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Fugo flailed under the blankets as his phone woke him up. The room was in complete darkness. It had still been light out when he’d closed his eyes. Shit . He had only meant to lie down for a little while, but he was still recovering from an especially shitty rut that had left him exhausted in every sense of the word.
The phone was still ringing. Focus . He groped for it in the darkness. "This is Fugo."
"Hey!" Narancia was way too chipper for someone who was also coming down from a rut. Fuck synchronized cycles from being in a pack. "Get dressed, we're going out." The other alpha was yelling to be heard over the blare of American rap music.
"Narancia I'm tired."
"Lame. How many days has it been since you left your apartment?"
The answer was three. Three days of drugs that left him sick, tired, and too dopey to cause any problems while his rut ran its course. “I don’t know. I might stay in.”
Another voice chimed in on the other end of the phone, barely audible over… was that Tupac? "Is he coming?"
Fugo's stomach did a little swoop. That was Giorno’s voice.
“Where are you going?”
“Lariq!” No surprises there. It was a club with a gambling den in the basement. Passione ran the place. “Giorno’s never been! We’re gonna dance and get wild so you better come.”
Lariq would be full of drunk people trying to get laid. Just imagining Giorno in that place made something angry and ugly writhe in his chest. "Fine, I’ll be there. Someone has to keep you from doing anything stupid."
“Hah! Yes! Mista found a car, we’re picking you up in twenty minutes.”
---
Fugo fussed over what to wear and got mad at himself for doing it. He slapped patches over the scent glands on his neck and pulled on a button up with a high collar to cover it. It was hard to judge the strength of your own scent, but he probably still stank from his rut.
He did not think about why Giorno might hang out with Narancia when he was just coming out of a rut. Narancia was in a pleasant mood. No. He couldn't go down that road or he'd get angry. It was none of his business what either of them did. He’d made himself clear what he thought when he’d gone to Giorno’s apartment while he was in heat. Like an idiot.
His thoughts came to a halt when a car honked out front three times in quick succession. Fugo ground his back teeth together as he grabbed his keys and stomped down the stairs. Narancia was halfway out of the backseat window and waiving, “Hurry up!” Mista, behind the wheel, looked like he was ready to lean on the horn again.
The car door protested as Fugo wrenched it open. “Shut up, you assholes. Do you want to wake up the entire neighborhood with this piece of shit?”
Mista twisted around from the driver’s seat, “Hey! Be nice to the car.”
“Why do you always have to boost the shittiest cars?” Fugo wrinkled his nose as he sat down. Narancia wasn’t wearing patches and the fading smell of his rut made Fugo’s hands involuntarily ball into fists.
Giorno turned around from the passenger seat, “Hi Fugo.” He was devastatingly attractive in a way that Fugo should be used to by now, but still wasn’t. His t-shirt was a verdant green color that brought out the same color in his eyes and had a scooped neckline to show off his unblemished neck. Fugo felt a sense of relief and satisfaction at the lack of marks, but shame chased those feelings away.
Fugo realized that he had just been staring and hadn’t responded to the greeting when Narancia leaned forward to whisper to Giorno, “Ignore him, he’s always an asshole when he’s coming out of a rut.”
The other alpha’s mouth so close to Giorno’s neck made Fugo’s temper fray. His lips pulled back into a snarl before he could stop himself.
Narancia gave him the same wide-eyed expression that he always did when he didn’t understand why Fugo was mad, “It’s not my fault you’re in a nasty mood because you need to get laid.”
Fugo lunged, and both alphas lost themselves in a tangle of fists and snarling teeth for a few seconds.
“Hey!” Mista snapped, “Knock it off back there!”
Narancia pulled back to his side of the back seat, blowing his bangs out of his face with a huff. Fugo cranked the window down and took a deep breath of fresh air. Mista was the kind of beta who didn’t take any shit or show his throat when alphas got aggressive with him. It was a trait that Fugo normally admired, but right now he had to put a lot of effort into not kicking the back of Mista’s seat.
----
The bouncer knew their faces and let them by without asking for ID. The air inside the club was charged with pheromones and Fugo immediately felt his aggression spike. He let out a slow breath. It would be fine.
Rhythm is a Dancer started blaring through the sound system, and Narancia made a sound of disgust. “What the fuck.” He forced his slight frame through the crowd toward the DJ’s booth. Fugo moved to follow him, but Mista put a hand on his shoulder. “I got him. You watch the new kid.” Mista raised his eyebrows and gave Giorno a sideways glance before disappearing after Narancia. Fugo wanted to punch him in the face.
As if Giorno needed anyone to keep an eye on him. He had a powerful stand and the intelligence to use it to its fullest potential. You didn’t fuck with Giorno Giovanna unless you had a death wish. The omega in question grabbed his hand and pulled him out into the mass of people. “Come on, I want to dance.”
