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Fugo took in every detail of the night sky.
The stars peeking out from behind the few clouds, the moon shining bright yet being a lonely figure searching for friends, the breathtaking midnight blue color of the sky. The endless sea of space seemed to hypnotize Fugo as he looked deep into the sky.
Yet another sleepless night had caught him in its grasps and there were very few options for him to keep himself busy without waking up his friends.
Fugo gazed at the night sky and sighed.
The railing of the balcony was cold against his arms but, perhaps, that was what he needed at the moment. The cool metal kept him grounded in reality, for which he was grateful. He didn't want to remember, he didn't want to go back.
University was the best and worst thing to ever happen to him, he thought.
Had he not gone there, he wouldn't have felt the need to worry about everyone's motives or his behavior.
Had he not gone there, he probably wouldn't have met Bucciarati. He probably wouldn't have been standing here right now.
A soft smile grazed his lips.
They were all so different from each other; they all had different life experiences, yet they were the same. Their differences connected them.
They are friends. They are family. Fugo loves them.
However...
There were times when he wondered: why did they insist on dealing with him? Why did they tolerate him and accept him and show him affection when his temper always got the better of him?
Why hadn't Bucciarati thrown him out of the team when he lashed out one too many times?
Why did Abbacchio always listen to him when his past was harder to ignore sometimes?
Why did Narancia still call him his best friend when all he did was yell at him or stab him with a fork?
Why did Mista still call him his best friend, despite all the insults and remarks?
And Giorno...
God, Giorno.
They hadn't known Giorno for long, hell, Fugo had only known him for about a week and still decided to trust him with his life and respected him. Yet, despite not knowing each other like the rest of the team had, Giorno still decided to find Fugo and bring him back to the gang.
Why did he do it? Why would he take back a traitor?
Even after a year of knowing and finding out more about each other, Fugo couldn't understand. Why would Giorno even feel the need to bring Fugo back to the gang? They hadn't known much about each other, there hadn't been reasons or gains for Giorno.
Fugo's mind drifted back to the time at the restaurant. He was alone with Giorno, swearing him his loyalty.
Perhaps, it was that moment.
Perhaps, it was some time during the past year.
Who knew.
All he knew was that his feelings were distracting him from his duties. How was he supposed to be a reliable and responsible soldato when the mere mention of the Don made him feel things he couldn't explain? Fugo knew, though. He knew what his emotions meant; he knew they were wrong. They were not supposed to be there, for many reasons.
Fugo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air was pleasantly cool in contrast to the heat during the days. He let his gaze wander over the sky one last time as he lost himself in his thoughts. The professor's voice wasn't plaguing him anymore, at least, but now a certain blond teen was occupying his mind. Fugo scoffed, at himself mostly. How could he ever have been so naïve to hope that Giorno, of all people, would feel the same way? His words at the restaurant were nothing more than a consolation, they didn't mean that much. They couldn't.
So why was Fugo feeling like they meant so much more? He needed to know wether his brain or his heart were playing tricks on him. However, he wasn't ready for that conversation and hoped it would never happen. Even if it ended up tearing him apart, despite his determination that nothing of that sort would take place.
He whipped around within the blink of an eye when he noticed someone approaching him, his left hand holding on to the railing, alarmed.
Speak of the devil.
"Giorno." He whispered, afraid that the very trees would hear him. His eyes softened and his posture relaxed upon seeing the blond, though.
There, he stood in the doorway. His golden hair was not in its signature style, the three victory rolls replaced by grown-out bangs and some of his curls rested on his shoulders. Instead of a suit, he wore simple sweatpants and a black shirt. No matter how long they've lived together, seeing Giorno in casual clothes still felt unnatural to Fugo. It made him seem more human, in a way, yet Fugo couldn't describe how or what that even meant.
"I apologize", Giorno whispered just as softly. "I didn't mean to startle you." He stepped closer, until he stood next to Fugo. "I take it you couldn't sleep either and don't know how to keep yourself busy without waking the others?" He didn't look at Fugo.
"That's really specific", Fugo smiled, crossing his arms.
Giorno shrugged, "Call it intuition."
