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Fugo had finally started to feel like he was settling in with Bruno Bucciarati, if not with Passione as a whole. It might have been over a month now since he had gained a Stand and he had yet to master it in the way Bucciarati had his. Really, Fugo would just like to be able to call the cursed being when he needed it—controlling it even that much would be a blessing.
It made a lot more sense after Bucciarati had explained to him that a Stand was a manifestation of one's soul. After all, Fugo had very little control over himself, so why should he expect to have control over the purest embodiment of himself?
But Bucciarati was nothing if not patient with him. Patient in ways Fugo didn't think he deserved. The mafioso had become almost an older brother to Fugo and had been the first person to ever really sit and listen to Fugo and care enough to try and help him.
Fugo thought, most of the time, that he was beyond help, but it was nice that Bucciarati tried. That was more than his parents had ever done.
Bucciarati was out late that night, running some kind of errand for Polpo so Fugo took it upon himself to make dinner in their tiny apartment kitchen.
He wasn't exactly the best at cooking, obviously he'd grown up with staff to do that for him, but Bucciarati had been teaching him, and Fugo found he actually enjoyed it. It relaxed him.
The door to the apartment opened and Fugo startled slightly, looking over his shoulder. But it was—of course—only Bucciarati coming in. He was slightly hunched and looked exhausted.
"How did it go?" Fugo asked cautiously.
Bruno shrugged and flashed a brief smile that was more of a grimace. "Alright. Thank you for making dinner." His voice sounded a bit strained and Fugo was suddenly on the alert; something didn't feel right.
"I'm going to go…clean up before dinner," Bucciarati added, heading toward the bathroom before his legs suddenly seemed to just give out under him.
"Bucciarati!" Fugo started forward in shock as the man caught himself against the wall, leaving a smear of red before he collapsed completely.
Fugo skidded to a stop on his knees beside Bucciarati and reached out cautiously, opening his coat and pulling it aside to see an alarming amount of blood soaking through his clothes.
Horrified, Fugo looked around, wondering what to do. Should he get Bucciarati to the hospital? Was that bad? Would they ask too many questions? Would they arrest him?
He started to shake as he thought of the implications, but if Bucciarati didn't get help, then he might die and Fugo would still be left alone.
"No, think, Fugo," he snapped at himself, swallowing down the panic that was quickly rising in his chest. You need to stop the bleeding.
"Bucciarati," he called, giving the man a small shake, but Bucciarati seemed to be out completely, pale and clammy to the touch. Fugo pressed his lips into a tight line and glanced toward the couch, only a few feet away. It would have to do.
He got his arms under Bucciarati's and half dragged, half carried his unconscious figure to the couch. It was a bit of a struggle getting him onto it, but there was better light over here and Fugo could better assess what he was dealing with.
After pulling up Bucciarati's shirt, Fugo could see that the source of the blood was a gunshot wound to the side. He quickly checked for an exit wound and grew sicker still when he realized there wasn't one.
You know what that means, he cruelly reminded himself.
The panic fluttered up again, a bird trapped in a cage that he violently forced back. He was the only one who could help Bucciarati right now. Maybe Passione had their own doctor, but if they did, Fugo didn't know about them. And it was too late to find out now.
There was a lot of blood and it was still coming, Bucciarati had obviously passed out from blood loss. Frankly, Fugo didn't know how he had managed to make it back to the apartment. He quickly took stock of the wound's placement, recalling his anatomy and trying to figure out what organs could have been damaged by such a wound. Nothing vital, was his conclusion. At least it was on the opposite side of Bucciarati's spleen so he didn't have to worry about that.
He swallowed hard, gathering himself again, and standing up to run and get their medical kit. Fugo was even less practiced with first aid than he was with cooking, but, again, he was the only one. He did at least have a pretty good grasp at anatomy from a scientific standpoint (as if that did any good here).
He hurried back, dropping the kit beside the couch before going and washing his hands thoroughly. Should he also boil water? Or should he just sterilize with alcohol? He was sure there was some in the kit. Although, there might be a bit of clean up…
Fugo shook his head, clenching his hands so hard, the nails dug into his palms. He had to pull himself together.
Bucciarati was still completely out, for which Fugo was grateful, honestly. It was easier this way. He hoped.
He dug into the medical kit and grabbed everything he thought he would need. First order of service was slowing the bleeding.
It was sluggish, but he still should probably put pressure on it for a couple minutes. He grabbed a towel and pressed down hard on the wound.
That got a small sound of pain from Bucciarati who shifted, face twisting in a grimace. He didn't wake up though.
Fugo sat there for a few minutes trying to gather himself as he went over what he would have to do next.
First he would have to clean the area, make the bullet wound more visible. Then he would have to extract the bullet—
Fugo shuddered at the thought and he clenched his jaw. Once he got the bullet out, he would have to flush the wound to stave off infection and then hope that he could stop the bleeding completely. He could stitch it, but knew there was a risk of closing bacteria inside, which would not be good. But if bandages alone didn't work, he might have to.
Just the thought of pushing a needle and thread through Bucciarati's flesh nearly had Fugo crawling out of his skin. It was going to be bad enough to have to get the bullet out…
Panic flared its wings in his chest again and Fugo bit the inside of his mouth to bleeding.
