Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

April of 2001, was the longest month of Fugo’s life. He had spent the latter half of it wasting away in the back room of a bar, making barely enough money to get by. His life had gone downhill drastically in the span of a few days, and there his work ethic was rooted only in survival. Anticipation became his worst enemy, and truth in rumors became his greatest fear. The only way he managed to cope with the stress was sheer willpower and blind hope. Every night, he’d lay flat on the frameless mattress in his living space, and dream until he couldn’t any longer. This was his only escape. There was nobody to turn to, and no idea of a future in his mind.

The staff was decent enough to him, the patrons not so much. He played piano near the end of the night, so the kind of people in late enough to hear it weren’t usually the upstanding type. The praise he got from them was sinister and reeked of predation. The scene was grim, but he remains grateful that the bar manager wasn’t that type of scumbag.

Fugo isn’t sure what would have happened if things hadn’t gone the way they did. Not sure how long he would have stayed in that place, not sure where he would’ve gone after, but definitely sure he wouldn’t have fared well. His one savior at the time, had been his phone ringing in his pocket on May 18th. Sitting on his bed of despair, surrounded by storage boxes and trash, Fugo had answered the call, and felt his heart nearly stop.

It was Buccellati, specifically, who had called. Buccellati who had given him the best news he’d ever hear. The relief he’d felt at that moment was greater than any feeling he’d ever had before. No despair, or joy, or even rage could compare to it. When he’d received that call, for just a moment, there wasn’t a single cell of negativity in his body. Everything else had melted away and all that existed was Buccellati’s voice through his phone speaker, like sun on his face. Everyone was okay, and they wanted to reunite.

He didn’t ask about any details of their victory, just when and where he should meet them. While he wasn’t in the best place mentally, he’d have to be completely insane to reject that offer.

It wasn’t long before he was on a sidewalk, face to face with his old teammates, using every ounce of willpower he had not to cry. It didn’t feel quite real to him. Fugo had been fully prepared and even expecting to never see any of their faces again. Only to hear about them when they’d inevitably be killed. He had already started to mourn them by the time he was summoned. He didn’t have much time to process any of it before he was pulled into a hug so impossibly tight he thought it might break his ribs. Even so, he hugged back just as tight. If Buccellati heard him sniffle, he was kind enough not to point it out. Not like he’d ever expect him to.

Narancia was the first to actually greet him, and that might’ve been the second most relieving moment of his life. He masked it well with his usual friendly tone and bright smile, but Fugo could tell he was shaken up seeing him again. It made sense why he would be, but Fugo was far too happy seeing him alive and well to be hurt by that. Mista welcomed him almost as enthusiastically, but his eyes carried a different weight. If he were looking at his eyes alone, Fugo isn’t sure he’d recognize him immediately. He’d greeted them back and tried not to make his unease known. Giorno just waved, face as kindly apathetic as usual. And….

“Wait- where’s Abbacchio?” Fugo asks. He was well aware that everyone was okay, but in the moment he couldn’t keep the panic from his voice.

“Oh, he’s back at our house. He didn’t want Trish to be left home alone.” Giorno answered.

“House?” He questioned, as he internally cursed every decision he’d made in his life over how awkward seeing Trish was going to be.

“Yeah! It’s a big one, too.” Narancia said, grabbing his shoulder with a little too much enthusiasm, and grinning. His grip was rough and shaky, but Fugo took comfort in it regardless.

Buccellati gave him the rundown of their current living situation. They do indeed have a big house, it’s out in the countryside about an hour away. As of right now, he and Giorno are essentially co-running the association with quite a bit of outside help. Giorno is technically the boss now though? That’s definitely not traditional but the way he explained it makes it seem completely acceptable. Even if he couldn’t quite make sense of it all at once. The car ride back consisted of more jumbled details of their journey, mostly told by Narancia and Mista, who seemed far too upbeat to be telling him the things they were.

It was awkward when they walked in the door, but not nearly as bad as he’d been expecting. He’d greeted Trish and Abbacchio, they greeted him back, and then he’d stared at the ceiling of his new room for about four hours. After he inevitably had to get up, he’d dismissed himself as being overdramatic and forced his worries to settle. It might’ve been the strangest, most emotional day of his life, but that didn’t have to matter. He didn’t have to make a big deal of anything. He’d fare just fine and certainly, this feeling of dread wouldn’t stick around.

Overall, it’s an excellent living situation. It’s a beautiful home, in a beautiful area. Isolated enough for comfort, but not desolate. The interior is all luxuriously decorated, white and brown and gold with a sharpness that somehow manages to be inviting. Not to mention all the greenery and florals inside and out. It’s not an ideal setting for the idle festering he often commits.

It all brings the lingering feeling that he’s unforgivably ungrateful. He’s with the only people left in the world that he cares for, and they’re all safe. The stragglers who still have it out for them are nothing compared to their previous enemy, and though hasn’t seen it himself, he can’t imagine there’s anyone in this world who Giorno couldn’t at least neutralize.

So really, it shouldn’t matter that he can hardly look Buccellati in the eye or that he only speaks to Trish when absolutely necessary. It shouldn’t matter that he feels shame every waking moment and can hardly eat or sleep. It simply shouldn’t, but it does. Guilt gnaws at him like a starving dog and none of his teammates have mentioned anything of the sort. It’s so overwhelmingly casual it’s driving him crazy. He was expecting spite, vitriol even. Anger for his inaction. The most he gets is some sideways looks that could be his imagination.

Of course, it’s not like anyone can ignore it completely. The second day of his reinstatement, Buccellati had woken him early, before the sun had come up. Taken him to an office at the end of the hall, where Giorno sat waiting. Honestly, it was a terrifying start to his day, and he wasn’t entirely convinced they weren’t going to throw him out the room’s window. To his relief, he was only there to take part in the briefest of conversation about where his loyalties lie. There was another man present as well, though he wasn’t present in the form of a man. Fugo would ask about that another time.

They’d attempted to make it clear to him that they held no ill will. No doubt it was visible on his face that he was nervous. Despite the sincerity it was spoken with, Fugo didn’t have it in him to believe it. Buccellati had asked how he was doing, and he’d lied. Spoken as if he hadn’t spent the past month miserable and afraid. Obviously, he could tell it wasn’t the truth, but he didn’t look angry with his dishonesty. That made Fugo feel worse. Pitied.

Foolishly, he had thought that re-swearing his loyalty would clear his head. All it did was make him see Giorno in a slightly different light. Despite his position, he doesn’t treat him any different. Doesn’t even want to be called anything other than his name. All at once, it’s refreshing and off-putting. Still, he did gain a higher respect for him that day. New Passione already proves more honorable than Old.

Now, an entire month reunited, he sits in the passenger’s seat of Giorno’s car, fidgeting with a loose thread in his pants leg. These ones didn’t have any holes, so he couldn’t do his usual pinching of the inside seams. It’s late, already dark outside, and Giorno is driving Narancia and him back home from a business meeting. Something about making amends with one of their connections. Fugo doesn't know the exact details, as they were essentially just there as backup and company. Though he hasn’t said anything about it, he's glad that Giorno is shouldering only a manageable amount of responsibility right now. Buccellati has enough men to make his workload significantly lessened.

Fugo doesn’t know the exact details of how those decisions were made either, and really, he doesn’t find it’s his place to know. What he had decided not to be a part of is none of his business. Even if he craves to know every single thing that happened in his absence, he can’t bring himself to ask about any of it. There’s no way he can imagine that conversation going that wouldn’t bring immense shame. Further, he hasn’t the faintest idea of who he would ask. What he would ask. Any way it plays out in his head feels like a nightmare akin to one where your teeth fall out.

Narancia’s voice pulls him from his spiraling thoughts.

“Hey, Giorno, this isn’t the way back.” He says, confused and leaning forward onto the console, chewing on the stick of a lollipop as he speaks.

“I know.” He responds in monotone.

“Well why are you driving this way then?”

“There’s somewhere I’d like to go. It won’t take long, and the others know we’ll be home late.” He provides.

Narancia looks inquisitive, but shrugs it off and goes back to picking the skin around his nails. Fugo looks over to see a hint of a smile on Giorno’s face, and can’t help but grimace in turn as he thinks back a few months. When they were in opposite seats and Giorno was the one telling him he’d missed a turn. Such a small mishap had gotten him so angry that he nearly yelled in his face over it. It really doesn’t make sense to him now. There was no good reason to act that way, even his stress didn’t explain it. And Giorno had just accepted it without complaint. He has to swallow hard to nullify the churning in his stomach.

“What’s with that face? Is something wrong?” Narancia questions suddenly, poking him in the side of the head. Fugo reckons he’s zoned out again, a bad habit he’s picked up recently.

“What face? I’m not making a face” He answers, mildly defensive.

“Yes you are! You’re going like-” Narancia pulls an overexaggerated frown and draws his eyebrows together.

“Narancia, I am not doing that.” Fugo scoffs.

“Yes you are! You’re literally still doing it, I’m basically a mirror right now,” Narancia poorly mimics him again, “Giorno, tell him I’m right.”

“You are making a face, though it doesn’t quite look like that,” Giorno says, amused, “but stop interrogating him, Narancia, I want this to be fun.”

“Fun?” Narancia questions, tilting his head.

“Yes, I’m taking us somewhere fun.”

“Oh?” he raises his eyebrows, “Giorno, are you taking us to the club?”

Fugo has the sudden urge to smack him upside the head as he smiles, half playful and half genuinely curious. Giorno just chuckles.

“No, I am certainly not. I don’t even know where that is around here.”

“Awww, we could totally get in though. We’re made men, no way we’ll get turned away.” Narancia leans on his hand and pouts.

This time, Giorno laughs fully.

“You can do that on your own time, Narancia. I’m not taking you to a nightclub.”

“Yeah, yeah. So where are we going?” He asks, waving his hand dismissively.

“It’s a surprise. We’re almost there anyway though.”

The rest of the car ride goes by in silence. The streetlamps they pass start to show up less frequently, and the road gets slightly rougher. After about ten minutes, Giorno pulls over into a small paved area. A single picnic table sits nearby, and there’s a faint glow past the surrounding treeline. As they step out into the night, it becomes clear where he’s taken them.

“Yo! This is way better than the club!” Narancia exclaims, “I haven’t been to the beach in forever!”

Fugo breathes in salty, ocean air. The night is warm, but there’s a cool breeze carrying the scent towards them. For all his distress earlier, it’s quite calming. He’s definitely glad they’re not at the club. As Giorno begins to walk over to the dusty, half dirt-half sand path, Narancia laughs out happily and makes a run for the trees through wet grass.

“Wh- Narancia!” Fugo shouts, before following after him.

Through the grass, past the trees, down the drop off and into the sand. His skin feels tacky and his hair feels thicker from the humid air once he’s reached it. On a worse day it would make him want to peel off his clothes and scrub at his skin until the pain overrides the discomfort, but he’s in public and feeling alright, so he won’t do any of that.

Narancia, who’s only a bit ahead of him now, attempts to flip over on his hands when he reaches the beach, but overestimates how solid the ground is. Fugo snorts as his bottom half falls onto his top half and he faceplants into the sand. Giorno catches up just in time to see him violently wipe his hands over his face and curse.

“Jesus, why is this shit so soft?” He complains.

“Because we’re at the very top. There’s no water to harden it.” Fugo says, rolling his eyes.

“Well I know that! It’s unusually soft, though, that’s why I fell.” He gives his face one last wipe-off and stands to glare at him, arms crossed.

“I’m sure it is.”

“Are you?” Narancia sneers at him before chucking a fistful of sand at his chest.

An unfortunate amount of it sticks to skin and jacket.

“Oh, you motherf-”

“Guys,” Giorno cuts in, quelling his momentary rage, “Come on, let’s look at the water.”

Despite his desire to shove Narancia’s head so deep into the sand that he’s picking it out of his scalp for weeks, he complies. Lets him have his little victory for the time being.

The water is lovely tonight. The moon reflects bright over it, almost lighting the area better than the lamp over near the docks. Now that he thinks about it, Fugo hasn’t been to the beach in a while either. It’s definitely not his first choice regarding leisure activities. He burns easily, doesn’t care for being tossed around by waves, and isn’t a fan of crowds. Overall just a bad time.

Like this, though, it’s quite relaxing. Apart from his dislike of sand, he can’t think of any complaints. Giorno walks slightly ahead of him and Narancia ahead of them both, walking zig-zagged in the wet sand.

“Giorno?” Fugo speaks.

“Yes?” He answers.

“Why did you want to come here tonight?”

“Well… I suppose I just wanted to do something spontaneous.” He shrugs.

“Mm. That makes sense.”

They’ve been fairly busy with the fall out as of late. You’d have to be a fool to think their situation wouldn’t bring up a myriad of conflicts. It only makes sense that Giorno would want to do something of the sort. He just doesn’t understand why tonight is when he chose to. That question doesn’t seem so important as they approach the docks.

Fugo can only focus on the immediate drop in his stomach. There’s a physical illness that envelopes him at the sight, and he wants to kick himself for it. He reluctantly leans against one of its legs as Narancia ascends the stairs. Stares through the crossed poles underneath when Giorno follows. He’s getting sick of these mood swings. While he doesn’t like the angry ones, he prefers them to the depressive sickening feeling of the newer ones.

This sort of thing has always made Fugo feel stupid. Always leaves him wishing he were smart enough to not react in such a way. He resents the way his body can’t be overridden by his mind in moments like this. None of his intellect can save him from freezing up when his shoulder is grabbed from behind and none of his willpower can clear the nausea he feels thinking about standing up there. It’s all just pointless self preservation.

He’s offered no mercy as Narancia calls him from above. Rarely is he given any. Apparently the sea looks great from up there.

“Come onnnnn, it’s a really nice view!”

“It is. You should see it.”

The only logical reason Fugo can come up with for Giorno and Narancia wanting him to stand on a dock again, is psychological warfare. This has to be intentional torment, the view cannot be that pretty. Seeing as the world is needlessly cruel to Fugo, Narancia comes down and drags him up the steps by his sleeve. He complains and fights the whole way up, but Narancia is deceptively strong, especially when he’s determined. From the moment he’d decided the water needed three sets of eyes on it, Fugo was damned to revisit that moment.

The sea does look great. Despite his dread and rapid heartbeat, Fugo can appreciate its beauty. With every gentle wave that falls, the moonlight dances through it in sparkles. It almost looks pixelated. He tries his very best to focus on that instead of emptying his stomach over the railing.

“See, I told you it’s nice.” Narancia elbows him lightly.

“Yeah.” Fugo responds, clipped and breathy.

The three of them stand there for a moment, dark silhouettes with gently blowing hair. For some odd reason, the sickness only amplifies. Perhaps he’s being dramatic and just has food poisoning. What he wouldn’t give to be able to tell them he’s contaminated with E-coli.

“Are you feeling alright, Fugo?” Giorno asks him softly, concern lacing his mannerisms. It's a strange sight.

“Fine.” From the look on Giorno’s face, he can tell that was unconvincing.

Narancia turns to look at him.

“Woah, you look really pale… Are you sure you’re good?”

“It’s nothing. Just a bit nauseous.” He silently begs him to stop talking.

Narancia scrutinizes him for a moment. Presses further into the wound.

“Are you upset?” The look in his eyes is too knowing. Panic rises in Fugo’s chest.

“Just drop it. I told you I’m fine.” Please.

“Fugo is this about-” Narancia yelps as Fugo pushes him off the dock.

He hits the water with a loud splash. Flails and coughs for a moment while Fugo stares at his own hand in shock and Giorno’s eyes widen.

Once again, his body reacted without consulting his brain. He hadn’t wanted to do that, but it was definitely the fastest way out of that line of questioning. Treading water, Narancia glares angrily up at him. Just when he’s about to apologize, a hand darts to his ankle and drags him in right after.

The water is cold, shocking his nerves as he’s engulfed in it. Luckily, he doesn’t breathe any in. When he reaches the surface, the first thing he hears is Narancia's irritated voice.

“What the hell was that, Fugo?! What if I had my phone on me, huh?” He yells, partially cut out by the crashing waves.

“Oh, what does it matter we’re even now!” Fugo yells back, one hand on a support beam and the other wiping hair from his eyes. The salt stings them and sticks his clothing to his skin uncomfortably. Retribution.

“Are we really? I’ll show you even!” Narancia says, splashing water right back into his face. His hair falls over his eyes again and he tells Narancia to go fuck himself.

Their dispute proves to be short lived as Giorno bursts out in laughter from above. There’s no malice behind it, just pure joy. It’s not something he gets to hear often. Like a rare birdcall, momentarily drawing him out of his discomfort.

“You two are ridiculous,” He says fondly, “Come on, swim back. We should get going soon.”

His smile is warm and convincing, but Fugo doesn't miss the glint of disappointment in his eyes.

After exchanging a few more dirty looks, Fugo and Narancia reach the shore together. In wet clothes, the warm night feels chilly. Graciously, Giorno turns the car heater on for them on the ride back. Fugo spends the whole time listening to Narancia recount a story of him going to the beach as a child. Something about a beached sea creature (Narancia refers to it as a ‘monster’) and its scary face. He’d been with his mother, on one of his birthdays. He can’t recall which one, but it doesn’t seem to matter to him. Irrational as it is, the innocence with which he tells it feels like a guilt trip. It’s a calming backtrack to his thoughts of self loathing, though.

By the time they’re through the door, only Abbacchio is still up. He sits at the kitchen counter, seemingly doing nothing. Just staring down at an empty mug with no entertainment present. Fugo doesn’t dwell on it, as he’s seen him do much stranger. Giorno greets him politely, and receives a rough nod in response. His tired gaze drifts to the two boys standing behind him.

“Why are you two wet?” He asks, mild exasperation in his tone.

“Because Fugo’s an asshole.” Narancia spits, turning to look at him with mock bitterness.

Abbacchio raises an eyebrow and Fugo flips Narancia off behind his back.

“He pushed me into the ocean.” He explains.

“Why’d you push him into the ocean?” He asks, turning to Fugo with an expectant look on his face. He sounds more tired than stern.

“Does it matter? He dragged me in after him.” Fugo mutters.

“Sure did!” Narancia grins.

“Fair enough.” Abbacchio shrugs and turns back to stare at his mug of nothing.

Despite Narancia’s continued complaints, Fugo can tell he doesn’t really mind. When it comes to friends, he's nearly too forgiving. After he settles down enough for Fugo to wish everyone a good night, he drags himself up the stairs and goes to his room. Immediately after entering, he grabs something to sleep in, and changes out of his cold, wet clothes in his bathroom.

He lingers in the mirror for an uncomfortable amount of time, thinking through an uncomfortable conversation with himself. His hair is still damp, salt thickened and sticking to his forehead and neck. Evidence of his crime. None of them have really talked about it. It eats at him every time they talk about something else. Any time he’s alone, too. He gazes into his own, dead eyes, and wonders why no one will speak of his departure.

Well… Narancia had tried to and it set off his fight or flight instincts, so maybe it’s for the best that no one wants to talk about it. If Fugo were a gambling man, he would bet they’re simply too kind to remind him of his own cowardice. Even if he knows that’s not the true reason, it’s easy to pretend. God knows he does a lot of that. He would also bet that they hold at least some sort of resentment towards him. If he resents himself so much, after all they’d been through, they’d have to be insane not to. And he only knows bits and pieces. Trying to imagine the hardship is like trying to bite off his own finger. Even if any of them don't, they should.

This is a strange state to live in. He does his work just fine, he talks to his friends as if nothing has changed, and sits down at dinner every night and forces himself to eat. He’ll listen to Mista’s nonsensical rambling, bicker with Narancia as usual, and share in Abbacchio’s pain at their idiocy. He’ll contribute all that he can, be thanked, commended even, but he’ll feel othered and sick through it all. At least the feeling isn’t entirely new.

