Chapter Text
Mista couldn’t sleep.
It had been like that recently. Late nights fueled by staring at the bright lights of the clock, the numbers displayed in bold. They stared back at him most nights. Other nights, they blurred and swam through the veil of whiskey, nights that ended quickly enough. The hangovers were intense and lingered.
Maybe it was the change. The change of an empty house, with an occupant that had come back, but three others that were gone. Permanently.
There wasn’t the presence of someone who drank lavender tea at night, awake from the nightmares of their early years and the mistake they made. No more would the aura of a leader reign true, someone who looked out for all the strays they picked up along the way, someone inspired by a clean and sober Italy. The most notable loss along the way was the scraggly kid, loud and too accepting. Their words would no longer be spoken—the comfort, upbeat nature, and utter glee no longer able to light a smile on the recipient's face.
But someone came back, trying to fill the empty void in the large mansion. They came back to tie up loose ends, to get the answers they had been desperately chasing after, day after day. The recent news of lost friends and family was taken harshly. Why wouldn’t it be? But they rejoined the splintered family, helping it to regrow, no matter how slowly.
They weren’t the same as before, no one in the house was. Loss will do crazy things to people and even crazier things when it was three deaths atop each other. They were closed off, cagey, and didn’t hold conversations for very long. Any paperwork they could snatch from their boss’ desk was good in their mind. The less confrontation, the better. Besides, they felt like they had no need for simple talk and company. They were wrong for feeling this—they craved nothing more than just to sit in someone’s presence and feel. But grief makes people do strange things.
Mista’s throat was parched. Red wine for dinner always made his mouth dry. His tired body rose from the bed, pushing off disorderly covers and wrinkled blankets.
The tile of the house was cold against his bare feet. A chill ran through the spacious halls. The air was always on during the night, despite it being early spring. It surely wasn’t his idea for the air conditioning during the night, his meager shorts and old T-shirt doing little to nothing to protect his skin from the biting cold. The silence spreading through the house seemed almost booming in a way. His eyes felt oddly heavy when he approached the kitchen, worn and exhausted from the days of poor sleep.
In the kitchen, only the mechanical thrum of the fridge could be heard. Mista sighed and grabbed a glass from the cupboard. He ran it under the tap and took a sip, his throat eased by the cool liquid sliding down his throat. It did nothing to quell the unease in his stomach. A minute later, the glass was empty and he could swallow without his throat feeling scratchy.
Mista was just about to go back into his stuffy room when he saw a light outside through the glass doors leading to the balcony. It was a gentle orange and glowed bright for a moment before dulling down. The light moved gently.
He opened the door, curiosity peaking and sleepiness blocking out the threat of danger. He was pretty confident in the guards and security protecting the mansion as well as the anonymity of who lived here.
It was a figure, shrouded in darkness, who was holding the source of the light. He was wearing a loose T-shirt, just like Mista. The shorts he was wearing were old, obviously well worn and went up just past his knees. He never stopped being insanely skinny, but his height grew as he was with the gang. Mista’s eyes darted past the raised flesh and quickly looked back up.
He was thankful for the figure being just Fugo. Mista went to take a breath of relief, but the stench of cigarette smoke assaulted his nose. Brown eyes went wide as they darted to the light. In between Fugo’s fingers, held a cigarette. It appeared to be just lit, untouched.
That wasn’t right. Fugo didn’t smoke. Fugo never smoked.
Mista was half convinced he was dreaming this whole thing up. Dreaming would give him more answers than reality, which would just stack question upon question. He wasn’t dreaming though, he knew he wasn’t. Completely conscious and able to smell the smoke, feel the light breeze as well as the clawing of dread up his stomach.
“Fugo?” Mista asked as he stood in the doorway. He looked clueless and a bit laughable. His shorts, worn T-shirt and the way he wore the dumbfounded expression on his face could’ve come off as comedic. Mista didn’t view the situation as something like that, though. This wasn’t a sight he wanted to see, much less one he could understand.
Fugo didn’t seem surprised at his presence, merely glancing over his shoulder. “You should be more cautious, you know,” he said, monotone. “You didn’t know it was me. It could’ve been someone worse.”
