Chapter Text
It was late— very late. Giorno smiled to himself pleasantly, running a hand through Fugo’s hair. The two of them lay on Giorno’s bed, cuddled up as usual. Mista and Narancia had fallen asleep on the couch, and after the movie ended, Fugo had woken Giorno up and dragged him to his room.
“Giogio,” he had said sternly. “Come on. You know you need it, I can tell.” He rolled his sleeve back, holding his exposed arm out to Giorno.
Giorno had stared at it, frozen. He hated the lack of control he had over this sort of thing. He hated how exhausted he got, how clingy… But he also loved the excuse it provided to spend time with Fugo. So, it was a win-lose. He just gazed at the boy’s arm wordlessly, eyes trained on the blue-green veins visible under his pale, pale skin. Then he lunged.
Now, about an hour later, Fugo lay on Giorno’s stomach, head pillowed on his chest, dozing quietly. Every breath ruffled the loose curls that fell around Giorno’s face, but he didn’t particularly mind. He was comfortable like this, listening to the sound of Fugo’s gentle breathing, pleased by the softness and warmth of his skin. Besides, he couldn’t blame the boy for being sleepy— that could only be expected after a feeding. Giorno himself was feeling drowsy, but not out of exhaustion or blood loss; rather, he was full and comfortable. As one should be after a good meal.
He loved Fugo, he really did. He loved the way it felt to hold him in his arms, to stroke his hair, to be touched by him when he, rarely, initiated. Giorno felt nothing short of adoration for the boy, who didn’t at all fear him for his heritage. Instead, Fugo held him as he sank his fangs in, grunting in pain, and willingly gave his blood for Giorno’s wellbeing. He… understood, in a way. He, Giorno thought, understood sacrifice more than anyone else. Fugo even went as far as to lie for him to his best friends, since he knew Giorno’s vampirism was not something to be taken lightly. While it was painful, it was necessary. It would be too risky if word spread— and it would spread if Mista and Narancia knew.
Carding his fingers through Fugo’s hair, Giorno pushed the thoughts away and smiled. He took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh scent of strawberry shampoo. After a feeding, Fugo always insisted on a quick shower, claiming that it made him feel more like himself. While Giorno didn’t fully understand, he did understand the need to cleanse himself— he still felt horribly guilty each time he saw the agony on Fugo’s face, though his blood was so, so sweet. Giorno saw his own cleansing ritual to be treating Fugo’s bite wound and making the boy as comfortable as possible while he rested. He knew he couldn’t soothe his own soul, anyway.
Contrary to what Mista and Narancia had apparently discovered, Giorno was not a vampire— well, not entirely. Judging from what the Speedwagon Foundation had told him, he was half vampire, since his father, Dio, was a vampire, but his mother was a human. At the time, they hadn’t been entirely certain of whether those vampiric genes would be transmitted to Giorno, since he had no notable traces. Yet, nearly a year after he had first met them, it was obvious that he had inherited some sort of vampirism— but nowhere near enough to be considered a real vampire. He could go out in the sun, for example, and his skin was only slightly sensitive— compared to Fugo, he didn’t burn at all.
Fugo had been the first (and only) person to figure it out. While he had been doubtful of the idea of vampires, he had eventually confronted Giorno, claiming he knew something was up. And, well, Giorno had quickly learned that his vampiric bloodlust was not something that could be suppressed, no matter how strong his will may be. Fugo had gotten up in his face during their meeting, and Giorno’s fangs sunk into his pretty, pale neck in an instant.
To this day, Fugo still wore that scar on his neck. He usually hid it with his tie, but when he didn’t, Giorno felt physically nauseous, even if it was almost invisible. He hadn’t merely hurt Fugo; he nearly killed him. And he had no control over the fact, either, as his starved instincts had taken control. He still remembered the sweet, metallic taste of Fugo’s blood. When he had finally come to his senses, the boy was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. Without Gold Experience and Giorno’s own knowledge and experience with medicine (something he had taught himself once he realized the true capabilities of his Stand’s power), Fugo would have been dead. Giorno would have killed him.
That experience still shook him to the core. Fugo tried to put on a brave face when it was brought up, or when Giorno stared at the scar, but Giorno could tell he was just as shaken. He stayed away for a couple weeks, avoiding Giorno, and Giorno did the same until the craving for blood returned. He had tried to satisfy it other ways— creating blood with Gold Experience, consuming animal blood— but it just wasn’t the same. He needed fresh human blood, and Fugo was the only one that knew, and… Well, Fugo was the one he trusted above all. So Giorno had sought him out and asked for more blood, as awkward and uncomfortable and terrifying as it was. Fugo agreed, after some careful preparation prioritizing his safety, and the rest was history.
They were dating now. It might have been a result of some sort of vampiric charm Giorno unknowingly wielded, but he had seen the way Fugo looked at him before then. He remembered Pompeii, curing himself of Purple Haze’s virus, and the way Fugo’s eyes sparkled and his cheeks flushed. And then, after that, how he treated Giorno as an equal— he was the first of the gang, excluding Buccellati, to do so. During those three days before Fugo left, Giorno liked to think that they had something. And then, when Fugo returned, he made this habit of kneeling to kiss Giorno’s hand, and the little darlings and dears that spilled from Giorno’s lips became commonplace.
Giorno kissed him for the first time while they watched the sunrise. They had grown close, closer than Giorno had ever been with anyone, and… Well, the bloodsucking was the least of their worries, considering they ran the largest and most powerful crime syndicate in the country. He loved Fugo, and Fugo loved him, and they trusted each other: that was enough for them.
