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Published:
2020-12-11
Updated:
2021-05-14
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49,722
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16/19
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My Own Worst Enemy

Chapter 16: The Middle

Summary:

after an excruciatingly long hiatus, I'm finally planning on finishing this goddamn thing.

Fugo scrapes cum out of his ass and Giorno gets him to eat food.

TW for mentions of eating disorders/disordered eating

Notes:

hello! I'm back! with school being effectively over, i have nothing but time and burning anxiety. i'm trying to channel my feelings into something productive, and I've been working a lot on original content. anyway, here's the latest chapter that's really shitty that i wrote and @themadamepsychosis beta read (poorly i might add, she skipped whole paragraphs ):<) but yeah,, back from hiatus.

chapter title is the middle by jimmy eat world. this chapter is actually not the middle and in fact very close to the end.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

The heater wasn’t working, so Giorno just leaned his back against the sink and watched Fugo.

It was a special sort of hell coating himself in freezing water trying to scrape cum out of his ass.

“This is a special sort of hell,” Fugo said. “Why would you like this?”

“I don’t like this part,” Giorno said with disdain. “I just like it when it happens.”

“It’s fucking gross,” Fugo said. “You don’t even swallow.”

“Cum tastes bad,” Giorno said. “You know that.”

“Yeah, but you’re supposed to,” Fugo said shrinking back at the cold water hitting his crotch.

“Says who?” Giorno asked.

“You just are,” said Fugo drily.

“If you’re so worried about STDs, then you shouldn’t let me cum in your mouth, either.”

“They’re called STIs,” Fugo said. “And I told you that’s not what I care about.”

“Maybe you should,” Giorno said. “Considering I’m such a whore, who knows what kind of diseases I could have.”

“Infections,” Fugo corrected, shutting off the tap. “Will you pass me my towel?”

Giorno tossed it to him, and he instinctively brought it to his head. He ruffled it around, but it only took a minute or two before it was mostly dry.

He followed Giorno back onto his bed and rooted around for a clean pair of underwear. Giorno just watched him, eyes raking over his body like it was something to behold.

“You’re anorexic,” Giorno said finally. “Seriously, there’s something fucking wrong with you and we need to deal with it.”

“There’s no we,” said Fugo. “Anyway, I’m fine.”

“I basically have to force food down your throat. Can we not argue about one thing?” Giorno said, exasperated.

“You brought it up!” Fugo said indignantly, leaning against the table to pull the underwear on.

“Fugo,” Giorno said sternly. “You need to eat.”

“I do eat,” Fugo said. “Can you just fucking leave it?”

“Fine,” Giorno said. “But we’re going to have this conversation later, okay?”

“Whatever,” Fugo said, settling down on his bed and wriggling his way into a hoodie.

#

Giorno stayed the night again, but when Fugo woke up in the morning, he wasn’t in the bed next to him. Fugo got up anyway and tried not to think about it, layering multiple pairs of socks and Mista’s jacket over his worn hoodie. It didn’t quite smell like him anymore, but there was a certain comfort in the weight of it, and he fiddled with the AA chip he’d stolen from Abbacchio in the left pocket.

Fugo was a parasite. He’d wormed his way into this group and was leaching off them, stealing away bits and pieces and making them his own. Even this hoodie wasn’t his, a threadbare PE sweater with Giorno Giovanna written in perfect cursive handwriting.

He wondered if it was too on the nose, too obvious that he so wholly belonged to him, wearing a sweater that bore his name on the front. He might as well add “property of” in front of it, but he didn’t think it would fit within the supplied space.

Despite that, there was something comforting about wearing the hoodie, about the idea of someone using just enough critical thinking skills to put two and two together, Fugo belongs to Giorno.

Bruno and Abbacchio knew, obviously, but Mista and Narancia were impervious to the ever-increasing signs. Part of him was still terrified that they’d find out and everything he built would crumble, but he also knew enough that without direct intervention, there’s no way they could piece it all together.

This delicate balance he had was precious and dangerous, and he found he felt more alive for it.

He snapped back to reality with the crushing realization this would never last. Their relationship had an expiry date, and there was nothing either of them could do except postpone it.  

