Chapter 1: You Do It to Yourself, You Do
Chapter Text
01.01.2003, 12:28 AM.
The distant shouts of a dozen drunkards echo in the streets of Napoli. Families and friends are gathered in the streets, and the last of the fireworks had only just finished a few minutes ago with a big finale that lit up the whole sky.
New Year's Eve is hectic. As it always is in Napoli.
Fugo isn't the biggest fan of it. The noise and smell of vomit and liquor aggravated his senses; he loathed it and could never understand the appeal of it. Liquid that burns your throat and insides in exchange for some inebriation was not worth the hassle for Fugo.
He makes his way to a nearby railing, his hair, unkempt, only swaying in the soft breeze. The weather today was nothing short of a miracle, after days upon days of heavy rainfall, the sky had been perfectly clear.
Fugo leans on it and looks up. This was his first time spending New Year's alone since he was thirteen. It felt strange not to have someone waiting for him at home. He won't open the door to his apartment and see Narancia there, trying to beat Mista in that over-the-top, gory game. He won't see Bucciarati and Abbacchio quietly talking about the future of their group over a glass of wine.
Fugo tries not to think about it. Thinking was his worst habit.
Mista and Giorno were out of the country on some business in America regarding the latter’s family. Giorno had looked quite…anxious about it, despite the stoicism he tried to mask that fear with. Fugo didn’t find it in himself to pry as he waved goodbye to them and Polnareff. The man–turtle had decided to stay alongside one of the Joestars, an old friend of his, for a few months.
He did feel a little down about Mista leaving again, since this was the second 'trip' he was on since early December. Not that his presence would've been warm or anything, but Fugo would take that over the lonesome night he's having. Mista's cold shoulder had grown familiar enough to the point where he found twisted comfort in it.
Fugo's eyes constantly darted to his phone. Despite how embarrassing it feels, Fugo still keeps waiting for the phone call Giorno promised. And yet, here he is. No phone calls. Nothing.
He hated promises. He hated how they'd keep him on his toes, how they weren’t as reliable as they should be. A broken promise feels so predictable, and yet it hurts Fugo all the same.
He doesn’t want to think about this. He doesn’t want to think at all.
So, his troubled mind took him back to last year’s New Year’s Eve party. Even though it wasn’t the best of memories to ruminate on.
This same time last year, Fugo had shared a meal with the two, alongside Trish. The atmosphere had suffocated him. The seeds of resentment and guilt still lay deep in his heart. He didn't want it to, but he couldn't help it. He couldn’t let himself be at ease around any of them, no matter how much he tried to.
It didn’t help that Trish didn’t like him. Mista was distant at best. It was only Giorno who Fugo could tell wanted him here, and even that was probably just an act of pity.
Fugo felt odd as the three of them conversed. It was all so light-hearted, as if this were another mundane year that passed too quickly.
But it wasn't.
Fugo couldn’t help but feel ants crawling under his skin while Trish and Mista were bickering about something that he half-listened to. He had proven his loyalty not too long ago. He pledged his life to serve Giorno's dream. He knew that in a sense, he was accepted among them. Giorno had invited him to this little get-together, after all.
And yet, he was an alien wearing human flesh, desperately trying to blend in among ‘friends’ as he fiddled with his food. All of it felt wrong, sitting there, acting as if everything was fine. Like the others weren’t dead–like Fugo deserved to be here, celebrating in their place.
It was all far too much.
Fugo got up, not as gracefully as he hoped to, and with a quick “I’ll be back,” immediately went for the door leading to the balcony. He needed a moment to breathe. And smoke.
Mostly smoke.
It had been a rainy day, as it often is in the Napolitan winter. Fugo gazed into the distance, watching raindrops hit the surrounding trees in small pitter-patters.
A sigh left Fugo. Why did he think this was a good idea? To come here, try to be amongst friends, pretend he was completely fine, as if nothing had changed in the past year?
He hastily reached into his pocket and pulled out his cigarette. His thumb pushed back the lid and the cigarette butt met his lips in no time. He reached into his other pocket for his lighter and –voila.
Smoking was a habit Fugo picked up when he had to go into hiding. He didn’t want to do it; he wasn’t stupid. He even loathed the smell it'd leave in his mouth, finding it to be beyond disgusting. And he knew that looming consequences would overshadow any current bliss he felt. Bucciarati had told him so, so many times.
Warning a teenager of smoking while said teenager was in a gang was pretty odd. But Bucciarati was a pretty odd man.
If all things ceased to exist and there was a single lily left in a decayed world, that’d be him. That was the kind of man Bruno Bucciarati is– was. A force of good where evil ran rampant, where evil meant comfort and stability.
Bucciarati was everything that Fugo was not. And yet, it wasn’t Bucciarati who was here. It wasn’t Bucciarati who got to witness Diavolo’s drug empire crumble and shatter. It wasn’t Bucciarati who saw drug-addled children slowly start to disappear from the streets of Napoli.
It was Fugo.
The same stabbing pain that’d haunted Fugo for the past year returned, and he found himself trying to focus on the distant trees. As if running away could save him from the dark cloud forming above his head.
A gentle knock on the balcony door startled Fugo, and out of instinct, he dropped his half-used cigarette and crushed it under his shoe.
“Fugo? Could I come in? Or out, I guess.”
Giorno’s muffled voice carried his usual nonchalant tone, and Fugo couldn’t help but tense up a little. He had gotten up and left abruptly without a proper explanation. He didn’t even think about how that might’ve come across.
Ungrateful. Spoiled. Uncaring,
“Yes…”
Fugo didn’t turn to look as he heard the door open gently. If he didn’t know Giorno was there, then he wouldn’t notice his presence. Giorno could sneak up on anyone. It was off-putting to him when they had first met. Fugo didn’t take kindly to uncontrolled environments. But he got used to it with time.
Giorno appears next to and leans on the balcony railing.
“Smoke break?”
Obviously, the smell still lingered. Fugo nodded. It’s silly for a gangster to feel ashamed of smoking; it really was. He’d done things much, much worse than that.
Silence loomed over them for some time. Fugo only looked ahead, staring at the drizzle’s last breath as the rain subsided.
He, for once, doesn’t find the silence overbearing. Usually, even if he was alone, he’d think of a million different things to occupy the hush surrounding him. If it got too quiet, then his mind would go to the most horrible of places, best left untouched.
But this was different. Giorno was different.
“How was New Year’s before?”
Fugo stiffened for a moment, the question catching him off guard; “Before?”
“With the others."
“Uh, well…”
For someone who dwelled on the past so much, his brain curled in on itself in a desperate defensive attempt to lurch away from these memories. To relive these moments was to remember that these moments were gone . The people attached to them are dead or changed, and Fugo doesn’t like change.
But he didn’t find it in himself to say that he didn’t want to speak of it. It felt childish and ungrateful; how could he repay Giorno’s endless grace towards him with refusal? He couldn’t.
“Um, Bucciarati took us all out to one of Narancia’s favorite restaurants…La Trattoria, I think,”
He paused for a moment, the sickeningly sweet weight of the memory choking him under it, “He really, really wanted a mushroom pizza tower. They didn’t even have that on the menu, and he ended up begging the owner, who was a friend of Bucciarati’s. We had to help him finish it because, obviously, he couldn’t finish all that. It was horrible, I didn’t want to look at anything resembling a pizza for a month.”
He still remembered Narancia’s pouty face as he hunched over, complaining that his belly was going to burst. He cried at Fugo, promising him to do extra chores and work harder on his homework. He didn’t, of course. But it was hard to refuse Narancia sometimes.
Giorno turned to him and gave him a small smile that made Fugo’s heart skip a beat, “I can’t imagine Abbacchio was all too happy about it.”
“He wasn’t. But he still tried to help.”
The permanent scowl on Abbacchio’s face only deepened with each slice, and Fugo remembered this little smile that adorned Bucciarati as he looked at him before snapping a group picture of them. He pretended not to see anything, not to see the affection that brewed between them.
“After that, we went to the bridge leading to Castel Dell'ovo. It was the best spot to watch the fireworks. Narancia and I listened to some of his favorite songs, a Snoop Dogg album, I think.”
“No Limit Top Dogg?”
“Yes, you listened to it too?”
“The cassette was in his room. I saw it after we came back from Rome.”
“Oh.”
After Rome. After their deaths. Before the funeral that Fugo missed. Fugo himself went when he came back. He felt out of place being there again, knowing the owner of all that lay there wasn’t going to barge in any second. He didn’t dare to take anything except a pair of orange-shaped earrings—the ones Narancia had sloppily made to match Fugo’s strawberry ones.
He shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. It’s perhaps the next part of the story that he dreaded recounting the most.
“We watched the fireworks together. Narancia and Mista roped me into this pact. If we all…made it to 20, then we’d go on this road trip across Italy.”
God, he didn’t want to remember that. It will be 2002 soon, Fugo will turn 17, and Mista had turned 19 this December.
Narancia would never turn 18. 19. 20.
A grimace overtook Fugo’s face before he could hold it back, and he tasted the same poison he’d drink every night on his tongue. Narancia was a good person, as good as any of them could be. And yet, he too didn’t survive the ordeal with their previous boss.
Fugo fought the urge to reach for another cigarette, settling for burying his hands in his pockets while Giorno looked at him expectantly.
“And then?”
“Hm?” Fugo blinked, not expecting him to still be curious. “Well… We went home and then slept. Nothing interesting, really.”
Fugo didn’t want to tell him what really happened.
He wasn’t the biggest fan of touch, even before what happened when he was 13. Sudden touch was an unwanted guest in his life. Something he had to put up with because of his family’s reputation.
After what had happened, any physical touch started to burn his skin. Every touch had a motive behind it. A terrible one. It made him embarrassingly jumpy. So, it took him a while to trust any of his fellow team members.
Narancia had always been touchy–a clingy ball of unhinged energy. But beyond the first time he'd tried to hug Fugo–and received an unceremonious punch–Narancia respected his little personal bubble. Sometimes.
And that night, Fugo just…didn't mind it. For once, the warmth of another person didn't seem menacing. It was welcoming. Sometimes, he could still feel Narancia’s lithe arms wrapping around him, his head resting on Fugo's chest.
But Fugo won't say any of that.
“It sounds rather lovely. Maybe we could visit La Trattoria sometime, all of us. If you'd like.”
Giorno sounded…unsure. Fugo didn’t know what to make of that. Was it pity that drove Giorno to try to make him feel better? Or was he just saying whatever pleasantry came to his mind?
“I… there's no need for that, GioGio.”
He doubted that Mista and Trish would want to join them, anyway.
“Why not?”
Fugo's thumb dug into his palm as he moved back a step. Giorno glanced at him, a look that Fugo saw as another extension of his pity. Giorno stayed quiet for a moment and looked at the balcony floor as if contemplating what to say next.
Fugo must have put him in an awkward position. Of course, he did; all he ever did was create inconveniences for others.
Giorno’s eyes were unfocused, and Fugo didn’t mean for his gaze to linger, but he couldn’t help but watch as the other teen’s face faltered, falling into a small frown.
He must hate him. He must. Fugo just had to be so stupid. Why’d he even say no to his goddamn boss? He should’ve just kept his mouth shut–
“Fugo, you remember what I told you before, yes?”
His spiral is paused. How could he forget? That day had been etched into his mind.
How his walls had crumbled down under the crushing weight of grief and regret. He could’ve sworn that Giorno's presence was so overwhelmingly radiant that Fugo couldn’t help but yearn to step into the light that surrounded him.
"Half a step, if you can't take a step forward, then I'll step halfway to you. Everything hinges on your decision, but if grief anchors your feet, then let me share it."
Fugo felt he might have finally understood what went through Bucciarati’s head and why he had pledged himself to that boy’s dream. Fugo couldn’t help but want to share that dream, too.
“I’d like to think that you know me better now and that it’s clear that I didn’t say that for nothing. What’s really bothering you?”
Fugo stared at him, the words stopping before they could leave him, as if there was an invisible barrier in his throat, choking down anything he wanted to say.
He didn’t understand why Giorno cared. He pledged his loyalty, and he served him well. They weren’t qualified to be friends. No, Fugo couldn’t possibly see Giorno as a mere friend. Not after everything he’d done for him. He was so much more than what Fugo could ever hope to be.
He was willing to live on autopilot, day after day, indulging in whatever routine would distract him from all the horrible things that dwelt in his rotten mind. As long as he could be of use, that’d be enough for him. He doesn’t need friends, and he certainly can’t reconnect with Mista. Trish was out of the question. Fugo was sure she wanted nothing to do with him. Sheila was perhaps the only person he’d consider a friend that he felt close to, but her company, too, had felt unearned.
It was all out of his reach. In a way, Fugo felt like that was what he deserved.
“You don’t…need to worry about me.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we? Don’t friends worry about each other?”
He ponders what Giorno says. He doesn’t believe a lick of it, but he couldn’t say that to Giorno’s face. Not when his sage green eyes searched for something in Fugo’s crimson ones.
“I…”
Brrriing! Brrriing! Brrriing!
Something yanks Fugo away from that balcony. A ringing that grew louder and louder by the second.
He’s not even on that railing he’d rested on. He probably wandered around while his brain was buried in that long-gone evening. He looked at his watch. 12:39 A.M. Ten minutes had passed in a blink.
The phone was still ringing.
Though his hand moved, Fugo felt there might be a different force in his head controlling it. As if his brain is stuck between that balcony and the smell of liquor in the air surrounding him. Some liminal space that was out of reach.
Once he snapped out of it, the sound gave him a little rush. Had Giorno remembered to call, after all? He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his Nokia. The caller ID causes him to do a double-take.
Trish?
Fugo's brow rose as he hesitated to answer, his thumb hovering over the green hard plastic as the screen illuminated his face.
Trish never calls. Never calls him, to be precise. A thousand different thoughts run through his head before he answers. Was she in danger? Has someone discovered her ties to the mafia? Was someone out to hurt her?
He clicks and holds the cell phone to his ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Fugo. It's Trish!” Chirpy. She was entirely too chirpy. She's probably okay, then. He still wanted to ask, though. Just to be sure.
“Hi, is everything okay?” He asked slowly.
“Yeah, everything is fine. I just finished performing at this New Year’s Eve special! What about you? What did you do?”
Ah, that's why she sounds so chirpy, Fugo thinks. Trish’s career as a pop star was blooming, not to anyone’s surprise. Of course, a good sense of style and a pleasant voice will make half the country love you.
“Uh, nothing much. I just watched the fireworks from the docks.”
“Seriously? You didn’t like, go anywhere?”
Where would Fugo go? And what was that tone? Is she looking down at him? She already hates him. Of course, she would look down on him. Fugo bites back any harsh words that threaten to leave him and stays quiet for a moment. Luckily, Trish continued talking before he said anything stupid.
“Do you wanna hang out or something tomorrow?”
Fugo pauses, getting increasingly more confused by this entire ordeal.
“Huh?”
“Wanna go to Libeccio? Mista took me there a couple of times. Haven’t been in there in a while, though. I kinda miss their crab salad. Wanna get brunch there? Around 11?”
Fugo’s brain short-circuited.
He admittedly found himself a little lonely despite solitude being his oldest friend. Giorno isn’t around. Mista wouldn’t want to speak to him. Sheila E was busy running Passione in Giorno’s absence. He should be fine on his own. Fugo wasn’t a child.
But the idea of spending one of his ‘vacation’ days (forced courtesy of Giorno, of course) with someone didn’t seem all too bad. He was planning on spending the day with his head buried in whatever interesting book he could find. One part of him yearned for this mundanity, for sitting around in Libeccio with nothing better to do. As it was before.
The other part was…hesitant. Why would she want to be with Fugo? She hates him. And he wouldn’t blame her for feeling that way. Did she want something? A favor?
Despite half of his brain screaming at him to decline, he mutters, “Uh…sure?”
“Huh? I can’t hear you.”
“Yeah…Yeah, sure, why not.”
“Okay, great! Want me to pick you up?”
Fugo didn’t want to imagine an awkward car ride alongside an awkward brunch.
“No, it’s okay. I can meet you there?”
“...Yeah, sure.”
Her tone was a little different, and it sent his belly into a frenzy. It is ridiculous. Trish wasn’t his friend; they were glorified acquaintances at most. So why did he care if she sounded off all of a sudden?
“Okay, see you tomorrow, Fugo. Bye-bye!”
“...Bye.”
Fugo buries the phone back into his pocket. Nothing about this bodes well, but he pushes all anxieties gnawing at him aside. This had been a long day, and Fugo wanted to retreat to the haven in his mind.
With slow steps, he headed back to his apartment, a fresh cigarette in hand.
There was no phone call from Giorno that night, but a simple text.
–Happy New Year :) Sorry, I couldn’t call. Got Busy. I’ll call later.
02.01.2003, 10:28 A.M.
Fugo arrives 30 minutes earlier. The clear weather from last night is gone and replaced by rainfall, for which he had gotten his polka-dotted red and white umbrella out.
His pale white hair rested neatly in a loose, low ponytail. He wore his usual holey suit and a tie that was tucked on the inside. Small orange-shaped earrings adorned his ears and comforted him through the pit brewing in his stomach.
Despite his well-put-together exterior, the heaviness that he carries in his eyes betrays any illusions of him having his shit together.
He found it hard to sleep with all the thoughts causing a ruckus in his mind and decided to read instead. Not the smartest idea since he hardly got enough sleep as it is.
At least he got to reread Dinotopia. A book that Narancia, out of all people, had insisted he read. It didn’t matter how much Fugo would insist it was a childish waste of time. It was what his parents always said–anything that wouldn’t help improve their image was an utter waste of time. He carried their upbringing with him without even realizing it.
Narancia had organized a very effective math homework strike until Fugo bent to his will and picked up the damned book.
He couldn’t put it down until he’d finished. And it was the same for every reread. Granted, his love for the story now was accompanied by the memories of late nights where Narancia rested on his bed while Fugo read the story to him.
Those moments were long gone.
Instead of Narancia’s messy room, the same old forest-green door stares back at him as he hesitates to enter Libeccio. He hadn’t been here in a while. Not since he officially got accepted back into Passione. One too many memories of carefree days made him reluctant to wander around these parts.
Fugo looks at his phone one more time before entering. The last message was still from Sheila.
have fun :P tell me how it goes F2F
She had poked him with nosy questions after question last night–the problem with living so close to her meant that he couldn’t easily escape her. Sheila knew him all too well, as much as he despised it. And she could read the anxiousness in his face.
He heaves a sigh and closes the umbrella, shaking off the extra water before pushing the door open. The aroma of roasted garlic, fresh bread, and grilled tomatoes invaded his nostrils, making him stop in his place.
Bittersweet. It is simply bittersweet.
He hadn’t been back here in over a year, and yet nothing had really changed. The chairs look slightly different, a dark brown instead of the bright red shade that they used to be. But it all felt different.
He places his umbrella in the stand near the entrance.
The man behind the register is still the same person. A man named Federico. The same man who had once threatened to call the authorities on him for dining and dashing. It felt as if it that was a lifetime ago now.
His eyes light up in recognition when they fall on Fugo.
“Ah, Signore Fugo, it’s been so long, happy new year!”
Fugo awkwardly shuffles towards him, offering a small smile when he notices the man doing the same thing.
“Happy New Year. How have you been?”
Federico chuckles, “I’ve been alright! The business’s been doing okay, thanks to Signor Giorno’s generous donations. My daughter just started kindergarten. It’s been a nightmare.”
Fugo cocks his head, “Why do you say that?”
“My wife and I aren’t used to her being away for half the day. Sofi isn’t either. It’s been difficult sending her there when she cries every morning… but ah, that’s nothing important. Children will be children. Eventually, she’ll get excited to spend time with people her age. So we’re just trying to help her get to that stage.”
Must be nice. When he was a child, he thought school would be a pleasant escape from home. And it was for a while. But he was a difficult child, socially at least. He found it hard to tolerate it when people pushed his buttons. That meant the number of friends he had was few.
That was when he started detesting going to school. Not just because people didn’t want to befriend him, but because everyone liked to bully the boy whose family tried so hard to appear uptight. Noble. Obviously, his parents didn’t care about any of his concerns; they just dropped him at school and told him to deal with it.
“...But yeah. Sorry for talking your ear off, Signore. What would you like to order? We added some new things to the menu! Would you like anything in the meantime? Ginger lemon tea?”
He remembered his usual order. Something about that spreads warmth through Fugo's chest.
“Yes, thank you. Is the table still…”
“...We don’t usually reserve it anymore unless Signore Mista asks, but it’s empty right now. If that’s where you’d like to sit.”
Fugo nodded and headed there, his body moving out of years-old instinct that he thought he’d forgotten. The table was there in the corner, still facing the fireplace.
It was hard not to remember the many days he spent here. First, alongside Bucciarati. Eventually, Abbacchio had joined, much to Fugo’s initial dismay. Then came Narancia, the first person that Fugo considered his best friend. Mista was added to the bunch a year later, and it was like he was always there with them.
But now, staring at this table, there is only Fugo.
He sits down, hands delicately resting on the wooden table and tapping it every other second. His legs bounced up and down as he looked around the place.
The sound of heels clicking across the wooden floor snapped his attention to where he had come from a moment ago. Ah. Trish arrived early, too.
She looked at him with a small smile, and Fugo couldn’t help but notice that she was sufficiently…underdressed, for Trish's standards, at least. She wore a simple black fur coat with a white turtleneck and high-waisted wide pants. Her usual whirl was nowhere to be seen, and her hair swayed as she sat opposite him. With dark shades on. Inside Libeccio's.
“Uh…”
“Don’t. I didn’t want to deal with anyone approaching me today, especially those paparazzi creeps. Ugh, they’re the worst.”
“Oh, do they bother you too much? We can deal with them–”
Trish cut him off, her eyes wide open, “No! I mean, no, it’s necessary. They’re annoying, but I’d rather deal with them than have some weird conspiracies surrounding my name.”
…That was true.
“Sorry, I just spoke without thinking.” Not everyone was as accustomed to violence as he was.
Trish waved him off, the same small smile returning to her face, “Don’t worry about it. So, how have you been? I haven’t seen you since last…,” she taps her chin three times, quickly thinking of their last interaction, “June.”
Fugo’s shoulders relaxed the more she spoke. The conversation isn't as tense as he had pictured it would be. It is just a little awkward.
“Things have been fine. I don’t think you want to know too much about Passione's inner workings, so I’ll spare you the details.”
Trish nodded. “I see. Well, I wasn’t asking about the business , Fugo. I was asking about you.”
“Oh.”
Fugo blinked at her, not knowing what to say exactly. Despite her relaxed appearance, Fugo still felt a tinge of anxiety, among other things. This was the same girl whose life he said he didn’t care for. That she wasn’t someone worth risking the wrath of the underworld for. And she was sitting right across from him.
But she was also someone who, deep down, Fugo still saw as one of the forces that separated his family from him. She was only 15, and Fugo knew, he knew that it wasn’t her fault, and it made the guilt fester even more in his chest.
“Uh, I’ve been okay,” he lied, “Just been… going through the motions, I guess.”
Trish squinted a little, seemingly unsatisfied with his answer. The look made his skin crawl, and he averted from her sharp gaze. Why was his brain making this so difficult?
Silence loomed in the air. Trish looked at him expectedly, her long pink nails tapping the wooden table at a steady pace. Fugo wanted to crawl away, his mouth struggled to form any words, and his brain went blank.
Before either of them can say anything, Federico comes with a small porcelain cup and places it in front of Fugo. A spicy and earthy aroma invades his senses, and the smell helps calm his nerves. The tingling in his fingertips lessens as he wraps his hand around the cup and feels its warmth.
“Signorina Trish, it’s good to see you back!”
Her rigid look melted in the face of the man’s friendly demeanor. Trish smiled at him, the brightest she’d been since she sat across Fugo.
“Federico! It’s been too long. You recognized me?”
Federico laughed, “Signorina Trish, with all due respect, I would recognize that shade of pink from a mile away.”
“Ugh. Goddamn it.”
Fugo wasn’t aware of this familiarity between them, so he stayed quiet as Federico moved to give them both their menus. Trish stops him, waving her hand slightly before chuckling, “There’s no need for that. I just want my usual.”
“Ah, crab salad. Any drinks?”
“Mineral water, please.”
Federico turned to Fugo and gave him the menu. The teenager grimaces inwardly, an uneasy feeling washing over him. He turns his attention toward the menu, his bony fingers digging into the glossy paper.
It is different, a new version with improved designs and fancier pictures. A certain dish grabs his attention; a dish that his nonna would make and force a sweet piece after a sweet piece into his mouth every morning. Raspberry Jam Bomboloni.
He misses it.
“Raspberry Jam Bomboloni, please.”
Federico leaves them with a smile, and Fugo stares into his ginger tea.
Why did it bother him that Trish was so familiar with the place? More familiar than he was now, even. It was so ridiculous. So what if she came here more often than he did?
Fugo looked up from the cup, lifting his gaze to meet Trish’s. Her eyes stare him down, clearly searching for something.
He, in turn, desperately searches in his mind for a topic for them to talk about. What does he have in common with a larger-than-life pop star?
Close to nothing. But he remembers a thing she mentioned, at least.
“How was that New Year’s Eve show?”
He takes a sip of his tea, the liquid burning as it makes its way down his throat. Trish smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Yeah! It was this New Year’s special for MTV, I saw so many people–celebrities, fans, it was amazing, honestly.”
That wilted smile remained. Fugo finds it hard to believe her when her voice is detached from what she's saying.
Their orders arrive.
The conversation sails not so smoothly afterwards. Pauses that grind his bones, undesirable answers that cut the conversation way too short, accidentally talking over one another–they all pile up over the other in his mind.
Trish's energy wanes the longer it goes on, and soon enough, she's pushing her plate away.
“Wanna walk outside?”
They walked under the protection of their umbrellas, Trish's bright pink one bumping into his every other step they took.
“Giorno’s been telling me about flowers and stuff.”
“Is that so?”
“Yeah! I never saw someone be so passionate about flowers and their meanings. It's cool. He taught me a lot of new stuff, you know?”
Fugo slowly nods.
God, the thoughts swarming in his head, screaming at him, were utterly pathetic. So what if talking about flowers wasn't something he did to Fugo and Fugo alone?
Fugo is not jealous. He had no reason to be.
“Yeah.”
“Mhm. We should come here now and then, you know? Maybe all of us.”
Trish speaks, but her voice doesn’t quite reach Fugo's ears. He fades in and out of the scenery around him, the sounds not proving to be grounding enough for his fickle mind.
Coming there, all of them? The idea of it felt wrong. As if he were replacing the people who surrounded him at that table two years ago. He wouldn’t. Couldn't.
“...Earth to Fugo?”
Fugo jumps, and a tap to his shoulder forces his eyes to focus again.
“Huh? Uh, sorry, what did you say?”
His reply elicits a sigh from the pink-haired girl, who abruptly stops in her place. Fugo pauses a few steps away and tilts his head at her.
“Trish?”
“Okay, Fugo. Can I ask you a simple question?”
“...Yes?”
“Do you hate me?”
His body grows rigid, and his breath catches in his lungs.
“Huh?”
“Do. You. Hate. Me? I just want your honest answer. Because I've been trying to talk to you for the past hour, and all I'm getting is silence with a side of nods.”
Fugo blinks at her, mouth opening and closing, words failing him repeatedly as he struggles to answer.
Yes. No. Not anymore. I hate you. I hate myself. I hate what you took from me. It wasn’t your fault. Every time I look at you, I remember that they’re gone. Because of you. Because of me. Because I was a coward.
The storm in his head rages on, a typhoon charged with thoughts best left buried, yet nothing leaves his lips. It's only the sound of rain and cars passing by that fills the space between them.
“Because I feel like I’m really trying here. Do you know how it feels to extend this olive branch to a person I know chose to abandon me? Do you think I’m completely fine? Because newsflash Fugo, I’m not fucking fine. I don’t appreciate you just being this corpse around me or the others.”
The confusion in his mind quickly melts into frustration, “It’s not that simple–”
“No, Fugo, it is that simple. I won’t say we’re best friends, because we’re not. We’re hardly friends. But even I can tell that you’re barely here, even if you’re physically here, it’s like you’re somewhere else entirely. Like a dead man. We’re all worried about you. Mista. Giorno. Sheila. It’s like you’re so hellbent on being so fucking miserable that you can’t even see how everyone is making the effort for you– ”
Too much, it was all too much. As always, Fugo feels anger embrace him with the familiarity of an old friend. He felt overwhelmed and small, as if Trish was looking down at him. Seeing him as this ant that she needed to crush under her heel.
“You don’t know me!”
His outburst cuts her off, and he stares at her, eyes wild like those of a cornered animal. “You’re right. We’re not,” he emphasizes the word, “Friends. You don’t know me. I don’t– I don’t want to hear any of this from you, of all people!”
Trish's face paled for a moment as if she knew exactly what he wanted to say. What he thought of her.
As soon as her face fell, it was as if she slipped on a mask seamlessly. The vulnerability, the fear, they all disappeared once again.
Trish gave him a sharp look.
“Yeah? Me, of all people? Just say what you want to say, Fugo.”
Fugo feels himself shrinking under her gaze, a part of him desperately didn't want this moment to happen at all. That part wanted him to seal his mouth shut, to stop him from saying what would ruin any possible future for this relationship.
The other part screams. Gnaws. Hurt her. Hurt her like she hurt you. Tell her what she's so scared to hear–what she probably already knows.
Fugo always went against his better judgment, didn’t he?
“You're the reason ‘things’ are the way they are! So yes, I hate you. I hate you, Trish. I hate that they had to die for you. I hate that,” Fugo pauses for a moment, the words lodging in his throat like bile, sickening him and yet refusing to leave.
I hate that Bucciarati chose you over me.
He couldn’t say it. But those words leaving him took a large weight off of him. He felt like he could float. He carried the most horrible of things in his heart because Fugo was a horrible person. And he hated how the first emotion that waved through his head after spitting all that venom was relief.
It doesn’t last for long, though. Guilt crept into his body when his anger-induced haze cleared up a little and he looked at Trish.
Trish’s eyes widened, her breath hitched for a split second as she struggled to keep that same cold mask on. Her lower lip wobbled slightly, and a sheening gloss draped over her eyes. She took a deep, shaky breath.
Then, she just laughed.
It started as a little snort that turned into a full-on cackle, as if Fugo told her the funniest joke in the world. He blinked, not knowing what to do or say. A frown appeared on his face. His anger hadn’t dissipated. Was she laughing at him?
“What’s so funny?” he asked through gritted teeth and clenched fists.
Trish stopped laughing and covered the lower half of her face with her hand. She looked directly at Fugo, smiling at him despite the tears threatening to fall down her face.
“You really are a dickhead, aren’t you? A dickhead, a coward who would rather blame me for his own fucking mistakes instead of admitting that he just let everyone down. You chose not to get on that boat, you chose to leave your family behind, and guess what, that's also why they’re dead! You can say that I’m the reason things are the way they are, but at least there isn’t always something wrong with me, god, you’re just so miserable. No wonder Bucciarati didn’t even speak about you after you left. Must have been happy to cut his losses short.”
Fugo’s blood ran cold. Trish breathed hard, her lips pursed as she stared at him with disdain. Before he could even think to say anything, Trish turned around and started walking away, her heels echoing with each puddle she stepped in as she slowly disappeared into the distance.
He stood there for a whole minute, not fully processing everything the girl had said.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.
He wrapped his arms around himself, his breathing turned shaky bit by bit until his shoulders trembled. Her words echoed in his mind, no matter how hard he tried to push them away. He could feel them taking hold of him, nestling in the most rotten corner of his mind.
Fugo wasn’t crying. His eyes remained dry. The same old instinct to bite down on his hand came back, and he didn’t bother fighting it this time.
He shouldn’t have said what he said– no, he shouldn’t have agreed to this to begin with. What the hell was he thinking? In what world would this have gone well? He was the idiot for hoping it would.
Fugo wanted to punch himself for thinking he could have anything nice. Anything he wouldn’t ruin.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit!
His brain was turning to mush with the million things he was thinking about all at once. Fugo shouldn’t think too much. It was his worst quality.
With each heavy step he took, his body grew numb. His consciousness took a back seat, and his limbs moved on autopilot. He still held the umbrella up, but it would sway from time to time with his dazed mind. Some cars honked too loudly, vendors called out to him, but Fugo couldn’t register much of it.
He had retreated into a safe blanket, detaching from his body and shutting out everything, even his mind. All that remained was emptiness.
Chapter 2: It Wears Him Out
Summary:
It's easier to run away. Fugo told himself that the violence he enacted in his 'work' would be the only good distraction he could afford. Like many things in his life, it doesn't go according to plan.
Notes:
Sorry for what I put Fugo through in this chapter ;-;
Warnings: Fugo's anger issues, kidnapping, various methods of torture (mental and physical), even more dissociation, hallucinations, Fugo does NOT have a good time in this chapter. This is straight up whump.
The chapter title is from Fake Plastic Trees by Radiohead c:
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
??.01.2003, ??:??
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Blood drips from the boy’s nose and hits the metallic floor, loud enough to echo through this tin can. Fugo isn't sure if the sound is coming from his blood or the water running down from his head.
His head hangs low, and the strain of sitting in this rusty chair for the past god knows how many days makes it hard for him to pull himself up. Fugs was someone who prided himself on his immaculate posture–he couldn't even look straight right now.
Someone twists a fist around his wet white hair, yanks it from the root, and pulls his head up.
“C'mon, do you want me to pull another fuckin’ nail out? Don't go dying on me before you tell me the boss's stand, asshole!”
Fugo can't look at the man clearly anymore, his eyes too swollen from the beatings he had to endure. His breathing is shaky, his teeth rattling as he shivers from having his head submerged in freezing water over and over.
The ringing in his head intensifies when the man's fist meets his face again. Bile rises in his throat, threatening to leave his body if the pain and nausea from days of eating scraps for food don't stop.
It didn't stop. Of course, it didn't. The men enjoyed using him as a punching bag–he was the bastard who killed their friends after all.
His Purple Haze had reduced them to piles of unrecognizable flesh in a matter of seconds. The boy could hardly remember their faces; all of them were mere targets who were nothing but a name attached to an order of execution. The moment he turned to leave, he dismissed their dead bodies from his mind. It was the only way he could live with the things he did.
The vomit passes through his esophagus, and his stomach contracts when the man delivers a kick to his belly. Empty yellow bile hits the man's shoes and pants and soils Fugo's shirt and pants as well. It seeps through the holes in his suit onto his skin. The foulness of it all makes him want to vomit again. But nothing comes up.
“Ugh–Motherfucker!”
This time, he aimed a kick at his head, and the force of it sent him tumbling sideways with the chair. The side of his head slams against the floor, his entire weight falling on his earrings for a split second before it shatters, and the metal piece attached to it digs into his skin and breaks through.
He doesn't have time to realize that one of his last mementos from Narancia is gone, because the nausea in his body builds up into a concentrated pinch where everything spins in circles. His muscles contract. Then…
Nothing. Spotty stars overtake his vision, and the tension in his body immediately evaporates. A warm heaviness falls over his bones as everything trickles away.
The last thing Fugo thinks is how he's going to die in pain, alone and covered in his own vomit. It isn't that far from what he imagined.
04.01.2003, 3:03 PM.
It’s still raining. A guard stood outside the door. Fugo was all too familiar with him; he had accompanied them on many meetings before. Emilio simply smiled and let him enter Giorno’s office.
“You're still on vacation.”
The place exudes piercing warmth even with the boy's absence. The dozen potted plants and his precious vivarium made this place seem more like an enchanted castle rather than the home office of a don.
Sheila E sits in Giorno's seat all too comfortably, sinking into the cushion as she looked at Fugo, face muscles stuck in an utterly bored expression.
“Yeah. So?”
“What do you mean, ‘so?’ Go home! You look like shit. Jesus, have you been sleeping at all?”
Fugo rubs his knuckles with his thumb, fingers begging to dig in and make new, fresh scars. The gloves he wore to hide the scars from the past few days stop him from doing just that.
“I'm fine. You said there are some Diavolo loyalists trying to stir things up?”
Sheila's deadpan look tells him clearly that she's not buying it, “Seriously? You're gonna dodge my question? Fine. Yes. They're taking advantage of Giorno's absence to find other ‘like-minded’ people.”
“Okay. I can deal with them.”
He says it without thinking. Fugo doesn’t want to think at all. It is his worst habit. So he'd rather throw himself right back into ‘work’.
People loyal to Diavolo could pose a problem if their little group kept expanding. Many people find the allure of the drug trade all too enticing, especially the money they'd be able to swim in if things were to go back to how they were.
So, his job when people tried to stir the pot was to put them down. Plain and simple. Death and decay were second nature to him after all.
Still, saying it out loud stirred something in his belly. A life is a life. And despite being in this business for this long, seeing the effect his stand has on people made his stomach churn. To know that power over life fell into his hands in the most foul of ways–it made him sick.
“Giorno left me in charge. And I'm telling you to go take a nap because you really do look like shit.”
Sheila is stubborn, and Fugo knows that all too well now. The girl is the picture of childish blind resolve, and once she sets her mind to something, she refuses to back down.
But so is Fugo. His fists clench into tight fists as he knits his brows.
“Sheila.”
“Pannacotta.”
