"Are you stupid!?"
Fleet Admiral Sengoku shifts, eyes narrowing. "Vice Admiral," he warns.
"What?" The Vice Admiral snarls, baring his teeth. Standing a bit too close to the Fleet Admiral's desk to be considered polite by any stretch of the word. "Nothing you say is going to convince me that this isn't the stupidest fucking thing in your entire career."
"Look," Sengoku says, perhaps a touch more gentle. "I understand your concerns but this is necessary."
And this asshole is saying it like Fugo hasn't heard the same shitty propaganda since he was slipped into marine ranks when he was six. "Right," he says, gritting his teeth, "necessary. It's only starting a war with Whitebeard and potentially cutting nearly the entirety of North Blue from our influence."
Sengoku thins his lips. Glances to the doors, the windows, the room is conspicuously blank of any listening device. "Cotta, I've already explained this, Fire Fist is the Pirate King's son."
It's a show of trust, a kind gesture. Fugo knows that. Knows that if he were anyone else he wouldn't be privy to this information—wouldn't know what he's going to war for. But as it stands, as the young genius of the marines, as someone the Fleet Admiral personally trained since childhood, he is. And he's familiar enough with Sengoku to know this is an olive branch, an offer of condolences, and reassurance that there's nothing to be done about the situation so he shouldn't work himself up over it.
Logically, Fugo knows this. Logic, however, never quite seems to register when Fugo is angry. He only just barely holds back from breaking the desk. The pen in his grip snaps, ink spills from the sharply broken metal and splashes black on his white marine uniform. "And?" He spits. "Whitebeard, maybe. But we know that Giovanna allied himself with Whitebeard! We can't afford to loose our North Blue supply lines right before facing an Emperor."
"Giovanna," Sengoku says, and butchers the pronunciation because apparently Fugo is the only one with some semblance of intellect in the entire upper echelons. "Will make his choice. Marine support is one of his biggest revenues."
But Fugo knows that isn't right. Knows that if Giovanna gave his allegiance to someone he won't go by halves. Because Giovanna never goes by halves and doesn't abandon family. And Fugo knows this in the same way he knows a lot of things; deep, instinctual, and without explanation.
"And if we win!?" Fugo snaps, because this is a lose-lose no matter how he looks at it. As much as he is—has always been—abnormally focused on Giovanna, the real issue is after. "If Whitebeard dies? The whole fucking world will be thrown into chaos and we'll have a fractured force—why can't you fucking imbeciles see that!? You and the Gorosei—"
"Fugo," Sengoku snaps, hard edged, and Fugo recoils. Because that's his given name, is the name hidden and tucked under stacks of forged paperwork and fake records. Is the reason Fugo's hair is dyed black and skin is sprayed over with fake-tan. "Hold yourself."
"Yes, Sir," he says, and grits his teeth.
Because for all that Sengoku is a guardian, is a man of respect, is the closest thing Fugo's ever had to a trustworthy authority figure—he's also the Fleet Admiral. He holds the keys to Fugo's security. It's Sengoku that took him in, that hid him from the World Nobles, but it's all at the cost of Fugo's freedom, the price that Fugo will be a military tool, and he can't forget that.
"You will fight in the war," Sengoku says, and it's an order.
Fugo wants to throw that stupid desk across the room, feel wood break beneath his fingers, hear it splinter and crack. Wants to kick the Fleet Admiral out that shitty window and snap bones. He doesn't, would if it were anyone else, but this is the Fleet Admiral who holds the keys to Fugo's safety and he can't. Nails dig deep red crescents into his palms, blood on his fingers, disgusting.
"I will."
He will fight on the front lines because he won't be allowed to do anything else. Fugo is a Vice Admiral only because there are no Admiral positions open, and he doesn't want a promotion so much as to challenge one of the standing Admirals for it. Fugo is the marine's young genius, an impeccable tactician and ruthless fighter. Enough of an asset that the Fleet Admiral himself took notice and risked hiding him. Fugo's always been like this—was born like this, with knowledge he never learned but always knew. With the ability to fight, a knack for tactics, a thorough understanding of even the most complex theories.
Sengoku softens, if only a little. "Be ready."
Fugo thinks he has a problem.
Namingly: this entire week. Everything is the problem. It starts with the preparations for war. Then his alarm clock breaks. Then North Blue Mafia, predictably, starts destroying Marine supply lines and suddenly the already dogshit cafeteria food gets worse. Normally this wouldn't be a problem because Fugo is a Vice Admiral, fresh food isn't a problem. But his order got lost somewhere in the frenzy of pre-war preparation and dealing with Passione.
