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In his throat was stuck an orange petal of a blooming orchid, coated with phlegm. It tickled and scratched, moving uncomfortably when he rubbed his throat. When Fugo coughed it up, he was able to see the small speckle of blood ruining the pretty flower petal in his hands. Gingerly, he held it up close to his eyes, curiously examining the odd sight. He just coughed up a flower petal. Isn’t that weird?
After a moment of quiet inspection, Fugo let the orchid fall off of the balcony, wind carrying the glimmering orange petal away until it was too far away to see. Satisfied, he stalked back to his room. Fugo couldn’t tell anyone about this; they’d just be too worried about nothing. Bucciarati would insist on not taking on any more missions until they figured everything out (Fugo could figure it out himself just fine, thank you), Abbacchio would follow Bucciarati’s lead, Mista and Narancia would force him to rest (he had other things to do rather than sit in bed all day), and Giorno and Trish would silently be worried for him (he didn’t need their worry, seriously, it was fine). It was only one petal, wasn’t it?
———
Fugo was horribly mistaken. There he was, leaning over the bathroom sink, coughing up multiple petals at once. The flowers were sharp, knocking against the inside of his throat, putting up a fight as if they believed they belonged there. After he’d coughed up the equivalent of an entire orchid, heaving and out of breath, he looked down at the ghastly sight in front of him. Beautiful orange orchid petals stained and tainted with Fugo’s blood and mucus; ruined by Fugo’s presence. He stared at the petals frustratedly. It’s not like it was the flowers' fault for existing, but he just wished he had someone to blame this mess on—an enemy Stand user perhaps, though that didn’t explain why this was happening to Fugo specifically. What the hell was happening to him?
He hadn’t researched anything the first day this had happened, preferring to kick it under the rug as if it never happened at all. Unfortunately, that did Fugo no good; and so he was forced to acknowledge, yes, he’s coughing up flowers like a freak , but also yes, he has to find a way to solve this . Fugo started to pick up the petals one by one from where they lay wetly on the sink, tossing them in the toilet bowl and flushing it. Then, he turned on the faucet and watched the blood go down the drain, not turning off the water until the sink was completely devoid of all substances other than water. After, he strode out of the bathroom with a sort of fake-confidence, making sure no one other than him knew something was wrong. Mista waved hello to him in the hallway, but he just ignored him, going instead to his laptop in his room.
Inside safely with the door locked, he opened up the bright laptop screen on his bed, almost burning his retinas with the sudden light in the dark room. Squinting, he typed in ‘ people coughing up flowers ’ and waited for the laptop to load the page.
On the first page of the search results were stupid internet discussions, making up stories of flowers stuck inside of throats and the wonders of love—dumb, childish thoughts filling up his screen instead of actual, useful answers —just overall being unhelpful. Sighing, he clicked the next page, eyes scouring for a source that looked reputable and something that would help his cause. Fugo did that for a few more minutes, clicking on links that just lead to ‘ site not found ’ errors and articles deleted by their writers long ago, until he found a link on the fifth page that was different from the rest. For one, it actually had the site address ending in ‘.org’, surely meaning it’d be more reliable than all of those teenager-run romance blogs.
The heading read ‘Hanahaki Disease: What Is It, And How To Fight It.’ So this was a real thing, and not a Stand attack. Hanahaki disease was what it was called. Huh. Fugo read on, eyebrows furrowing as he got to the end of the article. He read it once again, then twice, unsure if that was really what he read.
The article talked about how it was a deadly disease, not contagious, but instead caused by unrequited love. Apparently, flowers (the type was based on the person that the victim loved) would grow in the victim's throat, the amount of petals and flowers increasing the more this went on; along with the amount of blood and pain. The flowers would kill them if they didn’t confess to their lover. However, there was a catch: if the love was really unrequited, they would die just the same if they hadn’t confessed, so it was just a stupid punishment for loving too deeply. The only cure was either getting rid of the flowers growing in the victim's chest surgically, which leads to the victim losing all memories of their lover, also an unfair outcome, or confessing to their lover in the situation where their lover loves them back, the only good consequence.
