day one: déjà vu.

It’s as easy as one, two, three.

You approach the mouth of the alleyway and remember those words. It is quite easy, to repeat the same process over and over, to reduce the drone of the city to a small black pin, and to check every alleyway with your head poked an inch in. It is easy to see the same shadows and emptiness, and to move on, to move on, to move on.

Is it as easy to stare down a dead man? One peek in the alleyway and there lies a man in his own grave, unburied, with no funeral attire nor reception. He lies on his side defenseless, surrounded by a graveyard of shadows and concrete for upset dirt. You stand over his hushed body and kneel to check for a pulse, and there is nothing but the tempo of the city around you, moving faster than he ever could.

It’s as easy as one, two, three.

By the time you walk out of the alleyway, there is nothing left but a sleeping ghost.

“Our Composer—the Boss Himself—has issued a Game for you all.”

“A game?” someone asks, glaring through red eyes. They are the only thing Fugo can discern from the man as the light swallows the room and most of the detail of the frescoes around them, besides how he stands far taller than the short and frail so-called ‘Conductor.’

“Yes,” the man replies, “A Game. It is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity… although, I suppose it is after one’s lifetime than during it.”

“So? Get to the point,” another groans, gripping the string of his pendant. “No one cares what your game is if you don’t pull it off. What‘s the goal and the reward?”

“Very well, then,” the Conductor sighs. “Aren’t you all dead? You wouldn’t be here otherwise. If you survive the next week and win, you have a chance to continue living.”

Survival. Fugo is acquaintanced well with simply struggling to maintain his own; the rest of the room seems to be, as well, judging by the tensing of those within and the words he makes out from their chatter.

“To do so!” the man yells, quelling the beginnings of whispers. “You are to find a partner and forge a pact with them! If you do not do so, you cannot escape the Noise of Napoli, nor win this Game. Then you must clear the order assigned by the Game Master for each day before time runs out—and only then, after the seventh mission, will He choose who lives on!”

The white light grows, strong enough to cover the frescoes and strong enough to blind, and the man’s voice becomes the only thing Fugo and the others sense. “This marks the end of my orders. I pray for your safety. And… I wish you good luck.”

His voice fades, and the light swallows them all whole.

A flash of light and a pained plea to stay back wakes Fugo from his daze and jolts his focus once more. He’s been running through Napoli in desperation, searching endlessly for a partner—one person to help in this wretched game—and no matter what, no player appears solo, already partnered or already dead.

Screams and static fill the Piazza Montesanto and Fugo runs faster, worried that he’ll be pierced by those same distorted creatures of the Underground, too. The old Conductor’s words drag themselves from the back of his head and he recalls them too well, every detail enhanced by both memory and imagination. It’s unnerving, but—

Well, it’s better than not remembering the rules of the Game at all. If he’s going to make it through this week, then Fugo needs to abide by the rules and do whatever’s necessary to survive.

( Although, considering the circumstances, maybe he can bend a few, just for this week. )

The first order is to find a partner, though. The timer burnt onto his lower left hand from earlier ticks down, silent, creeping up on him from behind. The feeling is all too normal, but that doesn’t subdue Fugo’s worries any less, nor distract him from how it says twenty minutes over sixty.

At this rate, it might be better to hurry over to the other piazza to finish the mission—but part of Fugo knows there’ll be a challenge before he can complete it, whether it’s on the way there or when he arrives. Whatever the case, it is, unfortunately, not worth doing without a partner, which Fugo reminds himself for the fifth time in the last five minutes that he does not have.

There’s a sudden shout to his left side, and Fugo turns to the source. His eyes focus on the building first: a flower shop overshadowed by passing cars and larger buildings and hidden by the baskets hung overhead. He looks down under the awning and spots a boy defending himself with a flower vase, letting the lilies and ceramic take the brunt of neon claws and static-stained fangs while he looks around in a panic. Fugo squints through the flowers for another person, but nothing—only the Noise and the boy, the latter of which, he realizes, is now staring straight at him.

