Chapter Text
There’s a faint breath that cuts through the sound of a steady drip.
Practically a wheeze that comes from between clenched teeth. The strength of the grit emits a crack in his jaw. He steps back. A stumble that has his shoes scrapping against the concrete. It’s a tension that runs through the length of his body despite the way his legs threaten to buckle beneath his shaking weight.
His fingers twitch with a grip that doesn’t know what it wants. Fighting and alternating between a loosening grasp or pulling tight. The weight of the brick in his hand feels as if it burns. There’s a bead of sweat that slides against the back of his neck. The heat of the sun is stifling, adding to the already sickening setting. Each breath is rugged. A painful heave deep in his chest.
“Fuck!” He hisses to himself. Running a hand through his hair. Flinching at the wetness that falls.
Fugo had thought he had moved away. Far from this region and out of his sight, but never out of his mind, no matter how hard he had tried. He’s a haunting vision in those quiet moments. A figure that Fugo is fated to see out of the corner of his eye as his mind creates him from the shadows. Yet, he knew that it was just a torturing trick. That the real man was gone. Survived, but fled.
There’s a low groan at his feet. A breathy plea that comes out in broken fragments as a shaky hand comes to attach itself to his pants leg. Gripping tight and pulling, wheezing through the pain. His ears ring too much to hear. His own heavy breathing furthers the notion. Enough so that he feels as if he’ll choke. A figure moves itself closer in a slow, pathetic crawl. His eyes barely darted downwards. Pinned to the grey wall of the alleyway that comes across as static to his eyes.
His arm strains. Lifting it feels like torture with the radiating burn of exhaustion. How long has he been doing this? He hesitates. Faltering.
There’s a noise of relief from below him. A forehead resting on his shoes. The brick threatens to slip. There’s silence beside the breathing of two.
Then, there’s a low murmur. A prayer, Fugo believes.
Something breaks through the numbness natural when it comes to human nature. This man is viewing his pause as mercy. His face twists, though he can barely feel it. He’s not being taken seriously, this man never could view him in such a way. The burning sensation deepens.
His arm draws up. Shaking; a liquid runs against his hand. Collecting beneath his nails as a steam trails down his arm. He pays no mind.
The brick slams down.
Again. And again.
In a matter of only a few days, the mental comfort he gave himself this past year was no longer the case.
The shower shuts off.
A figure steps out, shaking. Rapidly dragging the towel down heated red skin. Irritated as the balled up fabric is rough when pressed against swollen, bubbled–up scratch marks. The dots of blood wiped away in an instance. He lets it drop to the floor, even as the water is still dripping as he pulls on rumpled clothes he had haphazardly thrown on the bathroom counter. Uncaring of the way the dampened texture clings as trembling fingers desperately grasp for the strings of the pajama pants.
Pulling to the limit, there comes a tight restraint against his abdomen, digging into the already present red mark. Barely able to take a full breath; he double knots it. Pauses. Adds two more. Does it until he can’t anymore. No strings left as they become a jumbled tangle of knots that will be hard to pry.
Near his thighs, he grasps at the fabric, pulling. A test, and he breathes shallowly when they don’t budge from his hips. Perfect.
The cold air that comes from swinging the bathroom door open feels relieving for all but a second. Then he begins to shiver. Gritting his teeth to prevent the chatter. With a hung head, Fugo stumbles into the hallway, listening to the still dripping water land in drops on the hardwood as he rushes to his bedroom.
Ready to slam the door shut, he freezes in the frame.
“Get out.” He says before he thinks.
Bucciarati sits on his bed. A waiting posture as he looks up from the book he grabbed. His blue eyes pierce into Fugo’s frame, taking him in with a soft noise that escapes him. His clothes and hair stick to his body. Water–logged and weighted, a picture that’s only clearer with his slumped posture. There’s a thin sheen of cold sweat beading against his forehead that Fugo will blame for the rapid change of temperature, but he knows Bucciarati sees through it.
Finally, he meets red eyes formed into a pinprick when they draw away from the irritated pale skin of his neck and face. The only skin visible from beneath his long-sleeved nightshirt and pajama pants that drag in their length.
“That’s your fourth one.” He says in a careful tone. Hand loosely gesturing in the direction of the bathroom as the book rests on his lap.
Fugo enters further. “If it’s about the amount of water, then take it from my paycheck. I don’t care.” He spits, throwing his earlier clothes into the hamper kept in the corner. Also the fourth set he’s changed into today. All practically drenched the same way the current pair now is. “Bucciarati–”
“Don’t tell me to get out again.”
His mouth clicks shut. Only for a moment.
“I want to be alone.” He whispers ever so quietly. His posture remained tense.
Today hasn’t been good, he wants to add, but his throat goes tight before he can express it. Because giving him that is giving Bucciarati the inch he needs to pry further. With his back turned away, he squeezes his eyes shut. Squaring his shoulders as if that alone could convince Bucciarati that he is fine.
He turns to meet his gaze.
“Please.”
A year ago, he was told that he only needed to ask. That Bucciarati would respect that need. Now, his leader only stares at him with calculating eyes. Not moving.
“Get out!” Fugo screams, unable to hold it back.
