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Chapter Text

One week earlier…

The man he was supposed to meet was twenty minutes late already, and Fugo was beginning to lose his patience. The job was easy, he was only collecting money from one of the many clubs that Bruno Bucciarati and his team were in charge of protecting, but no one had shown up yet to the designated alley outside.

“Godammit,” he muttered under his breath, pushing himself off of the wall he was leaning on and turning to leave. It wasn’t his problem if the club didn’t pay. He just had to let Bucciarati know and the older man would handle it.

Fugo didn’t make it very far down the alley before he became aware of a presence behind him. Or rather, presences plural, and all around him. He swore under his breath and quickened his pace, hoping to create more space to shake his pursuers.

He knew he was screwed when he saw a man step out in front of him, blocking his last exit. Shit, Fugo really did not want to bring out Purple Haze, especially in such a small space and with his enemies growing ever closer. He didn’t want to risk getting close to his own stand and melting himself, and he could barely control Purple Haze on the best of days.

Fugo stood straight and pushed back his shoulders.

“What do you want?” he gritted out, trying to sound tougher than he was. At the same time, his hand was itching towards the knife he kept tucked in his suit jacket.

The man in front of him grinned. He was bigger than Fugo, with close cropped brown hair and tree trunks for arms. A bouncer, probably.

“You’re one of Bucciarati’s strays, vero?” was all he said, an ugly grin spreading across his face. “I have a little message for your boss. Our business is finished and we will no longer require his services. That also means he won’t be getting paid for the past few months of Passione’s protection.”

Fugo would have admired the man’s gall more if he weren’t still trying to find a way out of the situation. Aside from the man in front of him, there were two people behind him and another to his left in the doorway to a restaurant. That meant Fugo was going to have to fight, and without his stand or he’d run the risk of liquefying himself and not just his attackers. He was lucky there were no other stand users in the group.

“I wouldn’t get on Passione’s bad side if I were you. Bucciarati will be brutal when he comes to collect the money you owe. It won’t be pretty,” was the best Fugo could come up with, still trying to think.

The man stepped closer, and slid a pair of brass knuckles onto his fingers.

“So? Passione is not the only one capable of violence.” The man’s grin grew impossibly wider as he continued to stride towards Fugo. Fugo lunged the second his attacker got close enough, but it was in vain as one of the men behind him managed to grab his arm. Before Fugo could shake him off, the other person behind him, a woman, grabbed his knife hand, twisting his wrist so hard he was surprised it didn’t break. The man to the left didn’t move.

“That’s better. It’s a shame I have to mess up that pretty face though. It’s too bad I’m a very busy man or I would stay around and play with you some more. But,” he leered, “this will still be very enjoyable.”

Fugo didn’t have time to brace himself before a fist slammed into the side of his head. Pain flared from across his temple and cheekbone as his head was flung to the right. He hadn’t recovered from the first hit before the man struck him in the jaw on the other side.

Fugo was seeing stars now, and blood was trickling down his face from a cut on his cheek. He spit, vaguely aware of the coppery tang of blood in his mouth. Apparently it wasn’t enough though, and the man hit him again and again. At least he moved on from his face, but the strikes to his ribs and stomach still hurt like hell.

A shot rang out, followed by two more. The man beating Fugo dropped to the ground with a hole in his head. He didn’t get back up. The second bullet hit the arm of the man restraining Fugo, and he let go, giving Fugo enough leeway to wriggle free of the woman. The third shot missed her.

The surviving man and woman stared at the dead man’s body for a moment before turning tail and bolting down the side alley.

From around the corner in front of Fugo, another figure appeared. Fugo swore again, and tried to get up from where he had collapsed but he only managed to get up into a crouched position. He eyed the newcomer warily.

The approaching person appeared to be another teenager, probably around Fugo’s age or maybe even younger. He was slight, not particularly tall or broad, with a shock of bright pink hair and freckles over his cheekbones that made him look even more youthful.

That… was not what Fugo was expecting. The other boy stopped in front of him.

“Are you okay?” he asked and it took Fugo’s brain a minute or two to catch up.

“Fine,” he grunted. “Thanks for your help… uh… What can I call you?”

“My name is Doppio, and it really was no trouble. Are you sure you aren’t hurt too badly?”

The concern was appreciated, and Fugo quickly assessed his body for injuries. He’d have bruises and small cuts everywhere for a while, and he thought his nose was broken as well. At least two of his ribs were broken from what he could tell. He would survive though, and really the wounds could have been worse.

“I’m gonna be sore as hell but nothing permanent. I owe you one”

“That’s good,” the other boy, Doppio, said. “And don’t worry about it, I just happened to be in the area and could help. See you around?”

“Yeah,” Fugo said, “Thank you again. Really.”

The other boy was already gone.

Fugo leaned up against the alley wall and tried to collect himself. The whole encounter was a lot, from the club’s betrayal to the mysterious Doppio. The adrenaline was starting to wear off too, and the pain was sharpening every moment that passed.

He called Bucciarati and told him what happened. Fugo expected him to be pissed that the job didn’t go well and that Fugo had been an idiota and gotten himself hurt.

Instead, the older man’s voice was full of concern as he demanded that Fugo tell him who attacked him and where he was. Fugo told him everything, including how he was saved by the strange boy.

Bucciarati told Fugo that Mista was on his way to pick Fugo up, and that there was a new recruit with him. Bucciarati sounded excited about the new kid, explaining that he was close to Fugo’s age, intelligent and charming, clearly hoping that the two would become friends.

Fugo listened patiently. He knew that Bucciarati worried about him. Not only was Fugo his first team member, but his short temper, attitude problems, and general unwillingness to get close to people made it difficult for Fugo to find people to put up with him.

Footsteps echoed off of the alley’s brick walls as Mista and the new guy walked up to where Fugo was on the ground. He ended the call with Bucciarati and looked up.

Mista was there in his usual conglomeration of patterns and bright colors. The new kid was decidedly more normal, but that probably wouldn’t last long. Bucciarati had a penchant for recruiting strange people with even stranger backgrounds. The guy had long blond hair in an elaborate updo, a sharp looking pink suit, stunning green eyes, and was definitely Fugo’s type.

Fuck.

“You gotta bit roughed up there, didn’t ya, Fugo,” said Mista. “Wanna hand up?”

“I’m fine,” he responded, pushing himself off the ground and standing up, albeit slowly. He winced in pain from his broken ribs and spit out more blood before brushing his white hair out of his face. “Pannacotta Fugo,” he said to the blond boy, extending his hand.

“Giorno Giovanna,” said the newcomer, taking his hand gently and shaking it. “Are you sure you’re okay? Those bruises look kind of nasty.”

Fugo’s mind blanked for a second at the touch. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. I’ve taken worse anyways,” he said after a pause that he hoped the other two didn’t notice.

The group walked out of the alley to the car and drove back to the converted warehouse that Team Bucciarati lived in and operated out of. Bucciarati had acquired it three years ago when Fugo had first joined him. It wasn’t very big, but there were three floors, with bedrooms on the top floor and a small kitchen and living space on the second. The bottom floor had been left as is and the team used it as storage.

When they got home, Fugo immediately went to the upstairs bathroom and dug out the well-worn first aid kit. He closed and locked the door before stripping out of his suit jacket. The alcohol swabs stung his numerous cuts over his face and torso, and he hissed through his teeth in pain. The worst ones were on his face and a couple were still slowly trickling blood. Fugo was pleasantly surprised when he discovered that his nose hadn’t been broken like he had originally thought. There wasn’t anything he could do for the bruises or broken ribs at the moment so he left them.

As Fugo left the bathroom, Narancia was coming up the stairs.

“Fugo! Didya meet Giorno yet?” he exclaimed, definitely louder than necessary.

Fugo nodded, but Narancia was already moving on, presumably to go bother Abbachio who was still asleep if Fugo had to guess. The man drank so much alcohol Fugo was surprised he hadn’t turned into a bottle of wine yet.

He went into his bedroom and collapsed facedown on his bed. His ribs ached and he could feel a nasty headache coming on. From next door, Narancia’s excited shouting and rapid-fire questions to the newbie weren’t helping the pain stabbing his skull. Fugo supposed he should go interact and get to know Giorno but it had already been a taxing day and he was closer to snapping at someone than he’d care to admit.

Before he knew it, Fugo had fallen asleep and was woken up by a gentle knock on his door.

“Fugo?” Giorno’s still unfamiliar voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Bucciarati told me to come get you, dinner’s ready.”

Fugo groaned and rolled over, nearly falling off of his bed. “I’ll be down in a minute,” he said.

His door cracked open and Giorno peered around the corner. “He also wanted me to check on your injuries from earlier.”

Fugo groaned again and buried his face in the blanket he was laying on. As much as he appreciated Bucciarati’s concern, the man was like an overprotective mother when it came to Fugo. To be fair, Fugo had been in a bit of a rough patch when Bucciarati took him in, but it had been three years at this point and Fugo was more than capable of taking care of himself.

“If he insists,” was all Fugo said to Giorno. He hadn’t put his suit jacket back on before he fell asleep, although the holes that had been cut into it didn’t exactly leave much to the imagination. The ugly purple bruises from his broken ribs had spread across his side and were met with even more mottled skin.

Giorno moved closer and Fugo rolled over onto his back, closing his eyes. A moment or two passed in silence, and then “I think this one needs a couple stitches” accompanied by a feather-light touch to Fugo’s cheekbone. “Come on, I can fix it up,” Giorno said.

Fugo trailed behind Giorno on the way back to the bathroom. All he really wanted was to go back to sleep, but he also knew that wasn’t happening until Bucciarati decided he was fine. Which apparently involved the new recruit that Fugo was absolutely not hot for.

