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It starts with interruptions that are easy to ignore; little hiccup noises that Fugo can brush off with a smile and, “Something I ate must not have settled right.” Mista and Narancia buy it. If the rest of them let their eyes linger on him for too long and see how his chin juts out with every sound, he pretends not to notice. The more aware he is, the more it’ll happen.
Example A: his hand shoots out without warning and stops just short of hitting Abbacchio, seated next to him. He can feel it about to happen again. Fugo sits on his hand and ignores the itching in his bones and the heat of Abbacchio’s gaze.
To dissuade his mind from racing, he tries to focus on their movie, an American romcom that Trish insisted on watching for their date night. At the moment, the comedy is taking a backseat in favor of showing the love interests fighting. It’s stupid, but entertaining. Above all it’s melodramatic, and Trish looks ready to cackle as she takes in the pained expressions of her boys.
One of the characters on screen cusses violently, and god damn it all, the urge to echo it is building in Fugo’s chest. “Fuck!” bursts from his mouth before he can muffle it, and his head slams backwards onto the hard frame of the couch. He keeps it there with eyes glued shut and his mouth twisted in pain.
“Panna,” Giorno murmurs, trying to slide a hand between his skull and the couch until he hears Fugo hiss, “is everything alright?”
Of course it is. He just needs to stay focused on the movie to keep his overactive brain occupied. They’ve all seen him tic before, hell, they’ve witnessed him tic hard enough to need Gold Experience to patch him up. And yet… something about tonight feels off.
“I’m fine,” is what Fugo responds with. The addition of, “I promise,” gets caught in his throat by a grunt and his whole body tensing.
“Fugo -”
“I’m fine, Bruno!”
Fugo cringes. That was louder than he wanted it to be. He huffs and tries to compose himself. “Can we just watch the movie, please?” It’s always worse when they pay more attention to it. They all know that. Thankfully, Bucciarati drops it for the moment, but the absence of Trish’s giddy grin is all he needs to know that six pairs of eyes are still on him.
He tries to keep himself in check; the last thing he wants is to worry his partners more. Eventually, their gazes stray, and they make it through the movie with minimal issue. (Narancia holds his hand tight after the male love interest, older and powerful and with a grin that drips poisoned honey, makes a comment that neither expected and Trish forgot about.) Somehow he winds up with Mista’s legs in his lap, and he can’t complain about the comforting pressure; if Fugo is kneading Mista’s thigh through the credits just to keep his hands busy, only the two of them need to know.
Then the TV is off, and the lights are on, and for a few moments they’re nothing but silent. Abbacchio and Bucciarati strike up a conversation about what they thought of the movie; Narancia butts in to tell them it sucked. Giorno chuckles while pulling his hair from his braid, already prepping for bed. Trish whines and tugs at Mista’s arm to beg that he cuddles with her tonight.
And Fugo is left without a distraction to cling to.
Within their soft banter, he’s suddenly aware of how he stayed up too late, and there's too many conversations happening at once, and maybe that scene in the movie affected him more than he thought, and he really shouldn’t have had that cup off coffee this morning, and -
“Mista,” he says with urgency. “Off.” Six pairs of puzzled eyes turn to him.
“What?”
His bones feel like they’re vibrating. His skin is buzzing and his chest feels like it’s expanding.
“Get off,” he repeats, and starts to shove Mista’s limbs from his lap. “Off, off, off!”
He scrambles out of the way just in time for Fugo to double over as every tic he suppressed during the movie tumbles out of him, his abdomen spasming and yelps ripping their way from his throat.
“Fugo!” Narancia cries.
He reaches for him, but Fugo manages to choke out, “Don’t!” He shuts his eyes as tight as he can when his spine goes rigid, forcing him back into a seated position; he doesn’t want to see his partners’ expressions while they witness his first tic attack in front of all of them. He remembers clear as day the first time they saw him have an attack individually, and wishes he didn’t. Being this vulnerable in front of all of his partners at once is downright terrifying, not to mention the mortification, especially with the gargles and moans that are escaping his body.
