#viraditore

[doomedsouls]

❝ they think you’re the devil…and i think they may actually be right. ❞ giorno

giorno's smile is soft and unassuming, as friendly as ever when hearing counsel from his adviser, from his friend. countless times before he has assured him that he can handle hearing anything -- be it bad news, disappointment, unpopular takes -- there is a reason he chose fugo of all people for it. i trust in you. he'd said this and he'd meant it then. he still means it now, although the meaning has evolved since. lately, he finds, there are few who are willing to be fully honest with him.

and he can't, for the life of him, understand why. he's not diavolo. he is not a tyrant casting a dark curtain of fear onto all. he saved italy. he does not hide in the shadows, he is the sun illuminating over all the cities. he has ushered in a golden age. an age of peace and prosperity, an age of renewal & hope. it wasn't an easy place to reach, there were difficult choices. . . some even regrettable in his reign. but the cost was worth it.

they fear you. requiem's voice -- light and yet thunderous, feminine and masculine, a thousand voices and a single one that echoes his own -- whispers in his ear. he can feel the imprint of his stand's hands grip onto his shoulders, tense & protective. they do not trust you. it warns him, it echoes what he has been suspicious of for quite some time. if that fear festers they will plot against you.

giorno's smile is still intact, perhaps for a few seconds longer than it should have for it to be considered a normal response. he blinks once, studies fugo's stiffened frame. requiem has never warmed up to fugo's position -- they differ on opinions, they often clash, though it is a battle fugo knows nothing about -- and giorno has defended him, every single time.

this time, he's not feeling too keen on defending his behalf.

❝  might i ask why? ❞ he leans forward, his chin resting atop his hand. ❝  i expect this sort of opinion from my enemies, yes, but never a friend. never you. ❞

( he has felt this way for quite some time. requiem continues to whisper, persistent. the lidless eyes narrow with displeasure, though its tone is apathetic. like a seed of distrust planted years ago, the roots growing slowly with time. )

❝  unless, of course, this has something to do with those absurd rumors about my origin as of late. ❞ one chance, there is one chance provided as an out. giorno prays that he takes it, willing to humor him and sort this matter out as miscommunication. oh how he prays. ❝  with my so - called vampiric father that wanted to conquer the world. ❞

there is faint humor in his tone. but the leaked intel from intercepted messages of that bothersome foundation ( who spy on him still ) was no laughing matter. it was a disturbing piece of information that nearly made him consider tearing the photograph to pieces. giorno is not diavolo. he is also not his father, he swears he never will be.

❝  i could use a good laugh. ❞ he muses aloud, sighing wistfully. and that is why he adds with a still pleasant smile plastered on his face; ❝  go on, fugo. do you really think of me as the devil? or is it the antichrist now? i'm losing track of all my flattering titles lately. ❞

[doomedsouls]

he can sense the distrust & unease from the other, even after all the time that has passed since the formation of their reluctant alliance. the war ended, but the promised peace never arrived as it should have. risotto tolerated the aftermath in silence for well over two years now, and he isn't quite sure why today of all days it suddenly changes. but the unsettling crimson gaze is fixed directly on the boy, you still think this was about greed?

❝ have you ever read the mad doctor's files? intel on the elite squadron is irrelevant these days, but seeing as you weren't there, i can't help but wonder if it ever piqued your interest.  ❞

┊ ˚˖↷ @viraditore

[doomedsouls]

"am i, uh ... thinking too deep into all this stuff? all of it. i need you to tell me if i am."ㅤrisotto hehe

in the aftermath of what had been a pointless, pyrrhic victory they crowned another king and it wasn't him. and he was glad for it, in truth, only because he couldn't imagine being forcefully burdened with another reason to live after all he'd lost. ( what he'd done, what his team had done was never for the sake of power ; it was vengeance, it was justice. ) heavy is the head that wears the crown. it looked too heavy to bestow upon a boy of fifteen years old, too optimistic and too ambitious for his own good.

