Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Giorno leaves without looking back. Buildings sail past, brick and mortar reduced to a blur as he persists through  town, the temporal pressure of the overhead sun only matched by the eyes of ever-watching townspeople, staring him down as he runs. 

This place had briefly been his home. A modest town, he had arrived with his family just some years back, only a horse and a carriage and a few bushels of produce to show for. They had come from far, and as a result were seen as little more than untrustworthy foreigners from across the continent. Without much to their names, Giorno had no choice but to take up a job, supporting their plight as much as an adolescent could. 

Naturally, he found work as a local botanist, tending to economic crops and recreational florals alike. His talent with greenery was immediately apparent and unmatched, unlike anything the local farmers had seen before, and for a short time, they hailed him as a miracle-worker, paid him handsomely for his work on the fields, and his uncanny ability to revive even the most wilted sprouts. His single condition was that his work would be unaccompanied; unobserved. 

His family consisted only of his mother and his step-father, both of whom spent their lives on the tides of booze and gambling, leaving little time for Giorno, less time for income. It was only natural that Giorno assumed the role of breadwinner; despite its simplicity, he enjoyed the work. It gave him something to think about, allowed him the grace of solitude in a place where everyone was just a little too nosy, a little too curious about their neighbor's wares. 

Though his purpose was menial, all that mattered was that he, at the very least, had a purpose - he kept his family afloat, regardless of their negligence, and he was granted the ability to spend troles of time amongst nature, tending her ailing offspring, delivering life to its rightful place. He wasn’t happy, nor can he recall a time he ever truly was, but it was enough to keep his mind churning and his heart pounding, resonating like a funeral bell in the hollow of his chest. 

The real problem had come when his stepfather, a gnarled man with something twisted growing beneath his skin, happened across Giorno while he was tending to a crushed rosebush, petals in his hands and light emanating from his fingertips, returning life to where it had depleted. His talent with herbage, as it turned out, was more of a divine predisposition towards life energy, a gift Giorno could no more explain to his stepfather as he could to himself. 

It had always been there, harmless and under control, and Giorno had been smart to keep such a power to himself, aware of the gruesome treatment that would befall him should it be exposed. But, as soon as his father bore witness to the true extent of his abilities, as soon as he realized that Giorno’s skill with reviving greenery was less of a practice and more of an incomprehensible gift, it became clear what his fate would be, how he would be interpreted by the townspeople that once sang his praises and commissioned him healthily to keep their population fed, their crops thriving. 

“Necromancy! ” His stepfather had shrieked, expression curtling into something ugly, horrified, “ Demon! I’ll let the whole town know! We’ll have you hung, mark my words! ” 

His yelling attracted a crowd much quicker than Giorno had thought possible. Townspeople gathered, mindless moths drawn by the wicked grin of an open flame, and they watched, first with infatuation, curiosity, and then, as Giorno’s stepfather delved into condemnations, out of poorly-concealed revolt. Christians, all of them, self-proclaimed people of God, blessed beneath the sun and guided by His light, took one look at Giorno’s gift and stamped it as demonic, as unnatural as a branding on the hide of a cow. 

“ Playing with life, ” He cried, pointing a single, crooked finger at Giorno, “ Is God’s job - you’ll regret selling your soul for such an accursed power, you degenerate. A necromancer like you has no place here. Your work taints this ground; you’re a deadman, and I will see to it myself.”

The words - slurs - blare loudly in his ears, ringing out like battered steel as he runs. His lungs burn with every breath, inhalation quickly devolving into gasps, long heaves that tear like broken glass up the length of his windpipe. His mouth tastes like copper; bile rises, his stomach empty. 

He’d stay, if he could, but the town is only so big, and he’s certain they’ll all be shouting those same words by the time dusk falls. Without a doubt, they’ll have him hung, or burned; unbreathing by dawn. 

He thinks he hears gunshots behind him but there’s no time to turn and look. 

There’s no time to return to his home, no chance to gather his things, or bid farewell to the handful of older ladies he had befriended during his stay here. His only choice is to run, reach the outskirts of the city, penetrate the forest, find some place beyond where he can reside without fear of being traced. Even so, he has no plans for what lies past. All he wishes is to escape the town and survive the night. 

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t bother facing people he knows will turn on him in an hour’s time; he runs like he never has, past the point of aching heels and buckling knees, runs until his vision is blurry and his eyes are dry, until he’s far past the town’s gate and the brick path turns to mud. 

When the town is barely an outline against the setting sun, decidedly behind him and lost to the encroaching evening, he hunches over and begins to sob. He’s at the edge of the forest, shrouded by thick enough brush to keep hidden from potential pursuers without straying too far from the main road, and he can only hope that no one, nothing, has heard his outcry. He doesn’t stop himself, though, doesn’t think he can; all he has are the clothes on his back and the tie at the end of his braid. 

He collapses against the trunk of a cypress, his legs weeping with relief as he sags into rough bark, and cries. Wetness distorts his vision, leaks down his cheeks every time he screws his eyes shut. His head throbs, pulsating like a bloody wound with every horrible echo of his stepfather’s words. 

His hands curl and uncurl, and in his turmoil moss sprouts, a thin layer of teal that monopolizes the cypress tree. Instead of appreciating the bloom of new life, Giorno curses himself, curses the glow of his fingertips and the energy that thrums beneath; while such an ability maintained his livelihood, it’s more a damnation than a blessing, a branding he cannot ignore, another unchangeable trait that further separates him from the crowd, keeps him isolated, alone. 

It’s with a bitter sort of relief that he realizes he’ll likely never see his mother again, not his stepfather or his swinging fist. He knows he won’t mourn their persons in particular, but the vain hope that they might one day change, embrace him more as their son and less as the family mule. His stepfather’s eyes, nearly black even in the daylight, are burned into his memory, imposing revile upon Giorno’s abilities; the man was never bound to change, Giorno knows, but now his hope for such a thing must be snuffed out, like a candle with the ambition of a bonfire. 

Giorno doesn’t know how long he stays there, knees tucked to his chest, lashes moist, and he’s only incentivized to leave when the staccato of a horse’s hooves shatter the night’s quiet. Torchlight casts an orange hue along the road, just meters away from where Giorno is hidden, so he stands, brushes the dirt from his pants, and delves into the forest, guided only by what little moonlight touches the ground and the urgency thumping in his chest.  

