Archive of Our Own

Dr. Pioggia calls it “displaced self-affirmation.” It’s a theoretical practice that she’s been perfecting since she received her Stand and became Passione’s main therapist a few years ago. Fugo has been coming to her for almost six months. It’s the first time he’s heard of such a practice. 

“Stands are a manifestation of our souls,” she says, voice clipped with professionalism yet soothing as she pets the brown, doglike Stand curled up around Fugo’s shoulders. “What they feel, you feel. If we cannot take care of ourselves, we can project our needs to our Stands and deliver it through them. If we do not know how we feel, we can look into our Stands and understand ourselves. By caring for your Stand, you care for yourself, although not directly.” 

Fugo’s eyes flicker to Purple Haze Distortion who sits docile next to him. He looks calm for once, breathing relaxed as his therapist’s Stand, Hey Jude , flicks her tail at it. Her stand ability appears to be some sort of tranquilizer, able to lower someone’s inhibitions to a relaxed and pensive State. It allows her to converse with patients freely and in Fugo’s case, contain his rage and anxiety to curb Haze’s usual mood. 

“I don’t know where to begin.” Haze isn’t like the Sex Pistols who are easily pacified by food. He’s not like Spice Girl who can express herself and her needs freely.

Dr. Pioggia smiles at him. It’s strange for Fugo to see an adult look at him with understanding and patience. He hasn’t seen a look like that since Buccelatti. 

“No one knows where to begin when it comes to taking care of ourselves. My advice is this, take a day for yourself. No job, no responsibilities, no concept beyond you and your soul. Leave Purple Haze out for a few hours. Figure out what it is that you want and what will make you happy, and do it.” 

It’s more difficult than she makes it out to be. Fugo knows, genius brain that he is, that she means simple, achievable wants like eating his favorite food or going to his favorite shop or reading a favorite book. Fugo also knows, bleeding heart that he has, that what he wants is unattainable. If Gold Experience can’t bring people back from the dead, what hope does he have getting his wants through Purple Haze? 

“I understand.” 

He doesn’t. 

Giorno and Mista give him a day off. 

Technically, Giorno is the one who authorizes the day off, but it’s Mista who catches Fugo when he tries to sneak in his office and promptly hauls his ass back to his bedroom. 

They mean well, he knows they do, but he can’t help that tiny voice in his head saying that he’s weaker than them for needing to do this therapy exercise in the first place. 

“You know, we don’t think of you any less, right?” Mista says, tentative and soft as he sits down next to Fugo on his bed. “Doctors know what’s good for you. We’re just helping you follow Dr. Pioggia’s advice.” He uses “advice”, not “order” like Fugo has the option not to heed it and simply carry on as usual. 

“Are you sure you’ll be fine without me for the day? You found someone who can take over for me?” 

Mista waves him off. “We handled ourselves fine without you for six months. What’s one day?” That stings. It must show on his face because Mista grimaces and grabs Fugo’s wrist before he can turn away. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.” 

“It’s fine.” No matter how much time he puts into work as the Don’s adviser, that will never erase the one week and six months that he left them on their own. They may have forgiven him, but they’ll never forget. 

“It’s not fine.” Mista’s grip is firm, but loose, giving Fugo an out if he wants to. “That was a shitty thing to say. I just want to assure you that we understand. You need time for this and we’ll give it to you. As much as you need.”

“But if you need me here-”  

“We’ll always need you here,” he insists, eyes boring into Fugo like he’s looking straight into his mind, digging into every one of Fugo’s anxieties and saying the right words he needs to hear. “Yeah, I said we handle ourselves fine but you being here makes everything better. We’ll be lost without you and that big brain of yours.” 

Fugo often forgets that for as much as he perceives Mista to be stupid, when it comes to matters of the heart he’s leagues beyond what Fugo is capable of. 

Mista’s hand slides from Fugo’s wrist so he can throw his arm over Fugo’s shoulder, an achingly familiar touch that he didn’t know he missed until now. “Do what you need to do. We’ll be waiting.”  

Fugo reaches a hand up to Mista’s hand and squeezes. “Thank you.” 

Fugo makes his way to the villa's gardens, arguably the sunniest place in their base. He figures if he'll be letting out Haze it may as well be in a place where he can easily subdue him with light. Plus, plant life cannot be affected by the virus so there's no risk of damaging Giorno's garden.

He sits down at a stone bench right beneath a jacaranda tree, where he and Giorno often read together during down times. He holds on to the calmness of that memory even as a present fear takes root in his heart. 

“Purple Haze.” 

Purple Haze Distortion materializes. Fugo fights back the instinctual flinch at the sight of him. For as much as he had changed during that mission, it won't erase years of hating himself and his Stand. 

Haze plops right down on the grass, back straight, mouth pulled in a permanent frown. He's not drooling or trembling or emitting purple smoke. He's just staring up at Fugo, inquisitive and awaiting, like an animal sniffing around a new area he’s been allowed to explore. 

Fugo stares right back at him, probably reflecting the curiosity on his Stand's face. This is where he draws a blank. Dr. Pioggia says there are different ways to take care of yourself, but for Fugo whose daily routine is filled with 17-hour work days, anxious intrusive thoughts and coffee as a food group, he doesn't know where to begin. 

