Work Text:
Giorno finds Fugo seated at the piano in the manor’s ballroom. A melancholy melody fills the room, reverberating off the walls in echoes. Being in here when Fugo is playing is a bit like being submerged, or enclosed, safely surrounded on all sides in a way that constricts the heart sweetly and draws him closer, ever closer. Giorno had no true appreciation for the value of live music before he got to know Fugo, how it’s alive and breathing, subject to errors and happy mistakes the same way life is. Fugo plays like he’s a conductor for music already stirring the air, waiting to be heard. Giorno follows the thread Fugo’s purposeful playing ties around his ribs and makes his way over to seat himself at Fugo’s right in the space he always leaves open on the piano stool. He watches Fugo watch his own hands with single-minded focus as they move across the keys, notably not glancing at the sheet music erected in its stand.
“You’ve played this piece before,” Giorno comments.
Fugo hums in agreement, unperturbed.
“It’s your favourite?”
Fugo shakes his head ‘no’.
“Abbacchio’s,” he says quietly, “it’s Monteverdi’s Lamento della ninfa . It was his favourite.”
Giorno‘s heart sits heavy in his chest for one of a million things he never knew about one of his dead friends (if Abbacchio would’ve assented to call him friend, which Giorno thinks he may have learned to, if they had had the chance to know each other) and wonders at never having learnt this earlier. He aches for Fugo, too, who didn’t even know, for so long, that his friends were gone, and spent that time alone in a way that is hollowly familiar.
“He had insomnia,” Fugo continues, tone just under that of the piano, but Giorno is listening, “Didn’t sleep much, preferred to just pass out. Drink himself to sleep. Buccellati didn’t like it, though, so sometimes he just. Didn’t sleep. We hung out sometimes. Listened to music every now and then. It was- it was nice. He understood.”
Giorno nods, accepting or encouraging, whichever way Fugo prefers to interpret it. He has nightmares, too, of course, but can’t really compete with Fugo’s insomnia.
“I didn’t even realise. Madonna , I didn’t understand that he understood. I thought he hated me.”
Giorno didn’t know that in such explicit terms, and appreciates that Fugo is sharing it. He even relates, somewhat. Today, it seems inconceivable to him that Abbacchio would any less than die for each and every one of his teammates, but much of this persuasion comes from conversations with Mista reminiscing on the lost, though it has always made sense to him, somehow. He had asked, once, if Abbacchio truly would have let Fugo die for the mission when they went searching for Coco Jumbo’s key and Mista had laughed. Fugo was his favourite, after Buccellati, he’d said and explained no further. He didn’t necessarily understand, but he could appreciate the way Mista remembered his friends with such fondness even as he envied him. That’s not the point, though, the point is the way Fugo’s face is half hidden by the way his neck is bent over the piano, and that the little Giorno can see of the side of his face is near unreadable. Not because it’s blank, Fugo is never expressionless, but because despite all the faces Giorno has seen on him, he can’t quite read this one, staring and furrowed as it is. Giorno can feel his own brow scrunch in focus as he tries to understand. Fugo is upset, as much is obvious, but more so from the frantic note in his voice than his face. Giorno looks back to his hands, flying over the keys with increasing speed and slightly too much pressure, and rests his head on Fugo’s shoulder. The lament continues unimpeded.
“I was a dumb kid,” Fugo shares softly, “Genius prodigy, yeah, but emotionally I was just as dumb as every other teen. Dumber. I stabbed Narancia with a fork, did you know? In his cheek.”
Giorno smiles into his shoulder, fond. He knows. He shifts to make himself comfortable, hoping to infuse Fugo with some kind of warmth. Fugo’s tense shoulders loosen incrementally and he plays in silence for several long minutes, though with a lighter hand, before he speaks again. What he says is-
“Monteverdi actually wrote operas. They’re possible to transcribe to piano, but Abbacchio always got pissy about it. He would hate this,” He smiles as he speaks, Giorno notes from the corner of his eye. He also notes that the sheet music on Fugo’s stand is handwritten.
“Even if you were the one playing?” he asks.
