartment - a routine he kept for almost two years at this point. The blond typically did this job in the morning, but due to his rush earlier that day, he hadn’t done the job properly. 

Before he had done this, however, he made sure to take the kettle off the heat. He disliked the loud whistling sounds it makes, so Giorno always keeps a keen ear for when even the smallest of sounds come from it. 

After wiping down the leaves and walls from both terrariums, double-checking the temperature and humidity levels, and making sure to refill the water bowls, he prepared himself a mug with a black tea bag. He began briefly scanning over the letters he had picked up earlier, his mind drifting off to small inconveniences that happened earlier this morning.

Today he kept getting distracted by so many things- too many, actually.

First, he couldn’t find his ladybug-locket-brooch that he usually had by the nightstand. Giorno usually would start his mornings by doing his hair, brushing his teeth, all the usual tasks - however, this specific object was of utmost importance to him and he could not simply lose it (or leave it lost, for that matter). He had checked around every nick and corner before realizing that the brooch was on his vest the entire time.

That was around 30 minutes of his morning wasted; he was supposed to be out of the apartment by this point. Another 20 went by styling his hair. He skipped breakfast so he could make it to a meet-up with one of his buyers (in which, the man didn’t even show up). Another hour wasted. He was half-glad that the bartender gave him a free drink in compensation for the other man not showing up. 

Some more time went by, with running errands and double-checking his belongings, grabbing his suit from the tailor, making sure Goldie and the other critters were safe and in their terrariums, along with some other minuscule tasks that Giorno was too exhausted to think about. 

He was so exhausted that he didn’t even notice himself spilling boiling water.

“ Shit- ” he hissed, dropping the kettle back onto the stove. The water trickled down the counter and onto the floor, rapidly cooling as it met the air outside of the kettle. He grabbed a towel and draped it over the spilled sections on the counter. Giorno then saw his letters slide off the counter, and fall onto the wet mess on the floor.

He jerked his hands slightly, hissing a “ Cazzo! ”

He rapidly grabbed the letters, putting them back onto the counter. Using the towel he grabbed earlier, he lightly padded each one with it. Giorno noticed that they weren’t as wet as he thought they would be. A sigh of relief came at that notion. 

The blond finished cleaning up the spillage before returning to his tea, letting the bag sit and brew in hot water as he sorted through his letters - starting anew. One by one, he wearily read through each of their contents. Some of them included pet product offers, advertisements, the general mail. Others were anonymous senders, ones with cash inside the envelopes, along with information about certain people. He would occasionally get these letters from people who were friends of those buyers he worked with. 

However, he disliked those who wish to bring death and misery to those who truly do not deserve it. Children, some elders, boutique owners, a homeless father, a maid, a waitress, a waiter, and a teacher were among some of the anonymous offers he received that he threw out.

Giorno always took the money - of course - but, he doesn’t follow through with these assignments. He finds that ridding the world of these growing and struggling people is useless in itself. 

He would only kill those that he despised down deep in his gut.

The letters he held contained information about various people, some of them being the kinds mentioned earlier. There was, however, a specific letter that caught his eye.

It was light, obviously only containing a piece of paper inside. It had a wax seal engraved on the back, the letter ‘P’ on the stamp being in an old-English format. The paper was white, smooth, and had calligraphy written in ink on the front of the letter.

He tilted his head, confused by the writing on the front.

“ Passione: Giorno Giovanna, ” He mumbled, checking the rest of the letters to see if there was anything else similar to this one.

Giorno didn’t remember ever giving his full name out to anyone; Apart from his old job back at a bar in Rome, he had no clue where to even start thinking about people who did. Hell, he didn’t even tell his mother his last name from when she kicked him out and left him on the streets. 

“ Passione” , was this some lousy attempt at a confession? Did he know anyone that went by “Passion”? Was this some old co-worker from Rome?

Who was this person?

Fugo dragged his hands through his hair, disliking the information lying in front of him. A time, date, and place. That was it. Those were the contents of this letter.

Nothing more.

He must have reread this at least eleven times. There was only this index-sized sheet of paper, with a time and date that would occur about two weeks from now. No explanation, no new buyers, no advertisements. It had an address that he did not recognize. A person delivered this letter to his motel door at two in the morning and didn’t even bother to show face. 

What did the contents even mean? Was he supposed to meet up at this location? There were assignments that Fugo had gotten back in primary school, with all those small riddles that most fourth-graders would get and try to solve without knowing all of the contexts. The feeling of uncertainty and unknowing and wanting answers to solve the goddamn puzzle. Trying to figure out how one person was connected to the other, marking out boxes to find out which person had which object. Kind of like the board game “Clue”.

That was how this situation felt to Fugo. He felt like a complete idiot. Lacking in logistic knowledge.

The only difference between primary-level riddles and this letter was that there were only four pieces of information, and the rest are unknown. While those riddles had context clues (albeit not easily recognized), this one had the sender as “Passione”, a date, a place, and a time.

Should he try and come to that location? He would have to find out where that was tomorrow morning.. Or would it be too risky? What would even happen? The possibilities of this being all some huge trap dawned over him, and it made his eyelids heavier by the second. 

He felt all his gears stop working in his head. Fugo considered that perhaps some hours of sleep would do him good, despite it being so late in the morning hours. 

Fugo grabbed one of his lighters on his desk, flicking the cap open and closed before pocketing it. He leaned back in the motel chair, stretched a little bit before he stood up wobbly. He took the singular letter and put it by the bedstand, before slipping under the covers. The fabric was thin, spikey, and uncomfortable, but it was fine. The bed creaked as he rolled over to his side and grabbed the chain that hung from the lamp. With one pull, a click was sounded and the room became pitch-black. 

He should really buy a new apartment sometime. But that would require finding someplace that his two old friends weren’t aware of, and he had to stay clear of their tracks. For both his safety and theirs. 

...who was Fugo kidding? The real truth was that he didn’t want to face them after all this time. His fear that despite him returning, they would abandon him. Just as he did to them. He had no reason to leave unannounced and have them remain in the dark about his situation. The two would hate him, their close relationship was severed.

He was afraid. A murderer and afraid. How ironic. 

A coward is what he is. 

Those were his last thoughts before sleep finally tugged its last strings, lulling him to unconsciousness. 

Giorno set his tea on the desk, turning on a small lamp. The other letters had already been discarded off to the side of his desk as he stared at the contents of the message once more. A time, date, and place. And “Passione” of course, although the blond had no clue what that even was. Some lover? Some organization? An undercover government group?

Giorno grabbed one of his old maps of Naples he kept from his drawer. He unfolded it, the edges of it hung off his desk. He smoothed it out, making the sheet of paper’s contents more readable. The blond narrowed his eyes as he scanned over streets, landmarks, restaurant names, and various other locations that didn’t match the address written on the letter. Where on earth was this place? It was in Naples, that was for sure. Giorno passed by many locations on his travels and hunts, and he vaguely remembered this particular one. It had to be somewhere-

There.

The blond stared at where the address pinpointed to; A library. He checked the letter again, seeing that the location was also on a specific floor. Underground. Underneath the building.

This did not seem suspicious at all. 

Giorno was definitely not concerned with what- or who- a “Passione” was, and he definitely wasn’t planning on putting himself in danger for no reason. He didn’t care if the invitation looked formal, or “old-fashioned”; He’d rather find some other job than meet up with someone that could get him in trouble. 

He might’ve taken on risky jobs at times, but he knew that wherever this place led to would be a trap. He could just feel it. 

So why was he standing at that very same closed-down parking lot two weeks later?

Well, he had a gut feeling throughout the week that, if he didn’t come, he would miss something important. Whatever that was, he wasn’t sure of. Giorno trusted his gut, therefore he trusted himself.

For this meeting, he prepared ahead of time. He trusted himself, made his time useful, spent his possible last days with Goldie, left her with Mrs. Holly - his downstairs neighbor that usually took care of his frog - and hijacked a car to come here. 

It was a good car as well. He could tell by the fact that it had a front bumper that wasn’t duct-taped or missing. It may have been a bit slower than what he was used to, but he couldn’t assume that every car he’d steal would be top-quality every time. He did miss the one he took to the ball, though...

He began wandering around, glancing at all of the construction left behind; The metal bars had already started growing rust on them, the tarps that lay over open gaps were coated with a sheet of grey dust, and the stairs he climbed from already had signs of weathering at the edges. He walked over to it, brushing his hand against the cement wall of the uncovered structure. Behind him, he saw a large elevator - most likely for carrying large amounts of cargo or tools. The entrances to where cars would normally file in were marked by large, bright orange stop signs, with large blocks of cement behind them.

Giorno heard footsteps echo down the staircase he stood by.

Immediately, he pulled out the dagger that was hiding in his sleeve. He turned towards the tapping sounds, its echoes growing in volume. He readied his stance. Was it the “Passione” thing? He could only tell that one person was coming down.. It was rare for any of Giorno’s buyers to come to a location on their own. Usually, they’d have a friend or guard with them as they would discuss a certain target. Perhaps this was some other person- an operative- or maybe the polizia ? No, they would also be accompanied by at least one other. Maybe-

Giorno’s stomach inverted on itself. He saw black shoes, then maroon-red pants with stylized holes at the ends of them, then a hand holding a gun with a silencer, then a face.

He remembered this face. It was an extremely familiar face . This face was so familiar, that Giorno could remember the very night he encountered this man. 

The ball. The other hunter.

“You have to be fucking kidding me.” That scowl was also a memorable sight to see. That same weird, white hair, reddish-pink eyes, the same attitude too. The hitman. The one he stabbed in the leg.

Oh right. The one he stabbed in the leg. That one. Right, he forgot he did that. The man did try choking him, so it was only fair game. It was justified.

He didn’t see the guy wearing any visible bandages.. He already healed himself enough to walk?

Giorno could only stare, seeing him climb down the steps. Wait a minute- Out of all places, why here? Why did he have to see this guy here? What was he doing here?

Did he also get a letter from this “Passione”?

As he got closer, the blond could see the man gripping his gun. Both of his hands were clenched, actually. Knuckles white and all. 

Giorno took several steps backward, allowing him to exit the stairwell. 

“What a surprise to see you here~” Giorno spoke out, smoothing his Italian as best he could. His smile wiped from his face just as soon as the man pointed the gun at him. This was escalating faster than the blond hoped it would.

“ Woah - please put the gun down-”

He glared, putting a finger on the trigger, “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you right here and now.”

The blond bit his lip, “I know why you’re pissed,” The other hitman narrowed his eyes as he spoke, “This is because of my horrible dancing skills, isn’t it?” A little game wouldn’t hurt, right? Messing with the man pointing a gun at him is fun and adrenaline-inducing. Plus, Giorno didn’t really believe that he would shoot him right at this moment.

He knew that from the other hitman giving him leverage, a chance at reasoning. Similar to Giorno in some ways, allowing for some justice to pass by. 

“ What- No, I enjoyed our time together. You’re.. not half-bad at it.” He seemed to relax his shoulders slightly, huffing at his words. “At dancing, I mean.”

A slow, sudden warm feeling sprouted in Giorno’s chest, giving his arms goosebumps and making him freeze in his place.  

It’s a compliment, Giorno. Take it and be done with it. Don’t think much into it.

The man shot at the ground next to Giorno, which made him jolt. The gunfire echoed across the parking lot, its sounds bouncing off the walls and the ringing noise still lingering for some time. “But you’re wrong. Guess again.”

“The…leg.”

Another shot was sounded - this time to the left of Giorno. “You’re somewhat right, but no. Again. ” His voice was sharper, and he took a step forward, limping slightly. The man didn’t seem like the type to be fun at parties. The blond could feel himself gripping against the hilt of his blade, despite him probably not being able to use it.

“Right! The target!” Giorno nervously laughed at that, feigning ignorance.

“ I lost my target, thanks to you.” He spoke quickly, spitting venom as he did so. He took another step forward, this time with his good leg. “I should shoot you right where you stand.”

“Then why don’t you?” The blond taunted.

Before any more words could be spoken by either of them, an elevator ding echoed down the lot behind Giorno.

And possibly the largest man that he had ever seen, in a yellow suit, rode into the parking lot on a mobility scooter. 

“I’m surprised both of you came here.” The man’s deep voice boomed across the halls, a small chuckle following soon after that.

This man had bodyguards, all in black suits, surrounding him. Some of the men had different hair colors, cuts, different heights- but one thing remained the same about them. The expressions they wore were nonexistent. No emotions, no sign of any brow quiver or smile, just cold. 

It made Fugo shift a bit, keeping himself on his toes. Something about this meet-up didn’t feel right . There was too much authority, too much control. The man in the suit rode closer to them, the scooter’s movements echoing across the empty parking lot. He glanced at the other hunter, seeing him furrowing his eyebrows and turning towards the man in the yellow suit. 

Pannacotta never lowered his gun; He kept it aimed at the blond, unsure of what would happen if he didn’t. He refused to let down his guard, being suddenly hyper-aware of everything going on around the lot.

“For hitmen, I expected better.” 

The supposed “new buyer” sat a couple of meters before Fugo. The hitman tilted his head downwards, letting out a small huff at the remark.

Pannacotta readjusted his hold on his weapon, “Who are you?”

“Who I am should not be your main concern,” He lifted a finger and leaned forward, “It’s why you’re here; that’s the question the two of you should be asking yourselves.”

Fugo swallowed, “Is that so?” 

“I’m sure of it.” The man leaned back, seeming amused at the response, “One must consider all possibilities - but for hitmen - they should think twice as much.” 

The two hitmen remained silent at that, with Fugo still aiming his gun at the other hunter.

“What is your business with me?” Fugo heard the blond speak up, glancing at him before returning to the person of interest.

A sly smile painted across the man’s face. “The reason why I am here revolves around both of you, as you can tell by your friend there.” He gestured to Fugo in a lax manner.

Pannacotta heard the other hitman give out a sigh, but didn’t reply. He tilted his head downwards, eyeing the man in the mobility scooter with an uneasy glare. “What is your business with both of us , then? I’m not the type to waste time on insignificant meetings.”

“Nor am I.” He heard the blond add.

The “buyer” straightened his posture, grunting as he did so. He began to lean his elbow on his armrest, resting his head against his fist.

“Have you heard of the shining cities of Sodom and Gomorrah? How they both went up in flames?” He made a small tch at the end of his question. At the sound of that, his guards began forming a line next to each other in pairs. 

The hitman glanced at the blond, seeing him arch an eyebrow at the man. Fugo himself was familiar with the title, but not its contents. He’d read some classics, especially those by the Grimm Brothers, but apart from those fairy tales, he wasn’t particularly involved with the church. His parents had him focused on his studies, none of which pertained to religion.

The man moved forward a little, enough to be almost in-line with the rest of the men in black suits. “Sodom was a city full of sinners, a place where heinous acts were made and done on the streets.” He readjusted the edges of his suit, straightening it as much as he could, “God instructed Lot and his wife to flee the city if they were true followers. There was a catch, though.”

Uneasiness spread through Fugo, his chest tightening and his body growing stiffer as this man continued the story. He wasn’t sure what he was anticipating, but it was for certain that this would not end well for him.. nor the blond, for that matter.

“Neither of them could look back as the city was being destroyed.” Pannacotta heard the other hitman shift his feet at this, “Lot’s wife turned back: at that moment, she had become a pillar of salt, and was blown away into the dust.”

The parking lot went quiet, its silence pounding against Fugo’s ears. He opened his mouth slightly, hesitating, “What are you trying to say?”

The man gave a cheeky smile, “I’m certain that you two have absolutely no clue as to what - or, I should say - to who you stumbled upon, coming here.”

“Have either of you heard anything on television? Regarding the mob?” Dread filled Fugo’s fingertips as the man’s smile turned wicked and his voice grew louder, “ Do either of you not realize that perhaps you turned back to the city? That you are becoming pillars of salt as you attempted meddling with affairs regarding Passione? ” 

Fugo’s eyes widened as all of the men in line pulled out handguns and targeted them at both him and the blond. The hitman gripped against his gun, switching his aim to one of the men. He heard the other hitman step back and sharply inhale. 

Their expressions were blank as they followed the silent cues the man in the yellow suit gave them - almost as if they were robots following a line of code.

“I’m sure that you’ve heard of what happens to people who mess with the mob.” A chill went down Fugo’s spine, as if his limbs weren’t already shaking, “Those who tend to intercept with our matters, don’t return without a few marks.. if they return at all.”

Fugo’s hands began to sweat, his eyes darting around for any exits that he could take in this short amount of time.

How much time was there left? How long would it take for him to lie down and become a corpse before he would be left to rot? Hell, the blond too? 

“Fortunately, this place should be an adequate stop for you both. The least you could do is pray, though I doubt that would do much to benefit both of you.” The man’s voice echoed the large lot, his expression turned dark, grimacing as he gazed upon the two.

Pannacotta met eyes with the other hunter, seeing that although his body was still, the man’s eyes were panicked. Fear bled out of them. He may be gripping his weapons, may be a hunter, may be a killer- but it was almost as if something clicked with the white-haired man. 

He was a coward, just like Fugo.

A wave of empathy filled him, he understood the blond. He was just like him . Two dogs with their tails between their legs as they faced this man, who had explained how much trouble and danger they were put in. 

“Like Lot’s wife who looked back on Sodom,” The man curled his fingers into his palms, clenching his fists, “You, too, will be turned to dust.”

An idea suddenly dawned upon him. A lightbulb went off in his head, his face lightened up for a moment and suddenly- he could barely breathe. 

Fugo snapped his head back, breaking contact with the other hitman. “Wait!” He stifled out, gaining the attention of the man in the scooter. He saw the blond stare at him out of the corner of his eye. 

Don’t choke, Fugo.

He blinked, “Is.. there any way we could make it up to Passione?”

“ We? ” He heard the other hitman whisper; The blond stared at him as though he were a pigeon who had just flown into a glass window.

The man chuckled and paused. “What are you proposing?”

“A bargain. I’m asking,” Fugo lowered his gun slowly, “if we could make a bargain?”

“A deal?” He threw back his head and laughed. The man before them regained his composure before continuing, his voice raspy, “You’re willing to bargain both of your lives with Passione?” 

Fugo could feel the blond’s eyes burning into him, “Yes, him-”

“Giorno.”

Fugo whipped his head towards the blond and took in the fact that he finally has a name for this man. It was an odd one, being called “day”. How annoying it must be to greet people with your name. “Buon Giorno, Giorno.” 

If it weren’t for the fact that Fugo was under the stress of not dying at that moment, he would’ve laughed.

He cleared his throat, “Giorno and I,” He took a split-second glance at the blond, “are willing to make up for our interferences with the Passione. In turn of.. not dying.”

The man put some thought into his response, letting his silence stretch out. 

“He and I could-” Giorno hesitated- “be of service to you and the mob. We’re both skilled as assassins.. as you already know.” 

The man contemplated on the added information that the blond provided, lowering his hand and staring at the two. Fugo could feel his heart pound against his ears, and his eyes couldn’t look away from the man’s gaze, not even for a second.

“To have you two come and join our side would risk having moles in our familia , so to speak,” he leaned back in his seat, directing his gaze to his fist, letting it relax. “Though, if you weren’t to propose your so-called ‘bargain’ , I believe you would not have taken that factor into account.”

He seemed to finalize his thoughts, finally concluding an answer for Fugo’s proposition. He waved his hand, signaling for the guards to lower their weapons.

Smirking, he replied, “A fair deal. I’ll accept it.”

He heard Giorno give out a sigh of relief, Fugo, in turn, feeling some weight lifting off his shoulders.

“I go by Polpo around here,” he finally introduced. The men in black suits stepped back, becoming his barricade. “I never expected you to convince God to spare Sodom and Gomorrah, Fugo .”

The hitman clenched his teeth, choosing not to respond to Polpo’s sly remark.

“This feels as though we’re running through a script of a Pink Panther animation, except we’re both the panther and everyone else is that cop person.” Giorno mused, tilting his head towards the other hitman.

“Please stop talking.” 

Fugo turned from him, heading towards the steps leading out of the parking lot, limping slightly.

Giorno looked back, seeing the freight elevator’s doors shut, before following promptly behind him.

The two hitmen made their way up the stairs from the abandoned parking lot, with one following the other. Their pace was moderate, with their footsteps echoing up the concrete stairwell; Fugo’s every other step being heavier than the other, almost thumping his way upwards. It had been not too long after Polpo bid farewell to the two, the memories of him and his demeanor still lingering in both of their minds.

The blond recalled the information brought forth to the two: the deal that Fugo had made, the mafioso giving them a new target, the fact that they were underneath the location of that very same target, the deal that Fugo made, the mafioso giving them a new target - 

It racked Giorno’s brain, his thoughts circling what could have happened if something were to have gone a different route. What would have occurred if Fugo hadn’t brought up a bargaining method, and looped the blond into this mess? He intentionally included both of them in the deal- what was up with that? Was this his form of payback to when Giorno spared him back at the ball?

He felt that he should be enraged - blood-filled hate, wrath, resentment - but.. he couldn’t bring himself to. Rather, he was more thankful, if anything. Grateful could be a better word. He thought of a way out on the dot and decided that Giorno should join him. That they would both make it out alive, and not just him. The blond admired that about Fugo, even though he was barely acquainted with the man.

Giorno chuckled, returning to reality. “Bummer.. I’m sure you’re fun at parties”

“We’ve-” the blond heard him seeth through his teeth- “danced together at that ball. Do you consider that fun, or was it a whole diversion and meaningless to you?” Giorno could practically feel his irate attitude pervade the stairwell.

“I understand now that you may as well be a lizard who just dropped its tail.” 

Fugo paused, “How does that have any relation to what we are talking about?”

“You’re afraid.” Giorno giggled, amused by the hitman’s annoyance towards the blond.

Fugo stopped in his tracks, turning fully towards Giorno, and bore his eyes at the blond a step below him, “Be thankful that I roped you into this deal as well. The only reason you’re alive right now is because of me .”

Giorno went silent at that, staring back up at him.

“I would highly suggest not to aggravate me, Giorno .” Fugo kept his gaze for a few moments after that, almost as if he were peering into his soul.

Giorno’s voice caught in his throat, his head became clouded and foggy. The stare proceeded for what seemed to feel an eternity; Each second feeling like a minute, and each minute feeling like an hour. 

Fugo suddenly turned around, pushing through the glass door to the exit of the stairwell. The blond hesitated before he followed suit, heading behind him. His heart rate had picked up quite a bit after that small interaction, but Giovanna would pay no mind to this.

The darkness invaded his eyesight, in which the blond squinted as he stepped through the door. There were small sections of the room that illuminated - mainly golden accents in the chairs, the ceiling, the counters, and some other places that brushed over his mind. The room itself was quite large, having many paths towards long hallways and endless rows of bookshelves between those entrances. Some books were laying in carts, a couple open on desks, some were even laying on floors near low-level chairs and cushions. There was a couple of people still reading their way through the night, some looked as though they attended the local university not too far from here.

He followed the hitman heading down one of the halls, noting that they were more of a historical area rather than a place to store books and files.

As Giorno silently tailed behind the other hitman, he glanced at the paintings hanging from the walls. They passed by some portraits of men in suits, women in gowns, and marble sculptures of famous architectural founders for this building. From this distance, Giorno could barely depict what features they had. 

“Remind me, where are we going?” he whispered, switching his gaze to the back of Fugo’s head.

“We’re heading to the archives.” He retorted, giving Giorno a side-eye glance. A blue-eyed stare burned into the back of Fugo’s head, only more and more questions forming after his response.

“You know where they are?”

“...presumably.” 

Giorno’s mouth formed a straight line, “I’m not sure if I like that answer or not.”

Fugo didn’t reply, only glancing over his shoulder to see the blond, before continuing their journey through the maze of a library.

They passed by yet another set of doors, before taking an abrupt left. A long corridor awaited them; its tall windows letting moonlight flood in. Several bookshelves, protected in glass frames, stood to the right wall of the hall. Fugo hasted down the room, taking double-glances as to avoid any roaming security or library attendees that may come their way. 

Giorno bit his lip, speeding up his pace so that he would be in step with the other hitman.

“..Why the archives? Shouldn’t we wait for the woman out back?”

Red eyes pierced back at Giorno, almost like knives. “She is supposed to come to a certain location in the archives,” he frowned.

The blond arched an eyebrow.

An exasperated sigh let out of him, “If we make it to the archives ahead of her, we’ll be able to catch her easier.” Fugo looked over his shoulder, “Meaning, we’ll be one step ahead of our target.”

“Ah.” 

The target in question, according to Polpo, was a woman that went by the name of ‘Agnola D’amico’ . She had apparently become a mole to the organization, selling information for her own gain and profit. She also was to be located in that very same library, often meeting up with the person she was selling information to. The hitmen’s task was to eliminate her and dispose of the remains accordingly.

Simple enough.

The two reached the end of the corridor and hid against a wall. Fugo peeked around the corner, checking to see if there were any patrolling guards at the entrance to the elevator down. There was a stairwell right by it; Fugo gestured to it, silently asking the blond if they should use that instead. Giorno nodded, mutually agreeing about the decision. Giovanna began to step forward before the albinistic hitman put out an arm in front of him, halting the blond’s steps. 

There was a resounding echo of footsteps heard in the hall next to them. Faint chatter followed the stepping, and it was clear that only one person was coming their way.

A woman’s voice began speaking, though whispering. At some point, the woman was close enough to be heard audibly.

“ -Pronto? Yes, this is Agnola .” She sighed, “No, I do not believe there is anything I could do about that. Rocco , listen to me-” 

There goes the whole “one step ahead of her” plan.

Giorno held his breath, awaiting the other hitman’s signal. Fugo turned his head towards him, listening to any other sudden noises and focusing on him. It was only at this moment did Giorno realize how red the man’s eyes were; almost as if they were riots of deep roses, a swirling flame coursing through them. The moonlight made them seem as though they were glowing, along with illuminating his hair and bringing out the whitest parts of it.

The blond felt himself breathe out a sigh, unsure of why he only noticed this now of all times. It released the tension in his shoulders, feeling a small weight rising from them. He rose his eyebrows as Fugo studied him as well, or perhaps he tried to hear the woman at the other side of the wall. Giorno couldn’t read the other’s face - it looked as though there was a wall before it. He could see every detail, or as much as he could from this distance, but the emotion itself was confusing to figure out.

He so desperately wanted to find out what was behind that barrier.

“Wait.” Fugo quietly reiterated, breaking their contact- and the blond’s trance. Any foolish words that Giorno was about to say had vanished from his mind, replacing every feeling with shame.

He internally smacked himself. What was he thinking? It’s an illusion, they’re on a mission. Focus on that, not Fugo .

The chatter and conversation came to an abrupt halt as the two heard the elevator doors chime, and the sound of machinery moving down gave them their cue.

Fugo released his arm, plopping it back to his side. “Come on,” He pulled at the automated door, it opening before he rushing in. The hitman made his way down the stairwell, one step thumping harder than the other; It took a brief moment before Giorno could follow after him, still trying to get his heart to calm down from whatever that was. 

A thought struck at Giorno.

“Say,” The blond slowed his pace, and watched Fugo peer around the corner from the stairwell, “what were you intending to do if this plan of yours.. Doesn’t work?” 

The hitman turned towards Giorno, who was a step above him. The blond gazed down at him, awaiting his response.

Fugo slowly reached into his coat, pulling out a small box. It was a dark color that Giorno couldn’t make out in the dim light. He watched as the hitman flipped the box, staring at it before opening the lid, and a small flame sparked open.

The tiny light of fire glowed and allowed Giorno to see his surroundings clearer. Fugo stared at the lighter in his hands, watched the flame dance for a moment before flicking his eyes back up to the blond.

A chilling look from him caused a shiver to go down Giorno’s spine. An uneasy feeling rose from his gut. He swallowed.

His eyes widened as he heard a cool reply from Fugo, “A simple accident would occur.” The flame continued to play around from the lighter, its movements causing shadows on the wall to move with an eerie touch. 

“..What kind of accident?”

Fugo seemed calm, content as he spoke, “Wire malfunctioning could happen, causing this library to be set aflame.” He closed the lid of the lighter, making the fire disappear with a blink of an eye, and turned back to look over the corner, “A true, unfortunate disaster, in my opinion. All this information and these valuable documents, gone within a few moments. Right before Agnola D’amico would leave, too.”

“Very... ill-fated.” He added in a hushed voice.

Oh my god , Giorno thought. I’m working with an arsonist.

“You can’t be serious,” Giorno whispered back at him, following the man through another set of doors, and entering the archives. Fluorescent lights filled his vision, making him squint as he adjusted to the transition of darkness to light. “There are other people in this building.”

“What of them?”

The blond clenched his jaw, “Civilian lives, Fugo. ”

The hitman rapidly pulled Giorno in-between a wall of bookshelves, and covered the blond’s mouth with his palm to silence him as a man in security attire passed by their way. Only after a few moments did Fugo let go, and turn his gaze back down to him.

“You went along with this, didn’t you?” He spoke intently, narrowing his eyes. “Didn’t Polpo say something about ‘considering all factors’ that went along with this bargain?”

Giorno glared at Fugo, a wave of small swirling anger rising in his gut.

“Did you think I did not consider this? I am well aware that there are indeed other lives at stake, but ever since that deal, you have to start considering whether you did this for your own life,” He heaved out a sigh- “or for others.”

Fugo kept his gaze for a moment before turning away; he headed out of the set bookshelves that Giorno was at, and made his way down the right side of the archives. 

The blond felt as though he missed an opportunity to stab him again.

He had no answers to Fugo’s response. He was unsure if he joined along in the deal for his own sake or someone else’s; was it for Goldie? Mrs. Holly? His old co-workers?

Despite a sway of discomfort that overcame him, he headed out of the bookshelves, turned his head both ways before he followed the other hunter. Perhaps if Fugo did try to set this place ablaze, he would be able to prevent anyone else from getting caught in the process.

Glancing at every corner, Fugo made sure that the path they were heading down had no intruders. He heard the target and her client conversing somewhere down here, now his main goal was to find them. Looking over his shoulder, he saw Giorno following him, noting that his eyebrows had lowered and scrunched a bit. 

To be quite honest, Pannacotta was a little surprised at Giorno objecting to the idea of him setting this library aflame. 

The blond knew the risks to become a hitman, he surely knew what mentality the mob had, so how was being an arsonist any different? Every profession that committed sinister acts generally contained a similar mindset, the only difference between them all is how this mentality was supported and what actions were taken to fulfill a goal. Surely, Giorno understood that.

Or.. was he the more justice-type? That everyone had a means of being innocent until proven guilty? Was that it?

If that was the case, Fugo was unsure of how he would think of the blond in any future acts. He’d fit better as a lawyer, in that case. A better one than Fugo could ever be, that was for sure.

He adjusted his sleeves, checking around one last corner before finding another hallway. How many halls were there? The archives were truly a labyrinth to Fugo; with all of the changing directions at rapid speeds, rooms changing names to others, it confused him to no end. 

It was only after he passed by a room semi-blocked with boxes of files where he heard Agnola’s voice, along with another one returning.

“ D’amico , D’amico~” A woman spoke to her, “Our organization will be very grateful for your contribution.”

“...You’re paying me double for this, right?” Agnola spoke quietly, barely above a whisper. Fugo stopped Giorno, turning to face him and silently holding up two fingers, before pointing into the room - signaling that there were two people in there.

The blond turned his head, lowering it and peering through the cracks of the boxes. Fugo found his spot, trying to see where each person stood.

He observed the second woman, bob-cut blonde hair and brown eyes, in a dark grey suit, spoke with more confidence and had been walking about the room. “Of course, that is, if you’re willing to give more than the usual amount.” 

“...right.” Agnola, on the other hand, though taller and physically larger than the other, was timid. Shy, almost. She stood in one spot, her back to the door.

Fugo felt a tap on his shoulder, “You take care of the target, I’ll take the other one.” The blond mouthed, reaching down to his belt. Giorno pulled out one of his daggers, gripping against the handle as he looked up to the hitman.

“Uh. Well, I’m sure you’re already aware of what Passione is capable of-”

Pannacotta nodded, prepping his stance for a silent kill. 

“Come on, get to the point Agnola.” 

“-there is this squadron they have that covers this one section of Napoli. Vladimir Kocaqi, I personally know him, he leads the narcotics-”

Fugo grabbed Agnola from behind, setting one hand on her jaw and the other on the back of her head. With one swift turn-

Snap .

The other woman widened her eyes, as she met them with the red irises of Fugo’s. She was frozen, so shocked she couldn’t move.

As Agnola’s body fell, producing a small, singular thump on the ground, he heard a whoosh of air next to his ear. Giorno’s dagger rattled for a moment as it pinned the other woman to the wall. 

Fugo watched the blond’s swift, trained movements as he knocked out the other woman with one fist to the jaw. He huffs out a sigh as he grabs the dagger sticking out of the wall, and pulls it out. 

“You’re good with a knife.” Pannacotta observed, seeing the blond turn his head towards him.

He strapped the dagger to his belt, gazing down at his shoes, “I.. appreciate the compliment.” His tone sounded softer, closer to a mumble. Pannacotta found his reaction a bit amusing, though he wouldn’t show it. 

The hitman looked down to the lifeless body of Agnola D’amico, pondering over how they should transport her. He crouched down and attempted lifting her from her torso, before readjusting his position and picking her up bridal style. She was a bit heavy, but it was manageable.

The exit to the archives should not be too far from here, they should be able to get out without being caught. 

“We should-”

“Shit, Fugo-!” The hitman quickly directed his gaze to Giorno, seeing the hitman dropping the unconscious woman, “We got spotted!” 

Fugo’s thoughts came to a halt. 

“We what? ” He whipped his head to look behind him, only seeing a phantom of what was a person around the corner of the room. The two heard yelling and echoing calls for security. 

The white-haired hitman set the corpse of Agnola down on the floor, before pulling out his gun from the inside of his jacket. He took a step out of the room, spotting the person that had seen them running down the many sets of bookshelves. He began his aim, tilting his head to see better, before abruptly getting pulled back into the room.

“ What are you doing?” He lowered his voice, glaring at the other hitman.

Giorno looked at him with disbelief. “What are you doing?”

Fugo looked at his gun before looking back at the blond. “I’m- what do you mean ‘what am I doing’ ? The witness is getting away?!”

“And you’re planning to shoot them?”

“ Yes? What else am I supposed to do?”

Giorno gripped onto the collar of Fugo’s shirt, messing up the tie in the process, “We only need to take out one person today, not two, not three, not even this entire building. I will not let you take the life of that man.”

“He is a witness ,” Fugo grabbed the blond’s wrist and pulled his grip off of him, “he saw me kill D’amico. We’re to not have anyone know we’re even here -“

“That does not justify taking more than one life-“

“You can’t be fucking serious.” Fugo stepped forward, glaring down at Giorno, “Do not try to tell me what I know about ‘justice’. I do not give two shits about those morals and I’ve already thrown those out long ago, as any normal hitman would do.”

He saw Giorno’s eyes grow cold as he looked up at Pannacotta. “We’re taking Agnola, and then we’re getting out of here. That’s final.” 

The blond went over and picked up the unconscious woman, brushing past Fugo. 

“Then what do you suggest we do about him?”

Giorno stopped his pace for a moment, turning his head and looking over his shoulder at the hitman, “We leave him alive.”

The hitman gritted his teeth, almost seething as he slowly put the gun back in his inner coat pocket and picked up Agnola once more. 

As he came out of the room, he partially-tripped over a small object on the floor. Fugo looked down to see that it was one of the ladybug brooches that Giorno had on his vest. Awkwardly, he picked up the brooch to give back to the blond later and winced at the small jolt of pain coming from his thigh. 

From a glance, it looked like an ordinary piece of jewelry, the head and the spots of it contained blue gems of sorts. It had a glossy finish over it and was lightweight in his hand. He pocketed the brooch before heading down the hall that the blond went down.

Giorno burst through the back doors of a library, with Fugo following close behind. In the distance, sirens wailed through the night. 

The security in the building had already called police the moment that witness informed them, meaning that the two hitmen had to be quick with their getaway. The blond set the unconscious woman down on a patch of grass, before making a break for the parking lots. He looked over his shoulder, making sure Fugo was still behind him, before looking back to the rows of cars before him.

He slowed down to a speedwalk, looking at all of the run-down cars and newer ones. Giorno was trying to look for something that would not be as noticeable but also fast; Cheaper versions of Fiats, Lancia Ypsilon’s, maybe even a German brand would fit the picture. 

A smaller, grey Audi caught his eye. He jogged over to it, checking the windows to see if anyone was inside. He brushed his hand over the smooth surface After confirming that there was no one around, he lifted his elbow and whacked it against the driver’s seat window.

“Wait- what are you doing?” Fugo readjusted his hold on the corpse, leaning on his good leg, staring at Giorno attempting to break the window. After a couple more thumps, a loud shattering noise echoed into the night, and he reached inside and opened the door. Glass shards fell on the asphalt and inside the car itself. 

“Well,” Giorno huffed as he brushed off some glass off the driver’s seat, “We have to drive out of here somehow? ” The blond pulled a lever down at the bottom of the seat, opening the trunk.  

Fugo took a moment before he opened the trunk lid fully, and set the body down into it. “Don’t you own a car?” He shut it closed, before making his way to the front passenger seat.

Giorno tilted his head and huffed, “Do you think I have 100 cars on hand?” The blond closed the driver’s door, opening up the wiring compartment under the wheel by using one of his daggers to untwist the screws.  He began digging, searching for red and yellow wires to activate the engine. 

He heard the other hitman try to open the door, before knocking on it a couple of times. Giorno pressed another button and opened the door. Fugo climbed in right after, staring at the blond’s handiwork.

“How did you even get here?” 

Giorno found two wires - red for battery and yellow for ignition - pulled them out, and attempted to spark them against each other. “I used a different car.”

“You mean you stole a different one.”

The engine roared awake after a few sparks, with the car jittering for a moment before settling down. It hummed as the blond left the wires dangling down from the compartment, and he put his seatbelt on. “What’s it to you? You wanted to burn the library down.”

Fugo clicked his seatbelt into place, “I only mentioned that because you asked what I would do if everything were to go wrong!” Fugo threw his hands in the air, “And here we are! Running from the cops!”

As the hitman said that, the sirens outside seemed to be getting closer and closer to the library.

Giorno gripped the steering wheel and began backing out of the parking spot, “I’m a good driver, don’t worry.”

He was not a good driver. 

The blond made abrupt, quick turns, causing both him and the other hitman to hit the sides of the car on multiple occasions. Once they had reached the highway, he dodged cars left and right, crossing red lights and even at times nearly hitting opposing drivers. The cops were tailing them for some time, but Giovanna out-sped them.

It was only when Giorno stomped on the brakes, which caused Fugo to be thrust forward and nearly hit the dashboard, that the other hitman blew a fuse.

Fugo wheezed, recovering from the seat belt digging into his chest, “ What the fuck?! ”

Giorno stomped on the gas pedal, which pushed to the back of their seats. “What?”

“ You-! ” Fugo grabbed his hair and pulled on it, raising his voice a significant amount, “ When did you learn how to drive? Are you some arrogant taxi-driver? Or are you some 10-fingered brick that never learned how to drive a car without crashing it?”

Giorno snorted, “I never had a license.”

Fugo stared at him. “Pull over right now.”

“What makes you think I’d do such a thing?” Giorno laughed, turning his head to Fugo before seeing him holding his gun, and aiming it straight at the blond’s chest.

“There are around four-hundred-and-fifty-thousand words in the Italian language. There’s no way I can combine any of them to describe how much I want to shoot you if you do not stop this car, right here, right now.”

Giorno looked back to the road, peering into the rear-view mirror, not seeing any blue cars behind them. He took a split-second glance at Fugo, before swallowing, “I-“

“ Do you value your life? ” The end of the gun poked into the blond’s side. 

Okay. He wasn’t playing around.

“Alright!” Giorno turned the wheel and pulled off to the side of the road. “Okay! You can put the gun away! I won’t drive anymore.” 

The other hitman pocketed his gun inside his vest, climbed out of the car, and walked around to swap places with the blond. Giovanna, in turn, unbuckled his seatbelt and got out of the 4-wheeler, before hopping back into the passenger seat. 

He pouted as he buckled his seatbelt, giving a side-glare to Fugo. “I wasn’t that bad,” Giorno mumbled.

“You were the equivalent of a fish trying to climb a tree.”

“Ouch.”

Fugo paused, readjusted the seat before he dug one of his hands into his pockets. “Before I forget,” He pulled out a small brooch. Giorno’s brooch, as a matter of fact, his locket. His blue eyes stared at the object in the hitman’s hand.

“You, uh.. dropped this.”

The brooch was oval-like, covered with small sapphire gems, replacing where the spots would normally appear. Its cover was that of a ladybug, a small bug that Giorno was quite fond of. The edges were painted with a bright gold color, and it had a finished, glossy polish over it. This brooch could be opened like a locket, and it stored a single photograph.

A photograph of Giorno’s biological father, Dio Brando.

It had been given to him as a child, but the blond was too young to remember it. He recalled his mother describing how his father came into the picture, before he up and left one day. 

Had he truly dropped such an important ornament of jewelry? 

Giovanna reached up to where the brooch would normally clip onto his vest, only to glance down and find the spot empty. He gazed at his brooch in Fugo’s hand, pondering what to do with it.

Fugo lifted his arm a bit higher, cleared his throat, silently gesturing for the blond to take his brooch.

Giorno gave it some thought, before sitting back in his seat, “...Keep it.”

“Wh-“ Fugo scrunched his eyebrows together, “What? Why? I don’t need it- just take it.”

Giorno closed his eyes, sighing, “I don’t like repeating myself, Fugo.”

The hitman retracted his arm, resting it on his thigh. He stared at the brooch and brushed a thumb over it. “...you still haven’t answered why I should keep it.”

The blond opened his eyes, switching his gaze from the road to Fugo. “Consider it a truce.” He lowered his voice, “You saved my life with that deal back there.”

Fugo formed his lips into a line, keeping his silence.

“If I break my truce, you can sell it to a pawn shop.”

The hitman opened his mouth, hesitating, “I don’t-“

“It’s priceless,” Giorno added, “made with real sapphires. You’ll get a lot from it. Plus it’s important to me, so that’s double the damage.”

Fugo turned his head to face Giorno. At this point, the lights in the car had been turned off, and the only things that provided light were the passing cars on the highway and a singular streetlamp.

“If that’s the case - with it being important to you - wouldn’t you want it back?”

Giorno flicked his eyes up to meet Fugo’s, staring them down. His voice became impossibly quiet, “I don’t take back things I’ve already gifted, Fugo.”

The blond saw something shift in the hitman’s eyes. It’s as if they’ve grown softer, looking back down at the brooch. Giovanna looked back to the road, awaiting the moment they would begin their drive once more.

They needed to find a new, remote location to dump the body, after all.

On the drive back, the previous conversation drifted back to Fugo. He rotated the brooch in his hand, fiddling with it as they drove down the main road back to Napoli. 

Occasionally, he would glance at the blond sitting in the passenger seat. His face was pressed against the window, watching the fields roll by. The sun had already begun to rise by the time they discarded the remains, its rays now brighter than ever as the hitmen drove on the highway. A car would pass by them, maybe two - but apart from those rare moments - the road was empty.

Fugo held the wheel with one hand, relaxed against his seat. Words spoken by the blond next to him rushed back to his mind, picturing his face, hearing his tone, his voice over and over and over again. It began to irritate him, but he also didn’t mind it. Conflicting emotions followed him as Pannacotta desperately tried swatting them away; ones pertaining to shame, guilt, and something alien - unknown, confusing, different.

It seemed as though he could never outrun them, no matter how hard he tried.

Click!

He raised his hand, staring at the half-open brooch. For a moment, he thought that he might have broken the ‘priceless’ thing, as Giorno named it. But, after opening it wider, he noticed that it wasn’t some normal piece of jewelry; it was a locket. A locket with a frame inside, which contained a photograph.

Fugo had to do a double-take on both the road and the locket. 

The figure in the photograph was of an... extremely muscular man. He was shirtless, posing with his back facing towards the camera, his head tilted downwards and he had an unusual glint to his eye. The man had long, curly blond hair that went down his shoulders. It was kept, looked to be brushed often. Not only this, but he also adorned makeup; He had deep, emerald green eyeshadow and lipstick to match with it. It looked extremely similar to the blond right next to him.

This.. was this Giorno?

Fugo took a moment to examine him from the corner of his eye, comparing his features to the photograph in the brooch. He concluded that no, this could not have been Giorno. The man in the photograph was heavy - almost buff - while the other hitman had more of a lean figure. Not only this, but the man also seemed much taller compared to the blond. In the photograph, he stood by a woman, most likely about average height. Comparing her to the man, he was almost a full two heads taller than her.

He sighed, closing the brooch and pocketing it. Best not to think more of the man. Perhaps it was a relative? That would explain the similarities.

They passed under a tunnel, the dim lights flickering over them as they exited once more. The air stilled around the car, making Fugo stiffen up a little. Pannacotta glanced at the blond, seeing him be lost in thought. No sounds came from either of them, not since they disposed of Agnola D’amico.

“We have no method of contact with each other, do we?” Giorno piped up out of the blue, making Fugo jump.

The hitman flicked a lever, which signaled that he was changing lanes, the car making a constant beeping sound before he returned the lever to its original position.

“What made you ask that?” Fugo asked, glancing at the other hitman. His face was still glued to the window, looking out to the now-forest scenery. Pannacotta noticed small, dark circles under the blond’s eyes.

Giorno looked out of the corner of his eye, staring at Fugo. “Well,” His mouth gaped open for a moment before he mumbled, “since we’re working together, how will we communicate outside of work?”

Fugo pondered on this, looking in the side-view mirror on his left. “Do you use landline phones?”

“Forget those,” Giorno blinked back to the window, “phones are always taped.”

The driver glanced at the dreary blond, looking back to the road and answering quietly, “..If we don’t have any other choices, we could use those.” He passed by another car before switching lanes again.

The only noise remaining after his response was the small hum of the car engine. Fugo clenched and unclenched his hands, feeling uncomfortable with his statement. He knew the risks of using landlines, and how easy it was to replicate audio and have it bugged. This would not only risk their work life, but also their contract with Passione. Using phones would be too much of a danger for the both of them, even if it was for a quick, small chat about how their days were going.

Then again, they were in a stranger’s car. This very car could be taping their voices, and sending signals back to the owner’s houses. Not only that, but the police were already aware of the library incident (thanks to a certain someone allowing a witness to pass by).

Giorno opened his mouth slightly and hesitated, “Do-” He cleared his throat, “Do you use letters?” 

Fugo glanced at him from the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow, “Letters?”

“Well, those old fashioned things. I still use those. By mail, you know?” The blond kept staring out the window, watching the hills passing by. 

The hitman at the wheel readjusted his grip, dwelling on the idea that Giorno proposed. Wouldn’t that method need to go through postal services? That would risk them getting followed, or even caught. 

It would also require knowing each other’s addresses for the mail to even be sent in the first place. That piece of information Fugo absolutely refused to give out. He wouldn’t even consider the idea.

“Those would take a pretty long time to be sent.” Fugo glanced at Giorno, noticing him still staring out of the window. “I’d also.. prefer to not give away where I live .” ‘Live’ could not describe Fugo’s situation accurately. Would moving hotels and motels every few weeks count as ‘living’ like that of a house? An apartment? A dorm room? 

A twinge of guilt rises in his throat, remembering his two old friends, but the hitman pushed the feeling down. Ignoring it was better than accepting it, at this point. 

Giorno lifts his head from the glass, an imprint of his cheek lingering before fading from the window. His eyes widened a bit, turning to Fugo after blinking a few times, staring at him.

Fugo looked back at him, meeting light-blue eyes. He felt uneasy about how long this silence was prolonged. He raised an eyebrow, swallowing, “...What?”

“There is this place I know where no one would look at first glance.”

Fugo returned his eyes to the main road, flicking the lever again to change to an exit lane, heading into the city. More cars appeared on the road, some driving to work or returning from their night shifts.

Fugo glanced at Giorno, who was still staring at him. “..And?”

Giorno finally blinked, looking back to the road ahead of them, “You could leave the letters there and I could return periodically.” He turned back to face Fugo, softening his voice. “Would that work for you?”

A sudden jerk at his heart caused Fugo to inhale sharply. He averted his gaze, his heart rate picking up at the question. He gripped the steering wheel in an attempt of distracting his roaming thoughts. It was a question, Pannacotta. Are you alright? It was a simple question. He’s just tired, that’s why he sounded like that. Don’t dwell on things that aren’t important.

Eventually, with a bit of struggle, he replied, “That.. doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

He sees Giorno make a small smile, returning his gaze to the buildings passing by on the road. 

Fugo wished he didn’t see that expression. He wished he wasn’t in the car at all. The blond’s smile burned into his mind, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of everything . From the texture of his clothing to the noises of other vehicles outside, to Giorno crossing one leg over another, to feeling his heart beating in his throat and noticing how sweaty his hands had gotten.

Disgusting. He wished he had a towel. Everything about him felt clammy and uncomfortable - he needed a breather. Maybe a shower would be better. He’d use the one back at the motel once he gets back to his room. That sounded like a great idea.

Fugo stops at a red light, refusing to look at Giorno, asking, “Where is this place?”

Giorno looked up at the staircase down the alleyway and up to the rooftops. He took one step onto the rusted metal and made his way up the stairs, turning every few times to look over the guardrails on the balconies. On several floors stood potted plants, all growing various types of vines, shrubs, and brightly colored flowers, some already closing their petals as the sun slowly lowered in the endless sky.

The blond brushed his fingertips among some of the foliage, a couple pricking against his fingers, before continuing his journey up the steps.

