Work Text:
A user's relationship with their Stand was, like every snowflake, unique. Forged by experiences, idiosyncrasy, by the very essence of the user. However, Fugo, analyst that he was, had discovered some patterns.
Before Giorno, Fugo had never met anyone who was born with their Stand. He didn't even know that was a possibility, in fact: the only means he knew of was the violent ordeal of the arrow, where the only paths were to be worthy of it or death.
Technically, Trish was also a natural Stand user, even though she had only become aware of Spice Girl's existence when she was caught in a borderline situation. But, according to the words of her Stand, it had always been with her.
And yeah, he could see it. The relationship of those two with their Stands was different. Within Passione, Stands were mostly seen as simple tools. Even Mista, who sometimes treated the Pistols as if they were his children, came to seem disconnected when compared to the other two's bond with their Stands.
Golden Experience and Spice Girl acted as independent entities, but at the same time, they were in perfect synchrony with the needs of their user. Trish's stand acted as a sort of older sister (or so, Fugo supposed, since as an only child, he didn’t have something to compare it to) encouraging, advising, and scolding her user when necessary. Gold Experience was a little more subtle, so much so that Fugo hadn't noticed the dynamic at first, but it always manifested itself at the right moment: creating lavender flowers when Giorno was stressed, responding to Mista's call when it was most pertinent, breathing life into objects on its own account as a contingency measure. That without counting all the secrets that its user himself didn't know since it had become Requiem.
Fugo had been thinking about that one afternoon, as he watched Spice Girl and Trish chat while the Stand braided its user's hair. He was so distracted that he didn't notice Polnareff's presence until he heard him speak.
“Once, Silver Chariot tried to do the same to me. Not exactly braiding my hair, but a new hairstyle. My hair took months to grow back,” the Frenchman commented, letting out a chuckle at the end.
Fugo was a genius, but it didn't take to be one to realize that the reason Polnareff had stayed with them was to monitor them, probably at Dr. Kujo's orders. He didn't know the whole story, but he understood that he and Giorno's father had a history, and it wasn't a pretty one.
Still, he liked Polnareff. The man had never been in the armed forces officially, but he was a full-fledged war veteran. His help had been essential in the process of rebuilding Passione and Giorno's rise to power. And besides, he was an easy person to get along with, even if he had turned out to be less serious than Fugo would expect from someone who had been hit that much by life.
“Has your Stand always been like this?” Fugo asked, intrigued and frightened by the possibility of a child having such a deadly weapon at his disposal: he had seen its sword split a tree in half.
"He used to be smaller. But basically, yeah. He has been the same Silver Chariot since ever.”
"And you never hurt someone by accident?" He couldn't help but ask.
Polnareff smiled wistfully.
“Once, while playing knights and princesses with my sister, Silver Chariot ripped her favorite dress by accident. She didn't speak to me for three days after that. Silver got the same treatment.
"I thought she wasn't a Stand user," Fugo commented cautiously. He was always afraid of reopening some wounds when talking about those who were no longer there, even if he knew that Polnareff was quite open when talking about his sister.
“No, she wasn't.”
"Then how was she able to see it?"
Polnareff chuckled at the boy's obvious confusion.
“She wasn’t. But she knew he existed, so she always talked to him, so he wouldn't feel ignored. She kept doing it even when we were adults.”
"She sounds like a wonderful person," Fugo said sincerely.
Polnareff looked out the window. Out of respect, Fugo pretended not to see the tears.
"She was," he answered, his voice not breaking despite the tears.
That morning, they had left the conversation there. Fugo wanted to ask more questions, but he had found it sacrilegious to interrupt Polnareff in his moment of mourning; he knew well from the loss of his grandmother that the pain became bearable, but he never completely disappeared.
However, later that afternoon, as they watched Mista and Narancia shoot empty cans, he decided it was a good time to return to the subject.
"Mr. Polnareff?" he tried.
"I already told you not to call me sir. It makes me feel old.”
“Sorry. Polnareff…”
“Yes, kid?”
"Have you ever feek afraid of hurting someone by mistake? I mean... your Stand can cut a person in two in the blink of an eye.”
Polnareff seemed to consider his response for a few seconds before shrugging.
“Honestly? I never thought about that. At least not until I joined Mr. Joestar's group and we started being attacked by Dio's minions. The fights were sometimes quite chaotic.”
For Fugo, who had grown up imagining worst-case scenarios for every situation, the concept of living without such anxiety was inconceivable.
“ Never ? Really?”
“Really. Silver has been with me since I have a memory. He is a part of me, so he tries to protect me and those I love.” A playful smirk formed on his lips. “Besides, he is way more sharp than those two’s Stands put together,” he added, pointing to Narancia and Mista, who still hadn't managed to hit the farthest can.
"It's because there's no food involved," Fugo said, half joking, half serious. “I've seen the Pistols defy the laws of physics for a piece of salami.”
Polnareff laughed heartily. Fugo just smiled: his mind was in a whirlwind. Since the age of thirteen, he had believed that the problem with his stand was that it was inherently dangerous. But here it was, Polnareff, proving that the problem was the user, not the Stand.
It was as if Polnareff had guessed the direction of his thoughts.
“And you? Have you ever accidentally hurt someone?”
Fugo let out a laugh that sounded more like a bark.
“More times than I could count.”
“I’m not talking about that. I mean, with your Stand.”
Fugo took a full minute to answer.
“When I just got my Stand, there was a crow near the window… Almost every time I let it out, animals die, as collateral damage.”
"And people?"
"I never let it out when people are around, unless my intent is to kill them."
“That wasn't my question, Fugo.”
