Archive of Our Own

It’s five in the morning and Pannacotta Fugo is standing naked and bloody in the bathroom. A patterning of crumpled and timeworn pages spread around the tiled floor. Stained with old, dirty blood that had been absorbed by the page and bloomed like a flower. Torn in weathered spots that had been weakened with the long-ago moisture of tears, spit. Semen dotting some of the edges. He didn’t have any fancy prose for that one.

Fugo snorts, knees weak and hands shaking.

How’s that for an opener?

Let’s try again.

Pannacotta Fugo is seventeen, scatterbrained, and horny. These are all more related than one may think.

He’s been the latter two much longer than he has been the former, though. Passed down to him like a gift. An heirloom of sorts. An itch.

… Actually, please disregard that. He’d rather you forget it. Lord knows he tries to.

Okay. One more time.

Pannacotta Fugo is trying to have sex with his boyfriend.

There, that wasn’t so hard.

Not that Fugo could say as much for himself. Not with the way Giorno’s hand was carefully trailing down the front of his pajama shirt, the other cupping his face so gently. Their mouths pressing in and out together, a dance they knew well by now. A calm quiet had descended over every other residence of the house, making the two boys extra alert to every creak and groan they accidentally incurred.

He was stopping now, his fingers briefing the edge of Fugo’s shirt. Soft and smooth and twisting the knife of arousal in the pit of his stomach. Halting everything. Staring up at Fugo with those smart, green, blown out eyes.

“Can I?” He asks, voice so gentle in the blanket of the night. Fingertips edging below his shirt and never any further.

Fugo nods. Of course, he can. He’s Giorno Giovanna. He can do anything.

Especially if he’s going to keep giving Fugo that smile. God, he was endearing. He presses kisses against the side of his mouth, his cheek, his jaw. Bites lightly at his ear. His hand, now granted formal permission, starts to climb its way up Fugo’s flat stomach.

His breath starts to stutter slightly. He’s always liked this.

It’s a bit embarrassing, actually. He can feel Giorno’s own erection stir to life above him, urging against his thigh. Meanwhile Fugo is already at full mast, a wayward breeze would be enough to set him off.

“Is it good?” Giorno asks quietly into his ear as Fugo lets out a weird cut-off breath. His fingers rolling lightly over his nipple.

“Yes.” He breathes out as he clenches shut his eyes. Shame burns bright like a firecracker through him. It’s different, he knows, to lose control over yourself under these circumstances. The incompetence rings through him the same.

Giorno’s other hand – the one laying on his collarbone – decides it isn’t content rubbing small circles into the small, exposed berth of Fugo’s skin anymore. It goes to the side of him. Pinching his other nipple a little harder, albeit through the fabric of his bed shirt.

“Giorno.” He says. It catches in his throat for a second, a strange hiccup noise. He rolls his hips up, his covered erection rutting against the brief of Giorno’s thigh. Giorno’s hips move too, though only minutely. As if an unconscious response. “Hurry up.”

Giorno nods, hands pausing fleetingly at the waistband of his cotton pants as he waits for Fugo to give him permission. Once Fugo reminds him that, yes, he’d like to get his dick touched before the sun rises, he pulls down the material.

He doesn’t immediately reach out to touch him, disappointingly. After fighting to get the fabric off his bony ankles without completely usurping the two from Fugo’s – too small for this, he is realizing – twin bed, he just stares at him for a second.

Which is as uncomfortable as it is unbearably hot. The head of his dick is nearly purple now with excitement. Wet dripping down the side.

He knows he’s pushing him to go fast, he can’t help it. He grabs the hand closest to his own, Giorno’s right, and leads it to his erection. Relief is instant with the small, light touches Giorno tests against his cock.

“I’m not circumcised.” He informs him this as if Fugo really cares about anything except the hand on his dick right now.

“Most Italians aren’t.” He clenches his jaw, arching his hips into Giorno. “Right there, fuck.”

“I just thought you should know.” His voice is composed as he runs his hand closer to the base, twisting it with an insidiously tight grip that has Fugo digging his nails into the sheets. “Before we continue.”

Fugo nods, but the reality of his words only set in after a few seconds.

Continue. Right. Fugo had told him he wanted to go the entire way.

Suddenly, the clenching in his stomach isn’t as enjoyable as it was before.

Giorno and him have always been around the same height. Fugo was maybe half an inch taller at most. Nothing remarkable, certainly.

But Giorno’s frame was filled out. Lined with packed muscles and the faint, lingering baby fat that still clung to his face. Fugo had put on some weight over the years, enough that nonni stopped casting worried glances in his direction whenever he walked down the street, but he’d always been thinner than average.

He wasn’t dumb. Fugo knew he stood no chance in physical combat next to any of his teammates. Without Purple Haze or the gun he kept tucked close to his belt anytime he went out, he was sure he’d been killed long ago.

Giorno starts to push down his own underwear and pants, probably just to get some relief after the entire night has been him paying attention to Fugo. Christ. He was being inconsiderate. Without even a noise of complaint from Giorno’s end. He really didn’t deserve him.

He uses his legs to scoot Giorno closer to him as he reaches out to return the favour. Foreskin or not, there wasn’t really a huge difference. Dicks are dicks, he supposed.

Though Giorno’s head was particularly sensitive. He shuts his eyes and subtly jerks his hips forward as Fugo runs a circle over the glands.

There’s something about the scene, something Fugo couldn’t quite place if questioned about. Maybe it was the darkness of the room, the only illumination coming from the unblinded window. The overwhelming need to be quiet, to not be found out. Maybe it was just the body overtop of him. The foreign dick jutting out almost menacingly. The knowledge of what was to come.

But it was something, or maybe a collection of somethings, that made Fugo freeze up, memories stirring.

Let’s go back a few days. Back to the bathroom.

The blood isn’t Fugo’s. Some deadbeat’s who’s been beat ‘til he’s dead. Excuse him for that line, it was originally Mista’s quip. He always had a joke. Even in the immediate moments after taking a living, breathing person, and turning them into nothing but tomorrow morning’s crime scene. A warning for all those who passed by before the cops came and cleaned it up.

Part of the job. Fugo didn’t flinch anymore either, only wrinkled his nose at the stains and the tackiness against his skin. Resolving to take a shower as soon as he got home.

There turned to be downsides to living with other teenagers, who knew? This particular grievance was a reoccurring theme in Fugo’s life. Laundry and the responsibility of it.

He’d put his clothes into the wash earlier and, though it had finished before he’d gone off to report, he couldn’t move them over to the dryer because Narancia’s clothes were still in there. He’d brushed it off at the time, sure that, as any reasonable person would, Narancia would simply move Fugo’s clothes over when he came to get his.

Narancia was so fucking lucky he was staying the night at Mista’s. He was probably snoozing right now, peaceful and uncaring, while Fugo stood in blood-soaked clothes staring at his dripping wet laundry.

He kicks at the machine angrily a few times. This shit always happened when he was on nightshift.

Fugo sighs after his mini tantrum. His foot a little sore now. It was no use to whine and complain about something so trivial. He’d just go and find some old, unworn clothes in the back of his closet and move his usual garments into the dryer once he was finished showering. Clean and biohazard-free.

He frowns as he looks through his wardrobe. Fugo didn’t come to Bucciarati with much, so almost every piece of clothing he had he had gotten over the past five-ish years. Nor was he a particularly trendy person. When he replaced his clothes, it was because the originals were tattered and ripped to no repair.

Chriiiiiiist. Nothing? Really?

He adds buying extra clothes to his mental task list. This was beyond ridiculous, all of his clothes fitting into one wash. No, he thought as he frustratingly closed the closet doors, next time he won’t allow himself to fumble into the same predicament.

And as he does slam it shut, he hears something fall inside.

He’s curious and a little hopeful, so he peeks it back open.

Not pajamas. Not clothes of any kind, actually. It was a book. A journal of some sorts, it looked like.

