Chapter Text
“This is disgusting. What’s in it?”
“It’s eggnog, brainiac. What do you think is in it?”
“It has eggs in it?” Fugo asked, peering into his cup. “Actual eggs? How has no one died of salmonella yet?”
“You can’t be serious right now,” Mista said. He glanced over at his friend. “Giorno. Back me up here.”
“Eggnog is made with eggs,” Giorno said automatically.
“Did you know that before today?”
“Of course, he did!”
“I didn’t ask you.”
“Giorno, you knew, right? It’s right in the name!”
“To be fair to Fugo, it’s also right in the name of eggplant.”
“This isn’t about being fair to Fugo. This is about getting Fugo to stop bitching about something for one night. It’s a party, Fugo. A party.”
Fugo shook more cinnamon into the cup and took another sip. The face he made was even worse than the first. “And this is disgusting, Mista. Disgusting.”
“Then why did you drink it again?”
“I’m trying to figure out why this is so popular.” He sniffed at it cautiously, sneezing as some of the cinnamon entered his nose.
“Does it smell any different from the last five times you did that?”
Fugo felt like telling him that he could’ve stopped at four times, but he hadn’t, just because Mista had been watching intently.
“It’s foul,” he said instead.
“Give me that,” Mista said, holding out his hand. Fugo readily relinquished the cup, and Mista glanced inside before looking at Fugo and shaking his head sadly. “Geez, Fugo, save some cinnamon for the rest of us,” he said, holding out his other hand.
Giorno picked up the shaker of ground cinnamon and gave it to him, receiving a bright smile in return.
“I’ll be back,” he sang over his shoulder before heading toward the kitchen.
“Was it that bad?” Giorno asked.
“I can’t get the taste out of my mouth,” Fugo replied with a shudder. “And I noticed you never did answer the question.”
“The question about whether I knew it was made with eggs?”
“Once again, not answering the question.”
“I don’t want either of you to feel bad,” Giorno said with a hint of a smile.
“Oh, fuck, no. Not Mista. C’mon Giogio, you gotta have better taste than that.”
“It appears we’re both disappointing our parents,” Giorno said, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. “Oh!” he said, his face lighting up. “I forgot, Mista said you can add a splash of eggnog to cocoa. We should try it!”
He poured a small amount of the cup holding Mista’s eggnog into his cocoa and stirred, then handed it to Fugo.
“Why am I drinking this first? Have you ever tried eggnog?”
“You could always talk to Narancia,” Giorno said. “You’ve been putting it off all week.”
Fugo had been putting it off a lot longer than a week, and Giorno knew that, but he also knew Fugo had resolved to say something sooner than later because once the new year began, Fugo would find a whole new litany of reasons to continue procrastinating.
Still, choosing between saying something to Narancia right now and trying eggnog-contaminated cocoa was an easy one, and Fugo took a rather large sip. Too large of a sip, it turned out, and Fugo ended up sputtering as a result.
Giorno offered a napkin in trade, and Fugo happily returned the offending hot chocolate to his friend.
Who sipped at it without even a hint of a grimace.
“You’re an asshole, you know that, right?” Fugo asked.
“It’s good,” Giorno said, wrapping his other hand around the mug and using both hands to lift it to his mouth for a second sip.
It really shouldn’t have surprised Fugo at this point, not after realizing Giorno had a thing for Mista and hearing Giorno confirm it.
“Here,” Mista said, returning from the kitchen with Fugo’s mug. “Try this.”
“What did you do to it?” Fugo asked. He accepted the mug and peered into it with suspicion.
“For one, I emptied it out and got you a fresh cup with just a dash of nutmeg. A dash,” he repeated, as Fugo stared into it almost angrily.
“I know what a fucking dash is,” he told Mista, finally lifting his head.
“Stop being such a fussbudget and try it.”
Fugo sniffed at it, and Mista sighed loudly.
“It smells like rum,” Fugo finally said.
“And cognac,” Mista said. “Are you going to drink it or not?”
“Does Abbacchio know you raided his liquor cabinet?”
“I just had to say it was for you, and he was more than willing to provide a bit of both.”
“You’re so full of shit,” Fugo retorted, rather accurately if he went by Mista’s shit-eating grin.