“I don’t know Giorno.” This was a dumb idea. He had every intention of saying no, but Giorno looked so pleased he just followed as the omega dragged him into the crush of people. The beat of the music pulsed and all the other smells of drunk and horny people were shoved aside as Giorno pressed up against him. Fugo froze in place and forgot how to breathe for a moment.
The smell coming from him was like a garden warmed by summer sunshine. Soothing but also enticing. Giorno danced well, which shouldn’t have been surprising. He moved gracefully from the tips of his fingers to the roll of his hips. The press of other people kept them close together. Giorno’s eyes were big and dark in the dim light as he wound his arms around Fugo’s neck.
The memory came quick and unbidden.
I could handle you.
An image of Giorno accompanied the words; his blonde hair loose and tangled, lips swollen from kissing, and the imprint of Fugo’s teeth on his neck. God that kiss. That fucking kiss. He felt a surge of desire that was quickly followed by shame.
Something must have changed in his expression because Giorno’s brows furrowed and he leaned forward so he could hear him over the music. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” he lied.
“You look like you’re thinking too hard.”
Narancia must have laid into the DJ because a faster, more aggressive beat played as DMX roared out of the sound system. Giorno took the opportunity to turn so his back was against Fugo’s chest.
Fugo swallowed hard, eyes glued to the arch of his neck and the star-shaped birthmark down near his shoulder. The omega leaned back, and the unmistakable smell of desire filled Fugo’s nose. Giorno’s smile was wicked.
Fugo smothered a groan, “You are fucking killing me.”
Giorno’s soft laugh made him flush. He had not meant to say that out loud.
Time passed as one song flowed into the next until he lost track of how long they’d been dancing. Fugo was rapidly forgetting why this was an awful idea. It was dark and loud and no one was paying attention to anything outside of their own personal bubble. Giorno’s mouth was so close. It would be so easy to kiss his lips or his neck, or to pull his hips back so he could feel how much he wanted him.
Giorno tilted his head back to nuzzle Fugo’s neck. The corners of his mouth turned down into a slight frown, “I can’t smell you.”
“Patches,” he muttered.
Giorno made a little noise of disappointment and pulled one of Fugo’s hands toward his face so he could nuzzle the weaker scent gland in his wrist.
Fugo lost himself for a moment. His fingers dug in to Giorno's hip and he dipped his head and buried his nose in golden hair. There was an itch behind his canines. Mine. The thought intruded at full force and he froze. The want and the fear were at war and he couldn’t breathe. He pulled back.
Giorno turned to look at him, “Fugo?”
Shit. “I need some water. Or air- I don’t know.”
“Okay.” Giorno didn’t let go of Fugo’s hand as they left the dance floor. That was for the best. Losing Giorno in the crowd would only agitate him. They found a space at the bar and Fugo chugged the first glass of water before slowing down on his refill.
Giorno was leaning against the bar next to him, looking at him with narrowed eyes. “Why are you so afraid?”
Fugo winced as he swallowed, “I’m not-”
He stopped the lie before it came out of his mouth and pressed his fingers to his temple. He didn’t know how to have this conversation. Even if he did, this was the wrong place to have it.
It was at that moment, a total stranger pushed past them, hand deliberately touching the small of Giorno’s back. Fugo saw red. There was a feral snarl and a cutting pain in his hand. His fist hit flesh once, twice, and again.
Someone was pulling on his arm. "Fugo!" Even though the instinct to fight was dying down, he still growled at the person trying to stop him from beating the shit out of another alpha. Big green eyes looked up at him with a steely expression. Giorno… it was Giorno. He was holding onto Fugo's arm, only straining a little to keep him in check. He shouldn’t have been surprised after seeing the muscles in his arms that Giorno was strong enough to hold him back. He liked that. He wanted to push Giorno back against the bar and mark him with lips, tongue, and teeth. Mine. He bit his lower lip hard to keep the word in his head where it belonged.
This was why being around Giorno was a bad idea. Giorno tested his control constantly. Control was how he survived. It was what held him together when he felt like he would shake apart into a thousand insignificant pieces. It kept him from hurting people.
The man who had touched Giorno was on the floor and crawling away, his hand clapped over his bleeding mouth and his nose clearly fucked.
Fugo tried to focus through his labored breathing and the pulsing rage in his head. "I shouldn't have done that." Giorno was wrapping a handkerchief around Fugo's hand which was dripping blood.
Giorno pulled him toward the back hall and Fugo let him. He flashed what must have been his Passione badge to a bouncer who showed them to a back room. The music still thrummed here but felt more distant. The room was very dim and filled with plush and comfortable furniture.
“Come sit down. Let me fix your hand.”
He hissed as Giorno pulled the handkerchief away and the air stung the cuts in his hand. Little bits of glass were embedded in the palm of his hand. He must have crushed his water glass in his hand when he lost his temper.
There was a soft glow from Giorno’s stand and he watched as the slivers of glass turned into skin. It tingled and he forced himself not to squirm. Some stuff about having a stand would never stop being fucking weird.
Fugo closed his eyes. Anger faded to humiliation while Giorno worked. “Why did I do that?”