The girl steeled her face. Fugo mirrored her.
“Just tell me their names.”
A tinge of suspicion made its way to her face; her eyes squinted a little, “Why are you being so insistent?”
The words in his mind remain there, grabbing onto him, digging their claws in, and refusing to leave. He couldn't say it. He couldn't repeat all the poison brewing in his head. Instead, he speaks through gritted teeth, desperate to find any distraction that would pull him away from his own head.
“Because this is literally my fucking job, Sheila.”
“Okay, and you’re supposed to be on V.A.C.A.T.I.O.N. How are you supposed to deal with anyone when you’re half-dead yourself? And god, what's with that smell? How much did you smoke?”
“I don’t appreciate you just being this corpse around me or the others.”
Trish’s words echoed in his feeble mind. She was viewing him the same way, wasn’t she?
The way she looked at him, with her nose upturned and lips pursed. Giorno left her in charge. And she determined that Fugo is just too inadequate to even do the one thing he knows how to do. It all burns at his skin, making his frustration and paranoia blend into a fiery rage, as they always do.
His fist meets the table, and a loud thump! Bounces off the room walls. The corners of Fugo's mouth pointed downwards as pain shot through his not-quite-healed hand. He suppresses the rising pained hiss in his throat and raises his voice.
“Jesus fucking Christ, just tell me! Are you trying to piss me off?!”
Sheila stares blankly at him.
“I’m pissing you off? You’re acting like a fucking idiot. Stop annoying me; I’m not telling you shit.”
He opens his mouth, ready to fire any rebuttal his brain might conjure, but he knows, he knows the words he would say would just be a byproduct of frustration and a lack of sleep. So, his hands speak instead, and his fist meets the nearest wall.
It’s easy to let anger cloud his judgment. But it’s then, when pain shoots through his hand, that Fugo feels grounded, as if that pain physically removes weight off his shoulder.
He needed to calm down. His mind goes to the exercises he’s so familiar with.
Inhale.
- 2. 3. 4.
Exhale.
- 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.
Inhale.
- 2. 3. 4.
Exhale.
- 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.
Fugo's eyes meet Sheila's. The usual shame and guilt that accompanied his bouts of anger followed.
“...Sorry.”
Sheila rolls her eyes, “Whatever. Just go home and rest.”
Sheila never cared much about his outbursts. The girl had seen many worse things that hardened her in ways Fugo didn’t like to think about. So, it didn’t surprise him to see her pay no attention to his outburst and stand her ground. It didn’t make him any less of a dickhead, though.
Moving a mountain would be easier than changing her mind. Fugo relents for now, albeit begrudgingly.
“Fine.”
“Did something happen with Trish?”
Fugo pauses. Sheila doesn’t wait for him to respond.
“You’ve been acting extra weird since you guys hung out.”
“Nothing happened.”
That day occupies his head enough as it is. This was supposed to be his escape, and if it couldn’t be that, then he didn’t want it to be another detriment that'd make him spiral more than he already does.
There’s a pregnant pause, but Sheila’s deadpan voice doesn’t miss a beat before firing more accusations his way.
“So, it’s a random coincidence that you two just stopped answering texts and calls after that? And–”
“You wanted me to go home and relax, right?” he says, cutting her off, “I’ll be going now. See you.”
He doesn’t wait for her to speak, turning on his heels and leaving.
05.01.2003, 01:00 A.M.
Broken glass, shattered plates, and knocked-over books and clothes littered the apartment. A dozen cigarette packs were all over his bed and floor. It made the boy’s skin crawl, and his affinity for cleanliness screamed at him to do something about it—to push himself off his bed and deal with the filth surrounding him.
Fugo doesn’t. All he feels capable of is lying down and staring into the darkness of his room with his lungs burning. He doesn’t want to open the blinds. He doesn’t want to look outside. He just wants to remain here, hidden in this little corner where no one and nothing disturbs him.
It’s both a bliss and a curse. The heaviness in his bones doesn’t want him to go anywhere; it doesn’t want him to talk to anyone. It just wants him to be this miserable wreck in the comfort of his very controlled environment. And yet, he craves a shoulder to lean on–to show his miserable self without rejection.
“No wonder he never even brought you up. Must have been happy to cut his losses short.”
Perhaps Fugo is too miserable. He wouldn’t blame Bucciarati if he never spoke of him again. He didn’t betray the mafia, but he betrayed the man who saved him.
Of course, he wouldn’t blame him. Fugo was a miserable child who grew into a miserable teenager. He was quick to anger, so easily irritable, always afraid of people's intentions towards him, and ever so paranoid.
Who wouldn’t be happy to be rid of that? Out of Fugo’s own accord, too.
His mind was wandering there again. To that image of Bucciarati on the boat, to his words. To Fugo’s fear, his cowardice as he watched everyone fade into the distance. Trish had described it best; he was a coward.
A ringtone snaps Fugo out of his trance. He reaches for his cell phone and looks at the caller ID with half-opened eyes. One glance manifested that same old irrational paranoid coil in his stomach. He picks up immediately.
“Hello?” His voice sounded much too hoarse, “GioGio? Did something happen?”
“Ah, nothing happened. It’s not too late for you, is it?”
“It’s 1:02 A.M. here, so it’s around 8:00 P.M. for you, right?”
“Oh,” his tone turns apologetic, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know the time difference was that much. Were you sleeping?”
“No, don’t worry about it. Did you need something?”
“I just wanted to check up on you. How’s the time off? Enjoying your vacation?”
Giorno sounded off. Usually, his poised voice speaks in a soft tone that always manages to make what he says sound right. Correct.
Fugo doesn’t comment on it. He can't, can he? Even though it eats at his insides. For one, he can't be talking back to his boss, his don. For the other, he can't just say, ‘Hey, I hate that we haven't talked in the past few days, and I want to know why your tone sounds off. You said you’d call on New Year's Eve. Why didn’t you? Do you hate me? Did I do something wrong?”
He isn’t a child, and he feels ridiculous for thinking like one.
“It's been…okay. What about you? How are the Joestars?”
Giorno doesn’t answer immediately, and Fugo worries if he’s overstepped by asking.
“...it’s been fine. The Joestars have been kind to me. New York is nice, too. Mista and I were walking outside yesterday, and we saw a rat, a giant one, steal a pizza slice off the side of the road.”
The way Giorno shifts the topic doesn’t fly over Fugo’s head, but he decides to leave it at that. Maybe the Joestar family wasn’t what he imagined them to be. Or maybe Giorno just didn’t want to tell him.
“A whole slice?” he questions, that same fatigue still embedded in his voice.
“A whole slice. And not just a normally sized one, it was one of those New York pizza slices. Mista thought it was a stand user.”
Fugo hears a distant, muffled Hey! And Giorno’s soft chuckle follows. He hears some garbled noises as if someone is whispering just a little too far for him to catch what they’re saying.
“Huh? Mista, I can’t hear what you said. Oh, yes, yes, he says he’s okay.”
Fugo chews the inside of his cheeks. Why was Mista asking how he was? Where did this bout of concern come from? Fugo knew well that Mista hated his guts. He wouldn’t bother asking about Fugo. Unless…
Sheila E. Of course Sheila would report back to Giorno like a diligent dog, of-fucking-course. He didn’t tell her anything, but his lack of response was very telling.
“You two don’t need to worry about me, GioGio,” he stumbles through his words, spitting them out too quickly, “I’m fine.”
You don’t need to go out of your way to ‘check up’ on me.
Was that the only reason he called?
“I know I don’t have to, I just do, I’m glad you’re okay, though,” he pauses, and there are some more distant gruff voices, “Huh? Oh, we’ll be there in a second, Mr. Joestar.”
He knows this is the cue to the end of their brief conversation, and he loathes how his insides twist because of it.
“Okay, sorry, Fugo. We’ll come back in two days and I’ll see you then. Take care.”
“...You too. Bye.”
A beep signifies the end of the call, and Fugo tries his hardest not to fall apart. A density overcomes his senses. The way he craves Giorno’s presence when he’s at his worst feels beyond humiliating. The way it didn’t feel reciprocated absolutely killed him.
He didn’t think to bring Fugo with him. He didn’t call Fugo on New Year’s Eve. He only called now because Sheila probably told him Fugo looked like shit.
Why did things have to be so complicated? He craved Giorno's presence; he wanted to bask in his radiance more than anything in this world. And yet Fugo couldn’t have that. He shouldn’t have it.
It wasn’t much better with Mista. The gunslinger's words to him more often than not seemed laced with poison. He knew Mista didn’t like that Fugo got accepted back, and he knew that Mista didn’t like that Giorno tried to mend things between everyone.
Once, he used to be someone Fugo saw home in. He can’t go back to that home anymore.
Then again, another part of Fugo doesn’t blame him or Giorno for how they feel about him.. He is very easy to hate. But these two extremes of wanting and rejecting a person’s presence with so much intensity made him sick.
His brain was splitting in two. He needed to do something. Anything to pull him away from these thoughts. He looks at the clock on his wall, and an idea comes to him.
Fugo grabs a coat and heads back to Giorno’s Villa.
05.01.2003, 03:32 A.M.
“Signore Fugo, did you need something?”
Emilio stands between him and what he needs. Fugo’s bloodshot eyes stare into the man as he figures out an excuse. Sheila was home around this time, or at least in one of Giorno’s spare guest rooms. So, he wouldn’t need to deal with her for now.
“Hello. Just needed to deliver some things.”
“At this time?”
Fugo suppresses the urge to curse under his breath, “Yeah. Just…finished going over this paperwork.”
Emilio stares him down, and the tall man eventually smiles and nods. Fugo wonders how in hell he bought that excuse. Hell, he was on ‘vacation’. But he won’t question it too hard.
It takes a short walk down the docks, but Fugo now stands near where rumor has it this little group meets. He found a vantage point above one of the abandoned warehouses.
This is where one of them waits for the accomplices. Interrogation was sure to take a while, depending on the group’s loyalty. However, his Purple Haze was enough of an immediate threat to make people speak most of the time. He became a bit of an unofficial interrogator.
But Fugo wants this to be drawn out. He wants it to last until his ‘vacation’ is over, so he can fully thrust himself back into work immediately.
He looks down at the file in his hands and takes a drag of his cigarette. There was only one name that the internal investigation had brought up as a suspect.
Anelli Manganiello. 21 years old. Joined Passione at 16. A low-ranking soldato without anything notable in his record. His stand, Judas, was close range with the ability to turn the food in people's stomachs to lead. Luckily for Fugo, he hadn’t eaten anything since yesterday morning, so this stand was useless against him. Blonde. Butterfly tattoo. Bad tan.
Anelli seemed like someone who followed Passione’s every rule until someone tipped off Sheila to certain meetings being held in the docks, opposing Castel dell'Ovo.
The clock ticked. It was 5 in the morning. Fugo could see a man standing at the end of the docks. Blonde, horrible tan, butterfly neck tattoo. Anelli.
Some alarm bells ring in Fugo’s head, which he quickly stifles.
The man only stands at the edge of the docks and smokes, with no sign of accomplices. He could still question him.
Fugo crushes his cigarette under his shoe. He leaves the rooftop and heads down.
This seemed all too easy. A voice kept yelling at Fugo in the back of his mind to stop. To assess. To think. But he wouldn’t. He only stubbornly pushed forward, desperate for a reprieve that would save him from the overwhelming numbness in his mind. It was as if his mind was a rock at the bottom of a waterfall that was taking the potent force of the current, eroding it bit by bit.
Trish’s words, the way Giorno twisted his heart apart and mended it back together, Mista’s distance and anger, the reflections of his family he kept seeing in the mirror–they all mushed in his head, making it impossible to just think.
So he doesn’t. Why should he? It’s his worst quality. He just walks.
He summons Purple Haze.
The checkered stand appears in a flash. Once, its presence was chaos incarnate. Now it simply appeared and followed Fugo like a dull ghost.
A sound startles him. It comes from a small distance and echoes in the mostly empty docks.
“Panna, are you here?”
Fugo freezes. That was Mista's voice calling to him in a great degree of alarm. He follows the direction of it with his eyes, and they lead him to a dark alleyway.
How long had it been since Mista called him that?
“Mi…Mista?”
“Panna, dude, we were looking for you! Everyone's waiting, we can't be too late for that reservation.”
Fugo's head is spinning. This didn't make any sense. Giorno said they'd be back in… a day ? he wasn't sure.
“Weren't you supposed to come back tomorrow?”
“Yeah! But we didn't want too much time to pass since New Year’s Eve. We didn't celebrate it together this time, so we thought we'd come back early and go to La Trattoria together! C'mon, Panna, we missed you.”
Fugo is positively reeling. Something in the air fills his chest with roses and poppies; now that he thought about it, he couldn’t smell the salty sea at all. Whatever inclination he has for violence slips from his mind.
Did they come back for him? Mista was speaking to him? They were all going to be together again?
A rush makes his body tingle as he steps closer to the alley.
“La Trattoria? Really?”
He feels like a child asking.
“Of course, dude! It'd be like old times. Let’s go already!”
There is a hand sneaking around his mind, an inkling that Fugo could almost sense if it weren't for the calming night air around him. He steps into the alley, and Purple Haze follows suit.
Mista is there. He smiles at Fugo, opening his arms wide and waiting for his hug. Mista loved hugs. Fugo didn’t. But Mista gave the best hugs. He did miss them.
He doesn't question Mista's change and steps even closer.
Fugo felt Purple's Haze presence disappear from behind him. No, not disappear. It was more like something had subdued the stand and forcibly put it to sleep.
Before he could react, something hard connected with his head, and his knees just gave out underneath him.
He falls to the dirty ground, and the last thing he sees is Mista shedding his face and turning into a pink humanoid figure with a broken heart for a head.
“Wow. It actually fucking worked.”
??.01.2003, ??:??
A slap awakened Fugo.
His face scrunches, and he goes to lift his hand to press on the pinching pain in his cheek. But he can’t. Something splinters and burns his wrists when he tries to move. Fugo’s eyes open, and he’s greeted with flickering lights and the hazy image of two men.
He blinks twice more. The blurry images clear up.
One is Anelli, and the other, Fugo, isn't sure of his identity. The man has long curls and a snake tattoo on his left arm.
“Signore! You finally woke up!”
Fugo summons Purple Haze. Or tries to.
The ties binding his soul to it are blocked for the first time since the stand first appeared. It isn't gone; that much Fugo can tell. But it isn't within reach either.
Purple Haze doesn’t appear.
His heart drums in his chest, the sound echoing in his ear when he realizes just how incapacitated he is right now. No stand. No movement. Shit.
The man with the curls chuckles.
“Hmm, you must be wondering why you can't summon your stand. Am I correct?”
Fugo doesn’t answer. Only glares. At that, Anelli slaps him again. “He asked you something, asshole!”
“Oh, Anelli, don't worry, I'll explain. Pannacotta Fugo,” he pauses and steps closer to the boy's face, “You work under the man who killed many, many of our friends. You killed our previous boss, Signore Volpe. You must be wondering how you ended up here. Foolish Heart!”
When he spoke the name, a neon pink figure with long stretching tree branches with Foxgloves growing for hands and broken hearts for a head appeared before Fugo.
The moment the stand appeared, the tightness in Fugo's chest lessened. He felt an invasive force enter from his nostrils and reach his brain, forcing him to relax. After a moment, the thing started changing shapes.
Bucciarati. Abbacchio. Narancia. Mista. Giorno. Trish.
They all appeared in flashes as the thing spoke conjuncted words, each one overlapping the other. Fugo’s breathing hitches.
“I love–you were a good kid–It’s not your fau– of course I want to be around– It's not your fault.”
“Woah. A mentally challenged teenager is a high-ranking Passione member. Who would've thought? This is my Foolish Heart's ability. The moment you smell its fragrance, your most desired dreams are in my palms to use against you. Of course, the nectar it releases into the air mellows your mind. Like a honey bee to a Venus flytrap. You were too easy, though.”
His hand twisted around Fugo’s jaw, and his skin recoiled at the foreign touch.
“Then came Anelli's part. His stand, Knocked Out, has the rare ability to put stands to sleep and make their users unable to access them for some time. But of course, it came with the condition that the stand user must already be malleable. We hit the lottery with you. We do make the perfect pair, don’t we, Amore?”
Why stand users feel the need to over-explain unasked things is something that Fugo will never understand.
“Oh, Dolce, your plan was so brilliant! Now, Signore Fugo. We’re not bad people, y’know? We just need some information from you. Just tell us what the boss’s stand is. We might be nice enough to make your death less painful than that of our friends.”
Fugo doesn’t speak.
The man with the curls, ‘Dolce,’ nods his head to Anelli. To Fugo’s surprise, they both back off.
“We’ll give you time to think, Signore Fugo. We’ll be back later.”
And just like that, the two men leave Fugo tied to that rusty chair in this tin can of a room. He breathes. In and out.
He had to think. They explained their stands. If his brain isn’t malleable, then he could, in theory, break free from the stand’s power, right? All he has to do is just be fine. Normal.
Fugo closes his eyes and tries to focus, but all that fills his mind is that sick fragrance and the echoes of a thousand images of his family. Especially the ones Foolish Heart just reflected.
He hadn’t seen Bucciarati, Narancia, or Abbacchio for over a year and a half by this point. He couldn’t push aside the melancholy making its way into his heart.
He doesn’t know what time it is.
Fugo tries to push himself off the chair, but all it does is send him tumbling sideways. He squirms, and the ropes burn his wrists until his skin breaks, but it’s no use.
He sits there on the floor and thinks for a very long time, so long that his eyes flutter shut. Even before they brought him here, he had hardly slept.
He doesn’t sleep for long. There’s a loud, piercing noise encroaching on his consciousness and a sharp sting on his cheek. His eyes snap open, and his heart beats out of his chest. Dolce stood atop him, leaning down with a bell in his hand.
“Now, now. Signore. We can’t have you sleeping when you’re supposed to be thinking, can we? Or perhaps you have made your choice already?”
Fugo doesn’t speak. The man shrugs, pulling his chair back up in faux kindness.
“Our patience has a limit, Signore.”
With that, he leaves him alone.
It keeps going like that. Fugo stares at the wall. He might try to move now and then, but it doesn’t work. He falls asleep, and he’s awoken by that ridiculous bell ringing in his eardrums. Questions are asked and ignored. Fugo stares at the wall. He tries to move, but it doesn’t work; he falls asleep, and he’s awoken.
The smell of a meadow on the first day of spring doesn’t leave. It only incapacitates him as his skin tingles. His eyes burn as if they’d pop out at any minute. He isn’t sure how much time has passed, but he knows he isn’t sleeping enough. He can’t be.
His head rolls back. His eyes are unfocused, looking so deeply into the peeling gray on the wall that Fugo thinks the paint might just be moving.
It doesn’t stop. He knows it won’t stop until he tells them what they want to know. And there are moments when they speak to him and he’s so far gone he doesn’t understand half of what they’re spewing. He almost–almost breaks. But he holds his tongue.
He’d never betray his savior again.
He wonders how much time has passed. Is Giorno back? Is he looking for him? Does anyone know he’s missing? Does anyone care? Were they laughing at his stupidity? Were they just glad he was gone?
Fugo starts seeing things. At first, it’s shadows in the corners of his eyes.
Now it’s Bucciarati staring at him from the dark. Just staring. Looking. Judging him for what he’s done.
“Bucciarati?”
He asks out loud, a whisper so hoarse someone would mistake him for a dying man.
Bucciarati doesn’t speak to him. Of course, he doesn’t. He’s mad at him, isn’t he? But Bucciarati never let anger or disappointment come between them. Never. Yet he didn’t approach Fugo at all, only stared at him.
God, he needed a cigarette.
Fugo wanted to stop looking at him, this image of Bucciarati that had nothing of his warmth. He wanted to close his eyes and pretend he wasn’t there. But they’d wake him again if he closed his eyes. Again. Again. Again.
Even more time passes, and he finally hears another person’s voice—an all too familiar one.
“What the fuck are you guys doing? The boss will be back soon. You can’t even extract information from one guy?!”
“Hey! It’s not our fault this dickhead won’t talk. You’re one to talk, you could’ve saved us the trouble if you’d just seen the boss’s stand!”
“Well the boss is too fucking careful, alright? Just beat it out of the kid or something, and do it quickly.”
He recognizes the voice despite the ringing in his head. It’s that same man who’d greet with a smile every time he’d come by Giorno’s office. Emillio.
Just how many people were in this ‘rebellion’?
Fugo doesn’t catch wind of the rest of the conversation because his exhaustion catches up to him, and despite his best attempts not to, he dozes off.
It happens again. The bell. The ringing. Fugo wants to curl up on himself, but that’s not a luxury he can afford. His head spins, and stubborn tears spring to his eyes.
This time, the men brought more things with them, including a table filled with tools, such as hammers and wrenches, that Fugo couldn’t see.
“Okay. You won't speak so, we have something extra special for you, signore!”
The man approaches him, pliers in hand. Fugo gulps, desperately trying to hide the panic rising in his throat when the man grabs his restrained hand.
“You see, Signore. This could've gone easily, you could just tell us what the boss’s stand is. But you just keep insisting on playing a loyal dog. And the thing about a dog is you gotta break it down so it forgets its master.”
He doesn't give him a chance to breathe; the plier attaches to his fingernail, and he pulls.
Fugo hears something, a sound that cuts through his ears like barbed wire. He doesn’t even realize that’s his own guttural scream escaping him.
Tears overwhelm his eyes and come pouring out immediately. It hurts. It hurt so much that he thought death would be mercy. And he knew the man was being deliberately slow with it, wiggling it left and right as if he was scooping his favorite flavor of ice cream.
Anelli laughs, “Signore, you finally blessed us with your voice! How kind of you.”
Black spots overtook his vision, and Fugo felt his head spin. He couldn't take it. He didn’t want to be here. Violent shudders pass through his body, and his breathing goes haywire.
The man says something, but Fugo is far, far away. His mind is scrambling to put him in a cocoon of safety by any means necessary, but the pain pulls him back to reality. There was no escape. Dolce speaks with the softness of a wolf in a sheep’s clothing.
“You know, Signore Fugo, I saw you kill one of my friends before. That’s why I hoped it would be you sniffing about in our business. Payback’s a bitch, isn’t it? Then again, your stand’s more foul than this, really.”
By the time Dolce is done, three of Fugo’s nails are gone. By the last one, there’s little to no power left in him. He only shakes and gasps through sobs. His mind collapses, and he passes out.
To his surprise, he’s not awoken by the bell this time. But he knows he hardly slept. Numbness invades his hands, and he can only look at the aftermath. The ugliness of the fleshy skin and the blood puddle at his feet twists his insides.
He looks up. Bucciarati isn’t here. This time it’s Narancia and Abbacchio. There are holes in their bodies. Narancia doesn’t move; his distorted body sits on the floor and stares at Fugo as Bucciarati did. Abbachhio stands next to where Bruno had stood.
He wants to call out Narancia’s name, to run into his arms and crumble like dandelion seeds. But this Narancia doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t emote.
He wants to hear Abbacchio’s cynical wisdom; he wants him to ground him when he cannot ground himself. But this Abbacchio is a mere apathetic witness to Fugo’s pain.
He rips himself away to a far distant place. A place of warmth. A restaurant table filled with friends, and the sweetness of Raspberry Jam Bomboloni invading his tongue.
“......Can you hear me?”
Ringing. Everything was ringing. The voice is small, as if it were afraid of waking Fugo up. He opens his eyes as much as he can, and he blinks. Blood splattered all over his hands, some from where three of his nails once were, and some probably from whatever they did to his head.
The pleasant smell of flowers is gone, and the overpowering scent of iron fills the air.
There was a force throbbing in his head, his eyes, his nose, his hands, his legs; it was so overwhelming he wished he would go back to not being conscious.
He holds back a sniffle, trying to hold on to whatever dignity he had left until his timely demise. But his eyes burn; be it from the smell of old vomit or his miserable state, he doesn’t know.
He closes his eyes again; it’s much easier not to look, to lie limp and take the beating until he passes out again.
Although their usual questions and taunts were not spoken immediately, Fugo found it hard to care as his body wouldn’t stop shaking.
He tries to control his breathing, yet Fugo feels every breath as if it were a stab to his head. It was uneven, resembling the panting of a caged, beaten dog more than a teenage boy. It only gets worse when he feels someone approaching with hurried steps.
Fugo prepares himself for more bursts of pain; his body betrays him, and a small mewl escapes him as he leans his head back.
Rough hands cradle his bruised face like calloused tree bark after a wash of fresh rain; Only slightly prickling his skin with each brief touch. But Fugo knows them not to be so; he knows these hands all too well. He knows the tenderness that lies underneath the surface.
The surface that was hardened from years of gunslinging. The tenderness that engulfed him on one too many nights, where the shadow of his nightmares lurked too close.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, man. Fugo, it’s me. It’s Mista.”
Fugo doesn’t dare to open his eyes yet. This must be Foolish Heart’s work. He doesn’t want hope dangled in front of his face and then tossed into a fire, nor does he want to be tricked again.
“Fugo! Dude, we need to get you out of here. They beat you up bad. ”
It takes Fugo's brain a second too long to process the words, but once he does, he wishes he could roll his eyes without feeling like his head would burst.
Only someone with the tact of a down-on-his-luck court jester would speak like that. And Fugo only knew one living court jester in his life.
He opened his eyes slowly, and there stood Mista. Well, two Mistas. He blinked a couple of times, trying to iron out the wrinkles and just see. But it didn't seem to help much. Instead of extreme double vision, everything blurred, and the lights in the room made his stomach churn.
Fugo speaks for the first time in god knows how long, and his voice is so hoarse it’s almost unrecognizable, “Yeah… thanks for enlightening me, idiot. What else, the sun, the sun rises from the east?”
Mista laughs. It sounds like home.
There’s something about the air between them. For once since April 2001, the suffocating weight simply ceased to exist. It was just him and Mista again, as it was before.
But not quite.
His body continues to feel lighter and lighter. Mista looks at his bindings and then walks away for a moment. Fugo focuses all his willpower on not passing out again, but the fears lingering deep in his heart grip him, and he gasps before Mista can go too far away.
“Where are you-you going?”
Don't leave.
Mista says something, but Fugo struggles to understand what he's saying. He doesn’t wait for Fugo to say anything else and walks a bit further.
The boy's blurred vision doesn’t provide him with any clues as to what Mista is doing. Thankfully, Mista's blobby figure comes back just as quickly as it left.
The light burns his eyes, and he closes them again.
The restraints around his hands and ankles loosen one by one, and Fugo feels Mista's steady arms wrapping around his waist and lifting him slowly.
Again, Mista speaks, and Fugo gets frustrated by this delay he has in understanding what he's saying.
A slurry “Huh..?” is all he manages to say.
“I said, GioGio's waiting outside in the car. He should have cleared the way for us outside by now. Can you walk? Should I just carry you?”
There's some stubborn pride still left in Fugo that makes him want to tell Mista to fuck off. A switch flips in his head.
He frowns, “I can walk on my own.”
“No, you can't.”
“Yes, I can!”
“Fugo! You can barely fucking speak and you look very, very fucked up. So shut the fuck up and lean on me at least if you don't want me to carry you.”
He doesn't wait for Fugo to comprehend or answer back, tightening his grip around him and pushing both of them forward.
Fugo tries to struggle, but there is so little strength left in his bones. Irritated. He was so irritated. Why was Mista acting like Fugo was a little baby? A snarl leaves him as they walk further away from the torture chamber that housed Fugo for the past few days. Or was it a week? He wasn’t sure.
“Why, why did you even come, Mista?”
“What do you mean?”
“I know you,” he coughs, “I know you hate me. You probably didn't want to come here, right?”
“You think I would’ve left you to die?”
“Why wouldn't you?”
Every nerve in Fugo’s body was on fire, constantly pulling shudders and gasps from him, and yet he'd never felt this light before. He doesn’t know if Mista doesn't speak immediately or if it's the same delay he's experiencing.
Eventually, he hears Mista.
“...I don’t hate you,” he struggles to say the words. “I don’t want to lose you, too. So, let’s get out of here, okay?”
The longer Mista went on, the harder Fugo found it to follow what he was saying.
I don't hate you. I care about you.
They take a turn and arrive outside.
Fresh air and sunlight assault his senses immediately. He tries to ground himself by holding on to Mista, but it hardly helps. His legs shake, and beads of sweat make their way to his face and body. The nausea lurking in his belly comes in full force, sending empty bile up his throat.
Fugo vomits. His spotty vision makes it hard to see if he avoided hitting Mista, but the man’s little yelp is enough to confirm that he did not miss.
His legs give up underneath him, and he crumbles to the ground.
“Fugo?!”
Crushed little stars make up Fugo's body. Was he dying? Is this what death would feel like?
Everything hurt and didn't. He can't hear well, and his surroundings seem so far away now. But Fugo feels the warmth of an embrace. One final touch of affection before he'd go.
The rational part of his brain that barely functioned right now told him that it couldn't be it. But everything else in his body told him that it was. He hears a shout; he thinks.
“Panna-shit, GioGio!”
His eyes misted with tears. There's so much he wants to say to all of them still. To Mista, especially.
I'm sorry I left. I'm sorry you had to deal with everything without me. I'm sorry I couldn't face you after I came back. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I love you. I'm sorry.
The grip around him tightens. Darkness surrounds him, and Fugo surrenders himself to sleep.
Notes:
Things get worse before they get better! <3
Chapter 3: Gave Me Sunshine, Made Me Happy (Nice Dream)
Summary:
A dream leaves Fugo's sad excuse of a brain an absolute mess.
The aftermath of his capture brings out something different in his 'friends', and Fugo isn't sure how to feel about it.
Notes:
I'm extremely sleep deprived, so I'm not sure how to describe this one. It's a lot! Enjoy.
Warnings: A lot of heavy conversations in this one, Fugo's debilitating self-worth per usual.
The chapter title is From Nice Dream by Radiohead!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There’s a force tugging on Fugo’s ear without any real strength behind it. They pull on it again and again, and it’s an action that would usually have him grabbing the nearest object that qualifies for a murder weapon.
But right now, he doesn’t mind it. Fugo wears a slight, half-hearted frown as he leans into that person’s touch with each tug.
“Do we have to do this every time?”
There’s a chuckle that sounds like lilies blooming in the spring, easing whatever trouble there may be in Fugo’s chest.
“Of course. It’s for good luck.”
Bucciarati smiles at him as he finally tugs his ear for the fifteenth time and lets go of it. Fugo rubs it and grumbles as he looks at the white and red cake before him.
“Ugh, it’s not fair! I wanted to pull Panna’s ear.”
His scarlet eyes snap to the whiny voice, and there sits Narancia, the splitting image of a spoiled child who didn’t get his way and resorted to pouting and kicking his feet.
“You’re never touching my ears again. ”
“Why not?”
“First, you just put your fingers inside your nose. Second, did you forget last year? My ears were red for hours after! Third, go wash your goddamn hands.”
Narancia shrugs before reaching for the pastry on the table, only to let out a loud yelp when a pale hand smacks him before he can touch anything.
“Ow!”
“Narancia, you’re not touching anything before washing your hands.”
“Oh, c’mon, Abba, not you too!”
Abbacchio’s face twists in a scowl, and his chalk-white hair sways in its sharp ponytail as he snatches the plate away from Narancia. Narancia squawks with all of the energy of one very, very annoying duckling. He whines, as he always does.
“Narancia.”
It isn’t a surprise to anyone that it’s Bucciarati’s firm yet gentle voice that gets him to leave the table in defeat and head into the kitchen. The red wine in Abbacchio’s glass swirls as they wait for Narancia to come back.
The table is an old thing that Narancia says was made ‘by Jesus himself.’ Fugo would correct him every time because this model was quite popular in the late 80s, and Narancia did not need any more misinformation swarming around in his head. He even showed him furniture catalogues from the time.
Of course, Narancia’s only answer to that was a quiet ‘Well. Jesus was a carpenter. So.’
That discussion, as most of their discussions go, ended with someone bruised or stabbed.
Yet, despite the table’s out-of-time exterior, Fugo couldn’t help but lean into the fuzziness it drowned him in. This thing that could only stand after a weekly uphill battle involving far too many on-the-spot carpentry improvisations cured the homesickness rooted deep in his heart.
He was here, wasn’t he? Why would he feel homesick while he’s in the only home he’s ever known and loved?
“Here, see! All clean, can we eat now?”
Narancia holds up his hands for each of them before sitting down in his chair.
“Mhm. Panna has to cut his cake first. Leone, could you pass me the candles?”
The fondness laced in Bucciarati’s voice, the way Narancia’s hands impatiently tap the table, Abbacchio’s soft smile–hidden behind the walls that Fugo sometimes struggles to see past–as he gives the numbered candles to Bucciarati. They all fall together, puzzle pieces that fill the gaps left behind by days Fugo prefers not to remember.
Bucciarati puts the two candles in the strawberry cake, and Abbacchio reaches for his camera to snap a photo for their album. Fugo can’t help the way his arms tingle. Perhaps it was embarrassment; he never really liked looking at his face in photos.
“Wait–” Fugo’s hand spreads in front of his face as the camera’s flash goes off, and he groans.
Abbacchio deadpans, “It’s just a picture.”
Fugo doesn’t miss the way Bucciarati’s lips curl in a fox-like smile. “You wouldn’t let me take a picture of you until you looked ‘presentable’ enough on your birthday, Leone.”
A rosy hue rushes to Abbacchio’s face, something that Fugo considers to be a rather rare sight. So rare that maybe he can only think of one or two other instances that were not related to his drinking ‘habit’.
“But we didn’t take a picture of Abba. You said we ran out of film, Bucciarati.”
If Bucciarati didn’t show them, then it was probably private. Fugo doesn’t want to know more about this picture. He doesn’t care . Narancia’s interjection makes the two men look for one long moment, and it is a gaze filled with everything and nothing.
Their relationship made Fugo squirm in his place whenever he thought about it too much. He was happy for Bucciarati; he really was. There was a perpetual melancholy to the man that was far from Fugo’s reach. And ever since Abbacchio joined them, Bucciarati has started smiling more.
They didn’t announce anything, of course. But Fugo would have to be legally blind not to see it. Narancia seemed blissfully unaware, not that it surprised the boy. His ideas of love and romance came from trashy action-packed movies where girls threw themselves at some witty, big-muscled man.
Fugo didn’t care much for romance. Even before…before everything that happened. It was interesting in concept–in those books he’d sometimes read between his studies–but no one had moved his heart that way. Nor did he feel the desire to reach for it that strongly. Ultimately, it felt like a silly thing that people wasted too much time on.
The only people he’d say he cherished–not out loud–were present around this table.
Still, sometimes, Fugo would think about how he could’ve tried to make Bucciarati happier. He could’ve been that shoulder for him to lean on, but Bucciarati never let his walls down like that. And that maybe–just maybe- one day, Bucciarati would up and leave him because who wouldn’t choose their partner over a kid with far too many issues to name?
Guilt and jealousy chase one another in his mind when he feels a light plastic strap hit his chin.
“We forgot the party hats!”
Fugo blinks, trying to push his thoughts back where they usually reside and to stop his mind from spinning away from the scene before him. Narancia’s touch sends a chill across Fugo’s body.
“Your hand is so cold, what the hell, Narancia!”
“Huh? No, it isn’t.”
Fugo grumbled, but he couldn’t bring himself to push him away. He bit down on the urge to correct him. Narancia loved every aspect of birthdays, down to the party hats. He told him last time that his father didn’t like celebrating his birthday much after his mother got sick. So it made sense he'd be eager to make up for those lost birthdays.
“Don’t forget to make a wish before you cut the cake, Fugo. And don’t tell us what it is!”
“That’s stupid. Wishes don’t work, Narancia.”
“Nuh uh, Mamma told me they do. Mine don’t work because I can’t keep my mouth shut. Anyways, just do it!”
Bucciarati hands him the knife, and Fugo shudders as frigid skin brushes against him. He doesn’t comment on it, but there’s sudden unease–a serpent that slithers its way around him and into his belly. He ignores the way it chokes his insides, holding the knife and looking at the lit-up ‘15’ on his cake.
Sounds echo in his ear; a small mismatched choir starts for him. Birthday songs always made Fugo want to curl into a ball and vanish.
Tanti auguri a te
Tanti auguri a te
Tanti auguri a Fugo
Tanti auguri a te
They all looked at him expectedly, especially Narancia, who clearly waited for Fugo to make his wish. He closes his eyes with a sigh.
What would Fugo wish for if wishes had any weight to them beyond the comfort of a possible being out there hearing them and granting them? He wasn’t sure. Fugo didn’t believe in god. Not since god didn’t answer his pleas when he begged for a savior who would take him away from his professor and family. No, Fugo didn’t prefer to rely on the imaginary. To put his faith in something only for salvation to be entirely absent meant that he would put his heart in the hands of something besides himself and watch it twist it into a mush of flesh and blood.
But he decides to indulge Narancia’s wish. It's hard to refuse him when he looks like a sad duck. Fugo isn't even sure what a sad duck looks like.
I wish for my family to be happy. Safe. As safe as we can be.
Fugo exhales and blows out the candles with his eyes still closed. There’s a silence in the air, one unusual for a home whose rumble could be heard from a few houses away. Even more unusual is that Narancia didn’t interrogate his ‘wish 'authenticity. ’
He opens his eyes.
