Archive of Our Own

Fugo slammed the paper down on the desk in front of Giorno, causing pencils to rattle in their jar and the green potted plant to jiggle back and forth like some form of gelatin. 

The Don reached out to steady it, green eyes somewhat masked with his blonde eyelashes, reflecting the daylight from the window and a red mark visible on his cheek where his hand had been resting. His expression was plain, placid, apathetic per usual, so different from the jutted up anger over Fugo’s. 

“I'm not doing it.” The words came out between Fugo’s clenched teeth in single syllables and as he pulled his hand away, the sweat that had collected from his palm stuck to the paper, causing it to flutter before settling back onto the wood. “I’m sorry but. I’m not doing this mission.”

Any other day, Fugo would be tripping over himself to show the utmost respect to his boss, desperate to pay back the debt he owed. Standing no less than three feet away, avoiding eye contact, dipping his head just a bit, groveling on the floor to show he was not worthy of the friendship Giorno had offered. But with the frustration brewing in his gut, he found his boldness had spiked alongside his blood pressure. It was maddening.

Giorno gently took the wrinkled paper from the desk and held it up to his face. He blinked slowly as he glanced over it, reviewing the mission request and checking the details. After a long moment, he set it down again, calmly tilting his head to look at Fugo’s face. 

“What’s wrong with it?” He asked. “It’s a simple dinner party set for this evening. There have been clarifications of wealthy novels with possible ties to the lingering drug trades attending. What’s the matter? You won’t be killing anyone.”

Fugo snapped his head to the side to glare out the window. He opened and closed his fists, trying to reign his anger under control while his nails sheathed and unsheathed themselves in the meat of his palms. 

“It’s in Naples.” He muttered. 

Giorno raised an eyebrow.

“As are we.” He said. “What’s wrong with it being in Naples?”

“With rich nobles! In Naples!”

“Yes. That’s what I said.”

Fugo sighed and sat down in the chair by the desk, the leather sticking to the exposed skin through the holes in his suit pants. He ran his fingers through his hair, and as his frustration began to subside, dreaded anxiety sloshed in its place. Giorno wouldn’t be taking a simple ‘no’ as an answer. He’d have to open up a little, as much as he dreaded it. 

Only Bucciarati knew of Fugo’s background and he only knew of what he’d read in the court file and what sparse detail Fugo’s tight lips had spilled. Nobody knew the extent of what exactly he’d experienced, and Fugo wanted to keep it that way. The nightmares were reminder enough. 

“My family.” He began. He opened and closed his mouth several times like a drowning fish, trying to find the words. “My family is. Was. Wealthy. In Naples. They’ll definitely attend.”

“Your family?” Giorno asked. The expression on his face didn’t change but something flickered in his eyes, something Fugo couldn’t read. “You sure?”

“They’ll attend anything to boost their reputation.”

Giorno considered the statement. “I assume you’re not on good terms with them?”

“Good terms?” Fugo choked back a bout of harsh laughter, the fear of angering his boss the only thing tying it back. “You think I’d be here if I was on good terms with them?”

Giorno gently raised a hand to rub his chin in thought. He pursed his lips and a thin line formed between his eyebrows. 

“I see. Well. That presents a conflict.”

“It’s an easy fix.” Fugo folded his arms. “Send someone else.”

“That’s the issue.” Giorno stared with smoldering green. “I need you for this mission. You’re our most competent member in information gathering. You’re familiar with the area. And, if you’re from a wealthy family, you'd have the skills to blend in. Am I correct?”

“Giorno-”

“That being said.” The golden-haired boy cut in. “I cannot risk you being identified. It could blow our cover.”

“Then…?” Fugo leaned forward. The smallest speck of hope sparked in his chest. “We’ll have to find someone else… right?”

As Giorno continued to think, the smallest of smiles pulled at his lips, like something devilish had come to mind. The whirling gears in his brain were almost visible, firing on all cylinders.

“What?” Fugo asked. “What is it?”

“An idea.” A shadow of a smirk flickered before vanishing under Giorno’s tightly reined mask. “Come with me.”

Fugo didn’t know Trish all that well, even after rejoining the gang. Interaction with her was awkward and for the first week back, he could feel her eyes on his, racking over his haggard figure and observing him from a distance like he’d suddenly sprout wings. 

When he finally found the courage to reconcile with her, she’d brushed his concerns off. 

I didn’t expect you to risk our life for mine. We barely knew each other. She’d said. 

I would’ve! Fugo had insisted. Had Bucciarati asked me to, I would’ve. No hesitation.

But he didn’t. And you’ve come back a different man. That’s all that matters. She’d smiled a somewhat cheeky grin and patted the scarred tissue over his cheek. By the way, if it helps at all, my favorite music is Japanese City Funk. 

Their interactions had been somewhat more lighthearted since then, especially since Mista had softened up a bit as well, but with Trish’s new found music career, she’d only visit the mansion during her off-times, savoring every last moment to relax. 

So, when Giorno led Fugo to Trish’s room, he wondered what plan the Don had come up with that required her assistance. Surely he wouldn’t ask her to attend. Although rather friendly with many of Passione’s members, maybe a little more with Sheila E, she wasn’t technically part of the mob, therefore had no obligations to carry out missions besides swearing secrecy. Sure, her stand would be useful in combat, but as far as Fugo knew, she preferred the more tactical approach and didn’t like head-on conflict. 

Giorno rapped his knuckles against the white wood of Trish’s door, his other hand reaching out to grasp Fugo’s tie as if the boy would try to run away, but whatever devious plan he had up his sleeve, Fugo knew there was no point in trying to escape it. 

