a silent, deadly haze.

pannacotta fugo from jojo's bizarre adventure. tbaff. & written by nahi!

[foschiafragola]

        sorry i cant make an ic post to scream because im in the middle of my PRECALC HOMEWORK——

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…i missed you, too.

  “ … a - all right, good, ” he mumbles, scrubbing more at his eyes. god, he probably looks like a complete wreck right now. a terrible way to reunite with his friend, but it doesn’t seem fugo cares much for that part over just wanting to move away from it. 

  narancia doesn’t want to think about his own sobbing either, so he sniffles, gives a hiccup, and does his best to quiet himself. he moves his head a bit, choosing to focus anywhere aside from fugo’s face, specifically eyeing his free hand. his fingers twitch and shift a touch closer, ultimately drawing back and shoving the hand into his pocket. “ haven’t really been in that area… show me later, okay? ”

  ( it’s not for curiosity nor exploration reasons, certainly not. it’s for when he needs a bit of home to return to on the days when he misses it most. )

  “ i don’t really got any places to recommend, sorry, ” he says, starting to walk. “ but i live over in golden ward! it’s pretty nice there and i like running around it, but i dunno if you have as much fun. ”

        “Right. Sure.”

        Fugo doesn’t notice Narancia’s movements, only focused on the red of his eyes and the last of his sobs. His free hand pulls away and folds, gripping his sleeves as he walks. Fibonacci is as familiar to him as the other wards—not at all—but if something as small as that is what Narancia wants, then he’ll oblige.

        ( For what reason in particular, Fugo’s not sure. It may not be as simple as exploration, but there’s a time to pry, and it isn’t now in the open. )

        “…It’s fine. You don’t need to recommend anything now,” Fugo continues. “It’s already too late for that, anyways.” Golden Ward—Fugo notes that down, although it’s merely another ward that he hardly knows at all, then continues.

        “I don’t think I would mind.” Well, no. He’d probably mind the running around, but it’s not like he hasn’t been doing that for the past few days regardless. “The only place I can think of going to besides some bar is a library, and I haven’t found one yet.”

        ( …Huh. How did it get to this? Talking so calmly, as if the mission had been swept away in the water—as if everything were more than normal? It’s been so long ever since they had a conversation like that. )

[foschiafragola]

which flower are you?

Helleborus (hellebore)

An often-poisonous flower popular for its elegant ornamental hybrids. Though occasionally referred to as the “Christmas rose”, it is actually in the Ranunculaceae (buttercup) family. Organised, self-aware, artisanal. You are an adept problem-solver, good at cleaning up messy spaces and situations. Others may rely on you to keep track of details that they don't want to bother with. You are meticulous and good with your hands--perhaps you're good inventing, repairing, or crafts? With your quick-thinking, no stone is left unturned. This can make you prone to worry and fret. Don't feel as though you have to bear all that responsibility by yourself...!

[foschiafragola]

…what, narancia?

  … two months. 

  it takes a couple extra minutes for it to hit that the second month of wandering this city is coming soon. he swears his nails have started to jab into fugo’s flesh by this point, but narancia can’t find the words enough to apologize for say anything about his newest realization. 

  ( somewhere, vaguely, narancia recognizes this is the most he’s panicked since arriving. it’s not the uncertainty of this city, but of how to actually navigate a conversation when an uncomfortable rift as formed. )

  narancia makes a noise when fugo moves, lifting his head finally with still watery eyes. “ w - wait, hold on… ” he mumbles, slowly unlatching himself from fugo’s back and standing back on his own two feet. he scrubs furiously at his face to get rid of any stray tears that fell with his focus going to other movement. 

  “ … not really. i was gonna go back to my room ‘cause i couldn’t think of anything else to do, ” he answers, rubbing at his arm. “ have you figured out where you’re stayin’ yet? ya can’t wander the streets forever or anything, fugo… ”

        There’s—he’s felt worse before than this, he’s sure. It hurts, to have Narancia gripping on like his life depends on it and to sink under both weight and nails and waves of tears and not know what to do about it, yes—but Fugo’s handled worse. And he’s not bleeding out from this; so, as much as he can’t find a solution other than closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, that’s better than if he actually were.

        It ends quickly enough, anyways: one step and Narancia’s standing next to him, still a mess but less than before. It’s starting to feel the same as it was just days before, except they’re in another city and his eyes are still horribly red from crying. Without any need to focus on a weight over his shoulders, Fugo shifts his weight back to the edges of his heels, his arms crossed under his chest.

