MODUS

by GiodecicalHotline

Summary:

Pannacotta Fugo was a prodigy. He excelled in all his studies, assisted by the generational wealth of both of his bloodlines. He was a handsome child with good, strong genes, ruby eyes, strawberry blonde hair, and a fair complexion without a single unsightly freckle. His only possible flaw was that his IQ wasn’t a nice round number, but regardless, 152 was better than 150. To his parents, he was hand-tailored by God to answer their prayers. Only thirteen, he held the keys to the kingdom in his hand. All he had to do was wait, to throw wide the gates and absorb all the riches of heaven, accrue more power than any one man should hold. But one day, he just snapped, and no one knew why. | Song reference is MODUS by Joji

Chapter 1: Mother

Summary:

Hush now, baby, baby, don’t you cry
Mama's gonna make all of your nightmares come true
Mama's gonna put all of her fears into you
Mama’s gonna keep you right here, under her wing
She won’t let you fly, but she might let you sing

This was the one she was going to frame, she decided. The master. Many, many copies would be made, but this was the one that would hang in their home forever. She had never been the sentimental type, but the thought occurred to her to start a scrapbook with one of the duplicates. It was inelegant, sure, but something physical that she could cling to, hold close to her chest.

Pannacotta spent the silent ride back to the house looking out his window, or at the privacy screen in front of them. On occasion, he would glance over at his mother. Despite the beauty of the passing scenery, she never once looked up from that piece of paper.

"So…" Pannacotta spoke in a meek voice, barely louder than the hum of the car. His feet kicked idly, legs still not quite long enough for his toes to reach the floor. "What does this mean? For the future?"

"It means you're very, very special." She didn't lift her eyes as she reached out to stroke his hair. Though the touch was indeed loving, it didn't feel as if it was directed towards him. Even now, she looked at a number on a page with sweet eyes that had never once fallen upon him or his father.

The car rolled to a stop. When the doors opened, she drew her hand back from his head, leaving it cold and wanting, to slot the test results back in the manila envelope they had come in. Upon exiting the car, she handed it to the first person she saw and ordered him to make ten copies. Pannacotta clambered out of his side of the car unassisted, tripping and scraping his knees on the way down.

Notes:

Thought I'd write and post this first chapter real quick for funsies, as I write this note I'm also in the middle of Stand Tall (working on chapter 8/11) and Hot Knife (working on chapter 7/10) so we'll see when I get back around to it | Titled after Mother by Pink Floyd

Chapter 2: Please Please Please

Summary:

Please please please
No more melodies
They lack impact, they're petty
They've been made up already
Please please please
No more maladies
I'm so tired of crying
You'd think I was a siren

Music day was supposed to be fun. Even if he contributed nothing new to this world, spending hours trying to go bar for bar with the old masters despite still developing his motor skills, he was creating something. Sounds would arise from the instruments he played, melodic and beautiful, even if they weren't technically 'his'. But today, violin practice had come to an abrupt end.

Pannacotta didn't get out much. From eight to one, when children would normally be at school, he was learning at home. He'd have an hour lunch, and then continue his lessons from two to six, Monday through Saturday. This rigid system had been established only a few weeks after the return of his test results. An oft neglected tea room had quickly been gutted and refurbished into a bleak, near-featureless shadow of a real classroom in which he was the only student. Tutors came in and out according to a robust schedule, all experts in their fields, people who surely had better things to do than coddle a nine year old. Pannacotta wondered if his parents had thrown at them a sum of money only a fool could turn down, or if they were simply that enthusiastic to ingratiate themselves with the innocent, impressionable boy genius who would one day surpass Einstein. Likely, it was a bit of both.

Each of his tutors largely had the same feedback. They reported that Pannacotta was performing above and beyond what was anticipated of a boy his age. Though it sounded nice coming out of their mouths, though he could see the glow on their faces, it felt hollow. He felt no pride, because he had no frame of reference with which to gauge his progress. He'd never met another nine year old to compare himself to.

Though he was a curious child, all his knowledge of the outside world came from books. He'd read so much about the history of Pompeii, analyzed maps, practically memorized all every landmark, to the point he could nearly envision himself standing on those stone streets. It wouldn't have been that long a trip by car, but his mother had a special way of discouraging him from pursuing anything that wasn't explicitly on the lesson plan.

Because he so rarely left the house, Pannacotta was quite pale for his age. He never played outside, so his skin was free of freckles and scars. Perfect, in totality, like a prized porcelain cherub not meant to move from the shelf. From birth, he had been bubble-wrapped so tightly, so thoroughly that no one had any idea how much or how little pressure it would take to shatter him.

So often, he felt trapped in the cold, gilded birdcage he called home. While his parents took their time bickering over which carpet would be more tasteful, high vaulted ceilings looming above marble floors gestated terrible, cacophonous echoes that seemed to ring in Pannacotta's ears. Their sprawling estate was far larger than necessary for a family of three, and though Pannacotta knew very little about the world outside, he had a feeling that it was just a status symbol. It didn't need to be practical-- it just needed to be pretty. To that end, his parents hired help to maintain areas that nobody ventured to anymore, dusting off old trophy cases and tending to elegant side gardens full of flowers that no one would ever get to enjoy. In a place like this, it was easy for someone as small and demure as him to slip away for a while.

In one of the four nearly identical side gardens surrounding the estate, Pannacotta tended to a patch of strawberries in bloom. Caring for them was the only hobby he had that was truly his, and when the breeze rustled through the bushes, he was rewarded with their sweet fragrance. Besides the gardeners themselves, it was rare for anyone to step foot in the gardens. It was for that reason Pannacotta found sanctuary within them. It was a safe place, one that brought him a sense of calm, that washed away his thoughts when they grew too intense to bear.

 

"So, you destroyed your violin?"

Pannacotta turned back to look at his mother, standing over him with her hand hanging as a canopy above the shelf of her glasses, like the gentle rays of sun were somehow blinding her. He didn't really want to be 'caught', so he tried to act like he hadn't been. "I didn't mean to…"

A smile flashed across her face, empty. "Sure," she replied. A subtle giggle, or a scoff, he wasn't sure what he'd heard. Couldn't tell. Her one-word response felt like a bullet in the chest, and Pannacotta began to hemorrhage excuses.

"I… I tried to ask her to stop, or slow down, but couldn't remember how to say it in French, so she wouldn't listen to me… " Nobody ever listened to him. He was perfectly coherent, he knew that for a fact-- everyone he ever met remarked upon how well-spoken and eloquent he was, but when his attempts to communicate were so thoroughly frustrated by the petty demands of the adults in his life, he found himself in a dark place. In quite a literal sense, too-- his field of vision narrowed to a pinprick, and his head became light, like a hot air balloon lifted upwards by the fire beneath it. The fire would suddenly expand in a violent burst, the glow from the blaze turning his vision from black to red. It was then he would experience the primal, urgent desire to just break something. Today, his violin had been the unfortunate recipient of that aggression. 

Even as he wrestled with these violent urges, he took care to direct them towards inanimate objects. But when that failed, the only living thing he could justify hurting was himself. He tugged anxiously on the cuff of his conspicuously rumpled sleeve, trying to assure himself that the already bruising bite mark was hidden. Even if he didn't know how, he knew what he was doing was wrong, and that his mother would be very upset if she ever found out. "I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

Silence hung empty, eerie. She didn't need to open her mouth to pass judgment on him. Pannacotta didn't know if the conversation was over, or if she was still standing behind and staring at him like he was a zoo animal, waiting for him to do something, anything. She might've walked back inside already. Regardless, he tried to be brave, not knowing if his words would float away on the breeze as he tried to give voice to something that had been bothering him for years. "...I want to go to school, Mother."