Fugo picks it up, staring at the cover. It’s his writing in the little tagline the producers provided, albeit more scrawly. It’s leatherbound and slightly expensive looking. Fugo can’t say why, but his heart pounds a little at the sight of it.

He’s always been good at forgetting.

It’s obvious this book is his. Obvious that, for some unknown reason, it was important enough for him to stow away when he was disowned by his parents. Important enough to hide in his room, its location a stranger to everyone including the man himself.

But Pannacotta Fugo has no memory of it whatsoever.

He almost doesn’t want to open it, not here. Not in such a personal area. So, he tucks it under his arm. Walks to the hallway closet outside the bathroom and gets himself a towel. Locks the bathroom door behind him, turns on the shower. Fiddles with the temperature until its at the level he likes. Only then does he regard the book again.

The cover is fine, rough. Familiar despite the fact that it isn’t. He stares at it for a short moment, maybe preparing himself. Maybe trying to talk himself out of it.

The first page is a diary entry.

It tells of his day, of how it went. He’d just entered into university, a prodigy amongst his peers having only graduated last spring. At the ripe age of barely twelve. He expresses that he really hopes that university will be different from high school. He didn’t like high school very much, you see. Everyone there was older than him and resentful of the fact his intellect far outweighed theirs. It wasn’t a good recipe for comradery.

A nostalgic smile pulls at Fugo. It’s sad. The kid has no idea what his future holds. Still, beyond the reoccurring rambling of his own genius, there was a certain juvenility to the writing. Not in spelling or word choice. Maybe just perspective. A child is just a child, no matter how smart.

He flips to the next page.

It details his classes, how he’s still the top of the top amongst his classmates despite the fact he hadn’t even hit puberty yet and they were all adults. Names some professors, ones that distantly ring a bell in Fugo’s mind but nothing beyond that. Talks about his piano lessons and how much better he’s gotten, though he has less time now due to school. It’s so… Innocent.

The next few pages are much of the same. Lines upon lines of young Fugo’s newest grievance, of how he scored on a particularly hard assignment or test. How he’d gotten called on while not paying attention one day and still managed to get the answer right, having been so proud of himself he spent some of his allowance on an ice cream at a local grocer.

Fugo has an incredulous smile on his face as he pours through each page. Really? He’d risked taking this of all things when he’d been thrown out? Has he always been so sentimental?

And then something changes.

Innocuous at first, it wrote about one of the required classes he had to take for his major. He was studying to become a lawyer, see. If everything went to plan, he’d be one of the youngest people to ever pass the bar exam. As such, he took these classes especially serious.

The professor who taught the class was odd, he details. Not like any of the other stuffy, pretentious faculty. He was fun. Tried to make every class as enjoyable as possible. Sometimes he’d even introduce games and silly videos into the class lessons, which confused Fugo. This was university. A place for mature, serious adults. Yet, one of the highest regarded member of staff had a certain jovialness to him that screamed out of place.

The next entries carried on like the previous, but they now all mentioned the professor in some regard. Some only had a brief sentence concerning the material of that day’s class, some had the entire paragraph dedicated to the man.

Fugo’s breath stutters as he reads one line in particular.

He’s invited me out to a live court hearing, it said. I told my parents it was for extra credit, and they said yes. We’re going after class on Friday!

He… He invited him out. Fugo remembers that part. He went with him.

He went back to his place after. He’d been invited to enjoy a meal with the man, to discuss what they’d seen.

God, he’d been beside himself with glee.

He keeps reading.

The entries after that Friday have shifted slightly. They were almost only about his professor now, talking about class, his assignments, what they’d discussed during after hours. They were so blatantly written with affection, like a letter to a lover across sea.

It took a while for them to get explicit.

See, Fugo knew since day one it wasn’t right. Or maybe not that it wasn’t right. Certainly, he knew it wasn’t legal. But lots of things weren’t legal. Besides, Fugo had justified at the time, surely no average adult could consensually copulate with any average child but, well, neither of the men in this case were average. Their intellect was on the same level. Which was why it was unlawful in the first place. Fugo knew the consequences, knew the risks, how could his consent not be treated as defensible as an adults?

Like he said, a child is just a child.

His stomach clenches, threatening to purge the very few items it had in it. He couldn’t- He didn’t remember this. Not, not really. Honest to God, he knew it happened, remembered the beating he’d given the man, but the years had blurred the details from his mind. A fuzzy, generic idea of what had happened. Like the wrong lenses being put on during an eye test at the optometrist.

It was disorienting, the memories being forced back into his brain, like he was back in that giant bedroom, the locked office. Remembering something and experiencing it for the first time.

It was a game they played.

Fugo had divulged about his journaling to the man one day. Over tea in his office. Almost everyone had gone home for the night, but Fugo’s parents had gotten more and more used to him returning in the late evenings. They were proud of him, they said, proud he was taking his education so seriously.

He’d asked to read a few pages, said he loved his writing and wanted to see more of it. Fugo had gotten embarrassed at the time but, at his request, promised to bring it tomorrow and show him after class.

Had sat nervously across from him at the desk. Watched as he read over every word like it was water in a drought. Fugo only sat there, twitching his hands against each other as some sort of calming ministration while he waited for his judgement.

This is very good, his professor had congratulated. It’s very good, indeed. Did he write a lot?

No, Fugo had responded. No, only here. He didn’t tell anyone about it.

His professor had nodded, hummed. The conversation carried on from there. Fugo talking about his family, how they were doing and the consistent lack of intimacy between any of them. His professor was so empathetic. He told him anecdotes from his other classes to make him smile and laugh. Tried his best to take his mind off the loneliness.

It was so hard to be lonely around him. So, so hard.

The topic had come up again one day, maybe a week or two later? Fugo couldn’t say for sure. All he knew is he was perched on his professor’s lap, a familiar erection starting to grow underneath him.

He had an idea, the man told him. Had Fugo brought his journal again?

Fugo nodded, of course he had. He’d been requested to, after all.

His obedience was rewarded with a ruffle to his hair, a kiss to his cheek. Fugo had been placed gently on the desk, his professor rustling through the backpack that laid a while from their feet.

He’d like to see him write, he told him. Would Fugo be okay with that?

A strange wish, but one Fugo could perform without difficulty. He’d taken the book, grabbed one of the pens, and started writing about his day.

He’d only gotten past the heading when he felt hands on his thighs.

Fugo looked up, curious. His professor reassured him easily to continue so, he did. Kept writing even as the fingers start to unbuckle his jeans. As his lower half was exposed.

Let out a gasp and a twitch of his hips when his erection was engulfed in his professor’s warm, familiar mouth. Squinted past arousal-driven tears and kept going.

Eventually, he’d gotten stuck. He’d written about everything that he could think of that day, but his professor kept rubbing those soothing circles into his hipbone, kept encouraging him to continue.

So, Fugo wrote about his professor. How good it felt, how much he wanted it. How glad he was to have him in his life, someone who really cared bout Fugo’s emotions, his needs. How he was so happy that, oh god, he treated him the same as he would an adult.

They continued doing this for the rest of their relationship. Not every time, but often enough a good chunk of the pages were dedicated to the game. In just about every position and scenario you could think of. Fugo still couldn’t place why the man enjoyed it so much, but he always wanted to read the babbling after they’d finished.

He knows it’s self-destructive, only making him feel worse and force the bile farther up his throat, but he can’t stop himself. He has to read more, has to read it all. Stares blankly at the bits of dried cum - his or his professor’s, he couldn’t tell – that had conspired their way onto the pages. Felt tears prick at his eyes and heat build in his stomach at every explicit retelling.

It’s become like a parasite over him. Fugo didn’t know why, but he has to take off his clothes. They felt sweltering despite the casual and breezy design. He throws them into the corner of the room. He was going to have to throw them out anyway.

His own half-hard dick stares back at him.

