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it'll never be the cure °.*ೃ✧˚.

🦋 category: hurt/comfort, angst, major character death

🦋 characters: fugo, giorno, mista, trish, mentioned narancia, abbacchio and bucciarati

🦋 summary: in which fugo learns that relying on one person to heal him was not enough, and giorno learns that him alone cannot save everyone (9.1k words)

🦋 warnings: past r*pe/non-con, self harm, suicide, violence

🦋 notes: im sorry i hate how polnareff is referred to being in a turtle when its a freaking tortoise IT IRKS ME sorry oops

broke up with my bf of a year+ bc i realised im a lesbian so that might explain some of the heavy shit in this fic bc i was having a generational crashout of my life before i told him. he took it well tho and this fic is very heavily inspired by the stuff i was feeling i gen don’t feel attraction to fictional men at all too, like its all jokes to me, i dont like any of them like that. the idea that they have dicks is uh… not right to me but i enjoy writing all sorts of shit so #yoloweball

still very much want to kill myself but the urge is a lot less now me thinks ;3

peep the wisteria victorian symbolism guys hehehe

The ever so trustable consigliere of Don Giorno Giovanna was a pathetic excuse of a man who could never run away from his past trauma. Or that was what Pannacotta Fugo himself believed.

Giorno Giovanna would never let him believe that.

Fugo had always struggled. Episodes after episodes.

But he always had his dearest Giorno by his side, and a dumbass named Guido Mista.

The night Fugo opened up about his past to Giorno, he hadn’t been sober. That topic was one that Fugo had refused to touch, not while sober. It always brought up unwanted memories for him. The nightmares that constantly loops itself, haunting him like a reflection in the mirror.

The fateful night happened as Trish brought some wine over, celebrating the end of her tour. The popstar Trish Una could never forget the mafiosos who saved her, not Fugo though, he never saved her. But she didn’t view him with hatred, she understood it, somewhat. That night, they drank, it wasn’t just the four of them, Mista would never allow it. Polnareff in the tortoise joined in too, making it five drinkers.

Mista prepared a room for Trish to stay the night, as none of them were in any condition to drive. Giorno carried Fugo into his room, he was just dead drunk.

Giorno unlocked the door to Fugo’s messy room and gently laid the drunk man into his bed when he suddenly grabbed onto Giorno and pulled him closer, into a cuddle. Giorno was surprised, and backing away did nothing to deter Fugo.

“GioGio…” Fugo muttered. He rubbed his face against Giorno’s pajamas, then looked up at the boy with his drunk eyes. A wave of admiration had washed over him as he looked at the beautiful, portrait-like, golden boy standing before him. “Fuck… you’re so… clean.”

Giorno tilted his head, before taking a seat beside Fugo. “You’re drunk Fugo, get some rest,” he said.

Fugo leaned on Giorno, not wanting to back off. “Call me Panni, please…”

He was slurring his words now, and Giorno remained as confused as ever.

“Sure. Panni, you need some rest,” Giorno answered.

“I admire you, GioGio,” Fugo rambled.

“It’s late, Panni,” Giorno reiterated, gently placing Fugo’s head on his pillow.

“GioGio,” Fugo continued. “Lay with me, please. I don’t want to… be alone.”

Fugo’s hands reached out, brushing against Giorno’s. He laid down beside Fugo, looking into his drunk eyes which were beginning to tear up. He was surprised, why would Fugo cry? What was happening? Giorno could not figure it out, he wasn’t sure why he stayed either. Maybe he had too much to drink as well. Either way, neither of them were thinking straight, Fugo clearly had it the worst.

“Fuck…” Fugo continued rambling, his fingers brushing against Giorno’s cheeks. “You’re so… perfect.”

“Nobody’s perfect, Panni,” Giorno responded, pulling Fugo’s hand away.

“But you’re more perfect than me,” Fugo continued. “You’re pure… unlike me… I am corrupted, tainted, beyond measure.”

Fugo sank into his pillow, wallowing in his misery, as Giorno suddenly held him close. “Why would you say that? What makes you think that? I don’t find you to be any of those.”

Giorno’s arms were wrapped tightly around Fugo’s head, enveloping him in a warm embrace. It was unusual for the two, perhaps alcohol had brought out a completely different side of the two. Their inner desires slowly rush to the surface.

“GioGio,” Fugo cried. “I was… almost violated as a child… by my professor. He kept trying to get me to go over…”

The sentence had made Giorno freeze. He had known that Fugo went to University at the age of 13 due to his high intelligence, but he didn’t know why Fugo was kicked out.

“Then… I smashed his head in with an encyclopedia, he lived. I g-got arrested and… tried. My family disowned me after,” Fugo continued. “I’m not clean, GioGio.”

Giorno didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt as though he needed to hold onto Fugo tighter and gently rubbed the back of his head. “No, Panni. You’re not dirty, he is. The grime of the crime belongs on his hands, not yours. You were… young.”

The two stayed in that position that night, falling into a deep sleep. In a warm embrace that brought comfort to the drunk Fugo. That story had been one Fugo held deeply in his heart, he didn’t like opening up. It made him feel naked, and vulnerable.

Vulnerability brought disaster for him. He could never be free from the wheels of his past that relentlessly spun to haunt him in every way it could. Being exposed made him feel as though he had been unraveled, to show the sins that lay beneath the skin he wore to hide the insecurities that lingered in his mind. The slow poison that drove him slower and closer to his end.

Soon, Giorno Giovanna was the one who held Pannacotta Fugo on.

The next morning, Giorno woke up to Fugo still asleep. He wasn’t sure what he should do, except for admiring how Fugo looked as he slept. The soft breathing and the tangled blonde hair, it had somehow captivated Giorno. He gently stroked his hair, helping Fugo undo the tangled mess as gently as he could, so as to not wake him up. His breathing was slow, yet patterned. It was easy to memorise, and Giorno soon found himself counting down the seconds to Fugo’s next breath, memorising the time taken between each breath taken. He had wondered about what Fugo revealed the night before, and the impacts it had on Fugo. Nobody deserved to have their innocence stripped away from them.

