Work Text:
Nothing happens on the day he turns 13. A mid–winter day in 1998.
It’s quiet. The way it always is. There’s no cake and balloons. There are no cheerful shouts of celebration. No well–wishes and thoughtful gifts. No banners and confetti. The significance of the date remains unacknowledged. Even to his closest family members, it’s just another February day. A dreary month kept shrouded in the cold. It all remains forgotten. What with spring on the horizon and a birth certificate long since buried in a folder in the closet with the date of importance printed in bold letters.
The first step into teenage hood means absolutely nothing. Bottom of the barrel. A footnote. Meaningless and useless.
It should be an oddity. After all, a parent's biggest fear is not only missing their child’s milestone, but their date of birth in general when it remains the easiest day to remember, no matter the age. A day new life was given. A day a new addition was brought to the family. A bundle of joy, but some forget the memo.
All that said, it should be a saddening sight. A forgotten birthday. A boy who holds no importance even to his parents unless it’s a shallow trophy to use for bragging rights. Yet, Fugo isn’t mad. He isn’t surprised. He’s not upset. There’s nothing for him to feel when there’s nothing for him to realize. The day merely passes by normally for him. Even as the sunsets, he remains unaware of what today was supposed to mean.
It’s not until the following months, with summer nearly on the horizon, that he’ll realize that he turned 13. He feels numb. Fugo doesn’t remember who revealed it. How he learned.
Whether it’s his parents or the police officer when he sits in a cold clinical chair clothed in a scratchy hospital gown with his wrist handcuffed to the arm of the seat. The icy metal biting into his skin, and a doctor nearby holds his clothes out for the use of evidence.
Maybe it’s the newspaper. His age in the headline, but his name obscured. Somehow, Fugo doesn’t think this is what his mother meant about him making the news, but a crime of intensity such as his was bound to spark people’s attention even if only for a short while before his father paid them off to close the story. Maybe it’s Bucciarati or Polpo. A discussion between the two over initiating him into Passione.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. Yet, somehow surprise was still far to find.
–
He can’t say the same for when he turns 14. 1999. The weather has been warmer this month, but this particular day creates a faint tapping of morning rain against his window.
It nearly starts the same. With a piercing silence that rings in the townhouse that creates an eerie sense of wrongness when Fugo cracks his eyes open. Something is amiss, his mind tells him, even if the quietness in itself isn’t that odd. He finds himself on edge as he rises from his bed, his footsteps light when he enters the hall. Just as Bruno taught him to avoid detection from rival gangs. He feels that he succeeds when the faint padding is no longer audible.
The voices in the kitchen are faint. Barely indistinguishable from where he pauses, but just enough to make Fugo aware of Bucciarati and Abbacchio’s presence. Slowly, he shuffles forward.
The thought in his mind is an order they’ve been given by Polpo. It’s not especially rare to happen at the last second, and the two men always speak in hushed whispers before they tell Fugo. A notion that edges on unfair when he’s been here longer than Abbacchio. Enough so that he assumed that he would be Bucciarati’s right-hand man, and in a way he is, but there’s a switch up between the two of them. It’s different. Fugo assumes the reason is that they are close to age.
He partially blames his own age as a hindrance. Viewed as a child when he has proven himself. Always viewed himself as well above his age.
With a deep breath, he squares his shoulders to presume a more respectable position before he enters the kitchen. Yet, they manage to pull rigid when he takes in the sight.
Sat at the small circular table, is not only Bucciarati and Abbacchio, but a beautiful cake resting as the centerpiece with candles patiently waiting to be lit. It’s followed by balloons tied to an empty seat he’s claimed as his own and wrapped packages on the other side of the table with two cards arranged nearby.
The breath of air that escapes from him is harsh. He has to swallow a stutter. It doesn’t work. “Wh–...What is all this for?” He asks before either of the men can speak.
It causes a morph in an instance. Faces fall, and the responding silence becomes suffocating. The tension is so thick in the air that it can be cut. He swears that even the balloons droop as a response to match. Bucciarati and Abbacchio share a glance between them. Bruno’s eyes are questioning, a pinch in his features. Abbacchio can only shrug in response, nearly unbothered, but there’s a glint in his eyes that lets Fugo know is a false notion.
“Bucciarati?” Fugo asks softly, trying to get his attention for an answer.
What is he missing? A birthday or celebration of some sorts, surely with the context clues, but it doesn’t make sense. They celebrated Bruno’s in September. A day on the beach. Abbacchio own is in March. Fugo has already been planning his gifts and he and Bucciarati spoke of a way to celebrate, to match his closed–off personality.