He walked in circles around the apartment, rubbing his hands together. With his job at Truong’s, he had enough money for rent, water, and grocery, but he was still trying to save on the power bill.

“When we graduate, we can move into a place that covers utilities,” Giorno would say when they were curled up beneath a pile of blankets and sheets. “And we can have a TV and new clothes, and whatever else we want.”

“With what money?” Fugo would ask, resting his head on Giorno’s chest.

“We’ll figure it out,” Giorno would always say, and Fugo could hear the dreaminess in his voice. “We always do.”

If by “we always do” he meant the singular time Fugo had been on the verge of homelessness and they had stumbled their way into a pity job at Truong’s Donuts, then sure, but Fugo was realistic enough to know that this was more of a velleity Giorno clung to than anything concrete.

“Hey.” The lock clicked, and the door opened, Giorno pushing through holding a back of something. His hair was getting long, and it curled around his shoulders. He pushed his beanie off his head, and his bangs tumbled forward, falling into his eyes.

“Hey,” Fugo said. “Where were you?”

“I got us food.” Giorno said casually, as if this were a thing he did often. “Like, salad and stuff.”

Fugo blinked at him. “Salad?”

“Salad,” Giorno repeated. “I went to Ralphs.”

“Salad from Ralphs,” Fugo repeated.

“Yeah, why is this so hard for you to understand?” Giorno set the bag down aggressively on the table. “You need to eat healthy and shit.”

“I told you, I’m fine,” Fugo said, annoyed. “Can you fucking stop pretending to be my mom?”

“I’m not your fucking mom,” Giorno said. “I just, I just care about you.”

“If you cared about me, you’d leave me alone,” Fugo said.

Giorno stared at him, eyes stony.

“Whatever,” Fugo said. “I’ll eat the fucking salad if you shut up.”

That seemed to be enough for Giorno, who reached into the plastic and tossed him the container.

“I have to eat this now?” he asked, screwing up his face in disgust. “Can I just have it for lunch?”

“You’re going to have school lunch,” Giorno said.

“So why did you get that?” Fugo asked.

“You’re supposed to eat three times a day, dipshit.” Giorno looked at him like he was an idiot. “We’re going to get you into the habit of eating multiple times a day.”

Fugo just shook his head.

“Don’t be dismissive,” Giorno said. “We’re getting your shit together.”

“I didn’t fucking ask!” Fugo shouted, and Giorno frowned.

“You don’t have to,” he said. “I know what you need.”

“The fuck do you know?” Fugo stood up and threw the plastic salad container at the ground and watched as it bounced lamely before rolling to Giorno’s feet. “You don’t know shit!”

“Pick that up,” Giorno said, voice stern, and Fugo felt something inside of him twist.

Before he realized what he was doing, he made his way across the floor and knelt to pick it up. As he tried to stand, Giorno placed his foot on Fugo’s back, right between his shoulder blades.

Fugo opened his mouth to yell, shout, do anything to let Giorno know this was not okay, but before he could get anything out, Giorno spoke.

“Stay,” he said firmly.

Fugo whimpered. He was feeling wholly conflicted. A part of him was indignant, so humiliated that Giorno had trapped him on the ground in such a submissive pose, the lack of power he had with his elbows pressed into the cold floor.

But another, bigger, part of him was excited in a way that made his knees shake and his dick hard. Giorno wasn’t much bigger than him physically, but when he had to look up at him from this angle, he was huge. He towered over him, god-like. He felt so small, and that smallness made him feel so good.

“Listen to me,” Giorno said. “You’re going to eat the salad. And then at lunch you’re going to get something from the cafeteria. And then we’re going to Truong’s and you’re going to have dinner. And then I’m going to go home and you’re going to do it all again tomorrow.”

Fugo shivered as Giorno dug his foot deeper into his back.

“Are you going to respond?” he asked.

“Yes,” Fugo sputtered, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Yes, what?” Giorno asked, pressing harder.

“Yes, sir,” Fugo breathed a sigh of both relief and disappointment as the pressure lifted from his back.

A beat passed, and Fugo stayed hunched over on the floor.

“Fuck,” Giorno said, breaking the silence. “That was really hot.”

