Chapter Text
From the moment Bruno Buccellati meets Pannacotta Fugo, it is apparent that they are very different.
"Don't know why you'd want that one," says the guard on the way to Fugo's cell. "He's a vicious kid. Bit two of our officers trying to get him in."
Bruno doesn't really feel like 'vicious' and 'kid' are mutually inclusive terms. He's met kids who are hurt, kids who are scared, kids who don't know any better - but he doesn't think he's ever met a truly malicious child.
In Pannacotta Fugo, he sees a scared child. Like a wild animal, the officer had said, but Fugo watches Bruno approach with something more like caged-animal eyes, the look of someone ready to lash out if only to save their own skin.
Fugo is a scared child with no one and no home, and from the moment Bruno sees him he knows he can't leave him that way. He clothes it in a clipped, professional tone and an air of disinterest, because he’s still a gangster and it’s important he make his first impression reflective of that, but Fugo doesn’t flinch. Just watches him with those intense, animalistic eyes, and accepts it without a second thought when Bruno tells him that there’s no place left for him anywhere but in Passione.
It’s only somewhat of a lie, a script given to him by Polpo. Make them desperate, make them think their only option is to join Passione, because they’re no longer a part of the “normal” world. It’s not untrue that Fugo would go through the rest of his life marred by this - with no family to support him and the dark mark this has left on his criminal record, it would be difficult for him to get back into anything approximating normalcy. Fourteen and his life is already irreversibly changed by violence, unable to ever be what it used to. It’s a harsh truth, one Bruno’s found himself unwillingly getting used to, ever since he himself killed two men at twelve years old.
He does wish it wouldn’t lead to this, though. He holds Fugo’s hand as he pays the bail, playing at being his guardian instead of simply an interested party, and feels how the kid clings to him, and it makes him ache somewhere deep inside.
***
Fugo is very different.
Fugo's emotions explode out of him. His way of dealing with things is practically the opposite of Bruno’s - Bruno takes his emotions and seals them up neatly, like he can zip up all his conflict into a little box and only let it out when he’s sure he’s alone.
Fugo, however, doesn’t seem to care where they are, or when he explodes. In a restaurant, someone will scratch their fork on their plate just a little too loud, and instantly he’s leaping up to slam his hands on the table and yell. On a mission, an enemy taunts them, and he becomes a volcano of anger and threats, the only thing holding him back the fear of his own soul manifest.
He hates it, Fugo says one night after they've finished a particularly messy mission, memories of Purple Haze's victim's gurgling shrieks still rebounding in both their minds. He hates getting angry and being unable to control himself. He feels like a wild animal, feels something no words can express, and all he can do is curse and flail like a goddamn child. He's tried talking about his feelings, or reasoning about them, but it doesn't work. His energy doesn't translate into reason, just into more physical energy and he ends up slamming his feet on the floor and spitting curses and flailing his arms around and boiling with the energy he can't hold into himself.
"'Just calm down.’ Mom always said.” says Fugo, looking bitter. "Yeah, thanks, I would love to, but just asking me to doesn’t help anything! ‘You’re being unreasonable.’ Anger doesn’t listen to reason!"
Bruno considers this a long moment. "How can I help, then?"
Fugo looks surprised, like he's never had a hand extended like this, like no one has been willing to compromise. It never fails to make something inside Bruno ache, the reminder how few people have been willing to give Fugo a chance. "How can you help...?" He repeats slowly, brow furrowed.
"How can you tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it? Your anger doesn’t come from nowhere, I’ve noticed. There’s always a source."
Fugo looks like a whole new world has been opened up in front of him. It's kinda funny - for a child so smart, he can be remarkably single-minded at times. His facial expression shifts several times before he finds words. “Um. I mean, yeah, there’s usually something that sets me off. I guess I could try to explain what it is. Don’t expect anything great though. I’m not very... coherent when I get like that.” His face twists into a scowl, and Bruno can’t help but think about the incoherent groans Purple Haze makes.
He tries to smile encouragingly. “Anything you can do helps. We’re a team. We’re meant to help each other.”