There was a palpable period of nothingness. Pannacotta didn't dare turn around and search for her. "Now, why would you want that?"

"I--" He cut himself off quickly, shifting a hand to his stomach like all his intestines would fall out if he said the wrong thing. 'I don't know' wasn't an acceptable answer in their household. "I just want to be… more normal."

She gave a laugh, and it resounded like an echo. He had no idea why his mother's laugh mantled him with dread, and that made him feel even worse.

 "You're far from normal, Pannacotta. You're extraordinary ." There was a ravenous edge to her voice. He knew in his heart that she loved him, but he still felt like a specimen when she offered any form of praise. "Here, you're getting a better education than you would anywhere else. Besides," she concluded with that knife-sharp diction of hers, "you're a walking target."

"Yeah," Pannacotta replied, voice faltering along the edge. He finally looked back at her, peering over his shoulder like a battered puppy. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

The breeze started to pick up, and the scent of flowers wafted gently through the garden. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back, letting the sweet air wash over her. The smell was more pleasant than she remembered-- too pleasant, in fact. She'd never felt the urge to eat a rose, so the sudden pang of hunger brought with it a whole host of questions. She looked back down at her son, to the red and white ornaments hanging heavy beneath broad leaves, cradled gently in his small hands. "...Strawberries? How long have these been here?"

"Oh, these are mine," Pannacotta answered, thinking nothing of it. He trailed a light finger along the drooping stem that somehow maintained its strength even as it bore the weight of another life, ran his thumb against the surface of an immature white berry, its seeds half-pistil and half-achene-- rough, like a cat's tongue. At least, that's what he imagined a cat's tongue felt like. "In one of my books, they show you the life cycle of a strawberry plant. I wanted to see it for myself."

"If you read it in a textbook, then you should know that these are weeds," she sighed, putting her hands on her hips and, with just the tip of her shoe, nudging the soil around the plant disdainfully, as if it was some piteous animal she wanted gone. "We'll have to pry this whole area up."

"What?" Fugo suddenly tensed and twisted backwards, as if shielding the plant with his body. The fleeting, fickle ease that he had settled upon quickly withered into ruinous despair, an emotion far too big for something so small. He knew it was just a plant, that it didn't really matter, but as always, he was forced to live through all his stupid feelings whether he wanted to or not. Needled by the overwhelming sense that he was being irrational, that he should be better, he still couldn't help but plead for the life of a plant. "N-No, you don't have to do that-- if they're really such a bother, I'll just take better care of them! I'll make sure they don't spread anywhere!"

"Please, Pannacotta, you can't even take care of a violin. Why would I trust you with a living organism?" Her question was dashed with that agonizing little scoff-giggle. He knew she didn't intend to hurt him-- at least, he needed to believe that-- but it still felt so painfully, utterly derisive. With a noncommittal shrug, she preemptively gutted his will to contest her. "You ruin everything you touch."

Notes:

Titled after Please Please Please by Fiona Apple

Chapter 3: Meet The Chiaromontes

"You know that if she catches you, you're fired, right?" A blonde stood beside a brunette before the kitchen counter, lightly tapping her ankle with her foot to garner her attention. "Or worse."

The brunette held a whisk in her right hand and a bowl in her left, hair braided down her back to prevent it from getting into the food. In spite of the unwelcome commentary, she continued to mix the cake batter in her arms. "Report me or keep your mouth shut."

"Why risk your job for this?" The blonde tapped her ankle again, this time a little harder. "You know the rules-- he doesn't get any sugar from any of us."

"He's only ten," the brunette hissed, shifting her weight onto one foot to kick back fiercely. Her grip on the whisk tightened, and the pace of her stirring became more agitated. "Who doesn't let their ten-year-old son have cake for his birthday? It's cruel, it's inhumane, and at this rate he'll grow up to be a psychopath just like his mother…"

'Psychopath is a harsh word,' Pannacotta thought. That woman made the comment so casually, with such a dry disdain that he wondered if it had to be true. Intuitively, he had always felt something was off with her, though he hadn't the words to describe it-- but no, he couldn't think like that. She was his mother, and she loved him, even if she made him uneasy sometimes. Even if his greatest fear was becoming like her. Pannacotta began to grow self-conscious, fingers curling tighter over the doorframe and wondering if, by spying on the service staff, he was already halfway there. 

"Pannacotta."

The voice came from behind him. He flinched, heart rate spiking, its hurried little pitter-patter playing loud in his ears. With a breath, he collected himself and turned around to face his mother, easing the door shut in the same motion.

"Come," she nodded in the direction of the entrance. "We have guests."

 

In the foyer stood a strange man Pannacotta had never seen before. But even at a glance, he felt instinctively that he knew him. The man's long hair was the same shade as his, ends tinted redder with washed out hair dye and pulled into a ponytail that revealed his studded ears. The man looked like an older version of himself, Pannacotta thought-- not that he'd ever get away with growing out his hair or piercing his ears. However, the woman that stood beside him was completely unfamiliar. She had pressed, silky black hair down to her waist, dark skin, and when she turned to see him, a blinding smile. The man excitedly waved him over, and with a bit of hesitation, Pannacotta ambled closer.

"So, this is your nephew?" The woman eased onto her knees and scanned Pannacotta's small frame, gently pulling the little wrinkles in his suit flat before wrapping her arms around him. His arms remained limp at his sides, fingers curling, unsure of what to do with themselves. He didn't know her, but she acted like he did. "Oh, you're adorable!"

"Woah woah woah, you can't just hug him like that!" Pannacotta's uncle got down on one knee beside them. "He's a man now, he'll get the wrong idea. You gotta greet him like this."

He held out his fist, and Pannacotta, unsure of how to return the gesture, mirrored the motion after a second or two. When he did, his uncle tapped their fists together before flaring his fingers and making a garbled explosion noise with his mouth. Though he had no idea what was happening, Pannacotta mirrored him again, seeking some sort of approval or feedback. His uncle nodded and smiled at him, gleaming with pride that he'd taught him something new. Without intending to mirror his actions a third time, Pannacotta found himself smiling as well.

The rhythmic click of high heels heralded his mother's arrival, and the little smile that had found its way onto Pannacotta's face vanished. She stood behind him, stiff as a statue, looking her brother up and down before turning her cold and unflinching gaze to the woman beside him. "Who's your guest?"

Pannacotta's uncle stood, suddenly guarded, and hovered an arm to guide his companion to a standing position. "Immacolata, this is my girlfriend. Her name is Andrea."

"Nice to meet you." Andrea proffered her hand as a greeting. Immacolata's arms remained crossed tightly over her body, and she stared disdainfully at Andrea's outstretched hand as if the pigment of her skin would rub off on her should they touch.

"Andrea," she tutted. Her shoulders came up into a coy little shrug, eyes narrowing, and she gave her a rare smile-- but slight, fake, and not near large enough to risk forming wrinkles on her face. She was still a young woman, only thirty, but seemed ageless in a specific, vampiric way. "Isn't that a man's name?"

Andrea lowered her hand and continued to smile with the full force of the sun. "Not in America, miss."

"Vitale," Immacolata turned to her brother sharply, toying with the earring dangling by her jaw. "Can I speak with you privately?"

