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The wind is unusually hard. The gusts blow leaves around Fugo, wrapping them around his body. They caress him, hitting him with a quiet brush. He swats them away. The wind dies down.
He continues his walk around Naples. It’s just cold enough outside to make Fugo uncomfortable, and he forgot his jacket. The sky is overcast, though it’s not yet raining. He should go home before the showers start, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to turn around. Something is drawing him towards his destination, and he doesn’t have it in him to deny it satisfaction.
The buildings around him look off. The Duomo di Napoli is no longer a sharp white, now taking on a dull gray. The cross on the top of it is gone. The depiction of the Virgin Mary, delicately carved into the church walls, has lost its detail. The faces of the surrounding angels no longer exist. He brushes it off, continuing his walk.
The cars that would typically be parked along the street are gone. The people who would typically avoid looking at him are gone. Everything is gone. All except the trees.
He tries to care. He can’t. With a shrug, he continues walking.
Another gust of wind hits. A new pile of leaves whirl around Fugo, this time only reaching his waist. He does nothing to contain the chaos, letting the leaves engulf him. They continue to swarm him, even after the wind dies down. Their continued motions seemingly beckon him to follow. He tries to ignore it.
Leaves grab hold of his hand, yanking it. He tries to swat them away again, but the mass regroups faster than he can move. It’s a nuisance. He hates it.
Ignoring the persistent tug on his hand, he presses forward. He reaches an intersection, and the leaves pull him hard enough for him to trip over his feet. He curses at the leaves, hating them for disturbing his walk.
He looks forward, instead of at his feet. There’s a dark, black void in front of him, rather than the shops that are typically there. It stares at him; he stares back. Neither move, and even the leaves have stilled. As if in an old Western, Fugo is in a standoff, unable to move nor act.
The wind comes back, pushing him closer to the void. He tries to plant his feet firmly on the sidewalk, but his efforts are in vain. The wind and the leaves work in tandem, pushing and pulling him toward it.
"Fugo,” the void calls to him. Its voice is calm and relaxed, like a mother whispering her child’s name for the first time.
"Fugo,” it calls again. His body relaxes. His mind goes blank.
Maybe his walk can wait.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
"Fugo.” A cold hand rests atop his forehead. “You’re burning up,” the voice states monotonely. He doesn’t respond, not finding the will in his heart to care. Let him burn, for all he cares. It’s more than deserved.
“Fugo, please.” The voice finds its emotion, now begging Fugo. Though, he doesn’t know for what. He has nothing to offer. Whoever is calling for him would be safer with someone else.
"At least open your eyes. Just let me know you’re there.” He considers it. Giving into the voice would be easy, the command is so simple, but he doesn’t. If he stays still for long enough, maybe the person will understand that he can never be of use. His involvement can never be useful.
"Please.” The voice is getting desperate. He can’t understand why. Who would ever view him as so important as to get upset over him?
His head pangs. A violent pain shoots through his entire skull and travels down his spine. He twitches from the pain, and his eyes flicker open.
Above him is a dull, gray ceiling. There’s nothing to it. Its design isn’t complex or challenging, it’s just there to serve its purpose. Nothing is demanded of it, it simply is. Life as a ceiling would be nice, maybe he’d like it.
There’s rustling beside him. The noise hurts his head, so he shuts his eyes again. He silently prays, to a god he doesn’t believe in, to take his pain away. He knows he deserves it, he knows his pain is justified, but he is nothing if not a coward. He doesn’t want to deal with it, even if he knows he should.
"Fugo, hey, open your eyes again.” The voice has the same plea in it as before. He still doesn’t understand what makes his eyes so desirable. Nothing about him is worth fussing over so heavily.
"You’re able to, I know you can. So, please, just…” The voice trails off. He’s glad. Maybe the person has finally realized that he’s a lost cause, that no one should be around him.
The world around him is quiet, save for the hints of life he can hear outside. People are talking, birds are chirping, and dogs are barking. They’re all away from Fugo, living their lives without him. He smiles; he can’t put any of them in danger.
"No, please.” The voice pipes up again. It hurts his head. The pain is unbearable, so, if only to ease the pain coursing throughout him, he opens his eyes once more. Now, not too far away from him, is not a dull ceiling, but rather a boy with golden hair. His emerald green eyes sparkle, quite unlike his matte purple ones.
Right, now he remembers. Giorno Giovanna, his boss, his… is beside him.
