Chapter Text
Outside of the occasional noises of his own breathing and the loud bass resonating from a distant, loud celebration, the rest of the world is just static. Fugo hasn't felt this ticklish sensation crawling through his veins for a while now. The realization of his slim and weak body tossed on the floor doesn't help. Trying to think on its own was hard enough when the only thing that travels through sound it's an annoying and repetitive rhythm, which the boy can feel shaking his bones. He felt the waves, he could feel how loud the music was, but his ears were unplugged, having the blankness and dizziness of being inside an empty shell. The only thing he could associate his thinking would be with the color white.
When both his brain and body decided to function properly again, Pannacotta Fugo realized that his eyes were suddenly open, a reaction from connecting through his surroundings again.
His heart was beating so fast it could almost jump out of his bony chest. Moving his fingers first, followed by his arms, he tried to get up just to see where he was located. It was his room, covered in boring white walls, decorated by a wooden desk with matching chairs (full of opened books and pens distributed everywhere), and with a bed small enough for him to sleep comfortably. The sheets and some pieces of clothing were all over the floor accumulating dust, as well as a medicine bottle, half-empty, as the pills themselves were scattered around Fugo.
"Maybe too high of a dose", the boy whispered to himself as a pouncing headache attacked his memories of taking too much of his tranquilizers earlier that night. Even if they're on a smaller dose, Fugo doesn't know how much is too much once his anxiety raises up his adrenaline to the highest he thinks he can handle. Fucking up and actually having three mistakes on a recent exam was that cause of it all.
If having a pretty high IQ of 152 wasn't enough, being the absolute worst to yourself is probably the most painful curse that a genius could have. He remembers being put on this golden pedestal by his parents, being in love with the ideal prodigy they called his son. Fugo wasn't always a fan of this, as he would actually get stepped over by his father's crushing words if he didn't come home with a perfect score. Current Fugo thanks whatever higher entity's up there for living alone, cause he wouldn't be alive if they found out Fugo scored 97/100 at a fucking algebra test. Actually, he doesn't know if even himself will ever forget this, and probably he'll spend the night thinking how dare he be that low in life.
His ego makes him wanna snap the teacher's neck. His self-esteem wants himself dead, completely destroyed, with no traces of his grotesque existence. He thinks to himself 'For fucks sake, stop being a drama queen; you're not that important, Pannacotta.' And he really wasn't. Never will be. His only misery is defined by his absence of perfection, a pathetically weak physical form protecting his whole set of nerves, bones and self-destructive mentality.
The pills won't help if he keeps going like this for the next months, but he really just needs to feel anything other than another piece of clothing among all of the fabrics on his bedroom floor. The next few days won't be great, he thinks, as he just focuses on the T.V static noises on his brain to get some sleep, not even bothering to get up towards his bed.
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Waking up before the alarm clock has been an odd routine Fugo picked up. His dreams were never pretty enough to keep his raising mind in peace. Even so, he could move now, and he waited for his clock to ring. 7:27am. Three minutes before the alarm. He deduced that unplugging the digital clock would be best as he gets ready for the day.
Now awake after rubbing his eyes together, the boy travels from his small room to the even smaller kitchen. His daily breakfast summarizes on a piece of white bread along with a glass (a sip) of the apple juice he bought weeks ago, just to have something inside his stomach. Fugo himself knew it was too little, but what else can he make for himself when he doesn't know shit about cooking in the first place?
Next, his clothes. He wasn't going to school wearing his old boxers and the knitted purple socks currently scraping his toenails. His uniform is already laying on the bed, messily, along with his strawberry-patterned tie. As he dresses up and puts his shoes on, his backpack and keys are already on sight.
The only thing left before he leaves is his smartphone, but he quickly finds it on the floor, probably with no battery. Fuck. He'll take his charger to school anyways. At last, Fugo's ready to go on autopilot for the rest of the morning until 2PM, when he'll have something to do, other than listening to the same things he already knows.
School hours could pass by with the increasing voices of his own thoughts, or go as slow and heavy as his motivation to keep going. There is no in-between, ever. Fugo's just lucky to have those days where everything goes fast. The last bell rang, and so the boy plugs his earphones in and walks through the avalanche of students and noises from the city. Doesn't matter what he's listening to as long as he can get distracted.
