Chapter Text
Panna Cotta
(Cooked Cream)
- 3 gelatine leaves
- 250ml/9fl oz milk
- 250ml/9fl oz double cream
- 1 vanilla pod, split lengthways, seeds scraped out
- 25g/1oz sugar
Knees to his chest, his arms wrapped around himself tightly as a way of holding himself together as he fell apart, day after day. The air in the jail cell was stiff, and metallic; difficult to breathe, so Fugo tried not to. His breaths were shallow, and hoarse, as he gripped himself a little tighter. Perhaps he could smash his head into the concrete, choke himself on the foam stuffing of the bed mat - anything was better than suffocating, gasping for air, in the solitary grey cube. His eyes pricked with tears that he willed - or rather, refused - to let fall. Pannacotta Fugo was a lot of things, but he was not weak.
The slot in the door slid open, and deep set, piggy eyes, peered through. Fugo was immediately on his feet, untangling himself as he clawed at the door, yelling hoarsely and desperately.
"I have a right to legal counsel! I demand to speak to a lawyer!" He cried out, pounding on the metal door, the red paint flaking off like the dried blood on his knuckles.
The piggy eyes of the police officer narrowed a little, and Fugo wanted to do nothing more than gouge them out.
"You have no right to hold me here! There is no way this will hold up in court! I cannot be criminally charged for acting out of necessity!" Fugo bit his tongue to stop himself from calling the police officer a bastardo, though it took a great deal of effort.
"You're being released," The officer said with a distinct venom in his voice, and Fugo heard the bolts of the door being undone. Surprised, he stood back a little as the heavy door swung open, allowing blinding light and fresher air into the cramped room.
"I'm free to go?" Fugo questioned, and the officer grinned, with a look of pure malice. It made Fugo feel uneasy, but he did his best not to let it show.
"Not quite. We can't have little stronzi like you, kicking around the streets, nicking whatever takes their fancy, now can we?"
Fugo stood for a moment, eyebrow raised in an expression that he hoped radiated how severely unimpressed he was. The officer did not continue, merely beckoning Fugo out of the cell with a gruff 'This way.' leaving Fugo with the unanswered question of what the hell did this guy mean by 'Not quite'?
He was led to a room that was starkly different than the room he had been interrogated in earlier - he supposed this would be a room for victims. Instead of the one-way glass and cold metal table with a loop for handcuffs, this room was carpeted with wooden chairs and a folded up plastic table. Not comfortable, by any means, but a marginal improvement.
Sitting in one of the wooden chairs at the table was a man with the darkest, sleekest black hair Fugo had ever seen. He wore a crisp white shirt paired with a black scarf made of a light cotton material - a completely monochrome ensemble. Upon Fugo entering the room, the man stood, a wide smile on his face as he approached Fugo, a hand outstretched. Pannacotta Fugo could not read this man in the slightest, and he didn't like it.
The man, Bruno Bucciarati, as he quickly introduced himself, seemed to fill the entire room with his presence - not in an unsettling way at all, but rather as if the man radiated emotional warmth. He sat back down at the table, gesturing to the seat across from him for Fugo to sit. Obliging, Fugo pushed the chair as far away from Bucciarati as he could while still being at a socially acceptable distance. He turned his body sideways a little in his seat, so he could see any movement from the doorway in his peripherals. He folded his arms across his chest defensively - he didn't trust Bucciarati, and he wanted the man to know it.
Bruno didn't seem thrown at all by Fugo's stand-offish demeanour, though, as he tucked a few dark strands of hair behind his ear - not that they were ever out of place.
"So, Fugo. I understand you've been having a difficult time of it lately?" Fugo snorted. A complete understatement. Shoplifting and pick-pocketing had never been on his moral compass before, but now it was necessity, and he'd been stupid enough to get himself caught.
"What are you? Some kinda shrink?" Fugo asked, bluntly with a slight sneer. Bruno blinked, still with a damn calm and patient smile upon his face, that Fugo desperately wanted to smack off.
"A social worker, actually. Part time. I'm also a foster carer."
"I suppose you'll have read my record, then."
"I have."
"And?"
"And I can see that you must be going through some difficult things at the moment. I understand that you're estranged from your family?"
Fugo clicked his tongue to mask some of the anxiety he felt, his fingers gripping into his arm to ground himself.
"That is correct."
