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The kid over there, and that kid, too
All that matters is that they were born.
If they were to lose life's lottery,
they'd be so lonely and helpless...(This is life; wow!)
This is love, to victims of the worst life—
I want to give some to them, yet...!
“What is the Stand Power of the new recruit?”
Bruno Bucciarati, staring at his capo, Polpo, who was munching on some chips, resisted the urge to use a bit of sassiness in his tone. “Pannacotta Fugo?”
Between munches, Polpo went on: “Yes; Fugo’s Stand. Do you know what it is? He passed the lighter test almost a month ago. It should have shown up already.”
Bruno shook his head. “No idea.”
“Fine, then. Looks like we’ll have to tease it out of him. Bruno, could you be a dear and administer a test for me? A stress-test, if you will. It’s like an allergy test.” The teen didn’t dare look at his boss; he knew his contempt would have been obvious. “Knowing what’s coming takes the stress out of it.” A chuckle. “However, you will be there to mediate. Step in if anything goes wrong. Proctor it like an exam.” Polpo had finished the chips and moved his way over to his cooler, grabbing a bottle of sparkling water. “So. What should I know about him? Fugo.”
There was a lot that Polpo shouldn’t know; Bruno was acutely aware of this. None of Fugo’s past was logged in Passione files, to his knowledge, and he felt as if it were not his place to share. He decided on offering: “He does not like to be touched, and gets angry easily.” Vague enough.
The rotund man hummed thoughtfully, then flicked the cap of the sparkling water against the wall. “Thank you. You may go. Tomorrow, the test will begin. Go to the alley behind Libecco at 3 PM, sharp. You will call Fugo to aid you against Fonduta, who will meet you there.”
“Who?”
“No one you need to worry about.” Polpo replied, smug. “Now, hurry home to your little ward, and get some rest. You’ll need it.”
Polpo’s laughter underscored Bruno’s steps, which echoed off the damp walls of the prison. As he left, anxiety gnawed at his gut, no matter how hard he tried to push it down.
Fugo felt oddly worried about Bruno when he returned to their shared apartment above Libeccio that night. He couldn’t place why, but Bucciarati seemed… anxious, for lack of a better term; he had nervous energy twitching underneath his skin that escaped from his sharp, angular frame with every move he made.
Not that Fugo could judge, of course; he knew he wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of calmness, either. Pannacotta finally asked as Bucciarati had begun changing into his pajamas, leaning into the doorway of his friend’s bedroom: “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he replied about as convincingly as a half-rate actor.
Fugo decided not to press it anymore as he went to bed. Even so, he could hear his roommate pacing around the apartment late into the night, an anxious metronome lulling him to sleep.
The two teens took the day off, with Fugo doing some light reading (which, for him, meant a very daunting-looking English-language tome), and Bruno fretting, but trying hard to hide it with every tap of his shoe against Libeccio’s tile floor. In the early afternoon, Bruno excused himself, walking out behind the restaurant. He looked at his watch; 2:45. Was this too early? He had no idea what this Fonduta guy looked like. How would he administer the test? Bucciarati had an idea, but preferred not to think about it.
Minutes later, a young man—likely no older than in his early twenties—appeared. He wore a white suit, understated black button-down, and a tie that matched his dyed-red hair, which had bleached tips. Bangs swept sideways over his eyes, orange with a golden tint at the bottom. With a shrug, the man walked beside Bruno, then stopped, sizing him up. After a long silence: “So. You know why I’m here.”
“Fonduta?”
A nod. “Eustachio Fonduta’s the name. I’ve heard a lot about ‘cha, Bucciarati. ‘S a pleasure.” With a wave, he walked past Bruno and lit a cigarette. “Nice turf you’ve got here.”
“Thanks.” This was not just a pleasantry, either; Libeccio was an envied post to be assigned to, and having it signalled just how hard Bruno had worked to get to his current status. Outside of that, it certainly didn’t hurt that Polpo had taken a liking to Bruno.