Fugo isn’t home.
There’s soft wind swaying his ashen hair, and the warmth of the sun kisses his skin and drapes over it–like a curtain pulled from the distant tangerine sky. There’s a faraway sound growing closer by the second. Click-clacks follow one another in rapid succession as the ground beneath Fugo’s feet shakes. His head follows the sound.
There’s a train coming. A cloud of smoke chases it as it barrels to the station, and an ear-piercing horn sounds for the passengers, announcing its arrival.
Why was he here? Fugo had never seen this train station before. It looked far too outdated.
The train's wheels scratch against the tracks and come to a screeching halt. The door–a baby blue with spots of rust that are probably older than Fugo himself–opens with a screech.
No one's inside. None that Fugo can see, anyway.
Now that the train had ceased moving, the only thing that reached Fugo's ears was the low hum of the engine reverberating in the air and somehow crushing him under its weight.
The pressure this beast of machinery emits grinds against Fugo's bones, and something tells him that he isn’t supposed to get on it.
His feet stuttered as he took a step back, his head spinning as his eyes raced around the train station. The place was an abandoned relic of times long gone by, a train station that perhaps his late grandmother would be more familiar with than Fugo was.
Solitude wasn’t a stranger to Fugo, but it was not what he wanted right now. Where has everyone gone?
Questions fly around in his head, questions that have his brain screaming at his feet to run, to find his family and leave. Their absence creates a panic in his heart that makes breathing seem like a herculean task. His mouth dries as he croaks out their names, desperately searching for any sign of where they might've gone.
His ears pick up the sound of footsteps approaching. Three. One is walking with measure in their feet, like someone who knows exactly where they’re headed. The other isn’t as quick, probably walking at a pace that’s just a little slower than the one leading them. The last one drags his feet against the pavement in a manner all too familiar to Fugo’s ears.
He turned towards the sound, and two men and a boy stood in front of him. Relief floods Fugo’s chest, and his quickened breathing slows down.
“Panna!”
Narancia runs to him, not waiting a moment before wrapping his lithe arms around him and squeezing as if his life depended on it.
“Dude, I missed you!”
Fugo’s arms freeze in their place before giving in to Narancia's infectious warmth.
“You just saw me. Where did you all go? Why are we here?”
“Huh? No, I didn’t. It’s been like 8 billion years.”
“What are you talking ab–”
Narancia lets go as the train’s horn blares again, and Fugo’s the only one to cover his ears.
“Where are you going?”
His breath gets caught in his lungs as his eyes dart from one to the other. A tightness festers in him, and Fugo's nails dig into his palm, poking at the flesh first, then trying to break it apart.
“Hmm?”
“You’re all…going somewhere?”
Bucciarati looks at him, confusion reflecting in his indigo eyes, “Of course. It's our ride.”
“You’re going to leave?”
Bucciarati nods. Abbacchio and Narancia share that same confusion, as if their departure was as obvious as breathing.
“Okay. I'll come with you.”
Before Fugo could get too close, Bucciarati's arm came up in front of him and stopped him dead in his tracks.
“You can't.”
“Why not?”
“You know why.”
Frustration scratches at the corner of Fugo's mind as he clenches his jaw, “No, I don’t! Can’t someone explain what’s going on?!”
The horn sounds again, and it's Abbacchio who steps closer to the door. His dark lips always drew attention from his sunken eyes, a pair of pale moons embraced by dark, gloomy clouds. But it couldn’t hide the way those same clouds parted and revealed the softness in Abbacchio as he looked back at Bucciarati and Narancia. His eyes always betrayed him.
He turns back at Fugo, his gaze still uncharacteristically mellow.
“Fugo.”
“...Yes?”
Abbacchio steps closer to him, giving his tense shoulder a squeeze that grounds Fugo a little.
“You’re a good kid.”
The bizarre nature of that statement gives Fugo a whiplash. He blinks slowly.
“...I'm not either of those.”
Abbacchio shakes his head, his hand leaving Fugo’s shoulder as he heads towards the train’s door. With one foot in it, he turns to Bucciarati, sharing a look that he couldn’t quite understand. Then, his eyes turn to Fugo.
“Don't end up like me.”
Always a man of few words. A few confusing words.
The moment his other foot steps onto the train, Abbacchio's entire being vanishes into thin air. Fugo's heart jumps into his throat as his departure dawns on him, the finality of it crushing him under its weight.
Narancia steps forward next.
Fugo's body tingles–goodbye was a creature he loathed, a thing he wished he could avoid for as long as he lived.
Why did everyone insist on leaving him?
Narancia smiles at him, he bares his teeth and waves, and the setting sun in the back reflects on his inky hair.
“Panna, don’t miss me too much, okay? I'm sorry I didn’t pay attention to your lessons. You were a good teacher. It really sucked, you know? Not having you around. I really wanted to see you again, even if it was just so you’d call me an idiot.”
“Narancia…”
He wants to move, to latch onto him and hold him back from going where Fugo could not follow. His body refuses to.
“Narancia, wait! I'll– we’ll listen to all the music you want, okay? No more math lessons, too–don't,” he pauses, his tongue slipping as he pleads, “Don’t go!”
Narancia shakes his head as the horn blares again, “It's okay, Fugo. I'll see you later.”
Narancia steps in. Narancia disappears.
Fugo's heart beats out of his chest as his eyes turn to the only person left. Their eyes meet, and Fugo doesn’t miss the faraway look in Bucciarati’s gaze.
Fugo speaks first, words laced with desperation, “I don’t want you to leave. Please stay.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Panna.”
“Okay, let me come with you."
“No. No, you can’t. Someone has to stay.”
“It doesn’t have to be me!”
“Of course it does. But you have to be strong.”
“I’m not strong! I’m not- I don’t want to be alone. It shouldn’t be this way.”
Fugo's face contorts, a cold sweat breaks out in his already trembling body, and his muscles tense. Bucciarati, on the other hand, looks calm. Serene, even.
“Many things shouldn’t be the way they are; this is just another one of those.”
A child. Fugo feels like a child. So utterly devoid of control, only watching as another person he loves moves a step away from him.
“But… you said you’d never leave. But you did. You want to leave me now like you left me on that…that day!”
Bucciarati pauses. The air stills. What was Fugo saying? The words that were pouring out of him made no sense. A hopeless attempt at digging into Bucciarati's heart, if only it meant he'd stay a moment longer.
Bucciarati's eyes soften, and he speaks in a hushed voice, “Panna, you refused to come with us.”
Fugo blinks at him. He knows he's acting like an irrational toddler, he knows .
“Did you even want me to come?”
“What I wanted was irrelevant.”
“But did you?”
Bucciarati's eyes meet his. Fugo knows just how much he loathed lying. He doesn’t spit it out immediately, but eventually, he speaks.
“...No.”
Hearing what you already know doesn’t mean it will poke at your heart instead of stabbing clear through it.
“Of course. I knew it–”
“Panna–”
“You always wanted to get rid of me, didn't you? I was the first on your team; you probably regretted that, too, right? Was I just a convenient option for you? A social reject you could use as a stepping stone to rise through the ranks–”
“Pannacotta!”
Bucciarati's booming voice cuts him off, effectively shutting him up. Fugo, admittedly, didn't believe a word coming out of his own mouth. He spat out all the horrible things that dwelled in his mind as accusations.
Even if the outcome would be Bucciarati's anger, at least he'd still be here.
“How could you think that? You were family to me, to all of us.”
“Then why didn’t you want me there?!”
“Because you're a goddamn liability, Panna!”
Their voices rise until they come to a standstill after Bucciarati's declaration.
“You were too much. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
No. Fugo never wanted to hear that from the man he admired more than God. But something deep within told him that he needed to hear it.
“I know how you saw me. Even now, even here, I have this weight in my chest every time you look at me. Like I need to be more than who I am. Stronger. Steadier. A perfect man. It was a lot. That’s why I didn’t want you by my side when we were fighting the boss. I couldn’t handle everyone's expectations on top of yours.”
“I…”
Bucciarati never spoke to him this way. His voice was tired, yet it wasn't laced with poison. Fugo knew he was simply speaking from the heart.
“I always wanted to help you. But you didn’t want help because you’d rather let your sadness devour you. You’d rather tell yourself that you were incapable of change. You'd rather let the misery in you grow larger and larger until it takes you down with it.”
Fugo's lips quiver, each word chipped away at him, gnawing at his heart as he struggled to take it all in.
“I didn't want to watch you suffer, but I didn't want your suffering to be my sole responsibility. I don’t know why I'm really here either.’
“Did I bring you here? Am I dying? Are you the real Bucciarati?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Can you give me any clear answers at all?”
“No, not really. I can’t give you the answers you want.”
Fugo looks at his feet, which struggle to stay still. He stared into the leather of his shoes, getting lost in it before the horn sounded for the fourth time.
“Was I really a burden to you?”
Don't say it. I know it, but please don't say it.
“Yes.”
Of course. Who wouldn’t see him as a burden?
“But you were important to me. That’s why I felt so exhausted by it. Not because I hated you.”
Fugo blinks at him. His mind was a mess, Bucciarati’s words destroyed him, but he found himself clinging to each word.
“You don’t hate me?”
“No.”
“But I left you.”
“Did I leave you, or did you leave me, Panna? Which one is it?”
It all swirls around in his head: abandonment, guilt, anger, grief; it all makes it hard to think.
“I…I don’t know.”
Fugo always thought it was easy for others to leave him behind. Back then, he thought maybe Narancia would choose to remain by his side. But even he left.
Perhaps that's why, when Bucciarati's figure blurred into the distant sunset, Fugo had felt sharp daggers shooting into his heart. Betrayal had tasted bitter on his tongue that day.
But he was the one betraying him, them, his found family– wasn't he? Then why did it feel as though he was the one being betrayed?”
“It’s a bit of both, isn’t it? You left me because I gave you the choice to. Because you were scared. I left you because I had to. Because I couldn’t force you along, especially with Purple Haze's unpredictability. I guess I didn’t trust myself to look after you with how high stakes everything was.”
Fugo doesn’t hesitate to bite back, frustration and hurt pushing him to the edge, “You didn’t need to take care of me. I’m not a child.”
“You’re only 17, Panna, but I did. I wanted to. And didn’t. It was just–”
Fugo's shoulders slump, “A lot. Yeah. I…yeah, I am a lot.”
“Mhm.”
“So, what does that mean for me?”
“I told you. I don’t have all the answers you need.”
“No, but if I’m a lot, then who's going to bother with me? Not everyone is as good as you.”
Bucciarati sighs, “You’re doing it again, Panna. I wasn’t as good as you thought me to be.”
“But you’re…” You were the first one to make me feel safe since Nonna. You took care of me when no one wanted me. All those nights I spent scraping my skin off, hoping to wash the filth, the pain out of it–you were there for me.
You made me feel like life might be worth living if only it meant I’d serve you. How can I not think highly of you?
“A gangster. I killed, tortured, and robbed. I ran away from my problems just as much as you did–as any of us do. I know that you know that, deep down.”
Fugo doesn’t speak. It was hard for him to process a world where Bruno Bucciarati was anything less than perfect.
Bruno Bucciarati saved Fugo. He gave him shelter, food, comfort, love, and a family. He was the only god who answered Fugo's tear-soaked prayers.
But Bucciarati was no god, was he? He was only a man, made of flesh and bone. A man troubled, just as much as Fugo was. And yet he'd revered him more than god himself. He placed him on a high pedestal and built him an altar in his heart.
It was hard for Fugo not to view his relationships in the binary of a god and their worshipper. It was so easy for him to detach a person from who they really are, to remove the humanity in them and himself.
Thinking of all of this exhausts him. At the end of his train of thought, all he's left with is the grief in his heart.
It’s only a few moments later when a hoarse whisper leaves him, “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too.”
Fugo’s gaze turns to stony ground, eyes starting to well with tears, “I don’t know how to be without you.”
Bucciarati’s arms wrap around him, and being embraced like this reminds him of so many nights gone by. He doesn’t want to let go, but eventually Bucciarati breaks the hug, rubbing his back before moving away from him.
“You’ll learn to be.”
“Bucciarati…”
Bucciarati’s voice turns firm, it’s that same commanding tone he held as their leader, “No, promise me. Promise you won't do this. You will live .”
Fugo’s breath shudders, his misty eyes widening at the demand presented to him. A promise, Bucciarati wants him to make an impossible promise. How can he bear to move forward, leaving the ones he already let down behind?
Promises are fickle. It’s what Fugo has always believed.
His mouth opens, but words fail him; he can’t bring himself to say it. Bucciarati’s face turns somber, lips falling into a small frown as he looks at Fugo expectantly.
Their conversation is cut short by the blaring sound of the train horn. There’s a finality to it that twists Fugo’s insides. Bucciarati turns to face the open door, sighing and moving a step closer to it.
“It's time, Panna.”
There isn't time for spoken promises; something, it would seem, dictates that it's time for Bucciarati's departure.
“No. Bucciarati, please!”
The colors fade and melt into another, and something yanks Fugo away from the train. The station. Bucciarati. The last thing he sees is Bucciarati putting one foot through the door, a gentle smile on his face, and he hears a small whisper that the wind carries.
“I love you. We love you. Remember that.”
??.01.2003, ??:??
It’s silent and dark. Something is weighing down on Fugo's eyes, something he has to push against to open them. His eyelids flutter slowly, and he has to blink multiple times before the room clears up for him. Clears up would be a generous overstatement.
He was…where was he? He was talking to Bucciarati just now. Wasn't he? He needed to go back there; he needed to tell Bucciarati to stay.
Fugo gets up. Or rather, he tries to.
His limbs fight against any effort he makes to move, his body screaming at him to lie down while he struggles to push himself up.
His eyes still hurt, but he can tell they're not as swollen as before. His vision is a little blurry, but at least he didn't see everything in doubles.
He looks down at his hands, and his mind spins more when he sees that they look fine despite the phantom pain tingling underneath his nails.
Fugo's head pounds.
He was…He was back home. He was talking to Bucciarati. He remembers Narancia's arms around him. Before that, he was…
A hard fist connects with his skull. His nails are pulled out. Visions of–
Fugo gasps, the fog surrounding his mind finally parting and making way for him to navigate his path back to reality.
Bucciarati's words, Narancia’s touch, Abbacchio’s gaze–they had all felt all too real. Fugo’s heart twists when he realizes his brain had only played a cruel trick on him. A wave of melancholy crashes into him, dragging him under.
He closes his eyes and breathes. In and out.
Fugo opens them again and looks properly around him. His eyes, though tired, recognize the place. A spare room in Giorno's Villa that he usually occupies.
The metallic smell of blood and the foul stench of vomit are missing.
There’s a low gurgling in the air that catches Fugo off guard for a moment. The sound brings him comfort in an instant as his eyes turn to Purple Haze.
It was staring at him like a street cat. Fugo hadn’t realized just how frightening it was to have him disappear from his side. Even though he used to curse its existence before, he couldn’t deny that it was a part of him now. It was as if a limb had been ripped apart from his body. Foolish Heart had twisted his mind in a way where he couldn’t focus on that loss in the moment.
The gurgling and growling don’t stop until Fugo’s arms reach out to Purple Haze, wincing as he bashfully beckons him into a hug, like a child embracing their teddy bear after a bad nightmare.
Purple Haze was here. Fugo wasn’t in some tin can anymore. Fugo was fine. He was alive. He felt some semblance of peace as he embraced his own stand.
His head was still in a limbo of lucidity and muddle when he finally noticed the figure resting his head on the edge of the bed. He questions whether there was some brain damage involved in his time in captivity. How could he have missed the messy brown curls right in front of him?
Mista. Mista was here. Mista was the one who came to save him, and he was here.
Fugo isn't sure of what to do at first. He couldn't move that far; days of being tied down to a rusty chair and being beaten in that position had turned his limbs into a fragile mess.
Despite the ache in his bones, Fugo dismisses Purple Haze–he will not be seen hugging his stand–and extends his arm and gently shakes Mista's shoulder.
The man jolts awake, lurching away from Fugo's touch with a sharp gasp. His eyes looked ready to pop out of their socket for a moment before his gaze turned to the boy sitting up awkwardly.
A softness befalls Mista's face a second later, and before Fugo can comprehend what's happening, Mista’s strong arms are wrapping around him.
Neither of them says anything. Fugo relishes the warmth encompassing him, the way this same warmth used to easily ground him.
He had missed it.
Mista's arms untangle after a minute, and he backs off. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he speaks, his morning voice coming out in a low octave, “How are you feeling?”
Before Fugo could answer, other, much higher-pitched voices joined in. Their loud yelling only intensifies the pain shooting through his head.
“ Fugoooo!”
“You're awake!”
“Can we eat now?”
Mista's Sex Pistols swarm him like flies; he tries to focus on their movements and words at the same time. That truly does him in.
“Quit it! Are you good, Fugo?”
Fugo blinks, Mista's caring tone having grown alien to him. His chapped lips purse, and his parched throat makes itself known when Fugo’s voice sounds foreign to both of them.
Number 5 starts crying, but they all back off when Mista frowns.
“Um, I…I'm fine.”
“Really? GioGio used Gold Experience and everything, but he said you’ll still need to heal on your own. You got really bad concussions. The area behind your ear was badly infected; it’s better now, but still, you gotta be careful with it.”
Concussions. That made sense. Fugo’s head did feel like it was about to pop. But that isn’t what he found himself caring about the most. His mind is in a haze, and yet he remembers the small stabbing sensation after hearing a faint crack. A panic settles into his heart now that it dawns on him.
The earrings are gone. The earrings Narancia made with his shaky hands throughout a night that Fugo finds hard to remember the specifics of now. But what’s unforgettable was Narancia’s proud smile, how happy he was that they could match with something since Fugo wasn’t big on skirts. It didn’t matter to him that the thing looked like a slightly flattened orange.
Fugo had cherished it since he took it from Narancia’s room a year ago. And now it’s simply ruined.
“The…the earring, did you get it?”
Mista cocks an eyebrow at him, “What?”
“Nara–My earrings, I was wearing them. The orange ones.”
Mista lets out a soft ‘oh’ and reaches into the bedside table. He pulls on one of the drawers and searches for a second before pulling his hand out. Mista gives it to him.
There lay a single orange-shaped earring. Fugo’s hand hastily reaches for it, snatching the thing away and cradling it in his palm.
“The other one was broken, which is why you got that little infection.”
There’s a wave of sadness that washes over Fugo. He’d hoped that somehow it would’ve been fine. Mista’s eyes linger on Fugo, much to his dismay. He squirms in his place and averts his gaze.“...As I was saying, you gotta take it easy, yeah? I guess that means your ‘vacation’ is probably extended.”
“Oh. I see.”
Mista’s nose wrinkles. “Do you?”
Fugo arches his brows at how his voice shifts from soft to gruff effortlessly, “What do you mean?”
“You go against the orders of the person in charge and steal documents to track down people you’re not supposed to track down. And then you walk—no, skip into a clear trap. I mean, what the hell, man?”
A fire ignites in Fugo’s chest with each word that Mista utters, burning him from the inside, both in embarrassment and anger. The memories of what he did were disjointed, puzzle pieces that didn’t fit, no matter how he pushed them together.
He only remembers the deep-rooted desire to escape his feelings.
“I—that’s n-not— ack !”
The dryness scraping at the walls of his throat catches up to him, putting a stop to his short-lived outburst.
Mista takes hurried steps towards the bedside table. Fugo hears water being poured, and not a second later, he feels the cool glass press against his lips gently.
“Take it easy, will you?”
The cold water hits Fugo’s throat, and he gulps it down like the parched man that he is.
Mista’s hand runs circles on his back, a touch that causes Fugo to flinch. The hand pauses immediately and breaks the contact between them—the brunette lets him drink as much as he wants before folding his hands in front of his chest.
“It was a small group looking to sabotage Giorno. You know how it is. Keeping drugs off the streets is never going to be as lucrative as selling them. I guess they thought they could use one of us to gain information. You’re lucky Sheila’s Voodoo Child is so useful; we wouldn’t have been able to track you as quickly otherwise. You were there for a week. Even Emilio was in on it. You didn’t have to do anything about it, though, man. We were going to deal with them the moment we were back.”
Mista pauses, leaning back into his chair before frowning, “So? Mind telling me why you, the smartest guy I know, landed yourself in that stupid ass situation?”
There’s a distinct accusatory blame in Mista’s question that ruffles Fugo’s feathers with the ease of a gentle breeze. His hands, still wobbly and shooting with bursts of pain in his fingertips, dig into the soft material of the blanket.
“Are you calling me,” another cough that only pisses Fugo further off, “stupid?”
“Well, aren’t you? I’m not the one who got his ass caught by two stupid stand users.”
His words lack the bite that they’ve carried for the past year, but they annoy Fugo all the same.
His nose flares and his eyes narrow, and he curses under his breath, “Eat my ass, Mista. I just woke up. Annoy me later, stronzo!”
There’s an unspoken familiarity in the air that Fugo isn’t sure how it came about. Mista’s poking at him, yes, but he’s not cold. He's not that Mista that came back from Rome a changed man, the one who seldom smiled and laughed when he was the one who’d cause them to get complaints from the other customers at Libeccio’s before.
But it wasn’t all the same, he knew that. Beneath that familiarity lay an uncomfortable layer of tension that Fugo did not wish to delve into. They had been close, once. The events from April had changed them, so, so much.
Mista chuckles, a sound that Fugo’s ears soak all in, “Fine, but GioGio wanted to speak to you. I’ll go tell him you woke up. Don't get up too soon, you need to rest.”
The Sex Pistols run after him at the mention of food.
There’s a slight panic that rises in Fugo’s chest—the remnants of his dream tell his haze-filled brain that that’s his departure, that Mista, too, would leave him. Fugo raises his arm slowly, words failing to form in his mouth as he watches the door close behind Mista.
He's not going anywhere. He’s just going to Giorno. Right? Right.
He had just woken up, but he felt drowsiness seep into his bones, and it was quickly followed by a bout of panic. Fugo's heart drums in his chest at the prospect of falling asleep. He couldn’t- wouldn’t, a part of him was scared that every time he’d close his eyes, a loud ringing or pain shooting through his body would wake him again.
Fugo keeps his eyes open and stares at the pale ceiling.
His slightly throbbing fingers ache as he digs them into his palms. His mind struggled to believe this was real, that he’d been rescued and was safe. It wasn’t even the first time he’d gotten this sort of treatment. Being seen around Giorno was enough to set a target on his back.
Perhaps it’s the circumstances surrounding this, the utter misery that made him do something so stupid.
He needed a cigarette.
There weren’t any cigarettes within reach, and that saddens Fugo more than he wants it to. If he had to be stuck with his aching, nausea-stricken body, then he’d rather his lungs burn too. Not to mention, now that his body wasn’t in survival mode, the lack of nicotine was more noticeable. It doesn’t irritate him at this point, but he can tell that it’s affecting his already mangled brain.
He wished someone would come knock him out and pull all the thoughts eating his mind out of it.
There’s a sound that Fugo hears so faintly that it takes him a second to register that it’s a knock on the door. His lack of an answer produces more of these knocks.
“Fugo? Can I come in?”
The voice makes something bloom in Fugo’s chest, a familiar itch that he had buried deep in his heart. “G-GioGio? Yes, come in.”
Giorno opens the door slowly, and his head peaks through. His signature curls were nowhere to be seen, and his long golden hair framed his face. Giorno holds a vase in his hands, a pink ceramic one with Sunflowers, yellow lilies, and white chrysanthemums. It looked like the colors were plucked from the sun and delivered into Giorno’s arms. If his brain didn’t feel like it was going to leak from his ears any moment now, he would’ve tried to remember their meanings from the book he had his head buried into.
His face softens when their eyes meet, and it’s a sight out of a fairytale, really. Fugo hates how his heart thumps at it.
A small smile adorns Giorno’s face. What was this feeling in his belly? A twisting whirlwind was upsetting his insides–it must be from the concussions.
“Hello, Fugo.”
Giorno puts the small vase on his bedside table. Fugo tries to sit up straight, pushing his body beyond the limits it is capable of right now. A wave of nausea hits him immediately, sending him back down on the soft mattress. Giorno’s hands rise in alarm, quickly stepping to his side.
“Don’t sit up! I thought Mista told you about your condition?”
He’s not being scolded, but Fugo’s cheeks redden in embarrassment all the same.
“He did. Sorry.”
Giorno shakes his head, “It’s okay. Just take it easy for now, you still need to rest. Sorry, I was late.”
Fugo nods. It was natural for him to be busy most of the time; he was a don, not just an ordinary 17-year-old. He can’t drop everything and come check up on Fugo immediately. Obviously. Giorno’s too busy to visit him. Giorno is too busy to call him.
Giorno pulls the chair Mista was using and brings it closer to him.
“How are you feeling?”
Like shit. Fugo’s on the brink of vomiting and passing out simultaneously; he needs to sleep, but the idea of it alone is causing him enough distress to fry his nervous system. Not to mention…
It finally dawned on him–he disobeyed the orders of the person in charge, didn’t he? It didn’t matter if it’s Sheila E.
“I’m okay. GioGio, I’m sorry about the…What I did. I will accept any consequences.”
Giorno tilts his head and stares at Fugo with confusion brewing in his eyes. Did Sheila not tell him? That wouldn’t make sense. Fugo stammers slightly, “I disobeyed direct orders from Sheila E and caused you trouble.”
Giorno opens his mouth and closes it for a moment. If Fugo didn’t know any better, he’d say he was lost for words.
“...I won’t say what you did was fine, but to be frank, it’s not what I care about right now. I’m visiting you as a friend, not your don.”
Giorno’s holding something back, that much Fugo can tell. But he can’t pinpoint what it is in the fog that encompasses the mafia don and keeps him hidden, out of reach.
Friend.
“How’s your head?”
Fugo didn’t know what to make of this. The questions make this feel like a doctor's appointment, with all of Giorno's fussing.
“My Gold Experience isn't perfect. You'll experience phantom pain for a while-especially in your hands-and your concussion will heal better and faster than the average person in recovery. But you still need to rest. No reading, TV, no too much physical activity for a couple of days at least.”
He continues rambling on and on, and despite how hard Fugo tries to concentrate, all Giorno is saying proves to be a tall order. He nods along, trying to keep up with his endless list of instructions. Fugo loathes and feels comforted by this all the same.
Fugo had wanted to be by Giorno’s side since he left, but now that he was here, all he felt was shame for what he had done. That, and the seedling of resentment in his heart that hadn’t forgotten that Giorno broke his promise.
Eventually, they settle into silence, a not-so-comfortable one. Giorno isn’t too keen on talking about any punishments, so Fugo decides to talk about something else. Even though something in him fights to keep that tense atmosphere around them, to make Giorno choke on it just as Fugo had choked on his own misery while he waited for that phone call.
It’s ridiculous to think that way. He knows. He knows, but he can’t help it. Still, the desperation to linger on every word Giorno spoke was all too overpowering.
“You didn't tell me how your trip was.”
“Huh? Oh, it was okay.”
Fugo blinks, as if he'd expected him to speak more. When the silence stretches for a moment too long, Giorno lets out a soft ‘oh!’.
“...Well, I met my 82-year-old great-nephew.”
Fugo nods, still processing before his eyes widen, “Right…wait, what?”
“Well, you see…”
Giorno's explanation of the Joestar family tree leaves Fugo's already throbbing head positively pulsing. He’s a great uncle? Great-great uncle? Great-great-great uncle? A stolen body? Vampires?
“My biological father stole Jonathan Joestar’s body and had me.”
“And this Jonathon, when did he live exactly?”
“He died in 1889.”
Fugo’s mind runs the numbers in silence. 1889…1985…96 years?!
“Uh…”
“I know…I told you, it’s complicated. But all that aside, it was a nice visit.”
There it is again, there’s a tight grasp around Giorno’s tone, the very same he had when he’d called. Was it because he simply didn’t want to tell him more about it?
“...You’re sure?”
Fugo’s the one who’s unsure if he should even be asking that, really.
“It-it was great. I don't want to sound ungrateful.” Fugo tilts his head, confused.
“So something did happen?”
“It's not that. I think maybe I look too similar to my father. Remember that photo I showed you?”
Fugo nods, that photo of the muscle wall of a man with the star birthmark on his shoulder, and that same shade of blonde that rests on Giorno’s shoulders weren’t easily forgettable.
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah. They told me he wasn't a good person. Then again, I guess the body-stealing business should’ve made it obvious.”
Giorno’s lips are pursed, and if Fugo squinted hard enough, he could see the ghost of a frown starting to form. The young don didn’t talk much about his childhood. Fugo had made some assumptions about it based on his habits, but it didn't feel right to bring them up to him.
In this instance, it was clear there was a lingering disappointment despite how Giorno tried to brush it off.
“Why do you seem disappointed?” He regrets asking the moment the words leave his lips, despite it being an unconscious question. Giorno's face is always steady. Calm. Collected.
And yet, for a moment, a crack in the mirror shows and reveals something dreadful lying underneath. A frown disappears as soon as it shows on his face, and Giorno blinks.
“Why would I be disappointed?”
It’s a question asked without a true curiosity behind it. Instead, Fugo can tell that it’s defensive, as if the question sparked walls into motion that separated the two of them, despite how the boy is close enough for Fugo to be able to spot the dashes of gold in his eyes.
“Uh, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Giorno’s eyes remain fixated on him, as if second-guessing his motives. They gradually ease as he sighs, “No. I mean, I guess a little.”
“Why?”
The other boy’s gaze doesn’t meet his. Fugo gulps– this lack of confidence was so unlike the Giorno he knew. His mouth remains shut.
“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it, I have to go for now. Make sure to rest more, okay?
“GioGio–”
“See you soon, Fugo.”
The door closes behind him, and the only thing accompanying Fugo now is the sound of his own breath. His eyes go to the golden flowers, and his heart aches.
Fugo knows better than this, he really does. But there is a restlessness poking at his bones, telling him to get off that bed and do something . Lying around invites unwanted rumination; it always does. The sound of the TV only grated on his ears.
Sure, it had only been a day, but what else was Fugo supposed to do on that bed? The more he stared at the wall, the more he thought about things he didn’t like thinking about. Trish's words and that dream kept pestering him the most. Not to mention Mista’s parting promise.
He hadn’t come back yet. Neither had Giorno. Someone had come with food, but that was it. Fugo appreciated and loathed this familiar loneliness.
Could he use Purple Haze to get the book? Probably. Did Fugo want to spend another minute lying on that bed? Absolutely not.
The world doesn’t spin as harshly as he expects it to, but Fugo still finds it hard to balance himself. He grabs onto one of the drawers and leans on it. The bookshelf was a thousand miles away as he took slow steps towards it, his body now pressed to the wall so it’d help him not fall flat on his face. The pressure on the back of his head only intensifies with each step.
The books finally come into clear view, and Fugo breathes a deep sigh. At last, something that might help him escape what’s dwelling in his head. But what should he read?
His eyes scan the shelf with the speed of an old man crossing the street. There were so many different books, most of which he had already finished on previous stays. His eyes travel upwards and land on an encyclopedia, Storia d'Italia. It would be relaxing enough.
But it was on the highest shelf. Fugo blinks, his unsteady limbs setting into motion before his wrecked brain thought twice about the dangers of a 6’0 boy climbing a not-so-steady shelf. He should’ve brought out Purple Haze.
Fugo is falling. Or so he thinks. It all happens in slow motion–his hands grab onto the thing too strongly, and suddenly there’s a shelf that covers half the wall falling on him and sending him to the floor.
He waits for the impact, but it never comes.
“Spice Girl!”
The wood turns into rubber and stretches around Fugo’s lithe body instead of crushing him. The ground beneath him, too, turns into the same material.
“Holy–Fugo, are you okay?!”
His heart drops to his stomach when he recognizes whose voice it is. The rubbery material is lifted upright and then returned to its original form. Albeit, half of the books are either on the floor or surrounding Fugo like some chalk outline.
The ceiling looks really appealing right now. Fugo would much rather keep his eyes fixed on it than face the girl approaching him. If their last encounter wasn’t horrible enough, the fact that she found Fugo in this incredibly humiliating position only made him want to escape through his skin and pretend he wasn’t there at all.
Trish interrupts that familiar view, and so does Spice Girl. He blinks at them. Trish blinks back, brows knitted together and mouth open in surprise. Spice Girl, on the other hand, frowns.
“...Should I ask what you were trying to do?”
There’s a short pause.
“...Nothing.”
“That’s a nice way of saying you were about to embarrass yourself.”
“ Spice Girl .” Trish glares at her stand and dismisses her. Spice Girl rolls her eyes and disappears. Even though embarrassment creeps up his face and burns it, Fugo doesn’t have it in himself to openly disagree with her.
“Okay,” she extends an arm, trying to help him sit up as if it was the most natural thing for Trish to want to be here and help him, “Let’s get you back to bed, then.”
Fugo raises his arm a little, stopping her.
“I’m fine.”
Trish cocks her head, clearly not buying any of it, “Listen, GioGio and Mista told me you got hurt. Why were you even up? Just get back to bed for now.”
There it is, that patronising tone that Fugo hates, or is it because it’s coming from Trish? He isn’t sure. He can’t act like their ‘argument’ did not happen. He can’t. He can’t forget what either of them said. He knows it’s childish, but Fugo didn’t really want Trish to see him like this.
It only proves all she said about him.
Though when she wraps her arms around him and helps him push himself up and back on the bed, regardless of his stubbornness, it all only confuses Fugo further. Why is she acting like this? As if he was deserving of her care after all he said?
He groans when he feels that soft mattress again. Only then is he able to get a proper look at Trish. She didn’t look too great either—dark circles, unnaturally pale skin, red eyes, frizzy hair.
She held one arm behind her back. Trish must have noticed his lingering gaze.
“I got you this, uh…” She extends the hand she kept hidden behind her back and reveals a small bouquet of purple and pink flowers that Fugo can vaguely recognize.
He remembers those flowers from his many talks with Giorno and the flower language book he’d recently picked up.
Their meanings had stuck with him.
Azaleas. Take care of yourself.
Purple Hyacinth. Regret. A desire for forgiveness.
Fugo stares at them, trying to understand Trish’s motives. She moves closer when she notices the vase Giorno had given him, “Wow, this is GioGio’s work, isn’t it? They look beautiful. I’ll put mine with them since there isn’t another vase, okay? And what’s up with the lights?”
Trish moves back and looks for the light switch, and Fugo recognizes her intent a second too late, because now there’s a bright light assaulting his eyes and making that familiar sense of nausea hit his stomach like a speeding truck. A small groan leaves him– this was the first time since he woke up that he’d been exposed to a strong source of light.
“What’s wrong?”
“Turn it off, please.”
“Oh. Oh shit, sorry! Those two didn’t tell me the specifics.” She turns it off, but the sickness lingers in Fugo, albeit slightly less severely, “light sensitivity?”
“Yeah. Concussion.”
“Oh shit, that really sucks. You should try meditation later on. It helps with light sensitivity.”
“Really?”
Trish nods, “My Mamma became pretty sensitive to light when she…got ill. I was the one taking care of her. We couldn’t afford fancy doctors and whatnot, and one of our neighbors recommended it. It helped a little. That and staying hydrated.”
Trish’s mother was more of an anecdote when the girl had first crossed paths with their group. Fugo hadn’t really thought much about the reality of losing a parent and having to be said parent’s caretaker at such a young age.
“So, bad mission, huh?”
That’d be an understatement. Bad. Horrible. Stupid.
“Yeah.”
There’s a tense air that forms as the silence stretches for far too long, but Fugo supposes that's not out of the ordinary for them. Trish fidgets with the hem of her skirt, and it’s another sight that Fugo doesn’t know what to make of. He‘s not used to this fidgety Trish that looks so unsure of even being here. That was more his thing, usually. Fugo tries to think of something to speak about, but his hands come up empty.
Despite her apparent nervousness, it is Trish who cuts the silence first.
“Want a cig?”
Fugo blinks at her in confusion, “You smoke?”
Trish shrugs, pulling a pack out of her purse, “Yeah, touring is so fucking stressful. And don’t pretend like you don’t smoke–we could always smell it on you whenever you took a little ‘break’.”
Great. Fugo’s shame only intensified at the realization that everyone knew just how much he did it. It must’ve been obvious, because Trish waves her hand at him and hands him a cigarette.
His hands moved before he could think twice about it, and the thing fit between his fingers as if it were another part of his body. Perhaps it was more of a problem than Fugo realized, but he wouldn’t think about that too much now. It soon finds its place between his lips.
Trish pulls out a neon pink lighter and holds it in front of Fugo. He leans down, instinct helps him not inhale too recklessly the moment he sees the bright ember, as he fills his mouth with smoke and opens it and takes a deep, slow breath. He leans back as it fills his lungs for a couple of seconds before he breathes it out.
It felt like home.
Trish puffs out smoke to the side as they sit in comfortable silence. The euphoria from having his first cigarette in over a week is all-encompassing.
She pulls out a small metal ashtray from her purse and opens the lid, leaving it on the bedside table within reach for them both. Fugo wonders how many things there are exactly in her purse.
Eventually, their cigarettes shrink until there's barely anything left of them. Trish is the first to crush hers, and it's only then that her face sombers again and she speaks.
