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Pannacotta Fugo has just kissed the hand of Giorno Giovanna and he feels like he just drank a vat of acid.
He meant what he had said, that his heart and soul is Giorno’s.
In the moment, it made sense. Giorno just has that effect on people. He was an atomic missile people just followed like an enigmatic firework with no regard for their safety.
Resentment filled him the entire walk home, though Fugo wasn’t sure if it was for Giorno or for himself.
—-———-
He has to deal with Mista, the next day.
He hadn’t talked to him since he was at the business end of Mista’s pistol, at that futból stadium. Since he brought up everything he’d been miserably failing to ignore for the past six months.
Fugo is called into Giorno’s mansion, obviously built from old money with its polished ivory pillars and gorgeous front garden. Fugo’s no stranger to the posh upper class, and he recognizes that Giorno must have paid a fortune for this estate.
He walks into the marbled foyer, looking around at the smaller, chiseled replicas of Michelangelo’s and Da Vinci’s.
Fugo suddenly feels nervous. He doesn’t belong here.
“Hey.”
Fugo snaps his head away from a painting of flowers, meeting Mista’s dark beady eyes on the second floor.
Mista had changed in the six months they had no contact, reasonably so. Losing the bulk of your familia in about a week does that to you.
He moves closer to the top of the stairs. Fugo watches him.
“I figured you would just fuck off forever, after the boat. I would have been fine if you did. But Giorno insisted on you being here.”
At least someone resents him. It made Fugo uneasy at how diplomatic Giorno was.
When Fugo still doesn’t say anything, Mista slides down the rail and jumps off to take the last few steps to stand in front of Fugo.
“He forgives you.”
Mista has always been a black and white kinda guy. He thinks in extremities. Four is his enemy and routine is his catharsis. If Giorno is on board with something, so is he. No questions asked.
Mista’s own feelings however…
Fugo manages to choke out: “I know.”
Mista comes on his side, hooking an arm around Fugo’s shoulder and ushering him deeper inside the mansion. They reach large oak doors, which Mista presses open casually, to find Giorno sitting at his desk doing work. He looks up as nonchalantly as a 16 year old kid can be. Impassive, but never innocent. He gives Fugo a little smile, a quick relief to his anxiety as Mista grips his arm harder.
“Mista, stop pestering him.” Giorno speaks, and without hesitation, Mista drops his shoulder. Fugo allows himself to wonder what happened after they defeated Diavolvo, wondering how well Mista accepted his sudden change of fate to follow the then 15-year-old who had crash landed into their lives.
“It was Buccerarti, who told me to look after you. He had asked, after I found out he was a walking corpse, if I could.”
Fugo didn’t ask about the walking corpse comment, and figured the story would unfold itself in its own time. He tries to look into Giorno’s eyes, but there’s nothing there he wants to see. It’s a much too intense and calculating look for a high schooler to wear. Giorno must have changed as well.
That could just be how he had always looked, though. It’s not like Fugo had known him long.
He knew that he could never have the closure that Giorno and Mista have, having witnessed it. He would never truly know if they died for the right things, if they fought as valiantly as they could or if they never even stood a chance.
His hands start to shake.
“May I know,” Fugo fumbles out, trying to regulate his shallow breath, “how…”
Fugo can’t even finish without stinging bile rising in his throat, which he forces back down.
Giorno gives him a pointed look.
“I don’t think you’re ready for it, Fugo.”
Fugo feels a hot bubbling in his gut, his hands vibrating at an unhealthy frequency, shoulders heaving. His ferocity is an ugly stain on his personality, a reminder of the upheaval of his life that set him on this regrettable path. It’s a unique thing, or at least he thinks so. In movies, anger is portrayed as quick bursts. Fugo’s is languid, slow and simmering and only boils when it’s met with a heated situation.
Like right now, when he has to bleed from his nails deep in his palms to stop himself from mauling Giorno.
“You are the insolent little brat who up-heaved my life in a matter of three days and took all my friends with you, just for the sake of your so-called dream . Sorry if I don’t seem ready to know how my family died because the boy king who knew them for a week doesn’t think I'm ready.”
He seethes through his teeth, somehow managing not to yell. Giorno just watches him. There’s nothing that gives away his thoughts.
“I’m not saying I deserve to know. I know that I may not get that. But don’t pretend you cared about them more than I did.”
He suddenly feels cold metal press into his temple. “If you really cared, you would've gotten on that boat. Don’t talk to him like that.”
Fugo’s nails dig deeper. “Oh who, the person who killed all our friends?”
Mista smashed his barrel into Fugo’s head, causing the boy to collide with the ground. Fugo sputters in disbelief, giving Mista a murderous glare.
“You weren’t even there man. You don’t get to have a say in this.”
Mista’s expression is steel. He’s been hanging around Giorno too much. Fugo lunges for him, and Mista shoots him with his pistol. Fugo cries out, crumpling to the ground again and cradling his bleeding shin. Sex Pistol Number Five cries out, ever the sensitive one, in concern for Fugo.
“Mista, what did I tell you about guns in this estate?” Giorno speaks calmly, like Fugo isn’t writhing in pain on the floor.
Mista puts the gun away, but never takes his eyes off of Fugo.
He only knows the unsightly thing has emerged from its dormant state inside him because Mista’s eyes shift behind him and they drop that hard stare for something more vulnerable. The gurgling noise Purple Haze makes echoes through the room, threatening his capsules against the nearest wall. Giorno is completely still.
Fugo doesn’t want to hurt them. He knows this whole thing is illogical, that his whole meltdown is completely childish, and his gut obtains that horrible sinking feeling that he felt the moment he touched that encyclopedia. If he does anything stupid now, his whole world will implode.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
He’s angry at Giorno, angry at Mista, angry at himself. He wished he got on that boat. He wished he died with his comrades. If he was lucky, he’d die in Narancia’s place. At least Narancia’s stand was useful.
“It’s not your fault, Fugo.”
It’s Giorno who says it, calm as ever, and Fugo feels like crying.
He manages to recall Purple Haze.
Giorno cautiously made his way towards Fugo, crouching down to his shin. The searing pain makes him howl, but then it’s gone, and he knows Giorno used Golden Experience. Fugo didn’t dare take his eyes off of the boy.
“You did the sensible thing.”
Fugo flinches.
But it wasn’t the right thing, was it?
Giorno helps him up, and he looks at Mista again, who has no expression.
He doesn’t think he’ll ever be forgiven.
Giorno grabs his hand to walk him out the room, stopping Mista from following. He takes Fugo out to the garden, decorated with flowers that wrap around statues as if they were a part of the stone itself. Giorno sits on a bench, and Fugo takes the seat next to him.
They’re still holding hands.
“I’m sorry I insulted you.”
“Don’t be. You’re too smart to be blindly led by someone. It’s why you didn’t follow Bucciarati on that boat, correct?”
Fugo chuckles. One of his many mistakes was thinking that Bucciarati was the one calling the shots back then. It was always Giorno.
“Right.”
“It’s why I need you on my side. I trust your intellect, Fugo.”
“Everyone does.” Fugo sighs. It seems to be the only valuable thing about him. Even Bucciarati only saved him because he had formal education.
“Whatever you think the mistake you made is, you won’t do it twice.”
Fugo looks up at the blonde. He looks so sure about his decision, so sure that the traitor won’t betray his dream twice. Even though Fugo knows that Giorno would just kill him if he did, part of him felt like Giorno actually depended on him. It was that strong, weird compulsion again, to dedicate his life to pleasing Don Giovanna.
Fugo summons the courage to lay his head on Giorno’s shoulder. The leader of the infamous Passione didn’t even flinch.