Pictures Came and Broke Your Heart (Alastor's Epilogue)
We Can't Rewind We've Gone too Far (Vox's Epilogue) | Part 1 | | Part 2 |
Yes, I joined my own event because I couldn't resist
I'm interested if voice actors to wany to voice/dub this comic! I give full permission so long as I'm credited with a hyperlink to my tumblr and/or youtube.
I also don't mind if people want to color this, I just didn't have the time to color it before the deadline.
I love how everything the gods do and say and think is proof of how civillization shapes them, of how even if they say they can't change, they've been doing it for millennia
In Ancient Greece, as cool as their mythology is, there were a lot of very problematic opinions. Like the way they thought about women, child abuse and SA. These things are why the gods, in the myths, do horrible stuff like that. They didn't see anything wrong with it! But we do, which means the gods do too. And even if we know it's wrong, many of us still do it, which could also be why some of the gods are still, to some extent, that way
It's why Apollo sees what Zeus does as abuse, why everyone knows that the gods, all mighty and powerful, suck, etc etc etc. It's so fucking cool
And I think that this is another example of the fact that if they want to, they can change for the better. I think Zeus could become a better dad. I think Athena (and all of them, honestly) could start caring more about her children. I think they can stop making others fight their wars for them. They can change, because they've been changing this whole time
🦋 summary: in which fugo finally begins to slowly heal and move on from his past, with the help of his surviving comrades. but as he would soon learn, nothing is ever easy. maybe he should just give up?
part 1 - acceptance
part 2 - relapse
part 3 - denial
part 4 - healing
🦋 warnings: mentioned SA, abuse, suicide, suicidal thoughts, self harm
🦋 notes: this is totally not the author trauma dumping, i am going through it again
disagree with my fugo mentally ill hcs? click out then !!!!!
i am an emotional train wreck #timetodieeeeee
Pannacotta Fugo was a boy who grew up without love. What does he know about it? Was he deserving of one?
What was love?
Was it as great as people proclaimed it to be?
How does one enjoy being themselves?
Did he deserve to be loved?
How does one be deserving of such a thing?
How does it come by?
He wondered…
Questions that haunted him as silence slowly drowned him, peace was never granted to him. Every time when he was alone, his mind would wonder, venture into corners he wished never existed.
He felt as though he was being suffocated by an invisible force, made by fragments of his memories… His memories forming into blades, lingering at various parts of his skin, he watched as each blade sliced into his skin, the layers coming apart, warm maroon flowing down, staining the carpets below. He remained expressionless as the scarlet underneath became exposed… a cut so deep that white could be seen. The flesh below the skin showed through, exposing themselves to the surroundings as the stinging pain shot through his entire body. The blades showed his pathetic reflection, the face of a boy who simply could not forget the pain, forget the feeling.
Each drop slowly left his wrist, his life slowly dripping out of him. The smell of the metallic liquid reached into his nose as his eyes tried to remain open. He was so tired. His mind and feelings seemed to haunt him, his own body hated him. He hated his own body too. The new cut confirmed that. He was slowly dying, the blade of his emotions and thoughts had sliced him to the brink of death. Each and every small cut had led to this very final moment…
“Fugo?!” One of Mista’s pistols shouted, happening upon the scene.
Fugo’s eyes bore on a lifeless look, was he in the middle of a breakdown?
Everything was a blur, as the door busted open to reveal both Giorno and Mista, did they have a look of worry? Concern? Or was it anger? He couldn’t remember.
The next thing he knew, he was in a foreign room, laying on a bed he had never seen before… yet he knew where he was. The damn hospital. Of course he was there. His arms all bandaged up… Concerned faces surrounded him…
Who would be the first to visit him? He wondered… Will his parents ever pay him a visit? What did they even look like? He couldn’t remember. It has been a good few years.
“Fugo, you’re awake,” Giorno’s calm voice was the first he had heard. Standing beside him was Guido Mista, his expression one of relief.
“Thank god you’re awake you idiot!” Mista began loudly before realising that foreign eyes seemed to lay upon his figure. “We were so worried,” he whispered.
Fugo’s eyes attempted to adjust itself to the blinding light that emitted from the hospital. “Yeah… I’m… uh alright.”
His body said otherwise. The freshly bandaged up wounds he had painfully gifted himself. The bloodsoaked carpet back home had another story to tell. His mind has another story to tell. His scar ridden body had many, many different tales.
Everything proved otherwise. Why did he lie? What was the point?