The sun’s rays travel upwards along the side of the building, catching the corner of Giorno’s eye and blinding him for a moment. They provided a warm light to certain parts of the stairwell, with the upper floors gaining the most attraction from it. 

It had been around a week since their last meeting, and ever since then, Giorno had received only one letter from the other hitman. It asked about his brooch again, to which Giorno wrote back with something along the lines of ‘I hate repeating myself.’

He stepped onto the cement of the rooftop, taking in a deep breath of fresh air. The sunlight hit at just the right spot and the golden hours of warmth and sunlight poured onto the rooftops, with Giorno getting swept up in its glow. He stopped for a moment, taking another deep breath before heading over to the ventilators, where he told Fugo to leave his messages at. 

As he expected, a new letter lay in the crate next to one of the large fans. 

He picked it up, noticing that it was a bit heavier than usual, double-checking that it was indeed from Fugo (and it was, written in a fancy print with a cheap office pen). He turned his heel, walking away from the loud, circulating fans, and began opening the letter. He pulled out his letter, along with another piece of paper that dropped from it. 

Giorno sucked in air between his teeth as he saw it nearly fly over the ledge of the building. He caught it drifting mid-air, thankfully before it could have gone forever.

The piece of paper - more like a postcard - he dropped was an.. invitation?

He flipped the cardstock invite over, reading its contents:

You are invited to the joining lives of Signorina Maria Vallone & Signorina Matilde Di Norcia. 

Sunday, August 7th, at 22:00.

Port of Napoli, “The Midnight Light” Cruise ship.

Reception to follow.

A.. marriage invitation? 

Giorno read further, seeing a memorable red stamp with the letter ‘P’ engraved in it, along with a message written in thin, black sharpie.

Take out the photographer.

He arched his eyebrow as he then opened Fugo’s note, reading his somewhat-messy handwriting.

Giorno could almost hear his voice echo in his head, as he read his message aloud, “Dear G,” He paused, mumbling the next section, “How do you feel about weddings?” 

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: Mentions of drowning, descriptions of a body burning, alcohol mentions, drinking, blood mentions/descriptions, guns, desc of panic attacks, mentions of a drink being spiked/drugged

Gentle, the process must be gentle. 

One stroke of a hand, some light excess hairs fall out, retaking those loose ends. A simple mistake, a rock, could disturb the waters. He grabbed the other ends of his partner’s hair, twisting it one after the other. He took another section, intertwining it with the two pieces he had just twisted. A repeating pattern, like a stream. Tanned hands lift the braids he had just created, inhaling then sighing. 

The aroma of fruity wine, mixed in with rose water overwhelmed him. Not the horrible, emotional burden of being overwhelmed - it was more of a soft tone. One that would match sitting under a tree, in a fresh meadow and your favourite person in the world would be right there in your arms. Perhaps a book would lay before the two of you, discarded to the side as you hold that person in your arms. A protective feeling, he would assume.

Bruno could never ask for more as he stared at the gold ring on his middle finger.

A wisp of laughter escaped his lips, remembering how their proposal went.

“What?” His husband murmured, tilting his head upwards to look at him.

Bruno played a small smile, pressing his lips on Leone’s forehead, “Ah… it’s nothing.”

A small chuckle escaped Leone, closing his eyelids and leaning his head on Bruno’s thigh.

Bruno recalled back to that day; he and Leone had walked down the same beach, the very same one they lived by. The evening had warm wind brushing against their faces, the sea washing against their toes. Their shoes had been discarded off to the side, in the dry sand. The sun had begun stepping below the horizon, preparing for its slumber. That’s when Leone asked him to be with him for eternity- that’s when he said yes- that’s when his fiancé at the time mistakenly put the ring on the wrong finger. 

He had been shaking so badly from the joy that he accidentally put the ring on the wrong finger! Oh, how hard he had laughed when that happened. Leone called him an asshole, but he knew he was laughing too. A wonderful sound that few could ever hear from this man.

Bruno brushed Leone’s newly-made braid over his shoulder, pulled him into an embrace before whispering, “I’m so glad I met you.”

“Oh?” Leone reached his hand to one of his husband’s arms, rubbing his thumb over it, “What made you say that?”

“Just speaking the truth.”

“Haha! I see how it is.”

“Your eyes are shut, how can you see?”

Leone opened his eyes, deep lavender irises pierced back at him, “Not anymore, they’re not.”

His heart fluttered at the sight. Small laughter filled the room with warm energy, the late morning weariness getting the best of them.

Bruno let his mind drift a little, letting it wander off to how they woke up later than usual earlier that morning, and how they sleepily drank black, lemon tea together. His mind had only a fuzzy memory of it since he was not fully awake even after placing their mugs in the sink.

He remembered the invitation to his dear friend’s wedding, Matilde. Bruno could remember the day that she sobbed into the phone, telling him the news. It was… quite loud from what he could remember.

Speaking of Matilde… wasn’t Leone supposed to meet up with her at the tailor soon?

He looked up at the clock hanging on the wall, seeing that it was past 11 o’clock.

Oh no.

“Leone, bello ,” Bruno murmured. “Don’t you have to see Matilde today?”

Leone paused for a moment, looking up to the clock, eyes widening before scrambling out of Bruno’s grip, “ Shit,  I completely forgot-“

He tripped over his feet, landing on the floor with a loud thud . “ Cazzo! ”

Bruno heaved out a small wheeze, watching his partner getting up, “Go, go on! You’re already late!” He soon followed him to the entrance hall, next to the shoe stand with a mirror hanging above it.

“I know that-“ Abbacchio hissed, taking out some of his dark lipstick and dragging it across his lower lip. He peered into the mirror before grabbing the keys to their car.

“I sure hope we won’t rush to the cruise like you are now! It would be a disaster .” Bruno gave a small peck to the side of Leone’s cheek, patting it with his hand as well.

Leone mirrored the gesture, giving his husband a small kiss on the cheek. “It’s in two weeks, we’ll be fine.”

Bruno smiled clumsily, “See you, Leone!”

“Bye, bello ~” The door shut after him, a gust of wind following it.

Peeking his head out the window, he watched as Leone sped off in their four-wheeler, most definitely breaking several traffic laws in the process. He was the type to do that, in spite of the task force he left due to internal corruption. 

Buccellati thought back to when he had met Leone, him still being the academy and whatnot. Maria was the one who introduced him to Abbacchio, and for that, he couldn’t have been more thankful.

He remembered meeting Matilde as well, who was a close friend of Leone and still is to this day. She had worked in the market not too far from Bruno’s stand. 

Maria had also been a frequent visitor to his fish stand, and that day he had offered assistance to carry her goods. And when she declined- tall, young Matilde ran right into her in a hurry.

Bruno chuckled as he remembered the day Matilde met Maria… He remembered all the fussing around of goods, spillage of groceries and various foods, the two rolling over each other and trying to tackle one another. A fiery start to where they are today, quite the chaotic two. 

Chaotic… that reminds him of Narancia. Hadn’t he also been a loud teen?

He remembered when he first saw the kid roaming the streets, seeing him with a bandaged eye, and bringing him into his home. Bruno brought him back up to a healthy state, taking him to a doctor to get his eye treated, feeding him some good meals. After some time, Buccellati considered this teen as a younger family member - his son.

Bruno became engaged to Leone soon after Narancia left for Roma for university.

He frowned. This past year he hasn’t talked to him much. Narancia mentioned some time ago his roommate disappeared, and seemed to “vanish” in thin air. From then, he’d been receiving updates and Bruno had even asked around in Napoli for the missing kid. No one knew who he was, of course.

It was… odd. How could someone not be able to find a kid that looked so unique as well? From what Bruno heard when he first chatted with Narancia over the phone, he said that Fugo was someone that you wouldn’t forget. White hair, red eyes, pale skin- he most likely has some sort of medical condition that Bruno didn’t know the name of. Whatever it was, he was hard to miss.

He walks over to the kitchen, opens a cabinet, and grabs one of the many boxes of tea Leone owned. Although more of a coffee person, something told Bruno that tea was the better option for today. Turning around, Bruno grabbed the empty kettle that was on the stove before filling it up with tap water.

As he did this, he looked over to the wired phone by the dining room table. He thought about the last time Narancia called him.

Now that he mentioned it, Bruno hasn’t heard from him all week. Maybe it was his turn to call his son?

He set the kettle down on the stovetop before retreating to the dining room. He hesitated before lifting the phone, pressing several buttons, dialing Narancia’s number.

Bruno bit his lip as the call rang. It rang for some time.

“ Ciao! ” Bruno’s spirits plummeted as the call rang to voicemail. “ You’re calling this number? Oh, yikes. Chances are this guy isn’t anywhere near his phone! Sorry about that. Be sure to leave your words for me after the beep. ”

He sighed, ending the call before redialing the number. It led to voicemail once more. He ended the call, redialed, hoping third time's the charm.

To his surprise - and relief - the call on the other end picked up.

“Narancia?” Bruno spoke a little too loud, excited that his son finally answered the phone. 

What answered on the other end wasn’t Narancia, however. He heard someone murmuring, but couldn’t recognize the voice.

“Who.. is this?” Bruno asked, twirling the spiral wire in-between his fingers.

“It’s…” There was a sigh. “Mista, Nara’s roommate. Who is this?”

Bruno knew Mista, he’s heard Narancia talk about him before. “Oh, I’m Buccellati. Narancia knows me well, you could consider me his foster parent.” He froze, “Did something happen with him? I’ve tried calling multiple times but he wouldn’t answer.”

The other end went silent. 

“...Hello?” 

“Yeah, I’m still here,” Mista responded wearily. Bruno could tell that something was off with his tone. He began stepping around, anxious.

“Is everything alright?”

The sounds of shuffling around were heard in the background. “Well, Narancia passed out not too long ago.” Bruno waited, thinking he had more to say. “He and I came back from a short trip. We’re… fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.” Bruno retorted.

A groan sounded, “No, we’re not.”

Buccellati asked what the matter was.

“We still... haven’t heard a word from Fugo, our old roommate. He went missing two years ago, and last month was the anniversary of the last time anyone has seen him.” He heard Mista trip over something, cursing at the action.

He hesitated, “Nara already thinks.. the worst happened.” Mista’s voice grew quiet. “I ain’t sure. He’s still out there but the police aren’t doing shit about it.”

Bruno looked up at the ceiling, shifting at his feet, “Has he called you two at any time?”

“No.”

“You’re still in Roma right?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah.. I’m still in Napoli. I don’t think I’ve seen a white-haired child anywhere.”

“That’s reassuring to hear.” Bruno could hear the sarcasm in Mista’s voice from where he stood.

“Listen,” Bruno looks down at his feet, readjusting his hold on the phone, “I wanted to call to tell Narancia that Leone and I will be on a cruise for a while. And that…” Bruno bit his lip, thinking. “We’ll be on the lookout for him. I trust you’re taking care of my son?”

He didn’t hear Mista for a while, but when he did, his voice cracked. “Yeah, I’ll make sure he’s safe. We both will.” 

Bruno found himself smiling, relief escaping his lips. “Thank you, Mista. I hope you and Narancia take care of yourselves. I’ll be hanging up now.”

“Yeah… Ciao .”

Bruno set the phone down, returning to the kitchen only to find the water he thought he was boiling had not been doing that at all. He sighed, turning on the stove, crossing his arms. 

He looked out the window, seeing the waves crashing against the shore, sunlight bathing everything in all of its glory. He spotted a couple of children running down it, barefoot. They looked to be playing a game of tag.

Wherever Fugo was, despite not knowing him personally, Buccellati hoped he was alright. For Narancia’s sake, at least.

Dear G,

How do you feel about weddings?

I’m assuming that you would have something suitable to wear for a cruise, otherwise, we can configure and arrange some new attire if needed. I know a place we could go. I doubt we’ll be on there long enough for the ceremony, unfortunately.

July 24th, 11 pm. We can discuss this further then.

Sincerely,

F

Giorno reread this letter around seven times over the last three days. It was short, simple, punctual, and summarized well. The tone the letter was written in was solely for business, all academic-like. Giorno pondered how Fugo was raised if he could write letters this.. professional. Perhaps he was an All-As type of guy? A perfectionist? He was surprised to receive a letter from him in this format, it contrasted his annoying attitude greatly.

The blond looked up to hear someone climbing up the stairs of the alleyway. 

He looked over the postcard’s contents once more, gently brushing his thumb over the words written on the page. He let his eyes trace over them a couple of more times before pocketing both Fugo’s letter and the wedding invitation.

Now that he thinks about it, he’s never been on a cruise before. Has he even seen a ship bigger than a standard fishing boat? He’s assuming that this wedding will be an expensive one since it will partake in a trip like this. There will most likely be a lot of individuals attending the ceremony, possibly disguises in plain sight would suit the two of them best?

He thought of Fugo’s appearance and wondered what would suit him best to make him blend in with the crowd. 

Now that he thought about it, was his hair even natural? Giorno bleached and dyed his hair since he despised his original black tones, but he’s never seen anyone in Italy with that colour of hair. He wasn’t even some high-end fashionista, either. Was it some birth condition?

His thoughts traced back to the important topic at hand: The cruise ship.

Giorno had researched more about the ship’s routes, finding intel that the cruise will be making a large loop around half of the Mediterranean. It would start in the port of Napoli, then head around to Roma to pick up a couple of more boarding passengers, and from there it would travel to France, Spain, Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, then loop back to Italy. 

Perhaps.. Disposing of the body overboard would be the best idea. No one would be able to find it, even if they searched around. A terrifying thought, being left out in the water with no one around to rescue you and, in the end, any efforts to gain anyone’s attention would be in vain. Then again… how would someone be able to do that without anyone else noticing? 

His eyebrow twitched as he remembered how Fugo disposed of their last victim. It's as if he could still smell the burning of human flesh, the picture of the whole scene was just- even for him it was morbid and revolting . And then picking up the remains to bury them upwards in a hole- It made him gag . At least the guy wore gloves… 

Giorno’s eyes came back into focus when he spotted that person approaching him from the stairwell. The man stopped a couple of meters away before taking off his shades, revealing the crimson eyes of Fugo. He wore a fedora, masking most of his hair, and bore some casual wear consisting of a plain shirt, a dark-colored jacket, and long pants. He also wore… a clip-on tie? Interesting.

The blond, on the other hand, wore a floral blouse with pants that went just a little over the knees.

At this time of night, with Fugo’s disguise, Giovanna could barely recognize him. It was ideal, considering how different the man looked compared to most people in Napoli (or Italia, for that matter).

“Wearing shades in the dark is something I didn’t expect.” The blond teased, loosening the tension in his shoulders.

He saw the hitman look off to the side before returning his gaze. “Did you expect me to wear eye contacts instead?”

Giorno thought for a moment. “No, I wasn’t really expecting anything, to be honest. It wasn’t sunglasses, though. Why didn’t you wear those before?”

The glare that emitted from Fugo’s gaze signaled for Giorno to stop informalities. 

The blond cleared his throat, “Your letter caught me off guard. Clever way to introduce me to our new target, actually.” He paused, looking off the edge of the rooftop, seeing some cars passing by. “Before I came here, I looked into the cruise line that this wedding was scheduled with.”

“Is that so?”

Giorno blinked at him. “ Managgia ,” He took a step forward, opening his arms, “You’re the one who gave the basic information, I decided to research more about it. Is that really hard to believe?”

He stared back at Fugo, seeing him twitch an eyebrow before sighing. 

“You don’t give off anything that resembles ‘trustworthy’ .” 

“Then what do I give off, if I may ask?” 

Fugo narrowed his eyes, “A naive mindset with a purpose similar to that of someone I knew.” He lowered his tone, “A pissboy if we’re being honest here.”

“A what?”

Fugo stared at the ground and cleared his throat. “You give off the impression of trying to find a purpose via means that are ironic to your goals. Does that help answer your question?”

“No no, what did you say before that?”

Fugo looked off to the side, “Can we get back to the topic at hand?”

Giorno scrunched his eyebrows and attempted to mask his disappointment. 

The other hitman cleared his throat, “Usually, for cruises, you’re supposed to have pre-paid tickets and have gathered all needed documents around two to three months prior to the day you hop on board.” He reached inside his jacket, pulling out a thick, tan folder. 

“Two to three months?” Giorno reiterated, raising an eyebrow.

Fugo ignored his remark, pulling out a ziplock bag filled with various documents. He walked over to Giorno, looking him in the eye distrustfully before handing him the bag.

“I received these contents from an anonymous mafioso, who also provided me with the invitation card.” He stepped backward, putting distance between the two. He kept a tight hold on the folder, watching Giorno opening the bag and reading the documents. 

He noticed a case for earpieces in the bag as well.

The blond scoffed, “‘ Ghiaccio Romano ’? I guess we’re calling each other by an alias. What’s yours?”

Fugo stared at him.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”

The hitman scowled at him, “‘ Illuso Ricci ’.”

“It’s not so bad!” Giorno held back a wheeze. “Alright, Illuso , what else do you have?”

“You said you already did background research?”

“Yes.” Giorno paused, returning to more of a formal tone, “The cruise will take a path counterclockwise around the Mediterranean. Our first stop after Napoli would be Roma, then after that, we would land in Marseille, Francia.”

“Right, and we have to get the photographer before we get to Roma.”

“Why?” The blond remembered him writing something of a similar note in the letter.

Fugo stared at the sky for a moment. “It takes around two hours and twenty minutes to get from here to Roma. A train from there to Naples is around an hour and ten minutes. If the ship passes by Roma, we’re stuck on that ship for a couple of days, or weeks, if we’re considering how long it would take to travel to other countries.”

“So you’re saying the best possible time to kill the photographer is in that time slot?” That was a tight fit.. To find the photographer would be a bit time-consuming on their own and to get the body off the ship without anyone noticing is already… tricky, to say the least.

“Yes, precisely.” 

“So-“

“I would like to mention that I do not want to stay in Roma for long.” Fugo interrupted, staring Giorno down. There was a different glint in his eyes, a frown appeared on his face.

Giorno raised his eyebrows, “May I ask why that is?”

The other hitman went silent.

Perhaps it was the change in expression, or mood, or how Fugo began looking at the ground solemnly that Giorno felt pity for. The blond wasn’t sure of what exactly, but judging by how tense the topic of staying in Roma became, that something held the hitman’s words back. He wanted to know more about him, why he felt this way about Roma.

Did something happen in that city?

He clenched one of his fists and released it. “Alright.” Giorno brushed off his question, sighing, “I won’t ask.”

Fugo looked up, his face blank but his eyes showing gratitude. He reached his hand up to adjust his hat, sighing. “We’ll get on the boat a couple of hours prior, this way we can scan through most floors and possibly find out where everyone will be staying.”

“We could dispose of the body overboard,” Giorno added.

“You’re right, that’s what I was thinking.”

The blond scratched behind his ear, lifting a brow. “You have an idea of how to do that without gaining the attention of everyone else on board? I mean… we are planning to throw someone off a ginormous ship.”

“We can…” Fugo blinked. “We can figure that out as soon as we’re on the ship together.”

“Then… that’s it? It’s settled?” Giorno asked, his voice rising at the end.

Fugo walked over to the crate by the generators, slipping a letter into it. He turns around, seeing the blond watch his movements.

“I put our next meeting for the cruise in that note. Meet me by then.”

The other hitman had begun his return to the stairs before Giorno called out, stopping him.

“I-“ The blond took a few steps forward. “I- wait- I still have one last question, Fugo.”

The man narrowed his eyes, yet turned towards Giorno fully. His posture grew slack and he shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

Giovanna hesitated, “You’re... not planning on setting the ship on fire, are you?”

Fugo stared at Giorno dumbly. 

He then tipped forward, clutched his chest, and produced a hard, inhumane wheeze before loud laughter followed it. He leaned backward, his eyes shut and eyebrows scrunched as he let out his joy towards the blond’s question. Fugo hollered and howled into the night, almost as though he hadn’t laughed like this in eternity.

For a killer, this certainly wasn’t the picture anyone could imagine.

It was… captivating. Giorno raised his eyebrows, seeing this sight playing before him. He even found himself chuckling a bit, as the noise was contagious.

Only after a brief moment did Fugo come back to his senses, wiping his eyes before asking in a low voice, frowning, and leaning forward, “ Do you want me to? ”

“Fortunately, we have all of our bags and luggage needed for the trip. But-“

“ But? ”

Nervous laughter came out of Bruno. “Unfortunately, Narancia still isn’t picking up his calls… which may have halted our drive here.”

His husband frowned, crossing his arms. He could understand Bruno’s concern for that boy, but he was a university student - and an adult, if you will. He must have been busy since he didn’t have time to call back Bruno these past few weeks. Narancia is probably overloaded with paperwork and projects and whatnot, plus he had the company of his roommate- Mista-  Abbacchio remembered. He could take care of himself.

Then again, Leone remembered his husband’s concern for him after that last phone call he had with Mista. Bruno apparently called Narancia almost three times before the roommate picked up, and even then it was said that things haven’t been right. Something about some third other roommate being missing for some time… 

His thoughts wrapped back around his head, returning to the present. 

Abbacchio tapped his foot impatiently as they stood in line to board the cruise. Beside him were Matilde and Maria, the two brides-to-be. They had just arrived from security customs, approving their documents and passports for the cruise. Maria held a cat carriage, which was surprisingly quiet despite all of the transportation the animal was going through.

Wally was his name. Abbacchio wasn’t sure how that name came to be, but both of the women liked it.

“Is that it?” Leone continued, pressuring for his husband to move on.

Bruno readjusted his grip on one of the suitcases. “During those calls, uh-“ He tilted his head to the side, some of his hairs falling in his face. “-I may have lost the car keys?” His smile was cheeky, lopsided. It was awkward and clear as day that he was uncertain with his response.

“And then what happened?” Abbacchio heard Maria, with immense, great effort, trying to hold back laughter.

“We spent twenty minutes looking for them?”

“No, the other thing.”

Bruno frowned. “I.. nearly forgot the visas.”

Maria burst into a fit of giggles, while Matilde snorted behind him. He looked out of the corner of his eye, seeing both of them covering their mouths with their palms, attempting to hold back their amusement.

This would have been entertaining for Leone if it weren’t for the fact his own visa was nearly forgotten too. 

“ And? ” He pressured, knowing the last reason would satisfy him.

“Will you cut me some slack, Leone?” Bruno muttered. He looked down, shifting his feet. “When we were already in the middle of driving, I realized that we had almost forgotten the wedding gifts as well.”

Abbacchio made a shit-eating grin. 

“Oh, shut up.” His husband crossed his arms and pouted.

Leone cackled, “You have everything now, right?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you can be that confident?”

Bruno’s expression turned from playful, to lost, to fear. He glanced around before looking back up to his husband. “Did- did I forget something else?”

Leone leaned forward, pressing a quick kiss to Bruno’s cheek. “No, just that.”

“ You! ” Bruno pointed at Abbacchio before he covered his reddened, embarrassed face with both hands. “I dislike how gullible I can be.”

“I love it.”

“You love it because it works on me every time.”

“Exactly my point.” Leone chuckles, looking up to the sound of someone calling for the next people to board the ship.

They made their way up the ramp, their suitcases making clicks as they ran over the metal bumps. Maria still could not withhold her laughter as Matilde behind her was trying to shush her. 

Leone gripped the key card to their room on the ship in his hand. He looked out the window to see a massive, enormous ship that grew larger and larger the closer they got to boarding it. White and pristine, large printed letters of ‘ The Midnight Light ’ covering the side in deep indigo. There were sounds of excited chatter both behind and in front of him from other passengers, some kids even rushed forward to get on board quicker. 

A cruise ship is essentially a hotel on water. Leone knew that and was prepared for it.

What Leone wasn’t expecting was exactly how large it was on the inside of the ship. Giant columns of marble, statues left and right depicting Catholic angels, tiled floors as smooth as glass- it was almost overwhelming.

His chest swelled as he inhaled as new air filled his lungs. He stepped inside, eyes widened, slowed his movement, and gazed around at the entrance lobby. Everything was either covered in the spectacular lighting of a chandelier or by a golden-honey color of the darker marble, which contrasted the brilliant white version of it.

The feeling was similar to that of stepping out of an airport, out on new land, surrounded by new people and new faces. The air outside would always smell different, unlike home - yet not in a way where it would be alarming. The atmosphere would taste different, feel more or less humid, and whether or not the land would be covered in sunshine or a blanket of snow.

Leone felt loose, tilting his head upwards to gaze at the domed ceiling, it being painted in artwork similar to the Renaissance era. Biblical, small angels were flying about clouds as multiple figures in robes surrounded them. A spark of energy went down his spine as he stared at new walls, furniture, people- That overwhelming feeling was named wonder.

Wonder...

He felt a tap on his shoulder, turning to see Bruno smiling up at him.

“Well?”

Leone cleared his throat, looking side to side before facing his husband completely. “Well, what?”

Bruno leaned in, and whispered, “How is this place?”

Abbacchio was taken aback. “There are so many things that make this seem fucked up but in reality it is.. phenomenal .”

Bruno threw back a laugh. “I knew you’d love it here. Wait till you see the ship at midnight-“ He poked Leone’s nose- “-that’s when this place will really turn magical.”

“Isn’t the masquerade tonight?”

His husband winked at him, causing Abbacchio's cheeks to flush slightly. “My point exactly.” 

Bruno headed down to the information desk as he stared at his surroundings. Leone shifted his feet slightly, leaning to the right to look down the large hallway that went down the entirety of the ship. He turned his head, viewing the left hall, and seeing that it was also similar in length. The two were almost mirrored - endless.

The lobby off to the side was enormous; Scattered coffee tables were facing towards the window, which was currently showing a view of the port. Two to four chairs sat at each table and again, Abbacchio could not see the end of the room. There were several dips and raised surfaces in the lobby, carpeted with deep blues and bright, orange, and gold accents.

Abbacchio saw his husband wave for him to come over.

He grabbed the handle of his suitcase before he dragged it with him to Bruno. Leone didn’t pay attention to the conversation Bruno was having with the person at the front desk as he kept glancing at the marbled floor below them and began spacing out. He turned around, leaned against the counter, and watched as a mass of adults and children flooded into the room.

A couple of children were dressed in light-colored t-shirts, others with prints of various bands or designs on them. It reminded him of how he at one point found old teenager-sized clothing in Bruno’s household.

He scrunched his eyebrows, frowning slightly. Bruno hadn’t talked about Narancia often, but when he did, the man always showed great care towards him. Abbacchio never met him in person, but if he were to ever do so, he wouldn’t mind the kid’s company. The way his husband described his so-called ‘foster child’ always had a soft tone to it. 

According to Bruno, Narancia was a very lively type of teen. Always moving, up and about, constantly having new ideas sprung into mind at a moment’s notice. The kid constantly enjoyed tinkering with various toys and trinkets, all ranging from store-bought ones to ones he made himself. He struggled in school due to this, however, and eventually, the better solution for his education was for him to learn online. 

Of course, when the kid went to university in Roma, Bruno said that he was adjusting well to his classes. His husband raised Narancia well, Abbacchio believed. 

He hoped everything was alright with Narancia, considering the worry he’s been hearing from Bruno these past few weeks. Apparently, Narancia hadn’t been answering as often, and even if he did the calls were oddly short, or his roommate picked up. And whenever his roommate picked up, he would always break off at random moments. Always distracted.

His train of thought broke once he felt Bruno slip his hand into his own. 

“Are you ready to head to our room?” His husband smiled, almost bouncing on his feet.

Abbacchio looked down to deep blue eyes, before smiling back at him. “Lead the way.”

The hold tightened as Leone felt a harsh jerk as Bruno began tugging him down one of the halls, eventually transforming to hotel rooms as the descent grew further and further down. It surprised him, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary for his husband to do this.

Bruno slowed down as he found a staircase, leading them both upwards. 

“Why are you rushing?” Abbacchio let out a laugh as he hauled both of their belongings, watching Bruno skip every second step.

The man heaved out a sigh, smiling brightly as he looked over his shoulder. “We have lots to do before we can attend the ball, and I wanted to check out our room before we tended to errands.”

He set down their suitcases, pulling up the handles before handing one over to Bruno as they reached the fourth deck. They hastily headed down the hall to find their cabin not too long after that.

Leone arched an eyebrow, “What kind of errands?” 

“Don’t you remember? We have to make sure everything is prepared for the big ceremony. The catering, asking around if the staff requires any assistance, making sure both Matilde and Maria will have their fun on the ship? All preparations have to be made sure before-“

“Ah.” Abbacchio sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment. He pinched the bridge of his nose, before mumbling, “Right, and we have to do all this before the ball?”

Bruno stopped before one of the cabins, gesturing for his husband to hand over the keycard. Leone did so, slipping it into his hand. A quiet ping and a flicker of a green light signaled their entry permitted into the room.

“I hope so!”

Abbacchio suddenly had a wave of deja-vu. He remembered entering the hotel room with his husband, him giving the keycard, a mess of a room, all rushing to him at once. Something along with the jolt of foreign memories came through his gut, making him feel overly cautious for no particular reason. 

He brushed it off, shaking his head, thinking his thought irrational as he entered a large cabin room. This would be the place he and Bruno would live in for a week or two, which shouldn’t be much different from the beach house they lived in. 

Clothes were tossed on the bed, thrown one or two at once, in a frenzy. A man with black, bob-cut hair began opening every drawer then closing them, repeating these actions a couple more times. He dug around, moving every piece of fabric and item within those spaces to the sides, then evening them out. 

Off to the side, standing at the exit, his husband lifted his wrist and checked his watch. He scowled, looking up to see Bruno still scurrying about. “It’s a mask. How the hell did you manage to lose that?” He had a dark suit on, along with a gown-like dress starting from his waist down to the floor, a rose slotted inside the top pocket of his jacket. Leone already bore his mask, it being dashing as ever. A tall, puffy, black feather jutted out the side of it, with the rest of the design consisting of golden ribbons and sewed edges. He was almost unrecognizable, save for the long hair he styled into curls for the ball. 

Bruno stood up, turned his head over his shoulder, and huffed. “If only a certain tall man with keen eyes could be of aid in my search~” He crouched down and lifted the fabric under the king-sized bed. He gave out a defeated sigh, still unable to find his item.

After some shuffling from across the room, he heard his husband sigh dramatically.

“You were looking for this thing?” Bruno shot up his head and saw a black, crocheted mask that dangled from Leone’s finger. The style was similar to that of his husband’s, with only the borders of the accessory varying from the other - it being of pearly white thread instead of a harsh gold.

“ How- “ Bruno paced over and snatched the mask from his hand. He began pouting at Leone’s amusement. “You know what? We’re late. Come on, let’s get to the ball.”

“I could almost say the same thing.” The man retorted.

Leone walked over to the door, the edges of his dress swayed up and off the ground, opened it for Bruno. He raised his arm, gesturing their way out. “Sir,” He spoke with a posh accent, his voice rising a few octaves higher than usual.

Bruno huffed and laughed quietly at the man’s antics. As he closed the door behind them, a small object buzzed inside of his coat. He reached inside his jacket and held his phone, checking the caller ID. 

His eyes widened, pressing the green answer button almost immediately. 

“ Pronto? ” He asked.

Leone raised an eyebrow as he listened in on the conversation his husband was about to have. Bruno paid no mind to this, for he was far too thrilled to even be annoyed at the intrusion of privacy.

“ ...Buccellati. ” Bruno smiled, recognizing his son’s voice after not hearing from him in so long. “ I kinda have uh.. I wanna ask you something, are you free? ” Narancia spoke, quietly.

“Oh, I’m always free for you! What’s the matter, Narancia?” Bruno ignored Leone’s arm gestures and silent whispers of being late. He raised a hand, scrunched his eyebrows, and etched a frown in his expression. Leone threw his hands up, sighed, and kept an even pace with the man. The ball could wait, Narancia needed help and Bruno was willing to sacrifice time into a leisure activity such as that of a ball for him.

The other end of the line went silent for a moment. “ Are you sure you’re free? I don’t wanna ruin your fun. I heard from Mista that you and Abbacchio were on some sick cruise. Man, I wanna be on a cruise one day…”

Bruno looked ahead, side-stepping away from a staff member, nearly running into them. “Don’t worry about us, tell me, what’s wrong? You’re not barging in on anything, you have my word.” He lied.

“ Buccellati.. ugh.. It’s- Mista is currently in the living room taking a nap, but- “ 

Bruno dropped his pleasantries. “What happened?”

“ Maybe an hour ago.. Mista came home and- He told me he saw Fugo out in the streets. ”

He stopped walking abruptly. Leone whipped his head to his husband, both of them stared at each other in shock. Both of their eyebrows were raised, and Bruno for a moment thought he lost the ability to speak. 

“He saw your roommate? The one who’s been missing?” He worded carefully, still tongue-tied from the surprise. Leone, despite being in a similar state as Bruno was, gently grabbed his hand to keep them moving down the hall.

“ No- Buccellati you don’t understand. I think he’s- “ Narancia coughed. “ Listen. Fugo could have done who knows what to himself but if he did leave and is out there somewhere, that’s on his own fate. He wouldn’t be the type to come back, but Mista won’t believe it. ”

An overwhelming feeling of pity grew in Bruno’s gut.

“ He was freaking out, Dad. He was panicking and crying and I didn’t know what to do. I tried telling him that he probably didn’t see anyone. He doesn’t want to stop believing that he’s still out there, Buccellati. I don’t know what to do. ” His voice grew raspier and more urgent as he went on. “ I need to know how I can help him, even if I can’t help myself, Buccellati. ”

Bruno sighed and pondered over his pleads. He knows that Mista was still searching for their roommate, but something caught Bruno off-guard from the way Narancia spoke.

He bit his lip, desperately clinging to his thoughts and seeking out the right message to deliver to his son. “Narancia, are you still there?”

“ Yeah. I’m here. ” His call had some static, but that was per usual.

Sudden shouting in the hall behind Bruno made him jump, driving his thoughts away from the conversation at hand.

“What do you think happened with Fugo?” He asked, turning his head to see what the commotion was about.

Bruno squinted, seeing a small furry figure scurrying around down the hall. It was passing through and around the legs of various guests, also giving them quite the surprise. He also began to see another figure in a long gown chasing after it, pushing people around and reaching for the animal.

As he awaited Narancia’s answer, he squinted at the person- woman, it seemed. She had blue-dyed hair, cut just at her shoulders, all poofed up and frizzled from all the running, most likely.

He turned around, leaned to Leone, and covered the speaker of his phone. “Didn’t Matilde have a cat as well?”

Leone turned his head towards him, arching an eyebrow. “Yeah? She said that having Wally with them was important for the wedding. He’s a family member, according to her words.”

Bruno looked over his shoulder and saw the distant woman scrambling around for the small furry creature.

“ With Fugo? ” His son finally broke out. His voice seemed to be quieter, tense.

“Yes. You said he did something to himself?” Bruno already regretted his word usage, wishing he phrased it differently.

“ I- Well. I- I mean. Maybe he left to find some new city. People do that right? Without saying a word to their friends?“ Narancia mumbled.

Bruno scrunched his eyebrows and bit his lip slightly. “You don’t sound confident about that.”

Narancia’s end of the line muffled a bit, hinting that he moved across some soft surface. “ I can’t know what Fugo was thinking! Who knows what he did. Wherever he is- he’s scaring the shit out of Mista. He’s an asshole, we both know that, but man- This is crossing the line. ” 

Bruno felt something brush past his legs, looking down to see a ginger cat booking it down the hallway. A small jingling noise followed it, and his eye caught sight of a red collar.

“ What I- ‘m. I’m so tired of this, Buccellati. I’ve already- “

A sudden shove caused the phone in Bruno’s grip to fly out of his hand. He felt himself falling forwards, feeling someone on top of him. Wind knocked out of his chest as he hit the ground, his vision becoming slightly disoriented.

A familiar shrill cried out from on top of Buccellati. “Wally! Please, wait- WALLY! ”

Bruno shook his head and waited for his eyesight to return before he glanced up at Matilde, her striking blue hair being the first thing he saw before her face. Bruno inhaled, realizing that her body was crushing his lungs. 

She looked down at him, “Oh! Bruno! You’re here- Listen, I have an urgent favor to ask of you.”

“What is it?” He choked out, pushing her slightly, silently asking for her to get off. 

Thankfully, Matilde caught on and scrambled off of him, trying her best not to do more damage to her already frizzy-wavy hair. She pushed some pieces behind her ears before reaching for Bruno’s hand, helping him up along with Leone. “Sorry about that- didn’t mean to knock you over.”

“It’s quite alright.” 

Leone sighed irritably, heading over to grab the phone lying a good-ways away from where they stood.

“Okay- returning to the urgent matter on hand. I had to help out Maria with her suit and she was helping me with the back of my dress. In the process, one of the bellmen rang up our door for something- I don’t know what-”

Bruno tilted his head and smiled uneasily. He had a bad feeling about where this was going.

“Uh. Right- right anyways, the snarky pest we all know and love as Wally decided to run out just as I opened the door. I chased after him and well!” She huffed. “Here we are! Bruno, I can’t run in a dress for long, and I still have to help out Maria with some things. Can you-”

“Are you asking me to chase after Wally for you?” Bruno made a tight line with his lips.

“Yes! Please, I would do anything in payment. I know we’re all late but leaving Wally on a cruise and leaving him-” Matilde stops, freezing. “Literally anything. Name it. Just find him, okay?”

Bruno feels a tap on his shoulder, turning to see Leone holding a phone in his hand. 

“Good news: I found the phone.”

He looks down, seeing that it wasn’t simply his phone. It was his phone, only the screen popped off of it. It had a massive crack in the glass, and the rest of the contents looked jumbled together, some areas missing, even.

His husband continued, “Bad news: It seems to have combusted in its flight down this long-ass hallway.”

Frowning, he felt shame in his gut from being unable to finish that conversation with Narancia.

Slowly taking the pieces of what was remaining of his device, he turned to Matilde. 

“Ah.” She spoke slowly, opening her palms.

Bruno placed his contents into her hands, murmuring, and gave a small smile, “Take care of this, will you?”

For the record, if it weren’t for the sake of logistical planning for a good, well-trained disguise, Fugo would have never worn such an atrocity. 

He looks at himself in the mirror, scowling at his appearance. He was sporting a Hawaiian-themed flannel, navy cargo shorts, a fanny pack, some gaudy, rectangular glasses, long socks, and a pair of sneakers. 

Tourists. A well-known tactic is to blend into the crowd. And apparently, it’s also a good-enough outfit that Giorno picked out just for him. 

The two of them agreed upon choosing disguises for the other, as usually the disguise you would never wear would be the best one to have.

“You’ll look great!” He recalled. “With a face like yours, I bet any outfit would suit you.”

He wasn’t sure if that was an insult or not. He decided not to linger on the thought; It would keep his head somewhat cool for the meantime.

Pannacotta sighed before he turned his heel, heading backstage to their established resting point. The spot was behind tall, velvet curtains that barricaded them from any audience seats on the other side. The floors were padded with polished wood, some areas also carpeted with foam to muffle those that worked behind the scenes.

Fugo knew cruise ships were gargantuan. He understood the sight - he’s even been on one at some point (though, he doesn’t remember it) - but to have an entire auditorium in one was not something he could have ever expected. 

He approached the blond, who suited a light-pink vest with matching pants, dark shoes, and a periwinkle collared shirt. The vest had a blue bowtie adorned on it, matching his remaining ladybug brooch pinned near one of the top pockets; He looked more professional (yet… ridiculous) for the undercover job he took upon himself. He said that he already had background knowledge for the role of a bartender, so the disguise Fugo chose for him was almost ‘perfect’, to say the least.

At least his hair was tied up into a bun (a messy one but… it would do). The guy was reluctant at first, but Fugo had gestured to his attire, saying it was ‘for the better look’, to which he eventually agreed.

As Giorno turned his head, he grunted and cleared his throat. His eyes widened - not of surprise, but amusement. He planted a blank look on his face, but Fugo could almost hear the laughter the man was holding back.

His skin began to crawl and he grit his teeth, scrunching his eyebrows. Internally, blood boiled from the embarrassment. He felt his cheeks grow rosy as he sat down to dig through his bag for the last accessory of his look.

“Clownery,” The blond whispers, a mixture of mockery and astonishment. “Never expected to see such a sight.”

Fugo gritted his teeth, glanced off to the side. “You’re no different.”

Giorno looked down at his ‘barista’ clothes before he glanced back up at him, challenging his gaze.  “You should put on makeup, perhaps even big red shoes, and a sunflower. Oh, maybe a balloon would suit you as well?”

Fugo glared back at the man. “I look like a tourist from some rich family off from the Americas.”

“As you should!”

Something within the hitman snapped, as Fugo swung his fist and knocked Giorno square in the face. For a moment, he shared the blue-eyed gaze with a fury.

The blond was thrown backwards, groaning from the sharp pain. “BAD CLOWN! BAD CLOWN I SAY!” 

Giorno covers his nose before looking at his palm, seeing no blood on it. He looked back up, exasperated. “You could’ve broken my nose!”

“Did you want me to aim for the gut instead?” Fugo sneered.

“No-“ He readjusted his posture- “I’m good, thank you.” The blond crossed his legs and leaned against a prop box, recovering from the action. It was painted with various grey tones, all mimicking a storm of sorts.

“You’d be a good killer clown. With sharp teeth too, that’d fit you.” He mumbled. Lowering his eyebrows, he kept a small glare at the hitman, watching him rummage through a duffle bag.

“Fuck off.”

“Can’t. I’m sort of tied to a deal with you and el mafioso , remember?” 

He paused, giving the other hitman a cold look before grabbing the accessory he was looking for: a bucket hat. It was light, pastel green, fitting in nicely with the rest of his ‘fatherly-figure-from-Florida’ attire.

“See, that’s what I figured.”

The hitman put on the hat, adjusting it and looking at one of the prop mirrors for his reflection. After a few turns and shoves, Fugo’s hair was concealed.

Soon, he felt quite frustrated as he remembered the mistake he had committed at the ball. Were head coverings even allowed there? He’d be out of this whole ordeal if he had a wig, maybe. He wouldn’t have bumped into this salty scale-of-justice and-

“That looks lovely ~” Giorno clapped his hands together. “Alright, give me your best impression.”

-he wouldn’t have had to deal with all this bullshit. 

Fugo stared back at him, confused. “Impression of what?”

“Impression of a tourist.” Laughing lightheartedly, the blond gestured to the man’s attire. “You have to be your disguise, you know?”

“You were the one who picked this out for me, I’m not doing any voices for this.”

“No one will believe you if you don’t do it.” He quipped. 

“It’s like having a morning alarm,” Fugo retorted, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll put it on snooze at some point, and forget to get up in time. It would be better for me not to use an accent.”

“Okay.” Giorno sighed, defeated. “Fine. Can you pretend for two seconds though?”

“No.”

He turned to the blond, eyeing him down. Many would deem his character to be naive, Fugo certainly thinks so, yet he finds it relieving that the blond is willing to ease up the tension like this.

“I will throw you overboard.” The blond pouted. “That was a threat.”

Never mind then, Fugo takes every positive thought he had about the blond back. He doesn’t deserve it.

The hitman looked through his duffle bag, pulling out two small, black boxes. “Shocking. Good luck with that.” 

“I will! Hope you have a fun swim!” 

He glanced over at the blond, seeing a shit-eating grin replace the generic, soft smile Giorno wore. He also noticed his knuckles turning white as his hands gripped his knees, and his head tilting off to the side, and his ears growing red, all of which Fugo thought to be compelling points of character. 

He blinked. 

Fugo barked a laugh. “That’s hilarious, considering I can’t swim.”

He froze, realizing what words he had uttered.

Fugo didn’t think his words through. The hitman frowned, a little displeased at himself for slipping a flaw he has. To Giorno , no less. It wasn’t his fault that his parents forced him to study all his childhood, limiting his knowledge of basic athletic techniques to almost zero by the time he left his roommates in university. What was his fault was letting another person hear of this, a person who wasn’t a friend - or acquaintance, even.

“You can’t swim?” The blond turned his head back, a sly smile spreading across his face. 

The white-haired man kept his silence, averting his gaze. “It doesn’t matter.” You shouldn’t care about it. 

“No, no wait-“ 

“Forget it.” Fugo snapped. “We have more important matters to discuss.” He lifted the two boxes in his hands. 

Giorno lowered his brows and pulled his lips into a tight line. He shook off the disappointment before he stared at the boxes, observing them.

“This one is for you,” The hitman handed one of the boxes to the other. Fugo watched as the ‘barista’ stared back at him, before he carefully lifted his box, and squinted at it.

“Quick question.” He opened the box, seeing an earbud and a long, semi-spiral cord attached to it. “What is this?” 

Fugo watched as the man removed the earpiece from the box, lifting it to the light to see it clearer. 

He pulled out his own and put it in his ear.

Giorno began messing around with the earpiece by extending and letting go of the wire, seeing it uncoil and recoil several times. Fugo watched in slight concern before speaking once more. “This is for communication. When you need to speak to me, you can hold the small button connected to the radio to start a radio connection with mine.” Fugo lifted a small button that was connected to a thinner version of the spiral cord coming out of the earpiece. 

The blond picked up the other end of the wire and noticed it had an audio jack. 

Fugo lifted his eyebrows slightly, “Ah, wait a moment.” He began digging around in the bag, remembering the other key component to these earbuds. 

A small, square-shaped radio was handed over to the other hitman. It had a clip at the back of it, along with two buttons on the side. It was less than a palm’s length and width.

The white-haired man plugged his earpiece into the radio, seeing Giorno copy his movements. He pressed a button on the radio, holding it till he heard static. Fugo noticed the blond’s eyes widening, assuming the connection to have been successful.

“There, it should be working now.”

The blond laughed, mimicking the gestures. “Woah, I never thought I’d be using these. What are we, in some secret agent film?” 

Fugo narrows his eyes, frowning slightly. “It’s not made to be some joke.”

He heard Giorno’s voice through the static of his earpiece and from right in front of him. “Ah, so it’s like a radio? Over .”

The frown only etched into his face more.

“Oh come on, talk back to me! You have to say the ‘over’ part as well.”

Giorno put on a mask of pleading, while also putting a playful smile on his face. What a weird combination, having those two emotions at the same time. This is so childish. Doesn’t he feel ashamed for asking? 

He stopped himself. This wasn’t him. This was Giorno. Stop projecting.

“No.” The hitman curtly responded.

“Aurgh!” Giorno huffed, pouting slightly. “You’re no fun.”

“You’ve said that before.”

The blond sneered at him. “You could at least try letting go for a bit.”

“Why should I?” He snapped. “I don’t know anything about you. Not only that, I don’t think very highly of you. I detest working with you. The last time, we nearly got caught by the damned cops because of your goody-two-shoed mindset! And you stole-“

“-‘my target from the large ball’, yeah, alright, okay. I get it.” Giorno sighed, looking off to the side.

As Fugo began clipping his radio to his belt, he heard a sudden thump and a jingle of a bell. 

Giorno whipped his head to the noise; It seemed to be at the other side of the stage, light tapping following the sounds.

The two of them rose slowly and glanced at each other. 

In a hushed voice, the blond asked, “Did you hear someone?”

“I heard a bell,” Fugo responded, quieter. “It sounded too quiet to be a person, I think.”

“You sure?”

He watched as the blond slowly walked towards the crack of the curtain. He saw the man turn his head, making eye contact before proceeding to check what was on the other side.

Fugo raised an eyebrow and put his hands on his hips as he saw Giorno cover his mouth and widen his eyes. The man turned back to him, smiling before opening the curtains wider and slipping through.

What on earth..?

“ Giorno? ” Fugo whispered before he walked over to where the blond previously was. He began rolling his feet over the foam mats to deafen his footsteps. 

The albinistic man heard some static through his earpiece. “- ichio, michio! Fugo, it’s a cat, don’t worry.”

He peeked through the curtains and watched Giorno crouching down, calling over the orange cat. It was wary, coming towards the man slowly. It also bore a collar, though Fugo couldn’t tell if there was a tag or not.

“Giorno, no , come back- someone might see you.” He sternly voiced, a little louder than before.

The blond huffed, turned his head over his shoulder. “Who’s going to see me? What, the audience before us?” He deadpanned.

Fugo scrunched his eyebrows and glared back in response.

“It’s just a cat. There’s no one here, we’re all safe and good.”

“You’re in the center of attention.”

Giorno painted a sly smirk on his face. “Thanks! I kind of like that.”

Really? You do? Might as well invite the entire ship in here. Oh, and also share our entire dealings with the mafia. Oh, get vulgar too. Maybe even express how your ass is fatter than your brain is. That’s where you get all of your ideas, anyways. 

Fugo let a wave of exasperation overcome him, sighing. He’s being ridiculous, right? Letting himself out in the open? They agreed on getting out on deck after the guests went to the masquerade that evening. 

Who could have- no. How did a cat get into the auditorium? Did someone let them in? Surely someone did. And they should have heard it, no less.

Fugo glanced down, seeing the cat rub its head against Giorno’s hand. The jingling noise echoed throughout the entire hall.

He bit his lip, uneasiness overwhelming him. This gut of his was screaming at him to get away from the spotlights- to get Giorno out of the center of the stage. 

“Maybe you should-“

Both Fugo and Giorno freeze as they hear the auditorium doors slowly creak open. 

The blond brushed his fingers through soft fur, watching the figure approach the stage closer. He felt his breath caught in his throat, being aware that he didn’t heed Fugo’s warnings, and knowing that he might have to prepare some improv on the spot. He felt sweat begin to build upon the back of his neck, his face morphing to a blank kind. The closer the figure got, the more tense Giorno became, and the quicker he was to decide whether to make a run for it or not.

He decided on the latter.

