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Today is hot for April, as have been the last three. It’s a dry, unforgiving heat that doesn’t really justify itself. No such thing was forecasted anywhere anyone he’s asked knows of. The UV is just as unforgiving, with the sky remaining nearly cloudless. It’s as if the entire world has been brightened, even if it’s really only a local occurrence.
Giorno’s always been fond of the heat. It’s certainly a welcome change from all the cloudy days they’ve had lately. That sort of weather only makes him want to draw the curtains and go back to sleep, and not being able to do the latter action only puts him in a bad mood. He’ll take advantage of it as long as it sticks around.
For the past four mornings now, he’s made sure to wake up earlier than usual to enjoy it to its full extent. This is just the first time someone else has been awake with him. Some company on his morning walk was another welcome change, even if the boy in question looked like he hadn’t been to sleep at all. That was something he’d rather wait until later to question. No point spoiling the mood.
The golden light streaming in through the window had made him look almost translucent. In the warm brown of the hall, against the deep red of his clothes, he could only be paled out. Hair and skin illuminated, with the sunken parts of him highlighted in a purpley-blue. Torn between ethereal and sickly.
But when he'd stepped his way and out of the light, it was just Fugo. Well put together and shifting around like always. Still, he didn't quite seem solid.
They'd walked out together just past sunrise, but even then the city was alive. Relentlessly in motion, bearing the hottest weather yet. Where there should've been early morning fog, there was only a wave in the atmosphere; A trick of the light that moves the air in a wavering seam.
Things felt better in the presence of one another. Warmer than just sunshine. Not something either of them wanted to let go of.
So, Giorno pretends not to notice when Fugo falters. He says nothing when he trips over his own feet, uncharacteristic in such mundane context. Neither does he comment when he stops to steady himself on a lamppost, or about just how tired he really looks. That's the sort of thing he's come to learn that he finds overbearing, and he'd hate to upset him. Especially at a time of relaxation.
Regardless, he couldn't help but say something when his chest began to rise notably too much, and too fast. Or, he would've, if he wasn't interrupted by a sudden weight falling into him.
Unfortunately, Fugo is quite susceptible to heat exhaustion. This is a detail he had neglected to mention, as well as something he'd taken no care to alleviate. Because Giorno was so polite about it, so considerate as to ask for his company. Because, surely, he could just not be affected by it for his sake. So when it was too late, and he was already collapsing into Giorno’s side in the middle of the street, he could only blame himself.
Still, he did wish it could’ve happened somewhere more private. While thankfully, no one interrupted the event, they did get a few too many concerned glances.
It didn’t quite feel warranted for Giorno to be so worried. He’d taken care to prop him up against a large flower pot, one of many decorating the sidewalk, before aggressively purchasing a bottle of overpriced water from a vendor just opening up. It was the gross kind- grainy like the pavement itself and poking into his half numb skin like pins and needles. He’s never seen the appeal of those, finding them ugly as well as uncomfortable to lean on. Giorno’d returned a moment later, fretting (though he wouldn’t call it that if asked) and pushing him to drink it.
In his half incapacitated state, Fugo couldn’t help but giggle at how unusual his expression was. Eyes big and lip just barely sticking out. That did seem to ease his mind a little at least, seeing as his face shifted to show slight irritation.
He’d hauled him up by his arm when he proved able to walk, and led him over to a nearby park bench. It’s too open and shaded only by a thin-trunked tree. There are others around like it, and the park itself already far too busy. Giorno was just too determined to get him somewhere other than the middle of a crowded walkway to give it a second thought.
Fugo’s not keen on the public watching him as he sits back, cold-sweating and weakened. He tries to ignore it as he unbuttons his jacket and takes another sip of plasticy water. The worst of it's over, only set in motion by continuous walking whilst dehydrated and empty-stomached. Still, he can’t help but feel like sort of a spectacle. There's no understanding why these people think they're doing any favors by looking at him like roadkill. Well, he does understand, but more so doesn't approve.
Giorno shifts in place beside him. Sweat sticks the back of his jacket to his skin weakly, and his hair sits damp against his neck. It doesn’t bother him. The slight discomfort only speaks of the lovely weather. The lovely weather that has Fugo exhausted and in pain on a public park bench. Maybe his tastes are questionable.
He looks over at him leaning back against the hot metal with a furrow in his brow. He’s already apologized for the trouble, something Giorno has told him time and time again he doesn’t need to do. It had certainly put a damper on the mood, but it’s not as if he had just up and decided he wanted to collapse for fun.
No, really, Giorno’s more upset with himself for not noticing something was truly off sooner.