“Oh, especially then. I should know better, I listened to enough of his rants.”
Giorno hums, wraps his left arm around Fugo’s waist. He always seems taller when he plays piano, even though he’s sitting, because of the way his spine habitually uncurls itself into ramrod straightness. Giorno wonders if he liked learning the piano as a child, but doesn’t ask. Giorno thinks he might have liked to, but they grew up very differently. Giorno would have taken any attention offered, though, even if it was only that of a piano teacher, while Fugo was so oversaturated with it that the pressure drove him to the brink. He doesn’t ask about it, though, because Fugo doesn’t necessarily like talking about his childhood anymore than Giorno does, and they have all the time in the world for him to ask. He gets to do that, ask and be answered. Fugo nearly always answers, as well, even when he doesn’t want to. Giorno likes that, and tries not to abuse it. Fugo has something else on his mind right now, though, Giorno is sure, and pushing it away with a distraction will probably harm rather than help in the long run. So he waits for Fugo to be ready.
In due time, Fugo finishes the piece and takes his fingers off the keys, cracks his knuckles. Giorno reluctantly takes his head off his shoulder and pulls away so he has the space to stretch. Fugo smiles down at him, shifting to run his fingers over Giorno’s cheek. The seam of Fugo’s jacket most likely left a dent there, but it’s okay because it’s Fugo. He catches Fugo’s hand, presses a kiss against the pad of each finger, feeling very fond. Fugo pulls away, soft and smiling in spite of his lingering tension, to fiddle with the sheet music he hadn’t been reading. He locates a sonata by Scarlatti that he has assured Giorno is supposed to be easy, and requests that Giorno demonstrate what he learned in their last piano lesson. Giorno obligingly places his fingers where they should be - thumb starts on C - and plays through the melody slowly. Fugo likes teaching, is the thing, even though his methods were as questionable as his patience before he started teaching Giorno (before his rage bled out of him along with his comfortable companionships, another trauma to add to the list).
“Well done, Giogio, now with the accompaniment.”
Giorno can feel Fugo watching his face and smiles for him and complies once again, falling into the simple pleasure of creating something beautifully alive. He wonders distantly, not for the first time, if stands can play the piano. His fingers trip into his favourite part: slightly quicker, with some bounce - playing it feels the same way as a thrill up your spine, and it’s somehow strengthening in a way that makes his spine uncurl to match Fugo’s.
“When you battled Illuso, what were you thinking?” he asks, slow and careful, as to not disturb anything fragile, like his concentration or Fugo’s heart.
Fugo sighs softly.
“I don’t quite remember,” he says into the air rather than to the side of Giorno’s face. He places his hands again and seamlessly joins Giorno’s melody an octave lower.
“Hm. Genius prodigy child.”
Fugo laughs slightly, but not for very long.
“I’m sure it was something along the lines of ‘at least the others can finish the mission without me’.”
Giorno hums.
“Abbacchio said something similar, back then,” he says.
“I’m not surprised. That’s the only thing I was ever aware we agreed on - the mission comes first, always.”
Giorno hums again, “It angered me then.”
Fugo nods his acknowledgement in the corner of his eye, encouragement for him to continue.
“The suggestion that anyone could be left behind, particularly a friend- I didn’t understand it,” Giorno’s lip curls as he furrows his brow, “I didn’t understand how someone could disregard life like that.”
Fugo laughs sharply.
“It’s not that hard once you’ve lost most of your will to live.”
Giorno swallows a wounded noise. He doesn’t necessarily like Fugo’s fatalistic humour, but he knows Fugo thinks it helps, and that he’s been discussing it with his therapist. That’s enough for him. The little stab at the implication that Abbacchio probably thought the same way hurts for multiple reasons.
“Most of?” he asks instead, taking care to keep his quiet caution unexternalised.
Fugo hums.
“Not everything was shit. Not for me, and not for Abbacchio either, I think. Buccellati helped a lot. The team helped a lot. Having missions helped,” Fugo hesitates, picks up a more advanced melody, “Missions helped a lot . They gave purpose in a concrete way. If you can finish this, it’ll be all right . That sort of thing. Abbacchio was looking for something like that when he joined. He asked, actually, what my drive was. I told him something about loyalty to Passione, I think.”