Fugo slammed the laptop shut.
He just had to be lucky enough to catch a deadly disease that could only be cured with true love. As if everything else in his life wasn’t enough, Fugo was cursed with the dilemma between forgetting his crush—who he didn’t even know, how was he going to confess before the flowers in his lungs choked him?—or telling them he loved them.
He threw a potted lily on his nightstand on the floor harshly, wincing when it hit the wooden planks with a loud thud , shattering into a multitude of shards of ceramic with soil spilt everywhere. The flower lay there sadly on the debris, and Fugo remembered only then it was a gift from Giorno on his birthday; and he just broke it in a bout of anger.
Furious tears prickled on the corners of his blurring eyes, threatening to fall and spill over.
———
This time, it was staggered periodically throughout the day: a few tangerine orange petals with splashes of bright crimson blood here and there, a lithe sage green leaf crumbling in his hands after lunch, a whole orchid only missing two or three petals when he brushed his teeth before bed. At this point, he was used to the sickening smell of iron and the aroma of the orchids mixed together to create a haunting perfume, yet it never failed to make him gag. Blood accumulated under his fingernails from when he grasped the small petals, clenching them in his tightly wound hands. The question of if this would ever stop played over in his head, since he couldn’t confess and he didn’t want to forget anything.
And if the situation couldn’t get any worse, there was the prospect of the gang finding him out. Because of the sudden increase of flowers, Fugo suspected that the others noticed something wrong; well, how could they not when he was rushing to the bathroom every other hour? Though, if any of them asked, he’d simply brush them off since it really wasn’t their business and they should just leave Fugo alone.
He couldn’t even lock himself in his room all day, since they had a mission to track down an opposing gang member. It went fairly smoothly, except for the ambush attack near the end where Fugo got a few scratches in the whole shuffle; bleeding annoyingly, making him a bit lightheaded which also caused Bucciarati to fuss over him with the first-aid kit—irritating him more, even if Bucciarati had no ill intention. It was just like everything was pissing him off to the rest of the gang, and Fugo had no mind to change their perspectives. Let them think what they want. He’d deal with this whole ‘ hanahaki ’
nonsense himself, after all he was in love and the rest of the team wasn’t, so Fugo’d deal with his love alone.
As soon as they got home, Fugo was heading towards his room to research more and maybe mope about the stupidness of this all for a little bit, until Mista caught his arm in the hall before his bedroom. His eyes locked on Mista, widening for only a moment.
“Let go of me,” Fugo hissed, trying to tug himself away.
“Not until you tell me what’s happening. Do you think we don’t notice something’s up with you?” Mista fought back, tightening his grip on Fugo’s arm.
“There’s nothing wrong with me. Maybe you’re imagining things.”
“Yep, yep, imagining you rushing off to the bathroom just to cough your lungs out every day, I must be hallucinating, right?” Mista’s eyes narrowed, staring at Fugo’s. Fugo didn’t back down, staring with just the same intensity.
“Yes , you must be,” he replied. “Can I just go to my room and sleep?”
“Right… sleep. Crying yourself to sleep, maybe.” He rolled his eyes.
Fugo’s scowl deepened, screeching noise escaping from his lips. “ Shut up! Let me go!” Fugo tugged harder, and this time he was finally able to break out of Mista’s death grip. He stomped back to his room, turning the corner fiercely.
‘ Damn, okay, there’s definitely something wrong with that kid, ’ Mista thought to himself as he watched the scene play out in front of him. Quietly and once Fugo had vanished inside his bedroom, he followed Fugo to his door, leaning back on the wall right next to it.
He knocked on the door lightly, before placing his hands back in his pockets. “Can I just come in, Fugo?”
“No! You can’t come in!” he shouted through the door, voice loud and cracking at the ‘no ’.
Mista shook his head, looking at the floor. After a few moments, he decided to try again. “C’mon, Fugo? Can you let your friend, Mista, in?” He stood there for a second before adding, “I just want to talk, swear.”
