Work Text:
It was a Monday when it happened, a quiet day, a perfectly normal day.
"So was I right?" Narancia asked as he looked up from his book, and Fugo could tell by the bright look in his eyes that he was fishing for a little praise. He was of course a far easier read than the thick volume of short stories Fugo had assigned him to work through recently. Every emotion he ever had flashed across his face neon bright.
Maybe it was just because they were hanging out at Fugo's place without any distractions, but Narancia had been unusually focused for their entire lesson that day. Sure, he struggled with some of the passages in the day's reading assignment. He still dutifully followed along by tracing every line with his index finger as Fugo helped untangle the difficult words for him. Only the level they were examing and difficulty of the text was new after all; Narancia already knew the basics of how to read.
"Hmm." Fugo tapped his own cheek as he thought of how best to answer.
The door opened while he was thinking and the other inhabitant of the apartment entered Fugo's kitchen. No, that was wrong. It wasn't Fugo's kitchen. It was Buccellati's kitchen in Buccellati's apartment. Fugo just happened to live there with him. Buccelllati had generously taken Fugo in when he recruited him for Passione and had never made Fugo move out no matter who else passed through their home.
Narancia turned towards the noise and his expression predictably transformed into transparent delight. "Buccellati!"
Fugo leaned back in his seat and pulled his arm from the back of Narancia's chair. Something deep in his heart stirred with a cruel gladness when Buccellati's eyes flicked over to look at him first even though he hadn't said anything to call attention to himself.
"Sorry to interrupt," Buccellati said quietly, smile soft and knowing before he shifted his gaze to Narancia. "Don't let me keep you from your lesson. Fugo puts a lot of effort into gathering materials and putting them together for you."
"Okay!" Narancia chirped obediently before he rounded on Fugo again with narrowed eyes. "Hey, you didn't say whether I got the right answer or not."
"Well, I know you're not going to like this, but the thing is there is no correct answer here," Fugo explained with a shrug. Half his attention was fixed on the deepening frown on Narancia's face and half on listening to Buccellati cross the room to shuffle around at the sink behind them.
A cabinet door opened and closed. Narancia stared down the page they'd just read together in betrayed disbelief. Water whooshed in the sink as the tap turned on.
"Why am I studying this stuff if there's no answer then?" Narancia groaned. "What was the point in learning all that fig— uh… All that fancy language?"
"Figurative language," Fugo corrected. "There's a right answer to that. I mean you can be wrong about identifying different types of it and differentiating it from examples of imagery. That's all how the story was constructed. There isn't really a true answer as to why those elements were chosen as the vehicle to get the plot across."
Narancia's shoulders dropped. "Huh? I don't get it. So why bother trying to figure out what any of this means?"
"It's to sharpen your critical thinking. Math and science are bound by the laws of nature and physics that we've learned a lot about as a species but still have so much more to learn as we deepen our understanding of the universe. Literature is a different beast. It's not bound by what's possible, only by the limitation of the written word to describe what the author imagines. There might be as many interpretations out there as there are different minds. As long as you can back up your position with evidence, you've got a good argument. In a way studying literature is another way to study human nature," Fugo explained further. He leaned forward to rest his chin in his hand and elbow on the table but flinched out of the pose at the sudden soft sound of Buccellati setting a glass down on the table beside him.
"Sorry." Buccellati placed a warm hand on Fugo's shoulder for a moment before reaching over him to set a glass down for Narancia too. "Didn't mean to startle you. It sounds like the two of you have been talking for awhile. You should drink some water."
"Thanks!" Narania said off to the side a million miles away.
When Fugo opened his mouth to say the same, the space around him vacuum sealed to his skin and simultaneously pushed everything else light years away. He turned his head to catch a little flash of red as Buccellati nonchalantly stuffed something into his pocket as he walked away from the table. It was— It couldn't be.
It was.
"So trying to figure out what stories mean is like trying to guess what the author was trying to say?" Narancia mused aloud, clearly trying to distill Fugo's lecture down to a singular, graspable point.
"Uh." Fugo stared down at his own lap. "Kind of. Sometimes."
His underwear was gone.
His underwear was gone and rapidly leaving for the bedroom he shared with Buccellati without him in it. No explanation. No apology. Somewhere in that small room with two beds pushed against opposite walls Buccellati was alone with Fugo's thong still warm from his body heat.
Was it obvious? It felt obvious.
Fugo felt like his everything was exposed; that it was ripped out and hanging for Narancia to see. He started to cross his legs and stopped to hunch forward slightly instead. He wasn't sure if shifting would make the fact that his dick and balls were no longer safely tucked tucked away into his thong more visible through the holes in his trousers. He was in danger of exposing himself accidentally.
