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The symptoms of sickness.
Difficulty with sleeping due to discomfort, flushed skin, a desire and need for warmth, delirious thoughts, and parched lips.
With a Stand like Purple Haze, one would assume that Fugo had some familiarity with the very virus the spirit causes. Yet, from the way he was in bed, restless and miserable, all while showing these symptoms, it was apparent that he was ill.
A sickness could either be treated by one's self, or with medicine.
Fugo was trying the latter, even though he knew that his illness was not the same as the type he was more familiar with.
He could trace the root of his condition to the fateful day when he held his ground on the harbor and watched as the rest of Buccellati's gang willingly moved ahead to become traitors. It was not caused by exhaustion of trying to safely bring Trish to Passione's boss, or anything of the sort, but from merely peering into your eyes.
Your gaze, so full of pain, betrayal, even hatred.
To see eyes that once held such shy affection look so disappointed and anguished because of him made his heart ache like nothing else. You both may have been just dabbling in the often romanticized ideals of young love, but those feelings were legitimate and now he had ruined it all.
When everyone else looked ahead to the uncertain future, your eyes remained on his face, leaving him frozen to where he stood from the fierce intensity. Eventually, he became too small to see and your head finally turned, joining the others in what could have been a journey to your demise.
And so began those symptoms.
Fugo's restless sleep was caused by seeing you in his dreams--contrasts of the tender moments shared with one another to a painful recollection of your last day together, or worse, nightmares of you meeting the wrath of Passione's boss. He often woke up with an abrupt jolt, his chest heaving, his skin flushed and slick with sweat. When he would slowly lay back down, he could only wish to take in your warmth again, much like you did back in Naples, the two of you nestled on the couch after a mission--just before Narancia and Mista would ruin the moment with their teasing.
It was nearly impossible to fall back asleep, with Fugo's thoughts stuck on someone who meant the world to him. This was often the time he would be left recalling the happier times and fantasizing about what a future with you would have looked like, whether you decided to stay or if he went to join you. He tended to focus on how wonderful it would be to kiss you again, to savor the feeling of his mouth on yours.
This was the consequence of his actions and he was suffering.
His symptoms worsened when rumors that Passione's boss had changed began to spread around, evident by the gang's sudden, more philanthropic approach to its dealings. Definitely Giorno.
Fugo wondered if he would have made a considerable difference if he had joined you and the others. Though, nothing pierced him as deeply as hearing whispers that you and Giorno were in a relationship together. Apparently the two of you had been seen together, not as mere boss and subordinate, but as lovers with you both taking off for romantic getaways and the sort.
Unable to bear it any longer, Fugo went on to seek redemption.
He wondered if it was by a blessed miracle or cruel fate to have you assigned to aid him in his mission. Especially since you flat out refused to even acknowledge him at first when you arrived, all while he was left stunned and so utterly joyous to see you again, admiring how you had matured so wonderfully and beautifully.
Before Mista went to carry on with a mission of his own, he took Fugo aside and quickly murmured, "For the record, those rumors are bullshit. Someone's been missing you all this time, y'know."
Tomorrow would be the day that his loyalty would be tested. It was another restless night for him, both with the burden of the mission's importance and with you in the next hotel room over. Before you separated to your rooms, you finally said something to him, even sharing eye contract, a passive stare,
"Get some sleep. You'll need it."
But how could he close his eyes with the cure to these symptoms so close?
Older yet still bearing the foolishness of youth, Fugo shoved off his blankets and left his room with urgency. This was something he could no longer deal with on his own.
His fist knocked against your door and he was quite surprised with how quickly it opened--he was sure you wouldn't have even bothered to answer, let alone giving him some of your time and attention.
You were standing before him again, dressed in your night clothes, your stare tired yet curious.
"Fugo?"
He honestly shivered from hearing you say his name.
His hands suddenly grasped your shoulders before the two of you stumbled back into your room, his foot kicking the door shut. Before his lips went to savor yours, he rasped out with desperation,
"Cure me."