“We’re not friends!” rang out from the room, and Mista couldn’t deny that stung just a little bit. “And still, I’m not letting you in, go leave already!”
So, he wasn’t getting in by politely asking. Fugo was too upset right now, and he didn’t ever budge when he was angry. In Mista’s brain, the next course of action was obviously picking the lock and forcing himself in. He grabbed a paper clip from the hidden pocket in his sleeve and got to work undoing the lock. Fugo was none the wiser, sitting silently on his bed, fuming. The lily and the pot still lay there on the floor in shambles, untouched only because Fugo didn’t have the heart to move it. If it still was in his room, even in a hundred little pieces, he could pretend he’d never broke it and it was sitting prettily on his nightstand waiting patiently for water.
Suddenly, his door swung open, Mista at the other side. Fugo’s head turned to Mista standing at the door, surprise and confusion and scorn was etched on his face, flashing between each emotion one by one until just settling on resentment. He crossed his arms, turning his face to the window on the wall opposite of the door.
“You just couldn’t leave me alone, could you?” he said through grit teeth.
“Duh, I had to. You’re upset, and whether ya’ like it or not, it’s my job as a ‘not-friend’ to comfort you.” Mista walked into the room with careful strides, trying not to startle the boy sitting there too much. He frowned at the pot on the floor before sitting on the very edge of the bed. “So, it would be really nice if you made my job easy by telling me what’s wrong.” He looked at Fugo casually, as if everything was going fine. It wasn’t ; at least it felt that way to Fugo.
“That isn’t your job, your job is to focus on doing your work for Passione, and that isn’t what you’re doing right now.” He spoke flatly, but the anger was still present in the air around him.
“Not my official one, nope, but my unofficial one is making sure you’re okay, Fugo. Bucciarati would’ve come too, but he was out doing some business with Abbacchio and Giorno.” Mista’s voice was softer this time around.
“Where’s Narancia? And Trish,” Fugo said, talking about Trish almost as an afterthought.
For some reason, Mista smiled at the slip-up, but he said nothing. “Trish is sleeping in her room, and Narancia was enjoying a cup of hot chocolate in the living room when I last saw him.” he replied. “Y’know, if you want a cup of hot chocolate, I could fix you one, and you could drink it next to Narancia. It’s getting colder, yeah?”
Fugo was about to take the offer just to avoid Mista before he added, “That is, after we talk for a minute.” Fugo’s lips straightened into a thin line, unusually quiet. He was far from calm, though.
Before Mista could say anything, Fugo started coughing uncontrollably, hacking up an entire orchid. It looked red at first sight, but with a closer look it actually was orange; just covered so completely with Fugo’s blood that it looked a totally different color. Mista looked at him, stunned that this was stuck in his lungs; bewildered and speechless at the mangled mess of petals and blood splattered onto Fugo’s nice green sheets. After Fugo stopped coughing completely, he stormed out of the room, hands covering his mouth. All that was left of his presence was the pile of orchid petals.
Mista started to clean up his sheets, thinking that he could help Fugo out just a little bit since he caused him so much trouble. He kept the pot though, knowing that Fugo always was calculating, so that meant he probably didn’t clean the ceramic shards up for a reason.
Fugo looked horrible, coughing up petals. Mista was determined to help him, even if he didn’t know the extent of his pain.
———
Fugo messed everything up. He just had to hack up a few flower petals in front of Mista, which tipped him off about everything going on. Now he’d tell Bucciarati, and he’d tell everyone, and he’d tell Narancia… Everything was going wrong, and it was all his fault.
He’d holed himself up in the bathroom again, thinking that Mista’d be really weirded out to break into the bathroom when he’s occupying it. So, there he was, pathetically leaning over the bathroom sink, looking into the mirror hunched over and ruining his perfect posture. The blood was still on his mouth; he hadn’t cleaned it yet in favor of self-loathing. Just a reminder of how badly he’d screwed up. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Fugo had half a mind to punch the mirror in, to feel the satisfying crack of glass under his fist and the pressure of his hand hitting the mirror; the fact that he wouldn’t be able to see his reflection anymore after that would be a nice bonus.
