part 5 : vento aureo short-story collection

postmortem 1/3

fugo x giorno
post-va (5 years)
friends to enemies to lovers
tws:
minor violence

The emails, all encrypted. He had learned a lot in the past 5 years he had been the head of Passione. A back and forth, shredding papers with the decryption on it, waiting vigilant at the desktop. He was waiting again, now, having just sent a message not five minutes ago. Discussing where the next shipment of guns would be placed at, how many, the weight, etc. He had to push for more information though. With technology advancing fast, governments all over the world were fast to keep up with it making it to where extra steps needed to be in place to do this type of business.

He yawned, reaching to the can of Red Bull at his side. Shaking it, it proved to be empty. With a dejected sigh, he threw it into the bin under the desk, the metal clanging loud against the plastic. Usually, he would have someone else undergo this process, someone better with computers and whatnot. But there was something he didn't trust about the man sending it, too much missing from his online presence and overall data. Of course, he would have had him hacked and checked, gathering sensitive data. One could never be too wary while running an underground syndicate.

He powered off the monitor before standing, pushing the chair back for room. It was well into the night, probably past midnight. He could feel it in the way his bones rang with exhaustion. Still, he pushed himself out of the little home office and down the stairs, landing him in the kitchen. It really wasn't that big of a house, only three bedrooms. He could've gone bigger, way bigger, but he didn't see the need to.

At the fridge, he plucks out two cans of more energy drinks. Staying up late wasn't new to him. He always had some project he was working on, striving to get it finished before anyone expects. He hates meeting expectations, always wanting to break them and go higher. It wasn't about the praise, either. Maybe it was the surprise that came with it. He really couldn't say.

And a click sounds behind him. Too close to be the sound of the house settling. Or the fridge. Or a tree on a window, or anything. His mind places it fast, the sound something familiar. A gun being cocked, ready to shoot. Mista had told him once that a good gunman only ever puts his finger on the trigger and pulls the hammer if he intends to shoot.

He turns, very slowly, still holding the energy drinks. Something in him cringes at being seen like this, hair fallen around his shoulders and makeup gone. Clothes a simple sweater and soft pants, unprofessional. But then again, this was a surprise visit. "Hello, Fugo. I wasn't expecting you to be here so soon."

"Shut the fuck up." The man in front of him wasn't the boy five years ago, shaking and scared on the pier, unable to make a decision. The barrel of the gun meets with his forehead, cold where it touches. It sends a chill through his body. A part of him was scared, unsure. The other, bigger part of him wanted to test how far he could push the man before he actually considered shooting. Here, his breath was uneven, hatred in his eyes. He wasn't going to shoot the gun. He wasn't a good gunman, Giorno concluded.

"You're the same coward, hm? I would've assume you'd have grown by now, with all that therapy and false stability you forced yourself into. Don't give me that look. You think I wouldn't monitor your every little move? Waiting for you to do something interesting? You bought a gun, August 27th, 2003. It has taken you three years to muster up the courage to finally use it, and even now you're unsure." He had managed to follow Fugo a few steps back. With each step he took forward, Fugo took a step back.

"You're fucking crazy," Fugo huffed out. He almost looked scared, in the dim yellow light that the hood light over the oven provided. They were now too far for it to provide any use. Giorno sets the drinks on the counter, acting as if there wasn't a loaded gun pressed to his head right now. He really didn't care, the fear washing away. This was probably the most exciting thing he'd been in for over a year now, knowing now it was better to stay out of dangerous missions. Requiem only did so much.

"Tell me, Fugo. What was the point of this? Are you going to shoot me or do you want something from me?" He leaned closer as he spoke, ignoring the sharp pain of the gun digging into his skin. "Because if you're going to shoot me, then go ahead. I won't fight when I lost fair and square. But- Might I remind you of the consequence? That's a registered gun. Mista isn't an idiot. He can find you easily, and he's more pissed at you than you are at me. He won't hesitate to pull the trigger."

Giorno isn't surprised when the gun is lowered, though it feels as though he had just released a breath he had been holding. He meets Fugo's eyes for the first time. His emotions are blatant on his face, eyebrows pinched together and lips pressed tight. Eyes wet.

"I want an explanation. Why did you do all of this? What was the real end goal? To lead Passione? The drug trade is still going, so obviously whatever you and Bucciarati agreed on was a lie. What the fuck is all this?" Fugo gestures around as he speaks, chest shuddering with each breath. Mista had said he cried a lot.

"The agreement to abolish the trade was out of ignorance. Neither of us never knew what it really was, and how dangerous it would be to get rid of it. And my end goal..." He paused. Did he have one? He had gone into this thinking Bucciarati would be the boss. Then he went with whatever was happening, as it was all so fast. Now it felt like he was riding out the storm, the aftermath. "I don't have an end goal, really," He finally answers. "If it answers your question, I never meant for anyone to actually die."

They stood there in silence. Staring at one another, waiting for each other to make a move. The clock on the wall ticked each second out. He turns his head, eyes falling onto the window outside, overlooking the street. Hidden in plain sight. The police never suspected him. He was just some guy that lived there to them, one they would see watering plants and hurrying around on their patrols.

"Do you believe in God?" Fugo asks, voice rough.

"What?" Giorno's gaze snaps to him, eyebrows furrowed. It was hard to be religious when every day you were at fault for deaths of several people. Some people convinced themselves they were the exception to the rules of the book. He would drive himself crazy if he tried that.

"I used to think He was real. That He was with me at all times because I believed. But if He is real, he sure is hell wasn't with me when I went through what I did as a kid. But I've been thinking. You're the closest thing God could ever be. With Gold, and your- your whatever you could very well just be God."

Ten ticks of the clock on the wall. Ten seconds pass. Giorno breathes, contemplating.

"My father's name, my real father, is Dio." Five ticks. "I used to dream of him coming and carrying me away into the night. Saving me from the nightmare that was my life. I used to think that he could've been the best father. But my nephew reached out to me a few years back. He was the one who killed Dio." Eleven. "He said he was the most terrible man. Killed for fun. Took whoever and whatever he wanted. Had a... a weird cult following. That day, I learned that dreams are just that. Dreams. I am no God, nor am I close to it."

Giorno walked closer, leaving a few inches between them. He pries the gun from Fugo's hand, putting the safety back on and setting it on the counter. He picks up the drinks. "Take the room down the hall, it's too late for you to drive back to your apartment. I have work to do upstairs," He instructs before making the trip up the staircase.

ao3 upload
https://archiveofourown.org/works/28805313/chapters/70643559