He starts with a simple, "Hi."

Haze inclines his head, an awkward nod, makes a gurgling noise like he's saying "hi" back. It makes Fugo think of the Sex Pistols and Spice Girl, both capable of speech, both representing the expressiveness of their users. The stitches around Haze's mouth makes him sick as he imagines what it's supposed to mean for him, who stomps out sentiment and affection every chance he gets. 

Haze must have picked up on his thoughts. He lets out a whine as he taps at the surface of his helmet, fingers catching at the stitches. 

"I don't know what you’re trying to say. Do you want them off?” Fugo feels himself slowly getting frustrated. How the hell was he supposed to take care of this thing if he can’t even tell him what he needs? 

Haze shakes his head wildly, taps his mouth more insistently. 

“What?! What is it?! What the hell do you want?!” 

Haze grumbles, miffed and reaches a hand out. Fugo flinches, backing away from him. Haze isn't deterred by his fear, or rather he’s used to Fugo hating him that he doesn't care anymore. The Stand gets closer and closer, close enough for Fugo to see how the stitches dig into the skin of his mouth. 

Haze pokes him in the tummy. Then, he backs off. 

Fugo blinks slowly, uncurling from the little ball he formed on the bench. He looks at his stomach and as if on cue it rumbles. 

“You’re...hungry?” Haze shakes his head, and points insistently at Fugo with a loud “Shaaa.” “I’m...hungry? You want me to go eat?” 

Haze nods his head vigorously, helmet rattling. 

“Okay?” It's better than nothing. Dr. Pioggia did say eating one’s favorite food is a form of self care. He glances at the villa, right at the windows that faces the garden, where he knows the kitchen is. It’s still sunny outside and kitchens tend to be well-lit with windows open. “Do you want to...come inside with me?”

Haze perks up. Fugo can see it in the way his back straightens out and the pleased little gurgles coming from his mouth. He doesn't normally get to manifest indoors, the space too small to easily contain his virus, only coming out during outdoor battles or when Fugo loses his grip. Getting to stay out for an extended period of time must have been exciting for him. If he had a dog tail, Fugo is sure it would be wagging by now. 

Fugo fights back the smile that creeps up his face and strides up to the kitchen, tailed closely by Haze. 

Fortunately, the kitchen is empty when he enters through the back doors. The cooking staff doesn't come back until late afternoon to prepare dinner, but they always make sure the place is stocked with snacks for anyone who would come by. It's a perfect set-up for Fugo to sneak in some food and bring Haze with him without risking anyone’s safety.

Haze is looking around, eyes wide in interest as he takes in the wide kitchen with the shiny tools and yummy smells. He nudges at the pots and pans in the hanging rack, cooing at the rattling sound they make. 

“Just sit anywhere you like, I suppose. Don't make a mess.” Fugo busies himself with getting some snacks out as Haze explores the kitchen. It makes him think back of the look of pure curiosity on his face when he first summoned him, trying to take in new environments before being called back again. 

He’s just finished setting up a tiny platter of vegetables when he sees a familiar face snoozing on the little nook table by the windows. 

“Polnareff, what are you doing here?” 

Coco Jumbo doesn't stir awake, but Polnareff comes out in a puff of blue. “Oh hello there, Pannacotta. What brings you here?” 

Haze approaches them, kneeling down with his hands curled on the table to watch Polnareff at eye level. Fugo's grip on the plate tightens in apprehension. He knows Polnareff will be unaffected on account of being a spirit, but Coco Jumbo is still very much a living, breathing animal. One slip and they could be out an adviser. 

“Careful, you might break that plate.” Fugo wheezes, letting out a tightly held breath. It's fine. He can do this. They have to do this. He sits down on the nook and forces the rapid beat of his heart to calm down. 

“Did Giorno tell you about the therapy technique I’m trying out?”

“Only in passing.” Polnareff settles his arms on the turtle’s back, returning Haze’s gaze with a look of his own. “You know, I think this is the first time I've seen your stand.” 

Fugo grabs a celery stick and forces himself to swallow it down. “I don't often let him out. He’s dangerous.” 

“Aren't all Stands?” Polnareff tilts his head to the right. Haze copies him. “Every Stand is dangerous on their own right, but that does not mean they are to be feared.” 

Fugo thinks of Pompeii, of every instance he’s ever let Haze out. He can still smell pus and rotting flesh and thick, choking smoke. The scar on his left cheek itches. 

“That is easier said than done.” He picks up a carrot stick and puts it in his mouth just so his hands has something to do. 

“Nothing that is worth it is ever easy.” Polnareff's tone carries a heavy weight in them, a story they are not yet privy to. Fugo has always been curious about this man, who has suddenly appeared by Giorno's side out of nowhere. They don't know much about him except that he was there when everything went down and that he died for their cause. 

Polnareff tilts his head to the other side. Haze copies him. He sticks out his tongue. Haze grumbles behind the stitches, unable to get his tongue out. Polnareff laughs, a small, breathy thing. 

“Are you hungry?” 

“Me? No. I don't really feel hunger these days. You can leave some within reach for Coco Jumbo when he wakes up.” Polnareff blows a raspberry. Haze tries to copy him but he only ends up drooling on the table. 