Haste burns like bile at the back of his throat but it’s too dark to run without risking injury. The forest is a labyrinth, he now realizes, absent of paths to mark a way through, or a way out, and with trees that stretch far too high, obscure the rest of the surrounding world as though it has ceased to exist. Giorno has never had to navigate such an environment, and he does so without skill, cautious as he follows his feet wherever they will take him. 

Up above, the moon creeps across the indigo sky. Though partially obstructed by the forest’s canopy, stars glitter like shaved silver, their constellations aligning in a map that Giorno, regrettably, never learned to interpret. Regardless, he latches onto the opacity of a single star to ensure he at least keeps a consistent direction as he marches onward, and prays that it’s guidance is capable of taking him somewhere far away. Somewhere safe. 

As he advances deeper into the forest, the trees steadily grow closer together, their trunks thicker and accompanied by long, spider-legged roots; old growth, in which the foliage above only increases in density, choking out more and more of the sky. Creatures can be heard beyond the observable treeline, the breathy scratch of claws against bark, the flap of leathery wings and high, nearly indiscernible screech of bats, the occasional patter of nimble feet crossing the leaf-ridden ground. 

Still, Giorno doesn’t alter his pace, not even when low-hanging branches begin to scrape at his clothing, snagging and clawing at the cheap cotton, exposing his skin to the chilled evening air. His hair stands on end, his arms riddled with goosebumps.

And even so he’s fortunate, for a while; he avoids injury and holds his balance on sturdy tree trunks, only breaking to refasten the braid keeping his hair away from his face. It’s fortune, truly, that keeps his directions steady, and his heart beating; it’s fortune, that he hasn’t twisted an ankle yet, or scraped his knees on unseen sediment protruding from the earth; it’s fortune, that he’s gone on this long without losing his footing. Such fortune, however, is never bound for more than a temporary stay; it flees with the grace of a doe, sudden and unheard. 

It’s with the ruddy, earthy musk of fresh mud that Giorno’s luck runs dry, the canopy above reaching nearly full coverage and inhibiting his visibility so significantly that he doesn’t realize that he’s at the top of an incline, doesn’t realize he’s stepped off of what must be a cliff’s edge until he drops his foot and his weight alike on nothing but air, stumbling forwards and plummeting down as though the earth had been pulled from beneath him. There’s a moment of surreal weightlessness, his stomach lifting, floating up into his throat,  before gravity claims him once more, slamming him down into slanted land, the wind forced from his lungs in a sudden, burning push. 

The ground feels as though it’s unravelling, somehow above and below him all at once, the sky indiscernible from the hard earth. He reaches out, a vain attempt at grabbing for anything that will slow his descent, but he can’t see the skin of his own two hands, much less his surroundings, and his trial results in sharp lines of pain spiking across his palms and forearms. It briefly occurs to him that he’s tumbling down the likes of a  steep hill, or perhaps the shallow face of an unnoticed cliff, and he has half a mind to recoil his limbs, tuck them up against his trunk in an effort to brace his chest and the organs within from what he anticipates will be an inevitably rough impact upon reaching the bottom. 

When he finally hits the bottom, it’s with a noise that makes his heart seize; the joint of his ankle collides with something hard, likely a stone or a discarded log, and he doesn’t have the chance to catch his breath before a flare of pain blazes up his leg. The canopy has cleared, just enough to reveal platinum slivers of moonlight once more, and though he can’t quite make out the extent of the damage he can feel the fabric of his pants soaking through with what can only be blood, dirty cotton clinging to what he’s certain is a gnarly abrasion just to the left of  his achilles’ tendon. When he brings a hand to his face, it comes back wet; he’s unsure of its origin, can’t distinguish whether the liquid on his fingers is maroon or burgundy. 

Behind him, what he’d believed to be a hill but now understands is more of a cliffside towers over him, the distance he had fallen - or, more appropriately, rolled - is about as tall as a bell tower, or a church steeple; either way, Giorno curses himself for missing such a drop, blaming his own exhaustion for not being more attentive while covering  unknown terrain. 

He looks to the top, chin to the moon, and decides that there’s no possible way he’s going to be able to climb back up, with or without an injured foot. Before him, however, doesn’t seem much more promising; while the forest seems to spread thin, the clearing  of which the trees give way to is less of a clearing and more of a marsh; large rounded sections of moist ground are carved away and occupied by still, dark water, the vegetation low to the ground and thick in scent. Upon first glance, the area seems hostile, only welcoming to very particular kinds of life - herbs and small florals, as opposed to trees or fauna -  and lacking any of the hospitality or habitability Giorno had been hoping to find by the time the moon reached its highest point.  

But, as it is, the moon is well beyond its highest point, and Giorno, without a sheltered area or a town to spend the night, can only continue on through the forest. He stands, his bottom lip red between his teeth as he tests his injured leg. The pain is sharp but not unbearable, and it’s with clenched knuckles does he press onwards, relying heavily on his good leg to bear the majority of his weight. 

There’s a distinct strip of land between the marsh and the forest’s bush; Giorno keeps to it like a path, the moist earth wetting his boots, soaking through to his socks, frigid between his toes and against the soles of his feet. Every so often he loses his footing, his leg, often up to the calf, dunking into the freezing marsh water. 

He wonders, rather grimly, if he came out here only to die at the mercy of hypothermia instead of at the hands of his own parentage. If the way his muscles lock with shivers is anything to go by, such a fate may as well already be true - dying out here, at the very least, would be on his own terms. 

The night whistles around him, the forest offering an orchestra of noise beyond it’s visible wares; crickets sing, nighthawks whistle, paw pads tread over discarded branches. Giorno is alone, but the noise acts as a glimpse of asylum, a small reminder that he has not ceased to exist- that there is still a world out there, still life and sound and movement beyond this deceptively large swathe of forested land. When he’s far enough, and out of this forest, great lengths away from his town, he can build a new life without his abilities, find a home and a job and live out the rest of his days quietly. 