After he’s done all the self reflection he can manage, he steps into the shower and scrubs his skin raw. Gets the water too hot for good measure. It’s his nightly ritual, and one of the only constants in his life. In a shameful, twisted way, it’s comforting. After he gets out, the tingling pain and overheating of his body exhausts the negativity right out of him. It’s pleasantly draining.

When he finally leaves the bathroom, he lays down in bed and closes his eyes, praying to a God he hardly believes in that neither Narancia or Giorno will mention tonight after it’s over. Maybe if he sticks around for long enough, all of it will just become a distant memory. They can laugh about it, and he’ll never have to touch the well of pain in his chest. Deep down he knows this isn’t the case. It can’t be. He’ll snap at some point, or someone else will if the tension grows too great. In his suffering, there’s at least the small comfort of security.

Sleep melts the poison from the forefront of his mind, and his dreams are pleasant and soft. There, he lays in the pale grass of an open field, with no bugs or sunburn present. There’s flowing water in earshot, and peace envelopes him. Large white birds drift down around him and bring slumber to his mind in turn with his body. Unburdened and safe until he wakes.

Chapter Text

7/29/01

Fugo wakes early, to light and birdsong streaming in through his window. His mind is blank and there’s a heaviness throughout his body that feels malicious. It only worsens when he sits up. His head has a dull, slow throbbing, but the pain is grounding enough that he doesn’t take anything. He sluggishly works through hygiene and dressing as usual in spite of it.

His only ‘work’ today is that Giorno wants him to accompany him shopping. Just their weekly groceries. It’s a strange request, one that he’s never made before. He finds it even stranger that Giorno likes to personally buy his own groceries when he could easily have just about anyone in the country do it for him. Surely, if Fugo were in his position, he’d be more guarded. In any case, he can’t expend too much energy overthinking it, this past week has been brutal in terms of sleep quality. He’s pretty sure his best night consisted of about three hours total.

After he’s vaguely presentable, he walks downstairs, finding it unsurprisingly deserted. It is Sunday after all, they’ll sleep in if work allows it. Giorno specifically said they were going in the morning, though. For the time being, he might as well tidy the place up a bit. It’s a far cry from small, but for seven people and occasional guests, upkeep can be a hassle. Abbacchio walks in behind him as he throws away debris scattered across the kitchen. They greet each other in nods as he moves past to put on some coffee.

Fugo continues his cleaning until Abbacchio calls over to him. He makes a beckoning motion with his fingers, and Fugo hesitantly steps forward under the kitchen light. It’s the kind that’s meant to look like daylight, and he’s never been a fan of those. The yellowy ones have a nicer atmosphere. He squints at him, forehead creased.

“Fugo… you look like shit.” He says bluntly.

Fugo makes a half-hearted offended face in response. He spends enough time analyzing his reflection to know damn well that Abbaccio’s right.

“You feeling alright?” He questions, face softening almost imperceptibly.

“Fine.” Fugo answers, hoping that’ll end the exchange.

He hears Abbacchio sigh, but doesn’t turn his attention away from cleaning. For a second, he internally questions why they don’t just hire maids, but the answer becomes apparent as soon as the thought crosses his mind. A need for privacy is a trait all of them share. Actually… he’s not too sure about Mr. Polnareff, it’s not like they talk much. Maybe that’s rude, but he hasn’t had much time to think about it with all their recent troubles.

As he scrubs at a stain of what he assumes to be jelly, there’s a finger snapping sound next to his head. He turns to see a steaming hot mug of coffee held out in front of him. Taking it and placing it on a clean part of the counter, he raises an eyebrow. Wordlessly, Abbacchio pats him on the shoulder and leaves the kitchen. Fugo stares down at it for too long, with an inappropriate intensity on his face. It shouldn't mean anything, it probably doesn't, and he wants to kick himself for getting emotional over coffee. He just chalks it up to how early it is.

It’s too dessert-like for his tastes, but he’s fairly sure he knows why it’s made that way. It’s kind of hard to hide how shit your appetite is when you’re around the same people nearly all the time. So if Abbacchio’s worried enough to put so much sugar and cream in his coffee that it seems gay, he won’t complain. The feeling of being cared for, even in small displays, always leaves him conflicted. It fights the notion that he isn’t cared for and the warmth it brings fights his agenda that he doesn’t need to be. He swallows it down and carries on like usual. He needs to find Giorno.

Seeing as Abbacchio is the only other person available, he decides to try his luck and leaves the kitchen. Abbacchio sits with relaxed posture in a living room chair, slowly flipping through a magazine. Fugo walks over and leans in the doorway.

“Do you know where Giorno is?” He asks, voice hushed.

“Why?” Abbacchio questions, a noncommittal displeasure on his face.

“He wants me to go to the grocery store with him.” He replies flatly.

To Abbacchio’s further questioning look, Fugo raises up his arms as if to say ‘I don’t know why either.’

“Alright. He went out the back door a while ago. Probably in the garden.”

Fugo thanks him for his help and leaves out the front.

To his great disappointment, the sky is overcast today. It makes the world appear dreary and blue-tinted. He doesn’t bother hoping it won’t rain, it’ll only be in vain. Maybe they’ll at least return before it does. Walking around the gravel path’s turn, he spots Giorno. His hair looks darker in the lighting, more of a dirty blonde than golden. He’s watering the tomato plants, softly humming something Fugo can’t identify. He looks peaceful.

Walking up behind him, he still can’t figure out the tune. It’s something he’s never heard before. Perhaps it’s Japanese. Surely Giorno notices his presence, but he gives no acknowledgement, just moves on to watering the herbs. Fugo assumes he doesn’t want to be bothered at the moment, and turns to go back inside, but something stops him. A pebble in the pathway molds and twists into the form of a vine, and then an arrow. It points him back the other way.

When he turns around, Giorno is facing him, unmoving and unspeaking. His eerie demeanor makes the hair on Fugo’s arms stand up, and he tilts his head in confusion. Giorno raises an arm, and points to the back left corner of the walled in garden. There’s something white in the bed where he gestures. Stepping closer, he’s able to make out what it is. A kitten, fluffy and completely white, no older than three months old. It lies curled up in some weeds, looking apprehensive but not scared. He just stands there and observes it while Giorno finishes watering. A bitter voice in his head makes note that he’s wasting his time, because the rain will end up doing the job for him. Some will probably end up falling off the plant. He could definitely just grow them back, but the weather requires Fugo’s pessimism, so he ignores that thought.

After a bit, Giorno waves goodbye to the kitten and follows Fugo back inside, still silent. It’s only when they enter the building that he speaks.

“It doesn’t take kindly to sudden noise. Always runs off when I speak.” Giorno sighs lightly.

Ah. A skittish stray.

“Mm. That makes sense,” he replies, “How long has it been around?”

“I’m not sure, but I think since we first came here.”

When Fugo was still wasting away in that bar’s back room. Funnily enough, he can’t even recall the name of the place. Recall…..

“Oh! I went out to see if you were ready to leave. I know you said morning, but if you mentioned a time I can’t recall it. Sorry.” He explains.

“No worries. I didn’t,” Giorno responds, “I do want to go soon, though. I just need to get a few things.”

The car ride there is uneventful, mostly comprised of dull conversation, until the last stretch when water droplets start to thud on the windshield. Before he can stop himself in an effort to be polite, Fugo audibly ‘tsks’.

“Not a fan of rain?” Giorno questions.

Fugo turns to look at him, and his eyes are thankfully still on the road.

“Not particularly.” He answers.

“Are you scared of thunder?”

That’s a mildly offensive assumption, but he can take it. Giorno doesn’t sound like he’s trying to be mocking, but he doesn’t sound like he’s genuinely asking either.

“No, I’m not.”

He really isn’t.

“Well, what’s wrong with it then?”

“It’s bleak. Monotonous. Unless the sun’s out with it it’s never pleasing.” Fugo looks out the window to see the raindrops sliding across, and picking up speed.

“Hm. I suppose that makes sense. I don’t mind it, though.” Giorno shrugs.

“Reminds me of my old house, too,” Fugo continues, unprompted, “I would always sit by the window in my room to study. This sort of weather always sticks in those memories.”

He doesn’t know why he keeps speaking, but he doesn’t feel there’s any harm in it. The memory doesn’t mean all that much to him anyway.

“Doesn’t sound like a fond memory.” Giorno states, tone neutral.

Fugo shakes his head, in attempt to end the conversation before it gets uncomfortably vulnerable. In one of the small mercies he’s allowed, it works. They sit in comfortable silence for the rest of the ride.

The store is crowded, but not terribly so. It’s somewhere they’ve never been before, a sort of dull spontaneity. Though he fights him on it, Giorno is insistent on dropping Fugo off at the overhang so he doesn’t get rained on. Neither of them had thought to bring an umbrella. Fugo was afflicted with far too much brain fog from lack of sleep and Giorno simply didn’t care to. By some miracle, his hair stays styled through the entire walk back. Fugo seriously can’t begin to understand why it hasn’t fallen out of its curls or drooped in any way. Just what is he using to hold it in place…

Giorno is also insistent on keeping Fugo by his side for the entire trip, even when he points out that it’d be faster if they split up and each got half of what they need. That’s strange, but oddly comforting, as Fugo doesn’t really enjoy being alone in crowds. For a moment, he considers that Giorno feels the same, but it’s not an idea that’s easy to believe. Giorno has never struck him as the anxious type. Certainly doesn’t display it if he is.

The interior of the store is not to either of their liking, garish yellows and orange make up the decor, the aisles are too narrow, and the open space is too open. It’s off putting, nerve wracking, and not doing Fugo’s headache any favors. He feels like he’s more sluggishly following Giorno around than acting as a companion. An observer watching him browse the shelves and pick out produce. He tries his best to appear interested and present, but he can’t imagine it’s doing much good. It’s sort of frustrating that Giorno seems unbothered, and he still has no idea why he dragged him along in the first place.

Fugo absentmindedly peruses some blocks of cheese when they reach the refrigerators, not really reading any labels or thinking about buying any. He hopes he’s able to take a nap when they return home, and part of him wishes he didn’t have a reputation to uphold so he could just rest here for a moment. Giorno catches his attention in his peripheral, picking up a comical amount of egg cartons. So many that his arms rest even with his hips and he has to balance the top one with his chin.

“Giorno….?” Fugo mutters.

“Hm?”

“Why do we need that many eggs?” He asks, voice nearly cracking from disuse.

“Thank goodness,” he doesn’t break his monotone, “thought I’d lost you there. We don’t.” He does smile though.

“Eh? What are you talking about?”

“Not to offend, Fugo, but you look half dead. If you didn’t say something about this,” He gestures down at the cartons with his eyes, “I was preparing to carry you out of here.”

“That’s…” An idea that doesn’t sound half bad right now. “Um, none taken. I’m aware.”

Internally, he repents for having that thought.

“What’s ailing you?” Giorno asks, soft in comparison to the chatter around.

Who in the hell says ‘ailing’?

“Nothing’s… ailing me. I’m just a little tired.” Fugo responds. It’s a half truth if he’s being generous. Maybe a fifth if he’s being honest.

Giorno shrugs as well as he can with his arms full, and lowers his head with raised eyebrows, a clear ‘I don’t believe you but I won’t press on it in the middle of the grocery store’. He then asks Fugo to help him put some eggs back. He still carries four.

“Giorno that’s like… still too many.” Fugo states.

“No it’s not.” Giorno says, matter of fact.

“I promise you we can’t eat four cartons of eggs before they go bad. What are they for?”

Maybe he’s just tormenting Mista for some reason?

“Pudding.” He replies, turning back to look at him while they walk.

To prove his point, he stops and collects too many milk cartons as well.

“Jesus, how much pudding are you planning on making?” Fugo asks, genuinely confused.

“Enough.” He says, with such finality that Fugo just throws his hands up and keeps walking. If Giorno wants to eat his body weight in pudding this week, that’s his business.

The rest of the trip is mostly uneventful, Giorno picks up cocoa powder, chocolate, starch (more pudding ingredients), and a few other items, and then they’re off. They’re lucky enough to exit the store during a break in the rain. He lets Fugo know that they still need to stop for bread, and that he likes to get it from a farmers market on the way back. Fugo thinks he’s mentioned the place before, something about the woman who runs it. The sun shines through the clouds for just a moment once they’re on the road again. Far too soon, the rain picks back up, but at least he has the image of the sun in his recent memory.

The market is put together nicely, protected from the rain by an olive green tent stand. Fugo watches through half closed eyes, still sitting in the passenger’s seat, as Giorno talks politely with the stall-runners. They seem to be well acquainted. He observes their movements in an effort to stay awake. Listens to the raindrops hitting the windshield too. Before long, Giorno comes back with a paper bag full of various breads. When he turns to look at Fugo, his face shifts from peaceful to tense.

“Fugo.” He says to the slow blinking boy across from him.

“Yes?” Fugo’s voice sounds far away. Not quite slurred, but not quite clear.

“How much sleep are you getting?” He asks.

There’s a soft threat in his tone. One that clearly conveys that he does not want to be lied to. His stare is scrutinizing, but not malicious. Reminiscent of a calm jungle cat, it brings discomfort, but never fear. Fugo is suddenly all too aware of how stuffy the car is.

“Well… not much,” He responds, hesitant and careful. Hoping this conversation doesn’t delve too deep into the root of the problem. Into anything really.

“How much?” He repeats. Fugo stares blankly at him for a second too long, and he continues. “Estimate.”

Fugo looks down at his hands and thinks for a moment. Giorno waits patiently for him to answer, watching his subtle mannerisms as he contemplates.

“About four hours a night. I nap sometimes, though, so I guess it depends.”

Only after speaking does he realize that it’s gotten worse than he’d thought. It takes a while for exhaustion to catch up to him, and he’s certainly no stranger to it, but he always hates this point. Especially hates when someone’s around to witness it. Even worse that it’s someone so perceptive.

“For how long?” Giorno asks.

It’s a simple question, but the answer will say far too much.

“I’m not sure exactly.” He settles on an answer that definitely isn’t true, but isn’t a complete lie either.

He has had sleep troubles for a long time, and it’s not like his insomnia is linear. There’s good nights and bad ones, waxing and waning. But he knows in his heart that this started in April. Before then, he was sleeping just fine. A small drop of resentment blooms within him at the thought, though he’s not sure where to direct it.

“Fugo,” Giorno sighs, “Just tell me.”

“Why does it matter? What’s it to you?” Fugo asks, annoyance bristling under his skin. It bites through his fatigue and threatens to turn to anger.

The rain picks up and confusingly, Giorno’s gaze softens. He runs a hand through the part of his hair that isn’t tied back, relaxing himself into the seat. Fugo sits stiffly, clenching his jaw as he waits for an answer. It gives him a little time to realize he’s overreacting.

“Well it’s not good for you to say the least. I want you healthy, and I need you functional,” He finally replies, rolling his head back over to look at Fugo, “Good work can only get you so far if you’re not taking care of yourself. Now, tell me,” He insists.

Biting his lip, Fugo realizes that he’s not going to let this go. Admitting defeat, he looks back up and answers.

“Since April.” It comes out as a whisper, tentative and upset.

“That’s far too long,” Giorno says bluntly, “You should get some rest as soon as possible.”

“Probably.” He mumbles with faux apathy.

“Sleep all day if you can manage it.” He ends, shrugging.

The tense atmosphere fizzles out as he starts his car back up and takes off. Fugo drifts off shortly after with his head against the window. Giorno occasionally glances over to see if he’s still asleep and he is every time. He can’t help but wonder if he would ever just admit something’s wrong. It’s clear as day in every action he performs, but it goes unmentioned, collecting dust. He thinks back to that night at the beach, and his first day back, and everything before that, and he’s fairly certain he knows the source. Despite all his straightforwardness, he really didn’t feel it was right to dig that deep today. If he has to pry, he’d like for Fugo to be aware of his surroundings.

Even when Giorno first met Fugo, with all the stress of their situation, he seemed so much more lively. Closer to the surface. He hopes Purple Haze isn’t doing any worse along with him, but knows he’s likely to be. He hasn’t seen him since April, and evidently Fugo’s opinion of him hasn’t changed since. It’s at least lucky that no recent exchanges have required his use. Maybe he’ll ask to see him sometime soon, but maybe that’s a strange thing to request. Deciding to worry about it later, he speeds through the last stretch home then lingers in the driveway until he can stop dwelling on it.

Afterwards, he gently shakes Fugo awake. Receiving only a loud exhale in response, he comes around the other side and opens his door. Half cognisant and in pain, Fugo weakly protests getting out of the car, but gives in when he feels how warm Giorno’s hand is on his wrist. It’s pleasant enough that he lets himself be led all the way up the stairs and to his bedroom. Full body exhaustion weighs him down into the comforter and numbs his mind. He’s out before he even knows it.

His third time waking up that day is the only time that leaves him refreshed. It’s dark outside by now, just a hint of blue still visible in the sky. He sighs to himself, not exactly thrilled with having slept so long. If Giorno asked him to though, he supposes it’s fine. He gets up, stretches out the tension in his joints, and fixes his hair in the mirror. He feels much more aware now. He can’t recall any of his dreams but he knows they were pleasant.

It’s a few minutes afterwards that this awareness causes him to think of today's more… unsavory events. He promptly lays back down to scream into his pillow. With his mind cleared, it’s a terrible recollection. He’d let himself look far too miserable, mindlessly walked around in front of the public, and worst of all, let Giorno practically ragdoll him up the stairs in front of his entire team and also Trish. To top it all off, his head is still throbbing.

Sure, they’d seen him vulnerable before. Upset, hurt, exhausted and the like, but this was different. He’s in so much less danger now that it’s laughable. Today was a normal, slightly gloomy day. Yet here he is, a severely troubled insomniac with no outlet, letting his mind destroy him over things no one else seems to care about. It all feels so pointless. There is no benefit to him or anyone else that this burden provides. It just keeps taking from him, like it always has. What good does his intelligence do him if he can’t even sleep at night or be honest with anyone? He digs his nails into the side of his bed and tries to calm down. His upset ebbs to frustration. That, he can deal with just fine.

Rolling back over, he tightly wraps his arms around himself and takes a deep breath. Then another. He wants to go back to sleep. The air in this room feels suffocating. Another breath. This is pointless and it might not get better. He doesn’t know how to get better. Another. Everything is just-

There’s a knock at the door and he pulls himself up to answer. A draft of cooler air flows into the room as he opens it, and he has to squint at the sudden brightness from the hall. Giorno stands in the doorway, darkness from inside shading his front. He smiles softly at him like he isn’t part of the reason Fugo has to leave the country.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks.

“Yeah,” Fugo breathes out, “I did.” He puts in effort to not sound rude. Despite his frustration, he knows Giorno was only trying to help him.

“That’s good. I would’ve let you go until morning, but I figured I should get you up for dinner.”

“Mm. Alright, I’ll be down in a few.” He is fairly hungry by now. Giorno nods and retreats.

It’s too loud downstairs for his liking, but the atmosphere is nice. There are candles lit, it smells of herbs and salt, and everyone seems to be having a good time. Right as he approaches the table, Narancia shoves a bowl into his hands, semi-affectionately referring to him as a hermit. Fugo flicks him in the forehead but doesn’t really mind. Surely, he could’ve referred to him as much worse. The bowl in his hands has some sort of broth based soup, mostly comprised of vegetables. Taking a seat, and a bite, he finds it’s quite good. Probably Buccellati’s doing.

Right now, it feels better to just listen than participate in the conversation. Buccellatti asks him how the soup is, so it’s safe to say he was right. Fugo’s happy to tell him it’s great. He slowly picks at it as their words drone through his head, dulled and blurry. He zones in and out for a bit, watching the spectacle of banter. The warm light and pleasant aroma mostly soothes his headache.