Despite his strength, Fugo will inevitably end up fragile on him after a while. This time just so happened to be an issue of the body.
But it’s not his physical state that seems to be bothering him. He’d seemed so content earlier, readily accepting the invitation with a smile on his face. Maybe, though, he did seem a little too happy. Perhaps Giorno had been too happy himself to question it.
There’s just this… look in his eye.
“What’s wrong?” Giorno mumbles softly.
There’s no point sitting here trying to relax when it’s overwhelmingly clear the only companion he has right now is unable.
“Mm. You ask me that a lot, you know?” Fugo replies with a minute twitch of his lips.
By now, he doesn’t look so ill at least.
“You look put-off a lot. It’s a natural progression.”
Fugo looks downwards, to dry grass and crawling ants at the foot of the bench’s leg. Some of it’s already died out in the heat wave, but what remains makes a beautiful show of the sunshine. Even small blades are yellowed and illuminated, rays of light dancing on and off of them in the breeze. It’s not unreasonable to worry that insects would perish in this heat.
There’s a sigh, and then an answer.
“I’m thinking about him.” Fugo mutters, “And being bitter. I’ve already done a lot of both today.”
‘Him’ is always Narancia. Abbacchio or Buccellati will get a name out of him, or an insinuation, but ‘him’ is always Narancia.
Subsequently, he now knows that the look in his eye is guilt, and that it's very likely he hasn't slept.
“You can’t blame yourself forever. You won’t, I mean.” Giorno makes sure to correct himself. The last thing he wants to do is make Fugo feel worse.
“I don’t blame myself.” He responds, too quick and too snappy. The bottle in his hand makes a small crunch sound as he tenses up. As soon as it comes, the tension leaves him, and he sets the mostly emptied bottle aside with a quiet sigh.
“I don’t believe you,” Giorno states, smiling softly, “I’m not calling you a liar per se, but I don’t think you really believe that either.”
Fugo punches him in the side of his arm, low impact and painless. Giorno lifts the same arm to drape it over his shoulder.
In the past few months, this sort of casual intimacy has become standard between them. A lingering brush of their fingers under the table during meetings, smoothing back loose strands of each other’s hair, wordless goodbye hugs... They don’t talk about it, but it’s an undeniable presence. On particularly bad days, it proves to be more of a lifeline.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get that. How you’ll just say anything you want to.” Fugo says, letting himself rest some of his weight into Giorno’s side.
“I mean it,” he shrugs with his free side, “I know you’re trying not to, but I don’t think anyone could overcome it this fast.”
“You’re half right. I mean, there is a part of me that does. But consciously, I don’t. That way of thinking feels- grotequesly selfish.”
“Mm. So your brain has moved forward, but… your heart hasn’t?”
Giorno worries his lip between his teeth while shooting a doubly questioning look.
“Sort of. My motivation doesn’t stem solely from them anymore. Sure, initially I was moving out of grief. But… There’s such a stark contrast between the part of me that wants to move forward and the part that’s stuck in the past. The guilt is just sitting there, and it’s certainly not doing anything that honors them. I know there’s no wrong way to grieve, but I think this might be it anyway.” Fugo says, clear but with the slight rasp he often bears. Something raw and unguarded.
“What do you think is so wrong with it?” Giorno asks, a hint of solemnness in his tone.
“I don’t think it’s serving a purpose that isn’t my condemnation,” he admits, “So when you say that’s not what I deserve it’s hard to believe you. Even though I want to, my unconscious mind disagrees with you on a fundamental level.” Fugo gives a wave of his hand, dismissive.
It feels a disproportionate cruelty that he can’t fix this. Can’t heal what’s hurt inside of him. Even flesh, he can’t mend without inflicting more pain.
“You know what I’ll say to that.” A curt nod. “But… How is it that you work around it?”
It’s intriguing how Fugo is able to work without flaw. To carry out any task even when he looks half dead. Commendable, really.
“I don’t know honestly. In a way, that sort of mental block is helpful. I can either work or spiral, so," he clicks his tongue, "I work.”
Another cruelty, this one sharper. An unfairness that bites and claws at his heart. He knows, however, that this isn’t something that can be healed. This is something that has to be changed. Time will shape Fugo’s grief into something that compels, rather than something that torments.
Right now it seems he’s walking forward blindly.
“You know you can come to me with it,” Giorno offers, gaze softening, “I don’t want you bearing these feelings alone.”
In this casual of a context, saying such things isn’t as easy. Any embarrassment he might feel is dwarfed and snuffed out by his need to ease Fugo’s mind.
“Giogio… you already do so much.” Fugo trails off, defeated.