Is it a raise? A climb of a step on Passione’s ladder? He doesn’t believe so when their reactions are so odd in response. Nor would it explain the gifts. Is he dense to not know?
Silently, Bruno stands. Eyes gentle when he approaches.
“It’s February 12th, Panna.” He says softly. His features are imploring, but Fugo doesn’t understand. When he sees Fugo’s eyebrows furrow and his face scrunch in confusion; he takes it a step further with a deep, steadying breath. “It’s your birthday.”
Fugo freezes. “Oh.” He murmurs.
So, he was dense, after all. Who forgets their own birthday? His mind reels with a reprimand, but another part tries to come to his own defense. Someone who never had it celebrated before. Someone who went unnoticed when he hadn’t served a purpose. After all, all he meant to his parents was a way to brag to their colleagues over their obedient, prodigy child. They staunchly ignored everything else about him. Only grades and perfection mattered.
Abbacchio snorts from where he remains seated. “You don’t remember your own birthday? Damn, wrote that card for nothing.”
Fugo blinks at the whisper underneath his breath. It clicks that it’s all for him. The cake, the presents, the cards that actually have a meaning and well–written words instead of the quick slip of cash often seen.
“Abbacchio.” Bruno chides gently, glancing back with a sharp gaze.
Though Leone only stifles a smile through the fist covering his mouth as his chin rests in his palm. His expression is more open than Fugo has seen before. It surprises him when he finds that it’s directed towards him.
Bruno turns back towards him. His eyes fight to go sorrowful. As if in pity that he doesn’t allow himself to properly express when he knows that Fugo detests it more than anything. Although, Fugo can see how exactly this is pitiful. A sad, little sight that’s nothing but pathetic. He’s someone who hadn’t remembered his own birthday. Who forgets such a thing? Though there’s not a trace of judgement when Bruno’s smile remains soft.
“We wanted to do something to celebrate. Nothing too over the top. A small, close affair.” He’s never once been one to overwhelm him. He doesn’t need to say it for Fugo to know. “A mere breakfast together sounds perfect, does it not?”
Fugo keeps quiet. His voice feels as if it’s dead. The sudden echo of a click draws his eyes back to the table. In his hand is a lighter when Abbacchio leans forward to light the awaiting candles. His face stares expectantly at Fugo. A clear command in his eyes, but his body can only allow him to shuffle in place, much like it wouldn’t allow him to speak. It doesn’t allow him to move forward when his feet feel glued to the floor.
Like always, Bruno sees through him. In a way, he wears his heart on his sleeve when the perfect mask has cracked, and the emotions continue to seep through. Somehow, it’s always the negative ones.
Bruno sees his difficulty. He sees his clear want to come forward, but he can’t. It makes his heart crack over the simple aspects Fugo doesn’t allow himself to have. Lightly, he nudges him forward to make that step for him. He leads him over to the table. His hands kept on his shoulders, and his chest nearly pressed to his back. His smile still burns bright. A bubble of warmth that Bruno always surrounds him in.
“Make a wish.” He whispers his command. “Then blow out your candles.” He knows that it will be easier that way.
He’s right. It is. At least partially.
When Fugo leans forward, the flame creates a soft glow across his face; his mind goes blank. There’s nothing for him to wish for, he finds. A mental roadblock kept in his mind.
‘I wish–’ He tries, but pauses. ‘I hope–...I want–?’ What can he ever say? Silently, he extinguishes the flame.
The lack of the wish will go unnoticed when there’s a small bout of clapping to compensate for the silence. The missed chance. The wishes of ‘Buon Compleanno!’ and the cake being cut afterwards with the drippy wax candles that feel as if they burn a hole into his brain being removed.
He keeps silent. Even when Bruno’s hands steer him towards the empty chair, and pushes him in. Even when the slice is placed in front of him, and the gifts are awaiting to be passed with their cards. The cake is his favorite. Strawberry. A glance at the sink shows various equipment to deduce its home–made, and a further glance in Abbacchio’s direction shows him avoiding Fugo’s eyes when he and Bucciarati fall into easy conversation.
The ‘14’ written in icing feels as if it’s a curse. A number that he was never supposed to see. Never supposed to make. It’s not the only oddity when the cake is not supposed to be here in the first place. Nor the cheers, the freshly made dessert solely intended to his liking, or anything else that Bucciarati may have planned.
His birthday was always…unnecessary. It was just another day. It truthfully meant nothing.