He took a sip just to shut Mista up, and it wasn’t as awful as he’d expected it to taste. He stared at the glass, frowning.
“Is something wrong?” Giorno asked.
“This tastes better than the first one,” he said.
“Told you it was good!” Mista crowed.
“I didn’t say it was good,” Fugo corrected, “I said it was better.”
He took another sip and then ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, trying to figure out how the addition of a bit of booze could have made the difference.
By the fourth sip, he still hadn’t figured it out, but Mista begged him to take a fifth, just so Fugo wouldn’t die, and then the cup was nearly empty, so Fugo finished it.
“Another?” Mista asked with a grin.
Fugo nodded, and the surprise on Mista’s face was totally worth it.
“Liquid courage?” Giorno asked quietly when Mista went to bring Fugo a refill.
“I don’t know,” Fugo confessed.
“You’re going to have to tell him sooner or later. He’ll be really hurt if he hears it from someone else.”
“I know,” Fugo groaned. “I know.”
“It’s a great opportunity,” Giorno added, taking a sip of his probably-no-longer-hot chocolate.
“That’s why I applied,” Fugo said.
“I’m glad you agreed to discuss your proposal with my father,” Giorno said.
“Why wouldn’t I want advice from a Harvard alum like your dad?”
“I thought perhaps…” Giorno bit his bottom lip.
“Perhaps what?”
“Perhaps you’d reconsidered your options.”
“Giorno, you said it yourself, it’s a great opportunity,” Fugo reminded him. “Only a handful of applicants are accepted as Visiting Researchers. I’ve been working towards this my entire life.”
“It appears I’m not the only one avoiding the question.”
“Technically, you didn’t ask a question,” Fugo said.
Mista chose that exact moment to return with another eggnog, and Fugo accepted it eagerly, bringing it to his lips to avoid saying more.
Not that Giorno would have expected him to say anything in front of Mista. It wasn’t that Fugo didn’t trust Mista or that he disliked Mista – in fact, he had an odd sort of fondness for Mista, much like he had for Narancia – but Giorno knew what it was like to have the weight of parental expectations on his shoulders.
Giorno had also said something about them both being a disappointment to their parents, and that was the other reason Fugo had been avoiding Narancia, the one he considered his best friend of the bunch.
To anyone outside their friend group, it probably didn’t look like that; Fugo and Narancia fought like cats and dogs, screaming at each other at the drop of a hat, over the most mundane, trivial things. Fugo had always had difficulty keeping a lid on his temper, but the first time he’d really snapped at Narancia, really snapped, slamming Narancia’s head against the wall, Narancia had quickly turned around and grabbed a handful of Fugo’s hair, jerking his head back and giving Narancia the height advantage.
“Do that again, and I’ll gut you,” Narancia had threatened.
Fugo hadn’t done it again, at least not the wall thing, but he’d done more and worse, and each time, Narancia had retaliated in kind. Fugo wasn’t like this with any of his other friends, but that’s what made Narancia special.
It was fucked up, Fugo knew this, but they all were, in their own ways. Fugo’s entire social circle was a group of broken people who were slightly less broken, ironically, simply because around each other, they were allowed to show their fractured selves, with all their dangerously sharp edges.
Fugo was rinsing out his mug after his third eggnog – by now he was nearly sold on the whole concept – when Bucciarati showed up next to him.
Fugo whirled around, placing a hand to his chest. Bucciarati always had had this stealthy way about him, like he’d appeared out of thin air even though Fugo knew that was physically impossible. He supposed the whiskey – no, the rum – and the cognac – had made Fugo less aware of his surroundings.
“You don’t need to do that,” Bucciarati said as Fugo squirted a bit of dish soap into the mug.
“You shouldn’t get stuck with it,” Fugo said. “You’re going to have glasssshes and shit all over tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Christmas,” Bucciarati said with a smile. “I think I’ll survive.”
Fugo turned off the tap and turned around to face his older friend.
“Well, it’s not like it took me all that long,” Fugo said.
“No,” Bucciarati said, “especially not when you missed the cup.”
Fugo peered into the sink and realized he’d squeezed the soap over the handle of the mug instead of inside it. God, he was so pathetic at times.
“Are congratulations in order?” Bucciarati asked.
“Huh?”
“The Visiting Researcher program,” Bucciarati clarified.