Fugo’s eyes flick up to him, and in them Bruno sees what he’s always seen in Fugo - a spark, not just of anger but passion, intelligence. He’s truly a brilliant kid, and if Bruno can give him some hope, some chance to express that, he’d feel pretty damn accomplished. A little smile tugs on the edge of Fugo’s mouth, and he huffs out a breath, kicking at the asphalt below them absently. “Yeah. I know.”
The words don’t matter as much as the way Fugo scoots a little bit closer where they’re sitting on the curb, leaning a bony shoulder into Bruno’s side.
As much as he maybe should, Bruno finds he doesn’t mind the touch at all.
***
Fugo grows his hair long and shaggy, like he says he was never allowed to do at his house. His first purchase with gang money is a ratty old boom box, through which he plays loud music, screaming blaring things that he screams along to with the crackly teenage voice he's still getting used to. He’s changed from the cornered animal of a child he was when Bruno first met him - there’s no less of the spark in him, but he vents it in different ways. Punches pillows instead of walls, bites his nails instead of other people.
Most importantly, he’s gotten better at communication. While his general form of speech is polite and clipped, clearly learned from polite society and classrooms, he tends to be blunt and expect to get what he wants. It’s likely a leftover from a rich upbringing, but it’s been ebbing over time. Fugo still sits perfectly straight in his seat at the dinner table, but he allows himself to spread out more on the couch, let his posture relax just a bit. When he wants something, he spends less time staring at Bruno and hoping he’ll understand and instead asks for it directly, though it’s still a bit stilted.
He’s clearly trying to follow Bruno’s advice - though his outbursts are still often and violent, he’s gotten better at stemming the tide of anger just long enough to mention the exact reason for it, or providing a warning just before it all becomes too much and he shatters a nice plate because the person the next table over won’t stop talking about those ‘damn hobos plaguing the streets’.
In return, Bruno tries to assuage his anger, to strike at the root of the outburst and get rid of it as soon as possible, even if it means quickly excusing them from the restaurant so he can take Fugo outside and hold his hands tightly so he can’t bite his nails or punch anything, and convince him to take deep breaths.
They become a pretty efficient pair. Purple Haze has gained no further control, its virus still as deadly and indiscriminatory as before, but Bruno’s found more tricks to avoid it, and Fugo’s become a little more confident in taking it out. It’s still nowhere near the deep trust Bruno has in Sticky Fingers, but it’s something. Hating the thing that is your own soul manifest has to be exhausting. While Purple Haze is a truly powerful stand, Bruno doesn’t envy Fugo.
They work together well both professionally and socially, in time. Bruno learns the things that set Fugo off (loud and repetitive noises, being ignored, being treated like a child), and makes efforts to avoid them. It’s worth it both to dodge Fugo’s anger and to watch him relax when he’s around him.
As he gets more comfortable, Fugo also becomes more vocal - he still isn’t much for long conversation, but he’ll entertain small talk from time to time, and sometimes he’ll go off on tangents about things he’s particularly knowledgeable about, that passionate spark in his eyes flaring up. He usually tries to apologize for talking so much afterwards, but Bruno always waves him off - the hygiene habits of people in the Middle Ages probably isn’t really an important topic or one he’ll ever use for anything, but it’s interesting enough, and it’s worth it to see that spark.
It’s almost dinnertime, and they’ve recently finished their last mission of the day - Bruno’s working on some paperwork to wrap things up when he feels Fugo staring at him, the way he does when he has a request but is trying to think of how to word it.
Bruno puts his pen down, turns around in his chair. “What’s up?”
Fugo looks him directly in the eyes, like he always does when he's about to say something serious. It never fails to be a little unsettling.
"Teach me how to cook."
"Huh?"
"I can't live on other people's whims forever. I need to know how to make things for myself. Teach me." A pause. "Please."
"Okay," Bruno says slowly. "Okay. What do you want to learn?"
Fugo gets that surprised look again, like he didn't think he'd get this far. Bruno feels a belated kind of anger for the people who made Fugo like this, who gave him so few chances. Bruno wants to give him all the chances he possibly can. Wants to watch him grow.
