A strange thumping noise was what roused Fugo from his slumber, stabbing like a knife through the desolate haze of whatever nightmare his brain had conjured while he slept.

It took a few seconds from when his eyes flew open, heart pounding in his chest and a thing sheen of sweat across his brow, to truly start to process what was going on around him from his position on the armchair- wait.

The armchair?

When had he gotten there?

Fugo remembered sitting next to Narancia on the couch after Giorno had sent them back into the turtle, sighing heavily as he rested a hand over his eyes.

They'd been doing their best to keep calm and ignore the urgent voices from outside the turtle, knowing they were supposed to remain inside and not come out until Giorno or Bucciarati called for them, but it was hard. Harder than Fugo thought it would be. He understood why Narancia and Abbacchio were forced inside; both of them had been grievously injured, and even though they were recovering, neither of them were in good shape yet. But for Fugo… he wasn't hurt at all. In fact, he was probably in the best shape out of most of them and yet he was relegated to this.

The rational part of Fugo's brain knew that it was because, in case something happened to Bucciarati, Fugo, the second-in-command, would still be there to direct the team and give orders; the leadership wasn't fully jeopardized that way. But the other part of his brain, the emotional one that was gaining more and more traction with Fugo's actions these days, told him that it was because he'd betrayed them all, that he'd nearly killed Mista, that he got the safehouse burned down. No matter how much he tried, it was hard to ignore those thoughts.

Fugo assumed that Narancia had some sort of inkling about Fugo's inner turmoil, or at least that his emotions were turbulent, because the boy hadn't hesitated at all to force himself into Fugo's lap. Pointing at his head, Narancia had insisted that Fugo play with his hair because it distracted him from the pain of his injuries. Fugo had rolled his eyes and made a comment about Narancia's age but did so anyway, never in a million years planning to tell Narancia that his hair was actually quite soft and silky. When it wasn't a matted rat's nest.

It had done wonders for his nerves, although Narancia had always seemed to have that effect on him, and Fugo had just started to relax - well, as relaxed as one could get in the middle of a battlefield - when the shouting had started.

It was loud, much louder than the voices had been earlier, and they sounded far more frantic before cutting off entirely less than a minute later. Fugo had felt his heart begin to race, fear coursing through him at whatever was going on outside as he craned his neck to try to see if he could spy anything through the crimson jewel on Coco Jumbo's shell.

Narancia's ramblings had turned into worried exclamations that suddenly started to sound jilted and slurred before trailing off altogether. Fugo had looked down in surprise to see that the boy had fallen asleep in his lap and hadn't even figured out he should react to that when he heard a soft thump across the room.

Abbacchio was slumped in one of the armchairs, the glass he'd been holding now rolling across the wooden floor as what little wine was left slowly dribbled out of it. Fugo had tried to ask if the man was okay, a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach, when he felt tired all of a sudden. His eyes had started closing on their own and his limbs were like lead bricks and he just couldn't keep his eyelids open and… and he must've fallen asleep because he didn't remember anything after that. Not until now, when he just woke up.

There was a dull, thudding pain in the back of his head that honestly reminded him of a hangover but that didn't make any sense; he hadn't had anything alcoholic to drink in weeks. Fugo knew that he was an angry drunk that had troubling discerning who to take said anger out on, so he'd always tried to avoid drinking altogether.

Fugo's thoughts were also jumbled and he was having a hard time focusing on one thing in particular, as if it was some sort of extreme ADHD, which was even stranger than the pain. He'd always had a clear mind.

When he raised a hand to his pounding head, he was shocked to find how heavy the limb still felt even after being asleep. Even with his nightmares, Fugo normally woke up feeling refreshed, but right now, it was the complete opposite. It was almost like he could barely move his arm, the muscles just aching dully within his skin.

This had to be an enemy attack of some sort, he decided. Something was messing with his control of his body and he wondered if that had anything to do with why he'd suddenly passed out. Why there had been shouting right before he did.

A sharp intake of breath drew his attention and he looked to his left - through blurry eyes; what was wrong with his vision? - to see… Narancia, he decided based on the dark blob of what he assumed was hair, standing between the other armchair and the couch. The brunet held a small, square mirror and there were strange white blurs dripping from one of his arms. The bandages, Fugo realized, the bandages around Narancia's right arm were coming undone.

'He shouldn't be moving yet, that dumbass,' Fugo cursed to himself. Giorno had specifically said Narancia needed to rest in order to recover from the aftereffects of the mold and adjust to the body parts he'd grown back for the boy.

Fugo stood, maybe a bit too rapidly since his legs felt like they could barely hold his weight and he staggered, barely managing to catch himself before he fell on the floor.

Doing his best to shake it off, Fugo stepped forward, uttering, "Nara-" before halting in his tracks, hand flying up to his throat.

His voice was so deep, much deeper than it ever had been before. It definitely didn't sound like his own. Seriously, what was going on? First the strange headache, then the lack of control over his mind and limbs, and not only his vision, but now his voice as well? What the fuck?

Narancia looked over at Fugo from where he stood, and Fugo was close enough to the boy now to make out the odd expression on Narancia's face. It was worry, sure, but it was a calm worry; there was a sense of maturity radiating from his features that Narancia usually never wore.