“But it wasn’t,” Mista countered. He knew he should be more cautious, but the chances of an enemy or stand user out for blood instead of Fugo were slim.
Fugo didn’t respond. He turned his head forward, breaking eye contact with Mista. The gunslinger’s brow furrowed. He stepped closer, onto the sturdy wooden planks of the balcony. Mista walked until him and Fugo were side to side. A clearer picture was painted now that the distance was erased. Fugo had his wrists resting against the railing. In his closed fingers perched the lit cigarette. He was staring forward and Mista joined where his gaze lay.
The city sat in tranquility below. Their mansion was located on the top of a hill and was the only building for miles. From their view, they could look down at the entire city, which is exactly what they were doing. Each building was covered in shadows. A select few buildings still had their lights on, despite how utterly late (or early) it was. The outlines of trees were barely visible and swayed lightly in the wind, and farther than that were the mountains, remaining as stagnant as ever. The moon was heavy in the sky tonight. A sprinkle of stars had been flicked across the large expanse of sky. They had a much better view of the stars than most because of the lack of light pollution so far up.
Fugo and Mista were quiet. Their breaths were the only sound they shared between each other. The air was charged with a hint of tension, obviously felt between both of them.
Mista finally turned to face Fugo, who didn’t look at him back. He just kept his gaze forward. White eyelashes barely fluttered as Fugo kept staring. He looked like he obviously didn’t want to be here, blanking out and imagining somewhere else entirely.
“You’re smoking,” Mista said bluntly.
“Yeah,” Fugo answered, taking a drag of the cigarette. He inhaled the chemicals and Mista noticed that his eyes hadn’t watered, nor had he coughed, and he didn’t make a face as a response to the strength of the nicotine. This wasn’t Fugo’s first cigarette--this was a practiced and experienced reaction to the amalgamation of synthetics packed tightly into the stick
“You didn’t use to smoke.”
The albino boy answered vaguely. “Things change, Mista,” he sounded worn and exhausted.
“What?” Mista asked with an incredulous tone. He narrowed his eyes sharply. Fugo had been so adamant, so up Mista’s ass when he was still smoking. He almost couldn’t believe Fugo had given in to something he was so violently against in the past. “You used to tell me how dangerous smoking was! Y-you used to lecture me about the 50 whatever chemicals caused cancer! What happ--”
Fugo cut him off. “70. There’s 70.”
The older could only stare, mouth open and expression nothing less than exasperated. Him and Fugo had been somewhat distant to each other, but Mista never assumed this is what had become of his friend. A smoker, staring at the night sky and while consuming the chems. It was only now Mista noticed how tired Fugo looked.
He remembered how persistent Fugo had been with trying to get him to quit. Pestering Mista day in and day out about the self proclaimed ‘cancer sticks.’ Fugo had been deathly serious too, saying Mista was going to kill himself even quicker, and maybe shorten everyone else’s life span along with him. Something about second hand smoke and black lungs. Mista had paid attention, but time was blurring the memories.
“Fugo…”
“What’s so different about me smoking? You do it too,” he snapped. The grip on his cigarette tightened.
“Not anymore,” Mista corrected.
Fugo looked at him with a raised eyebrow, almost in disbelief. It was meant to be accusatory, like a whole big ‘oh really?’
Mista leaned over the railing, observing the blocky buildings there. “Giorno helped me quit. Actually convinced me to. Everytime I slipped up and lit a smoke, he’d turn it into a flower. Different one each time; you know how he can be.”
“Oh,” Fugo blurted, dumbly. A look of jealousy passed over his face for a moment, but disappeared the next. His hand fumbled holding the cigarette, as if he hesitated. Fugo brought it back up to his lips once the hesitation eventually cleared.
“I dropped the habit a while ago, so, why’d you pick it up?”
The whisky curls of smoke blew from pink lips. It clouded for a moment, before dissipating into nothingness. Mista’s dark eyes hadn’t taken off Fugo's figure.
“I don’t know,” Fugo answered. His posture dropped a small bit. “Better a cigarette than a blunt razor.”