He sat on the closed toilet lid to let Giorno work. Giorno cleaned the cut again, more thoroughly than Fugo himself had done. The other boy continued to work, either oblivious or ignoring how Fugo was tracking his movements. It’s not that Giorno was necessarily a threat, but past experiences kept Fugo on his guard almost constantly. He did close his eyes when Giorno brought the threaded needle close to his face, though.

Giorno was quiet, clearly focused on the task at hand. Until he finished, and then “That should be good. I don’t think it’s deep enough to scar but I’m not a medical expert. Here’s something for the pain too,” he said as he handed Fugo some painkillers from the medicine cabinet.

Fugo stood up and checked Giorno’s work in the mirror, swallowing the pills dry. He was a little surprised about how neat the stitches were. “Are you sure you don’t have medical knowledge? This looks professional,” Fugo said, gesturing to his face.

“Not more than what I learned from reading books. I helped some kids on the street when I could, but that’s all.” Giorno was packing away the first aid kit.

“Did Bucciarati pick you up from the streets too?” Fugo asked. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched. After all, that seemed to be Bucciarati’s favorite method of finding lost and broken souls to rescue.

“Not exactly. I was attending a boarding school here in Naples on scholarship, but I ended up spending more time helping the kids stuck on the streets. The drug dealing business here is brutal and many of the people I helped were suffering from addiction or withdrawals.” It was a surprisingly honest answer, one Fugo wasn’t expecting. He wouldn’t have told a near stranger anything about himself, let alone something so personal.

There was something small in Giorno’s voice that made Fugo believe him. “I was in law school before Bucciarati found me. I know what you mean about the drugs.” Fugo shocked himself when he said it. He hadn’t meant to tell Giorno that much.

Giorno glanced up sharply and Fugo could tell he was trying to do the math. “I got in when I was 13,” was all he said, not making eye contact.

Before Giorno could respond, Mista yelled at them to get their asses downstairs before all of the food was gone. Giorno had finished putting the medical supplies away and turned to Fugo, but he’d already left and gone back to his room.

Even though it had been years, the memories of his time in college still haunted him. The silent, judging stares from his peers and the phantom hands all over his body were a constant in his life, but talking about it always made it worse. Fugo laid back down on his bed, not bothering to change. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone else today, and besides, it's not like he was hungry anyways.

Chapter Text

April 1st

Once it had started, everything began to move rather quickly. The journey to the island of Capri wasn’t inherently perilous, but Bucciarati’s team had been banking on more time before enemy stand users started coming after them. Polpo’s apparent suicide came as a shock to just about everyone in Passione. Fugo didn’t believe for a second that the capo had killed himself, though. There were too many other people who wanted the man dead.

The fact that Bucciarati was the only person who knew where Polpo had hidden his fortune was less of a surprise. Polpo didn’t trust many of his men, but in the years since Fugo joined, Bucciarati had gotten as close to being one of the capo’s confidants as possible. Fugo remembered the days when he and Bucciarati had dreamed of gaining power within the organization. It had seemed so far-fetched then, both teenagers lost in the thoughts of glory with stars in their eyes. They were so close to their goal now that Fugo could damn near taste it.

The fact that someone else in Passione had figured out Bucciarati’s importance to the dead man did little to deter the team. The fight on the boat against Mario Zucchero had been touch and go, but thanks to Giorno no one had been seriously injured or killed. The blond boy had slowly but surely secured his place as an important member of Team Bucciarati, and Fugo had to admit that he had talent in abundance. He even helped take care of the man on the shore, Sale, along with Mista and his Sex Pistols. 

The team was on their way to Polpo’s treasure after that. The hot Italian sun warmed the air as they wound their way through cobblestone streets and narrow alleys, always watching behind them for more enemies. Fugo found himself grateful for the numerous holes in his clothing as the afternoon dragged on. 

He was still wondering about the circumstances surrounding the death of Polpo. The man had access to everything he could have wanted even from the prison. His control over his section of Passione was as strong as ever, and Polpo’s suspicious nature meant he was quick to get rid of any potential liabilities. But if he had been killed, who did it? The only time Fugo had met the man in person was when he had to do the lighter initiation and thus gained Purple Haze. Other than meeting with new members, Polpo sometimes met with other capos in his jail cell, but Fugo knew that no such meetings were planned around the time of death. 

Apparently he had been lost in his thoughts for some time, because Fugo suddenly became aware of Giorno’s eyes on him. The other boy had dropped back from talking to Bucciarati and was walking side by side with Fugo now.

“Sorry, did you say something?” he said.

Giorno repeated himself. “I was just wondering when you joined Passione.”

“Just about three years ago now. I…dropped out of school after a couple semesters and Bucciarati took me in.” Fugo didn’t make eye contact with Giorno when he said it and silently wished that the blond would accept that answer and move on. Of course, he was never that lucky. 

“Can I ask about your parents? Did they kick you out or something?” Giorno’s questions were quickly edging into territory that Fugo very much did not want to go into. Everyone else on the team had learned long ago to not ask about Fugo’s past and anything they did know, Fugo had told only them reluctantly and through gritted teeth.

He snapped back, “I’m not talking about this anymore.” The venom in his voice was sharp enough that Narancia looked back, a clear question in his eyes. Fugo didn’t look at him either. The red-hot anger was always under his skin and it would escape in an instant if Fugo let it. 

Giorno was silent for a moment, and Fugo was sure he had offended the other boy. Fuck, he thought, there goes any chances of becoming friends. He always did this, pushing people away the second they got too close to really knowing him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I won’t ask about it again,” came Giorno’s response, and Fugo couldn’t keep the surprise from his face when he whipped his head around to look at the other boy. Usually, when Fugo was pissed off, the others either shot back something equally nasty or rolled their eyes. No one got close enough to touch him though, not with how volatile and violent Purple Haze was. An apology was completely foreign territory to Fugo.

He sighed, counting up to ten and then back down before he spoke again. “It’s okay. Shit happened, and I don’t like talking about it. But it’s not like you knew.”

Fugo dared to glance at Giorno. The other boy was already looking at him, and he smiled when Fugo’s red eyes met his own green.

They continued in silence after that until the group reached a small public restroom towards the top of one of the many hills on Capri. Fugo noted that there were a couple of nondescript janitors outside as Bucciarati beckoned the team to follow him inside. 
Sticky Fingers materialized, and Fugo watched in awe as the stand opened the wall above the urinal and a frankly astounding amount of treasure was revealed. His jaw dropped as countless brightly colored jewels, surrounded by the most gold and silver Fugo had ever seen in his life suddenly came under Team Bucciarati’s control.

Bucciarati then hid the treasure away in the void beyond Sticky Fingers’ zippers before stepping out of the restroom and making his way towards the shorter janitor. The man had taken his face covering off while they were in the restroom and was watching Bucciarati’s approach with just a hint of approval on his face. He was quite short, and the gray whiskers and wrinkles around his eyes gave the man a kind look that didn’t belong to a highly regarded capo of the largest criminal organization in Italy.

“Signore Pericolo,” Bucciarati began, “I have secured my contribution to Passione. In light of Polpo’s recent…departure, I will assume control over his territory. With the boss’s approval, of course.”

The older man inspected the riches that Sticky Fingers was holding. A smile slowly spread across his face.

“Signore Bucciarati, I will be proud to call you capo. Your contributions to this organization have more than proven your loyalty and strength.”

Fugo let out the breath he hadn’t known he'd been holding. Finally, finally, they were making it. This was a major step forward for Team Bucciarati. Now that they were officially recognized by the boss, his group could stop doing grunt work. Maybe Fugo wouldn’t be stuck doing jobs like the one last week. People would have to think twice about fucking them over.

As smart as Fugo was, however, nothing could have prepared him for Pericolo suddenly revealing that the boss had a daughter. Not only that, but Team Bucciarati already had their next job, and it was directly from the head of Passione. And it had already started.

On first impression, Trish Una didn’t look like much. She was of average height, narrow and relatively pale. Her bright pink hair was her only memorable trait, other than the fact that she came across as a total bitch. Her using Fugo’s jacket to dry her hands was the last straw, and he clenched his jaw so tight that Fugo was honestly a little impressed that he didn’t break a tooth. He didn’t say a word on the way to a safehouse just outside the city.

His fuse was still way too short when the group got there. After giving Narancia instructions on where to pick up supplies and how to not be followed, Fugo retired to a small, quiet room at the back of the house. He made a mental note to apologize to Narancia when the other boy got back. Narancia didn’t deserve to have to deal with Fugo’s wrath every time there was a minor inconvenience. 

After such a strenuous day, Fugo’s ribs were smarting like a motherfucker. At least the cut on his face was mostly healed, just a pink line across his cheekbone. The bruises had faded too, and only some areas of yellowish-brown remained. 

As much as he wanted to lay down and sleep for the rest of the day (and night), Fugo’s brain just would not turn off. He supposed it was to be expected, and continued to pace back and forth. Bucciarati had finally made the rank of capo, the boss had a mission already in place for them, and of course, the addition of Trish herself. 

The house had fallen quiet, and Fugo could barely hear the sounds of Bucciarati moving around in the kitchen. His mind drifted to his earlier thoughts about the suspicious nature of Polpo’s “suicide”. His stand, Black Sabbath, was likely too strong for fledgling stand users to defeat, but if someone had already awakened their stand before the test, then it would be possible. Natural born stand users had the benefit of spending extra time with the reflection of their soul. Fugo tried to think of anyone he knew that had a stand prior to joining Passione. The rest of Team Bucciarati gained theirs through the initiation test as far as he was aware. 

Then Fugo remembered exactly who had joined Passione the week Polpo died and froze. Giorno. Of course it was Giorno. Fugo had overheard him say to Mista that he had been born with Golden Experience, plus the fact that newbies were just about the only people who could gain access to the jail cell where the former capo resided. 