“Did you mean it?”
“At the time, yeah.”
“Not now?”
“No, I’m intensely loyal to the leadership these days.” Fugo smiles down at him. Giorno half-smiles, half-laughs back and stumbles over the piano keys. God, how can he just do that .
”The thing that helped was never Passione, specifically. It was more about Buccellati and the missions, like I said. Or maybe just the security. I don’t know how much resolve I would’ve had left if I’d spent another six months on the street.”
If Giorno were religious, he would pray for Bruno’s soul every night. As it is, he thanks him at least once a day anyways.
“Was Abbacchio the same?”
“Oh yeah,” Fugo’s fingers flow through the piece so gracefully that Giorno has to actively focus on his voice, “I think he figured out how effective having a mission to focus on is way before I did. It helped a lot in the beginning, when I hadn’t really learnt how to deal with Purple Haze yet, and later, too. The reminder that we had a purpose gave me a target, sort of, when I was the angriest.”
Giorno is grateful to Abbacchio, as well, he is learning. He knows that Abbacchio cared about his team, of course, he noticed how careful the man was himself, how afraid he was that Giorno would be a threat to his family. Most of Mista’s stories concern the times Abbacchio was pissed off about one thing or another but in, like, a caring way, Giogio, and so Giorno trusts his gut and is grateful for the protective force Abbacchio was for two of the people he now calls family, whether Fugo realised it at the time or not.
He sighs, taking his hands off the keys abruptly and turning fully towards Fugo, shifting in the narrow space on the piano stool.
“My brain will liquefy if I divide my attention any longer,” he says seriously.
Fugo’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles, close-lipped, and plays his piece to a more natural end. The last notes seem to reverberate, stirring the air, the pulse of something alive. Giorno refuses to resist the impulse to kiss his eyes when he’s done. Fugo turns into him, pressing three pecks against his lips, then pulls away and carefully closes the piano cover. With its keys covered, the piano becomes a dead thing once more, but Fugo’s warmth is more than enough life for him.
“It’s almost dinner time,” Fugo says after a glance out the window at the setting sun. He stands and stretches, unbothered by the popping of his back, before he offers Giorno a hand up. Well on his feet, Giorno laces their fingers close enough to feel Fugo’s pulse against his wrist and starts leading them down the halls towards the private kitchen.
“We were just fuck-ups with bad sleeping habits that Buccellati picked off the street, at the end of the day,” Fugo says when they’re passing Giorno’s favourite window alcove, the one surrounded by thick, red curtains, “He was so- good. To put up with us. Abbacchio was nearly as angry and useless as I was when he joined-”
Giorno clears his throat pointedly because while fatalism is reluctantly allowed, straight up self-deprecation is not.
“-only he had lipstick and issues with alcohol,” Fugo breaks himself off with a frown, “I have no idea what Buccellati saw in him, to be honest.”
Oh, it hurts.
“He was dedicated to the mission, to realising Buccellati’s vision,” Giorno suggests.
“Narancia and Mista never freaked out on him, though,” Fugo argues.
“Buccellati didn’t mind helping him.”
“His stand was so limited, it was only useful in very specific situations, and even then it was a liability-”
“His worth is not determined by his usefulness, and even so he used his stand with skill and sound strategy.”
“He was an asshole,” Fugo argues, slightly wild behind the eyes when Giorno glances up at him.
“He was kind,” Giorno replies evenly.
“Giogio, he pissed in your teacup,” Fugo says, strangled. He’s squeezing Giorno’s hand too hard, and the whites of his eyes stand out. Giorno pulls him to a stop at the top of the stairs leading to the basement-kitchen, takes his other hand in his and holds them both, squeezing.
“He was kind, and dedicated, and skilled in what he did. He was a valued member of the team, Fugo. Buccellati loved him.”
Fugo’s hands are trembling. Giorno kisses his knuckles.
“He was angry and difficult,” Fugo insists shakily.
“Which had no impact on his value to the team, on a practical or emotional level.”
