Archive of Our Own ^beta

Giorno looks at his newly blond hair in the mirror. Then, he looks at the strange, golden spirit that is currently peering over his shoulder. It’s humanoid, but clearly not a person, and it has already turned a roll of toilet paper into a frog.

Giorno thinks about it, and decides that this might as well happen.

★

Bruno Bucciarati only ever got to where he is in Passione because he’s cautious.

He knows full well the dangers of the job, and prepares for every scenario he can think of. For missions, he tries to take every single member of his team he can, even for jobs that only really require one or two, simply for the fact that anything could go wrong. Every safe house and apartment they share has a well-stocked first aid kit, and he basically demands that all of them carry some kind of weapon at all times, just in case they need it.

Overly cautious? Yes. But his team is still all alive, so it’s worth it.

His current mission is one he’s doing himself, however, because he can definitely handle it; Leaky Eye Luca, a small-time member of Passione, was put into a coma earlier this morning, and died. His attacker is apparently a blond teenager, which Bruno can barely believe. In fact, when he was first shown the kid’s face only a few hours after Luca’s attack, he told the information team that they were wrong; after all, how the hell can a scrawny teen hit a man so hard his skull caves in?

But they sent him the security camera footage they managed to acquire, and there was no doubting it. Although the attack itself wasn’t captured, both Luca and the teen were seen entering a deserted location, and only the kid left.

The kid did it, or he led Luca into a trap. Either way, he needs to pay for it.

Bruno wishes it wasn’t the case—he has a soft spot for teenagers, given that over half his team are teens (Mista will say he’s an adult, but he’s really, really not). Besides, it’s just one teenager. One teenager that he probably has to kill, no big deal—

Okay, he thought about it too much and now he feels bad.

But Bruno has a job in which he rarely gets to feel bad for someone, and today is definitely not the day for that. He’s stalked the kid through the streets and onto public transport; not the best location for a confrontation, but they’re deep in Passione territory, and no one would go against the mafia over a dead teenager.

Maybe he can just beat up the kid. Maybe he can just tell him to get out of Italy. Maybe the kid will listen.

As Bruno will learn, this kid will do none of these things.

Hopping onto the transit, he spots his quarry; a blonde little thing with a pink suit. He walks up to where the kid is sitting, bending down to pick up a coin off the floor.

“This yours?”

The kid looks up, surprised to be addressed out of the blue.

“Ah, no.”

“I guess it’s mine, then.” Bruno slides it into the right inner pocket of his suit and sits down in the seat opposite to the kid. At closer examination, this kid looks very prim and proper; he’s sitting cross legged, his designer shoes barely touching the dingy transit floor. There’s not a single golden hair out of place, and his face is perfectly schooled. If he wasn’t sure the information team would’ve said something, Bruno would have assumed the kid’s parents could’ve paid for his crimes with money. “Say, can I ask you a question? A hypothetical, really.”

He nods.

“If you saw a purse abandoned on the side of the street, full of euro, would you find its owner?”

“Of course not,” the kid scoffs, shifting his position. “I’d take it.”

“And what if I was a police officer? What if I saw you do it?”

The kid smiles, which doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’d give you half.”

Bruno chuckles half-sincerely. He wishes he could like this guy.

“I like your answer, kid—hey, lemme ask another.”

“Sure.” He states, but he looks out the window, disinterested in the conversation.

“How could a scrawny teenager, much like yourself actually, cave in a man’s skull?”

The blonde doesn’t immediately turn back to Bruno, which is surprising. Instead, he blinks a few times, before slowly turning his head back to face the older man.

“This sounds more like a riddle than a hypothetical,” the kid states. “Also, with gravity.”

Bruno laughs again, a bit more genuinely this time, but he can see in the kid’s eyes that they both know what’s going on here. The kid killed Luca, and now Bruno will kill him. Despite the cold, calculating eyes the kid has they promises a fight—a fight Bruno will win, because he can’t afford to lose.

“Hey kid, catch,” Bruno reaches into the left inner pocket of his suit and throws the kid what’s inside--something he got from Luca, something that’s decidedly not a coin.

The kid catches it without looking, and then reveals it in all it’s glory; one of Luca’s teeth.

“I thought maybe I should bring an eyeball, really scare you, but that would’ve been overkill, I think.” Bruno stands up, and leans over where the kid is sitting, staring at the tooth. “Besides, Luca’s tooth is enough. You knocked a few of them out, you know.”

The blonde stays stock still, staring at the slightly yellowed tooth. Bruno can’t see his expression from this angle, but he’s certain the kid is weighing his options; to flee, or to fight. Or to die.

Instead, the kid looks up at him, perfectly serene, and smiles.

“Want to see a magic trick?” He says, and without waiting for an answer, he does something, and all of the sudden the tooth is a white flower. “It’s a daffodil. It was typically featured in poems as a sign of sheer happiness. Of course, that’s only if you subscribe to the idea of flowers having specific meanings.”

“What—”

“I, however, think that you can use flowers for anything you wish. This daffodil, for example,” his smile suddenly turns from polite to devilish. “Would look lovely on a grave.”

And then Bruno is sent flying across the room.

★

Alright, okay, fuck this.

Bruno really, really thought he was done being chased down by psychopathic teenagers back when he was 12. Even though he basically parents three murderous teens, at least they only chase each other with knives.

Hell, a knife he could handle. Not whatever this kid has.

Instead he’s being chased by a kid who’s probably not human with the power to turn things to flowers and also punch really hard with the air, somehow. If he survives this he’s going to tell Narancia that all those weird conspiracy shows about aliens and cryptids are true. Wait, no, that would encourage him to go out and find this kid. Okay, Bruno will not—

It then occurs to Bruno that he’s lost a lot of blood. Explains his thoughts.

He’s in a plaza that is, of course, vacated. And the kid enters right after him, pace still slow. The only signs of battle he shows are a few loose hairs, some of Bruno’s blood, and a bruise on the cheek from a lucky punch. Other than that, he’s still perfectly prim and proper.

Bruno, on the other hand, feels like shit. He’s frankly more horizontal than vertical at this point, down on one knee and breathing heavily. He wonders if this is what happened with Luca. God, he never thought he’d feel bad for that guy.

The kid’s getting closer, and Bruno just has nothing. Every weapon he had was either lost in the chase or turned into a goddamn animal, somehow, and he’s so tired. He wishes this wasn’t the one time he decided to come alone.

“Well,” he breathes out, once the kid is standing over him. “Go ahead. Kill me.”

There’s nothing for a long moment, and then:

“Why did you lead me here?”

“Huh?”

“The paths you could’ve taken,” the kid says. “After our initial confrontation, the crowds thinned out fairly quickly. It was hard to lose me in the back alleys, and you led me here. To this dead, deserted end.”

“Wh-what’s your point?” Bruno would really like him to make it, cause everything really does hurt at the moment.

“I know that the path you were leading me down led towards the slums. And it would’ve been very easy to lose me there, regardless of the fact you’re dressed too nicely. So you must’ve come this direction for a reason.”

“Listen, this psychoanalysis is very good and all—“

“I thought it was because you had an ambush here. But you don’t.”

“But can we just end this—“

“So there must be another reason you didn’t want me in a crowd.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you do seem kind of dangerous.”

“So do you!” The kid smiles, and what, is he trying to compliment Bruno? Where did this kid come from? “But I’ve figured it out. The crowd on the transit didn’t concern you, but the potential one in the slums would.”

“Uh.” Bruno’s brain is trying very hard to keep up with this kid’s train of thought, really.

“Because, the people in there have been betrayed by society. You recognize your duty to protect them in any way you can, which means you are a good person.”

“I am in the mafia,” Bruno points out.

“Those are not exclusive. I would wager that you have recognized the evils of society, but are unable to do much about it in your current position. Therefore, you take whatever small actions you can, and for this, I commend you.”

“Okay, is reading minds part of your weird psychic thing? If it is, please stop, that isn’t polite.”

“No, it is not,” the kid kneels down to Bruno’s level, and Bruno stares into those slightly less cold eyes and wonders what’s about to happen. “But this is.”

The kid places his hands on Bruno’s shoulders, and then Bruno starts to feel pain and then—he feels a lot better, somehow.

“How did you do that?” Bruno says, looking down at his hand. Where the knuckles were once bruised and bloodied there is now healthy skin. It looks as if it’s been healing for a week or two; not finished with the healing process, but definitely close.

“Basically, magic,” the kid answers. “Technically, I turned some of your blood into tissue. Not enough to worry about, however, although I would recommend getting some sugar in you.”

“There’s a gelato shop near here.” Bruno says absentmindedly, because he is still very much focused on the whole magic thing.

He then realizes that he has no idea what this kid’s name is, and the kid has no idea what his name is either. And they’re probably about to go get gelato, even though they just tried to kill each other.

“Bruno Bucciarati.” The kid looks slightly surprised, but then smiles and helps Bruno get to his feet.

“Giorno Giovanna.”

“So, did you really kill Luca with gravity?”

“Ah, no,” he says, smiling a little more genuinely. “I did it with a frog.”

God, Abbacchio is gonna give him so much grief for adopting another kid.

★

The lighter test they give him is very easy.

Really, he didn’t think whatever they could throw at him would be that hard. Not with Gold. But it is so very easy to get it out of there and keep it lit. He even manages to endure a lesson from Koichi Hirose during it.

(It probably was supposed to help him with his powers, but Koichi had made the mistake of assuming Giorno was still perfectly fluent in Japanese. Understanding everyday conversations? Giorno could do that. Understanding an hour-long lecture about magic powers? He could not do that. He could make enough affirmations that Koichi assumed he was following along, however.

Whatever. It probably wasn’t even that important anyway.)

So now he’s back with Bucciarati, Polpo is dead, and Giorno is about to meet his team. He tries not to be nervous, not that anyone would be able to tell. He’s always been good at covering up emotions, especially negative ones. But still, Giorno has never been...popular within groups. Maybe he’ll be tolerated? He can work with tolerated.

Bruno leads him into the restaurant, and Giorno takes in the group. They are in a table in the corner, probably permanently reserved for Bruno and his team. There are four of them; one of them is clearly an adult, a man with broad shoulders and purplish-white hair. Two of them are clearly teens like he is; a black haired kid with an orange hairband, and a teen in a red suit with white hair. Maybe he and the man are related? The last member of the group is harder to pin down; either he is an older teen or a young adult, Giorno is unsure.

They are all arguing over something, before Bruno calls them all to attention to introduce Giorno.

“This is our new team member.”

“Hello,” he takes this as an invitation to speak, stepping forward towards the table. “My name is Giorno Giovanna.”

The white-haired man scowls slightly, and Giorno tries to figure out where he misstepped.

“Ah,” Bruno jolts, before fishing a phone out of his pocket. “I have to take this. Giorno, sit down. Everybody, introduce yourselves. Don’t be mean.”

And then he leaves, and Giorno is left with a bunch of strangers.

He takes one of the open chairs, trying to remain a polite distance away from anybody. Giorno has to keep in mind that these are mafiosos; Bucciarati may like him, but there's no guarantee anybody else will.

“So,” the white-haired man begins. “Where the fuck did Bucciarati find you?”

