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2025-05-10
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2025-05-22
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I will stay by your side as long as you need me

Summary:

All the times Fugo Panacotta punished himself for his betrayal, all the times Giorno Giovanna healed his wounds and wiped his tears.

Notes:

Note one: THIS IS ALL MY BESTIE. She gave me Purple Haze Feedback to read, and by the gods, my brain chemistry still hasn't recovered.

Note 1.5: My incredible and best bestie, who made all this happens, drew wonderful illustrations for this part, I've been holding them in my hands for a hundred hours.
Tumblr post!!

Note two: this is my first work in English, and there is no beta, just like Fugo Panacotta has no good therapist. And English is my third language. If you see any mistakes, you can point them out, but this work was written in an airport at three in the morning, so have a god in your heart.

Chapter 1: Purple Haze

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

The poisoned smoke swirls through the room.

Fugo knows he's breaking the laws of the mafia — it's the only law he's allowed himself to break now, and the only act he takes that defies Giorno.

He feels guilt for even that, and so he takes another deep breath, placing the cigarette laced with purple haze to his lips.

The pain spreads through his body, flowing through his chest, head, arms — a searing pain, a hellish pain — and there's something in this pain, something Fugo believes he deserves.

Giorno healed his wounds, healed the scars on his cheeks, and later — those new ones, intentional this time — healed the cuts on his arms when he noticed them by chance. Not once did he get angry. He only said gently, “Don’t do that again. You don’t have to.”

And Fugo does the same. And at the same time — not the same at all.

Because Giorno is smart, perceptive, kind, brilliant, and never wrong — except when he says, “It’s not your fault.” Because Fugo knows — it is.

If only he'd been there…

If only he hadn’t stayed behind on the shore…

Another deep breath, another dose of pain, and the only thing new is the tears, burning his cheeks and reminding him of the scars that should still be there. They no longer ache on the skin — but that only makes it worse in the soul.

In the smoke is the colour of Bucciarati’s eyes, and Fugo thinks it’s damn well fitting.

He’s done everything Giorno asked of him, fulfilled every order and then some, and that means he earns two quiet nights. And he spends them the same way he has for the past six months— because it’s the only way he can sleep at all.

His mind, busy recovering from injuries, doesn’t have the strength to generate new nightmares.

Fugo will recover. The day after tomorrow, he’ll wake up ready for a new battle for Giorno Giovanna, ready to stand behind him like a second wing, ready to charge at the first “Fas!”.

Maybe — if Giorno Giovanna ever ordered Fugo to take his own poison again — Fugo would just thank him for the chance to rest in silence.

His legs give out — whether from the poisoned air or the ghosts pressing on his shoulders — and Fugo collapses onto the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest and grabs fistfuls of his own hair — it should hurt more, more, more.

Just like Abbacchio, Narancia, and Bucciarati suffered.

Not a drop less.

Because if only he had been there... If only he’d got into the damn boat...

Fugo hears footsteps, but doesn’t turn — every crack in the room is sealed tight, and no one’s rushing to visit a traitor’s room. Maybe they’re not exactly avoiding him, but Fugo avoids them all, unable to meet their eyes.

No one must ever know how Fugo punishes himself — more than anything, he fears disappointing Giorno again. Wasting the second chance he never deserved. Fugo just wants to be worthy of being called a friend.

The door creaks — too loud for a dream, too clear for a hallucination.

The dark room is full of poisoned smoke, which means if someone enters... it means...

Fugo tries to rise, to deactivate his Stand, so no one else would ever be hurt by his actions again.

…but his legs buckle, and he crashes down, smearing his own nosebleed across his face. The pain feels right. He takes another deep breath, lets it scorch his lungs — he’s made another mistake, and he deserves punishment.

The dark room floods with light, and in that light, Fugo sees one painfully familiar silhouette. For a second, terror overtakes him.

Not again.

How did he get in?