“Ah,” He heard the man approach, getting up on the stage in a rather lavish manner. “I see you found Wally.” 

Giorno tilted his head, wondering why the hell someone would name their cat Wally . 

The man shook his head, with black, wavy hair swaying side to side as he did so. “He’s not the type to be a crowd-pleaser. Prefers the quiet, actually.” The hitman glanced at the tabby before looking back up, watching the man cautiously. “It’s a surprise he found a stranger comfortable enough to be petted by.”

“I have my way with animals, I suppose.” He watched as the man paced a few steps forward, crouched down, and picked up the orange creature gracefully. The cat squeaked a meow as he did so, before comfortably slotting itself in his arms.

The man stared at Giorno, who hadn’t moved an inch from his original spot.

“What’s your name, if I may ask? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” The man wore a kind smile as he petted the cat. 

Should he answer? Should he not? What name would he use? What the hell would you do in a situation like this? It’s like a school classroom. Imagine, you’re sitting at your desk, minding your business, and you let yourself drift off for a moment or two before you hear your name being called. A question is asked, and you have absolutely no damn clue what to say because your forgetful ass didn’t retain a single piece of information from that lesson you’re learning about today. That’s how Giorno felt at that moment, like a dunce.

The silence prolonged for some time, and the man’s smile never waned. 

“Er…” The blond paused, letting out a small sigh. “Could you say that again?”

“What should I call you?”

Giorno paused. “Gi- Ghiaccio. Ghiaccio Romano.” Close one .

The man huffed a laugh. “Ghiaccio... You may call me Buccellati.”

“Hello, Buccellati.” Giorno allowed himself to perk up a smile. Formalities were always the blond’s strong suit, he knew how to please people when and if he wanted to.

Buccellati walked over to stage-right, looking around at all of the various loops and swirls of designs in the auditorium. Curtains hung from high above, spotlights that shined brighter than moonlight and sunlight combined, padded wooden floors under his feet, all things that are easily missed when a play goes on.

That reminded Giorno of how he wanted to be in theatre at some point. It’s a shame that he received a slap to the face from his step-father when he asked such a thing. He could have pursued a career just as fine without all of the torment he got, especially after he came out to his mother (to which, she inevitably told his step-father).

He frowned, both glad about being kicked out but also ashamed. Perhaps he could have revealed himself as ‘Giorno’ when he was more stable - financially - at least. Would he have even made it to that point, though? Was that risk worth it, considering where he is now?

His thoughts wandered back to Goldie, smiling at the thought of her. He then remembered Ms. Holly (who was taking care of her) and thought that he should tip her immensely after this mission. She deserves it, especially since he considered the elder almost like family. He didn’t want to worry her more than he already does. 

“What are you doing here?”

The question startled Giorno.

Buccellati faced him, looking down at the man before him. “You seem to be a bartender, judging by your appearance,” The man eyed him cautiously. “Is that right?”

“Ah.” He paused. “I suppose I do work here.”

“Ma stai scherzando?” Loud static crackled from Giorno’s earpiece, making him jolt. “You ‘suppose’? What, do you not work here? Holy shit, Giorno. Get your ass on the line or I’ll be sure to turn your skin into a paste. You can do better than just fucking ‘I suppose’.”

Wow. Someone is in a bad mood. 

The figure before him raised an eyebrow. “You… suppose? Do you not work here?”

“No-!” Giorno cleared his throat. “No- I mean I do! I was a bit out of it, my apologies. I do work as a bartender. Here. On the ship, I mean.”

The two of them stared at each other. The blond made his best attempts at not seeming suspicious, standing up slowly and giving the other a small smile. He was glad it was successful so far, because if the whole improvisation plan flopped due to his acting skills, he wasn’t sure what’d he do.

He did hone these skills over the years, even as a child, so maybe he’s in the clear. Plus, he did work as a bartender before turning to the career of murder for cash and justice. That should help his situation, right?

“So how did a bartender get here?” The man laughed, readjusting his hold on Wally.

“I lost my way.”

“ Cazzo! Giorno you two celled idiot! What kind of excuse is ‘I lost my way’?! Are you trying to purposefully rat yourself out!? I can’t believe I’m working with a dimwitted toad-brained- “ A further slew of loud insults in his ear made Giorno’s eyes widen. He didn’t expect Fugo would have such… colourful language, spewing these types of words from his mouth. 

Replacing his shock, he returned to an awkward, lop-sided smile.

Laughter erupted from Buccellati, his eyes crinkling as he did. “That’s understandable. The enormity of this ship is sure to have people getting lost left and right…” 

Giorno breathed a sigh of relief.

“But I’m sure a worker here would at least know where his quarters were, right? I doubt a bartender, of all people, would be working all the way back here, hm?” The smile on his face never wavered. It was set like stone, staring down the blond’s soul.

He felt exposed. A slow, small pit of regret began forming in his gut as he stared back at Buccellati. The deep blue seas of the man formed great depths, horrifying thoughts had to hide behind them for sure. His pupils formed into fish, ones with large silhouettes of large teeth, almost waiting to bite at the blond.

Buccellati didn’t trust him, and Giorno had a mutual feeling.

“ Say something about getting something for someone else, then come back here. ” More static erupted from the earpiece. “ I can grab something for you, just get your smooth brain over here. Buy time. ”

Clearing his throat, Giorno returned with another pleasant smile. “I’m aware of my position, I had to fetch something for another one of my coworkers. I was lost on the way here before I saw your cat hop on stage.” His shoes tapped towards the parting of the curtains. “I’ll go get my things, and we can walk back to the bar.”

Buccellati stood in silence, before sighing. “Alright then, I’ll be waiting.”

The moment he stepped behind the curtain, he felt his movements slow down, feeling himself turn into stone.

A chilling gaze from the other hitman was the root cause of this.

Clicks of a suppressor being fitted onto his gun, his footsteps silent as a mouse. He watched the man approach him, red eyes burning through him. He stopped, peering down at Giorno, before sighing. His fist clenched around a small object before he handed it over to the blond.

He took the object willingly, tilting his head down and averting the gaze of the hitman before him.

“If it weren’t for the bargain we made, I could have turned you into a sack of limbs.” In a hushed voice, he heard the other threaten. It made sense, he messed up, he should feel shame.

Giorno really wanted to feel afraid of him. 

But… the fact that Fugo looked like a neon tourist from Florida made the entire scenario seem quite - how should he put it - hilarious, silly, ridiculous, absurd, comical . The bucket hat and fanny pack were incredibly distracting, and his demeanor quickly switched from a deadly one to that of a… buffoon.

He started snickering, shutting his eyes, and trying to hide his amusement. He looked down at the object, seeing it be a pair of square glasses. Where’d he get these? Maybe they were from some gift shop. But… these looked to be used? There are fingerprints on the glass and one of the lenses appeared to be more oblong-shaped compared to the other. That very same lens also had a tiny crack in it.

Whatever, it’ll make do.

“Thanks for your help, Señor Padre Americano ~” He began stepping backwards, heading back to the parting crack of the curtains.

That was until he felt the end of a gun jam between his shoulder blades. Uncomfortable. Incredibly worrying.

He turned around, seeing a glare pierce through him. Fugo lowered his weapon, frowning. “Don’t fuck up. I’ll be up there with you soon.” His gun rested at his side, relaxing his shoulders slightly. “Oh, right. Don’t break those.”

Giorno looked down at the glasses in his hand, glancing up at Fugo. A cheeky smile grew on his face. “What, these are yours?”

“Yeah, actually.” He tilted his head, giving a fake smile. “I’d highly appreciate it if you didn’t break them.” 

He raised his brows, pretending to be shocked. “You think I’d break them? Wow… to have such little faith in me,” Giorno sighed dramatically. “A shame.”

The hitman gritted his teeth, clenching one of his fists. “Would it be a shame if I broke that damn jaw of yours?”

Before any more threats could be spoken, Giorno rushed out of the curtains, greeting Buccellati once more.

Animosity is a powerful emotion. Any wall could break, become rubble and dust at its hand. The feeling itself is incredibly hard to control, and generally, humans don’t tend well with it in stressful situations. 

As a hitman, one well-known tip is to not let your morals interfere with your work. Not letting your emotions get in the way is something many struggle with - it is a difficult skill to master. This is why many hitmen do not tend to team up with others in their profession. Everyone has their own style they play through, and mixing two personalities is like mixing vinegar and water.

Nonpolar and polar. Unstable. 

“ Oh Signoria? Yes, I’ve met her before. ” 

The two hitmen were, unfortunately, exactly that.

Fugo could have sworn he pulled the trigger. He could have shot Giorno at this point. The finger itself was twitching over the trigger, and only by then could he feel his hand slowly lift. He could beat him with the hilt of his glock. Come out onto the stage, show the entire audience of a man with a cat how much ire was contained in his cage of a gut. He could use his fists to grind his bones. Spill his blood onstage, polish the wood like that. Snap his spine, even. 

“ Oh? ” He heard the other man speak up, the static of his earpiece crackling as it did. The hitman had to strain his hearing to understand what he was saying. “ I never heard her speak about a ‘Ghiaccio’... Are you an old friend of hers? ”

“ Yes, I am! ” Fugo could hear his teeth squeak under the pressure of him gritting his jaw. “ It must have been years, though. I never even knew she was having a wedding until I heard about it from one of my managers. ”

He ripped out the earpiece. 

Pannacotta felt his joints lock up, freezing him. He found it difficult to move, lifting his arms was near-impossible, and even craning his neck hurt. Everything felt so immensely tense that it was agonizingly painful . The stiff feeling wasn’t helping him calm down at all.

The hitman felt sick. He could feel his eyes bulging, almost, and his head swam. It was too much for him to handle. His chest couldn’t move- He needed to breathe, why wasn’t he breathing? His brain whispered lies, fueling him instead with more anger than a need to move. Thoughts of worry, fear, frustration, and hatred filled every corner of his skull. Was there any escape?

It was only after he saw black spots in his vision that he gasped out, his lungs grabbed for air. He bent over, put his hands on his knees as he wheezed out. Every inhale stung, and every exhale felt spicy to his throat. It burned the sides of it. His headache remained, it made his sight fuzzy. 

The thoughts vanished in mere seconds, imagining his grandmother as a mirage before him. He remembered how she would help him calm down after these moments, rubbing his back and speaking soft words, ones his parents never gave. 

Remembering her helped, though bittersweet.

Standing up-right, releasing a deep sigh, he began squinting around the room. 

Although his eyes were a blurred mess, he could see the dark lump of a bag on the floor close to him. He walked over to his small duffle bag and dug around through it. He was looking for the packet of items both he and Giorno gathered prior to sneaking on the ship.

Well, those items being “snuck onto the ship” wasn’t the right phrase. Smuggling would be better, and they did it among the passage of tourists boarding the ship. He pulled out a map of the ship, showing all of the key locations of it, along with a map of the floor that connected with the auditorium. 

With the maps, he pulled out a printed photograph of the target they found while browsing through some social media sites. The two of them found the man by looking through posts of the couple getting married on board. Unsurprisingly, they had already done some shots with the photographer and linked his business information in one of the descriptions of their posts. Easily attainable. 

Pannacotta brushed a thumb over the man’s photograph, seeing it shine under the headlights, before refocusing his eyes and seeing the face clearer. A guy in his forties was suited fashionably in the photograph and looked to have an expensive, long haircut. His skin was tanned and looked to be a typical Italian resident that you’d see out on the streets of Firenza or Roma. 

Digging around his bag once more, Fugo found a pen he could use. After nearly biting the cap of the pen off and giving some thought, he traced out a route to get to the main bar above the masquerade. This was where the two of them were supposed to go, together .

He scrunched his brows, looking up at nothing.

Maybe it was better for the plan to be improvised this way, as it could allow Giorno to scope out the area ahead of time.

Fugo reached down to grab his earpiece, before hesitating. Was it worth it to hear Giorno right now? Was his sanity prepared for everything that may come speaking with the blond? Was it worth it?

Against his better judgment, he reconnected the earbud to the radio and put it in his ear. 

Following directions from a map might seem simple, unless it was a cruise ship variant. 

These maps are almost as bad as ones a person would see at expensive train stations. Think Moscow or Grand Central Station. The routes were a maze to get through, all lines being reds, blues, greens, purples- Fugo would’ve admitted he was lucky to get out of those corridors. If he’d seen another hallway, he might as well have torn the map to pieces.

He was beyond overjoyed to find himself bursting through the doors, coming out on the top deck of the cruise.

That joy was short-lived, though, as he took in just how many people were on deck. 

It’s hard to say if he felt worse being here, in this large mass of people, or being with Giorno. He felt it arduous to think about the blond, so the hitman is assuming the answer to that question is, indeed, the latter.

Maybe it was the loud shouts that got to him, or the blasting music through large speakers - the music being some upbeat music that Fugo didn’t recognize - or it could be seeing how compact the area was around him that made him feel trapped. He didn’t have claustrophobia, but his mind was challenging that fact. The disguise only worried him more, having his heart race as he waded through the crowd, trying to find the face of the photographer.

He could feel himself edging closer to panic, which is something he is refusing to allow. It would cause too much disturbance, too much attention, more people to stare at him and pity him. He hated being seen, despised every bit of it. Eyes on him in all directions, faint memories of forced performances filled his mind as everything went dead silent.

Oh, how he despised that silence. He felt himself shrink among the strangers, wished he trod on, to at least have some acknowledgment that no one cared about him. Faintly, he could hear shouts from his roommates, back in that dorm room. He would lock himself up, tell them to screw off, and not bother with him. The yelling was too much to handle. He both wanted company and to be alone. It all made him sick, filled with nausea and an icky feeling in his gut.

Fugo took a sharp inhale. He held his breath, trying to brush away those creeping thoughts grabbing at him.

Firstly, the primary priority should be finding the photographer. The second priority was getting himself out of the crowd. And the third priority would be figuring out how to deal with Giorno after they completed the mission. 

Pannacotta felt his gun shift in his pants behind him, covered by the large flannel he wore. He did think about stuffing it into his fanny pack. He tried to, and would’ve gone out before realizing that everyone could see the clear silhouette of a firearm inside it. It reassured him to have it, either way, it helped him feel safer, even if there was an impossibly low chance of him using it on anyone excluding his targets.

Speaking of his target, how would he approach the man in the first place? Would he plan to conspire some small talk, try to get personal, and make himself feel trustworthy? How does a normal civilian strike up a conversation?

He felt his thoughts pause, imagining the conversation playing out in his head. 

“ Oh yes, I would love a photo! I heard from Signoria herself that you’re one of the best photographers she’s ever met! ” Fugo then thought about the guy’s response, with a deeper tone of sorts: “ Oh, of course! Let me snap a shot! ” 

The hitman considered it to be too direct, some improvisation could be done. It could be better: He could try complimenting the man, as he had seen some of the photographer’s work online. It would be after some light conversation that Pannacotta would invite him to somewhere more.. “private”? Would that be the correct wording? Getting on the rooftop is hard enough on its own, so he would also have to find a way to jazz up his speech-

“You ordering a drink?”

The question startled him, Fugo snapped his head up. He realized that he found himself at the bar of the deck, sitting in a barstool and leaning his cheek against his fist. He blinked a few times, as the neon light obscured his vision slightly. People packed around him, some couples sat on both sides of him, while others danced behind him.

The stench of alcohol was overwhelming, which was to be expected in a place like this.

Snapping out of his thoughts, the hitman glanced up before being taken aback. “Gio-“

“Shh!” He saw the blond wave a finger at him. “Watch your words, lo stupido .”

Fugo hunched over his shoulders, returning the glare. “Ghiaccio.” He cleared his throat and glanced side to side. “I didn’t expect that guy to lead you here.”

“Illuso,” Giorno began cleaning a glass with a cloth, checking the clock every so often. “To be frank, I thought we were going to the masquerade ball a couple floors down.” He looked back at the hitman. “Turns out, both of the wives-to-be were up here. To say the least, they are wasted .”

“What about the man?”

Giorno leaned back, looking off to the left of him. He pointed down the bar and gestured for Fugo to see. The hitman huffed, pressing his palms over the smooth surface, and leaning over the counter to see what the other was staring at.

It was only after he saw the man being off his loose-end with some taller man that he understood his… Condition of consciousness.

Fugo was concerned whether or not the man would blackout. Was that only… two bottles of beer and acting like this? From what he could see from squinting through dim lights, the taller man was laughing alongside the other. 

Giorno laughed quietly, “I’m positive that he will not be a problem to us anymore.”

The hitman sat back in his seat and blinked. “What was his name again?”

“Bucc.. Buccia- Buccellati. I think it was Buccellati?” The blond looked puzzled for a moment. “Yes, Bucciarati.”

“Bucciarati or Buccellati? Pick a name, Ghiaccio.” Fugo released his posture and began to slouch slightly. He was growing annoyed by the constant confusion this man had.

Giorno waved him off. “It really doesn’t matter.” He gazed at Fugo. “I do know something you’d like, though.”

The hitman felt a horrible feeling in his gut as he saw the blond’s mouth widen into a sly smile.

He nearly barked a laugh.

For the first time, Giorno finally felt as if he got to Fugo’s gut, seeing as the expression on the man’s face displayed a sort of horror. He could see the hitman before him stiffening, lowering his head but keeping his gaze fixed on the blond. The man arched a cautious eyebrow, gesturing for him to continue. 

“Don’t give me that look,” The blond finally gave out, wheezing. “I found the photographer, that's all.”

He watched the hitman’s eyes widen in relief and saw them shift. Giovanna could feel his smile drop at that second, taking in that gaze. It filled him with a void, which was something to note, but this wasn’t the first time he saw this sight. 

“You’re certain you saw him?”

Giovanna gestured behind Fugo, seeing him turn his head in acknowledgment. The blond leaned over the counter, grabbing the hitman’s shoulder and using the other hand to point out into the massive crowd before them. After a few moments, some people danced out of a small clearing, only to reveal a man taking photographs of some of the guests at the party.

He looked at Fugo, watching his eyes widen and the corner of his lips lift. “You’re not as smooth-brained as I thought you were.” The hitman turned to the blond, grinning a playful smile. A shine in his red eyes gave an almost-garnet glow, illuminating his hair in the softest of strokes. Right at that second, the noise of the party seemed to vanish.

Giorno’s heart stopped for a moment. 

He returned the smile, leaning back behind the counter. “I still can’t believe you doubted me,” he replied sarcastically.

Fugo stood up, and that wave of mesmerizing emotions seeped away to nothingness. “I’ll have my radio on, talk to me if any complication arises.” And he left, pushing people aside in the crowd of colorful figures.

Slow, low humming is what caught his attention when Fugo left.

The blond turned to hear one of the other bartenders beginning to hum a tune. It wasn’t one he recognized, though it sounded familiar. Strangely, even among all of the loud chatter that the people around them provided, he could still hear the man’s hums. The melody was solemn, melancholic, filled with a sense of gloom. The wiping of glass with a rag, pouring of alcohol, the clinking of drinks- it caught Giorno off guard.

He caught sight of the man’s eyes, seeing them be in… Odd shades. A deep crimson for irises, similar to Fugo’s, though not quite the same (Fugo had a more pink tint to his eyes, Giorno knew that well enough by now). And what should have been white sclera surrounding the man’s eye was instead a deep, rich black. It was most likely eye contacts, if not some other, weird medical condition.

As he stared more at the man, his appearance seemed to loom over everyone else. The hitman only started taking in how tall he was as the giant served drinks before him. A mountain compared to him, really. Has he seen anyone that tall? He had to have been at least 2 meters, if not more, right?

Giovanna kept examining him, seeing him with incredibly dark clothing. Dark pants, black, polished shoes, a vest matching his shoes, and a white-striped collared shirt. He adorned red earrings, with slick, white hair that was combed to the back of his head. 

He felt a giant hand touch his shoulder all of a sudden. “You have a person asking for you.” The man calmly notified and let go of him. It took a few seconds for Giorno to snap out of his stare and turn to a clearly-wasted man, waving some euro in his face.

Memories of procedural steps he had since Roma swam through his mind. Ask, take, make, give . 

The guy yelled for a Negroni, and so Giorno grabbed some gin, Campari, sweet vermouth, and an orange. He took a knife from its stand and began to peel slices of skin off the orange. Swiftly as he could, he took an old-fashioned glass and poured some ice into it. He took a jigger, measured the gin, Campari, and sweet vermouth equally before pouring it all into the glass. Giovanna finished the drink by stirring it and stuck the orange peel on the edge of the glass as garnish.

The blond gave the order to the man, who had large eyes of surprise painted on his face. Nonchalantly thanking the bartender, he took a sip of the bitter drink. 

More people called for Giorno, some asking for the same drink, others asking for other drinks such as Moscow Mules, Mojitos, Margaritas, and simple, plain alcohol. A few of them even tipped the hitman, which was expected, but not at the rate he received them. Either way, he wasn’t complaining.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye to see that giant of a bartender finishing what looked to be a Manhattan, and giving it to a woman.

The spree of being a bartender had his brain electrified half of the time. The hitman received 3 other orders, realizing at this rate, if his partner were to call him for help, he’s unsure he would be able to get away easily. 

Before he could seek an easy exit, he felt someone tug at his sleeve. He turned to see a person at the other side of the counter, hand clamped around his shirt. Giorno tilted his head, confused about who this person was and what they wanted.

“Uh…” Giorno leaned in to hear the other better as they murmured. “I uh… need som’ water, I think.”

They slid some euro bills, with a note under one of them. It was peculiar, as Giorno would have given the glass of water free-of-charge. An eyebrow raised, his nails scraped against the polished surface of the counter to flip the money over. He lifted the note, squinting at the chicken-scratch Italian written on it.

His eyes narrowed as he read the message:

drink spiked. help

The person before them began rubbing one hand over the other. The bartender pushed the money and note back before grabbing a glass, filling it with water. He gave it to them, smiling softly. 

They took the glass and held it in their hands. “ Grazie .” They did not sip out of it.

“I’ll keep watch over you for the time being,” Giorno whispered to them. He returned to finish a different drink - a Ginger Grapefruit Bourbon Sour - and served it to another person before returning to the person that asked for help.

He watched and saw them rub their temples with their fingers. “Do you have a headache?” Giovanna inquired. They nodded in return, to which Giorno gestured to the other bartender about needing a small break.

Once he received a nod from the man, he went around the counter and asked if he could take the person outside.

They nodded, slipping down from their seat, their heels restricting them from moving quickly. They wore a long dress, and Giorno noticed them being quite muscular. 

During this, Giorno looked around for any signs of Fugo. After a few turn arounds and peeking over several people dancing, he hadn’t spotted any sight of him. The blond assumed that he was taking care of himself fine, and continued to lead the person out to the edge of the balcony.

He bit his lip, worrying thoughts never leaving the back of his mind. Was he absolutely sure he was fine? Is the mission going well? Would the kill be quick and silent? 

He saw the person grab at the railing, sighing in the cool night breeze. He mimicked their position, looking out towards the dark blanket of water, dabbed with white dots of stars reflecting above. The blond asked them about whether or not they were feeling better, the other replying with a nod. 

“I uh… I came here for m’ cousin’s wedding.” They began slurring their words, making it harder for Giorno to understand what they were saying. When he glanced over, he saw their pupils were fully blown. 

Whatever they drank, it wasn’t good. He wasn’t sure if he should ask about their cousin, as he was unsure if they were capable of watching over them.

He could have added something to the conversation but thought twice. He didn’t want Fugo insulting his ass again after he did that last stunt. To be honest, he thought it was lucky that it worked out well. 

The person mumbled something again, and the hitman asked for the person to speak up. “How’d you uh… why’re you here?” 

He blinked, switching his gaze from the water to the person next to them. “I work here, that’s all.” He gave a pleasant smile, leaning against the railing.

“Ah.” The silence that pervaded them wasn’t uncomfortable, rather it felt just right. Satisfying, almost. It fits with the clamour of voices behind them, along with the calm sea below them. 

Static crackled in Giorno’s earpiece, causing him to tilt his head in concentration for any words. He raised a finger, pressing it closer to his eardrum - which wasn’t ideal, but it helped him hear better. Radios aren’t exactly the best at giving clear, concise messages when needed.

There wasn’t a response, so the blond assumed that it was simply the radio malfunctioning.

All of a sudden, his eyes came to focus on something falling through the sky. The moonlight rippled through the air and all noise seemed to cease. At that moment, he watched as two bodies fly through the air, both clinging to one another with a terrifying amount of rage seeping from them.

He recognized one of the figures as the photographer, noticing that his eyes were red and puffy, probably from sobbing. 

Concentrating, Giorno could tell that the second person was…  Fugo. He could see the flannel flapping through the air, his bucket hat flying off, and that the gaudy glasses he once wore were missing. His fist was balled up at the edge of the target’s shirt, while the other held his gun.

The two of them seemed to shift bit by bit in the air, almost as if they were animation frames, flicking one by one as it moved on. 

It was only after the blond heard a large splash when he was brought back to the present.

A pit formed in his gut as he quickly leaned over the guard rail, seeing remnants of the two splashing into the water. His eyes widened, hearing people shouting behind him, which made his hands sweat. They agreed on throwing the body overboard, but Fugo implied he would have done it as hidden as possible. This move was out in the open, everyone had seen this- Was their mission compromised? Would the mafia-

Realization overcame him, a memory flashed in his eyes:

“ That’s funny, considering I can’t swim. ” He heard Fugo’s voice echo in his mind. The hitman remembered his teasing, the snapping of the other, the intense glaring. He remembered it all.

Giorno snapped his head back to the waves. He watched as the sea stilled and its waves were slow. He saw no one beginning to resurface the water.

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions/talk of heavy mental subjects, police incompetence, descriptions of isolation and mentally degrading states

Days pass swifter than the blink of an eye for the engineering student, sitting with a sphinx cat atop his head.

Her claws would extend, lash out at the loose, dark and curly strands of his hair. She would try to bite at the tufts, acting as though they were strings from a toy, while the man sat there, unmoving, breathing slowly. His knees were up to his chest, and his posture was curled, burying his face into his palms. 

The cat continued to swipe at his hair, occasionally making small scratches across his dark skin. He didn’t seem to mind though.

The evening shouldn’t be so bright. It didn’t feel right to have such a bright evening like this one. It bothered Narancia, making him tremble quietly.

What was that one thing Fugo always said? Something along the lines of, “no doubt that I could disappear in a moment”? That they were all “unforgettable”?

Wincing, he lifted Aerosmith from his head, placing her in his lap. She nicked a claw in his forehead, which gave an unpleasant feeling. The pain would cease as quickly as it came, a feeling so different to guilt. 

Fugo was similar to Aerosmith like that, the man thought. He, deliberately or not, always found a way to poke at people. He had gotten better at keeping his temper these past few years, but it let itself out at times.

Narancia frowned, feeling creases form at the edges of his mouth. A sense of pity and shame lay at the bottom of his gut, making him feel heavy where he sat.

His thoughts swayed from one side to the other, like a rocking ship. Waves crashed into its sides, forcing him to acknowledge anything and everything to what could’ve happened to his roommate. Maybe Fugo left a note and they didn’t see it. Maybe there was a clear sign that they didn’t see. Maybe it was their fault- No, he fought back that idea.

He wouldn’t just leave out of the blue, would he?

Bright light spilled through the curtains of his window, leaving streaks of it to flood into the dark corners of the room. Narancia’s eyes shifted, adjusting to the brightness, and found himself staring at floating dust in the light. He felt the cat curl up in his lap, its hairless body warm against the cold of his skin.

How long had he been sitting there?

A ring at the doorbell made Narancia jump, scaring Aerosmith with the sudden movement. A jolt of pain emitted from his legs as she dug her claws into his skin, momentarily.

But, after hearing pounding at the door and a familiar voice calling for him behind it, he hopped out of his seat and clumsily skidded before he opened the door. Behind it was the clear image of what would happen if a person didn’t shower for days on end.

Narancia pinched his nose, trying to distract himself from the waft of dried sweat and other unpleasant scents he could not name. “ Che due palle , you smell worse than a rat’s ass.”

“ Grazie , stronzo, ” Mista waddled inside with a large, thin box. Out of it came the aroma of stone-oven baked goodness, with fresh scents of oregano and vegetables, something that Narancia definitely knew was pizza. Not just any pizza, his pizza. He’d recognize the smell from miles away.

After he shut the door, he saw Mista set the box on the kitchen counter before crouching to the ground, letting Aerosmith nuzzle her snout into his tan hands. 

The shorter man crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, watching the scene play before him. Mista sat on the floor, still having some left over make up from his theatre rehearsal, letting the sphinx crawl into his lap and sprawl all over him. Gentle laughter and humming rose from his throat, clearly enjoying being with the animal. 

He turned his head, looking up at Narancia, though dropping the smile when he read the man’s face. Remorse grew over it.

“He’ll come back,” Mista sighed, though not of exasperation but more so of pity, “I know we’re both worried, but he’s probably on one of those unexpected trips he gets from his parents.”

“Fugo said he doesn’t go to those family reunions anymore.” Narancia mumbled, his vision still blurry and distant from it all. “I know him, Mista.”

Mista shifted, “Nara, I get that you do, but I know him too. Maybe not like a brother, but I understand his situation well enough.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Maybe it is.”

“No!” Narancia’s gaze focused hard on Mista. He could feel a heat pooling into his cheeks the moment he snapped at his roommate. 

He felt like crawling into himself, regretting his attitude towards his friend. “No, no it isn’t. You don’t get to brush off his weird actions and expect it all to be okay.”

An unwelcoming silence filled the room around them. A certain, metaphorical wall had crashed between the two, leaving an open space that one or the other could enter and invade. Discomfort rose in Narancia’s throat, looking off to the side. A fog blurred all around them, and there was a defined space left behind. 

It made it clear that there was someone missing. 

The air that used to be filled with a presence was nowhere to be seen. Emptiness was all it was.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ghira could see the other man stand up and open a cupboard.

He watched as Mista took two plates and placed them on the counter, next to the pizza box. He began to lean over to a drawer, opening it and pulling out old, decorative napkins.

He rested his hand on the counter, turning to face Narancia. The other could only form a straight line from his lips, scrunching his eyebrows.

Mista rubbed the back of his neck, “We should uh.. Eat. Before the pizza gets cold.”

Narancia stood still for a few seconds before shuffling around the counter, climbing onto his seat and pulling his legs up to his chest once more.

The other drew a small smile, sitting beside him. “It’ll help us think better. That’s what my older sis’ used to say to me.”

Narancia silently grabbed a slice and placed it on his plate. He didn’t feel like speaking at all. 

They are close friends, he and Fugo are. Narancia knew Fugo before he was his tutor, before he knew Mista, before he even knew that he wanted an engineering major. Two young men stumble into each other in a random group project in a general education class. Hell, at first, Narancia thought that this kid couldn’t have been in his class, let alone university. Fugo looked like a sophomore straight from highschool.

It struck Narancia with horror to find out that his group partner was a teenager, and why he was in university so early. 

Only sixteen, and forced out of his childhood to become some ‘wannabe prodigy’, as the kid phrased it. It disgusted him. 

He remembered then the desperation in the teen’s eyes when he asked about moving in with Narancia one day. He remembered Fugo introducing him to Mista, and then the three of them living together after finding a suitable apartment. 

But now, there were only two of them. A ghost replaced the third member, a ringing white noise was all that it was.

Narancia took a small bite out of his pizza slice, a warmth spreading across his mouth as a nostalgic taste swept over him.

He lay the slice down on his plate, fumbling around for words, “What- What day is it?”

“It’s May, Nara.” He heard the other speak up. “May 20th, your birthday.” Narancia saw him lean forward to try and get a look at his face. “Did you forget?”

A pang hit his heart, he froze. “You’re telling me I’m-“ He sharply inhaled, turning to Mista, “I’m twenty?”

The taller man smiled, “Yeah. That’s why I got you this pizza. I was planning to make a cake with Fugo but...” He trailed off, his expression growing downcast.

Narancia had forgotten how long it has been since they had something to celebrate. University and work had been plaguing his mind for so long that they rarely had any physical - or mental - breaks. He should be excited, another year went by and he’s still here!

Hollow. That was what replaced that genuine happiness. A dust-filled crate, where not even wind could disturb it. 

He took another bite of his pizza, feeling his eyelids grow heavy. “It’s not fair. He isn’t even here to celebrate my ‘special occasion’.” 

Slouching further, his face painted a blank expression. “Why should I be happy when I know I could’ve helped him?”

He remembered Mista saying something earlier before sprinting off to a busy day at rehearsals. Maybe Narancia chose to not acknowledge what he said.

“Sorry, I’m ruining this moment.” He let those thoughts seep in, feeling guilty all of a sudden. He looked off to the side, not wanting to meet the other’s gaze.

“No, no-“ Mista lay a hesitant hand on his roommate’s shoulder- “It’s alright, Nara. I get it.” He sighed, taking a larger bite out of his slice, swallowing. “It’s hard to celebrate something when he’s gone.”

Narancia hummed, closing his eyes.

The room fell into silence again, apart from the scurrying of Aerosmith across the floor, probably playing with a felt mouse. Narancia felt his toes grow numb and fall asleep, the familiar pins of nerves were pricking at them. He looked out the kitchen window, seeing the sky fall to dusk, remnants of the sun shining into his eyes until dipping underneath the horizon.

His throat burned as he tried to push down any croaking. “Did we miss anything?”

The other froze, mid-bite of his second slice. “What do you mean?”

“I mean like,” Narancia sighed, “Did he ever say anything?”

Mista looked to give some thought, before nodding. He then began to explain how he’d noticed Fugo becoming reclusive, seeming more agitated than usual, coming home at late times of the night and noticeably not doing any studying or anything of significance. ‘His books had dust on them,’ Narancia heard his roommate’s voice echo in his mind. He wondered how long it must have been since Fugo stopped using his books, despite being an avid reader. 

The man continued, saying how Fugo also hadn’t been eating much - even less than usual - and one time saw him snapping some phones and breaking all of his electronics. Mista assumed this was a fit of rage he had, and would have asked him to stop if it weren’t for the fact that this had happened before. Fugo mentioned at some point that he could always exploit his parents’ money, that Ghira could remember well enough.

After a few moments, the shorter man spoke up, though quietly, “We should make a missing persons report.”

There was an abrupt cough. Mista turned his head to the other and lowered his slice of pizza, eyeing him with scrutiny. “What makes you think they could help?”

“I dunno,” Narancia sighed, turning to meet his roommate’s gaze. 

He stared for a moment.“I don’t think they’ll do shit,” the other stated before he took another bite of his pizza.

Narancia sighed and grabbed another slice from the box. It wasn’t warm like before. “It’s better than sitting around and doing nothing.”

One of the first pieces Mista had to study was Gioachino Rossini’s Il barbiere di Siviglia , which was written throughout Italy’s Romantic period of music history. It detailed a story filled with confusion, both for the cast of characters as well - and especially - as the audience.

Rosina, one of the main characters, had fallen in love with Count Almaviva, despite never meeting him. Count Almaviva was a wealthy man, and feared that when he met this woman that she would only wed him for his wealth. 

This was when Figaro, The Barber of Seville , comes into play and helps out the man. He is the one the audience usually projects onto the most, as he is a simple barber who knows his ways and is smarter than all of the other people in town. 

Mista glanced over the contents of the page, scribbling down how compared to other composers, it seems Rossini’s operas had more of a light touch to them, making it more comical than what any other artist in that time period would have done (namely Bellini and Donizetti).

It hadn’t even been a week into his new classes and Mista already felt his brain frying and shriveling up into charred pieces. He laid the heavy book on the counter, looking up with bleary eyes to see the clock on the wall.

Mista let out a frustrated yell, the chair hitting the floor with a thump after he leaned back into it. He rubbed at his eyes, despite some memory in his brain telling him not to, and let out a yawn. It was nearing eight o’clock in the evening, and - although he was a night owl alongside his roommate - he felt exhausted. 

Unfortunately for him, this material was for an important assignment due the next morning, which meant that he would be staying up for a good portion of the night.

Standing up from his seat, he murmured to himself about making coffee, in hopes that it would help wake him up.

He let out yet another hefty yawn as he made his way around the counter and into the kitchen. He stretched his arms upwards, hearing several cracks through the bones of his spine. Opening one on the cabinets, he fumbled through their boxes of tea before he found a newly opened container of instant coffee.

Mista reached for the kettle and filled it with water before nonchalantly placing it atop one of their gas burners. As he heard the clicks of the knob turn, setting the heat on high, he felt satisfied and leaned against the counter behind him.

Crossing his arms, Mista found himself staring off through their window on the right, showing the warm, evening sky barely illuminating the streets below.

The view was ruined by some speckled, dried dust coating the other side of the window pane, but that was fine. It didn’t bother him. Feeling numb prevented anything from bothering him these days. 

Which should be concerning, but again, it didn’t bother him.

Words and doubt echoed through his stubborn mind, making him grit his teeth. It wasn’t because Fugo was a responsible adult who could do his own needs. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust them, frankly it was quite the opposite. No, it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t. The police don’t care, and they don’t know what Fugo meant to them.

He closed his eyes, remembering how he had to drag a hysteric Narancia out of the police station, reminiscing the tight-wounded hug he made to calm his roommate down. It took several minutes of simply standing in-front of the building to have Narancia speak again.

Ever since then, Narancia had tried to focus on his schoolwork and projects. Hell, he even applied to an additional job to further cover rent. It was obvious to Mista that he was doing this to distract himself from his worry. He thought about speaking with him about this entire ordeal, how distractions won’t last forever, but he knew he had no right to say that to him.

Mista pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling his lips pull to a straight line. The man knew that Fugo was out there somewhere. 

Narancia was right about his sudden leave being off. 

A little over ten days since Fugo had left abruptly, and they’re already this worried about him. He wants the kid to come back safe, for both his sake and Narancia’s.

Mista snapped back to reality when he realized his body went on autopilot, already having poured a third mug of coffee. He clicked his tongue, cursing at no one in particular as he set the kettle down. A habit of grabbing three mugs: one for Narancia, one for himself, and the last for Fugo.

A sudden headache came through, making Mista twitch an eye as he decided to take the extra mug for himself.

Balancing three mugs on one arm, he bent backwards for balance and exited the kitchen. He made sure not to trip over Aerosmith as she rubbed against his leg when he approached his roommate’s door. He reached his free hand out towards the knob, before noticing that the door was slightly ajar.

He blinked, seeing soft light spilled out of the crack and onto the hall wall. He watched the cat push through the crack, making the door sway open and reveal a slumped figure at his desk.

Mista shut his eyes, pausing before opening them again and taking in the state of his roommate’s room. Various sketches and pieces of scrapped, crumbled paper of mathematical problems and solutions scattered about the plywood of the floor. His walls had several pinned notes, all of which had chicken scratch so illegible that it made Mista wonder how Fugo could have even deciphered these. He noticed several sticky notes stuck to Narancia’s walls as well, mostly with reminders, dates and an assortment of words hastily scribbled on them.

Frowning, he began remembering their tutor’s old, strict technique at the start. His shoulders seemed to always be stiff for a sixteen year old, and his temper was exceedingly short. 

Mista snorted as he walked into the room, seeing the comical amount of dents in Narancia’s wooden desk from how often the tutoring sessions would escalate to play fights.

His smile dropped again, placing a mug on the desk, as he remembered how the tutor would sometimes let himself slip, whispering to himself that he was pathetic for not being able to contain his emotions. Mista could tell the several times he saw Fugo flinch back at Narancia’s reactions. He would see him physically hold himself back from doing anything remotely dangerous to their roommate.

Bile rose to his gut, irritating it and making Mista feel uncomfortable at the memories.

The taller figure glanced over the shorter one, observing his position in his chair. With crossed arms placed at his desk, his face against the wood of the table, Mista couldn’t tell whether the guy was sleeping or not (but assumed the latter). 

“I brought you coffee,” Mista awkwardly put out. His friend didn’t answer, but that was alright. It will be okay soon, he knew. Fugo would come back and they’d be the amazing trio once more, just as before.

Mista refocused his gaze, still seeing the harsh, warm lamp light illuminating the room. He placed his own two mugs down and rubbed his hands. Inhaling, he moved the chair slightly and took an arm under Narancia’s knees. Another went around his back before lifting him up from his seat. 

He was heavier than what the man had expected, but nevertheless he was successful.

He turned, carrying the roommate over to his mess of a bed and lay him down carefully. He felt the soft mattress against the back of his hand before slipping away from his roommate. Aerosmith hopped onto the bed and curled up beside his pillow, resting her eyes before promptly snoozing away.

Outside Narancia’s window, the stars shone through the night sky in their neighborhood, with only a few street lamps glowing and flickering with orange light, illuminating the roads.

Mista stood for several minutes, pondered over his next moves, before he decided to tuck the man in as well. As he pulled the crimson blanket over his roommate, he gently pecked Narancia’s forehead and rubbed a thumb against his cheek. He then took the two extra mugs before switching off his roommate’s lamp, and closing the door gently behind him.

He carried his feet over to his work station at the counter, sliding his chair and sitting down before taking a sip of hot coffee. It was bitter, just as he liked it. Almost immediately, he felt a surge of energy rush through him.

An hour later was when he realized that he indeed kissed his roommate on the forehead. 

Mista felt his mind slip from rereading the same page five times, which led to him remembering his actions. It felt natural, so ordinary of an action that he didn’t feel the need to realize what he had done. For a moment, shock filled his body before a hot, embarrassing feeling overcame it. 

He felt himself lean forward, burying his face in his palms. He let out a shuddering sigh as a warmth spread through his chest. 

“Narancia tells me he doesn’t mind,” Fugo said, not looking up from his novel. 

The man with whom the teen was speaking with was currently curled up across from him, unable to hide the clear exasperation he was expressing.

“Sure, as if you would understand how we feel about each other.”

Mista glanced up and saw the other scowl, glaring back at him. “I might not be interested in anyone, but I live with you two. You in particular-” He saw Fugo point with his middle finger- “have it really bad for him.”

He went silent, gritting a smile.

Mista hated proving Fugo right.

A month. It felt like everything kept running ahead of them and they were laying in the dust, wasting away.

Click!

Narancia finished stapling yet another missing persons poster against the dark wood of the wire beam. There were several of them in the area, all connecting the lifted telephone lines across the streets of Roma. Some older posters began detaching and flying away, leaving Narancia to wonder if this one would be the same one day. 

Mista approached him, looking up towards the clouds and murky sky. He frowned, rubbing the hair on Narancia’s head as he stared blankly at the poster he hung. Hollowed out, his gaze shifted down to him.

The poster in question was a simple missing persons poster. It had their latest photograph of Fugo, which was a cut out from one of their trips to the store, as well as his name and contact information. If the police weren’t going to do anything, then they would.

“Is that the last of the batch?”

The shorter figure sighed, taking a step back and shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah, I knew we had to print out more.”

Mista gave a dry smile, “We’ve been hanging them up all morning. It’s almost afternoon,” he slouched slightly, looking down at the man. 

The other didn’t meet his eyes. He opened his mouth, pausing and feeling his voice stuck in his throat. “We’re never gonna find him, are we?”

“What? Of course we are!” Mista shot back, making Narancia jump. “We’ve done this much already, what gives if we just stop right now? He’s coming back, Nara. He will come back.” Narancia stared back at the piercing dark-eyed gaze of the man before him, feeling his chest tighten. It was intense.

Narancia felt pity flood his gut. He hasn’t realized it yet, has he?

He knows Fugo won’t return. His room was emptier than it was before, he broke off all contact, he lost all traces of where he could have gone. He even dropped out of their university ahead of time and they never realized it. This is another abandonment from a friend. 

Stupid , the thought whispered as he felt his eyes grow raw. It will happen again, Mista will leave next. He’ll be alone again. 

A warm, large coat pressed against his small frame. Narancia blinked, not realizing the flood of tears flowing down his cheeks, nor the embrace he felt wrapped around him. Looking up, he saw droplets prick at the corners of Mista’s eyes. 

Narancia curled his fists, leaning into the hug. He felt himself burying his face in the taller figure’s shoulder, his throat burning. 

Would he leave? I don’t want him to leave. I don’t want to be alone.

He tried not to think about it.

Fugo is coming back. 

It’s a ritual for Mista to repeat it, repeat it, and repeat it again at this point. Again, and again, and again, over and over he has repeated the same words every morning.

Over the course of a year, he’s sure that Narancia followed the kid’s footsteps and dropped out. He works at some mechanics shop with car repairs down the street. Mista guessed school was too much for him at this point. He himself for a while put up the act and makeup of a normal drama guy at university, before dropping out himself. He’s been trying to find a job but felt himself… slipping. It’s all too easy to fall into habits that harm people like that.

Mista knows he’s been hearing rumors about Fugo leaving the country. He's been hearing Bruno - with whom he’s been taking up calls for in Nara’s place - say that maybe he went to live a new life. 

Narancia- Narancia thinks the worst happened. Mista puts his hands on his face and tries not to think about it. They had a whole heated argument a couple months after their roommate first disappeared, and that was the one and only time he admitted that to Mista’s face. There was so much yelling and shouting and a lot of hurtful words passed around that time.

It brought both of them back on their toes for a while after that. Not for long, Mista remembers, but for a little bit it had.

He doesn't know how long he’s been laying in bed. Rolling over the warm sheets to check the clock, he saw the early hours of a morning displayed. Early as in seven o’clock, shown in bright red digital numbers. His entire body was slack, unwilling to move and too exhausted to do so.

He forcefully rolls back. The face that feels detached from his body is sweaty and hot, and his eyes feel as though they’re brimming with tears.

Fugo is okay. Fugo is fine. It’ll help with Narancia’s stresses if he keeps thinking like this, at least. He knows the short guy hadn’t been doing well and he hasn’t even been greeting him in the mornings. Even at random times of the night, Mista would wake up to Narancia crawling into his bed and laying with him.

He looks off to his left, seeing all but an empty spot, a pillow and a wrinkled blanket.

Empty and hollowed out, his heart twinged with something he could only describe as loneliness.

They weren't terribly close in the beginning, only having known each other through Fugo. Jokingly agreeing to band up against him as annoying roommates, as per usual, the two of them were quite the duo against the short-tempered teen. Mista used to study the medical field at this time and Narancia was still in his engineering studies, studying for a graphics degree.

They would hang out whenever there was time after classes, the three of them would.

The two of them were inseparable, Mista chuckled. They did all sorts of horrid pranks, dyeing Fugo’s hair blond, replacing all of the bowls with cups and hiding them outside, rearranging random parts of Fugo’s room, shenanigans of all sorts that had a common target. 

Of course Fugo never appreciated it, but it was hysterical to them. The white-haired teen only ever really told them to stop when they tried interfering with a baking recipe he had. 

According to Fugo, it was his grandmother’s recipe. Both parties took some time before actually backing away, and in the end, they ate a strawberry version of tiramisu. It was a unique taste, something Mista would never forget the feeling of. It had not only the sweetest of strawberries packed into it, but emotion as well. A lovely swirl of bittersweet sorrow and laughter had inserted itself into the dish. 

He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the look Fugo had when eating it. Forgotten memories must have crashed into the teen all at once at that point, because he began letting waterworks loose and flow down his cheeks.

Mista hadn’t even noticed it, but he found himself at the doorway to Narancia’s room. The man saw Nara curled up and asleep, worn out from the late shift he took last night.

He found himself taking small, soft steps, a drowsy and hazy vision making him stumble every few steps. Collapsing onto the bed, he found no will to apologize for waking his roommate up so abruptly. 

“Dude,” Narancia yawned, curling around Mista, “It’s almost eight in the morning, why are we awake?” He hadn’t even bothered to complain about the horrid smell of his roommate. 

“Go back to sleep, Guido.”

Mista decided to keep his lips sealed as he slipped back into unconsciousness.

The best way to cope would be to wait, they hoped.

“He’s dead. Drill it into your head, Guido, he’s fucking dead!” Narancia bursted out. “I- I know he did! We both saw the signs and we didn’t do anything about it! There were red flags everywhere and we chose to ignore it.”

Mista furrowed his brows, crossed his arms and began darting his eyes at anything that wasn’t Narancia’s face. “We didn’t choose to ignore it, we hadn’t known and it wasn’t our fault. He’s not dead, either, quit it with that.”

“It wasn’t our fault?” Narancia gave a dry laugh, “That has to be the most ignorant thing I’ve heard yet.”

“It’s not ignorant-“

The shorter man interrupted him, “We should’ve taken responsibility and confronted him before it was too late. We had planned to ask him about it before he- he-“ His gut burned- “Before he fucking left us! Up and went in the middle of the night! No note no call no nothing !”

“ Enough. ” Mista’s voice rang out, his gaze staring down at Narancia’s. “I’m sick of us arguing every month on whether or not he’s alive or not. There’s no evidence of him since that night, he went off-grid. That does not mean he’s gone, and I’m not going to let any other option get ahead of that.”

Narancia slumped into one of the dining room chairs, ire seeping off of him like a hot iron. 

“He had strange behavior. He was cleaning out his room and his habits changed dramatically.” He murmured, his eyelids growing heavy. 

“If you’re planning on saying what I think you’re trying to say, I’m not gonna allow it.”

“Mista-“

“I said no, dammit!” Narancia caught a glimpse of his roommate, his hands and arms stiff from how hard he’s gripping the edges of his beanie. “If he did throw himself off a bridge, people’d find him! He’s not dead. He isn’t!”

Narancia looked up at the ceiling, an exasperated sigh escaping his lips, “I’m not trying to hurt you with this, I’m trying to help you understand what probably happened. It’s been a year, over that even. There’s no way he’s here, man.”

A silence blanketed the room and covered the walls, nothing moved and their breathing was quiet. The air was thick, and it felt hard to breathe properly. Narancia heard the shuffling of feet in front of him, seeing Mista sit down next to him on another chair. Their brown, mahogany chairs were sturdy and came in a three-set. One chair was always empty.

