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Fugo had imagined the day that everyone would leave him, but nothing could have ever prepared him for watching Narancia swim like a bat out of Hell towards the boat, towards...
Towards the boat and away from Fugo.
The second to last man left, Narancia was; now Fugo stands alone, his feet rooted to the stones. He wants to tear his eyes away, to shut them and curl in upon himself as he always does, but they are glued to the boat receding into the distance.
Despite the intensity with which he stares it down, he does not see it. Narancia’s cries for him to follow raise to ear splitting shrieks, but Fugo does not hear a single one. All Fugo hears is the blood rushing in his ears. All Fugo sees is a hazy fog rolling in across the water, blurring his sight. It takes a moment to realize that these are tears, and he squeezes his eyes shut. He turns his back on the godawful boat, and the movement seems to jump start his mind.
How can they all be so fucking stupid?
How can they all throw their lives away like this for a stranger?
He knew they were all a bit off their rockers, but lunatics? He could have never imagined that, especially not from Bucciarati of all people, kind but responsible Bucciarati.
Fugo’s mind is flooding with these thoughts, scornful remarks for the whole lot of them, as he shoves his clenched fists into his pockets. These thoughts aim to put distance between them, to cover up the much louder truth that Fugo knows deep down. Blaming the others is the easier option, the lesser of two evils. At least for now, it is, as Fugo marches over to the church and promptly kicks the wall with all his might.
His shoes are not thick enough to stop his leg from feeling jarred and his toes from feeling smashed, but the pain is enough to distract from the anger bubbling in the pit of his stomach. His heart races, pounding furiously against his rib cage, as if it were a prisoner beating at cell bars. It feels as if it’ll explode right from his chest, and his stomach quickly follows suit, churning with the pure agony that his newfound fury is putting his nerves through.
Fugo is miserable.
Fugo is miserable of mind and body and he wants to hurt something.
The urge to harm is like an itch beneath his skin, an itch that punching the church’s old bricks just cannot scratch. His shoulders heave with every shallow breath he manages, his lungs working overtime to fight the stress they’re under. The nervous tremors start in his bruised and bloodied hands, flowing outward, claiming his arms and shoulders and legs until he has to sit against the wall, unable to hold himself up any longer.
I must look insane, Fugo thinks, his own inner voice barely audible over his mind’s cacophony.
He is dizzy and ready to be sick all at once, bringing his knees to his chest. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a doctor’s words echo, encouraging him to take deep breathes. It takes a few minutes to get it right, but when he does, he wishes that he hadn’t. The horrible truth, the one that was hiding behind his newfound hatred of his brothers, makes its presence known and Fugo begins to sob. He cries, certain now that he looks completely mental. His shoulders begin to spasm as he hangs his head.
He should have gone with them. Because now Fugo is alone and those fools — those idiots are never coming back, especially not the buffoon that is Narancia. Without a doubt, he’s going to get himself killed, and where does that leave Fugo?
Alone is where it leaves him.
Alone and afraid and back to square one.
Those men were all he had. They were not his friends, but his brothers. Now Fugo has nothing, all because he got some butterflies in his stomach.
Even if, by some miracle, they return, Fugo no longer deserves their company. He is a traitor; he had wished so desperately that Narancia would not go because if he did, Fugo would be the traitor. Not Bucciarati, not Leone, but Fugo. His blatant cowardice lights his face aflame with shame.
He’s almost died more than once, so why did it matter to him today? Why was today any different? Why was Fugo so foolish?
He does have something, he realizes. In fact, if he had been left with nothing, it would have been so much better. For Fugo has been left with the weight of five lives on his conscience, and there is no word to describe the despair that consumes him as he sits against that dusty old church, praying to every god he knows for a second chance.