“Hey, what did I say about making a mess?” he snaps. Haze flinches, like Fugo did earlier, and the motion is so familiar that Fugo feels his anger die down immediately. “Sorry.” 

God, did he ever apologize to his Stand before? All he’s ever done is yell and be afraid. He's so fucking tired of it. 

Fugo grabs a tissue from a roll on the table and wipes down the table. Haze’s eyes are downcast. Fugo sighs, and taps the side of his helmet gently. “Come on, you too.” 

Haze tilts his head up so Fugo can reach up under his helmet and wipe at his mouth. It's an odd sensation to feel against his own mouth, but then again nobody has ever really come close to touching Haze’s mouth before. 

Polnareff is watching them with a thoughtful look on his face. “If you fear your Stand so much, why do you take care of it now?” 

Fugo balls up the tissue and chucks it at the garbage bin. He misses, but Haze lets out an overexcited yell and dives to pick up the mess for him, the need for cleanliness extending to his surroundings. “I guess I’m just tired of fighting to be in control all the time.” 

“It’s not about fighting, I think. You are not supposed to fight the manifestation of your soul.” Polnareff is looking right at him, but his eyes aren’t seeing him. “Whatever he does is an extension of your own will. You must simply trust him, and trust yourself, that you know what you’re doing. Even if it means giving him control.”

Fugo wants to call him out on it. What does he know about uncontrollable stands? What does he know about feeling your soul scream and fight against you like an enemy instead of an ally? 

But it strikes Fugo right then that he doesn’t know what Polnareff’s stand is. You don’t carry that tone of voice if you haven’t directly experienced what Polnareff must have. Maybe they have more in common than he thinks. 

“Hey, Polnareff?” 

He looks at him then, eyes clear from whatever memory he got lost in. “Yes?”

“I think you should talk to someone. About everything you went through. It doesn’t have to be us.” 

A wry chuckle. “Telling me to go to therapy?” 

“It’s been helping me.” Even if he’s still fumbling his way around it. Even if he doesn’t believe in this exercise. “I think it will help you too. Dr. Pioggia is experienced with stand users. Hey Jude, that’s her stand, will like Coco Jumbo.” 

Polnareff frowns, tense and uncertain. “It’s not easy to talk about it.” 

“Nothing worth it is ever easy,” Fugo says, repeating his words right back at him. It makes Polnareff chuckle. “Just consider it.” He pauses, uncertain if he should say this. He says it anyway. No more stitches to hide his sentiments. “Giorno worries about you. And Mista. And Trish...and me.” 

Polnareff looks taken aback, before a smile slowly builds on his face, laugh lines visible on his skin. “You’re good kids, you know that?”

Fugo doesn’t know what to say to that. Polnareff is the only adult that’s ever complimented any of them, gives them the respect of being heard. It makes him think of Buccelatti and Abbachio, but then again those two were just as young as them, too young to be in charge of a bunch of superpowered kids. No one will ever replace them, but he can’t help but feel a bit of fondness for Polnareff. He doesn’t know them that well, they only met under dire circumstances, but he still chose to stay and look after them and help with Passione, even when he could have moved on in peace. For those reasons, looking after him in return is the least they can do. 

“Tell you what, next time you meet with this doctor of yours, you tell me about it. I’ll go with you. See for myself if she’s as good as you say she is. Then, I’ll consider therapy.” Polnareff holds up a closed fist. “What do you say?” 

Fugo breaks into a small smile. Haze happily taps his fingers against the table. “It’s a deal.” Fugo softly bumps his fist against Polnareff’s smaller one. 

Haze lets out a little squeal at that, pulling at Fugo’s sleeves like an overeager little puppy. His anxiety from this morning is slowly dwindling, it’s still there, but it’s not as loud anymore, just a quiet echo. 

Fugo holds out a celery stick for Haze to take. When he goes to put it in his mouth however, he ends up smushing the poor vegetable against it. He makes a displeased noise, a long whine that grates Fugo’s ears. He suppresses the need to snap, grabs another celery from the plate and gestures for Haze to tilt his head up. He maneuvers it under the helmet and past the stitches into Haze's mouth. Haze makes a pleased humming noise as he chews on it. 

It used to be a subject of arguments with Mista. Why feed the Sex Pistols if they're essentially spirits? Where does the food even go? Now as he watches Haze excitedly gesture at the carrots, he thinks it's less about a biological need to satisfy hunger and more because food makes them happy. It's not a need, it's a want . And isn't that one of his biggest flaws? He focuses on the practical needs-the need to preserve his life and his family's life-instead of what his heart wants-step in the boat, join them regardless of the outcome. 

When has Fugo ever really done something he wants? 

He wallows in it as he feeds the rest of the veggies to Haze and an awakened Coco Jumbo, with Polnareff a steady and calm presence. 

He goes to Trish. Because Trish is the only person he knows that always does what she wants without looking like she regrets any of it. It's perhaps one of the traits Fugo admires about her ever since they slowly reconnected these past months. 

It helps that Trish genuinely likes hanging out with him. Fugo wasn't there during that week and it's something he will always kick himself over for, but it's also something that Trish appreciates about him. Mista and Giorno fuss and worry over her. Fugo is just there, too awkward to start any talk of the past and Trish is too unwilling to revisit those painful memories. 