“What should we do with his stuff?” Narancia whispered after some time, readjusting his posture.

The other paused, “Leave it. He’ll need his things for when he gets back.”

It was almost comical at this point, but Narancia strained not to laugh.

His feet were moving before he could even think. A rush of exhilarated energy burst through him as he swore he caught a glimpse of white hair. When finding him proved fruitless, he sprinted as fast as he could towards the apartment.

Mista knew Narancia would be home, as he had an off day today. His heart beat faster than anything he felt before. Overwhelmed, ecstatic, elated, filled with a joyous feeling that couldn’t escape his throat. He was there , he caught a glimpse of him and it was not some old Roman man or woman or anyone like that.

Hands shaking, he fiddled with the keys before bursting through the door, heaving breaths as he had run up three stories. 

Narancia looked up from his knack he had been tinkering with, shocked by his roommate’s appearance. “Guido? You look like you just ran across the city.”

“I did.”

He paused. “Why did you run across Roma?”

The roommate held up a hand, knees bending and taking deep breaths to calm himself a little. “I found him.”

Narancia shook his head, in disbelief, “Not this again-“

“ No- Nara, Nara wait it’s not what you think, I really truly saw him! And it wasn’t some old guy either!” Mista was pointing at the shorter man, staring intently at him.

“Mista-“

“It’s the fucking truth! I saw him this time! I really did!”

“If you saw him,” Narancia stood from his chair, his grown hair sweeping across his shoulders, “Did you say anything to him?”

“No.” Mista stated. “But that was because he was running from me!”

“Was he running?”

“ Yes! ” Mista stepped forward, voice weakened, “Why won’t you believe me this time?”

“That’s the point.” Narancia circled around the table and leaned against it, “‘ This time ’. This has to be the fourth-“

“ -Third .”

He sighed, “ Third time this happened. The first time we spent all night and the day after looking for him, and he was gone. The second time, you were nearly hit by some cars looking out in the middle of the street for him because you thought you saw him entering a small white Sedan. Now,” He gestured a hand towards Mista, “You’re saying that you saw him in the street, and were running from you.”

The prickling sensation came back to the edges of Mista’s eyelids.

“How many times will this take until you understand that he isn’t-“

“ -Is- “

“-here? Five? Six?” 

Mista stared at his roommate, dressed in a graphic tee of some indie game with a long skirt matching it. He noticed how less full of life he was filled with compared to before their roommate disappeared. He noticed how he no longer painted his nails for fun, and how remembered how much he’d been working to distract himself.

The feeling broke. A dam full of water broke; It poured and poured and poured and wouldn’t stop flowing.

His vision became blurry as he felt himself drop to the floor, followed by the feeling of two small hands keeping him from hitting his head. At this point, he really wanted for them to let go. 

He didn’t want to move. Shame and guilt and sorrow bursted from him, those locked feelings he refused to acknowledge were presented before. And all he could do was sob a thousand seas.

As he lay on the couch, he heard Narancia call Bruno in the other room.

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: gun! and a partial aftermath to near-drowning, but that’s about it really

He climbed his way up the stairs, keenly following the photographer. In his mind, he repeated his plan once more. Get the target to the roof, dispose of them discreetly, return to the bar, find Giorno, and then bail the cruise in Roma. 

Easier said than done, but it is what it is. It’s better than having nothing. 

They exited the party not too long after introducing themselves. Franco Accetta was the man’s name. Simple guy, wearing formal attire and was doing his job, taking photos of the wedding couple and others for other projects he might have. Fugo had interrupted him when he tried taking a photo of the hitman, as the hitman suggested going to the roof for a better shot.

Thankfully, this improvisation worked and the photographer agreed to the task. 

“It may be a bit windy, but I’m sure it will do just fine with your looks.” Signor Accetta peered over his shoulder with a gaze that discomforted Pannacotta. 

Unfortunately, he most likely took the invitation a little too seriously.

“That will be just fine, sir,” Fugo spoke, tensing up at the gesture.

“Oh, you don’t have to act proper. Please, call me Franco.”

Fugo furrowed his brow as they approached the last set of stairs. This one in particular led to one of the roofs of the cruise ship. “Right.”

The man pushed the heavy, red door open, the harsh wind blowing against it. With a bit of strain, he held the door open for the hitman.

“Ladies first.” He smirked.

The hitman wanted to peel off that smirk and fire at this man right then and there. “Thank you.” Fugo, however, had to keep his good side on for as long as possible, despite how uncomfortable the situation was. He had to keep telling himself this so he wouldn’t kill the guy at an irrational time.

As he saw the man walk in front of him, he made sure to close the one-way door behind him. It shut with a surprisingly quiet click for a door as large as this one.

This roof in particular was surprisingly barren. Fugo anticipated some crates or large ventilation fans at the very least, but then again, he’d never been on a cruise before (let alone on the roof of one). The floorboards weren’t polished either, and it looked like some crates were missing (seeing as how the indents of the wood were very apparent, even if you weren’t looking for it). 

“Just stand over there by the railing.” The photographer fumbled with his expensive equipment, “You were right about the roof being a great place to get some photos! The lighting here is immaculate and the night sky is so, so clear today-“

Fugo tuned out his talking as he went over to stand by the railing. It was red, short enough to lean against but tall enough to make sure people wouldn’t accidentally fall off. He gazed over the edge, his lips parting slightly as he sucked in a breath. He peered over, watching the waves crashing against the ship. Seeing a flash in the corner of his eye, Fugo whipped his head around to find Mr. Accetta as a deer in headlights.

The photographer lowered his camera, smiling, “Now that, that was a sight to see.”

Fugo strained a smile. 

Mr. Accetta fumbled with the settings of his instrument again. “Now, now you must try leaning against it more. Make it dramatic , you know?”

“Yeah,” Fugo sighed, moving away from the railing. Now, this is it. It’s best to get this over with now rather than later. Plus, he didn’t want to make any… Unnecessary advancements to this target.  

“Woah, woah, where are you going? The railings are right there! You misunderstand me, don’t you?” The photographer chuckled, letting the camera hang by its strap.

Fugo shifted his weight to one side, before reaching behind for his gun.

He felt his gaze drop to a neutral glare as he watched the target freeze. “Signor Accetta, I think I’ll cover the shots for now.”

Adjusting his grip, he aimed the gun straight at the target. Bullseye to the head. Pull the trigger, and it’ll be done.

“Wait, wait, no- no- no you’re with that damned mafia, aren’t you? You’re a goddamn mafioso!”

Fugo stopped his movements, watching the photographer grow hysterical. A stronger wind brushed past him, causing him to grip his bucket hat.

“That damn- Passione - it is you! You were sent by them! That’s why you’re trying to kill me, isn’t it?” The man raised his hands in the air, catching his breath. “Please, please let me explain. The only reason you’re going to kill me is that I took those photos of the higher-ups doing stupid shit, isn’t it?”

Fugo kept a cold poker face, making no movement to indicate any answer.

“All I wanted was to save that family. Those assholes wanted to gut ‘em, children too! Just because of ‘em not paying the cash on time! I heard it all. So I did what I had to, left and turned the photos in to the police. I didn’t want anyone to get hurt! You have to believe me on this.” The hitman watched as the man began to sob and moan about his fears and past actions. 

A job is a job. He kept reminding himself that. He wasn’t the judge of life, he followed orders. Even if this man- even if he made morally good actions, his and Giorno’s lives valued more than this guy’s life in the long run for him.

If this man doesn’t die, he and Giorno will.

He chuckles, imagining how Giorno would’ve probably spared this man. A whole “ I trust the system because I am the system! ” scenario played through his mind, he humored. Like a loud horn, blasting out notes with so much air that the musician would have to stop eventually and rest.

Fugo wondered if Giorno played any instruments and if he played them well. He was taught classical piano from a young age, but because of his relationship with his parental figures, he hadn’t touched the instrument in years.

“What, you think this is funny?!” Signor Accetta furrowed his brows, his ears growing redder by the second. “You think my life in your hands is some comedy? Are you really that cruel?”

Fugo went by logic to this scenario, though. No “for the greater good” bullshit was going to stop him, he’d already learned how to ignore the itch at the back of his brain long ago.

“We’re on the same side! I’ll pay whatever you want, just don’t shoot me! You probably also got roped into something you never asked for, right? All of us soldiers and ex-mafiosos are like that. Please, I beg of you, we’re on the same side!” The man ran towards him, gripping the collar of his shirt with intense rage and angst set in his eyes.

He felt the camera dig into his abdomen, watching the man slobber over him in tears. The hitman grabbed at the strap, pulling it over the photographer’s head, before throwing it overboard.

“You- What have you done?!” The man reached out for the device as it flew through the air and into the water. 

Incriminating evidence of the hitman had just been dealt with. Fugo felt no emotion as he did the act, knowing that he was following precautions as per usual. 

Signor Accetta turned back to Fugo. His ire stronger than ever, he yelled as he grabbed at the collar of the hitman’s shirt once more. He tugged, surprising the hitman, before dragging them both towards the railing of the roof.

They both started tugging at each other, one trying to shoot the other, and the other gripping the hand that held the gun. The photographer pushed back against his arm, an unexpected force following it. Fugo was stronger though, and quickly brought back the point of the firearm to the target’s chest. Pressed against the railing, Fugo knew for sure Mr. Accetta was unable to do anything.

His finger wrapped around the trigger and he pulled.

As a suppressed shot sounded the air and pierced his ears, he felt the photographer pull, and they both tipped over.

Fugo felt his shades drop right as his stomach did. He stared at the last few moments he had, his face screwed with anger at the man that made this job so much harder than it had to be.

“Hold your breath, Pannacotta.” He heard his mother’s words echo his mind. The water was growing nearer. “Just breathe, you’re better than this. Count to ten and be done with it. Adults don’t cry, and you’re mature enough to know that.” A disgusting tactic she had to calm him down from a panic attack as a child. 

The roaring waves deafened his ears and thoughts as they grew nearer.

He sucked in a breath, feeling time slow as he caught a glimpse of Giorno leaning against the railing as he fell. Fugo couldn’t see his face, but it must’ve been one of shock and surprise.

A genuine smile fell upon his lips. He was glad he didn’t have to resort to burning a part of the ship for this. Giorno wouldn’t be pleased if it did burn, wouldn’t he? The hitman remembered the other’s reaction to him laughing at the question he made. Setting a ship aflame sounds much easier than it looks, at least, if you’re not in the boiler room. 

A loud crash into ice-cold water made his thoughts cease, his vision falling dark in an instant.

Coldness grew over his icy fingers, restricting him from moving when he awoke. His throat and lungs burned with water, his hair stuck to his head in a wet mess, and he shuddered as he breathed.

He shifted, trying to get a good look at his surroundings before he recognized a figure standing before him.

“Finally.” He peeled a larger crack open in his eyelids, recognizing that person crouching down at him. Behind him were large, red cargo crates. It was still the pitch-black of night.

“Are you going to keep laying there or do I have to prop you up?” He heard a sharp tone to the blond’s voice, which differed from his normal banter.

Fugo’s recollection of what happened after he hit the water was close to nothing. Confused, he coughed and propped himself up against his elbow. He felt a warm hand help him up slightly, adjusting him so he was sitting properly.

He didn’t want that hand to leave.

“First off,” Giorno glared at him (Fugo could tell that much through his fatigued gaze), “What on earth was that?”

The man cleared his throat, murmuring, “What on earth was what?”

Giorno threw his hands in the air, “You fell off the cruise ship? I had to go after you and fetch you out before anyone saw you! I’m relieved that the port was nearby and I’m a strong swimmer, because otherwise-“

“You were the one who went and grabbed me from the water?” Fugo tilted his head. “Why?” He noticed how Giorno was just as soaked as he was, his bartender uniform clinging to him in what seemed to be an uncomfortable manner. The pink of it was dull as it was damp, contrasting the intense sky eyes of the man speaking with him.

He needed some rest, sleep would do him good.

Giorno gaped his mouth open, stunned, “Wh- What do you mean ‘Why’ ? We’re both in this deal together and someone had to save you without getting us both in trouble. But that’s-“ Giorno furrowed his brow- “That’s not the point I’m trying to make, Fugo.”

“Then what’s your point?” Fugo felt his eyelids grow heavier as he waved a hand at Giorno. 

“I’m asking why you would make such a stupid decision to throw the photographer out in the open, one, and two, to try and go for a swim at the edge of the ship!” 

Fugo sighed, staring at Giorno, who couldn’t seem to meet his eyes. 

“I had to do what I could. He pulled both of us over just as I shot him,” Pannacotta remembered with distinct clarity, “It was a part of the job.“

“A part of the job my ass! You said it yourself that you couldn’t swim and then you proceeded to go off and make an ironic joke out of that!”

“Listen-“

“No. You listen, Fugo!“

Fugo grabbed at Giorno’s collar, annoyance filling his chest, “No, you listen. You keep lecturing me like I’m some… some small child when I was the one that did the mission instead of mingling around the bar.”

Giorno grew silent as Fugo went on, “You ungrateful ass, I saved both of our lives by getting that guy tonight! Hell, the only reason he even died was that he upset the higher-ups by taking some photos of them nearly murdering some family working under them. If it weren’t for me, we’d both still be hunted down by Passione , and we’d still be trying to kill each other over targets, and we’d be dead already if it weren’t for me !”

The blond pushed him back to the giant crate, his eyes growing intense, a deep frown etching his face. “You say I’m ungrateful? Look at yourself! If it weren’t for me you would be still sinking under that deep pool of water and would have hit the bottom of the sea in no time. You would have drowned! I can’t believe I have to get that drilled into your head of how idiotic that was! Who cares about the payment and the bargain if one of us beats it to death before the other?” 

“Oh, so you care for my well-being now?”

“Yes! Unlike someone who doesn’t ! You play with others too well for your own good, Fugo.”

“Giorno,” Fugo threw off the other hunter’s grip, his voice lowering to a whisper, “I’ll have you know that I work to fulfill a job and I make logical, well-assumed decisions along with it. I spent that entire time on the roof trying to come up with anything for the target to be dealt with, leave with you as soon as possible, and make it out alive. Those were all the first thoughts in my mind and it certainly was one I tried to follow through.”

The hitman kept going, standing up and taking steps towards the blond and pushing him back, “I may have over-assumed the wits of my opponent, but had he not had the strength to pull both of us over, we wouldn’t be in this situation right now. You’re right, I miscalculated my assumptions, but do not ever think that I don’t think about my well-being as much as I do for you.” 

Silence fell over the two, who were heaving breaths after yelling at each other. Fugo’s throat burned from straining his voice. He rubbed his fingers over his vocal cords, massaging them and coughing quietly. 

The smell of marine life overwhelmed the port air around them. Waves of wind blew past them as water crashed the sides of the port’s edge nearby. A small lamp shone over the two; bright, yellow luminescence covered them in a blanket of warm light.

“You mentioned the target taking photos of higher capos murdering families under them,” Giorno spoke up, piercing the quiet. “If you knew about that, why did you kill him?”

Fugo pinched his nose. “It was a part of the job. I don’t even know if it was true or not.”

“We could have taken him,” Giorno paused, “And interrogated him about it.” His brows furrowed. 

“That Capo that bargained with us would have noticed.” He sharply responded.

“Not if we faked the target’s death.”

Fugo took some steps back, sighing in exasperation, “It’s too late to think of that now. I wasn’t going to let that man’s words get under my skin, so I did what I had to do.”

“It’s stupid how you killed that guy even if there was a chance he did a good thing.”

Fugo stopped his pacing, turning to stare at the blond. “A good thing?” 

“Yes? The mafia exploiting people is already bad enough, and having their lives taken advantage of is one of the worst things you could do to someone.” Giorno lowered his gaze, frowning. He looked to be remembering something. 

Fugo felt something prick at his heart when he saw that gaze. He made a short laugh, “Giorno, I think you have little say in what’s a good thing and what’s a bad thing.”

The hunter looked up, staring back at Fugo.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Fugo raised a hand, scratching the back of his neck. “I want you to understand something, Giorno.”

Giorno formed a line with his mouth, his voice growing quiet. “Go on, I’m intrigued.”

“I already said I lost the morality for justice long ago,” Fugo turned his eyes towards the stars, feeling himself grow uncomfortable at the stare Giorno was giving him. “Life is about survival. Surely, you can understand that, since you also take others’ worlds away from them. How-” Fugo met the cold stare at last- “-How can you lead a life with the sense of justice and… and prosecution on your mind when you have broken that system killing others?” He ended his question with an astonished smile.

The hitman gave no response. He stood stiff, unmoving, hands clenched. 

“Speechless. You can’t answer that, can you?” Fugo taunted.

Giorno sharply inhaled, “I guess I can’t.” He fiddled with his fingers, shoulders slacking, “I always go with my gut-feeling. That’s something that I do. I don’t believe in a justice system, clearly, as I’m killing people for a living.” He hitched a breath, “But that doesn’t mean that justice doesn’t… exist. And even if it’s some wrong assumption, if it’s right in my eyes then I make a beeline for it.”

The blond sighed, looking down at his feet before meeting eyes with Fugo.

“Say you have a choice of killing a murderer and a burglar,” He went on, leaning against the crates behind him. “Which one would you kill?”

“Neither,” Fugo responded.

“I would kill the murderer.” Giorno stared at him. “Would you kill the murderer if they murdered someone you knew?”

His eyelids lowered, a frown etched into his face again. “I wouldn’t kill anyone unless I had to.”

“Even if they killed a friend? A loved one?” Giorno tilted his head.

Fugo gritted his teeth. “I wouldn’t kill anyone unless I had to. Revenge won’t solve anything, I learned that the hard way.” 

Giorno chortled, “I would kill the murderer in an instant if they hurt a loved one. That’s how my thought process goes. I never knew that someone like you could let someone you know die when you could intervene.” 

“That’s not what I said-” 

“That’s a new low.” Giorno spat. 

Fugo gripped his hair, shut his eyelids, and took a deep breath. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m not willing to protect others unless it's for my own gain?” 

“Right now? Yes. Yes, it is.” 

Fugo felt he could collapse at any moment. His chest tightened with anxiety as he tried to control his breathing, “If you’re choosing to think that way, then I hate to break it to you: I’m not like that.” He knew he would go to the ends of the world if he found out that someone had done something to Mista or Narancia, or both. 

He knew that all too well, but he knew he couldn’t say it out loud. Fugo doesn’t know a thing about Giorno, save for his overwhelming and annoying attitude. He didn’t want to risk exposing them and getting them in danger. 

“Then prove it, Fugo.”

“I don’t have to prove anything to you.” Fugo coughed, his lungs still burning from the water that he breathed in when he sank. 

Giorno frowned. Fugo returned the gesture with a quiet stare. 

The blond shook his head and sighed, “Changing subjects, any ideas on getting to a motel?”

The hitman shook his head in dismay, looking down the stone pavement that led out to a clearing in the harbor. “No. Uh. No, I thought we were going on a train back to Napoli?”

“A train? At this time at night? It’s best if we had some rest after that whole mission. You especially need it, you fool of a swimmer.” Giorno began retying his braid, the loose ends cleaning up quickly as his hands worked with the bulks of hair.

“No... no, we’re not staying here. We can’t.” He wasn’t planning on running into old roommates any time soon; he didn’t want to risk it. 

Giorno looked up at him, confusion painting his tanned face, “Fugo, I don’t want to argue again-“ He tries to catch Fugo’s gaze- “I’m asking nicely, why don’t you want to stay here?”

His mind stretched and folded in on himself as he felt his limbs turn to stone. Anger and shame and fear swelled in his stomach for what had to be the fiftieth time this week as he was afraid again. Oh, how he was afraid of seeing those he abandoned again. He didn’t want to hurt them, neither in the sense of anonymity nor the angst, it would cause. His chest was crushing him, the guilt made his head rush, and his vision blur. 

But, Fugo refused to be vulnerable in front of Giorno. 

With a defeated sigh, he responded: “It’s... Fine. Nevermind. We’ll find a motel. One night, and then we’re leaving.” 

Eventually, he took two steps away from Giorno and hastily made his way towards the open clearing of the harbor. He heard Giorno sigh before following after him. Both of their footsteps were near silent across the pavement, and the only noise that could be heard between the tension of the two were the waves crashing behind them.

“That uber wasn’t so bad.” Giorno huffed as they began climbing a slanted sidewalk. He felt his damp braid hitting his shoulder blades every time he took a step upwards. “Wish she took us up the hill, though.”

“Yeah, it certainly was a good ride.”

Giorno grinned. “What, did you have bad experiences?”

He saw the other hitman glare over his shoulder at him before continuing up the hill. Tan, cracked buildings, and red-bricked town halls lined the sides of the road, shrouding darkness over all of light’s smallest particles. The white-haired hitman took a sharp right turn down in-between a pair of buildings. More open than the blond would have expected it to be, it was still lined with large garbage bins and hanging ventilation units off the sides of windows. 

Upon agreeing to stay in Roma, Fugo had mentioned after emerging from the port about a motel they could stay at. Giorno, with relief, was glad that the other hitman was at least cooperative through his grumbles about how drained the two of them were. 

However, this relief was short-lived.

They made it to the end of the alley, the other side having no less light than what was behind them. As Giorno took a glance around the corner, he stepped out of the darkness and slumped his shoulders. He jutted his posture forward, exaggerating his surprise to the man in front of him. “No- Dio Mio- We are not going in there.”

Fugo turned his head towards the hitman, raising an eyebrow. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘ What ’?” Giorno shoved a hand out towards the building before them.

“This is perfectly fine.”

They blinked at each other. “Fugo, do you know what a motel is?”

Fugo scrunched his brows. “I do.”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.” Fugo gritted his teeth. “You haven’t answered my question.” 

“Fugo-” Giorno pinched the bridge of his nose- “A motel is somewhere a person can stay for the night and have a towel or two to spare.” He paused, processing his thoughts. “This- This is not a motel.”

“I’ve stayed here many nights, Giorno.” Fugo blinked. “That means it’s a motel. It had functional showers.”

“ Had? ”

Giorno raised his eyebrows and began gesturing towards the abandoned, half-lopsided, partially burned, three-story building before them. Some pieces of infrastructure stuck out of the charred and blackened walls. A couple of rooms were open with no regard for privacy whatsoever. There were multiple signs partially hidden in foliage regarding unsafe hazards being within the territory of the “motel”. “You’re telling me this is a motel?”

“Well, yes.” Fugo nodded towards the building, squinting at it through the darkness. “I don’t remember it being as burned down like last time, though.”

Giorno chose not to comment on whether or not Fugo burned down the motel. 

“Fugo, the building looks like if we even breathed in there it could collapse.”

“It’s more sturdy than that!” Fugo’s shoulders rose. “Also, it is the last place anyone would want to be in if they were trailing us-”

“-No, no,” Giorno put a finger up to his face, staring directly at him. “We’re not staying here.”

They sat in silence for some time. Giorno watched Fugo’s eyes dart around to the ground, the wire fence, the tall grass, anything but the blond before him. He began noticing the slight shake in his hands as his jaw tightened. 

Giorno waved a hand before the hitman, raising his shoulders in the question of his actions. 

“You,” Fugo stared at his forehead, “haven’t blinked in the three minutes you’ve been staring at me.”

“I'm waiting till you agree that we should find somewhere else to stay!” Giorno retorted, forcefully blinking his dry eyes. "This place is like as if a back of a restaurant had a personality attached to it."

“Fine, let’s go find another motel,” Fugo muttered. “Show us the way, since you’re so sure about not wanting to stay here.”

“It’s for good measure, Fugo. You’ll thank me later.” Giorno exhaled as they went down the cobbled street. 

After having quick gestures with locals of the city, the hitman managed to find out about a “ Grand Albergo of Rome! ”. To them, it was down another road and to their right. Fugo kept hiding his face from them, either by turning his back to any local that approached or by rubbing his eyes for a beat longer than a normal person would. Giorno was not in the mood to interrogate his fellow teammate, so he didn’t ask about it.

The roads in this part of Roma were relatively decent: they had little littered pathways, telephone wires were connecting every building surrounding them, the weeds mostly pulled from cracks in the ground, and mostly everything was clear for pedestrians save for a few drunks now and then. They had also passed by street-food shops, selling food spanning from fried ice cream to gyros. He wondered if this street was finally one without many tourists, as there weren’t as many merchandise shops filled with “ I love Rome ” plastered on shirts and hoodies. 

They passed by several wooden beams cluttered with stapled and glued-on posters. The usual advertisements for various companies blended through wear and tear over the years. The rain of spring had most of the ink on some of the posters runoff, giving it a murky color to blend in with the rest of the scenery. 

A page caught Giorno’s eye, however. Big, alarming-red letters made him stop his footing briefly. He skimmed over the missing person’s poster for a brief moment, seeing the contact information of two different numbers along with a photo of a young man. It described any other call for help to find this person, yet it stuck out too much to the blond. 

He tilted his head, leaning forward to read the smaller text. 

It intrigued him. The photo revealed the younger features and grouchy face of a white-haired man with incredibly pale skin. He wore a red sweater with a button-up underneath it. He was looking off to the side, crimson eyes staring at something that was cropped out of the photo. At the very edge, Giorno could make out a much shorter person with darker skin and an orange bandana, though he couldn’t tell if it was someone the said missing man recognized.

After taking glances between the hitman in front of him and the photo, a thought hit his mind and his vision began to grow clearer. His eyes widened as he read through the rest of the information, about how the man above was in his early twenties, was an albino, was almost two meters in height, about how he was last seen with a date that was listed over two years ago, and about the glaring fact of his name.

Giorno slowly turned his head towards the hitman before him. 

Fugo had his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing in particular in front of them. He hadn’t seemed to notice that they both stopped their footing. 

The blond glanced back at the name on the poster, murmuring the words under his breath.

Pannacotta Fugo.

It stuck out to him. Pannacotta was a name he heard before when he was working at that old bar, though he hadn’t known anything besides his customers mentioning it. A blank spot was apparent in his mind. An empty and hollow thought, Giorno could recognize it at any level of exhaustion. 

Something was missing. He was forgetting something and he couldn’t remember what. Why did the name sound so familiar?

Giorno took a step forward, tapping Fugo’s shoulder. He waved a hand in front of his face, trying to knock Fugo out of the trance he was in. The blond eventually gave up and decided to guide Fugo down the street, putting a hand on one of his forearms to ensure his stability.

The itch at the back of his mind continued to grow as he thought more about the significance of the name. He wasn’t sure if he should mention the detail about him being a missing person, either. 

His ear picked up how Fugo was tapping his toe quietly against the brown carpet of the lobby. “ Illuso. Just list my name like that.” 

“With an E?” The man at the desk scribbled the name into a notebook. “I need a family name.”

“No, an I.”

He rewrote the name, scratching it out with a blue pen. A drained gaze stared up at the hitman leaning over the counter. “The family name?”

The blond leaned over, murmuring to Fugo. “Isn’t it Ricci?”

Fugo nodded, even if a twitch in his eyelid showed a sense of uncertainty. “Ricci.”

Giorno stared at the keys on the wall behind the tanned man, tuning out the conversation between the desk attendant and his bargain-buddy. He glanced at the dozen empty paper coffee cups strewn about across the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a baker’s dozen more, following stacks of files and binders that lay open on top of one another. 

The creaking of the chair and scraping against worn carpet only added to the whole scene. Three men, one in part of what used to be a full bartender suit, the other in a Hawaiian t-shirt and shorts, and the last in a large hoodie try negotiating a room together. Giorno wore a smile thinking about the whole affair as though it were from a soap opera. 

“Room 0293, don’t lose the keys.” The man at the desk relaxed back into his seat. With the eyebags under his eyes, he could have been asleep at a moment’s notice. 

The two hitmen turned to face each other; both were relieved to finally get some rest.

Fugo brushes past Giorno, gripping the keys tightly in his hands. Giorno noticed how he held a small, blue, oval-like object in his other hand. He would recognize his brooch anywhere, but he hadn’t even known Fugo was carrying it around with him all this time.

He decided against mentioning it. 

Giorno tilted his head, seeing how fixed the hitman was about keeping the deal with the brooch. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head and exhaling a deep breath. Trust was hard to find nowadays, wasn’t it? If it weren’t for the bargain, then they would have never had to rely on each other. Maybe the deal wasn’t so bad after all. He wouldn’t mind having to be with Fugo for a little longer if it meant having someone to look back to. 

A thumb rubs over the parchment’s words, inked in deep indigo with fine penmanship. The paper was folded multiple times, its creases being visible even in dim light. 

Giorno stared out into the darkness of the motel room. His eyes have adjusted much since the lights were turned off, as he now only saw spots in his vision due to lack of sleep. He was sitting on the one double bed the two hitmen were sharing, with Fugo unconscious and well into his slumber behind him.

His head tilted down to see the words scrawled on the sheet, carefully reading them once more:

El Piazza del Plebiscito a Napoli.

The Capo knows of your mistakes. I do as well. I’ve seen it first hand. Do not do anything stupid.

Laying the note gently on the table, he pressed his palms against the edge of the bed, sighing. 

The hitman had yet to tell Fugo of a new word from Passione . He felt that he should tell the other about it in the morning; Giorno saw him crash right onto the bed with his soaked clothes still clinging onto him. He would have also followed suit if that letter didn’t slip through the crack of the door to their room. 

Rubbing his hands over his temples, he tried remembering if there was anything off when finding this motel. Going back farther in his memory of the past few hours, he tried remembering if there was anyone following from Fugo’s disgustingly awful suggestion of a “ motel ”, anyone following the uber, anyone following from the port-

His mind blanked. His memory and perception had been useless in his fatigue. Damn it.

Maybe they won’t know. They won’t know how… badly things went originally. Fugo did shoot the target in the end, despite the interception with that Buccellati (Bucciarati?) guy, and even if the photographer didn’t die then he would have drowned. It will be fine. Passione won’t know, they can’t know. They’ll be fine.

He felt his throat dry up as he sucked in a breath of the musty air. Standing up, he quietly began tipping over to the window to open it, if even for a little bit. 

His footing was silent against the motel carpet, still wearing his shoes as he hadn’t even prepared himself for bed. The curtains drew back by Giorno’s hand, leaving closed shades and a latch that was unopened in full view of the hitman. It took some effort, but the window was soon lifted open as he pushed it upwards.

The fresh air was relieving. Compared to the suffocating room, it was a welcome surprise to have the cool wind blow through the curtains. Shoulders slacking, he let himself drift into memory. He was reminded of when he was young, looking out at the city below him when he lived in his stepfather’s apartment. 

He remembered how he stained the windowsill when he brushed his fingers against it. The same hands had opened the window with that brown mess, that horrid stench slowly seeping out into the night sky. 

He remembered joy in his gut, a sickening feeling masked with the satisfaction of finishing a large project when he turned to see his parents. They lie on the floor, their chests opened like a book does with its pages, only it was a dark, dark color – and those pages were torn off. 

The glossy eyes stared back at him, dull and muted as their irises turned greyer and greyer. 

The color of ambition and passion had filled his senses and he was relieved . 

Giorno snapped back to reality as he felt the sheer curtain brush against his face. He hadn’t even realized how close he was leaning into the glass. Blinking, he awkwardly stood upright, turning around towards the bed, hearing the shifting of the covers.

A crimson gaze, similar to the colors in his memory, pierced up at him.

It made Giorno freeze, as though he were caught in a flash of a watchtower’s light. He felt his hands press harder against the windowsill, as though without its support his legs would collapse under him.

“What’re you doing awake?” He heard Fugo murmur. 

He saw how the man shifted his weight to his elbows, lifting himself from the covers he lay on. Fugo rubbed an eye, a half-yawn following it. 

“Nothing,” Giorno replied. “I opened the window, that’s all.” His shoulders slumped, glancing out to the stars once more.

He heard a creak of the bed, footsteps following the noise before he saw Fugo stand beside him, peering through the window just as Giorno was.

It was strange. Ever since Giorno explained what happened after Fugo survived drowning, he was calmer towards him. The two shouldn't mix, Fugo and calm. It was a juxtaposition in the blond's mind. It wasn't right. 

Giorno stared at the white strands that fell against the man’s face. He imagined lifting his fingers, brushing them away from his eyesight. He was almost desperate to know what it felt like to hold that touch, to hold a check in the palm of his hand. He wanted to reveal so badly everything he wished for, everything he never got when he was growing up. Missed opportunities that he never got to experience. A comfort that he wanted to share with another human, even if it were his enemy.

“Since you’re awake,” Giorno spoke up, “there’s a corner store nearby.”

Fugo turned his head, his eyebags being more prominent in warm moonlight than daylight. “You want me to come with you? At this hour?” He deadpanned, walking away from the windowsill.

The blond stared out of the warped window glass. “Well,” Giorno let a nervous laugh out, “Might as well check it out. There might be some drinks or snacks we could grab for tomorrow. It wouldn’t be for long, and the company wouldn’t hurt, you know-?”

The loud thud and creak of the bed told Giorno that Fugo would not be going to the corner store with him. 

Passing by the large man at the desk, he made sure his dagger was well hidden in the rim of his pants. He remembered that some cash was also inside his pockets (though, when he took them out, they were all torn because of how wet and damp they were), which would prove useful if he couldn’t get out from stealing goods properly. 

He double-checks over his shoulder every few seconds. After getting that note slipped under their door this late at night, he would not let himself be followed again. He considered finding the person who would have even left the letters to them - but having it be the early morning hours into the next day - he’ll leave it for the next time it happens.

Pushing against the door of the motel, he saw a flash of a blue sweater and red beanie brush past his shoulder. Turning around, his eyebrows raised as he stared at the man running to the desk, slamming his hands on it and discreet Italian filling the room. Hushed whispers back and forth slowly grew in volume.

Giorno shut the door behind him, choosing to ignore the rising voices behind him (an inner-Fugo-voice yelling at him to leave as soon as possible). His footsteps forcefully made him walk down the sidewalk towards the neon letters of the store nearby.

Reaching out, a tan hand begins to fumble around in the dark for the one box of light buzzing against the wood. His fingers wrap around it, a sigh of relief escaping his lips as he blearily peels his eyelids open, seeing numbers mesh and fold against one another. 

Failing to escape the tight arms of Narancia holding him, Mista swipes across the screen and lifts the phone to his ear.

“ Ciao? ” The voice on the other end of the line replied.

He yawned, trying once more to lift himself off the bed and finding his limbs still tingling with sleep. “Who’s this?”

“ Ah, yes, well- I wasn’t sure if I should be calling or not to be honest. ”

Mista kept his eyes closed but raised an eyebrow. 

The low-pitch on the call paused as a loud siren passed by. “ I saw the poster, I hope this is the right number on the board. You’re looking for a guy with white ass hair, right? ”

The man in bed snapped wide awake.

“ Right well, I doubt you could lose a guy like that on the street. I swore I saw your missing guy in the photo across the street from where I am. ”

Before the call even ended, his footsteps echoed in the stairwell and he sprinted outside.

Mista met the man who called him (he was kind with words, and even offered to help show him around but Mista declined), and with rushed “grazie”s and persistent questions on where Fugo went, he made a run for it to a motel. Heart racing, his feet flew forward with the rest of his body into the lobby of the establishment. 

His hands slammed down on the counter, shocking the man at the desk awake. It was unintentional, but Mista could care less. 

“ Where. ” He hissed, out of breath.

The man at the desk stared back at him, slowly taking a sip of one of the many coffees on his desk. “Where what?”

“Where is he? Did you see him? ” Mista raised his tone slightly, a slight shrill adding to his questions.

“You’re not making any sense, are you high?” The man shrugged his shoulders. “Calm yourself, what’s happening? You’re looking for someone-?”

“ Yes. ” Mista sighed in exasperation. “Have you-” He collected his thoughts- “Do you have a guy named Pannacotta Fugo that signed in here recently?”

The man blinked. “I can’t give out that kind of information, that’s just policy.”

Mista’s insides turned inside out. “I can pay you.”

“I’m not taking bribes.”

“Please, I am begging you. I just need to know if he’s here or not.” He gripped his beanie, ignoring how tight it was from the long duration of it not being in the laundry. “Okay, fine. Different question.”

The man took another loud sip of his coffee.

“Have you seen a man with white hair? Not old but sorta my age?” His voice grew with more intensity the more he spoke.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific. A lot of people with dyed hair come here.”

“No- no, his hair isn’t dyed. It’s natural.”

He squinted at him, “No way that’s possible.”

“ Please. ”

Mista stared at the guy and the guy stared back. 

“Here- uh-” Mista rummages through the pockets of his zebra-patterned pants before pulling out an old photograph. It was the full version of what was cropped on the poster. He, Narancia, and Fugo all collectively celebrate Aero’s first stay in the apartment. 

Mista paused as he stared at the photo, reminiscing and letting himself be lost in the memory again.

He showed the man the photo, pointing at Fugo in the photo. The man insisted that he wouldn’t say anything.

Mista slumped against the counter, his chest seizing and his stomach turning like a tidal wave. “I just- He’s my roommate. He’s been gone for a few years now, and I got a call that he came in here not even an hour ago. I need to know if he’s okay, please. That’s all I’m asking.”

A quiet sob escaped his throat, making him freeze. He hadn’t even noticed the tears rolling down his cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe them away.

The man at the desk looked unphased. “I’m going to say this again. Since the last time the previous guy gave information out, this company faced some lawsuits. I, personally, would not give a rat’s ass and would give you the shit you need to find whoever you’re trying to find.”

Mista felt himself deflating, his eyes growing rawer and overflowing with salty water. 

“But, I’m on a night shift, and this is the only job that pays well in the area. I can say that a person like that came through here, but I will not say anything else because I want my paycheck.”

Mista stood shocked, a smile spreading across his face. “Which room? Can I see him?”

“I just said-”

“ Which room? ” Desperate as he was, he had leaned across the counter and was insistent on finding out the number of the room. He restrained himself from using his hands to grab and shake the man to his senses.

After a beat, a moment of dead quiet, the man replied softly with a tint of fear in his answer to the room’s number. 

He stood in the room, clearly used and with a window open. The covers of the bed were a mess, the curtains were open and out of the way, and everything else had stood still. Unmoved. Untouched.

Like someone was here and left without a trace behind. The door was ajar when he came in. Muted grey and red tones of the motel room covered every surface. Red. Like Fugo.

Not a hair, object, or trace of him was there. 

His head pounded, blurring his eyesight and making it so much more difficult for him to think. The lack of sleep and his fatigue were fighting against him, resisting him and holding him back. His arms ached as he looked through the drawers, the closet, the bathroom, under the bed, everywhere he could think of. Mista grabbed his beanie and tore it off for the first time in a year. 

He wasn’t there. It's as if he disappeared. Again.

“Again?” He turned around, staring at the space behind him. “It’s always “again”, or “next time, it will be real”. Let it go, Guido. It will help you.”

The quiet voice of his friend echoed through his ears. His face shriveled, looking through all of the drawers and covers and shelves of anything- He needed to find something - He was right there , there was no way that man was lying, he was genuine- No one could lie about not finding a young guy with white hair in the dead of the morning-

He slammed his head against the wall, stifling a scream. His fingers gripped against it, curling into a fist as he choked more and more tears. His hurt pooled around him, a rising tide that suffocated him at last. Sliding to the floor, his eyes refused to close. They were beyond the level of exhaustion, the level of agony that allowed them to close.

Fugo’s gone. 

…he never was here, was he?

The cars on the road blur past him. Hands resting against the curb, he found some dead weeds. He pulled, they snapped with ease.

He found more, repeated the action. A numbness filled his chest, it filled his mind.

Mista forgot the red beanie in that room. That beanie was the one Fugo got him after he tried convincing him to get one for the chillier months of Roma. He remembered when the teen first gave it to him, the first real gift he was given by his roommate. For such a tough exterior, he had a soft spot if you poked hard enough at him.

Guess he didn’t poke hard enough, did he?

He sat on that curb in the earliest hours of the morning. Narancia must still be sleeping, he has to head home soon. That guy will worry if he finds an empty spot and an apartment void of him, won’t he?

A streetlamp shone its warm glow nearby him. The unusual, large moths swirling and hitting against it made it look broken compared with the rest of the lights down the street.

He remembered walking down similar roads like these with them. They ran around often, high off their asses with little to no regard for their safety. Fugo, ironically, was the one that was always against their antics but gave in once or twice to the chaotic energy of those nights. 

Fuck.

Mista rubs his hand across his cheeks, still feeling wet stains on them. 

A tap on his left shoulder was the one thing that brought him out of a spiral of memories. He hadn’t bothered to look at who it was until they sat beside him.

An elegant frame, though with damp, golden blond hair, sat with a bag full of goods propped against his leg. His eyes met his, the blue gaze piercing and cold to its core. It made Mista uneasy, a shiver going down his spine. He rubbed his fingers together, mouth pulled to a tight line, not sure of whether he should run or stay.

It’s almost as if the guy had an aura about him. He didn’t feel safe.

“I was asking if you wanted lemonade?” The blond lifted a bottle from the bag, a cheap brand sloshing in the glass as he held it up to Mista. “You weren’t answering me when I asked if you were alright earlier, so I hope you don’t mind me sitting here.”

He kept staring at the man, shocked.

“Are you going to take it?”

Slowly, Mista tensed as his palm felt the cool, smooth glass of the drink. He turned the cap, looking down at it before taking a quick taste. Sweet bubbled liquid filled his mouth, not like that American soda he disliked, but similar to a refreshing drink at a restaurant.

He sniffled, letting out a small word of gratitude to the man next to him.

“It’s no problem. I got these nearby and saw you sitting alone. For a second I thought you were another drunk, but I think you’re alright.” His Italian had an accent to it, but Mista couldn’t put a finger where it was from. 

He decided against saying anything, fearing another sobbing mess in front of another stranger.

“You know, there’s always-” The blond stiffened- “going to be someone there for you. Even if you don’t like them.”

Mista glanced at the man beside him, seeing him begin to braid his hair with tense movement. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I hope you will feel better. Maybe… getting some sleep could help your mood?”

Mista scoffed. Right, finally accepting the guy you were searching for is gone forever can be solved with a quick, light sleep.

“Sorry.” The blond flicked his now-finished braid behind his back. “I’m not even sure what I’m doing. You look disappointed, and I hope it’s nothing serious.”

“It’s fine,” Mista murmured, gazing at his sandals before taking another sip of the lemonade. 

“You know, I don’t usually talk to strangers. I hope it’s alright I’m doing it with you.” The blond paused. “I’m kind of in a situation myself, with some notes and being followed and whatnot,” He gazed up at the sky.

“Followed? You should call the police for that.” Mista scrunched his eyebrows.

“The police are the last people I would go to for something like this. It’s not the following I’m worried about, but really what the notes are. It’s kind of a threat, kind of not? Probably will get killed over it but I think it will be fine.”

Mista paused, turning his head fully at the blond and staring at him. 

“Thanks for the drink.” He slowly replied, and the other followed. “I think I’ll be leaving now.” He carefully waved, already taking several steps away from the blond.

The blond only smiled. “It’s no big deal. Buonanotte, stranger.”

Mista chuckled nervously, snot still filling his nostrils. Without a word of goodbye, he turned his heel, quickly leaving the scene as fast as he could. Finding the nearest trash can after turning the corner, he threw the bottle out. That was the last time he accepted something from a stranger, let alone heard advice from one. 

Upon finding the door ajar and pulling out his blade, Giorno found Fugo holding a red beanie in his hands. When their gazes met, the blond could see the widened, fearful eyes and the quivering lips of the man before him. He was shaking, his arms jittering at an unnatural speed and he clutched the fabric harder and harder.

In his grip, he also held the note from Passione.

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: panic attacks/anxiety attacks, derealization, graphic mentions of gore/canon-typical gore, deadnaming, implied past abuse

Red.

The color that bleeds through veins, out of bodies, in his irises, it is red that is his favourite and it is red that haunts his stained fingertips. It's the colour that’s smeared across his face and palms as he drags another charred limb into a pit. It’s the color that fades to brown after he doesn’t wash the sticky remains on his clothes for the second week in a row. 

It’s the colour of the fabric he grips as tight as he chokes necks, the yarn of the beanie stretched as it burns a bright crimson in his eyes. 

He holds it to his chest, a painful hiccup tears at his vocal chords and sears his insides. He doesn’t see the blonde before him waving a hand. He ignores the way he wants his knees to bend inwards and collapse on the floor, he ignores the ocean of guilt clawing at his teeth and plucking his nails one by one. He freezes, even his body restricting any and all movement. 

He wants it all gone. He doesn’t want to see them. Do they know? He doesn’t want to see them disappointed. He was wrong. He was wrong. 

Arms numb, legs frail and joints aching, he swims through the sea of hands grabbing at him. Disconnected and thick fingers that were as long as tree branches wrapped tight and strong around his limbs. Sturdy, but not sturdy enough. 

He breaks free of their laughing grasps. 

He blinks.

The flesh against his bones are as tight as sailor ropes’ knots. He stares out, his unfocused and fatigued gaze trying to make sense of his environment as he forces himself into reality. 

He exhales deeply, inhaling right after and falling into a rhythm Mista had taught him so long ago. 

Mista. Mista’s red hat. 

He looks down, seeing the same hat in his hands, now seeing a phantom of a body lying before him. He stands before it, his weapon in hand swapping from a heavy dictionary, to a gun, to a rope, to a knife. The faces keep changing but there’s always one thing in common and it's the bloody, disgusting, filthy mess of a red scene. 

He drags a hand across his face, still hearing the blaring white noise that muffled all voices around him. He couldn’t tell his thoughts from lies and couldn’t understand the world around him from himself. Fugo’s breathing grew labored, his mind struggling to keep afloat and he felt himself being grabbed again.

Why won’t it end? Can it end? He wants the red out of his hair, and under his nails, and it keeps bleeding, and it runs rivers and it burns. The lighter he holds burns a red flame, the orange disappears, and everything is the broken, disastrous red that he enjoys, and hates, and-

“-listen to me! Can you hear me? Fugo? Fugo!” The hands that once stabbed him now held his face, and all Fugo saw was a river of gold.

“Fugo. Are you alright? It’s been almost 15 minutes and you’re- you’re shaking like you stepped on a lego with cold bare feet.” Golden curls, unstained and not red. “You haven’t even made a comeback. Not even a glare?” Fugo’s gut reaches for it. Anything but that colour. Anything but red.

“Dios mio- Fugo. I can’t keep calling your name forever, can you give at least a sign you’re still with me?” Fugo’s eyes searched for any warning, any small catch of blood spatter, anything that was- that was that colour- and it was never seen in the light clothing the blond wore. “You- Come on. ‘Oh, woe is me, I am Fugo and I am so confusing to talk to. One second I nearly shoot poor Giorno and the next I stand crying over a beanie-‘“ 

Stop mocking me. He wishes he could reply, but not now. He needs to secure himself, he’s not- He isn’t himself. 

He closes his eyes, letting go of the beanie and clutching his ears. Drown out the noise, find a quiet room to calm down in. Don’t make a scene. Calm down.

Breathe, Panna. We wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself, we’re helping you this way. 

When he loosens the grip on his ears, which are now a bright pink (not red), he hears nothing. Fugo inhales, gathering the energy to open his eyes and hope that he is calm enough to see again. 

He hadn’t expected to meet the blue eyes (not red) of Giorno still staring back at him, nor did Fugo expect him to still hold his face.

It’s not supposed to be gentle. They’re not supposed to be there. The tan hands are not supposed to be cradling his cheeks and are not supposed to have thumbs wiping his dried tears away. They are not supposed to be kind, these are hands made to kill. They are deadly. They are not for him.

He does not deserve these hands, and these hands do not deserve him.

The irritating itch of the hold erupted in his chest as he lowered his brows, umbrage etching his words. 

“Let go of me.”

“Finally.” Giorno dropped his hands to his sides, sighing with relief. “You’re back to normal.”

There was an underlying hint of worry in his words. Fugo chose to ignore it; it was fake. It always was fake. 

Fugo’s frown carved deeper into his expression. “Normal? What’s that supposed to mean?” He ended flatly.

“I come back from getting lemonade for the two of us and find you holding a beanie-“ Giorno raised a hand and gestured as if he were offering something to the air- “And mumbling ‘no’s under your breath. If I wasn’t there, I’m pretty sure you’d be on the floor and passed out had I not held you up-“

“Don’t touch my face.” Fugo interrupted. 

Giorno stared at him blankly. 

Fugo bit his tongue, repressing the backward and agonizing thoughts desperately grasping to fling him back into the field of red. 

“Yeah, sure. Sorry about that.” Giorno took a step backwards, giving Fugo room to let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding in. “What’s up with the-“

“Don’t.” Leave, he would have added.

“Okay, don’t talk about the beanie. Got it. Want to talk about something else? I have some pretty good topics in mind, since you’re awake now,” Giorno clapped his hands together, picking up the note on the floor. “Someone has the same circadian rhythm as teenagers in highschool, apparently. Passione sent another note just as soon as we got into the room. You were asleep, so I didn’t bother to mention it until later this morning.”

Fugo glanced at the note. His breath hitched, thinking about whether either of them read that note. They didn’t need to know. They need to stay safe. It was Fugo’s problem and he doesn’t want to see them hurt. 

“You should’ve woken me up as soon as the note came, Giorno,” His voice was quiet, exhaustion pouring into every word. 

“Like I said, I wouldn’t bother with reading it until morning.”

Fugo pinched the bridge of his nose as a small headache began pounding against the back of his skull. “We need to leave. Find-“ He looked up at the ceiling and saw no red blotches- “We need to find a train station. This motel was a terrible idea, we have to leave.”

“Fugo, what are you on about? We agreed to leave after we had some rest.”