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Fugo jumped and turned to where the voice had come from. Speak of the devil and he shall appear, or whatever they say. Giorno was leaning on the doorway, pretty eyes on Fugo. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Again with the apologies?

Fugo exhaled. “I didn’t hear you. Is Narancia back yet?” He hoped that Giorno would let him change the subject because he didn’t have a good enough lie prepared and he wasn’t about to go accusing the other boy of murder when they’d known each other for a week.

“No. I’m assuming he could have run into some trouble. Should we go look for him?” Giorno’s voice slowly filled with concern.

“Not yet. He can take care of himself, but if he isn’t back in another hour we can go.” It wasn’t unlikely that Narancia either could have gotten distracted by something or been attacked, but he was far from weak. His stand, Aerosmith, was pretty powerful too. Even if he ran into an enemy, he probably wouldn’t lose. Probably.

“Are you sure? We don’t know who could be after the boss's daughter, and therefore us. They’ll probably be stand users.” Fugo appreciated Giorno’s concern, but he wasn’t quite sure if he could trust his newest teammate who was also potentially already a murderer. Giorno seemed fine but then again, so had other people Fugo had let his guard down around in the past. One could never be too careful, after all.

“Narancia’s pretty damn tough. Besides, we shouldn’t risk compromising our position here by leaving since the mission is to protect the boss’s daughter.” There were footsteps in the hall, and then Bucciarati walked in.

“Narancia just called. Someone from the assassination team attacked him. The enemy was a stand user, but Narancia wasn't too badly injured. Abbacchio took one of the other cars to go pick him up.” Giorno shot Fugo a look that definitely said “I told you so” but Fugo pointedly ignored him.

“Make sure they aren’t followed back, we don’t need them finding out about this safehouse,” he said to Bucciarati. Fugo was certain that after all that excitement the other teenager had definitely forgotten his instructions to keep enemies off of Team Bucciarati’s tail. 

“Abbacchio is well aware of the risks, so they won’t be back until dark. Until then, we’ll sit tight. However, I strongly advise against going outside unless strictly necessary.” Bucciarati may have sounded confident but Fugo still saw him bite his lip when he turned away. The freshly-crowned capo only did that when he was stressed. Bucciarati went back downstairs, leaving Fugo and Giorno alone again. 

Previous attitude seemingly forgotten, Giorno turned to Fugo with a hint of a sparkle in his eye. “Want to play cards to pass some time?” Fugo gave him a deadpan look for a moment before realizing that he did actually want to play cards with Giorno. So he agreed, and the boys occupied themselves with various games and card tricks for the next couple hours.

When Abbacchio and Narancia returned to the safehouse, everyone let out a hidden sigh of relief. The household carried on like usual, and since Abbacchio had thought ahead about groceries they had plenty of food. By the time they had all retired to their various sleeping areas, a sense of relief and comfort had flooded the safehouse.

Chapter Text

April 2nd

Fugo woke up early the next morning with a start. Bucciarati was walking briskly down the hall knocking on each of the doors and telling the occupants that it was time to wake up. Fugo opened his door just as Bucciarati was raising his fist, yawning as he did so. 

“Oh, Fugo, you’re already up. Good. Get dressed and meet me downstairs,” Bucciarati was already moving on to rouse Abbacchio, who usually slept like the dead. As he changed clothes, Fugo contemplated the potential reasons why the team leader was getting them up so early. Could their position have possibly been compromised? He bit his lip, a habit reminiscent of Bucciarati and walked faster down the stairs. 

The only others already present besides Bucciarati were Giorno and Mista. Trish was sitting on the couch, looking out the window. Mista looked a little put off at having to be up at dawn, but Giorno looked as polished as always. Fugo idly wondered how he kept his hair so pristine at all times. Narancia bounded down the stairs a moment after Fugo, and Fugo could hear footsteps indicating that Abbacchio was at least awake. He murmured a quiet greeting to the other boys before starting to make coffee. He was just taking his first sip when Abbacchio stomped downstairs, clearly a bit grumpy. Fugo pointed him towards the fresh pot of coffee.

“Now that everyone is here, I have instructions for the next part of the mission to protect Trish. The boss sent me a message earlier this morning instructing me to send a team to Pompeii to collect a key. The message said that the key is necessary to gaining access to a certain safe mode of transportation for the rest of the mission,” Bucciarati wasted no time before getting down to business. “I need at least two but probably three people to go to Pompeii this morning to find and collect this key. I was thinking that Abbacchio and Fugo should go since they’ve both been there before, but are there any volunteers to go with them?”

No more than a second had passed before Giorno’s soft but sure voice spoke up to join the Pompeii team. Bucciarati agreed, and it wasn’t long before the three of them were getting into a sleek sedan with Fugo himself behind the wheel. 

Bucciarati shot him a hard look before he pulled out of the safehouse’s driveway, and Fugo knew exactly what it meant: if the mission goes south, make sure that Purple Haze kills all of the enemies. Fugo understood why, of course; his stand’s brute strength and uncontrollable fury were nearly unstoppable, it was likely he would have to clean up any mess the little team would get into. A bit brutal, sure, but the two of them had adopted this system a couple of years ago after Fugo let a man survive, only for him to nearly kill Bucciarati in their home a few months later. No one else survived after that.

The drive to Pompeii was quiet. It was still relatively early and the roads were clear of traffic. None of the occupants said a word until they were close to their destination, and then Giorno asked about a plan. Fugo explained the dog mosaic the boss had referenced in his message as he parked the car in the surprisingly empty parking lot. 

At first, the mission was smooth sailing. Until Fugo spotted that damned mirror, and then everything went downhill fast. Abbacchio and Giorno didn’t seem to be affected by the stand he was fighting, but that also meant they weren’t present in whatever weird place Fugo was in. To make matters worse, he couldn’t find Purple Haze. It’s not that he couldn’t summon his stand…it just wasn’t there . He couldn’t see it. The bastard kept hitting him too, and Fugo mourned his barely healing ribs as more angry blue and purple bruises started to appear through the holes in his suit.

The dead crow ended up being a strange kind of good omen. Fugo quickly recognized the effects of Purple Haze’s killer virus, and the disgusting sight of its liquefied victim was enough to have the mirror man stepping back, horror clear in his expression.

Fugo coughed, doubling over in pain as his ribs creaked in protest. As if getting the shit beat out of him once in the last week wasn’t enough, it just had to happen twice. And he couldn’t even use Purple Haze either time, albeit for different reasons.

The man suddenly smiles, and tells Fugo that he has to go, that he found more interesting prey but that he would be back. Fugo barely registers the words as he struggles to stand up. As his enemy disappears, Fugo gives up and sits, leaning against the crumbling wall, staring at the mass of what had once been a living, breathing animal. Fugo tries hard to avoid thinking about Purple Haze in general, and this sudden, brutal reminder of what his stand can do makes Fugo sick to his stomach.

Once he catches his breath, Fugo tries to stand up again and is much more successful the second go. He staggers over to the mirror and looks it over. There isn’t anything unusual about it other than the fact that it’s being used here in Pompeii by a stand user Fugo didn’t recognize. He didn’t know where Giorno and Abbacchio had gone either, but at least they weren’t in the strange mirror realm with Fugo. That meant that at least the two of them could get the key and escape, successfully completing the boss’s mission. 

Fugo didn’t know how long he stood there for, but when he heard the footsteps he looked up and locked eyes with Giorno. So much for them not being in the weird mirror world. The other boy seemed relatively unharmed, but let out a soft gasp when he saw Fugo. 

“There you are! Are you okay? You look hurt.” Giorno wasted no time fussing over Fugo and checking him over for injuries. While he did so, the blond boy hurriedly filled Fugo in on what the rest of the team had been doing. “Once we realized you were gone, Abbacchio went to the dog mosaic you mentioned and found the key. I have it now, but Abbacchio had to cut off his hand to get it to me. He’s stable for now though and he shouldn’t be too far behind me, but I don’t know where the enemy stand user is right now.”

Fugo waved Giorno off of him, saying he was fine. “I don’t know where he is either. He attacked me when he brought me through the mirror, and I summoned Purple Haze but it’s not here.”

Giorno then explained to Fugo that he had, in fact, manifested his stand, but since the man in the mirror controlled the mirror realm, he could prevent their stands from being brought in. Fugo made a face at that. He knew it had been a long shot, but he really didn’t want Giorno to see his stand. At least, not yet. It’s not like Fugo was ashamed of his stand since Purple Haze was powerful, but…the stand was a near-perfect representation of all the qualities Fugo hated about himself. It was violent, ornery, and definitely had a mind of its own, and the thing’s constant drooling was off-putting at best. 

Giorno was tilting his head at him and clearly wanted to ask something; instead, he just shook his head and moved on. He quickly gave Fugo a rundown of his and Abbacchio’s encounter with the man in the mirror. Giorno was about to tell Fugo his plan, but before he could explain what he was about to do, the enemy stand user, who had introduced himself as Illuso, sauntered back into the open space they were in. 

Giorno swore under his breath before leaning into Fugo’s space and whispering, “I’ve got a plan, just trust me.” Fugo’s breath hitched ever so slightly and he shot Giorno an incredulous look as he pulled away. Giorno would be more than willing to admit later that the whole thing was kind of hot.

He turned toward the enemy and slid an object out of his pocket. Fugo couldn’t see what it was, but he trusted that Giorno had a plan and knew what he was doing. He still couldn’t help being a little worried, especially as Illuso kept getting closer to Giorno. The tension in the air was getting thicker by the second. 

