part 5 : vento aureo short-story collection

postmortem 3/3

tw;
gun violence
death

He leads Fugo further into the house, to the kitchen. Giorno turns on the coffee maker before moving and leaning against the counter it sat on. The two of them sat in silence, the only sound being the boiling of the coffee as it dripped steadily into the pot. Giorno rubs an eye with the back of his wrist, exhaustion itching at his eyes as if that would do anything to make him sleep. He had tried medicine before, but quickly stopped.

"Did I wake you?" Fugo's voice is hoarse. He had tucked himself in the corner of the kitchen, between a counter and the wall. Not touching anything. No chance to ruin something. Giorno could relate, at times feeling like this wasn't his own home, a stranger to the house he inhabited. A bush under the window rustles as something runs through it.

"No. I was already up." Their voices seemed to echo in the void that was night, a vacuum of sound. They didn't have much to talk about. They did, but they really didn't want to. Both boys eyed each other, shy like school kids. It was funny, days ago they had been so tense upon encountering each other and now they were just nervous.

The coffee finally was finished, and he turned it off. He got down two mugs, pouring coffee in both of them. "How do you want your coffee?" He asks, not bothering to look over his shoulder as he spoke. While he waited for a response, he had already started going about preparing his own.

"Nothing in it... Thank you." Giorno picked up his mug, setting it on the far end of the kitchen island that was closest to where Fugo was. He wasn't surprised. A few years ago when he had tried to date Mista had told him that there was a lot to tell about a person on how they took their coffee. He hadn't figured that part out. He didn't see what was so special about coffee mixed with sugar or cream or whatever.

They fell back into silence. Giorno sipped at his coffee, having accepted the fact he wasn't going to sleep that night. "Is asking a question the sole purpose of you visit?" He asks. He doesn't think it was worth a thirty minute drive in the middle of the night, but then again he doesn't know to what extent did Fugo's mind wanted the answer.

It was a while before a response. Giorno watches the living room's clock tick, visible from where he stood. The unstoppable force that was time scared him, as it was a reminder of his own mortality. Even with Requiem, neither could do anything about it. Diavolo, who had the ability to stop time, in the end his powers were nothing as he died fighting. One could have so much power, and yet time didn't care.

"I wanted to see you. A part of me wanted to convince myself you and Mista were dead too. It feels surreal to see you after so long." Giorno's gaze had snapped over to the white haired man as he spoke. He forgot people did that. Visited one another just to see each other. He supposes Mista did that sometimes, but even then they would talk business and then he would leave. Everything was just business for Giorno.

"Oh," Is all he says. He doesn't know how to respond. Be honest and say he wanted to see him too? He knows that if he did go to Fugo's house, Mista would freak out, still convinced there was an underlying intent to actually kill. There had been. Yet there had been a part of him for weeks that wanted to give in and drive to the apartment.

He sets the coffee mug on the counter, half empty now. Pushing himself off of it, he slowly steps over to where Fugo was. Standing a few feet away. He wants to reach and to him, touch him, make sure he was actually real and not just a figment of his imagination. But he doesn't, continuing to stand still. They watch each other, waiting for the other to make a move.

"I don't blame you."

Fugo stares at him, confusion written plainly on his face.

"For staying behind. That was probably the smartest choice at the time."

His face twists, ducking his gaze away as notable tears gather in his eyes. Giorno stands there. He doesn't know how to comfort someone. He's caught off guard when he's pulled into a hug, frozen stiff, the contact like fire licking at his skin. Cautiously, he just pats Fugo's shoulder, letting his arms lazily wrap around the other man. He feels a few tears soak into the collar of his shirt, but he really can't bring himself to mind.

They stand there - in that position - for what felt like hours and seconds at the same time. He really doesn't know the last time he's had any affections toward anybody, even Mista distant when it came to that. Maybe they were scared. Scared to overstep a secret boundary and get killed. Giorno wonders what his life would've been like if he had continued to stay as a subordinate for Bucciarati, never betraying the boss.

At some point or another, they end up on the couch. Sitting next to each other, staring at the blank screen of the television, simply basking in the company. Giorno knows Fugo didn't have friends, that he didn't date, that the only social interaction was through work. Keeping surveillance him for a few months made him realize just how much he had messed up everything. The family that had been established possibly years before he joined, the deep set friendship. He had spent years wide awake at night, hurting as he feels the crushing guilt that had been pent up since 2001.

"I'm sorry," Fugo mumbles. His head is on Giorno's shoulder. The contact is more bearable now, less like fire and more like brittle ice. "For leaving - and for crying."

"Humans cry." Is Giorno's response. He hadn't been the one crying, but he still felt emotionally exhausted all the same. "You've been through a lot. No one expects you to hold it all in." Mista had told him he was great at comforting once. "It's unhealthy. To bottle it up." Hypocrite. He thinks to himself.

"I know, I know." He feels the vibration of Fugo's voice and the breath leaving his lips. "I just pictured this to be... different." His fingertips had been tracing along the pattern of a scar on Giorno's hand, a circle. He thinks Requiem had kept some scars on him just to torment him, to keep a reminder for what he had done.

"How so?" He watches him, the calm expression on his face feeling out of place. It had been a while since he had seen Fugo calm, to any extent.

"I don't know. Just... not this." Giorno decides then that he enjoyed the contact, the intimacy. Even if they hate each other still. He can feel it in the way Fugo's tensed every time he moved just a little bit, he can feel his own bitter resentment in the back of his mind.

Without thinking, he turns. The kiss isn't long, maybe what others consider short and sweet. A peck. While not waiting for the reaction, he stands. Running a hand through his hair, he walks over to the desk. Nothing had been said, but he can feel Fugo's stare on the back of his head. The drawer slides open.

He sees a tear land on his hand. Wiping his face with the back of his free hand, he pushes the door shut. He has to force his hands from shaking. Maybe in a better lifetime, they could all be happy together. But in this lifetime, he pulls the hammer back on the pistol.

Giorno shoots it as he turns around, the silencer causing barely any sound to be made. Blood drips steadily on the ground, soaking into the couch and the carpet. He watches the scene with a distant feeling, like he was watching it through a screen. Dropping the gun, he wipes his face again, more tears accumulating.

Picking up the phone on the desk, he dials, pressing it to his ear. It rings, over and over. Until there's a click.

"I did it."

im sorry lmaoo