Giorno was determined to punish the sinner that had dared to tarnish Fugo’s soul.

A soft yawn escaped Fugo’s lips, and he woke up to Giorno’s face.

“GioGio?” He leaped up in shock, his cheeks flushed red upon the realisation that they had slept beside each other for the night.

“It’s alright, Panni,” Giorno reassured, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Fugo said nothing back, confused about the nickname. It was something that only his grandmother had referred to him by. He didn’t allow anyone else to call him that, not even Narancia when he was still alive.

He decided to let it slide with Giorno however. If Fugo called him GioGio, then it made sense for Giorno to call him Panni.

“Let’s wash up,” Fugo stepped up and got off his bed. Giorno followed behind.

Mista was right outside the hallway when the both of them exited Fugo’s room.

“Huh? You two?” He mumbled. “Man, I have a terrible headache.”

Fugo glanced at the guest bedroom, the door was still closed. Trish was still here. Fugo washed up his face, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. He wasn’t a fan of it, especially with that stupid scar around his mouth now. But it was a sign of the oath he had sworn to Giorno Giovanna.

Pannacotta Fugo’s very own life.

Giorno was next to use the toilet. Fugo headed down towards the dining table, where no breakfast awaited them. He should probably cook, with recipes that Bucciarati had shown him before. He remembered those days when Bucciarati took him in, and cooked them meals. It was hard to believe that he was still a teenager back then.

Fugo’s head was throbbing, threatening to explode out of his skull. He didn’t want to remember what he had said to Giorno, or what he had done to make him stay on the same bed as him.

Or how he even found out about the nickname in the first place.

“Fugo,” Mista yawned, his mouth atrociously wide open. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost. How’d Giorno end up in your room anyway?”

“He was… drunk and got lost,” Fugo lied.

“Hmm… Don’t remember him drinking that much,” Mista shrugged. “Maybe he’s a lightweight.”

“Yeah,” Fugo mumbled out a reply. Deep down, he had a feeling, that he knew what he had revealed about him to Giorno.

Things he never said to anyone else.

Not even Bucciarati.

Bucciarati… that liar. Fugo could never forget the last thing he heard from Bucciarati. An idealistic speech about doing what’s right, wanting to walk in that path that he believed in, in a world like this.

All the while being a dead man, a zombie.

Always making promises he couldn’t keep. Always saving others while he was dying a slow death himself.

Fugo had wondered, how much did Bucciarati sacrifice?

He had once thought that Bucciarati was the solution, but he had thought wrong. Now, Fugo wasn’t even sure if a solution still existed.

“Fugo.”

Giorno’s calm voice had stunned Fugo from behind.

“Don GioGio,” Fugo muttered, clutching his heart.

Giorno noticed and apologised. “I need you to do this for me,” he said, handing over a stack of documents for Fugo to read through.

Fugo accepted his duties without a word, he usually replied with a thank you. Mista noticed.

♤♤♤

Mista had cornered Fugo in the bathroom.

“What the hell happened between you and the big boss Giorno?” Mista demanded. “I’m not stupid you know.”

Mista always knew when Fugo and Narancia fought, when that dumb little orange was still alive. It made sense that he would still notice that Fugo and Giorno had something occur between them.

Still…

“Nothing,” Fugo answered.

Mista sighed, playing around with his revolver. “Fugo, come on.”

“Fine,” Fugo replied. “I don’t know what the fuck happened because I was drunk. Is that enough?”

The tone alone was enough for Mista to leave Fugo alone. But Mista didn’t leave Fugo with nothing.

“Well you better remember then,” Mista warned.

Then, he left Fugo alone.

Alone, with his thoughts.

The memories rushed into his mind, knocking his body back as though he had been hit by a truck. The tears he had shed on Giorno Giovanna’s shoulder. The information he had slipped to Giorno…

Giorno’s words…

Fugo looked at his own hands.

He swore he could still see the remnants of the professor’s blood on him. An unwashable stain. Permanently etched on his skin, a constant reminder of the sins committed on him.

Fugo slipped into despair.

His own mind forming the thoughts strangulating him.

Nasty… dirty… selfish… weak.

He’d never measure up to anyone. That brain of his was useless.

Wasted on him.

He didn’t want to think anymore…

♤♤♤

Giorno had thought about what Fugo said. He wasn’t drunk to the point where he couldn’t remember a single thing.

He remembered all the details.

That was the closest he had ever been with anyone, physically.

What possessed him to… hug Fugo like that?

Was it the look on his face? The tears? The way Fugo suddenly felt like a cowering child, seeing help from a trusted adult? Maybe the helplessness had reminded Giorno of how he once was. Giorno had a saviour, the gangstar. Who did Fugo have growing up?

His past was unknown.

Giorno thought about it, he was at the library. He wanted to do his own research, into Fugo. Specifically he wanted to find the man who had scarred Fugo, leaving him a permanent nightmare. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with the information however, what good would that do?

Digging for information was relatively easy however, as these kinds of scandals were not one to be buried easily. Offenders have a tendency to repeat, especially if they realised they could get away with it. It had been too easy for Giorno to dig it up.

Giorno soon learned that the professor was still out and about, Fugo’s family hadn’t cared enough to press charges to get the professor jailed. Anything to avoid a negative stain on the family name. Now, everyone involved in Fugo’s past was living as though nothing happened. Giorno’s mind flashed back to the night before, of Fugo’s cries. The cries of an innocent child yearning to be free of his nightmares. Giorno could feel the suffering of Fugo, and he wished he could take it away, but he couldn’t. The professor was the one who should have suffered.

Giorno Giovanna was going to make sure of it.

The next hour, Giorno somehow found himself outside of the home of Fugo’s professor. In his eyes, the professor had disrespected a child’s innocence and did not deserve to live. Giorno made his way up, and stood outside the door. He wasn’t sure how he should go about it. Did he want to confront the man or should he assassinate him shamelessly?

He decided that the professor deserved no mercy. Giorno carried multiple items on him, and he gave life into one of the many pens he carried on him and turned it into an Asp viper and had it go into the home of the professor. Once he was bitten, Giorno had the snake return to him and turned it back into a pen. It was a simple and quick kill, and he left after that.