“On a bus,” Giorno answers truthfully. He makes sure to keep his back straight, his face perfectly calm, his hands in his lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

The man sneers, but before he can say something orange headband leans forward and begins speaking.

“He’s Abbacchio. I call him Abba and Bucci calls him Leone but I think if you try to call him those he’s gonna stab you,” the other teen explains, attempting to balance his fork on the edge of his finger.

“Duly noted.”

“I’m Narancia,” the teen—Narancia—says, giving Giorno a smile. “The one in the hat is Mista, and the one with all the holes in his clothes is Fugo!”

Giorno nods at them, but Mista isn’t looking and Fugo just stares back at him.

“Why did Bucciarati recruit you?” Fugo asks. He’s not as hostile as Abbacchio seems to be, but Giorno can tell it will take some time to get Fugo to warm up to him.

“Ah,” Giorno begins, unsure of what Bucciarati has already told them about his powers. “I have a special trick. Did he not tell you about it?”

“No,” the other boy scowls at him.

“Here,” Abbacchio interrupts, and suddenly he’s placing a teacup right next to Giorno. “Tea. I made a fresh pot just for you.”

Mista smiles slightly, while both Narancia and Fugo look slightly disgusted. Abbacchio, on the other hand, is mischievously smiling at him.

It does not take a genius to realize that something is wrong with the tea. Giorno believes this is called hazing, and suddenly an idea forms in his head.

“Thank you,” Giorno smiles back. He lifts the tea cup off the platter and up towards his mouth, and all the other people at the table lean forward in interest and horror.

Halfway before it touches his lips, Giorno turns the tea into butterflies.

“Oh no,” Giorno says, completely deadpan, as the newly formed creatures begin fluttering about. “Sorry about that. That does tend to happen.”

Everyone at the table is staring at him, slack-jawed. Perhaps this was not the best opportunity to reveal his powers.

“Ah,” Giorno says, trying to gain back control of this situation. Gold, ever so helpful, turns the teacup into a tree frog. “Sorry again.”

The room is painfully dead silent, until Bucciarati re-enters. The second he does, Abbacchio turns to him, and asks:

“Bruno, what the fuck?”

★

“All I wanna know,” Narancia says. They’re currently in a convenience store, gathering supplies for the trip, which Narancia assured Giorno was ‘very important’. And Giorno can tell they’re definitely important, because everything Narancia has picked up has been snacks. “Can you make animals that, like, aren’t around anymore? Like the really really dead ones?”

“He means extinct,” Fugo answers. Giorno imagines he was sent to supervise, but he’s not sure if he’s supervising Narancia and Giorno or just Narancia.

“Hmm,” Giorno hums, and tries to think about it. He’s not a fan of the cold air of this place, and would like to be out of it quickly. Narancia apparently does not mind it at all, because he bends over to root around in the freezer that contains all of the ice cream. “I think I could, potentially? I’ve studied all of the things I create, so I’d need to know about the creature, I think. Why do you ask?”

“Think about it!” Naranica comes back up, an ice pop held by its wrapper in between his teeth. “You could make dinosaurs. Dinosaurs!”

“I could also remake dodos,” Giorno muses, taking some of the ice cream from Narancia. “That would be nice.”

“Those are those weird little bird things, yeah?” the other teen asks, and at Giorno’s nod, he continues. “Those are lame, though. You gotta make something cool, like a T-rex. Or one of those long neck ones!”

“Brontosaurus. Or any sauropod, really,” Fugo clarifies again, as the two other teens pile up their ‘supplies’ on the counter. The cashier, thankfully, does not seem to really be paying any attention to them or their conversation, instead absent-mindedly ringing up their things. “But the animals Giorno has made so far have been relatively small, so I doubt he can make something as large as a T-rex.”

“Size is a factor,” Giorno agrees, placing the bills Bruno gave them to buy things with down on the counter. Realizing it won’t cover all of Narancia’s snacks, he adds some more from his own wallet. “But I have been able to make trees and other relatively large organisms before. Maybe not a brontosaurus, but a compsognathus, perhaps?”

Fugo nods, while Narancia whines about them using words he doesn’t know. They grab the bags with their supplies in them, and then exit the store. Giorno immediately recognizes that Narancia’s ice cream will melt relatively quickly, and hopes that the boat Bucciarati is renting has a fridge or ice box.

“There you guys are,” Mista says, just as the three of them make it down to the docks. “Bucci got us a boat!” He flashes the key to the rather large boat, and it glints in the sunlight.

Narancia immediately launches into conversation with Mista, showing off the items he’s bought. Fugo gets roped in, if only to explain that they did, in fact, buy some actual supplies, not just candies and soda. Abbacchio comes over to criticize Narancia’s purchasing habits (jokingly? Giorno isn’t sure), while Bruno merely sorts through some of the bags.

Giorno does not join in, instead walking closer to the boat. It’s a yacht, he’s pretty sure, in fairly good condition. Giorno trusts Bucciarati to pick out a boat of course, but, well, Giorno has a habit whenever he enters a new location, and he’s pretty sure a boat counts as one.

“When we said ‘go get supplies’ we meant like fucking water and shit,” Abbacchio grits out, holding up a bag of gummy worms. “Not this crap.”

“Why would we need water?” Narancia tilts his head. “We’re gonna be on the ocean, dummy.”

“I—I don’t even know how to respond to that,” Abbacchio replies, tossing the snack back into the bag. “That’s so fucking dumb. Fugo, we sent you to prevent dumb shit from happening. And you—I swear to god if you turn the boat into a fucking frog or a dolphin I will make you swim to Capri Island.”

He’s directing that at Giorno, who currently has one of his hands pressed against the side of the boat.

“There’s somebody on the boat.” Giorno says, ignoring Abbacchio’s threat.

“...What.”

“While I can turn objects into living creatures, I can also ‘sense’ them, so to speak,” Giorno explains, fingertips sliding over the boat’s hull. “I can sense one inside this boat, and while I cannot tell much, it’s likely a human.”

“Likely?” Fugo asks.

“Or a very large rat.” Giorno jokes, which nobody laughs at. Avoiding an awkward pause, he continues, “I’ll go on board and investigate.”

“Hell no,” Abbacchio says, stepping forward and invading Giorno’s personal space. “I’m not gonna let you do some magic bullshit and go on the boat by yourself, because who knows what you’re going to do to it.”

“Okay,” Giorno responds. Abbacchio doesn’t distrust him in the way you don’t really trust a stranger, but in the way where you suspect a person may actively try to cause you harm. Giorno wonders if Bucciarati told him, or anyone else in the gang, how the two of them met. Wonders if Bucciarati revealed how they fought. “If you dislike the idea of me going alone so much, then you can just come with me, then.”

“Excuse me?” Abbacchio says, but the brat is already climbing into the boat. He huffs, and hears Mista behind him chuckling. Tossing a middle finger back without looking, Abbacchio climbs in after the little golden asshole, ready to spend twenty minutes looking for jack shit.

He’s gonna toss Giorno overboard. Bruno can just deal with it.

★

Sixteen minutes later, the both of them emerge from the lower decks, dragging an unconscious intruder with them. Giorno is glad his hunch was right. Abbacchio is pissed. Giorno doesn’t understand why, completely, considering the intruder’s knife only got Giorno, and not him. The older man yells at the rest of the gang to climb aboard, while Giorno searches the man for any identification.

“Bruno,” Narancia whines as he comes aboard. “New guy is looting the body without me!”

“Narancia, learn to share,” Bucciarati says absentmindedly, as he climbs aboard the boat with practiced ease.

“I’m not looting,” Giorno says, right as he tucks away the guy’s euro into his pocket. Not all of it, because that would be suspicious. He looks over his shoulder to where Bucciarati is. “He’s just unconscious, by the way. I found his wallet, also.”

He holds it out to Bucciarati, who takes it. Giorno had already opened it up, and an old ID card is clear to see.

“Mario Zucchero, age 24,” Bucciarati reads.

“Wait, he’s got his ID on him?” Mista interrupts, as he comes up the ladder. “He took his fuckin’ ID with him on a hit? What the hell? Is he stupid?”

“I know his name,” Bucciarati says, as he folds the wallet closed. “He’s with Passione, situated in Rome, although he and his teammate occasionally venture out to other parts of Italy.”

“If he’s with Passione, then why the hell is he coming after us?”

“The same reason why we’re going to Capri,” Bucciarati says. “Which I will tell you when we leave the harbor. Neither of you were injured, correct?” He says this, looking back and forth between Giorno and Abbacchio.

“I’m fine. Brat got stabbed, though.”

“Excuse me?” Bucciarati startles, immediately looking over to Giorno in shock.

“I was only lightly stabbed. Slashed, more like,” Giorno says, because it’s true. Luckily, it was in the heart-shaped opening of his jacket, so there’s no tear in his suit. “I already repaired it with Gold Experience, so there’s no need to worry.”

Bucciarati looks appalled, which Giorno understands, and Abbacchio starts laughing, which Giorno doesn’t understand.

“Oh my god,” Abbacchio snorts out. “‘There’s no need to worry,’ he says. Good fucking luck with this one, Bruno.”

Giorno tilts his head slightly in confusion. Him being stabbed isn’t anything to worry about, of course, but he doesn’t understand why the older man is finding the situation funny. It’s probably just something he doesn’t get.

He reassures Bucciarati that he really is fine, and goes to help Fugo up the ladder, who was saddled with most of the supply bags. Fugo looks at him strangely when he does help him, and Giorno almost wishes that this group would stop being so confusing. He’s used to being able to tell what people are thinking, being able to register the emotions that flicker across their faces. It’s harder with this group; but strangely, Giorno doesn’t mind, which makes it even more confusing.

After they’re all aboard and the supplies are put away, they gather around Bucciarati, who tells them of Polpo’s death (Giorno tries to act shocked) and of the fortune hidden on Capri. Mista and Narancia get excited, loudly, which leds to their captive startling awake, which leads to Mista setting up perhaps the strangest torture scenario, ever.

“This is terrifying,” Giorno says, as Mista inserts the fishing hook into Zucchero’s eyelid. Zucchero, gagged, screams as Mista ties the hook and line to the sail’s pole. “Good job.”

“Thanks, man!” Mista replies. The both of them look over to see Narancia, who’s started playing music and is currently dancing to it. At least, Giorno’s pretty sure it’s dancing, and not a seizure. Mista must recognize it though, because he immediately goes and joins Narancia in the dance.

Giorno leans against the railing of the ship as he watches Narancia and Mista, and eventually Fugo, dance to the song. It’s coordinated, each of them doing the same move at roughly the same time, and the music is almost loud enough to cover up the sounds of torture. Bucciarati and Abbacchio are at the front of the boat, conversing quietly, and there’s a gentle sea breeze wafting through the air and lighting tossing Giorno’s hair.

“Hey, new guy!” Narancia yells, pausing in his dance. He ignores the way Fugo hisses out a ‘his name’s Giorno’, and continues, “Come dance with us!”

“Oh,” Giorno blinks. “Sorry, but I don’t really know how to dance. Apologies.”

Narancia blows a raspberry at him. “Don’t be like that! C’mere, I’ll show you—first, you go like this–”

He goes through each step of the dance, and Giorno tries very hard to follow along and copy the movements perfectly. Giorno doesn’t succeed; Mista laughs at his jerky movements, and even though his face is flushed in embarrassment Giorno can’t help but to laugh along.

