homicidalvirus

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

andthatsthepiss‌:

Bruno somehow manages to turn the conversation into something sentimental, thanking them both, words and smile filled with gentle sincerity that still manages to tug at his chest. Abbacchio suddenly feels too self-conscious to meet his gaze, intently staring at his cup. 

“Don’t be stupid,” He he grumbles. “Goes without saying that we’d be behind you.”

He murmurs a quiet thanks as he accepts the parcel from Buccellati, and his dark mood is significantly lightened once he opens it. Baklava. Here was a man after his own heart. He delicately fishes the pastry out with a napkin, but unable to completely to prevent crumbs when he bites into the treat. Damn, that’s good. The pastry is nice and flaky, and the honey is set in evenly. 

“Hey Buccellati, where’d you pick these up from?” He asks, brushing some crumbs from his shirt. 

@zipperdaddy​

Crossing his legs, Bruno holds in a breathy chuckle at Fugo’s question, he’d always been so keen on conveying information and getting straight to a task, not one to make small talk, but he was doing his best and Bruno smiles appreciatively. 

“Thanks to you, quite well, I’ve had no trouble finding all the things I need and getting to know the area thanks to your tour and advise,” he takes a long sip from his cup, “While the amenities aren’t the highest of quality, the people who live around here are really quite lovely.”

In the short time he’s been here he’s already started forming connections with the local business owners as he knew it would be beneficial for his move into the organization. Though he would have done it regardless, it was just nice getting to know your local grocer. 

The soft look on Abbacchio’s face is a quick distraction, however, as Bruno watches him bite into the sticky pastry, obviously pleased. 

“Ah, it’s a little bakery near the castle, I think it’s called Bread, knead, and Broomsticks? There’s a young girl that works there that found me after I arrived and helped orient me. I was a bit on edge upon arriving, but she explained everything quite clearly…have you been?”

He wouldn’t be surprised if they’d found the little bakery as it was on a main stretch of road and the window displays were highly tempting. 

@homicidalvirus​

He nods once at Buccellati’s mention of the small girl’s bakery. Well, she supposes that it’s not hers, though it may as well be for all the people she’s managed to attract. He knows Abbacchio is fond of her. Fugo finds her nice enough as well, though he keeps his distance so as not to involve her in anything unsavory. It makes sense, though, that Buccellati would instantly strike up a conversation with her: both have an inherent charm, a certain warmth Fugo knows he lacks.

“Yes, I know of it. I haven’t been often because I don’t generally have much reason to go deeper into the city. There is a very nice library in the downtown area, though... As Kiki -- I presume that’s the girl you spoke with -- may have told you, we are somehow several years in the future, which is another bizarre twist. It means that there are many new books to read. Oh, and some interesting technological advances,” he adds, pulling out his smartphone. “You can access the internet and many other features.” He taps the app for twitter.com and quickly switches the view “news” because he doesn’t want Buccellati looking at his timeline. Monokuma’s Golf Retreat is the first headline. Slow news day, then. Where are there even golf courses around here?

@andthatsthepiss​

[homicidalvirus]

He never meant to grow attached to Buccellati, Abbacchio, Mista, and Narancia. Buccellati convinced him to join the gang, but Fugo had resolved to keep himself at a distance to protect everyone. Well. Perhaps he aimed to protect himself more than anything.

But now, although Buccellati and Abbacchio ease the bitter loneliness that settles in his chest like a virus, he still longs for Mista and Narancia. Well, he never understood Mista, and he believes the feeling was mutual. But Narancia... he could be whomever he wanted or did not want to be, and Narancia accepted him. Even when his anger was directed at the boy, Narancia fought back. 

He curls tighter into himself as he drifts in and out of sleep on Abbacchio’s well-worn sofa. Maybe with Fugo, Buccellati, and Abbacchio gone, Narancia would abandon the gang. He could go back to school (though he struggled, he tried -- he was the one who asked Fugo to teach him, and Fugo regrets every time he lost his patience). 

It’s his fault Narancia ended up in such dangerous circumstances.

He rests his head on his arm and closes his eyes. He’s in Rome, walking through oddly empty streets, and there’s a weight in his arms. He doesn’t look down to see what it is. He starts running, still holding onto something, and he finally glances down to see the body of a person. He stops. Narancia is covered in blood, and he opens his eyes and whispers, why did you leave me? Fugo opens his mouth to protest, but the light leaves Narancia’s face and Fugo knows.

He awakens with his cheeks somewhat damp. He never wanted to form relationships such that he would miss people when they’re gone. But he loves Narancia with all his heart, wants him to be safe. He wants to tutor Narancia and laugh and tell Narancia that he’s proud of him. He wants to take back every time he lost his temper. Narancia is kind and bright and warm. Fugo is dark and ugly as a storm. 

