Chapter Text
He would have never expected it, but Fugo’s life changed for the better after his parents kicked him out. Losing the luxury of a high-class life afforded him more freedom than he had ever had. He was good at thinking on his feet, so he had been making it fine on the street, but meeting Bucciarati changed everything: he had a comfortable place to live and a steady job that afforded him more freedom than ever.
It was so much more comfortable than home that sometimes he almost forgets that this new job of his was working for the mafia.
To be fair, it was easy to forget sometimes; there wasn’t much he could do for Passione day-to-day considering his stand. Not like that bothered him either, because Fugo never liked using his stand very much despite its strength. That extreme power came at a price: the carnage Purple Haze caused was indiscriminate. Anything or anyone caught within its short range would be quickly and fatally infected by the virus contained in the capsules on its knuckles as soon as they were broken open. Fugo himself had to stay away, as he and Bucciarati had learned. Better to know now than to find out on accident, Bucciarati said, the hard way. The results of their experimentation left an indented scar in his side. Bucciarati cut off the skin Purple Haze had touched, a spot just below Fugo’s ribs, before the piercing, melting pain of the virus could spread any further. It was obvious he wasn’t immune, but he had a feeling the virus would have been even less kind to the skin of anyone else.
Due to the inevitable consequences, he relegated it to more of a last resort and therefore took extra care to ensure he was capable of taking care of himself without using his stand. Conveniently for him most of the short time he’d spent as a member of Passione had involved running numbers and sometimes errands for Bucciarati, mixed with some local reconnaissance and the occasional clearance for strategizing territory enforcement or similar missions. Polpo didn’t keep Bucciarati on a very tight leash, especially with his popularity in the area, but with a team of just two, Polpo couldn’t give them much to work with. Most of the jobs assigned to Bucciarati were easily accomplished by him alone.
That hadn’t at all slowed the two of them down in figuring out their working dynamic. After just a few months of working together they had developed a real sense of synchronicity: Fugo knew what music Bucciarati liked, and had learned how he had specific songs for different moods; he knew how he took his coffee (dark roast espresso with just a tablespoon of sugar). Most of their evenings were spent in the living room of their shared apartment in blissful silence besides the music playing softly from the stereo, always carefully chosen for the feeling of that particular night.
Because of this Fugo didn’t understand why Bucciarati felt the need to introduce someone new to the team. Well, he did— of course he did, two people are hardly a team, this could open them up to more assignments and give Bucciarati an opportunity to increase his influence in Passione— the truth was he dreaded the idea of having to learn to get along with someone else. He must have gotten lucky with Bucciarati, because human interaction was one of Fugo’s worst subjects. Though he knew how to be polite, it could be hard to maintain. His nerves always seemed to feel stretched thin.
“Someone will be joining us for lunch today,” Bucciarati had told him over breakfast, his tone suggesting to Fugo it was something far more important than a simple visit. Bucciarati had a great poker face, but his fear had a few tells. Fugo watched the way he stirred his coffee, looking for any sign of nervousness, but his circles were smooth. Sounds like it could be good news then.
“Someone from Passione?”
“Possibly. Someone who might be joining us.”
Fugo swallowed too soon, hot coffee scalding its way down his throat.
“Joining us? Our team?” He tries to cover the disappointment with the vague curiosity he has, but the way Bucciarati looks at him tells him he wasn’t very successful.
“Yes,” he says, lifting his mug and taking a sip. Fugo coughs. His throat burns. “You understand why this is important, don’t you?”
“Of course,” he says quickly. He’s weighed the pros and cons before. He knew it was inevitable. “Of course I do.”
Bucciarati nods curtly.
“You two will get along fine, I think. You’re sort of similar in some ways actually.”
“How?”
The mug clinks as Bucciarati taps his fingers on the ceramic, looking at the ceiling while he thinks.
“You’re both rather broody,” he says finally, followed by a drink of coffee, a small smile hiding behind the rim of the cup.
Fugo rolls his eyes, earning a laugh from Bucciarati.
Though Bucciarati had told him more about their new potential team member, the man who stepped into the back room of Libeccio that afternoon was not at all what he had been expecting.
He’s dressed well, sort of; he’s cleaned up at least, and in mostly black, a stark difference from the light, unruly hair that makes its way over his forehead and down the back of his neck like it had just been given permission to grow out. Also distancing him from Fugo’s initial well-to-do impression are the significant bags under the man’s eyes, made only more prominent by the pale shade of his skin. Fugo stands as he approaches, bowing his head slightly, although he wasn’t yet convinced the man was deserving of such respect. He trusts Bucciarati’s judgment though, so he sticks a hand out towards him.