Eventually the four of them try to do it together, but most of them are slightly offbeat, and Giorno messes up the order of the moves once or twice.

Giorno isn’t very good at dancing, he discovers, but he’s starting to think that’s not really the point.

★

In the next hour, Giorno helps Mista grievously injure another man and watches Fugo try to staple shut Mista’s gunshot wound before the other teen remembers that Giorno can, in fact, heal things. He tells them to staple it shut anyway, because it will make the healing easier. And it does; Gold lets out a happy trill as it manifests, and fixes the wound quicker than it normally does. His stand wraps its arms around his shoulders as Mista screams from the sudden pain, and Giorno catches a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror.

His stand is a mirror image of him; the same proportions with nearly the same facial structure, its golden light matching Giorno’s blonde hair. Even though Gold Experience looks otherworldly, it is undoubtedly a part of Giorno; he thinks about the fact that none of his new (friends?) associates can see it, and feels. Not sad. Giorno doesn’t feel sad. But he can’t place what emotion he experiences in this moment.

He pushes it aside, because it isn’t the time for emotions and reflections. Gold fades back into him. Bucciarati recovers the fortune, and then immediately hands it over to Capo Pericolo. Bucciarati is elevated to the rank of Capo, which is good, and they are assigned to bodyguard the Boss’s daughter, which is even better. Giorno never doubted his ability to overtake the Boss, not with Gold by his side, but figuring out the man’s identity would’ve been more difficult. Now he has a lead, however slim.

The girl, Trish Una, teases Fugo by wiping her hands on his jacket and rattling off a shopping list, which visibly angers him. Pericolo bids the group adieu, and they escort Trish back to the docks, this time taking a different boat. As Bucciarati secures transport, Giorno ducks out for a moment, returning only once he’s found the items he’s looking for.

“Here.”

Trish looks up at him, before her eyes lower to the bottle of French mineral water he’s holding out to her. In his other hand, he’s holding the April edition of Vogue Italia, with a portrait of a Belgian actress on the cover.

“Um,” she says.

“The mineral water you asked for,” he says, to alleviate her confusion. He puts it down next to her, making sure that the label reading ‘bottled in Vergèze’ is visible to her. “And the magazine. I assumed you wanted the new April edition, but I can go try and find the March one if you’d like?”

“Oh,” Trish says, blinking rapidly. She takes the water bottle, holding it between her hands. “That’s—you didn’t—thanks.”

Giorno simply nods at her. He can hear Abbacchio scoff, but Giorno is fairly certain keeping the Boss’s daughter safe and happy is their job. If she wants mineral water, then Giorno will get it for her, despite what his long-term goals are.

Bucciarati eventually leads them to a new boat, one without a captive on it, and they sail away from Capri.

★

They get set up in a safe house.

Narancia is left alone and sets a street on fire.

They abandon the safe house.

★

A message from the Boss leads them on an errand to Pompeii. Bucciarati assigns Giorno, Fugo, and Abbacchio to retrieve the key from the dog mosaic, while the rest of the group guard Trish.

Barring an argument in the car, the trip goes well, the three of them easily finding the key hidden amongst the rubble. And it continues to go well, until they start walking back, and a bullet rips through Abbacchio’s wrist.

“Shit!” Abbacchio yells, grabbing his wrist, dropping the key in the process. Blood spurts everywhere, and Giorno goes to heal him, but Fugo grabs both of them by the shoulders and hauls them back behind a large piece of rubble. Another bullet hits the rock just as they duck behind it; if Fugo was one second slower, one of them would have a bullet in the head.

“Thanks,” Giorno breathes out.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Fugo replies. He’s taken out his own gun, a pistol. Giorno has no idea where it was hidden, given Fugo’s outfit, but he’s not going to question it.

Abbacchio also has a gun, Giorno knows, but he’s currently occupied applying pressure to his wrist.

Giorno reaches towards him, Gold at the ready. “Let me—”

“Fuck off,” the man grits out. “Fucking. Kill this guy first. Use your goddamn magic bullshit.”

“...Alright.” Giorno decides not to push it. Another bullet hits the rubble, sending a small spray of dust into the air. The spent bullet bounces off the stone and lands on their side, and Giorno picks it up, considering.

“He must be a sniper,” Fugo says. “He must’ve been waiting for us to find the key before attacking.”

“Shit fucking sniper,” Abbacchio hisses out.

Giorno hums, and then goes, “I have a plan.”

“Oh, good,” Abbacchio says, sarcastically.

★

“What the fuck just happened.”

Fugo thought his life would be relatively normal. That got thrown out the window when he joined the mafia. And now, as he stands over the body of a man who was just mauled by a pack of bobcats, any sense of normalcy is completely gone.

“I repeat,” he says, looking over to where Giorno is helping a recently-healed Abbacchio stand up. “What the fuck?”

“I don’t understand,” Giorno says, blinking at him innocently. “What part of that was confusing?”

“Wh–what part? Fucking every part!” Fugo yells back. “What was with the magpies? And the fucking squirrels? And the bobcats!?”

“The magpies collected the bullets, the squirrels tried to find the sniper, the bobcats followed the squirrels,” Giorno explains, as if all that magic bullshit was a simple step by step solution. “Not that I don’t want to continue this, but can we please get back to the car? I’ll drive.”

Fugo grumbles, but does help Giorno with getting Abbacchio back to the car. The man’s still conscious, but being shot in the wrist and having that wrist healed has taken a lot out of him. Fugo hopes they aren’t attacked on the drive back, because Abbacchio will probably be fully out.

“We’re gonna talk about this,” Fugo huffs out. “And I’m driving. You drive like absolute shit.”

Giorno just gives him a little smile, which is as infuriating as it is charming.

The march back to the car is slow, but they eventually make it. Abbacchio lies down in the back, still cradling his freshly-healed wrist. Fugo wonders if Giorno’s weird powers heals things properly, or if it's a crapshoot.

Speaking of his powers.

“Alright,” Fugo says as he gets into the driver's seat. He glares over at Giorno, who’s sitting primly in the passenger’s side, despite all the blood and dust he’s covered in. “Explain.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” Giorno says, twirling one of his loose locks of hair with his finger.

“Fuck—alright,” Fugo grits out, starting the car. “Number one, why the hell do you have magic powers? Who the fuck are you?”

“That’s two questions,” Giorno answers. Before Fugo can fly into a rage, he continues, “I don’t know why I have them. I’ve had them since I was a child, but Gold only formed recently.”

“What?” Fugo doesn’t understand what he means by that.

“Gold Experience is what I call my stand,” Giorno explains. At Fugo’s blank look, he elaborates. “There’s two parts to my powers, so to speak. One is the life-giving ability you’ve seen so far. The one is a manifestation of my spirit, which I call Gold.”

“What?”

“You can’t see Gold, unfortunately,” Giorno says. “Only people with powers like mine can see them, I believe. They’re in here right now, actually.”

“Okay,” Fugo says, because what else would he say? “Okay. Fine. Whatever. You have a fucking spirit thing. So there are other people with powers like yours?”

“I’ve only met one,” the other teen explains. “I’m...not entirely sure how to describe his powers, but they were different to mine. He had a physical spirit with him as well.”

Fugo hums. There’s silence in the car, as Fugo debates asking the one question that’s been on his mind this whole time. He’s been debating asking it ever since Giorno walked into Libecco and basically performed miracles.

Fugo takes a deep breath, and then asks:

“So why are you here?”

Giorno looks over to him. “I don’t believe I understand the question.”

“Why are you here, in Passione?” Fugo elaborates. “You have magic. You give life to things, you heal—you’re performing goddamn miracles! So why the hell are you in the mafia, when you have a gift like that?”

Giorno doesn’t respond, and when Fugo looks over, the other teen is staring out the window. Then he suddenly turns, sea green eyes boring into Fugo’s.

Fugo’s heart skips a beat, and it is as if Giorno has compacted the world into three things: him, Fugo, and the small space in between them. He barely remembers that he is currently driving, seemingly captured by Giorno’s gaze. Perhaps Giorno’s power is not the miracles, but this.

“Do you have a dream, Fugo?”

“Wh—what?” Fugo can barely sound out.

“Have you ever had a dream? I don’t mean a simple desire, but something you would dedicate your life to achieving? A hunger you will never satiate?”

“I...” is all Fugo can say. Even as a child, he knew dreams were useless; his future was planned out for him from birth. And he never dreamt of changing his path in life, until it became a suffocating tomb. Then, he acted on all his desires; a desire to escape, to run, to hurt.

Fugo is a creature of dangerous desires, not dreams.

But he thinks he knows something about hunger, as Giorno put it.

“...I don’t have a dream,” is what he settles on saying. It’s the truth, or something close to it, but it feels almost shameful to admit it.

“I hope you find your dream, then,” is all Giorno says. He turns back to the window, and the moment is broken. The world is no longer just them, and it makes Fugo feel a bit hollow.

Fugo keeps driving.

★

There is another stand user in the train station.

Giorno has only experienced the feeling once, when Koichi tracked him down, but it's unforgettable. Perhaps less potent, now that Giorno has already experienced it, but he can still recognize it for what it is. And if it’s another stand user...this could be bad.

Worst case scenario: one of the people tracking them down is a stand user, which means Giorno will have to fight them alone.

It could also be that there’s an unrelated stand user in the crowd, which could be fine. But Giorno’s one experience with another stand user resulted in two fights with him so...it doesn’t bode well.

If it comes to that, perhaps he can split off from the group, deal with the stand user, and then rejoin the group at Firenze.

“Giorno, what is it?” Bucciarati breaks his train of thought. The rest of the group is already inside the train, and Giorno is guarding the door to the car while Bucciarati searches the fountain for the key hole. “Do you see someone?”

“No,” Giorno replies, looking over the crowd once again. “I...I can feel the presence of someone like me, in this train station. Someone with powers.”

“There’s others like you?”

“If they prove to be a problem, leave me behind,” Giorno says, in lieu of answering. He’s already answered this question once today, and doesn’t feel like repeating it. “It’ll be easier to handle a stand battle by myself. There’s nothing you can do to help.”

Bucciarati’s lips thin, but he goes back to looking for the proper keyhole. After a few minutes, the man visibly grows frantic.

“Goddamn it,” he hisses. “None of these keyholes are the one! This panel just leads to a valve, and the lock on this hydrant isn’t even big enough for this key!”

“There’s another train in fifteen minutes. We can wait for that one and search the other fountains in the meantime.”

“No,” Bucciarati says, shutting down Giorno’s idea. “We don’t have time. If the enemy doesn’t already know that we’re on the train, we’ll just be giving them more time to figure it out.”

Suddenly, the man’s head jerks, as if he’s suddenly spotted something. Giorno watches as he climbs into the fountain and picks something up.

It’s a turtle.

“Bucciarati?” Giorno asks, but the man is already climbing onto the train, turtle in hand. As he passes, the feeling of another stand user spikes, then dissipates as Bucciarati enters the train car. Giorno is left reeling, only for a moment, and then follows the man.

When he enters, he sees Bucciarati standing before everybody else, as he inserts the key into a divot in the turtle’s shell. Once it slots in, the man suddenly disappears.

