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Fugo wakes up to the sun. It’s a leftover habit from college when he forced himself to get up early in the morning to get a head start on his workload. It carried over to his early days in Passione, waking up early to prepare anything Buccelatti needs or to head out for a mission. It still happens now in Giorno’s Passione, his body waking up on its own despite Giorno’s insistence that he can sleep in during slow days. He appreciates the gesture, he really does, but as they say old habits die hard and his body refuses to wake up no later than 6am.
When he wakes up that morning, the sky is an auburn color, washing his room in a hazy orange light. He doesn’t use curtains anymore, preferring as much light in his room as possible to curb the thrum of Purple Haze in his veins. In a way, he is like a cat, content and lazy under a patch of sun. It’s a testament to his own development that he went from likening his Stand to a monstrous storm into a domesticated feline.
Fugo raises himself to a sitting position only to get tugged back down by hands around his waist.
“Stay,” Mista murmurs in his hair, eyes still closed.
If Fugo wakes up to the sun, Mista wakes up whenever he damn well pleases. He’s almost envious of that, but then again the Sex Pistols are his glorified alarm clock so he can’t say he’s that envious.
Fugo’s eyes fly to his perfectly normal, non-Stand alarm clock. It’s 6:10am. If he moves now, he can get proofread the papers for a peace treaty Giorno is signing this week, and then get started on the paperwork for the assassin squad’s paycheck.
“Mista, I need to go.” Fugo tries lifting Mista’s arms off of him, but it only makes him hold on tighter. Mista throws a leg over Fugo’s waist and nuzzles his face in silver hair, effectively trapping him against the bed.
“Sleep more,” he says.
“I can’t.” His body clock and anxiety-riddled mind won’t let him.
“Just try it.” One eye opens to glance at him. There’s no mistaking the smirk on his face. “Need me to sing a lullaby? Maybe do something exhausting that would leave you breathless?”
“You’re awfully energetic for someone who just woke up.” The longer he stays in Mista’s arms, the more his body relaxes, like Mista’s hold has somehow unlocked the mystery of Fugo’s stubborn body clock.
Mista hums low in his throat and the vibration travels up Fugo’s neck, makes him shiver and huddle closer. He smells musky from sleep, pleasantly warm like a fireplace.
“You hardly get to bed early these days. Forgive me if I wanted to spend a little more time with my gorgeous boyfriend.” Fugo draws back a little from guilt but Mista just pulls him back in. His light stubble scratches Fugo’s forehead. “Shush. It’s not your fault. You just work too hard. It won’t kill you to rest more once in a while. Passione can handle not having their brilliant consigliere for a few hours.”
Fugo lets out a mix between a groan and a whine, and tucks his head under Mista’s chin to hide his burning face. Mista doesn’t call him out on it, instead he starts running his fingers through Fugo’s hair in the way he knows he likes. It makes him remember his cat metaphor with Haze, thinks that his owner isn’t too far off in that comparison as he nuzzles into Mista’s hands. The combination of his touch and his words makes Fugo’s eyes droopy, an unusual bout of laziness coursing through him.
“I suppose I can spare a few minutes.” He feels Mista’s smile against his hair.
“That’s right. Let us take care of you just for today.”
If he had any more energy, Fugo would question why he used a plural term, but as it is sleep calls out to him. He closes his eyes and for once in his life he sleeps with the sun.
Fugo wakes up an anxious mess. He slept more than he thought he would and Mista, bless him but also fuck him, didn’t wake him up. It’s already afternoon and he’s way behind his tasks.
Before he can work himself up to a panic, his eyes land on a note tucked underneath his phone on his nightstand. He recognizes Mista’s chicken scratch.
Went ahead and did some of your work for you. You’re welcome by the way.
Hope you got a good few more hours of sleep. There’s lunch for you in the kitchen.
Love you. Have a good day.
Mista draws a bunch of hearts around the last sentence. It’s unbelievably cheesy and sweet that Fugo can’t help the smile that blooms in his face, anxiety long forgotten. He supposes that Mista just has that effect on him, makes him feel better with the smallest of gestures, calms him down without even being there.