“Do you need anything?” Giorno asked, placing a hand on Fugo’s shoulder, his eyes filled with worry. “Just say it and we-”
Fugo moved Giorno’s hand away from his shoulder, his gaze as dead as his mind, his voice as hopeless as one can get. “It’s alright,” was all he managed to say.
He didn’t want to disappoint anyone if he couldn’t get better. He didn’t want to feel like he was just wasting their time, their effort. He was afraid that no amount of help could ever fix him completely. He didn’t care about suffering alone, so long as nobody followed him down the path of destruction.
Was he really worth the effort? Worth it to try? Even if no improvement was to be seen? He was afraid of the future, though he held no certainty of what the future could hold for him. He was afraid of something that might not even happen.
Should he just let go of his fears?
He tried to, he really did. But it seemed to plague his mind, the intention of letting go remained hidden. What was he supposed to do?
He was afraid. What if it doesn’t work? Does he even deserve it? Why…
So many thoughts ran rampant throughout his mind, barely giving him a break. What was he supposed to do?
How does one even know where to start? How to start? How will he even know if it was working?
So, so many things he was wrecking his head over. He might have been a genius when it came to academics, but nobody had ever taught him that emotions needed to be learned and understood too.
All of the undeserving treatments had led to the boy to believe that he was undeserving as well. Maybe that was why it was so hard…
He had spent his days staring at the walls around him, laying down on a foreign mattress, having unfamiliar faces tend to him. One thing was not a stranger to him however.
It was the never ending questions of whether he needed help or was he alright. Everyone asked that, without fail… one way or another, people were bound to ask the same thing. He couldn’t give the answer that they wanted. He didn’t know what to say.
He was just a boy forced to stay alive.
Why was he still alive?
What was he supposed to live for?
He knew he swore to serve Giorno but that can’t be the only thing he does for the rest of his life.
What was his purpose?
The purpose purely made for himself and not about anyone else. Solely made just for Pannacotta Fugo.
What was it? How should he find it?
Why did the thought of finally being content with himself scare him so much? Had he been in misery for so long that he didn’t even have it in him to be happy? What was going on in his mind? He didn’t know. He didn’t know how to figure himself out.
Even while he was discharged, his thoughts left the hospital with him, it followed him everywhere. Not much had changed in the boy. He was still as uncertain as he always had been.
Giorno was the one who drove him back to their accommodation. The ride was silent, with Fugo looking out the window, looking at the scenery that had presented themselves before him, passing by. For some reason, his mind felt oddly at peace, no thoughts ran through as his eyes took in the sight.
It was one of the few moments where Fugo could really enjoy himself. One of the few times his mind was silent, freeing him of the burdens of his life.
Was this what peace felt like?
He’d love to have it.
But did he deserve it?
It was a simple yes or no answer, yet he found himself struggling. He wanted it, but he dreaded it. Being in hell for so long, it almost felt like home to him. Yet he yearned for escape… What did he truly want?
He was so used to the mental torment that living without it sounded strange. The torment was his normal, despite his hatred for it all. Now he has to live without it? Will he manage? It felt wrong, to live without something that kept him company for so long, even though it was the source for all of his agony. He grew up with it, he was familiarised with it, to the point where it almost felt… comforting? To have something stay by your side for so long… To have that one constant thing in his life.
It was something he grew up with…
What if he got better and nobody believed that he was ever struggling because all of it was gone now? Every single trace of his mental scars, gone. The thought made him… want to get worse. To prove that he was indeed a troubled boy. He wanted horrible things to happen to him, maybe then people would believe his struggles.
But he yearned to have peace.
What should he do then?
When both gave his mind hell… shouldn’t he pick one he was already used to? What difference would it make? It would be like reliving the same thing over and over… Wasn’t he already doing that? Being better sounded like such a struggle, he didn’t know what he should do…
What would people want him to do?
What would Bruno Bucciarati help him do?
What would Bruno Bucciarati say to him?
Tell him to face everything? What did Bucciarati do when they first met? What did he say?
“In the end, you only can rely on yourself. Don’t let yourself down, do what you feel, and know is right. If you have to throw away your morales, do it.”
It was not the first thing Bucciarati had ever said to Fugo, but it was one of the first few things that he had said. Fugo wondered, what had Bucciarati gone through to make him say such words?
Fugo always felt as though there were something more behind those words. Like Bucciarati was speaking from experience.
What did Fugo know and feel was right?
Getting better…
But would anyone believe that he had once struggled if he healed? Scars… memories… pain… What if people thought he was making it all up? What if people assumed he lied about everything just because he seemed alright now?