Fugo draws a shuddering breath, holds it and counts in his head as he’s explained he does, then releases it along with most of the tension in his shoulders.
“I love you, we all love you,” Giorno says.
Fugo breathes.
“I love you, too,” he whispers.
Giorno gives him a moment, wondering if he will need some time alone before dealing with family dinner, or if he’ll not want any company at all for the rest of the night. Giorno wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.
Fugo closes his eyes and breathes, but holds on tightly to Giorno’s hands, so he figures he’s welcome to stay for now. Giorno watches Fugo’s face, his strong, furrowed brow and narrow, scrunched nose, as he breathes. Fugo at rest sometimes reminds him of the statues at Museo Archeologico , of the philosophers who strived for perfection even as their gods enjoyed the inherent flaws of being human. Giorno wraps his fingers around the flow of life through Fugo’s wrists, and then from one moment to the next, Fugo’s eyebrows shift from furrowed with internal focus to outward focus as he tilts his head as if to listen.
“Is that-?”
It’s distant, but yes, Giorno can definitely hear his friends from down the stairs and through a hallway.
“Most definitely,” Giorno responds, squeezing his hands happily. Fugo opens his eyes.
“They’re so loud,” he whines, not truly annoyed. Giorno nods along agreeably and releases one of his hands to pull him down the stairs. Fugo goes easily, so alone time is probably not necessary today.
“Why are you friends with them? You’ll get early onset tinnitus, and then your piano lessons will suffer, Giogio-”
Giorno happily listens while Fugo eases himself down from his anxiety by ranting about the virtue of using your inside voice until the tirade eventually devolves into threats of arson, as it tends to do, and raises their entwined fingers to kiss his knuckles.
“We love them very much,” he says.
“I love you very much,” Fugo grumbles, kissing Giorno’s forehead back without specifying the ‘you’.
“And I you,” Giorno says evenly, leaning into the kiss. He is very tempted to stop them and lean into Fugo fully and stay there for a while, surrounded by him, but his stomach is rumbling and Polnareff has been on his case about taking care of basic needs like food and sleep, so he doesn’t.
In the kitchen, Mista and Trish are screaming their heads off at each other in the middle of the kitchen floor about something or other. Giorno makes out words like “betrayal”, “artistic vision”, and “kill us all!”, and guesses that Trish’s latest album, Trish: And Then They Were Four , has something to do with their disagreement.
Sheila E, who is seated on one of the bar stools by the counter sipping orange juice, waves at them one-handed when they enter. The other hand is busy keeping Coco Jumbo from wandering off the counter because Polnareff is sticking out of its shell, watching the fight like spectator sport.
Giorno clears his throat.
“My friends,” he calls. Mista and Trish freeze.
“Busted!” Sheila cackles.
Mista, whose back is to the doorway, spins slowly.
“Hey, boss,” he says, grinning sheepishly and scratching his hair under his hat. Number Three is probably in another biting phase.
“You’re not the boss of me, Giogio,” Trish says defensively, as if he would want to be.
Giorno is very fond of his friends. He smiles, shakes his head slowly, with dignity , as Sheila describes it, ever heard of it, Mista?
“Tonight, you are all my friends,” he says with the smile that Fugo calls beatific while all his friends smile back.
“Are we sometimes not your friends-?” Mista starts.
“You guys could wake the dead,” Fugo interrupts on purpose as Giorno leads him through the doorway and into the room.
“Not to worry, I’m already awake,” says Polnareff.
Sheila chokes on her juice, snorting with laughter. Mista leans over and dunks her back until she can breathe again. While Trish laughs, Fugo pretends not to be grinning in schadenfreude, and Polnareff looks pleased with himself. The tension in Fugo’s shoulders is already melting away and everything is so right-
High-pitched ringing cuts through the room. Trish and Polnareff jump while Fugo flinches violently then stands to attention. Sheila does the same and Mista reaches for his gun in the seconds before they all perceive the sound of an egg clock. Giorno releases a breath he was unaware of holding and brushes his thumb over the back of Fugo’s tense hand while Mista goes to check on the oven. Fugo’s grip relaxes enough that Giorno’s blood flow returns and Giorno nudges him over to a seat next to Sheila.