So Fugo goes to the goddamn cafeteria, gets a serving of soggy fries and limp green things that can vaguely be recognized as green beans. Maybe. Either way, they taste like plastic.
Also, it's loud. Like an elementary school cafeteria. Except maybe worse. Probably. Fugo never went to elementary school—Fugo ran away from his shitty noble life before it was time to enter a school. So why the fuck did he come up with that comparison?
Fugo twitches. Feels an incoming migraine. He gets a lot of migraines. Grits his teeth. Glares at his plate. The contents don't change.
For a world-class dictatorship, the world government really doesn't supply it's military well. In terms of food, at least. Which makes sense, when Fugo really, really thinks about it. This world is almost entirely water, agricultural land doesn't come in plenty. The average island has barely fertile soil to self-sustain. Much less supply a worldwide military of millions. It's a miracle that the marines don't starve, really.
Logic doesn't make the food taste any better. And it certainly doesn't make the room any quieter. Sounds bounce around, echo off the walls, and it amplifies to noise. And they won't shut up and—
And then a conversation strikes up about Passione, and North Blue, and Whitebeard, and these fucking idiots butcher Giorno's name so badly and that's the final straw. Anger bubbles beneath Fugo's skin, bursts through, and in an instant Fugo's table is crashing against the far wall.
Fugo stomps out.
This is not an unusual scene. It happens nearly every time Fugo eats in the cafeteria. The consistency of this routine dies nothing to quell the beginnings of shame and his anger simmers down, though.
"V-Vice Admiral?"
Fugo snaps around.
It's a pink haired boy—boy? His age, around, probably, he thinks.
He gives an appropriately withering look. "Yes?"
The pink haired boy—wait. He looks kind of familiar. Garp's apprentice?
Garp's apprentice is flushes, just a bit. "I just—a-are you alright?"
Which is a very solid no, but it's not like Fugo can just say that. "What's your name?" He asks, because it's better than I want to claw the Fleet Admiral's throat out.
"Koby, sir!"
"Right," he says, "how will you act in the war?"
Koby tilts his head. "War, sir?"
Fugo curls his lip. "We captured Fire Fist. We will execute him. There will be war. What will you do?"
"Oh," Koby startles. "well...I'll fight of course! We choose to be marines."
Fugo snarls. Because no, he didn't, some World Noble girl saw him and said he's pretty and she wants to have him and Fugo ran away, hid himself in plain sight, did the only thing he could.
But chucking Garp's apprentice out a window on Marineford's upper levels really wouldn't do. So Fugo breaks the closest window and stalks down the hall.
Fugo will fight, too, because he's a marine. Because there's a war and he's a marine and they'll be fighting an Emperor and with him a mafia boss. And Maybe Fugo would be fine with that, but they'll also be fighting Giovanna and the name burns. Burns like foreign countries, like the beginnings of a thought in a language he shouldn't know. Like the way his writing curves and twirls and connects back too itself.
He gets a migraine. This isn't very surprising.
It's a battlefield—blood and bodies and the stench of gunpowder. And it's fast.
Pirates don't fight wars of attrition after all.
It's loud with gunshots and shouts and the crash of waves—but it's a familiar beat. Fugo's head throbs in time with the spurts off blood on the ground, step here, dodge there, Haki but only when necessary. He draws on his Haki, and, per usual, almost expects it to disobey him. It never does. It's always a surprise.
A blade skims his side. He grits his teeth. Salt trickles into the wound, it strings, it burns, it doesn't matter. What matters is that he feels unbalanced. He's fighting a Passione member. He's fighting a Passione member under Don Giovanna. This, he knows, with utter and complete clarity, is wrong.
It reels him off-kilter. He steps like his limbs are shorter, fights like he's on strings, can't take the image of a ladybug brooch from his mind.
It—doesn't slow him down, exactly, but—
(But he isn't really fighting at his best anyway.)
There's blood and gore and bodies and he hates it. Because Fugo has never been able to fully commit himself to anything. He goes by halves, by stepping stones. He joined the marines but here he is, hesitating. He doesn't know where his loyalties rest—never has. He would say himself but that's not quite true.