"Abba- ah, no, that's not right is it?" Narancia stopped himself from finishing his sentence just as Fugo frowned in confusion. How could Narancia call him by the wrong name?

A moan coming from the couch caused both boys to look over at the edge of the sectional, a figure shifting against the red couch cushions that had just blurred in with them before Fugo got close enough to see it popped its head over the arm of the sofa.

Fugo made eye contact with himself and froze.

Heart racing much too fast in his chest, Fugo slowly reached up to run his fingers through his hair, bringing it from behind his back to over his shoulders so he could see it. Long silvery-white strands threaded through his pale skin, dark navy blue sleeves secured around his wrists with golden cuffs.

And suddenly, everything seemed to fly into place. The slight hangover, the strange disconnect with his body, his deeper voice.

As Narancia held out the mirror to Fugo, the boy's worry having faded into tense apprehension likely towards the man Fugo now was, Fugo's mind made the connection the same time his eyes did.

Staring back at him, reflected in the mirror, was Abbacchio.

Fugo was pretty proud of himself for not showing any outward signs of the panic going on inside of him.

"…What the fuck."

That voice came from Fugo, his actual body, and it was strange to hear himself talk through someone else's ears. Was that really how he sounded to other people?

"Indeed," Narancia agreed and Fugo whipped his head around to stare back at Narancia.

"…You aren't Narancia, are you?" he asked slowly. While Fugo was fairly certain he knew who it was that was - inhabiting? Presiding? Taking over? He wasn't sure which was right - Fugo knew there were others in the Colosseum that could have been affected. Namely the mystery man and the Boss, both of whom he didn't know the mannerisms they used when they spoke. If this was one of-

"I'm Giorno," Narancia said, "Although I'm not sure how all this happened, it seems we've switched bodies somehow."

"How the hell is that even possible?" Fugo heard himse- heard whoever was in his body ask, an angry tone quite prominent. Both boys' eyes flitted over to the angry blond on the couch.

"Abbacchio?" Naran- Giorno said. God, this was gonna take some getting used to. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," Abbacchio answered, face caught between a sneer and smirk. Apparently the man didn't know how to treat Giorno when he looked like Narancia.

'How fitting,' Fugo thought, 'that the one he dotes on most and the one he hates the most would switch.' Maybe this would help fix the guy's attitude towards Giorno.

"So you're… most likely Fugo, yes?" Giorno continued, this time looking directly at Fugo as he asked that. It was unsettling to see Narancia staring at him with that distant, calculating expression that now felt so normal on Giorno's face. Narancia never looked at Fugo like that, and even though he kept reminding himself that it wasn't really Narancia, it was hard to fool his own eyes.

"Yeah," Fugo affirmed with a slight nod of his head. "And if you're in here Giorno, that means the others have probably switched too. And that Narancia is likely in your body."

"I agree, although it's possible that more than two people switched with each other, more like a triangle I suppose? We shouldn't assume-"

Giorno was cut off as loud screams echoed from outside the turtle, three heads jerking up to stare out the red jewel. There was someone peering down at them and Fugo could make out the shapes of blond hair floating around the person's face, meaning it could only be Giorno - well, Giorno's body. He couldn't make out any of the features, the face just a blur of strange lines and shapes that were unrecognizable. Fugo directed his gaze to the ground, blinking a few times to try to clear the dizziness the sight had caused him.

"…How unnerving," Fugo heard Narancia-Giorno mutter as they stared up at Giorno-someone.

"Sounds like they've realized it too," Abbacchio scoffed, having gotten up off the sofa while stretching his arms over his head. As Fugo watched him walk over to them, he was struck by how… awkward he seemed to move. It couldn't be that he just wasn't used to Fugo's body; although he was stiff and lacked control, Fugo could tell that it wasn't because Abbacchio's limbs were too long or that he was too tall. His hand-eye coordination was still working fine, evident by the way he was able to locate his own body parts and the small mirror without any problems.

No, it was something that ran deeper than that, and as Abbacchio stopped next to them, wearing a guarded expression that was now clear enough for Fugo to see, still stretching and flexing his arms and legs while trying to be obscure about it, Fugo realized it.

"Shall we go join them?" Giorno announced to the other two, shifting his violet eyes up towards the gem atop Coco Jumbo.

Abbacchio was about to say something, probably agree with Giorno, when Fugo stepped in front of him, blocking Fugo's, well, smaller body from view as he said, "I need to talk to Abbacchio really quick. You go first, Giorno."

Fugo watched as Giorno furrowed his brows, the thoughtful expression so out of place on Narancia's features, before nodding once and disappearing from the room a second later.

"What is it?" Abbacchio asked in irritation, crossing his arms over his chest, and God, was that really how Fugo looked when he did that? He'd thought it was intimidating but he looked like a petulant child in that pose.