Mista couldn’t hold back the choked breath. He knew about Fugo’s little habit, his stress reliever. Mista had been the one to patch up half of his cuts. Fugo hadn’t taken such good care of them, too out of it, really, so Mista cleaned and bandaged most. He still recalled the blank look in reddish violet eyes as he stared down at the blood pooling to the skin. Fingers gripped tightly to a razor blade that had originated in a razor, but was taken apart hastily. Fugo had more than enough bandages on his thighs, wrists, and fingers after. Mista was very thorough with bandaging.
Even then, the fear of Fugo falling back into the grasp of addiction clasped at his lungs for a moment. On his wrist, there were a myriad of pink scars printed into the flesh. They varied in width and size. Mista knew there were more; across his chest, hips, thighs, collarbones. None of the visible ones looked recent. That wasn’t accounting for the ones hidden under Fugo’s shorts and T-shirt. Mista could only hope Fugo hadn’t relapsed.
“Jesus Christ,” he blurted out of shock. Knowing about Fugo’s self harm addiction versus actually hearing Fugo admit aloud to it were two entirely different things.
Fugo didn’t like the response, it seemed. His face went a light shade of red, either from embarrassment or rage, possibly a combination of both. His shoulders were hunched and his body was wracked with light shakes. Bright eyes swirled with emotions as they bore holes into Mista.
Fugo hissed, “Well what do you want me to say? That I fucked up? That-that I traded one shitty habit for another? You think I don’t know that?”
Mista opened his mouth, trying to get the words out, but finding no coherent or viable words. “I don’t know,” he decided.
The younger stared at him. His eyes softened, posture calmed, and teeth unclenched. It seemed his anger and tenseness evaporated when he sensed Mista wasn’t trying to belittle him or argue. He turned his gaze back to the city and so did Mista.
They sat in silence for a while. Fugo taking the occasional drag and then thumbing the ashes off the balcony railing. They fell slowly, red-hued ash turning dark gray. Mista watched in a trance as they tumbled into the darkness below. The air was filled with unanswered questions, clear distress and confusion, paired with a hint of sadness. It was affecting both of them.
Mista watched a bat fly over the sky before it became invisible with the dark of the night. A few of the lights in the city buildings below flicked off. The city continued to sleep as the minutes ticked by while Mista and Fugo stood in tense and awkward silence.
They weren’t sure how much time passed. The concept of time from where they were almost seemed drippy and palpable. The stars had moved mere inches in the sky. Mista faintly remembered Fugo listing off every star alongside Narancia one night. They had gone at least an hour away from the city to view the stars without any light pollution. A few beers were brought along and that night was filled with laughs. It was one of the best nights of Mista’s life.
It would never be that way again
“Why either of them? Why now?” Mista asked. The question was killing him. Why would Fugo choose to smoke, why now of all things. Had something happened recently? Was there stress he wouldn’t tell them? Not like he would, with him being so closed off.
Mista just wanted to know why the younger gravitated towards a cigarette or a razor. A thought dawned of him, one he did not like. “Please tell me it isn’t both—“
“I miss them,” Fugo muttered. His voice was small, vulnerable and barely audible. Everything about it screamed weak, weak, weak, weak. Mista remained silent, the breath knocked from his chest. “I miss them so fucking much. They were the first friends—no, my first real family. Bucciarati was the first good male figure I’d ever had. Abbacchio helped me through some of my toughest times. He even talked me down from my first attempt...and Narancia? I loved him.”
Fugo slumped against the railing, hiding his face in one of his hands. The hand dragged down his face slowly, as if he was trying to wipe away his anguish. His breaths had turned erratic quickly. “He was the first person who understood me. I don’t care if we argued or fought or yelled at each other. I would do anything to have him back. I-I don’t understand. Why him? Why couldn’t it be anyone else in the world? God, fuck—“ Fugo tried to hold back a sob. He took another drag, fingers barely keeping a stable grasp on the cigarette with how hard he was trembling. A tear ran down his cheek, illuminated by the moon in a waxing crescent.
They were all suffering from the losses of their friends and family. It seemed they were all grieving differently, both emotionally and in the stages.