He reaches towards his desk, grasping an object he can barely see through heated eyes. The anger claws at his chest the way it always does. His face contorts with it as he launches the item, listening to the crash against the wall. A rain of glass shards hitting the floor. He stands heaving, as his fists come to ball against his side. Fingers twitching until they clutch the fabric of his pajama pants.
“Leave me alone!” His voice echoes against the walls.
Nothing changes. There’s not a flinch, or a scolding shout.
Bucciarati is used to this all. He has come to know three versions of Fugo. The one who acts too maturely, presenting stiff and emotionless; the way he grew up when under an environment of control. Choices have been made for him since birth. The second is the one who breaks from that mold. Losing control as natural emotions that many children learn to regulate young break from years of suppression. It leads to a whirlwind of a teenager he’s learned how to care for.
“I’m worried.” As proof, Bucciarati’s voice is calm.
Fugo stands there. His face was already beginning to waver. He wraps his arms tight against himself, not realizing the shivers that continue to wrack through his body. “I’m fine.” He whispers. His voice came out hoarse.
It’s truly humorous to hear those two tiny words leave him after the display.
Bucciarati clicks his tongue. “You know how I feel about lying.”
Just like that, the anger dissipates in full. Not even a dying spark left. He expected it. The third version of Fugo. The one who is truly just a 14–year–old child still finding himself in this world. Uncertain with each step he takes.
“I know.” He says. Voice ashamed. His face pointed downwards. His bangs fall into his eyes. Frizzy, tangled, and still damp. There’s a hum.
“If you do, then you know how to proceed from here.”
With that, he picks up the book. Flipping open to the page he left off on. Returning to that waiting posture. Fugo stares.
Bucciarati has always confused him. Since the moment he made the offer. He had seen him as an opportunity, Fugo knew that much, but he expected nothing more. Yet, the man in front of him stays. He never knew how to feel about it. Anger and frustration? Something akin to hope and intrigue? Perhaps a little bit of both? The part of himself still hearing his parents' whispers burns at the juvenile treatment, but the vulnerable part of himself he doesn’t like to ever acknowledge finds itself craving for it. He doesn’t know, even a year after accepting and joining Passione.
He turns to stare at the glass shards laid on the floor against the opposing wall across from him. He swallows heavily. Watching the length of a zipper that comes across the floor, opening to sweep the pieces away into its void. Bruno watches him close over the edge of the book.
There’s a small sigh, and Fugo moves. Coming to sit next to him.
“I–...I didn’t complete the task.” He starts. It takes Bucciarati off–guard.
“Oh?” He questions. Eyebrows pinching together. The task had been relatively simple. One that Fugo has completed since he had first joined Bruno. He doesn’t think that he willingly left it unfinished, and it worries him that Fugo is possibly hiding an injury from an ambush. There’s something there, but Bruno resigns himself to waiting instead of harping on Fugo to give it up. He takes a steadying breath. One that the younger one doesn't hear.
Fugo nods. His fingers pick at the skin around his nails. “Yes.” He breathes. He looks straightforward at the wall. His eyes go foggy; nearly glazed over and not blinking. “I’m sorry.”
Bruno shakes his head. The book falls to his lap once more. His full attention. “No apology needed. We still have the rest of today, and the following days before it’s due. We can thank your early timeliness for that fact.” He smiles. His right hand man. “I can tell there was an obstacle. Care to tell me?”
His eyes sting suddenly, and Fugo can’t hold it anymore. He can’t force himself to be strong the way his mind is yelling at him to be. His biggest fault, it says, is being too emotional for his own good. Yet, he hates the cold front that he forces himself to uphold to appear with that strength and maturity.
“I saw him again.” He feels his stomach lurch.
Bucciarati blinks. He doesn’t understand. “Him–?”
“Him!” Fugo seethes. Voice cracking before it can fall into a shout. Always quick to anger, rightful as it is in this moment. “That man is the only reason I haven’t been able to sleep a full night!”
It clicks in Bucciarati’s head immediately who.
“Oh, Panna…” His voice is a whisper to keep his own anger away when his blood runs cold.
Him.
Fugo had been on collections today. One of the easier tasks. Enjoyable even when someone doesn’t put up a fight to hand over the money. He strolled along the city, the spring air lightly lifting strands of his hair as a light breeze ran past him. His shoulders were loose. An almost mellow body walking down the busy sidewalk.
Almost.
He had been walking past a street cart when he heard it. His feet went frozen as he felt his breath choke. Tightening in his chest, and he was pushed to the side by passers. He stood against the wall. Listening, and when he turned, he knew that fate was fucked.
It was bound to be.
It felt like a dream watching his professor chat happily with a man. Casual and bright, relaxed with a smile all too wide. The way Fugo remembers him being when talking to his class. There’s a pang as he remembers the comfort it used to bring him. No one would have ever thought twice about him. A year since he’s last seen him, and he watches him live like nothing has happened. Breathing with only a scar on the temple of his forehead near his hairline. The only remnants of that day.
That, and…
A wordless noise escaped him. To his horror, with how audible it was. Strangled, it was akin to dying. His feet stumbled back at the pause in the conversation. The vendor's eyes fell on him. His lips parted to speak, with concerned eyes, and Fugo’s mind went bright with panic. He turned. Just like that, rushing down the street. Struggling to not drop the collection bag as he sped into a run. Clutching it tight against his chest as he pushed past civilians. Unhearing to shouts and wonders.
Bucciarati sits quietly as he tells him it all.