But, other people used this bathroom, and he’d be scolded by Abbacchio and pitied by Bucciarati for breaking it—so he decided not to indulge himself today. He’d done enough.
Just as he was about to open the faucet and start cleaning the blood off so he could go take a walk to clear his head, he started coughing again. He wheezed and coughed and hacked, but none of the flower petals came out. They were stuck in his windpipe, hooked onto the inside of his throat and clawing at the flesh. Fugo placed two of his hands over his throat, trying to force the petals out—but they stubbornly stood in place, stealing his breath. When that didn’t work, he forced a hand in his mouth, pulling at the stem dangling near his tongue to bring it to the light. Fugo pulled and pulled and coughed and coughed. He thought his efforts would be for nothing; that’d he’d die here a sad life unloved and unknowing of what life could have been, unrequited feelings strangling him, beating all sense of joy, of humanity out of him until the only thing left were damned orchids blooming from blood, Fugo’s blood —
—when he finally stopped coughing, pulling out three long stems with wonderful apricot-orange orchids of three petals and three sepals on the tops, horrible yet beautiful epiphytes feeding on Fugo so they could grow. He glanced at his hand for only a moment in fear he’d vomit and see more petals, hating the speckled pattern of blood splatters covering his fingers like paint.
To make matters worse, he’d somehow summoned Purple Haze during the whole coughing fit. The ugly Stand was huddled in the corner, whining and drooling all over itself and then scratching the drool off in an endless feedback loop. Fugo could barely look at it; its mere presence only reminded him further of how disgusting he was. Stands were supposed to be a mirror of the soul, but Fugo hated mirrors. He called Purple Haze back with some difficulty, then resigning himself to cleaning all the blood and flowers up. Maybe it’d help take his mind off everything.
Fugo scrubbed and washed everything down once, twice, scratching at his hands until they were raw and red (no matter how much he washed them, they’d never be clean—but he’d have to stop sometime to keep up his falling act). The flowers were too big to be flushed down the toilet, so he exited the bathroom silently with them in hand and made his way up to Abbacchio’s room. He’d still be on that mission with Bucciarati and Giorno, so that left his lighter free to use. Fugo rummaged through his drawer, flowers in his left hand, looking for the lighter amongst the socks and miscellaneous trash Abbacchio had put there. He couldn’t even insult the ex-cop for being so disorganized because was Fugo any better, with the broken pot of lilies taunting him in his room whenever he decided to step foot in it? After a bit of careful searching, he found it stashed inside a funky purple sock. Hopefully Abbacchio didn’t burn the place down one day with the lighter amongst many flammable socks , Fugo thought quietly.
Silver lighter in his right hand and bouquet in the left, he went up to the balcony like he had just a few days ago, when he first found the orchids residing in him. Swiftly, he set flame to the lip of the first orchid. The fire spread out to the other two flowers, shriveling immediately and shedding ashes that were picked up from the wind. It glowed a vibrant red and orange and yellow, looking so divine in the sunset. The fire reached to the bottom of the stem where Fugo was holding the bouquet, and he let go. It burned, lush green to a blackish-brown. And as soon as the fire was lit, all evidence of the orchids were gone with the breeze.
———
It was the middle of the night, and Fugo was having trouble sleeping. It’s not like he got much sleep these days anyway, but he did have a solo tracking-operation tomorrow, which he had to be alert for. He pulled the covers off of him, deciding to go to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. To be fair, it wasn’t like he was wide awake or anything, so it wasn’t extremely weird that he somehow ended up at Narancia’s door. Normal, at-least three-hours-of-sleep-Fugo would’ve gone back to his room at this point (or not have gone to Narancia’s room at all), knowing with his high IQ of 152 that Narancia wouldn’t want to be bothered in the dead of night. However, this Fugo, tired beyond belief and horribly exhausted due to the whole ‘ hanahaki disease ’ he was currently suffering from, seemed to not have that insight.
Fugo knocked on the door.