One day, he and Narancia -- and Mista, and all the others -- will be together again, sharing a meal, getting on each other’s nerves, throwing words (and objects) they’ll later regret. He never had anything to lose before he met Bruno Buccellati. And then he gained, and he gained more than he had any right to. It terrifies him.

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

As expected, Fugo is the perfect guide, and it makes him smile to listen to him talk. He even makes a note to tell Bruno about the fish markets, which is incredibly thoughtful and only makes him smile more. 

“That’s a shame, though I’m glad that there’s a plethora of other delicious food. Perhaps we can go fishing sometime,” he muses almost whimsically. 

He keeps pace beside Fugo as they walk, but nearly falters when Fugo asks if he needs help carrying anything. 

“Ah, thank you, I was just going to pick up a few..essentials on my way home, milk, coffee, and the like, though I might take you up on the offer another day. I was hoping to make you and Abbacchio dinner after I get a little better situated,” he chuckles, “a sort of house warming, if you think you’d have the time of course.” 

He nods, though he truly has no particular interest in fishing. He might be open to fishing with Buccellati, though. Just for the experience.

Buccellati pauses as Fugo offers to help carry groceries, and Fugo ends up a couple paces ahead of him before he realizes the error. “Ah, I’m sorry. I haven’t shown you any convenience stores, have I? There’s one down the corner. Most of the larger grocery stores are located a bit closer to the center of the city, though the corner shops hold the essentials. Are you sure I can’t help you carry anything? Would you like to stop?”

He keeps getting ahead of himself with Buccellati; he’s so grateful to see him and there’s a desire to impress that hasn’t waned, even still. 

“Er, sorry,” he says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Anyways, a housewarming event isn’t necessary, Buccellati. If anything, Abbacchio and I should be welcoming you.”

Riunito

[homicidalvirus]

axeandfloof‌:

Thankfully, Fugo doesn’t seem to dismiss her request, despite his reluctance to her choice in weapon. He seems to misunderstand that she’s seeking something out for self defense, pulling out a pocket knife for an alternative. 

Her eyes widen as he flicks out the blade, but still maintains her composure. It’s clear he’d intended it for demonstrative purposes rather than a threat. Her irritation wanes a bit, seeing that he’s genuinely trying to be helpful. Still, she holds her ground. 

“I appreciate your suggestion, but that’s not the reason I came here. It’s easy enough to buy a knife in the marketplace, after all.” 

“I fully intend to use this axe for combative purposes.” 

She insists on an axe. Combative purposes? Really?

“Fair enough,” he concedes as she dismisses the knife.   “At the same time, an axe is potentially slow and unwieldy in battle. If you contend that a knife is too commonplace, perhaps a gun would better suit your needs?” 

He pulls down a favorite of his; he’s sure the shopkeep won’t mind considering that Fugo is the one who delivered the weapons. “To my understanding, this model is inconspicuous and easy to aim.” While the gun is not loaded, he handles it with a practiced, steady hand. Guns are not his weapon of choice, but he knows the mechanics of them well enough.

excuse me m’am what are you doing with that axe

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

andthatsthepiss‌:

“Can we at least wait until we finish eating?” He grumbles with a bit more bitterness than intended. “Just thinking about talking to that bastard is making my stomach churn.” 

It’s not like he can’t understand Fugo’s eagerness to be working with Buccellati again. Hell, he’s the reason that either of them had even bothered with this kind of lifestyle to begin with. And having him back will at least give them some direction besides following some guy in the shadows who might get them out from under the High Council’s thumb. But he still remembered the first night Bruno came here, how shaken he had been at the prospect of the danger they’d all be placed under. Nevertheless, he seems determined to move forward. 

Still, Abbacchio has his own reasons for not wanting to talk about work. He wasn’t lying when he said he didn’t even want to think about his current capo. Especially after last night… 

Didn’t even bother to say there was a kid, the bastard. 

He continues to nurse his coffee, keeping his thoughts to himself as the other two continue their discussion.

@zipperdaddy

Leaning back in his seat, Bruno listens attentively, blue eyes focused on Fugo, unflinching. Again the subject of the boss comes up and he nearly brings his hand to his temple, resisting the motion to simply bring the croissant back to his mouth, chewing almost thoughtfully. The sooner they put in the call, the sooner he would know — at least to some small extent — what the boss knew, if anything at all. He tucks the swirling anxieties that come with that thought away quickly, shooting Abbacchio a grateful look when he suggests they finish their meal first.

 “I would appreciate making the call sooner as opposed to later,” he agrees stoically, “especially seeing as your current Capo seems less than savory, and waiting will only delay the inevitable…however, I also came here to thank you both, for choosing to support me here. I…I’m really very grateful.” He smiles soft and warm and sincere. He picks up one of the pastry boxes and passes it to Abbacchio, hand lingering perhaps a moment too long.