The door opened to a swirl of bubblegum pink hair, and Trish offered Giorno a wide smile, reaching out to poke one of his blond victory rolls.

“Hey, you!” She said. “So excited to see me that you took a break from work?”

Giorno responded with a hearty laugh, his head thrown back as if she’d just told him some sort of gold-medal comedy. 

At the sound, Fugo couldn’t help the violent stab of jealousy that twisted in his chest. Giorno, his boss, his savior, his glowing light, never laughed around Fugo. Their conversations were normally shriveled small-talk and business related. No jokes between them that only they could share. No playful gestures or touching. No teasing. Nothing. 

If he was point-blank honest with himself, Fugo knew what he felt towards Giorno. He knew past his die-hard dedication and devotion, beyond his gut-wrenching adoration and idolization, it was love. He loved Giorno. He craved the man’s attention, couldn’t stop the vicious punctures of envy every time Giorno broke up his porcelain mask for someone else. He longed for Giorno’s touch. It was strange, normally touch set him off; he couldn’t stand the sensation of flesh atop of his, the texture drove him crazy, and it made him want to scrub the skin right off. 

But Giorno was different. When Fugo kissed his hand to show his loyalty, it lacked that strange oily touch that every other person seemed to bring with it. Instead, it was smooth and cool to the touch, like hands of sculpted limestone. It was the hands of someone without guile, shame, and the flaws of a lowly mortal. Like the cloven hooves of a golden calf. 

Fugo wasn’t sure how entirely healthy it was to picture Giorno as some sort of demigod in human form, but he did long to see the mortal side of Giorno. The side that cries, laughs, belches, bawls, hurts, hates, and loves. He knew it was there; he’d seen it when Giorno interacted with Mista and Trish. Why wouldn’t Giorno show it to him? 

Because I don’t deserve him. 

So he chalked up those feelings of grotesque love to nothing more than admiration. 

“Oh, hey.” Trish leaned over Giorno’s shoulder to wave to Fugo. Her smile was closed mouth, crooked, but still sincere. “Didn’t see you there, cheese boy.”

“Cheese-”

Fugo felt sudden anger stir in his gut. Red flushed into his cheeks and the nickname. Strawberry, he could handle. Dessert jokes had nothing on him. But the cheese ones just rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe it was because it was Narancia who started it. 

“Fugo here is preparing for our next mission.” Giorno pulled him inside the room, that rare smile touching his lips again. “He needs a disguise.”

“Oh, I see.” Trish placed her hands on her hips, eyes twinkling. “You need to dress him up a bit, huh?”

“Dress up?” Fugo frowned. This wasn’t going to work. “No, Giorno. Like. They know my face. No amount of dressing me up will disguise that.”

“Don’t worry.” Giorno’s smile was suddenly directed at him, and Fugo felt his insides melt. “We’ve got it covered.”

Trish sat Fugo down in a white chair against the wall and sashayed to her closet, opening the French doors like she was about to break into song. Giorno followed behind and they began to dig through it. 

Fugo sighed, pulling up a knee to rest an elbow on it. He reached up to pull at his lip. He couldn’t help but feel like a child again, his parents rushing to dress him up in his best suit for the next recital or stupid party he had to attend.

In hindsight, he could see that yes, he was the perfect choice for the mission. He’d probably know a lot of the people attending and would more easily be able to dig into their background. The problem was getting recognized. That would not fly. 

“Flannel maybe?” Trish asked from behind the doors. “Or were you thinking something more hip? I’d kill to see him wear something punk.”

“No, no, I’ve got a better idea.” Giorno’s voice was lathered thick with deviousness. The sound of shuffling and squeaking as hangers were pushed to the side emitted from the closet. “I was thinking more along the lines of this.”

“Oh. My gosh.” Fugo could see Trish in his head, an excited flint igniting her eyes. “Yes. Yes, yes, yes. I’ve got so many selections to choose from.”

Oh great. Fugo let his cheek smash against his palm. They’ve found something good.

He’d admit that Giorno and Trish were quite fashionable. Their clothing was trendy, sporty, and flashy, something that would attract attention. They knew the language of appearances, something Fugo did not know, if his lovely choice of clothing was any example. 

The holes was somewhat of a sensory thing. Sometimes, he’d feel like someone was touching him, bruises on his skin, nails digging into flesh, and he’d panic, thinking he was back there. The holes were evidence that he was untainted, at least in the moment, a visual way of grounding himself. 

“This one.” Giorno said and Trish giggled. She whispered something indecipherable, which caused Giorno to chuckle. 

Again. Those rotten pangs of jealousy. 

“Alright.” Trish rounded the closet doors, something blue folded over her arm with Giorno in tow. She held it out to Fugo. 

“Put this on.”

“Here?” Fugo glanced back and forth from the item of clothing to her face. “Now?”

“If you’re that embarrassed about being seen in your underwear, you can use the adjoining bathroom.” Trish rolled her eyes, but it was playful. “Just don’t take an eternity.”

Another search of Giorno and Trish’s face and he could get nothing on them. Only some slight amusement and excitement. 

“Fine.” Fugo grabbed the clothing and stomped to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. 

Once he was sure the door was secure, Fugo wandered over to the sink, running his hand down his face. How was a simple outfit supposed to disguise him? Grunting, he shucked his red suit and folded it neatly on the counter before holding up the outfit to get a good idea at what he was getting himself into. 

His stomach dropped. 

