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Fugo couldn’t relax for the longest time in his life.
Ever since he watched that boat leave with Buccellati, Giorno and the rest of the gang, he wasn’t able to sleep at night. He would lie down on the crappy bed on a little apartment he found downtown and wait for his dreams to come, but every time he closed his eyes only nightmares would occupy his mind. Only the thoughts of all the horrible things that could happen to them, only the worry that consumed his entire body and soul, wondering if they would ever come back for him – or if he would ever find them again.
He was so alone. He was so lonely.
Even when he got the news, he didn’t have a soul by his side. He wasn’t even warned by anyone – he just overheard a conversation during one of his wandering nights looking for comfort in the dark streets of Italy. "Did you hear about Bruno Buccellati?", one old woman said to the other while they walked together. "Oh, God, what a tragic thing. He and the boys were such good souls. You know what happened?"
Fugo doesn’t even remember the events of that night correctly, just recalls waking up the following morning with his face puffed and covered in vomit on what he soon recognized to be the same pier of that fatidic day. He then kept telling himself that those old women were making up stories, that that couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be. So why was he so shaken up by it?
He would hear more and more of these stories on the streets with the passing of days. It took him time, a very long time, but he came to realize that it was the truth. What was being heard all over town was that Giorno Giovanna was the new Don of Passione, and that’s when it finally sank in to him. That’s when he finally let himself believe, because he didn’t have any other choice. He didn’t have any other place to run.
They were such good souls. Dammit, they were such good souls.
He hoped that, when Giorno finally accepted him into the gang again, when he extended his soft hand to take his calloused one and invited him to walk alongside him, even if Fugo still didn’t really believe he deserved it; when Giorno sat him down and explained to him what really happened, in all details, even if Fugo still didn’t believe he deserved to know; when Giorno took care of his scar with his delicate and dangerous hands and looked more angelic than ever as he told him about grief and about sadness and about hope – he hoped that he would finally find some kind of peace.
Peace was never really Fugo’s friend, though. He should’ve known that by now. He was born with a fire on his heart and poison in his veins – peace despised him. Fugo believed he deserved that.
At first, it was denial. He couldn’t believe they really followed Buccellati on that stupid plan – he couldn’t believe Buccellati, of all people, came up with such a reckless proposal. He couldn’t believe they actually betrayed the mafia that gave (but also could take) so much to them. Fugo tried to pretend it didn't happen, tried not to think about it. He would soon learn that bottling feelings up only makes them come back even stronger, ready to forever haunt him for ever trying to keep them away in the first place.
Secondly, it was only anger. Fugo should be a professional about it at this point, but this was different. So different. He would spend the first days alone with a burning fire in his heart, damaging his insides and hurting his chest, punching everything in sight and screaming in his mind – there was no point in vocalizing it; nobody could hear him. Fugo wondered why were they so stupid back then.
Then, it was bargaining. Maybe they would come back one day, was what he kept telling himself. If he waited enough, if he was patient enough, they would come back. If he survived the anxiety and dread crawling up to his very own core, taking more and more control of his being every day, then maybe it would be worth it and they could laugh it off at a restaurant someday. The same one Bruno always took them to. The same one he took Fugo to, all those years ago, like Fugo was deserving of mercy. Like Fugo could still be saved from the fear and rage wrapping around and squeezing his heart.
He went to the restaurant's door many and many times over and over. He never dared to actually enter it again, and he didn’t know what he hoped to see. Deep down, he knew the smell and taste of strawberry cakes would never be the same again.
Not much after, came depression. Days were longer than they looked like or days were nothing. He couldn’t get himself to eat. He couldn’t get himself to sleep. He couldn’t get himself to breathe. He kept thinking – what if, what if, what if, why. What if I had gone with them? What if I was capable of convincing them? What if they took me instead? Why didn’t they take me instead?
Depression never really went away - and it never really would - but he managed to keep getting through it. Some days were better than others. Some days, he could even pretend that it wasn’t his fault. He would immerse himself in the paperwork Giorno entrusted him with and shut himself away on his office on the mansion where now he lived with the young Don, busying himself as much as possible and keeping the gnawing thoughts away from his head and that familiar bitter taste away from his mouth.
The process of grief was hard, still is, and will always be. It became a little easier with Giorno by his side, telling him over and over again to forgive himself, keeping him company, wiping his tears away, listening to his strained sobs late at night.