A few moments passed, and he was thoroughly regretting his decision. He’s not going to come, idiot, it’s way past midnight and nobody wants to be woken up at this hour, he doesn’t want to see you —
Narancia opened the door, wearing plaid pajamas and a white shirt. His messy hair was even worse than it usually was, and for some odd reason he was holding Aerosmith in his arms like his Stand was a stuffed animal. He looked tired, yes, but at the sight of Fugo at his door, his eyes immediately brightened.
“Fugo! Hey! Whatcha’ doing here so late?”
Fugo’s mouth was dry. Speechless, he just blurted out the first thing on his mind. “Why are you carrying Aerosmith?”
Narancia blinked, as if not expecting the question. “Oh, um, he’s just kind of nice to hold.” Quickly, he regained his composure. “Do you wanna carry Aerosmith? The wings look a little pointy, but they’re actually pretty smooth.”
“No thanks. Can I come in?” He didn’t know why he said that. God, he didn’t even know why he came here . One misstep and he could reveal everything.
But, for some reason, Fugo felt like he didn’t really care.
“Yeah, come in. Sorry, I haven’t cleaned my room in a while, a while being like a month, maybe, heh… But, like, dude, I’m super busy with all that homework you give me!” Narancia rambled, moving so Fugo could walk in.
“You have to do the homework, otherwise you won’t learn anything.” Fugo scoffed in reply. “In fact, that translation of the English excerpt is due tomorrow. No exceptions.”
“Seriously?” he groaned, falling down on his bed. Fugo followed suit, sitting close to the edge. “You know my English is horrible…” Narancia dragged a hand down his face, while Fugo smirked to himself. It was really silly seeing the boy like this, moping about homework when they were literally gangsters in the Italian mafia. But, he supposes they weren’t very professional anyway.
They sat on the bed in silence from that point on, Fugo not daring to speak a word. Instead, he just stared at the boy in front of him, eyes closed and limbs taking as much space as they could. He could tell that Narancia wasn’t sleeping, though, the sound of his breathing echoing through the quiet room too fast to be coming from a sleeping person. Fugo was a bit glad his eyes were closed, actually, because that meant he could drink in the moment without looking weird. He turned his body to look at Narancia more clearly, noticing how the open window’s moonlight illuminated the older teen’s hair and face so prettily; like gems reflecting the light, if his shiny hair was able to do that. In fact, Narancia’s hair looked surreal in the lighting. Fugo was tempted to touch it, to see if it felt as wonderful as it looked. But, even in this sleep-deprived state he was in, he knew better than that.
Abruptly, Narancia’s eyes snapped open, deep violets making an appearance. Fugo looked away, staring very intently on his clasped hands in his lap.
“Hey, wait… I didn’t even realize you never told me what you came here for! And I’ve just been lying here like a fool, while you’re waiting right next to me.” He shot up from his spot on the bed, sitting upright now. “What didya’ want anyways?” Fugo turned towards Narancia slowly, debating what he should say.
‘I think I’m in love with you.’
“I don’t know. Nothing.”
‘Please don’t leave me.’
“Well, it’s too late to go back to your room, don’tcha think? You can just stay here with me, if you want.” Narancia sheepishly said, laughing nervously. He patted the space next to him on the bed, shifting closer to his right so Fugo could lay down better. Was this crossing an unspoken line?
Fugo looked at the spot he patted, eyes wide and unbelieving. He hesitated for a long moment. Was this what he wanted?
He looked over to Narancia, who was trying his hardest to look unfazed; though it didn’t really work in Fugo’s proximity, the one who knew him the best and the one who was his bestest friend. Sure, Mista was his best friend too, but nothing could really compare to the boy who saw him digging around in a cold alleyway with only a resigned sadness in his eyes, devoid of hope—and deciding he deserved to have a home. Now, Fugo thinks, rather than those gloom-stricken eyes, he sees a strong spirit. In Narancia’s eyes, he sees home. This is what he wants.
