Work Text:
From the first moment
That we touched,
Your arms felt like home.
-John Mark Green
It was yet another sleepless night for Fugo, thoughts and insecurities screaming at him and refusing to go silent. He had put up with these demons his entire life. It wasn't anything new to hear intrusive thoughts yelling and criticising his every move and thought, everything he had ever said and everything he was or will be. Fugo was never enough for himself, there will always be something he found to hate and regret, denied the grasp and security of inner peace.
He felt he didn't deserve it; too many mistakes to ignore and forget.
The building was silent, footsteps echoing their way into every shadowy crevice that lingered unseen. Beneath the chairs and couches, behind the paintings, within the cracks of closed doors, and in the back of the fridge behind whatever may be in there, both fresh and forgotten. The night was cold and still, the comfortable silence left behind by the sound of a kettle brewing from within the kitchen. Standing by the counter it sat on, lightly grasping a fox painted mug were the hands of Pannacotta Fugo, making a coffee to keep himself awake and distracted was always better than succumbing to sleep and facing insecurities head-on.
Spooning some instant coffee into his mug, he picked the kettle up silently and poured the boiling water in. The steam warmed his face and he relished in it, cold and pale fingers reaching over the brew to collect as much as he could to warm them up with a tired sigh.
He had been doing this for a few months now, night after night, though he thought it had been a year. It was incredibly easy to lose track of time when life went past in a blur, unscheduled and disorganised.
The spoon clinked against the cup as he mixed his coffee with the hot water, staring at the whirlpool it made within his mug before turning tail to leave.
Light leaked from beneath the office door at the end of the hall, illuminating a path for Fugo to take; another choice. With nothing better to do and nowhere else to go, he went over and lingered in front of the door as he took a long yet shallow sip of his coffee, wearing a too-large shirt and pyjama pants. No milk and no sugar, pure black coffee to change focus from his thoughts to the taste, though both were bitter. Fugo struck the door twice with his knuckles, a gentle yet audible knock in the quiet to which he got permission to enter through a simple 'come in'.
The door moved silently as he entered, shutting it behind him as he approached the front of the desk to the left of the room. Two lamps sat on either side of it, both lit up with a painful white light which only reminded Fugo of a hospital.
The room itself was dark yet regal; a purple carpet covering a mass expanse of the room, wood stained a cherry black with a bookshelf propped on the left wall. There were red velvet and gold plated chairs near the centre, french double doors that lead to a balcony opposite the room's entrance, paintings and pendulum clocks along the walls, and dressers around the place; of which one held mementos of old friends passed.
It felt too distinguished for someone such as Fugo, his scarred heart unable to connect to it.
Sitting at the desk was none other than Giorno Giovanna, his head not once looking up to greet Fugo as his gaze was glued to whatever he was reviewing. There were papers and files strewn around the place, on some chairs and dressers - though nowhere near the memorabilia shrine, that wasn't to be tainted -, around Giorno's feet at the desk, and stacked around his head and lamps. It gave the luxurious room an ambience of disarray rather than regality.
"Why are you up so late?" Fugo mumbled, taking another slow sip from his coffee cup.
"I could ask the same for you, Fugo," Giorno retaliated, his eyes still on his desk. "I already know the answer to that though, and you do mine."
It was well known how badly the fall of Diavolo had affected Fugo, evident the moment Mista got into contact with him. He had been a mess wandering the streets of Italy; lost and scared like a stray. The entire Mafia had heard about what happened to their former boss, which meant Fugo knew the day of Giorno's crowning that Bruno, Abbacchio, and Narancia hadn't survived the journey. Fugo had been carrying guilt since he didn't get on the boat with his team to betray the boss, and it quadrupled upon hearing their fate.
Mista had handled it the best it had seemed, his upbeat personality reigning. It didn't make him immune, however, and there were very many nights in which either Fugo or Giorno would catch him having a sob-fest of guilt, mourning and wailing his heart out as he cried apologies to the dead. Making pleas for forgiveness for an outcome he had no say in, repeating it should have been him instead of them. Fugo could relate all the same, constant screams in his mind criticising him for being the coward and leaving everyone behind, despite how hard it had been for him to watch them go and not join Narancia in swimming to the boat.