“You should have told me,” He says softly.
Despite the kind tone, Fugo stiffens. It’s more than noticeable as Bucciarati’s face softens further.
“I apologize.” He cuts in before a mind has a chance to spiral. “I don’t ever mean to blame you. It’s just…You’re well–being is more than important to me, Panna. I think you know how much I strive to protect you.”
He smiles slightly at that. It doesn’t hold for long, but it’s something. A brief flash of lightness that Bucciarati has seen become common in Fugo.
How could he even begin to tell Bucciarati when he collapsed in the entryway? Breathing heavily against the carpeted rug. His legs burned, and each intake of breath sent a sharp pain into his lungs. A crazed look, and how could Fugo explain that the sweat clinging to him was too much? That it dug into his brain. At the sound of footsteps, he pushed himself up on shaky arms. Beelining to the bathroom. Collection bag left on the floor, and the door wide open where the sun shined in, none the wiser to the inner turmoil.
He felt dirty. Just by seeing him. A thought that repeated until now.
“I didn’t know he was still here.” Fugo speaks before his mind can catch up. His mouth opens and closes, unsure if he wants to continue. If he can. It’s sudden when a chuckle escapes him. “You would think that a man who got his head bashed in would leave the reminder. I know I would love more than anything to leave any reminder of him in the sewer. What he took from me–” He pauses. “Even when his touches stopped, they still took from me.” He doesn’t know why he says it. The phantom touches, the remembrance is just as sickening. “I can’t get any trace of him off my body, and I hate it.”
God, how Bruno knows when he has spent countless, sleepless nights sitting by Fugo’s side as he screamed, cried, became sick on the worst of nights. Begging anyone who would listen to get the hands that weren’t there off of him, or crying for Bruno to believe him; that he wasn’t crazy or making it up the way his parents had believed. Bruno always had to hold himself back from cradling that boy as close as he could, as if that could shield him from the pain.
He knew, however, no matter how much he wanted to take this away from him, that he couldn’t. He would do anything that he could to do so, but there’s nothing, and it burns his soul. In the end, all he could be was a listening ear, a calming effect, and someone to trust.
“I’m scared.” The boy confesses.
“You’re allowed to be,” Bruno comforts. Watching the way Fugo’s shoulders ease some at the mere sound of his voice. “You’re not alone in this any longer. I’m here to carry that weight with you.”
In some ways, that should be simple. It isn’t. Fugo still feels scared. He still feels ashamed. His skin feels as if it’s something crawling beneath it.
Bucciarati continues to speak. Low and comforting, a monologue that does no good. Making Fugo feel more abnormal in himself. He stands.
Turning from the room, his footsteps are fast and sharp against the hardwood floor leading back to the bathroom. He ignores the way Bucciarati calls out for him. The voice worried, and it sent a pang through Fugo. Yet, he doesn’t stop. He needs another shower. Just talking, thinking, admitting about that man made him feel dirty and contaminated all over again.
With blurry eyes, he’s only briefly aware of shoving Narancia out of the way. The shout of indigence goes unheard as he slams the bathroom door shut.
“Fugo, you dick! You’ve been in here all day–!”
He’s silenced by the click of the lock.
Fugo only has the energy to sit on the floor. Letting the steam waft around him. The clothes cling tighter. The sweat he wanted to avoid dripping unpleasantly, putting him back to square one. His legs feel frozen after pulling them tight against his chest. He doesn’t listen to the voices outside the door.
There’s a knock.
“I placed fresh clothes outside the door.” Bucciarati calls over the sound of the shower. He doesn’t linger outside of that.
Fugo never got privacy. Not when it was plastered everywhere. His description did not even attempt to be made hidden, despite his age, and it made knowing his name easy. A wound in itself. It was a headline no one could let slip with the attention it could draw; money was a greater asset than the vulnerable youth that laid beneath it.
He was angry. Then and now. He would tear those papers from their stands, ripping the material apart through shaky fingers, watching the plastered photo of his school, the photo of him, tear as the pieces floated down to be stomped underneath his foot. Screamed at the ones who sold them. Or told it. Creating a further spectacle in Naples that brought further shame to his parents' names.
He didn’t believe in keeping silent. At least not at first; his anger burned bright, and he wanted everyone to know what type of man he was. Through the pain, and the deep sense of betrayal in who he trusted, he was desperate for everyone to know, because then everything he went through wouldn’t be in vain. It couldn’t be.
Fugo only drew quiet when it was made clear he would never be believed. Not in the way he should have been.
He tried to push it far away.
Though breathing felt hard, the days went on. He’s grown used to the world moving without him. A passing daze. A mind wrapped up in looking over his shoulders constantly. Straining his ears and whirling around at the sight of any shadow coming behind the corner of his eye. He’s aware of the looks. Bucciarati knows, but Abbacchio and Narancia watched the anxious act in confusion before Abbacchio would turn away with a low scoff, acting as if he didn’t care.
Narancia’s eyes would always linger. Fugo would snap at him.
Nothing happened. It all remained the same. The only thing off was him. He bit his tongue in anger. Did he exaggerate? Was it even him? It wasn’t the first time his mind had played a trick such as this on him. He tries to believe it.
It could never work. Deep down, he knew that well.