Mista makes a small complaint about how much it hurts when Giorno heals him and Giorno bites back with a comment about it being his fault. Narancia joins the conversation at the mention of some detail he didn’t pick up on. He swallows another spoonful. Narancia and Mista go back and forth in hesitant mumbling and he’s forcefully dragged back into the room as Mista attempts to deafen him.

“You thought we were what!?” He exclaims, a moderate amount of horror in his tone.

“Dude! That’s exactly what it looked like!” Narancia shouts back across the table as Giorno shoots a disturbed glance at him.

They continue panic-arguing while Trish laughs uncontrollably for a few minutes until Abbacchio cuts them off.

“Okay, okay. Just drop it, he made a mistake.” The desire to laugh is evident in his tone, but he manages not to.

Fugo does not manage the same when he puts the pieces together. That’s fucking hilarious. Buccellati soon breaks as well, pressing his mouth to the top of his fist as his composure dissolves. Trish still hasn’t stopped. Narancia looks over at him helplessly as he pats him on the shoulder.

“Buccellati! It’s not funny.” He complains, pouting at him.

“Narancia,” He responds through a breathy laugh, “It’s very funny.”

“Seriously,” Trish says, “There’s no way you can’t see it.”

Eventually, after Narancia’s exhausted all of his defenses, the conversation moves on. Mista bounces back relatively quickly and moves on as well. To be fair, if Fugo were in his shoes, he’s sure he would’ve reacted much worse.

Fugo slightly zones out again as Mista, Giorno, and Narancia talk about some stand he wasn’t around to see. Something to do with changing your words and actions. It certainly doesn’t sound like it was fun for Narancia to be afflicted with. He shoots him a sympathetic glance and Narancia puts a hand over his heart in thanks before he goes back to glaring violently at Mista. He’s seemingly very entertained by it.

“Oh, God, Fugo you should’ve been there just for that. I mean, I was pissed at the time, but I gotta admit it was pretty hilarious.” He chuckles and elbows him lightly.

All of a sudden, the small amount of joy he holds leaves him. His heart drops to his stomach and he regrets ever leaving his room. This is irrational. This is sickening. It’s unavoidable all the same. Mista’s words are laced with salt and slice right through him.

“It was not, give me a break already!” Narancia groans.

“Okay, I’m still hung up on how that’s the conclusion you-” To Narancia’s relief, he’s cut off.

“Fuck off, Mista!” Fugo spits.

“Wha- The Hell did I do to you?” Mista turns and shouts at him.

“Jesus Christ, I can’t do this shit!” Fugo harshly pushes his chair out and speed-walks away from the table as Mista sputters.

He doesn’t give him a chance to form a reply before he’s half up the stairs out of earshot. No matter how much of a handle he has on himself, he can’t ignore it when rage breaches the surface. Neither can he ignore the concern on Buccellati’s face as he got up to leave. He smells phantom sea breeze as he re-enters his room and the all too familiar fear of vomiting wells up in him. It’s only natural to flinch when a wound is touched.

He shakily sits down in bed as his thoughts race. Why did he have to bring it up, and why was he so lighthearted about it? Why don’t they seem angry? Why did it have to happen in the first place? This matter always makes him spiral down the same path. Hurt, guilt, anger, and then all three at once. It’s tiring and bleak and nothing ever comes of it. The worst part is that he knows it’s pointless. If he were a braver man, it would’ve been talked out months ago, but there’s a childish part of him that won’t let it happen. A mental block that craves avoidance and steals peace.

Someone knocks on his door and it takes just about everything in him to not scream. It’d feel much nicer than letting them in. It’s not a slight on any of his friends, but two’s a crowd when you’re emotionally peeled back and bleeding.

“Hey. Let me in” It’s Mista. Even though all options are terrible, he’s at least a better one. Easy to talk to.

“Look,” Fugo sighs, “I’m sorry I snapped at you, just leave me be.”

“Come on, just let me in.” He responds, undeterred.

“Why?” He sighs again, hoping to mask his distress with annoyance. Not that he isn’t also annoyed.

“Because I want to talk to you without a door in the way?”

Whatever. Fugo can put on a brave face and say whatever Mista wants to hear if it’ll get him to leave.

“Why’d you tell me to fuck off?” Mista asks, surprisingly calm.

Of course he has to start with the heavy hitters.

“Did I not just apologize to you?” He deflects.

“You did. Not what I asked.”

“Because in the moment, I wanted you to fuck off.” Fugo answers venomously.

“What’s your problem, man? It’s not just now, you’ve been uptight as hell lately. I mean… even more than usual.” Mista asks, hand on his head and a mix of confusion, irritation, and concern on his face.

Fugo just stares back like he’s about to start swinging. Jaw clenched and fists tight, he paints a dangerous picture. Mista isn’t giving up. He kneels on the floor beside him and puts his elbows on the edge of his bed. Rests his jaw on one of his hands and blinks at him. He’s close and unguarded, as if Fugo poses no threat.

“Do you like…,” he clicks his tongue, “Wish you had gone with us?” It’s a loaded question, he knows. Not the extent of it, but he knows.

“No. I don’t.” Fugo glares at him, trying to will him upright and out the door with his eyes.

“Well… What’s wrong then?” He pries, fully committing.

“Jesus, Mista, nothing’s wrong! I’m fuckin tired, that’s it!” Fugo snaps at him.

“Umm- Jesus, Fugo, I don’t believe you.” He mocks.

“Well, that’s your problem,” He grits out, “I didn’t ask you to come interrogate me.”

Mista rises again, pointing his finger in Fugo’s face. He briefly considers biting it, but decides he’s above that at the moment and just rises along with him. Might be a different story if he still hadn’t slept.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong. Spill.” He demands, exaggerating his expressions. To Fugo, it seems like he’s trying to make him angrier. Honestly, it’s just bringing him closer to tears. If he’s going to cry in front of someone, though, Mista’s at least one of his better options.

“God,” he draws the word out in a groan, “What’s wrong with you? Why do you think this is any of your business?!”

“You’re right. Whatever’s up with you is yours to deal with,” Mista starts, tone harsh, “But you make it everyone’s business when you’re obviously unwell! You can argue and laugh and bullshit all you want but you can’t fake how majorly depressed you look. Fuckin- forgive me for giving a shit!”

That’s the first time he’s raised his voice this entire night. He’s expecting more yelling in response, maybe even fighting, and honestly, it’d be refreshing to see Fugo so unreserved again. It’s been unpleasant watching him decline. He’s certainly not expecting him to slap a hand over his mouth and burst into tears, but it is what happens. In a split second the contempt drains from his face, and replaces itself with clear, plain distress.

“Hey, Fugo what-” He’s cut off with a shaky inhale and a quiet sob.

“Buddy, it’s- It’s okay, you don’t gotta cry.” He rushes out, in mild shock.

When Fugo doesn’t respond or stop crying, Mista gently ushers him to sit on his bed again. Tentatively, he pulls him into a hug, not completely sure he won’t be thrown at the wall for it. That worry dissolves as Fugo collapses onto him and hugs back. It’s kind of an odd feeling, seeing as this is one of very few times Fugo has ever hugged him, and definitely already the longest. He can feel his sweater getting wet where his head rests, and his body trembling against him. He almost asks him what’s wrong again, but settles on just shushing him. Fugo grips the fabric like a lifeline. The sight of it is almost unbelievable.

“I’m sorry.” He whines into Mista’s shoulder.

“You- you just said you didn’t regret it, though.” Mista says in confusion, rubbing a hand down his back.

“I don’t, I’m just sorry, okay?”

“That’s alright,” He says softly, “I get’cha.” He doesn’t entirely ‘get him’ at the moment, but it doesn’t feel dishonest to say. Fugo presses his head further into his shoulder, soft hair tickling his jaw. Mista only realizes now that it’s not styled today. Where it’s usually pushed back and secured, it falls forward into his face when he leans over.

“Shh, you’re okay. Everything’s okay,” he whispers, “We don’t have to talk about it right now.”

Fugo says a muffled ‘thanks’ and relaxes a bit. It’s strange for him to hear Mista’s voice sound so gentle. Even though he’s usually brash or otherwise loud it doesn’t sound wrong on him. His embrace is as welcoming as any other aspect of him. Mista has always been kind, and he’s always been shitty. Another sob shakes through him, and he just keeps comforting him as if he’s not. They sit there for a while, still and raw. At the moment, there’s a kinship between them that doesn’t really justify itself. Fugo looks up once he’s calmer only to see Mista’s eyes closed and his lashes wet. He looks somehow tense and peaceful at the same time.

“Are you also crying?” He rasps out.

Mista wipes at his eyes with his sleeve and gives a small chuckle.

“Nah… nah man I’m just allergic to you.”

Fugo lightly swats him on the arm but refrains from questioning further. Just in case they’re feeling the same.

“If you’re good now, we should finish eating.” Mista mumbles into the top of his head. Fugo makes an ‘ugh’ sound.

“I… don’t wanna go back downstairs right now,” he replies quietly, “You’re free to go if you’re hungry.” That may have been his only desire in the world twenty minutes earlier, but he doesn’t really want him to leave now.

“Dude. You gotta eat.” Mista tells him, a small frown on his face. “Here, I’ll just tell Narancia to bring it up.”

He texts Narancia ‘bring us our soup pls’ and quickly receives a ‘k’ back. Mista makes sure to untangle their limbs before he has time to come upstairs. God forbid he makes another one of his ‘assumptions’. Yeah… he hasn’t had time to fully process that yet.

A few minutes later Narancia comes in, arms stacked like a waitress.

“Yo. Where should I put this?” he asks, “I brought garlic bread too.”

“Uh, just put it on my desk.” Fugo answers.

“How the hell did you make garlic bread in like two minutes?” Mista asks.

“Uh- the toaster. Duh.” Narancia says, like it’s obvious.

“That’s probably like… a sin, but it’s whatever. Thanks, man.”

Narancia nods and sits down against the wall, under Fugo’s window.

“Sooo, are you two cool now?” He asks, one eyebrow raised.

Mista pats Fugo on the back (too hard) and confirms that they’re ‘cool’.

He sticks around for a while after, telling them about some new game he wants. It’s pleasant, light conversation that brings the same comfort as putting on an old jacket. He eats his dinner, participates in the banter, and his worries fizzle out for the time being. It sort of feels like growth.

Once he’s too worn out to keep up, he politely kicks them out. Mista gives him a look that says ‘I’m not done here’ on his way out. Whatever, he can deal with that later. Brushing it off, he climbs into the shower and lets his body relax. Something confuses him, though. Even with his anxieties quelled it bites at him in a way he can’t ignore. He pauses scrubbing through his hair and leans against the shower wall. There’s a small, traitorous part of him that wishes Giorno would just rip off the band-aid and make him talk. Wishes he’d just ordered the information out of him. They’re both well aware the other knows something. It would be such an easy solution to absolve him of guilt. Or condemn him. Honestly it’d be easy either way. Not knowing him all that well would aid in its ease. He thinks he’d just drop dead if Buccellati asked the same.

He shames himself for having such a grotesque fantasy, and then immediately laughs out loud at how ridiculous that sounds. He takes some comfort in the fact that the extent of his ‘grotesque fantasy’ is speaking about his feelings. The burden lifts a little as the hot water continues to beat down on him. The world didn’t end that night on the beach, and it didn’t end today either. It’ll all be fine or it won’t. Those aren’t the kind of thoughts he likes to commit to, but he’ll indulge just for tonight. For his peace of mind.

Once asleep, he dreams of desert hills and a swirling black and white sky. As he gets closer to the vortex of it, neon rain starts to fall from the sky. It hurts when it hits him, but leaves no mark. He gets so close to being under it, but he’s dragged down into the sand and buried. It doesn’t suffocate, though, only holds him in place, entering his body like air. After a while of basking in the peace, everything falls away and he floats, solid and supported in the air.

Chapter Text

8/8/01

It’s a beautiful day today, but insomnia persists in ruining it. He’d thought a good reset would help, and he’d tried an embarrassing amount of relaxation techniques but he’s still falling asleep with the sunrise most nights. To add insult to injury, he’s got nothing to distract himself with. This is his third day of temporary leave upon Buccellati’s request. He’d sat down with him one night while he was watching their muted TV in the living room, around 2 a.m., he’s pretty sure. He was silent for a moment before announcing his worry. Real sweet about it, too. Always kind when he says something Fugo doesn’t wanna hear.

It was a simple ‘you should take a few days off’, and maybe he could take the rest of his life off, but of course he’d told Buccellati he was fine to work. And of course, Buccellati persisted. So gentle and so stern. One of Fugo’s greatest weaknesses. As such, they’d come to an agreement that he'd take a few days rest, with no responsibilities. It was worth the displeasure to have Buccellati happy with him.

It’s still worth it now, but God, is it boring. The past two days have gone by in a blur of random activities until someone gets home at night. He’s tried his hand at drawing, baking, meditation, everything else, and in a moment of weakness, an attempted handstand. There’s a bruise on the back of his head now, but he was at least able to make some nice pastries. It’s only a half victory considering Mista won’t stop pestering him to make more, but he really has to take what he can get right now.

All this repetitive loneliness makes him wonder about something. Their living situation, as it is, doesn't leave much to be desired. They have each other’s company, but enough space to themselves, a beautiful outlook on open fields, and great cell service. It’s comfortably isolated, inconspicuous, and a short drive from their town offices. He still wonders when someone will inevitably choose to reside elsewhere. Mr. Polnareff’s already gone off on his own, speaking of some reunion he has to attempt. They are still a team, but it’s not like they’re so intertwined business-wise that it’s off the table. As he’s thought over and over, it’s a simple inevitability.

Everyone has a title and responsibility to uphold, and at some point it may not be best served here. He’s sure to be upset when it happens, but it’s not as scary a thought as it would’ve been a few months back. To Fugo, being so close with everyone he thought he’d lost was a true blessing, but time and honesty have thickened his worn skin. There can be no bigger change in his world than what he’s already gone through. Even if there is, this desensitization has given him the capability to deal with it. He supposes he owes Mista partial thanks for that. The conversation he’d dragged him into certainly helped. As he lays in bed, staring out the window with his limbs sprawled out, the scene replays in his mind.

It was slightly after midday, around the same time it is presently. Fugo’d been out picking up papers in town, and just about as soon as he’d stepped through the door, he’d been hauled back outside with great determination.

In a blur of blue knit and tan skin, he’s led to the backyard by his wrist and sat down on a bench. The sun beats down on them through light clouding, slightly shaded by the arched trellis around it. Out here it’s one of three, this one specifically draped in climbing nasturtium flowers. It’s far too hot of a day for them to be dressed in long sleeves and pants outside. Mista sits down next to him and puts a knee up to grab. His face is serious and there’s a dull ache where he grabbed him.

“Jesus, what happened to ‘hello’?” Fugo asks, shaking the pressure out of his hand.

“Fugo,” Mista says his name like it’s the start of a disclaimer, “I don’t think I have to tell you how much of a mess you were last night.”

Sometimes, Mista’s direct approach to speaking and acting can be shocking and/or unwelcome. It’s not really a wrongdoing (usually), but it clashes with Fugo’s own carefully thought out words and actions. Any time he acts in the same way Mista does regularly, he has to at least be frustrated. They can work well together, and have many times, but they can butt heads with the same ease on any small trigger.

Right now though, it’s not shocking, unwelcome or any other negative attribute. It’s sobering. Like a cold shower or a blunt pain.

“No,” Fugo shakes his head, rolling his sleeves up to cool off, “You don’t. I’m well aware.” It’s not at all funny, but the absurdity of the situation brings him close to laughing.

“Okay, great, no need to fight on that. Can we talk about it now without you freakin’ out on me?”

His knee jerk reaction is to deny and avoid. He’ll agree and spill to spite it.

“Yes, Mista. I’m stable.” He answers, matter of fact.

“What’s up then?”

It’s really too bad that he hadn’t thought of an answer yet. Doesn’t feel right holding up a hand and pondering his sick thoughts with an audience. After a moment of contemplation, he finds his best way to summarize.

“I’m… not good with change.”

Mista nods, prompting him to continue.

“Really, I’m awful with it. I’m sure I don’t have to spell out how much has changed as of recent,” A shake of his head, “It’s just hard for me to let go of the past, you know?”

It’s a purposefully vague, sighed out explanation, but an honest one nonetheless.

“I get that, but… Why does it have ya so torn up?” Mista questions with the same softness as his placations. It’s lesser but undeniably present.

“That’s hard to explain. I’m not sure I know exactly. If I had to sum it up, gun to my head, I’d say emotional whiplash.”

“Hey, there’s no gun to your head, I’m just lookin’ out for you.” He chuckles dryly, pulling his sweater out a few times to cool off. It’s strange that he’s even wearing one today in the first place, but he is very loyal to this one. Fugo sometimes suspects that he has more compulsions than he lets on.

He glances off to the garden for a second and continues.

“I was angry when you left. Moreso scared. Guilty when I started to mourn, then paranoid thinking I was next. Extremely relieved at Buccellati’s call and then it all stagnates before blending together. That’s how I’d sum it up if the gunman wanted more details.” He shrugs.

His voice doesn’t give way to any of these feelings. It’s reminiscent and straightforward like he’s talking about a single bad day. A forced dissociation. That’s really the only way to get the words out without wretching.

“You were mourning us?” Mista questions, eyebrows raised high.

“Yeah. I was laying low, assuming the worst, and not really letting myself hope for anything different,” He pauses to take a deep breath, “And, even after what I said that day… I was mourning Trish too. All of you, every night.”

The look in Mista’s eyes makes the slow shift from inquisitive to half-vacant. His expression and demeanor remain the same, but Fugo can tell he’s upset. No question as to why.

“Yeah, that’s rough,” He exhales hard like he’s blowing smoke, “I hadn’t thought about it like that, way you put it sounds like torture.”

Selfish as it is, Fugo’s glad his voice stays steady. He’s only good at providing comfort when he feels he has some sort of upper hand. Right now they’re nothing more than two hearts mixing blood, and if Mista falls apart on him he’s not sure any good will come of it.

“It was, but…” Fugo looks down to his own hands, fidgeting in his lap, “You never should’ve had to go through all that. I’ve heard you guys recount details before, far too casually, and I’m sure I don’t have the full picture. If I went through torture, then you went through hell.” He looks back to the man beside him with a frown.

“Maybe, but we sent that bastard there in the process. It all worked out.” Mista pats him on the shoulder and clears his throat. Fugo pats back, and the bloodflow slows to a stop. They’ve found some sort of solidarity.

“Yeah, I guess it did.” Fugo whispers.

“Just… don’t let that shit get so bad again, yeah?” Mista asks, a soft breeze carding through the hair over his forehead. It’s longer than he usually lets it get.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m good, Mista.” He insists.

It was relieving to confess to… whatever that was. More so knowing that he only spoke of the issue, and not its effects. Mista let him go free after a few smaller questions about his time away, finding it insultingly surprising that Fugo can play the piano. Apparently he doesn’t strike him as a ‘musical person’, whatever that means. Regardless of the exchange’s true depth, it did bring them a little closer. Talking it over wasn’t as violating as he’d expected, but the roots are still planted. Brief conversation unfortunately did not work as a miracle cure, but he did go back inside feeling lighter. Again, he takes what he can get.

Day three has been testing him since it started. He hardly has the energy to entertain himself, he’s home alone, and said papers are ready and waiting ten feet away from him on his desk. It’s only natural that he’d talk himself into believing this doesn’t really count as work. And realistically, no one’s going to be mad at him for reading and moving his hands. That’s not exactly a workout.