Fugo was barely breathing when Giorno suddenly made his move. The enemy was a few meters away from Giorno when the blond teenager threw whatever it was that he was holding at the man in the mirror. As the soft violet cloud drifted around them, Fugo realized with horror that Giorno had been holding one of the capsules from Purple Haze’s knuckles. The feeling doubles when he realizes that Giorno is way, way, too close to the virus. There’s no way he could be unscathed after that.

The enemy stand user let out a guttural scream from the intense and inescapable pain of being melted from the inside out. As the flesh along his hands and arms began to dissolve into a gooey sludge, the man in the mirror began to say something, but instead cut himself off as he disappeared, leaving behind only liquefied flesh. He’d gone back through the mirror shard on the ground beside him.

Fugo rushed over to Giorno, knowing the virus would be dead in seconds after exposure to sunlight. Only one of his hands was affected by Purple Haze’s ability, and at a much slower rate than the enemy. He could work with that.

“Hey, Fugo,” said Giorno.

Fugo hummed in response, too focused on tying a tourniquet around Giorno’s arm to try and slow the virus down more.

“Do you see that brick that’s moving over there? Have Purple Haze follow it in the world outside the mirror.” The request seemed a little ridiculous, so Fugo glanced up at Giorno to see if he was hallucinating or dying or something along those lines. He wasn’t. Fugo followed his gaze across the large space they were in and watched an old, worn brick slowly slide over the ground.

He did as Giorno asked. It took him a moment to locate Purple Haze, and several more to get it to actually listen to Fugo. It finally relented though, and in the real world it followed a snake to the corner where Illuso, the man in the mirror, was hiding. Fugo didn’t bother to pay attention to what happened to the man after that. He just closed his eyes and waited for the mirror realm to fade away into nonexistence. 

Suddenly remembering that Giorno had been infected by his stand’s virus, Fugo turned to look at him, only to realize the other boy was kneeling on the ground by the enemy’s corpse. His own stand was there too, standing obediently to the side and not attacking Giorno. Fugo didn’t have the energy to figure out the reasoning behind that odd behavior at the moment, so he shelved the information away for later. Instead, Fugo watched as Giorno picked up the snake and summoned his own stand, Gold Experience, and did something that he couldn’t see from where he was sitting on the ground. 

When Giorno came back over, he sat down by Fugo and explained how the snake’s blood had contained the specific antibodies to stop the effects of Purple Haze’s killer virus. Fugo had never studied much biology, but Giorno seemed fine so he continued to trust the other boy. It had clearly been paying off, as the blond seemed to escape even the most terrible of circumstances with the world appearing to bend to his every whim. It was almost scary, but also just as beautiful.

“Ah, that’s all well and good but didn’t you say Abbacchio was somewhere behind you? Why isn’t he here yet?” Fugo didn’t bother to hide the concern in his voice. Abbacchio had joined Bucciarati’s team just under a year after Fugo – they had formed an obligatory but loyal alliance and Fugo cared about him in his own way.

“He still is. I left a ladybug on him so I could keep a metaphorical eye on his situation. You can stay here, I’ll go to him. We’ll meet you at the car in say, ten minutes?” Fugo nodded, but when he reached for the keys he realized they were gone. He whirled around to ask Giorno if he had seen them, but the blond boy had already disappeared. He looked around and saw a glint of metal by the wall near the horrifically melted corpse of their enemy. He picked the keys up, but didn’t fail to notice the dead snake with its crushed head, unidentifiable tissues oozing out between shards of bone and torn flesh.

Fugo made it back to the car first. He relished the cool air from the AC and closed his eyes for a moment to wait for Giorno and Abbacchio. He had finally started to relax when they returned. It was evident from the blood on their clothes and the slightly haunted look in Abbacchio’s eyes that Giorno had performed his version of first aid. He felt relief at his own lack of major injury even though he would be incredibly sore (again). 

Cursing his recent run of bad luck, Fugo turned out of the parking lot and back onto the main road. He followed his own instructions he had given to Narancia only yesterday, and it took the exhausted team several more hours to reach the safehouse. Like on the way there, the group was silent, each one content to lick his wounds in the quiet car. 

They were met by an overwhelming number of questions from Narancia and several more from Mista. Fugo knew he would be just as curious if he was in their shoes, but right now, all he really wanted was somewhere to stretch out and an ice pack. He slipped away from the group and left Giorno to give the mission rundown to the rest of the team.

Abbacchio followed suit, and Fugo watched him out of the corner of his eye. The older man grabbed some painkillers, washed them down with a glass of sparkling water, and laid face first on the couch. He didn’t move again for a long time after that.

Fugo was just sitting down in one of the recliners in the living room when Narancia came bounding into the room. He came over to Fugo and leaned his head on Fugo’s own. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, and Fugo leaned closer into the contact. 

“Sorry for jabbing you with the keys yesterday,” said Fugo, and he meant it. Narancia was a good friend, even when Fugo wasn’t always. Narancia laughed at that, told Fugo he didn’t believe him, and moved on to unsuccessfully try to bother Abbacchio.

Chapter Text

April 2nd - Evening

Bucciarati had spent the last half hour going over the plan for the next leg of their journey. Besides the key that Abbacchio, Giorno, and Fugo had collected, there was supposedly another part to the transportation method given to them by the boss. This other piece was located at the Naples Station, somewhere by a fountain. 

Fugo was tired though, and his face and ribs hurt like hell after the fight in Pompeii. He followed the others out of the safehouse as they drove to the station, glancing behind them every so often to make sure they weren’t being tailed. As they walked into the station, he fell into step with Giorno and asked the other boy if he was okay. Fugo wasn’t really sure how he was still standing, let alone appearing unharmed after taking in Purple Haze’s deadly virus.

“I’m alright. That wasn’t the worst hit I’ve taken,” Giorno said, thinking back to his own turbulent childhood and his poor excuse for a stepfather. Of course, Fugo didn’t know this, so Giorno held out his hand and let Fugo inspect it as they approached the train. 

Fugo, deciding that Giorno was indeed fine, looked behind them again, this time catching the edge of a shadow as someone ducked behind a corner. Shit. The people who were after Trish were persistent, that’s for sure. Fugo signalled to Bucciarati, and hustled the rest of the team onto the train. 

Bucciarati picked up an odd shaped object from the ground, and Fugo had barely realized it was a turtle (of all things) when he felt a strange sensation, like he was simultaneously being pulled apart and compressed again. He blinked, and opened his red eyes to a room that had not been there a moment ago.

The space was furnished, with sofas along the walls, a couple of comfortable-looking chairs, and even a refrigerator filled with cold drinks with an ice tray in the freezer. Bucciarati quickly explained how the turtle possessed a stand that was activated when he placed the key in an indent in its shell. The turtle was called Coco Jumbo, and its stand was named Mr. President.

Fugo breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully the turtle could keep them safe until their destination. He dragged himself over to one of the sofas by Abbacchio, and Giorno joined him on his other side. It wasn’t long before he fell into a dead sleep, still exhausted from the events in Pompeii earlier that morning. 

When he awoke, it was to complete chaos. While most of the team had been asleep inside of the turtle, they had been attacked - presumably by the person, or rather persons, that Fugo had caught sight of as he boarded the train. Bucciarati and Mista had taken care of the enemy stand users, but it was clear the pursuers hadn’t gone down without a fight. Again, Giorno took care of their wounds. Fugo idly wondered how the blond had learned so much first aid. 

The team was on the road again after Giorno had made sure everyone was fine. The train started back up, and Team Bucciarati took shelter in Coco Jumbo the turtle once more. This time though, Abbacchio remained outside to keep watch.

Baby Face’s attack came soon after the group reached their destination and again, it was Giorno who saved them. It was a close call though, and they nearly lost him, Bucciarati, and Trish, which would have defeated the whole point of their mission. 

Fugo was impressed by Giorno’s incredible ability to think on his feet. The other boy had proven himself invaluable several times over at this point, and Fugo was sure they would all be dead by now if it weren’t for him. His stand, Gold Experience, was certainly strong, but something in Giorno’s cool, confident demeanor allowed Fugo to finally put his full trust in another human being for the first time since Bucciarati took him in. Fugo caught himself staring and quickly looked away. 

His attention was quickly brought back to Giorno when he suggested they steal a car to drive to Venice, their next destination. There, they would meet up with the boss to hand over Trish to his protection. Fugo was glad of that, he wasn’t sure how much longer his team could keep her safe, especially with the strength and numbers of the people after her. He may not like the girl very much, but she didn’t really deserve to die, either.

Speaking of Trish, she seemed understandably shaken after the day's events. She had nearly been killed after all, and was now quietly sitting in the passenger seat. Bucciarati was driving, and the other four were in the back seat (Mista was purposefully not thinking about that). 

Narancia actually looked tired for once. He was leaning on the car window and Fugo was sure he would be asleep before too long. The past couple of days had been intense. 

Abbacchio was behind the driver’s seat, headphones on, pretending to look out the window but in reality he was watching Bucciarati. Fugo was fully aware the two had feelings for each other, but neither of them were doing anything about it. Something about the dangers of mafia life and people finding out was all Bucciarati had said when Fugo had asked one night a few months ago. 

That left Fugo and Giorno in the middle. Fugo chanced a look at Giorno’s arm, and finding it just as unharmed as earlier, his gaze drifted to where the other injuries had been, ending at where a chunk of flesh had been taken from his throat. It was incredible how seamlessly Giorno had healed his injuries. Fugo could barely tell where the teenager had been hurt.

On the contrary, ugly purple and yellow bruises covered Fugo’s side. The holes cut into his suit didn’t do anything to hide them, but then again, that was part of the reason he had done it in the first place. Bucciarati had needed a way to keep an eye on Fugo’s self-destructive habits and Fugo hated being asked about it. Although drastic, it was the first (and only) method they had agreed on.