Mista ran to Giorno in a panic however, when the Don finally returned him. Trish was outside of the bathroom, her face riddled with worry. Was that why she was still here?

“Fugo locked himself in there!” Mista rambled. “I couldn’t even shit!”

“Can’t you shoot the door down?” Giorno asked.

“Giorno,” Mista began. “You haven’t seen Fugo when he’s having an episode. If I send my Pistols in there, he’s going to… man. If only Bucciarati was still here, he’d know what to do.”

“What does Bucciarati do?” Giorno asked once again, glancing at the door.

“Whatever Bucciarati magic he does,” Mista shrugged. “He has a way into Fugo’s heart. But that’s just how Bucciarati is, or was.”

Giorno stepped forward, with Gold Experience out.

Giorno wasn’t Bucciarati. That man somehow had a way around everyone, and it worked. Giorno wasn’t anything like Bucciarati, he could not replicate what Bucciarati did entirely. He could only get through to Fugo in his own way.

Gold Experience placed its palm on the door, growing plant life on the other side. The vines reached out towards Fugo, Giorno could only hope that Fugo received them well.

♤♤♤

Fugo was laying on the ground, in his right hand was a razor. In Fugo’s mind, he was an artist, and his body was an empty canvas for him to paint. His own blood was the paint. Each cut was a stroke of the paintbrush, decorating Fugo’s body. The old, dirty canvas that was Pannacotta Fugo’s body was now a bloodied piece of art, traces of the former sins replaced by a blade of sorrow.

Each drop a reminder of the reason, the past, the nightmares that he could never truly wake up from. His eyes were blurry, unable to see the ceiling clearly as he continued painting over his arms. He could feel the sticky liquid staining his suit and seeping down his dry skin. He didn’t really care anymore.

He didn’t see the vines heading towards him. He didn’t see how it seemed to form the shape of two hands. He only realised when he felt something holding his hand and another gracing his cheek with such eloquent gentleness, like he was being held with the utmost care in the world. He didn’t need to see to know what it was.

Giorno Giovanna’s Gold Experience.

Coming to hold Fugo together, as he was falling apart.

Gold Experience was not a Stand to heal, yet, it had recovered the cracks that were left in Fugo’s heart.

Giorno Giovanna was no Bruno Bucciarati. But he had his own way to break into Fugo, to encourage him to take the first step, to escape.

Fugo struggled to stand, holding the vines gently in his two bloodied hands. He recognised the flowers. Wisteria, a genus flowering plant from the legume family, also known as Fabaceae. He held those purple flowers close to his heart as he weakly took a step forward to the vine covered door and slowly opened it.

What had greeted him was a shocked Trish and a concerned Mista. They were saying something, but Fugo’s ears chose not to pick them up, his eyes taking the lead of his senses instead. He could feel the dripping blood down his arms, but that was the least of his concerns. He could not bring the wisteria to Giorno, the damage inflicted would return to Fugo. But he could show his resolve to Giorno himself, opening the gate to the Don’s office and greeting him in there.

Giorno stood up from his chair, mouth agape at the horrifying sight of his dearest consigliere. “Fugo…” He muttered, stepping closer with Gold Experience out. He hadn’t expected Fugo to mutilate himself to such an extent, but he had reached into Fugo’s heart, and pulled him out of the sinking depths.

“These cuts run deep,” Giorno continued, slowly stepping closer until Fugo was in his range.

Fugo struggled to look Giorno in the eye, backing away the moment he was in range of Gold Experience. “I’m sorry… GioGio.”

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for…” Giorno hesitated, unsure if he should address the mess before him as Panni or Fugo.

“Panni,” Fugo answered. “I think… I want you to call me that. Be it sober or drunk. I want only you to address me as Panni.”

Giorno nodded, as Fugo stepped back into Gold Experience’s range, allowing Giorno to start the painful process of imbuing items with life and replacing it with the flesh, bits of bone and blood that Fugo had gotten rid of. Giorno sat Fugo down on the couch that Trish had bought, such exquisite taste she had.

Even as Giorno completed his healing, Fugo found it hard to… lean on Giorno. So did Giorno, finding it hard to lend his shoulder, and the two sat in complete silence, unsure of how they should navigate their positions as it seemed. The tension hung in the air, neither of the two knew how to ease it. Emotions were never their strongest suit, especially Fugo.

“Your future,” Giorno began. “As long as you live, you serve my dream. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Fugo nodded. “My body, my heart, and my soul. My hope-”

“Then when all hope you hold on is diminished,” Giorno continued. “Let me be the one to act as anchor to keep your soul steady in the storm. Your place in my future, is not one of misery.”

Fugo looked up to the sheer determination spread across Giorno’s face. The look that had convinced Bucciarati.

Pannacotta Fugo had been killing himself in ways more than one. It was only then that Fugo realised his whole life, his soul was slowly rotting away.

♤♤♤

Giorno had just convinced Fugo to rest for the day, he only left Fugo’s room after seeing the man shut his eyes, and headed for his own office after. The office of Passione’s boss was one covered in silence and remembrance of those who had fallen for Giorno’s dream and Trish’s past.

The sun was beginning to set, and Guido Mista found his way into Giorno’s office. Trish had offered to stay a while longer, just in case situations arose. Mista had questioned Giorno, asking him how he had managed to calm the beast that had grown in Fugo.

“Bucciarati had his way into all of our hearts ya’know,” Mista began. “Harsh, convincing, yet gentle and compassionate. Even Abbacchio couldn’t resist, but Fugo never truly let Bucciarati into his heart. Not even Narancia and I could get through to him all the time, so how’d you get him to leave the bathroom?”

Giorno recalled his little speech, he wasn’t sure what was going through his mind. He had just remembered what Fugo swore to him, and used it against Fugo himself.

Mista laughed.

“Sometimes I forget you’re still just a teenager,” He said. “Trying to sound cool and all, but it worked, so I guess it’s not so bad.”