risotto had wished for destruction upon passione and got exactly what he wanted. for two years now giorno had waged a vicious, bloody civil war against the heart of the organization over the controversial drug trade. entire teams had been dismantled, men of power displaced, countless lives destroyed. risotto's hand played a part to it, not because he believed in the boy's spirited cause, but because he relished seeing these people topple & fall gracelessly. la squadra di esecuzione had suffered, no one cared. why should he spare sympathy to any of them in return?

he did not care if giorno burned all of rome to get what he wanted. he still doesn't. but he would be lying if he didn't think, every now & then, that a mistake had been made. not the death and usurping of diavolo, that was always meant to happen, but the cost and the aftermath proved too much.

❝  it's strange to be asked this now. no one cared what my men thought when diavolo reigned as don. ❞ he began with a faraway tone and downcast gaze, the memory clear as day. it's not funny, he isn't mocking the boy. it's merely a comment comparing then to now. ❝  we were his dogs sent to kill all who were deemed his enemy. and diavolo saw traitors everywhere. ❞

which face saw them, he sometimes wonders. the would - be devil with his sneer or the passive coward with the twitchy eyes? ❝  he had no inner circle of friends. not even his elite squadron. he took no counsel, no advice from others, he ruled in solitude because of greed and paranoia. it's one of the many factors which led to his death. it's one of the many lessons giorno has taken from this cruel, pathetic reign. ❞

( giorno, who only lived through a week of it, risotto sometimes remembers and almost laughs at the absurd notion. giorno, who charmed a brigade to their willing deaths and involved them all in a war they had no business being a part of. giorno, who together with bucciarati, snatched an inheritance & then a victory that belonged to him. )

❝  that is, of course, assuming giorno still takes your counsel. he placed you in the position of advisor for that reason. i heard he forced you into it. ❞ and this is where he leads into his answer, his truest & harshest thoughts on the matter. fugo wanted, no, demanded honesty. and so he shall receive. ❝  i can't imagine having my time wasted, forced to stand beside a throne with a don who only argues and contradicts my every single point. it would embarrassing, in fact, if it belittles me in front of others. but if he is also my friend, then i suppose we can speak on the issue in private afterwards. we can reconcile, we can be honest. ❞

prosciutto had been precisely that kind of friend. he was the bravest one, contradicting & debating risotto at times. it was why he was chosen as his second - in - command, his successor should he fall first. they'd argued at times, but they understood and respected one another. he misses having a friend like that, harsh and honest in the same breath.

❝  unless if i haven't felt that way in quite some time. unless if i already bite my tongue around him, to save myself the sanity from another argument. or worse, that i can't gauge him anymore, as either my leader or my friend. unless i have reason to fear him, as i did the last don. ❞

giorno is not diavolo. but he might be slowly turning into something far worse. it would seem that risotto is not the only one who has observed this. and that is why he now does not tear his gaze from the other man and says bluntly; ❝ you're too smart to need someone else to spell out what you've already known for quite some time, pannacotta fugo. and you're much too smart to write off instincts as thinking too deep. and you know that.   ❞

[doomedsouls]

did you know him

the phone's screen is turned and flashed over to him. for a minute, he's ashamed to admit, his eyes don't register the sight at first. but he'll swear it's because of the quality of the image was a blur in bad lighting, not that his eyes -- which are sharp as ever, mind you, fugo -- are getting old. he needs to only squint for half a second to adjust. and it registers.

risotto's default expression already consists of a frown. this one deepens slightly, sincerely unamused. he is, what? thirteen years older than the other man. perhaps he is old by passione standards, in that, it's a game where men die young. but he is not old. let alone that old.

❝  no. ❞ he answers flatly, voice devoid of all humor.