Only twenty minutes in, Fugo arrived at his destination: a turquoise-pink building decorated with white patterns and a gigantic, 50s themed banner with the name "PASSIONE", along with the italic subtitles "Diner and café". As always, got there minutes before his turn (he wouldn't even dare himself to get there at the exact hour), opening the door and being welcomed by the jazz coming from a purple jukebox was a daily routine. He entered one of the doors, getting away from the public area and the already taken tables.
"Fugo, glad you could make it!"
A raven-haired male with an interesting hairstyle always welcomed him. Bruno Buccellati was his boss, the only guy merciful enough to hire teenagers with poor to non-existent experience on working fields. Fugo sometimes thinks he's too kind for his own good. Nonetheless, what was in front of him was his salvation through surviving his daily life.
"Good evening, boss. I'll go change if that's not a problem," Fugo nodded while greeting the man. The response was a gentle smile coming from the older one.
"Of course. No rush at all." As always, Buccellati was working on some papers on a tiny desk outside of the kitchen area, so Fugo didn't need to have any kind of small talk with him. He rushed to the lockers, passing his boss and avoiding looking at the kitchen. He didn't need to get spotted by the (charismatically) annoying cook. The overall happiness of Guido Mista wasn't in his plans.
After getting changed, inside the loneliness of the room, he checked his arms. Fugo noticed that his pale skin looked even paler, and he could see some greenish bruises starting to form on random places. His anemia was probably getting worse. He hoped that Buccellati wouldn't notice anything weird, he never wanted to be in the spotlight. Breathe in, breathe out. He tried to relax a little before getting completely ready for his job.
At least that's what he thought, until the loud screaming of Mista scared him. "Stop right there, cheese boy!" The young 'chef', tanned and tall, wearing his iconic beanie along with the obligatory kitchen apron decorated with a gun pin, blocked his way after running through the kitchen. Not only did his goofy grin annoyed him, Fugo also hated that nickname.
"What the hell do you want," responded Fugo with a low and tired voice. He didn't even stare at Mista's black eyes. "Heey, come on, don't be a grumpy grandpa. You already have the hair, don't need the attitude." Mista laughed at his own joke. Fugo can't understand if he just stopped him to make fun of that silver hair he already dislikes. Mista continued. "Anyways, Buccellati told me to make you something before you get to work. And I get it, man. You look thin as a single noodle strand lately."
The boy walked back to the kitchen for a moment. Fugo can't really deny any of that. His physical health wasn’t going to get better anytime soon, with all of his medication problems and bad sleeping habits. He recognizes it out to the public? No.
Mista came back holding a paper bag along with a bottle of water. After handing them to Fugo, he pats him on the shoulder. "A simple sandwich for ya. I know you start in ten minutes so at least get a bite or two before attending. We don't want another Narancia case going around here." With that, Mista winks at him and goes back to his working space.
Ah, yes. The Narancia case. When his stupid co-worker didn't eat anything beforehand and ended up passing out very close to the fryer. Even if he wasn't there that day, Fugo can't escape the healthcare that Buccellati wants to put on every one of his employees since then. Fugo ended up drinking only five gulps of water and half the sandwich before throwing it out.
Work was fine. Even if Buccellati was strict about money when it comes to the job, tips always help a waiter to get through the day. Most of the regular clients were pretty serious, neutral, not-wanting-to-start-a-conversation kind of people. Fugo's not a cheerful or loud person, on the contrary: he got to the point and attended his tables fast enough. The tips for his behavior were increasing. It was a good chemistry between him and the kind of clients coming around the time he worked the most.
That day, Fugo's head still hurted from last night's overdose. His medication wasn't a serious or dangerous substance, and he didn't even think about damaging himself in any way, but the consequences were a pounding headache that'll probably cool down after two days. That's how he managed.