Giorno’s face turned pink. “I didn’t think it was bad.”

“Pass me some wine would’ya?” Mista asked, pointing to the wine cabinet in Giorno’s office.

The two began talking it over with some good old wine after. It felt as though Abbacchio was still around.

“You’re not God,” Mista reminded. “I think being human is the best way you can save Fugo from whatever hell he is in.”

Mista’s weird wisdom only came out after a few drinks, the man had different sides to him that made him Guido Mista, as shown in his Stand. Giorno and Mista had developed a brotherly relationship as they oversaw Passione together.

“I think Fugo saw Bucciarati as like,” Mista explained, shrugging as he did so. “Some saviour, but Bucciarati had his own thing going on.”

Giorno nodded, remembering Bucciarati’s last words to him. Saving his dying soul. Knocking on the devil’s door, dying until he met Giorno, that was the life Bucciarati had met. Giorno understood what Mista was trying to say.

Being humane meant a non-linear way of life. Ups and downs were a given.

“I suppose,” Giorno answered. “So I need to tell Fugo I hadn’t had it easy either?”

Mista shrugged, “Do what you feel is right. I think? Dunno. Wine’s making me tired, good night. Trish’s taking me shopping tomorrow.”

Just like that, Giorno was left all alone with his thoughts, and sobering himself up.

Giorno had peace when he met that mafioso during the formative years of his life. It had set Giorno on a new path, reviving him and freeing him from potentially sinking down into his heritage. Dark thoughts were not one that haunted Giorno ever so often, though it didn’t mean he found it any easier to express how he felt. It was one of the traits that kept Giorno humane.

What was keeping Fugo humane?

Giorno found himself walking towards Fugo’s room and opened the door, taking the first steps inside. Fugo was awake, his eyes struggling to adjust to the light that Giorno had just welcomed in when he entered Fugo’s room.

“Why are you here?” Fugo asked sheepishly.

“I wanted to see if you’re okay,” Giorno answered, though he was also unsure of what he should say at that moment.

In the shadows, Giorno could see slight action from Fugo. He was wiping his face, as though he had been crying. Was that why he was awake?

“I’m fine GioGio,” Fugo answered. “Imsomnia.”

“Are you lying to me?” Giorno asked.

A moment of silence and hesitation accompanied the darkness of Fugo’s room. A sense of loneliness that had felt so familiar to the two, when they were growing up. In a room where they could not see each other, yet it was the perfect chance for the two to face their options for life moving forward.

Fugo’s voice choked down in his throat as he tried to speak. No words could escape his mouth in a coherent manner. But Giorno understood, stepping forward and laying beside Fugo once again, fully sober. Fugo was not the first one who reached out to hold him, and Giorno hesitated before bringing himself to grace his fingers along the tenderness of Fugo’s arm.

Giorno remained his focus, trying to read Fugo and understand him. Giorno’s emotions always seeped out subtly, he wasn’t a fan of being vulnerable. To be completely stripped down to reveal pure emotions was a challenge that even Giorno was hesitant to show. The only time he had ever cried was when Narancia died.

Giorno’s hands slowly began to pull away, this was the most vulnerable he was willing to go. Fugo held onto Giorno, not wanting him to let go.

“I…” Fugo hesitated. “Being alone… Whatever just… don’t go.”

“Why?” Giorno asked.

“I’m not… too sure,” Fugo answered. “Maybe, your presence gave my wretched existence a sense of comfort. The bad thoughts in my mind… they go away with you here.”

Giorno felt Fugo’s hands grazing his cheek, an unfound gentleness, that not even Fugo knew he had possessed. Deep down, Fugo was a caring person, but he had believed he wasn’t a saint. In his mind, was one of violent and murderous thoughts, though he always suppressed his repressed anger.

It was safe to say that Giorno was stunned by Fugo’s small actions. Such intimacy was not one that Giorno was used to, yet, he allowed for Fugo’s hands to remain.

“I think,” Fugo began. “My heart feels at ease so long as I serve you.”

The dimmed room didn’t allow Giorno to see Fugo’s face, but it had heightened every other sense of his. He could feel the slow breath of Pannacotta Fugo. A strange calmness for a boy who was mutilating himself hours ago.

Before Giorno even realised, Fugo placed his face closer to Giorno. The gap between their lips had closed. A contact of intimacy and a secret that could not be spoken, but only ever shown through actions. As quickly as it happened, Fugo immediately pulled his face away. His hands remained on Giorno’s cheeks.

“If serving me puts you out of your misery,” said Giorno, placing his own hand over Fugo’s. “Keep on serving me.”

That was the most peaceful night Fugo had in a long while. Giorno felt like an antidote to the poison in Fugo’s mind. Finally, the poor boy didn’t have to face any of his nightmares anymore, they were forgotten. Giorno did his best to pull Fugo out, and for the time being, it seemed to be working.

The very next morning, the two were woken up by a loud Mista, whining about whatever Trish was telling him. Giorno got up first, gently shaking Fugo.

Fugo’s eyes slowly fluttered open, greeted by the sight of the sunrays resting majestically on Giorno’s hair, which was undone and covering his face. Fugo tried rearranging Giorno’s hair but Giorno brushed his hand aside. Allowing Fugo to see his unkempt hair was one of the ways he could show Fugo his humanity.

“Buon Giorno,” Fugo greeted, pulling himself out of the bed.

“Buon Giorno, Panni,” Giorno answered.

Neither of them reached out to hold each other’s hand, still feeling a small wave of awkwardness washing over their bodies. Touch was a foreign concept to the two, and they would both rather shy away from it… However…

Fugo kept his head down as he reached out towards Giorno, holding his hand. Giorno could only see the top of Fugo’s head as they headed to the toilet to wash up and begin the day.

Trish had caught the sight, and chose to keep silent, while she dealt with Mista’s temper for the morning. She was glad to see Fugo alright. Breakfast for the day was made by Mista, which explained his foul mood.

It was due to some burnt pancakes.

“You really need to step away from the kitchen sometimes,” Trish commented as she threw away the pure black pancake. “I’m not a great cook myself but even I am not this bad.”