She should probably go talk to someone about that, but Fugo's already talked Polnareff into therapy, and he doesn't have it in him to have another heart to heart. That's not how their developing friendship works, they banter, they gossip, they sass other people, but matters of the heart stay locked like a level of a video game. They're not friends the way Trish is friends with Mista and Giorno. They should be the ones who would convince her for therapy. 

"Is he coming with us?" Trish asks when Fugo picks her up at her school. Haze is in the backseat of the car, head sticking out the window, stitched grin wide as he looks up at the sky. 

This is the hard part. "Yes. I hope that's not a problem."

Trish glances at Haze, looks at him cooly for a moment, before shrugging and sliding in the passenger seat. "Only if I can bring out Spice Girl." She pauses as if thinking over her words. "Not that I need to defend myself against your Stand. She just likes feeling the sun."

That's comforting. Like Trish actually cared about hurting his feelings with her words. Maybe that's just a thing that comes with friendships. 

Spice Girl materializes at the back seat. Haze startles, body tensed for a fight. It makes Fugo grip the steering wheel tighter, makes Trish look at him with an impassive yet piercing gaze. 

"Hello there," Spice Girl says in that echoe-y faraway tone she always uses. "May I join you?"

It's weird, seeing Haze interact with a Stand outside a fight. It's like he doesn't know what to do with himself.

"Haze," he says, voice less sharp but still insistent. Haze jerks his head, eyes comically wide. This would be the time that Fugo will shove him back at the back of his mind, but he remembers Dr. Pioggia's advice-taking care of one's Stand to take care of one's self. Maybe it will be nice for Haze to enjoy the sun like Trish says Spice Girl does. He settles with saying, "Play nice with Spice Girl."

Haze looks surprised, like a part of him expected Fugo to call him back. He goes back to looking outside the window, relaxing his shoulders. 

Fugo turns back to face the road and catches a glimpse of Trish smiling at him. He returns the smile, knows it's probably crooked from the scar and starts driving. Houses and shops pass by them in a colorful blur as he drives leisurely down the street. 

"So where are we going?"

"You tell me. Wherever you want to go."

"I thought the point of this day was for you to take care of yourself and do things you enjoy." 

Fugo pauses, processes that sentence. "Did Mista snitch on me?"

"No," Trish replies smoothly, not looking up from where she's checking her nails. They’re painted a nice peach color. "Giorno did." And then in that perceptive Trish Una way that he's come to like and fear, she says," Don't get mad at them for telling. They're just worried about you and gave me a heads up so I know what to expect."

"You don't have to do this."

"Do what?"

"Walk on eggshells trying to adjust to this...this exercise."

Trish finally looks up then, gaze sharp that Fugo feels the instinctual need to look at her, make eye contact with the beast to show no fear, no submission. "Have I ever treated you any different than I treat the others? Think about it."

Fugo does. He thinks of his return, of the first time they met since April, when Trish didn't even listen to his apologies and simply punched him in the arm like he was Mista or Giorno or someone he's not. 

Trish Una doesn't do careful. She's the girl who disobeyed Bruno Buccelatti's orders to stay put and ran with Notorious B.I.G. on her tail. She’s the girl who uprooted herself from her comfort zone to confront her own father. 

"I don't like…" Trish pauses, purses her lips in thought. "I don't like the knowledge of the mafia hanging over me all the time. Don't get me wrong. If you ever need me, as in desperately need me, I'll be there. But sometimes a girl just wants to hang out with her friend who just happens to have the ability to kill a guy in thirty seconds. Can you just be my friend today?"

And that's when something clicks for Fugo. The reason why he couldn't answer Dr. Pioggia when she asked him his favorite things. He doesn't have an identity beyond what the mafia made Pannacotta Fugo to be. Even his stint as a pianist was a remnant of his prestigious life before the mafia. What is he without his past, without his mistakes and regrets, without the grief that anchors his feet? 

Trish is looking at him, no expectations, just waiting for Fugo to make his decision. 

He uncurls his fingers from the steering wheel and slowly takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I think I can do that." 

The corner of Trish's mouth lifts up in a tiny smile. He still finds it strange to have that smile directed at him, but he finds that he likes the sight of it. 

Haze makes that noise again, the low gurgle and titter that he makes when he's happy. Spice Girl seems to understand and translates for them," I think he's enjoying himself."

Fugo can find it in himself to agree. It's his soul after all. 

Somehow they end up going shopping. Trish has a photoshoot for her next album cover next weekend and she needs to think of concepts for it. 

"I always thought that was your music label's job, you know, planning out the concept and your look and everything," Fugo says as he watches Trish quickly rifle through a rack of skirts.  

"I don't like taking orders from the Don of Napoli. What makes you think I take orders from my music label? I think of concepts and they roll with it." Trish grabs an orange and yellow checkered skirt and tosses it at him. Fugo grabs it and adds it to the growing pile he's been hefting on his shoulders. He’d ask Haze to help but he doesn’t want civilians questioning a floating pile of clothes. He and Spice Girl are entertaining themselves with a jewelry rack, fidgeting with the hanging earrings and baubles. 

Trish looks at him, thinly presses her lips together. 

"What? What are you looking at me like that for?"

"When was the last time you went shopping?"

The question throws him off guard. "Never? All my clothes are fine as they are."