“So enough talk of work, at least until breakfast is over,” he takes a bite of his croissant.

@homicidalvirus​

Fugo nods in agreement with Buccellati, then frowns and leans back in his seat at the edict that work is a banned topic. He notices the warm glances between Buccellati and Abbacchio, of course. 

To be honest, quiet conversation is not his comfort zone. He prefers having a task and then moving towards completing said task. He tries to remember what it was like, back when it was just the three of them. Fugo had been looking forward to it, but now he misses Narancia and Mista’s talent for filling the silence with nonsense. He misses their loudness and their joy. 

Further, when it comes to Buccellati, he thinks most often of what information his leader might find useful. But he’ll respect Buccellati’s wishes and refrain from talking about work, though most of what he does relates to his various missions. 

He tries to recall certain phrases commonly used in small talk. He sips his cappuccino, then says lightly, “How are you settling in, Buccellati?” While he had just seen the man a few days ago, it still seems like a reasonable question.

@andthatsthepiss​

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

He mirrors that smile, soft and warm, before downing the rest of his cappuccino. Humming thoughtfully, he dabs a napkin across his lips, as he contemplates an answer.

“Thank you, Fugo, he replies cheerfully, “As I’ve not yet had the opportunity to explore, I think I’ll leave our destinations to you, perhaps you can show me some of your favorite spots as well? Oh, and, I’d be grateful if you would point our the nearest grocery store and markets…” He trails off, trying to think of anything else he might need to see, but even just wandering the streets would give him a much better sense of this place, “if that’s alright?” He finishes, hoping he hasn’t asked too much.

He nods, back to business once more as Buccellati names a list of his requests. He sets down his napkin, dusts himself off, and motions for his leader to follow him.

First, he leads Buccellati to a small row of food stalls. “Our region is the poorest in the city,” he begins. “As you move towards the center, wealth becomes more abundant. However, we do have the benefit of produce brought fresh from the farms, which are just outside this layer of the city. Unfortunately, there is not nearly the abundance of seafood as there is in Napoli, but there is a butcher just around the corner,” he adds, pointing helpfully. “While I have not seen pancetta, there are cuts of pork belly that are roughly equivalent, in my experience. I do miss our cured meats...”

He frowns, trying to think of more information Buccellati might find useful. “Oh, and while seafood is a bit rarer, you can sometimes find stalls selling freshwater fish because there’s a medium-sized lake at the edge of the farmland. It’s adequate.”

He moves as if to continue walking, then realizes that perhaps Buccellati was asking because he’s in need of groceries. “Ah, sorry. Is there something you need? I can help you carry things if necessary.”

Riunito

[homicidalvirus]

@andthatsthepiss

Fugo had not slept all that much before the mission, and after the events which transpired, he’s admittedly exhausted. One of the nurses, a small boyish thing, had come by a while ago to tell him that visiting hours were over and shouldn’t he maybe go home and get some rest? Fugo had stepped towards him, fist raised, eyes wild. He wasn’t leaving. He wouldn’t leave. 

The nurse opened his mouth as if to say something, but he scurried away as Fugo blinked back tears. 

He paces at Abbacchio’s bedside, staring at the cords and the IV hooked up to the man’s arm. It smells like antiseptic. 

Abbacchio shouldn’t be alive, but he is. Because of this, Fugo will not allow this second chance to go to waste. He doesn’t believe in fate, leaving such irrationalities to Mista, but at the same time, he feels as though he’s defied something. 

Abbacchio is still and pale in his bed.

Part of him wonders if he should leave. It’s his fault, after all, that Abbacchio is here. He knows, he knows he should keep to himself, that he shouldn’t get close to people because he is violence and he will hurt everyone he cares about. But he is selfish, in his desire to live despite what he is, and in his longing to keep loneliness at bay just a while longer. 

His eyes study Abbacchio now, not truly believing the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He thinks he sees Abbacchio stir.

Why is he waiting? What can he even say? 

But he stays, and he waits. 

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

andthatsthepiss‌:

Bruno, albeit less sleepily, manages to keep his hands to himself as well. It’s still baffling how he manages to be fully presentable and functioning this early, but Abbacchio supposes that it’s ideal for someone in his position. Quick on his feet and silver tongued.

Fugo is looking in their direction, expression forcefully neutral. But he knows. He knows. 

He decides to focus instead of the alluring scent of fresh coffee which basically tugs him over in a magnetic pull. Scooping up the cup, he enjoys the pleasant burn against his fingertips for a moment before catching sight of the sharpie scrawled on the surface. 

“ ‘Dancing Queen’. What a creative joke that I’ve never once heard in my life.” He comments completely honestly and not a hint of sarcasm. At least the coffee’s good. 