On their approach to Venice, Fugo suggested that Trish and at least a couple others take shelter in the turtle. That way, their group could be less conspicuous and they could hopefully avoid any more unwanted attention for the night. It was getting late and the sun was close to setting, but Fugo was still on edge. They had barely had a moment of peace since they started the mission, and that was unlikely to change the closer they got to the boss of Passione.

As it got darker, the temperature was dropping, noticeable even from inside of the turtle’s stand. Fugo stood on a chair and looked outside. It was hard to see much from where the turtle was positioned in the back seat, but he couldn’t hear anything either. Giorno had taken over driving and Mista accompanied him in the passenger seat. Neither of the other teenagers were there though, and a layer of frost covered the roof of their little car. A stand user, maybe?

Fugo waited for a few moments to make sure he would be alone before he stepped out of Mr. President. As he had thought, no one was there. Not his teammates nor an enemy stand user. Looking out the car window, Fugo did a double take. They were in the middle of one of Venice’s many canals for some reason, and it was frozen solid. What in the world happened?

He grabbed the turtle and the rest of his companions before making his way towards the shore. Some sections of ice had been broken, and Fugo was careful to avoid any particularly busted up areas. He assumed that Mista and Giorno had been fighting an enemy and wanted to reach them as soon as possible. 

Narancia joined him from the hidden room and summoned Aerosmith to track their missing friends. As they were walking, Fugo got a text message from a number he didn’t know, saying that whoever it was looked forward to seeing him again. Fugo had no clue who it was and didn’t bother to reply. 

By the time Team Bucciarati and Trish had caught up to Giorno and Mista, the enemy, Ghiacco, had already been defeated. Narancia had found them first, and for some reason was avoiding eye contact with both of them. Odd behavior aside, the other two were alive, albeit heavily wounded. How Mista continued to survive against these near impossible odds would remain a mystery. 

On their approach to the old church known as San Giorgio Maggiore, it was decided that Bucciarati be the one to accompany Trish to meet her father. The new capo would go by himself and the rest of the team was to stay outside. It was well into the night at this point, and Fugo was bone tired. He hoped the trade off went well so that they could find somewhere to sleep for a while. Or maybe get some food, Fugo couldn’t remember the last time they’d eaten. 

He sat at the edge of the canal, between Giorno and Narancia. Their older teammates had made themselves at home on a bench outside the church. Fugo expected that Bucciarati would be back soon, but as the minutes dragged on, he started to worry. 

Giorno noticed, of course. The newest member of Team Bucciarati couldn’t deny his curiosity about Fugo, especially after the few stories he had heard - both from their other teammates and the small things Fugo had told him himself. Giorno wanted to know more, but was also aware of how difficult that task would be considering Fugo’s tumultuous moods. He was sure there was more to the other boy that he just didn’t know yet.

Giorno quietly reassured Fugo, voice soft enough that Narancia wouldn’t hear - not that he was paying attention to them, of course. “He’ll be okay. The boss probably wants to get to know Bucciarati a little since he’s the newest capo and everything.”

Fugo sighed. “I know, and Bucciarati is really strong too.” He didn’t say it, but he did appreciate the gesture. Still, he was itching to make sure the older man was okay. 

Fugo didn’t know what he would do in a world without Bucciarati. He had provided Fugo with the first place he considered home and became one of Fugo’s only friends and confidants. It took the white haired boy months to open up about everything that had happened to him, from attending college and dealing with his creepy professor to his parents kicking him out for disgracing their name with his “baseless” accusations. Bucciarati had never once doubted him, instead providing Fugo with both a home and a shoulder to cry on, despite the endless temper tantrums and rapid, violent mood swings. Fugo was sure he’d never be able to repay Bucciarati for everything he had done. He knew he didn’t deserve his kindness.

The minutes passed, and Fugo only grew more worried. One glance towards Giorno showed the other boy was just as anxious. Fugo stood up, Giorno right behind him.

“I’m gonna go in. I can’t take it anymore, what if something’s happened?” he said.

“Wait! You stay here, I’ll go. Gold Experience is better suited to smaller spaces, plus it can heal any potential injuries if for some reason the meeting has gone south.” Fugo knew Giorno was right, but that didn’t stem his frustration. Damn his violent, uncontrollable stand. 

He stood to the side and let Giorno pass. As he was walking away though, Fugo suddenly grabbed the edge of his sleeve. “Stay safe, okay?” The blond boy smiled softly at Fugo, and promised he would take care of himself and the others.

Fugo took to pacing along the edge of the canal while Giorno disappeared. His anxiety only worsened the longer they took, and he was fairly certain he had heard a crashing sound. He hoped he was worried over nothing, but his instincts were screaming at him that something was wrong.

As he was making up his mind to go in himself despite Giorno’s request, the three missing members of their group came sprinting out of the church. Blood was splattered across all of them, but Bucciarati was nearly covered in the substance. It looked like he had taken a pretty bad hit to his torso that Giorno had already repaired. Most notable, Trish was still with them, also bloody and clearly in pain.

“What happened?” Abbacchio called out first, eyebrows furrowed and staring at Bucciarati in concern.

“Turns out, the boss wanted us to bring him Trish so he could kill her,” Bucciarati explained. “And he nearly did, before I stopped him. I will be taking Trish in from here on out, and we’re leaving Passione. I don’t know where we will go or what we will do, but I refuse to stand by while an innocent girl is killed for no reason.”

Shock set into the little group. It was hard to believe the whole mission had been for such a purpose, and even more difficult to comprehend that Bucciarati had just thrown away his life’s work within the organization for someone that they barely knew. Fugo himself wouldn’t have cared much if the girl lived or died. Sure, it would bother him for a little while to watch an innocent person die, but he’d get over it eventually. It’s not like he had only killed bad people. 

Fugo watched in awe as Bucciarati secured one of the small boats from the canal. He turned back to the rest of his team on the shore. “I don’t expect any of you to come with me, and honestly I would prefer it if you didn’t. However, if you truly feel like this is the right thing to do, I won’t order you to stay behind.” 

Bucciarati turned to Trish and offered her a comforting smile. The poor girl looked traumatized, and probably for good reason. Fugo didn’t care though. His team was the only thing he truly valued, and here she was, continuing to cause problems.

Fugo’s jaw just about hit the stone below when Giorno, and then Abbacchio and Mista joined the pair in the little boat. Narancia was still by his side, begging for Bucciarati to tell him what to do. Fugo didn’t say a word, but he hoped Bucciarati knew how hurt he was at this turn of events.

He nearly lost it when Narancia dove into the canal to follow them, yelling something about how he and Trish were the same. Fugo wasn’t paying attention to him anymore. His entire world was leaving him behind. Bucciarati, who had taken him in; Abbacchio, who had been his friend despite his attitude; Mista, who he’s grown close with over the years; Narancia, his best friend and such a bright, kind soul; and even Giorno, someone who had earned his trust despite his shitty past and who genuinely seemed to care. The realization that he couldn’t live without them cut deep.

“Wait! I want to come with you! Don’t leave me behind, Bucciarati!” The sound of his own voice, calling for them to come back for him, to not abandon him here, alone again in a world he couldn’t stand.

Bucciarati pulled him into a hug when he joined them in the boat. He told Fugo that he was proud of him for choosing the right thing. Fugo didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was never about Trish or good versus evil, but his own unwillingness to be alone, away from the only people he cared about. His loyalty to Bucciarati, and later towards the others, had always outweighed his dedication to Passione. He would follow his chosen family to the ends of the earth if he had to.

Chapter Text

April 3rd - morning

Trish possessing a stand was…unsurprising, considering her lineage. Honestly, Fugo was more interested in the fact that Trish hadn’t seemed to notice her powers until now. A stand as powerful and prominent as Spice Girl shouldn’t have stayed hidden for that many years. Not that Fugo really cared. He was just curious.

It had been six hours since Team Bucciarati had betrayed the boss. So far, they had already been attacked thrice by stand users, with Trish using her stand to defeat the most recent enemy who went by the Notorious B.I.G. Fugo was over it all. He felt restless, Purple Haze itching for a fight of its own and making Fugo’s skin crawl. It was really starting to piss him off.

The air around them was tense. Bucciarati and Giorno had wanted to track some of the boss’s more recent movements and so the team was headed to a beach called Costa Smeralda. There, in theory, Abbacchio’s Moody Blues could turn back time and reveal the boss’s true appearance.

They just kept running into trouble though, and Fugo was feeling pretty damn useless at this point. Purple Haze had the potential to be an incredibly deadly stand, but it was more of a double-edged sword than anything else. As quickly as Fugo could kill his enemies, his stand could liquefy himself and the few people he cared about in a matter of seconds if his focus slipped. It had been difficult for a younger Fugo to gain any semblance of control over his own stand and so he had barely used it until recently. He wasn’t much of a fighter to begin with, preferring to handle things like the team’s finances and gathering knowledge on their enemies. Bucciarati had been more than okay with that, as the older man knew just how much Fugo hated the reminder of the violence he was capable of.

Currently, the team was grabbing a bite to eat at a small cafe in one of the back alleys. Fugo sipped his coffee while Mista and Narancia bickered about something he hadn’t caught. Bucciarati looked more tired than usual, faint purple eyebags visible. He looked to Giorno, only to find the blond was already looking at him. Fugo flushed a little and looked away again.

His thoughts were interrupted by a text, from the same unknown number as the night before. This time, however, there was a name attached. It said:

This is Doppio, from last week. Sorry, I should have clarified that when I messaged you last night. Where are you guys?

Fugo decided to respond to this one. 

On a mission . 

He was intentionally vague, still not sure about the other person. Sure, Doppio had helped him out that one time, but Fugo didn’t think giving him Team Bucciarati’s location was a great idea. 

