It was the rounds for collection money that had become one of the more insightful experiences for Giorno to learn about his team.

 

Heading out with Bucciarati typically resulted in coming home with a bag full of fresh-baked bread, steeled glares only leveled against the most irreverent of those 'protected' by Passione. Narancia would drag the newest recruit through alleyways off the beaten path just for the hell of it, arriving home exhausted from too many old ladies pinching their cheeks. Mista would insist they pass by the theater each time, and recite a cheesy one-liner from that week's blockbuster anytime someone tried to skimp on their dues. Even Abbacchio, after all of his initial grumbling, would be too tired barking at a skittish business owner shirking his dues to put up much more of a fight with the youngest teammate.

 

It was through these mindless, low-risk experiences that Giorno got to know a bit more about his teammates off the clock, each of them loosening up in their own ways and finding himself, in turn, to relax ever so slightly. Whatever had come before this life in the underbelly of Naples for them couldn't be too dissimilar to Giorno's own past, he concluded. Perhaps they were all on their way to becoming friends.

 

Well, all except for Fugo.

 

Fugo's approach to collection was stiff, practiced to the umpteenth degree but without any of the smooth finesse Bucciarati exhibited. They left at nine in the morning on the dot, never a single shortcut taken or diversion noted. Somehow, the two boys never had to resort to intimidation tactics during a collection until this point. Giorno wasn't sure it was something he wanted to witness, if the stuffy tension on these missions would snap and lead to a situation like the unfortunate ones that befell Narancia at lunch time.

 

Today's encounters, however, certainly ended that streak of luck.

 

The tire light came on as they drove off to the other side of Naples, earning an annoyed 'tch' from Fugo as they jerked around a corner. The edge of his hole-ridden coat got stuck in the heavy door of a boutique next, and the doddering old man at the gardening storefront left the older stand user twitching with such barely-restrained rage that Giorno had barely a moment to assess the very contented dragonfly sunning itself on a potted shrub.

 

The younger's heart was on edge as he fiddled with a ladybug brooch. Fugo was ready to snap at any moment, and it wouldn't be pretty. He was surprised their last visit for a cappuccino before leaving went without a hitch, but Fugo’s death grip on the steering wheel made that much apparent. Giorno only hoped he could get home and excuse himself without incident. He could make it through this drive. He had to.

 

"Can you hand me my coffee?" Fugo asked, eyes focused on the road entirely.

 

Ah. Sure. I can do that, the younger stand user thought.

 

He reached for the capped beverage with a steadied grip, bringing it towards Fugo’s open, beckoning fingers. Giorno noticed the way the knuckles were dry and picked at, rosy at the joint. 

 

The car thumped over a speed bump, shocking the younger teen so unexpectedly that his grip wavered, and a stream of blisteringly hot coffee fell squarely on Fugo’s exposed thigh.

 

Fugo veered out of the traffic lines. “Fuck!” Fugo shrieked, tires screeching as he righted the car on its path once more.

 

Was he mad? By now they had stopped at a light, not a single noise or move to be heard besides the low rumble of the stationary motor. I hadn't meant to do that, there was no way of knowing there would be a speed bump at that particular moment. Had I gotten distracted? Is he burned? A knee-jerk reaction, I didn’t want to spill it on him-

 

It was a break in Giorno’s constructed poise so instantaneous that he wondered if the older teen noticed how equally bewildered he had been in the moment. Giorno’s mind raced through the logical outcomes. Would Fugo's rage really show mercy for such a simple mishap?

 

"...Seriously, Giorno? Has your plan the entire day been to make a nuisance of yourself?" Fugo finally bellowed, his voice growing in volume as he drove like a bat out of hell down the boulevard. The younger teen blinked hard at the insult, bracing himself on the car door handle. Ah, here it comes. Despite the stirring anxiety, Giorno kept his gaze straight and clear. This wasn’t his first time being berated by a senior. "It has not. I apologize, I hadn't meant to-"

 

"You went with Narancia yesterday, and we both know he's too stupid to fucking care if he hits a curb and fucks up the suspension. You could've held the goddamn door open for me while we left that tacky store," Fugo interrupted, voice cracking as his gangly fingers drummed incessantly against the steering wheel, "And you could have hurried that man along at our last stop instead of staring like a slack-jawed yokel at a fucking bug ."

 

Giorno squinted, the edges of his lips turning down into the beginnings of a frown contained by endless practice. It would be best to avoid pushing this ticking time-bomb further, he thought. And yet, Fugo's indiscriminate rage just had to fall upon an innocent, uninvolved party like the dragonfly.

 

"We finished our rounds without incident," He started up again, unsure of how long the older teen would let him continue to speak. At the very least, he had to defend that creature's dignity. "And we're going to make it back home at a reasonable time. We were overall quite successful."

 

"Is that really what you think, you smartass punk? Trying to use the end to justify your subpar means?" Fugo choked out, voice now gritty as he leaned his entire upper body against the steering wheel, facing Giorno with a piercing gaze partially obscured by his long bangs. He wasn't watching the road; He was getting too close for Giorno's comfort.

 

"Fugo, wait, listen to me. Don't lose your composure-"

 

It was a good thing Giorno had kept his eyes closed, since spit was flying in his face moments later. That was the wrong thing to say.

 

"Don't lose my fucking composure!? You just burned my goddamn leg! Do you really think your smarmy little attempts to drag the carpet out from under us have gone unnoticed, you piece of shit!?" The screams made Giorno's ears ring, resounding through the tiny enclosed space of the car with nowhere else to go. The tires squealed as the older teen pulled them over with a shaking hand, slamming into the sidewalk cobble. Fugo's long fingers came out to grip his uniform's collar, tugging him forward until the three spiraling curls at Giorno's forehead were squashed against the older's own bangs, wisps now flying wildly around his head.