"As you're still a minor, the law requires that you are cared for by the state." Fugo wasn't an idiot - he knew exactly what Bucciarati meant. He was to be put in some kind of group home, where he'd be forced to share his room and his things - not that he had any possessions at present - with a dozen snotty kids. Living hell. He almost wished he was back in the solitary cube.
"Okay." Was all Fugo could manage, the word coming out a little quieter, a little weaker, than Fugo had meant it to. He cleared his throat in an attempt to regain some composure.
"You're going to be placed with a foster family. More specifically, my own. My partner and I are both foster carers - you'll be staying in our home, you'll have your own space, your own things, and we'll look into schooling to make sure that your life can get back to normal. What do you think about that?"
Fugo sniffed, and he hoped that Bucciarati wouldn't take it as a sign he was about to start crying.
"I don't suppose I have a choice in the matter, do I?" He sighed, looking away from the dark-haired man in a disinterested fashion.
"For now, we can give it a try. If you're not happy, we can look into other foster families or perhaps a group home."
Fugo stared at the dark stain on the carpet. He thought about all of the terrible things that must have happened in this room, all the people told that their loved ones were hurt or dead or worse. What could be worse than death? Fugo considered this for a moment, feeling sick as he realised he knew the answer.
"--Pannacotta?" A soft voice dragged him out of the depths of his own mind, and Fugo looked up to see Bucciarati staring at him, bright blue eyes swimming with something unreadable.
"It's Fugo. Please, do not call me Pannacotta."
"Ah, my apologies Fugo. Are you alright? I understand this must be a lot to deal with."
"I'm fine." Fugo managed, through gritted teeth. A lie, and not for the first time. He expected Bruno to relax a little, but the man across the table still sat perfectly poised, his legs crossed, his hands resting gently in his lap - an air of sophistication and trust around him, that almost made Fugo want to spill all of his deepest darkest secrets to the man. Almost. Fugo couldn't help but wonder if his parents would've loved him a little more if he had been as put-together and poised as Bucciarati was. Pushing the thought out of his mind, Fugo drummed his foot impatiently on the floor.
"So, are we going then?"
This seemed to startle Bucciarati a little, the man sitting up even straighter as he tucked yet another imaginary strand of hair back into place.
"Yes, of course. Would you like to go to the bathroom first? You've got a little something here," Bucciarati pointed to his own cheek, just under his eye, and Fugo couldn't help but notice the slightly chipped French manicure on his nails. Apparently, the man cared enough about his appearance to get his nails done, but not enough to maintain it. Fugo mentally tucked his observation away for later reference.
The police station bathroom was a miserable and grubby affair, smelling of stale urine and devastation. Disgusting. Fugo scrunched up his nose at the awful stench, as he approached the murky mirror, covered in a thick layer of grime. He never seemed to be able to recognise the person looking back at him. Today, the figure in the mirror had horribly matted white hair, and pale white skin with the tiniest of pink tinges to match. His eyelashes and eyebrows were white, making him look somewhat frostbitten - as if he'd been out in the wintery cold all night. He'd read about Albinos in other countries - supposedly they were killed, and their body parts used in medicine made by witch-doctors. How gruesome. Fugo rubbed a dirty mark off of his cheek, trying to breathe through his mouth so he didn't inhale the foul stench of the bathroom. Even if he was to be killed, and sold for his body parts, he didn't suppose he would be worth that much.
Bucciarati was waiting outside the bathroom door - there was a tiny window with grubby frosted glass above one of the cubicles, covered in cobwebs and dead flies. Fugo gave a scoff of disgust - didn't anyone clean in here? If he wanted to make a run for it, the miniscule window would likely be his best bet; with Bucciarati waiting outside, leaving and booking it down the corridor was nigh impossible. Did he even want to escape? Perhaps it'd be better to just take his chances. He couldn't help but feel just as trapped as the decaying flies in the cobweb - completely at the mercy of whatever predator decided to go for him next.
They'd stopped at a McDonald's drive-thru on the way to the house, Bruno ordering two coffees - one black, and one cappuccino with extra chocolate sprinkles, as well as an absurd amount of hash browns. He turned to Fugo with a casual smile as he leaned out of the open window.
"What would you like?"