“Hey!” the boy yells, louder this time. The vase drops from his hands and the white lilies fall to his feet. Fugo winces from the sound, but looks back up, and immediately sees the boy pointing at him. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you! You, with the vest—!”

An arm shields an attack from a claw as he runs out from under the awning. Fugo, still standing in place, watches the blood drip to the pavement, then looks back to the boy, who’s sprinting even faster towards him.

“Why are you just staring at me, damn it?!” In all his anger, Fugo thinks, he sounds desperate. “C’mon, make a pact with me! We’re not gonna survive if you don’t!”

The boy reaches him and holds out a hand, inches away from his own. There’s a moment when the world seems to slow, taking all the danger away with Fugo’s own breath. They stare at each other, silent, the boy gritting his teeth and Fugo biting into his lip.

“Ugh,” the boy spits, and grabs onto Fugo’s hand himself. It’s tight and it’s forced and yet Fugo can see blue and white light sputter and encircle them, because—well, that’s what he wanted, anyways, isn’t it? “If ya won’t do anything, then I’ve just gotta do it myself.”

And then the light swallows them whole and lifts them in the air, and Fugo thinks his blood could boil with newfound energy if he was alive—and as soon as they’re back on the ground, the boy runs off, throwing a hand out to the wolf Noise that jumps at them to riddle it with bullets and turn it to static.

Fugo, still on the other side of the pavement, leans back with a smile and watches.

“Who do we choose?” You groan, your fingers tangled in your hair and rubbing your temples. If this wasn’t a life-or-death situation (or whatever the cheeky equivalent was in the Underground) then you wouldn’t have to worry so hard—even if you’ve worried just as hard over essays and exams. “We can’t have someone who’ll die on the first day. Who the hell in Napoli would last when He’s got control over the whole Game?”

A pat on the head and you stare up to your senior, who ruffles your hair until it tangles before sitting down across the table. “No need to work yourself up over it. We have time.”

“You can’t tell me the Composer isn’t enough of a fucking reason to worry!” You yell, and you would slam your hands on the table if the Producer weren’t sitting calmly with you. “We shouldn’t have done this. Only an idiot could make a bet like this—because none of them have ever bet it and won—”

You hear your name and sink back into the chair, and are matched with a mellow smile. “If not us, then who would? We are the best-equipped of the Underground to deal with Him. All we need to find is him and his weakness—or match him with enough strength on our end.”

“So?” It’s not like you haven’t figured that out already. “We can make up as good a plan as we want; if we can’t comply to Him without setting ourselves back, we’re as good as dead.”

“Erased,” he supplies, and you spit, “Whatever.”

He takes out a few pins from a coin pouch and spreads them out on the table. Monetary, combative, defensive—you could name them all and their abilities, even if that’s not the point that he wants to make. “We only need someone who can effectively use their pins. You know by now what that entails, don’t you?”

“…Yeah,” you nod. “Someone with enough Imagination to use them as weapons against the damn Noise.”

“Right.” He holds up one pin—Angel Magnum, a beige pin with a purple dolphin over it—and turns it in the light from above. It glints as it would in action, like the tens of bullets that would shoot out that would shine with it. Somewhere in that pin, there’s probably a scratch or blemish; why else would he keep it? “If we find someone with as much Imagination as you had and help them, then they’ll manage against Him just fine.”

“I think you’re expecting too much from Napoli,” you laugh. “He’s run all of it into the ground since His rule began.”

“Not all of it,” your senior still smiles, placing the pins back in the pouch. “Just what you think is all of it. Take a look around later and tell me what happens.”

“We have to go,” Fugo starts, once they’ve healed themselves of the damage done by the Noise. A few uses of the pin in his hand—a green base under an orange can, a Cure Drink-type that helps them get back on their feet—and they’re back in perfect condition, no open wounds or blood left to spill.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I think I’m the expert here, so you should follow my lead instead.”