Their day off. He watched them get distracted by a vendor. It was hot out that day. A bead of sweat on his forehead, and paper pale skin already presenting a thin layer of red that had Abbacchio laughing over his shoulder.
“Should have worn the hat.”
“You look stupid with yours.”
They’ll never get him to wear that ridiculous sunhat. Abbacchio only enjoys what appears as a dramatic look, and makeup not smearing. Fugo felt that specific irritation that only comes with heat sickness. He told them he would go ahead. Meet them at their restaurant.
Bucciarati spared him a look that made him glare. He could never stand being babied. His leader knew that, despite how overprotective he can be. He saw it in the expression when he gave a curt nod in response.
Fugo walked alone and thought nothing of it. His mind had grown to settle as the uneventful days passed by. He felt that sinking feeling of admitting delusion, but nothing came. Not the first time, but it had felt…different, but maybe it was his mind being overprotective. The feeling of overacting is a feeling of comfort.
A comfort when he could never have expected this.
Because in the matter of an instance, his body drew tighter when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. A familiar cologne took away the previous scent of the rose bushes in the neighborhood. He knew. Even as he stared straight forward. He didn’t hear the words, but he heard the light–hearted voice that was once a comfort.
“Pannacotta.”
He speaks in a friendly tone. Smiling as bright as before and coming near Fugo without a blink. The younger has to wonder if he remembers the incident. If the head injury brought a bout of amnesia, and no one told him of Fugo’s supposed crime. He can’t linger on it when the air in his lungs feels as if it has been stolen through the bright sense of panic. His mouth goes dry. His body pulls tight to hide the shaking. The smile he can’t see pulls wider on the other’s face.
“Let’s talk.” He says so easily.
No. A rugged breath leaves him. Feeling the cold tremble on his lips as it pulls deep from his chest. Not enough strength to form a gasp, but a brief jerk to life as his mind screams at him. To run. Hide. Fight. Pulling back and forth between the natural instinct. He’s been here before. Countless times. It always goes the same. His body moved. This time, there’s a steady hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him into the alleyway to their side.
His internal voice screams at him. Yet, his feet follow. The way they always did. His body was always manipulated to his liking. Molded so easily by the same man who comes to stand in front of him.
“Couldn’t get you out of my head.”
There’s a chuckle. He’s sure the scar burns, a permanent reminder that doesn’t fill Fugo with the feeling of satisfaction he believed he would hold when this man doesn’t heed the physical warning he looks down on.
His back hits the wall just the way it hit that bed. Pressed down with the same looming shadow over him. The smell of smoke was prominent in the tiny space between them.
They were supposed to be study sessions.
His professor stares down at him.
He doesn’t look any different than that day in the library. The last time he saw him. Where he squeezed Fugo’s shoulder and leaned to whisper in his ear. Present day Fugo feels his hand clench as if it’s still wrapped around that book. The eyes are piercing. Fugo’s changed. With his hair longer, his body skinnier as the baby face begins to smooth itself out, and his outfit straying heavily from what his parents would choose for him. He’s finding himself. A new self–expression slowly begins to form itself.
Each detail is seen, and Fugo tears his eyes away. He can’t look. He never could. His head always turns to stare at the wall.
He may look different, but the feelings linger all the same. He feels trapped.
They were supposed to be study sessions.
He told Fugo that they were study sessions. To help boost his grade. The man had suggested it with a smile when Fugo sat at the desk even after dismissal time. Deep in thought, musing over a less than perfect grade on the recent paper he had turned in. Again. That man had told him that even the smartest people find areas that they’re weaker in, as Fugo felt less than adequate. His parents' voices lingered in his mind. Biting words he has long since learned to internalize.
What mattered was asking for help, he was told. Fugo had accepted.
“I forgive you.”
He blinks. He feels as if he’s underwater as he slowly pulls himself from his mind. Aware of how glazed over his eyes felt. The edge of his vision goes black. All too familiar and regressing.
It started in his office.
A hand brushes a lock of his hair back. Sudden, and he flinches. The fog in his mind feels thick. Enough so that it’s hard to focus. His stomach lurches with it. His professor is staring at him. A finger, a lingering brush against his earring. One a whole strawberry and another a slice of an orange. He’s matching with Narancia today.
“What?” He whispers. Wonders why he is speaking to him.
In that office, he was normal. His focus was on the coursework. Fugo would have never expected anything off, and the realization of that has always plagued him. It was so faint, he barely detected the switch; the further attention was placed on him, when there would be a squeeze to his shoulder in silent pride.
It…It felt nice.
Fugo found himself loving it. Drawn to it when it was all he wanted, when he lacked it, and he sought out more interactions. Underperforming on purpose and asking for an increase in private lessons. His professor agreed with a smile. He looked up to him. Saw everything he ever wanted in him. A safe space his parents could never foster.
It changed.
“I forgive you–”
The man repeats with a face that suggests he’s a saint for such words. A hand rests on his thigh. Fugo's body goes more rigid, a pain shooting up tense muscles. He continues to speak, but it all falls on deaf ears when Fugo becomes all too aware of the holes present in his suit. A free hand reaches to tilt his chin up.
“–I can get them to take you back–”
Fugo shudders. Staring into the eyes that are full of lust. His own burn. It’s a struggle to focus, despite his mind yelling at him. Pleading for him to stay aware.