Sitting down and committing himself to the task is incredibly relieving. He works through it routinely, but it feels like it’s been forever. Slowly forming the stacks treats him like fresh air after a cold. By the time he’s half done with it, he realizes he hasn’t drank any water today. It’s a hassle pausing his work, it’s always easier for him to just complete a task all at once. Interruption kills his momentum.

As much as he wants to ignore his body’s needs when working, there tends to be a little voice biting through his more practical thoughts that annoys him into complying. This time though, it’s not that that does him in, but remembering the look on Buccellati’s face. When they’d talked that night, his eyes had been so sad, and it had looked so wrong on him. Fugo despises being the cause of that look, even indirectly. The image of his mentor sitting in the TV light, forehead creased and clearly worried, invades his vision with every blink. It’s not a sight he can take for long.

Thoroughly guilt-tripped without a single word spoken to him, he drags himself downstairs to get some water. The place is at least peaceful when deserted. Even though drinking is a pain, he locates his favorite glass and commits to it. It’s got strawberry vines, leaves, flowers, and the fruit itself wrapped around the rim in delicate painted detail. Another constant. Leaning against the counter and taking a sip, he spots a small brown butterfly on one of the windows. Inside. Giorno’s not supposed to be home yet, so why…? Okay that’s just an embarrassing thought to have. Fugo wishes he could shake himself by the shoulders and tell him to get a grip. The insect flutters harshly against the window, making a repetitive dull sound. He would try to let it out, but this window is oddly placed and the thing’s high up. It thrums again and he frowns. It seems to think it can truly escape if it just tries hard enough.

He turns to leave, but there’s one more desperate flap of its wings, and he gives in. Because apparently, his heart has gone soft. To safely open this window, he actually has to climb up onto the counter by the sink. If they want it opened, they usually just make Abbacchio do it, seeing as he’s ridiculously tall. Fugo, not blessed in that manner, awkwardly pushes the window up as carefully as he can manage. It's hard to balance up here, and he's sure he looks laughable. The butterfly doesn’t want to comply with his help, flying further up and falling into the tight space between the panes when he tries to catch it. He holds his breath as it stills.

‘Please don’t tell me that killed it,’ he hopes.

Thankfully he can make out its movements in the small space a second later, and it flies back onto the glass above when he nudges it. It has a clear path outside, but the thing just won’t go. This isn’t what he needs to be doing right now. Once more, he tries and fails to get it in his hands, and leans against the window in frustration. Just as he’s about to try again with gritted teeth, the butterfly crawls onto his finger. Flies right out when he moves his hand through the crack. It sticks around the greenery hanging in view for a moment, as if to thank him. A little victory. The peace of it leaves him suddenly and fiercely as a figure approaches in his peripheral. Ready to fight, he turns to see a familiar figure with pink hair, sun-kissed skin, and geometric black clothing.

Fugo’s truly grateful for Mista’s ‘help’, no matter how annoying it was to accept. It acted as a cushion to fall back on, then served as a needed wake up call. None of that quells his current desire to bash his face into the tile where Trish stands. He knows he can’t blame him, and that there’s really nothing to blame him for, but the betrayal is felt anyway. He’d told him she would be with him and Narancia today. Seeing as she’s not, and instead staring at him from ten feet away, it’s evident that she has something to say. Speaking with Trish is easy enough and always remains lighthearted, but being alone with her is something he’s been avoiding for months. It’s not that he doesn’t like her, but she dredges up far too many negative feelings in him at once. She is the dock that holds him up, the smell of saltwater on wind, and intertwined with the hurt itself. She could be a reaper in the flesh, or just a troubled girl, it truly wouldn’t matter. It hurts his pride admitting it to himself, but a small, occasionally overwhelming part of him fears her.

In reality though, the worst she can really do is hate him, and if she does she doesn’t let it show. There’s a definite awkwardness between them, but he bears it with relative ease. He refuses to give way to cowardice any more than he already has. Whatever she has to say to him, he’ll listen and absorb. After everything, he feels he owes her that much.

“Fugo, if you don’t mind me asking… what are you doing?” She asks, looking baffled at his position.

“Ah- I was um- There was a butterfly stuck in here,” Fugo stammers out, “I was letting it out. But, um, you know how this window is, so…” Maybe he should just slam his own face into the tile.

“You busy right now? Other than catching butterflies?” She prompts.

“I am.” He responds hesitantly.

“Busy with work?” She raises an eyebrow.

“Um, just sorting papers, but yeah, it's important stuff.”

Honestly, it’s not. It does need to be done before the end of the week, but it’s generally low priority. If he didn’t get to it, it could be easily passed off to someone else.

“Really?” She puts a hand on her hip and looks him up and down, “I was under the impression that you’re not supposed to be doing ‘important stuff’ right now.” She comments through pursed lips. It paints a funny picture with him still on the counter, and still in his pajamas. Silently, he hopes Mista is having a bad day.

“I assure you, putting papers into different stacks isn’t overexerting me.” He responds with a twinge of annoyance.

“Well I know that, but it’s not the point. Giorno’s worried about you, you know?”

“What makes you say that?” He knows damn well that Giorno’s worried, though he’d much rather him just be mad, but how does she? Besides, he’s not even the one who asked him to rest. He takes a moment to ponder while sliding himself off the kitchen counter.

“Dude, I don’t even have to say it. It’s obvious with the way he looks at you. Can’t you just lay off it for him?”

Whatever that means, it makes his stomach hurt. It’s hard to identify the reason exactly, something between guilt and curiosity. Because, really… How is Giorno looking at him? He’s definitely still going to finish it anyway, but he agrees to keep her happy.

“So… did you need something?”

“Oh, right!” Trish perks up before immediately deflating again, “I need to talk to you.”

“Um, alright,” he shifts uncomfortably, “What about?”

“Look.” She starts before clicking her tongue in contemplation. Her face pulls tight and she meets his gaze, “This is gonna be really embarrassing if you don’t care, but… I want to apologize to you.”

Out of all his quick-fire thoughts, not a single one assumed she would say sorry.

“What for?” He questions, matching her tense expression. The air feels thick between them.

“I know I acted rude towards you. I’m sorry for that.” She clarifies. Her face doesn’t give away any emotion, but she sounds sincere.

“No, no, I- I was more than just rude to you, Trish. I think I certainly outdid you in that regard.” Fugo replies, his reassurance coming off near frantic.

“If that’s how you really feel, then why do you act so detached around me?” She frets.

“Look, I-,” Fugo sucks air through his teeth, “You don’t need to apologize, I’m just… I didn’t figure that you’d want to set things right, I guess.”

“Well, I’m sorry anyways,” she continues, “And, I don’t want us to keep dancing around like, even associating with each other. That’s why I’m apologizing in the first place.”

“Trish, you don’t have to! I would be pissed if I were you!” He stresses.

“Fugo!,” she snaps, “We both acted shitty and we both had damn good reasons! I get it. That’s just the way it is and neither of us can do anything to change it. That’s no reason to not get along with each other now.” She huffs and kicks the toe of her boot on the floor.

Hearing her now, it’s overwhelmingly clear that she’s grown. Even in a serious, slightly heated, conversation, she speaks with such a casual eloquence. In all the time that he’s known her, Trish has never been stupid, but her words right now… they shoot straight to his core and he feels seen in a way that’s cathartic. Like for just this moment, they’re one and the same.

“You’re right,” he sighs out softly, leaning back into the counter, “I don’t know what we should do about it, though.”

“I just want to move on,” she insists, “There’s no point staying stuck in the past. Do you wanna like… go get some gelato?”

His mouth just barely drops open in surprise at the casual suggestion.

“Uh, sure?”

Lightly pushing him backwards, she smiles through a small chuckle. For the first time, he can truly appreciate it. She looks the picture of kindness. Not surface level niceties or small acts of service, but true, from the heart kindness. Forgiving and radiant, she displays her joy at his agreement. Leading her out the door after he gets dressed feels like a fractional rebirth. A small bloom on a long stagnant branch.

Even now that his distaste is gone, he decides to take Mista’s car as a final ‘fuck you’. It’s messy and the seats are set too far back, but it at least smells fine. Trish turns the radio up high and twirls her hand out the window. Sunrays bounce off of her clip on earrings, jeweled daylillies with two small green gems as petals. He learns that she’d like to be a music artist herself one day. She learns that he knows how to play the piano, and doesn’t make any insulting comments about it. Says it’s fitting.

She settles on an indoor shop instead of a street vendor, her reasoning being that the indoor stores take more effort to find, therefore are better quality. Nothing he’s ever given much thought to, but it makes sense. The interior of the place is mostly off-white, with some pops of color here and there. Mostly blue and orange. It gives a mild uncanny feeling, not overwhelming but not comforting either. They both agree it’d be nicer to sit in the outside area.

“Sooo, out of everything, why strawberry?” Trish prompts once they’re comfortably seated on the sunlit porch. It’s fenced in with skinny legged black tables and rectangular shrubs around the border, and there are only a few other people out with them.

“I mean… is there something wrong with it?” Fugo questions.

“No, not necessarily, but it’s kinda plain. I just wanna know why you picked it.” She shrugs, taking a bite of her own. It’s a house flavor, vanilla with swirled in caramel and hazelnuts.

“It’s just what I usually get, in anything really. I’ve always liked it, so it’s a safe choice.”

“That’s not adventurous, but it’s definitely respectable. I don’t even wanna speak of the monstrosity Narancia ordered last time we went out. It was nauseating,” she makes a finger down throat gesture, “He tried to get me to taste it, but I wasn’t about to touch that.”

“Okay, you can’t drop all of that and leave me hanging,” he complains lightheartedly, “What was it?”

“Alright,” she sighs, “It was in a cone, that’s fine, just painting a picture. Then, he orders a scoop of banana. Gross, but not the worst thing out there. The kicker is the mint on top of it. Who in their right mind would eat that shit together? He even stirred it up.” She says the word mint like it’s offensive, and in this context, it is.

“Oh Jesus, that’s awful.” Fugo says, grimacing.

“Said he was just trying something new, I’m more convinced it was an act of terrorism.” She snarks, mirroring his expression.

“Yeah, I… I don’t think I can be friends with him anymore after hearing that.” He sighs, looking down in faux dejection.

“Honestly… me neither. I don’t know how we’re gonna break the news.” She adds dramatically.

After a moment of silence, they lock eyes and dissolve into airy laughter. Fugo’s relief over the normality of it is immense. It’s nice gelato too. Creamy and flavorful without being overly rich. No point sticking around once it’s started to melt, though. Their cups are discarded in the metal trash can on their way out through the gate.

Fugo tentatively asks if there’s anything else she’d like to do as they walk along the sidewalk, and a faint spark shows up in her eye. She stops them in their tracks with a scheming smile.

“Now that you mention it, there are some nice shops around here…” she trails off.

“Trish,” he deadpans, “do you really take me for the kind of guy who hates shopping?” He gestures vaguely at his entire body, adorned with a custom suit and about every strawberry shaped accessory one could find. Down to the shoes.

“Oh, I knew it!” She laughs and forms her hands into a silent clap, “I hadn’t completely given up hope on you,” she defends.

“Mm, how kind of you.” He shoots back playfully.

By the time they’re done looking around, the sky has turned partly orangey-pink, and the sidewalks are swarmed with civilians. Their hands are only occupied by a few bags, having spent most of their time critiquing undesirable items of clothing. Warm light shines into the front seat and they rest in the car for a bit before taking off. At her request, Trish drives them home. She makes fun of Fugo when he grabs the safety handle.

“That thing is for the elderly.” She remarks, side eyeing him.

“You just ran a red light.” He complains.

She did. They both shrug it off. Worst that came of it was a few people laying on the horn. Since he’s in a good mood, Fugo flips them off for her.

When they walk through the door smiling and conversing with each other, everyone else is already home. Not that Fugo or Trish notice, but they all visibly un-tense at the sight. Mista gets on their case as soon as his relief is expended, of course. Fugo retorts that he probably left his car cleaner than it was this morning. Trish busies herself with showing off her new purchases one after another to Buccellati. After he’s given his positive thoughts on everything and there’s a pile of clothes and shoes on the counter, she drags Fugo over to present his own.

“It’s nothing that remarkable.” He objects.

“Hey, I helped you pick those out!” She pouts at him.

“And I appreciate that, but it’s still not.” He reiterates.

“You little-” She starts before the exchange is cut off.

“Don’t argue,” Buccellati chides lightly before turning to look at Fugo, “No matter how unremarkable, I’d still like to see what you’ve bought.”

Fugo gives in at his request. With little enthusiasm, he holds up a small pair of maroon jeweled studs in a simple heart shape, a few long sleeved undershirts, and a small handheld mirror with a golden ring of floral detailing etched into the top. Buccellati thinks they’re all very nice, and that makes Fugo happier than he already is. He gets it now, why Trish was so eager about it. They’ve never really talked fashion before, but he seems very pleased to.

He sticks around to chat for only a few minutes. It’d be nicer to go on for longer, but he’ll have to come back down after he’s showered. The feeling of town air on his skin needs to be washed off, and his clothes are overstimulating by this point. He does make sure to make quick work of it, they’re going to watch a movie tonight. In about fifteen minutes, he gets all his things in order, scalds himself, and brushes his teeth. The half sorted papers on his desk only receive a passing look.

Once he returns, they’ve settled on a slightly dated animated film, one that Trish picked out. Apparently it was her favorite when she was younger. It’s very sophisticated for a children’s movie, and really doesn’t feel much like one at all in his opinion. The artwork is beautiful, in both coloring and framing. With almost every new shot he finds some new detail to appreciate. The words aren’t dumbed down, but the story is easy to follow. He’s enjoying it more than he thought he would.

Everyone sits in close proximity around the TV. Buccellati and Abbacchio are leaned up against each other in a plush leather chair, looking half asleep already. Narancia lays on the floor, too close to the screen, and slowly kicking his feet in the air. Every time Fugo glances over at him he re-notices that his socks are mismatched. Giorno’s in the opposite chair on the left of the couch (from a frontward view) lazily swirling a half emptied glass of sparkling water. It’s hard to tell whether he’s paying attention to the movie or just looking at the screen. Fugo’s sat on the far left of the couch, mostly leaned onto the armrest, with Trish in the middle, and Mista on the right.

He’s been asking her whispered questions throughout the entire movie. Ones that he definitely shouldn’t need to ask, such as, ‘how the hell does a mouse get pneumonia?’ and ‘why doesn’t the bird just eat her?’ After she’s exercised all the patience she can explaining the mechanics of children’s movies, she finally just shushes him and tells him to figure it out himself. Fugo listens to it unfold, half annoyed and half at peace. He tells her it’s a beautiful film, because it is and Mista’s an asshole.

It takes nearly all his attention at some point, laser focused until he hears Buccellati’s voice. He stands behind them, with Abbacchio waiting at the foot of the stairs. He wishes them a good night before joining him, though Trish has already drifted off on the couch, and Narancia on the floor. Mista dumps a blanket on him before returning to his seat and crashing himself about five minutes later.

The movie ends on a positive note, and Fugo slowly blinks at the credits rolling in tired appreciation. It’s nights like these that bring him the closest he knows to true peace. A job well done or an exciting event can help to ease his mind, but this is what does it best. Togetherness and belonging. All the domesticity of their cobbled together pseudo family. Returning fatigue allows him to smile stupidly about it without embarrassment. It minutely comes back when someone taps his shoulder, out of view. At least he didn’t flinch.

Craning his neck, stiff from sitting still so long, he looks up to see Giorno staring down at him. There’s no drowsiness visible in his eyes, though Fugo assumed he’d be asleep as well.

“Come here.” He whispers, leaning down close to Fugo’s ear. Not a very telling prompt, but he rises from his seat anyway, carefully so as to not wake Trish. Giorno just waits, still staring as he grabs onto the lamp to support himself while he steps over Narancia.

“What’s up?” Fugo whispers back once he’s made it around the obstacles. There’s a passing thought in his head when he looks Giorno over. It’s a little funny that he’s still in his day clothes and shoes with his hair done. He usually is, but it’s especially striking with everyone else dressed casually and it being so late.

“I want to show you something.” He states, making a gesturing motion with his hand and starting off to the kitchen. With his interest piqued, Fugo follows. The sound of them walking on the floorboards resonates with him, for no reason he can identify. The dull tap of soles and the soft pad of cotton blending together just sticks in his mind. He stops in front of the fridge and speaks a bit louder now.

“Fugo, do you like pudding?”

That’s… certainly an interesting conversation starter.

“Um,” Fugo hesitates, “I suppose? I don’t seek it out but it’s nice.”

“It’s one of my favorite foods. I enjoy making it, too,” Fugo is already well acquainted with this information, “You know, I usually make the same standard recipe, but I tried my hand at something new this time.” He speaks slyly, almost cunning. As if he’s not talking about pudding. Fugo raises an eyebrow, prompting Giorno to collect something from the fridge.

Turning around, he presents him with a plastic wrapped wide glass. It’s about a quarter filled with a firm white substance. Panna cotta. He feels that his heart might begin to melt out of his chest.

“See? I made you.” Giorno tells him plainly, betrayed by a small quirk of his lips.

The act is too thoughtful. He’s too happy about it. He can feel his stupid face getting hot.

“That’s, um… Thank you?” Fugo smiles with slight confusion, polite regardless of his nerves.

“Do you want it?” He asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

It sounds more like ‘eat it or I’m gonna be sad and I won’t say anything about it, but you’ll know’, so he agrees.

Giorno sets the glass down on the kitchen’s island before sliding himself up onto one of the barstools. In his regular odd fashion, he half drapes himself over the countertop, and rests his head in his palm. Fugo sits down next to him when he gestures, so they’re sat sideways facing each other. It’s hard to make out Giorno’s features in the low light so he moves his attention to the dessert container.

“I’ve actually only ever had this a few times.” Fugo reveals as Giorno taps the bottom of the glass to free it.

“Really? If I was named after something so delicious I’d eat it all the time.”

“But… you can just eat it anyway. My name doesn’t change the way it tastes.” He argues.

“It’s about the novelty, Fugo,” Giorno gives him another glance before lifting up the cup, “A special opportunity to appreciate something in your namesake.”

It falls perfectly onto the decorative plate. One of those floral ones, painted with delicate vines, and small blue and purple blooms.

“Maybe, but, I don’t even go by my given name anyway. It’s definitely a strange one.” Fugo quells the urge to roll his eyes thinking about it. Certainly not his parents' worst crime, but it’s annoying enough to climb the ranks of his resentment.

“It’s unique,” Giorno persists, “All the more reason why it’s a special opportunity.”

“I think you just wish you were named after pudding.” Fugo remarks sceptically.

“No, I think you should appreciate it more. Taste factor aside, it’s a lovely name.”

“I disagree. Thank you though.”

“Okay, come on, try it.”

Giorno taps the plate with the spoon before sliding it over. Not that he’d say it, but Fugo’s honestly not expecting much. There’s not even any topping on it. It’s incredible.

“Giorno… that’s incredible.” He informs, eyes widening a bit.

“Really?” Giorno perks up, surprised.

“Absolutely. Wait, is this your first time making it?”

“Yeah, actually.” He answers, smiling subtly.

“Like, you could sell this. It’s better than what I’ve had at expensive restaurants, even. And those ones had compote on top.” Fugo compliments.

“I find that kind of hard to believe. I’d try it myself, but I know you don’t like people’s germs on you.” Giorno muses.

“No, it’s fine if it’s you.” Fugo shoots back too quickly with far too much sincerity. A second later he goes tight lipped and pink in the face. Giorno looks at him confused for a second, then appears to be greatly entertained by it.

“That sounded- weird, I just meant like-” He sputters helplessly.

“Calm down, Fugo,” Giorno gets out through his hushed laughter, “I’m very flattered, I do have great dental hygiene.”