Trish snorts, like he just made a bad joke. "Consider this my contribution to your...exercise. I'll buy you something." Fugo feels something akin to fear in his gut. He's seen what happened to Mista the last time he went shopping with Trish. "Don't look at me like that. I know exactly what I'm doing."

He ends up getting roped into buying several coats in different colors and patterns. He particularly likes the dark purple cloak with harlequin patterns. Haze tugs at it with an obvious grin on his face as his head swivels between his own patterns and the coat's patterns. 

“You match now,” Trish says with a smile on her face as she adjusts the coat to fit Fugo’s frame better. “It’s always cute when Stands and users match.” 

“Like you and Spice Girl?” he asks, thinking of the math-themed symbols on Spice Girl’s head and the atrocious skirt Trish wore when they first met. 

“Yup,” she says, popping the ‘p.’ “Giorno and Goldie have that ladybug motif going on. Sheila dyed her braids to match Vodoo Child’s color scheme. I’m thinking of getting Mista a gold hoodie for him to match the Sex Pistols.” 

Fugo cringes and it makes her laugh. “I’d say cashmere but yellow and gold is not a good color for him.”

“That’s the point. With his usual blue-orange color scheme it will look more like a color-clashing disaster. I have more reasons to make fun of him and he can’t even say no to the jacket because he likes all my gifts.”  

“You are one devious lady, Trish Una.” 

It's not too bad if he's being honest, joking around with Trish like this, trying clothes just to make each other laugh, but the price tag does make him wince. He's only thankful that his position pays a lot. 

By the time they exit the shop loaded with shopping bags-he only had two compared to Trish's whopping ten-he feels lighter. He kind of understands what Trish meant now, about having just a day with no reminder of the mafia. He knows he'll have to return eventually as the Fugo who's Passione's adviser but right now he can simply exist as the Fugo who's friends with Trish. 

"So what do you think?" Trish asks as they load the bags in the backseat of the car. Haze is excitedly rifling through them, whooping when he finds the purple coat again. Spice Girl has a fond smile on her face as she looks at him. The answer comes easy to Fugo. 

"Maybe let's just have lunch together next time. I don't think my paycheck can handle weekly shopping sprees." Trish fails to hide her laugh at that and Fugo finds himself laughing along. 

"Just do what I do and bat your eyes at Mista to pay for everything. He'll cave. He always does."

"Duly noted." Mista likes doting on them, unofficially taking a role of being a big brother in their little circle. 

Speaking of Mista, Fugo's phone starts ringing the familiar thrill of Sex Pistols' Anarchist. Mista's recent burner phone number flashes on screen. Trish is looking at him warily as Fugo answers the call. 

He barely gets a "hello" out when a volley of gunshots fill his ear. Just like that the light mood disappears, making way for the familiar clench in his guts. Haze jumps out of the car and stands by his side. 

Mista's voice is clipped and ragged. He sounds like he's running. "Need backup. Central plaza at 15th avenue. 3 attackers and 1 Stand user. I told you four is fucking bad luck, man." Another volley of gunshots, Sex Pistols yelling in the background. "Hurry!"

Fugo hangs up and quickly gets to the driver's seat, Haze disappearing into him momentarily. He can feel a storm swirling in his veins, an armor slipping over his body and soul. Haze is growling in the back of his mind, no more relaxation, he's ready to fight. "Tri-"

Trish is already buckling herself in the passenger seat, pink aura flickering behind her. "Make that lunch date into dinner. I'll need it after this."

"What happened to just having a normal day today?"

"My friend needs help. Fuck normalcy."

Fugo runs what he knows of Mista's mission through his head. A smuggling ring from overseas wanting to partner with Passione. Mista went over to check if their smuggling involved drugs. If not, Giorno can meet with them. If yes, Mista will take them out. Judging by the call, it's the latter. What he's curious about is the sole Stand user Mista reported. They don't know if Stands exist outside Italy. Giorno shared his encounter with a Japanese boy and his gravity Stand once but they've never entertained the possibility of the arrow, or arrows, having a wider reach. 

He shoves all of that in the back of his head for now. They're in the plaza already, eyes scanning the area for signs of a gunfight. Haze thrums underneath his skin, a buzzing sensation that makes his hands go numb and the scars on his face itch. Next to him, Trish has a hand latched on his arm, keeping both of them within reach of each other. Civilians mile around them, too caught up in their own daily routines to mind the tense teenagers in the middle of palazzo. Fugo feels a lump form in his throat. For as much as he's been getting better at controlling Haze, he's still hesitant of using it in large crowds. 

Trish jerks his arm sharply to the left. Fugo's eyes catch a humanoid figure, made of clear, light blue glass. They're attached to a young man, who's looking wildly around the plaza, as he stands in front of the doorway of a small, closed shop. Bullet holes litter the walls and roof, some of them still emitting smoking. 

It's too risky to use Haze in public places. Trish steps forward and Fugo positions himself behind her, ready to back her up if she needs it. 

The Stand user must be new to the business, he startles with a shriek as Spice Girl materializes right in front of him. She takes care of him with a punch to the throat and the man crumbles in a heap, unconscious. Fugo thinks that's that. 

