Chapter Text
CONTENT WARNINGS: Description of someone being strangled, stabbing, consumption of alcohol
The clapping set him off. Its noise was driving into Fugo’s brain, nailing the point that he was supposed to go swiftly and move through the dance with speed. He knew some moves, but he wouldn’t call himself a dancer per se.
The pianist’s fingers danced around the keys as the sound filled the room. The chords thrummed in the back of everyone’s heads, playing in a quick staccato. He heard a couple of voices exclaim about the melody being similar to Libertango.
He had to blend in, to seem one with the crowd. Brushing aside his bangs out of his face, he took in a clear view of who had begun the attack.
The two approached each other, grasping their hands tightly mid-air.
Fugo’s heart began to race, circling the man, glaring straight into his bright blue eyes. He was overwhelmed, being filled with a swirling rage in his gut. His jaw locked in a tight clench as he gazed at the challenger that stood in his way. He needed to focus. Fugo was wasting time.
He caught sight of the target - a woman drinking some champagne - before being abruptly tugged back into a half-embrace.
Fugo didn’t know the blond’s name, as he only just met him. What he did know was that he was here for the same reason that Pannacotta was. A job. A kill. His kill, to be precise. He was Fugo’s enemy.
They began to strut and move around the dance floor, making sharp turns at corners as required.
What was supposed to be a romantic feel for this tango turned to something dangerous. The blond returned the hate that Pannacotta had felt for him. They were two predators - two lions - circling each other, wanting to pounce on the same prey that only one of them could have.
An oboe cut into the melody, the rasping sounds add to the feistiness.
The two began twirling around the dance floor, the silenced gun poking into Fugo’s ribs occasionally as their chests pressed together. Uncomfortable.
Snap.
He bent the blond over, tipping them both into a curved arch. Fugo takes note of how bizarre the male’s hairstyle is. Three curled donut-like shapes in the front, the rest of the long hair twisted and made into a braid, the end of it looped in on itself. Truly just, weird.
That bend didn’t last long, the blond had straightened his back and they butted heads, out of rhythm with each other. It hurt Fugo, but he hadn’t flinched. Their eyebrows scrunched as the two twirled around once more, retracing their steps as the dance carried on. Their glares turned into calculated stares more than anything. Still full of hate and passion, but it was also competing. The first one to get to his prey would be the winner in the end.
Letting go of each other, their heads turned to look in the crowd, searching for the woman as they continued the dance. The blond had improvised a few gestures that Fugo could almost see as a twirl of a rose, an imaginary dress fashioning the man; Then their hands reunited, a sea tide clashing a rock once more.
A violin began, it’s voice long and low, before bleeding into high-pitched volumes. It fitted their mood, fervor filling each step the two took, even if it lacked the intended romance.
Keeping an eye on his target proved difficult, and making sure the blond didn’t get in the way was much harder than he thought. He didn’t even know this man was there in the first place. This fellow rather casually invited him to dance by pressing a small, hidden dagger to his chest.
Fugo walked through the set of double doors that led to the ballroom. It was long and rectangular, the walls lined with Corinthian columns. Chandeliers hung from arches in the ceiling, giving the room glorious lighting, although it was a bit cramped. It was packed with women in fine, long, lacey, and frizzled gowns - some of which adorned in jewels or hints of gold - all in various pastel colors. The men wore tuxedoes, some being white elephants in the crowd; Those suits were reserved for the richest in the crowd, but the only difference apart from those distinct ones was just in the colors that they wore.
He was in one of the more common suits, fashioning a dark, emerald green coat and black tie, patterned with red strawberries. The suit also had a silver thread around the cuffs; The clips for them were the shape of strawberries, to match the tie. It was one of his fancier suits specifically tailored for these types of environments.
He adjusted his sleeves, frowning at how they weren’t as evenly ironed as he had hoped they’d be. Fugo was always nit-picky at the smallest things, always careful to the smallest details. Constantly on edge, bouncing at the balls of his feet, on alert at all times. Pannacotta considered himself to be quite composed despite that, even in stressful situations. Rational, logical decisions were what he strived for. Planning meticulously, and only improvising when needed.
This was how he worked. Failing as a hitman would mean disappearing, dying a painful death. He had to be careful of avoiding that outcome. Luckily, he hadn’t had too many close calls on the job. Fugo would like to keep it that way.
