Work Text:
Fugo kneeled down on Bucciarati's grave, sobbing violently as passersby looked at him with a concerned expression. He clutched his hair tightly, quieting down his cries to draw less attention towards him.
He was ashamed of himself. Ashamed that he was crying so loudly in public. What would Bucciarati think?
No, Bucciarati would comfort him. He could never know what Bucciarati was thinking, the man was simply too hard to read. Fugo hated that about him. But then again, he could never hate him.
Fugo took a shaky breath, letting go of his hair and slowly lowering his trembling hands to rest on the plain grass. Bruno Bucciarati was the closest thing he had to a father. He wished he could've spent more time with him. He wished he had appreciated him more.
He wished he was still here.
But it was far too late for him to come back.
Fugo let out another sob, as he clutched the grass with his hands. He knew he was getting dirt under his fingernails. Usually this would bother him, but he couldn't bring himself to care anymore.
"Padre," Fugo choked out, swallowing his tears. He said the word as if it'd bring him back, knowing full well he couldn't bring back the dead.
He wanted to rip out his heart and bury it with his adoptive father's corpse. He knew he couldn't, but he yearned to.
Fugo lied on the grass, staring up at the sky with a solemn expression. He didn't want to go home. This was his home. He knew that the only time he was truly at home was when he was with the man he couldn't help but consider his father.
He wanted to die here, he wanted to lay on the grass forever and stare up at the sky until the world ended.And as he lay on his deathbed, he closed his eyes and waited for everything to come to a stop. The flowers on the grass lying 6 feet atop of the coffin tickled Fugo's face, and he enjoyed the feeling.
There weren't flowers when he got there. Fugo opened his eyes, hearing footsteps approaching.
The pale teen sat up, staring at Giorno as he approached.
"I thought you might be here," he said calmly, sitting beside Fugo.
Fugo looked away, hugging his knees to his chest. "I'm sorry."
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Giorno reassured, placing his hand on Fugo's shoulder. "You're mourning the death of your friend."
"Father," Fugo took a shaky breath as he corrected the Don. "He was my father."
"You're mourning the death of your father," The green eyed boy corrected himself. "And I can see how deeply this is affecting you. You have every right to cry, Pannacotta. You don't have to hold back you're tears anymore. I'm here to be your shoulder to cry on."
Fugo turned to look at the boy sitting next to him, as his eyes welled up with tears. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his composure. "No... I can't. Not in front of you."
"Crying is healthy, Pannacotta," Giorno wrapped one of his arms around Fugo, gently pulling him closer. "You don't have to fight it. Just let yourself cry."
This was enough to drive Fugo over the edge, and he immediately burst into tears. He buried his face into Giorno's shoulder as he wept, feeling thankful that the man he loved cared so deeply about him.
He loved Giorno so fucking much.
He did feel guilty for getting his tears and snot Giorno's suit, but that didn't matter right now. All that matters is that he was in the arms of a boy that loved him dearly.
As Fugo finally calmed down and removed his face from Giorno's shoulder, he felt a kiss be placed on his forehead, which startled him.
"Did you kiss my forehead just then..?" Fugo asked, as he looked up at Giorno with his red, tired eyes.
The latter just looked at Fugo with confusion, combing his fingers through his snowy white hair. "No?"
Out of the corner of his eye, Fugo could've sworn he saw a silhouette fade into a golden mist.