“Do you even know where we’re going?” Fugo crosses his arms and stares at his new partner. He’s shorter than him by a few, dressed in black in all but an orange headband and wrist bands and an obnoxious diamond pattern that wraps around the shortened sleeves and pockets and hood on his sweater. The last of the three is, perhaps, the worst but most inventive invective to anyone unfortunate enough to see it, enough that Fugo almost wishes he hadn’t agreed to this partnership.

( But only almost. Not entirely—because Fugo’s going to see this Game through, and as horrible of a consequence this boy’s awful fashion may be, at least most people are too busy being alive to see it. )

The boy scoffs and, in a spare hand, takes out his phone. Fugo follows suit.

“Of course I do! How can I be the expert here if I don’t?”

“Okay,” Fugo leans back, “Where is it?”

He looks to his left hand as a timer and gives the boy a gracious period of ten seconds to answer. It turns into fifteen, then twenty, and then.

“You don’t actually know where it i—”

“The Piazza Giuseppe Garibaldi! That’s where it was!”

“…Oh,” Fugo pauses, and without needing to check the mission mail on his phone again, adds, “That’s right.”

“See? I knew it,” the boy smirks. “I know where it is! I went there last week.”

The grin persists for a while longer—and then, as he turns, it falls just as quickly. Fugo raises an eyebrow, but it does nothing as he’s pulled in the direction of the piazza.

“C’mon,” he pulls harder, enough to yank Fugo’s feet off the ground and start running. “We’re gonna make it to the piazza, and once the mission’s over, we’re gettin’ food.”

And Fugo doesn’t say a word; he just nods, and watches the back of his head as he sprints forward.

“Hey,” the boy elbows Fugo, half-whispering and shoving the menu in his face. “You’re one of those rich kids, right?”

Fugo pulls back and leans towards the window, away from the boy next to him. “What? Where did that come from?”

“Normal kids don’t wear suits and backpacks on a school day, no matter how horribly they wear ‘em.”

…Well, he has a point.

Sort of.

“…Sure,” Fugo resigns, because his assumption would be right. “Yeah. My family’s pretty well-known here.”

“Great,” he nods, “Cool. What’s something worth ordering here?”

“…What?”

“I said what I fuckin’ said!” the boy scowls, shoving the menu further over his own. “Just choose one! I don’t care what as long as it’s somethin’ before the waiter gets here.”

“Um. Alright,” Fugo drops his menu, and leans over the boy’s shoulder to look over his menu. He’s on the seafood section of the menu—has been for a while, even before elbowing Fugo in the side—so Fugo chooses to focus on that section alone, for his own sake.

“How do you feel about a risotto?”

The boy looks absolutely disgusted.

“Okay,” Fugo mutters, “Okay. Do you think it’s that bad?” he asks—and the boy huffs, but he shakes his head. “Then why the hell are you so against it?”

“It looks dumb.”

“There’s no pictures of risotto on the goddamn menu.”

“Yeah, and? I know plenty about what it looks like without seeing a laminated picture.”

“If you’re so confident in what it looks like, then why don’t you choose something else that you know?”

“Agh, you asshole!” The menu drops and rattles the silverware underneath it. One fork is missing, the tips pushing into Fugo’s chin. “Because I don’t know anything about what’s on the goddamn menu, alright?! I had to deal with Risotto last week and I fuckin’ hated that, so I’m not gonna have some! If you’re so pressed, then just get the most expensive thing on the list that ain’t that and I’ll deal with it!”

“…Fine, you brat,” Fugo concedes, grabbing the boy’s wrist and yanking it away from him. He rubs the underside of his chin and looks back down at the menu, looking over it once more before flagging down a waiter. “I hope you’re glad that we’re the only ones in this room. We’d be kicked out if anyone else was here.”