Fugo’s arms twitch at his sides. He prays that he doesn’t hit himself this time.
His prayers aren’t answered, but at least his fist making contact with his throat finally spurs the others in the room to action.
Abbacchio is quick to clear the sofa of remaining occupants, and wrestles Fugo down to lay on his back. Every time he narrowly avoids a limb, Fugo aches with guilt. Then there’s an awful thud as he kicks him squarely in the chest, and worse, it’s right where Abbacchio’s old wound resides; he backs up to let Bucciarati take his place while coughing something terrible.
Through his writhing, Fugo lets out a sob. “‘M so- sorry, please don’t -” He gasps for breath as the panic and guilt and pain start catching up to him. He can’t remember what he was going to ask for.
“Shh, love,” Bucciarati coos, close enough to card his fingers through Fugo’s hair. “It’s okay, we know you didn’t mean it.” He’s too close. He’s going to get hurt. Fugo wants to shove him away, but he doesn’t trust himself to try.
His chest is tight with remorse for actions he can’t control and from the breath tics constricting his lungs. “Deep breaths, Panna,” says Bucciarati, and for a brief second he doesn’t feel so bad about how close his limbs are swinging to his body, because he can’t take a deep breath, he can hardly breath at all, can’t Bucciarati fucking see that? With the anger comes more guilt, and the crushing weight of feeling like he’s disappointing his partners. His face heats up with rage and embarrassment. He wants this to be over. When the first tears slip down his cheeks, he only feels worse.
“Oh, Panna…” Trish says; when did she get so close? She sits, cross-legged, on the ground next to the couch, and reaches up to dry the tears and drool sliding down Fugo’s face in a moment of eerie stillness between his convulsing.
(Slowly, Mista and Narancia are drawing in closer, trying to gauge what they can do for Fugo. In the kitchen Giorno does what he can for Abbacchio’s delicate, soon-to-be bruised lungs and ribs.)
When his mouth moves again, Fugo shouts at her, “Stop! Don’t want you to -” A barrage of swearing interrupts him, then he grunts not as a tic but in frustration. His voice is meek when he continues. “Don’t want you to get- get hurt.”
He doesn't have time to process how horrifying his moment of vulnerability is, because said horror brings on more tics and soon he's punching himself with his full weight behind each blow. He feels exposed, belly up and out of control in front of all of his partners. He hates it. The whole-body tense-ups punctuating his thrashing are the worst, because they leave him paralyzed, completely unable to fight back. During one such tic, Narancia moves in closer, even though they all hear Fugo’s breath hitch. He reaches out an open hand and his lips are poised to give his best attempt at comfort.
Fugo socks himself in the eye and Narancia grabs his forearms without thinking. “Woah!” he exclaims, holding tight fast, and Fugo is dropping into a panic before he can even try to get the words out between his vocal tics. Narancia’s vice-like grip sparks an urge to shake off his restraints that’s so strong he feels like his arms are going to explode, and it reminds him of being grabbed, forced down, groped, coerced into things he wishes he could forget.
The guttural wail he lets out feels like plunging into a frozen lake to his partners. “Narancia,” Mista says. His tone is serious enough to catch everyone’s attention. (Fugo despises the attention.)
Narancia looks up at him with bug eyes. “Is this not- I just want to help,” he whimpers, and even Fugo hears how scared he is. Both of them are shaken to their cores. Even through the fog of his memories, he feels for Narancia; the last (and only, until tonight) time he witnessed one of Fugo’s tic attacks, it was them, Mista, and Bruno, and Narancia had been ushered out of the room to give him some privacy. With all of their minds halfway to bed, no one had thought of trying to avert a few pairs of eyes, and they’re not about to try, despite Fugo spiraling and reliving some of his worst memories. Every flash of panic across his gaze makes them want to cradle him until it goes away, but now that they’ve all seen the severity of this particular attack, none of them are willing to leave Fugo in his time of need. He understands; Fugo knows stubbornness the best out of any of them.