For the boss? Or something else now? Doppio texted again. Fugo frowned. It seemed like Doppio might know something about their current circumstances, but Fugo had no idea where he could have gotten the information from. Regardless, it probably wasn’t good news. He pocketed his phone, effectively ending the conversation for now despite the vibration indicating Doppio had sent something else.

Bucciarati stood up and the rest of the team followed suit. Fugo quickly finished the rest of his coffee and joined them. The group headed down towards the beach where Giorno and Bucciarati seemed sure the boss had been at some point in the recent past. Fugo hoped they were right.

It was still somewhat early and they didn’t see many people out and about. It was a quiet morning and Fugo could faintly hear the waves crashing on the shore from where they were. The sky was blue, and occasionally a fluffy white cloud passed by. It promised to be almost unbearably warm in the afternoon, but for now it was pleasant and Fugo welcomed what sun he could get.

Bucciarati mentioned that they needed to go to a specific location on the coast for Abbacchio’s stand to work. They weren’t far from it, but they needed to be careful once they reached the open space on the beach. Right now, the solid stone buildings and narrow streets provided ample cover for the team. Fugo was at the rear, but he planned to go with Abbacchio to the spot since Purple Haze worked best in wide open spaces.

As they reached the last stretch of buildings before the beach, Fugo caught a flash of vivid pink out of the corner of his eye. He turned and caught Doppio’s arm as he turned a corner.

“I don’t have time for this,” the other boy growled. He wrenched his wrist away and disappeared around a corner before Fugo could say a word. Confused, he turned around and caught up with the rest of his team. 

He had no idea what that was about. Why was Doppio here? The last time he had seen him was back in Naples, before any of this had happened. Then, he finally thought to check his phone. Sure enough, Doppio had sent him a text telling him to stay away from the beach. Well, screw that, they were already so close. 

Just then, Narancia said that there was some sort of commotion on a ridge not far from them. It seemed there were a couple of stand users fighting. Fugo wanted to take advantage of the distraction so he headed over to Abbacchio.

“Let’s go. While they’re keeping each other busy.” Abbacchio nodded once and then they were on their way. Abbacchio led the way, checking around each corner cautiously. As long as the only other stand users in the area were the ones fighting a little ways off, the pair of them should be okay. The enemies could keep each other distracted, and if one or both of them happened to die then it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Mafia life, and all that. Fugo didn’t exactly have sympathy to spare.

Abbacchio directed Fugo towards a large, flat rock midway between the edge of the beach and the ocean. Fugo scanned the nearby stretch of sand and rocks to find it abandoned. There weren’t even many people at any of the cafes and restaurants that lined the side streets. Fugo probably would have found it odd if it wasn’t benefitting his team so much. 

Abbacchio summoned Moody Blues. The purple-blue tinted stand was androgynous in its shape and communicated in a strange series of beeps, whirs, and other mechanical noises. Fugo had always liked it, even when he and Abbacchio were at each other's throats. The numbers on the stand’s forehead began to turn rapidly backwards, and Fugo tore his gaze away to continue scanning the area.

The seconds ticked by, but right as Moody Blues reached the point in time that Team Bucciarati needed, Narancia began waving his arms from the alley where the remaining team members were hiding. Fugo quickly got Abbacchio’s attention by grabbing his arm and the two of them hustled back to the group. 

“What is it?” Fugo asked, concerned about what could have caused Narancia to stop them in the middle of such an important task.

“Those stand users that I spotted on the ridge finished up their fight. And the thing is, whoever the other person was, they were powerful enough to kill Risotto Nero. You know him, right Fugo?” Fugo nodded. “Then you know just how hard that man was to kill. Metallica was a scary stand.”

Narancia was right, of course. Risotto Nero, the leader of the Hitman Team, had been known as one of the strongest members of Passione before his group defected to go after Trish. The idea that someone could have killed him that quickly was astounding and honestly terrifying. 

Team Bucciarati moved quickly after that. Moody Blues had been unable to get a clear image of the boss’s appearance, but it did manage to capture most of his face and his hands as well. The boss seemed to have large hands and his face looked to be that of a clean-cut man somewhere in his 30s or 40s, if Fugo had to guess. The image provided by Abbacchio’s stand caused a shiver to go down his spine. This was who they were after?

The group was headed to another safehouse of theirs, this time in the city of Rome. They would have to take another boat to make it back to the mainland. Bucciarati seemed to have connections everywhere they went, and Fugo quickly found himself on another small yacht, complete with a fully furnished cabin below deck. He wondered if people just wanted to get on the new capo’s good side.

Bucciarati and Abbacchio took the first watch as the younger members of the team filed their way down to the large room in the middle of the ship. There were a couple cots pushed against the curved walls and a set of hammocks hanging across the room. Fugo collapsed facedown on one of the cots and took a moment to assess how he was feeling. His healing ribs hurt every time he moved too suddenly or turned too far to either side, but not as badly as before and the pain was manageable. He was exhausted though and found himself nodding off before too long.

Giorno woke him up by gently calling out his name a while later. Fugo sat up and stretched, wincing when he reached his back. The cot had not been particularly comfortable. A glance around the room revealed the others had fallen asleep too. Giorno was watching him patiently.

“It’s been a couple hours. I was going to swap out with Bucciarati and Abbacchio for the next watch shift. Would you like to join me?” Giorno phrased it like a question but Fugo didn’t think saying no was a real option. Not that he could bring himself to deny the pretty blond boy anything he wanted. Not when Giorno was looking at him like that , like Fugo actually mattered to him and that Giorno really did want to spend time near him. It was kind of confusing.

Fugo followed Giorno up the ladder to the open deck of their boat. It was getting close to evening and the sun was lazily making its way down to meet the horizon. The sky was starting to swirl in different shades of blue while the clouds on the horizon were beginning to take on a golden hue. 

Bucciarati and Abbacchio were leaning into each other at the front of the ship. They looked comfortable sitting in silence with each other. On Giorno’s approach they pulled apart, exchanged a few words with each other, and then Bucciarati gave Giorno a short rundown of the last couple hours on watch. Abbacchio walked away and went below deck as soon as Giorno started talking. Seems like he still wasn’t over his little grudge. 

Bucciarati left too, leaving Fugo with just Giorno, the sea, and the open sky for company. It was peaceful. And quiet, until Giorno broke the silence. 

“Are you okay? I know it's kind of been a lot today.” The concern in Giorno’s sea green eyes was enough to have Fugo damn near melting. Screw this boy and his never-ending ability to care about the people around him. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sore, but it’s nothing more than sleep and a good meal won’t fix. How about you? You’ve had a lot of new responsibilities shoved at you the last couple days, what with our betrayal and everything with the boss.” It was true. Giorno had really stepped up into a leadership role, often with Bucciarati discussing plans or staring into the distance, thinking and planning and dreaming.

“I’m alright. To be completely honest, I was expecting it. I had a feeling the boss would turn out to be evil, so the fact that we are ‘betraying’ him isn’t as much of a surprise for me as it probably is for you and the others.” Giorno was leaning against the rail, gaze on the horizon and his head resting on his hand. Fugo was behind him, but he soon stepped forward to stand by his side. He looked down and watched the white-tipped waves crash against the side of their boat as they cut through the blue water.

“I guess that makes sense. Did you know a lot about Passione when you joined?” Fugo asked.

“I suppose you could say that. I just observed the organization for a while and learned what I could. Information can be awfully easy to come by when you yourself know the secrets of others. It’s amazing what one will do when one is desperate.” Giorno smirked a bit at that. Fugo let out a soft breath, almost a laugh but not quite. 

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” A pause, not awkward yet but not too far off either. “Can I ask where you’re from or is that off-limits?” Fugo asked, nearly stumbling over the words but catching himself.

“You can ask however many questions you'd like about me. I can’t promise that you will always get an answer, but I’ll do my best,” Giorno answered. “I’m not originally from Naples, but my mother and I moved there when I was really young, probably three or four. She married an Italian guy not long after who became my stepdad even though I hated him.” Giorno’s eyes had hardened as he kept talking and Fugo could almost feel his dislike for the man rolling off of him.

Giorno took a couple deep breaths though and managed to keep his composure. “What about you? Can you tell me which subjects are off-limits so I don’t accidentally bring up something you don’t want me to?” Fugo took a moment to appreciate how Giorno allowed him to set his own boundaries. He really didn’t feel like talking about himself at the moment, but he supposed that if it was Giorno asking, he would do just about anything.

“Anything from when I joined Passione to the present day is fine. I don’t like talking about my parents or college though, so don’t ask anything related to that.” Fugo paused, mouth slightly ajar like he wanted to say something else but was stopping himself. Giorno nodded and continued to give Fugo room to speak. The white haired boy seemed to make up his mind a moment later. “Also, please don’t touch me unexpectedly. I really don’t like physical contact.”

He said it all in a rush and it took Giorno a second to process. Fugo looked nervous, not making eye contact with Giorno and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He was chewing his lip too, another anxious habit of his. “Of course that’s fine. You could have told me that sooner, you know. I mean it when I say I don’t want to scare or hurt you.”

Fugo did look at him then. “You do?” It came out as a whisper.

“I do,” said Giorno.

The rest of their watch shift went by fast. The two boys had enjoyed talking about various subjects and had discovered a mutual love of reading random journal articles and learning interesting facts. The sun had set in diverse shades of pink, magenta, and violet while they were talking, too absorbed in each other to notice.