“Tch! Like I care.” the boy drops the fork back onto the plate. “Then I can just fight you on the streets for being a jerk and no one’ll stop me. I won’t, though,” he crosses his arms, “‘Cause whether or not ya work with me, I’m gettin’ outta here alive. And that means you can’t get erased.”

“That’s nice to hear,” Fugo rolls his eyes.

“Isn’t it? I think you should be grateful with the pins I’ve got!” The waiter steps in as he rustles through his pins, and Fugo whispers an order. As soon as he’s gone, then the boy’s back, flashing the pins at the right angle so the yellow lights bounce into Fugo’s eyes.

“See this one?” There’s a pink silhouette on it of something like a bird soaring over grey and blue waves. “It’s the same one I used to blast the shit out of that rhino outside the plaza! And this—” Another pin stacks over the previous one, with a stranger cover: a music note that’s fallen out of a cartoon, singing over stripes of cream and blue-green. ( The boy doesn’t have to say anything for him to recognize that one: it’s a ridiculous one that Fugo doesn’t see the point of using. ) “This one summons speakers for no reason, but if I yell it’ll send the Noise back and make ‘em feel awful! And—agh, hold on—”

He drops the other pins back in his pocket and scrambles for the one in question, one turning out to be purple and orange arrows fractured across a dark background. Fugo takes longer to recognize that one, though he certainly remembers the brand easily; no other brand would isolate and use those two colors. It becomes a short game of its own, then: racking his brain for the explanation before the boy gives his.

“This one is, uh—I dunno what it is in specific, but—“

“Hm,” Fugo notes in his pause, and then he remembers it. “Oh; that’s Izanagi, isn’t it? That one should allow you to jab at an enemy faster than they can attack, and for a while.”

“Yeah! That exactly!” the boy clenches his fist over the pin and grins, only to freeze seconds later.

“Hey, hold on, how do you know that? How’s some regular person supposed to know anything about what the dead do?”

“It’s not hard to learn about it,” Fugo frowns, and the boy leans in further.

“Ehh? Really? Well, I had to learn all of this from scratch last week! What made you so special, huh?”

“Oh. Well, I can explain it simple enough if you get out of my face.”

The boy leans back and huffs, pressing his back against the wall near him. Fugo leans back against his own chair and speaks.

“I saw the Game play out when I was alive. No one else around me could see them, and no one in the Game would take my help. I’ve learned more about the pins and mechanics by osmosis over time, though. I know how it works; I’ve just never participated in it myself until…”

“Until you died,” The boy fills in the gaps. Fugo nods.

The restaurant is eerily silent. Fugo realizes they’ve been here for… a while. Normally, the day would have rolled over minutes ago, but even after the mission mail disappeared, that seems all but the case here.

“…Man,” the boy kicks his legs, “Now I feel kinda bad.”

“Why?”

“You’ve had to watch the Game for a few years, right? Ain’t that awful? People get erased right in front’a ya and ya can’t stop it.”

“I didn’t have much time outside of my studies,” Fugo shrugs. “College wouldn’t have let me. The Game looked rather normal in comparison, erasure and pins aside.”

The boy’s eyebrows knit. “Back the fuck up.”

“What?”

“I said to back the fuck up, okay?!” The fork is suddenly back in the boy’s hand, though it’s nowhere near Fugo’s chin again. “When were you in college?”

“I was in my final year when I died, if that’s what you’re asking. And I had the prerequisites for college years ago—it was just a matter of which one would let me enter.”

“…Your final year,” the boy deadpans.

Fugo leans an elbow on the table, masking the start of a smirk on his face. “…Yes?”

The boy grips the fork tighter and stares. He throws his hands into the air seconds later, almost flinging the fork away with them.

“Seriously? Who the hell are you? How’d I get paired with some spoiled nerd who’s never broken a bone in his life?”