“Fugo,” he starts, placing his free hand over the other's, “you do just as much for me. There is nothing you can give to me that I’m unwilling to take." And he continues, "Talk to me.”
It’s a simple command, but one that’s spoken with much weight. One that tiptoes the line between ordering and begging. The pinch in his eyebrows makes it seem a lot more like the latter.
In turn, Fugo looks a little taken aback, eyes widening minutely and breath catching in his throat. When Giorno releases his weak grasp, he fails to suppress a shudder.
“It’s just-” he takes a moment of pause to steady his breathing, “God, I fuckin’ miss him.”
His voice breaks and he sounds a little choked up in general, but his eyes remain dry. There’s not even a change in his complexion aside from some forming sunburn. He's always been one to burn easily, even when tanned.
“So do I.” Giorno whispers, “But, I know it doesn’t compare.”
Fugo wants to state his disagreement, but he knows he won’t be able to handle that conversation right now. As complex as the statment is, he's not sure how he would even go about it.
“It’s been almost six months since you first called for me. That’ll mean, after everything…. I’ll have been with new Passione longer than I was away, and…” he finally meets his eyes again.
The sorrow on his face is hard not to look away from. Giorno feels if he keeps it up for too long, he’ll be forced to cry in his place. Doesn't help to think that he'll soon be the same age as him. That Fugo will outgrow him. That he'll spend another birthday underground. The arm he has around his shoulders holds tighter.
Fugo’s hand trembles where it rests against Giorno’s waist, who does his best to comfort without being too forward about it. His thumb rubs a gentle pressure up and down the curve of his shoulder, slow and measured.
“I don’t, um- I don’t like how that feels.” He trails off from his admission with a subtle shake of his head. It’s twitchy, barely-there, and only adds to Giorno’s upset.
It’s always a surprise when he lets his filter slip. His words are typically so combed through, especially when speaking of the past. This feels more honest than that. An admission so simple as ‘feeling bad’ says more than enough.
“It’s alright. I understand.” Giorno soothes, swallowing down his own growing sadness.
Fugo has to bite back a ‘No you don’t.’ Giorno doesn’t deserve any of the hate he has to give to the world. Neither did Narancia.
Things were just so good with him. It’s sometimes hard to believe he’s really gone.
And maybe, in another life, it would be Narancia sitting next to him right now. If he looks close enough, there’s at least a slight resemblance.
If all his focus is on Giorno’s eyes, the green could easily be purple. The look would suit him just as well, but… they’re not quite big enough, and they lack that quality Narancia’s have. Had. How they were always drooping a little, making him always look slightly tired unless he was overly excited.
His skin’s too fair as well, his face too blank, and his nose bridge is straight instead of bumped. The arch in his brows is too prominent, and his entire face is soft in the wrong places, while being too sharp in others.
Further, there aren’t nearly enough callouses on his fingers, nor is his hair dark or unkempt. He’s too tall, too broad shouldered, not lanky enough.
All of this to say, he looks nothing like him. But still, in rare moments Fugo can see him where he isn’t. Just another mark he’s left on the world.
It’s not that he wants Narancia to be here instead of Giorno, it’s that he wants him to be here at all. Neither words nor thoughts are enough to describe just how badly it hurts that he’s not.
These thoughts are only making him sick. He’s sure that if he were here, he’d give him hell for acting so mopey anyway.
“Fugo?” Giorno asks, for the third time, finally raising his voice and jostling him.
“Ah- Um, sorry, Yes?” He responds quickly, in one breath.
“Can you, um… Can you tell me about something?”
“Maybe? What is it?”
“What did it feel like? When you were at the stadium.”
It’s an odd question. Giorno prefers speaking of the future over the past with most of anyone. With the look he’s giving him, though, Fugo stands no chance of denying. It's rare to see him so open.
Aside from that, it’s also a welcome change of subject. Something to veer him off the path of his aforementioned spiraling. A distraction for the both of them.
“You know…” he pauses for a second, reminiscing, “Mista… Mista was pissed when I showed up. He was about ready to put a whole chamber in me. Maybe two.”
It doesn’t sound like he’s all too bothered recalling the event. One could almost call it fond. It’s sort of strange to hear him near musing over such a thing, but not out of the question. For lack of a better term, Fugo is weird like that. These days, his tone sometimes fails to match the words he’s speaking.
“Well, you know how that worked out. He braided your hair for you two days ago.” Giorno teases, though he does question his own judgement on that some days.
“Wh- that-” Fugo sputters, “That was for practicality. It’s gotten too long to not get in my face, and I can’t reach the top layer to do it right, Sheila wasn’t around, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Haze doesn’t exactly have deft braiding hands.” He ends in a huff, over-explanation displaying clear embarrassment.