A belief that had been instilled by his parents from an early age. Never old enough to remember the last proper celebration he had. He knew how others in his age bracket celebrated, but he met them with an air of superiority when he repeated the words his father would say. Childish. Immature. Unbecoming. Other things held much more importance.
He was a doll who would follow his parents every tug of the strings. If they told him it was unimportant and a distraction from the greatness he surely entailed, then he believed them. Even if a birthday was the bare minimum.
He wishes that he could force himself to enjoy it. Pull himself from his cynical thoughts and relax his shoulders. To be normal, for once. Not a pity act to be noticed. Yet, there’s only a piercing silence that continues to come from him when his brain refuses to let this go. To settle when it’s left reeling.
Bucciarati and Abbacchio say nothing. They treat the reaction as normal. At least, for a short while before Bruno knocks on his bedroom door once the evening has fallen. Fugo thought he had made excusing himself look proper.
Fugo rests against the headboard of his bed, staring blankly at the two cards crinkling in his hands from the force in his fingertips. Adorned with hopeful resolutions towards the future, kind words, and swirling penmanship to tie it together into these beautiful memoirs. The date signed at the bottom if he does intend to keep them. Beside him on the bedside table are the next two installments of his book series, with a pair of strawberry earrings next to them.
It shows the care, and the thought that was put into them. The careful way they have come to know him.
“Was it too much?” Bruno asks softly from where he leans against the closed door when Fugo had tentatively granted permission. “I just thought–...After the way you treated my birthday, I could return that favor. You deserve nice things, Panna.”
“It’s supposed to mean nothing.” Fugo breathes his thoughts out loud. “It’s meaningless.”
Bruno tilts his head. “Why?” He asks softly. Tone encouraging for him to speak. He doesn’t. “Is it because you were told so? Raised with that belief? Rather cruel, I find. It’s not the truth, Panna, and they were wrong to instill that into you from such a young age.”
Fugo rolls his eyes. He lets the cards fall against his bedsheets in order to pull his knees up to his chest. The bright colours of the front artwork and bold design of the words burns into his eyes.
“It’s the mafia.” He finally bites out. Another excuse that is easier to explain than his parents. “It’s childish, and ultimately, Bucciarati, it is pointless to our type of life.”
“Oh? Is that how you felt when you picked out my gift? When you prepared breakfast for me in the morning last September?” Bruno inquires, knowing that he had struck his point when Fugo fell quiet. His eyes drift from their leader. With a quiet, albeit sad, sigh, Bruno moves to sit next to him. “It is the most important. It is the bare minimum to celebrate a person. To give to a person. To know. Without this day, Abbacchio and I wouldn’t know you. To us, it’s a date that symbolizes you. Your presence. Your meaning. Everything there is about you.”
Fugo tries to not let his face show. Yet, Bruno sees it all anyway. Hesitantly, he scoots closer with his arm coming to wrap around Fugo’s shoulder.
“You’re right. About this being the mafia. Though, if you ask me, Panna, what comes from this; age, is another important matter when it shows that you have survived. Where we are at…is a dark environment, yes. Our safety is never guaranteed, but this helps settle that part of the fear. At least, to me.” He smiles slightly. Like everything else about him, it has a twinge of sadness to it.
A feature that Fugo has noticed is prominent in Bruno. Sorrowful eyes, a somber voice, and a lost posture. Somehow, Fugo thinks that it kills a small part of him every time that he notices.
A squeeze to his shoulder brings his attention back to Bucciarati.
“However, I know that birthdays can be painful. No matter from who. If you truly do not want us to celebrate it, much less acknowledge it, then we will respect that choice.”
Fugo stays silent. Too silent that Bucciarati must believe that it says his answer when he nods silently himself. His smile draws more sadness, but there’s understanding in his features. With another squeeze to his shoulder, he rises from the bed. It ignites panic in Fugo from where he watches.
No. That wasn’t his answer, was it? Did his silence speak too much? Was there something that was reflected that he couldn’t see, but Bruno clearly could? He wasn’t finished with his thoughts. Not when he didn't have the chance to process them.
It’s only when Bruno’s at the door that Fugo can force his mouth to speak before he can ruin yet another aspect of his life. To prove himself ungrateful at the kindness shown.
“Thank you.” He starts. His voice is rushed, desperate to keep Bruno from the door, though he stifles the panic shout to remain proper. His heart hammers painfully in his chest, though his shoulders drop in pinched relief when Bruno turns back.
“It was nice.” Perfect even. “Truly, Bucciarati, I’m grateful. I didn’t mind what you and Abbacchio had done. I just–...it’s hard to wrap my head around the graciousness extended.”