Trudging forward, he closes his eyes; he can see it, clear in the darkness like a painting in a frame, living calmly and quaintly, perhaps with some livestock in his yard, a garden to maintain. When he opens his eyes, however, he sees something much different. 

The marsh tapers, and Giorno is met with a large, circular pool of water positioned like an indigo mirror before the face of a cottage, of all things- he blinks, once, twice, thinking his tired mind has conjured some sort of mirage, like the ones he’d read about that appear in deserts, but the structure is entirely real, built with wood and brick and grit, it seems, standing barely a storey from the ground, thatch roofing in a state of disrepair, the door open wide. There’s a well some distance from the main structure, a stump of a cylinder jutting from moist earth, and a water-damaged bench sits before the entrance, just below a window that, without its generous layer of grime, would likely be transparent. 

Giorno, with his aching leg and his sopping boots and his face scuffed and bloody, hardly considers his options for more than a moment’s breath before he’s all but charging towards the cottage, figuring it abandoned and ignoring the stale scent of wood rot and settled dust to make his way into the shelter it offers. He doesn’t question its purpose here, deep in the forest - he is too overcome with the desire to rest to think critically. 

The moonlight presents him with a humble interior, though slightly bigger than he had been expecting it’s a single room sectioned off for different purposes; a fireplace, stone-lined and free of lumber, claims the wall adjacent the door, before it a handful of chairs, some waterlogged books atop a small round table, a desk in the right corner, with more disparate books and two accompanying shelves with more books still, and, pushed against the wall to his right, a single, wide bed, garnished with aged linens and flat pillows. 

Everything is in disrepair, to some degree, but Giorno is thrilled regardless, limping to the old bed without a second thought. It groans when he drops onto it, but shows no sign of giving under his weight, so he lets his body collapse, barely remembering to free his feet from his dripping boots before he’s flattening himself to the mattress, limbs lax and head aching, exhaustion settling like a swathe of fur over his tired body. 

Giorno’s dreams lie at the bottom of a skybound canyon, where a blueberry-coloured river rushes by his feet. Carp the size of sheep swim past, speaking in a tongue he can’t comprehend; a herd of deer with human eyes watches, and he watches back. The back of his neck prickles, like the rough scales of an ailing corn snake dragging across an open wound, and then he’s awake. 

The first thing he notices is that he’s not at home. It’s the scent of rotting wood that makes it apparent, almost more so than the unfamiliar room, but his memory comes back in gradients, and, as though he had never forgotten in the first place, he recalls his earlier ordeal, being condemned by his stepfather, fleeing his town, trekking through the forest, falling down, down, down. 

The turgid, throbbing state of his ankle is the second thing he notices, sharp and hot, flame curling up the length of his leg, and yet it’s somehow not as urgent as the third thing he notices:

There’s a stranger at the foot of the bed, cloaked in black, scowling down at Giorno like he’s everything that’s wrong with the world, and Giorno jolts into an upright position, barely feeling the shock of pain from his injured ankle as he scrambles back against the headboard. For a moment, the squeaking of old lumber is the only sound to be heard. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” The stranger demands, their fists tightening at their sides. Holes litter the bodice of their cloak, which clasps shut at their breastbone. Their neck is too pale. A hood conceals their face from the nose up, and their body shakes with the unmistakable intensity of rage. Tall and thin, they loom over the bed, casting a long knife of a shadow across the mattress. 

Giorno opens his mouth to respond, immediately regretting his choice to abandon the forest for such a place to rest regardless of the relief it offered, but the moment his tongue touches the air he recoils, the smell of wood rot increasing tenfold, snaking through to the back of his throat and settling like lead in the pit of his stomach. 

“Fucking-” The man storms forwards, rounding the foot of the bed to confront Giorno at the bedside; the odor increases, and it’s with a wrench of his gut that Giorno realizes the scent is less that of wood rot and more of decay, as though this cloaked figure is actually death himself, a reaper birthed upon fire and brimstone, here to claim what little soul Giorno may left. “How did you find out about this place?”

A field mouse in the path of a snarling wildcat, Giorno presses back, cramming himself into the corner between the headboard and the wall as much as he can manage. His eyes only leave the approaching stranger to scour the room for a possible exit that doesn’t involve crossing their path. The windows could be viable options, but only under the condition Giorno is confident enough that he, in his current state, will be able to break through one; he can’t imagine performing such an escape, not without cutting himself on a rancid shard of glass, or failing to vault the sill entirely. He’s not even sure he’d be able to make it much more than a pace or so off of the bed itself. Conversely, the door is almost entirely obscured by the other’s stature, and doesn’t serve as anything other than a grim reminder of Giorno’s entrapment. 

The stranger closes in, a pale, veiny hand extending towards Giorno. It is not a gesture of nonviolence. 

“I’m sorry-” Giorno chokes, his throat swelling with urgency to gag. He can think of nothing but the awful odor. The door is too far away; the cottage is suddenly much bigger than he thought, sprawling and empty, wider than the town and the forest and the marsh combined. Giorno wonders if this stranger is an illusionist, casting a sadistic glamour over his eyes as a punishment for entering the cottage. “I-”

“That’s not what I asked!” Their voice is low, and though thin like their body, it resonates in the air like a growl. The more they close in, the more the scent of decay seems to adopt a physical form, manifesting like pale curls of lavender-coloured fog, rolling along the floor, flooding the space like liquid, merging with the air like gas. 

“I didn’t-” Giorno is broken off by a fit of coughing. His lungs are ablaze, his skin a tourniquet to his seizing muscles. 

He screws his eyes shut. They’re burning, partially from the scent and partially from exhaustion, and his thoughts move with impossible speed, too quick to keep up with. He’s nearly certain that he’s hallucinating, either from asphyxiation or the tide of death itself, because even though he himself has dabbled in the world of magic and inborn gifts, this is impossible; the room is purple, the fog shifting, becoming more opaque until it’s reminiscent of smoke, thick and oppressive and inevitable, rising onto the bed, snatching at Giorno’s legs, his hips, his waist. It seems to have a mind of its own, a creature that breaks every law of nature with its shapeless body and perpetually expanding mass. 

The stranger is unfazed, standing perfectly still at the edge of the bed. The fog doesn’t part for them; it looks as though it’s being secreted by their actual skin, spilling from the holes in their cloak to flood the room instead. “Who told you about this place?”

