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Fugo, for the longest time, thought he could only feel two different things. Anger and compliancy, though the second one’s not really a feeling. He would be compliant to whatever was thrown his way, only to become an explosion of anger later. There was always the numbness that followed one of his outbursts, but that wasn’t anything he could feel. It was just a calm period of time where he felt like he was underwater.
Ever since he met Bucciarati, though, his list of what he could feel grew. Bucciarati was the second person who allowed him to cry, and the first person to witness it. Even with his grandmother, he never felt like he was allowed to be sad. Sadness just made him feel worse, but Bucciarati was there to say otherwise. That night, he let out all of his sorrows.
“Bucciarati, was all of this a mistake?”
“It’s only a mistake if you don’t like the outcome.”
“Then.. Then none of this was a mistake. But.. I don’t know why I feel..”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to know why.”
Fugo places a black and white bouquet full of hydrangeas and blue iris with two white heather lavenders peeking from the top on the wet grass before him. He awkwardly fixes the other two bouquets in his possession so that neither fall. He breathes out a soft, “Thank you,” before moving on.
The first time he ever felt proud of himself in a long while was during a mission. It wasn’t his first mission nor was it his last. He can’t even remember what happened during that night, just that he and Abbacchio were on the road home. A bullet had lodged itself into Fugo’s arm and due to the injury had laid in the back seat. Tears blurred his vision and his memory of the incident, only words coming through.
“Abbacchio, I-”
“Fugo.”
“...”
“You… You did well. Don’t apologize anymore.”
“But-”
“I’ll drive off the road if the next thing you say is ‘It’s my fault’, or ‘I’m sorry’. You’re not the one who pulled the trigger.”
Fugo placed a black bouquet with a dark purple bow filled with alstroemeria and delphinium with one large anthurium flower on the ground. He has to fiddle with the anthurium so that it doesn’t cover the name on the marble block. Another batch of soft words tumbles out of his mouth, “ Thank you ,” before he’s walking once more. One more bouquet left.
His first laugh since early childhood came at the cost of his own dignity, but the joke he had heard made it better. It was stupid and something like that would’ve usually caused him to blow up, but that day.. He just wanted to laugh. And ever since that laugh, he was able to laugh more. He still got angry, the good days definitely didn’t outweigh the bad ones, but it wasn’t something he was incapable of anymore.
“Fugo!”
“What?”
“How would you know if you shit your pants if you wear a thong!?”
“Why the hell would you need to know?”
“So you’re not denying the fact you wear a thong! Told you, Bucciarati!”
“Wait- Narancia, I don’t wear a thong! Hey, get back here!”
He hesitated. The final bouquet was orange with a light purple bow tied at the bottom, holding all kinds of flowers. The majority were gardenias and purple hyacinths with white carnations centered near the middle. Fugo didn’t care much for flowers, only really learning about their language long after adolescence. The language of flowers helped him speak better, ironically. Sometimes it was hard conveying feelings he didn’t even know he could feel. Flowers helped.
He helped more. More than Abbacchio and Bucciarati could. Those two were like parental figures - more than his fucking real ones, anyway - but he was different. He was different ever since he helped him on the sidewalk. A young boy that had looked like how Fugo felt. A boy who just wanted to leave , to escape from their situation. And Fugo knew he had a chance, the boy’s amusement of Purple Haze’s first appearance was all he needed to know before grabbing the future member’s wrist and dragged him away from that life. Fugo changed him, and he changed Fugo.
“I don’t get it.”
“You never get it, do you?!”
“I’m telling you, it just doesn’t make any sense! Shut the hell up!”
“You’re the dumbass here! Maybe if you were quieter you’d get it!”
“I’m just trying my best!”
He didn’t get that angry, definitely not as angry as he should have been.
“See, I’m alright!”
“You got shot.”
“Pssh, so what?”
“Narancia.”
“Okay, okay, stop looking at me like that!”
His smile had curbed the sudden anxiety even as Fugo performed impromptu surgery.
“Are you good?”
“The hell are you saying?”
“Definitely not good.”
“Stop talking like you know me.”
“Yeah, something’s up. C’mere!”
“Narancia, don’t touch me!”
“I’ma do what I damn well please, as long as it makes you stop frowning like that!”
He learned how to become a person. A being with complex emotions that people spend years trying to figure out. It takes forever to dissect someone’s thoughts. Someone who’s able to flip on a dime, who feels certain ways when faced with situations. There’s no correct answer, no sheet that shows what you’re supposed to do. No textbook. No teacher or tutor or parent to tell you that you’re wrong when you choose A or B.