"Yeah. Yeah, sure," he replied uneasily. He reached for the straps of the large black carrying case he'd brought with him, set it vertically on the ground, and tipped it towards his girlfriend. "Do the honors?"

Andrea's hands came together in her lap, head pulling back as she gave him a look that was equal parts shocked and flattered. "You'd really let me?"

"Of course, baby." He smiled and gave her a peck on the cheek before following his sister to the other room, leaving the two alone to get further acquainted.

 

Pannacotta hadn't moved from where he stood, looking up as the strange new people in his life shifted around him. Andrea carefully braced against the tall case and got back down on her knees, carrying strap wrapped around her hand. "Your uncle tells me you like to play music. Is that right?"

Pannacotta wasn't used to being spoken to-- spoken at, yes, but this was much different. His eyes slid to one side, then the other, double checking to make sure that she was addressing him personally. "Yes, I suppose…"

"Well, he got you a little something for your birthday, and I think you're really gonna like it," she said with a sing-songish lilt. Andrea pulled on the strap, letting the case fall into her arms before laying it flat on the ground and undoing the latches. She lifted the lid, and in doing so, revealed a cherry red Stratocaster hugged by black velvet. With her megawatt smile, she looked back up at him expectantly, and unreasonably happy to be here.

Pannacotta extended his arms as if sensing the energy emanating from the guitar, wiggling his fingers and slowly tracing over the breadth of it. "Oh, this is… a little big for me."

She looked down at the guitar and pouted, then shrugged. "Well, I'm sure you'll grow into it."

His fingers curled into his palms. "I-I don't even know what I would play."

"He said as much," she tutted, gently feeling around the plush lining of the interior with a finger.

"Really?"

"Well, don't tell your mom I said this, but according to Vitale, she's 'a huge loser'. Again, his words, not mine," Andrea was quick to remind him. She found the spot she was looking for, hooked her fingers into it, and pulled. "I bet all you get to listen to is Mozart, huh?" Pannacotta nodded.

"Well, here's something new for you." Nestled inside the lining of the case was a walkman and a collection of cassette tapes, hidden like dangerous contraband. "All the rock greats-- at least, the ones your uncle thinks are the greatest. Aerosmith, Jimi Hendrix, Pink Floyd, The Rolling Stones, The Beatles, some others… I'll let you discover it all yourself."

Pannacotta eased down to the floor and pressed a finger to the lip of the secret compartment, widening it to see more of what was inside. Gingerly, he reached inside to take one, eyes flitting up for half a second to double check that he was allowed. She smiled still, but softer this time. 'Of course I have permission,' he thought, feeling like a fool. 'How could I possibly believe otherwise?'  

He picked up one of the tapes and inspected the art, checking over his shoulder just to make sure he wasn't being watched. When he spoke, he spoke quietly. "So, this is the kind of music he listens to?"

"Listens to, plays…" Andrea made herself comfortable on the floor, observing his behavior. "…Your mom doesn't talk about him a lot, does she?"

Pannacotta shook his head and picked up another cassette.

"You'll love him once you get to know him," she sighed. Vitale had warned her that he had a distant relationship with his family, but she had no way of knowing that it was near nonexistent. In these few minutes, she felt she'd learned more about Pannacotta than he ever got to, and didn't have a very good feeling about what she'd witnessed. "You'd better study up on those, alright? Cause once you get big enough to hold that guitar, you're gonna want something to play."

Pannacotta, in the middle of slotting a third, delightfully smooth case into his small hands, looked up at her. "...Do you think he'd teach me?"

"I know he would."

 

♡♡♡

 

"So…" Vitale kicked the ground. "How's Dad?"

"Fine," Immacolata shrugged. "Probably."

"...Right."

A plush, dull silence lingered in the drawing room. The atmosphere was warm and stagnant, nigh-imperceptible motes of dust suspended in the air. Rays of setting sun crept into the room, filtered through muslin curtains.

"Okay," he groaned, "just say the thing you dragged me back here to say."

"You need to end your relationship with that woman immediately."

"Absolutely not," he shook his head. "Anything else?"

"Oh, please, Vitale, just get it over with," she scoffed. "We both know you're not serious about her."

"Serious as a heart attack."

"I'm sure you say that to all the girls, but--"

After a second or two of digging in his pocket, he pulled out a ring box and presented it without comment. Immacolata nearly had a stroke right then and there, stumbling backwards, grabbing something made of glass, and launching it at his head. Vitale flinched in the opposite direction as it whizzed past his ear and shattered on the opposite wall. "Jesus, fuck!"

"You watch your language!" She aimed an accusatory, slim dagger-finger at him.

"Sorry! I'm sorry!" He threw his hands up in surrender and bowed his head. "Jeez, I hope Pannacotta didn't inherit your temper…"

Immacolata turned from him and began to desperately search for something, yanking drawers open until a little orange bottle with her name on it rolled out. She fell to her knees, shook two pills into the palm of her hand, and dry swallowed them.

"Hey, you're medicated now," he said gently, taking a half-step forward as if trying to comfort a feral cat. "That's good."

"This…" she looked up at him, gesturing at her throat," the effects aren't instant. So please, choose your next words wisely."

"I just…" Vitale wilted a bit, fiddling with his fingers. "I wanted her to meet my family before popping the question. Figured this was as good an excuse as any," he sniffed, looking down to the floor. "A birthday get-together for my nephew."

"Listen to me, Vitale." Immacolata rose from the floor and stumbled closer with heavy steps, craned over, hands fashioned into claws to better clamp down on his upper arms and squeeze. "You cannot , under any circumstances, marry that woman. She will never be accepted into this family."

Vitale looked at her with something just shy of hurt in his eyes. "…Is this about that gardener you had a crush on, from when we were kids?"

Her grip loosened. "...Excuse me?"

"Yeah, I remember," he mused, eyes clouding over. "He would care for the flowers, and you'd watch him through the windows. But then he went and got married, and just a few months later, you found someone to marry yourself. I get it," he nodded. "You never told that boy how you felt, and now that I'm marrying for love, you're envious."

"This has nothing to do with me," she replied, surprised at how calm she was. "Keep her as your mistress if you must, but your duty to this family is to sire a son who can one day lead it. Even if you don't love the one you sire him with."

"Like you did," he scoffed. Immacolata shot him a severe warning glare, but Vitale was too entrenched in his narrative to notice. "No one ever expected anything of you, you know. But you were always so desperate to be Daddy's perfect little girl, you couldn't resist the opportunity to fall on that sword before I even had a shot. I'm eternally grateful for your sacrifice, but if you truly love me, you will not condemn me to a hollow marriage like yours."

Immacolata seemed to shake for a moment. She took a breath and readjusted her glasses, eyes lost in the glare.

"S-Sorry, that was a little harsh, wasn't it? I didn't mean to…" Vitale suddenly felt horrible. Immacolata took several more seconds, looking down at the floor, pacing, covering her mouth with her hands. "I-If it's any consolation, it wasn't in vain. I mean, I guess I haven't seen much of him since he was born, but your son seems like a really cool kid."

Her hands traveled from her mouth to her eyes. She whimpered.

"...Is there something you're not telling me?"

Immacolata had slipped up in front of one of the few people able to question her. She eased close to the ground, curling in on herself, hugging her knees to her chest.

"C'mon, I'm your brother," he said as he knelt by her. "If there's anyone on this planet you can trust, it's me."

She sniffed and wiped her nose. "He's not my husband's."

"...What?"