“Just- take a damn bite” Fugo mutters through the jacket sleeve now covering his face. Giorno complies, and agrees that it turned out well. However, he does specify that it’s not the best he’s ever had.

In secret, Fugo’s glad to make Giorno laugh, even at the expense of his pride. A good honest laugh from him is a rare sound to catch. It’s a momentary but welcome change in his usually blank or tight drawn face. It’s just nice to see his jaw unclench. They share the rest of the dessert as Giorno’s fit dies out.

A ringing shows up in his ears, likely to have been slow-building for a while. Giorno looks at him funny but he’s not sure why. The plate’s been cleared for a few minutes now. He tries to get up to wash it, but his body feels strange when he stands. Tingling with a very slight nerve pain. It’s lucky he collapses before picking the plate up. His body hits the floor with a dull thud. He hears Giorno softly gasp, but he’s more focused on how cold the floor is. He’s in shorts, so the feeling is amplified across more of his skin. It feels like his entire body is vibrating, and for the short time until his senses return to him, his mind moves elsewhere.

There’s no more cold floor, no more conflict, and no more eyes on him. It all fizzles out like seafoam that the water’s caught up to. Maybe, if he can feel anything at all, he thinks he might be smiling. It feels good, in a convoluted way. Relaxing.

Giorno blinks down at Fugo’s unmoving body in surprise. In fairness, it’s a shocking sight to see someone just up and pass out. Thankfully, his breathing doesn’t change at all. His chest rises and falls steadily. It shifts the shadows in the folds of his shirt, where the green looks black, like pine branches swaying with a breeze. It doesn’t look like he’s in pain. When he really looks, his face relaxes in a way it never does in his waking hours. Giorno sits cross-legged on the floor next to him, poking him in the arm. His skin feels colder than normal. He stirs a moment later, grumbling and running shaky hands over his face to ground himself. Putting his concern aside, it’s kind of endearing.

Soft sounds of skin against fabric drift in from the living room, and at a distance, Giorno can make out Trish peering over the back of the couch with squinty eyes. He shoots her a thumbs up and she immediately sinks back down to her makeshift bed. Fugo squints at him as well while pushing himself into a sitting position.

“Are you alright?” Giorno whispers, eyes opened round. A complete opposite of Fugo’s own groggy blinking

“Nnghh…” Fugo groans in response, holding his head in his palms a moment before answering, “Yeah, I’m alright.”

Tufts of light hair slip through his fingers as he hunches over. It reminds Giorno of icicles on a cliffside in a cold climate’s winter.

“Do you know what just happened?” He questions, voice involuntarily pitching up at the end.

“I passed out.” Fugo retorts plainly. Guarded.

Oddly enough, the endearment stays. Giorno will worry about that later.

“Yes,” he agrees, “Any idea why?” He’s leant forward a bit, seemingly intentionally invading Fugo’s personal space. Or maybe he’s just getting a closer look at him. He can’t decide if it’s more reminiscent of being dwarfed by someone much taller than you or having a cat stand its hair up when frightened. That’s the sort of distinction he tries to make often when Giorno’s speaking seriously to him. Both feel a disrespectful comparison, and it’d be a mortifying thought to voice aloud, but his mind tends to wander somewhere along those lines anyways. When conversing with Giorno, its idle state is trying to read him. At a guess, he has about a fifty-fifty shot at it working.

"Fugo?" He asks again.

The intensity in the look directed at him increases. Perhaps it’s the cat that’s dwarfing him. God, this is embarrassing all around. Fugo curses his body for betraying him, even though he knows it’s his fault for only eating desserts and fruit all day.

He truly cannot bring himself to say anything in line with, ‘yeah, Giorno, I’m just too sad to take care of myself. Please don’t think I’m incompetent or it’ll get worse’, so he pulls another half truth from his arsenal.

“Just lightheaded. It happens sometimes,” He dismisses with a wave of his hand, “Sorry if I scared you.”

“I’m not scared,” Giorno clips out, “I’m…” His head shakes and he looks down, mumbling something unintelligible. Then he just leans back against the island’s base and goes quiet.

Fugo doesn’t press, and their dialogue meets an untimely end. The plate stays dirty, along with the cup, and they stay on the floor. Something lingers between them in the cool air. Unspoken, unidentifiable, and deeply troubling from all angles. Fugo looks melancholy, Giorno looks unsatisfied, and they unknowingly meet in the middle with exhaustion and untapped want. Despite it all, the silence is comfortable.

The papers don’t get finished tonight. They remain sitting in the dark of his room while he and Giorno fall asleep, shoulder to shoulder. For the first time in a while, he gets a full eight hours. The dreams he has are all cloudy and abstract, made up of soft flashing visions. Short glimpses of ethereal imagery in pastels and bright light. Purely beautiful with no dark undertone. Somewhat lucid, Fugo doesn’t think he’s a part of them, but more of a lucky one night onlooker.

Giorno wakes in the night, a few hours before daybreak. The sitting position is hurting his lower back, and his clothes feel uncomfortable after wearing them so long. It’d be nice to get up and change. Sleep in his own bed maybe. Fugo’s head has slipped down to rest on his shoulder, and as he turns to look at him, a soft breath hits his clavicle. He really does look strikingly different when he sleeps. The tensing of his eyebrows is a defining feature it takes away from him. Leaves him looking younger, and less composed. Giorno lets his eyes fall closed again, and graciously accepts the aches he’s going to have to deal with tomorrow. Rationalises that he needs his men well rested, and lets his head come down to rest right on top.

Chapter Text

8/24/01

This room is oddly cold compared to the others. It’s as if it holds the air better, along with the faint smell of cigarette smoke. Likely something to do with the structure, but Fugo’s knowledge on architecture is admittedly lacking. The interior is decent looking, but leaves much to be desired compared to their usual residences. It’s mostly plain, off white and dark brown with little decoration besides some generic wall art. In the darkness, everything appears more blue, and almost newer. Shadows stretch across the walls and over his body, with the only sources of light being a faint glow from under the door and behind closed blinds. As mediocre as it is, it’s a necessary precaution as to not draw attention.

The place is uninviting. Impersonal. A chain hotel paid off to stay quiet. It’s vital to their mission however, that they’re not tailed by anyone. If their intel is accurate, this could be big. And considering how trusted their source is, it’s accuracy that they’re banking on. In two days, Sunday morning, they’re to meet with someone. The person’s identity is unknown, with the closest information they have pertaining to it being that they’re an individual. An individual with promises of large mutual benefit. Of course it could be some sort of trap, they’re more than prepared for that. For the first time in a long time, everyone’s going together. A testament to how important Buccellati finds this.

Multiple people he holds great trust in have vouched for whoever this is, though they haven’t been granted the privilege of meeting in person. Still, no matter how extensively his faith runs, Fugo’s doubt doesn’t let up.

It’s easy to brush off not knowing who this person is, that’s not the problem. It’s not an uncommon occurrence to meet someone who wishes to remain anonymous, especially in their line of work. There’s just one small detail that bothers him. The coordinates.

The message passed along to them, other than the brief words of the parroting man who delivered it, was simple coordinates. Just an envelope containing a small paper with printed black text. Nothing to decode, no possible clue as to who the sender may be, and no further revealing tricks. It gets even stranger though, seeing as the coordinates lead to the middle of nowhere. Hours from any city, and in no place of note. It’s a small hang-up, but one he can’t shake.

Fugo lays, eyes closed and arms over his stomach, on one of the stiff twin beds the place has to offer. Thinking about it so hard is making his subsiding headache worse, but it’s still far more mellow than its peak. The only reason he’s laying in solitude and darkness is to ease the pain. He would’ve powered through and made another attempt at finding information, but Buccellati was insistent that he get some rest. No matter how much he wanted to argue, he knew he was right.

Rolling his head to the side he observes the bottle sitting atop the bedside table. Sleeping pills, courtesy of Abbacchio being ‘tired of seeing him look like a crypt keeper’. They’ve been a great help, but it’s not like he can take them every night. Even in his less than self-loving state, he doesn’t care to pick up any addictions. As such, he’ll only take them if it’s a necessity.

It’s only his guess that Giorno had told or at least alluded to Buccellati about his fainting episode in the kitchen a few weeks ago. Ever since then it feels as if he’s being watched closer, behaviors observed more carefully. It’s annoying, but once more Fugo simply doesn’t have it in him to be mad at Giorno. He’s not even upset. Any amount of venom he’d have to spit just ends up swallowed and digested, leaving him either numb or privately inconsolable. Besides, he can’t be certain Buccellati isn’t just doing so of his own accord. He’d much rather deal with a few too many questions about his well being, and a few too many moments spent being stared at than see him so concerned again.

Neither of the two are with them at the moment, having left around two hours ago. By now, they should be midway through their meeting, an unrelated business discussion over a late dinner. It’s certainly not a revolutionary offer, and really one of little merit, but Buccellati is all about making an impression. If he wants to show up personally, there’s no point trying to convince him otherwise. From a basic logical standpoint, it’s unnecessary. A waste of time, and a risk to their mission. Delving further into the decision, it’s a completely rational choice. Buccellati’s reputation is one of his greatest sources of power, and his skillset enviable.

Though he’s great at putting on a charming face and saying all the right things, Giorno is generally more hesitant when it comes to in person meetings. Surely it’s not out of fear, or even anxiety. Maybe reservation, but at the same time, he’s ridiculously outgoing. Not like Giorno having a mixed bag of characteristics is a new idea of his. His personality is one of the most unique Fugo’s ever known, no matter how shallow he can come off at times. Well, perhaps shallow isn’t the perfect word to describe his behavior, but it’ll do.

He likely tags along to such endeavors partially for Buccellati’s sake. Honestly he’d bet on it, but it does benefit him all the same. Fugo had watched them leave, standing around looking through the lobby’s glass door (Narancia was taking a ridiculous amount of time finding a vending machine). It seemed they were able to communicate who was driving with very few words. Mostly looks. They’re always ordering each other around, swapping roles with seemingly no effort. It’s not a fight, but rather a dance of some sort. They move in tandem, working off of each other at every turn. It’s impressively efficient, and only makes sense with both men being so reasonable.

Such an intertwined way of working is a strange thing to bear witness to. Again, their way of running things is starkly unique. Unorthodox. Businesswise, it’s nearing codependent. It’s not an unhealthy attachment, per se, but more like two acting as one. They don’t argue with one another. If they have a disagreement, they debate as if their words are an internal monologue, displaying a level of closeness that is both alluring and averting.

Fugo truly cannot imagine having that with anyone in any genre of association. As much as it pains him to admit, it brings him a small amount of jealousy. Not towards either of them specifically, but for the ability to be so open. So willing to put oneself aside for a cause. Well. He had done that once before, in a way.

Quickly sitting up from his claimed bed, the furthest from the door, he paces back over to it. The lights should be fine, now. It’s been long enough. He soon comes to find that their effects aren’t diminished in the slightest when he pulls it open. A new wave of pain thrums in the left side of his head. That’s fine, he’ll deal with it. No use laying around in the dark forever.

When he emerges, he finds the mood has definitely gone down in his absence. In contrast to the upbeat chatter he’d left, the current scene paints a bleaker picture. Abbacchio is sitting against the wall, not having bothered to pull a chair over. Honestly, he looks a little funny down there, but the vacant look on his face puts Fugo off of that thought. He’s just half slumped over, looking over his nails a little too fast for it not to come off as nervous fidgeting. But as always, he has the shield of plausible deniability and enough aggression in his arsenal to double its protection.

The only communication between any of the four shows in Narancia and Trish poking each other in the shoulder back and forth. Perhaps it’s meant as a sort of annoyance game, but they both appear bored above anything else. Mista’s nodded off on the couch beside them, as they pay only a bit of attention to the nature program on the TV. Something about the image of it all reminds him of a book illustration. The kind that breaks up a long sequence of text, having to convey a lot of information on a single page. The peeling beige paint just above the baseboards, the hushed droning of a man saying something about ant colonies, the way they all hold themselves differently… It paints a pretty picture if he ignores the subtle tension in the room. Trish turns to look his way, hearing his weight shift the doorframe he’s leaning against.

“Oh, hey,” she greets, “I was just about to come knock. We’re ordering food. Just whatever room service provides, but it’s at least something.”

There’s obvious distaste in her tone aimed at ‘whatever room service provides’. He hums in acknowledgement, and when she doesn’t stop looking at him expectantly, tells her he’ll eat whatever as long as there’s nothing pickled on it. Vinegar is bad enough on its own, but from a three star hotel nearing midnight, it’s sure to be horrid.

“You know, I’ll never get that.” Narancia chimes in from his place on the couch.

“Get what?”

“Pickled vegetables are one of God’s great gifts to man.” He responds, like it’s an obvious conclusion that Fugo should’ve already drawn.

“That’s blasphemous.” Fugo mutters with a disgusted look on his face.

“Eh, they’re alright.” Trish adds with a shrug of her shoulders.

“They’re better than alright, but at least you’re not objectively wrong.”

“Narancia, that is entirely subjective.” Fugo huffs.

“It’s not my fault you only eat old man food.”

“What's that even supposed to mean?”

“You know, like porridge and crackers and stuff.” Narancia explains.

“When the hell have I ever eaten porridge?” Fugo asks indignantly, crossing his arms as he leans against the wall.

“Probably like… every day.” Narancia grins stupidly wide, and Trish laughs quietly at his expense. Even though he’s dead wrong about his porridge eating habits, it’s nice.

Fugo denies once again, but he's not bothered. Lightheartedness is something everyone could use right now.

There aren’t really any good seating options here for a sit-down meal, so when their food arrives they just have to make do. The free space just past the short entrance hall is made to be their dining room, with a coffee table cleared and dragged over to occupy it. For what it’s worth it smells appetizing.

The taste is unfortunately lacking, but it’s edible at least. Since Fugo hadn’t been keen on picking something in particular, Trish’s retaliation was to order seemingly everything the kitchen has to offer. Admittedly, that’s not a lot, but it’s definitely more than they can eat. Whatever they don’t finish can just go in the mini fridge though, so it’s not a problem. Just sort of overwhelming with the lack of proper space.

Narancia, Fugo, and Trish engage in light conversation while Abbacchio occasionally adds a few words, and Mista stays asleep. Someone would wake him, but he was up most of last night driving, and if he wakes to the scene in front of him, the pistols are sure to drive him half insane.

He did it to himself, really, but they still hold sympathy. He simply couldn’t accept this meeting happening on the fourth day of this trip. So having him a little sleep deprived for one day is better than having him anxious for four.

Somehow, they get to the topic of hair, to Narancia’s absolute delight. He’s very happy to inform Trish that Fugo used to have a bowl cut. That’s something no one left in his life would have known about had he not been feeling a little too sick during a game of truth or drink. For some reason, everyone seems to think it’s the funniest possible way to picture him. Sure, he was a little hesitant to answer the question of his ‘worst haircut’, but he couldn’t have imagined the reaction it would bring. Narancia and Mista had nearly suffocated each other, cry-laughing into the other's shoulder for at least ten minutes. To be fair, by that point they were all legally intoxicated. To be rude, however, they seem to find it just as irrationally funny every time it’s brought up. The way Trish starts cackling once she processes the mental image is only natural, he supposes.

In his book, having slightly funny looking hair for a while doesn’t hold a candle to naming your newborn baby pudding.

Even though he’s being laughed at, it’s still nice. It’s nice until Narancia slaps a hand onto Fugo’s shoulder to steady himself through his own fit of laughter. Then it's not. It’s commonplace; Something that happens all the time, along with other random physical contact. But sometimes it’s bothersome. Despite his good mood, now is one of those times.

Narancia’s hand on him just feels… wrong. Like it should be anywhere else. There’s no need to make a thing out of it though, so Fugo simply swats it away. The action is gentle, and passes for lighthearted. It doesn’t phase the other boy, who just continues his giggling, unbroken.

Trish is very proud of the fact that she’s never been given a bad haircut, and Narancia refuses to comment either way. He’s at least lucky enough for Mista to remain unconscious. That man could laugh at a blank sheet of paper if he was feeling good enough.

Abbacchio comes to his defense in a way, stating that Narancia’s hair has been a mess the entire time he’s known him. Of course, he denies it. Says it’s organized chaos, and starts prodding at them to agree. Honestly, neither Fugo or Trish think it’s a bad look on him, but his distress over the insinuation is amusing. Narancia shakes him a little when he snorts, irritated and probably about to say something insulting.

The discomfort returns, stronger this time. He’s touching him again. A dual arm grasp.

And then, Fugo knows.

This shouldn't be happening today. If he could help it, it never would. He should be able to quell it, but it's just too much. Something snaps.

Before he can even think about it, he’s standing away from the table. There’s a stinging in his hand that matches Narancia’s reddening forearm, who’s looking up at him in confused irritation. Trish glances back and forth at them like it’ll help her to understand, Abbacchio shows no differing expression, and unsurprisingly, Mista doesn’t stir. Fugo’s arms come down from their defensive position, and he quickly excuses himself before Narancia has a chance to curse him out.

Staring out into the city does nothing to soothe the sickness welling up inside. Everything is blurry, almost spinning. The lights and vast night sky blend together and worsen his vertigo. The railing in front of him seems to be moving along like an optical illusion. He can hear his own breath picking up in his ears, but hardly feels it in his chest.

It’s a shame this had to happen while eating. The shit didn’t even taste good anyway. Not like a place like this would serve anything better than mediocre. The sandwich he'd half-eaten sits like a brick in his stomach, uncomfortable and nauseating, and it’d serve a better purpose wretched onto the balcony floor. At least then, there’d be a reason to feel so much disgust. This isn’t just disgust either, it’s… there’s not even a word to describe how bad it feels. It latches onto him and consumes all his other thoughts, until it’s the only thing he can think about. Like he’s being puppeted by some external force that won’t allow him to calm down until he’s away from whatever triggered it.

Taking slow, shaky steps, Fugo manages to sit down in one of the dark wooden chairs. It does help a little to lean on, with it’s cold hardness. The pressure is comforting, if only minutely, but it’s so far from alive he can’t be further upset by it. He takes a second to thank God that the curtain is closed, and presses himself into the boards harder.

Abbacchio comes out to check on him far too soon for his liking. It breaks up what little grounding he’s managed and makes his throat burn. Maybe this is karma.

“Hey,” he greets gruffly, “Narancia’s barkin’ my ear off about you. Can you come in and half-ass an apology?”

“Tell him to shove it.” Fugo mutters. There’s a fragment of grounding in the way his back teeth press hard against each other, but it’s not enough.

“Yeah,” he chuckles dryly, “that’ll go real well.”

Fugo doesn’t respond, and Abbacchio pulls a chair out from the unoccupied table. The rough drag of its legs on the stone floor is an assault on his ears. The offending man sits in it backwards, elbows up to rest his jaw. His gaze is harsh and decoding.

The night is windy, with a consistent, cool breeze on warm air. It carries the smell of the city and Abbacchio’s cologne over to him. Every draft that touches him deepens the churning feeling that’s both in his gut and under his skin. In the hope of keeping composure, he stays as still as possible. Apart from clenched fists, his body is rigid and his face emotionless. The illusion of apathy is broken by one good look at his eyes. They sit wrong in his face, too open, too relaxed, and unnaturally dull. A blatant show of disturbance to anyone who’d spare a second glance.

“You’re seriously not lookin’ good.” Abbacchio remarks.

He doesn’t know. Only Buccellati knows. At the time he’d met him, it was an inevitability that he’d break down over it. Abbacchio, though… he can be perceptive if he cares enough to. So no, he doesn’t know what happened, but he does know that something’s off. That much is easy to tell, but his understanding goes a touch deeper. Doesn’t get much warmth out of him, though. He’s almost entirely thankful for that.

“You’re too kind.” Fugo huffs. The words feel gross and thick in his mouth right now. Like something he has to spit out rather than provide.