He’s in his boss’s apartment. He’s in his boss’s bed.
He squirms, ignoring the throbbing pain in every part of his body, desperately trying to pull away from him. It hurts, it hurts so badly, but he can’t be around him, not like this. Giorno shouldn’t see him like this. He should barely see him at all.
“Wait, don’t move, you’ll hurt yourself.” He’s clearly being cautious of his volume, despite his worried tone. Fugo hates it. No one should have to walk on eggshells around him. Not now, not ever.
With hands clasped around his, he continues to writhe. Anything but being around Giorno would be better for them both right now. His body continues to ache, every bone in his body is screaming at him to stop, but he doesn’t. To hell with his body, he can deal with the pain away from his boss.
The grip on his hands every so slightly tightens. Then, the pressure releases. He looks down at his hands, ignoring the ache behind his eyes, and stops moving. A slight, blink-and-you-miss-it, smile spreads across Giorno’s face. Fugo can’t think of a reason to flash him one back.
"You’re sick, let me help you.” A hand returns to Fugo’s forehead, and it brushes away a strand of hair. He cringes; he can’t imagine how horrible he looks. Sickly, pale, and disheveled, the exact opposite of Giorno’s perfection.
“I’m fine… by myself,” Fugo stammers out. It hurts. It hurts to talk and to lie to Giorno. He needs help, he knows it, but he’d sooner die than weigh Giorno down. His duties as Don pale in comparison to however he could possibly help Fugo survive the day.
The room goes silent once more. The small smile on Giorno’s face dissipates, and Fugo internally kicks himself. Everything he says is wrong. Everything he does robs somebody of something, whether it be their happiness or their life.
"Let me get you something. Some water, some Tylenol, maybe. You need it,” Giorno says matter-of-factly. Fugo doesn’t fight back. Maybe he can indulge, just this once.
It’s a horrible way to think, he knows it. He deserves every horrible thing that happens to him. He’s nothing more than a rat, a traitor, and he deserves to suffer for it. He didn’t deserve Giorno taking him back, and he doesn’t deserve his love and care. He’s a sinner, yet he hasn’t paid his penance. At this rate, he never will.
The door clicks shut. Giorno’s back. One hand is clasped around a glass, the other is cupping a few pills. Here he is, working like a dog, and Fugo can’t even choke out a “thank you.” It disgusts him.
"Please finish the water, too, I’m sure you’re dehydrated.” He places the items on a nightstand next to Fugo. He doesn’t force him to do anything, yet everything is close enough to not strain his body. He’s too considerate. He’s too nice to Fugo.
He stares at the items. They stare back, taunting him. They know Fugo doesn’t deserve them, and Fugo knows it too. A sinner like him deserves nothing.
But they’re from Giorno.
Giorno is pure. Every act Giorno makes is selfless, unlike Fugo. Giorno chose to trust him once, when he barely knew him for a few days, when even Abbacchio warned him of his stand. Then, he chose to trust him once more, when he had no reason to. He betrayed his friends, Bucciarati, and all of Passione. Anyone else would’ve had him killed, and Fugo wouldn’t even beg for mercy, but not Giorno. Giorno is everything he’s not.
He takes the pills, if only to ease Giorno’s mind. His eyes light up, though Fugo isn’t able to understand why. He’s never been able to truly understand him, actually. Giorno is like a lullaby in a foreign tongue to him, completely unintelligible, yet somehow calming and grounding. If only he could understand.
But, if he could, would that drag Giorno down to his level? Would mutual understanding reduce Giorno to a filthy sinner? Fugo is mold, ruining everything he touches. All Fugo causes is decay and rot.
He can’t let Giorno rot.
"Please call for me if you need anything. Don’t strain yourself, I’ll get you whatever you want.” Giorno takes his hand and holds it. Fugo should recoil, but he doesn’t. He lets Giorno stand and watch him for as long as he wants. As his hand sits in Giorno’s, he doesn’t feel like he’s contaminating him. It’s an odd feeling.
Giorno walks to the door. He looks back before the door shuts, and says, “And please, don’t let your eyes close.” Then, the door clicks, and Giorno is gone.
Fugo stares at it.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
He really should leave. He doesn’t belong around Giorno, not now, not ever. He’ll infect Giorno one way or another, whether it be with his sins or with whatever he’s actually sick with. Either way, his presence isn’t fair to him. He’s not worth his time nor his effort.