Fonduta took a long drag, musing, “So. This Fugo kid. He gets angry and hates touch.” At Bruno’s nod, he went on. “He’s one hell of a charity case. What made ya cave?”
“...He is not. I would appreciate it if you did not talk about him like that.”
Eustachio threw the remains of his cigarette to the ground, and stomped it underneath the heel of his white spats. “What is he, then? A friend? Heh.” He rolled his eyes. “C’mon. You're shittin’ me. Bruno the Bruiser, havin’ a friend? That’s fuckin’ rich.”
Bruno tampered down whatever anger he felt as swiftly as he could, and decided to not comment on his old nickname. It was quaint. He’d changed. He’d grown. ...Or had he?
“Soldati can have friends,” Bruno replied, the chill in his voice surprising even him.
“Yeah, yeah.” Fonduta shrugged, letting Bruno’s anger roll off him, nonchalant. “Still. You’ve gone soft, Bruiser. I still remember hearin’ ‘bout how ya got in at twelve for filletin’ some suckers. Now? You eat pizza and laze away in the hottest spot in town while the rest of us who aren’t ‘Capo’s Pet’ hafta work.” He stepped back, looking Bucciarati straight in the eye. Energy began to crackle from around Eustachio, quickly followed by three pairs of spectral hands manifesting before him, semi-transparent and detached from any arms.
“Don’t pick fights you can’t win.” Bucciarati felt Sticky Fingers manifest beside him, blazing with rage. In the back of his eye, he could see Fugo, walking into the alleyway from a ways away. “What happened to Polpo’s orders?”
“I’m makin’ my own plan. This’s Hands All Over.” One hand waved, one pointed, and the others were idle, bobbing lightly in the air. Eustachio’s real hands were on his hips. “So, here’s how it’s gonna go down, capische? I’m gonna kill you and your pathetic little ‘friend’.”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“Oh, really?” A cruel chortle. “You’ve gone soft, Bruiser. It’s a shame. But, don’t worry; I’ll take great care ‘a the place for ya. Pour one out in your memory. We need an iron hand ‘round here.” A cheeky grin followed. “Or, should I say, hands? ”
Fugo walked outside, as he’d promised Bucciarati he’d do at the prescribed time. He’d told him to meet him in an alleyway; nothing too out of the ordinary for mob work. But, as the sunlight had begun to stream in from above, he couldn’t help but remember how on edge Bruno had been all day. Something had been stressing him out, leaving him uneasy as well.
Before he could try to parse what was possibly stressing his superior out so much, the blond saw Bucciarati, in the distance, Sticky Fingers at the ready, talking to a redhead whose bleaching had gone awry, with mismatched frosted tips to spare. Almost instantaneously, Fugo pulled out a knife from one of his pockets and tried his best to look intimidating.
Bruno, seeing him, gasped out what he could of a warning, only for a set of hands grabbed Fugo’s lapel, dragging him into the alley before he could really register what had happened and making him drop his knife. Thrown against the wall, the blond soon felt hands pinning his shoulders against brick, a hand on his cheek, and the cool sharpness of a blade against his throat.
The adversary was shrouded in large, erratic slivers of light that came through between the buildings, illuminating him menacingly as Fugo was stuck in shadow. In the distance, he could see Bucciarati attempting to fight spectral hands with his zippers, and putting up a laudable effort.
“You must be Fugo.” When the redhead leaned down, a strand of badly-bleached hair in his face, Fugo could see his eyes in detail, shimmering and orange-ish. “I’m Fonduta. Eustachio Fonduta. Nice to meetcha.”
Pannacotta could feel his breaths becoming shallower.
“Bucciarati there is supposed t’ be runnin’ a test for ya as a proctor, and I’m here to administer the questions, got it? Polpo’s orders. He knew I’d be here today, told me you don’t like touch, and that you’ve gotta short fuse. He didn’t know I’d be claiming this turf.” A cackle followed his toothy and cigarette-stained grin. “Or that I’d be killin’ both ‘a you.”
