Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey. Panini. Heeey.” Mista wouldn’t stop poking at Fugo, or calling him that stupid nickname. He’d been doing it all day- from the moment the albino had dropped his coffee cup because of his stupid shaky hands to now, when Fugo couldn’t do his paperwork, also because of his stupid shaky hands.
“I hope you fall out of a window and die.” He’d had enough of Mista’s bullshit. “What the hell is your deal Fugo, that's so mean.” Whined Mista, feigning betrayal. “I’m a recovering drug addict. What do you want from me.” Replied Fugo, who was now staring at his desk miserably. The quirks of withdrawal. He sighed, turning towards Mista, who was still pretending to pout.
“Why don’t you go bother Giorno? I’m sure he would love to spend time with someone.” The younger suggested, gesturing to the boss, who was currently passed out on his desk in the corner of the room. Mista groaned at the idea. 

“GioGio is great and all, but the guy couldn’t make a joke to save his life. I’d rather hang out with a sheet of paper.” Mista said, propping his feet up on Fugo’s desk. He cast a deadly glare, but Mista didn’t seem to care in the slightest, like he was ignoring the hiss of a venomous snake. 

“I can hear you, Mista. You’re not quiet.” Giorno peeled his face off of his desk, rubbing his eyes to clean them from the stickiness of an afternoon nap. Fugo gave Mista a small, snide grin. “You two are supposed to be doing something today, yes?” Giorno gently pushed, trying to get the two out of the house. They had gotten a lead from Fugo on where a dealer commonly sold his goods, so Giorno had told him and Mista to track the man and see if they could find his team’s hideout. They didn’t technically have to leave for another three or so hours, but Giorno had some crying he’d like to do, and the duo was throwing off his schedule. 

“Right. Sorry, Giorno. We’ll get to that now.” Fugo, getting the hint, got up from his seat and grabbed the collar of Mista’s sweater, dragging him out of the room with impressive strength. 

“Agh! I thought you were supposed to be, like, decrepit and shit!” He choked, before promptly being released and falling to the ground. “I am,” Fugo retorted, “you just suck.”

Chapter Text

The designated location for the not-very-discreet duo’s stakeout mission was an alleyway near a small hotel in Salerno, whose building wouldn’t actually exist in the area for at least another fourteen years. Unfortunately, the author didn’t care enough to find a different location (or make one up) so they would just have to deal with it. The mission here involved having Fugo rent a room in the hotel, and setting up a deal as the persona that he had used when he worked as a pianist, Amaretti Bianchi. Meanwhile, Mista was supposed to observe the dealer and track down his team’s leader. This plan was most definitely easier than just watching the area for a few days, and not over complicating things at all for the sake of the plot.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask-” Mista started, settling into one of the mediocre beds, “why the hell was your “disguise” a lady?” Fugo, who was currently using the extra time they had to put on makeup for said disguise, glanced at Mista's reflection in the mirror.
“It’s harder to find someone when they’re a completely different person.” He replied, tying his hair up. “Besides, it’s not like you get the chance to be a girl every day. Any guy would take the opportunity.” Mista gave Fugo A Look, but right now didn’t seem like the best time to get into that discussion.
“…riiiight. We’ve got time to kill, so why not grab something to eat? It’s nearly lunch, and you know how the pistols are.” The city had a few tourist-heavy spots, meaning there were tons of restaurants nearby. It certainly wasn’t Mista’s first choice of food, but it was close and the specials weren’t a bad deal, even if the meal itself was mediocre at best.
“If you’re suggesting we go to one of the places nearby, absolutely not. Bottarga knows what I look like, and he knows what you look like. If he catches us together, it’s over.”
Mista tilted his head, troubled. “Wait, Bottarga?”
Fugo deadpanned.
“Our target? Did you even bother looking at the files I gave you?” The younger snapped, now fully turning to face Mista, who had his hands up as a plea to be spared.
“Of course I did! I’m just making sure that the readers know who we’re talking about!”
Fugo took a deep breath, extremely peeved, and attempted to refocus on not stabbing his eye out with an eyeliner brush while he applied it. Goddamned shaky hands. “We’re not going to have any readers if you keep breaking the fourth wall, dumbass. Now go order a pizza or something so I can concentrate.” Mista dramatically sighed as he slid off the bed and stood up.