"I... Don't know. I haven't eaten food like this before. I don't know what's good." Fugo kicked himself internally - what the fuck kind of answer was that? Was he really asking for recommendations like they were at some kind of ristorante? He was silently grateful for the fact that Bruno didn't laugh at him, the man simply giving him an odd look before ordering some kind of 'McMuffin' - whatever the hell that happened to be, and Fugo stared at his feet, well aware of the fact that he must be horribly flushed with embarrassment.
A brown paper bag was handed to Fugo (or rather, dumped in his lap), as well as a pile of napkins and a paper cup.
"I got you a hot chocolate too, I hope that's okay." Fugo accepted to hot drink gratefully with a quiet 'Thank you' as he held it to warm his hands.
"You can eat in the car, I don't mind. We're a little while away from home so you can go ahead before it gets cold," Bruno offered with a gentle hand-wave.
"Do you want something too?" Fugo asked, as he began to rifle through the bag. Bucciarati had a conflicted look on his face for a moment, before holding out a hand.
"Can you pass me a hash brown? I can eat it at traffic lights." Fugo obliged, pressing the greasy morsel into his hand.
Slamming the car door shut behind him a little more aggressively than he'd anticipated, Fugo kicked a little at the gravel in the driveway and stared up in hidden awe at the house in front of him, looming and intimidating. It wasn't at all what he'd been expecting - a large farmhouse in the middle of the countryside in the middle of bumfuck nowhere was rather quite the opposite of what Fugo had been expecting.
Bruno stood next to him, gazing up at the house too - his expression wistful and a little dreamy.
"Ah, it's wonderful, isn't it? My partner and I actually only moved in about a week ago, so I'm afraid we're still unpacking." He looked a little sheepish with the last sentence, and Fugo realised how much more comfortable the man seemed now, standing in front of his house, compared to how he was at the police station. He wondered if Bruno was analysing him in the same way, taking little mental notes to reflect upon later - he wouldn't be at all surprised if that were the case, but he still felt a little uneasy at the thought.
"After you," Bruno offered, gesturing forwards, towards the front door - painting in a gaudy and peeling dark green. He wore a kind expression upon his face, bright blue eyes illuminated with an expression he couldn't quite name but he was certain it was positive.
"It's fine, after you." Fugo nodded, in as polite a manner as he could muster.
"I insist, you go ahead." Bruno still wore his kind expression as if it were a designer item, straight out of Vogue - meaning that it was much too good for Fugo.
"I'd rather not. I don't like people walking behind me." Fugo explained carefully, as he stared down at the gravel, feeling a hot sense of shame bubbling up inside of himself at the revelation he'd just offered.
"Thank you for telling me," He could hear the smile in Bruno's voice and searched for any tinge of malice in his tone, only to come up empty handed. There was the crunching of footsteps across the gravel and the sound of the front door creaking open. Fugo's legs moved without his permission or command, bringing him inside the home. It seemed nowadays that everyone had control over his body except for himself.
The house smelled of ashy and aromatic incense - the specifics of which he couldn't quite pick out. It was a scent he'd experienced a few times before, strolling past the alternative stores in Naples - colourful clothes in floaty fabrics hanging up outside and swaying softly in the breeze.
"Would you take your shoes off? You can just leave them over here--" The carpet in the hallway was cream coloured and likely brand new, or at the very least, recently cleaned. Fugo took his dirty scuffed trainers off, tucking them next to Bruno's shiny and polished black leather shoes. They looked terribly out of place together and Fugo somehow felt the tiniest bit of sympathy to his shoes - no matter how silly it sounded - as he could somewhat relate.
In this warm house, smelling of sweet and ashy incense, with a soft and fluffy carpet under his feet, he felt horribly and painfully out of place; yet somehow, not unwelcome.
"Leone? Where are you?" Bruno called out, hanging up his dark jacket on a shiny silver hook next to only a few others.
"Kitchen!" A voice called back, gruff and assumedly burly. Fugo froze, the responding voice was unexpected.
"Is there anyone else staying here apart from you and your partner?" Fugo asked cautiously, cursing himself for not asking sooner.
"No, it's just me and Leone at the moment. Come on though and you can meet him."
Following closely behind, the pair headed into the kitchen - the radio played at a low volume with some kind of classical music, and there were cardboard boxes and scraps of newspaper strewn all around. There was someone kneeling on the kitchen counter, stacking plates into a cupboard, long silvery hair cascading down their back, poker straight. Was this Bucciarati's partner?