Bruno’s voice in the distance was almost a growl as he managed, livid, “Don’t you dare hurt him!”
The blond felt a prick and some more coldness from the blade. He winced. Meanwhile, his vision began to blur. Oh, no. The last time he’d had such a visceral reaction was… No. He was not going to think about that; not now. He wasn’t back in school. He wasn’t back in that library. His body, however, didn’t seem to register that.
Beneath his chest, Fugo felt a sort of charge. It was like every time he had an anger outburst, but… different. This was something deeper, more from his core.
Whatever Fonduta said, he didn’t hear—his hearing had gone out, even if he could still see the villain’s mouth moving. Pannacotta felt himself spiral, his memories from mere months before playing back to him in vibrant, grotesque color. It was as if the raised ridges of the bricks became the spines of the books that had dug into his back when he’d been pinned against the shelves in his school library by the man who had, ever since his first visit to office hours, made his life a living hell until Fugo had almost ended his . The situation was different, but even so; it had struck a nerve.
His rage, fury, sorrow—all of these emotions burst out of Pannacotta as a sort of miasma cloaked him. A deafening ringing threatened to split his head in two as a spectral figure appeared behind Fonduta.
Fugo gulped, tried to speak, then choked the words back. Fonduta’s voice began to fade back into his hearing. “Aha! The Brainiac talks! What is it?”
“Uh—Behind you. Someone’s—”
“What? Behind me? I’m not falling for that bull.” The hands closed ever-tighter around Fugo.
“Don’t—! Let go of me!” Fugo’s breath began to fail. The ghostly being behind Fonduta looked Fugo in the eyes, his eyes shining gold in the fog.
Help me, Fugo begged toward the stranger, whom he knew for some reason, instinctively. Their souls resonated.
The being, reaching out a purple hand with yellow caps on its knuckles, yanked Fonduta away from Fugo and into the sunlight trickling through the gaps between buildings, a haze obstructing them both. Fonduta’s spectral Stand, however, still gripped so hard that Fugo’s shoulders had begun to lose circulation.
“Don’t— Don’t fucking touch me!” With a burst of panicked strength, he tried to wrestle himself free. At the same time, however, he flashed back to the library. He’d held a textbook, then; a thick one. He remembered himself knocking his professor upside the head with it, then proceeding to bludgeon him half to death. Fugo had admittedly dissociated for part of the ordeal, but he clearly remembered that, at least.
The figure raised his hands in the same manner Fugo had only months ago, then, twisting Fonduta around, brought his fists, clenched tight, down upon him as if they were a hammer.
All Pannacotta could see was the aftermath—the spectral being, whaling on the enemy as Fonduta, for lack of a better term… liquefied. Fugo steeled himself, just barely managing to hold back the beginnings of bile at the wretched sight. Fugo could begin to make out more about the figure from the hazy fog; sunlight streamed through, hitting the new arrival to illuminate what appeared to be a helmet, a small cape, and checkered purple skin. The capsules that had been on his knuckles were gone; Fugo put two and two together to realize that this was the Stand’s ability, this carnage at his feet. His mouth was sewn shut; however, that didn’t stop him from wailing into the air, sobbing, for lack of a better term, lamenting his birth.
The haze soon dissipated within the sunlight, leaving behind what was left of Eustachio Fonduta, and the keening monster that had disintegrated him. The beast, after taking long, ragged breaths punctuated by gurgles, raised his eyes to Fugo.
Those were his eyes.
This was his Stand.
Purple Haze— The name came naturally to him, like taking a breath. It was from a song he’d loathed. Or was that “Purple Rain”? He wasn’t exactly in the mindspace to ponder, but regardless, the name fit like a glove that was too tight for comfort. He stared into his soul, and his soul stared back at him, frantically scrubbing at his hands to the point where Fugo’s own began to feel as if they’d been chafed raw, as they did every time he’d begun a cycle of handwashing after a flashback nightmare.