His professor doesn’t fear him. Despite what he’d done…bashing his head in, he still doesn’t fear him. Because he knows he won. That Fugo was the only one who was seen as the problem. An outcast who stands in front of him with the loss of everything. He views himself as the answer.
It changed. All in a single night. The campus was closed; the study session was moved. Fugo barely paused at the fact that it would be at his home. He told his mother and watched her reaction. She only nodded. Told him it was good to keep up with his studies. So he went. He was invited to stay for dinner.
He can’t remember much else. Bucciarati told him that his mind forcibly blocked it to be able to protect him.
It’s the same now. If only for a moment.
He doesn’t remember striking him. The sting against his closed fist was numb. Yet, he remembers the slap that turned his own head. A further sting to his cheek he can’t reckon with before he’s being thrown to the ground. A pained cry left him as his head cracked against the pavement. His eyesight was blurry. He remembers a body kneeling beside him, and the disgusting whimpers of fear that left him.
The same ones that left him in the aftermath. He could remember that. Dragging himself from the crumpled sheets that weren’t his own. Stumbling to the bathroom. Where he stood in front of the mirror, watching the bruising begin to form. He threw up on the floor. Refused to clean it.
The sun that shined that day felt as if it burned as he walked home, raindrops dripping from the branches of trees. He looked on in a daze. His parents didn’t question why he stayed the night at a grown man's house. Barely gave a blink that he was gone. His professor didn’t wake up as he gathered his clothes and stalked out. As if he knew Fugo would remain silent.
His hand digs into the gravel. Tiny rocks sticking to sweaty palms. Then it searches.
He didn’t fight him hard enough back then. He knows that now.
Because while Fugo didn’t remember that first night, he remembered the ones that followed. How the study sessions changed. It was like watching a movie. Seeing himself from the outside of his own body. The sensations were still present, but his limbs were frozen. His mouth was unable to move where it wanted to plead, to scream, to tell him no. To stop. His throat was dry. There was only a little word he was able to emit as a whisper. It went ignored.
The brick was steady.
“Panna–”
"Get off of me!"
The metallic scent filling the alleyway threatens to make him gag, but once he struck; he couldn’t stop.
He slams the brick down. Again. And again. Even as his arm burns. A strain that makes it feel as if it’s on fire. He slams the brick down. Even when it becomes harder to grip properly. His palm is slick with blood that continues to run down his arms.
He remembers the dried blood on his thighs he woke up to. Seeing the peeling flakes in the mirror next to fingerprint bruises.
There’s a gurgle below him. Disgusting and pathetic.
He remembers always turning his head away during their sessions, as the professor would call it. How the tears would stream as he felt the stinging pain, he could never grow accustomed to. Flinching with each heavy breath that filled the room.
There’s a sickening crack. He keeps going.
He remembers how his hand would grip the covers tight. His nails bending with the force, but it was all he could do to steady himself. He remembers drifting in his mind, placing himself elsewhere because it was the only way to get through it.
It goes silent. The only sounds left being the thuds. The squelch is revolting. It nearly makes him throw up when it passes through his ears. He continues.
Fugo remembers each walk home. With a limp or new bruise hidden beneath his clothing. Hollow eyes that would flicker to where his parents sat as he entered. They never questioned. He always walked past them.
There’s a faint breath that cuts through the sound of a steady drip.
He spent hours underneath the steaming water of the showerhead, but that too wouldn't emit a single blink of interest from them. Meant to protect him. Keep him safe. Love him, but they never could.
Fugo pauses. Breathes heavily. Hesitates. Continues. Even as there’s a joining presence when someone makes to grab him.
His eyes don’t stray from the pulverized man in front of him. He shakes off the hand trying to wrap around his wrist when he slams the brick down again. He loses count of how many strikes. Barely aware of each time his arm lifts again and comes back down. He does it even when the gurgles die. He does it even when his arm grows tired. The sounds grow disgusting. Yet, he continues.
Then the brick falls. Though his hand still feels as if it’s gripping it. He blinks. Letting out a small noise of confusion that comes out weak. He turns. Briefly, he realizes the sound of a zipper had passed him by.
Fugo cries out when he’s hauled back by a pair of arms that come to wrap steadily around his stomach. He thrashes wildly. His ears ring, and he sees red in his vision. Just as he goes to swing out, his arms are pinned across his chest. Fugo merely switches tactics when he kicks his legs out to twist out of the grip, but it’s to no avail when he only backs up the person holding him. Who keeps a tight grip around him even as his back hits the wall of the alleyway.
Terror begins to settle further when Fugo’s breathing spikes. Growing rushed as his lungs constrict, and the hold doesn’t help. Feeling as if it’s crushing. There’s a whimper that builds in the back of his throat, and he thinks of his last resort as he goes to call out for Purple Haze.
A hand cups his cheek, tilting his head in a certain direction. He flinches. Tries to draw away, but they hold steady with a calming shush.
“You’re okay. Just breathe.” A whisper comes close to his ear that makes him pause. Bucciarati. It’s just Bucciarati. It’s no one who wants to hurt him.
He feels embarrassed by the dry sob that leaves him. He tries to shuffle closer, but finds himself still held in that restrictive grip.
He falls confused. Bucciarati is standing in front of him, he realizes. Attaching his hand that he zipped off with a small, murmured apology for how startling it was.