"This is Fugo," Bruno introduced him, ghosting a hand over his shoulder. Fugo reflexively twitched, even though the hand never made contact and Bucciarati quickly retracted his hand away to his side. Fugo couldn't help but feel a little guilty - chances were, the man was only trying to be friendly. However, he'd taken that chance before - he'd been too trusting, too naive. Fugo's stomach lurched and he felt nausea creep up in his throat as he tried to keep his eyes focused on the silver haired figure in front of him, who was currently clambering down off of the counter with far less grace than one would expect of someone with a form like that.
'Leone' had a masculine face, though it was decorated with harsh cosmetics - dark coloured lipstick and coal black eyeliner sharp enough that it looked liable to do some severe damage if you got to close to them. The figure looked entirely androgynous - his expression could be considered unreadable if there was one there, but instead there was nothing - a completely blank slate with some severe looking decoration.
"I'm Leone. Abbacchio. Call me whichever you'd like." The silver-haired individual nodded, Fugo giving an appropriately respectful nod in response.
"He means it's nice to meet you," Bruno chuckled to himself - and Fugo took note of the masculine pronoun - Bucciarati seemed to hang off of Abbacchio's arm affectionately, and the latter didn't shrug him away at all. Fugo supposed that the pair must be partners after all - presumably in the romantic sense.
"Please may I take a shower?" Fugo interrupted, albeit a little hesitantly.
"Ah, yes of course! I'll get you sorted out with some towels and fresh clothes and I'll show you upstairs." Bucciarati answered easily, untangling himself from Abbacchio who went right back to stacking dishes, completely unperturbed.
Bucciarati offered Fugo his pick of several empty rooms - none of which were especially furnished. Bruno seemed a little embarrassed at this, explaining once again in an apologetic tone that they had just moved in and were still getting things organised.
"We could think about decorating in here if you'd like. The walls could probably do with a lick of paint if you want to pick out a colour." Bruno spoke mindlessly as he shoved pillows into floral pillowcases - the flowery decorations pastel and delicate, and not at all befitting of Fugo. The sound of Bucciarati's voice was comforting as Fugo sorted through a bag of clothing, selecting the most non-descript sweaters and trousers that he could - he didn't want to stand out, not anymore. It made him too much of a target.
Comfort was found in the mundanity of it all - the simple days of unpacking cardboard boxes with sharpie labels declaring 'Kitchen!' or 'Misc!' - there were a great many boxes labelled 'Miscellaneous', filled with all manner of gaudy knick-knacks that looked as if Bucciarati had simply gone to goodwill and swept his arm along the shelves, right into a cardboard box.
Fugo couldn't help but raise an eyebrow as he held up an ornamental teddy bear holding a bright red heart with the words 'I wuv you!' adorned across it in cursive white script. Bruno’s face immediately lit up with recognition and joy upon seeing the object, and Abbacchio rolled his eyes, reaching out to take the small ornament.
“I can’t believe you kept this,” He grumbled, making a face at the offending object, the bear’s painted eyes staring back at him lifelessly.
Bruno looked hurt, letting out a faux gasp as he clutched a hand to his chest.
“Of course, I kept it! You gave it to me – I couldn’t think of throwing something like this away!”
Fugo smirked a little.
“Really? Abbacchio gave it to you?” He turned to the man, a devious look in his eyes.
“Didn’t think you were the type.”
“I’m not.” Abbacchio snarled, reaching out to snatch the ornament back from Bruno, who held it up away from him, just barely out of reach. “It gave it to him as a joke. Give it here.”
Bruno looked at him through narrowed eyes, a little suspicious.
“Why? What do you want with him?”
“I’m gonna take him outside and beat him to death with a baseball bat.”
The ‘I wuv you’ bear ended up sitting pride of place, right in the center of the mantlepiece.
It all felt a little strange, and far too personal to be sorting through all of Bruno’s and Abbacchio’s things like clothes and memories, but they were keen to let him help. It was odd, like they were building a home together, all three of them – he wasn’t sure at which point he thought of it as his home too, rather than a house that he was staying in; perhaps it was around the time that Bruno bought him a huge whiteboard that almost entirely took up one of the wall’s in Fugo’s bedroom. It might’ve been around the time that Bruno presented him with a hideous strawberry shaped rug from Ikea – or it might’ve been around the third or fourth trip to Ikea as they went back again and again to purchase the entire set of hideously gaudy strawberry shaped and patterned items, not limited to curtains, bed-covers, cushions, and an incredibly repulsive piece of strawberry wall art on a cheap canvas. He didn’t even like strawberries that much, but he found that he liked them more and more each time he looked around his bedroom; it was his bedroom now, not just a room that he stayed in.