“Bruno!” Abbacchio shouts. Giorno jerks forward, catching the turtle in his hands. Or, well, tortoise, actually. The key is firmly in its back, and peering in the red gem, Giorno can see...something strange.

“What the fuck happened to Bruno!” Narancia yells. All the other occupants of the room are visibly distressed.

Giorno debates his next course of action, and then decides to go for it.

“Hold it,” Giorno says, placing it in Mista’s hands. Before the man can question it, Giorno touches the red gem, and disappears like Bucciarati did.

Suddenly, Giorno is in a small room with Bucciarati. There’s several pieces of furniture, a TV, a refrigerator, and even several paintings on the walls. Up above, the ceiling is a red crystalline structure, through which Giorno can see several distorted faces.

“Giorno?” Bucciarati asks. The man is visibly confused. “Is this...one of those ‘stand’ things you mentioned?”

“It must be,” Giorno breathes out. He touches the walls; they feel as real as any wall does. “It’s as if the stand manifests as a small room...”

“It must activate when the key is in the turtle’s shell,” Bucciarati says, taking the situation in stride the best he can. “We must be contained within the gem. Look—”

The man points up to the ceiling, but suddenly disappears. Giorno startles, then glances upwards. Through the red gem ceiling he can spot the distorted face of Bucciarati, now back to normal size.

“Amazing,” Giorno breathes out. He lets himself have this one moment of amazement, while he’s alone. Not even a week ago, he thought he was the only one with this kind of power. He was certain that, despite his abilities, he would be confined to a lonely existence with only Gold by his side.

Then, Koichi found him, and Giorno learned that his power was called a stand, and he wasn’t the only person with one.

And now, a tortoise with a stand. The wonders never cease.

The back of his neck burns as the stand activates again, depositing Narancia.

“Woah,” the teen gasps, surveying the room. “Giorno! Giorno, your turtle is so cool!”

It’s not mine, and it’s a tortoise, is what he wants to say. “Thanks,” is what Giorno says instead.

The rest of the gang quickly follow suit, Bucciarati stashing the animal under a seat before entering himself. It’s a decently sized room, luckily with enough seating for everyone.

“This is fucking crazy,” Abbacchio says, sitting down on the couch.

“Holy shit,” Mista pipes up from where he’s fiddling with the TV. “This actually works! Like, it’s gettin’ real channels and shit!”

“Oh hell yeah,” Narancia cheers, going to sit in front of the TV.

“The turtle has cable,” Abbacchio deadpans, running his hands down his face.

“It’s a tortoise,” Giorno interrupts. Abbacchio glares at him, so he continues. “Turtles have webbed appendages and live primarily in the water. Tortoises have clawed feet and live on land. They can’t swim.”

Abbacchio just glares at him more. Giorno just stares back, unsure of what to do in this situation.

“Okay,” Bucciarati says, calling attention to himself and ending all other conversation. “My watch still works, so we’re going to assume that time passes similarly in…in the tortoise.”

“Mr. President.” Giorno says.

“…Excuse me?”

“That’s it’s name.”

The rest of the group look at him like he’s insane. “Of the tortoise?”

“No, of the stand,” Giorno explains. “The tortoise’s name is Coco Jumbo.”

Bucciarati blinks. “And you know this how?”

Giorno has no idea how. “Stand stuff,” he says. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Okay,” Bucciarati says, exasperated and not willing to argue it further. “I’ll keep track of time. When we’re five minutes out, two of us will exit Coco Jumbo and get off the train.”

Bucciarati looks very tired. Giorno hopes they don’t meet any other stand users on their trip.

★

Giorno is not on the exit team, so he sits in Coco Jumbo while Mista and Fugo leave the train without attracting attention.

It leaves him time to think.

Until the past week, he was the only one he knew of with a stand power. For all he knew, Golden Experience was one of a kind; a miracle, a gift.

But Echoes and Koichi Hirose disproved that. So, he amended his assumption: stands were rare, users could sense each other, and each had a seemingly unique power.

Coco Jumbo does not, necessarily, disprove any of these ideas, except adding that animals can hold stands as well. But the creature does bring up a problem.

The Boss knew about the tortoise and its powers, and knew how they worked. If he had found one stand user, what were the chances of him finding another? Could the Boss be a stand user himself?

If not, then Giorno could handle him easily, once the man was found. If he was, then Giorno would have to fight. And a stand fight could be deadly.

Giorno takes a deep, centering breath. There was no use worrying about it at the moment. If the Boss doesn’t have a stand, then Giorno will easily win. If he does, then Giorno will have to rethink his strategy.

Maybe he could try to court favor with the Boss, if he is a fellow stand user? Present himself as a tool, an ally, until the time comes to usurp the man? Or, perhaps—

“Hey, heyyy,” Narancia whines, interrupting his thoughts. “Giorno, stop thinkin’ bout stuff, I need your heeelp.”

Giorno stares at him. Narancia doesn’t really look like he needs help, but Giorno isn’t in a position to refuse. “What do you need, Narancia?”

The older teen lights up, and then holds up several bottles of nail polish for Giorno to see. They’re varying levels of filled, and all of them are different colors, ranging from navy blue to hot pink.

“I wanna paint my nails!” Narancia beams. “Abba won’t paint mine anymore after I accidentally got nail polish in his coffee that one time.”

“It was not an accident and you know it,” Abbacchio responds from his position on the couch. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes.

“Whatever,” Narancia shrugs. Then he turns wide, pleading eyes on Giorno. “Please, Giorno? Pretty please? Pretty please with sugar on top?”

“Okay,” Giorno agrees. He gently sides down from the chair he’s in to sit on the floor with Narancia.

“Have ya ever painted nails before, Giorno?” Narancia asks. Giorno immediately recalls the circumstances where he has; painting his mother’s as a child, painting his own and the scrubbing the polish off right after before anyone saw, applying clear coats (and only clear coats) when he was at school.

“A few times,” he says.

“Cool!” the other teen exclaims, leaning forward in excitement. “You should know what color is best for me! ‘Cause you’re, like, fashionable, and stuff.”

“Thank you, Narancia,” Giorno replies. He’s fairly certain he’s really only as fashionable as the rest of them. Well. He’s certainly more fashionable than Mista. But the rest are on the same level.

He examines the bottles of nail polish; half of them are nearly depleted, and the new ones still have sales’ stickers on them. Giorno would guess they were probably shoplifted, but it's not like he can judge. They are all, however, odd colors. No blacks or clears, just colors like brown and blood orange.

“Hm,” he hums. Finally, he lifts up a color to the light to get a better look at it. It’s not a black or orange to match Narancia’s outfit, but it’s a purple that turns bluish when the light hits it. “This one.”

“Why that one?” Narancia asks, peering at the color.

“It matches your eyes.”

Narancia does a loud, obnoxious awwww. Abbacchio fake gags. Bucciarati fondly rolls his eyes at their antics.

Giorno motions for Narancia to lay his hands flat, and begins painting the older boy’s nails. He comes to the realization why Abbacchio no longer paints Narancia’s nails for him; the teen is quite fidgety, and prone to forgetting he should be letting his nails dry.

Giorno messes up painting three of his nails, which is frankly inexcusable. Narancia doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems rather pleased.

“Aw hell yeah,” he wiggles his fingers, the glitter in the polish catching the light. “I’m gonna look so fuckin’ good when I’m stabbin’!”

“No stabbing until they dry.” Giorno chides. Then, he turns to look at the person who was watching him the whole time.

Trish watched the entire nail painting session, not saying a word the whole time. Her face is impassive, and the two of them stare at each other for a few moments.

Giorno can think of only one thing to say. “Do you want me to paint yours too?”

She blinks, surprised, and then answers. “I already painted them a few days ago.” She raises up a hand and shows nails neatly painted in bubblegum pink. They look salon grade. “You, however, need help.”

Looking down at his own hands, he can see her point. He’s tried (and succeeded, for the most part) to keep up his personal hygiene this entire trip, but sadly his hands have taken a back seat. They’re still mostly tidy, but his clear coat has chipped off and he does need to trim them.

Trish sighs, and then lowers herself to the floor next to him. The three others in the room watch in anticipation. “I’ll paint your nails. That way they’re sure to look good.”

Giorno isn’t sure what to say. He definitely can’t refuse. But he’s not sure if he likes the idea of someone holding his hands and touching him for that long.

“Hey!” Narancia says, before Giorno can speak up. “I’m supposed to do his nails! That’s, like, part of the sleepover code!”

Bucciarati looks between Trish and Narancia with concern; which, given that she’s the Boss’s daughter, fair. Abbacchio looks like he’s about to strangle the teen.

Trish rolls her eyes. “No way, you’d mess it up. But I guess you can pick out the colors I use.”

Narancia is immediately placated by that, and scoots over to the two of them. He begins intently examining the bottles of nail polish as Trish takes Giorno’s hands and begins trimming his nails.

Letting Narancia pick the colors is a mistake. He chooses six separate ones, and none of them even remotely go with Giorno’s outfit. Not even Trish’s skill can make the palette look appetizing. Giorno cannot figure why anyone would make neon yellow nail polish, or why anyone would buy it.

When they’re finished drying, Giorno struggles to figure out what to say. But he looks up and sees the enthusiastic face of Narancia (and the smug face of Trish) and says, “Thank you both for painting my nails.”

Narancia beams and Trish smiles. Giorno looks back down at his nails, and realizes that this is the first time someone else has painted his nails. It feels very different to painting them yourself, he finds.

He, of course, resolves to change the polish for a more reasonable color palette when the time comes. But he’s hoping Narancia and Trish won’t mind if he asks them for their services again.

★

It’s hours later when Mista re-enters Coco Jumbo.

“All clear!” he yells, and there’s various sounds of relief throughout the room.

“Was there any trouble?” Bucciarati asks.

“Nope, nah, absolutely nothing,” he says, way too quickly. He turns to Giorno. “But, uh, hypothetically, if something did happen, and we had to hide, like, three bodies, could, y’know, your magic shit make that not a problem anymore?”

There’s a pause.

“Did you just use the word ‘hypothetically’?” Abbacchio asks.

Giorno sighs, and gets up. “Let me see what I can do.”

★

Gold doesn’t seem to want to turn the bodies into any animals or plants. Giorno can’t tell if they still count as living material or if Gold refuses to turn them into anything smaller than a mountain lion. Or a dinosaur, given one of their earlier conversations with Narancia. Gold can be difficult like that.

It doesn’t seem to mind growing weeds to hide the corpses, though. Or turning their clothes into maggots and other bugs to speed up the decaying process. Giorno watches impassively as one of the insects worms its way into cooling flesh.

Behind him, the rest of the gang are figuring out what to do for the rest of the night. Coco Jumbo means that they don’t have to travel as such an inconspicuous group anymore, but their enemies could still be out there. He can hear Abbacchio and Bucciarati debating if it would be better if they all hid in the tortoise, or if someone stayed outside to nightwatch.

Giorno would really like to give his own thoughts, but his job right now is disposal, and no one seems keen to join him. At least he thinks that’s the case, until a shadow falls on the pavement next to him.

“Um,” Fugo begins. “Hi.”

“Hello,” Giorno says. “Have you come to watch me work?”