Deep down Fugo knew he let everyone down, wishing he had have been there for the group in the toughest time when they needed it the most, where he could have had the chance to save and protect them.
Giorno had been working for hours it seemed. He still adorned his black and green suit despite the time, his golden victory curls were messy and strewn, strands untangled to hang and frame his profile. The white lamps illuminated his face, making it look sickly and sad, blemishes and acne from stress littering his face alongside dark eye bags. Fugo didn't like seeing this disarray, a sense of guilt washing over him for the younger who he had slowly grown to adore, wanting him to go back to confident and determined. He didn't like how Giorno's eyes mimicked Abbacchio's, he didn't like the sense of regret and defeat that had overcome Giorno.
Taking a sip of his coffee, Fugo set down his half-drunk coffee cup on the table and spoke in a whisper.
"Giorno... Take a break."
"I can't, Fugo. I have too much to do, you know that. You've seen what is happening."
"Giorno," Fugo repeated and sighed. "...I-... I understand this is a lot for you, but you can't stay up all night worrying."
The younger let out a soft sigh and shut the file delicately as if he had been waiting for someone to tell him to stop all night, giving a curt nod in submission before looking up at the older teenager. "...It's hypocritical of you to say that, Fugo."
Ignoring the remark, Fugo took a step back so Giorno could get up, who did so after watching him for a few seconds in silence. Grabbing Fugo's coffee with an idle intention, Giorno walked off silently to the french style double-doors and gazed out. Fugo followed after him slowly like a pup would its mother, eyeing how the moon illuminated him before standing beside him to see what he was outside. "Do you think it's too cold out?"
"If this room is cold, then outside is worse Giorno."
"Right," the younger mumbled dumbly, sipping from Fugo's discarded coffee cup as if it was his own.
Turning away from the doors, Giorno went for one of the velvet chairs and moved any paperwork off to neatly pile at its feet, sitting down and inviting Fugo over simply by watching him. Fugo waited at the doors for a while with his arms crossed as he looked back to Giorno before coming over, sitting on the armrest of the chair to be beside him. There was a long silence between them, neither knowing what to say as Giorno finished the lukewarm coffee, the fox mug resting discarded in his lap.
"...I think I understand how Abbacchio felt," Fugo whispered miserably, wanting something to talk about with Giorno despite having been comfortable in the silence, wanting to hear his voice.
"How so?"
"I-... The guilt, Giorno. T-That's just how it is." It was difficult for Fugo to explain it. He had never been the type to express his emotions more than simple adjectives, and even when he did vent and express himself it was only to Bruno when he was younger. Giorno never pressed for an explanation from the older and simply nodded, watching him with a gentle understanding in his gaze.
They all went through the same after all, they were mourning the same losses with the same guilt. "...Do you know why Abbacchio disliked you?" Fugo questioned, furrowing his eyebrows as he met eyes with Giorno. With a simple shake of his head, the younger replied with a soft 'no' before looking to his lap, though he had an idea as to why. "...I overheard him when you first joined, he said you reminded him of who he used to be... Someone goal-driven and hopeful, naive."
Giorno didn't make any verbal response, just nodding his head gently as he drummed his pointer finger along the rim of the empty mug in his lap, listening. "...I didn't think he was true back then but he was, you were rather naive in assuming taking down the drug syndicate would go easily, Giorno. You've buried yourself- dug a bigger hole for you to get lost."
"...I know, Fugo. I can sort it out though."
"Can you though? Can you?"
Both were unsure of the future to come. Running an organisation that seized the entirety of Italy was no easy feat, especially to a small group of teenagers. Another silence plagued them, unsure and uneven, wavering at the slightest of movements like their anxieties. This time, Giorno was the one to break it.
"Are you tired, Fugo?" He asked, looking back up and studying his face silently.
"Not really, no... I'd rather not sleep."