Fugo swallows, gripping the pages so hard they start to rip. Something about that makes him feel better, so he continues. Tears up the pieces from the journal until the pages started to accumulate around his feet. The splitting joining the sound of the shower’s running water, no doubt cold by now, and taking up all of Fugo’s brain capacity.

He has to ruin this. Has to get rid of it somehow.

Rips past all the entries and still isn’t satisfied. He tears out the empty pages too, damned just for sharing a cover with those godforsaken memories. When those had been completed, he twists and pulls at the spine. His knuckles going white and sore as he used every bit of himself to tatter it.

Throws it on the ground in front of him. Laid by the corpses of the paper. He pants, physically and mentally overcome. Leaning and sliding down the cold, tiled wall.

He’s never been very good at remembering.

“Fugo?” A calm voice, cold hands against his cheeks. “Fugo, can you hear me?”

He blinks. Where-?

Oh.

Giorno.

Right.

“I’m- I’m okay.” Was his voice always so raspy? It seemed odd; how long had he been daydreaming?

Giorno still has a frown across his face. His hand pushes back Fugo’s bangs, taking great consideration at him.

“Are you sure?” He asks, slow and clear. In case Fugo hit his head or something, he assumes.

“I’m sure.” He nods, starting to get stock of the situation. “But- ah. I’m tired. Maybe we should stop for the night.”

“Probably for the best.” Giorno agrees.

He excuses himself momentarily after that. Pulls up his clothing to preserve his decency down the short walk to the bathroom. Fugo knows he has a few minutes before he comes back, lays unblinkingly on the mattress.

His erection is still straining at him. He covers it. No more energy left in his body.

When Giorno arrives back, he simply tucks himself in next to Fugo. Pressing a chaste kiss against his forehead as he lets himself drift off to sleep. Fugo turns over, his back pressing against Giorno’s front, spooning.

Tries not to acknowledge the sick, perverse disappointment at Giorno taking ‘no’ so easily as an answer.

He can’t stop thinking about it.

It’s like the journal was a clog that was holding back the dam of memories Fugo hadn’t recalled since- since…

He used to get dreams.

Horrible, erotic dreams. A vibrant reminiscence of what had happened to him. The guilt had been tremendous at the time, had shattered his pride and esteem to the smallest fraction it could go. Even thinking about them now, Fugo’s hands twitch with the need to repent.

He only claimed to have gotten better, after all. Never said he recovered.

Giorno knows something’s off, though. It’s so easy to read his blatant concern, the watchful gaze he keeps over Fugo.

He also hasn’t tried to initiate anything past a chaste, family-friendly peck on the cheek since that day a week ago.

It’d be unfair to say he’s avoiding him, because Giorno really isn’t. They still spend the same amount of time together, still laugh and talk and fail at each other’s hobbies. But something’s wrong with Fugo. And Giorno knows something’s wrong with Fugo. And Fugo knows something’s wrong with Fugo. So, by that logic, he supposes it’s actually his fault.

Giorno wouldn’t agree with him, and honestly, Fugo doesn’t really agree with himself. It doesn’t really feel like him, whatever this is. It’s like a leech. Sucking out all his energy and thoughts until the only things remaining are his professor and the memories and that godforsaken book.

He swallows it down and does his job. It’ll figure itself out, Fugo is sure of it. He just has to outwait it.

He just has to forget.

Tears pricked Fugo’s eyes when he awoke.

He couldn’t tell you if they were formed by shame or the sharp scent of ammonia that immediately flooded his senses. The acidic odor and the large wet spot on his bottoms that spill over to the sheets on his mattress tells him exactly what happened.

It’s probably a mixture of both, he rationalizes as he watches the fabrics swish around and around in the washing machine. He certainly feels ashamed right now, degrading himself in the night like a child. He’s just glad it happened during the brink. The only thing that would make this worse is if he had to shuffle and hide the evidence past the others stumbling to their breakfast. Drowsy and so blissfully unaware.

Fugo’s memory has never been very good, but he’s very studious. Even now, as he watches the soap suds fold over his defiled laundry, he could write one of his old law textbooks from memory, one chapter in particular regarding nonverbal complainant evidence.

Signs of sexual abuse in children involve bedwetting past the age of seven or after persons have learned how to consistently stay dry through the night. Usually this is occurrent in younger victims, though it can be triggered in older survivors by a traumatic stressor.

So much for forgetting, then.

Fugo sighs. He’s supposed to be over this. The man has been dead for years. He got the only justice the cruel and corrupted system they live under would allow. There is nothing else to strive for, no court or reparations to plead.

He misses the old him. The one who was doing better. Really, genuinely doing better. The one who had let go of the past, was actually looking forward to his future, to moving on. It has to have been only two months at most since that was Fugo. Now he’s… Well, he’s Fugo again.

Sure, okay. Both are Fugo. Is it a crime for him to prefer the content, peaceful Fugo over the miserable sad sack he was now? Why did he have to assume the suffering was more his true self than the happiness? He didn’t feel like himself. Not like this.

He knocks his head against the firm wood of the wall behind him. He would like to not think about this anymore. Would like to do something stupid and reckless and possibly self-injurious without someone looking into it. Would like to act not normal without it being pointed out. The concern was nice, but Fugo couldn’t take it. Not right now, at least.

He sticks his hand into the pocket of his new, clean pants. Pulls out his phone and flips it open, dialing a number he knew by heart.

It takes a few rings before any answer occurs which, considering the time, isn’t all that egregious.

“’uuh.” A voice slurs out on the other end, a little tingy from the connection.

“Narancia.” He greets in return. “Hey, sorry. Do you want to go out?”

There’s a pause where Fugo can hear the loud snoring in the background. There’s the soft shuffle of sheets, a small grunt from Narancia, the rustle of his hair. “Whah?”

“Out.” Fugo repeats. He doesn’t feel any usual irritation bubble up at having to repeat himself. This is more than expected. And also his fault. “You, Mista, and I. We can go for a drive or something. Whatever you guys want.”

“Oh.” He can almost see Narancia shaking his head, squinting his eyes to try and wake himself up. “Huh, I guess so. Do you wanna, uh…”

He draws out the sound, probably trying to remember how to phrase what he wants to say. Fugo saves him, jumping in. “I’ll drive.” He affirms, nodding despite the fact he knows he can’t see him. “Will you guys be ready by the time I’m there?”

Another moment of silence from Narancia. He can hear him move his legs; the snoring uninterrupted. Suddenly, there’s the sound of skin hitting skin and the noise finally stops. It’s replaced by a barely awake Mista’s call of concerned annoyance. “Yeah, yeah, we’ll be ready.” Mista blearily whisper yells something at Narancia, which Fugo can’t quite place, and Narancia hisses something back. “Ah, see you in like,” A small sniffle as Narancia presumably looks over to his bedside clock. The time totally warrants a berating, but Narancia doesn’t do that. “Uh, twenty-ish?”

“Twenty-ish.” Fugo agrees. He’s in his pajamas but he feels no need to change. It’s not like he had anyone to impress. “I’ll see you then?”

“Yup.” He pops the ‘p’ at the end, finally starting to wake up properly. “See ya.”

When Fugo parks his car in front of the complex, it’s quiet.

The streetlamps on the corners have long since lit up, illuminating the bare sidewalks and the soft rustle of dirt and rocks as the wind skips them around in its wake. The radio is off. Has been since Fugo locked the door to Bucciarati’s cottage behind him and left. The only acquaintance on his trip being the soft, low hum of the car’s engine beneath him.

His eyes follow up to the seventh floor, where Mista’s apartment lay. He can’t see any lights on in any of the residences’ windows which is admittedly mildly concerning. He doesn’t want to end up waking the whole complex up just because Narancia and Mista passed back out the second the phone clicked off.

The keys remain in the ignition and Fugo watches them reflect the light outside as they hang. His hands are still firm around the steering wheel, clenching in a rhythmic pattern around the worn leather. Thankfully, it’s not too cold. Not inside Fugo’s car, at least.