He busied himself sorting clothes with both Bruno and Abbacchio one afternoon – the latter wasn’t so talkative, the former nattering on mindlessly about the memories attached to each item.
"You know, most people sort out what to keep and what to throw before they move house." Fugo murmured absentmindedly under his breath, Bruno giving a sheepish smile as Abbacchio huffed in agreement.
"Ah... I suppose so. Moving was all a bit of a rush though, it was really a case of grab everything and go, unfortunately." Bruno answered, frowning at a hideously red wine stained shirt before throwing it into a black bin-bag.
"Don't throw that, we can make cleaning rags out of it," Abbacchio grumbled, retrieving the shirt from the bag and adding it to his own pile. Bruno rolled his eyes towards Fugo - the pair had noticed the man's sentimentality towards many of the possessions which had led to a great reluctance to throw anything away.
"How come you had to move so quickly?" Fugo didn't miss the look that Bucciarati and Abbacchio shared for a fleeting moment.
"Leone left his job and we finally had some time so we wanted to move in as soon as we could. It's always been my dream to live somewhere like this," Bruno had an almost misty and faraway look in his eyes as he unfolded another shirt.
"Oh. What're you doing now?" Fugo asked Abbacchio, not wanting to pry, but still wanting to know more about those he was living with.
"I'm a trophy wife." The silver haired man answered easily, completely deadpan, only for Bruno to hit him in the chest with a t-shirt and a hissed 'Leone!'.
Fugo chuckled a little under his breath as he unfolded a navy blue t-shirt. His mouth went completely dry as he read the text on it: 'Università degli Studi di Napoli'.
Bruno must've seen the look of discomfort across Fugo's face as he craned his neck to look at the garment.
"What've you got there?" He asked gently, and Fugo turned the shirt around so Bruno could read the white text - the dark haired man smiling.
"Oh! That's where I did my social services degree. Lovely place, the architecture is beautiful."
Fugo felt as if he was swallowing sandpaper, sticking at scratching at his throat all the way down.
"I-- I know. I went there." He cursed himself for stuttering, and Bruno looked a little quizzical.
"What do you mean?"
"I studied Law there. I got kicked out."
Unspoken, the reason that he got kicked out hung in the air. Bruno had read his criminal record, and Fugo wondered how much he knew of the terrible events that had transpired there. He didn't want to think about it, but already awful memories were replaying in the back of his mind, disgusting and violent, and altogether nauseating.
Distantly, he saw Bruno open and close his mouth, biting back some words. Abbacchio looked at the clock on the wall - the ticking obnoxious.
"It's getting late. We should finish up for tonight." He noted, beginning to scoop up some of the discarded garments.
Fugo allowed the t-shirt to fall from his grasp, and with trembling hands, he folded it messily, hiding the stark words printed across the shirt within the folds.
Lying painfully awake in his bed that night, Fugo could feel his attacker's presence behind him. He froze, nausea clawing up his throat, his back against the wall, as he desperately tried to remember how to breathe. He couldn't have people behind him. He couldn't have people behind him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and quickly opened them again because he so desperately needed to be aware of what was around him - who was around him.
Fugo's body felt as if it was not his. Yet Fugo's body was not his attacker's. It was as if Fugo's body belonged to that version of his attacker, that memory of his attacker - Showering could only get him so clean; and God, he had tried. His nails had raked against his back, night after night, as he desperately tried to scrape his attacker's touch away. He could still feel his hot breath on his cheek, his beard scratching his neck, his arms enclosing Fugo, wrapping around him so tightly that he couldn't escape, he can't escape--
Fugo had always prided himself on his ability to be logical, to make sense of things. His rationale was completely unparalleled, but right now, he was being completely suffocated by his bedsheets and the thick and stale air of the room was choking him, like cotton wool was being violently shoved down his throat.