So, he pushes off the bed, trying desperately to stand. His elbows immediately pulse in pain, and the rest of his body quickly follows suit. His heart is racing, it’s as if all the air has been sucked from his lungs, and his core is on fire. His legs are similar; they feel like water beneath him and very clearly cannot support his weight. That won’t stop him, though.
He stands, firmly gripping the nightstand that now holds an empty glass. He drank all of the water over the past few hours. He wishes he could tell Giorno that it helped, but he can’t. The pills haven’t helped either. He still feels as horrible as he did when he woke up.
If he were anybody else, he’d ask to go to the hospital. He clearly needs some kind of treatment—whatever he has can’t just be treated by rest—but he doesn’t deserve it. His pain is just retribution for everything he’s done.
His legs wobble, and before he can properly realize it, they give out. He hits the ground with an oof, somehow avoiding hitting his head on anything. He should be grateful, but he doesn’t feel it, not one bit. All he can feel is shame while his cheeks heat up.
"Fugo? What happened?” Giorno asks anxiously. He rushes to the bedside, stopping right at his feet. “Are you hurt?”
He doesn’t respond. He just lets shame consume him whole, hoping that, somehow, it’ll make him disappear. Though, he’s experienced shame enough times in his life to know that it never will.
"Can you… can you hear?” Giorno grabs Fugo’s hands again, and suddenly his mind is blank. He can’t answer Giorno—he doesn’t know how to admit to wanting to leave without saying a word—so he just stares. He stares until his eyes burn. He stares until he forgets how to blink.
Giorno places a hand on Fugo’s cheek, gently cradling his face. With his eyebrows furrowed, he stares back into Fugo’s stinging red eyes. Fugo can’t read his expression, but he’d put money on the fact that Giorno can read his soul and understand his every thought.
"Let me help you, just tell me what you want.” His voice is quieter, softer now. His voice would be able to lull the most hyper child to sleep. If only Fugo were that child. Maybe then, he’d be pure enough for salvation.
"I’m—I’m fine,” he strains out. His voice is so coarse, it barely sounds like his anymore.
"You’re not. You need something.” How blunt.
He debates it, he really does. It’s as if he infected himself with Purple Haze’s virus; he knows he’s fighting a losing battle. Just how bad would it be if he lost, though?
But, as he looks at Giorno’s face again, all he can see is fear plastered across it. Fear for him, not of him. Despite everything he’s done, despite everything he’s been through, Giorno still cares. He doesn’t understand why—he may never truly be able to—but maybe he can appreciate it.
"…Fine.” He hesitates, but he agrees. Maybe he could use some help.
Giorno smiles at that. “All right, I’ll get you some tea and something to eat. It’ll be small, don’t worry. Oh, and some more medicine would probably help.”
As Giorno’s hands leave Fugo’s body, he feels empty again. It’s almost as if he’s losing a part of himself. It hurts. He doesn’t want to keep hurting. Maybe he’ll be cured because of Giorno, maybe Giorno will cleanse him of his sins.
He’s alone with his thoughts—albeit not for incredibly long—but for the first time self-hatred doesn’t immediately grip him. He has time to breathe, to take in his surroundings without cowering into himself. There are no eyes on the wall, there are no voices screaming at him. It’s weird. It’s almost nice.
He has time to think: does he deserve “nice?”
Maybe, just maybe, he does.
With a creak, the door opens, and in comes Giorno. In his hands are everything he promised: steaming green tea, a bowl of strawberries, and two tiny pills. He places everything on the nightstand, the same one that holds a now-empty glass. The whole time, Fugo watches him. Each and every step he takes is graceful and utterly beautiful. To think that he chooses to share his presence with someone like him is beyond comprehension. Maybe he doesn’t need to comprehend everything, though.
Giorno holds out his hand, motioning for Fugo to take it. He does, and he’s pulled up to the bed. The action strains him a bit, making him hiss out in pain. The noise doesn’t humiliate him, though; he doesn’t feel the need to shoo Giorno away and crawl into himself.
"I know you’re not the biggest fan of eating in bed,” Giorno starts, “but you shouldn’t move more than you have to. Excess movement will hurt you.”
He walks to the other side of the bed, laying next to Fugo. Initially, he tenses. But, with one look at Giorno, the fear fades away. No where in Giorno’s face is fear or disgust. His nose isn’t crinkled, nor is his lip pulled upward. His eyes, though, his beautiful, emerald-green eyes, house nothing but love. Love for—of all people—Pannacotta Fugo.