The mansion felt too empty just for three bodies. Six would be a blessing, but that was only a distant hope, one that wouldn’t be fulfilled. Mista had barely known what to do with himself after they settled in the house. He roamed a lot, unsure of how to handle the overbearing emptiness that settled in every room. Mista had lost a chunk of his family, too. Giorno tried to brush off how badly he was affected, but Mista was always good at reading body language. Mista would wake up to the blond calling out for his lost friends and his late family. Those nights, he would wipe away Gio’s tears and shush him back to sleep. It pained Mista to hear the boy sob out for their losses in his sleep. Giorno was grieving too, despite how he pretended he wasn’t.
But Mista didn’t take into account Fugo’s suffering. He didn’t even pay attention. Fugo had become something of a recluse. He consumed any math he could get his hands on. Paperwork ranging from texted to funding for each branch and division. Protection money and property disputes for exact calculations of land. Anything Giorno could give him that the albino boy’s mind could get lost in instead of continuously thinking about the losses that still stung as raw as the day Giorno sorrowfully told him. He holed himself either in his bedroom or the library. Mista knew Fugo could get the stack of papers done in less than an hour, he had seen the kid do impossibly complicated math in less than that, but Fugo would emerge several hours later, tired expression worn behind round reading glasses.
Mista just thought Fugo was getting used to living here. Or maybe that he was still grieving on a minor scale. Perhaps it was the idea that this is just how Fugo was after he left for a month or two. That’s why Mista assumed he was so utterly closed off from them.
Fugo didn’t really talk to Mista or Giorno and when he did, it was about work or surface level things that didn’t hold any substance. He would drink his coffee, have breakfast in the morning while watching TV or staring out the window. Sometimes, Mista would join him and other times he wouldn’t. Fugo would be down for dinner. But that was awkward, too. Sitting and dining without any words being exchanged, an occasional glance over, and then back to focusing on the meal. They didn’t talk as much as they did before—none of them had. Mista thought it was just that.
It clearly wasn’t.
Fugo was grieving. Quite strongly, in fact. Mista felt guilty for being so oblivious to his friends pain and grief. Mista wanted to blame it on the fact he’d never really seen Fugo anything besides happy, neutral, and angry. Mista knew Fugo could get sad, even flat out depressed, but he just brushed it off like an idiot. He hadn’t seen it before, so it didn’t feel like it could happen. And it did.
Emotions were something Fugo easily masked. Mista knew this because he’d cried in front of every member before, and so had everyone else. Everyone besides Fugo and Giorno, though, Giorno was a different story entirely. They were both good at hiding their true feelings, building up a wall and blocking themselves off from what truly dug into them. It was like second nature. Mista was scared at how well they could do it, but also distraught over how easily it came, how much practiced they had, and the gnawing thought in his brain which told him Giorno and Fugo weren’t comfortable with the gang enough to actually express their emotions.
Giorno had let down his guard recently, allowing Mista to view him as he truly was. It was immensely hard for the blond, but he managed. It was the best decision he could make. Mista could help him, Giorno would get the solace he needed, and all was fine. It also worked vice versa. When the gunslinger needed support or just someone to lean on, Giorno had been happy to provide. It was a win-win situation for the two of them. But it left another member living in the house out, one they had disregarded and ignored. Mista had comforted Giorno, so, why didn’t he put the same effort in for Fugo?
Mista felt a pit of anger at himself settle heavy in his throat. He was a bad member of his team and an even worse friend.
He’d seen the friendship and companionship Narancia and Fugo shared. It was a strong bond, deep and rooted in emotions Mista couldn’t fathom. They were the closest in the gang, despite how it may have seemed at first glance, with their fights and taunts. Mista could’ve guessed it came from a mix of similar backgrounds, closeness in age, and clashing personalities.
They had both come from shitty families. It was Fugo who took Narancia in, gave him a decent meal, some money slipped under the table and eventually, initiation into the gang. Bucciarati had seen the look in Narancia’s eyes as he glanced between him and Fugo. The kid clearly wanted to be a part of the gang. Fugo went on a long spiel about the positives of Narancia joining because both of them knew it was inevitable until the kid asked. Bucciarati sure as hell didn’t want the bright eyed, too friendly, and a spitfire of a kid like Narancia on his team—he had seen what the mafia did to kids like that. But Fugo begged, something he had never done before, and Bucciarati could only cave to the demands.