But he also did not want the struggles living in his mind anymore. He was tired. Tired of being a boy ruined by the actions of his family. Tired of being the consequences that the culprits never had to face. Tired of shouldering everything that no young boy should have ever held onto.
Would that leap of faith really be worth it? For him?
Fugo decided to climb out of his window and onto the roof for one night. The stars shone unexpectedly bright that night. A mesmerising sight, one that made the boy temporarily forget his struggles.
“Fugo?” Giorno’s voice came from behind. The younger boy climbed his way up and sat beside Fugo.
“You’re up too…” Fugo responded.
“The night is one of the few times I can ever catch a good break from the mafia work,” Giorno replied. His blonde hair flowed with the night breeze. Fugo had never seen Giorno with his hair down before.
“I see…” Fugo answered. Something in his gut told him that there was more to Giorno’s nightly intentions.
Silence slipped by them, seconds ticking away like nobody’s business. The lack of an exchange felt as though there was only one person up on the roof the entire time. The peace felt oddly comforting, something Fugo hadn’t felt in awhile.
“What’s on your mind?” Giorno asked. “I know something has been weighing on your mind for a while.”
Fugo was stunned. How did Giorno know? How could he tell?
“You seem quieter ever since you left the hospital. Mista might not be as suspicious, but you’re not fooling me,” Giorno continued.
“GioGio, I-” Fugo tried to speak, but words seemed to lose their way to his mouth. His feelings failed to form into words, the unbearable silence lingered.
“You don’t have to say anything you don’t want to say,” Giorno added. “Just, know that you can come to us anytime.”
Giorno left after that, leaving Fugo all alone with his feelings and realisation. What was he supposed to do now?
Suddenly he felt a wave of pressure. Everyone wanted him to be alright. The forced feeling to be alright, not for him, for others. That wasn’t right…. was it? He should want to be better for the sake of himself, not for others. He knew it was not Giorno’s intention to force anything. It was all in Fugo’s head. It was all up there.
He wished Bucciarati was still around, maybe he’d be able to help. He missed his saviour. Sometimes Fugo wondered if things would have turned out differently if he had followed. Would Abbacchio die? Would Narancia have died? He will never know, but he would have to let those things go.
Maybe Fugo just has to take it slow. Little by little. Maybe he’d be fine then, he hoped.
Does he really deserve to be better?
Bucciarati would tell him that yes, he did deserve it. He would encourage Fugo to try. He would tell him that everyone in the group would have his back. He wouldn’t say it lovingly, but rather in a boss like manner, he always does. Fugo looked up to him.
Fugo missed Bucciarati, a little.
Just a little bit…
He was like the father figure that Fugo never had. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t left the gang. So many what ifs haunted him.
Every,
Damn,
Night.
Maybe he should actually start seeking help. He clearly can’t do this alone.
He wasn’t alone either.
Giorno, Mista, Sheila…
Was he going to disappoint more people? Let them down? They all saw something in him, like Bucciarati. They were still alive.
Should he really share this burden that he was carrying on his shoulders? Will they be willing to carry it with him?
They had seen his ugly side, but still, they stayed, wasn’t that telling enough? Wasn’t that the answer that he needed? That they would stay with him?
He already had all of his answers, he just wasn’t making the actions.
He procrastinated long enough, the time has always been in front of him. He just did not want to take it. Why? He was afraid. Of everything. He always had been.
Giorno offered to help Fugo find a therapist, which he gladly accepted. Slowly, Fugo began to talk. It was scary. He refused to say everything, his therapist barely knew anything about him. His therapist had to do her own research into the poor boy, be careful with her words so that she would not end up triggering him. It was a once in a week session. Mista was the one to drive Fugo for every session, he would often start up small, casual chats with the younger boy. It almost felt like the old times…
Just without Narancia.
The lack of Narancia brought a more mature side out of Mista. The usual laughter seemed to have diminished. Fugo never knew how Narancia died, he could only hope that the boy once so full of joy died a painless death, though a part of him knew the chances were low.
The therapist had Fugo going to a psychiatrist for a while, for diagnosis. He came back with borderline personality disorder, anxiety, post traumatic stress disorder, and other potential ones that remained unconfirmed for the time being. He was not surprised. That explained the way he felt towards Bucciarati, he was Fugo’s ‘favourite person’. He used to idolise him, viewing his opinions as everything. When Giorno joined and Bucciarati seemed to favour the newcomer, Fugo was jealous. Everything changed.
The betrayal was the turning point for Fugo. Everything shattered that very moment. He felt anger, betrayal, sadness. He felt as though Giorno replaced him. He spiralled. Negativity was all he knew at the time. Thoughts of hunting them down and killing them crossed his mind, but he never got round to it. The next thing he knew, he was suicidal and Giorno became the new boss.
