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Fugo looked out at the gentle waves of the sea, he found the quiet ebb and flow to be a surprisingly calming sound. Fugo closed his eyes for a moment to drink it in under the cool night air. He would take calm wherever he could get it. Although these days he had far better control over his anger. He had to, not to be a liability to Giorno.
He turned to look at the young boss as this thought crossed his mind. Giorno was looking out at the dark sea just as he had been.
—
It had been Giorno’s idea, as most things were. No matter how many times Giorno said that he viewed Fugo as an equal, just as he did Mista and Trish, Fugo was still hesitant to stake claim on the little free time that he had. So of course, tonight, Giorno had been the one to knock at Fugo’s window, rousing him from a state of half sleep. When Fugo had opened the window that led to Giorno's extensive gardens, he found said boy standing right in the rose bed, not a care in the world for his designer shoes.
"Uh. Hi ?" said Fugo when it didn’t seem as though Giorno had any plans to elaborate.
Giorno smiled. "Hi." His voice was hushed and breathy in a way that raised Fugo's heart rate. "Um, do you want to go to the beach with me ?"
Fugo, foggy brained, had to take a few seconds to properly register the words that had been spoken. He glanced over at the digital clock on his bedside where the red numbers flashed 01:25.
Over the years Fugo had learned that despite initial appearances, Giorno could be a little weird sometimes. Weirder than one would expect. Mista often joked that he acted like an alien who hadn’t quite perfected human behavior just yet. But this, this was a new one as far as Fugo was concerned. He’d have to ask Mista next time if Giorno often visited him in the middle of the night. He found himself hoping that the answer would be no.
Fugo cleared his throat. "Ahem. Like, now ?"
"Yes. Sorry about the odd hour, I couldn’t sleep and I—well, I’d like to go places without a body guard. No one's likely to try to assassinate me on a spontaneous beach trip in the middle of the night, I think."
Fugo chose not to remind Giorno that he was, in fact, one of said bodyguards. Lest the other boy change his mind. It was a bad idea, and Sheila would kill him if she found out, but again, it wasn't like Giorno was going out completely unprotected if Fugo went with him.
When Fugo didn’t respond right away, Giorno added more vulnerably, "I’ve never been…I think it would be nice."
He was looking down now, avoiding eye contact. So Fugo took the opportunity to scrutinize the golden haired boy openly in a way that might have otherwise been considered rude. Giorno didn’t often bring up his childhood, which Fugo couldn’t fault him for without being a hypocrite. But it didn’t help his curiosity. Curiosity about a boy who had dreamed of being a mafia boss. A boy who treated his own body like a disposable meat shield if it meant no one else had to die. A boy who had, apparently, never been on a beach trip.
"Sure Giogio, why not ?"
Fugo had never subscribed to the philosophy of 'no wrong answers'. There were right answers and there were wrong answers. The right answers were the ones that rewarded him with Giorno’s smile.
—
That was how they found themselves swaying gently on a pair of salt-rusted swings, the soft sand shifting beneath their feet.
If Giorno minded Fugo’s staring, he didn’t say anything about it.
Fugo wasn’t particularly religious. If you asked, he’d tell you that he’d left his catholic upbringing behind, along with the rest of his past life. But sometimes he wondered and pondered, as any self respecting academic did, even a failed one such as himself.
From where he was sitting, the pale light of the moon shone upon Giorno’s hair, undone from its braid and loose around his shoulders. The golden locks glowed, as if illuminated from an interior light, perhaps the light of his own soul. In moments like these, Fugo understood what inspired poetry and war. In moments like these, Fugo could think he was witnessing god.
He suddenly felt out of breath and had to look away. Fearing what his brain would come up with if the silence persisted, he decided to speak.
"Do you ever wonder where we’ll go when we die ? Heaven or hell, I mean," he brought up casually.
Giorno gave a slow blink in surprise. It was only after a year of spending almost every day at the boss’s side that Fugo had finally learned to read his micro expressions. But he was practically a certified interpreter by now, something he held great pride in for some reason.
"I didn’t know you were religious, Fugo," commented the other, in lieu of an answer.
"I’m not. Not anymore, not ever really. But sometimes I just wonder about these things you know ? Late night thoughts and such."
Giorno hummed in a way that said he didn’t really know, but didn’t want to shut the other down or make him feel ridiculous. Fugo would have felt ridiculous, if it weren’t for the slight furrow of Giorno’s brows that told him he was now giving the topic intense consideration.
Finally it looked as if he'd settled on something. "I find it useless to worry about such things. If god were real then we wouldn’t have to do his job for him."
Fugo barked out a laugh at the apparent dig at god. Giorno could be surprisingly funny if you let him.
"I guess god should be thanking you for beating the devil, huh."
Giorno nodded very seriously. "He should, he’s lucky I haven’t demanded compensation. I should have Polnareff send an invoice."
