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“You do realize you’re going to have to replace the carafe.”
Fugo kept his eyes focused on the wall, knees pulled up to his chest as he sat in the kitchen chair.
“And you’ll have to sweep up the floor before anyone else comes in.”
He winced, sharply taking in a breath at the feeling of the glass being pulled from his hand. Tears began to prick at his eyes, and he knew it had nothing to do with the pain.
“I don’t think you’ll need stitches, but we will have to watch it. If it bleeds through the bandages too much, you should see a doctor.”
Giving a small nod, Fugo gasped again, the tugging feeling of the glass turning his stomach. He still kept his eyes trained on the same spot on the wall though, not daring to meet her gaze, despite feeling her eyes searching his face.
“Say something.”
Placing his chin on top of his free arm, he whispered, “I’ll go out and buy another one after it’s wrapped up.”
Daring to glance at her, just for a moment, Fugo saw Trish’s lips pursed with a neutral expression as she focused on picking the glass out of his wound. He knew it couldn’t possibly reflect what she was feeling, not after what had just happened. What had they even been fighting about? He couldn’t remember.
Fugo closed his eyes, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation in his hand, and tried to recall what had happened just minutes ago.
“You need to do something! School, work, a hobby… anything! You’re stagnating and it’s not good for you.”
It was coming back to him. The truth had stung, hitting a place deep inside him, a place that hadn’t been struck in a long time.
“They wouldn’t want this for you!”
He knew, looking back, that was what made him snap. It was a reminder of everything he regretted and everyone he missed. Had it been that alone, he knew he wouldn’t have acted how he did, but his blood had already been boiling, and that made the anger overflow.
The next thing he remembered was Trish screaming and a sharp pain in his hand, and so now here he sat. Fugo hid his face even more in his free arm, hot shame making his face burn bright red as she began wrapping his hand in a bandage. He honestly thought he had been getting better, but maybe that had just been the numbness from the shock of recent events, he reflected.
He was still the same monster he had always been. It still didn’t matter who was around. Friends, foes, himself… everyone was in danger, and this fact made the all too familiar self hatred bubble up inside of him, spilling over into his eyes.
“Well, it’s not perfect, but I think it’ll do,” Trish said, her voice shaking him from his thoughts. She stood up, dumping the small bowl of broken glass into the garbage, and began washing it and the tweezers.
Fugo stayed where he was, flexing his bandaged hand as cold guilt clawed at his stomach.
Trish finished washing up and came back over to him, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Before I leave, we need to talk.”
He shrunk even more in on himself, knowing those words never meant anything good. And considering the situation, he wouldn’t have expected them to either.
“Look, I know there’s probably a lot of reasons for you to act the way you do, but that,” she said, gesturing to the broken glass on the counter and floor, “is not okay. And honestly? It’s kind of a deal breaker for whatever is going on between us. And I also know Mista and Giorno won’t be too happy about this either.”
“You know I’d never hurt you, right?” he whispered, hoping that if he said it out loud it would be the truth. It was a thought that had haunted Fugo ever since he and Trish had become close. The last thing he wanted was for her to be another casualty in one of his outbursts.
She paused, prompting him to peek out from behind his arms at her for just a moment. He still felt too ashamed to meet her gaze for any length of time. “No. I don’t,” she finally said.
Fugo flinched at her words, wishing he could escape to his room and sleep for days, forgetting any of this ever happened.
Trish sat down next to him, expression softening. “Have you ever tried talking to anyone about this kind of stuff? Or seeing a doctor of any kind?”
He shook his head, heart sinking to somewhere around his knees. There had been threats of doctor’s offices when he was younger, but all that went away after he was kicked out. And while Bucciarati had implied several times that he should seek help, it was never directly brought up.
“It might help you feel better. Either way, something needs to change.” She stood up, slipping on shoes and grabbing her bag. “I’m meeting Mia and Camilla to work on a project for school. I’ll see you later.”
Fugo stayed in the chair, curled into a ball, wanting to give Trish a head start on walking into town so he didn’t cross paths with her until he had to. Instinctively he wanted to reach out and strike whatever surface was closest to him, but the gently pulsing pain in his hand told him that would be a bad idea. Instead, he settled for digging his fingernails into his arms as a few more tears fell down his cheeks.
After a bit, he finally decided to get up, knowing there’d be hell to pay tomorrow morning if certain people couldn’t have their coffee. While the walk to town allowed him to clear his head, he didn’t like having Trish’s disappointed voice echoing in his head.
He bought the replacement carafe and began walking back home, everything still weighing heavily on his mind, when a sign caught his eye: a clinic across the street from where he was. Fugo knew it probably wasn’t exactly what he needed, but it would probably be a good place to start, not to mention he couldn’t remember his last checkup. Before the fear could prevent him, he crossed the street and walked in.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asked.
Fugo shook his head, face heating up as he realized how awkward he must look just walking in with a shopping bag.
“Do you want to set up an appointment?” she offered.
“Um…” He glanced around, wondering if it was even safe for his information to be on file at a place like this.
“Here,” she said, handing him a card. “You can always call if you want.”
“Thanks.” He slipped the business card into the shopping bag, shifting his weight from foot to foot before raising his hand in a hesitant goodbye.
“Have a great day,” the receptionist said with a warm smile. “I hope your hand feels better.”
For the rest of the walk home, Fugo weighed the pros and cons of talking with a doctor there. On one hand, he realized he would most likely have to go somewhere else to get the help he actually needed, but on the other, he had no idea where else to go. He decided, walking through the door, that he’d talk with Giorno about the safety before making a decision anyway, which he admitted to himself was simply a way to put it off, but it sounded reasonable enough.
A few days later, Fugo found himself sitting in front of the phone, the card from the clinic in his hand. Giorno had assured him it shouldn’t be a problem, and if it somehow was, he would take care of it. So now the only thing stopping him was himself. He thought back to Trish and how she had reacted: her initial fear and then disappointment. It wasn’t a sight he wanted to ever see again. He wanted to change his “You know I’d never hurt you” to an “I promise I’ll never hurt you” and be able to truly mean it.
With that resolve in mind, Fugo took a deep breath and dialed.