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Their eyes met for a short moment. A fraction of a second; nothing more. Fugo sprinted away, cursing his luck. They weren't meant to meet again. Why was he running away? There was nothing to fear. He seemed to have lived a life of avoidance ever since he left Passione. His former teammate wasn't a bad person, but he was afraid. He didn't know how to face him. Fugo hugged the wall of a nearby building and steadied his breathing. He should've just left Italy when he could've.
Fugo watched the seagulls circle above the beach. They seemed to be so carefree. He watched as the waves washed the sand back into the sea. He watched as kids dipped their feet into the water while parents bathed in the sun. No, Italy was where he belonged.
He'd heard what had happened to Diavolo. To Abbachio. To Narancia. To Bruno. He'd abandoned his comrades and his former boss was dead. Tightening his fists and trying not to cry, he took a deep breath. He slumped back against the wall and sat, admiring the sea in front of him. He was nothing. Why was he worried?
He covered his face with a hand and felt the moisture on his skin. He was sweating. He'd never really felt this way before. Sure, he'd had close encounters when he was in the mafia, but this feeling was different. It was something else. Trembling a little, he tried to get back up.
"Fugo?"
That cursed voice.
"Fugo, it is you!"
He grunted in response and leaned back against the wall again. He didn't look at the young man beside him but he knew that he couldn't escape this.
Without another word, the other male sat down next to him and sighed. He looked out to the sea with Fugo.
"Why are you here?"
"I wanted to see you."
The waves crashed against the beach below them.
"You must have another motive."
"Why would you think so?"
"I left everyone." Fugo tried to force down his emotions, but the waves kept pushing them back up. The tone of his voice was already unsteady, like a buoy in a raging sea storm.
"I forgive you."
"Giorno, even if you did, Mista wouldn't. Trish wouldn't." His nails scraped at the floor impatiently. Leave already!
"They'll have to." Giorno pulled up some of the grass growing between the cracks in the stone tiles. He let them free in the wind. "I'll order them to."
"So it's true."
There was another silence before Fugo spoke again.
"So what are you going to do now, Boss?" he sneered.
"Order you to come back with me."
Giorno stood up and dusted his pants off. He stuck his hand out for Fugo to take. Reluctantly, he did so and pulled himself up. Now what?
"I've never hated you, Fugo." He smiled sincerely. "Let's go home."
Home. He didn't have one. Fugo averted his eyes from Giorno's and caught sight of the lighthouse perched on the cliff. He supposed he'd considered Passione to be his home, his very own lighthouse. Wherever they were, he belonged. He was guided by Passione. He'd been so lost. He'd grown too attached. Holding Giorno's hand for a brief moment allowed him to reassess himself.
He needed them. He needed Passione. He needed his family. His guiding light.
They walked for a long moment in complete silence, side by side. Home. That sounded good to him.