He hopes that Bruno can read in between the lines of what he is trying to say when it is much too big of a step for him to take and speak out loud. He holds his breath. One that releases when he sees Bruno’s eyes light up and he remains in place.
“You’re welcome, Tesoro.” He turns back towards him. His tone is gentle. His face is nothing but warm once again. A look that Fugo has always felt undeserving of, but it never failed to bring relief. Especially at this moment. “It takes time to get used to the various ways people will treat you. Especially when you’ve been hurt so many times, but you have made strides even in just a short amount of time. This is another step you’ve taken, deciding for yourself and allowing for what you want. You’ll find it won’t burn you. We’ll be here for when you turn 15.”
Finally, Fugo can allow himself a small smile. Bright and nearly sunny, it comforts Bruno. The door slips shut. Fugo deflates against his headboard. His eyes fall back on the still open cards. It’s a start. One that grants him a little more normalcy that he craved.
A celebration that is tailored to him. Barren, modest, and quiet. He can allow himself to get used to it. One day, his brain won’t scream at him for accepting acts of kindness. Instead, it will preen at the notion. Take joy in it.
–
His 15th birthday is decidedly less quiet. 2000. Namely, because Narancia has joined their team. Silence is a harder feat to be found.
He was an all too eager street kid that they saved who hadn’t hesitated to knock on their door with the Passione pin held high, and orders of placement from Polpo. A kid who had to endure hours of Bruno’s lecturing before he stormed his way through the hallway to clean out the spare room that would become Narancia’s.
Fugo and Abbacchio knew to stay out of his way for the rest of the night. Especially Fugo.
However, the once quiet, sullen kid that only appeared that way through his sickness had become loud and boisterous with health. He had let slip that it was Fugo who gave him instruction on who to see in defense of himself. There had been a pause that granted just enough time for Fugo to look towards the door before Bruno’s lecture had steered towards him.
In the end, it was Narancia and Fugo’s first fight they had with one another. A fight that Narancia had never learned from when he remained bold in everything he did. A voice that would travel in cheerful, excitable shouts.
The time of day never mattered, he learned, especially on the day of his 15th birthday when he had woken to a confetti popper in his face.
“What the fuck?!” Fugo’s body jerks up at the sudden, loud pop directly against his ear. The brightly coloured paper falling from his face down to his lap when he sits up. He looks around the bedroom wildly, his hand absentmindedly reaching for the weapon underneath his pillow.
“Happy birthday!”
His eyes snap towards the voice, falling on Narancia’s figure immediately. His smile bright and his eyes practically glimmer from the sliver of the cool morning light that catches them. Fugo glances over towards his clock.
“What the hell?” He grits. His hands balling into fists as his nails dig into the flesh of his palms. He scowls. “My alarm doesn’t go off for another hour!”
Narancia shrugs. As if it’s nothing. He throws himself on to Fugo’s bed next to him. The mattress bounces, and Fugo’s body lifts an inch with it. Despite his anger and the scowl kept on his face, he shuffles to grant the other room. Somehow, Narancia had easily broken through the physical barriers Fugo strongly held about closeness and touch. His mind never screamed in panic when it was him.
“I know! I wanted to be the first to wish you a happy birthday, since I didn’t get to last year!” He says it as if it was on purpose. Like he wasn’t invited to celebrate.
Fugo rolls his eyes. “You joined in April. List the months that come after February– Ow!”
Narancia hadn’t hesitated to elbow him in the ribs. “Be nice!” He chides, glaring when Fugo shifts to kick him off the bed. He snags his arm to threaten to drag him off with him. “I want to celebrate you and be nice to you. Don’t be a dick!”
Fugo practically growls. “The nice thing would have been to let me sleep. I have a mission for fuck's sake.”
“Not anymore.”
He pauses at that with a blink. “Huh?”
“I took it for you. That way, you can sleep longer and have a free day for your birthday! Bucciarati has already agreed to it. It’s not a high stakes one, I'll have Abbacchio, and Mista is coming as well. He said that Polpo wouldn’t mind as long as the job was completed.” Narancia explains. Eyes bright and his smile can barely contain his excitement when waiting for his friend’s reaction.
“That is…actually considerate of you, Narancia.” Fugo murmurs. “Thank you.”
Narancia beams at the praise. “That’s not all. I have more planned, but Bucciarati said to give our gifts together.”
His excitement is infectious. Just the way it always is. His first friend. A best friend at that. Something he never thought he could have when he was different from everyone, especially children near his age. He can’t help that sunny feeling that alights in his chest despite their fights. As such, he isn’t surprised when a smile blooms on his face. Nor is he surprised when Narancia tugs him into a hug with another quiet whisper of ‘Happy birthday’.