He slumps in a nearby seat, nursing his beverage, eyes flicking between his teammates. Well, soon-to-be teammate, in Bruno’s case. Right, because work is absolutely what he wants to be thinking about right now. Nevertheless, he swallows back the bitter feelings that brings and keeps his expression nonchalant. 

“This is about getting you into the organization, right?” 

@zipperdaddy​

“Thank you, Fugo, but I’m fine for now,” he replies as he sits, crossing his legs  and leaning back in the creaking chair. His own cup reads Bruhno in scrawling black marker, and he flashes Abbacchio a smile before taking a long sip. 

And then, of course, They both jump straight to business and he sighs. They usually had meetings over meals, but he had really been looking forward to just enjoying their company. Nothing for it, he thinks, as he laces his fingers around the paper cup in his hands. 

“Yes, yes…” he trails off, his eyes trailing across the small house, “I was wondering what more you could tell me about the initiation process. If anything at all. I know that these things aren’t meant to be told to new recruits, it’s cheating really. But I’d like to at least know if I’ll have to pass any…trials…to prove myself.” 

He breathes in deep, keeping everything tightly stitched together. 

“I’ve mentioned this to both of you already but my Stand’s abilities have been compromised and as such I’d like to be as prepared as is possible.” 

He takes another long sip and reaches to open one of the boxes, pulling out a chocolate filled croissant. 

@homicidalvirus​

Fugo nods. “It’s not terribly complex,” he begins. “Really, it’s easier than it was to join the gang in Naples. There’s no arrow that creates Stand users, so our abilities are quite rare. Our capo,” he grimaces, “will have to give his approval, but I’m sure the boss will hear that it’s you and allow you to join without any issues.”

He doesn’t understand why Buccellati seems so concerned. It is understandable that he feels uncomfortable with the limits on his Stand, but at the same time, many of the organization members in Italy were not Stand users at all. 

He sighs and reaches into the box with the strawberry tart, immediately knowing which pastry Buccellati had chosen for him. The first bite dusts his pajamas with crumbs, but it’s too delicious for him to pay that any mind. “If you’re available, either Abbacchio or myself could make the call to our capo today. Perhaps it would be best to begin the process as soon as possible.”

@andthatsthepiss​

[homicidalvirus]

He’s curled on Abbacchio’s couch, inhaling the scent of the industrial-strength cleaner he used to wipe away the spilled wine, the food crumbs, the long late nights. Abbacchio is asleep on his bed, and Fugo stays silent to see if he can hear the other’s breath from the other room. There it is: a rhythmic wheeze, shallow but present. 

Abbacchio is alive. He should be dead.

Fugo finds sleep in restless intervals measured in minutes, not hours. His eyes close again, and he must drift off, for he wakes in a feverish stupor, pushing his bangs from his sweat-damp forehead. He’ll have to wash the couch again, he thinks, before sparing a moment to ponder what he dreamt. 

Flashes of golden curls, a feeling of despair which is cloaked in hope before revealing its true identity once more. Hands reaching towards him as he folds his arms, shaking as he stands still. 

He’s always been moving forward, just trying to make it to the next day, trying to survive. Despite it all, he lives and he lives and he lives (but he leaves a trail of decay with no other purpose than destruction). That’s how it is: he is more unpredictable than a storm, and far more dangerous. 

He imagines for a moment that someone might be immune to all the ugly parts of him, and it’s a nice thought until he remembers Abbacchio, still asleep. He survived, but at what cost? What if next time, the virus is stronger? What if Fugo still can’t keep himself under control?

He slides off the couch, legs unsteady, and peeks at his sleeping companion, soothed by the rise and fall of his chest. He considers all the what-ifs of tomorrow, but today, they both live. 

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

andthatsthepiss‌:

Abbacchio wakes much earlier than he usually would on a day without a job to be completed. It’s not as wonderous an achievement as one would think, however, since the bar is set… Well, before 1 pm. Abbacchio, still half-asleep, decides to celebrate this victory before rolling over and pulling his flimsy covers tightly over himself. The previous evening’s mission, while carried out well enough, it still left a bad taste in his mouth. He… Would rather not dwell on it. 

Fortunately, the gentle tug of sleep comes easily enough, and soon, Abbacchio can feel his thoughts start to drift away. Until Fugo’s voice leaks through the wall. 

He lets out an annoyed grunt and pulls the covers even tighter around himself. Why is he even awake right now? He usually doesn’t rise for at least another two hours. He’s about to yell at him to fuck off, but then his ears pick up a certain name that makes him slightly more willing to rise.

That’s right, Bruno did say he would be coming over today, didn’t he? Figures that he would be here at ass o clock. But that’s just how he functioned. Might as well try to show his appreciation by not sleeping through his visit. 