If only-

“Don’t breathe,” Fugo rasps with the last of his strength, pouring every bit of life left in him into stopping the Stand — but more blood just runs down his face.

Another deep breath: if he dies now — it would be fair.

He can’t see Giorno’s face — but he knows there’s disappointment. Pain. Maybe a bit of hatred, and that would be right.

But Giorno only reaches forward, allowing smoke to clutch his fingers, and whispers the Stand’s name. Just like back then, in the café, he reaches out — and in his fingers is all the light in the world.

Suddenly, all the smoke turns into dozens of white birds flying from the room, ruffling Giorno’s hair with their wings, leaving no poison behind.

Fugo feels the piercing gaze on him and cannot look away. Giorno could end his life now or order Mista to do it — and he’d be right. The hardest thing is turning his head to see if he’ll actually say it, to see in his eyes the regret of offering a second chance.

But it’s the least he can do, and so he lifts his head with effort.

There’s no disappointment in Giorno’s eyes.

He stands, bathed in light, white birds perched on his shoulders, and slowly kneels down. His warm hand touches Fugo’s cheek, gently wiping the blood away with his fingers.

“You’re doing this to yourself again,” Giorno’s voice is reproachful, but not accusing. It’s soft and warm, and that makes it all the worse.

“I’m sorry,” Fugo croaks quietly, no longer able to hold himself upright, collapsing back to the floor. But Giorno doesn’t pull his hand away — maybe he even presses it firmer, refusing to let him look away.

Under that hand — there’s peace. Fugo knows his life rests in these hands. On Fugo’s shoulders is the weight of his friends’ deaths, of following Giorno’s orders, of atoning for his sins — but not, at least, for his own life.

“For what?” Giorno tilts his head slightly, and again, Fugo can’t read him. What’s the right answer he wants to hear? How not to disappoint him further? What is he guilty of?

“People could’ve got hurt…” Fugo says, trying to bury his gaze in the floor, but Giorno doesn’t let him escape. “You could’ve got hurt…”

Fugo wants to address him formally — it feels right. He’s speaking to his saviour, the one who brought him back to life and gave him another chance. Giorno corrects him every time, but hasn’t yet learned to read his thoughts.

“They couldn’t. You checked everything and locked the door,” Giorno counters. His face is calm and full of light.

“But you got in.”

Giorno extends his hand toward the wall, and a crystal butterfly flutters to his fingertip. A moment later, it flies to the lock and transforms into its metal part.

“They told me they sensed a Stand activation in here. I got scared for you.”

Fugo stays silent, closing his eyes — but not to flee. Instead, he presses even closer to Giorno’s hand, giving Giorno access to his soul, rather than fleeing into the shadows, and so he can break eye contact without guilt.

A faint warmth spreads through Fugo’s body — but he knows it. Could recognize it among a thousand others. It always comes with warm hands and gentle worry in the eyes, with pain and blood, with  take care of yourself” and “why do you do this.”

“You healed my wounds again. Again. I would’ve got tired.”

Fugo whispers, afraid to raise his voice — as if Giorno might wake up from a dream and realize who he’s really dealing with.

“You wouldn’t,” Giorno smiles gently, and there’s no doubt in his voice, only soft light. He kneels and lets Fugo rest his head in his lap. With the sleeve of his suit, he wipes away the remaining blood. “And I’ll keep healing them as long as it takes — until it gets easier for you. Until you forgive yourself.”

Fugo doesn’t open his eyes — he doesn’t need any other light when Giorno’s touch is near. He wants to say so much — from apologies to thank-yous — but the right words don’t exist, or maybe what he feels hasn’t fit in words for a long time.

And even so — Giorno brings a peace, Fugo has never known. And he allowed himself to fall asleep — and even with a healed body, he didn’t dream of nightmares.

Notes:

Note three: I have three parts of this work written so far, but God knows I won't stop there.
(This work was written in lieu of therapy during a difficult period in my life).