His loyalty...flutters. Teeters around himself and Sengoku and Don Giova—and Fugo see's him in the battlefield. With gold hair and seastone bullets, Giovanna dances through the rubble.
Fugo blinks.
Sees double.
Sees Giovanna but smaller and shorter, with Naples behind him and—and it's gone in an instant, with the crash of splintering wood and Sengoku shouting commands. Fugo twists around on the balls of his feet, jerks his head towards the execution stand. A wave of heat washes against his skin.
Fire Fist is out. Out and racing across the battlefield, Straw Hat beside him. They're escaping, and maybe Fugo thinks this war is pointless, but he's shackled into his position by logic and reason so he pushes aside his emotions and takes chase. He slams across the battlefield, clashes past in half-seconds. Admiral Akainu is coming up beside him, giving chase to the pair of pirates.
And—and then Giovanna's there.
They clash—Fugo's steel blades against Giovanna's Haki enforced kicks. The don hits hard and has obviously earned his reputation. Then, something breaks, falters, Giovanna's eyes widen and his lips open and he's looking at Fugo with something that's unmistakably recognition which is very not okay because Fugo can't be recognized. He takes advantage of the opening, lunges forward, draws first blood. It only takes half a moment for Giovanna to seemingly snap back into reality, but that's enough. Fugo's nicked his very poisoned blade on Giovanna's cheek, and if all goes well he'll be down in minutes.
Still, in a battle like this, minutes is a lot.
Giovanna swerves around his follow-up blow, looks at Fugo with something that looks a lot like panic. The expression is subtle but Fugo picks up on it easily because he knows that expression. Knows it like the back of his hand, because he's seen it before, on a Giorno who's a bit shorter and smaller, in an ornate chair that was a bit too big—
Something clicks, slides into place, an emotion Fugo didn't know he harbored.
Loyalty, he thinks.
He just—just poisoned Giorno—Don Giovanna, and he's seeing double and stumbling his steps and there's Don Giovanna on the battlefield, with Haki and kicks and fighting for pirates, and there's Giorno in Naples, in Italy, in home, offering a hand, offering salvation, a second chance, and—
"Vice Admiral Cotta!" A voice shouts, Admiral Akainu. Fugo snaps his head over and sees.
Akainu is going in for the kill on Straw Hat and Fire Fist. there's an opening there—Fugo can leap over and it's turn into a pincer attack. On his own Akainu will only be able to get one of them but with Fugo there they can eliminate both.
He lunges forward automatically, glances at Giorno.
Sees horror.
Something stirs in his fingertips, courses through his veins, runs white and hot beside the adrenaline. He thinks off Sengoku, who took him in, who holds his reigns, who could easily spell Fugo's end. He thinks of debts and dues and commands. He thinks of the white coat on his shoulders, heavy oppressive, spelling Justice. Thinks he's done this before.
It—wasn't like this, wasn't on a battlefield, wasn't between pirates and marines. He was standing on the stone, underneath the hot Italian sun, was watching them sail away. Was watching their funerals.
He's done this before, cast off his loyalty, listened to logic and reason, ignored his instincts.
But—but he doesn't have to do that again.
Fugo closes his eyes, takes a breath, catches up, feels Fire Fist's heat roll over his skin, knows Akainu is coming up beside him, is going to punch through the duo. And Fugo—
Fugo only has a few half, barely-there memories that hardly feel like they belong to himself. Has his life tied to the marines by kept-secrets. Has eleven years of serving every order given to him.
Has—
Has a feeling burning white hot through his veins, pulsing, coursing, something like anger, like hope, like loyalty.
And Fugo takes that feeling and rides it, lets it carry him over logic, past reason, straight into Akainu's fist. He catches the blow, magma against Haki. Fugo's Haki is good—great, but it isn't enough. Akainu takes one moment to register Fugo's treason, and his anger makes his magma burn. The molten lava tears through skin and flesh and bone and by the time Fire Fist has registered what happened Fugo's arm is black and burnt and useless.
He's not one of the few considered for Admiral position for nothing, though, so he ignores that and buys time. Giorno is quick to cover him—takes Akainu straight and glares over to Fugo.
It's—an expression like relief, like horror.
"Go!" Giorno tells him, and it's an order.
He takes off after the pirate duo, defends them from Aokiji's ice and Kizaru's kicks. Straw Hat starts to falter so he picks the boy up by his collar and keeps on running, dutifully ignoring Fire Fist's protests.