“Fugo, can we talk?”
Straightforward. To the point. That’s more of the Trish that Fugo knows. Though this isn’t a conversation he’s particularly thrilled to have. In fact, if he weren’t bedridden right now, he’d probably make any sort of excuse to run away from this room.
Fugo puts his cigarette in the little ashtray. He so desperately wants to ask for another one to help elevate what he feels right now. But he doesn't.
His words and hers haunted him. He felt embarrassed by what he said, knowing that he’d gone out of his way to take a low blow at her. Knowing that Trish had every right to retaliate, but that hadn’t made her words sting any less. Still, he will apologize. It's what he owes her.
“...Sure.”
“Okay. I wanted,” she sighs, “I wanted to apologize for what I said.”
The boy blinks at her. He thought this was going to go the opposite direction. He was the one being cruel first. So why is Trish apologizing?
“Trish, you don't have to–”
“No. Just let me say what I have to say first, okay?” She pauses, clearly as unsure about this conversation as Fugo is, “I shouldn’t have said what I said.”
The boy’s mouth opens and closes in vain, as if his brain would suddenly know how to respond to that.
“When I texted that night, I was feeling really shitty.” Trish’s gaze leaves him and meets the floor. She bites the inside of her cheeks, and this only brings out how tired she looks. Tired and…scared. Eventually, her teeth stop digging into the flesh of her mouth, and she looks at Fugo again.
“I was thinking of them.”
It’s a somber confession. One that Trish clearly didn’t want to admit. Fugo’s head isn’t working as well as he’d want it to right now, so her vagueness doesn’t ring any bells in his battered mind.
“Huh? Who?”
Another sigh.
“Them, Fugo. Bucciarati. Narancia. Abbacchio.”
Their names alone are enough to send Fugo’s heart into a whirlwind. That whirlwind of melancholy is followed by a realization that dawns on him with shame.
She was grieving them. Just as he was. And all he did was act like an awkward jackass.
“Oh, I didn’t know–”
“I know. I didn’t expect you to. I just, I had this amazing show and all I could think about was how they wouldn't get to experience another year because of me, you know?”
“Yeah.” The guilt that swirls in him every single day and all the what-ifs that haunt him day and night. He knew it all too well.
“So, I thought if we’d hung out, maybe I’d be fixing something. You lost them because of me, so I just–I just…”
Panic sets into Fugo’s heart when Trish’s eyes glisten with pearly tears, “Trish–”
Trish didn’t need to apologize. He was the idiot who was irrationally blaming her for something that was out of her control. He knew it, and he still chose to direct the hate in his heart towards her.
“Every time I saw you, I wanted to be so angry, I wanted to see you the same way I knew you saw me. I wanted to think maybe it wasn’t all my fault, maybe you shared in that burden too. Fuck, I was thinking of so many different things that would just make me feel like my existence wasn’t a waste, but nothing did! Hating you, forgetting you exist, or befriending you, they all felt meaningless. Because,”
Her words are interrupted by Trish catching her breath, and by the end of it, she leans forward, her eyes reflecting the pain she must’ve been carrying deep in her heart.
“Because nothing would negate that it was me who caused three people, three good people, to die .”
Fugo’s eyes widen, and once again, he’s speechless.
“I’m not using this to excuse what I said. It was shitty. I didn’t come to you with the best of intentions either. I knew you probably wouldn’t be…open with me. I knew it would piss me off, and I still asked you to hang out. I just–I didn’t want those memories to have a hold on me. That was my fault, and I didn’t mean the things I said. The Bucciarati thing was out of line, too. I’m sorry.”
There’s a finality to her last words. Trish utters them and then leans back, her shoulder slumping as she stares at Fugo, her brows closely knitted together.
Fugo admittedly has a hard time processing all she said. His damaged head aside, this was a lot to take in.
Trish was in the same boat as him. Stuck in moments long gone and unable to let them go. And yet all he had thought of her prior to that was the girl who had taken everything from him. It made the guilt in his heart rest a little easier, even though he knew he could’ve been as much of a catalyst for his family’s death as she was.
Fugo takes a minute to collect his thoughts and then speaks.
“Um, it’s okay, Trish. I said my fair share of shitty things too and I,” his teeth dig at his chapped lips, “I just, I thought you just wanted to hurt me and I lashed out. I’m sorry,” his eyes wander around the room, finding it hard to keep holding Trish’s stare, “ I thought blaming you would make things easier.”
This feels all too familiar. Fugo would lash out so often, at anyone really, and apologizing always made the things he said in those moments of anger feel even more stupid. Not to mention the vulnerability that came with it.
Bucciarati was patient with him. He’d reprimand him but not push him away. Abbacchio didn’t care much for his apologies, preferring to scowl and ignore what each of them said. Narancia retaliated every so often, so it was usually a mutual apology on both ends. Mista used to rarely care about his outbursts, somehow managing to calm him down without pissing him off. Sheila brushed him off, not being phased at all by his anger. Giorno…well, Giorno seemed to know all the right ways to calm Fugo down.
He isn’t sure how Trish is.
She laughs, although unlike the last time he heard it, it isn’t filled with malice or despair, “Tell me about it. I was doing the same thing in my head!”
It isn’t funny. It really isn’t. But it is quite ridiculous just how badly they’d both misunderstood one another. Fugo couldn’t help but laugh too. It felt weird to be laughing with her, considering how much her words had eaten at him.
“That was stupid.”
“Yeah, yeah. It really is stupid. I should’ve said something sooner–”
“No,” Fugo interrupts her, “no, I get it. I’m not exactly approachable. I always pushed you away.”
“True. But I could’ve been more open-minded.”
“I guess we both fucked up, then?”
“Yeah.”
A silence falls over the room again. Though this time it doesn’t suffocate Fugo, on the contrary, his chest feels a little lighter, as if a crushing boulder was lifted off of him ever so slightly.
“What were you trying to get from the shelf earlier?”
“Hm?”
“The shelf. Were you not trying to get a book? I can read it to you, if you’d like.”
Fugo feels far too exhausted to feel embarrassed at the idea of someone reading to him. So he shuts his brain off and answers, “ Storia d'Italia. ”
“Wow. Really?”
He scowls, “Yeah. Why? Is there something wrong with that?”
“No, no. I just think if I got my head smacked hard enough to be bedridden, I’d be glad to never look at any of those textbooks again. But that’s just me.”
Trish says that, and yet she’s already gliding to the shelf. She grabs the book with the help of Spice Girl and sits readily next to him, opening the first page.
Proposito e fine dell'opera. Prosperità d'Italia intorno al 1490. La politica di Lorenzo de' Medici ed il desiderio di pace de' príncipi italiani. La confederazione de'príncipi e l'ambizione de' veneziani….
Notes:
Writing this one was a doozy. The earlier part of the chapter was really hard to get through because of how sad it is. Grief and dreams don't mesh well, do they? Anyways, this chapter means the world to me!!
Mista and Giorno are giving Fugo quite the headache. He keeps suffering, but hey, he and Trish worked it out in the remix! I promise some more comfort is coming (with some...bittersweetness.)
Thanks for reading!
Chapter 4: To All the Days We Were Together, to All the Time We Were Apart
Summary:
Fugo could act like nothing ever happened; he could force himself to adjust to a facade of normalcy where there is none. Or, they could talk about everything that led them here. It's a terrifying notion, but one Fugo finds himself gravitating towards.
Or, Fugo unpacks more of his feelings towards Giorno with Sheila E's help and Trish executes a little scheme that gets him and Mista to finally talk.
Notes:
Haha chapter 4 for Mista's stuff. Yeah. Enjoy!
Warnings: Even MORE discussions of grief! Who would've thought? Fugo has moments where he's kind of splitting.
Chapter title is from Heart to Heart by Mac DeMarco! Another song I'd recommend for this one is Isn't It a Pity by George Harrison.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
15.01.2003, 5:12 P.M
“I... I saw it... Like, I don't know... the plane took off. I saw it leave the runway... I looked down and saw the ground...And then the cabin banged and the left side exploded. The whole plane... blew up. It was so real. Exactly how everything goes.”
Fugo sinks into the couch as the movie plays, his body finding it all too easy to crumble under the fatigue that had plagued him ever since he first woke up after getting rescued. It wasn’t nearly as bad as then, thanks to Gold Experience and his mandatory bed rest. But it was still there thanks to his less-than-recommended sleeping hours.
They had to lower the volume and brightness a lot, and Fugo couldn’t help but feel bad about it. Mista had insisted that they had to watch this movie so they could watch the sequel that’d be in the theaters soon. Fugo thought the man hated horror movies and had questioned him about it.
“You almost pissed yourself when we watched Halloween.”
“Oh, yeah, no, I still piss myself. But Trish is a total horror nut job; she introduced me to some pretty good movies.”
Trish didn’t miss a beat and laughed, “Do you mean the movies you watched behind your hands?”
Just as she said it, Trish hid her face behind her hands, peaking through the gaps and speaking in a high-pitched voice, “ Oh no, Trish, he’s right behind her! Oh no, Trish! He’s just standing in the corner menacingly! Oh no, Trish, what do you mean she crawls through TVs? What the fuck!”
She couldn’t help but break character towards the end, giggling at Mista’s embarrassed pout, “Yeah, he couldn’t sleep at all after we watched the Blair Witch Project. He actually stayed over at my place.”
“Dude! You said you wouldn’t snitch!”
Trish shrugs, “You should’ve seen him. I never saw anyone be so paranoid over horror movies, I guess it makes sense for you though.”
A frown makes its way through Mista’s face, “What do you mean it makes sense for me?”
“Well…you know. You’re like the most paranoid person I've ever met, besides my shit dad.”
Fugo pauses at the mention of him. But Mista doesn’t. It must be a normal conversation topic between them.
“I’m not that paranoid.”
“So, if I casually take four…” she looks around the room, eyes landing on the fruit bowl in the middle of the table, “apples, you won’t mind it at all?”
Mista looks at her, then at the apples, then at her again.
“You wouldn’t.”
“See! I was right.”
Their banter seemed endless to Fugo. But it brought both warmth and uneasiness to his chest. He was glad to be included in these conversations, as silly as they were. He’d been trying–especially after the conversation he had with Trish–to bury the envy he’s so accustomed to being consumed by. It hadn’t magically dissipated, though.
“So, wanna watch Final Destination? Let's see if GioGio and Sheila are free too.”
And so, the couches of the living room were occupied by a group of calm, collected individuals.
And Mista.
Giorno sat next to Mista, who, in turn, had sat next to Fugo. He held on to him as if he were in the movie, squeezing his arm in terror as if they weren’t mafiosos used to seeing much, much worse things.
The movie itself was fine. It was the silly, ridiculous horror flick that he'd expected to be from Trish's selling pitch.
Trish and Sheila shared the other couch, comfortably sipping on their drinks as they rested against one another.
“Guys, holy–you're telling me that can happen? I'm never going near any clothes line again.”
Fugo rolls his eyes and butts in, “The odds of that happening are astronomically low, Mista. Life isn't that bizarre.”
Trish laughs, “Yeah. And that's scaring you, not the airplane stuff?”
“I mean, we were on a falling plane before, remember?”
“True.”
Fugo doesn’t know that story all too well, and he isn't sure it's an appropriate time to ask about it. More of the movie passes, and Fugo struggles not to doze off.
“This movie is kinda lame.”
“Woah, really? Everyone loves it!”
Sheila shrugs. “A bunch of people cheat death, and a bunch of people are going to die in horrible ways. Kinda predictable. At least the kills are a little entertaining.”
Throughout their banter, it's only Fugo and Giorno who don't add much to the conversation. Fugo doesn’t have much to say, truly. Maybe a comment or two on the absurd physics, but he chooses to keep most of it to himself.
Giorno, on the other hand, sits there. Dignified, a picture of perfection, as he refused to sink into the couch as the others did. Fugo watches him from the corner of his eye, secretly wishing he were the one sitting next to him, not Mista. He wanted to lean his head on his shoulder, to feel the warmth of his skin against his and—
Woah.
What the hell is Fugo thinking? He instantly buries the image forming in his head, refusing to indulge any of that lunacy. This…must be some strange symptom of the concussions. He will not think about it.
His eyes keep wandering to Giorno, though. He can’t help but be drawn to him. His face had settled into that same focused, blank expression that he often wears.
Fugo can't help but feel as if there is an invisible wall between Giorno and the rest of them. As if the boy were in a different plane entirely, his attention was anywhere but on this movie.
He doesn’t dare call it out. But it does poke at him.
Fugo’s attention is pulled from the movie when there's a whisper in his ear that makes him shudder. Mista's voice goes from sounding like a whiny 10-year-old to that 10-year-old's chain-smoking father instantaneously as he leans into Fugo.
“Fugo.”
“...W-what?”
“Did you know the Queen of England eats babies to stay alive? True story.”
Fugo processes what he heard as Mista leans back into his place and continues watching.
Oh, it was another of his ‘fun facts’. Mista had been pestering Fugo with them every time he saw him the past few days. He blinks at him, opening his mouth and immediately closing it–it wasn’t worth it to correct him, no matter how absurd it was to suggest that Queen Elizabeth the Second eats babies to stay alive.
But the more time passes, the more the anger in Fugo's chest bubbles. Eventually, it spills over and he pokes at Mista and whispers back, “Queen Elizabeth does not eat babies. Do you even know who she is? Are you thinking of the right place? The last time you had to point out England on a map, you pointed at Australia.”
“Of course, I know who she is. I have my sources.”
“Which are?”
“Noneofyourbusinesspedia.”
Fugo resists the urge to punch him. Even though it's really, really tempting to.
Eventually, the movie ends. Mista keeps looking out for any object that might cause his demise before he retreats to ‘fortify’ his room. Sheila and Trish leave after having a good chuckle about it. He doesn’t miss the way the girls’ hands intertwine on their way out.
Before long, it’s just him and Giorno left. The space that Mista previously occupied remained empty, as Fugo hadn’t dared move an inch closer. Giorno’s eyes were still distant.
He should leave. He’s probably bothering him. But he can’t go without saying something. His leg bounces in its place, and Fugo taps the armrest. The silence lingers for a moment too long, and it eats at him. He turns to Giorno and finally speaks.
“So…what did you think of the movie?”
Giorno’s attention finally leaves the wall and turns to Fugo. His eyes stare him down, weary and unblinking, “Huh?”
“The movie? What did you, uh, think of it?”
“Oh. It was nice.”
The short answer effectively shuts down the conversation, and Fugo thinks he might just explode. Why does he keep doing this to himself?
He seeks Giorno's presence and recoils from it so easily. Feeling him extend this distance between them was killing him, especially since he felt like he'd do anything, anything for his attention.
It was embarrassing.
Even now, with the quiet returning, Fugo can’t bring himself to put an end to this. He'd rather have this tense atmosphere choke him if it'd only mean he'd remain in Giorno's presence.
“...I think I'll head to bed early.”
It was only 7 P.M., but Fugo nods at him, his heart constricting in his chest as Giorno leaves the room in haste.
17.01.2003, 8:04 P.M
Snow fell all around him, slowly descending upon the blooming flowers and resting between them. It didn't snow often in Napoli. Usually, it would've been a welcome sight. But not when it rattles his weary bones.
January had never felt longer. Recovery had made his days feel endless, and so he loathed the flakes cascading around him and making his body only ache more. It didn’t help that he had forgotten his coat while sneaking away.
The 17-year-old mafia don had a great knack for gardening. Once he had moved into the late boss’s villa, he hadn’t wasted a single minute before tactfully filling every possible space with flowers and plants of all shapes and sizes that managed to blend together beautifully.
Giorno held great devotion towards life; Fugo could see it every time he came around, observing the way he treated the greenery around them as if it were his own flesh and blood. He didn’t want to see anything here die, and so he imbued the place with Gold Experience’s power so it wouldn’t wither away all year round.
And the thing about Giorno Giovanna is that he does not half ass anything. It was obvious to Fugo as he sat on a wooden bench, surrounded by trees and rows of flowers plucked from the rainbow itself. In front of him was a stone fountain quietly spurting water as crickets echoed in the air.
The place also reminded him of his Nonna. Her garden wasn’t as grand as Giorno’s. She preferred simpler things in life, much to his family’s displeasure. But every time Fugo would come here, he’d feel like that child sitting on a swing while his Nonna told him all sorts of stories. He couldn’t recount most of them, but he remembers the way those moments made him feel like someone truly cared about him.
Purple Haze sat by the bed of flowers, hunched over as he took in the sight. Purple Haze always had an affinity for flowers, now that he thought about it. Stands are an extension of their users’ souls, he supposes it makes sense. Flowers felt so removed from who Fugo was–they were the things he could never be. Because Pannacotta Fugo is an instrument of death and decay.
There’s a small pang on the side of Fugo’s head, and he’s reminded that perhaps it isn’t the best idea to ignore all demands for full bed rest. But he could not stare into that beige wall a moment longer.
Being out here helps him to contemplate as well.
He was glad about the talk he had with Trish.
The girl continued to visit him over the past few days, and they all ended up spending much more time together. It was really awkward at times, but some awkwardness won’t be the end of him.
Their time together so far, though brief, only made him realize how ridiculous he was to both fear and despise her as he did. He wouldn’t lie to himself and say that he feels none of it–he still does, it clings to his heart stubbornly and refuses to leave. But it’s something he wants to move past.
Talking about grief isn’t easy, but his chest felt so much lighter after he realized how much Trish had shared in it.
The other two had visited him regularly as well. It was all a bit much, as Fugo was more used to his isolating routine for the past couple of months. But he didn’t hate it.
It only confused him, all of it. Mista is nice, really nice. Too nice?
It doesn’t make any sense to Fugo. They hardly acknowledged one another for the past year, and now they’re suddenly friends? Not only that, but Mista’s abhorrent facts were driving him mad. That in itself, he can put up with begrudgingly.
But it’s the familiarity in that irritation that scares Fugo. That and the idea of things being plunged into a new kind of ‘normal’.
Giorno, on the other hand, turned cold after their encounter; his visits were more akin to those of a doctor checking up on his patient. The same old fire burned in his chest every time he thought of it, a fire that threatened to consume him whole and leave nothing but ashes behind.
He tried not to overthink it, as he often does. But just as it was with Trish, trying not to think about it wasn’t exactly working out in his favor.
Fugo likes to think of himself as a logical person. His logic is flawed, maybe , but it follows a clear structure in his mind.
Giorno is distant. Giorno is ignoring him. Giorno looks like he’s hiding something. Therefore, obviously, Giorno hates Fugo and wants nothing to do with him.
“You were too much, is that what you wanted to hear?”
Fugo doesn’t believe that dreams contribute anything to reality. He does not. But he had never had a dream be so clear to him. It made it harder to forget these words and the subsequent conversation that followed.
You're not supposed to remember dreams so clearly. Fugo struggles to understand the logic behind how his brain couldn't get rid of the images of his loved ones stepping onto that train and vanishing.
Dreams were a creation of the unconscious; perhaps something deep in him wanted him to hear these words from Bucciarati specifically.
Sure, that wasn’t the real Bucciarati speaking, but nothing he said was wrong. Fugo is a burden; he was hearing what he already knew. Perhaps that’s why Giorno didn’t want to be around him. Perhaps there's an inevitability to Fugo's existence. That this will always be a part of who he is, that it is something people around him will have to put up with.
Before his mind could delve even further into this rabbit hole, Fugo’s attention was stolen by the sound of approaching footsteps. He lets out a sigh. It seems he was found.
“I knew you would be here, Panna.”
Fugo turns to the girl, and of course, it is Sheila E who found him. The girl’s bright green braids rested on her shoulders as she stood before him, holding a coat in her hand, “Yeah? Did I make it that obvious?”
Sheila walks to him and throws the coat in his lap before nudging him to scoot over, which Fugo does without putting up a fight. His hands run through the soft wool, and it’s only then that he realizes how cold he had gotten when his mind was somewhere else entirely. He quickly puts it on.
“The others were scared you ran off somewhere. I knew you wouldn’t make it past the villa’s gates with the way you were wobbling yesterday. Of course, there are so many rooms you could’ve been in. But I remember you saying you liked it here the most. It reminded you of your, uh–” she pauses, blanking for a moment.
“Nonna’s garden.”
“Your Nonna’s garden! Yes. You’re not that confusing, Fugo. You’re kind of predictable, honestly.”
Fugo is thankful that he’s known Sheila long enough to know that the girl is just unabashedly honest. Or else the fuse that is always threatening to blow up in his brain would’ve done just that.
Sheila looks around and her eyes fall to Purple Haze, who still gazes at the flowers in wonder, “Aww, you let Purple Haze out.”
“...He wanted to look at the flowers.”
Sheila smiles, “So, you came here to relax?”
“Yeah. I was relaxing until someone decided to disturb my peace.”
Sheila pinches his hand slightly, an unamused look falling over her face, “You literally looked constipated, Panna.”
Fugo’s jaw falls open, “Excuse me?”
Sheila shrugs, “What, you totally did! That doesn’t look relaxing to me. At all.”
A silence falls over them. Fugo isn’t willing to share what he was dwelling on, the content of his dream, and his overthinking were things he wanted to keep locked up deep in his mind. So, he enjoys the sounds of the rustling leaves for now.
Sheila interrupts that quiet with a question that puzzles Fugo, “So, isn’t there something you need to tell me?”
Fugo blinks, “What?”
“You know,” Sheila keeps that same straight face on, “about how I told you so?”
A groan immediately escapes from Fugo’s lips. Of course, Sheila wanted to annoy him about his idiocy. She holds a hand next to her ear and waits.
“...you told me so.”
“Yep! I sure did.”
His eyes feel like they’re going to roll into his brain, “I got my ass kicked, isn’t that enough for a revelation?”
“Nope.”
The sound of the leaves returns as Fugo glances at Sheila from the corner of his eye. There was shame clawing at him whenever he thought of how stupid his actions had truly been.
“Aren’t you pissed?”
“Nope. Kinda expected it. Especially after you were so standoffish about Trish. It was obvious she was hiding something, too. I was hoping I was wrong, though. Then I went to check up on you in your apartment with Voodoo Child, and lo and behold, you weren’t there for a while.”
Fugo stays quiet, unsure of how much he should fess up. The fight with Trish was stupid, but he felt like he should tell Sheila about it. He probably stressed her out; he owed her this at least in his mind.
“...You were right about the Trish thing. Something did happen.”
Sheila turns to him, her face resting on her palm as she waits for him to continue, “We had an argument, it was pretty bad.”
“Uh huh.”
“We said some stupid things.”
“Like what?”
Fugo bites the inside of his cheeks, the embarrassment almost sweeping him under now that he has to recount his words, “I…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll definitely judge you, but at least I’ll be honest about it.”
A moment passes before he sighs, “I was pissed off, and I told her that…I blamed her for their deaths.”
The ‘their’ in question doesn’t need to be explained; Sheila immediately knows who he’s speaking of. She raises her brows and drops her lips into a faux-frown, “Wow,” she laughs, “That’s embarrassing.”
It causes a wave of heat to rush to his cheeks, “I know, shut up–”
Her laughter turns slightly hysterical as she deepens her voice a little and does what Fugo thinks is an impression of him.
“Oooo, Trish, my mortal enemy, how dare you exist and have the world’s worst dad ever–”
He facepalms, “ Dio mio , I apologized, okay? Don’t start.”
“Good, because I was about to punch you. Well, what did Trish say about that?”
“Uh.”
It’s hard recounting her words for obvious reasons. But Sheila’s hand pulls at his coat, “C’mon, just say it!”
“Quit pulling–fine, she said a lot of things, not necessarily wrong things.”
“Why are you splicing the story? Just tell me!”
“She said I was too miserable, and that Bucciarati was happy to cut his losses short.”
Sheila’s whiny voice gets stuck in her throat for a moment before she says a simple “Damn.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, it makes sense you were like that then.”
Fugo nods, “We talked about it, though. Everything is fine now.” Not completely. But Sheila didn’t need to know that.
“That’s good. You guys did seem more comfortable with each other yesterday. You know, it was Trish’s idea to ask you to watch the movie with us. She even canceled some big shows because she misses us.”
“Really?”
Sheila nods. Fugo smiles. The thought of someone going out of their way to want to include him filled him with warmth. It helped stomp out that envy that dwelled in him and that fear of not being wanted.
Perhaps in a way, he had missed her too. Trish was a great presence that he'd filtered out of his life for the longest time out of fear, guilt, and hatred.
The snow continues to fall all around them when Sheila turns his body to him completely, “Wait, so I have a question.”
“Yeah?”
“How come you never blamed Giorno for what happened?”
“What?”
“You don’t blame him, right?”
Fugo realizes he didn’t think of it much; his brain was too busy drowning in the radiance surrounding Giorno. He was the blinding sun, and Fugo was the ground blessed enough to be shone upon.
“I…guess not.”
“You don’t think that’s weird?”
Fugo didn’t blame Mista either, so why would he blame Giorno? His blaming finger always pointed at himself and Trish, finding it easier to build on his already existing self-loathing and the distance between him and the girl.
But Giorno…
“Giorno is–”
“Different?”
Different was one way of saying it. Giorno felt so removed from everything that plagued his mind, and yet, he was invaded his senses all the same. Something Fugo couldn’t dream of truly understanding.
Fugo nods.
“Yeah. I used to think that, you know. But the more time I spent around him, the more I realized that he really reminded me of my sister.”
Sheila’s sister, Clara, wasn’t a subject they spoke of often.
“I told you what I thought back in Sicily, remember? Giorno is more ‘right’ than god, Clara was like god to me too. She was all I had for the longest time, then that bastardo took her from me. All of a sudden, there was no warmth, no god, nothing. Then Giorno came, and I found out that he helped you put down Iluso, and just like that, I felt alive for the first time in years. But…”
Sheila folds her arms over her chest, pursing her lips before continuing, “Like I said, I’ve been around him a lot. And I’ve been noticing things over the past two years.”
Fugo cocks his brow, “What things?”
“Well, for one, he’s really, really fond of flowers, but I think you already know that. He gets really cranky if someone enters the room without knocking, he always says goodnight to his frogs, he loves jasmine tea, he likes getting comically large bowls of chocolate chip ice cream.”
Fugo blinks at the barrage of information, “I don’t understand. Why are you telling me this?”
“Because! Remember how I told you Carla had to take care of me when we were really young?”
“Yes.”
“She never got to be just a child, you know? And the more I put the same expectations I had for her in Giorno, the more I realized he was only a child, like us.”
“Yes, he is 17 years old.”
“That’s not the point, Fugo. There’s something wrong with him, I know you can tell too. But he keeps acting, I think. Putting on a front, can’t you see it?”
“A front?” a voice rings out from deep within him, a voice that tells him it’s useless to ask things he already knows.
“Yes, it’s only when you’re around him all the time that you can see the cracks in it, the child in him, do you understand what I’m saying here?”
Oh. Oh, he does. His brain actively fights against it, pushing the thoughts and the imperfections that might taint Giorno’s holy image in his mind.
Giorno is…Giorno is perfect, isn’t he? He has to be. He was the one who would fix everything Fugo ruined. He’s the one who gathered Fugo when he broke into a million pieces; his dream is what gave Fugo purpose. A thought creeps on him, crawling and slithering its way into his mind—a rotten, despicable thought.
If Giorno was anything less than perfect, then what did his family die for?
Gears were turning in his head, unpleasant ones, threatening to flip a switch in his head, inviting an intense nothingness into his feeble heart, and choking it.
She’s right. He took everything from him. He told Bucciarati to go against the boss; he set everything in motion, then caused Fugo’s world to crumble and fall apart. Why was he so busy directing all his hate onto Trish when Giorno was right there? He didn’t even call him. He couldn’t keep such a simple promise–
There’s a light pinch that pulls him out of the waves of poison brewing in his brain.
“Uh oh. What’s with that look?”
“Huh?”
“You look weird. What are you thinking about?”
Fugo doesn’t dare utter the blasphemy that’s sitting on the tip of his tongue. No, he needed to forget about this and not think. It wouldn’t bring about anything good.
And just like that, the progress he was making earlier was tossed out the window and set on fire. A fire that Fugo hoped to jump into.
“Nothing.”
The girl lets out a groan, “There you go again, you know Panna, your ‘I’ll suffer in silence’ shtick is not as secretive as you hope it to be. It’s obvious something was–and is– on your mind. Just tell me.
“...It’s nothing.”
How could he dare utter the blasphemy swirling in his heart?
Sheila sighs and leans towards him, “I’m worried about you, but I’m also worried about Giorno. It can’t be easy to have all those expectations on him from all of us. So just keep that in mind, okay?”
Her words remind him of that dream, of Bucciarati’s words.
“Even now, even here, I have this weight in my chest and around my head every time you look at me. Like, I need to be more than who I am. Stronger. Steadier. A perfect man. It was a lot. That’s why I left.”
Fugo’s head swims in so many different directions. There he was again, trying to run away, trying to drown himself in sadness and direct his anger at something other than himself. It’s so, so stupid, but there is a tug of war in his mind, and Fugo keeps pulling and pushing in a desperate attempt at self-preservation.
His mind blames the others for his pain, a blame that Fugo cannot subdue despite how irrational it feels.
Logic–the not-so-faulty one–told Fugo that it was pointless to dissect past events and present them on a poisonous buffet that would only rot him inside out. That Sheila is right, that just like he did with Bucciarati, he was placing Giorno on a pedestal that was out of reach.
But it was so comforting to have someone who Fugo believed was so much better than himself. It made loathing himself so easy–so natural. If there was someone like that, then… then maybe they'd fix him. Or at least be so holy that they'd want to deal with him.
And it's wrong. It's wrong to think that someone can fix him. But the alternative was to admit that he was broken and he'd have to put the pieces back together himself.
Sheila lightly taps his back, snapping him back to reality.
“Anyways, let’s go back inside.”
She gets up and turns to Fugo.
“I’ll come back in a bit.”
“Panna .”
“I won’t go anywhere. I just need to think a little. Besides, if I hear Mista say one more obviously objectively wrong thing, I’ll throw myself off the rooftop.”
She chuckles, “...Fine. But if I don’t see your ass back in that bad in 10 minutes, I’m snitching.”
Sheila soon disappears into the corridor leading back to the villa. The leaves rustle. Crickets chirp—the water in the fountain burbles.
Purple Haze, who hadn't stopped looking at the flowers the whole time, moves towards him as he pulls out a cigarette. Just as the cigarette was about to meet his lips, Purple Haze tugged on his other arm.
The stand gurgled in a way that many people would’ve dismissed as a monstrous growl. Fugo knew better now. He pointed at the flowers he’d spent so long observing, urging him to come look at them too.
Fugo shrugs him off, taking a deep breath and lighting his cigarette.
He needed to think. He needed to think a lot.
“Did you know sharks evolved from snails?”
The Pastina soup slowly slides out of the spoon that’s hovering mere inches away from Fugo’s mouth. It was hard to eat as it is; his hands still moved as if he were an amateur puppeteer, haphazardly controlling them through chipped strings.
He blinks at Mista, who holds a slice of cucumber above number 5.
He knows better. This game Mista had been playing was going on for days at this point. Fugo knows his annoyance is what the gunman is striving for. But still…
“No, they didn’t.”
“Yes, they did. I read about it.”
“Where did you read that?”
“In a book.”
“What book?”
“What, you know every book in the universe? Why should I tell you?”
Fugo slams the spoon down, making some of the soup fly out of the bowl and onto the pristine wooden table. “Because! Why are you saying sharks evolved from snails? Even a first grader wouldn’t think that!”
“Well, when I was in first grade, I thought mammoths were extinct, but they’re still around.”
“Oh my god, you cannot be serious!”
Mista shrugs, feeding the pistols as he ignores the steam coming out of Fugo’s ears. Being wrong about female urethras? Queen Elizabeth the Second? The dozen other things he said with too much confidence? He can put up with those things.
But prehistoric Earth? No. Fugo cannot take that.
“First of all, the oldest group of sharks was present around 400 million years ago, and sharks survived five mass extinctions! Five! Snails weren’t even around for half of those. Sharks were around before dinosaurs! Do you think snails are older than dinosaurs? And, AND, the last mammoth subspecies went extinct 4000 years ago! ”
“Dude. We all know dinosaurs aren’t real.”
His mouth hangs open because Fugo can feel his brain boiling in his head, threatening to spill over and make him lose all rationality as it often does. And so, he picks up his bowl and walks away with shaky steps, leaving a trail of soup behind.
It’s a couple of days later when Fugo finally gets to leave the villa. He missed the feeling of that street breeze hitting his face and swaying his hair. The trip to the grocery store was nothing short of uneventful, but he's grateful for it.
He's glad he was ‘allowed’ to go out for the first time in two weeks. Sure, the sunlight pricked his skin and the noises around him felt as if they'd crush his skull, but still-he missed the streets of Napoli.
At least Giorno gave him something to do. He was getting far too restless.
The endless aisles of soft drinks stare back at Fugo as he looks at the shopping list in his hands.
He goes to get the Cola box, an action that proves to be far more difficult than he expected. He stumbles, the box heavier than he remembers it to be.
A brawny arm wraps around him just in time to grab the side of the box and steady Fugo.
“ Easy, you’re not supposed to be carrying heavy stuff.”
Mista slowly detaches his hand from Fugo and takes the box away from him. He almost stubbornly latches on to it, but his dizziness doesn't give him the chance to. He hurriedly steps away from Mista.
“Seriously? Didn’t you learn your lesson after that shelf incident?”
Of course, he wouldn’t be ‘allowed’ outside unless someone was accompanying him. Thus, he got Trish and Mista as companions. Mista places the box in the shopping cart with ease, going back to get a box of Sprite as well.
“I don’t know how you guys like Cola.”
Fugo cocks his head, “I thought you liked it too?”
“Not since I found out about the…spider blood in it.”
“Huh?”
Mista starts pushing the cart away, not bothering to elaborate on that insane statement he just made. Fugo bites his lip.
He won't say anything. He won't. But he turns to Trish, who, much to his dismay, doesn't look nearly as confused as he does. She simply shrugs and follows Mista.
Great.
Fugo takes out the grocery list and looks down at it. The only things left were popcorn and more jasmine tea for Giorno.
The sound of the shopping cart being pushed and the distant chatter of other people fills the silence between them. Mista walks ahead of them, and Fugo is left alone with Trish. Though, unlike a few weeks ago, it doesn’t dig into his skin to be around her.
“Say, you know what Sheila likes, right?”
“As in…?”
“Snacks, stuff like that.”
Fugo ponders the question as they pass aisle after aisle. He could be imagining it, but the girl looked almost…bashful? Timid, even.
“Uh…She likes anything with vinegar in it. And… Mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
Fugo remembers the first time she convinced him to try it. It was baffling to him how anyone could enjoy it when it felt like he was munching on cold toothpaste.
Before she could say anything more, a blaring ringtone puts their conversation on pause. She takes her phone out and sighs, “Sorry, it's my manager. I have to take this. You guys get the other stuff, I'll get the snacks for Sheila, and be back.”
Fugo nods. Trish leaves his side, and he's left alone to catch up with Mista's weirdly hurried steps.
They arrive at the tea aisle, and Fugo quickly scans the endless different types of tea for Giorno's favorite one. Eventually, his eyes landed on it.
It was on the highest shelf. Completely out of his reach.
Fugo really doesn't learn, because he finds himself immediately trying to reach for it, feet stepping on the store shelf before his hand shoots upwards.
Mista doesn't waste a moment, and he hurriedly grabs it and Fugo as well.
“Dude. Seriously?”
Okay. Maybe, at this point, Fugo is trying to prove something. He can reach a goddamn shelf on his own.
He slowly pushes Mista away and moves towards where the last item they need is. Fugo walks away, and he hears the shopping cart approaching behind him.
“Psst. Fugo.”
“What?”
“Uh, did you know that…”
Fugo pauses in his place and arches his brow, waiting for whatever stupid thing Mista was about to utter. But to his surprise, the man's eyes dart around the aisles, scanning the items in a desperate attempt to…come up with something?
“Tea…was…uh…invented by…China?”
“...That is almost correct, actually. ‘Discovered’ would be the appropriate term, though.”
“Woah. Really? I just came up with it….Okay, listen, man, I’m starting to run out of things to be wrong about.”
Fugo huffs, “So you are trying to annoy me.”
“Of course! Do you really think I don’t know which hole girls pee out of?”
“...Maybe?” Fugo turns to him with a sigh, “I don’t understand you, Mista. I know you hate me, or at the very least, you don't want me around. Did you annoy me just so I'd leave you alone? You could’ve just told me.”
Mista's eyes widen and he shakes his head, “What? No, I was trying to annoy you into blowing up and being more,” he pauses, “normal, I guess.”
“I don’t follow.”
“You’re too uptight.”
Water is wet. The sky is currently blue. The sun will begin to die in five billion years. Mista loves pointing out the obvious.
“Like, why won't you just let it out? Yell at me. Do it. You used to do it all the time before.”
Fugo blinks at him, confused.
“Why do you want me to do that?”
Mista shrugs, but it isn't the relaxed gesture that it should be. He almost looks nervous, unable to answer Fugo's question for a few seconds.
“I don’t know. I guess I wanted things to be…normal?”
Fugo huffs again, and that same old anger comes back to him no matter how much he tries to restrain it.