Brushing past some of the couples in the stuffy crowd (some women having it so it was difficult not to step on their delicate dresses), he made his way to one of the dessert tables scattered throughout the ballroom floor. There were trays of small expensive sandwiches, scones, small cupcakes, tiny bowls of various fruits, and other sweets that Fugo wasn’t bothered to name or know. The dessert table wasn’t his main goal; In all honesty, he could care less about the food.
The swing of jazz music had brought the room more life, the guests beginning to talk louder as the party went on. Only a few began swaying into the melody.
Fugo pulled out a small photograph of the woman he was assigned to hunt down. She was olive-skinned, had a pretty face, a brunette, and had some sense of style. Or, well, from what he saw in the photograph. Wearing tacky-leopard patterned dresses and expensive purses and heels wouldn’t be what Fugo called a sense of style, but then again he had holes at the ends of all his suits.
Speaking of his suits, it reminded him of a time when an old-friend, Narancia, commented on them, saying that he looked a bit like “swiss cheese”. Fugo used to tutor him back when he was still in university; A heartwarming feeling spread through his chest as memories rushed back into his head.
He kind of missed tutoring that guy, Mista as well (who, Fugo remembered, dressed like a hobo often - the beanie and tattered clothing and the fact that he didn’t even shower often only proved his point more). They were terrible at mathematics, but even if the two pissed him off every time he met them, they were good company.
Narancia was surprisingly good at putting things together, just not great at showing his work and interpreting what he had done. The guy also couldn’t remember the multiplication table at times. Fugo sometimes wondered how he even passed some of his classes in high school and got into a good-ass university.
Mista was a theater guy, studying in performances and the arts. The only reason he received tutoring from Fugo was that, similar to Narancia, he had a hard time putting the right equations on paper. Except Fugo knew the hobo-looking guy was good at math, fantastic at solving it in his head, just not so great at putting numbers on paper.
When was the last time he saw them…?
Shit- he drifted off again. Pannacotta seemed to be doing that lately, he wasn’t sure as to why, but he had to cut it out.
He hid the photograph in one of the inside pockets of his suit, tucking it in right next to his gun.
Looking up, he began scanning the crowd for the woman. It took some time, but eventually, he spotted her. The woman seemed to be chatting with some men, fashioned in a tight-black dress that ended just at her heels. There was a cut in the front, exposing her legs. Was she trying to find a partner? Fugo didn’t have much information on the woman, other than that she was a part of some business that scammed a lot of their customers.
As soon as Fugo had spotted her, he directed his attention to the rest of the crowd. He wouldn’t want to be caught staring, or he would lose the target. Taking only small glances in the woman’s direction, all he had to do now was wait for the right moment to take her out.
That was his main goal, sneaking into an expensive ball filled with rich people, finding that particular woman, taking her out, and leaving as soon as possible with no evidence left behind (he had planned to accomplish this with a small lighter he kept on hand, a little fire does not harm a corpse after all).
Unfortunately, his plans changed when he spotted a man begin walking up to him.
Fugo’s social anxiety had already been on a high bar the moment he walked into the room, he never wanted to interact with anyone. He was fine without any conversations of any sort. By keeping quiet, it would reduce his chances of getting caught. Being directly approached was not ideal. No, it wasn’t good at all.
He hoped that the blond was looking at someone behind them and that he was reading the situation wrong.
Regretfully, he was wrong.
The blond walked up to him and halted by his side. Fugo swallowed nervously, but one could miss it among all the chatter and music. However, for Fugo, it was as loud as a gun being shot right next to your ears - a continuous ringing that never faltered.
“I never thought I’d meet someone with your color of hair in this day in age.” Goddammit. Of course, he had to perceive it as an insult. Fugo scowled and gritted his teeth. His voice was smooth, had a small accent to some of his words, but otherwise spoke fine Italian. Fucking hell - Fugo did not ask for this. Could the guy just leave so he can continue the job without further interruption? Please, that’s all he is asking.
Fugo didn’t reply, his voice caught in his throat. He kept his eyes on the target, at least that could help him focus on something.
That was a mistake.
“You keep staring at that woman,” he paused, tipping his head at the other man, his golden hair moving along with it, “do you know her?” Fugo glanced at the blond, seeing him wear a small smile on his face. It unsettled him; He didn’t like how the question was phrased.
After a moment or two, Fugo returned his gaze to the target, he replied with a curt, “No.”
“If that’s the case, then why are you staring at her?”
Fugo turned back to the blond, shooting him an annoyed glare, “Is it any of your business?”