“It’s nice to meet you. You can call me Fugo.”
He dips his head again as their hands meet, the angle of his head only making the newfound smirk on the man’s face more apparent.
“You didn’t tell me you had a secretary,” he says, turning his head to Bucciarati. Fugo yanks his hand away, feeling it quickly form into a fist at his side as his face heats up in a heady mix of anger and embarrassment. What did Bucciarati tell him? Did this piece of shit really just call him a secretary?!
Bucciarati chuckles, but it’s a short bark of a laugh that signals to Fugo he’s not very amused.
“This is my teammate I’ve told you about, and I assure you he’s capable of much more than just paperwork. Fugo, this is Leone Abbacchio.”
“It’s a pleasure.” Fugo snarls, unsurprised when Bucciarati shoots him a glare as he sits back down. He knew just how fiery Fugo’s temper was, and he certainly wasn’t afraid to put it out. So Fugo respectfully keeps his mouth shut. Bucciarati pulls out the seat in front of Fugo and Abbacchio takes it with a quiet thanks before fixing his scalding blue eyes back on Fugo.
“He’s just a kid,” he says, clearly to Bucciarati despite still looking at Fugo. He clenches his jaw tightly to avoid the temptation to literally bite his tongue.
“I’m fifteen. ” He says slowly, wishing it didn’t sound so minuscule. “And you can speak to me, you know.”
“Fugo just had a birthday, actually,” Bucciarati interjects, probably so Fugo can’t say anything worse. “And if I recall you did as well, Abbacchio? That would make you fall under the same astrological sign.”
Abbacchio scoffs, and Fugo narrowly avoids uttering a similar sound of disbelief. Of course Bucciarati would know they have some arbitrary commonality like that.
“Fascinating,” says Abbacchio dully, pouring himself a generous glass of wine from the bottle on the table as Bucciarati takes the seat to Fugo’s right. That put him between the two of them, which Fugo was already beginning to think might be necessary.
“It is!” Bucciarati says, eyes lighting up, and as usual it’s impossible to doubt that he fully believes his words. “So,” he drums his fingers on the table before taking the bottle from Abbacchio and pouring his own glass. “As I’ve discussed with the two of you individually, the three of us are all stand users.”
Abbacchio leans an elbow on the table to prop his head up as if he was already bored of the conversation. Fugo feels his eye twitch. He can’t stand to watch someone be so disrespectful to Bucciarati.
“Abbacchio just received his stand, and he and I explored how its ability could be a viable asset to the team.” He looks from Fugo to Abbacchio. “Would you like to tell Fugo what your stand can do?”
Abbacchio sips his drink, casting Fugo a glance over the rim of the glass. “Not particularly.”
Bucciarati’s lips make a line.
“May I?”
“If you want.”
Fugo grips the table cloth, disturbing the cutlery closest to him. Bucciarati’s hand shoots out to catch anything approaching the edge of the table, which luckily ends up being nothing.
“Abbacchio’s stand has a very unique ability,” he begins, giving Fugo a look that stirs some guilt in his gut. “It takes the form of a person at any point of time in the past and essentially replays their actions.” He smiles at Abbacchio as he continues. “All it has to do is rewind to that particular moment and then it recreates the scene as it happened. He can even fast-forward the actions or rewind them if needed. It’s much like a cassette player in that respect, and has features like one too.”
Bucciarati was right; its usefulness to them was immediately obvious. If only it wasn’t attached to such an insolent bastard.
“So a great stand for reconnaissance.” Fugo says, lifting his fingers from the edge of the table.
“Exactly.” Bucciarati smiles again. “And what did you decide to call it, Abbacchio?”
His face actually visibly flushes, and Fugo bites the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh. Abbacchio must catch him looking because he gives him a scowl.
“Moody Blues,” he mumbles into his glass. “What’s the kid’s?”
(Good choice. Fugo tries not to be impressed.)
“Purple Haze.” He says evenly, refusing to entertain Abbacchio’s apparent desire for Bucciarati to speak for him.
“Purple Haze?” Finally, he speaks directly to Fugo, though not any less condescending than before. “I sure hope the fuckin’ thing is purple.”