With slow, unsure moments, Fugo moved towards the space next to Narancia, lying down uncomfortably. He was stiff when placing his head on the warm pillow (where Narancia’s head had laid probably an hour ago), trying his best to salvage the remains of the line they’d just crossed, because sleeping together in the same bed at night where it was just them wasn’t exactly ‘just-friends’ behavior. But Narancia surely didn’t mean it that way, he reasoned to himself. Why would he? We’re better as friends, because it just doesn’t make sense any other way. Don’t overstep, Fugo.
He closed his eyes, pretending he couldn’t feel the warmth of a body right next to him, the warmth he’d grown accustomed to not having. He blocked out the soft noise of Narancia’s easy breathing, imagining it was his and imagining his heartbeat wasn’t racing at a hundred miles per hour because it wasn’t , it shouldn’t be so fast —ignoring how Narancia made his heartbeat this irregular while also hating how he made him feel so much at the same time. Fugo simultaneously was glad that his eyes were closed (they couldn’t wander that way) and disliking how his eyes were closed (they couldn’t wander that way).
Narancia turned in his slumber, facing Fugo now and resting his head snugly in the crook of Fugo’s neck like he’d done it ten times over. Fugo resisted the urge to snap his eyes open, repeating in his mind ‘ don't open your eyes don't open your eyes ’ in a mantra as if it’d convince him seeing Narancia all snuggled up to him wasn’t worth opening his eyes for. Though, he was stubborn and he was smart, so his eyes luckily stayed safely shut.
His resolve slowly drained as the messy strands of hair Narancia always had poking outward tickled his chin, and as he felt the weight of a smaller arm draping itself across his chest. Fugo unwillingly opened his eyes to see the older boy opening his mouth just a tiny bit to drool on his expensive green suit with the holes he always protested were stylish, because they were and Fugo wouldn’t take any hate for it. Carefully, he moved his left hand to wipe off the spit on Narancia’s mouth pooling onto his suit, freezing when he shifted slightly with the touch of Fugo’s finger. But, he went limp again, snoring soundly. Fugo couldn’t deny he almost heaved with the feeling of spit on his finger, gingerly wiping it on the bed sheets to not wake Narancia up.
Fugo forced himself to close his eyes then, not wanting to spend the rest of the night being a creep staring at his best friend while he slept. Slowly but surely, he fell victim to sleep’s warm embrace—slumbering better than he’d ever had in a long while, orchids and flower petals finally leaving the front of his mind.
———
“This is idiotic,” Fugo puffed.
“Nope, this is a good thing for you, shut up. Going on a date with the lucky girl is going to be good for your disease, and I just wish it’d get through your thick skull that having flowers in your throat isn’t healthy—surprising, right? Who would’ve thought, coughing up flowers isn’t normal!” Mista deadpanned, crossing his arms with a sass only he could pull off.
Fugo had spilled everything about his illness after much prodding from Mista throughout the week (not all of the details about his love life though, he had his pride), so he was still feeling a little bitter about the whole ordeal. But, he was feeling bitter about everything lately; the quantity and size of the flowers increasing by almost double the amount it had been before he’d hanged out in Narancia’s room that one night. It had taken so much bribery and annoyance from Mista for him to even agree to planning a date—he’d deal with this himself, how many times did he need to say it to make everyone understand? Giorno had a point when saying he didn’t like to repeat himself, Fugo found. And even though he was here, picking out a good restaurant, sitting on slightly-uncomfortable chairs on the patio of a local café with coffees half-drunk on the table while the late Napoli morning sun beat down on them, Fugo didn’t enjoy it one bit.
“I know it isn’t healthy, genius. Do you have an IQ of 152? No, you don’t, so don’t think I don’t know that already.” he sneered at Mista.
“I don’t think you’re stupid or anything, God. You just have this, this weird ‘ emo-mindset ’ that makes you think you’d rather die than get your heart broken. From one romantic to another probably-deep-down-romantic, it’s going to be okay.” Mista responded, frustrated as well. Rustling the map with food places near them to get Fugo’s attention, he circled in red a random restaurant he thought looked good. “Now, how about this one?”
“Don’t say that about me.” Fugo glowered. “And that one sucks. I don’t have to search it up to know, because the name sucks.”