The blond was taken aback; He straightened his posture, the smile planted on his face morphed into a sly smirk. There was a playful look in his eyes, a look that Fugo was not so comfortable with acknowledging.
It was evident that Fugo would not be able to get rid of this guy so easily.
“You intrigue me,” his voice trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished. Pannacotta raised an eyebrow at this, unsure of where the blond was coming from.
“I assure you that I’m not that interesting.” Fugo turned his head, letting his eyes set on his target once more. The woman took another glass of champagne. Her now-lackadaisical attitude showed how the drink was affecting her, the effects allowing the woman to let go, and not be aware of her surroundings.
That’s when he felt it, a sharp edge poking into his chest. This, of course, caught Fugo’s attention almost immediately, causing him to rapidly turn his head to the blond. He glanced down, seeing a fancy blade up and against his chest. The hand holding it had pastel-blue painted nails, a glossy finish added to it.
The blond took a step towards him, making sure to cover up whatever action he makes from the rest of the crowd. Nobody seemed to notice.
Fugo gulped, his eyes narrowing at the blue-eyed fellow. His braid had been tossed over his shoulder, the blond hair tightly woven to a neat end.
“I wasn’t done with my sentence.” The blade pressed further into his chest, a threat was implied in the gesture.
Pannacotta remained silent, keeping one eye on the target while also focusing on the situation at hand.
“Care for a dance?”
Fugo let out a small laugh, surely he had to be joking.
“Have you ever considered not being so obvious?” The blond muttered as everyone twirled their partner, snapping Fugo’s attention to him.
Fugo, confused about what the blond was meaning, tilted his head in question. A sharp turn had been made, directed by him, in which the blond followed through. Fugo was somewhat glad that he had learned a bit of this dance back at his family home.
“You’re a smart guy, you should be able to figure it out.” the blond gritted, right as they tipped over into that bent arch, like before.
“I’m not sure as to what you mean,” Fugo replied, pulling the both of them up and back into that half-embrace, crossing the dance floor once more. Their hands gripped painfully tight as they danced.
The blond leaned in a bit closer, his tone barely even a whisper, “No one keeps a hand-gun with them at a ball.”
Fugo felt a shiver go down his spine, euphoria sparking in his head. Of course. How could he have been so stupid as to not realize this earlier?
This blond, whom he was dancing with, was another hunter! Of course! His buyer hadn’t mentioned him having to work with someone else, but maybe it was in the documents? No, Fugo was sure to have re-read those multiple times. That’s fine. The buyer just never mentioned this other hunter. Okay.
The buyer never mentioned another hunter.
That was a bit odd, considering that Fugo had a strict policy of working independently.
“I’m sure that no one keeps a dagger with them simply to threaten others to dance, at a ball.” Fugo retorted, matching the blond’s low tone. His response received a small, fake smile from the blond, nails digging into Fugo’s hand at the remark. It wasn’t painful, but it did make him wince a tad bit.
The music wavered, it’s climax was approaching steadily.
The two have a similar mindset, they moved around the packed ballroom floor in such a way as to get closer to the target. Fugo took note of how many drinks she was downing. How high was this woman’s tolerance? She was sure to pass out soon, and if not soon then any moment now. She certainly looked tipsy, stumbling as she walked and was unaware of two men targeting her, giving big smiles to those she passed by.
By the time the two separated once more, the music had switched from solos to a full-blast orchestra. The clapping increased significantly in volume, with more of the crowd joining in as time passed. All sorts of instruments accompanied each other in that same tango-rhythm, all lining up and being in unison during their play.
Fugo took another glance at the crowd, trying to find the place he saw the woman last.
Hold on a second, she was just there- right next to the dessert table Fugo was at before his dance. He swore that the woman was right there-
His eyes scanned the crowd, but to no avail, he couldn’t spot the brunette. The target had vanished from Fugo’s sight.
He stopped dancing, taking a couple of steps backward, peeking out of the corner of his eye to see that the blond stopped as well.
Backing away from each other, Fugo began to push through the crowd, not bothering to apologize to anyone; He doubts anyone would notice either way.
Where was she? Fugo had seen her not even a couple of seconds before she left.
He pauses, turning around several times. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek, he felt himself involuntarily gulp as a swirling feeling of confusion filled his gut, restricting his breathing a bit.
Fugo spotted the blond once more, noticing him making a bee-line to one of the doors, leading outside to a large patio.
Might as well use that to his advantage, he follows the other hunter, catching up to him and trailing behind him. The fellow certainly did not like this, but he allowed it.