The palazzo is quiet in the afternoon, most of their subordinates out for lunch or on missions. Even the kitchen is quiet when he enters, their cooking staff out and about in search of dinner ingredients. Fugo spots Sheila and Murolo sitting in a nook by the table and makes his way over there.
“There you are,” Sheila grouses, fake annoyed. “We’ve been waiting for hours. I’m dying of starvation here.”
“We’ve only been here five minutes. You’re fine,” Murolo assures him.
“You didn’t have to wait for me,” Fugo says as he sits down next to Sheila and across Murolo. It’s only then that he notices Coco Jumbo idly chewing on a lettuce. “Good afternoon, Polnareff.”
“Good afternoon Pannacotta!” Polnareff greets brightly. “I must say, you look very well rested today.”
Fugo flashes him a small smile before they tuck into their food.
Today’s lunch is nice. His coffee was already waiting for him and when promoted Sheila says Mista premade it before he went off to work. It’s perfectly bittersweet, with a splash of soy milk, still warming his core at the first sip. The main dish is his favorite-vongole pasta with fresh herbs. It’s tangy and salty with a bitter aftertaste that he likes. The clams taste fresh, still tasting a bit like the sea. Dessert is fresh strawberry sfogliatella with french cream. The skin is still crispy and the inside fluffy before bursting with the tart fruit and silky cream. Fugo has already eaten three by the time Murolo and Sheila finish one piece each.
They’re oddly quiet this morning, exchanging looks as Fugo keeps eating. The table shakes and Murolo winces. He can only guess that Sheila elbowed him in the gut.
“Hey Panna, listen.” Fugo hums into his coffee cup in affirmation. “Why don’t you take the day-off today? Let Sheila and me handle your stuff.”
“Do you even know what my stuff is today?”
“I stole all your paperwork when you went to sleep last night.” Fugo makes a noise of protest, but Sheila pushes her own plate of sfogliatella to him as if to appease him. It kind of works. He grabs his fourth piece.
“Why though?”
“You work too hard,” Murolo says, echoing Mista’s words earlier, a touch less fond but just as concerned. “It won’t do us any good if you burnout. Besides, me and Sheila aren’t doing anything too important today.” There’s a glint in his eyes as he says this that puts Fugo on edge immediately. For as much as Murolo is on their side, he can be unpredictable sometimes.
“Loath as I am to agree with him, he’s right.”
“Loath? Such big words for a little-” The table shakes again and Murolo doubles over. Fugo pulls his plate of pastries away before his face can smash them.
“Can you stop annoying me for five minutes?!”
“Can you not hit me for five minutes?!” He shoots back with a pained wheeze.
“Then stop being a fucking nuisance! God.”
“Not my fault you’re so easy to rile up.”
Fugo watches their back and forth, infinitely more interesting than the morning news. He’s terribly fond of these two. Next to him, Coco Jumbo bumps his arm and he tears of some of the bread for him to chew on.
“Say, Pol?”
“Hm?”
“Is there a reason why everyone is trying hard not to make me go to work today?”
“Because we care about you,” Polnareff says, simple and straightforward. Fugo can’t help the feeling that there’s something missing though. Logically, he knows that they care about him just as they care about them. It’s been almost a year since that mission and there are just some things you can’t go through without ending up holding feelings for people because of it. But there is still that leftover anxiety, that niggling at the back of his head that can develop larger and darker if he can’t help it, like he’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He doesn’t accept affection easily, yet they still offer, they still reach out to him, and those efforts alone mean everything. It doesn’t make the thoughts disappear completely, but it makes them quieter, as if they can overpower Fugo’s anxieties by making their love as large and loud as possible.
Their bickering reaches louder volumes. Fugo steps in to intervene before it can escalate, still remembering the Breakfast Incident of 2019 and the irremovable stains from one of his coats.
“If I say yes and take a day-off, will you two stop fighting like children?”
“They started it!” they both say, pointing fingers at the other. The children comparison made more obvious.
Polnareff clears his throat. “Pannacotta is right. Meals are supposed to be peaceful times between family. Let’s just finish this and head off to our tasks, yes?”
Sheila grumbles. Murolo adjusts his hat. They don’t deny the family part.