“Dunno,” Fugo said. “Haven’t heard back yet.”
Bucciarati looked at him intently, and Fugo sighed. He’d never been able to get away with lying to Bucciarati, ever.
“Fine,” Fugo said, “but I don’t know if it’s what I really want to do.”
“The research,” Bucciarati asked, “or being a lawyer?”
Ouch. There was the heart of it, right there.
“I want to practice law,” Fugo said.
Mostly. It had been his goal for so long – a goal that his parents had approved of, for once – that he hadn’t considered anything else.
“But?”
“But I don’t know if property law is the field I want to research.”
“Can you switch to another field of research?”
“Not likely,” Fugo said glumly. “Each program has their own requirements, and Giorno’s dad gave me some advice.”
“I see,” Bucciarati said. “Of course, even if your future goals change, the acquisition of knowledge is still not a waste.”
It was one of the things Fugo kept trying to tell Narancia ‘When Am I Ever Going To Use This’ Ghirga.
“You’re right,” he said to Bucciarati, who gave him a smile that said, ‘I know.’
“Bucciarati,” Abbacchio said from the common area. “It’s time.”
Which meant that it was nearly Christmas Day, which meant it was time to watch whatever Christmas movie was pulled out of the Santa hat.
Fugo just knew Mista had submitted Die Hard, like he did every year. He’d even convinced Narancia that it was a Christmas movie.
“Meet you out there,” Bucciarati said, and Fugo nodded.
Shit. If it was nearly movie time, then Fugo couldn’t tell Narancia he was leaving. He still had a little bit of time left; he could tell Narancia tomorrow. No, not on Christmas. The day after, then.
Decision made, Fugo headed for the doorway to the kitchen, bumping into Narancia, who was trying to enter the kitchen at the same time. They both took a step back to allow the other to pass, then they both stepped forward again, bumping into each other a second time. They both attempted to turn sideways, but when Fugo moved to his left, Narancia moved to his right, and they collided a third time.
Narancia laughed, and Fugo, who was starting to feel a bit unsteady on his feet from the spiked eggnog, attempted to smile back, only he found himself unable to breathe. Narancia’s cheeks were flushed, and his hair was clinging to his forehead – sweaty from dancing – and this close, Fugo could see how long Narancia’s eyelashes were, framing large eyes that were the most striking shade of purple.
Not like Fugo’s eyes. His pupils were ringed with a muddy brown color that faded to violet closer to the outer edges of his irises.
Narancia’s pupils were somewhat dilated – perhaps because Fugo was blocking some of the light or perhaps because he’d been drinking – and he was staring at Fugo.
“You wanna move first?” Narancia finally asked.
That’s what Narancia had asked, but Fugo’s inebriated brain interpreted it as ‘wanna make a move?’
He did. Fugo had wanted to for a long time, in fact. This wasn’t the first time he’d noticed how beautiful Narancia’s eyes were, or how kissable his lips were, or how adorable his nose was when it was wrinkled in confusion like it was right now. Fugo had been this close to Narancia’s face dozens of times, usually while they were screaming at each other, their noses practically touching.
Like they were now, only this time, the roaring in Fugo’s ear wasn’t due to his rage. It was the wildly erratic beating of his heart.
Narancia licked his lips. “Fugo?”
When Fugo had first arrived and noticed the mistletoe hanging over the doorway, right where people would be walking in and out of the kitchen all night, he’d found it obnoxious, but the décor wasn’t entirely up to Bucciarati and Abbacchio, who were living in one of the campus apartments instead of the dorms. It didn’t seem the sort of thing that either Risotto or Prosciutto would’ve done, either, but it wasn’t as if they didn’t have their own pack of gremlin friends with shitty taste.
That was how Fugo-of-Three-Hours-Ago had felt. The rapid-fire brain synapses of Fugo-Right-Now chose to interpret the tacky decoration as a sign from the universe.
His fingers gripped the straps on the front of Narancia’s tank top, and he yanked, hard, putting Narancia’s lips not just within kissing distance but smashed right against Fugo’s.
God, Narancia tasted good, like cinnamon and spice and eggnog, which Fugo would be rethinking his opinion of if not for the fact that his entire world, all of his thoughts, were centered around Narancia, leaving no room for anything else.