Probably the weight of his own headache and the monotony of his four hours made him look so calmed. That, or Narancia wasn't at the diner that day, and he was lucky to be able to control himself after getting a terrifying experience the night before. He was tired, sure, but not as tired as to explode completely. Changing from his work uniform to his school shirt and pants (no blazer nor tie), he said goodbye to Buccellati as calmly as he could and walked again, earphones already on his ears. He stared at the street lights waiting for the bus, realizing that the vibrant colors looked blurry and weren't helping with his headache. The podcast transmitted through Fugo's earphones wasn't interesting either, so his mind just started wandering. And without realizing it, he was getting off the bus.
Walking by the crowded street, he could understand some of the words that the rusty voice was communicating.
<<I think it's just a matter of time. Life it's just, and it will always be, about ups and downs, filled with experiences that will mark us forever. And as much as we hate it....>>
Fugo then remembered why he felt so sick in the first place. He remembered his grade, he remembered feeling little, he remembered trying to hurt himself in another way. He was too much of a coward, too contradictory. His ego grew with his intelligence, and his self-esteem only decreased, and decreased, and kept going down. He hated himself. There were no ups and no downs in his life. His anxiety was getting harder to control, knees weak and arms heavy, footsteps going faster.
<<...all of it, it's just life itself.>>
He bumped into someone and fell. The landing on his butt wasn't great, though it helped him to forget his headache for a while. He didn't notice that his phone also slipped from his pockets. That hurt, he thought, acknowledging the new pain.
Opening his eyes after complaining about the pain, Fugo was astonished. The person he bumped with was, probably, the most beautiful being he laid his eyes on since years.
Puffy black sweater, long golden locks, along with three sets of bangs extremely curly. The best part of it all was when the guy opened his eyes. Captivating, almost ethereal, emerald irises were staring back at him.
"I'm sorry. Are you okay?" His voice was melodic. A beautiful, sweetly toned voice came out from those pink, chapped lips, and Fugo was lost, not knowing what that even meant to him.
Fugo came back to reality. "Uh… yeah. Yeah, sorry." His weak tone was barely noticed by the other. He tried to get up, but his legs betrayed him. The beautiful guy was already standing, tossing away some dust from his coat.
Then, those piercing eyes of his stabbed Fugo's heart again, offering him a hand. The silver haired boy took the other's hand, trying not to shake and actually getting up after his help. Fugo's deep reddish eyes were fixated on the other's irises. How old was he? His face really read that he was about the same age as Fugo, but he didn't say anything. Then, they realized that they were staring at each other for a while now. Fugo felt his anxiety growing back through his veins. He looked down to distract himself, only to find his cellphone on the floor, screen probably more broken than before. He leaned in to grab it fast enough to truly show he was nervous.
"U-umm," he still felt the other's eyes on him, and he was right. The more he looked into the variety of green tones on the boy's orbs, the more he felt anxious and hypnotized. Not knowing how to react, Fugo just said "Excuse me, sorry," before walking past that precious human, at a considerable speed. He didn't even look back to hear the other trying to say something before stopping.
Getting into his apartment with sweaty hands and that strange sensation was a challenge on its own. What the hell was that? He never thought that could happen to him. Leaving behind the beautiful memory of his perfect face, Fugo felt completely embarrassed and angry at himself for getting in someone's way in the first place. His anger grew and grew, managing to start to pinch his skin between deep exhalations. He felt like he was being destroyed by his imperfections. The ones only he can judge and acknowledge.
Fugo felt strange. Everything was static until tones paused between his and that boy's interaction. It was less than a minute, and it felt like eternity to him. He never felt something as scary, haunting and curious as that. It was probably his eyes. Oh, those eyes where he found a new green on every angle.
That night, Fugo slept on his couch, not even bothering about changing clothes and preparing to sleep properly. A simple blanket he found on the floor was enough.
The exhaustion from his whole day, the pounding, unstoppable headache, the vibrating nerves of his body and the distant thought of that golden boy left Fugo shaking and almost crying. After a while of silently shedding quiet tears, sleep carried him towards the end of the day.
The last thing he remembered before leaving out was that beautiful guy's face. On the background, he recognized a voice from his unconscious, saying that last thing he remembered hearing from his random podcast:
It's just life itself.