It’s a smile that stays throughout the day in the midst of celebration.
It stays when Bucciarati takes him out to breakfast when he finally awakes. The time spent together in the shops while they wait for Narancia, Mista, and Abbacchio to return.
It stays when they do return and the cake, cards, and presents are exchanged in an instance. Mista sheepishly handing his forward when he has only been here for a month. He remains on the edge of the celebration when he’s still learning about them all, and with Fugo; the steps feel as if they come slower when he tries to maintain the space Fugo has always been stern about. All while toeing the tight line and trying to get to know him. It fades when Fugo's smile is directed at him as he tightly grips the fancy journal and the bag of sweets.
It stays when he stays up late in the night with Narancia pressed into his side with a blanket slung over both of their shoulders as they huddle as close as they can with the portable DVD player in front of them.
It was perfect. For once, Fugo didn’t have a cynical voice trapped in his head. It was silent with their presence. Always is around Narancia. Light–hearted and happy, he can fall asleep without the looming feelings of guilt.
–
He can’t say the same for when he turns 16. Not when there’s a smashed cake on the floor with singes burnt into the tiles from the candles. The voices are cut off from in the midst of singing. There’s a door that slams shut from down the hallway. 2001.
The kitchen falls silent.
“Should someone…go after him?” Mista asks slowly while gauging the reactions of the others and keeping his voice low enough. He doesn’t want to risk Fugo overhearing him and returning with the force of a violent storm. His shoulders dip when he had been excited over celebrating the younger's birthday when they've grown to know each other and become close the past year. Though it's overtaken by confusion and concern over such a strong reaction.
The kitchen remains silent. A tense atmosphere. They all glance towards one another, but all eyes fall on Bucciarati. The man remains standing with a rather vacant stare before slowly he moves to kneel on the floor to clean the mix of sponge and frosting left. Then eyes fall on Narancia. A silent line of order that they go down. He eyes the door, but never moves. His leg bouncing with slight thumps against the floor tiles. Somehow, Mista feels as if he’s missing something with the hesitation in them all.
Without being prompted, much less looked at; Abbacchio stands with a start. The wine glass clinking when placed down at the finished swig and his steps echo down the hall, and the two teens who remain can only hold their breaths.
Leone doesn’t knock. Not wanting to have to wait for the sound of recognition or an answer when he twists the door open automatically despite the bout of rage that he may find himself faced with. A thought that ultimately holds no weight when he’s met with sobbing.
Fugo’s face is buried in the pillow. His body trembles. His cries are muffled, but still loud enough to ring out through the room.
It’s a sad little sight. So much so that Leone can only sigh with the heated reprimand he had planned dying on his lips. Silently, he comes forward to sit on the bed next to his laid out form.
“Remember your breathing.” He points out quietly.
Fugo jumps. His sobs were too loud that he missed the door opening, his thoughts too overwhelming to recognize the mattress dipping. He remained unaware of his presence. “I’m sorry–” His cries grow even as he tries to stifle them. “I’m so sorry, I don’t– I don’t know why I did it! It just became too much, and I just needed to–”
“Fugo.” Leone cuts him off sternly. “Remember your breathing. Do you need me to help?”
It takes a moment for the words to settle in Fugo’s mind. He never verbally answers, but from how close Leone sits next to him; he can hear him practicing the breathing techniques that Bruno has taught them both.
“There you go,” He murmurs.
He waits until Fugo is calm. Spends the time to try to pick his words carefully, intent to not mess this up. He doesn’t want an argument, nor does he want to put Fugo on the defense and cut off any chance of a productive talk. Leone wants answers; he wants to help, admittedly. Though he feels out of his depth when this is usually Bruno’s domain, with his bleeding heart for his team.
When the sobs die out, and the room goes quiet besides the small gasps and sniffs left behind; he finally speaks.
“Want to explain yourself?” He starts. His voice is free of blame or anger.
Shakily, Fugo sits himself back up. He squares his shoulders and takes a shuddering breath to preserve at least some of his dignity. “I’m sorry.” He whispers again, but Leone shakes his head.
“Don’t. Enough apologies. I want answers about why you threw that cake on the ground and ran out. You’re 16, Fugo.”
“Exactly.”
“Excuse me?” Leone raises an eyebrow, having not expected that response. His face pinches together when he carefully watches Fugo’s. He looks calm now, but Leone knows that can change in a fraction of a second.