Bucciarati throws a hand in front of Fugo before he even stands up, but he still springs to his feet, hands slamming on the table and further disrupting its contents, this time spilling Bucciarati’s glass of wine all over the table. He regains control and hastily apologies, pulling his napkin from his lap and dabbing at the now surely-ruined tablecloth. He feels his face burn with embarrassment once more as Bucciarati picks the glass up, his expression stony but emotion, as usual, indeterminate. Abbacchio refills his glass before restoring the contents of his own. Fugo wants to throw it in his face. No way this guy’s usefulness outweighed his shitty attitude.
Just as Fugo opens his mouth to apologize again to Bucciarati, he’s called to the front of the restaurant by one of the hosts. Bucciarati sighs, his shoulders almost dramatically rising and falling with his breath.
“I’ll be back,” he says as he stands, adjusting his suit and checking the front of it for any wine stains. “Behave,” he says to Fugo, who nods and ducks his head, mortified that Bucciarati should feel the need to talk to him like a child. As soon he becomes mortified that Abbacchio must be thrilled to see his point proved, Bucciarati points a finger to him. “You too.”
Fugo feels just a little better after that.
He grabs the papers he had pushed to the side before Abbacchio had come in, grateful he moved them before the spill. He gets back to work totaling restaurant protection payments, feeling Abbacchio watching him as he plugs numbers into the calculator.
“So,” he says, not looking up, “You were a cop?”
Fugo sees his hand freeze as he reaches for his glass. He meets his gaze, blue eyes burning into Fugo’s.
“Yes.” He brings it to his mouth with none of his previous hesitation and takes a large sip, clearly not intending to expand on the subject. He had none of the charisma, and certainly none of the warmth of Bucciarati. He would be a cop.
“Quite a career change.”
Now that he seems to have hit a nerve, and also maybe because Bucciarati was gone, Abbacchio snaps at him. “What’s up with you, huh? You’re just a kid.” Like he forgot it was the first thing he said when he walked in.
“I am fifteen,” he repeats through his teeth, anger quickly building again.
“Yeah. Shouldn’t you be in school or something? A couple months ago I could have taken you in for truancy.”
So he’ll talk about being a cop when he can use it to be condescending. Okay.
“Bucciarati was twelve when he joined Passione.” He forms the words with his mouth slowly for emphasis, unafraid to speak to Abbacchio the way he had been talking to him now without Bucciarati there to tell him not to. “And I finished secondary school and was accepted to university when I was thirteen.” He’s aware of how arrogant he sounds, but he doesn’t care; Abbacchio has been pretending he’s better than him this entire time. He feels it’s only fair to himself to tell the truth.
Abbacchio’s lip curls as he looks at him. “What happened? You’re not much older than that now.”
“And you’re not much older than me.” He snaps back.
Abbacchio just rolls his eyes in response, his slightly raised eyebrows completing Fugo’s mental picture of a man not easily impressed.
“You had it all, didn’t you? You’re no regular street urchin.” His bright eyes study Fugo’s face, and he can feel every feature being analyzed. He tries to ignore the nervousness finding a home in the accelerating heartbeats in his chest. “Much more high-class. Fugo, right? Your family has money. Not old money, but money, certainly.”
It makes him sick to think anyone would be able to come to that conclusion so easily. Especially just from hearing his name. If only he could rid himself of it. He wants to erase everything, every part of him that had any connection to his past. If he had gained Purple Haze before he met Bucciarati, he’s sure he would have used its power to melt himself to nothing.
“Passione is my family,” he says quietly.
Abbacchio takes that in with another long sip of wine. When he starts pouring himself another glass, Fugo finds himself very aware that it’s his third. He looks over at him, again, tripling Fugo’s desire to gouge his eyes out with the fork in front of him.
“I don’t get it though,” he says, folding his hands under his chin. “How did an uppity little thing like you get pulled into this business in the first place?”
“I nearly beat a man to death,” Fugo says through clenched teeth, holding in a rage not too dissimilar to the one that had caused him to do that very thing. “With an encyclopedia. You were a cop. You might have heard about it.”
Abbacchio’s eyebrows meet, and then raise to his forehead as his eyes glow with recognition.
“Jesus Christ,” he says, rubbing his temples. “That was you?”
Fugo says nothing, just returns the cold stare Abbacchio has been giving him all afternoon. When their eyes meet again, he thinks he notices some of the coolness melting away.
He shakes his head. “Yeah, I did hear about that case. Let’s see if I can remember what happened…” He taps a long finger to his chin in mock thoughtfulness. “Oh, right. They wanted to try the kid for aggravated assault until the charges went away.” He looks up, flourishing his hand as he says it. “Poof. Disappeared in a cloud of lire.”