        “Yeah,” he nods, “Fibonnaci. I visited it earlier, but…”

        But, well, a lot. The obvious search for an exit or explanation aside, it’s odd to have a room of that quality again, or to specifically share the entire house with people that are more strangers than anything else. The sudden shift is going to take more than a few days to get adjusted to, he’s sure.

        ( He can’t wander the streets forever? That’s rich—with how things were going back in Napoli, he might’ve had to resign to that. )

        “I figured I’d look around for a while. It’s not like I can think of anything else to do here anyways, and I know how to get back when I need to.”

[foschiafragola]

…narancia.

  “ … same here, ” narancia mumbles in return, rubbing his face back into fugo’s blazer. he has to get a grip at some point; this is going far past embarrassing. yeah, he’s been seen in far worse states before by the other boy, but that doesn’t much excuse how hard it is to stop choking on his own tears.

  fugo’s question gives pause however, mouth slightly open before his eyebrows scrunch. he knows he’s seen a calendar since coming here, has kept track like a prison counting down his days until freedom, but his mind is blanking on how to answer. narancia turns his gaze from fugo and moves his hands, fingers out and muttering as if trying to count his way through this.

  “ a month…? ”

  how fucked up is that? going an entire month and not realizing how much time has passed? narancia’s hand doesn’t stop being splayed out as he stares at his palm in some sort of horror as all the passed time washes over him. his arm eventually drops and he only clings harder, fully unable to look towards fugo now.

  what the fuck? what the fuck? what the fuck–

        “…A month?”

        He can’t bring himself to comment further. After all, this doesn’t make sense. None of it does.

        The longer he tries to take hold of reason, the harder it is to stop it from slipping. How does time work here? Certainly not in the way that it does back home—Fugo has no possible explanation for how four days can turn into thirty. Words fail as he watches Narancia’s hand lift and lower until it grasps harder at his clothes, and he cranes his head further only to see a mess of black and orange. It’s clear that there aren’t any more questions to ask, not when the situation has turned to this.

        As if it hadn’t been obvious enough already, Fugo comes to terms with the fact that he cannot do anything at all to help him. This has only ever happened before with others in the vicinity—other acquaintances who knew what to do and when. But here, still all alone in this vast city, he doesn’t know what to do: that knowledge has never been bequeathed to him, no matter what he’s tried.

        It feels awful, really, to see Narancia in a state like this for so long. But how is he meant to help? ( And would it really help at all? )

        “…Alright. We’re going.” It takes a few more of Narancia’s sniffles to do anything. Shakier from holding him up for so long, Fugo sighs and takes a step forward. Anything to shake away the senselessness of this city, even though the sun pours rays of it down and over their heads. “We can’t stay here,” he says, and it’s a lackluster excuse to find somewhere else that’ll comfort him more than here. “…Did you have anywhere that you were going before this?”

[foschiafragola]

…narancia.

  if it helps, narancia’s also not entirely sure if he’ll release fugo within the next hour. 

  it’s comfortable, nostalgic in the way that warms his chest and only serves to suffocate him further past his crying. he’s certain fugo can feel the tears break past the the fabric of his shirt (narancia’s thankful the guy hasn’t cleaved holes at the top of his shoulders), but it’s impossible to stop them for now.

  he’ll cling and sniffle, choking up every couple of seconds and make futile attempts at catching his breath. hearing fugo speak again almost makes him breakdown right back to the start of this, like an illusion is broken down further despite the very obvious physical contact going on in the moment.

  ( why did their last encounter have to be at san giorgio maggiore? couldn’t he have been granted one goodbye to a guy that helped drag him out of hell? )

  “ i - i asked first…! i was here first too, so… ya gotta a… answer me, ” he retorts, grip tightening a bit as he shifts his head to narrow his eyes at fugo. it’s much less of a glare than he intends, eyes still far too watery and nose running enough that he looks more like a petulant child. 

  where have you been? what’ve you been doing?

  do you know what happened to us?

        Remember when Trish used his suit as a handkerchief?

        Well, the memory rushes back now, feeling far too recent for Fugo’s liking. The tears start as soon as he speak, and they grow, and grow, and grow, and grow. He wishes he had one of those handkerchiefs Trish had so quickly requested during that fateful mission—anything to comfort Narancia more than a cold and riddled suit can do.