Sometimes it would be having a specific dish for dinner, and then remembering how he asked Bruno to order it for Narancia the first time they met, and he would begin crying uncontrollably at the kitchen table. Sometimes it would be a certain song they would listen to on the car’s radio on their way home, and then remembering how Abbacchio always had it on repeat on his headphones even during their meetings, and how Bruno would always scold him about it, even though he knew Abbacchio was always listening to him, and he would have to park the car for a minute to keep himself from shaking and having to steady his breath, gripping the steering wheel so firmly his knuckles turned white.
Sometimes Giorno helped him, sometimes he had some words to give, but most of the time it was just sitting in silence and holding his hand, squeezing it, making sure Fugo knew he was there and that he also knew what it felt like. Fugo appreciated that. One of his many favorite things about Giorno was this: that silence. That knowing. That hand, that he once extended to him. That sad smile. The wings of a guardian angel wrapping around him and keeping him safe from the world that took from him and beat him up and took and beat and took and beat until he was nothing but a pile of blood and poison and vomit on the dark streets.
That was also one of the reasons why he was so glad he slept beside Giorno at night. The blonde could make him feel safe like no one and nothing ever could. He didn’t know if it was the grief they shared, he didn’t know if it was because they were part of the same team before (and now, and from now on, and forever), he didn’t know if it was because his heart only burnt with a something other than rage or fear when Giorno was close, he didn’t know if it was because the touch of his hand could stop himself from feeling the poison from running through his veins even if just for a second, but he would take it. He needed the comfort. He needed Giorno. He was glad.
Even so, the guilt and the pain never really went away. Sometimes, he would still wake up in a cold sweat in the middle of the night screaming someone’s name, dreaming of all the things that happened to them, of a devilish smile hidden behind the shadows, of the boat, of the pier, and of the boat and of the pier and of the blood.
His most recurring nightmare was that day, exactly as it was, except, as they left, floating into the sunset, the boat began to sink down, and Fugo was stuck to the ground, unable to move (like he always was), to jump into the water like Narancia did. He could only just watch, horrified, wishing he could do something – anything - and then it was Diavolo emerging from the water and slaughtering them all right there, right then, in the cruelest ways possible, all the while looking at him, deep into his eyes and his core, and always repeating himself: "It’s your fault. It’s your choice. It’s your mistake."
"They were such good souls. Must feel good that you aren’t."
"...Fugo?... Fugo. It’s okay. Fugo. It’s okay."
The worried voice kept saying something in the back of his mind, and he exhaled loudly, a long breath he didn't know he was holding. Suddenly, he felt aware of himself. Of his scrawny shirtless body covered in sweat; of the wetness on his eyes and the tears rolling down from them; of the sting on the back of his nose, of his throat sore from the scream he probably let out; of Giorno’s hands on his back, ever so soft, ever so gentle, always there, always comforting.
He looked around. They were in their room, the one they shared now for some time, ever since they first became a couple. It wasn’t a big move to them – it was like coming home. They were already so close that it didn’t seem a big deal, and it wasn’t. Ever since their first kiss, they just knew. And it was as simple as that.
Giorno’s hand was caressing his back, in a pattern now so familiar Fugo sometimes wondered why his skin still became warm with the touch. He kept saying it was okay, saying Fugo’s name until Fugo himself relaxed under his fingers and took some deep breaths. Then, it was the silence they had already made their friend. Fugo knew Giorno was just waiting patiently, as always.
"I had that nightmare again.", Fugo said, words feeling heavy in his mouth, sharp over his tongue.
Giorno hummed. And waited.
"They were there. He was there. The boat... You know.", Fugo continued, wiping some sweat off his forehead and trying to steady his breath. This time, the words stumbled out of his mouth. He hated how weak that made him feel, how small, how fragile. Then, he felt a hand on his, squeezing gently.
"I know.", Giorno said, his voice low and hoarse from having just woken up, but still as soft as ever.
Fugo tried to hide a sob, but he knew it was in vain. He hated to let Giorno see him cry, even if he already had done it so many times before, but those nightmares always ended up the same. He let out a sigh, and the tears he was holding back began streaming down his face again.
One sob. Then another.
"I can’t, I can’t...", he tried, but failed. "I can’t live with this..."
As he sobbed louder and louder, trying to get himself to stop, shaking his face, holding his hair, he felt two arms hug him suddenly from behind and a soft kiss on his back and he stopped moving. For each sob, a kiss. For each tear, a caress.