“ Galileo~!! Galileoooo.. Galile-o! Ga- ”
The loud singing (more like shrieking, if you will) halted Fugo and the blond in their places.
The woman was found laying down on a posh armchair, several glasses of champagne stood at the foot of it. She waved her arms wildly in the air, imitating a conductor, pretending that she was leading an orchestra. Her makeup was smudged all around her face; The woman kept smearing it more and more when she used her hands to pull on it, painting bizarre expressions; another sign that she is truly wasted.
The target began another verse of Bohemian Rhapsody, which, in Fugo’s opinion, is a phenomenal song. Pannacotta would gladly enjoy listening to it. Though, with how the woman was “singing” the lyrics at the moment, it brought unpleasant goosebumps up Fugo’s arms, cringing at every high note she made. It ruined the song’s general mood and made it sound like as if it was a bunch of bogus.
She was an easy shot. The target was almost asking to be killed at this point. The woman hadn’t even noticed them staring at her exposed self, still singing as if it were the end of the world - her voice made it even easier to target her.
Pannacotta glanced at the blond next to him, spotting him pulling out the very same blade he had used to lure Fugo into that dance. The blond’s eyes narrowed, locked with Fugo’s. He watched the other with keen intent, arching an eyebrow - signaling the other hunter to make his move.
Fugo, in turn, reached into the inside pocket of his coat and pulled out his gun - fashioned with a silencer. It was average, medium in both size and weight, coated completely in a black finish. There was a muted click, indicating that it was cocked and loaded, ready to fire. The blond glanced down at the weapon before returning his gaze, now covert. Fugo couldn’t make out what the hitman was trying to tell him; The look the man was giving him was indescribable.
The big question for the two of them was who would be the one to take out the woman, who had switched to warbling, “Somebody to Love” for her small concert of crickets.
In a rapid movement, Fugo aimed the gun at the target and shot.
However, just as he pulled the trigger, Pannacotta was shoved to the side, causing the bullet to go off to nowhere. The blond sprinted towards the target. His heels echoed against the stone-brick patio as he ran to the target, now well aware that something was wrong. Before he could get any farther, Fugo leaped and grabbed the back of the blond’s black vest, the two tumbled over each other - landing with loud grunts.
He rolled and rough-housed with the blond, the two swinging and grabbing at each other. Fugo attempted to get on top of him and pin him down, possibly immobilize the other hitman. The man swung at him with his dagger, Fugo only narrowly avoiding it. Pannacotta hissed as it grazed a bit of his cheek.
Every time the blond reached out or tried to crawl forward, he was immediately pulled back. His blade, and even Fugo’s gun, was discarded in the process. The weapons clattered away from the two. Both of their suits were soon covered in dust from all the wrestling they were doing. Eventually, the taller man straddled the blond down, keeping him from getting away. Fugo formed a choke-hold around the blond’s neck, attempting to suffocate him. The other’s hands gripped against Pannacotta’s, scratching and pulling at it as Fugo gave a cold glare. This was his target, he was assigned to this mission, he wanted the cash.
The blond’s eyes held fury, bewildered rage aiming directly at Fugo. His eyebrows were scrunched together, forming an angry crease between them.
Fugo only narrowed his eyes as he attempted maintaining steady breaths, winded from tackling the blond. The other hitman’s jaw was clenched, his face turning a bit blue. His eyes were becoming a bit fuzzy, unfocused, but his hands kept at it with Fugo’s, becoming more and more desperate to be released of the pressure.
He ignored the slight stinging on his cheek, focusing his gaze on the man pinned below him.
That was until he felt a sharp pain overcome him, the source of it emitting from his thigh.
Fugo gave out an agonized gasp, letting go of the blond. He looked down to see the tanned hand gripped around the blade that was sticking out of his leg.
There was loud coughing coming from the blond, deep inhales as he finally receives the oxygen he lost while being choked. He pushed the attacker off him, his chest heaving in and out as he lay on the ground. The hitman rolled over to his side, attempting to pick himself back up, still hacking and gripping at his chest, tugging at his open-collared top.
The searing agony that shot through his body was tough to ignore - he had to bite his tongue to prevent a yell erupting from his body. Taking a glance at the source of the pain, he saw the blond’s hand gripping the blade that was currently in his leg.
The biting pain only grew worse when the blond had quickly tugged back the blade, causing even more blood to begin gushing out of Fugo’s leg. He curled in on himself, trying to cover the bleeding. Pannacotta began pressuring the wound, the excruciating feeling spreading across his chest, his heart pounding in his ears.