He loses himself in his thinking for a while until there’s a rapt knocking against his window. As he glances up, instinctually ready to tell whatever hooker or beat cop that decided to bother him to fuck off, Narancia’s grinning face waves back.

Mista’s not too far behind him as Fugo leans over to unlock the door. His car isn’t new, a model from the ninety-fives, but he’s taken good care of it. Still, machinery is machinery and Fugo’s car isn’t exempt from having a few quirks in its system. That’s evident by the passenger side door having the only built-in unlocking mechanism that works.

“Yo.” Narancia greets as he swings open the door in a wide berth. He moves to get into the passenger side but Mista’s hand slides over the broad of his face, pulling him back.

“No way, man.” He chides as he moves the younger man so he can get in the front, obscenities being shouted at him the entire time. “You’re like half a foot shorter than me.”

Fugo can see when the idea pops into Narancia’s head, when his teeth bare against the skin of Mista’s palm. The bite is followed up with an echoing yelp from Mista in the dark night, and it’s dawning on Fugo he has to end this as quickly as possible if he doesn’t want to become this neighbourhood’s enemy number one.

“Four inches!” He kicks at Mista’s shin instead of trying to get in while he’s wounded, now properly insulted. “And I called dibs!”

“One of you just get into the fucking seat.” He takes off the emergency break as a threat to leave them behind.

After a long, drawn out game of rock paper scissors, Mista finally manages to secure his spot at the passenger side. Fugo rolls his eyes as Narancia reluctantly fits himself into the middle seat, grumbling about the ethics and sanctity of respecting dibs.

“Where we goin’?” Mista asks once he’s in. He’s got a wide, shit-eating grin on and immediately starts fiddling with the seat. He almost tells him to quit it, Giorno took forever just to get the position how he liked it, but didn’t feel like getting into a debate regarding bros and their positioning before hoes. “Strip club?”

Narancia cackles behind them as Fugo starts to pull out. “With what fucking money?”

Mista glares, pushing back the seat until he’s almost looking at Narancia upside-down. “Fuck you, man. I got money.”

“We’re not going to a strip club.” Fugo tells them, turning off the residential street and heading down an empty road. “And what money, Mista? You just had to borrow a twenty from me to buy dinner the other week.” It’s unfathomable how Mista consistently managed to land himself in financial straits, especially when Fugo knew one of his paychecks contained more money than most Italians would see over a decade of their lives, but if anyone could he’d suppose it’d be Guido Mista.

Mista reaches up to fix his beanie, a glum look on his face. “Whatever. Assholes.”

“Are we gonna steal some shit?” Narancia leans over to rest his head on top of Mista’s and Fugo himself can admit it’s a little cute. If you ignore the fact that they’re the two most insufferable people he’s ever met, of course. “There’s a new Snoop album out soon. Let’s run the record shop.”

“God, don’t you have like fifty of those?” He flips on his headlights, the streetlamps long gone. Now the road was shrouded only by the trees that covered both sides of the lanes. “Why do you need another one?”

“Why do you own more than one pair of underwear?”

“That is so not remotely close to being the same thing it’s not even funny.”

“It’s a little funny.” Mista adds in, leisurely stretching his legs onto the dashboard.

“It so is the same thing.” Narancia complains, his speech slightly altered from his cheek being squished against Mista’s skull. “You can’t just own one Snoop album. That’s like, weirder than owning none.”

Fugo narrows his eyes. “By that logic you’d own every pair of underpants.”

“Shut up.” Narancia counters very wittingly.

The squabbling continues as Fugo turns off the main road. He slows down on the unkempt street, the gravel and rocks harsh on the tires. Nothing that’ll kill them, but Fugo didn’t feel like taking chances on roadside help. Especially not this late at night and on a sideroad so hidden from sight.

They only drive for a few minutes more until they’re swamped by trees. He spares himself a little smile. Just like he remembered.

Fugo parks the car. It was nestled comfortably in a small clearing, just off the side road. He’d stumbled upon this area before, though didn’t have the luxury of time to enjoy it for any longer than it took to have Purple Haze disintegrate a corpse. Despite the conditions he found it under, Fugo thought it breathtakingly beautiful.

The clearing spread out to a clifftop, showing a distant myriad of trees and blinking lights from the civilized parts. Pretty and quiet. An unbothersome midnight wind breezing against the foliage.

The three men pile out of the car – albeit with some bickering between the two elder. It doesn’t take long for them to notice the view and totter over to it. Like birds and shiny objects, Fugo thinks amusedly.

“Wow.” Mista’s the first to speak, his words a little muffled by the distance between him and Fugo, still standing by the car.

“’t’s nice.” Narancia agrees beside him.

“Fuckin’ breathtaking, what it is.”

Narancia and Mista are still busy looking out over the top when Fugo pops the trunk.

He’d visited a nearby bodega before he went to pick them up. Wandered aimlessly around the aisles as he carelessly stuffed food into his basket. Fugo must’ve looked pretty unusual when he went up to the counter, hauling his own bodyweight in processed food.

It’s payment, he rationalizes to himself. Payment for playing along, for not bitching to Fugo about how early he woke them up, no matter how justified it’d be.

Maybe he also just wants to have a picnic with a couple of his friends.

“Snacks!” Narancia cheers when he notices, throwing his arms in the air enthusiastically. He doesn’t bother to wait for Fugo to get everything out of the trunk, already running up and grabbing a bag of chips – his favourite flavour. “Fugo, man, you gotta wake us up in the middle of the night more often.”

“Do not do that.” Mista sends a glare which is completely ignored by the man stuffing his face. “I was in the middle of a great dream.”

“Aw,” Narancia mocks, his mouth covered with crumbs that Fugo resists leaning over and wiping off. He’d just get mad if he babied him like that, even if he held the manners of an infant. “Was it about me?”

“Pfft, you wish. Monica Bellucci.” Mista wiggles his eyebrows as he reaches over and pops the tab of a beer open, lukewarm without a cooler. “She’s a hall pass, by the way.”

Fugo raises an eyebrow as he pulls out a few blankets, not really sure if they’re supposed to take that as a joke.

Narancia doesn’t seem very bothered by it, shrugging his shoulders casually. “If she’d have you.”

Mista sputters. “If she’d- Dude, are you calling me ugly?”

Narancia shrugs again, exaggerating this time to piss off Mista. “You said it not me.”

Mista leans over to cuff Narancia in the shoulder which inadvertently starts a mini wrestling fight between the two. Fugo decides to leave the couple to it, laying out the blankets underneath the dark sky and fiddling with the – Narancia’s, actually – radio.

He’d taken it from his room before he left. Kinda surprised it was there at all. Narancia took up more residence at Mista’s these days than his own room at Bucciarati’s. It was like he was slowly moving in with the older man, bit by bit.

Fugo’d appreciate it if he’d just commit to it already. Having the upstairs bathroom to himself sounded like a dream.

“Pass me the bags.” He calls to the men once he finishes twiddling around. They both look up at him, a little alerted. Their respective snacks and drinks abandoned as they horsed around, Narancia clinging to Mista’s neck as he attempts to use his weight to unbalance the taller man, feet wrapping around to the back of his knees. Mista trying to offset it by carrying Narancia’s back.

It’s like a very aggressive version of a hug, Fugo thinks somewhat exasperatedly, he’s pretty sure they forgot he was even there.

Narancia untwists himself, standing back on his two feet. One of Mista’s hands remain firm on his lower side, a gesture Fugo is pretty sure is subconscious. He picks up one of the large plastic bags the bodega provided and lops it over his shoulder.

“Alley-oop!” He calls as Fugo successfully catches the carrier in one hand. He sets it down gently, thankful that he knew better than to get any particularly fragile foods.

Mista thankfully carries over the drinks without Fugo having to ask. Narancia loops the rest of the plastic handles around his arms as he follows him, laying them down next to Fugo as he attempts to ruffle through and find the paper plates and disposable cutlery.

