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How are those with no home left to return to supposed to survive?
He inhaled the turbid air, watching the dust motes drift through the light. Pannacotta Fugo sat in the basement, picking up a transparent packet filled with a pale, whitish powder. It was a commodity that sold exceptionally well to those who had suffered a profound loss. It was also the very thing Bruno Bucciarati had loathed with every fiber of his being.
Ever since he had severed ties with Bucciarati’s group, Fugo had sought to utilize this substance by any means necessary to secure his own standing within the organization. He could never have done it under Bucciarati, but things were different now. Passione had recognized Fugo’s brilliant mind, his commendable efforts, and they intended to exploit his talents to the fullest.
When the rumors regarding the Assassination Squad and the Boss’s Elite Guard—units that once existed solely for the former Boss—completely died out, and Giorno became the new Boss, Fugo felt a momentary jolt of surprise. Yet, in a way, he accepted it as inevitable. Giorno was exactly that kind of person; he was always bound to achieve it eventually. Even if Fugo himself hadn't believed it at the time.
With the shift in leadership, the organization was plunged into chaos. Higher-ups who would normally be meticulously punctual suddenly went radio silent. It was only after days of dizzying confusion that a new directive finally reached Fugo.
Eradicate all heroin.
Undoubtedly, that order was the lingering will of Bucciarati, acting through Giorno. The moment Fugo heard the news, he slammed the phone down in a fit of rage. For Fugo to secure a place in the organization without any other connections, those powders were precisely what he needed. To be a mafioso and refuse to touch drugs—does that make any sense?
…Even when he was under Bucciarati, that was what he had truly thought. He had been prepared to climb to the top by any means necessary. He had only pretended to obey because Bucciarati’s conviction was so unyielding. In reality, he was nothing more, nothing less, than a piece of trash.
The companions he had once walked with had completely transformed the organization. Narcotics were no longer something Passione dealt in. As he hauled the very last crate of white powder, Pannacotta Fugo realized he needed something else to anchor him. Now that the drug distribution was blocked, he had to find another line of work. However, he couldn't work alone. He needed something more. Or rather, someone.
Should he take up assassination? Or should he become the brains for someone else, just as he had done under Bucciarati…? Fugo felt as though he had become a stray dog. How ridiculous. It made it sound as if he had actually known his way until now. What lay before him was a life lived entirely without purpose or meaning, just merely existing. In truth, that was the genuine essence of life, but Fugo decided to indulge wholeheartedly in the kind of rebellion only a sixteen-year-old could afford.
…He needed something! First, he had to see the new Boss. He had to see Giorno.
“Come in.”
“……”
The one who guided him to the room where Giorno Giovanna awaited was Mista. Fugo felt an awkward stiffness around him; Mista seemed to carry a far more mature air now. If it had been the Mista from before they reached the boat, he would have been running his mouth without a moment's rest—ranting about how great it was to be alone, or wondering if Fugo had met some girl to share his taste in music with during their time apart. Mista was the kind of man who would have at least made light conversation about Fugo’s well-being. He was never meant to possess this kind of grim, resolute aura.
Without a word, Mista led him to a door adorned with gold trim.
For some reason, as Fugo walked down the hallway, a strange sense of guilt gnawed at him. And if asked whether guilt was all he felt… No, perhaps he had been hoping. Perhaps he had believed they could act as if nothing had happened. Though, in reality, acting as if nothing had happened was impossible for any of them.
Fugo parted his lips as if to say something, but closed them again in silence.
Giorno didn't even blink upon seeing his former teammate for the first time in months. Couldn't he act a bit more familiar? Fugo thought for a fleeting second. Well, it wasn't as if they were on smiling terms anyway. It was true that Giorno had never been particularly close to him… and what did it matter now? It was laughable to speak of friendship with someone who had abandoned his own teammate to choose a girl he had only known for a few days.
Fugo needed to speak. He needed to tell them that he had to belong somewhere again. To give him work. That he needed to put his intellect to use. So, introduce him to the right people. He should have let out those purely professional words.
Yet, what escaped his mouth was entirely different.
“Where is Narancia?”