Fugo has to admit, the accuracy of that insult is hilarious—but he stows away a laugh and speaks in a tone as obnoxious as he can make it.

“Pannacotta Fugo. And, if you’re so insistent on my being spoiled, then you can keep saying Fugo like everyone else does.”

“I’d never wanna say a mouthful like that, anyways!” The boy sticks out his tongue. “So I’ll call you Fugo, but you have to call me Narancia.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t wanna hear someone stuck-up say ‘Ghirga.’ I was on spring break for a reason!”

“What, because you were failing history?”

“I was passing it! You arrogant b—”

“Sure. Whatever,” Fugo rolls his eyes, covering Narancia’s mouth with his palm. The waiter hardly bats an eye, passing out their meals (two grilled lobster tails, because of course that was the most expensive thing on the page,) and Fugo holds another laugh as they leave. “You can insult me after we’re done eating. You’re the one who wanted to get food after risking your—”

Narancia, silent for a record time of eighteen seconds, bites into his goddamn hand.

“What the actual shit? What the fuck!” Fugo pulls his hand back, and the chair underneath him scratches on the floor, and Narancia all but falls out of his own chair in his laughter.

“Why would you do that?” Fugo winces, holding his palm close. He can’t even bring himself to look at the table; he’s too busy nursing his hand to eat.

“You were asking for it!” Narancia continues to laugh, holding onto the chair to steady himself. Fugo whaps his forearm with the side of his aching hand before pushing his chair back towards the food.

“Just shut up and eat so I can kick your ass outside.”

“You can’t force me to,” Narancia laughs again, but he does, in fact, take a bite out of his own food, and the table goes silent.

“Huh,” he finally speaks, his fork frozen inches from the plate. “She was right. It isn’t that bad.”

Fugo turns from his own half-eaten dish, his eyebrows raised and head tilted. “Who was?”

“Oh, uhh—no one important! To you, at least. I’m pretty sure you don’t know her.”

“Really?” Fugo pauses, the suspicion of who it might be trickling across his spine. “Was she important to you, though?”

“Well, no—I mean, yes, but I definitely didn’t act like it last week, but she is—ugh, it’s too hard to explain!” Narancia groans, dropping his fork and grabbing his hair as the fork clatters onto the rim of the plate. “Just—you know how entry fees work, right? That dumb thing where the Conductor takes somethin’ important to you and won’t give it back unless you win?”

Fugo nods, the memory vague but certainly present.

“Yeah, so—I didn’t have anything they could physically take, so they went and took whatever else they could. So I went into the Game, and I found a partner, and then I acted like more of an asshole to her that week than you’ve been.”

( Fugo’s not sure how insulted he should be by that. He pushes the injury aside. )

“‘Cause, I mean, you’re a jerk, but at least you’d listen,” Narancia grips his hair harder, looking from the gap between them to Fugo himself. “I wouldn’t even do that for her. I nearly got us killed a couple of times, too! But somehow, we got through the entire week, and I think I got better and we won, and then—”

He shudders, and the feeling transfers to Fugo, too. “And then he almost erased her. ‘Cause he made me the only one who won.”

“…So how did you end up back here?” Fugo asks, his voice no more than a cautious whisper.

“I tried to take her place. But that Conductor wouldn’t let me, so I figured I’d bet I could win another Game and take her with me, and I did, and—and he let me, but then he took my entry fee and he just—”

“He used her as your fee,” Fugo murmurs. His fork drops onto the plate and bounces, skidding until it rests over an unfolded napkin.

“Yeah,” Narancia nods, his head hidden between his elbows and the back of his chair. “And now I can’t fuck this week up.”

He stays there, unmoving, his legs curled around the legs of the chair and his arms blocking Fugo’s vision. The light overhead shines, casting light into clumps of dark hair and drops of liquid bronze. In too many ways, Fugo feels like he’s staring at a statue: a boy frozen in place, who Fugo can do nothing for but look at from a distance. Because there is so much that Fugo has learned over the years, both in and out of college—but helping has never been one of them.