“I don’t see how it's fair of you to expect me to act normal around you when we've barely talked in the past year, Mista.”
His tone agitates Mista's mood, but Fugo doesn’t care right now. He wanted things to be normal between them again–no, he yearned for that. But not like this.
He can’t act like there wasn't a history of grief and pain surrounding them. Sure, in his head, the idea of Mista reverting to the Mista he knew before was a dream, but now that he's faced with the possibility, he can't help but feel repulsed by it.
Change always scares Fugo. And this was no exception. The suddenness of it doesn’t help.
“Why are you saying it like it's completely my fault?”
“That's not what I'm–”
“Then what are you saying?”
Oh, he doesn't know. Fugo doesn’t have the slightest clue as to what he's saying, or what he wants to say.
“I'm just saying it's not fair. How am I supposed to be ‘normal’ about it now when you didn’t acknowledge my presence for over a year at this point?”
Mista's mouth opens in an offended gasp, “ I’m the one being unfair? You’re the one who–ugh! I didn’t do that!”
“You did–”
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
Fugo's voice kept rising with Mista's, and it didn't take too long before he could see people gawking from the corner of his eye. He doesn’t enjoy their stares, so as much as he finds holding his emotions back a struggle, Fugo turns away from Mista.
“Whatever. Forget about it.”
“Oh, there you go. Are you seriously going to walk away from this, too ?”
The words fully halt Fugo’s steps, and his eyes almost pop out of their sockets. There’s a weight that manifests as soon as those words settle in.
He turns, it’s slow–as if looking at Mista would make the words he said more real than hearing them did.
Too. That one word held so much meaning in it. It was a clear jab at what he had done, a reminder of what he’ll always be to him.
A coward. A traitor.
“You’re–you’re seriously bringing that up now? What the fuck, Mista?”
Before Mista could answer, there was an awkward cough coming from the end of the aisle. They both turned to the source of it, and there stood Trish with bags of vinegar and salt chips and a bucket of chocolate chip mint ice cream.
“Uhhh, is everything okay?”
Fugo doesn’t look at Mista before scoffing, “Yeah. I’ll wait for you guys in the car.”
“Oh. Okay…cool.”
Trish awkwardly shuffles to the shopping cart and places her things in it. Fugo doesn’t stick around to hear if Mista would have anything to say, and he hurriedly steps towards the exit.
✉...can u come 2 the pantry? need help w stuff
Fugo stares at the text he received from Trish, the book in his hands hadn’t provided much of an escape from the fatigue constantly threatening to take over his mind and forcing his eyes shut.
He still can’t bring himself to go to sleep. It still scares him. The moment he’d lie in his bed, the walls of his room would shrink on him, turning into a constricting coffin. Caffeine became his friend. But sometimes the exhaustion would catch up to him still. He couldn’t fight his brain when it decided to shut down, as much as he wanted to.
The book didn’t provide much of an escape from Mista’s words either. Perhaps if he said it to him before his fight with Trish, or before he got the shit beat out of him–physically and mentally–then he’d have an even worse reaction to what Mista said.
Fugo’s 2003 has been consistently bad. It only made sense that another thing would go wrong.
It wasn’t like what he said was wrong. He did walk away before. He always finds himself wanting to run away from things. From people. From his feelings.
Helping Trish sounded like a much better way to delay his inevitable slumber, and it should provide enough of a distraction from his thoughts.
Except when he finally reaches the pantry and pushes open the intricately carved door, there's only Mista waiting for him there.
Fugo's face immediately scrunches, “Huh? Why are you here?”
There's a quick ‘whoosh’ and Fugo hears the door click behind him. It's followed by the lock turning. Trish's muffled voice is heard through the door as Fugo goes to try to unlock it.
“Okay, since you two idiots insist on being so stupid, I'm taking things into my own hands. I'm not opening this door until you stop being babies and talk!”
“Are you serious? Trish–”
“Nope, I don’t wanna hear it from either of you. Unless ‘it’ is you talking about your big stupid feelings.”
“Trish, just open the stupid door.”
“Nuh uh. Mista, I can’t take hearing you be a crybaby about this anymore. You miss Fugo? Now you'll get all the time in the world to tell him all about it.”
Echoes of footsteps get fainter and fainter as the culprit of this little scheme walks away. Fugo resists the urge to punch the door and grits his teeth. He turns to Mista, and the man looks just as exasperated as Fugo does.
“Is she serious?”
Fugo shrugs. Trish probably chose the pantry because it wasn’t as spacious as the rest of the villa, and it had no windows for either of them to escape from.
“I could shoot the door down.”
Fugo rolls his eyes, “You want to destroy a hand-carved mahogany door? GioGio will kill you.”
“Ugh…fine. You knew how to lockpick, didn’t you?”
“I don’t have any lockpicks or pins, so I can't.”
There was no getting out of here any time soon; that much was clear. Mista huffs, staying in the opposite corner of the room, as Fugo does the same.
The air is thick with residual tension from their previous argument, and neither of them speaks.
Fugo didn’t know what he wanted. He was fine letting this simmer for a while; eventually, it'd fizzle out, and they'd go back to not acknowledging one another. That'd be the easy way out–the comfortable reality he was so used to living in.
There's another option. He could act like nothing ever happened, he could force himself to adjust to a facade of normalcy where there is none.
Or, they could talk about everything that led them here. It's a terrifying notion, but one Fugo finds himself gravitating towards. Because he knows that even if he puts all he feels to the side, one day these same emotions will come bubbling back up and ruin him.
So, as much as Fugo loathes to talk , it's the course of action he decides to go with, despite his brain screaming at him to break the door and bail.
“Mista.”
The man in question had his hands folded in front of his chest, his eyes were stuck to the porcelain flooring, until Fugo called his name.
“We should–”
“–Talk. I know.”
Well, Fugo didn’t expect him to surrender so easily, but as Mista sits on the only table in the place, eyes sunken and shoulders lowered, he thinks that maybe Mista feels the inevitability of this uncomfortable conversation they’re both running away from.
Fugo sits next to him.
It’s silent save for the crickets chirping outside, and he finds himself fidgeting with his locks as he thinks about where he should start. He silently prays that Mista will be the one taking the lead here.
“So…”
Fugo turns to him, stomach starting to crumble under the weight of anxiety. He could be about to hear everything that he wanted to hear or everything he dreads. Fugo bites his lip.
“Yeah?”
“Why did you act like nothing happened after I saved you?”
Fugo’s head inadvertently moves back, “What?”
Mista frowns again, and Fugo bites the urge to curl on himself, “You said it wasn’t fair of me to expect you to act normal after all we went through. But how come it’s okay for you to act like you didn’t say all that stuff, dude?”
His gaze turns away from Mista and onto the walls of the room. Fugo glares holes into them as he scrambles his brain in an effort to remember anything he might’ve said. His confusion must be evident enough, because Mista’s face relaxes.
“Do you not remember what you said?”
Fugo slowly shakes his head, “No?”
“...Dude. Seriously? You’re not fucking with me?” Fugo shakes his head again.
Mista’s hands go to his hat, slightly pulling at it and covering his face in the process. He groans, “Oh my God. I’m so stupid, this whole time I thought you were being an asshat.”
Okay. That doesn’t help Fugo understand what the hell he’s talking about at all. Mista turns to him, face slightly reddened in…embarrassment?
“When we were walking outside that tin can, you threw up on my cashmere and started talking like you were about to die.”
Still nothing. His memories of his capture were somewhat hazy, a disjointed mess of events that he often struggled to put together. He could only remember the pain under his fingers and the taste of rancid bread in his mouth.
But nothing from what Mista is saying came to mind. The man removes his hat and ruffles his curls before recounting what Fugo had said. How he'd cried, sobbed, and begged for forgiveness.
Fugo wants to thank his battered brain while simultaneously bashing it even more for saying the things he doesn’t feel brave enough to say even now.
“I guess it made me realize that you did care, because I spent the past year and a half convincing myself that you didn't. You were so standoffish, I guess I thought you didn't want to be around me, and that pissed me off even more. Did you mean all you said?”
Fugo had been distant; he knew that. But it was only because he felt their bond was beyond repair. To others, his actions didn't have the context of all of the demons lurking in his head. He only seemed distant, stuck in his own little world–Trish certainly seemed to think so, and Mista did too.
“I…”
Of course, he did. He had agonized for over a year at this point. He regretted so much of what he’d done. But it’s harder to verbalize these words when he’s in a clear state of mind.
Fugo turns from him, but he forces himself to nod.
“Then why did it take you so long to tell me?”
“I…I thought you hated me.”
“I didn’t. Well, maybe a little. Listen,” Mista sighs, “I’m not totally over it, Fugo. I think a part of me will find it hard to trust you for a long time, to be honest. I get it. It was scary, really fucking scary. I think I was this,” he pinches his fingers together, “close to shitting myself when I got on that boat. But I think I expected you to show up at least when the news spread about Giorno becoming the don. About the others’...passing.”
Mista pauses for a moment, taking a heavy breath before looking Fugo directly in the eye.
“Mista…”
“It was really fucking hard when we came from Rome. I had to bury three of my closest friends. Three. Giorno and Trish tried to help, but they didn’t know the others like we did, so I didn’t expect them to understand. And I was so pissed at GioGio back then, so that didn't help either. You were nowhere to be found, so I had to arrange three separate funerals and contact their families myself. It was the right thing to do, but it sucked ass.”
Fugo was a coward, but he was so grateful that he never had to see their corpses. To see the ones he loved be so lifeless would be something he'd never be able to wash away from his mind.
“Abbacchio’s parents were in hysterics. He didn’t talk much about them, so I had assumed that maybe he didn’t have the best relationship with them. But no, they were beyond devastated. Apparently, Abbacchio had left them out of shame around the time Bucciarati had found him.”
Abbacchio wasn’t the most open person. It was to an almost unhealthy degree where he bottled up everything so much that he could only let his feelings out with the warmth of wine swirling in his belly.
Fugo remembers a time he came home to Abbacchio’s figure lying on the floor, vomit oozing from his mouth, and empty wine bottles rolling next to him. A little further away was his cellphone, on which a message had been received from an unknown number.
Ci Manchi. Rispondi, per favore.
Fugo didn’t like to think of that sight too much. He never asked Abbacchio about who might've sent that–the older man always made it clear that he hated it when others put their noses where they didn't belong. Must've been one of his parents.
“Narancia’s dad showed up too. I was surprised, to be honest. He just looked at the casket for a really, really long time, then held his hand for even longer. I wanted to kick his ass, but…I don’t know. I guess it felt useless.”
Fugo was surprised to hear that. Narancia's father wasn't a foreign subject between the two. He knew and saw how little the man cared for his son. So why bother go see him when he'd died? He refused to believe that he'd suddenly grown a conscience, not after he left his son on the streets and pretended he didn't exist. Fugo was sure Narancia would've loved it if Mista had kicked his ass.
“Nearly half of the town came for Bucciarati’s funeral. All the nonnas were weeping. His mother came and asked a lot of questions. A lot, a lot. If she hadn’t said she was his mother, I would’ve thought she was a stranger who looked a lot like him.”
Bucciarati never spoke of his mother to the point where Fugo almost assumed she was never in the picture to begin with. He only knew of his father, but even that was just vague information for the longest time.
The details of the funerals rammed a nail deeper and deeper into his heart; the longer he went on, the clearer those haunting images became in his head.
“It sucked. It really did. And all I could think about was that my best friend wasn’t here either. You could’ve been dead for all I knew. That's why I couldn’t get myself to forgive you. I get running away at the start, that fight with Diavolo was insane. But I couldn’t believe that you wouldn’t even come to their funerals, Panna.”
Fugo’s body pauses; the name sounded foreign coming from Mista’s lips. He hadn’t called him that in so long. His gaze turns to the floor in shame, and he says the only thing he knows to say.
“I’m sorry.”
Mista’s gruff hand touches his, making Fugo look at him.
“I know. I know you are. But I want you to prove it, show me that you will stay. Because,” he pauses, struggling to get the words out, “I miss you. And I want my best friend back. But I can’t get the idea of you suddenly bailing out of my head. That maybe the next time I’d need you by my side, you won’t be there at all.”
Fugo loathes hearing all of this. Shame and guilt prick his skin, and yet these words aren’t unwarranted. If Fugo and Mista wanted to go back to how things were before, they’d first have to acknowledge that things would not be like that for a long time. So, despite the urge to curl in on himself and hide from the world, he doesn't budge from his place.
“Can you promise me that? That’d we’d have each other’s backs, no matter what?”
“Mista, it’s not that simple–”
“Yes or no, Panna?”
Fugo’s lips purse. Promises are fickle things because one cannot know one’s future circumstances. Sure, they’d promise one another that now, but could either of them truly hold on to that oath? That’s why Fugo hated promises. Obviously, he’d like to think that nothing would make him leave Mista’s side.
But he had also thought the only thing that’d separate him from Bucciarati’s side was death.
There’s something in Mista's eyes, a desperation so unlike the man he knew, and it makes Fugo realize that Mista doesn’t care about the logistics of what he’s asking.
He wants reassurance. This wasn’t about being rational; he was scared to place his trust in Fugo again, and he was even more scared to lose him. Fear can be an inherently irrational feeling.
Fugo takes a deep breath, then sighs. This wasn’t about what he thought. This was about what Mista needed to hear.
“Yes,” he gulps, “Yes, I promise,” Mista's tense shoulders relax a little, “I…I'm sorry you had to bear all of that without me. It wasn’t fair.”
“Yeah.”
“By the time that news about their funerals had reached me, they were already over. But…I would've been too scared to come anyway.”
He feels like a sinner at a confession booth. Uttering these thoughts out loud fills him with so much shame, and yet he doesn’t think he can contain them anymore.
“Yeah?”
It felt like they were talking about what they had for dinner yesterday, not their friends’ funerals.
“Yeah. How could I face you after I left? And…the idea of seeing them dead. I-I never wanted to see that. I was selfish.”
“...Yeah, you are. But I get that. I think it's normal not to want to see someone you love dead.”
Mista’s right. And yet Fugo knows what he had was a privilege. The privilege of not seeing the ones he loved dead, something Mista had to face not once but thrice.
“Did you…Did you ever visit their graves?”
The question catches him off guard, and Fugo finds it hard to answer immediately. He hasn’t. He’s been so terrified of that place, the graveyard on the hill that looked down at him whenever he was in the streets of Napoli.
“...No.”
“Why not?”
It scares him that their graves would become the things he remembers when he thinks of them. Not their warmth or their humanity. Just a cold stone stuck in the earth staring back at him with nothing to say.
He doesn’t find the courage to say all of that this time, so he settles for a simple ‘I don’t know.’
Mista hums and lets it be, for now at least.
“Do you remember that promise we made?”
Fugo tilts his head in confusion, “What promise?”
“That if we all made it to 20, we'd go on a road trip across Italy?”
Oh, of course, how could he have forgotten? A promise made between the loud crackles of New Year's Eve’s fireworks, two years ago now. A promise that Fugo loathed to make, but one he hoped to see through, as ridiculous as it is for a bunch of soldatos to make such plans. They didn't typically live that long.
“Yeah?”
“That's where I was last month.”
So that’s why Mista didn’t celebrate his birthday with the others. The trip he had been on was to…
“You did it?”
“Sort of. I only went to Sardegna and Roma.”
“Oh.”
Fugo’s knowledge of everything that went down wasn’t nonexistent, but limited at his own request. But he knew that these were the places where they died.
“Yeah, I just…couldn’t stop thinking about Narancia with me turning 20–about all of them, really. I felt like I had to do it.”
“How was it?”
“I went to Sardegna first, then Roma. I was there, at the beach where we left Abbacchio. Then I was at the colosseum where Narancia and Bucciarati died. I don’t know what I figured I’d feel, but…It just felt,” he sighs, “peaceful.”
“Peaceful?”
“Yeah. I’m used to visiting their graves, you know? That gave me peace already. I knew that they were in a better place now. I guess being back where that nightmare took place…it kind of helped with coming to terms with that?”
Fugo couldn’t begin to comprehend that. He didn’t have the memories for these moments, and Mista’s retelling alone was enough to crush him. How could Mista feel peace from that?
“I think it will make you feel better if you visit them, you know? Closure and all.”
“Maybe.”
Fugo doesn’t think so. He isn’t like Mista; it isn’t as easy for him to find the silver lining in things. This would only ruin him. Luckily for him, Mista lets it be once again.
More time passes, and the air is hardly tense anymore. Fugo had forgotten just how much he’d loved being around Mista, and this only reminded him of all the time lost between them.
“Do you think Trish is coming back soon? It’s been a while.”
Mista shrugs, “Surely. It’s not like she’ll forget us or something. But since we’re still stuck here…anything else you might wanna tell me?”
What else was there to say? Fugo searches in his mind, digging around for anything he may have wanted to talk about. It takes a minute, but he finds something. His hands dig into the edge of the table, the content of his dream coming back to him once more, and perhaps it was time to spill it out.
“I had a weird dream.”
“Dude, I had the weirdest dream too!” he whispers the next word, “four… cats were stomping me! They kept stomping with the meanest little paws–
Mista raised his hand, imitating the deep ‘slashes’ these kittens were delivering before Fugo interrupted him, “Mista, not that type of weird dream.”
“Oh.” His hand falls to his side. “What kind, then?”
“I saw everybody. It was my 15th birthday. It was exactly how it was before, just me, Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia.”
Mista turns to him fully and rests his face in the palm of his hand.
“Uh huh.”
“And then we were suddenly at this train station, and…”
He doesn’t want to repeat the words. He really doesn't; those were words of wisdom, but Fugo thinks this piece of wisdom is far too difficult to recount, no matter how much he's mulled over it.
“And?”
Fugo looks at Mista's expectant eyes, and his palms dig into his pants. Just say it. Just say it. It was just a dream.
His mouth opens and closes a couple of times before he is finally able to speak.
“...Bucciarati spoke to me. He spoke differently. A little colder, I guess. But not uncaring,” he sighs, “he said a lot of things. He cared about me, but I was a lot to deal with. He said I was a liability.”
“Woah.”
“Yeah, it was really strange. I never had such a clear dream before. My brain must’ve been a mess.”
“No dude, don’t you know what it means to see dead people in your dream?”
“...Uh, no, dreams are just a reflection of your subconscious.”
Mista waves his hand in the air, “No! It means they’re sending you a message–guiding you and stuff!”
“...Mista, I know you’re really spiritual and everything but–”
“No buts! It makes sense, doesn’t it? You did look half dead when we found you, maybe you were close enough for them to be able to speak to you!”
The idea of that terrifies Fugo. A mental concoction is a better alternative to the ghost of the man he looked up to, speaking to him when he was at his lowest.
“I-I don't think that's the case. But when he said that stuff, it was really weird. I felt so hurt, but I knew he wasn't saying it hurt me. He…he said that I only exhausted him because he cared for me.”
His chest feels lighter now that he's started spilling it out, the words seemingly pouring from his mouth with no sign of stopping.
“Dude. That was totally Bucciarati!”
“Mista…”
“No, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? Like, why would your subcon–whatever tell you all these things?”
“I…I don’t know. Maybe it's a wake-up call, or something?”
“Well, did it wake you up?”
Fugo stammers, “Yes? Somewhat? I just…I don't know. I felt so many different things from that and from what Trish said–”
“Woah, what did Trish say?”
It's only now does he realize that Mista had no idea about the events that transpired and led Fugo into his spiral of idiocy. Still, he doesn't want to bring up the things Trish said again.
“It's nothing–”
“What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say?”
“Oh my god, shut u–”
“What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say?”
Okay, so Fugo may have forgotten just how nosy Mista is. The repetitiveness of his question is like nails on a chalkboard, and Fugo opts to plug his ears with his fingers.
It muffles it slightly, but Mista doesn’t stop.
“What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say? What did Trish say?”
“Oh my fucking god,” Fugo yells, “She said Bucciarati was glad to get rid of me, okay?! She said he never spoke about me. There you go, are you happy now?!”
“What did–Woah. Damn.”
Fugo huffs, “I said my fair share of dumb things, now let's just move on–”
“Did you really think that Bucciarati didn’t mention you at all after you left?”
Fugo pauses. It had only made sense; wouldn't Bucciarati have been glad to get rid of someone like him? He was a liability, after all.
“...I mean, I guess?”
“Dude. We were all worried sick about you! Especially Bucciarati. He kept fearing that you'd get implicated with us or that you might've been living on the streets again. The man was so worried he wouldn't even sleep.”
Fugo's brain gets rearranged as Mista speaks, “But Trish said–”
“Dude, Bucciarati didn’t want her to see him worry about you. She was feeling so guilty as it was. So he tried to keep that stuff away from her.”
Oh.
Holy shit. The Bucciarati in his dreams did say that he cared–but that was only a dream. No matter what Mista said, it didn't compare to his recounting of events. To know that Bucciarati had been just as worried about him as he was about them…It was euphoric.
Mista's arms move towards him, slowly opening up and threatening to engulf Fugo in a hug. But they don't. They wait for his permission, as they always did. Fugo nods and wraps his arms around Mista in turn.
It's only when Mista's toned arms rub his back that he realizes he's crying. They're tiny sobs that shake him in his place, and despite his attempts at subduing them, they keep coming.
Fugo’s self-worth was so tied to what he thought his family, this one, not the sad excuse for biological parents he was born to, felt about him. The idea of his presence being so inconsequential had eaten at him for so long.
“I never thought you'd be thinking that. Of course we cared, dude.”
Mista's embrace is one of a kind. Fugo is immensely grateful for it right now because he isn't sure where else he'd rather be.
It takes a while, but he finally calms down.
“You’re good?”
Fugo shakes a little, but he nods, “Y-yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
His hands rub his eyes before Fugo turns to Mista, face puzzled. “Why are you apologizing?”
“I guess…I mean, you were distant, but I didn’t give you the benefit of the doubt either. I didn’t know all this stuff was affecting you like that. I should’ve known.”
It isn’t an apology that Fugo found himself seeking at any point, but perhaps it’s one that will help mend the year-long misunderstandings between them in the long run.
After that, it’s quiet for a long time. Fugo finds his capacity to think declining the longer they stay there, exhaustion finally catching up to him. Eventually, though, just as he feels his eyes closing against his will, someone speaks from the other side of the door.
“Hey guys, I kind of forgot about you.”
The lock turns, and the door is pushed open. Trish stands in the doorway, having changed into her pajamas and applied some sort of white face mask.
“My bad, I was showing Sheila my skincare collection. So, did it work?”
Before Fugo could say anything, Mista startles both of them when he starts chasing after her. Trish yelps and books it out of the room. They look like a pair of children as they run down the hallway. He hears an echo of ‘You should be thanking me!’ and ‘I’m ruining that blowout, I swear to God.’
Fugo stands in the hallway, illuminated by the lamps hanging overhead. He stares at where the two had disappeared to with a fond smile.
Maybe things aren’t as bad as he thought them to be.
Notes:
Translation: We miss you. Please answer.
Can you tell I love the idea of Palentology nerd Fugo? because I really do. That aside, 2/3 worked it out in the remix! Wooo! I wanted to capture this feeling of two old (stupid) friends hashing things out because they miss each other so bad 3 I hope I explained Mista's feelings well enough!
You may notice that the chapter total changed from 5 to 6. I decided to give Giorno his own chapter since this one was getting too long! So be on the lookout for that c:
Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts <3
Chapter 5: Let Me in Here, I Know I’ve Been Here (Let Me into Your Heart)
Summary:
Being on the other side of these defensive walls helps Fugo understand more of Trish and Mista’s frustrations towards him. He only wanted to help ease whatever was bothering Giorno right now, and every attempt at it was met with cold rejection.
“GioGio—“
Giorno’s hands suddenly leave the piano, and he turns to him. His face contorts into something out of Fugo’s reach, “I appreciate your concern. But I am fine.”
Notes:
Sorry about the delay!
Did I end up rewriting this chapter multiple times and ripping my hair out? Absolutely. Here's the Giorno-centric chapter! Hope my fellow Fugio lovers will enjoy this! <3 As I said in the tags, this is more of a character study than a romance story. So do keep that in mind going into this!!
Enjoy!
Warnings: Giorno's childhood, more on Fugo's backstory as well (SA, dissociation, shitty parents), panic attack.
Chapter title is from I'd Have You Anytime by George Harrison.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“So, that’s all of them, right?”
Fugo stares at Giorno, who nods as he looks down at the list of names on his desk. He recognizes a dozen of them, the men who tortured him included. Dolce, Anelli, Emillio, and other Passione members’ names were neatly crossed off.
“This operation is effectively shut down. All Passione members related to this ‘coup’ are detained or eliminated. I must say, all things considered, they were surprisingly incompetent. Still, we can't rely on our enemies’ incompetence.”
Fugo doesn’t miss the way Mista turns to him and bears his teeth at the mention of their ‘incompetence’. He rolls his eyes, though a small flush does stain his cheeks. He did get caught by incredibly incompetent people.
But he'd rather never tell Mista the full context of his capture and the state of his mind when he’d fallen into their trap. So, he'll make peace with never living this down instead.
Giorno's voice, monotonous and steady, continues, “Sheila's investigation brought up the possible involvement of a gang in Sicilia. I've arranged a meeting with their leader for tomorrow. We–”
His words get interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing, and Fugo knows that Giorno is the type to ignore calls until he's done with meetings, usually. But one look at the contact name breaks that habit.
His face falls, and it's unlike anything Fugo's seen from him. His expression is small, like that of a misbehaving child who got caught doing something they most definitely shouldn’t be doing.
Giorno picks up the phone and excuses himself. There's a rattle in his steps, and it leaves Fugo at a loss. It was as if that single glimpse at his phone screen had rattled him from the inside.
Mista’s voice cuts through his thoughts when he sighs, “Man, can't believe Emillio was with those assholes.”
Right. Fugo remembers, though it’s through a haze, he remembers hearing his voice amid sleepless nights and beatings that still have his head spinning.
“Is he dead?”
“Nah. Detained until…further notice.”
Sheila’s ominous answer was a codename for ‘awaiting execution’. It’s grim, but that was the way the mafia operated. Trust wasn’t to be broken, and truth needed to be upheld. Those who stepped out of line so severely would be put down.
Fugo doesn’t like thinking about it. It’s a functioning system, and Giorno’s goals did more good than harm in Napoli. But still, he can’t help but remember that it was that same system that put a target on all their backs before.
A few minutes pass, and Giorno’s absence becomes prominent once their conversation stops. Fugo wonders what’s taking him so long. He wasn’t the type to answer calls in private most of the time. Little to no privacy was a product of his position as their leader.
Before Fugo could think about it a moment longer, the door was pushed open, and Giorno came back in. There are slight tremors in his body, ones that Fugo easily sees. How can’t he when it looks like his bones are crumbling? He sits back in his chair, eyes unfocused, as his hands reach for the same list he was going through five minutes ago.
“You okay, man?”
It seems the others noticed it too because they all share that same look of concern. Giorno doesn’t answer immediately, and he shifts in his seat before speaking, “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. We’ll have to finish this later, something, uh, something came up. Mista, Sheila, we will be going early in the morning. Please be ready.”
Fugo’s eyes follow him as Giorno gets up from his desk as soon as the last of those words leaves him and heads out the door before anyone can say anything.
His eyes turn away from the door after it closes, and they meet Mista and Sheila’s equally as puzzled ones.
“Should someone check on him?”
Their eyes somehow turn to Fugo, and he shakes his head immediately. He doesn’t know why they’d think he was the best option here. Giorno clearly doesn’t want to be around him; he’d only make things worse. But he can’t get himself to admit that out loud. Still, he’s worried about him.
“Panna, just go, alright? I think he’ll appreciate it.”
“...Fine.”
Fugo leaves his chair and goes out the door. He’s lucky he left when he did because he barely catches a glimpse of his golden locks disappearing down the hallway.
Hurried steps led him to where Giorno was last in no time. Fugo doesn’t get to look around for where he might’ve gone because a door closing and echoing down the hall answers that question for him. It was one of the many spare rooms in the place. What business could Giorno have there to walk out of his meeting in a hurry?
Fugo walks to the door, his steps much slower now that he’s close to approaching him. What the hell is he supposed to say?
He stands in front of the door. No sound from the room reaches his ear as his hand hovers a breath away from it. He should leave. Giorno is probably busy, so he shouldn't bother him more than he already does. Fugo should leave.
But that strange look he saw in Giorno’s face comes back to him, and he knows he needs to listen to his instinct for once. It’s the little coil in his stomach telling him that something is wrong.
Fugo knocks.
There’s no response.
Fugo knocks again, speaking this time, “GioGio? Are-are you okay?”
Nothing. The same tightness in his belly clenches him as the worst of his thoughts takes hold of him. Was Giorno unwell? His hand flies to the door handle, and he begins to push it down before a quiet voice interrupts him, “I’m fine, Fugo.”
He sounds anything but fine. There’s a strain in his voice, like a crack that threatens to spread on a frozen field and break it apart, submerging whatever illusion of Giorno being fine deep in its icy waters.
And yet, Fugo doesn’t have the courage to push open that door. He stands there like a lost child, hand slowly leaving the handle as he takes a single step back.
“Are you sure?”
“Y-yes, I’ll see you later. I’d like to be alone for now, please.”
He doesn’t want to leave. But he should. It wouldn’t do him any good to push this when Giorno wanted to be alone.
He backs off slowly, leaving with heavy steps.
20.01.2003, 1:23 A.M
Fugo fumbles with the single orange earring as his steps reverberate in the hallways of the villa. He twists back and forth, his mind entirely lost as he wanders around. It was late. Late enough for most of the people here to be fast asleep.
Everyone was going to leave tomorrow.
Well, not exactly. Giorno, Sheila, and Mista are leaving in the morning to negotiate some deals with the Brognas, the mafia family currently controlling Sicilia. It should go smoothly. Passione’s influence had grown beyond the limits of Napoli at this point, and it would only keep expanding.
Word of mouth held great power when it accompanied the dismantling of other mafia groups. Their attempt to encourage an internal coup won't help them during negotiations either. Passione had the upper hand here. Things should be fine.
Trish, too, would have to leave. She’d be back to touring for a few weeks at least.
Fugo hates getting used to something only to have that routine be shattered. He couldn’t be coddled like a child forever; he knew that. He did miss the peace and quiet, but…he feared that being alone would bring back all the horrible thoughts that swarmed his head. Not that they left completely, no, Fugo isn’t sure they’ll ever leave for good.
But good company provided a good distraction.
They had decided to spend the night together. Mista refused to sleep until he’d beaten Sheila E in Mortal Kombat. Fugo had completely forgotten about that game. The last time he’d seen it was when Narancia kept trying to beat Mista in an all-nighter 1v1.
It was nice, sitting there and watching Mista absolutely lose his mind when Sheila destroyed him with ease. Trish kept disconnecting his controller, which didn’t help with his insistent complaining.
There was a noticeable empty space that should’ve been Giorno’s. He hadn’t seen him since the morning, but Mista had. He told him Giorno was fine, but wanted some space.
Mista didn’t look too convinced of the news he was delivering, but chose to leave it at that.
Fugo blames himself inwardly. Why else would Giorno keep avoiding them if it weren’t for him? A part of him tells him that doesn’t make a lick of sense, Giorno’s been distant for a while, but that phone call seemed to do something to him. Fugo finds it hard to listen to that reasoning when he stares at the vacant spot.
It took Mista until midnight to win. The group somehow still had some energy to keep going and asked Fugo if he wanted to watch something.
Mista told them he liked ‘that one dinosaur show’. Fugo tried to shut the idea down–he told them they wouldn't like it. But nobody listened. It had only taken one episode before everyone had dozed off.
Mista lay in a fetal position on the small couch while Trish and Sheila ended up dozing off next to one another as well. Fugo watched one more episode before he made sure everyone was covered in blankets and left the room.
It was almost tempting to lie among them and let the lull of sleep take over him. But Fugo knew it wouldn’t.
It wasn’t snowing anymore, luckily. It wasn’t raining, either.
There were many random rooms in the villa. Fugo guessed that Diavolo probably spent a fortune on the place, which was strange given his paranoia and need to be hidden. If he wanted to not be seen or heard of so badly, then surely an underground bunker would’ve been a more ideal choice, not the three-story villa.
Fugo was all too familiar with people who wanted to flaunt their wealth. His family had sunk so much money into their estate, as if the endless amount of Lira would’ve magically put them on the same status as those born into nobility. It did not.
From what he knew, though, the villa wasn’t in the best condition. Secrecy and paranoia meant no staff to maintain the place. Once Giorno had taken charge as the new boss, he hadn’t wasted time before making the place look like a castle out of a fairytale. He’d made it a proper home.
As he walks and more of that exhaustion catches up to him, he wonders how long it will take for his body to get used to sleeping. It had been over a week since his rescue, but he still struggles to close his eyes and give in to the exhaustion that’s been chasing him.
Every time his body starts to relax and fall into unconsciousness, his heart beats so fast he thinks it might just jump out of his chest. His head tells him that the moment he tries to sleep, something will wake him up, and he’d be stuck in that cycle of confusion and exhaustion until he drops dead.
“Pannacotta Fugo.”
There's a cool, mechanical voice that calls his name. Fugo’s hand immediately leaves the earring, and he turns around.
Wide, Unblinking magenta eyes stare at him, somehow managing to shine in the shadows surrounding them.
It's not that he's unfamiliar with them, but Fugo wouldn't consider himself too familiar either. Gold Experience Requiem wasn’t a stand he saw often. They didn’t always make themselves known, even amidst battle. Instead, he’d maybe catch glimpses of them before whatever force dared go against Giono would be defeated.
There was something about their presence that was so unnerving to him. It made his skin crawl to be under their scrutinizing eyes. Fugo didn’t dare to move as they emerged from the dark, standing before him.
“...Yes?”
“My user needs you.”
It’s spoken as if it's a fact. The gears turning in Fugo’s head pause for a moment, and he blinks, “What?”
“My user, Giorno Giovanna, needs you.”
Once it dawns on him, panic sets his heart ablaze, and he stammers, “Is-is he okay?”
“Which state do you mean? Mental? Physical?”
The stand speaks all too calmly, and that doesn’t help ease Fugo’s mind at all. “All of it! Did something happen? Did someone attack–”
“If you’re asking about any imminent injuries, there are none. Giorno Giovanna simply needs you.”
His heart eases a little, so Giorno isn’t injured. That was good. But what did they mean by that?
Needs him. Giorno needs him? Is this some elaborate prank?
“He is far too stubborn to ask for help, so I came on his behalf. You're a being whose presence he enjoys.”
The stand was perplexing Fugo the more they spoke, “I don’t follow?”
The stand's unblinking eyes bore into him. Their expression remained still, and that stillness mixed with the shadows surrounding them terrified him.
“My user, Giorno Giovanna, is not well. He requires assistance and yet refuses to ask for it. You, Pannacotta Fugo, are someone he holds an affinity for. You must go to him.”
Affinity. Affinity? Him?
That makes no sense. And yet the stand's unwavering eyes continue to stare at him, as if daring him to refuse their request. He wouldn’t anyway, but going against them never sounded like a good idea to begin with.
Fugo nods. He will think about their words later. His priority right now was Giorno.
“Where is he?”
The stand points ahead, “Keep walking. You will hear him.”
With that mysterious instruction, they disappear.
Despite Gold Experience Requiem’s ‘reassurance’, Fugo still finds his feet hurrying in the direction they pointed at. Some part of him might be upset with Giorno, but it doesn’t mean he wants him to be in any kind of pain, despite what the ugly voice in his head would sometimes want.
He passes by room after room. Some guards greet him, but Fugo ignores any invitation for a conversation, instead asking where Giorno was.
There is a small sound that reaches Fugo’s ears. If he had to describe it, he would simply say that it would qualify as a crime against all pianos.
Now that Fugo thinks of it, in all his time in the villa, he had seldom heard anyone play the piano. He never dared approach it.
He hasn't played piano in a while. Not since he stopped having to play in bars to get enough Lira to buy him a meal. The idea of going back to it reminded him of that time, of hiding in the shadows while his friends were getting buried. While his only living friend was left to pick up the pieces alone.
His talk with Mista hadn’t lessened that guilt much. But perhaps it didn’t need to. Fugo thinks that there are some things he will have to live with for a very long time.
The out-of-tune playing was digging at his ears, and Fugo couldn’t help but walk towards the room, ready to lecture whoever was disgracing that beautiful antique piano with those astronomically horrible playing skills.
The door was already open a little, and Fugo stopped in his tracks when he saw the perpetrator of this crime.
Giorno sits on the piano stool, posture entirely too rigid for someone attempting to play the instrument. It was more of an imitation of a cartoonist’s version of a maestro rather than a natural way of playing the piano. His wrists looked as if they were a breath away from developing arthritis.
Fugo stands there for a minute, too bewildered to speak. Giorno looks at the instrument with a scrunched face. Fugo can see that there are some music sheets that Giorno’s digging holes into with his eyes, as if it were their fault that his hands could not execute this melody.
His hands leave the piano for a moment as he sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. Fugo isn’t used to seeing Giorno be so… exhausted. He always looked so collected, perfectly in control of himself.