“I’m 16.” Fugo repeats. His voice is nearly eerie to Leone. A near shell of himself, despite the way his eyes shine with a bundle of emotions. “I–...I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have this. Any of this. It’s not right, Abbacchio. The effort you all put in is in vain, yet, you don’t realize it. You never do.”
Leone purses his lips. His eyebrows furrow, and he has to fight back a deep sigh. He fails. “God dammit, Fugo.” He huffs. “How many times do we have to tell you–” He pauses when he sees the boy instinctively shrink into himself. Too harsh, he reminds himself. “What can we do?” He asks instead, voice soft to hide the gruffness that threatens to slip through. “What will make it easier for you?”
Fugo stays silent.
“Is it too much? Maybe even too little, somehow? Talk to us. That’s all you have to do when we can’t read your mind.”
Fugo stutters. His mouth is agape. “I don’t know.” He answers honestly when time only continues to tick by and he can’t find anything of substance to say to explain himself.
God, the headache that Leone feels building.
“Just like the rest, you deserve this–”
Maybe he shouldn’t have pressed. Maybe he shouldn’t have spoken. Gave Fugo more time to collect his thoughts before he offered his own set of words over this situation. The anger that comes is as explosive as it always is.
“Then why couldn’t they do this, huh?!” Fugo screams when he rises from the bed.
He paces around the room to try to cool himself, but the heat only continues to grow in him. The edges of his eyes bleed red in his vision and there’s a deep-rooted want he has. One that he gives into when his fist sickeningly cracks into the wall.
“It’s not even about the damn birthday–” His fist slams into the plaster once more. “It’s my whole damn life! They could never do the bare minimum!” His knuckles split. The blood is bright against the white of the wall. “Yet, you can?! The longest I have known any of you was only three years!”
He’s pulled away from the wall before he can strike once more. He’s whirled around to face Abbacchio; a tight grip holds his wrists together to prevent him from harming himself. His want to do damage to himself remains strong, but the pressure doesn’t let up. The rush of blood in his ears tentatively falls silent. His chest heaves, and he can’t bear to face Abbacchio after the show he put on. Yet, he finds that he doesn’t have a choice when, with his free hand, Abbacchio reaches to tilt his chin up. His gaze is stern and serious, but his touch remains gentle.
“Control yourself.” He demands like it is easy. “Take a moment. Think before you speak.”
He tries. Slowly, the anger bleeds from him. He slumps in posture. His body tilts forward on its own, though Abbacchio must read it wrong when he pulls him into a loose hug. One arm wrapped around his shoulders. Fugo doesn’t resist. His head falls forward to rest against his chest.
“Abbacchio.” Fugo murmurs. His voice is raw from the pain stricken shouts and the force of the sobs. The man hums. “I think…there is something fundamentally broken about me. None of what you do ever makes an impact through the guilt. It’s like it’s permanent. Everything feels so meaningless. Everything you do feels fake. As if you have to. Are forced to.”
Abbacchio scoffs. “Have you seen me do anything you know I don’t want to do? No. That’s not what this is. We’re not doing this because socially it’s expected of us. We’re doing it because we want to. For you. No matter the faults you feel as if you have. It’s not fake. It’s not a trap. We’re doing it because we care about you.”
Fugo shudders. His eyes squeeze shut, and he focuses on the hand that comes to run through his hair, gently untangling any of the knots.
“I can’t speak for the reasoning for your parents. None of us can, but they were always wrong. In everything they did. Everyone reacts and does things differently. You cannot control it. They neglected you, we won’t. They used you, we won’t. Their love was superficial, ours isn’t. Remember that Bucciarati says it runs deeper than you know. It takes time, but you’ll one day learn to accept it.”
Leone opens a more vulnerable part of himself when he speaks. His voice is more soft than he tends to allow. When Fugo stays quiet, he sighs, knowing that he needs to go farther.
“I get it, you know? About making it to an age you never expected yourself to see.”
It works when Fugo perks up. “Yeah?” He breathes.
Leone nods. He brushes through his hair one last time before he carefully pulls himself away to capture Fugo’s gaze. His hands are kept rested on his shoulder to keep that touch he sees the boy yearn for.
“That darkness that edges in your mind is…terrifying. Some days, it can be louder than the others. No matter the timing. Sometimes you feel great until it calls you back. Other times you wake up not wanting to move. It dictates everything that you feel and you feel as if you can’t escape from it. You feel trapped in your mind. It’s hard to break through it. Even on the days that you feel better; it lingers.”
“I don’t want it to.” Fugo whispers. His eyes burn dangerously once more.
