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Chapter Text

Abbacchio was, technically speaking, the head of Giorno’s intelligence team. This was a technicality because, frankly, Abbacchio ended up getting roped into all kinds of shit that had nothing to do with intelligence.

Like, for instance, teaching a fucking baby-faced sixteen-year-old how to drive a motorcycle.

“I know how to drive it,” Giorno insisted for the millionth time since Abbacchio had sternly forced him to step off the bike.

Abbacchio glared at him. “Look, Boss, I know you just read the manual like some kind of nerd and assumed it wasn’t too different form driving a car. You don’t have to lie to me.”

Giorno glared at him, unmoved.

“I’m offering to teach you, kid. I’ve been driving motorcycles since I was eighteen.”

“So, half a century,” Giorno muttered, kicking at a pebble.

Abbacchio’s temper would have flared, but Giorno literally only seemed capable of petty childish insults when Abbacchio was the brunt of them, and he kind of privately thought they were funny. Instead of showing a hint of amusement, though, he scowled. “Watch it.”

“I don’t need to learn to drive a motorcycle if I am adequately capable of driving cars,” Giorno protested.

“Then why’d you pick the stupid motorcycle?”

Giorno shrugged. “I wanted to see what it was like.”

This child. Abbacchio pointed, glaring. “Okay. Get on. It’s time for the Leone Abbacchio School of Safe Motorcycle Driving.”

Giorno pointed at him as he slowly approached the bike. “Prep.”

“Hey. That’s my insult.”

Giorno shrugged unrepentantly and sat on the motorcycle, putting both hands delicately on the handles. “Don’t expect me to listen to you.”

“Sure thing, Boss. First thing is your helmet—”

Hours later, they were sipping from soda cans with plastic colorful straws, exhausted at a picnic bench nearby the discarded motorcycle.

“You’re not terrible,” Abbacchio conceded. “You pass.”

“Thank you,” Giorno said without enthusiasm. “I hate it.”

“What?” Abbacchio asked idly, twirling his straw.

“Motorcycle driving.”

Abbacchio looked up. “Then why the hell did you let me drag you along my lessons for the whole goddamn day?”

Giorno shrugged. “You seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

“I have a job, you know. Responsibilities.”

“Not unless I give them to you.”

“Hey, the sun doesn’t rise and set on you.”

“Interesting hypothesis.”

Abbacchio, despite himself, let out a little huff of a laugh. He leaned over to ruffle Giorno’s hair, if only because he knew how much it pissed him off to have it messed up. Sure enough, Giorno scowled and batted him away in irritation. “You’re impossible. You get to drive us home.”

Giorno sighed in glum resignation, and Abbacchio cheerfully finished his soda.

Chapter Text

It had been several weeks since their impromptu ice cream date, and Fugo had yet to find an appropriate opportunity to take Giorno on a real, planned date. It was understandable, at any rate. They were both very busy people, and Giorno’s decision to play hooky for even just an hour or two to get ice cream had had its consequences.

Now, watching Giorno mingle with some of his more high-status allies and soon-to-be allies across the ballroom, wearing a particularly stunning gold-accented suit and flashing smiles like he was giving charity, Fugo mourned the fact that this couldn’t have been a date.

He was hovering morosely at the edge of the ballroom, trying to keep up the appearance of someone who resented his position and hated Giorno even more for it. He’d never wanted to simply stand next to someone so badly in his entire life.

Sheila E sidled up to him. She was wearing a tuxedo but had lost the jacket sometime early in the night, and her bowtie was undone around her neck. “You probably don’t have to be here.”

“He asked me to be here.” Giorno was uncomfortable during parties and said that his friends’ presences made things slightly better.

Sheila E shrugged. “Alright. You want to mope with me and Trish?”

Fugo let his gaze flick over to where Trish was laughing with Abbacchio. She was wearing a dark red suit that Fugo had sworn he’d seen on the cover of some magazine. He shifted awkwardly. “No. You go have fun.”

“Suit yourself.”

The party dragged on. What felt like hours later, Fugo watched Giorno quietly extract himself from the group of people he was talking to. He strode towards Fugo and brushed past him without looking at him before disappearing out the door. Heart hammering, Fugo only waited a hasty beat before following him outside, down the hall, into the adjacent empty conference room.

Giorno was in his space immediately, but only to reach past Fugo and lock the door. “Hi,” he said, shooting Fugo a tired little smile.

“Hi.” Fugo’s hands had found their way to Giorno’s, and they threaded their fingers together. “Having fun?”

“As much fun as one can have during these things. I wanted to dance with you before the night was over.”

Fugo felt his face go hot. “Oh.”

They could hear the music from the ballroom, muffled and distant. It wasn’t a song that was meant to be danced to, but Fugo nonetheless stepped further into the room, Giorno mirroring him as he backed up with Fugo’s movements. Fugo put his hands on Giorno’s waist, and Giorno put his hands on Fugo’s shoulders, and they just sort of… swayed.

Fugo remembered a day that felt like a century ago, when Giorno had given him a tour of the mansion and Fugo had insisted that Giorno should know how to dance. He laughed quietly at the memory, and Giorno shot him a questioning look.

“I was just remembering the last time we danced.”

“Ah.”

“You have no idea how much of a crush I had on you,” Fugo admitted, smiling.

Giorno’s eyes flashed with satisfaction. “Well, I’m quite a catch.”

Fugo hummed and pulled Giorno closer, causing Giorno to loop his arms around Fugo’s neck. Giorno pressed his forehead to Fugo’s, and Fugo nudged their noses against each other.

“I know you’ve been trying to poke holes in my schedule so that we could find time for a real date,” Giorno whispered. His eyes were closed, and Fugo felt himself flush.

“How’d you know?”

“Mista told me.”

Fugo hadn’t even relayed his plans to Mista. What an annoying, observant motherfucker. He sighed. “I had this idea to take you to an all-night diner outside the city so that no one would recognize us. Romantic, huh?” he said, sarcastic.

Giorno leaned back to tilt his head in consideration. “Yes,” he said without irony.

Fugo felt like crumbling inward and forward. Any time Giorno met his cynicism with something heartfelt and genuine, it felt like the world began to collapse at a singularity in the center of his chest. His fingers twisted to bunch Giorno’s suit at his waist subconsciously.

Giorno smiled ruefully, totally unaware of how Fugo felt like he was possibly dying. “I know this can’t be a real date, and I’m sorry. I’d like to thank you for being patient with me.”

Fugo blinked a few times, trying to reboot his brain. “Giogio, don’t be sorry. We spend as much time together as we can, anyway.”

Giorno hummed distractedly. “After this is over, do you want to go to that diner?”

“Tonight?” Fugo said, shocked.

“Yes.” Giorno lifted himself up on his tiptoes to steal a kiss while Fugo was still staring at him in surprise. His eyes fluttered shut, and he followed the movement involuntarily, even as Giorno let out a soft, fond little laugh, putting a hand on Fugo’s cheek. “We can sneak out while Sheila E is distracted with Trish.”

Giorno’s playful mood was fucking contagious. Fugo grinned. “You rule-breaker.”

“You can wait for me in my room, if you want. If not, I’ll find you when this thing is over.”

“Okay,” Fugo agreed, feeling a little bit helpless as Giorno reluctantly began to withdraw.

“Sir, you have saved my longing,” Giorno whispered, finally releasing Fugo’s hands as the quote left his lips.

“That’s not fair,” Fugo said weakly. He covered his face. “You can’t keep doing this to me. I’ll die.”

Giorno snickered. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

“Okay.”

Fugo stood alone in the conference room for a long, dazed moment before heading for Giorno’s room.

He had a date to prepare for.

Chapter Text

“Are you awake?”

<No.>

Bruno turned on his side, poking Abbacchio in the chest. “Abbacchio.”

<You’re annoying. Go back to sleep,> he signed, then wound both arms around Bruno to keep him pinned against him.

“I’m awake, though.” He managed to free a hand, using it to reach up, grabbing Abbacchio’s face. “Ah-hah! You can’t fool me. You’re smiling.”

Abbacchio gave up his embrace so that he could sign, <Liar.>

Bruno heaved himself to a sitting position, ignoring the way that Abbacchio wound himself around him, putting his head in Bruno’s lap to avoid the inevitable start of the day. “Sun’s up, Abbacchio. Aren’t you a morning person anyway?”

<Up late last night.>

“Excuses.” Bruno was thinking of a good way to motivate Abbacchio into getting up, and then Wolf’s Bane jumped onto the bed, providing the proverbial lightbulb to go off in his head. “We have to walk the dog.”

Sure enough, the crafty fucker had even managed to grab her leash from wherever Bruno had left it the night before. She dropped it into Bruno’s hands.

<Leave me here to die.>

“Okay, drama queen.” Bruno leaned down, and he only hesitated a moment before offering Abbacchio a brief kiss (he was still adjusting to this—whole thing). He used Abbacchio’s distraction to extract himself from the bed, and Wolf’s Bane cheerfully led him to the back door.

Bruno used the established routine of their long morning walk to take a detour to the farmer’s market, the hood of Abbacchio’s stolen sweatshirt low enough to obscure his face, where he bought a handful of vegetables that would be nice in an omelet.

He returned to find that Trish had forced Narancia to watch her favorite movie with her in their pajamas. “Is Abbacchio still asleep?”

<Yes,> Narancia signed. <Can I invite Fugo over later?>

“Sure. He may be on assignment, though.”