"I know you heard me," she grumbled, glaring at him just enough to keep a tear from falling. Her expression of cold distaste cracked almost immediately, bottom lip trembling. "Oh, Vitale, I made a mistake. You have to understand, I was just so… so frustrated . I had done everything right, stayed celibate until my wedding night, but I couldn't… couldn't imagine sharing a bed with that man for the rest of my life."

"Okay," Vitale nodded in a show of understanding, despite the fact that he could barely comprehend. His perfect older sister, an adulterer? Once he was through being shocked, he'd surely respect it, but that would take a few minutes. "Okay, so, if he's not your husband's, then whose is he?"

"Well, if I had to guess, it'd be the young apprentice of the architect who designed this place," she murmured as she rested her arms on her knees. "It would certainly explain some of Pannacotta's… oddities."

Vitale blinked once at her, eyebrows slowly raising. "...'If you had to guess?'"

Immacolata shot him a glare that threatened imminent violence, and he changed tack. "Right, sorry, not the point-- does your husband know?"

"Yes," she sighed, "but he's not stupid enough to make a fuss over it. He always had his suspicions, but once, I allowed Pannacotta to run around outside without sunscreen. By the end of the day, he was just one big freckle. Fucking Celts," she scoff-laughed to herself. It wasn't really that funny. Her lips pressed into a grim line, and she cleared her throat to fill the silence where her little brother should have been laughing along with her.

"No use denying it then, not that it mattered-- even if Pannacotta was his blood, he couldn't be bothered. Useless man," she spat bitterly. The little flame of anger burning in her breast flickered out fast. It didn't matter how she felt about her husband. His incompetence didn't justify her infidelity. She grew quiet and solemn, staring through the hardwood floor. "...If anyone finds out what I did, it'll tear this family apart."

"No, nobody's gonna find out," Vitale quickly assured her, putting his hands on her shoulders and squeezing. "I swear to God, I'll take this secret to my grave. When I kick my air addiction, that boy will get everything that was supposed to go to me, and I just know that he'll do so much better than I ever could. You don't have to worry about how I live my life. Just raise him right. I know you can do that."

"…You're right," she huffed, bringing her lip back to bite. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"Holy shit, I never thought I'd hear you say those words…" Vitale murmured, before remembering that expressing astonishment at his older sister displaying a modicum of humanity was in bad taste. "Uhm, I mean, apology accepted. Thank you…"

"I just… worry about you sometimes," she said as she slung her arms over his shoulders and latched onto him like a koala, impressing all her weight upon him as her heels finally slipped out from under her and off to the side. "I've always been there for you, haven't I? I'm your big sister…"

"Yeah…" he nodded, trying to keep them both upright, still bewildered at her penitence. "Yeah, of course…"

"Why don't you and your girlfriend go to dinner, okay?" Immacolata pushed against him to stand up, sniffing and straightening out her pencil skirt. "We'll have dinner, and then everything will be right where it needs to be."

 

♡♡♡

 

"The first thing I did…" Vitale gestured at nothing with his fork, "was go to McDonalds."

"Such a stereotype," Andrea giggled and shook her head, politely covering her mouth as she spoke. "He was so proud of himself when he told me, too. I think he was trying to bait me into showing him what real American food tasted like."

Pannacotta was unaccustomed to lively dinner conversation, but quickly found that he liked it. He smiled and nodded along, happy to listen to their stories, interested in what the world was like outside of Italy-- hell, outside of his house.

For the first time in his life, the table was approaching full. After a solid decade of living like a peasant in New York, the idea of the service staff eating separately offended Vitale, and he insisted that they all partake of a meal together. Like Pannacotta, they contributed little to nothing in terms of conversation, but their physical presence brought a certain warmth to the room. He almost wished the gardeners could have come too, but they, like the tutors, didn't live on the premises. At the moment, he and his new family were joined in pre-dinner drinks by the chauffeur and butler, while the kitchen girls in the back scrambled to prepare a meal for eight. Immacolata, as well, was nowhere to be found.

"I mean, if I was , that'd be pretty genius of me," Vitale nodded repeatedly and took another sip of wine, "'cause then, you invited me to your house for a meal, and even though your family was still there--"

"Okay, that's enough of that!" Andrea reached for his glass, and he pouted, but let her slip it from between his fingers. "You sir, I'm cutting you off. No more."

"Right…" He wasn't so much nodding as he was drunkenly bobbing his head up and down for the sheer joy of the sensation. "Children present. Sorry…"

"You usually never drink this much," she frowned, tilting her head. "Something going on?"

"I grew up drinking this wine… and it's so good…" A little tear came to his eye, brows upturned. He looked just like a puppy. "Oh, I missed this wine, you can't get it in the states… Just try some, you'll see."

She shrugged, then took a sip, eyes widening. "My God, that is good," she concurred, "b-but you're clearly not savoring it like you should, so for now, I'll just be keeping this…"

"I can send you home with a bottle, if you'd like." When Immacolata approached the table with a covered silver tray in her hands, Pannacotta suddenly remembered his manners and straightened up.

Vitale twisted in his seat to look up at her like a child, melting over the back of his chair. "Where'd you go?"

" Well ," she rocked forward on the balls of her feet, "I know you've always had a sweet tooth. I felt bad about not including a dessert, so, I had the kitchen girls whip something up for you." She set the tray in front of him and lifted the lid, revealing a little cake for one. Pannacotta kept his mouth shut.

The cake's decoration, he couldn't help but notice, was distinctly inelegant-- shoddy and subpar, something the girls in the kitchen would sooner fall on their knives than serve. The uneven white frosting had a visibly unpleasant texture. His mother must have taken it off their hands and dressed it herself. Though Pannacotta knew it had originally been baked for him, he also knew it was never a guarantee that he would get to have any, and certainly, that it wasn't something worth making a scene over. He kept to himself and his glass, trying to put it out of his mind.

"Oh my god, for me ?" Vitale sniffled, pressing a hand to his chest and gripping the fabric over it. " Thank you…"

Rather than use his provided utensils like a civilized person, he picked the little cake up between index finger and thumb and took as big a bite as his mouth would allow. As he chewed, though, his face began to sour. "Oh, whoa, that's not what I thought that'd taste like…"

"Okay…" Andrea leaned in, encouraging him to finish his thought as he so frequently forgot to. "Then what does it taste like?"

"'S… kind…" he smacked his lips, "kinda… bitter?"

"Bitter how?"

"I'm n… I'm n' feelin sho… I think I needta go t'…" He faded faster than he could finish his sentence, falling forward with his eyes in the back of his head. Andrea yelped and grabbed her chest, lungs pained with sharp air, skin prickling with adrenaline.

"T-That's not funny," she panted, grabbing his shoulder and shaking it. Foam and saliva spilled from between bluish lips and down to the mirror-finish tray. She screamed, and after a second of idle panic, sat him upright and tried to keep him awake. Pannacotta didn't understand what was happening.

"I'll call an ambulance. You," Immacolata pointed at the butler, "take him out front and wait." On her orders, he rounded the table and dragged Vitale's limp body out of his seat, chair legs screeching loud against the floor before the whole thing toppled over with a bang. Made small with worry, Andrea closely followed them through the dining hall and out the door. Instead of making her way to the nearest phone, Immacolata waved the chauffeur to her side and began to walk in the direction of the kitchen.

In the span of a few seconds, everyone had left the room save for him. Pannacotta didn't know what he was supposed to do, who he was supposed to follow. He looked from one side of the room to the other, and though he had only just met his aunt and uncle, suspected that he'd never see them again. Joining them would do him no good. Ever the obedient son, he shakily rose from his seat and trailed after his mother.