He doesn’t waste time with his normal routine, which would probably set him back several hours, settling instead to run a brush through his hair to just get out the tangles. But he’s not much better to look at once he steps into the hallway. Dazed zombie look, no makeup, night shirt completely wrinkled. And of course, Bruno is awake and pristine as ever, being his stupid, beautiful self. Ugh. At least Fugo looks just as tired as Abbacchio does. Maybe even more…? 

“Y’r early.” He mumbles, brain still very much fogged over with sleep. He resists the urge to kiss his cheek as he follows Fugo’s example by taking another box from him. Mainly because he’s not in the mood for dirty looks this morning. 

@zipperdaddy​

Unsurprisingly, Fugo answers the door, and Bruno can’t help the worried look that falls across his face at the deep circles under his eyes. Perhaps he should have come later, he knew that Abbacchio probably wouldn’t even be properly awake yet, but here he was, in the doorway, Fugo taking the drink carrier from his hand.

“Ah, thank you, Fugo,” he replies, stepping inside and closing the door behind him, “I take it Abbacchio failed to mention I would be stopping by,” he smiles.

While the -apparently a surprise- meeting was mostly to discuss work, Bruno had also just wanted to spend time with them, leisurely enjoy a meal together while they could.

Abbacchio appears, obviously having just gotten out of bed, and Bruno happily lets him take one of the balanced boxes of pastries. He holds in a sappy response to Abbacchio’s comment, and simply nods.

“I’ve brought breakfast as an apology for my timeliness, as I trust neither of you have eaten yet,” he points at the boxes, “hopefully I’ve picked something to placate each of you.”

“He did,” he replies flatly, though he isn’t all that upset. He hasn’t seen Abbacchio that much lately, and last night, when Abbacchio came home late to find Fugo sprawled across the couch with a book, the man’s face bore the telltale signs of that sort of mission. Even still, though, Abbacchio’s eyes seemed less deadened than they would normally be after such a night. 

He sets the drink carrier on the kitchen table (it’s a small rickety furnishing that very obviously came with the house; he makes a mental note to go shopping for a replacement). While he’s relatively certain that Buccellati’s own abode is not entirely attractive, he still feels a bit of shame to welcome their leader into such an ugly space. At least it’s immaculate, courtesy of Fugo.

“I’m guessing I’m ‘Foogo,’ then?” He takes the corresponding cup out of the holder with a smirk. “Thank you, Buccellati. Would you like any water or juice to accompany what you’ve brought?” 

And of course he notices how the two men barely refrain from embracing each other, from sharing little touches. How strange that they should try to hide any of that now considering what Fugo has witnessed. The original bruises on Buccellati’s chest have barely faded, and Fugo can’t help but notice the fresh new marks trailing down his father figure’s bosom. Shameless.

He gingerly takes a seat at the table, hands folded in his lap, as he waits for Buccellati to get settled. Fugo gives him an expectant look. “You’re here for more than just breakfast, I presume?”

@andthatsthepiss​

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

@homicidalvirus @andthatsthepiss

Eyes fluttering into wakefulness, Bruno has to drag himself out of bed. It’s odd not to have Abbacchio curled against him, but he pushes down the panic, reminding himself that he was still here, but the world had continued to move while they were lost in their own little universe, and as always work had come calling. It wasn’t the first time, by any means, that their jobs had pulled them apart, he reminds himself. Besides, he was going to meet with him and Fugo this morning.

He steps into the small bathroom to get ready for the day, combing out his hair and clipping up his top braid. Looking in the dingy mirror he almost doesn’t recognize his reflection: blue eyes bright, the shadows that had haunted them gone, his cheeks are flush and warm. How strange, that just a few days of rest and relaxing had had such a noticeable affect. While there was a lot still in turmoil under the surface, he felt more clear headed than he had in ages.

Deeming himself presentable he heads out. He has quite a lot of time to kill before he needs to meet with his companions, so he decides to for for a nice morning walk, making his way the the quiet castle district and the little bakery hidden away there.

Kiki greets him with an open smile as he enters, and says good morning. The smell of fresh bread floods his senses and he sighs happily. The cases are full of delectable treats and he has trouble narrowing down what to bring with him, referring to Kiki as he picks out far more than he needs.

The small box is full of sticky baklava for Abbacchio, croissants and small cookies, and a strawberry tart for Fugo. He smiles wide as he leaves the little shop, bell ringing in the doorway behind him as he heads back the way he came.

He smells the little coffee shop before he sees it, and happily makes another stop to pick up two cappuccinos and a rich smelling pour over.

Hands full he arrives at his final destination (somehow still managing to be early). He knocks against the door of Abbacchio and Fugo’s shared home with his elbow, hoping that one of them will hear and answer.