Fugo nodded, his face burning.

“Maybe next time, we can uh, try that or something,” Giorno said, voice hesitant. “If you’re cool or whatever.”

“Yeah,” Fugo said, a little breathlessly, his heart still pounding.

“Anyway,” Giorno said, reaching his hand to Fugo and pulling him up. “Eat the salad and we can go to school.”

“Okay,” Fugo said, because what choice did he have?

“I’m proud of you,” Giorno said, a genuine smile on his face. “You’re going to feel so much better.”

#

True to his word, Giorno made Fugo eat three square meals a day (if donuts counted as square meals) and largely Fugo felt better.

Okay, that wasn’t quite true. Physically he felt ill and had to use the restroom with an incredible frequency, even breaking his rule of shitting in the school bathrooms. Giorno noticed, and had a habit of following him in.

“Please don’t,” Fugo begged every time he got up to leave. “I’m fine.”

“I just have to make sure,” Giorno said. “That you’re not, you know.”

So Giorno would stand outside the stall, humming to himself or fixing his hair in the mirror while Fugo willed himself to be as quiet as possible.

One plus was that the more he ate, the less he felt cold. He wasn’t sure how much was psychosomatic, but something about the overwhelming full feeling he had distracted from the chill.

Mentally, it was a mixed bag. The thought of eating was painful, not because he didn’t want to get fat (he really wasn’t anorexic) but because it was such a chore with little pay off.

Fugo hated eating not because he was worried about how he looked, but because he was worried about how it made him feel.

He wasn’t quite sure if he deserved it. When he’d been a kid, he’d always been a little picky, his brothers would tease him and say that he ate like a bird. He would smile and take it, but he must have internalized it along the way, and it was fucking him up irreparably, (though not for Giorno’s lack of trying).

The last day before Thanksgiving break, Mista invited him to sit with the whole group at lunch. Well, it was less of an invite and more of a reminder that that wasn’t already the case.

“Narancia and Trish got into it yesterday,” Mista said, spreading his arms wide, nearly taking Fugo out.

“He started it,” Trish said, rolling a pink crayon between her fingers.

“Yeah—Wait.” He glanced at Fugo through narrowed eyes. “Where do you eat again?”

“Library,” Fugo said. He covered his mouth with his hand. “With Giorno.”

“I could have sworn you sat with us,” Mista said, frowning hard. “Like, we all sit as a group, don’t we?”

“I haven’t sat with you guys since like, September,” Giorno said. “You really haven’t noticed?”

“Well, I guess I just wasn’t paying that much attention,” Mista said, not unhurt. “I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t wo—” Fugo started, but Mista slammed his hand down on the table excitedly.

“How about you sit with us today?” he asked, and Fugo immediately started to protest.

“We’d love to,” Giorno said definitively, cutting him off. “Where do you guys eat?”

“On the quad under that dying oak tree,” Mista said. “Y’know the one with all the spiky leaves under it.”

“It’s pretty atrocious,” Trish added, snapping the crayon in half.

“It’s not so bad,” Mista said. “It’s gonna be great.”

They continued talking, and the conversation drifted to other topics, but Fugo couldn’t stop thinking about lunch.

When he finally sat down, he realized it wasn’t so bad.

There was a shady spot under the tree, and Trish had spread out a nice blanket over the grass. Giorno was already lying down, his leg crossed over his knee and his hands behind his head. He smiled up at Fugo, and rolled over to poke him when he got settled down next to him.

“You know you can sit on the blanket,” Trish said.

“Oh,” Fugo said, moving himself closer to Giorno. “Thanks.”

“What’s for lunch?” Giorno asked.

“Pizza,” Fugo said. “I think it’s pepperoni.”

“Looks gross,” Trish said, stabbing into a box of takeout.

“What’re you eating?” Giorno asked.

“Oh, I got poke,” Trish said. “Do you know what that is?”

“I’m half Japanese, Trish,” Giorno said. “I know what fucking poke is.”

“Right, I forgot the Japanese colonized the entire Pacific Ocean,” Trish said in a way that suggested she hadn’t forgotten at all.

“That’s a little rich coming from someone who also fought on the wrong side of World War II,” Fugo said, and Trish looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“Okay,” she said with a small smile. “I like him.”