There was a roaring static in his ears as he tried to brush away the grabbing hands coming out from the dark. He opened his door much more abruptly than expected, and stumbled down the corridor towards the bathroom in a complete daze, his nails raking up and down his arms in a desperate and futile attempt to claw those awful touches away. He was dirty, God, he felt dirty and in a way that meant he could never be clean.
Fugo didn't bother with the light in the bathroom, turning the tap on to a scalding hot temperature as he shoved his hands underneath, a little surprised to find that he couldn't really feel anything. The hot water pipes creaked a little in the old farmhouse, but Fugo could barely hear it over the static.
A hand reached out from the darkness behind him, and grabbed onto his shoulder, the grip was light but completely unexpected, and devastatingly unwelcome. Fugo screamed in anguish, whipping round to claw at his attacker, violently scraping at him. He could hear yells and he didn't know if they were coming from himself or from his attacker, all he knew was that he needed to defend himself, protect himself-- He wasn't scared. He wasn't scared, he was angry, he was fucking furious that someone thought they could own him like that, treat him like that, like he was some kind of doll, some plaything, a toy to be used, broken, and thrown away, shattered into a million pieces - far too damaged to ever be superglued back together.
Lights flicked on, blindingly bright, and Fugo was brought kicking and screaming from the depths of his psyche, back to the present. Leone Abbacchio stood him front of his, gripping his cheek, blood seeping out from between his fingers. His face was twisted a little, not with anger, but an awful mix of confusion and concern and general misunderstanding at the situation. Fugo's skin burned painfully, perhaps blistering from the boiling hot water still spilling from the taps and filling up the bathroom with steam.
"Fugo," A soft voice entered the fray, and Fugo snapped his head towards the source to find Bruno Bucciarati standing there in the doorway, eyes ringed with violently dark circles from intense tiredness - wearing a matching expression to Abbacchio's.
Fugo stared down at his stinging hands, bright pink and tender, little bits of blood caked under his fingernails.
"Fugo," Bruno repeated. The static was gone now, but he still felt so far away from everything.
"It's okay. You're okay. You're safe." Bucciarati spoke as if trying to tame a wild animal, taking a step closer inside the room.
Fugo looked up at him, and Bruno could see the look of horror plastered across his face, the flames blazing in his red eyes flickering and burning out. His hands were still outstretched in front of him, palms up and burning.
"I-- I didn't mean to--"
"I know. It's okay."
Fugo's gaze flickered across to Abbacchio, still holding onto his cheek, not daring to move so as to not startle the boy.
"I swear, I didn't mean to--"
"It's fine. I've had much worse, this is nothing." Abbacchio's lips seemed to twitch at the edges into the tiniest of smiles, and Fugo let out a wet laugh, followed by a sob.
"Fuck, I just-- Fuck." Fugo brought his hands to his mouth, letting out more silenced sobs disguised as laughs, and he slid down the tiled wall, sinking into a desperately shaking heap on the floor. Silently, and slowly, Abbacchio reached over him to turn the tap off.
"It's okay." Bucciarati repeated, now kneeling in front of Fugo at eye level. Fugo couldn't meet his bright blue gaze, hopeful and promising.
"I'm gonna go get cleaned up," Abbacchio murmured, departing from the bathroom with slow and deliberate movements, leaving Fugo and Bruno alone.
"I'm so sorry," Fugo began, and Bruno wanted nothing more than to reach out and hug him - instead, all he could offer was a sympathic shake of the head.
"You have nothing to be sorry for. Did Abbacchio startle you?"
"He-- He put his hand on my shoulder. I thought-- I thought--" Fugo hated himself more and more with every single gasping choked word that got stuck in his throat.
"You thought he was someone else?" Bruno supplied, before narrowing his lips into a thin line. Fugo nodded, a stilted and jerky motion, as if he still didn't have complete control over his body.
"We aren't going to hurt you, Fugo. You're safe."
Bucciarati had read Fugo's record at the police station. There had been a charge of grievous bodily harm against a college professor. It had been ruled a verdict of self-defence. He hadn't read any further than that; but he now feared that he knew now what it had been self-defence against.
"Fugo, it wasn't your fault."
"I survived," The trembling boy bit back, and Bruno realised they weren't talking about the events that had taken place moments ago. There was a harrowing look in Fugo's eyes, and Bruno knew that he wasn't all there in the present.