“No?” Fugo answers. “I mean, you’re fine, but uh—“

He can’t seem to find what he wants to say, so Giorno continues talking. “No worries,” he says, and Gold makes it so that wildflowers and weeds bloom over the bodies in an instant, leaving no signs of anything else. “I was just finishing up. No one will find them. Not for a while, anyway.”

“That’s,” Fugo begins. Stops. “That’s good.”

Giorno looks at Fugo, waiting for him to continue. The other boy seems allergic to actually looking Giorno in the eyes. It’s very unfair; Fugo has pretty eyes, and Giorno would like to look at them more.

“Do you need me for something?” That seems like a safe question.

“No, I just,” Fugo stutters. “I wanted to ask you. About your magic powers.”

“My stand,” Giorno corrects. “And that sounds like needing something to me.”

“Okay, smartass,” now Fugo’s looking him in the eye. Giorno wonders if he knows how much he sounds like Abbacchio when he’s angry. “See if I ask you about your stand any more, then.”

“Sorry,” Giorno smiles at him, apologetic. “Please, ask me anything you like. I like it when you ask me things.”

Again, Fugo blushes at his innocent statement. “You said it has a physical form?”

“Yes,” he says, and Gold trills at the acknowledgment. It floats over to Fugo, mere inches away from him. “It’s active right now.”

“Is it…” Fugo furrows his brow, trying to decide what exactly to say. His eyes flicker around Giorno, trying to see any sign of Gold. Giorno isn’t going to tell him that Gold is hanging right over the pale boy’s shoulder. “So, it’s like a ghost? Invisible, intangible?”

“Hm. What does that last one mean?”

“You can’t touch it. Well, I guess you can—“

“Gold is always physical to me,” Giorno answers. “If I focused very hard, you could probably feel them too. But I doubt it would feel like a person. More like a ghost sensation, I would guess. But I can’t make it visible. Sorry.”

“…Can I touch them?” Fugo asks.

Giorno takes stock of himself; it’s been a long day, and there’s the beginnings of a headache building behind his eyes. He hasn’t eaten since this morning. But he probably won’t pass out if he does this. “Sure. Hold out your hand.”

Fugo hesitantly reaches out a hand. Gold excitedly flips through the air and trills before reaching out its own hand. Before the two connect, Giorno focuses on making Gold real.

Fugo jumps a little when they make contact, but Gold, undeterred, continues the contact, lacing its fingers together with Fugo’s.

“Woah,” the white haired teen says. Giorno wonders how it feels; does he feel the metallic shell? The thrum of life underneath? Or is it merely a ghostly, goosebump-inducing sensation? “This is—this is crazy.”

“Hm,” Giorno hums. “I’m going to deactivate Gold before it starts hugging you.”

“What?!” Fugo squeaks, at the same time Gold gives a whine. Giorno resists rolling his eyes and draws back his power. Gold apparently decides it’s not worth staying anymore, now that it can’t hug anyone but Giorno, and disappears.

“Gold is much more physically affectionate than I am,” Giorno explains.

“Um,” Fugo says, unsure what to do with that new information. Apparently, he decides to ignore it. “So, you can just make them tangible any time you want?”

“Not any time,” he says. “It takes a lot of energy. Speaking of, if I pass out in the next few minutes, don’t be alarmed.”

Fugo’s second screech of ‘what’ attracts the attention of everyone else. Giorno finds out several things in the next few minutes.

One: Mista and Narancia have very strange ideas about what you should give a person who’s about to pass out from exhaustion.

Two: Bucciarati is a mother hen. Fugo is too. Abbacchio is half of one, and refuses to admit it.

Three: Apparently, Giorno now has people who care about his well being.

He should really be trying not to get attached.

★

“Alright,” Abbacchio says. “So we need a plan of action.”

They’re all sitting in an outdoor seating area, illuminated by sickly yellow street lamps. Tourists would probably think the area is romantic, despite it being right next to an overcrowded car park. Bruno sent Mista off to get them dinner, and he returned with several pizzas, because of course he did.

Giovanna, who’s apparently a Victorian waif, threatened to faint on them because he’s an idiot. Or something. Either way, Bruno is mothering him, making sure the brat’s keeping his blood sugar up and drinking enough water.

“What’s your idea?” Bruno asks, taking his attention away from Giovanna for probably the first time in an hour.

“We steal two cars,” Abbacchio says. He can see Narancia jittering out of the corner of his eye, already excited by the idea. “We split into them evenly. Drive towards Venice, but using different routes. That way if we’ve still got a tail, we have a 50/50 chance they’ll pick the wrong car.”

Bruno nods along with his logic. He’s probably about to agree, and they can go and pick out some cars, when Giovanna quietly raises his hand.

“Oh god,” Abbacchio groans. “If you’re gonna suggest we turn the pizza boxes into attack hawks or some shit, I’m going to leave your ass here.”

Giovanna blinks. Slowly lowers his hand. Thank god for small mercies.

“Leone,” Bruno chides. “Tell us your idea, Giorno.”

“I wasn’t thinking about turning our trash into birds,” Giovanna says. Then he pauses, like he’s actually considering it. Does that count as recycling? Giovanna’s probably a hippie who cares about that sorta thing. “But I was going to ask if I could turn some cars into frogs.”

Bruno and Abbacchio stare at him. Abbacchio would bet the rest of the gang are as well.

“Like…for fun?”

“No. My idea is basically Abbacchio’s plan.” But better, Abbacchio can hear him thinking. “We take one car. I turn several others into frogs. All of them get reported stolen. Then our enemies will have to look for several cars, not just two.”

“Alright,” Bruno says. “That’s a good idea. Why frogs, though?”

Giovanna stares at him. “It doesn’t have to be frogs,” he says, instead of explaining. His tone implies that he really would like to make some frogs.

Bruno purses his lips. Abbacchio can see him think, think, think. “Fine. But don’t overextend yourself.”

In an instant, Giovanna’s half empty water bottle explodes into a bushel of flowers, petals popping out with force. Both Abbacchio and Bruno flinch back from the suddenness of it. Ignoring both of their reactions, Giovanna says, “I’ll be careful,” and rises, casually walking over to the car park.

The rest of them are left reeling in the wake of him. Narancia and Mista shake it off easily though, and bound after the golden brat, asking him to make frogs in this or that color. Abbacchio rolls his eyes at their antics.

Sadly, Bruno goes off to supervise, leaving Abbacchio alone at the table. He debates whether or not to trash Giovanna’s flowers.

At some point, Abbacchio read about flower meanings. He doesn’t even remember exactly why; he thinks he was waiting for something, somewhere, and his only options for entertainment were shitty magazines years out of date. One of them had an article on the meanings of flowers (which they have, apparently), and for some reason it stuck with him. He always thought if he used it for anything, it would be used picking out flowers for Bruno.

Now, looking over the assortment of buttercups, crocus, and gardenias, Abbacchio has found a use for it. And it’s learning that Giorno isn’t some kind of magical golden boy.

He’s a fucking dork who gets excited over frogs.

★

After that, things go smoothly for once. While Giorno, Mista, and Fugo drive towards Venice, the rest of the gang rest in the turtle. Well, Giorno is resting too— Mista has noticed him nodding off for the past few minutes. Not like he’s gonna give the guy any grief about it, though; his magic stuff has saved their asses, like, six times by now. Guy deserves a little nap.

Would tell him to sleep in the turtle, but Mista likes having the guy who can heal shit outside and (kinda) ready to go.

Mista is a superstitious guy, he supposes. Like, forgetting about the four thing, he does believe in shit like ghosts and not letting thirteen people sit at the same table. Not crazy shit like flat earth, which Narancia pretends to believe to rile Fugo up.

So all this shit about plant ghosts and magic turtles is a little out of his wheelhouse. But he feels like he’s the one who grew used to it the quickest; Giorno has magic powers! Some people do, probably! Not really worth all the suspicion and questions he got from Abba and Fugo, not gonna lie. Maybe when everything settles down Mista will have his own questions, but right now Giorno can do magic shit and he’s doing it for their benefit, so who gives a fuck.

Well. Assuming he gets a chance to hang out with Giorno after they deliver Trish. The Boss may take one look at the golden boy and decide that he wants that kind of power closeby.

God, that would suck. That would suck so bad! Giorno’s cool. Bet he would make a tiger if Mista asked him to. ‘Cause a tiger as a pet would be so cool, but Mista’s not so much of a jerk to take one from the wild. It’s, like, morally wrong, or something.

Wait, would a Giorno-made tiger be nice? Or would it like grow up and decide to maul him?

“Pssst,” he hisses, quiet enough to not rouse Giorno. “Psssst. Hey. Fugo.”

“What,” Fugo bites back. Aw, he’s being as quiet as Mista. He’s got a soft spot for Giorno, Mista can tell.

“Do you think if Giorno made me a tiger it would be nice,” he whispers. “Like, it wouldn’t maul me?”

“Why the fuck would I know that?” Fugo bites back, voice louder with anger.

“I’m not sure,” a sleepy voice pipes up from the back. Both of them look back to see Giorno, now fully awake. Despite some sleepiness in his voice, he looks as prim and aware as he usually does, despite dozing in a car for the past hour and a half.

Mista notices that Giorno has put the turtle in the middle seat and buckled it in. He’s pretty sure that’s cute as hell.

“How could you not be sure?” Fugo asks, locking eyes with Giorno in the rear view mirror. “You make them.”

“Well,” Giorno says, and Mista buckles in for some more stand bullshit. It’s a shame Abba isn’t out here to react to it. “The creatures I make do the things I want them to, provided I have a goal in mind with them. Like with the bobcats.”

Fugo nods along. Mista has no idea where bobcats come into the picture.

“But,” he continues. “If I don’t have anything in mind for them, they behave as they would naturally. Like with the frogs in the parking lot; I didn’t need them for anything. But, overall, I don’t think I could command the creatures I make.”

Mista pouts. “So no cute baby tiger doing tricks?”

“Probably not.”

“Damn,” Mista sighs. “Ruin my dreams, why don’t you.”

“Apologies,” Giorno says. Whatever he was gonna say next is cut off by a little flash of light, and suddenly Bruno is in the backseat with him.

“Hello,” he greets. Then he looks down at the turtle. Seeing that it’s buckled up, he grabs his own seat belt and does it. Giorno looks pleased at that. “New orders from the Boss.”

They all sit up in anticipation. Bruno continues. “He sent us an encrypted email. After we arrive in Venice, we need to retrieve a disk from a statue.”

Mista groans. “I get the guy likes his secrecy, but c’mon! This is too much.”

Bruno gives him an apologetic smile. “I’m only sending two of us. No tails have shown themselves yet, but I don’t want to risk the secrecy we do have sending any more.”

“I’ll go,” Giorno immediately volunteers.

“Giorno, you’ve done enough already.”

“And I can do more,” the teen says. “Our enemies would have to be very stupid to go after Trish when she has four bodyguards; they’re more likely to go after whoever you send in hopes that the disk leads to the Boss. If I go, it’ll improve our chances of retrieving it.”

Bruno narrows his eyes at him, thinking.

Mista leans over to Fugo, and whispers behind his hand, “Think Bruno’s gonna ground him?”

“Mista,” Fugo growls.

“Fine,” Bruno relents. “But afterwards you’re going into the turtle and having a proper rest. No buts.”