Fugo contemplated this for a moment. "What would you ask for ? If you could."
Giorno was quiet for long enough that Fugo thought he'd lost him, but just then— "…I’d ask for your family back."
Fugo opened him mouth, about to reassure Giorno that he really didn’t miss his family anymore, until he met a pair of sad eyes and realized that Giorno had meant the gang.
"Oh…" Fugo swallowed around the lump in his throat.
"Sorry." Giorno looked away guiltily. For bringing up their dead friends ? For ruining the mood ? For them having died for Giorno's dream in the first place ? Fugo wasn't really sure. He wondered if this was what had been keeping him up before he had come knocking at Fugo's window.
Fugo shook his head. "No, it’s okay. I would—I’d ask for that too." A beat and a cool breeze passed between them, causing him to shiver while Giorno stayed almost unnaturally still. "They were your family too you know ?" he added, almost as an afterthought.
They’d had this conversation before, once or twice, in different words but always the same conversation. It was one of those things, they all had them, one of those ideas that he could never be argued out of.
"I had barely known them a week."
It may have sounded dismissive to others, but Fugo now knew how to read between Giorno's lines, how to dig for the words that weren't said. The truth was that Giorno wished he would have had more time. Doesn’t feel like he has as much claim to them, as much of a right to grieve the family that could have been, if they'd just lived long enough to know him too.
"It was enough time for them to love you. Bruno died proud of who he was thanks to you. Narancia looked up to you. Abbacchio…" Fugo trailed off.
"Abbacchio would have forsaken me," said Giorno matter-of-factly.
Fugo huffed out a chuckle. "Yeah, no. Abbacchio would have thrown you to the wolves."
Giorno sighed. "…He was a good person."
"Yeah, he was."
In the silence between them, only the creaking of the chains could be heard.
Fugo startled when something grazed his arm, he turned to see that it was Gold Experience who had nudged him and was now staring him down with its buggy eyes. Before he could question it the stand disappeared and he looked down to notice Giorno's hand outstretched towards him in a silent invitation. Wordlessly, he slotted his own hand into Giorno's and let their fingers intertwine. Giorno's hand was all soft and smooth skin, unlike his own calloused ones. He hoped Giorno didn't mind.
"I'm glad you came back to me, Fugo. Really glad."
Fugo could feel a blush creeping up his neck. 'glad you came back to me', god, here was Giorno trusting him with an emotional moment and he was blushing at a simple choice of words, how ridiculous. But he couldn't deny that he felt the same. He'd been hesitant to come back at first, and while Giorno had accepted him back with open arms, it had been tough rebuilding the trust between him and Mista. But now ? Well, he couldn't imagine it any other way. Serving Passione, serving Giorno, was the only thing that gave his life meaning.
"I'm yours, Giogio." Mind, body, and soul. That's what he had sworn the moment he had kissed Giorno's hand, when he rejoined Passione under his rule.
"And I, yours, Fugo," Giorno promised, without an ounce of hesitation.
Even under the dim light of the moon, Fugo could see Giorno's expression and found nothing there but the utmost sincerity. He could imagine the dark green that they must be in the darkness, he wished they were sitting closer together so he could commit the color to memory. Having someone to call his own, it was a nice thought, one that chased away the chill of the night blowing through his clothes. Unfortunately, it was also a frankly ridiculous notion.
"You're too important to be mine." Giorno had other responsibilities, far greater and more important than Fugo. Ultimately, Fugo knew he was just a cog in the machine that Giorno had built, and he was okay with that.
Before he could notice, and without ever letting go of his hand, Giorno had moved from the swing to stand before Fugo. His eyes never left Giorno's. They tracked the other's movements as Giorno lowered himself until he was kneeling on the sand in front of him.
He had half a mind to think about how wrong this all was. The boss of Passione shouldn't be on the ground at his subordinate's feet. It was so backwards. Fugo had never wanted anything more.
Fugo could feel the slight tremble as Giorno brought his hand up to his face, and marveled at this crack in Giorno's exoskeleton. He held his breath in anticipation as Giorno's warm breath fanned across his fingertips. Finally, Giorno pressed a gentle kiss to the palm of Fugo's hand.
From this distance, Fugo could see how Giorno's emerald eyes shone with determination. A sort of conviction he hadn't seen since he'd heard him declare his plans to take over Italy's mafia.
Once again, he thought : 'you're too important to be mine.'
Giorno said, "Watch me."
This was a dangerous game, one Fugo could not help but let himself fall freely into. Giorno had beaten the devil. If Fugo was what he wanted, then who was anyone to say otherwise ?
—
Giorno had never been religious. He thought it was a ridiculous idea. If you truly wanted something done, there was no sense in praying, you’d just have to do it yourself. Giorno wanted Fugo badly. Fugo was better than god. Fugo was real.