( But, even so, something in Fugo’s cold and unbeating heart tells him he has to try. )

“You'll be alright,” Fugo manages. His voice strains, but he keeps going, turning and leaning from his chair to meet his gaze. “We'll beat this week and she'll come back, alive. I know I've been an asshole, but—I want to win this just as much as you do.”

“You better,” Narancia sniffs, looking up with eyes rubbed red by the backs of his hands, “‘cause even if you suck to work with, I'm not lettin' either of us lose.”

“Good,” Fugo smiles, and he thinks he's getting somewhere when Narancia smiles back. “What's her name? Your old partner.”

“Trish,” he whispers. Fugo remembers the name—and remembers not much else past a lop of pink hair and bright eyes.

“We're going to defeat this week's missions and Trish'll be alive by the time we're through. I swear it.”

“Is that a promise?”

“…If you want it to be,” Fugo shrugs.

“Oh, that’s not how it works, Fugo!” Narancia frowns, and he sticks out his tongue for a second. “You gotta commit to makin’ a promise. So now you’re not making one!”

“…But that’s fine,” he laughs after, kicking his legs up and turning back towards the table. “I’d take a promise you mean to keep over one you’d probably break. So save it for when you actually mean it. Got it?”

( What an odd way of making promises, Fugo notes. And of putting his trust in people, too. )

“Sure. I’ll wait for a time like that.”

“Good!” Narancia swallows down another bite, and then stabs his fork into the crab, pointing towards Fugo instead. “I promise I’m gonna kick your ass when we’re done eating, though. So hurry up so we can get out there and I can prove it!”

“Are you sure you’re not the one who should be watching what promises you make?” Fugo laughs, looking between his own near-finished plate and the three-quarters left on Narancia’s own.

“Of course I am! And if you don’t start eating I’m gonna run out and make you pay for us both!”

“You’re the one with the money here!”

“And you’re the one who ordered!” Narancia laughs, seconds away from snorting. “Just shut up and eat!”

“Okay, okay, whatever. But don’t cry again when you’re the one on the ground out there.”

And Narancia doesn’t reply—unless swallowing another bite counts as a reply—and Fugo shrugs and goes back to his own plate, too.

Night turns to day, and you realize: maybe Napoli does have a chance at living after all.

day three: a game of tag and threads.

You have, in every way possible, become the face of Napoli’s UnderGround, except for the fact that you are not the face but the blood reanimating itself behind it.

Again, Fugo wakes before Narancia, akin to a corpse rising from a coffin—at least, if a coffin can be carved out of a park bench. Then again, Napoli itself is a graveyard, and those who play the Game wrapped in its shrouds, so it’s safe to say that anything in Napoli can be one’s tomb.

A glance around and Fugo doesn’t find anything special: they’re in a smaller park, with a playground marked with black tile and the typical staircases and arches surrounding them. He finds Narancia on a bench next to the swings, so deep in his sleep that he doesn’t realize how close he is to falling off of it; Fugo rolls him further back onto the bench and takes a seat on the remaining space next to him. The mission isn’t out yet, so they have time; it won’t hurt to get a little more sleep, even in spite of how much it actually does for a Player.

( So he says, but Fugo would really, really prefer a nap now more than anything. The hardships of being a Player have escaped his mind until now, and the resulting regret seeps through his skin like the rising sun. )

Fugo leans back against the bench, his eyes shifting from the sun in front of him to the boy at his side. The light reaches past the trees, and although Fugo has to shade himself with his arm and what leaves remain to hide behind, Narancia doesn’t budge. It’s almost annoying that he can stand it and sleep through it as normal; then again, maybe it’s a testament to his tenacity, so Fugo shrugs it off.

Besides, if five days are all they have left together, then Fugo doesn’t mind observing him in the sun for a while longer.