[doomedsouls]

the hint of distrust slips through regarding their golden don. one would think that it amuses risotto, to know that the remnants of bruno's legacy are now slowly dividing lines amongst one another. it doesn't. it doesn't make him feel any better, not in the slightest. this only further emphasizes the pointlessness of his team's deaths. it had been, what? two years. two years into this new reign and issues are slowly arising. for all that could be said about diavolo -- and best believe, plenty could be said -- he'd still somehow managed to competently rule the organization for over a decade. there had been no peace, it certainly wasn't enjoyable, but there had been a flimsy bit of stability for a time.

fugo feeling inclined not to trust in giorno's side of the story these days feels like a morbid echo of history. if only the same could be said for bruno & for himself.

he does not answer directly with a simple yes or no response. he continues in terrible detail, and it is done so with purpose. sorbet & gelato's graves remain the coldest, the longest forgotten. risotto can still remember the entire day spent in the vacant echoes of the church, mourning and atoning all while knowing it will never be enough.

❝  we never learned the details about their plan nor how it failed. but we knew cioccolatta captured them directly. they never stood a chance, not when they refused to submit to the arrow and obtain stands. can you believe that? they were so stubborn, they clung to that mentality of the old world. they said they were not willing to gamble their lives on the chance of a strange arrow's whim. ❞ the very faintest hint of amusement almost drips into his voice as he recalls the memory. it disappears in the next breath, the grief retaking its place. ❝  instead, it seems, they were willing to gamble them for us. ❞

punizione. he remembers the ink scrabbled on that crude paper, tacked onto gelato's body.

❝  first he. . . he sliced sorbet's body into precise pieces, while he was still alive and conscious, for as long as humanly possible. he had the expert surgeon's blade, you see, of course he knew where to cut without killing. we think he finally died halfway through the abdomen, when an artery might have been sliced by mistake. he still finished the act. after all, he was always committed to his work. ❞ a heavy pause, his expression darkening. ❝  and they made gelato watch every minute of it, until he choked on his vomit & tears. anyone would in his place. it's a gruesome thing to watch your loved one be subjected to, nevermind the knowledge that you're next. ❞

if your precious bruno. . . he starts to say but bites his tongue, not allowing the unfair bitterness to seep through. bruno still endured losses of sort. in a way, he too, had been doomed from the start. just this once, risotto lets go of the comparison.

❝  in their frustration, they left gelato as he was, like a dead rat left to rot on the kitchen floor trap. punizione, they called it. we knew sorbet was dead even when he hadn't found him yet, we always knew. one would never live without the other. we assumed they placed him in a vat of acid, or preserved him in his lab, or fed him to carne. who could say? cioccolatta's creativity knew no bounds. that's why diavolo used him; when he wanted someone to suffer, he made sure of it. ❞

there is a tremor in his right hand. risotto clenches it tight, making a fist, in hopes of making it stop. it does not work.

❝  the pieces were sent back to us in frames, like dominoes. they wanted us to know every bit of it, how terrible it was. they wanted us to know that any one of us could be next. the execution team could be annihilated and no one would care at all. ❞ . . . and it seems, that came true. ❝  a videotape was delivered soon after, but we never watched it. we already knew what it would be. ❞

he remembers the boxes. he remembers pesci's scream. he remembers formaggio doubling over and vomiting from the horror. he remembers how everyone shook with fear. he remembers. there had been no time to grieve. that was a sign of guilt. they had to be cold & careless. they had to bury their dead and dispose of them entirely. if anyone ever wept about them, they did so in private. and now, looking back, risotto wishes he hadn't been so cold. he wishes he wore his heart on his sleeve. maybe it wouldn't have made a difference at all. but at least the lies about this being solely about money would have never been born. now the anger from before resurges, in small doses.

❝  tell me: if your precious bruno had been subjected to something like that with one of you, do you think he would have acted? would he have stood by idly after such an injustice? ❞ the grief pours over in his crimson gaze, like the reopening of wounds that have never healed properly and never will. ❝  the people of napoli would have been swayed and sympathetic, no? they would have supported him, wouldn't they? he would have his right to mourn and his right to seek revenge. he would, and you know it, and yet. . . my legacy is one of shame and accusations of greed for doing exactly that, isn't it? ❞

every word further straightens fugo's rigid posture, as if knives dug into his spine the way that the spikes on purple haze's back do. for a brief moment, he can vividly imagine himself in that position―ㅤhe had been in that position.ㅤa professor rather than a doctor, & though fugo had begun with a book, the spine had broken & he had resorted to his fists regardless. he sees, in la squadra esecuzioni's fate as being the distrusted lap dogs, something familiar ... but his face contorts & he refuses to let himself linger on that even a second longer.

regardless. if it had been for the sake of narancia, abbacchio, & bucciarati, fugo knows he would have beaten even the strongest of men into ground beef, or gone down alongside them by trying.