Abbacchio has looked more relaxed than Fugo can recall seeing him, and Fugo is grateful. At the same time, though, he has not shared that restfulness. The nightmares have long been a regular occurrence: losing control of Purple Haze (again), incidents in his childhood that he tries not to think of while he’s awake...

Lately, the nightmares have been more vague; he doesn’t know why they terrify him as much as they do. He’s standing at a pier, watching as a boat retreats into the distance and fades away. Sometimes, he falls into the water and he can’t resurface and he awakens gasping for air. Other times, it’s the boat that sinks, turning the water red. 

He stayed awake reading last night, which was pleasant. He’ll read anything he can get his hands on, especially now that there’s no pressure to prove his intellect. The night before, he had been handling some mafia business (nothing too serious, but he couldn’t calm down after it was over). He looks in the mirror and searches for his coverup to dab at the dark circles beneath his eyes. Before he can attempt to appear human, however, a thud against the door draws his attention. His eyes narrow accusingly at the front entrance. 

Abbacchio is likely just waking up. Fugo can deal with this, then. Who could be knocking at their door so early in the morning? He scowls as he squints through the peephole, then his expression turns to surprise when he sees who’s there. 

“Buccellati?” he says incredulously. He opens the door and holds out a hand to take something from the man’s very full hands. “Ah, let me get that for you...”

“Abbacchio,” he calls down the hallway, “Buccellati is here.” 

@andthatsthepiss​

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

homicidalvirus‌:

“Events?” Bruno can’t help but ask, though he’s sure that the answer won’t be anything particularly pleasant, “It would be valuable information to have, though I’m sure it won’t be easy to attain. Perhaps we can put our heads together and attempt to solve some of the mysteries surrounding this place,” he muses, hand pressed against his chin. 

“I’d say I’m looking forward to it, but I’m not sure if I should,” he smiles. This Arnold figure is sure to be interesting, given the reaction he’d received at asking about him. It’s lovely to hear that laugh, though, light and airy, almost boyish. 

And then it’s gone, everything suddenly serious. He sips again from his cappuccino, listening intently, eyes never wandering. 

“I see,” he starts. It really was very similar to the organization they’d been working under, which meant that other…less savory things were probably afoot here as well. The high council being quite corrupt in moral surely didn’t help. 

“It sounds like you’ve been doing a fine job,” he smiles. While he’s conflicted about Fugo and Abbacchio picking up work in this field again, it made sense, and they were apparently doing quite well for themselves. Despite the turmoil, he can’t help the bit of pride he feels. “If you have some free time, now or later, I’d love a tour of the territory. It would be good to start making myself familiar with the boundaries and such.”

It would also give him a chance to meet some of the locals, begin to get a grasp on the workings of this new place, and hopefully make some contacts. 

He smiles again, almost shyly, as Buccellati praises his work. He is proud of himself, but hearing that validation from someone he respects means more than any internal satisfaction. “Thank you, Buccellati,” he says softly.

At the man’s request, he nods. “Of course. I’d be happy to show you around.” He finishes his cappuccino and the last bite of pastry. “I’m ready whenever you are. Is there anything you’d like to see first?”

Riunito

[homicidalvirus]

axeandfloof‌:

homicidalvirus‌:

So, it turns out that finding a more durable axe wasn’t as simple as Haru originally assumed.

There were plenty of smithys, yes, but they weren’t exactly built for serious combat. Apparently, there was actually a rather strict weapons policy for civilians in Fucko, and none of the truly deadly weapons or firearms weren’t available to those outside the police or city guard unless you had a permit. Which was wonderful! A perfectly sensible law! Except that seriously hindered her little shopping trip. 

It wouldn’t even matter, if weapons functioned like the did in the Metaverse back home. Normally, they shift according to cognition, turning from models to actual tools in combat. And while it had a similar effect here, it wasn’t nearly as effective as in the distorted subway tunnels in Tokyo. 

Therefore, Haru had to turn to… Less than legal means to obtain a new weapon. 

Further online research leads her to a hole in the wall weapon’s shop hidden the less savory part of town, where one could allegedly buy any sort of weapon without a permit. Haru never imagining she’d essentially be window shopping on the black market, but she supposed a Phantom Thief would sometimes have to take this sort of route. 

She stands outside the shop, taking a moment to steel herself before pulling open the door and stepping through, shoulders back and a determined gaze set on her face. 

The interior seems just as small as she would have suspected, made even more so by the rows of weapons lining the walls. Already, she can guess of their higher quality from the goods sold in the square. Steel gleaming brightly off of each blade, edges sharpened to a deadly precision. This… Is exactly where she needs to be. 

She looks around the shop, seemingly empty, save for the lone figure tending to some swords. Assuming this is the shopkeep, Haru clears her throat and speaks in the clearest voice she can muster. 

