part 5 : vento aureo short-story collection

last ones out 1/1

honestly might just change this to fugio only oneshot book

tws;
mention of canon character death

title from and fic based on
mitski - two slow dancers

"It's a beautiful venue," Trish remarks as she comes up on his side. Her drink clicks with the metal banister, and she drapes herself against it. He watches this from the corner of his eye, having initially been watching the forest below for the nightlife that would lurk about. She leans her head on his shoulder, never having seen anything as not her own. Her hair is still fluffy as it had been three years before. "Why are you more grumpy than usual?"

"I'm not usually grumpy," He replies in a soft voice. Orchestra music plays faintly, muffled by the door keeping him from the large ballroom. His own drink lay empty in his hand, where he shifts it back and forth, watching the single drop still at the bottom spread from the movement. "It's April again." The first week, specifically. The next would be his birthday.

"Oh," She breathes out, standing up straight and relieving him of her weight. He wonders what Mista and Fugo were up to. Both men had the same reaction to this particular week, specifically Mista who still had the debilitating fear of the number four - it was the fourth month of the year. He breathes in, eyes falling shut as he feels the cool night air on his face that was hot with the threat of tears burning at the waterline of his eyes.

The door opens behind him, the music flooding out before quickly being smothered again once the door had swung shut. Trish turns, Giorno doesn't, keeping his eyes solely on the forest below. He thinks she mouths something to the person that had walked out, gesturing a hand in his direction. There isn't a response.

"I'll leave you two alone," She then says aloud. Pushing herself off of the banister, she takes herself and her drink to the door. The same process is repeated. He doesn't have a taste for music, but he doesn't like the orchestra music played at these types of outings. He was only here for Mista to pass a message along to a contact, protected by both Fugo and Giorno. Trish came along since she had been visiting, complaining that Spice Girl wouldn't stop bugging her for not getting in on the action despite leaving the mafia for good the moment she could.

Fugo replaces her spot, though gives him a comfortable amount of space, opposed to Trish. He didn't know if it was out of respect or fear that he did things like this, taking every little detail into consideration and more.

"This was the first song I learned on the piano," He says, breaking the silence. Giorno lifts his gaze, meeting his almost-purple color eyes. He had expected business talk, nothing more or less. That was how it always was with both of them. This was... new but comfortable. Casual conversation. He hated small talk but maybe this was different.

"You know piano?" He asks, voice dry.

"I used to. Maybe I still do... it's been a while." Fugo is awkward in the way he talks, eyes never staying in the same spot, body always moving. He had grown tall and lanky, always looking uncomfortable in his own body. "The message went over well. We should hear back within a week, hopefully less."

Giorno listens silently, watching the other carefully as he speaks. Eyes find every individual oddity, so familiar like every single time he had watched the other before. "Alright. Thank you." He means that as a dismissal, turning his gaze over to the forest. He wonders how different it would've been if Bucciarati were standing in his spot. If he were dead like he was supposed to be.

Fugo doesn't leave despite the clear dismissal, lingering in his spot. He's hesitant. Giorno's frustration grows silently. He didn't even want to come in the first place, forced from his office by Guido who was insistent that he socialize for once. He did socialize a fair amount, in his own opinion. Just not as much as the others, who went out far more than he did. It was dangerous for him to, anyway.

"Are you sure you want to stay out here? It's cold."

"I'll be fine, Fugo. Thank you for worrying about me."

There's a pause of complete silence as the band moves onto a new song. A slow one starts up. Quiet and almost sad. Giorno bites the inside of his cheek before turning his head to stare up at the other boy again. Waits for him to explain his refusal to leave. He already knew he looked depressing, out here alone. He didn't need the reminder.

"Would you like to dance?" Fugo asks, voice quiet. His head is slightly ducked and his eyes are averted. In the faint light he could see a shade of red tinting his pale skin.

"Excuse me?" There's more silence as both boys struggle for words. Giorno admits, "I don't know how to dance." He rarely admitted to not knowing how to do things, always forcing himself to figure it out on his own if he didn't. This was... something he realized he couldn't figure out on his own even if he tried - and if he tried he would embarrass himself.

"I can teach you. It's simple." Fugo extends a hand, palm up. There's room for denial. Giorno is sure that if he says no, the older boy would just go back and he would be alone again. He's second guessing himself now. Does he really want to be alone? He had been alone every single death anniversary, and they all ended the same way. The only time he actually cried, for the first time in years.

He connects their hands gingerly, and then he's being led away from the banister where he leaves his empty glass balancing on the metal surface. He's unsure about all of this, but it's one of the rare times he's seen Fugo actually confident. They're in the center of the large balcony, completely away from walls or the banister itself.

Fugo leads him silently, guiding where his hands would lay, stepping forward so he stepped backward. It was the total opposite of how they usually were, Giorno leading Fugo, whether it be emotionally or physically. Accepting his scar - something that Gold Experience fails at. Accepting the death of his teammates and makeshift family. He was sure to anybody watching, they would look like fools, clumsily making their way around the balcony.

"You're getting the hang of it," Fugo tells him with a sympathetic look. "You just have to stop trying to lead."

"Sorry," He mumbles back. Cheeks hot with embarrassment. He usually got the hang of things quickly. But somehow he couldn't do this. It was odd, seeing Fugo so patient even after he had messed up so many times.

They had grown closer the more they moved about. He laid his head on the other's shoulder, looking through the glass door of the busy room behind it. It was like they were invisible, able to watch but not be watched. He felt comfortable like this.

As the song had changed, both boys had given up dancing for now. Now enjoying each other's embrace, swaying to the beat of the song.