Another silence with nothing but a nod from the younger in agreement. It was comforting and understanding, both able to relate despite little words being said. Giorno let go of his cup gently and reached a hand up for Fugo to take, looking away from him to stare out the glass doors in front of them. Gently and hesitantly, Fugo held onto his hand, sliding it into his grasp. They sat there together in silence and watched out the doors. Anxiety was written on Fugo's face as he hunched yet Giorno held no expression, as regal as ever with a straight posture, their hands entwined comfortably to reassure each other. Both of their minds were always whirring, though the younger had a more practical approach whilst the older was caught on his guilt and regret, Narancia refusing to leave his thoughts alone.
With a tug on Fugo's hand, Giorno slid over on the chair as much as he could to make room for the older, who was just confused at the gesture. The younger had to give another gentle tug to guide him down with him, who sat reluctantly beside him, unsure what he wanted yet his heart was soaring.
Giorno rest his head against Fugo's shoulder and relaxed, their entwined hands resting on top of their thighs. Tense, Fugo sat still, worried he might mess up and drive Giorno off of him. Instead, they sat together for what felt like hours; Fugo's head finding its way to rest on top of Giorno's, comforting and reassuring each other silently as they held hands. "...Fugo," Giorno guided as he finally spoke up, letting go of his hand.
"Hm?"
Watching the younger in curiosity, Giorno held the mug up between them before using Golden Experience to change it to an orange tulip. Fugo marvelled at the sight for a while, though he quickly became confused as to why he did so, going to speak up until Giorno gave it to him with a gentle smile. It was held delicately between the younger fingers, outstretched and offering to the older. Slow, Fugo took it and held it gently within both of his hands, spinning the stem to study the petals.
"...You're smart, Fugo," Giorno started. "You should be able to know what a tulip symbolises."
"Just because I'm smart doesn't mean I know everything, Giorno."
The younger gave a soft chuckle to the older's remark, a smile on his face as he watched the confused teenager attempt to break down what it meant. Everything about Giorno was well mannered and delicate, all done with purpose and thought through, to which Fugo couldn't help but look up to and adore. The older was always on the harsher side, unable to manage what he said or did. Fugo's emotions tugged him along a muddy path through thorns whereas Giorno led with grace and elegance on marble.
"You figure it out then, there are books," Giorno spoke up. Fugo averted his gaze from the warm petals over to the younger, studying his face before standing up to head for the bookshelf. "No, not yet. Sit back down."
Obliging, Fugo sat back on the chair with an embarrassed expression and a delicate nod, staring at his lap before to Giorno, who was watching him.
"...What?" Fugo mumbled, concerned there might be something wrong or he messed up, his anxieties spiking. Giorno responded with a gentle shake of his head and sighed, expressing non-verbally that nothing was wrong. Fugo took the lead of watching the other, staring at his face before his gaze skipped up to the disorganised curls.
A messy head didn't suit Giorno, a birds nest of hair was more suited to Narancia or Mista, not someone so royal. "...Your hair- it uh- messy."
"...I know, Fugo."
It couldn't help but annoy Fugo, his fingers itching to do something about it but he had no permission to do anything. Staring and judging the mess of gold as he furrowed his eyebrows in anger, gripping the tulip stem. Fugo had no clue why this was annoying him so much, nothing ever did except when Narancia would mess up with his work. Giorno was watching and studying his body language as Fugo got more impatient with himself, eventually dropping the Tulip on his lap to sort out Giorno's hair.
His fingers were antsy yet slow, aggressive yet soft, at war with himself and his unstable emotions that were rocketing and building up for no apparent reason. Fugo worked on taking out any pins that were within his hair to keep the curls in place, holding them between his fingers and raking through the gold to let it rest. It was a meditative process for Giorno, who was sitting there silent and still, savouring the feeling of the older's fingers brushing through his hair and against his scalp.
Sorting out his hair went from a compulsion to gentle care for Fugo, calming once the three messy victory curls had vanished from atop his head, petting the gold gently with a slow sigh. Fugo sat there for at least a minute gently petting the younger teenager, liking how the silk and soft ringlets of gold felt between his fingers and calloused palms, latching onto the sensation to help ground him and his worries. Giorno made no attempts to stop Fugo, his usual expressionless face twisting to that of bittersweet sadness, letting his guard down to relax and enjoy the intimacy.