"Just because you survived doesn't mean it was ever okay." Bruno responded gently, the hard-tiled floor of the bathroom hard on his knees, though he didn't dare breathe for fear of startling the boy.
There was silence in the room, the only sounds being the steady dripping of the bathroom tap and Fugo's shuddering breaths as he tried to compose himself.
"I'm so tired," Fugo squeezed his eyes shut, and a few tears spilled down his cheeks.
"I'm so fucking exhausted. I just want to forget. I can't forget." The boy wrenched his hands through his snowy hair, tugging harshly. Bruno didn't say anything, giving him the space to speak if he wanted to continue.
"He took everything from me. He fucking-- he fucking ripped my dignity away from me and threw it in the trash and I gave him what he fucking deserved." He spat out the last few words like they were laced with venom.
"He got what he fucking deserved and I suppose I did too, because now I'm fucking here." He looked up at Bucciarati for a moment, shame flickering in his eyes.
"No offense."
Bruno gave a weak smile. "None taken."
Fugo shook his head and heaved out a sigh, heavy with burdens and devastation, all the things that had weighed him down, and would continue to.
"I wish I was just angry about it. It'd be easier if I was just angry. But I'm not. I'm scared. I'm scared all the damn time and I hate myself for it."
"There's no right or wrong way to feel," Bruno murmured gently as Fugo swiped at his eyes and the tears threatening to fall with the heel of his palm.
"The thought of him thinking about me disgusts me, but at the same time-- I feel... I feel like it'd be even more devastating if he didn't at all. That he got to walk away from it and I'm still stuck feeling his arms snake around me." Fugo's breath hitched with the last words, his voice becoming choked and a little quieter.
"It's not fucking fair." The entire ordeal had been a hazy blur, something nauseating that he could hardly remember, but at the same time, it felt as if it were his clearest memory - he swore he could pick out every square inch on his body that he had touched.
Bruno listened intently to Fugo as he spoke, not interrupting, and wanting to give the boy the space he needed to speak.
Fugo shook his head, swallowing tears and bile back down.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you guys up. You can go back to bed now." Bruno shook his head, offering Fugo a weak smile with his sympathetic blue eyes that seemed to stare right through you.
"You don't need to be sorry. I think I'll head downstairs and maybe make some sleepy-time tea and we can watch a film or something?"
Fugo swiped at a few stray tears with his fingertips.
"Yeah, sure, can you just give me like, five minutes?"
"Of course. Take as long as you need. No rush."
True to his word, Fugo crept down the stairs five minutes later, pausing on the bottom step to watch the scene in the living room. Bruno and Abbacchio sat on the sofa - the former holding the latter's face in his hands. Fugo felt a stabbing pang of guilt. Abbacchio's silvery hair fell around his face like a curtain, obscuring his expression, and Bruno was murmuring something to him, too quiet to be heard. The moment felt far too personal, so Fugo cleared his throat a little to alert the pair to his presence.
Bruno's hands dropped from his partner's face, and both of their heads turned to him, Bruno wearing a weak smile, Abbacchio's expression as unreadable as always, though he looked slightly less threatening with a Hello Kitty band aid across his face. He offered a slight nod of the head, which Fugo returned, nervously rubbing his arm.
"Uh, sorry about your face."
Abbacchio let out a slight snort, retorting childishly with "I'm sorry about yours."
"What do you--? Oh. Wow. Real classy." Abbacchio shrugged noncommittally, and Fugo silently breathed out a sigh of relief, glad that some of the tension had left the room.
"Come sit down. We're watching My Neighbour Totoro." Abbacchio beckoned, picking up the remote.
Fugo padded over to the sofa, slumping down into one of the adjacent armchairs as he stole a pillow from the end of the sofa.
"I haven't seen it. What's it about?"
"It's a damn masterpiece is what it is."
The days, weeks, and eventual months passed with a simple and calming mundanity. He'd sometimes mention something, and instantly regret the words as soon as they spilled from his lips - but Bruno would always look at him with a kind expression and offer him a quiet "Thank you for telling me." before going back to whatever he was doing, and Fugo was glad that it was so simple - things had never been that simple before. The old farmhouse became a home, a home that Fugo felt included in for the first time.
The gentle simplicities of life in the Neapolitan countryside didn't last though - as Narancia Ghirga entered their lives, bringing with him a fleeting whirlwind of unbridled chaos.