Chapter Text
Pannacotta Fugo sits in a shitty metal chair, handcuffed to a table in a police station.
“That’s him,” the old woman says with a fearful tremble in her voice, pointing at him from the doorway of the interrogation room. She’s the kind of old lady that would give you candy and spoil you rotten if you were her grandchild, but unfortunately, if you weren’t and you were maybe a server in a restaurant, she’s the kind of old lady who starts giving you orders without even replying to your greeting. She’s the kind who screams and wails and points her finger at the nearest blonde kid holding her handbag, even though he was clearly going to give it back to her.
“I didn’t take her bag,” Fugo barks defensively at the cop standing next to her. If he didn’t have such respect for the elderly, he would have added in a couple of ‘fuck’s for good measure. “It wasn’t me!”
The stupid fucking cop turns to the stupid fucking old woman and asks, “You said it was a skinny blonde kid, about this tall,” and he holds his hand up at about Fugo’s height, “wearing a weird suit?”
She tearfully nods, and Fugo bangs his head on the table.
“Lying’s gonna get you nowhere, kid. You’re lucky that she’s already decided to not press charges.”
“But it wasn’t. Me.” Fugo growls out against the stupid fucking table.
“Yeah?” The cop looks down at him with a smug expression on his ugly face. “Then who was it?”
Bucciarati had introduced Giorno Giovanna to his team of psychologically unstable young adults on the 30th of March in 2001 and it was at the top of the long list of Worst Days of Fugo’s Life. He had thought, and still thinks, that investigating Leaky Eye Luca’s death was work that was below Bucciarati, since he was probably about to be promoted to capo and all, and so no one had worried at all about his safety, and no one had expected for him to walk back into their favorite restaurant with some kid in kitten heels and a face kind of resembling those European paintings of Jesus if he was white.
“I’m Giorno Giovanna,” Giorno Giovanna said, even though Bucciarati had just said that his name was Giorno Giovanna. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Fuck you, Giorno Giovanna, Fugo thought.
Narancia seemed to lose interest quickly, thank God, because most of them had learned that a pretty face didn’t exactly mean ‘worth my time.’ He had turned back to Fugo, who had mostly kind of lost interest in the newcomer, and was apologizing for being dumb as a rock. But of course Bucciarati got mad, because he had raised his children with manners, and then it was awkward because they definitely had ignored Giorno and now they couldn’t anymore.
Unfortunately, it turned out that the longer your brain was registering the existence of Giorno, the more hooked on him it became. Kind of like a fish when it has a hook sitting in its mouth, and then it swallows the bait and the barb of the hook catches their throat.
And then Bucciarati had to go help someone else in front of the restaurant like he always had to, which meant that they were unsupervised and so Abbacchio pissed in the teapot and Giorno drank it which of course made Narancia and Mista freak the fuck out for no reason, as if Abbacchio hadn’t pissed in all of their teapots and coffees when they first met him. Fugo had just stabbed Narancia in the cheek with a fork, and if he had known that Giorno was about to walk into the room, he would have twisted it and rolled Narancia around it like a piece of spaghetti so he wouldn’t look at him. He had everyone’s attention so easily, and why wouldn’t he? He looked like an angel decided “Hey, I think I’m going on vacation to Italy today to ruin Pannacotta Fugo’s life, see you later God,” and also he had just drank piss like he was throwing back a shot.
“How did you do that?” Narancia was open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and he looked like an idiot. Mista was laughing his ass off also looking like an idiot, a grin on his face that was far bigger than any Fugo had ever elicited from him.
“There’s no way you drank that,” Fugo snapped, even though he was a little unnerved, too. “Tell us how you did it!” Giorno looked up at him from his seat, and Fugo realized this was the first time they’d made eye contact, and then he was way more than unnerved. There was too much behind his eyes to be comfortable. Giorno smiled.
“I can’t remember,” he hummed.
Eat shit, Fugo thought.
Abbachio looked pissed. He always looked pissed, but even more so now that his alpha-male power show backfired. It was a little bit of a relief that he so obviously hated Giorno already, because even when Mista joined up, Abbachio had stopped picking a fight with him when he figured out how quick of a draw Mista was, and Abbachio definitely hated Mista. Fugo didn’t like the little glance the goth bastard sent his way, though, the one that said You’re still my second favorite, because not only did Fugo already know that, but the fact that he had to point it out meant that he too registered that Giorno Giovanna was a violent, dangerous threat to Fugo’s mostly-solid position in the squad’s hearts.
“I bet it was his Stand!” Narancia crowed, proud to have pointed it out before anyone else.
“Of course it was, dumbass, he didn’t actually drink it.” Mista looked at Giorno with round eyes. “Did you?”
Giorno smiled and shrugged.
“C’mon, just tell us how it works!”
“Everyone else here seems to be keeping their abilities private,” Giorno said, not accusingly but as if he was trying to be nonchalant and really really cool and succeeding at it. “It’s only fair that I do the same.”
“That’s boring,” Narancia said, even though it wasn’t, and added a perfect air of mystery to the newcomer.
Giorno shrugged again.
Now that he was closer, Fugo could see that Giorno didn’t actually look like white Jesus. He looked like wasian Jesus. He wasn’t going to ask where Giorno was from, because as much as he hated him, he didn’t want to sound xenophobic; but Mista, who had no such qualms and also no filter, asked, “Shit, dude, where are you from?”
Giorno looked a little surprised and a little angelic, and answered, “I was born in Japan.”
Mista grinned ear-to-ear. “Columbia!”
“Ah, y tú hablas español?”
Mista’s grin grew wider.
Fuck you, Giorno Giovanna, Fugo thought.