“Is that mine?” Narancia frowns at the radio that had a slight staticky sound due to them being so far away from the station.

“Relax. I’m just borrowing it.”

He gives a little huff at Fugo’s response. “Supposed ta ask first.”

This is incredible. A once in a lifetime moment. Narancia fucking Ghirga is giving him pointers on decorum. He wants to laugh. Or punch him in the face.

“Shut up and eat your food.” Fugo grumbles instead of doing either of those. A real lesson in self-control, he thinks.

Narancia – for once in his life – does what he’s told.

He’s not sure how long they’ve been out here. An hour or two? Seemed likely. Definitely enough time for the pile of beer and pop cans to accumulate by the edge of the blankets. Definitely enough time for Fugo to get a little tipsy.

He’s laying on his back right now, staring up at the stars. So many more than he usually sees. He wonders if it’s because of the altitude or pollution. There must be somewhere he could look that up.

The radio starts to drone on another song, this one Fugo actually recognizes. To his chagrin, it’s a Snoop song, one he’d heard Narancia play countless times. It’s one of his favourites.

He looks over at Narancia – expecting some rehashing of their earlier argument – and finds him passed out in the crux between Mista’s neck and shoulder. His soft curls batting gently in the light wind, leaving the sleeping man unbothered.

“I’m starting to see the appeal.” Fugo jokes to Mista, who was breathing slowly under the smaller man. “They’re like his version of a lullaby.”

“Don’t even think about it.” Mista’s grin was warm, still maintaining some of its usual douchebaggery but without any bite to it. “I already pre-ordered the CD.”

Fugo gave him a sideways look. “It’s barely November.”

“Whatever. Don’t come crying to me when you can’t figure out a Christmas gift for him.”

Fugo takes another long sip of his beer instead of retaliating, enjoying the night sky above.

It’s different when you’re out of town, he muses. Different when there’s no nearby lights or noises to cloud the environment. He feels somewhat out of place here, like he’s stepping into an area previously untouched by any human. It’s peaceful, nonetheless. He thinks if he laid still long enough his body would adapt to the foliage around him. Returning to the earth, or whatever those hippies say.

“You ‘n Giorno still good?” His attention is brought back to Mista, who is leisurely combing his fingers through Narancia’s hair. There’s no teasing or leading lilt to his question which relaxes Fugo somewhat.

“We’re good.” He says honestly. Then, considering earlier and the alcohol loosening his tongue, he continues. “… I don’t know if I am, though.”

“Nah?” It’s almost a hum the way he says it. “Brain fuckin’ with you?”

“That’s one way to put it.”

Mista nods and his beanie makes a soft ruffling noise against the fabric of the blanket. “Been there. Sucks ass.”

Fugo snorts, tipsy enough to find that humorous. “What, the number four stalking you again?”

“Scary way to live.” Mista agrees, leaving it at that.

Frankly, a slightly concerning statement.

Fugo isn’t quite sure how to take that but finds he doesn’t have to ruminate on that matter for long. His eyelids start to pull low, batting repetitively against the tips of his cheeks. He only barely makes the decision to rest until morning before sleep finally overtakes him.

Everything will still be there when he wakes, he justifies. The night sky relaxes over him like a blanket.

The evening air did him some good, Fugo thinks. His mind feels clearer as he drives back to the cottage, Narancia and Mista successfully dropped off without any issues barring some man-child complaints at being woken up early. Again.

Yes, okay. It’s maybe a bit early. Like watching the sunrise type of early. Whatever. Fugo didn’t want to sleep on the ground all night and he’d let them take the leftover food so really, they had nothing to complain about.

The house is still quiet when he creaks open the door, relocking it behind him. He’s careful not to make too much noise as he’s shuffling off his shoes or heading to his bedroom. Not that he would get in trouble for leaving at the middle of the night or anything, Bucciarati understood they were all pretty free roaming. Like he said, it was early. Fugo didn’t want to have to stare down one of his knowing looks.

It's worse from him, he surmises. Worse because Bucciarati did know. Knew everything.

He didn’t like to repeat himself, especially not when it came to the gritty details of his past life. It was a topic they all avoided from some extent or another. Abbacchio’s jumpiness at sudden gunshots, Narancia’s poor vision on his left side, Bucciarati’s paranoid midnight surveillance of them, Mista’s precaution about groups of men near Trish, Giorno’s sudden dead-eyed stares, no one talked about them. It was easier that way, more comfortable. It’s not like they were memories they wanted to recall.

Fugo could still remember the fear that had suffocated his body like a cocoon when Bucciarati first found out. When the streets were still lined with gossip about that Pannacotta Fugo boy, disowned from his own parents. About how he’d gotten cozy with a man almost quadruple his age, the fag he was. When Fugo had decided that, in terms of self-preservation, it’d be safest to tell Bucciarati the whole story. Clear up any misgivings he’d picked up about the young boy.

There was nothing he could do now but laugh at his younger self’s sheer terror at divulging the truth to him. He truly hadn’t known Bucciarati, not at all. The paranoid ideas he had conjured up, the delusions of what he may request of him as payment for keeping him around and fed, they were so antithetical to the man he’d come to trust.

Then again, if you had told twelve-year-old Fugo that his professor, the kind, joking, caring professor that always made time out of his day just to make sure Fugo felt comfortable, felt safe in an environment so callous and cruel to the child was no better man than any he’d met before, he wouldn’t have believed you. Not even after the first time he fucked him and left without cleaning up, cum still uncomfortably drying on his stomach and inside him.

“I want to visit his grave.” Fugo says over breakfast a few days later. Casual and unassuming, as if his stomach isn’t threatening to upheave at his own deviant wish.

Bucciarati looks at him for a second and- and Fugo can still almost imagine it. His face twisting into one of grotesque disgust, a shout or scream calling him out for what a sick, sick individual he was. How could he want to see him again? And after everything Bucciarati had risked for him?

“Okay.” He returns mildly instead. Bucciarati glances briefly at the walled clock, back to Fugo. “Would you like to go before everyone else wakes?”

Fugo is neither surprised nor relieved. He nods.

It’s not raining but Bucciarati carries an umbrella behind him.

They’re in an affluent part of town, a private graveyard. No doubt Fugo wouldn’t have been able to get in here on his own. Not legally, that is.

They wind a path around the tombs after making their way past the enclosed gate. Fugo reads some of the names, all unfamiliar. Their inscriptions are vague at best. Generic. Loved by all, a friend until the end, that sort of shit. It’s hard for him to gather insight on any personality permanently caged six feet below.

Bucciarati doesn’t rush him. Doesn’t say anything as Fugo dawdles his way around what they both know he’s come here for. It feels almost like a bodyguard the way he follows behind him, a second shadow that doesn’t make itself known unless requested to.

“Do you know where he is?” Fugo asks finally, a good fifteen or twenty minutes in.

Bucciarati nods, and their roles switch. Fugo trailing after him.

It’s clean. Oddly, that’s the first thing Fugo thinks when he sees it. Meticulously so. That must be a task for the caretaker here, given that the second thing Fugo notes is that the grave is eerily bare. Not an ornament or flora in sight.

It has his name, first and last. It’s a little embarrassing, but Fugo hadn’t even known his first name until he was being dragged into court in handcuffs for almost killing the man. He didn’t know how he let himself be manipulated so easily, bought into being special when the proof lied so obviously in front of him.

His date of death is listed, month and day included. Fugo pauses at that, morbid curiosity taking hold. He tries, to the best of his shallow memory, to remember what he was doing that day. Where he was. In the Mafia, he knew of course, but anything clearer than that remained beyond him.

“No one visits him.” Fugo tells Bucciarati this in a cold, numb tone. Speaking just for the sake of speaking, really.

“I doubt he would be here at all if the concept wouldn’t bring even more embarrassment.” Bucciarati has a good poker face, but Fugo’s known him for years. He’s getting some cruel amusement out of that notion.