<Boring. Come watch the movie with us. I’ll describe it to you.>

Bruno arched an eyebrow. “I’m going to make Abbacchio breakfast, but afterwards I’ll join you.”

<Okay.>

In the middle of making the omelet, Abbacchio wandered into the kitchen, and then proceeded to heavily drape himself over Bruno’s back, face pressed against his neck. “Oh, so we’re awake now?”

Abbacchio shook his head, arms tightening slightly around Bruno’s middle.

“Grab me a plate?”

Abbacchio sighed and reluctantly moved away.

Bruno dumped the omelet onto Abbacchio’s waiting plate, and then smiled up at him. “For you, sir.”

Abbacchio set aside the plate and reached for Bruno’s hands. <You are in a suspiciously good mood.>

“Can’t a man wake up energized?” he said, feeling slightly defensive.

<Did that judgy tree in the backyard finally compliment you or something?>

“Trees don’t compliment anything. They’re bastards, all of them.”

<Weird.>

“I’m just in a good mood,” Bruno said, a little self-consciously. “I’m not incapable of it, you know.”

Abbacchio tugged him closer. <I know. Sorry.>

“Do you have the day off?”

He felt Abbacchio shrug. <Maybe I have some sick days.>

“Well, if you can manage that, we should go to the park today. I want to see if I can figure out what’s wrong with the rose garden there.”

Okay. Abbacchio leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. <I will call Giorno.>

“Sweet. Eat your omelet. Narancia wants to include me in the movie they’re watching.”

<Cute.>

“I know. I love him.” Bruno gave Abbacchio a fond pat on the cheek. “Okay. Good luck convincing the boss you’re sick.”

<Fuck you.>

Bruno pressed a kiss to Abbacchio’s knuckles before he withdrew to the living room. “Fuck you, too, my dear.”

Chapter Text

“Giovanna,” Giorno said curtly, picking up the phone without looking at the caller ID.

There was a moment of noisy breathing before a small voice said, “Hi,” in English.

“Jolyne?” he said in surprise, leaning back from his desk, tearing his attention away from his work.

There was a moment of muffled fumbling, and then a much deeper sigh before Jotaro Kujo said, “Sorry. She gets shy on the phone. You’re on speaker.”

“Oh. Hello,” Giorno said, feeling an ungodly level of awkwardness descend upon him. “How are you?”

Jolyne mumbled something rendered unintelligible by the phone’s speakers, and Kujo said, “Speak up.”

“But dad—”

“I’m not doing it for you.”

There was a long moment of silence, which thankfully allowed Giorno to get his bearings a little bit. He stood up and turned to face the window. He could see Bruno and Mista in the garden, and it was, objectively, a beautiful day. He felt himself relax a little bit.

Finally, Jolyne seemed to collect herself enough to say, “Uncle Giorno, are you coming to Morioh this summer?”

“Morioh?” he repeated.

“The Joestar reunion usually happens there,” Kujo added helpfully. “I sent the email yesterday.”

“Ah,” Giorno said, nodding. “I rarely check my email. I don’t understand it. What are the dates?”

“He said dates,” Jolyne whispered like it was something scandalous.

“Uh. First weekend in June. Plus the preceding Friday and following Monday.”

Four days, several months from now. It was enough notice that Giorno could probably pretty safely prepare for that sort of extended absence. Maybe he could even—

He cut off his line of thought, genuinely shocked that he was seriously considering attending this family reunion. “I’m not sure if I can confirm my attendance,” he said carefully.

“You’re not coming?” Jolyne demanded, sounding genuinely distressed.

“Um—”

“Giorno, don’t feel pressured to come. Jolyne just wanted to ask you.”

“No, feel pressure! I want to learn how you do your braid. Dad sucks at it.”

“I do not suck,” Kujo said, sounding kind of laughably offended.

Giorno rubbed the back of his neck. “Would I—would I be able to bring a plus one?”

“You can bring a plus six for all I care. My old man’s paying for hotel rooms.”

Giorno frowned. “I think I would only need a plus one. No extra rooms.”

“Does that mean you’re coming?” Jolyne demanded in excitement.

“Tentatively. Maybe.”

“What’s tentatively?”

Kujo explained the meaning of the word as best as he could, and Giorno hid a little smile. The door to his office opened, and Fugo stepped inside, tilting his head in curiosity when Giorno held up a finger, telling him to wait.

“Braids aren’t difficult, once you master them,” Giorno added once Jolyne was satisfied with her new definition. “I can teach your father how to do them for you.”

“Teach us both,” Kujo said. “Just in case I’m gone when she wants one.”

“Where are you going?” Jolyne asked rather accusatorily.

“Nowhere. I meant just in case.”

Jolyne huffed. “Uncle Giorno, who are you bringing?”

Giorno reached out a hand, and Fugo walked over, grabbing it reflexively. “My boyfriend, if he wants to come.” Fugo furrowed his brows, looking wary. Giorno squeezed his hand.

“You have a boyfriend?” Jolyne asked.

“Jolyne.”

“Yes,” Giorno said.

“Cool. Bring Trish, too!”

“I’ll see if she’s available,” Giorno said doubtfully.

“Okay. Bye, Uncle Giorno!”

“Bye, Jolyne.”

Kujo audibly took the phone off speaker. “Sorry,” he said, switching to Japanese.

“No need to apologize. It’s very nice that she remembers me.”

Kujo gave a noncommittal hum. “Well, RSVP to the email at your discretion.” There was a conspicuous beat of hesitation. “The rest of the family is—uh—well, they’re good, but they’re a lot to handle. I understand if—”

Giorno closed his eyes, and Fugo tugged at his hand in concern. “I should probably meet them,” he said slowly, warily. “Right?”

He could almost hear Kujo’s frown. “I will not dictate the level of involvement you should have in our lives. It’s your decision. For what it’s worth, though, I think they’ll like you.”

Thrown, Giorno said, “Thank you.”

“Anyway. Jolyne’s running outside without shoes, which I think is my cue to hang up.”

Giorno was startled into a laugh. “Go catch her.”

“Good grief,” Kujo muttered, and the line disconnected.

“What was that all about?” Fugo asked, grabbing Giorno’s other hand.

“Family reunion in Japan this summer,” Giorno said. “Do you think we should go?”

“We?” Fugo echoed, amused.

Giorno shrugged. “I can go alone, I guess.”

“I’m only teasing. Do you want to go?”

“Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

Nodding, Fugo said, “Well, we don’t have to decide right now.”

Giorno’s lips quirked upwards. “We?”

“Shut up,” Fugo said, smiling. “Have lunch with me. We can talk about it more over some food.”

“Alright,” Giorno said, and he let himself be dragged out the door.

Chapter Text

Trish spent the first night of Hanukkah with Narancia, her best friend and the most important person in her life. It helped ease the ache of her first Hanukkah without her mother, and when she sheepishly offered Narancia her clumsy attempt at knitting him a scarf, he threw his arms around her and didn’t let go for a long time.

She spent the second night of Hanukkah with Giorno, both of them hunkering down in his office. Trish showed him how to correctly light the candles as the sun set, and she gave him a pair of pink-tinted designer sunglasses. Giorno thanked her for them and quietly gave her a necklace in return.

On the third night, Trish wrangled Mista into letting her celebrate at his apartment. He was loud and funny and Trish almost forgot how much she missed her mom. She’d gotten Mista a pair of these new shoes called Heelys, and Mista fell over the second he tried them on.

She spent the fourth night of Hanukkah on the roof with Bruno, and the light from the menorah cast unearthly shadows on his face. He said he’d wished he’d known that Trish celebrated the holiday and that he would have gotten her something, and Trish only signed, Nonsense, and gave him the softest blanket she had ever encountered in real life.

Trish had a concert on the fifth night, and she hadn’t had plans to spend it with anyone, but she ran into Fugo on her way home, and Fugo clumsily stammered his way through an uncertain “Chag Sameach,” and Trish hesitantly asked if he’d like to light the candles with her. He agreed, equally hesitant, and Trish didn’t have a gift for him, but then again, she didn’t think Fugo would have wanted anything from her anyway.

She spent the sixth night with Abbacchio. She’d stolen some fancy cookware from an upscale store the last time that they had gone window shopping together, and Abbacchio ruffled her hair and called her a brat in his fondest tone, and then they muddled their way through trying to make latkes together. Trish only burned a few.

On the seventh night, she sat on the mansion’s balcony with Sheila E. “I didn’t know what to get you,” she whispered, embarrassed. “I hope this is okay.” Trying to hide her nerves, she passed Sheila E a wrapped gift, and she carefully opened it and looked up at Trish in surprise, holding up the Ronaldinho soccer jersey.

“How did you know?” Sheila E asked, wide-eyed.

Trish shrugged. “You got super tense when Narancia and Mista started bashing him a few weeks ago. I made a guess.”

Sheila E smiled, and there were tears in her eyes. “My sister wanted to marry him.”

Trish stared at the menorah, hiding a sad smile of her own. “Wear it in good health.”

“Thank you.”

She spent the eighth night of Hanukkah alone, and she lit the menorah herself with shaking hands, and she carefully positioned it in the window, hoping that somehow, someway, her mother could see the lights flaring and flickering and slowly dying down as the night drew on.

Chapter Text

The plant community in Naples had always been strong enough to support even the weakest links. Centuries-old trees sent strength to struggling sapling young. Brash, adolescent rosebushes tried their best to bolster lone tulips. The grass was always greener when there were friends nearby.

There had been nothing quite like Bruno, though.