It’s a much better look on him than despair. Cherishable in comparison.
“I’m sure he’d be glad to do it again.” Giorno says, unable to quell his forming grin. His defensive tone and reddening face, combined with the mental image of Purple Haze attempting to style hair just proves too funny.
“Yeah, why don’t we have a slumber party while we’re at it.” Fugo says with a roll of his eyes.
He knows it’s true. Mista would do a lot more for him than braid his hair, and sometimes that's scarier than having his life threatened by him.
Giorno is just glad to see them get along. If they were still at each other’s throats (or worse, weirdly avoidant) by this point…. It’s not a pleasant time to look back on. Fugo and Mista, vengeant and hollow, always looking at each other like strangers. Wasn’t a fun time for anyone involved.
Nowadays they’re different. Changed, but closer than ever. They share a unique bond, in that they're all the other has left of what once was. Besides memories and the marks each of their fallen comrades have left on the world, they only have each other to look to in that regard.
In accordance, the two are the closest Giorno can get to the other three. As such, he makes sure to keep them close.
“Look, that’s besides the point.”
“Sorry, sorry,” Giorno raises his free hand up in surrender, “Continue.”
“Mista could have killed me that day, or I him. I could’ve killed myself just as well.” He shrugs, “But aside from fear, I felt hope in that moment. It was ridiculously faint, but undeniably present.”
He speaks with such dry humor about it all. More often than not, it comes off as a form of coping.
“Hope for what?”
“A future. As it was, I didn’t see myself as having much of one. But you… You gave me the condemnation I was looking for. It was what I needed at the time, and I was eager to take it, honestly. I don’t think there’s anyone who could’ve done it better.” Fugo admits.
It feels like a risky thing to say, and it’s not at all something he wants to be misunderstood, but his words are as honest as they can be.
“You know I wasn’t trying to condemn you, right?” Giorno asks, a slight crease in his forehead.
“I do. Don’t worry, my view of you isn’t so skewed as to think something like that,” Fugo reassures, “I just mean to say that you gave me the only form of salvation I could take. If I was simply welcomed back with open arms and confetti, I don’t think I’d ever move forwards. The only future there was for me was one where I could pay.”
“Fugo…”
“Sorry, that was probably too much.” He sighs, sheepish if anything, “Basically it was a harsh turning point, but a turn I needed to take.”
“Not at all,” Giorno says quietly, “That was very well articulated. Thank you for telling me.”
His smile is soft, inviting. Like he’d let Fugo tell him anything.
“Thank you for listening.” Fugo responds, matching his volume.
There are still just as many passersby. Far off shouting from children playing, the droning chatter of the working class, the occasional dog barking… It should feel overexposing.
Despite all their typical inhibitions, any eyes that glance their way don’t bother either one of them at this point. The mood is too relaxed for that. Too safe. Unshakable by outsiders.
“Fugo,” He starts again, “I think you discredit yourself.”
“How so?”
“Had I left you alone, had the organization as a whole, I still believe you would’ve made it out. Made a better life for yourself. Not to say I know you better than you do, but I know for sure you’re not the type to give up.”
Fugo doesn’t speak for a moment, aside from an audible inhale. Before he gives any response, he finally lets his head slump against Giorno’s shoulder. It’s warm, but not in a taxing way. Inviting.
“Maybe. No use thinking like that, though. I’m glad things went the way they did.”
He thinks it better to leave his disbelief unspoken. Giorno has seen him give up before. Multiple times.
“Mm. Alright.” Giorno whispers. “We should probably get you back inside now. I’ll hail a taxi.”
Even if he could very well stay like this for hours, cold water can only go so far in ridding one of such an ailment.
“You what?!” Sheila manages to get out through the bursts of laughter wracking through her body. She’s doubled over where she stands by Giorno’s desk, seemingly endlessly entertained by his plight.
Oh God. He’s never gonna hear the end of this.
“Yeah,” Fugo mutters, sulky and aggressively side-eyeing her, “I fell over onto Giorno in the middle of a crowded street because my body sucks at regulating its temperature.”
“Oh my God,” she says in a high pitched drawl, “you’re hopeless.”
Why didn’t he just keep his mouth shut about it?
“Okay, I don’t see how that’s hopeless” He grumbles.
“Yeah, and why exactly did you go out in such bad heat? Surely not to bat your eyelashes at him or anything.” She teases with a grin.
That’s not something he ever wants to get into, and honestly he could jump her right now… but when he looks up, he sees messy black hair and baby-faced joy, and can’t bring himself to be mad anymore.