But he cannot deny that even with those sunken eyes, Giorno’s face looked as beautiful as ever. His hair–though it was a mess of a half-opened braid and a single roll on his head instead of his signature three–still looked like that golden ray of sunshine, cascading down Giorno’s shoulders.
It was a sight out of a painter’s vivid dreams, and Fugo’s heart couldn’t help but skip a beat. He remains in his place, watching for longer than what’d be considered appropriate as Giorno messes up more and more.
Fugo releases a small, quiet sigh as he realizes that there were indeed no imminent injuries.
Despite all the mistakes, the music was still recognizable to Fugo’s ears. How could it not be? His parents spent so much money on having a child who could do it all. A four-year-old who could play all the classics made for great bragging rights.
Rachmaninoff - prelude in D major op 23 nr 4. Fugo admittedly couldn’t bring himself to feel connected to the music he performed, especially as a child, but even he could admit that this piece was nothing short of beautiful.
Giorno wasn’t doing it justice, though. Fugo could tell that he was trying really hard, but it simply seemed as if his mind and hands were not working in tandem.
He walks in. Giorno seems so distracted by this ordeal that he doesn’t even notice when Fugo stands right by him. Fugo fidgets with the hem of his shirt before coughing awkwardly.
Giorno’s hands fly away from the piano notes, as if he were a child who got caught reaching into the cookie jar when he wasn’t supposed to. He turns to Fugo, and his eyes widen for a moment before he visibly forces them to relax. He brushes his hair out of his face, pushing the one hair roll that was hanging by a thread up before rubbing his eyes.
“Fugo? Why are you still up?”
Fugo shrugs, “...I could ask you the same thing, GioGio.”
“I am not the one who had concussions. You should be sleeping, it will only hinder your recovery to–”
“I know, GioGio. You told me already. I just couldn’t sleep, I guess.”
Giorno’s eyes linger for a moment, and it’s there that Fugo is reminded of how that gaze always turned him into putty clay that could be moulded into anything that’d serve him. That’s how Fugo felt, at least.
“I see.”
“Are you okay?”
Giorno blinks at him, taken aback by the question, “Yes?”
He certainly didn't look like it.
Fugo hadn’t realized just how unaware of his own stand's whereabouts Giorno could be. He remembers when he struggled to control Purple Haze and how it had frightened him to the bone. He wonders if Giorno feels the same.
That aside, he sounded just as…defeated as he did in the morning.
“Oh, I just,” Fugo fumbles through his words, realizing that he can’t just tell him he came here because of his stand, “It’s pretty late. You should be sleeping, no? Don’t you have that meeting with the Brognas tomorrow? It’s a long way to Sicilia.”
Giorno sighs and his voice comes out stern, “It's okay. I'll be fine.”
It's strange, but it's only then, as he stares at Giorno, that Sheila's words finally dawn on him. The words he'd so desperately tried to resist, the truth he didn’t want to see.
Giorno's putting on a mask. He's hiding behind it for reasons unknown to Fugo.
“Are you sure you're fine?”
Giorno sighs at that, and Fugo resists the urge to wring his own neck in frustration. He knows how annoying it can be when someone asks you that, but he only wants to help. Is it that Giorno didn't want his help specifically?
He doesn’t utter these words out loud. Instead, his attention turns back to the piano. It would be better to change the subject before the mood sours too much. He still needs to know what is wrong with Giorno for his stand to come seek him out without him being aware of it. He'd been acting strange for a while, but even more so since the morning.
Perhaps he could use the piano as a way to bridge the gap between them.
“Your playing was…interesting. Do you want me to help you?”
“There’s no need–”
Fugo found himself joining him on that piano stool before Giorno could finish his sentence. It doesn’t feel like the right course of action to go against his boss's orders, but Fugo wouldn't say he's in his right mind right now. He wanted to remain by his side.
Giorno's shoulders tense, but he scoots over a little.
“Do you know how to read music sheets?”
“...Not completely.”
“Think of it as learning a new language. You can't brute force your way into learning Latin or French, can you? And your posture is too rigid. Relax your shoulders and move forwards a little, ah, do keep your back straight, though.”
Slipping into the role of the teacher was comforting for Fugo. Talking about his expertise, knowing he was in a role of authority made him feel safe, more in control of his environment.
Giorno’s posture changed with each word Fugo spoke until that rigidness left him bit by bit.
“Languages have letters, and those letters form words. You can think of the piano in a similar way. There is a musical alphabet, actually. But first, let’s try playing something simple—”
His fingers go to press on the black and white keys. Just as Fugo feels that familiar smooth surface brushing against his fingertips, a sudden pain pricks at them. Not all of them, only three.
The ones where his nails had been pried out with reckless abandon. Though his fingertips looked fine, the pain underneath his nails tells a different story. He isn’t able to suppress the hiss that leaves him.
Giorno’s eyes immediately leave the piano. They turn to Fugo, full of worry that sickens him.
“Fugo? Are you okay?”
Fugo clenches his hands for a moment. Though his hands were mostly healed, the pain would still come back whenever he’d press too hard with his fingers.
”It’s nothing. “
He didn’t want to bother Giorno with this. He’d already healed him; pain wasn’t something even Gold Experience Requiem could help with.
Attention is diverted from that once Fugo starts playing. It’s deliberately slow, as he explains which keys meant what and which ones Giorno needed to be pressing for this song.
Giorno stares blankly at him by the time he’s done. There is an attempt to imitate what Fugo did, but perhaps calling it an attempt would be generous.
Fugo always thought of him as someone who could do anything he wanted to with ease. This was a whole other side to him that he’d never really seen before.
Maybe it was time for the basics.
When Fugo was a toddler, the first piece he was forced to learn was Für Elise. It was on the basic side, but he’d begrudgingly learned it. It should be a good starting point for Giorno.
The same numbing pain shoots through his fingertips as he starts to explain and show the confused boy next to him how it's played. Giorno's hands don't follow him as fast as they should, but he starts to slowly but surely follow Fugo’s lead.
It’s only after a couple of attempts that Giorno speaks, “I knew you played a lot, but I wasn't aware of how much you knew about this, Fugo.”
He shrugs, “My parents forced me to start learning when I was four years old. I ended up doing a lot of recitals for rich snobs every week up until I was 13.”
“I see. My parents didn’t care…about these things.”
“Lucky.”
There’s a silence that follows that word. One that Fugo does not like. He feels like he said something wrong. No, he knows he did. Static builds in the air around them, charging the space with suffocating tension.
Giorno’s hands begin to stumble again. Fugo isn’t sure what he should do about that change in him, but he decides to try to move past it.
”GioGio, you’re doing it wrong. Here, I’ll help.”
He needed to show him how it should be done. That will make things less awkward, won’t it?
Fugo’s hand goes over Giorno’s; he guides it between the keys despite its rigidness. There’s an internal pause as Giorno’s fingertips tremble under his. Fugo’s confused, he knows something is wrong, but he can’t help but try to keep everything ‘normal’.
He wants Giorno to be okay, of course. But…
He’s also scared, selfishly so. He’s scared of seeing Giorno like this; the idea of having that image of him he keeps tucked safely in his mind shattered terrifies him. He held so much faith and devotion towards him that this change in his behavior was shaking the foundation upon which his altar was built.
More time passes, and Giorno doesn’t progress as well as Fugo hopes he would. Perhaps he isn’t the best at teaching what feels like second nature to him. That would be the most reasonable explanation for why his hands kept fumbling the very first notes over and over again.
“It didn’t feel lucky.”
Fugo stops. Giorno doesn’t. He keeps trying to follow what he was just taught as Fugo turns to him.
“What do you mean?”
“It didn’t feel lucky. My…parents. They didn’t care if I played the piano. They didn’t care what I did at all as long as I stayed out of their way. Otherwise, it was just…”
“...Just?”
A shadow falls over his face, shifting it away from that exhaustion that seemed to plague him into something more…disconnected? It’s a look he knows all too well.
It didn’t happen as often anymore, but when someone touches Fugo out of nowhere, his mind would sometimes go back to the days when he was much smaller.
Small. Trapped. Abused by someone he admired. It didn’t always get triggered by touch. Sometimes the memories come back to him when he’s doing nothing worth taking note of. Maybe he’s driving. Maybe he’s about to sleep. Maybe he’s in line at the Supermarket. Maybe he’s beating some good-for-nothing thug.
They’d attack him, and Fugo would instantly fight back, desperate to replace the memories threatening to emerge with anything that might distract him.
But they’d come back. Over, and over, and over again. Until Fugo’s body grows numb and his eyes find themselves fixed on any object in front of him. Then, he’d get lost in them. In the disgust they’d bring on, the anger, the pain—the loss of control.
So, he’d try to regain that control by lashing out at others or himself.
Fugo’s close enough to see Giorno’s pupils dilate, and still be focused on the piano keys under his fingertips. His rising chest fastens, but no sound comes out.
”GioGio…?”
His voice pulls Giorno away from where his mind was starting to wander. His olive eyes flutter, blinking a couple of times before turning to Fugo slowly. He doesn’t miss the way they’re a little wider now.
“It’s nothing. Forget about it. So it goes like this, yes?”
Giorno attempts to play just as Fugo had a few moments ago.
Fugo doesn’t miss the way Giorno desperately tries to change the topic. That same desperation translates into his shaky hands as they struggle to produce a tolerable tune.
”GioGio, you know you can…you can tell me anything, right? You don’t need to hide yourself. If not me, then maybe Mista—“
The notes pause, and it's silent for a moment.
“There’s nothing to hide, Fugo.”
Being on the other side of these defensive walls helps Fugo understand more of Trish and Mista’s frustrations towards him. He only wanted to help ease whatever was bothering Giorno right now, and every attempt at it was met with cold rejection.
“GioGio—“
Giorno’s hands suddenly leave the piano, and he turns to him. His face contorts into something out of Fugo’s reach, “I appreciate your concern. But I am fine.”
Before Fugo could say anything, Giorno got up from their shared piano stool. He starts walking toward the door, still facing Fugo, “You were right, it’s going to be a long trip tomorrow. I’ll-I’ll go to bed. Good night, Fugo.”
And just like that, he turns on his heels and leaves.
Silence had never felt louder than it did at this moment. The piano room almost suffocates him before he, too, gets up and leaves.
The way back to his room is silent, save for his racing thoughts. Each one of them stabs at that perfect image he has of Giorno; it tears it apart bit by bit, until all that’s left are pieces that don’t fit together anymore.
He should go to sleep.
Fugo groans when he feels sleep leave him bit by bit. It had taken him so long to pass out, and of course, he barely slept. He can tell so because that same tiredness lingers behind his eyes, burning for any amount of rest. His head pounds in pain, as it often does.
He doesn’t open his eyes immediately; he hopes that he’s still dozy enough to be able to go back to sleep without his mind actively fighting against it.
But something feels off. Though his eyes were closed, Fugo could feel another presence in his room. Something was close to his bed. He almost summons Purple Haze, but decides against it for reasons he couldn’t explain even if he wanted to.
Instead, he slowly opens his eyes.
There are bright eyes staring at Fugo. A screeching yelp almost leaves him before smooth, metal skin presses against his lips, shutting him up effectively.
He had seen those same eyes only a few hours prior. Gold Experience Requiem’s face somehow blends into the darkness of his room, and yet also stands out. They almost looked like an uncanny addition to the shadows in the corner of a centuries-old painting.
“Pannacotta Fugo. You failed.”
Their voice is still calculated, but Fugo can almost glimpse, now that his eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, that their face isn’t as steady as it always is. Their hand retreats, allowing Fugo to speak.
His voice comes out groggy, sleep still clinging to him as he sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, “W-what?”
“You were supposed to make my user feel better. You did not.”
“I don’t und–”
“Giorno Giovanna needs your help.”
“I tried–”
“Try again . You claim to want to help, and yet you do not truly understand him. You cannot help him if you are only trying to piece together your savior. Giorno Giovanna doesn't need a worshipper. It is not what he views you as. So you will go to him as a friend–as an equal.”
Fugo's instinct is to reject that idea. But he pauses.
How wrong is Gold Experience Requiem? Fugo was hoping to help Giorno. He hates to see him in pain, but he knows that deep down, his motives weren’t as they seemed. They were tainted by his insistent need to have Giorno be the constant figure he could rely on no matter what.
“You’re doing it again, Panna. I wasn’t as good as you thought me to be.”
Bucciarati’s words come back to him. This was a terrifying notion to him, Giorno not being as ‘good’ as he thinks him to be. It’s so wrong to think less of a person just because they’re not perfect all the time, but that made it harder for Fugo to lose his entire sense of self in Giorno.
“..Where is he? What happened?”
“He is in the garden. Did you not hear the sound?"
Answering a question with another question doesn’t Fugo's tired function any better.
"I just woke up..."
They simply gaze at him before disappearing again.
Fugo gets out of bed and quickly looks at the time. It was nearly 4 in the morning. What happened for Giorno even to be awake right now? He said he’d sleep.
The walk to the garden doesn’t take that long.
Fugo stops in his steps at the entrance of the garden. The same plants and flowers that bloomed in his face yesterday lay dead now, just as stripped of life as the trees outside.
In the middle of it stood Giorno, the boy’s usually poised figure was hunched, curls frizzy, scattered all over his face. A puffiness occupied his eyes. His silhouette shakes, limbs wrapping around himself in a desperate attempt to do something that Fugo isn’t all too sure of.
“GioGio?”
Giorno stills, eyes widening before he quickly turns away from Fugo. He coughs before speaking, and yet he can’t hide the quiver in his voice, “Yes? Did you need something?”
His words are interrupted by sharp inhales that break whatever facade he’s trying to put on. Fugo doesn’t miss the way his shoulders, as restrained as they were, still shake every other second.
Fugo can’t do anything but blink for a moment. In all the time he had known the boy, he had never seen him in such a state. Giorno refuses to face him.
“GioGio, are you okay?”
“Yes. I'm fine. If you don't need anything, I'd prefer that you leave.”
Fugo's hand clenches. What kind of situation did he land himself in, exactly? The porcelain doll he was used to observing, the one who was always effortlessly serene, finally showed a crack on the surface.
Shit.
He found himself at a loss. Fugo didn’t have Bucciarati’s innate warmth or Abbacchio's crass wisdom; he didn’t have Narancia’s lighterhearted nature or Mista’s natural attunement to others’ feelings. He always made things worse.
It didn’t help that the ugly voice in his head whispered into his ear, telling him that this wasn’t…right. Not in a way that concerned itself with Giorno’s well-being first and foremost. No, it was a last-ditch effort to preserve the last standing pillar of the altar Fugo has in his mind.
No, no–he couldn't think about that right now. Giorno is suffering, and he needs help.
“GioGio, you don’t need to…” he trails off, unsure of what to say when Giorno tenses up, “Um, you don’t need to hide this–”
Fugo moves a step closer, and it’s much easier to see how bad Giorno’s trembling really was now. The boy shook as if his limbs were made of bundled tree sticks.
He doesn’t speak as Fugo gets closer to him. He can hear the shuddering in his voice clearly now, and he can’t begin to imagine what might’ve made him so…scared? He wasn’t sure what it exactly was.
“I…we’re, we’re friends, aren’t we? I know, we all know you haven’t been feeling good since you came back from America, GioGio. Please, let me help you. Talk to me.”
Giorno doesn’t turn to him, but Fugo notices his hand flying to his face. It's barely audible, but he hears the sound of a nail being bitten.
“I broke it.”
It’s a confession that befuddles Fugo. It’s spoken as if he’s revealing the most horrible of sins, but all Fugo can do in reaction to it is blink in confusion.
“Broke what?”
“Abbachhio's wine bottle. The last one. I broke it.”
Ah, a Fiano di Avellino bottle that Abbacchio had bought ages ago, long before he passed. Was that the 'sound' Gold Experience Requiem had mentioned?
Giorno had kept it surrounded by orange blossoms, dandelions, and a zipper that had no doubt belonged to Bucciarati. It was a strange thing for Fugo to see Giorno commemorate people he barely knew in such a way. He felt a bit ashamed of himself, if he was to be honest. Fugo always preferred to run, run, run. He couldn’t bring himself to keep many momentos like that.
He only kept the earrings. Their presence alone brought him both peace and agony. Seeing a thing that used to belong to the dead was often overwhelming.
But Giorno hadn’t known Abbacchio like he and Mista did. He didn’t see him purchase that bottle with shame in his eyes; he didn’t see him stash it in the back of the kitchen cabinet when he thought no one was looking.
To Giorno, it should just be a wine bottle. He didn’t have the memories attached to it or Abbaacchio for him to be this upset.
“It's…It's okay.”
It’s sudden, but Giorno finally turns to him, wide red eyes staring into him, as if they were desperate for something Fugo couldn’t provide. It was easier to see him now, and he had definitely looked…unwell. There are no tears smeared across his face, no dried aftermath at the edge of his jaw. But his eyes spill what his lips do not.
Wide. Like that of a cornered deer. And though he was looking at Fugo, he knew all too well what those unfocused eyes meant. Just how far away Giorno really was.
“It's not! That was one of the last things you had from him, and I broke it!”
“GioGio, it’s fine –”
“No! No, it isn’t fine? How can you possibly think that what I did was fine?”
The boy moves as if he has little to no control over his trembling limbs, erratic as he tries to back away from Fugo.
Giorno always strived for perfection. Be it through his appearance, his work, or his dreams. What stood before Fugo wasn't the feared Don of Passione, it was a scared teenager.
“I ruined it. I'm sorry, I'm so useless–I will fix it, somehow, I promise–” The words overlap with one another, and his breathing is so quiet, as if he were trying to choke himself from the inside in an effort to shut any sound that might leave him.
“GioGio!”
The flowers around them bloomed and withered again and again in a matter of seconds. Seeing Giorno so out of control sent a chill down Fugo’s spine.
This sight wasn’t that unfamiliar to him, having been in that place where the air he inhaled suffocated him and crushed him from the inside, where his whole body tingles as he struggles to latch on to any semblance of reality.
He needed to do something. He needed to help. He reaches his hands out slowly.
Giorno flinches. His wide eyes snap to Fugo, and he backs away. His legs shake, and each step threatens to topple him over. Beads of sweat roll down his face, making his unnaturally pale face glisten.
There's something in his eyes, a fear that was always there, a fear that Fugo failed to acknowledge for the longest time.
He thinks he's going to be hurt.
“Giogio, I wouldn't–”
Did Giorno think he’d do that to him? It hurts to think so, but perhaps he had given him plenty of reasons to feel this way. He was a creature of violence; he knew that deep down, he was just a ticking bomb that always threatened to blow. His anger was always a part of him.
But Giorno hadn’t reacted this way around him before. Despite his natural inclination to blame himself, Fugo thinks there is more to this. Giorno wasn’t in a clear state of mind.
Fugo also knows. He knows how hard it can be to actually hear what someone else is saying to you when you're in this state, much less believe it. He knew the fear that comes with these moments, and Fugo knows exactly how hard it is to fight it. Hell, fighting it usually made things worse. Perhaps this help coming from Fugo wasn’t doing him any good.
He backs away, leaving a safe distance between them before speaking calmly, “GioGio, don’t fight it.”
Giorno shakes his head, “Fugo, I–I can’t–”
“I know, I know. But you’re going to make it worse if you fight it; you have to let it pass. Just try to focus on your breathing, okay? Can you try to breathe with me?”
After Giorno’s short, frantic nods, Fugo guides him to sit on the mosaic surface of the garden’s tiles. He tries his hardest not to touch him. Touch would always make things worse for Fugo whenever he was in that state; he doubted it’d help Giorno.
It was Bucciarati who taught him this. Fugo was at his worst after having to deal with homelessness and the scars left by the assault he endured. It was a habit that ended up helping with his anger as well.
“Straighten your back,” Giorno does as he’s told through the shivers that plague his body, and Fugo does the same. “Now breathe through your nose, as slowly as you can. Breathe until it fills your stomach. I’ll count to five, and we’ll release it together. Through the mouth.”
Air enters Fugo’s nostrils just as it does Giorno’s. Though unlike him, Giorno shudders, almost choking on his breath as a small sound leaves him, a yelp that barely reaches Fugo’s ears.
He quickly shakes his head, a small, pained ‘ too much ’ leaves him.
Panic begins to set in Fugo now. He didn’t know many methods to help with this. What else should he do?
“Do you want me to leave? I can–"
He shakes his head again and chokes out, “Don’t! Just k-keep talking. Please.”
Okay. Okay, Fugo can talk. Talking is easy; he was used to talking Narancia and Mista’s ears off. But as he stares at Giorno’s unfocused eyes and trembling lips, all words fail him. He should…what should he say?
Reassurance. Right, he should reassure him. That will help.
“I, okay. You’re…you’re safe. You’re okay, we’re in your garden.”
Giorno’s eyes don’t leave the floor, and Fugo silently curses himself. It clearly wasn’t enough to say that; his words weren’t some magical cure to the panic surging in Giorno.
“It reminds me of my grandmother. She made the best Raspberry Jam Bomboloni. She used to call me her little Bomboloni because of my temper. Said I exploded just like one. You would’ve loved her; she loved gardening.”
Giorno’s chest rises and falls, but it’s slightly slower, his eyes are still stuck, and his mind isn’t completely here just yet, not from what Fugo could see at least.
He was helping. His chest swells, and he continues to search for another story that might distract Giorno.
“On Bucciarati’s 20th birthday, Narancia and Mista tried to bake a cake for him. Bake is a generous word. They were ‘baking’ a cake in a pan. I don’t know why they thought they could do that. I was in my room that day, wrapping up the gift I got him.”
Fugo still remembers it; it was a new record player he’d saved up for months to be able to get it alongside a special edition of Miles Davis’ Kind Of Blue . Bucciarati’s smile that day had made all the trouble he went through trying to find it be worth it.
“I remember suddenly hearing this loud thud on the ground under me, so I went to check what happened. They were just standing there, faces covered in flour. They said everything was fine, and I should go back to my room, but… Narancia’s eyes kept turning to the ceiling, so…eventually mine did too. I looked up and there was a mess of cake batter stuck to the ceiling. To this day, I don’t know how they did it.”
Fugo turns to Giorno, whose eyes weren’t stuck to the floor anymore. Instead, they looked at him every other second. That was good.
“Bucciarati and Abbacchio came home around the same time. Cake in hand. The two idiots tried to keep it a secret. It might’ve worked if Abbacchio didn’t happen to stand right under it…”
An impossibly quiet chuckle blesses Fugo’s ears. It was more of a lighthearted sigh.
“I don’t think our group had a worse screaming match compared to that day. But after they got a ladder and properly cleaned everything, it was a nice day.”
Seeing Bucciarati so happy and serene was all he wanted.
His gaze turns to Giorno, and he sees that while he didn’t look completely fine, he looked a little better compared to five minutes ago. He stays silent for a few minutes as he looks at Giorno's chest rise and fall. The rhythm was still far too quick.
He needed to ground him; it's what Abbacchio always did for him.
Abbacchio was a sheep in wolf’s clothing. So inclined to brood and frown at anything that’d come from others besides Bucciarati. And yet, when he’d found Fugo in such a state a year into their ‘acquaintanceship’, he sat him down, got him to keep his eyes on his golden ones, and spoke to him. He doesn’t remember their ‘conversation’ much, but he recalls being handed an orange.
He remembers his trembling fingers digging and peeling the skin of it, and the way his mind started to ease after his hands were sufficiently occupied. It was a habit he eventually replaced with smoking.
Though that was the night Abbacchio stopped being an acquaintance and became family.
“Can you look at me, please?”
Giorno’s weary eyes turn to him, and his breathing is slightly slower but still abnormal. Just as quickly as his eyes meet his, he averts his gaze. “Can you keep looking at me?”
He shakes his head. Perhaps eye contact won’t help much.
Fugo’s eyes wander over the garden, scanning the flowers that withered and came back to life, now doing so at a slower rate.
“Would it help if you looked at the flowers instead?”
Giorno’s eyes follow Fugo’s gaze. It had stopped at the little field of pink and purple flowers. Silence looms over them for a few minutes, and Fugo lets it be. It was better not to push him.
Giorno eventually nods.
“That one…I remember you told me they are dahlias, right?” He nods again, “You told me the pink ones represented kindness while the purple ones showed respect and admiration. They remind me of Bucciarati.”
Giorno’s silent as Fugo continues talking, but he can tell from the subsiding shudders that he is starting to calm down more. His eyes turned to another batch of flowers. White petals with a bright yellow center.
“These are…Chamomiles, right? The first time I saw it, I mistook it for a daisy. They remind me of you. I remember reading about them in the book you lent me. They mean…”
The answer comes short as his brain blanks for a moment, it’s quiet as Fugo turns every corner in his mind, trying to remember what he read.
Luckily for him, Giorno speaks, though his voice is croaky and small, ”…Energy in adversity. It’s,” there’s a small hiccup, “it’s a flower associated with healing. It's beautiful.”
“I guess that’s why they reminded me of you.”
It slips out before Fugo realizes what he’s saying, and the embarrassment of having uttered that out loud burns his face. Luckily for him, Giorno didn’t seem to process that, or at least he chose not to comment on it.
It continues for a while. Fugo would point at a different flower, and they’d talk about it. After around twenty minutes, what he assumes to be a panic attack finally seems to pass, bit by bit. Exhaustion appears where fear once was, and Giorno slumps forward a little.
“...You’re really not mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
It takes a while, and Giorno keeps staring. He doesn’t say anything, but Fugo sees that he doesn't believe him. He speaks finally, voice on the edge of breaking into a small whimper.
“But I broke the bottle.”
It's so matter-of-fact, as if making a mistake should so obviously lead to him being hurt. It makes Fugo's heart ache to think that something made him believe that.
“It’s only a bottle. Why would I get that upset over it, GioGio?”
“Because I ruined it.”
“You broke a bottle, GioGio. A bottle. Would you punish me over that?”
“No, but–”
”See? Is this…uh, is this really about that?”
It had to be about something else, because Fugo struggled to wrap his head around the idea of such extreme distress coming from that shattered bottle alone.
Giorno’s teeth dig into his bottom teeth. Confliction clouds his features as his brows furrow and he looks at the ground. Whatever it was, he probably wasn’t used to talking about it.
“...I called my mother.”
Fugo doesn’t know anything about her now that he thinks about it. He’d assumed that both of his parents were out of the picture. He doesn’t completely understand how that qualifies as an explanation just yet.
Fugo turns to him, “You did?”
“Yes,” he sniffles, and Fugo doesn’t miss the eeriness that comes with one that is so hushed, “I…after we came back, I was thinking more of my childhood, and one thing led to the other and I wondered–”
He pauses, looking away in shame, “I called her. She hadn’t picked up, but she called me back during the debrief yesterday. But I…I don’t want to talk about it.”
“That's fine.”
It seemed that Giorno was still afraid, perhaps not from being hurt right now but definitely from something else. Opening your old wounds to others means you'll have to see the looks they give you. Fugo was all too familiar with them. Pity. Disgust. Sadness.
Judgment.
“I won’t judge you, or anything like that, if you're worried. You don't have to tell me anything, I…I want to help you, like you always helped me.”
Giorno's reddened eyes turn to him, and despite his recent growth spurt, he has never looked smaller than he does now. Fugo can tell that Giorno's trying to keep that persona up–the facade he presents to protect himself, just as Sheila said. But now, he had the vulnerability and fear of a child, a fear that couldn’t be held back by his mask any longer.
It takes time. And Fugo can see in his face that he’s calculating the truth of his statement. It was a mix of uncertainty and desperation. He gives him time to mull it over.
Fugo can’t say anything more to convince him, so all he can do is wait. Eventually, Giorno relents and speaks.
“My mother is…” Giorno pauses, as if trying to find the right words, “A terrible person. I hadn't spoken to her since I joined Passione. After the trip, I was feeling a little…overwhelmed.”
He scratches his nose, eyes once again returning to the floor.
“You were right. I was disappointed about my biological father. I just…When I was younger, more defenseless, his picture was the only hope I had. I thought that my biological father might be my only hope of a decent parent, that he’d save me from my mother and stepfather. So when they told me everything, I just…”
He sighs. Fugo waits for him to continue patiently. There are so many questions in his head, but he keeps them at bay for now.
“I was surrounded by family, and yet I felt like an outsider the whole time. It wasn’t…it wasn’t their fault. Learning about my lineage just messed with my head. It made me want to reconnect with her, hoping that…”
Fugo remembers the agitation and hurt he felt when Giorno didn’t call him while he was there. It all felt ridiculous now. He’d clearly blown it out of proportion in his head; he let the poison fester until it convinced him of all these ideas of how Giorno felt while the boy in question was suffering.
There's a frown that gets deeper with each word he speaks before Giorno opens his mouth, stuttering, “I'm sorry–I just, I don’t want to talk about it. I was hoping she’d changed. But she didn’t, it didn't go well. That's all.”
There's a part of Fugo that wants to know more, to see the real Giorno, but he knows better than to push someone into revealing themselves.
He nods, and they sit in silence. Giorno hiccups every now and then, breath still uneven, but it stabilizes bit by bit.
“I don’t understand, Fugo. You hate me, don’t you? You should. I’m the reason they’re gone.”
“GioGio…”
“I tried to make amends, I tried to fix what you lost. I wanted to be what you wanted me to be, but I could only be useless.”
Giorno’s hands dig into his skull, “Giogio, stop calling yourself that.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it? Maybe she was right. I could only ruin things.”
He whispers the last part to himself before raising his knees and wrapping his arms around them. Giorno buries his face between them in defeat.
The weight of expectations from everyone had been chipping away at the foundations of Giorno’s spirit. Not to mention, whatever his mother had said seemed to completely shake him.
“You changed so many people’s lives in Napoli,” he sighs, “Bucciarati chose to put his trust in you. He chose to follow you, GioGio. You didn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. That Bucciarati I saw on that boat had more conviction compared to the man I knew. Bucciarati believed in a good world. I didn’t, I still don’t. But he did, he believed he could still be a force of good even in a horrible world. You gave him the conviction he needed when no one else did. I think…I think he died happy, knowing he fought for something good.”
Despite what he found himself often leaning into doing, he couldn’t blame others for what Bucciarati, Abbacchio, and Narancia willingly went into. The only person to blame for his loss would be Diavolo, but the man was already dead.
“But–”
“No, GioGio. I don’t want you to think like this,” Fugo knew how horrible that guilt was. “Abbacchio and Narancia…they believed in Bucciarati’s dream. In your dream. You told me it was our duty towards those we’ve lost to move forward.”
Fugo himself struggled to believe those words. Back then, in the dim light of Libeccio, Giorno was able to make everything he said sound like the nectar of the gods. It was all too easy to buy into them, to thrust himself into a different kind of servitude.
But it was at the dead of the night, when Napoli grew quiet, and Fugo found himself lying on his back. The small cracks in his walls would stare back at him, reminding him of everything he’d lost. Of everything that could’ve been.
That had festered over time, and it turned into the walls that separated him from the others.
He wonders now, could those words not only have been meant for Fugo, but Giorno himself? Had he deluded himself into ignoring the lingering pain and guilt until it had gotten to this point?
“And…I don’t blame you for it either.”
His mind goes back to the thoughts that were swarming around in it only a few days prior. He knows it isn’t what he genuinely felt, and blaming Giorno had made things easier. It made the hurt that he was feeling lessen ever so slightly. But he didn’t blame him.
Giorno’s Adam's apple bobs.
“You have every right to, Fugo.”
He shakes his head, “No, no. I don’t. If I can blame you, then I should blame myself too.”
“That’s not–”
“GioGio. It wasn’t either of us who killed them. You already dealt with the person responsible for it.”
It’s hard, now that he’s the one doing the convincing in the conversation. Fugo doesn’t believe his words completely. He feels guilt, so much of it that he's gotten so used to it swallowing him whole and eating him alive. But he’d rather make Giorno feel better with a little white lie.
Giorno sighs.
There's a weight on Fugo's shoulder. His eyes snap to the source of it, barely suppressing the urge to flinch at the suddenness of it.
Giorno's messy blonde curls press gently on Fugo's shoulder. The boy doesn't say anything, simply watching the flowers as snow descended and rested on their petals.
“Do you miss them?”
Fugo misses them. He misses them so much that the weight of that yearning could simply crush him and grind his bones into dust.
“...Yes.”
“Is it weird if I said I miss them too?”
“Why would it be weird?”
“I only knew them for a week.”
“Why does it matter?”
“It feels like I'm encroaching on your grief.”
“GioGio, this isn't some special thing that no one else is allowed to feel. We all grieve. Sometimes you grieve for people you knew your whole life. Sometimes you grieve for that one neighbor you hardly ever talked to. It's all the same in the end.”
Giorno huffs, but he doesn’t respond to that. He seemed to take all in as he stared ahead, eyes fixated on the flowers. Another bout of silence passes, and Fugo lets it so.
The blonde boy mumbles again, voice still small, “I’m sorry about the bottle. I still…I still feel terrible about it.”
“Don’t worry about it. It's only a bottle.”
Abbacchio was more than what that one bottle was; there was so much to the man that didn’t fit into that singular memorabilia. That realization that dawns on him is bittersweet. The sadness he’d felt about Narancia’s earrings eases a little.
For the first time in the past thirty minutes, Giorno’s breath finally turns audible. He doesn’t understand why it is this way. When people usually have panic attacks, their laboured breathing becomes louder than usual, from his own experience at least.
But he’ll leave that question for another time. For now, he focuses on Giorno’s hand that rests on the ground, just a few inches away from Fugo’s knee. His Adam's apple bobs; he doesn’t think that Giorno realizes it, but this is perhaps the closest they’ve been physically.
There’s a sudden, overwhelming desire in Fugo.
He does it before he can think too much about it, and his hand slowly moves towards Giorno’s. He stares at him, eyeing him with a silent question. Giorno looks at it with an expression that Fugo struggles to read.
Embarrassment shoots through him. What was he doing? He was overstepping his boundaries, wasn’t he? He went to withdraw his hand, but Giorno flipped his own, presenting his open palm to him. It takes him a second, but he realizes this is an invitation.
Fugo’s careful not to use his previously injured hand.
Their hands intertwine. Giorno's hand is soft against his own coarse, battered one. Both of their hands were cold, but there’s a warmth that spreads gradually the more time passes.
An image breaks. Another forms. The Giorno he saw now was a completely different person from the boy he had known for the past two-ish years. Something in Fugo struggles to adapt to that, to change the pristine image of him that he kept in his mind.
Change always scared him, but this isn’t as scary as he thought it would be. It feels right.
Fugo wanted Giorno as he was. He didn’t want the gold-plated statue that was out of his reach. He wanted the person made of flesh and bone, the one whose warmth wasn’t an artificial side effect of what Fugo wanted him to be.
It was strange. He never thought this way about Sheila, Mista, or Trish. Why was his heart beating a little faster? Why did he desire this closeness between them? What was this infectious thing worming its way into his chest?
He looks at him from the corner of his eye.
It’s only then, with Giorno’s hand in his and his head against his shoulder. With his hair a fuzzy mess and sunken eyes, a vision so far away from the poised Don of Passione. Only then does this overwhelming high hit him, and his heart skips a beat.
Oh.
Oh.
No. No, no, no. That couldn’t be. Those emotions that’d threaten to swallow him whole were an entirely new experience for him, but that didn’t mean they were…
Romantic.
The word tastes foreign on his lips. Romance. Romance? Him? That doesn’t make sense. He never…Fugo never considered that he’d be capable of having those feelings. It doesn’t make sense.
Or does it? Is that why Giorno’s every little move makes or breaks his mood? Was that simple attraction? No, it couldn’t be. He saw how Mista was when he was into someone. What lay in his heart was far more intense than that.
His life was plagued by intensity: intense anger, intense sadness, intense emptiness, intense hatred. Intense devotion. He felt similar devotion towards Bucciarati, worship that stemmed from having someone who’d actually cared about him besides his nonna. But that wasn’t similar to this. It was intense, but… it didn’t have these underlying weird affections brewing in his chest. He could never view Bucciarati like that.
Suddenly, their intertwined hands burn him. It wasn’t a simple touch anymore; the realization made him second-guess his motives and rethink all his actions when it came to Giorno.
Before he could overthink things any longer, a sharp rustle of the leaves grabbed both of their attention. There, in the darkness underneath the shade of an apple tree, stood Gold Experience Requiem. They stared at them, unnaturally wide eyes fixed on them both. Perhaps if it wasn’t his third time facing those eyes tonight alone and he wasn’t as sleep deprived as he was, his soul would leave his body.
“...Gold?”
They walk forward, staring at their conjoined hands. Giorno looks at them, then down at their hands.
Their little hand-holding ‘session’ is short-lived as Giorno retreats his own. Perhaps Fugo’s eyes were deceiving him, but there is a flush that rises up his neck, bringing faint color to his tired, pale face.
“Giorno Giovanna. Your body has resumed its normal function.”
Giorno nods slowly. Fugo wonders if he’s supposed to be here for this conversation. The stand looks at him, and he gulps. Unlike when they’d woken him up, their features were no longer constrained.
It filled him with relief. Gold Experience Requiem was a reflection of Giorno’s soul, so it must mean that he was truly feeling better. Though there was something different in their eyes now.
Satisfaction, perhaps.
The stand walks towards Giorno, putting their arm on his shoulder before coming closer and fading into him.