It was a deep satin blue. Silky to the touch. Gold flowers embroidered over the buttons by the high collar. Faint shimmery designs of leaves. A dress.

Fugo’s mouth hung open at the garment. A dress. Him. In a dress. 

In his peripheral vision, he caught a glimpse of his white face flushing deep pink. This is what they meant.

It was all coming together now. How this disguise was going to work. Why Giorno had such a devilish grin. Why he’d come to Trish and why she’d been so excited. They were going to try to pass him as a girl. 

“Uhhm.” Fugo sputtered, calling to Trish behind the door. “You, uh.” He swallowed. “Sure this is the right one?”

“Absolutely.” The girl responded far too quickly, like she knew he’d ask that. “You’ll look stunning.”

“But it’s. I…”

“C’mon, you don’t have a problem with it, right?” She went on. “Narancia wore skirts all the time!”

“Well, yes, but that was Narancia! I… I can’t. Wear this. It’s. I can’t.”

“It’s alright, Fugo.” Giorno’s voice fluttered in from behind the door. “I understand if you're uncomfortable. But I really do need you on this mission. And this is the best I can come up with. Besides,” he added after a pause. “I think you’ll look pretty.”

That did it. Giorno won him over. As usual. Fugo couldn’t ever seem to say no to him. The concept of asking to be pulled off the mission had taken him a whole week to work up the courage to do and now, it was obvious he didn’t have the gut or the strength to defy him. 

“Al-alright.” Fugo stammered. “Fine. Just. Give me a minute.”

As he slowly pulled the dress on, the soft floral design brought back faint memories.

He remembered playing in the garden as a child, his grandmother placing flowers in his hair. He remembered trying to put on his mother’s heels, clunking around the house with them and wearing her bracelets up to his elbows. And he remembered ogling at the earrings he saw the girls wear at school. 

But he also remembered his father ripping those flowers out of his hair. He remembered his mother snatching her shoes away, and telling him that boys shouldn’t be wearing jewelry. 

Why not? He had asked. I want to be pretty too!

Boys shouldn’t want to be pretty. His mother scolded. Boys want to be handsome. Heels and jewelry are not for boys. 

And there he was, years later, in a dress. Still wanting to be pretty. 

The blue satin was snug around his torso and hips, fitting his form as he yanked at the zipper. The skirt itself hung just above his knees, with a slit on the right side that showed a large portion of his thigh. The sleeves clipped his shoulders, his pale arms looking long and gangly. 

“You done in there?” Trish lightly tapped on the door. 

“I can’t… wear this.” He hugged himself, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. It would be a lie if some part of him weren’t feeling some form of anticipation at finally being presented with the opportunity to wear something of the sort but… most of it was overcome with anxiety and embarrassment. He was too ugly to wear something like this. His face half-scarred and dotted with freckles. His translucent flesh, purple veins visible underneath, accompanied with knobby joints. The exact concept of pearls before swine. 

“Of course you can!” Trish said. “I’m coming in.”

The sudden rush of mortification flooded Fugo so suddenly that he wondered how he hadn’t melted on the spot. If Giorno saw him, he was sure he’d die instantly. 

“Wait, wait, just hold on-”

Trish opened the door anyway, barging in like she owned the place (she technically did; it was her room). The moment she saw Fugo, hunched over the counter, grabbing his shoulders like a child caught applying their mother’s makeup, she broke into a wide grin. 

“You look great!” She exclaimed. 

“No, I don’t!” Fugo shot back. He could feel hot blush lighting up his form from his navel to the tips of his ears. His pale skin was likely glowing like a stoplight. “I… I look awful! I can’t wear this!”

“You don’t like it?” Trish pouted playfully. 

“What? No! I mean-” Fugo could feel himself growing more flustered by the second. “It’d a gorgeous dress, really. It’s very nice.”

“So you do like it!”

“My face ruins it!” He shot back. “I’m not pretty enough for this sort of thing! You’re wasting this on me. It’s… I…”

“I think it suits you.” Giorno offered, materializing beside him. 

Fugo felt the words disappear from his brain and his anger suddenly sputtered out. 

I’m such a sucker. 

The ballroom was lit in a deep bluish light, lit up by candles scattered across the tables and the waxing moon shining through the large round window. Clusters of people were scattered about the room, draped in shadow, whispering to one another. 

Fugo stood against the back wall, wanting to implode. 

Trish had finished off his outfit with a pair of black fishnet gloves and deep blue heels that he could barely walk in. She’d tucked a blue flower clip in his bangs, curled his hair into springy curly-Qs and covered his scar with a wash of makeup and blue lipstick. He’d hardly recognized himself when she’d held up a mirror for him to see. 

Now, he stood like a wilting wallflower. 

It’s for Giorno. He thought to himself. Make the man proud, will you? Pathetic.

As more people began to gather for the event, Fugo felt his anxiety begin to grow, crawling up his throat like an overgrown spider. The fabric around his neck grew hot and sweaty and he nervously tugged at it with his finger. 

There were people he began to recognize. His old piano teacher. Family friends. A few tutors. Bootlickers. And some he barely remembered from parties he’d attended as a child. But enough that it was making him nervous.

Fugo absent-mindedly fingered the leather strap around his thigh, where a switchblade and his cellphone was hiding. His heart rate began to pick up and he swallowed heavily. 

Calm down. Nobody will recognize you. You could fool your own mother. 