“Not now. We have to go.” He walked over to the pillow he was sleeping on, lifting it and reaching for his gun. If he hadn’t left the room momentarily, would he have shot Mista by accident? Or on purpose?

He felt a tug at his sleeve, looking back to see Giorno glaring with such an intensity that shook Fugo to his core. It was as though he were staring back into two deep voids of a vast sea, disturbingly quiet and unmoving. Unblinking. He wasn’t blinking. Why did Giorno never blink?

“It is the early-ass-crack of dawn, Fugo.” Giorno let go of the sleeve, huffing. “You, not even what, three? Four-” he sharply inhaled- “four hours ago you survived drowning. We didn’t have a minute’s rest in that uber, you were basically sleep walking when we found this motel. You crashed as soon as you found the bed,” Giorno lifted the note up over his shoulder. “Did you really think I’d wake you to- to deal with this shit? Now? We’re practically having an all-nighter at this point. Not a chance, we’ll deal with this in the morning.”

Fugo stared at the hitman, glancing at the gun he had in his hand, then to the white bed sheets, and then the haunting memories of disembodied limbs on top of pools of maroon liquid pouring down the sides of the bed filled his mind. It burned his nerves, just as he had burned those he murdered. 

They were the orders he received. It was his fault. They never needed to die in mutilation or in flames. It was necessary. No, it wasn’t. 

His head began to swim as he turned back to Giorno, pretending to not imagine his instinctual thought to lift his hand, point the gun between the brows, and fire without hesitation. 

“Are you done? Do you finally realize the basic human need for sleep?”

How fast would his body cool if he laid in Fugo’s grasp? How long would it take until he took his final, choking breath?

Internally, he smacked himself. “Speak for yourself, Mr. ‘I-used-to-only-have-energy-drinks-for-breakfast’.”

There was a pause. “You didn’t have to call me out like that.”

He gave a small smile, desperately screaming at no one in his head for these intrusive thoughts to leave him be.

“Yes, I had to.”

“You really didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fugo looked at the floor. “So, we’ll find a train after we get some rest?”

“That’s the plan!” Giorno expressed with great relief.

Only moments later - the two having turned off their lamps - would they pass out upon impact of their heads hitting the pillows. 

His hands weren’t always stained with red. With alcohol, maybe, but blood came much later. 

He once worked at a bar, a small place off in one of the many corners of Napoli. Though the owner knew he was underage at the time, the blond thinks that the woman probably had pity tied with his image. A fifteen-year-old just kicked out from his home to the curb of a road, looking for a way to make a living for himself.

Looking back on it, he really was in a rough place, wasn’t he? 

A vague cobblestone path led to a singular, relatively small building, squashed between a restaurant and a library. It acted as a cafe by morning, bar by night.

His transparent hand grabbed at his head, sighing with relief that it was still blond. It scares him, sometimes he remembers when it was once a natural black, its length reaching his waist. It reminded him of a person he didn’t recognize as himself.  

The walnut-carved door opened before him, a small jingle signifying his ‘return’. He didn’t think twice about how a door could have opened for him, when he hadn’t even turned the handle. 

“What a lovely surprise! Our favourite bartender is on time once again,” A brunet off to the side casted a nasty glare at the other co-worker the blond worked with. 

Giorno walked over to one of the racks beside the counter, grabbing his apron and tying it around his waist. He failed to notice that there was a lack of a company logo on the front of it. 

He laughed, “‘Don’t see why it’s a surprise, ‘Foe.”

Benfoie, or normally known as ‘Foe’, was the afternoon and occasional night shift at the bar. They were the one that helped dye Giorno’s hair and made a new look for him. Giorno found them to be annoying at times, them having him to repeat himself, but they were nice. 

He missed seeing them. 

“Ah, you know,” They rolled their eyes, slamming their hands on the table. “A little tired of seeing the third part of our trio always an hour late, and extending my shift for longer than it should be.”

Donnie looked up with a look of discomfort. “Look, stronzo, I got caught up in a personal matter. Be annoyed all you want, but I had to deal with it.”

Donnie was also an afternoon-worker. She usually went out just as Giorno was coming in. He stayed at her place for some weeks when he switched motels. Not a great cook, but neither was Giorno. They ordered a lot of take-out and shared the evenings reading together. He liked her calmer moments more than her aggravating ones. 

“Right,” Giorno murmured loud enough that Donnie could hear, “and that personal matter would definitely not be cuddling with your cats and taking time to leisurely get here.”

Donnie’s cheeks flushed. “No- no it’s not that.”

Foe elbowed the side of Donnie, forgetting she was injured after a drunk threw a bottle at her (that she said she oh-so graciously ‘caught’). 

“Shit, sorry Donnie.” They whispered.

She coughed, which roughly translated to a ‘no biggie’.

“Seriously though,” Giorno leaned over the counter to the ginger, “what kind of ‘personal matters’ are we talking about? Family kind? Relationships?” He paused. “Your cats-?”

“Shut up.” She scrunched her brows, throwing her apron onto the coat rack at the edge of the bar. “My shift’s done anyways.” Giorno found himself to be the only one chuckling at her.

He glanced to his side, his smile dropping from his face when he didn’t see Foe beside him. 

Then, it was as though glass shattered through the air. 

“Good luck, Haruno.”

That wasn’t Donnie’s voice. 

This wasn’t a pleasant memory. 

This was far from any pleasant sunny evening working at a bar.

Giorno slowly turned his head, expecting to see Donnie, the loveliest and feistiest woman he’d ever met, now instead changed to a large man. A bottle in hand, a towering appearance, casting a displeased look over his son. 

Giorno instinctively stepped backwards, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up as straight as toothpicks.

And, with little hesitation before it all, his chest caved open. His lungs emptied their last screams, his last sorrows, his last cries. He dried his body to dust, attempting futile escapes and only coming back to the same haze in the man’s eyes.

It wasn’t until he felt the shaking of his shoulders that he opened his eyes wide.

In the mute dark, he turned his head to see Fugo retracting from him, confusion painting his face. They said nothing. Not a word, not a sound, not a hitch of a breath.

They stared at each other, with Giorno’s numb and frightened eyes watching Fugo’s concerned ones.

Giorno never intended to become a killer. He was a caring person, or at least, he wanted to be one. It wasn’t until Foe had offered a joking idea of going after his awful parents that he started. 

Fugo lifted a hand before retracting it. Giorno felt a pit form in his gut; he wasn’t sure if it was because of the nightmare in his dreams, or the nightmare he sees. 

He saw Fugo to be a living, breathing calamity. Fugo was the moment that people dreaded, that he himself dreaded. He despised the other, the rage that filled his veins day to day was because of him. No matter how much he made him laugh, made him smile, humored him, there was always an underlying temptation to wrap his hands around his throat and pay back what he gave him at the ball. 

They break their stare, their uncomfortable silence spreading the distance between them as they shift across the bed. The longest mile was placed intentionally between the two, giving that silence a hint of solitude.

Giorno thinks that, maybe, it’s for the best that they don’t know why they suffer like this. It would be better for them, in the long run, to learn nothing from each other. Giorno does not want to be anything more than a stranger to Fugo. He silently hopes Fugo thinks the same for him. 

That way, they wouldn’t have to hurt each other. 

It was around noon when they boarded the train heading straight to Napoli. The sun had licked across the metal, shining a bright glow that pierced the eyes of those that looked directly at it. 

Fugo readjusted his soiled shirt, disliking the uncomfortable dampness it still had. He looked over his shoulder, checking that Giorno was still with him, before glancing at their tickets.

They took their spots by a window, where a table separated himself from Giorno. He heard other passengers behind him loading their luggage in the upper compartments of the intercity train. It made him wonder if they found it weird that neither he nor Giorno held any baggage with them. 

He readjusted the beanie atop his head, making sure to tuck the loose hairs in and desperately hoping that people wouldn’t see it. 

The beanie itself isn’t anything remarkable. It was made of cotton and wool, dyed a deep red colour and fit nicely on any head. It was light, not exactly providing much warmth when needed but definitely kept heat in. Fugo would always wear this to his classes. He’d take it every day as a safe-measure, a luck charm in a sense.

He stopped wearing it after he met his first client, not too long before he left his roommates. Abandoned is a more correct term, but Fugo was too guilty to consciously admit it himself.

Out of the corner of his eye, he found that only one person in particular was staring at him.

He watched as Giorno kept his eyes on the red hat, to which Fugo asked, “What?”

The blond recognized that Fugo asked a question, and blinked, “What?”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“Ah,” Giorno said with a small smile, “why are you wearing that beanie? You did uh… You know,” He looked as though he wanted to say more, but chose not to.

“Instead of worrying about the beanie,” Fugo casually gritted his teeth, dodging the confrontation, “you should worry about where you put my glasses.” 

He saw Giorno’s face drop, maybe even a droplet of sweat with it.

“You didn’t break them, did you?” Fugo relaxed, knowing exactly what happened to the glasses on the cruise ship. They were long gone by now, he was fully aware of that. Amusement filled every sensation and he was thriving off of Giorno’s panic.

“Right, the glasses,” Giorno interlaced his hands with each other, feigning a casual demeanor. “They’re…”

“They’re- what? Go on.”

Loud screeching outside the compartment and a sudden jerk of movement signaled the train to be departing. 

“Okay. You do remember the cruise ship, right?”

Fugo hummed. “Yep.”

“Yes, and how we left all of our duffel bags there, right?”

“Yes.”

“What if I told you that the glasses might still be on the… er… ship? The cruise ship?” Giorno paused. “It’s really not my fault.”

Fugo raised his brows, “And why is it not your fault that my glasses are missing?” 

“Because I had to dive into the water after you drowned.” 

The hitman drew a line with his lips. “And where did you take us after I survived drowning?”

“Well, fun story, actually-” Giorno laughed, “after I grabbed you and after we were both hauled up on deck, they were more concerned that we had- toy weapons- on ourselves rather than us actually dying in the water.” The blond was making it as clear as day to the hitman that they should dance around the topic, like a ballet performance. It was all for show, all a front to keep in front of others.

To Fugo’s slight surprise, he heard a person or two chuckle behind them, making it known that they were being watched.

Giorno paused briefly to see the city pass by them as the train kicked up its pace. “So I just… grabbed you and ran to our hiding spot. I waited until the ship made the first stop, and then ran out of there.”

Fugo pursed his lips. “You carried me?”

“‘Carried’ is a loose term. Call it,” Giorno chuckled, “dragged.”

That explained the mysterious scrapes Fugo found over his torso when he awoke that morning to at least have a proper shower.

“How were you able to run from the security on the ship?” Fugo whispered.

“Don’t worry about it.” Giorno responded in an even quieter whisper.

“Don’t w- what?!” He hissed. “What do you mean-”

“-You still haven’t answered my question.” The blond interrupted, crossing his arms. 

Fugo blinked hard. “What.”

“How did you find that beanie?” Giorno pointed at the red hat he wore. 

“I,” Fugo started, unsure of how he should answer the question. “What do you mean- I found it in the room. Where else would I have found it?”

Giorno tilted his head to the side, “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then, what did you mean?” Fugo squinted, wishing that they would switch topics soon.

Giorno’s face grew unreadable. “Why’d you freak out over the beanie last night?”

Fugo stared at him and clenched his jaw. Giorno (thankfully) took that signal as a way to leave the question open-ended. 

For some time, quiet pervaded the air. The only thing disturbing it was the pounding of train wheels and soft, muffled chatter in other seats and compartments. The ride would take a few hours, and that doesn’t mean that every second of it should be filled with small talk. 

For Fugo, he always found himself tired after most conversations. It wasn’t his forte to say much unless it was necessary. As he watched Giorno peer through the glass of the train, Fugo wondered if he was the same as him. Not that it would mean much, but it would be nice to have someone who could understand him. 

Around an hour had passed before either of them had said anything.

Giorno had been looking out of the glass the entire time, not breaking his stare for even a second. He leaned against the wall, letting the various passing shadows run by him. The dark shapes were similar to a stampede of bulls; almost as though they were trampling over the man and chair he sat on.

“What if we didn’t go?”

Fugo snapped out of his thoughts at the sudden bomb of a question. He knew exactly what the blond was talking about, even with the lack of context. The question had been filled with deep emotion, unexplainable but heavy. With his shoulders slumped and a fatigued stare matching his posture, it could almost be seen from a mile away of how he hated the bargain.

Fugo wasn’t sure if the churning of his stomach meant that he felt guilty, or that he felt ashamed. 

He lowered his voice, making sure to blend in with the noise of the other compartments as he spoke, “It’s the Passione, Giorno. We need to,” Fugo looked down at his lap before going on, “we’ll die either way. Would you rather it be quick or-“

“-I want to die fighting,” Giorno shifted his blue beacons of irises to pierce Fugo. “If you won’t run with me, I’ll go alone.”

The hitman looked back up at his counterpart, shielding himself with a cold glare. “Who said you’re going to run? That you’re going to fight?”

Fugo began tilting his head side to side - feeling sore as he stretched his unused muscles - and tensing up at the movement. He crossed his arms afterwards, proceeding with a harsh tone. “You’re not actually being serious about this, are you? Abandoning this bargain that we’ve only just started?”

“It’s- It’s already been a month. I don’t want it to go on for longer than it has to.”

“Giorno,” Fugo huffed, “even if you want to leave, you’re not going alone.”

“Huh,” Giorno crossed his arms, mimicking Fugo. “Why is that?”

Fugo cocked his head to the side, huffing, “I pulled us into this deal, so it would only be fair of me to also pull us out of it.”

Giorno’s eyebrows lifted, giving him an astonished look. He quickly reverted back to a neutral stare, but it surprised Fugo to have even seen such a look on the other’s face. He’d grown to recognize that Giorno was not a person typical of shock. The man was always mentally two steps ahead, always knowing which strings to weave and where to place said strings. 

“Not only that, but it wouldn’t be a rational decision to leave. Passione doesn’t only have one family a part of it, it’s multiple families. If we anger one of them, we anger all of them, and that starts a domino chain that will only break so long as our brains are blown out,” Fugo closed his eyes and sighed as he tried to formulate his sentences. “You wouldn’t stand a chance if you tried to run now. Our best option would be to keep going until we find a loophole of sorts, or an actual escape.”

“Are you saying that we should try finding a crack in this cement of an organization?”

“What I’m saying is that we should be strategic. There’s more to this Passione than what meets the eye, Giorno.” Fugo opened his eyes, finding the blond with his legs crossed over one another, his gaze watching him with caution. “Maybe we’ll find something that they won’t like, and we’ll use it to our advantage.”

“Technically, the work we’re doing is already something they don’t like.” Giorno placed a finger on his nose, looking at the ceiling, “You know, now that we’re talking about this, isn’t it weird how a client at a library and a photographer were needed to be-“ He paused, jutting his finger towards Fugo- “taken care of? One after the other?”

He had thought of how strange it was that people of their profession were needed at those exact moments, one after the other. From what he heard, killings aren’t as common as they are in dramatic soap operas and other films. Their crimes are nefarious, sure, but they always have reason to them. They don’t cause mayhem or chaos in a structured system unless it benefits them.

Fugo knew that the photographer had something to do with seeing attempted murder (what was up with that?), and with trying to get some members convicted, but that had almost no connection to a mole meeting in a library (no less an archiving unit). Why would they have to go after them, as mere newbie goons? If it were as serious as death to another, why leave it up to the least trusted members of an organization? They weren’t even technically part of it! Fugo just roped them both in to save themselves!

“I don’t know,” He finally said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’ll just have to see the next time we meet with Polpo.”

With the two keeping their barely-audible discussion, a man with a black cap sat nearby reading a newspaper. 

He watched the two with a calm curiosity, before licking his thumb, and turning the worn page over to another section of the news article. 

Fugo had to have glanced into several mirrors and over shoulders for the sixth or seventh time at this point. Being that the tall man was in similar areas as they were (and that the hitman had a keener eye to such people compared to others), he was positive that they were being tracked as soon as they arrived in Napoli. 

With the train station being quite crowded, it was difficult to keep an eye on the man. He came off as an average civilian making his way home. Hopping off the same carriage as the two were in, a long file of people similar to him formed out onto the platform. 

Except, the one flaw he had that put him as an outlier was that he constantly caught Fugo’s gaze. Two pairs of red eyes meeting each other was a rarity in Fugo’s mind, and it was a rarity that he wished he never stumbled into. 

Nonchalantly, he put his hand on Giorno’s shoulders, tapping his fingers against them. The blond had been checking a board nearby for available ubers (which were all stupidly expensive for their pockets full of lies). It wasn’t until Fugo had threatened to shove lead through his throat that Giorno agreed to getting an uber in the first place, though. He originally wanted to grab a car off the curb somewhere and take it from there. 

Giorno glanced at Fugo out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow in response to his gesture. 

“Take a stroll with me, Ghiaccio.” Fugo murmured, making his breath as silent as a mouse’s footsteps in the crowd of the station. He quickly looked at another hanging mirror, noticing that the man shifted his stance in the crowd of people and began pushing through them.

The blond smiled as they weaved their way through people. Fugo glanced up at more mirrors hanging from the tops of pillars and, sure enough, the very same man he suspected was lagging behind them.

He hadn’t changed his appearance after being noticed, which was a rookie mistake in Fugo’s mind. Fugo remembered how he had tailed after a target around the time he started his mercenary career. For lack of a better word, he had bashed the person’s head with a dictionary after one of his first customers begged him to. 

The hitman readjusted the beanie, double-checking that his hair was still tucked in before proceeding to let Giorno’s long curls loose of their braid. Keeping pace with the other hitman, he tied the blond’s hair into a messy bun. He felt fabric being pushed into his hands, checking to see what it was before realizing it was a coat. Sliding his arms through the sleeves, Fugo spotted a spare hat on a bench they passed by and snatched it as he went. He gave it to Giorno, who quickly fitted it on his head. Fugo then pulled up the hood of the grey coat, covering the red beanie from most reflections.

The blond led them out to the long rows of taxis and various ubers of the station. They sped over to a woman leaning against a blue Honda Civic, gesturing a query whether she was free or not. The woman clapped her hands together and went into the driver’s seat. The two hitmen then shoved themselves into the car before telling her to drive them to ‘El Piazza del Plebiscito’.

Fugo gave into his guttural instinct to finally look over his shoulder. Sighing with relief, he scanned for any sign of the man following them and found no evidence of it. 

“Next time,” The blond began, pulling out the bun with a hiss of pain, “I’ll show you how to make a quick bun.” 

Fugo turned his eyes back to the blond, catching an odd glint in them.

The hitman gave a cheeky grin, and that was the first time they laughed together. Genuine laughter, so hard that they could barely hold themselves still.

Tapping his foot against the pavement, Giorno lowered his brows and burned a glare at the man before them. The echoing footsteps resembled small stones falling against wet rock. A sudden disturbance, neither comforting nor threatening. It’s enough to get their attention after both of the hitmen had been standing there for the past hour, at least. And the blond one of the duo, to say the least, found one of the people approaching them oddly familiar.

Similar white hair, similar odd-black-sclera, similar gigantic form- He knew he recognized the guy following them earlier.

Giorno swore he felt a drop of sweat fall down his cheek. He wasn’t so sure if seeing this familiar face was a good or bad thing. 

“Fugo-” Giorno whispers, leaning in the direction the other stood- “I know who this guy next to Polpo is.”

“Yeah?” Fugo hummed, “A lousy tracker, I could spot him from anywhere.”

Giorno gulped, “Right.” That’s not what he was talking about.

Polpo was fashioned in a dark suit; its colour similar to that of a rich, night sky, with golden edges and thread lining the sides of the suit. He wore a different hat this time, one that had a long brim to it that gave him plenty of shade. Risotto wore a different outfit than what disguise he attempted back at the station; a leather studded jacket with matching ripped pants. He wore a turtleneck that stopped just halfway down his waist. Across the jacket were various sewn-on logos of symbols that Giorno either didn’t recognize, or didn’t bother to identify. 

Royalty and rebellion, the difference in nature that the two gave off with the themes were almost juxtapositions of each other. If it weren’t for such a disastrously hot afternoon that day, Giorno would have envied the looks. 

“What a surprise to see a fellow co-worker,” Risotto hummed, staring down at the blond. 

Giorno gave a small grin, masking caution, “Indeed. I didn’t realize you were a part of Passione.”

“Risotto’s been a part of us for years,” Polpo chimed in, his voice still as guttural as it was in their first meaning a month back. “He’s quite the exceptional actor, I must say.”

Both Giorno and Fugo kept quiet about their criticisms towards Risotto.

“With that in mind, we should discuss how your task was dealt with, hmm?” Polpo rolled his scooter forward, slotting himself in front of the two assassins. 

“And what about it?” He heard Fugo ask in a low tone.

“Risotto informed me of the entire debacle the two of you were thrown into-” Polpo waved a hand in the air, as though he were a king brushing off a jester’s antics- “my, my, were the two of you in a dilemma.” 

Giorno tilted his head to one side, squinting at Polpo, “We had the photographer, and he’s gone. I would more like to label this mission as a ‘success’ rather than ‘utter disaster’, Polpo.”

“Capo.” Risotto gritted.

“Capo,” Giorno warily repeated. 

The man laughed as he glanced at Risotto with amusement. “No need for formalities, Risotto. After all, we’re on a fair bargain and the least I could do would be to lose the high-valued terms we agreed upon,” He turned back to face the two and dropped the smile on his face. “But, it was a disaster. You were not only subject to hundreds of witnesses upon disposing of the photographer, but Fugo had a shocking, drowned story in the process. Not only that, you - Giorno - had quite obviously made your presence even clearer by going after your drowned partner.”

Giorno felt his lips tighten into a line. “Are you saying I should have left him behind?”

Polpo was seething at this point, his lips curling back to an even deeper frown. “You should have not revealed yourself. You’re an assassin, this is essentially Rule 1 of your anonymity. Don’t you realize this?”

The blond blinked a few times after realizing they were dry from the concentrated gaze he held with Polpo. 

Polpo smacked the armrest of his seat, “You had outed yourselves to such a degree that there should have been no possible way that no one could suspect the both of you of such malicious intentions! You two are imbeciles! Mio dio Bontà, it is stupid how you were able to get away from it!”

Risotto coughed off to the side after the rant; Giorno nearly threw a glare at him, but with an obviously-angered-boss, he took his chances and chose not to. 

“You are blessed with God’s grace to have even made it out of there.” 

Fugo stepped forward, relaxing the clenched fists he held this entire time. “If it weren’t for Giorno, you would be seeing only one bargainer here instead of two.” He paused, as if to test Polpo’s next reaction, “If it weren’t for us, you would have still had a man who was on your ass for revealing your lot’s actions. I may have made this deal personally on the terms of his life and mine, but do not call our mission a ‘disaster’ because Giorno saved me instead of leaving me behind. We went into the mission intending to come back, not to be sacrificed like some pawns in a chess match. Was it not our agreement that you’d spare us as long as we obliged to your orders?”

He went on, throwing a hand into the air in frustration, “We had made it onto the ship, which - with little to no help of any funds whatsoever from Passione - was a tedious task at the least. Not only that, but I managed to pinpoint and isolate the target from the moment Giorno found him. It was only because I misjudged the target’s movements that this whole situation even happened. Had it gone to plan, there wouldn’t have been a huge amount of witnesses to this whole mission.”

Giorno stood shocked. His thoughts were running like a bullet train without the prison of its tracks. Fugo was unconscious throughout the whole time that the blond tried his hardest to make sure he had water out of his lungs. He didn’t know how crushing it felt to not know what it was like to feel an ice-cold body, fresh out of the water. It was an experience that Giorno himself thought he would never feel, and yet, out of all people it was with him that it happened. 

A small hint of anger ran through his gut. He shouldn’t feel relieved to hear this from the man that ruined his life for the past few months. 

He knew that Fugo was saying all of this defensive bullshit to make sure they weren’t shot on sight, but despite it all, a small part of Giorno’s chest thrummed with a terrifying rhythm as he processed more and more of what the man said. 

“But,” the capo tsked, “that’s where I find a weakness in you.”

Giorno watched as Fugo moved a piece of hair out of his face, his furrowed brows creating creases as deep as canyons.

Polpo rolled forward towards Fugo, barely being a couple centimeters away from him. Fugo did not step back. “‘Had it gone to plan.’ You do realize that this is what I’ve been talking about? That you failed to calculate the strength of a target’s moves to the point that your plan backfired? That you made a mistake?”

“I won’t make the same mistake twice.” Fugo turned his head to Giorno, almost as if the message were more for him than for Polpo.

The capo sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose and mumbled to Risotto in an undertone. In turn, Risotto pulled out two pistols and nonchalantly handed one over to Polpo. No words were needed, as the message lay thinly in the air with near-perfect clarity. 

Almost out of instinct, he saw Fugo pulling out his own gun from behind his back. Giorno hesitantly pulled out his knives, even though he was keenly aware how he was outmatched compared to his opponents. 

He should get a gun sometime.

“Polpo- Capo,” Giorno cleared his throat and tilted his chin up, “surely there’s another way to deal with us-”

“No, there isn’t.” Risotto cocked his gun, before pointing it directly at Fugo’s head.

It was only a split-second reaction of Giorno colliding into Fugo when loud, piercing shots fired into the air.

A grunt followed one of the three shots fired, but it didn’t come from the two hitmen. Giorno opened his eyes, pretending to not see himself clutching Fugo’s clothes as he saw him pointing his gun at Polpo. His knives discarded off to the side, the worn metal glinted in the sunny day of Napoli. 

There was a hole in one of his shoulders; he quickly began pressuring the wound to prevent any more bleeding than what had already been done. Risotto’s cold glare fixated on Giorno.

The blond had a feeling that maybe his old co-worker disliked him. 

“You-” Fugo sat up, still shaking from physical shock- “You give us another task for us to do off your grocery list. And we’ll handle it.”

The two mobsters kept their dead gazes on the hitmen. Giorno saw Risotto take his finger off the trigger of his gun, hesitating and listening. Polpo, on the other hand, seemed to grip his gun tighter.

“Save your bullets for another round, will you?” Fugo finally breathes.

“Why should we trust your word against our own?” Risotto spoke up, though hesitant, his speech laced with uncertainty, more skeptical than cautious. He showed seceding intent on shooting again, to Polpo’s dismay. “How can we ensure that you two aren’t becoming moles- that you aren’t planning on tearing us down?”

“You can,” Giorno pulled himself off the ground, looking up at Polpo and deliberately ignoring Risotto. “We never broke our deal, did we? We’re still willing to work with you if it means you will spare us again. We got rid of those targets, how hard can another one be?” He noticed his hands were stained red. 

As the offer passed through Polpo, the blond offered a hand for Fugo to grab, relieved that they made it out of death’s grasp once more. To his surprise, Fugo (with some hesitance) accepted the offer, and the blond pulled him up to his feet. He watched as the other gripped his shoulder, hissing in pain from the touch.

Polpo gave a sly smile after some thought. “Since we’re putting off your execution again until your next mistake, I suppose I can invite you on a task I have assigned Risotto to do.”

“What kind of person are we looking for?” Fugo turned his head towards the capo, raising a brow.

Risotto stared at Polpo with a gaping mouth, a barely audible, “What?” came out of his shocked stance.

Giorno would have laughed at the mobster’s reaction if it weren’t for his heart pounding against his ribcage. He wasn’t prepared to have a chuckle at anything until his shock and subconscious terror wore off. 

“You must know Diavolo, it should ring a bell.” Unlike the hitman, Polpo was chortling with amusement, his previous cold facade almost entirely wiped out of existence. It made him uneasy to notice how quickly his mood changed, even after being shot in the shoulder. 

“No- Capo- Why are you putting me with them?” Risotto harshly whispered to Polpo.

“Risotto,” Polpo turned his head and raised his eyebrows, “are you questioning my orders?”

“They sabotaged an entire kill by throwing a body off the edge of a boat. One of them went with the body.” He glanced at the hitmen for a brief moment before making a motion of hands in their direction. “Are you serious?”

“This is exactly why I want you to be with them-” Polpo cleared his throat- “To make sure it doesn’t happen again. You are free to take care of them in case they,” He paused, “slip up.”

The tone that carried that entire conversation ran goosebumps all along the back of Giorno’s neck. He hadn’t had a chance to think clearly as he watched the entire exchange; he was more worried that at any moment another gun would be put up against his and Fugo’s heads, and that he wouldn’t be able to move fast enough to save both of them. 

The blond exhaled, “We’re willing to work with him.”

“I’m not.”

Polpo ignored the disapproval of the mobster, “The task itself is to gain information on Diavolo. We are suspecting that he may have… Ulterior motives to his loyalty towards the mob, more than a politician should be-”

“-Excuse me,” Fugo interrupted Polpo, “who are we talking about again?”

Risotto and Polpo blinked slowly at Fugo before giving jocus looks at each other.

Giorno tilted his head in confusion, “Who’s the politician?”

The capo’s expression immediately turned to one of severe disappointment. His hands flopped onto the armrests of his seat, and Risotto joined in by leaning against the mobility scooter. Risotto had a hand over his mouth and Polpo pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Is this,” Fugo began, gesturing with his hands openly, “someone we should know?”

Risotto took a deep inhale, composing himself, “How.”

“How what?” Giorno retorted, growing irritated for having to repeat his and Fugo’s obvious confusion.

“How do you not know who Diavolo is?”

“The Devil?” The blond heard Fugo’s unease and amusement behind the words, despite his physical expression representing a lack of any emotion. “I don’t think we can track his footsteps very well, I’m afraid.”

“We can’t exactly ‘take care of him’ either,” Giorno added.

“You won’t be killing him,” Polpo murmured nasally, “you’ll be gathering intel.”

“We-” Fugo squinted- “we aren’t intel gatherers, though.”

Risotto groaned in exasperation. “He’s- he’s the- he’s the highest ranked member of the party board- in rising- in rising presidential candidates-”

“Consider your new position a training one, then.” Polpo continued. “You’ll be in contact with people who can teach you.”

The man in heavy makeup buried his face in his hands, “How am I supposed to work with people under a rock, they don’t even know how much of a colossal threat he is to Passione- and- and to society itself-”

“Capo, with all due respect, what kind of intel are we even looking for?” Giorno spoke over Risotto’s misery. 

Said-harborer-of-misery proceeded to cry out in anguish and continued spewing a large ramble that no one bothered to pay attention to. Polpo clearly was having a similar crisis, as the more questions the hitmen asked about this ‘Diavolo’ character was wearing his patience thin.

“I need to snap both of your necks,” Risotto murmured after his fake-tears cleared. “I can’t handle your oblivious, self-absorbed heads…”

Giorno cautiously glanced at Risotto and silently hoped that his ‘need’ wasn’t a promise. 

Polpo cleared his throat, adjusting the folds of his clothes and slacking his posture. “We are under the impression that our dear, old-time politician might be bribing other members to ratting us out and breaking our stability.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Fugo looked down at his hands before glancing up at Polpo once more, “that we have to bury another mole’s plans.”

“We aren’t sure, that is our issue,” Polpo carefully worded, “He is still funding most of our expenses and is partaking in several… Agreements.”

“What kind of agreements?” Giorno blurted out, instantly having the gut-wretched feeling of regret. The two hitmen met gazes, a silent agreement passing through them to discuss this question later (and in private). 

“None that you need to worry about,” Polpo waved a hand, brushing off the inquiry. “All you need to do is to meet a new instructor.”

“What?” The hitmen snapped their heads towards the capo, speaking at the same time.

Risotto’s expression was still in dejection as Polpo continued his explanation, “The both of you have new jobs as intern-bodyguards, which has strict requirements, I’m afraid.”

Ever since the moment when Giorno pushed him from a bullet’s path, Fugo had been meaning to give his gratitude. He genuinely was grateful, and he desperately wanted to steal a minute or two of the hitman’s time to thank him.

The first time he tried, it was right after the whole ordeal itself. Polpo had a few eyes around the plaza, and fortunately a few of them were adequate drivers. Polpo offered to drive the two (clearly ignoring Risotto) to their respective housing, all-while knowing that they would give false addresses. To Fugo’s luck, he had found that time was ungenerous to him and couldn’t find an opening for a private meeting. When the car rolled onto a street Giorno asked for, he gave one glance back at Fugo. He kept the stare for a moment too long before shutting the door behind him.

The second time he tried was when they initially met their bodyguard instructor, not even a week later. She gave a formal first-impression, which Fugo appreciated, but he was more focused on signaling to Giorno about having a word. Again, his gestures and stares were more or less unnoticed by the hitman, and rather noticed by the instructor herself. That was the first day he realized that his defense had major flaws compared with his offense. He came back to his motel room with bruises coating his chest. 

He kept on with his attempts for the rest of the month, time passing both too slowly and too quickly for Fugo’s liking. Eventually, he buried the idea for when time would be in his favor. He focused on training with Sheila E, with Giorno at his side.

Initially, when Polpo explained their new training they had to go through in order to get under Diavolo’s radar, he hadn’t expected their instructor to be one he would appreciate. Sheila E was odd, that was for sure. From the way she spoke to the way she moved, it was all new to Fugo. But, she was a respectable teacher. 

Her instructions would often involve a semi-restrictive schedule. Every other day, they would meet up in a gymnasium of an office building for around three to six hours. The first hour would go through what they learned in the previous lesson, and the rest of the time would be spent perfecting it. 

She would teach them the basics of the basics, moves that both Giorno and Fugo would already know. It was strange how she knew exactly what they were able to accomplish, and what they would fail at. When Giorno sparked the question of her knowledge, she answered with, “It runs in the family.” And that would be it. 

Sometimes, she would stop mid-speech, grab an object, and stare at it for around a minute before placing it back and continuing whatever the topic was at the time. Fugo had grown accustomed to it after the first few days of being with Sheila E. Other times, when either Fugo or Giorno correctly replicated a defensive maneuver, she would skip around and pump her fists into the air - destroying her general-stoic attitude - before promptly flipping both of them to their asses. She was a little shorter than Giorno, and even with her small frame she could find a way to counter any punch.

And sometimes, livid would be a gentle word to associate with her mood. 

An unfortunate late day in the middle of September was one of those times where even Giorno’s cocky remarks couldn’t overthrow her disastrous mindset. 

“No, do it again.” Fugo watched as Giorno readied his stance in front of his mannequin. “You’re like a measly attempt at a shield made of cardboard-” She parried Giorno’s block to the mannequin, and knocked the plastic head off its torso- “when you should be a shield made of iron. You are not a frail twig of some spike-y rose bush, Giorno!” She grabbed Giorno’s wrists, and the blond gave no visible reaction save for a raising of eyebrows. “You are supposed to be cement! The hardest rock in a defense! You’re acting as if you’re a flaccid piece of paper trying it’s damn hardest not to be torn!” 

She threw Giorno into the wall before turning to Fugo, who prepared his stance for any move she might make. Luckily, he was proven right when she grabbed his forearms. He twisted his arms, quickly getting out of her grasp before kicking her shins and properly getting in front of his mannequin.

“You are stupid!” Fugo felt a knee to the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He retaliated with a strong push at her collar bone, stumbling her balance for a moment. “You aren’t thinking with your mind, you are not finding a path out of here! You are just itching for a fight, you monster!” She yelled, her voice hoarse from overuse. 

Fugo didn’t even register the words as he swung his leg at her knees, sweeping her off her feet. He quickly grabbed the mannequin sitting like a shiny diamond in a museum before running behind Giorno’s decapitated piece of plastic.   

Heaving breaths were all that echoed in the open space. Bits of manufactured rubber and pvc scattered the floor, along with several old bloodstains. The ground was layered with thick, blue foam, so as to reduce the inevitable pain that would be done upon all their skins. 

Sheila E lay there, her arms thrown out to her sides and her legs spread wide as she gulped for air. Fugo let out a quiet whine as he felt heat emit from his gut, and the sudden urge to vomit following it. Giorno was the most battered out of the three of them, having deep, disgusting, yellow and violet bruises spread across his jaw, arms, and down his legs. 

Fugo dropped the mannequin, hearing it thud softly on the floor before his knees followed it. He felt light-headed as he swallowed this morning’s breakfast (which was primarily hot chocolate, as he found sweets helped most with anxiety attacks for him). Behind him, he saw out of the corner of his eye an exhausted Giorno laying on his stomach. He heard him hiss in pain as he propped himself up, wiping strands of hair that stuck to his face. 

That once-buried idea resurfaced in Fugo’s mind for a moment, before he took the impulse and went through with it. 

“Giorno,” He cleared his throat, plopping himself next to the decapitated mannequin.

“If you’re going to give advice for me, Fugo, give me a break,” Giorno shut his eyes as another jolt of visible pain rattled one of his arms. He gave up, falling back to the floor on his side. “Sheila, I thought we were just blocking today!”

“What, you expect your foe to tell you their plans?” Sheila exhaled, seeming almost recovered from her flurry of blows. 

“No, but you’re our instructor.”

“Consider me your foe then, capa dura.” 

Fugo bit his cheek, feeling more bile rise up his throat. He stared at the other hitman, challenging his confidence with the words he wanted to say. 

Giorno opened his eyes and stared up at him. “What?”

He felt his throat clog up, and felt himself give in to the silence. “Nevermind.” A failure. 

“Are you sure?”

A fraud.

A tight line formed around his lips. He didn’t answer. It’s best to leave it for another time, he thought. 

A coward is what you are, Panna. You can always do better.

Sheila E let them go for a few days to rest after the unexpected, violent lesson. 

Not again. Not again. Not again. 

Too close. Not again. It was too close this time. It’s too close every time.

His hands shook so badly the key he held slipped from his grasp and plummeted to the floor. He watched it fall, hearing the metal clash with cement echo in the stairwell. Giorno stared at the golden key, fixating his gaze on its jagged edges as he leaned against the door with a partly-torn, white, collared shirt. Shaking pupils and a shortness of breath made him feel lightheaded, the pain aching all across his head. His legs begged for the comfort of cushions and a mattress, but Giorno would not fall. He refused it. The key is just a thing, and he was far from an object known to be used and worn. 

He found himself lowering to the ground, mechanically picking up the key, before slotting it into the lock and turning the handle. The door swung open, it creaking loudly as he stared into the dim-lit apartment. Pounding quiet thrummed against his eardrums as he took a deep breath. 

Giorno didn’t greet Goldie when he stumbled in. He barely remembered how his feet led him to the kitchen instead of the bedroom. Notes and other assorted papers littered the wooden floors of the apartment, filled with instructions and other vague details of Passione-related material. String and pins littered the counter along with several old glasses of water. Street Lamps from outside creeped through the cracks of the blinds he kept closed nowadays.

His hands grabbed and tugged at his hair, snapping himself into focus as he glanced at one of the few hallway mirrors he left hanging on the wall.

You were too close.

Giorno slipped off his shirt, examining the wound in his reflection. 

You were careless.

Just underneath the semi-professional scars he bore from a botched top-surgery was a clean, cauterized cut of skin.

You were useless.

The area around the cut was red and inflamed, his body clearly dealing with the injury the best it could without the proper medical assistance he couldn’t receive. He pressed the pads of his fingers just under the injury, staring at flaky, dried blood that stained a maroon colour on his fingertips. 

The bullet just barely passed by him as they ran from the crossfire. It scraped him. It pierced Risotto’s thigh. They had to carry him. A piece of lead nearly found its home in Fugo’s chest. 

Why was it always them? Why do they always find themselves just inches from death's door? 

He wasn’t afraid to die. He was. No, he was afraid of Fugo dying. He was afraid for Fugo. The man always looks so empty after just scraping by, and he hated that. He hated how numb and desensitized they were to the chaos and stillness of death towards themselves.

He found himself clutching his abdomen, a shocked gasp came through his throat as he choked on his thoughts. The blond lowered himself to the floor, curling up in a weak fetal position as his eyes grew hollow of moisture. No matter how much he wanted to or tried, he never could seem to weep the raging oceans stored inside of him. He needed to. He couldn’t.

What would’ve happened if Giorno wasn’t there for him? Would he still be here? Would he have dodged or taken his life carelessly? Doesn’t he understand that it takes a lot to live? That it’s a lot to live for him?

It’s unfair. Giorno was never meant to come into this deal. He could have gone about his duties as a mercenary killing machine and kept on with his life. It didn’t have to be this way and yet he accepted fate face-forward, and marched right into a waltz with death itself. Deteriorating bones drained his hope of ever escaping, let alone escaping with his partner. 

He dug his nails into his biceps, feeling the disgusting twinge of pain against his skin. Loud creaking from his teeth emitted as he bit down harder and harder, in an attempt to relieve himself of his agonizing misery. 

They could have avoided the crossfire. Risotto insisted on avoiding it. They all could have avoided it. But the gang war transferred over multiple streets, it wasn’t their fault there was conflict, it wasn’t their fault that they were shot. But they were a part of Passione now, which meant that anything involving money scandals and petty murder schemes involved them as well. 

The fridge hummed with electricity as Giorno sat in his quivering silence. It gutted him, spread his worries on a silver platter and ate him whole. He despised it, a ruthless, filthy rage and horrible sorrow that he couldn’t rid himself of. Useless. Pathetic. Expendable.

They were all pawns to this horseshit of an organization, with crime-lords dangling their lives on a tightrope they walked on. They were only involved because they were ‘saving themselves’. Why doesn’t Fugo realize that this was far from saving? He imprisoned them. Locked them in a solitary box away from any and all possibilities of living. 

Fugo put him in the confines of another power, he put the cage around the two of them almost the instant after they met a second time. They were strangers, and yet he dragged them in anyways. It’s been months and they don’t know a single thing about each other. 

He felt his throat close up. He had absolutely no idea who Fugo was. He knew he was Pannacotta, but he had no idea what it meant. How could he have thought he could trust him? The man meant nothing to him, and yet, he worried over his life with all the energy he had left in him. The irony was killing him. He wanted to disappear and never return. 

He begged his mind to forget Passione, to forget that he was a killer. 

He wanted to forget Fugo. 

The floor of the kitchen was warm to his skin. With how long he was lying there, he wasn’t surprised that it was. 

His whole body had cramped, imaginary needles poking at tired limbs if he ever tried moving them. His eyes were as dry as clay bricks, and as he blinked he felt searing agony as his vision grew watered. Giorno’s arms and legs were limp, loosely clutching one another as a false sense of comfort. 

A corpse on the floor is what he was. Another body to dispose of, to spend futile care in treating. 

He imagined the bar, the smooth counters and the warm faces that he couldn’t quite recall with clarity. Their names slipped from his mind, buried somewhere deep and far from the violent part of himself he never wished to be. The hot evening nights as he worked side by side with Foe, his mentor, his older sibling that he never had. His heart swelled and crashed like a waterfall would against sharp, piercing rock at the bottom of a pool. It ached, it burned. 

An intense shaking of shoulders is what disturbed Giorno’s involuntary drifting. His face contorted before he opened his eyelids partly, seeing a blurry figure before him. The hands felt firm and warm, and for a brief moment he swore it was the one person he wanted to see the least. 

Once his vision cleared, he found a blonde woman with intense, teal eyes staring at him. Her lips were moving, clearly uttering speech that Giorno’s ears would not comprehend. She propped him up against the fridge before leaving the kitchen. The hitman’s posture slacked; his state of daze had not yet worn off as he awoke from his slumber. 

Tilting his head, he squinted at the floor, which had apparently been stained with that dried blood that was on his chest. He touched the wound once more before hissing in pain, letting his hand linger over the cut that hadn’t fully healed yet. 

The woman came back and grabbed his hand, drawing it away from the wound before lifting a piece of cloth and warning him. He was about to ask what for before a feeling similar to touching a hot stove erupted from his chest. 

He shouted, now fully alert and collecting his senses at last. Blinking several times, he saw a frozen Mrs. Holly holding a damp piece of cloth. She wore a plain, striped t-shirt made of white and pale pink colours, as well as a skirt which was tawny-brown with colourful flower embroidery decorating it. Flour caked her cheek and clothes (that she may have forgotten to dust off), as well as several paint swatches across her arms. Her eyebrows were high in surprise with widened eyes to match it. 

“Giorno, I warned you it would sting. Please don’t shout at me,” she returned to a stern complexion before continuing to dab the cloth around the wound. 

His mind was racing, a sudden realization causing panic to set into his jaw. Tensing up, he saw that all of the notes and documents that previously littered the floor were stacked neatly on the counter. The shirt that he previously discarded was missing as well-

“Stop clenching your jaw,” she commanded. “It’s bad for your teeth.”

Another involuntary hiss erupted from Giorno’s throat as the cloth kept dabbing against his skin. “I’m sorry... How did- How did you get in?” he managed to get out under his immense, internal stress.

Mrs. Holly lifted a bottle of acetone and poured a few more drops into the dirty cloth (was it a towel-?). “Your apartment door was wide open.”

Oh. “I swore I-” he exhaled- “I thought I locked it.”

“You didn’t.”

“I’m aware of that now.”

Giorno didn’t question how Mrs. Holly knew where his medical appliances were. He sat in silence as she wrapped bandages around the wound, which thankfully did not need stitches, according to her. 

She placed the leftover bandages back in the cabinet she had found them in before turning and looking down at Giorno. He eventually felt his body being tugged and lifted from the floor, distantly feeling them both shuffle to his bedroom. The bedroom was in worse havoc than what the main living space was in, as there were binders and books scattered all over the floor. Old suits, both stained in red and disguises of all civilian life were piled on top of his chair and desk. Mrs. Holly eventually unwrapped the arm she used to guide him and set him down at the edge of the mattress.

She glanced at the chair, carefully picking up the extra clothes and throwing them with the rest of his general attire, which was already a growing mountain. The chair rolled over as she led it to the bed, and she sat down. Crossing her legs, she leaned back and stared at Giorno. 

The silence she gave was unbearable. 

At first, they both stared at each other and tried assuming the first speaker. Now, Giorno had looked away, either in shame, fear, or guilt, and couldn’t read what Mrs. Holly wanted to say. She was his temporary pet-keeper, the caretaker of Goldie as Giorno was gone for longer and longer periods of time. He hadn’t been able to see her in-person, only calling her if he was in an absolutely safe and remote room, away from anyone else. 

He would call to check up on his frog, but mainly her as well. It was always relieving to hear her tone on the line, as she was a lovely woman who deserved all the wonderful things the world would grant her. 

Giorno didn’t deserve her kindness, let alone her friendship.

“I think I should give Goldie to you.” His throat clogged up and his speech grew quiet.

She blinked. “Where did that come from?”

“You have been taking care of her for many months now, and I feel it would only be fair for her to be with you. She likes you,” He went on, keeping his gaze on the floor.

“With what you’re dealing with, it’s no wonder that you’ve been gone for all this time.” 

Giorno looked up to Mrs. Holly, frowning.

“I’m not taking Goldie into my personal care. You adore frogs, and I remember how excited you were when we were able to get one for you.”

“I can’t-”

“Goldie is your animal, she entrusts you to be with her, even when you’re gone for so long.”

The hitman furrowed his brows and grimaced. Mrs. Holly followed that expression with a small smile.

“I’m not taking her, and that’s final. I want you to have a home, and without Goldie there’s no home for you to return to.”

Giorno leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. He ignored the subtle sting of bandages rubbing against the wound.

“You need to have a place to stay. I may not understand what you’re going through, and you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to-” she paused- “or if you can’t, but you deserve better.”

Giorno began to heave, his inability to tear up being replaced with hyperventilation. He didn’t deserve her. He wanted to leave. Needed to, even. 

Arms wound around the shriveled mess of a human. They sat there, in a dusty space that was as messy as an animal den. Giorno shuddered as he returned the embrace, and they sat there. He felt wet tears press against his skin, realizing that Mrs. Holly was weeping as well.

They both were. And Giorno realized right there and then that she was right. Without Goldie, he would have no home to come back to. She and Mrs. Holly were all that he had left.

Thunderous lightning lit up the black clouds above the city. Breathtaking scars of violet traced the sky, every boom creating another wave of ombre, cool hues to marvel at. Stones juttered every time the sky’s hand struck, the ground trembled and houses jerked, almost all in terror and fear.

On a bench sat two figures. They weren’t afraid of the rain soon to pour over them. They wore fine pants and matching tops; both white shirts; black, bulletproof vests; and black ties. Their earpieces hung off on their shoulders, and they gazed out into the crowd of people running to buildings and shelter from the oncoming storm. 

The two figures were as far apart as they managed to be, almost as if they were allergic to one another. They didn’t turn their heads, they didn’t peer out of the corner of their eyes, because they knew where the other sat. They knew each other long enough to know what move or action the other would do. Almost telepathic, as onlookers might view the two. 

Drops fell from the sky as it began to sob; it was gentle at first, before growing fast and strong within seconds. Both of their hair grew damp, and their suits stuck to their skin as they let the rain fall on them, but they did not move. 

Eventually, Giorno disturbed the faux serenity with a sigh, “Shouldn’t they be here by now?”

“Sheila gets here when she wants to get here,” Fugo paused, “we both know that.”

“Why did we have to get the full shift for this job?”

Fugo rested his elbow against the arm of the bench, leaning his cheek against his fist. “Polpo found damning evidence of Diavolo stealing millions of euros for his campaign.” He blinked slowly and went on, “Because of that, we’re not only getting in to find more intel, we’re in to finish the job.”

“We’ve grown really close with Passione, haven’t we, Fugo?”

He bit his lip. “You could say that.”

“And yet we’ve never met its Don.”

Fugo finally turned his head towards Giorno, seeing loose strands of his braided hair stick to the sides of his face. He raised a brow and frowned at him, gesturing for him to continue. 

“Maybe it’s time we’re not as friendly with them as we should be.”

“You’re talking about defecting from the mob again.”

“I am.”