Fugo flashes Polnareff a thankful smile and finishes the rest of the sfogliatella.
Trish finds him in the library.
They’re doing okay all things considered. They talked for a long time about Fugo’s hesitations, Trish’s motivations, what happened that week in April, what happened to the narcotics team. For the most part, they’re friends, not close, but at least they stopped avoiding each other.
Fugo’s been following everyone’s request to take a day off, which is why he’s reclined on a sofa with Shakespeare's T he Twelfth Night in his lap. He’s in a riveting passage of Floritzel and Perdita’s love for each other when Trish barges in and comes to a stop in front of him.
“You. Me. Shopping spree. Now.”
If there's anything he’s learned from developing a friendship with Trish it’s that she always gets what she wants. With no further argument, he marks his place with a metallic bookmark Giorno gifted him (rose gold and engraved with tiny strawberries) and follows Trish out the door.
They end up in a ritzy part of Naples, all fancy shops and modern apartment buildings. Fugo feels a little out of place in his shirt and worn jeans, but Trish looks right at home garbed in a Gucci pantsuit and Louboutin shoes. It’s not the first time Fugo has accompanied her shopping, apparently his fashion sense somehow makes Trish’s look nicer when they stand side by side, but it is the first time that Trish shoved a bunch of clothes and hangers at him.
“Well don’t you just stand there. Try them on!”
“I thought you were going on a shopping spree?”
“Correction. We. We are going on a shopping spree. I’m actually surprised I haven't thought of it before. Your atrocious wardrobe needs an update and who better to help than yours truly?”
Fugo bites back a remark about impractical skirts and weird tops, knowing full well Trish will poke fun about his holes. See? He knows how to be a good friend.
“I don't see why I would need new clothes.” Trish is pushing him towards a dressing room, hand somehow still grabbing whatever clothing gets her attention.
“We all need a change of pace, Fugo. What kind of friend would I be if I let you walk around like a rotten piece of swiss cheese when I know what fabulous outfits I know you’re capable of.”
“Did you just compliment and insult me within the same sentence?”
“It’s a God given talent,” she drawls. She opens the dressing room and shoves Fugo inside. “Remember, try everything on and let me see.”
“There’s like fifty pieces here!” The dressing room limit is five pieces, but as Fugo said before, Trish Una always gets what she wants.
“And we have all the time in the world. You don’t have anywhere to be, right?”
“It is my day off…”
She claps her hands together. “Then, that settles it. Go in there, get dressed, and I want you to walk out of here like a Versace fashion show come to life.”
Fugo loses the time when they reach outfit 37--pastel green pants, a black turtleneck, a purple harlequin overcoat. Trish is relentless, shoving outfit after outfit at him as the attendants scramble around picking up the clothes she rejected.
“You look good in dark colors with your pale...everything. There are more colors than red and green you know?”
Fugo huffs. “I happen to like those colors.”
“I know. What is up with that anyway? You boys like color contrast too much. Mista’s blue-orange. Giorno’s blue-pink. It’s like a toddler grabbing whatever cool thing they saw and mashing them together. God, I swear only Abbachio and Buccelatti had a sense of color in your team.”
Talking about them still stings. He hopes Trish doesn’t see him wince because that will open up a conversation he’s not emotionally ready to have right now. Thankfully, she switches to another topic.
Trish approaches one of the ruffled attendants and makes a vague gesture towards the whirlwind of fabric and sequins the dressing area turned into. “Please pack up the ones I approved of. We’ll be waiting at the counter.”
Fugo flashes them a sympathetic glance before he gets pulled to the counter.
Trish pays for everything, all twelve outfits with the Trish Una seal of approval. Fugo protests, he can pay for his clothes on his own, but she just waves him off. “Just do me a favor, wear those on your dates, and get Mista’s reactions for me. His facial expressions are funny as hell.”
They leave the boutique loaded with bags and it’s already late out, dusk beginning to rise in the orange-purple sky.
Fugo doesn’t like owing people so he insists on buying Trish some tapioca milk tea as payment for the shopping spree. They sip on their respective drinks-strawberry cream for Fugo and passionfruit for Trish-as they wait for their driver.