“Excuse me. I’m hoping to buy an axe. May I ask for your recommendations?”

The person turns to face her, and to Haru’s surprise, it’s a familiar face. It’s a boy around her age, blonde hair sticking out in messy strands, who is now looking at her with clear suspicion. He’s wearing different clothes, a rather… Unique jacket filled with large holes, but otherwise, he looks exactly as he did from the Valentines party. 

Before she can say anything, he instantly reprimanding her as if she were a child who had snuck into a parent’s room without permission. She supposes it’s an understandable conclusion to come to, she doesn’t exactly look the type to be seeking out serious weaponry, after all, but it doesn’t stop the small spark of irritation. Look, she’s tired, sore, and just wants a damn axe, okay? She’s not in the mood for a condescending attitude, especially from a teenager who looks just as out of place as she is. 

But instead of letting her annoyance get the best of her, she reminds herself to stay professional and polite. Otherwise it would only add to his unwillingness to help her. 

“You’re… Fugo-san, correct? It’s good to see you again.” She says with her usual polite “business-ready” smile. “As I said, I’m looking to purchase an axe. I don’t intend to keep you long.”

She mistakes her for a legitimate store worker. He frowns. The shopkeep is busy organizing the stock.

At the very least, she’s polite. And somehow, she remembered his name. While he’s not entirely sure how he feels about that group of teens that always hangs around together, he sighs and speaks in an even voice untinged with frustration.

“Sorry, but I don’t understand why you’re looking for an axe. Forgive my assumption, but you don’t strike me as a weapons enthusiast. If you’re looking for something to assist with self-defense, I would recommend something more portable and inconspicuous, like this,” he says, pulling out his pocket knife and turning it over in his hands. 

excuse me m’am what are you doing with that axe

[homicidalvirus]

excuse me m’am what are you doing with that axe

@axeandfloof

With the support of the mafia, the weapons supplier and the weapons dealer have monopolized this part of the city, at the very least. Fugo is decidedly proud that his negotiations lead to a hefty cut for the organization; it was his idea, one he pitched to their capo (a condescending, unpleasant man who waved Fugo off, telling him to do whatever he liked, so he did). Their capo, of course, took the credit, but their gang nevertheless gained his favor, whatever that might be worth. After all, the arrangement has proven quite lucrative. 

He’s supervising the latest shipment to make sure it gets delivered safety. The supplier reported trouble during the last delivery, so it’s Fugo’s job to make sure whatever punks think they can interfere are proven sorely mistaken. It’s a task more suited to someone like Abbacchio, but given the rapport he’s established with both parties, he’s the one they trust. 

For better or for worse, the thugs leave this shipment alone. That likely means Fugo will need to continue his supervision until he can reprimand the culprits, but at least it makes this particular night a bit easier. He greets the weapons dealer, stepping into the storeroom and helping to unload the newest goods. The dealer has to step away as a customer walks through the door, and Fugo can’t help but be curious as he hears a delicate voice asking to see the newest axes. 

It’s a girl who looks to be about his age, the one who was at the Valentine’s Day “party,” he believes. She’s dressed in pink, face framed with soft curls, though her face is set with stubbornness. This is no place for someone like her. He carefully places the last few swords and confronts her.

“This is a dangerous place for someone like you. Do you even know where you are?”

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

“Is that so?” He replies, thoughtfully leaning back in his chair. a million questions on his tongue, “I assume that if they can take powers away, they can give them back, it’s surely just a matter of…earning them or some such system. The ‘High Council’ seems to enjoy amusing themselves with other peoples misfortunes.” He doesn’t elaborate on the matter, though one zipper fiasco had been more than enough to infer this.

“I would appreciate the introduction,” he smiles warmly, “though I’m afraid I’m not familiar with… Arnold?” If this person was someone Fugo wasn’t getting along with, however, it was enough to tell Bruno what he needed to know.

He sips again at his Cappuccino, trying to process all of the information he’s been given, but then Fugo just, beams at him. And he clutches his cup a little tighter, before meeting that smile full on.

“I’ll be in your care, “ he replies, voice steady and kind.

“Ah, as I’m…new here. Would you be willing to talk with me about everything you’ve been doing for the organization here. I don’t want to go in unprepared. Perhaps you can show me around a little as well?”

Fugo responds with a short nod. “There are certain... events which give an opportunity for an audience with the High Council.” The Valentine’s Day dance was certainly a thing that happened. “I don’t understand exactly how their powers work, though I suppose Stands are incomprehensible to a great extent. As are our other circumstances.” He chews his pastry, pondering that thought. While he has sought normality in his day-to-day life as a survival mechanism, he cannot help but consider just how they have arrived here and what powers are at play. 