“You know what I mean, don’t be a smartass.” He complains with a shake of his head.

Fugo moves only his eyes to glare at him, head staying firmly in place. Abbacchio stares back, eyebrows raised and clearly unimpressed. If he was more willing to speak, he’d tell him to shove it too.

“Pills messin’ you up?”

Fugo quickly shakes his head, stiff and twitchy. Ideally, the exchange would end there, and Abbacchio would leave. His presence is imposing.

It’s only now that he realizes that his dread is steadily heightening. Abbacchio’s too unshakeable. Too firm. Right now he’s too nosy, and too close, too goddamn tall- And it’s suffocating. It’s something he’s felt many times, with many people of similar traits, and it’s just as defeating as always. Anything he sees as overpowering can bring him back to a place and time he’d pay near anything to forget about. He can never tell when it’s going to happen, and he feels so, so guilty for even thinking like that. He knows Abbacchio would never, but his skin crawls regardless. There’s no respect for logic, but he needs him to leave. Needs him to.

As such, Fugo brings an arm up to the table and lays his head down on it. The shock of moving is biting and the new pressures are worse, but he needs to look convincingly down enough that Abbacchio won’t want to deal with it. It takes a moment to forcefully relax himself enough to speak again, hair brushing his face uncomfortably in the wind.

“Please, just leave me alone. I’ll be back inside in a bit.” He requests, sounding as tame as he can manage.

It’s abhorrent to speak so passively. To subdue the urge to either scream or break every capsule at once, but it’s his best option at the moment. Abbacchio sighs from his place beside him.

“Alright. Sort yourself out.” He concedes, pushing himself back up. He swings a little too far to the left when he’s headed for the door, and Fugo involuntarily shrinks back from him. If it’s noticeable, he makes no comment. The blunt metal hits the weatherstrip and Fugo finally breathes out, rough and shaky.

Haze is prickling in his chest like heartburn, desperate to defend. Desperate to hurt someone back. But Fugo’s alone out here. There is no one to hurt, and there’s nothing to defend himself from. His chest begins to heave, and feeling even his own breath on his arm is disgusting. Haze wants, no, needs out, and he knows it’s a terrible idea, but he can hardly think- And he’d claw at his skin until the feeling left, but he can’t because then they’d all see it, and he’s a piece of shit who’d melt everyone into the hotel carpet for showing an ounce of pity and-

There’s a far-off wounded noise that bites through the panic, and he realizes a second later that it came from himself. Then, there’s tears, silent, hot on his arm, and cold on his face. That feels bad too, but all he can really do at this point is take it. Having already exhausted himself, he stays stiff and miserable in the same position, bruising his head into his arm and his nails into his thigh. Latching onto how real the pain feels helps get his breathing to slow. The tears keep coming albeit slowly, but now that he’s calmer, they’re more of an annoyance than a curse.

His eyes fall closed. The fight bleeds out of him. His ability to think slowly returns.

It’d be so easy to blame Narancia for this, but he knows that’s not fair. He’s never even told him he finds discomfort in touch, and on one hand, he usually doesn’t. It’s nice when he’s not disturbed. On the other hand, the last thing he wants is to say too much. ‘Too much’ could even be the statement itself if Narancia cared to look into it. While he’s not exactly a psychology expert, Fugo figures he could piece things together with the right material, God forbid he already has. So he says nothing, and hopes nothing comes of it. Same goes for everyone else, except for Buccellati.

Oddly enough, part of him is glad that he knows. If he’s forced to carry such a burden, along with everything else, at least someone helps him to bear it. And really, the only thing Buccellati ever does for him is help. More guilt blooms within him, and one last tear makes the slide from his eye to the tabletop. He makes note that when he gets up he should apologize.

Suddenly, the door slides open with a ‘fwhip’, and God, he hates the way he jumps. It’s a ridiculous show of vulnerability that serves no purpose whatsoever. Even if threatened, flinching does nothing to protect him. It only wastes a second that could be put to other use. Aside from that though, someone is looking at him, his back is starting to hurt from leaning over like this, and he’d like to dwell for as short a time as possible. Pushing himself up from the textured glass shoots an ache straight to his bones, but he has to get up at some point. He takes the pain, absorbs it, and turns his head to look.

The first thing he notices is blue. Dark blue. Gold accents, blonde hair, and skin that looks lighter than usual in the shadows. It’s odd. He’s back early.

Giorno stands just over the door’s tracks, carefully sliding it closed. Really, the lighting makes him look nice. Less classic, and more striking. Just… Nice. Fugo intensely hopes he can’t see his tearstains.

Fugo greets him with a still hand wave.

“Abbacchio asked me to check on you.” He informs with a smile, muted but fond. “Sounded worried.”

It’s clear now that the senseless panic has left for the time being. Giorno’s presence isn’t overbearing in any sense. His voice is soft, and typically even, his distance is safe, and his demeanor calm. He’s even Fugo’s same height. All of it helps, but he’s sure he’d be fine with Abbacchio too.

“Yeah,” he clicks his tongue, “I was frustrated…. It's fine now.”

Giorno hums in reply, leaning back against the railing. The breeze rustles his braid back from over his shoulder, and funnily enough, it’s a little undone. The loop at its end has a section loose, and the curls over his forehead are tussled. Strands of hair hang down over his brow and behind his ear. Looking close enough to inspect it, Fugo can’t help but notice the sheen over his eyes. It’s hard to make out, but definitely there. It doesn’t look like he’s been crying, or like he’s going to start, but there’s clear cut difference present. Something off and unfocused. When Fugo’s repressing something of his own, he’s noticed a similar look in the mirror.

“Giorno?” He questions, soft and measured.

“Yes?”

“How come you’re back so early? Buccellati said that you’d be out until midnight at least.”

Giorno takes a sharp breath and looks down at the table’s legs.

“Things didn’t go as planned,” he starts, voice just slightly breathy, “There were some… unsavory characters present. It was taken care of, and after that there was no point sticking around. I’m sure you can see why.”

“Oh. I’m sorry about that. I was hoping it’d go well.” Fugo sympathizes.

“Well.” Giorno starts, “I was too, honestly. There just seems to be… so much pushback from these people.” He shakes his head, but it’s clear he’s not confused. It’s Fugo’s guess that he’s simply fed-up.

With the way he’s standing, it’d seem much more fitting for him to have a cigarette in hand.

“Things’ll settle. I’m sure they will.” Fugo tells him, as reassuring as he can manage.

“Well, if you’re sure.” Giorno shrugs with a chuckle. It’s hard to identify his tone.

“I am.” Fugo insists, fully rising to his feet.

“May I ask why?”

He walks over to stand beside him before answering. It’s hard to see him look off in any way. Fugo would hug him if that didn’t feel like overstepping.

“I don’t see a world in which both you and Buccellati fail to have enough influence. You’re simply not built for that level of disgrace.”

With how the words come out, maybe Fugo should be smoking too. Giorno supplies him a drier laugh.

“You should tell him that. Between us, Buccellati’s more upset than me.”

Okay. It’s hard to hear him speak like this as well. For lack of a better term, he sounds beaten down.

“I can understand why, and I wish he wasn’t, but I’m not with Buccellati right now.” Fugo says quietly, eyes downcast.

“No. You aren’t.”

It seems his tone only gets harder to identify. More blunt than usual, while still managing to say nothing.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. I’m alright.” Giorno answers with a slight narrowing of his eyes, “Are you?”

Fugo doesn’t grace him with an answer, and instead places a tentative hand on his shoulder. Despite his words, he can feel him lean into it. It’d be awkward with a lighter atmosphere, but now it’s just mutually comforting. At least they can be liars together.

“What happened tonight…. I think it’s making him doubtful of this whole thing.” Giorno sighs, taking a metaphorical drag.

“Yeah?” Fugo questions softly, “I’d have thought out of all of us he’d be the least doubtful.”

And that hurts. It’s a disconnect exclusive to himself.

“Me too.” Giorno says. He sounds straightforward enough, but there’s a tell in the way his mouth twitches.

Fugo bites the bullet and pulls him into a side hug, to which he doesn’t resist. After a minute, Giorno’s arm snakes itself around his waist. His hold is gentle, but his body stiff. He smells like electrical heat and hyacinths. As nice as it is, he’s still glad for the closed curtains.

Mista has been so kind as to inform him that he and Giorno are often weirdly touchy. They aren’t trying to be, that’s just how they end up sometimes. It’s not like they walk around bridal carrying each other every day, but they do tend to partake in more subtle contact. Whether falling asleep on each other or grasping held out hands a bit too long, it’s unfortunately an undeniable claim. He chalks it up to how neither of them are one for initiating physical affection. A reverse psychology of some sort. There’s no point in thinking of a better term for such a trivial matter.

To hold, and to be held so closely is both a relief and comfort. Proof that he’s not so mentally unwell as to refuse it entirely, and warm and sturdy enough to soothe. Like the feeling right as you fall asleep after a bad day, when the only way to rest is to tell yourself things will be fine. For some odd reason, Giorno's messed up hair pressed against his neck is the most pleasant thing he's felt all day.

They stand with each other until the numbness in their legs makes it too difficult.

The living room is deserted when they eventually return to it. It’s messy and looks lived in already, but nobody’s around to prove it. With it being late at night after a long day, it’s not surprising. Giorno excuses himself to get ready for bed, and Fugo decides he might as well do the same.

His usual motions are easy to go through here, the good lighting making it an ample place for self-inspection. It’s a little too good even, nearly convincing him to pick his skin to a bloody mess to remove a few blemishes. Thankfully, he’s able to refrain from that, and moves on to brush his hair and teeth.

But of course, normality cannot be present in his life for more than a few minutes. The shower betrays him, not having water nearly hot enough to satisfy. In the moment, he nearly punches a hole in the white drywall beside. It’s not relaxing to shower warm instead of scalding, so he does so quickly. As soon as he can consider himself clean, he’s out and frowning into the mirror about it.

In a stroke of luck that makes up for it well enough, he finds Narancia sitting on the couch when he comes back out. He’s only looking to get a glass of water before attempting to sleep, not expecting to clear the air tonight. But there he is, slouched over to the side, now watching something pertaining to the depths of the ocean. It’s not clear if he’s already been to sleep or not, but he looks unbothered and awake enough. Taking a seat beside him and neglecting his thirst, Fugo rips the band-aid off.

“I’m sorry I hit you.”

In this light, it’s hard to imagine feeling like he did towards him earlier. The soft yellow glow of the lamp makes him look softer, and even younger than usual. He hates when anyone points it out, but he really doesn’t look his age.

“Yeah, it’s whatever,” Narancia shrugs, “You’re just lucky it was me and not Trish. I’d kick your ass.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure she would too.” Fugo responds, the smallest possible smile on his face. It’d be imperceptible from just ten feet away.

“Look, next time, just tell me I’m annoying you. You don’t gotta shoot first every damn time.” He complains. It’s incredibly hypocritical, but a good point nonetheless. It’s also a sign that he definitely hasn’t pieced things together, and that was sort of an irrational thought in the first place. In rare times of overwhelming panic, it’s hard to remind himself of facts at all. In the moment they seem null and void.

“You weren’t annoying me, I was just…” Fugo bites at his bottom lip, chapped and pre-reddened, “I’m just on edge. I shouldn’t be taking that out on you, though. I really do apologize.”

Tonight is far from the first time he’s hurt Narancia, but this time just eats at him. These three days are supposed to be easy. A calm before a coin-toss of a storm. And he can’t seem to enjoy his time or even be civil. Narancia groans quietly, huffing air out of his nose and sporting an irritated look.

He scrutinizes Fugo for a moment, still and silent. A glance towards his face, then one a little further down. Right when he’s about to question his odd behavior, he takes a gentle hold of his wrist. Fugo lets it lay limp in his grasp, confused but trusting.

Said trust is unbroken even as the pain comes, and in one swift movement, Narancia has hurt him just the same. Same place, same arm, and with the same force. Right after, he slides back into place, just as relaxed.

“There. Now we’re even and you can stop moping.” He states, on the edge of teasing, but mostly serious.

A beat of silence.

Fugo’s face falls upon realizing that he doesn’t care; That all the pain does is ease his guilt (A passing thought informs him that he’s lost himself). But then again, it’s as if Narancia already knew that, and if he already knows that, then what else could he know? The mess of emotion that thought brings him is some wretched combination of comfort and offense. Safe, but nowhere near ideal and definitely not pleasant. Because really, having known him for coming up on four years now, the list of things Narancia doesn’t know about him can only get shorter and shorter.

This sort of inner turmoil is becoming tiring. With each spiral, every one feels more like a parody of itself. Ridiculous, but unavoidable, with the solution out of sight. Out of reach might be a better term for it, but he can’t be sure that he’s even thinking straight. Humiliatingly, but only to himself, he comes to realize that his recent thought patterns go against nearly his entire belief system. His own feelings contradict him, and he’s constantly at their mercy. Even worse that this moment is what gets him to fully accept it.

Through this grand revelation, and every one that’s come before only to be crushed by another next week, Narancia just stares at him. Unknowing and grimacing like he's about to say something else.

“I guess we are.” Fugo says, mocking tone not easily detectable. Call it immature, but it’s only a safety measure.

It couldn’t be less of a problem that Narancia hit him, that’s only retribution. But he’s nearing his frequented grief-shame-rage circle with no one to blame but himself, and he’s done enough of that for tenfold the months it’s latched onto him. This time, he can’t even be certain of the trigger, just that it’s close. It won’t hurt anyone if he decides to spend a little time bitterly imagining Narancia’s face. Even if the expression is exaggerated and currently dishonest. No one will know, it’ll fade away soon, and hopefully everything will go smoothly in the next few days.

Or so is his plan. Of his own will, Narancia decides that that’s not how he’ll end his night. Because evidently, if there’s one thing he’s sure of in this world, it’s when Fugo’s truly, deeply upset. And as self centered as the thought seems, it’s all he can believe as he’s dragged back out onto the balcony.

The wind has cooled down even further, but the stone floor against his bare feet is what really bites at him. That and the look Narancia’s shooting his way, that can only be described as fed-up. Fugo glares back showcasing as much offense as he can muster up.

“What?” He snaps, angling his arm out in a half shrug.

“Don’t ‘what?’ me,” Narancia spits back, “you’re bein’ weird. Whatever’s up with you, you need to snap out of it.”

His hair shifts to further obscure his face as he twitches his head for emphasis.

“Yeah. Okay?” Fugo responds, sarcastic and bitter. “That your groundbreaking advice?”

Too much. He should’ve just denied anything being ‘up with him’ in the first place.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Narancia requests through a pitchy groan, “you’re a mess.”

For how well put together he tries to (and usually does) present himself, that remark cuts particularly deep. Because if Narancia knows he’s a mess then, what else does he know?

“Go fuck yourself! I’m a hell of a lot better at my job than you are!” He retorts with a snarl of his lip. That’s a tough debate, but an effective insult. Obvious bait.

“Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night.” Narancia scoffs, voice raised but not to a yell. Tonight, he’s not as eager to take it.

No matter. In one swift motion, Fugo lands a kick to the side of his hip. Right where it’ll stagger him, just as an added annoyance.

He’s too quick to strike, and he knows it. That knowledge is rendered useless since he also knows Narancia will fight back. He’s betting on it. After the short lived shock wears off, Narancia pushes himself to stand up straight again from his place against the railing.

His face scrunches into a snarl of his own, and he doesn’t hesitate to hit back harder. Socks him in the jaw and jumps on him with tangible madness. They hit the cold hard stone, both breathing hard and baring teeth.

Fugo almost wants to laugh. Touching doesn’t seem to bother him at all when it’s like this. Maybe if he were faced with more cruelty and less kindness, his mind wouldn’t visit such a dark place.

With all the force he can, he gets a good fistful of hair, and yanks him sideways. Narancia grunts loudly as his head hits the floor. His immediate retaliation is to scratch down Fugo’s face, which only gets him pulled down harder, until their positions are flipped.

This doesn’t go unnoticed. As soon as he gets the purchase, Narancia full force slams his head forward. As soon as he pulls back, there’s blood. Fugo feels it trickle down his lips and chin. This one hurts. It’s all he can do not to cry out from the pain.

Once his eyes open back up from his wince, he sees it dripping onto the neck below him, sliding off to stick his hair together. It’s disgusting. Physical evidence of dirty fighting. It’s the only thing that’ll clear his head some days.

After that, it kind of falls apart. They’re up and then down, apart then together, and at this point just scratching and slapping at each other. They aren’t spewing insults more than just curses. It’s a spectacle of untapped emotion, messy and aggression soaked. Shameless. The most vulnerable act he’ll willingly take part in.

A sudden noise shocks them from their preoccupation. They both go still and wide eyed as light streams in from the right. Even more sudden, Mista steps out just over the doorway, gun drawn and eyes hard. They lose all threat when he gets a good look at them, bloodied and frozen in place. Narancia’s nails haven’t loosened grip on Fugo’s wrist, neither has Fugo’s hand in Narancia’s hair. Like street dogs, immersed in a fight, being faced with the headlights of a car.

“Oh my God,” he drawls, “I thought someone was dyin’ out here, but it’s just you two fighting like-” He’s cut off by a muffled, questioning voice from inside. “Yeah, everything’s good, it’s just Fugo and Narancia beatin’ on each other.”

He turns back to them with a sharp, but not overly serious look.

“You’re bitch-fighting. Seriously, get some dignity.” Mista ends with a roll of his eyes before stepping back inside and closing the door.

The confrontation does its job in snapping them back to reality. They shouldn’t be doing this now of all times. Fugo is the first to move, releasing his hold and shaking Narancia’s off at the same time. He rolls over onto his back beside him, and tentatively prods at his nose. Touching it hurts like hell, but it’s not broken. The blood smeared on their skin is starting to dry from the wind, soon to start flaking. There’s a dull ache throughout his entire body, matched with stinging from scratches as well. No doubt Narancia’s in the same boat. To Mista’s credit, it certainly hadn’t been a dignified fight.

Sweat sticky and too tired to feel ashamed, Fugo simply lays with him for a few minutes until his breathing slows back down. Their arms scrape together instead of pressing, but he's also too tired to feel grossed out.

“I’m uh… I’m sorry for that too.” He whispers.

“S’alright, I got the best hit in.” Narancia whispers back.

There’s no retort to give. He really did.

Trying to get the blood out of his white nightshirt is a hopeless task. After about five minutes of scrubbing it in cold water and generic bar soap, he just slips it back on damp and pink tinted. It’ll be brown by morning, but it’s kind of pretty right now. Could be a nice design if you squint.

Mista’s already asleep in their shared room, snoring quietly and sprawled out. By morning, he’s sure he’ll remember how exhausted he looks, and wish he hadn’t struck first. He’s even more sure that he won’t regret it. This pain is a necessary one. Tonight, Fugo doesn’t dream of anything at all.

Chapter Text

8/26/01

The world is spinning. That’s all he knows.

The world is spinning, and all there is to cling to is the ground below. For all he can tell, it could just as well be above. Solid and strikingly dry, almost flaky, he sinks his fingernails in as well as he can for purchase. It’s a good few minutes before he can do anything other than hold himself against it and breathe.

When he is able to push himself up he quickly flinches to attention. The remaining vertigo is hardly a thing in a situation like this. The first thing he can identify is what the ground actually is. A bank of thin tree roots. Mangroves, he recognizes in the back of his head. He forces his dizzied body to still enough to take in his surroundings.

The trees are all around, with only a few rays of dim light making it through the roof of leaves. It brings about a dark atmosphere, somewhat like a winter’s evening. The water on the ground isn’t deep, looks to be no higher than mid-calf level. There’s no wind, but the smell of salt permeates the air, along with the musk of aquatic plant life. It’s humid, but not at all hot. Almost clammy, like a feverish cold sweat.