“Jesus, kid.” He hears a low, rough voice from behind him. It’s Abbacchio who has come to restrain him. His head turned, and Fugo felt himself go pale when he knew what he’s looking at. Who.
Fugo breathes heavily. Gasping for air.
“Let his arms go, Abbacchio, he knows it’s us.”
The man listens. His arms feel as if they are lead as they drop at his side. Only briefly before a shaky hand reaches for the wetness he feels on his cheeks. He wipes at them hastily. The tears he believed were falling was blood that smears. He gags. An ache in his jaw.
That thunderous feeling from before leaves him. He goes to slump further in Abbacchio’s still hovering grip, keeping him held upright when he sees how violently his legs shake. He tears away in an instance, stumbling to nearly collapse against the pavement. Feeling the way his team members watch.
“I–” He chokes out before he falls silent. Unsure of what he even went to say. A voice that died before it could begin.
Narancia, standing close to the alleyway entrance, comes closer. Hovering, but not touching, and it feels so damn relieving. Yet, he can’t meet his eyes. His head dips, allowing his bangs to shroud his facial features with eyes that clench shut. Shoulders tremble.
There’s silence.
Then, Bucciarati whistles slowly when he stalks over to the body as if he’s on a leisurely stroll. He gazes down emotionlessly. Fugo catches it from between strands of white. He holds his breath. Keeping his gaze firmly on Bucciarati.
“You did quite a number on him.” He hums.
There’s a small noise. He realizes something then. Bucciarati had been there longer than he thought. Perhaps not when the brick first connected, but there. Only stepping in when it dragged out, and the others had joined at the sound of the commotion.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” Fugo breathes. His voice sounds haunted and nearly doesn’t resonate in his mind.
Bucciarati turns back towards him. His expressionless face breaks when it softens. Gives a smile meant to be comforting. “You looked as if you needed it.”
“That doesn’t make it right!” Fugo snaps. Though Bucciarati remains calm.
“For a man like him? It does.” There’s a shrug as if it’s nothing before he crouches next to the body. “Turn away.” He demands.
Fugo hesitates, but as always; he listens to his leader when he turns to face the entrance. Staring out at the shining sun that beats on the sidewalk. His head dips low. Blood managed to fly far enough to leave small dots to paint the gravel. He can’t imagine the wall. It seeps into his shoes. Every part of his clothing. Arms and face don’t need a mention, and he thinks it’s in his hair.
He’s not blind to what is happening when he hears the familiar sound of zippers ring out. The order was useless when Fugo knew the way the body looked. He had seen the damage the brick had done. The man’s skull wasn’t intact, and his face was unrecognizable.
“It’s my body.” He chokes out. “I should be the one to dispose of it.”
Bucciarati hums. Another zip rings out. “I don’t want you to.” He says simply.
Fugo scoffs. “It would be easier with Purple Haze. No evidence at all and done in a second.”
“Maybe. I still don’t want you to.”
“You wouldn’t have to do it piece by piece, though–!”
“Enough, Fugo.” His voice is calm. Gentle, even. He turns to Abbacchio. “Leone, Narancia, take him home, please. I will clean up here.”
There’s a brief hesitation, but they both nod. When Fugo goes to argue, Abbacchio only comes close to nudge him forward with a harsh push against his shoulder. There’s no choice as Fugo reluctantly follows that direction. He stumbles. A presence comes close to his side. Meeting Narancia’s eyes, he stares. After a beat, Narancia holds his hand out. An option. One that Fugo takes when he drops his still trembling one into the awaiting palm.
He tenses at the sudden heavy weight that comes to rest against his shoulders. He looks back to see that Abbacchio has merely placed his coat over him. Saying nothing. With his free hand, Fugo pulls it close, concealing the blood.
Hand in hand, the two walk out of the alley; Abbacchio close behind.
Fugo shuts down.
They haven’t even walked up the steps of the townhouse, but Abbacchio knows. He sees those dull eyes, and the stiff movements that accompany them. How Narancia is practically leading him. Being his eyes. Filling the silence with a loud voice of nonsense when Fugo hasn’t said a single word. Abbacchio hovers back, as silent as ever in all but mind.
As the door opens, he sighs. Curses Bucciarati for placing him in charge. For needing to be the adult in this situation like this, but he’s nothing but loyal when it comes to orders. Almost to a fault. A dog to his capo, in a way, but he can’t help but enjoy the feeling when he doesn’t need to think for himself most of the time.
Fugo always saw through him. His lips would curl in disgust, but they’re both broken. He can’t say otherwise.
Abbacchio pushes through. Past the boys as he tries to spark his mind to hurry in thought, taking a glance at the blood soaking every inch of skin and clothing. It’s too much for him to just simply wash Fugo’s hair in the sink the way he’s done after some of their harsher missions. He turns to Narancia.
“Have him sit in the bathroom. I’m going to grab new clothes.”
Narancia nods, following directions without the usual whine as Abbacchio stalks down the hall to Fugo’s room, throwing open drawers until he finds the correct ones. He pauses as he grabs the clothes, his hair falling into his face as his head hangs low.
“Fuck.” He mutters to himself.
They got to the restaurant before Fugo. Finding their usual table empty, and no trace that the boy ever made it there. Bucciarati immediately grew panicked. Of course, he didn’t make it known, always mindful of his image, but Abbacchio saw. That brief flash in his eyes. The way he turned on the heels of his feet, and retraced their steps. How they stood where the street vendor was. A tight grip on Abbacchio’s shoulder as his request was silently made. Moody Blues led the rest of the way.