Giorno looks absolutely bewildered. He probably had no idea how deep Bruno’s mom instinct goes. And Mista can tell you: it goes deep. Seriously. He once made Narancia wash the dishes for a week because he broke one of Bruno’s favorite mugs. It was hilarious.

“Okay?” the blonde says. Shaking off his confusion, he turns to Mista. “Want to come with?”

“Oh hell yeah!”

“Weren’t you just complaining about how much of a hassle this all was?” Fugo points out.

“Yeah, but I get to hang out with my bud Giorno!” he says. Giorno tilts his head like a confused puppy. “Don’t look at me like that, we fucked a guy up together, that makes us bros.”

“I see.”

“Plus,” Mista grins. “If we do get attacked, you can make a tiger!”

“Don’t sound too excited,” Bruno warns.

★

It’s quiet as they head to Venice Santa Lucia Station. It’s almost morning now, so the streets are deserted except for their car. Giorno’s driving, trusting Mista to keep lookout.

Gold is thrumming under his fingertips; he’s found that whenever he uses Gold multiple times in a short period, the stand grows more excited. There’s an urge to use it, to bring life to bigger and better things, regardless of how much energy it would consume. Using his stand is almost addicting, in a way, but he supposes there are worse addictions.

“Heads up,” Mista says, disrupting Giorno’s thoughts. “We’ve got company.”

Giorno looks into the rearview mirror, and spots a motorcycle driving behind them. It’s still far into the distance, but judging by how it’s steadily getting bigger in the mirror, it won’t be long until it catches up with them.

“Think they’re friendly?” Mista jokes. Half a second later, a bullet rips through their car, shattering both the front and back windows.

Giorno flinches, and jerks the wheel in surprise. He can hear Mista curse, and then the older man grabs his collar and jerks him down into a duck right as a second bullet flies through the air.

“Drive!” Mista yells, and then starts firing his own gun. Giorno decides not to argue; he lays onto the gas pedal, trying his best to steer without lifting his head up too far above the dashboard.

The next few moments feel like hours. Their only saving grace is that they’re on a long, straight road at the moment; any curves or turns and Giorno would’ve crashed the car long ago.

Another bullet fires. “Fuck!”

Giorno turns with wide eyes to see Mista cradling his hand. Dark red blood seeps between his fingers, and Giorno realizes that he can’t shoot anymore with a hand like that.

He tries to kickstart his brain into thinking. He has to do something. They can’t drive like this forever.

Gold hums underneath his skin. His fingers twitch with energy.

“Grab the wheel,” he says to Mista.

“What?” Mista screeches, but Giorno doesn’t bother to explain; he unbuckles and then forces the driver’s seat to recline as far as it can go. He distantly registers Mista cursing him out as the other man has to grab the steering wheel with blood-slicked fingers.

Giorno throws open the door; immediately bullets ping into the metal, making him flinch. But all he’s doing is sticking out his hand, you can survive getting shot in the hand.

He reaches down towards the tarmac. Both his and Gold’s fingertips ghost the surface, and his ability activates.

Underneath, the street turns from old concrete to fresh grass, wet with morning dew. Giorno only turns a few meters, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take long for the motorcyclist to reach the stretch of grass, and at the speed they’re both at, there wouldn't even be time for him to react.

The motorcycle loses traction on the wet grass; its driver tries to gain back control, but it’s no use. His bike begins to slip out from under him, just as the grass turns back to the road.

Giorno hears the crash more than he sees it. Judging by how pale Mista gets, it must be pretty bad.

He sits back up in the driver’s seat, pulling the door closed. Mista hands him back the wheel. Wordlessly, they slow down, and then turn around, going back to the crash. When they arrive, they get out of the car, and stand over the motorist.

“Yikes,” Mista says. “That’s, uh, that’s fucking brutal.”

“Mm.”

There’s a few beats of silence. Then Mista looks over at him.

“Wanna go get ice cream after we get the disk?”

Giorno should say no. It’s a pretty bad idea. “Sure. If we can find a place that’s open. And also after I heal your hand.”

“Oh, right!” Mista says, as if he forgot being shot in the hand a few seconds ago. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem,” he replies, as they both get back into the car.

Once they get to the statue, it’s fairly easy to locate the disk. They don’t find an ice cream place, but they do find a cafe open this early, and the workers don’t even blink an eye at their disheveled state.

They make sure to buy a coffee for Bucciarati before they leave. Giorno is fairly certain it’s to keep them from getting yelled at too much.

He’s right.

★

“Sleep,” Bruno orders.

“I’m not tired,” Giorno lies.

He raises an eyebrow at the teen in front of him. Anyone with eyes could see that Giorno was exhausted. Nevertheless, the teen holds his ground and keeps eye contact with Bruno.

“I am ordering you to rest,” Bruno says, pointing at one of the hotel beds. They have several hours to wait until the appointed meeting time with the Boss. “You’re no good to us if you pass out on the way there. Just go to bed.”

Giorno continues to stare. Bruno doesn’t let him win their staring contest. Giorno sighs. “Will you wake me up if something happens?”

Bruno sighs. “Yes. I promise.” He’s not going to wake him up for anything less than the end of the world, but if agreeing gets him to sleep then Bruno will do it.

The teen stares at him for a beat before getting up and going into the ensuite bathroom. Bruno waits, and after a few minutes he exits; Giorno has taken out his front curls, but left his braid, and wiped off his makeup. It’s much easier to see how tired he is, with his hair down and the faint bags under his eyes.

Bruno watches as the teen walks over to one of the beds, and lays down on top of it; doesn’t get under the sheets, or even adjusts himself to be comfortable, just plops down and closes his eyes. At least he’s not wearing his shoes in bed.

He stares at Giorno for a few moments, but it looks like the boy instantly went to sleep. Is that because he was exhausted, or is sleeping at the drop of a hat something he can just do? And it doesn’t escape Bruno’s notice that he’s laying down facing the rest of the room. Giorno’s nearly hyper vigilant, and that likely developed long ago.

Just as he’s about to turn away, something catches his eye; Giorno’s hair is being petted by a force he can’t see.

“Is that you, Gold Experience?” he whispers to the nothingness. It feels a bit silly, but at least it’s just him and Giorno in the room. And Gold, potentially.

The invisible hand stops. Then, the corner of the bed depresses like someone is sitting there. Not for the first time, Bruno wonders what it looks like.

“If it is you, I’d like to thank you,” Bruno continues. “Your help has been invaluable.”

He gets no verbal response, not like he was expecting one, but the carpet below the bed morphs into wildflowers and grass.

Bruno smiles. “I suppose that means you’re happy.”

The indents on the bed rise, and invisible hands start plucking the flowers from the hotel floor. It hurts his eyes a bit, to see plants float in the air without anyone there to hold them. He wonders, not for the first time, what Gold Experience actually looks like; is it truly like a ghost, just a formless phantom that accompanies Giorno? Is it like a copy of him, just embellished in glittering colors? Or, is it somewhere in between, something humanoid but not human at all?

While he was thinking, Gold had finished gathering its (theirs? his?) flowers, and had begun tying together their stems in a pattern. Only when the stand presents its gift to Bruno does he snap out of his thoughts.

“Oh,” he says, lifting the flower crown out of the air. His hands brush against something invisible, just for a moment. “Thank you.”

It’s almost as if he can feel the excitement radiating off of the invisible stand as he places the flower crown on his head. Bruno smiles in what he hopes is Gold’s direction.

“Although,” Bruno says. “I’m fairly certain someone said that when his stand is physical, it draws more energy from him. And that’s not very good for someone trying to rest, is it?”

There’s a beat, and then he can feel a sort of…pressure in the room, vanishing. Must be Gold leaving, he supposes.

“That’s better.”

★

None of them speak as they approach the island. The craziest week of her life, guarded by mafiosos and a magical boy—and it’ll be over in just a few short moments.

She tries not to be outwardly worried, but can they really blame her for being nervous? Her father, a man she’s never met, owns the biggest criminal organization in Italy. He wants to meet her, and for what? What does he even want with her? She has nothing to offer him.

There’s very little chance of it, but maybe—just maybe—he just wants to see his daughter. That he stayed away because he loved her mom, and by extension loved her, and now that Mom is dead he wants to hold onto Trish, because he loves her.

Trish doesn’t want to get her hopes up.

It’s silent as the boat pulls up to the dock, only the sound of the waves and early morning birds filling the air.

The boat bumps against the stone of the pier, and she watches as Bucciarati deftly ties the boat to one of the mooring bitts using rope, knotting it easily, like he’s done it a thousand times. He steps out of the boat, and then reaches out a hand for her.

Hesitantly, she stands up, and takes it. Her exit out of the boat is much less elegant than Bucciarati’s. She turns back to the boat; she feels like she should say something to the rest of them, because she might never see any of them again.

She should probably say something profound, or whatever. Instead, she says, “Thanks,” and hopes her nerves don’t show through.

It’s enough; Narancia lights up and wishes her good luck, Mista gives her a grin and a sloppy two finger salute. Fugo blushes and looks to the side, sharply nodding in acknowledgment. Giorno smiles, and says that she’s welcome, ever polite. Abbacchio just rolls his eyes at the rest of them, exhausted by their antics.

She and Bucciarati walk towards the lone church on the island, their footsteps loud against the worn stone. Trish represses the urge to reach out and hold his hand.

They enter. It’s a strange place, not deserted because of any damages or disrepair but just because people stopped attending it. Pews are still lined up, and dust coats nearly every surface. Trish wonders if her father owns this place, or if it was abandoned so long ago no one even remembers it anymore.

One thing makes it obvious that this place has been worked on, though; an elevator, cut into a stone wall, that gleams in the scant morning light. It’s obviously new, and as Bucciarati steps towards it, she knows it will lead her to her father.

He presses the button, and gestures for her to step inside. She does, and waits for him to enter as well; only as the elevator doors begin to close does she realize he’s not following her.

“Wait,” Trish says, slamming a hand against the doors to keep them open. “Come with me.”

“I can’t,” Bucciarati informs her, looking pained. “I was told to bring you to the elevator. Nothing more.”

“Please,” she says. “I’ll vouch for you—tell him I made you—but I just. I don’t want to go alone.”

He stares at her for a few moments. Then, sighing, he moves into the elevator with her, hitting the button for the top floor as he does.

“Thank you.”

“It’s no problem. Nervous?”

“Of course I am,” Trish says. “I always thought that he was just some deadbeat, or something, but my Mom was really in love with him and he’s…y’know. Your boss. I just…don’t really know what to expect. I’m worried…I’m worried that he won’t like me.”

“That’s not something you should have to worry about,” he replies. “He sought you out because he cares about you. Even if he can’t keep you close to him—he’ll make sure you’re safe.”

At his kind words, she smiles, and Bucciarati smiles right back. As the elevator continues its journey upwards, without talking, Bucciarati takes her hand into his.

The elevator reaches the top.

The doors open.

Shots rings out.

Trish screams as blood splatters against her clothes. She looks down in horror of Bucciarati, at the red blooming against the white of his suit.

Bucciarati himself looks stunned, as he fumbles back to the elevator wall behind him and begins to slide down, his legs no longer able to hold him up.