But then the glasslike Stand glows and its body morphs to a shape similar to Spice Girl. It throws a punch right at her. Trish's hands fly to her throat as she chokes, Fugo catches her before she could fall to the ground. 

Spice Girl kicks at the glass stand's torso, cracking it in places and sends it flying a few feet back. It shakes its head before shooting forward and mirroring Spice Girl's kick. 

Fugo calls out Haze and his Stand catches the glass foot and tosses it right through the door of the little hideout. Its user's body shakes from the impact, getting injured despite being unconscious. Fugo deduces it must be a remote, sentient Stand. 

"Fugo," Trish says with a rasp, rubbing her bruised throat. Fugo can feel anger at her behalf, knowing how important Trish's voice is to her career. "It's a mimicking Stand. It copied Spice Girl's moves."

As if on cue, Fugo feels an invisible hand wrap around his leg as he is tossed inside the shop. 

He braces himself for impact but it never comes. He lands on something solidly muscular and cold. Purple Haze wraps his arms around his user protectively.  

They're inside what seems to be an old bar, made of broken stools and glass and dust. The glass Stand is right at the center of it all and to Fugo's horror it has morphed in the shape of Purple Haze. Glass helmet, glass cape, three glass capsules on their hands  They don't know if it can copy only physical movement and not the actual Stand ability. If an enemy Stand has Purple Haze's virus.….Mista is right there, Trish is right outside, there are several civilians around the area. 

"Fugo!" Fugo's head turns to the dilapidated bar and sees Mista peeking out from the top. Haze turns his head to look too, and the Stand mirrors him, an ominous creak of its glass neck. "Whatever you do, don't let Haze move." It's then that Fugo sees the bleeding gunshots on Mista's arms, and the distinct lack of the Sex Pistols despite him still carrying his revolver. 

Fugo wills Haze to sit down on the ground, legs crossed and watches as the Stand copies him. 

"Where are the other three?"

"Taken care of. They're somewhere in here," Mista winces. Fugo feels panic creep up his skin as blood steadily trickles down his arms, no sign of stopping. His eyes go wide as he looks at Fugo. "Fugo, calm down. I need you to calm down."

Haze's breathing has gone ragged, eyes directed right at Mista. They can hear glass crunching as the figure shakes in the same visible panic. 

"It can copy abilities, not just movement," Mista says, confirming Fugo's worst fears. "That's why I'm fucked up like this. Asshole rebounded the bullets right back at me, called that thing Bet on Me."

Six capsules, enough to cover the shop and some parts of the plaza. Haze quivers, a low moan of impending death. Fugo thinks of Illuso, of Angelica and Volpe. He thinks of Mista, trying to calm him down even though he's injured, of Trish who got dragged into this mess after spending a nice afternoon with him. No matter how much "displaced self-affirmation" he does for him, that won't erase just how terrifying Purple Haze Distortion is. 

Fugo is so tired of living in fear. 

How did that saying go? The brave ones aren't fearless, they're the ones that act in spite of fear. He knows what Haze can do to him one day if he's not careful enough but he also knows that he wants to help his family for however long that he can. No more fears. He doesn't want to be scared of his Stand anymore. He wants Haze, like how Mista cares for the Pistols like they're part of him, how Trish trusts Spice Girl despite her independence, how Polnareff is still fond of Silver Chariot even after everything he's done. He wants to like Haze in all his forms, in its confused moments of eating food, its endearingly inquisitive nature, in the rumbles of its storms and the strength it carries.

He wants Haze to be his Stand, not just another enemy to fight. 

Haze tilts his head up, almost like a challenge. Beneath the stitches and the voiceless noises, he says , "Go ahead and show me." 

A plan forms in Fugo’s head, it’s a leap of faith more than anything, but it’s the only one he has. 

"When I tell you to go, run and grab Trish. Get as far from here as he can." Fugo gets to his feet and walks the few feet between him and Mista to help him up. "Do not wait for me outside. When I tell you to run, you run, are we clear?" Mista looks at him like he's seeing someone different. To his credit, Fugo does feel different somehow, still a mess of regrets and rage, but at least someone who can get his shit together. 

"What about you? I fucking told you we'll be waiting and we need you and now you're telling me to leave you?!"

"I'm telling you to trust me, Mista. I can handle this. Haze can handle this." They watch as Haze stands up straight, a harbinger of death, a picture of control. Bet on Me copis his movements, light reflecting off the glass panes, Haze and Fugo’s reflections visible. 

A pinched expression appears on Mista’s face. “If you die on me, I’m gonna shoot myself just to follow you into hell and kick your fucking ass.” 

Fugo laughs drily, the sound grating in his ears. 

“1…” Haze raises a fist, virus capsules glinting ominously. Bet on Me copies the movement. All 6 capsules are ready to be used. 

“2…” Mista grits his teeth, eyes the broken doorway. 

“3…MISTA RUN!” 

Mista bolts outside. Distantly Fugo hears Trish scream at him and their voices are drowned out by Haze’s deafening howl as he runs and sends his fist crashing against the enemy Stand. Glass shards fly from the impact, nicking Fugo’s face and hands. 

Then, a punch against his own face, blood bursting from his nose, the crack of capsules that aren't his, a crude imitation of his Stand.