It's—it's a lot of strain, though. Between his burnt husk of an arm, carrying Straw Hat, racing across the battlefield and a dozen smaller wounds—he barely makes it to the deck of the Moby before he begins to falter.
Then stumble.
Then his vision dances black, blinds over with tides of ink and—
—Fugo falls.
Blankets, soft, warm. His arm—not—not there.
Fuck.
Blearily, Fugo forces his eyes open. It's an unfamiliar room. At least he thinks it is. It's kind of hard to tell over all the blur. There are thick blankets over him. His movement is restricted—though not by chains or cuffs. By bandages. His bandages. He feels like shit.
The war, right, big battles do that. Fighting Admirals does that. Committing treason does that. This definitely isn't a marine sickbed, then.
"Fuck," he says, and wrenches himself into sitting position. His vision briefly swirls black, his head pulses. He glances around.
Pirates.
Like, really famous pirates.
Like, Whitebeard commander pirates.
"Fuck," he repeats, but it's kind of resigned.
The nearest pirate nods sagely at him. "We thought the same thing when you went after Ace, right up until you switched sides." The man tilts his head. "Mind explaining that, actually?"
It takes Fugo a moment to register that it's kind of almost a threat. Maybe not. But definitely a dig for information. It takes Fugo another moment to blink and realize he's talking to Marco the goddamn Phoenix.
"Fuck," he says, for the third time, before realizing he should probably expand his vocabulary. He sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose. His head pounds with the beginning of an incoming migraine. "Did he tell you nothing?"
Fire Fist—Ace—perks. "Who?"
Fugo takes a moment to stare at him—he looks—not too bad actually. Mostly unharmed. Bandaged, yes, but in other wise good condition. Fugo blinks.
"How long has it been?"
Another pirate—Izo, Sixteenth Division Commander—frowns. "Around a week."
"Huh," he says. Thinks back to the battlefield. His missing arm. Akainu. Giorno. Giorno fighting Akainu. While being poisoned. Fuck. He can practically feel the blood drain from his face, his heart pick up, the beginnings of adrenaline. "Where's Giorno?"
Marco looks at him, somewhat weary. Appraising. Which makes sense, because Fugo has a very straight, if not clean, record as a marine. "On the Moby," Marco answers, "he didn't say who you were."
"Oh," he says. Relaxes, if slight. "He's fine? He found the antidote for the poison I gave him?"
Izo narrows his eyes. "What poison?"
"Fuck," Fugo says, because he has a very large vocabulary. "He isn't uh, in a coma right?"
"You poisoned him," Marco says, it isn't a question. "I still want to know how exactly you know Giorno."
And it's—again, as always—a butchering of the pronunciation. Flattening the R into an L, ridding of the roll, dipping in all the wrong places. Fugo grits his teeth. Rubs his temple. Feels irritation bubble beneath his skin.
"Giorno," he corrects. "It's Giorno."
Ace looks at him, wide eyes. "You said it!"
Fugo looks at him, sour. "I pronounced Giorno's name right, it's not exactly a stunning achievement."
Ace gapes.
"No one's ever been able to pronounce his name," Izo says, almost an explanation. "He never talked about you."
Fugo nods. "Yeah," he says, "he probably wouldn't."
But why? Because he didn't remember? But that's wrong. There's no way someone would've named him Giorno, he would've had to name himself that. Which means he remembers. Which means—
Marco nods. "So you know our brother from before the marines?"
"Yeah," he says, blinks. Tries to remember the last time he saw him—how they'd—they'd—oh. Oh.
Fugo swears, this time in Italian. Because memories now are like pulling something from beyond a thin veil—they aren't—they're not completely there. He has to pull them out, and then they stick. Like practicing math after break.
So maybe it isn't such a surprise that it takes him until now to remember. But now he does. Remembers waking up and looking for Giorno and seeing that hastily scribbled note. Remembers trying to call him but the connection not picking up. Remembers resigning himself to handling all the mess that the Don's sudden disappearance caused. Remembers the world literally disintegrating.
I'm going to Florida, said the note. Don't worry, said the note.
And then the world ends and Fugo doesn't see him for seventeen years and then Giorno pulls the stupidest most self-sacrificial move—fighting Akainu while poisoned what was he thinking that idiot—Fugo sucks in a sharp breath. Closes his eyes. Thinks of throwing the bedside lamp across the room, watching it crash against the far wall—crack and shatter and crash. Wants to. Doesn't.
