Chapter Text
October 12th, 2001
To return to Mista was harder than Fugo thought it would be. It wasn't like they hadn't spoken before, but it was weird to occupy the same space again. It wasn't like how it was with Giorno, where Fugo had to face his demons to finally understand what it was that mattered to him, and that Giorno knew all along that he would come back. (Fugo hates Giorno sometimes, how he seems to know everything just by one look. He and Bucciarati both.)
It was different because Fugo knew from the day that Mista assigned him to assassinate Volpe, that Mista didn't know if he was coming back. And from the look on his face, Fugo was sure he didn't care. Why should he? He left them when they needed him, two of them actually died and came back while Narancia… if Fugo was there then, maybe he and Mista wouldn't be where they were now.
The where they were in question was with Narancia, whose limbs were twitching uncontrollably as he let out strangled noises. The pains were back again, erupting through his body where he had been stabbed by the poles. Fugo had a heating pad for him, but it wouldn't do any good until Narancia calmed down enough to not accidentally kick it away. All that both of them could do for him was be there for him, and Fugo wished that Giorno could take the pain away.
They waited, Fugo holding Narancia’s hand as best he could while Narancia began to calm down. But then his eyes widened and Mista dashed out of the bed. “Sit him up!” He yelled to Fugo as he grabbed a mini trash can. Fugo did so, and just in time too, because Narancia threw up straight into it.
Mid-puke he threw his hand out, making a thumbs up. “I'm good!” He sounded chipper despite having just thrown up and been writhing in pain. “Thanks guys.” He smiled, before wincing. He moved to lean his head on Fugo’s shoulder, but stopped and moved to Mista's instead.
Even him. Fugo still hadn't gained forgiveness from even him. Not that he deserves it.
Mista glanced at him briefly before returning his attention to Narancia. “Gonna throw up again?”
“Nah. I just kinda feel nasty ‘n gross ‘n shit, but I'll be fine tomorrow. Gimme the heating pad.” Narancia stuck out his hand and Fugo handed it over.
Mista ran his hand through Narancia’s hair. “You need us to stay the night?”
“I'll be okay. If anything I'll go to dad.”
“It's always bad when you call them dad.”
Narancia rolled his eyes, but didn't deny it. It's always bad when any of them call either of their oldest members dad. It's a rare occurrence; they're all so close in age and it should be weird but it never is. Fugo doesn't know if he can call them that any longer.
“Imma be fine though,” Narancia reassures them, “I promise.” Mista looked like he wanted to say more, but didn't. He gave Narancia a tight squeeze from the side before leaving the room. Fugo didn't leave quite yet, still looking at Narancia. He got a smile back in response. “I'm fine! This was like, the least bad episode I've ever had.”
“I'm sorry.” Fugo signed.
“For what? You didn't stab me with poles.” Narancia's grin didn't leave his face. “You don't need to apologize for things you didn't do, dude. Now get out so that I can actually get a few hours of sleep.” Fugo gave a weak smile in return along with a wave as he did what Narancia wished, closing the door behind him.
The house was still new to Fugo, which was so strange when everyone had been living in it for the past six months. There was still a bit of an adjustment needed to accept that this was where Polpo used to live, but according to the others, Bucciarati had everything that reminded him of the man removed. Even the flooring had reportedly been changed. It looked homely now, with nice wood flooring in a style similar to their old house when it was just five of them. Even Fugo's new room was on the same side as it was then: the last room on the right of the second floor.
The house was massive, had spacious rooms for everyone, and even a library that the previous owner never used. Speaking of the library, that was where Fugo was going for the night. He can't sleep, and doesn't want to sleep. Instead he'll read until the sun comes up, and drown himself in coffee when the morning comes.
He made it back downstairs, stopping when he couldn't remember which direction the library was in. The curse of having a giant mansion to live in (this is a level of first world problems that normal people couldn't even fathom).
“Lost?” Fugo turned and saw Mista in the kitchen. Fugo nodded and made the sign for 'library’. It took Mista a second to remember it, but nodded. “Come on, follow me.” Fugo hesitated, and Mista rolled his eyes before coming closer. “You've never been the best at directions, it's easier if I just show you.”
“I am not directionally challenged!” Fugo signed, following Mista.
“Your words can't hurt me if I can't see them.” Mista said as he walked in front. He took Fugo down the halls and to the library. Bucciarati had moved all of their books onto the shelves, even all of Fugo's that he had collected. It was a comforting thing: at least Fugo knew one person truly wanted him here.
But then he heard Mista sigh. “Right okay, Fugo. It's been… a minute since we've talked.” Fugo froze, hand stopping mid-grab for a book. They're going to talk? “Is that fine? I mean you don't have to talk talk you can just sign but… we can't keep doing this, dude.” It took everything in Fugo not to immediately run away. It was just a talk. It was just a talk, he doesn't hate Fugo. He's never hated Fugo.
Right?
Fugo sat down across from Mista, staring at him the way he did when they first met in 2000. Only a year ago, yet it feels like they've known each other longer. Maybe that's why Fugo feels like he needs to run, because whatever Mista is going to say, is something he will not be able to handle.
“You've been avoiding me since you've come back.”
“I've been back for two weeks.”
“And it's been two weeks of avoidance and I don't get why. Did I do something to piss you off? I mean if I did I'm glad you're not yelling at me or throwing shit but I'd like to know if I did something wrong. I gotta know. Whatever it is- whatever I did…” He looked away, running a hand through his short curly hair. “Just let me know what it was.”
Fugo stared at him, his hands shaking. He wanted to sign, but he couldn't move. One side of him knew the truth, the clear, obvious truth. Fugo was missed, he was welcome here and Mista had never faulted him.