“Last time we tried that, you earned a fake eye and had to go to the hospital for your throat.” Fugo watched as Giorno subconsciously reached for his scarred skin. “I was poisoned, badly. We need more time before we try again.” Fugo remembered the moment the drink he held shattered as it reached the floor, his throat swelling and his body suffocating in an instant. He remembered the look in Polpo’s eyes, he remembered the gaze of a vile and unforgiving tyrant. Crumbling to the floor, he heard a warning of what would happen the next time they tried breaking the bargain. According to Polpo, he was having fun with the two of them, playing with their lives for his amusement. 

He spent three weeks in that hospital, unconscious and barely breathing. Fugo could still feel his lungs burn of acid as though he were back at that very moment. 

“This-” Giorno glared at him- “could be our shot. We get rid of Diavolo, and we meet the Don. And we’ll take care of him like we did with the others.”

“Who’s to say we’ll meet the Don if we get rid of Diavolo properly? The only reason we’re the ones doing this is because we’re the easiest people to lose in the ranks.”

Giorno thought for a moment before answering, “Polpo.”

Fugo’s frown etched deeper into his expression. “Polpo does jack shit. He doesn’t interfere with the other families of the city, so he’s not that special or a worthy diamond in the eye of the boss.”

A familiar, unassuming, black Infiniti parks not too far from where the two sat on the bench.

“No, idiot, we’ll meet the boss through Polpo.” Giorno’s expression grew unreadable.

Fugo stood from his seat, a concerned gaze meeting the other hitman’s eyes. “What do you mean?”

Giorno followed the albinistic man’s movements, matching pace with him as they approached the vehicle. “You can trust me, I know what I’m capable of.” He gave the slyest smirk that Fugo had ever witnessed from the man. It made his blood boil.

If Giorno was planning to take out Polpo, then it would cause more obstacles than what they could handle. They were already treading thin lines and he wasn’t sure if they could handle more conflict from the mob. But, Giorno was right in some ways. It was a huge possibility of gaining the Don’s attention, even if it wasn’t the kind of attention they would hope to receive.

But then, what would happen? Would they kill the Don too? Would they maim him and disband the organization? They couldn’t just hand him over to the police, as they were just as criminal as the boss was.. 

Fugo cleared his thoughts and exhaled, storing his contradicting ideas for another time. 

“I always do,” He muttered, opening the car door and greeting their instructor in the driver’s seat.

She gripped the wheel and watched them hop into the car. Sheila wore a plain, blue suit, emitting a professional aura from her presence. Earlier, she had explained that the best way for them to all get in would be to look their part. Sheila had already been a voucher for Risotto when he ‘joined’ the ranks of bodyguards, and she agreed to vouch for them as well; after all, the months of learning would be for nothing if they couldn’t get in. 

Risotto said from the very start that his position was delicate, confidential, heavily classified, among other terms that he had mustered to find as synonyms. He would always dance around what exactly he did, being vague or non-compliant with every hint he gave. Near the end of their initial lessons, he explained in more detail that he was guarding a family member of the politician, but would not name who. According to the general public, Diavolo had no family, which intrigued the two hitmen. He had guarded this unnamed-person for the sake of gaining intel, and quite frankly, was a main contributor to figuring out Diavolo’s betrayal towards the mob. 

Neither Fugo nor Giorno would know where they would be placed in the mansion, meaning that whatever will happen, they would have to adapt their strategy accordingly.

“Why the hell are you two so wet?” She exclaimed, watching them shuffle into their seats from the rearview mirror. 

“We waited at the bench,” Giorno chuckled and buckled his seat belt. 

“In the rain?” she snarled. “Dumbasses. You’re gonna show up to the mansion all drenched?”

Said drenched men greeted Risotto, who sat hunched over in the passenger seat at the front. He was a giant, and unfortunately, this car did him no justice to help him stay comfortable. 

“Sheila, drive. We don’t have much time to waste.” Risotto muttered before she slammed on the gas pedal, and headed towards the train station.

It didn’t matter that they failed the first time; it wouldn’t matter if they failed a second time; nor would it matter if they failed a third. Giorno needed to get out. He needed to leave. 

Giorno readjusted the concave, prosthetic eye that was still adjusting to his scarred socket. The injuries both him and Fugo received for going out against orders one time is more than enough incentive to get out. He witnessed blackmail, torture, manipulation to levels that challenged his own stepfather’s- It was not desperation, he could not live in this choke-hold to follow orders until his death. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t allow it. 

Whenever he tries to remember the details of what happened the day they tried defecting, Giorno keeps pulling up blurred and unclear pictures. It was similar to his memories of his parents whenever they left him alone or whenever they drank. Black screens and fuzzy vision plagued most of his childhood. 

He at least remembered how they planned it all: the fake car accident, the backup horse tranquilizers, the shooting, the stabbing, the choking, all was made to go well. 

Until it didn’t. Something must have gone off-course - even with Fugo’s impeccable skill at finding loopholes to everything - they had been discovered. Was it Sheila that found out? Or Risotto? Or another soldier? Whatever it was, Giorno had woken up in white sheets next to a beeping monitor, with half of his eyesight missing and a choking feeling in his throat.

He was still adjusting to it, still training with Sheila E after he was cleared to get out of the hospital (of which the doctors and staff made no comment towards how he could’ve gotten these injuries). 

Giorno didn’t know Fugo was poisoned until he returned to the training sessions with Sheila, lacking in strength and still struggling to keep his breath in check at times. He occasionally passed out, came back to his conscious self, fought again, before passing out a final time for the day. 

They had to leave, but not without coming after the person who caused them their misery. Giorno would not let them get away with the horrifying acts done to them, let alone to others. It wouldn’t be fair if Polpo gave a strong offense and they gave no justified defense, wouldn’t it? 

The hitman leaned his wet forehead against the ice-cold glass of the car, watching buildings fly by in a blurred mess. Markets and stalls of a bazaar passed by them as they made their way to the train station. 

He turned his head, staring at Fugo before asking, “How long will we have to be in Roma?”

Risotto leaned his head back against the headrest before answering, “We have to get him before he gets elected, so it might be a few months.”

Giorno didn’t comment on how tense Fugo seemed when the answer sunk in for the two of them. He himself was nervous, as he was leaving Goldie yet again for such a long duration. Mrs. Holly too, she really deserves someone better than his excuse of friendship. 

Remembering the conversation with Mrs. Holly he had a few weeks back, he felt his stomach drop. She was right. He at least had a home where the two of them were, that thought alone relieved him. 

When they parked, Giorno reached for the handle of the car door and found himself grabbing at empty air. He reached a bit further before finally latching onto the metal and pulling it. The whole lack-of-depth-perception annoyed him and saddened him immensely. Of all things he expected when losing an eye, this wasn’t it. 

The only plus side to losing the eye would have been the first few weeks of wearing an eye-patch. In a way, he looked like a pirate from those legends and tales from way-back-when. He knew full well that most pirates mostly weren’t great people (as Fugo managed to explain), but the illustrations he’s seen of them made them look cool. Fugo had witnessed the last week of him having to wear it, and after getting the prosthetic eye, he remembered being bombarded with curious questions about what it was like, how it felt and other sorts of queries.

Giorno learned during that time that Fugo was heavily interested in learning details to any subject, whether it be of basic anatomy to in-depth anthropology. He was like a slot-machine at a casino, except, instead of scamming people of their money, he gave out the wildest trivia facts. 

For instance, as they were warming up for one of their defense sessions with Sheila E, he remembered their conversation somehow diverging to flies. Giorno couldn’t exactly remember how it got to that point, but Fugo gave a weird fact: Houseflies hum in the key of F. The conversation then diverged into instruments, and Giorno learned that Sheila dabbled with the accordion from time to time. Fugo apparently plays piano, though he hasn’t touched the instrument in years. Giorno could, frankly, say that his instrument was the best of all time: the recorder. He played a few notes for his “parents” when he was young, and his stepfather snapped the plastic tube in half.

Overall, the best instrument yet. 

On the train ride back to the city the hitmen dreaded returning to, the group managed to find a compartment with four seats (with a table slotted between the pairs of chairs facing across from each other). Fugo and Sheila took the window seats, while Giorno sat beside Sheila and Risotto sat beside Fugo. The trip for the most part was mostly quiet, with the occasional vague and oddly ominous dialogue between Risotto and Sheila. 

Giorno resorted to fiddling with the edges of his collared shirt. He began zoning out, not thinking of anything in particular, before he heard his name called. He asked to repeat what Sheila said, to which she asked again, “Do you have any animal facts?”

The hitman blinked, “Where’s this coming from?”

“Just trying to pass the time. I hate sitting in silence.” She brushed both of her braids behind her, a hairstyle she usually wore whenever they weren’t in her classes. 

“Well,” Giorno leaned against his seat, “I don’t know, what kind of facts are you looking for?”

“Don’t you have a pet frog?” Giorno’s eyes darted to familiar red irises staring back at him. 

A pit formed in his stomach. “Yes… How did you know?”

“I overheard a call you made on a payphone.” Fugo kept his gaze, strangely relaxed this time. 

Did he overhear his entire conversation? Does he know about Mrs. Holly?

“Ah,” Giorno gripped a bit harder on his shirt-collar, “Was I really that loud?”

“No.” Fugo stated.

An awkward pause held in the air. It wasn’t that it was entirely awkward, it was uncomfortable specifically for Sheila and Risotto, who weren’t involved in the two hitmen’s relationship towards each other. A tense, near-hostility formed around the edges of the awkward air, and the longer the silence prolonged the more layers added to the conflicting and troubling looks both hitmen gave each other.

“You know frog facts, then?” Risotto tilted his head at Giorno, attempting to diffuse the unexplained, unbearable tension and readjusting his slumped posture.

When Giorno began his rambling spree of random facts about his beloved animal, he noticed that the three members of the company were genuinely interested in what he had to say. This only prompted him to go on for longer, telling them about frogs being able to leap over twenty times their own body length; frogs absorbing water through their skin instead of drinking it directly; both frogs and toads being the only amphibians without tails; and so on and so forth. It was exciting, thrilling even, for him to be able to express his interest like this (even if it was to a mafioso, another hitman, and a martial combat instructor that has ties with the mafia). 

Even when they got off the train nearly an hour later, he still kept going on about random animal facts to Fugo while Sheila and Risotto were figuring out their rides to the mansion. 

Eventually, Fugo had opened up about his own bunny-loving interests and Giorno listened in return. 

“You know,” Giorno smiled, “I never thought you were a rabbit person.”

“My family used to own two before I left. I don’t know what happened to them, but they’re probably still alive since I left when they were still fairly young. A year or two old, I think,” Fugo had a hand on his hip and another hand scratching the back of his neck. 

“Damn, we really don’t know anything about each other, don’t we?” He laughed as the reoccurring thought slipped out of his mouth, “Even after knowing each other for so long…”

A long pause prompted Giorno to look back at Fugo, who was frozen in place. The hitman grew worried that he killed the once-in-a-lifetime-good-mood between the two of them, and immediately began to feel sick. Whether it was emotionally or physically sick, he couldn’t tell.

“Uh,” Fugo spoke up, blinking, “You’re right. It’s been a few months, and we have yet to know our full names.”

Giorno hummed in agreement, his temporary anxiety settling down.

“Fuck,” He heard Fugo murmur. “Well- okay. I’m positive that normal people would at least know each other’s names within the first week or two, right?” He began fumbling with his fingers, his high-strung energy growing more apparent within seconds. “I- Uh- Right. It’s only fair then, if I-“ He hesitated- “Told you mine? And you tell me yours?”

Now Giorno was starting to feel nervous. He glanced at the mafiosos nearby, seeing them occupied, before staring back at Fugo. “Well. Yes. I think.”

The two of them were sweating bullets, both having their throats close up at even the thought of giving something so simple about themselves away. Animal trivia is one thing, names are a whole different level. Knowing a name is required for people to be interested in each other, for them to like each other, for them to not be coerced into a criminal organization partially against their will.

“How about this-“ Giorno spoke in a high-pitched undertone- “We both say the second halves of our names at the same time.” The hitman refused to acknowledge that he already knew Fugo’s first name, but he knew that Fugo didn’t know that he knew.

“Sure.” Fugo replied in a similar, high-pitched whisper. “On three.”

“Okay.” Giorno’s heart was racing, he could practically hear himself shaking like skeleton bones falling apart in an old cartoon.

“One.” 

They could not stop staring.

“Two.”

Giorno thought Fugo looked like he was about to burst into tears. Giorno could relate, even if he couldn’t do the same thing.

“Three.”

And the two of them blurted their names. 

Their identities, semi-exposed and now open to one another. Fugo looked bewildered at Giorno’s last name.

“Giovanna?” Fugo muttered, “Huh. That wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“What, you were expecting something else?”

“No, I actually wasn’t expecting anything at all. ‘Giorno’ itself is a good name, and I hadn’t thought that a last name would suit it that well. But, I guess I was proven wrong.” 

“Thanks,” Giorno grinned, “I picked the name myself.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Fugo sighed, “Pannacotta isn’t exactly a name I’m fond of using.”

“Why, is it because people called you ‘Panna’ all the time?”

Fugo’s face scrunched up, which made Giorno apologize quickly. “It’s a good name though.”

“I don’t have good experiences with that name.”

“Why not change it then?”

“I-“ Fugo abruptly stopped, turning to see Sheila waving at them to come over. “I’ll tell you some other time. Maybe when this is all over?”

Giorno hesitated before giving a half-smile, “If we make amends, I don’t see why not.”

Fugo beamed in return before heading over to their instructor.

That image burned into Giorno’s mind - almost a slow-motion animation in the highest quality - it made its mark in the hitman’s memories. He couldn’t help himself but genuinely smile back at the man. 

His wall of animosity towards Fugo began to crumble, like a sandcastle being washed by waves of an endless ocean.

The white-haired man leaned his forehead against the window of the car. His mind still hadn’t let him lose the thought of sharing a part of his name to Giorno. A headache hit him the moment Giorno mentioned that nickname he had, too. Fugo wished he had some tylenol on him and regretted not grabbing it before they got on the train. 

It didn’t help that they were traveling to a different city every week. Fugo enjoyed visiting Firenze and Milan, really, but the money laundering schemes that Passione had forced them to go on kind of dampened the whole experience.

“Where are we meeting the interviewer?” Fugo spoke up, recognizing a suburban environment he wished he had permanently forgotten. Large, brick buildings detailed with marble and made with corinthian columns came into view as they drove into the cul de sac road. A large, eloquent garden made with trimmed bushes and - spanning over what seemed like the entire estate - were a collection of the finest and nursed flowers he had ever seen. Gloriosas, hydrangeas, juliet roses, and tulips were among the few types he recognized in the abundance that was in this massive garden.

He didn’t recognize this garden from the last time he was here. 

“We’ll be meeting him in the Evergreen Library,” Risotto replied, “He always liked the ‘smell of the place’, apparently,” The man air-quoted the words the interviewer allegedly said. Fugo scrunched his eyebrows, frowning. 

The memory he had of this place was, quite frankly, the opposite of what they were seeing. It was smaller, for starters, and most of the buildings that were here had transformed into one, singular structure. The amount of renovation the institute went through certainly piqued Fugo’s interest, as he was sure his parents didn’t have the money at the time to remodel anything. 

Fugo remembers the institute with distinct clarity. He went to it when he was at the very, very young age of thirteen, his parents having pushed his studies to such abusive degrees that he still vomits at the thought of going back to a learning environment. 

“The ‘smell of the place’? The hell does that mean?” He heard Giorno half-heartedly laugh.

The institute (or rather, here) was where he was first introduced to a world outside his home. Though still unwillingly engrossed in his studies, he remembers a few fond memories. He remembered the weird, nostalgic smells coming in from random newcomers and students he never got a chance to speak with. He remembered the early morning sun shining through windows of his literature classes; the warm breeze of Roma accompanied it. This was the same university where he met Narancia, and eventually Mista. They would always take long bus rides to classes, even after Narancia finally got his car and occasionally began carpooling the three of them over.

“Don’t know,” Risotto turned his head over his shoulder, looking at the two of them, “He’s a weird man, but don’t ask him about why he acts the way he does.”

His family would always monitor him through the professors, as they had owned this part of the institute themselves. 

One professor despised him. Fugo remembered a meeting with another student. He remembered his first payment. He remembered the dictionary, his first weapon. He remembered the (red) stains. His head began a throbbing ache. 

“Not that we would ask, why shouldn’t we?” Giorno uneasily cleared his throat.

He felt disgust and bile rise in his throat as he returned to the present and tried to shake off the hellscape that was his first target. It was messy. 

“Make sure you’re on his good side. I’ve heard some rumors that Diavolo isn’t the man to meet when you piss off one of his own.”

Fugo tried at his voice, and was surprised when it came out clear as a bird’s song, “Well no shit. Anyone who’s known by many people by means of a lot of money is bound to give them a reputation like that. It’s consistent for every high-ranking person.” He hadn’t intended the malice behind his words, but he wasn’t ashamed of it.

The four went silent for a few beats as an underlying tension grew between the two front and back seats of the car. 

Risotto shifted, lifting his arm behind him holding two light folders. Fugo glanced at Giorno before taking the documents, handing the one matching his partner’s photo over to him. 

Sheila E decidedly ignored the entirety of the conversation that happened prior to that moment and parked her car near the front entrance towards the (refurbished) building; she cleared her throat, “Open the folders.”

The two hitmen followed her directions. 

“Inside you’ll find everything you need for the interview. Your history, private information, and your resumes are all in there.”

Fugo bit his lip, skimming through his makeshift identity that (he assumed) Sheila and Risotto created. It felt loose, with a lack of false information about his childhood achievements and other job opportunities. Without looking up, he awkwardly asked, “Are we supposed to have this much… Uh…”

“Not as much info’ as you thought?” The mafioso looked over his shoulder at the hitman, “Yeah, trust me, that’s all they’ll need.”

“Even our actual appearances?”

“Trust me when I say that everyone on the job looks like they went through a fruit blender. Even the boss.”

Giorno looked up from his folder, somewhat in disdain. “Did you really name me ‘Kieran Valentine’?”

Sheila E looked up into the rearview mirror, “Sounds fitting.”

Fugo stared at his own ‘Jackson Jekyll’ in confusion, having little to no clue why Giorno was upset over the names.

“You’ll be given your equipment once it’s confirmed that you both have the job. It should go by quickly if you play your stories right. Don’t be stupid.”

The hitmen nodded to that.

Fugo and Giorno opened the marvelous, macacauba polished doors of the library. Inside spanned a long hall of shelves of literature reaching its hands towards the ceiling. There was a second floor with an open middle, giving the impression that the filled space had more room. Corinthian columns lined the enormous room, with each base being as long as a human’s wingspan, if not more. Fugo felt he had shrunk, not only because of the influence this building had on his black-boxed memories, but because - shit - the renovations went extreme on this institution. It wasn’t twice, nor thrice the size of it, rather four times the size of the original buildings the last time he was here. It was as though it were a whole new complex altogether.

They continued down the hall, passing by students in full-uniform studying on cloth-covered tables. Each person had at least one thick book that could weigh at minimum 5kg, maybe more. It gave Fugo more blank memories that he tried swatting away. He decided that it would be best to keep his sight forward and to ignore his surroundings. 

He refused to acknowledge Giorno giving him a concerned glance at Fugo’s stiffened and sped-up gait. 

The two of them made it to the spiral staircase at the end of the hall (with the walk being longer than Fugo hoped it would be) and greeted a security guard.

Risotto wasn’t kidding about appearances, as this guard had a headpiece of a cow mask with hot-pink hair sticking out the ends of it. He nodded as they showed their folders, and let them upstairs to their interviewer’s office. 

Another hallway greeted them after around fifty or more steps later, this time being carpeted instead of being polished with hardwood. The walls had umber accents and maroon (red) patterned wallpaper. 

Fugo lifted his free hand to rub his forehead with, grimacing at the increasing pressure the migraine was giving him. 

Giorno stopped him, “Do you need to breathe?”

“What?” Fugo stared at the hitman. “I… am breathing?” 

The blond blinked. “No- wait- I meant-” The two continued with the pace they had before- “You kept shutting your eyes as you walked. I was asking if you needed a breather.”

“You really don’t blink, do you?” Fugo said, repulsed. “I’m just not a fan of libraries.”

“Really? You seem like a bookworm.”

“Don’t call me that.” 

Two guards stood side by side of the one door that was carved with various detailed symbols of foliage, vines, and grapes. They held their hands up, making the hitmen wait awkwardly before the door.

He glanced at Giorno, seeing him pull a straight line with his lips and begin to sway to a silent beat, though his movement wasn’t all that noticeable. 

On the other side, Fugo could barely hear the conversation between what sounded like two deep voices.

“Hey Doppio! Thanks for-” Fugo could not make out what the man was thanking the other for. 

“The pleasure is all mine!”

“Where the fuck is my money though?”

There was a brief silence before the man continued. 

“You promised me after the hits you had us pull off-” Fugo - unintentionally - leaned forward to hear better- “you would pay me within a few years! If you don’t give the cash…” 

For a few moments, whatever chatter occurred was incomprehensible through the wood of the door. Then, out came a shaken figure that shuffled off towards the stairwell.

Looking past the ajar door showed a small room, furnished with many luxuries and soft, plush furniture. In said space stood a man with striped, dark pants; a maroon (red) dress shirt; with suspenders adding style points and nauseating, radioactive green eyes. The hair was a bright pink, just like the guard from downstairs, but had a weird, zig-zag shave on the side. The front was a large swoop of thick hair, and the back was tied into a small, short ponytail. 

The man - Doppio, presumably - gestured them inside. Fugo slowly walked in, taking in all of the dark furniture and decorations the room had. Giorno, on the other hand, walked forward to shake hands with the interviewer.

“I believe you two are the new recruits Risotto and Sheila have recommended, is that right?” His bubbly voice pierced Fugo’s eardrums. It made him want to punch the man right then and there. 

“Yes, that’s us!” Giorno replied with a similar cheery tone. Now, Fugo had a need to punch both of them.

“Wonderful, have a seat.” Preferably at the same time. 

They both sat down. Fugo’s seat had a back to it that made it both uncomfortable to lean back against, yet also too soft to sit straight in. 

“Let me see those backgrounds,” He dropped his tone, taking the folders they held and leaning against his table. 

He flipped through the first folder, looking up at Giorno before licking his thumb and turning a page to continue reading. 

“How did you hear about this position?”

Giorno’s smile dropped a little, clearing his throat, “One of my superiors from my previous occupation suggested this position to me.”

Fugo had to bite back a frown, watching the man before him. Although he looked and sounded friendly, he had a feeling there was something off about him. To the way his eyes were shaped, to his older-era clothing, to his demeanor. 

Not that meeting iffy-feeling people would be a surprise, though. It’s not as if every person he has met these past few months weren’t weird or off-putting. 

“And you?” Doppio turned to Fugo, his eyebrows perking up in interest.

He was also somewhat shocked that they were being interviewed at the same time. Maybe it’s to cut the time being wasted?

“Same as he said.”

Doppio nodded as he simultaneously opened Fugo’s folder while he flipped another page of Giorno’s resume. 

“Why do you want this job?”

The question startled the two of their patient silence. Giorno glanced at Fugo. Fugo glanced back at Giorno. 

“My… father thought this type of occupation would be in my best interests.” Fugo noted quietly how Giorno gritted his teeth at the mention of a father.

Doppio turned to Fugo, gesturing the same question.

“Being a bodyguard was a challenge I thought I could be up against.” Fugo replied simply, almost as if it were a genuine answer. 

“Hm,” Doppio flipped through one of Giorno’s pages, “Mr. Valentine, it says here that you suffer from vision problems?” He pointed towards his own eyes, “Do you wear glasses? Or contacts…?”

“Well you see, I have something better.”

Giorno blinked and popped out his prosthetic eye swiftly. Doppio screeched.

A few days after the interview, Risotto had given them a response of whether or not they succeeded. The good news was that they had, in fact, made it to their new ‘occupation’. The bad news, fortunately, was that they were the replacements for Risotto - and his co-worker - to guard the politician’s daughter.

Giorno watched nearly two hours worth of a meltdown coming from the giant before he had calmed down enough to realize that he had been promoted. The hitman had never felt the urge to laugh as much as he had then, and whenever he glanced at Fugo, he could tell that he was also on the verge of bursting into a fit of joy.

The two hitmen, however, knew perfectly well of the importance of Risotto’s position, so they weren’t all-too excited to replace him and his co-worker.

After Risotto finally accepted his fate, Sheila E had given them what Doppio (presumably) provided for the job: pepper spray, a flashlight, a holster, a standard gun (to which Fugo reluctantly accepted despite his own weapon on him), handcuffs, and lastly, a taser. 

Well, Giorno knew what tasers looked like. He knew that they were a box-shape and had black and yellow colours painted across its base. The hitman had a few cases where he felt the painful electric current run through his muscles from it. What he didn’t know was how he was supposed to use it.

The object lay on a table in front of him before he grabbed it. He remembered pushing a button, hearing the faint, familiar trill of electricity, and then a body thumping on the ground. He knew that Fugo was already displeased with having to replace his main weapon; now, with Giorno accidentally tasing him, he knew that he was more than annoyed at his deal-buddy.

In those early days before they began their shifts, the two also were given private instruction of what times the mobsters would meet together to share their intel. For Risotto, he was supposed to see three other members and share their findings on where Diavolo would be.

Giorno and Fugo’s jobs were similar, except that if they spotted Diavolo at the perfect moment, they would kill him with no hesitation. They were the weapons. They were replaceable. They were put here because they were expendable, and the two hitmen understood that.

When Giorno began his shifts, he never knew what it meant to be a bodyguard. Yes, he’s seen them standing by doors and blocking paths, but he considered them more as ‘obstacles’ and didn’t put much thought into what they actually did.

So, when Giorno found himself standing in the same position for nearly four hours beside the politician’s daughter’s bedroom, ‘guarding’ it, he finally understood why they were usually pissed off if you even tried speaking with them. He hadn’t realized how one could also lose feeling in their legs from standing in one place for so long.

He shook his head as soon as the feeling of needles and pins began stabbing at his calves. The sleepiness subsided, and he was as good as new; apart from the half-lidded eyes of boredom and slouched posture he barely held straight most days regardless.

He desperately wanted to return to Napoli, to see Goldie and relax in his room as he usually would do after missions. He wondered if Goldie missed him at all. He wondered how Mrs. Holly was holding up; he wanted to ask her if her shop is busy with customers or not. The dull ache of homesickness ran rampant through his veins, like a sore wound waiting to be treated by its medicine. 

At least Fugo was with him. He gave a different sense of comfort, but it was better than being alone.

Looking over at the other hitman, he swore that he was a literal statue created by Medusa’s snakes. Most shifts ended up with Fugo appearing as such, mute and deaf to all events around him. Only if anything were out of the ordinary (which has yet to happen) would he even exhale deeply, or turn his head, or say a syllable. He had no idea how he managed to stand so still for so long. Even the thought of not being able to twitch or twiddle his fingers distracted and disturbed Giorno immensely.

Giorno thought back to Risotto’s words prior to their first days of being guards. For such a rough exterior, Giorno could agree with himself that Risotto was a certified little bitch. He smiled at the thought, amusing himself. He wondered if Fugo thought the same way.

His mind continued to wander; that’s the only thing you can do at a job like this, really.

The double doors beside the two opened, and out came the woman they were assigned to protect.

Trish Una, similar to her father and almost everyone in the building, had the running trend of dying her hair a hot pink. She was around Giorno’s height, a slightly smaller build yet he assumed she could outrun him. Today, she wore baggy, comfortable clothing with intricate designs of dragonflies and moths, along with other insects that Giorno couldn’t name.

“Good afternoon you two!” She waved at Fugo and Giorno, to which they both nodded quietly.

Giorno knew after Trish spoke her greetings she would sneak out to the garden and walk through the taller grasses and bushes, or rather, the more obscure area of the gigantic field of trimmed roses and growing poinsettias (from what he could recognize). Both he and Fugo would have to follow her, even at a distance, which gave them time to observe how she acted.

She would usually go around smelling all of the flowers, picking up bees and waltzing around with herself before plopping into a pile of cut grass. She would often daze into the sun, or move to sit under a bush, so that she would be more hidden from the other guards. 

Today, she returned sooner than expected with several red flowers in her hands.

She smiled as she fumbled with them, picking two from her bundle and handing it to him and Fugo.

Giorno nodded and took one of the flowers, “Thank you, Trish.”

“These are begonias,” She took a step back, turning her head to gaze over the expensive garden her family owned. “They’re one of my favourites out of our collection.”

Giorno watched as Fugo looked down at the flower given to him, “What made you think to give us these?” 

“I wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?” Fugo quered. 

Trish gave a sly grin, “For being the first guards that don’t follow my every move.”

As Trish stumbled into one of the back entrances, Giorno felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up as he and Fugo followed her. He tucked the begonia behind his ear, mimicking the other hitman.

Giorno knew after she hung out in the garden she would head to the kitchen to grab what leftovers her father’s dinner get-togethers would be in the fridge. A couple of the chefs she knew by name, and although they were gruff she didn’t mind them. Luckily, they managed to find her after a minute or two of going after her from the main hall of the building.

He leaned against the edge of one of the open counters, while Fugo stood by the entrance of the kitchen.

“Trish Una, what was that supposed to mean?” Giorno asked as she rummaged through one of the many fridges the kitchen had. 

“Don’t worry about it, I’m messing with you,” She laughed, finally grabbing an old container with a small sandwich inside. Trish then grabbed some other containers before sprinting off down one of the many halls, giving half-assed insults to the guards she hated.

The hitmen followed soon behind, their footsteps echoing the halls out of sync with the daughter of Diavolo.

As the weeks bore on, Giorno had begun to notice more and more of who Trish was. She sang during the night, when their shifts stretched that far. Even after returning from their delegations with Risotto nearing the early morning hours, they would hear her humming a jazzy tune to some American song. Sometimes the genre would switch, and it would be French, then it would be to Italian folk, and then the cycle would repeat.

He would hear her improvise some of her own lines, singing obsolete verses that made no sense in his mind. 

Sometimes, Fugo would hum with her. And if Giorno had never known the beauty in music, hearing it from two strangers bonding together certainly proved how it was meant to be heard.

He would catch himself subconsciously joining in. It would be the middle of the night, and the three of them would hum a familiar tune that she would sing together. 

A week or two after the nightly singing began, the three of them were in the garden. This time, Giorno had joined Trish in flower picking, though Trish was more successful than he was.

He looked over his shoulder, spotting Fugo leaning against a tree with amber-coloured leaves falling from it.

“Say, Mr. Valentine,” He turned to Trish, watching her pick at some clovers under her feet. “Do you ever feel like you’re in the wrong moment?”

Giorno blinked, feeling his teeth clench and his shoulders tense slightly, “What do you mean?”

“Well, if you look at Mr. Jekyll over there,” The two turned their heads to Fugo, “He looks like he’s contemplating his existence every time he comes to this place.”

Giorno laughed but gave no comment.

“You’re probably in a similar state, let alone the rest of the guards.” She dropped her smile and sat down on the grass, lowering her voice to a hushed tone, “I’ve known for so long that I can go anywhere I want. That I can freely pick whatever meal I want, that I can get any disc I needed, any clothes that I wanted- and yet-“ She scratched the back of her neck- “It feels wrong, you know?”

The hitman felt his limbs grow numb, his mind utterly blank from her words. They sat by the bushes next to the fading autumn leaves and wilting flowers. It was all preparing for the winter yet to come, with the cool winds blowing new seeds and pollen to be planted for next spring. He felt his hair sway in the wind and watched how Trish’s thicker hair shifted with the breeze. 

Her emerald eyes never left the ground, and they looked to be wet with rain hiding behind them.

Giorno opened his mouth, before shutting it.

“You-“ Trish planted her palms behind her, leaning back to look at the clouds above them- “You know? That’s just not me feeling like I’m at the wrong place, the wrong time? Like this entire mansion that’s been given to me is some sort of prison that I must stay in?”

The hitman glanced at Fugo and wondered if he ever thought of how he put Giorno in his own metaphorical jail. He wondered if he had regretted the decision to save their lives. He wondered if the man, who was now looking back at him, had known how much ire Giorno had built against him. Does he know how much he thinks of him, of that moment? Does he know?

Giorno turned back to Trish, and thought about if her trapped mind was any at all similar to his own.

His hand reached for a patch of lilies nearby, plucking one from its stems and gently offered it to Trish.

Trish wiped her nose before taking the gift. Nasally, she continued, “I’m spoiled day and night for no reason. I haven’t earned anything by my own means. Do you ever think that there’s a way out for me?”

“Why don’t you leave?” Giorno offered, quiet with his response.

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“My father makes sure that I’m watched when he’s away. Why else do you think you’re here?” She slammed a fist into the dirt beside her, “He never wants me to leave. I don’t know anyone my own age to even have a chance of going to the city. I’ve read in novels that this is not how fathers are supposed to act, so why does he do this?”

Giorno subconsciously began to curl inwards, wrapping his arms around his legs at the thought of his step-father. He saw a few droplets fall from Trish’s glassy eyes.

“Why should I not be my own self when he knows other children that live normal lives? What’s so special about me?”

The two in the grass heard the crunching of leaves behind them, and as they swerved their heads they found Fugo standing just a few meters away. They all watched each other in silence. The blond wasn’t sure if he heard their conversation, though he wished he did. He doesn’t bode well with comforting others, let alone in a semi-professional environment. 

Fugo had his way with words. He wished he would use them now. 

The two have yet to meet Diavolo, let alone properly see him in person. He heard how the politician was constantly in and out of the mansion, though usually he was usually away on business meetings with other delegates of his committee. He was rarely at the mansion at all. 

It did seem as though his daughter ran it more often than he did.

He wasn’t sure how Trish would react about her father by the time he and Fugo finished what task they came for.

It was late evening when Trish closed the doors to her room. 

Her hands were flying left and right, throwing tank tops, skirts, jeans, bras and underwear all into a small sack. She hastily ran over to her bathroom, grabbing her toothbrush and toothpaste and shoving it into the sack as well. Her hairbrush was also thrown in before she ran back into her room and grabbed a small coat. Over the short span of time her room became a junkyard, with various journals and music pages strewn about on her wooden floors. 

Trish paced around her room, her mind filtering between which items she should bring and which items she should leave behind. Her sack was still light, she could shove a few more things in. She blankly stared at her vanity table, her cabinet, her shelves filled with books, the lute on the wall-

A lightbulb appeared over her head and she snapped her fingers. She went over to the edge of her bed and looked through her old school supplies that she hadn’t used for almost three years at this point. Her eyes darted over old notebooks and textbooks before she spotted her old purse. It was tawny brown, a gift her mother supposedly had given her. 

She opened it, hearing the familiar click of magnets disconnecting from each other, before she zipped the inner pocket open and found her old wallet that she barely used. Trish remembered the one time she had been able to use it, and it was in one of the vending machines of the college nearby her home. Her six-year-old self was excited, she could still remember how she was speechless when she was able to use an old hunk of metal that other, ordinary students used. 

When she felt the smooth feel of paper euro, she lifted her hand to see the amount. It was a ten, with a few coins as change from the machine oh-so long ago.

Trish rose from the floor, a tiny bubble of excitement rising in her chest as she also packed the cash in her sack.

At that point, she slid one of her arms through a dark coat, before she glanced outside to check the pitch-dark of night one more time, and finally looked at herself in her mirror.

Her frizzled hair and bulky frame created by her jacket and sweats gave her a much different look than what she enjoyed. She knew dresses and skirts would be hard to run in, and although she packed one or two in her bag, she doubted being able to wear them at all once she got to the city.

The city. The imaginary bright lamp posts dotting the sides of every street and the worn down architecture gave her the naive wonder and feeling of a new change.

A lump caught in her throat and she watched her pupils widen at the thought of the city. The thought of singing to anyone who could hear of her miseries, her fairytales, her greatest ideas and imaginations. The childish thoughts of finally being out of this damn house, to finally be away from her father, to finally not be seen. Not be watched like the camera in the corner of her eye was watching her. Not to be watched by the new bodyguards that stood by her door. To only be known as a performer of sorts, and not an exotic museum piece for a private collection.

Trish was sick of not being herself. Her bones ached to belong to her skeleton, her muscles wished to be latched to their proper ligaments and not by thin strings that led her to and fro.

She heard the small piks and thracks of rain begin to thrum against her window.

Trish huffed, flipped off the camera at the unreachable corner of her room, and opened the double-door exit of her room.

Mr. Jekyll and Mr. Valentine had begun trailing her the moment she exited her room. She could feel their suspicious eyes on her back. Trish knew they would follow her.

The sack hidden in her large jacket, she followed the polished lines of wooden panels in the halls that led her out to the garden.

Her pace quickened as she looked back to see the two guards tailing her. She couldn’t lose them in the halls, so she might as well lose them in the dark.

With the hardest push she could muster, one of the many doors to the garden swung open and she leaped into the dark of the stormy night. The paths lit up brightly with small lamps lining the edges, but Trish knew there was a way through the bushes that wouldn’t give off a shadow that belonged to her.

Carefully wading through the beds of flowers that she desperately hoped weren’t trampled too much, she made her way to the one gate that had fallen into disrepair and been unnoticed by any of the gardeners over the years.

Creeping up towards it, she could hear the footsteps of her bodyguards scanning for her, the two of them whispering to each other whenever one noticed something.

Her every breath was quick and short. Her heart beat faster than wheels on a bullet train as she unlatched the rusty handle, and gently pushed forward. It shrieked louder with the damp air attacking its hinges, but Trish knew that the guards wouldn’t hear.

One foot, then the second, then her legs and torso and arms crawled through the small gap she made. Trish grabbed her sack of what she considered essentials, and then bolted.

Through the bushes she ran barefoot- she hadn’t even thought to grab sandals or shoes. She sprinted as fast as she could, even though she knew she would tire easily.

Her feet flew before her. Her arms straightened as she became an arrow. She ran and ran and ran, down the hill, across the road, over and down towards the highway. She didn’t know how far it was to the city. She didn’t notice the huge puddles staining her clothes with the large splashes she was making. She didn’t care.

Trish ran. Trish jumped. Trish soared.

Aching, swollen feet were all that she could feel. She could feel every nerve in her legs screaming for her to stop, but she kept going. She saw the lights in the faint distance, she knew she was close. She had to keep going.

A limp leg wore her with every small step she now took. Trish had no idea how she had managed to get away, surely by now the entire mansion would be searching for her, right? Her desperate hope of being forgotten from that place was quickly buried low in her heart. She shouldn’t get too excited about the impossible.

Looking down, she saw a bloody mess of what were her well-manicured walking machines. Her nail polish now gone, she kept tripping every so often that it was a miracle she was still standing. It all stung with the dirt and mud and crumbled cement caking the insides of her wounds.

Trish felt several cramps attacking her sides, begging her to rest and breathe. The burning and brief whips of pain lashed and singed her every breath - but - she knew if she stopped, she would not be able to get back up.

The city was not too far away now. Trish told herself that she could make it.

Blurred vision clouded her mind, disorienting her from the exhaustion and overbearing pain her legs gave her. She had barely noticed passing by the first building, as the constant thought of run, run, run kept her moving. Escape was the only thing on her mind. The state of her body didn’t matter so long as she kept out of reach of her father.

When Trish managed to find a bench some hour later, she felt herself fall, collapsing onto it. Ignoring the cold, damp metal, she pressed herself into it as she realized how much she missed static movement. All she could hear was her own breath and rapid heartbeat, her mind was empty and void of emotion and thought. She refused to think. Her body had begged for break for longer than it had to beg, and she was giving it what it deserved.

Hours. It had to have been hours that she was running across wet cement and asphalt. It was far into the night, where some streetlamps began to turn off because of the rising sun. Her hair stuck to the sides of her face like glue; the pads of her fingers and toes were warped from the humid air. Her eyelids drooped down, clamping shut like a metal chest.

If she ran for hours, then she would rest for hours. She would calm down and figure out what to do later, if she isn’t found by the time she wakes up.

Two hands shook her from the coma she was prepared to fall into. Trish blinked, fearing the black suits and black ties that terrorized her, but instead saw two civilian men. One was of tan skin and the other of darker skin, both with hair shorter than their shoulders. The two wore hoodies and had umbrellas at their sides. The rain was light, not entirely gone but also not as heavy as it was before. 

The one who shook her awake had an orange bandana around his head, and looked at her with concern. The other grimaced at the sight of her legs, which she hadn’t even noticed were there. Numbness replaced the pain she thought she was enduring. 

“Do you want us to call an ambulance?” The shorter one croaked. Trish wasn’t sure if he was sick or if he simply sounded like that.

“What?” She blinked hard. “No- please don’t. I don’t need it.” 

The taller one, not the one holding her up, spoke loudly, “But your feet are fucked up, you look like you can’t walk.”

Trish strained a smile, “I can walk, you don’t have to worry.” The moment she tried standing up, she swore her feet disconnected from her body and she lost balance. Four hands (instead of two) were holding her up now. 

Both of the men frowned. Trish widened her eyes and felt bile rising up in her throat. She looked down, wishing she didn’t see the scraped and bruised mess that were her legs. 

“Ma’am, we can help you. We have bandages at our apartment, it isn’t too far from here,” The taller one spoke. He sounded exhausted.

“I don’t want to bother you two- What time even is it?” Her head swam. “What are you doing out here?”

The shorter one answered. “It’s almost three in the morning.” 

Trish glanced between the two pairs of eyes staring at her. “Why are you both out here at this time?” 

The taller one looked at the ground. His friend looked off to the side. 

The shorter one cleared his throat, “We do, uh, night walks. We don’t usually sleep at night.”

“Besides, what are you doing out here?” The taller one retorted, glancing down at her clothes, “Did ya get kicked out of your apartment?”

She gritted her teeth and ignored their question, “Are you insomniacs or something?” 

“If you could call it that, sure.” The shorter one shrugged.

The three held a beat of silence.

“We’ll take you back to our place. It’s bad to be out in the rain and dark out here alone anyways.” The taller one spoke.

Trish felt both relief and caution swirl in her gut. “Before we go,” She stopped the two from beginning their trip to their home, “What are your names?”

“Oh,” The shorter one took out his hand, “Narancia’s the name. That guy over there is Mista.”

Trish stared at his hand before she grabbed it and shook it with him. “I’m Trish.”

“You’ll be fixed up in no time, Mista actually has experience with first aid!”

“I’m not that great, Nara.”

“Shh-“ Narancia whispered teasingly- “Don’t say that.”

She wasn’t sure if she should really trust two men at three in the morning taking her to their apartment, but if they offer to help care for her wounds, she wouldn’t mind. If anything, she did tae-kwon-do for a few years. She’s sure that she could leave them maimed if anything happened, even without the use of both of her legs.

The unlatched, rusted garden door of the gate was ajar before his eyes. He bit the inside of his cheek, his red eyes intensely staring at the metal gate. 

“Did you find her?” Giorno called from behind. He heard the ruffling of bushes as he turned to see the blond wading through the foliage. 

Fugo had his hand over his mouth. Giorno stared at him with concern: the emotion painted his expression.

They locked eyes and both understood the dread that crept up their spines.

He saw the hitman glance over his shoulder, see the open gate, and then slowly lift both hands and press them up against his mouth.

“Oh-“ He coughed- “She couldn’t have gone far, right?” He heard the blond whisper.

“No, no, she’s gone.” Fugo spoke wearily. 

“But is she? Maybe we should go after her.” Giorno turned his head to look at him. “Fugo, there’s just a highway nearby, we could grab a car-“

“-Do you think you can hijack a car here? Really?”

Giorno winked at him.

Fugo scrunched his brows and gave a disdained look.

The moment they ran through the doors of the garden entrance they were met with several weird looks from the other guards. 

Fugo ran up to one of them, telling them sternly to find a person who’s higher in authority. He whispered the urgency of his demand, and the woman went to grab someone at once, asking them to follow her.

Although his body was packed with adrenaline, Fugo felt calm and collected. His hands were still as he ran through more and more halls; grabbing onto Giorno’s wrist so they matched pace with the woman, they eventually stumbled into the man that Fugo was looking for. 

They stopped right by a painting that was eerily similar to one named Saturn Eating his Son. Fugo frowned as he wondered what use would this piece have in these halls meant for comfort. 

Risotto met his gaze with confusion, “You two? Again?”

“We’re in a predicament,” Fugo’s stare is strong and intense. He watched how Risotto shifted the weight from one of his legs to the other, putting his hands on his hips.

Risotto stared at the two men breathing hard after their run, and raised a brow, “What did you do this time?” He paused, looking over their heads, “Where’s Trish?”

Fugo heard the mobster’s co-worker murmur under his breath, but couldn’t decipher what it was. 

“That’s what we came to tell you-“

“-She’s gone.” Giorno interrupted flatly. 

Fugo smacked the back of Giorno’s head in frustration. “We lost sight of her when we followed her through the garden.”

Risotto’s jaw tightened so hard that Fugo swore he heard several crowns of his teeth break. 

“You lost her?” Risotto strained his words.

“We did.” Fugo and Giorno said at roughly the same time. “What should we do?”

“What you need to do, first off, is to be more attentive,” He leaned forward, towering over the two hitmen. “Second, I need to get around a hundred men to find the woman you two were supposed to look after!” 

Risotto at that point was shouting orders from guards around him, using his new promoted position as swiftly as possible.

Rushed voices shouted through several radios as the mansion was put on high alert. Fugo and Giorno were both instructed to stay with Risotto’s team to go out and search for Trish in the city nearly two hours after searching the mansion twice later. 

His fingers tapped the door of the car as the squadron of ten crammed into the van, half of them he was sure were mobsters. There were canines with them in the car, all for the purpose of finding the daughter. Trish Una, the woman they should have looked after with more proper care.

His mouth felt dry as the idea of losing Trish slowly grew to be an equal emotion to that of losing that first target. He felt his fingers curl into his palm, his nails sinking into the flesh of his palm as he grew tense. Where could she have gone? 

By now, he was sure that Trish was most likely in the city. The conversation he overheard from earlier rang like clock bells in his mind. 

The van abruptly stopped, and Fugo recognized Roma surrounding them. They all flooded out, every other person holding a leash with a dog eager to search for whatever they were instructed to find.

Fugo and Giorno had both taken two of Trish’s shirts, holding it out to every dog and allowing them to absorb the scent. Immediately, they all headed in different directions. Risotto ordered three of the squadron to split up onto a different road to their right, and three more to their left. The four remaining - which included Risotto; the hitmen; and Risotto’s co-worker - had gone straight up the path.

One of the dogs, a German Shepard, had led them directly to a metal bench. The other canine led them forward, deeper into the city.

Giorno tapped his shoulder, “Hey, maybe we should also be looking for any blood as well.”

“Why do you say that?” Fugo asked.

“She went barefoot, remember?” 

Fugo dug into his memories of the moments right before they lost her in the garden, and did remember leaving her room completely barefoot.

“It would be washed away by the rain.”

Giorno shook his head, “You’re right, but not entirely.”

Fugo half-nodded and kept his eyes locked straight ahead of him. But, the more the dogs led them down streets he recognized, the more he had a sinking feeling growing in his gut. 

When the searching dogs stopped at an apartment, he felt himself begin to panic at the severe familiarity of it. The overhang of the entrance, as well as the clear doors of the entrance was just as he remembered nearly two and a half years ago. 

On the stained ground floor of the complex were several footsteps of stained, dried blood. 

Fugo hesitated at the entrance, staring at the ground. Risotto, Giorno, and the co-worker had already begun climbing the steps when they saw him frozen in his spot.

“Jackson,” He heard Giorno’s voice echo in the stairwell, “What are you doing? We’ve nearly found her.”

Fugo felt hands claw at his throat as he shakily followed them up the stairwell. It couldn’t be- They were at the wrong place. They were finding the wrong people. This isn’t happening.

The four of them began knocking on various doors through the halls of the apartments. Most of the doors opened and had elders yelling at them to go away, and after searching through each apartment forcefully, none of them had a pink-haired woman hiding anywhere. 

By the time they reached the third floor of five in the complex, Fugo could feel tears brimming his eyes.

The dogs stopped by the third doors on their left and right, and they began to lick said doors and bark at them. 

“Found her,” Risotto muttered, glaring at the hitmen as he reached out his fist to slam it against the wood of the right door.

Fugo, feeling his body move before him, grabbed Giorno’s arm before he could knock on the door. Once he heard Risotto and his co-worker go into the apartment behind them and close the door, he turned to Giorno with a pained gaze.

A blue eyed gaze stared back at him. Fugo didn’t let go. “Giorno, we can’t go into this apartment.”

The hitman chuckled, “Why not? She could be right here under our noses, and we’re stalling?” He eventually shook off the grip Fugo held. 

“We can’t.” Fugo choked out, “I can’t.”

Giorno dropped his smile, locking his eyes with Fugo’s stare. “Fugo, we already messed up losing her. We cannot afford another reason for the mob to kill us again. You said that yourself.”

Fugo felt his adrenaline reaching its limit, it clogging his throat and choking him.

“If you don’t want to go in first, that’s fine. I don’t get why you’re so nervous about this-“ Giorno grabbed Fugo’s hand, squeezing it for just a moment before letting go- “I’ll go first.” 

And before he could stop him, Giorno knocked. 

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: suicide mention, canon-typical violence, mild gore, claustrohphobic? conditions?

The couch wasn’t one that she was used to. Its grey, soft exterior contrasted the usual dark leather she was familiar with at the mansion. It didn’t matter to her though, because she was more distracted by the excruciating fire erupting from her legs and the soles of her feet.

Trish hadn’t realized the poor state of her legs until Mista began the disinfection process, carefully dabbing and tracing the cloth filled with rubbing alcohol around the edges of her wounds. Every minute or so, he had to place a bloody-filled paper towel on the floor and grab a new sheet. 