“Eughhh, fine. What toppings do you want? And don’t say none. Marinara pizza sucks ass.”
Fugo grabbed the phone book from its position next to him on the table, sliding it towards Mista. “Firstly, it’s my cash that you’re paying with. I should be allowed to have my shitty food if I’m the one paying.” Mista flipped through a good chunk of pages until landing on a number. “Secondly, because you’re wrong and uncultured, I guess I want Margherita.”
He grabbed Fugo’s burner flip phone from the nightstand and snapped it open, dialing the number of one of the local pizzerias as he realized that somehow, in nearly 600 words, the plot had not moved forward at all.

Chapter Text

A few hours (and a very mediocre pizza) later, it was finally time for a serious chapter.

11pm, the middle of a shallow alley. Inside of it were graffiti lined walls, and a girl who sat at the bottom step of a short flight of stairs. She seemed to be young- in her early twenties at most. She wore a semi-formal indigo dress that ended well below her knees, and had her white hair styled into a braided bun.
“Heeey, Amari! How's my favorite pianist doing?” An older looking man stepped into the sidestreet, slicking back his hair habitually as he approached the girl.
Amaretti, staying true to her character even from the reader’s view, scoffed. “I thought I told you not to call me that, Bottarga.” She stood from her seat, meeting him halfway and leaning on the wall. “And, if I’m talking to you, I’m clearly not doing well.” Bottarga laughed abrasively, leaning next to her. His face was looking awfully punchable, but there was business to be done.
“Aw, I missed you too! But seriously, it’s been forever, huh? Where’ve you been?” He moved closer to Amaretti, who shifted away from him.
“Family stuff. Sent me to rehab.” She sighed, looking up towards the moonlight sky for dramatic effect. Lots of stars were out tonight. “When I came back, all my usual dealers were gone. Someone clearly isn’t a fan of teenagers buying ketamine.” Bottarga laughed again, somehow even more annoyingly than before.
“Heheh, I guess that explains why you called me!” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “It’s been tough. Have to be extra careful these days.” He lit a cigarette with a lighter that he pulled from his breast pocket, taking a long, slow drag. Even the way he smoked was irritating. “So, what can I do you for today?”
“You know what I’m here for.”

Things on Mista’s end were much less entertaining story wise. His job was simply making sure that that the deal went smoothly by watching from a nearby rooftop. Basically, shoot the guy if he started acting up. Thankfully, Fugo was theatrical enough to keep it interesting for the both of them. He pulled off that costume impossibility well. It was almost like watching a melodrama in real time. Speaking of which, Mista’s little thought tangent had passed enough time for us to skip over Bottarga’s annoying as fuck dialog and get to the whole reason that they’re here. Yay.

“But hey, the rest of that story is for another time.” Bottarga flicked open his cigarette box again, tossing his half-smoked one onto the ground and smothering it with his shoe. He grabbed two from the container, and handed them to Amaretti. “Your goods, m’lady.” His voice was gratingly sweet, and it disgusted her even more.
“Right. Here’s the money for lunch last time.” She grabbed her purse, and handed over the cash. Somewhere around $200 dollars, because there’s a lot of research that I don’t want to do right there. Just pretend it’s lira, ok guys? Amaretti grabbed the two cigarettes, placing one into her bag and the other between her lips. Bottarga lit it for her. “If you keep insisting on those expensive places, I’m going to stop showing up.”
The older man laughed, throwing his arm around the girl’s shoulder as he stood up straight. She was fighting every muscle in her body to keep purple haze in check. “Aw, Ami, if you’re that worried about money, I have a job that’s great for a pretty girl like you!” Bottarga’s voice was patronizingly sultry. He tried to pull Amaretti closer, failing slightly because he was not nearly as tall as her, especially with her heels. It was plain disgusting.
“No fucking thanks.” She flicked his hand away more aggressively than she had meant to. Her cigarette fell to the pavement. “I’m here to buy from you. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less, and I shouldn’t have to remind you of that again.” Not a thing she said seemed to make it through his thick skull, because he simply slid closer to her.
“Calm down kid, it’s just a suggestion! But, I mean, the other girls I work with make damn good money… I know I make sure to tip them well.” He was still trying to flirt with her. It was like ‘no’ meant nothing to him. It made her nauseous.
“I have a new job anyways. My family doesn’t want to lose track of me again, so I’m working with a close friend of my dad’s.” She pushed off of the wall and stood up, getting ready to leave. “The transaction’s over.”
“Hey.” Bottarga’s tone had changed. His voice was deeper, more stern than laid back. Amaretti stopped, for whatever reason. “You know, I’ve been thinking about it. Isn’t it weird how you go missing, then pop back up right when the boss gets a new right hand man?” His footsteps echoed through the quiet night. He grabbed onto Amaretti’s wrist. Tight.
She wanted to rip her skin off, which, irrationally thinking, made sense. Thinking logically though, the best solution would be to show some of her fear and play dumb.
She turned to face him, tears forming in her eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, I don’t even know your boss’s name!” Bottarga smirked. Did he notice what she was doing? He let go of her wrist and walked to her side.
“Really? Oh, dear, I must be getting too paranoid.” Something was off. Amaretti could feel the same sort of energy that she felt when she encountered an enemy… stand…
An ugly, stick-ish humanoid stand wobbled its way into the alley. It walked like it could barely hold itself up. “I’m sorry about that, Ami. Do you think you could forgive me?”