Fugo kept gripping his leg, releasing a ragged cry before looking up, his gaze blurring every couple of seconds. The blond had recovered, standing tall after brushing some of the dust off his clothes. He kept rubbing his neck, which had already begun showing bruises and marks of where Fugo’s hands were.
A realization overcame both of them, their eyes widening as they turned their heads to find an empty armchair.
Silence overcame them as the huge fact of “ You lost your target stupid, the sequel ” was hammered into their brains.
“For crying out loud -” He heard the other hitman hiss, hunting around for any traces of the woman left behind. Eventually, his pacing came to a stop, freezing for a moment before slowly turning to Pannacotta.
The dim moonlight caused a shadow to appear on his face, appearing more intimidating than how he was. His lips frowned slightly, his posture straightening as he looked down at the injured hunter. Fugo saw all of this from the corner of his eye, but he wasn’t paying attention.
His main concern was his leg, the one that was bleeding extensively at that very moment. It made more sense to care more about that than the blond glaring at him in some funky-pissed-off way.
Turning around, Fugo spotted a mini-medical station next to a fire extinguisher, not too far from where he sat. He tried scooting backward, using his good leg to push himself. It wasn’t very successful, the movement made the injury worse - it was already arduous to prevent himself from fully collapsing. Pannacotta turned over to his stomach and began crawling, using his upper body strength to try and reach the medkit.
He stretched his arm out, felt his fingers spread apart as he grabbed at the smooth, white plastic corner of the box. Just barely there-
Fugo stopped for a moment as he heard receding footsteps; Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blond retreat, head down the steps and into the large gardens of the mansion. His braid swayed as he went, it brushing against him from shoulder to shoulder.
Sparing his life was an odd decision, Fugo would normally disagree with that action - you have an enemy or target, you end them - but, for the moment, he is glad he isn’t a corpse.
Fugo continued, pulling himself forward before he was finally able to grab hold of the medical kit. He relaxed against the wall, flicking up the two clips before opening the lid of the box. Inside were needles of various sizes, surgeon’s stitches, an ointment bottle, blue and white bandages, various sizes of gauze dressings, as well as a few more items that the hitman was not that interested in. He briefly gazed over the wound on his leg, before picking out the needed tools to tend to it.
After wrapping up his leg in blue-bandages, Fugo lifted himself onto that same armchair the woman had been on. It was a bit of a struggle, with one of his legs being physically unable to move, but he managed. The quality of the chair was fair, neither good nor bad. It had a unified royal-purple color, nothing unique about it. The frame was made of black iron; Its legs ended in a sort of swirl, its design following other parts of the chair.
Fugo, with nothing better to do, let himself mull over the blond. For one, the snarky bastard exceeded his expectations of a regular hitman. Fugo would’ve been a bit more dead if the events that played out had even changed a slight bit. A trickster, for one, but he could also see him as a keen killer. This brought up the question of the other hunter sparing him again.
His mouth formed a straight line, thoughts circling that one fact. The man could, in some ways, say that he was grateful for how things turned out. Living was an upside to most things, after all.
Fugo leaned back, relaxing against the back of the armchair. His thoughts returned to the beginning of their interactions - the beginning of the ball. For the most part, Fugo had been alone at that dessert table, a couple of hours at the least. The man only came to him as soon as a good chunk of the ball went by, around midnight, if Fugo could remember the time correctly.
He thought back to the driving gestures the blond did, how he acted, how he persuaded him to that dance. Fugo felt his face warm up a smidge, remembering how much he relished the dance, dancing with the other hunter. An odd feeling, he would admit. Pannacotta brushed it off though, burying the feelings within him, never to be seen again.
He distracted himself with a thought that he had already come to terms with: They lost the target.
The loss would prick at him for the next couple of days, as it usually did. It put him through a sour mood, but he would get over it with some other mission he had in his stack of anonymous-signed letters. He pulled out the photograph of the woman he was assigned to and stared at the glossy finish of the polaroid.
He had no use for it since the mission was already a failure, so he might as well cover up the remaining evidence.
Fugo slowly pulled out one of his many lighters, flicked the cap open, a small flame danced at the opening of it. He let his hand play around with the flame, moving it under the photograph, letting it lick the ends of it until it started to smoke and turn charcoal-black.