She felt heat pool into her cheeks, ashamed and embarrassed at how much cleaning had to be done to her legs. Trish mumbled a small apology, biting the inside of her cheek to prevent any small whimpers from coming out.

“Don’t say sorry, Trish.” Mista spoke in a quiet tone, seemingly focused on what he was doing.

Trish nodded, looking over the head of the couch to see what Narancia was up to. 

Almost on cue, Narancia loudly asked, “Do you like chicken? Or beef? Are you a spice-y type of person?” 

“Nara, are you really making ramen right now?”

“What?” Nara’s head popped out from over the counter, holding out two different boxes of ramen. The Italian written on the boxes weren’t in cursive, and had a harsh, bold font. One box had a small doodle of a chicken, and the other had one of a steak. “Am I not allowed to cook for our guest?”

Mista gave an exasperated sigh, halting the ointment process and getting up. “Anytime you try making anything in the microwave, somehow you set off the sprinklers every time.”

“I was planning to use the stove! I know how to cook.”

“And I know you do,” Trish watched Mista grab the dirty towels and clothes he had been using and take them to the kitchen, “But do we really want ramen for breakfast?”

Trish’s stomach rumbled, to her dismay. She looked out one of the two small windows in the dining room, seeing the sky already transitioning from deep indigo to a softer blue. 

“So, Trish,” Nara stared at her from the counter, “Do you want chicken or beef?”

She blinked, pressing her lips into a thin line. “You- You can make whatever you want. Thank you.” Trish desperately hoped she answered right. 

“Chicken it is!”

“Don’t you barely eat meat?”

There was a series of pans clattering against each other, before the small clicks of a stove turned on. “Eating chicken ramen is different from eating actual chicken. There’s a clear difference.”

Mista returned to Trish’s side with fresher towel sheets and bandages. He finished applying what looked like basic ointment gel before taking the white cloth pad and pressing it against the sole of her left foot and toes. Trish watched as he grabbed the roll of blue, wide bandages, taking the loose end and stretching it before carefully wrapping it around the white, cloth pad. He quickly grabbed another cloth pad and placed it on top of her foot - which she hadn’t even realized had also been scraped - and wrapped the blue bandage around the two. He then wrapped it around her ankle, then her heel, and repeated this wrapping process on her right foot.

She hadn’t seen anyone have this much gentle care towards wrapping injuries, but then again, the only times she’d ever seen people wrapping injuries were in life-or-death situations in movies. There, she supposed, were many medical inaccuracies that she could not understand if said methods were damaging or not.

“Thank you,” she whispered, poking at the bandages that were around her feet and calves. Her gut grew a feeling of discomfort, as she wasn’t used to forcing politeness through her words. These people weren’t guards, they were strangers she barely knew. She decided to ignore the red alarms blaring through her head of the potential idiocy she was going through, trusting strangers to care for her like this.

“It’s nothing.” Mista gave a small smile, and that was when Trish realized the state of his appearance.

His eyes held the darkest, heaviest bags she had ever seen. It created creases like caverns around his eyes, which looked raw from tears of some sort. His hair, though curly, was messy and uncared for. Staring at him, Trish could feel his exhaustion seep into her own, and she hadn’t even known a single thing about him. An overwhelming feeling of pity rose in her gut. 

She opened her mouth and was about to inquire Mista about what she was observing, but decided against it.

“Mista! Come help me with the bowls!” Narancia yelled, his voice echoing through the apartment.

His roommate got up, patting the top of Trish’s head before heading to where Narancia was, balancing several full bowls in his arms.

Trish giggled at the scene, the goofiness of the shorter one being dealt with by the kinder, more worrisome taller one. As she tried to move to a proper sitting position, she felt her hand rub against another warm body. Containing her surprise, she looked down to see a cat. A hairless one, who began to play with her fingers. 

“That’s Aerosmith,” Trish looked up at Narancia, who held out a green bowl for her to take, as well as a fork. She gratefully took both, and by taking one whiff of the soup she almost felt the need to gulp the entire bowl in one swig. 

She instead began sticking her fork into the noodles, twirling it, and lifting it up to her mouth. “Aerosmith? Like the band?”

“Yeah! You listen to ‘em?” Narancia chewed loudly, finishing his bowl in less than a minute. He murmured to himself about getting another bowl, to which Mista grabbed his roommate’s dish and headed back to the kitchen. 

“No, not really,” Trish drank some of the broth, which was salty but not terribly so, “I just recognized the name. I don’t listen to American music all that much.” She watched the cat curl up next to her and look up with closed eyes. “How long have you had him?”

“It’s a she,” Narancia corrected her before answering, “Maybe a few years now? I don’t remember, to be honest.”

“Probably five years!” Mista yelled from the kitchen before bringing back Narancia’s bowl.

Trish placed her empty bowl on one of the couch seats and petted Aerosmith gently. Her skin was smooth, they clearly took more care into their cat than they do themselves.

“Uh,” Trish looked up, seeing Narancia fumble with his hands, “Where’d ya come from?”

She hesitated, answering in a low tone, “Not a great place, honestly.” She looked down at Aerosmith, which had now settled in her lap and made biscuits against her thigh. “Nowhere special, why you ask?”

“Well, when you’ve just bandaged up a random woman’s legs off the street, you’re bound to ask where they come from.”

Trish squinted, “Do you do this often?”

“Sometimes,” Mista rubs one of his eyes, “We usually help out kids ‘n stuff. We know a couple by name and pass by ‘em occasionally.”

“Well, I’m not a kid.” Trish smiled, holding in her amusement.

Mista laughed, “You had a serious leg injury that could have been infected. Would you rather have to go to a hospital and pay a shit load of taxes just to use any of the equipment? Hell no!”

“You have a point,” Trish looked over Mista’s shoulder as she realized Narancia had gotten up minutes before to mess around with the TV they owned. 

The TV in question was a standard one, box shaped and grey. The screen displayed static, before the smaller man hit the top of it with his fist twice, and now showed the menu screen of some game Trish didn’t recognize. 

“What’s that?” She queried, watching how Mista also turned his head to see what she was looking at. 

“You’ve never played Resident Evil?” Narancia’s eyebrows rose cartoonishly high as he finished his question. He gasped and jumped forward, a bright, wide smile lifting his lips, “Oh man- You’ve never played? Do you want to play?”

Mista rolled his eyes, grinning as he watched Narancia, “He’s always like this about this game.”

Trish, almost infected with the same joy Narancia put out, began to laugh, “I haven’t! Can I?”

Is this what life was usually like for people? That even with strangers, they can bond like this? Is this okay?

“Yeah! Totally! Holy shit yes! ” Narancia handed a weirdly-shaped object to Trish. It had triggers at the ends of it and buttons on top of it. It was a light, concrete grey, similar to the console it was plugged into. 

Trish stared at the object, her smile waning in confusion.

Mista began to cackle at her expression, while Narancia began to show her the controls. She learned that what she was using was called a ‘Playstation’, and apparently she had missed out on life since she didn’t know what this was.

Her father really shut her out from the world, didn’t he?

It was in the midst of their excitement that they heard a knock on the front door. 

Fugo’s jaw tightened the moment his brain registered the sound. Two knocks, that’s all that was needed.

He saw Giorno glancing at him from the corner of his eye, but Fugo couldn’t tear his eyes away from the spot where Giorno’s hand had contacted the door.

Dread and nausea swam through his stomach as watched the door open, the familiar mess of black dreads and curly hair stood to greet them.

For a brief moment, he saw Narancia smiling, clearly laughing at some joke told moments before. He wore a signature black t-shirt, a band logo printed on it. He had shorts on, his favourite orange ones that he wore all the time in the apartment.

But then a pair of violet irises met crimson ones, and the world stilled.

Giorno was quick to ask about a girl with pink hair, about Trish’s whereabouts, and about permission to search the apartment as security. It was a routine that the blond developed after having many rooms searched through within this apartment complex. If the person answering the door let them in, they would search the apartment quickly, finding every hiding place before leaving for the next apartment.

Fugo watched as he saw the smile drop slowly, giving out a shuddered sigh. His eyes widened, a shock passed through them, followed by raised brows. Narancia stepped back, completely ignoring Giorno and only stared at Fugo, who was gripping Giorno’s wrist and was frozen with an overwhelming wave of emotions.

The missing roommate tried to open his mouth, tried to say something, say anything but his jaw was tight. His vocal cords clamped shut and all of the air from his lungs were gone.

Giorno repeated his question about Trish, but all Narancia did was silently gesture them inside. Fugo hesitated before Giorno led him into Mordor, to the land where Mount Doom resides, to where he - the one ring - would find his demise.

“What’s the holdup, Nara?” Mista yelled from the couch, sitting beside Trish with a paused game on the screen.

Fugo darted his eyes around the apartment. He saw the familiar bar stools beside the counter, the dinner table still with several dents and marks of past tutoring sessions, the grey couch they collectively bought together, the familiar console on the TV stand-

He felt his brows crease as he saw the carpet, still partially stained from that one night they did soda-stacking jenga, a game Mista created on the spot of a bored night during winter. He saw Aerosmith, the cat they all adopted together for Narancia’s birthday. They had gone to a shelter to find the creature, and for some odd reason this one had met its match with Narancia.

He glanced at the window through the kitchen, the smell of ramen pervading through the air and memories of late study nights filled his mind. The familiar window where Fugo and Narancia often looked through to try and hyper-analyze all of the people passing by in the street, solely based on appearance.

It was… all the same. Nothing changed. Despite the years he was gone, his home was the same as it's ever been.

He hadn’t even realized he was looking around at every object before he turned to the people sitting on the couch. Trish sat there, legs bandaged and she had so, so much fright in her eyes. She understood why her guards were here, but Fugo supposes that she hadn’t realized how quickly they’d find her.

But Fugo returned to the pair of violet eyes that kept staring at him. The shorter man leaned against one of the armrests of the couch, disbelief clouding his face. Fugo pulled the gaze from him to Mista, who had now stood, his hands raised to grip at his hair.

Giorno tapped on Fugo’s shoulder, but Fugo didn’t look at him. 

“Hey, we found Trish. We should grab her and go,” He heard the blond mumble. Fugo had let go of his wrist at this point, his fingers instead occupied with gripping his own forearms and pinching his own skin, wondering if this was really happening or if it was all some horrible, destructive nightmare.

He watched as Mista tried to speak, stuttering between syllables but never forming a coherent sentence, and eventually falling back into silence.

Fugo kept his gaze on the both of them, biting his lip and spoke with the softest tone that he’s ever produced: “Hello.”

Mista and Narancia kept their obscure gazes intact. Their silence was deafening.

Fugo felt his teeth clench as he desperately tried to hold back the watergates to his tears, “Nara, Mista- I’m-I’m sorry.” He choked out, curling himself inwards and shutting his eyes, “I’m so-so sorry-“

The few droplets fell down his cheeks as he felt himself lowering to the floor. The inescapable pit of shame and guilt carved through his entire body. It was as though human nails and fingers dug into him and pulled at his limbs and lungs. He found it immensely difficult to take in breaths as he felt their gazes shining on him like watchtowers.

It was paralyzing.

He heard the small voice of Narancia speak up, “That’s… that’s what you have to say?”

Fugo opened his eyes and looked up, seeing Narancia get off the arm rest. “Are you serious? Are you fucking serious?” Narancia walked over to Fugo and grabbed him by the scruff of his dress shirt. He felt a tug, but not enough strength to pull him up from the ground.

“Do- do you-“ he began to hiss- “do you know how long we’ve been waiting? How long did we think your mysterious adventure out of the apartment would last? We thought, maybe, that your parents took you in again. Those fuckers, we all know that they’re pieces of shit and that they always try to get you back.”

“But then a week passed. It was too long, ya’know? We thought it was too long,” Narancia’s stare shook Fugo to his core.

“I didn’t-“

“You shut your fucking mouth, you asshole!” Fugo felt a violent shake from Narancia’s grip hitting his neck. He promptly kept quiet, listening to Narancia’s words sink heavy into his soul.

“Nara, don’t hurt him-“

Narancia whipped his head back to Mista, tears now brimming and his voice hoarse. “Mista you know better than anyone how much we tried to find him! How long we kept searching, how long you were convinced he didn’t kill himself when I was.”

Fugo bit his cheek, a new flow of shame sweeping through him. Narancia shoved him to the floor and Fugo let himself be thrown like some ragdoll.

“Narancia please , he’s- he’s finally here- and he can maybe tell us where he’s been- it’s finally gonna be okay!” Mista sounded hysterical.

Narancia turned to look down at Fugo, his voice raising with every word he spoke. “We thought you died Fugo! You could’ve at least told us you wanted to forget us and leave our asses, but you just disappeared. We spent so long looking for you and we- We noticed some shit happening! You breaking your shit, throwing out important papers or something- we saw it all.” His cheeks lined glistening waterfalls, his eyes growing puffy from how hurt he was from looking at Fugo.

“Nara- please- “ Mista came up to Narancia, his voice whispering- 

“ I’m not done. ” Narancia shoved the hands holding his shoulders off of him, and began the futile rubbing of tears away. “We thought you threw yourself off of some canal- Mista still thought you were around somewhere but in a different country, I-I don’t know! If it weren’t for Mista, I probably wouldn’t even be here seeing your disgusting face because he spent those years keeping me in tight ropes, and was devoted to finding you .”

Narancia heaved breaths and pointed at Fugo, as if to drill it through his head like a metal rod in a lobotomy. “You don’t get to apologize. You don’t get to,” He sobbed, his hands hiding his face as he fell to his knees in a similar fashion to Fugo. 

Mista stood, tall as a mountain, frozen with streams flowing down his cheeks like the rest of his roommates. 

Fugo sat on his knees, staring blankly at the floor. He deserved it. He deserved worse from them. They could throw him off of a balcony and he would understand, he deserved it. 

He knew that his abrupt leave was wrong, but it was the safest way to keep his family out of harm’s way. But now, that barrier and divide is broken. The dam has fallen apart, and now Fugo has no idea what he should do. At any point Risotto and his co-worker could come in, and they could find Nara and Mista and shoot them, and then it would be his fault that they ended up like that, like- like unmoving dolls on the floor with red pools under them- 

Everything was red again and Fugo wanted to claw his eyes out. He wanted time to reverse itself, for Nara and Mista to never be found. He wanted them to leave and never see him, they could hate him but Fugo would never forgive himself if they ever got hurt because of his job. He wanted- 

A blanket of two bodies wrapped around his trembling frame. 

Fugo gave out a shaky exhale, before another sob hitched at his throat. He didn’t deserve this. 

“We don’t forgive you.” Narancia whispered as his small arms wrapped around Fugo’s torso.

I know.

“Don’t scare us like that,” Mista murmured, “I know you struggle speaking out but- we would’ve been there for you.”

I know you would’ve.

Fugo cleared his throat and the voice came out weak, “You two don’t understand,” He opened his eyes, shifting them to meet them with Giorno’s.

He saw Giorno sitting beside Trish, and they looked like they were conversing silently this entire time. The gaze Fugo met with was confusing, either Giorno sympathized with Fugo (despite not knowing who these people were), or Giorno envied Fugo. The hitman wasn’t sure which was worse. 

Fugo looked away, resting his head against the curve of Mista's shoulder, “You don’t know who I am. What I do- What I did -“

Narancia interrupted him, “-You really think we care what you did?”

“You’ll have to,” Fugo felt the panic rise in his chest once more, “You both aren’t safe.”

The mere thought of explaining his work of killing and disposing of targets to Narancia and Mista was an impossible situation in Fugo’s mind. He wouldn’t explain it to them. He refused to.

Mista, releasing the tight embrace but still holding Fugo, looked at him with wet eyes. “What do you mean?”

“There’s,” Fugo cleared his throat, “a reason why I left. I can’t explain it now, we don’t have time. You two aren’t safe because I’m with you.”

If a frown could grow any deeper, Mista just showed it. Narancia was silent, and Fugo bit his lip.

“Right now, there will be two other guys that could come in soon- or at any moment- and even if we take Trish I don’t know what will happen with you two-“

“Hold on,” Narancia broke out, surprised, “Trish, you know Fugo?”

The three roommates turned to the two figures on the couch. 

Trish tilted her head in confusion. “I know of a Mr. Jekyll, but I never knew of a Fugo . Does this mean Mr. Valentine,” she turned her head to Giorno, “also has a different name?”

Both Fugo and Giorno drew their silence as beads of sweat rolled down their faces. 

“Jekyll.” Mista furrowed his brows, “But you’re-“

Fugo whipped out his hand and covered Mista’s mouth, shutting him up quickly. The stare full of urgency and pleading that Fugo gave (hopefully) held a telepathic need for Mista to change his sentence . 

He blinked, “Since when did you start going by a different name?” 

“That’s not important right now,” Everyone turned their heads as Giorno rose from the couch. “Right now, Fugo and I have important work to do. And frankly, if we wait a minute longer,” Giorno stared at Fugo, and he saw worry through the calm mask he held, “we might get in a predicament we don’t want to end up in.”

“I’m not going back with you two.” Trish firmly stated.

“You don’t exactly have a choice, Trish,” Giorno retorted.

“Yes, I do.”

“No,” Giorno sighed, “you really don’t.”

“You can’t,” Anger coated her words, her fingers balled into fists. 

Mista stood, walking over to Giorno, “Why do you both have to take Trish?” Fugo saw the look Mista was giving the blond, and since Mista was at least a head taller than Giorno, the hitman could understand the intimidation his roommate was giving off. 

Giorno, however, appeared unphased. “We’re her guards. She’s supposed to be in safe hands, and the orders we were given we need to, uh, follow.”

“Meaning,” Fugo chimed in, “that she needs to be taken back home to her residence.”

“She’s…what?” Narancia whispered, “Why the fuck does she need to be taken back ‘home’? No, hell no.” He got off of the floor and pointed a finger at Giorno. “You’re not taking her. Trish can choose where she wants to go.”

Fugo deadpanned at Narancia, “You do realize that we have less of a choice than she does?”

“Shut up, Fugo,” Narancia glared at his old friend. “You’re not leaving until you explain to us where the hell you’ve been this whole time.”

“You’re right,” Fugo quietly agreed, “I do owe the two of you an explanation. But I can’t do that now. I’m asking you two, as a favor, not to mess with what-“ he paused- “Mr. Valentine and I are doing.”

“As a favor? ” Mista spat. He turned to Fugo with venom coating his words, “You’re asking us for a favor? How about you do us one and not abandon us for another two years?”

Fugo winced, feeling the very knife ripping his chest apart sinking deeper. 

“You knew that we both would worry. You knew that we would’ve done anything to help you. You saying ‘ you’re not safe ’ is not gonna be the reason we don’t see you ever again.” Mista hitched his breath, “I can’t lose you again. We can’t lose you again, Fugo.”

Mista took Fugo’s hand, gripping it tightly. Fugo could see the pain he left behind for them to deal with, the stressed creases of skin and small grey hairs that Mista bore. He felt something shift again in his stomach, and he felt nauseous. Tears began brimming his eyes again, and he bit the inside of his cheek. 

He let go of Mista’s hand, and tried to ignore his disappointment, “And I can’t lose you two. I thought about you two all the time, and I can’t express how much I regretted leaving. You’ll soon know why, I will tell you. Not now, but maybe in a few days, after we take Trish back.”

“Fugo, she’s injured. She shouldn’t-“

“Hence why we need to take her home. If our boss finds out the state of their daughter when they put us over her watch…” Fugo never finished his sentence. Both of his roommates frowned and glanced at Trish with concern.

“Mr. Valentine,” Trish sat up straighter, “my home- that building is a prison for me, Mr. Valentine. I have never felt more free than I have with Narancia and Mista, who were just strangers that help out people on the road. It’s only been a few hours and I feel alive .”

Fugo’s heart sank. This happened by mere coincidence. This happened because Fugo and Giorno didn’t keep a close enough watch on her. It was their fault that this all happened.

It was his fault that he doomed Narancia and Mista, if they are to be found by Passione . 

“Mr. Valentine,” Trish whispered, “please don’t kill me. Don’t take me back. Say that I’m not here, please leave me be. Let me live.”

Fugo watched as the hitman turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable, but Fugo understood it all the same. The only lives these hunters have ever spared were each other. 

“I’m…” Giorno paused, still keeping his gaze on Fugo.

Should they save a life for a change?

“I might… have an idea,” Fugo nodded to Giorno, who turned back to face Trish. 

Narancia crossed his arms and pouted, ”Go on.”

“You won’t like it.” Fugo replied miserably, fumbling with his fingers as he began explaining his plan. 

Giorno still thought back to that morning. It had been a few days, yet it appeared as clear as the blue sky in his memories. 

He wasn’t sure what had happened, but he knew that some part of Fugo had kept a secret that he never thought he had to reveal. Had Narancia gone and deck him more, Giorno wouldn’t have been sure whether to stop him or not.

Was it a good thing that Giorno knocked on that door?

When he looked at Fugo, he could still see raw flesh lining his eyeballs. He could still see streams of tears and dark shadows around his eyes. Giorno’s stomach crushed in on itself, wondering if it would be alright to hold his face and let him rest. If it would be alright to hold him despite the tragedy he had caused to two others, who had obviously suffered in some form of his absence. 

He frowned, breaking his stone complexion (he noticed himself doing that more lately). Giorno stood frozen, but still watched, and yearned. 

A hand waved in front of his face, bringing him back to the present. “Giorno? Are you still with me?”

The blond blinked, “What?”

They stood before the double doors to Trish’s room. Giorno heard faint guitar playing through the wood; a soft, folk voice accompanied it. 

Fugo gritted his teeth ( stop doing that ), and whispered, “I know you also weren’t a fan of the idea I had, but you agreed on it. At least pay attention, would you?”

Oh right. The plan.

Giorno tilted his head, sarcasm coating his words, “You mean the one that doesn’t exist? The first part of which Trish hated the most? I thought you wanted to help her.” 

“I’m trying ,” Fugo turned his head fully to glare at the hitman, “but I’m having a severe lack of structure as the second person to join in the creation of said plan isn’t helping and is still staring at me.”

Giorno blinked. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Fugo sighed in exasperation. “You’re useless.”

The hitman felt something snap, like a string breaking from a screeching violin. Giorno narrowed his eyes and returned the glare Fugo gave him. “I’m not.”

“Then prove it, Giovanna.” Fugo hissed, sparking another explosive alight in Giorno’s vengeful heart. “Give me at least one idea on how we can get her back out without anyone noticing.”

Essentially, what Fugo had explained (in the beginning) was how they would have to take Trish back either way. They couldn’t fake her death, as they had to “keep their job record in check” (which was a smooth way of sailing past the assassination of a political figure and the mafia), nor could they fake their own deaths. “ It wouldn’t be possible, ” he remembered him saying. They were all reassured of what would happen next: that he and Fugo would get Trish back in a matter of days or weeks. 

Except, he never explained how they would do it, and miraculously his “Nara” and “Mista” agreed to this. Giorno was still puzzled of how they managed to miss the glaring question of how they would return her, but he thought the appropriate timing of another set of hands banging on the door to the apartment - making his explanation cut short - was very fitting.

And now, as Giorno figured out, Fugo never had a second part to his plan! Which was fantastic, actually. Wonderful with a capital “W”. 

Hell, even Trish had seen through it and had chosen not to speak with them until they figured something out before she was able to run off again. 

Before Giorno could give a defense to Fugo’s attack, the two hitmen saw two familiar mobsters head down their hall, patrolling to unknowing eyes. 

Giorno silently tapped his fingers on his wrist at Fugo, flicking his gaze from the upcoming guards to the hitman. 

Fugo quietly groaned as he nodded towards the guards and left his position. Giorno followed him as they headed down towards the hall they had gone down a hundred times before.

They would always switch guards at random times of the night, and it would be different bodyguards every time. This week, they would be the ones to hear status reports from other mobsters.

He followed Fugo through a set of doors as he led them to the new spot for this week. Only one of the bodyguards from a pair would know next week’s location, to maintain more security. 

There, through the moonlight Giorno saw the familiar giant and two other mobsters sitting in a dark, wooden gazebo.

They passed by rows and rows of large, thick, trimmed bushes that got more dense as they arrived closer to the gazebo. The cement sidewalk soon turned into a cobbled path, the edges lined more with untamed grass and weeds rather than flowers.

The blond stepped up onto the dark wood, spotting the nails hammered into it glinting from the satellite in the sky. He looked around, recognizing the high bushes that lined the inner sides of the mansion gates. They surrounded the gazebo, only letting small patches of moonlight through in its cracks. Its leaves were short and freshly trimmed, giving unique designs in its thick foliage. Deep hues of blue, grey, and teal shone off the bushes; the tall plants hid the mansion’s windows (and more importantly, cameras) from this one area. 

Trish would occasionally visit this spot of the garden, Giorno remembered. But ever since her injury, she had no desire to go out and feel the plants anymore. She looked ill every time the hitman saw her.

He turned his head, watching where Fugo sat down and followed his lead, pulling up a cool, metal, cushioned seat beside him.

Risotto turned to the small group that formed in the gazebo. Giorno guesses there might be around ten of them, including themselves.

The giant glances at every mobster, and takes two hard stares at the hitmen. “Now that everyone’s here… We have some uplifting news, thankfully,” He murmured, making everyone lean in to hear what he has to say.

“If you haven’t been keeping up with what’s been going on, I’ll fill you in.” He took a long disappointing stare at the hitmen, to which the other mobsters chuckle softly. “Our popular candidate is holding an event at the end of this month.”

It was at this point Giorno - and Fugo, probably - remembered that he was also meant to keep track of the news broadcasts on the politician. Their shared, new motel rooms every week didn’t exactly offer a TV at every one. Really, the only times they would even be back there would be to sleep and shower. The rest of the days they spent at the large parks near downtown and laughed at tourists while wearing absurd disguises. 

“Now, because of two idiots complicating things, we need to figure out how we will be able to finish off the orders Polpo had requested us to do.” Risotto shifted in his seat, letting a bit of moonlight shine over his previously shadowed expression. “Security has tightened around the mansion in an effort to keep Trish in check. And even though we already know that the fucker stole a shit ton of money from us - that bastard scammer had sealed his fate the moment he did so -“ Risotto cleared his throat- “we hadn’t had a chance to get back at the guy until now.”

Giorno looked at Fugo, who soon noticed him and returned the look. They had an opening. 

“The speech will be held in the Liberia Smeraldo, which - now that I think about it - has several entry and exit points. This could be used to our advantage.”

But, when Risotto said “our”, he kept his gaze focused on the hitmen.

“He’s dangerous and has his way with words. If he was able to manipulate into Polpo’s bank, the mafia’s funds, he might topple our Boss down as easy as a king in checkmate.”

Giorno drew a line with his lips, understanding that this was where they had to make their contribution. This was their target, and only theirs.

It was then that he heard it. The small, soft clicking of a metal cap being opened and shut. It rang out, the noise filling in the silence that the mobsters gave. Giorno knew the noise all too well, he always heard it when the other had a horrible, horrible idea. 

Even if he didn’t have it on him, he would always hear phantom clicks follow in his laughter. It reminded him of the moments just a few days before they had to board the cruise; that laughter, the familiar words of: “Do you want me to?” chimed through his memory like an enormous clock bell. 

Giorno stared at the grin Fugo was spreading with his lips. Teeth shined through the moonlight, just as he had pulled out a small, embroidered and carved, silver lighter. 

The temporary flame kept sparking to life, before disappearing under the metal cap. Open, close, Open, close, open and close and the flame only grew brighter the more Giorno stared at it.

“I was wondering,” he whispered, “how much of an accident would Polpo be willing to have?”

And Risotto grew a sly smile on his face, following Fugo’s idea with absolute clarity.

When the other mobsters left at the appropriate moments, only the hitmen were left behind.

He called out to Fugo, stopping him in the middle of the cobbled path. The bushes lining the edges of the numerous trails of cobblestone started to disperse, almost as if the gazebo were its golden center. 

Giorno watched Fugo pause, his heel turning his entire body and stopping once he was fully facing the hitman.

The blond swept his braid behind him, staring at the familiar crimson eyes just a meter before his own. 

“I have that idea you wanted me to offer,” He smiled, a genuine one towards his partner. 

An eyebrow rose; Fugo glanced around Giorno and behind him before taking a step forward, becoming in range for whispers to travel on train tracks between them.

“While you set up your whole arsonist moment, I can carry Trish back to your friends’ place,” Giorno suggested, “and then, once I’m done with that, I can come back and help you with the rest of the job.”

He felt his heart twist as Fugo blinked, a frown appearing in his expression. “That has got to be the worst idea I’ve ever heard from you.”

“Not as bad as burning down a library while we’re still in it,” Giorno commented. 

“You could get caught, so, so easily,” Fugo grimaced.

“So could you,” Giorno sadly replied.

Giorno and Fugo continued their staring match, their gazes filling each other’s minds and harboring emotions that the two of them locked away from each other. 

“How long have we been pawns in his game?” Fugo asked, pulling away from Giorno’s stare and looking up at the stars above them.

His gaze followed Fugo’s, trailing up towards the sky. Millions of white dots painted the black canvas of the universe, each one more miles away than what any human could possibly comprehend. It’s a vast landscape that never ends, no matter how many times you reexamine and look, it’s infinite. 

“I think we were in his game before we even knew it.” Giorno murmured, “He knew who we were before we had the chance of knowing who he was. Right before the ball, I’m guessing.”

Being finite was always a threat to Giorno. He despises the thought of never living as long as he wants to, yet is always surprised whenever he encounters a deadly situation and lives through it. 

“At least we know each other, now,” Fugo nervously fumbles with the collar of his shirt, “by name, I mean.”

He’s surprised that Fugo lives through it, too.

“How times have changed, Pannacotta,” He laughs, pretending not to see the wince his partner had from hearing that name.

Giorno recalls the moment he dove for Fugo in that cold, sea water, desperately grabbing his hand and kicking his legs as hard as he could to reach the surface. He remembered the burning feeling of water entering his lungs, but he hadn’t cared. Fugo couldn’t swim, and that was the only thought in his mind as they broke the surface. When they were pulled out of the water, Giorno held Fugo and checked for his pulse against his cold skin. He was surprised he was alive then, and he’s surprised that he’s alive now.

He felt an urge to grasp the hand near his, and he debated following his impulse.

Fugo snapped his head to Giorno and tensed the moment he took one of his hands, preventing his collar from looking unironed. Giorno ignored the look, lifting up the pale hand palm up, seeing the moonlight illuminating and glittering across his skin. 

The hitman began to slowly trace the lines on Fugo’s palm with his thumb; The blond was content, he realized. The movements felt natural as he kept tracing, delicately, as though at any moment Fugo might shatter into a million glass pieces: A million shining stars, like the universe above them.

Somehow, Fugo understood him, and relaxed. “I’ve burned multiple buildings,” He whispered reassuringly. “I know how to do it safely.”

Giorno chose not to look at the expression Fugo was giving him, but he knew that the man was looking directly at him. 

“What if we don’t make it out?” Giorno whispers, wishing he hadn’t sounded so afraid as he did.

“We will,” Fugo’s gaze eventually reaches Giorno’s, and the pair of red eyes give him hope. “I will make sure you get out of it. Out of this mess.”

Somehow, Giorno felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders. An apology, almost, without the words used in an ordinary one. It was a promise. 

Giorno smiled, searching for any hint of concern or worry in Fugo’s expression and found none. The only thing that threw him off, however, was the glint of fear in the other’s smile. The tentative twitch of his brows and the deep bags worried him. A pit grew inside of his gut: the feeling of dread overwhelmed him.

Giorno squeezed Fugo’s hand, almost as if to reassure the other more than what he needed, and let go.

The blond brushed past Fugo’s shoulder, and walked back to the mansion.

Fugo stared at his shoes. 

He kept doing that, lately. Staring at objects and things that weren’t at all the people he was confronting, or being confronted by. It was a coping mechanism; if he didn’t see the person before him, neither could the person see him. They simply didn’t exist, and that created a false serenity in his heavy heart.

But then there was Giorno, and suddenly he couldn’t look at objects anymore for comfort. 

That thunderous, ocean-filled stare clouded his thoughts at every moment possible. It gave him a new definition of what confrontation meant: It wasn’t a topic of fear, but a topic of recognition. It forced him into a room filled with his worst monsters and irrational fears and made him fight them. Confrontation meant confidence. It meant understanding.

That’s why, that night in the garden, Fugo couldn’t understand why he had tried to lie to Giorno. His hand was held by two others, a safe gesture he had never expected. His gaze was focused on the golden hair that shone the brightest in moonlight, on the short lashes that flickered everytime he blinked, on the thumb that followed the marks of fate in his palm. 

Fugo remembered how Giorno stared at him, he always did. That stare was always on his mind. He never blinked; Was confrontation a standard for the hunter? Was that what Fugo felt back when he looped him into that deal, when he saw his frightened gaze? The same gaze that matched the eyes of that very night?

Fugo stared at his shoes, and he stalled.

The door to the apartment was right there, right in front of him. And Giorno was staring at him, waiting. 

“What are you waiting for?” Giorno teased, his usual snark still intact.

I am afraid. He tried to convey, but the red eyes stared at the black shoes he wore as a part of his ordinary uniform. He remembered when the shoes used to be sneakers, but that was the past. He moved on from that. 

He remembered how Narancia yelled about him, how long they waited. How long he abandoned them, left them to fend for themselves, what they thought happened to him-

Fugo scrunched its eyebrows, closing his eyes as he tried to set the memory aside for another day.

Today he would explain himself. He had to.

“Do you want me to knock for you again?” Giorno whispered, and Fugo heard a smile crack through his voice. 

Fugo turned his head, gritting anxiety through his teeth as imaginary water filled his lungs. He shared the staring match with Giorno, debating on what to do.

Before he could decide, Giorno reached his arm out to knock before Fugo grabbed his wrist. Fugo shoved it down, clearing his throat and locking the flooding guilt and shame to the back of his mind, giving three quick knocks on the door before them.

Fugo felt himself straighten his posture, despite it being for no one in particular. It was a habit, he learned. A sign of defense against the social part of being a hitman. The more professional you were, the more clients would recognize that you knew what you were doing. 

Unfortunately for him, Fugo had no idea what he was doing, knocking on the door of his roommates’ apartment in the middle of a Friday afternoon.

The door swung open, with Mista wearing no shirt and a long pair of sweats greeting them. He looked half asleep: his hair messier and greasier than usual, his eyelids half open, not to mention the wide yawn that gave the worst breath he had smelled in ages.

Giorno quietly coughed, while Fugo gagged.

“Mista- shit- go brush your teeth or something. Shower, maybe?” Fugo snarled, almost forgetting the entire reason he was here.

Mista blearily looked at Fugo, “Nah, too much effort. You want in?” He stepped to the side, showing an arm to the inside of the apartment in dramatic-fashion.

Once Giorno passed by them to greet Narancia, Mista asked in a lowered tone, “Why’s your friend here? I thought you’d be explaining yourself today.” He held a pause, concern knitting his brows, “Did something happen with Trish?”

Fugo stepped inside, making sure to wipe his shoes against the barely-held-together mat. “No, Trish is fine. Mr. Valentine is here because…” Fugo glanced at his partner-in-crime, who was already in the kitchen with Narancia, the scent of pancakes filling the air with a sense of comfort following it. 

The hitman stared at Giorno, his chest growing tight with a large spectrum of emotions, spanning from the deepest worries to intense rage. Eventually he met his gaze with Mista, and quietly delivered his excuse for bringing him. “He’s important to the explanation I will give.”

Fugo pretended he didn’t hesitate to finish his sentence. 

By the time they all sat down at the living room table, three chairs (one previously lined with grey dust) and a spare bar stool all crammed around it, the tension lessened. They all began eating, with Giorno complimenting his roommates’ cooking with genuine joy beaming from his eyes.

The brilliant smile forced Fugo to keep his composure intact, to not trace the lines and creases of Giorno’s expression as the man had done with his hand. He allowed himself to gaze for a second more before forcing himself to look at Mista and Narancia, who were laughing together at some dumb innuendo one of them told the other. 

He lathered jam and sour cream over his slices, noting how the flavour was strawberry and how the milk was of the same flavour. 

Fugo tried not to wince, letting himself be comforted with the memory of his grandmother for a moment, at least a small moment. He wanted things to be okay for a little while, because he hadn’t remembered the last time he really was fine. 

A weak smile spread across his face as he cut a slice of pancake and shoved it into his mouth, the overwhelming warmth of memories and nostalgia flowed through him like a soft wind. 

Narancia bellowed laughter, “You made him cry! Dude, your pancakes fuck!” 

“Listen man, these are our pancakes- don’t discredit yourself bro.” Mista added, wheezingly. 

“Okay okay- we won today. Two people enjoy our food. This rules, Mista.” 

The two roommates gave each other fist bumps before chugging their own portions of strawberry milk. 

After a long meal, the four of them cleaned up their plates. Mista set the kettle on the stove, preparing four mugs to brew coffee with.

Mista gave a weak chuckle, whispering to Fugo, who was washing plates in the sink next to him, “You know, even when you were gone, I kept making three mugs of coffee for us.”

Fugo froze, his content smile returning to the neutral frown he always had. 

“I always had to think ahead, y’know? Kept making the same mistake for the first couple of weeks.” Mista distantly added. 

He remembered their study nights, the frequent routine of Mista always being the coffee-maker, no matter how tired they all were. Fugo remembered the small tutoring sessions; the awful, late project nights; and the quiet snoozing of at least one college student when they had gone far into the morning hours of all-nighters. 

Fugo - after a while - kept brushing the sponge over the last plates and utensils, rinsing them before placing them in the second sink to dry. 

He turned around, seeing Mista’s arms crossed over his chest. The roommate stared at his bare feet, and it reminded Fugo of himself, staring at his shoes.

It reminded him of the motel, of the moment when Mista nearly found him.

A revolting gut-feeling pushed through the barred gates of hidden emotions breaking to resurface. He knew he had to give it back eventually, and he supposed the time would be now. 

The hitman ruffled through his pants pocket, his fingers passing over the sapphire brooch and landing on familiar, soft, knitted yarn. He pulled it out, staring at the colour he started to despise before clearing his throat. 

Mista looked up at him, before at the beanie. Fugo wished his jaw hadn’t dropped so low when he saw what he was holding.

“You-“ Mista put a hand over his mouth, clearly muffling some sort of noise- “you have it?”

“I had it.” Fugo mumbled. He reached out, sliding the hat into Mista’s hands, letting the roommate stare at that instead of his feet. A new object to distract himself with. 

“Where did you…” Mista looked back down at Fugo, his brown eyes shimmering like water from a stream in forest-filtered sunlight.

“You were at the motel.” He breathed.

“I was.”

“You knew.”

“I didn’t,” Fugo’s voice cracked, “I didn’t until I saw it laying on the ground. I thought something happened with you two- I thought-“

Mista gripped the beanie, his expression morphing between hurt and bewilderment. “After you found out, did you do anything?”

Fugo shut his blabbering mouth and kept staring at Mista. It wasn’t like Giorno’s familiar stare, that of which he grew accustomed to. He hated this kind of stare, accusatory and painful and desperation leaked through the gaze of his roommate.

This was easier when it was Giorno. A lot of things were easier when it was Giorno.

“Did you try coming back home?” Mista asked, his voice a little louder. “Did you try?”

Fugo opened his mouth, before shutting it. Mista looked back at the beanie, his posture slumping more even as the kettle screeched behind him. 

The hitman watched his roommate turn the stove off, slowly pour the hot water in each mug, before finally slipping the hat onto his head. 

“Okay.” 

He didn’t turn around, but picked up two mugs and waited. Fugo took the opportunity to pick the other two up, avoiding Mista’s gaze. 

The four sat at the round table, and a game of patience was played.

The opening of these doors shouldn’t have creaked louder than it usually does. Yes, the hinges were a bit squeaky, but Giorno found them to be extra noisy today. Not to mention the halls were louder, the echo of shoes moving pounding against his ears, nor the rustle of his own shirt fabric could make him more nervous than he already was.

He was doing this for Fugo’s friends. The hitman didn’t want to admit it, but he wished that conversation they had a week or two prior to today never happened.

If that conversation never happened, Giorno wouldn’t have had to feel as much pity towards Narancia and Mista. He wouldn’t have had to know as much about Fugo. It was already uncomfortable enough dealing with this new side of Fugo, the more vulnerable one.

Not that he minded it, but he couldn’t say that it wasn’t strange.

Knowing more about Fugo was dangerous. He was already treading thin lines with revealing identities with him, but now they had to be even more cautious. If Passione ever found out how much they knew about each other-

He didn’t want to think about it.

Giorno slipped into the large room, which could have fit at least four beds in it and still had room to spare for a desk and television set. 

Seeing a bundle of blankets on the queen-sized mattress, Giorno approached the edge of the bed. He fumbled with the sleeves of his overcoat, as he had been more used to simply wearing his dress shirt or some other coat that was anything but formal. At least he could hide his two good blades in the inner pockets, and no one would suspect a thing. 

A mess of pink hair poked out of the covers, and wide, green eyes blinked at him.

His blue irises stared back, awaiting a response.

A small voice spoke, “Is it tonight?”

“Yes,” Giorno nodded. “It’s right now, actually. We need to leave.”

“I still can’t walk.”

“I will carry you.”

She eyed him down with scrutiny. Giorno scoffed, reassuring her that he is able to carry her on his own. He was sure of it.

“Do it.” She challenged.

Giorno huffed. He quickly ripped off the sheets covering her, seeing that she was still in her pajamas and heavily bandaged feet. She adjusted herself to a sitting position as Giorno tucked one of his arms under her legs, and the under behind her back. 

He tried lifting her up, before immediately putting her back down. He tried again, this time succeeding, but not without stumbling backwards.

“ Don’t you dare drop me, Mr. Valentine. ” She seethed, glaring at him. 

“I won’t, trust me.” Giorno chuckled.

They stood together for a beat. 

Trish looked over his shoulder, “So, you know where to go?”

Giorno walked over to the double doors, and carefully opened one of them, twisting his wrist in such a way as to not drop Trish. He shoved a foot between the gap and pushed the door the rest of the way open using it.

“Mr. Valentine?”

He looked around the corners, seeing several bodyguards. Giorno shushed Trish, retreating back into the room. 

“Mr. Valentine-“

“-Give me,” He interrupted, “a moment to breathe.” The hitman stared at Trish as he poured his annoyance into the locked prison hidden deep inside in his chest. 

As a sort of distraction to his irritation, he let Fugo’s logical brain take over his impulsive one.

Ignoring the protests and questions Trish was stammering towards him, he began to focus. If they were to head straight out to the hallway, they would be caught immediately. They couldn’t do that: Giorno knew for a fact that he would not be able to explain why he is kidnapping Diavolo’s daughter right before a big ceremony. Another idea Giorno had would be to simply go after all of the guards in this hallway, but that wouldn’t be fair. Giorno was a self-trained assassin, he would not be able to take on twenty guards at once…

“You are awful at this.” Trish quietly comments. 

Giorno ignored her and looked around the room; A large, square glass frame came into view. It held a latch, which was flipped open, making the panes sway to the small wind pushing against them. 

Trish looked at him, glanced at the window, before lifting her brows so high it would’ve crashed the ceiling. “No.”

Giorno smirked, “Oh, yes.”

“No,” Trish gritted, “If you do this, I will snap your neck.” She wrapped her hands around Giorno’s throat, threatening him. “I will do it. Don’t test me.”

It wasn’t until a few seconds later that Giorno tested her as they flew through the open window.

“You remember Fugo’s friend?” Mista asked. He held a mug of coffee to his face, the addiction of caffeine being one he never broke out of from college.

Narancia sat in his lap, his legs up on the table as he flipped through a new graphic novel Mista brought back from the comic book store. It was an American one, but Mista had long-forgotten the name of it, let alone what series it was from. 

“The blond one?”

“Yeah, that one.” Mista had been mindlessly skimming through the pages Nara read through. While his roommate took attention to every detail, Mista found himself more confused than intrigued at the inked and colourful superheroes on the page. “He reminds me of someone I met when I ran to the motel that one morning.”

Narancia huffed, “Oh yeah! That morning!” Narancia glanced at his roommate, raising a brow, “Wait, that was him?”

“Well, if what Fugo’s been saying is the truth, then when he was at that motel that guy I stumbled into must’ve surely been him.” Mista scratched his shoulder, readjusting the strap of his tank top. 

“The one that gave you that lemonade?” Narancia hummed. 

“Yeah, that one.”

“Well,” Narancia frowns and flips a page, “that means that Fugo wasn’t lying.”

Mista leaned back into the chair, ignoring the way the red beanie he wore slipped onto his eyes and set his coffee on the napkin on the table. Ever since that conversation with Fugo, Mista wasn’t sure how to feel about their roommate. 

When the conversation began, he was relieved, in some way, before he grew to realize what exactly that man was saying. Fugo said that he was on some mysterious “job” where he found his co-worker, and then they suddenly reappeared in Roma. Not only that, but his partner seemed to nod along to everything, either in the way that he was zoned out and tried to keep the conversation going, or that he was playing into Fugo’s vague tale and knew exactly what he was doing. 

What a load of horseshit. 

His thoughts abruptly shut off the moment there were knocks at the door. Narancia jumped off of him, potentially causing several bruises to his thighs with how hard he pushed off of the man in the chair. The roommate slammed his comic down on the dining table before running to the door, grabbing the handle, twisting it before swinging it wide open.

Mista lifted his hat slightly to see who was there, before the very blond he had been thinking about stumbled in with a welcome visitor.

Mista shot out of his chair, grinning, “Trish!” 

Ignoring the several branches and leaves sticking out of both of their hairs, Mista ran to the pink-haired woman and took her out of the blond’s arms, before setting her down in the chair he was just in.

“Mista! Narancia!” She exclaimed, relief flooding her voice. She held her arms out for an embrace, and the two roommates took it.

It was warm and tight, a near-death grip that the three held together. Mista couldn’t explain it, but it was as though he reunited with a family member, despite the few times they had spoken. He was sure Narancia felt the same as Trish released the hug, while the roommates took their steps back. 

“How are your legs?” Mista asked. “Do they hurt?”

He felt glad.

”Do you want anything?” Narancia followed. “Want a soda?”

He felt happy . 

The stream of words the worried roommates had flooded out of their mouths, reassuring Trish that she was alright, that she was going to be okay. That she wouldn’t have to return to the hell she came from no more. It seemed as though on her trip through the underworld someone gifted her a shielding boon, as though the man Mista found unsettling was not the one he seemed to be. 

They noticed her tearing up, which was unexpected but not dismissed. Mista lifted his mug and grabbed the napkin sitting under it, and handed it to Trish. Narancia went to grab a can of some famous soda brand, while Mista examined her bandaged feet.

He was relieved to see her wounds had been treated in her time away from their place, and that it wasn’t as severe as it was when they first brought her in. When Mista asked, Trish replied that it was getting better to walk around but that it was still painful from time to time.

Mista looked up to her rescuer, noticing that he was watching from the door. He gestured for the other to come in and shut the entrance to their apartment, but the man shook his head.

“I need to leave.” He stepped inside, but left the exit open. 

Narancia poked his head out of the kitchen, holding two soda cans. “Wait- what?” He blinks, touching one of the cans to the man’s shoulder. “Why? You don’t want to explain how you two even got here?”

The blond turned his gaze to Trish, blinked, and heaved a laugh from the bottom of his lungs. Mista glanced at Trish, and saw pairs of ice-coated daggers staring down the man who brought her. 

He cut the laughter short, returning to a neutral expression. “Fugo needs a ride back, so I have to go and fetch him.”

“What’s Fugo doing?” Mista tilted his head as he looked down at the blond. A tug in his gut piqued him with a sense of curiosity. 

“I cannot say,” The blond replied. “It’s not exactly the most open of professions, as you know.”

Mista and Narancia shared a glance before Mista frowned, turning back to the blond. 

“Well, if you insist on not explaining yourself,” He tugged at his beanie, “that’s… fine.”

Narancia lowered his tone to a whisper, “You sure you don’t want to tell us?”

The blond gave a small smile, which only made the two roommates frown harder. 

The man turned his heel before shutting the door with a loud click . 

Mista turned to Trish, brushing off the quick anger that swept through him and watched Narancia hand her a soda before opening one for himself. He went over and grabbed a chair, hearing it squeak against the floorboards before sitting down. 

“So,” He began, trying to hide his apparent frustration. Leaning towards the pink-haired woman sipping the foam from the can, he continued, “Tell us. What happened?”

Trish turned her head slowly, surprising Mista, before smacking her lips and slamming the soda can down on the table, making both of the men jump. She scooted her seat towards the main dining table before clearing her throat.

“Mr. Valentine is a fucking maniac.” 

Mista glanced at Narancia in shock before turning back to Trish. He tilted his head, imploring her to go on. 

Trish lifted a finger and pointed at the two of them, “You ever experienced a car hijacking? Imagine that, except you’re being the one held by the hijacker. That guard had already thrown both of us out a window and had now thrown me into the back seat, before hopping into the driver one.

“I’m yelling at him at this point, because what the actual fuck were we doing, before he managed to get the engine of the car running.” She abruptly paused, “Wait, why are you two laughing?”

Mista patted Narancia’s shoulder as air barely escapes their lungs, “No, no keep going, sorry.”