That made it harder. There was nothing he could do to figure out the final gift he was given. The final emotion that makes a person complete. What everybody in shitty novels wants. Something that he only realized after everything was too late. Instead of putting actual thought onto this final emotion, he pushed himself to work.
Giorno - of course, it was Giorno - was the one who eventually made it clear to him.
“I’m going to do it. Tonight.”
“It’s going to go well.”
“Maybe. I just hope Mista catches on.”
“Why not just come out and say it? It’s obvious what Mista’s going to say.”
“And how do you know?”
“Mista’s always all over you. I’m pretty sure that means he’s at the very least interested.”
“Like Narancia was to you?”
The flowers stare back at him. Leaves are pulled off of trees with little force and Fugo can’t find himself to care about the nip in the air. For mid-April, it was freezing. Despite the breeze, the flowers didn’t sway. The vice-like grip that Fugo had on the bouquet’s stems was probably the reason.
Giorno and Mista couldn’t make the anniversary. It was the first time in 5 years that all four of the survivors weren’t together. Anger beat itself against his chest, just telling him to throw away the bouquet. It was pointless. What he was feeling was pointless. The marble block before him couldn’t give him an answer. Ghosts didn’t exist so he couldn’t get a fairytale ending to this day. Nobody would know what he was trying to say. There’s not a living person for miles.
The graveyard’s empty.
Fugo raises his hand high above his head, the hold alone strong enough to rip the flowers apart. But he can’t bring himself to smash the flowers. The pain in his chest only grows louder, demanding to be released somehow. His arm slowly goes numb from the raised position, and instead of throwing them onto the ground, he lowers his arm. He brings the bouquet close to his chest, wrapping his arms around the flowers. His hold wasn’t strong enough to crush them, just barely enough to keep them close.
The pain grew too much. This happened every year, every year all of them would visit the same graveyard to honor those who changed their lives. Those who gave up their lives for them. Even 5 years later, Fugo feels out of place. He shouldn’t be allowed to mourn for them. Shouldn’t feel sorrow or regret. Maybe the ghosts were laughing at him, or mocking him. Someone like him shouldn’t be allowed near their final resting place.
He still came, every year, to honor them. Every year he added a bouquet of flowers in a language that only he understood to thank them for what they gave him. All three of them gave him something that he couldn’t just be taught. They gave him a home, and he turned his back. He left them to die.
Fugo remembers what Trish told him the first year they met up. What his final words were.
“I want to see Fugo again.”
Every damn year, he can’t decide if he resents Trish for telling him that or if he is grateful for it. He can’t decide right now. He wants to try to organize his thoughts, compartmentalize what he’s feeling. Maybe lock away what was given as a way to repent for his major sin. He can’t do any of that anymore, not on his knees before someone who would never get to have his final wish granted.
Hesitantly, Fugo places the bouquet on the grave in front of him. The world outside of his little bubble goes on, not caring about the message he left for the dead. Maybe if he was religious, he could delude himself into thinking that his words were heard loud and clear. That in some made-up afterlife, the boy who caught his heart would receive the bouquets and be happy, yell in that usual tone of his regardless of what he was feeling.
“ Thank you. ” His voice is raspy. It doesn’t sound or feel like his own words. The pain in his chest forces him to wheeze, releasing itself in droplets of water. Rain that only coats his face and causes his cheeks to become warmer instead of colder. It always rains on this day. Nobody brings umbrellas.
His hands come back to hold his arms. Nails dig into a black uniform as he decides to shut himself off. Just shut everything away. Logical reasoning had long been abandoned, and in its place were gifts that he shouldn’t be able to keep. The warm feeling that sat on his heart and squeezed it ever-so lightly never was supposed to be given to him. Fugo doesn’t even know - or care - if he knew what all he gave him.
Emotions swirl out of control. He’s angry at himself. He’s angry at Giorno and Mista and how happy they were at the restaurant. He’s angry at Trish for not showing up with no reason. He’s sad that he still feels angry. He feels guilty. God, does he feel guilty . The guilt of his own burdens outweigh everything else, forcing a choked sob out of him.
“ I’m sorry, Nara. ” Fugo chokes on his own words. Everything feels so wrong , strangely foreign as he roughly hits his head against the gravestone before him. Not even the breeze graces him with a reply. There’s only the flowers, seen through a hazy vision of water, barely comprehensible in his state. “ God damnit . ”
There’s nobody around to see him breakdown. Not even Narancia can see him weep. If only Fugo could give him his own gift in person, a bouquet that says he finally realized. It was 5 years too late, but he finally caught on.
I love you.