"...Sorry, I'm sorry," Fugo apologised meekly, hesitant yet quick to pull his hands away when he realised what he had been doing. He was scared he might mess up and get kicked out to go back to his room. Fugo didn't want that. Fugo wanted Giorno's company and presence, wanting anything but to be left alone with his demons in the dark of night.
"It's okay, Fugo," Giorno replied almost disappointedly, having liked the gesture as he shook gently.
Giorno never expressed his emotions, he never had the luxury of doing so. Growing up he saw no reason to cry or show emotion, so every ounce of sadness or anger, every piece of regret and guilt, and any spurs of happiness all got bottled up to sit in his heart and linger, plaguing his being. However, being around Giorno for months taught both Mista and Fugo how to read the youngest, knowing when something was wrong or how he felt. Giorno sitting in front of the older, quivering like an autumn leaf in the wind slapped Fugo in the face with all his worries and anxieties again.
When Giorno shook, it meant he was crying within his heart.
"What's wrong? Did I do something? I-I'm sorry- fuck- uh-" Fugo sputtered, anxious as his heart raced, his emotions tugging him like a dog on a leash to hold the younger's hands. He held them close to his chest, watching Giorno worriedly with furrowed eyebrows who just continued to shake and stare at their entwined hands.
Neither of them was good at intimacy, and neither of them knew how to talk about their emotions.
"I- no, Fugo, I'm okay," Giorno reassured, his voice quivering and soft as he shook his head. "...You didn't do anything."
Fugo quickly nodded, his thoughts haywire on figuring out what to do. When he messed up or hurt Narancia the kid would either say he had it coming, or he would fight back. Giorno did none of those, and Fugo was drawing blanks on how to help. Mista knew how, but Fugo never stuck around to see what the eldest did, always finding himself in the quietest parts of the house whenever one of the other teenagers had their moments.
Fugo wanted to leave, he felt he had ruined Giorno's night despite the stress he was in, and the only way to fix it was to face his demons.
"I'm sorry," Fugo repeated, standing up shakily as he looked around the room, feverish as he attempted to leave. Giorno wouldn't let him, his guard down and mask off, standing up after Fugo quickly.
"No- Fugo. Stop," The younger said sternly, moving in front of the older who was anxious with their hands tightly woven together. "Fugo, breathe."
So, he did. Fugo took in shaky breaths with a small nod and looked to the ground, staring at his feet since he couldn't bring himself to look up at Giorno and meet his eyes. They both stood there in silence, neither making a move. It was dead quiet, and cold started to settle back on their skin given they lost their closeness.
With a soft sigh, Giorno moved close to Fugo and gave him a hug, his arms wrapping gently around the older teenager and keeping him close. Stunned, Fugo stood there tense and surprised. Giorno wouldn't normally do this, would he? Fugo had no clue what to do since this had never happened to him, the closest being when Narancia would grip him with all his might, but even that was rare. Fugo wasn't one to let people this close and yet here he was, allowing himself to be hugged because he wore his heart on his sleeve, and his heart wanted nothing but Giorno. Reluctant yet quick to move, he hugged back tightly and rest his chin on top of the other's shoulder.
It was calming, both of their eyes shut as they stood against each other and held the other in their arms, craving intimacy and security they could depend on. Fugo tried his best not to cry, and Giorno did his best not to shake. Fugo didn't want to squeeze too hard despite wanting to bearhug the younger, afraid Giorno would crumble like a China in his hands but also afraid he would vanish if he held too gently.
The younger felt frail, and Fugo realised that night that they were much similar than he had thought.
The both of them refused to move, the hug was a promise to each other for more to come and to help both heal, a reassurance to sort both of their worries.
Fugo couldn't help but picture himself sleeping in a forest birthed from Giorno's light; flowers growing from his scars, moss filling the lonely parts of him, and ferns growing in the pit of his stomach where fear lives. He felt safe, his broken and brittle heart of ceramic finally hopeful to be mended with the gold that is Giorno, who will help him rebirth who he is and leave the traumatised shell he is trapped within.
Fugo was finally on the right path. The path to mending himself, the path to finding inner peace, the path to growing and learning from his past, and it was all thanks to Giorno.
Fugo didn't want it any other way.