Haze yells, alarmed and terrified. Fugo should be feeling the burns climbing up his arms like wildfire, but all he feels is the choking feeling of smelling the heavy scent of Haze’s virus. No boils, no pus, no blood. Bet on Me can copy Haze’s movement and powers all he wants, but he will never copy the innate immunity Fugo has built since the time he bit into that capsule all those months ago.

The next thing Fugo knows, there’s a heavy weight crashing into him and he’s being picked up like a child. Haze’s arms are crushing him against his chest as he runs out the door and into the sunlight. 

“Hey, hey I’m fine. Put me down!” 

Haze makes a little choked noise in his throat, tilting his head up to the sky and the bright sun above, as if Fugo isn’t totally immune and needs the light to undo the virus. It’s nice to be fussed over like this, but they are in public and he doesn’t feel like explaining the sight of a man floating in midair. 

“Panna!” Fuck . Mista only calls him by that name when he’s emotional or scared or an unfortunate combination of the two. Haze puts him down just as Mista and Trish come running up to him. Meters away Fugo can make out a wave of reinforcements from Passione coming down the streets. 

Fugo lets out a pained yell when Mista grabs his shoulders, checking him for injuries. Trish pulls out a hanky and starts dabbing on the bloody nose Fugo got from the punch. Aside from that, all he can really feel is small nicks and cuts from where the spraying glass caught him. Mista presses on his chest and he can feel the ache in his chest when he and Haze were thrown inside the bar. 

“That was stupid,” Trish says, frowning at him. “Ballsy, but stupid. Actually, I don't think those two are mutually exclusive..” 

  “We gotta get you Giorno, man.” Mista starts tugging at him, despite having injuries himself. “We can leave the clean up to everyone else.”

I’m fine,” Fugo insists as he tugs his hand back, but Mista’s grip is strong and firm, dragging him in the direction where he parked the car. “You should take a look at both of you.” 

Trish gingerly runs her fingers on the bruise and winces. “Nothing a little ice can fix.”

“We could all meet with Giorno. How about that?” Mista asks. Fugo gets ready to fight again, insists he is fine, which he is, but there’s a tug at his hand. Haze looms over him, mouth pulled down and disapproving. He whines and Fugo gets the vague feeling he’s being scolded. By his own soul, no less. 

Fugo grumbles, but he says,” Fine.” 

Gold Experience is probably the most confusing Stand he has ever encountered in his career in Passione, just as confusing as their owner. Fugo doesn’t particularly understand what Requiem can do exactly, if it’s an amalgamation of reality bending and control over fate. He’s just glad they’re on their side. 

And that GER is quite fond of Purple Haze. 

At least that’s what Fugo tells himself as he watches Haze gurgle happily from his position in between Goldie’s legs as the other Stand wraps their arms around his torso, pressing their cheeks affectionately together. Fugo can faintly feel warmth on his back from where he’s reclined in a chaise lounge in Giorno’s office. It helps abate the ache in his ribs a little. 

Giorno doesn’t seem to mind the contact. He adores all their Stands, even the virulent ones. He’s checking over Fugo’s injuries, fingers carefully tracing skin. The sleeves of his dress shirt have been pushed up to reveal pale, veiny arms, wired with slowly developing muscles. 

Fugo has a death grip on the edge of the lounge to prevent any embarrassing reactions from Giorno’s soft touches. He doesn’t know if he’s shirtless because Giorno actually needs to see the extent of his injuries or if he’s just being a little shit again and pushing Fugo’s buttons. 

“You’ll need to take it easy for a few days. No heavy lifting, for you and Haze both. Paperwork only.” Giorno pulls his hand away from the faint marks slowly disappearing on his chest, and grabs his hand instead. “I’m sorry for that, by the way.” 

Fugo raises himself up a little, so Giorno isn’t staring him down in that effervescent way of his. “What for?” 

“I know it’s your mental health break today, but you and Trish were the closest operatives in Mista’s location. I should have sent reinforcements faster, or at the very least based more operatives in the area. We can’t afford blind spots anywhere.” 

“It’s not your fault. We chose to be there.” Fugo tugs on his jacket. His old one had been covered in dirt and glass so Trish kindly handed him the new harlequin one before he went to Giorno. “Stop doing that.” 

“Doing what?” Fugo hates that polite inquisitiveness in his voice. 

“Internalizing the blame for something out of your control. We’ll always get injured regardless of how much planning we do. It’s part of the job.” He figures it’s a long time coming, Polnareff and Giorno somehow carry the heaviest weights between their circle, so he pushes through with the conversation. “Ever thought about therapy?” 

The slight widening of his eyes is the only indication that Giorno is affected by his statement. His posture remains controlled, neutral as he turns away from Fugo and looks at their Stands. Somehow their Stands are more open with their affection for each other than either of them. 

“I don’t see why I would need it.” 

“That’s what I said when Sheila first suggested it, yet here I am several months in.” Fugo watches as Haze lightly taps on Goldie’s arm, a senseless rhythm. “Therapy doesn’t mean you’re any less than you are.”

Giorno finally turns to face him. “I never said that you were.” 

“This isn’t about me.” Fugo can feel his temper flaring. God, why can’t he just understand? Giorno almost always seems to know what’s going on in his head, why can’t he do it now? Haze is growling softly, and he pulls back. Anger won’t get them anywhere right now. “It’s about you being the boss of the mafia at 16 by yourself.” 