 

"Oh, have you come to check on the food?" With the bulk of the work done, the girls had been taking turns tending the stove, chatting all the while. "Just five minutes, it should be ready."

Immacolata didn't reply. Wordlessly, she stalked the perimeter of the kitchen, her henchman blocking the exit with his body. By the sink sat three things-- a mortar and pestle with a dusting of white on the bottom, a steel bowl with grainy frosting spread on the sides, and an empty orange bottle with her name on it. She batted them all into the sink with a hefty clunk, and with her thumb, shoved the bottle as deep as she could into the drain before switching on the garbage disposal. There was a dreadfully noisy silence, and then it was over, shreds of plastic and paper lost to the pipes.

With a wordless gesture from his mother, the man Pannacotta had always and only ever known as a driver grabbed both women by their upper arms with a bruising grip, easy as picking up a shopping bag. They were shocked, but knew not to resist beyond the occasional question or complaint as they were dragged into one of the side gardens and flung carelessly into a bed of gardenias. Before they could stand and brush the dirt off their clothes, the man reached inside his coat and pulled out a gun.

Immacolata crossed one arm over her torso and propped the other on top, gently holding her chin. "Which one of you?"

"What?" The brunette was frozen in the position that she had been in when the gun was drawn, hunched over like an old crone with her hands hovering near her knees. "Which one of us what?"

"Which one of you made the cake?"

Her eyes were wide with disbelief. She didn't think the vague 'or worse' her friend had threatened would involve having a gun waved in her face. There was a certain weight to the question, an implication that she had made an error severe beyond her comprehension, and so she tried to gather all her thoughts before saying anything.

"It was her," the blonde blurted out, restraining the urge to physically point. Any quick movement might get her shot.

"Right," Immacolata crossed her arms and sniffed, nodding in the brunette's direction. "Her, then."

Having bargained someone else's life, the blonde stumbled past and back inside on trembling legs, hovering her hands over her face like bits and pieces would start falling off if she missed a step. The chauffeur aimed at the remaining woman decisively, drawing the slide back and eliciting a squealy peel of terror from her. She crumpled in on herself and covered her head with her hands, as if that would stop a bullet.

For a moment, he stayed his trigger finger, just long enough to get one thing off his mind. "Shouldn't the young master stay inside for this?"

Until that moment, Pannacotta was unaware they'd noticed him. It wasn't like he was trying to be stealthy, but their acknowledgment of his presence suddenly made this all so real. He wasn't just some intangible observer, and that realization bred the fear that the gun would be turned on him soon enough. People were dropping like flies, after all. Why wouldn't he be next?

"He's already seen one death," Immacolata murmured, bringing him close by her side and rubbing his shoulder. It was strange. She never touched him like that. She never touched him at all. "He's going to see many more in his life. When the time comes, he'll be a better leader for it. Right, Pannacotta?"

His cheek was pressed against the unforgivingly cold satin of her skirt as blood red, almond-shaped nails traced the crevices of his ear, scraping a wound into the side of his head. He clung to her thigh only to ease the wretched feeling, and said just what she wanted to hear. "Right, Mother."

 

Pannacotta bit his lip and held back tears. It was all he could do not to cry. The muzzle flash seared the image into his retinas, and after five or so blinks, showed no signs of fading.

Notes:

I love writing absentee parents because it means I get to do half the work :3
Also I posted this chapter last night after work but then after a brief readthrough, realized there was an error and panicked and deleted it... but now that I'm rested I was able to give it a proper readthrough
I know this is weirdly dense and maybe confusing but I wouldn't be me if I didn't shoehorn intrigue into my fanfiction

Chapter 4: I'm Warping Here

Summary:

I'd only ever do the perfect scissor kick on an empty pitch when there nobody cheering me on
Oh, I have lost my dreams for you boy
You should have known
It was the time of your life and it was gonna level out

He couldn't remember how to do it. Calculus was a cryptic language, sure, but one he'd come to know as intimately as his first. It was such a simple thing, too-- at least it should have been, but it was like he'd just blinked and lost the ability to comprehend his own handwriting. A deeply mad graphite screed stared back at him, illegible as a long dead language painted on a cave wall. How could he have possibly forgotten?

Pannacotta had to work thrice as hard as those twice his age to earn his place, he was sure. He couldn't afford to underperform in any area, even his entrance exams, and so his every waking hour was spent studying for them. All he'd ever wanted, his whole life, was to go to school like everyone else-- perhaps this wasn't exactly what he'd envisioned, and perhaps he was only allowed to attend in pursuit of official accreditation, but he couldn't squander this opportunity. He couldn't spend his whole life stuck inside.

Knowing what was on the line didn't help any. It still felt like he was swimming around in his own skull, trying to rein in a mind that raced nowhere, floundering hopelessly in a shallow sea of clouds. Maybe, if he took a few steps back, if he redid part of the equation, that'd jog his memory. He flipped the pencil in his hand and put eraser to paper, leaving behind a smear of blood and saliva. Confused, he blinked at the page.

There was a curious stinging sensation just above his upper right canine. He lifted a hand to investigate, but froze before it could go any further. What exactly had he planned on doing? Shoving his fingers in his mouth like a fucking caveman? Instead, he prodded at the sore area with his tongue, tasting iron.

Finally, the clouds in his mind began to disperse. His eyes were burning, lips chapped, hands shaking, and he hadn't eaten anything in hours, but wasn't hungry. Just nauseous. Even now, as his body began to fail him, he wanted for nothing.

On his desk was an untouched plate of ladyfingers. They didn't look particularly appetizing, but he still stuffed them in his face as quickly as he could without choking just to stop the nausea. Hardly able to think, much less write, he knew his studies would have to wait for the time being. Clumsily, he walked his gnawed-on pencil between his fingers to kill time, waiting for his body to stop devouring itself for nutrients. This had never happened to him before, not that he remembered, but for some reason, it came as no surprise. He stilled for a moment, directing his eyes out the window and to the approaching squall.

With the fog in his mind finally beginning to lift, he couldn't help but take a step back. Was this really what it was going to be like from now on? Would he regularly become so engrossed in trivial work that he'd forget everything, desire nothing, and starve to death at his desk? Well, maybe he wouldn't literally starve to death, but spiritually, it seemed inevitable.

Even in this ostensibly private time, unsupervised, behind a closed door, he couldn't let himself be. Couldn't follow his basest instincts without his superego mocking him in another's voice. What little mental energy he'd managed to recover in the moments prior had already been redirected to self-criticism, his mind a mechanism constantly, ceaselessly picking him apart piece by piece. His true self would be completely eroded, dead and gone, before he ever learned if it was a thing worth mourning. But maybe, that wasn't so terrible a fate.

Pannacotta could be defined by nothing beyond his intellect and his rage, and as he'd learned today, the former was no guarantee. He had no passions, no interests, nothing to contribute to society, and so believed that if he lost himself entirely, he wouldn't be losing much of value. So far, he had not lived a life worth saving.

For some reason, he had always trusted that things would naturally get better as he got older. That he'd fall in love with something, or someone, and it'd all be worth it. All he had to do was keep his head down and take it one week at a time. But now, it was starting to hit him all at once-- nothing was ever going to change. His best years were already behind him. He could've done anything when he was younger-- ten, eleven, twelve, it wouldn't have mattered in the end, but at least he'd have done something. He wished he'd treated his margin of error as a budget rather than a limit, pushed some boundaries, done something to regret-- sneaking out, stealing from his parents, risking it all for a girl he'd never marry. Sheltered as he was, he likely had all the charisma of a stale cracker, but knew his mother would ultimately arrange for him a bride whether he wanted one or not. Maybe by eighteen, maybe twenty-eight, he would be locked into a loveless power marriage just like his own parents.