Chapter 2: What is said in a dream

Summary:

Giorno didn’t need a guard, a killer, or a dog — just Pannacotta Fugo.

Notes:

Have I mentioned that I love my best friend so much?
She drew the illustrations for this part too, I'm holding them in my hands, they're so comfortable and so good, oh my.
Check it out on her Tumblr!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Giorno was never angry at Fugo. He might have said he "didn’t understand" him, but even that wasn’t true. Giorno saw himself in Fugo — perhaps with a greater fear for his own life. Now, not even a drop of that fear remained.

Fugo hadn’t chosen to join the mafia of his own will; he had been cornered. He had no dream that led through Passione, but he had shared Giorno’s dream — and for that, Giorno respected him endlessly.

He gently ran his hand across Fugo’s cheek, wiping away crystalline tears. Fugo was asleep on Giorno’s lap, breathing heavily but steadily, and trembling every time Giorno moved his hand away, even for a second.

Giorno knew: Fugo had it harder than he did. And Giorno wanted to give Fugo what only Bucciarati had once given him — and never his own family. Unconditional acceptance.

Giorno didn’t need Fugo to heal at the snap of a finger, to stop lashing out in anger, or to silently follow orders. Giorno didn’t need a guard, a killer, or a dog — just Pannacotta Fugo.

If Fugo couldn’t take a step, Giorno would take his hand and make half the step with him. Never instead, but always ready to be steady support.

Under Giorno’s touch, Fugo trembled violently and whispered something with his lips alone, begged him not to go, and then — forgiveness.

Giorno reached toward the nearby bed, but even in that second, he clearly heard the words, sharp and painful:

“Don’t give up on me.”

Giorno didn’t know who Fugo was calling to in his dream — his father, Bucciarati, or Giorno himself — but he understood how often Fugo had felt abandoned.

Maybe Fugo had stayed behind that day so no one could leave him against his will.

“I’m here. I will stay by your side as long as you need me,” Giorno answers calmly, covering Fugo on his lap with his blanket.

Fugo quieted, his breathing evened out, and Giorno buried his hand in his hair.

“I’m here, you hear me? You’re not alone any more.”

Giorno had seen such intense fear in Fugo’s eyes when he made mistakes — and not always serious ones. Sometimes, even being ten minutes late made Fugo look like he thought Giorno would never want to see him again.

Sometimes he lashed out first, raised his voice, as if trying to burn the bridge himself — but Giorno never let that happen. Giorno kept talking, again and again, because he always saw that fear in Fugo’s eyes, and after the loudest shouts came the deepest fear.

Fugo would always take a step back, pretending that if Giorno cast him out, it was his own decision.

But Giorno would only calmly ask whether Fugo wanted to leave — and in the silence, Fugo could never hide his fear.

“It’s not your fault,” Giorno said softly, and in his sleep, Fugo laid his hand-over Giorno’s, pressing closer to his lap.

Fugo was a damn complicated and confusing person, but Giorno knew there was no one else in the world more loyal to him — no one who would put in more effort to see his dream fulfilled.

“Thank you,” Fugo whispered in his sleep, and Giorno placed his other hand on Fugo’s shoulder and leaned back against the bed. In this world, there was one person in whose company Giorno wasn’t afraid to close his eyes.

“I’m here, Pannacotta Fugo, and I won’t leave you.”

 

Notes:

Incredibly, I was able to overcome my imposter syndrome and convince myself that I had the right to publish this work.
Thanks for reading!

Chapter 3: "I'm here"

Summary:

Fugo Panacotta is addicted to his own stand. Giorno Giovanna is ready to solve all problems with him.

Notes:

And we're back to how my bestie is a queen who does incredible things.

✨ Her illustrations for this part. ✨

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Fugo is afraid of seeming weak.

He faces every challenge in life head-on, refusing to acknowledge his own pain and fear.
…yet no matter how hard he tries, he still can’t become as strong as Giorno Giovanna.