Someone so pure, so angelic, has enough room in his heart to love such a wretched sinner as he. It’s love for the sake of love, and he expects nothing in return. It’s not transactional, it’s not perverted, it’s not disgusting. His love is a rock, on which their relationship will be built.
The tea is warm as he cups it around his naturally cold fingers. It’s the perfect temperature, as if he were Goldilocks, though he needn’t sample tea that is too hot and too cold. It’s something he can appreciate.
Next, he grabs the strawberries. They’re a little too sweet, at least according to him, but that’s okay. He’s satiated by them, which is all that matters. They don’t have to be perfect, not at all.
The whole time, Giorno watches him, not in a way that would cause the hair on Fugo’s body to stand up, but in a much more innocent way. As their eyes connect, Fugo can tell that there’s nothing but love and admiration behind Giorno’s.
Slowly, the gap between them shrinks, eventually placing their faces mere centimeters away from one another. Fugo doesn’t flinch or recoil from the proximity, and he certainly doesn’t flinch or recoil as warm lips are pressed onto his.
The kiss is a quick and chaste one, but it doesn’t need to be anything more. But, as the two pull apart, the feeling lingers. Their lips sizzle from the sensation. Fugo wishes, more than he’s ever wished for anything, that he could feel this forever. He can’t help but smile. And Giorno smiles back, his eyes crinkling.
“You’re gonna get sick,” Fugo whispers.
“I don’t care,” Giorno whispers back.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
Fugo has been lying in bed for hours now, with no particular end in sight. He doesn’t mind, though. He needs the rest, he knows it, and with Giorno next to him, he dares to even say he likes it. It’s a strong word, but he doesn’t feel the need to shy away from it.
He’s been feeling better, and he’s glad for it. Pain doesn’t course through his body when he moves, nor is his throat as scratchy. His headache is still present, but he can’t feel the pain throughout his eyes and teeth anymore. It’s progress. He likes progress.
His head has been resting on Giorno’s chest for at least the past hour. Neither boy has moved, and neither boy wants to. They’d be content to stay here for the rest of their lives, responsibilities be damned.
Giorno slowly runs his hand through Fugo’s hair. It’s a nice and calming sensation, though not as nice as the kiss they shared. The repetition is soothing to both of them. It’s nice. A lot of things are nice in this world.
The rain pitter-patters softly off the window they’ve been looking out of. The occasional bird will fly by, Giorno will point it out, and Fugo will marvel at it. He’ll talk about what species it is, what it eats, and where it migrates to, and Fugo will listen. And he likes it.
A bird hovers outside the window, peering into their window. Its wings are spotted with brown and black, a black and white-spotted neck, and a white-tipped tail. Fugo looks up to Giorno, waiting for him to tell him what it is.
"It’s a European Turtle Dove,” Giorno states, as if he read his mind. “They live all throughout Europe, but they’re at risk of extinction. A lot of people like to hunt them for sport. Typically, they eat seeds but can also eat fruits and insects. They mate for life, you know.”
Fugo knows a little about turtle doves. Well, he knows what they represent, and he knows they’re lovebirds. Maybe it was fate that it hovered by the window. He smiles at the thought, and Giorno kisses the top of his head.
The room falls back into a comfortable silence. Fugo nuzzles closer into Giorno, if that’s even possible. Giorno’s hand falls from his head and down towards his shoulders. Fugo yawns.
"You’re getting tired,” Giorno observes.
He noncommittally hums in response. Sleep would help him, sure, but he’s happy now, awake and in Giorno’s arms.
"You should get some rest,” he suggests. “You probably need it.”
Fugo perks up at that.
"But won’t you…” he trails off, trying to find the right words. Won’t you freak out? No, way too rude. Won’t you try to wake me up? No, that’s not it either. Won’t you—
"No, you’re safe, I know now. I know you’re not in danger, and… you’re lying on me, which… is a plus.”
His whole face is red by the time he finishes the sentence. It’s adorable. He’s adorable, and Fugo doesn’t know how he ended up so lucky. Somehow, he managed to get the typically stoic Don of Passione beet-red. He loves it. He loves him.
So, he shuts his eyes, passively trying to fall asleep. But, his main priority is enjoying every possible second he can with Giorno. Whether it be listening to his heartbeat or feeling him inhale and exhale with every breath, he commits all of it to memory. Everything about him is worth remembering.