“You better not have burnt whatever abomination you’ve got in there,” Fugo, who was familiar with Mista’s cooking before Giorno bought him a cookbook about small and easy snacks, says. It had earned him the never ending loyalty of Sex Pistols (on some days they claimed he was their favourite, not Mista, which was nice because Giorno liked them, too) and had woken a mild culinary interest in their user. Giorno is grateful for both of these facts because he, himself, could neither cook nor stand the sound of a hungry Sex Pistols.
(“You know Mista can’t cook, right?”
“It’s never too late to learn a new skill.”
Fugo mutters under his breath for a moment. Giorno keeps reading. The distribution of drugs in Venice has decreased by 30% in the last month-
“Why?”
“I thought it would be nice if he could make the Pistols individual snacks.”
Fugo blinks.
“I don’t like when they’re hungry.”
Fugo snorts, “Got that right.”
“It’s heart-wrenching.”
A beat of silence.
“Giogio.”
Giorno looks up.
“You really are- too good for this. For all of us.”
Giorno tilts his head.
“How so?” he asks. Fugo is looking at him like he does sometimes. The way he did when he got to one knee and kissed Giorno’s knuckles. The way he does in church. Then Fugo shakes his head and the look passes uncommented.
“Giogio. I respect you. Mista is my friend. But the pistols aren’t heart-wrenching, they’re infuriating .”)
“Here I am,” Mista begins to a chorus of groans from Fugo and Sheila E, “Feeding you all like the gold-hearted angel I am-“ Sheila fake retches while Fugo nods in approval “-and you terrible, feral children have the gall, the utter stomach, to question-“
Giorno unwinds his fingers from Fugo’s and turns to Trish, who looks pretty happy to spectate the impending screaming match, if only because it means that she gets to witness the drama this time.
“Welcome back,” he says, “I apologise that I couldn’t meet you upon arrival-“
Trish looks away from the trainwreck-to-be and smiles beautifully, sweeping him into a hug.
“You never have to worry about that, Giogio, it’s fine. You’re a busy mafia boss, I understand.”
Giorno hides his dumb grin in her shoulder.
“-so you’re in no position to criticise my cooking, Pannacotta!”
Determinedly ignoring the subsequent screeching, crashing and cackling even as he happily lets the thrum of it permeate him, Giorno leans back to hold Trish’s elbows.
“You’re doing well?”
“Uh-huh,” Trish says, glancing back and forth between Giorno’s face and the mess going on behind him again, “Everything’s great. The tour for the new album starts in a week.”
“Ah, boss,” comes Polnareff’s voice at their elbows, “Catch me, please.”
Giorno does so just as Coco Jumbo puts its front paw off the edge of the counter. He puts him back on the counter and convinces him to cease his kitchen explorations by rubbing the top of his head between his eyes. Coco Jumbo jawns and doesn’t even try to bite him, because Giorno is his favourite.
“I’m pretty sure it’s a miracle that Coco survived as long as he did before he met you, Signore Polnareff,” Trish says, reaching out to pet the tortoise’s chins and cheek.
“The same is true for many, many people, chérie,” Polnareff says with a wink and a smile, leaning back with crossed arms.
“Not me,” Giorno says, because it’s true.
“No, certainly not you, Don. I think you’re in charge of your own miracles.”
“If that ain’t the truth,” Trish laughs, “You’re in charge of all of our miracles, too, Giogio.”
“I don’t perform miracles,” Giorno says, touched in spite of himself. He is human, and therefore he is grateful for the regard of his friends. He smiles at them both, then the smell of perfectly cooked lasagna fills the room as Mista opens the oven on the other side of the kitchen and they’re all distracted.
“Aha!” Mista exclaims, surveying his creation, “I think it’s done!”
“Dinner!” screeches his hat.
“If they eat it all, I’ll eat you!” Sheila snarls in Mista’s direction, scrambling for her seat at the table with Fugo, relaxed and willing, in tow.
Giorno is so fond of his family.