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Pannacotta Fugo was a thinker.
He always had been. Was trained to be. Turning his papers over two, three, four times with sweat on his brow making sure that not a single question was mistaken, not a single line out of place. It was always better if he caught them first, could rectify the mistake before it was deemed punishable.
Unfortunately, he learned soon after, overthinking isn’t a skill you turn off and on like a convenient lamp. Couldn’t even dim it at the worst of times.
The exterior effects were obvious. An anxious demeanor, an overreaction to small transgressions. Fugo didn’t have an entire stick up his ass, he could admit himself it had its funny moments. Usually, though, just an embarrassing lack of control on his behalf.
No, that wasn’t the worst of it. Fugo kept those parts hidden very well.
The late nights being woken from a dream, so vivid, so real. The lingering feeling of hands against his face, chest, thighs, groin. His heartbeat picking up, so convinced he was seconds away from having a goddamn heart attack right there in his bed, his teammates having to find his body in the morning.
The cold, soothing press of a porcelain lid against frail, shaking hands. The stench and taste of vomit rolling through his senses like an unavoidable wave, ready to pull Fugo under. The heat between his legs, erection straining against his pajamas and the burning hot humiliation on his face.
Besides his own retching and the fan turned on to not alert any other residence of the house, it was quiet. Nothing for Fugo to do but think.
He’d beaten a man half to death over something he himself was now getting hard to. The man was disgusting, a disgrace to mankind, sure. But did that make Fugo any better? To get excited to his own recollections of being defiled from the first man he truly trusted? Memories forced upon him, yes. A natural human reaction, you could argue. That would have held up, would have let Fugo rid himself of the guilty conscience that followed him around like an infection.
That is, if Fugo had never taken things into his own hands. Had never succumbed to the worst part of himself.
It made his stomach churn just thinking about it.
Only worsened the feeling knowing that it still wouldn’t deter him next time.
Narancia Ghirga was not a thinker.
Fugo tried not to call him stupid because, really, he wasn’t. Narancia knew a lot of things, lots more than Fugo in some regards. Like the best way to find thrown out food that isn’t completely rotten and diseased. Or the best places to stab someone if you want them dead as quickly and with as little fuss as possible. How to win a one-on-one fight when you’re at a height and weight disadvantage against your opponent, knowledge Narancia used against Fugo quite frequently in fact.
Fugo was educated, Narancia was not. Narancia was a fighter, Fugo was not. Products of their environments, one could say.
So yes, Narancia was impulsive. He didn’t think things through all the time. Well, Fugo thought things through too much all the time. Let him without sin cast the first stone.
But… It made him wonder. If Narancia hadn’t told him everything about his past.
He wasn’t born a male, Fugo knew. Grappled with sometimes. Ever since that day at the hospital, bandages on and gown falling over his small chest, Narancia yelling at him that it didn’t matter what the doctors or his father or the paperwork says, he’s a boy, get it right or get the fuck out.
He always had a flair for the dramatics. Pot meet kettle.
Narancia always had to use what he had on hand to survive. Stealing, assaulting, fleeing. All parts of his daily life before Fugo found him. He did what he had to in order to live. Fugo admired that.
An idea nestled in his mind though, unsure of exactly why or when. Just knew one time he looked over at Narancia, hair unkempt, clothes leaning off his smaller frame, grin wild, and wondered if they did it to Fugo then why not him?
It sounded really bad, he knew. It’s not as if he wanted Narancia to go through the same things he had, of course not. The very notion made him feel sick, irate. But realistically, it seemed unlikely. Fugo had money, power, and a name to back him up and he still got targeted. Narancia would be an incredibly easy victim, only thing you needed to offer was a free meal or two. He’d be insane to pass that up.
Before he knew it, Fugo was watching Narancia’s every move. Seeing how he acted, seeing if maybe, just maybe, they were similar in that way too. Maybe Narancia just hid it better. Eventually, though, every player has to show his cards. There’d be something. There had to be.
“Woah.” Narancia had said while they were at a café one day, just the two of them. He was staring at a magazine leisurely. He pushed it towards Fugo, hand still on the page. “Look at her.”
The woman was dark-skinned and lean. She was in a beautiful ball gown that spread out beneath like a goddess calling forth the bundles of earth and flora towards her. Expertly fitted to her size and one of a kind, Fugo presumed.
“She’s pretty.” He said mildly.
“How’d they even do that?” Narancia had gotten more excited in the time it took Fugo to look at the picture, now hoisting it in front of his own face, eyes bugged.
Fugo took a sip of his tea. “It’s probably photoshopped.”
Narancia frowned.
“Digitally edited.” Fugo explained. “They use it to make the pictures look better.”
“I know what photoshop means.” Narancia huffed. And then after a few beats of silence. “… They can really do that?”
Fugo shrugged. “Professionals can, sure.”