A sleek, black car pulls up to the curb. Fugo mentally catalogs the license plate as one of theirs, always on edge and alert even when he's outside.. The windows roll down and a golden head pops out. Fugo feels his heart clench in that familiar way.
“Good evening, Panna,” Giorno greets him smoothly. Mista waves from the driver’s seat. “Had fun?”
Surrounded by three people he trusts and who knows him best in the world, Fugo gets the distinct feeling that he’s being set up for something.
Trish tosses their bags in the backseat as Giorno steps out of the car. She grabs the bags in Fugo’s hands and adds them to the pile before taking Giorno’s place in the passenger seat. “I’ll take these home. You two have fun and don't stay out too late.”
Before he can say anything, they drive off.
Fugo gives Giorno a glance, sees him dressed down in jeans and a floral shirt. He’s wearing the ladybug earrings Fugo gifted him for Christmas. It’s not a job-related thing then.
“Giorno?”
“Yes?”
“Did I do something wrong?”
“Of course not.”
“Then, why?” Why the day off? Why reassigned tasks? Why the shopping spree?
“Do we need a reason beyond caring for you, Pannacotta?” Giorno says simply like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like he didn’t just shake Fugo’s world and built it anew. “How does the saying go? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth? No need to ask questions, just trust that we’re doing it for you.”
Fugo tries, he really does, untangle the web of anxiety that always persists in his heart, entrust it to his family, knowing they won’t intentionally break it. Mista’s warm touch, Polnareff’s easy friendship, fitting with Murolo and Sheila, Trish’s hard-earned affection, Giorno’s jade green eyes looking at him with warmth and love.
Does he deserve all of that, after everything he did wrong in his life?
He finds his answer when Giorno holds out a hand and Fugo’s hands come up automatically to squeeze his. For as much as his mind tries to convince him of his faults, his heart knows where it lies.
“Hi,” Giorno says, laughing softly. The dusk highlights his face in gold, makes him look more youthful, like he’s not the most powerful man in Italy, like he’s just another kid on the streets. “I missed you.”
“I live with you,” Fugo points out.
“You know what I mean. You’re always busy with work. It’s nice to have moments like these.”
“Holding hands on the street and getting stared at?”
“Holding hands and spending time with the person you love.” It’s been months since they got together, but he still gets thrown off at these declarations of love. Fugo feels his face get warm at the thought.
Giorno starts tugging his hand and the two of them start walking down the street. Naples’ nightlife starts to come out. People coming out from work and flooding the streets with fancy suits and leather briefcases. Down the back streets, strings of lanterns are lighting up the walkways with a gold light. Bars and restaurants are getting more crowded and louder as they walk with the flow of the crowd. Somewhere in the distance a street performer is singing, guitar strings and jazz tones filling the air.
It’s nice, walking down the street and holding his boyfriend’s hand. No direction, or purpose, just spending a few quiet moments with someone he loves before they return to their hectic lives running the mafia. He almost wishes it would never end.
Giorno bumps their shoulders together. “Look at that.”
Fugo’s eyes land on a familiar bakery the gang frequents. They’re advertising an early Valentine’s special on their chalkboard outside. Red and pink hearts with arrows and sparkles drawn around a stick figure of a couple. It's some sort of third wheel special where you can get three cakes for the price of two and a couples-themed milkshake to share with three straws. It's ridiculously cheesy.
"Think Mista would want to go here?" Fugo asks.
"He lives and breathes romance so of course he will." Giorno perused the sign for a few more seconds. "They should just rename it as a poly special. I get that they're trying to empower friends who often third wheel, but I think they should also acknowledge that three-person relationships exists and have just as much love as a couple."
Giorno's tone is firm, leaves no room for question, almost as if he's ready to march inside and ask the owners to make the change. It's funny to imagine that someone with the power to level Italy will also use that power for something as simple as renaming a bakery's menu. For as powerful as Giorno is, he's still a kid who's prone to crazy decisions.
It's just unfortunate that Fugo is also sometimes a kid who's prone to crazy decisions.
The two of them share amused little smiles before making their way in the bakery.