The plant community helped one another, sure, but this Bruno thing went out of his way to aid the sick, dispatch the dying, and nurture the poor. One of the louder oak trees on the eastern fringe of the community liked to assert that the Bruno thing was the best addition they’d had in hundreds of years, and while any conversation with this particular oak tended to be tiring, no one ever felt the instinctive need to argue this one claim.

Bruno had friends, though. Human friends. They influenced the way he communicated with the rest of them in that funny, overly structured way that always amused the youngest flowers. Some of Bruno’s human friends were unobtrusive and did not matter much to the community. There were others, like the angry, sick, plague-thing that made the community shrink away in fear. But there were also those that even the angriest of plants adored, like the nice human-thing that always brought or made bugs for them.

After all, they were not incapable of open-minded acceptance regarding any potential assets a new member had to offer.

The first time Bruno brought Giorno to the park where his favorite mother tree lived, it had only been with the intent of introducing two friends, of a sort. Bruno communicated with plants in a very different way than he did with humans, and while there wasn’t a lot of language involved, he felt safe in labeling this mother tree a friend.

After some rather clumsy introductions, Bruno and Giorno sat down by the tree’s roots. Bruno and Giorno went about investigating some weed growth when a sudden little thrill of happiness struck the tree.

Bruno looked in Giorno’s direction sharply. “Did you do something?”

<Made some bugs. Sorry.>

Bruno tried projecting some concern towards the tree, but all she offered in response was the linguistic equivalent of a few pleased exclamation points. “I think she liked the bugs.”

<Bugs help E-C-O-S-Y-S-T-E-M security.>

Bruno rolled his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, dry. “Want to help me with a sick spruce tree, bug boy?”

<Yes.>

The community refused to play favorites. But they did like Bruno and his bug human friend quite a bit.

Chapter Text

Giorno and Abbacchio were sitting in the back row of a near-empty movie theater, waiting for a skittish intelligence source to drop in for a covert meeting. Giorno had barely paid attention to the movie, but Abbacchio snickered at his side every now and then, clearly amused by it in some respect.

“I wish I could act that badly,” he whispered to Giorno almost mournfully.

“You sell yourself short. I’m sure you could act as badly as you wanted.”

“Aw, thanks, kid.” Abbacchio elbowed him. “What crawled into your popcorn and died?”

Giorno grimaced. He’d been hoping that Abbacchio wouldn’t have noticed his sour mood, but he supposed that had been too much to ask. He shifted, dropping his head onto Abbacchio’s shoulder so that he could better mumble, “Fugo is mad at me.”

“There, there. Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Alright.”

“I pulled him out of a mission early because I thought it was getting too dangerous,” Giorno said, glaring blankly at the screen. “I’m getting the silent treatment.”

Abbacchio whistled. “Wow. I rarely even got the silent treatment when Fugo was crashing at my place, and I pissed him off a lot.”

“Not helping.”

“I didn’t think I was helping.”

“I hate you.”

Abbacchio sighed. “Look, Boss, speaking as someone who has been their significant other’s subordinate—”

“You were not dating while you were working together.”

Abbacchio ignored him. “—Fugo’s probably just hurt. Thinks you don’t trust him enough or something.”

Giorno arched an eyebrow, lifting his head so that he could give Abbacchio a look. “You have been hurt by Bruno like this.”

Abbacchio shrugged. “That sort of thing’s inevitable. Just explain yourself to him.”

“What was Bruno’s explanation for you?”

Abbacchio smiled his meanest smile. “You may not want to take advice from him on this one.”

“Why not?”

Abbacchio leaned in, and then lowered his voice even more to whisper, “He was not very nice to me.”

Giorno blinked and bit back the startled impulse to laugh. “Is Bruno often mean to you?”

“Sure. I’m mean, too.”

Giorno scoffed. “Please.”

“Hey.”

“I’m not mean,” Giorno said. “I’m very polite.”

“Those aren’t opposites, and between you and me, Fugo knows that.”

“Fugo can be rude,” Giorno allowed, not bothering to address Abbacchio’s statement. “It’s never mean-spirited, though.”

“You’ve got it bad, Boss,” Abbacchio said cheerfully. He passed Giorno his soda, and Giorno took a little sip. “I love Fugo, but he’s a demon child.”

“He is not,” Giorno protested.

Abbacchio shrugged. “I’m just saying.”

“Have you ever made Bruno this upset with you?”

Abbacchio nodded. “Yeah, definitely.”

“Since you’ve started dating?”

He was quiet for a long time. “He gets upset, but not usually at me. He’s working through some shit, you know.”

“Right.”

“And anyway, while I am a man happily in love, I don’t necessarily think I’m the best for relationship advice, generally speaking.”

“Well, I’m not going to ask Mista.”

“God forbid. Just talk to Fugo. Make him listen to you. And, y’know. Trust the kid to get in dangerous situations every now and then.”

Giorno scowled. “You’re stupid.”

“Whatever. You’re lame. Hey, is it just me, or did we get stood up?”

Giorno checked his watch. “We’re definitely being stood up.”

“Yikes. Well, at least we got a movie out of it. Did you see that fake explosion?”

"All explosions are fake if you think about it.”

“Yeah, sure. Totally. Just one really follow-up quick question: what the fuck does that mean?”

“I’m not really following the movie.”

“Oh my god. Pay attention.”

Giorno settled into watching the movie, resigned, and let himself take a moment to stop thinking about anything important.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio nearly made it to his room before collapsing.

It wasn’t really a collapse, though, honestly. He just saw the closed door in front of him, considered the fact that turning the doorknob was one task too many, and slid down the wall to sit on the floor, dazed.

He was only there for a few moments before Wolf’s Bane sat down next to him, nudging her head underneath his hand so that he would scratch behind her ears. He did so absently, and he wasn’t surprised when Bruno followed a few seconds after.

Bruno’s gaze flicked in their direction, and he frowned, nudging them with his toes. “Abbacchio? Did you steal my dog?”

Abbacchio watched Bruno sit down on Bane’s other side. In the dim artificial light of the hallway, he looked even more unreal than usual, like he’d stepped straight out of a dream. Bruno offered his hands before Abbacchio could reach for him, and Abbacchio took a moment to just hold them, running his thumbs across his knuckles. <Bad mission,> he finally signed.

Bruno tilted his head. “Are you hurt? Did someone die?”

<Yes.> He didn’t really feel like elaborating, so he didn’t.

“Uh,” Bruno said, and Abbacchio could physically see the awkward uncertainty descend upon him. He shifted a little bit. “What can I do?”

Abbacchio smiled through his exhaustion. God, he loved this man. <Lie on the floor with me?>

Bruno wrinkled his nose. “Can we at least do that in my room?”

<No,> Abbacchio signed, already slumping to lie down, dragging Bruno with him (much to Wolf’s Bane’s displeasure).

“Ugh, fine.”

Abbacchio went boneless once his back hit the ground, and Bruno reluctantly allowed himself to lie down next to him. After a few minutes of Abbacchio blankly staring at the ceiling, Bruno started fidgeting, and then rolled over, planting a hand on Abbacchio’s chest and grimly saying, “I will carry you to bed.”

<I’m heavy,> Abbacchio protested, <And I like the floor.>

“No, I’m doing this.”

There was a long moment of struggle, but then Bruno lifted Abbacchio up bridal style. Abbacchio let out a very undignified squeak, wrapping his arms tightly around Bruno’s neck in reflexive alarm.

Bruno laughed at him. “Oh, don’t be nervous. I’m strong as shit. Bane, help.”

“Oh my god,” Abbacchio muttered to himself, slightly shell shocked by how little effort Bruno seemed to be exerting to carry him. Bane led them to Bruno’s room, and Bruno put Abbacchio down on the grassy floor.

“This is better,” Bruno declared, and then he pulled Abbacchio into his arms.

Abbacchio was dizzy from blood loss and upset from the day’s failure, but when he closed his eyes and let himself be held, the storm of his mind started to quiet.

“Want to talk about it?”

Abbacchio shook his head, grimacing. There wasn’t much to tell, at any rate.

“Can I do anything to help?” Bruno still sounded uncertain, but less awkwardly so. He ran a hand through Abbacchio’s hair, and Abbacchio barely even winced at the way it snagged against Bruno’s skin.

<Just stay here,> he signed after a minute.

“Alright. I can tell you about my day, too, if that’d help.”

<Yes.>

Abbacchio kept his eyes shut and listened while Bruno went through each moment of his day. While he listened, he absently started to trace the letters of Bruno’s name onto his collarbone, and Bruno wrapped his arms tighter around him.

Abbacchio fell asleep on the grassy floor to the sound of the voice of the love of his life, and when he dreamed, he dreamed of flowers that bloomed in the dead of night.

Chapter Text

Abbacchio had stalled for as long as humanly possible before going to check in with Giorno, which honestly meant that he spent twenty minutes trying to get Mista to assign him to some urgent task without success before dreadfully making the slow and suddenly ominous trek to Giorno’s office.

He took his sweet time opening and quietly closing the door, finally casting his most suspicious glance in Giorno’s direction as the door shut.

As ex-fucking-pected, Giorno was sitting at his desk, hands clasped together, with the dumbest little evil bastard smile on his face. “I wasn’t expecting you to come in so early today.”

“Why,” Abbacchio demanded flatly.

“No reason,” Giorno said innocently. “Do anything fun last night?”

“No.”

“Really? Interesting. Very interesting.”

Abbacchio scowled, throwing himself peevishly into the seat in front of Giorno’s desk. “Okay, out with it. We’re not gonna get shit done until we murder the elephant in the room.”