After a moment of compositing himself, Fugo made his way to the snack table, glancing over it. A white tablecloth covered it, with plates of desserts positioned down the center- biscuits, chocolate, pastries, and even pannacotta. Fugo stilled his shaking hand and took a glass of wine. He wasn’t sure he should be drinking, but a part of him hoped it would calm his nerves. 

However, the beverage merely pooled in his stomach like a collection of small stones and he winced, hands curling into fists. 

I need to focus. Fugo thought. The mission. I need to focus on the mission.

Slipping the phone from the strap on his thigh, Fugo flicked it open and opened up to a notes app. 

Slinking around the room, Fugo tried his best to listen in on conversation, getting names down of suspicious people and their businesses. He tried not to appear too suspicious, especially when the event had officially started and people began to make use of the dance floor, gentle music floating in from the background. 

Fugo spent most of his time loitering around the snack table, picking off chocolate-covered strawberries and downing cups of juice while straining his ear for conversations. The notes on his phone gradually began to fill up with different names and descriptions of people with shady behavior, talking behind hands and wayward glances, although with nobles, it was more likely to be gossip than anything related to the mob. 

Eventually, however, the inevitable happened. 

“Excuse me, miss?” A voice called for his attention and it took Fugo a solid three seconds to realize it was addressing him. The pronoun was throwing him off. 

When he turned, a tall man was standing behind him, dressed in a deep blue double-breasted suit, with a red tie popping from his collar. He appeared a little on the younger side, maybe late twenties with slicked-back white-blonde hair, but his attire and bejeweled fingers screamed that he was well off. 

Crap. Fugo frantically tried to summon a response that wouldn't be suspect. Should he be flirtatious to negate any suspicions? Or maybe cold to get the man to go away?

What came out was a tentative and rather shy response, hardly different from his usual persona. 

“Um, hi.” He squeaked, while his brain screamed.

The man smiled, almost amused at it and gestured his hand to the rest of the dimly-lit room.

“I couldn’t help but notice you from across the way.” He tilted his head, conveying interest. “You looked like a lost little bird by yourself and I wished to dwell in your company. Would you care to dance?”

What a strange way to phrase that. Fugo couldn’t help thinking. Nevertheless, he took hold of the man’s hand and they walked towards the center of the room.

The weight of the newcomer's hand against Fugo’s was fueling that awful sensation. That itchy, heavy feeling of flesh on his, foreign oils sinking into his pores and it took everything in his own power not to rip his hand away in disgust. The feeling only amplified when they took to a proper waltzing posture, pressure on his hands and shivers where fingertips rested on his spine. 

Fugo swallowed heavily, but his throat was dry as sand. He found his breath was stunted, shallow and uneven and his heart rate spiked. Sweat was gathering where fabric met his skin and he was sure he’d turn into a puddle. 

“Mind telling me about yourself?” The man prodded, beginning their dance.  “I’ve never seen you around here before.”

Calm down, calm down. Fugo snapped at himself, wrenching a smile on his features. It felt unnatural and he probably looked more like he was bearing teeth than showing joy. 

The man seemed to sense his discomfort and decided to take initiative. 

“I suppose I should introduce myself.” He said, turning them in such a way that the window lit up half of his face. “How intrusive of me to press for information when you don’t know me. Allow me to ease your wariness.”

Whoops. Fugo cringed inwardly. 

They spun slowly and in his panic, Fugo narrowly missed stepping on his own foot. For the first time in his life, he was grateful for the dancing classes his parents had drilled into him. 

“‘I’m from not far from here.” The man went on. He smiled. “My name is Pancetta Fugo.”

Pan- Oh! Fugo blinked in shock at the sound of the name. His heart stumbled when he realized he was staring at the face of his older brother. 

Pancetta looked so different from when he’d last seen him, hair no longer covering his eyes, cheekbones no longer sallow and hard and the absence of dark circles was striking. 

Fugo remembered his brother injecting needles in his arms, knocking back beer behind their house. His clothes would smell of cigarettes and his form was withered and dry. He’d also been a relentless bully, kicking Fugo under the table, spreading lies, and clawing down anyone who stood in his way of stardom. Ignored by his parents, Pancetta had seemed to hope acting up would catch their attention, which it never did. At least not until…

 My disownment was the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Fugo pursed his lips. He knew he should feel happy for his brother, finally getting the attention any child should receive, free of the shackles of the drugs he’d shot himself up with but Fugo could only assume Pancetta was receiving the only type of attention his parents were capable of giving- forcing success and gaslighting. 

“So, you’ve heard of me.” Pancetta noted the surprise on Fugo’s face and chuckled softly, a sad smile pulling at his lips. “You must’ve heard I used to be quite the delinquent. But, I decided it was time to pull myself together. I’m a proper gentleman, now.”

I’m sure you are. 

“I’ll admit, you do look somewhat familiar.” Pancetta reached up to touch Fugo’s cheek who inadvertently jerked back at the touch. Pancetta, however, didn’t seem bothered by it. “Have we met somewhere?”

“Uh, no. I don’t think so.” Fugo sputtered. He broke his gaze away, staring at the floor. This was too strange. “I’m just. Uh. Visiting my aunt and she wanted me to tag along.”

“Perhaps I know her.” Pancetta said. “What’s her name?”

“I-” 

Before Fugo could answer, digging into the depths of his mind for some random name from his childhood, the hand on his back slid upwards a bit, causing his nerves to run haywire. Shivers doused his spine and he gasped like he’d been doused in cold water. 

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Pancetta’s face was suddenly much too close. 

