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His mind won’t let him rest. No matter how many times he tries to sleep or read or clear his head, Fugo just can’t tonight. That’s why he’s sitting on the edge of his bed, running his fingernails around the hard cork of the bottle in his lap.
He first tried it the night of the same day he bought it. That time, he’d locked himself in his room and later had to clean vomit off the floorboards. Fugo’d never had a thing to drink before that night. He’d never had the time or a reason. After all, he used to think alcohol was for classless fools who didn’t have a future in front of them. Sort of like he’s feeling now. As of recent events, his self worth has taken somewhat of a hit, but he's at least made sure not to eat before this time.
He sits up in bed and gets ready to go. He stands at the doorway, a worn down cloth bag held against his side. He feels it would be a bit shameless to waltz out of the building, into the woods with a sour expression on his face and a mostly full bottle of wine in his hand. Because Fugo is so very lucky, he doesn’t have to face anyone on his way out. It is quite late.
It’s surprising when he steps out onto the porch, the night strangely cool for spring. A moderate breeze smooths the hair from his face as he walks towards the treeline. Wet grass brushes over his shoes and dew rubs onto his ankles on the way. There’s a lightly worn path in this small strip of woods, a few possible resting places off the side.
Once he’s through the trees and made it to one, he lays down the knit blanket from his bag, sitting down and breathing cool air deep inside himself. It’s then that he realizes in all his worrying, he hadn’t thought to bring a glass. He’s displeased with the thought of drinking straight from the bottle, and no one is around to see, so Fugo decides it’s fine to just waterfall it. The taste is alright, but he’s not a fan of that thick stinging feeling, so he doesn’t take his time. Before it takes effect, though, he allows himself a moment of free thought.
Heart aching and bitter, he huffs out a humorless laugh. Buccellati would likely scold him for this. Tell him he should know better. Never demeaning or cruel, always purely concerned. Abbacchio probably would too, though it’d be hypocrisy. Or he’d just shoot him a look and carry on. As much as he cared for Abbacchio, he didn’t feel he knew him well. For some odd reason, that makes him feel guilty. A lot of things do, now.
Speaking of guilt, he hesitantly lets himself think of Narancia, and subconsciously hugs himself tighter. He’s not sure what he would say if he could see him now. Whether he poked fun at him or asked him to share, he would accept without complaint this time. And, God, he wishes he could. He would take Narancia putting a knife to his throat and threatening his life a thousand times over if it meant hearing his voice again. But he’ll never be able to, so he clears his mind and deflates.
After sitting for a short while, he starts to feel it. The light, weightlessness of his body. The watered down, senseless joy. The grief and fear he harbors lay just beneath it, but it’s just thick enough to not break. Like ice over a lake, he’s successfully covered it up. The sun will warm and melt it eventually, but it’s not worth worrying about. He’s sure to feel ashamed come daylight, though that’s more of an everyday thing. Breathing in the newly exciting air, Fugo lays down and rolls himself off of his blanket.
Grass brushes against his oversensitive skin, making him roll back over and scrub at his cheek with tingling fingertips. He does it again, then starts laughing. Just quiet giggles that spill out into the night air and die in the greenery surrounding. It’s so distracting he doesn’t think about how silly he looks. After a short few minutes, he’s on his back once again, staring at the stars in the sky above. Not laughing anymore. Senseless.
He’s humming a tune he doesn’t recognize, probably something he’s heard on the radio. Fugo can’t bring himself to listen to the radio much anymore. He fears hearing Trish's voice like it’s going to come out from the speakers and steal the air from his lungs. That fear brings down double the shame. Well, it usually does, but he’s running on half everything at the moment.
Despite that, he feels a traitorous lump forming in his throat. It catches him off guard, as he hadn’t really felt much sadness the first time. Mostly embarrassment. Trying to alleviate it, he brings a hand up to his mouth and breathes hard into it. It doesn’t work. The last thing he wants right now is to start crying, but he can tell he’s going to. He rests an arm on his knees and his head on his arm, and defeatedly scrunches his face up. His worries are far away, but he begins to weep like they’re all he has. He feels the sadness climb up from inside him and break out, even though he’s stopped thinking about why it’s there.
He hears someone approaching and can’t find it in himself to care. He doesn’t have much to lose anyway. Someone having to turn around on their walk because they see him crying like a bitch isn’t ideal, but it’s not going to kill him. They’ll leave and he can get back to it.
“Fugo?” Well, shit. He did not account for that person being Giorno.
The only reply he gives is a twitch of his shoulders.
“What’s wrong, Fugo?” Giorno asks him, kneeling one leg down beside him.
“Mmnm” He replies eloquently.
Giorno can tell he’s not hurt, so he brushes the thoughts of an attack from the front of his mind. He inches closer, sitting beside Fugo on the blanket splayed out in the small clearing. It’s then that he smells it, and the scene in front of him makes more sense. Fugo isn’t terribly wounded or out of his mind, he’s just a sad drunk. Giorno doesn’t exactly fare well with drunkards, but Fugo clearly poses much less threat than usual at the moment, so he doesn’t take issue.