“So I was yelling at him, asking what exactly his plan was, because there were gates from the place I was coming from and they were locked. We had no key. But you know what this bastard does? He goes on,” She inhales, “telling me ‘ It’s okay, I’ve driven a few times before, ’ before crashing through the metal gates. ”

Trish shut her eyes and brought her hands to her face. “I told him, ‘ Mr. Valentine, what are you doing! ’ and he went back with ‘ Trish, for your safety put on the seatbelt. ’”

At this point, Mista was covering his face, trying to keep his composure while Narancia placed his forehead on the table. Despite the potentially traumatic tale Trish was telling of her venture with the man who rescued her, something in the way of how reckless it is had rung in Mista’s brain, letting bubbling and raw amusement pour out in the form of light wheezes and loud chuckles. 

She lowered her hands, disbelief radiating from her expression. “He doesn’t have a license. There’s no way in Italia that this man could have had a license. Mista, Narancia, he couldn’t keep a lane. He asked me what some of the buttons were. And he was a bodyguard. He was my bodyguard.”

Trish looked back up at the roommates, and frowned. “You two are still laughing. I nearly died , and you two are laughing at me?”

Their laughter echoed into the night as they shared drinks, like old friends who hadn’t seen each other in centuries and more. 

The final lock to the last exit in the central hall had been sealed.

The only remaining exits were the outlying emergency ones, several of which the hitman appropriately left open for easy access. The trigger that was the main control panels in the electrical room had thankfully been easy to find, and all Fugo had to do was to set the trail of gasoline aflame, and the whole building would become a black stain in the expensive gardens it stood tall in. 

The albinistic man lowered his gloved hand, peering through the square, glass pane slotted in the center of the metal doors. He spotted the familiar head of pink hair that his daughter had climbing the steps to the pedestal. 

Fugo noted how the politician looked polished and tidy; He was wearing a dark, striped suit, contrasting the rest of his party (most of whom hadn’t chosen to stand out as much as their leader decided to). Little did the man know, he was in his encased tomb where he would singe, burn, and melt to hundreds of degrees of fire and flames before his inevitable end.

The hitman cared little for what it would do to Italia once he was gone. He considered this mission to be his and Giorno’s ticket out of the mafia, with the amount of work they’ve gone through for this organization. 

In a way, this was for Trish. She deserved better family than ones that would lock her in chains and away from the help she cried for. He hoped Nara and Mista would take care of her well, had Giorno done his part of the plan. 

With the politician in flames, he was sure the public would focus more on that than the disappearance of an invisible daughter the man had. 

Fugo’s footsteps padded down the hall to the stairwell. A camera that sat on the floor, dismantled and broken, was brushed aside by the hitman. It was one of the first tasks he had done before he had gotten access to the security room, tucked in one of the back corners of the large library. There were three in this hallway alone: one at the other end of the hall, one by one of the exit doors, and one by the stairwell.

He peered out of the corner of the intersection, seeing no one at either side before readjusting his overcoat, loosening the tie lightly before opening the heavy door. Inside was a beige-painted stairwell, the stench of stale air pervaded all corners of it. Fugo made his way down the steps, letting his gloved hand drag against the black railing as he did. 

Here, the lights were dimmer, and the halls were more compact. Claustrophobic, in a way, with the ceiling a little too low for Fugo’s comfort and every door looking more heavy and solid than what he would’ve liked it to be.

Not to mention the strong stench of gasoline making the air more stuffy than it already was; in other words, Fugo could call this a fantastic start for arson. 

He coughed, making his way through multiple halls. Left, left, another left, before he eventually looped around one section of the underground and found the door he was looking for. On the shiny metal hung a diamond-shaped sign, which was bright yellow with the familiar, zig-zag thunder symbol represented in black. 

Fugo pushed the door open, seeing nothing but darkness. Hearing it shut behind him, he waved his hand around, eventually flipping a switch that turned on a near-burnt out CFL bulb. The gritty, dusty floor of the room nearly made the hitman sneeze, and he had to rub his nose to prevent himself from doing so. Glancing over the several grey boxes full of switches, he leans his weight onto one leg, pondering over which one he should mess with.

He walks over and opens all of the cases, seeing the hundreds of multicoloured wires and levers that he knows little about. 

The hitman dug into his pocket, finding the spare lighter he kept on him. This one was of a cheap, golden colour, barely polished and had little to no engravings of where it could have come from. He got it from a pawn shop the other day, not costing more than 3 euro. 

The sounds of footsteps catches him off guard, making him swerve his head and flip off the switch, plummeting the room back into a dark void. 

Quietly, Fugo placed his hand over his gun, wrapping his fingers around the base tightly as he removed it from its holster.

He waited and hid behind one of the bigger electrical boxes in the room. 

No one followed him, he knew that. Was it a mobster? He was sure that the mob kept everyone either out of the building or in that central hall.

Suddenly, he heard the footsteps stop. 

The hitman eyed the door cautiously, peering over the box as he waited.

The door clicked and began to creak open, and Fugo felt his hostility flip to confusion in a matter of milliseconds.

In the light that the hall poured through, he saw the familiar blond hair and shorter stature and tan skin of Giorno. He saw the blue stare and lowered his gun as he rose up from the floor. 

“Giorno?” He whispered, suddenly realizing that his partner was here . “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m your ride!” Giorno cheerfully exclaimed, flipping on the switch again. He saw the other hunter stare at the lightbulb, and disappointedly mumbled, “That didn’t make a difference.”

“No, it didn’t.” Fugo commented.

The white-haired man shook his head. He facepalmed and groaned, “Wait- No- Shit-“

Giorno walked in, examining all of the boxes that Fugo opened just moments before.

“ Why are you here? You’re not supposed to be here.”

Giorno turned to him, his braid swaying behind him, “Where else should I be?”

“In the car!” Fugo sputtered. “Shit, Giorno! You fucking idiot!”

“I got her back, your friends asked about you.” Giorno narrowed his eyes. “Why are all of these open?”

“Giorno. I think you fail to understand how I said that I would be the one-“ He lowered his voice to a whisper- “to ignite this damn place. Alone.”

He stared at Fugo. “Why shouldn’t I be here?”

Fugo glances at the still-open door and walks over to shut it. He turns back to Giorno, ire filling his gut. “I burn buildings alone. It’s dangerous as hell when there’s other people with me, I learned that long ago.”

Giorno placed his hand on his chin, scratching it. “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“How long ago?”

The faint memory of the worst tips that Mista and Narancia unintentionally gave him to deal with his anger issues punched him through the gut. It was around the first year of being roommates with them that it happened, when he was still a teen. For being the closest thing to family, he couldn’t say the advice got him anywhere good, especially since he’s here now. 

“You-“ Fugo gritted his teeth and lowered his brows. “It doesn’t matter. You need to leave.”

“I’ll leave with you.”

“Why the hell are you so fucking stubborn?” Fugo exasperatedly murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“The last time I left you, you jumped off of a cruise railing and plunged into the Mediterranean willingly.” Fugo looked back at Giorno, and noticed him leaning against the grey box he initially hid behind. The blond tilted his head, giving a small grin, “I’m not going to let you do something that stupid again.”

Fugo’s heart twinged, lapsing a beat after understanding what Giorno told him. It has been getting worse these last few weeks. He didn’t know what to think of it.

Eventually, he lightly sighed in defeat. “Fine.” He walked over to the blond, placing his hands on his shoulders and forcefully turning Giorno to the rest of the room. “Help me pick a box, then.”

“You have everything ready?” Giorno turned his head, raising a brow. 

“Yes.” Fugo answered in a monotonous tone. “Now pick before I decide to pick you instead.”

The electrical door slammed open as both of the hitmen slid out of it. They booked it down the hall, their footsteps in sync with one another as they made it to the stairwell. Fugo made it first, pushing the door as fast as he could so that Giorno could make it through as well.

Breathless already, the two ran up the stairwell, skipping by two or even three steps before they made it to the ground floor.

Fugo could already smell the smoke even through the stairwell, as a huge boom ruptured through the building. The two stumbled but never stopped.

Both of them broke through the exit of the stairwell, making their way down one of the halls that surrounded the central hall. They flew past people banging on the locked doors, Fugo couldn’t have been bothered to listen to their screams. 

Finally, as soon as they turned right at the end of the hall, they spotted one of the emergency exits. 

Fugo glanced to his side, seeing Giorno determined to ram through the door. 

They slowed down before slamming into the emergency door. Fugo could feel the cool glass burn against his face, as a definite bruise would come from that.

“Why-“ Giorno breathed- “why isn’t it opening?”

Fugo stared at the door, pushing against it and finding that it was… locked.

It’s locked.

He snapped his head and grabbed Giorno’s hand, pulling the hitman back into a sprint. “I know a few more, come on!” He yelled, ignoring the blaring fire alarms now echoing down the building. 

They made it down two more halls before finding the next exit. 

The two tried pushing through, and their attempts proved futile.

“There’s no time,” Giorno strained. 

Fugo pulled out his gun and shot at the glass, doing so several times before it fully shattered. The two of them sighed with relief before beginning to squat down, and climb through. 

Four, piercing shots rang out from behind them. 

Fugo had what had to be the most agonizing feeling erupting from the back of his knees as he fell face first into the shards of glass that littered the floor. He could hear Giorno shout before falling next to him.

Small, tiny crystals buried into the pores of Fugo’s face. It was like putting ice on salt over skin; it tore at his cheeks, leaving little but the phantom memory of millions of piercing knives playing at his skin. 

He felt his hair being grabbed, before abruptly tugged up, sending another wave of pain down his spine. He coughed, realizing some of the glass shards stuck inside his mouth. 

Fugo opened his eyes, straining to see who was holding him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Giorno was in a similar state as he was.

But that’s when he saw it: A black cap, with white hair, and black sclera contacts. A wide grin greeted the two hitmen as they stared at the mobster. 

This was also the moment Fugo felt a metallic, circular shape jam at the back of his head. Seeing that Giorno had another mobster holding a gun (with a silencer attached to it) aiming at his head, he assumed that what was pressed against him was a similar weapon. 

“That was simpler than I thought it would be.” Risotto said. It was a concise comment, with no emotion attached to it whatsoever. It unsettled Fugo, which was a strange emotion amidst the fury swirling through his entire body. 

“Risotto.” Fugo spat. 

“Giorno, Fugo.” Risotto let go of their hairs, letting their faces drop back into the shattered glass.

A drift of wind flowed through the opening. Fugo relished the breath of fresh air for as long as he could, before he felt himself being dragged from the door. 

The hitmen had been thrown back into Tartarus, back into the oven of fire and hellish heat. 

“I already set fire to this place-“ He felt his body soar through the air as it was thrown into a room- “We need to get out of here-“

“-Well, yes, you’re right about us needing to leave.” Risotto replied.

He places his elbow on the floor, pushing himself up to see the mobster block the doorway. Next to him, he saw Giorno mimic his moves. Fugo ignored how his body wanted to tear itself apart, wanted to pass through a shredder, wanted to do anything to stop the agony pouring through his muscles and limbs.

“You two, and Diavolo, and every other one of those sons of bitches aren’t going to leave as we will, though.”

Giorno screamed: a sound that shook Fugo through his core. “Fugo just helped you do all of this shit! What the fuck are you doing?!”

Risotto retorted, “The amount of times you both have sacrificed the familia’s position- That you have both set the mob’s life into jeopardy, is outstanding . Polpo might have been willing to spare you, to toy with you like some pieces on a board game, but I’m making my own executive order now.

“What is going to happen is that you will stay here. You will burn until there’s nothing left but bones, until you are cooked and charred from the inside out you disgusting excuses of human beings .”

Risotto grabbed the side of the door, narrowly missing the handle. Fugo could see the sweat drip off of his face, even from such a distance. 

“This is for the good of Passione , you know how it is.”

The door slammed behind him, and a click signaled the turning of a lock, leaving the two hitmen sitting in the blood of their knees pooling underneath them. The room climbed in temperature every minute they sat there.

Fugo darted his eyes around, seeing if there was a window, or a glass panel, or another door or anything that could-

“Fugo.”

He turned his head and met blue eyes. They stared at him, enveloping him in an ocean and anchoring him down to the present.

Fugo curled his lip, “There’s always a way out.” He tried to feel for his gun, patting around his holster, but realized it was missing. Taken by Risotto, probably. “Don’t you have knives?”

Giorno felt around his overcoat before he shook his head.

They stared at each other, unblinking as it grew harder to breath in the room they lay in.

“This isn't it.” Fugo hysterically whispered. “It can’t be it.”

“Fugo-” Giorno whispered, his voice shaking- “There’s no way out.” He coughed, and Fugo realized the smoke had already reached this room.

This was his fault. It was his fault Giorno came for him. It was his fault… 

Fugo felt something click in his mind. The more the heat washed through him, the more he realized it. These flames he created, this fire was exactly what Giorno was to him. Giorno was the one that enveloped him in a case of never-ending torment, the flames that kept growing had fascinated him and burned him all the same.

Fugo yearned for Giorno. He stared at his partner, and grew to realize how painful these flames were.

It was painful. 

Love was painful. 

Giorno trembled. His body shook as the notion finally set in.

It is said the last stage of grief is acceptance, but why was it the first stage for him? 

He was grieving for the loss of a future. He is grieving at a failed promise. He is grieving for himself. He is grieving for Fugo.

“Shit,” Giorno choked out. “I’m afraid, Fugo.”

But all his partner did was stare. His red, crimson irises flared as the whites of his eyes turned a raw pink. Giorno saw tears flow down his cheek before evaporating in an instant.

“No… No, fuck! ” He saw Fugo slam his fist against the floor. Giorno’s heart tore to shreds when he saw him collapse, hearing the quiet hiccups echo in the room. 

The blond shifted one arm forward, feasibly grabbing at the tiled floor that singed his fingers, then shifted the other arm. He crawled to Fugo and reached out, placing a hand on his white-hair.

It… was soft. Coarse from the lack of moisture in the air, but soft. 

“You never told me why your hair looks like this.” Giorno mumbled. He saw Fugo shift an inch towards Giorno, almost as though he reached for his own bed of hair. They both coughed as more smoke filled their lungs. From the corner of his eye, Giorno could even see the licks of flames from underneath the door. 

He took his free hand, creating a hoarse inhale before grabbing his braid and unfurling it. The skin on his hand burned, but he let the strands loose anyways. He then took a section of his wavy hair and let Fugo hold it. The hitman looked up at Giorno, and anger and rage and sadness overwhelmed his gut once more. 

“I have… It’s from birth. Albinism.” Fugo whispered.

“Oh.” Giorno felt his weak body slowly lower more of itself to the tiles, leaning his head against his forearm. “It looks nice.”

“Not like yours,” Fugo smiled, “It's like the sun smiled bright enough for yours to shine.”

They both quietly laughed. 

Fugo cleared his throat, “I never was able to say it.”

“Say what?”

“Thank you.”

Giorno dropped his smile, a mixture of confusion and disbelief clouding his mind. “What?”

“For saving me back on the cruise.” Fugo’s voice cracked as he spoke, letting more evaporating tears flow down his cheek. 

“Finally.” Giorno mockingly whispered. He rolled his eyes, and upon hearing Fugo’s laughter he began to smile again. “You’re welcome, asshole.”

Loud cracks and creaking sounded above them, and when the two of them looked up, they saw a tear in the ceiling. 

“The building’s collapsing.” Fugo wearily said. 

The two looked back at each other. They began to grip each other’s forearms, allowing their fear and angst to be shared rather than be left alone. 

“Do you remember when you asked me why I never liked ‘Panna’ as a name?” Fugo whispered. 

Giorno nodded, and the man continued: “My mother always used that name whenever I was disobedient. I wasn’t a good child to them. That’s why I moved in with Nara-“ He cried- “Narancia and Mista. Oh fuck, I want to see them again.” Pain overwhelmed his expression. “I miss them, Giorno.”

The shared, mutual emotion of sorrow swept through Giorno. “You weren’t treated right.”

“I know.” He wept.

“I understand you,” He answered. “I understand you, Panna.”

Fugo’s lip curled as more coughing erupted from him, followed by Giorno’s own coughs. The smoke was thicker now, he could barely see the ceiling above the black cloud above them.

“Don’t use that name-“

“I will create a new meaning to this name for you.” Giorno murmured, shifting forward to wrap his arms around Panna. “You don’t have to be haunted by a version of yourself that doesn’t exist.”

Their barriers broke, their dams flooded the villages of nerves and thoughts in their minds as they embraced.

Panna clutched onto the fabric of the coat Giorno wore. Giorno locked his fingers, not willing to let the other go. He never wanted to leave him alone. He needed him. 

Serenity passed over them as blood and smoke invaded their senses, they held together not as a full glass, but as strings tying broken pieces to one another. 

“We should have spoken earlier,” Panna hoarsely spoke. Giorno felt something digging into his chest, and as he released a bit of the grip to look down, he saw the brilliant shine of sapphire stare back at him.

It was then that Giorno felt water brim his eyelids, and despite the disappearing water he wept for the first time in eons. 

“You kept it.” He whimpered.

“I did,” Panna let go of Giorno, holding the ladybug brooch between them. “We made a promise to each other.”

“…why? Why did you keep it after all this time?” Giorno plucked off his own brooch, his uncontrollable fit of wheezing and coughing not stopping him from pressing the other brooch to Panna’s hand.

“It’s important to you.” And he knew he meant to say ‘ I love you .’

From fate's strong grasp slips catastrophe: it’s a sight that makes him lose his voice to the void of air. Giorno’s words disappear into a cloud of dust as stone and solid cement rain from above, crushing the man of whom he loved before him. 

He felt a weight against his arms, seeing the brooches laying before him as a limp hand sticks out of the stone and rubble. Arms pinned, he could do nothing but scream as his anguish escaped his lungs, which were already dry and encased in layers of soot and ash. 

Black enveloped his vision as the last cries scorched his throat, weeping hundreds of thousands of seas. 

Chapter Text

CONTENT WARNINGS: disorientation, graphic depictions of gore/burning, and probably mourning as a whole

The pulsing was unbearable, at first. 

It wasn’t the burns themselves; rather, it was the scorching marks of hot iron against skin that was his heart’s interpretation of racing with confusion. The pounding in his chest sent the sparks of iron and metal into his head and protruded within it. It sent him through the searing, burning heat of the charcoal which he sat in, roasting his tendons across a campfire. The flakes of his barely-registered agonizing skin fell off to who knows where. His “skin” recently dumped himself through cold water. With his exterior now both soggy and on fire all at once, he resurfaced what felt like years later.

That was when the pulsing began; and as it is said, it was unbearable (at first). 

Despite desperate attempts at breaking his bonds, he found himself too fatigued to lift a finger. He gasped for air, and every time he inhaled, he felt his burnt lungs collapse and scratch at his insides. Worse, there was a tube down those same, raw lungs he continuously attempted breathing through. 

During the first few days of momentary consciousness, he remembered himself nearly tearing out the tube in order to gag properly. He never succeeded, of course; he succumbed to unconsciousness before he could have harmed himself any more.

The few times before he felt truly awake, Giorno distinctly remembered the flowers beside his bed. They drooped, the stems an unpleasant mixture of rotting grey and oily brown, and some of the petals sat crinkled on the desk beside the bed. The flowers however, no matter their health, were always blooming. Though wilting, their petals sprung from their center like sun rays exploding off of a many-carat gem. In his blurred vision, he swore he recognized them to be chrysanthemums (though, only reaching half of their immaculate beauty with the state they were in). Mrs. Holly had given them to him when he had a fever some time ago. (Giorno wondered for a brief moment where she was now, how she was doing, what she looked like, before promptly slipping back into one, final slumber; before the pulsing grew to its extreme). 

What felt like the sparks of iron and metal were apparently razors, the doctors said. They held up a mirror, and Giorno stared at his partly-bald, crimson head that had only healed enough to no longer soak white bandages with red. These bandages were a vibrant, puke-like yellow from the infections instead. He was raw. Unlike what his skin felt like, singed and scratchy, his face was raw. 

He sat there in silence as the doctors blabbered on and on about some treatment they were providing. Staring at the mirror, he examined his missing eye replaced by a large, white, and uncomfortable patch. Failing to remember he hasn’t had that eye for the past few months, he glanced down at the lower half of his body. One of his legs was wrapped in an asphyxiating cast. Giorno tried wiggling his toes under the pressure of plastic (more akin to cement), and realized that the limb was so numb and weak, he couldn’t feel the leg; nor the right half of his body, for that matter.

The doctors seemed to notice his confused look towards his cast. They blinked for a brief moment before sighing, murmuring the type of medication he was on. They also mentioned off-handedly about a broken bone, both pieces of information he barely caught on to. His mind, more so, wandered back to his shock of his limbs remaining fixed in dense material. Had he not been baked inside out in a building, he might have still had the will to whack the doctors with it to see if it would break. 

He did try to ask them to repeat their words, even so much as trying to open his own jaw. To his increasing horror, all that came out was a hoarse, disgusting cough and many, many droplets of blood splattered inside the clear intubation tube protruding from his mouth. He clenched his jaw against the tube and leaned forward, stifling more coughs the best he could. The lungs inside his chest and his throat had other ideas, however, and decided to seize up and grow hot. 

He burned; he was set aflame by his own body. Cursed to remain weak. He could not breathe.

Giorno felt cold hands all over him. Cold, frigid hands against his seared skin. And then it was dark again. 

A ghostly hand fell across his face, gently forcing his eyelids to open to the waking world.

Blinking, he watched the ceiling stare back at his one eye, the other still covered by the patch. It was dull, grey, and dappled with dotted indents that were meant to create a more unique effect to the ICU that was his new home. 

It was a month since the unbearable pulsing began, and he had no way of stopping it. He tried telling the doctors about it, but all they did was give him more medication, more numbing pills and liquids that only worsened it and made him more delirious. During these extended periods of his limbs losing their senses (not that he could move them in the first place), he would watch the figure behind the closed door of the room. It was a strange being, but otherwise a comforting presence to the solitary atmosphere of the room.

Giorno, when he had the strength to, would sometimes sit up to try and see more of the room. The barricades - which hung from rings beside him - sometimes folded up upon his awakening, sometimes stretched beyond his field of vision. He wondered why the walls were next to him. They wouldn’t protect him. They hadn’t before, and they certainly won’t now. These walls are flimsy and wave from the wafts of air that flowed from the moving doctors. 

The figure behind the door would sometimes move them. Sometimes it wouldn’t. But it was there. 

On some days, Giorno would remember the medication had helped the pulsing quite a bit. Rather, it helped it grow. It was an fertilizer of sorts, both helping the mind and killing it at the same time. The vase beside his brick-mattress coffin had no flowers most days. He missed the wilted, dying flowers. The dried petals at least gave a sense of time to this place, excluding the doctor’s daily routines. The figure wasn’t of much help either; It just stood there, as it always does now. 

Sometimes, Giorno would say a word or two to the figure at the door. It was strange how it never called back. It never showed its face. Rude, he would think. 

Another day, another medication, another numbing and excruciating thumping in the space where he thought his head was meant to be. He did ask the doctors once about the brain. They told him that the walnut of flesh helped his body function, and it was important that he took care of it the best he could. They also mentioned about his brain having a lack of oxygen two months ago, and that, “Surely, he shouldn’t be delirious anymore, don’t you think?” Has it been two months?

“No, no he should not.” He would hear. It couldn’t have been that long already. 

“That is strange.” They would answer. 

“He is a strange one.” The figure would answer.

Giorno found himself startled. He glanced over the doctors’ shoulders to find the figure by the door, but he was missing.

“Indeed… It's a miracle you are alive.” The figure’s voice would say, coming from one of the doctors examining his cast.

He jerked away from the woman and blinked hard. “What?”

“We’re thinking of transferring you to one of the general rooms.” The doctor answered. 

“Oh,” Giorno breathed an air of naivety. “Does that mean I’m going to be okay?”

“You’re recovering well, however, you will have issues walking for a long time,” The doctor pursed her lips, “I’m afraid you might have difficulty breathing as well, without the intubator.”

“Oh.” Giorno felt his throat seize up. 

They put him on medication again. He was screaming again, they said. The figure said that, after he knew his lungs shriveled up to nothing more than the width of a toothpick. They talked now. To him, or at him, he wasn’t sure. Giorno would stare at the dull ceiling in paralyzed silence while the figure would whisper nothing, just like the wind. Giorno would sob as the drifting air of their voice whirled louder, making the pounding a shrill to accompany it. Giorno would have no idea what to do, with his unmoving, frozen limbs in the depths of night. 

A following, terrifying notion of the figure looming over him as he closed his eyes made the pounding hammer in his head worse. It thumped and hit his head so hard, he wished it were a concussion or a fatal blow each time it hit, hit, hit ; hit as a hammer would tenderize meat. He weeped and whimpered and wished for the warm embrace of a familiar friend. A foe. Anyone at all but this crazed, hallucinative mind of his. Desperate and alone, he clung to his memories for reassurance. 

But his memories were vile, he realized after he fell into his slumber. His dreams as of late had been torturous to the shattered core of his weak soul.

It would start out, the same as always: in his apartment. 

It was desolate. He would walk around, the same as usual, for how many dreams this had happened he could not remember (and did not want to). The tables were the first to be recognized by the sleeping patient. They were sturdy, yet screwed in improperly from several accidents he blamed the screwdriver for. Had the tables materialized with noses, they would have sneezed sporadically from the amount of grey dust lined across their surfaces. Giorno could draw faces on them, and there would still be a layer of grime underneath the strokes he would make with his finger. His singular couch, which had been given as a hand-me-down from Mrs. Holly, always wore a white sheet over its body. The remaining features defined were the stark outline created from that white sheet. He hadn’t remembered what colour it was, let alone its tint. The doors (There were doors?) would be broken through and ajar, their hinges being the only objects still fixed correctly. All of his extra belongings would be missing. 

He would wander around the apartment, glancing into the kitchen, then the living room which was then connected to a small section he named the “dining” room, then to his bedroom, and then the bathroom. 

He walked again, round the living room, the “dining” room, the bedroom, the bathroom. 

Again, the living room, the “dining” room, the bedroom, the bathroom. 

Again, The living room, the “dining” room, their bedroom, the bathroom. 

Again, Their living room, the “dining” room, their bedroom, the bathroom. 

Again, Their living room, their “dining” room, their bedroom, the bathroom. 

It would continue until, cataclysmically, it was their apartment. Their home. 

It always became their home in the beginning.

His false witness to numerous memories, that of which he never experienced. Giorno reminisces about their dark living room, his hand slipped into the other’s and their bodies twirling in the midst of a rain storm. He remembered the other’s hands being boney and frigid, though he didn’t know how he came up with this idea. The scene shifted at times, and once he remembered them baking and throwing flour at one another, until both of them were caked in white powder and their cake was long left forgotten. Another version would place them on the couch – the white sheet missing – as they slept through a lazy morning. 

Most often, though, Giorno would remember this memory; this cruel, horrid scene:

Two chairs, each situated equal lengths apart. The rising sun in the bleak, brink of dawn flooded an ombre of lighter blues in the sky. The star shone itself and drowned the two in warm colors of ochre, amber, and gold. It was the perfect sunrise, as all sunrises should be. Giorno could tell it was around early March when this memory “happened”.

He knew this by the way his flowers in a vase nearby were blooming with newfound energy; The leaves lifted from their gloom in the dark, and their petals opened anew, their brilliant, light colors creating their own sun within the room. The head of the lily rose to its full height, blooming as bright as can be by the windowsill. It seemed as though a bit of everyone had their spirits brightening as Persephone arose from her place in the underworld. 

“I see you gawking again,” Giorno did not shift his gaze from the ball of flames in the sky, and instead closed his eyes. 

Panna hadn’t spoken in this memory, and so he wouldn’t. (He hadn’t spoken in any of the memories Giorno recalled- may have recalled- might have… His delusional mind refused to churn out a proper answer to him.)

Giorno began to hum to a familiar tune, though he could not remember the name of the song. But, his humming would cease the moment he heard shifting beside him. The blond looked up, seeing Panna searching and staring, his face close to the glass of the window. In a brief moment, his expression grew shocked, before excitement painted his face. Giorno stood up to follow Panna’s gaze, and was pleasantly surprised to see a pigeon sleeping on one of the lamp poles beside the window. 

It was a lump of dull, grey feathers, with hints of vibrant blue peaking out. The fluff of feathers would grow slightly before falling again; it was clear of how at peace it was in its slumber. 

The lily bloomed brighter, Giorno noted as if it was the first time he noticed it.

It was then that he felt something brush across his face. He turns his head, his nose meeting the wrist of Panna’s arm. A gentle hold reassured Giorno of it being the present moment; this was real, he could feel him. He was awake (as so often this scene told him). 

His forehead rested against Panna’s, and they both shut their eyes for only a moment. This moment stretched into several minutes as they shared the same air they breathed, standing there in silence while the blue dawn shifted to a bright morning.

The brightness continued to grow, Giorno realized, and it was suddenly hard to open his eyes. He began to realize there was less of a difference from how hot his face felt, and the heat of Fugo’s hand. 

Despite the intense and blinding glow, Giorno opened his eyes.

He watched Fugo’s skin on his face drooping like wax. It grew to a painful, maroon color right as his chapped lips began to wrinkle and shrivel but melt all the same. Red eyes stared directly into his soul with the strength of a thousand stars, but anything past that was void of life. Giorno couldn’t move as he felt the grip of Fugo’s hand grow tighter against his jaw, it shrinking to its boney structure. Giorno’s eyes widened as he watched chunks of his hair sizzle to a blackened mess and disappear, fusing into his pale skin (which was now red, the color Giorno no longer knew the meaning of). 

Sound rushed back to Giorno’s ears like thunder booming through the sky. A whirl of flames surrounded the two, and the lily was nowhere to be found. Giorno could not tell the difference between Fugo’s screaming, the crackling of the fire, and his own voice. 

Fugo’s eyes turned to coal as he began moving his jaw. The man gripped onto Giorno, who was unharmed and found himself stunned and frozen. His hold only grew stronger, now piercing Giorno’s skin and the wounds searing him like a hot, iron rod. Giorno screamed, his lungs gasping for air whilst doing so.

“ We made a promise to each other .” Giorno barely heard the man yell. “ I was important to you! ” The tornado of flames whipped and slashed against the both of them, and all the hitman could do was scream in agony. 

“ Why didn’t you die with me, Giorno?! ”

Hands. 

Cold, shockingly cold, frigid and freezing hands swarmed his jolting body as the doctors pinned him down. He opened his eyes, which he realized were flowing streams and– and waterfalls of tears that could very well flood this entire hospital. He choked on his spit, unable to properly swallow with the burned esophagus. He moaned as he wept, trying to curl up into himself and create a shell, but the doctors wouldn’t allow it. They kept assuring him and babbling about nonsense Giorno wouldn’t even understand half of. 

Giorno’s throat seized up - properly, now - and suddenly his voice was gone. 

He pleaded and croaked for the doctors to let him go. He was awake, he was fine, don’t sedate me again, I don’t need it, I don’t want it . But his voice was gone. And the figure now held his cheek instead of standing by the door as he fell into calm, numb emotion once more.

The nurse tucked in the blanket Giorno was under. She took a few paces back, went off to the left and opened the window. It was a chill breeze, where the song birds and crows and others sang together and talked and gossiped about the humans around them. 

They sat in a tree, the birds did.

ONE, cawed a chick amongst a murder, I SAW ONE THROUGH THE WEIRD HOLE.

oh, the black-furred head with white feathers? chirped a sparrow.

YES, THAT ONE WAS NEW, THIS EARLY DAY. croaked another chick.

what do you think it says to the hairless one, in that birdhouse with no roof and with the white cover, just like the snow more north? sung the half-tailed reedling.

they’re probably annoyed because that human yells instead of sings. sung back that same sparrow. just as annoying as a crow.

WHAT?

don’t listen to it, small crow. they’re irritated that you found a berry another human gave you.

At least, that was what Giorno imagined them saying. don’t fall out of your nest just yet, you will get food soon enough. He wished they wouldn’t be so loud, even if he didn’t mind the distant company. Granted, he was sure they only stayed because of the large bird feeder a few rooms down from where he was. The only reason he knew there was such a buffet was because of an incident not too long ago: One of the tens of regulars of said bird feeder had knocked it down and caused quite the chaos. 

Squirrels are such a beloved pest, he heard some of the doctors say. Giorno couldn’t quite agree, to be frank. He remembered how a hoard of them got into the bar’s supplies when he still worked there. It took 5 hours to kick all of them out.

His eyes drifted from the outside to the nurse, who indeed had stark black hair (most likely dyed poorly) and typical nurse’s scrubs. Giorno coughed, alerting her to him.

They stared at each other.

“Do you need something?” She offered in a monotonous tone. “Water? Do you want me to close the window? I can do that.” As she went over to the glass and began to latch it, Giorno screeched a croak, which proved to halt her quite well. 

Forgetting his throat was still very, very unusable, he gritted his teeth and tried to turn his head towards the side of the bed. One, two, three steps echoed, and she waited. 

At first, he hesitated. 

“Well?” she added, most likely to fill in the silence. “I can stay if you need, I’m awaiting my next pager, ‘s all.”

Rasping, “...the fire.” was the beginning of what he could make out.

She blinked. “The one you were in?” He nodded. “What do you want to know?”

“Was,” gaining strength, “there another in it?”

“There were many casualties, I’m afraid.”

“No, next to me.” He tried again. “A man.”

Through a silent response, Giorno could hear his heart thudding against his ears. A newfound wave of exhaustion washed over him, as though the feeling weren’t as nebulous as before.

Eventually, the nurse sighed. “There were few survivors from the building. Only about fourteen, I think I can say confidently, are just like you, in this hospital.” 

Giorno knew there were hundreds in that building; The conference hall was alarmingly large. Her lack of response around the original quantity spoke volumes.

Grimacing, she took one of Giorno’s hands. “Mr. Giovanna, despite knowing which survivors made it to the hospital, I cannot guarantee whomever you’re looking for is here. But, I can ask around, if you would want me to?” Hope spread through her voice.

But Giorno would be lying to the figure who stood by the window if he’d taken her sympathy.

Giorno already knew the answer to the question he gave. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew. His dreams disprove any other notion. His heart, ruptured and ripped apart by stone and hot concrete and the booming sound of collapsing walls and ceilings disproved any other idea that there was a chance at Fugo Pannacotta being alive.

Fugo succeeded in his goal, to some extent. To make the man currently in a hospital bed, alone and afraid and stubbornly, through gritted teeth, grieving for his partner, get out of the mess that he created. The deal was fulfilled. Giorno was nigh near-unrecognizable with all of the burns covering him from head to toe. 

Giorno Giovanna wished Fugo never completed the deal. In subconscious truth, he knew he wished for it to last. The silent messages they gave one another, the dark humor they whispered to one another in dark motels, the letters. He felt his chest squeeze, finding it hard to breathe the more he thought about Fugo, about his disgusting and horrifying ideas about death, about his gaunting face, about his stern attitude, about…

Death shared between the two of them was the final need Giorno materialized in his desperate mind. To never part him again. To rot and decay in the same ground, by a stiff and strong tree whose roots would anchor them and never let go. He was lonely, and so was Giorno, and they were two shattered glasses stuck together, mismatched and stubbornly loyal to each sharp edge. 

He doesn’t get to be ignorant. His body isn’t allowing him to not see the vivid image of the ceiling crushing the man before him, the one who had just confessed an internalized love for the other through a sapphire brooch . His own brooch. He doesn’t get to be naive, he doesn’t get to be ignorant, and he hadn’t been the moment he awoke from his coma.

“No.” Giorno shoved the nurse’s hands away from him.

Slamming the gas pedal, Holly was sure she was at least 20 over as she sped down the highway. Her old, boney fingers gripped the leather of the steering wheel. She hunched over, almost urging the car to hurry like a jockey would to their horse. Her eyes blurred and refocused constantly as she blinked away wet tears lining her eyelids. Occasionally, she would clear her throat, curse out her husband’s name, before returning to the quiet of the car. She ignored how she was wearing a dirty “I <3 Florida” t-shirt and jeans that stopped above her ankle, both of which were too small for her. She ignored how her hair was unbrushed and unkept. She ignored her chipped nails and her day-old makeup and her dwindling sanity. 

Holly, this is Giorno.  

She had been with Goldie just moments before, helping her back into her tank when her Nokia buzzed in her pocket. The brick of a phone rang the familiar tune that made her dread any phone call. Upon pressing the answer button, from the moment the words whispered through the speaker she had flown out the door. 

I’m sorry for not calling.

The words drilled into her head, probably causing the migraine that’s pulsing through her skull at that moment. They drilled and drilled, carving into bone and the flesh of her brain. She lifted her hand, brushing her fingers through her hair almost to remind her that there was nothing hurting her – nothing but the overwhelming fear and yearning to find her friend. Her wonderful Giorno; her son. 

I’m at San Giovanni Addolorata hospital. Yeah, that one.

Adrenaline pulsed through her veins as she slammed the accelerator harder. She shifted in her seat, which for some would’ve been far too close to the wheel, but this position allowed her to floor the pedal with such strength that it could break through the bottom of the car. 

The trip was at least a three hour car ride from Napoli to Roma.

If you want to visit, you can see me there.

She would make the trip in one. 

Rooms are not meant to crush you. They are not meant to shrink their walls and make your bones crumble from the tight pressure they keep insisting you need. They are not meant to hold your throat and suffocate you until your body rots blue. The best sanctuaries are meant to be found within these small, cubical rooms, which were not meant to be prison walls, or be brick-lined fortress walls, or any sort of cage whatsoever. The doctors, nurses, and other medical staff, are meant to treat you until you are able to live your life the same as it were before you entered the garden of serenity. 

This room, the one Giorno was transferred to and had stayed for another month or two, somehow created an impossible scenario:

1. Living another day in this shithole would be equivalent to suicide.
2. He also wanted to hide in this damn box for the rest of his life.
3. Holly was in this room.
4. Oh fuck, why did he call Holly?

Regret was far worse than mourning, even if he couldn’t tell the difference. Holly was his evidence for this: the court can rule him guilty of being a dumb bitch for all he could care. Slam the gavel, crush his brain with it! Who needs a skull already pre-roasted inside an oven? What was a fact was that right here, right now, in this very room stood Mrs. Holly, who was staring directly at Giorno, sitting upright in his brick bed. Two things acted as his shield for the moment: his hands (cupped around his eyes, as well as a measly attempt at protecting his wrinkled, cracked lips) and his curled spine (supported by his head hanging low). The endless bandages mummifying most of his body weren’t helping; they thought being as visible as possible would help his agonizing shame overflowing in his core. His face and ears were a stark red despite the scarred skin. And Holly was right there , a woman who had cared for him since his teens; She was right there after months of not seeing his face to witness this disgusting creature. 

The irony was that, despite him calling for her, he dreaded discovering her reaction. 

Her hand drifted to one of his shoulders - the more healed of the two he slumped with. Holly held it there, and exhaled, “The road was fine. There were a few… unpleasant accidents along the way, but that's the highway for you.” 

Words poured in one ear and out the other for Giorno. 

“Honestly, some of them were maniacs! They have blinkers! There is a small, teeny-tiny switch that you can flip and people will be pleased to know you’re moving from the right lane to the left. Blinkers are not a red button with big letters saying ‘DO NOT PRESS’, they are not evil or malicious -” She huffed, removing her hand. “Off-topic, but before I left I was checking in on Goldie. She’s doing well, I think. Taking her naps in her terrarium as usual, the temperature's all right. In fact, I decided to give her a bit more food than usual lately, and I think I might’ve been overfeeding her a little bit…” She nervously giggled against what Giorno imagined had to be her hand, “She’s in a lot more food comas lately.”

“...Giorno,” He knew she was tilting her head to catch his gaze. “I can’t bear your silence. Look at me.”

She cleared her throat after a nonchalant shrug was offered to her, “Giorno, dear, look at me.”

He shut his eyes behind his hands.

“Giorno.” He felt her hand hold his chin and semi-forcefully move his face towards her. “Open your eyes. Look at me. I won’t say this again.”

Scrunching his eyebrows and painting an even more miserable frown across his face, he slowly removed his hands and lifted his eyelids. To one of his many surprises, he saw no reaction to his appearance in her expression. All he found was a stern complexion in place of any other emotion. 

“Thank you.”

Giorno pursed his lips.

“Do you want me to ask you about what happened, or do you want to talk about it yourself?” she gently asked.  

Giorno always hated how convincing she could be. “I couldn’t get visitors until now,” his voice croaked. He wasn’t entirely sure of this, but he had a feeling it was because of his shaky mental state with the screaming nights and whatnot. Besides, his parents were long gone off the “loved-ones” contact list, he assumed. 

Holly frowned. Her head tilted slightly, and she lifted an eyebrow at him. 

Giorno shied away from her gaze.

She frowned again, except her eyes widened a bit more this time (barely noticeable to anyone but her family members, including Giorno) and her eyebrow arched so high it looked to have hurt.

Holly kept staring at him. Eventually, she accepted his silence, inhaled and gave out a great sigh, “Alright then, I’ll tell you what’s been happening with me these past few months instead.”

Her voice grew quiet as she added, “You don’t have to tell me if you’re not ready.”

Giorno’s heart ached upon hearing her words. A lump sat in his throat as a flood of raging memories filled his mind; Most of them included Fugo, and all of the times Giorno has had to hide Holly from him. Silently, he wished Fugo could have met her (even if he knew she would be at risk of death if they met). All he responded with was a small, genuine smile - something he doesn’t believe he’s felt for almost 10 months now - as he sat back and listened.

“Let me go.” 

“But- you’re still shaking Giorno-”

“Mrs. Holly.” She winced as her fingers left his sides, and Giorno felt his legs bucking in on themselves. 

Thankfully, his 12th attempt at walking did not end up with his face smacking the floor. Arms sore and armpits bruised from his crutches, he began shifting his feet before skipping forward, the two rubber ends of the crutches meeting the cold floor with soft thuds. 

“That’s one.” Holly’s voice filled with hope. 

“I need to learn without these.” Giorno’s voice filled with despair. “I’ve been using them for awhile, I just don’t want them anymore.”

After a few more shifts of the crutches, Giorno leaned against a wall and set them to the side. He took a step away from the wall, stumbling again. Holly rushed over to him and grabbed his shoulders.

“Maybe the reason the crutches are there is because they are a tool, it’s not bad to have them.” She retorted to his glare.

He looked down at his socks, grimacing. “I can’t run with them.”

“You don’t need to run with them. You can’t run, not in your state. Where would you run off to?” Holly leaned over to grab the crutches and forced Giorno to prop against them.

He finally reached one of the windows after that, keeping his silence intact.

“Is the thing you’re running from the thing you won’t tell me?”

Giorno pursed his lips as he tried to stand upright. Laying in a hospital bed for so long is not exactly the best for your muscles, and Giorno’s have been atrophying for a while even after being seared by the fire. “I thought you said you wouldn’t ask about it.” 

Her legs flew towards him as one of the crutches slipped against the floor. “Giorno.” When she understood Giorno’s feet were firm against the floor, Holly steadily let go. “If it’s troubling you this much, it isn’t good to keep to yourself. Either you allow yourself to heal-“

“-I am healing-“ He snapped over his shoulder.

“-you’re not , don’t interrupt me.” Giorno whispered a small ‘sorry’. “Either you allow yourself to heal by telling me about it, or you figure out a way to stop blaming yourself for whatever happened.”

“I’m not blaming myself.”

“Dear, that is exactly what someone who is blaming themself would say. It’s been almost a year for you. Please,” Giorno took a few more steps forward. “Let me help you.” Another step, and the floor kissed Giorno’s face once more. 

The floor kissed him, with dust and dirt and the obvious scent of lemon cleaning supplies, and it kissed him hard. He gritted his teeth. He could still feel the tight grip of two, pale hands against his forearms. The two, pale hands that he circled under the moonlight, the two pale hands he grasped and held tight until he felt his own veins pop when he dragged a body out of the sea, the two pale hands -

He slammed one hand at the floor and screamed. Heaving a breath, he demanded, “I need you to take me there.”

Giorno looked up as a crouched figure now came into vision. They stared at each other, and though Holly’s brows knitted in alarm, frustration, concern, and probably 16 other complex emotions, she asked, “…Where?”

It was a quiet enough response to calm Giorno. “One- no, Two places. The Smeraldo Library, and an apartment.” He paused. “The apartment is first on the list.”

She tilted her head.

“Will this help you?”

The hitman shut his eyes. “ Yes .”

Holly stared at him. “Right now?”

“Right now.”

With one swift motion, Holly lifted Giorno and hauled him over her shoulder.

“Then so be it.”

Giorno stared at his shoes. 

Bought by Holly on a short notice, his shoes wrapped loosely against the pads of his feet. They were more like oversized socks with laces than shoes. But the shoes didn’t matter, none of his mismatched clothing mattered in the slightest. His gaze shifted from his shoes, then at his crutches, then at Holly. Eyes to Holly, forever and always. It’s not that he hadn’t always felt his confidence crumble when she stood with him, but rather she sucked in whatever amount of assurance Giorno had left. It wasn’t even her fault. But, even after a few years of being actively chained to mobsters, even after learning from Panna, it all swept under the rug and hid when she was there. So, he looked to her. He kept doing that, lately. It was a coping mechanism, staring at people he loved in hopes they would mend his stressed and brittle lungs, his charred ribs, his sick mind. 

Unlike Panna, Holly wasn’t the same love that comforted him. He couldn’t look to her for comfort, because all that returned was a small smile and a pitied look of confusion. He looked at her, and she did… nothing: she stood, and stared, and blinked at the door and she did nothing. This hadn’t helped his stiff and frozen muscles, paralyzed by fear of the door before him. He silently begged for her to confront them for him, for her to knock on that damned door.

Had Fugo been there, right there with him and not Holly, maybe the slightest hint of control would’ve surfaced. At that moment, the cracks in the stairwell proved to be even stronger than his own confidence. 

His… confidence. Crows feet formed at the corners of his eyes as he stared at Holly. What a silly, fun thought. Confidence! Who was he to be complaining about his confidence? Showing up to your loved one’s family’s door after a year of silence, just to tell them that he’s dead? That he was crushed to a pulp, arms hanging out, the cause of which was the ceiling of the burning building they were stuck in? That Panna burned to save them? That Giorno should’ve died with him, but instead of pulling Fugo with him, he moved out of the embrace so much that only he was crushed? That Giorno saw Fugo’s last gaze at him, and what Giorno only saw was hope? Hope? What a hilarious fucking idea! Confidence, he weeped. Did he even know what it was?

He would’ve been confident that this confrontation wasn’t a fear, but a topic of recognition. Had Fugo been there, Giorno wouldn’t have been a coward stalling before the door to his loved one’s family. Had Fugo been there, he could have told him how afraid he was. How, before his knuckles even brushed against the door, his body shook harder than an earthquake would’ve, and he would’ve explained it all to him. Why had he needed to fight the fear that is confronting his loved one’s family? It was his fault, anyway. He has to own up to his mistakes, like a normal, functioning adult, and stop feeling the overwhelming terror and pain that was watching a man crush into nothing but his limp arms in front of him. Why did he have to be alone? Why couldn’t he reenact the simple task of 

knocking 

the 

door? 

Holly touched his shoulder. He looked at (not to) her, his eyebrows painting waxing and waning crescents on his face. His lungs filled and deflated, filled and deflated, filled and deflated, and in his square breathing he desperately hoped for her to ask if he needed her to knock on the door.

“What are you waiting for?” But she didn’t understand- she misread him. “Go ahead. I’ll wait outside. Let me know when you are ready.” Giorno stared back at his big shoes, and he stalled. He craved impatience, but Holly’s echoing, retreating footsteps shoved patience at him instead. 

Today, fear defines his confrontation. 

With anxiety nipping at his skin, Giorno rapped one- no- two knocks against the door. The door, newly ajar, presented before him a tall man with a red beanie. If Giorno’s limbs weren’t frozen in place at that point, the look of shock Mista Guido presented him with had definitely forced it.

Giorno winced as he pushed down the motel memories with that red beanie. He imagined Fugo wearing it, frowning, with the billowing curtains obscuring the night sky only just enough for his starry-like freckles to appear in its dim light- 

Stop thinking about him. 

“Long time no see,” broke the silence they both held. Mista slackened his posture, poking his head out the door. “Are you alone?” Giorno’s lip trembled slightly at that.

“May I come in?” Swallowing spit, Giorno readjusted his hold on his crutches. His heart pounded against his ear, avoiding Mista’s gaze.

“Do you need help?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.” Giorno coughed, “These are new-ish. Who else is here?”

After they left the hall, Mista after Giorno, the guest noticed the place fresher than before. Cassette tapes scattered around the place and a mess of papers and sheets littered across the dining table. The walls scattered with unsymmetrical photos of Aero, who herself was situated in the middle of the table’s mess loafed up in a small, red sweater. It should also be noted that all of her photos were drawn over in markers varying in colours, some notes writing “beloved” before being crossed out by “stinky!” before being crossed out, again, with “beloved” again — this time with a “<3”. A mess of pink hair wearing a neon yellow tee looked up to her ex-bodyguard, and her eyes widened like a deer in headlights. Her hands fumbled around the desk, lightly tapping the snoozing feline before gently lifting her up and close to her chest. The blue eyes of the elephant in the room darted to the kitchen, where an apron – the words on it shouting, “I DID NOT START 23 FIRES IN MY KITCHEN, IT WAS THE CAT” – worn by a shorter man emerged. He held a wooden spoon with bits of amber liquid dripping off of it to the floor. 

“ Shit ,” Whispers Trish, Daughter of Diavolo, the Late politician who planned to take office (of which neither of her roommates were aware of-). “ He is back. ”

“ Oh ,” Purrs Aero, who has not a single brain cell working in that head of hers (she claws at Trish’s shoulder, to which she winces ‘ow’ and the cat gives little shit apart from scrambling onto her shoulder and flying to the ground in order to emphasize her “not my business” attitude).