The commotion was a marker of attention enough. He can’t find the image he witnessed sinking in. It…doesn’t feel like Fugo to him.
When he enters the bathroom, Fugo is alone. Sat on the toilet lid, and staring straight forward at the patterned wallpaper. Abbacchio places his clothes down on the sink counter.
“Wash the blood off.” He says. Wonders if it comes across coldly. “I brought a change of clothes.” He looks around. Rolls his eyes. “I see that Narancia did fuck all when he could have grabbed you a towel.”
There’s no response. He does it for him, placing it on the ground just outside the shower doors.
Fugo blinks slightly. Brief awareness as he follows Abbacchio’s direction. He stands, hovering in front of the counter.
“They’re not correct.” Fugo’s voice comes out tight. He stares at the tank top and shorts placed out in front of him. His head was shaking rapidly.
Abbacchio turns around. “What?”
Fugo continues to stand there. Head shaking, posture rigid. His hair barely moves with the motion when it’s crusted with drying blood.
“It’s wrong.” He stares at the fabric as if it’s the sin. “You grabbed the wrong ones, Abbacchio! They’re not right–”
“–Hey–”
“I need long sleeves and drawstrings!” He speaks in such a panic tone that Abbacchio isn’t sure that it’s totally directed at him. He picks up the tank top, gripping it in shaking hands, and his breathing comes out rushed.
It’s odd.
Abbacchio steps forward. “It’s summer–”
“It’s wrong!” Fugo screams, throwing the top to the ground where the shorts join. A snap in the air at the speed of the fabric. “I can’t–”
“Calm down.” Abbacchio snaps. “I’ll get you others.” He storms out of the bathroom. Another trip to the boy’s bedroom, and truthfully; the anger he would have doesn’t burn as much when he’s only confused by the severe reaction.
He’s seen him angry before. For a multitude of reasons. Nothing over something as simple as that.
He’s not dull.
“Who was he?” Abbacchio asks when he reenters. Unable to hold back.
The room goes cold. Fugo practically stands frozen until his features smooth over.
“Nobody.” He croaks out.
Bullshit. A thought made loud when he scoffs. “You killed a civilian, Fugo.” The boy doesn’t turn to look at him. He feels his hand tighten against the bathroom counter as he leans against it, trying to catch his features when his head goes to hang low, but Fugo only shuffles away. “I think we deserve some type of answer–”
It’s fast when hands hit his chest. He stumbles back, gasping when his back hits the wall of the hallway, when he couldn’t brace for the sudden push. The bathroom door is slammed shut before he gets his breath back. His eyes lift to the solid wood before there’s a click.
He growls, turning away. Storming into the kitchen, his anger boils at the sight of Narancia lounging in a chair.
“Never leave me alone with him again.” He seethes. “Asshole– Do you know anything about this?!”
The boy’s head snaps up from where he is seated at the kitchen table. Already on his Game Boy like he didn’t see the state Fugo was in. Barely blinking, and the carefree nature is enough to make him want to yell.
“No.” He shakes his head. Mashing the buttons. Abbacchio is tempted to rip it from his hands.
He sinks into the chair instead. Cradling his head in one hand as he mutters to himself. The only sounds in the kitchen being the push of the buttons, the floor fan running behind them, and the teeny echoes of static with the noises from the video game. When Abbacchio lifts his head, he tries not to be taken aback by the setting sun.
The front door opens. A figure stepping into the doorframe, and Abbacchio struggles to meet his eyes.
“Where is he?” Bucciarati asks simply.
“Shower.” Narancia mutters over his shoulder.
Bucciarati nods, stepping in further, and Abbacchio can’t hold it back.
“Who was he?”
The room dips into its previous silence. More tense than what it was. Bucciarati’s face is expressionless. Calculating, that much Abbacchio can see. It’s a tough choice. He can see the way his mind flickers through options. Words to say. How to say them. It tears him apart. Torn between loyalty to a boy he’s been deeply caring for since the start of his team, but knowing this can’t easily be pushed under the rug and never discussed. The blood covering two people speaks volume.
He sighs. Finally, he starts by sparing a look at Narancia.
“Give us a moment.” He requests simply. The younger of whom looks troubled, finally pausing in his game. His lips purse and twist, with a slight wobble in them like he wants to push. To argue. Bucciarati doesn’t give him a look. He waits, giving a small smile in reassurance when those purple eyes shine in their gaze at him. Torn themselves.
‘It’s okay.’ Bucciarati mouths.
There’s a nod as Narancia listens. They wait until his steps fade down the hallway. Only when his bedroom door shuts, does Bucciarati seat himself at the table. It’s another moment of silence before he sighs and opens his mouth.
Fugo talks to no one that night.
When the shower shuts off, he stands in front of the mirror. The steam wafts around him. His reflection is barely visible through the fog. Physically clean, but he knows that it will never feel that way. It hasn’t since that night. The blood is fated to stay. Not just his own.
He stares straight forward. There’s a bruise beginning to adorn his cheek. He feels his shoulders tremble as his hand reaches up, ignoring the throb. The slap didn’t take him aback. He’s done it before.