His skin went hot. He felt too cold.
Why had Buccellati done it? What was the reason? What was he trying to prove?
The chair creaked across the chasm that split the kitchen into two zones: one that was normal and right and one where everything was twisted and unsettled. A familiar face appeared in Fugo's swimming vision as Narancia halfway crawled onto the table to be able to meet his eyes.
"Are you okay?" Narancia asked like it was an easy question, like the answer was so simple.
"There are," Fugo tried to restart his brain and give a more satisfying response to the question that was asked before he'd lost himself temporarily. "There are a lot of ways to analyze literature, um, different schools of thought and stuff to look for. I'm not an expert, but there's a lot you could learn. We can go as deep as you want."
"Okay…" Narancia drew back uncertainly. A recoil.
Fuck, Fugo wasn't doing a good job at pretending everything was normal. He was sweating too much probably. Maybe Narancia could hear his heartbeat too. Maybe Narancia had noticed Fugo's disgusting reaction to Buccellati's violation of his person and was about to point out the shame stirring at Fugo's crotch.
"I think you've gone deep enough for today," Buccellati cut in mildly. His voice was just as gentle and kind as ever. "It was starting to rain on my way back here. You should head home before it gets worse, Narancia."
Buccellati's blue eyes were piercing. Fugo couldn't breathe.
The scene went on without him.
The protagonist drew an umbrella from the large chipped vase by the door that served as its holder to offer to Narancia against the coming storm. The too-warm kitchen light glinted off of Buccellati's hair making it shine like glass, like a perfect obsidian mirror. Of course he was valiant and generous and beautiful in contrast to his pathetic foil still sitting dripping and unfocused at the kitchen table.
"Wait!" Fugo cried out. He pried his fingernails out of his palms to hold his unclenched hands out in supplication. "Read the next story before we meet up again. It's the one by Loreto Berillo." His mouth went dry around the title. He could barely force it out of his throat. "The one called 'Desire'. I want you to write your thoughts about it. Write down all the literary devices he uses in the story. Write down anything you notice even if it doesn't seem important."
"Okay, I can do that. You're gonna be blown away by how good I notice stuff!" Narancia raised a hand in farewell, raised his borrowed umbrella. "Hope you feel better!"
The door shut and locked after Narancia exited the scene. Fugo was alone with Buccellati now. There were so many questions clogging up his brain jockying for position to be the first asked.
Fugo knew the how. Removing a few strings attached to a piece of cloth was easy work for Sticky Fingers. He just didn't know the why. Why do it in the first place? Why now? Why him?
Fugo blinked and Buccellati was by his side. He noticed for the first time that his roommate had changed into lounging clothes. Buccellati's t-shirt was large and drapey. It had a stretched out neckline that made it so it fell off one shoulder to show a strap and a little peek of the lacy something Buccellati was wearing underneath.
"Did you say you wanted Narancia to read a story called 'Desire'?" Buccellati asked as he pressed the back of his hand to Fugo's forehead. "What's it about?"
The touch burned. Fugo was sure whenever Buccellati chose to pull away the outline of his hand would be left behind.
"It's about," Fugo started. Swallowed. He remembered the glass of water and reached for it. Swallowed a greedy mouthful. Two before he picked back up again. "It's about a good man who finds the body of a teenage girl. He's afraid nobody will believe him if he reports it to the authorities but does it anyway because it's the right thing to do."
"That's nice." Buccellati slid his hand down from Fugo's forehead to his chin to tilt it up to better see Fugo's face. "You don't have a fever, but you're flushed so red."
"He reports the murder, and everybody believes him," Fugo plowed on because he didn't know what else to do. He could smell his own sweat and Buccellati's cologne combining into a heady, suggestive mixture. "He should feel relieved, but he doesn't. He can't stop thinking about the girl's body. He can't stop wondering who killed her and why. He drives himself insane wondering how it would feel to be the one who did it."
"I didn't know you were reading such erotic stories with Narancia," Buccellati commented like it was just another normal offhand observation and not an accusation that made Fugo want to shrivel up like a salted slug. "Do you let him fuck you when he does well on your quizzes?"
"What? No! I— No!" Fugo croaked out. He would never! How could Buccellati even suggest that?
"So he doesn't know how much of a slut you are?" It was the same mild tone, the same offhand observation. Buccellati's fingers trailed down Fugo's neck.