I can do this. He thought, trying to still his rushing heart. I can do this. Just calm down. Deal with it! It’s fine. It’s…

As he turned his head away, trying to clear his head, Fugo suddenly froze up. His limbs turned to ice as his eyes made contact with another person in the crowd. 

His mother.

She looked exactly the same as she had almost four years ago. Light blonde hair pulled back in an elegant bun. Black glasses. A mole on the left side of her face. She was dressed in a vibrant red gown that showed off her thin figure and she wore the same set of heels that Fugo used to sneak from her closet and walk around their house in. 

“Are you alright?” Pancetta asked. “What’s wrong?”

“ ‘m fine. Bathroom.” Fugo muttered and yanked himself away, stumbling away. He heard his brother call out from behind, but Fugo didn’t dare turn around. 

As he hurried out of the ballroom, away from the groups of people, he felt as if his soul had left his body, astral projecting to who-knows-where, and he wobbled towards the nearest bathroom. 

It wasn’t until he’d slammed the door behind him that Fugo felt his composure break. Back against the wall, he slid to the marble floor, leaning over as his lungs offered stuttered breaths and light wheezes. 

He curled in on himself, trying to coax his pounding heart back to a reasonable rhythm to no avail. 

He attempted to ground himself, looking at the room around him, staring at the white sink and wooden cupboards, shiny ceramic toilet he was sure he was seconds from vomiting into, and the fluffy pink towel dangling on the wall by his head. Yet nothing was working. 

Giorno! I need Giorno! Fugo thought and his hand went to the leather strap around his thigh, grabbing at his cellphone. 

Flipping it open, his thumbs shaking and sweating, he punched in the number to Giorno’s cell and held it up to his ear. 

For a long moment, there was only the dial tone and he felt he was going to throw up. 

Finally, someone picked up. 

“Hello?”

Immediately, Fugo exhaled a sigh of relief. The sound of Giorno’s voice, even in just one word in his business tone, was enough to settle his heart. It was like sweet music to his ears.

“….hello?” Giorno repeated. “Is anyone there?”

“Oh, sorry!” Fugo yanked himself out of his own little world, worried that Giorno might hang up if he remained silent. “I just, um. Hi. Giorno. I um. Hello.”

“I told you to call me Giogio.” There was a long pause. “Is everything alright? Is there a problem with the mission?”

“Problem?” Fugo laughed, higher pitched than he would’ve liked. “No, no, I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”

“Fugo.” Giorno scolded. His tone turned a little more serious. “What’s the matter? Did you see someone you knew?”

“Someone I… oh, no! It’s fine.” Fugo swallowed heavily, suddenly aware his breathing was picking up again. “Didn’t see anyone I know. That’s ridiculous.”

The lie was so, so obvious but if Fugo were to admit it, he was sure he’d start to cry. 

“…I’m coming to get you.” Giorno stated.

“NO!” Fugo’s response was automatic and he grit his teeth at how loud and commanding it came off as. He didn’t want to disappoint Giorno. He couldn’t fail the mission. “I mean. Sorry, I. No, it’s fine. I’ve got it under control. Don’t worry.”

“You're hyperventilating.” Giorno said it so bluntly that there was no point in arguing. “Calm down. If you don’t let me come get you, at least tell me what I can do.”

“Just talk to me for a minute.” Fugo said. “I just need to hear you.”

“Me?” Giorno queered. Fugo could almost hear Giorno tilting his head. “Talk about what?”

“Anything.” 

“Alright. Um. I had a lot of fun this afternoon with you and Trish. Even if it was just us dressing you up. I really do think you look nice. The blue suits you. You should wear more blue.”

“Keep going.” Fugo pleaded, ignoring how Giorno’s compliments made his chest flutter. 

“Well. Um. Mista is currently trying to learn how to balance his gun on his nose.” There was shuffling in the background; Giorno was moving around. “I made him empty out the chamber. Don’t want him shooting himself in the face again. He keeps telling me he wants to leave at least one bullet in, to amp up the risk or something. Like Russian Roulette.”

“Mmm.” Fugo was far too focused on Giorno’s voice to realize what he was saying. “I played that a lot a while back.”

A pause. 

“When?”

“Before you recruited me back to Passione.” Fugo hummed. He twisted a finger around a lock of white hair, like a love-struck tween girl. “The amount of times the gun jammed instead of shooting was astounding. The statistics were way off.”

“Fugo, did you have anything to drink tonight?” Giorno’s voice had a strange tone to it.

“Just a little wine. Why?”

There was a moment of silence and more shuffling before Giorno responded. 

“No reason. I’ll talk to you later, alright?”

“Mhm, okay. Love you.”

Fugo snapped the phone shut and a solid three seconds passed before he realized what he’d said. 

He cussed, flipping the phone back open. All the pent-up emotions that had relaxed during his call suddenly snapped back, sticking to his bones, and his face burned red with mortification. 

Not only had he just about confessed his love, he’d accidentally spilled information about his suicidal tendencies during those six months he’d left the gang. He’d been so drunk on Giorno’s soft voice that he hadn't even realized what had come out of his mouth. 

Fugo stared at his phone, looking at his reflection in the blank screen before he closed it again. There was nothing he could simply type to remedy the situation. Hopefully Giorno would just forget about it. 

Knees cracking softly, Fugo straightened and brushed off the back of his dress, slipping the phone back to its spot. He then snuck a look in the mirror to make sure the makeup hadn’t smeared and was showing his scar. His cheeks were still a little flushed, but it was fading. 

I can do this. Fugo thought. I’ll just gather a few more notes and be on my way. 