He closed the lighter, the flame dousing itself, before putting it back in his inner coat pocket. Pannacotta watches the polaroid begin to burn, only letting go of it once it had been completely enveloped in flames. The photograph wrinkled in on itself and turning an ash grey, the contents of it had become unrecognizable. Its edges were rigid and burnt, some pieces falling apart as the flames seem to disappear into thin air.
It never really ended up like this, the missions. Giorno was good at his job, he knew that and presented himself well for it. He didn’t need to repeat himself, he could prove it. The blond was successful and efficient in his work.
Of course, when he kept losing the target every 5 seconds thanks to a certain idiotic hitman, he was a little pissed. A small amount, nothing major.
He paced around the garden pathway, gripping his dagger tightly. If it weren’t for him finding out that there was, indeed, another hunter who coincidentally had the same target as he did, then maybe he would’ve succeeded.
The blond had searched the mansion grounds after he had left the other hitman, both inside and out, searching for this woman. For an intoxicated person, she was somehow very easy to lose - that only made him even more annoyed.
Giorno eventually came to terms with the fact that the night was wasted. No target, no kills, no cash to pay his bills. Exasperated, he decided to try and shake off his thoughts by wandering around the foliage of the gardens.
He began fidgeting with the dagger in his hand, mindlessly twirling it between his fingers. Giorno’s thoughts trailed back to the man who had been the cause of the whole mission going to waste. The blond had a gut feeling that he recognized the man from somewhere. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly how he knew the guy’s face, so he let the thought slide - it went back to a neglected place in his mind.
The blond wouldn’t admit it, but he was a little concerned for the man’s wellbeing. The wound he inflicted upon the man was only intentional in the sense of self-defense. He never intended bringing harm to the guy, but the damage had been done.
Maybe that’s what drew him back to the place where he left the other hitman. Giorno made sure to walk slower, give out as little noise as he could. He didn’t want to be revealed, not looking for a confrontation. He just wanted to see if the guy was doing okay. He knew that he should keep on with the mission, try and find a trail, but for some reason, he felt like this was more important.
He made his way off the grass and onto the main path, it leading down the side of the mansion, decorated with various shrubbery and flowerbeds. Finally, Giorno walked up to the large potted hedge that sat at the corner of the wall. To the right of the plant led to the patio, which was where the blond last remembered leaving the white-haired man.
“So you’re back,” Giorno jumped at the sudden voice, stopping abruptly and pushing himself against the wall. Did he make himself aware to the other man somehow? He doesn’t remember making any sounds.
“To be fair, I’m not even sure if you are there or not, or if you’re even the right person I’m talking to; I’m told I have high intuition.” Giorno parted his lips slightly, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. He could leave, now knowing that the guy was probably doing just fine, but something halted him - anchoring him to his hiding spot.
The blond kept his silence, waiting to hear if the man will continue. He heard the guy let out a small hiss of pain, halting his speech.
“I uh… wanted to say thanks,” Giorno arched an eyebrow upwards upon hearing this sudden gratitude, leaning a bit forward, “for sparing me, you know, not the stab wound.” Giorno wouldn’t dare to peek around the corner and risk being seen, but he could imagine a small smile forming on the guy’s face. He couldn’t picture it being sarcastic, contrasting his tone of voice. It felt calming.
A couple more minutes passed by before the man spoke again, this time in a whisper, “You’re probably not there then. That’s… fine.” There was a touch of disappointment at the end.
It made Giorno’s heart drop a bit, the tone affecting him slightly.
He turned his heel noiselessly and left, walking slowly to mask his presence. The blond pondered over the man’s words, thinking that they will be the last things he’d hear from the other hunter.
Giorno took one more glance over his shoulder, his braid swaying slightly at the action. The ball sounded as though it were finally calming down, the party dragging on its ending to the early morning hours. Some of the guests had already begun leaving, the pairs of intoxicated couples twirled around and yelled about, a couple entered their expensive four-wheelers - and had already sped off onto the main road.
He glanced back at the stone-brick pathway that led back to the patio. There was that thought, still tugging at the back of his mind, that he recognized him. Somewhere, maybe at some store? At another mission? Giorno wasn’t sure.
A small smile snuck onto his face as he remembered the dance, although competitive, he wasn’t sure of another time where he felt so full of energy.
A tiny part of Giorno admitted to enjoying his company. Maybe he’d find the guy again some other time.
Meanwhile, Fugo looked down at his immobile leg and wondered as to how the hell he would be able to get back to his motel room, without arousing suspicion.