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Your name is Pannacotta, a name your mother gave you after the sweet, cloud-like pudding that she’d so unequivocally loved. What an irony it had been that she named you so, considering you would never once hear her whisper that desperately needed I love you while you still lived under her roof.
And so, while lying on that pure white hospital bed, scar still throbbing fresh, it had come as a surprise when Giorno had somehow managed to buy the same panna cotta from the bakery your mother so adored. Years have passed, some bruises have begun to heal, and yet, you would never forget that name. With a mother who loved the taste of sweet cream on her tongue far more than she ever loved you—how could you?
Still, Giorno brings the dessert, set in a glass dish and garnished with plump, ripe berries onto the bedside counter. A letter from Trish and a small trinket from Mista’s recent trip to Venice are pushed aside. Giorno brings a chair up close to the bed that smells faintly of alcohol and artificial lemon-lime. He looks at Trish’s letter, untouched. The golden wax seal still sits prettily on its delicate surface.
“You haven’t read it?” Giorno says with a tone that tells you he probably isn’t surprised, picking up the letter to smooth the creases and cuts from the mail courier’s clumsy hand.
“No,” you say, but it sounds pathetic. “I don’t have the time to. It always seemed to slip my mind.”
Giorno pauses for a moment, but he knows you too well. Ever since that day you swore your life to him, he’d always known your behaviour down to its last breath. And perhaps, you adored him for it.
“You’re lying, but I don’t hate you because of it. Mine and Mista’s were almost identical, so regardless of whatever guilt that troubles you now, I will simply sum it up for you. Trish would like for us to see her in concert in Paris. You’ll come, I hope?”
Giorno does not wait for an answer (and really, would you even have been able to offer an answer?) and brings the glass dish closer. A silver spoon cuts into the milky white flesh of the pudding and Giorno places a hand under it, bringing it closer to your lips. You unknowingly scowl at this, both humbled and shocked at this display of kindness.
“I’m injured, not crippled.” You mutter, attempting to grab the spoon from his hands but finding your body still aches from wounds that have yet to heal with time. “ Giogio , you’re babying me.”
“Say ahhh ,” Giorno smiles and you laugh at that, perhaps, if only for a second. “Just try it. I asked all around town for the best panna cotta. I hoped you would like it.”
These words are rare and kind and melt on the tip of your tongue. You hate the sugary taste it leaves behind so much that you wince and turn your head towards the open window. Today, the Naples sun beats wildly down on the city below. On days like these, a lone sparrow will usually sit on the edge of the window sill and hum a little melody, thanking you for the relief of shade. Of course, you cherish that. It is only those, unaware to the evil of the world and the horrid things you have done, that seem to offer you their thanks.
“Hey, Fugo.” Giorno catches you off guard, using the name you have chosen to call yourself for the past few years. “Come take a bite out of this for me.”
This time, Giorno’s voice is poised and strong. He makes no effort to move the spoon forward but implores you to eat it with his chilling gaze nonetheless. You shiver. Of all the things you could possibly do now, angering the capo is one you would especially like to avoid.
You tilt your head and take a bite. The blood-red juice of the wild raspberries faintly stains the corners of your lips, but before you can think much of it, Giorno has already wiped it dry. He smiles at you as if he already knows what you will say. Ah, Giogio. You will exasperate, head thrown back in surprise. This truly is the best I’ve ever tasted. Those townspeople were right.
But Giorno is wrong, and you won’t. Instead, this is what you say.
“Ah, Giogio.” You breathe, because that is what you have always done and you have to, you’ve got to continue doing so. “I hate it. I hate the taste of this panna cotta so much that I’d rather vomit than eat it one more time. I hate it.”
You don’t understand what illness has befallen you, but suddenly there are tears in your eyes and the sleeve of your hospital gown is wet. You are no man, but a coward. Named after something so disgusting, so hideous as this .
“Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t realise you preferred another kind. I’ll demand a change now-“
“No, no. You don’t see it, Giorno? This is the first time I’ve ever eaten panna cotta in my life.”
It’s this subtle confession, this terrible admission that makes you feel as if this is the first you have sinned in all your life. You are no perfect man, but now, you are too vulnerable. Too fragile. Feeling too much as if coming to terms with your grotesque namesake will make you wish you had died with Bucciarati that day.
“Fugo, look at me.”
Giorno’s voice is diamond cut, perfect. It is hard not to envy him so.
“I know not what grief falls at your feet, but if the journey is hard, let me carry some of the weight. If it is sorrow that encompasses your sleepless nights, then I will be there every dusk to free you from those binds. Please, rely on me and know that these pains you go through are not all your own to bear.”
Had you ever heard these words before? It was hard to say definitively so. Whatever the feeling was, Giorno’s words wrapped around you tight and felt as warm as that blazing Naples sun. Tomorrow, when the night fell into a deep hush and the sparrows would go to sleep in nearby nests, Giorno would be there. Whether it would be to talk, to read, to write, he would say this— rely on me, Fugo.
And he would be right. Your name is Fugo. Named after that absence of rain that so many, just as you, so loved in Naples. The sun, the sky, and the breeze. That was you. Fugo.