"It's different," he muttered, clenching his fists.
“Why?”
"I…" Fugo bit his lip. Saying it out loud was painful. “I can not control it. I can't even control myself.”
They were both silent for a few minutes. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of Aerosmith's gunshots and Mista's revolver in the distance: the two boys had wandered into the woods at some point while they were having their conversation.
“Jotaro gave me some files with information on all of you.” Fugo nodded. It was not a statement that took him by surprise. “Those files also have information about your Stands, too.”
"I expected nothing less from the Speedwagon Foundation."
"Your Stand was different before, wasn't it, kid?"
“Yes.”
“It changed.”
Fugo was getting tired of hearing things he already knew.
"What's your point, Polnareff?"
“My point is that your Stand evolved at the last second to save you. To protect you. I think you're not as disconnected from him as you think if he did that for you.
Fugo didn't reply. He didn't know what to say. And Polnareff, chatty as he was, knew when someone needed a little quiet.
Both returned to the main building, and the only thing that was heard during those ten minutes was the song of the birds, the wind in the foliage of the trees and the sound of the dry leaves being crushed by the soles of shoes and wheels.
Fugo was ready to say goodbye and go back to his office, to think about the rest of the afternoon. But Polnareff had something else to say.
“I know this may sound stupid… But to improve the relationship with your Stand, you have to believe in yourself. And in Purple Haze, too.”
“I don’t need it.”
The look Polnareff gave him wasn't exactly harsh, but somehow, it reflected that feeling that he was talking to a veteran.
“We all need someone to watch our back.”
It took Fugo a couple of days to process that conversation, and three more days, to work up the courage to pick it up again. Or, specifically, to ask for advice.
"How can I trust my Stand?"
"Baby steps first,” the Frenchman suggested. “Nothing life or death. Ask him to close the door to your room, or hold something for you.”
It sounded so mundane that it bordered on the ridiculous. And yet, Fugo was terrified to try.
But, in theory, he had nothing to lose, so he did it.
Purple Haze was pretty uncoordinated early on, and had serious trouble measuring the spaces it moved into. He used to throw objects in his path or collide with furniture and walls, and the pain of those impacts always reflected on Fugo.
"Purple Haze, watch out!" his user yelled, frustrated, seeing that he accidentally knocked the coffeepot to the floor trying to grab a cup from a shelf.
"It's not his fault," Narancia commented, making Fugo jump. He had thought he was alone: Fugo still wouldn't let his stand out when there were other people around. “You're just letting it out until now. It's normal that he doesn't know how to move around, I guess.”
Fugo heaved a sigh. After those weeks, maybe he wouldn’t say that he felt fully comfortable knowing his Stand was out, but it was a bearable sensation. He began to see it with different eyes. Perhaps not as a part of himself yet, but as a dog that needed to be trained.
And now, Narancia had managed to make him feel like the Stand user's equivalent of an animal abuser.
“I guess you're right.”
Narancia grinned from ear to ear, as he did every time Fugo agreed with him on something.
"I've never seen him this close before," he commented, as he moved closer. Apparently, he had completely forgotten the reason why he had come down to the kitchen.
"If you had, you would be dead."
Narancia ignored his words, and moved even closer, until he was close enough to touch Purple Haze if he reached out his hand.
“Hi, dude.”
The Stand drew his attention from the spilled coffee to the brunette. Fugo was tempted to banish it, fearing that it would hurt Narancia.
But the Stand just stared at him.
“Can I touch him?” Narancia asked, his eyes bright.
Fugo had never been good at denying Narancia things.
“Be careful. Not even I had tried that. I don't know how it could react.”
A few seconds later, Fugo felt phantom fingers brushing his chest.
It took Fugo about three months to start manifesting his Stand around people. Well, other people besides that Narancia, who since that night always insisted on seeing him, as if he was some pet and not a walking biological weapon.
Sometimes, Fugo felt regretful that he hadn't tried to control his stand much sooner. He thought of all the trouble he could have saved his team from doing so.
But sometimes, he just watched his progress and felt happy .
Purple Haze was more agile. Not as much as the Stands of his friends, and probably never would be, but he was more... graceful. And he acted more independently, but somehow, more in line with Fugo's wishes than he did when he gave him orders.
Except for one small detail.
"That Stand is in love with you," Mista commented mockingly.
"You're just jealous that someone loves me," answered Narancia, without letting go of the console control: he was beating up Mista's ass in Mortal Kombat .
As he played, Purple Haze had wrapped his arms and legs around Narancia, like a giant gargoyle.
Narancia had never been shy about expressing his needs for physical affection, even if others weren't always able or willing to satisfy them. Needless to say, upon discovering that Fugo's Stand was willing to satisfy those needs, he had received the affection almost ecstatically.
Fugo had realized that his initial metaphor had been wrong: Purple Haze was not a dog, but a cat. A huge cat. He could even purr. Narancia's discovery, not his.
It was common to see Narancia caressing the face of the Stand, putting his hand under his visor. They could go on like this for hours, and Purple Haze would look at him confused when he stopped. Sometimes he just clung to Narancia's shoulder and watched him do things.
And sometimes, like that afternoon, he would wrap Narancia in his arms, and they would both fall asleep on the couch, cuddled up together. Well, Fugo wasn't sure if his Stand was actually asleep, but he looked as peaceful as if he was.
In those moments, envy would boil inside Fugo’s chest. Which he himself knew was stupid, knowing that he only had to reach out to claim what his Stand had.
Because maybe, as much as he had once hated that theory, Stands were indeed a manifestation of their user's soul.
And in that case, Mista's mocking comment hadn't been entirely wrong.