"i don't,"ㅤhe speaks with a voice kept steady, even under the intimidating & heavy weight of risotto nero's grief-laden gaze. maybe it isn't meant to be grief found in black & red, but fugo has only ever been able to equate red with pain & grief. if it exists in the windows the soul, he cannot help but see it as a peek into the tiredness that weaves through risotto's veins in a way not unlike his own. with fathers that could have helped, & the people they loved now buried six feet under.ㅤyour stand would have only worsened the destruction,ㅤhe says. & yet that doesn't ease fugo's feelings.ㅤthey shouldn't have left me in the first place.ㅤhe wonders if risotto can relate to that sort of sentiment in any way, or if he considered him the traitorous coward that he's sure everyone saw him as.ㅤ"giorno's told me things from his side, but i'm..."ㅤhis voice lowers a bit once more.ㅤ(it would have been easy to kill you.)ㅤ"...inclined not to trust his side of the story these days."

at first, he had, & it would be wrong to say he didn't cling to giorno's words as irrefutable fact― & that there was some part of him that still wanted to. some part that was tired of the distrust that has seeped out of his veins for years. a part of him that was so, so tired of purple haze's screaming every time someone or something dared to get close to him.ㅤ(fugo misses the days before his stand gave voice to what was once only a frantic heartbeat & a very human sense of fear.)ㅤit would be best, to unabashedly stay by the winning side, to look to the oncoming requiem as a comfort rather than a tragedy.

but fugo has always prodded at logic. it's what giorno wanted him for.ㅤit's all he's good for, these days.

"making a guess, though,"ㅤhe thinks it's a mercy, not to force risotto to recount the entire thing.ㅤ"he had them killed, didn't he? by that doctor, & the pet."ㅤkill a lapdog with a lapdog. some unsettling realization buries deeper into fugo's heart.ㅤwould giorno have really had mista kill him? would mista have done it?ㅤthe fact he thinks up the question at all nearly makes purple haze wail in his mind.

but one question leaves to another.ㅤ"...did he blackmail you in turn?"ㅤthe photo in his wallet feels heavy. he can't remember to keep his voice low.ㅤ"did he ... remind you of what he took from you?"

[doomedsouls]

different. weird. concerning. you're concerning me, he says. but giorno can read him so easily, has fugo forgotten that? he knows what he means to say; you're scaring me. the goodwill dissipates with each heartbreaking word attached. his smile falters entirely. suddenly his mind is plastered with long forgotten memories that he so eagerly stored away like boxes in the attic, purposely left to collect dust. suddenly he is a small boy of six again, riddled in bruises and unable to cry, labelled as strange & creepy. there is a choir of cruel children and then there is the voice of the man who should have been his stepfather, but knew nothing of paternal love whatsoever. suddenly he is no longer the golden don of passione, he is the outcast and he is beneath the dirt.

he is not. he never will be, never again. he will not let himself fall, he will not topple. he will dig his heels further in the ground he has fought so hard to keep. he is not nothing.