Cautiously, Giorno reaches to touch his shoulder, and when he doesn’t flinch away, semi-awkwardly starts to rub a hand up and down his back. Fugo wipes his face on his sleeve and turns to look at Giorno from where he’s hunched over. He squints his teary eyes in confusion, being met with sympathy in the other’s. It makes him cry harder.
“It’s alright Fugo, come here.” Giorno speaks softly. He’s not sure that’s what he wants to hear, but when he lets out a quiet sob and lurches forward to rest on his shoulder, he supposes it wasn’t the wrong thing to say.
If it were just about anyone else here with him, Fugo would feel disrespected. Patronized. Giorno doesn’t make it feel like that. He can’t pinpoint why, but he just doesn’t. Maybe he’d formed some sort of sick bond with him the day he’d made his oath. Maybe he’s a parasite with nothing to give but his useless loyalty. Maybe Giorno’s just too kind. His harsh thoughts are drowned out by his focus on the newly placed hand in his hair, gently holding the side of his head. He can’t remember the last time someone had held him like this, if anyone ever has.
He’d be humiliated if it weren’t for his intoxication (he is still embarrassed though.) Crying in front of the same person, especially someone younger than him, twice in such a short span of time feels like overkill. Fugo has never been much of a cryer, yet for some reason he feels this definitely won’t be the last time it’ll happen. In the time he’s known him, he’s realized that Giorno seems to have an easy time getting things out of him. It’s not like he has to try hard, he just has that air about him. Something between understanding and authoritative.
Giorno pulls him closer and lets him sob into his chest, even though the sensation of hot tears on metal on skin is uncomfortable. He never thought he’d see Fugo so openly distraught, and he probably wouldn’t if he were sober. Giorno’s certainly heard much worse, but the way he sounds shoots a pain to his heart. It feels wrong to see him so unguarded. Giorno bites down hard on his lip to ensure he doesn’t join him. That would just be a mess.
He’s not sure how long he sits there rubbing his subordinate’s back and shushing him like a nervous horse, but he eventually quiets down and backs away. Fugo blinks hazily and looks at Giorno with a distant, vague focus. Giorno tilts his head slightly, bringing his hands back down to his sides. Fugo runs his fingers through his hair and clears his throat.
“I’m- I’m sorry about that.” He slurs, staring at the boy across from him with his brows drawn tight.
“There’s no need.”
“No, I shouldn’t- I can’t…” Fugo darts his eyes away, “I’m just sorry, okay.”
“Well feel free to be sorry, but there’s still no need,” Giorno raises an eyebrow, “I suppose I’m the one intruding on you. I just wondered where you’d gone off to.” Fugo just sighs at him.
The air is colder now, wind chilling their tear stained skin. Giorno crosses his arms over his chest, standing up and walking to lean on a nearby tree.
“Do you wanna talk about it?” Giorno asks, though it sounds more like a statement than a question.
“Not really.” Fugo answers, voice raspy, and Giorno can’t say he expected anything different.
“You should come back inside. You’ll catch a cold out here.”
“You know that’s not how it works, right?” He stands up anyway.
Or, he tries to stand up. He only rises halfway from the blanket before gravity plummets him onto his hands. He groans and grabs his head.
“And that’s not how that works either,” says Giorno, shaking his head, “Here, I’ll help you.”
Fugo glares at him.
“I can walk.”
“Let’s see it then.”
Fugo stands up on shaky legs, taking the most stiff footsteps anyone ever has, and clumsily gestures towards the path.
Giorno suppresses a laugh and follows him. They walk in silence, apart from Fugo’s heavy concentrated breathing. It doesn’t do much to help him. When he’s had enough of seeing him stumble around like an idiot, he wordlessly wraps an arm around his torso to support him. Fugo, apparently determined to make a fool of himself, forgets he still has to move his legs and nearly falls face first into the dirt below.
“Come on, you can walk,” Giorno teases, “Don’t make me carry you.”
Fugo clicks his tongue and looks away. Based on his demeanor, it seems like the fog is leaving his mind, but his body has yet to catch up. They make it back inside and down the hall in one piece, relieved at the warm interior. It’s quiet in the building, the only sounds being faint nightsong and the ticking of clocks. Giorno guides Fugo to his room and follows him in. He watches him slump down into his bed, not even bothering with his shoes. He watches his back rise and fall, until it slows.
This certainly wasn’t how he’d expected to spend his night. He knows he can’t expect Fugo to be fine, or even stable, but seeing him so shaken up was jarring. He hopes he’ll seem more like himself tomorrow, and really, Giorno didn’t peg him as the type to get near wasted on the forest floor at night. Life does like to throw surprises at him.
He hasn’t known Fugo for long. He doesn’t know exactly how he operates, or exactly how to deal with him. As he moves closer, though, he feels a sense of kinship. It’s a sort of peace, as he smooths his sweat slick hair from his forehead, slips his shoes off and places them by the door. Carefully as not to wake him.
Fugo stirs in his sleep before curling in on himself a little and stilling. Giorno gives him one more tired, sympathetic look, switches off the light, and leaves the room. He’s frowning on the way back to his own, a small, gentle emptiness settling in his chest. He brushes his teeth and washes his face with furrowed brows, and he changes clothes and takes his hair down while contemplating. Only when he lays down to sleep that night, can he identify it. A distinct sense of wanting.