That thought forced a cruel little laugh from him. Then another, and another, eyes overflowing, tears streaming down his face. The strange thing was, he didn't necessarily feel sad about it. He had no idea what he was feeling, in fact. A muddle of emotion so curious as rain under shine, knowing that while his near future was incredibly bleak, he'd at least have a midlife crisis to look forward to-- even if he had to live every excruciating year in the intermediary. But he couldn't just sit around and rot until then. He was suddenly overwhelmed by the urge to do something, anything , right now. Even with the storm rolling in, he needed to get some air.

He rushed over to his window and furiously fiddled with the latches, but couldn't seem to work them-- either he had been sealed in at some point, or was too fucking stupid to figure it out. He couldn't afford to be stupid, not when being smart was all he had going for him.

In the back of his mind, something snapped. The room started to close in on him, bland white walls turning red, air thin and unbreathable. Pannacotta grabbed his desk chair and hurled it at his window, wooden legs bowing and bouncing right off. Not to be deterred in his fit of rage, he hoisted it back up with a firm grip, bashing and bludgeoning with all his might until the glass began to chip, shatter, and fall. The nagging little voice in his mind had fallen silent. Simple, base directives guided him to clamber through the path he'd just made, slicing open clothes and flesh alike on the jagged frame. In that incensed state, he couldn't feel the pain, nor the miserably cold rain rinse away the blood.

Even after his feet hit the ground, he felt like he was floating. There was a bright flash of lighting, followed by a violent crack of thunder, rain pounding the lawn into a swamp and streaming across his face, wicking onto his eyelashes. The scene felt like so much, yet so little, and slowly, his mind began to clear.

Pannacotta didn't know exactly what his life would look like after he gave up. This, he thought for a moment, might have been the last time he'd ever feel this way. This ugly, visceral, violent swell of emotion, this upset, this overwhelm, was the last thing in this world that was truly his, and he would be more than glad to see it gone. But just for a moment, he needed to indulge it. Into the fleeting wind, he screamed himself hoarse, and then the storm departed.

Notes:

Maybe it's just getting to the point where you know it's gonna be like this from now on
Maybe I'm wrong
And I'm portraying someone I'm not
Maybe I'm not ever really home for long enough to stare my own eyes down, down, down
Maybe I'm wrong

All I know for sure is I'll sit this one out

| unrelated to my annoying ass lyricposting school starts tomorrow so we'll see how that affects my drop frequency

Chapter 5: Teacher's Pet

Pannacotta expected, perhaps naively, that college would be a place he could finally flourish, surrounded by his intellectual peers. He learned very quickly to never expect anything from anyone.

Perhaps it was just bad luck, but so far, he seemed to have only encountered the dumbest people imaginable; airheaded ingrates who didn't show up, didn't do the reading, and didn't participate in class as if they hadn't paid to be there-- rather, their wealthy fathers hadn't. Pannacotta's own enrollment was, admittedly, financed by 'daddy's money' as well, but he knew he could've obtained a scholarship if he wanted. The will to work was the only thing that mattered. Nobody seemed to take school as seriously as he did, and he found that infuriating.

Fury may not have been the correct term for it anymore. While his anger had not left him entirely, it seemed to have fundamentally changed character from a cycle of repression and meltdown to a more general irritation, so easily provoked by the arrogance of his classmates. Luckily, most of the resultant sparring was verbal. But only most of it. He had quickly developed a reputation for being combative, capricious, precocious, recalcitrant, and taciturn-- at least, those were the words he preferred over bratty, impulsive, try-hard, stuck-up, and moody. So what if the others thought him a miserable, catty shitmouth? (Better a shitmouth than a shitbrain, anyhow-- where else was he supposed to use all the naughty words he'd cached away?) It was good fortune that he hadn't come to this school for the express purpose of making friends, because nobody really wanted to be around him. Perhaps on the rarest of occasions, it may have stung just a little , but it didn't matter that he was despised by a bunch of know-nothings for being a know-it-all. This was the happiest he'd ever been in his life, in no small part because he had the favor of the one person who really mattered.

Out of all the students in class, he was his professor's chosen. The platonic ideal of a student. When that man called him remarkable, for the first time in his life, Pannacotta didn't feel like a specimen. This was the closest he'd ever been to perfect, which was why he was uncertain as to what had caused him to be held after class. As far as he was aware, he had done all his work on time and in an exemplary fashion. There wasn't much to criticize besides his attitude towards the others.

Pannacotta tried to get out in front of it. "Is this about all the fights I've been getting in?"

"What? No, no, it's nothing to do with that," the professor replied, shaking his head. "Frankly, if I could get away with smacking a few of my students, I would -- but I digress. No, it's another matter entirely. Come closer, you're not in any trouble."

Pannacotta approached the lectern, and the professor weighed a warm, broad hand on his shoulder. It was a bit strange, since they weren't all that close, but he didn't mind in the least.

"It's that… we're of a kind, you and I," the professor euphemized baselessly, waving his free hand around as if casting a spell. "People like us need to stick together, you understand?"

Pannacotta found himself, in an exceedingly rare occurrence, totally bewildered, and wary of giving a wrong answer. He pursed his lips and shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't."

"How to say this…?" The professor sighed and readjusted in his chair, looking up to the ceiling with his hand still firmly on Pannacotta's shoulder. "Pannacotta, you… you study harder than everyone else. That's why, though I know you don't belong here, you're such a pleasure to have in class. Maybe it's selfish of me to want you to stay, but nevertheless, I meant to ask; in the course of your readings, have you ever come across the Zanardelli Code?"

"Of course I have," Pannacotta nodded. "I've read it cover to cover."

"Well, then, I'm sure you'll remember. A hundred years later, it doesn't seem to be of much import, not when it's long since been replaced by the Rocco code, but -- it was the first legislature to bring uniformity to the rule of law in all Italy," he began to explain, setting a stage. Pannacotta nodded along to show he was engaged, feeling blessed with a special little microlecture in its own, rambling way. His professor, like any expert in any field, needed to be heard, to be listened to. On a very personal level, Pannacotta understood the frustration of not having that, and so was always happy to lend an ear. His efforts always brought a smile to that face, though it faded as the professor mentally conjured his next words. "Now, there was a certain law that was not altered, hardly even mentioned in the Rocco code, because it was simply too… icky to think about. This law being the law that legalized the activities of… those like us," he concluded, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Do you understand now?"

It took a few seconds to scan his memory banks, but then the realization struck like a sledgehammer. 'Oh my God,' Pannacotta thought. 'He's talking about homosexuality. He's using the word us.'

"...I thought you were married?" He squeaked out, shoulders tensing.

"Lots of us are," the professor nodded sagely.

Pannacotta had no idea what prompted this. The information the professor had just divulged could have ruined his marriage-- ruined his life , even. Through this, he was placing an immense trust in him, reaching out in fellowship and soft-spoken solidarity to try and offer his help. To do that required more than just good faith-- it required a high degree of certainty. Pannacotta, to his knowledge, was not a homosexual. But if he assumed he already knew everything, he would've made a terrible student.

"So," he shuffled awkwardly, staring hard at the floor before his feet. "You… You really think I…?"