“Give me another shot!” Mista whined, trying to take the pan away from Trish.

“Absolutely not! You’re gonna burn down the place!” Trish replied, bringing the pan away from Mista. “You stink.”

Fugo and Giorno walked into the kitchen, hand in hand, just as Mista turned around. Mista had his arms crossed and was pouting like a little kid when his eyes finally caught Fugo and Giorno’s hands, intertwined. The two stared into the walls beside them, unable to look anyone in the eyes.

“Pancakes…?” Fugo asked, his voice lower than a whisper.

“Are they homosexuals?” Mista whispered to Trish.

It was not a whisper, he was too loud. Trish gave him a hard smack on the back.

It was only then that it had struck Giorno that they never put a label on what they were. They just… felt like it, and it felt right, somehow. Maybe that wasn’t important, Fugo being alright was the main point. He could feel Fugo’s hands trembling in his, Giorno glanced over at Fugo, who seemed nervous. Unsure of what to do, Giorno gently rubbed his thumb over Fugo's hand until the boy finally stopped shaking.

“I can make breakfast for everyone,” Giorno answered, still not letting go of Fugo. “What would everyone like?”

“Pancakes!” Mista answered.

“Sour salad, with crab,” Trish ordered. “You know how I like them done right?”

Giorno nodded, “What about you? Panni?”

Mista’s eyes narrowed at the mention of Fugo’s nickname that he had never heard of. He knew something had to have happened, there was no way.

“Salad? With mushrooms, maybe,” Fugo shrugged. “Can I make them with you? GioGio?”

Giorno shook his head. “You just rest and wait, I’ll be quick.”

Fugo nodded, as he followed Trish and Mista out of the kitchen and into the dining room, where they all sat. Mista was all ready for an interrogation.

“What happened?” Mista asked, wrapping his arm around Fugo. “Suddenly you two are all holding hands and shit.”

“Mista!” Trish interjected. “Cut it out damn.”

“Are you curious why they’re suddenly all homo?” Mista shot back at Trish.

“Nothing… much happened,” Fugo answered.

There was no way Mista was going to buy that, and Fugo knew of it.

“I’ll find out either way,” Mista responded. “Just don’t do anything stupid eh? Got it?”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” Fugo agreed.

“Even Fugo could get a partner before you,” Trish laughed. “And I thought you said you were good with the ladies.”

That got a laugh out of Fugo too, not Mista though. He crossed his arms once more.

“That’s why we’re going shopping!” Mista got all defensive, arms frailing about. “You’ll teach me all the new tricks to make me more presentable.”

Trish shrugged, “Whatever you say.”

♤♤♤

“What made me worth saving?” Fugo asked one day.

He was handing Giorno some finance documents he had spent the night before reading and arranging, making sure everything added up in Passione. The question always haunted him at night.

“I care about you,” Giorno answered. “I see worth in you, even if you don’t see it in yourself.”

Giorno had been caring for Fugo everyday, sharing the same bed. Giorno’s life-giving abilities had turned everything sharp in the house into bunnies whenever Fugo felt the urge. Giorno knew what Fugo’s favourite species was.

An endangered species known as Crème d’Argent, or Oryctolagus cuniculus.

Fugo liked how fluffy they were, so Giorno used a pen, gave it life so that Fugo could have a permanent pet. Fugo had decided to name it Nara, after Narancia. Nara had filled Fugo with such joy, a sense of happiness that he hadn’t felt in a long time. Fugo took great care of Nara, along with Giorno.

“I see,” Fugo answered. “Thank you, GioGio.”

“Do you have any plans tonight?” Giorno asked, before Fugo left his office.

“No,” Fugo answered.

“Very well,” Giorno continued. I made a booking for us at a restaurant downtown. We’ve been… together for a month.”

Fugo stood frozen, by the door.

“Have we?” He questioned. “Are we… a…”

“Aren’t we?” It was Giorno’s turn to be confused now. “You kissed me first, didn’t you?”

Fugo was quiet. He was not great with emotions, and it was about to bite him in the ass.

Giorno hadn’t a clue how relationships worked. He just assumed. Was he wrong to do so?

“Why are you hesitating?” Giorno continued asking. “Panni?”

Fugo held his head in his hands. Fear overwhelmed him once more. “I don’t think you should be with me. I wouldn’t be a good partner.”

Giorno reached out to Fugo, who instinctively backed away.

The both of them stood a distance from each other, Giorno staring intensely at Fugo, while Fugo stared at the ground. “I meant it when I said I would be your anchor, to hold you steady,” Giorno announced. “I will weigh on you, unshakeable, you will not remove me. Pannacotta Fugo, you swore your life to me. There is no running.”

Fugo could not bring himself to look at Giorno, while he was fighting the harmful thoughts in his mind. He wished Giorno would give him a mission that included murder, he felt as though he needed an outlet, his anger seemed to be on the rise.

“Tell me, Pannacotta Fugo,” Giorno continued. “Are you a man of your word or are you just another pathetic excuse of a liar?”

Fugo’s hands clenched into fists.

He didn’t feel as though he was worthy to be in such a relationship, but he couldn’t bring himself to hurt Giorno.

“I…” Fugo hesitated. “Am a man of my word… GioGio. I am no coward. I can’t run away, I mustn’t.”

Giorno stepped closer, and Fugo allowed him to pull him into a warm embrace. Fugo allowed his head to rest on Giorno’s shoulder, as the both of them stood, chest to chest, heart to heart.

“Shall we go and feed Nara?” Giorno asked.

Fugo nodded, “I’ll get him.”

Nara was like their first child. Even Mista and Trish adored the little bunny. Trish often stopped by with little accessories for the mafia pet. The orange bow Trish had bought soon became Nara’s favourite accessory to rock.

“GioGio,” Fugo asked. “Is there anything outside of documentation that you wish for me to handle?”

Nara was resting on Fugo’s lap, snacking away on some vegetables as Giorno petted him gently. “Mista can handle them,” Giorno answered, as though seeing through Fugo’s thoughts.

Fugo didn’t pry. He knew better than that.