It felt like only a few minutes had passed when Narancia and Mista came up to relieve them of watch duties. The two teenagers stumbled back down to the room below, and Fugo fell asleep that night on the barely-tolerable cot with a faint smile on his face that he had no clue was there.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6:
April 4th - morning

Fugo woke up with a start. The sun had yet to rise but he could clearly hear voices from the deck of the boat. Bucciarati was arguing with someone rather heatedly but Fugo couldn’t make out what it was about. Then Giorno raised his voice and Fugo could swear he heard something about a bell tower, the boss, and some sort of injury? He wasn’t quite sure. It was still rather early.

Fugo was thinking deeply about what he had just heard when Giorno stomped his way down the stairs and froze at the sight of the other boy awake. That snapped Fugo out of his thoughts.

“You should still be asleep,” Giorno said. “It’s early and we still have a couple hours to go.” He looked worn, more so than Fugo had ever seen him. Although for Giorno, that just meant his hair was barely out of place and his clothes only slightly wrinkled. Fugo wondered if he’d slept much.

“Well, I’m awake now,” Fugo hesitated, then asked, “What was that all about? It sounded like you and Bucciarati were fighting about something.”

Giorno took a moment to respond. “It’s nothing important. It shouldn’t affect what we’re doing right now. At least, not yet.” That was slightly concerning and really, it just made Fugo more nervous about whatever it was that was going on. He didn’t really believe Giorno that it was “nothing important”.

“If you say so.” The conversation effectively ended there as Giorno flopped onto one of the other cots and turned towards the wall. His breathing was even and it seemed like he fell asleep but Fugo had a sneaking suspicion that he was still awake.

Since he was already up, Fugo decided to head out to the deck and see where they were at. Of course, Bucciarati was up there too, but he was staring out at the sea and didn’t even notice Fugo. Fugo didn’t bother him, just checked the boat’s compass and a map that he had found the day before. By Fugo’s calculations, they should reach the city of Rome before 8 am. That was still over an hour away.

Fugo spent the rest of the trip doing random little tasks to seem busy. He was really just watching Bucciarati. The older man had barely moved, just blankly observing their surroundings until Abbacchio woke up and sat with him. They didn’t talk much but it seemed to make Bucciarati feel better which Fugo appreciated.

The rest of the team joined them on deck just before they arrived in Rome. The morning was still quiet as the city began waking up, the sky dusted with faint pink clouds and birds chirping in nearby trees. It was kind of nice, if Fugo ignored the past few days.

The team docked the boat and made their way to their new safehouse. It was a large apartment with several rooms not far away from the Colosseum. Hardly a minute had passed before Bucciarati’s cell phone started ringing. They all started, including Bucciarati, even as he stepped into another room and answered the call.

He came back a few minutes later, looking rather pale. “That call was from a Frenchman named Jean Pierre Polnareff. He is here in Rome with both information and a valuable item just like the one Polpo’s stand had. An arrow that can create stand users.”

The new information left the group stunned for a moment before almost everyone started talking at once. Fugo noted that Giorno remained silent. Of course, so did he but that was because Mista and Narancia wouldn’t allow him to get a word in edgewise. Better to let them sort themselves out first.

Bucciarati spoke on. “He would like to meet us at the Colosseum tonight at midnight. We are not to bring anyone else or let ourselves be followed under any circumstances. Understood?” A chorus of ‘yes sir's' echoed around the small room. Their leader wasn’t often so terse, but then again, this certainly wasn’t a typical job. Not anymore.

Still, that was a long time to wait to meet the guy and there wasn’t a lot they could do in the meantime without compromising their position. At least the safehouse was stocked with various boardgames. Even though Giorno was the only other one who wanted to play with him, it was a nice way to spend the morning.

Fugo enjoyed his company. It was nice to talk to someone his own age and with more similar life experiences. He loved Narancia and Mista, he really did, but sometimes they were a lot and became too much for him to handle. Giorno was a nice change of pace. He was well read and seemed to take an interest in Fugo’s recommendations. And Fugo, for his part, tried to be engaging and ask questions back. He wasn’t positive he succeeded but the morning was still quite lovely.

As the sun hit its peak in the sky, their thoughts began to turn to the upcoming meeting with the man who had called earlier. Bucciarati explained to them that Polnareff had found out about them via the Speedwagon Foundation, an organization that Fugo had heard of in passing yet he’d never met someone involved with the group. Giorno continued to not bat an eye despite the barrage of new information and new people and new locations. Really, Fugo should try to be more like him.

Bucciarati and Giorno ended up being the ones to come up with their plan of action. Most of Fugo was relieved that he could take a back seat on this mission. He still didn’t particularly care for Trish, and the team would have undoubtedly been safer working for the boss and not making enemies with the entire damn organization. He took the opportunity to curl up in one of the big, comfortable armchairs in the living room and promptly fell asleep.

Time passed and the late afternoon light coming through the blinds lay in golden stripes across the ground. The safehouse was quiet, the only sound coming from soft voices in the kitchen and the dull humming of electricity.

Fugo got up and stretched, stiff muscles protesting in spite of the lack of use all day. He was surprised to see that both Giorno and Trish had joined him in the living room. Trish lay on the couch, short pink hair messier than usual and the most peaceful look Fugo had seen on her face so far. It made her look younger. Giorno had evidently fallen asleep in the other armchair while reading, judging by the still-open paperback on his lap.

Fugo left them to their slumber and padded towards the quiet voices that he could hear in the kitchen, feet nearly soundless on the tile floor.

Bucciarati leaned against the kitchen counter, speaking to Abbacchio in a low voice. Fugo didn’t bother to try and listen to what they were saying, instead grabbing a glass and filling it with water from the tap. He hadn’t seen Mista or Narancia yet, which meant that they were probably on watch somewhere.

It felt eerily calm, like the moment of peace and quiet before the brutal storm.

The team got ready to go in tense silence. Even Narancia and Mista, who would usually be joking around and chatting incessantly were somber, everyone all too aware of their current position. Abbacchio had a flask tucked into his jacket that he didn’t realize Fugo knew about, and he took a swig whenever no one was watching. Besides Fugo, of course. Bucciarati couldn’t be the only one keeping an eye on him.

The night air was pleasantly cool as they stepped outside the safehouse. Fugo didn’t want to leave it and briefly mourned the all-too-short period of quiet relaxation. He didn’t know when the next one would be.

Fugo stayed at the back of the group. Purple Haze was more effective when there was less danger of him brutally killing his teammates. The Colosseum wasn’t a far walk, but Passione employed a variety of dangerous stand users and Fugo didn’t want to push their luck.

Nearly halfway there, Fugo got another text from Doppio that had him stopping in his tracks.

If you’re in Rome, a team from Passione is about to go after the boss’s daughter. They found out that Bucciarati was protecting her and are planning to attack tonight. I happen to kind of like you, so I figured I would give you a heads up. I told them to take you with them instead of killing you so just go with them and I’ll meet up with you later.

Fugo didn’t know what to do with the information. By the time he had read and reread and then reread the text again, Mista had disappeared around some corner and was no longer in sight. So now he was by himself, his team was about to get attacked and he needed to warn them, and yet he could do nothing but stand there. It was pathetic.

He was a coward. He should run after them, tell them of the danger, but Fugo couldn’t suppress the images flashing through his brain of what he might find. The mangled corpses of his friends – bones broken and limbs twisted at sickening angles, innards spilling, flesh melting from his own stand – usually only haunting his nightmares, given existence and acknowledgement in broad daylight.

And Giorno. God, Fugo had never deserved any of the attention from him. Not when he was this useless, not when he couldn’t do anything to stop it despite it being inevitable. He was so stupid. Of course people were going to come after them. They should have planned more. He should have done more.

He was still standing there being useless when a pair of figures approached him, faces hidden beneath black masks. Fugo did not want to go with them but his body didn’t get the memo and followed behind obediently like a lamb to slaughter.

The two were talking between them, voices low enough that Fugo couldn’t discern any words. They stuck to dark back alleys and Fugo didn’t know where they were going.

One of them turned back towards him and asked, “How loud do you think the girl will scream? She better be worth this shit.”

Fugo finally snapped out of it and saw red. He would never forgive himself if he just stood by while his team was butchered. Purple Haze shimmered into view, violet patchwork still causing Fugo’s stomach to drop, even years later.

It snarled, saliva already beginning to trail down its chin and drip to the ground. His enemies didn’t hesitate and summoned their own stands. One was a vaguely humanoid figure, bulging muscles likely indicating a close-range, power-type stand. The other was a horde of something resembling fish, but multicolored and winged. Fugo thought he caught the sharp glint of teeth poking out of the fish’s mouth and inwardly shuddered.

Fugo took several steps back from his own stand, not willing to get close to the volatile creature. The stand on the right, the humanoid one, leapt towards Purple Haze as if to strike it. Fugo’s stand retaliated by punching it, shattering one of the capsules on its knuckles and releasing the deadly virus.

The enemy stand user shrieked as Purple Haze’s poison devoured his stand, eating away at both of their flesh, leaving only a horrific puddle of human flesh, organs, torn muscles, and half-melted pieces of bone. The smell of the remains was nauseating.

The alley was silent after the final echo of his screams. The other stand user stumbled backwards, nearly tripping before turning tail and bolting. He was around a corner and gone in seconds.

Fugo stared after him, then went the other way, back in the direction of the Colosseum. Purple Haze vanished. Fugo jogged, unsure of directions but wanting to catch up to his team.

He was in the shadow of the looming structure when he heard a commotion. He heard shouting and maybe somebody crying. Then Fugo caught the sickening coppery scent of blood and started sprinting.

Fugo wasn’t ready for the sight that greeted him, and he probably never would be. His team was huddled under one of the arches. Trish was crying. Abbacchio was yelling something, maybe at Giorno. But Narancia was just lying there on the floor, not moving. Not breathing. He was bleeding from his head.

Giorno’s head turned towards him as Fugo came into view. Fugo just stared at Narancia. He was clearly dead. Narancia was dead. And it was all Fugo’s fault.