He was the one to kill him. Took care of Fugo’s loose ends without being asked. He thought him too giving, too compassionate, for their line of work. It’d gotten him into hot water more times than once.

“… How did he die?” He finds himself asking for the first time in years – the first time since he’d heard of his death. Bucciarati levels his gaze. His eyes severe but not unkind.

“Do you want to know?”

Fugo has no doubt that if he nodded, if he agreed that yes, he was old enough now to know. Had killed countless himself without losing a wink of sleep, Bucciarati would tell him. It was his story after all, Bucciarati would respect that fact.

He could see the bags under his eyes now, hunched over any books and articles he could find about whatever method of execution Bucciarati used on the man. The effects on the human body, which systems shut down first, what it feels like. He’d be obsessive, Fugo knows he would.

He shakes his head instead.

It’s different, he supposes, because a part of Fugo died with him. Captive and naïve and so, so young.

Bucciarati nods and the two of them are silent again. Staring at the marked grave like a perverted rendition of grieving families Fugo had seen countless times over the years. There’s no sadness or pity for the corpse that lay plastered with chemicals to keep it from rotting underneath their feet. Strangely, Fugo doesn’t even feel much anger.

“Is there anything else you want to do?” Bucciarati asks after a long while, patient as always. Fugo thinks if he told him he wanted to bring the body back up, desecrate his corpse in the same manner he did to Fugo when he was a child, Bucciarati might even let him.

“No.” He says. It doesn’t feel like a lie.

Let’s go back to his family. The old one.

The Fugo clan is a prestigious one. They always have been. Pannacotta could trace his lineage back generations, since World War II in fact. When his Ashkenazi great grandmother had fallen in love with an Italian revolutionist. He kept her safe from the Germans, from those who’d rather see people like her or Pannacotta or any of their ancestors gassed and dead instead of praying in a synagogue.

Not that Pannacotta had ever even stepped foot in a temple. Ethnic extinction may have been a step too far, but the Fugos had seemingly no problem with assimilation. Bastardizing your own heritage was little price to pay for wealth and power.

He’d been raised Catholic, but he doubted either of his parents truly believed in God. The bottom line, well, he could see that.

It’d been a mark of selflessness, of pride for the Fugo clan. Keep pushing forward, keep pushing status, make way for a better and brighter future for the next generation. And the generation after that. And the generation after that. And the generation after that.

Pannacotta had found it peculiar, even as a child. Children after grandchildren after great grandchildren, all doomed to the same miserable rat race their parents had gone through. Who was the final generation - the one that made them all turn to drugs or alcohol or infidelity to gain some semblance of contentment in their lives – that was finally going to be allowed to use their wealth and power and cruelty to ensure happiness?

Pannacotta’d always been a little too smart for his own good.

It was ironic now, considering he wasn’t even legally a Fugo anymore, that he had succeeded their wishes in a way they never could. The leader of new Passione, the man who ran Italy from the shadows, the most powerful man in the country in more ways than one, he considered Pannacotta family. Like a son.

Pannacotta could destroy them if he wanted to. Could tear down every brick and plank from that godforsaken museum he used to call home. Finally fulfill the wishes and daydreams of his younger self. Vindication for his suffering.

Fugo would be the noose they hung themselves with.

He wondered if they even knew he was still alive.

“Would you like to stop for some food?” Bucciarati asks while he’s driving, breaking the contemplative silence. “There’s a restaurant I know nearby that’s quite good.”

Fugo considers this. He hadn’t eaten much at breakfast, and it was nearing noon now. His stomach gurgles with enthusiasm at Bucciarati’s idea. Some food would be appreciated.

He also doesn’t want to go home yet. Didn’t think he could face everyone else and pretend to be okay.

“Alright.” He agrees. “I could go for something to eat.”

The restaurant is fairly quiet for the late morning.

It’s family-owned, Fugo realizes as they walk in. Not a chain. It’s seaside too, nothing like Libeccio’s high dining décor. Intimate and casual.

He decides he likes it.

They’re seated quickly and the staff regard Bucciarati like a regular. He calls them by name, even the ones without nametags on. Fugo feels a little awkward, like a kid at an adult’s party without anyone his age around, simply clinging to the nearest parent’s leg.

He’s handed a menu, laminated and for good reason. There seem to be… Bite marks on the side of it? Fugo’s a little concerned because, well, they don’t appear small enough to be a child’s. Are there random adults going around biting menus? Should he ask Bucciarati about this? Would it be weird?

“The fish is fresh.” Bucciarati tells him while he’s staring down the Mystery of the Bite Mark Menu. He must misinterpret his incredulity as being really hyped up about fish sticks or something. Fugo decides to not correct him. “They partner with the local fishermen. Most of it is caught and prepared daily.”

“You know a lot about this place.” Fugo points out, scanning the list. He’s never particularly been keen on seafood, but he supposes he can make an exception today.

“I used to come here a lot as a boy.” There’s a wistful smile on his face, one Fugo rarely sees between the powerful demeanor of Don and the exhausted disposition of Bucciarati. It’s a good look on him. “My father actually, he was employed as one of their anglers way back when.”

“I hope you got discounts.” It’s a joke to lighten the mood from earlier. Fugo’s never been regarded as a comedic prodigy or anything, but Bucciarati chuckles.

“Don’t worry, I took advantage of the free meals.” He looks out the large window that shows the scene of the boardwalk and passing shops outside of the restaurant. “I’ve been meaning to visit him again.”

Fugo thanks the waitress who brings them their drinks, two waters. He takes a brief pause after, considering what to say.

Bucciarati’s father, he died years ago. Only maybe a month after Bucciarati and Fugo had met themselves. He couldn’t claim to have been much of an emotional support during those times, considering his own mental stability was hanging on by a thin thread, but Fugo learned about him. By osmosis if nothing else.

He’s never heard his leader do anything but sing his praises when it came to his father. An uncommon trait for their profession. Of the men in their ranks that had families, their affection was kept hush-hush. Otherwise, it’d be an easy way to find yourself eyes wide open, forced to watch your own flesh and blood tortured and maimed.

For information or money, usually. Sometimes though, it was just to show they could. Playing with lives just to jerk off to their own power fantasy.

“Has it been a while?” He’s never been able to keep track of Bucciarati’s whereabouts easily, the man seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once.

Bucciarati hums. “Longer than I like.” He places his menu down, ready to order. “Maybe two weeks or so.”

Fugo nods. “Well, it’s a nice day today.”

“It is.” Bucciarati agrees.

He almost thinks that’s the end of it, waitress coming back to take their orders and collect their menus. Fugo’s not sure how much of the dish he’ll actually eat, but he’ll at least pretend to enjoy it in front of Bucciarati. There was no need to insult the man’s happy, nostalgic memories.

His water glass was almost completely drained, straw jutting from the cup unbent. Fugo pressed the tip of his finger against the hole, pulling it back to stare at the small circular indent that greeted him. Bucciarati had returned to gazing out the window, at peace.

He turns away from the window eventually, seemingly with great difficulty.

“Would you like to come with me?”

Fugo stares at him.

They stop by a boutique before they visit.

Bucciarati is once again referred to by name – his first name, which Fugo finds as amusing as it is bizarre – and he doesn’t even have to ask before an array of flowers are being put together and handed to him. He already has his money out, perfect amount of change.

The woman at the front, an older lady with kind eyes, attempts to wave him off. He insists and, when she remains stubborn in her stance, casually slips it into the pocket of her apron while he’s thanking her for the gift. It’s strange for Fugo to see such a skill used in such a generous way. To have both parties leave with a smile on their faces.

Bucciarati tucks the bouquet in the creek of his arm, umbrella hooked onto his wrist. Fugo offers to carry it for him, offers to take it back to the car so he doesn’t have to hoist around such an unnecessary object on such a beautiful day, but Bucciarati waves him off easily.