Pull it together. Bucciarati is hurt and there's no one else around to help him. There's no one else around to help you.
He took a deep breath before trying to even his breathing and calm the panic like Bucciarati had taught him. After a couple seconds it seemed to work and he checked the wound, seeing that the bleeding had pretty much stopped.
Feeling steadier if not exactly confident, Fugo turned back to the kit and found a pair of forceps. He cleaned them liberally with the alcohol before wiping the blood away from around the site of the wound.
By the time he stopped his hands were shaking uncontrollably.
"Stop," he gritted out. "You can't do this if you can't stop shaking."
He clenched his hands into fists for several seconds, trying to breathe steadily again. The shaking didn't really stop, but he felt a little more in control when he unclenched his hands and reached for the forceps again. It was better to just get this over with.
He carefully pressed around the wound, opening it for better access, then squeezed his eyes shut briefly before he inserted the tool.
He could feel Bucciarati's muscles tense as he let out a soft sound of pain. Fugo bit his lip, tasting blood. More blood welled up from Bucciarati's wound, causing the fingers Fugo had pressed to his side to slip in it. The panic was fluttering up into his throat now, threatening to burst free, but Fugo forcibly swallowed it down, pausing briefly to orient himself, and then began to carefully feel around with the forceps for the bullet.
Please stay unconscious, please stay unconscious, he nearly begged Bucciarati, knowing that if he woke up now, if he moved, while Fugo was trying to do this, then he wasn't entirely confident that he could finish this.
Thankfully, he heard and felt the clink of metal. Fugo exhaled shakily and grabbed the bullet, carefully pulling it free.
Bucciarati shuddered with a moan, eyes flickering but still not completely waking.
Fugo set the bullet aside in a glass and quickly turned back to the wound, feeling light headed. He flushed it with a saline solution he had found before sanitizing the whole area again. Bucciarati shifted in apparent discomfort as Fugo finished up, packing the wound and winding a pressure wrap around Bucciarati's waist with some difficulty. It would hopefully help slow the bleeding.
When he was finally done, he sat back on his heels and stared at the young man lying unconscious on the couch, still wearing his bloodstained clothes. Had he done enough? Had he, perhaps made it worse instead?
Fugo took a look at his hands and saw there was still traces of blood on them.
The panic came back, this time completely choking him, and Fugo staggered to his feet, rushing into the bathroom. He gagged, but didn't quite vomit. Tears welled in his eyes as he turned the water on as hot as it would go and scrubbed his hands until they were raw.
Always blood on his hands. Fugo couldn't seem to escape it. There was too much blood surrounding him, and he didn't think it would stop any time soon.
It's not your fault, a very quiet voice said inside his head.
Of course it is, he shot back instinctually. If I could use my Stand, Bucciarati wouldn't have to go on missions alone…
Bucciarati. Of course, Fugo couldn't just sit in the bathroom feeling bad for himself all night. Bucciarati was injured and someone needed to look after him.
He scrubbed his hands one more time, washed his face, took a deep breath—all while avoiding his own gaze in the mirror—and returned to the couch where he had left Bucciarati.
The man was shivering and Fugo hurried to grab blankets, knowing that keeping Bucciarati warm after that much blood loss would be integral to stave off the effects of shock.
He took a moment to struggle with the blood-crusted shirt and coat, knowing it would be uncomfortable and possibly unsanitary, then tucked the blankets around Bucciarati before slumping onto the floor beside the couch, feeling like he had been drained of all his energy.
Fugo could do nothing but watch over Bucciarati through the night and pray he would be all right.
He didn't know when he had fallen asleep, but he was woken at some point during the night by a groan and something shifting beside his head.
Fugo started awake, seeing Bucciarati's face scrunch up with pain before he opened his eyes blearily.
"Bucciarati," he called softly, holding his breath as he waited for the reply.
"Fugo?" Bucciarati murmured.
Fugo almost sobbed in relief but he quickly gathered himself, sitting up straight from where he had been slumped against the couch. "How are you feeling?"
Bucciarati looked slightly confused. "I…could be better." He glanced down at the blankets, one hand shifting under them, as if he were searching the bandages. "Did you…do this?"
"I did what I could, I hope I didn't do any more damage. I just didn't know if it was a good idea to take you to a hospital since you bothered to come all the way back here anyway—"
"Fugo." Bucciarati touched his wrist briefly and offered a small smile. "I'm still alive. I'm sure you did all right."
Fugo slumped, letting out a shuddering breath. "I—you should have something to drink. I'll get you something for the pain too."
After propping Bucciarati up against a couple pillows and giving him water and pain pills, the mafioso looked ready to pass out again.
"Are you sure you'll be okay?" Fugo asked as he readjusted Bucciarati's blankets.
The older ganster smiled at him. "I'll be fine with some rest." He paused, eyes half closed. "Thank you, Fugo. You did well."
Fugo's throat tightened, but not with panic this time. He managed a small smile back, and then watched as Bucciarati finally fell back to sleep.
Fugo made himself more comfortable as he took up his vigil by the couch, watching over this man who saw things in him that even he didn't see in himself.