He sighs, “Sorry… Gold has a bad habit of watching me.” Fugo wonders just how many times the stand was somewhere out of their field of vision. He hums.
“We…we should go back inside.”
“We should.”
Neither of them moves. Giorno's head remains on his shoulders, and it’s a feeling he wants embedded into his skin. Now that Gold Experience Requiem was gone, there wasn’t anything to distract him from his emotions.
He digs his finger into his palm, just outside of Giorno’s vision. This was far too overwhelming for him to unpack right now.
“Fugo?”
He hums in answer. Giorno’s hand goes back to his, and he hesitantly rubs his thumb against Fugo’s knuckle.
“...Thank you.”
He isn’t sure what he should say to that.
Fugo’s body moves on its own. Maybe it’s the fatigue catching up to him again. Maybe he simply enjoyed feeling Giorno’s soft, frizzy locks brush against his cheeks. Maybe he likes the way it sends his heart racing, as if it were about to rip his chest open and run away.
The world starts to darken, and Fugo finds himself leaning his body against Giorno’s without realizing it.
There’s a panic that threatens to overtake him once he realizes he’s falling asleep. But the presence next to him grounds him; it pulls him back and eases him into slumber.
It’s there among the roses and cascading leaves–that had gone back to their blooming selves–with Giorno’s golden hair pressed against his face, that Fugo manages to fall asleep. For the first time in three weeks, there’s no suffocation, no fear of having this ripped away from him.
He’s safe.
Notes:
They....h*ld h*ands.... :O
I hope you guys enjoyed the GER jump scares. I sure did. Writing this chapter was tough. A lot of Fugo's inner thoughts felt too personal to write, but what can one do besides project onto a gay teenager with anger issues :/
Hope y'all enjoyed this! Only the epilogue left now AAAA 3
Chapter 6: Daylight Is Good at Arriving at the Right Time
Summary:
The dead never leave, do they?
For the longest time, Fugo didn’t have it in him to come here. To face the reality of what he lost. He didn’t have it in him to move on. He'd gotten so lost in his grief that he'd forgotten to live, just as Trish said; he'd been a living corpse.
Fugo didn’t know how to exist without them; it had sent him into a limbo state for the past two years. He still felt deep melancholy and guilt, and frankly, he thinks it's something he will always carry with him.
Notes:
The final chapter! Fun fact, this was supposed to be a short and sweet 4k epilogue, but somehow it turned into this...
Special thanks to my pookie Vibin_Sponge0212 for enduring all my yapping and proofreading this fic for me! <333
Warnings: Nothing much? It's kind of a bittersweet chapter, but emphasis on the sweet part this time!
Chapter title is from All Things Must Pass by George Harrison.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Where the hell were you? We’re late!”
The sole of Fugo’s strawberry-clad shoes taps against the wood flooring underneath him. His hands are folded in front of his chest, and he wears a deep frown that only deepens with every second that passes.
In front of him stood Narancia. A small wheeze made itself known as he hunched over, not unlike some sickly old man who’s about to draw his last breath. His breathing is scratchy as he lets out cough after cough.
His arms were wrapped around a suspiciously shaped blanket.
There was a slight flush to his face. Fugo does a double-take at that, and he realizes that it isn’t a slight flush at all. His face is beet-red, especially the area around his eyes and nose.
“Listen, I was walking back home and– Achoo !”
Anger gets the best of Fugo, as it often does. Tardiness always irked him, especially if it was a delay that well passed the one-hour mark. It makes him forget about how strange Narancia's behavior is.
“Don’t even start with the excuses. This was supposed to be a simple job. Bucciarati literally only sent you to check up on Signora Perla–”
His words are interrupted by two consecutive sneezes.
Only then do Fugo’s eyes turn to that blanket. The dirt stains and the smell coming from it make Fugo’s stomach churn. He’s glad he skipped dinner tonight.
“What’s that?”
Narancia’s arms wrapped around it a little tighter, bringing the shape of it until a clearer little bundle that looked like…
“Okay, so I went to Signora Perla’s house, got the money and everything, and I was walking back. Then I heard something crying near a garbage can…”
Fugo starts to connect the dots. And he wishes he didn’t.
“Oh my god, is that a baby?!”
“What? No!”
The blanket unfurls immediately. There are short strands of brown and white hair that peek out of it before revealing a small puppy, no bigger than half of Narancia's arm. It didn’t seem young enough to be a newborn but not big enough to be a full-fledged adult. The thing stares at him through its droopy eyes that were covered by matted hair.
“What the hell, Narancia? Bucciarati said we can't keep any pets.”
“But I couldn’t just leave him there! He was sitting and waiting. Do you know what that means? He was someone's dog, and they left him! He even knows how to do a roll, look–Achoo!”
His words are interrupted by another sneeze, this one was stronger, probably agitated by the direct contact between them now that the blanket is gone.
Narancia coughs before putting it down on the floor. Perhaps Fugo would be more compassionate to its state if all he could see right now wasn’t the dirt clinging to its paws, dirtying the floor that was cleaned that same day.
“Here, Biscotti,” he claps and draws a small circle in the air, and the little thing stands in front of him, tail wagging and ears flapping around as it hurriedly batted its eyes, “Roll!”
The dog does as it's told, rolling on its back and standing on its feet again. It continued looking at Narancia, eyes full of excitement as it waited for his next command.
“You named it? You can’t be planning on keeping that thing?”
“ His name is Biscotti! And he has nowhere to go, C’mon Panna,” Narancia picks him up, making him face Fugo with all that dirt and grime that gets too close for comfort.
Narancia struggles to hold back a sneeze, “J–just look at him.”
Fugo stares. It…he was rather adorable. But pets were too much of a hygienic hazard. Especially pets that were clearly rolling around in garbage for days, “He's gross.”
“You’re gross!”
“Shut up! Just…leave him at the park or something. People feed the strays around there.”
Narancia hugs him tighter, causing Fugo to wince in revulsion, “He has no one, Panna. He was just sitting there, waiting for someone to come back. It's not fair.”
”Nara…”
There’s a sadness in his eyes, a sadness that Fugo knows all too well. Narancia spent a lot of his days on the streets after being left behind by everyone in his life, which made him develop this habit of looking at the world through black and white lenses. His memories of abandonment and lonesome days without friends or family kept clouding his judgment.
“You didn’t leave me that day, remember? We shouldn’t leave him either. Please?”
He huffs and puffs, and it's probably more of his allergic reaction constricting his throat than anger. He pouts and stares down at the dog with a withering glint in his eyes, scratching the top of his head and letting him melt under his touch.
Fugo speaks with a sigh, “Nara, you know how Bucciarati feels about this since the incident.”
A rat that Narancia named Dario and brought home. A Dario that turned out to be a very pregnant Daria.
Some things were best left forgotten.
“That wasn't my fault, I didn’t know about Dario–”
“ Daria made us throw half of our food away.”
“Biscotti is a boy–”
The sound of the living room door being pushed open shuts them both up. Heels drag against the ground in a way that announces their owner before they show themselves.
Abbacchio’s silver hair peeks through the doorway. Narancia quickly wraps the thing back and ducks behind the couch, just in time to hide the blanket, but not quick enough to hide himself.
He eyes the two of them with that same vacant expression he often wears, but there is a glint of confusion in there, ”Why are you two here? Aren’t you supposed to be on patrol duty?”
Narancia walks away from the couch and stands in front of Abbacchio with his hands behind his back. His eyes turn to Fugo’s in a silent plea.
Fugo wasn’t a big fan of pets in general, but especially the furry ones. He’d be happy to snitch and get that thing out of here, but…
How can he when Narancia’s looking at him like that? And he wouldn’t be able to handle his sulking for hours upon hours.
He sighs, “We were about to head out, I was giving Narancia some extra lessons, and we lost track of time.”
“Yes. Multiplicity, subtra-tra…ction… the usual stuff, we totally lost track of time!”
Fugo glares at him and suppresses the urge to roll his eyes into the back of his brain. Narancia was such a bad liar. He won’t even think about the words he clearly used wrongly there, lest he pop a nerve.
“Right…I can believe you lost track of time, Narancia. But you’re telling me the person who checks his clock periodically just lost track of time? I don’t buy it. Now, tell me what you’re up to.”
Sometimes, Fugo thinks Abbacchio never really turned in his badge and gun. He had a natural distrust of people and an inclination to interrogate answers out of them. It was off-putting at times, but… it was mostly useful in their line of work.
”Nothing…”
Abbacchio raises his arched brows in even more suspicion, but his piercing gaze falls on Narancia, who shrinks under it instantly.
”Why the hell do you look like a wet noodle? Did you get sick again? And what’s that smell?”
Before Narancia could answer, a small yet audible bark sounded from the back of the couch. Abbacchio's eyes turn to the source, widening slightly as the creature in question wriggles out of the blanket it was hidden in and walks into clear view.
He runs towards Narancia, throwing himself into his arms with a small yelp. It’s a sight Fugo would’ve maybe considered it to be adorable if it didn’t trigger his gag reflex.
Abbacchio’s nose scrunches, and his bony fingers immediately fly to the bridge of his nose, squeezing it as he takes a deep breath.
“Gesù Cristo.”
“Please, please, Abba! Don't tell Bucciarati, I’ll–Achoo!”
Abbacchio throws his hands back in the air, “Narancia, you’re allergic to dogs. Why the hell would you bring one home? I’ll take it back. You need to leave it alone before you pass out.”
Narancia’s arms wrap around the blissfully unaware dog; his throat was clearly closing up as his words came out more broken than he probably intended them to.
“He–he has nowhere to go!”
“We can't bring every stray animal home, and we can't keep one you’re allergic to.”
They stood at an impasse. Fugo needed to think fast; Narancia was not thinking clearly, and he looked…pretty bad. Abbacchio, on the other hand, seemed beyond pissed, not that he usually wasn’t. But he was probably having an especially bad day before this.
The light bulb above his head illuminates.
“Wait, maybe we can give it,” Narancia shakes his head before Fugo is even done, “let me finish. To Signora Perla.”
Abbacchio looks at him, eyes blanking before lighting up in recognition, “The lady whose husband and son died in June? ”
Fugo nods, and Narancia looks at him with betrayal clear in his eyes. Fugo doesn’t get it. He doesn’t understand why Narancia extends so much of his empathy to a dog he hardly knows. But a mafiaso household was no place for a dog, his aversion to them aside.
“But… But!”
“Narancia, don’t be stubborn. You promised you wouldn’t bring strays anymore.”
Abbacchio starts to lecture him, but they both immediately see how Narancia shrinks. His reddened eyes are fixed on the dog, and his lips start to tremble.
Shit.
Abbacchio’s lecture stops, and he sighs instead. He approaches Narancia and silently extends his arms. Narancia still refuses to let go.
When he speaks again, his voice is softer yet still maintaining that gruffness that makes Abbacchio well, himself.
“I know you want to care for him. But the fact is, you won’t be able to. You know how our lives are, Narancia. And you know it’s not fair to not give this dog the life he deserves.”
It takes a minute, but Abbacchio's words seem to be the key to separating the two. The puppy finds his way into Abbacchio’s arms, gently resting on them with his tongue loling out.
Narancia seems upset still, but more so at himself rather than either of them.
“I just wanted to help him…”
“I know Narancia.” Abbacchio's hand grasps his shoulder firmly, and as Fugo looks at the scene unfolding, he can’t help but see how easy it's become for Abbacchio to slip into the role of a nurturer. “We'll call up Signora Perla and ask her about this. You will explain this to Bucciarati when he's home.”
Narancia's already pale face whitens for a moment. Bucciarati was usually the nicer of the bunch, but once a rule had been laid down, he was very particular about it being followed.
“But–”
“No buts. You broke a promise. You will explain yourself, then we will give this guy a home. Fugo, get him his allergy medication.”
Fugo nodded. There was something about watching Abbacchio ruffle Narancia’s dark hair as he retreated to the medicine cabinet that stirred his heart.
That day had long passed now. Fugo hasn’t been 14 for a long time now.
But as he stands at this intersection with that eerily similar-looking dog, he can’t help but feel as if he were transported back in time.
He looked older now, with a red collar around his neck. He couldn’t be that same dog, could he? He stares at him in a way that looks far too…human?
For some reason, Fugo’s mind goes back to his conversation with Mista.
The dead cease to exist once they die. That was what he’d always believed. There were no souls or numerous different afterlives from the gazillion religions out there.
The day Fugo dies is the day he stops existing. That idea doesn’t scare him as much as it did once he realized he didn’t believe in anything he couldn’t see as a child.
But it scares him to think of it in relation to others. The idea of Bucciarati, Narancia, and Abbacchio simply disappearing doesn’t feel right.
How could they cease to exist when he sees Narancia in his bathroom mirror when he’s getting ready?
How could they cease to exist when he sometimes sees the shadow of Abbacchio's figure lying on the couch, watching pointless telenovelas (that he insisted he did not enjoy) while nursing a glass of wine?
How could they cease to exist when he still expects Bucciarati to be up in the early hours of dawn, greeting him with a warm smile that didn’t meet his eyes, weighed down by the pain he always hid?
The dog keeps staring at him. Fugo isn’t sure that he’s the same Biscotti Narancia was so hell bent on keeping.
But something tells him he was meant to see that dog. That he was meant to face the last of his fears today and now. That something was beckoning him. It could just be Mista’s influence, his ideas taking root in his vulnerable mind. But, for once, Fugo forsakes logic.
His eyes turn to one of the hills overlooking the city. The hills stare back.
The February air brushes against his skin as the scenery around him changes.
The ride to the cemetery is odd. Fugo listens to the radio, and the channel plays a bunch of classical music that he isn't the most familiar with, but it helps keep his nerves in check. And it's the only thing stopping him from turning the car around and running back to the villa. That and the flowers in the passenger seat.
The florist had been kind enough to maintain his patience as Fugo thought hard about what he’d get each of them. Now that he knew what these flowers meant, he hoped to speak through them as well.
The car comes to a stop, and Fugo peers at the graveyard.
It's small. Quaint. When Fugo thought of it before, the cemetery almost looked comically horrific in his head. A place of death and decay that would fit someone like him.
And yet this looks nothing like it.
There are trees surrounding the entrance, and he can see that there are path tiles inside surrounded by small blades of grass. It looks serene, like an impressionist’s picturesque painting.
His heart starts pounding in his chest. Something screams at him, it tells him to stop, to run–that this wouldn’t be something he'd be able to handle.
Fugo grips the flowers and turns off the engine before he can think about it too much. He pushes open the door and slams it shut.
His steps towards the rusted gate are small, and he eventually stops before it, hands hovering but not daring to push it just yet.
There's a soft breeze that does the job for him. The door opens with a loud creak, and Fugo blinks.
No going back now.
He steps in, feet light as if submerged in weightless clouds. He walks past grave after grave, names of strangers passing him by as he looks for his family.
Being among the dead felt odd to Fugo. It wasn’t unfamiliar. He thought the place would stink of pungent rot. Instead, the smell of cut grass and fresh flowers fills his nostrils and manages to calm his racing heart a little.
He spots Narancia first. The tombstone was made of beautiful, pristine marble with an arched top. On it was a small sculpture of a robin with its wings wide open and an Italian inscription.
Narancia Ghirga
20 • 05 • 1984
06 • 04 • 2001
We will love you forever.
Someone had left white tulips and lilies. Fugo stared down at his best friend's grave, his hand trembling around the flower he had brought. He was here, Narancia was dead, and here he lay.
Fugo places the white chrysanthemum on the grave and kneels down to sit by it.
He knew more about flowers now. Ever since the little incident in the garden with Giorno, the two of them had spent much more time together. That meant he got to get lost in Giorno’s dreamy eyes as he talked about plants endlessly. He did still manage to learn things, though, ever the multitasker.
Narancia was dead. He was going out of his way to pick a specific flower for his own sake, truly.
White chrysanthemums symbolize mourning, and Fugo suspects he will spend the rest of his life mourning Narancia.
“Hey Nara,” Fugo pauses and looks around him, seeing if anyone was looking at the guy talking to dead people, “Sorry, I'm so late. I…I've been okay. Not great, but I'm okay for now. I miss you a lot. I miss you a lot when I look at a mushroom pizza,” God, he feels so stupid talking about this. “I miss you when I pass by an orange tree. I miss you every day.”
He pauses as he takes a breath and then continues, “I always wondered if you hated me. Mista said you didn't. I hope…” he pauses, feeling his eyes burn, “I hope you know how much everyone loved you. How much I loved you. I should’ve said it more. I'm sorry.”
The stone stares back at him. There’s no response. Narnacia is gone, and he won’t ever hear the words Fugo wanted to say, he won’t see all the things Fugo sees, he won’t experience the world as it changes. Narancia is gone, and the world doesn’t stop moving forward; it’s only Fugo who has remained static, who refused to move forward without Narancia because it wasn’t fair.
Maybe he was supposed to be in a grave too; there were endless maybes. But none of them would answer the lingering question that could never leave Fugo’s mind.
Why?
Why did any of it have to happen? Why did he have to lose the people he considered family?
Maybe life just wasn’t fair. Good doesn’t always triumph over evil. Innocence is lost, greed thrives, and things aren’t always right. But life continues. It doesn’t stop.
Grief isn’t left behind. It never is. It stays with you, it takes root in the heart, and if you let it, it consumes you. So you learn to live with it. You learn to look at what reminds you of what you lost and not let the sadness erode you.
That sadness is something he’ll carry with him for the rest of his life, but it was no longer a thing he wanted to swallow him whole.
He doesn’t know how long he has been sitting there, but he knows that a warmth starts to encompass him, as if he were on the receiving end of an embrace from the sun itself.
His eyes burn, but Fugo doesn’t cry.
Eventually, he gets up. He’d need to head back soon lest he worry the others about him running off again. So, he searches for Bucciarati and Abbacchio’s graves. Mista had said that they were buried together, so the search mission wasn’t that difficult.
Their grave was only a few rows away from Narancia’s. The shape was similar to that of Narancia’s, with high arches and beautiful carvings on the side. They had been conjoined, and on top of them were two birds that Fugo recognized to be barn owls; the sculptor had made them rest their heads against one another serene display.
Barn owls were birds that mate for life. Whoever was responsible for this had known of their relationship and put some extra thought into making their resting place more symbolic of their love for one another.
The two graves were covered in flowers, especially Bucciarati’s side; there were many flowers planted and cared for.
He sits there. The grass underneath him pricks his skin; he can feel the wetness from it staining his pants, but he pays it no mind. He reads the inscription that was written in beautiful Italian cursive.
Leone Abbacchio
25 • 03 • 1980
05 • 04 • 2001
Bruno Bucciarati
27 • 09 • 1980
06 • 04 • 2001
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails.
Fugo wasn't a firm believer in anything, really. Neither did Abbacchio. He knew Bucciarati grew up Catholic, but he was hardly a practicing one by the time he passed away.
It's a beautiful way to describe their relationship, regardless. Their love was kind, from what he'd seen. If there was an afterlife, Fugo hoped they'd found peace together.
“Um…hello, Bucciarati. Abbacchio. I've been thinking a lot about you. I guess I've done it for a long time, but even more so since I had that dream. Mista thinks it was something more than a simple dream. I don’t think he's right. But I… I guess that'd mean I'm talking to myself right now.”
Fugo places the flowers he got on each of their graves. Gladiolus and Forget-me-nots. He wanted something that'd remind him of the strength each of them, especially Bucciarati, had to carry himself with, and an oath to keep them both in his memories.
“Things have been difficult…I, we all miss you. I miss you. I don’t know how to be without you. I thought maybe I'd figure it out eventually, but it's been a while now. I'm trying, I really am. I think I'm a little better now. Waking up doesn’t feel as hard. But…”
He gulps. He’s speaking about these things out loud to no one, and the sight of him would be enough to get him admitted to a psych ward, probably..He looks around, searching for any spying eyes, but luckily, there are none.
“I keep…I keep replaying the days we had together. Over and over, I just keep trying to cling to them because it's, um, it's easier than living here.”
Fugo stays quiet after that, pondering what he should say exactly. He digs in his brain, urging it to unbottle all the pent-up things he has in there.
It takes a few minutes, but he speaks again.
“You know, Abbacchio. You always knew what to say. No matter how harsh it was, you'd say what I needed to hear. And I guess I…I missed someone knocking that sense into me as you did. And I only wish I could've been there for you when you needed me most. I'm sorry.”
He didn’t need to dig too much to find out the whereabouts of his death. Taken off guard and punched clean through the chest. He'd always wondered, as he often does, if he could've protected him. They were a solid team, he and Abbacchio. They always trusted one another to finish the jobs they wouldn't want to fall upon Bucciarati's shoulders.
He's gone now. Perhaps Fugo could've done something to prevent it. But it didn't matter anymore what he could’ve done.
“Bucciarati. You were a good man. But you,” he pauses and inhales sharply, trying his hardest not to choke on his words, “…you weren’t perfect. Nobody is. I think I knew that. But thinking you were something so,” he looks for the word in his mind, “removed from what I was, what the others were– It gave me purpose when I had nothing. I didn’t think about how it may have affected you. I'm sorry.”
He pauses, looking around once again before talking, “If that was…” God, this was embarrassing. “If that was really you in my dream, thank you. I needed to hear that. I miss you.”
The sound of approaching footsteps startles him, and Fugo turns around quickly, his body reacting in alarm as it often did.
To his surprise, it's an old nonna who walks with slow steps towards him. She holds her own bouquet, and she smiles at him. Her face is a little familiar, though Fugo struggles to pinpoint who she is exactly.
“Ah, good morning, raggazzo. I remember you…Weren't you one of the boys hanging around Bucciarati all the time?”
The old lady nears him and sits down by his side slowly. She puts the flower bouquet on the grave.
Bucciarati's influence ran high and low in Napoli. The elderly simply adored him; how could they not? He always went out of his way to help them when no one else would.
Fugo nods. He doesn’t remember who this lady is, but he guesses that she cares for Bucciarati since she's visiting him despite his passing away two years ago at this point.
“I try to come here every Sunday, but I couldn’t come till today.”
“How did you know Bucciarati?”
“How did any of us know him? He helped me when my husband and son were in a car accident.”
Oh, that jogs up his memory. Signora Perla. What were the odds?
“Oh. I'm sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. He didn’t take any protection money from me for months after, and said to focus on recovering. He'd drop by and check up on me ever since. He loved my squid pasta. Gave me that precious little Biscotti, too. He was a good one, that kid. Died too young. But I guess all the good ones do.”
Fugo stays silent. It's a somber thought.
“I remember it like it was yesterday. When the news of his death spread in town, I felt like I had lost another son. But he was your friend, wasn’t he? Must've been hard for you, too.”
Her hand, thin and filled with wrinkles, a sign of a life long lived, holds his. It startles Fugo to receive this unannounced comfort. The feeling of her rough hand reminds him of his own nonna and the countless days she'd spend trying to coddle him in the shadow of his parents’ tyranny.
“...Yes. Yes, it was hard. Isn't it hard for you?”
“Of course. Losing a husband and your only son, I never thought I'd go through that. And then to lose one of the people who made life a little bit easier. It was God's ultimate test. But I got used to that pain, day by day.”
Day by day. Fugo wasn’t sure that alone would help him. It hadn't yet, but perhaps time alone won't heal all wounds. Perhaps he had to put in the effort, too.
“What's your name?”
“Pannacotta Fugo.”
“Well, Pannino, I have to go to my dear Elio and Luca. But it was nice speaking to you, I'll keep you in my prayers.”
Fugo suppresses the urge to cringe at the nickname. He wasn’t five years old.
Signora Perla gets up and moves before Fugo realizes he hadn’t asked for her name. She goes further into the graveyard and sits down again in front of slightly older graves, and she talks there just as Fugo had been talking to his loved ones.
It's strange, but seeing her so casually speak as if she were genuinely catching up with them makes processing all of this much easier.
The dead never leave, do they?
For the longest time, Fugo didn’t have it in him to come here. To face the reality of what he lost. He didn’t have it in him to move on. He'd gotten so lost in his grief that he'd forgotten to live, just as Trish said; he'd been a living corpse.
Fugo didn’t know how to exist without them; it had sent him into a limbo state for the past two years. He still felt deep melancholy and guilt, and frankly, he thinks it's something he will always carry with him.
He sits there for a while, simply finding comfort in being somewhat close to all three of them, even if they were six feet under. Eventually, he gets up and turns to leave, waving goodbye to the lady before going outside the graveyard.
He can’t bring himself to leave just yet.
With his back pressed to the wall, Fugo pulls out a cigarette. All of that had overwhelmed him beyond belief. He was empty and filled with a thousand different emotions at the same time. He needed this.
His eyes go to the only other car parked near the graveyard. It must be Signora Perla’s. A certain figure catches his eye. That little runt had grown into a healthy adult, just as Narancia had hoped. Fugo can’t help but notice that he was wearing a blue collar, not red.
He barks through the window of the old car as if he’d recognized Fugo.
That was a ridiculous thought. He lights the cigarette and takes a drag. As he always does. But something was missing. The burning in his lungs doesn’t distract him as it usually does.
Fugo looks at the ember burning brightly, and for the first time in over a year, he realizes that it’s not doing anything for him anymore. He continues staring, the amalgamation of all his thoughts and feelings suddenly has him throw it to the ground and crush it under his shoe.
Impulsively, he pulls out the cigarette pack resting in his pocket and throws it away as well. He knows how hard going cold turkey, but he feels a strange sensation clouding his mind right now, enough to shield him from all rationality.
He walks towards his car, eyes glancing towards Biscotti. He pauses for a moment, but ultimately he opens the door. His eyes remain unfocused as his hands grip the steering wheel, and it’s only when a ding reaches his ears that Fugo feels the mist over him lifting a little.
He opens his phone, and a single message from Giorno appears,
✉… Hello, Fugo. I was thinking we could get some piano practice done today if that’s okay. When are you coming home?
Sincerely,
Giorno Giovanna.
Fugo stares at it for a moment. Right. Piano practice. They’d been progressing smoothly over the past two weeks. It helped that he was an eager student. He texts him back quickly.
✉… Hi, GioGio. Coming back now.
The radio remains off, and Fugo focuses on the road, gazing far away as a sudden heaviness invades his senses and burns his eyes. They remain dry.
The villa is still quiet by the time Fugo returns. Tranquility and turmoil swarm him as he takes slow steps up the stairs; the feelings he'd worked through less than an hour ago had lingered in a conjoined mess of emotions. Fugo undeniably felt more at peace, but the sheer act of facing all of these things had left him absolutely exhausted .
He needed to eat something, but having to think of something to eat felt too tiring in itself. The snacks he left in his room would have to do.
He’s lucky his concussion symptoms have practically faded away, besides the occasional piercing headache or dizziness that’d have him stumbling around. Otherwise, he’d probably have passed out in the car.
There’s another ding , and Fugo holds on to the handrail as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.
✉… come 2 living room, 2nd floor now
It’s a simple text from Sheila. He doesn’t want to change his destination; his mind craves Giorno’s company far too pathetically. But…the ‘now’ seemed urgent enough.
Soon, he’s standing before the door. The lack of any sounds on the other side was strange. Fugo looks down at the door gap, and the absence of light stands out to him.
This was probably nothing. He repeats that to himself as he pushes the door slowly.
It's completely dark, just as he thought, and Fugo doesn’t remember turning off the lights before he left. Red flags start to go off in his head before the light turns on–without him touching it.
Four simultaneous voices are shouting ‘surprise!’ as Fugo closes his eyes and takes a sharp breath. There’s a loud pop! and there's something that floats down Fugo's head. It lands on his hand, and he opens his eyes to see confetti.
Fugo blinks. The room was decorated in all sorts of strawberry-related things. Strawberry balloons, strawberry cups, strawberry birthday signs, and strawberry table rug thingy pillows.
Sheila, Giorno, and Trish all stood there with smiles adorning their faces.
“Happy birthday!”
There's a muffled voice among the crowd, and Fugo wonders how it took him this long to notice the fourth missing person here.
Mista is wearing a dinosaur costume. A crude, inflatable red T. rex that stares into Fugo’s soul. Well, more like Mista's eyes stared at him through the mesh in the dinosaur's neck.
Fugo freezes. His eyes dart from each of them and back to Mista, his fingers hurt, a prickling sensation spreading through his hand, before his nose starts burning, and eventually so do his eyes.
What was happening? This couldn’t be what he thought it was.
A sob wrecks its way out of him. It rips through his chest, and the sound that leaves Fugo is nothing short of guttural.
Fugo cries. He cries like a child, face scrunching into an ugly mess that is engulfed by tears and snot. His hand flies to his mouth in an effort to stifle his sobs. But it doesn’t help. Nothing does.
He could hardly think on the way up here, but this truly just pushes his brain into overdrive. The things he held deep in his heart fight their way out of him, coming out as tears that won’t stop pouring, no matter how hard he tries to keep them down.
Fugo didn’t even realize it was the fourth of February. Forgetting his own birthday was an annual habit of his.
Ever since he was born till his 13th birthday, his family didn’t care about celebrating it unless there was someone they needed to impress. If that were the case, then Fugo would be a mere puppet to his parents’ pathetic displays of hubris and narcissism.
It was different with them. It was Soft. Kind. Words that wouldn't be associated with any mafia members normally, but Fugo knew better. No, he saw better.
He saw the kindness Bucciarati had bestowed on him on his 14th birthday, approaching him as one would a feral cat, attempting to nurture it no matter how deeply it dug its claws into their skin.
His birthday became something worth celebrating for all of three years. Then, Fugo went back to forgetting the joys of it. There was no point in celebrating now that they were gone. So, he’d spent it on the docks, refusing to answer any calls as he gazed at the sea.
But here he was now, in a strawberry-themed party with his friends awkwardly gawking at him as he cried.
“Whoa, dude, are you okay?”
Mista tries to walk to him, but waddle would be the more accurate term to use here. His small steps take too long, clearly, because Giorno approaches Fugo before he can. His hand gently wraps around Fugo’s, and through the tremors that shake his body, he feels Giorno’s thumb rub against his knuckles.
“Is this too much?”
He whispers it, and Fugo doesn’t think it’s an attempt at secrecy. It’s that gentleness that frightens him.
He shakes his head. It is too much, but not for the reasons Giorno might be thinking. These were the emotions that were bubbling up since… forever, if he were to be honest with himself. The ugliness in him had manifested long before he realized what any of it meant.
But his time in the graveyard earlier had stirred a lot of things in him. Things that he didn’t realize were so close to pushing him over the edge. Seeing this kindness, this gesture born out of love, was the final crack that broke the dam’s walls down.
Finally, Mista’s waddling comes to an end. Small T. rex arms struggle to wrap around him as the smooth nylon keeps slipping. Sheila and Trish come closer as well, sharing a look of concern that Fugo almost misses as he finds himself shamefully burying his face in Mista’s big chest, right under his dinosaur neck.
Deep embarrassment rushed to Fugo; he was crying, ruining this thing his friends went out of their way to do for him. This was humiliating. He wanted to get sedated.
He cries for a while, sob after sob keeps coming out of him until they eventually turn into quiet shudders and sniffles.
Sheila sighs, “Is it the costume? I told him not to wear that thing.”
Mista lets out a muffled gasp, taking full offense instead of any blame for this, “Hey! This is totally that dinosaur Fugo kept talking about, I’m being thoughtful!”
Fugo wipes his nose and speaks quietly, “It was actually Brachisaurus…”
It’s the first thing Fugo manages to say between his small hiccups, and he hears Mista’s barely suppressed groan at his correction.
The warmth from the glass of milk spreads through Fugo’s hands. Small sniffles leave him against his will as he sinks into the living room sofa. They each stared at him, eyes full of an equal amount of confusion and concern.
Fugo taps the glass as he struggles not to shrink under their gaze. The sound of the pendulum swinging back and forth doesn’t help the tense atmosphere in the least. It’s Trish who breaks the silence first, her voice comes out in an unsure whisper.
“Soooo, are we gonna talk about–”
Fugo cuts her off before she manages to finish, “Let’s just pretend that didn’t happen, please.”
He doesn’t feel ready to share all the things swarming his heart. He especially didn’t feel ready to talk about the graveyard and how it threw his mind from a minuscule dust devil into a full-fledged tornado.
It felt good to cry it out. But the humiliation of seeing his tears and snot on Mista’s costume after he’d finally calmed down hadn’t left him just yet.
Mista’s muffled voice comes out next to him, “Cool, cool, cool, sooo…cake?”
Sheila’s eyes almost roll into the back of her head, “Cake? That’s your best attempt at changing the conversation?”
The older man puts one tiny inflatable hand on his waist and hunches over a little, perhaps becoming the world’s first recorded sassy Tyrannosaurus Rex.
“Hey, I’m trying here, okay? This thing is kind of hot, so…help me out here.”
“Right, right. This doesn't have to do with you wanting to devour this strawberry cake, right?”
Giorno coughs before anyone is able to continue bickering, and Fugo's a little saddened by it. This comforted him more than peace and quiet ever could.
“Guys…I think we’re getting off track here. Happy birthday, Fugo. We’re sorry if this was a bit much. Mista said they threw you surprise birthday parties before, so we assumed–”
Fugo waves his hands in the air immediately; he didn’t want them to get the wrong idea here.
“No, no. I promise, it’s fine. This is…it’s amazing, I’m grateful. Thank you. It was just a little overwhelming.”
Worry doesn’t leave anyone's eyes immediately, especially Giorno. Through his collected features, he still noticed the slight pinch of his eyebrows.
“I promise. I'm okay.”
He isn’t. But his feet weren’t stuck in quicksand; these weren’t the jumble of emotions that'd threaten to drown him slowly in it before.
He was grieving. But he was happy. The happiest he'd been in years.
“Well, since we finished having this totally emotional moment, are we going to eat this cake now?”
Trish smacks him, the slap not quite getting to Mista because of the air in the nylon surrounding him.
“What?! He says he's fine, so let’s just…you know.”
Fugo sighs. Luckily for him and his empty stomach, a large dining table with endless pastries and sweets was set up here. They all go to sit there, each occupying a seat.
The scene around the dining table is almost familiar.
The people around the table are mostly different. Narancia's insistent tries to lick the cake, Abbacchio's brooding eye rolls, and Bucciarati's warm smile were all missing.
Mista is the only real constant in this scenario. He wasn’t trying to convince him to celebrate his birthday on the fifth instead of the fourth anymore, but besides that, he was here by his side.
He'd long changed outfits, now leaning on his chair with his usual cashmere croptop and his curls loose down his neck. Weird. Fugo hadn’t noticed that his hair had gotten that long. Mista always preferred to have his hair be of a length that wouldn’t ‘bother him’ too much.
But perhaps Mista has changed.
Giorno sits there, fiddling with something in his hand. Sheila and Trish are chatting among themselves, hands lingering upon one another.
A small cough escapes Giorno, who pulls out whatever he was hiding under the table.
It’s a small camera and a pale yellow striped photo album.
“Um, I know you two, Bucciarati, Narancia, and Abbacchio had that photo album. I thought we could start our own, if that’s okay with everyone.”
Giorno’s voice wavers a little, and his hesitation is beyond obvious. Fugo isn’t sure exactly when he mentioned the album to him; perhaps Mista showed him since it wasn’t in Fugo’s possession. Not that he could bear to look at it.
He locks eyes with Mista, and there’s a small moment that slows as they both consider Giorno’s request.
It’s simple. But it isn’t. There are a lot of things contained in pictures, memories frozen in time that strengthen bonds. It almost feels like a commitment to the new normal that they’re all experiencing together.
Mista’s gaze holds his for a moment before he shrugs with a smile, “Eh, why not? As long as Panna isn’t taking it…”
He gets offended, but before he could say anything, Mista continues, “What? You’re…very particular about things.”
Sheila nods much to Fugo’s dismay, “Yeah, I gotta agree with him on that one. I asked him to take a photo of me with that cute camera you gave me, Trish. He spent 30 minutes telling me my pose is wrong. The background is wrong. The goddamn sun is wrong. I ended up taking it with Voodoo Child.”
All the absurd accusations were threatening to blow Fugo’s already short fuse into smithereens.
“What's the point of photographing someone if you don't make sure they look like the best version of themselves?!”
Mista waves his hand at him, “Naah, you gotta make them spontaneous.”
“You’re only saying that because every time you try to pose, you end up making a weird face.”
Mista scoffs at him, “I’ll have you know I’m incredibly photogenic.”
“I got a camera stand. We don’t need to argue over who’s taking the picture.”
It would seem that being the voice of reason was on Giorno’s agenda for the day. Everyone lets out a quiet ‘oh’. His face remains mostly blank, but he gets up to unfold the stand, “Should we take the photo now?”
Giorno, once again, sounds very unsure. He almost reminds Fugo of himself when he’d first joined Bucciarati. Of unknowingly treading through the grounds of tenderness, of feeling the foreign touch of gentleness and love when all you’re used to is abuse or indifference.
It’s easy to feel lost amidst it.
“We can do it now before everything gets messy?”
Everyone nods. They’re thrown into chaos again as they go to sit on the couch, arguing about who should sit where, but eventually they’re seated. After firm guidance from Fugo.
He leaves the space next to him empty as Giorno clicks something on the camera, prepping it to take the photo. It’s only when he’s looking at everyone seated next to him that it dawns on him…
“Wait, what about the party hats?”