But the part of him that lies is much louder. Mista tolerates him because they live in the same place. He won't ever trust Fugo again, how could he when he now knows that Fugo will save his own skin before he even tries to save them. Whereas Mista has always been willing to protect them, throw them over his shoulder and carry them out of a burning building (Fugo speaks from experience) while laughing along the way.
Fugo has never been that. Fugo has always been a loser, a coward and a wimp who deserves nothing. It's a miracle that he hasn't been laughed at or called a piece of shit yet. Maybe Mista was about to call him a waste of space. Fugo would probably cry, but he'd deserve it so who the fuck cares.
“Fugo!”
He gasped and suddenly he was back in the library. Something was on his arm and he screeched, kicked the thing and it let out a strangled noise.
“Fugo!”
Mista?
Oh. Oh shit.
Fugo's head cleared up and he looked at a coughing Mista, his hand over his cheek. He kicked him. Fugo kicked him. If Mista didn't hate him, he surely does now. He wants to apologize, but words haven't been working and neither are his hands.
“Are you okay?” Mista asked, completely ignoring the fact Fugo kicked him. “I didn't mean to scare you dude but you started doing that thing again.” He gestured towards Fugo's arms. His nails were digging into his skin, and he'd already drawn blood. His skin has always broken easily, but this was embarrassing. Shameful, even.
Mista simply grabbed some tissues from the table. “Can I-”
“S-stop.” Fugo snatched his arm before Mista could touch it again. His voice came out as almost a wheeze, betraying how he felt.
“Stop what, Fugo?” Mista looked confused, but Fugo couldn't speak again. He needs to say sorry, he needs to apologize. He hurt him, of course he did because Fugo always hurts people. That's why Mista hates him.
“You… don't need… to pretend.” Fugo's hands shake and make him practically incoherent. But Mista understands it anyway.
“Pretend? What am I pretending about?”
“That you… give… a shit.” Mista’s brows furrowed and Fugo knew he was either trying to figure out the signs or figure out his words, but Fugo didn't give him any time before continuing. “We… don't have to be… friends. Don't force… I'm not that…” Even with his hands, Fugo can't figure out how to say what he wants to say. “Just leave.”
And Mista just laughs. Loud as if Fugo just told him the funniest thing of all time; it catches him so off guard he can't even be angry that he's getting laughed at. It makes his hands stop shaking out of sheer confusion. “You're funny, man. Now let me stop the bleeding before it gets on your pants. I'm pretty sure Bucciarati has a first aid kit in every room at this point.”
“I said leave.”
“And I said what your words can't hurt me if I can't see them.”
Fugo glared. “I don't want to talk anymore.”
“You don't have to. I'll talk and patch you up, you know I'm good at yapping.” Fugo stared at him, but hesitantly held out his arm. Mista smiled, “Great, give me like three seconds. Gotta find the first aid.” Mista left and returned before Fugo could even start thinking again. Mista held up the disinfectant wipe. “Gonna sting.”
“Not a baby.” Fugo signed with one hand, knowing Mista couldn't understand the accent. He hisses at the sensation regardless.
“So imma talk, and you're gonna put that big brain to work and understand me, ‘kay?” Mista didn't wait for Fugo to try and say anything, his eyes trained on Fugo's arm. “First things first, I literally described you as my little brother to this girl I was talking to, so that should tell you straight up where you stand to me. Second things second, if it doesn't then I'll tell you right now. You're my friend, Fugo. You've been my friend since day one the same way Narancia was. Sure, you threatened to break my face but we threaten to kill each other all the time.”
He finally met Fugo's eyes, but looked away the moment he lifted his free hand to sign. “And I did miss you, by the way. Abbacchio was the only one who didn't want to chase after you; he said you'd come back on your own. He was right, clearly, and everyone trusted what he said. Narancia got your room together, Trish has her sign books to try and talk to you, and Gio was already scheming to give you a mission. But me? I didn't-” Mista went silent, placing the bandages on Fugo’s arm. “I didn't know, man.” His voice was softer. “I thought you were gone. You'll never get how happy I was when you said you'd take the mission.” He looked at Fugo and nodded, giving him the okay to comment.
“You didn't seem like it.”
“Cause I was working, dude!” Mista gave a little smile. “Would be weird if I was grinning while telling you to go kill a guy. But that head of yours and me are gonna fight if it makes you think I'm forcing myself to be your friend or care about you.” Mista got up and sat next to Fugo, “I know I'm not Bucciarati or Abbacchio, and I know I'm not your best friend, but that doesn't mean I don't care about you. It never will. And I'll keep being myself until you remember that.”
Mista was quiet after that, having said everything that he needed to say. Fugo didn't speak, not with his voice or hands, not for some time at least. This conversation wasn't a quick fix that made Fugo feel happy-go-lucky, but it did make the side of his brain that lies die down.
He leaned his head on Mista's shoulder, the older boy extended his arm across the couch. Fugo lifted his hands. “If it's something stupid, Imma close my eyes.”
“I have more than one best friend.”
“...Oh.” Fugo could hear the inklings of a smile in Mista's voice. “Thanks kid.” They sat together for a while, at least until Fugo felt like it was appropriate to finally get some sleep. They both stopped by Narancia’s room, cracking the door open to see him fast asleep with his snake plush. Mista followed to Fugo's room, and Fugo gave a little wave.
“Goodnight.” Fugo signed, a barely there smile on his face. Barely there but genuine nonetheless.
“Fugo?” Mista called out just before the boy could shut the door. He nodded, waiting for Mista to continue. He raised up his hands, and to Fugo’s surprise, signed. It was hesitant, and he could tell that Mista was worried about messing up.
“You're one of my best friends, too.”