It was too much. Fugo had to break the contact. He scraped his chair back away from the table and away from Buccellati with a terrible, ugly sound that rang in his ears. It still wasn't loud enough to drown out Buccellati's words.
"Fugo, I know you," he was so kind. Why was he so kind?
Buccellati took a step forward, and Fugo scooted back again. He let his hands flutter down to cover his lap to try to keep himself from slipping out of one of his pocket holes. It didn't matter how or why or even who stopped this anymore. It had to end.
"Please," Fugo hadn't known his voice could sound like this. What a hoarse whisper. So beseeching. So desperate. "Don't. Don't touch me. This isn't like you."
"I think you need to stop lying now," Buccellati said sharply, all business. Fugo realized belatedly that he was a gangster who'd been murdering and torturing for Passione since before they'd ever met each other.
Sticky Fingers moved too fast to see.
One moment Fugo was about to open his mouth to defend himself, and the next he was gagging on a foreign object that had found its way into his mouth. He carefully tongued the intrusion to make sure it wasn't harmful. Though the edges were slightly sharp it wasn't enough to cut. The thing Buccellati put inside him felt plastic.
"Come to the bedroom when you're ready to talk," was the final word before Buccellati turned to leave again.
Fugo spat an unopened condom packet out onto the ground.
He only stared at it for a moment before he stood to follow. What choice did he have but to move the plot along? The rising action compelled him to meet the next clash head on instead of taking the coward's way out and running out into the rain to take shelter with someone else. Anyone else.
The bedroom looked the same as ever. Fugo wasn't sure why he expected it to have changed. He stood in the doorway staring at the same wall of wooden wardrobes that held all their clothes, the same chipped moulding, the same floor lamp, the same two beds pushed as far apart as possible to give each of them the illusion of a little privacy to sleep.
Bruno patted his own bed from where he was sitting on the edge of it. "Come closer. I'll give you what you want."
"No." Fugo boldly refused to take a step. "Give me back my underwear. We can forget all about this."
The secondary character made his stand with feet planted wide. This was the part of the story where an earnest plea set the protagonist back on the right path. Together both characters would grow as people in a very emotional scene and be stronger than ever for whatever conflict came their way next.
Buccellati sighed and got up to walk over. Fugo looked down expectantly at Buccellati's empty hands before he found himself falling forward into those welcoming arms. His feet stayed behind on the floor where he'd been standing. He'd been unzipped at the ankle. His brain didn't even register the rest of his clothing falling to the floor as little scraps like fabric confetti unzipped in dozens of places as he was carried to the bed.
Buccellati's hands were on his hips. Buccellati's tongue was on his chest licking a searing line up his sternum.
"Stop!" Fugo gasped as he tried to squirm away. His mind snapped back into his body enough or him to clamp his legs closed and push at Buccellati's head with both hands.
He could only see one cold blue eye from between his spread fingers before Buccellati pulled back to kneel beside him. Fugo was naked and flushed and trembling. Buccellati was still fully clothed and calm as he grabbed Fugo's wrists and lifted his arms up and up impossibly high. It wasn't anatomically correct. Fugo shouldn't have been able to watch, stunned, as Buccellati carried his unzipped arms across the room to place carefully on the other bed.
"Please, don't," Fugo begged one last time. His eyes started to sting so he wasn't sure if the Buccellati before him was the same one as ever anymore. Was the man he thought he knew ever even real? "You're better than this."
"Fine, I'll give you one chance. If you can honestly tell me you don't want me to fuck you right now I'll stop, but don't lie to me. I'll know." Buccellti sat back down on the edge of the bed to watch Fugo's face intently.
There was only one correct answer, right?
"I," Fugo's breath hitched under Buccellati's intense scrutiny. "I don't want you to fuck me."
"Wrong," Buccellati snapped. "You've lost speaking privileges."
This time Buccellati let Fugo see Sticky Fingers lean in. Even though he tried to turn his head and avoid it, the Stand took a firm grip on his hair to keep him from moving again so it could zip his lips closed. The big swinging zipper pull between Sticky Fingers's legs only reminded Fugo of what was about to happen. He was glad when Buccellati recalled his Stand after the work was done.
"Do you want to know how I know you're lying?" Buccellati asked as he settled down to kneel between Fugo's legs. "I can do it without even looking at your face. I don't have to analyze your sweat or pay any attention to whatever micro-expressions might be passing over your face right now. I've got the evidence you want me right here."
Buccellati reached to grab Fugo's erection and give it one rough tug that had Fugo reflexively arching up off the bed to follow the contact. The thing was Fugo had known. He'd always known. He'd been trying so hard to ignore the fact that he was hard, achingly so.