Until he stumbled back a few steps, reeling from the force of Narancia’s hands shoving against his chest.
“Gross, dude, what the fuck!”
Narancia was wiping his hand across his mouth, and he was looking at Fugo like one would view a cockroach, or a curdled bottle of milk.
The thought of curdled milk, along with all the eggnog and rum (and cognac) he’d consumed, had Fugo slapping his hand over his mouth and running outside to vomit into the garbage can that had been conveniently placed near the door.
He felt sick, and not just because he’d had too much to drink.
Gross, Narancia had said.
Narancia thought kissing Fugo was gross. Or perhaps he thought Fugo was gross. Or maybe…maybe Fugo should have kept his longing a secret, taken it to the grave.
It was too late now. He couldn’t unkiss Narancia, and he certainly couldn’t pretend that he didn’t find Narancia attractive in a more-than-friends way.
A damp washcloth entered his line of sight, and he looked up to see it was Abbacchio who’d offered it.
“First time?” Abbacchio asked as Fugo accepted the washcloth and scrubbed at lips and chin, then his teeth.
“I want to die,” Fugo said miserably.
“Join the club,” Abbacchio said. He held out a bottle of water, which Fugo eyed suspiciously, earning him a classic Abbacchio eye roll. “It’ll be worse in the morning if you don’t stay hydrated. Trust me.”
Fugo couldn’t argue with the Hangover King, so he accepted the bottle, struggled a bit to twist the cap off, and took a cautious sip before recapping the bottle and holding it against his already pounding head.
“You look like shit,” Abbacchio informed him.
Well, that was fitting, because Fugo certainly felt like it.
He took a few shallow breaths followed by another sip of water before Abbacchio said anything else.
“If you want to leave, I’ll give you a ride home.”
Bucciarati was usually the most perceptive of the bunch, but Abbacchio had his moments, too.
“I have my car,” Fugo said, only to receive a withering glance in return. Which Fugo knew he deserved. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
“It is,” Abbacchio said. He’d never been the type to pull any punches. “But I could use a few minutes away from Nero Fucking Risotto’s shitty music.”
Fugo nodded.
“You done hurling?”
Fugo took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then nodded.
“You’d better be. You puke in my car and I’m borrowing yours while mine gets detailed.”
“I’m good,” Fugo said.
Abbacchio looked at him for a full minute.
“You’re not.”
Fugo sighed. “No, but I don’t think I’m going to vomit again.”
He followed Abbacchio around the building and to the parking lot, where he sat with his face pressed against the window the entire way home. He’d never been so glad that his parents were spending the winter in their Key Largo condo. It was difficult enough dealing with them when he was sober; having to sneak in to his own home drunk and depressed was not the way he wanted to spend Christmas Eve.
When Abbacchio put the car in park, leaving it idling, Fugo could hear the telltale sound of Abbacchio’s package of Windex wipes being opened, and without saying a word, he lifted his head and accepted the wipe, doing his best to clean the window in smooth up and down strokes.
His best was somewhat hindered by his insobriety, but at least he’d managed to clean off the face print.
“Got your keys?” Abbacchio asked.
Fugo patted his pockets until he located them, and then he nodded before opening the door.
“Things will get better,” Abbacchio said. “Maybe not tomorrow, but eventually.”
Fugo supposed that was probably true, but right now he just wanted to curl up under his blanket and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist. He gave a half-hearted good-bye wave as he climbed out of the car, and it seemed to him like Abbacchio was waiting to make sure Fugo stumbled inside safely before taking off.
It was a sad, sad day when Abbacchio seemed to be the best friend he had. Fugo had nothing against Abbacchio, but the guy didn’t exactly exude warmth the way Bucciarati did.
But then, there was a reason Bucciarati was with him in the first place.
Once he’d reached the little half bath off his bedroom, Fugo did a half-assed job of brushing his teeth – the texture of the bristles against his gumline made him want to gag – and he finally gave up, squeezing a little toothpaste on his fingertip and running it over his teeth and the inside of his bottom lip before wiping his finger on his pants.
Pants that he stripped off, right in bathroom, until he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He gripped the sink as he kicked his pants the rest of the way off, to be dealt with later, and stumbled into his bedroom, where he practically fell into his bed.
Despite the booze and the exhaustion, it still took him a very long while to fall asleep.