Opens his eyes.
Because now that relief has ebbed he's reverted to anger. And it's perfectly reasonable because he has a lot to be angry about. He thrusts our his senses, sorts through the web of Haki signatures—on a ship like this powerful ones cluster like stars. He flicks past commanders, briefly evaluates a particularly strong one—Whitebeard's, he thinks. Senses past that, through corridors and halls and—there. Bright and burning, unmistakable as the evening star.
Honing in on the signature, Fugo flares his Haki. It's warning enough. He throws off his blankets, tears off the IVs, someone calls something in alarm. Fugo flicks his eyes to the side—it's Ace. Fire Fist. Second Division Commander. Giorno's brother. And isn't that a shock? That Giorno has brothers now, has a father figure now. And it's brilliant, it's wonderful that Giorno found a family. But it's also—
—also terrifying.
It's been seventeen years and—
And Fugo lets his anger swallow that, too.
He pauses briefly at the door, it's—not locked, surprisingly. Because Fugo is almost an Admiral, an unknown, and sure he's down an arm but he's still competent. Despite the way his vision swirls, and his head is simultaneously too light and too heavy.
"Uh," someone says frown behind him. He turns around, throws Ace a glare. "Uh," the boy repeats, looks at his stump of an arm. Some blood hits the floor. "You shouldn't be walking..?"
Fugo snarls and stalks out, slams the door behind him. He's pretty sure it cracks.
It starts with fast walking, picks up into jogging, and then he's running. It's like he's going downhill, rolling up anger until he has to ride the current. There are at least a dozen pirates hesitantly trailing behind him but he doesn't care. He slams open a door and it's—
Giorno meets his gaze, eyes wide. And then he's all Fugo can see. Giorno, sixteen, offering him a hand, a second chance, salvation. Giorno, eighteen, lips pressed against his. Giorno, twenty six, gone, across an ocean, left to Florida in dead-night. Giorno is the sun and the moon and the stars all in one and this is another world, another life, but that doesn't change. And Fugo—Fugo—
"What the hell," Fugo hisses, and resists the urge to throw him against the wall—to kiss him—"was that."
Giorno's eyes flicker to his bled-through bandages, to the stump of a shoulder. "Fugo," Giorno says, quiet, hesitant, almost guilty. And it's wrongwrongwrong.
"Oh fuck off," he snarls, and ignores Giorno's flinch. "The arm was my choice—I don't care about that. What I want to know is why the hell you skipped off to Florida without even—even—you didn't even wake me up!"
"I left a note," Giorno mutters, but it's weak.
There's fire in his veins and lava in his pores and Fugo can't stand it. "Yeah," he bites, "I noticed. You said not to worry. And then I don't see you for almost two decades!"
"...Sorry," Giorno says, and kind of—kind of just wilts. Fugo freezes, clenches his jaw so tight it hurts.
"Look," he almost-growls, runs a hand through his hair, "that—that wasn't your fault. I'm just..."
"No," assures Giorno, expression somewhere between fond and uncertain, "no. No I get it. I—" he stumbles. "I didn't think anyone else was..."
Fugo sighs. "So you've..."
"I always remembered."
Fugo winces. "Sorry."
Giorno tilts his head. Gold strands shifting. "For?"
And it's—it's a familiar rhythm.
"Not remembering," he mutters. Because he should have. Because Giorno's been alone for who knows how long. Fugo has always had a sense of wrongwrongwrong and empty but it would've been so much worse if he remembered what was supposed to fill that ache.
"That's stupid," Giorno tells him.
Fugo clicks his tongue. Starts to say something. Stops. Isn't sure what to say. Because this is new and it's been seventeen years and he doesn't know how to do this interaction.
Giorno looks at him. He looks back.
Someone clears their throat. Fugo snaps his head around. There's a gaggle of pirates hovering awkwardly by the doorway. A few commanders, Whitebeard himself.
There's a lovely awkward beat.
"So," says Marco, looking between the two, "...who are you again?"
"Uh," Fugo says, and glances at Giorno. The blonde looks at him with an expression that he correctly translates as uh. "I'm," he stumbles, he doesn't actually know how much Giorno has said about anything, "his long lost lover?"