The sea air is nice on Fugo’s face. He pauses as he realizes this area is somewhat familiar. They had to be only a ten minute walk from the cottage.

“He was always a fisherman at heart.” Bucciarati tells him as they’re walking, like he can see the gears turning in his head. “I thought it best to keep him close to home.”

Fugo nods. He’s never had to bury someone he loved before. He can’t relate at all.

This cemetery is nothing like the one they’d visited earlier, Fugo immediately notices. The fencing is somewhat dented and bent in places, patches of grass and weeds swarming in odd clutters. Certainly not a resting place for the moneyed, far too messy for that.

Bucciarati walks in familiar strides past the other gravestones, careful not to step on any plot. Almost all of them have some form of moss or foliage on them. But in the same manner, they’re all decorated with small objects and fresh flowers. He spots some instruments leaning against a few, a journal or typewriter facing some, children’s toys against one.

It doesn’t feel like mourning, not when Bucciarati greets his father and places the flowers down in front of him. An old wire and hook curled carefully around the stone. It doesn’t feel like anything died at all.

Bucciarati kneels down and starts talking. Not to Fugo, his father. He has a soft smile on his face as he stories his week in great detail, exaggerating comedic bits and downplaying dangerous ones.

He doesn’t want to worry him, Fugo realizes a bit belatedly.

He looks younger like this. He’s never really thought about Bucciarati in the context of being someone’s son before, but it’s impossible not to as he gushes to his father’s grave.

Once he’s done, he brushes a hand overtop the stone. Bids his father a farewell. Promises to come see him again soon.

“Do you really think he can hear you?” Fugo asks, trying to keep any skepticism out of his voice. His relationship to religion has been a tumultuous one, but Fugo had never had a pleasant vision of life after death.

“I like to think there’s something.” Bucciarati tells him mildly. They’re walking again, this time around the graveyard. Fugo supposes they’re not in any rush. “I feel his presence sometimes.”

“How do you know it’s not wishful thinking?” He has enough social insight to know he should really shut up, but not enough to actually stop himself.

Bucciarati tilts his head somewhat, unoffended. “I don’t.” He looks at Fugo, walking side by side, smiling slightly amused. “My father would like you.”

Fugo shuts his mouth after that.

They’re right by the entrance of the graveyard when Fugo can feel something inside of him shift.

He stares at the direction he knows Bucciarati’s father lay eternally. He thinks about it. Thinks about his past, his old family, his new family. Thinks about how long he has left. No breath was a given once you were in this lifestyle. They could all lose everything in such a short time, no matter their power.

Look at Diavolo.

It stings at his eyes unbiddenly. He’s always known he could die, but he doesn’t want to die like this. He’s wasted so much time already.

“I’m scared.” Fugo admits quietly to Bucciarati, his voice breaking. He feels like a frightened child. “I’m scared I’ll always be thirteen.”

It doesn’t make sense and Fugo has held no hope in anyone understanding him. He doesn’t completely understand it himself. But Bucciarati doesn’t push for clarification, for answers.

Instead, he opens the umbrella. Holds it over the young man, blocking his tearstained expression from any strangers passing by.

“I know.” Bucciarati assures, his empty hand resting on Fugo’s shoulder. His tone is sad, as if the aching held in one’s heart could be verbalized aloud.

Fugo sniffles, wiping his eyes on his sleeves.

He believes him.

When they’re back at the cottage, Fugo excuses himself to his room.

He has his flip phone on him – doesn’t leave the house without it, really – but he wanted to make this call by himself. Somewhere private.

His bed is comfortable under him while he listens to the ring drone on. He’s nervous he can tell, but in a distant way. Like he’s an outside observer to the situation.

“Hello?” His tone is as aloof as ever to a stranger, but Fugo can hear the slight unease in the purposeful, forced slow breaths.

“Hi, Giorno.” Internally he curses how shy he sounds. “Can I come over? I think we should talk.”

He doesn’t really have a game plan going in. Part of him wants to skip the pleasantries, jump right into the ‘I was raped as a child’ talk, but for some reason Fugo doesn’t think that’d go over well.

If he were to ask, he wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out Giorno already knew about him and his professor. It was a very public affair. Any records involving Pannacotta Fugo included the court trial and sequentially the assault. …Both the assaults.

A couple years back he considered changing his name. He didn’t like the feeling of his past looming over his shoulder like that. But, he had rationalized at the time, his parents would hate the fact that he still went by his surname after being disowned even more.

Yes, he was that petty.

Giorno is dressed in a casual affair when he leads Fugo up back to his apartment. Unnecessary because Fugo had visited countless times now, but he doesn’t point that out. There’s a line of tension when Giorno moves. When he looks at Fugo. Almost like he’s waiting for an attack.

The elevator ride up is unbearably awkward.

He decides against immediately jumping into it. Never let it be said Pannacotta Fugo holds zero tact. Giorno boils some water, polite and placid conversation flitted unimportantly between the two. Fugo thanks him as he takes the offered cup, and the scene feels so pedestrian. It almost made the topic they were both dancing around comical. Absurdist.

His tea is nearly half empty before he even attempts to broach it.

“… I wanted to talk about that night.” He says simply. Because Giorno is smart. Giorno will understand. “Discuss some things and well, I’m sure you must have questions.”

Giorno nods politely, taking a sip of his own drink before replying.

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He admits.

Fugo frowns at that. “We’re dating.” We almost had sex until his own dumbass brain fucked it up.

“I figured you would come to me when you were ready.” There’s a slight shrug of his shoulders, an almost sheepish hint of a smile. It’s a barely there gesture, so small you wouldn’t even have to blink to miss, and yet it calms the atmosphere somewhat. Lets Fugo breathe. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Fugo narrows his eyes at an attempt of a glare but can’t help the corners of his own mouth peeking up. “You know me too well.”

And then Giorno’s smiling for real, awkward and clunky and so weirdly out of place on his normally picturesque appearance. “No such thing.”

He snorts and immediately feels some instinctual embarrassment creep on his back for the odd nature of his laugh. It’s brushed aside easily, spared for a moment alone to reflect on or late at night when he’s trying to sleep. “You’re the only person who’d say that.”

“Haven’t been wrong yet.”

Fugo shakes his head amusedly. There’s a slight lull in the conversation where neither of them is speaking, simply enjoying the shared entertainment and company of the other. It’s nice. Fugo could imagine leaving it like this, spending the rest of the day joking back and forth with Giorno. But he set out to do something. He can’t ignore it forever.

“But… About that night.”

Giorno’s posture shifts slightly. More attentive. “Yes?”

“I found something that… Carried with bad memories.” He explains slowly, figuring out the words as he says them. “And I remembered it during- while we were busy.”

Giorno pauses slightly, watching him.

“Would you rather not talk about the memories?”

It’d be easier that way, but honestly no. It wasn’t going to go away. However unjustly, Fugo was going to carry this for the rest of his life. It wasn’t fair to hide it from Giorno forever. He didn’t want to hide it from him.

“I want you to know.” He’s staring at his tea now, swirling the liquid in a near hypnotic manner. “I assume it’ll come back up again when we make that next step.”

Giorno frowns. “If having sex will only make you remember the-“ He falters slightly, and Fugo gains a new appreciation for how much of a minefield the other side of this conversation must feel like. He wouldn’t know. “The past, then there’s no reason we have to try again. I’m happy with what we have now.”

“I want to have sex with you.”

His expression remains the same, but Fugo can see the tips of his ears start to pinken. “Alright.”

“But I want you to know beforehand.” He’s realized a bit belatedly that this conversation maybe should’ve taken place actually before they tried anything but, well, teenagers can only be so insightful. “I didn’t know much about sex before my- before getting raped.” It’s so weird how real it sounds when he says it out loud, despite the fact he’d known that’s what it constituted as even while it was happening. “It’s where my mind goes to first.”

“Of course, that’s only normal.” Giorno says like any of this is remotely normal. He appreciates the effort though.