“Animal cruelty, Abbacchio,” Giorno chided, unmoved, clearly delighting in the moment. “I just think it’s interesting that Fugo said—”

“What did he say?” Abbacchio asked warily. In the moment, Fugo’s shock and awkwardness at the black lipstick on Bruno’s face had been hilarious and amazing, but the implications of their witness sunk in slowly while Abbacchio had laid awake last night, ruminating in the events of the day.

Giorno’s smile flashed slightly more genuine for a fraction of a second before he said, “He likes you back, huh?” and Abbacchio thought, Evil boy. Evil.

“He didn’t frame it like that,” Abbacchio muttered.

“Don’t be embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed.”

Giorno stood, beginning to leisurely pace across the room, and Abbacchio suddenly understood every single man and woman that had bowed to the sheer force of Giorno’s charisma. He crossed his arms. Giorno was looking out the window when he said, “You are very stupid.”

“I’m your head of intelligence, so that makes you double-stupid.”

Giorno arched an eyebrow, ignoring this. “It’s nice that you gave Bruno time to come to terms with his crush, but you do know that he’s had feelings for you for a long time, right?”

Feelings. Abbacchio shrunk down in his chair, annoyed. “I don’t see how that would matter.”

Giorno hummed, turning back to face him. “It just means that you’re stupid, is all.”

“I hate you so much.”

Giorno grinned—a rare expression on his face—and Abbacchio refused to react to it. “If Bruno’s your boyfriend now, does that mean that I can have the guest room back for when I sleep over there?”

“No. That’s Bruno’s room. We worked hard on it. You were there.”

“Can I have your room, then?”

“No, Jesus. You’re moving way too fast.” Abbacchio scowled. “Don’t you have, like, two rooms here anyway? You’re being greedy.”

“Bruno would let me have your room.”

“Bruno’s not here.”

“Oh, do you want me to bring him in? Do you miss him already?”

Abbacchio groaned, putting his face in his hands. “You are the worst,” he said when Giorno laughed. “I didn’t do this to you after I picked you up from that ice cream date,” he did not whine. He was not being petulant. He was not.

Giorno shrugged, unrepentant. “Your loss.”

A lightbulb went off in his head, and Abbacchio straightened, offering Giorno his meanest smile. Giorno’s expression collapsed from smug to wary in an instant, and Abbacchio made sure to keep his tone pleasant when he said, “I guess we can go on a double date, then.”

Giorno blinked, then glared. Abbacchio couldn’t entirely smother the bark of laughter at the sudden shift of his mood. “Alright, discussion over. Debrief me on yesterday’s findings now.”

Abbacchio changed the subject because unlike Giorno, he was a very nice fucking person.

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Trish said, startling the hell out of Sheila E as she draped herself over the back of the armchair that Sheila E was reading in. “What are you doing?”

Sheila E stared at Trish and then stared down at the play she was reading in mortification. “I didn’t actually mean to read this,” she said, horrified at herself.

“What is it?” Trish reached for the book, but Sheila E tilted it to show the cover before she had to grab it. “King Lear? Isn’t that one of Giorno’s favorites?”

“Fugo threw it at me,” Sheila E said, “and I kept it. Shit. Am I a nerd now?”

Trish laughed, and the sound was so pretty that Sheila E’s insides physically seemed to constrict with it. “No,” she said, sounding terribly amused. She nodded at the page. “What’s it about?”

“Evil women trying to take their dad’s throne, mostly,” Sheila E admitted, and then smiled. “I kind of get the appeal. Like. Listen to this.” She held up the page that she’d gotten stuck on and read, “—General, take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony; dispose of them, of me. The walls is thine. Witness the world that I create thee here…” She paused, internalizing the words all over again. “Doesn’t that go kind of hard?”

“Yeah,” Trish admitted, “though I don’t think I really get it.”

Sheila E shrugged. “It’s just that this lady has basically successfully carried out this whole war, and she is so into this guy that she wants to give everything she has and everything she’s won over to him, even herself.”

“That’s kind of sad, though, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, but I kind of get it, too.”

Trish stared at her for a long moment, and Sheila E aggressively refused to look back at her. She shut the book and tried not to show any other emotions. “About Giorno?” Trish finally asked, haltingly.

“Oh. No. I’m devoted to him in a different way.”

Trish huffed. “Alright, stay secretive, whatever.” She vaulted herself over the back of the arm chair and half-landed on Sheila E, who tried her best to casually make more room for her. “Want to hang out?”

“Yes,” she said, much-too quickly. Trish smiled brightly at her, and Sheila E’s heart pounded hard enough to split her chest. In that moment, she thought that creating the whole world for Trish wouldn’t even be enough.

“Oh, good. I bought us tickets to something.”

“To what?”

“It’s a surprise! Come on.”

Sheila E followed Trish out of the library, and she left King Lear on the chair.

She didn’t need to know how it ended.

Chapter Text

“You’d think Giorno would have stopped putting us on missions together by now,” Mista groused, struggling to yank off the bloody mess of his shirt.

Fugo winced internally, probing at the still-bleeding cut on his forehead. “He’s optimistic.”

“In us working well together?” Mista demanded, incredulous. He yelped as the shirt finally tore free. “Ow! Fuck!”

Fugo threw the bottle of disinfectant at him. “In us being friends again.”

Mista shot him a little glare, getting to work on cleaning up his injuries. “Don’t push your luck, plague boy.”

“I hate it when you call me that.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s why I do it.”

They were taking a minute to get their shit together in Mista’s room. The mission had been a success, technically, but everything had gone wrong at literally every step of the way, and Fugo could feel their mutual exhaustion like a tangible presence. He carefully sat down on Mista’s window seat and stared out at the garden. He could see Giorno and Sheila E down there, talking as they walked through the grounds.

“I don’t know what to do to make you see me when you look at me again,” Fugo said quietly, not looking away from the garden. He heard Mista stop rummaging around, though, and the silence pulled taught.

“You don’t get to make me feel guilty for resenting you,” Mista finally said, upset. “That’s not how this works.”

“Sorry,” Fugo said. He bit his lip, hard, to keep from starting a ramble. Mista didn’t want to hear it.

The door to his room opened, and Narancia entered without announcing himself. “Oh, dipshits, did you both get hurt?” he asked casually, throwing himself onto Mista’s bed.

Fugo watched Mista’s expression crumble into fondness. “Fugo’s fault.”

“I think it was more of a collective effort.”

Narancia snickered. “Dipshits,” he said again. He reached out a hand in Fugo’s direction, and Fugo approached with put-upon wariness, unsurprised when Narancia grabbed him and yanked him onto the bed, wrestling him into a hug.

“Don’t get blood on my sheets,” Mista whined. “The laundry room is all the way at the end of the hall.”

“You do laundry?” Fugo said sarcastically.

Mista grinned. “Only every other year.”

They both abruptly realized they’d fallen back into old banter habits, and Fugo watched in desolation as Mista’s expression went hard. “I’ll wash the sheets,” Fugo offered quietly. “Sorry.”

“God, you’re so depressing,” Mista exploded.

“Part of his charm,” Narancia commented, winding his arms tighter around Fugo.

“How can you forgive him so easily, Narancia? I don’t fucking get it. Everyone’s acting like it’s normal that he’s back, like nothing ever happened. I don’t get it!”

Narancia went quiet. “Being angry made me sad. I don’t like being angry.”

“But that doesn’t mean you can just—pretend that nothing happened.”

“I don’t pretend. Fugo isn’t my best friend anymore.”

Fugo’s teeth clicked together painfully. That one hurt.

Narancia elbowed him, hard. “I’m not yours either, don’t be such a drama queen. The whole fucking year has forced us into different people. We’re changing, y’know?”

Mista sat heavily on the edge of the bed, staring at them with a bit of a desperate edge to his gaze. “Fugo, you suck,” he despaired.

“Sorry,” Fugo said, and his throat felt tight, his words thick. “It wasn’t for lack of love, you know, my leaving. I was—”

Both Narancia and Mista were staring at him with such intensity that the words began to die in his throat, but then Mista stuck his foot up on the bed to kick him lightly, and the block started to clear.

“My fear rooted my feet in place. After you left, I didn’t move from that spot for hours. Ages. My whole life, it felt like. I was a coward. That’s all.”

“Jeez, lighten up,” Mista said, voice hoarse.

“I came here to bitch at you and cuddle with my bros,” Narancia announced, “And I don’t know about you, Mista, but I’m done bitching for now.”

Fugo and Mista stared at each other. The thing that was broken between them was still broken, but Fugo felt like he could see the shape of it, now, like maybe there was an end, or a way out, or a way through. Something. Mista’s gaze flicked to Narancia and back to Fugo, and they watched the tension drain from his shoulders.

“Fine,” he said, scooting closer to them. “But only for now.”

Fugo yelped in alarm when Mista tackled them, and Narancia laughed loudly straight into his ear, and he couldn’t wipe the dumb smile off his own stupid face.

Chapter Text

Sheila E wasn’t sure if she had ever been meant to discretely extract herself from these situations, but she figured that it was too late now. She’d stared at the ceiling of the Speedwagon Foundation while Fugo and Giorno snuggled and whispered at each other into the early hours of the morning. She’d been in Giorno’s office for conversations that were surely best left private. Surely, it was too late for her. Fugo and Giorno’s relationship was going to be forever immortalized as FugoandGiorno and also Sheila E.