Trish wordlessly cries out again as she kneels at his side. She knows she’s supposed to do something, but her hands are shaking and she’s too panicked to think straight.

The click of a gun reloading is what gets her to look up. Past the elevator threshold is a man, face shadowed by the lighting of the room.

But his hair is nearly the same shade of pink as hers.

This is her father.

“What a shame,” are the first words her father says to her. “Those were meant for you.”

Her father tried to shoot her.

And as he lifts the gun, Trish realizes he’s going to try again.

Adrenaline coursing through her, she dives for the elevator buttons, desperately pushing at them, willing the door closed. Blood from her fingertips stain the buttons.

Just as the elevator begins to close, her father starts shooting.

Two bullets hit her before the doors close.

★

No one says anything as they wait for Bucciarati to get back. Which is fair enough; they’ve been running around for nearly two weeks now, and it's early in the morning. Maybe after this they can go to a nice café. Or maybe find a nice hotel with soft beds.

Giorno wishes that they could be allowed on the island itself. Gold’s power is still itching underneath his skin, but turning parts of their little boat into animals probably isn’t a good idea, unless he wants to get yelled at by Abbacchio.

Speaking of Gold, the stand itself is hanging over his shoulders, staring up at the belfry intently. Giorno has no idea why; perhaps it's trying to hear the Boss? His stand can hear and see better than he can, almost superhumanly, infact, but a conversation that far away is impossible.

He’s about to call away his stand when it jerks in surprise.

“Gold?” he asks, breaking the silence. The other occupants of the boat look at him, and Narancia starts to wake up from dozing at the sound. “What’s wrong?”

His stand won’t look at him. Instead, it flinches again, and then steps onto the island, urging Giorno to follow.

Immediately, Giorno starts to get out of the boat. Before he can fully leave, someone grabs his arm.

“What the fuck are you doing,” Fugo hisses, gripping Giorno’s wrist. “We’re not supposed to go on the island!”

“Something’s wrong,” Giorno says. Now that he’s focusing, with Gold’s help, he can hear a series of loud and unmistakable pops.

He wrenches his arm from Fugo’s grip and takes off towards the church. Behind him he can hear the rest of the gang yelling after him, telling him to come back.

He can’t go back. Not unless Bucciarati and Trish are safe.

Gold hovers at the ready behind him as he enters. There’s seemingly nothing on the ground floor, and his footsteps echo about the room. His eyes trace the entire room. Below him flowers grow unbidden, ready to give him a defense if someone sneaks up on him.

The moment he sees the elevator is the moment it opens, revealing a bloodsoaked Trish and Bucciarati.

“Giorno!” the pink-haired girl yells, and he rushes to meet them. Trish has Bucciarati leaning against her left side, but she’s not strong enough to hold him up herself, especially with the bullet wounds in her right shoulder and hip.

“Trish,” he breathes, and helps the two of them out of the elevator. Giorno gently helps lower Bucciarati to the floor, and helps Trish sit against the wall. Trish is pale and shaking, her green eyes wide with pain. Bucciarati remains silent. His eyes have already slipped closed. “What happened?”

“My father,” she sobs. She’s crying now, and he can’t blame her. “He—he shot us. God—Giorno, he fucking shot me.”

Internally, Giorno curses. Of course the Boss would be cruel even to his own daughter, why would they expect any less? He owns the largest criminal organization in Europe, and his identity is perhaps one of the closest guarded secrets to exist. Any trace of that would have to disappear. Even his daughter.

Giorno can deal with that later. For now, he presses one hand against Trish’s side and the other against Bruno’s chest, and pushes out all of Gold’s frantic energy. Underneath his fingertips, he can feel metal and gunpowder turn into flesh and bone.

Trish gasps as he does it, shaking. He finishes her first, and then uses both hands to work on Bruno.

“Is,” she starts, and then stops. “Is he alive?”

The terrible thing is that Giorno doesn’t know. Gold’s power is working as fast as it can, but Bucciarati was shot several times. Bones are shattered, organs are ruptured. Giorno can’t tell if the fast heartbeat he’s feeling in his hands is Bucciarati’s, or his own.

A loud bang reverberates around the room. Both of them look up in shock; across the room, near the chancel, a door has opened. A man with long pink hair stands in the doorway, and it takes only a few seconds for Giorno to register that this is the Boss.

“Of course,” the Boss says. He slowly walks down the aisle, in between the abandoned pews. The large stained glass window behind him means Giorno can’t see his expression. “Bucciarati’s little golden boy. One week in and you’re already making waves.”

Giorno stands up to face him. Trish moves so that she’s hidden behind him but still hovering over Bucciarati, as if she’ll be able to protect him.

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Mostly your powers, but yes,” the Boss says. “Funny, Bucciarati never mentioned you. The eyes I had on your group had to inform me themselves.”

“I see.”

“Gifts like that can be very useful. I’m willing to forgive your little transgression, if you hand over the girl.”

He won’t even use his daughter’s name. “You don’t seem like the forgiving type. Especially to those who know your identity.”

“I’m not,” even in the dim light, Giorno can see the man smile. “Trust me, you’ll never be able to tell it to anyone, I can ensure it. But pledge your abilities to Passione, to me, and you can live.”

Giorno looks back towards Trish and Bucciarati. She’s looking up at him with tear-filled, worried eyes. Bucciarati still hasn’t woken up. He might never.

“Let me heal Bucciarati, and you have a deal,” Giorno says. He can hear Trish gasp in shock, and he feels bad to do this to her, but he needs Bucciarati alive.

An alive Bucciarati can get her out of here before Gold starts fighting.

The Boss clicks his tongue. “Bucciarati betrayed my orders. He got what was coming to him.”

Gold phases out of him, hovering above him like a phantom. Giorno can feel his stand’s power humming underneath his skin, and it mixes with his anger, cycling between the two like a feedback loop.

The Boss does not look up. He doesn’t see Gold.

“Trish,” Giorno grits out. It’s getting hard to tell where Giorno Giovanna ends and where Gold Experience begins. “Duck.”

She obeys, covering Bucciarati with her body. The Boss quickly whips out his gun, but it's too late.

Giorno unfurls.

★

“Fuck it,” Mista says. “I’m going in.”

The gunslinger steps off the boat. Fugo doesn’t want to argue with him, but apparently Abbacchio does.

“Alright, be a fucking idiot,” the oldest spits out. “Go get yourself killed right alongside Giovanna! See if I fucking care.”

“Something’s gone wrong! I have to go help!”

“Giovanna just made that the fuck up!”

“Why would he do that!?”

“‘Cause he’s a little fucking bitch—“

“Guys?” Narancia pipes up.

“Don’t say that about him! He’s kept us from fucking dying—“

“Guys!”

“—we would’ve had it fucking handled—“

“Shut up!” Fugo screams at all of them. He’s one second away from stabbing someone, he’s so goddamn mad. “Everybody just shut the fuck up!”

Abbacchio and Mista pause in their arguing to stare at him. They look back at each other, and apparently decide to stop fighting. But the tension remains in their jaws and shoulders.

“Um, Fugo?”

“What,” Fugo bites at Narancia. He doesn’t want to fuck up Narancia right now, but he will unless the other teen can shut the fuck up.

“Is that supposed to be happening?”

Fugo looks to where Narancia is pointing. His anger rushes out of him, and is quickly replaced by bewilderment. On the island, the grout between the paved stone pathways are quickly being morphed into plant life. It grows fast; moss and weeds sprouting out of nowhere in a blink of an eye. Fugo traces the growth towards the church, where the outer paint is being replaced by lichen.

“What the hell is Giorno d—“

Suddenly, one of the old stained glass windows of the church breaks. All sorts of birds—doves, vultures, pelicans—fly out of the broken glass and up into the air. After them, vast swaths of vines and trees spill out of the now open window.

Fugo pales. He knew, technically, Giorno could do things like this. But he didn’t think it could be like this, a figurative Cambrian Explosion of life—is Giorno doing this on purpose?

Or has something gone really, really wrong?

“C’mon,” Mista yells at them. He already has his pistol out, and he begins running to the church. Narancia follows, leaping out of the boat.

Fugo and Abbacchio lock eyes. They’re the tactical ones of the group. Fugo knows both of them would turn and run from situation like this, and they would drag their idiots away from it.

But Bruno’s in there.

Fugo makes up his mind. He scrambles off of the boat, much less elegantly than Bucciarati would have, and runs after Mista and Narancia. A second later, and he can hear Abbacchio clambering off the boat as well.

The four of them reach the front doors of the church, guns in hand. Mista looks at all of them for confirmation, and then kicks them open.

And then he has to rush out of the way to avoid being trampled.

A cacophony of animals nearly trample them. Fugo spots so many animals; a pair of horses run through the open doors, a deer and a set of fawns spring out, a fucking half-grown elephant lumbers past.

Eventually, the mass exodus seems to die out. One second passes and no new animals come out, then two, then three. Fugo stops himself from counting four, because Mista has ruined his brain just by association.

Just as they decide to brave the inside, one last animal exits.

It’s a dodo.

It looks at all four of them with beady little eyes, and then waddles past them without a care in the world. Which makes sense; no natural predators.

“I hate my fucking life,” Fugo says. He’s so tired.

“Let’s just get Bruno and get out of here,” Abbacchio grunts, moving inside.

The rest follow. Whatever the inside of the church looked like before, it’s inside has been changed to a proverbial garden of Eden. Stone columns have been transformed into tall, hardy oaks, pews into bushes of rhododendrons and azalea. Croaks of frogs and birdsong fill the air as butterflies flit past them. The sickly sweet smell of sap and pollen mix terribly with the scent of blood and gore.

In the middle of the room, two figures are kneeling over another. Fugo’s hopes soar when he sees that it’s Giorno and Trish, and then come falling back down when he realizes the third figure is Bucciarati.

“Bruno!” Abbacchio yells, rushing over to the three, heedless of any danger that might be lurking in the foliage. The flowers underneath his feet part to let him by; Narancia can’t help but to run after him, towards Bucciarati.

Fugo and Mista are more cautious, keeping their guns out and their eyes trained as they inch closer towards the group. Occasionally Fugo’s eyes will catch movement; it’s only ever one of Giorno’s creations, and his warning about harming them is the only thing that keeps Fugo from shooting.

It’s not an unusual sight, seeing Bucciarati covered in blood. But it’s usually not his. Fugo spots several bullet holes in the white fabric of his suit, and it doesn’t take a genius to guess how bad the situation is.

“Fuck,” Mista says, voicing everyones thoughts. Abbacchio has already kneeled down beside Bucciarati, and Fugo watches as Narancia collapses to his knees. “Is he—“

“Shh,” Trish suddenly says. “He’s trying to work.”

The phrase is so out of place that it makes Fugo’s anger spike—before he remembers that Giorno is here. Giorno’s trying to work, is what she means. He’s the only thing standing between Bucciarati and death’s door.

For the first time since entering, Fugo looks at Giorno. The golden boy is the most disheveled he’s ever seen him. His brows are furrowed, features locked in concentration, as sweat drips down his face. One of his curls and his braid have fallen out. His arms shake with what must be immense power as he presses his healing hands against Bucciarati.

Fugo can see the wounds close himself, but he doesn’t know if it’s enough, and he’s too afraid to ask. Suddenly, the hair on the back of his neck raises, and he asks the other question everyone must have on their minds.