“It might take me a while to not freeze up when we’re going to,” He lays his hands flat and gestures loosely. “Go the full way.”

Giorno nods, considering. Fugo likes that about him. Likes how he takes the time to order his thoughts, pick out his words to properly convey his meaning with little miscommunication barring a conversation. Fugo likes it when he doesn’t have to guess.

“… Would you be more comfortable if you took the lead?” He finally asks.

It makes Fugo feel warm and maybe a bit cynical. People always assume that, don’t they? When they haven’t anything else to go on, they always went the simplest route. Occam’s razor. If Fugo had the power, made the decisions, fucking instead of getting fucked, there was nothing to fear. He had the control.

Fugo could imagine it, though. Giorno face down, ass up, waiting with hands clawing at his uncharacteristically messy hair, begging for him to please get on with it.

No, no. That wasn’t right. It went more like this:

Missionary. Those same lovely green eyes barely able to keep themselves open amongst the need burning through Giorno’s body. Impatience and instinct taking over the usually stoic and refined young man. Legs spread wide by Fugo’s hands and the head of his cock tapping threateningly at the unloose hole.

And Fugo would make good on that promise, of course he would. Would lose himself the same way he did when he got stressed or sad or worried and the negative emotions bubbled out into an unstoppable rage. Harder, and harder, and harder, and harder. Giorno’s shaking hips clutched into the palms of his own. Noisy. Loud. Obvious to anyone who happened nearby what was happening.

He would push into him deep one last time, satisfying the barbaric urge to claim another as his own. Giorno’s weak groans being the only returning call to his. Giorno would wipe his red-rimmed eyes on his trembling arm, gulping down the spit and blood that had accumulated over their coupling. His stomach painting the reality of his forced orgasm onto himself. A reminder of how human he was.

No, Fugo wouldn’t be more comfortable. He’d survived being taken before. Knew how to make it bearable, enjoyable to a degree. But others didn’t survive when he lost control.

“I’d prefer you to be on top.” He says instead. Because Giorno was observant and intelligent and a goddamn genius sometimes, but he wouldn’t understand this. He’d refute the very notion of Fugo ever hurting him. He could temper down his anger, he tamed Purple Haze, how could this be much different? They’d weathered similar battles together before, surely, he’d say, they could do it one more time. “I like it better that way.” He tells him this as if it’s fact. As if he’s tested it out.

“Okay.” Giorno says easily, as easily as he’d offered up his own body not a minute before. That was the warm part, the part that made Fugo feel a little sick for lying by omission to him. He cared so much. “But…”

“But?” Fugo asks, his hands starting to wring themselves nervously. An old habit.

“… I don’t think we should go that far yet.” He says carefully. “Maybe we’re not ready.”

Fugo feels irrationally slighted by the words despite knowing that wasn’t the intention. He takes a deep breath before responding, because he cares about Giorno, and he will not let his overreactive temper let him ruin something good. Not this. “I’m ready, Giorno. Trust me.”

He looks away from Fugo. An uncharacteristic shame obvious in his posture. Giorno doesn’t get like this often and Fugo can feel a thousand different possibilities pop into his head. All of them worse than the last.

He’d done it. Pannacotta Fugo already fucked up his first real relationship.

“… Maybe I’m not ready.”

And if that doesn’t make Fugo feel like a self-absorbed jackass.

“Oh.” It’s more of a breath than anything, involuntary. “Oh. Of course- I mean, of course, Giorno. Don’t- don’t think you have to-“ He cuts himself off. “We don’t have to do anything. I just thought- Well,”

He thought Giorno was holding back on him. Pitying his past.

God, he’s such an asshole.

“I thought about it after that- our first try.” He’s stumbling slightly over his words, an oddity for him. “I got a little overwhelmed, I think.” He presses his lips together. “… I’d like to take our time. Start slow.” He finally meets Fugo’s eyes again, a little shy. “You’re okay with that, right?”

Giorno barely gets the last word out before Fugo’s jumping in. “Of course.” He says, feeling a little incredulous that he even has to reassure that point, but he’s sure Giorno’s done the same with much sillier, much more obvious things for him. “We’ll take it slow. There’s no rush.”

“Okay.” And Giorno’s standing now, a blush high on his cheeks and pointedly avoiding Fugo’s eyes as he collects the now empty cups on the table. “Tea. I’ll get us more tea.”

The topic is dropped for the rest of the night.

Christ, he thinks, hand over his mouth and eyes shut tight, Giorno needs to stop being right.

They’re at his place again, maybe a few weeks later, and Fugo has his back taut against the headboard. Giorno’s in front of him watching as each calculated move of his wrist coaches out a weird half-baked noise from Fugo’s throat or encourages his legs to spread a little wider.

He hates being a teenager he decides. Hates how embarrassingly easy it is to get him to a point of no return, how he’d been damn near ready to blow before Giorno even got his buckle open. He’d like to spare some sense of pride after he came, thank you.

Fugo doesn’t last long. Not with Giorno’s hand twisting over him and the hot paintings of embarrassment splotching over his cheeks. Doesn’t get the strength of will to open his eyes in a post-orgasm haze until Giorno’s already leaning over to the nightstand to grab some tissues.

He dots carefully at the line of his hand and wrist, turning it over once, twice, to make sure he got everything off. He effortlessly arches it into the nearly empty trashcan by the corner of his room, causing Fugo to wonder if maybe that was the whole reason it was there in the first place.

But his mind can’t stay focused on that track for long because Giorno’s turning to see him, and Fugo’s dick is lying limply beside his thigh, and he’s smiling so earnestly at him, and Fugo’s pretty sure he looks like a wreck, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to say right now.

“Good?” His head is tilted slightly, off centering the grin on his face. It’s so casual and organic and Fugo belatedly realizes he could really love this boy. Could picture waking up next to him every morning if they were both lucky enough to live that long.

He swallows. Nods.

“Good.” He moves back between Fugo’s thighs, using his right hand to keep his balance as he leans over and tucks Fugo’s hair into place, a kiss against his cheek. It’s soft and gentle and everything Fugo thought he’d never get. It was what he thought he didn’t deserve it as a kid and what now, with all of his misdeeds and sadism, he knew he didn’t.

That never stopped Giorno though. So, there was really nothing for him to complain about.

He presses his hands against the long square of Giorno’s back. Feels the muscles shift as he moves to spread more kisses against the line of Fugo’s cheek and jaw. It’s a good back. Strong and firm. Giorno should be proud.

Fugo lets one hand run a little farther down, flirting by the brief of Giorno’s ass before rounding to the front of his thigh. Fugo lets his fingers glimpse against his barely clothed erection and Giorno stills for a moment. The next kiss against him is insistent.

“Your turn.” Fugo says, somewhat proud how natural his voice sounds.

Giorno gladly takes him up on that offer.

There’s something off with Purple Haze.

It takes Fugo a while to figure out, mostly because despite his baby stepped attempts to accept it, being around the zombified Stand still gives him the shivers. He especially didn’t like the groaning noises.

But he lets him out. Even when he’s not needed for combat, like how the others treat their Stands. He’ll probably never get as easy-going with it as say, Mista and his perpetual caretaking of the Sex Pistols, but he can meet Haze’s eyes without immediately wanting to retch up everything he’d eaten that day, so he counts that as a win.

He’s in his room, quiet and alone, reading a loaned book from the nearby library when he looks up and realizes it. It’s a poignant moment, but paradoxically incredibly benign.

Everything else about him appears the same. The same temperament, the same abilities, the same germaphobia, it was all there. But Fugo can’t take his eyes off his mouth. He stares, and he thinks, and he stares some more.

The stitching is gone, he realizes.

Purple Haze is no longer muzzled.

Fugo clutches the edges of his book, so stunned he can do nothing but blink. The room stays quiet.

And when Fugo can’t hold it back anymore, bursting into incredulous, bewildered, happy giggles, he swears he can hear Purple Haze laugh with him.