Now, she sat between them on their favorite debriefing bench (she hated that she knew they had a favorite) and glared at the sunset while Fugo and Giorno spoke quietly about whatever dumb task force that Fugo had been assigned to this time.

“Why am I sitting between you?” she said out loud.

Fugo and Giorno paused, and their gazes zeroed in on her. “I don’t know,” Giorno said, puzzled. “Why does anyone do anything?”

Sheila E frowned at him. Her hero worship of Giorno was a slow thing to wear off, but it was statements like these that really helped the process along. “This feels like a date,” she said, rather bravely, she thought.

Giorno blinked at her, and Fugo tried to hide a bark of laughter on her other side. “Sheila E, I thought you knew that Fugo and I were dating.”

“Oh my god,” she said, nearly whining. “Not that. You and Fugo having a date, and me sitting in between you. What the hell is up with that?”

“Huh. We do do that, don’t we?” Fugo said sheepishly.

“Absurd,” Giorno said, but Sheila E could see the wheels turning in his head, and doubt flickered into his expression. “I suppose our business meetings are not typically strictly-business, though.”

Sheila E stood up, turning to face them both. “What if you two had your not-strictly-business meetings alone. Say, at a candlelit restaurant, while I eat dinner at the shitty pizza place near the mansion.”

Fugo and Giorno exchanged a glance. “We didn’t think of that,” Giorno admitted, but Sheila E could see him warming to the idea.

“That can’t be good for our reputations, though,” Fugo muttered.

“We knew your traitorous image could only last so long,” Giorno offered. “Perhaps it’s time.”

“I meant your reputation. You can’t be seen with attachments.”

Giorno frowned. “I think I’ll be fine.”

“Maybe you two could figure out the details over this nice dinner,” Sheila E suggested, sounding annoyed despite herself.

She got twin scowls as a reward. “You really hate spending time with us that much?” Fugo demanded, and Sheila E warily catalogued the beginnings of a temper flare.

Good thing she wasn’t fucking scared of him anymore. “No, idiot. I hate third wheeling on your literal dates. I love you both, and I think you’re good for each other. I just don’t think I need to chaperone your entire relationship.”

“You love us?” Fugo echoed, and any trace of anger drained from his body.

She rolled her eyes. “I take it back now.”

Giorno stood from the bench, and Fugo followed. “You’re right. I should have taken this into consideration once we started dating. That is my fault, and I apologize.”

Sheila E shifted in discomfort. “It’s not a big deal.”

Fugo rolled his eyes and shoved her, lightly. She kicked him in the shin, hard. Fugo winced, but he said, “I offer you a piggy-back ride to the car as reparations.”

“Deal,” she said, much-too quickly, immediately launching herself at Fugo’s back. He stumbled with the momentum, and Giorno gave a quiet little laugh, eyes alight. “Also. Bring me some take-out home from this fancy restaurant.”

“Sure,” Giorno agreed.

“And give me the day off tomorrow. I want to take Fugo to the soccer game.”

“I can come to that, surely,” Giorno protested.

“I think Sheila E wants it to be a BFF outing,” Fugo commented, shifting his grip on Sheila E’s legs. “No boyfriends allowed.”

“Aw,” Giorno complained, pouting.

“Back up, dude. Did you just call our plans tomorrow a BFF outing?”

“Is that not what it is?”

“Well,” she sputtered, “I have never expected those words to come out of your stupid mouth.”

“I can be surprising!”

Giorno coughed to hide a laugh, and Sheila E watched Fugo shoot him a little glare without any heat. “You have the day off, both of you,” he said to them, voice thick with amusement. “I’ll just sub in Abbacchio.”

“Thank you, Giorno,” Sheila E said quietly, voice coming out much more serious than she had intended.

Giorno’s expression softened visibly. “Of course.”

Fugo only dropped her once before they reached the car.

Chapter Text

“Why are you moping?” Bruno asked, nudging Fugo’s thigh with his toes. He was lying on the ground outside of Bruno’s house, glaring at the sky and trying to keep Purple Haze from manifesting with some of the dumb breathing techniques Murolo had tried to teach him.

Fugo clenched his jaw, waiting for Bruno to sit down so that he could reach his hands without moving much. He worked through the suffocation of his anger for a long moment before signing, <Angry at Giorno.>

Even the use of his sign-name, delicate and lovely and so, so accurate, made Fugo clench his jaw.

Bruno gave him a blank stare. He fidgeted for a moment. Opened his mouth. Closed it. “Let’s take a ride over to the park.”

Fugo’s temper spiked, and he felt Purple Haze twitch forward, but he relentlessly shoved him away. He didn’t want to go to the fucking park, but Bruno was already standing up, Wolf’s Bane shooting Fugo a curious look before trotting happily to catch up with Bruno.

Fugo sat up. He took a deep breath. Bruno was unequivocally the best when it came to addressing Fugo’s anger (aside from, perhaps, Sheila E), which was why Fugo came here in the first place. Bruno clearly had an idea of what to do, so Fugo gave Purple Haze the mental equivalent of a stern look and hopped into the driver’s seat of Abbacchio’s car.

He couldn’t sign to Bruno while driving, and Bruno took the opportunity to hum a nonsensical song. Fugo wasn’t even sure Bruno knew he was doing it.

The park wasn’t super far away, and when they climbed out of the car, Bruno and Wolf’s Bane led them to the little pond at its center.

They stood side-by-side, awkward. “Want to, uh, throw rocks at the pond?” Bruno finally asked.

Fugo blinked. He felt a marked difference from the last time Bruno had been faced with his anger. Good, Bruno had said, You should be angry. Use it, though. Control it. He blinked again, and Bruno had groped around for a little rock and was now holding it out for Fugo.

Fugo grabbed it with hesitant hands. “Throw it,” Bruno said, much easier now that Fugo had taken the rock.

He contemplated the rock for a blank moment—more of a pebble, truly—and then chucked it as hard as he could at the water’s surface. Wolf’s Bane gave a startled little growl at the sudden movement.

When Fugo turned back to Bruno, he had another rock. Fugo threw again.

This went on for several minutes until Fugo felt, pathetically, rather exhausted. He sat down heavily on the bank, and Bruno carded a hand through Fugo’s hair before following.

“Better?” Bruno asked uncertainly.

Fugo grabbed his hands. <I hate being angry at him.>

“I know,” Bruno said quietly, and Fugo dropped his head between his shoulders, more angry with himself now than Giorno.

<I never get angry at him.>

“I know.”

<I don’t know what to do.>

“Oh, Fugo,” Bruno whispered, and Fugo’s face twisted in effort to keep from crumpling. Bruno gently knocked their heads together, and Fugo felt his face crumple anyway. “Well, you can always come to me.”

<I know.>

It wasn’t a fix to the problem, and both of them knew it, but they’d known each other for a long time. Bruno knew the shape of Fugo’s anger almost as well as he knew Fugo himself, and there was undeniable comfort in that. They sat for a while, Bruno wrapping an arm around Fugo’s shoulders, and Fugo slowly let his mind fill with numbing, almost pleasant static. There were rocks all around them on the ground, he noticed. Fugo silently grabbed one, rolling it between his fingers.

He exhaled and handed it to Bruno.

Chapter Text

“So,” Fugo said.

Trish tried to hide a cringe and knew she was unsuccessful when Fugo’s mouth shut with an audible click. They had both been in Giorno’s office when he’d gotten an urgent call from Abbacchio and disappeared with a quiet, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” That had been twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes of Trish leafing through a magazine while trying to pretend she wasn’t hyper-aware of Fugo pacing in front of Giorno’s desk.

“Never mind,” Fugo mumbled.

Trish stared at him. People probably liked him for a reason. Narancia was a huge fan of how much of a dick he was, “but in, like, a caring way.” Giorno was obviously in love with the guy. Sheila E had even once described their friendship as “soul-bond level bullshit.” But all Trish could see when she looked at him was dark circles under restless eyes and tacky holes in an old suit.

Her staring was clearly making him uncomfortable, and Trish leaned back, inclining her head, knowing she had full command of the room. “No, what is it?”

Fugo blinked, clearly surprised. “Uh. What magazine are you reading?”

Trish placidly lifted it so that he could read the cover, and he nodded robotically a few times. “Why are you so nervous?” she asked, and she could hear the iciness of her own tone.

“Um,” Fugo said. His hands fluttered around in aimless, wordless gestures. But then Trish arched an unimpressed eyebrow, and she watched in fascination as his demeanor collapsed into something more blank and professional. He tucked his hands into his pockets. “I’m a little afraid of you,” he said matter-of-factly.

“Ah,” Trish said, kind of pleased. “Good.” She patted the arm of the chair she was using and beckoned Fugo to sit. “Come take this personality test with me.”

Fugo approached and sat on the arm of the chair as if Trish was some kind of sleeping bear. He hesitantly peered at the page. “What Kind of Man is Your Soulmate?” he read, voice totally blank.

Trish snickered. “Yeah.”

“I don’t need a quiz for that.”

“Nobody needs a quiz for anything. It’s dumb and it’s fun. Or are you allergic to that sort of thing?”

Fugo scowled. “I can be dumb and fun,” he snapped.

“Fucking prove it, then.”

Fugo took the quiz with the stoicism and concentration of a goddamn robot. Trish tried her best not to roll her eyes at every single answer. “There,” he said as he finished, sounding smug.

Trish checked his answers. “Okay. Results are in. Magazine wants you to marry a Mister Rogers.”

“Well, that just can’t be right,” Fugo complained.

“Face it, man. You’re boring.”

“I’m not boring.”