Leone has to bite back a quiet, rather cynical laugh. “No one does. Doesn’t mean that it will go away.”
“Then what do I do?” He asks desperately. He’s only been 16 for a day, and he feels as if he’s lived too long when he wants to rest.
“Learn to live alongside it. To not let it take a part of you and solely speak for you. You fall back on the people you trust. The ones who care about you when it becomes too much. It may not make sense right now, but as the years go by; you’ll understand more. Trust me.”
16 doesn’t start perfect. Nor does it ever settle. An omen that he feels even when the day passes, the time with it, and the end of March is quick to come. There comes that fateful day that Giorno Giovanna enters their lives. 2001 was a doomed year from the beginning.
-
2002 holds hope from the start when they all feel the need to look forward to something. A bright spark for the future, he finds, and 17 turns out to be better.
It starts with a peaceful morning. Quiet and calm. The guilty thoughts, and the looming fear to not ruin this once again, are already kept at bay in the midst of his sleep. Narancia lies next to him. The two are curled up together when he once more wanted to be the first to wish him a happy birthday. His head rested on his shoulder with Fugo’s rested on the crown of his. Their breaths are soft, their arms tangled around each other, and the radio softly plays from where it sits on his desk. The room glows with the bright light coming through his curtains.
Unfortunately for Narancia, there’s someone else who gets the lead.
The flowers are silent when they grow in the crevices of his room. It starts with Violets, Irises, and Primroses. A beautiful mix of purple and white. February birth flowers. With their meanings of loyalty, wisdom, and youth. Then comes Amaryllis and Paperwhites. Red with white. The very colours that come to their minds when they think of him. They’re his favorites. Pride, renewal, and good wishes. Finally, there’s Holly and Mistletoe. Common winter flowers, but they stand out curiously against the others.
The flowers wrap around his headboard. The vines tangled and winding together. They reach towards him. With a gentle touch of his face before it moves to intertwine with one of his arms that slips from around Narancia. They wrap around his hand as if to hold it. The sudden smooth texture of the stems has his eyes sluggishly blinking open.
Slowly, he shifts up, carefully to not disturb Narancia too much. Though the older one easily shifts to hide his face in his hip. His arm slung around his waist.
Fugo’s attention draws back towards the vines wrapped around him in pure confusion before he follows their trail. He takes in the garden that adorns his room. It clicks.
“GioGio?” He calls out in a quiet whisper with a glance towards the door when he feels a presence and can make a guess. “You can come in.”
The door quietly clicks open at the permission. Fugo can’t be surprised about the abundance of nature collecting in his room. It has always been one of Giorno’s fascinations with a garden to show for it that always takes Fugo’s breath away from the beauty of it.
“Happy birthday, Panna.” Giorno says lightly. From the vine around his arm, more flowers bloom.
Fugo smiles, reaching a hand out when Giorno comes closer and their hands intertwine with one another.
“Tell me about them.” He requests softly because to hear Giorno and see his smile is always worth it.
As such, he listens intently even when it’s flowers that he knows well. He holds knowledge over his birth ones and especially his favorites when the wallpaper of the room reflects them in the pattern. They blend well with Giorno’s real ones posed next to the drawings. Pride and renewal have always been hard meanings to take in. Loyalty and youth even more. Nonetheless, it’s the new ones that make him curious, and when there’s a lull of silence in Giorno’s descriptions, symbolism, and their history; he makes it known.
“The Holly and the Mistletoe. What is the purpose of them? They’re traditionally Christmas time ones, are they not?” He keeps his voice soft. Intent to keep the quiet moment between them for as long as possible. Giorno has come to sit on the edge of the bed, their hands kept together between them, and absentmindedly, Fugo plays with the ring he wears.
“They are,” Giorno confirms lightly. His voice may keep that flat tone, but Fugo can see the bundle of deep emotions reflected in his eyes. It has become easier to read him.
“What message do they bring, Giorno?”
Giorno hesitates. It's a shy type of notion that nearly takes Fugo off guard, but he waits patiently.
“In a bouquet, much like this, they symbolize the whole season of winter altogether. However, there is more to come with it. In short, what it means is; ‘By foresight, you will surmount your difficulties.’ With Holly as foresight and Mistletoe as the latter of the message.”
A simple, yet deep meaning when it strikes Fugo.
“You created it for me specifically.” He points out. “Why?”
“I may have only known you for nearly a year, but the way you have grown in this amount of time is astonishing. Quite beautiful to see, in fact.”
Fugo has to fight back the shudder. The cynical snap that he wants to give when it comes to these types of moments. Instead, his hand tightens around Giorno’s with an expression of concealed awe. Giorno can only smile.