“Oh, Pannacotta,” he breathed. He, unlike the boy himself, liked Fugo’s first name. Pudding— panna cotta in particular— was one of his favorite foods, after all. It was so sweet, like Fugo himself. He thought that the name suited the boy, though Fugo didn’t seem to think so. And yet, over time, Fugo had stopped complaining. When Giorno knocked on the door of his office, calling his name, and was let into the room, Fugo beamed. When Giorno woke up and whispered, “Good morning, Pannacotta,” the boy, who had already been awake, kissed his cheek.
There was just something about Fugo… Giorno wasn’t quite sure what it was. He could gush about the boy for days, but he only ever had to Trish and, once, Buccellati— he didn’t trust Mista to not make fun of him and tell everyone. While Trish could be ruthless, Giorno could always bring up her relationship with Sheila, and the hours she’d spent obsessing over the girl (who was, after all, Giorno’s bodyguard); Buccellati was usually kinder, but he was also unpredictable, so Giorno only spoke to him about Fugo once: before their relationship, when he was looking for advice from the person who knew Fugo best.
Thinking of that made him smile. He remembered the early days with the gang. Fugo had returned to him— them— nearly six months after he had left. The new Fugo was taller and leaner, his shoulders broader, his eyes darker. And yet, when he saw Narancia for the first time, he broke into tears as easily as any man. At the time, Giorno could do nothing but stare. While he had spent months searching for Fugo, he had somehow never expected to see the day that the boy returned. All the memory he had of Fugo was gleaming red eyes, trembling hands, a snarl contorting handsome features. He still matched that image, but something was different.
The new Fugo spent his time painting. He still studied, he still read, and he continued to play piano (after Giorno bought him one as a birthday gift, of course), but what stuck out was painting. Watercolor, to be specific. He claimed he preferred the medium because it was the cleanest, which Giorno understood: Fugo had some sort of obsession with cleanliness, and while Giorno didn’t know why, he could tell it wasn’t completely healthy. But painting… painting was healthy. To Giorno, painting was a sign of Fugo healing. Water staining his hands was better than blood.
Not to say there wasn’t blood involved, namely when Narancia got into his art supplies and old paintings and, apparently, found one that looked like Giorno— Narancia always was best at annoying Fugo, whether he meant to or not. At the time, a blush crept up Giorno’s cheeks when he heard, though he fought to restrain it. He was flattered, frankly. He never got to see the painting, but he had considered asking Fugo to paint him again— this time, with Giorno himself to model. Really, Giorno would not mind being his muse. It would be wonderful to feel those eyes on him, studying him, committing him to memory…
Similarly to what Giorno was doing now, gazing at Fugo’s pretty face. He looked so peaceful in sleep: no scowl contorting his features, no furrowed brows, no wrinkled nose— although, it was cute when he wrinkled his nose. Like he had eaten something sour, but he was really just annoyed. Giorno ran his thumb along the sharp bone of Fugo’s cheek. His face was gaunt, though nowhere near as bad as it once was: he no longer looked half starved, instead just naturally thin. Genetics, probably. Like how his skin was so, so pale, almost translucent, and his lashes were white as snow, brows light enough to almost disappear into his skin. That was his albinism.
He was so beautiful. Giorno whined softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead. That was his favorite place to kiss Fugo, he thought: right above that beautiful, beautiful brain. Because Fugo was a genius, despite what he said. He was funny like that: he refused to call himself a genius or prodigy, and often seemed insecure, yet remained slightly arrogant. Not arrogant enough to be annoying, but enough to be charming. Like a little reminder that, despite his genius, he was not perfect. That he was flawed.
Giorno loved his flaws. He also knew, too well, what it was like to be seen as perfect— they just went about it differently. Fugo despised his past attempts at perfection, though he remained a bit of a perfectionist; he would cut holes in his clothes to be imperfect, then wear a neatly pressed, flawless tie and expensive dress shoes. He was a contradiction. Giorno, on the other hand, spent an hour meticulously styling his hair every morning; he ironed his pristine tailored suits, carefully applied makeup and perfume, and tried to be beautiful. He liked to be beautiful, to be perfect. To be someone he aspired to be, to dream that, one day, he could be that person, and each day he got closer and closer. He aspired to be perfect in his own way.
On this day, he peppered kisses to his boyfriend’s bandaged forearm, where the bite wound was steadily healing, thanks to Gold Experience. The forearm was practical for them. Any major arteries weren’t an option, since that would be too dangerous, and they also couldn’t choose a place that would be easily seen. Fugo almost always wore long sleeves, though, and nobody would look at the forearm for injuries; it was easy to bandage if necessary, easy to bite, and not incredibly painful compared to other places. Perfect.
Fugo shifted in his sleep, settling closer to Giorno than before, his forehead resting against Giorno’s neck. Giorno smiled, gently rubbing the injured area of his arm. The boy relaxed slightly, letting out a soft sigh of relief, and Giorno’s heart squeezed with affection. He kissed the bandaged puncture wound again, delicately.
“I love you,” he breathed, for no reason other than being so overwhelmed with warmth and fondness. “I love you so much, Panna. Truly. Thank you.”
The boy didn’t respond, and Giorno felt his eyelids grow heavy with exhaustion. He was full, and could probably go a few weeks without feeding for now, a month if he stretched it. The next few days he would be drowsy and content. So he gave into the warmth coiling in his chest, pressing his face into Fugo’s soft hair and closing his eyes, a smile still lingering on his lips.