Giorno doesn’t answer. His energy is instead put towards trying to imagine fresh air to simulate the sensation of breathing, but he’s left only further yearning its taste. The room swells and shrinks, spirals around him as black holes mar his vision. 

A stomp of the stranger’s foot seems to shake the bed, the floorboards, the building itself.  “Answer me!” 

Tongue like iron against his teeth, Giorno wheezes. Attempting to speak is futile; his thoughts are falling apart, his consciousness unraveling at the seams like a poorly-sewn quilt, his limbs numbing and his ribs gaping like the maw of a lion, his lungs floating from his chest, his skin boiling and bubbling off, and just when he’s certain that bearing any more pain must be impossible, everything that is tilted and distorted rights itself once more. Colour returns, the floorboards straighten and settle, the bed creaks, and the fog recedes into nothingness, taking with it the scent of decay. Hell fades into the realm of the living, and the world is as it should be. 

Giorno crumples forwards and gasps for air. A lungful isn’t enough, so he gasps again, and again, until his heart’s thumping has eased and his eyes no longer bulge from his skull. 

When he straightens, he notices that dawn now lays claim to the cottage’s interior. A monarch over the once black and grey space, honey-yellow light pools atop the furniture, emphasizing the pink tones that ripple through what Giorno recognizes as olive wood, perfectly cured if not water-damaged and poorly tended to. 

Once more, the stranger proves to be unfazed, their hooded head tipped down at Giorno expectantly. It’s eerily quiet now that Giorno’s blood has stopped shrieking in his ears. 

“You have one more chance,” The stranger says. Giorno could very much argue that he’d not really gotten any chances to begin with, but instead of further antagonizing himself, he swallows around the ebbing lump in his throat and tries to collect his bearings. “Why are you here?”

Giorno is a sitting duck, still pressed to the headboard as he is, and he feebly shakes his head, wetting his lips. Not even at the hand of his stepfather, kneeling like a servant and battered like a robber, has Giorno ever felt so small or helpless. 

“I just-” 

His lungs seize; the smell of rotting flesh stains his nostrils, stings like acid on his tongue. The stranger, though masked, does not seem amused.  With a gulp, Giorno tries again. 

“I needed a place to stay the night,” he tries, wincing at the texture of his voice, “I didn’t plan on sticking around. Not at all. But I-”

The stranger leans in, one hand slipping from the cloak’s protection to flatten against the mattress.  They study Giorno’s face, crusted with blood, and then the state of Giorno’s ankle, now swollen at the joint and the shade of germinating cranberries. Without any indication of intention in their tone, they say, “You’re injured.”

Giorno flinches. What he had felt as he fled the town is nothing like what he feels now. His earlier terror was born of predictability, knowing exactly what fate he was to meet if he chose to stay, the punishment he would incur and the treatment he would receive; this, however, is reminiscent of something during his youth, the act of  hung head-first over the black chasm of a retired well, dangling by his ankles, the cruel hands of the older kids, his tormentors, the only thing standing between falling and not. Staring down into unending darkness, unable to fathom what could possibly exist beyond, his horror was born of the unknown, the unthinkable vastness of what lies before him, out of depth and out of reach. 

“I fell.”

Incredulously: “You fell?” 

“Yes,” Giorno affirms. “From the cliff’s edge. Just- just north of here. Or- maybe east. I don’t remember. It was dark, and I didn’t notice the drop. I thought this place was abandoned.” His head drops, but his muscles do not loosen. Though the stranger no longer stands over him, an eagle to its prey, they reek of malice, bleed it like fog from beneath their cloak. 

“What were you doing in the woods?”

Giorno frowns.  The glare he directs at his injured ankle is not missed by the other. “That’s none of your business.”

“None of my business? This is my home!” Pale lips pull back in a snarl, teeth baring; veiny hands ball into fists, slam against the mattress. “ You broke in!” 

With the stranger’s yell comes another wave of fog, their cloak shifting as indigo tendrils appear from beneath. Giorno can’t back up any further; already flat to the wall, he can do nothing but scramble for a response, and watches in horror as the smell returns, pungent and sharp and even closer than before. 

“Running- I was running-“ He forces out, quick in a single breath. Keeping his mouth open any longer than necessary is a bad idea, so he claps a hand over his lips and nostrils as soon as the words hit the polluted air. He can only hope that it’s a good enough answer. 

It isn’t. 

The fog doesn’t withdraw, instead expanding where he prayed it would diminish, rising in tendrils to nip at his calves. He can feel sweat beading at his brow and at the base of his neck; if he’s secretive, the stranger will kill him, but if he’s honest, and exposes his own abilities, there’s a possibility that the stranger will kill him then, too, perhaps in lieu of fear, or disgust. 

Growling, the stranger repels them self from the bed, stumbling back a step after they throw themselves off and away, as though it’s Giorno that’s summoning the toxic fog, as though they are the ones in peril.  “Why were you running? Are you a criminal? You’re here to try and kill me, aren’t you?”

Giorno’s face is beginning to match the shade of his ankle, his lips the shade of his eyes - he’s unsure if he’d rather perish suffocating by his own hand, or at the mercy of the thickening fog. The decision he makes is one of necessity. 

“No-” He gasps, the relief of breathing is immediately quelled by the lick of pain that sears down his windpipe and into his lungs, solid despite its gaseous state, once again alluding to life where it should be impossible. 

It is only when Giorno begins to claw at his own throat does the fog vanish once more, the air neutralizing, the holes in his vision repairing, the world straightening. 

The stranger impatiently rocks on their heels. The creaking floorboards disrupt the otherwise silent room. 

“You’re going to kill me,” Giorno states in a manner much calmer than he feels. The quilt shifts when he tucks his knees to his chest, and he wraps an arm around his legs as though to stop them from kicking out. 

“It’s an apt punishment for breaking in.” Hesitation creeps along their voice. It’s clear, if not in their disposition than the underlying curve it adopts, that they’re asking a question. 

Giorno takes it as a challenge. “Is it?” What he is to gain from such prodding, he’s not certain, but what he does know is that he’ll perish at this person’s hands either way, and he’d rather go down fighting than in retreat.