Mista, who is still very much here and awake by the way, pulled out his revolver. He slid two bullets into their chambers, not wanting to draw attention to himself by making sound, and aimed at Bottarga. If he tried anything, he was dead. All he needed was a signal from Fugo that it was out of his control.

Amaretti took a deep breath. Bottarga was testing her. He was trying to get a reaction. “Whatever. Just let me go.” Bottarga, somehow, smiled wider. He withdrew his stand, and inched closer to her.
“Not even a proper goodbye?” He slid his arm around her waist. “I would expect you to have at least some manners, Ami.”
Amaretti shoved him off before she could think about what she was doing.
Fugo had what he needed anyways. He swiftly moved away from Bottarga and summoned his stand, who was vulgarly growling and prepared to tear into the
scumbag dealer. Fugo never did like the man. Bottarga could only attempt to bring out his stand again- but he never stood a chance. He tried to scream, but his throat was already collapsing. It wasn’t long before he was gone completely, his clothes left as the only evidence that he was there to begin with.

Mista was flabbergasted. If Fugo was willing to do that instead of just signaling him, the guy definitely deserved it, but good fucking god. He ran to the roof access door, nearly falling on his way down the stairs.
“Shit dude, what happened? Are you okay?” Mista stopped in front of Fugo, who stood with his back against the wall and his arms crossed, both to cover himself and to stop his hands from shaking more than they already did. Purple haze rested near its user’s feet, quietly snarling and watching for anyone else that might be a threat. It was times like this when Mista really, really missed Bucciarati. He was never good at handling Fugo when he was upset- and neither was Bucciarati, really- but he at least knew how to keep things under control.
“Sorry.” Fugo muttered the apology under his breath, though it was more a formality than something meant sincerely. “I just… I just need a minute. I’ll be fine. You can go back to the room and call Giorno.” He pressed his back against the wall further. His heart was pounding, beating against his skull. His skin felt like it was burning.
Mista looked at Haze, who was currently glaring at him. “Um. Okay. Yeah. Just, uh, give me the drugs first. Is that a fair trade?” He held his hand out, but didn’t attempt to close the distance between himself and Fugo, who nodded at the proposition and reached into the bag. The younger boy, albeit somewhat hesitantly, withdrew his stand and placed the second cigarette into Mista’s hand. Wrapped in the paper, which was just colored printer paper, was a fine powder stored in plastic wrap.
“Y’know, this seems like too much effort for how little he’s selling.” Mista put the sample in his pocket and headed towards the mouth of the alley. He’d have to give it to Giorno once he got here.
“Oh, Fugo, before I go-“ he turned his head to face Fugo. “That other one you were smoking is a regular one, right?”
Fugo scoffed. “Of course. If I lit one of the fake ones, I’d just be inhaling molten plastic.” Mista shrugged, and turned the corner to head back to the hotel. Fugo waited a few moments to hear Mista’s footsteps disappear, then sighed, relieved. He leaned down to pick up the practically unused cigarette that he had lit earlier, looking towards the hypothetical camera that would be there if this was a show and not writing. “…Which is why I only lit it.” His thoughts were racing, and he couldn’t understand any of them. Bottarga’s slimy hands lingered on his shoulders. He felt disgusting.
There was still an old needle in his bag. Bottarga’s lighter was right there. Fugo fidgeted with the seam of the paper on the cigarette. He had a limited amount. He would probably never be able to get more. He sighed, sliding down the wall until he was sat on the sidewalk. This was too much for one day. Fugo reached into his bag without thought, picking up the needle. It was rusty anyways. He sighed, again, and stood up, looking at the stars again. He would have to try picking up a new one. That wasn’t today’s problem though. A hot shower and a lot of Tylenol would hopefully tide him over until then.