“How do we know what she looks like in real life then?” Narancia’s brow had furrowed. His attention to the magazine hadn’t wavered but gained a criticizing eye.
“We don’t. That’s the whole point.” Narancia slapped down the magazine, seemingly put-out. “Not your type anymore?”
“I don’t know.” He mumbled as he fidgeted with his own sugary soda. “I feel like I got lied to.”
Fugo stirred his tea, thinking. “Compare her to the people you’ve coupled with before. I’m sure she looks somewhat similar.” He could hear the faux casualness in his voice.
Narancia was quiet.
“… You can remember some of them, right?”
Narancia had tanner skin than him, though that wasn’t an uncommon happenstance in Fugo’s life. He much preferred the light brown, golden and warm and comforting, over his own pallid and sickly clammy appearance. For a short period of time, he longed their looks had been switched. Where Fugo could wake up and see that wonky grin staring back at him, confident and undying.
It was best they never did. Fugo probably would do nothing but stare at his own reflection all day long, analyzing each bump and curve and putting it to memory.
Narancia had his teeth on the end of his straw, gaze averted and voice somewhat muffled. “It’s embarrassing.” He admitted reluctantly.
And part of him, a humiliatingly large part, wanted to reach out and grab Narancia’s hand. Wanted to reassure him that it’s okay, you can tell him anything, tell him everything. Talk about his mother and her death, his father’s neglect, the abuse from the police and the blind eye they turned to his peril while in the clink. His favourite music, which Fugo had to listen blasted through the thin walls of Bucciarati’s home every day. His favourite food, even though he liked mushrooms on pizza which grossed Fugo out every time. What he wanted to do as they got older, whether he wanted to get married. Settle down with a woman one day, create his own family.
One Fugo wouldn’t be a part of, obviously.
He tried not to show how much the idea of that hurt.
Narancia irritated him to no end some days. And yet he still wanted to be that for him. His confidant. His best friend. The only one he told everything to and, in turn, the one Fugo could spill just the same.
Could tell him that sometimes, on a rare occasion, his dreams weren’t of his professor’s hands. They were Narancia’s. Calloused and clumsy and smaller than Fugo’s. Uncharacteristically cautious as they trailed over him, excitement evident. Fugo no longer a reluctant participant but instead willfully encouraging the boy. Telling him where to touch, where to press to make him feel good. Knowledge Fugo had learned the hard way.
It was fine that he had those dreams because Narancia was a boy but, well, he still had girl parts, right? So, it was fine. That made it okay. His hormones just got confused with his brain, nothing to be concerned about.
Those dreams didn’t make him feel as sick as the other ones. No hugging himself in the corner of the private bathroom. Not jumpy at every foreboding shadow that passed by him the next day.
Just hot and tingly. Like an itch Fugo knew he couldn’t scratch, almost longing for the dream to reclaim him once more so he might get some relief without debasing himself any further.
And guilty. Guilty, guilty, guilty. It was his natural resting state at this point.
“It’s okay.” Fugo said instead of doing any of that. Instead of ripping out the stems of the truth that suffocated his lungs and throat in a foliage. The threatening scrape against his membrane at every step, every jostle. It was going to come out one day, Fugo knew. He’d be powerless to stop it. But today wasn’t that day. Small mercies. “You don’t have to.”
Narancia hesitated. His eyes big and trusting and full. Fugo’s chest felt like it expanded with them. “I’ve never- My eye.” He gestured loosely towards his left eye, darting away momentarily before resettling on Fugo. “No one wanted to catch it, y’know.”
Fugo nodded, his own pieces slipping into place.
Of course, that was the reason. It made perfect sense with what he knew of the people who dared to call themselves good. A child’s safety, wellbeing of mind did little to stop them. Their own frivolous and unbased concern about their welfare, however? He could see that.
Narancia truly wasn’t like him. He hadn’t gone through what he had. His innocence was still his to choose when to give up, who to give it to.
A tiny, giddy smile threatened itself. Narancia hadn’t been obscuring his past from Fugo. He’d been entirely forthcoming, just a paranoid deception from his own brain. Narancia still trusted him with everything.
He tightened and loosened his fists against his thighs to control himself. To stop the bubbling giggly delight that built itself up in his stomach. It was unbecoming, but God did it feel good.
“I’ve never done anything either.” Fugo admitted. The recollection of his professor known but unacknowledged between both of them.
Fugo wasn’t as brave as Narancia. He never had been. He couldn’t tell him everything yet, couldn’t expose his darkest fantasies. It might break them apart forever. No, he wouldn’t risk that. Couldn’t risk Narancia.
It was fine though, Fugo smiled to himself while Narancia commandeered the conversation topic to the new CD he was saving up for. There was no time limit. No pressure. Fugo and Narancia, they had everything they needed.
He’d tell him someday for sure.