After all, he broke further limits when Fugo stayed silent. Took it as permission. The violence grew in the name of his pleasure, and Fugo would be struck if he didn’t listen or perform in a timely manner. He dry heaves at the sink.
…He told him it was love. As if Fugo could be that naïve as to believe it. He’s smart. Above those his age. Above many adults. Yet, he wasn’t smart enough to see the signs, his mind hisses.
Fugo stumbles back when his palm connects against the side of his head. A harsh smack echoes in the small space. A throb to his head joins the one of his cheek.
He told him he could take it. For him. As if Fugo wasn’t whimpering in pain. Appearing so small, he thinks now, but remembers the similar comment that fell from that man’s mouth.
His breathing spikes. The memories keep coming, and they won’t stop.
He tried so hard. The times he could manage to open his mouth, was able to form the words; that whisper of ‘no’ went ignored. ‘Stop’ got him struck by a man who grew angry at the supposed rejection of his love.
It feels hard to breathe. The steam of the bathroom is thick. It’s a thought that makes him shake harder at the remembrance of a time when hands went to grip his neck when he tried to scream. He only stopped at the thought of a visible mark left. Fugo threw up in his bed that night when he realized that was the line drawn after everything. His parents didn’t come to check on him.
Fugo strikes himself with open palms until his ears ring. Wants them to bleed as if the memories can come out that way. A final strike leaves him dizzy. Until he’s collapsing against the wall with a gasping breath that comes out wet.
He tried so hard. To fight back, to keep himself from shutting down because the loss of the awareness terrified him more than the disgust of those burning hands tracing his body.
He falls to the floor. Fugo pulls at his hair when he makes a weak noise he’s heard countless times before. Scratches at his cheeks when he feels the tears he told himself he wouldn’t shed more of. Only when he’s left breathing heavily, does he storm from the bathroom.
Entering his bedroom feels strange. The townhouse is quiet. He sits on the edge of his bed, and that’s where Bucciarati finds him a half an hour later. He knocks on the frame of the door. Just as quiet. Fugo doesn’t look over.
“May I come in?” The man asks, maintaining his distance and waiting for Fugo’s permission.
There’s only a small hum that acts as enough of an answer. Bucciarati’s steps are soft. Barely any noise as he eases the door back until there’s only a crack left open, and Fugo feels a certain ache at the caring motion when the older man is aware of how closed doors make him feel. It won’t ease him when he’s not alone.
Always mindful like that…Fugo never realized how much it burned.
He keeps his distance. Doesn’t sit next to him on the bed, but he doesn’t hover either. Instead, he seats himself across from him at the desk chair. His posture tries to appear relaxed, but he fails. Fugo stiffens.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” Bucciarati starts. Voice low.
Fugo’s eyebrows furrow. He wasn’t expecting that. Slowly, he shakes his head.
“Are you sure?” The man pushes. Aware of the level of deceit he gives in moments like this.
“Yes.” He whispers. His voice is scratchy.
"Did he do anything?"
His lips open and close. He shakes his head again.
Bucciarati stares, trying to decide if he’s a liar, before he slowly nods himself.
“Very well.” He says. There’s a dip in silence as he leans back against the chair, thinking. Fugo can tell when his foot taps. Fugo picks at the beds of his nails. Giving an illusion that he’s looking at him, when in reality his eyes are pinned to the wall behind him. “Panna.” He calls softly.
His eyes have gone dull again. A faint buzz in his mind tries to pull him away from everything in front of him. Disassociation, Bucciarati had told him. Fugo thought he needed to be straight and call him insane to his face already.
Fugo tries not to flinch. The nickname is different when Bucciarati says it. Voice softer. His tone is lighter. He looks at him like he cares. The tears prick his eyes again easily, but he doesn’t let them fall. There’s something welling up in the inside of his chest. Something that makes him pick at his nails harsher. He’s pathetic. Looking at his leader drills that in more.
“I know who he was.” Bucciarati continues. “Because of that, I’m not going to question you. Not right now, at least. Today has been difficult. I’m not going to ask a single other question other than you know that you can come to me through this, correct?”
Through this…like it’s a spectacle. Or as if Fugo’s glass shards.
“Through what?” He grits out before the words have a chance to sink in properly.
The soft look says it all despite the man remaining silent. He pities him. It makes Fugo flare.
“He’s dead. Stop dragging this out.”
Bucciarati remains silent. His eyes are piercing, and Fugo is more than aware of the way he can read into a person.
“Leave it!” Fugo shouts. Feeling a prickle in his throat.
There’s a sigh. “I just need you to know, Fugo,” Bucciarati says as if it’s that simple.
“I do.”
Bucciarati looks as if he wants to say more. His lips pursed with a certain expression, but Fugo’s eyes are cold from where they turn to finally meet his gaze in full.
“Very well.” He repeats. Standing to move towards the door when it’s clear that Fugo will want to be alone. His shoulders slump with the words, and it makes Fugo release a harsh chuckle. He feels his hands shake where they’re clasped together.
“You enjoy me broken, don’t you, Bucciarati?”
The man freezes.
“Excuse me?” He asks in a small voice that is barely audible. Turning slightly.
Fugo doesn’t answer him. Doesn’t turn back to look. He knows he’s there for their pleasure, even if it differs in ways. After all, he’s long since learned that he’s been nothing but a tool for his whole life.