( that is all you are to him. requiem whispers conspiratorially, their ever present frown deepening. since the beginning. he mirrors abbacchio's distrust. it has never changed. )

❝  i don't trust you? ❞ he echoes, his head lifting and his hand dropped to rest atop the desk. his posture straightens. there is concern laced in his tone, but there is also a hinted presence of offense. how dare you. a voice intones that sounds more like requiem's than his own. ❝  i trust you with my life. i trust in your words, your wit, your counsel. even if i disagree with it at times, i appreciate it. there is no other i would ask for in your place. ❞

( he desires not to be king. requiem had once deemed judgment when giorno invited him back, welcoming him with open arms. merely to be the piece which outlasts all others on the chess board. )

this is a serious matter. giorno rises from his seat, slow & careful, not once taking his eyes off the other. there has never been reason to worry about unexpected stand presence, not until now it seems. requiem's presence hovers like a shadow, and it is giorno who still fights with insistence that these are unneeded measures. fugo would never. . . but would he? he crosses around his desk but wisely keeps distance, waiting for fugo to approach him first.

❝  fugo, listen to me. ❞ he keeps his voice steady & calm, hoping to diffuse the slow growing escalation. both hands are raised upwards to indicate he means no harm. ❝ everything you know is the most anyone knows, moreso than mista & trish. you are my advisor, i turn to you first before i make any decisions. i am keeping nothing from you.  ❞

( evidently, that must be altered. requiem advises. whether open or secretive, he stands against us. )

❝  we can talk. okay? whatever it is you think i haven't told you enough about, we can discuss it. right here, right now. ❞

fugo doesn't remember the last time he's flinched in regards to words, if only because the rage that burns in his eyes & ears has always drowned out any involuntary movements that didn't result in bruised knuckles or nails dug into palms. he, similarly, doesn't remember the last time he considered himself a moral center on anything. a logical one, sure, but logic was different from morals. he could give advice to whatever giorno believed in, but that didn't mean he inherently believed in it himself. fugo worked better when he believed in someone else, but this didn't mean he would let himself be dragged through the mud.ㅤwould you jump off a bridge if bucciarati asked you to?ㅤsome outsider mafioso sneaking around in the napoli alleys asked him, after he had tried to solve things amicably. fugo couldn't hear his own answer over the sound of the ringing in his ears. he isn't even sure if he did answer. if he were asked that now; if bucciarati was replaced with giorno―ㅤfugo imagines himself backing away from the railing.

giorno giovanna was a respectable young man, only a year his junior, & fugo had gained so much respect for him in pompeii; had been willing to return to his side after the cruel fates of half of their team. & giorno took him back, like an owner welcoming back their mangy dog after years of no effort spared looking. but, fugo never believed in any particular motive, never had much faith in the golden dream that bucciarati grasped onto with a prideful heart & laid out to them all like some fairy tale. but, fugo went along with it,ㅤbecause he loved them all.ㅤbecause, without them, he was nothing & no one. even the family name that would have earned him plenty of credit in some fancy fucking clubs was nothing but a string of letters.

fugo grits his teeth in the same way that purple haze does, & he hears his stand's panting & screaming in the back of his head like some throbbing migraine.ㅤit's afraid; he's afraid.ㅤ& suddenly he is so aware of the way his hands are trembling at his sides. a tone that almost feels too kind, too sweet. & a smile that lingers like some haunting sleep paralysis demon that he sees in the dead of night.ㅤ(don't talk to me like that. don't make this a joke. don't. even. fuck. with. me.)ㅤbut his rage chokes up his throat, suffocates him like some chunk of rotting food stuck in the back.

so he clears his throat, sharp, & tries not to let the sweat on his brow catch in the light that suddenly seems so bright.

"maybe i worded it wrong―"ㅤhe begins, & for a moment he contemplates completely backtracking; a coward once more. but the thought is pushed aside when he thinks of mista & trish. fugo can't go any deeper into darkness, & he has long resigned himself to that fact, but he can't watch the only other people he has left be tricked by some false light reflecting off the bottom of a deep well.ㅤ"but you're acting different, giorno. you're acting weird, & it's concerning me."ㅤit's scaring me.ㅤscaring me, scaring me, leave me alone, leave me alone, shut up, shut up, shut up, no, no, no, no, no nO NO NO NO NO―!!ㅤpurple haze screams at him to shut up, tries to drown out his words the same way his rage usually does.ㅤWORDS NEVER WORK.ㅤbut giorno deserves words before anything else, giorno is a young man with lofty dreams & aspirations. giorno is, tragically, someone that fugo has begun to fear more than love.