Narancia started to call Fugo ‘Panna,’ and in turn, Fugo would call Narancia ‘Nara.’ It was a playful nickname that meant the world to both of them. Mista tried to call Fugo ‘Panna’ once and got a knife to his chest and a warning to not use that nickname. It had been Mista’s first introduction to Fugo’s outbursts, along with many more.Narancia and Fugo loved each other. Fugo also loved Bucciarati and Abbacchio, but for reasons different than Narancia. Mista couldn’t imagine the loss—he had been close to Narancia, not as close as Fugo, but still close. He also cared for Bucciarati and Abbacchio, but the way Fugo looked up to both of them was immense.
The only good parental figures Fugo had were Bucciarati and Abbacchio. Bucciarati helped guide Fugo on the right path and helped him become an already decision maker. He made sure Fugo knew his worth. The Capo made the boy flourish. Abbacchio, though his tough front, had a soft spot for Fugo. They both enjoyed the same books, music, and ideals. It was very clear Fugo looked up to Abbacchio. One of the reasons Mista had never seen Fugo sad in any capacity is because Abbacchio would always be the first to notice. He would take Fugo somewhere private and help him calm himself down.
Fugo was one of the first in the gang. He had known them the longest—no wonder he would be so utterly destroyed over their losses.
“I almost believe it was my own fault. If I had just gone with everyone on that boat, maybe they’d still be alive—maybe it would’ve been me instead of them,” Fugo frantically said, words blurred and jumbled. He spoke quieter, less shaky next. “I wish it was.”
Fugo’s tone was bitter, harsh. Mista could tell he meant every word. It was obvious he spent time thinking about this—no one could let out something that coherent and depressive that quick unless they had been pondering on it for a while. Something about that made Mista’s heart lurch.
“Stop,” Mista hissed. “Stop. What’s done is done. We can’t change shit now, no matter how much we want. You were right. It was a suicide mission from the start. But you can’t blame yourself, much less wish you took their spots. You were a scared teenager—still are,” Mista’s eyes locked on the shaking cigarette. “At least with Giorno, we had a chance. Without him, we’d be all dead. And I think a few alive rather than none is better. At least then, we can carry on the memories of those who we did lose.”
Red eyes, blurred with tears, turned to Mista’s frame. Fugo looked vulnerable and sad. Mista faintly wondered how long this had been weighing on him, how long this had been on his mind.
“Fuck,” Fugo let out a wet, humorless laugh. He wiped some of his tears from his cheeks. “You’re right. I know you are. But why does it hurt so damn much?”
Mista scoffed. “That’s how loss is, Fugo. How it always is, but, hey, we’ll get through this together, yeah? I-I’m sorry I hadn’t noticed before, Fugo, I really am. But at least now, we—me and Giorno—can help you, okay? We’ll help each other.”
“Mhm.” He took another inhale from the cigarette. It was a little more than halfway gone, the filter approaching quickly.
“If Giorno finds out you’ve been smoking, there’ll be hell to pay, you know?”
“Yeah, I know,” the albino boy let out a feathery chuckle.
“Well, I guess there’ll be hell to pay for both of us. Shotgun me.”
Fugo raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I thought you quit.”
“I did. Eh, we’ll label it social smoking. ‘Sides, Gio let me have a cigarette every now and then. Plus, is it really smoking unless you’re the one holding the cigarette?”
The albino boy breathed in a deep drag of the cigarette. It was now down to the filter. His lips were a light pink, only lit up by the cigarette’s ember at the end. Fugo leaned in close, inches away from Mista, who opened his lips in invitation. The younger blew the smoke into Mista’s face. The gunslinger took a heavy inhale of the smoke, getting a slight buzz. The rest of the smoke curled across his chin and cheeks. Just as the smoke was exhaled, all the tension, all the hurt wavering in the air became vapid. The world seemed to halt for a moment.
And Fugo, for the first time, was convinced he could actually get through this.