“Um. Something easy and filling, I guess.” He hesitates. “And without much spice. I can’t really stand that.”
Bruno thinks for a moment on an easy recipe he can teach. He knows how to cook, in a base sense - luckily, his parents were interested in teaching him, and he liked to watch them at work. He remembers a time, after everything, when he was still in Passione alone, where he was struggling with a recipe, and thought to call his father and ask for help. His hand was halfway to the phone before he remembered, and it took all he had not to sink down onto the floor right there, because he would never talk to his father again, oh my god, he’s seventeen and he can’t even ask his father for advice, because he’s dead —.
He’s mostly moved past those near-emotional breakdowns. He has more important things to do now than to wallow in grief - corruption to curb, a child to take care of. In a way, Fugo saved him, just as he saved Fugo, though on a smaller scale. It turns out taking care of another life makes you more aware of just how well you’re taking care of yourself.
Anyways. Cooking. “I have some leftover vegetables. We can make some simple pasta alla norma. It’s a bit fancier than just spaghetti, but still quick and cheap.”
Fugo makes a face at the word ‘cheap’, like he has a different connotation for it than Bruno does, and Bruno remembers his rich upbringing - for him, cheap means low-quality. For Bruno, it means having just that bit of extra money to buy himself a treat at the end of the week. Two children from different worlds, making pasta alla norma like a little family in Bruno’s tiny apartment. What a pair they make.
Fugo’s smart enough he picks up what he needs to do pretty quickly, and Bruno retreats to the stool by the kitchen counter to keep an eye on things but let Fugo work through the recipe himself.
One moment he’s almost dozing off against the counter, lulled by the sound of bubbling water and the rhythmic chopping of the knife as Fugo cuts vegetables. The next moment Fugo’s screaming and there’s blood on the floor, and Bruno doesn’t think he’s ever been so close to a heart attack.
In the moments immediately after that he gets to analyzing the situation, and it becomes clear the blood is from a (thankfully not too deep) cut caused by inexperienced hands, and Fugo’s screaming is much more in anger than pain. It seems Fugo processes most everything as anger.
It takes only a few swift movements to move the knife safely out of Fugo’s grasp and direct him to the sink, where Bruno runs water over the cut, clasping Fugo’s hands in his. Fugo’s stopped screaming, but he’s still shaking. “It’s okay.” Bruno tries. “It was just a slip.”
Fugo tries to move his hands to punctuate his anger, but remembers his injury at the last moment and instead stamps his foot repeatedly, narrowly missing Bruno’s own feet. “NO! It’s not fucking okay! It’s not okay at all! I can’t even fucking— do this— I’m made for nothing but destruction! I don’t know why I was even trying!”
Bruno holds Fugo’s hands a bit tighter - tries not to feel out of his depth. He rubs his thumbs over the back of Fugo’s hands in an attempt to soothe him. “I know that’s not true, Fugo. We all make mistakes. You just have to get up and keep trying.”
They’re somewhat default words of reassurance - something you could hear from a fortune cookie, perhaps, or a television shrink, but Bruno’s no therapist. He can’t claim to understand Fugo’s problems completely, or know the best solution. He just does what he can.
Fugo spends some more time cursing to himself and huffing and puffing, but the anger eventually bleeds out of him as Bruno takes him to the bathroom to wind a bandage around his finger. Fugo bleeds a little on the hardwood as they make the journey, but Bruno would much rather have a little blood on the floor than leave Fugo alone when he’s so volatile. It’s less out of fear of Fugo’s anger in general, and more out of fear of what could happen if Fugo directed that anger at himself.
The water has long boiled down by the time they make it back to the kitchen, and it’s already a bit too late to start another pot, so Bruno throws some lettuce in with the already chopped vegetables and they have salad for dinner. Fugo looks at the collection of leaves despondently, deflated from his failure.
“It was a good first try.” Bruno tries, hoping to clear some of the guilty look from Fugo’s eyes. “Besides, it’s only natural to make mistakes if you haven’t done it before. No one is automatically good at everything.”
Fugo sneers, like he begs to differ, the child genius he is, but doesn’t comment further than, “Sure.”