When no response comes, he decides to persist. “I was injured. Your door was open, and the place looked deserted. I thought-”

“That is a crime, are you not-”

“A crime, perhaps,” Giorno dips his head. He can only hope that his tongue graces his words with charm, and that his small concession is not interpreted as condescending, “But a crime of necessity. It would have been suicide to stay without shelter for any longer. And, if I recall correctly, the church says suicide is a sin.”

“You-”

“Suicide, that is. Crimes are prohibited by the crown, but sins? That’s a precedent we can’t dispute. I ‘m here in peace, and I did not intend to invade your space. There is no need to take such drastic measures, I assure you; we can part peacefully, yes? Would that not be best for the both of us?”

Beneath the cloak, their shoulders square. Their hood shifts back with the movement, revealing a slender nose, high cheekbones, more skin that’s just a touch too pale, a slender jaw peaking at a sharp chin; though partial, it’s undeniably a man’s face, strong and certain even despite the odd quality to his skin. 

“They’re both sins, you ass.”

“Of varying degrees.”

“ They’re both sins , but I digress. I don’t associate with the church either way.” The stranger - he, Giorno thinks, his attention piquing on the low register - replies, his upper lip curling like that of an offended coyote. His eyes are still concealed, but the intensity of his gaze is felt through the charcoal fabric nonetheless. “And I don’t care for this game of yours, either.”

Giorno swallows. He hadn’t expected to be seen through so easily.  “This isn’t a game.” What little confidence he had adopted dissolves almost as quickly as the fog. “I’m not-”

“Why were you running?” Each word is annunciated with the meticulous cadence of a scholar, and the stranger paces forward, closing back in; he’s not willing to put up with any more buffering on Giorno’s part, apparent if not by the rigidity in his stance than the heavy click of his boots against wood. “I don’t take kindly to invaders, and I don’t care for your attempt to-” He jerks his head, his nostrils flaring with the rise of his chest, “-to beguile me. Whatever your angle is, I don’t trust it, so you can be honest with me, or you can have one more go with the toxin. Your choice.”

There is no sign of the fog returning, but Giorno’s eyes track the hem of the cloak anyways, scouring the floor, the corners of the room, before he averts his attention back to the other. He presses his lips together. A tide of resignation washes along his skin, and it raises the hair on his arms, takes with it the heat of his blood and the certainty in his speech. 

He knows what a bad idea being honest is; he’s always known, right from the moment he’d discovered his powers conjuring ladybugs that shone like rubies from dull pebbles. People like him were seen as witches, beings of hell, worshippers of satan - even at just eight years old, he had long since been indoctrinated with such beliefs, perpetuated by his family and the church alike, and didn’t dare to expose himself to a single soul, not to his mother or his stepfather, not the other children in the village or the priest during confession. It rendered him lonely and quiet, but it kept him safe. 

Now, however, it seems as though his silence will no longer act as a means of protection  - he can’t be sure that speaking out will, either. The last thing he wants to do is showcase his abilities to his captor, but if he doesn’t, he figures that it won’t really matter what he may or may not desire, especially not if he’s cold and blue and lifeless on the floor. 

Giorno looks up, assessing this man of whom he has no name to call or face to assign, and drops his shoulders. The wall at his back has grown warm with the time spent pressed against it, and though dawn continues to lighten the cottage, it's ashy in colour as it passes through the dirtied windows. Colonies of dust are more apparent now than last night, though it is clear that the books Giorno had previously believed abandoned are frequented, their covers and fingered pages the only surfaces to be seen without dust or damage or age; though poorly kempt, the cottage is undoubtedly lived in, something that had been obscured in the absence of daylight. 

The fault is his, he realizes, and so it is with a resigned draw of breath that Giorno makes his decision. 

“I was running because my town was no longer safe,” He begins. His eyes fall to the quilt he’s sitting atop, and he uses its squared pattern to try and distract himself, his speech like honey dribbling from a spoon, “I… presented myself to be something they weren’t fond of. I was discovered- no, I shouldn’t start there. I was new to begin with, and the church-”

“Do you think I have all day?” The man interrupts. “Get to the goddamn point.”

Giorno winces. His mouth has no will to quicken its pace but he forces it anyway. 

“You claimed not to follow the church, so maybe you won’t be so- so revolted by this, but I…” He trails off, weighing his next words on his tongue. They’re as sharp as the blade of a guillotine and possibly just as heavy; when he closes his eyes, he can picture them poised over his waiting neck, ready to take his head off upon their inevitable release. “I have an- an ability. Something like yours, though not- not quite. My stepfather saw me using it, and-”

“Show me.” Still firm, the man says it much gentler than anything else this morning. An urge, more than a demand. “If you try anything funny, I will not hesitate to-”

“I can assure you it’s not dangerous. Not- not like-”

“I want to see, then.” 

Giorno wets his lips and offers a single nod. His muscles resist movement, as though his body is actively trying to condemn his actions. Every nerve is alight with alarm, every inch of skin prickling. He’s never done this before, and he doesn’t know where to begin. 

There isn’t much surrounding him that he can work with, but he settles on one of the two posts attached to the bed’s headboard. He lifts his hand to the post’s spire, touching its smooth surface while avoiding the gaze of his observer, and with a familiar fizzle of energy rolling through his veins, whistling like wind through leaves, he wills life into the object once more. At his fingertips, the cured wood sprouts, a twig breaking from the surface as naturally as it would from a rooted tree; blooming with it is a fan of almond-shaped leaves and a single, ripe olive. 

As if on instinct, Giorno braces himself for an impact that never comes. The stranger, the man, the owner of the cottage- he doesn’t move from his spot, transfixed on Giorno’s hand, still holding the body of the post, and Giorno can do nothing but stare back at him, his brow creased in confusion. 

“My stepfather caught me attempting to heal an injured hawk,” Giorno says, averting his gaze to the infant branch. It extends towards his hand, as though he himself carries the warmth of the sun. “Gathered a crowd, started shouting about betrayal. Accused me of witchcraft.” His lashes dip, his head tilting forward with the weight of something that feels like shame, the word tasting like spoiled fruit on his tongue, “Necromancy.” 