It’s selfish—all of this has been, really—but what more can he say? At least the excuse here presents itself willingly: what can an awoken Player do but wait and protect their slumbering partner? Sure, Narancia doesn’t need protection, a fact that extends to both of them; they are, without a doubt, the strongest duo in this Game, perhaps even surpassing the Game Masters of the week. But it doesn’t distract from how self-obsessed Fugo has been, both before and during this week. Even if he has an excuse, it doesn’t change how selfish it is, just looking upon someone who has witnessed one devastation after another because of him and still wanting to see him again.

If that want stops after the seventh day, then Fugo will be fine. But if it continues any further, then he knows he’ll have to cut it short, to snip it away like thread.

To rule is to rein in your emotions, and all ties with it. Fugo learned that before he died and will remember it for the rest of his existence.

By the time Fugo regains his senses and stows away his loathsome thoughts, Narancia is already awake, eyes half-lidded and mouth scrunched and wibbly. He stretches his arms over his head and hits Fugo on the shoulder on purpose and Fugo looks over him, his gaze frozen by meeting the other’s.

Then Narancia grins, wide and toothy and enough to push his cheeks up, and Fugo frowns and breaks contact.

Any flattery for Narancia’s appearance, Fugo decides, even past the dirt and tangles, only applies when he’s asleep. As soon as he’s awake, everything else insufferable fills in the gaps.

Even if the difficulty of enduring that is lessening with each passing day.

“I don’t get how easy it is for you to smile during all of this,” Fugo mutters, twisting a strand of hair at his side. “This week is already terrible.”

“The missions suck,” Narancia shrugs, “but the day isn’t awful otherwise. Aside from the first day.”

“That wasn’t even awful. What about that was bad?”

“You were being an ass and we never actually fought outside.”

“Okay,” Fugo huffs, “One, you still think I act like an asshole. Two, there’s no point to fighting. Just because it’s one of your promises—”

“Now you’re just doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” Narancia pushes his back off the bench and spins towards him, leaning over. This would probably be more threatening if he had a knife with him; then again, he has pins instead; and, then again, Fugo could easily deflect them both. “I thought you were more of a jerk on day one, but you’re really getting on my nerves and the day hasn’t even started! I’ll fight you here if I have to!”

Fugo turns and presses his back further into the bench. “…Really.”

“Yeah, really! What, are you just a coward who won’t even try?”

“At least I’m a reasonable one,” Fugo crosses his arms, unmoved from the bench.

And then Narancia starts snickering, and Fugo jolts from the bench towards him.

“You little—”

Narancia kicks off the bench and laughs again, watching Fugo slam his chin into the bench and flinch from what heat has already shone onto the metal.

Fuck Bucciarati’s warnings, actually. Fugo pushes himself off the bench, wiping dirt from under his lip, and lunges straight at Narancia. This is a much better idea than just waiting it out and—

Their phones ring.

The same high-pitched ring echoes in their pockets when Narancia is halfway through putting him in a headlock, and Fugo barely escapes a pathetic loss on his end as they fumble for their phones. They stare at their screens, silent, as if the small scratches on them weren’t given to each other just seconds ago, far more focused on the message than their last fight.

“Do these guys really think they can just put words in a fuckin’ text and expect us to understand what it means?”

“I thought you did this last week,” Fugo grumbles, but he has a point. Some of the words are… unnecessary, to put it lightly.

“Yeah, but at least Risotto wasn’t trying to sound like a novel! Seriously, the nerve of this guy…!”

“It’s probably just saying to make it through the day alive,” Fugo shuts the phone off and rests it in his pocket. “I suppose they’re creating harder noise today.”

“Seriously? It’s day three! What’s the big deal?”

“I… don’t know,” Fugo frowns, looking towards the ground. It’s not a phrase he likes to say; but, it’s certainly one he’s had to say more during this long Game.