“You will surmount your difficulties.” He repeats quietly, leaning closer. “I am glad for us to know each other, Panna. Somehow, my life felt emptier without all of you, even if I have gone so long unaware of your presence. You don’t know the amount of meaning that you hold to me.”
There’s a shift from the other side of Fugo that prevents them from speaking any longer. A glance down shows Narancia’s eyes cracking open. They’re still filled with sleep, and rather quite groggy. Fugo smiles down at him.
With a couple of blinks, Narancia shifts to sit up. His eyes brighten at the sight of Fugo already awake. A twinkle that has a burst of warmth run through Fugo’s chest when it’s always directed at him no matter what. He goes to say something, but his eyes fall pointedly on Giorno. Then their held hands. Finally, the flowers. It clicks easily, and that twinkle dies like an extinguished flame.
“That’s not fair, GioGio!” Narancia shouts. His voice is shrill in Fugo’s ears, but the usual annoyance is non–existant. “I was supposed to be the first to wish him a happy birthday!” His face is full of betrayal.
Fugo laughs quietly, despite himself. His smile is bright. “You can still make it to second place, Nara.”
A wrong notion to say when a figure pauses her steps in the hallway. With an immediate backtrack, she comes to stand in the doorway.
“Third actually.” Trish says with a smirk directed towards Narancia before her eyes focus back on Fugo where they go soft towards him. “Happy birthday, Fugo.”
Narancia’s complaints ramp up in volume. A squawk that no one pays attention to. Fugo smiles at Trish in quiet thanks. It goes shy, nearly subdued, but a pointed look from her when she can tell what he is thinking manages to bring it forward a little more when she settles a part of his brain.
There’s a huff from beside him when the two take their leave for the time–being, intent on helping Bucciarati with the preparation of breakfast. Narancia pouts with a deflate against him. His head knocks onto his shoulder once more. His face is nearly hidden in the crook of his neck, and Fugo squirms slightly with the feeling of his eyelashes.
“Happy birthday.” Narancia murmurs half–heartedly.
Fugo could call him childish for this poor behaviour, but he sighs something content instead. “Yours automatically wins when you spent the night with me.”
Just like that, Narancia perks up. His head lifts and the bright eyes are back with excitable features. “You mean it?”
Fugo hums with a nod, unsurprised when Narancia tugs him into a hug despite the way they held each other all night. He laughs softly, his arms wrapping around him again. It’s easy with Narancia. Truthfully, Narancia could have half–assed his birthday in every possible way. He could have forgotten it. Put together something last minute. Anything, and Fugo wouldn’t have cared as long as he was there next to him. It’s what matters the most. For them all.
–
“You made it to 18.”
2003.
“I did.”
“How do you feel?”
Fugo looks over to Bucciarati. The night air is cold from where they sit on the porch steps. The wind biting against their faces, and the pale moonlight casts a cool glow over their features.
The events of the day finally die down for the night, though Fugo can still hear Mista and Narancia playfully arguing over who’s in charge of the clean–up. He had come out for a brief moment. Merely in the need of some fresh air. His thoughts are a quiet buzz. Common these days, he thankfully finds. It’s grown easier to not pay them any mind. He had remained unaware of Bucciarati’s presence until a blanket was wrapped around his shoulder, the stairs creaked next to him when a body sat down, and Bruno had tugged him to rest against him. It made him smile.
“Never thought I would make it to 18,” He breathes.
Bruno nods slowly. “I know.” He murmurs ever so gently. He remembers hearing those words countless times. A strong held belief that he would never make it. “You did, however.”
Fugo nods, curling closer to that warmth. For a moment, he stays quiet. Years ago, he wouldn’t expect this. Wouldn’t have believed this. That he made it to 18. That his birthday would come to be celebrated. That he would have a loving family surrounding him.
“It feels like I gained retribution,” He finally says. “I would always tell myself that this would never be possible. That I wouldn’t be alive to make it here. Now that I have, I feel like I’ve proven something to myself. That I made my younger self proud, in a way. Gave him something to look forward to.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah…I proved that I lived. That my life truly did have meaning. I survived, whether it’s from Passione, or my own hands.”
Bruno smiles. “Is it a good feeling?”
Fugo hesitates. Only for a mere second before slowly; he nods. “It’s a great feeling.”
Bruno’s smile grows. He presses a kiss against the crown of Fugo’s head. His arms wrap tighter around him where he holds him close. Fugo melts into the warmth.
“We’ll be here when you turn 19, Tesoro.”