 

They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity. Fugo panted like a beast, nostrils flaring as his unblinking eyes continued to bore holes into Giorno's soul to the best of their ability, his eyebags and worry lines much more apparent at this short distance. Giorno's own unblinking glare was more measured, although if he was speaking truthfully, the younger knew that he himself was on the verge of sneering right back. His mouth had already turned into the better part of a scowl, but he took one, two, three deep breaths, and began to speak again.

 

"What do you mean, drag the carpet out from under you?"

 

At that, Fugo's eyes glistened, wet and wide. He screwed them shut, turning away from Giorno in an instant. His retreat was so sudden that it took Giorno by surprise, the younger now ever so carefully leaning back to his original position in the passenger seat.

 

“Forget I said anything. I have to get back to gather my lesson plans for Narancia before dinner time,” The words came out clipped, in that low register Giorno only heard Fugo use when Bucciarati had no time for childish nonsense amongst the team. He wondered who was really being immature in the moment, as Fugo frantically pushed his hand into the glove compartment handle and pulled out a bundle of scrunched up napkins.

 

“Do you think I’m trying to snub you, Fugo?” Giorno asked, trying to meet the elder’s tone. The coffee left a darkened stain around the edges of his suit leg, now mostly sopped up. A pale, dry hand hovered over the stick shift, trembling, before returning to grip the steering wheel. Fugo’s reflection in the side mirror was tearstained and avoidant. “I told you to drop it, Giorno,” he muttered. It would look melodramatic, if the younger hadn’t been so intrigued- and frankly pissed- at Fugo’s little slip up.

 

“We’re on the same team. We need to work together, even if it means risking our lives. If I’ve done something to offend you, Fugo, I’d rather you tell me now.”

 

“There you go with that polite bullshit again! You don’t think I don’t see you brown-nosing Bucciarati every day with that crap? And I thought Abbacchio was bad…”

 

Brown-nosing? The words made Giorno blink twice. When he had entered the gang, he would’ve shrugged off the notion that he’s just kissing ass. It just comes with the territory, and he certainly wasn’t above using his newfound charisma to move up the ladder of Passione. But as Fugo brought these words into existence, Giorno felt a dull sting in his heart. What was this feeling? Betrayal? There was no one he was betraying. If anything, he thought he had been following orders and chiming in with his own thoughts at opportune times so far, to help the entire team.

 

Ah, the team. That dull ache in his soul was because the team… cared about each other. Bucciarati cared about the team like they were his own family, and the rest of them seemed to follow suit, looking out for each other in their own off-kilter ways. Or at least, everyone but Fugo. Giorno needed to know more. Fugo obviously didn’t feel that way, and by the looks of his twitching fingers, he’d better interject before Fugo starts on yet another tirade.

 

“If how I’ve acted seemed like I was kissing up, it was only because I’m new around here. I would say that I get along with everyone else now, and I want to get along with you, too. ”

 

Fugo rolled his eyes, though Giorno couldn’t ignore the flushing of red on his lightly freckled cheeks. “You think you can win us all over with a bright smile and giving a helping hand when the time is right, don’t you? I’m not a fool like the rest of them. You can’t just worm your way in like that, and the sooner you get that into your head, the better.” He finished with a huff, propping his arm up on the car door and looking out the window.

 

The display almost made Giorno laugh. Ah, now it makes sense. He thinks I’m replacing him. If that was the case, the younger stand user could surely get Fugo on his side with some careful wording. “I’ll keep it in mind. But for the last time, I’m not here to take the place of you or anyone else.” He didn’t want to repeat himself again.

 

“…I’ll know it when I see it, Giorno.” Fugo said, chancing a glance to meet Giorno’s gaze. Fugo’s eyes, as red and tired as they seemed, were leveled with a certain vulnerability that appeared to say they desperately wanted his words to ring true. Fugo didn’t want to be replaced, and for the first time since joining the team, Giorno wondered if his charismatic approach had backfired. He wondered if it had burned distrust into the heart of the one teammate that he had been trying to win over the most.

 

Wait, win over? That felt unusual, even on a day going as wrong as this. As the older stand user started up the car again, they drove home in complete silence. Two seagulls sat on top of a streetlight, preening their fluffy feathers before flying away as their vehicle drove underneath, soaring towards the sea.

 

Giorno was struck with the indecision of his words and mind again as they entered the house, the thoughts at the forefront of his psyche while the paler teen stomped to his own room and slammed the door behind him. Was he any closer to Fugo now than he had been before? It wasn't like the others hadn't hesitated in becoming chummy with him, but each had seemingly had a steady slope of increase towards that point. Even Abbacchio's vitriol had entered some territory closer to neutrality now.

 

Then again, Fugo lashed out at all of them irregardless of his closeness. He probably had slammed Narancia's head into every flat surface of the house by now, and tried to do so with Mista at any quip deemed too boneheaded. Giorno sighed once he had gotten to his room, closing the door with a near-silent click as he flopped on the bed without grace.

 

Giorno wondered, if he had indeed burned Fugo, what shape the mark would take on. Would it be rounded and smooth around the edges? Would it be vicious and spiked? It occurred to him that if Fugo continued to wear the same kind of suits, the mark would always be on full display to everyone around him.

 

They all had battle scars, Giorno thought. But this one would’ve been my own doing.

 

Giorno Giovanna didn’t know what to make of this. And so, he drifted off for a nap, uncertain.