part 5 : vento aureo short-story collection

postmortem 2/3

He wakes up. Like one does every day, but there's an instant heavy weight of dread pulling at him. It was usual. Usual as in everyday did he feel that dread, hating the world for allowing him to be welcomed into another day. It was a week since he had last seen Fugo. Giorno feels like he has to constantly look over his shoulder, waiting to see the white haired boy show up. He never did. Maybe he realized messing with Giorno would get him pulled back into the gang, or that pursuing the blond in public could be a certified death sentence if he wasn't careful enough. He could potentially warn his bodyguards to not shoot or react if Fugo happened to appear, but Mista was more stubborn than the others.

The shipment of weapons had gone as planned, seamlessly under the law's nose. Giorno was glad his work paid off at least. It takes him a while before he drags himself out of bed, wincing as his feet meet with the cold floor. He dresses, wearing more casual clothes as today nothing was planned. He would probably have to send off a job or two and review reports, but other than that, he was free. He doesn't bother with his hair. He hadn't bothered to do it in the rolls and braid in a while, unless he was attending dinner parties or the like. And he thought he was miserable at fifteen, the thought makes him chuckle quietly to himself. Maybe he should really consider seeing a therapist, something Mista had been pestering him to do for months.

He makes a pot of coffee once in the kitchen. The probability of him eating was low, despite knowing it was in his best interest to start regular meals. Instead, he had just leaned against the counter. Watched the coffee drip into the pot, steaming the water that had stayed in it after he rinsed it out. It was interesting to him, how there were both legal and illegal drugs, and yet they have no real difference. He supposed it was the fact that people lacked the moderation to control intake. Lacked the self control needed.

It wasn't until noon that Mista showed up. The man had dropped the odd pattern style he used to wear, now settling for average clothing. Still there were times he indulged, but he knew how to make it look good now. Giorno felt like everyone around him grew, and he stayed stagnant. The same teenager with the same anxiety over simple tasks, same destructive ambition. "Coffee?" He offers as he lets the older man into the house, shutting the door after him. They had become friends, which wasn't a surprise. They suffered the same traumatic event. They were the last survivors of the Bucciarati team, minus Trish who was pursuing a career of fame, successful in her work. She was on tour in Asia right now.

"Sure," Mista hums, taking a seat at the island in the kitchen. Giorno goes about preparing him a mug, having memorized how he made his coffee. Two spoons of sugar and that was it. He set the mug in front of him once he was done, and leaned against the counter again. He hated days off, his mind numb with boredom, hands antsy while idle. But he forced himself into breaks, knowing he'd break if he kept working relentlessly. He did in the past and he didn't want to relive his mistake.

"I saw Fugo," He blurts out. He had been mulling over the decision of whether or not to tell Mista. Would he be mad? Would he be surprised? He watches him pause, growing still in his actions, mug raised halfway to his lips. Brown eyes scanned his own, as if waiting for him to further explain. He didn't have any explanation.

"We agreed to never touch base with him. He's dangerous, Gio." He sets the mug down, a little too loud. Obvious irritation spread across his face, the man always an open book. "You put yourself at risk."

"He- He visited me. I didn't search him out or anything." He had to be careful. He couldn't mention the gun, or the intent of harm. "I don't know how he found my address. I didn't ask." Giorno ran a hand through his hair. Did he pay someone, or is it that common knowledge? There was no way he could've found him. It didn't make any sense.

Mista sighed, wiping a hand down his face. Years ago, the Sex Pistols would be going crazy, yelling out all of the man's thoughts. But they had matured with the man, now quiet and serious with the occasional outbursts. A few moments passed in silence, both men thinking. Giorno couldn't come up with a single explanation how Fugo would've found him in the first place, knowing for a fact he was very well hidden.