One short lecture on polyamory and a revised chalk drawing later (Giorno drew it and used red pink and blue for the colors of the stick figures and Fugo is so, so fond of this boy), he and Giorno continue their walk down the streets. Fugo doesn't want to admit it but he's pouting a little.
"I wanted that cupcake."
"We have dinner waiting for us at home."
"It's one cupcake."
"It's a huge dinner."
"It's not like I eat much."
"Tonight you will." There's that tone again, the same one shared by everyone else since he woke up that morning, like an inside joke he doesn't know.
"What does that mean?!" His anger doesn't explode anymore, it rarely does, instead it comes out as sparks, small and containable, prone to a fire only if it's left out for too long. "What the hell has been happening?!"
Thankfully Giorno is quite used to his anger, knows when to let the sparks burn and when to put it out. "You'll know soon enough. Just trust me."
The spark dies out but it still simmers beneath his skin. "I don't like being kept in the dark, Giogio."
"Then, let me be your light."
Fugo snorts. "That sounds like something out of Mista's romance movies."
Giorno hums. "I would hope so considering I'm romancing you, Panna."
A real laugh this time. Giorno smiles, pushes further.
"If I had a flower for every time I realized I love you, I would have a garden in my hands."
"I get it, Giogio."
"If my kisses were snowflakes I'd send you a blizzard."
"Stop that."
"Even if there was no gravity on Earth, I'd still fall for you."
"No."
"Aside from looking pretty, what else do you do for a living?"
"Subject myself to the whims of my sappy boss, apparently."
Giorno laughs at that and it's a beautiful sound, almost worth the embarrassment that Fugo feels.
"Are you done now?"
"No, no, no I have one more left." Giorno tilts his head up in a silent request. Fugo sighs but it comes out fond. "I can't taste my lips. Can you do it for me?"
Fugo shoves Giorno away with a grin before promptly pulling him back in and softly pressing their lips together.
The palazzo is dark when they get back.
Fugo looks at the empty hallways with trepidation. His own room is always lit up regardless of the time. It makes it feel safer, makes him feel more in control.
Something warm slips into his hand. Giorno looks at him and understanding passes between them. "I got you." They traverse the dark hallways together.
Fugo expected him to lead them back to his bedroom, but to his confusion they end up the path towards Giorno's office.
"I told you that when you're in the dark, I will be your light. Well, consider this your daybreak."
Giorno pushes the door open and light and noise erupts from his office.
Fugo startles backwards as confetti poppers explode in his face.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY FUGO!" comes the thrill of the Sex Pistols, each one holding a confetti poppers in their tiny hands.
He blinks as the room finally comes into focus.
Giorno's office is littered with potted plants and flowering vines, basking the room in evergreen and bright rainbow flowers. A huge banner spans the great windows behind his desk, written with Fugo's name in what he recognizes as Sheila's careful script. Giorno's desk is laden with food with the centerpiece as a large strawberry shortcake from their usual restaurant. Seventeen candles are perched on it.
"SURPRISE!" Everyone in the room shouts-Mista, Sheila, Murolo, Polnareff, Trish, Giorno right behind him.
Fugo can only stare, mouth slack and eyes wide. He can't find the words to describe the surge of feelings he has right now. He forgot his own birthday and yet his friends, his family, remembered and decided to throw this day together for him. It all clicks into place, from waking up to Mista telling him to sleep in, to everyone taking over his tasks for today, Trish and Giorno must have went out with him so the rest of them have time to set up the surprise.
Seeing everyone smiling at him makes him think back to his last birthday. Bruno baked him a cake, Leone taught him how to drive, Narancia drew a picture of the two of them that he still keeps folded in his wallet.
Unknowingly, he starts crying, only realizes it when Giorno starts rubbing circles on his back and Mista wipes the tears away with his thumbs. He doesn't know what he's saying, it's a babble of gratitude, relief, bitter memories and acceptance. His boyfriends press close against him, and then Trish is hugging him too, then Sheila, then Canolo has Polnareff and Coco Jumbo in his hands and they're in a messy, sweaty pile of limbs and tears.
If this is what love felt like Fugo thinks he can get used to it.