“Necromancy?” The other scoffs, breaking his stupor to drop forward onto the mattress. Giorno shifts away, sliding towards the foot of the bed and scrambling straight off of it, his ankle be damned. The door is unguarded and he can leave, can put this strange morning behind him, but he hesitates at the way the other man leans in to inspect Giorno’s creation, curling in close, his hands all but cupping it, the degree of separation menial but present - he is excruciatingly careful not to make contact with the branch. “This isn’t necromancy,” He says, and his voice is different this time, swelling with an emotion Giorno can’t identify, wet and moist and unstable.  “You- you’ve given life. You can create life. This is- I’ve never- you don’t...”

Heat rises in Giorno’s cheeks; he can’t look away from the other’s transfixion, hands that shake like it’s taking everything to hold them back, lips that part like they don’t know what to say. His feet urge him to leave but he doesn’t listen - he’s never seen someone so, and all of his earlier fright seems to evaporate, lifting from his skin and vanishing before his eyes. 

“Have you always been able to do this?” 

Giorno nods. His ankle aches, swollen now like a ripened grape.  “Yes. Since- since I was a kid.”

“Can you show me again?” 

He should be leaving. Logically, he can realize as much, but the pull in his gut draws him to this other man, has his heart wanting to stay and show him more as though he hadn’t just threatened Giorno’s life. No- Giorno finds himself wanting to pull a chair, take a seat, and conjure a stream of moths and swallows for this peculiar person, be it because he’s the first Giorno’s ever met with an ability like his own, or perhaps the unabashed awe underlying his voice. Never in his wildest dreams could he have hoped his ability would be perceived like this. 

He should be leaving. 

He really, really should. He could have a life waiting for him, somewhere beyond the doorway; there could be a city, miles and miles out, where he might make a home and set up shop as a florist, or keeping livestock, live a quiet life behind a guise of rose petals and unwithering blooms, unconcerned about people with strange powers, or being hunted because of his own. 

And yet, he finds himself nearing the other, breathing out a faint, “Of course,” as he relinquishes some of his weight against the wall. 

It’s the loose button in his pocket that presents as Giorno’s next target; he digs it out, shows it’s surface to the other, and then closes his eyes and lets his body take over. Within the breadth of a moment, the stillness of the inanimate object becomes movement, dark pewter turning to burnt orange, and in his hand is a small copper butterfly, exercising its wings for the first time as it clings to his index finger. 

When he looks up at the other, Giorno is met with ruby eyes and white hair. The man’s hood is pooled at his shoulders, exposing the entirety of his face; he’s much younger than Giorno had expected, with wide eyes and pale lashes, chapped, pink lips and gaunt cheeks. His eye sockets are shaded with dark circles, and his skin is so pale it’s almost translucent, disturbed only by the jagged branch of a scar, about a thumb’s width as it extends from the corner of his mouth to the cliff of his cheekbone. Even lithe and somewhat sickly, he looks like a character from a storybook - a faerie without wings, or an elf without pointed ears. 

“They labelled that as necromancy?” He asks, his attention devoted to the insect on Giorno’s finger. He moves closer, yet not enough to penetrate Giorno’s personal space, and though faint, the smell of wood rot still permeates the air. 

“I wouldn’t know what else to label it myself, honestly,” Giorno admits, fanning his fingers out. The butterfly crawls along his knuckles, settling with its wings closed only once it reaches the edge of his hand. 

“You’re giving life .”

“To things that otherwise would not have it, yes.”

“It’s not necromancy.”

Giorno sighs. Rotating his hand, so that the butterfly is guided onto his palm, he’s taken with the urge to set it free; it’s native to this area, he knows, and it shouldn’t have any trouble upon release. “I wish that were the case.”

“No,” The man says, standing abruptly. Towering over Giorno once more, he poses only a fraction of the threat he had earlier. “By definition, necromancy is the practice of communicating with or raising the dead in a manner that directly disturbs the laws of nature. What you’re doing…” He gestures to the butterfly, ‘“What you’re doing is nothing of that sort. This is magnificent. Really. ”

A knot forms in Giorno’s throat, and he’s sure the shade of his face is beginning to match that of his aching ankle. He’s never been looked at like this, but it’s the growing intensity in the other’s voice that leaves him speechless. 

“Thank you,” He tries, at a loss for what to say. He feels accepted; something he’s never quite felt before. 

“Of everything I’ve seen-” The man walks towards the window, and then back again, covering the small floorspace in a matter of paces, “Nothing has ever come close to this, not even- no, not even mine. Which.. Which is no small feat, mind you.”

Giorno’s ears pique. He’s no stranger to the whispered stories of witchcraft and cursed magic, but he’s never sought out explanation for his gift, nor has he ever associated it with such things. “There are more like us?”  

The man wrinkles his nose. “Of course there are,” He says like it's obvious, and Giorno rises from the bed once more. Standing, he notices, they’re both about the same height, with the other just slightly taller, if not for his actual stature than for the boots he bolsters as an advantage. Blue meets lilac. A charge passes between them. “We’re preternaturals. I know a- knew a group of them. For a while, actually. Men and women and everything in between, everyone with a different inclination and an unique set of capabilities.”

“Why are you here now?”

“My ability turned dangerous.” His expression sours, white-blonde brows pinching. “I decided it would be best off to keep my distance from large settlements.”

“Are you unable to control it?”

The man’s head snaps up. His cloak shifts. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”

Giorno raises his palms. He doesn’t try to hide that he looks down and searches for any sign that the fog is going to show up again, specifically eyeing the holey cloak and its frayed hem. “My apologies.”

The butterfly stands at the tip of his middle finger, its scales glitter like split amber beneath a line of sunlight. 

It’s with a huff and a stomped foot that the other seems to release the issue, and Giorno simultaneously feels like the worst visitor history has ever seen as well as its most polite captive. 

“Would you like me to show you more?” Giorno says, even despite the naggle of sense at the back of his skull, urging him to take advantage of this opening and escape. He ignores it in favour of the stirring feeling in the pit of his gut, the nameless force drawing him towards this stranger instead of away, bypassing the threat of danger to appease his curiosity - he can’t remember the last time he’s ever been so intrigued by a person, can’t recall another human quite so strange.