The therapist Giorno had found was a Stand user, so she could understand almost everything there was to know. She was the one who told Fugo how his Stand reflected him as a person. How Purple Haze seemed to be close range and violent because Fugo aggressively had his professor beaten up when he violated his personal space. It was Fugo’s need for space, peace. How Purple Haze was so deadly with its poisonous outbursts that could harm Fugo himself because Fugo could not stop himself whenever anger takes over, how his violence spreads to everyone, and inevitably harms himself as well. How his Stand was just like him, Purple Haze wants to protect Fugo but violence was all they knew, which often backfires.
It was knowing all of these that would allow for Fugo to slowly accept his flaws and work on them. To slowly bring himself to a mental space in which he could finally be content with. To finally accept and move on.
Fugo had started taking medication for his various illnesses as well. He was trying. He could see the smile on everyone’s faces as Fugo slowly improved. It made his heart feel warm for some reason, he wondered why.
Trish often came over for dinner whenever she was free. He was never close with her. Things seem to be awkward between them as well. They did not hold any malice towards each other, perhaps it was other reasons that they were not able to befriend each other. But Trish seemed to be glad for Fugo’s improvement as well. At least they were civil with each other.
He saw how Sheila and Trish often exchanged laughter with each other, having their usual girl talk. For some odd reason, he was reminded of Narancia, back when he, Narancia and Mista would often get into trouble. The days when Narancia enjoyed annoying Abbacchio.
They were both gone.
Stones with their names to pay respects.
Fugo missed disrespecting them.
Acceptance was not going to be so easy. Of course not.
Even his therapist reminded him to not let small setbacks hold him back. How he should keep up his good work, because everyone would be proud of him.
One day, Fugo found himself standing in front of Bucciarati’s grave. He did not know why, or how. He was just… there. The name and date made something in him ache. It was his first time visiting ever since any of their deaths. His therapist recommended him to visit whenever he felt ready, because it might help him out.
Tears formed in his eyes as he kneeled down. He did not know why, he just felt like doing so. Everything that he held back, just came out that very moment. The guilt, anger, sadness, frustration… it all rushed out.
He was learning to deal with change, yet he still missed when things remained untouched. He wanted to blame Giorno for everything for the longest time, but Giorno was the one who pulled him out of the void. He felt shame for even wanting to blame what Bucciarati did on Giorno, as if Bucciarati was not a grown man capable of making decisions on his own.
In the end, it was nobody’s fault. Not even Fugo’s.
It took him a while to arrive at that conclusion, but here he was.
Facing Bucciarati, a burden off his shoulders.
Space gave him the answers, and he received peace.
He could only hope for things to remain the same.
Seeing himself happy, it felt strange. But he was slowly coming to terms with it. Slowly letting things come to him. He wondered if Bucciarati would be proud of him. He wondered if Narancia would be happy for him. He wondered if Abbacchio would congratulate him.
It has been almost a year ever since Fugo began his therapy sessions. Everyone could tell that Fugo had finally found himself at a position he was comfortable in.
That was until a familiar face greeted him, shattering every progress the poor boy built for himself.
Fugo was getting some snacks for a horror movie night with Mista. It was when he came face to face with the professor. The very source of his trauma.
“Long time no see,” His twisted smile haunted Fugo.
The thing I hate most about the world is that most of the horrible things that are happening can be stopped if we just listen to each other
Wars, world hunger, global warming, things like that can be stopped if we can just come to an agreement
But of course, world peace is impossible and nobody knows how to come near that goal
The idea of a perfect world will never be reached because most of the human race is too focused on stopping pointless things.
Think about project 2025. Pointless. Removing the rights to the lgbtqia+ community doesn't do anything to help the planet, along with the various other things that they plan on doing.
The willow project. Oil drilling is pointless in general, why make a new oil plant if we already have so many. all they can get from that is money and money doesn't help anything.
How about, instead of bombing each other, revoking rights and arguing about pointless shit, we should focus on helping people who starve on the streets, sa victims who can't speak up, hell, let's track down some murderers, get abused children to safety. We could even help people who struggle with drug addictions.
But right now, our top priority is fixing the things that stop us from doing those things, that's what important.
Speak up, never stop talking, even if a peaceful future is impossible, we can still do the best we can to get there.
Thanks for listening, have a wonderful day, stay safe.
🍉🇵🇸🇸🇩🇺🇦
(If you have anything bad to say about this post, you either say in the most polite manner, or you don't say anything at all)