“Okay, sure, let’s pretend I believe that. Would you let me pick your outfit for your next date?”

Trish watched with glee as the color drained from Fugo’s face. “Fine,” he croaked with noticeable difficulty.

Trish felt the smile spread so wide it nearly cracked her face. “Oh. Sweet. I can’t fucking wait.”

Before Fugo could say anything more, Giorno returned, and Trish buried her face in her magazine to plot in silence.

She had some ungodly abominations in her closet that she couldn’t wait to use.

Chapter Text

“Giorno?” Bruno said, ducking into his office after Bane. “I’ve gotta talk to you about the weeping willow you put in the garden. Its attitude is frankly unbelievable. I think we should—”

He cut himself off. There was something odd about the atmosphere of the office. It was too still. Usually, Giorno would approach him right away.

“Should I come back later?” he asked hesitantly. Bane nudged his hand, and then he knew something was wrong. “Do you want me to get Abbacchio?”

Bruno was startled when the ghostly sensation of hands grabbing his own came out of nowhere, and he flinched back. The hands released his, and Bruno took a moment to calm himself down. A stand, he realized, Giorno’s stand. He reached out again.

<Giorno is unavailable,> Gold Experience Requiem signed with the same careful slowness that Giorno himself employed.

“Unavailable? Isn’t he in here?” Bruno asked, puzzled. He was, in all honesty, also a little bit put-off by how separate Gold Experience Requiem seemed from Giorno himself, but that was perhaps an existential question for another day.

<Yes.>

“Then, I’m afraid I do not understand.”

Gold Experience Requiem hesitated with notable uncertainty and signed, <He is upset.>

Bruno blinked, and he approached Giorno’s desk with hesitation, feeling along its table until he reached Giorno’s usual chair. Sure enough, he could feel the heat of a body sitting there, but he refrained from reaching for Giorno’s hands. If Giorno himself couldn’t reach for Bruno, Bruno considered that a touch may not be welcome at the moment. “What happened?” he asked in a whisper.

Gold Experience Requiem was still hovering at his side, and when it began signing again, Bruno got the startling impression that its hands were shaking just a little bit. <Mom called.>

Giorno’s mom? Giorno never talked about his life before the gang, and Bruno had sort of just assumed that he was an orphan. “Did she say something?” he asked after what felt like an eternity.

<We didn’t pick up the phone.>

“Ah.”

<We know what she would say.>

Bruno sat down on the edge of Giorno’s desk, right next to the chair. “Can I do anything to help? I could go scare her if you want.”

<No,> Gold Experience Requiem signed with extreme haste. Then, again, more deliberately, <No.>

Well, that covered about the extent of Bruno’s expertise. He fidgeted, nervous, and then he started to ramble. “I don’t actually know much about moms if I’m being honest. I haven’t spoken to my mother since before you and I met. I’m sure she thinks I’m dead. Well, I am. Sort of. Uh, she’s not a bad mom, we just kind of lost touch. She loves me, and, well, I don’t know, I’m not sure what to say. Relationships with your parents can be, uh, complicated. They don’t need to define you, though, I guess is what I’m trying to say. Uh. I can take you out for ice cream if that’d make you feel better. Or, well, I can walk with you to get ice cream. I think you’d probably have to buy it, considering…” Shut up, shut the fuck up. He closed his mouth. “Um.”

<Thank you,> Gold Experience Requiem signed. <Giorno is watching you. I think your presence is helping.>

Bruno wanted to ask what the line was between Giorno and Gold Experience Requiem, but now obviously wasn’t the time. Instead, he said, “I don’t even like ice cream. Not that I eat anymore. God, Giorno, I’m not sure how to be here for you. I guess I can just keep talking. Did you know that I’ve forgotten the sound of my own voice? It’s fucking strange not to be able to hear yourself talk, but then again, I haven’t heard myself for maybe more than a year, now. Sometimes it feels more natural to just sign. Maybe I should start doing that more often.”

Bruno continued rambling, not even sure what he was saying anymore. Wolf’s Bane snuggled up at Giorno’s feet because that was what she did when Bruno zoned out for long stretches of unresponsive time, and he couldn’t sense the hovering presence of Gold Experience Requiem anymore.

After an eternity, Giorno’s hands, trembling and hesitant, grabbed Bruno’s own, and they both went still. <Thank you,> Giorno signed after a long moment.

“Of course. Anything,” Bruno said.

<Ice cream,> Giorno signed, faltering on the signs enough to make them difficult to understand, but Bruno was good at this by now.

“Yeah. I think we have vanilla in the kitchen.”

Giorno gave his hands a feeble squeeze, and Bruno let out a sigh of relief. They were going to be fine.

Chapter Text

Narancia wasn’t sure how exactly they’d made the journey from the Colosseum to the almost entirely empty no-name diner, but he didn’t think it was that important. He rubbed absently at his chest, feeling for an ache that didn’t belong to his body as he stared at Giorno without comprehension.

“Should we order?” Mista said, looking religiously at his menu. “You think this place has waffles? Sex pistols hasn’t tried waffles before.”

Narancia gave him a distracted pat on the shoulder, unable to otherwise reply. He looked from Giorno, who was sitting extremely still, hands clasped tightly together, over to Bucciarati, whose eyes were clouded over, shoulders hunched up to his ears. “Man, what a week,” Narancia heard himself say.

“It’s only been a week?” Trish demanded, half-mournful. She seemed to be the most cheerful (or at least just energetic) of all of them, tapping her fingers against the tabletop.

“I have a question,” Narancia said after another stretch of silence, “and it may be stupid.”

Everyone looked at him. He recognized the blankness in a lot of their faces. He felt a reciprocal sort of blankness, and the echoing nothingness of it all was actually kind of nice.

Narancia looked at Giorno. “Are you in charge now?”

Giorno blinked very slowly, impassively. But it was Bucciarati who answered: “He’s been in charge.”

“Excuse me?” Abbacchio said, glancing between Giorno and Bucciarati with a low-simmering rage that made Narancia, stupidly, kind of miss Fugo.

“I was following him,” Bucciarati mumbled. Narancia watched him scrub a hand across his eyes in the approximation of exhaustion. “He wanted to kill the Boss from the start.”

“So, you did this,” Abbacchio said, tone sharp, turning to Giorno (who happened to have the misfortune of sitting next to him).

Giorno met his fury with a slight inclination of his head. “It was his choice.”

Abbacchio stood, chair scraping noisily on the floor, and Narancia saw Giorno try and hide a flinch. “Abba, shut up,” he heard himself snap.

Abbacchio turned his glare on Narancia. “He manipulated us. He led us to our deaths. You almost died, brat, are you really just going to—”

“I said shut up,” Narancia shouted, breathing harshly. “We all made the choice to follow.”

Abbacchio went still, and then abruptly sat down, putting his face in his hands. “Jesus,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Jesus.”

Narancia glanced at Mista, who was still staring at his menu in clear discomfort. “Maybe not waffles,” he whispered, voice thin. “Maybe—”

“I don’t get what the big deal is,” Trish said, “We all trust Giorno with our lives, right?”

Everyone looked at Abbacchio who, shockingly, did not rise to deny the claim. Instead, he said, “We joined this fucking crusade or whatever it is to follow Bruno.”

“I’m dead, though.”

“Don’t fucking say that.”

“Enough,” Giorno said, tone sharply authoritative in a way that was incredibly different from Bucciarati’s authoritative tone but somehow just as effective. The table went still and silent. “I thank you all for putting your lives in danger to assist me in killing Diavalo,” he said carefully. “I do not expect you to continue to follow me. In fact, I hope you all retire.”

“Whoa, hey, now,” Mista said, finally putting his menu down. “Who said anything about retiring? This is literally the only job I’m qualified for.”

“It is your decision,” Giorno said, tone ever-so blank. “But you have all done more than enough. If you want to spend the rest of your life sailing on a yacht, I will finance this.”

“You’re fifteen. What the fuck do you know about finance?” Abbacchio groused.

Giorno shrugged. “I know enough.”

“I’m retiring,” Narancia announced, “but not because I don’t trust you. Just because I think I’m done being in a gang.”

Giorno nodded. “I will help you return to school, if you require assistance.”

“You’re a fucking pain,” Abbacchio muttered. He opened his mouth to spout another insult, but shut it with a painful-sounding click when the waiter finally approached their table, looking suitably nervous about intruding upon the tense energy. Narancia sympathized.

Mista ordered enough waffles for the whole table, and by the time the waiter wandered off, everyone had relaxed just a tick into the normalcy of it. Narancia and Trish had slumped against each other’s sides, half-awake.

He watched Abbacchio sink into silence, which was infinitely better than him yelling, and he watched Bucciarati stay unnaturally still, staring unseeingly at the grimy table-top, and he watched Giorno watch them all, painfully aware that he was indebted to each of them for life.

Hopefully, he’d pay for breakfast.

Chapter Text

Giorno preferred not to interrogate people when he could avoid it, but the traitor had gotten into both Fugo and Mista’s heads—he knew things about them that he wielded against them with such poised ease that Giorno stepped in himself to end things before either of them could get too upset.

When he was unconscious, Fugo kicked at his shoe distastefully, and Giorno said, “The curses he shall have, the tortures he shall feel, will break the back of man, the heart of monster.”

Mista gave him a weird look. “Dude.”

“What is it?”

“Autolycus? Really?”

Giorno opened his mouth. Closed it. “You’ve read The Winter’s Tale,” he said, semi-accusatory.

“I went to high school, unlike the rest of you.”