Mista stares at him blankly as he processes his words, then his face contorts immediately into panic, “The…oh shit! Sheila, you were on hat duty, weren’t you?”
Sheila frowns, “No. That was you.”
A gasp exposes the forgetful culprit, who covers her mouth quickly, “Oh my god, that was me! I'm so sorry, I thought I brought them, but–”
Sheila’s frown disappears, and she pats Trish’s hand, “Oh, it's okay, Trish. I'm sure it's not a big deal.”
Mista looks at the two girls before pouting, “Whoa. And if it was me, you'd tell me to chuck myself out of the window.”
“Yeah. I would. But it's fine, right, Fugo?”
Fugo doesn’t answer immediately. He shouldn't care about something as silly as party hats, but…they were tradition. Narancia always insisted on them.
But Narancia wasn't here.
“...It's fine.”
“Are you sure? I could run and–”
Fugo shakes his head, “No, it’s okay, Trish. Let’s take the photo.”
He smiles at her, and he hopes it’s convincing enough. He knows better than to cling to silly traditions, but he’s still sad about it.
“I can make flower crowns instead?”
Giorno looks at him with a soft smile, and Gold Experience Requiem materializes before any of them answers the question. Their eyes turn to Giorno, and they stare as if offended by his request.
“Oh, hey Gold!”
Fugo struggles to hide the shudder running down his spine. Mista and the others greet the stand casually, and perhaps they weren't used to getting bossed around by it.
“This is ridiculous.”
Their voice has no lingering emotion to it, despite the apparent offense they took to this.
The TV remote twists into a circular stem, and small leaves sprout to life, and white petals with a yellow center follow suit. The same happens with a photo frame, a glass cup, a candle, and a couch pillow.
There were five primrose crowns on the table. Gold Experience Requiem hovers and places each one of them.
This really was ridiculous. Why was a creature that was out of biblical horror participating in such a childish display?
Not that Fugo didn’t love the flower crowns. They were gorgeous. The primroses spoke what Giorno was holding back. This was a new beginning for them. It just…unease crept up his neck as the stand maintained piercing eye contact with him, as he felt the twisted stem and flowers rest against his head in a juxtaposed gentleness.
They turn to Giorno, floating to him and place the flower crown. They fix a strand of hair that loosens, “Giorno Giovanna. Don't summon me unless someone is dying.”
Gold Experience Requiem's face remains blank as they retreat into their user and vanish. Giorno doesn’t seem all too affected by that stern request, instead continuing to click something on the camera with a soft smile.
“Okay, I'm setting a 10-second timer.”
He makes one final click and hurries to the couch, sitting on it as a small series of beeps starts counting down. He sees Trish leaning her head on Sheila’s shoulder, and Mista is trying his best to keep his face from contorting in an unpleasant manner.
4…3…2…
He glances at Giorno from the corner of his eyes, trying his best not to give away the butterflies blossoming in his belly as their shoulders brush against one another.
Mista lets out a stomach-churning wet sneeze, and a blinding flash follows it, and Fugo realizes his sight was on Giorno instead of the camera. Surely it won’t be obvious. He doesn’t get to think about it too much because Mista’s whining cuts off his train of thought.
“Oh, come on!”
Mista’s requests for a redo are promptly ignored as they sit back around the table. Fugo’s hands keep touching the flower crown, feeling the petals bend under his fingertips.
Mista moves his chair a little bit too close to him all of a sudden, “Oh, who’s tugging on his ear? I call d–”
Before he could finish, Trish smacked the table with her palm, “Dibs!”
Her declaration has Mista groaning and his lips stretch into a childlike pout, “No! C'mon.”
“I could tell you were going to call dibs without waiting.” Trish gets up and stands next to Fugo. Pink strands of hair brush against his shoulders as she sticks her tongue out at the frowning gunslinger, “Suck it, Mista.”
Well. It would seem he isn’t getting a say here.
Trish's manicured fingers tug on his ear. The last person to have tugged his ear was Abbacchio on his 16th birthday.
It's horribly nostalgic. But Fugo sits through it. He looks all around him, at the smiles that adorn his friends’ faces. He wants to remain here forever, to have this moment stretched on eternally so they'd be happy like this forever.
But he can’t. So he does the next best thing. He looks all around him, staring into the crevices of each of their faces and trying his best to imprint them into his mind.
If he can’t stay here, then he'd settle for holding this in his memories and cherishing it for as long as he can.
As soon as she's done, Sheila lights the strawberry-themed candles. The number 18 stares at him as he takes this in.
18 was a very strange age to reach. It's the age where most people would consider him an adult now. But Fugo has felt like an adult for a very long time.
He was a grown person in a child's body, forced to forsake his childhood for people who didn't love him.
But here he was. 18. Among friends who treated him as the creature that he was, a human learning how to function despite all his mistakes and the wrongs done to him.
Pannacotta Fugo doesn’t quite feel like he was supposed to be here. To live this long.
He goes to blow the candle, his mind a million miles away, when a quick flash of light blinds him for a moment. It hurts his head, thankfully not as bad as it might've been a couple of weeks ago.
“Spontaneity is great for pictures. You were right, Mista.”
He sighs, and the flames on the candle waver in the air for a moment.
“Hey, aren't you going to make a wish?”
Wishes were pointless. He was even more sure of it this time around. But the child in him, the one who used to be egged on by Narancia's antics.
It's then that he realizes that the only wish that came to his mind was just as irrational as the existence of birthday wishes.
“...I wish for…I hope they're happy. Wherever they are. I hope they found peace.”
An insistent voice screams at him, telling him that none of this matters. That spirits and afterlives were a thing of fiction. That to indulge this line of thinking was preposterous.
And yet he does anyways.
There's a rush of air, and the flames cease to be.
It was a bit easier to function with a full belly. He sits at the table, now with differently sized birthday gifts.
Fugo’s hands tug at the duck wrapping, and they tear at it bit by bit. Sheila’s eyes, though bored, held a subtle level of expectation.
They were close, but they didn’t do traditional platonic gestures like this. Their friendship felt more like siblinghood. Traditional siblinghood, not whatever he grew up with.
His last birthday gift from her was an unceremonious bag of chips they'd shared. So this was a little…different.
Being under the spotlight while receiving gifts was a regular thing for Fugo when he was a child. He had to perfectly master the charade of gratitude towards gifts that were far out of the range of what he liked.
But this? He was completely lost.
It's a Lego set . Not any Lego set, it’s a Brachiosaurus.
“You never told me much about your dinosaur stuff. So…I kinda took a guess here. Hope you like it, or whatever.”
He can see the slight unease that creeps into her. Sheila was the type used to setting people straight, the type to poke and laugh, not one to sit and wait for whether some likes a thoughtful gift.
He wasn’t a child. He wasn’t a child . And yet as his hand grazes the fossil’s engraved on the top of the plastic box, he can’t help the giddiness that spreads through his belly and to the rest of his body.
“You… you got the Brachiosaurus?”
Sheila shrugs? “I guess I got a great hunch.”
She doesn’t say anything else, but it’s clear she’s hiding something. Fugo’s eyes go back to the set, his lips stretching into a wild smile that couldn’t be contained, no matter how hard he tried.
“Thank you.”
“Yeah, yeah, now how about we move on to the next one?”
Mista lets out a little snort, “Pfft, Shiela, are you embarrassed?”
Her face hardens immediately, “Voodoo Child hears everything, Mista.”
The threat reminds him of something, because Mista's smile immediately fades, and gear manifests where mockery was not even a few seconds later, “Whoa, chill! I'm just kidding. F-Fugo, let's move on!”
Okay…he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what secret was being hidden here.
Fugo reaches for the white and red striped wrapped gift next. He tears the wrapping off with ease, considering that the box was about the size of his palm. It’s crimson red with a small white bow on it. He opens it.
There are two crochet strawberry hair clips. He takes them out, and they sit on his hand for a moment as he gauges them.
Fugo wasn’t into hair accessories, but those two clips in his hands reminded him of someone who was. He remembers watching Bucciarati put his golden ones on early in the morning, sometimes even sleeping with them. He was hardly ever without them.
“Do you like…it?”
Oh. He’d been silent, mind stuck in the memories of the past, as it often was. Fugo smiles, pushing away the dull pain that came from thinking about Bucciarati, “...Yes, of course! Sorry, I absolutely love it.”
Fugo goes to put them on, and he’s sure it’s an awkward sight since he’s putting them on without looking at himself.
He freezes. There’s a hand that softly touches his hair and tilts the flower crown, pulling it back a little before moving his bangs and pinning them on each side of his face with the strawberry hairclips.
Giorno nods, “There you go.”
Fugo’s eyes are wide as Giorno moves back, entirely unaware of the intimacy that lies in his actions as his lips stretch into a thin smile. Heat rushes to his cheeks as he lets out a choked, ‘thank you’ and tries to cover it up with a pathetic cough.
His eyes don’t meet the others, far too petrified to see how they’d react to that. Touchy people weren’t foreign to him; Narancia was all for cuddles and needless physical contact. It was something Fugo grew to tolerate.
But Giorno wasn’t like that, not to his knowledge at least. He might be imagining it, but ever since that late night in the garden, there’s been an underlying tension between them. Fugo’s realization had left him an utter mess, and he started seeking greater meaning in everything Giorno did.
This time around, it wasn’t related to some unrelenting self-loathing. No, Fugo couldn’t help but think that maybe Giorno had been acting a little…strange?
It was a lot. He never felt this way about anyone before, and these newfound feelings alongside Giorno's actions had his head reeling.
He looks up just in time to see Sheila share a look with Trish and Mista. It was almost victorious in nature because Sheila was clearly biting back a laugh while the other two scowled.
They were hiding something from him.
Trish coughs before he could question it, “There was this strawberry festival near Rome. I thought you’d like these. I think they really suit you. We should go there sometime, you’d love it.”
He stammers for a moment, mind still lingering on the feeling of Giorno’s hands in his hair, “I do. Like them, that is. I’d love to go there.”
Trish smiles, seemingly satisfied with the dumb smile on his face. How could he possibly hold it back right now? All thoughts of prim and properness are long thrown out of the window.
It wasn’t like he was a child smiling for the sake of shallow adults anymore.
The next gift isn’t wrapped, and Fugo isn’t sure how he missed the pot and the flowers buried in it. It wasn’t necessarily large, but the web of small leaves and blooming purple flowers should’ve been hard to miss.
He knows what that is. He remembers pointing at it when he’d spent another night awake, this time with Giorno by his side.
“These are Milkvetchs. They can be used to treat high blood pressure.”
“What do they mean?”
“...‘Your presence softens my pain’.”
“I know you've been more interested in gardening lately. I will help you care for them.”
He stares at them, heart speeding up as he thinks about what Giorno could mean by giving him these flowers specifically. The rush of heat had barely left his cheeks before it came right back.
He stammers again , “GioGio…Thank you, I'll cherish this, um, forever.”
Sheila lets out a small breathless chuckle. Trish and Mista's faces reflect some sort of defeat that annoys Fugo to no end.
“Wh–”
‘Heyyy, it's time for my totally awesome gift!”
Mista plops the small box in front of him. Fugo looks at it with confusion written all over his face. He decides to let the matter go for now. He’s more worried that Mista looks a little…anxious?
It's a small box wrapped in strawberry-patterned paper. Fugo pulls on it gently, and what unravels is an earring box.
He opens it. His breathing hitches as the air refuses to leave his lungs for a moment.
It’s a single earring. Not just any earring, but that same crudely made orange-shaped earring that Narancia had given him. The same one that broke and infected his ear for a few days.
Mista bites his lips, and Fugo barely misses the way his thumb digs into his palm.
“I went back a while ago. The clean-up crew didn't really clean up that well. I found it. One of Giorno’s nephews, Josuke, has this stand that can repair stuff. We mailed it to him, and he fixed it right up! You still have the other one, right?”
Fugo nods. His eyes burn again, threatening to overflow with those same tears if it weren’t for the utter embarrassment that’d kill him on the spot. Fugo is not crying again. He will not do that.
“Okay, I’ll go get it quickly!”
“No, no. Mista, it’s alright. I’ll wear them later. I…”
Fugo wonders if Mista knows exactly how much this means to him. Not only did he remember such a minuscule thing, but he went out of his way to fix something precious to him. There’s so much bubbling in his chest that he fears he might just choke on the air around him.
“You shipped it to…?”
“America. He’s studying there. We met him when we went in December. It took, like, three weeks because some asshole almost misplaced it.”
Three weeks? Had he sent this to be fixed before they had even worked out their problems?
Before he could stop himself, Fugo lunges at him. He wraps his lithe arms around him and rests his head on Mista’s firm shoulder.
“Thank you.”
The taller man’s arms wrap around him and pat his back twice. Mista’s hugs still felt like home.
Fugo decided to step away for a moment. It wasn’t out of the ordinary for the others; smoking was the dirty little secret that had him sneaking out for a smoke or two every so often. Everyone would just assume it’s why he’d abruptly go stand on the balcony.
There wasn't a cigarette burning between his fingers and warming his lungs. There wasn't something to help him with all the emotions that were threatening to swallow him.
Fugo was happy. This felt like what he’d had before, what he could only dream of having again after feeling like he lost everything. But that initial high was wearing off; instead, shadow tendrils were wrapping around him, whispering tales of his deceit. That he didn’t deserve this, that perhaps this was born out of pity and not love.
Fugo wonders if he will always feel like an ill-fitting puzzle piece. If his mind will always be in a cycle of sickening hatred and overwhelming love.
The sounds coming from the inside were a little muffled, but he heard how smoothly they flowed with one another. He knows better now, he knows that each of the people in that room has their own demons at their tail.
But he can’t help but feel different. In a way that places him below them.
The balcony door opens with a small push. Fugo turns, silently wondering how he didn’t even hear the person approaching him. It was probably Giorno.
Or, he was far too lost in his head because the person standing there wasn’t Giorno but Mista. He comes towards him, glass of sparkling wine in both hands. It’s extended in his direction in a silent offer. Fugo stares at it before begrudgingly taking the thin glass.
Their glasses clash together in a gentle clink.
Fugo hates alcohol, but if he can’t have a cigarette right now, he will settle for this. He takes a small sip, and the flowery, sweet taste of it surprises him. It isn’t as bad as the ones he tried before.
“So, Wanna tell me what that was about?”
“What?”
“You crying out of nowhere?”
He holds back the immediate answers that threaten to jump off his tongue, the ‘I'm fine’ that was his constant dismissal of that question. There was no need to hide anymore. Not as much, at least.
“I didn’t lie. I was overwhelmed, but…” he pauses, a sigh leaving him before he continues, “I went to visit them.”
“Oh.”
Fugo nods, unsure how much of it he should speak of. He didn’t want to ruin the mood, “I saw this dog that looked exactly like the dog Narancia wanted us to keep years ago. It was before you joined. I don’t know, but…I guess it made me feel…weird? And I ended up going there.”
“So you thought it was a sign?”
“A sign?”
“From the universe?”
No, that was ridiculous. The universe isn’t an entity capable of speech or giving out messages. That is Fugo’s first response to that. But if that were the case, why the hell did he finally overcome his fear and push aside his own beliefs after seeing a dog?
It didn’t make sense. And Fugo leaves that question unanswered. Luckily, Mista doesn’t push him for one.
“Did it feel good?”
He thinks for a moment. It was a lot. But Fugo wouldn't consider it to have felt bad or miserable. It certainly didn't break him like he thought it would.
But it lifted a weight in him while also pressing on his insides. Coming to terms with the finality of death was hard. Horribly so. But it was necessary.
“I think so. Yeah…”
“Yeah. Well, I'm glad you feel better.”
“The tombstones were beautiful.”
There it was again, the casualness that comes with acceptance. Fugo wonders how inappropriate it is for him to speak of it this way, not to crumble into tears and wails at the mention of the dead.
Mista smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Mhm. It was GioGio's doing. He hired the best masons in Napoli.”
There’s another pause. The wine had an acidic touch to it. He continues to sip it, and the crickets around them seem to provide an ample background noise.
“Thanks, by the way. For looking out for GioGio that day.”
Fugo pauses mid-sip, eyes turning away from the distant trees and onto Mista's relaxed face.
“Oh. He told you?”
“Not everything. Just that you helped him when he wasn’t feeling good. His mom is a total bitch, I didn’t think he’d ever call her.”
It made sense that Mista would know more of Giorno’s history compared to Fugo. The two were joined at the hip. It truly put into perspective just how badly Giorno felt the need to keep all of that in him until it couldn’t be hidden anymore, if even Mista wasn’t privy to it.
“Yeah.”
“He wouldn’t tell me about it before when it was bugging him, but I'm glad that he at least came to you .”
The end of his sentence is stretched for a second too long. It’s almost…sly?
“Of…Of course.”
Mista was being weird. Now that he thinks about it, when Giorno was doing that , all three of them had shared a strange look. It was as if they had a telepathic conversation that Fugo wasn’t in on.
“Mista, back when GioGio was fixing my…hair. You all looked a little weird. What was that about?”
“Oh, pish posh.”
Mista wasn’t always a bad liar. But that was far too easy to see through.
Fugo’s brows raise in suspicion, and he tilts his head at him, “Did you just say pish posh? Mista, what are you hiding?”
Mista’s lips purse, and their little staredown goes for half a minute before he throws his hands in the air, “Okay, fine. We had a little bet going on.”
“What kind of bet?”
“Well. We kind of bet on whether you and Giorno had a thing for each other.”
His arms fold in front of his chest, mouth falling open in full offense, “You guys bet on us?”
“Not exactly…Sheila said you totally had a thing for GioGio… Trish and I thought you did not. We lost.”
“Excuse me? How would you even know–
“Did you look at you two….? That was enough of an answer.”
His brain crashes. No, no–Mista was wrong. Even if Fugo had complicated feelings for Giorno, there was no way it was reciprocated. His brain denies it, despite the lingering looks, despite the flowers, despite everything that lay unspoken between them.
“GioGio isn’t–I’m not–”
“Listen, dude. It’s not like I’m gonna judge you. I’ll have you know plenty of guys got to ride the VIP section of the Mista express, if you know what I mean. Choo choo.”
Mista wiggles his eyebrows and winks. Fugo swears the cake he ate might just come right back up. His lips twist into a deep frown as he turns away from the railing.
“Ughhh, absolutely not. Just stop talking.”
A hearty laugh escapes Mista, who doesn’t let Fugo escape. He grabs onto his arm, stopping him before he could reach the door.
“Hey, are you disgusted by my sexual history? I’ll have you know that’s really outdated, man.”
Another disgusted ‘ugh!’ leaves Fugo, and he tries to dislodge his arm from Mista’s grip, but he fails to take into consideration just how much the man’s been working out lately.
“Hey, hey. I’m kidding. Just listen, okay? He’s clearly into you. He’s clearly been into you. And you’ve clearly been into him.”
There’s an earnestness in his eyes, one that Fugo struggles to ignore for the sake of his own sanity. He must be lying to him. Or maybe he’s just misunderstood Giorno. That’d make more sense.
Giorno would never want someone like him. And frankly, he shouldn’t. He deserves so much better than someone whose headspace could switch with the snap of a finger.
“Let’s just…drop it, okay?”
Mista looks at him for a few moments before finally letting him go.
“Fine…We’re going to La Trattoria. Remember that place?”
The mention of the name alone sends his stomach into a frenzy. He groans, “How can I forget? Ugh, I never consumed that much cheese in my life. I was sick for days.”
“Yeah, well, be prepared to be sick again.”
He hadn’t thought about that place in a while now. Not since he remembered his conversation with Giorno on New Year’s Eve.
That was only a little over a month ago. So much has happened since then. Unlike back then, the idea of going there doesn’t scare him nearly as much.
“Alright, I'll go change and take a quick shower. That T. rex costume got me all sweaty and stuff…Trish won’t let me hear the end of it if I don’t freshen up before we go.”
Mista passes him and walks towards the door. He turns to him, tanned skin half hidden by the shadows of the dark balcony and half illuminated by the golden light bulbs surrounding the balcony door.
“You’re not coming?”
Fugo looks down at the drink in his hand, and the glass is somehow still half full.
“No, I’ll go get ready in a bit.”
Mista nods, walking through the door and out of Fugo’s view.
There isn’t a moment of peace as he hears two people speaking on the other side of the door. It's hard to make out what they're saying exactly, but he can hear a small groan followed by a chuckle.
The door is pushed open, and it’s Trish this time.
“Oh. Hey.”
She finds her way next to him on the balcony railing, quickly pulling something out of her pockets.
A cigarette pack. She opens it and leans towards him. He remembers the ones he threw away only a couple of hours ago. Not much time has passed.
But knowing he can’t have it? That drove him mad. He shakes his head and gulps down the rest of his wine.
Trish's hand retreats in confusion, “What? You don't want one?”
“I’m gonna try to quit.”
“Oh,” She scrunches her brows, “cold turkey?”
He nods. It’s ridiculous for him to have had a sudden, intense want to quit something he did for a good while now. But all the intensity brought about by his visit to the graveyard pushed something in him.
It's an impulsive choice. He's aware of that.
“Good luck with that. It's horrible.”
“You tried to before?”
She nods, “Yeah. Worst fucking 3 days of my life. I was so pissed the whole time. Could barely sleep. I wasn’t stubborn enough to continue with it. So, I gave up.”
Fugo hums. That wasn't the encouragement he was maybe hoping for.
“But, everyone's different. I heard if you make it through the first week, it's much easier later on.”
Trish puts the pack back in her pocket, “Well, I guess I'm gonna go smoke somewhere else.”
“Sorry about that…”
Trish shakes her head, “Nah, it's fine. It's good that you're trying to quit.”
Her heels echo as she walks back to the door. She stops for a moment and turns to Fugo with a smile wide enough for her cheeks to hollow a little and show her dimples, “By the way, those hair clips look really cute on you.”
Fugo's cheeks redden as the door shuts, and his hands run over the textured crochet strawberries clinging to his hair.
There were too many compliments for one day.
Perhaps Fugo's wardrobe isn't as extensive as he'd imagined it to be. He's not one to lavishly dress up, and while Sheila had brought over a decent amount of clothes from his apartment, there wasn't much…variety.
Purple haze squats on the bed. He points at the orange suit, and Fugo hums. The stand gurgles in a way that only he is able to understand.
“Orange suit for the orange earrings? But isn't that too orange?”
Another gurgle. This time, he points at the purple one.
“Purple Haze. We can't match. I'm not bringing you out in a packed restaurant.”
The next gurgle turns into a string of choked whines. Fugo scoffs. He doesn’t understand why Purple Haze has been acting more and more like a spoiled cat.
He could go with the usual red suit, but there were still some stains on it from his visit to the graveyard a few hours ago.
There’s a small knock on his door. He knows who’s on the other side all too well. His mind, lost in the three different hole-filled suits, absentmindedly calls out, “Come in!”
The door opens gently, and Giorno enters, “Fugo, you forgot the earring–oh.”
Giorno stops mid-sentence, eyes wandering to his squatting stand and the far too similar suits lying on his bed. Fugo skips to him in embarrassment, taking the small box from Giorno.
“Thank you. Uhm…I’m just trying to pick something here.”
Purple Haze, much to Fugo's horror, becomes far too giddy under Giorno's gaze. He melts like a candle, and if he had a tail right now, it would be wagging all over the place.
The boy smiles at the stand, and Fugo dismisses him immediately in a last-ditch effort to save himself from any possible humiliation.
…Was that a small frown adorning Giorno's lips at Purple Haze's disappearance? Fugo doesn’t get to linger on it too much because Giorno moves closer to the bed, eyeing each of the three suits lying on his bed.
“What about the green one?”
“I mean, I guess I could go with it.”
He reaches for it immediately, as if Giorno’s suggestion were law. He lifts it off the bed, ready to change in his bathroom, when a hand touches his, stopping him.
“I was only suggesting it, Fugo. Do you want to wear the green one?”
He scratches his neck. No, now that he thought about it, he didn’t want to wear green. That shade wouldn’t go well with the hairclips Trish got him.
Fugo was far too used to the distance between them, which was a product of their positions in the organization and the pedestal he had spent so long putting Giorno on.
That had made it all too easy to find himself wrapped around Giorno's finger.
Old habits die hard.
“No… I guess not.”
Giorno hums, “Or maybe you can borrow my clothes? If you’d like.”
“You’re way…taller than me.”
Taller. Leaner. He was no longer the scrawny kid who was a bit shorter than Fugo, having eclipsed him the moment puberty hit Giorno. The idea of wearing his clothes brings a certain warmth to his cheeks.
“But–”
Giorno’s rebuttal is interrupted by the door opening. Mista peeks his head in, damp curls dripping all over Fugo’s floor.
“Panna, did you see my hat? Oh, hey GioGio.”
There it is again. That tone. That no good tone. Fugo doesn’t miss the way Mista’s lips turn upwards in a fox-like smirk once he notices Giorno’s presence. He opens the door fully.
“Why would I see it? W–what the hell, Mista? Go get dressed!”
Fugo hadn’t expected to be greeted by Mista’s half-naked body, still wet from his shower, and only barely covered by a towel that seemed hanging on for dear life.
Mista gasps and folds his arms in front of his chest, “Are you slut shaming me?”
“Yes! Go get dressed.”
“Excuse me! I worked very hard for this body, so you can keep your puritan backwards mentality to yourself. And! You know I put on my hat first before anything else, so…”
“Mista,” Giorno’s quiet voice shoots out before Fugo could yell all the profanities he knew, “You left it on the dining table.”
“Thanks!”
And just like that, Mista leaves a small puddle behind and closes the door. Fugo takes in a deep breath and exhales it. It’s silent for a moment, save for the cricket’s chirping outside of his closed window.
“I'll just…I'm going with the orange one.”
Giorno blinks at him as he goes on to pick it off the bed, “Oh, okay. I will le–”
“No! I mean,” he stutters, “It's okay. I'll just change quickly in the bathroom.”
Greedy. Fugo was so goddamn greedy. He knows Giorno can't possibly reciprocate his feelings, and yet he craves every moment they spend with one another all the same.
Giorno lets out a soft “Okay.”
Fugo's in and out of the bathroom in no time. And what he comes back to is Giorno looking at the milkvetch he gifted to him.
He lets out a small cough, “Thank you again, GioGio. They're beautiful.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
It's said with earnestness and accompanied by a relaxed smile. Fugo suppresses his umpteenth blush for the night and goes to his bedside table.
The other earring is still in the drawer. He hurriedly takes it and goes to his dresser. The pair is reunited, and Fugo wastes no time pushing the hook through his ear.
This felt right.
He picks up the brush and runs it through his hair. It gets stuck in it a couple of times, but it's nothing compared to his first hair brushing after getting rescued.
He starts braiding it. The blonde’s eyes follow him, eyes fixated on each movement his body exhibits while he twists each section of his ashen hair.
“Everyone calls you that.”
Fugo slows down, holding his hair in place as he looks at Giorno’s reflection in the mirror.
“Call me what?”
“Panna.”
His heart skips a beat, and Fugo is ashamed to admit just how much hearing his nickname from Giorno’s honeylike voice affects him.
He stumbles through his braid, having one part stick out in a small, loose arch. Giorno moves closer to him, “Do you want me to help you?”
Fugo's throat dries up. Giorno doesn’t touch him just yet, patiently waiting for his permission. He wasn’t an incompetent child; he could do a simple braid. That–he simply stumbled with his hands. For no reason. He didn’t need Giorno doing this for him.
But greed ran rampant in his heart. How could he not give in to temptation when it was offered to him on a silver platter?
A small nod is his answer. He hates how tame he looks; a shrewd cat who's learned not to bear his claws in the face of tenderness. Giorno wastes no time, undoing his sad excuse of a braid and reaching for the hairbrush.
“Is it okay if I do too?”
“Hm?”
“Can I call you Panna?”
Shit. He doesn’t know how to respond. It's an unspoken tradition. When Fugo gets close to people, they just start calling him Panna for some reason. Bucciarati started it, and it just stuck around.
“...Of course. If that's what you want.”
“Hmm. Panna. Your hair has gotten pretty long.”
Shit. There it was again. A tinge of affection lingers in the way he speaks his name, and Fugo is all but ready to curl up and yell into his pillow.
He hates the ease with which his skin flushes. Because he knows Giorno's hands in his hair, and the physical closeness between them has him looking like a tomato.
Giorno braids his hair with ease. His hand extends past him to grab a hair tie on the dresser. He ties his hair and places something in it.
It's almost absentminded; the way his hand puts a four-leaf into the middle of his braid as if it were a totally normal thing to do.
“It's for good luck.”
Okay. If Fugo was a tomato before, then he was the human manifestation of the color red itself now.
Four-leaf clovers are heavily associated with good luck. But there's another meaning to it, one he'd read over only a few days ago.
Be Mine.
No. No, that–that made no sense. Giorno's looking at him with those same relaxed eyes; this couldn’t be a declaration of anything.
It was just for good luck. Nothing more. It couldn’t mean anything more.
He coughs, “Won't Mista freak out?”
Giorno shrugs and steps back, “It's your birthday, he’ll just have to put up with it.”
It's quiet for all of half a minute before Giorno's phone rings. The moment the phone is in his hands and his eyes fall to the screen, all colors are drained from his face.
“GioGio?”
Giorno blinks at his phone, then at Fugo, “It's…it's my mother.”
They stare at one another as Giorno searches his face for what he should do. The phone keeps ringing.
She sounded like a horrible person. But could Giorno use this opportunity to scream and yell until she's the one sobbing like a scared child? It’s what Fugo used to fantasize about before. Of giving all the hurt done to him back to his parents, of destroying them as they had enabled his own destruction.
But Giorno wasn’t him.. He could tell from the distress in his features that this wasn’t something Giorno could do just yet. Or a thing he wanted to do at all. So if confrontation was off the table…
Fugo shakes his head slowly.
Giorno's eyes leave him and go back to his phone. His thumb hovers over the decline button, but he looks at Fugo one more time.
Fugo nods. If all she’d offer Giorno was torment, then why bother giving her the chance to destroy what Giorno had built for himself?
Giorno clicks.
The ringing stops, and it’s silent for a moment as Giorno’s tense shoulders start to relax. Fugo gets closer to him, hand itching to hold his in a comforting gesture, but he refrains.
“...Are you okay?”
The blonde’s eyes are a little wide, but otherwise, he just looks concernedly out of it as he continues to stare at the missed call on his screen.
“Huh? Yes,” his voice falters, “yes, thank you, Panna. I don’t think she would've had anything good to say.”
Panna . Panna. This was not the time for the butterflies in his belly to implode. Giorno smiles at him, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He was never the type to give toothy grins or wide smiles. But Fugo could see that there was some pain hidden behind it.
“Okay. I'll go check if everyone's ready to go.”
Giorno steps away and heads for the door. “Tell me if you need anything. I–we'll be waiting for you.”
“Okay…but you’re sure you're fine? We don't have to go–”
“No! Panna, we're going. I will be fine. I promise. Being with you helps.”
His eyes turn to the violet milkvetches in the corner of the room without a second thought.
‘Your presence softens my pain.’
Fugo blinks at him, but he eventually nods. Giorno gives him one final look and leaves.
Cool. Cool. This was fine. He…he’s reading too much into this. That was it. He should just focus on finishing getting ready.
He turns back to the mirror. It’s quiet now, and he finds himself left with nothing but his reflection staring back at him.
Fugo isn’t sure how long it’s been since he looked into the mirror and truly saw himself. He’d wash his face in front of the mirror, sure. But he didn’t look, truly.
Fugo remembers covering his mirrors when he was thirteen. He didn’t want to look at his body; it was the thing that was broken, the thing that had been scorched for eternity by that man's depravity.
It was an ugly thing that his brain happened to be in. Nothing more. Only after Bucciarati had slowly gotten him used to it that he’d seen himself grow taller, leaner each year.
He’s as tall as Bucciarati was. And yet all he sees in that reflection is himself.
The revulsion he used to feel isn’t as strong and is motivated mostly by something else now. His scars look hideous to him. They always did. Flesh that was thinner than the area surrounding it, lighter in color, and stretching over his mouth and cheeks like some drunkard’s sloppy brush strokes. There was no beauty to be found in them, not to him, anyway.
But…that was him in the mirror. For the first time in a while, Fugo can at least attest to that. Despite everything he’s gone through, he’s finally able to look at himself and see that there wasn’t some foreign creature staring back at him.
It was still his ugliness and all.
He goes to put on the hairclips as Giorno had, pinning his bangs to each side of his face. But he stops and lets his bangs be, placing the hairclips higher instead.
As Bucciarati used to.
It’s only now that Fugo realizes that grief was another form of love. It’s the love that stays when someone is no longer here. For the longest time, Fugo didn’t know what to do with that love.
His thoughts are interrupted as Trish knocks on his door and yells with her chirpy voice, “C'mon, Fugo, we gotta go!”
Right. This wasn’t the time to contemplate. Fugo steps away and towards the door, but he’s stopped by a breeze that brushes against the back of his neck and sways his braid slightly.
He turns back, eyes wandering to his window. Strange. He doesn’t remember leaving it open.
Fugo walks towards it, and to his surprise, a little white dove is resting on the window’s ledge. It coos and tilts its head at him, staring with its bright crimson eyes. There’s an olive branch in its mouth that it puts in front of him.
It just had to get a little stranger, didn’t it?
“...Thanks?”
Why was he talking to a bird? Perhaps that concussion has altered his brain, because Fugo’s been nothing but uncharacteristically ridiculous today. The bird’s eyes are intense, and Fugo can’t help but remember that Biscotti look-alike and the stare it had given him.
Though this time, looking at this dove doesn’t give him courage. It only gives him peace.
He picks that olive branch and inspects it. It wasn’t some dried-up piece of wood, no, it was freshly plucked. He could swear that there weren’t any olive trees in Giorno’s garden.
Before he could continue this one-sided conversation, Sheila opened the door to his room, and Fugo turned to her, “Hello? What are you doing? Let’s go already!”
“Oh, I was just–”
He turns, ready to show her the strange dove, but in its place is…nothing? He looks left and right, confused as it how it disappears with silent flaps of wings.
Sheila comes near him and looks around with him, “What?”
The olive branch brushes against his palm as he blinks, utterly confused as to what just happened.
“It’s nothing. Let’s go.”
The window gets shut, and he places that small branch in his pocket. He then joins Sheila on her way out. As they descend the stairs, he hears Trish and Mista bickering about something at the bottom, and he looks down through the hole between the stairs.
It’s here, where his crimson eyes meet Giorno’s jade ones, and they share a tender smile, with Sheila joining in on their argument before she even leaves the stairs. It’s here that Fugo realizes it.
He’s home again.
Notes:
"After forty days, Noah opened a window he had made in the ark and sent out a raven, and it kept flying back and forth until the water had dried up from the earth. Then he sent out a dove to see if the water had receded from the surface of the ground. But the dove could find nowhere to perch because there was water over all the surface of the earth; so it returned to Noah in the ark. He reached out his hand and took the dove, and brought it back to himself in the ark. He waited seven more days and again sent out the dove from the ark. When the dove returned to him in the evening, there in its beak was a freshly plucked olive leaf! Then Noah knew that the water had receded from the earth. He waited seven more days and sent the dove out again, but this time it did not return to him."
Writing this as an atheist who's struggled with grief was something lol I started working on this in January! It's finally finished. I'm a little emotional right now. But! There will be follow-up one-shots eventually, especially with Fugio, my beloveds :D
I'm so grateful to everyone who's helped me write this and everyone who read it <333 I hope you enjoyed it ♡
meatpawer on Chapter 1 Thu 03 Jul 2025 09:25AM UTC
Last Edited Thu 03 Jul 2025 09:26AM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 1 Thu 03 Jul 2025 09:59AM UTC
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Vibin_Sponge0212 on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Jul 2025 06:10AM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 1 Fri 04 Jul 2025 01:03PM UTC
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Jimbee on Chapter 1 Sun 06 Jul 2025 08:58PM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 1 Sun 06 Jul 2025 09:59PM UTC
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Kombucha (Guest) on Chapter 1 Fri 18 Jul 2025 12:26PM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 1 Fri 18 Jul 2025 02:47PM UTC
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Banana (Guest) on Chapter 1 Sat 09 Aug 2025 09:39PM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 1 Sun 10 Aug 2025 06:33AM UTC
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Vanistar on Chapter 1 Wed 13 Aug 2025 02:04AM UTC
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Vibin_Sponge0212 on Chapter 2 Thu 10 Jul 2025 05:13PM UTC
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A_negative on Chapter 2 Sun 13 Jul 2025 10:22PM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 2 Mon 14 Jul 2025 11:15AM UTC
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beanfriend on Chapter 2 Thu 17 Jul 2025 09:34PM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 2 Thu 17 Jul 2025 09:41PM UTC
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beanfriend on Chapter 3 Thu 17 Jul 2025 10:03PM UTC
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heoni (heoni8317) on Chapter 3 Fri 18 Jul 2025 03:16AM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 3 Fri 18 Jul 2025 02:40PM UTC
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Vibin_Sponge0212 on Chapter 3 Fri 18 Jul 2025 08:36PM UTC
Last Edited Fri 18 Jul 2025 08:37PM UTC
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Amarisyl on Chapter 3 Sun 20 Jul 2025 05:14PM UTC
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