When he opened the door, Pancetta was waiting for him. 

“GAHh- uh. Hi.” Fugo resisted the urge to slam the door back in the man’s face. He couldn’t make eye contact, finding solace in the ground. “What um. Are you doing?”

“You just ran off like that.” Pancetta said. “I thought you hurt yourself or something. Everything alright?”

“Yeah. It’s fine.” Fugo gripped his arm. “Just felt faint for a moment.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

Fugo simply shook his head, turning to walk back to the ballroom. 

“Hey, wait!” Pancetta called out. The clicks of his shoes began to echo down the hall as he tailed Fugo. “Hold on!”

A hand closed around Fugo’s wrist and his heart flew into his throat. In a panic, he ripped his arm away, but the momentum threw him off-balance and the heel of his shoe bent awkwardly under his weight. Sprawling forward, Fugo felt a sharp pain in his ankle, and he fell to the ground on his hands and knees.

“Are you okay?” Pancetta was suddenly kneeling on the floor beside him, much too close. His hand hovered in the air, like he was hesitant to make contact. “That was a pretty nasty fall. Do you need-”

“Don’t touch me!” Fugo snapped. 

The anxiety had returned in full force, that sweet solitude in the restroom now completely evaporated. He breathed through bared teeth, reaching out to rub his now inflamed ankle. His heart pounded like thundering horse hooves, surprised it hadn’t completely beat out of his chest, and the smallest pricks of tears burned the corner of his eyes. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Pancetta had lowered his hand. “I apologize if I made you think that.”

“You always were such a pretentious bastard.” Fugo felt his lip curl into a sneer. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. Gossiping behind peoples backs’. Pulling them down in any way you could to raise yourself higher. Never reaching out to those who needed you most. Celebrated when your brother rotted in a jail cell.” 

He knew he should stop. He knew he was spilling too much but the words just kept spilling out like a gushing faucet. He couldn’t hold his tongue. 

“Just because you may look prim and proper now doesn't mean you aren’t a trash human being on the inside.” Fugo seethed. “You used to be such a bully, you know. Degrading, humiliating, snapping, snitching those who looked up to you most.”

The expression on Pancetta’s face turned dry, mirroring the look of disapproval their father used to wear. 

Fugo grunted, using the wall as support as he pulled himself to his feet. His ankle stung, throbbing with his heartbeat like fire had been lit to the bone, and he turned his back on his brother. 

“Just leave me be.”

The boy didn’t respond as Fugo limped down the hallway back into the ballroom. A cold ball of guilt had hatched in his stomach as the distance between them grew larger. Pancetta may have been a rotten brother, but Fugo had no right to point out his faults like that. As a child… no, even now, he himself was pretentious, pushing down those around him, anyways hungering for praise. It was sickening. It was no wonder his friends were so uncomfortable around him. 

I’m such a hypocrite. Fugo thought fouly, turning into the dark room, eyes focused on his feet. He then shook his head, attempting to snap himself back into focus. I need to worry about the mission, though. For Giorno. 

Fugo suddenly collided with something hard, the force sending him stumbling to the side. His hands grabbed at the near table for support, pain searing through his leg as his weight landed on his injured ankle. He whirled his head around, seething in anger, ready to snap at whoever had just blocked his path. 

It was him.

The man hadn’t changed at all. Those same small eyes hidden behind a pair of thin-lens glasses, nearly combed hair, gaze sharp enough to slice steel. The large form that could crush him, long fingers and meaty hands that would grab at his hair. The tweed suit that smelled faintly of sweat, dusted with gray cat hair. 

“P… professor.” Fugo said faintly. 

The man had gotten out of the hospital. A faint scar was visible under his eye, where Fugo remembered digging the corner of the textbook into, paper slick under his sweaty and bloodied palms. And the man had gotten out of court scot-free, painted as this oh-so poor, tormented soul who only wished to help a struggling student who’d gone ballistic. 

“Can I help you?” The man asked.

Fugo suddenly saw his vision begin to blur, the blues and purples blending together into a mess of fuzzy brown. He couldn’t breathe. Through the corner of his eye, he saw the ground rushing up to meet him and everything went dark. 

“Is… okay?”

“Just… down. Out… nowhere.”

“Should someone… a doctor?”

Fugo groaned softly, shifting his position. Something hard and cold was pressed against his cheek and his ankle thumped a dull throb. Through bleary vision, he could see people were standing over him, leaning their faces toward him, whispers spreading through them like a forest fire. 

What… happened? Fugo lifted his head a bit, realizing he was on the ground. Gingerly, he raised a shaking hand, pressing it against the side of his face where it had collided with the floor. 

The group of people around him surged and he wanted to snap at them, yell at them to leave him be, but the fall had snapped all of his energy out. More than anything, he wanted to lay back down and dream it all away. 

“You okay?”

A familiar voice broke through the crowd and a shadow fell over Fugo. He twisted his head, squinting, and through the dark, he could see golden hair styled in gorgeous curls, a black suit with a heart-shaped cutout over the chest, and bright green eyes. 

“G…Giorno?” Fugo asked. 

Without warning, the blond suddenly reached down and scooped up Fugo in his arms bridal-style, like he was some knight saving a fallen princess. 

Fugo squeaked at the notion, vision swirling at the movement and heart jolting at the contact.

“Watch the skirt!” He hissed, grabbing at the hem of his dress to keep it from slipping up his leg. 

“I’ve got it taken care of.” Giorno had turned to address the crowd. “At ease, everyone. Please go back to your party.”

