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Fugo’s first love was Narancia, but it wasn’t his last. What it was, though, was quiet, private and unspoken. Fugo himself didn’t know what it was, but it was—something, about his own demeanor, maybe, that made it clear that it wasn’t a subject which was ever going to be addressed. Abbacchio had tried to give him shit for it, once, but the older man had quickly backed down and let it drop when he saw the look in Fugo’s eyes in response to some light-hearted teasing.
Fugo wasn’t someone that people generally wanted to tease, anyway—his tendency to snap and blow up at anyone at the drop of a hat neatly prevented that. But there was something different about it, and even he couldn’t really put his finger on it. What was it about him that made the thought of anyone knowing—anyone at all, but especially Narancia himself—make Fugo’s heart jump up into his throat?
He was so—young, Fugo wants to say, but he wasn’t. A year older than Fugo himself, and he liked to remind Fugo of that every day. He was so—what? Childish? Bad at math? Vulnerable? Admirable? Good—?
Hell if he knew, but it was something.
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Narancia was Fugo’s first love, but he wasn’t his last. Fugo fell in love for the second time in a dimly lit restaurant where hazy, dusty beams of sunlight streamed through the curtains covering the windows, while he clutched an old and worn-out photo in his hands. A picture from a lifetime ago—he barely felt like he knew the version of himself in it, and yet he’d thought of the day that photo was taken every day since without rest.
Giorno Giovanna. The boy who with gentle and saccharine kindness could’ve killed him, and yet accepted him back with open arms. Who saved him.
Giorno is—different. Incredibly so. A beautiful, elegant face; a calm, quiet demeanor; a hidden, yet almost always restrained potential for cruelty. And above all, a sense of purpose, of hope, that shines through his every action and word. Restrained is the perfect word for him, really: Giorno is always restrained, in everything he does. Fugo finds it hard to imagine Giorno appearing openly angry, or aggressive. Giorno can most definitely do basic math. He tries to imagine the younger boy listening to Snoop Dogg, and almost bursts out laughing at the thought. Giorno and Narancia are nothing alike.
And yet, there’s—something. Really, the best way he can think to describe it is the way it makes him feel. When he followed Giorno back to his room after several months of an internal war over the matter, when he reached out and let his fingers brush against his boss’s wrist, ever so gently, he couldn’t help but feel that he was doing something wrong. Giorno was too far above him, too—what, exactly?
They're nothing alike, and yet on the rare occasions where he sees Giorno give a genuine smile, his eyes crinkling up and his mouth curving up shyly, it’s when he sees it most. A flash of something surprisingly pure and innocent which is unexpectedly familiar.
“Everyone sees themselves in Giorno,” Sheila E had told him in a conversation he’d never forget. But, with all due respect to her, he thought that he was really seeing someone else entirely.
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“Why did you never ask?” Giorno asks him, once, and Fugo loves Giorno, he truly does, but it takes damn near everything he’s got to not let loose and hit the younger boy at that point. He clenches and unclenches his jaw, clenches and unclenches his fists, and Giorno realizes his mistake. “My apologies, Fugo. I didn’t mean—“
Mean to what? To hurt? To disrespect?
“It’s fine,” Fugo says, harshly but truthfully. It’s not like he can pretend forever, not around Giorno, who stares less into his eyes and more into his soul, who looks at Purple Haze with a certain quiet confidence that still makes Fugo’s heart ache, even now. Though maybe his interpretation of that look is more him and less Giorno, if Sheila’s right about things.
“There was—never time,” is what he finally says, and it’s not true, but it’s not really false either. Never time enough, and he’d thought they’d always have time enough. Whenever he’d met Narancia’s wide eyes over a sheet of third-grade math problems and felt his throat dry up and words start to well up in the back of his mind, he’d cut himself off, thinking, not now. Don’t rush things. There’ll always be this. Even when Narancia had left, Fugo’d managed to comfort himself with some half-hearted somedays, believing despite himself. They’d always have enough time—a truly false proposition of logic. He’d thought differently back then.
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“Meet me halfway,” Giorno had asked him, and Fugo had, in every way possible, save one.
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He expects Giorno to figure things out, and he does, of course; but he also expects Giorno to be angry, and is surprised when he isn’t. When it gets brought up, Giorno’s voice is gentler than Fugo ever expected or imagined it could be, and Fugo clenches his teeth and his fists, digs his nails into his palms in a sad attempt to alleviate the dull ache he feels at what Giorno tells him.
“I’m not him,” Giorno says softly.
“You could never be,” Fugo says, and he tries to spit the words out like acid, but it comes out gentler than he intended—not angry, but something else, and his voice breaks a little. He was himself, and so are you. Those words go unsaid, but Giorno hears them anyway. Giorno murmurs in assent; his eyes drift shut, Fugo bends his head down to mouth at Giorno’s neck, and that’s all there is to it.