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It had been brought to his attention via nothing more than whispers and glances. No one bothered to tell him directly. A man of his ranking, a coward who betrayed his very own team, would never be told directly.
But he had heard. He had felt the way that the eyes around him lowered upon his presence, the silence that would weigh down in the room far too immediately. Fugo would have rather they kept talking, kept gossiping and mumbling about ideas unobserved directly. At the very least, it would all blend in that way. There would have been a chance for Fugo to remain within this safe cocoon of ignorant bliss.
But with this silence, this loud, obnoxious silence that ate away within his mind, how could one ignore?
“He was just a kid, you know-“
“-heard his capo went down, too. Kind of sick, aint it? He’s been climbing these ranks for so long only to give it up to some nobody.”
That was all it took for Fugo to find out. Simple gossip by some low-ranking thugs, taking a smoke break, unobservant to the violet eyes just around the corner.
He tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the weight of their deaths from pushing against his shoulders, from crushing his bones from the inside out, lungs from pressing hard against the ribs in a weakened attempt to breathe.
He really tried to have a blank mind.
But, how could one ignore the news, with the imminent re-shuffling to occur within the organization? With the very evident lack of the old Don’s presence, shadowing over them, a constant presence that suffocated all within the presence?
Even Fugo, in his desperate search for normality, order and adequate procedures, could not ignore the news of Giorno Giovanna.
Of his successes.
Of his failures.
Of the sacrifices that lay at the very foundation of his success.
In some sense, he had known it. Somewhere deep within him. Perhaps even, from the very moment that Bruno’s eyes had laid upon him – that man was destined for such an end. Destined for greatness, but not at his very own hands. Simply an aide for the greater good. A necessary piece of the mechanism that made up success.
But even knowing, it did not make Fugo hurt any less.
It did not stop his rage. Did not stop that haze from fogging up his thoughts, seeking desperately a man to latch onto, a man to direct all his hate towards. Hate that surely should have been directed inwards. Hate that had landed upon Giorno Giovanna.
Bruno would have been happy with this outcome. Satisfied with the balance of good outweighing the bad that had presented itself.
Fugo knew that. Fugo was well aware that these sacrifices were deemed a necessity, sacrifices that his once loyal self should have accepted, too.
But he could not.
Even if Narancia would have been satisfied.
The very soul that had been eating away at Fugo’s heart, at all that had made him, at his very self and existence – was sure to be satisfied. For the greater good. For the brighter future that would shine upon this god forsaken organization.
Perhaps that was what fuelled Fugo’s anger the most. Fuelled the toxic smoke rising up within his lungs, burning its way through his nose with every breath he took. A constant reminder, a constant tether to the thoughts that ran wild among his mind.
The mere thought, that, perhaps Narancia had been happy of his death. That if some afterlife had existed, that Narancia would be satisfied with the sacrifice made towards the better future – it was a disturbing thought. A sickening one.
To some, it may have been a comforting one.
In some twisted way, however, Fugo would have been happier if Narancia wasn’t.
To see a soul like that, so trusting, so deserving of their own personal greatness be willing to give it away? To grant the gift of a better life towards Giorno Giovanna, all at a sacrifice of a loss of his own?
Fugo was glad that he would never cross paths with the blonde again. For if he saw that face once more, if he saw those eyes stare down at him, the strength and determination never leaving – Fugo would certainly have killed him.
He understood why it had to happen. Of course, Fugo understood the rational side of such a path. But none the less, it was not a path he could forget, nor forgive.
Not for allowing Narancia to give up his own life, and to have been happy about it.
Of course – no one would know for certain. No one on this side of earthly existence, anyway.
No one would be there to tell Fugo of the man’s last wishes. The last outburst of selfish desire, the hunger for life and all the joys and angsts that it brought along with it. Narancia’s last hopes for the future never to be had.
No one would be there to tell Fugo of Narancia’s last memories that swam around the mind. Fugo would never know that Narancia had still thought of him, even as a selfish traitor, too careful to hold onto his own life than the vague idea of a greater good.