Fugo opens his mouth but Abbacchio continues before he can say anything.
“I also remember the university receiving a very generous donation shortly after. So you got kicked out of the University of Bologna? Damn, no wonder your parents were pissed. You know, I remember hearing some weird things about that case, that the professor was a creep.” He says all of this quickly, even casually, as if he’s discussing the weather or something similar of very little consequence.
But this was not something of little consequence.
Fugo’s mouth is dry. This time, he can barely even open his mouth to speak.
“What did you hear?” he asks, his voice scratchy and pained. He feels lightheaded. Abbacchio smirks, like it was something funny, and not the worst thing that had ever fucking happened to him.
“That he was, ah… hands-on with some of his students. I didn’t think that had anything to do with the case, since the one that beat his ass—you— were just a kid, but—”
A gag erupts in Fugo’s throat before he even notices his stomach churning furiously. He doesn’t hear the rest of Abbacchio’s words as he gets up and runs to the bathroom, unable to care about the utensils or the chair he knocked down along the way.
He vomits into the sink, bile burning his throat as he hacks up the thankfully small meal he had for breakfast. His hands, shaky and white, cling to the porcelain as he trembles over it in a cold sweat. When he looks at himself in the mirror, his eyes are rimmed red and watering profusely. It’s just from throwing up , he tells himself, yanking some paper towels from the dispenser and wiping at his ghastly face. Gagging constricts the muscles around your tear ducts and they overflow. It’s normal. That always happens. He’s not crying. He had stopped crying about it a long time ago.
He makes a face as he looks down at the mess in the sink. He turns the faucet and tries to run some water to clean it out, but to no avail. The stupid drain stopper was too big. With another gag, he reaches in and pulls it up, turning the faucet up all the way and allowing the pressure to wash out the more offensive chunks. He goes to work wiping the sink basin clean, carefully following the ridges with a paper towel. Who did fucking Abbacchio think he is?. Why the hell did he have to know about that? Why would he say something about it? He was going to tell Bucciarati about all of this, and not spare a single one of his thoughts on Leone Abbacchio and his terrible fucking attitude. He scrubs furiously, his whole body tense and committed to the movement until he finds himself satisfied with his work. He runs the water again to wash his hands, watching it pool up at the bottom before pouring down the drain.
This really wasn’t unlike the moments following his incident, actually.
Without a word, he had left the lobby of the library for the bathroom. No matter how hard he fucking scrubbed the blood wouldn’t come off of his hands. As soon as he thought he was rid of all of it, he noticed a spot on his sleeve, just a speck of scarlet by the button on his wrist.
He was still rubbing at the spot when they came to arrest him. He had rubbed his sleeve so hard that the skin underneath was raw.
A hauntingly familiar red drop in the sink shakes him from his reverie— was he bleeding? He examines his hands and sure enough, he’d become so lost in the memory that he reopened a cut he doesn’t even remember the origin of on his knuckle. As his hand hovers above the sink, another drop makes its way down into the water, only to be diluted and washed away down the drain.
He dries his hands and exits the bathroom.
When Fugo returns, Bucciarati is back at the table with food, which Fugo has absolutely no interest in after what just happened. He takes his seat back in front of Abbacchio, who only looks up from his own plate for a moment when the chair legs scratch on the ground. He can feel Bucciarati’s eyes on him but avoids his gaze as he takes a sip of water.
“Are you alright, Fugo? You don’t look well.”
“I’m fine.” He clears his throat and wipes his mouth. To keep Bucciarati from prying further, and also to stamp out any of their guest’s lingering feelings of victory, he speaks to Abbacchio.
“You like the Moody Blues?” While not too familiar with their entire discography, Fugo was rather fond of the orchestral compositions of Days of Future Passed himself. He had grown up exposed to lots of classical music; just another one of his parents’ attempts, along with countless piano lessons and language tutors and etiquette classes, to make him educated and well-rounded and whatever the hell else they saw befitting a child of high society. Despite it all being a chore, he never stopped enjoying piano or classical music. The album’s mixture of that style and a more modern rock sound had always been appealing to him.
Abbacchio looks up at him, eyebrows raised, like he’s surprised Fugo was still trying to talk to him. While his stare is still pointed, it feels a little less angry, almost concerned. The thought of Abbacchio pitying him is almost enough to make him sick again.
“Enough to name a part of myself after them, I guess.”
Obviously.