The area’s covered in a thick fog as well, hanging low around the tree trunks. One that doesn’t quite look right. While it’s not overtly wrong, it’s still too heavy, too concentrated, and it doesn’t disperse naturally. It almost doesn’t look real.

Is this place even real? Is it some sort of illusion?

And more importantly, where are Trish and Narancia?

At least for now, he’ll hold off on calling out to them. Wherever they’ve been transported, it seems the two are separate from him. Likely from each other as well. He stands up to look around further, still not straying from the root bank he landed (spawned?... materialized?) on. It’s not a big help. The swamp stretches as far as he can see, with little change in terrain in any direction.

Along with the way the environment deviates from reality, there’s a stark silence about. Where there should be bugs, amphibians, fish, anything really, there’s seemingly no other conscious life here. There’s no sound except for the buzzing white noise in his ears, and the sound of his own breathing. It makes him itch.

It’s off putting to say the least. Moderately nerve wracking as well, and just… God. Narancia never should’ve touched that thing.

It was a pen. The contents of a small chest atop a weathered half wall, along with some sort of map. It wouldn’t have looked abnormal had their place of meeting not been a mess of rubble. Not any type of documented ruin, but a simple poorly torn down building or two. It wasn’t clear from what was left of it exactly how much building there had been to start with.

That was, however, the only thing of note at the site. And of course, Narancia had to touch it before they had the chance to realize that it wasn’t just an object. Trish, who was standing next to him, had tried to pull him away from it. Probably because she has at least some sense of caution. Fugo had tried to drag her back when the light showed itself, but it was already too late and it was already displacing them.

It had happened so fast, and was so disorienting that Fugo really doesn’t know where to place the blame he’s holding. Maybe it’s Narancia’s fault for being reckless, but maybe he would’ve done the same were he standing closer. He honestly doesn’t think he would though. It’s not exactly deep. It was a pen.

Carefully, he steps a foot into the water. It’s a shock on his skin, soaking through the ankle of his pant leg and into his shoe. It stings the healing scratches on his other ankle when he steps in fully, but other than that it feels completely normal. Physically, at least.

The scene has an air of paranoia about it. He’s almost sure he’s being watched, but just can’t see anything to prove the theory.

It’s as if the gaze is touching him, but he can’t even locate anything with eyes. Not above, not around, and not below. To all effects, the place is desolate.

He walks for ten more minutes. Each one only brings more dread and frustration, but before too long, he’s stopped in his tracks.

It’s small. If he were less focused he may not have noticed it at all. But there’s a ripple in the water. Small and seeming to have no source, but steadily growing.

Then, there’s a shadow, and he’s taking a step back with a quiet gasp.

Something’s coming up in front of him. He can see it rising, unnatural in the way it ascends from water too shallow to hold it. As if the mud beneath is spitting it out. Evicting it.

So then. Mista was right.

The vehicle they’re taking to this meeting is… unfortunate. A van, bad start, that’s both old and worn. Blue that’s both too dark and too bright. Inconspicuous for sure, but surely they could’ve arranged for something newer. At least better quality. Fugo thinks maybe Buccellati just gets a kick out of it. In hushed whispers that were probably heard anyway, Trish had agreed with him.

To fulfill their summoner's request of meeting at sunrise (ridiculous), they’d had to leave even more ridiculously early. Everyone’s tired, and they all look it. Some more than others. Buccellati and Abbacchio are downing coffee like they haven’t slept at all. That’s unfortunate… or gross. Either way he knows they’ll deal fine. They always manage to.

Trish is still next to him, yawning and pressing her cheek into her fist. At least now it’s not as cramped as before, thanks to Narancia rolling onto the floor out of boredom a bit ago. Despite her having the smallest build of everyone, in her mind it was completely off the table that she’d ever be condemned to a middle seat.

Depending on his mood, it’s either infuriating or admirable how she manages to make a petty grievance sound dignified. And Narancia, who he knows for a fact wouldn’t mind if she hadn’t mentioned it, adamantly joined in on her refusal. By his own logic, Giorno and Mista were out of the question, both just barely scraping by him in terms of shoulder width. Abbacchio’s out of the question for two reasons, mainly that he’s huge and mean, but he also wants to drive, which he doesn’t do. Whatever. Buccellati’s navigating, and he’d sooner die than ask that of him, and to further that idea, Giorno’s the fucking Don- Yeah. It was probably always gonna be like this.

Anyway, he at least had the solace of feeling his overly pointy shoulders jab into them for the first hour. Not that it even seemed to annoy them, but it’s the thought that counts.

Glancing away from the window, and moving his attention away from the few passing cars, Fugo looks down at Narancia. His eyes are closed, and his arms up, face down and laid to the side. Stretched out like a napping cat. There’s a bruise on his cheekbone, purple fading away to brown already. A split through his eyebrow as well. His own handiwork.

That feels bad, and looks gross. It’s not that he’s squeamish, because surely that’s been trained out of him by now, it’s just the principle. Every time he remembers that all bruising is bleeding from under the skin, it pulls at least a small grimace out of him.

Whatever. Neither of them have it that bad. It was more of a scrap than a true fight, but a thorough one nonetheless. It’s not yet been long enough for anything to heal fully, and looking at him so peaceful threatens to bring back that pointless prickling guilt.

As subtly as he can, Fugo brings a hand up to touch his nose. The sharp, shallow ache in his sinuses rids him of the feeling completely. He brushes over the scratches down his cheek and jaw for good measure.

Mista’s been going off for about the entire ride so far. Sometimes only to himself, but still. It’s not helping.

As they’ve all been relentlessly informed, he’d been met with ‘bad omens’ earlier this morning, and they’re making him more than uneasy about the situation.

The first was certainly nothing crazy. Just a glance at the clock at 4:44. Fugo thinks that maybe by this point he looks at that time subconsciously. A sort of learned behavior, an unintentional self-sabotage.

The second (and final) is admittedly strange. Four of his men had contacted him overnight. Unprompted. None of them had given him terrible news or anything, but it is still out of the ordinary. Not traditionally foreboding, but something perfectly crafted to set him off.

He hadn’t taken well to Narancia’s suggestion that they were pranking him. His proposal was that Mista had done something to tick them off, so this was their near untraceable revenge.

Anyway, he’s insistent that this is worse than a 'regular' bad omen, for he’d gone out of his way to avoid a four, and he’d been faced with multiple regardless.

And Buccellati, God bless his soul, has been trying to rationalize with him the whole time. Still, there’s only so much he can take before he (in nicer terms) tells him to shut it. Despite how tired the man clearly is, he’s in a good mood today. So, he turns himself around to look back, places a hand on Mista’s knee, and speaks.

“Mista. If or when something goes wrong here, we’ll handle it. Worrying like this isn’t doing anyone any favors.”

Mista draws his lips tight, clearly wanting to argue. But his tone is firm; Final. Almost believable.

“Yeah, you’re… You’re right.” He sighs quietly.

Buccellati then pats his knee before retracting his hand and giving him a subtly thankful look. For some reason, Fugo feels like he’s being ridiculed alongside him. Then again, ridicule is too harsh of a word for it. Even if it were, he’d find a way to make it feel like a kindness. That’s not the sort of skill you can acquire. It’s like he’s wired to be helpful.

He wants to say something, anything at all to calm Mista down. Maybe put him in a state of peace rather than quiet resignation. Paying his dues or whatever. It’s just not his forte. If this is all Buccellati can manage, he stands no fighting chance, so he keeps his mouth shut and goes back to fidgeting with the cutouts in his pants.

He doesn’t think Giorno’s said anything this entire ride.

Now in a much less peaceful atmosphere, he stands frozen, unsure of what to do. He could attack, or he could put more distance between them. But… it’s probably best to let this thing show its hand first. The water it came from seems to cling onto it, obscuring its form from him. All he can tell right now is that it’s humanoid.

Is this the stand, or is it the user? Maybe it’s the type that melds together? Either way he has no clue what it’s about to pull on him.

And where the hell did Narancia and Trish go? Has anyone else touched this thing? If they have, where have they ended up? Is touching the pen even actually the tr-

………

What?

Fugo blinks in disbelief, and a chill runs through the air. It’s near painful against the part of his leg that’s been wettened. Unsatisfied and only further confused, he blinks again, harder. Like it might change what he’s seeing.

But alas, when his eyes reopen, he plants his gaze upon… himself, softly smiling and standing right in front of him. Wet and dulled out, as if drained of life somehow. Tacky pale, with a face that doesn’t quite sit like the one he owns.

Now, it’s momentary shock that stops him from striking, and it certainly doesn’t do him any favors.

There’s a blur of motion from his left, he’s thrown back and to the ground. His shoulder cuts through the water with a nasty wet whacking sound against the mud. The impact hits fast and hard, along with a sharp stinging point on his front. Worse than that, he’s gonna have to send this suit off for dry cleaning.

He pushes himself back up in quick, twitchy movements, grimacing as his wet clothes cool against him in the air. It’s a mangrove root, now hovering at waist level and wavering like it’ll strike again any second. So it can manipulate the landscape? Or maybe just the plants? Tough spot to be in either way.

“Hm. I thought you’d be able to dodge that. My apologies.” It speaks to him in his own voice, standing still as he tremors. It’s sickening to hear. Enough to turn his stomach, and more than enough to make him wish he’s never doubted Mista for a second. He’s gonna apologize so fucking hard later.

“Though,” it puts a finger to its chin as if to contemplate, “that was a pathetic display you gave earlier. Clinging to the ground like that, all shaky and such.”

It speaks like it’s musing. Evaluating him like a report.

Fugo scoffs through his teeth, squinting at the thing. Just what the hell does it want with him? He forces down the panic seeping into his thoughts and responds. Now’s not the time to get riled up over petty insults.

“So you could see me. You have eyes in this place, then?”

“Oh, Fugo,” it sighs out, sickly sweet, “I see everything.”

So it knows his name. And now it’s talking like a fucking creep on top of it.

“You see everything?” He asks, eyebrows raised in an attempt to condescend back.

“I can see that you’re scared.” It taunts, taking a step towards him.

Okay. It’s a terrible idea to summon Purple Haze in here if he doesn’t have to. There’s a possibility whoever is doing this knows what his ability is, and if this plane is moldable enough, that could mean trouble. If he releases the virus inside this place, it’s not outlandish to say that the space might shrink to a size that wouldn’t allow him out of range.

It takes another. The smile it’s directing at him is close lipped and sinister, paired with narrowed eyes. Almost hungry.

More roots shoot out from their clusters, striking at him and wrapping around his limbs with a cutting pressure. The water locks his feet in place before he can move out of the way, and the figure continues to approach. It slinks towards him, wet, slick hair falling into its face messily. Unkempt and almost slimy looking, until they’re so close together he can’t see its whole body at once. His mind is screaming for him to run, but the things won’t budge no matter how hard he struggles.

“There’s no need to be so scared. This doesn’t have to end badly for you.” It speaks so deceptively soft, like it knows that’s what kills him. “There’s only one thing I need from you.”

Does it know? While the claim sounds like nothing but a bluff, there is a possibility there’s truth in it. Something to do with bodily cues. Right. It can probably feel his pulse or something. There’s no way it’s reading his mind. Absolutely not.

Even so, that idea spikes his fear before he can think to quell it. Because even the barest possibility of that scenario is enough to have him panicking. To be blunt, it sounds like one of the worst things in the world. The way his heart hammers in his chest only amplifies the feeling of the restraints against his skin.

“Oh. You poor thing.” It shakes its head at him with a small frown. His head. His hair that moves along with it, his lips shifting downwards.

“Don’t talk to me like that, you piece of shit!” He spits, teeth bared and eyes wild.

Another step. They’re almost touching now. He notes that it’s just slightly taller than him, and hazards a glance downwards. Its feet don’t meet with the mud below. Wonderful. Beautiful, even.

“Fugo…” it drawls out, as if to scold him. Like the fucker’s not holding him captive and about to be one of the mob’s most wanted. “Let’s be civil, alright?”

“I wouldn’t call this civil, personally.” He grits out, shifting in place with a venomous glare. If his stand wasn’t half out of control, he could probably rip right through these things. What a pain.

“Well, I can’t just set you free, can I? You’d never listen.” It says in mock sympathy, a gross pout on its stolen face. Its tone is all wrong too. Even the way it moves its mouth to form words looks off. He wonders for a brief moment whether or not it could pass for him in his everyday life. Hopefully not.

“Just what the hell is it that you want from me?” He asks, gruff and snarky.

“I’ve already told you. Just one thing.”

It brings a cold, wet hand up to cradle his cheek, and pats him like a goddamned dog. Then, it leans in even further, and whispers into his ear.

“Your Don.”

The action, combined with the words makes him see pure red. An unbearable heat behind his eyes. It overwhelms him, forces his hand, and he spits in its face.

The roots withdraw from him slowly, as it stares on with a blank expression. It’s eerily calm as it wipes its cheek with its sleeve. No way it won’t retaliate with something much worse.

So, he jumps on it. Tackles it to the swamp’s floor and holds as forcefully as he can. Touching this thing is nauseating, but he pushes past it. Feels something like raw meat.

When the roots shoot back, along with some tall grass, all he can think to do is grasp onto the copy of his suit jacket and flip them. Effectively, it’s acting as a shield.

It works well for a short while. Its physical body isn’t as strong as his, but he’s near helpless against the environment. The water pushes at him, and the plants pull with a fury. There’s only so long he can fight it until he’s caught again.

The tendrils slam him into another root bank so hard he hears a few of them crack. They slice into his leg as they withdraw back into the tree’s base. It takes a moment to hit, but the pain absolutely consumes him. For the first time in a long time, his vision whites out.

The user, he’s gathered by now that’s at least who’s talking to him, just stands and watches as he wretches onto the flaky wood beside him. His back feels like it’s been crushed, and it wouldn’t be at all surprising if he has ribs fractured. The only solace to be found is that the shock prevents him from crying.

“Well, it’s definitely true then,” his tormentor calls out half-madly as his head throbs, “you are an aggressive one!”

By the time Fugo’s able to move from where he’s landed, it’s already right in front of him again. It steps up out of the water, the soles of its shoes thudding quietly against the wood.

“Now, let’s try this again.” It says, tone like that of a teacher helping out a troubled student. Absolute mockery. Something past rage inducing.

It crouches down beside him as the roots trap him again. By the time he’s attempting to move away, it’s already too late. They have him ensnared with the bank itself, legs partially laid in the water where they stretch down. This time, he can hardly move at all, except for his neck, hands, and feet.

He should just be able to destroy this thing. Surely he has the will. It is, however, seeming more and more like he’s helpless against it. Unless he tries to release the virus on it, and risk his own life.

So for now, he figures his best move is to wait it out. Maybe the user will show itself if he can draw this out. Probably a ‘himself’, but he can’t be sure.

It just won’t stop talking. Like he gives a shit. Like he’d ever, not to imply that he even could, give up Giorno to it. It’s an outlandish, naive assumption that has him wondering how the user even got this far.

This goes on for an annoying amount of time. Probably about fifteen minutes, but he’s not counting. Can’t check his watch like this. It’ll try to say something persuasive that only serves to anger or disgust him, and then sick its terrain on him when he tells it to fuck off.

It’s ridiculously insulting. This entire thing is just one big insult. An insult to himself. On Giorno, and on Buccellati. On Passione. On the whole world, it feels like.

It only changes up its schtick when he manages to get a bite in on its wrist. The thing doesn’t even bleed, it just sports an indent of his teeth now. Felt like clay when they sunk in. Repulsive. Bordering on mental torment to hear all of this from his own mouth.

Another slash, this time at his neck. Not too deep though. Measured and taunting. Like he wouldn’t dissolve them both, condemn himself to die with this thing, before he’d ever let it take him out with a simple slit to the throat.

“You are aggressive,” it repeats its earlier statement, shaking its hand as if to relieve pain, “but that’s not a problem for me.”

“Gh- Go fuck yourself.” He chokes out through a pained huff.

“Because,” it continues with a contented hum, “I have a knack for making people comply.”

This moment marks the second time in Fugo’s life that he’s wished he could vomit on cue. Projectile at that. Once again, his body is betraying him. He suffices for another gritted out ‘Go fuck yourself’ as it slices at him. Tall grass this time, on his left side. Vicious in the stinging pain it brings, and all the more infuriating.

“Come on, Fugo,” he hates it even more for using his name so much, “I know you’re in a lot of pain right now. Use your head.” It punctuates the request with a soft-touch stroke over his hair.

It does hurt. The pain, frankly put, is terrible, but nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. It just gets impossibly worse when it touches him.

When he doesn’t dignify it with any reply other than a deep scowl, it cuts through the same spot again. Twice as painful, and scarily deep. The blade leaves behind a small triangular indent out of him. He can’t see it at the angle, but he’d bet it’s visible from the front. It’s then that fear seeps back into his mind, putting a damper on some of the simmering rage.

It’s getting ridiculous at this point. He feels like crying again. He used to go months without even feeling the urge.

“Fuckin kill me for all I care. I’d sooner die than aid scum like you.” Only the second part is true. As scary as the fact is in itself, he cares a great deal.

“But why is that? It’s not as if you’re loyal to anyone, is it?” The being taunts softly, “Not to anything at all but yourself? Honestly it’s a smart choice. Respectable.”

The words hang heavy in the air for a moment. He processes them, does it again for good measure, and conjures up a mental image so gruesome he does vomit.

The water feels like ice against him, freezing in the few scrapes and cuts submerged in it. It matches with the gross flow of blood over his skin, the sound of his own stuttery breathing in his ears, and the taste of straight stomach acid. In this position, he has no choice but to swallow it back down.

And then, against all his efforts, it’s out. Stood stiff and seething behind his copy, Purple Haze’s growl echoes out through the swamp. Fugo sees it before he even feels it.

It takes a harsh step towards the two of them, bright eyes squinting and arms raised in front of its chest. The fearful look on the thing’s face is more satisfying than anything’s been in what feels like years.

Haze is injured as well, he can tell. Came out pre-bloodied from his own wounds. As he looks up to it, he realizes his vision has started to blur. The diamond patterns adorning it look blended together, fuzzy along the edges of each one and further obscured by its blackish-purple blood.

It changes its face back quickly. Practiced. But he saw. He’ll never unsee it. His own face, so distinctly unlike him. He knows he’s not above fear, but he knows even better that that’s not how it looks on him. Even if he bleeds out here, that image will stay with him. Bittersweet, mocking on both sides, and immortalized in his memory.

The thing’s shape shifts around a bit, contorting his image like bugs under the skin. It gives him one last smile, then recedes into the swamp floor, water and mud molding to hold it. Everything trapping him follows suit.

He has to move rather frantically to not fall into the water, arms scrambling the grasp at the wood. The rush of air on exposed flesh, combined with bending his torso to balance himself is flat out excruciating. It’s a violently stinging, almost melting feeling that brings a wave of sickness with it.

His eyes drop down to the roots below, and he can feel that Haze is looking too. It’s red. Bright red to the point that his clothes look pink in comparison. Splattered, streaked, and pooling around him like a painting.

Then it starts to move. The colors all blend together until he starts to go with them.

And he’s out. Right back against the wall he’d left from. Folded over himself and breathing so heavily he fears that’s what’ll get him to pass out before the blood loss does.

Once again, the first thing that hits is the vertigo. It’s just as disorienting this time around, but it at least provides a moment of relief. The pain hesitates to set in while his heart’s still beating so fast.

It’s a further shock to his senses when he opens his eyes. The entire area is basked in bright sunlight, and it stretches further than he can look. He has to squint to be able to look up. The sun’s position in the sky tells him it’s around 11. He watches a few slow moving clouds roll over it.