“I went to high school,” Fugo protested. He was staring at Mista, wide-eyed. “Have you understood all of my—”

“Gross, no,” Mista said. “I try and block out your weird Shakespeare flirting, but we’re getting off topic. Autolycus, Giorno?”

“He has some beautiful lines of dialogue,” Giorno said defensively. His gaze flicked to Fugo in a wordless plea for help, but Fugo appeared to be stuck on the fact that Mista had read Shakespeare at all.

“Dude, that line was a lie, too, meant to manipulate that Shepherd guy. The Shepherd didn’t actually do anything wrong. Like, sure, the words are pretty, but this guy,” Mista said, gesturing towards the unconscious traitor, “doesn’t deserve to be the recipient of that sort of language. He actually sucks.”

Giorno narrowed his eyes in annoyance. “How do you know that scene so well?”

“Had to memorize it for a school project,” Mista said dismissively.

“You had to memorize the longest scene in Shakespeare’s canon,” Fugo said in flat incredulity.

“Part of it, anyway.” Mista tilted his head. “I’m not done, also. I resent any implication that you and Autolycus have a single thing in common.”

“My quoting this line was not meant to have any—”

But Mista was on a roll, evidently. “Autolycus is, like, the master of disguises in a play about disguises. And he sucks. You two are nothing alike.”

“Who do you think would be a better comparison, then?” Fugo asked, looking annoyed but also weirdly intrigued.

Mista laughed. “Easy. Obviously, Perdita.”

“Oh, come on,” Giorno said, and he did not pout.

Mista nodded. “Perdita,” he pointed at Giorno. “Florizel,” he pointed at Fugo and grinned.

Fugo blinked, stunned. At that, Giorno smiled. “Oh. That’s okay, then.”

“And I,” he began, spreading his hands magnanimously, “am the Clown.”

“Why the hell would you want to be the Clown?” Fugo asked in fascination.

“He’s funny and gets to see a dude get eaten by a bear.“

Giorno sighed. “Fine. I retract my Autolycus quote.”

“Thank you.”

“Out of curiosity,” Fugo began after a slight pause, “Which other plays have you read?”

Mista’s eyes lit up. “I’m not telling. You’re just gonna have to live in suspense.”

Fugo shot Giorno a vaguely panicked look, and Giorno shook his head. It was fine. They couldn’t live their whole lives only quoting Shakespeare. Perhaps, they could find another book to read together.

Giorno patted Mista on the shoulder. “Wake him up,” he said, nodding to the traitor, “and then take a break. I will finish this.”

“You got it, bro.”

Chapter Text

Fugo collected the story in bits and pieces.

He heard vague, painful references to Narancia’s injuries in Mista’s aborted stories, saw the scars on Giorno’s chest, witnessed the dread that clouded Narancia’s face whenever something sharp came near.

He knew the shape of Bruno’s death as much as anyone could. Abbacchio had actually told him about his own brush with death himself, mostly, Fugo gathered, in the aim of illustrating Trish’s importance to their little family, but Fugo had known that by then, and most of what stuck with him was the horror of how close he’d come to being lost.

He knew that Giorno had done something with the Requiem arrow, obviously. But that was it, really. Giorno didn’t like to talk about his confrontation with Diavalo.

Back during the whole Massimo Volpe incident, Sheila E said, “People say Giovanna just obliterated him from existence. They say his stand could break the universe.”

Once, when Murolo was taking them out for dinner, he’d said, “I don’t know how many people actually believe that Giovanna was always the boss. You hear things about the day at the Colosseum, you know? We know something happened that should have never happened.”

He heard similar whispers when he got sent out on missions. People feared Giorno in this awe-stricken sort of way that never failed to make Fugo feel contemplative and uncomfortable. He’d seen Giorno with and without the Requiem arrow, and while he always had the potential to be something to fear, Fugo himself had never feared him, had never even wanted to.

“Giorno,” Fugo said. He was sitting, cross-legged, on Giorno’s bed while Giorno sorted through his closet, looking for a good suit for the function they were planning on crashing tonight. Giorno glanced back at him, curious. “Do you know what you did to Diavalo?”

Giorno blinked, and then his eyes went unfocused in a way that Fugo was beginning to recognize. He offered Fugo a bland, small smile. “Do you care?”

“I think I should.”

Giorno slowly turned back to his closet, examining a green suit with a gold embroidered floral pattern. “Wielding the Requiem arrow always means you must choose a select few details to process. Otherwise, it is much too overwhelming.”

Fugo knew this. He’d seen this.

“What I did to Diavalo…” Giorno trailed off, skimming a thumb over one of the suit lapels. “I know it in bits and pieces.”

Sometimes, that was how Fugo felt like he knew Giorno, too. He shifted in discomfort at the thought and climbed down from the bed so that he could approach Giorno. He hesitated to touch him, instead leaning against the closet door. “I didn’t mean to force you to think about it.”

Giorno shook his head. “You didn’t force me.”

“I just…”

Giorno arched an eyebrow, leaning against the closet to mirror him better. “What?”

“I just feel like I’m… out of the joke? Sometimes?”

“What joke?” Giorno said, expression going cold.

“Metaphorical joke,” Fugo said, scrambling to correct himself. “Uh, like, I know I don’t really have a right to the full story, but someday, I’d like to hear it. Maybe when I deserve it.”

The lines in Giorno’s face softened, and he idly reached out to tug at Fugo’s sleeve. Fugo drifted closer. “I want to give it to you. You should hear it all.”

Fugo sagged inward, a little bit, in relief.

“But, Fugo, I don’t think I know it.”

Fugo tilted his head. “That’s okay,” he made himself say. “You don’t have to.”

Giorno tugged at his sleeve, more insistently, and Fugo got the message, pulling Giorno into his arms. “It hid it from me,” Giorno said into his shoulder, muffled.

“The Requiem arrow?”

Giorno nodded. “Sometimes I choose what to understand, but sometimes it chooses. Fugo, it’s exhausting.”

“Do you think it’s trying to protect you?”

“Maybe.” Giorno turned his head, pressing his face into the crook of Fugo’s neck. He let out a gusty breath. “I did something to Diavalo. Something wrong. It broke things.”

Fugo ran a hand down Giorno’s back, not sure how to respond. It seemed appropriate that this, too, was fragmented. He inhaled deeply. “It’s okay.”

“I know people fear it. I fear it, too.”

“I don’t,” Fugo said, and Giorno pulled away to look at him in surprise. Fugo shrugged. “I’ve never been scared of you in my life.”

The smile that greeted him in return was blinding in its relief, in its sadness, and in its quiet fear, too. “Foolish.”

Fugo offered a tentative, wobbly smile in response. “I think it’s cute of me.”

“The duality of man,” Giorno deadpanned, and Fugo’s smile widened. “If you want to know anything else, I will tell you to the best of my ability.”

“Okay,” Fugo said. “I want to know what you think I should wear tonight.”

Giorno shook his head in wonder. “That caped suit Trish bought you.”

It had been what he was planning on wearing anyway. “Wise.”

“I mean it, Fugo. I’m not being reticent out of unwillingness to share. I promise.”

“I know,” Fugo said. “But maybe it’s a story best told in pieces.”

Giorno furrowed his brows. “Why?”

“It’s overwhelming for me, too.”

Something in Giorno’s expression cleared, and he grabbed Fugo’s hand, giving it a little squeeze. His hands formed the signs for, I understand, and Fugo nodded. “I know what you’re going to say,” he began, and then he withdrew, taking two suits out of his closet, “but which one?”

Fugo pointed at the green suit with the gold embroidery.

“You are so predictable,” Giorno teased.

“I try.”

Giorno leaned in, offering him a kiss on the cheek. “Now that that’s done, let’s go bother Bruno in the garden.”

Fugo laughed. “If you insist.”

He followed Giorno into the garden.

Chapter Text

“What exactly is it that you’re trying to show me?” Giorno said, tone flat.

“I fucking hate working for you,” Abbacchio said. He shot Giorno a glare, and then nudged his foot against the fence. “There’s a tear, Boss, someone could clearly sneak in.”

Giorno wrinkled his nose. “I’m not interested in hypotheticals.”

Taking the rather obnoxious hint, Abbacchio obligingly called Moody Blues forth to replay a stranger crawling underneath the fence. He paused it when the stranger’s face was tilted up enough to be visible. “See?”

Giorno hummed, leaning down to inspect their features. “I do not recognize this person.”

Abbacchio turned to say something suitably mean and cutting, but a flash of movement above them made him freeze up. “Giorno,” he said, moving before he was aware of it, launching himself forward to shove Giorno away, out of the way.

The bullet grazed his arm (at the height where Giorno’s head had been), and Abbacchio’s heart worked to pound out of his chest. He was standing before the warehouse where they were supposed to meet the district attorney and he was in a nameless shop watching his partner bleed out and—

Giorno was on the ground, disoriented from Abbacchio shoving him out of the line of fire, and he snapped into action at the dazed, confused look Giorno offered him. The stranger who’d crawled under the fence, the shooter on the roof of the warehouse, had realized he’d lost his chance and was sprinting away, but Abbacchio wasn’t about to let him.

He broke into a run for the building, and before he reached it, vines grew upwards in an unmistakable ladder that would let him climb to the roof, and Abbacchio spared a silent thanks to Giorno before launching himself into the pursuit.

He returned to the ground less than ten minutes later, breathing heavily, alone. Giorno was sitting on the ground, growing flowers through crumbling patches of concrete. “He escaped?”