Fugo's stomach rolled with disgust at himself for being so easy. He was so weak.
"I can see the way you look at me." Buccellati's breath was hot and wet as the open-mouthed kisses he pressed to Fugo's dick in a lazy trail towards the base. He rubbed his nose brazenly against Fugo's balls. "I can hear you when you shower and when you touch yourself at night when you think I'm asleep."
It was true.
It had to be true. This had to be okay. Buccellati was the person Fugo respected most; he still did despite everything. If he gave up that respect, the trust he had in Buccellati, he wouldn't have anything left worth keeping. His body was nothing. He belonged to Buccellati. It was Buccellati's right to take whatever he wanted from Fugo.
Right?
Buccellati was the protagonist and Fugo his pathetic foil. Where Buccellati was righteous and pure, Fugo was wicked and tainted. Buccellati couldn't be wrong.
Buccellati couldn't be wrong.
Fugo didn't try to fight it as Buccellati flipped him over and pulled his hips up so he was on his knees. His top half was flopped uselessly forward onto the bed so he had to turn his head to press his cheek against the sheets so he could still breathe. There was nothing he could do to prop himself up with his arms unattached on his own bed. The position stretched him uncomfortably. It felt embarrassing and far too exposed, but it was okay. Buccellati had him.
"Good." Buccellati gave Fugo's ass a friendly little pat when he didn't move out of the position he'd been pulled into. "You've decided to behave."
It felt good to be good. Probably.
Fugo was floating anyway. His mouth whined against the zipper holding it closed. His asshole fluttered as Buccellati lapped it with his tongue before licking the dextrous little muscle inside as a tease of more to come. It was wet. Probably. So wet.
There was a click and suddenly the hand on Fugo's dick was wet too. So wet and so warm and so good. Time stretched thin and pulled Fugo between the present and the future, the mouth french-kissing his ass and the hand brutally stroking him. The plot would reach its climax soon, and Fugo was ready. His balls were drawing up tight.
And Buccellati clamped around the base of his cock to stop him from going over the edge.
Oh.
Too soon. Fugo was faked out by the false climax. The story wasn't over yet.
"You know you could stop this if you really wanted to," Buccellati reminded Fugo as more wet smeared across his entrance. Fingers took the place where Buccellati's tongue had once been.
It was true. If he really wanted to Fugo could stop this. He was more than strong enough. All he had to do was summon Purple Haze and end everything, but he didn't want to. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting Buccellati. Maybe he didn't want this to be over just yet.
Across the room Fugo's hands on his disembodied arms clutched the sheets on the other bed helplessly, but he was okay. He was probably fine. Buccellati would take care of him. Buccellati knew what he needed better than he did.
Something thick and blunt pressed against Fugo, and his hips tried to pull away before he caught himself. There was nowhere to go anyway. As Buccellati slowly pressed into him, Fugo was vaguely aware that this was his first time. At least one other had tried this before, but Fugo had rejected him. It hadn't been right, but now he wanted it. He must have always wanted it. Why else would he greedily swallow Buccellati up? Why else would Fugo's hips rock back to meet Buccellati's thrusts? Why else would his toes curl against the cold floor and his hands grasp for purchase they could not give his body and his breathing through his nose grow ragged to match the sound of Buccellati behind him?
This time Buccellati didn't stop jacking Fugo off as his body approached its limits.
"That's it," Buccellati murmured as he stroked Fugo through it until his cock got too sensitive to touch. "You're doing so good. So good for me."
It was true. It had to be true.
Wherever Fugo was he felt proud that his body was doing so well. He was taking it so well as Buccellati kept pumping into him after he was spent despite how sensitive his body felt. Buccellati was driving so deep inside him, deeper than anyone ever had before. He left behind something hot and wet that spurted inside when Buccellati went still.
Fugo's hips were lowered to the bed after another eon, and he was shifted into a more comfortable position on his side.
Buccellati leaned over him to stare intently at his face for a moment before reaching down to finally unzip his mouth. "Can you talk?"
"Whaa," Fugo rasped. It definitely wasn't the 'yeah' he'd intended. It wasn't anything at all really.
"Shh, it's okay," Buccellati soothed. "Take your time. I'm here. You can tell me what you need after you finish crying."
Crying? Oh.
Fugo was doing that. He realized with a start that tears were streaming from his eyes and his nose was dripping too. The wet spot that grew under his cheek just got bigger as drool seeped out the corner of his mouth now that his lips were free to part. Disgusting. He tried to hide his shame.