He took one step back, and then another before he turned his back on his team and ran.

Chapter Text

April 5th - morning

Fugo woke up aching in several places, owing to a combination of both the last fight and sleeping on the hard ground. After he’d run away from the others (like a coward, his mind supplied), he had wandered the streets of Rome in a daze before collapsing in exhaustion under a bridge, the way he often used to do when he was homeless. That had been just before dawn, and Fugo’s watch showed that it was just after 8:30 now.

It took him a moment to remember what had happened. Narancia was dead. And it was his fault. Narancia was dead.

His breath started coming faster and faster, until Fugo was gasping for air. Tremors shook his narrow frame. Then the tears started and they didn’t stop for a long time.

Once his crying finally subsided, he was left feeling numb, a hollow shell of himself. Not that he had really been much more than anger and violence and phantom touches to begin with.

Fugo stood up off the ground despite his body’s protests. He didn’t know where to go or what to do, he just knew he had to do something. He couldn’t be here any longer. Couldn’t risk running into them.

He stumbled his way to the train station and made himself look as presentable as he could before buying a train ticket. Fugo told the attendant he wanted to get as far from Rome as possible and ended up with a one-way ticket to Milan. That was fine. He didn’t particularly care where he went.

The train didn’t leave for another hour so Fugo had time to kill. His phone was dead and he threw it away. The only people he cared about were his team, and they surely hated him now that he had gotten Narancia killed.

Fugo sat on a bench and watched the trains coming in and out of the station. He was in his own world and before he knew it, it was time to go. The train was relatively full, but people gave him a wide berth and no one sat by him.

His emotional outburst from earlier and lack of sleep caught up to him. Fugo had barely laid his head against the window and closed his eyes before he was out like a light. The gentle noise of the train and the quiet chatter around him became the background to his dreams. It was the only decent part.

The familiar but no less shocking nightmares of broken corpses were made much more real and devastating by the addition of Narancia’s still body. His dull, unseeing eyes and unmoving chest were a focal point of this terrible evolution.

Fugo woke up in a cold sweat and knew he would never sleep easily again.

He shifted his gaze out the train window, staring blankly at the passing scenery. The blurred trees and grass were a vibrant, lively green, punctuated by little cottages and farms. It didn’t interest him at all.

Fugo needed to distract himself though. He didn’t want to have another meltdown today, and especially not in public. So instead, he resorted to a trick his grandmother had taught him when he was just an overly emotional child. Math had always comforted him in a weird way. Something about always being able to find a solution and the straightforwardness of numbers cooled his head down.

Two hours later (spent solving various math equations that Fugo vaguely remembered from his university days), the train pulled into the Milan station. It was bustling, with people crowded everywhere. He had to squeeze his way between several people and was grateful when he stepped out into the more open street.

Fugo still didn’t know what he was going to do, but the train ride had helped him calm down. He could come up with a plan now.

First things first, he would need somewhere to stay, some place where no one from Passione could easily find him. To do that, he needed money. His clothes were so torn and dirty that they would have to be replaced. Fugo would also need to eat at some point. Whichever way he looked at it, a source of income was his top priority.

And that … might be difficult. He couldn’t get any run-of-the-mill work anywhere legitimate with background checks, and besides, Fugo was now a homeless teenager with violent tendencies and a prickly personality at best. So it would probably have to be under the table.

Standing outside of the train station wasn’t going to help though, so he picked a random direction and started walking.

Hours later, he had made exactly zero progress. He was still at square one. To begin with, Fugo had no clue where to even start. People weren’t particularly friendly towards him (understandable, but frustrating nonetheless) and one lady had even kicked him out of her cafe for scaring away customers. At this rate, I’ll have to start whoring myself out, he thought to himself. It wasn’t as much of a joke as he wished it was.

He sat down with his back against the wall, needing to take a moment and figure out his plan for the night. The sun was getting ready to set, and pale pink and orange were starting to reflect in the clouds over the horizon. There was a cat digging through a dumpster for scraps, a skinny, bedraggled orange tabby with a torn ear. Fugo watched it and felt an odd sense of companionship with the unfortunate little thing. It seemed like it had lived a rough life too.

Just then, a door a short ways down the alley opened and the cat looked up before bolting. Fugo watched it go and wished it luck. Yellow light slanted through the door and a shadowed figure came in to block it. A woman stepped out, carrying a bulging trash bag.

The woman didn’t notice Fugo until she turned around. At first, she looked annoyed, like she was about to tell Fugo to find somewhere else to loiter. But then she seemed to take in Fugo’s appearance, and her face softened a little.

“Whatcha doing out here, kid?” she called out.

“Nothing,” Fugo answered. It was the truth.

“Are you alright? You look kinda rough,” the woman said. She walked over to Fugo and knelt on the ground next to him. She was older, probably late fifties or early sixties. Her face was kind enough, soft around the edges with fine lines framing her brown eyes. The woman wore a slightly wrinkled blue button up shirt and black jeans with a stained white apron tied around her waist.

Fugo was at his wit’s end, and desperate enough that he actually answered the lady’s question honestly. “Not really.” He left it at that. There was no way he could even begin to describe the last few days.

“Why don’t ya come inside? I own this bar here, come in and I’ll make you something to eat.” When Fugo didn’t get up, she added, “On the house.” Well, who was Fugo to refuse free food? The last time he’d eaten had been at the safehouse the day before.

He stood and followed her into the bar. It was dingy and not very big, but there was a comfortable feeling in the building. The low lighting lent a warmth to the room, and the furniture was tasteful if worn. The walls were covered in band posters and there was a stage in one corner with a beautiful old grand piano off to the side. There were a few other people inside.

The woman went behind the big wooden bar and Fugo shyly sat on one of the leather barstools. She worked quickly, and it wasn’t long before there was a sandwich sitting in front of him. He was ravenous and the food was gone within minutes.

“Say, what’s your name, kid?” she asked once he was done eating and had drank a glass of water. “I’m Polenta, but you can just call me Pol.”

“Fugo,” he said. The woman, Pol, just hummed and busied herself at her station making drinks for customers. Fugo sat there feeling awkward. He wasn’t sure what to do now or what Pol wanted from him. He still didn’t know how he was going to survive this mess, and Fugo didn’t exactly have anyone on his side at the moment.

The old piano in the corner caught his attention. He hadn’t played in … a long time. It would have been well over a year ago when Narancia had found a beat-up, somewhat dented piano that had been thrown out. It worked well enough, if he ignored the broken keys and the fact that it was more than slightly out of tune. Fugo had played every song he remembered for Narancia that sunny afternoon until the other boy had gotten hungry and dragged him home for dinner.

Fugo barely registered when he slid off the barstool and walked across the room to the piano. It really was beautiful, dark stained wood carefully polished and keys kept in pristine condition. The bench that sat in front of the piano was stained the same rich, dark brown and the leather of the seat matched that of the barstools.

He placed his fingers on the keys and recalled one of the songs he had played for Narancia that golden afternoon. Fugo was pleasantly surprised by how much he remembered and his slim fingers danced across the keys as the music filled the bar. He finished the song quickly, much to his disappointment.

As the final note faded into the air, an eruption of applause and excited shouts scared Fugo so badly that he jumped and nearly fell off of the piano bench. A small crowd of people had gathered around Fugo and the piano and had apparently been listening for a time.

Pol was right up at the front of the group and standing next to Fugo. She clapped louder than anyone else and asked Fugo if he would keep playing. At first, he hesitated but Pol’s kind face and maternal demeanor were already comforting; if he could help pay her back for her kindness in any way, then he’d do it. So he kept playing the old piano in that dingy little bar for anyone who would hear it.

At the end of the night, when the last customers had stumbled outside, Pol came and sat down by Fugo. “You have some real talent,” she said. “I’ve never seen this place stay busy for more than a couple hours at a time. Where did you learn to play?”

“Thanks,” he said politely, then a pause. “.... my parents thought it prudent that I learn to play some form of musical instrument so they hired a teacher. I don’t remember his name, but he taught me everything I know about playing piano and reading music.” Fugo didn’t mind answering Pol’s questions as long as they steered clear of a few specific subjects. Like his parents. Or Passione.

“Ah. I think I understand. Not the doting kind of people, I take it?” Pol’s smile seemed to indicate she really did know what she was talking about, and the corners of Fugo’s mouth pulled up, just a tiny bit.

“No, not really. More like rich assholes that care more about saving face than their own son. Needless to say, I got kicked out a couple years ago and I’ve basically been on my own since then.” Fugo was definitely stretching the truth here but he couldn’t tell Pol about Passione, no matter how much he was starting to like her. The organization would absolutely get rid of her without a second thought.

“Have you been living in Milan?” she asked.

“No, Naples. I only got to Milan this morning. I needed a fresh start, you know?” Fugo sincerely hoped that she wouldn’t call the police on him for being a runaway (even though his family couldn't care less) but he had a feeling she wasn’t that kind of person. She proved him right, of course.

“Well, if starting over is what you’re after, how about you stay here and play this piano a couple times a week? I have a spare room upstairs and the extra customers you bring in will easily pay for your room and board. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to have another set of hands around here,” Pol said.

Fugo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A place to stay, food, companionship and his job would be to play the piano and help out around the bar? It sounded too good to be true.

Pol seemed to pick up the reason behind his hesitance. “You know, I was in your shoes once. I would probably still be out on the streets if it weren’t for the previous owner of this place. He took me in and made a very similar deal for me.” She continued, “I’ve never forgotten what he did for me, and I swore I would pay it forward if I got the chance. And, well, here you are.”

The story quelled the last of Fugo’s doubts about Pol. “Then I’d be happy to stay,” he said. And his new life began.