“Died,” Abbacchio amended, curt, and sat down heavily next to Giorno. His mind was on the roof, but as he watched Giorno hypnotically make flower after flower, his heartrate slowly calmed down.

“I take it the district attorney got cold feet,” Giorno finally said into the silence, shooting Abbacchio a wry smile.

Abbacchio blinked, and before he entirely knew it, he had started to laugh, a mean, half-hysterical thing that had Giorno staring at him in blank mild fascination and horror. Abbacchio bumped his shoulder roughly against Giorno’s and said “ow” when he recalled his graze.

Giorno shook his head, bewildered. “You got blood on my suit,” he complained.

“You’re wearing red.”

Giorno narrowed his eyes. “Not the same shade.”

“Well, that’s our afternoon cleared, I guess,” Abbacchio said, and he sounded deceptively cheerful to his own ears.

“We should really do something about the district attorney. I cannot have someone believe they can simply kill me,” Giorno muttered, turning a bit of concrete into a ladybug and then back to concrete over and over again.

“Let me handle it, Boss,” Abbacchio said, and internally, he thought, What the hell am I doing. “He did shoot me, after all.”

Giorno tilted his head, looking up at him oddly. “Did you save my life?”

“No,” Abbacchio said, and then he stopped and blinked a few times. “Huh.”

Leone Abbacchio hated Giorno Giovanna. Everyone knew that. It was a fact that made Bruno endlessly irritated and Narancia uncomfortable and Mista wary and Trish upset. It was an axiom of his new existence in Passione. It was the reason he’d allowed himself to stay, really. He would never die for someone who he hated, and he didn’t want to die.

“I could have died,” Abbacchio said out loud, and Giorno rolled his eyes.

“Stop being dramatic.”

Practically, he’d only been grazed by the would-be assassin’s bullet, but Abbacchio’s sense had fully been eclipsed by the need to push Giorno out of the way, safe from danger. Cold horror began to crawl up his limbs, and he wrapped his arms around himself. God. He’d have to quit Passione, now. What the fuck was he going to do? The only thing he’d ever been good at was this.

Giorno poked his arm just above the graze, and they both frowned down at it. “This seems too minor to make Gold Experience heal,” Giorno said.

“It is shallow,” Abbacchio agreed, faint.

Giorno shrugged, reaching down to grab a chunk of broken concrete, which he pressed to the wound as a small bit of flesh. Abbacchio winced, watching the scar tissue form. “Abbacchio,” Giorno said, and then cut himself off, frowning.

“What.”

Giorno looked at him out of the corner of his eye, and it hit Abbacchio all over again that he was fifteen. “Thanks.”

Abbacchio felt an unwelcome spike of unadulterated fondness, and he thought, No no no, in his dawning, inevitable terror. “Uh,” he managed. “Whatever. It’s my job.”

“I hate you,” Giorno sighed, climbing to his feet, but the assertion seemed weaker than usual, and Abbacchio wanted to tear at his hair in frustration. They weren’t meant to care about each other—that was why they worked so well together—they didn’t care.

Abbacchio groaned, rising to stand, already penning his letter of resignation in his head. He had to get away from the dreadful warmth in his chest at the sight of Giorno brushing dirt off his slacks with a distasteful pull to his mouth. “Come on, kid, let’s go back to the mansion. I’ll make us lunch,” he said, entirely without his own permission.

Giorno nodded. “I’m driving,” he said because clearly he hated Abbacchio and wanted to make his life miserable by depriving him of driving the sports car at every opportunity.

Abbacchio rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, and he wasn’t even that irritated, what the fuck.

Giorno shoved his hands into his pockets and led the way to the car, and Abbacchio hung back, thinking of all the ways that the capacity to care could creep into someone’s life like roots clawing their way through slabs of concrete until there was nothing left but a crumbling foundation, and he said, “I’ll make spaghetti parmesan.”

“Alright,” Giorno agreed with a shrug.

Abbacchio climbed into the passenger’s seat of the sports car, resigned to his fate.

Chapter Text

It was, Abbacchio thought with no small amount of despair, exceedingly inconvenient that Bruno’s backyard had become his safe place.

When Bruno had been a corpse, Abbacchio had often retreated to the overgrown, almost unsightly garden in the back. In the first few weeks of settling into the house, he’d kick at rose bushes and savagely shy away from weeds, but as time crawled on and Bruno stayed frozen in Giorno Giovanna’s basement, Abbacchio lost his edge.

Unlike some assholes, he was aware that this change could not entirely be contained to his behavior in the yard. He’d taken hits for Giorno entirely divorced from duty, eclipsed by a growing and terrifying drive to protect the kid. He’d made meals for Narancia and Trish that he knew they loved even if he fucking hated lasagna half the time. He’d learned how to sign.

Abbacchio stood rigidly in the backyard, rooted to the spot as he watched Bruno in his new body, unearthly head tilted up to the sunlight.

Uncanny, he thought dumbly, belatedly, mournfully. He clenched and unclenched his fists, knowing that he was staring like an idiot, cataloguing all the inhuman ways that Bruno carried himself, some characteristics like his preternatural stillness due to his time as a corpse, others due to the… fucking plants.

He must have shifted enough that Bruno had been able to identify his shadow because he tilted his head towards Abbacchio and said, “What?”

Frozen, Abbacchio stared blankly at a spot of fungi on what had once been Bruno’s shoulder. Giorno had referred to Bruno’s new body as an ecosystem, and it was more apparent now than ever as the disparate parts of him swayed against the gentle tug of the breeze. There were flowers on his shoulders, bending lazily against the direction of the wind, but that spot of fungi was too sturdy, too rooted to waver.

Uncanny, he thought, and that was all.

Abbacchio turned around and went back inside. Whatever. He’d find a new place to sulk.

Mista and Abbacchio were cramped into the tiniest crawl space Abbacchio had ever seen in his life, and he was starting to get irritated.

The stake-out wasn’t going well, and the close quarters were sweaty and gross. Abbacchio had never been a claustrophobic person, but when Mista wiggled a little bit to free his arm, Abbacchio felt like snapping.

“Let’s play eye-spy,” Mista said.

“No.”

Mista elbowed him, hard, and Abbacchio had no way of knowing whether or not it was intentional. “What are you staring at?” he complained.

With a jolt, Abbacchio realized that he’d been cataloguing the elegant way that lavender flowers were shifting with the breeze. His eyes traced the way that they’d grown through the cracked sidewalk, and he flushed, casting a glare to the side so that he wouldn’t keep looking, but his gaze caught a patch of mushrooms huddled close to the crawl space.

Mista had wriggled closer to try and follow his gaze, and he blinked at him in confusion as Abbacchio banged his forehead against the closest available surface.

“You like the flowers, bud?” Mista asked tentatively, bafflement beginning to tangle with a faux-sweet, alarming sort of suspicion.

“No.”

Mista shifted to better look at Abbacchio. “Thinking about Bucciarati, bud?”

“No.”

“Oh my god.”

“I said no.”

“Dude—”

Abbacchio didn’t fucking care how important this mission was. He scrambled to shove himself outside, and he tried to turn his sprawling tumble into a roll with minimal success. He stood, trying to preserve his dignity, and scowled at Mista. He held up a finger. “Number fucking one—”

Number One materialized, looking at Abbacchio with huge eyes, and Abbacchio tried to ignore it. Bad choice of words.

“—I was bored and zoning out. Secondly, Bruno doesn’t have a fucking monopoly on flora.”

“Flora,” Mista echoed with a terrifying cocktail of delight and horror.

Abbacchio gritted his teeth. “Listen—”

“I’m all ears, bro.”

Abbacchio shut his mouth with a click. “This mission is over. I’ll get Moody Blues to figure this shit out tomorrow. We’re leaving.”

“Like,” Mista was saying as he stumbled to his feet from the crawl space, “I knew nothing could stop you from still being into Bruno—”

“Mista.”

“—but I didn’t expect this level of enthusiasm.”

“This is out of line and unprofessional.”

“You want to fuck a flower, dude!”

“I do not.”

“Trees doin’ it for you now? Am I going to catch you staring longingly after trees?”

Abbacchio said, “This conversation is over,” in his cruelest voice, a voice that somehow still did not hold a candle to Bruno’s baseline, and Mista had the nerve to laugh.

“How was your day?” Bruno murmured listlessly from his place at the kitchen table, hands offered.

Abbacchio took Bruno’s hands and abruptly went still, cataloguing the roughness of the bark. It was a mesmerizing, gnarled shape, contorted to imitate his bone structure, and Abbacchio could see dots of flower buds starting to peek through his knuckles, along his palm and wrists. A thorned, leafy vine snaked down his arm like tefillin, and through there was nothing religious about the act of creation that had made Bruno anew, Abbacchio couldn’t help the reflexive, stupid association, preying on imagery and the way that Abbacchio’s devotion and revolution had twisted together all around the shape of what made Bruno Bruno.

“…Leone?”

Abbacchio jerked to attention, biting his tongue hard as he signed a perfunctory version of his day’s events, and it was so fucking stupid. Bruno held himself like a dead thing, like an utterly and inescapably inhuman thing, and the flowers and fungus along his shoulders were vibrant and lovely and—

This sucked. Bruno was still devastatingly hot as a fucking plant monster or whatever.

<I’m going to bed,> he signed, and Bruno tracked the movement of his silhouette as he left without shifting expression or demeanor. It was the one constant that Abbacchio had reliably been able to track through all of Bruno’s states. This coldness.

He collapsed face-first into the mattress and let out a shrill groan of despair.