Fugo cries in solitude, claws his skin bloody beneath his clothes, inhales his own poisonous smoke — anything to keep others from suspecting he might be breaking.

Only that damn Giorno Giovanna can read his eyes.

That damn Giorno Giovanna who wiped away his tears, healed his wounds, turned his smoke into free birds — and kept saying he’d stay for as long as needed.

That damn Giorno Giovanna, who always knew Fugo was weak… but never treated him like he was.

Since Bucciarati’s death, Fugo has started to believe Giorno. Sometimes. Rarely. Maybe more than he believed, he simply didn’t want to cause him more trouble.

Fugo knew how much time and energy Giorno poured into him, so he tried to be better. Tried to stop poisoning himself, so Giorno wouldn’t have to waste his Stand’s power. Tried to stay out of danger, so Giorno wouldn’t have to lose another friend.

But right now, he felt awful.

It was one of those damn hard days — the kind that ends in a freezing night, a cold caught from exhaustion and lack of sleep.

Fugo had learned that caring for his mental health started with caring for his body — and he had learned that with Giorno. They tried to learn together.

He sat on the floor, head thrown back, and the pain was back in his cheeks. And his chest. And his throat — burning, making it hard to breathe. In the dark, he saw movement — and in that movement, accusations.

He wanted a smoke. He wanted to drown out the pain with something worse — something he could control.

But really — he paused, fought himself to admit it — what he wanted was to hear that he wasn’t alone. That he wouldn’t be left behind.

Because the dark whispered: he’s a traitor , and Giorno just hadn’t realized yet. Hadn’t noticed his stupid mistakes and bursts of rage, but the moment he did — he wouldn’t want to look at him any more.

“Giorno? Noticed nothing?” asked the rational part.

“He just trusts his friends too much,” the dark insisted.

Fugo buried his head in his hands and clenched his jaw. Smoke, smoke, smoke. Silence the voices. Black out. Sleep.

But a third voice — new, unfamiliar — brought back a memory: Giorno’s worried face. His labored breath as he healed Fugo’s wounds. The way he begged — almost begged — him not to do it again.

Fugo wanted to be strong. He buried his head in his knees, hoping it would stop him from breaking again. But it didn’t help.

Maybe he wanted Giorno to show up right now. To reach out and touch his cheek the way only he could. To share the warmth of his hands.

…but Giorno couldn’t read minds.

Fugo reached toward the night stand, where he’d hidden a cigarette — one laced with his Stand’s venom. One hit would make it all easier. Giorno wouldn’t even have to know. It would be easier — for both of them…

But Giorno would know.
And Giorno would realize he’d been lied to.
And Giorno would see that Fugo wasn’t getting better. That he addicted .

Addicted?
Goddamn it.

Giorno hated drugs more than anything. And Fugo…

Fugo’s eyes burned again as he shot to his feet.

He just needed to see Giorno. Just once. Because if he fell into the void alone, he wasn’t sure he’d ever crawl back out — and worse, he might drag Giorno in with him.

***

 

Fugo raised his hand to knock.
Lowered it.
Turned to leave — hell, it was almost midnight, why would he bother Giorno now? Giorno had enough on his plate.

He could just go back and… and…

And what?

What would Giorno do when he eventually heard — from someone else — what Fugo was hiding?

Giorno was kind. He had given Fugo a second chance. But third one? Only fools gave those. And Giorno Giovanna was no fool.

“Yes?” came a firm voice from behind the door. Fugo hadn’t even realized he knocked.

“It’s… Fugo…” he mumbled, barely louder than a whisper, fighting the urge to flee like he used to in school. But Giorno opened the door before that thought even formed.

“Did something happen?” His voice — instantly softer.

He looked at Fugo and waited. But first — he waited for eye contact.

Always.

He always waited for eye contact. And Fugo couldn’t look away for long, because Giorno had patience tenfold — no, hundredfold — his own.