“Really? I kind of liked the name of that one. Whatever, as they say, twelfth time’s the charm, right?”
“ Third time’s the charm, actually. Do I really have to do this?” Fugo interrupted, ignoring how Mista mumbled ‘ I knew it was third time’s the charm, it was a joke, ” under his breath.
“Well, we don’t exactly have to do restaurants, maybe a walk in the park is more your style? But if you’re talking about the date, then yes you do. We’re getting rid of those flowers, and I’m sure that mystery girl will like you back! How could she not?” he beamed, leaning back in his chair, feet planted on the table. Fugo hit his feet down, saying something like ‘ don’t put your feet where we eat ’.
“There's a million reasons why they wouldn’t want to be with me. I’ll die if I ask him out!” Fugo screeched, before placing his hands over his mouth after realizing his mistake. This isn’t what he wanted to happen at all, and now he’s ruined everything—again.
“Ugh, he, she, they, whatever, you won’t die if you ask him out. I think Narancia likes you back, man, it’s so obvious.” Mista rolled his eyes.
“How would you know if it was Narancia or not?” he retaliated, voice a few octaves higher than he’d intended.
“So, at first I thought it was Trish ‘cuz she’s the only girl you know, but then I was like, ‘ nah, that doesn’t really make sense ’, and when you said it was a guy —it all clicked. Obviously Narancia, because you guys are super close. Friendship to relationship. Giorno was a close second option, but he’s eliminated since you knew Narancia longer. Abbacchio and Bucciarati are way too old, they’re out. And, for the record, I’m straight, so me and you is a no-go.” he rambled on, explaining his thought process with more accuracy and details than Fugo had hoped.
“It could be a secret friend you don’t know about, and you’d be none the wiser. It doesn’t have to be Narancia!” Fugo blushed furiously.
“Sounds like you like him, but don't want to like him. Want my advice? I’ve watched a million movies on this sort of thing, so I have a ton of experience.”
“I don’t want your advice.” he spat.
“Fine, okay, I’ll just tell Narancia you like him then… No pressure.” Mista shrugged.
“Don’t do that!” Fugo reached for the spoon still in his coffee that he’d used to stir a sugar cube in, clutching it so tightly in his hands that his knuckles turned a paler white than he already was. The waiter looked at the duo frightened, wondering if they’d have to throw them out of the café.
Mista didn’t falter though, sitting normally now. “Relax, I won’t. Just as long as you listen,” Fugo set down the spoon, and Mista took that as ‘ yes ’.
“Okay, my advice.” He cleared his throat, taking his sweet time. Fugo’s left eye twitched. “Just remember, it’s totally okay to like your best friend, same gender or not. Yeah? Got that? Okay, now onto the real advice: what you should do is just drop hints to see if he likes you back—which he totally does, but I guess you’d want to be careful in this situation—and when he gives you the signal, kiss him! He’ll be so attracted, I swear, even more than he already is. Boom, disease gone, and now you have a boyfriend.” Mista grinned, fully believing his advice was something worth listening to.
“In simpler terms, what you just told me is to flirt with him, and then kiss him.” Fugo had trouble keeping his voice steady, simmering with barely-held back anger.
“Yes?”
“That is horrible advice!” he shouted, shaking the table and spilling a droplet of lukewarm coffee onto the table.
“Says you! At least I’ve been on a date before,” Mista responded back, attitude clearly apparent. “Fine. Don’t take my fool-proof advice, do it your way.”
Fugo sighed. “Maybe I will.” And then he walked out of the patio of the café, disregarding Mista’s strangled cry of surprise.
———
Okay, maybe Mista did have a point when saying Fugo had no dating experience, because he just stormed off to do things himself while not having a plan at all. He walked the streets of Naples aimlessly, stopping once in a while to turn the corner into a hidden alleyway and hack up an orange orchid into a dumpster or maybe even onto the floor, who cares? It’s not like anyone was there to watch him do it, nobody that cared that parasitic flowers were eating him alive. Sure, maybe Fugo looked dumb walking out with blood dribbling down his chin before he could get out a tissue to wipe it off, or maybe he looked dumb just walking without a purpose, illness and all—but he was doing things his way , and his way was smart and calculated, even if he was walking his way alone. It was always the right move to take, because he was intelligent and independent. Fugo didn’t want nor need anyone else.