"It’s okay.", Giorno repeated. "We can. It’s okay."
"No, no, Giogio... It's not. They’re gone.", he said, a sentence that he had professed already so many times but still sent a sharp pain to his heart, like it made the chains of thorns around it tight even more.
He felt the hug get even tighter. He kept sobbing, and Giorno kept kissing. When Fugo finally calmed down enough to breathe properly again, Giorno gently kissed his way up to his shoulders, then his chin, then his cheek, then the scar near his lips, and then, turning gently his head with a finger, planting a soft and longing kiss to his mouth. Fugo sighed and instinctively leaned forward, putting his hand over Giorno’s, which rested on his cheek. His eyes were closed and he could feel Giorno’s lips hovering over his.
"Fugo... Look at me."
His voice didn’t sound demanding like when he was ordering his underlings around, playing the role of the Don. His voice sounded like how when they were alone in his office and Fugo was doing something else regarding paperwork while Giorno was reading some files, and the blonde asked him to say anything about the current book Fugo would be reading, just to distract him for a while.
Fugo opened his eyes slowly, and this time, he wasn’t out of breath because of the sobs, but because he couldn’t believe, sometimes, how he ended up being so lucky as to sleep beside a god every night. Giorno had always emanated some sort of power from himself, like he was always literally glowing with it, like he was something else other than human, something unknown, from another world. That was an impression left more on others than on Fugo now, though. To Fugo now, Giorno was his guardian angel, despite also being so much more. And he could be in paradise, but he was there, in front of him, eyes gazing into his, worry and understanding and affection and so many things swimming around his orbs, all of them directed at Fugo and Fugo only. Heaven. Fugo had a piece of heaven on his bed, and he couldn’t feel more blessed.
"Giorno.", he breathed, hoping that his droopy and swollen eyes would match the intensity of the blonde’s, but knowing, deep down, that they would. That was one of the only things Fugo was sure of.
"Fugo.", Giorno smiled, and caressed his hair gently. "I’m here."
"I know.", Fugo said, feeling the poison slowly drifting away from his veins, but not quite enough yet. "I know, but...", and they were whispering, but the next part was spoken in a even lower tone, like the ghosts could hear him: "...But I’m so afraid."
Giorno said nothing for a while. He sat there beside him, stroking his hair, occasionally wiping some remaining tears away, never looking away from his eyes. Fugo didn’t dare to either. The air of the room revolved around them, and they were still for a moment, like nothing else ever happened or was happening or was going to happen. And then, Giorno spoke.
"Fugo.", he stated again, in a firm voice this time, but still dripping with honey from his tongue. Fugo listened. When Giorno spoke, he knew he was supposed to. "You’re here. You’re here, right now, in our house...", he kissed Fugo’s cheek, "...our home...", he kissed his other one, "...our bed.", he kissed his lips and let himself linger there for a moment before pulling apart, breathing heavily and continuing, forehead resting against Fugo’s, eyes closed like his were, voice soft like the feeling that was now taking hold of Fugo’s body. "You’re here, right now, with me. You’re here, and you’re my hope and you’re my future. And that’s all that matters."
Giorno cradled Fugo’s face between his hands. It felt like a blessing. It felt like he was blessing him somehow, and, in the end, all this holiness came down to this: "I am yours."
It meant more that they could imagine. It filled the room, and Fugo already knew it, but hearing it made it special. Made every muscle on his body soften and his eyes light up and the chains loose their hold on his heart. Maybe they weren’t even there anymore. Maybe they were already gone for a long time, and it was him who kept lingering around them.
He grabbed Giorno’s hands slowly and kissed them, taking his time, showing his devotion to his divinity. He was such a good soul Fugo’s was melting into it, and maybe one day he could consider himself the same.
"Giorno... I am yours.", he repeated, tasting the words, and surprised to feel the honey now on his tongue too. He never knew he could. "I am yours, Giogio. I am all yours."
He thought, at that moment, that hearing Giorno’s words and letting himself melt into his embrace was more than a blessing. It felt, somehow, like some kind of acceptance.
Sometime after, they eventually drifted into sleep together. Fugo knew the nightmares would come again, but he also knew that he had god on his side. And he was glad. He was comforted.
He never knew how to pray, but he wondered if it felt like Giorno’s breath against his chest, his legs interlocked with his, his mouth over his, his tongue saying those words – "I am yours. I'm here. It’s okay."
For the first time in a long while, Fugo truly believed that it could be.