It sounds like “whatever.” Fugo is still a moody teenager, after all.
***
It’s a lazy weekday night - they’ve completed their tasks for the day, and Bruno’s indulging in his bad habit of watching mindless TV. It’s near the top of the hour, and the show’s winding down, so he turns the TV off before he can get sucked into another episode.
He’s moving to get up from the couch when Fugo stops him with an outstretched hand. “Um,” he says. “Actually. Can you hold still just a while longer? I was- sketching you.”
He’s got an old notebook in his hands, and does indeed seem to have been caught in the act. “I mean- if you don’t mind. If you don’t want to be drawn that’s fine. I get it.”
Bruno waves a hand dismissively, then remembers he’s not supposed to be moving, lowers himself semi-awkwardly back onto the couch. “It’s alright. I’d like to see it afterwards, though. I don’t think I’ve ever had a portrait done of me.”
Fugo snorts. “It’s barely a portrait. Just a sketch. And I reserve the right not to show you if it ends up terrible.”
“Of course.”
They lapse into silence there, the only noise the scratching of the pencil as Fugo draws. With lack of other things to do, Bruno watches Fugo draw, trying to hold back a smile as he catches sight of the sparkly, half-bitten pencil they got from a promotion event and Fugo apparently held onto. The scratching of the pencil is actually somewhat soothing - Bruno likes white noise. He’s alright with silence, can deal with it, but hearing the sounds of life around him, of other people moving around in other rooms, moving around outside, even, or the sound of the ocean, soothes him. He likes knowing where the people he loves are, that he could get to them quickly if anything happened.
That’s an interesting thought, he realizes. He loves Fugo, doesn’t he? He’d never really thought about it in the capacity of words, more as a nebulous concept, an inherent knowledge that if shit ever hit the fan, he would undoubtably lay down his life for the kid. Bruno’s ok with sitting and thinking about his emotions, but he’s always been more of one to show his affection through action. It’s just another way him and Fugo are different - Fugo practically has a designated hour every day to just sit and stare out the window and think. Bruno never asks what he thinks about, but sometimes he tells him later, over dinner, or quietly in the dark almost-midnight hours, where sleep clouds the senses and amplifies emotion.
Fugo sets down his pencil with a finality - curses as it slides across the couch and down into the crack between the cushions, fumbling for it before it’s lost to the void. Bruno feels himself smile. “All done?”
Fugo grips the pencil to keep it from trying to escape again. “Yeah. You can look if you want.”
Bruno gets up, waits for Fugo to show him instead of leaning over his shoulder - Fugo doesn’t like people towering over him. He’s never said it explicitly, but it’s clear in how his shoulders tense and his eyes flicker with suspicion.
Fugo turns the notebook to him. Bruno’s seen himself before, of course, in mirrors and the like, but there’s something strange and almost intimate about seeing yourself as interpreted by someone else. It’s a reminder of being constantly perceived, that everyone sees you differently than you may see yourself.
Not that Fugo’s representation is unfaithful, because it isn’t. He’s a good artist - Bruno sees himself clearly in the image.
Bruno remembers Fugo’s first attempt at cooking - the words he had said after an accident; ‘I’m made for nothing but destruction.’ He knows that’s wrong, but thinks Fugo could use a reminder, and this is a perfect example. “Fugo.” He says gently. “You see the things you create? Without even a second thought, you made something beautiful.”
Fugo’s eyes widen, a blush creeping up his neck. “Wh-“ He glances away. “I’m sure beautiful’s a bit much.”
Bruno shakes his head. “Nope. It’s beautiful.” He lets a bit of teasing creep into his tone. “I’m going to put it on the fridge, in fact.”
Fugo groans, his cheeks bright red. “Ugh. It’s on lined paper and- it’s not even- you’re insufferable.”
Bruno’s grinning. “Uh huh.”
Fugo’s lips are shaking with the effort of not smiling. “Shut up.” He says, but there’s no heart in it.
Bruno ruffles his hair fondly, and thinks maybe when a distant aunt told him long ago that he’d be a great parent, she just might have been right.