Bucciarati just barely managed to collect himself enough to scramble over, then, a distance away, saw the sight in front of him and said, voice laden with pity, “Fugo… Oh my god…”
“You knew this was going to happen.” Fugo said this as a statement of fact, his glare flinty. “You told them. I thought I could trust you!” Purple Haze looked at the man with the bob, who had re-zipped on a hand that had gone astray during the fight, then shrieked. He returned back to his user as Fugo, eyes puffy and voice sharp, shuffled past Bucciarati, not letting him speak. “Don’t talk to me.”
Nothing else was said as Pannacotta returned to their shared apartment above Libeccio. Then, changing into pajamas and sitting on the floor, the teen sobbed.
The blond walked into Libeccio, his fury and grief still echoing in the air. Delicately avoiding stepping on the entrails of their former adversary, Bucciarati returned to the apartment, shutting the door behind him as he took a long, deep breath, then pulled out his Passione-approved cell phone, dialing Polpo.
“Oh! Bucciarati. I see you finished the exam. How did Fugo fare?”
Even though Fugo had closed the door to his room, the teen’s sobs resounded, knives cutting into Bruno’s heart.
Before he could even stop himself, Bruno snarled: “Fuck you.”
“... Hello to you too.” There was a bit of irked grumbling before he continued: “So, he’s dead?”
“No, he isn’t. He’s just traumatized. More so than he was before.” His responses were clipped as he attempted to bite back his fury. “That’s saying a lot.”
“Good.” Polpo’s voice carried a self-satisfied smirk, even through the phone.
The sobs had turned to sad sniffles in the background; Fugo sounded as if he were calming down. Bucciarati growled into the phone. “No. It isn’t. Don’t you understand that you’ve violated his trust? That you made me violate his trust?”
“How so? You told me he didn’t like touch and had anger issues. How do you know this wasn’t you?”
“The way Eustachio went about it… Who, by the way, decided he’d try to murder me in some sad attempt at a turf war—” A what?! from Polpo cut in. “—Yeah, a turf war. Still, that’s not the point— Do you understand that he just had to relive the worst thing that had ever happened to him?”
“I saw the news right before he’d joined. Everyone knows; I have the files, of course. All you did was point me in the direction of his questioning.”
“That is not what you had said would happen! It was not in the mission preparation! He just walked into a minefield, at my behest, all because you told me to do this, and didn’t tell me he’d be forced against the wall by a Stand made of hands! Do you understand how fucked that is?!”
“Stands manifest in times of high stress; you know that better than anyone. All I did was push him to face his fears so that he had a Stand; it is good, in the long run, no?”
Polpo’s words brought bile to his throat. “You know that there is a reason he wasn’t ready to manifest a Stand. You have his files! ”
“You really ought to stop while you’re ahead. We’re the mob. You’ve done worse before against targets. Go have a glass of champagne and celebrate.”
“No.” Bruno gripped the side of the table he was leaning against with a strength he hadn’t used outside of missions. “No, I am not celebrating. I am not administering another ‘Stand aptitude test’ or whatever the fuck you want me to do to any of my team. Never again. From here on out, they will never go through what Fugo just went through, and you will have to pry them from my cold, dead hands!”
Another sigh. “Fine, fine; consider the matter closed. I will no longer administer these ‘tests’ to your team in the future. You’ve won this one.”
“ Thank you. ”
“Now, be a dear and go outside. You have a guest waiting.”
“...What?” Bruno’s heart went still.
“You’re a smart kid, if a bit too emotionally attached to your charge. I know this is the first time you’ve spoken out of turn, so I’m going easy on you.”
“...Is that a threat? ”
“It’s a promise.”
Of course his emotions had gotten the best of him, and now, he was about to be ‘taught a lesson.’ Fucking hell... It was worth it, though, for Fugo. “I accept my punishment. Thank you for listening to my thoughts.”
Polpo chuckled. “Of course.”