        “I…” Fugo’s always used to being the voice of reason, to stowing his emotions aside and steadying his voice. It would be no different here if the intensity of the conversation wasn’t unexpected; he’s always known that a reunion, in spite of its unlikelihood and as few as the days between his departure and it might be, would be emotional on Narancia’s end, but this…

        ( If Fugo lacked any sensitivity, he might’ve focused his attention on that instead. But he doesn’t; and maybe he’s senseless for leaving them all behind, but he can’t bring himself to do that again. )

        “Alright,” he obliges, because all the panic seeping through Narancia’s disjointed words is enough to overpower his childishness. “I don’t… know why. I just woke up near the center of this city today.”

        ( He wishes he had an answer; maybe that would soothe Narancia more than he can, now. But, then again… )

        “Hold on,” Fugo matches Narancia’s gaze, not with a glare of his own, but narrowed eyes and caution. “What do you mean, ‘first’? How long have you been here?”

        ( Isn’t he supposed to be somewhere in Venezia? How did he get here, and why? )

[foschiafragola]

…narancia.

@foschiafragola​

  no one in their right mind would wear that type of clothing. 

  which, luckily, means that it can only be one person. he’s unmistakable, really, with how the color of his clothes stand out and his hair and the familiarity of it all. narancia could collapse from relief here and now.

  ( what a shitty last moments together on san giorgio maggiore island. if he’s gonna make a list of regrets, that’d be one of the top ones. )

  still, despite everything, his legs move. faster and faster that he’s certain fugo can probably hear the way his shoes hit the pavement. when he’s within range, he crouches and pounces on the other, wrapping his legs around fugo’s waist and throwing his arms over his shoulders with a cry of his name.

  “ w… what the hell’re you doing here, fugo…? ” 

  narancia hates how weak his voice sounds, deciding to bury his face into fugo’s shoulder as opposed to speaking further. if the guy tosses him off out of surprise, he wouldn’t be too pissed about it either.

  maybe he’d pretend to be to start a fight. anything would be better than the burning behind his eyes and how easily the tears will spring forward if fugo talks to him.

        The only difference between this city and Napoli is the name.

        Spirale. Toss the name aside and the circumstances remain the same: here he is roaming the streets alone, without any shred of credibility to his name. Fugo’s been thrown out into another world again and nobody bats an eye at him more than the clothes on his back.

        What’s the point of being here? Fugo can’t find logic in the answer let alone an answer at all no matter what he tries; a growing sense of irritation is all he gets for his thoughts. It festers and swells, so much that he hardly notices the steps sprinting behind him until it’s too late. He turns too slow and there is the reason for the noise: orange and black and violet splashing against the light of the island around him and yelling his name inches from his ear with a voice that already feels too estranged to be familiar. But…

        That can’t be right. Because Fugo saw this boy days ago set off to leave Venice with his heart beating fast and steady, and he shouldn’t be here—never mind that Fugo doesn’t know how he got here in the first place, himself—and…

        The sudden weight around him throws any thought of moving towards the sea. Fugo sinks slightly under his weight and he can’t help but wonder what prompted something so ridiculous in their abrupt reunion; he shakes and he sobs and he clings so tightly to him that he’s not sure if he’ll ever let go.

        ( If pushing him and watching a memory of him soar away is the alternative, though, Fugo thinks it won’t hurt to let him hold on a while more. )

        In another world, Fugo might’ve tried to defend himself—thrown him off, veered away from passersby, anything to guard from a stranger. But those first and following cries ring out again and again despite their frailty, and all he can do is cough and turn your head and watch.

        “…Shouldn’t I be asking that to you?” His voice stays low, hesitant. He can’t help but wonder the reason for every action, and he wants to help him, somehow, but nothing comes to mind. “…Narancia.”

        For now, all he can do is keep his own weight up.

[isolaradiale]

this. was finished unfortunately faster than intended. with prior reserve i'll be apping pannacotta fugo from jojo's bizarre adventure!! his pages are on /app and /stats respectively. thank you !!!

Welcome to scenic Isola Radiale!

You’ll be staying in HOUSE 132!

You’ll be able to summon your stand twice per day for up to ten minutes per summoning. However, Purple Haze will only be able to use its capsules to affect people 5x per day and it will only make people sneeze.

Enjoy your stay~

~ mod bellatrix

[foschiafragola]

        @volarecielo you followed me hours ago when we finished and cried over episode 35?? and we’re kinda matching urls but definitely icons? what are you, fucking gay??

[foschiafragola]

test

i dont have icons so i’ll replace this later

edit: here is a link! and underlines! aaand strikes! aaaaaand

a list!

listing 2!

a blockquote!!! i’m watching episode 28 right now i’m coping