Giorno would never allow him to senselessly take another life, or unleash his fury on an innocent being. Giorno wouldn’t ever use his Gold Experience ability to give an object life, for Fugo to use either. All Fugo had was Nara to calm his rage, and the little bunny was working.

“You’ve been doing great Panni, I’m… happy for you,” Giorno planted a gentle kiss on Fugo’s cheek before heading back into his office. “I’ll drive us for our date night later.”

Fugo’s face turned red, and he buried his face into his dearest pet.

To hear that someone was genuinely happy for him, struck something in his heart. A place that hadn’t been touched before, was now graced and sparked with life.

Mista didn’t question it when he returned home to see Giorno all suited up for the night, with a bouquet of gardenias in his hand. He did question it when he found Fugo in his room, still panicking over what he should wear. Good thing Trish was with Mista when he returned home.

“Seriously you mafia people are always worrying about the wrong things,” Trish commented as she grabbed hairspray and began styling Fugo’s hair.

“Wouldn’t women worry about dates too?” Fugo asked.

“I wouldn’t worry unless I have no idea what to wear,” Trish answered. “I have better things to care about, other than dates. Anyway Fugo, what other outfits do you have?”

Needless to say, Trish was beyond disappointed at the sight of Fugo’s closet.

“Do you have any suit without holes?” She asked, looking through Fugo’s clothes. “These are so airy.”

“I like them airy,” Fugo answered.

Trish sighed, grabbing the red suit full of holes and told Fugo to change. She left the room promptly after that, not interested in seeing a naked Fugo.

Fugo had stepped out of his room, in his red suit, all nervous. Mista and Giorno were having a laugh with each other, which made Fugo even more nervous. Mista was such an easygoing person, what gave him the edge over Mista? What did Giorno see in him that he didn’t find in Mista? Surely Guido Mista was far less damaged than Fugo.

Fugo still went on the date night with Giorno, doing his best to push the toxic thoughts aside. The restaurant Giorno picked was great. Fugo liked the bouquet of gardenias Giorno had gotten him as well, appreciating the symbolism behind them. The white wine was one of Fugo’s favourite alcohols that he had ever tried. The carpaccio was alright for Fugo’s taste, it reminded him of what his family used to serve when he was still in the house.

Fugo decided to go with Risotto ai Funghi for his first course while Giorno had decided to order Pasta alla norma as his. The two shared their meal in silence, Fugo was unsure of what he should say for such a special occasion. Giorno wasn’t sure what he could say either, aside from looking good in front of Fugo. Giorno had wanted to impress Fugo, as this was their first official date outside of the home, outside of snuggling beside each other on Fugo's bed.

“So,” Giorno began. “How’s food?”

“It’s nice,” Fugo answered. “Kinda like the ones I had growing up.”

Giorno nodded, “I never had anything fancy growing up.”

“Oh?” Fugo questioned. “Why not?”

Sometimes Fugo didn’t seem to realise that not everyone had grown up in the aristocratic way that he did. Not everyone had money, and not everyone had love.

Giorno merely shrugged, “My family wasn’t that well off. My step-father wasn’t great.”

That was all the details that Giorno was willing to let slip about his life. It was enough for Fugo to realise that deep down, Giorno Giovanna was just like him. A boy who struggled with his life. Even the most perfect of people had their flaws.

Their dessert was strawberry panna cotta, Fugo’s favourite. The duo had decided to share it. Fugo really enjoyed the sweet stuff. It was a simple silent dinner, but Fugo appreciated the act.

In the car, Fugo decided to be the driver for the day. Giorno was in the passenger seat, and he seemed as though he had a few questions.

“Did you like the date?” He asked.

“Yeah?” Fugo answered, starting the car. “Why?”

“I see,” Giorno replied. “I was afraid you wouldn’t like it.”

Fugo found that amusing as he began the ride back home. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You grew up fancy,” Giorno answered. “I suppose your taste buds would be more defined. I wanted to impress you.”

“You don’t need to impress me, GioGio,” Fugo laughed as they got to a red light. “I find effort to suit my taste buds better than money.”

A family built by choice, showering him with the love he had never felt.

Fugo and Giorno had returned home to Mista and Trish watching a romance movie on the couch. Mista was aww-ing at the romance while Trish found it too cheesy for her liking.

“Aww! The two little lovebirds are back!” Mista teased.

“How was it?” Trish asked.

“It was…” Fugo looked at Giorno who seemed to be extra shy now.

“Amazing. Thanks for the gardenia jasminoides, my GioGio,” Fugo finished, pulling Giorno closer by the waist and kissing his cheek in front of both Trish and Mista.

An action that Fugo soon grew embarrassed about and hid his face behind the bouquet. Giorno stood stunned for a second but he snapped out of it real quick, giggling to himself as Mista bore on a look of shock and Trish seemed smug and pleased with herself. Giorno had to drag Fugo over to the couch and take a seat.

“Pay up, Guido Mista,” Trish ordered.

Fugo and Giorno seemed confused. Pay up?

“Fine. Damn it Giorno! I thought you’d be the one to kiss Fugo in front of everyone,” Mista whined.

“You two had a bet?” Fugo questioned, slightly amused and finally showing his embarrassed face again.

“On who would kiss who first in front of us,” Trish answered. “Thanks for not letting me down, Fugo.”

Mista however, had a completely different reaction compared to Trish. The gunslinger had clung onto Giorno and whined like a child, in an almost comedic way.

“How could you! Giorno! My beloved big boss, leader of Passione!” Mista cried out in a dramatic manner that made both Trish and Giorno laugh.

Fugo was feeling a weird sense of discomfort rising in his chest, like he could throw up any moment. He wasn’t sure why, the sight of Mista being so close to Giorno and the both of them laughing. Fugo felt as though he was a party pooper happening upon the scene, so he decided to excuse himself to shower.

The warm water washed over his skin, but the emotions he was feeling could not be washed away. It remained permanently etched beneath the surface of his skin, running in his veins, every inch of his body.