With a chuckle, Polpo hung up his phone, and a car drew up to Libeccio, a nondescript grunt in jeans loitering around in front. Fugo had seemed to have stopped crying, which was good. Bruno, putting down the phone with a sigh, walked out to his fate.
Fugo had cried himself out. He also, feeling quite uncomfortable on the floor, moved himself to his bed, swaddling himself in the weighted blanket Bruno had bought for him after his first sleepless night in their shared abode. The fact that his Stand, the embodiment of his soul, was just as loathsome as he’d felt himself to be was, while expected, a punch to the gut. Yet, the revelation that Bucciarati hadn’t known what either of them had walked into beforehand, and that he hadn’t spilled his darkest secret... This did change things.
The teen heard a scuffle outside, a few grunts of pain from a voice that sounded suspiciously like Bruno, then the doors of the shared apartment opening. They each had their own separate washrooms. After a long while, the water shut off, and a knock on Pannacotta’s door followed.
“Fugo? It’s me.” Bruno’s voice sounded from the other side. It sounded a bit… syrupy. Off.
“...Come in.”
As Bucciarati walked in, Fugo unsheathed himself from his weighted blanket, still clutching the Celebi plush he’d picked out the first time he and Bruno had gone shopping for new clothes and for apartment essentials. He was soon greeted by the sight of his superior, who was trying and failing miserably to hide that he’d just had the crap beaten out of him. Bruno’s eye was just discolored enough that, after hearing him speak, he’d made the connection.
Both stood in silence before eventually, Bucciarati broke the tension: “I’m sorry.”
"It was Polpo’s orders, wasn’t it. The test."
A nod. “Yes; you heard the phone call, didn’t you.”
“Yeah.”
Fugo, seeing Bruno’s puffy eyes and bruised limbs peeking out from under his casual clothes (after all, his suit was likely covered in blood), the anger, which had been residual at that point, had begun to ebb away in earnest.
Bruno stood, pacing tersely as he spoke. "...Polpo decided that he needed to get someone who could get under your skin. I didn't tell him about... the professor thing."
“I know.”
He looked down at his feet. "I only mentioned that you don't like being touched and have a short fuse. I didn't think..." A shuddering sigh. "I had no idea we had someone like Fonduta. If I would have known..."
It was bizarre to see someone be so honest, someone not putting on a performance. There was no mask, no bargaining; merely guilt, and concern. Those were not things that Pannacotta Fugo was used to having directed toward him.
“...I appreciate you telling me, Bucciarati, but Passione has a file on me," Pannacotta admitted. "They know about the professor thing. I told Polpo myself, even though he’d seen the news; kind of expected, when a kid bludgeons their professor half to death with a textbook.” He let out a small, humorless chuckle. “Even so, as I told you; I have no shame about it. It’s not like you would have known they’d know. What I mean to say is... It isn't your fault, Bucciarati."
"No, it is . I should have stopped it."
"...And get punished worse than you already have?" Fugo’s voice was surprisingly steady, if a bit raw from crying and screaming. Bruno went silent as the blond went on: "You tried. You willingly walked into an obvious attack for my sake after that call. You care. About me.”
“Yes. Why are you surprised?” The older teen smiled for the first time that day, his countenance radiant, warming Fugo’s heart.
“You saw my Stand; his name is Purple Haze. You saw that… that…'' he gulped. “That monster, that came from me.” The blond swaddled in blankets stammered. “I... I don't understand it."
"I’ve seen some gnarly stands; while I am concerned about the spontaneous liquifying, of course, he comes from you, so I know he’s good at heart.”
“—That!! That’s what I’m talking about! How do you know that he won’t be like me, possibly hurting you...”
Bruno cut him off: “Wait; which part, the caring, or the Stand thing?"
"Both! I already told you, I don’t understand! I don’t, okay?” Fury began to course through him, white-hot and molten. Even so, it was not at Bruno; it was at himself.
Bruno moved to ruffle Fugo’s hair; slowly enough that the blond could clearly deflect if he chose. Shocking even himself, he chose not to, leaning into the friendly contact. Bucciarati’s words were weighted with sympathy. “You're so young..."
