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He could remember what happened that day. He remembered the feeling of the book in his hands. He remembered the sound of it hitting the professor’s head again and again. He remembered the way the rage burned in his veins, physically burned, and the blood seeping into the carpet. He remembered it vividly, and he hated it.
That hadn’t been the first time Fugo had felt enraged, and it certainly wasn’t the last. Since that day, he had been taken under Bucciarati’s wing, and he had become a member of Passione. When he joined, he awakened his stand, Purple Haze, and he despised it with every fiber of his being. It was a reminder of everything he hated about himself. It made him angry.
He remembered what he had said the day Bucciarati invited him to join the gang. “When I lose my temper, I do horrifying things. If I were to join your team, I might even end up killing you.” It didn’t take much to set him off, and it always went badly. He didn’t understand the rage he felt. He hated the feeling it gave him. And he hated that he couldn’t control it. He remembered all the times since joining the gang that he had felt that rage. He remembered the times he would see his teammates, and for seemingly no reason at all, want to hurt them. Kill them, even. He remembered sitting at a restaurant table holding a steak knife, and seeing his team, his friends, around the table with him, and wanting to slit their throats. He felt nauseous.
At the time, Fugo had been lying on his bed in the dark, staring at the ceiling, thinking. He suddenly sat up, hand over his mouth. He quickly got up and rushed to the bathroom. He sat on the floor next to the toilet and retched. His whole body shook like a tree in a storm, and he was covered head to toe in a layer of cold sweat. The nausea continued to swirl in his stomach, but his body refused to vomit. He punched himself in the stomach, trying to get something out. All it did was knock the wind out of him. He retched some more.
A door opened down the hall, though he couldn’t hear it over the ringing in his ears and the incoherent thoughts flying through his head like a cloud of shattered glass. A few seconds later, a man entered the bathroom and rushed over to kneel next to him. The feeling of him grabbing his shoulders seemed to jolt Fugo back to reality.
“Fugo! What’s wrong? Are you alright?”
The voice sounded tinny. When he turned to look at who was speaking, his vision was blurred. He reached up to rub his eyes and his hand came away wet- he had been crying. He was able to make out who was speaking to him now. It was his boss, Bruno Bucciarati. He looked panicked and concerned.
For a few moments, Fugo wasn’t sure what to say. He just stared into Bucciarati’s worried face. Had he woken him up? He opened his mouth to speak, but felt a lurch in his stomach. He quickly turned away and vomited into the toilet.
“Jesus christ!” The panic in Bruno’s voice was rising. “S-stay here, I’ll be back in a second!” He got up and rushed out. Fugo heard the sound of him going down the stairs. He looked back at the water, now swirling with his own puke. He threw up again.
Bruno returned a minute later with a towel and a glass of water. After wiping the vomit from Fugo’s face, Bruno offered him the glass of water. Fugo tried to take it, but his hand was shaking too much. He almost dropped it, but Bruno was able to keep it from dropping. “Easy,” he said softly, holding it up to Fugo’s lips. He had trouble drinking it, and a fair deal ended up dribbling down his chin. His mouth tasted like bile and his throat stung. The water didn’t seem to be helping much.
“What happened?” Bruno inquired after the cup had been emptied, though half of it had ended up on Fugo’s shirt. His voice was gentle, yet full of steely concern. Fugo began to cry again. Bruno put an arm around his shoulder. “Hey, hey,” he whispered. “It’s okay. I just want to help.” Fugo looked up at him. Bruno saw the hopelessness in his eyes and felt his heart break a little. No 16 year old should have to bear that sort of expression. Fugo turned away and put his face in his hands. “I’m so scared of myself, Bucciarati,” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m so scared of what I might do to you or the others o-or myself and I don’t know what to do.” His shoulders shook as he began to cry harder. “I get so angry sometimes and I don’t know why, and when that happens all I can think about is-“ his voice caught. He was silent for a second, before proceeding in a quiet mumble, “I’m better off dead. I’m too dangerous, and I can’t stand to live with myself.”