He's pretty sure someone chokes. He doesn't look at Giorno. Doesn't want to. Doesn't want to see denial. Because it's been seventeen years and now that it isn't drowned by anger or swamped by desperation there's a cold, terrible feeling that curls and slithers and feel like fear. Because Giorno has a whole new family now and—
"Ah, well," he says, causally as he can, because he can't suck the words back, and he's still waiting for Giorno to say no. Because this is as much an answer as it is a question. "Star-crossed, long-lost, would-die-for, cuddle-in-the-morning, Giorno-likes-his-coffee-as-half-honey-and-a-quarter-milk kind of lovers—y'know."
He glances at Giorno.
There's no rejection.
This is another world and another life and Gold Experience no longer exists, but something blooms in Fugo's chest regardless.
"You've been reading too many epics," Giorno says, blush stark against his pale skin.
"My only hobby," Fugo admits. "Not gonna lie, Sengoku's selection is pretty shit though. Nothing on Les Misérables or Shakespeare. They're all seeped in WG propaganda and conditioning."
"Huh," says Giorno, and smiles brilliantly, "I have a better collection."
Someone clears their throat, again.
Fugo blinks.
Whitebeard laughs. It's a deep, rumbling, mirthful sound. His eyes twinkle. "Gurarara! Well boy it seems I have a lot to thank you for."
Fugo shakes his head. Immediately regrets it because his vision spins and he's pretty sure he has mild blood loss. "No," he says, "I just...I only helped Ace because of Giorno. Don't thank me. I just..." He glances at Giorno. "How much have you told them?"
Giorno's eyes flick to the group. "Ah..."
"Nothing?" Fugo says, and Giorno nods. He grits his teeth, a flicker of irritation. "I got you psychology books you know. I bookmarked the exact pages. I gave you a full essay on the upsides of being not emotionally repressed and the benefits of opening up. I know you read them."
"...You didn't confirm I read them."
Which would be fair, except Fugo knows Giorno, knows he wouldn't have ignored Fugo's effort.
He levels an unimpressed glare. (It's better than throwing a lamp. Don't throw a lamp. Are there any lamps? No—but there's a desk.)
"I'm telling them," Fugo says, and waits for Giorno to deny it. To order him back, to put it off—because they both know that if Giorno asked, really asked, Fugo would stay silent.
"Telling us?" Izo says, eyes narrow.
Fugo glances to his side. Giorno is grimacing, but not denying, so—
"Well," says Fugo, and he's pretty sure he's going to sound insane, but really, what does it matter at this point? He's still high on joy and anger and everything between—fire in his veins, thoughts dancing, jittery with adrenaline and dopamine. "How much do you know about reincarnation?"
"Oh," says Marco.
"Huh," says a pirate—short, green—Haruta, he thinks. "That explains a lot, actually."
Ace is kind of just gaping. Then he flushes, bright and red, and says, "You...then you're not...You're actually older? All those times you teased me about being your younger brother?!"
Giorno nods sympathetically, and it's only because Fugo knows him that he can see plain and clear the overwhelming relief in his expression. "Yes," he nods, very seriously, "last time I died when I was twenty six, Ace, I'm actually your older brother."
Whitebeard laughs, a deep, rumbling noise, and it sounds like warmth.
"Does that means we celebrate two birthdays?" Izo asks, and he sounds delighted. And then he pauses, cocks his head, thins his lips into a determined line and says, "Yes."
"This was a mistake," Giorno says, but there's no conviction and his face is turning a steady red. "Please don't."
Fugo can't quite muffle his giggle. "You said the exact same thing on your seventeenth birthday."
Giorno glares at him, it's halfhearted at best.
Marco makes a thoughtful hum. "Speaking of..." he trails off. "Are there any others? Of you, I mean."
Giorno blinks. Blinks again. "...Maybe? Trish, and Mista. Maybe." And it's an awful kind of doubtful hope in his voice.
Fugo's breath hitches. "Not just them," he says, and it's kind of breathless. Because he's remembering, now, linking his lives. Connecting memories and experiences, pulling things from beyond the veil and—"Narancia," he says. "I was—was sorting through upcoming bounties and Narancia's in there."
Giorno looks at him—a moment, wide eyes, hope and dread and joy and it's beautiful. "Oh," Giorno says, and it sound s like tomorrow, like the sun on the water and gold in the ground and flowers for something that isn't death—
"We'll find them," he says, and he hasn't been this happy in—in—in a long time.
"I'll help," Haruta immediately volunteers, "who are we looking for?"
Fugo laughs, and it feels like life, like light, like second chances.
Updates next week. Reviews are appreciated.