"...So are you."
The two stared at each other, unsure of what to say, until Fugo gestured for Bucciarati to come sit beside him, making room on his bed. Bruno complied, then, after wrapping himself with a fluffy fleece blanket that was going unused, spoke: “You are more than deserving of friendship, of love. You aren’t dirty, you aren’t monstrous, and while you have an angry streak, and can sometimes be as sharp as a shard of glass, you’re brilliant, and you’re a good kid. You…” He appeared to be choked up as heartbreak rattled in his words. “...God, I’m so sorry. The world has failed you."
While it was hard to sense, Bruno was shaking almost imperceptibly; he felt it through the mattress, through the blanket he’d been using as a cocoon. Fugo raised his hands and arms a bit, and, while he clearly wasn't sure how to go about what he wanted to do, there was an earnestness there. A tentative reach; a trembling attempt at connection. "You haven't."
Fugo didn’t fully comprehend what he felt at that moment. He'd never felt this feeling before, and had no name for it. If he had been a kettle ready to blow over at the slightest inconvenience, this feeling was a tea, one which had been steeping within him for a long time. It was flavored with notes of anger, sympathy, melancholy, joy, gratitude, and grief. What he did know, however, was that he wanted to share it, to pour it out and give it to the world. Most importantly, he wanted to begin doing so here, with his friend.
It took quite a bit of courage, but eventually, the blond stammered, "Bucciarati. I will give you a hug.” A pause, then: “D-Do you… do you approve?"
Bruno raised his head, eyes wide, with one being a bit discolored through the makeup he’d put on to hide his “lesson” from Polpo.
"Do I—" He laughed, and at that moment, Bucciarati sounded like a teen. It was unguarded; it was true. "Of course I approve. You're my friend.”
“Friend?” It took Pannacotta a few moments to parse that out, and he knew that the gears turning in his head were clearly visible to Bucciarati. “Ah. Yes, that is quite true. I admit; I do not have a good reference base upon which to work this conclusion, but… I’d say you’re my friend, as well.” He tried to hide the shock behind his words. He’d failed, based on the way Bruno looked at him, ocean eyes undulating with a soft kindness.
“I greatly appreciate the offer, but you really don't have to if you don't want to. I know it's hard for you."
"It is ." Fugo admitted. "But... I want to.” He didn’t have time to rationalize how proud Bruno looked in that moment of him before he hastily added, “However... I realize there is a slight road block. I, uh..." Sheepishly, the teen looked down at his hand, which, without him noticing, had migrated to be atop Bucciarati's. "Well, I just... I don't think I know how."
"You don't know how to hug." His superior's eyes furrowed in confusion.
"It didn't come up in my studies. But, I shall give it my best shot." With that, Fugo clumsily— but earnestly— wrapped his arms around Bucciarati. It was not a hug; not even in the most liberal sense of the word. It was instead a cling of desperation, amplified by how aggressively touch-starved Fugo was. Bucciarati also likely noticed that Fugo's hands were hovering awkwardly over his back; he had no idea where to put them and didn’t want to make his friend uncomfortable. Even so, it was a start.
“I’d say you’re doing just fine.” Half-laughing and half-crying, Bruno hugged back. "I love you too."
Ah. That was the word for the feeling threatening to burst at the seams of Fugo’s heart. He subconsciously knew it, but feared that it was too good to be true.
And yet... Pannacotta knew then and there that maybe, he could finally believe it. He was a teapot ready to boil over at any moment, but even so, he poured the tea that has been steeping in his soul into every fiber of his being as he hugged his friend. Even after they let go of each other, Bruno and Fugo sat in silence on the edge of Fugo's bed, and, before they knew it, they’d fallen asleep, their first peaceful sleep in weeks. While they couldn’t change the past, nor could they predict their future, the two wayward teens at least had each other. In the cruel world they lived in, it may not have been a lot, but it was a start.