For a moment, Fugo doubted whether that single sentence had actually come from his own lips. He was supposed to discuss business; he had organized everything he wanted to say while walking down the hallway. But the moment he faced that familiar, somewhat boyish countenance, the words just spilled out…
Fugo wanted to pretend he didn't realize he was still harboring expectations. He clenched his fists tight.
“Sorry. Pretend I didn't say that.”
The moment Giorno heard Fugo’s words, a dark shadow flitted across his face. Mista, who was staring out the window, let out a heavy sigh.
What is it?
Giorno immediately reverted to his usual expressionless facade, but Fugo could perceive that something… had gone horribly wrong.
“Fugo. There is information I must convey to you.”
The information to be delivered was brief, spanning only a couple of sentences. A few more words were exchanged after that, and the purpose of Fugo's visit to Giorno was more or less achieved.
And Fugo bitterly regretted coming to see Giorno.
Good riddance.
He had hated him countless times. Narancia, who had chosen that girl over him, who had chosen 'righteousness.' Countless times, he had envisioned bludgeoning him to death with a stone. In his imagination, Narancia was a mangled wreck. His cheekbones were bruised a deep, indigo blue, as if stained with paint, and he coughed up blood as thick and crimson as a ruptured pomegranate. Fugo would mock that wheezing breath, that desperate struggle to stay alive, sneering at it as if watching some grotesque performance. Narancia would crawl on all fours, clutching at Fugo’s legs, begging for forgiveness over and over again.
“Forgive me, Fugo…”
For what? For choosing the greater good? For an ignorant fool choosing righteousness? For choosing another girl over him? For not staying by his side? For acting on behalf of a girl whose musical tastes he didn't even know, a girl he'd known for mere days, instead of the savior who had rescued him from the brink of death? For it not being him?
Then you shouldn't have done it in the first place…
The end of the fantasy always involved Fugo holding Narancia close. It’s alright, Narancia. You’ve returned now, so it’s alright. From now on, you just have to follow my choices. I am smarter than you, I know how to weigh profits, and I don't make foolish decisions. You said you wanted to go to school, right? I’ll teach you enough so you can get in. If you just follow me, your path will be smooth. You won't be in pain, and I can feed you delicious pizza every single day. I will… only I can…
Fugo had murmured those words while embracing the imaginary Narancia. Over and over again. And after holding him, he would throttle that slender neck, deriving a sense of absolute supremacy from the choking expression on his face… Over and over, truly, countless times, he violated him in his mind. Kicking him, spitting on him, tearing his insides apart. Wreaking his petty revenge… Believing that if Narancia truly apologized, he, in his immense magnanimity, would take him back despite everything.
If they met again, if they only met again…
Who could have known they would never meet again?
Upon hearing Giorno’s words, Fugo returned to the basement. While taking his first shower since his return, he touched his own genitals, thinking of Narancia. He didn't usually masturbate. He had no time for it, nor any real interest in sex. But this time, Fugo thought of Narancia.
It was strange. He had never considered him in a sexual light before. He had occasionally felt a desire to protect him, but he had never desired anything from him. Especially not anything sexual.
…He imagined those forearms, still holding a bit of boyish softness. He imagined frictioning himself rapidly against the fold of Narancia's armpit to coax out pleasure, wrapping his member in Narancia's hair, spilling his seed across that small face.
It was hilarious that it was only after Narancia’s death that he could indulge in such erotic fantasies so freely. He would never have dared to imagine it when Narancia was alive. He could never have dared to do it with a living Narancia.
It was a relief that Narancia hadn't apologized, that he hadn't come looking for him, that he no longer could. Everything was still Narancia’s fault.
Fugo washed the fluids from his hands. As he rinsed them, he laughed.
Fugo had been confident that he could be a home for Narancia. He was entirely confident that he could provide an absolute sanctuary for the boy who had been betrayed by those he trusted. Once he amassed enough wealth and secured his position, he had been confident he could leave the organization and live together with Narancia.
It was Narancia who had betrayed all those expectations. Narancia was the bad one. And now that he was dead, all that confidence amounted to nothing.
Fugo dropped his head heavily.
Drip. Drip.
Fugo felt that the sound of the water dripping from the showerhead sounded exactly like the gunfire of Aerosmith.