He’s received without an answer. His heart thumps and he finds himself wanting to get closer, draw fingers down starlight-coloured skin, be observed by iridescent eyes. 

“Before I… Just before I head off. I can demonstrate with anything you’ll give me, if you’d like.”

The man peers over his shoulder, standing on the opposite side of the room. The fireplace, though unlit, gapes behind him, piles of ash and soot scattered messily across the hearth. 

“Consider it reparation,” Giorno strides forward, halting only a scattering of feet behind the other. To his left is a large water stain; above, the roof is evidently faulted. His ankle burns, but he pushes it aside, forces the pain to be an afterthought. “For using your home.” He pauses and draws a deep breath. “Please?”

With bated breath, he waits as his intentions are analyzed, the man’s eyes narrowing incrementally, pale lashes like snow against a setting sun, and then, though he backs away, the answer he gives is spoken concisely, light and firm as they’re projected by bitten lips. 

“I’ll accept that.” His head dips in a nod, one swift movement forward and back. White hair sweeps across his forehead, and he hastily pushes it away, his fingers knotting as they’re combed through. When he pulls his hand back down to his side, loose strands of hair hang tangled from his knuckles. “You should sit, though,” He sends a quick glance to the small table, “I can’t imagine you’re too comfortable standing on that ankle.”

Giorno opens his mouth to respond, but he’s ultimately bested by the urge to sit down, and instead limps towards the table. The man follows, retaining a cautious distance, even as he stops at the edge of the table, hovers by the opposite chair. 

“My name is Pannacotta Fugo. So you know.”

Taking his seat, all Giorno can do is nod, slowly pairing the new name to this new face; he’s in a much better place than he had been just minutes ago, he figures, now with a name and a face to match who had ostensibly been just a figure in a cloak just minutes ago. “It’s-” He licks his lips, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pannacotta-”

“Fugo. I prefer Fugo.”

“ Fugo, ” Giorno hums, testing the motion on his tongue, “Thank you for not- well... harming me. For invading your home.”

Though incrementally, Fugo’s cheeks adopt a rosy colour, the slightest shade of baby pink flushing shyly below his eyes. “No,” He sputters, blinking, “I shouldn’t have acted so harshly. I don’t receive strangers very often, nevermind in my bed of all places.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed this place was deserted.”

“I shouldn’t have tried to kill you,” Fugo combats.

“Perhaps that makes us even.”

“Perhaps.”

Giorno, the startings of a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth, extends his hand across the table. He’s careful, keeping the movement slow and methodical. “Giorno Giovanna,” He states, showing Fugo his palm. He wonders if Fugo’s hand is as cold as it looks. If there’s a reason he holds it so delicately, if it’s frail like expensive china. 

Fugo glares at his open hand warily, and makes a point of tucking his elbows closer to his chest. He shakes his head. No further explanation is offered. “Aren’t you bothered by this?” 

Puzzled, Giorno withdraws his hand. Fugo motions to the space between them, elaborating only after offering a gruff shrug. His eyes are downcast, studying the table’s wood grain as though it’s the most interesting thing in the world. 

“The toxin,” He says. “The- well, the scent. Most people find it intolerable. Are you not bothered by it?”

Giorno tips his chin back, cautiously observing. The ceiling is stained and swarms of dust occupy the air, old books lay open and out of shape, piles of soot shaped like anthills populate the fireplace hearth - pervading every other sensation is the sour-sweet smell of decay, sharp like a pin at the back of Giorno’s throat, but it’s not so much a focal point as it is a detail; an odd trait belonging to the odd cabin, not necessarily bothersome though present nonetheless. 

“No,” Giorno replies honestly. “I hardly notice it.”

Fugo nods, slowly like he’s disassembling the new information to try and determine its legitimacy. His eyes tighten, his shoulders rising just a hair, and then he loosens, not quite going slack but resting backwards against his chair, a marionette without the pull of its strings, set to stand on its own. “Can you show me more of what you can do?”

Giorno smiles, then, the pull of muscles unfamiliar, and he takes a tie from his hair, presenting it to Fugo with a flourish before giving himself into it. Fugo’s lips part when the string turns in on itself and becomes the wiry body of a young garden snake, its tongue flickering out as it slithers from between Giorno’s fingers, dropping smoothly onto the table and then disappearing beneath. 

Fugo’s awe doesn’t falter, and so Giorno continues. 

Hours pass like this. Giorno is too excited by the prospect of another person to share his powers with to be conscious of the passing time, and Fugo is too engrossed by the small jungle of flora and fauna gradually filling his cottage to do much else but watch with wide eyes. When they find that their stomachs are empty, their hunger is eased by a loaf of rye Fugo draws from a cupboard, thirst by jugs of well-water, - and, upon Fugo’s suggestion, Giorno cleans the blood from his face and arms with a dampened cloth -  and it’s well beyond high-noon by the time Giorno has run out of pebbles and shreds of wood to breathe life into. 

He thinks he should feel tired, but in truth he’s never felt more alive. He’s kept this part of himself hidden for so long, only allowing the outside world the occasional glimpse, palatable mundane expression, experimenting solely on his own amongst the safety of old willows and dense bush, and to share with someone who not only doesn’t condemn him but has the capacity to understand is something he’s only ever imagined.

“What town did you leave?” Fugo asks at one point. His attention is fastened to the crimson petals of a poppy, once a wooden spoon, positioned alone in a chalice. His fingers tap against the tabletop, their rhythm hurried. Impatient. “Wilderock? Tella?” He pulls his hands into his lap. “Vallalón?”

“No,” Giorno cracks his knuckles, careful not to overthink the feeling of ease that settles atop his shoulders with Fugo’s continued presence. He can see himself getting familiar with those eyes, and the faint scent of hazelnut and rotten wood he carries with him.  “I left from Soria.”

“Soria is a ways out. At least a day on foot, yeah?”

“Sounds about right.”

Preceded by slight scrutiny, Fugo says, “You don’t look like you’re from Soria.”

“No, I suppose I don’t.”

Fugo’s gaze meets Giorno’s. Only the table separates them but they may as well only be an inch apart. “You’re a foreigner, then.”