He walked all the way to the pier somehow, setting himself down on the edge of the wooden dock, legs dangling off the side and almost touching the water. In the very early afternoon, not many people were there; either tourists or fishermen, but the fact stood that they all left Fugo alone. He’s fine with being alone. So he overlooked the water, watching the salty-sea green waves rise and fall, carrying along whatever debris it took from the rocks and the beach along with it for the ride. Tilting his head up towards to the sky, he could see the clear pale blues with gradients of yellows and oranges mixed in, reflecting the yellowish light onto the turquoise ocean. It was idyllic, so much so he could just focus on the environment and not worry about his thoughts spiraling into something so much bigger. Fugo could finally relax, even if it was just for a little bit. For a minute he could pretend the heaviness in his lungs was just stress that had not yet dissipated, and it wasn’t the overbearing weight of a too-strong love throwing him off-kilter.
Besides, he never really needed love, did he? It just made him even more of a monster than he already was. Mista definitely noticed how he was so much ruder, even if he didn’t say anything; so that meant everyone else did too. Even if cutting the orchids out meant losing Narancia…
No. He couldn’t lose Narancia. Fugo was selfish, and he couldn’t lose Narancia .
Suddenly, a small fighter plane whizzed by his ears. Aerosmith . Fugo got up and turned around to see the whole gang there, looking worried beyond belief. Even Abbacchio was there, with Moody Blues replaying what had happened in the area to try to track where Fugo had gone. What was happening?
They were all screaming at him, saying things like ‘ where had you gone? ’ and ‘ we were looking for so long for you, Fugo ’, but he didn’t really hear it, their cries going in one ear and out the other. Narancia’s voice rang through the clearest, screaming, “Fugo! Why did you leave? I thought you were gone for good!” in a strained, hoarse voice—probably from calling his name all throughout the streets of the city.
Fugo stood there, stunned, as Narancia ran up to him, just barely not knocking Fugo over as he tumbled into him. Fiercely, he wrapped his arms around Fugo, squeezing him so very tightly with no intentions of ever letting go. Fugo reciprocated the hug awkwardly, wrapping lanky arms around a short body, resting his head on top of Narancia’s hair. He just hoped this was how you hugged someone, because he’d never done it before. Narancia pulled back first, close to tears.
“You idiot! Don’t ever leave me again!” he shouted, pulling out his pocket knife and holding it firm with both hands, only shaking a little bit. “Or I can show you just how good I am with my knife!”
Fugo stared at him, not knowing what to say. He didn’t mean to leave Narancia, or the rest of the gang; he’d only meant to clear his head after a stupid thing Mista had said. Speaking of Mista, he looked towards him only to see him mouthing ‘kiss him!’ and making dumb kissy faces. In the spur of the moment, and maybe a little bit of the prospect of losing Narancia, Fugo finally listened to Mista for once.
He pulled Narancia close, pressed a chaste kiss to his lips (Fugo’s first, it wasn’t wasted), and let go just as fast as he pulled in. Fugo could just barely taste the orange candy Narancia had earlier.
But nothing had changed, no weight in his lungs magically disappearing like how a Stand disappeared after the user’s death; deep-rooted orchids still entangled inside his throat. Did he do something wrong? Did Narancia really not like him back? Fugo stepped back, knowing this was how he was going to die, strangled by gorgeous orange orchids blooming in his throat together. It was finally happening.
Luckily, he was proven wrong with the warmth of lips pressed against his again, Narancia’s lips kissing his with a ferocity only he had—and the flowers that were strung taut against his heart loosened and faded, lifting his curse and filling the hole in his heart with Narancia because he liked him back and he wasn’t dying . Fugo leaned in closer and wrapped his arms around Narancia, kissing back.
The orchids are gone
. He finally did it.