“I know, I know, dear,” Mista says as he drops into a squat so he’s at a comfortable level for both of his boys. “But I need you to let go of Fugo, okay?” Narancia relinquishes his hold immediately and his chest aches sympathetically at Fugo’s desperate gasp.
“Panna?” prompts Mista, settling in next to Trish. From the corner of his eye he sees Narancia burying his face miserably in Abbacchio’s chest.
“Y- Fuck you! Bitch! Bitches! Yes?”
“Can I touch you?”
Fugo responds eloquently, “Sluts! Sluts and whores!” in a voice that doesn’t sound like his own - it’s much too high and jarring - and it’s the obscenities that make him feel the most ridiculous. He opts for choking them back, even if they make his head jerks double and his stomach spasms increase tenfold. He’d rather feel like his bones are live wires than keep swearing like that. Behind his sealed lips, distressed whines push their way through. It pisses him off.
Giorno, suddenly in front of him, gives him a no-nonsense look. “Fugo. Stop suppressing your tics.” Fugo makes a noise of frustration; he’s impressed every time he’s reminded how blunt Giorno can be when the situation demands it, but he still wishes it wasn’t aimed at him. “It’s just us, Panna, we’re not going to judge you for it.”
“But -”
“You’re not going to hurt us,” Bucciarati soothes him, even as Fugo’s head bucks into his shoulder, and fuck, if that isn’t what he needs to hear. Coupled with his first name falling from Giorno’s pretty lips, the walls he’s built up can’t help but crumble.
He nods and manages to drag a deep breath into his lungs, and lets it out slowly to achieve just a moment of relaxation. Trish praises him, “Good boy, Panna, you’re okay, we’ve got you," and brushes his pale hair from his eyes.
Then Fugo lets himself go - lets the rage and guilt be sapped away by his exhaustion - as the tic attack drags him under like a merciless current. His mouth becomes a motor, spitting vulgar words at everyone within earshot, and his fists plunge into his stomach; he stops trying to hide how much the self-inflicted beating hurts.
“Giorno, can you get me the- thank you,” he hears in Bucciarati’s voice, and the next thing he knows there’s a thick pillow between his hands and his abdomen. In between the ugly twisting of his face Fugo tries to throw him a look of gratitude.
Mista tries again: “Can I - can we touch you, hon?”
Fuck it. Without Narancia’s handcuffs making him feel trapped, he’s able to admit, if only to himself, that he craves the loving touch of his partners to distract him from his throbbing skull and muscles ablaze with energy. If they get hit, they knew the risk they were taking. Before they even started dating, Fugo was walled into coming clean about his tics after he almost got them all killed during a mission. Since then, he’s gotten meds, six supportive partners, and a slightly less fucked brain. They help, but moments like these are still unavoidable.
He starts to get lost in his thoughts, cursing himself for not being smarter, not sticking to his strict sleep schedule, not faking being sick and getting the brunt of the attack over in the privacy in his room even though it’s their date night. But then he feels several hands - soft, welcome ones - across his body, and melts.
The first one he notices is Abbacchio, pulling his hair back so it stops blinding him and getting snagged in the buttons on his sleeves. He’s positioned behind the arm rest at Fugo’s head to protect his still tender chest, but present nonetheless. Trish is squeezed in next to him, cooing sweet nothings into his ear, and he can feel Bucciarati’s breath on his neck. Giorno, ever hesitant to initiate contact, holds his hand loosely. Narancia presses in close to Giorno and lets his fingers trail across Fugo’s hips and sides as they twist wildly. The most reassuring is Mista, resting a hand on his knee and - when his legs stop kicking for long enough - rolling his knuckles into his sore muscles.