"You came to my rescue." Giorno said. His voice was amused, but gentle and sincere in a way that Fugo did not expect.
Fugo swallowed past the lump in his throat and tried to find his voice. "You didn’t need me to do that. You can take care of yourself.”
Giorno had the slightest hint of a smirk on his face. “Undoubtedly, but I enjoy being fussed over.” Giorno leaned in, lips ghosting over his jaw.
Fugo shuddered and pulled back. “Your taste in alphas is terrible.”
“Now that’s just being mean to both of us.” Giorno searched Fugo’s face until their eyes met. "Why is it that you think you are so unworthy of affection?”
"I-" Fugo was caught off guard and did not know how to answer. "I hurt people Giorno. It's what I do, and it's the only thing I'm good at."
“I don't think that's the whole truth.” Giorno lifted the newly healed hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to the palm. “You’re strong. You’re smart. You take care of the pack.” The intensity in Giorno's eyes made it hard to breathe.
Gold Experience was beauty and life, just like Giorno. Stands showed who you were and Fugo was nothing but poison.
“Literally anyone else would be better.”
“That is obviously not true.” Giorno frowned, “Tell me you don’t want this.” He stubbornly met Fugo’s eyes and wouldn’t look away. “Tell me to back off and I will.” He still hadn’t let go of Fugo’s hand.
Fugo pulled his free hand through his hair. If he was a better person he would do it. Tell Giorno to fuck off. He felt paralyzed. Bringing him closer and sending him away both felt unbearable. He let out an involuntary whine and it was a pitiful noise.
Giorno pressed up against his side, sturdy, warm, and reassuring. “Help me understand what’s wrong.” Giorno was quiet for a long time before saying “I used to feel that way. Like I wasn’t worthy. Like I was trash.” Giorno leaned forward and tucked a strand of hair behind Fugo’s ear. “It wasn’t true, but I needed help to see it.”
Fugo leaned into the touch. He was so tired. The scent of summer was everywhere. Giorno was scenting him and the omega's pheromones soothed the rawness inside. He wanted to believe him. Believe that he was better than a broken boy with a violent temper.
Giorno picked at one of his patches. "Let me take these off?"
"Yeah."
The cool air felt pleasant as Giorno peeled the patches away. They both nuzzled close and a soft rumble built in Giorno’s chest. The purring made his eyes burn and he bit the inside of his cheek hard.
“Dio mio you smell good.” Giorno hummed. His lips were on the base of Fugo's neck, right on his scent gland and it sent a hot thrill down his spine. A few of the buttons on his shirt were undone. He hadn’t even felt Giorno do it. As you'd expect from a pick pocket. Giorno buried his face in the crook of his neck, “No marks?” Giorno posed it as an innocent question, but he sounded pleased about it. “You should have called me.”
Fugo lost himself in the flood of scent, his nose brushing Giorno’s ear. “You wouldn’t have had a good time. I was all drugged up.” Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that.
Giorno pulled back but kept his arms around Fugo’s neck, playing with his hair. “You’re on sedatives?”
Fugo sighed and had to force his jaw to relax. He could tell Giorno. Most of the gang knew already. “Yeah. During my ruts. Ever since I got Purple Haze. I don’t trust myself not to hurt anyone.”
A flicker of sadness quickly followed by determination passed over Giorno’s face. "Do you trust me?"
"With what exactly?"
“To take care of you.” He put Fugo's hand on his hip. “To take care of myself. To stop you if you do something I don't want.” He looked at Fugo searchingly. “To stop if I do something you don’t want.”
“I-” He wanted to. He wanted to trust him so badly. “I-”
Giorno’s ringtone cut him off. He pulled the phone out with a curse, looking at the number. “It’s Mista.”
Fugo felt simultaneously ticked off and relieved at the interruption. “You’d better answer or he’ll come looking for us.”
Giorno flipped the phone open and held it to his ear. “Hey. Yeah. No, he’s fine. We’re in the back.” The heat rose in Giorno’s cheeks and he pursed his lips. “No!”
Fugo could hear Mista laughing on the other end of the phone.
Giorno turned his nose up and it was so prissy it almost made Fugo laugh. “We’ll find our own way home thank you.” He hung up before Mista could say anything. He stood up, pulling Fugo along behind him. “Come on. We’re finding something expensive to drive.” Giorno had a mischievous glint in his eye. He pulled out a set of keys and twirled them around his finger. He then produced a valet parking ticket.
“Where did you get those?”
“Off that cazzo who tried to feel me up.” Giorno's smirk was back and Fugo’s heart did a little flip in his chest. “I haven’t had a chance to get behind the wheel of a Maserati in a while.”
Fugo didn’t bother trying to hide the raw admiration he felt. “Madre de dio, you are perfect.”
Giorno's ears turned pink at the compliment. He stopped them for a moment and looked up at Fugo. “Think about what I said okay?”
Fugo squeezed his hand, trying to hide how his own was shaking. “I will. I will Gio.”