“Don’t say that,” Bruno said. “What even makes you think that?”
Fugo’s head snapped up. He was still crying, but there was anger in his eyes. “Because sometimes I look at people and all I want to do is hurt them!” he yelled. Bruno flinched at the rage before him. Fugo squeezed his eyes shut and slammed his palms against his temples. “SHIT! Calm down, calm down, don’t…” He trailed off muttering to himself, trying to calm himself down. Looking at the boy before him, Bruno felt powerless.
He heard a door open down the hall. A few moments later, Mista appeared in the doorway, pajama clad and with disheveled hair. “What’s goin’ on?” He mumbled, trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“Nothing. Just go back to bed, Mista.”
“You sure? I thought I heard yelling.”
Bruno gave him a pleading sort of look.
Mista stared back for a second before shrugging. “Alright, if you say so.”
He turned and headed back to his room. Bruno heard the door shut, then turned back to Fugo. He had pulled his knees to his chest and was rocking slightly, his hands pressed over his ears and his eyes closed. Bruno reached up to gently grab his wrist, and Fugo flinched at the touch, pulling his wrist back and rubbing it nervously with his other hand. Bruno moved back a bit at this reaction. Fugo stared at him with a sort of panicked fear on his face. He went to place his hand on his shoulder, though this time he moved somewhat slowly, and if Fugo were a wild cat that would lash out or run away if he moved too quickly. He didn’t recoil this time.
“Fugo, you… you don’t have to keep everything to yourself if there’s something bothering you, you know that? I know you might just see me as your boss, but I care about you. I’m worried about you, Fugo.”
Bruno’s voice broke as he spoke. It hurt him to see someone, to see a kid, in so much pain. He just wished he would talk to him.
Fugo looked away and crossed his arms over his chest, rubbing his arms nervously. “It’s like I told you, Bucciarati. Sometimes I get so… so angry and so violent and I don’t know why and it scares me. It scares the absolute shit out of me.” He squeezed his arms. “Sometimes when I look at you guys and I get really angry for no reason, I… I think about hurting you or ki-“ he froze, his fingers digging into his arms. “Or… killing you,” he finished in a small voice. “And it’s always been like this. It’s what got me kicked out of school. I nearly beat a teacher to death because of it.” He was silent for a beat. “I don’t want to feel like this, but I don’t know what’s causing it or how I could possibly fix it. It would be so much easier to not be alive. At least then I wouldn’t have to deal with this shitty feeling.”
“Have you…” Bruno wasn’t sure what was driving him to ask this question. Stop! he told himself, before you upset him even more! But the words came out anyway. “Have you tried to kill yourself before?”
Fugo tensed up. He looked like a vase on the verge of shattering.
Shit, Bruno scolded himself. Why did you say that?!
Fugo stared at the floor for a few seconds, unspeaking, unmoving. Then, “...Yes,” he said quietly. There was shame on his face. “And I… I’ve hurt myself, too.” He tugged at his sleeves.
Bruno wanted to cry. Fugo was suffering so much, and he felt like he could barely do anything to help him. Unsure of what to say, he simply leaned in, and hugged him.
For a moment, Fugo was unsure of how to react. Then, as he fully processed what was happening, it was like a wall within him crumbled. He threw his arms around Bruno and began to sob.
“I’m so sorry,” he pleaded through tears and hiccups. “I’m so, so sorry.”
“For what?” Bruno said, rubbing the boy’s back. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You’ve been hurting so much this whole time and I didn’t even notice. I’m sorry.” Now he was crying, too.
Fugo clung to Bruno’s shirt, his face pressed into his shoulder. He felt bad for getting tears and snot on his shirt, but he was crying and shaking and didn’t feel able to move. His mouth wouldn’t even work properly to let him apologize. He felt Bruno’s hand moving in circles on his back and melted further into the hug. They sat on the bathroom floor like that for god knows how long, until Fugo’s sobs had subsided into shaking and hiccups.