"Well, I guess your intuition is right. There's not much to do at this hour and I really don't need Abbacchio coming for me because I woke him up."
Fugo spotted a smile on Giorno's face as he turned to look at him. He decided not to dwell on the moon reflecting in the other's sea-foam-green eyes.
"No, I don't think anyone would want that."
They were silent for a moment, both turning to look at the sky. The air around them was comfortable. Fugo broke the silence, then.
"Judging by your looks, you're not up because of paperwork."
Giorno hummed, "No. There are too many things to think about." Fugo could feel Giorno's eyes settle on him.
"Like you said, there are some thoughts keeping me up," Fugo answered the unspoken question. Something in his mind clicked, and he asked, "As the Don, you have files on all of us, right?"
A part of him dreaded the reply. What if Giorno had read them? He must've known, then. He must've known that Fugo was stained. Then why did he still talk to him so kindly? Fugo's mind was reeling. What if Giorno knew but acted kindly out of pity? He surely must've been disgusted.
He wouldn't do that, the small voice of his brain's rational part whispered, barely audible.
"I do," Giorno's voice snapped him back to reality. "But I haven't read them and I won't unless the situation leaves me no other options. I've never told any of you about my whole life before Passione, so it's not my place to ask about yours. I only know about Bucciarati, Mista and Narancia because they've told me."
Giorno turned his head and looked into Fugo's eyes. Fugo could see that he was telling the truth, which relieved him greatly. It made sense, Giorno was never prying unless it was important for a mission but even then, he didn't step further than needed.
"That's why you're here, isn't it", Giorno spoke once more.
Fugo nodded. "Usually, Abbacchio's there to keep me grounded." He hesitated before continuing, "But that's not the only reason I can't sleep. I just need to think."
About you, he had wanted to say but didn't. It was better for Giorno to not know, anyway.
"What about you," he added, before Giorno could even think about replying. "It's rare that one of us doesn't catch you overworking yourself once again."
Giorno chuckled at that, the pleasant sound making Fugo's heart flutter. He liked it whenever the blond took off his mask made of pure stoicism.
"Well, Bucciarati did send me to bed before he retired for the night. He personally made sure that I didn't enter my office again", Giorno smiled.
Fugo snorted, his hand, which was formed into a light fist, immediately covering his mouth. "No wonder that Narancia and Mista call him the gang's mom."
They laughed lightly. The gang really was more of a family than a group of friends.
Regaining his composure, Giorno leaned forward, holding on to the railing, and looked up at the night sky as his golden curls fell from his shoulders on his back. The moonlight made him look like an angel sent from Heaven, Fugo thought as he looked at the other with pure adoration.
"The moon is beautiful, isn't it?"
Fugo almost didn't hear him and when he fully processed the words, his eyes widened slightly. He knew what Giorno meant.
Or, at least, he hoped it was what Giorno meant.
Giorno had told them that he wasn't actually Italian, that his mother was Japanese. Fugo knew a few things about Japanese literature. Maybe this was just his wishful thinking, who knew, but it would've been a waste to let this opportunity go.
Giorno looked at him, and Fugo answered,
"Yes. I wish I could watch it for good with you."
The world seemed to stand still for a moment.
Then, Giorno smiled softly and gently took Fugo's hand.
"You can."
Their conversation in the restaurant replayed in Fugo's mind. This was just like then. Giorno's words held the same weight and sincerity they had back then. Fugo noticed that he was holding the hand which he had kissed. Fugo knew, it was that moment.
He brought Giorno's hands to his lips and kissed his knuckles, just like he had back then. No words were needed. They knew. Perhaps, the lack of a good night's rest was worth it this time, for Fugo was able to find comfort in a known but unspoken revelation.
The moon no longer had to search for a friend, the moon was no longer lonely.
For Fugo found it to be his friend.
The moon was beautiful, and so was Giorno.
University was the best and worst thing to ever happen to him, he thought.
Had he not gone there, he wouldn't have had to bear a burden bigger than anyone could imagine.
Had he not gone there, he wouldn't have met Bucciarati.
And Bucciarati wouldn't have introduced Giorno to them.
Fugo gazed at the night sky and sighed