He can feel Giorno’s breath hitch before he says, “You know, I’ve always found the history of penicillin interesting. It was discovered by complete accident, all because someone went on vacation. A culture plate was completely overrun with mold, but instead of ruining the sample, the first antibiotic was discovered. Something so simple, something potentially toxic, helped save the lives of millions of people. It was really a miracle.”
A miracle, huh?
Fugo smiles as he drifts off to sleep; he appreciates the bedtime story.
𓆝 𓆟 𓆞
He’s back in the desolate alleyway. He looks around, trying to find any discrepancy between this dream and the last. It’s still overcast, every car is still gone, and no one is walking the streets. The buildings still look off, and trees still dot the area.
Leaves wrap around him once more, and he lets them hover. They dance around him as if they were all prima ballerinas, and Fugo watches intently. They perform an intricate dance for him. He does nothing but watch.
They lead him further down the alley, and he follows without putting any thought behind it. He has no destination, no place to be, no one counting on him, so he follows the leaves. Maybe he could befriend them. Maybe, some day, they’ll come to count on him, to believe in him. And, maybe, he won’t push them away.
He drags his feet along the concrete, still letting the leaves guide him. The material is a little too soft beneath his feet for it to be normal. But, the leaves are ushering him to a new location, and who is he to ignore them.
They guide him closer and closer to… something. He can’t quite make out what it is. It definitely doesn’t belong in the surrounding area, though. Whatever it is sticks out like a sore thumb, though, he supposes, it’s not overly-hard to stick out when everything normal is gone.
As he gets closer, a shape starts to materialize. It’s a small, round table with three chairs placed around it. On it sits three mugs, two have steam coming out of them. Odd, but the leaves want him to step closer, so he does.
The shape becomes more concrete with time, or rather shapes now. Bodies begin to materialize, taking the shapes of three people. Instantly, Fugo recognizes them. One has an orange and yellow window-paned skirt buckled around his waist. The next figure is taller than the former, wearing a white suit with black teardrops dotting it. The last wears a belt with a large golden “A” on it.
The figures—no, the people—are unmistakable.
They’re conversing with one another, that much is obvious, but the words they’re saying are unintelligible. It’s nothing but gibberish to his ears, but one thing is clear, is undeniable to Fugo: they’re happy. They’re so incredibly happy. Even Abbacchio wears a smile.
He stands there, no longer following the leaves. He just watches the three. Narancia is waving his hands around wildly, enthusiastically explaining something. Bucciarati is listening intently, nodding along every so often. Abbacchio, though not as outwardly involved, is still listening. He’s not ignoring Narancia, nor is he minimizing whatever he’s talking about.
They’re all happy in death.
Fugo looks at the leaves; maybe they could explain everything. But, as expected, they do not gain a voice. They do not explain everything to him. They don’t answer every question of his, leaving nothing up in the air.
Instead, they wrap themselves around Fugo’s arms once more, gently nudging him to a certain location. Desperate for any answer, Fugo obeys them. He walks to an unknown destination, hoping that, maybe there, his questions will be answered.
Eventually, he arrives at the Port of Naples. It’s a bustling area, with people flowing like waves around him—a stark contrast from his walk down roads and alleyways. The sky is no longer overcast. Instead, all the clouds have cleared, displaying the setting sun to its maximum.
Hues of deep orange mix with red as the sun goes to rest for the night. The water glistens and dances with the little waves that form. The bustling crowd’s noise doesn’t reach Fugo’s ears. He’s much too focused on the figure in front of him.
Golden, wavy hair flows in the wind. It’s fully down, not even in a half-done braid. He’s looking out to the sea with his hands in his pockets. But, as Fugo starts to move toward him, his head turns. He notices the wide-eyed Fugo and turns to walk towards him.
The leaves dissipate, flying into the air as if they were a flock of birds. Fugo pays them no heed, though. He is only focused on Giorno.
When the gap between them closes, there is no intense outburst of emotion. They do not burst into tears. They do not fall to their knees. There is no tight embrace. Giorno simply grabs Fugo’s hands, and both boys smile.
“Giorno,” Fugo breathes out, unsure of what to say.
“You’re safe,” he whispers.
With that, the two embrace. They stay there, unmoving for ages. The outside world doesn’t matter to either of them. Because in that moment—in every moment—their worlds are in their arms.
The leaves blow by once more.