“Where’s the Boss,” he demands, looking at Trish.

Her eyes flick towards the front of the church, then back towards him. “Gone. He—he was gonna kill me.”

Well, fuck. No wonder Bucciarati was shot. The man cares way too much for a capo. But there goes Fugo’s hopes that this was just an assassin lying in wait, and not the actual fucking Don.

As she begins stammering out the whole story, Fugo looks to where she glanced at earlier. His eyes travel up the rows of bushes, past slithering snakes and prowling coyotes, and up to the pulpit. There, in the center of thorny vines is—

The Boss.

Fugo looks back down, before the image has a chance to burn into his memory.

His attention is drawn by a sharp breath from Giorno. The boy is shaking; taking his blood-stained hands away from Bucciarati to rup at his temples.

Abbacchio immediately pales. “Did you—c’mon brat, keep going—“

A sudden gasp of breath from Bucciarati draws all of their notice. Their capo opens his eyes.

“Bruno,” Abbacchio breathes, and cradles the man’s head in his lap. “Are, fuck, are you okay?”

Bucciarati groans. “Hh,” is all he says.

“Giorno healed you!” Narancia informs him. “You ain’t dyin’ on us, Bucci!”

“Tha’s nice,” Bucciarati slurs. “G’night.”

His eyes slip closed again. Fugo panics for a second, but Mista grabs Bucciarati’s wrist and checks his pulse.

“He’s fine,” Mista says. “Just unconscious, I guess. You ain’t gonna pass out on us too, are ya, Giorno?”

The golden boy squints at him. His shaking has died down, but his skin is pale and his eyes are wide and wild. Another one of his curls threatens to fall out.

“I’ll be fine, I think,” Giorno says. He makes an attempt to stand up, but falls back down before he even gets his legs under him. “Ah. I think I might need to lean on someone, if no one minds.”

“If no one minds,” Abbacchio scoffs. “Kid, you’re ridiculous. Fugo, help him up.”

Normally he’d be hesitant to do so, but Fugo is so goddamn tired he doesn’t mind sharing personal space for a while. He puts one of Giorno’s arms around his shoulders, and begins helping him up. Giorno’s stand magic must still be in effect, because as the younger boy grabs at him for stability, Fugo’s gun turns into a banana.

“Ha,” Giorno says. Not laughs. Just says ‘ha’ out loud. “That’s funny. Don’t eat that.”

“Okay?” Fugo replies. He drops the banana on the floor. There’s probably some kind of joke he’s missing here.

Abbacchio carefully lifts Bucciarati into his arms. Normally they’d be giving him shit about it, what with the whole totally obvious crush thing, but none of them do. Mista and Narancia each offer Trish a hand. When they pull her up, neither of them pull their hands back.

Fugo looks to the boy heavily leaning against him.

“Want to get out of here?”

“Oh Fugo,” Giorno smiles at him. A proper one, too, and Fugo commits to memory that Giorno has dimples. “I thought you’d never ask.”

★

Bruno has a lot to do in the wake of, well, everything.

Coming back to consciousness to find that Giorno had killed the boss was…interesting, to say the least. There was a good fifteen minutes where nobody said anything, where they all just sat and tried to figure out what the hell to do next.

There was a lot of screaming. There was a narrowly-avoided knifing. And then they started discussing who should be the next boss.

Most of the group agreed that Bruno should be boss, which would mean that he went from leader of a small group to the fucking Don of Passione in a week. Bruno nearly nominated Giorno for the position, considering reforming Passione was his idea, but the teen silently locked eyes with him and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

So then Bruno became the Don.

It was hard, and difficult. Passione was divided; Bruno was not as influential as the other capos, but he had been with Passione for nearly a decade at this point. Even though there was a good number of capos who liked him enough (or at least liked the fact there was a Don who they could potentially influence), there was still enough discord in Passione that Bruno and his gang had to spend the next few weeks dealing with it.

At least La Squadra Esecuzioni was already out of the way. The only other group that could cause as many problems as them were L’Unità Speciale, the previous Boss’s bodyguards. Although bodyguards was a misnomer; Bruno thought ‘attack dogs’ was a better term. Leone called them ‘sick fucks’ after reading their files, which, fair enough.

Bruno had been looking over said files when Giorno came in. The teen joined him in reading only for a few minutes. Then, he gathered the papers, looked Bruno in the eyes, and said “I will take care of them.”

It spoke to Bruno’s confidence in Giorno (and the teen’s confidence in himself) that Bruno only started to grow worried on the third day that Giorno was gone. On the fifth day since the blond had left, Bruno woke up to find several new flowerbeds in his garden and Giorno having tea with a Frenchman.

“Good morning, Bucciarati,” Giorno greets. He looks too well-put together for someone who had just gotten back from a mission, especially since it was seven a.m. Giorno nods towards his companion, “This is Polnareff.”

“Hi!” the newcomer says, reaching a hand forward for Bruno to shake. Bruno notices that the man is in a wheelchair, and has somehow managed to make his hair stick up in a straight cylinder. Bruno shakes his hand. “I’m Polnareff, like he said.”

“Polnareff has a stand,” Giorno says, in a way of explanation. “He helped.”

“Er,” Bruno looks between the two of them. He’s not really sure why a random French guy would help Giorno kill a bunch of mafia men, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. “You have my appreciation?”

“He also fucked my dad,” Giorno says, in the same tone you’d use to comment on the weather.

Bruno chokes. Polnareff does a spit take, and says, “That’s what you got from my backstory?!”

“It was the only part that really seemed relevant to me.”

“That’s a lie,” Polnareff says. “I told you so much stuff! Why would that be the thing you remembered!”

“Why would you tell him that?” Bruno wheezes.

“And we didn’t fuck,” Polnareff continues, indignant, ignoring Bruno altogether. “We made love. I’m not an animal.”

“Ah,” Giorno hums. “My mistake.”

Bruno watches them in bewilderment. “Are…are all stand users just like this?”

The two stand users look at each other, and then back to Bruno. “Pretty much,” Polnareff confirms. “So none of the rest of you are…?”

It takes Bruno a few moments to figure out what he’s asking. “Ah, no. Giorno’s our only stand user. Well, him and the turtle.”

Polnareff nods. Apparently the idea of a turtle having magic powers isn’t strange to him. Bruno wonders if it’s an inherent stand user thing, or if this guy has just seen so much shit in his life.

“Have a seat, Bruno,” Giorno invites, already pouring a cup of tea for him. “Maybe Polnareff will tell you the story of how he fucked and also killed my dad.”

“Okay, don’t say it like that,” Polnareff whines. “Saying I had sex with him and killed him back to back like that makes it sound like I’m into weird sex shit.”

“Um,” Bruno says, taking a seat. Any semblance of a normal morning has been utterly ruined by these two. “You…killed Giorno’s father?”

“He was a vampire,” the frenchman says, which, what the fuck? No, seriously, what? “And also a stand user. And a pretty bad dude in general.”

“You said he ran a cult.” Giorno adds.

“He did!” Polnareff says. “At least, I think it was a cult. Jotaro keeps disagreeing with me, but like, everyone there was down bad for him, and I think that legally qualifies as a cult.”

“It’s too early for this,” Bruno mumbles into his hands. “I cannot believe anything you're saying. Next you’re going to tell me—god, I don’t even know what. I can’t even guess.”

“Well,” Giorno begins. “Basically, my dad was a century old vampire who stole his body from my other dad and used magic arrows to gain stand powers. Then some of my family members went to Egypt and killed him for good. Polnareff helped. The end.”

“I did a little more than help, but okay.”

Bruno faceplants on the table and regrets his life decisions.

★

Finally, the day comes when Bruno Bucciarati formally assumes the title of Don.

He’s been running it for nearly a month now, but Giorno knows that the formality is important. All of the capos come to pledge their loyalty to him, to kneel before their new Don and kiss his ring.

But first, his inner circle must kiss the ring.

They all did it long before today, of course. Kissing the ring was the first thing they did when they actually found one that would work as the Don’s ring. It wasn’t a very formal thing; Fugo and Mista argued about the order, and Narancia kissed it with a very obnoxious ‘mwah’ sound. Then he and Trish distributed cheap toy rings to everyone else.

Giorno got a spooky spider ring. It glows in the dark. He likes it very much.

Even if they hadn’t kissed the ring, it’s obvious that they pledged their loyalty to Bucciarati long ago. The rest of them—Abbacchio, Mista, Fugo, and Narancia—have been with him for years. They’ve bled for him, and killed for him. There’s no one else they would follow.

To Bruno, Giorno’s loyalty is just another one of his ‘kids’ choosing to follow him. To the rest of Passione, it means something else.

Word of his abilities have spread. Nothing concrete, but enough. They know that with a flick of his hand, life can bloom. Wild speculation about what else he can do runs rampant. Some think him a witch, or a fae, or even a godling.

(There’s a running bet in the household as to who can get the wildest rumor about his powers circulating. Giorno’s pretending he doesn’t know anything about it.)

If Giorno was the one becoming Don, then his powers would breed fear into Passione. But Bruno is the Don, and Giorno has fallen in line behind him. As far as Passione knows, Giorno is not human; a supernatural force not to be trifled with. Bruno Bucciarati is a man, and men can be reasoned with. All they have to do is avoid Bruno’s ire, and they never have to learn what Giorno could truly do.

Maybe being seen as the Don’s attack dog should be upsetting to Giorno, but he knows no one in their little group sees him that way, and their opinions are really the only ones that matter.

Anyway, the loyalty ceremony. They picked out the nicest room in one of the nicest mansions they now own (but not the one they actually live in, of course). Senior officers of Passion line the room and wait for their turn to kiss the ring. Miles away, Trish is having brunch with Polnareff, waiting for them to be done.

Bruno sits on what is basically a throne, with Abbacchio and Mista flanking him like praetorian guards. Behind them, Giorno stands with Narancia and Fugo, and tries not to notice how many capos steal nervous glances at him.

The new Don announces that they’re ready to begin, and Abbacchio steps forward to kneel and kiss the ring. They decided what order they were going in long beforehand; first Abbacchio, then Fugo, Narancia, Mista, and finally, as the youngest member, Giorno.

Giorno watches as the rest of his teammates come forward and kiss the ring, and eventually, it’s his turn. He walks to the throne and kneels, the eyes of the capos watching his every mood.

All Giorno does is kiss the ring. Gold, on the other hand, decides to have fun.

Flowers grow on the ring, moss and blossoms bloom where the throne touches the floor. Giorno’s hairpins become ladybugs that rest on his hair.

The capos behind him try to stifle their gasps of surprise. Giorno peaks up to see Abbacchio rolling his eyes and Mista biting back a grin. Bruno is trying to remain serious, but his eyes betray his amusement.

“Giovanna,” Bruno chides. It feels strange to hear Bruno call him Giovanna, especially when Giorno calls the man by his first name, now.

“Apologies,” Giorno says, willing Gold to retract their lifeforms. His stand does so, pouting the whole time, and by the time Giorno returns to his place the flowers and ladybugs are gone.

It’s almost as if it didn’t even happen at all, excepting the mix of fear and wonder on the capos’ faces, and in the ridges of Bruno’s ring, the tiniest daffodil.