Mista, last to emerge from the changing room, nearly dropped his towel as he burst into laughter at the sight of his Passione cohorts.
"Christ, am I the only one of us all with halfway normal tan lines?"
Narancia's chest and shoulders were covered with criss-crossing lines two shades paler. Bucciarati's chest was a mess of squiggles framed by a neat V, and Abbachio had a row of thin Xs running straight down his sternum. Giorno, his unburnt foreign skin almost deathly pale compared to the others, had gotten off a little easier with just a faint heart-shape splayed on his torso.
But Fugo was the worst.
"It's like a Dalmatian – no, a mushroom!" Mista howled, still laughing. "It's like you've been wearing Swiss cheese!"
The other five tackled him into the pool.