The professor kissed his teeth, briefly looking him up and down before dispensing a half-hearted final verdict. "It's in the way you carry yourself."

Pannacotta's joints seemed to lock up. If that was true, he was fucked. This world was not kind to queers, real or imagined, and if his professor could come to a conclusion so easily, pick him apart with a glance, then who else? And what did life even look like from his point on? Pannacotta was still young. He didn't know if he was queer, but knew it wasn't outside the realm of possibility. Maybe, it wouldn't be such a death sentence if he had someone close by his side. 

Soon enough, he would complete this course and start the next. After that, graduate. But he didn't really want to move on. This was the closest he had ever come to a sense of belonging. No, he didn't know his own sexuality, but he couldn't afford to care in the face of this. If they shared a secret so grave, Pannacotta would have an excuse to stay nestled under his professor's wing well after he graduated. And maybe he'd soon be an apprentice, or a protege, even a surrogate son. He just wanted to be anything more to him than one student of twenty.

"I'll tell you what," the professor broke the silence with a smile, massaging Pannacotta's shoulder to bring him back out of his head. "Why don't we discuss this further over dinner at my house? There, we can speak freely."

Chapter 6: Oh Well

Summary:

What you did to me made me see myself something awful
A voice once stentorian is now again meek and muffled
It took me such a long to get back up the first time you did it
I spent all I had to get it back and now it seems I've been outbidded
My peace and quiet was stolen from me
When I was looking with calm affection
You were searching out my imperfections

Something was beyond wrong with him.

The inside of Pannacotta's left arm was mottled with bruises in every stage of bloom, one for each needle sent in search of the origin of his sudden, mysterious illness. His symptoms included fatigue, shivers, nausea, and though he could've simply had food poisoning, he'd been quarantined away as if suffering a plague-era wasting disease while a phlebotomist tried to figure out what was wrong with him. These lonesome days, with no start and no end, were spent cycling between the toilet and the sink, hoping to spare some of the enamel on the back of his teeth. In naught but a towel, he finished deep cleaning his mouth and spit white foam into the sink. When he straightened back up, he came face to face with the spectre of another in the mirror-- someone pale, gaunt, lifeless, giving him a dry and unnerving stare. To look at the thing that had replaced him was unsettling, but behind it, Pannacotta could see something even more sinister in the reflection.

His once-favorite suit hung on the back of the bathroom door, looming, and though featureless, it judged him harsher than the lifeless eyes of a hanged man. His mother thought the rich ruby hue awfully garish, but allowed him to own it at least. He had been saving it for a special occasion, something out from under her gaze, but now, it was as mundane as a uniform. It was imperative that he knew where it was at all times, and so hadn't allowed anyone to take or wash it-- and yes, it was a bit dirty, but at least it was his own filth. Every 'dinner date', he wore that same, unwashed suit, with the silent hope that it'd start to garner an unappetizing smell. But, as the professor was so keen to note, Pannacotta was still just a little too young to struggle with body odor.

It started innocently enough. That first dinner was so sweet. Pannacotta had never felt so truly free around anybody, and for the first time in his life, was able to vent about all the things he kept buried deep inside-- his frustrations, suspicions, speculation, the weight placed on him by his family, and the legacy he was meant to inherit. He felt weightless. So when the professor invited him for dinner the next night, he was more than happy to come back. It wasn't like his parents really cared what he did as long as they knew where he was, so night after night, Pannacotta returned to roost. He had forgotten entirely about that awkward, strained conversation that had landed him here in the first place, until he was casually reminded over dessert. Until he was convinced to try it 'just this once.'

It was… normal, wasn't it? Just flesh on flesh. All animals did it. And besides, the professor had said that young boys laying with older men was a tradition that went all the way back to the days of Rome-- so why did it feel so terribly wrong? Why didn't he have the stomach for it?

Though he had already diagnosed his sickness as one of the soul, he still allowed his mother to stick him with needles over and over and over. Better to pretend that he was suffering a mysterious affliction than tell her the truth. But he couldn't sustain this much longer. If he ever wanted to get better, stop losing weight, keep all his teeth in his face, he would need to put an end to his torrid affair. But first, he needed a bath.

He hadn't done anything significant since the last one an hour or so ago, but he just needed another. Knowing he'd find himself back in the tub soon enough, he hadn't bothered with moisturizing and let his skin dry and scale. It itched. He shed his towel, stepped into the basin, and began drawing up a torture chamber in which to immerse himself. Slowly, the tub filled with liquid hellfire, scalding his lower half and forcing pained winces and whines. As the waterline rose, the itching stopped.

Pannacotta took his loofah, a little body wash, and began to scrub his arms much, much harder than was necessary. There was a pressure inside that felt like it could only escape through broken skin. Normally, all he needed was soap to feel clean, but the excessive heat and agitation were necessary to feel pure. The thick lather formed a semi-soothing protective layer over him, sin seeping out through microscopic abrasions and dispersing into the bubbles.

As he began to adjust to the heat, it became harder to form coherent thoughts. He was starving, but not hungry, more than likely dehydrated, and boiling alive like a fucking lobster. The only thing keeping him from passing out entirely was the bassline of pain playing out on his skin. Slowly, he drifted into a dreamlike state, swept up in the fitfully babbling brook of consciousness.

The reality cemented in his mind; he couldn't tell anyone about this, not ever. He would have to take this secret to his grave, because if word ever got out, it would reflect poorly on more than just him. His entire family's reputation would be in tatters. To think, they raised a… a whore. He was a whore, wasn't he? No, he didn't like it, and he even said as much in the moment, but he didn't try to stop it either. He could have put up a fight. He could have screamed and cried and wailed and gnashed his teeth, bitten, scratched, clawed, but he didn't do any of that. He just let it happen. Let himself become the perverse plaything of a man with a wife and children all because he couldn't bear the thought of being alone. And he couldn't see a way out.

Pannacotta shrank, curling into himself and under the surface of the water, exhaling silver bubbles that trailed out of his nose and up into nothing. Distantly, he hoped that the water he found himself submerged in would extinguish the flame in his breast for good.

Deaf and blind, he could still sense the dramatic shift in light and air as the bathroom door opened. His heart pulsed so painfully that his whole body tensed up, rudely reminding him that he needed oxygen to survive. What the fuck was he doing? He bolted up out of the water, gasping, sputtering, spilling it over the rim and splashing it onto the floor. Immacolata stood in the doorframe, waiting for him to catch his breath and wipe his eyes clean before speaking.

"The doctors say they can't find anything wrong with your blood work."

Pannacotta stared blankly into the water. The refraction warped and foreshortened the image of his naked body like a funhouse mirror, drops of water falling from his hair and distorting it further. Below the surface, he could feel nothing but the heat, unable to tell if one part of him was touching another through sensation alone. Everything from the chest down felt like it was somewhere else entirely. He just wanted to stay in the tub.

"You can't miss another day of school, Pannacotta."

Even though he knew it was only a matter of time, it still hurt to hear aloud. He bit his lip and held back another gag.

"Yes, Mother."

Notes:

Oh, what a cold and common old way to go
When I was feeding on the need for you to know me
Devastated at the rate you fell below me
What wasted unconditional love
On somebody who doesn't believe in the stuff
Oh well
| Titled after Oh Well by Fiona Apple

Chapter 7: One Of My Turns

Summary:

I feel
One of my turns coming on
I feel
Cold as a razor blade,
Tight as a tourniquet,
Dry as a funeral drum

Somewhere. It was somewhere. He knew it was somewhere on this shelf.