As they turned away, Fugo braced himself for the violent itchy sensation all touch gave him but as usual, Giorno seemed to lack it. Instead Fugo found himself sinking into the hold, like some touch-starved cat finally realizing it wanted to be held. He reached up and took hold of Giorno’s collar and watched as Giorno led them out into the courtyard, away from the party. 

The outdoor area was beautiful, decorated with twisted trees covered in red leaves, long square hedges and rows of pink and yellow flowers. The moon casted everything in a silver light, lighting up the drops of water over the grass and casting its reflection on the marble fountain in the center of the garden.

Giorno stopped under a white painted pergola covered in thorny green vines, gently letting Fugo down on the bench beneath it. 

“You okay?” He asked. “That was quite a spill.”

“I’m alright.” Fugo shrugged, reaching up to grab his bare shoulders. The outdoor air left a slight chill on his skin. “I just got caught off guard.”

Giorno sat down next to him, resting his chin in his palm, looking deep in thought. Fugo liked the way his eyebrows crinkled together when he did so. 

“I should’ve found you a substitute for this mission.” He said softly.

“Huh?” Fugo straightened, a flicker of worry igniting in his chest. “Why? Was I not doing well?” He scrambled for his cell phone, flipping it open and pulling up the notes app. “I got some names and descriptions! I mean, I’m not sure if I got everyone; I got a little sidetracked, but if you can give me some more time, I’m sure I can-”

Giorno shook his head, closing the phone held out to him and setting it back into Fugo’s lap. 

“That’s not what I meant.” He said. “I mean, I should’ve listened to you when you first asked to be taken off. This is obviously a very personal matter.”

“It’s not a problem, really!” Fugo insisted. “I overreacted. Really! You didn’t need to come get me.”

“That’s why you called me though, isn’t it? And why you fainted like that.” Giorno ignored him, pressing further. “You saw someone that you used to be close to.”

“It’s. I…” Fugo’s mouth hung open as he searched for words, yet nothing came to mind. Eventually, he gave up, going limp. “That’s right.”

“I understand.” Giorno looked across the courtyard at a red bird perched on the hedge. “If I saw my old family, I’d probably freak out too.”

“They weren’t good to you?” Fugo asked.

The silence was answer enough. 

Fugo bit the inside of his cheek, ashamed. He’d been stupid to think of Giorno as some idol, some perfect being descended on earth like God’s gift to humanity. Of course Giorno had faults. He hadn’t had a perfect life. Of course he hadn’t. Why would he be in the mafia if he hadn’t. He’d been hurt. Abused, by the way he was acting. And Fugo had gone and idolized him, not treating him like the human he deserved to be. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

“Don’t be.” Giorno huffed. “It’s in the past now. And yours should’ve been too. Until I made you revisit it tonight.”

“Giogio…” Fugo brought his knees to his chin, wrapping his arms around his shins. He wanted to tell him it was okay, it was fine, it hadn’t bothered him at all. But it would just be a big lie. Instead, he said something else. 

“I saw my mother.” He confessed. “And my brother.”

Giorno didn’t say anything so Fugo took the initiative to continue. 

“My mother looked the same since I last saw her. Invested in her appearance. Same hairstyle. Same stern face.” Fugo laughed softly. “She didn’t care about me. She wanted nothing more than the results of my studies. I was a mere tool to her.

And my brother. He looked so different. He’s so much better off now that I’m out of the way. Parents actually giving him some semblance of attention, even if it’s just their own selfish desires. Doesn’t look anything like the bully he used to be.”

Fugo tilted his head, watching the red bird jump into the grass, hunting for a bug.

“That’s when I called you. I needed some reassurance. And then right after that, I saw my old college professor. The one who got me expelled. The one I beat up with a textbook after he…”

Fugo ran his hands through his hair, mashing the careful curls. 

“I can’t stand being touched anymore, after what he did to me. I just feel itchy, violated, like they’re going to make me feel small and worthless like he did. The gritty texture of oily hands on mine, I just…” He shook his head to clear the memory. “You’re… the only exception.”

“Me?” Giorno asked, and for a moment, Fugo wasn’t sure if he was horrified or relieved that the blond had actually been listening. 

“Yeah.” He sighed. “You don’t make me feel that way.”

You make me feel wanted.

The sound of distant wind chimes trickled between them like ice water as a cool breeze whistled through the greenery. 

Finally, Giorno spoke up. 

“Did you mean what you said. On the phone?”

Fugo cringed. 

“Is this about the Russian Roulette thing?” He glanced down at his feet, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t mean to tell you about that. I was in a bad place at the time. It was Bucciarati’s old gun, I think. I'm pretty sure the thing was busted but I just wanted to see if I had the strength to end it if things got that far. It’s in the past now, as you said.”

“I appreciate you clarifying, Fugo.” Giorno clasped his hands together. “But I was referring to the other thing. When you said you loved me.”

“Oh. Right.” Fugo grit his teeth, feeling a familiar blush touch his cheeks. “That. I used to say that to Bucciarati as a joke. Slip of the tongue.”

“Ah. I see.”

Silence lapsed between them again, but Fugo didn’t want the conversation to die. He felt like he’d gotten the most honest answers out of Giorno that he’d ever had before. He couldn’t back down now. 

Feeling bold, he pushed his luck. “How come you don’t like talking with me?”

“What do you mean?” Giorno had turned to look at him. 

“The way you throw back your head and laugh when Trish talks to you. The way you talk about stupid antics with Mista and tease each other. Even the gossip you talk about with Sheila E. When we talk, it’s just business. I suppose… I’m jealous. That they get to see all sides of you.”