“I quite like them too.” Bucciarati says with a sip of his wine, sensing Fugo’s annoyance if the haste of his response is anything to go by. It’s crazy how well Bucciarati could read him.
“And Bucciarati,” Abbacchio asks, “yours is… a Rolling Stones song?”
“A Rolling Stones album ,” he corrects him, just as quickly as Fugo does in his mind. “My father’s favorite.”
Fugo had discussed music at length over the last few months with Bucciarati, including their stands’ namesakes, and he didn’t know why Bucciarati felt the need to share these things so soon with Abbacchio. They felt private. He just got here; he didn’t deserve to be privy to all the details yet.
“It’s actually very fascinating, that album. Are you familiar with the sleeve artwork?”
Contrary to Fugo’s last thought, he was not familiar with the artwork. He shakes his head, and so does Abbacchio. He grabs his glass of water to hide his scowl. Bucciarati folds his hands on the table before beginning his spiel.
“The band commissioned American artist Andy Warhol– you’ve certainly seen his work, it’s very famous– to create a cover that encapsulated the increasingly… sensual nature of their work. Something more adult. So the cover is a photograph of the crotch of a man’s jeans,” he says nonchalantly, as if this isn’t a bizarre subject to discuss over a meal, “with a functioning zipper. It felt only right to honor such an innovative piece with the name of my stand, and then of course, my own personal association with it.” He gives a knowing sort of smile to Abbacchio, who winks back, despite this apparently being his first time hearing about this.
Maybe Fugo was glad he didn’t know; the mental image of unzipping a man’s pants, even in this context, made him blush and feel very uncomfortable. He couldn’t believe Bucciarati would use something so… provocative as the basis for his stand’s name. It seemed so out of character. Did he not know Bucciarati as well as he thought he did? The thought makes him sick to his stomach again.
“Wonderful mealtime discussion, Bucciarati,” Abbacchio snorts. “Very illuminating.”
Bucciarati shakes his head, but that smile is still there, and there’s a certain look in his eyes as he watches Abbacchio twist pasta around his fork.
Fugo could not for the life of him figure out what he could have possibly done to win Bucciarati’s favor, but he had a feeling he was going to be stuck with Abbacchio now.
Great.
—
Bucciarati pays for their meals and says goodbye to Abbacchio before exiting the restaurant with Fugo to begin the walk back to their apartment. Once they’re outside, Fugo doesn’t bother to wait for Bucciarati to ask.
“I can’t stand him,” he says, the words flying out of him. “He’s disrespectful to you and acts like he’s entitled to a place on your team. He relentlessly instigated with me and seemed like he was just there to take advantage of your kindness, and to drink! He finished that bottle of wine himself! He—”
“Fugo.” Bucciarati says, and Fugo reluctantly shuts his mouth. He knows he’s already said too much, though he wasn’t nearly done.
“I’ll address that last part, though I probably shouldn’t.” He walks with his hands in his pockets, looking towards the ground. “He does have… a bit of a drinking problem. But he’s aware of it,” he says when Fugo gives him a look. “He’s getting it under control. It’s none of your business, and it won’t interrupt our work.”
“He’s an asshole regardless.”
“Fugo,” he begins again in that scolding tone, and then sighs. “I’m sorry. I understand your anger. He wasn’t very polite to you.”
Though Fugo is grateful to hear Bucciarati acknowledge it, he doubts it will change anything.
“No. He was incredibly demeaning.”
“I’ll speak to him about it. But Fugo,” he stops on the sidewalk, and Fugo has to take a step back to be back by his side. “He’ll be a valuable addition to our team. I know it was hard to see today, but he’s a good man.” Fugo’s disbelief must show in his face, because Bucciarati becomes more serious. “He’s going through a hard time. He lost everything and he’s struggling. When I met you, you were in a very similar position.”
He looks into Bucciarati’s eyes and remembers the first time he really saw them, across the table from him at the same restaurant they were just in. He learned that day that Bucciarati had a good heart. He was someone that wanted to save people. He had certainly saved Fugo.
Fugo just didn’t think that everyone could be saved.
He nods anyway. “I apologize for being so scathing. I shouldn’t have let him get to me.”
“I understand,” he says again, waving a hand before he continues walking. “As I said, I’ll talk to him. You’re on the same team now, and should treat each other as such.”
And there it was. Fugo tries to keep his sigh as inaudible as possible. He was going to have to figure out how to get along with Abbacchio, even if just for Bucciarati’s sake.
He was not looking forward to it.