Fugo gave in and looked up — he knew the red-rimmed eyes and fresh tears would be obvious.

“I… I just… I feel awful, and I… Can I just… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…”

He didn’t get to finish. Giorno stepped forward.
Pulled him into a tight embrace.

So tight — his hands covering Fugo’s head and back — that Fugo couldn’t stop the tears that had been building in his throat since the end of the workday.

“Come in,” Giorno said, gently shutting the door behind them. “How can I help you?”

“Can I just… lie on your floor, please? I don’t want to bother you or anything, I just… I feel awful, and I didn’t want to cause you problems by tearing myself apart again…”

Fugo forced a smile, and instead of the urge to run, he felt the urge to destroy something — to scream until his voice gave out, to feel bones crack beneath his hands.

Giorno put on the kettle and adjusted the curtains.

“I’m proud of you for coming,” he smiled, and Fugo’s heart skipped a beat. “And I’m glad I get to be here for you.”

Fugo didn’t understand how Giorno’s heart held so much light — or how that light could shine even on someone like him.

“What can I do for you?”

Giorno — brightest person alive. Giorno had given Fugo a reason to live, to wake up, to believe in the future. And the least Fugo could offer in return — was honesty.

Fugo sank to one knee, found Giorno’s hand, and pressed it to his lips. His fingers were warm — and that warmth was all the hope he had.

“I won’t call you ‘boss,’ since you asked me not to… but I just wanted to say — I’m ready to do anything, anything you ask. I’ll change, if that’s what you want. Just please… don’t leave me.”

Giorno gently turned his hand and placed his palm on Fugo’s cheek, tilting his face up to meet his gaze.

“I won’t leave. I’ll stay for as long as I’m needed.”

“I… I just…”

Fugo tried to avert his eyes, but Giorno crouched down and touched his forehead to his.

“You can tell me,” Giorno said. “And we’ll figure it out together.”

His voice was soft — but steady. And Fugo believed him. Maybe he was making the biggest mistake of his life. But it didn’t matter. He believed every word Giorno said.

“I… I’m not getting better, Giorno. I try, but I keep going back. I want to drown everything in pain and purple smoke. It’s become a drug to me.”

Giorno was silent for a long half-minute. Fugo swallowed hard. He wasn’t crying — just… waiting.

“I’m ready for whatever punishment you decide. Just please… I’m not asking for another chance. Just…”

“How did you realize?” Giorno asked, in the same steady voice. “How did you know you couldn’t go without it any more?”

“I barely stopped myself today. I wanted to run away. And then I just… I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else. I didn’t want to betray you like that. Not again…”

“But you came,” Giorno said, brushing Fugo’s cheeks with his fingers. “You’re stronger than you think. And you can keep doing this — coming to me, if you want. I’ll always be here.”

“I don’t want to be a burden,” Fugo murmured. Maybe if Giorno had shouted, he could’ve pulled himself together. Maybe pride or self-defence would’ve kicked in. He’d argue. Fight. At least keep his composure.

But Giorno’s gentle tone left no room for defence, and Fugo collapsed against his shoulder again, exposing his back to Giorno’s hands. He wouldn’t be surprised to feel a knife between his shoulder blades.

“I could order you to come to me… but I’d rather it is your choice. Just know that I'm here."

Fugo knows.

Fugo was willing to die to continue knowing that.

Notes:

It would seem that a work of three and a half thousand words, so small, was written in truth in one night at a German airport, when I was seeing my best friend off. You probably read it in ten minutes, I would have read it in ten minutes.

But it means a lot to me, both because it got me out of a long writer's block and because it was written the day after my father died.
And most importantly, because it was my first work in English. With a translator, of course, a dictionary, and a lot of uncertainty about what I was getting into.
So I am very grateful for your warm welcome and comments, they really mean a lot to me.

And now I'm off to finish my magnum opus on this fandom, see you soon!