His partners’ touches lull Fugo into a trance that quiets his tics so much, he feels almost confident sitting up. He regrets it immediately when pain shoots through his calf, suddenly tense and rock solid, like a bullet. He lets out a cry of agony and tries to lean forward to clutch his leg; what he does instead is elbow Narancia in the face and succumb yet again to his tics.
“Ow, dammit!” Narancia says, hands over his nose that’s already gushing blood. Giorno throws Fugo a sympathetic look before turning away to heal him.
He wants to feel bad for Narancia, but right now, his pain is shutting down all other thought. He has to gasp to get air into his lungs and push out, “Cramp, cramp, cramp, ow, shit!”
At once Mista takes hold of his calf and directs Bucciarati to distract him while he works at the muscle, squeezing and prodding in an attempt to get rid of the cramp ASAP. Fugo hates being betrayed twice over by his body, and the others hate the way his face contorts in anger and pain.
His cramp, while intense, is mercifully short-lived. But it leaves him even more wrung out. He keens, “Abba, Giorno, want - want, want, want - want you, please.” He wants to be ashamed of so plainly asking for his partners, but he can’t find it in him to care, especially when they (carefully) come closer to rub his arms, kiss his forehead, and whisper their devotion to him.
“It looks like it’s getting better,” Giorno comments.
“Knock on wood,” Abbacchio murmurs with a rare smile. “You’re doing so good, Panna, just a little longer. We’re here for you, darling. I know this is scary, but we’ve got you.”
The fact of those tender words coming from Abbacchio, notoriously reclusive and hard on the exterior, is so touching that Fugo feels more tears come to his eyes, this time for a good reason. “Maybe I should have tic attacks more often, if you’re going to be that sweet.” His words are punctuated by obnoxious hiccups and squeals. Abbacchio rolls his eyes at him, but still presses a kiss to the back of his hand when he catches it.
Giorno’s prediction proves to be correct, and it makes him want to cry again, now from relief. Fugo notices that the less he tics, the more hands he can feel snaking across his body, rubbing soothing circles and massaging muscles he didn’t know could get that sore that fast.
“Fugo?” Narancia says, uncharacteristically shy. “I love you. I’m sorry I can’t do more.”
“Hey, no, you -” Fugo tries, sitting up to look at Narancia, but he flops back onto the couch and shuts up when he feels more tics bubbling up underneath his skin. “Someone else tell him.”
“You did great, Nara,” Giorno says, swapping one of his hands for Narancia’s. “You did what you could. That’s all any of us can do, yeah?”
Narancia nods, his grin wobbly and grateful.
Fugo pants on the couch, completely worn out, and savors the touch of his partners, though he shoots Trish a glare when she gets bold enough to poke him in the side. He doesn’t dare trying to move or even talk until he’s sure his tics have returned to their usual, sporadic pace. He finally requests, “Bruno, will you carry me to bed?”
Bucciarati doesn’t get the chance to open his mouth before Mista and Narancia are squabbling over who’s really more qualified to carry their beautiful boyfriend to bed. Giorno and Trish try to defend their cases, but they lack volume, and it’s a lost cause. Abbacchio shares an amused look with him, and that’s what finally gets him to burst into laughter.
Fugo loves his idiotic partners. He’s exhausted, but he feels warm and full in their presence.
Without giving warning or waiting for the bickering to stop, Trish scoops him up bridal style, much to the chagrin of Mista in particular. He blushes and splutters only to be silenced with a chaste kiss to the lips from Giorno. As he’s carried upstairs, he has the attention of all of his partners, who continue to dote on him all the way to their bedroom, where he’s deposited unceremoniously on the bed. His body still aches, and he’s still ticcing, but he hums with love and a sense of contentment. A sense of intimacy. He feels six bodies curl up next to his own, forming a nest around him. In the safe, quiet space that they’ve created, Fugo finds that he doesn’t mind having all eyes on him.