He was so desperate to find the one book he needed that he could hardly slow down to read the titles. Right now, more than anything, he had to buckle down and study up. If he flunked out of this class, not only would he never live it down, but the resulting academic suspension would greatly offset his five year plan. He couldn't let some temporary rough waters capsize the whole ship.

"Pannacotta."

When he heard the voice from behind, Pannacotta seized up. He resented how little control he seemed to have over his body these days, taking a moment to remind himself that there was no reason to be scared. The professor didn't yet know he wanted to put an end to their affair, so he wasn't in any real trouble at the moment. All he had to do was properly manage his reactions for the next minute or so, and everything would turn out just fine. He took a sobering breath in before turning back and replying.

"Professor."

"We missed you in class today," the professor stepped forward, cocking his head and looking him up and down. "What are you doing here so late?"

"I'm working on the assignment due next week," Pannacotta said as he turned back to the bookshelf, searching swifter than before. "I couldn't find the right judicial precedent…"

"Come now," the professor tutted, laying a hand on his shoulder. Even through layers of clothing, it caused his skin to prickle. "I told you that if there's anything you need help with, you can come to me."

Once, Pannacotta had asked him what that tingling feeling was. Butterflies, the professor had called them, but they felt more like maggots. Parasites burrowing beneath his skin, eating away at him, trying to excise the sullied flesh. He needed to focus on finding the book. Once he found the book, he could leave. "I-I don't want to be a bother…"

A second hand joined the first, clamping down and injecting venom straight into his shoulders. Pannacotta immediately pulled the book his finger had been resting on the spine of and held it tight to his chest, anxiously raking his nails over the paper ridges.

"You're not a bother , Pannacotta." The hands pressed and shifted and contracted in a mockery of a massage, fingers so broad and clumsy Pannacotta wondered how they could possibly grade papers. "My job is to teach and lead young people like you," the professor said, leaning in to nuzzle up against him. He tickled his ear with scratchy beard hairs, blasting the side of his face with hot breath. "Why don't we discuss this over dinner?"

Pannacotta bristled all over. He needed to leave now , before the maggots rendered his arms unable to function entirely. "Please excuse me," he muttered under his breath as he broke free and made for the door.

"Now, wait just a moment," the professor pouted, reaching out for him. "I wouldn't mind telling you what's going to be on the next test…"

Pannacotta's feet seemed to stick to the floor. Had he been in a better state of mind, he wouldn't have considered it for even a second, but he was too shattered to study. Too distraught to focus on anything . There was no chance he'd be able to bullshit his way through a test of research and recollection. Cheating was the only option, and in that moment, he realized that this whole thing had been a transaction from the very start-- one at his sole expense. He felt so, so fucking stupid for not having seen it earlier. Even as his respect for the man dwindled, Pannacotta had always taken some small comfort in the thought that he was special. But he was just the easiest mark. If it wasn't him, the professor would have just chosen someone else.

The professor sensed Pannacotta's hesitation and moved in for the kill. "Oh, bunny," he keened needily, loosening his tie as he edged closer. "I've missed you…" 

"Stop…" This wasn't the time or the place. They were on school property. He wasn't wearing the red suit. "Just… please, stop talking."

"I just need something to tide me over until tonight."

"Stop talking," Pannacotta repeated. It wasn't as difficult to say stop as it'd seemed before, but his demands fell on deaf ears. "Shut up."

"All you have to do is relax… I'll be very, very gentle." The professor set a hand on his shoulder again, and Pannacotta snapped.

"BACK OFF!" With an iron grip on the encyclopedia, Pannacotta whipped around and caught him right in the face. The professor wavered a moment, then collapsed, hitting his head on the edge of a shelf on the way down. It made a loud, sickening crack, but Pannacotta couldn't hear it. In his heightened state, all he knew was that he wasn't done.

"YOU SICK FUCK!" Blinded by a visceral, simian rage, he regurgitated his own vitriol entwined with the professor's sick sentiment past the top of his lungs. "YOU STILL FUCKING WANT ME, HUH?! YOU STILL NEED ME?!"

Pannacotta proceeded to bludgeon him in the face until the crunching stopped. He derived no relief, nor pleasure from this, but the blind rage felt far better than the self-loathing would have. Even so, he couldn't sustain that intense fury forever.

"I trusted you!" Pannacotta's voice broke, strength waning, blows landing softer. There was something inside of him that he had allowed to rot for a very long time; it made him sick, made him weak, and now it was all for nothing. Foolishly, he thought he had been 'getting better'-- becoming a person more temperate, more patient, more worthy of love. He had gone so long without an outburst. Now, all his progress meant nothing. "I looked up to you… you subhuman, degenerate piece of shit…"

Pannacotta had expended more energy than he even knew he possessed. Lightheaded, he stepped back and caught his breath, dropping the book and experiencing true weightlessness for the first time in weeks. His trembling hands ached terribly, knuckles bloody, palms clean, face wet. He lifted a hand to determine if the moisture was blood or tears, finding the same shade of red on his fingertips as that which was ribboned across his chest.

In his periphery, the light shifted, and a horrified gasp came from the direction of the doorway. The police would be on their way shortly, but he couldn't be bothered to do much of anything about it. The grave he'd dug himself was deeper than he could have ever imagined. Since there was no getting out, he figured he might as well get comfortable. 

Pannacotta eased onto the ground, settling beside the bloody body like a trophy hunter with a fresh kill. In his last few moments of freedom, before being rent asunder by the very system he studied, he was struck with the sudden urge to write something. He reached into his pockets for a pencil and pad, pressing bloody thumbprints into the pages, still unsure of what he needed to put down. A confession? A defense? A preemptive suicide note?

As he pondered the question, his thoughts began to abstract, vision blurring, eyes stinging. Before he could even register it, he was chewing on his eraser again, the taste of iron spreading across his tongue.

Notes:

This fic is done now!! Lowkey insane that I did these last three chapters in like a week but that's the magic of procrastinating on something more important lol (I have so much textbook to read.......)
If you liked this fic (or hated it honestly) don't be afraid to tell me!! I like hearing what people have to say!!!| Titled after One of My Turns by Pink Floyd.

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Since it's the last chapter, I guess it wouldn't be entirely inappropriate for me to go into a bit of a personal anecdote. It's been weighing on my mind recently. This series has been brewing since 2019, as I'm sure you know. I was 14 when I started drafting it(the creation date on this doc in particular is actually Sept 10, 2019, so I would've been 15 at that point). Back in those days, I had a group of people who encouraged me to write, but eventually there was a big falling out that I don't really wanna get into. However, there was this one guy who I thought was cool with me after everything. He was in his twenties, and I looked up to him, and he knew that. It turned out that I annoyed the shit out of him, so he spread a lot of rumors about me behind my back(as well as some of the extremely sexual things I said that should've stayed secret because 1. I was 14, and 2. I was being encouraged to say those things by him and others), particularly about my fic writing to those who didn't know much about it. He portrayed this fic as pornographic(you've now read it, so you know that's not true lol), and when I learned what he was saying about me and my work, I felt obligated to make the document public so everyone could see that it wasn't what he made it out to be. It was humiliating, and I shouldn't have had to do that, but, I don't know. It's whatever now. As I came closer to writing this fic, I kinda dreaded it. It was a bit of a sore spot, but I did it anyways, and here we are. This is kind of my last fuck you to that guy. You didn't kill my passion, and I'm gonna keep writing whatever the fuck I want no matter what anyone says. The work speaks for itself.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of Awaken, My Love!