Giorno hums and leans back in his chair. Heat has begun to seep in through the walls, and he wonders if he should crack open a window, or if he’s going to stay long enough for that to matter. “My family and I came from overseas some time back. We’re originally from the Eastern Continent.”

Something like confusion flickers across Fugo’s expression. 

“My father was an Englishman,” He explains with a tilted head. “My biological father. Met him once, can’t say I was much of a fan.”

“Not a fan of my father either.” Fugo purses his lips. “You know, Soria is central. Bunch of roads in and around; why’d you cut through the forest? Could’ve avoided this whole mess.”

“You know the area?”

A shrug.  “I studied cartography, once upon a time.” 

“ Ah. Well. Those roads are too frequented. It would have been expected of me to take them elsewhere, and if they decided to follow me-”

“As they always do.”

“-On horseback, no less, I wouldn’t have had a chance. Not out in the open. If the state of my leg should tell you anything, though, it’s that I’ve never had to navigate a forest before, and it didn’t end up so well. After falling, I found this place, and-”

“Committed a crime of necessity.”

Giorno grimaces. 

“...Yes.”

Fugo is quiet, for a moment, his head faraway, his eyes calculating as they stare blankly at the poppy, a sad, lonely centerpiece for a barren table and its unkempt cottage, grimly appropriate and just slightly pathetic. There’s a door beside the fireplace, one Giorno hadn’t noticed last night; he now knows it opens to reveal a small kitchen and a pantry, as well as another door- of which Fugo hadn’t been keen on exploring. 

“You have nowhere else to go, then.”

Giorno shakes his head, sparing only a quick glance towards the door before directing back to Fugo. “No. I was hoping to travel until I was far away enough to stay unrecognized. If anyone from the town found me, or- or if my stepfather found me, then-”

“They’d have you hanged.”

“Likely,” Giorno admits, mouth trailing into a downward crescent. “If I’m lucky, they’ll accept my expulsion from the settlement as suitable punishment, but…” He clasps his hands together, folds them soundly in his lap. 

“Those church-fanatics aren’t really interested in that kind of ending, are they? Too anticlimactic for them, I think.”

“You’re probably right.”

“I know I am.” Fugo jerks his chin up. His gaze is pointed. “You should stay,” He says, as though he’s offering a pitcher of water, or a sachet of rice. “You’re in no shape to travel, not without supplies and especially not on that foot, and you’ll be a dead man if they find you. They’re searching, no doubt; God’s pecore never can let much go, nevermind people they perceive as acting directly against Him himself.”

Giorno straightens in his seat. He thinks about leaving; the desperation to escape no longer burns beneath his feet. It’s a prickle, the sliver of unease dragging like the fine edge of a comb against his skin, but its intensity has died down, almost overpowered by the pull Fugo has on him. “That’s a very generous offer, but-”

“But what?”

“I can’t accept it. I’ve got nothing to my name and even less to reimburse you with.”

Fugo scowls. “I’m not looking for reimbursement,” He huffs and crosses his arms. “I have a spare bedroll in the pantry and enough space for at least two more people. You’re alone, you’re injured, and travelling right now would be a death sentence- I’m just trying to be nice.”

Giorno raises an eyebrow. “I broke into your house.”

“And I just about killed you. We’ve been over this. Look- the choice is yours. I’m offering a place to stay, at the very least until that ankle heals up and you’re suited to travel again.”

Trust is not something Giorno has ever easily come across. From a young age he learned not to trust his mother, nor his stepfather, not the children that teased him or the adults that pretended not to watch. He kept his heart to himself and his peers at an arm's length, understanding very early on that the world and her people were on no side but their own. His instincts grew to tell him to stay alone, and alone he stayed. 

Yet, looking at Fugo, at this strange man with hole-ridden clothing and skin so pale it’s almost sickly, the hair of an elder and the incandescent eyes of a fae, Giorno’s instincts betray their independent tendencies, and instead of alarm, the swirl in his gut is reminiscent of intrigue; it’s foreign and uncomfortable, and Giorno doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. 

Though staying here doesn’t necessarily seem like the most charming experience, Fugo’s prediction that Giorno will either fall prey to his own injury or the potential bounty on his head is probably correct. Staying here could mean security, if only just for a little bit; a place to rest and eat and heal before heading back out into the world; staying could mean finally being able to connect with someone he doesn’t have to hide himself from. Or, as the skeptical part of mind chooses to emphasize, staying could mean a perishing at the hands of a complete stranger, being taken advantage of, experimented on, tortured, left for dead. 

He doesn’t know Fugo, nor does he have any reason to trust him. 

And, even then, even only hours after meeting, Fugo is the most familiar person Giorno’s ever encountered. Not having to conceal himself is liberating beyond belief; he doesn’t encounter the concern of being discovered, nor the strain of hyper self-awareness, but the relief of letting go. It’s like removing a corset after a long evening, lungs free to be full once more. 

“Besides,” he adds, averting his gaze. “Our kind,” he looks to the poppy, and then down at his own cloak, “We should stick together.”

He’s right - at the end of the day, Fugo is like him. If he trusts no normal humans, so be it - Fugo, as it is, is as far away from typical as Giorno, and such a reason is good enough for his tired body and aching limbs. 

Giorno doesn’t trust him, not yet, but he finds that he wants to. It’s as good a reason as any. 

“Well?” Fugo demands, his smoulder intense from across the table. Sunlight cuts through the window, pools like granite around his pupils. “Are you going to say something or am I a fool for expecting a response?”

Lifting his hands to rest on the table, Giorno nods. “I’ll accept your offer-”

“You’d be an idiot not to-”

“ -if ,” He continues, raising his index finger, “you allow me to work. Clean up the place. Cook meals. Something .”

Fugo eyes him, and then in a gesture that’s much grander than necessary, he stands and spins around, his cloak fluttering behind him as he strides towards the fireplace. “Are you insinuating that my home is messy ?’

“It’s a little dusty,” Giorno says, amusement clear in his voice. “And I think your sheets could use a good wash. Maybe two. Or-”

“You’re my guest for moments and you’re already ungrateful.”

“My sincerest apologies, Fugo. ”

Over his shoulder, Fugo flashes him the smallest, barest grin. He doesn’t think about the flutter in his chest.