"i just― i need you to talk to me, giorno. it feels like you don't trust me enough with whatever you're feeling,"ㅤwith whatever path you're going down.ㅤ"or like you've been ... keeping shit from me, or something! i don't fucking know!"ㅤeyes narrow, & silver brows are momentarily knitted together as every telltale sign starts to show.ㅤbut he stops himself,ㅤhe reigns back in, & crosses his arms over his shoulders, tightly grasping his sleeves as if they're his last lifeline.ㅤ"...i can't help you if i don't know what you're going through, or what you plan to do."

[doomedsouls]

it is the answer he expected honestly. it's not like these files are enjoyable to read in leisure time -- they're dark & disturbing pieces, insights into the minds of some of passione's most horrific members. some are personal, handwritten reports by the thankfully dead doctor in question. ( as he understands it, those ones were the favorites, treated like school reports that he eagerly seeks a good grade for. ) very little fazes a man like risotto nero, but there are descriptions and images that will never leave his mind.

❝  for what it's worth: your stand would have only worsened the destruction done onto rome. he would've played your hand into doing exactly as he wanted. ❞ there is a tremor in one of his hands. he remembers the fist connecting with the mad doctor's face, over & over. giorno's fury was nothing compared to his, and it still made no difference. cioccolatta's face remained etched with a deranged grin, enjoying the pain inflicted onto others and returned to him. ❝  that's precisely why diavolo enjoyed his work. when he wanted someone, a real enemy, to truly suffer, he'd send for cioccolatta and his pet. but most times, we dealt with his enemies. ❞

risotto glances down at his still slightly trembling hand, slowly making it close into a fist to put it to rest. ❝  and diavolo saw enemies everywhere. he killed capos who disobeyed him, he killed politicians who protested his law, he killed anyone he didn't like. before long, the execution squad was arguably the busiest resource in all of passione. but just because he depended on our work didn't mean he trusted us, let alone respected us. ❞

the fist clenches, tightens. there is a phantom ache from when the knuckles stung, when the skin split open. he remembers the doctor's squashed, broken nose and flash of bloody teeth in the smile. he remembers his unsettling laugh even as he gurgled blood. killing me doesn't bring them back. he'd successfully tormented him until the very end.

❝  we tried to reason with him. we tried to negotiate for better conditions. i even contemplated going to beg for my father's help, ❞ there it is, the first acknowledgement aloud of his relation to polpo to someone not from his team. ❝  but i knew him better than that. he'd never do anything to risk diavolo's ire. we were alone and unheard in our cause. two of my teammates, my mentors to be precise, felt their hand was forced to escalate. without my orders, they self - assigned a mission to obtain blackmail to even the playing field. ❞

and now he's drawn back to fugo once more. yes, this had been about petty matters like payment at first. on that front, it's true. but that's less than half the story. ❝  do you have any idea what happened next? ❞

is it pride or a lack of it that prevents fugo from admitting when he's wrong? he isn't sure,ㅤbut he knows when doubts plague him―ㅤhe knows when he feels the itch to know the truth, one that can never be scratched no matter how hard he reaches for it.ㅤ"i haven't,"ㅤhe admits, almost tentatively.ㅤ"but the thought has crossed my mind a few times. i ... think a lot about what would've changed if i had been there. it may be irrelevant to you―ㅤ& it may be to giorno, as well―ㅤbut it's not to me."ㅤthe last few thoughts are spoken bitterly, but lowly, as if the young man is afraid of rousing some sort of unseen beast in the room.

& can one blame him?ㅤthe manic & compulsive neuroticism of purple haze is not something that manifested out of thin air. fugo's simply good at not letting his paranoia show, unlike his anger―ㅤexcept for when they wrap together in a horrendous outpouring that even he cannot stop. but it's impossible to not be paranoid, when ... he swears he can see eyes everywhere.ㅤ"asking giorno probably wouldn't give me the best results. are you willing to tell?"