Making a mental note to never do that again until he grew a little more, Fugo frowned. He normally would feel a little awkward confronting the man; it was just something that stuck with him throughout his… upbringing, that adults were to be respected and feared, and even though he was trying to work past that, there was a part of him that he knew would never truly get past that trauma. But now, when he was practically towering over himself-Abbacchio, it felt different. He felt like… like an adult. Even if he thought Abbacchio didn't really act like one sometimes. Fugo had always considered himself no less of an adult than the others before this, but this feeling was too different to truly shrug aside. So this is what it felt like to be grown…

No, there would be time to appreciate that feeling later, right now, he had questions that needed answers.

"Were you going to tell us?" he asked simply, and even though it was a vague question, he could see the realization in his own violet eyes as clear as day.

Abbacchio stepped back, resting his hands on his hips as he shook his head minutely, and that looked a little better than crossed arms Fugo decided.

"Eventually," was the response he eventually received, "I was just gonna wait."

"For how long?" Fugo said, continuing before Abbacchio could even attempt to answer. "Until someone noticed? Until someone asked, like I am now? Until you died? Again?"

"It's not that big of a-"

"Yes, you dumbass, it is." Fugo was practically seething but he wasn't sure if Abbacchio could tell or not, since the guy's face looked pissed off half the time anyways. His tone would have to carry him through this.

"Do you even realize what's going on with your body?" Fugo continued, because ever since he'd realized it, it was all he could do to try to focus on something else, anything else. "Have you even noticed how bad it truly is, or were you just hoping that it would magically fix itself for you?"

"It's just side effects, that's all," Abbacchio muttered and Fugo felt like he might explode.

"Yes," he hissed, doing his best to hold onto that last line of tranquility. "Permanent side effects. Ones that impair not only your motor capabilities, but also your thoughts! Don't think I haven't noticed the difficulty to focus right now; that is certainly not just how you are normally, or I would've noticed it! Why on earth didn't you tell us?!"

"In case you forgot," Abbacchio snapped. "We're in the middle of a literal goddamn Boss fight. It's not exactly the time to be bringing up shit like that. And you and I both know what would've happened if I had; we don't have time for this and who knows how long it might've set us back? There was no way in hell that I was gonna let Bruno tell me I couldn't be here; I'm not leaving his side. Not ever again, you got that, Fugo? Not for anything."

Fugo wanted to argue but he knew there was no talking to Abbacchio when he got like that. Even though he nearly always listened to Bucciarati, there were times he simply wouldn't and nothing could stop him come hell or high water. It was evident by the man's (boy's?) tone that this was one of those times.

"You shouldn't be fighting," Fugo finally murmured, sighing as he rested a hand across his eyes. Just keeping them open was a challenge; the blurry vision combined with the hangover was making him sick.

"Do you see me fighting anyone, dumbass? Besides, Moody Blues isn't meant for combat. We both know that. And as much as I want to help… there's not much I can do like this- well, you can do like that, I guess."

"Has it improved at all?" Fugo couldn't help but ask. Abbacchio shrugged.

"I could move my fingers a little better. Honestly, I'm surprised you even managed to walk over here. Maybe I just didn't notice until now. The vision hasn't changed though, and neither has the headache."

"Then why did you drink?"

"Why do you have such a low tolerance?" Abbacchio shot back. "If I was in me right now, I'd feel jack shit."

The pair stared at each other for a few seconds before Abbacchio broke into a grin and Fugo felt one spreading across his own face as well, a snorted laugh leaking out of his mouth.

"Can't believe I said that," Abbacchio chuckled, and Fugo wasn't sure he'd ever seen his own face look like that before. "It sounds horrible."

"Yes. My condolences, by the way," Fugo added. "I'm sure you'd much rather be in Bucciarati, huh?"

"Y'know? I would," Abbacchio smirked and that expression was something Fugo was much more familiar with.

It was strange, watching Abbacchio speak, react, move with his own body, as if Fugo himself was possessed while at the same time trapped somewhere else. Sort of like two different out of body experiences happening at the same time. It had to be just as strange for the others.

"You can't tell them."

His own voice drew his attention back to Abbacchio, the tone in his voice a familiar seriousness that Fugo always carried while working. In fact, he just realized that the way he'd always schooled his tone and guarded his emotions was entirely absent in Abbacchio's version of him. Fugo wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

"I'm going to tell them," he replied, and before Abbacchio could get upset, he added, "After this is over. They need to know. But if you're already in the thick of things, I suppose it could wait a bit longer. Besides, I don't want you doing anything weird with my body."

That last part was teasing and Abbacchio's roll of the eyes and smirk told Fugo that the message had gotten through to the man.

"We should head out there then," Abbacchio said, rolling his shoulders back with one last stretch. "I wanna get my money's worth of being able to move how I want again."

"Enjoy it because it won't last. I, on the other hand, want out of here as soon as possible."

"Join the club."

"…Have you considered glasses?" Fugo asked as he followed Abbacchio over to the center of the room. Abbacchio was right; he felt exhausted just from walking a few steps. This was fucking horrible, he was gonna be no help at all.

Abbacchio snorted. "I fucking hate-"

"I'm sure Bucciarati would like them. Doesn't he like smart men?"

Abbacchio paused from where he'd reached up towards the red gem at the top of the room and smirked.

"Y'know, maybe glasses wouldn't be so bad after all."