“I have you and Mista and Trish and-” 

“There is a difference ,” Fugo stands up, looms over him. Giorno looks up, defiance burning in his eyes.. “Between the Giorno who is our friend and the Giorno who is our boss. You need to talk to someone you don’t work with, an outsider’s perspective if you will.” 

Giorno’s expression shutters and Fugo panics. Their relationship is a fine balance between friendship and professional concern. For all his devotion and loyalty, he still doesn’t quite know how to handle Giorno. A soft sigh escapes his mouth. Giorno looks back at their Stands. Fugo follows his gaze. Goldie has climbed into Haze’s lap and is hugging him tightly. Haze’s hands are at his sides, but he’s leaning his weight fully into Goldie. Maybe that’s why Goldie is fond of Haze, because they are monsters in their own right.  If you can ignore both the deadly powers they wield, the scene looks soft and tender. Even if it’s just a phantom warmth, Fugo feels comforted. It feels like an apology. 

Warmth, a real one this time, around his wrist. Giorno is closer, posture more open and relaxed, his eyes are bright and seeing again. “Let me think about it?” 

It’s probably the closest thing he’ll get to a victory with Giorno. He’ll take it. With any luck, Mista, Trish and Polnareff can help convince him too.  “Sure. Just let me know.” 

Giorno’s eyes crinkle as they look at him. “You should do that more often.” 

“Do what?” 

“Talk back to me. Call me out on my bullshit. It will be good for me, I think. I can’t be right all the time.” Giorno calls out to Goldie and the Stand leaves a wet kiss against Haze’s helmet before they fade away. Haze makes a disappointed noise, but perks up when Giorno reaches out to cup his cheek. He lets out a little chirp and nuzzles into his palm. 

On any other day, Fugo would be aghast at the transparency of his emotions through Haze, but after the day he just had he realizes it’s not necessarily a bad thing.

“Here.” Giorno hands something to Haze. Fugo approaches him to see a little pink sphere flecked with silver glitter in Haze’s hands. “Go take a bath. Consider it my contribution for your day-off.” 

Giorno’s expensive bath collection is one of Passione’s unknown wonders, like whatever it is under Mista’s hat, or why exactly is there a turtle in the Don’s office. Fugo has only seen it in passing-a wide counter in the Don’s private bathroom overflowing with bath bombs, salts, suds and scented candles. Giorno explained once that baths to him are what shopping is to Trish, an indulgence, an outlet for his wealth, and just a way to unwind from being the Don of Passione. 

And like in true extravagant Don fashion, Fugo finds himself sitting in the largest, fanciest bathtubs he’s ever seen (he’s pretty sure the legs and faucets are real gold). It’s big enough that he and Haze can comfortably sit across from each other. The bath bomb made the water a pastel pink color with bubbles that smelled like cotton candy and vanilla. In Fugo’s hands is a flute of champagne, poured and handed to him by Giorno. By the edge of the tub is a bath stool carrying a tray carrying a box of chocolate-covered strawberries and the rest of the champagne bottle. Jazz music is playing from the radio sitting by the sink.  

Fugo thinks it’s too much. By Giorno’s standards, it’s just another night for him. 

At least Haze seems to like it. He’s chirping as he pops the floating bubbles with the excitement of a baby’s first bubble bath. He grabs a clump of the pale pink suds and blows on it. It ends up against Fugo’s face and he sputters as he raises the champagne glass so it doesn’t get in and uses his other hand to wipe it off. Haze whines, curling into himself, berated. 

Fugo splashes him with the water and laughs when Haze looks affronted, water dripping from its helmet. 

Haze's hand is suddenly on his ankle and he yanks. 

Fugo’s head gets submerged in the overly sweet smelling water and he chokes. 

When he comes up for air, Haze has a smirk on his face, innocently popping more bubbles. 

“You are so lucky I don’t want to mess up Giorno’s set-up,” Fugo says as he runs his finger through his flopping bangs. “You really like being clean, huh?”

Haze shakes his head vigorously, hard enough for his helmet to shake. Fugo stops him with a raised hand. “You want to do this again sometime? Maybe not as often as Giorno, but something just like this, one night of just feeling clean and taken care of.” 

The water sloshes around the tub as Haze suddenly shoots forward. Fugo has enough sense to drop the glass to the tray before he suddenly has an armful of Haze. If he were a dog, he’d be licking him right now but Haze just settles for squishing their wet cheeks together. 

Something uncurls inside of Fugo’s being, akin to the feeling he got when Purple Haze became Purple Haze Distortion. It’s like a shift in his very being, a titled world suddenly standing upright. 

He’s always been careful with words, as part of his strict academic upbringing, to the point that every unspoken sentiment he’s ever had builds up inside him until he lets it out in a mess of misunderstandings and anger. Haze is more straightforward, more simple. He supposes that at the very root of all his anger, issues and mistakes, the things he want are quite simple-eating good food, spending time with his friends, having meaningful conversations, keeping clean and maybe a bit of affection. 

He’s got to hand it to Dr. Pioggia. This ‘displaced self-affirmation’ thing actually works. 

And if Fugo wraps his arms around Haze’s torso to return the wet hug, that’s nobody’s business but theirs.