Fugo scrubbed harshly on his skin, the foam flooding his wet body as he did so. No matter what he did, he could not get rid of the feeling. The sense that he had been drowning. Within the span of a few minutes, the antidote he had seeked in Giorno suddenly felt useless, making him feel even more empty. Jealousy and insecurity seemed to be a bitch, that haunted Fugo’s mind relentlessly.

Fugo washed himself thoroughly, drying himself with his towel and wore his pajamas. He had watched as the waters went down the drain, his emotions only growing heavier.

Giorno was outside of the bathroom, carrying his own set of clothing. His face had a golden smile, Fugo wondered why. Was it Mista?

“Do you want to sleep over in my room tonight?” Giorno asked.

Fugo responded with a small nod and headed back into his room and crashed into his bed. He was sick of feeling this way. Why can’t he just enjoy peace for a second? A senseless jealousy over his friend being close to his… boyfriend…?

He was enjoying being around Giorno, despite his occasional struggles, but it seemed to be getting worse by the day. Giorno was supposed to fix things, to help him, to ease him. Whenever Fugo had bad thoughts, it was Giorno he went to and they would sit in silence. It seemed to have solved everything, when it really solved nothing. Fugo felt a sense of anger rising within him, a feeling directed towards himself as he started to punch his pillows, and feeling sorry for himself.

Fugo never dealt with anything head on, and Giorno was just a distraction for Fugo. Ignoring the feeling until it went away was Fugo’s way of running away. Giorno wasn’t the best at emotions either, but he had chosen to trust that Fugo knew what he was doing. A grand mistake on both sides.

That night, Fugo fell asleep alone. Giorno was left confused and wondering why Fugo wouldn’t go over. Fugo was a tough person to read, and Giorno wasn’t sure what Fugo was feeling. He wasn’t even sure if he should go over and seek Fugo.

The both of them had a very restless night, caused by each other. Fugo seemed hellbent on avoiding Giorno the following morning, but Giorno wasn’t going to allow it. Giorno had cornered Fugo in the toilet and confronted him there, leaving Fugo no way out.

“GioGio,” Fugo began, avoiding Giorno’s eyes. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“What’s the meaning of your absence last night?” Giorno questioned. “I waited for your presence, only for you to be a no-show.”

Giorno sounded pissed, as he rightfully should be.

Fugo could not bring himself to tell Giorno the truth.

“Why are you like this?” Giorno pressed further. “Pushing and pulling me closer. When will you embrace me fully?”

“I-” Fugo stuttered. “I… don’t know. I don’t know why… I don’t know how… I don’t know how not to be self-destructive. I’m afraid.”

Giorno took a step closer to Fugo, wanting to pull him in closer, but Fugo stopped him, placing a hand on his chest. Giorno sighed.

“Why be with me?” Fugo asked. “Why not Mista?”

Giorno wanted to laugh, Mista?

“Are you seriously asking me that?” Giorno asked. “Mista is well… Mista. I don’t like him like that. He’s an idiot, a lovable idiot but no I wouldn’t date Mista. I enjoy being around you Panni. I hope you embrace me the way I embrace you.”

“I’m sorry,” Fugo apologised. “I can’t get rid of the poison in my head. I want to.”

“Then I will suck them out for you,” Giorno answered. “Remember, Fugo, your place in my future is not one of misery.”

Fugo nodded.

That night, the two shared another warm embrace in Giorno’s bed, the way they were supposed to the night before. Giorno asked Fugo of his bad thoughts, and Fugo gave a vague and brief rundown of what he seemed to think everyday. Giorno’s fingers intertwined with Fugo’s hair as he listened to Fugo’s thoughts.

“Panni,” Giorno whispered. “Have I ever… told you how pretty you looked?”

“Even with the scar on my mouth?” Fugo asked.

“Even with the scar on your mouth,” Giorno answered. “You’re a fighter, and you win em.”

“Do you think… I’ll ever be completely free?” Fugo whispered, facing up towards the ceiling.

“Our past created us, but we mustn’t let it control us,” Giorno explained. “We cannot let it seep into the future and control it.”

Fugo snuggled closer into Giorno’s chest as the night fully dawned on the two and their eyes had shut for the day. Waking up in each other’s embrace was Giorno’s favourite way to start the day. His day was often filled with mafia activities, and one of the few times he was able to seek some peace was when he was around Fugo or when they were feeding their little bunny Nara.

Fugo enjoyed the tranquility of being around Giorno as well, though his mind still remained haunted. His jealousy of Mista rose and died down whenever, and the struggles of it seemed to be draining Fugo. Giorno was such a well-liked man among the community, man and woman adored him.

Fugo was just someone who was on the sidelines.

He couldn’t help but compare himself to everyone who caught Giorno’s attention. Unable to free himself from a toxic cycle that kept running over and over again. A victim of his own mind.

Fugo couldn’t blame Giorno however, as it was in no way his fault. Fugo just… needed to keep his feelings under control, and Giorno need not learn of such trivial matters. Fugo knew how to handle it.

With alcohol.

Whenever it got too much, he would just drink, and rest for the night. It put the emotions at bay and he wouldn’t think about them anymore, for the time being. No wonder Abbacchio had drowned himself in alcohol back then, Fugo was slowly beginning to understand. He did his best not to go too overboard with it however, as Mista and Giorno himself would often see Fugo taking a few sips and warn him. Too much of anything could never be good.

Fugo was slipping back into another episode, and Giorno had no idea how to end it. No matter what he did, what he said, Fugo found a way to drink past it. Maybe it was the slow rising feeling of betrayal, that Fugo had no idea where it came from. Perhaps it was seeing Mista and Giorno interact with each other more often, but that was Fugo’s own doing.

His struggles had caused the two to talk about him, how to heal him. But it seemed to be twisted in Fugo’s own mind. He couldn’t help it, it was just all in his head and he could not break free no matter what he did.

He wanted Giorno to save him. Stitch him up as per usual. Giorno… Giovanna…

Giorno wasn’t sure if he should be forceful, trying to find his way back to Fugo. But Fugo kept shoving Giorno aside, despite living in the same house. Giorno’s old tricks didn’t seem to work it’s magic anymore.