Then, Buccellati mentions Arnold, a quizzical look on his face, and Fugo can’t help but laugh. He feels so light, more like the teenaged boy that he is, much as he forgets. “You’ll see what I mean,” he promises, a smirk playing on his lips. 

And Buccellati places himself in Fugo’s care, and he feels a strange sense of power. Buccellati, of all people. It makes him feel warm.

He nods, smirk replaced with a look that’s all business. “Abbacchio handles a lot of the debt collection jobs,” he begins. “If it’s serious, they’ll send him, myself, and... Arnold, but as you know, he’s more than capable of handling solo missions. I help develop mission strategy, and I’ve recently taken a new weapons trade under the care of the organization through a successful negotiation. Then, of course, our group has its territory which we oversee. Really, it’s not all that different than back home. Of course, I’m happy to show you anything that I can to make your adjustment easier.”

Riunito

[homicidalvirus]

andthatsthepiss‌:

He remains there, just waiting for his consciousness dissipate. But instead, like jagged shard of glass being pieced together again, he slowly begins to regain awareness of his surroundings. The pain doesn’t abate, it still feels like everything is on fire, but he’s somehow adapting to it. Well, “adapting” is a generous word. 

Sucking in a searing breath, he tries to move to push himself upwards, and immediately regrets it, only managing to prop himself on his elbows. It’s just starting to occur to him that it’s a miracle he has arms to move at all. He’s… Moving. He’s in one piece, somehow. 

He dares to crack his eyes open, vision tilting sickeningly. But there isn’t any smoke left in the area. Somehow, he… Survived? His gaze falls on a familiar figure, standing several feet away, horrorstruck. He opens his mouth to try to say something, but his attempt immediately devolves into a fit of violent coughing wracking his entire body. It’s better than melting alive, though.

Fugo wonders if he’s hallucinating as Abbacchio lifts himself up, ever so slightly, before dissolving into a coughing fit. No new boils have formed, as far as Fugo can tell. It seems as though the progress of the virus has ceased. 

He wants to run to Abbacchio’s side, but he’s still concerned that the virus remains infectious. The viruses inside Abbacchio should be protected from sunlight, and given their photophobic nature, they should continue to grow. Further, the human immune system should not be able to suppress such a powerful disease (which it still is, given its effect on Abbacchio) in such a short time. He’s admittedly annoyed that Purple Haze makes less sense than before. That aside, he decides to proceed with caution. He’s worried but relieved, a strange contradiction of emotions, but he’s determined to keep himself under control.

“Okay,” he says to himself. “Okay, I’m going to call an ambulance.”

hazy boi uwu

[homicidalvirus]

zipperdaddy‌:

“Haha, of course of course,” he breaks off a piece of pastry, chewing slowly as he listens. It’s wonderful to see Fugo so chipper, all smiles and pride, but there’s a guilt that falls over him. Even here, in this place where Fugo and Abbacchio could have had fresh starts, clean slates, they had found themselves tied in with the mafia. There are hypotheticals there that he can’t bring himself to think about now, not wanting to bring down the mood as he listens attentively.

The next statement though has all the blood rushing from his face. His smile stays firmly put, and he sips from his cappuccino, feigning thoughtfulness.

It tells him what he needs to know about Fugo’s memory, and suddenly those hopeful smiles are knives of guilt pressed against his skin.

“It would be indeed be convenient if that were the case, and I appreciate your support,” he smiles, though every word is lead in his mouth, “I’m afraid my stand may not be as useful as before, but I’ll do my best. Though I suppose step one would be to introduce myself to someone in charge.”

At the very least, if he could reinstate himself, he could look after them, take on any dangerous missions himself, try to provide a buffer. And if the suspicion sinking like a stone in his stomach is true, he’ll be ready this time, able to protect that sweet smile. He won’t make the mistake of dragging them into his mess again. 

He nods. “Our Stands have been limited as well. Still, it’s better than having no Stand at all. I went through the process of joining not too long ago, so I can assist with that. Perhaps you can replace  Arnold...” He trails off thoughtfully, pleased with the idea of no longer having Arnold on their team. Arnold’s only ability seems to be staying alive through increasingly dangerous situations despite his idiocy and obliviousness. Narancia and Mista, for all of their antics, were reliable: he worried about Narancia especially and chided his thoughtlessness on occasion, but the boy was an able fighter and an undeniably useful ally. Mista, well... he never truly understood Mista and his superstitions, but he was likewise a good person to have on your team. 

He worries for them, particularly if Buccellati is here. 

He very nearly speaks of the other team members (he thinks of them often, wonders if they’re okay), but at the same time, he selfishly likes having Buccellati all to himself. It reminds him of the early days, when it was just him and Buccellati and then Abbacchio. He sips his cappuccino thoughtfully, then dabs a bit of foam from his lips. 

“It will be great to work with you again.”

Riunito