The red bird on the lawn snapped a worm from the dirt, yanking it out like a rubber band and took flight, disappearing into the night. 

“I didn’t mean to make it seem that way.” Giorno said. “I suppose I tend to get… pretentious around you. I want to be perfect.”

“But you don’t have to be, Giogio!” Fugo leaned over, grabbing Giorno’s shoulder, fingers digging into the silken fabric. “Sure, I used to idolize you. You were my golden calf. My savior. I saw you as perfect. But now.” He offered a squeeze to Giorno’s arm. “You’re human. I see that now. You’re just like me.”

Fugo pulled away, rubbing his face with his hands, makeup smearing over the pads of his fingers. He could feel the bumpy scar tissue of his cheek, raised and tough, pulling at his lips. 

“I’m a liar.” He said into his palms. “You were right. I did mean what I said on the phone. I love you.”

His heart was shifting into overdrive as Fugo could feel the words spilling from his lips, unable to stop them. 

“When I left, I hated you. I thought you had destroyed everything I had worked so hard to make and I thought it was your fault. But I was wrong. You saved me and accepted me back. And I fell for you.” Fugo didn’t dare to look in Giorno’s direction, keeping his eyes glued to his shoes. “I do love you. So much. I want you to talk to me like you do the others. I want you to show me the side of you that you wouldn’t want anyone to see. I want your attention and trust.”

I want you to love me back. 

“I know I’m not good enough.” Fugo went on. “I know I’ll never be worthy of your praise and forgiveness. And I know you’ll never love me the same way I love you. But at least let me be there for you. At least let me-”

Fugo’s words were cut off as a pair of cool hands took hold of his face, fingers hooking into the curls of his hair. Green eyes flashed in his sight before they vanished behind blond lashes and through a swirl of starry freckles, a pair of soft lips were pressed against his own, cushioning his mouth closed. 

His vision explored into stars, blood rushing to his face and staining it red, and a warmth rolling up his chest. He felt dizzy, endorphins flooding through his veins like he’s injected a drug straight into his heart. 

The kiss was awkward, teeth clicking together, Giorno’s nose smashed against his cheekbone, pinching lips through force. It was so obvious they were both novices in displays of affection, inexperienced in the art of kissing, but when it finally ended, Fugo felt buzzed. It was the best thing he’d ever experienced. 

“I love you back. I mean it.” Giorno said. The tone was almost aggressive, and he refused to let go of Fugo’s face. “Don’t you dare think otherwise.”

Fugo felt his muscle go slack as he leaned against Giorno’s hand, reaching up to cup it with his own. He then leaned forward in an embrace, looping his arms around Giorno’s neck. He felt a rush of relief. And solace. And safety.

Giorno reached up to massage Fugo’s freckled cheek with his thumb, moving in slow circles and rubbing away makeup to reveal the jagged scar tissue. 

“This shows your dedication to me.” He said. “And this,” The blond boy leaned forward to deliver a peck over the white scar. “…shows my dedication to you.”

“You’re such a sap.” Fugo muses, but he’s smiling, face flushed again like a red poppy. He reached up to clasp his earring bashfully. 

“Mm, you’ll have to get used to that.” Giorno hums. He stands, stretching his back and pulls a lock of hair behind his ear, while Fugo stares and drinks in his slender form taut against black satin. “Care to dance?”

“Oh!” Fugo reaches out tenderly to clasp Giorno’s hand, his heart fluttering the image of them dancing under the light of the moon in a gentle swing, surrounded by green vines and purple flowers. “I would but… I uh. I think I twisted my ankle earlier.”

“That’s no problem.” Giorno takes hold of Fugo’s hand and pulls him up, careful to keep the weight off of the other’s bad foot. As they interlock fingers, Giorno resting his palm on Fugo’s hip, they sway in place, Fugo placing his sore ankle on the bench behind them and balancing on the other, 

A moment of quiet passed, Giorno humming softly to a strange, eerie tune, and his careful, porcelain mask shattered, a look of adoration and longing crossing his face. His lips turn upwards at the corners, eyebrows pinched in the center as he leans closer. 

“Trish would make fun of me.” He mutters. “She knew how bad I had it for you. Always teasing me and trying to get me to spend more alone time with you.”

Fugo wracked his brain, remembering her laughing and poking Giorno during the mission preparation. Things began to make more sense. 

“I appreciate her doing that.” He said. “I really enjoy spending time with you.”

“I should hope so.” Giorno smirked and with a heave, he lifted Fugo and threw him over his shoulder, carrying him like a sack of potatoes.

“Whoa- what!” Fugo cried, grabbing at Giorno’s jacket to keep his balance. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you home.” Giorno's smile could be heard in his tone. A finger pokes Fugo in the thigh, eliciting a high-pitched squeak. “We can’t be out in the cold for too long.”

“I can walk by myself!” 

“Not with that ankle, you won’t.” Giorno began to walk out of the garden, 

“Giorno!” Fugo protested and at that, Giorno laughed, that genuine, full-bellied laugh that Fugo always ached for. 

As they left the garden towards the front of the estate, Giorno’s car in the distance, lit under the light of the moon, Fugo felt himself break into a wide smile. He sank into Giorno’s hold, drinking in the love he thought he could never achieve. 

“I love you.” He said softly into the fabric of Giorno’s suit.

“Love you too.”  Came the response. 

The words began to fill the ever-present hole in his chest. He was complete.