“Thanks,” Fugo said quietly, a little unsure of what that meant. He wondered what she would think if she knew he’d been under her bed when she’d talked to Narancia all that time ago.

“I told you,” Mista said, settling down next to them, his gangly limbs knocking into everything. “Wassup?”

The latter was directed at Giorno and himself, and they exchanged glances.

“Good,” Fugo said, after it was clear that Giorno wasn’t going to say anything. “How’re you?”

“I’m great,” Mista said. “Do you guys want to hang out after school?”

“Can’t,” Giorno said. “We have work.”

“Where do you work?” Trish asked.

“Truong’s Donuts,” Fugo said.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Trish said, bemused. “Where is it?”

“It’s right by where they live,” Mista said. “Y’know, Altadena.”

“Oh, but I live in Altadena,” Trish said, “so like, below New York Blvd.”

“Yeah, pretty far below,” Giorno said coldly. “You probably don’t spend very much time down in the slums.”

Trish furrowed her brows. “That’s not what I meant.”

Giorno opened his mouth to respond, but Narancia sat down clumsily next to him, jostling him out of place.

“Guys you won’t believe it—” He started, then stopped when he saw the looks on everyone’s faces. “I mean, uh, hey.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Mista said quickly, only further cementing the awkwardness. “But, uh, tell us what’s up?”

Narancia smiled uncomfortably and tried to continue with as much enthusiasm as he’d had before.

“Uh, there’s a party tonight,” he said. “Like a real one, a college party. I got us some invites but it’s gonna be lit as hell.”

“No one says lit anymore,” Giorno said, sitting up. “Whose party? Where?”

“Oh, it’s some community college kid,” Narancia said. “He sells me my weed, and he said I could bring some friends.” Narancia covered his mouth with his hand. “He’s really cute.”

“Community college?” Trish asked. “Like, Pasadena City College?”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Giorno said, his mouth a firm line. “Elitism isn’t cute.”

“I’m not elitist,” Trish protested. “It’s just, people can do so much better.”

“Not everyone can afford a four-year university, Trish,” Giorno said, his voice hard. “Some of us don’t live in fancy fucking houses with a 529.”

“Okay,” Trish said, clearly annoyed. “You know what? I’m gonna go. I’ll see you guys at the party.”

She got up and collected her things. Just as she was walking away, Bruno and Abbacchio sat down on the grass.

“Where’s she off to?” Bruno asked.

“Giorno called her a classist,” Fugo said.

Bruno looked at him through narrowed eyes.

“Actually, I called her an elitist,” Giorno said. “Which she was totally being.”

“Guys,” Mista whined. “Can’t we just all be nice to each other?”

“Maybe later,” Giorno said.

Fugo just tried to smile pleasantly and eat his food. He was far past the point of being full, but if he could focus on the pizza in front of him he could try and tune out everything happening around him.

The conversation meandered away, and Narancia got to talk more about this party of his and how amazing it was going to be. Fugo didn’t realize he was expected to go until Giorno nudged him and asked what he planned on wearing.

“Um, I don’t know,” Fugo said. “This?”

He gestured down to his Goodwill Dockers and the sweater that he’d found that same day that appeared to be handmade, yarn poking out from the seams worn from use.

“That’s not gonna cut it,” Giorno said. “I have stuff that’s way nicer that’ll probably fit.”

“So, we’re going to…your house?” Fugo said the words tentatively. In all of the time they’d been together, not once had Giorno even let him see the outside of his home.

A look of panic flashed over Giorno’s face before he rearranged it into calm. “Yeah, we can stop by after school and get ready.”

“If that’s okay with you,” Fugo said.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Giorno tried to cover his harsh tone with a laugh, but it came off forced.

Soon enough, the bell rang, and everyone parted ways. Even as he walked away, he could feel Giorno’s eyes burning into the back of his head.

He wasn’t quite sure what it meant that he was finally allowed to set foot in the Giovanna home, but it definitely meant something.

He guessed he would just have to wait to find out what.

Notes:

please ignore how terrible this chapter turned out (oh the pacing) and be grateful it was ever finished at all <3

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