The image of it is beautiful. Almost unreal. The rubble looks white, striking against the pure blue and green surrounding. Like the most realistic painting in the world. With his chest heaving and body torn, it’s so pretty that it scares him. It’s like the scenery is trying to calm him, to provide a sense of security.

It really would be a nice place to sleep. God knows he’s tired. He could just sink into the bricks and rest, onlooking such a nice view the whole time. Taking it in, almost absorbing it, until…

A soft grunt sounds beside him. A nudge to his leg as well, accompanied by gravel scraping on the ragged stone.

He looks over to it, noting the blood quickly drying against the white of the ground. It’s Haze’s boot, he recognizes. Right. He never called him back. Still, his presence is hardly felt. That’d be quite worrying if he wasn’t so sluggish.

The thing looks down at him, face contorted in pain and apparent concern. He hasn’t had the heart to look down at his entire body but he can bet it’s just as bad off. Has to be, really. There’s no hope of silencing the gasp it tears out of him. It sounds strangled in his own ears, almost unrecognizable.

It’s not often Fugo feels any sympathy for his stand. There’s question as to whether there’s any merit to feeling anything for it at all. Sometimes, he thinks he might be the only user in the world whose stand simply doesn’t belong with him. It hardly even listens. It’s the sort of creature that doesn’t belong anywhere, with anyone.

But now… it just hurts to look at. Even bleeding out, it worries for him. And it really doesn’t feel like it’s acting in self interest. Whatever interest it even has.

He beckons it down to sit beside him, and it obeys without a fight. Neither of them have much left to give anyway.

Slowly and weakly, he lifts his head to get a better view. Leant against its knee, he can see the hurt better now. He lifts a trembling, mostly numb hand up to grab hold of a clear space on its arm. It still whines, but lets itself be pulled closer.

It just wouldn’t feel right to withdraw it now. Even if it’s only truly in a physical sense, it’s nice to have someone here with him. The longer he sits here, the more it hurts. And it hurts bad.

It’s almost funny. He’s sure he’d be laughing if it wouldn’t overexert him. In a way, that’s funny as well.

The bastard was bluffing. All of that pain, all of that mental agonizing over what might happen to him. What might be happening to his teammates… he’d gone through it for nothing. Out of fear, again.

At the very least, and if his theory is correct, maybe he’s taken a considerable amount of its energy. Of course, if there are more users he’s rendered pretty much useless all around.

Of its own volition, Haze curls tighter around him. Its hands grasp at his damp jacket, head pushing into the crook of his neck. His deadly weapon is clinging to him like an upset child. Fugo doesn’t have the heart to call it pathetic. He settles on pitiful. Like a hit dog crying out in the street. The pain is probably comparable.

When he thinks about it, this should feel… embarrassing, if he’s even allowed to feel that sort of thing right now. At the same time it doesn't really feel like it matters. Perhaps it never did.

Maybe this is a better way to be remembered. Open, exhausted, and having served his purpose. Hopefully it’s not Buccellati who finds him. Or Narancia. That’d be too much for his very soul to bear. It’s an awful thought to have, but there’s no energy left in him for guilt.

The space in his body is empty, featherlight and devoid of temperature. Doesn’t even feel like his anymore. Haze curls in even closer to him, and he weakly grasps to hold its arm tighter.

A moment later he lets his eyes fall closed, and tries to focus on the warmth shining down on him. On what a beautiful day it is. On hoping, praying in his own right, that everyone else makes it out of here okay. On anything at all but how much blood he’s lost. How he’s still losing it. But he knows that he’s going to die like this.

Funnily enough, even with all the physical lacerations covering his body, it feels like there was never truly a wound at all. Like if he could reopen his eyes, it would be right there in front of him, leaving. Completely separate. It doesn’t make sense, and he doesn’t believe in that sort of thing, but the feeling is too strong to ignore. It’s significant whether he knows why or not.

The embrace of unconsciousness envelopes him like forgiveness. There’s no more conflict to be had between his mind and body.

He hopes everyone is okay.

The air around him is so warm. So inviting.

It’s good. It’s peaceful. It’s over.

………

………

………

But to his absolute chilling horror, he has another thought.

Please, not yet.

And then someone shouts.

Through the sliver of light the surprise of it lets him view, he sees someone. It’s Giorno. He can tell by the color of his hair. No one else has hair like that. So light and shiny. Someone else who’s probably Mista runs along behind.

They’re so far above him. He might as well be sinking.

.........

Alright. If this is how it’s supposed to be.

And then the world is on fire. Completely merged with the magma at its core. Without a shadow of a doubt, this is the worst pain Fugo’s ever felt. It's tearing into him. Every single part. Nothing is spared from the red hot horror of it.

Feels like every shred of muscle, every cell of fat, and every inch of skin is being taken apart and put back together at the same time. He has no way of telling whether or not he’s screaming. He feels his teeth pressing together, and he knows he hears something, but he can’t focus. It all just sounds like more pain.

Then, something breaks the monotony. Through the barrier the feeling puts between him and reality, he feels the faintest of gentle touch on his head. Then, an even fainter voice, telling him that he’s okay. Before he can think to be pissed at the absurdity of that statement, he promptly passes out.

In his unconscious state, it almost could have been a dream. All of it. He wakes in the comedown, just as electrified but with the kind addition of mortification.

The burning exits his skin and muscles in a slow, further agonizing drag. Gold Experience’s glow dies out into a soft low-light aura only present where it stands. The aftershocks hit like an axe on wood and his body is forced to go limp as the feeling courses through him.

His head doesn’t hit the ground like he expects it to, instead dropping down to meet something thin and dull. It shifts a bit…. A hand. Giorno’s hand. Just barely grasping at his hair. Warm. Accompanied by the soft sound of his breathing.

It’s Godawfully embarrassing how badly he wants to turn into it. To press his cheek against it and linger. He doesn’t do it. Of course he doesn’t. But with the pain, and the absolute mess that’s just gone on in his head… it’d just be nice.

Oh God. What had he been thinking earlier? And how long ago even was that?

His distress must be showing on his face, seeing as another hand comes down to stroke his cheek. It feels like it’s shaking against him, though he’d bet that’s just a byproduct of his own instability.

When he’s finally able to open his eyes, he’s expecting a relatively blank face. Maybe stressed, maybe irritated, but always shrouded in apathy. Maybe, a small part of him hopes for that inexplicable fondness he sometimes catches sight of.

None of these ideas make it out of his imagination. The eyes above him are absolutely terrified. Blown out in stilled panic, joined by a harshly bitten lip and tightly drawn brows. There’s blood slow-dripping where his teeth sink into the flesh. Fugo opens his mouth to say something, but can’t find the words. He can’t even find a rational thought.

Mista suddenly shouts from where he’s standing guard beside the chest.

“Oh shit!,” and then he speaks quieter, “Narancia.”

Giorno snaps his head over to look, and Fugo copies him in more of a weak turn to the side. It’s clear at first glance that he’s not doing well. His body is littered with blood and cuts, mostly small but deep. In some places it’d be better described as missing chunks of flesh than cuts. He’s all dusty and disheveled as well. Looks something like the worst road rash anyone’s ever had.

It doesn’t seem like he's doing any better emotionally than physically. He’s steadying himself on the half-wall, but still shaking terribly, and his skin is awfully pale. Fugo manages a wince at the thought that he looks like he might throw up. Even after all of that he can still taste a hint of acid in his teeth. Still feels the burn in his throat too.

Narancia suddenly clamors his hands along the side of the bricks, and holds himself up with bent arms on top of the wall. Just a hair away from the small wooden box.

“Shit…” He breathes out, “Shit!”

“What?! What’s wrong?” Mista asks, taking a step towards him, arm readied to support him if needed.

“Shit… Fuck! I have to go back in!” He sputters out quickly, words almost jumbling together.

He glances around wildly, not even squinting in the light. Doesn’t seem to be bothered by pain either.

“What?!” Mista repeats, more panic edging into his tone.

“I- I gotta go back in!” He stands up fully, movements jerky. The look he’s giving Mista is half-insane, his pupils unbelievably small. “I need to help her!”

“What you need is healing,” he emphasizes before shouting off to his side, “Giorno! You can do it right?”

Giorno twitches, still frozen in place supporting Fugo’s head, before giving a determined nod.

Narancia shakes his head vehemently. “Mista that can wait!” he half-begs in a dragged groan. “She’s alone in there!”

He pleads like it burns his throat. The words come out so pained, but he does nothing to guard the injuries on his body.

“Yeah, and you’re in no state to help her! Look, just- how bad is she hurt?”

“She’s- I don’t know… I hardly got to see her before I got thrown back out!”

“Okay. Okay,” Mista’s eyes dart around for a second and he continues, “I’ll just go in, and do wha-”

“No! You can’t just go in- You hafta-” he cuts himself off in a frustrated tooth clenched scream. As he realizes it, his eyes widen impossibly further. “I- I can’t either.” A beat of silence. Then, his face goes pale, and his voice quiet. “She has to do it herself.”

And Mista knows that. He knows damn well that entering that place might cause more harm than good. It’s not as if Buccellati went in and came out without a word. For Narancia though, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Alright,” he breathes out, “just calm down. She can handle herself, you know that.”

He doesn’t look convinced even as he nods his head. And then he looks over to his right.

“Shit, what happened to Fugo?!” He asks, panic creeping back into his voice. Oh, right. He had no way of knowing he was even inside that place.

It is a grim scene. Fugo limp and hardly conscious on the ground, surrounded by congealing and drying blood, with Giorno hovering over him like a mother protecting young. The trail of it smeared from where Naranca stands to where the two rest a few meters away doesn’t do much to ease his mind.

“He’s alright,” Giorno speaks, a rigid attempt at soothing, “Gold Experience has mended the worst of his wounds. He’ll be just fine.”

“Where’s Buccellati? Abbacchio?”

“They’re fine. Scouting the surrounding area.” He swallows hard before continuing, “Now, please let me take a look at your injuries so I can fix you up as well.”

“Giorno!” he shouts in frustration, “That’s not important right now, can’t you see!? We’ve gotta find this fucker!”

“Narancia, what are you talking about? Like Mista said, you need to let me heal you, this isn’t good.” The hint of irritation makes this distress seem more natural on him.

He takes a step back, like he’s afraid Giorno will get up and force his wounds to heal. Like that’s what’ll seal Trish’s fate. And again, he tries to reason with Mista, but he’s standing guard over the source of their predicament, Giorno needs to stick around for first-aid, and Fugo’s currently incapacitated. Further, Abbacchio’s already out looking, and he’s the best suited to it.

Narancia’s halfway through frantically informing them that he hasn’t detected anyone on his radar when Fugo sits up, suppressing a groan of pain as he rises. The look on his face is no far stretch from heartbreaking. Mouth pressed into a frown with a trembling bottom lip, eyes wet with unshed tears, and so, so scared. He can see right through his attempt at masking it with anger. He’s done so many times before.

When their eyes meet, he steps towards him, legs shaking as he walks. He gives Fugo a look that’s both questioning and pleading. For what, he doesn’t know.

“Narancia?” He whispers to the air in front of him, voice coming out strained and hoarse. The sound almost doesn’t reach the boy in question, and he only shakes harder in response. Clearing his throat, he continues with slightly more life in his voice. “What is it?”

Narancia makes a pained noise from his throat, and what little composure he’s gained collapses. His speech comes out incoherent, a panicked mess of swears and names as he drops down to the ground beside him. Yeah. Fugo’s gonna eradicate this fucking map.

For a few moments, he tries to calm him enough to talk reasonably, to absolutely no avail. His efforts only seem to upset him further.

So, he does the next best thing. Pretends he’s not being watched, and pulls him into a hug. It feels distinctly wrong to move his body so soon after that degree of injury, but he pushes through it.

Narancia sinks into him, limp, heaving, and crying before Fugo’s arms are even all the way around him. Giorno looks uneasy about it, almost mad. But even with him hurt so badly, they both know the healing can wait. Fugo fixes him with a look he hopes is reassuring as he pets down Narancia’s head.

His arms are screaming at him as he does it, as well as his lower back supporting him to sit up. Almost like a cramping feeling, but less straining. It takes nearly every ounce of his willpower to stay steady through it, but he manages.

The blood and grime pressed between them makes for a nasty addition to an already shit situation. There’s no way the contact isn’t making his injuries hurt worse, but he doesn’t even flinch.

And Fugo understands now. He knows how Mista must’ve felt. Because Narancia is inconsolable, and he’s helpless to give him any true relief. He’s still shaking. Terrified. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t scared for her as well. He’s sure Giorno and Mista feel the same.

She’s capable, he knows, but it’s still a very unpleasant thought that she’s facing the same thing he did. Narancia knows just as well, but he’s too shaken up to care.

Fugo drags his eyes up to where Mista’s still standing as he holds him through another silent sob. Looks him in the eye, and tries to convey what he can’t say now, and what he won’t be able to bring himself to say later. His thanks. Mista gives him scrunched up discontent back. He looks at Narancia like it physically hurts to not be able to help him. Fugo’s sure it does. It’s easy to imagine the clench in his chest. If he wasn’t so out of commission, he’d swap him places in an instant.

Even so, he doubles down and holds him tighter, but he shows no sign of calming. It’s no easy task trying to comfort someone (whose distress is completely founded) through what’s becoming increasingly evident is some sort of panic attack.

“Hey,” he starts, voice low to keep the strain out, “everything’s going to be alright. Trish will make it out just fine.”

“Yeah,” Narancia grits out, almost whiny, “and how do you know that?”

There’s an edge of spite in his voice, but Fugo sees it melt out of him as soon as it comes.

“Because she will. There’s no way in hell she’s losing to this thing.” He’s mildly shocked and quite relieved to find that he believes his own words.

Even though this individual’s door is obviously missing a hinge, there’s no logical reason for them to kill her. A young woman, traveling with the mafia but publicly unaffiliated and mostly unknown… Any way you spin it, she’s important to them. Definitely not a good candidate for murdering when trying to win someone over.

Narancia begins to lament again, but Fugo cuts him off before he can say much of anything.

“Narancia!” He presses, pushing him back to look him in the eyes. “Pull yourself together.”

The only response he gets is noise. High and pained.

So that’s not going to work, then. He hasn’t seen him anywhere near this upset in a long time. It feels like a long time at least. Anyway, it’s jarring. Night and day when placed next to his usual air of unbotheredness. Perhaps this is about more than just her.

Fugo loosens his grasp just a little, and moves his hands down into more of a hold than a vice grip. Subsequently, he swallows his pride.

“Please.”

Another noise, this one with curiosity mixed into the hurt.

He schools the tension out of his face to look as persuasive as possible. As gentle as possible.

“Please let him heal you. That’s the best thing you can do for everyone right now. That’s all you need to do right now, okay?”

And he feels damn near naked speaking so tenderly, but Narancia’s deserving and their situation’s unfavorable enough for the feeling to be worth it.

Narancia scrunches his face one more time to rid himself of some remaining tears, tenses his entire body, and nods. It’s barely a movement, and he certainly doesn’t look happy about it, but he nods.

Almost silently, to the point where it’s more of an exhale, Giorno sighs in relief. He pulls them both up from the ground, and Fugo just barely manages not to curse him. The sudden movement feels wrong, like trying to move your leg when it’s asleep. Then Giorno’s leaning over to his ear and whispering a request. When he pulls back he’s met with a grimace and then a small murmur of agreement.

Fugo flexes his hand, closing and unclosing it into a fist a few times. Does the same with his arm, tensing the muscles and rotating his shoulder. Then he beckons Narancia closer. He doesn’t move.

“If you’re gonna try to knock me out, don’t.” He requests, suddenly a lot firmer. Sobered. The command in his tone doesn’t even feel cheapened when he wipes at his tearstained face.

Giorno and Fugo share a slightly guilty, questioning look back and forth, and Fugo hesitantly lowers his arm.

“Are you sure? This will be a lot worse than any I’ve done for you before.” Giorno informs with a slight waver in his voice. A tell of his exhaustion.

Narancia nods sharply in reply. “I just- I gotta be able to see if she gets out.”

The furrow in his brow deepens as he glances over to the chest.

It’s a touching admission. Fugo thinks, dryly, that he could almost cry about it. Somewhat similarly, Giorno thinks he could drop to the ground and sob.

But he has a job to do.

So, he swallows down what feels like knives in his throat, pats Narancia on the shoulder and starts to put him through hell all over again.

In all fairness, he takes it like a champ. As much as one could in his state, at least. Even if Mista’s looking over at them like a kicked puppy, they’re all equally grateful that he’s cursing himself through it. If he were still crying, it’d be far past far too much. The world might end, or something of the like.

It’s less than a minute in before Fugo sits back down with him, and gives him a hand to sink his nails into. It doesn’t take long for the indents to bleed. At least his flesh doesn’t reshape like clay. At least he has blood to give.

Giorno’s going paler as he works, cold drops of sweat beading at his temple. It chills him even in the morning heat. Still, he works flawlessly, not even clumsy as he mends Narancia’s body like it’s something inanimate.

For whatever indiscernible reason, Fugo finds it an even harder sight to bear. He looks down towards Narancia’s scrunched up face again after just a glance.

It’s not that he thinks Giorno has it worse. That’s a hard thing to measure, and not something he can afford to think about right now. All he can pin it down to is that he’s seen Narancia hurt before. Countless times. He takes it well, even if he whines about minor injuries like they’re a personal attack.

On the contrary, he’s hardly seen Giorno like this. Truly shaken. Sure, he catches glimpses. Things he’s probably not supposed to see, not supposed to notice. But none of that compares to seeing him tremble. Seeing his eyes blown out in fear. It makes him desperate to comfort, to rid him of this wrongness as soon as possible. To get him right again. He doesn’t know where he would even start. What he could possibly have to say that would help.

Graciously, he’s forced to veer off that train of thought.

He sees Narancia’s eyes shoot open and to the left before he hears anything. A loud but sort of dull thud. The distinct sound of flesh on a hard surface.

Before Narancia follows him in passing out from the pain, he’s met with the monumental relief of seeing Trish stumble out into the gravel. Notably, there’s hardly an injury on her.

It’s three painstakingly long hours later that they head out. They carry days worth of exhaustion and the heavy burden of fruitless efforts. But they’re alright. Everybody climbs back into their piece of shit rental in one piece. Trish thinks it best to put the middle seats down this time. Giorno and Narancia even get some sleep.

Abbacchio doesn’t even look shaken, because of course he doesn’t. Buccellati looks absolutely miserable, empty behind the eyes. It’s not like Fugo can say anything about it. Nothing that won’t just make him feel worse.

Trish is deep in thought about something, hunched over with her back against the door and leaning her chin onto the tops of her interlocked fingers. Thankfully she doesn’t seem distressed. Frustrated, sure, but that’s probably a good thing. Appropriate at least.

The heavy sunlight sitting in her hair is almost mocking. It brings out the honeyed undertone it has to it, like hot sugar waiting to be molded. She’s all bright and prettied as she solemnly brushes Narancia’s hair from his face, still tense even as he sleeps. It feels like they’ve lived an entire life today, and it’s still lunchtime.

Fugo makes himself look away from them, instead placing his gaze on the man sitting beside him. Mista’s got that far away look in his eyes again. He’s also distinctly too close to him, but there’s not really a way to share a backseat with someone, while you’re both kind of laying down, and keep your personal space clear. He does feel bad that he almost had to watch him die earlier.

His hair still hasn’t been cut. The few strands that show are down to his eyebrows now. Maybe he should offer to cut it. Maybe he should offer all of them anything. Maybe he should try to sleep too. All he can bring himself to do at the moment is rest his head against the empty side compartment.

Unexpectedly, seeing as he's been still and silent for almost an hour, Mista leans with him, hovering over and staring intently. His voice is quiet, humorless as he speaks. “I think we should move.”