"If he knows your address, he's even more dangerous. He could tell someone. He's unpredictable. We have to shut him up some way or another." Giorno felt his gut twist at the thought. He didn't want to hurt Fugo. The man had been through enough. He had never been so adverse to go after someone, especially someone as dangerous as Fugo. Haze might be harder to control with years without use, possibly even deviating from his user.

"I'll talk to him. He's smart enough to know better than to spread my information, and he never meant me any harm. I know you don't trust him anymore, Mista, but we have to give him a chance before going after him." Maybe he was desperate in the way he tried to convince his right hand man. Desperate to keep their old friend safe, out of harm's way. They had respected one another a long time ago, and Giorno had never abandoned that respect.

Mista exhaled sharply, scowling at the surface of the counter, not daring to cast the same bitter look at the don. Shaking his head, his eyes slid shut, obviously thinking. There was no real way he could go about this without Giorno's permission, and arguing would only make them both tense. Giorno knew this, standing his ground.

"Fine, but if he fucks up-"

"I know, Mista. If he betrays my trust, I will let you act." He promised this with a gentle hand on the older man's arm. He knew this was all out of care of his safety.

03:29. The red of his clock stared back at him, blinking repeatedly with no stop. Exhaustion weighed him down and stung his eyes, and yet he couldn't fall asleep. Even if he did, it was restless and pointless sleep that only did him more harm. It felt like he had been laying there for hours. He probably had, time passing so slow yet so fast at the same time.

His attention had been on the shadows cast on the walls of his room. Pretending they were monsters like he had as a child, but this time they didn't terrify him. He welcomed them, as he was a monster himself, wasn't he? Killing without a second thought, blood on his hands and staining his mind. His dreams were plagued with dead bodies, of his friends, of his victims.

Everyone would be disappointed in him if they were there, that he knew. Bucciarati would probably hate him, how he had turned out. Maybe he would've turned out so much better if the man had lived, guiding him through the criminal underworld as if he were a parent. But Giorno had to navigate this world by himself, learning from watching, listening, reading.

The doorbell rings. Chiming through the house, almost echoing. He's sure the echo is his mind. Who would be at his door at this hour? He sits up, brushing hair from his face and behind his shoulders with one hand. He steps carefully out of the room, feet light on the hardwood floor, making close to no sound as he moved about the pitch black house.

Out the peephole, stands a familiar figure, cast in shadow and making them indiscernible. Flicking on the porch light, he opens the door after unlocking it. Fugo stands there, making Giorno's guess correct. They stare at each other, both unable to utter a word for that long pause. Even Fugo looked surprised, as if he hadn't been expecting Giorno to be there at all.

"It's been a while," Giorno points out. He moves out of the way, letting the man into his house. Fugo hesitates, stepping in carefully as if he was expecting a surprise. Instead, the blond just closed the door behind him, locking it once more. Turning off the porch light, he turned on the light overhead.

"I couldn't stop thinking-" Fugo begins, cutting himself off. "Why do you trust me?" There's enough room between the two of them, yet they stand so close. Giorno maintains eye contact with the other boy as he thought about his answer. Standing in silence, and the clock couldn't be heard in this room. This was a difficult question, because he had so many answers and he couldn't decide on any of them.

"Gut instinct. You don't look like you mean any harm. You're smart enough to know the consequences. Why did you want to find me in the first place?" It couldn't be for the explanation, despite what he had claimed. That was too simple. Too easy. "How?" Just finding him could've led to serious repercussions. It was a blessing that he had talked Mista out of it.

"I saw you, once. At some outside cafe, with Mista and some girl. I followed you home. God, that sounds fucking creepy. It was months ago. I never thought I'd actually break in or do anything." Fugo huffs a laugh, shaking his head. "As for why, I really don't know. Maybe something in me misses before, even if it was just a short few days. Before Trish."

Giorno's lips were parted slightly, searching the other's eyes for anything that would indicate a lie. He wanted to say something, a response. Really, what could he say to that?

"Would you like some coffee?"