Fugo found himself cuddling the little Nara, petting it as tears rolled down Fugo’s face. He wasn’t sure why, he just did. Maybe he just could not stand not being the number one in Giorno’s life, for some reason. The strange attachment he felt towards Giorno seemed to be the very thing strangling him now.

Why can’t Giorno heal him?

Why can’t Giorno’s love fix him?

Why? Fugo didn’t understand.

Maybe Giorno was never the problem. It had always been the way Fugo handled himself. He was the issue, and he avoided it like the plague.

Fugo set Nara free, to roam about in the home as he prepared to do something. Fugo looked at his own reflection in the little blade he was holding. Those stupid puffy eyes…

The sensation of his skin splitting apart did little to drown out his thoughts, all he could do was to keep going and going. He could feel his life force slowly fading away. Ironic wasn’t it? Giorno’s ability was to give life, yet he could not make Fugo feel whole, feel complete. What a joke…

Fugo’s attempt hadn’t worked, as Giorno barged into the room, holding onto Nara. He had a sinking feeling that something was wrong after seeing the little creature roam about.

“Panni,” Giorno’s voice was deadpanned, tired. “Why?”

“I don’t know,” Fugo lied, his throat closing up as he cried.

Giorno healed his wounds in silence as Fugo bit through the pain that Gold Experience introduced into his body.

“Why can’t you…” Fugo mumbled. “Fix everything about me… like this?”

“You’re perfect Panni,” Giorno answered.

Fugo shook his head. “It’s never enough… I need more…”

Giorno frowned, “What do you mean?”

“Nothing is enough,” Fugo cried, whispering into Giorno’s sleepwear. “I will never be okay.”

Giorno wasn’t sure what he should say, was there anything he could say? What could he possibly say to make Fugo feel better in such a situation? What was Fugo going through? He wasn’t a therapist, he was not well equipped to deal with all these… emotions.

“One day,” Giorno reassured. “One day. You’ll be put out of your misery. I promise.”

Promises seemed to be good motivation, but words without actions still remained as words, carbon dioxide lost in the air, never to be remembered. That was what Giorno’s promise was to Fugo. He remained a shell of himself, unable to leave his bed. Giorno was losing himself trying to pull Fugo out, and the sight bothered Mista as well.

“Hey Fugo,” Mista called out as he stepped into Fugo’s room. “Get your act together would’ya?”

Silence.

“Come on now,” Mista continued. “I hate seeing you like this, and Giorno. Goddamn… I don’t think Bucciarati would be very happy about this either. Just… get it together man… Love you.”

Fugo didn’t respond, not even when Mista left his room.

Being vulnerable felt as though he was unraveling himself before Giorno, standing before him, bare. He hated being bare in front of anyone, he could never fully embrace it. He wasn’t sure how Giorno did it, but Fugo couldn’t.

“Fugo?” Trish’s strangely gentle voice called out to the boy stuck on his bed. “I bought some strawberry gelato if you’d li-”

“No thanks,” Fugo snapped.

Trish didn’t respond, and Fugo could hear her soft footsteps leaving his room behind. Fugo was tired, truly tired. He was undone beyond what he could handle, beyond what he was used to. His mind was filled with every kiss shared with Giorno, the joy he once felt, now he could no longer feel the same joy from the same action. Fugo was unraveled beyond his limits, and now his mind seemed to be crashing down on him.

Giorno Giovanna had done his very best to save Fugo from his self-destructive tendencies, but there was only so much one person could do. Fugo had always been beyond Giorno’s reach, no matter how hard he tried to stretch his arms.

Sure, it had helped Fugo for a short while, but nothing lasts forever. The cracks in Fugo’s soul were too deep, and Giorno was not enough. He was the boss of Passione, a teenager, not Fugo’s personal therapist. He could never have done the job fully. He was never what Fugo needed. Their love was perfect, but not Fugo’s mind. If Fugo had taken the first step… maybe things would have turned out differently. But now… it seems as though Fugo would never find the cure, and it was never in another person.

Giorno had been the one caring for the little bunny Nara for the past week where Fugo refused to leave his bed behind. Don Giorno Giovanna was beyond tired, no mafia work had gotten him this exhausted, but Pannacotta Fugo… seemed to be a new story.

Things seemed to be going so well, then he just… snapped like that. Giorno was confused, but still determined. Vulnerability was not weakness, Giorno was going to prove it to Fugo.

However, that very afternoon, Giorno could not find Fugo in his room. Fugo wasn’t anywhere, and that was strange. Giorno walked around the home, carrying Nara in his hand as he seeked Pannacotta Fugo.

Then, he spotted Guido Mista, rushing out of the bathroom, his face pale.

“What’s wrong?” Giorno asked, stepping closer.

Mista immediately stopped Giorno, closing the bathroom door before the boss could even get a peek of what was inside.

“Mista,” Giorno repeated himself sternly. “Don’t make me repeat myself because it’s useless, and I don’t like anything that is useless.”

Mista looked… extremely uncomfortable as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Its just… I took a… massive dump… heh.”

Giorno’s eyes narrowed at his trusted gunslinger, not buying a single word he had just said. “You’re lying,” Giorno pointed out. “Tell me the truth, Guido Mista.”

Mista bit his lip, and reluctantly, and slowly opened the bathroom door. Inside laid Fugo’s dead body, his arms riddled with deep cuts that Giorno could see his bone beneath. Blood pooled around Fugo’s body as his eyes were dead and soulless, a reminder of the life Pannacotta Fugo had lived until the very end, one of tragedy… Mista could not bring himself to look at the scene before him, and Giorno fell to his knees. Trish happened upon the scene and froze in shock, dropping the strawberry gelato she had brought for the dead boy.

“Panni…” Giorno muttered as Gold Experience placed it’s palm on Fugo’s body, trying to feel for any life force.

There wasn’t any.

Not even when Gold Experience began healing every self inflicted wound on Fugo’s body. His eyes still remained soulless, and empty. An empty husk of a corpse was what Fugo had reduced himself into, unable to free himself from the grasp of his mind.

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