"Don't do that," Buccellati gently grabbed the back of Fugo's neck to stop him from trying to press his face against the bed. "You need to breathe. Let me put your arms back on so you don't smother yourself on accident."
Fugo let out a sharp, wordless cry. He jackknifed on the bed to try and follow as Buccellati started to step away.
"I'm sorry," Buccellati was back and closer in an instant. "I thought you wouldn't want me to touch you now that the scene is over. I'm sorry. I promise I'll stay. I'm not leaving you, my darling boy."
Fugo wrinkled his nose, not quite sure what to make of the pet name. He didn't know if he liked it or not, but he loved the way Buccellati scooped him up and carried him over to his bed to lay down with him. With his arms reattached to his shoulders, Fugo could clutch Buccellati's shirt like he wanted when he pressed his face against Buccellati's neck.
"Can you tell me how you're feeling?" Buccellati asked. He rubbed Fugo's back with slow strokes that helped bring Fugo back from wherever he'd gone into his own body.
"Mm," Fugo nuzzled deeper into Bruno. "Can't."
"That's fine. Let's start with your feet. How do they feel?" Buccellati punctuated the question with a kiss to Fugo's forehead.
This required more thought and concentration than Fugo was used to. He frowned as he wiggled his toes to try to figure out where they even were. To his surprise his feet had been returned to his legs without him even noticing. He could feel the sheets of his bed and Buccellati's firm calves through the other man's pajama pants.
Fugo decided to describe what he was feeling as, "Cold."
That startled a chuckle out of Buccellati, and it felt good to hear. It felt good just to feel the vibrations through Buccellati's chest since they were so close and also good that Fugo managed to do it. He made Buccellati sound like that. Happy.
"And how do your legs feel?" Buccellati continued on.
Fugo choked back a sob, but his tears were definitely drying up now. They were leaving behind a headache in in their wake that wasn't making it any easier to think. Fuck, Fugo was supposed to be good at that. Why couldn't he figure out how he felt?
"It's okay. Take your time." Buccellati kept rubbing gentle patterns into Fugo's back. He took a deep breath and let it out against Fugo's sweat-damp hair.
The world narrowed down again to Buccellati's chest rising as his lungs expanded, to warm breath making Fugo's hair flutter. Fugo listened for another breath before he tried to copy Buccellati. It took another two for the breaths to come out steady.
Fugo's knees kind of hurt. His ass kind of did too in a pleasant sort of way. All his muscles felt limp from straining against Buccellati, or maybe that was just what good sex felt. He wasn't really sure since this had been his first time. Despite the exhaustion Fugo felt good. Deep down inside himself he felt settled in a way he never had before. As afraid as he'd always been of giving up control, it felt good to do it with Buccellati.
"I'm fine I think," Fugo finally answered as his tongue untangled itself. "Thank you for indulging me, Buccellati. That was everything I wanted it to be. Thank you so much."
"You can call me Bruno when we're in bed like this." Buccellati chuckled again. He pressed more kisses to Fugo's forehead like he just couldn't help himself. "When you came to me to ask me to rape you I wasn't expecting you to be this cuddly after."
Fugo felt a dull twinge of excitement at the memory of what they'd done.
It had been perfect. Exactly what Fugo wanted.
When he'd approached Buccellati privately in this very room nearly a month ago he'd only had three stipulations: that Buccellati would surprise him with the scene when he didn't expect it, that no one else would be around to witness what they did, and that Buccellati would take away Fugo's ability to speak. Leave it to Buccellati to go above and beyond to satisfy. His only request in return had been to have some kind of signal in place that let Buccellati know Fugo absolutely needed him to stop, and they'd decided that would be if Fugo brought out Purple Haze.
"Was it good for you too, Bruno?" Fugo finally pulled back enough to look at Buccellati's face, and wow, the smile he got in return for his vulnerability was dazzling.
"Yes." Buccellati pressed a chaste kiss to Fugo's lips. "I loved knowing I was giving you what you need, Pannacotta. You feel so good I could get addicted."
"Then…" Fugo gave him a clumsy kiss back. "Would you like to do that again? We don't have to do anything that intense all the time, but I want to keep having sex with you. I want you to have your way with me like I'm yours."
"Like you're mine…" Buccellati breathed and went very still. His pupils were so large there nearly wasn't any blue left to his eyes.
"If that's okay," Fugo hedged just in case he was being too bold.
"It's more than okay. I think I know something you'll like, but I need some time to prepare it." If Buccellati was saying it, Fugo trusted that it was true. Whatever surprise he had in store was sure to be amazing.